Shield of Gold
Edited: 12/04/2021
Chapter 1: The Aquilan Shield
''Each one of the Ten Thousand represents genetic lore acquired over many lifetimes. Each one of you is unique, a work of art never to be repeated. I am miserly with your lives, where I would spend so many others without a thought.''
- The Emperor speaking to Ra Endymion, Tribune of the Ten Thousand, m.31.
Of all the duties I could have chosen from the numerous noble sodalities of the Legio Custodes, I was of the Aquilan Shields and originally drawn from the Hykanatoi, the most numerous martial arm of the Custodian Guard. We were a brotherhood of warriors in the Emperor of Mankind's service. My duty as an Aquilan Shield was unique in that we protected selected individuals deemed greatly important to the defence of the Throne World by the doomscryers of the Imperial Household. Amongst my brothers, I was one of the youngest, only a mere hundred twenty years into my vigilant watch over our lord's domain, whereas others had served since the Great Heresy and perhaps even before. Even so, I took my duties every bit as seriously as my older brothers, if not more so. While I lack for pride or anger as we all do, our nature as individuals did not allow for total erasure of our egos. I was eager to prove my worth to not only my self, but to many within our order.
I am Achillo Rhada, one of the Ten Thousand and for brevity's sake I shall exclude my other names. As odd as it may sound, we are granted names for mighty deeds over our lifetime of service. I myself have 14 names, most earned through my intellectual pursuits, with others earned through my active duty off world. To say these have been strange times is an understatement and honestly I was not sure what to make of it all. The Emperor, He who sits upon the Golden Throne of Terra speaks again. Our Captain General, a fantastic baker as it happens, had come across a text-to-speech device dating back to the second millennium. Where he found it or how is unknown, and while I would never insinuate such in his presence, I have reason to believe it was during one of his many heart broken trips to the Dark Cells. I only hope that Lock Warden was as accommodating as always. Such a cool guy that Lock Warden. The Inquisition had all of its extremist elements expelled to the Warp, and two Primarchs had returned to us. Though, if I'm honest, I was hesitant to see Magnus the Red, a being I had been taught was our enemy, as anything but a hazard to the Throne. However, I was relieved that Rogal Dorn was back. Though why he'd sworn us to secrecy of his return was a mystery to me. He has been mentioned on the Emperor's vox publicae, yet it seems only we Custodians were paying due attention. Not even the Imperial Fists seemed to have noticed.
I had retired briefly to my chamber, keeping my armour on as so few of us seemed to these days, and set down my Guardian Spear. My chamber, like those of my brothers, was a stark contrast to how we presented ourselves. Where our war plate was resplendent with its intricate engravings and slotted gemstones, its gleaming golden auramite that shined like the sun, our private quarters were bleak places. Bare, windowless stone walls greeted me, as did a plain bed and an ancient desk. I believed I had only used my bed a handful of times, and even then, it hadn't been for long. Unlit candles sat in small metal dishes on my desk and served as the only source of light my quarters had. They had been used of course, but not recently.
As I had stated before, our Captain General was a phenomenal baker, taking time out of his day to hand craft personalised and nutritious pizzas for every member of our order every day. I had recovered mine from the Refrigeratum and was intent on savouring it while I had some time to myself, which was a rarity on its own. It was unbecoming of one such as my self, being crafted for the sole purpose of guarding the Emperor and his palace, but... no, it was just unbecoming. These pizzas are truly something else, a bright spot on our already glorious duty. You would understand if you'd had one.
While it was not often I came to my private chamber, on the occasion that I did I used that time to meditate. It was a sanctuary of sorts from the naked mania that had overtaken many of my brothers, and therefore a place where I had zero risk of slipping on any of the body oil that slicked the floors and end up with my purple cloak sodden and sparkling with body glitter. I was glad my duties as one of the Aquilan Shields took me outside the walls from time to time. Perhaps it was that reprieve from my brothers that kept me sane and my armour on. I dreaded to think what they'd say. I squat enough as it is.
When I say that we of the brotherhood of demigods were individuals, I meant that we functioned far differently in our mental processes and in our combat doctrines than our Astartes cousins. We operated as a loose coalition of formations with little in the way of strict hierarchy. We were equals for the most part. When we fought, we fought as individual warriors sharing a battlefield rather than squads and companies with dedicated doctrines to our engagements. I say with no ego that we were peerless singular forces, each a hero of legend wrought into existence by the shrouded arts of the palace's bio-alchemists. But we lacked the camaraderie and true sense of brotherhood that the Astartes had.
Where their lives were regimented and revolved around the next battle with little time or thought given to anything else, we had the privilege of our own pursuits. Many of us were artists, poets, philosophers, musicians, and politicians. To what degree each of us took our pursuits was as varied as we were, but I however, enjoyed putting paint to canvas. My enjoyment of it often waned, as I approached it with the same criticality that I approached my duties as a Custodian. It was unique in its ability to draw frustration from somewhere deep within my that seemingly nothing else could. For what reason, I am yet unsure.
In one corner of my sparse dwelling, I spied my collection of unfinished paintings and sketches. My eyes narrowed as I rested my tall, plumed helm on the desk and took a bite from my snack. Its delicate blend of flavours and hearty fullness was a pleasant experience every time I indulged in it. It took the edge off of my disappointment at my unfinished works. Portraits were mere doodled sketches, and landscapes were at once a clear depiction of Terra's spires, but then trailed to a mass of smudged colours. My muse for combat did not extend to my art it seemed. Finishing my food, I left my chamber with Guardian Spear in hand and having donned my helm once again, its crimson plume trailing behind my head as I walked.
