Pyotr was cursed. It was not the same as Anras. Not the same as the select few sons of his genefather who inherited the propensity to see visions of the future. No, his curse was different. His curse was an alien cancer that had latched onto his soul and slowly leached away at him day after day. It was a curse with a grip so strong that Pyotr doubted he would ever be capable of breaking it. He was certain he would be forced to endure it for centuries more until it eventually brought him spiraling into the eternal throes of madness.
And his name was Gyrthemar.
Pyotr left his chambers to find his brother waiting for him on the other side, leaned up against the wall, spinning his spear around his hand. Upon seeing Pyotr, he allowed the weapon to complete one final arc before lightly pushing off the wall and standing at his full height.
"What is it that you want?" Pyotr asked, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.
"We are convincing Anras and Gargahl to agree to your plan today, are we not?"
Pyotr frowned. We?
His expression must have been evident, as Gyrthemar laughed. "You did not think I wouldn't aid you on this did you, brother?"
Pyotr stared at Gyrthemar blankly. "The last thing I want in this endeavor is your aid."
Gyrthemar frowned and tapped a knuckle against his bionic eye. "Why not? I don't see the rest of Sixth Claw coming. You would be alone."
"That is preferred," Pyotr said. The last thing he wanted was his task to be made more difficult by his brother's presence alone.
"You could benefit from learning to be part of a team, brother."
Pyotr snorted and began making his way down the corridor. Annoyingly, his brother insisted on following him.
"Look around you, Gyrthemar. Loyalty does not exist within this warband. Only vipers and sycophants wishing to scramble their way to the highest position they can. Survival means nothing compared to pride."
"Then perhaps we should change that."
"The only two who could are dead."
Gyrthemar said nothing for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his tone was far more introspective than Pyotr thought he was capable of. "Do you think that our father was right in allowing himself to die?"
Pyotr sneered. "I think he was right in hating his children."
The rest of their walk continued in silence until the corridors grew progressively more caked in grime and dross. Cleaning it was regarded as futile and few slaves and servitors were able to make any significant progress before they succumbed to sickness and decay. As Pyotr continued his approach, a chamber entrance at the end of the corridor came into view through the haze of fleas and brackish smog. Standing on either side of the entryway was a hunched figure with clawed feet, a sputtering jump pack, and flesh rotting within their own armor.
"The Hellrider approaches," Apostle Orred cackled.
"Alongside the Wolfkiller," added Apostle Tyther.
Gyrthemar chuckled approvingly. "I'm collecting titles quickly it seems."
Pyotr glared at him for silence. "I will speak with Gargahl."
The two raptors squawked and wheezed with incessant amusement.
"He wishes to have an audience with the Lord Abbot!"
"Such a high request from such a lowly mortal!"
Pyotr waited until they had finished their mockery and coughing before he spoke again. He did not speak for another ten minutes.
"It was not a request."
The two apostles' jubilations resurged uproariously.
"He thinks he has the merit to make demands of the Lord Abbot!"
"Such bold words for such an unsoiled soul!"
"Ah, but it is not unsoiled, is it?" Orred clicked, crouching down to all-fours as he approached Pyotr, tilting his head from side to side as he circled and inspected him. "There is rot there. Yes, we smell it. Such nasty, nasty rot! Born of perfume and elixir and pain and joyful blood. It is not true rot, not pure rot. So shameful. So very, very shameful!"
"Not like this one." Tyther remained upright, but his movements were stuttering and avian-like. Occasionally he jerked and twitched without much rhyme or reason. He approached Gyrthemar, laughing his crackling laugh as he mockingly shined the bat-winged skull on Gyrthemar's chest, which only served to smear it with further filth. "So strong. Yes, yes! We heard of this one's bout. We heard the Wolfkiller nearly slayed the champion. That is good. The Lord Abbot likes strength. He would make a good Apostle."
Neither brother moved, but Gyrthemar glanced at Pyotr through his helm, forging a private voxlink. "Have they always been so creepy?"
Instead of responding, Pyotr approached the door. Almost immediately, both raptors hissed and meltas appeared in their hands and pointed at him. Gyrthemar, for all the good he was worth, at least had the tip of his spear trained on the back of Orred's neck.
