Chapter 37: Ebbing Tide
With the embarkation deck closed, the most useful into the Vengeful Spirit was its fighter bays. Of course, the small hangars' flat trajectory would make it a challenge to land a shuttle with any degree of grace. Landing a Warhawk IV stormbird in the same compartment was an exercise in equal measures of bravery and stupidity.
The vessel's wings sweep inwards like a folding jackknife as the engines screamed in protest at the maneuver typically meant to lend speed rather than bleed it off. The quartet of thrusters throw flames back as the elegant machine funnels super-heated air into the narrow confines of the bay, blasting back push tractors and sweeping away mechanics kits left to service the far-smaller lightning crows.
The nose scrapes and screeches across the conduit lined roof of the hangar while the engine cowling grates noisily against the decking, scraping off the patently unhelpful landing symbols. The landing claws touch down, tearing the deck open but finally halting the stormbird as its nose snaps down with a bang, shattering the forward gear. Its buckled prow ramp lowers, disgorging the cluster of green and black clad warriors who scan the abandoned hangar.
Kibre sniffs at the air like a hound. The Widowmaker wrinkles his nose, "Something..."
"Burnt circuitry." Horus grunts as he strides down the landing ramp still clad in his loose pinkish stained shroud. His eyes fall on a shape tucked carefully in the corner, a dull black storm eagle had evidently landed, and been taxied into a shadowy recess of the starkly lit hangar. "No, no you're right, Kibre. There's something putrid lingering here."
"The scrubbers are off, for one." Marr chimes, having followed with Loken and Torgaddon in Horus's wake. Two Justarian follow with their Word Bearer prisoner pressed between them.
It's Falkus Kibre's voice the breaks them out of it as the stormbird's petulant engine whine begins to fade. "That's our bird, so who brought it back?"
"Never mind that now." Marr nods ahead to the wide blast doors shielding the flight deck from the crew ready rooms. "Keep alert." Horus and his entourage follow the justarians.
"Emergency protocols, we're locked out!" Kibre snarls as he taps on the small biometric palm reader and keypad. He nods towards one of his black armored warriors with a chainfist, " hit the door."
"How easy you forget, Kibre." Horus shoves his way through the protective circle and lays his hand flat on the keypad, letting the door shunts open with a scrape. "Even at the worst of times, everything yields for the Warmaster." Horus smirks.
The open quarters were still shockingly empty, with only the constant wailing to break the oppressive silence. Wide open halls lead to galleries and briefing rooms for the bevy of flight officers, mechanics, and other mortal fighter crews. Shocks of red light flash from grated wall sconces, plunging the stark yellowed walls into a bloody hue.
"Tarik, Sergeant Vipus." the later in particular just balks, as if surprised to be even known by the Warmaster, "take Locasta and any of our injured and head up to the apothecarion. And get this filth out of my sight." he gestures to Kal Belekar, "Keep him alive, I will want a word with him. No excuses, this is an order." The Lupercal's stony golden gaze brooks no dissent.
But the Warmaster settles his hand on Marr's shoulder, an almost affable gesture it it didn't come from such an enormous presence. "The rest of us are going to find out just what is happening to my ship."
"Sir, we should fetch your battleplate-" Kibre starts, only to be cut off with a scowl of irritation from the primarch.
"I refuse to sit here while you fetch me a spare suit of armor from my room like a feeble princeling. Besides, it will take too long... if you insist on my protection." The Warmaster strides towards one of the ready room doors. Without looking back, he grasps it in two hands and with a roar of effort, rips the metal slab from its mounting in a shower of sparks. Taking it by the handle, he hefts it like a shield and flashes his warriors a wolfish grin, "You worry too mu-"
"Hooooooorus..." a voice echoes with a wet lathering laugh, prickling the fine hairs on the back of his arm. "I know you're there, Horus the Horse-Tamed."
The others quickly crowd around the unarmored primarch again. He merely sighs, spitting the word, "Ceifador." With a whirl of blue-black energy and spotty patterns in the air, the mystic halberd forms in his right hand. It suddenly judders, wavering with a loud series of spluttering cracks as it spits white and blue sparks from its entire length like lit phosphorus. Horus clenches his teeth and holds on as it stops spitting sparks. The primarchs palm is fire-blackened and his eye twitches as he tightens his grip on the weapon haft. "Where are you now, you conniving little wretch?"
"Okay, if no one else can be bothered to ask," Torgaddon wetly coughs and looks over before pointing offhandedly with a little loop at the blade, "Lord Commander, what in sacred unity is that?!"
"A gift, a gift for dealing with just such pests as that little mouse hiding in my ship like the vermin it is." Horus grates and slams the polearm haft against the door frame. "Come on out then!"
"Oh, is that all? I don't recall any piece of archeotech like that in the armory." Torgaddon plies, looking to Kibre and Loken for support and finding at least a few nods of agreement.
"Tarik, are you saying I must make account of all my possessions to you, like one of Malcador's tribute eaxactors?" Horus's voice deepens in its gravelly base.
Torgaddon visibly shrinks back. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."
