//------------------------------// // XI. The Brotherhood of Stone // Story: Ordnance is Magic 2: Bombardment Boogaloo // by Perturabo //------------------------------// Somewhat fortunately for Adamant, the immobilizing terror of the Obliterator’s attention falling squarely on him was soon taken care of by another. Despite his injuries, and despite the Blood Angel most likely warning him against it, Helsturnn would not sit by and watch their guide be reduced to ash. Some part of the pony’s mind, probably induced by stress, wanted to laugh. Perhaps they’d grown fond of him after all. The Space Wolf moved deceptively quickly, especially with the fact that at least one of his bones must have been broken taken into account. He covered the distance as Vortun’s arm morphed into another corrupted weapon, bending down and scooping Adamant up in one fluid movement. It was lucky he did so. Seconds later, the ground where the pony had been standing was practically vaporized, Vortun howling in frustration as his prize was denied to him. Another shot rang out, scoring a blinding line over the Grey Hunter’s pauldron. He staggered, smoke rising from the struck armour as both Astartes and pony averted their eyes. He didn’t stop running though. Eventually, they rounded a townhouse, the Space Marine tossing the equine down with little grace as another shot punched through the building over their heads and the sound of bolter fire continued to echo. Adamant didn’t mind much, letting out the breath he’d been holding and allowing his knees to quiver. Helsturnn snarled with a flash of fangs. The death of the Iron Hand, Moulkain, didn’t seem to have really registered for the group yet, but he was angry all the same. “Stay. Don’t die.” He grunted, drawing and gunning his chainsword as blood seeped down from the cracks in his armour. Adamant didn’t argue, nodding weakly. “T-thank you.” He managed, but his saviour was already on the move. Deciding to take the Space Wolf’s words to heart, at least for the moment, the pony crawled into the best cover he could find and lay as still as he could. He was out of the Obliterator’s eye line now – or at least, he hoped he was, but it was had to tell exactly what Vortun could and could not do – and thus hopefully out of immediate danger. It didn’t stop his body from shaking. Adamant’s ears folded against his skull, each step any of the warring demigods took or shot they made sending out shuddering seismic vibrations. After what felt like an age, but in reality couldn’t have been more than a minute or two, curiosity once again got the better of the pony. He dropped onto his front and slowly began to crawl forward, eventually peeking round the side of the ruined house and at the town square-turned-battlefield. He did so just in time to see an Angel fall. By now Vortun was beginning to slow, the sheer volume of bolter rounds he’d absorbed taking a toll even on his corrupted flesh. He would not die in silence, however. Spitting out oily black blood from the gash in his face that served as a mouth, Vortun stopped focusing his fire on the surviving and vengeful Iron Hand to instead take aim at two of the approaching Dark Angel’s, Joshua and Baramiel. They didn’t take cover straight away, not even with the former having to fire one-handed, natural stubbornness perhaps overwhelming tactical sense for a moment. They peppered the Obliterator with gunfire, only compelled to move when a scorching melta beam cut through the air towards them. They headed in opposite directions in an attempt to split their adversary’s firepower. It would probably have worked too, had they not underestimated the traitor marine’s capabilities. Considering how slowly and purposefully he moved, Vortun was capable of surprising turns of speed. As Baramiel braced himself once again and began to fire from the hip, he suddenly lurched into action, dropping his own stream of weapon fire as he stomped towards his marked prey. Baramiel was First Legion, a knight-lord of Caliban. Honour prevented him from running. He clamped his bolter to his thigh and drew his sword, taking the grip hands and lashing out as the Obliterator’s talons slowly carved through the air. Honour was his undoing. The masterfully wrought blade lashed out, carving yet another deep scar on the Chaos Space Marine’s warp-twisted face, but it would have taken a swordsman of greater skill than even the veteran to deflect all the blows that were coming for him. Eventually, one ponderous but crushing strike slipped under the warrior’s guard; the energy-wreathed talons sank in to Baramiel’s abdomen, the Dark Angel freezing as pain rocketed through his system. With an almost contemptuous motion, Vortun ripped his claw up, tearing away robes, dark green armour, fused bone, and the front of Baramiel’s skull. The Astartes’s corpse collapsed to the