It was necessary for us as the Emperor's wardens that we memorized every inch of the palace's innumerable hallways, even the hundreds of kilometres that had fallen into dire disrepair. We could navigate the rafters in search of assassins, scour hallways and ventilation shafts for creatures both of the material universe and not. Xenos seldom found their way here. Someone had at one point put out the odd rumour that Aeldari Harlequins had infiltrated the palace, and killed several of my brothers, all in an effort to deliver a message to the Emperor. Utterly false. And stupid. Besides, he had a P.O box now and everyone in the galaxy somehow knew that. That made me uneasy. The Administratum wasn't exactly known for their clerical thoroughness, so we were all on high alert for anything from letters infected with Crotch Rot, to speakers repeating the Ultramarine chant. I could not possibly say which was worse.
I made my way to the headquarters of my Shield Host. Through the heavy gilded doors, it opened up into a wide chamber with a high vaulted ceiling. In the centre of the room was a hololith projector table that displayed various images; planetary maps, ship routes, fleet formations, and logistical information. Other Custodians busied themselves at rows of cogitator banks lining the walls, while trusted menials passed messages and important documents between themselves. Servitors operated the otherwise unoccupied cogitator banks, droning compliance with given requests.
Upon entering, one of my brothers noticed me and nodded in greeting. Nerva, Shield Captain of my sodality, was an old warrior. He hadn't witnessed the Great Heresy, but he had been young when Goge Vandire ruled with his maniacal zealotry. By some quirk of genetics or the weight of his duties, his features were worn, and his face bore a neatly kept grey beard, and his naturally sun-kissed skin was wrinkled. Slate grey eyes sat in deep sockets, and their attentive gaze showed none of the weariness that his face did.
"Achillo." Nerva's voice was a rumble as he greeted me. I inclined my head, then straightened my posture and held my Guardian Spear with its pommel to the ground in salute. Like myself, his golden auramite plate was crafted for his use alone, fit to his body's unique specifications. A purple cloak hung from his shoulders, and his left shoulder guard was painted purple with its gold trim remaining untouched, just like mine. However, his armour was more decorative than my own already ostentatious panoply of war, as befitting one of his station.
"Shield Captain." I replied. Nerva gave me a half-smile, an expression he always made when I saluted him or exhibited what he classed as overly formal behaviour.
"At ease. No need to be so stiff, lad. Leave that to the Companions." His joke would have made me laugh if it were less true to reality. The Sanctum Imperialis had become the most heavily fortified strip club in the galaxy. Perhaps Commorragh was a close second. Not waiting for me to reply, he continued, "The doomscryers have something for us, and this time it pertains to you alone, lad."
This was strange. The doomscryers were tasked with locating our charges across all points in the galaxy. These people could range from the lowliest serf on an agriworld, to a Canoness of the Adepta Sororitas. Though it could quite literally be anybody. But what had me curious was Nerva saying the doomscryers saw something in regards to me.
"Could you clarify, sir? Has a charge been found?" I asked. Nerva nodded.
"Indeed. We found her yesterday, and it seems matters surrounding her are complex if the scrying holds true. Young girl, nobility on some yet unknown backwater. What is troublesome is the lack of any solid coordinates. This world our charge is located upon is utterly hidden from us." Nerva's brow furrowed as he spoke, though not in frustration. Nerva was never one to let questions or subsequent lack of answers rattle him, instead finding satisfaction in a challenge. His tenacity and wisdom had seen us through many an assignment, and the advisedness of his decisions had kept me from making terrible mistakes in my impetuous early years. He was a mentor to me, as were Navradaran and Valerian. All were temperate men who drilled patience and understanding into my thick skull where before there had been pomp and misguided self-assurance, and taught me to see value in baseline humanity. If they hadn't, perhaps myself and Actuarius Maldovar Colquan would have much more in common.
"I see. But what it did the doomscryers see in regards to myself?" I disliked how I sounded in that moment. It felt like a small slip into my juvenile attitude from decades past. Nerva knew me far too well to have missed that, but he made no mention of it.
"You are to undertake this assignment alone. They could not discern the circumstances, but you are the sole guardian of this young girl in all scryings. Perhaps you are being tested." Nerva said thoughtfully. While he could not see my face through my helm, he didn't need to. "We of the Legio must all face our trials, lad. Each one of us is a miraculous work of genetic artistry, wrought from the Emperor's own design. For ones such as us to forego trial and struggle would be in defiance of our purpose."
"I understand, Shield Captain. If we cannot overcome that which is put before us, how can we hope to fulfil our purpose as His Shield?" I replied, feeling some reassurance at Nerva's words.
"Now if only our more... flamboyant brothers could take those words to heart. It seems their struggle lies in whether or not they oil themselves or each other." He said with a sigh.
"Or harass the Captain General. 'Kitten' is not how one should address him." I said, expressing my own grievance with my older brothers. Nerva raised a single grey brow at my words.
"The Captain General? He likes that name. Hasn't expressed any dislike for it anyway." At this I had to suppress the urge to shake my head or make any other sign of disbelief. Perhaps I was to odd one out in all of this, and had no idea. Even Navradaran referred to Kitten by that unflattering name. I only refer to him as such for expediency's sake.
"We have strayed from the matter at hand. I would suggest doing whatever you must before your deployment. We will find out more about your charge and her location. When we do, you'll be summoned back here." Nerva said as he clapped a reassuring hand to my shoulder. While it may seem odd given what I am, I did not have the scope of experience that most others of my order had, and thus felt somewhat unsure of the task ahead. I was used to the certainty of brothers at my back, each separate yet united in our goal. To embark on my own was new to me. To do so within the palace walls was nothing, that was routine and expected of us. However, deployment far afield as a single unit was something I had come to associate with the Ephoroi, Navradaran's sodality, or the Eyes of The Emperor. I had to remember that we Custodians were solitary by nature, and to fight alone is core to our design.
