Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 131
The interior of the Cathedrum was a vista of macabre glory. Soaring naves were lined with statues of fallen heroes, their contributions to the Novan Crusade immortalised forever. Litany banners hung from archways, inscribed with the names of commanders of lesser status, but not courage. Servo-skulls floated through the high places, fashioned from those whose remains had been recoverable. Meanwhile the lower levels contained the spiked heads of Novan generals, Admirals and Governors, left to rot in contempt. A tribute to the art of death, a house of the dead, where spirits lingered to watch the living in silent judgment. To walk these halls was to feel the eyes of the departed as a chill running down the spine. It reminded Damchak of home.
"A Stair Abyssal," the First commented.
"Give not honour where it is not due," Q'umarkaj admonished, "No house of gentle spirit is this, but a charnel abode for the enders of lives."
"Our host's merits are beyond dispute," Damchak argued.
"A thousand Kinsmen have they laid to rest," Qumarkaj grumbled, "Such waste, they discard lives like purest water poured onto the ground."
Damchak countered, "The Testimony abhors lives wasted, but the cause is worthy. A hundred years did the Serviles of the Sun-Emperor foretell the Crusade shall endure, our own Seers counted no less, yet the Templar sons of Sigismund have driven the cast spear into the Novan's heart in a tenth-span. Such ardour commands my esteem."
Q'umarkaj did not reply, his temper sullen. The pair walked through the halls with solemn dignity, they alone summoned to the meeting of Chapter Masters. The Smoke Jaguars caused much fear among the Serviles of the Black Templars, frail mortals scattering from the path of the feral Space Marines. Damchak had grown accustomed to this, the Frater Templars never seemed to grow used to him. Fearful whispers of profane rites and unholy sacraments dogged their footsteps. Damchak happened to know there was more fact than fiction to such rumour, troths of blood and murder carried out in secret places, but such truths would never pass his lips.
The pair turned a corner and found themselves confronted by their mirror opposites. Towering figures in dark-hued Ceramite, their outlines jagged and sharp. Scars did they carry on their plate, displayed as badges of prowess. Animal teeth dotted their vambraces and jet-black ivory icons were fixed atop their backpacks, each a hand-crafted work of art. The Smoke Jaguars affected a sinister aspect by design, but these ones bore feral savagery as warriors-born. Dark Tusks, successors of Corax, trothed to the Novan Crusade.
At their fore stood a lean warrior, his Mark VII plate pitted as if dipped in acid. Layered ablative plates hung over his pauldrons, with rising talon-claws at the middle. A pair of small ivory circles adorned his backpack, like twin suns of darkness, a motif echoed in the engravings on the back of his gauntlets. Fat cables wound from his backpack to a respirator, which wheezed under a faceplate fashioned to resemble a ghoul-like maw of long fangs, and eye lenses so sunken that the green dots seemed tiny jade fires in the orbs of a skull. This then was Vasaul Empex, Chapter Master of the Dark Tusks.
Q'umarkaj paused before his counterpart and nodded fractionally, "Light of the Dawn be upon you, blood of our blood."
Empex and his Honour Guard halted he grated, "Cousin."
Q'umarkaj looked him up and down, "Death seeks ye, but your shadow-path waxes strong."
"I am not yet for the grave," Empex retorted, "I have work to do first."
"Mighty work," Damchak interrupted, "Songs of lament flow in your wake."
"As they do you," Empex allowed, "Your initial strike on the Battlemoon was... competent."
"High praise indeed," Q'markaj chuckled, "Empex, your gushing tongue brings joy to my hearts."
Empex's reply was to reach up and remove his helm, at least the top half. His lower face was augmented with breathing gear, lending him a rasping tone. The upper half of his head was almost as terrifying as his helmet. Ravaged flesh, skin as dry as parchment and cheekbones so sharp he could cut glass. A ghoul in more ways than one, but it told a harrowing tale. In the first year of the Crusade the Dark Tusks had spearheaded the assault on Chasquit IX, only for the Novans to unleash virus bombs. Millions on both sides had died but when the virus ran its course, and the following firestorms died down, only the Dark Tusks remained. Hastily sealing themselves in deep bunkers, riding out the Exterminatus while all others died. Empex would not speak of the horrors he endured, but his ravaged face was story enough, as were the piles of dead Kinsmen who had not reached safety in time.
"The day of days is upon us," Q'umarkaj announced.
