~Reaver, Warrior, Scholar, King~
~798. M30~
~Segmentum Solar~
~Approaching Cthonia~
~The Emperor of Mankind, The Hero with a Thousand Faces~
The Astronomicon had been lit, and energies enough to fuel it for ten-years had been poured into its sorcerous reservoir. Malcador and his new students were incapable of fueling it entirely on their lonesome, but their efforts were enough to keep it lit until he returned. It was unfortunate, but the warp-arts were unpredictable at the best of times, tutoring psykers enough to utilize their abilities while guiding them away from unwelcome mindsets was always slow-going.
If left to their own devices, they'd inevitably find some voice in the warp and decide it was worthy of worship. Mortals were prone to such fearful reactions when all they knew was the closed walls of their old lives. A scholar of the old earth made a comparison like that once, perhaps, it was difficult to recall such ancient days. Caves and shadows on the wall, or something along those lines.
Filled with the instability of song and story, travel through the warp was unpredictable at the best of times. Endless narratives attempting to twist the things that enter to their own ends. Things of the material world were not used to such story-weaving, and were usually twisted into unrecognizable and wretched things by the clashing narratives filling their forms and steering their minds away from themselves.
Many did not have the strength of will to keep true to themselves when surrounded by so many voices demanding that they change, that they be something else, something that suited them more than the individual. The weakness of those to whom struggle and independence was foreign, a weakness that he had long since realized was inherent to humanity.
Men will naturally seek to protect their children. Men are fallible, and will inevitably protect them too much or too little. The wills of their children will be less and less tempered unless they are forced to struggle once more. Untempered children will fall under the sway of unrighteous actors, and those actors will bring suffering to their domains and all domains around them. These actors will inevitably be overthrown by men with wills tempered by the suffering they brought. And men with wills tempered will begin this process anew.
This was a truth he realized in time. He did not know it in his youth, in his days of reckless questing, merry feasting, and the company of eager women. In those days he blamed circumstance of birth, for men having the misfortune to be born behind strong walls. In those days, all he knew was that his sword was straight and he had a clear path to his enemies. He knew better now, for he had seen this great cycle play out time and time again.
Normally he would be content to wait, for men with wills tempered would rise up and bring order to this broken galaxy themselves. Now however, the possibility of mankind's utter defeat was too great to ignore. Extinction or eternal enslavement, neither of which were acceptable outcomes for his people, he would not allow it.
And so, once more, he bore the gold crown of Aquilla upon a troubled brow.
And so, his will burned in the warp, and the manifold narratives that attempted to lead them astray were instead forced to bow to his story. A great burning flame surrounding his fleet, turning the chaos of random wills into a single vision of imperial gold. Long ago, when he first bore a crown, he had lamented having no clear path and a useless sword.
He knew better now. Now he knew that attempting to find a path was useless with the constant whispers of malicious things surrounding mankind. Constantly attempting to lead the steadfast astray, to worship wretched things that did nothing but take. Now he knew it was better to slice through the endless tangles with his sword, and force a path through by tempered will.
There were no steps to take. He did not need to search for a path or a trick. It was the simplest thing, not even a struggle once he realized its riddle.
All he had to do was cut.
Oh how he had laughed when he first realized. A great fool, a madman, roaring with boisterous humor, with hands on his head and belly. For using a sword was something he was quite familiar with.
In the warp, surrounding a crusade-fleet of thousands of ships, the massive image of a cross-hilted blade sliced through the twisting paths of the warp. Stretching for thousands of kilometers in all directions, a blade too large to be wielded by the mightiest of world-giants, a blade made of flame and will. The will of the man sitting in a golden throne of the massive ship that served as the jeweled decoration where the blade and hilt met.
His breathing was steady as he channeled his will through the massive psychic-amplifiers. Artifacts of the Age of Technology, preserved and repaired with what he still remembered of their design process. It was never truly his interest to study such devices, something that proved to be a mistake. The construction of the Astronomicon was still possible, albeit requiring the aid of the Machine Ministers, but it was not as effective as he knew it could be. The model he had fitted into this ship was similarly massive, taking up the majority of what internal workings he could spare.
He would renovate it, once he had the time to rediscover the specific technologies and work on it.
