Extremus Fors Chapter 11
Howling wind tore at his pale flesh, ice crystals digging into pores in a vaguely interesting way. Snow lay as far as the eye could see, which for a Transhuman was a long, long way. The sun in the sky was a faint smear, barely discernible through the eternal blizzard, its heat barely lifting this drab world to a point one could breathe without lungs freezing. All in all Jubila considered it a miserable dungpit, but it was hardly the worst he'd seen in his long voyage across time and space.
The warlord stood upon a snowy ridge and looked over what passed for his army. Into a shallow valley they poured, hirsute figures with shabby manes and horned heads. Faces were filled with gnashing fangs or feral snouts and their hands were meaty and clutched primitive weapons and blackpowder guns. Hooves passed for feet or talons, and more than a few had tails. A handful wore tattered clothing, torn jerkins and trousers but most trusted to thick fur to keep out the freezing temperatures. Beastmen, pathetic dregs even Chaos armies laughed at, but it was all he had to work with.
Jubila cast his eye back, to where lines of Beastmen trudged through a shimmering warp portal. Via such eldritch means had Jubila relocated his followers, hopping from world to world, via dimensions of insanity and twisted time. That galled him, once he had commanded armies of Space Marines and fleets of warships, now he was forced to lower himself to work with these bottom-feeders.
Jubila himself was not the majestic warrior he had once been. His brilliant armour had faded, many of the spikes adorning the plates having been snapped and not replaced. Delicate silks and golden chains had been stripped away and his demeanour was shabby. Even his face was marked, lines across his features telling of harrowing troubles and bitter nights brooding over dead ends. Jubila was at rock bottom, but despite that he was still a consummate warrior. The thin sword at his waist was as pristine as ever and his plasma pistol functioned flawlessly. His narrow waist afforded agility and speed and his steps were light and graceful. Any whom thought Jubila's skill at arms diminished would be in for a cruel surprise.
The last of the Beastmen filed out of the portal and the aperture slammed closed. They milled about in confusion, awaiting orders, but Jubila ignored them for now. He jumped down the ridge, leaping from protruding rocks to slippery slopes with no hint of concern for his footing. At the bottom the scum made way for their lord and Jubila strode past, certain of his superiority over this trash. Swiftly he made his way past the rabble, looking for someone of import. He found them at the back of the column, both of them, the only two individuals worth talking to in this mob.
"We must make haste," the first said with a faint burr to the back of the throat, "If we do not find shelter before nightfall we will freeze out here."
"You will," growled the other with the sonorous tone of a Transhuman, "I can take worse than this."
"And leave you alone on this glacier!"
"I was alone before, I can manage now."
Jubila strode up to them, "This is no time for bickering, not when the quarry is in sight!"
The first turned beady eyes upon him and clutched a tall staff with fingers boasting too many joints as he hissed, "She is found, praise Slaanesh!"
"I deserve the praise, Moragann, I led us to this world. I brought us within reach of my prize."
"Fulgrim's prize," retorted Moragann.
That made Jubila clench his jaw, the unsubtle reminder that he, and by extension this whole army, were in vassalage to the Daemon-Primarch. Moragann knew this, he was a devoted servant and magikar of the Prefector of Chemos. With his sorcery had they opened the way, the gifts of Fulgrim granting him the means to step between worlds, though the cost had been great. Moragann was a twisted thing, with a drooping expression made of skin hanging off his frame, as if he wore a suit three times too large. His limbs had too many joints and bones were elongated, as if stretched. He stood tall enough to look Jubila in the eye, and was proud enough to do so, but seemed so frail the Space Marine could snap him in half with a sneeze. Jubila hated the smug creature, but needed his magics, so put up with it, another indignity he must suffer.
"You two can bicker all day," the third rumbled, "I am leaving."
"Blunt as ever Varador," Jubila chuckled, "Lead the rabble on."
"Any direction in mind?"
"Head towards the setting sun," Jubila dismissed, "The universe will provide a way."
Varador grunted dismissively as he set forth, giving Jubila a good look at this comrade. He was as tall as the warlord, but far broader, his frame stocky even for a Space Marine. Varador was indeed an Astartes, the only one Jubila had managed to recruit, but not from the IIIrd Legion. This one's plates were a mix of charcoal black and green smudges, his former colours covered in the ash of burning worlds. An iron veil hung from his helm's respirator and scaled cloaks hung between his elbows and pauldrons. His arms were heavy with twin flamer nozzles, torn from the corpse of one of those new Primaris-Aggressor bastards, and rubber hoses ran to promethium tanks stowed under his backpack. Fierce and aggressive, but with a love of destruction that pleased Jubila.
The trio set off, and the Beastmen followed, braying to each other with deformed tongues. Jubila ignored their bleating as they exited the shadow of the ridge and made their way out onto the glacier. The howling wind hit him in the face but he didn't miss a step as he remarked, "What a drab vista for the climax of our drama."
"Better than that hellscape we just left," Varador grumbled.
"Why, does not a world on fire please you?!" Jubila snorted.
