The Burden
"No!" coughed the Old Man, fine spittle spraying from his lips as he sat cross-legged, staring into the crackling fire. "I'll say it again – "The Third Legion were not the only Legion to wear the Aquila, nor were they the first". He spat into the sand, as if to emphasise his point.
Damos sat there in silence for a few moments, contemplating what the Old Man was saying, and looking at the faded markings upon his shaven, pockmarked skull. "I've done my research" he ventured tentatively, voice barely loud enough to be heard over the spit and snap of burning wood. "It is clearly stated in several sources that the Emperor's Children were granted the right to bear it after the Proximan Betrayal".
The Old Man snorted, and twitched his head from side to side briefly in denial. "No" he repeated as emphatically as his wheezing lungs would allow. "You, you of all people should know that history is written by the victor. Think of what Imperial history says about the vaunted Astartes Legions, how celebrated their actions are. Think of the things that aren't said, the darker, more distasteful things, but things we know to be true". The Old Man sighed heavily, as if about to offer a heartfelt confession, or relive a painful memory.
Damos' brow furrowed, a light sheen of fireside sweat forming in shallow wrinkles that the passage of time, and life's myriad hardships had gifted him. A talented and well-respected researcher, public speaker, and documentarist in his time, Damos Terrighan had long since fallen into scraping a living as a walking repository of information. The kind of information that many people, and many authorities thought should be left in the darker times it originated from. The kind of information some people, however, would gladly pay for, whether for entertainment or for more sinister purposes.
Earlier in the day, Damos had been ejected from a local bar for daring to suggest that Imperial records and archives weren't as accurate as people believed. It didn't pay to criticise the Imperium within earshot of anyone you didn't know or trust on Auspacia. An ill-judged comment, someone pretending to be a paying customer, and a baton-happy Arbites Officer later, and Damos found himself nursing a thumping headache and several minor cuts and bruises as he was unceremoniously ejected onto the street.
As Damos picked himself up from the dusty rockrete floor, a strong hand gripped his shoulder. "Easy there. You've had a rough day, it seems" grumbled an old yet oddly authoritative voice, and Damos squinted up as a figure in a rough hessian robe and cowl offered his hand from the shade of the bar's front wall. Damos rubbed his neck and, after a second of hesitation, took the proffered hand. He was hauled to his feet, and Damos saw his saviour more clearly as he released his grip and stepped backwards into the sunlight.
Somewhat stooped and slightly awkward in his movement, Damos nevertheless got an impression of height, strength and vitality, despite the aged, weathered hands, and the scarred lips and chin that peeked out from under the cowl. Damos could see little other detail, barring some rough shapes shrouded at the figure's hips, hidden from scrutiny by assorted pouches, bedrolls and knapsacks hanging from a utility belt that was cinched over his robe at the waist. The deep voice rumbled again from beneath its shroud "Come, let us go somewhere that men such as us can speak freely".
"Men such as us?" said Damos, raising an eyebrow and standing up straighter, despite the pain shooting through his temples. "What do we have in common, stranger?" The forgotten researcher was wary of this individual, especially as he seemed eager to speak of things that had just got Damos a thrashing by the authorities. The Old Man looked down at Damos, suddenly seeming taller and more imposing. "We both seem to speak of truths that the galaxy is keen to keep hidden" he replied, and turned towards the city outskirts. Damos hesitated, throwing a glance around his surroundings, but seeing nothing aside from stone-faced buildings and dusty streets. He looked back towards the Old Man and, after a moment's more hesitation, scurried after him.
The two men, one old and one even older, caught a junk transport to the very edge of Holisax City, the capital of Auspacia. They disembarked where the curtain-wall met the edges of the outlands, and were waved through the steel turnstiles by a bored-looking wall-guard. The pair trekked a few miles out, towards an unremarkable area of the outlands, where the Old Man said his shelter was. The afternoon had begun to give way to early evening, and the warm pink sun was no more than a glow on the horizon. Damos' teeth began to chatter slightly as the temperature dropped, and the Old Man seemed to notice this. He unclipped a thick woollen shawl from his belt, and threw it to Damos. Damos nodded his thanks and expertly layered the shawl across his bruised shoulders.
"Down here" said the Old Man, gesturing to the edge of a rough valley that seemed to have been carved out by a giant's hand. Ancient-looking debris was rotting, rusting and flaking in scattered heaps within the valley; some of it flat and thick, covered with a layer of orange rust, other, darker pieces buckled and corroded to almost nothing. Damos thought he could make out the vague shapes of riveted armour panels and empty portholes as he moved down the incline, but he couldn't be sure. He stopped and reached out to touch a random spar, tutting as his hand came away filthy, wiping it on his shawl and increasing his stride to catch up with the Old Man again.
Damos was suddenly troubled as he absently noticed the size of the Old Man's footprints in the sand; he'd followed this stranger out into the outlands, to an area that not even the Arbites or scavengers bothered with. "Are you going to kill me?" Damos suddenly blurted out, fear momentarily overriding all other reasoning. "For the truths I know, and for the truths I speak?" The Old Man barked out a laugh. He turned his shrouded head to look back at Damos, who got the distinct impression of piercing eyes targeting him from within the hood. "No. Stay your fears, for I feel my days of killing are long past. I offer shelter and conversation until morning light - nothing more".
"Through here." He said, gesturing at the gap again. Damos was reassured little by the Old Man's words, but the gravitas in his voice compelled Damos to do as he was bid.