"Lord Emperor. We will be arriving at Cthonia within a day." A quietly awed voice came from the redundant Navigator upon the smaller throne in front of and below his own. Three-eyed and web-handed. There was no purpose to being irritated at it. Concessions had to be made to ensure his fleets had the ability to travel the warp, and he could not be everywhere at once. Training psykers for the task would be ideal, but the Great Crusade could not afford the delay such a task would require.
And so, the mutants that self-styled themselves the Navis Nobilite were given honorable duties and imperial guarantees, despite their numerous flaws and undesirable habits. Required to inbreed to maintain their useful mutations and prone to politicking behind closed doors and nefarious smiles. Seemingly incapable of honesty and with hands too pallid to consider holding a sword, not one was a warrior, and each led a sheltered existence in luxurious manors.
He could not afford a war with them yet, no matter how much disdain he had for them. Not when mankind needed his aid. So he stayed his blade, and made note to put them to the sword when humanity was once more the masters of their fates. When they no longer needed his aid. He knew the day would come again, all mankind needed was a strong hand to pull them from their current muck, and another to show them the way.
So he tolerated an conniving, frail, mutated spawn of incest onboard his ship. Bucephelus was its name, named for a war-horse of his ancient youth, back in days now lost to the mists of history. He had long forgotten the campaigns of those days save their broadest strokes, but he remembered Bucephelus, a mighty and foul-tempered beast that thrashed its head like a bull when brought to fury. A more loyal companion he could not ask for.
"You have my thanks, Lady Navigator." He rumbled out, voice deep and full with power, eyes focused squarely on the distant image of the planet in question and cutting a path to it, seeing farther than she and knowing their time of arrival long before. He did not bother to know her name, and did his best to ignore the rapturous expression on her waifish face. Guiding a fleet through the warp was simply a matter of will and experience, just because he had time to learn did not mean she should fall to her knees.
…Were he a younger man, he might command her to fall to her knees in a different manner. He had few standards in those days, and she was still a woman. He banished the thought from his mind, and focused once more on his target. He had much too little time to waste it indulging in carnal acts.
Cthonia, once a mining colony in the earliest days of void sailing. Any mineral wealth upon it was long since exhausted, tunnels digging deep enough into the molten core that their deepest tunnels ignited the very air with a bodiless flame. The surface was ruled by a distant offshoot colony of the Mechanicum, but the only resource they extracted from Cthonia was humans, all else came from the still-rich veins of metal in the asteroid-fields throughout the system. They were not the majority of the population.
The majority of the population lived below the surface.
A redundant and abandoned world, the people unfortunate enough to be born underneath its surface feuding over ancient and crumbling facilities that produced what scant materials they could in the shadowed halls of endless tunnels. Volcanic, rocky, and long exhausted. He had only one reason to travel to this place.
By word of his supposed son, one of his daughters had landed here, currently scraping out a meager existence as the leader of one of the many gangs that warred in the tunnels below. Assuming the message was not full of lies, that was a state he would expect to find sixteen in.
Drawn from his memories as a fighting man, when the people would beat the kettle drums at his march and scatter gold dust at the hooves of his warhorse. Sixteen was to be such a warrior, with the charisma of a bold warrior and the easy smiles of an upright commander. Dauntless before their soldiers, and mind churning with stratagems to lead them to victory. Sixteen was to be better than him in those days, always holding a humble awareness of themselves and the world that he lacked back then.
Sixteen was drawn to lead others by instinct, they all were, but she was designed to win over their hearts as well as their minds. It was only natural that she would be leading a band of like minded individuals, long used to honest struggle and the clashing of blades.
She was the closest of the listed locations, and thus the simplest manner to start confirming the contents of the message. Other, smaller pieces of information had already been tested and confirmed, but giving concessions to disguise from a greater deception was a venerable trick to the snakes that wear human skin.
And if it was indeed the deception of a serpent, he would go to his proclaimed territory and cut out that tongue himself. Assuming his Tiger-Warrior and the remaining Thunder Warriors hadn't already done so. He was glad he eventually decided to go against Malcador's suggestions on that, levying what few survivors of his old legions there were and granting them a final duty. His old friend was entirely too grim and suspicious at times. It reminded him of himself many thousands of years ago.
He had failed to give them an honorable death at Ararat. With this, he would give them another chance to die with swords in hand and purpose in their hearts, or a renewed life of yet more questing for mankind's future. What man should be denied the right to fight for his people? Who had the right to deny that right?
