And here comes another chapter. Not much action in this one, but don't worry, the next one will contain a lot more tension.
My thanks to those who reviewed the previous chapter :
Heir of the Void : yeah, Valens was pretty much damned from the moment he appeared. In fact, I had first planned to have him die, but somehow Hektor's mission changed to one of capture. Rest assured, though, that this isn't the last you will see of 'Iron Teeth'.
Lightning King : indeed, a base of operations is a necessity for warbands. In some case, a ship can suffice (the Black Legion itself doesn't have a world it calls home, only the Vengeful Spirit). The Hand of Ruin is big enough to act like this for a time, but Arken knows the value of a planet in his grasp, don't worry.
So, without any further delay, let's get to the story ! I will see you again at the end.
I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe. It belongs to Games Workshop.
He missed dreaming. Not that he had ever had pleasant dreams, of course. But he had never realized how much more sleep was than just the recovery of one's physical stamina. Dreams helped to organize one's thoughts, to put things behind you and to go forward.
But he couldn't dream. His muscles were fuelled by a seemingly endless flow of stamina, and sleep was not only unneeded, but impossible for him. And while the advantages of that … gift, he supposed he should say, were quite considerable, sometimes not being able to sleep something off could be annoying.
Leaving the Oracle's Chamber with visions of the Warp engraved in his mind was definitely one of these times. Serixithar couldn't stop him from taking what he wanted, but the daemon could make it difficult. He was suffering a tremendous headache, and images danced before his eyes that do not belonged to this side of Hell.
'Lord Awakened,' greeted Asim. 'Are you alright?'
'I will be. How long was I in there, brother ?'
It was hard, almost impossible to keep track of time in the Chamber. Even his armor's chronometer went crazy in the room filled with the emanations of the Warp. That was why he ensured that a member of the Coven was waiting for him every time he visited the captive Daemon Prince. Using them like this was a waste of their capabilities, but he wasn't going to let anyone else near the Oracle. The risks were too great.
Still, it had surprised him when the leader of the Coven himself had volunteered for the task this time. Asim could easily had asked one of his brothers to do it – it was what hierarchies were for. Did the Thousand Son want to speak with him away from prying ears ?
'You have stayed in the Chamber for three hours, forty-seven minutes and twenty seconds,' answered Asim. 'I know we say that to you every time, but you really shouldn't spend so much time with that creature …'
' … Interaction with its kind only ever serves their goals,' finished Arken, who had heard the warning the exact same number of times he had gone to consult the Oracle. 'Yes, I know. But it is one of our greatest assets, Asim.'
The Sorcerer shrugged, the movement of his muscles amplified by his power armor.
'It is my job to warn you,' he said, dropping the subject. 'Did you at least find what you were looking for ?'
Arken looked at his brother, and his lips twitched into the dead smile that had become his only facial expression – with the rage he had unleashed at the late Alexandre – the Space Marine could make.
'Oh, yes,' he whispered. 'I have found that indeed. Walk with me, brother,' said the Awakened while starting to march toward the command deck. The Thousand Son followed his lord without question. They walked for a moment in silence, then Arken asked :
'So, what did you want to talk to me about ?'
Asim wasn't surprised by his lord's insight about the reason he had volunteered himself for the tedious duty of guarding the Chamber and counting the minutes. Even without the daemon's help, he had always had a keen mind.
'It is about the members of my Legion,' he said. 'There is … something going on in the Warp. I wanted to ask you before you entered the Chamber, but I … I suppose I was afraid of what Serixithar would reveal.'
'What exactly is troubling you and your brothers ?'
'It happened three nights ago. We felt a ... change in our soul, lord. The flesh-change that has plagued our Legion since its very foundation has … stopped.'
'Well, that is good news, isn't it ? I remember hearing you mourning the loss of every single brother of yours that succumbed to it during the Siege of Terra.'
'Yes, but we do not know why, and that's what worry us. We do not know what's preventing our degeneration, nor if it will last.'
Arken looked at the helmeted face of his subordinate, seemingly seeing straight through the ceramite and into the Sorcerer's mind.
'You are afraid that your Primarch has made another deal with the Octed. That he has sold something else to the Architect of Fate in return for his sons' salvation.'
Asim nodded. His next words were laced with bitterness :
'I do not even know the details of the first deal he made when he saved us from the flesh-change after the Emperor found him. I do not know those of the second, made when Prospero burnt, either, only that it binds us to the service of the Lord of Change. And now he may have made a third. Me and my brothers aren't afraid, Arken. We are terrified. Terrified of what it means for us and for our brothers on the Planet of Sorcerers.'
Arken stopped, and looked at his brother.
'Serixithar showed me your Legion's fate, Asim. This wasn't what I was looking for, but it took pleasure to show it to me nonetheless. I know what happened, and I can tell you, if you are willing to hear it. But first, tell me : was any of your brother … altered when the rest of you were released for the flesh-change ?'