"Good... because I'd say you can get out and float to another legion that will have you. I won't bear the shame of one of my sons turning into a damned tax collector."
Turning back, the primarch looks down the corridor just as something rattles at the end of the hall in the machinists bay. A clatter of a metal spanner hitting the ground jolts the astartes to their senses, though it's followed by the equally loud and unmistakable wet tear of flesh. The sodium lamps flicker and die with a fizzling pop just as the first rivulet of red trickles towards the oil sink in the middle of the room.
Horus nods and the group advances. Outlines of push tractors and mechanical trolleys on hoists flutter at the far reaches while the silent sway of tackle chains squeaks to emphasize the rasp of flesh and muscle torn like wet parchment. With a meaty thump, a shin and lower leg is tossed across the hall leaving a ribbon of red droplets sprayed across the grey floor.
Horus redoubles his pace, turning into the room just as the waft of rot fills his nostrils. The putrescent sickly sweet odor of decay was suddenly overpowering in a manner he knew too well. They all did. It was identical to the odious miasma they'd trudged through in the assault on the Glory of Terra.
They all spot the figure at once, a lanky fat-bellied creature clad in shattered grey plate. Moribund flesh squeezes between the popped out flexsteel undermesh of the grey battle plate, turning the sleek lines into a mocking parody of itself like a blubbery singer squeezing into a dress three sizes too small. Its legs were twisted, recurved like a dog, ending in hooked claws that tore through the ceramite mag-boots.
It doesn't even turn as it shovels mouthfuls of meat from the carcass of three crew heaped upon a metal press bench in the corner while four other corpses strung from chains like macabre streamers on a Nostraman street corner. Its pudgy fingers and curved talons grip and twist the human bodies apart before flinging them back into a short muzzle. It had a short lieutenant's crest on its helm that now bears a mocking resemblance to a pony's mane. The red hair flows down its back, dripping yellow bile and ichor from long unkempt strands. The beast hesitates, half twisting its head, saliva ropes hanging from its jaws.
Kibre hisses quietly, "What in the depths is tha-"
The beast roars and lunges backward, spinning swiftly and grasping the corpse of one half-devoured crewmen. It tosses the corpse hard at the Lupercal only for the primarch to raise his impromptu shield to block the grisly missile. The corpse spatters across it, pouring blood and trailing meat across the door and the backs of Marr and Loken's armor.
Out of munitions and wrong-footed, the warriors quickly gather around the Lupercal while the beast breathes a spittle flecked hiss at them, then sprints for the door. Latching onto the slowly opening metal edge with its claws, it wrenches it open and disappears into the hall.
"It... ran?" Marr stiffens.
"It's trying to bait us out." Horus takes the door and flings it aside before seizing Ceifador in two hands and dashing headlong after the beast.
"Wait, don't tell me it worked!" Torgaddon calls and sighs as he starts to lope after the Lupercal, only for Loken to press a palm to his chest.
"Tarik, get to the apothecarion! We'll keep him safe!" Loken darts off with Marr and the Widowmaker already pounding over the deck towards the disappearing primarch.
Klaxons echo through the halls of the Vengeful Spirit, red emergency lights bathing the grey ceramite in a sanguine shine. Blood pools here and there where crew lay scattered in pieces in the wake of the daemon. They were tracking the creature that drew itself further and further into the heart of the flagship, avoiding the worst of its opposition as if by instinct and tearing through lone legionnaires with reckless abandon.
The blaring alarms finally draw a growl of annoyance from the Lupercal, "I wish someone would silence that racket." He glances down a four-way intersection, all suspiciously clear. Glancing up, clawmarks gouge the surface as it had evidently pulled itself up through a narrow servitor maintenance hatch.
"It went up." Marr grumbles, getting only an unimpressed glare from the Widowmaker as they all slow to a halt in the crossroads.
"Above this is the apothecary laboratories, genevaults, environmentals, and hydroponics." Loken mutters before looking at Kibre.
"Secondary tram hubs, no primary lines. Nothing defensible but plenty of places to hide or escape. Well, that and there's the spinal gates to the Engineerium." The Widowmaker nods, "I doubt it'll go that way, too many servitors and mechanicum guards to wade through even if it can bypass the bulkhead doors."
"It's not going to hide, it's leading us somewhere." Horus snarls and sets off again down one of the halls as he mulls over his own unspoken ideas. The sextet follows after him only to come to a stop as the primarch halts in the middle of the hall, weapon outstretched.
"Horus?" Marr ventures, "What's wrong?"
Horus closes his eyes for a moment, breathing a little deeper and holding up a finger for silence. "If we can't track this thing, and we can't follow it, I have an idea about who can... she had better not be hiding under her blankets trying to ignore me."
'Luna.'
Darkness. It was often a comfort, though the blackness of a fainting or blackout spell was so often the pleasantness of oblivion until the inevitable morning. It was dreamless, formless. Or at least, it had been. There, hovering in front of her, Luna stares up at a pair of glittering eyes in the yawning depths of nothingness.
'Princess Luna.'