None did. Certainly not an old relic from long-misted and half-remembered histories such as himself.
—
The thousands of ships exited the warp, returning once more to more stable reality, and now stationed outside of the system in question. At once the distant void navies of the lost Mechanicum colony began to respond, moving to defensive positions around critical assets.
The Archmagos on board his ship was already broadcasting the appropriate signals and information to the local techpriests through their psychic machine-revenant, a servitor they called it, but necromancy was something he was quite familiar with. Through the machine interface they turned what might have once been a man, or what at one point had the potential to be a man, into a puppet. Long ago it was the domain of sorcerers alone.
The technical accomplishment was impressive, even if the result was crude and unseemly to look upon. He wished they would have the proprietary to at least cover the thing in concealing garments, not leave them mostly nude and exposed as they usually were.
But no, that would not 'please the machine-god' if they concealed the conjoining of flesh and technology. He was quite confident that Her-Desher did not dream of that manner of conjoinment.
He grunted, accidentally causing a wave of panicked tensing and worried glances among his attendees. They paid his every action entirely too much consideration, which was frustrating in its own right. Falling over themselves to correct some perceived failing when his thoughts were entirely elsewhere.
Just as was predicted, the Archmagos distantly relaying communications punched in keys and chanted in his machine-speak even faster in the attempt to please him. He did nothing in response, anything he did would only exacerbate the issue and make them even more nerve-wracked, a state that wasn't conducive to getting tasks completed quickly and effectively.
Shortly enough, the Archmagos turned and bowed. "Lord Omnissiah, they have accepted our codes. We shall not be hindered by them." The nervous twitching all throughout his form and panicked thoughts in his nibbled soul conveyed an immense amount of needless worry. It was best to assuage him now.
"You have my thanks, Lord Archmagos. You have performed well." He nodded to emphasize this point.
The almost immediate relaxing and reverent gaze told him that had been successful. Shifting the placement of his immense gauntlets, the Emperor stood from his throne. A giant of four meters, clad in immense plates of ichorous golden metal and the gentle hum of powered servos, left gauntlet ending in an a taloned hand, heart and left underarm covered behind an red and gold ecranche, symbols of eagles and grim faces over the whole of his armor, and golden laurel atop his head.
It was quite ostentatious, but he was fond of the hue.
Casting his psychic-sight over the whole of Cthonia, he searched for a particular soul. It did not take long to find, bright as it was compared to the dim souls around it. Each soul of a normal man, a candle, gathered together to shine like stars in the warp. The souls of his children, radiant bonfires that gathered into shapes more complex than mere fire. He would know, as those soul-shapes were his handiwork.
There, in the midst of the crust near the equator, the fledgling soul of his daughter rested. Sun-crowned, sky-skinned, cattle-horned, music-bringing, queen of hearts and warriors.
He smiled. A wave of awed faces followed in its wake. He was in too good a mood to be irritated at this.
"Deputy Commander Harron. You have my license. Carry out the established plans for contact with the local Mechanicum." He commanded the man who stood next to his throne. The man snapped into a bow and responded immediately.
"At once, Lord Emperor!" He could tell that the man was curious about what he was going to do in the meantime, but too professional to state the question aloud.
"I will be on the planet. I have a daughter to retrieve. Archmagos, inform them of my use of the Imperial Teleportation Array."
With that, he focused his will. Some kilometers away on his ship, the teleportation array churned to life at his bidding, and the desired coordinates were fed within its matrices. With a furrowed brow, he commanded the machine, and the machine obeyed.
The Emperor of Mankind disappeared from the ship with the sound of thunder, carried by archeotech lightning, and appearing again within the atmosphere of Cthonia. Miles above to ensure that he did not strain the machine by trying to teleport him into some physical object.
Rapidly, gravity began to pull down on him, which he allowed. Wind whipped past his face as he fell. The air screamed as he descended. Then, roughly a minute later, he focused his will again.
His descent slowed at a comfortable rate until he came to a gentle stop, armored boots touching down in the midst of a long-destroyed ruin. The only notable feature of which was the tunnel which led down into the labyrinthine network below his feet. Ignoring the baffled stares of the humans hiding in shadows all round him, he began to walk. Step after step into the dim shadows below the surface, guided by the glow of his psychic power.