Asim looked back at him without a word, and Arken could almost see the blank look on his face.
'Apparently no. That is good, I need all Sorcerers I can find. Now, do you really want to know ?'
Slowly, Asim nodded, his hands tightening around his staff. He was scared, the lord of the Forsaken Sons could see that. But the sons of Magnus were not the kind to turn from the truth, as unpleasant as it may be. In this, they were similar to the Word Bearers, who had embraced the Octed despite the darkness its pantheon had promised to Mankind. Not that Arken would ever voice that though aloud, of course. It would enrage both of the two Legions' representatives aboard the Hand of Ruin. The Word Bearers considered the Thousand Sons to be fools who deluded themselves into thinking they were masters of the Great Ocean, while the sons of Magnus thought that the warriors of the Seventeenth were fanatics who were willing to enslave themselves to powers they didn't understand. The truth, as always, was something between the two.
'It is not your father's work that you felt through the Warp but your brother's. Ahriman found a way to save you and used it despite Magnus' warnings.'
'He succeeded, it seems,' said Asim carefully.
'In a fashion. For every Thousand Son who was saved, a dozen more were reduced to dust, their souls trapped in their armor, turned into automatons unable to move without the command of one of their still-living brothers. Magnus' fury was great, but the Architect of Fate stopped him from destroying Ahriman and his co-conspirators. Instead, your brother now wanders in the Eye of Terror, forsaken by his own Primarch. Not a soul in the galaxy knows exactly where he is.'
'The Rubric,' breathed Asim, staggering from the revelation. 'He had told me about it before we left for Terra, once our father had chosen his side in the rebellion. He said that once perfected, it would free us from the random mutations.'
'Well, it did. It is quite surprising that none of your brothers on board were destroyed by it, though.'
Arken didn't really care about the reason, only the result, but giving Asim a mystery to think of would bring his mind away from the horror of his Legion's fate. It worked. The Awakened One could almost see the gears of the Thousand Son's well-trained mind starting to turn.
'The spell must have had a different effect depending on the subject's strength. My brothers among us were already … purged by the Exodus. Those who survived it must have been strong enough to endure whatever the Rubric did to them. But really … only one Astartes out of twelve survived ?'
Arken shrugged.
'I don't know the real ratio, Asim. The visions of the Oracle aren't that precise. But I think it is a good estimate. For all it is worth, I am sorry.'
And he was. The Fifteenth Legion had been one of the most powerful of those siding with the Warmaster, despite their crippling when Prospero had been destroyed. Their sorcery was a potent weapon, and one that could have been put to great use against the Imperium in the Long War – as he had heard some of his brothers call the continuation of Horus' rebellion. Now, although the Legion of Magnus would be spared collapsing from the mutations, it was also reduced to a handful of true Astartes, on the verge of extinction. That was a real shame. That the Architect of Fate had allowed this to happen to the Legion that had sworn itself to His service only proved that one had to be careful when dealing with the Chaos Gods. They were powerful, almost limitlessly so, but they were also fickle and whimsical, or at least appeared that way from the point of view of their followers.
'I ... thank you for telling me that, Arken', said Asim at last, and the use of his name told the Commander that his brother meant it. 'This truth, however troubling it may be, is still better than the blades of doubt.'
Arken didn't say anything in response. They kept on walking, and finally arrived near the command deck. The heavily reinforced door was covered in arcane sigils put in place during the Exodus to protect this most critical section of the ship and guarded by two Astartes. One wore the livery of the Iron Warriors, the other the colors of the Emperor's Children. Arken was pleased to see that, at last, some of the packs were learning to work together.
The two warriors bowed to the lord of the Forsaken Sons, and the door opened. Arken and the leader of the Coven passed through, acknowledging the guards with a nod, and entered the Hand of Ruin's command deck.
The place was bustling with activity, reports coming from the packs deployed on the world below alongside with demands for pix-feed and additional Prime was beaten, but, as the Space Marines had discovered, plundering a world with any efficiency was almost as complex as conquering it.
Since he had picked up Hektor and the former Governor a week ago, Arken had dispatched almost three hundred Astartes on the planet. They had secured landing zones for the aircrafts of the warband, and begun to bring in spoils to be brought aboard the Hand of Ruin. The gunships were being reduced to simple carriers, but it was for a good cause. Besides, they had already captured five shuttles from the planet that were unfit for Astartes deployment, but perfect for that kind of dull work. Already, empty storage rooms on the ship were beginning to fill with the product of Mulor Prime's ransacking. He had sent others to the rest of the system, with specific orders. Arken had planned for this campain during the weeks in warp transit, and he didn't intend to let anything of value slip from his fingers. The Forsaken Sons would bleed the Mulor system dry and leave stronger than ever.
