II.
Through great screens the Warsmith could see where the trail had led him. He recognized his location, knew the auspex readings, the different heat signatures and the planetoid they surrounded. The place had once had a different name, had been part of a well oiled machine.
Now it was only known as the Citadel of the Dominum, still part of a machine, if in a more literal sense.
The shape of a void-platform had long since bloated and grown, its superstructure warped and twisted, partly built and partly grown in accordance to the whims of both daemons and the malign intelligence it held within. As the Eternal Usurper stalked closer toward the congregation of vessels around the Citadel, it was greeted by nervous scans, smaller vessels actively began evasive maneuvers as the blackened Murder-class appeared on their auspex. Greater vessels trained their weapons on the Brethren’s ship. Holreck had seen all this too many times to care for the open hostility of the other vessels, the same was not true for many of the bridge crew however. He could see them whispering amongst themselves, muffled signs of fear and weariness.
“Hail the Citadel. The Molten Brethren come to strike a bargain.”
The vox-officer, a well drilled long-time slave in a defaced uniform of Battlefleet Gothic, went to work immediately.
“Auspex, scan for our target.”
The hulking tyrant then turned toward fire-command. The highly augmented face of the chief-ordnance officer betrayed neither worry nor fear.
“If any vessel that fits the specifications of our quarry attempts to leave, make sure it doesn’t make it. Minimal force, for once. I want them alive.” The officer saluted awkwardly, before getting to work with his underlings.
“Lord, the Citadel sends word. The Dominum itself demands your presence.” the vox-officer reported back.
As expected. The Molten Brethren were known here, the Dominum knew they only came with lucrative offers its underlings couldn’t be trusted with.
“My Lord,” an auspex-operator called out, “she’s here. Aphrael’s Shade, Nova-class, Ist Legion markings.” Though Holreck had little stomach for being so directly addressed by this filth the message was an important one. He would leave it up to the man’s overseer whether he deserved a lashing or not. Fire-command, meanwhile, went to work again. They had their orders and a target.
Discipline, obedience and the right amount of initiative, these were the things that had afforded fire-command the Warsmith’s trust and recognition. They knew their place and role and they fulfilled it well. Most pleasing.
The Warsmith turned to leave the busy bridge behind. If the Dominum demanded his presence it wouldn’t tolerate being kept waiting.
As he swiftly strode down the spinal corridor of the vessel Rothus and his men fell in to his flanks. He’d meet the Dominum alone. This was of no concern to Derrus or the sorcerous vermin.
***
Varx had returned to the material realm of mundane sensibilities. He sat at the centre of his chamber, with closed eyes, shards of glass swirling about him slowly, drawing intricate patterns of reflected light all around. The sorcerer could smell the recycled air, the slight reek of ozone, of machine-oil and metal. He’d always preferred to meditate without incense or other wafting nonsense. The Librarius had encouraged such things, but they were signs of weakness to Varx. If one needed the sweet smell of some burning herb to find inner peace, one probably didn’t have enough discipline. Sentimentalities and useless spiritual hogwash.
He had been sitting here ever since he’d awoken, going through the motions of his dream once again, searching for significance where, he was sure, there was some.
Most importantly, there was the woman. The girl. The crone.
His first instinct had been to again scrutinize the mysterious painting he’d claimed in their raid on some backwater which’s name he’d already forgotten. Was his subconscious playing tricks on him, inserting the known into the unknowable, just to come to a conclusion?
He was fairly certain that was the case. The woman in his dream, vague though she might have been, had never taken the features or proportions of the painting, not moved like he imagined this woman would move, how she would…
He realized in that very moment where his thoughts had taken him. The woman in the painting was not real, most likely ash by now. A frozen depiction, a perfectly played out act for the duration of its creation. No truth was in it but the possibility of deception.
Whoever the woman in his dreams was, he would get to the truth of it.
The meaning wouldn’t evade him.
***
The Thunderhawk touched down in an isolated hangar bay aboard the Citadel. Rothus stood next to him, his plate almost coal-black, only a plume on his helmet betraying his status.
Holreck took in the surroundings. Darkened metal wherever his eyes wandered, hidden between random metal struts where several turrets and the skeletal frames of combat-constructs. Not a single living soul to be seen.
Counting Rothus, he was accompanied by four of his Brethren. More wouldn’t be needed if things went smoothly, more wouldn’t help if things went poorly.
Their adversary would not be one so easily impressed by transhuman strength and unbreakable will.
A spindly drone approached the envoys, it took a skeletal form, but propelled by way of a ramshackle set of tracks grafted onto where its calves should have been. Shoddy workmanship by Holreck’s reckoning. Typical for the Dominum.