And if she didn't move, it was like they couldn't see her. But something about it was bizarrely uncomfortable, and not just the bizarre blue-red hetrochromia or the slitted pupils she tried to pretend weren't uncomfortably familiar. They both stared at her, in ruby and sapphire, unblinking but tracking her swimming movements in the ether.
'LUNA!'
A voice shakes the void in a concussive wave of sound.
'LUNA, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!'
Again, a stunned silence grips the Alicorn as she muddles through the unfamiliar sensation of a voice in her head.
'DAMN YOU, LITTLE HORSE! ANSWER ME!'
Luna waits for a moment, realizing the voice at long last. "Horus?"
'WHO ELSE?! NOW STOP HIDING LIKE A PATHETIC MEWLING FOAL AND GET OVER HERE, I NEED YOUR NOSE!'
"F-fine, fine... but why are you shouting?" Luna snorts, "This had better not just be about 'the thing'."
The sound of sliding granite and creaking steel bounces back. It was the sound of icebergs scraping against each other in the darkne- 'wait'. She recognizes the squeal of grinding teeth and the roiling sound of irritation from a cavernous chest magnified to unthinkable levels.
'I'll... Later. We'll deal with 'that' later.'
His deep and controlled voice was a different timbre, more controlled but no less dangerous. Part of it made her shiver, like when her sister used her full titular name and wouldn't glance her way. It was an unnerving and unpleasant tension "... you are absolutely sure it is not about-"
'GET YOUR HAUNCHES OUT OF BED AND DO SOMETHING, YOU MISERABLE MADDENING MARE!'
Luna tries to right herself, and with remarkable clarity, she stares into the red eye as the rest of the world blurs away with even less effort than it usually took to enter the dreamscape.
"Commander!" Kibre calls, head on a swivel as he scans for the ever-present sign of danger in the red-bathed hall, "Is everything-"
"Quiet." Horus grunts from a half trance, forehead beading with sweat as he opens his eyes again. While slightly glassy and glazed, he glances left and right only to spot the wavering form he'd expected. The blurry and indistinct equine form stands just off to his right, staring at him, outline flickering and hazy as the catalepsean node takes hold and lets the primarch enter the half-asleep state.
"There you are." he growls, getting a look of confusion from everyone present.
'Yes... how is... is this. Thou art resting, yet not?' Luna's confused voice bubbles up as if through a quiet veil, but Horus just nods.
Kibre's vision follows Horus's, but sees an empty space in the flashing hallway. "Comman-"
"Shut up, Falkus!" Horus' snarl breaks the silence as he looks back viciously over his shoulder. "You don't need to understand everything right now, only I do." with that, he settles on a somewhat taken aback Luna.
'This is,' she pauses, 'unsettling.'
"That's hardly my problem. You and Loken are the only ones here who have seen and fought one of these things. And you did seem to have the nose for finding spirits, so tell me, what do you see?" By now it wasn't just the silent Falkus Kibre that was staring in the Warmaster's direction, but the entire group with a wary mix of confusion and worry.
But Luna's shadow does look towards Loken, where the Warmaster had instinctively bobbed his head a moment before. 'It is difficult to see, there are still many shadows here and-'
"I didn't ask for some metaphysical communications check. Can you sniff anything out or not?" He growls to the open spot of deck plating that the ephemeral Alicorn occupies in his flickering mind's eye as the catalepsean node rhythmically sends small sections of his brain into deep REM sleep one after another.
'Of course I can sense them. But Horus Sedecem Lupercal, We are not a dog! And We shall not be used like a hound on a leash, it is undignified, unjustified-' Seeing Horus's continued glare, she glances down to see his hands grip the haft of her own halberd- 'That's mine.'
The primarch tilts his chin up and purses his lips, "I decided to borrow it for a little while longer. Now, let me rephrase this in no uncertain terms: I need you to sniff out that creature so I can hunt it down and kill it. Or rekill it. Or whatever it is that we've done before."
'Banish it. But Horus,' The amorphous blob of a pony quirks its head a bit, 'Why are you wearing a dress? Do not misunderstand, it is not the worst garment we have seen, but neither is it the most becoming garb for the occasion. Wait, is that the sheet from the stone bed?'
"Yes, I'm wearing it because I can't damned well fit into anyone elses armor, can I?"
'I shall say what I said to sister, thou needst to consume less sweets, and exercise more. You could simply disrobe, it serves no purpose and is likely ungainly, correct?'
The deathglare the pony gets melds with a furrowed brow and eye twitch. Horus's voice turns sharp and cold, "This is not the time, my crews are dying and I need answers. Are you going to provide them, or are you going to stand there nitpicking my wardrobe?"
'W-we... yes, yes of course.' Luna swallows, head drooping as she turns to look around. 'We are sorry-'
"Don't be sorry, be useful. That will be enough." The primarch growls, and watches immediately as she follows the trail up to the entrance hatch, taking to wing and hovering beneath it. She pokes her head inside, scrambling up and hanging from it, getting more than one questioning stare from the primarch as she kicks her feet and tries to flap her wings.
