Chapter 9: Difficult Truths, A Bargain Offered
(Maw POV)
The alpha indeed was impressive to have the power to fight a worthy meal as this 'Skulltaker.' Perhaps he was a bit of a strange alpha, to have only claimed one female for the kin, but Aranea was strong now, and perhaps the alpha would claim her as well. These soft flesh things were mostly quite weak, undesirable, but perhaps their alpha would be worthy of Maw's own alpha's eye. I wasn't quite mighty enough to devour one such the alpha's current prey, but the brass-flesh I struggled with was a worthy meal. It fought well, striking with not-clawed feet to crush my carapace and blasts of heat from its jaws to melt my many eyes. Of course, I struck back as the alpha had taught me with action and not words, as the best alphas did. My false-self attacked from underneath, entangling the prey in many limbs as my jaws sought to clamp onto the brass-flesh one's throat. It jerked away. It was frustrated by its lack of progress to destroy me. Quite amusing, considering that I was equally so.
We tumbled through another human nest, smelling of battle, blood, and death. We reenacted the old conflict. Blows were exchanged, slicing through the ceiling or trampling down the walls. The brass one was worthy prey, all the more a great meal to savor as my false-self tore out its shiny shell to bleed its hate into the ground. It tasted of strength, the blood of innumerable unique prey yet to overcome, and ferocity unending. I turned from the feast soon enough, gazing towards the alpha as he led the Skulltaker on a merry chase. It roared in frustration; it's most noteworthy strikes avoided and the minor strokes between blocked with the bodies of other prey. It did not notice the trap being laid, as it was led more in-depth into the vast nest. Its followers, treacherous as they were, soon abandoned their alpha. They were ruled with fear, and as the Skulltaker struck more of them down without care, they were driven to leave him in the face of that fear. The alpha's most favored mate struck with great speed, cutting down those that would follow and support the Skulltaker alpha while causing havoc amidst them. The weaker prey soon abandoned the chase of the alpha and his ignorant shrieking victim. Aranea kept their efforts to hunt Tharja relatively unsuccessful, striking with a deliberate ruthlessness. Ferro was impressive, leaping high amid the empty human nests to tear apart the flying ones. I ran into the melee, skittering with excitement on the meals to soon be had.
(Tharja POV)
I had always known that to follow Markus would mean that I would one day suffer unspeakable pain. The man she could no longer remember, with three eyes and a 'heart of gold' as strange as that sounded, had supposedly told her this. Even now, with the Void that was her King having taken her memories of the man who had taught her to be formidable, I could feel the danger within Markus. His eyes analyzed everything, his gait that was only a slight hitch away from that of a predator, and even his voice, which held itself with a sort of restraint less the world crumble. All that he has combined the weight of experience and a drive that promised none would stand in his way.
Was it any wonder that I loved him, with a passion so deep and boundless it was almost terrifying to contemplate? No one else had treated me as he had, to respect me, to challenge me without reservation, to treat me like the most treasured person in the room, and to indulge my worst habits without acting the sycophant. So how could I not laugh, as he gave me all that I could've ever wanted, even that which I never knew I needed? Daemons, lies, and ideals incarnate dueled below with the unthinking hordes of the Dead God. Ferro leaped to and fro, keeping with joy to be so surrounded with foes. The mortal soldiers beneath her bore witness, launching all manner of quips and blasts into the ranks of the few damned to pay them any mind. Tharja ignored them all, her Shade shrinking with daggers more akin to short swords while her real self let fly with bolts from her bow to punch holes into the few champions able to serve as a real challenge. Curses, dark promises, and heinous threats were her payment, leaving her breathless with laughter as she tore asunder the few able to even keep up with her. Skulltaker hunted her beloved, blows able to cleave into the masterfully crafted flesh of even the Tyrant. The platform rose, the young bug taking shape as a woman with a most menacing Shade of her own holding back the throngs with webs of Void and a massive cannon nearly her own size. Soon they would be beyond even the most spiteful of fiends unless the swarm of furies managed to waylay them further. Tharja landed on a high-rise home, a place that once housed countless souls in what they might consider poverty. To her, it was luxury, threading her contempt into her shots to create explosions into the harmonic ranks to deny them their prize.