"What's your name?" asked the Old Man, as Damos took in the sight before him. Several empty containers, overturned crates and rusting barrels lay haphazardly scattered around the edges of an area no bigger than a Scrumball pitch. Sand and other detritus was beginning to bury most of the containers, like the bones of an animal left in the desert. A fire pit marked the rough centre of the area, metal stakes and cooking utensils blackened from what Damos presumed was years of use.
Damos spoke as his eyes continued to take in his surroundings. "Er, Damos, Damos Terrighan, once an official Imperial Remebr…"
"I didn't ask for your titles. Your name will suffice" grumbled the Old Man. Damos didn't pay this response much heed, as his mind was racing while he looked around. The steep sides of the valley sheltered the encampment from prying eyes, and there was a sporadic canopy of intertwined rockweed and reacher-vines that provided some semblance of aerial cover, not that anyone was looking this far out.
A heavy-looking but ragged and holed tarpaulin covered something large and blocky to the right of the fire pit, and a rough, metal-framed shack sat to the left, covered with more tarpaulin, secured to the ground by makeshift stakes and heavy rocks. What fascinated Damos the most, however, was an oversized but roughly humanoid shape, obscured by a shroud made from some form of heavy cloth that draped over it and accentuated the smooth shapes beneath.
Damos made towards the shape, but was halted by a gruff command.
"Damos, come here".
The ex-remembrancer looked back over his shoulder to see the Old Man, not quite so hunched and awkward now, pointing to a large flattened rock near to the fire pit. Damos cast a glance back at the shape, and then hurried across to the sitting-stone. The Old Man sat down almost wearily across the fire pit from Damos, and struck a flame, setting it into a bundle of dry kindling and rapidly coaxing a fire into life. Damos watched quietly as the fire was fed with more wood until it crackled away happily, casting faint shadows as the sun's light slowly faded.
"So" the Old Man suddenly said abruptly, causing Damos to start. "You are a speaker of truths?"
"Yes, of sorts" replied Damos. I used to be a Remembrancer, but I ah…fell out of favour rather a long time ago. I fear I asked too many questions, said too much, saw too much, remembered too much. Ironic, considering my role, I suppose". The Old Man didn't reply immediately, and Damos wondered if he had even heard him.
"Fell out of favour. Hmph." Came the eventual reply. "For seeing too much. That's something I understand." The Old Man lapse into silence again, and Damos didn't quite know what to do. He cleared his throat and spoke "Uhm…may I ask, what is under the covers, over there?", at the same time gesturing to the shapes across the clearing.
"You can ask" said the Old Man. But it isn't time for you to know". He stood up suddenly, and Damos saw the briefest glimpse of a tattoo on the Old Man's wrist as his sleeve flapped open, scarred and age-worn, but clearly a set of numbers and a symbol of some sort. The Old Man set a metal pot over the fire, and pulled some packages from a lidded container, tearing them open and throwing their contents into the pot, along with a slosh of water from a flask at his waist. "Were you attached to the Crusade fleets, then?" he asked Damos "You are an old man, by anybody's standard, but I see the hint of augmetics and rejuvenat treatments about you".
Damos shifted on his seat slightly, and considered his reply. "I was. My original assignment was the twenty-fourth expedition, aboard the 'Glorious Hope', Emperor rest her. Then I was briefly transferred to the 'Talon of Black', before ending up on the 'Glorious Ser Armaduke' for most of my career. Once the, er…current situation developed, I was shipped here, with some of my colleagues, for protection apparently. I say it was to keep us out of the way, because of all we'd seen and heard".
"The Armaduke, eh?" mused the Old Man. I remember her, a regal old girl, launched from Martian Orbital Dockyard Five, if I'm not mistaken, what, three-hundred or more years ago, with her sisters Highness and Duchess"?
"I wouldn't know, Sir." Admitted Damos with a wry smile. "I'm a two-hundred and forty-five Terran years old, but thanks to Imperial science, I am as healthy as a man a quarter of that. The Armadukes were launched well before even my time."
The Old man nodded, and stirred the contents of the metal pot as steam began to rise from its interior. Damos smelled root vegetables, starch, rich grox-meat and spices. He suddenly noticed his stomach growl and realised he hadn't eaten since breakfast. "That means you're as old, if not older than me?" he asked.
"Yes, it means exactly that, I suppose" said the Old Man, not looking up from the bubbling pot. "I fear that my life's story is coming to its conclusion, however. The truths I have witnessed must be kept safe and kept alive beyond my lifespan" he nodded towards Damos "and yours. Can I trust you with the truth, Damos?" He swivelled his neck to look across at the ex-remembrancer, and Damos felt targeted once more.
He swallowed and ignored his complaining stomach whilst he broke eye-contact and stared into the dancing orange flames to think of an answer. The fire continued to spark and snap, refusing to give him any help, continuing its erratic jig with the shadows as its partner. "Well, Sir. I don't know anything of you, yet I have followed you here, perhaps against my better judgement, but with open curiosity. I am surrounded by mystery and have no hint of answers. I am…was, a Remembrancer, hungry for truth and willing to be punished for knowing and speaking it. I feel I have little choice but to simply be ready and say yes, I am trustworthy".