To Luna, it was a shifting maze of black inky lines and juddering shadows, but a single thick oil slick leads in one direction down the narrow unlit channel. There's a single span in the distance, an upward chimney-like duct, still dripping black ichor. She ducks back out and clatters down on the hard surface, 'this way, then up.' she points to the right further down the corridor. 'But why are the lights flashing? Is that merely in the dream? And how are you asleep and awake?'
"It's headed towards the apothecary." Horus says sharply, taking off at a run in the direction the pony indicated. "It's the emergency lighting from the attack, and lets just say 'I can'. So can everyone else here."
'Truly?' she asks, while keeping pace beside him at a sprint.
"Yes, now be silent. It's hard enough to concentrate like this." he growls, listening to the phantom gallop of the quadruped keeping up with him.
'We had not thought ourselves that distracting, but perhaps it is a compliment all the same.' She mutters more to herself, in fact, completely to herself.
"I can still hear you." Horus growls as he takes a corner sharply, sliding around with the sheet rushing like the tail of an ancient statesmen's robe. He tugs it further on his frame with one hand, the other still clutching the halberd. The sprint is less than fifty meters before a mag-lift alcove appears. Taking the bend hard, he slides to a stop and slaps his palm on the ident reader panel on the cold ferrocrete sheet. The shuffling group slides into place behind him just as the mag lift doors yawn open and the safety rails slide down.
'How big is this castle? It appears to go on forever.' Horus doesn't answer, but a faint phantom smirk passes his features. It's gone in a moment, returned to its regal glower as he steps on the lift. With a small jolt, the platform rises. sharply
'Woah' Luna wavers, hooves shaking, getting a wry grin from Horus.
"Careful there." he cackles with a smile and keep scanning the darkness.
"Copy, Commander." Kibre mutters, taking up a spot at the front of the group, getting a bit of a grin from the Warmaster who adds nothing to correct him.
But as they travel upwards, Luna's attention had since drifted. The sounds of the whining lift grav plates mingle with something else, her attention focused squarely on Marr's bracer as the sharp carved edge of her cutie mark emblazoned upon it. He stands with his silvered blade raised upwards in a low guard, determination clear on his features that run much the same as Horus' own. 'He is your son, isn't he? Is that...'
Horus merely nods, getting a sidelong glance from Loken.
The captain could only see the Warmaster fixating on an empty space between himself and Marr with an certain amused intensity. But the Commander's eyes were definitely tracking something. Whether it was delusion or invisible assistant was impossible to tell.
'I would have thought... I thought the colt... We... assumed.' Luna drifts closer, seeing the blood spatter and unwavering features, nearly identical but for the green eyes that stare up into the darkness. 'He greatly resembles his father.' Some rippling quiver in the Alicorn's voice was off, like she wasn't sure if that was possible or should be. Was there a hint of disappointment, or relief, it jumbles together in a rattled sigh only the Warmaster hears.
The Alicorn seems to watch each and every one, though there was definitely a major focus of her attention on the supposed colt, now that she was seeing him as he was, even through hazy watercoloured blurs. But a sudden drip of black draws Luna's attention. Drawing in a sharp breath, she points to a simple door three levels up, 'there.'
"Good," Horus replies as the lift halts at the broken doorway and hisses to a stop, "Now, we're going to kill a creature that mankind once called a demon." The door opens with a rasp and scrape where the bent metal drags on the edge of the lift. It empties into a plain apothecarion lobby dominated by etchings of the medicae prime helix behind the triage terminal.
Low pained groans and bloody streaks line the concourse, but they spot movement beyond three bloody smears in the middle of the room with parts of two medical orderlies and a single armored limb laying crumpled against a pillar. More than a dozen orderlies in green medical scrubs huddle against the far sternward halls towards the operation theaters among a few grey imperial fleet crew, while four white-clad giants protectively in front of them in various states of dress. Three only have their medical smocks as they clutch surgical saws and reductor syringes while the forth, a one-armed armored apothecary still bleeding from his spot sitting on the floor, hefts a smoking bolt pistol leveled at the entrance to the laboratories. His gaze flicks to the recently arrived group.
'H-Horus, by the stars...' Luna's sickened gasp at the sight is heard only in the Warmaster's ears, and he patently ignores her.
"Commander?!" The wounded apothecary's shocked voice rocks the lobby as eyes fall upon the primarch from every corner of the room.
"I see you met our quarry. Which way?" Horus says as he strides into the aghast and stunned room, evidently enjoying the spectacle he caused,
"Y-yes commander. It went that way, towards the labs. H-here, I'll-" he hefts himself upwards to his knees as another of the apothecaries races forward to help the staggering warrior up now that the black-clad justarian were present.
"Don't you dare, here." The primarch strides over, picking up the wrenched off bloody limb from the pillar and tossing the ghastly item towards the other apothecary at his side. The man catches the limb, "take that and get yourself immediately to the operating theater, tell Vaddon to fix you first though he should be expecting more guests shortly."
"C-commander." A shivering female doctor stands from her protective huddle of other medical practitioners. "W-we haven't seen Vaddon in at least twelve hours."
