A leviathan loomed out in the endless dark of the void, an ancient cathedrum of war and faith forged in the Emperor's name over 10,000 years ago during the earliest conquests from Terra during the great crusade. The last Bastion for the Rogue trader house Novar. A Bulwark of imperial strength in the long dark of Imperial Nihlus. Its surviving son, Damocles Novar walks its hallways like a spectre. Haunted by what awaits him in his dreams. He comes here sometimes between dreams to gaze upon the cradle of his household, what wonders this ship holds in its darkest corners hidden from view from those who call this ship home. Over 200,000 souls live, work and die within the leviathans hull, none of them know of this place. Of his Observatory from which the Rogue trader views the last light of his fallen kingdom. The Invictus.
Its hull indorenated by rows of sweeping gothic archways and ancient industrial Machinery, its surface studded with statues of holy saints and scions of House Novar .
The great dome rose like the top of an ancient temple at the centre of the vast ship housing the command Sanctus, where the direction of whole worlds and fleets could be commanded from and the ships bridge where tech adepts bless holy cogitators and deck crew go about their duties with solemn duty. The four towering spires stood as silent sentinels around the great dome like the Saints themselves reaching into the heavens each one a palace in its own right and a masterpiece of sacred architecture.
Beneath its scared surface lay layers of void scorched Adamantium plating, weathered and pitted by millennia of countless battles against vile Xenos beasts and blasphemous Heretic fleets. The ships prow jutted forward like a sleek blade reinforced to cleave through lesser ships, adorned with pits and creators from battles long since over. Its engines, colossal and ancient, roared with the directed fury of a dozen suns propelling the dynasty through the stars. Weapons bristled down its flanks, vast arrays of Macro-cannons, lance batteries and torpedo tubes each one a testament to the Imperium's mastery of destruction and warfare.
The hum of plasma reactors could be felt throughout the ship, these miniature stars stilled and tamed by the whispered prayers of servitors maintaining the ancient systems. This was no mere ship. It was a relic, a fortress amongst the stars built during the days of the Emperors great crusade above Mars itself. A weapon of directed destruction a world ender. Those who gazed upon its hulking majesty knew they beheld a vessel of the Emperors own judgment. Those who knew its name were wise to run back into the darkness . The Invictus stood defiant among the predators roaming the darkness. The Invictus hung in the dark void like a celestial Leviathan its immense form casting shadows on the hills of its attendant fleet. Battle-scared warships of the Novar Merchant marine flanked the Invictus in tight formation. Their armoured hulls bearing the signs of the breakout from Matar V and bristling with weapons and shining with the purple blue glow of void shields. They move with practiced precision, their captains maintaining vigilance for threats lurking in the void. Frigates and destroyers- dart to and fro like schools of predators scoring the dark for signs of the pursuing hostiles. Inside the steel phalanx of the warships gentler ships cling to a precarious existence. bulk transports Repurposed to hold human life instead of freight and the hastily patched hulls of pilgrim ships festooned with icons to the Emperor. These ships are scars of desperation clinging to the protective screens of the Novar flotilla. Welded on armour plates and crude weapon emplacements speak to the desperation born of necessity and fear. The dull glow of lumen stripes betraying the hazard repairs keeping them afloat. The void around the fleet was alive with the pin prick glows of shuttle engines. Shuttles and gunboats swarm around the hulking ships ferrying personnel, material and injured civilians. Vox traffic crackled incessantly as young officers, barely out of their apprenticeships coordinated manevourrs, fleet patrols and the redeployment of the fleets dwindling supplies of food , materials and skilled crewmen. Above it all the Invictus loomed, a beacon of hope to a defeated people. Refugees from a dozen fallen worlds gazed out of cramped viewing observatories awed and comforted by its constant presence. A sure sign that the god Emperor hadn't abandoned them to the dark gods. To the warships it was a rallying point, a bastion of strength and duty in the darkness of Imperial Nihlus. Its sheer bulk and armament promised swift destruction to any who threatened the fleet. To the refugees it was nothing short of salvation. Yet all aboard knew the truth. The hushed whispers between patrols of men at arms. The Emperors light had fallen. The Navigators were unable to see his light of the Astronomican. That a great rift had cleaved the Galaxy asunder and heretics and demons had driven them from their homes.
The stars were broken.
