Chapter 3.3 The Laughing Falcon Ensnared
Jaghatai decapitated the snake-like beast, its head collapsing to the floor with a thud. With a single stroke, the last commander of the enemy had been slain. Outside the temple his sons continued to mop up the last of the resistance. Soon this world would be a dead ball of rock spinning in space. The entire species would soon be dead, and the galaxy would be rid of another xenos threat to its supremacy.
There had been losses, of course. Many great battle brothers lay dead on the field, but no warrior took the field without the knowledge it might claim his life. None of the brave Astartes of the White Scars felt the fear of death, but the memories of the fallen would be gathered following the battle and recorded in the traditional way. The enemy had paid a thousand fold with their own kind, and even the Emperor's Children would not be able to deny the effectiveness of which the campaign had been conducted.
The Khagan had obeyed willingly when the Warmaster had commanded he take over some of the planets originally found as part of the Third Legion's scouting. The War Hawk had no issue with Sanguinius' appointment of Warmaster, for if there was to be another Khan of Khans amongst the Primarchs there were few so suited to the role. Also in this battle, there might be greater recognition for his Legion's work, for the White Scars were frequently ignored compared to their more celebrated brethren such as the Ultramarines or Imperial Fists.
There had been much discussion how to deal with the Laer, some suggesting that perhaps the species with their high efficiency culture could be integrated into the Imperium. Fulgrim had refused this, and had counseled that only the perfection of humanity should be permitted within the perfect Imperium. Jaghatai had agreed, saying there was no room for beasts to sit at the table with the warriors of mankind, and since this was now the War Hawk's campaign to undertake, the Khagan did so with full force.
The Laer would be totally exterminated. Their blasphemous temples ground to dust, their icons and symbols wiped off the face of the galaxy forever.
As Jaghatai watched the lifeless body slump to the floor, he noticed one of the blades held by the beast hit the ground with a clatter that echoed around the central nave of the building. It was unlike the others, its design far more ornate, its edge supernaturally sharp. Impressed by the craftsmanship, Jaghatai reached down to pick up the weapon. There was something unreal about the sword, the light seemed to shudder as it came into contact with it, as if afraid to reveal the blade's very existence to the world.
Jaghatai wrapped his hand around the hilt of the blade, feeling the impossibly defined leather grip. A violet hue seemed to engulf parts of the weapon, and it seemed to almost whisper to Jaghatai, a beg, a pleading to be used. It was a fine blade. The War Hawk might be accused of being a barbarian to those ignorant of the Primarch, but the Khagan could appreciate great craftsmanship, and this sword was of a fine make beyond almost anything he had ever seen.
As he stared intently at the blade, examining its curvatures and its cutting edge, a figure approached him from the temple entrance. One of his warriors, an Astartes clad in white, bowed before his Lord with a sign of the greatest deference.
"My Lord," said the figure, "Forgive my intrusion. It is I, Targutai Yesugei. I beg your audience for a moment, my Lord. It is urgent."
"Speak then," said Jaghatai, not turning to face the figure, instead continuing to examine the blade. The edge of the blade seemed to almost sing, almost whisper to him. Part of Jaghatai felt a desire to look away, but the greater whole of his being felt drawn to the echoes in his mind and the beauty of the weapon.
"Thank you my Lord," said Targutai, in an urgent tone, "My Lord ever since this campaign started something has felt wrong to me. This place… this planet. It feels like a trap. Some malign force has brought us here, and even now seeks to ensnare us in its grasp."
"The battle is over," said Jaghatai in a casual voice, still not turning to face Targutai, "I brought you all the way out here Targutai, from Chogoris, to engage the enemy in glorious combat. I wanted my best and my most trusted to gain glory on this field. For your names to be spread across the Imperium and gain the renown you rightfully deserve. The enemy lies broken on the field of war. We have destroyed everything and will leave no trace of their civilization standing. How can there be fear of a trap when there is no one left to spring it?"
"It is not a trap of the body I fear, it is a trap of the mind," pressed Targutai, "This entire planet has a malevolent aura. It has the scent of a dead carcass that has been dressed up in perfumes and spices to appear enticing. But I can sense the cruel intent below the surface. It is all around us, my Lord, it seeks to prey on us."
Targutai noticed he did not have his Lord's full attention. Walking forward, he looked at the weapon held in his Lord's grasp, a cruel and jagged thing of pure spite. He gasped, sensing the malign force trapped within and rushed forward to grab his Lord's arm.
