The battlefield was a forest of concrete and steel—and they were a wildfire burning it asunder. This did not bother the Sorcerer of Stars necessarily, nor did he care for all the creatures that called it home that were burning along with it. It was the way of war. The flames were either fought and repelled or they consumed all it contacted. One could not blame the fire for this, as it was only acting upon its purpose. Forces of nature did not change.
Still, the sorcerer could not help but sigh from behind his helm as another building collapsed. There was a certain beauty in destruction, in the razing of soil to prepare it for something greater, but he also could appreciate the peace that came in stillness. A city was a testament to that fact. For every extermination wrought on a populace, the skeleton of where they once called home always remained. The Sorcerer of Stars would have waxed poetic about this with his present company, but he did not seem to be one who would appreciate it.
"You ask much of me," Zasharr, the berzerker surgeon, snapped through his vox-grill. The Atramentar sorcerer followed his companion's gaze at the waves of khornate warriors in red rushing forth to strike at the front lines of the Ferric Sentries, butchering and maiming with every swing. He knew the strain it took the apothecary to not rush in and join his men in the fray. He also knew that this was not what Zasharr was referring to.
"Our time together will be short." The Sorcerer of Stars did not offer apology—there would be little point. His presence on its own, even without tapping into any warpcraft, was enough to have the pain engine's in the surgeon's skull burning with outrage. Several times, the sorcerer heard the revving of a chainblade beside him and saw the leader of the Carnage Stitchers leering at him with emerald eye lenses. This would ordinarily not disquiet the sorcerer, given the steep advantage of his abilities and terminator plating, but knowing the servants of the Blood God's own advantages and with the other members of the Atramentar distantly sailing the seas of battle, the Sorcerer of Stars found it prudent to not let too much of his attention stray from his assumed ally.
"According to Pyotr's plan," Zasharr spat. "A plan that puts my men directly in the line of fire while most of yours safely skirmish to the sides, laughing at our suffering like packs of hyenas." The mad apothecary was pacing now, working himself into more of a fury.
The sorcerer chuckled. "You say this as if your men wouldn't have wanted to be the first to charge forth anyway."
Zasharr pointed his chainsword at the Sorcerer of Stars and, even in its dormant state, he could feel the malevolent power radiating off of it. "Do not presume to know what I would have my men do. I am not fond of pointless deaths."
"Khorne cares not from where the blood flows."
"Our hymns! Not yours! You will not make a mockery of them!" Zasharr snarled, his posture momentarily becoming something that bordered on feral before he returned to his former stance. It was not always apparent why the lord of the Carnage Stitchers was called mad, but here, in the center of battle where the limits of self-control were being stressed, the sorcerer could see those glimmers burning holes in his visage.
"We have the advantage," he said softly. "You have little need for worry."
"For now."
The sorcerer hesitated, then nodded in agreement. "For now."
At the moment, the Ferric Sentries were scattered and on the backfoot. Their frontlines were nothing more than an effort to buy them time. It was up to the Revenant to ensure that they did not accomplish this goal. The Carnage Stitchers were begrudgingly following the steps to his dance, but they were quickly growing irate at a rhythm that appeared to do no more than humiliate and harm them with each movement. For every second the Imperials bought, that was a drop of trust that the Fifty-first Company lost. And their bucket was growing very, very empty.
The Sorcerer of Stars looked up at the night sky and breathed slowly. Dark clouds had begun to form, growling distantly.
"It's going to rain."
"And that matters?" Zasharr snarled.
The sorcerer turned to the World Eater, and though it could not be seen, he smiled anyway. "Yes."
Gyrthemar's hearts were heavy on this night, for he would not be permitted to haunt the corridors of the enemy cruiser, murdering all who came within his path until there was no one left. A sad, sad day, indeed. He would have to make do with what precious minutes that he had instead.
The Night Lord laid prone in the ventilation shaft, the grill of the access panel directly beneath him as he watched the corridor below and listened as metallic footfalls slowly drew closer. Gyrthemar's grey armor had long since become marked and stained with blood, extinguishing any chance he could pass for one of the dogs of the Imperium any longer. That did not bother him, as that made his work all the more fun.
The bait had been set. Gyrthemar made quick work of the few Imperial slaves that he'd found, painting the walls and decking with their viscera and letting the screams ring out across the entire ship. The scene he had left behind would be enough to leave a chattel house butcher queasy. The scent was intoxicating.
When the wolf-killer's prey came into view and stopped just beneath the vent access hatch, he immediately hoisted his bolter and scanned the narrow passageway for any sign of hostility. Finding none, he crouched down to begin investigating. That was when Gyrthemar struck.