The Old Man barked out a short laugh, nodded, and began spooning the piping-hot Grox meat into two battered bowls. As Damos gratefully accepted his bowl, and took a spoon thrust at him like a dagger, he noticed how small both items appeared in the old man's hands. The sun's rays had receded beyond the horizon, and Damos saw how the firelight exaggerated the dimensions of everything, so shook off the impression of the Old man's gigantism. He savoured the taste of the rich stew, strong, meaty, thick with vegetable tastes, and he gestured with his spoon as he spoke again. "So, please, as time is apparently running away from us both, will you enlighten me, Sir?"
"Enlighten. Maybe" rumbled the Old Man. "Illuminate, certainly".
Damos took another spoonful of his stew, and wondered what the difference was. He coughed as a particularly spicy spoonful of meat tickled his throat, and he gestured at the Old man for some water. The old man handed across the flask he'd used to fill the cooking pot with, and Damos gratefully sipped some of the brackish, slightly metallic water within. He held the flask out for the Old Man, but he had turned towards the fire again, and seemed not to care for taking it back. Silence held for a few moments, then the Old Man drew back his hood and began to speak to the fire, allowing Damos to listen, like an unwanted, but necessary, guest.
Damos saw the markings on the Old Man's head for the first time and drew in a breath, but dared not interrupt. Instead he sat, listened and shared in the Old Man's tale. The man spoke slowly, occasionally repeating himself, or stopping to think, but his voice was cold and clear as ice as he recounted his truths.
II
I was born on Earth, or Terra as it is known. Much of my early life remains elusive to me, thanks to the psycho-conditioning, you see? I glimpse brief images of a loving mother, a stern father, and a vibrant city, but beyond this is naught but grey. I was taken as a boy, taken somewhere cold and sterile, and had such horrors inflicted upon me that agonies still echo within my mind even now. I was pushed to my limits and beyond, and remember many others dying as their minds, bodies and souls surrendered under the trials of the Legion Masters. We were brutally stripped down to our barest components, and then reforged, remade, rebuilt, wrought into something well beyond human.
I left Terra soon after my transformation, packed onto a transport and sent out into the darkness. I waged war for decades alongside other transhuman warriors, those hardy enough to have survived the horror of their making. We fought so many battles that even my near-eidetic memory cannot recall them all. We were unstoppable, unbeatable, none stood before us for long – not the stubborn, the misguided, the rebel, the heretic or the xenos. We young gods unquestioningly conquered cities, worlds and systems in the name of a being we called our Emperor, in the name of Mankind, in the name of righteousness and conviction. How wrong we were.
We met our gene-sire, as far as I can recall, in the tenth year of the millennium. We'd been a legion for some time already, but unlike so many others, we had no Primarch - no demi-god to exhort us to even greater heights, or inspire us and lead us into glorious battle. Still we fought and died in the name of our Emperor.
Then, one unexceptional day, we received an urgent Astropathic message, and were recalled directly to Terra. There, below the golden balconies of the Imperial Palace, arrayed in formations of the thousands, in full battle-plate, pennants and banners flapping in the damp breeze, we finally came face-to-face with him. Even then, looking up at a being who was as far above my abilities as I am a mortal man's, I could see all was not well.
He looked pensive, no…pained, like he carried the universe on his shoulders, akin to Atlatas of ancient legend. His eyes were cast down, and his demeanour slightly mournful, noticeable even from so far below. Although his voice was strong and clear as he bade us welcome and called us his sons, we all sensed something was missing, and it took the sense of anticipation and the barely-suppressed celebratory mood and pissed on it. Even the Emperor Himself announcing that we would now accommodate the Aquila within our Legion symbol did little to lift the spirits. This was twenty years before the III Legion were granted a similar honour, you realise?
Oh, the Primarch led us in battle from thereon in, and he was as peerless a warrior as you could imagine in your wildest dreams. I never saw any enemy champion – whether a bellowing Greenskin chieftain, or lightning-wreathed Eldar witch - that could stand against him. But alongside this talent for war-making he was cold, distant and aloof in personality. I think I heard him speak a few-dozen times in twenty years of campaigning. Even his closest Astartes, whether chapter masters, battle-captains or legion veterans were only spoken to sparingly, just enough to maintain order and cohesion in wartime and also peacetime.
Of course, then the bad times started. Whispered rumours amongst other Legions, and eventually our own, that our Primarch didn't follow the ideals of our beloved Emperor. Rumours that he didn't see eye-to-eye with his brother Primarchs, and had in fact threatened violence upon several of them. We're Astartes, psychologically conditioned not to respond to fear like mortals do, you know? But the sense of unease in the ranks became palpable over the years, and it began to dull our fighting edge, with friction between our battle-brothers, between squads, and even some companies depending on their views.
Decades of tension weren't helped when our Primarch was suddenly announced as having been called away elsewhere, along with much of our higher command structure, midway through a campaign in the Eastern Fringes against the Rangdan. When he eventually returned to us, scarce acknowledgement was made of his absence, certainly no comment from the Primarch himself. Nothing was done to allay the tension and discord within our Legion, we were simply committed to the crucible of war again and again and again, and the disharmony somewhat faded, even if it wasn't entirely forgotten.
Almost a century passed, innumerable conflicts on countless worlds across uncounted systems. More brothers lost to death's irresistible touch every time; casualties of wars our Primarch didn't want to wage, for a being he no longer wished to serve – though we didn't know this for sure at the time.
The final war, I will not speak of, for it still pains me. Suffice to say that as the last embers of the millennium flickered to nothing, the impossible happened – brother turned on brother, a demi-god fell, never to rise again, and one Legion destroyed another. A grim foreshadowing of bigger events to come, maybe. But all hidden under the glory of His crusade, and the victories won by His still-loyal Legions. So many lost, so many forgotten, so many heroes unremembered, so many truths distorted by lies, conspiracy and bureaucracy.