"... is that so?" Horus clicks his teeth and nods to two of the Justarian, "You stay here, make sure that our ugly guest doesn't double back." he steps around the obviously dead corpse heaped in the middle of the theater, and quickly heads up the short sloped ramp towards a wing marked very obviously 'Laboratorium'.
Redoubling his pace, the Warmaster whispers covertly, "Thank you for your assistance, Luna-" he ignores Marr's sudden stutter, "But I think I'll need all my concentration now."
'Horus, WAIT!' She nearly wanders straight into his legs. 'You said we would be doing this together, we did before, and I can still help!'
Horus pauses for a moment, shooting the air a little glare, "Well don't expect me to just hand this back." he tightens his grasp on the halberd and straightens, taking a breath.
No one else present could hear Luna doing the same as the phantom pony gathers herself, looking at the gory red scene, seeing only twisted shapes, the world as sketchy and artistic as it had been when she entered the creepy grotto... and had been punched for her efforts. This 'apothecarion' bore some semblance to a hospital done in charcoal sketch, though the limbs and split open bodies were awash in splashes of red oil paints. And through it all, like black ink, she could spot the fading trail as if it was intentionally trying to lead them somewhere. 'Through there' Luna nods her head, still padding alongside the primarch.
Loken flashes a look of surprise and confusion Horus's way, but receives only a wide grin and knowing smirk. "Don't worry, I've not gone senile, Garviel. You'll just have to trust that I know what I'm doing."
"Sir." Loken nods as the sound of a jostled crash cart echoes from further up the hall. The lights still flicker red, but as they enter the long radial hall, the three split level ramps separate the more sensitive portion of the Vengeful Spirit's medical decks. Glassteel doors show locked down lab rooms not in use, empty, well after research hours were over. But a single steel cart with an overturned medical test set lies scattered in mangled pieces, spewing shattered crystal specimen tubes and synthetic stoppers across their path to the lower reaches. The whirling crimson light reflects in the shattered and crushed shards, scattered like rubies down the grated slope to the lower level research labs.
"It definitely came through here." Horus grunts, never once stopping as he heads down the ramp.
'That is what We said.' Luna snorts, but slows her pace as she peeks over the lip.
At the bottom is another blood trail, this time smeared across the floor with shredded bits of pink flesh that appear black in the alternating light. Horus descends, and spots the sunken pits and operating rooms immediately. But something else, at the rear-most corner catches his eye. One of the centerfuge rooms for medical studies is lit, stark pink light flooding through the glassteel window panel. In front of it is the towering inhuman shape silhouetted by the grim light.
"Horus Horse-tamed. It will be your legacy. You are a worse degenerate than that lunatic Curze." The daemonic figure licks its bestial muzzle clean of gore and begins to cackle, its laugh bubbling like a toxic stew as sludge pours from its lipless maw. Still, Horus edges forward with his detail a step behind, "He knows. Others know, too. Others will see your weakness for what it is. Even your sons. You have no-"
Quick as lightning from a clear sky, the primarch hurls the halberd like a javelin. Though the creature was swift and tumbles to the side, the halberd catches it high in the shoulder, punching through the bulging ceramite plate and pinning the squealing beast to the wall behind it. Snatching the executioners axe and wrenching it from the Widowmaker's grasp, Horus thunders across the space with the murderous weapon upraised for a killing stroke.
The creature pulls itself away from the embedded weapon, shedding its entire upper right side as it splits deep into its chest, forming a fanged maw in the gash as the arm and flaps of skin twist into a writhing tentacle. Luna's racked breath hisses in the primarchs ears, and there's a low crystalline chime. The beast stumbles, lashing out at the primarch and scattering foul smelling fluids from its suppurating wound. A spray spatters on the Warmaster's makeshift robe, turning sickly black with spidering veins of contagion blooming in mossy growths across the fabric. But a flicker of white blue flame, the rest burns away before touching his skin.
Marr charges in with Loken and the Justarian behind him. Kibre's hand had already settled on a short stabbing dagger at the back of his waist behind his cloak as he closest in from the side.
The creature lashes out with an unnatural scream, its clawed hand at the end of the unnaturally flexible scrap of flesh that had formed a lower mandible on that portion of its body. It claws against the Warmaster's shoulder, but seems to rebound at the last second with a sizzling hiss and accompanying screech as the limb shrivels back with the same white blue flicker. Then, the axe descends.
With two hacking blows, the other arm is sheered off, then the creature's head is lopped from its shoulder. The body continues to write, pouring black ichor from the wounds as the head keeps screeching as the Warmaster takes a step back to wind up another blow like a lumberjack. Marr's long blade slams into the wound from the side, puncturing through where its primary and secondary hearts should be, only for the right talons to stretch out and shred a craggy furrow through his pauldron.
Marr snarls and steps back as a Justarian's lightning claw slashes the outstretched talons to ribbons. The screaming finally stops when Kibre drives the dagger through the eye socket of the severed head. The body continues to thrash and writhe, but the Lupercal swings the axe hard, spattering the interior of the lab with clotted black gore, chopping limbs from the corpse one after another until nothing remains intact.