Once reliable maps had been rendered useless. The Secure trade routes , the warp current predictable under the guiding light of the Emperors Astronomican. Nothing more than a bitter memory now. Relics of a bygone age. The Great rift had torn the galaxy asunder and shattered the established orders. A jagged wound piercing the dark, leaking madness and horror into the realms of mortal men cleaving the galaxy in two. Imperial Nihlus- what a mockery that name had become. Once stable and prosperous imperial sectors now nothing more than shattered strongholds, isolated systems of defiance and dying worlds were all that remained on this side of the divide.
Damocles gripped the brass railing of the stratagem sanctum staring into the flickering light of the hologlobes pinning before him listing his failures. His defeats. Fractured trade routes which had fed the industry and populations of countless worlds. Lost colonies which had fallen to the unending tide of heretic and vile Xenos breeds. Xenos infestations had sprung up in the shattered ruins of imperial worlds, green skin WAARGS, Gene steeler cults, breeds of Adari and other more vile xenos marked its surface like the pox . This was what was left of his domain, the glorious trade empire built by his ancestors over countless generators since the days when the God-Emperor walked the galaxy, before he was enthroned on the golden throne after the end of the Horus Heresy. This fleet is all that remained of a dozen systems. His ancestral dominion shattered by foul Hersey and hordes of Xenos who had risen out the dark cracks of the imperium after the great rift tore open reality. The God-Emperos writ, my warrant of greater trade signed in the sacred blood of the Emperor himself and sealed in blessed wax gave me the authority to reclaim my lost worlds- but authority alone meant little.
The Fleet clinging to him was a testament to desperation and faith. His Flagship the Invictus, a mighty void ship of ancient lineage, is a fortress of imperial fortitude and faith. Its guns able to cow worlds, the battered armies in its holds and the refugees clinging to life in the holds of decrepit transports the last hopes of the Novar Dynasty. The warships of the imperial navy that escorted it were the battered remnants, their captains weary but steadfast. And then there were the refugees- an endless tide of humanity crammed into dilapidated freighters and ancient pilgrim barges, praying for salvation I wasn't sure I could deliver. They followed me not out of loyalty, but because they had no choice. I was their last hope in a galaxy of ash and blood.
The Imperiums shadow was long and heavy, and I felt the vast crushing weight on my shoulders. To rebuild even a fraction of what has been lost was a task boarding in madness. But then, isn't that the very essence of a rouge trader, To stride boldly into the impossible, armed with nothing but naked ambition and ruthless audacity, and wrest control of the very stars themselves. The void Whispers of untold riches and glory, of Dominions waiting to be conquered to any who have the courage to listen. Every world I visit will be a gamble. Would it yield fresh resources and allies or would it erupt into rebellion, treachery or madness.
Still the Emperor hadn't abandoned me. Not ancient writ I carried was more than just words on a parchment. It was a purpose, a Covent with the master of mankind himself. I refuse to yield. To break and be scattered into the oily darkness. To be consumed by the tide of madness and heresy streaming from the great rift. I will carve order from this madness. Even if I have to burn every world that defies me and scour the heavens for allies. This was no mere trade route or mission of profit. I will not rest until my domain is restored to me- or until the void itself consume me. Let the Xenos rise, let the Heretics come. They will find that even in the Dark humanity will not yield. I murmur a prayer to the emperor , the writ of Warmaster Rostov grasped tightly in my gloved hand our meeting still fresh in my mind.
3 months earlier
The great chamber aboard the Praetorian of Dorn was like a fortress in and of itself, a sanctuary of cast iron and ceramite where the Warmaster of the shrouded worlds held his grim court. Massive adamantium doors groaned open I am led by the warmasters Chamberlin into the grand chamber, revealing Warmaster Rastov sitting at the head of a long stratagem table raised above the center of the chamber discussing the defence of a nearby system with his senior hulking form clad in the battle worn plate of his new found office. The Crimson glow of lumen strips above cast long shadows across his scarred features, accenting the hard lines of a man who has served the Emperor for decades. The chamber itself is vast, lined with banners of ancient victory's and statues of holy saints. The floor is a giant mosaic of the god emperors likeness depicting the final confrontation between the arch traitor Horus and the Emperor. At the center of the chamber lies a gigantic Holo-table surrounded by banks of cogitators where servitors recite data codes and officers plot the movements of armies across whole star systems . Projected on the holo-table is a 3 dimensional map of the shrouded worlds. Flickering red icons denote systems under siege and all to many solid red denote systems fallen to Heretic forces. Senior commanders stand around the table in tense silence awaiting the Warmasters word.