The psychic parasites surrounded her, content to try and feast upon her in compensation. Tharja laughed at such arrogance, cackling even as a small army of daemonnettes and a trio of Slanneshi temptresses encircled her. As if she were afraid of them, let alone pondering escape. Tharja's Shade grew from underneath her feet, blades of dense bone, psychic wrath, and honed skill poised to strike. She drew the bow 'string' back, relishing the flinch of fear and oppression from her foes even as they surrounded her. None willing to advance first and surely die for the offense. This was all that she wanted, more than anything. To not merely be great, but legendary through her own merits after years of being belittled by fools who gladly traded their freedom, souls, and will to cowardly 'Gods' who had never suffered a loss of any kind. To stand as not only their own worst fears personified but beside another who saw her for all that she was and didn't turn away. As admired for her vicious nature as she was hailed for her long honed martial prowess, all earned, traded for years of survival in one of the deadliest arenas the galaxy could offer. A favored champion of the Tempter struck out with a whip of lust and desire, disdainfully tossed aside by her Shade. Another lashed out with a jagged blade of obsession and perfection, dodged with no more than a step to the side. Tharja repaid the favor, bolt released to take the leg off the first and her Shade tossing a pair of daggers through the other's svelte chest and smooth neck. What need did one such as she have for Slannesh's offers? What little the Void itself could not provide was more than satisfied by her lover.
(Specialist Kotei Remmington POV)
I witnessed it all, as a battle was waged like the most mythical of tales. Daemons and deceivers cleaved in twain, chests of impossible biological make perforated, and limbs of unimaginable power shorn off like trash to float on the wind. Champions of humanity, if not the God-Emperor, fought the horrors of the Warp with blows to set the air on fire or ripple through the ground. Blessed las rifles, hell guns, and even bolters spat humanity's defiance in the face of hideous abominations uncounted. If anyone had told Remmington Kotei he would be fighting amongst such battlegrounds for the fate of his homeworld; he would've laughed or covertly started looking for an Arbites squad. Instead, he coordinates the men's fire to keep the closest daemons back as the maglev began its disgustingly slow ascent. The power unleashed is undoubtedly not of the God-Emperor, too malicious in its feel and whispering promises to him to offer a deal. But the power enveloping the many icy soldiers and seemingly undead warriors fighting the very daemons seeking his flesh and soul never intrudes into his mind once he steadfastly denies it. A few glances about the soldiers show everyone is left alone as well, not a single hint of possession, at least those he had been taught by his mother to fight off the damned. A final round of their blessed archeotech mines is lobbed over the edge to break up the charge of the few daemons to advance despite the volume of fire seeking to suppress them. The swarms of flying hell beasts from the worst of ancient men's first nightmares are equally drawn off by Lady Tharja, the woman certifiably insane and seemingly all the more effective for it. Fear blooms in his chest as the maglev finishes its rise, only to welcome a wall of men aiming all manner of firearms at the final maglev station. No one amongst the Bloody Crows, Epsilon, or Sigma squad tries to dissuade such measures, their hands off their weapons immediately to stall hostilities. Kotei finds himself stepping forward, his knees very much not knocking despite Erikson's assertions. He doesn't know for what specific purpose at first, but such thoughts are meaningless as a painfully familiar voice calls out from above. "Remmy, is that really you?" His head whips around without thought, staring up at his beautiful, crying mother. Clad in black leather, white blouse, and a hell pistol and chainsword at her hip are meaningless to him.