Covered in the stinking black blood of their foe, the group slowly steps back, just as the mystic halberd fades with a wisp of smoke. The sudden silence leaves the lower research labs in relative peace aside from the flicker of a sodium bulb. The klaxons, for the time being, had ceased. "Just like last time." Horus cackles, barely breathing hard at all, "they all love to spout their little monologues."
"Sacred Unity..." Loken draws a sharp breath, looking sidelong past the kneeling Falkus Kibre and into the illuminated lab entrance. Through the pink smeared transparent wall, all eyes were drawn to the figure slumped over the table-sized centerfuge in a familiar green medical smock, stained black and red. "Vaddon."
The hallway wasn't a trap, it was a stand for their foes as well as a test for the chosen sons of the gods. Shields raised, they plunge forward into the wide T intersection, one that ended with the three story tall gantries surrounding the armoury, banners strung about them representing the mortal auxiliaries of Horus Lupercal and that of the wardens of the Vengeful Spirit. What awaited them was exactly what they had all expected.
Dozens of predatory Cthonians gather in feral packs, chainswords humming and bolters raised in preparation. Mortal armsmen crowd the gantries, aiming autorifles and stationary support weapons from the railings ascending into the darkened heights of the immense arterial hall. Hashutz' thirty five legionnaires would barely fill two ranks across the span now crowded with at least as many of the motley Horusian warriors.
There at the front is a single black armored terminator with a red flowing cloak and spiked helm. The warden chieftain, master of the Spirit's terminator guard, stands still and points the finger of a crackling power first at them while hefting a long Cthonian blade in the other. And there, at the rear, was a single thick armored ceramite blastdoor leading to the armory.
"Where there is uncertainty, shall we bring the light!" Hashutz's eyes burn with a light of a dying star, mouth twisting into a rictus grin as he sweeps his thunderhammer aloft, his troops gathering in their wide V shaped shield wall with him at their center. The thunderstorm erupts. Sons of Horus open fire, sending blossoms of flame and sheets of bolts scything into the gathering Word Bearers, battering the shield wall. The accompanying chorus of chattering autoguns and thumping grenade launchers illuminates the gantries in ribbons of flame. Word Bearers breachers tumble forward, overwhelmed by the hurricane of fire as the fury of vengeful sons is slaked in a single cataclysmic roar.
Hashutz ignores the blazing runes warning of bolter impacts raking his shield and deflecting off his reinforced helm with enough force to send shockwaves through his skin and dampen his helmet's preysense from the light bloom. "Where there is doubt, shall we sow faith!" It was a remarkable feeling, one stolen so long ago and back in force as his hearts flutter with a burst of elation.
Joy.
"Where there is shame, shall we restore pride!"
Joy of finally wrenching aside the proverbial hand that had laid on the back of their necks since Khur. Joy at the feeling of eternal frustration finally released in one bitter scream of anger. Joy at the words he felt spewing from his cracked lips. And joy that he could see the looks of equal hatred and bestial rage in those that opposed them. He was the first breacher to trundle forward, but not the last as the echoing cry arises around him.
"We bring his word!"
"Where there is rage," Hashutz was linked into every vox in his breacher platoon, every Word Bearer still alive on the vessel, and if the lieutenant had done his job, every vox on the Vengeful Spirit. "shall we harness it!"
Their terminator chieftain breaking in among their vox-net instead, momentarily stealing Hashutz words away, "fine sermonizing, Colchisian." his voice echos in a condescending chortle, softer than the typical harsh consonants of the Cthonic accent, though Hashutz couldn't place it. "Lets try something simple: Sons of Horus, no prisoners!"
Not content to await the Word Bearers, a savage undulating cry rises from among the Sons of Horus as they hurl themselves forward. A Cthonian slams into the shield wall to his left, bulling his way among them and stabbing with a chainsword. The blade bites into a corporal who drops in a frothing bloody heap, moments before Hashutz' thunderhammer finds its way around to smash the Cthonian in a downward sweep of bloody ruin. But the gap was made, and where one fell, another pair of top-knot barbarian Cthonians sweep in to hack at them.
Terran. Cthonian. Saturnite. Let the galaxy send everyone to them, drown them in blood and bodies. But now, Hashutz of Colchis could hear the song of eternities. Kor Phaeron was right.
The melta bomb on his hip clacks as if in anticipation as well. He could do it. Get to the armory, fight his way through, and carve a hole in the legion's collective memory so that they would know the pain that could lead them to the light. Just like Monarchia. Then they would know a measure of their own resolve. Then, perhaps, they would be ready to be transformed.
Fighting equals was different than the unprepared. His own warriors had trained to fight each other, but this was different. The rattling fire of autoguns from the soaring catwalks had been hesitant, but the ferocious howls of Cthonic rage had been immediate. They had been allowed just long enough to get into the hall and even then he was sure he saw the anger. The bolter fire didn't slacken until the moment the green and black tide actually slams into them as Cthonians throw themselves at the shield wall with reckless rage-addled abandon.
