For an instant, the silence was louder than its preceding cacophony. Padme's ears still rung, despite her best attempts to shield her ears from the deafening onslaught of sound that the strangers' weapons had unleashed.
Loud or not, the armor-clad giant's weaponry had been terribly effective, Padme noted with some savage satisfaction. The droids had been eradicated from the hangar, reduced to little but scrap and scattered parts. Disjointed cheers began to break out amongst her few surviving men. Padme turned to Obi-Wan.
"Any idea who they are?" She asked.
The young Jedi shook his head, still at a loss for words.
Padme turned back, and found the giants staring at her. Without a sound, the foremost black-clad warrior began stomping towards her. She could not help but wince at each iron-clad footfall, the floor beneath its treads creaking in protest at the weight. It stood before her, and Padme took in just how huge it was. She wasn't the tallest, by any stretch. Some would even describe her as petite. But all the same her gargantuan savior towered over her, almost as broad as she was tall.
She swallowed down the tremor of trepidation that had emerged, unbidden, in her stomach, summoning her most queenly demeanor.
"Greetings, warrior. I am Queen Padme Amidala Naberrie, of Naboo. May I know your name?" She said, as regal as was possible when confronted with an unmoving mountain of metal and violence.
There was a heartbeat of silence. A crackle, and then the armored humanoid spoke.
"You are Queen Naberrie?" It was a booming voice that shook Padme, but she couldn't help but notice the artificial, robotic inflection of the words.
"I just… eek!" She opened her mouth to speak, only to cry out in surprise as the mammoth warrior leaned down and hoisted her up into the air with a single, enormous hand, throwing her over its massive, armored shoulder. She nestled quite uncomfortably between the shoulder and huge pauldron, upon which was a symbol she could not quite recognize.
"Now hold on a minute! Put me down right this instance!" She shouted in anger. Padme was not so stupid as to attempt striking the black plate. She figured all it would only accomplish shattering her bones. The warrior ignored her, instead turning to leave.
The sound of two lightsabers igniting interrupted her tirade. Padme paused, finding that from her vantage point atop the giant's massive shoulder, she could easily survey the entire hangar.
Qui-Gon and his apprentice had both ignited their blades, stepping forward. She heard several of her men ready their blasters as well, gathering their courage to confront her would-be kidnapper. It was nice to be wanted, she supposed.
Sergeant Erasmus was slightly bemused at the situation. The Emperor's Holy purpose was surely at work, for they had teleported directly on top of their target, it seemed. He had expected to have to fight his way through hordes of droid-thralls and lesser foes before finding their target, but instead, here she was, and with so little resistance.
The Space Marine regarded the situation at present. The girlish, tiny Queen he had hoisted over his shoulder continued to squawk at him, the preliminary translation program that the Archmagos had armed them with, unable to keep up with the speed at which she was berating him at. This was no issue, since she was incapable of actually putting up resistance.
Her defenders, however, were a different issue altogether. They were brandishing weapons, and judging by the tone of their voices, were preparing to use them. Erasmus considered what any Black Templar would have done in such a situation, namely, violence. He had no doubts that he and his squad could slay each and everyone of the Queen's defenders with the same ease with which they had dispatched the droid-thralls. Yet, they were human, and that fact alone gave his blade pause. Of course, humanity alone did not excuse their actions. Mortals who stood in the path of Astartes were standing in the path of the Emperor's will and holy purpose, and hence were guilty of blasphemy, a sin worth dying for. No doubt any of the chapter's chaplains would have urged Erasmus to slay each and every heretic where they stood.
And yet, something stayed his blade. These humans were heretics, yes, but they were untouched by the Emperor's light. They lived in darkness, dwelling far from the sacrosanct light of the Astronomicon. To judge them guilty would be to withhold from them the opportunity to ever come to know the blessed truth - and to serve the Emperor, as was their birthright as sons of mankind.
"Hold Brothers." His voice, hard as granite, boomed through the voxnet. His squad paused, but did not lower their raised weapons.
Pausing, he allowed the cog-translator to turn, converting his intended words from low Gothic to this barbaric, bastardized tongue that the Archmagos had named Galactic Basic.