"Is there that little information available? I feel as though we are blind in this affair." I voiced my concern and eyed the hololith displays. We were never blind in matters of the palace and our lord's security, and so having negligible information was unusual. Normally we had hololiths just like the one before me, with displays of tangible resources and controllable factors. Perhaps it was my relative inexperience as a Custodian Guard rearing its head, but I disliked this sudden shift in circumstances.
"It is troubling, but it is not within our purview to do anything about it. The doomscryers will continue doing what they can, but until we have a breakthrough in information, then these scant details are all we have." Nerva replied as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. He advised me once more to attend to my war gear and to my meditations, and he would send for me when the doomscryers found out more. I left the head quarters of my Shield Host and made to returned to my room, hoping to focus my mind on a sketch or a painting.
On the way back, under the watchful gaze of skull-faced gargoyles lining the high walls of the hallways, I encountered my brothers Nebuchad and Daedak, the former of the Solar Watch, and the latter of the Shadow Keepers. It was unusual to see either of them here as their duties called them to our fleet patrolling the solar system and into the admittedly foreboding Dark Cells below the palace, respectively. Nebuchad's plate was painted white, while Daedak's was black, both trimmed in gold. I was taller than Nebuchad and stood near eye level with Daedak in his larger war plate. It was often said I was one of the tallest of the Ten Thousand, and the detailed medical dossiers we were privy to confirmed this, and I stood only several inches shy of three meters. In full armour with my helm, I surpassed that.
Nebuchad greeted me warmly upon noticing my advance. He and I were of similar age, though he was inducted roughly a decade before I was, but such a short span of time meant little to ones such as us. We became close friends over decades of training and study, and later in battle as we had both been of the Hykanatoi. Daedak was senior to us both, and taciturn at the best of times. He nodded to me. He stood taller and broader than either myself or Nebuchad, as he donned his Allarus terminator armour, a look into his past as a member of the Tharanatoi. Despite his quiet nature, Daedak was amicable when taking his breaks from the Dark Cells, as that dreaded place took its toll on even the nerves of a Custodes. I rarely saw him, but when I did he was approachable.
While to outsiders it would seem our lives within the palace were a ceaseless torrent of duty and vigilance, we had plenty of time to exercise the more human aspects of ourselves. We valued friendship, treasured moments of shared glory, laughed and had in-jokes. We mourned our dead, each gave them rites and remembered them all in our own ways. My point is that we are not quite the automatons we are perceived to be.
"I tell you, I know what we do around the system is important and all, but we literally have to most fortified solar system in the galaxy. Seriously, have you seen the Mandeville points? So many gun batteries. Also we have the Phalanx. The Phalanx! It's a mass of guns with some engines bolted to it!" Nebuchad said jovially, his own Guardian Spear held casually over one shoulder.
"You're not looking for ways out of your duty are you, Nebuchad?" I asked, giving the plume of his helm a tug. He smacked my hand away and laughed.
"Me? Never. I just think we would be better used further afield. There are threats that muster beyond our borders, Achillo. Our enemies gather in the dark. Would it not be pertinent to seek them out and destroy them? Prevention is better than the cure as the apothecaries would say." Nebuchad said, puffing his chest. For all of his qualities as a Custodian, he expressed himself a lot better than most of us. An outsider would probably say he had the most personality.
"If you want dark, then we should switch roles." Daedak's baritone voice rumbled from within his helm.
"My friends, you couldn't pay me to go into the Dark Cells. I've seen you come out of there and I'd really rather not." Nebuchad held up a defensive hand.
"Pay? What's that?" I asked confused. I'd never heard of the concept of pay and what it entailed.
"Some mortal thing. They do work, you give them... things with which they can buy other things. I think..." Nebuchad replied, though he sounded as unsure as I felt.
"Like shiny rocks or something?" I was showing my ignorance of mortal affairs now. Were I in front of Navradaran, he would be laughing at me right before educating me. Our work was reward enough, and so the thought of requiring recompense was unfathomable. But then again, we were a whole existence apart from the mortals on Terra and the Imperium at large, and we had no need to trouble ourselves with things like disease, hunger, fairness, rights, and whatever else mortals complained about. Our ignorance on such things shined brighter than my armour in that moment.
"As long as I get to enjoy the Captain General's personalised pizzas every day, I won't complain." Daedak said while nodding to himself as if already tasting it.
"They are good. Between his duties as a High Lord and those around the palace, I don't know how he does it or where he finds the time. I am grateful all the same." Nebuchad patted the front of his armour over his stomach and gave a hum of delight. "How are things down there these days, Daedak? Still horrifying no doubt."
"Secure. No breakouts. Still horrifying." The quiet Shadow Keeper said. "Lock Warden is still a cool dude."
"Such a cool dude." I said in agreement. "Still, I can't help but wonder what could be down there. Anything you can tell us?"
Daedak was quiet for a moment, most likely combing through the immense catalogue of abominations burned into his memory. "There is one I will talk about. There is a truly ancient thing down there that dates back to the first millennium. A primitive machine construct in the shape of a man, but with the countenance of a rat. Our brothers in the hall of ancients found records calling it Chuk'e Chees'zz. On rare occasion it will speak and sing, and its eyes are always watching. We have requested its destruction many times but we are always denied. No one knows for sure, but we believe it is an ancient and immensely powerful, yet dormant Daemon Engine."
"How ghastly. And this abominable thing speaks? What horrid whispers does it hiss?" Nebuchad's relaxed stance took on one of apprehension, and before I had noticed, so did mine. My grip on my Guardian Spear tightened fractionally.
