Hermanos
”No”.
He stumbled backwards, not wanting to believe what he saw was real. His brothers-or, more accurately, his warriors-shuffled uneasily towards him; they did not know whether to catch and support their lord, or to give him distance. Either way they would have helped little. What they all saw had shocked them almost beyond reason too.
He looked around desperately, seeking anything to betray this as a terrible ruse. The shattered chamber loomed over him like a great stone beast, cracked walls and shattered glass only serving to contribute to the inherent wrongness of what lay before him. Moonlight streamed into the room, playing off his steel-tinted armour and illuminating darkened stairwell and hidden crevices.
By his side, the bare-headed warrior roared, gauntleted fist crashing into the dark stonework. It left a scar, like the aftermath of an artillery blast or the impact of a drop pod crashing to the earth. To his right the horned warrior fumed and shook with rage and disbelief in equal measure, the contours of his ancient and battle-worn helm concealing the widened eyes and pale face that must surely lie within. The sorcerer paced back and forth, fingers steepled in front of him as he shook his head in a vain attempt to reconcile with what he saw. For once, there was no disgustingly optimistic outlook, or caustically smug remark. Of the five who led this host only the largest was unmoved; the stillness born of inhuman control over his body. No power talons flexed in anticipation or snarling gun barrel morphed into being, for what use would it have been? The daemon-man stood and watched, and for the first time in a long time, the lord of Obliteration sighed.
”NO.
He would not believe it. He had been expecting many things, but never this. It was wrong on every level. Mechatendrils snapped and hissed with their own depraved sentience, coiling around the extremities of his finely wrought war plate in a vain attempt to console their maker. He shook them off with barely contained disgust, sinking to his knees. No Astartes recognised despair, or would ever give in to depression. Yet in that moment, he knew what the mortal vermin must have felt when they saw the craft baring the iron skull descend upon their lines and begin the cull. He knew what it was to feel hopeless.
“No, no, no.”
The words were a mantra, yet they offered naught but cold comfort. It was a disgrace to let his warriors see him like this, he knew full well, and no doubt one of them would make a lunge for power later due to this apparent show of weakness. But try as he might it would have been wrong to deny himself this anger. He cursed everything; Celestia, for sending him on this fool’s errand. The warrior of the fifteenth legion, for consigning him to Equestria and not having the decency to just die like the rest of his bastard kin. Horus, for failing to cast down the False Emperor and suggesting this wretched existence to them. His own father, for going along with it.
On his knees in the throne room of a dead keep, Warsmith Lorkhan gave in to the hate that only a Chaos Space Marine could feel. Not once did he ever stop staring at what he saw before him.
The dragon stared back, blank eye sockets promising vengeance and fire for betrayal on black sands.
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It had taken them almost two hours of solid walking to reach the castle. It hadn’t been designated as the destination, and by the time they did finally approach it the sun had long since set, but it was as good a lead as any. Warp knows Lorkhan had needed one right about then.
Even were they to approach during the day, Lorkhan doubted it would have been much more inviting. Although the little accident with the fire that the Iron Warriors had caused had reduced a considerable proportion of the forest’s tree quota to blackened and twisted husks, they had at least been a constant presence that were reassuring in their mediocrity, even if they did make navigation somewhat difficult.
Here though, the treeline had thinned considerably. Foliage still peeled off to either side, yet the path seemed to open up, drawing the Iron Warriors along to whatever lay at its end. The Astartes had been suspicious, yet at the same time secretly satisfied; this had all the feeling of a trap, and that meant they were probably getting somewhere. The grass underneath was a darker shade than that which they’d seen before, although without their genetically enhanced senses and advanced helmet optics, the mist that had descended almost without warning and now clung to the warband and everything around them like a deranged lover would have made it impossible to see any such detail. Rorke had taken every opportunity to bemoan the “fucking horse bastards” that had cost him his helm, Forced into advancing slower and more methodically than his brothers. In a shocking development, it turned out none of them cared.
It was not just what they saw that had put the Iron Warriors more and more on edge. The animal noises, that before had been shrill but not directly threatening, had subsided almost entirely. Only the occasional skittering of claws on stone from the shadows reminded them that they were not the only living things in the forest. Lorkhan almost wished for a second round with the wooden wolf-beasts he had fought earlier; anything to break the feeling of discomfort that had nestled stubbornly within his consciousness.
When they finally reached the castle, it took them universally by surprise. Even Mordecai seemed taken off guard by the appearance of what, to the IV Legion’s expert eyes, seemed to be a place of defence. Oh it was no Iron Cage, not even close, but it was at the very least more serviceable than the castle they had been incarcerated in was. Or, at the very least, it would have been had it still been in one piece. It stood alone on a spur of rock located on the other bank of a vast crevice, the moon shining unobstructed over it. There were some trees, their leaves a peculiar shade of lilac, standing to one flank, which seemed odd considering the state the castle itself was in. The entire roof was missing, and pillars stuck out at jaunty angles that offended the craftsmen in Lorkhan. Much of the stonework was dilapidated, though whether it had been carved out by honest iron, the simple passing of age or other, more sinister means the Warsmith couldn’t tell.