"In the light of the Beneficent Emperor of Man, who sits upon the Golden Throne of Terra and watches over all blessed Humanity, throw down your weapons and accept that this is as He decrees. Continue to obstruct us, his Angels of Death, and you will face the judgment that comes upon heretics." He allowed the words to rumble through his vox-grille. That would be clear enough to them, he surmised.
Qui-Gon was bewildered. He had no idea what the stranger had just said. Blessed Humanity? Golden Throne of Terra? Emperor of Man?
Either way, it seemed that it was not looking for a fight just yet, and after all, it had just annihilated an entire battalion of droids. Glancing at Obi-Wan, he gestured at him to lower his blade.
"I am Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. Whoever your Emperor of Man is, we have no quarrel with him. I must, however, ask you to put the Queen down. The Jedi have been charged with her safety, and I cannot allow her to be taken against her will." Qui-Gon spoke with a confidence he did not fully feel. He was still tired from his battle with the Sith Zabrak, and he had witnessed the devastation that the strangers had wrought in mere seconds. He was under no illusions that he could defeat this new threat, and Jedi did not meaninglessly throw away their lives.
Then Qui-Gon saw the Queen's face, and barely resisted the urge to put his head in his hands.
Padme was deep in thought. Despite the absurdity of the situation, she was quickly seeing how it could be turned into benefitting her people and her planet. Whoever this Emperor of Mankind was, he had apparently wanted something to do with her badly enough to send his "Angels of Death" to intervene and rescue (or kidnap) her. Judging by the sounds of warfare raging beyond the walls of the palace, she surmised that whoever this Blessed Humanity was, they must have also possessed a sizable military force, and had engaged the Trade Federation in battle. She had already spent days as a captive of the Nemodians, and the enemy of her enemy was her friend, right?
It clicked for her. Yes, she would allow these Angels of Death to take her with them, and she would meet with this Emperor of Man to see what he wanted, and discuss terms. She presumed these warriors were his personal bodyguard, or something along those lines. That meant whatever he wanted, he needed her, and badly.
She opened her mouth to speak, and caught sight of Qui-Gon's face. Glee filled her. Finally, his stoic mask slipped.
"Actually, Master Jedi, I would like to speak to this Emperor of Mankind. Take me with you, Angel." She thought she did well to sound imperious and regal, considering she was draped helplessly over a definitely solid and cold metal shoulder.
"Although, I will have to ask you to put me down." She added, rather lamely.
Obi-Wan could barely contain his shock. Evidently, neither could his Master.
"This is most unusual, Your Highness." Qui-Gon said.
"Well. Considering my planet is currently under foreign occupation, I think circumstances call for unusual. It appears our friend here has an army. Do you have an army, Master Jedi?" Padme replied. She could not hide the satisfaction at finally getting under the unflappable Jedi's skin.
"The Jedi are peacekeepers -" Qui-Gon began.
"And you've done a fantastic job, thank you very much. Go keep the peace somewhere else, you bothersome loaf." Padme interrupted Qui-Gon. She felt very much untouchable, considering where she was. It helped that Qui-Gon had to crane his neck just to make eye contact with her.
"Enough. We are leaving." That robotic, larger-than-life voice rumbled through the hangar once more. Padme flinched, then uttered a startled gasp as the machine-man-mountain turned. She grabbed on to the pauldron, once again protesting that she was perfectly capable of walking on her own, to no avail.
The armored giants turned with eerie precision, moving together with a grace that belied their enormous size and apparent strength.
The sound of a third lightsaber igniting gave Padme pause, and she turned to see the Sith Zabrak standing before the huge entrance to the hangar. The crimson blade hummed with the promise of violence, and he lifted it in an unspoken challenge to the strangers. Padme gulped.
Now this, Erasmus was familiar with. Once more, the hated alien stood between him and his joyous purpose. Once more, even so far from home, in another universe, the cursed xenos stood before him, challenging him, mocking him, threatening humanity itself.
He felt hatred rise up in his heart, a special kind, reserved only for that most hated of foe. He took in the disgusting crimson skin, the animalistic horns, the foul caricature of pure, bipedal human form, and knew only rage.
