So I lied to myself, I thought that I could complete this take in just a simple three parts, but after close to eighteen pages, I realized this story would need a fourth part to complete it. I'm currently in the planning of the at current next three shorts, the next one with be following the Emerald Paladins, one that follows another Bale Hounds successor chapter, and the third one I'll leave as a surprise. I'm not entirely certain when I will get back to Lord of the IInd or the anthology stories but I have not abandoned them. If there is any interest I will post a codex as a new story going over the modern chapters of the IInd legion, starting with the modern Bale Hounss, including some details about what they have been up to during the Era Indomitus. Hope you enjoy.
Part Three: Bloody Storm
Aspira Nesus, the city that surrounded the Eternal Lookout was in utter mayhem, the dying screams of the innocent were accompanied by cheers of the damned and the throaty howls of blood soaked hatred. The city militia and security forces were too easily overwhelmed by the blood thirsty cultists that howled in glee beside the foul shards of their dark god of war. Every single member of the Flame Falcons chapter, from the most aged veteran brother to the newest chapter serf felt their wrath rise at the sight of their homeworld being ravaged by such unclean hearts. No effort would be spared in the defense of the city, no engine of war left to slumber in the armory, not a single of the honored Dreadnoughts left in stasis, and no serf left unarmed to aid their masters in the defense of Lethe. Despite the zealous hatred that burned inside Master Mighta Enfield, he was still the master of an entire Chapter, and had concerns beyond that of a simple warrior.
He was at the Eternal Lookout's eastern terrace, where he stood before the Chapter's oldest hololithic projector as it rendered a live model of the city below. Gathered around him were the surviving Flame Falcons captains and masters of the Chapter's specialists, along with Godfrey of the Oathkeepers. The Chapter Master dreaded to imagine how things would have fared if the Oathkeepers had not been here.
"Captains, you have your orders," Mighta stated clearly, "Take your demi companies into the city and fulfill our sworn obligation to the people of Lethe. Emperor be with you all my brothers." The brother captains saluted to their lord, and turned to leave, then before the chief apothecary or Pador Tiberion, the captain of 10th company, could leave, Mighta gestured for them to stay. The two silently obeyed, but each raised a brow when they noticed that Godfrey had not made any attempt to leave the terrace either.
"Brothers, what I ask is out of necessity," the Chapter Master prefaced, "Nothing but the continued survival of our Chapter matters." Malgarius looked to Captain Tiberion, their naked gazes met and already they both wore concerned brows. They slowly turned their gaze back to their Chapter Master, and observed the uncomfortable expression on Godfrey's exposed face.
"Master Enfield?" Malgarius asked as he observed the regret in Enfield's micro-expressions, and felt a chill when he saw sorrow in his lord's eyes when they looked at him.
"I am forced to initiate the Phoenix Protocols," the master said somberly, "And I have asked Commander Godfrey to assist us." The silence that hung between the four was interrupted only by the distant gunfire and hum of the hololith, but neither drained the tension from that moment. Captain Tiberion felt his eyes widened by fractions as he fought to keep himself in tight control.
"My lord, you cannot deny this battle to my surviving scouts and sergeants," the captain began with tight control, "They have just as much of a right to fight for their home as the rest of the Chapter." Mighta met the 10th Captain's eyes, regret but determination visible in them.
"Ordinarily yes, I would agree," he allowed before the cold tone of authority entered his tone, "But we are already below half chapter strength, and lost one too many terminators to the heretek's betrayal. I can make peace that mine shall likely be the most infamous to be named Chapter Master, but I will not, under any circumstance, allow myself to be the last." He moved his head slightly to glance over to Malgarius.
"How long would it take for you to begin evacuating our gene vaults into orbit?" Mighta asked grimly, to which the apothecary needed a moment before he could answer properly.
"With only my own servators and serfs?" Malgarius slowly answered, "Half a day at best, and that's not including the preparations for launch." Mighta then looked over to Godfrey, who met the Chapter Master's gaze but his mood had yet to improve.
"I shall vox my Apothecary and add his own efforts to yours, Master Enfield," the Oathkeeper said, "We have ample storage aboard our vessel to contain your legacy." All could see there was more the commander wished to add, but he held his tongue in respect that the Flame Falcons were Mighta's to command. The Chapter Master nodded his head in somber gratitude, then turned back to his brothers.
"Tiberion, orders your company to aid their efforts," Enfield ordered professionally, "You and the 10th will secure any chapter adepts and assets the Apothecary deems essential in the creation of new Astarte brothers. I will be redirecting Champion Baraquath to assist the chaplains in securing our chapter lore." Whatever it was that had kept the Captain retain polite obedience to his lord, snapped at the mention of the Chapter Champion.
"You would deprive our forces of one of our best warriors?" Tiberion demanded angrily, "Have you already determined that our efforts will be pointless?!" A drawn out moment of silence hung between them, as Mighta narrowed his furrowed gaze at the captain, and his professional tone now dripped with irritation.
"I understand that emotions are high, Brother Tiberion," Mighta warned, "So out of respect for that, and your centuries of dedicated service to our Scout company, I'll not make an official note of that outburst. You will not question my orders, not now, not when our chapter's very existence is threatened in a manner unrecorded by the archives. Our chapter's legacy is older than our fortress, and I will not have ours be the last generation of Astartes to carry the name Flame Falcons. Now, you have your orders Captain. I suggest you carry them out." The Captain narrowed his eyes, but remained silent before saluting the Chapter Master then left. Malgarius stood in place as he watched the Captain leave, and then looked back to Mighta.
"My lord…are you certain that these protocols are necessary?" The Apothecary asked delicately, as he did not wish to stoke Mighta's anger any further, but still could not believe that things were bad enough to warrant such measures. The Chapter Master sighed and his shoulders dropped slightly as he gently pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I pray it will prove unnecessary," Mighta admitted, "But this all feels too well timed for random coincidences. For all we know, this could just be the start of something greater. Our Chapter has stood in loyal service for almost over five millennia, and have survived so much. The Flame Falcons must endure, even if we fall, and I will fight with every last fiber of my being to prevent that fall." Malgarius took a moment before he nodded, and then saluted.
"Permission to begin the evacuation?" The Apothecary asked respectfully, to which Mighta nodded.