-Please follow me- the drone blurted from a battered vox-grille.
The drone led them through a dark corridor, clearly once part of the inner, industrial core of the facility, but modified, sometimes even grown. Thick cables seemed to pulse with light occasionally, or even convulse when pumping their payload toward their destination. The steel of the walls seemed to have been broken several times and welded together badly in some places or straight up molten into one another again. Acute senses could take in the low whisper of impurity in the metal, the muffled moans of corruption in the machinery, the mockery of life in the cables.
Each time Holreck returned here he found the place a bit more warped, tainted by the influence of Derrus’ abominable pantheon. He was glad the priest wasn’t here. The Dominum itself may end up being enough of a test of patience. A grunt over the vox indicated his bodyguard’s agreement.
They entered the circular chamber only few living beings ever had entered. The private chamber of the Dominum.
The room was 50 meters across, in its middle there was a monstrous pillar of machinery, vials and containers filled with amniotic fluid. The Dominum itself.
“Holreck Kethral. IVth Legion. Commander in chief “Molten Brethren” combat group.” a whirring voice sounded from all around. His bodyguards were uneasy, he knew. They always were. Rothus had long since made it clear that he would personally flay any man that let himself be surprised by sudden betrayal.
“Your arrival has broken the laws set-out by us.” the voice chided. The Dominum loved its laws and regulations, for only within these could it truly operate. “We recognize your behavioural pattern and demand compliance.” it prattled on. This conversation was one the two had often had, and Holreck grew tired of the routine.
Routine was all the Dominum knew now. Once it had been a tech-adept of the Mechanicum, seeking communion with the holy machine. Its desires had driven it to become far more than a man, but also far less. Its rigid thought-patterns became more and more cold and unadaptive. Flesh had its strengths after all.
“I have no time for your ‘quarantines’ or your degenerate servants to ransack my ship, Adept. As you should know I only come here when I wish to bargain, and I’d rather stop wasting precious time.” he responded, annoyance barely hidden under cold tradesmanship.
The Dominum remained silent for a while. Occasionally one of the speakers would let out clicking noises, or thumping, like the rattling of a chain over an ancient wardrum. Holreck nearly suspected its pride would force it to shut down their little trade.
“State your proposal.” the Dominum finally commanded. Its machine logic prevailed in this instance.
“I offer you raw minerals for refinement. A list of the compounds I am offering should have been transmitted by now.” Holreck spoke to the machine-being. He knew the entity already knew fairly well his terms and price. Only protocol forced it to allow him the courtesy of speaking.
The Dominum stayed silent for a while, energy thrumming through the machine core the only noise that broke the silence of the room.
“Conditions acceptable.” it finally blurted, its voice echoing through the corridors like the warhorn of a titan. “Captain Aphrael Strunn. Ist Legion. Is informed of your desire.” Then, in an almost human tone, “The requested goods are being requisitioned as we speak.”
Movement in one of the vitae-pods that dotted the cable-monster drew the Warsmith’s attention. Within floated a torso and head. The eyes of the head were fluttering open. Static drowned out the room for a while, as the torso turned to regard its visitors, in an almost dream-like state.
“As...tartes.” the Dominum whispered in its pod before its eyes closed once again.
Suddenly, the machine reasserted itself, its usual booming voice once again blasting an answer from the vox-systems.
“Captain Aphrael Strun. Ist Legion. Agrees to your terms. Kolreck Kethral. IVth Legion. Commander in chief “Molten Brethren” combat group. Meeting in bay C-108-3.”
As the Astartes turned to leave the Dominum, it whispered once again through the static:
“Pleasure doing business with you. A...pleasure…”
***
Varx took in his surroundings. A simple hut, built from limestone and wood. The central fireplace gifted its warmth unto the surrounding floor, seeping into his dream-flesh. He sat on a simple rug, by the flame. He recognized the place. He’d once been here, and it had meant much to him, but through the haze of centuries he knew not when or why.
His attention wandered, as he watched the black smoke slowly drift toward the rooftop, blackening the wooden struts that held it ever further.
The scent of herbs was in the air, and the smell of wet grass, and the woodland note that he remembered so fondly when he allowed himself the luxury of ordinary sleep.
After a while he rose from the rug, feeling the numbness of illusion.
He slowly made his way toward the door, past the table, past the cooking pot, that had been vigorously cleansed but remained stained from years of use.
