Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 138
Vorshaan was having a good day. Among the burning studios and artisan workshops he moved like a red whirlwind, his Chainglaive chugging on viscera. His baroque armour was wet with the vitae of innocents and his boots crunched bodies under his doughty tread. He'd slain hundreds in a day and was barely getting started. These pathetic mortals weren't much of a challenge true, but he had a shot at beating his personal best kill-tally, which provided a modicum of sport.
The Dusk Prince saw a platoon of men desperately taking cover behind a barricade. The supposed zealots often boasted of how ready they were to sacrifice themselves for the False Emperor, but when put to the test their courage proved brittle. They'd seen Vorshaan eviscerate a score of their brethren, and instinct would not be denied. Fear oozed from their pores and Vorshaan drank in the sensation, luxuriating in his pre-eminence. Let the dolts of the Emperor's Children bleat on about excess, they knew nothing, for there was no great high to be had than proving you were superior.
Panicked desperation saw the Fraters let loose a flurry of las-shots, but Vorshaan had already relocated. One snap of his wings and he shot upwards, reaching roof height in a single bound. The mortals gasped in terror as his shadow fell upon them, then he pounced. The impact of a Chaos Marine threw them from their feet, causing them to stumble. Vorshaan didn't give them time to recover, sweeping his Chainglaive about in a wide arc. The spinning teeth reaped four lives, leaving bodies flopping on the ground in pain. A thrust from the spiked end destroyed a heart and then Vorshaan got creative. The Fraters were thrown into disarray as Vorshaan moved through them, his every gesture utterly lethal. Fist, boot, kneecap and elbow, for a Ceramite giant these were as deadly as a Chainsword, and he used them to lethal effect. Even his wingtips bore sharp talons at the tips, and he was not hesitant to use them to open throats. Vorshaan was as precise as he was swift, his motions honed by millennia of warfare. He'd been fighting the greatest champions of the hated Imperium for longer than memory could encompass, perfecting his technique till he was the embodiment of murder.
In moments he'd reduced a score of Fraters to cold corpses, and he mentally added their number to his tally. No other enemies were obvious at the moment, so he paused to look about. Ash and smoke arose from studios and workshops, the collapsing tenements where artists toiled and the scents of rich Ebriwood burning were redolent in the air. Drillood was a city of carpenters, artists famed for their skill in woodwork and sculpture. With chisel and rasp they made wonders of bough and branch, foolish of them, they should have invested in guns and walls.
Vorshaan paused in introspection. The Novans set much store in being better than their Terran counterparts, on throwing off the corruption of the High Lords and seeking higher pursuits. Where the rest of the galaxy plated planets in metal, burning ecosystems on the altar of productivity, they'd sought to refine the culture of mankind. Fulgrim would have approved, Magnus too, in his own way, but Konrad Curze would have laughed in scorn. All the other Legions had believed in the Emperor's lie that the galactic slaughter they perpetrated would lead to a better future. They thought they had a purpose, a cause that washed away the oceans of blood coating their fine armour. We are stronger because we are right, they had cried. The Night Lords had never bought into that grox-dung, from the start they'd grasped the Imperium was just another conquering Empire, taking what it wanted because it could. It was no better than any of the civilisations it swept away, only bigger. Perhaps among Primarchs only Angron could have agreed with Curze's assessment that the Imperium was a machine of woe, one that could achieve nothing save to drive mankind even further into the grip of Chaos.
The vox-crackled as Claw-leader Mekret called, "Lord Vorshaan, mortals are in conflict in the south-western district."
"Dispose of them," Vorshaan sniffed idly.
"Some of them are Novan defenders," the distant claw-leader pointed out.
"So?"
"Understood, the Grandfather will reward us for our offerings," the call cut off.