A quick elbow to the latch of the ventilation grill caused it to give way and Gyrthemar descended upon the Ferric Sentry, limbs splayed out, his helm reverberating with the sounds of his own laughter. The Sentry was quick, rolling out of the way immediately—but not quick enough. Gyrthemar caught him around the throat with one of the chains of his flail and pulled tightly. As he landed, he quickly drove a knee into the Astartes's back, forcing the chain deeper into the soft mesh of his armor where helm met gorget and chestplate. The Ferric Sentry struggled, reaching for his bolt pistol, but Gyrthemar kicked it away the moment the maglock was released. Unfortunately, that gave his opponent the freedom to fall back into the strangulation, ramming his own body against Gyrthemar. The wolf-killer was forced to end the maneuver and roll away. He dropped the chainflail and pulled Vindkaldr from his back—his brothers had demurred that the weapon would give them away, but Gyrthemar insisted on bringing it anyway.
The Imperial reached for the Omnissian axe on his own back, but the opening gave Gyrthemar enough time to drive the tip of the spear through his opponent's armpit and burst the primary heart.
Pathetic, Gyrthemar snorted internally. A worthy foe would have used their other arm for greater defense and–
The Ferric Sentry finished drawing his weapon and began to stagger forward regardless. Gyrthemar fended off the first few strikes easily, then feinted to the side so that he could enter the warrior's guard. Grabbing his opponent's gorget, he yanked the Astartes forward and into another thrust to his gut. The spear traveled upwards at an angle, wreaking havoc on more internal organs. When Gyrthemar pulled the weapon free, blood spurted from the wound and his enemy fell to his knees. Only Gyrthemar's grasp on his armor kept the dying space marine upright in any capacity.
"That," Gyrthemar said, "was a very sad performance."
The Ferric Sentry's vox-grill crackled with coughing as he choked on his own blood. Then it began to click. "B… Burn, heretic."
Gyrthemar hissed and threw the body aside, allowing it to collapse onto the deck to bleed out. More were coming. He knew that instinctively. With his dying breath, the Astartes called out to his brothers and revealed Gyrthemar's position. Dammit. He hadn't considered that.
There was a sudden increase in weight from the object nestled within Gyrthemar's armor. It felt like a call, an opportunity.
No, he thought. Not yet.
Instead, the wolf-killer looked up at the intersection of corridors ahead of him and listened to the rapidly approaching bootfalls behind him. At least three Astartes, from the sounds of it, and they would arrive in seconds.
Gyrthemar regarded the offal and carnage around him and deliberately stepped into a particularly grotesque pool of ichor and began to thunder in the direction of the intersection. As he reached it, he continued straight forward, but stopped after eight strides. Then, slowly and methodically, he stepped backwards, ensuring his feet fell directly in line with the prints he'd left behind in blood until he was in the center of the crossroads again. Looking up, Gyrthemar saw another ventilation hatchway. With a dedicated thrust from Vindkaldr, he dislodged the grill-panel and lept upward, catching the lip of the shaft entrance. He then pulled himself into the vent and covered the panel once again.
No sooner had he finished this did the volume of his pursuers grow uncomfortably close. A pair of heartbeats later and a trio of Astartes in gray appeared beneath him. He waited. The lead warrior looked down at his bloody footprints, regarded it for less than a moment, and pointed his men in the direction of Gyrthemar's false trail. Cog-headed fools.
When the apex of the danger had passed, Gyrthemar relaxed marginally, sat back on his haunches, and checked his chronometer. They were coming up on twelve minutes since Pyotr had gone off to do… whatever it is the lord discordant needed to do. Two more minutes than he said he needed.
We cannot stall forever, brother, Gyrthemar thought. Hurry it up.
Despite this, he grinned as he hefted Vindkaldr and began crawling through the ventilation shaft in search of further prey.
Second Claw sat perched on the roof of a townhome, their three sets of eye lenses the only thing visible in the darkness of the night as the wind caused cloaks of skin and blood-red cloth to ripple in the air.
Along the main thoroughfare, they watched as gleeful raptors arced through the sky before pouncing on their prey with clawed feet and extended lightning claws. Clouds of venomous smog and droning masses of insects bubbled and undulated across the landscape—blessings of the Plague Father given to their enemies. Helpful, if nothing else.
Naduvion's focus was on the true masterpiece of the exhibit, however. Say what one will about Gargahl, but the daemon prince was a force of nature on the battlefield. The Grand Abbot of Nurgle took the lead of his forces, adorned in the thick plating of a dreadnought that had already begun to fuzz with mold and leak puss from its crevices. Every swing of the chiropteran creature's massive blade vanquished at least half a dozen layman Astartes and left a scar of fungus and grime behind in the rockcrete. As loath as he was to admit it, Naduvion had to accept that Gargahl's every move and stroke was exquisite, plain and simple. He vowed to memorize the scene and replicate it onto canvas later.
"Yenash," Dreeve voxed. "Where are you?"
"As it turns out, brother," Yenash replied. "It is very difficult to land a gunship in an active battle zone. I know it will not be half as enjoyable without my presence, but do please try, for my sake."