It was intoxicating.
The song echoes around him as more breachers try to force their way in, but a shoulder slams against his shield and forces him to lean into the impact. His left arm strains to keep the slab of adamantium down as fingers grip the bottom to force a gap wide enough to plunge an icicle-tip poignard into his knee joint. But as it was, he was forcefully shoved back across the smooth metal decking with an audible screech of protesting metal.
The Cthonian barked something in his harsh palatal native speech, something Hashutz couldn't understand as was likely glad not to. But he did slam the butt of his thunderhammer down on the warrior, feeling the helmet's comb dent though it didn't stop the shield from rising as the legionnaire opens a gap. Hashutz slams his knee forward against his shield, unbalancing his opponent and driving him back a pace as the dagger skitters back out of reach. It opens just enough room so he could swing the thunderhammer to pulverize the legionnaire's right side in a flurry of shattered battleplate and aerosolized blood.
Hashutz tries to barrel his shoulder forward and raise his thunderhammer for another swing when the guttural roar of a terminator warden shakes the room. They had evidently hidden among the packs along the left and right flank only to throw themselves into the fray, and Hashutz had more-or-less forgotten about them. But he could see the monstrous warriors in his peripheral vision where his Colchisian brothers should be, their blood soaked axes rising and falling with a frenzied animus.
Bits of broken plasteel from a shattered shield ricochet off his pauldron, and he slams his shoulder into his barrier as two more Cthonians replace the one that fell. He swings his weapon in a wide arc, one opponent ducking, the other dodging back while slicing a scraggly line across his bracer with the monomolecular tip of his poignard.
"I'm going to cut your throat, maggot!" The fiery black-pauldroned warrior etched in barbaric gang-markings throws himself forward again. He was off-balance, and Hashutz had to meet the charge with his own, shield bashing the warrior and throwing him flat. Instead of staying put, he carries on and bulls the second legionnaire out of his way as he breaks from the cover of his formation and into the whirling maelstrom of Cthonic rage.
It was a dangerous gambit, but Hashutz could hear the song of eternities now.
All around him echoes the celestial machinations of the gods, the pounding of blood in his ears. His brothers were behind him... or they were dead. He could hear the clatter of armored feet to his left and right. Either way, he carries forward with the burble of a spluttering vox babbling meaningless words in his ears. Hashutz forces his way forward, swinging the hammer high overhead and sending it crashing down onto an unsuspecting terminator warden to his left. The feeling of invulnerability swells as a heady aphrodisiac when he sees the tasset plates and thigh of his opponent disappear in an explosive concussion of spattering red.
Invulnerable.
Invincible.
He lashes out again, scattering another pair of legionnaires to the eight winds. Swinging the hammer back, it rings harshly on shimmering steel, and stays put. The leering face of the terminator chieftain pulls itself closer, blood red eyes staring into his chilly blue visor. "That's far enough." He slams his energized fist out and shatters the shield in a rocking 'bang' of overlapping energy fields.
Hashutz is thrown back through the crowd, slamming into bodies and even slumping off a breacher shield that props him up in a sitting position. The broken tatters of his protection hangs from his bent and twisted left vambrace as the reality of the tartaros chieftain's presence sinks in. With the scarlet cloak swirling around him, he could hear the roar of sound from behind him, Colchisian speech calling words of warning amid shots and cries, of exploding rounds, and the roar of chainblades.
Hashutz looks around or a moment, casting about for the hammer that had slipped from his grasp during the fall. He turns over, spotting it nestled up against the side of a dead legionnaire. A dead Word Bearer. Slowly, he looks up and its patently clear, the shield wall is gone.
Individual breachers try to cluster back into some semblance of order, but some had turned, firing and thrusting stabbing blades back as if within their own ranks... it was in their own ranks. The warden terminators shattered both sides, pincering in to block off their escape, while sea green Sons of Horus pull themselves from the shattered blast door and throw themselves into the fray.
"-shutz, repeat!" the vox finally clears as his blood turns to ice, "They got around behind us!"
Hashutz pulls himself up to one knee, watching mutely as the two realities of what he thought and what he sees, breaks apart the delusions. Shattered Word Bearers lay around him, Cthonian despoiler troops double-team his lone warriors like wolves, darting in to draw a deflecting blade while the other fights to pin limbs and open vulnerable joints. The line of unbroken grey was a swirling maelstrom of wrath and ruin.
Looking at the terminator captain, Hashutz grasps his thunderhammer and rises to his feet. The combatants part around him as the tartaros-clad lord wades through his warriors, letting his longblade rest easily in both hands, powerfist gripping the pommel.
Hashutz staggers from side to side for a moment. "We are the chosen sons of the gods, and so are you, Cthonian. In time, you shall ALL see. The rightful rulers will not be denied! Glory to the martyrs! For we shall be remembered for eternity!"
Hashutz throws himself forward with a howl, the over-head sweep would obliterate any mortal or astartes alike. But their captain weaves aside nimbly in the terminator plate, elbow gliding along Hashutz' gauntlet and letting the hammer strike the synthscale cloak. A sharp pain radiates out from the back of his leg, and taking a step forward to turn, Hashutz stumbles as the servos whine in protest.