"The Lord Abbot will not be interrupted!" the Apostle snapped.
"He'll have to make an exception," Gyrthemar spat back.
"No! No! No!" Orred continued to squawk. "The plagues hate him!" He pushed the muzzle of his meltagun closer towards Pyotr. Gyrthemar responded by pressing the head of his spear in the gap beneath Orred's helmet, letting the weapon rest right on his neck. "He may not! He may not!"
Tyther, fortunately, seemed to be somewhat more cognizant than his companion and stared at Pyotr with glistening red eyes. "What is the reason for this?"
"Our survival. I have a plan he must hear."
"He already has a grand plan."
"Hardly," Gyrthemar snorted. Orred barked in outrage while Tyther simply glared.
"At worst he ignores me and nothing is lost. I sincerely doubt he is doing much with his time," Pyotr said.
"He communes with the Plague Father."
As I said…
Pyotr's frown slowly drew into a sneer. "What will it take?"
"Hm," Tyther eyed Pyotr, then his gaze fell upon Gyrthemar. A series of clicks came from his and Orred's helms as they discussed privately. Then the two began to audibly cackle together. "The Wolfkiller's spear."
"What?" Gyrthemar barked. "Absolutely n–"
"Give it to them," Pyotr said.
"But, brother–!"
"It's just a damn weapon, Gyrthemar!" Pyotr snapped. "It does the same job as any other tool like it on this bloody ship."
Gyrthemar stared at his brother for a traitorously long moment, then drew the weapon back from Orred's throat and tossed it at Tyther. The raptor caught it and proceeded to marvel over his new acquisition. Satisfied, he nodded to Orred and the other Apostle begrudgingly lowered his melta. He then looked to Pyotr and nodded for him to continue.
The lord discordant said nothing as he approached the doorway once more, Gyrthemar falling into step beside him.
"I have it handled from this point," Pyotr said. "Remain quiet and say nothing foolish."
"Understood, brother," Gyrthemar said through gritted teeth.
The wide chamber was more of a banquet hall than an abbey, as what was led to be believed. Granted, it did have the high, arching cathedral ceiling and spired monuments alongside multiple shrines and altars to the Plague Father, each with at least one raptor kneeling in supplication and prayer, only dimly bathed in the pale light of candles. In the center of the room, however, was a long table with a feast of rot and decay laid out from end to end. Flies crowded the "food" and poured out from the bubbling cauldron that sat in the center of the display like a smog. At the head of the table sat the bloated figure of Gargahl, gorging himself on the discolored and puss-crusted meat of what Pyotr could only assume were once serfs.
Quite the communion, he thought sardonically.
As Pyotr and his brother further entered the chamber, the daemon priest looked up from his indulgence and squinted at them before his lips curled into a predatory smile. "Have you finally come to pledge your loyalty to the true captain, brothers?"
Gyrthemar, thankfully, crossed his arms and said nothing. Pyotr stepped forward, eyeing the banquet table once again.
"How many slaves did it take to create this?"
"Care for the little mortals now, do you, Pyotr?" Gargahl chuckled wetly. Pyotr stared at him instead of responding. Eventually the daemon that was once his brother snorted. "Why does it matter? They were lower deck slaves."
"Even the most expendable labor is finite," Pyotr responded.
"They were weak." Gargahl gripped another chunk of offal with his clawed hand and bit into it, chunks of flesh and entropic slime dribbling down his chin as he maintained eye contact with Pyotr. "What is it that you want from me?"
"Your collusion," Pyotr admitted. Several of Gargahl's Apostles had begun to take notice of the conversation and either scrambled or flew their way over to observe.
"Oh?" Gargahl's grin widened and he wheezed in amusement. "Do tell, brother."
"A new plan for the warband to survive. One that does not involve facing a ship that would greatly overpower us." Pyotr procured a dataslate with the details and provided it to a nearby attendant. The raptor made his way to the other side and offered it to Gargahl. The daemon prince continued to look at Pyotr and lick his teeth.
"No need," he said without taking the dataslate. "My plan is still superior."
Pyotr sneered and leaned on the edge of the table. "Your plan will get us all killed!"