"My Lord! This blade! It is not safe! We must destroy it immediately!"
"What are you talking about," growled Jaghatai, looking down at the hand upon his sword arm.
"He is jealous of you," whispered the blade, "He wants me for his own. He wishes to take me from you."
"In that weapon, my Lord. I sense something dark," began Targutai, "Something that should not be on this plane of reality. I sense-"
"You sense. You Sense?!" hissed the Khagan, "When were you given leave to 'Sense'?!"
"He defies you," came the whispers again, "He wishes to ensnare you with his powers and take from you what is rightfully yours. After everything you have done for him. After the honour you allowed him to gain by bringing him here to this battle. He has betrayed you. He wishes to steal your honour and your possessions."
Targutai stepped back in surprise at his Lord's anger. His friend of many years had never spoken to him in this way, with such hate. It was almost as if his beloved Khagan had been replaced by another that wore his face but spoke with a different voice. He raised his hands in a placating gesture.
"My Lord I-"
"He plans to strike, do not let him. Do not let him gather allies. Do not let him turn your sons against you. You must end this here, now, whilst there is still a chance. If you do not I will be taken from you."
"Were not Witchery and Sorcery forbidden by your failures on Nikaea!" rumbled Jaghatai, moving towards Targutai like a hunter stalking prey, "Has not both the Regent and the Warmaster decreed that there must be no use of your warlock craft within the Legions?! You are Stormseer NO LONGER!"
"Yes, but My Lord, you said-" protested Targutai.
"STRIKE NOW! YOU MUST STRIKE! HE HAS DEFIED YOU! STRIKE NOW!" screamed the voice in Jaghatai's mind.
"YOU HAVE DEFIED MY RULE!" yelled the Khagan, "AND YOU SHALL DIE FOR YOUR INSOLENCE!"
"NO! MY LORD!" screamed Targutai as the blade slice down across his chest. The edge, powered by the strength of a Primarch, cut the Astartes clean in 2 as the screaming remnants of Targutai collapsed to the floor, to be finally silenced.
Jaghatai looked down at his fallen Stormseer and sighed. It was such a waste. Targutai was a trusted friend, a warrior that had been with him since his youth. His council had been invaluable. This should never have come to pass.
For a moment, a sense of grief and sadness welled up in the War Hawk, for the loss he now suffered.
But that feeling was quickly squashed by another. Certainty. It had to be done. He could not have his warriors defying his will. Even one as close as Targutai. They needed to understand, he was the KHAGAN. The Khan of Khans. His rule was absolute. The lives of his men were his to spend as he wished, they were to die when he commanded them to die. He owned them, every single one, and could do as he wished with them.
Jaghatai returned to examining the blade. As he began to walk from the temple, he was met with Hasik Noyan-Khan, the highest ranking warrior beside himself on the field. The commander looked behind his lord to see the fallen form of Targutai and gasped in horror.
"My Lord! What happened to the Stormseer?!"
"He was cut down," said Jaghatai, nonchalantly, "How goes the rest of compliance?"
"Small pockets of resistance only," said Hasik, somewhat stunned by the loss of one of the Khagan's oldest comrades, "We expect to be finished within the day."
"Burn the bodies," said Jaghatai, "And gather everything of value you can find. Not just the weapons and devices of these creatures. Anything of interest, trinkets, perfumes, stimulants, catalogue it all and present to me a full manifest."
"As you command, my Khagan," bowed Hasik, still glancing over at the remains of Targutai. He made a mental note to have several of his subordinates come in and retrieve the body of the fallen Stormseer. It was a tragic loss to the Legion, one far greater than any would ever realise.
As the bodies of the Laer were burned, as per the Khagan's command, they unleashed a sickly scent into the air. The Astartes in the vicinity could not help but stop and inhale the smell, from it feeling an enjoyable stimulation of the senses. Some warriors even started camping around the fires, forgoing their order in favour of basking in the sweet delights of the burning flesh. When their commanders came to reprimand them, they fell to the same lure.
Jaghatai did not take heed of this though. He had more important matters to consider. Such as how to best create a vessel worthy of holding his new blade as his waist. Only he alone was worth was worthy of such a weapon. He was the Khan of Khans, and all should pay him tribute. Only the finest of swords, the finest of silks, the finest of sweetmeats was acceptable to the Khagan. He would no longer settle for lesser tribute.