Spanning the gap across the drop was a rickety-looking wooden bridge. It was a futile exercise to try and identify its age, and if there was any sort of underlying weakness within it: Lorkhan had never been good with wood. From what he could tell through the gloom, it was almost certainly past its prime, but not yet unusable. A calculated risk, as it were. Because there just hadn’t been enough of those today.
“So how are we going to do this?” Zuko asked. His voice was cold and weary, but not hostile.
“More to the point, how do we even know that’s where we need to be?” Rorke added through gritted teeth.
“I know. It has to be.” Lorkhan answered, not bothering to dignify Rorke with a more detailed answer.
From the nods, it seems his brothers agreed.
Turning back to his problem, Lorkhan cocked his head to one side and drummed his fingers on the side of his helmet. Tentatively, he stepped forward and placed a ceramite boot on the bridge, conscious of his warrior’s eyes upon him. The creaking and swaying of the structure was all the encouragement he need to speedily retract his foot as if he’d just stepped in a particularly odious shit. Disappointed groans echoed from behind, causing his Mechatendrils to snap round and hiss defensively. Taking a deep breath, he fought to curb his spikes of frustration. They were right to be annoyed.
“Zere must be something zat ve can do.” Vortun mused, lumbering closer to the edge.
“If you see it, feel free to share.” Lorkhan replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. His eyes wandered to the side as Mordecai crouched, running a finger over a patch of bare ground.
“I say, do you chaps remember the Stonewrought?” He said. His voice was distant, chirpy almost. It was nauseating.
“’Stonewrought?’” Lorkhan asked in a monotone voice, humouring his brother. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of incomprehension, palms turned upwards.
“Vull Bron.” Mordecai went on, not looking up. “Soltarn Vull Bron. 45th Company. They used to say he knew every intricacy of any kind of stone he came upon, with but a single touch. I must say that I never took him to be a true Psyker per se, but his knowledge of the geological spectrum was truly awe-inspiring.” The sorcerer stood, folding his arms over his breastplate. Lorkhan gave him a glare that was only slightly less withering than a dust storm.
“Did that…have a point?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice moderated. Mordecai gave a bass chuckle, shaking his head.
“Do not think on it, lord. I was merely curious.” He looked at the bridge with what appeared to be a mix of contemplation and amusement. “I trust that I do not need to impose that we cannot turn back now?”
In any other warband, Mordecai would probably have been killed a long time ago for impudence. It was only Lorkhan’s familiarity with him, a brotherhood stretching back to the Great Crusade, that allowed him to speak as such to the company’s ruler.
“No, you don’t.” Lorkhan spat. A moment’s silence passed as he wracked his brain for a solution. “What about your magic? Could you make a bridge or something?”
“Alas, whilst the strategy has merit my lord I fear I could not support our combined weight upon a cushion of air, sorcery and hope alone.” Mordecai said, sounding slightly apologetic. Lorkhan gave an exasperated grunt, kicking a small rock over the cliff edge as his idea similarly fell away. Finding the castle was worthless if they could not reach it. It felt like the Gods had given him a bolter with one hand, and punched him in the throat with the other.
And then taken away the bolter.
Before he could complain any more, another idea struck him. He walked to the mouth of the bridge again, tilting his head to the other side and widening his arms as if measuring something. He could feel his Champions’ gazes burn into his back. Rorke had probably raised an eyebrow.
When he was satisfied, he turned back to the Iron Warriors. They all watched him expectantly, though some with considerably more reverence than others. It was hard to supress a guffaw at his own expense; the answer was so obvious, it was criminal he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He turned to look at Vortun and his brothers, the Obliterators straightening as best they could under his scrutiny. Jerking a thumb over his right shoulder, Lorkhan nodded. Vortun creased what was left of his ever-mutating brow in what he must have interpreted as confusion, before returning a dip of the torso as comprehension struck him.
The two silent Obliterators lumbered forwards, pushing their way with no semblance of tact or grace through the crowd of Iron Warriors. They each take one side of the bridge, looking down at it in what appears to be a dull stupor. Still, they comply. Each one grips one of the ropes attaching the bridge to secure stone posts with a surprisingly gentle touch, and heaves. The posts were torn from the ground, leaving the bridge suspended very slightly in mid-air.
Zuko approached tentatively, looking at the bridge, then down at the thousands of kilometre drop below, before slowly returning his gaze to the bridge. Finally, he turns to look at the Warsmith. When he speaks his voice is tinged with the vaguest hint of panic.
“You’re not…I mean, you aren’t seriously suggesting we walk across this, are you?”
Lorkhan shrugged. “Yes, Zuko, as a matter of fact I am. It’s wide enough for one of us.”
“But how do you even know that it can support our weight?”
“I don’t.” Lorkhan took a moment of satisfaction as he felt Zuko tense beside him. With a dark chuckle he looked back at the castle, raising his voice as he did.