"Only if we are weak. In that case we deserve to die. The Long War will be won through might, brother. Not scurrying away into the dark like Anras would have us."
"This has nothing to do with Anras," Pyotr protested. "I have found us a route to a world in which we can hold our ground and live to fight another day."
"By destroying our enemy or by running?"
The two Night Lords held each other's gaze. Pyotr fumed within his helm. He knew Gargahl would be the least reasonable, the most prideful. He had still hoped that there would be some semblance of the marine he knew before his ascendancy that he wouldn't be outright suicidal.
"And there lies the problem," Gargahl gave a ragged, mucus-filled sigh. "Weak plans are made by weak men. It would never have worked for that very reason, Pyotr. Because you. Are. Weak." His smile fled, leaving behind a gargoyle's expression of disgust. "I have seen you fight these last few months. You fail to slay worthy prey yourself. You must kill that which is already wounded. A carrion feeder."
"This is about the dreadnought?" Pyotr spat.
"I cannot trust a mind so cowardly to craft a scheme worthy of entertaining. It is why the visionary's always fail."
Pyotr's hands curled into fists, his knuckles resting on the table. "Gargahl, listen to yourself," he began, straining to keep his voice even. "We cannot–"
"Enough," Gargahl cut him off dismissively. "I will not listen to any more of your pathetic words. You've interrupted my meal for long enough. Leave."
The raptors surrounding Pyotr took up the call, chanting Leave! Leave! Leave! in their sibilant chorus, drowning out any argument the lord discordant could have hoped to make. Pyotr, with what little control he had left, clenched his jaw and turned to depart. He would make no headway here today.
It wasn't until he had reached the door that he realized Gyrthemar had not followed him. Looking over his shoulder, Pyotr saw his brother standing in the same position, looking bored above all things.
"Shame," Gyrthemar said.
Gargahl looked up from the feast that he had just returned to. "Why, brother? Because I would not make myself lesser by subjecting myself to such frail spirits?"
"No." Gyrthemar shrugged. "Because you refuse the opportunity to make yourself greater."
Gargahl frowned, staring the warrior down. "Explain."
"Taking the fight directly to the Manacles is fine and good. Just as you said, it proves us stronger than our foes. Worthy of one day tearing the Corpse Emperor from his seat." Gargahl nodded in agreement. "But it is so… vapid."
"What?" Gargahl demanded. The daemon prince rose from his throne, fangs bared and leathery wings unfurling in a grand display of outrage at the insult.
Gyrthemar did not move. "I said it is vapid." The raptors hissed and growled their own fury. "The merit is something I agree with, just not the method. It is one thing to watch a vessel break apart across the stars, knowing that all within will perish as a result. It is another entirely to face them in battle, watching their blood spill by your hands, seeing the life leave their bodies and knowing you were the cause of it. That, I find to be true strength. Certain strength. Not the reliance of missiles and ships, but body and power."
Gargahl stared at Gyrthemar for several breaths, then slowly lowered himself back down into his throne. "An interesting point, brother," the rotted creature confessed.
"I say this only because I know we share a love of crushing a worthy foe under our heels." Gyrthemar chuckled. Gargahl joined him.
"Yes, very much so. I will… consider this notion. Perhaps I will even review this plan you have crafted. Leave now with my blessing."
Gyrthemar nodded and turned to leave. As he approached Pyotr, he met his brother's eyes. "Forgive me if I said something foolish, brother. I would hate to ruin your flawless strategy." He then shoved past Pyotr and left the chamber.
The Savory Wound was a below-average-sized, strike classification, light cruiser with numerous logged modifications and likely just as many unlogged ones. A standard vessel of its same pattern could carry well over ten thousand personnel, as well as plenty of armored vehicles, depending on interior holding specifications. The Savory Wound currently had an estimated 5,432 living personnel and not even a half dozen battle-worthy armored vehicles. That, Artemis surmised, was still quite the sample size for Jep to choose from when it came to gathering individuals willing to listen to her.
He came up with a little over twenty.
She had been expecting far less.
Artemis surveyed the motley group that sat scattered about her personal chambers. Most of them, Jep included, seemed uncomfortable to be so far from the bowels of the ship, their postures closed and guarded with eyes that furtively flickered back and forth as if they expected someone to come charging in at any moment to punish them for being somewhere they shouldn't. Artemis certainly had her work cut out for her.
