The Fate of Aramatus
002.M42: Day 12 of the Green Winter Campaign
Captain Antonius Marhawk, the newly appointed commander of the battleship Aramatus, stared intently at the pict-tiles orbiting around his command throne. In truth, he did not need to even look at the tiles to absorb their information. Though he had studied naval command for years and was no stranger to the use of a mind impulse unit, Marhawk was still getting used to the ebb and flow of the Aramatus's machine spirit. He still relied on his own eyes, rather than fully embracing the ship.
Aramatus, for its part, was a patient spirit. The Oberon class battleship had, until recently, been under the control of one Vice Admiral Zaritz, by all measure a mediocre commander, who had only been granted his appointment by virtue of his family's noble status. Aramatus had tolerated Zaritz, as it now tolerated Marhawk. The bond would grow over time; the first roots of trust between captain and ship had already been seeded.
The battleship resided in low orbit above the hive world of Meridian, the capital planet of Subsector Aurelia. Just eight days ago, local time, Marhawk had been Zaritz's first officer, watching helplessly as the Vice Admiral bungled the planet's defence against an onslaught of invading ork ships. It was that day, when Zaritz's incompetence had nearly cost Battlegroup Aurelia the capital, that Marhawk had been thrust into his current role as captain. Through a combination of luck and Marhawk's own intuition, the tattered imperial navy vessels had managed to prevent a total rout, and forced the greenskin menace to the surface.
As the ground war commenced, Aramatus's role turned to fire support. The majority of the ork roks that had made planetfall had landed far from the major hive cities. Isolated in the Dead Zones, Marhawk had turned his battleship's lance batteries on these fortresses and annihilated them. He could not, however, do the same to those within the city of Golgotha. The spire city was the storehouse of Angel Hive, and to bombard it would be to starve Meridian's capital region. So, Marhawk waited while the forces of the Imperial Guard took the aliens to task for their transgressions.
The captain idly flicked through the tiles, assessing battle damage sustained during the opening phase of the invasion, when he received a hailing blip from the Accuser, one of the escort craft assigned to Aramatus. The Accuser, a Sword class frigate, was conducting reconnaissance on the edge of the Meridian system. While Marhawk's flagship oversaw Meridian orbit, the rest of the battle group were occupied with hunting down any more xenos vessels entering the system. Where one ork rok made landfall, more were almost assured to follow.
It seemed the Accuser had found one, and was reporting its findings to the battleship. Marhawk shifted in his throne. It was far too large for him. Zaritz had been a mountain of flesh and fat, the result of too many years of sedentary ship command. Marhawk was by no means a small man, but even he felt dwarfed by the seat. Accuser hailed again, but this time the blip was obscured in a mess of static.
Marhawk was immediately alert. "Nelsor, vox array status." Nelsor, Marhawk's replacement executive officer, nodded. The crew of the Aramatus was aware of the vox problems plaguing the Imperial forces on the planet's surface, but there was nothing in the void that have hampered their own communications. Someone was jamming them.
"Vox array is offline, my lord," Nelsor replied after gathering the reports. "I have tried to raise the rest of our escort, but there has been no response."
Damn it. "Keep trying to contact the escort, commander," Marhawk said. This had all the markings of a trap. And unfortunately for Marhawk, it was one he had no choice but to be drawn into. With no way to organize a reconnaissance patrol to investigate, his hand was forced. Aramatus would need to investigate the matter on its own.
If the Aramatus moved to intercept, that would leave Meridian open to a potential attack from a second force. But without adequate knowledge of what happened to the frigate, the battleship could find itself facing a force beyond its capability to engage. Marhawk cursed under his breath. Both options presented to him were fraught with ifs and buts, and he had to choose one. In the end, Marhawk chose the former
"Nelsor, send two messages, one to Meridian's surface and the other to our escort. Inform the surface that we are moving to engage a force on the system's edge. Inform the escort to regroup in orbit in case we are outflanked."
"Yes sir," said Nelsor, saluting before starting for the vox officer's station. Marhawk tapped his armrest impatiently as he waited for his officer. Nelsor returned moments later, "Transmissions sent sir, but I have no way of knowing if either got through. Should I hail them again?"
"We cannot be certain they will respond, Nelsor. However, the situation cannot wait. Put the crew on battle alert. Have lance batteries charged and cannon batteries loaded. I want the ship ready for trouble."
