The being did not scream. It unnerved Ebaen, no matter how many times he had been brought to see it. The Chaos Space Marine stood in a dimly lit chamber, the only light coming from torches with human skulls adjourning their ends. The slick black walls practically dripped with menace, and Ebaen knew that untold agonies had been inflicted on those who had been brought here. That did not bother him, such was the fate of those who opposed the Archons of Oblivion warband. What bothered him, and some of the other officers in the room Ebaen was sure, was that the being did not scream.
He had seen Space Marines brought low by the ministrations of Heralds, the apothecary and torture specalists withinn the warband. Yet no matter how many times they tried their trade on the being chained to the table at the center of the room, surrounded by purple flames that never wavered, it remained silent. The purple power armored warriors turned their attention away from the being on the table before them as the Arch-Lord stepped out of the shadows.
While the other officers of the warband wore power armor a deep purple with white lining, the Arch-Lord was clad in pure white terminator armor. Every step sent small reverberations through the torture chamber, and the twisted grin on the Arch-Lords face was as familiar to the Archons of Oblivion as his armor. It may as well have been the insane space marines helmet. All heads bowed slightly at their lords arrival as was proper. Those who had not reacted fast enough in the past had been made clear examples of by the Arch-Lord. Few truly respected him, but they were not foolish enough to outright challenge his authority.
The corpses of those who had tried still decorated his walls.
"My warriors, my trusted officers, my friends…" Each word from Arch-Lord Dacon dripped with sarcasm and disgust, though they earned a few grunts of affirmation from some of the more 'loyal' officers in the room, if such a term could be applied to Chaos. Ebaen was not one of them, and he remained silent as the Arch-Lord cast his gaze across the assembled group, resting his eyes briefly on each of them before turning to face the being on the table. He reached out with an armored fist to touch the stump of the man's right arm, a metal plate having sealed off the wound long ago. He then turned and nodded to the two Heralds standing to the side of the room. The armored apothecary stepped forward and unchained the being on the table.
For the first time since they had entered the room, the beings' eyes opened. The implements of torture that he been stabbing into him, shocking him, and even the three sorcerers located on an elevated platform further back in the shadows ceased their actions. For the briefest of moments, the beings' eyes were filled with a cold fury that almost made Ebaen shiver, but the light in them was lost. They became fields of glass, and the head lolled to the side slightly to look at the Arch-Lord. Taking a step away from the table, the Arch-Lord gestured for the being to rise, gesturing with his left hand to the ground before him.
"Kneel before me, dog." Without a word, the being rose from the table. Blood still dripped from his open wounds, and Ebaen could see reinforced bone through many of the deepest cuts across his body. Barely healed scars opened once again as the being fell to its knees before the Arch-Lord, though even on its knees it was nearly the space marines height. Turning to look at his officers, Arch-Lord Dacon gestured to the kneeling figure. "Never forget this moment. For those of you who would challenge my authority, my right to rule this warband and all its domains, remember this. What hope would any of you stand against me, when even our father kneels before me."
No one spoke, and the statement hung in the air for several seconds of silence. Movement at the far side of the room drew Ebaen's eyes, and he glanced up to see one of the sorcerers, a black robe over his purple and white armor starting to slowly sag where he stood. A moment later, the left hand of the being on its knees began to twitch, and all eyes focused on the head that was slowly beginning to turn. The smile on Dacon's face faltered for a moment, and he quickly ordered the kneeling form to return to the table. It hesitated for a time, but the renewed pressure upon its mind by the sorcerers compelled it to obey. Only once the being was strapped down again, and the torture devices went back to their work did the Arch-Lord relax.
His head snapped around to look at the officers, and the hatred in his eyes ensured that all looked away when his gaze fell on them. "Leave." The simple instruction was met with obedience by the officers in the room, and they all filed out of the single door to the torture chamber. Ebaen was the furthest back, and before he stepped through the threshold to leave, he caught the eyes of the being on the table. They were still glassy, and seemed to lack all focus, but for the briefest of moments Ebaen could have sworn he saw a spark of reason there.