"We face grim choices my Lord and ladies. The enemy presses their advantage across a half dozen fronts, and yet we lack the strength to meet them head-on. The forces I can spare are a shadow of what is required to stay the tide of Heretics and Xenos. We must choose how and where we fight."
I recognise Admiral Velus standing at the front of the naval contingent from a trade delegation almost a decade ago. If memory serves she was only a group commander then, we sealed a significant contract to supply engine components to the her battlegroup. A hard fought encounter yet both side's walked away content. The Admiral is a woman of the imperial navy through and through, born to walk the decks of imperial warships, a veteran of dozens of major naval sharp grey eyes and fire scarred cheek reflect the harsh reality of her duty.
"Warmaster, the bulk of the Heretic fleet is reported to be massing here, near Lyrissa's we can lure them into the nebula we might be able to whittle them down before they reach the central worlds to reinforce their positions…." The Admiral let her words linger for a moment. "But it will cost us in ships and crew which we cannot currently replace."
"And what of our ground forces, Warmaster ?" Rumbles Lord General Varak. This giant I have never met in person however I know of his reputation, renowned as a military Genius from having turned a half dozen desperate defensives into stunning victories.
My Castilian reports that Varak has been promoted to Lord General over several more senior .
"Even if we succeed in stalling their fleet, half of our remaining worlds have barley enough PDF forces to defend against the pirate clans never mind a full blown heretic invasion. We could funnel what Imperial guard regiments we have in reserve to the strongest defensive positions but that would mean abandoning the outer colonies completely. A hard choice for those worlds governors"
"Hard yes. But necessary." Inquisitor Valaine replied. By far the youngest at the table Inquisitor Valaine was present as the sole survivor of her Enclave after the fall of the Inquisition stronghold at Vadim. Her sharp green eyes don't move from the red icon over Vadim. My spies had been unable to find any information about Mistress Valaine, yet what else is there to know about an agent of his majesty's inquisition.
" Sacrifices are the currency of survival in these dark times. If the Emperors light is to hold in this sector, we must make calculated losses. Prioritise the fortress world and the forge world. All else is expendable."
"And what of the moral of our people lady Inquisitor ?" Sighed Rastov clearly frustrated with the hand he had to play.
"Shall we tell those who bleed for the Emperor that their families are expendable ? No. We will not abandon the sector outright." He pauses deep in thought tired wrinkles around his eyes reveals the strain he fights to keep hidden "Yet there is wisdom in what you say. We will hold where we can and buy time."
"Lord General we will make the enemy bleed for every inch of land they take" the Warmaster takes a breath. He has just condemned tens of millions to die brutal deaths all for the sake of buying time for a solution which might never arrive.
"Warmaster." The modulated voice of Arch Magos Malax resonates across the great chamber. "The forge world of Galtrius is vital to maintaining the supply of weapons and materials to the war effort aswell as remaining the sole surviving shipyard capable of building and repairing our void ships. We calculate a 59.6% likelihood of a major offensive by heretical forces. If we fail to secure the forge world the supply chains to the front lines would collapse. The probability of total strategic failure rises to 72.5%."
"Understood Archmagos. Galtrius Prime must not be allowed to fall. Lord Admiral, prepare the fleets for deployment to Lyrissa's maw, but keep a portion of the battlefleet in reserve to respond to any attack against the forge world. Lord General prepare plans to deploy guard regiments to key worlds and evacuate those forces on worlds which we can't hope to hold, I will not have guardsmen die pointlessly."
At that moment the warmasters Chamberlin leans forward and announces my presence.
" My Lord Warmaster. The most honourable Rogue trader Damocles Novar" the words flow from the chamberlins lips like water from a stream filled with crisp a servitude found throughout high imperial society.
I can feel the velvet carpet swallow the soles of my boots as I enter the grand chamber with measured strides. I am wearing my deep green cloak embroidered with the Novar family crest adorned with gold trim and the Aquila of my station. I can't help but feel overdressed suppressing a smile such is the contrast to the military uniforms around me and the dull grey of the Warmasters armour. Yet, even Novar regalia seems muted under the flicker blue of the chamber silent save for the distant hum of the ships reactor and the chattering of servitors relaying commands. Around the table aids and officer stand muted awaiting the Warmaster word.