To this end, all Astartes deployed had received a list of what the Forsaken Sons could use from the planet. Navigators. Astropaths. Sanctioned and rogue psykers alike. Mortal possessing useful skills. Supplies and weapons of any kind. Young males that were strong enough to endure the implantation process that would make them into new Astartes. Servitors that could be reprogrammed to serve the warband. Some of the strongest rioters, to be trained and armed in order to form a semblance of mortal army. Riches, too, in the form of jewels or precious metal, plundered from the highest towers of the hive-world, where its most privileged citizens had lived. Arken wouldn't have thought of the last one himself, but an Alpha Legion warrior had suggested it to him, saying that it could help them if they were one day brought to dealing with mortals.
With most military forces on the planet utterly destroyed by the riots and the World Eaters' beheading strike against their command, the packs competed for the Awakened One's favor by doing all they could to increase their own tribute. Merchurion had sent some of his adepts to keep track of what was entering the ship's coffers and which pack had sent it. There was no official competition going on, nor any reward promised, but the Astartes still did their best at what was essentially an entirely new exercise to them. They were soldiers and warriors, instruments of death and destruction. They weren't pirates … but they were doing a fine job of it nonetheless.
But despite the Astartes' newfound talent for looting, things weren't just running smoothly. Even as Arken just entered the room, the crew turned to him and presented him with a dozen requests for his intervention in situations that demanded his authority : packs on the verge of fighting each other for the same prize, mostly, a warrior of the Night Lords needing to be reminded that he wasn't on the planet to torture its people, and …
Yes. Here it was, the one request that he had known would be waiting, the one which was, despite all appearances, an opportunity for the warband. He took care of the others first. He ordered the warriors to start cooperate and share the loot if they were really that serious, gave a Word Bearer demagogue his permission to start preaching to the rioting masses, and told the Night Lord to stop his attics – there would be plenty of time for enjoyment once the planet had been stripped bare of all that could be useful. Then, he opened a vox-connection to the pack of former Sons of Horus who had asked for the Awakened One's advice on a sensible matter.
'This is Arken of the Hand of Ruin. Speak up, Lucian.'
'Lord Awakened,' came the answer, blurred by static yet still understandable. 'We have been awaiting you for an hour.' There was no critic in the Marine's voice, only mild curiosity and an hint of stress.
'I was occupied. Describe your situation.'
'I have nine brothers with me, two of them wounded. We are at the base of one of the city's spires, where this world's so-called 'elite' was inhabiting. There are still people inside, and they are well-defended.'
'Describe the defences,' ordered Arken.
'They have at least a hundred private soldiers in here, just at the entrance, equiped with weapons capable of piercing our armor. The ground here is covered in the bodies of the looters who tried to make a run for it. We could take them, but the simple charge to reach them would cost us, and doubtlessly there are more inside. Since you ordered us not to risk our lives unless we had no choice, I sent a request for your advice.'
Yes, Arken thought. This was what he had seen in the Chamber. The richest clan of this planet and the one family of rulers that had escaped purging when the Imperium had reclaimed the world, the Sertanov had survived by turning against the other dynasties, sacrificing much of their power and resources in the war of compliance. For this, they had been spared, though reduced to a simple merchant house. It had helped that they were considered one of the least ruthless bloodlines of Mulor Prime's overlords – at least that was the reason given in Imperial records.
Arken knew the true reason the Sertanov had been spared, however. It was simple and crude, as befitting of base humans : bribing. The Sertanov had paid the Adeptus Administratum accompanying the Expeditionary Fleet an obscene amount in return for their pardon, and it had been enough to forget millenia of exploitation and tyranny. The bureaucratic worms had been very efficient in their rewriting of history, to the point that even the people of the world had truly believed that the Sertanov had been paragons of virtue and righteousness in a world filled with greed and corruption before the Warp Storm and the Forsaken Sons destroyed their society. The iterators' manipulation skills could be frightening, sometimes.
How typical of the Imperium, Arken thought. This was all that the False Emperor built upon the foundations crafted by Astartes' sacrifices : lies and deceit. And the foolish masses of humanity gobbled it all, starving for His lies as much as the World Eaters did for blood. This was what had led the Warmaster to turn from his father and launch his own crusade to claim the galaxy for the warriors who had fought to conquer it.
And yet, here laid an opportunity. The Sertanov had been forced to abandon their ancestral keep when they had switched sides, but they had rebuilt it nearly perfectly in the new hive-cities, away from the centers of power. They had also reclaimed much of their former wealth and power over the decades, carefully hiding some of their more shady activities from the Governor's eyes. In both legal and illegal dealings, the Sertanov had become one of the most powerful forces of Mulor Prime's economy. Arken knew this thanks to Serixithar's visions, but also simply because he had spent hours reading the data on the cogitators they had seized from the local Administratum and Arbites. The fact that no one else had apparently noticed the evidence of the Sertanov's crimes in the official records indicated that the family hadn't abandonned the practice of bribing. And why should have they, when it had worked so well for them ?