For but a second, the Primarch Rogal Dorn had been freed from his millennia of tortured confinement.
The officers did not linger around after they exited the torture chamber. They all set off in different directions, traveling down the torch lit corridors of the Bastion of Sorrow, the fortress home of the Archons of Oblivion. Located deep within the Eye of Terror on the fractured remnants of an Eldar world, the Bastion of Sorrow had served as the warbands base of operations since their founding nearly ten thousand years before. In that time, the obsidian walls of their fortress had overseen the warbands growth and expansion, and served as the seat of power for a fledgling realm within the Eye of Terror.
The Archons of Oblivion had once been a force to be feared among the Lost and the Damned. Formed originally from a single Librarian from the Imperial Fists Chapter, the warband had grown through the use of the pure gene-seed stalk of the Primarch they held in captivity. They had grown rapidly, and in time they had launch raids from their fortress across the Eye. Fifty worlds had been ruled by the warband at its height, and they had fought the Black Legion itself to a standstill.
Then things had begun to change. A succession of weak Arch-Lords saw that the domain of the Archons of Oblivion slowly eroded, and their numbers diminished in pointless and unwinnable wars. Arch-Lord Dacon was just the most recent example, and the little show he had put on in the torture chamber was his attempt to assert his dominance and authority. By showing the Primarch they held kneeling to his 'majesty', he sought to counter any potential threats to his regime. He put on the show everytime a new officer was elevated. Ebaen had seen three such demonstrations since he became the Commander of his own part of the warband. Each time he had seen the limited control the sorcerers and Heralds held over the Primarch.
Rogal Dorn had been presumed dead by the Imperium of Man for millenia, ever since the First Black Crusade. In truth, the Chief Librarian of the Imperial Fists who had found the mortally wounded Primarch had fled with the body, searching for a way to save his father. He had not wished to see his father end up like the Corpse-Emperor, trapped dying and in agony on a throne, and so he fled the Imperium seeking answers. He found them, not within the Mechanicus, but within the Dark Mechanicus. They saved the Primarch's life, but the cost had been high. Originally the Archons of Oblivion had been a small collection of Imperial Fists, recruited by that Chief Librarian to serve as wardens over their Primarchs healing body. In time the group had grown, using gene-seed drawn from the living body of a Primarch.
That growth had seen them change, and over time their purpose diverged. As the old generation died, and the new took charge, the body of the Primarch came to be seen as an asset, rather than their charge to be protected. The healing process had nearly finished, a centuries long process of slowly coaxing the Primarch's body back from the brink without overwhelming it when the first Arch-Lord ordered the containment of the Primarch. Sorcerers used dark spells to separate the Primarch's mind from his body, ensuring he would never truly awaken. Torture was used to ensure the body never finished healing, but never died.
Walking through the corridors of the Bastion of Sorrow, Ebaen debated not for the first time how long it could last. No one spoke of it openly, but everyone knew that the Primarch was awakening on his own. The methods of the Archons of Oblivion had slowly lost their effectiveness, and where before a single sorcerer had been sufficient to keep the mind of the Primarch separate from his body, now it required three. These thoughts all lingered on the commander's mind as he walked the halls of the Bastion, passing kneeling and quaking slaves without even looking at them.
Eventually, he made it back to his company's section of the Bastion. As Chaos Space Marines, the individual commanders within the warband had little trust in one another, and many times in the past battles had erupted between companies over the grievances of two commanders. As such, each company was separate from the others, housed in a fortified complex in one of the many wings of the Bastion. Armed marines stood guard at the entrance, and they bowed their head briefly to their commander as Ebaen passed them.
