Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 140
"Dathkio asks when you are next returning to Nu Zantium," Kazial read aloud from a data-slate as they descended the steep stairs.
Disquisitor Von Tor frowned, "Why does the Regularum care for my comings and goings?"
Kazial shrugged, "Maybe he misses your pleasant company."
"Sarcasm is hardly useful," Von Tor growled, "What does Furix have to say?"
Kazial scrolled further down the messages, "That's odd, he wants to meet with you, to discuss a mutual proposal to put before the Ur-Council. Doesn't say what it is though."
Von Tor's lip curled, "Of course he doesn't, the questions he wants to ask will be upon an excruciation rack. They know about Leyra, they know we killed her."
"Surely not!" Kazial protested, "We hid the bodies so well even the Disquisition can't find her."
Von Tor however sighed, "It was always going to get out. I assumed our fellow Disquisitors would be the ones to come after us, but other players are in this game. Our time grows short. The Terran's forces have resumed their advance and our leaders dither and play petty games of power. Nova Terra is on the brink and nobody can stop it from falling."
Kazial frowned, "What are we going to do?"
Von Tor was grim, "The Ur-council is rapidly ending its usefulness, we will have to move against them."
"During a war?"
"They're the biggest impediment to our survival. They were supposed to be better than the High Lords, but they have become just as corrupt and ineffective. They need to be replaced by men of vision."
"They won't go easily," Kazial pointed out.
"I know, that's why we need the Night Lords."
They reached the bottom of the stairs and found themselves in a dark cellar. Solemn and dignified, a place where men would tread lightly, hushed by the sense of age that lay upon this place. The walls were neatly fashioned stone, once a store for the most luxurious of wines, buried deep in the seaside city of Zruygate. They were under a magnificent hotel, where the pampered elite would take their leisure and enjoy the coastal vistas and stunning sunset over the Zruy sea. The nobles were gone, as were the staff, fleeing before the inexorable approach of the Terran zealots. In their absence another force had taken up residence.
Von Tor's lungs clenched as he beheld giants in Ceramite, lurking in the shadows. Towering figures cast in darkness, their armour flickering with caged lighting that played over a holofilament layer stretched across the surfaces. Jagged spikes crested backpacks and severed hands hung from hooks on their pauldrons, while many had flayed faces nailed across broad plates. The physical threat of them hit him like a slap to the face, stunning in its insult. Night Lords, a score of them, lingering in the undercroft, like predators waiting for a mouse to stray within reach.
One of them stirred, drawing a serrated knife as he chuckled, "Wekret 'em derject?!"
Von Tor's feet wanted to flee but he held firm as he lifted his chin, "I am Disquisitor Von Tor, I have come to speak to Vorshaan!"
The Night Lord leaned forward and the Disquisitor was disgusted to see necrotic blooms clinging to the edges of pauldrons, with fungal strands wriggling at every motion, "Yhe tem brewa, te grosh jem."
Von Tor was keenly aware of how close the flensing knife was coming to his face but replied, "Vorshaan needs what I have promised. Cease stalling and take me to him!"
But Night Lord brought the knife within a centimetre of the mortal's eye and growled, "Wad Reqsha Gav, Nurgle."
Von Tor's skin crawled at the mention of the Chaos God, the very name of the Grandfather enough to make reality feel tainted. His intestines felt soiled and his teeth ached as the foul syllables rang too long, but then salvation came, of a sort. From the far darkness another shape appeared, towering, with wings folded and Chainglaive in hand, Vorshaan the Dusk Prince.
"Mekret, if you value your hands, lower that knife," Vorshaan growled.
"Keh Hehret!" the tainted Marine spat.
"No, you can't eat him," Vorshaan retorted, "I have need of this one, and you are trying my patience."
The Chaos Marine backed off as Vorshaan turned saying, "Come on then, there's someone you need to meet. And tell your lackey to stop stroking those pistols, he won't get a shot off."