"Brother Reinhardt. Take the asset." He voxed. Seamlessly, his battle brother closed the distance, seizing the now silent Queen from his shoulder.
He grasped his power sword, feeling its familiar, comfortable weight in his hand. He thumbed the activation trigger in its hilt, its machine spirit awakening to his rage to purr with expectant bloodlust. The power field crackled to life about its venerable blade, sparking and spitting.
"Go." He voxed once more. As his squad moved, he lifted his blade to mirror the abomination posture.
A prayer rose, unbidden, in his twin beating hearts. A sword song of battle and devotion, a hymn of duty for mankind.
"Suffer not the Xenos to live." Erasmus growled, before charging.
Qui-Gon immediately moved to follow the departing warriors.
"Obi-Wan, come. We must see to the Queen's safety."
"What of the Sith, Master?" Obi-Wan asked.
"He is after the Queen. Should he prevail against our strange friend, we will find him wherever the Queen is. Should he fall, then that is one less Sith for the galaxy to be worried about." Qui-Gon uttered sagely. In truth, he rather hoped that the black-armored warrior would deal with the Sith. It had been a rough couple of days, and he was due for some blessings from the Force.
The two Jedi sheathed their lightsabers, hurrying after the rapidly departing Angels of Death.
The obsidian colossus was unrelenting, its assault ferocious and punishing. It was all Maul could do to stay alive. Fury and hatred filled him as he drank deeper of the Dark Side, and yet the rush of power that filled him, that had always empowered him past his limits, seemed insufficient. He spun, saberstaff whirling on the defensive, parrying and deflecting, directing the blows of the juggernaut away from his body. He had learned quickly that blocking those crushing strikes was suicidal, the first blow of such force had driven him to his knees and the following swing had been an inch from ending him right there and then.
Desperation was beginning to take root as that crackling, ornate sword came again. It looked like something a Mandalorian would wield, if Mandalorians were over two meters in height and could move faster than a Force-empowered Zabrak. Runes of unknown origin glowed with a hateful hue along the length of the strange metal, and the glowing blue nimbus of energy that surrounded the blade sparked and shimmered each time it came into contact with Maul's crimson lightsaber. It was no vibrosword, nor was it some sort of esoteric hitherto unseen form of lightsaber. It was a brutish instrument, thick and broad, seemingly unwieldly. Despite that, it was clearly still extremely capable of killing him.
Maul did not like fighting defensively. He was not particularly skilled at fighting defensively. He was a Sith Assassin, trained in hunting his prey, seizing the initiative and hammering upon his adversary until they fell. And yet, his foe had easily batted aside his initial assault and turned the tide of the duel. It was too fast, too strong, and too skilled, and showed no signs of slowing. Maul's own sweat drenched his deep red skin, his robes damp with exertion. The Dark Side numbed him to the ache in his limbs, pushing beyond his physical limits, but still he felt it was inadequate. His implacable foe showed no signs of exhaustion. It was no droid. Maul knew that no droid was capable of fighting at such a level for so long. It must have been an organic under that cursed armor. But what organic species in the galaxy was capable of such monstrous power? It was not drawing on the Force, and Maul knew of no combat stimulant in the galaxy capable of pushing a combatant to this level.
Whatever it was, this was a problem. Maul knew he had to escape, to return to his Master and warn him of this new development. Another blow came, Maul barely turning it aside, only to grunt in pain as his foe adapted, stepping within his guard and ramming its massive armored shoulder into Maul's chest. Maul felt bones buckle and he threw himself back with the momentum generated by the blow, clearing some distance. The Dark Side roiled, filling him with even greater hatred and turning his agony into power.
He felt something shift in the Force, and instantly tumbled further backwards. His foe advanced, helmeted visage giving away nothing but promised pain, only to be met by the activation of the electron walls that guarded the entrance to the Generator Core within the Refinery Complex. Maul would never admit it, but the respite brought to him was beyond welcome. He sank to a knee, uncaring that it showed weakness, struggling to draw breath. Blood dribbled from his mouth and ears.