He only has his eyes on her misty blue orbs likewise locked on him, her silk-like white hair she shared with him, and her pale skin from years sailing the stars as a dashing rogue trader. Cecilia leaps down, heedless of the many weapons pointed at them as she pulls Kotei to her. He clings with trembling hands, joy so palpable he can barely speak lest he fears the moment somehow be ruined. "Yes, mother, I'm… I'm home." He can hardly recognize his own voice, thick as it is with his own emotions. Then she asks the question, the words he desperately could not bear to hear. "Where is your father, Remmy?" Her voice is just shy of a whisper, yet in the newborn silence, it is as if every word is the shout of the God-Emperor's judgment. For a moment, Kotei restrains himself from the rush of memories that seek to bury him, once lodged in the depths of his mind. The cold of night, as he gazes at his father in the audience hall. Distant screams as men die at the wall while he stares into a mirror with too much depth. The feel of his father's clothes in his hands, silk now so horrid to the touch, he can only drop them, but for his father's favorite tie. The rage, the horror building within him as the voice beyond the God-Emperor's grace speaks of opening the gates. His father looked at him, eyes dead as he calmly commands Kotei to stay home. He turns away, unconcerned that Kotei could ever rebel against his will. The sounds he made as Kotei comes up behind him, riding his own father's thrashing body to the ground without the air to scream. Then Mister cross's words come back to him, and he sees the grief-stricken eyes of the man fighting even now for their lives, freedom, and souls. No one says a word as he weeps, the broken sobs of a young boy, now undoubtedly a man, pushed to an atrocity of fratricide.
(Markus POV)
The music had long since dropped, the drums' booms mirroring the city shaking strikes of the mighty Skulltaker. The synth-like guitar riffs reflecting the sawing of my own blade in retaliation, but never for the kill. Only to draw him close. The music picks up for my next trick. My body and soul of myself and Newton in harmony to play about Skulltaker's strokes. The warbling tones thud in between the blows, dragging Skulltaker ever deeper, alone into the shadows of the dilapidated Hive. Golems and Draugr duel the daemons of the four while at the same time pushing their foes very bodies into the blood thirster's attacks until none follow for fear of dying by his uncaring onslaught. The armor about me, forged from the same metals and weapons I knew like the back of my own hands, seamless in my movements from superhuman thought to action. Skulltaker is smart, though, pausing as he realizes the trap, the darkness surrounding him now that is my domain. The mortal fear of death, thrumming through me alongside my music, is directly fed into the overwhelming shadows surrounding him. "COME THEN!" he demands, undaunted by the army growing before his eyes. I oblige him, a numberless horde of sharpened Shades beyond reckoning to push even his martial skill to its limit. The music builds from its breath of calm as I catch my second wind. My eyes are focused on his every movement, every habit like a puzzle to be solved. The body of a minor martial demigod is left with weeping wounds that will never heal. The Shades spent in the effort merely the souls of those slain above weaponized. My body rushes forward to deliver the final blow. He does not make it easy, as expected.
An overhead strike to sever his neck is turned aside while his clawed offhand seeks to return the favor. Orbit Blades smack it away while the Tyr is risen to punctuate his chest with holes to cripple a lesser daemon of Khorne. He fights on regardless. His neck is twisted about furiously to bat away the more debilitating strikes with his horns. In the space of three seconds, our blades clash three dozen times, the Ebon within me pushed to its limits. An overhead strike of his own is deflected away from my mortal body, the force still enough to smash through an entire floor of the Hive. We both fall, blades, and wills even clashing a dozen more times before the debris forces a brief reprieve. The music builds to its final crescendo as we advance towards each other, no words necessary. Only one of us will walk away.
Orbit Blades, some real and most not strike out to distract as I lay a death of five hundred thousand cuts. His final strikes are monstrous, sending sonic booms toward me strong enough to powder bones alone. His offhand wields his sword as skillfully as his other, interchanging to keep my own defense pressed even as I slowly kill him. I reset dozens of sword strokes a second every second simply to match him, the air rippling so strongly with ripostes, counters, near misses, and thrusts to shatter houses around us like glass. The Void awaits, less than an inch away from claiming my own soul should I fall, as was agreed. Shots from my Tyr are breathed with the Void's power to render every shot more powerful than a tank round. I die a false death near every moment, falling between the Warp and material reality to deny True Death. It is all only just enough to stay alive as Skulltaker unleashes what would seem to outside observers a localized apocalypse.