ground, blood bumping from where his face had been. The idea that anything could kill even one Space Marine was hard for Adamant Tower to believe. He’d seen them take more punishment than he’d thought possible, and despite their entire journey up to that point, only a single one of them had fallen. The fact that two of them had died in what could well have been less than five minutes was enough to make his gut feeling like it was eternally dropping. The effect on the other Astartes was far more straightforward; it seemed to just make them angry. Both Helsturnn and Zuriel practically strained at the leash, clearly aching to charge forward and try and avenge their comrade in bloody melee. Even the usually stoic Nehemiah was having trouble remaining calm in the wake of another brother’s death. But for the moment, they all curbed their rashness, no matter how much it irked them. It was hard to argue that the Obliterator could not see his doom rapidly approaching. The lurching stride to tear Baramiel apart had been born out of hatred fostered over millennia, or as good as millennia, rather than any tactical sense. Cracks were starting to form over Vortun’s armour, points where the loyalists’ combined fire could exploit. He staggered back, perhaps finally feeling the effects of all the wounds he’d suffered over his twisted life catching up with him. Plasma shot forth from the rapidly reforming guns that pushed clear of his thick, tainted flesh, but the shots were wild and poorly-aimed at best. Another punishing salvo of bolter fire sent the Obliterator back another step, more of the black ‘blood’ dribbling in a river down from the front of his ancient armour. Even as he dropped to a knee, having to drive the talons in one hand into the ground just to keep himself more or less upright. Throughout it all, an unsettling sound could be heard even above the chorus of chattering guns and bullets hitting home; it was the deep, manic laugh of the Obliterator. It was impossible to know which of them had fired the shell that finally toppled him, but eventually, topple the Chaos Marine did. The loyalist Astartes continued to release short, controlled bursts from their weapons, even as their enemy spasmed and a deathly stiffness set into his limbs. He dropped to his other knee, armour actually screeching as it was forced to contort in ways it no longer could easily. With a final shudder, the Obliterator toppled onto his back. The ground shook once again as he collapsed. Slowly, the gunfire tapered off, the surviving Space Marines and pony looking warily at their foe. Vortun was not quite dead, weak breaths leaving him, but his strength did seem spent. After a further moment’s hesitation, Nehemiah began to approach, drawing his power sword and letting the energy field wreath it. “I…I vas born on Terra…” The Dark Angel paused as the quiet words left the Obliterator’s mouth. Vortun nodded as best he could when lying on his back, continuing to speak, seemingly to himself. “I remember…ze Europan hives…Attica, I think.” “You were not born of Olympia?” Despite everything, Nehemiah seemed unable to contain his curiosity. He twisted his blade so that the point sank into the earth, kneeling beside his foe to listen. Vortun could not shake his head, but gave a grunt to the same effect. “Nein…ze accent, yah?” Nehemiah gave a nod of understand. The dying Chaos Marine hesitated a moment, letting out another shuddering breath. “…did you ever see him, cousin? Your Emperor?” “No,” Nehemiah admitted, sounding a little disappointed at the fact. ‘Well…yes. He only came to Caliban once, when Lord Jonson was elevated to command of the Legion…but I was just a boy, then. Did you?” “Dah.” Vortun said with a chuckle, though it soon devolved into a hacking cough. “Once…before ze Primarch was found. Back ven ve were just ze Fourth Legion.” “I had heard you were once called the Corpse Grinders.” The first legionnaire said, helmeted head tilting to the side slightly beneath the robe. Another wet and pained chuckle left the traitor. “I always liked zat name…the irony behind it.” He sighed, a bloody mist leaving his ruined lips. “I remember ven lord Perturabo first walked amongst us. He asked us…” He coughed. “He asked us to decimate ourselves…did you know zat, cousin?” “I did not.” Nehemiah conceded. Vortun smirked. “It is true. Ein-tenth of ze Legion, decided by lottery and put to death by our own hands. I remember beating one of the primus medicaes until he did not move…yes…I vas an Apothecary, back zen.” He said, as if he himself had forgotten. “Most of my kind, zey vere ze legion Techmarines. Not me…no, flesh was always my area.” He looked down at himself, and chuckled. “Perhaps ze Gods do have a sense of humour, after all.” part “Why did he do it?” Nehemiah asked, refusing to be distracted from the story he’d been told. “Why did