"Granted, Chief Apothecary," the chapter master allowed, "Emperor hasten your step, brother." As the white clad brother left the Flame Falcons' Chapter Master and Oathkeeper Commander in silence. Once the two were the only ones left out on the terrace, Godfrey looked to the Flame Falcon and cleared his throat.
"I understand your caution Master Enfield," the Oathkeeper said, "Though I can also understand your battle brothers' frustration, especially when you have allowed my own brothers to aid in the city's defense." Mighta's mask of stern detachment fell away gradually and Godfrey almost felt surprised at the weary expression that took the Chapter Master's face. He had seen such expressions on the face of the commanders of Imperial Guard Regiments, those who had relentlessly plunged themselves and their soldiers into the depths of war, over and over again. It was unsettling to the Oathkeeper but he held his tongue tightly, careful to not accidentally insult his fellow Son of Clay.
"This day has been one of constant conspiracy," Mighta sighed bitterly, "We were below half strength already, then the heretek, and now these heretics strive to spill enough blood to free that which our predecessors sealed away." The Oathkeeper raised a brow at his gene brother's choice of words.
"You believe this attack to simply be a part of a ritual?" Godfrey's tone held no accusation merely cautious surprise, and the Flame Falcons' Master did not seem to note it with any bitterness.
"I have survived four centuries in His Majesty's service," Mighta explained, "I've lost count of the myriad of foes to the Imperium I have faced, but of all the followers of the archenemy, those who follow the blood god are predictable in one way. They make their offerings to their foul master during the bloodshed of battle. That and the Master of the Librarius advised that was the enemy's plan, if they even have such a thing." Perhaps if Godfrey was of a different gene lineage, he would have balked or condemned the Flame Falcon's insights into the mind of heretics, but all Sons of Clay were eventually tutored in such ways. Not enough study to delve into daemonic, but enough to understand what the enemy valued to better counteract them. Not too mention that the life of an Astartes would see them answer the call against any of the Imperium's foes, and those who had survived centuries only to learn nothing of their enemy were ultimately considered failures, at least by the Oathkeepers' standards.
"If that's the case, m'lord," Godfrey continued, "Then is it not wiser to have all of your resources to stop their slaughter?" Finally, Mighta raised his head to meet the Oathkeeper's gaze, and studied the knight for a moment.
"Negative," he somberly answered, "Experience has taught me that it doesn't matter whose blood is spilled. This battle will release the daemon locked away, it's just a question of how long until it breaks its prison and how many Imperial lives we evacuate to safety before it does." Godfrey felt his jaw tighten but he nodded in understanding. With that explanation, it was more apparent why the Chapter Master was diverting a small percentage of his forces to ensure the survival of the Flame Falcons. Against the forces of the archenemy it would take a miracle for a scout marine to survive an encounter with them, never mind retain their sanity. Faced with such a situation and had he been given full command, Godfrey could not help but wonder if he would act as Mighta had. He had no answer, and found himself praying he would not have to ever find out. For now though, he was a sworn battle brother to aid his fellow Sons of Clay and he would never shy away from such an obligation.
Leer's eyes were closed as he sat in one of the many meditation chambers in the Arcadian Retribution's psychic spyre, and did so out of his ceramite armor. The floor had long been covered in ancient soil, forever caught between feeling soft yet firm, the circular chamber had high walls that seamlessly blended metal and solid carved wood. The Druid sat before a bronze, acid etched, brazier as held a crackling fire. The scent of burning Arcadian pine, cedar, and juniper filled his senses. The familiar scents reminded him of his youth and so he allowed his consciousness to naturally drift back to those memories. He was back at the proving grounds of Castle Anwn, the Bale Hounds' ancestral home and fortress monastery. The castle has many layers of structures that had been built up over the millennia since the Emperor reunited with Arwyn Clay. Although the fortress was now at a size that rivaled the size of a regular mountain, the most sacred space was at the center, the inner and original castle keep that had been constructed for the Primarch's use. When Leer was still a boy he had been brought to the Inner Keep by the Librarius's Recruit Master, Gabrius le Dux, and had marveled at the towering structure of ancient moss covered reinforced stones. His gifts had manifested early, and quickly caught the eye of the Chapter's Librarius.
"Follow closely, boy," Gabrius' deep yet dry voice echoed, "The Inner Keep still has shades that enjoy being heard." As a child still steeped in Arcadian superstitions, Leer remembered the cold shiver that crawled slowly up his spine at the Druid's words, but still followed the towering giant. As he approached the tall double metallic doors into the keep, the portal behind the doors did not contain the soft warmly lit interior of craggy floors, but an emerald forest. Before he knew it, Leer had crossed the threshold then found himself no longer a youth and back in his armor, with no sign of Master Gabrius anywhere nearby. For a moment, Leer believed he was in one of the many great forests, but felt himself frown as he noticed the flora match no species native to Arcadia. Normally, he would take pause to investigate his surroundings, yet the Druid felt something pulling his attention deeper into the forest. Slowly, he advanced in that direction, his mind conjuring the 9 Poems of Protection, the lyrics sung in a voice that was and was not his own. As the passages of the Book of Clay warned, sudden psychic visions or landscapes that recoil then blur in response to wards of faith are never to be trusted. To Leer's surprise, the landscape seemed to become more detailed as he recited the poems, and the "ground" beneath him felt more solid.
"So this isn't likely one of the dark one's doings," Leer thought aloud, "A new region of the Unclaimed Calm?" The Unclaimed Calm was an umbrella term that the Primarch applied to those extremely rare pockets of the Warp not infected by Chaos, and the discovery of such a thing was so rare that there were only five documented by the Bale Hounds. At least outside of blessed Arcadia, and what Leer knew of the five recorded Unclaimed Calms, his surroundings did not match any of them. The ground reminded the Druid of fresh soil, while the foliage seemed to glow, then he realized that the leaves were transparent and almost crystalline. He could not safely call what hung high above his head a sky, but it was the closest his mind could compare it to, and he noted that it was almost yellow in hue. Light shined from on high, but Leer could not discern if it was from one or multiple sources. As he pressed onward, he started to pick up the chips and whoops of fauna around him, yet he could not make them out.
"The others do not wish to be seen." An impression more so than a voice echoed in Leer's mind and he quickly whipped around with an axe of psychic energy gripped in one hand. The Druid saw a strange antlered quadruped with shining pearl white fur that had swirling gold patterns shifting around on its surface. On instinct, Leer avoided looking into the creature's eyes for while he did not recognize the beast, the Druid was seasoned enough to know that it was foolish to let an unknown entity stare into the windows of his soul.