Just when he reached out to open the door, something caught his eye, at his feet. A small wooden figure laid there. Despite himself, he felt compelled to touch it. He reached down, taking the thing into his giant-hand. A simple, crude piece. Some manner of local wildlife, no doubt, a Willow-stag, an imitation of the beasts he’d so often seen in the woods.
With another glance at his surroundings he realized from where he knew the place. It had been his home once, so long ago.
***
Bay C-108-3 was as cold and dark as the rest of the citadel had been, but it provided a valuable neutral ground for the needed meeting. Holreck had given out instructions to Rothus’s men already. Aphrael wouldn’t bring more than five men either. It’d nearly be his entire warband. But this wasn’t about weaponry, or military might, at least not directly. Aphrael was interesting for entirely different reasons, namely his uncanny ability to gather information, to know what others did not, and to remain irritatingly unaffiliated with the affairs of the Legions.
There came a dropship, some strange pattern even one so technically versed as Holreck did not recognize. Some civilian, local variant, perhaps, at least it appeared so outwardly.
With a loud hiss pistons pushed crude claws out of its side as it descended toward the ground. An unnerving screech of metal on metal signalled that the ship had found ground to hold onto. Its engines wound down and a small ramp appeared from beneath the boxy cockpit.
A short while later a figure slowly strode down, to meet the little delegation of Molten Brethren.
Aphrael himself. Alone. Still clad in the motley assembly of armour Holreck remembered him wearing last time they’d met, by his reckoning 89 years ago. It was all black, only the sigil of the Ist Legion shone a velvety red from Aphrael’s Mark IV pauldron.
A smile played across his lips as he pulled off a battered helmet of nondescript make.
“I congratulate you, Kethral, in the name of my Order! I hear you’ve been doing quite well for yourself, something about a mining-world?” Aphrael greeted, without much concern and without any fear. He knew he was more useful alive than dead.
“That is true. I won’t question how you already know.” the Warsmith replied, further mustering the leader of the fallen angels.
He seemed unchanged, but the faint pulsing in the thrum of his armour was quite telling that things were already quite different under the shell.
So not even he’d remained uncorrupted. It seemed the grip of the immaterium was inescapable.
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“I seek components. Dreadnought components. Pure components. The tainted work of the daemonforges won’t do.” the Warsmith elaborated his desire, searching his opponent for any reaction. Aphrael Strun was a businessman. He’d never give away anything for free.
The Dark Angel raised an eyebrow and licked his lips. There was a hint of several long incisors.
“You know full well that this kind of information has its price, yes?” the Angel questioned. “Especially due to your affiliation with the Despoiler’s pet-project?”
Holreck couldn’t forbid himself a scowl. Aphrael always had steep prices, especially for powers who he knew were ascendant. He never missed a chance to make a profit with his uncanny abilities, and was considered a fickle informant.
The risk was necessary if Holreck were to have any chance of doing what he intended, however.
“I know your prices full well, Strun. Abaddon has no hand in this, neither does he in our affairs. This is personal.” Aphrael still did not move a muscle, though the pulsing heartbeat of his armour grew more intense.
Abaddon the Despoiler and the Black Legion. A loathsome topic. Though Kethral had sworn unto the new Warmaster, in truth he didn’t care much for the man himself, at least not that he’d openly admit. Still, open defiance like this could be used as a political tool by his rivals.
“Some would interpret that kind of talk as treachery, Warsmith.” the Angel spoke slowly, letting the words drip from his tongue. He seemed disgustingly pleased. Kethral hated all this talking, but it was necessary.
“Some might consider calling six Astartes an Order to be brazen.” he remarked dryly. Aphrael seemed torn between being insulted and being amused, resting a hand on the pommel of a power sword at his hip.
Holreck heard Rothus take a step forward, fearing imminent conflict, but the Warsmith raised a hand to stop his bodyguard. Aphrael wouldn’t dare draw a weapon on him.
“Say, if your ties to the Warmaster are so loose, who do you serve then?” the fallen angel asked, with a mocking hint of interest in his voice.
“Your own brothers in the Legion despise you for what you are, Kethral. There is talk that your father is striking out from Medrengard once again, gathering his sons.” It filled Holreck with a sense of disgust to see the sick joy Aphrael drew from this. The Fallen knew to manipulate men like machines, and it was infuriating that Holreck needed him.
“Maybe he’d even grant you a quick death for heeding his call?”
The Warsmith had no time for this. He fought down the welling anger, bit down his own response. As if Aphrael didn’t know about betraying a father.
“We serve our own needs, Strun. Now, will you give me what I came here for or are you going to keep prattling like the daemons you consort with?”
Much to his disgust the Fallen grinned, once again showing jagged, unnatural teeth.