"I have been sworn to secrecy. It is too dangerous to utter its words outside of the Dark Cells. We don't know what could happen." Daedak said darkly.
"Hmm, that is for the best. Who knows what kind of horrid things this rat machine-creature could do." Nebuchad gave a shudder, very uncharacteristic of one of our kind.
I made to speak, but as I did, a mind impulse ping caught my attention from within my helmet display. I saw that Nebuchad had also received one and we looked at each other. I didn't need to see his face to know that he was grinning. He held an open yearning for combat that most of us, myself included, held under the lock and key of discipline and vigilance. That wasn't to say Nebuchad was neither of those things, he simply wore his more combative nature openly.
"Ah, the reason I returned to Terra. I do enjoy me a good Blood Game. I'm gonna bet it's traitor Astartes again. I swear, capturing one of those is as easy as luring a citizen into a box with bits of food. What do you think, Achillo?"
"Everyone goes with traitor Astartes, so I'll say..."
I was in hot pursuit of the, wouldn't you know it, traitor Astartes, racing through one of the many, many abandoned sections of the palace. Blood Games were an integral part of our training. In millennia past, members of my order would leave the palace and go far and wide, only to try and infiltrate the palace to stage an assassination against the Emperor. That was less common now, and I hadn't participated in a Blood Game like that yet.
My boots crunched against fallen masonry, kicking ancient shell casings across the dusty, stone-littered palace floor. Light, artificial or otherwise, hadn't touched this place in thousands of years. From the high ceiling, loops of power cables hung like silver intestines from the old and rusting skeleton of the structure. The walls had once been decorated with frescoes and paintings of a multitude of things, all too old and damaged to be clear. I slammed through a makeshift barricade, sending sheet metal and dry, dusty wooden planks flying without breaking stride.
This hallway was the sight of a skirmish that had never been cleaned up, likely having been sealed off after the battle's end, but for what reasons I could not say. From what I could see of the corpses scattered about and the patterns of their weapons and armour, I would hazard a guess that this was a remnant of the Great Heresy. I found it hard to believe that it had simply been left like this, but both loyalist and traitor Astartes lay there, their armour uncorrupted and dusty, and where bone was exposed it was yellowed with age. Many had suffered catastrophic injuries from bolt shells, melta shot, and volkite beams. Chain weapons had chewed through armour while power weapons had cleaved through it cleanly. Imperial Fists, Blood Angels, White Scars. World Eaters, Iron Warriors, Emperor's Children. Combatants of six bloodlines lay there in defunct patterns of power armour and terminator plate.
Armour belonging to members of the Solar Auxilia was also strewn about. I had never seen them outside of ancient picts and Remembrancer renditions on parchment. Bulbous armoured void suits lay blown open, some melted or cut. I had heard stories of the Solar Auxilia, and it was well known that both the Astartes and the Custodes of old respected these hardened baseline humans for their martial prowess and remarkable discipline in the face of horrifying xenos and traitors alike. I wondered if it was their example that Navradaran looked to when espousing humanity's potential for greatness. It was a great shame that they no longer existed. The Imperial Guard were then first and last defendant, we all knew that, but the Auxilia was a technologically advanced, hyper-elite fighting force that was sorely missed.
The traitor Astartes ahead of me, a warrior of some offshoot Night Lords war band, sprinted ahead of me, periodically turning to fire rounds from his bolt pistol at me. I struck the bolt rounds from the air, slicing some and batting others away easily with flourishes of my Guardian Spear, its blade wreathed in disruptor discharge. Bones clattered against his armour as they hung from chains at his waist. Flayed skins of human and xenos victims flapped against him. It drew a feeling in me I thought was approaching disgust. I was getting close as my elevated physiology gave me greater speed and endurance than what dark blessings had been bestowed upon the traitor.
He rounded a corner, one that was uncharted to me in this derelict section of the palace. I followed without hesitation and turned the corner with my Guardian Spear at the ready, prepared to attack or counter attack with microsecond response times. I had to keep in mind that while I held physical superiority, I was undoubtedly lacking in experience. My most commonly fought enemies were xenos of various species, and practice was just as valuable as theory. I had the theoretical aspects of my enemy memorized to the letter, but practical application of the theoretical would kill my enemy or myself. As you may have expected, Primarch Guilliman's writings were required reading.
I stepped into the darkness and my helmet sensors attuned themselves, and my visor display became a black and green mass of grid lines and shapes formed by a sonar pulse. Astartes were fast by design, and this one was faster still, an ever shrinking humanoid figure getting further and further away. I gave chase and that figure grew in size as I was once again closing the distance.
More bolt shells came at me and I was forced to slow my advance and evade as the current visual settings my visor took on made cutting them or deflecting them unreliable. One of my older and more experienced brothers would have been able to do such a thing no matter the circumstances, I'm sure of that. In retaliation, I fired the over-blade bolter of my Guardian Spear, gunning the trigger down the shaft of the ornate weapon. Two trigger pulls sent two mass-reactive shells down the shadowy hallway, one was evaded while the other caught the left exhaust jet on the reactor mounted to the traitor's back.
Even if I lost sight of him and he escaped my blade, he would never make it to the inner palace. For every Blood Game of this type, a cordon was set up that consisted of my brothers and hundreds of gun servitors. Nothing would penetrate the inner defences. However, for it to come to that would be a mark against my honour and pride. My pride was not personal, but to my proficiency as a Custodian, and I would not allow that to be tarnished in any way.