Pressing a few buttons on the hololithic view, Arken brought up the image of the Sertanov spire. It wasn't a beautiful thing, at least not in his eyes. Protected from orbital bombardment by a void shield that had been activated the moment the storm had reached Mulor Prime – which was very illegal in itself – the tower was almost three kilometers high. It had endured the destruction that rampaged through the city, which was a little miracle. That miracle owed much to the squads of mercenaries and thugs that the Sertanov kept in their fortress and as much to the fact that the spire wasn't located with the rest of the high-born's demesnes. In fact, the fortress was almost a city in itself, isolated from the rest of the world and nearly self-sufficient, with thousands of people living their entire lives within its walls. There had been no plan of its insides in the cadastre – which must have cost another bribe to the family.
The bottom of the spire was heavily fortified indeed. Lucian couldn't hope to assault it with only his squad – in fact, attacking the spire with anything less than a full company worth of Space Marines would be painfully difficult and slow. But Arken didn't intend to attack.
'Lucian,' he voxed. 'I am coming down to your location with reinforcements. Do not do anything that may provoke the humans. I want to talk to them.'
'Acknowledged, Awakened One.' The sergeant cut the vox-link. Arken opened another :
'Techno-Adept. I need something from you.'
'Ask, Commander. The Omnissiah shall provide.'
'Tell me, Merchurion. How advanced are the repairs on that suit of Tactical Dreadnought Armor ?'
Sergeant Lucian didn't enjoy waiting. He understood the tactical necessity of it, of course, but he still didn't like it. His squad – he refused to think of it as a 'pack' as did others in the warband, for his brothers had been fighting alongside him far before they joined the Hand of Ruin – didn't like it either. Since coming down on this dying world, they had been aching for a decent fight, and now that it seemed that one was finally being presented, the ache had become even more unnerving. They weren't World Eaters, but they wanted to fight ! They were born and bred for war, and only on the battlefield could they fulfill their purpose. Looting this planet was an … interesting and novel experience, but it couldn't compare to the exaltation of glorious warfare. He longed to put his bolter to use against a worthy opponent, to test his mettle and that of his brothers against an enemy able to fight back, to prove his value to the one who had dragged him and the rest of the warband out of the pit of despair and self-pity they had been trapped in after the Warmaster's death. All of Lucian's squadmates had followed his example and ritually repainted the emblem of their Legion in black, but true loyalty and might could only be proven by war.
Yet, the last order of their lord – to not do anything that may provoke the mortals cowardly hiding in the tower – made Lucian unsure whether or not there would be any fight at all. It seemed that the Awakened One had a plan, and it probably didn't involve killing those annoying pests.
A shame, that, but, well, duty was duty. And Arken had said that he would bring reinforcements, so perhaps he was reading to much into this and there would be a battle after all.
'Sergeant,' said his brother Maerk. 'When do we attack ?'
'If and when the Awakened One orders us to. Now shut up and wait. He shouldn't be long.'
As if one cue, the sound of a Thunderhawk pierced the background of screams and destruction that shrouded the entire ruined city. Arken's personal aircraft was incoming. Of all the gunships, this one was the only one which had been spared from being used as a transport for the Astartes' spoils, precisely in case the Awakened One needed to get down fast. The Hand of Ruin did have a teleportarium, but no one would be foolish enough to use it when they were still in a bloody Warp Storm. No matter how much Merchurion insisted that he had perfectionned the device with the 'blessings of the Omnissiah revealed by the blood spilled in His name,' whatever that meant, to make sure it didn't destroy anyone utilising it.
The craft landed, and Lucian once more wondered where exactly that bastard Damarion had found that mortal who was allowed to pilot the Awakened One's own aircraft. His gift at piloting the Thunderhawk bordered on the preternatural, surpassing most of the Space Marines Lucian knew. Favorite of Damarion or not, only the mortal's skills made him valuable to the warband, and he was one of the most valuable of the small mortal crew remaining on the ship.
That could change soon, though. The slaves taken aboard the Hand of Ruin would be examined, those already possessing useful skills put to work, and those physically apt would undergo the hypno-learning that would give them the skills needed to work for the Forsaken Sons. Those who were unable would probably be used as the material for servitors, or herded as cannon fodder for the following campains of the warband.
Perhaps one of these new slaves would prove a better pilot than Damarion's little pet. Seeing the Thunderhawk perfect landing, though, Lucian knew it was highly unlikely. Then the door of the craft opened, and all thoughts of the mortal were swept away from his mind.
Lord Arken had abandoned his old power armor. Instead, he wore a complete set of Terminator Armor, freshly repaired and repainted in the black of the Forsaken Sons, with a stylised demonic face surrounded by a cirlce of chain painted in gold on the breastplate. His left arm ended up in a combi-bolter, and the other was equiped with a lightning claw. He was bare-headed, his bald, scarred skull exposed to the winds of the ever-raging storm.
