Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 10

Xavaar sat in the cockpit of the Stormbird and steered it towards their base. He could have let the embedded servitor in the rear seat handle it, but he didn't trust machine minds to do anything more than fly in a straight line, so he chose to handle the controls himself. Outside the canopy the stars drifted by, stark, cold and uncaring for the death of billions across the galaxy. They wheeled slightly as he brushed the controls with a delicate touch, adjusting course with small bursts of plasma thrust that sent the Stormbird past a tumbling asteroid, lit uncomfortably bright by the nearby star, a marker they were almost at their destination.

Xavaar turned his eyes to the heavens and wondered how many worlds had burned in the ashes of Horus' defeat, how far the Legions of Terra had pushed the rebels back. It was possible the surviving Primarchs had rallied and launched a counter-attack, but somehow he doubted it. The rebellion had centred on Horus himself and with his death the others had fractured. Many of them weren't even alive in the strictest sense, degenerate things of warp energy and polluted consciousness, none of them had what it took to unite the rebels under one banner.

A soft tread at the rear hatch heralded Cantus climbing up from the hold. The claw-leader leaned over the rear seat, placing a red gauntlet on the back of the acceleration couch as he looked out and asked, "Can you see it?"

"Soon," Xavaar informed him, "We are on final approach."

Cantus lingered a moment then pressed, "Will Kharkul be offended by the meagre tribute?"

"I don't intend to tell him," Xavaar muttered, "If you like having your head attached to your shoulders I suggest you don't either."

"No thanks, I want to live," Cantus scoffed.

Xavaar sensed there was more on the Claw-leader's mind, but would be damned before asking, so sat silently, waiting for the inevitable question. Sure enough Cantus glanced over and asked, "Have you received any more messages?"

Xavaar rolled his eyes under his flesh-mask and stated, "Nothing recently."

"It's been over a year since we had news," Cantus protested, "Without Astropaths you're our only link to the Legion. Surely you must have heard something."

Xavaar sighed, "The last word I got was the call to Tsagualsa, the Legion was headed there anyway but Curze wanted his sons to gather as swiftly as possible."

"But not us," Cantus growled as he clenched a red fist, "Not the punished and the exiled. He left us here to rot."

"Curze does as Curze wills," Xavaar grunted, "I have no urgent wish to return to the one who peeled my skin off. Are you in great haste to face him again?"

"I don't even know why he condemned me to wear the red hands," Cantus growled, "Did I fall short of his standards, was I not cruel enough or betray a moment of mercy? There was no sign, no trial, merely a sentence to be exiled to this wasteland."

"A trial?" Xavaar mocked, "He is Curze, he does not do courts and legal representation. If you need a reason then remember that our gene-father hates us, he always has. Perhaps he was simply looking to vent his latest bitchfest and you merely happened to be the closest Claw-leader to his door. Feel blessed you still have your skin attached."

"But…" Cantus pressed, "He will recall us sooner or later, won't he?"

"When it suits him," Xavaar allowed, "With the Throne-sworn in resurgence the Night Lords must be mustering for war, he will need us eventually."

Their discussion was cut off as a tiny mote flickered ahead. Both of them leaned forward and peered out the window, taking in the sight of their base and gaol. Swiftly it grew, swelling from a tiny fleck in the night into a bastion among the heavens. It was curiously shaped, a spherical central section crowned by towers and ringed by gunports, trailing antennas below like a jellyfish. The central hub radiated six long arms, each a kilometre long that was tipped by another sphere. Not Imperial made, older and more mysterious, a forgotten outpost of some interstellar human empire that flourished and failed in the dim mists of proto-history. The VIIIth had found it when they claimed this system, taking it for their own purposes and renaming it Oblivioni Cavum, or the Forgotten Pit.