Geiger snarled as Naduvion and Dreeve exchanged glances. It came as no surprise that their brother conveniently found himself out of the line of fire for the time being. Perhaps it was as he said it was, but the end result was the same, regardless.
"Very well," Dreeve said tersely, then cut the line. The three present members of Second Claw continued to wait, taking the mien of patient gargoyles until Naduvion eventually blinked a marker into being across the Claw's shared retinal overlay.
"There," he said, the marker highlighting a squad of retreating Ferric Sentries that had been thoroughly harassed and injured by the flocks of raptors infesting the battlefield.
Three sets of eyes slowly tracked them in the night as the squad backed their way down an alleyway for further defensive support, completely unaware of the lords in midnight looming above them.
"Now?" Greigor asked, grip tightening around his weapon.
Naduvion nodded. "Now."
They pounced, appearing from the shadows like wraiths coming to collect the souls of sinners, snipping their mortal coils as a reaper would for the recently made dead. Not a single boltgun fired by the time four dead Astartes laid at Second Claw's feet. It would have been artful, if not for the succinct lack of vision.
"What?" Greigor snapped as Naduvion sighed wistfully.
"Nothing, brother," he responded, flicking the blood from his chainsword and dagger. "Let us reposition and start again."
All Taresh had to do was follow the trail of bodies.
It was not difficult work. Every corpse left behind held the telltale markings of those who followed the doctrine of the VIIIth Legion. Even then, however, the way in which Taresh's brothers killed differed. A unique thumbprint of death left behind in their wake. Gyrthemar, with ruthless, agonizing wounds that ensured his enemies would either die by his hand or bleed out in the process of trying to escape. Retrigan, his strikes surgical and precise. There was never more force than strictly necessary when it came to the once-raptor.
And then there was Pyotr.
A malicious twitch came over Taresh's face as he thought of his brother. He was a special variety of ferocious. The lord discordant saw no other target but the throat, and he knew no other level of prowess beyond the absolute maximum there was to give. He did not simply stab his foe in the heart, he drove his hand through their chest and tore it out, ensuring irrefutable proof of their lack of survival. He was the best of them. That was why he needed to die.
No more icons. No more saviors. No more Prophets, Taresh repeated in his mind. His decision was one born entirely out of logic and necessity for the good of the warband, but he would be lying if he told himself that he would not enjoy putting his accursed battle-brother down like the dog he was.
The Night Lord turned the corner of a corridor where the freshest corpse yet lay face-down on the decking.
Taresh's armor bore not even a fleck of blood or damage. He could blend in far better than his kin and saw no reason to join in the fight. It served him better if they remained distracted, anyhow.
At the end of the corridor there was a bulkhead door that betrayed the importance of the room that lay beyond. Pyotr's destination. Taresh approached the door and inspected the sparking control panel. He drew a grenade from his belt and maglocked it to the archway directly above the door itself. Then, he turned and retook his position at the end of the corridor, kneeling down around the side of the corner. He drew his boltgun, took aim at the grenade, and waited.
Taresh was not so prideful as to not admit that his brother had had his uses. This plan of his was not what he would consider good, but it was at least serviceable. It was why he had allowed Pyotr to survive this long. Only now, he'd outlived his use. The moment he finished his task in the room beyond, he became more of a problem than an asset. He was as doomed as the Primarch himself—a sire that Taresh had never met, nor felt disappointment in not being able to do so—and he would drag the entire warband down with him. It was time for someone to change courses, to set things right. Taresh wanted no decoration or glory for his role in this, but he would take the responsibility and–
A hand fell on his shoulder as a molten blade slid through his back, his spine, and emerged just beneath his sternum, the tip glistening with his blood.
Taresh felt his lungs pop and the meat within him begin to charr and burn. A face lowered down next to his and whispered softly.
"Not yet, brother," Anras said. "It's not the right time."
Lethargy and impotence filled his body and seized his limbs. He tried to speak as the energy of the visionary's power sword continued to light him aflame from within, but he no longer had the ability to convert air into words. As Taresh felt his eyes begin to boil and melt, he quickly flicked them across his retinal display in desperation, sending one final message. Asking one final question.
Anras seemed to muse for a moment, his vox-grill purring as Taresh went blind. "No, Taresh," he finally said after reading the message. "You never were."
The sword was yanked free with merciless conviction, the Night Lord's corpse fell forward, and Taresh died.
The plan worked. For all of ten minutes.
As it turned out, following Tzimiti the helstalker was a harder task than Artemis made it out to be. The daemon engine was already unnaturally swift beyond the capacity for human physiology to keep up with, but getting a mob of terrified slaves to move together in unison was its own task entirely. Their only saving grace was the beast was slowed by both the terrain and the occasional squadron of enemy combatants that it stopped to prey upon. Meanwhile, Artemis and her squad were still seen as ideal targets to shoot at.