Here, for now, my tale will end. Many questions left unanswered I'm sure. But be confident on one thing – the Legion – my Legion, was the first to wear the Aquila. And I was loyal to my Legion and to Humanity's cause. We were loyal, even if our Primarch was found wanting.
The fire was dying, the cool night air decorated by the last of the dancing sparks - the fading crackle of firewood the only sound. Damos sat, stunned by what the Old Man's tale inferred. Instead of speaking, Damos simply studied the Old Man's features, distorted as they were by the shadows cast in the firelight. Steel studs were driven into his skull above his brow, and knotted burn scars jostled for position with pockmarks, blade scratches and myriad other signs of damage upon the leathery map of his face. The Old man turned his head to look at Damos fully, and two piercing eyes made Damos shiver. A particularly ragged scar ran down the entire left side of the face looking at him, and had been crudely stapled together many years ago, casting a slight sneer to the Old Man's expression.
"So, Damos Terrighan" whispered the Old Man "Do you think I speak the truth?"
"Well, Sir" the Remembrancer cleared his throat, "It has been a revelatory experience, listening to you these past hours. I am not sure what to say, but in my heart I think that you believe your truth, although I cannot be sure what I myself believe". Damos faltered and looked at the floor, aware of how pathetic he sounded.
The Old Man grunted. "Well I can't say I'm surprised. Humans have always found most tales regarding Astartes hard to comprehend. The limits of mortal minds, I suppose".
"It's not that Sir. I just…I mean, if I am to take what you say at face value, I can say this: You claim to be an Astartes, of which Legion I am at a loss to say. I can see you are no stranger to conflict, it is etched into your face, quite literally, but you speak a tale of such audacity and controversy that most would call it a madman's fantasy built around existing facts to lend it credibility. If it weren't for the Warmaster's treachery endangering our species' very survival even as we speak, I would probably have called you a liar, begging your pardon."
The Old Man said nothing, but leaned forward to wearily rest his chin on steepled fingers. Damos felt almost guilty for his words, as if he had had rejected the Old Man's plea to enter paradise after offering his final confession.
"Forgive me Sir. I am tired, and I am struggling to take on all that you have revealed" offered Damos by way of an apology. He laid his unfinished meal at his feet. "May I be permitted to rest, allow my mind to comprehend what you have said, and resume our discourse at morning's light?"
The dismissive flicker of fingers told the Remembrancer he was free to leave, and Damos rose from his seat, feeling the muscles of his legs protest as they unfolded themselves, before he wearily trudged across to the shelter opposite the Old Man. His tired eyes looked up to see the covered objects that had watched the Old Man's confession in silence, and he made a mental note to ask about them again come the morning. He lifted a heavy flap of tarpaulin and entered the cool, dark shelter. Damos went straight to the makeshift bed, laid his head on the folded-tunic pillow, and almost instantly allowed sleep to take him into her warm embrace.
III
Damos woke with a start, as if suddenly aware he'd missed his alarm going off, and was late for some important occasion. He yawned, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stretched his arms and shoulders as he sat up, realising there was no alarm, and certainly no occasion. He took a small mouth sanitiser pill from a folded wrap in his pocket, and swilled it with some water from a flask beside his bed. The Old Man's flask, he noticed with curiosity. Damos swung himself around and off the bed, spat the water onto the ground, and went to call out to his fireside companion before realising, rather embarrassingly, that he didn't know the Old man's name.
He yawned as he left the shelter, then stretched his arms and rubbed at his eyes as he stepped into the morning's gentle glow. Silence, bar the squawk of a few native avians, and a low, distant rumble of thunder. "Hello?" ventured Damos, scratching at his scalp and looking about the campsite for the Old Man. The fire was out, pale wisps of smoke curling away from the blackened lumps of wood and the cooking pot and utensils from the previous night's meal was gone. His voice echoed back at him from the rocks, and Damos quickly realised he was alone.
As Damos wandered around the fire pit, at a loss for what to do next, he saw some items stacked on the stone that he had used for a seat the night before. A data-slate nestled on top of what looked like a cloth shawl, and the shawl itself was clearly wrapped around something substantial. Damos lifted the data-slate, and thumbed the small '1' icon in its corner. As his eyes flickered across the text, he realised it was the Old man's story, or at least the Old Man's story was contained within a much longer tale. After a few minutes Damos deactivated the data-slate, resolving to read it fully later on, after he'd discovered what had happened to his erstwhile companion.
Damos unfolded the cloth, and took a step back as he stared what lay within. An enormous firearm, a bolter, the signature weapon of the Emperor's Astartes, lay in the sunlight. Its black casing glinted dully, its metal workings shining like quicksilver. There was no ammunition in the gun's magazine, not that Damos ever could have lifted and fired it, not without breaking his wrists in any case. The Romanii numeral XI was acid etched into its casing, just above the foregrip, and a cream-coloured strip of parchment, tattered in places, burnt on one edge, and covered in text was affixed to the bolter's grip, below where a hand would have held it.
Damos read the text he could make out, silently mouthing the words like a prayer to the ancient Gods.