"Name thy self." The Druid calmly stated, his fixed on the creature's hooved yet well trimmed feet.
"We have no name yet," the presence answered, "At least not one your mind of flesh could understand yet." Leer adjusted the grip on his axe, as even in a realm of psychic energy the mind will process a fight only in a manner it is familiar with, and the Druid had yet to determine the entity's intentions.
"Do you intend to harm me or mankind?" He asked calmly, still not meeting the creature's gaze, and noted that the golden spiraling patterns of its pearl colored hide seemed to alter themselves. Leer found this to be a curious sight, for while in their native plane, most denizens of the Warp were free to change their appearance according to their whims but that these patterns were ever changing while its form remained stable. The patterns all had familiar elements to ancient runic wards of Arcadia's ancient past, but he could not recognize any of them.
"We have no ill will towards your species," the antlered thing answered, "But long ago, we made a contract with the Druid of Green and Silver. He honored the arrangement and now so must we." As the impression became words in Leer's mind, phantom images played in his surface thoughts, and knew they were projections from the entity. Unlike the daemons of chaos that would force mental images into every corner of one's mind, the antlered one's psychic touch was gentle and almost nurturing. The entity imprinted visuals of a being clad in power armor, a hooded cloak, and a spear Leer would recognize anywhere! Rhngoyaid, the Primarch's nemesis force spear, one of the many relics thought lost to all the Sons of Clay once Arwyn had vanished nearly ten thousand years ago. Leer felt a surge of conflicting emotions, elation at the visual of the relic, but cautious doubt at the entity's words.
"Our Primarch left us with warnings to never barter with those of the Immaterium." The Druid said carefully, still watching the thing's feet but now even more alert of every small movement.
"A wise warning," the antler one casually replied, "Regardless, we are here to honor our debt." Suddenly, something that looked like a fish sprung up from the ground, and sailed towards Leer's mouth as the Druid opened it to ask another question. He gagged as the strange entity wiggled inside his mouth, he dropped his axe away and raised his hands to remove the fish thing. Yet even in his armor, the surface of the entity's body was too slippery for him to get a solid purchase on it.
"We recommend you accept the wisdom the other pair for," the antlered one impressed upon Leer, "It will hurt less, and once you use it, the knowledge will fade from your mind." Leer stumbled, desperately trying to ensure he did not collapse to his knees until finally the fish-like entity worked its way completely inside his mouth. As he gasped for air, he found himself awake, back in the materium and an Apothecary in full plate leaning over him. Before he could say a word, he dry heaved, then turned quickly onto his side, and hurled out acidic bile that bubbled strangely as it ate into the soil of the meditation chamber. He coughed roughly, and felt his brother apothecary's armored hand on his back to keep him steady, then hear the other hand go to the holster bolt pistol.
"Cé dó a ndéanaimid ár grucid fola?" Demanded the Apothecary, and instinctively Leer answered through his coughs.
"Da-Doirtimid ár grucid fola ar a son siúd a cha-chuir ár nAthair i leith a sábháltachta," the druid coughed wetly, "Don chine doanna." It was but one of the many protocols the Bale Hounds had in place to test if one of their own had become possessed by daemons, a saying drilled into the memory of all Druids, and one that would see you killed if answered incorrectly or with too much hesitation. Leer felt the healer's armored hand lessen on his back, and felt confident when he did not hear the gentle draw of the bolt pistol from it leather holster.
"Druid Salmon, what happened?" the Apothecary, who the Druid recognized as Canin, asked urgently, "I had come to deliver the virgin's blood you requested, and I found you seizing on the floor!" For a moment the Druid's drew a blank up on his deed name, but as his Astartes indoctrination kicked in he recalled his full name, he then remembered the grand jester or the nickname. He would have chuckled if his taste buds were not overwhelmed by the lingering taste of bile.
"I-I was meditating," he coughed again then his throat felt more normal, "I let my subconscious guide me, hoping to earn the insight of reflection, then my vision was…was hijacked. I was stolen away to a yet named Unclaimed Calm." Although Leer was certain the Apothecary had no grasp of what an Unclaimed Calm was, he had confidence that Cannin had earned his place aboard the Retribution beyond being the healer most familiar with the High King.
"Your mind and soul were taken into the Warp?" Cannin's disbelief was clear even through vox distortion, "How?! The Geller Field is still alive." The Druid shook his head, as a new understanding flooded his consciousness as his breathing settled to normal. Yet that understanding did not outweigh his training as a Bale Hound, and exercised control to stop himself from rushing towards the Navigator's chambers.
"Vox the High King," Leer said urgently, "I need his blessing to hasten our travel through the Immaterium!" Even though Cannin still wore his helm, the druid could tell the healer eyed him more wearily, and did not need the use of his gifts to determine this.
"Brother, you must be examined before I can allow you to make contact with anyone," the healer warned, "You know the protocols."
"Fig to the protocols," Leer spat, "You can keep me under bolt point the entire time brother, but I must make my case to Ulsterla, I fear the lives of our kinsmen are at stake!"
In the city around the Eternal Lookout of Lethe, the Bloody Eyes of Glory cultists ravaged the outer districts and worked their way towards the center. They had longed for the promised day of slaughter, where they would liberate the world from the clutches of the Corpse God's false angels and now that it had come, they could offer proper worship to their glorious God. They had started their assault at the city's primary gate, despite their headquarters being hidden beneath the commercial district and the ploy had worked to keep the city's defenders off balance when they did emerge from the commercial district. Sukore, the Bloody Hand and leader of the cult, was a scarred beast of a man who height was greater than any other man, that he could have passed as an Ogryn, but what made truly dangerous was his mind. Once, he had been a gladiator slave on some Imperial world that he had long forgotten the name of, forced to fight for pleasure of the world's elites and had known no other life. He had learned the ways of mighty Khorne, and then took control of the Bloody Eyes of Glory. Still that was not enough, he wanted to awash the stars with blood in the name of Khorne and so led an uprising that saw hundreds of thousands dead with their final objective of stealing a void ship achieved. Sokure had killed those of his followers that failed to control themselves and tried to kill those of the crew they had taken hostage to facilitate their voyage. Eventually even they joined the Bloody Eyes, and the cult started the blood pits. There they trained their bodies for combat and worshipped Khorne in offerings of first, second, or third blood. A few were upset that the blood pits rarely saw the defeated bleed their last, and so challenged Sokure to a death battle with leadership as the prize. Each of them left their mark on his flesh, but none had come close to claiming his life, instead he dedicated their deaths to Khorne. All that work, all that patience, and today had made it all worthwhile. The Blood God had led them to Lethe, and perhaps by his will did the metal man find them. Sokure's Blood Priests had long known the necessary means to free the trapped divinity in the crystal prison, but they had lacked the transport needed to reach the Forbidden Valley along with its true location. Now with the crystal in their grasp they brought their holy slaughter to this world!