“Off you go then, Rorke.”
From the swearing, it was clear the other champion was audibly put out. Yet the Warsmith knew he wouldn’t say no, either; the sound of power armoured elbows crashing against ceramite, and gauntleted hands slapping pauldrons in a display of almost sincere comradeship meant that to back down would be to lose any shred of respectability he might have. The Champion moved forward slowly before, with a murderous glance at Lorkhan (who merely gave an innocent wave) Rorke stepped up on to the bridge.
It wobbled precariously, and the Iron Warrior swore again in every tongue he knew as he shot his arms out to steady himself. Yet it did not break, and that was a victory in itself. The Obliterators pulled back slightly to tighten their grip on the rope, but otherwise gave no sign of any discomfort. Steadying his breathing, and wary of Lorkhan and the rest having watchful eyes on him, Rorke took a slow step forward. Again the bridge creaked, but held fast. The other Iron Warriors watched in silence; despite any personal animosity, they were not a Legion inclined towards either celebrating their brother’s endeavours or mocking their failures if they had nothing to gain from it. His confidence building, Rorke began to speed up, although he was always careful not to put too much stress on the old wooden beams.
Eventually, after around ten minutes Rorke made it across, punching the air as he set foot back on terra firma. There were some half-hearted grunts and nods of approval, and many Astartes let out breaths they didn’t know they were holding. With the exception of a single plank that came loose hallway across, tumbling into the raging waters deep below, the bridge had managed to stay more or less intact. Any celebrations were short lived as another Marine, Kayn, stepped up to the plate. After him went Basikor, who had perpetually miserable since his beloved icon was taken from him and grumbled the whole way across.
In around an hour and a half, all the power-armoured marines had made it across, Lorkhan bringing up the rear. Some had gone considerably faster than others, bounding across and shattering planks with wild abandon. Yet, even Zuko (who had attempted to sprint the whole way, nearly losing his footing at the end and only being saved by a quickly outstretched hand from brother Aleksos) managed to traverse the gap in one bridge. If Lorkhan was honest there had come a moment where he feared that, his additional armour coupled with the already weakened wood, the bridge would not have been able to support him and he would have the dubious honour of being the only one to hurtle into the rocks below, the hysterical laughter of his brothers ringing in his ears the last thing he ever heard. Fortunately though it seemed the Great Schemer had smiled upon him for once. He didn’t plan on questioning it.
On the far side the Obliterators that had been supporting the bridge placed the stumps back into the ground, affixing it there as best they could. It was clear that there was no way the bridge would take them, even had they been able to fit on it comfortably. For once, though, the Warsmith had actually made a plan to deal with just this eventuality.
“Mordecai, if you please.” He said. The sorcerer sighed, and when he spoke there was an uncharacteristic trace of trepidation.
“Lord, I do not wish to disappoint you once again, but as I said prior I am not sure my power is sufficient to hold our blessed brothers aloft.”
“You did it before. When we broke out the castle, you did it then.”
“I merely slowed their descent then, if you recall. To actually defy gravity itself is considerably more challenging.”
“Try.” The Warsmith’s voice was cold, brooking no argument, Mordecai looked at him for a moment longer, seeking any purchase he could find. When it was apparent that none was forthcoming, he gave a sad sigh, flexed his fingers, and began to marshal his sorcery.
A platform of roiling purple light materialised over the gap just in front of the Obliterators, causing them to look down upon it with some disdain. Warily, Vortun placed a giant foot upon it. Mordecai let out a pained breath as he did so, fingers curling into claws under the foot. Two Iron Warriors moved behind him, arms extended to hold the warlock up if needs be. Recognising the need for haste, the Obliterators stepped wholeheartedly on to the glowing pedestal. Contracting his arms, Mordecai beckoned them closer. Reality began to shift and flow ever so slightly wrong around him as he poured more power into the spell. Lorkhan’s Mechatendrils recoiled in what must have been their approximation of alarm.
For the second time that day it appeared the Gods smiled upon the IV Legion. The Obliterators were transported across the gap more or less efficiently, although Vortun still impatiently tapped his power talon on his shin the whole way. As they stepped off on to solid ground, this time eliciting a real coarse cheer from their lesser brethren, the platform upon which they had travelled twisted and then popped out of existence. Mordecai gasped and sagged to his knees as the spell broke, coughing and retching painfully. Lorkhan looked down at his brother with an irritating spike of concern worming its way into his mind-he had seen Mordecai perform greater feats than this. It must be this place; the touch of the warp was strong, yet it was also held back and cut off by something intangible. Part of him had the worrying suspicion that it was friendship, as a physical concept. He couldn’t tell where this feeling came from, but he didn’t like it.
The two Astartes that had been attending Mordecai moved to haul him back to his feet, with exactly zero evidence of any fraternal affection. The sorcerer shrugged them off with one arm, unsteadily rising back to his feet. With another wheezing cough, enhanced biology rushing out to combat any damage done, Mordecai gave Lorkhan a nod. His helmet lenses blazed with an eerie internal light-no doubt the last few witch fires generated by his spell dispelling-and it suddenly struck Lorkhan that his brother was as much a champion of the dark gods as he was. He nodded back.