"At once, my lord." Nelsor saluted smartly and strode from the command chamber.
Marhawk could feel the Aramatus surging with power as the engine cluster growled to life. He felt only a fraction of the ship's strength flowing through his nervous system. Had he tasted the full force, he would surely be overwhelmed. But more than anything, he felt excitement. The ship was in a compromising situation, but Marhawk could not deny the eagerness with which he felt, the desire to prove himself worthy as Aramatus's captain.
When the Aramatus arrived at the coordinates, they found the Accuser in ruins, shattered into a countless pieces. The blue livery of Battlefleet Korianis was marked with black scars where lance strikes had cut through the frigate's armour. The cloud of debris was drifting at several thousand kilometers per second, carried in the wake of the frigate's original vector away from the system. Aramatus matched course and pulled alongside the remains to perform an auspex sensor sweep.
This was no ork attack, that much was immediately clear. Marhawk detected a pattern in the weapon markings as Aramatus's scanners recreated the image of the Accuser. The ship had been meticulously stripped of its weapons and shields, before a concentrated array of lance strikes had torn its engineering section apart and lacerated the command decks. The frigate had barely fired a shot in return; temperature readouts indicated minimal residual heat from the gun batteries.
The sensor sweep complete, a reconnaissance flight was dispatched to screen the vessel, while a salvage team was assembled to retrieve the Accuser's final recordings. Perhaps that would give an indication as to what had been behind the attack. The small barge eased out of the battleship's cavernous flight deck and drifted towards the hulk on vectored thrusters, grappling hooks primed.
Marhawk didn't like this. During the hour's journey to the system's edge, growing concern had edged into his mind. Whatever had destroyed the Accuser was still out there. He didn't want to be here longer than he had to. It could easily turn into an ambush. The Aramatus kept its weapons primed, alert for any disturbances. Several minutes passed.
"Nelsor, what news from the salvage operation?" asked Marhawk absently. Marhawk could have easily selected the results from his pict tiles, but he still found himself slipping into his former role as first officer from time to time. If both ship and crew worked in harmony they would be stronger for it.
"The Salvage team set down on the hulk twelve minutes thirty-four seconds ago, my lord. Internal debris was too hazardous for a closer landing point, so they are moving on foot in vacuum. I have my best man overseeing the task."
"And how long before they reach the bridge?"
"At their current pace, another twenty minutes, sir."
Marhawk lifted one of his socket laden arms to scratch his nose. "Any word from the escort? Twenty minutes is longer than I'd like to be without support."
"None as such, my lord," said Nelsor, "I set the alert message on a repeating cycle. If vox communications return, they will hear it."
"Good work, first officer. With luck, we won't be here much longer."
As they waited, Marhawk occupied himself in analyzing each part of the battleship. With his extended consciousness, it took an eternity, even though only seconds had truly passed. His thought process was accelerated to such a degree that the material world seemed to slow down in comparison.
This was the power that Zaritz had wielded. To expand one's senses so far, it was exhilarating. Marhawk felt himself begin to drift, to lose himself in the link between his mind and the Aramatus's machine spirit. He brushed against the powerful entity, eliciting a warning signal reminiscent of an animal growl. Marhawk recoiled, drawing back his reach. The ship did not trust him so completely yet; the spirit was still wary.
The captain understood its hesitancy. The machine spirit had been hurt recently by Zaritz's failure. To be entrusted to another so quickly was difficult for Aramatus to handle. Marhawk projected his sympathy to the spirit, to try and assuage its fears. After several microseconds passed, an age it felt like, Aramatus relinquished more control to Marhawk. A sign of goodwill, it indicated. Satisfied, Marhawk plunged deeper and deeper still.
The salvage barge Bountiful Endeavour had set down on the hulk of the Accuser more than forty minutes prior. The crew, clad in bulky void suits, floated down the depressurized corridors of the frigate, tethered to their barge by retractable cables. Save for a handful of functioning deck lights, the salvagers traveled entirely by their own suit lamps. The harsh white lights cast long shadows throughout the myriad passages of the dead warship.
Twenty handpicked crewmen floated through the wrecked hulk, while four naval marines acted as the Endeavour's security detail during the operation, two at the front of the group, two covering the rear. Kivek Baltrier, an aging man from the Aramatus's middle decks, headed the operation. An experienced void technician, he had been officer Nelsor's top pick for the task. The new XO had an eye for talent, and he'd chosen old Kivek immediately for the ugly business of parsing through the Accuser's remains.