Perturabo order you to kill one another?” Vortun’s piggish, blooshot eyes returned to him. “He vanted us to be ze best.” He said simply. “I hated him for it, for a long time. I could not understand vhy ze false Emperor had put a madman in charge of us. I did not hate him forever…all of us admired our Father, even if ve feared him.” He hesitated again, slipping into reverie. “Sometimes I vonder vhy I was vas not chosen to die along with ze rest of ze legion whose loyalties couldn’t be guaranteed before ze war. Perhaps it vas because I vas already old guard. I may well be ze oldest Iron Warrior left in the universe, if only for ze next few moments. Perhaps I slipped through ze net…perhaps Lorkhan simply decided it didn’t matter anymore, one he took control.” “Lorkhan?” Nehemiah repeated. “He was your…Warsmith, did you call them?” Vortun gave a grunt of acknowledgement. “Dah…not ze best, or even ze first, but…he vas my Warsmith.” The mutated Astartes said, the faintest hint of fraternal affection colouring his voice. “Did he live?” “I do not know.” Vortun admitted bluntly. “Part of me hopes zat he did, zat he still strikes against your Imperium in his own way…part of me see ze cruelty in zat.” Silence reigned for a moment, periodically punctuated by the traitor’s pained coughs. “Why are you telling me this?” Nehemiah asked, with deceptive softness. “Does it ease whatever remains of a soul within you?” Vortun gave a sound that could have been a snigger. “I hated you all…ve all did. For ten thousand of your years, we wreaked that hatred on you. Salamanders and Ultramarines, Blood Angels and mortals, witches in shining silver…ve punished zem all.” As the memories flooded in, he gave for the first time what could have been a genuine smile. “But I am not sure if I still hate you. Perhaps I have simply let it go. Zis vorld…I ripped zis town apart. I burned zere city of Manehatten to ze ground. I tore down every tree in zere forest and made it burn, even if zey just grew again…here, I really vas…ze Obliterator.” He finished. A curious note of humanity inflected his voice as he gave a lingering, content exhale. Nehemiah stood, withdrawing his sword from the ground. “You have murdered two of my brothers today, traitor.” He said, voice growing hard once again. “And I have still heard your confession. Wherever your tattered soul ends its journey, I hope that it burns there.” As he took the grip of his sword in both hands and raised it, Vortun began to break out in a final chorus of hacking laughs. “So self-righteous,” He snorted, not a trace of fear or regret detectable in him. “I vas wrong…I do still hate you.” When the tip of the sword fell he was still laughing, laughing for all the world to hear. *** Lorkhan hesitated outside the door, and closed his eyes. A sigh left him. For a moment, he considered heading back and trying to find some other way, because if he was honest with himself the boy really didn’t want to do this. It wasn’t that he was scared, or even particularly nervous. He couldn’t deny that there was a little bit of dread, but that was only because he reckoned he knew exactly how this was going to go already. Swallowing his reservations, he put a hand on the door and pushed. The sound of the aging hinges creaking in protest as the entrance swung open was enough to make him wince. Squinting a little, Lorkhan tried to peer into the darkness beyond. As opposed to the corridor behind him, where the light flickered a little and an impossible-to-place scent lingered, the room in front of him was as lightless as it could be. Setting his face hard, he hesitated just a moment longer before stepping in. His feet tapped out rhythmically on the tile floor of the bathroom as he stepped in, doing his best to not glance around. The male toilets – there were female toilets, but nobody actually knew what they looked like for obvious reasons – of Olympia High were surprisingly spacious considering how cramped everywhere else seemed to be, but that didn’t make them particularly luxurious. There was always the peculiar smell of gasoline and motor oil lingering in the air, and the walls and stalls were covered in frustrated obscenities. Three mirrors lined the wall to his right, though all but one of them were cracked. Lorkhan flinched as he heard the door harshly slam behind him. It took considerable willpower not to turn round defensively; part of him wished he’d brought one of the others, even Rorke, but there were certain traditions and formalities he had to adhere to by coming to this place. He might not have been afraid, per se, but he still wouldn’t dare break them. “You can come out, you know.” He did his best to keep his voice level, though a tremor of irritation still crept into it. “I know you’re all there.” Silence persisted a moment, the desire to grind his teeth together in annoyance nearly