Whenever they did manage to maintain ground with helstalker, though, a vast majority of the onslaught shifted to the far more dangerous target. It was just a matter of keeping what remained of her squad close enough to stay safe, but far enough to remain inconsequential to the creature—a delicate balance she'd already nearly failed several times. On one such occasion, Artemis was certain that it would pounce upon them, if not for a fortuitous barrage of bolter rounds pummeling its plating at that exact moment.
"I don't know if we can keep this up, girl," Brelja said, crouching down next to Artemis as they took cover behind a mound of rubble. Soot and rockcrete dust coated her skin and—at some point—she'd somehow managed to dip her hands into a puddle of machine oil and use it as warpaint to adorn her face. In the near distance, Tzimiti was terrorizing a unit of Ferric Sentry battle-serfs—at least there were others whose lot was almost as bad as Cult Squad One's own.
"Getting tired?" Artemis asked breathlessly with a raised eyebrow.
Brelja snorted. "Now's not the time to karking joke. I'm talking about everyone else." She gestured to the rest of the squad. Miserable wretches in tattered and dirty clothes with low quality equipment sat in the dirt and dust, wheezing and panting as sweat dripped from their brows.
"We don't have a choice," Artemis said, her voice grim.
"We've landed. Wasn't the plan to escape?"
"Escape?" Artemis spluttered and felt a manic laugh pass from between her lips. "Escape where? We wouldn't even get off the battlefield before someone caught us, and even if we did, we're on an island! They'd find us in hours in our condition. We wouldn't stand a chance of blending in, let alone securing passage on a water or star vessel."
Brelja's face hardened. "So we fight and die, then?" It wasn't a rebuttal. Artemis could tell that her friend's resolve was genuine as her eyes steeled and focused on the battle ahead.
"We fight," Artemis agreed, feeling more exhausted in that moment than any other since being abducted by the Astartes of the VIIIth Legion. She tried to force herself to stand and peer over the lip of her cover to gain some insight of the helstalker's whereabouts, but she couldn't seem to summon the strength.
Just as Artemis opened her mouth to ask for a hand up, someone screamed. "Shit!"
The moment she registered the cry, something crashed into the building to their backs with meteoric force. The upper levels of the tenement lit with an orange and black blossom before the foundations crumbled and chunks of debris began to break free and fall directly down upon Artemis and her squad.
"Go to ground!" was what she tried to yell, but over the din, nothing came out as individuals attempted to dive and jump out of the way. Artemis felt her body grow weightless, then smothered by something heavy on her chest as her face was forced into the dirt. It took her several seconds too long to realize it was a person.
"You still breathing?" Brelja asked, lifting herself off of Artemis and looking down at her. She nodded.
"Are you injured?"
"Fine," the Fenrisian growled. Blood slicked the side of her arm, but the wound looked superficial.
Artemis stood, looking at the new pile of rubble where her squad had previously been entrenched. All around, she could see members pulling themselves to their feet with varying degrees of damage. Artemis let out a silent sigh of relief when she saw Jep helping someone to their feet, eyes wide and dazed.
Then she saw the first broken, mangled limb sticking out of the wreckage. Dark blood dribbled into the shattered rockcrete below. Frantic, Artemis scanned over the survivors and saw their numbers had been nearly cut in half from that one maneuver alone. Barely more than ten of them remained.
Mouth agape and her face tightened with pain, Artemis pressed her palms into the knotted mess that was her hair and stared at the death around her, seeing more and more corpses the longer she looked. She… she was supposed to protect them. This was the last thing she could do, and… and she failed again.
"Help!" A weak screech came from the rubble. Without any thought or hesitance, Artemis scrambled towards the voice, crawling over jagged stone and broken support beams.
The voice kept calling, muffled by layers of rockcrete until Artemis finally found the right spot on the edge of the mound's opposite end. Whoever was within almost made it clear during the debris fall but were a hair too short. That meant they had a good chance of being unharmed. At least, that's what Artemis forced herself to believe.
"H-hello?" the voice said through a gap in the rockcrete. Inside, Artemis could see a face that she recognized.
"It's me, Kosa! I'm here!"
"A-Artemis?" She sounded shaken.
"Are you hurt?"
"I… I don't know."
Artemis began clearing away the debris, tearing fingernails free and cutting her hands along the rough stone. Her own blood dripped along her red tattooed skin, rendering it nearly invisible.
When the initial wreckage was clear, a large slab remained between Kosa and Artemis that was far too great for her to lift.
"Hold on," Artemis said, then called over her shoulder. "I need help over here!"
Jep, Brelja, and a few others rushed to her aid. Together, each of them grabbed a section and heaved, muscles straining with what pitiful strength they had left. Artemis felt tears leak from her eyes as, after several arduous seconds, she began to feel the rubble growing heavier rather than lighter as limbs gave out.