Looking at his lord, Lucian felt as if he was looking at the future of all Space Marines of the Traitor Legions : a warrior who didn't care about the bloodline of those serving under his command, so long as they were efficient. A being clad in the darkness of death and vengeance, harnessing the power of Chaos to wield it against the Imperium. For a moment, he thought he saw someone else in his lord's place, someone even more powerful and tall, with a single knot of hair rising from his head and holding in his hand a sword that could slay entire stars while the other supported claws that could rend the flesh of demigods. The vision was a thing of absolute terror, a being whose name was whispered in abject fear by trillions of souls and who was responsible for such destruction and death that it made Horus' rebellion pale.
Then the moment was gone, and he went to his knee before the Lord Awakened. He saw Damarion and the rest of Arken's bodyguards getting out of the Thunderhawk first, and gritted his teeth under his helmet at the sight of his brother.
'Ah, Lucian,' he heard Damarion calling him on a private vox-channel. 'Still hiding behind walls and calling for help at the first difficulty, aren't you ? You didn't learn anything since Isstvan.'
The sergeant bit down a reply, and severed the link with a blink of his eye. He could have sworn hearing a grunt of agreement from the machine-spirit of his armor as it cut the communication. The power armor had changed since his Legion had turned from the False Emperor : the gifts of the Octed and the enhancements of the Mechanicum priests had altered it. It was alive now, turned into a ravenous predator who sought the fires of war as a starving man would seek food. And, just like the one who wore it, it loathed Damarion with a passion.
That hatred had its roots on the events of Isstvan, when the Sons of Horus, Death Guard, Emperor's Children and World Eaters Legions had purged their own ranks of the cowards and weak-willed before dealing a near-fatal blow to the Raven Guard, the Salamanders and the Iron Hands. On the battlefield of Isstvan III, Lucian had been part of the force tasked with finishing their misguided brothers hiding in the ruins of the burned world. He had led a full-strength Tactical Squad with him, twenty battle-brothers loyal to the Warmaster.
They had fallen into a trap. The loyalist Emperor's Children had caught them perfectly in a cross-fire, and he had lost half his men before reaching a position where they could hide and call for reinforcements.
It had been Damarion's men who had rescued them, and the Captain hadn't wasted a single opportunity to remind him of that fact in the years that had passed since. Countless times, he had had to repay the 'favor' he owed the Captain. It had come to the point he wished the bastard hadn't shown up, then to the point when he wanted to kill him. Some part of him still thought it strange that he hated his own battle-brother and superior for such a petty reason, but every time these thoughts started to surface, his armor pumped his body full of stimulants that drove him to further heights of cold, bitter anger.
'Lord Arken,' he said, bowing his head to the master of the Forsaken Sons. 'We await your orders.'
'Stand by here for now. You too, Damarion. I am going alone.'
Then, to the Marines' surprise and dawning horror, the Awakened One started walking straight toward the Sertanov's spire. Damarion and Lucian both started to move to follow, before years of training reasserted themselves and stopped them. Arken noticed their move, however, and said :
'Do not worry, brothers. I know what I am doing.'
Arken wasn't used to wearing a Terminator Armor. As a superior officer, he had been trained in using one when they had first been introduced into the Legions, of course, but that had been decades ago, and even an eidetic memory didn't make up for years of habit in using his traditional Mark V power armor. The suit weighted heavily on him despite the inner engines, and slowed every singe move he attempted to make. And yet, there was no denying the sensation of power brought by the near-invulnerability the suit granted to its wearer.
The Terminator Armor Arken was wearing had once belonged to a warrior of the Fourth Legion. The Iron Warrior had died in battle against the Ultramarines on the Hand of Ruin, and his armor had been reclaimed and repaired by Merchurion's subordinates. The Techno-adept himself had directed the major part of the repairs, as Arken had asked for a suit of Tactical Dreadnought Armor to be prepared for him shortly after the capture of Serixithar. According to the priest, the machine-spirit of the suit had been … surprised. It hadn't expected to be salvaged from destruction. Both Merchurion and Arken were still unsure what exactly that meant.
What in the name of the Warmaster did the Iron Warriors do with their precious equipment for this armor to expect being scraped after its previous wearer's death ?
The armor had also been repainted. Arken had long lingered on what color scheme to use. The one of his own Legion ? But that would be a sign that he still clung to his bloodline, while he had claimed to have risen above it. As leader of the Forsaken Sons, he had to show them the way into the future he had envisioned for them.
The answer had come to him during one of his visits to Serixithar's cell. He had seen a legion that would one day burn the Imperium to ashes, uniting the forces of Chaos in one single great horde that would be uttely unstoppable. He wasn't the one to lead it – he wasn't arrogant enough to believe it, despite Serixithar's attempts to convince him that it was possible. But the colors of that great horde had inspired him.