I, Sergeant Aledis Torbhel, swear upon this Oath of Moment to lead Fourteenth Squad of First Company, Ninth Chapter of the XI Legion Astartes to glory and honour in this undertaking, in the name of my Emperor, my Primarch and my Legion. I shall brook no failure, allow no disobedience, nor accept any retreat in the face of the enemy, no matter how terrifying, for I am Astartes, and I shall know no fear"
Damos felt stinging tears threaten to burst from his eyes, and squeezed them shut as he realised the Old Man was indeed one of the Emperor's Angels, and had, in all probability, been speaking the truth. Damos Terrighan, Remembrancer and Seeker of Truth, had been nothing but suspicious and sceptical, and had caused this Angel to lose what remained of faith that his story would be heard, believed and passed on. The Angel had nothing left to do, but to depart without so much as a word; keeping the hard truth of wars won, brothers lost, and the grief of his Primarch's betrayal written on his scarred body and burned into his memories.
His tears finally breached the dam of his eyelids, and rolled, hot and fierce down Damos' face, dropping onto the sandy floor with silent splashes. He wrapped the bolter back in its cover as he cried, and slid it, along with the dataslate, from the rock into the Angel's satchel, which he had also left behind. A small metallic device with a few wires and connectors lay, discarded on the floor. Damos stooped and picked it up, recognising it as a distortion field generator. That's how the Astartes had disguised his bulk and height from Damos, and others; using Imperial technology to bend and weave falsehoods about himself, appearing as nothing more than an Old Man, stooped by age, hunched by hardship.
Damos crossed over to the covered objects that he had been so eager to discover only hours ago, and felt almost ashamed at invading the Angel's pathetic living space so brazenly, but convincing himself that there was little reason not to, what with the Angel's departure. Maybe there was something under the covers to lend even more weight to the Angel's tale, weight Damos could use to bring the Angel's truth to more listeners. It had begun to rain, as if the sky was joining in with Damos' guilt-driven sadness, and Damos wiped his eyes, smiling thinly at the thought.
As Damos reached out to pull at the covered objects, he became aware of the once-distant thunder, now a more insistent rumble, with a whine underpinning it. He looked upwards as the sound began to bounce around the clearing, getting louder all the time. The thundering whine quickly resolved itself into a howling engine, and Damos squinted, trying to shield his eyes with his hands as sand, dirt and debris blew up in a furious whirlwind, whilst stablight beams pierced the damp dawn gloom, making the soft rain glitter like tiny chips of ice.
The blocky silhouette of the ship grew larger, and Damos scrambled to get out of the way as landing stanchions extended from the craft's belly. It settled down with a lurch, blowing thick ash from the fire-pit up into the air, and flapping the tarpaulin free of the shelter's steel bones, dislodging the covers from the mysterious shapes beside it. Damos, still scrambling, turned awkwardly and fell on his side as the screaming jets of the ship began to cycle down, and he tried to make out any details as a landing ramp extended - a trio of thin green beams lancing from the craft's shadowy interior.
Damos dragged himself backwards on his elbows, feet scuffling with the dirt as he tried to retreat from the glossy black beetle of a craft. His back hit the bolter-laden satchel and he stopped, watching as three armoured men advanced warily down the extended ramp, green lasers flickering left and right as they searched for a target. Holding up a trembling hand, as if trying to shield himself from the threatening figures, Damos felt his heart thump harder, and his stomach cramp with fear.
"Contact" grated one of the men through his visor's vox-grille, pinning Damos to the floor with his targeting laser, a dull metal lasrifle pointed straight at his head. The other men snapped round, and kept their weapons unwaveringly aimed at Damos while they covered the ground between them. The men wore full-face helmets, black bodygloves, with maroon ceramite plates on their torso, shoulders, shins and forearms. There was no insignia, no rank markings, and no clue as to who they were. Barely-restrained threat, evident through their aggressively confident movements and posture, kept Damos from making any sound, let alone attempting a movement, lest it be his last.
The first man reached down and grabbed Damos by the hem of his robe, yanking him up to his knees. Damos recoiled as the vox grille buzzed at him.
"Where is he?" came the question, blunt and direct.
Damos' jaw worked silently, not wishing to betray the events of the previous night and early morning. His panicked eyes darted back and for the between the soldiers, the sheer menace exuding from them almost paralysing in its nature.
"Where…Is...He?" grated the vox again. The muzzle of the lasrifle hovered closer to Damos' face.
"Gone…he's gone. I…I don't know where, he left as I slept".
The soldier's helmet bobbed towards his comrades and there was a brief, muted click of inter-suit vox. A second soldier approached and roughly bound Damos' hands in front of him with a plastek cord. He unceremoniously hauled Damos to his feet and towards the ship. The third man grabbed the satchel, briefly unbalancing himself with the weight of it, and slung it over his shoulder with his off hand, keeping his lasrifle aimed at Damos with the other.
Damos struggled, but the soldiers' grip was like iron, gauntleted fingers bruising his arms as they held him up. The soldiers suddenly jerked Damos to a stop as they met the lip of the dropship's boarding ramp. One of them kicked the back of his legs, and he fell to his knees once more, his bonds, and his captors grip forcing his hands up in front of him, so Damos resembled a man in supplication.
A deep purring growl and a whine of servo-motors came from the dim interior of the dropship, and Damos could do nothing but stare, as an enormous silhouette shifted towards him, backlit by the dull red lighting of the dropship's interior troop bay. The potent smells of sweat, damp furs, gun oil and lapping powder assailed Damos' nostrils, and he drew in a sharp breath as the shape resolved into something truly frightening. A Wolf in the armour of an Angel slowly stamped his way out of the shadows, and came to a halt a few paces away from Damos.