overpowering Lorkhan. Then, the sound of steps began to echo again. He turned to his left as the four figures scuttled into view, supressing a sigh as he did so. They were all about his height, though it did vary, their steps weirdly synchronised. They were hooded, faces tilted down and concealed by the shadow. He couldn’t tell if they’d been waiting actually in the stalls, or simply beside them, but it had clearly been them who had closed the door. As they formed a loose semi-circle around him, his back to the wall, Lorkhan grimaced again, holding his ground even as a hand clenched into a fist. “Who comes before the Brotherhoods of Stone?” The first one said, voice an exaggerated whisper. “Steel.” The second added, his voice harsher but in a similar tone. “Cold.” The third went on, sounding like a hiss. “And Thunder.” The fourth concluded, giving a lingering exhale as he did. Lorkhan fought the temptation to roll his eyes and point out that they all knew very well who he was. If they wanted to indulge in mindless theatrics, letting them wouldn’t hurt his chances of getting what he’d come for. “Lorkhan.” He answered, as flatly as he could manage. “I’ve come to ask for the Brotherhoods’…help.” To his annoyance, an infuriating chuckling sound rose from the four hooded figures before him. “You seek out the Lyssatra,” The one who had formerly been last to speak began, all of their voices dripping with melodrama as they spoke in reverse order now. “The Kheledakos.” “The Apolakreon.” “And the Dodakatheon.” The first finished. “And you ask for our help?” Despite how utterly incorrect it was, Lorkhan liked to think that he was a reasonable-enough man. In most circumstances, he probably would have let them have their fun. Right now, however, he didn’t have much time to waste. Mumbling an expletive, he headed back towards the door; the hooded figures watched him, though as he reached for the light-switch the air of mystique they tried to perpetuate swiftly fell away. “Lorkhan, wait-“ He ignored the half-finished demand as he flipped the light on, cold white light bathing the bathroom. An unimpressed look crossed his face as he turned back to the others in the room with them, who gave pained noises at the sudden brightness, averting their faces from the light even more and rubbing suddenly sore eyes. “Do you guys just sit in here all day and wait for someone to come in?” Lorkhan asked, folding his arms over his chest. “Geez, you read one book about ancient Greece and you start getting all cult-like.” The boys mumbled, a lot less threatening now, adjusting the towels they’d draped over their heads in an attempt to still obscure their faces. It wasn’t really working. “Mr Soulaka said he’d heard you were looking for us.” One of them snapped, voice tinged with embarrassment, Lorkhan felt his eyes narrow. Soulaka was the Biology teacher, and a decent enough sort, but his involvement with these ‘organisations’ had always struck Lorkhan as a bit weird. “Besides, the Brotherhoods are a key part of the school’s history.” Another grumbled. That bit was certainly true enough. As long as he was obeyed and his students were kept in line, Perturabo didn’t much care what they did; in place, the various ‘secret’ societies had started up, the Dodekatheon being the oldest. They were painfully over-dramatic, but they did do an irritatingly good job of keeping everyone in line and making sure no one group was able to bully all the others into submission. Still, that didn’t mean Lorkhan had to like it. He’d actually been invited to join the Dodekatheon’s ranks once, but the thought of getting involved made his skin crawl for reasons he couldn’t place. He didn’t want to think about what the other three, less established organisations did in their downtime. “Whatever, very cute.” He retorted, voice laden with sarcasm. One of them, in particular, caught his eye. “Hey, Shon’Tu.” “Hey Lorkhan.” The hooded boy responded, accidentally dropping the act and the tone for a moment, before a harsh nudge from one of the others quickly brought him back into line. “Oh, very well.” The one representing the Dodekatheon snapped. He reached up, pulling the towel back over his head. Amber, almost golden eyes were framed by thick brows and angular features, whilst hair that had already taken on a silvery shade of white was pulled tight around his head. Lorkhan raised an eyebrow as he felt the boy’s poorly repressed anger smoulder. Toramino. That one actually was a surprise. “What do you want?” “You seem particularly grumpy today.” Lorkhan observed, not quite able to stop himself needling the other boy. It was practically tradition, by this point. “Still pissed that Principal Perturabo won’t make you a hall monitor?” Toramino’s eyes narrowed, but even when he glanced round angrily at his three fellows, their sniggering didn’t stop. “If you’re