Black, for the sins and failures of their fathers. Gold, for the dawn of a new future that they would carve across the Imperium. He hadn't completely replicated the heraldry of the great host, but he had kept the colors it used. His standard armor was being repainted at that very moment, so that he would always bear what was to be the emblem of the Forsaken Sons. The demonic head was his own little joke at Serixithar's expense. No one would get it outside of his warband, but the scream of indignation of the daemon when it had felt his intent had been … gratifying.
As the Space Marine advanced, the defenders of the spire began to open fire on him. Their shot bounced against his armor, harmless. A few shots aimed at his bare head may have hurt him, but Merchurion had included a miniature forcefield to the armor that protected his exposed skull. He kept on walking, unfazed by the assault. As he progressed, he gathered momentum, and was able to go faster and faster. A few dozens of seconds later, he crashed through the fortified wall of the spire, knocking back the men guarding the other side.
In the dust his arrival had risen, he scanned the base of the spire, his transhuman vision piercing the cloud. Lucian's estimation had been right : almost a hundred men had been sent here, to guard the entrance of the tower from assault. The first level of the spire had been turned into a fortress, to defent the access to the rest. There were cover points and automated turrets scattered on the vast space, all to defend the one access to the upper level : a single, massive elevator at the center of the room that could easily transport fifty mortal men.
Arken looked down at his foot, and saw one of the mercenaries trying to get up. The man was wearing a full body armor and holding a custom bolt pistol with both hands. His helmet wore the crest of an officer. Good.
The Marine lowered his right hand, deactivating the current in his lightning claw with a thought, and picked the man up, rising him so that they were face-to-face. The man trashed in vain, trying to escape the avatar of death that had just crossed through the defences effortlessly.
'Calm down, little man, and tell your comrades to do the same. I am not here to kill you.'
'I am here to make an offer to your master.'
Mitslav Nikifor Sertanov, patriarch of House Sertanov, sat in his throne on the one-hundred and ninety-fifth level of the Sertanov's spire. This was the floor where his family conducted its audience with those who were deemed worthy of stepping so close of the final floors, where the members of the bloodline spend most of their lives. It was the only place he could think of that would be the least possibly insulting to the demigod he was going to meet.
Mitslav was, by most standards, an old man, though rejuvenation treatments hid that well. His long, black hair was only scarcely colored by grey, and his face still looked like that of a man several decades younger. In his ceremonial attire, all green and red silk, he knew he looked very regal, very imposing. Not that it would make any impression on the visitore, but it helped his own confidence.
Mitslav had been on Mulor Prime when it had been conquered by the Imperial Expeditionary Fleet. It was him who had convinced his family to side with the Imperium, after putting a bullet in the skull of his father himself. The old fool had wanted to fight to the death, when clearly, they stood absolutely no chance of winning. The Imperium had thousand, perhaps even millions of world under it control. They had technologies that had thought to be long forgotten, and armies beyond numbers. They couldn't be beaten.
By siding with the Imperium, they had had a chance of survival. And survival, in the end, was all that mattered. Wealth and influence could be rebuilt. Existence couldn't. When he had seen the warriors of the Legione Astartes unleashed against the other ruling families, he had known for certain that he had made the right choice.
They had destroyed those who had resisted. The armies of the other families had been broken like helpless puppets before the might of the Emperor's elite, their fortresses torn apart and their members slain or captured to be judged and executed. Mitslav had sacrificed half his family's fortune to buy off the Imperium, but when they had seen the fate of the other bloodlines, his kindred had stopped protesting. It had been worth it. Even the sacrifice of those of the family who were to take the blame for the acts that just couldn't be supressed had been worth it. That these scapegoats had happened to be Mitslav most fervent opponents within the family had been a happy coincidence, nothing more, he had ensured the remaining of his family.
And now, one of the Astartes was coming, wanting to make a deal with them. When Mitslav had heard that half the Legions had turned against the Emperor, led by no other than the Warmaster, he had first thought that someone had poisoned him and that he was going insane. But that had been the truth. The galaxy had been torn by war for years, until Horus' ultimate failure and death on Terra.
They had been lucky enough to be spared from the war itself. In fact, with most of the local Imperial Guard sent to fight in distant systems, the Sertanov family's shady activities had boomed. War always brought opportunity, and Mitslav had been determined to make the most of this one. How often did one have the dubious privilege to live during a galactic civil war ?
But most of it had been for nothing. The Warp Storm had destroyed Mulor Prime's society. If the astropaths he kept in the seventy-seventh floor were to be trusted, the situation across the rest of the system, or even the whole Trebedius sector, was the same. The only difference was that here, they had renegade Space Marines to deal with atop everything else.