Damos felt the tremble in his hands spreading to his arms, his chest, his entire being as the Astartes approached. The soldiers may have exuded menace, but the Astartes was pure, immense, and violently destructive power contained only by incredible levels of self-restraint and willpower. Enormous sections of powered plate armour encased a transhuman physiology gene-built to kill violently, efficiently and without hesitation. Trinkets and fetishes adorned the blue-grey armour, clattering bones on threads of wire, small carved tokens or brass icons riveted to leather belts and straps, and unreadable runes etched into the plates themselves. A snarling grille-faced helmet was clutched in the Astartes' hand, and an ugly, square-shaped bulldog of a pistol hung on one side of his belt. The pelt of some great beast was draped across the Wolf's back-mounted power pack, its clawed paws pinned to the yellow shoulder plates each side of the Astartes' head.
A head covered in greying black hair, which possessed two glittering eyes, their emerald green irises pinned by deepest black pupils. A face which was split by a toothy grimace, framed by coarse salt and pepper whiskers, and containing two elongated canine teeth which only added to the intimidation factor. A head decorated by marks from untold years of warfare, and given deep, ageing, wearied creases from deeds past, and the weight of deeds yet to be done.
"Where is Torbhel?" growled the Astartes, not deeming it necessary to make eye-contact, but instead looking off to one side, as if having to get involved in the situation was somehow distasteful. Damos collected his thoughts, and took a breath before replying.
"Truly Sir, as I said to this man" Damos jerked his head at one of the armoured soldiers, unsure if it was even the right one, "The Angel left before I woke. I don't know why, or where he was going". The Wolf took a step forwards, now only a metre or so from the Remembrancer, looming over him threateningly. Damos felt the low buzz of active power armour, and the sensation started to make his gums and tongue itch.
"Angel?" thundered the Wolf so abruptly that even the soldiers flinched. He spat on the steel decking at his feet, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with armoured fingers, as if he could massage his disgust away. "He is no Angel, mortal, he is a traitor, a renegade, a liar and an oath-breaker". Damos barely heard this declaration, his senses overwhelmed by the unfiltered fury of the Wolf, brief as it was. "No" he managed quietly "You're wrong. I have seen and heard all the proof I need to convince me of that".
A dull, wet throb of noise emanated from the Wolf's throat, and his eyes seemed to lose their focus, although his weathered face betrayed no hint of emotion at Damos' words. A few moments of silence, punctuated only by the sound of rain on the metallic skin of the dropship, passed between the kneeling human and towering Astartes. Then, the emerald eyes regained their focus and the Imperial warrior turned his full gaze onto the Imperial citizen, the intense scrutiny making Damos shrink into his robes a little.
The Wolf shook his head. "If you believe his lies" rumbled the Wolf through clenched teeth "And are so convinced by them, that you will not tell us the truth but instead protect him…" he paused briefly, nostrils flaring, "Then you will be damned with him". The Astartes strode past Damos and the soldiers, who quickly moved aside. He clamped his helmet on with a hiss of armour seals, red eye lenses glowing dimly as its autosenses powered up. The Wolf drew a wicked-looking axe from his belt loop, holding it loosely in his right fist whilst activating its power field. He didn't spare a glance backwards, but gestured with two fingers of his free hand as he padded out of the dropship's interior towards the gap in the rocks that led out of the Angel's clearing.
Two of the soldiers followed, rifles slung, and began to search the shelter and the various containers scattered around, occasionally stuffing items of interest into the small canvas bags they carried, or tossing them aside if they proved mundane. The third soldier turned Damos around roughly, cracking the Remembrancer's shins and knees across the ramp's floor, until he was looking out across the open space of the campsite, then he too left the dropship's interior, heading towards the opposite side of the clearing.
Damos' eyes followed the Wolf as he came to a sudden halt just before the gap that led back to the badlands, and his head bobbed to the side, as if something had caught his eye. His helmeted head turned further to look at the black-clad soldiers rooting through the area, specifically the one who had moved towards the now uncovered objects. Damos stared in mute fascination as one of the soldiers stopped in front of a full suit of MK3 Astartes battle plate, painted in a drab olive green, with a dull yellow helmet. The suit's empty visor lenses glared out at the scene before it, as though offended by the intruders and their inappropriate curiosity.
Raindrops slid down its blunt faceplate and curved pauldrons, adding a dull sheen to the armour's surface. Lighter drops settled on the armour's chest, dampening the purity seal parchments affixed upon its surface, or gathering along seals and atop rivets. An empty leather holster sat on one hip, and a scabbarded sword hung from its belt, worn red leather with silver details making up its casing, and the hand-and-a-half hilt being bound with golden wire. One arm crossed the armour's midriff, gauntlet curled tightly around the sword's hilt, the other clutched an archaic pistol across its chest, muzzle pointing almost skybound, making the armour appear as if it was tensed in anticipation of some confrontation yet to come.
The soldier reached out to touch one of the vambraces of the battle plate, his glove brushing grime and dirty raindrops from it, and revealing an embossed icon with a tiny winking green light set within. Damos couldn't quite make out the nature of the marking, thanks to the rain and the distance, but a sliver of ice wormed its way into his gut. In his peripheral vision, Damos noticed a telling change in the Wolf's posture a microsecond before all hell broke loose in the small clearing. The events that unfolded in the next few minutes stayed with Damos until his dying breath, many decades and thousands of light years from here.
