I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.
Inspired by the Dornian Heresy, by Aurelius Rex.
Mark
Mining outpost XNU-17649, nicknamed "Xanadu" by the workers who mined the rare materials found within the earth of the lifeless world of Caracos, was almost completely cut off from the rest of the galaxy. Like the other mining outposts scattered across the world's surface, the few hundred miners, support and security personnel lived underground, breathing recycled air and drinking water that had passed through thousands of bodies before. Their only contact with the greater Imperium was the shuttle that came once a month to take the output of the mine and deliver supplies, parts, and occasionally replacement personnel, culled from the rest of the system.
At first, no one could understand the voices. No one even acknowledged them, though everyone could hear them. After the first murder, the authorities claimed the voices weren't voices, but a shift in atmospheric pressure due to a benign fault in the air recyclers that caused bizarre winds. Nothing to worry about, they claimed, and anyone saying otherwise was clearly subversive. There were a few arrests, a public execution when the murderer was identified, and no one spoke of the voices aloud any more. They weren't that bad, after all, once you got used to it. Like a sad, mournful song that followed the workers everywhere, from their small, cramped quarters to the mining tunnels.
Then came the graffiti, carved in the walls of tight corridors with mining tools. The enforcers cracked down hard to find the perpetrator, eventually dragging one of the oldest miners out of his hab-cell. The man screamed and raved as he was arrested, claiming he was "writing the words of the voices" and that "the cry must be carried on". After being declared insane, he was executed and the defaced wall covered. But less than ten days later, the same markings were found in three separate locations of XNU-17649. This time, the culprits were the workers who had repaired the previous damage.
Showing surprising intuition, the overseer used a servitor to repair the damaged walls and sent the three workers to the infirmary. When the next shuttle lifted off, it carried a confidential report on what had happened at Xanadu, as well as a request for replacement workers, and the drugged bodies of the latest offenders.
The story could have ended there, at least until the voices of Caracos drove another miner of Xanadu mad. But the report sent by the conscientious overseer included a picture of the markings, taken by the optics of the servitor that had repaired the damage. At the time, the overseer had thought nothing of it. Clearly the madness was cause by some sort of pathogen that had been left at the site of the first marking by the initial vandal. The trio he had sent away were quarantined as best they could, and since the medical personnel showed no symptom, these measures were enough to keep the contagion in check, even if they hadn't been able to identify its source with their limited equipment. The picture was only included in the report for the sake of completeness.
The first official to see the report destroyed the pictures, poisoned the three comatose patients in their sleep, and sent replacements to Xanadu along with reassuring platitudes that the matter was being investigated. She then ventured to the nearby spaceport and spent a night with a ship officer on shore leave, whispering the song of Xanadu in his ear as he slept. The day after he left the planet to return to his ship, she killed herself, erasing the last trace of the Mark of Xanadu in the system.
From that point onward, the curse of Xanadu moved from host to host, from ship to ship, leaving behind a trail of dead bodies and ruined souls. From star system to star system, from Sector to Sector, from Segmentum to Segmentum, always escaping notice, never infecting more than a single soul at a time. It buried itself within the masses of Mankind, until finally, it reached Terra, carried there by an auspex officer on a pilgrim ship.
A confession passed the curse to an Ecclesiarchy priest, who inscribed the mark upon a scroll of parchment he sent to an Administratum drone along with a list of requirements for the upcoming celebrations of the millennium's end. From there it spread upward the Administratum's labyrinthine chain of command, until it finally reached its intended target : an unassuming scribe responsible for one of the many, many demonstrations planned for the celebrations.
As the last hours of the year ticked by, a million pilgrims were herded onto a vast plaza, located amidst the sprawling spires of what had once been called Europa. Each was given a coloured uniform and a position to stand on. Seen from above, they were supposed to form the image of the aquila, golden on a crimson background. There they would listen to the speech from the Ecclesiarch, the first of the new millennium, as he spoke to the faithful from a balcony located high above the gathered crowd. Baldo Slyst, the current High Priest of the Adeptus Ministorum, had ordered the spectacle as a display of his influence and prestige, to reinforce the impact of his message as it was broadcast across Terra.
Doing this here instead of on the southern continent of Australia, where the Ecclesiarchy's headquarters on Terra were located, was a power move, designed to show to the other High Lords that the influence of the Imperial Creed stretched all over the Throneworld. It was also part of the Alpha Legion's plan to have faith across the planet at an all-time high in order to facilitate the ascension of the Emperor to godhood.