"Damocles Novar" Rostov rumbled. His voice as heavy as the void. Laden with the weight of countless worlds. " Scion of the dynasty that once ruled a dozen worlds from Mitar V. Reduced to this…"
He presses a button out of sight and the hologram changes to my fleet in orbit around the Warmasters Battlestation, a half dozen cruisers a few dozen destroyers and hundreds of smaller more fragile craft all clustered around my Flagship. The Invictus. The last seat of House Novar.
"My dynasty is not yet dead Lord Warmaster" I replied with a tilt of my head, fighting to keep the my face passive and not reveal the rage simmering beneath the surface.
"It mearly has fewer stars to its name, but those that we still control we hold with unwavering resolve." Rastov leans forward, resting his gauntleted hands on the table wearing a knowing smile on his lips.
"Good. You will need every ounce of that resolve … and that bluster, for what comes next."
Rastov's face hardened. "The frontier world of Albion has been given to you in its entirety. The world is rich in natural resources and its people are hardy folk, natural warriors. Perfect scouts." Pausing to look at a data slate passed to him by a young aid before quickly sending her on their way. This is unexpected, when I received the warmasters summons I suspected he wished to use my forces as an auxiliary or strip me of the few worlds I still possessed. I didn't expect this, and if there's anything my father taught me it was to fear the unexpected.
"You don't offer gifts, Warmaster, what's the real price for the stewardship of Albion ?" I replied in a guarded tone.
The Warmaster rises and moves to the Hololith trailed by his honour guard and aids. A nod to a nearby tech priest and the Hololith changes from my Flotilla to an image of a war torn world. Elysia. I know of this world from a trade expedition I led on my fathers behalf decades ago. A pleasant vibrant world bustling with trade was now choked with smoke and the firestorms of broken cities. It's Orbit littered with the debris , evidence of a significant naval battle.
"Elysia. This is where your legacy begins or ends Novar." He said with a grunt, gesturing toward the Hololith.
"An Imperial expedition is stranded here. Originally sent to reinforce the planetary guard against an ongoing Eclipse pact invasion the Expedition quickly became bogged down by the Eclipse sheer numbers. The core of the expedition is formed around the Gaulish Rifles and Italic Royal Hoplites regiments. They are barely holding the line but they've abandoned the new founded Albion Regiments around the hivecity of Berwyn. They are saving their own skins by hanging the men of Albion out to dry."
I frowned, stepping closer to the display. Whilst the tactics of the Astra Militarum were famously brutal in service to the god emperor, no sane General would willingly sacrifice good regiments.
Not if he expected to keep his head free of a commissars fractured battle lines were clear- desperate Defiance by isolated units, with gaps where reinforcements should been moved into. What a frak up.
"You want me to salvage this mess" I said.
"I want you to do more than salvage it !" Growled Rastov, banging his hand on the table
"I want you to pull those fractured Regiments back into the fold. The Gaulish and Italics are fighting for themselves now but they have bleed for the Emperor before. If you can remind them of that- if you can give them something to fight for again- they will be an asset I sorely need . If not…" he left the words unspoken but his meaning was clear. If I couldn't bring the Imperial commanders together then failure meant total destruction.
"What about the Albion regiments ?" I asked.
Rastov's lips curled into a smile.
"They are yours. I offer stewardship of their world but with that comes a duty. You will go out into the dark Damocles and you will gather what remains of the emperor's strength. Shattered fleets and fleeing ships . Isolated regiments, rogue Astartes chapters. Anything and everything which will give me an advantage. Anyone who is still loyal to the Emperor." The look in his eyes is one of desperation and only now do I see the true weight bearing down upon him.
"You will forge an armoury, A bastion and an army from that world and its people. Albion will be the foundation of our reconquest of the shrouded worlds. The fulcrum upon which we will rebuild the emperors light in this broken imperial Nihilus." The look of awe on the faces of the young officers and soldiers in the room in daunting. The lives of hundreds of Billions rest upon this man's shoulders and if I accept this offer to an extent mine also.