"Finally," Empex growled, "The thought of laying waste to Nova Terra has sustained me these long years."
"Vengeance is a cloying nectar," Q'umarkaj agreed, "All the sweeter the longer it brews."
"A feast of blood, for my slain Brothers," Empex agreed.
"Then let us tarry no longer, the Lord Marshal awaits."
The Chapter Masters turned and strode together, neither ahead nor behind, equals in every way. Damchak cast a glance at the Honour Guards but they remained silent, bolters held upright before them. They had not spoken a word since Chasquit IX, all the more sinister for their inscrutable aura of mystery. Damchak idly wondered if he could convince Tikal to adopt such an attitude.
The two brotherhoods made swift progress, entering a stadium. Descending tiers of pews sank to a sanded floor, packed with dignitaries and generals of the Frater Templars. They stood in solemn silence, attending upon Lord Marshal Bezharad. The Black Templar stood naked upon the sand, carrying only a deactivated power mace in one hand. His body glistened with sweat and his bald head was scarred, but the blood of his foes caking his skin lent gory dignity. They lay about him in broken heaps, Novan prisoners, beaten to death by Bezharad's hand. A some few yet lingered, backing away with short blades held in trembling hands, but the Lord Marshal gave them no respite.
His mace rose and fell and a man collapsed, brains spraying over the sandy floor. Another embraced courage and darted for the Astartes' back, knife stabbing for the kidney. Bezharad was faster, he spun on his heel and brought the mace about, smashing the man away as a bag of shattered bones. The last dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, begging for mercy. Bezharad removed his face with one swing of the flanged mace, earning another coat of blood for his war-paint. The deed was done and Bezharad knelt amid the piles of slain prisoners, mace-head planted in the grizzly remains as he prayed and Serviles rushed forward with rags and water bowls, to wash him clean.
"The son of Sigismund is in fine spirits this day," Q'umarkaj whispered.
Empex wheezed, "Bezharad has sworn not a day shall pass when he does not slay a Heretic, till the Novans are dust. Ten years of Crusade and his oath of moment remains unbroken."
"Thus are legends born," Damchak mused in admiration.
"A shame no others can claim such glory," Empex snorted.
Damchak followed his gaze and saw amid the crowd three figures, the only persons of note in this rabble. The first was lean as a willow and hungry as a vulture, fierce in intent and unforgiving to a fault, a banshee just waiting for her life to end so she could become a spectre of woe. Lady Inquisitor Severa Ganymit, the Sun-Emperor's Headsman. The next was a man with brown robes and a short, pointed beard. His eyes burned with the fires of a zealot and atop his head was a brazier of hot coals, licking flames worn as a crown. His scalp charred where metal rested but he cared not. Cardinal-Militant Helboran, First of the Frater Templars.
Yet it was the third who drew the eye. A Space Marine in plate orange and red. He looked upon the proceedings with guarded thoughts, his stern eyes seeing all and missing nothing. A broadsword hung at his waist, the blade magnificent in make and the pommel wrought in the shape of a clenched fist. His hair was short and flecked with grey, but he yet retained colour enough to jar with his high station. Chapter Master Guntho Jorrim, First of the Fire Lords.
"The son of Dorn seems overly pleased, for one who burns musicians and artists.," Q'umarkaj sneered.
"One petty victory and he thinks he is a High Marshal," Empex agreed.
"Learn his place he must, or he will be taught."
Empex leaned nearer, "I hear he was inducted from the Imperial Fists, as a training officer for the Fire Lords. No Captain though, not a lauded officer, merely a veteran Sergeant."
Damchak scowled, "Why then send him to the climax of crusade?"
Empex grunted, "The Black Templars needed reinforcement, and he commands five times as many Space Marines in this campaign as either of us do, despite them being green as hell."
Bezharad finished his ablutions and arose, naked and dripping water from his limbs. A Servile offered a tabard and he donned it, then took up his cleansed mace declaring, "Attend me." From both sides the Chapter Masters descended, passing through the crowd to stand on coarse sand. The dead bodies were being dragged away but Damchak paid them no mind as he examined the Lord Marshal. Though he gave credence to the priest's diatribes his will was fierce and he brooked no question in the prosecution of his Crusade. For good reason had he been declared master of the Novan Crusade, and his brilliant tactical mind and relentless fervour had accomplished in ten years what any lesser man would have taken a hundred. Truly one to be esteemed.
