Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 14
Xavaar knelt naked upon the cold floor, hands clasped together as if praying. Without his armour the horrific nature of his wounds became evident, flayed muscles and stripped nerves exposed for all to see. He was a statue of red veins and tendons, bereft even of his tanned flesh mask. Only a faint shimmer surrounding him betrayed the spells keeping him alive, sorcerous power holding his body together and keeping blood from exploding across the walls.
He was alone, kneeling in an empty chamber on the tip of one of Oblivioni Cavum's extended arms. The room was wide and empty, with nothing but an armourglass roof to reveal the stars beyond. It was into those endless depths he sought to send his spirit, questing to make contact with minds hundreds, if not thousands of light-years away. He snorted under his breath at the thought, knowing there were few in the galaxy who could perform what he sought to accomplish. The strongest Librarians of the Legions, Malcador while he had been alive, a couple of Primarchs and the false Emperor himself. Only the strongest could withstand the raw depths of the Warp without protection.
Lesser Psykers required the Soul Binding to become Astropaths, an experience as horrific as it was wondrous. Xavaar wondered how many knew the ghastly nature of that ritual. They told the masses Astropaths gained a fragment of the Emperor's fathomless power, but the truth was the ritual took more than it gave, gelding souls of vital animus, to make them unappealing to Daemonkind. Astropaths lived lives of short torment, supposedly burning out from the workload of their tasks, but in truth dying as a result of their conditioning. For all his supposed benevolence the Emperor could be a bloodthirsty bastard, spending lives with a ruthlessness that made Pertuarbo look timid. The Corpse Grinder had nothing on his father when it came to callousness.
Xavaar grew irritated as he realised his attention was wandering. No, he was deliberately avoiding the task at hand, trying to find an excuse not to reach out. He didn't want to contact the Legion and talk to his Primarch. His punishment lingered, making him reluctant but that was only part of the issue. For all its drab tedium at least exile had been quiet, no more slaughtering helpless masses, no more atrocities and massacres of victims. He'd fought as a Night Lord must, but never truly enjoyed it, never revelled in the blood and tears. Herdian Orbital medical had been the making of him, but none knew the truth of that day. If they did his life would be measured in hours.
With a wrench of will Xavaar ripped his mind free of his physical body and floated free as an astral projection. The Thousand Sons called this a subtle body but he referred to it as a shade-self. His psychic self-image was the Marine he once was, whole and unmaimed. He had been handsome, in a condescending way, with sleek hair and a pointed nose. He refused to cast his ethereal eyes back to his ruined body, knowing to look would make him refuse to ever come back. He couldn't risk that, he had to be unyielding in will.
Xavaar turned his ghost eyes to the stars and the layers beneath, that haunted nightmare realm that humanity blandly called the Warp. The surface had grown calm and steady, at least as calm as it ever did. That was both reassuring and troubling, it made his task easier but the implications were dire, the galaxy must be reaching some sort of equilibrium, the fires of war guttering out at last. What could that mean, Xavaar had to know.
With a flicker of will Xavaar dove into the Warp, bathing his shade-self in roiling horror. He skimmed the shallowest edge of the Warp, not daring to press too deep, knowing he was but a minnow in this ocean. Sight and sounds and concepts flashed in his awareness, things he didn't want to see, things nobody should ever see. Passion and despair, delight and anger, these were real in the Warp, surging tides and dangerous riptides that threatened to snatch him away to be lost forevermore and there were predators too. He perceived Daemons swimming by, things born of congealed emotion and tainted thought, prowling the shoals, ever hungry for prey. He saw them as aquatic predators, things of tentacle and fang and black eye, circling each other in a never ending contest. He chose not to look too long, gazing upon them would draw unwelcome attention, so he made himself small and invisible, passing by without alerting them to his presence.
Even so time was not on his side and he pressed on, seeking his goal. He shifted his mode of awareness and saw the messages, Astropathic communique strung across the galaxy like a primitive telegraph network. Golden flashes were missives passing by, handed from Astropath to Astropath, without ever understanding the contents of what they were relaying. That worked to Xavaar's advantage. With a morsel of will he drifted to the closest golden line and examined the contents. The Imperials had changed their encryptions, symbolic runes carrying intent and meaning in complex cyphers. Xavaar broke the codes with ease, unravelling the messages without trouble. It was laughably easy, the Imperials were predictable and unimaginative, without their Emperor's genius all they could do was derive variations on old codes, too ignorant or timid to dare to innovate. Without the Imperials ever becoming aware he read their messages, learning what was going on in the galaxy in an instant.