"Skulls for the skull throne!" Sokure roared with laughter as his chain axe cleaved an Imperial dig in half, and drew his heavy stub pistol to punch a bloody hole into another militia man's head. Each kill he achieved filled him with renewed strength and felt the blessing of the Blood God course through him! It did not matter which of the Imperials he encountered, men, women, children, young or old, Sokure offered their lives to Khorne! He was accompanied by a mob of Bloody Eyes, who fought with even less restraint, all of them armed with a blade to draw blood and a ballistic gun of any pattern. Elsewhere, Sokure knew that his blood priests had successfully summoned Khorne's Blood Thirsters, at least he believed that was why all the blood they spilled rose from the ground only to then vanish. He only hoped that they took the mage's life as payment for the summoning, otherwise he would simply kill the priests himself, as they would have fulfilled the only reason he needed them. It did not matter that the priests were capable warriors proven by the blood pits, their presence had always made Sokure's skin crawl, but tolerated them so he could one day offer a greater bounty to Khorne.
"Slaughter the weak!" He roared, "Honor the strong with warrior deaths!" A chorus of disjointed screams and roars answered his shout, yet he did not stop his slaughter. If anything, he killed faster and cut down many fleeing screaming cowards! He hated those who refused to stand and fight, regardless of who it was, he despised such cowardice.
Finnus roared into the commercial district, his speaker grill set its maximum volume as he and a squad of Flame Falcons charged at a mob of Blood Thirsters. Their presence soured his righteous rage, making it burn within him, but the Chaplain had long ago mastered his emotions through the guidance of faith. His mind recited the mantras and wisdom of the Primarch, outweighing the unnatural rage emitted by the Bloodletters. Finnus activated his crozius, the weapon crackled to life in his grasp and swung it to meet the hellblade of the nearest bloodletter. The Oathkeeper war priest felt a tingling sensation on the edge of his senses, and on instinct Finnus raised his heavy bolt pistol, aimed off to the left then fired. The bolt exploded into the elongated skull of another bloodletter, he then flipped the gun so he now held the barrel and then slammed the pistol's handle into the first one's head. He struck once, twice, and then delivered the final blow with his crozius! The daemon exploded into a fountain of fluids and the hellblade clattered to the ground.
"For Lethe! For the Emperor!" Finnus heard the Flame Falcons shouted as they too fought against the formation of bloodletters. For a moment the Oathkeeper dared to take a heartbeat to watch his gene brothers fight. Finnus was by no means an expert on such things, but he swore that the gold flame clad marines fought unhindered by the foul pressure of unnatural rage the blood god's servants usually presented. Even amongst the Sons of Clay, even the most devoted to the Primarch's teaching would at least be a degree hindered while they resisted the corrupting influence of chaos, but not them. Not these gene sons of a much younger chapter. It was as if their golden flames were a burning shield against such foul powers, and the culmination of their souls' pure devotion to the God-Emperor. In that single heartbeat, Finnus believed he saw what Commander Godfrey saw, the agents of hope for their gene father's return, and he prayed they survived this battle. Then the tingling returned and on instinct he activated the rosarius he had fused into his armor. He felt the buzz of the energy field as it flickered to life as another hellblade slammed into the shield.
"My faith in Him is my shield," Finnus declared as he turned to face the daemons, "His divine will surrounds us, guides us, and shelters the faithful! I am His wrath made manifest! I am His divine servant! I am an Angel of Death!" Emboldened by his own sermon, the Oathkeeper engages the next bloodletter in melee, and fulfills many of the oaths he had sworn centuries ago. He resolved himself to stand beside the Flame Falcons to protect the Emperor's subjects, and push against the dark!
Brother Sergeant Lazus Corfell fired the master crafted bolter down the wide open street to the city's space port, carefully selecting targets on the semi automatic option to avoid killing the civilians that sought sanctuary inside the port. The Flame Falcon had been assigned to guard the southern approach by his Captain, and been given command of surviving brothers from other companies. While a few of them had previously served in the Reserve Companies, none lacked the discipline or focus the Sternguard expected from subordinate brothers. They were not alone in defending the space port either, they were supported by two squads of the militia and a riot squad of the local law enforcement. The riot squad would make careful advances with reinforced shields to protect the civilians, and the militia called out targets to focus fire upon while the Falcons targeted more dangerous targets. Lazus would normally be happy to fight alongside the average defender of the Imperium, but he could not ignore the sense of shame he felt that such a defense of their homeworld's capital was even necessary.
"Contact!" Shouted one of the militiamen, "Enemy armor!" The sergeant looked up and his helmet's visor picked up the bulky vehicle as it pulled into the street. The machine spirit of his armor identified the vehicle as a wheeled waste disposal vehicle with a patchwork of welded scrap metal affixed to the frame, and with a makeshift autocannon mounted on top. While the militiamen opened up a hail of las and heavy stubborn fire, Lazus lowered his bolter, he blink-clicked to open his squad's vox-link.
"Brother Stelin," the sergeant calmly said, "To the front. The heretics wish to meet your favorite." With speed and grace did the brother with Devastator markings approached with a shoulder missile launcher. The weapon was already loaded, so all Stelin needed to do was kneel and take aim. A moment passed, the armored vehicle still sped towards them, and then a krak missile flew from the launcher, racing towards the APC.