Kivek clambered down the pitch black tunnels, deftly pushing off from the ribbed walls and grabbing hand rungs with a simian grace. To his security detail, Kivek looked odd as he traveled feet first down the corridor, essentially 'falling' through the guts of the ship. Typical gravity dwellers, Kivek thought, always thinking in terms of up and down. It didn't matter in the void; going legs first put several precious feet between his head and any hazards he might bump it on. Better to lose limb than life, Kivek always told his apprentices.
"This is taking too long," moaned one of the marines, a corporal named Blenner. The young man fiddled with his combat grade void suit, trying to untangle his autocarbine from the suit's webbing. How the hell did he get on this expedition in the first place? Kivek shook his head in disbelief. He checked the layout of the frigate on his suit's wrist display.
"We're two junctions away from the bridge, keep your space pants on, lad," he said, "It's not far now."
"Maybe we'd get there faster if you didn't insist on floating down each corridor like you were wearing a grav-chute, then," said another marine, Dalbolt. "My mother could navigate this wreck faster."
"Quiet down, both of you," snapped sergeant Frikka, bringing up the rear of the party.
"By all means, gentlemen, if you wish to go ahead without properly checking it's safe, that's your prerogative," said Kivek plainly. "I only command my scrappers, not you boys." The salvagers, sandwiched between two marines at the front and two behind, murmured their approval for Kivek.
"Fine then, Baltrier, we do it your way," said Frikka, clearly annoyed. He wasn't much better than his troopers, Kivek understood, but at least he could rein them in. "If we are as close as you say we are. Blenner, Dalbolt, move ahead and secure the bridge. Sachs and I will bring the team up when you vox in that it's clear."
"Roger that, sir," said Blenner, "Move it, scrapper," He and Dalboven pushed off the walls, shouldering past Kivek and disappearing into the gloom. Fools, the salvager thought.
Five minutes later, the two marines voxed back to the group that they had secured the entrance. Kivek led his team again at a steady pace, until they were all gathered at the massive vault-like doors to the Accuser's bridge. Kivek pulled out his auspex and ran it over the door. "Minor fractures in the surface. Looks like decompression damage. All right, cut it open, lads."
The salvagers got to work, setting up force industrial cutting lasers at fixed points on each of the doorframe. After the cutting beams sliced through the thick metal, two pneumatic rams were set in place with magnetic clamps. They punched the slab inwards with a noiseless thump. One by one, the salvagers and their escort drifted into the bridge.
There were bodies everywhere. The corpses were bloated with burst blood vessels, swelling into misshapen mockeries of the human form. To Kivek, the bodies looked like they were floating in water, bobbing and bouncing off the ruined deck. The bloodied remains of a deckhand drifted past him, her long wispy hair trailing behind her. Kivek gently pushed her aside, sending the body tumbling in a slow motion ballet towards the bulkheads.
The bridge was an absolute mess. Consoles had blown out, with jagged shards of razor metal embedded in the walls, sometimes pinning unfortunate souls to their former stations. Kivek passed the remains of another poor officer, impaled through his spine by a length of girder snapped off from the ceiling. Droplets of blood still floated everywhere, splattering against his void suit.
"Search the command chamber," ordered Kivek. "If this ship follows a standard bridge layout, the flight recorder should be within the captain's throne. Vimthy, take Yoros and Dax and strip anything you can from the tac-logis sanctum beneath the captain's chamber. See if they got an ID on the ship that did this."
The Accuser had taken a direct hit along its center spine, snapping it like a twig. A field of debris formed between the fore and aft hull segments, spinning and colliding with itself in a chaotic maelstrom. Flights of Fury interceptors from the Aramatus passed over this field performing frequent sweeps, yet they found nothing, not wishing to tempt the unpredictable path of the wreckage by flying closer than necessary.
It was a typical failure of Imperial doctrine, the unwillingness to take risks or think creatively. Such an oversight would not go unpunished. For had the reconnaissance craft been more thorough, they may have uncovered the threat lurking within debris cloud: three armored transports, their tapered hulls ending in an array of spiked claws, waiting for the signal to engage.
The time was drawing near. The abominations lining the holds of the boarding rams could sense the change. In the lead craft, one figure stood before his charges, soothing their bloodlust until the moment was nigh. It would be soon now, very soon.
