@#@#@# Taylor’s POV @#@#@#
Lord Inquisitor Dorosa was pretty steamed when we walked back into Inquisitional headquarters that night, after several hours of fighting, though not angry enough to kill Unity or me. Still, she ordered us to lead the assault the next morning, but that meant we got to ride in the same vehicle as Cain and Jurgen, whom I had just been informed was with them, not that I was surprised. Jurgen was a blank, meaning he had a negative psychic presence and nullified warp magic and harm daemons with his mere presence. Unfortunately, we'd be riding in a Chimera until we reached the front, and even then, we'd be in the underhive, so his rather pungent odor would be right there with us.
“Feet holding up, Jacques?” I asked, still amazed his feet were adorned with lightning claws like his hands, giving them a raptorial appearance. Four claws in the front; one in the back to grip things. I was making rounds for the final time that night, making sure all nine of us were equipped well enough to fight the next morning. Our basic guns were replaced with lasguns, all free of charge, ad the Inquisition had been kind enough to furnish extra power packs for our weapons.
“As well as can be expected, boss,” he replied, working on a damaged servo. It was his own fault for kicking that nob in the jaw, but I suppose if I had power feet, I'd be doing the same thing. With that resolved, I moved on to the others in the killteam, though Steel Tart and Radiant Velvet were experts in their weapon maintenance, and given they did not require conventional ammunition, they had turned in early. Solemn Dirge, Gilded Unity, and Jay were the only ones awake at that hour. Unity was communing with the warp, as her position demanded, while Jay was exchanging his napalm for promethium. I had a feeling he was looking forward to burning some orks.
“Dirge, how are your rockets?” I asked, looking at the giant of a man. He was easily a head taller than me in human form, and a little bigger than Big Mac while a pony, and that height was matched by strength. The Deathwatch had given him one of their own missile launchers, due to a combination of his considerable size and his use of a combat exoskeleton, which was little more than something we cobbled together from parts of other machines.
“Ready for combat, sir,” he replied, loading a frag missile in the process. He had a small supply of krak missiles as well, given the high possibility of us running into looted vehicles the orks had upgraded to make them more orky, which meant anything from ramshackles trukks to Leman Russes.
“See to it that you get some rest, then; tomorrow is going to be trying.”
@#@#@# Amos's POV @#@#@#
I knelt in the conclave's attached chapel, clutching the rosette Lord Inquisitor Dorosa gave me. It was Dahl's, which had been reconsecrated and purified in the eyes of the Emperor. She expected me to fill in for him after this was over, provided I survived long enough to fulfill the role. I'd never received anything resembling formal training, and Oleg was better suited in every aspect, but the Lord Inquisitor felt I was the best Dahl's retinue had to offer. My eyes opened and I gazed at the large stained glass, which portrayed the Emperor leading mankind against the forces of Chaos, though any heretical iconography was absent.
I prayed then for the Emperor to forgive me, not only for working under a heretic like Reglan Dahl, but working alongside the Burned Man and his masters. I remained silent, hoping my words needed no breath for Him to hear them, and to avoid the listening devices the Inquisition had no doubt planted to hear any possible confessions. I like to think He heard me, across the impossible distance between Crius and Holy Terra, and, in some small way, found it within His power to absolve my sins.
“How are you, Amos?” Taylor asked, stepping into towards me. Amazingly, he was unarmored, and dressed in simple, utilitarian clothes. He made an effort to avoid looking at the stained glass, though a distant flash of light drew our mutual attentions. In the distance, something very large had exploded, and then we heard a very muted bang, which left no doubt to what it was.
“I am well enough, I suppose,” I replied, stowing my new rosette under my jacket. Much to my surprise, Taylor walked towards me and took a knee, the very first religious act I'd seen him engage in. he prayed aloud, in his own language, for but a few moments, and I couldn't help but feel a certain lack of piety, though it certainly didn't feel like a show he was putting on to fool the Inquisition. “I hadn't taken you to be very faithful,” I said, broaching the subject of his atheism enough to keep a low profile while also asking him what he was doing.
“The Imperial Cult says the Emperor has a place for every man and woman in the galaxy,” he answered, smiling genuinely. “I'm sure he understands why I employ a rogue psyker, even if his most devout servants say otherwise.” With that, he stood and turned to leave. “Have a good night, Amos; I've got a feeling the Black Legion will seem rather insignificant in comparison to what we'll be facing until help arrives.”
@#@#@#@#@#@#
Confessor Maboral was disgusted with what he saw in the captial, his city, his flock. It was his duty to guide the masses into the light of the Emperor, but in the modern day, few made it to every service, and a disgusting number of them stopped coming at all. So, like anyone who preached to the faithful, the confessor had find inventive ways to call the multitudes. Certainly, the larger churches had splendid cathedrals, and he had but four walls and a pulpit, but he had one thing none of the others had: divine inspiration.
Long had he been angry with the citizenry, who squabbled for food, killed for territory, and treated charity as an excuse to waste into a parasite. But then, some thirty years ago, one the Emperor's finest walked into his little church. For hours and hours Confessor Maboral preached and the Space Marine nodded along with the congregation, most of whom were too enrapture by the sight of such a man to even hear his words. After the service, which had been one of the most exhausting Maboral had performed, the Marine walked up to him, and they spoke for what felt like ages, but in truth had only been an hour or so.
They exchanged so many ideas, and the Marine, a Brother Jeremus as he'd called himself, told him of his faith, of four gods who sought something other than the stagnation of the modern Imperium. Though they parted on less than kind terms, with the confessor telling the Marine to leave and never return to a shrine devoted to His Divine Majesty, Brother Jeremus left with him a book for the confessor to read at his leisure, and then form his own opinions. Though he did not like to admit to himself, the ideas Jeremus placed into his head were amazing, revolutionary even, though the Emperor Himself fought against the four gods, the Ruinous Powers.
Tired of thinking of the past, of his change in religion, the corrupted priest walked into the depths of his church now a grand cathedral to the Dark Gods, and shed his robes. His body, aged and wizened over many years of service, was etched and scarred with icons of devotion, and he stood in his pulpit, surrounded by his flock of thousands, ready to call the servant of their masters and bring the world into the faith. Their psykers, rogues and scoundrels from across the sector, began chanting, lightning crackling between their heads as they surrounded the profane idol in the chamber's center.
In but mere moments, thousands of souls were consumed to open a small rift in reality, claiming the lives of nearly half Maboral's congregation. From the swirling, purple maelstrom of energy stepped a giant clad in purple power armor. Brother Jeremus smiled at his friend, seeing him again for the first time in thirty-odd years. They both knew something amazing was on the horizon, something that would shape the world and the sector beyond.
Brother Jeremus was but the first pair of boots the Word Bearers touched on Crius, but he had many more behind him.