The traitor Astartes stumbled but recovered quickly as the bolt round had knocked him forward. Seeing him slowed, I pushed myself harder than before to catch up and slay my foe. Within seconds I was upon him, and he turned to face me, knowing that he had little choice left to him than to fight. He brandished a chipped and gnarled power sword, wreathed in crimson plasma that leaked from its battered power block under the guard. It must have been ancient as it looked like something I'd seen from the many picts of Unification War weaponry. It was an ugly thing that held no place amongst more refined power weapon designs.
His armour was scored and pitted with battle scars ranging from blade slashes to bolter impacts. Plasma burns had stripped paint away, leaving blackened ceremite with the barest hint of silver beneath. The helmet was as I'd seen in picts of the eight legion during the Heresy; a white skull affectation on the front, with two chiropteran wings, one on each side of the helm. Red eye lenses glared at me, just as my own glared at him. I could see the full livery of skins and bones he wore and decided in that moment that on principle alone, he had to die. Pained faces were stretched across one pauldron, stitched together like an obscene quilt. Collected ears and fingers hung from cords wrapped around the red vambraces. Femurs and skulls were held by chains that rattled, while the bones clattered against each other and the ceremite plates of the traitor's legs.
Our blades clashed, my Guardian Spear against his rough proto power sword. Displacer fields sparked and clapped like lightning, sending a blinding flash of white and red out through the darkness. The blades repulsed each other, and after a nanosecond's recovery the second clash rang out in agonized squeals of energy wreathed steel. I was stronger by a considerable margin, both by virtue of my physical superiority and superior power armour. He fell away, knocked back by a sudden advancing shove that made him struggle to maintain his balance. The traitor recovered quickly enough to catch my spear with his blade, parrying and bringing his bolt pistol to bear. For the briefest of moments, I was staring down the barrel of the weapon. He fired just a fraction of a second after I'd turned my body and felt the mass-reactive punch into, then ricochet off of my pauldron. Had that been a larger calibre bolt round, it would have penetrated through at such close range. If it had been my chest or head struck, I would have been killed.
I shifted my posture and swung a backhand out and smacked the bolt pistol away. It clattered to the ground several meters away. There was something oddly calm about the traitor, as if he was in no way perturbed while fighting me. I was aware that similarly to us, Astartes were engineered to not feel fear. Now, there were times when fear could grip one of them, but it was rare and highly circumstantial, while the capability for it was totally expunged from us. He was most likely a warrior dating back to the Great Heresy, one that strode the battlefields of countless worlds alongside his Primarch. What a sorry state he'd fallen into. Once a proud crusader, now a roving murderer, slave to powers that barely acknowledged his existence.
His blade lashed out and buzzed like an angry wasps nest just shy of my face plate as I threw my head back. Liquid plasma and coolant leaked from the archaic power block on his blade, leaving glowing lumps of sizzling red matter on the floor. I was beginning to see where experience held an advantage over raw ability as he seemed keenly aware of the movements I was making. He was pre-empting my strikes as collective millennia of super human combat had honed his skills and reflexes. It shamed me to admit, but this made him a difficult opponent for me.
A series of rapid attacks came at me in testing jabs and slashes, teasing at my defenses. Plasma from his blade licked at my armour and Guardian Spear with every blow I evaded or parried. I spun my weapon in my hand, stopped it and thrust it outward in a single powerful movement. The blade of my Guardian Spear hissed with lethal energy and cut a burning gouge into the top of the traitor's helm. He'd narrowly saved himself by rolling with the strike. It was near imperceptible, but I caught his feint at the last possible moment as I stepped forward with my spear poised to skewer him. Like a coiled snake at the moment of striking, his arm lashed out where I was completely unguarded. I flourished my weapon and spun away, knocking his arm away while the edge of his blade scored a shallow scar into my chest plate.
Unrelenting, he leapt forward with another sword thrust, aiming to punch it straight through my face plate. I sidestepped and he sailed past me, landed and threw out a backhand swing with his blade. I was unused to such single minded ferocity directed at me. My training had prepared me to face down and slay any and all hostile life forms that might seem to do harm to the Emperor, and while my brothers and the training automata provided ample practical training, I had a lot less experience with corrupted Astartes than with hostile xenos.
"I expected better of a golden one, I must admit! You're fast, yes, but you're lacking. Do you actually just stand around all the time, I wonder?" I ignored him, choosing to focus. The butt of my Guardian Spear slammed against his leg and his knee buckled slightly. He pushed himself away with a sweep of his blade to create distance. I pressed on and parried an incoming strike with another flash of disruptor field repulsion. Seeing an opening, I cannoned my fist into the traitor's face plate. Metal on metal boomed as the helmet warped and twisted under lethal force as both eye lenses shattered out of their housings.
I suspect it would have killed an ordinary Astartes, between the head trauma and broken neck, but the corrupt powers within him spared him from death this time. Before he recovered from the blow, my foot crashed into his chest and sent him sprawling out into another hallway. Ceremite and plasteel cracked and splintered, falling away in jagged fragments from his plastron. The skull and bat wings iconography on his chest was ruined.
This new hallway was dully lit by flickering wall lumens, yet signs of conflict still littered the floor and walls. My visor display returned to its default setting, though filtered more light through in the dim surroundings. I walked forward, my Guardian Spear crackling and pulsing with fierce energy. The traitor stood and hacked up gobbets of blood that leaked from under his helmet. I was sure my kick had not only ruined his war plate, but shattered his sub-dermal bone plate. Such an injury would have perforated his three lungs with shards of bone.
I was going to execute him. That was the only possible outcome of this. It was for this very task that I was remade from a helpless child into the hand crafted warrior demigod that I was now. His gnarled sword lay inert and leaking plasma some distance away, while he glared at my with coal black eyes through empty eye slits in his broken helm. His hand went to a long combat blade at his hip, a knife to him that would be a sword to a mortal, and held it in a reverse grip. Like us, if an Astartes breathed, then he could fight, disarmed or not against impossible odds.