His attacks grow less coordinated, yet far more potent for it, drawing deep from the bloodlust of Khorne to strike me down if only to see me die with him. Void fog spoils his footing. Shades fall upon his blade to ruin his accuracy. Webs of metal and Void are laid about the battlefield, bringing three-dimensional combat to another level as I leap about to assault him from every conceivable angle in the minds of the ineffably mad. My mind teeters on the precipice, my body shuddering with the power I can't hold in my still, mostly material body, while Skulltaker himself seems to only grow stronger the more wounded he is. The webs constrict, hampering his movement for mere moments, a priceless thing in such a supernatural melee. My Tyr is holstered amidst one such moment.
Grasping both hands on my sword to meet him directly as I near my own end and that of the song as well. Wounds are exchanged between us, the Void undoing those truly crippling as those more minor are left to accumulate. The webs of Void I cast are cut through like paper mache before a chainsword. I cannot even register my thoughts, my blade itself nearly forgotten as I use it as merely a way to keep Skulltaker's living weapon away from my vitals and beat him into submission. A slash to the inside of his supporting leg is paid with a blow to my shoulder to nearly shatter my already struggling transhuman physiology. A haymaker to his jaw spoils his incessant laughter, ruining a decapitating strike for a mere scratch at my neck instead. A roundhouse kick throws him into a pile of rubble a dozen meters away, a parry throwing both our swords behind us. I do no think of what comes next. Thoughts themselves a disadvantage at the speed we brawl.
I dance in between his open-handed grabs, fists, and claws, reaching for my struggling flesh. Jabs at his joints to rob them of their power. A mule kick to force him an inch into the rubble before a cymbal crash rings like the straight right I throw into his throat. He rushes forward, seeking to bury me under impossible weight and greater height. I step inward instead of way, surprising him enough to grab at his outstretched arms. Around the hips, my hands on his shoulder and wrist twist him around, up and over me. Skulltaker hits the groaning floor, rising in less than a moment with a strange flip that shouldn't be possible for something with legs like his. Instinct sees me duck low, beneath his own far more formidable straight liable to remove my head from my shoulders. I accept the offer, not in the spirit it was given, his arm thicker and longer than most of my torso and legs contorted in my grip in a lock until even its impossible musculature is broken backward.
He only laughs delightedly as he advances. A sweep at the innard of his wounded leg sends him onto a knee. I grab at his horns, using them as leverage to drag his skull into my rising knee. He stumbles backward, less than a moment but enough regardless. Orbit Blades hold back his limbs, reinforced with the souls of thousands of daemons only just enough to halt his prodigious strength. I hurl myself onto his neck for a scissor lock, one hand to keep away his furious claws as my other grasps the hilt of my earlier dropped sword, thrown to me moments before by my Orbit Blades. The music finally quiets its own ferocity. Skulltaker twitching even with my blade buried in his head, down into his torso up to the hilt. Physical reality slams back down into me as silence reigns again. My stomach groaning with hunger, my soul aching in a way that can only be described as every cell of my body demanding air from the bottom of an ocean. My lungs heave with every breath, desperate to be filled as if my own helmet restricts my very chances of survival. My body covered in so many wounds that all Newton can do is babble in relief, pride, and worry about a 'lack of resources.'
His words bring me fully back to consciousness, bringing howls of hysterical laughter as I wonder if I really could eat a horse right now. Let alone if horses are even still alive nowadays. Sanity returns as the soul/essence of Skulltaker are eagerly consumed by the Shade at my feet for the Void. The body becomes less than slag, dribbles of blood too thick to be fresh yet not coagulated, hinting at the Void's growing ability to 'process' its' meals. A sliver is left to me, a rough quantity of .5% of all that was one of the most infamous of Khorne's servants. Considering that Skulltaker had a history of claiming fellow daemonic champions' skulls, Astartes with centuries of experience and even ork war bosses the size of elephants; that was still a disgusting amount of power. If the soul of Gorehorn was akin to a lightning bolt in my veins, then Skulltaker was the storm itself.