No. No, please…
There was a resurgence and she felt the weight lift free from the trapped woman beneath, crashing to the side. Artemis didn't bother paying attention to the awed expressions around her or the nervous look Jep was giving her. Instead, she crouched next to Kosa in an effort to help her up.
"Come on, let's get you on your feet."
"Artemis, I… I can't move," Kosa whimpered.
Artemis attempted a smile. "Sure you can. You're just in shock, is all. You'll be fine."
"Artemis…"
"You'll be fine," she repeated, grabbing hold of Kosa's hand and squeezing. She squeezed back, her eyes desperate.
"Artemis, she's–"
"She'll be fine!" Artemis snapped, not looking back. A hand fell on her shoulder, but she clenched her eyes tight and looked away.
"You need to look, girl."
Artemis sobbed, but nodded. When she opened her eyes again, she looked down. And saw the four-foot length of rebar that jutted out from Kosa's midsection.
"Th-this is fixable. We can get her out of this," she said, still trying to cling on to anything. She couldn't lose another friend. She just couldn't.
When she met Brelja's eyes, the Fenrisian's face was sorrowful, but stern. She knew that answer without any words needing to be spoken.
"I-I'll be okay, right?" Kosa croaked.
Brzzzt!
The woman's head suddenly dropped back down into the rubble as a beam of red burned its way through her forehead. Artemis's mouth fell open in a soundless scream, the air refusing to leave her lungs.
She reached down and shook Kosa by the chin. Nothing happened. She tried again. Nothing. Only sightless eyes staring back up at her. When it set in that she was truly dead and killed, Artemis slowly turned around to glare at the culprit.
Phihks the skitarius stood in his rigid manner, paying them little attention as he tended to the laslock pistol that he'd fired on one of their own for the second time that day.
"Why?" Artemis growled.
"Our escort is leaving us behind and a rescue attempt would be, ultimately, time consuming and fruitless," he responded in the reverberating, crackling voice of his vox-speaker. Emotionless.
"We could have saved her!"
Phihks paused and looked at her like she'd just uttered something so daft he hadn't even considered it. "No."
Artemis dove at him with a scream, but taut arms held her back as she thrashed and raved.
"Stop. We can't afford it," Brelja said. Artemis struggled a moment longer, then slowly fell still. Brelja was right. Oh, Emperor, how Artemis hated it, but she was right. "Are you cool enough?"
Begrudgingly, Artemis nodded and she was let free. She looked to see several dismayed faces watching her. She ignored them and took her place at the head of the squad.
"Let's go find the damn monster again…"
Pyotr emerged from the chamber—dragging a machine priest after him by the neck—to see a pair of grey-armored Astartes at the end of the corridor. One stood holding a sword drenched in blood, his armor marred and stained, while the other lay prone with his face to the metal, armor pristine. It was obvious to see what had happened here.
"Anras, your duty was to ensure none of the Ferric Sentries followed me."
The visionary looked down at the corpse, then back up at Pyotr, spreading his hands in a sardonic gesture. "I stopped him, did I not?"
Pyotr glanced up, noting the grenade right above his head that had been attached to the bulkhead's entryway. "Barely."
"Then maybe it would behoove you to keep within your own timetables." Anras then stabbed down at the chest of the dead Ferric Sentry before doing the same at the throat. Both were swift actions done for no other purpose but to destroy the corpse's geneseed.
The warpsmith grunted his acknowledgement and moved to join his brother.
"Is it done?" Anras asked, tone weary.
"It is," Pyotr replied, glancing back at the room he had just departed. The tech-priest in his grip struggled, but had little hope of escape—especially after Pyotr had forcibly removed any and all combative augmetics he could find on their person. "We should move. Quickly."
As the two Sons of Curze turned and vacated the corridor hastily, Pyotr tapped into his Claw's vox-channel. "Brothers, it is time for us to leave."
"Understood," Gyrthemar voxed.
"About time," said Retrigan.
Pyotr frowned. "Taresh?"
Nothing.
A string of curses buzzed across the line from both brothers.
"What about Anras?"
"He is with me," Pyotr assured them. The loss of a member of Sixth Claw was tactically upsetting, but Pyotr cared nothing for Taresh's loss on a personal level. At one point, he may have been relieved, or even overjoyed.
But no longer. Now, he felt only a mild buzz piercing the numbness of his emotions. More uncomfortable than anything.
"We must regroup and get off of this ship immediately," Pyotr continued.
"How?"
"Where?"
Pyotr licked the inside of his bottom lip. "Standby," he said, closing the vox-link.
"Brother, the ship is a maze by design. Do not tell me you had not considered how we would come together again," Anras sneered.
"That is what this is for." Pyotr held up the squirming machine cultist, their legs kicking at open air and hands scratching ineffectively at the metal of his gauntlet.