The knife was a serrated, ugly thing. Its surface was marred with the obscene inscriptions of Chaotic canticles, imbuing the blade with any number of curses. It was here where I saw the speed with which this traitor marine was capable of moving as he became a blur of motion. He was still eminently manageable, there was nothing particularly special about his movements or the speed at which he did so, but it was still a step above the previous exchange of blades we'd enacted before. However, his technique and the style in which he engaged was what had me cautious.
He got in close, only avoiding a jab by a hair's breadth. He slipped past my guard and stabbed and slashed at any and all gaps in my armour. With him at such close range, it made using my Guardian Spear difficult as the powered blade and over-blade bolter were useless. I struck out with elbows and knees, never truly disarmed even with my spear useless at this range. Auramite crashed into ceremite like golden waves against coastal rocks, cracking the inferior material of the traitor's war plate. Frustratingly, no blow I landed connected solidly enough to cause damage to flesh underneath, as his movements were too practiced, too serpentine in fluidity despite his bulk.
"Are you struggling, Custodian? I am disappointed. Are you the runt of the litter or something?" The traitor cackled and attempted a thrust at the armour joint under my left arm. I was unfazed by his insults, as I have said before, I do not tie my ego to my role. Besides, I took my self-discipline very seriously. That didn't mean I didn't want to shut him up though. More importantly, I had decided that this had gone on long enough. I let go of my Guardian Spear and let it fall to the ground with a clatter. The gene-locks engaged and rendered the weapon inert, and would only become active once I picked it up once more. I caught his knife hand by the wrist, bringing it to a sudden halt. My other hand came around and slammed once more into his face plate, crushing the side of it into the left side of his face.
His head snapped back and a choked gurgle sounded from the traitor. I immediately seized his upper arm and yanked his forearm down. There was a moment of resistance before my overwhelming strength broke the arm against itself at the elbow with a crunch of snapped, augmented bone. I didn't stop there as I pushed the useless limb aside and stepped in, grabbing the traitor by his gorget and the exposed power cables at his midriff, then lifted clear over my head. With a mighty heave, I threw him down, driving the side of his body across my knee. I felt his spine rupture and organs turn to pulp, while the traitor spat blood and wretched wetly as his the air was knocked from his lungs. Letting him drop with a heavy thud, I went for retrieve my Guardian Spear and its blade was once again enveloped in the lethal blue light of its disruptor field.
I stood over the broken form of the former Night Lord, a fallen Astartes from the days when my lord walked the galaxy as a flesh and blood man. He had seen things I could only imagine, fought opponents that would test me to my limits. I had broken him over my knee, and now stared at him as he sucked in agonized breaths through a bloody mouth. I wondered for a moment if he was worth a bolt round. No, I concluded that he wasn't. I spared him no words of scorn or victorious gloating as I was sure he wanted. There was nothing to say to a man long overdue for his execution. Traitors deserved no such consideration. I placed a foot on his chest, pressed down and swiped the powered blade in a single, graceful movement. The head rolled with a rattle of ceremite on marble, and the trickling of blackened, corrupted blood accompanied it. I looked at my handiwork and felt little more than disappointment at my performance. That took far, far too long.
I sat within my arming chamber days after the Blood Games. My hands were busy putting finishing touches on the repairs of my armour, using a cloth and lapping powder to get rough patches and scratches out of the surface of the Auramite plates. The smiths and metallurgists had done the extensive repairs where the power sword and bolt round had hit me, and as a form of meditation, I took care of the superficial damage myself. While out of my armour, I wore plain robes with no adornments over a black body glove. Going about the palace mostly naked and glistening wasn't really my thing, despite my brothers' best efforts to sway me.
After final inspection of my armour, satisfied with my work, I put it back on piece by piece after shrugging off my robes. The automated servo arms within the arming chamber's armour dock greatly assisted in the otherwise long and cumbersome process. Lit incense created a thin, odd smelling smog and binaric prayers played over a vox speaker. I held little reverence for machine spirits, thinking them little more than subroutines within any given machine, but regardless of my thoughts on them, I would do as I was instructed by the Mechanicus in such matters.
"There's the man himself!" Nebuchad sauntered in, his helmet in the crook of his arm and his Guardian Spear absent. He was always smiling, Nebuchad. The grim countenance that we were so known for was nowhere to be found upon his bronze, antiquated features. When I say antiquated, I refer to the old works of marble that cast images of old heroes from mankind's ancient past. His gene lineage could be traced back to the Mid-terranean Dust Basin, south of Europa as his features were a giveaway. Fair and rounded, yet strong, he bore a crop of short, curled brown hair and youthful sea green eyes. Esoteric war tattoos ran as two white stripes down one side of his face, interlaced with complex swirls and angled geometric micro-patterns. I walked over to him and we clasped each other's forearms, smiling to one another.
I am a poor judge of my own appearance, but purely physically, my skin was lighter and my features were harder cut compared to Nebuchad's. His cheeks were full while mine were hollow. My hair was longer and black, stopping where the neck seals of my armour began. As for my eyes, they were also green, yet darker and flecked with brown. My gene line was quite different to Nebuchad's, as I was of Albian stock.
"I hadn't seen you since the Blood Game finished. I thought you'd gotten lost, Nebuchad." I joked.
"Nonsense, nonsense. Finished up the pest in my section in record time, I'll have you know. Sadly there was only one. Could you imagine it, Achillo," he raised a sweeping hand as if to show my a grand sight in the distance, "I, the great Nebuchad Ramsos Rhodesa, warrior of the Solar Watch, smiting three or maybe four of the corrupted Astartes in the defence of his master's domain! Magnificent!"