He did not need to carry a weapon here. Those that were foolish enough to attack him, he cut down with thought alone. He had no need for his full complement of wargear against the mortals of this world.
Perhaps an hour into his delving into the planet's interior, he rounded a particular corner. A defensible killing field opened up in front of him, carved into the rock by people now long dead, manned by newcomers guided by the intuition of their warlord. Or perhaps the will of a foster?
He stood there, in the midst of the underground killing field, and waited. After some time, a voice called out in a language he did not speak, a bastardization of several languages he did speak, however.
"Yer a great big frack'r ain't yah! The frack do you wan'?" The voice of a hungry-lean ganger from behind an improvised barricade. Hundreds of guns pointed in his direction from equally many openings in the walls. Each a veteran of a life of gang-warfare and toil under the shadows of endless rock ceilings.
The Emperor of Mankind smiled. "I am a father, looking for his daughter. I believe you know of her."
"F-frack off! We don' know a godshit thing! Go on an' git before we frack some fracking holes in yer shiny ass!"
A loyal lookout and watchman was hard to come by on planets such as these, he applauded them. Thankfully, he knew how to negotiate with warbands such as these.
"You're lying." A simple statement.
Primitive guns immediately fired upon his location, from all angles, even a few above him. A combination of will, the field projector, and his armor protected him from anything men such as these could muster. He let them fire until they ran out of ammunition.
The clouds of weapon-smoke and stone-dust were cleared away by an application of his will. Fear exploded in the minds of all the warriors around him as they saw he was untouched.
"I am a father, looking for his daughter. May I speak to her?"
"...Y-yah, gimme just a momena frind…" Competent too! Truly a gem.
After some time, two figures emerged from a barricade, great metal sheets moved by two large abhumans and allowing two others to move through. A man and a woman of great scale, perhaps three meters already. A particularly harsh world, or an early landing? Her proportions told him it was likely the latter. The man looked upon him, swallowing down fear as best as he could, masking it behind stoic will, and spoke.
"Ye speaka to Khageddon, overlorde of this war-tribe. Ye claim tah be the fatha of No-name?"
His daughter stared at him, suspicious, but the gleam of wonder in her eyes. He turned his gaze to the petty ganger. The one who cared for his daughter then?
"I am the Emperor of Mankind. I have come to retrieve my daughter. I presume you are her foster?" His voice rumbled, shaking the wills of the empty-gunned gangers and increasingly nervous looking man.
"Hae iz." She spoke, voice powerful and will strong as she looked at him, having to crane her head slightly to meet his gaze. Her hand was near her gun and war-mace. She was ready to battle him if he attempted to attack her or any of her found warband, uncaring of his position and power.
He smiled. Her eyes widened.
"Then I owe him coin for keeping my daughter safe. Come, if you would, I'm here to bring you home."
"Ain't leavin' them in da dumps." She refused, much as he was expecting. Strong bonds between them already, as was her nature. He raised his brows. She wavered.
"..go on an' git, No-name." Khageddon demanded with a head shake to her slightly stunned look, much as he was expecting. "Yer already bangin' yer head on tah rocks down here. We al' knew ye'd outgrow here eventual-like."
She stared for a long while, turning her gaze across the assembled gangers. They came around her, smiles of farewell on their faces. For even if she had the strength to resist his command and demonstrated might, they did not.
She frowned deeply, brows furrowed in sadness, scanning about for any reason to stay. She found none, eventually turning back to him, patiently standing where he was.
"...Yer gunna pay dem. As promised" She demanded, face scrunched up in an angry sorrow.
He nodded. "As promised." He reached out a hand, which she hesitantly took. Leading her by the hand from that place, he allowed her to look back and wave goodbye.
In the typical ganger fashion, this was a mutual exchange of insults and threats.
"Ye get tha frak outta here you great big bitch!"
"Suc mah ass Greyon! Yer just pissed I'm movin' up!"
Eventually, she turned back to him, nervously glancing at him again and again as they walked through the tunnels leading back up to the surface.
"...So… Did ye given me a name…?" She hesitantly asked.
He smiled, and squeezed her hand. She swallowed, and squeezed back. "I named you Hathor."
There was silence for a long time.
"Weirde name."
He snorted in amusement.