Mitslav had seen the ship that had brought the traitors in the system. One of the satellites he had had sent in orbit for spying on his rivals had managed to catch a single image before being shutting down from the effects of the Warp Storm. The image had been blurred, but his servants' efforts had made it clear enough for Mitslav to know they were doomed. The ship was a titanic thing, more than ten kilometers long. It had cannons and turrets in enough numbers to bring down an entire fleet of smaller ships, though it was marked by scars and gashes from battles it had had no chance to recover from. It didn't follow any pattern of space craft that he or any of the House's savants knew of, but that hardly mattered. The recognition signal it emitted identified it as the Hand of Ruin, of the Sixteenth Legion – the very Legion whose Primarch had led the rebellion before failing to see it through.
When the Warp Storm had risen, Mitslav had hoarded as much food, resources and warriors as he could, then closed down the spire and waited for the chaos to calm down. When the Astartes had made planetfall and killed the Governor – at least, he supposed the old Iron Teeth was dead, since there had been no word of him since the first drop-pods had landed – he had smiled inwardly at the disappearance of the man who had forced his dealings with the Adeptus Administratum to be much more secretive than they had to be.
Now, about to face the being who claimed to lead the hundred of Space Marines who were looting the world, he was simply terrified. The officer who had contacted him from the base of the spire had relayed the Space Marine's words very clearly despite his evident terror. The demigod wanted to meet the patriarch of House Sertanov to make him an offer, and if he refused to meet him, refused his offer, or tried to double-cross him, a thousand Astartes would tear down the spire and inflict upon him such horrors that the very Warp would scream in terror. Having seen what some of the Space Marines had done across the city, Mitslav had believed every word of it. So, he had ordered the soldiers at the base of the spire to not attack the lone assailant, much to their relief he suspected, and sent down the elevator that would bring the Space Marine to the audience chamber.
'Are you really sure about this, lord ?' asked the closest guard, a captain of the House's troops whose name Mitslav, if he had ever known it, couldn't remember. Mitslav had deployed thirty of the elite mercenaries in the room, though he doubted they would serve as anything but meat shields if the Astartes decided to attack. 'We can still cut off the elevator's cables. Even a Space Marine wouldn't survive the fall.'
'And neither would we survive the unleashing of the Astartes' wrath,' said the patriarch, not even bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. 'Leave these decisions to your superiors and focus on your duty, captain.'
'Yes, my lord,' muttered the man.
Mitslav straightened on his throne and faced the entrance of the audience room. As if on cue, the heavy doors opened, revealing the Marine in Terminator Armor that waited behind. The patriarch didn't recognize the color pattern of the armor. Black and gold, with an hellish visage painted on the front, and no Legion Emblem at all ? The demigod moved forward, until he was only a few meters away from Mitslav. When he spoke, his voice didn't carry any aggressivity, yet it seemed to promise death and ruin to all who would be foolish enough to ignore it.
'Mitslav Nikifor Sertanov. I am Arken the Awakened One, sworn enemy of the Imperium of the False Emperor, lord of the Forsaken Sons, Commander of the vessel Hand of Ruin, Bringer of the Storm and Bane of the Oracle.'
He didn't bow, though Mitslav hadn't expected him to. He probably couldn't with that armor on anyway. Mitslav nodded to the armored giant, and did his best to keep his fear hidden. He didn't think that the Astartes was dupe, but he needed to keep face.
'Lord Arken. It is an honor to finally meet you face-to-face.' He gestured toward one of the servants, who was holding a trail of cups filled with one of the many priceless drinks House Sertanov's cellar contained. 'Would you care for a drink ?'
It was a calculated risk. He knew that the Space Marines scarcely needed to eat or drink, and with that armor on, the visitor couldn't possibly take up a glass. But to pretend to follow the basics of etiquette in spite of the situation would make him look more confident, and that was always a good thing in a negociation.
Not that there would be any actual negotiation taking place. Mitslav wasn't a fool. If the Space Marine had an offer that didn't involve him and all of House Sertanov dying, he would take it and thanks whatever gods ruled this mad galaxy.
The giant smiled – a sight that sent shivers down Mitslav's spine, so unnatural and utterly devoid of emotions it looked – and actually picked up one of the glass between two of the claws that ended his right hand. He lifted it to his lips and drank, the deadly weapons mere inchs away from his face. One false move would have, if not killed him, at least disfigured him, yet the warrior didn't appear concerned by the insane risk he was taking. The mortals in the room froze at the casual display of the warrior's control over his weapons.
He put down the goblet, and gestured for the servant to go away. The woman left the Astartes' side with steps that were not quite a running, but almost.
'A fine drink, patriarch,' said Arken in a conversational tone. 'Now, let us get to the business at hand. As I said to your man, I have an offer for you.'
'I am impatient to hear it,' answered Mitslav.
'Mulor Prime is defenceless and in ruins. There is almost nothing left on this world that has any value to me and my brothers. But it is not so for you.