Most of the people Jep had gathered, Artemis noted, also seemed to be fuel loaders like himself. In fact, as she continued to scan them all one by one, she came to realize they all bore the telltale marks of grease, scars, and promethium burns that came with the position. The only one who was not of their caste was Phihks, the rat vendor from Scab City. Fortunately, she had been counting on most of them to have the same role as her friend.
"So, um, what did you want to talk to us about?" Jep said in an effort to get the ball rolling. Artemis hadn't realized she'd been standing by the hololithic display, anxiously wishing to start but not being able to bring herself to.
She took a breath and surveyed the multitude of pairs of eyes that had turned their attention to her. This was the moment. This was when she publicly declared herself a traitor and put her life—her suffering—into the hands of complete strangers. Her body quivered at the sheer absurdity and stupidity of what she was about to do. And yet, she couldn't bear the alternative for one more second.
Time to take back what little of my life I can.
Artemis began by activating the hololith, a display flickering to life of a planet. She knew the world would mean nothing to them. They did not know its name or its significance yet. They only saw it as a thing they could never have. Her job was to prove them wrong and instead make it become proof of a life outside this damnable ship.
"This world is called Kleos," she explained. "It has an estimated population of seven-hundred and eighty-eight million according to the last recorded census in our cogitator banks. Its main export is plasteel. Raw resources are mined planetside then refined in one of three orbiting stations. It–"
"Why should we karking care?" A voice said from the crowd. Artemis tracked the source to a woman with toned arms and auburn hair with several strands done up in simple braids. A leather band encircled her forehead and she looked as if she'd acquired several scars along her face and arms that weren't from her time aboard the Savory Wound.
"And you are?" Artemis asked.
"Wolfdame Wolfdottir of the Whitefur Wolfpine Clan."
Artemis opened her mouth to respond, then paused, then blinked. "...Really?"
The woman tilted her head back and let out a barking laugh. "Do I look like I'm three meters tall, wrapped in foil, and got a cock swinging between my legs? No, not really." She chuckled to herself again, revealing teeth that brandished exaggerated canines. "My name's Brelja."
"Well, Brelja," Artemis said, "you should care because this planet presents an opportunity to you. To all of us." She turned to address the entire crowd now. "The gods will be landing on this world to fight back against their pursuers. It is under Imperium control, but sits on the fringes with little regulation. That is a benefit to the Night Lords, but it is also a benefit to us."
"How?" Brelja asked, looking more curious now, but still incredulous.
This was the part where Artemis's mother would have said something mad, yet inspiring. Unhinged, yet poetic. Something that resonated within them, something that got their hearts pumping and willing to follow her into hell.
Artemis was not her mother.
"It gives us a chance to escape."
A wave of psychic whiplash seemed to wash over the amassed group. Nearly each one of them flinched as if they had been slapped and began to look to the door as if expecting a god to come bursting through to slaughter them for simply hearing such words. Panic rose within Artemis. It would only take one of them to confine her life to potentially months of torment before she was permitted to die. Only one to ruin everything. Throne, what was she doing?
Jep stared at her wide-eyed while Brelja simply furrowed her brow. Surprisingly, she found Phihks giggling to himself with delight.
"You're karking mad," Brelja said.
"No," Artemis mustered. "I'm tired. Tired of living like a rat, terrified of the giant shadows cast within these corridors. I would rather die seeking freedom than wasting away as their slaves."
For the second time in a few minutes, Artemis was surprised when Brelja nodded to her approvingly with a wolfish grin. "You're brave, girl. I can respect that. But it's stupid to try to escape them. Stupidity kills."
"We have a chance here," Artemis insisted. The other serfs had begun to settle down again and were listening to the exchange. "The gods are vulnerable. If there's any time to strike, it's now."
"H… How would we do it?" Jep spoke up, his voice quivering hesitantly.