"Bolters. Ready!" Lazus commanded as the missile sailed onwards, he and his brother sighted down the driver's side of the cabin, in preparation for the off chance the krak missile did not end the advance. As they all locked onto the target in almost perfect sync, did the missile strike true and the repurposed vehicle exploded into a ball of fire. The vehicle was lifted by its nose for a moment, then flipped over and over and over when it landed, becoming a fiery wreck. As black smoke rose from the metallic carcass did the pained screams of the dying, but it did not last long as soon the fuel tank exploded, silencing the heretics forever. Lazus gave the spectacle no more attention and his armor altered him of more movement. More cultists, these ones riding motorized all terrain bikes, but they drove in a crazed frenzy, which only annoyed the space marine slightly as he drew a bead on the first biker. He used that moment to analyze the approach pattern and predicted where his target would be, then squeezed the trigger on his bolter. The cultist exploded into a fount of gorge. The rest of his battle brother mirrored his actions, sighting, predicting and then firing upon the heretics. None wasted a single shot.
Master Enfield had cleaved his way through cultists towards the city's central legislature palace; the heretics were a mix of mutants and mad men, while only halting his advance whenever a bloodletter attacked him. There was a relic in the palace, one just as important to his chapter as it was to the population of Lethe, and as Chapter Master, he saw it as his sworn obligation to retrieve it. It was an ancient yet broken storm shield, originally carried by Lord Arnis Ogutsis, the Chapter Master who had led the Falcons alongside the White Consols to reclaim the world, and upon its skin were the acid etched names of the first new settlers of Lethe. There was also the matter of rescuing any survivors still inside the legislature palace, especially Madam Deereth Silvergoyle, the city mayor, who had been something of a hero for the common people. She had managed to negotiate better wages, improved safety conditions, and make medical care affordable to all. If the people of Lethe's faith was to be restored to its full, Mighta believed that her safe return would be a potent reminder that the Falcons were not inattentive protectors. Still the sight of his homeworld being assaulted by the thrall of the Archenemy agitated his entire being as he channeled the bubbling rage into the righteous slaughter of the fiends. He raised his bolter, squeezed off a burst towards a charging group of mutated cultists, and raised his sword to block a strike from a bloodletter.
"Ahhhh one of the corpse God's false angels!" It snickered into his surface thoughts, "Your skull wi-" Whatever it wanted to say was interrupted by another burst of bolter fire, three bolts slammed and exploded into its leg. It does not feel the pain, not exactly but it is aware of the damage, but had no time to retaliate before the relic sword beheaded the daemon. Mighta resumed his advance, and heard the heavy footsteps of three other Astartes behind him. He knew without looking he was still being followed by Brother Viltro, his personal standard bearer, and Commander Godfrey. He had tried to convince the pair to allow him this mission alone, only for Viltro to remind him that wherever the Chapter Master strode beyond the monastery his standard must accompany him, and Godfrey simply did not acknowledge any orders to retreat. While that irritated Enfield, he had to acknowledge that it was the right of an officer from another chapter to refuse any order not given to him by one outside the chapter. He also could not deny that Godfrey's sword arm had expedited the journey to the legislature palace, as aside from a few fires along the exterior, the palace was still intact. The front doors had been blown open, but from with the sound of auto and las fire could be detected.
"Ammo count." Enfield voxed privately, as his helmet's readout showed he had twelve shots left in his current magazine and two more magazines left on his belt.
"Half mag slotted," Godfrey answered, "Three left at full. Power cell at fifty."
"Quarter mag slotted," Viltro replied, "One left at full." Mighta would have cursed if he thought he had the time, but instead he walked forward, and gave one last order before they entered the palace.
"Fire protocol miezer, Viltro," he commanded, "Tight formation. Prioritize civilian safety. For the Emperor, and…in the name of Clay!"
There were over one hundred and twenty chambers inside the legislature palace, roughly twenty were latrines, ten were meant housing large gatherings, fifteen were for housing permanent staff, five were kitchens connected to a matching dining area, and they along with the myriad of other chambers were beset by the heretical rabble. The palace guard had been unprepared, but even if they were prepared there were only a handful of competent fighters, as the rest had taken the position for prestige or coin. All of the latter had either died running or stupidly, sace for one greedy soul, Melka Drydon. She was just a sergeant, but her ambition was to ascend further the hierarchy of the palace guard and get the most paid position she would be allowed. So when her superior had suddenly disappeared, if they had died or fleed it did not matter, Melka took the reins and kicked some sense into her fellow guards. They all had endured the same drills, and so she fell back on the basics, treating her subordinates as if they were green juvies, which in all fairness they might as well have been, and had them form up firing lines. Melka had always been good at imitating the manner of speech of others, and decided that she would mimic a blend of that hard ass instructor Rylore Kemnin, belting insults that targeted her fellows character, but not scorn them enough that they would turn their guns on her. To her credit it worked. When the first cultist charged into their position in the hallway, they were blow apart by a salvo of slugs, admittedly one too many shots for her liking were spent, but she knew when to chew them out and when to praise her bunch.
"Well done, juvies," she grinned, "See how superior we are compared to these unwashed bastards! Now check your ammo and prepare to move in formation, the Lady Silvergoyle's personal guard needs their pansy rears saved, and if we do so there's like honors for all of us!" The relief and bewilderment that had been on the others' faces was replaced by different expressions, most notably fear.
"Are you crazy," demanded private Horge Tor, "The palace must be crawlin-" The sharp slap of Melka's open palm cut off Tor's rambling refusal, and he looked like a spoiled child who had finally been shown the consequences of their rudeness. The sergeant would happily admit she had been wanting to slap the private for months since he had joined, as he had been transferred from one of the notable families of a nearby hive city, and been insufferable towards everyone.
"We are the Legislature Palace Guard, boy!" She spat with more venom than she truly felt, "We flee ourselves the elite soldier cadre of all of Lethe aside from the Flame Falcons! Mummy and Papa's money can't buy your way out of this! Only bullets, guts, and discipline will! That goes for all of you!" The remaining twenty-three soldiers flinched when she glared at them, but slowly, one after the other they nodded. She grinned.
"Good, now there's one more floor between us and her ladyship's secured room," Melka said as she checked the mag of her auto pistol, "We will clear it out as we were trained, and if any of you think of running while I'm not looking, I assure you that you'll be running for the rest of your life. Come what may, the sun will rise tomorrow." Satisfied that she had six more shots in her mag, she slid it back and primed her pistol. She truly believed that her words, just not in the manner that the others interpreted, as she knew with iron certainty that Lethe would not fall into the heretics hands, and that Imleriwl rule would be reestablished but if her Ladyship were alive? Well she would likely handsomely reward those that overcame their fears, held fast, and even more richly reward those who came to her rescue. Melka had not gotten this far without being able to weigh risk against the rewards and yes it was a gambit but it would be much worth it if she succeeded. She then looked at the rest of her soldiers, all them with carbines, or rifles, she frowned, recalling how she had lost her rifle earlier. She sighed in irritation before noting that one of the cultist's corpses had a freshly looted enforcer shotgun in its grasps. She knelt down to inspect the weapon carefully, making sure there were no blasphemous desecrations upon its frame, and sighed silently in relief that the only thing out of place was the smears of mud upon the aquila. It would do.