Xavaar sent vox-hails to signal his approach, not that it was needed. Nobody ever came out this way, even Orks didn't bother, too consumed by their eternal feuding. Few slaves manned the auspexs and those that did were worked till they died at their posts. Xavaar was unchallenged as he fired braking thrusters, sliding in between the long arms as he angled towards a landing bay. The station welcomed them into its embrace, yet he could not help but eye the empty piers and docks, lacking any warp-capable ships. When Curze exiled them he had been canny enough not to leave any means of escape, barring interplanetary gunships. The deep gulfs of Interstellar space ensured their confinement better than armed guards and blockade fleets ever could.

The Stormbird flew into a large bay and settled down on its landing claws, ice condensing on its hull as void chilled surfaces met humid air. Cantus hopped down into the hold and joined Greul in herding the prisoners out the hatch. Xavaar let them head off before collecting his staff and walking imperiously into the dim light. He found himself in a bay large enough to house a Cobra destroyer, vast and echoing in its emptiness. The handful of gunships they had been left barely filled a fraction of the space and the noise of working slaves carried into the dark to be lost forever. Wasted and pale figures tended to the Stormbird's needs but Xavaar ignored them as he strode off, heading to meet his lord and master.

It took half an hour to reach the far wall and pass into the interior of the base. The corridors were large and wide, giving him no trouble passing. Ancient machines dotted the walls and roof alongside newer installations, pipes that had been installed before the birth of the Imperium running next to power cables that were barely a few years from the workshop. It had to be noted the older machinery seemed to be holding together better than the new additions. The exiles had hardly been given the best materials to work with and repairing the station was a never-ending task. The base had been abandoned when the Night Lords stopped caring about the wretched Emperor's dictates, only reactivated shortly after the massacre of Istvaan V, when Curze's madness began its epic descent into rabidity.

Xavaar walked with his head held high as he strode towards his destination. On his way he passed a few claws wandering the corridors, on errands he cared not to know. All of them were murderous and treacherous, but none dared challenge him, his reputation ensuring untroubled passage. Each and every one of the Night Lords bore red gauntlets, as did he, all of them exiled for one infringement of Curze's ever-changing mandates, or simply caught up in one of his wild mood swings. Xavaar's own crime came to his mind but he forced it aside, there was no point lingering on the past, not when the future awaited.

His feet brought him to a large hatch and here he paused, surreptitiously checking his flesh-mask was secure before daring to enter. Beyond the door awaited a large facility, once an Apothecarion but repurposed to fell purpose. Rows of medslabs bore scores of bodies, each one hooked up to bubbling alchemical cauldrons and smoking braziers of unholy boiling blood. Dark runes painted every surface and chanting acolytes in the corners sang praises to Khorne. Xavaar was wholly uncomfortable seeing the Ruinous Powers called so openly but kept his distaste hidden, it would not do to offend the master of their exiled band.

Standing in the middle of the room was a bulky shape, far heavier and ponderous than normal Astartes. Terminator plate, but heavily modified. His pauldrons bore marks of Chaos and over his head rose the broken arch of a defunct Iron Halo. His hands were twisted amalgams of flesh and metal, smoking constantly as red light leaked between cracks in the ceramite. His head was bare, bald and polished with red eyes like coals in his face. His features were sharp to an inhuman degree, mutated to resemble a vulture and grinning teeth were revealed to be pointed fangs. To his belt were chained six naked slaves, standing slackly about without awareness, their faces covered in metallic spikes. Kharkul, the Red Flayer, exiled prince and blessed of Khorne.

Kharkul greeted his sorcerer with an amused, "Skinned Man, you join us at an epic moment."

Xavaar hid annoyance at his hated title and replied, "Lord Kharkul, I bring tribute."

"Worthy tribute?"

"It was adequate," Xavaar deflected. He knew better than Kharkul their dire supply situation. Having long exhausted their stockpiles the mining settlements of Copan XII kept them going with metals, foods and flesh, but that wouldn't last long if Kharkul started razing them. The Red Flayer didn't seem to care to press further as he ordered, "Come and see my latest creation."