Von Tor stepped around Mekret and followed Vorshaan, Kazial in tow though his hands never strayed far from his guns. Vorshaan didn't look back but ducked through a hole in the wall, into another chamber the Night Lords had co-opted. This room stank with the sour scent of Chaos, the walls marked with fell runes that hurt the eye to look upon and festering body parts stank in the four corners. A ring of cultists waited within, their robes crusted with ooze and pus, the smell of them rank as a septic wound. The nasal assault made Von Tor's head ache with an instant migraine, and yet his attention was drawn to a figure chained on the floor.
Kneeling at the centre of the circle was a Space Marine. No Night Lord was he but a Black Templar, as evident by the brand on his shoulder. Stripped of his armour numerous scars were displayed, many of them fresh, ritual cuts gouged into his skin, marks of ruin etched into his flesh. He was chained hand, foot and neck while his mouth was covered by an iron gag. Naked, impotent, and yet defiant. Von Tor had no doubt that were the chains to loosen he would break free and kill everyone in the room.
Vorshaan leaned his Chainglaive on a wall and waved, "Meet Farthan, he and I have been getting to know each other."
"Torture?" Kazial gulped as he eyed the prisoner.
"Initiation," Vorshaan corrected as he took a knife wet with blood from a cultist, "Farthan has been learning about the nature of Chaos."
Von Tor made an effort to look away from the Black Templar, "You seek to convert him?"
"In a way," Vorshaan sniffed as he turned the knife over and over in his hands, "It takes time, all that hypno-indoctrination is hard to break through. It takes a lot to break through the lapdog's training, but it can be done. Thankfully I have a shortcut."
Von Tor shook his head, "It won't work. The Black Templars are the mightiest foes I've ever faced, they won't break under duress. You're wasting your time, and my time. Other threats arise, other chapters. You should be dealing with them!"
Vorshaan's voice took on a dangerous edge, "You question my methods?"
Von Tor scowled, "You were supposed to eliminate the Terran Astartes, that was our deal. Black Templars, Fire Lords, Smoke Jaguars, Dark Tusks, you promised me their deaths. Instead you idle in a basement playing the torturer!"
Vorshaan paused then, "Smoke Jaguars… where are they from?"
"I… what?" Von Tor blinked.
"What planet?" Vorshaan pressed
Von Tor shrugged, "They come from the Copan system."
"Copan…" Vorshaan mused, "Interesting, there was an old Legion base there, back in the Great Crusade."
"Is that important?" Kazial prompted.
"Not really," Vorshaan dismissed, "The Smoke Jaguars are amusing, but not significant in this war. I have already put in motion plans to neuter them, and the Dark Tusks. The Fire Lords are children playing at being Space Marines, I can snuff them out in an instant. The Black Templars however… there is a genuine threat. Time they were dealt with."
"Then I suggest you get on with it," Von Tor hissed.
"I was only waiting for you," Vorshaan chuckled.
Suddenly the Dusk Prince moved, grabbing one of the cultist's arms and lifting the gangrenous limb high. With one move he sliced the hand off the mortal's arm, catching the falling appendage before it hit the floor. The cultist collapsed, gushing turgid blood from his truncated limb but Vorshaan cared not. He stepped to Farthan, looking down at his bleeding prisoner. The Black Templar glared in resolute defiance, unbroken in will but helpless to enact his wroth, Vorshaan however wasn't discouraged.
"Hold these," Vorshaan said, dropping the knife and hand into the Novan's grasp.
Von Tor instinctively caught the diseased limb and his fingers recoiled at the contact, "What are you doing?"
"Winning the war," Vorshaan deflected as he loosened Farthan's gag.
"Foul cur!" Farthan roared, "I shall take your head for this, the God-Emperor's will…"
"Do shut up," Vorshaan hissed as he wrapped a ceramite gauntlet around Farthan's jaw and squeezed it open, "Von Tor… make him eat that."
"Do what?!"
"The hand, put it in his mouth, quickly!"
Von Tor sensed warp magics at play and understood he was partaking in the foulest of rituals. Whatever the Dark Prince was planning was a sin beyond forgiveness. Von Tor was enabling a crime against reality itself, but had come too far to back off now. The Disquisition would never let him be, no righteous man would, but the fate of everything hung on his next action. Vorshaan knew this, he could have gone ahead without help, but Von Tor knew the Dusk Prince wanted to taint the Disqusitior's soul as part of his petty game.