"These Regiments are the first founding of Albion. If they are lost on Elysia then the soul of their people will be destroyed. Without news of victory Albion might well fall to the Aldari encroaching on this sector . if you want that world to be the foundation of your dynasty then you must save its sons and daughters." Rostov finished locking eyes to await my response, knowing I had only one option. To accept for the alternative meant extinction for my house.
My mind was spinning the Gaulish Rifle's and the Italic Royal Hoplites-proud regiments with a long history of service to the Emperor but known for their fractious pride. To unite them with the inexperienced Albion regiments would be a challenge. Their Generals might see my authority as a threat. And men of that station deal with threats in a manner which I would like to avoid,
"If they refuse to fall in line" I ask already expecting the answer.
Rostov's lips curl back into a grim smile.
"Then you remind them what happens to those traitors who fall from the emperors light."
"You are a rogue trader Damocles. A bearer of the Emperors writ of trade and a scion of a ancient dynasty with a proud history. Show them the strength that made your name and they will follow." He pauses his face like stone "Or they will burn."
My hand instinctively reaches for my ancestral Saber crafted to commemorate the victory on Solos Beta over 2,000 years ago which cemented my family's holdings in this sector.
"Very well Lord Warmaster I accept your terms. The Gaulish Rifles and the Italic royal Hoplites will be returned to the fold. The men of Albion will be mine. They will fight for the Emperor once more or they will die forgotten in the darkness. On my name and by his will, it will be done."
Rostov's scarred face betrays a flicker of his approval.
"Good, then go. Save Elysia and then save Albion. Prove the Novar Dynasty still has the strength to lead." He turns back toward his general staff.
"Your fleet awaits Rogue trader. Gather the living or bury the dead."
Present day
The Hololith of Elysia has burned its way into my mind. Its continents scarred by war and wickedness.
"Legacy…"I muttered under my voice.
"My Lord" I hadn't heard my Seneschal approaching. Atticus had been with me since my ascension having served my father faithfully for 50 years as lord Senechal, a title he has more than earned.
"All ships report ready for the journey to Elysia"
He was more than my Seneschal, he was the one man I could trust to tell me the truth. He had dragged me from the burning ruins of my ancestral palace on Matar. He had realised the futility of my idiotic last stand to avenge my family's deaths. Even if it had cost him his right hand to a Carnifex's jaws . Just another display of his loyalty he says.
" The thought of Elysia troubles me Atticus. It isn't just a rescue mission. It's a test from the Warmaster." My brows crumple in thought as I mull over the strategy behind the Warmaster actions.
"He can't afford any dead weight, if we can't bring together the Gauls, Itallic and the Albion….." I let my thoughts hang unspoken.
"If anyone can it's you." Atticus replied without thought. "You carry the Emperors own writ,
And the weight of a dozen worlds." His cybernetic eye the only part of him that wasn't stock still. Always moving, always watching for threats to the dynasty.
"These men will see to it" he gestures to my honour guard. Thousands of men like them had been saved from the fall of Matar and now made up the bulk of my fighting force spread amongst the fleet.
"Course is laid in, my lord." Lieutenant Helana Fane called from her station. She sat at her station with the grace of someone born to life in the void. Orphaned during one of my fathers many wars Helana had been sent to Matar's Schola progeniumto be groomed for command. She rallied a class of cadets during the fall of matar to retake a spaceport and allowed tens of thousands to escape the slavering jaws of the tyranids.
"it'll be a rough jump through the storms, but the navigators agree that the fleet will make it intact."
"thenletshope their optimism isn't misplaced "I replied offering her a faint nod.
"And our defences ?" I asked, my eyes shifting to Horton Rask, the ships towering master of arms.
Rask crossed his massive arms, his carapace armour clinking faintly with the movement.
"Macro cannons are primed, lance capacitors charged. If the Heretics come sniffing, the Invictus will show them the Emperors mercy. My arms men are ready to repel any fool who tries to board us."
Their confidence was a steadying force but still my doubts remained.
"very well, Atticus signal the fleet. Fane take us into the about it." My doubts weigh heavy on me but I have no other choice. The fate of my dynasty rests on my actions at Elysia.
The Invictus shuddered as its ancient engines tore a hole in the fabric of reality plunging the hundreds of thousands of souls into the maelstrom of infernal energies and vile entities.