The central area of his companies part of the Bastion was exactly the same as every other. A one hundred meter by one hundred meter room was located in the very center just off the entrance. The walls were a dark grey like everything else in the fortress, and black pillars of obsidian rose at the four corners of the room. Banners draped along the walls between the pillars, each one either depicting the warbands purple fist wreath in thorns on a white field, or personal company banners depicting accomplishments on the battlefield. Five arches were located on each of the tree walls around the rest of the room, branching off into further corridors, chambers, training rooms and armories. The complex was several floors in height in either direction, and had its own dedicated group of slaves. The complex was so vast, and the duties of the slaves so numerous that entire generations were born and died within the company's halls without ever seeing the rest of the Bastion of Sorrow.
Several of his warriors were crossing through the main entrance hall, each briefly giving their respects to their commander before going on their way. They all wore their armor, for a Chaos Space Marine was always on a war footing, even within the halls of their fortress keep. Only one individual approached Ebaen, and the commander briefly acknowledged his second in command, Prime Sergeant Phelon with a nod as the warrior bowed. Phelon fell into step beside Ebaen as he marched across the entry hall, heading towards one of the doors along the left side of the room.
"I take it you did not find entertainment in the meeting, commander." The raspy voice of Phelon grated on Ebaen's ears, and for the thousandth time he wished the Chaos Gods had not chosen the sergeant's vocal chords to mutate. Every day the Prime Sergeant's voice was different, and today was one of the worst that Ebaen had heard to date. Shaking his head in annoyance, Ebaen walked through the archway and entered a corridor half the height of the entrance hall. Slaves, having heard the approaching footsteps of the two chaos space marines, were already kneeling on the floor with their heads touching the cold steel. They marched through them without words, and only after they reached a spiral staircase set at the far end of the corridor did Ebaen speak.
"It was a mockery as it always is. The Arch-Lord continues to grasp at straws to prevent a rebellion against his authority. Many of the older officers continued to be swayed by his displays though." Phelon nodded his head, dark black eyes staring out over a breathing apparatus grafted to his face. The two warriors stepped off the staircase and into another winding corridor, heading towards Ebaen's personal quarters located separate from the rest of the complex. Personal privilege and necessity meant that the commander did not reside near his own men, in case any of them chose to attempt an assassination in the night. To assassinate a chaos space marine was still no easy feat, but living so close to ambitious warriors would give too many the thought of trying.
"They remember the days of old, when our banner stood proudly across the Eye of Terror, Commander. But they also remember fluctuations, the rise and fall of the warband. They think it is only temporary." Ebaen snarled at Phelon's words, halting in his tracks to face the warrior. "They are disillusioned. They do not wish to risk what little the warband has left in a potential schism. They have the authority and power to challenge the Arch-Lord for his position, but none of them are willing to put their own lives on the line to do it. For all his failings, the Arch-Lord is an accomplished warrior. But one must be willing to lose everything...to gain power."
The two warriors finally came to the door to Ebaen's quarters, and four slaves were waiting just outside it. At a brief gesture from Ebaen, the slaves rose to their feet and opened the door, stepping through the opening first. They did not die in some rigged explosion, so Ebaen and Phelon followed them through the opening. The slaves departed the chamber quickly, the door sliding closed and leaving the two marines alone. Reaching up, Ebaen removed his helmet for the first time in hours, his short white and black hair standing in short spikes. Almost every marine within the warband had similar hair to Ebaen, though most chose to shave it off.
Ebaen's quarters were spartan in decoration, with only a steel slab for a bed in one corner and a personal training center dominating the entire right half. Servitors lay powered off in alcoves along one wall, and an array of weaponry sat on several wall racks along another. Phelon made his way towards the display as Ebaen placed his helmet on the bed, folding his arms across his chest. "What have the other sergeant's said?" Ebaen's cold grey eyes watched as Phelon inspected an Eldar blade Ebaen had claimed in battle for several seconds before speaking, his voice changed once again from what it had been earlier. Rather than a raspy whisper, it now came out as a harsh barking almost.