"There is no joy in a fire already set. If there's nothing to burn, what's the point?"
Jubila laughed aloud, "Your Brothers on Nocturne would be proud!"
"Don't," Varador rumbled, "They are nothing to me, nothing you hear. They can all burn for casting me out."
"You can take the Marine out of the fire, but you can't take the fire out of the marine!" Jubila sneered.
"You push too far, pretty boy," Varador growled.
"Ignore him," Moragann chided, "He just likes pushing your buttons. It's the only fun he has these days."
"Sourpuss," Jubila mocked, "Are you sure you're a devotee of Slaanesh? With your lack of humour I could swear you give praise to Khorne."
"Try to be serious for once. Are you certain this is the place?"
"Absolutely, I'd know Rebre's warpcraft anywhere. She's on this planet, I can smell her."
Varador rumbled, "Good, I can't take another debacle like Juswinda. Swamps as far as the eye could see, ten years wading through mud and crap, only to find out she'd already departed."
"Juswinda was a minor detour," Jubila sniffed, "We were on the right path, just a step behind."
"That's what you said on Herador, fighting Imperial Martyrs. Not to mention Catachan, Bale's eye and the Gardens of Kidesh."
Jubila's grin grew stale, "Do not doubt my leadership. This quest was given to me and me alone. Fulgrim trusted me to find the lost blade, to deliver the means to rub his Ultramarian Brother's face in his failures."
Moragann snorted, "We remember, as you should what he promised to do if you failed again."
"I didn't fail," Jubila growled.
"Then what would you call Holdfast?"
"A crapstorm. I was betrayed, by my former lord Ozymandias, though I beat him in the end and bound him into the sword. I was this close to claiming it, when treachery and fate conspired against me. The universe loves to watch me dance."
Varador sneered, "You think fate cares what happens to you?"
"Of course," Jubila spat, "I am the pivot upon which this expedition hinges, the centrepiece of the drama. It will fall to me to claim the blade, you will see. I will enact the climax of the saga, you are mere sideplayers."
"That's it," Varador snarled as he raised a fist, "I'm burning his head off."
"Try it," Jubila laughed, "I could do with a workout, chopping you down to size will provide some small sport."
"Arrogant bastard!"
"Stop it the pair of you!" Moragann snapped, "We will never succeed if we fight every five minutes! Jubila, you need our former Salamander to claim the prize. Varador, you know killing him won't do a thing. Fulgrim's brought him back from the dead twice, and will again. Jubila is immortal, so long as he enjoys the Phoenician's favour."
"That can change," Varador growled, "If I am the one to claim the blade, his favour will fall from you."
"Fulgrim bestow his gifts on you?!" Jubila mocked, "You are far too plodding and dull to attract our lord's eye."
"Keep telling yourself that," Varador snapped as he turned and strode on.
Jubila watched him go, followed by the Beastmen. He was mildly disappointed the argument hadn't come to blows, his attention span was too short to go without a thrill for long. Sadly he was aware that the renegades' might would be essential in the days to come, and he wasn't prepared to accept failure. Moragann had spoken truly when he said Fulgrim had brought Jubila back to life, but the flip side of that was the Daemon-Primarch could find him wherever he lurked. Jubila could not hide from his lord, they were bound by chains unbreakable, and to fail would be to suffer eternally. Fulgrim's imagination for torture made even Jubila shudder. The only option was to succeed, any other outcome would make him wish for the simple fires of hell.
Silence fell as the column marched on, hundreds of Beastmen shuffling across the icy wastes. Many were clutching their arms and chests for warmth, the setting sun bringing with it plunging temperatures. Jubila could endure far worse conditions than this but his followers couldn't and he would need an army before this was through. If only to stand between him and bullets. They couldn't last long out here.
The thought made Jubila look up and wonder what time was doing in this corner of the galaxy. The Warp had always been a strange place, distorting time enough to drive a chronologist mad, but since the Great Rift yawned wide any pretence at linearity had become a joke. Jubila had strode across worlds where the sky had been rent for a thousand years, and others where its opening was still ripping the lands to shreds. Landscapes where days lasted years and others where decades flew by in minutes. He knew he was in the stellar vicinity of his previous encounter with the Daemonsword, but had it been days in these parts, or millennia, he had no way of telling.
His musings were interrupted by a great cry from the head of the column. Jubila looked up and saw Varador waving from a spike of black rock, arising from the glacier like a spear thrusting to the heavens. He hurried over, pushing past milling Beastmen and saw the spike was in fact a building, once a soaring skyscraper, now merely a tip sticking out of the ice. In the side of the stonework a crack loomed wide, dark and foreboding, but it led downwards and from it wafted a warm breeze, warmer than this freezing waste anyway.
"Ha! You see, fate loves me!" Jubila cried, "The universe longs for me as a whore does coin!"
"Pat yourself on the back later," Varador muttered, "We need to get in there fast."
"Lead on," Jubila affirmed with a regal wave, "I can't wait to find Rebre, and share my displeasure with her for making me run across half the galaxy."