"By sabotaging their plans," Artemis said simply. She changed the display to show the petition she'd given to Pyotr—though had made sure to carefully leave out any of her signifiers on the work—and gestured to it. "Their current aim is to feint landing on this planet to engage with the enemy then flee when the time is right and their pursuers are weakened." She scanned the crowd again. Many still seemed terrified to even be listening to her, but there were eyes here and there that shone with curiosity as well as mortification. Perhaps it was simply macabre interest and didn't even begin to mean support. Like watching a fawn dying on the side of the road as you rode past. Artemis had to seize the opportunity anyway. "This is where you all come into play. We can force our gods to stand their ground if they're incapable of running away."
Silence hung in the air for a moment before Brelja snorted and spoke up again. "I'll bite. How do we do that?"
"I've been informed there's a leak in the fuel reservoirs." She stifled the urge to glance at Jep. No need to get him into hot water with his fellow workers if this didn't work out in her favor. "I want all fuel loaders present to make it worse. Enough so that they will have just enough to arrive on Kleos, but none more than that."
Much to Artemis's dismay, the crowd broke out into an uproar with each fuel loader having something to say on the matter. Each comment was more or less a different—and progressively more vulgar—iteration of declaring her scheme impossible or that they were already sticking their necks out by not reporting the current leak. It took every ounce of will Artemis had not to buckle under the pressure.
It was Jep who managed to silence the crowd. "HOLD ON!" He cried. And… they listened. Voices and outcries faltered off one by one and they instead turned to face Jep. Nervous, indecisive, utterly hopeless and helpless Jep. Artemis didn't quite understand it. She'd never met someone who projected less authority in her life. Yet… they listened to him? Strange. "Let's hear the rest before passing judgment! Okay?"
He turned to face her again and Artemis nodded her thanks. "I… I know what I'm asking you for is a lot. I know this risks not only yourselves but also your friends and family. But, if this works, our gods will be dead and we'll be free."
A hand in the crowd raised. "How would we manage this without getting caught? The gods roam and check in occasionally. They're sure to take notice."
Damn, Artemis thought. She hadn't considered that. She'd thought the only time the Astartes ever bothered going to the lower decks was to hunt. "We'll create a distraction."
"What kind of a distraction?"
Artemis wasn't swift or willful enough to stop the uncomfortable grimace that spread across her face. Murmurs began to rise amongst the group again.
"Why so much effort?" Someone said over the growing noise. It silenced the crowd again and drew all eyes upon the speaker. "Why so much effort?" Phihks repeated. "The miss wants to do so much, but the gods are landing on this planet anyway, mm? So why don't we sneak out during the battle and integrate with the populace? Who cares if they can leave or not?"
Artemis blinked, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest harder than it had before, accompanied by a barbed throbbing in her skull. The eyes moved back to her, waiting for an answer.
Images flashed through her mind. Her brother's laughing face, her mother's wry smile. Artemis, studying at the scholas, excited and content with her plan to join the Imperium's naval forces. All of that, shattered by the monsters she heretically called divine because they were the closest thing to it in this den of moaning darkness.
"I don't want to escape," she confessed in a whisper. "I want to destroy them."
Artemis couldn't bring herself to look at the crowd. She knew what she would see. Instead, she looked at Phihks. And, remarkably, he seemed pleased.
A sigh drew her attention away from him "I wish you the best, girl," Brelja said. "I really do. But this plan you've cooked up? It's karking suicide. There's lines when it comes to courage, and this sure isn't one I'll be crossing." The woman gave her an apologetic shrug, then left the chamber without another word.
There was only a moment's pause, but Artemis already knew what came next. She hung her head and waited until she heard the sound of herding footfalls traveling towards the door and out of her quarters. When she looked up again, she found only Jep and Phihks still remained.
"They won't say anything," Jep said in an effort to be reassuring and put a hand on her shoulder. "They all have something to lose and speaking about this is a risk they won't take."
Artemis sighed and sat on the edge of the hololithic table like the worn-out heap she was. "I can tell."
Rain meant nothing to Pyotr. This should have concerned him. He remembered a time before becoming a Son of Curze that he had loved the rain. Yes, even upon becoming an Astartes, he still enjoyed it both tactically and aesthetically. Now he only felt confusion. Not confusion as to why he no longer felt as such—he knew very well why—but confusion as to why he couldn't muster up any concern or even disappointment for the absence of those emotions. How long would it be before he fully became nothing more than a husk of himself? Before he was so desperate to feel anything again that he allowed his eternal stalker to put something wicked and sickening inside of him? Pyotr didn't know, nor did he have the time to dwell on it.