His momentary reverie was broken by a series of thunderous detonations, as the armored warrior drew forth an enormous, obscenely engineered device. It looked like an oversized, blocky gun, and to Maul's shock, his foe pulled the trigger, unleashing several explosions from the barrel of the huge pistol. Nobody had used propellant-based weapons in the Galaxy for millenia - and why would they? Blaster technology was simply far too efficient compared to such unreliable, uncivilized technology.
The ammunition that hurled forth slammed into the laser gate separating the pair each round exploding ferociously. The pale red sheet of energy flared, whiting out with each impact, the generators struggling to maintain the integrity of the electron field. This truly filled Maul with fear. Electron walls were impervious to energy weapons, even lightsabers. That this being could test them to their limits was unimaginable. Furiously, he came to his feet, pacing back and forth. It was a show of bravado, and Maul knew it. The fight could not last much longer. Dark Side or not, he was quickly reaching his last legs in this duel.
His opponent, apparently convinced that his weapon could not breach the electron wall, holstered it. Maul decided that he could not afford to allow him to use it when their contest restarted. His lightsaber could turn aside blaster fire like water, but attempting to deflect those explosive rounds was foolish. It would blow his arms off, if not kill him outright.
Suddenly, his opponent reached for the seal of his helmet. Maul paused. This was unexpected. A hiss of depressurization echoed through the Plasma Refinery, accompanied by the sound of servos whirring.
The figure leveled his sword, the point touching the electron field, sending ripples of power flashing across the plane of energy. The blade hovered menacingly, pointed straight at Maul. It was a challenge, one that radiated contempt.
The figure lifted its helm. Maul flinched, stunned. It was a seemingly human face. Of course, larger than any human Maul had seen across the galaxy, but human nonetheless. His eyes, however, Maul could not find the words to describe.
They shone with hatred. Pure, unadulterated hatred. Maul felt the Dark Side within him stir, aroused by such a display.
The huge man began to speak an alien tongue, far from galactic Basic. It was harsh, guttural, dripping with venom. Maul frowned. Just what was this creature?
Erasmus laid his bare eyes upon the red-skinned Xenos warrior. Disgust swelled within his breast, matched only by his hatred for the foul being.
"You have fought admirably, for an alien. For that, I shall grant you the honor of meeting your death eye to eye." Erasmus spat. He truly did mean it. The Xenos had put up remarkable resistance. It was deceptively quick, and that energy sword that it wielded was a match for his power sword, capable of withstanding its sundering blows. Erasmus had not relished such a contest since he slew the Greenskin Warboss Urtzbag Gutspilla upon the steps of the Holy Temple of Sanctifcation upon the Shrine World Ophelia-VII. The toothed tassel that hung from the hilt of his sword was his laurel for that glorious victory, one that was still remembered amongst his Crusade's battle hymns and recitations.
The xenos was tiring. His keen senses told him as much. Its defense was growing desperate, counter ripostes reeking of exhaustion and fear. Whatever foul xenos sorcery it relied upon to match him in speed and strength was not enough. Not when pit against the transhuman physicality of a Space Marine, let alone one so battle-hardened as a Sword Brother of the Black Templars.
His twin hearts cycled once more, their surging rhythm swelling in intensity. He willed his breath to steady, steeling himself for the end. A flicker, a shift in the air, and Erasmus lunged forward. The electron wall came down, and once more Black Templar clashed with Sith Assassin.
Erasmus crashed upon the alien like the wrath of Sigismund given corporeal form. His blade swept through the ionized atmosphere around them, power field crackling as it smashed aside the crimson xenos blade. Onwards, Erasmus pushed. Each time the blades clashed shockwaves reverberated around them, air displaced by the very force of their blows. Their duel moved deeper into the complex, out onto a walkway that bridged over a void. Below, swirling reservoirs of plasma churned, held barely in place by electro-magnetic envelopes and fields.