A screech echoed across the boarding ram's vox systems, as it did every vessel within a thirty thousand kilometer range. The words were spoken clearly and coldly, carrying with them the impending sense of dread that struck fear into the hearts of the False Emperor's devout. Even the abominations shuddered at the sound. The voice of Chaos.
"Embrace the Truth of Chaos, servants of the False Emperor. Meet your true Gods."
An moment of stunned silence followed the declaration as the Imperials struggled to regain vox control. The hellish voice tore at the minds of the Imperial crew. Some men vomited at their stations, others bleeding from their ears, unable to block out the voice. Before they could recover, a massive energy reading was detected by the Aramatus's auspex relays.
A tear in reality split open beneath the Aramatus, a twisting, coiling rift of warp energy spilling from the Immaterium into the void. A ship, massive in size, tore through the warp rift perpendicular to the Aramatus's bottom hull. It was a grand cruiser, blackened and jagged with the scars of a thousand conquests.
And it's weapons were primed.
Yoros pried open the hatch to the tac-logis sanctum. Yoros moved inside, followed by Dax and Vimthy. Emergency lights were still working, albeit faintly, casting a green glow across the consoles. Naturally, thought Yoros, the tac-logis would operate under its own power in the event of an emergency. "Start searching. The recording device will be linked to the cogitator bank on the far wall."
Above, the remainder of Kivek's team scoured the captain's chamber. The baroque golden throne, reminiscent of the one aboard the Aramatus, sat occupied by the blubbery remains of the late Captain Thessivyl. His connecting wires had been decoupled, violently tearing away gobs of flesh as they did. He had spent his final minutes blinded and senseless, numb without his connection to the Accuser's machine spirit. It had been an intentional act, to leave him in agony rather than grant him a swift death. The curious reason for Thessivyl's death went unnoticed by the salvagers, too intent on retrieving the valuable flight recorder and anything else of value.
Staying perfectly still, a giant watched the mortals scurry about the chamber like rats searching for a meal. Clad in crimson and silver plate, he blended in with the blood splattered walls. Within his skull shaped helmet, targeting runes flashed across his visor, arranging the mortals below in order of threat posed to the giant. A meagre threat, but one nonetheless. His internal vox blipped, a quick sequence of static fuzz. The mother had arrived. The giant made his move.
Atrextus, disciple of the Word Bearers legion, kicked off from the ceiling, launching himself towards the unwitting victims below. At the last moment, he activated his razor toothed chainsword, spinning the blade in a three hundred sixty degree arc just before hitting the deck. Three mortals were bisected by the manoeuvre. Before the imperials knew what hit them, the astartes was already moving again.
With inhuman speed, the disciple bounded across the chamber, grabbing another salvager and slamming his helmet into the man's face. Chips of skull and brain matter dripped off of the Word Bearer's armour. The other targets, broken of their horrified stupor, did not hesitate to flee from the space marine. Atrextus let them go, for now. The Word of Chaos would reach all ears in time. And their time was very short indeed.
No matter how he tried, Kivek could not prevent the chilling phrase from repeating across his vox link. Embrace the Truth of Chaos, meet your true gods, chanted over and over. The chant was joined by panicked screams from the salvagers still in the command chamber. Kivek and the surviving crewmen cowered behind Frikka's marines. The sergeant pointed his snub nosed autogun at the entrance to the chamber with shaking hands. He had no idea what he was up against.
Atrextus rocketed through the archway, his fang-mouthed bolt pistol flashing with each shot. The astartes' aim was precise, each bolt meeting its target and detonating a millisecond later. Not that Atrextus was trying particularly hard; the attack came so swiftly his victims wouldn't have been able to react even had they not been paralyzed with terror. Without firing off a shot, Frikka's fireteam was reduced to chunks of bloody meat that splattered over the salvagers.
Kivek, however, did not freeze. Instead, his fear manifested itself in panic, and he acted on instinct. He activated his suit's retractor system. Far away, the Bountiful Endeavour's tethers began to recoil. Kivek felt a sharp jerk, and he was dragged away towards safety. The image of the monstrous space marine carving a bloody path across the bridge was the last Kivek Baltrier saw before he was yanked around the winding corridors of the dead ship.