Bezharad cast his eyes around the room and then said, "Ten years has the Novan Crusade prosecuted these Heretics, ten years have we brought the blessings of unity and the grace of the God-Emperor to the masses. Now at last we stand on the soil of Nova Terra itself. The executioner's axe hangs over the secessionists, and with one swing we shall end this vile Heresy!"
Jorrim lifted his voice, "The Fire Lords claim the honour of assaulting Nu Zantium!"
A flurry of whispers rang around the room but Q'umarkaj sneered, "The Smoke Jaguars will not follow a babe in arms!"
A shocked gasp ran around the room at the insult and Jorrim bristled, "Who are you to speak to me so?"
Damchak winced at the implication Q'umarkaj's name was not worthy of knowing but it was Empex who growled, "Your ignorance is pitiful. If you had been here from the beginning, you would know better than to speak so around your betters."
Jorrim's lip curled, "Corax's gets are ever sly and underhanded. Where were the Raven Guard when the Traitor Legions beat upon the walls?!"
Damchak however grinned, "You forget your colours. No longer do you march in the gold of the Fists Imperial, a Fire Lord are you, a name of no consequence."
Tension marred the air as Jorrim bristled, "We claimed Canticle City."
Q'umarkaj sneered back, "I see fields scorched and music ended, the ashes of those who cannot fight back. Take pride in your deeds, Mil-Arder, crops everywhere shall fear your coming!"
Jorrim's hand fell to his hilt, "I command a thousand Astartes, twice your numbers combined. The assault on Nu Zantium shall be mine to lead!"
"If you throw bodies at those walls without thought, the saga of the Fire Lords will be short indeed."
Helboran spoke over them, "The blood of martyrs is the seed of the Imperium!"
Ganymit agreed, "The Inquisition will not stand idle while Heretics draw breath."
"The stomping Mastodon are thee," Q'umarkaj hissed, "Subtly and circumspection will bring the hunt to a swifter end. Take their eyes so they know terror, take their tongue so they scream in silence, take their hands and feet so they wallow helpless as newborn babes. Let the Smoke Jaguars show you the path."
"Follow you," Jorrim sneered, "Never. The Fire Lords were born for this war, we shall end it!"
Damchak felt the animosity surging between them but then Bezharad lifted his mace and slammed into the sand as he commanded, "Silence!" All fell quiet as the Lord Marshal uttered, "You all presume to know my strategies, but my designs are grander in scope than you can imagine. I do not seek to claim one city, one Heretic, but an entire planet! I plan to claim every last inch of this world, every rock and tree, and only then shall I march upon Nu Zantium!"
Surprised gasps ran about the chamber as Jorrim protested, "But cousin..."
"Do not think our shared heritage shall sway me," Bezharad growled, "I shall lead, you shall follow and learn. And you two... what say you?!"
Helboran bowed his flaming head, "You are the God-Emperor's anointed. His will is not to be questioned."
Ganymit deferred, "The Inquisition chooses not to press this matter, for the moment."
Bezharad turned his eyes to the other Chapter Masters to growl, "My word is given."
Empex did not wither in the face of his ire but allowed, "Ten years have you led me to vengeance, I will trust your directions, one more time."
Even Q'umarkaj conceded, "The Smoke Jaguars bow to no man, but a fool is he who heeds not the wisdom of the voted Prowlmaster."
Bezharad did not smile but seemed satisfied his commands would be followed. Once more Damchak was struck by the fierce drive of the Black Templar, his will certain and mind hammered steel. A weapon forged into the shape of a Marine, aimed at the hearts of the Heretics. Through a decade of crushing conquest and indomitable defiance he had never betrayed a hint of uncertainty, not once had he doubted the Crusade would triumph. Though he marched in straight lines he had the soul of a true Astartes and would neither flag nor fail till his task was done. Legend would say if Bezharad commanded the stars to stand still, then the galaxy would cease to spin.
Bezharad addressed the room, "Titan Maniples and Knight lances are landing as we speak. They will spearhead attacks on the Novan defences. Frater Templars and tank regiments will follow and exploit gaps in the line. Resistance will be crushed by Black Templar and Fire Lord strike forces, while Smoke Jaguars and Dark Tusks will disperse behind the lines, attacking targets of opportunity. Heretic armies will be crushed, cities stormed, and bastions cast down by airstrikes and orbital bombardment. Piece by piece we will take this planet, and when all the lands are ours only then will we seize the Ur-Council and drag them to the foot of the Golden Throne to face justice for their Heresy!"