The chieftain had twisted back to face him, crackling blood sizzling off the long blade. "Chosen sons of the gods?" The warden chieftain scoffs, "What next, vague prophecies and a few petty miracles? Have you learned nothing since Khur?! There. Are. No. Gods." each word thunders from his throat in a vile bark of contempt, "But, I'll let you in on a secret-"
Each little shift releases pain balms into Hashutz bloodstream as his mind quickly tells him the truth: the Cthonic bastard had hamstrung him!
Hashutz looks up, practically seeing the smirk on the faceless mask dominated by a shock of blood red from a horse hair plume. "There are such things as chosen sons, and if you wish, you may bow to us. We belong to Horus Lupercal. That's as close to a god as you need."
Taking a moment and feeling the venom of the terminator's mockery wash over him, Hashutz stumbles forward to sweep the hammer upwards in a wide arc, only for the over-extension to leave him open. The warden captain steps back as Hashutz rotates, thrusting the blade forward and gliding the killing blade up along his arm, splitting his rearbrace along his bicep and snipping the power feeds.
The Cthonian laughs, a dark and hard sound completely devoid of mirth. "Where's your fire and fury now, Word Bearer?"
Pulling himself back, Hashutz smirks beneath his helm, feeling the sting of sweat in his eyes. "Your hubris will be your undoing." he shifts into a defensive crouch.
"Probably," The Cthonian lunges forward, terminator plate whining as more power floods through its synthetic veins and the power field flickers to nothing but a static hum. It was too good to miss, and Hashutz throws the hammer in a massive round-about sweep, only to find the Cthonic blade sweep out and snip the power coupling connecting the hammer to its generator. It fizzles in a shower of sparks, and then slams into the terminator's pauldron with the sound of a ringing bell. But it was just steel, nothing more.
Painful vibrations ripple back through Hashutz limbs as the captain reaches out with his powerfist, covering both the warrior's hands and the hammer's haft, "But not by you."
With a crackle and pneumatic whine, the powerfist activates. A radiating pain flares through Hashutz' hands as they're crushed in a crinkling snap of bone and plate. He draws in a sharp breath as the terminator captain pulls with all his might, tearing the ruined thunderhammer from his grasp and sending it scraping across the ceramite deck.
Hashutz falls to his knees, looking at the twisted ruins of his barely recognizable forearms. The chieftain's voice barely registers in his ears.
"I told you that you may bow." He taps an unenergized powerfist to his breastplate three times, a gesture lost on the Word Bearer. "Though, remember what I said: no prisoners. But don't worry, I will remember you." he looks to his warriors, letting Hashutz glance around as the Cthonian legionnaires carve into the remaining Word Bearers. He presses the sword edge against the flex steel mesh of Hashutz' throat and pulls the blade across in a single sharp draw. "Kill the rest, keep the heads."
With a gasping shake, the princess kicks her hind hooves and jolts awake as her hoof bangs into a wall. Luna twists and turns suddenly, turning onto her belly and tangling herself up in a mass of thin green medical sheets. Lights still flicker from arcane luminescent orbs and beeswax candles, reflecting crazy shadows from her blurry eyes. She groans and grumbles, feeling the weak trace of cold air flick across her sweat-stained fur. The sensation only helps to fuel the rising gorge in her stomach as the last few images flash in front of her waking eyes.
She'd seen battles and horrors before, but there was something about the callous way none of Horus's half-dozen sons shied away from them that put her ill at ease. Stallions staring at dismembered corpses and open organs, the single almost blasè warrior seated on the ground clearly in shock but still unaffected by the loss of a limb. It all rings so bizarrely out of touch with what she knew despite having, at various points, seen each of these before.
"How could he think to just dismiss Us like that?" Luna mumbles in a half-awake stupor.
"P-prinzess Luda!" a stuffy female voice calls that sounds mostly familiar. Sure enough, the off-white magi Moondancer stands at her bedside, her nose stuffed with two pink-tinted wisps of cotton batting. The mare smiles awkwardly, "are you awright?"
"We are fine, perfectly fine." she harrumphs indignantly, laying her head on a pillow and keeping her frown. But with a blink, she turns to the Unicorn attendant. "What afflicts thee?"
Moondancer licks her lips and looks aside, "Ummm... you laded od my muzzle afder you fainded."
"Oh." Luna's cheeks burn red as she settles her face deeper in the pillow, "We apologize, magi."
"And you subtimes kick in your sleep." Moondancer continues as she gingerly touches her swollen muzzle.
"... V-verily, we apologize." Luna groans from her pillow.
Moondancer, perhaps sensing she was on a roll, just shrugs a little, "Guess you didn't 'dow that, huh?"
The Alicorn stiffens, and slowly raises her face up from the pillow. There was a sharp, judgmental stare gracing her tired features. "Mistress Moondancer, do prey tell, exactly how should We know We kick in Our sleep?" Moondancer's eyes widen as she mentally backtracks to exactly what she'd just said.