Prologue : Heeding the Word
From those that would not heed we offer praise to those who do, that they might turn their gaze our way and gift us with the boon of pain, to turn the galaxy red with blood, and feed the Hunger of the Gods!
-Excerpt from the forty-first Book of the Epistles of Lorgar
Strike Cruiser, Infernus.
In Orbit above the Dark Mechanicum Forge-World Ghalmek, Maelstrom.
Arkhor closed his eyes as his battle helm was unsealed from his suit and was gently detached from his head, nauseous air of filtered oxygen escaped from the many vents within the helm as it rose from his head. He took a great gulp of incense filled air, relishing its sweet taste in his mouth. Slowly opening his eyes, the servitors came into vision steadily unscrewing bolts and unwiring tangled connections and gently removing the various parts of his sacred and holy power armour, its gore red shone with the reflections from the braziers about the chamber as the black writing inscribed on his left shoulder guard was carefully cleaned and the pad removed.
A hiss of pressure emanated from his breastplate as the vents were released and the armour depressurized, the clamps on the lone chirumek unfastened the plate and finally his armour was disassembled all about him the pieces of the sacred gear of a warrior-brother was wrapped in black cloth covered in scriptures of gold. He reverently held his stormbolter in his hand and whispered a little prayer as he unclipped the box magazine and held it to a nearby servitor; it received it with a bow and set about restocking its ammunition. . Setting the stormbolter aside in a black box, he began to unfasten the power-fist covering his left arm. Arkhor hissed in pain as it was removed, his war gear and him were fusing, a good sign. He painstakingly set is aside and was immediately carried away by a servitor.
He sighed in relief as the last of the servitors left him alone; he walked to the store room beside the shelves of sacred texts and retrieved a gore red robe from the store, he donned it in his body which significantly enhanced the massive musculature of his body, giving a particular emphasis on the Astartes broadness. Walking toward a small dais in the other corner of the room a chant issued from Arkhor's mouth. He retrieved a book from the shelf entitled Book of Erebus and held it in both his hands, he looked at it and kissed the book, proceeding toward the dais, he suddenly stopped chanting and called out "Prayer!" as if he was communing with the room, immediately the chamber doors locked themselves and the brazier lights darkened, blood candles hidden around the room caught alight as their red light lit the chamber.
Kneeling in front of the dais, he looked at the idols representing the four powers. There was the Warrior God Khorne, sitting on a throne of Skulls surrounded by a sea of blood. Then there was bloated and obese Nurgle the Grandfather, covered in sores and puss flies all about him. Slannesh the Lord of Pleasure, he was represented as a hermaphrodite being surrounded by beauty. Then came the terrible Lord of Change, a great hooded being with many arms and as many eyes on each arm, from his fingers extended myriad threads, indicating Tzeentch's power to manipulate and change, yet his face itself revealed was that of hope.
A golden box lay in front if the dais unravelled from a gore red cloth which sat beneath it. Arkhor's hand strayed over and unlocked the box, he retrieved the contents from the box. A knife with a skin sheet covering the weapon. He unwrapped the skin to find blood engraved writing upon it in the holy dark tongue of the daemons, he scanned over it quickly to ensure what he was told and read was the same. His vision then leapt to the knife, not just any knife. It was the Bone-Knife of Colchis, the first weapon used by the Blessed Daemon Primarch Lorgar, who himself had presented him with the knife and the mission. Varus….the bastard was his target. The last words of Rhobal the Eternal echoed in his mind at the thought of the traitor's name. Rhobal, his tutor and mentor. His closest Warrior-Brother, Honour-Brother and his murder at the hands of the bastard usurper Varus. He clenched his teeth as the memories flooded back, he swore he would see to the end of all who had crossed him and his comrades at Calth, and this was his stepping stone to blessed vengeance. Varus was now a traitor in the Blessed Lorgar's all Seeing Eye. Once again calm settled at the Lord's name.
Arkhor closed his eyes in prayer; the task asked of him was the greatest sin amongst the myriad hosts of Word Bearers. He was to slay a Dark Apostle. Dark Apostle Varus.
Author's Note:Word Bearer fans rejoice, I have finally made the first piece of WB fanfic on this website and damn proud of it! hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it and thanks for reading :) BTW thanks to TLH for supporting me. Cheers mate!