trying to ask for our help,” He growled, through gritted teeth. “You’re not going the right way about it.” He did have a point, and Lorkhan held a hand up defensively. “You’re right.” He conceded, trying to adopt a business-like expression once again. “Listen. You’ve all heard about this…unpleasantness Principal Perturabo’s making me and my group go through with Canterlot High, right?” “Everybody’s heard about it, by now.” One of the still-hooded figures confirmed. Lorkhan frowned internally; he couldn’t quite place who that was. Even so, he nodded. “We’ve been making progress. We’ve got our band name, and we’ve got the instruments,” they were currently kept under lock and key in the music room the idea of losing them now intolerable. “But we aren’t actually entered in the competition yet…” He trailed off, sighing and steeling himself. “I don’t like this whole cult thing you guys do, but I can’t argue that you do have a pretty good stranglehold on this place. There must be some way you can…y’know…help me out a bit?” “Help…you out.” Toramino repeated, obviously enjoying the fact that Lorkhan needed his help even if he was still angry about perceived disrespect. “That’s an interesting request. What’s in it for us?” Lorkhan couldn’t blame him for that, and fortunately he’d been thinking about it on the way over. “As crazy as it sounds? School spirit.” He raised a hand even before Toramino’s lip could curl into a mocking sneer. “I know, I know, but think about it. As much as it pains me to admit it, you run this shit, Principal Perturabo aside. But, like…what does this place even matter?” He paused for effect, just as Mordecai had taught him, inwardly pleased at the sight of two of his audience giving a thoughtful glance to one another. “Let’s face it, this place is ass and we all know it. But if we managed to beat those uppity Canterlot bastards, then people’d start taking notice. And if we get respect, it follows that you get respect.” Shon’Tu and the two other hooded boys were murmuring amongst themselves, the idea apparently taking them in quite considerably. Toramino did not join them. He remained silent, cold eyes still locked on Lorkhan, his nose wrinkling with distaste. At what, it was hard to say. “I know I’m hardly the most…popular guy here.” He began, which was an understatement to say the least. “But come on, Lorkhan. We’ve tried to bring you into the circle before, and you’ve always been quick to offer your opinion. But now…you’re proposing an alliance?” “It’s not about what I think.” Lorkhan insisted, or at least tried to. “And I know we don’t get on, but…you actually have a chance to do something with all that influence you’ve accumulated here! There’s got to be someone you can get in there just to sign our names up, doesn’t that appeal to-“ “Principal Perturabo doesn’t want you to win.” The suddenness of Toramino’s calm interjection actually made Lorkhan stop mid-stream, flinching and blinking in surprise. He opened his mouth to reply, but Toramino nodded again. “He really doesn’t. Or at least, he doesn’t care. You think he’s sent you in there because he thinks you have a chance?” He chuckled, shaking his head as the other boys fell silent. “Perturabo doesn’t care what happens to you. Even if, by some miraculous chance you did win and avoided being decimated, it’d just happen again in the future.” He shook his head again. “You’re determined, I can see that, that’s actually pretty impressive. But if you think this matters to him enough that we should get involved, you’re deluded.” The silence was drawn out for a while. Lorkhan kept his lips pursed, head bowed slightly, hands clenching and unclenching into fists. “You’re wrong.” He said at last. Despite how unusually soft it was, or maybe because of it, all their eyes fell on him as he looked up defiantly. “You’re wrong. I think it does matter. Not because it’s us or anything, but…pride…that matters to him. And it matters to me too.” It was hard to tell if his little speech had actually convinced anyone, but at the very least a few of the hooded boys were listening. At least one of them even seemed impressed by his little talk. Toramino, however, was not one of them. His sneer only deepened, mouth twisting into a look of disdain. It was in that moment that Lorkhan realised his efforts had been in vain. “That’s all well and good,” the white-haired boy said, arms folding over his chest. “But I’m not convinced. We won’t help you. The Brotherhoods have decided.” “No, we haven’t.” One of the other representatives said, stepping forward. Lorkhan dared to let hope flutter in his gut, even if he tried his best to not let it show on his face. “Only you have.” His tone was calmly defiant, but an angry glance from Toramino quashed any dissent. “Do not backchat me.” He hissed, eyes narrowing in frustration. Toramino was hardly the most