"Unhand me, cretin!" the figure in red whined through a mouth that was still surprisingly biological. And yet, added pressure on their throat seemed to do nothing to restrict their breath or voice, somehow. "Just wait until he hears of this!"
"I do not fear your chapter master, priest."
The tech adept had the nerve to laugh at that. "Not him, you fool. The magos! The one who will–!"
With his free hand, Pyotr grabbed his bolt pistol and shoved the barrel into the priest's mouth. That shut him up.
"The worshippers of the Mechanicum are tricky," Anras said slowly. "How do we know that this one hasn't called for aid?"
"He likely has," Pyotr said casually. "They will not arrive in time."
Pyotr could not break the tech-priest. He was blessed with augmetics, yes, but Pyotr had already used all three of his techno-viruses since arriving on the ship. The codes themselves still existed within the housings of his mechatendrils, but without the Warp-power to fuel and maximize them, they would do little good against the likes of the Machine Cult. Even Pyotr's metamechanical ministrations would do little in such a short timeframe.
It was a good thing, then, that he would not be doing the breaking.
Pyotr removed the bolt pistol from his captive's gullet and clamped it back down on his thigh. The priest immediately resumed its evangelical tirade about their vengeful superior—some so-called Magos Tahr'kull.
He then reached for an item locked to his waist that could have been mistaken for a stylistic buckle for his armor. It was a dark, circular disk, with legs that sprawled out like an arachnid. It hummed with malicious energy and seemed to twitch with excitement as he brought it towards the Mechanicum slave's head.
"What is that? Stop it! Stop at once!"
The disk locked into place on the back of the priest's skull, its legs reaching out towards the front of the face and sinking deep into the skin and metal around the eyes. That was when they began to scream and seize until abruptly stopping moments later, as if afflicted with an otherworldly calm. The lights of their lensed oculars flashed, then bled to a magenta coloration.
"You may put me down now, master," Curie said, her voice awkward and slurred coming from the hijacked vocal cords. Pyotr complied.
Anras looked at Pyotr with curiosity. "You seem to have many tricks hidden within that armor, brother."
"This was actually her idea," Pyotr nodded to the body the warband's tech adept puppeted. For all her talk of purity and maintaining the sanctity of the Machine God, Curie was rather eager to assert her will and ambitions by any means necessary.
"I would very much like to continue living," Curie added. "That is unlikely to happen if I leave all of the work to you Astartes."
"Watch your tongue, cog-worshipper," Anras growled.
"Apologies, lord. This vessel's brain chemistry is infecting my own," she said, oculars bleeding to a vibrant blue. After a moment, she cocked her head to the side. "Ah. How clever. Several squads of skitarii were commanded to wait and ambush you around several key curves in the passageways. They are now dismissed."
"And how many Astartes were alerted of our location?"
"None. This vessel had very high confidence in its minions."
Anras, evidently growing impatient, began to thump his fist lightly into the wall. "And where is the point in all of this, exactly?"
"I spy three on my master alone. Ha-ha. Apologies. Pesky, pesky brain chemistry." The oculars glowed a brighter blue.
"Curie…" Pyotr warned.
"Transfering map schematics now."
The lord discordant's retinal display had a rune blink into existence at that moment. Upon selecting it, a complete map of the Gorgon's Manacles appeared before him. Moments later, a blip appeared within the heart of one of the levels.
"We are here." A line then appeared, sprawling from the blip that indicated them towards the hangar. "This is the quickest route to a craft that will take you to the surface, though it does not account for obstacles along the way or what will likely be heavy resistance within the…" Curie's head abruptly cocked to the side.
"What is it?" Anras barked impatiently.
"How curious," she said. The route on the map suddenly vanished, and was replaced with a new one that led… nowhere. At least, not until Curie updated Pyotr's schematics with one that indicated additional clearance. "That," she continued, "is a teleportarium. One that requires authorization for a specific Adeptus Mechanicus cohort and them alone. It would seem that the Astartes are not even aware of its existence."
"Sounds like the Mechanicum doesn't fully trust the Ferric Lapdogs," Anras smirked.
"It appears not," Curie agreed. "How very beneficial for you."
"Can you operate it?" Pyotr asked.
"Yes, though I don't have much time. This vessel's cerebrum is weak and pliable, but elastic. It will reject my augment eventually. There is no reason to worry, as it will be terminated when that occurs as according to the device's protocol."
"How much time do you have?"
"Enough, but I advertise haste, my master."
Pyotr nodded and rejoined Sixth Claw's vox-channel. "These are the cruiser's schematics," he explained as he transferred it to both Retrigan and Gyrthemar. "The marked chamber is our rally point. Make for it immediately."
"Copy."
"Understood, brother."
Pyotr regarded Anras and Curie. "Let us be on our way, then."