The narrowness of the ground suited Erasmus just fine. The alien had less room to dodge and pirouette, less room to evade and deflect his righteous blows. The servos in his armor purred and growled, straining as the Templar Sergeant searched for the opening to end their struggle. The alien seemed to sense the danger as well, preternatural reflexes allowing it to just barely stay ahead of Erasmus' strikes. It caught the Sergeant's blow, upon the inside of his blade, pivoting with the motion and unleashing a ferocious strike from the other end of his saber staff. Erasmus growled as the energy blade crashed upon his ceramite breastplate, the first blow the alien had managed to land. In his tactical interface warning signs immediately burst to life as the ceramite warped. The blade did not cut through immediately, but instead began to superheat the ceramite, threatening to burn its way through. That split second of contact had been enough to set off alarms in his power armor. The alien, though nearly spent, was still dangerous.
Fury filled the sergeant at the desecration of his sacred armor. The touch of an alien blade would require ritual cleansing to restore its sanctity and to atone to the Emperor. His left hand released its grip on his power sword, freeing itself to land like a vice grip around the elongated hilt of the alien's blade. Grunting with exertion, he wrenched the blade away from his chest, simultaneously opening up the alien for a finishing strike.
With a single fluid motion, the alien warrior turned away from Erasmus and split the lower half of his weapon from the section that Erasmus had seized, moving free of his control over its guard. With a single blade now the alien leapt, bringing it around at Erasmus' unarmored face.
The Templar was too fast. With a roar he surged forward, catching the xenos mid-strike, mid-air, with a headbutt of utter ferocity. Erasmus' bones were like adamantium, stronger than any unaugmented biological life form. A headbutt from a Space Marine was as deadly a weapon as a chainsword.
The alien's frame crumpled like wet tissue, the force of the impact hurling its broken body across the catwalk through the exit at its end, into a circular chamber. A pit gaped invitingly at its center, opening up into a sea of churning, raw plasma.
Erasmus closed the distance, casting aside the now deactivated half of the alien weapon, storming across the catwalk in half a dozen paces, intent on slaughtering his foe and ending their battle. He burst into the confined space of the plasma well containment chamber, and found the alien was already struggling to its feet, one hand gripping its now single-bladed weapon, the other clutched to his deformed, collapsed abdomen. Its lungs, if it had any, were crushed, its breathing laboured and heavy, limbs trembling with exhaustion. And yet, it stood, yellow eyes defiant.
Mortal men might have given pause, taken aback by the sheer resilience of the red-skinned Xenos. Erasmus however, was not a mortal man. The Sword Brother had battled Tyranid Warriors and Ork Warbosses, Daemons and cursed Traitor Marines, each and all capable of astonishing feats of endurance. He had taken the head of a Plague Marine at the height of the Shrine Worlds Crusade, and watched it stagger back to its feet to resume its inexorable advance. Compared to the Archenemy, this was an annoyance, and nothing more.
Erasmus decided against using his bolt pistol to finish his beaten opponent. The alien had tested him, the first to do so in this new, strange Universe, and he would at least grant it death by his blade. Besides, he needed the ammunition.
Maul grimaced. He focused on the pain coursing through his body, leaning upon it, drawing on the rage he felt to dive deeper and deeper into the Dark Side, as his Master had taught him. Pain was a familiar friend. He had been driven to the brink of death many times by his Master's cruel affections. This, however, was different. He could feel it, the blood spurting from his lips and inside his broken body. Each ragged breath he drew sent bursts of pain shooting up and down his abdomen and chest, shattered bones digging deep into his flesh. He knew death was but a breath away, and the thought of it unleashed a torrent of emotion that Maul had no name for.
The black-armoured juggernaut was through the entrance, eating up the distance between them, and time seemed to slow down, the Force coursing through his veins. Defiance rose up within his broken spirit. He did not want to die. The Dark Side, ever his sordid companion, screamed its siren song, demanding his spirit, and the blood of his foe. Maul acquiesced, fully abandoning himself to that corrosive ocean of power. He had always drunk from it, and drunk deeply, but now, that most primal of fears, the terror of mortality and oblivion drove him to desperation. He submerged himself, feeling the icy embrace of the unadulterated substance of the universe itself, perverse and wretched, clawing at every fiber of his being. It was orgasmic and terrifying all at the same time as Maul, for a singular instant in time, became one with the Force.
For a heartbeat, Sidious' apprentice did not feel pain, or rage, or hatred. It was a strange, alien feeling, akin to a sudden, climactic silence after a lifetime of noise.