Xavaar inched closer, passing the wasted helots chained to the Terminator's belt. Survivors of his early experiments, the few who hadn't died, they were frail and weak, little more than bullet shields in Xavaar's opinion but seeds of dark power hid within. The Sorcerer peered at the medslab the Red Flayer was crooning over and saw an Ork laid out, the top of its skull removed. To be in a room with a Greenskin and having it not try to kill him was unsettling, but Xavaar didn't say anything, Kharkul's wrath was not to be tempted.

Kharkul explained, "Humans proved too weak for the boons I granted, but Greenskins are more robust, they withstand my blessing better."

"They still do not live long," Xavaar carefully noted.

"But I have had a breakthrough!" Kharkul crowed, "The issue was their passions, too much emotion triggered a catastrophic breakdown. So I removed certain parts of their brains, robbing them of joy or passion. The results were astonishing; they lasted over an hour in battle before degenerating."

"A whole hour," Xavaar careful stated, "Remarkable, but surely no match for a force armed properly."

In response Kharkul's flexed his fingers as flesh and metal ran together, joining to become a crackling power sword. He held it up to his eyes and crooned, "What good is a weapon in the hand when a warrior can become the weapon? Chaos has blessed me with power beyond measure but also purity of purpose. The simple perfection of the cutting blade, the absolute clarity of the killing thrust. I have become the weapon and must share this revelation with all I meet."

Xavaar was wary of the Red Flayer's unique gifts and remarked, "Such power comes from the gods, and they are jealous of their boons."

"Nonsense," Kharkul scoffed, "They gave me this gift with the intention I share it. I shall create an army that no force in creation can hold against, my living weapons… my Mutilators."

Xavaar snorted, "Curze didn't look kindly upon your dabbling with the Warp. You strayed perilously close to worshipping the Ruinous Powers and you suffered the consequences."

Kharkul gestured and suddenly his fingers ran together, elongating into a silvery lash with a barbed point. It shot forth like an arrow from a bow, heading straight for the Skinned Man's face. Barely a centimetre from his eye it stopped, hanging ominously in the air like a rearing serpent, waiting to pounce with the smallest gesture.

Xavaar did an admirable job keeping any reaction from his stance as the Red Flayer hissed, "Push me again and I shall finish what Night Haunter started."

Xavaar's voice betrayed no trepidation as he stated, "I merely point out Curze will not be impressed with warriors who explode after a few hours in battle. "

Kharkul glared dangerously then withdrew his lash with a curt, "You have a point, the work is far from done, there is still much to learn. Still we advance, Orks make fine test subjects to perfect my arts. It is brute force learning but I advance every day. I shall perfect the process and when I do so all our claws will enjoy the power of Chaos. When Night Haunter returns for us, and he will return, he will find an unbeatable army waiting for him. All our past missteps will be forgotten when we reave across the stars in his name. And after we have crushed all who dare stand against us… Konrad Curze will be made to regret scorning us. He shall pay, oh yes, he shall pay."

Xavaar was sure challenging a Primarch was a sure route to a quick and painful death, but carefully said, "We must arrange some more raids for Ork captives."

Kharkul snorted, "Orks, dumb brutes but useful, once properly gelded. Observe…"

To Xavaar's surprise the Ork on the medslab opened its eyes and said in a bland tone, "What ya want boss?"

Kharkul grinned as he ordered, "Show us your power."

The Ork lifted its hands and needles slid out of its right digits, while the left hand mutated into a fleshmetal club. That was impressive enough but more so was the lack of aggression and bloodlust in its eyes. Xavaar had never met a Greenskin that hadn't tried to kill him on sight but this one seemed calm and reposed, content to lie and await orders.

"Too much passion," Kharkul explained, "Remove the bloodlust and they become wet clay for my designs. These are but flawed prototypes, but once I crack the secret I shall marry the strength of the Night Lords with my own gifts."

"And they accept this?" Xavaar pressed.

"Kaos is strong," intoned the Ork solemnly.

Kharkul threw out his arms and proclaimed, "The day of Legions and Primarchs is past, this is an age for gods and through the Mutilators I shall be counted among them!"