“Never make me do zat again.” Vortun sulked, striding forward towards the castle. Their ordeal over most of the Iron Warriors followed suite, and Lorkhan had to push his way back to the front of the pack. Before them lay a huge set of wooden doors, rising even above their heads. They must have dwarfed the ponies. A rough semi-circle was formed around them, the Warsmith taking place at its centre. For a moment he considered merely heaving the doors open with his own strength, or even knocking, but the notion was swiftly dismissed. Whatever they had to kill was most likely in there, and the Iron Warriors had never been a subtle breed. As if reading his thoughts, Vortun primed an ancient and corrupted Plasma Cannon, the same he’d used in the throne room. His kin spawned similar weapons, and for their part the rest of the Marines dropped into fighting crouches.
“You realise that anything in there is going to hear this racket we’re making, and will almost certainly try to murder us within seconds?” Zuko hissed, sounding only half-joking. But he didn’t seem opposed to the idea.
“You remember what Father used to say.” Lorkhan answered, flexing his fists. “’Tell them ruin has come to their world. Tell them the Angels of Death have come. Tell them nothing can save them now.’”
With that, the plasma coils on Vortun’s cannon began to glow and thrum with power. He screwed up one eye in a mock-aim, and when he spoke his voice was as close to a whisper as an Obliterator could get.
“Knock knock.”
The doors flew off their hinges as the ball of white-hot plasma seared through them, the energy transfer far too much for them to handle. The steaming and charred remains skidded to a halt upon the flagstones within with an almighty crash, and was soon followed by a pack of roaring Iron Warriors. Screaming their battle cries they charged in heedless of the danger, thankful to finally be getting to grips with a foe.
In that, they were to be disappointed.
The room was devoid of life. Worse than that, there seemed to be a physical absence of it. Not just being uninhabited, the castle could not have been described with any word other than ‘deserted’. A gust of cold wind ran over the Astartes’ armour as their charge lost momentum, and they stopped awkwardly as they took in the scene around them. The roof was completely gone here, leaving them open to the air. Pillars circled the room, many of them overgrown with ivy or other plant life. Varvillon, the Iron Warrior who had identified the strange blue plant earlier, moved cautiously over to them, running the flora through his fingers. There were great, black arched windows, yet where stained glass had clearly once resided now there were only the metal frames left. It was even more of a ruin from the inside than it had been from the out. No, worse than that; it was a dump.
Something hooted overhead, causing Zuko to jump back a pace. Lorkhan ignored the angered growls of the other Iron Warriors, working hard enough to hold back his own fury. It couldn’t be abandoned, it just couldn’t. That was beyond a joke. Mordecai had moved to the side of the room, taking a seat on a window ledge and giving a disappointed sigh. Any sympathy the Warsmith had had for him quickly dissipated.
“So that’s it.” That snarling voice could only belong to one if their number, and Lorkhan found he couldn’t be angry with him; he knew Rorke was just voicing what the rest of the felt. He didn’t turn to look at the Champion.
“Of course. Of course it is.” Rorke went on. “So we come all this way, nearly get ourselves killed on three separate occasions, at the order of a bloody Xenos, and now-after all this-we have precisely shit all to show for it. She’s probably sat up there in her deluxe castle playset laughing down at us right now.”
“I’m sure he’s doing his best.” Varvillon called from across the room, still engrossed with his plants. The scoff came from Zuko this time.
“Oh, that’s all right then. Thanks for clearing that up Var.” The Champion’s voice was laden with sarcasm and anger in equal measure. “We’re hopelessly lost and have been barking up the wrong tree for the past two hours, and the one lead we get turns out to be another useless heap of ruined junk in what is starting to feel like a cunning metaphor for our whole lives-but it’s okay, because he’s doing his best. Right. Okay then. Good on you, sir.”
Lorkhan seriously considered executing Zuko right now, if only to restore some order, but he had never seen himself as being particularly petty-an in all honesty, his brother had a point.
“There will be something. There has to be. Somewhere in this castle.” He said, trying to placate them. He still did not turn to look at them, refusing to get angry. It wasn’t enough for Rorke.
“’Somewhere’? You are joking, right? So it’s ‘somewhere’. Maybe. Possibly. Face it, Lorkhan. We’re lost, and we have nothing to go on. It’s highly likely this ‘Great Evil’ we’ve been sent to destroy doesn’t even exist, and they’re just using this as an excuse to get us out the way whilst they plan a particularly inventive death for us upon our return. Once again we’re doing other people’s bidding, and once again we’re expected not to question orders as we stumble in to a drop. We need to face facts here; your ‘brilliant’ scheme has failed in every respect, except perhaps getti-“
Now he could get angry.