Unsurprisingly, the latter half of Sixth Claw beat them to the rendezvous point.
"Who's the stooge?" Gyrthemar asked, nodding to Curie.
"The one that recalibrates your eye," the tech-priest responded testily.
"Ah," Gyrthemar said, as if all of his questions had been answered.
Retrigan eyed the tech adept wearily, then glanced from side to side before locking gazes with Pyotr. "It's all well and good to be together again, brother, but what is the significance of this location?"
The lord discordant had reason to agree. Based on Curie's claims, this should have been the entrance to the teleportarium, but, as far as he could see, it was simply another corridor. Although, he felt as if he could sense… something amiss amongst the buzzing wires and cables beneath their feet and running through the wall paneling.
As if in response to his thoughts, Curie began tutting to herself. It was an odd and rare behavior for her, considering her lack of lips and tongue on her usual body.
"Yes, quite clever, indeed," she mused. Gyrthemar looked at Pyotr imploringly, as if he should know exactly what she was talking about. "Clearance done exclusively via a neural proximity cognitive-cypher network. How… unique." She sounded almost bored.
"Can she explain more clearly?" Retrigan asked.
"That is likely her version of the word," Pyotr replied. A moment later, one of the wall panels folded in on itself as if it had become paper-thin and was being sucked in by a vacuum. The sound of shifting metal and sliding plates echoed from within as it split in two and revealed a new chamber.
"Is that…?" Retrigan began.
"Our way to the surface? Yes," Anras finished.
The group entered and Curie immediately sought out the main cogitator and began consecrating the device.
"This has not been used in quite some time," she said.
"Will it work?"
A pause. "Yes. Provided it is given the proper rites."
"How long will that take?" Pyotr asked as he directed his brothers onto the platform.
"Hours. Mmm… perhaps days to be safe."
"What?" Gyrthemar spluttered.
Pyotr took a deep breath through his nose. "Curie. We do not have that much time. You even concurred."
The tech-priest slowly looked up, her expression overly rigid in some portions of her face and completely slack in others, as if the body's brain was misfiring signals to the muscles that maintained her emotional bearings.
"Ah… That is correct."
"Can you do this?"
"It would be heretikal."
"Will you do this?"
There was an unnerving long pause before she finally spoke again.
"Yes," she almost whispered. "Though I cannot guarantee the machine spirit will function as desired."
"Do as you see fit."
Curie nodded and quickly began to drown herself in her work. Occasionally she muttered to herself about clumsy and inefficient limbs, but the teleportarium slowly began to light up and hum with activity around them.
"Preparing teleport flare," she said. "Will a position amongst the bulk of our forces be acceptable, master?"
"It would be preferred," Pyotr agreed.
"Gathering coordinates." Curie then closed her eyes and Pyotr had the sense that she was once again in her own body aboard the Savory Wound, gathering the necessary information, before opening them again several moments later. "Launching now."
Nothing happened at first.
"How long does this usually take?" Gyrthemar asked after another several seconds of inactivity.
"Patience," Curie buzzed with annoyance.
Before the wolf-killer could so much as snort out a rebuttal, an oppressive hum filled the chamber that forced a pang of hunger through Pyotr's soul. And then they were somewhere else.
It was not the destination that they had chosen.
They were not amongst brothers on the field of battle. They were not met with bolter fire, death, destruction, and mayhem. They did not see the ruins of an occupied city that had been selected for misery by the Night Lords.
Instead, they found themselves in a pleasant cliffside promenade, a pavilion to their backs that overlooked the sea several hundred feet below.
"This," Gyrthemar declared, "is not where we are supposed to be."
"She did warn us," Retrigan said, then cursed subtly under his breath. "Coordinates say that we are in Equinox Secundus, but behind enemy lines. What is our plan?"
All eyes turned to Pyotr.
"We must get out of this armor," he said. "I would rather not have our enemies and brothers shooting at us as we try to reconvene."
"Ah, yes, let me turn over this stone here and find a fresh set of VIIIth Legion battle plate to put on," Anras drawled.
Pyotr ignored him and forged a new voxlink.
"Zseron," he said. "How fares the battle?"
The Sorcerer of Stars was quick to respond. "Well. We currently have the upper hand. What of your mission?"
"Successful. We have made landfall, but we will be needing our payload… Minus Taresh's wargear."
"Mm. Zasharr will not enjoy this."
"He will manage."
There was a click of acknowledgement as Pyotr transferred their coordinates, then the esoteric sound of inverted buzzing across the vox, followed by faint but distinctly bestial snarls of rage.
A bubble of Warp-sorcery formed out of the soil in front of Sixth Claw like a welt in the planet's flesh. It was opaque and an inky purple-on-black. It roiled and spun with malevolent energy before abruptly popping, revealing a mass of equipment that belonged to Sixth Claw.