But instead, when the pilgrims massed into the platza and found their assigned spots, they formed the Mark of Xanadu, and the image was broadcast across half a continent. It only lasted for a few moments, as the instant the Alpha Legion operatives shadowing the Ecclesiarch saw the icon and turned the broadcast down, their hexagrammatic protection tattoos burning upon their skin as they fought off the corruption, which had thankfully been diluted by being so widespread. Even so, millions were afflicted, none worse than those who had made up the crowd shaping the unholy sigil. Those clad in crimson, whose bodies had formed the sigil upon a golden backdrop, ignited in Warp fire, forming a single blazing rune while those around them screamed in agony, their bodies melting from the inside as lesser spawns of the Dark Prince manifested through them.
Amidst this madness rose the Keeper of Secrets Kanathara, which had not walked the Materium in ten thousand years. During the Roboutian Heresy, Kanathara had been unleashed upon the galaxy by daemonists of the Ninth Legion, and reaped a harvest of pain and ruin until it had been destroyed on Caracos by the Grey Knights during the Scouring, its power broken and its essence shattered. Caracos had been razed in the process, its once-thriving civilization reduced to ash in the conflict between Daemon and Knight, their souls either released from their flesh or consumed by the Neverborn.
By decree of the secretive Chapter, the world had then been declared forbidden to all – but Humanity's memory was a fragile thing. In time, the interdiction had been forgotten, and the planet had been colonized anew. Slowly, the petty sins and lusts of the miners had fed the lingering echoes of Kanathara, and its ghost had sung to them, inscribing its name upon their souls until it had been carried all the way to Terra, just in time for Light's End.
Who can say how the decree was forgotten ? The labyrinthine bureaucracy of the Administratum is beyond the ability of any to comprehend. Yet surely this was no mere coincidence, but the work of a dark power, seeking to bring a powerful piece to Terra as the rest of its schemes unfolded.
Kanathara drew the souls of the lost to it, and from them shaped its incarnate form, tall and magnificent. It fixed its baleful gaze upon Slyst, who still stood on the balcony, horrified at what he was beholding. For all the Ecclesiarch's ambition and pride, however, his faith in the God-Emperor was strong, and neither the Greater Daemon's manifestation nor the blazing Mark of Xanadu had been enough to corrupt him. Kanathara saw this, and felt anger that a soul would dare reject its magnificience.
The Keeper of Secrets raised one of its blades, and the horde of daemons surrounding it rushed forward, climbing up the walls of the cathedral from where the Ecclesiarch had intended to give his sermon. Finally breaking from their shock, Slyst's guards took their charge away, but Kanathara itself moved in, leaping hundreds of meters up from the plaza and landing on the balcony with impossible grace.
Bathed in the Greater Daemon's unholy presence, many of the Ecclesiarch's defenders succumbed, falling to their knees in adoration, not noticing the razor-sharp talons of the entity's minions as they cut their throats. Kanathara strode forth, cutting down any who remained standing, until it came face to face with Baldo Slyst. The Ecclesiarch, his ancient heart nearly bursting with terror, did not turn tail and run, futile as it would have been.
With prayer and rozarius, he castigated the Greater Daemon, invoking the name of the God-Emperor and His Saints, and the holy ground upon which the Cathedral had been built. And there was power behind his words, which burned Kanathara's perfect skin, leaving scorch marks upon its flesh. Yet all that accomplished was enraging the Keeper of Secrets further, and it fell upon the Ecclesiarch with terrible oaths of agony leaving its needle-fanged mouth.
Slyst's death was neither swift nor painless. But until the end, the Ecclesiarch refused to break.
As the holy ground was defiled with the blood of a High Lord of Terra, Kanathara, He Whose Hooves Shatter Mountains and Whose Voice Lulls the Sun, laughed, and raised up a claw upon which was impaled Slyst's decapitated head. The Cathedral trembled, the ancient structure unable to cope with the Greater Daemon's warping presence now that its awful power was unopposed. Pillars tumbled and archways collapsed, burying hundreds of maddened pilgrims under rubble. Brazeros flared with warp-fire, and silver and gold melted to form obscene patterns.
Kanathara turned its back on the desolation it had made and looked down upon the platza, where newly-converted cultists and daemons were cavorting madly. It smiled, and looked up at the skies. They were full of smoke and pollution, reflecting the billion lights of the Throneworld.
"As it is below," it whispered in a voice that made the broken statues of Saints weep black tears across the entire ruined Cathedral, "so it shall be above." It raised all four of its arms in celebration, mocking the similar gesture Slyst had performed on the balcony not a few minutes before. "Hail the coming of the true god's children ! Hail the Angel of Slaanesh !"
AN : Well, things are escalating quickly, aren't they ? And so dies the first of the High Lords. How many of the Twelve will perish in the Angel War ? Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen !
Tomorrow's chapter is already finished. Judging by the reception of Flawless and Innocent, I think you will all enjoy that one. I may need another break after that - the tenth interlude is one of my personal favorites, and I want to be sure to get it right.
Next chapter of A Blade Recast should be up tonight, bar unforeseen circumstances.
Zahariel out.