"Move out, juvies!" Melka ordered as loaded shells into the weapon, and her squads followed her lead as they made their way forward to rescue Lady Silvergoyle.
"Statement: High King this is highly irregular." Warned the monotone voice of Tech-Smith Weylan as he looked at Fynn Ulsterla, whose gaze was fixed on Druid Leer Samon. They stood outside the Navigator's chambers, and three of the terminator veterans flanked the Bale Hounds' High King. Each terminator was armed with storm bolters with psychically negatively charged ammo, an ancient yet necessary precaution in case Leer had become possessed by a neverborn. The Druid had already spoken his peace, making a case for the Chapter Master to allow him entry into the Navigator's quarters so that he could add his power to hasten their journey to Lethe. Chapter protocol called for Fynn to hear the council of his most senior officers, and the younger Bale Hound could not ignore just how convenient this all felt.
"High King Ulsterla, brother," Leer said with a noticeable tint of desperation, "I applaud your caution, were I on the other side of this I would warn you as Smith Weylan, but I urge you to please grant my request." Fynn looked his brother Druid in the eyes, searching for any of the signs of corruption he had become familiar with before his ascension to Chapter Master, and even sniffed the air. Though often faint, there was one subtle sign that gave away the presence of daemons, a scent of sweetness that had no other likeness especially as it always set the teeth on edge. Fynn could not detect the scent, but its absence could also mean the neverborn was careful. So there was only one way left that the young High King knew to test his Druid's purity. He levied the relic guardian spear at Leer, the threat did not have to be voiced, as he activated the energy blade and awoke the weapon's spirit.
"Sing the 3rd Ballad of a Mother's Love," Fynn commanded, "In the emerald tongue." The emerald tongue was but another of a myriad of names for Arcadian, and was the Bale Hounds most accurate test for corruption. For some reason the neverborn could not make use of the language, at least not without sustaining serious injury, and the many ballads of Arcadia were just as sacred as any of the Imperial cult's sermons and hymns. If there was a daemon inside Leer then it would refuse to recite the song to avoid injuring itself. For a single heartbeat, the silent tension that hung between the Astartes was deafening, and it was broken when Leer sighed.
"As you wish, my King." He said before drawing a breath and sang the ballad in its entirety, no hesitation nor any sign of discomfort appeared in his voice. As the Druid finished the song, Fynn lowered the guardian spear and allowed its ancient spirit to slumber once more. The three terminators followed the High King's example and lowered their weapons away from Leer Samon.
"Do what you must Druid," Fynn calmly, "But understand that neither you nor the Navigator have my permission to die." Leer nodded, and then approached the entrance to the Navigator's chamber, purpose echoed in his every movement. The tech smith watched on with a forced neutral expression, but he was not the only Bale Hound who felt such disquiet. Once the doors opened then shut behind the Druid, did the smith turn to face his High King, and his remaining organic eye glared at him.
"Declaration: My King," Weylan's digital voice buzzed, "With all respect, I believe this to be a decision made with insufficient data. Query: How can we ensure the safety of the sacred Arcadia Retribution?" Fynn's gaze remained on the now closed doors, but he shook his head at the smith's question.
"It is the Warp, Brother Weylan," answered the High King, "It is a realm that refuses to be predictable, but our Chapter has always known and accepted this. We place our faith not only in the Emperor and Arwyn Clay, but those of our brethren who carry a fragment of our gene sire's powerful burden." Weylan let out a burst of code, the equivalent of an annoyed sigh, and let his organic eye fall to the floor.
Inside the chamber, Leer Samon entered without his helm and his gaze upon the floor, careful to avoid accidentally meeting the gaze of the navigator's third eye. The navigator, Bertryn, looked like a man in his mid forties, despite being thrice as old. The scion of the Navis Nobilite had been permitted to wear robes in the green of the chapter, and wore regal garb beneath it. He had well groomed long chestnut hair, and cold purple eyes that match his pale flesh. Bertryn was linked into the command throne, which allowed him direct interface with the Retribution's machine spirit, and Leer correctly assumed that the navigator had closed his two mortal eyes to open his third. Even without looking up, the Druid could feel the rare mutation gazing upon him, and felt more then heard etheric whispers around him.
"Druid Samon?" Bertryn asked, "This is a surprise." The navigator's voice, normally a calm gentle thing, echoed with unnatural power, and the Druid closed his eyes with a gentle smile.
"I have come to aid you, good Bertryn," Leer said as he raised his head, "I have acquired the lore needed to expedite our voyage." He continued to approach the navigator's throne, maintaining a steady course as even without his sight, the Druid's other senses were sharp enough to make up for it. Once he judged that the thrum of the command throne and the beating of Bertryn's heart were an appropriate distance from his person, Leer turned around to sit down as if in meditation. As he steadied the rhythm of his breathing, he consciously worked his third lung, and was able to empty his mind of all distractions as he drew upon his soul's reservoir of strength. His lips moved as he silently uttered mantras and prayers that only the Bale Hounds' Druids were permitted to memorize. He felt the psychic energy flood his body's every nerve, there was a temptation to fully embrace the power, but Leer was no novice, he had a healthy respect for the psychic power he commanded, but never once forgot the danger of it would turn upon him if given the chance. He focused on warding away the more corrosive energies that tried to slip into his grasp, and once he had the power he needed did he reach out to Bertryn's soul. As gentle as a whisper on the wind, the Druid created a bridge between their souls, and the Bale Hound felt a new understanding of the Warp overlay his own, but he made sure to not revel in these new strange ideas. He searched for the navigator's understanding of where Lethe's location was, and only once he found it did he allow the strange moving knowledge the Antlered One had planted inside him.