"They will follow your lead, Commander. They are ready to move once you give the signal." Ebaen nodded his head, turning to look at the wall just above the bed, where his personal banner hung, a red half moon gripped by a white fist on a field of black. He had chosen the design when he had become a commander decades ago, and since that day, he had been planning his rebellion against the Arch-Lord. Under his rule, the Archons of Oblivion had lost nearly half of the territory they had left in a series of wars against no less than a dozen different warbands, and that was from the remaining worlds they had after several centuries of defeats already. The Archons now held only a single star system, four worlds where once they had held fifty. It had happened before, but the warband had always bounced back so to speak. That had not happened under Dacon.
Others had tried to unseat the Arch-Lord of course, with various duels having been fought, though always ending a single way. The Arch-Lord defeated his foe in single combat, or when necessary, had him eliminated before the duel ever began. With the support of several commanders within the warband, he was able to maintain his grip on power despite numerous challenges and underhanded tactics, and only through the removal of his support base could the Arch-Lord finally be defeated.
He had sixty five warriors in his company, and three other commanders had expressed their support for a regime change. Only two of them Ebaen was certain would fight alongside him, the other was a wildcard. Theoretically though, his forces would number close to two hundred chaos space marines. They would be outnumbered nearly three to one, but Ebaen hoped that the element of surprise would give them the momentum needed to take the battle to the Arch-Lords supporters, eliminating them before an effective defense could be mustered. Then, Ebaen would challenge the Arch-Lord to single combat, and should he prevail, become the new Arch-Lord. The plan relied too heavily on theoretical possibilities, but Ebaen had little other option.
"Begin the muster then, Prime Sergeant. We will strike tonight." Phelon turned to face Ebaen, bowing his head before turning to leave the chamber. Without looking up, Ebaen called over his shoulder to the departing warrior. "And leave the blade, Prime Sergeant. Unless you think you can take it from me." There was no sound for several seconds, before an annoyed grunt from Phelon, and the rattle as the blade was returned to the rack.
Closing his eyes momentarily, Ebaen took a deep breath before letting it out. Today, it would all change.
Several hours later, Ebaen's company had mustered before deploying throughout the Bastion of Sorrow. Moving in a single force would have lended them a certain amount of strength, but for Ebaen's plan to work, they needed to strike at every target he had selected at once. Squads were given specific corridors or chambers to secure, and Phelon himself was dispatched with his squad to inform the other commanders in person that the time had come. Marching through the corridors of the Bastion, armed with his bolt pistol and power sword at his side, Ebaen approached the entrance to the main dining hall located deep within the Bastion.
The ascension of a new commander, which had been the reason for the display earlier from the Arch-Lord, always warranted a feast. It would be one of the few times the companies from the warband would all be gathered together, outside the protection of their fortified living complexes. It presented a target too tempting to ignore, and the prospect of wiping out all the resistance to his rebellion in a single assault was Ebaen's best plan to bring this coming conflict to an end quickly. His rebellion against the Arch-Lord would amount to nothing if he won it on the broken husk of the warband. He meant to return them to glory, not seal their fate, though he knew he walked a fine line.
Coming to one of the entrances of the dining hall, Ebaen and his marines with him found Commander Bucelior standing over the slumped bodies of two other marines. Blood still dripped from the power sword in his hand, and he inclined his head to Ebaen as he approached. Of those who had pledged to support Ebaen, Bucelior had the most political clout and physical power. He commanded the largest company within the warband, over one hundred warriors strong and the sway over those even outside his ranks. He was a seasoned veteran of not just the warband, but of the Long War itself. But while he had worked hard for everything he had achieved, he did not have the natural ability and authority that came so naturally to Ebaen. In several private sparring matches, Ebaen had also proven to be the better of the two in terms of combat capability. When all was taken care of, Ebaen had promised the seat of Grand Watch Master to Bucelior, a position that held a certain religious and social importance to the warband. As well as the unofficial second in command of the warband.