The blow came out of nowhere, fast even by Astartes standards. Rorke did not even have time to finish his sentence as the back of the ceramite gauntlet slammed into his cheek, hurling him to the ground. The Iron Warrior went down hard, grunting as he thudded into the stone. The others reflexively flinched back, bringing their fists up without thinking. Lorkhan’s Mechatendrils snapped into a similarly defensive position, though the arm that had delivered the backhand slap was still extended. The Warsmith glared down at the prone Astartes, practically spitting his words.
”Shut up.”
A few moments later, Rorke pulled himself back to his feet, muttering and rubbing his shattered cheek. He grinned unrepentantly at Lorkhan, teeth covered in rich coppery blood; the Primarch’s blood. Lorkhan still did not take his eyes off him, but said not a single word. Mordecai and Zuko just watched, seeming equally as tired of such infighting. Finally, the tension defused, and Lorkhan lowered his arm as Rorke stepped back into the ranks of his fellows.
Maintaining his silence, Lorkhan turned back towards the castle’s chamber, his eyes suddenly registering the altar that stood before him. He wondered how he had not seen it earlier, such was its size and dominating presence. It was a squat thing, imposing in its stature, and Lorkhan found himself doubting how the ponies could have sculpted such a thing with only their mouths to manipulate tools. The altar took the form of a smaller pillar rising from the floor, the top curiously devoid of any sort of crowning sculpture or dome as he would expect. Five more pedestals extended outwards from the pillar, each one also vacant. The Warsmith looked it up and down, trying to deduce the significance of it.
Whilst intriguing, it didn’t look to have any answers relevant to why they were here. Great. The Warsmith pushed past it, temper building once more. The rest of the ruined castle seemed to be standard fair; stairs leading up, gargoyles carved into the pillars, not unlike the castles supposed to have existed upon ancient Terra. Yet with every echoing step, the silence began to play more and more on Lorkhan’s mind. Besides the Iron Warriors, only the wind moved. It was too quiet, too disconcerting. Something had happened here-of that, he was convinced.
His eyes were drawn back to the plinth as he slowly wandered towards the very end of the opening chamber. Now it was there, it was all he could see. His brothers had begun to examine it too, some giving experimental prods with the tips of their fingers. Lorkhan found himself growing more and more agitated with every passing moment, the silence and stillness unnatural and disturbing. Cursing himself for such weakness, he breathed deeply and leant back on the wall at the hallway’s end.
The bricks shifted and tumbled, spinning end over end as they fell. The Warsmith would have fallen himself, had his armour’s snake like tendrils not shot out to clamp him firmly to the wall. The bricks fell further and further, bouncing off the wall as they fell into the dark. Lorkhan cursed under his breath, before turning to examine the hole.
The rest of his brothers, the noise catching their attention, had come to join him. They too peered over his shoulder into the inky depths, Rorke giving a grudging whistle of awe. After two minute shad passed since Lorkhan had made the opening, a thud resounded from the pit, signalling the bricks had hit the bottom.
Not even the advanced optics of his helmet could penetrate the dark, only revealing more and more shadow. As he looked, a thought struck Lorkhan. Ensuring he was secured firmly to the wall, he leaned out over the gap, breath catching in his throat involuntarily as he did so. Turning to look up, the Warsmith found the moon staring back down at him. The roofless castle had had its very body punched through by…the Iron Warrior had no idea. Surely a meteor of some kind, what else could cause that much damage?
Then, something curious happened. A horned helmet poked out over the lip of the hole above Lorkhan, its plate the colour of iron. The Iron Warrior tilted his head to the side in what seemed to be an amused gesture, before slamming a clenched fist over his primar heart in salute and beckoning some of his brothers over. Under his helmet Lorkhan scowled, opening a vox link to the Marine.
“What in the hells are you doing up there Kayn?” he growled, still staring up at the three Astartes. Kayn shrugged, whilst beside him one of his brothers waved.
“Zuko got bored of waiting around and decided to take a look upstairs.”
With a pained sigh, Lorkhan retracted himself from over the gap to the stares of his brothers. He was about to open another channel to Zuko when his helmet vox crackled into life. The Champion had beat him to it, but the voice that reverberated down from the other end sounded…out of character, to say the least.
“Sir…you need to get up here. As in, right now.”
It would have been wrong to say that Zuko sounded scared. No Astartes ever did. But there was definitely an audible tremor of disquiet in his voice, the sound of a mind racing to keep up with what it was seeing. It was enough to tip Lorkhan over into paranoia.
“Brother…are you alright?”
“I mean it Lorkhan. You…you need to see this.”
The trademark snarkiness was gone completely. Coupled with the none-mocking use of his real name, Lorkhan had all the encouragement he needed. He pushed past his brothers, unconsciously breaking into a small run as he bounded up the staircase towards the top of the castle. He heard his men behind him, trying to keep up yet not able to pass on the single file stairwell.
In short order he reached the top of the stairs, coming into another large chamber. It was much like the one below in terms of ornamentation, however there was no statue in the middle of the room. Instead, at the end of the room lay a small raised platform that must once have been a dais of some kind. However, any throne that once stood there was long gone, as whatever had struck the castle had born down directly upon this platform. The crater had gouged straight through the dark skies and plummeted down, down into the castle’s deeper darkness, its secrets held in the depths.