"My friend?" Bertryn's voice rasped as their psychic union seemed to intensify, and allowed the navigator to get a rare glimpse into the Druid's mind. He could feel the strange knowledge spread throughout Leer's consciousness, a thing of the Warp yet nothing at all like the foul beasts of the Dark Gods. Bertryn was not sure what to make of what his third eye saw inside the Astartes psyker, it both made his blood cold but also made him want to weep tears of joy. Then Leer's body surged with greater power, and the navigator was vaguely aware that the Druid was slowly moving his arms in a parting motion. As if in sync with the Bale Hound, the tides of the Warp that had been hampering the Retribution were swept aside, and suddenly the navigator felt a new current approaching from the rear. It lacked the malformed malice that the majority of such phenomena had in the Warp, instead a chilling calm radiated from it. Before Bettyrn could vox the master of the helm, the current connected with Gloriana Battle Barge and gently increased its speed. The navigator was vaguely aware of the crackling of the vox, and barely made out the voice of the ship's mistress demanding to know what was happening. Even the ancient spirit of the Arcadian Retribution was confused, but unlike the mistress the ship's consciousness left an impression of joy as it pulse a single name to its navigator.
"Clay." It was the first name, and the only name that Bertryn had felt the machine spirit considered with an overwhelming amount of fondness. Indeed, it took him clutching the arms of his throne so painfully tight that he was able to remind himself that these were not his thoughts. Despite that, he felt tears spill down his cheeks as he finally answered with a smile.
"It is a miracle," the navigator raspily chuckled in disbelief, "I can feel his hand upon us! Blessed be the sons of the Emperor! Glory to the God-Emperor of Mankind."
"Second volley! Fire!" Melka commanded as the first half of her soldier ran their ammo dry, and she raised her auto pistol, a rune selector set to semi auto, then pulled the trigger again and again. With the number of raving cultists charging towards them, it was not a matter of if she hit a target, it was which target she hit. She and her subordinates had made good time to reach the Lady's location, having found her ladyship being protected by the last three of her personal bodyguards, each equipped with las guns. Even though technically the bodyguards outranked her, they did not seem bothered by her taking charge of the situation, and added their fire to her subordinates. Melka wanted to ask why Lady Silvergoyle was not in her secured panic room, but held her tongue when she saw what the lady cradled in her arms. It was the Falcon's Promise. The broken storm shield with the names of Lethe's first generation of settlers after the world was brought back into the Emperor's realm. Melka knew that the name of one of her ancestors was on that relic, and for a moment found herself grateful that her ladyship had risked her life for the relic, then shook her head and reminded herself she needed the lady alive to secure that promotion she hungered for. She resumed firing into the on rushing cultists, and then caught sight of a burst of gore at the rear of the mob. Then she heard a series of rapid booms that reminded her of gunfire if it had more bass, and then more of the mob burst into gore. Then Melka saw something she a sight that would forever mark her memory until hee dying days some fifty seven years later. An angel clad in blessed armor of red and gold with a beautiful golden sword that cut down the heretics as though they were nothing but paper. When she would later tell the story, she would say the sight of the Emperor's Angels of Death had filled her hope, and while not entirely a lie, she never admitted just how much fear they instilled into her greedy heart.
"Chapter Master Enfield!" Lady Silvergoyle softly whispered but somehow Melka heard her ladyship over the deadly noise of battle. The sergeant felt her eyes widen a fraction more, as every single child of Lethe knew that their world was ultimately governed by the Master of the Flame Falcons, and her ambition surged anew.
"Target the scum closer to the walls!" She shouted, "Box them in!" Her soldiers hesitated only a moment before they added their gun fire to hers as she continued to kill the heretics, but now using the shotgun she had pilfered earlier. The next few seconds were a dizzy blur as not only the Chapter Master, but another angel in different colored armor, slaughtered the heretics without mercy nor hesitation. Soon, the two angels stood before Melka and her subordinates, towering over them as their armor hummed with energy and the scent of copper and bile began to fill the room. Melka dared to look the Chapter Master in his eye lenses, and though she could not see his true eyes, she felt as though the Angel was reading her soul.
"Well met, legislator guard," a deep yet vox filtered voice said, "You have not only endured this assault but safeguarded the lady elected. We shall note then celebrate your names and bravery once we have secured the city again. For now though we must escort you to the port, the evacuation is nearly at an acceptable percentage to start the reclamation in earnest."
Chanting. Chanting, the sound of feeble mortal voices was the first sign that the ancient's senses were being restored, and if that was being restored then that meant its prison was finally breaking. The ancient would have worn an ear splitting grin if it was limited by mortal physics, and it began to cackle. It could hear the hooded mortals who had seared their flesh with markings of the primordial truth, and could make out the words being chanted as understanding started to slide into the daemon's consciousness. "Storm of the Ever Thirsting Claws." It was an awkward translation of the entity's true name, and it felt irritated by the mortal's clumsy pronouncement of its name. Its name was…yes, yes, Ozdoc Clawdrinker. Greater Daemon of him upon the throne of skulls. Drinker of catiff blood. Eater of the hearts of heroes. The storm of whirling blades upon leather wings! Ozdoc's cackle began to reverberate beyond his crystalline prison, and the chanting mortals began to bleed from their eyes. The blood was drawn from their forms and pulled towards the crystal, slowly the scarlet liquids began to smoother then crack the prison.
"Yeeeeeeees!" Ozdoc exclaimed as it greedily absorbed the life essence into its being, and began to use the delicious coppery liquid to reform a body so it could walk the world of flesh once again. Soon the chanting mortals began to gurgle loudly as blood bubbled and spilled out of their mouths like bile. This continued until they were all reduced to withered dried husks, and collapsed pathetically to the floor. Finally with a burst of unquantifiable energy the Greater Daemon broke free of its prison! Shards of crystals scattered as Ozdoc's massive and winged bipedal form was freed. More than its new freedom, one thought occupied its mind, and it was a bitter memory. Two warrior magicians, combining their wills to create the crystalline prison, and the avian shaped sigils the two wore to denote their allegiance. One wore a blue avian's profile on a pauldron of marble white, and the other wore a golden profile of an avian on a charcoal black pauldron. It opened its fanged jaws, tasting the scent of real space as more blood came towards him, each floating droplet added to its reforming mass and ensured the gravity of its native plane could not find purchase on it.
"The bird clad," Ozdoc grumbled as chains formed then wrapped around its forearms, "Their skulls will be my first offering to mighty Khornath!"