"Let us be swift," Pyotr said as he and his brothers went to work. Without the proper equipment and aid, the process was longer than usual, but still made relatively swift by the assistance of Pyotr's mechadendrite limbs and the lack of an additional body to equip. The process lasted a little under twenty minutes by Pyotr's chronometer.
"Finally," Gyrthemar sighed joyously, flexing the servos of his midnight hands, his face once again hidden behind a skull-faced helmet. "That Imperial armor felt… wrong."
"You are fond of your antiquities, aren't you, brother?" Anras tittered, eyeing Gyrthemar's spear.
Retrigan said nothing as he unsheathed and recalled his lightning claws several times. Pyotr noted the microexpressions of relaxation in his posture as he did so.
"Our brothers need us," Pyotr said, shouldering his chainglaive. "Let us show these Sons of Manus what it means to know fear yet again."
There were murmurs of agreement from Sixth Claw and Pyotr turned to lead the way.
He took no more than a single step before he felt a biting cold– No, a numbness, take hold of his entire body.
No…
His knees buckled and he dropped to the ground as laughter filled his ears.
"No," he whispered. "Not now… Anytime but now…"
Pyotr… a seductive voice hissed.
"Brother?" Gyrthemar asked, but his voice was so distant, so vague.
NO!
The numbness spread, stealing everything from the lord discordant. His body. His emotions. Even his thoughts. He tried to howl, but was unable to tell if any noise parted from his lips. He could not even call what he felt pain, for it was the opposite. It was the epitome of nothingness.
And it was so much worse.
My poor child, the voice of a god said, their tone dripping with gluttonous sympathy. This was always how it was going to be… How it was going to end…
Pyotr gritted his teeth, falling prone as he clutched his head.
"Please…" he tried to whisper.
He only received laughter in return.
The visionary watched as the wolf-killer knelt next to the insensate heap that was–
…That should have been their brother.
"What is wrong with him?" Gyrthemar asked, tentatively lifting one of the mechatendril limbs that had fallen limp.
"The Ruinous Powers take him," Retrigan answered, his voice disgusted and… Was that remorse? He reached for his bolter. "I will… I will handle this."
"No," Anras said simply. Both Gyrthemar and Retrigan turned to him. "I shall… tend to our brother."
"I was the one he asked to bring him mercy, should he fall to the Dark Gods," Retrigan snarled defensively.
Anras looked into Retrigan's eyes—red meeting red. "I foresaw this, brother. It must be me. Are you doubting my visions?"
The once-raptor hesitated. He would back down, Anras knew he would. Retrigan understood the value in tradition. He always had.
"Very well," he said, terse and clipped as he looked away. Anras nodded and stepped towards Pyotr, peering down at him.
"We don't have much time," Anras said. "Go. I will catch up."
"But–"
"Go."
There was a tense pause, then the sound of servos whirring as armor turned and began to thump down the street.
Gyrthemar did not leave immediately. He remained still, looking at their fallen brother with a pathetic level of pleading, before he, too, turned and left to join Retrigan.
Anras waited until he knew they were truly gone and out of earshot.
"And here we are," Anras said, drawing his own bolter and running a thumb along the side of the barrel. "Right where I always knew we would end up. You, bowing before me."
The whimpering creature that knelt prone at the visionary's feet did not respond. Anras sneered.
"Why?" he asked. "Why do they listen to you of all people? Can't they see? Can't the gods see! You are nothing!" Anras gestured to the heavens. "Yet, with all my power, all of my prestige, I am treated as nothing more than a child to be appeased by our kind. So, tell me, brother, why. You?" He kicked at the creature's helm. Its body tumbled to the side, but otherwise did not react.
"I hate you," Anras continued. "Our brothers hate you. Fate itself hates you. And yet we listen. I still don't understand. Even after all I've seen, I still don't understand!" Anras knew he was raving now, pacing like a crazed beast. He didn't care. "This should be your curse! Your responsibility! I DON'T DESERVE THIS!" He slammed his palm into his chest in the exact place he knew the genetic material of his father lay nestled. "This should be your decision, not mine!
"I have seen what happens to our warband on this day. What… what could happen to them. And the future? Our future. It rests entirely on you, brother. On this moment. We will never rise, no. That is never our destiny." The visionary let out an involuntary cackle. "But survival… Yes, we can do that. You will either be the cause or end of it, Pyotr. And I have to choose which it is!" He turned and glared at the creature yet again.
"My gifts ask me how much faith I have in you, brother. In a man so overcome by his own rot that he lies sobbing like an infant at my boots. Tell me, then, what would you choose, were you in my place?"
The visionary breathed in deeply, closed his eyes, and sighed.
"I don't deserve this," he said softly, looking down at the creature… at Pyotr once again. "But I will bear the responsibility nonetheless, for it is my duty. It always has been. I see that now."
Anras, visionary of the Fifty-first Company, lifted his boltgun and fired.