None of that was of interest to Lorkhan. He focused on the group of four Iron Warriors huddled together in a corner, standing as still as statues. They huddled around something, staring down gormlessly, faces unreadable behind their iron masks. The fact that there hadn’t reacted to their brother’s arrival at all said enough.
“What?” Lorkhan asked, any snideness or fraternal joviality dropped from his voice. The Iron Warriors still did not turn to look at him. Agitated, the Warsmith began to walk towards them. “What?” He repeated.
As he approached, the four turned to look at him, still in silence. He saw that one of them held what looked like a sheet of metal, the unpainted side facing towards him. No…not metal. The closer Lorkhan looked, the more it started to remind him of ceramite.
But it couldn’t be. That was impossible.
Zuko came to stand besides Lorkhan. He seemed to be shaking ever so slightly, but the Warsmith had had about as much suspense as he could take for one night.
“Would someone tell me what the FUCK is going on?” he roared, sending some of the Marines stood behind him that had followed him up jumping back. Zuko did not respond or even move for a moment. Then, with agonising and deliberate slowness, he pointed at the sheet of ceramite as his brother flipped it over to reveal what was on the other side.
What was left of Lorkhan’s blood ran cold. He reached for a weapon that didn’t exist. For once, he heard Mordecai swear, short and soft and shocked. It was a sentiment he echoed entirely.
“No.”
The Dragon glared back at him, seeming to grin all the while.
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Fire. It remembered fire.
Sensors flashed into life as it dragged itself into wakefulness. A leg creaked and whined, protesting under the stress. He ignored it, willed it forward. It did not hurt. Only the fire burned.
It wasn’t real fire. The last time it had felt real fire was…was a long time ago. But the memory of the fire, and why it had burned him so; that never faded.
10%...20%...30%...more. The world burned back into focus, all the lights and sounds that came with it burning bright to. Except they didn’t. There was no light. There was no sound. Nothing but the dark.
How had it got itself into such dark? Had it come here itself? Probably. It remembered falling, tumbling down and down into the dark. Something hissed and steamed. It ignored it, pushing against its confinement, searching for a way out of a prison that didn’t exist.
Noise.
The sound of something striking the ground. Small, far off, but its hearing could always pick it up. Even when it had breathed it would have heard. It could not escape now.
The tomb closed in even more. It ignored that sensation, ignored the claustrophobia, as it focused on the noise. Could it be…brothers?
After all this time? Had they come back? An arm swung, the hand that was not a hand scraping on the rocks. No hands. No art to forge, metal to bend.
It reached out with its eye that was no an eye, its invisible third eye as it took a ponderous step forward. The footfall echoed, ringing off the stone walls. The sensor travelled far, giving nothing, receiving nothing. Only silence and dark.
It stepped again and again and again. Silence and dark, silence and dark, silence and dark.
On the fifth step forward, the sensor came back with something else.
It looked, turning over the reading, hoping and praying for some respite. The feeling was not this. It was not relief, not disappointment. It burned. Burned like the fire. Had burned for years and years and years now. It took more steps, quicker steps, the need to burn eclipsing all others.
Not brothers. The signatures from their armour was wrong. Their vox network was wrong. Still not keyed, still the same. Even after all this time they had never changed.
Not brothers.
Cousins.
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“Okay.”
Lorkhan rose back to his feet, quelling the panic that had briefly flared up within him. “Okay.”
Rorke, Mordecai, Vortun and Zuko were still plainly put out. The discovery had affected them all. It was still affecting Lorkhan, but he did his best to hide it. “So…so it’s them?”
It took a second for any of them to be able to respond. Then, finally, Mordecai piped up. “It…it certainly looks that way, lord. The XVIII.”
The XVIII Legion. The Salamanders. Even back in the Crusade, when Perturabo’s sons had fought for the same cause as the Nocturneans, they had always had a strained relationship. The IV was too callous, too focused on arithmetic and uncaring of who got in their way of their brutal martial calculations for the weak-bellied sons of Vulkan. Likewise, the Salamanders’ need to nurture and coddle mortals had tested the Lord of Iron’s patience considerably. At Istvaan this enmity had boiled over, released into a killing rage on the battlefield. The mutual dislike was neither the age old rivalry with the Imperial Fists, nor Lorkhan’s personal hate for the Dark Angels. But it still burned hot, and Lorkhan had killed many Fireborn that day. They’d killed many Iron Warriors too.
“How…I mean…how is this possible?” He spluttered, trying to maintain a cool head. Now he looked, there were more sundered strips of green armour scattered around the room. They looked to have been taken from the side of a drop pod, broken as it slammed into the floor.
“I honestly have no idea, Lord.”Mordecai replied, his composure returning slowly too. “By all rights they should not be here. WE should not be here.”