The Force has set me free!
He screamed, but he did not know if it made it past his lips. His foe had closed the gap, blade extended, seeking to end this apotheotic moment of transcendence.
Power like he had never felt before filled his limbs, an almighty tidal wave of hate and fury. This was the Dark Side, Maul exulted. Unlimited power, but only for the strong. Maul screamed once more, a Zabrak war cry from his forgotten and lost childhood.
He lunged, meeting his enemy as he had done for his entire life, short and brutal though it w as. Head on, with blade in hand and snarl on his lips.
He did not feel the sword split him in half.
The bifurcated alien corpse slumped to a ground with a dull, wet thump. Its horned, bald head crackled against the metallic floor, leaving a streak of dull, coppery-red fluid as the upper half of the body rolled to a stop, sordid yellow eyes still staring vacuously into the abyss.
Erasmus snarled in equal parts fury and pain. At the moment of its death the alien had struck a final, vengeful blow that had, by some wych-trick or sorcery, found the small gap between the ceramite of his breastplate and pauldron. The crimson energy blade buried in his shoulder had burned through the thinner underlayer of protection and through his bodyglove, spearing his left pectoral.
Bless the Emperor, it had only been for an instant. At the moment of the xenos' death the blade had deactivated, spluttering away with a snap-hiss. Still, the damage was considerable. The blade had burned as hot as a melta beam, cauterizing and melting flesh and muscle. Already his superhuman body was repairing itself, regenerating burnt tissue and regrowing melted muscle fiber, but Erasmus knew that the wound would require the attention of an apothecary for true restoration. This universe was not absent of danger, then. Such a weapon would have slain him, given the chance. God-Emperor willing, that chance would never come.
His power armor's autoinjectors flushed stimulants and pain suppressants through his system, reducing the pain to nothing more than a dull ache. He tested his arm, finding the restriction in range of motion to be acceptable for continued combat, at least till the resolution of this mission.
Fixing his attention upon the remains of his slain foe, Erasmus fell to one knee.
"Beneficent God-Emperor, your servant thanks You. Take this victory as a sacrament of my devotion. Guide my hand as I bring Your light to this benighted realm."
He remained in prayerful supplication for a moment longer, before rising to his armored feet. Resealing his helm over his head, he stalked forward. He gathered up the alien's weapon. It would make an excellent trophy for a hard won victory over the xenos - after it had been ritually cleansed of its abominable taint, of course.
Erasmus stalked from the chamber, leaving two the two halves of the slaughtered alien soaking in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.
Maul was dead.
At least, he should have been. He was adrift in an ocean of darkness. He could not feel his legs, or his arms. He could not feel anything, really. His mind wandered, images of a broken, forgotten childhood dancing on the edge of his awareness like mist and shadow.
He remembered pain and joy, suffering and triumph. He remembered the desperate craving for his Master's approval, a hunger that now seemed so far away.
Maul was dead.
He did not want to die. In that moment, he had truly felt the Force. He had felt what it meant to be one with the Universe, what the old mantra had truly meant that the Force would set him free. He had tasted, and that thirst now bled through the veil between oblivion and being, between death and his cursed life.
Something stirred in the nothingness, that void of unknowability. Maul felt it, or more aptly, it felt Maul. Something stirred in that realm beyond realms, a sleeping, incomprehensibly gargantuan presence. To call it a mind would be to call a star a candle, a being on a scale to which scales ceased to have any meaning. It was timelessly ancient, eldritch, eschatologically apocalyptic, its very coming the birthing pangs of the end of all things.
A singular tendril, the fidgeting of a dreaming God, brushed against Maul's ebbing soul, drawn by a hatred and desire for vengeance so pure in its desperation that it shone forth, a flare amidst the black of night. Strength anew flowed through his incorporeal form, a rage so pure, so right, urging him to defy the haunting embrace of oblivion, compelling him to rise once more, demanding, nay, commanding that he spill blood across the stars in an unceasing litany of devotion to -
Maul was dead, but yet, his lips, frozen in rictus, began to move. Blood frothed and bubbled from a broken body sliced in twain, and yet the corpse spoke.
Blood for the Blood God.
A/N
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