The soldier jerked back instinctively as the eye lenses of the armour suddenly blazed into life, bright blue chips of ice set within the ochre face plate. The suit of armour unfolded its arms in the blink of an eye, the sword slashing the curious human from right hip to left shoulder, separating the halves of him with a hiss of metal through air, armour, flesh and bone, a pink mist fuming into the air from the sudden, traumatic, mortal injury.
As the sword bifurcated one soldier, the pistol in the armour's left arm extended out ramrod straight, and lanced two eye-searingly bright beams of red-purple energy into the backs of the other two soldiers, who were unable to react in any meaningful way to the lightning-fast assault. The ancient, potent Volkite pistol turned the armoured humans into naught more than ash and glowing embers, their deflagration leaving sharp, glowing after-images on Damos' retinas. The miserable rain continued, lending its effort to nothing else but dissolving their ashen remains.
In the time it had taken the armour to lay low three elite troopers, the Wolf only had time to snarl a curse out of his helmet's snout, and start snap-firing his heavy pistol across the fire pit at the troopers' killer. Explosive bolts gouged divots out of the olive green battle-plate and knocked it across the blocky shape it had stood immobile next to until seconds ago. It clutched at the shape as it fell, dragging the tarpaulin from it. The Wolf bounded across the clearing to close the distance, and the Angel, clad in his holy war plate, rose to meet his charge. The Volkite weapon belched again, but the aim was hasty, and the beam merely scorched a steaming furrow through the Wolf's helmet, bursting an eye-lens with heat distortion.
The Wolf roared again as he tore the ruined helm off, scattering a cascade of molten ceramite drops into the damp air. He cast it to the floor, a livid burn now present on his temple from the bite of the Angel's pistol. The full-throated bellow ululated across the clearing and bounced off the rocks, amplified until it sounded like a pack of wolves howling their prey's doom into the sky. The Angel made to fire again, but the Wolf crunched the flat of his axe's blade into the weapon as he closed and it discharged into the sand, fusing a portion of it into glass. The Angel relinquished his grip on the pistol and caught hold of the Wolf's descending axe arm as it wheeled around came down again, this time in an overhead arc. He drove a knee into his adversary's gut, stopping his momentum and buying a second's respite before the Wolf lunged in again.
The Wolf jammed his pistol awkwardly into the small gap between him and the Angel as they came together, and unloaded the magazine's remaining ammunition into the space, driving splinters of ceramite and spalling pieces of shell casing into both Astartes. The concussive force of the blasts sent both of them staggering back, leaving, smoking craters in their torso and thigh plating, along with spatters of hyperoxygenated blood. The Wolf grimaced and spat, the stench of crisped hair and burnt flesh in his nostrils. He stuffed his empty bolter into its holster and tightened his grip around the haft of his axe. The scowling Angel stood in front of the now- uncovered Rhino APC, sword pointing directly at the wolf, a short fractal-edged combat blade appearing in his off-hand.
From the interior of the dropship, the Remembrancer stumbled out into the rain and furiously worked his bindings against a spar of a landing stanchion, eyes unable to keep up with the pace of the battling Astartes as their blades hissed, crackled and clashed in a deadly dance. The powered edges of the weapons were refusing to bite and were instead repelling each other like magnets, forcing a different nuance into the fighting style of both men. The Wolf scored three or four blows on the Angel's armour, the deadly smile of his axe parting ceramite plate with ease and hacking agonising slices through the Angel's flesh. The Angel had landed only one solid hit, however it had cost the Wolf a deep, bubbling, puncturing gash in his side, the Angel darting in with his combat blade to take full advantage when the Wolf had swung wide and overextended.
Dark, rain-diluted blood ran freely down the Wolf's side, staining his blue-grey armour and slowing his swings, whilst the Angel favoured his right leg, the earlier bolt fire from his adversary doing more damage than was visible to the eye. Neither combatant spoke, not even to taunt their opponent, both understanding the time for words was well past. The Wolf's grunts of effort were guttural and clear, undiluted by vox-static, whereas the Angel's cries and groans were given a waspish edge by his speaker-grille, making them sound almost alien. The whine of stressed power packs and snarl of straining servos was audible over the noise of transhuman exertion, as the Astartes' war plate magnified the warriors' strength and lent immense destructive power to their attacks.
The Wolf lunged in again, lashing out with a kick into the damaged thigh plates of the Angel's armour, forcing him to almost kneel for a split second. The Angel jammed his sword into the Wolf's midsection as he was driven down, making the hulking Astartes bellow in furious agony. The warrior fell forwards, arms open to grip the Angel in a crushing bear-hug, dragging the Angel down, and snapping a length of the sword blade off inside his own torso. The Wolf began raining furious, alternating, pain-fuelled blows onto his fallen enemy with the butt of his axe and a ceramite-clad fist. The Wolf's berserk attacks rang off the Angel's faceplate like a clarion, chipping and denting the faceplate, and cracking the eye lenses, while the Angel squirmed and thrashed, trying to dislodge his frenzied opponent.
With a snarl and the hiss of breaking seals, the Wolf gripped the Angel's helmet under the lip of the faceplate and tore it free, revealing the Angel's bruised and bloodied visage, contorted with rage, eyes alive with a vitality that belied his aged appearance. As the helmet fell away, the Wolf deflected a jab of the combat knife's blade using his forearm, and got his axe blade under the Angel's guard, leaning his weight into it, driving the tip of its smile into the Angel's chest plate. Ceramite parted, and thick blood began to leak from the wound beneath before running down the olive green plate in streaks.