"I imagine you found a nice window to look out of after you were done instead of looking for said enemies." I said with a shrug, a strange gesture for a mortal to see me perform I'm sure. Nebuchad made a face of mock offense.
"The cheek! The nerve! The sheer audaciousness of your claim, sir! I found the window after I looked for those foes, thank you very much!" He glared at me for a moment before the laughter boiled over from both of us. Again, Nebuchad was an exception to most of us. Whenever we laughed, it was typically a dry, almost humourless sound. When he laughed, it was a true laugh, proud and unabashed. "So what did you find, Achillo?"
"During the Blood Game? Just some former Night Lord. Looked like he was from one of their war bands. Very fast, very experienced. Not going to lie, Nebuchad, he tested me." I admitted this while looking away shamefully. I knew he wouldn't judge me harshly, but it still made me curse my inexperience.
"A member of the terror legion, eh? Nasty business that lot. He get the drop on you?" He took a seat on one of the metal benches, his back facing the many arming racks. A servitor clanked past on cybernetic limbs, its piston-driven legs hissing and whirring.
"He would have if he didn't yell 'welcome to the bone zone', before leaping from the rafters at me. For a legion that works best with the element of surprise, the only surprising aspect of it was the manner in which it happened." I said, shaking my head as Nebuchad laughed.
"Welcome to the bone zone!?" He slapped an armoured hand against his knee as he laughed again.
"Indeed. Predictably I noticed him and smacked him aside. Then he ran off and I had to chase him. Ended up in some sealed off section of the palace in the far west wing. You wouldn't believe it, Nebuchad. It was a skirmish zone from the defence of the palace during the Heresy. The patterns of their armour and weapons checked out."
"Fascinating. To think something like that was just left. Do you think it was forgotten following our lord's internment?"
"Perhaps. I can only imagine the things forgotten following the end of the Heresy. But as I was saying about the traitor; I pursued him, traded some blows, but his speed surprised me. I have little intimate knowledge of the boons these heretics take from the Ruinous Powers, but those coupled with his millennia of experience had me on the back foot a couple of times." I explained. Nebuchad nodded along with my recollection.
"I see. Well I'd be lying if I said mine didn't give me some trouble. We are amongst the youngest of the Ten Thousand, brother, and we lack for real experience. Hell, you've more field experience than I." He said, making me scoff.
"Oh please! You've a natural talent that I don't. Not once have I bested you in the practice cages, and don't you start throwing platitudes at me." He didn't need to see my face to know I would brook no argument. "As for the traitor, I'd disarmed him, but I think that worked against me in the end. He managed to get beyond the effective range of my weapon and I was forced into hand-to-hand. Killed him shortly after. I have learned much from that Night Lord, I think."
"That's what the Blood Games are for, after all, Achillo. All of our brothers from the Shield Captains, to the Tribunes, all the way to the Captain General, all of them started where we are. Practice and study will only do so much, but the nature of our duty makes getting a real taste for combat difficult." I knew Nebuchad was correct. I had always known that what he said was true. I wondered if all of my brothers, even those of old, felt the frustration that I did. I though perhaps that I was expecting too much of myself, as if I was meant to be somehow greater when I was a mere novice by Custodian standards. I needed to be better. I needed to exceed my limits. But ultimately, I needed to be patient.
"You getting lost in thought again? You're awfully quiet." Nebuchad drew my attention and out of my thoughts.
"How do you do it, Nebuchad? How do you shoulder our burden so easily? We guard the Emperor of Mankind, our master beloved by all, whose death would spell the doom of our species. You carry that burden with such poise, I can scarcely compare." I said. He stared at me for several long moments before speaking.
"What gave you the impression I endure this with ease? It is my honour to serve and I am well aware of everything it entails. However, I guess I'm just better at living in the moment. Many of our order are too rigid and inflexible, while others are busy snorting body glitter from one another's pectorals. You, my friend, thankfully fall into the former category. I think you need some time to figure yourself out, to be quite frank. I think you aren't sure what being a Custodian means to you besides your duty. Being straight up and down is good where we are concerned, but I think you would benefit from loosening up a bit."
Behind my helmet, my eyes narrowed. I didn't narrow them in anger or anything of the sort, but his assessment bothered me in a certain way that I had trouble describing. Of course I knew what being a Custodian meant, we all did, how could I not?
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, we all know our role here. That much is obvious, I should think. But when I say that you need to find out what being a Custodian means to you, I mean that you find something in your existence that you enjoy and give you some other meaning. For myself, being a Custodian means taking this lifetime I've been given, and finding out what being human is. It doesn't escape me that the greatest humans ever created are among the least human there are, at least in my estimation." Nebuchad explained.
"That's quite the level of self reflection. Is that why you act so differently? The way you express yourself, I mean."
"Yes, I suppose so. I'm not saying that you need to act like me, I mean, I'm great so you'll need to find your own thing." He snapped his armoured fingers together as a sudden realization struck him. "Wait, I know! You like to study like the colossal nerd you are, right? And Navradaran's been talking to you about mortals. Why not try developing yourself like that? Maybe you could learn to understand them a lot better than the rest of us."
"Navradaran taught me to treat them with respect, and to be kind to them, just as he taught Valerian. He said that it would be valuable to me since my duties will take me out of the palace, but also to understand who it is we shepherd. He respects the potential mortals have, and from what I saw in that hallway in the west wing, there were the bodies of guardsmen amongst the Astartes. Humans can be so much more than many of us think. They do not deserve the derision they receive." In my speech I had not noticed the growing smile on Nebuchad's face, and it seemed as though he was waiting for me to realize something.