“But they are. I mean…this looks like a drop pod. Surely the bastard Xenos would have seen this and already investigated? And more to the point, where’s the rest of the Pod?”
“I...” The sorcerer crouched again, examining the drop pod plating. “To answer your second question, perhaps it broke up as it fell. Even at those speeds a fall would not necessarily kill the Salamanders. Furthermore, this damage seems fairly new. Under a year old, at least. The Ponies they still do not know what we are; perhaps they merely mistook it for a meteor?”
That made an annoying amount of sense, and Lorkhan chose to disregard the details until they had more evidence So, the Salamanders were here. It was almost poetic.
“And you think they’re the ‘great evil’ we’re meant to destroy?” Lorkhan asked, turning towards the hole in the floor. Mordecai took his time before answering.
“Well…it is clear they have not left this keep, and I can’t see the XVIII having the stomach to do anything outwardly aggressive. But I struggle to see what else it could be.”
“Right then.” Lorkhan answered. Apprehension had given way to excitement. He may have had no weapons, but there were Salamanders to kill. That was the one thing in this whole fucked-up adventure that had made sense so far. “What’s that thing they say?”
“Sir?” Mordecai sounded bemused.
“Never mind, I remember.” He was already running. “’Into the Fires of Battle. Unto the Anvil of War.’”
Before his brothers could stop him, Lorkhan had crossed the distance, and leapt down into the dark.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He landed in a kneeling crouch, leg folded beneath him and head angled pointing towards the ground. The drop was not as large as he’d anticipated. Good. The murky blackness was all around him, swallowing and engulfing the Warsmith. He rose back to his full height, flicking on a torch-light built into helmet as he did so. The shadows were pealed back by the beam’s harsh glare, illuminating the rocky passageway that Lorkhan realised must stretch far beneath the castle.
He had landed with a heavy thud; not rock, but the sound of metal striking ceramite. Looking around more thoroughly, Lorkhan could see that where he stood was actually the inside of a drop pod. The top had been blown off and the doors seemingly melted clean away, what was left cast in a sorry heap at the Warsmith’s side. The rear doors hadn’t opened, probably still pressed up against the walls of rock. Well, at least some of his questions were answered; the pod had crashed through the castle’s floor with a clean impact, finally coming to rest as its energy had dissipated. Now that he thought about it, though, he couldn’t see any of the restraint harnesses that were typical of Imperial drop pods. Curious.
He was no great student of geology, but two things struck him instantly. Firstly, the cave passageway was artificially made. Something had hollowed it out; likely the Salamanders themselves, judging by the solidified lumps of what would have been molten slag found at the base of the walls. Melta-weaponry, probably. Typical. The second thing he noticed was the sheer size; it was colossal, even to him. The cave was easily twice Lorkhan’s height, and numerous times as wide. Lorkhan still agreed that, based on the evidence, the Throne-loyal Astartes could not have been here for too long-probably a year, at most-but the passageway they’d carved out here must have been a mammoth undertaking. The Warsmith couldn’t help but wonder how they’d done it, even if they did have access to meltaguns.
Mordecai’s words about Vull Bron floated back to him. He’d scoffed at the time, dismissing it as irrelevant. Now it seemed almost precognisant.
The Warsmith’s reverie was broken by the arrival of his brothers. Zuko and Mordecai had dropped down into the hole as he had, landing in a crouch as well. Rorke, Barbus and the rest of the power armoured Marines were not long after, the sounds of their impact booming and echoing down the cavern. They hurriedly cleared a landing zone as the Obliterators brought up the rear, each one of their descents reverberating like a miniature explosion as it hit. The Iron Warriors turned to look at the sorry remnants of the green drop pod, many with a derisive snort on their lips.
“Well, if they have chosen to hide in this hole, at least they know we’re here.” Zuko remarked, some of the deadpan humour returning to his voice. Lorkhan mumbled something that might have been an agreement, before setting off along the passageway at a brisk pace.
“Whilst your enthusiasm is heartening, my lord, I feel we should perhaps proceed with a tad more surreptitiousness.” Mordecai voxed, jogging to keep up with the Warsmith. Lorkhan ignored him as he walked on, the promise of killing Salamanders almost overwhelming. It was catharsis, a release from the helplessness the Iron Warriors had been subjected to ever since they’d arrived on this planet.
Every Marine was on alert, even without their weapons. The Obliterators had spawned fearsome Heavy Flamers into their arm mounts; ostensibly to deny the enemy the benefit of any cover in these cramped confines, but perhaps more so for the delicious irony of killing sons of Vulkan with fire. As they walked they remained prepared for any ambush that might come out of the dark confines of the cave; any Salamanders pressed up against the rock ready to strike.
But none did. After around fifteen minutes of walking, following the cave system round and round, the Iron Warriors emerged into a large, more open cavern, with several other passageways leading off it. This one seemed more natural than where they had just come from; water dripped ominously down from stalactites, and from what they could tell the walls were composed of a wide array of different rocks. Still there was silence. Lorkhan strode to the front of the group, hatred blazing inside of him. In the centre of the wide room, he threw his arms out to the side in challenge, tuning his helm’s vox-projector so his voice was amplified to a ferocious roar.