The Angel gritted his teeth in pain, feeling the Wolf's blade pierce his hardened ribcage and seek a path to his hearts. He tried to buck the gigantic Astartes off him, but he was pinned like a child and couldn't get any leverage. He let his broken sword go, golden hilt slapping into the sand, and concentrated on gripping the haft of the murderous axe under its head, trying to prevent it from driving any further into him. The Wolf's strength was simply too much however, and the Angel knew his death was merely a matter of time. He stopped resisting and let the Wolf jerk forwards under his own efforts.
The Wolf's eyes widened in surprise as his foe ceased resisting, and he fell forwards with a growl of victory, his axe tip cruelly bisecting the Angel's chest. The Angel could only gasp as he felt the weapon bursting his lungs and shearing through his primary heart before scraping off his spinal column, its power generator squealing with the effort. Arterial blood suddenly jetted across both fighters, spattering their armour crimson and creating an oil slick of gore between them. The Wolf recoiled, clutching desperately at his neck, and sagged sideways, falling from his perch atop his enemy's body. The silver hilt of a combat knife jutted sideways from his throat where the Angel's fist had planted it as the Wolf had fallen forwards. The weapon had pierced the Wolf's entire neck, and its tip was jutting out of the other side. A mixture of froth and dark blood ran from the Wolf's mouth, dyeing his teeth and whiskers, and drooling to the ground in sticky strings.
The Wolf managed to drag himself off the Angel, but only onto his knees, head bowed, one hand planted in the dirt, angry green eyes staring out from under his brow at the Angel. He defiantly yanked the Angel's blade free in a shower of gore with his other hand, wheezing out a breath through his ruined throat. His fallen adversary could do nothing but lay in repose, white-hot agony coursing through his ruined form as his secondary heart failed. Both Astartes' genhanced physiologies desperately tried to cope with the catastrophic injuries wrought upon them, but managed little else than to slow the loss of blood to a rate which gave the warriors a few more seconds of life.
The Angel locked eyes with the Wolf's as he sat up and died, his body relaxing into death's grip with a bubbling rattle of exhalation. The Wolf's eyes became glassy and his chest ceased its heaving attempts to draw breath as hid head slumped forwards, whilst the last of his lifeblood ran down his chest and onto his thighs, gathering and clotting in the flexible joints and carved runes of his armour. Damos arrived at the Angel's side moments after the spark of life had left him, tears running down his face at the horror of two of the Emperor's creations having wrought such ruin upon each other. An eerie silence hung over the scene like a veil, in stark contrast to the din of furious battle moments before.
Damos leaned against the cold frontal armour of the Rhino as he slid to his knees, and he spared a quick glance at the dead Wolf, mourning the VI Legion warrior's demise alongside the death of the Angel. Damos cast his gaze along the Angel's ruined form, cooling blood congealing along the rents and tears in his armour, his face paled to a sickly grey. Damos inhaled sharply as a rich coppery stench assaulted his nostrils, and he saw the bloodstained badge of an Imperial Aquila perched at the lower edge of the Angel's shoulder guard. The twin heads glared sightlessly out at him, and its spread steel wings lay riveted in place. Its claws grasped a bronze shape, a shape Damos again recognised, this time as Romanii numerals representing the Imperial number eleven, just like on the bolter. Legion heraldry sat above the symbol of the Imperium, but was now so faded as to be undecipherable.
The ex-Remembrancer pulled himself up to his feet, and snapped his bindings apart by levering them against an angled armour plate on the Rhino. He slowly dragged the heavy fabric that had once covered the suit of plate across to the Old Man. He dared not interfere with the VI Legion Astartes, and doubted he could shift the deadweight in any case. As he draped the shroud over the Angel, he recognised the fabric for what it was. The soot-stained, tattered, shot-holed remnant of an Astartes Legion Company Banner. Gold weave bordered the honour-laced black cloth, and a multitude of woven scrolls bore the names of campaigns Damos recognised. One stood out above most others – Bloch, although before Damos could recall why this name was significant, the silence was shattered.
Eye-wateringly bright light, accompanied by a thunderclap of translation knocked Damos flat on his back, and three more shapes resolved into solid view. Three more Astartes, all clad in the colours of the fallen Angel stood before Damos. None of them paid Damos any heed, instead moving to recover their fallen comrade. Two slung their bolters and hefted the Angel between them, whilst the third planted a large winking beacon into the sand before them.
"Wait!" cried Damos from the floor "You can't leave me here, what if they send more for me?!" he near screamed, pointing at the bodies of the Wolf and soldiers as he pulled himself to his feet.
The Angel who had planted the beacon turned his lenses upon the Remembrancer.
"They won't" a voice grated from the helmet's vox-grille. "The Emperor of Mankind needs all of his loyal sons, and they in turn need their warriors elsewhere. Share our lament, share his story" The helmet nodded at the Angel. "Share our story".
Damos nodded dumbly, lost for words. He was reassured little by the Astartes' words, but realised he had no other choice. They were not interested in anything save recovering their fallen comrade, least of all the begging of a mortal.
The three Astartes and their brother disappeared with another crash of thunder and explosion of light, leaving Damos alone. He looked around, feeling a sense of determination growing in his soul. The ex-Remembrancer shouldered the heavy bag containing the bolter and dataslate, before trudging out of the Angel's clearing, back towards Holisax City. One day, the truth would cost Damos his life. Until that day, he carried the burden of telling it.