Alone, he entered the command bridge for the second time in one week and found Anras lounging in his throne, as was to be expected. "Come to take my other arm, brother?"
"Have you lied to me since I took the first one?"
"No," Anras said ruefully.
"Then no." Pyotr entered the bridge and stood beside the throne, looking at the tactical hololith. It once again displayed the Savory Wound fleeing from the Gorgon's Manacles, alongside an indicator of their current fuel reservoir. "Any new insights?"
"The readings are marginally off," Anras stated. Pyotr raised an eyebrow. "We're losing fuel quicker than we should be. The ship's damaged, though, and the additional loss negligible. At least, in our current situation." Anras grimaced and idly cupped and rubbed his forearm with his non-augmetic hand.
"You worry about Zseron's threat," Pyotr said, noting the gesture. It was not a question.
Anras nodded. "Six Atramentar are one thing. Five Atramentar and the Sorcerer of Stars, however…"
Pyotr grunted, scanning the bridge crew as he listened to Anras. The one who he had met the day before, Artemis, was not present as of right now.
He stepped towards the hololith, not bothering to request permission. Pyotr swallowed as he sensed the table's machine spirit cower at his approach and flicked the display to include Kleos in the flickering sector map.
"I agree with your plan. The Warp is our best option. It will permit us to reach this planet and take the fight to the Ferric Sentries, as Zasharr suggested."
The visionary's lazy posture did not shift. "Really?" he asked. Anras eyed the display for a brief second. "I suppose it would appease Gargahl."
Pyotr nodded. This idea already aligned strongly with Anras's original wishes. Realistically, it should not be difficult to make him agree with the addendum, especially if he already feared what Zseron may do if he did not.
"No," Anras said musingly. "I do not support this idea."
Pyotr ground his teeth. He was becoming excessively tired of hearing that. "Why. Not?" he breathed.
"Because," Anras said, his expression suddenly growing dark, "I asked you if you understood what you had done when you took my arm. I told you that you did not need more enemies and you willingly accepted them anyway. This is the consequences of that action." Pyotr met his brother's eyes and saw hate in them.
"You would doom the entire warband because of your pride?" he spat.
"It runs in the geneseed," Anras replied coolly, his tone tinged with an unspoken accusation.
The two stared at each other venomously for what could have been minutes. Pyotr only forced himself to stop once he began to notice bridge crewmen shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
"You are getting yourself killed. Zseron will—"
"Zseron said that they would kill until the decision became unanimous. I will simply ensure I am one of those still breathing when it is and that you are not."
A sneer rose on Pyotr's lips. "You cannot guarantee that."
Anras chuckled, leaning forward in his throne and lacing his fingers together. "But I can, brother. You think the warband will form an orderly queue and let the Atramentar off them one by one? No, it will be chaos. And in that chaos, you will be my first target and there will be little you can do about it."
"A bold claim, considering how our last duel went."
The visionary's face twitched for a mere moment. "This will be different. I have many who will do as I command. You," he leaned even further forward in his seat, "have no one, brother."
Pyotr said nothing and a grin slowly grew across Anras's face. "I can't help but notice that no one else from Sixth Claw is here to aid you in your attempt at diplomacy. Perhaps they will even be the ones who first jump at the chance to tear you limb from limb when I give the order."
"Enough."
"This is what you do, Pyotr. What you have always done. You hate this legion and wish you had ended up elsewhere as a different Primarch's son, so you push your brothers away out of disdain. That has left you vulnerable. I, on the other hand, have learned to use my disdain. To forge a weapon from it."
Pyotr had not realized he had been clenching his fists. He had not realized how close he was to pulling his bolter free from his thigh and putting a round through Anras's skull. He had not realized how such petulant and pathetic words could dig their way so deep.
Through the anger and bloodlust, the meaning of his brother's words wormed their way into Pyotr's head and took root. He set his jaw as understanding formed. "What will it take to gain your vote?"
The grin on Anras's face broadened and he lounged back in the throne once again.
"Only a favor."