"You understand then don't you? You clearly care for them, and I'd be so bold as to say that's why you joined the Aquilan Shields. I'm willing to bet you believe that serving humanity is service to our Emperor. I can't think of anyone else who would think that, and I believe that's what being a Custodian means to you. Many of our brothers, much as I care for them, are borderline myopic in their duty, and rightly so I think. But I believe we are different for a reason, brother. We are of the Emperor's own design, and he made no mistakes in our creation." Nebuchad's voice was passionate as he spoke. I believed he was about to get up and begin a theatrical performance, like a master Iterator.
"You... I cannot really argue. It saddens me that many of us think so little of the mortals, when it is them by the will of the Emperor, we were created to help build the future for. They are frail, slow, limited in their scope of thought, but they are the future. They brought themselves to their zenith during the Dark Age of Technology without us or the Emperor. They need us now, but we are quick to forget this wasn't always the case."
Nebuchad stood and placed a hand on my arm. "Hold on to that, Achillo. You and I are similar, more so than I thought. Remember when I said I wished the Solar Watch would send its fleets further out? It was for much the same reason you have for being a part of the Aquilan Shields. I wish to serve the Emperor's subjects, as to serve them is to serve Him. Granted, I understand why we stay so close by, and most of our brothers never leave the palace, but I think it is not what the Emperor would want. But I believe that you have the kindness within you to be different to the rest of us."
He slipped on his helmet, nodding to me. "I must be going now, brother, back to the fleet. I'll leave you to your thoughts. By the way, are you still getting those gift baskets?"
Before I could reply, he was already walking out, chuckling heartily to himself. I looked down to where I had been tending to my chest plate, and by the metal bench was indeed a gift basket. One of many I had been getting for years at this point. About thirty years ago I had been sent with three others to secure and protect another young girl who had been foretold to become a great Canoness. We spent weeks extracting her from her home world as it had become a global battlefield where the Black Legion had marshalled its forces.
PDF forces were being butchered, and the guardsman presence was relatively small, with several companies of the Harakoni Warhawks and Vendoland regiments present to provide assistance. When we arrived, we found her inside of what remained of her home, huddled into a corner, covered in dust and debris. She had a tight grip on a lasgun and a combat knife, both of which she had no idea how to use, but the look in her eyes when she looked up at me said that she would damn well try. I gave her my cloak, far too large for her, but great against the cold and rain. My brothers had admonished me for it, but at the time I cared very little for their opinions on the matter.
Upon getting her off world after weeks of intense fighting and keeping her alive, she had asked me my name and what I was. She'd asked if I was an angel of the Emperor, but those had landed days before, and were battling their traitor kin of the Black Legion. I told her my name and my status as a Custodian, and she smiled and waved before being ushered away. I never bothered asking for my cloak back. Years later, gift baskets bearing my name were being delivered to the palace after stringent processing and inspections. How she figured out how to send things to a Custodian of all things eludes me. She sent me incense, oils, purity seals, and more importantly, letters about how she's doing and what she's been doing. From her most recent letter, she was doing well since the Emperor made his 'reformations' to the Inquisition and the Ecclesiarchy.
She once sent me a pict of her in full battle dress once she had become a Canoness. She had kept my cloak for decades and had incorporated it into her armour as a cloak of her own and had made the excess length into a hood. She'd worn a smile I was sure very few of the Adepta Sororitas had seen. A note attached to the picture read 'By his will!' in reference to our own singular battle cry. It pleased me to see that she was well, and I would endeavour to respond as I usually did, though the frequency varied. I collected my Guardian Spear and left the armoury, taking the gift basket to my room, placing the contents in with my few other possessions.
Across the gulf of space, across unfathomable lengths through the inky black, a plea is made, calling for something powerful, beautiful, and loyal. This call ripples across time and dimension, bending reality in seemingly impossible ways. In a dark, candlelit room inside the imperial palace on Holy Terra, a door to another world opens, and the warrior within that room levels his mighty Guardian Spear at the portal, issuing it a silent and stoic challenge. He watches and waits, yet feels compelled to touch the green, opaque rip in reality. He feels no hostility from this anomaly, and like a whisper on the wind, hears a single command. Like a reassuring father this voice says, "Go on, my son. Your duty awaits." He knows this voice despite never hearing it. At those words, he felt no hesitation and entered, spurred on by what could only be the words of his Emperor. Achillo Rhada Albia, member of the Aquilan Shields and warrior of the Hykanatoi, steps into the portal, and the room grows dim once again.
Some clarification on names, since Custodes names are based on historical and mythological figures. The book 'Blood Games' makes mention that the third name of a Custodes is the name of their original birthplace.
Achillo - Achilles, hero of Greece. Rhada - Rhadamanthus, Greek king and demigod, one of the three Judges of the Underworld. Albia- Britain, Albion being the old name for Britain.
Nerva - One of the five good emperors of Rome, ruled from .
Nebuchad- Nebuchadnezzar, Babylonian king. Ramsos- Ramses, Egyptian Pharoah. Rhodesa- Not really a place name, I made this up as a 40k version of the island of Rhodes since Nebuchad comes from the Mid-terranian Dust Bowl, which I think is roughly a 40k version of the Mediterranean islands.
Daedak- Daedalus, engineer from Greek myth, builder of the labyrinth and many other contraptions, father of Icarus.
I'm trying my hand at a 40k/FoZ cross again, this time only using some light TTS really just as a means of being a bit silly and making stuff happen. It'll be semi-serious though. I'm surprised that a Custodes story hasn't been done before. The Custodes are probably my favourite faction, and the Aquilan Shields being what they are just seemed perfect for something like this. Either way, I hope you enjoy this going forward. Peace.