This planet, and one hundred more, are cut from the Imperium. By my hand, the Storm was unleashed that plunged the entire Sector into darkness. It will last for decades, for centuries. Perhaps, if we feed it, for all eternity. My offer is this : I would give you this world, Mitslav of House Sertanov. I would grant you full authority over it and all of those who draw breath under its burning skies, released from the yoke of the False Emperor's hypocrite kingdom. I would make you a king, more powerful than any of your forebears has ever been. If you would bow down to me and accept me as your lord liege, I would make it so that you would appear a savior to the remnants of this planet's population. You would be the one having bargained with the tyrannic demigod, offering his own life in exchange for me sparing them, only for me to force you to servitude. I would send you supplies from the agri-world that turns around this system's star, that you would give to the survivors. I would make you their god, Mitslav.'
Arken walked closer to the patriarch, leaning toward the man.
'You are an old man, Mitslav. Despite the rejuvenating treatments, your life is nearing its unavoidable end. I would release you even from this. I have access to technology far beyond that which your backwater world can ever hope to furnish you, meant for the Legion's serfs, and those of the Adeptus Mechanicus who sided with the Warmaster learned much, freed from the False Emperor's forbidding decrees. Even beyond that, there are means to defy death that I can show you. When Horus turned from the False Emperor, he found allies of immeasurable power, beings of such might that they can only be called gods. These beings have power over life and death, and if you would join me, I would send you one of my brothers who would teach you their ways, that you may court them and ask for this ultimate reward. I have seen it with my own eyes on the walls of Terra, Mitslav : they can make a man immortal, if he proves his worth to them. Kneel before me, and I can give you this chance.'
'And what,' asked Mitslav in a breathless voice, his mind spinning from the possibilities that the Space Marine was presenting to him, 'would you ask in return ?'
'I would ask that you prepare tribute for me and my brethren when we return to this system. I would ask that you spread the faith of the Octed among these people. I would ask that, should Imperial forces somehow find their way to this place, you fight them and call for us should they prove too strong to deal with on your own. And I would ask of one sacrifice as proof of your allegiance.'
'What «sacrifice»?'
'There is one in your House that caught my attention, Mitslav. Your grandson, Illarion I think he is called. Unlike most of your bloodline, he is physically fit and young enough. Give him to me, and I shall make him one of us. I shall make him an Astartes, a warrior in the war against the False Emperor and his lackeys. He shall brought glory to your House and his sacrifice shall be proof of your devotion to your people's safety in the eyes of these brainless lambs.'
'Now, Mitslav Nikifor Sertanov. Choose. And know that, if you refuse or break faith with me, you and all of your bloodline shall be utterly destroyed, and your fate whispered about in fear for the rest of eternity.'
The patriarch chose, if that could be called a choice.
A few minutes later, the Awakened One emerged from the spire, a teenage boy following him, fear in his eyes and terror in his body language. Damarion and Lucian bowed to their master's return, surprised at the infant's presence but not willing to comment on it in the other's presence.
Arken looked at his brothers, and saw the tension ripe between them. He sighed internally. Another problem, another difficulty to take care of before the Forsaken Sons would be ready, a perfect blade to wield against the Imperium in the name of vengeance.
It didn't matter. He would keep going on, forging the warband into the instrument of his revenge. There was still much, much to do, even if only in the confines of this star's gravitational reach. The Mulor system still had much to give to them. The alliance he had forged this day was but a piece in the plans he had set in motion when the Hand of Ruin had first emerged from the Warp. The resources it would bring to the warband would help them, and the potential he had seen that Illarion possessed in the Oracle's Chamber would be another asset, if the boy survived the implantation procedure.
The next step would be far more challenging that this one had been. Words alone wouldn't be enough; he would have to fight, and doubtlessly brothers would die in the pursuit of his goals. But the potential rewards for it were simply too great to ignore. So, Arken the Awakened One, warlord of the Forsaken Sons, walked to the Thunderhawk that waited for him, followed by a band of warriors who shared his blood and owed him their loyalty yet distrusted each other, and the child that was soon to join them, to return to his ship and prepare.
C2746-DSS885 waited for him.
Done !
And yes, for the first time, I end up a chapter in what could arguably be called a cliffhanger. Hey, I have to try new writing tricks if I want this story to remain interesting !
So, yes, Damarion's armor. He is going to keep it, I think. Terminator Armor gives off a more 'lordly' feeling than the standard armor, and with the amount of effort Merchurion had to spend on its repairs, it would be midly insulting to return to the old one. The new color scheme isn't really original, I confess, but Damarion isn't an artist, so let's say that's his fault and not mine.
As usual, if you liked this chapter, please review it. Seeing other people enjoy my work really helps me to keep writing.
About the next chapter's ETA, well ... Let say one week to ten days. I am in vacation now, but I also have a lot of books to read, so it all balances out.
Zahariel out.