Mighta Enfield emerged from the main gate of the space port, behind him was a Flame Falcon tactical squad, two venerable dreadnoughts, and an Oathkeeper command squad led by Godfrey. They had finished escorting the untainted survivors from the legislature palace and securing them a transport away from the battlefield. The evacuation of the Aspira Nesus's population had nearly reached the desired percentage, and to some extent it made the chapter master's heart ache to see all that the people of Lethe had built in the shadow of the Chapter's protection be reduced to such a burning, bloodstained shadow of its greatness. Both the son of Lethe and brother of the chapter that made up his psyche felt searing hatred towards the heretics that were responsible for this atrocity, but his centuries of leadership helped Mighta prevent those emotions from taking over. The blood rain had started once again, flashes of thunder and lightning of similar sickening hues streak across the sky. The chapter master briefly looked up to the sky as if in silent challenge for it to try and outmatch his own building fury. A blinking rune entered his vision, a requested communication from Ikarus Dekir, the master librarian, and he blink-clicked to accept the link.
"My lord it is worse than we feared," Ikarus warned gravely, "They have freed the daemon from its prison already." Mighta grimaced and checked the chrono in his visor, it showed two counts, the planetary chronological count and a timer that tracked how long the engagement had been lasting. They were approaching the sixth hour of the battle, the vile heretics had managed to use basic survival instincts to break into hab units and abandoned commerce buildings to prolong the battle, while their daemon thrall waged a constant assault against the Astartes. What he hated more than the simplistic beauty of the strategy was that the act also bought the heretic moments of respite to loot for sustenance and rest their bodies before charging back out. That it had taken this long for the cultist to break the daemon free was impressive but not ideal as they still had another 15% of the populace to evacuate.
"What is the progress of the Apothecary?" Mighta ask grimly.
"He claims that he needs at least two more hours to finish his duties," Ikarus answered quickly, "But he has extracted more than enough to ensure the Phoenix Protocol is successful. My lord, I strongly urge that you order him to join the next transport and wait in orbit. The Chapter must endure, and Malgarius's expertise cannot be replaced." Enfield knew the librarian was correct, but he could not easily admit such a thing, the loss of any of the geneseed was a great blow against any Astartes Chapter, but it was more costly for them. Like the other chapters from the 21st Founding, the High Lords of Terra had routinely denied the release of the tithed geneseed from the gene vaults with unheard of speed. Mighta fought against the ingrained instinct to allow Malgarius the time to extract all of their gene seed, and cleared his head as he gave his next orders.
"Very well Master Librarian," he said, "Select your most senior and veteran Epistolary, your most trusted, and assign them to escort the Apothecary."
"My lord?" Came Ikarus's voice over the vox link, and Enfield's armor detected an explosion towards the commerce district. The chapter master began his advance, and flexed his grip on the Golden Talon.
"You are one of our most experienced psykers," he said, "But we must ensure that every aspect of our chapter's culture survives into the future."
"I understand," Ikarus replied, "I shall send Epistolary Cortez, I have taught him much and shall bestow our arcane tomes to him."
"Very well, brother," Mighta nodded, "I shall see you upon the battlefield."
"Above the roar of battle." The librarian gave the first half of one the chapter's ritual sayings.
"Do our wings burn brightest!" The chapter master replied and completed the ritual before disconnecting from the vox. Wordlessly, he led his brothers towards the commercial district, ready to fight and possibly die for their homeworld.
When the Purity of Dawn had made approach to Lethe's orbit, the Grey Knights of the 7th Brotherhood all felt the dark energies at work on the planet below. The only thing that stopped Master Covan from outright grimacing was the fact that he could sense the dark energies were exclusively concentrated at a single point, which meant that they could blessedly limit their purging operations to that point. The only detail that the Grey Knight found odd was the ships anchored in orbit that did not bear the sigil of the Flame Falcons but the Oathkeepers. This chapter was another of the self appointed Sons of Clay, but their presence had not been anticipated. That their ships were anchored in orbit, along with elements of the Flame Falcons' broken fleet, was a mystery that could be answered once the darkness at work had been subdued. Covan deliberately chose to ignore the smug glint in the Inquisitor's eyes, and turned towards his gathered brothers.
"Ready two squads to join mine and prepare for planetfall," he commanded clearly, "We shall remove the taint of chaos before we make judgement over these Flame Falcons." Were he still a mortal man or the member of a lesser Chapter, then Covan would have enjoyed the sudden departure of the Inquisitor's smugness.
"Planetfall? Are you mad?" Abelard asked in a bewildered tone, "The taint will only spread! We must purge the planet from orbit!" The bridge went silent as all eyes fell upon the Grandmaster, who glared at the powerful mortal with a withering stare, and the silence set the serfs on edge.
"We thank you for bringing your concerns to us, Lord Inquisitor," Covan said with strained politeness, "But from here onwards this is an operation of the Grey Knights. You are free to join our operation but your safety cannot be guaranteed." The inquisitor grimaced and every knight present noticed the twitch in the lord's hand that rested near a holster pistol. A few were reminded of the stories told of the Astra Militarum's Commissars that painted the disciplinary officers as little more than trigger happy zealots. Covan noted the reaction and filed it away into his mind to be reviewed when the opportunity presented itself.
"I shall archive your actions in my official report, Grandmaster." Abelard warned with narrowed eyes.
"Do as you wish," Covan replied, "For now we must do the Emperor's will." With that the knights departed from the bridge and the Inquisitor gave a cold look to his entourage who simply nodded before slinking into the shadows of the ship. The old man returned his cold eyes towards Lethe, and his expression soured even more.
So first a translation of what Leer and the Apothecary said to each other, because I'm not gonna just leave you guys unfairly in the dark.
Apothecary: "Who do we spill our blood for?"
Leer Samon: "We shed our blood for those who our Father charged us with the safety of. For mankind."
So yes, the Antlered One is not a daemon, at least it does not belong to the pantheon of Chaos. What is it exactly? No idea yet. Did it actually better with Arwyn Clay? Yes. With the mysteries of what became of the Khan and Russ, I wanted to give Arwyn something to do while he has been missing all these millennia. Basically, Arwyn journeyed into the Warp in search of a means of healing the Emperor's mind, not to undo the damage brought by the trauma that is sitting upon the golden throne, but to piece together the Emperor's psyche so that if he does rise again he is not a mad man. It does coincide with the quest Leman Russ took up, and that was intentional on my part. So yeah all of this is just a long way of saying that at some point in the future u plan on bringing Arwyn Clay into the Indomitus Era.