Even in his panicked state, Kivek remembered his safety training. He kicked off from walls to avoid allowing the cable to snap around sharp corners. The cries of his team rang in his helmet. He was too frightened to feel cowardice for abandoning them. In the face of an unstoppable demigod, a man's integrity meant nothing. So he fled, hoping to extend his life by a few precious seconds.
Back on the bridge, Atrextus surveyed his handiwork with indifference. The struggle was barely worthy of the word, lasting less than a minute. It was a thankless job, slaughtering those too weak to fight back, but it had been necessary to delay the Monument of Sin's main target from withdrawing back to enemy lines.
As he stood amongst the dead, Atrextus's motion tracker beeped quietly. His left pauldron automatically lowered as the space marine glanced over his shoulder. A green glow emanated from the sanctum beneath the vaulted command chamber. The tac logis sanctum's door hastily closed, but not quick enough to escape the marine's attention. Atrextus stalked over to investigate, his targeting runes scanning all the while.
Three targets inside, lit up on the infrared and cowering in the corner. Pathetic, Atrextus thought. Rather than waste his time carving through more unworthy foes, he unclipped a grenade from his belt and pulled the pin. Letting it float in midair, he gave it the slightest tap, sending it tumbling into the room. Vimthy, Yoros and Dax died in a hail of shrapnel, their screams swallowed by their void suits.
His task completed, Atrextus stalked through the Accuser's halls, until he reached the observation dome centered atop the upper spine of the ship. The vaulted ceiling was From here, he would watch the death of an Imperial relic. His vox suddenly chimed.
"You missed one, brother."
Atrextus reviewed his helmet's targeting data. "So I have. All in due time, lord."
The attack had come without warning. Caught dead in space, the Aramatus was not positioned properly to counter the enemy warship's angle of attack. Striking from below, the coal-black grand cruiser cut across the center spine of the Imperial battleship, raking its starboard gun batteries with repeated volleys while presenting a minimal profile for retaliation. A Repulsive Class grand cruiser, its armament rivaled that of the Aramatus, yet lacked the armor of the larger ship. But the Word Bearers had chosen their attack carefully to mitigate this flaw.
Alerted to their mothership's plight, the reconnaissance strike craft swept back towards Aramatus while the flight deck scrambled the remaining ships. Clouds of Hell Blade interceptors disgorged from the Repulsive's own bays in response. Compared to atmospheric dogfights, the void craft engaged only in swift passes, relying on acceleration and timing over manoeuvrability. Split second flashes betrayed the demise of fighters too slow to react. Others still met their end at the guns of the two juggernauts trading broadsides.
The three assault claws hidden within the wreck of the Accuser received a series of static blips from the grand cruiser. Engage. Firing up their engines, they screamed towards the aft section of the battleship's hull, aiming directly for the engineering section. Imperial strike craft were attempting to form a screen around the stricken Aramatus, but the rams charged through them, relying on their armor and their furious point defense guns. To the Imperials' credit, they only broke off their pursuit when it became clear it was too late.
The rams, front loaded with shaped charges and heavy arrays of melta guns, hit the Aramatus just as the cruiser's barrage brought down the aft shield screen, shimmering like oily water before dissipating entirely. The assault claws embedded themselves in the lower levels of the engineering section. Possessed marines, fused into their armor by the mutating effects of the warp, deployed from their pods and set to work performing the only act they understood: destroy.
Marhawk was only vaguely aware of the bridge. He was crippled with agony, sharing the battleship's pain. Like bacteria infecting a person's veins, Aramatus felt the pain of the warp creatures that stalked its corridors, slaughtering the crew and disabling vital ship functions. With every node they destroyed, Marhawk felt as though a nerve had been severed, leaving him numb. He wasn't prepared for this, even after all his efforts to connect with the machine spirit. It was too much.
His vision was blurred. His hearing was muffled. He tasted iron in his mouth. Somebody was shaking him, shouting. With effort, Marhawk focused. Nelsor was standing over the command throne, trying to force the captain out of his stupor. Marhawk's head lolled around to look Nelsor in the face. "Report," he groaned.
"Sir, the starboard shield array has failed. Bulkheads 215 through 359 are open to vacuum, no survivors. Starboard broadside is at forty percent and failing, and we have lost contact with engineering."
Marhawk spoke slowly, his words slurred, "Engineering... it is overrun... boarding parties bypassed our defenses. I cannot feel anything beyond the ship's central spine."