popular of students, and that was saying something, but his temper was infamously bad – enough to bring about obedience compliance. Lorkhan sighed again, feeling his dislike for the boy spike even further. “Sorry, Lorkhan.” Shon’Tu apologised. His response was just to scowl. With Toramino still grinning, the ragamuffin ‘council’ turned, slowly heading back to the toilet cubicles. Lorkhan stood there for a while, waiting and staring at the cubicle doors. The others were still in there, but they seemed to be waiting for him to leave first. The feeling in the air was undeniably awkward. Then he turned himself, rolling his eyes and muttering, before stomping back outside. *** As he left the bathroom, Lorkhan walked for a while. He didn’t really know where he was going, or indeed if he was going anywhere. The act of walking itself was an attempt to cool the shackled anger bubbling up inside him. Eventually, he leaned back on a graffiti’d wall, curling his hands into fists again as he growled in frustration. He couldn’t go back empty handed. Mordecai had surprisingly come through for them with the instruments, and the others were doing their best. He was the self-appointed leader of their band, the one who’d got them into the mess to begin with. He refused to be the only one to let them down; it was one of the boy’s few redeeming qualities. “Hey.” As he detected someone leaning against the wall beside him, and he worked out who the voice belonged too, Lorkhan sighed again. He didn’t want to speak to many of his classmates right now, but this one particularly would be unpleasant. “Honsou.” He grunted in greeting, looking round with a weary expression. The other boy gave a wry smile. Though he was about the same age of Lorkhan, he looked a little younger, and whilst his hair was short – a common style at the school – his facial features weren’t as blunt and stocky as most of the others’. There was always something unsettling about Honsou; he was a transfer student, like Vortun, but he’d never seen fit to reveal exactly where he was fun. There was even rumours that he was an expelled student from Terra Academy, though if that was the case then keeping quiet about it was probably for the best. “You look grumpy.” The other boy said, nodding. “Like, more than usual…is something wrong?” “What do you care?” Lorkhan snapped, having to take a deep breath after. Honsou chuckled, shaking his head but apparently unaffected by the sudden outburst. “Humour me.” He insisted, keeping his own arms folded. “Consider me a concerned citizen…is it about the whole Canterlot thing?” Lorkhan flinched even at the name, opening his mouth to reply. Something made him pause, closing his mouth. Like Toramino and the others had said, everyone knew about it by now. “Yes.” He conceded in a grumble. “Yes, it is about that…” Honsou said nothing, but his calculating eyes continued to play over him. It took a moment, but finally Lorkhan relented. With some hesitancy, he explained the problem. “Huh…” Honsou mused when he was done, nodding in thought. “That does sound like a problem.” Lorkhan just gave another grunt of annoyance. Rational thought was telling him to just leave, but something…expectant in the air convinced him to stay put. “I’ll do it.” Lorkhan did not react to his words immediately. He took a moment to process that they’d even been said. As it finally sank in, he looked round into Honsou’s smile. The other boy nodded as Lorkhan frowned. “I’ll do it.” He repeated, with a shrug. “The Dodekatheon and the others don’t care about me. I don’t give a shit about them…and if you guys can get into that place, which was actually pretty impressive, I’m sure I can.” He wasn’t wrong, Lorkhan was aware of that. But the means wasn’t the point. Throughout all the time they’d been in the same school Lorkhan had probably spoken four times to the boy, and never more than a few words. He waited for a catch. None came. “…why?” He asked slowly, fiddling with the rim of his chevroned shirt idly. Honsou chuckled, clapping Lorkhan’s shoulder and making him flinch reflexively. “Because it’s been a while since anything interesting happened here, and I find something amusing in the fact that you’re actually going through with this.” Lorkhan pursed his lips even more, breath slowly escaping over his lips as his body tensed more. Honsou wasn’t unaware of it. “You want to know what the catch is, don’t you?” “I would quite like to, yes.” He responded in a flat but cold tone. Honsou smirked again, clapping his shoulder again knowingly. “…Win.” He said, simply. Before Lorkhan could argue either way, he pushed off the wall, starting to walk away with focused intent. Lorkhan watched him, still leaning on the wall, arms folded tight as his mind raced to process the information. “I will…” He nodded, the words quiet and almost self-directed. “I will.”