"The feast should have begun by now, they will be wondering where we are, Ebaen." The words filtered through Bucelior's helmet feed, and a small smile quirked up at the corner of Ebaen's mouth. Stepping towards the entrance, Ebaen drew his power sword and bolt pistol before thumbing the activation console. "Best not to keep them waiting then…"
The moment the door opened the twenty marines, ten from each company, rushing through the opening. They spread out to either side of the entrance, forming a single line of warriors with bolters at the ready. The great hall of the Bastion of Sorrow was a massive place, nearly three hundred meters across in all directions and twice that in height. The ceiling could not even be seen in the low lighting, only broken up by chandeliers hanging from chains of black iron emerging from above. The slowly shifting decorations cast flickering light over the rows of wooden tables covered in richly decorated cloth. Each of the seven rows of tables had a different color cloth running down the center of the tables, with each row set at an angle pointing towards the central podium at the far side of the hall. There, the personal table of the Arch-Lord and his picked warriors could view the entire room, and in turn be viewed by the whole room. A massive fire pit was built behind the podium, and usually lit during feasts.
But, it was not lit. The entire great hall was empty, except for the assault force with Ebaen, and two more, each led by the Prime Sergeant of the two rebellious companies present who had stormed in from the other two entrances to the hall. The only thing in the hall was a body. Commander Uthor, the other conspirator in the rebellion, was impaled on a pillar of dark obsidian, each of his limbs torn from his body and his eyes gouged out. A pool of blood gathering beneath him and seeping into the crack of the stone floor, the only such floor in the entire Bastion.
"Such is the fate of traitors.
Spinning on his heels, Ebaen came face to face with Arch-Lord Dacon, standing in the corridor just beyond the threshold. To either side of him, a squad of Archons of Oblivion marines stood silently, their bolters gripped tightly and aimed at the rebels. Narrowing his eyes, Ebaen turned to look at the other two groups of his rebels in the room, seeing that they had also turned and were likely facing down similar ambushes. Snarling beneath his breath, Ebaen turned back to face Dacon just as the Arch-Lord lifted his hand, a device held loosely in the terminator's massive fist. The smile on Dacon's face was smug as he stared down Ebaen.
"Should you survive this, you shall share in the late Commander Uthor's fate." Closing his fist, Dacon activated the detonator by simply crushing its casing. At once, all the doors to the great hall slammed shut, and a moment later, the chamber exploded.
Across the Bastion of Sorrow, the three sorcerers felt the reverberations of the explosion though they did not lose focus on their task at hand. It would be several more hours yet before they would be relieved from their post, a transfer that had been delayed due to the rebellion. They continued their ceaseless spell casting even as bolter fire erupted in the hall just outside the torture chamber, following by the door being blasted off its hinges. Three Archons of Oblivion marines stormed into the room, and before the sorcerers could even attempt to defend themselves, were gunned down in a hail of bolter rounds. The two Heralds stationed in the room drew their sidearms and returned fire, killing one of the invading rebels before being similarly gunned down.
Stepping over the bodies of the fallen, the two remaining marines moved to the prone body of Rogal Dorn and began unshackling him. They completed unshackling the Primarchs body and stepped away, looking at one another with uncertainty. "How long do you think it will be until he wakes up? Whatever that explosion was, the Commander is going to need all the support he can get." Before the other marine could respond, movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention.
Before either marine could react, Rogal Dorn was on them. He slammed his left fist into the helmet of the warrior on his left, the lenses shattering under the blow and sending the marine flying backwards. Spinning around, the Primarch was holding the fallen marines bolter in his hand, and fired four quick shots into the still standing marines chest. The corpse crumbled backwards, smoke rising from the bloody wounds in his chest as the Primarch turned back to the other marine, just now getting back to his feet.
"But...we saved you from…" He did not get to finish his sentence, as a single round placed between his eyes ended him. Lowering the bolter, Rogal stared at the bloody scene all around him, a sneer of contempt on his face. Tossing the weapon aside, he found a chainsword belonging to one of the dead marines and began walking towards the exit of the torture chamber.
"It is appreciated."
And there we go, the beginning of a new story set in the Twilight of the Imperium universe. I hope you all enjoyed it, and will leave a review so that I can see what I can improve to make these stories better for you the readers. This is the start of my most ambitious project I have ever done, so any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated. ArisenMoon signing off.