The messages were coming from Alar-Median, a stronghold of the Mechanicus that was trying very hard to bury its secret links to the VIIIth Legion. They had always tried to play both sides against the middle, in an amusing sham, but now they seemed to have picked a side at last, not promising news. Xavaar turned his attention to the messages themselves and his spirit grew heavy. The Legionary War had been declared over and Terra proclaimed its victory. He would have scoffed at their naivety save that they had reason to celebrate. The Traitor Legions had been driven back further and faster than he would ever have believed possible. With methodical attrition they had pushed the divided Traitors out, making them retreat to the darkest corners, where the Warp spilling into realspace. Of the Night Lords there were only some confusing references to their presence on the Eastern Fringe, it seemed they were still at large.
Xavaar was relieved to learn it, but then a message caught his attention. It seemed a cult of Emperor-worship had sprung up, spreading across the Imperium like a wildfire. That was an amusing irony, the Emperor would have been outraged at such a turn of events, the ignorant masses were making him into the very thing he'd spent his eternity trying to erase. Xavaar turned his senses to the burning beacon that was Terra, the Astronomican visible even here. He wondered if the people realised what that meant. The Emperor was effectively dead, kept active only by the sacrifice of a thousand psykers a day. Bright shining sparks of potential, humanity's next evolutionary phase, cast upon the bonfire to feed a dying glutton. Humanity was actively denying its own advancement, sacrificing its future to save the present. Their so-called god could not lead them to a better future, all he could offer was stagnation.
Time was growing short and Xavaar determined to do what he came to do. He began composing a message, intending to slip it into the channels of missives. If he shaped it right the Astropaths should never notice the deceit, merely relaying the message on without knowing the Traitors had compromised their communiques. From mind to mind it would fly, crossing the galaxy until it reached its destination, where waiting minds would snatch it from the ether.
Xavaar formed his message and was about to slip it into the channel but as he did so his presence drew unwelcome attention. From the depths flashed a Daemon, boasting a hundred mouths filled with gnashing teeth. It scented his shade-self and hungered for the warmth of his soul, trying to gobble him up in one swoop. Xavaar desperately threw himself aside, darting into a strong current of tears to escape instant death. The flow of anguish snatched him away, leaving the Daemon frustrated but now he had a new problem. The current ripped him away faster than he could process, throwing him into the unknown reaches of the Empyrean. He was about to be lost, his soul left adrift forever, he had to get out, immediately.
Xavaar threw his mind out of the Warp, fleeing to the safety of his bones. It was a desperate gamble, hurried and unpracticed and in his desperation he got stuck. Xavaar hit the interface between Warp and realspace and became pinned in place, lacking the energy to break the surface tension. He was left spinning between two realms, caught in a no-place that was neither. Panic threatened to overwhelm him but he held steady, gathering himself for one last effort. He could break through, if he had but a moment to prepare, but he didn't get it. A bright light washed over him, painful and brilliant, revealing a plane of existence that was not physical nor nightmare. He recognised it instantly, this was the future, a vision coming unwelcome and unbidden.
He tried to turn aside, he tried not to look but the future imposed itself anyway, forced into his mind. Reality shifted and he found himself bound to a hard surface, chained bodily so he could not so much as move his head. He was a prisoner, one being tortured. All around him a sea of magnesium fire raged, bathing him in heat and illumination. He could not look away, he could not close his eyes, his skin was absent so all he could do was stare into that searing light and scream. Purest light, true agony for one born of Nostramo. Xavaar was in hell, trapped in brilliant illumination without any escape. Then he saw it.
In the light was a dark blot of motion, a Space Marine, walking out of the burning corona towards him. A Night Lord but of unusual cast. He wore a helm of feline aspect, with fangs hanging around his neck on a thin cord. Three skulls hung at his belt and his plate glistened with the blood of his victims. His breathed wetly, a sucking wound on his left side revealing ferocious battles, but his strength was not diminished. He closed on the trapped sorcerer with a predator's gait, twin-bladed claws snapped from his wrist to crackle with a power field. Xavaar drew in a breath to cry out but before he could do so the unknown warrior drove twin claws into the Sorcerer's hearts, killing him with one thrust.
Shock ran through Xavaar and agony snapped him out of his confinement. His mind tore free of the vision and fled to his bones, fleeing into his body with a last gasp of exertion. Xavaar's body jerked and then collapsed to the floor, convulsing wildly at the improper return of his soul. Lungs gasped for air as blood thundered in his ears and his mind reeled with revelation. Death, the moment his life ended was revealed in shocking clarity. Xavaar was lost in a haze of confusion and denial and he gasped aloud, "He comes, he comes to end me. Death is looking for me… but is this a shade of what will be, or might be only? Gods below, let Curze be wrong, please any force in the universe that cares to answer, let Curze be wrong."