Vorshaan's nose wrinkled at the message. Mekret was growing disgustingly fanatical in his praise of the Ruinious Powers, specifically Nurgle. The boons of Chaos were many, Vorshaan's wings attested to that, but such blessings were bargained for and bought at cost, not given as rewards for loyalty, like pets thrown a bone. The Night Lords employed all the manifold gifts of Chaos freely, but sometimes a champion would fall under the sway of a single patron. Bargaining would become devotion, devotion to loyalty and loyalty to snivelling faith. The VIIIth Legion had always held faith of any variety in utter contempt.
A sharp cry over the vox caught his attention, accompanied by the harsh banging of bolters. Claw-leader Xreshan was under attack by a far deadlier foe than Fraters, Space Marines, throne-worshipping lapdog. Instantly Vorshaan took to the air, soaring over the burning rooftops, hidden from view by the thick smoke but he had no trouble seeing through the gloom. Drillood was consumed by war, Novan Wardsmen against Terran Fraters, with a hundred Night Lords moving randomly through the fray, slaughtering ally and enemy alike without distinction. What drew his eye though was a street two blocks over, where the flash of bolters was met in kind. Vorshaan's lips drew back as he soared higher, "I do wish it was the Smoke Jaguars, that would be too fine a chance to miss."
It wasn't the Smoke Jaguars. Advancing up the broken street was a squad of Black Templars. They charged with prayers on their lips, Initiates in full plate and Neophytes in scout-armour side by side. Chainswords revving, bolt pistols barking, uncaring for the fanged bolt rounds Xreshan's claw were hammering into them. Vorshaan knew this breed well: the Imperial Fists of old had been resolute in defence, logical in planning and fanatical on the attack but they'd split unevenly after Horus' failure. The namesake Chapter had retained the most resolute brothers, the Crimson Fists had taken the logical ones, but the Black Templars had absorbed the fanatics. Good, Vorshaan appreciated a challenge.
The Black Templars were charging up the street when Vorshaan dropped out of the sky. He smashed bodily onto an Initate, snapping Ceramite and bones with the force of his impact. Instantly he was diving forward, Chainglaive sweeping across the back of the legs of another, sending an armoured figure to the ground. He spied a Neophyte gawping in disbelief and snatched him up, carrying them both a dozen metres before hitting the ground and rolling upright. The balance of the fight shifted, Xreshan's claw scenting advantage, rising from cover to gun down the Templars with concentrated volleys. One however stood inviolate, the Sergeant, confronting the Dusk Prince with Chainsword in hand. His armour was covered by a stained tabard, his plate cratered by bolt impacts, but the lenses of his helm held nothing but righteous fury.
"Let him go," the Black Templar growled.
"Brother-Sergeant Farthan!" the Neophyte gulped as Vorshaan's grip about his neck tightened.
"Patience squire," Farthan admonished, "I will dispose of this filth momentarily."
Vorshaan tilted his head fractionally, "This child is important to you?"
"Your fight is with me traitor," Farthan growled, "Accept a real challenge, against a genuine warrior. Meet me blade to blade and die with honour."
"You obviously don't know me very well," Vorshaan sneered as his grip tightened and jerked, snapping the Neophytes' neck in an instant.
Farthan roared in outrage as he leapt to the attack, swinging his chainsword in a roundhouse blow. Vorshaan dropped the lifeless body as he ducked low, spreading his wings wide and letting the chainsword sail overhead. He bunched to rise on the attack, but Farthan's knee snapped up, catching his helm and throwing him backwards. Vorshaan was mildly impressed by the vicious attack, but was more concerned with the sweeping chainsword descending upon his head. The Dusk Prince lifted his Chainglaive and the Adamantium haft caught the spinning teeth, but the weight of the impact buckled his knees to the ground.
Farthan did not relent, his arms rose and fell like a piledriver, trying to smash Vorshaan's guard down with both hands. There was little skill to the assault, and no grace, but there was strength and there was hatred. Farthan's zeal empowered his arm, his rage over the murder of his squire lent him ferocity and his holy fervour made him rabid. No fine duellist was this, no graceful master of the blade but a gutter fight born, one who knew how to use his strength and bulk. Vorshaan's earlier tussle with the Smoke Jaguars had been a test of slyness and cunning, arenas where the Dusk Prince held all the advantages, but this was raw combat of the most feral nature. Vorshaan was pleased, it proved far greater sport than counting mortal deaths.