"Sir, you are not well, allow me to help, please," urged Nelsor. "I will have a force of marines ready to take engineering in minutes."
"Good, good... what of our salvage crew, Nelsor?"
Nelsor shook his head. "Nothing, sir. Baltrier's vox is dead. Not that we can hear much through that accursed chanting."
Marhawk was becoming more composed, speaking more confidently. "Then, then it is too late for them. Mister Nelsor, our priority is to regain control of engineering and get out of here. I shall hold off these traitors as long as I can. I am counting on you. Go."
Kivek had shut his vox off, the only respite he could get from the chanting voices and the chilling screams of his comrades. There was still a long ways to go back to the salvage barge. The cable winded its way back to the ship, dragging him uncomfortably along the blackout corridors. As long as he got as far away from that monster as he could get, he would stomach the bruises.
The open void was unusually bright when he finally reached the barge. Above him, a massive battle was raging between the Aramatus and some unholy warship. The brightness was attributed to the flashes of shield bursts dissipating the tremendous broadsides they were exchanging. The salvager suddenly felt very small and helpless.
Kivek froze. A large, gauntleted hand had rested on his shoulder. Trembling, he looked up and saw the metal giant standing next to him. Despite his deactivated vox, he heard the astartes' voice, clear as day coming through the speaker.
"Such a sight, is it not, mortal? It has been so long, sometimes I forget what this spectacle must appear like to the common man. I had chosen to witness this from the observatory of this hulk, but I realize now that this is far more visceral. Nothing between us and the slaughter above. Only the void.
"I must thank you, mortal. It is not often I a find myself surprised, yet you have done just that. Savour this moment, for it shall be your last. Die well knowing that you served a higher purpose."
Atrextus closed his hand around the salvager's neck, crushing it with one motion. He let out a sigh.
"Lovely speech, Atrextus," came a voice from his vox. "Are you finished toying with whelps?"
"Even a mortal can offer insight, if viewed in the right context. Have the Monument of Sin collect me when this is over."
Fleet Commissar Turesav brandished his short bladed chainsword, specifically designed for boarding actions. Behind him followed one hundred of the Aramatus's naval ratings, skilled marines and the last line of defense for the warship. Clad in deep blue uniforms with golden epaulets, their faces obscured by pressurized helmets, the company of marines embarked on the conveyor system that ran the length of the battleship, eight kilometers long.
Turesav turned to face the men assembled on the tram platform. "We have only one goal, soldiers: secure engineering. Anything less than human is to be purged with extreme prejudice. Show no mercy, for you shall receive none! Go into battle with a prayer on your lips, for the Emperor is watching over you! To victory!"
"To victory!" cheered the marines. The tram slowed down as it came into the aft station. It was only a short walk to the monolithic doors of the engineering section. The techpriests that had survived the onslaught had sealed the entrance behind them, and they weren't in the mood to open it again. Turesav had to kill three priests for cowardice before a fourth finally relented.
The doors swung open slowly. The marines raised their snub nosed autoguns and las-carbines to their shoulders and cautiously advanced. The massive chamber was dark from power failure, only lit by flaming debris. The engine cluster rose almost a kilometer in height. It was dotted with ramps and scaffolding, running across the engines like veins. Finding the intruders would take time, Tursesav reckoned.
"Fan out, squads of ten!" he ordered, "You see anything, you call it in and engage."
It wasn't long before Turesav's men made contact. Drawn by the scent of fresh blood, the possessed astartes converged on the marines. Commissar Turesav's own squad was just crossing the top of a secondary engine when the beast ambushed them. Unflinching in the face of lasfire, the warp spawn tore through the squad without a second thought, ripping soldiers limb from limb, until only the commissar himself remained. The fearlessness of the officer was lost on the creature, who slashed his chest open before Turesav had a chance to raise his sword.
A similar event played out in sequence among the rest of the squads, slaughtered to a man within minutes of entering the engine room. A single figure strode across the great thrusters, paying little heed to the bloody handiwork of his charges. From the Warp they had been summoned, and when their task had been completed, to the Warp they would return.
Clad in a robe inscribed with arcane runes and unholy scripture, wearing a winged, crimson helm, Amphion, Sorcerer of the Word Bearers, muttered incantations as he crossed the breadth of the engine room. A darkness clung to him like a cloak, masking his movements from the hapless mortals so desperately trying to hold off his thralls. Upon each great engine, he placed a symbol with a touch of his staff, glowing red as if applied by a brand. A strange vibration filled the chamber, growing stronger with each sigil he placed.