“SALAMANDERS.” It echoed down every cave, the voice repeating over and over again. “GUESS WHO?” There was still no reply. Lorkhan began to pace in circles, chuckling as he shouted. “COME NOW, MY DEAR BROTHERS, DID YOU MISS US? WE MISSED YOU.” He stopped, laughing properly now. “Well…missed killing you.” There was still no response. Lorkhan tilted his head to one side, quashing an irritated growl. “How is Vulkan, anyway?”
This time, something answered.
The sound of a heavy footfall rang around him, coming from one the caverns leading off into the dark. The Iron Warriors flinched nervously, looking around in vain for the source. The smile that had worked its way across Lorkhan’s face dropped as his mind ran the maths. That was too loud to be any normal Marine. That was too loud to even be a Terminator. Only one thing made the world shake when it walked, and could still fit down here.
Another step, then another, then another. A tinny and static-leaden howl hit Lorkhan, full of betrayal and anger. Slowly, the thing pulled itself out of the dark, emerging into the artificial light the Iron Warriors had cast into the large chamber. As one the Iron Warriors took a hurried step back, trying desperately to push the Obliterators to the front. Only Lorkhan was unmoved, and so only he saw the thing in its entirety.
Green armour plating covered its armoured form head to toe, wrapping around the sarcophagus and chipped with wear and age. Two mighty piston driven legs carried it forward into the light. Either one of them could have crushed an unarmoured man to paste without breaking stride; even with his armour, Lorkhan didn’t rate his chances highly. One arm was shaped as a human hand, but far bigger, the pilot light of a mounted flamer just visible underneath the crushing talons of the power fist. On the other arm hung a worn Multi-melta, the metal barrels scorched an unhealthy brown from use. The fuel canister stuck out awkwardly, one seemingly almost knocked completely out of place. Even under the scratched paint, masterfully wrought designs of anvils and coiling dragons could be made out, the sculpted flames forming a fiery crown around the helmet built onto the Sarcophagus. Two red eyes stared out, regarding the Warsmith with barely-contained loathing.
It was a Salamanders Contemptor Dreadnought, an immortal champion of the XVIII Legion come to slay the Iron Warriors for their sins. Worse, judging by the name elegantly scrawled across the parchment that lined the front of the sarcophagus, it was a Salamander that Lorkhan knew.
“Hello, Nu’val.” Lorkhan said wearily, as the great beast roared once again.
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What i don't get is how fully power armored Space marines could cross a bridge that just so supported a group of six ponies, even if they all went one by one. A Space Marine in full armor is about 2.50 meters tall and weights about 900 kg if not more.
I also think that their reaction to discovering that salamanders are there is to dramatic for a Chaos Marine.
Dreadnoughts!!!!!
Rather humbling that you have been taking cues from my work. Your writing has been quite good as well, particularly in the personality you give the Chaos Marines.
Though honestly, feeling extra critical about your own work is always a good thing. Writing may take longer, but the end result will be better for it.
Insert multi melta on left arm here..
24.media.tumblr.com/2da3d88d67c6453a5f1bafc46958ae42/tumblr_mlj0dkim3w1rue4a1o1_1280.jpg
2596024
It probably is too dramatic, but I have a particular weakness for cold openings. The bridge I think is debatable; whilst the main 6 did need RD to secure it, from what I observed it seemed to support their weight fine. In any case it was the only situation I could see bar making an Astartes ladder, and them falling to their deaths because of a rotting piece of wood would have been less conducive to story telling (although, admittedly, funnier)
You're right to nitpick though, and I do appreciate it.
2596186
My love for the Iron Hands has nothing to do with it I swear.
2600990
It really is damn good, and doubly amusing considering a regular opponent plays 2nd Company smurfs. Combined with the exam stuff I'm doing at the moment it's taking a long time, but in the end hopefully it's worth it. Mucios gracias for the praise though.
2609188
Part of me regrets making Nu'Val a Contemptor now. I like this. I like it a LOT.
2610208
1: Take 1 outstandingly badass Space Marine
2: Shoot him in the kneecaps, puncture a couple of his lungs, break some bones, and make sure he is good and properly fucked up.
3: Leave the dying body on the doorstep of some Adeptus Mechanicus guy
4: ???
5: DREADNOUGHT!!!
2610208
The guy is a Contemptor? WoW he must be fucking ancient. And Multi-Meltas are tons of fun in enclosed rooms and he should be able to use it to his fullest, he is a Slamander after all. And after more then 10k years in service he will be a force to be reckoned with even when the Iron dudes have the Obliterators with them.
Why not have the obliterators mow, warsmith mechatendril-saw, and sorcerer magic down the gargantuan trees that make up the forest, and push/carry/magic/throw them across the ravine and use the many vines to tie them together as the obliterators used their tentacle-arms, warsmith his mechadendrites, and sorcerer his magic to further hold them together?