An almighty blow shook Vorshaan's arms like jelly. A second dropped the shaft of the Chainglaive a hair, and a third caused his elbows to bend. On and on the onslaught came, each blow the falling of a meteorite, grinding the Dusk Prince ever further down. Kneeling in the dust Vorshaan could not move, only endure the torrent of rabid blows, the Black Templar venting indignant ire in a frenzy of hacking blows. Farthan used all his strength, all his hatred and all his blind zeal to destroy Vorshaan, nothing held back, no other thought than to end the Dusk Prince and he roared, "Suffer Not The Unclean To Live!"
Rarely had the Dusk Prince been this close to death, and he felt the nearness of the gulf like a man teetering on the edge of a bottomless chasm. Daemons of the warp edged nearer, eager to claim the soul he had bargained away so long ago, gnashing immaterial fangs in anticipation of the feast to come. Vorshaan could not match the Black Tempar's strength, but he was not ready to die and certainly not out of tricks. As Farthan's arm rose he dropped his left shoulder, tilting the Chainglaive forty-five degrees. As the blurring sword came down it landed at an angle, the spinning teeth pulling the Black Templar off-balance. Instantly Vorshaan was rising, swinging the end of his glaive about to smash into his rival's back. Farthan was sent staggering as Vorshaan pirouetted the weapon about, catching a flailing arm with the blurring teeth of the tip.
Ceramite splinters flew and blood gushed from the torn arm, as Farthan's right hand went limp. He was not yet defeated, he shifted his grip to the left hand and spun about, but Vorshaan released his left grip and caught the Black Templar's wrist from behind. A complicated movement occurred as Vorshaan pivoted on his heel, adding momentum to Farthan's spin, and the Black Templar was sent stumbling away. Vorshaan aided him on the way with a boot to the rear, that sent the lapdog head-first into a wall.
Farthan impacted in a spray of Ferrocrete dust, as the surface cratered, only to widen as Vorshaan caught the back of his helm and rammed it into the wall again, and again. The Dusk Prince held the advantage now, and was merciless with it. He heaved back and then rammed Farthan's face into the wall, shattering eye lenses as the chainsword dropped from a numb hand. Another cruel blow saw the respirator disintegrate and another broke the helmet into pieces utterly. Farthan was reeling, blood coating his face from where glassic had torn his eyelids, but Vorshaan granted no respite, slamming the skull forward until the nose was a smear of blood, then the front teeth were reduced to jagged stumps. Vorshaan had scented his death, and repaid the insult tenfold, reducing his foe to broken lump.
Finally Vorshaan was satisfied and allowed Farthan to collapse into the dirt. Even now the Black Templar struggled to fight, blearily reaching for his dropped chainsword with shaking fingers. Vorshaan wasn't about to let an enemy pick up a fallen weapon and reversed his Chainglaive, driving the point through Farthan's vambrace, pinning the good arm to the ground. The Black Templar was defeated, and the Dusk Prince was triumphant. The sound of fighting had died down, the Black Templars gunned down in the street and left to bleed out.
Farthan's lips moved, "No… pity… no… remorse…"
Vorshaan twisted his grip to grind the bones of his victim, "I trust that hurts, a lot."
"Traitorous scum…"
"You have me there!" Vorshaan laughed, "You have no idea of the oaths I have broken."
"For His honour… send my soul to… my Emperor…"
Vorshaan however leaned down as he applied more pressure to the wound, "Kill you, oh no my friend, I have a much better use for you. There are mysteries you have never dreamed of, the veil of the warp has yet to part before your eyes. Steel your spirit and gird your mind with oaths, it matters not. The true majesty of the Dark Gods will be unveiled and your soul will scream at the revelation. Your blasted sanity will pave the way for my victory. Bid goodbye to your False Emperor while you can, the true glory of Chaos is waiting for you."