Finished with their butchery, the possessed astartes congregated around Amphion, awaiting his orders. Beneath his helmet, the sorcerer smiled. With a wave of his hand and a psychic gesture, he set the astartes free to do as they would across the ship. The end would come soon, and his protection was no longer required.
Standing atop the primary thruster, Amphion spoke in a dark language, chanting the words of his incantation. The sigils upon the engines glowed ever brighter, until the blackened chamber was blindingly bright. Amphion swelled with the power coursing through him, screaming with delight as he harnessed the dark sorcery of the Warp. Raising his arcing staff high above his head, the Sorcerer uttered the final phase of the spell and brought the pommel striking down upon the engine array.
The blinding light vanished in a shockwave. All went dark, all went silent. The great engines of the Aramatus grew silent, never again to awaken. His work completed, Amphion, Sorcerer of the Word Bearers left the crippled battleship through a tear in the Warp, leaving the mortals to their fate.
Marhawk clutched his chest as if a spear had been rammed through his heart. He sat upright, struggling to breath. Something was wrong with Aramatus, far worse than the pain of battle damage. This was a poison, a plague upon the machine spirit's very essence. The captain had drifted too deeply into the connection, and he felt the pain as the ship itself. It overwhelmed him, leaving him in spasms on his throne.
This final act sealed the fate of the Aramatus. It's power source ruined, its shields breached and its escort nowhere to be found, the Oberon Class Battleship was at the mercy of the Monument. The grand cruiser unleashed a punishing volley of lance strikes into the imperial warship, devastating it's bridge and opening its engineering chamber to open space. A side effect of the sorcerer's trickery, when weapons fire struck the poisoned engines, they detonated with titanic force.
When the Monument of Sin struck the Accuser, it had selectively crippled the vessel to offer enticing bait for the ambush. The Aramatus's demise did not share this aspect. It was destroyed utterly, consumed in an implosion of matter that left remains no larger than grains of sand, reduced to sheer nothingness.
Aboard the Monument, Amphion walked the shifting hallways, accompanied by the disciple Atrextus. A veteran of the Word Bearers, Atrextus had volunteered for the thankless butchery aboard the Accuser without question. Loyalty, Amphion reckoned, was one of Eliphas's greatest strengths. Ironic, given our Lord's reputation, he thought with a slight chuckle.
The two astartes entered the bridge and bowed before the Inheritor, resting atop his throne. "My lord, our task was carried out as you demanded," Atrextus said. Amphion stayed silent, watching the Inheritor's face, trying to unravel what Eliphas was thinking. Beneath endless scars and grafted flesh, the Inheritor was almost inscrutable at times.
"Two astartes and a rabble of mutants, claiming the lives of thousands in mere minutes," said Eliphas, his voice as hard edged and raspy as claws scraped against metal. "A fine performance, wouldn't you say? And yet, I cannot help but hear some doubt in your voice, Atrextus. Tell me, what is it that perturbs you? Speak plainly."
"My lord, you know I follow you willingly. However, I must confess I understand little reason for such an attack. What do we hope to gain by treating to battle in the void, when the subsector is ripe for the taking? We are not pirates, and our talents are wasted here."
Amphion watched the edges of a smile creep across Eliphas's cracked lips. "Patience, Atrextus, is what sets us apart from the servants of the False Emperor. While they dally with the greenskins on their worlds, we wait, as we have always done. Time is on our side, and we shall make the most of it."
"By toying with inexperienced commanders?" Atrextus frowned. "How does that help us?"
"By cultivating the proper atmosphere of discontent amongst the Imperials, we further our goal of destabilizing this subsector. With the destruction of their flagship, the Imperial Navy cannot hope to control this region of space with any degree of success. As word spreads of Aurelia's state, more victims will be drawn into the subsector like flies to rotting flesh. That is why we prey on ships, Atrextus. That is why we distance ourselves from the fighting. When the time is right, and subsector Aurelia passes the point of no return, then we will reveal ourselves and reap the bounty of our efforts."
Atrextus nodded, understanding at last. Amphion finally spoke. "As you say, Inheritor, time is on our side. The Truth of Chaos shall come to all in time."
Author's note: Just a little one shot as an addendum to the last story before I dive into the last Meridian War story I've got lined up.