Von Tor refused to give away the slightest hint of reluctance as he stepped forward and shoved the withered hand into Farthan's jaw. A Space Marine's bite was large enough to engulf the hand entirely, then Vorshaan clamped the mouth shut. Farthan struggled in his chains, trying to spit it out but could not remove the appendage. Then his shaking became more than mere resistance. Wild spasms overcame him, making him thrash madly and jerk as if being riddled with bullets. His limbs swelled, beyond the tensioning of muscles, held in check only the chains that bound him. His chest heaved and oily sweat poured down his chest as the sense of immense pressure built in the room.
"Boss?" Kazial gulped.
"Not now," Von Tor hissed.
"But the walls…"
The symbols on the walls were glowing red, leaking thin smoke as power fed through them. Runes of containment, Von Tor understood too late, designed not to keep things out, but rather something in. The sour scent in the air had gone beyond scent, it had become a coiling wet tang that wrapped him head to toe like a wet blanket. A furry, mouldy feeling passed through his skin and licked his bones with a black tongue. He felt violated in the most fundamental fashion, a rancid smear on his soul that would never wash away. Von Tor understood then what he had done, what universal crime he had allowed to happen. He wanted to flee, to throw himself to the ground and beg forgiveness, but it was too late. Farthan's shaking had faded, leaving him bowed in his chains.
"You dare," Farthan growled wetly.
"Yes I dare," Vorshaan quipped as he stepped back.
"This defies the compact of gods and men."
"And?"
"I should rip out your soul and eat it for this affront!"
"It's already spoken for," Vorshaan snorted, "Besides I have an offer to make."
"You dare bargain after imprisoning Chzugral the Blight Arroyo!"
The former Black Templar's head came up and his eyes snapped open. No longer did a living man stare from those orbs but an older and infinitely fouler entity. Putrid yellow, seething with rank potential, eyes that would see the galaxy collapse to rot and delight as noxious filth consumed all that was right and true. The pestilent decay of the natural world, blights that would sweep whole civilisations aside, the cold entropy that would claim the universe whole, all were contained within those hateful eyes. The distilled effluent of Nurgle, bound into the flesh of a Space Marine.
"Daemon," Kazial gulped as he backed up.
Vorshaan sounded delighted, "Chzugral, I have a use for you."
The Daemonhost roared, "You shall suffer the most painful contagions the Grandfather can conjure for imprisoning me!"
Vorshaan however countered, "A mere inconvenience, so we can talk securely. I may have bound you, but I offer great rewards in return."
Chzugral's eyes narrowed, "Make your offering unto the God of Decay and I may spare your life."
Vorshaan sounded smug, "I offer the nerve centre of an Imperial army, the beating heart of their war machine and the head of their leader. All laid out for you as a banquet."
"You think such paltry offerings please Nurgle?!"
"The lives of millions snuffed out, the pride of Sigismund's heirs trampled into the dust. Yes, I think it does."
Von Tor glanced at the Dusk Prince, "You intend to use this thing to assault the Terrans directly?!"
"So limited your imagination is," Vorshaan sniggered, "I plan to walk into their most secure base and bring it down upon their heads. I shall make a charnel house of their fastness and defile their most holy ground! Let them dream they are safe in their purity, I shall show them nothing is beyond corruption, no place is immune to the rot!"
"Such wanton desecration you propose," Chzugral gargled, "This ruination is pleasing to the Grandfather."
"Then we have an agreement," Vorshaan nodded.
Yet Von Tor retorted, "But how do you plan to get a Daemon into their base?!"
Vorshaan chuckled in reply, "By simply walking through the front door, as Farthan's prisoner. The Black Templars will see a heroic brother bringing their most hated enemy in chains and will welcome him with open arms. Bezharad will want to claim my head himself, so he won't realise he's brought a Daemon into his house until it is too late. Chzugral you need only to hide your nature for a short while, just until we are inside. Be Farthan for a day and slaughter will be yours. I am the prisoner of Farthan, so take me to your leader."