Gorehorn may have been higher up in Khorne's servants' relative hierarchy, but Skulltaker was the far more accomplished combatant, much like the difference between actual workers and management. His oversoul alone, fattened by countless warriors throughout the eons, was powerful enough to be used in the creation of a not-insignificant army. Or a handful of incredibly powerful daemon lieutenants. The tension in my own essence was drastically eased for it, a worthwhile gain by itself. The ideas and creations I might accomplish with such power were the cherries on top. Painfully slowly, I stumbled to my feet, covered in the trophies of my victory and exhausted for it. I nearly dropped my blade, trying to sheath it at my hip.
Newton followed my thoughts without actual communication needed, flaring my wings and sheathing my Orbit Blades as well. Tharja cooed to me about her slaughter of the daemonic army above and victory in the hunting contest. With her chirps of binary laced with supernatural undertones, Aranea messaged the same, experimenting with the bodies of the dead daemons above to fortify her own Shade. By the time I had landed, I could barely acknowledge the charnel house an entire three blocks of the Hive had become. Tharja, surprisingly gentle, landed by me from above. Propping up my battered form from under my shoulder, pressing my Tyr into my hip. The others spread out after assuring themselves that I still lived. Then we all carefully made our way upstairs, the Hive quiet as it had never been since our arrival. Only my rough breathing and clanking footsteps to disturb the Hive's newborn lull.
We arrived at a series of barricades, miles long metal walls, and carefully reinforced warehouses become ad-hoc multi-story bunkers. It was so high; the sky was as close as possible without losing their content needed to breathe for unaltered humans. Behind us, the Hive's lower levels were open to view from the entire upper floors. An excellent bit of ego-stroking for the elite of Hive Hadria, as well as a superior tactical advantage. I respected that, more so considering with the sight of so many weapons, stoically pointed at me. The closest warehouse hatch doors were lowered, revealing a woman who looked like she was born and raised on a planet without sunlight and lithe muscles. Then she walked up to us, calm as could be, with nearly a hundred weapons pointed at us and my own battered squad facing off against her. From the similarities between her and Kotei, I suppose I had both him to blame/thank for such welcome. At least they weren't already shooting at me, so silver linings.
"My name is Cecilia Kotei, Marcus Aurelius, Lady Tharja. My little Remmy told me you might be coming, despite the fact you supposedly just fought off what should be a daemonic ambush capable of overwhelming our own defenses in less than a night and day. Consider our lack of fire our thanks. Would you be so kind as to join me for dinner? Perhaps even to answer a few questions?" Her voice was quite strange, ethereal tones that still managed to be quite threatening despite her question that was undeniably a command. Her eyes lingered on Aranea, Maw, and Ferro, reasonably curious what I would command of them. I decided to offer some good faith. "Maw, Ferro, Aranea, go hunting for a bit. Stay near this floor, please." I had barely finished before the three hustled off. Perhaps these fine men and women would have some leniency for providing such support. Cecilia certainly seemed more at ease, her shoulders losing some tension as they trundled off to wreak havoc on her enemies.
"My thanks for not making this difficult. I can provide some food and refreshments while we talk. I am reasonably sure that after the battle you have obviously suffered, you will enjoy the hospitality of House Kotei." Tharja chuckled at that as my own stomach made its tyrannical demands known. I even unsealed my helmet, hanging it from my sword hilt to both spoil my grip as well as a subtle concession to her snipers and offer a more humane conversation. Blessedly, no one opened fire, Cecilia herself even smirking. Tharja followed suit, her helm laying on top of her bow in mimicry of my own effort to appear less threatening. I struggled to clear my throat, sending a thought to Newton to both retract my wings and remain silent. It wouldn't do to be shot right before the finish line. "I would deeply appreciate something to eat. My regenerative abilities have been pushed to their limit and possibly too far." Her smile at my admittance was downright predatory, leaving Tharja actually breathless with laughter. Somehow, even when I won the hardest battle of my life, Warhammer 40K's reality was never simple.