When Aphrael spoke again he did so with a conspiratory glint in his eyes.
“There is a place where you could find what you seek. At the fringes of the Maledictum, a vessel from one of the loyal Chapters. The Order offers its help in locating it, if you’re willing to do something for me…”
***
Brylla ran free. His heels dug into the soft snow, his hot blood spread warmth through his body, as he darted across the planet’s surface like a lightning bolt.
A welcome, grumbling voice. Gunnar.
he barked into the vox, unable to contain his glee. The world they scoured was called Minstrul. A local rebellion against the governor of Minstrul had gathered a bit too much support, and the wolves of Fenris had been unleashed.
Brylla didn’t truly care for it all. He was hunting once again, that was all that mattered.
His advice was, more often than not, more of an annoyance to Brylla than truly helpful, however.
Skulli too had mocked his mortal foes. Brylla could still see the flash of light as a krak-missile had hit the other wolf, tearing the Blood Claw’s torso to pieces. There hadn’t even been any geneseed left to recover.
The Grey Hunter had pulled ahead, leaving his younger pack-brother behind.
Brylla snorted in derision, getting back into his marching-rhythm.
Skulli had been only one, and a dumb one at that. Brylla was certain there wouldn’t be any missiles left with these few, scattered rebels they now hunted.
***
The forest was temperate, the wind gentle. Varx had often wandered through this place in his childhood. He of course knew full well that he most likely didn’t remember any of it, that these were merely fabrications of his subconscious, mere fantasy based on scraps of fact.
Still, he couldn’t deny the place had a certain atmosphere. Calm. Peaceful. Not entirely off-putting.
He wandered onwards, down a thin, winding path, curiously wide enough to allow him passage through the trees. There was a sweet scent in the air, one he recognized, in a primitive part of his mind, as floral. The path ahead turned abruptly, the thicket making it impossible to tell what lay behind the bend.
Everything in Varx told him not to go forward, centuries of martial training warned him of going forward along the path, but there was something in the scent that calmed these impulses, something that lured him and lulled him in. Slowly, very slowly he turned the corner, to be faced with a small clearing, filled with flowers. At its center stood eight standing stones, withered rock shining golden with the light of a setting sun through the trees.
Varx cautiously entered the glade. His bare feet barely disturbed the many flowers that bloomed there, still small clouds of pollen were roused from their petals. More of the sweet scent was released, invading Varx’s nostrils.
He continued toward the great stones, entered the circle. Here the scent was even heavier in the air, its qualities were intoxicating, as was the warmth of the sinking sun on his skin. He felt the compulsion to sit down, or to lie in the glade forever, simply existing, soaking in the sheer power of the place.
“No…” he whispered to himself, calling his fraying mind back to order. For a moment the numbness of the dream sunk back into him, only now did he realize how real it all had felt, now that the liveliness of his unreal flesh faded once again.
When he turned to leave this place, he felt a lithe hand on his shoulder.
“Is something bothering you, brother?” spoke the woman.
***
This was one of the rebel’s last outposts, Brylla assumed. He saw the bunker atop the hill, set darkly against the slowly fading sun.
They swiftly closed the distance to the bunker, a primitive structure made from concrete, accessible through a single steel door, protected by a single small slit, one could maybe have fired through.
Alas, no shots rang out, deathly silence permeated the hilltop.
With a small flex of his arm Brylla tossed the krak-grenade toward the door, averting his eyes for a tenth of a second, to avoid the white, glaring flash.
Then he was through the breach, and in the relative darkness. To his left lay the torn remains of a man in white uniform. A broken, primitive gun lay at his feet. To his right there was a simple steel door. Ahead was a corridor, leading deeper into the hill.
With a single, hefty kick Brylla had opened the door to his right. He scanned the room in the span of a heartbeat. Finding nothing he stepped inside.
Crates with simple ammunition, a few empty bunk beds. Boots and uniforms. A few papers dotted the walls here and there. Some depicted men or women in all manner of poses. Most of the posters held text in the local language. The Fenris-born marine understood none of it, snorting in derision. He’d expected more resistance.
He quickly stepped out once again, heading for the inside of the hideout. Swiftly he strode down the concrete pathway, his pounding steps resonating down the hallway. They’d know he had come for them.
Finally, a shout. A snarled command. Then he saw them, up ahead, a dozen or so men in their ragged uniforms. Some of them wore rusty, dented helmets. They froze when they saw him.
Only when he was a single step away from them did a shot ring out, by then his chainsword had already torn through three of them in one slice. Brylla’s left hand formed a flat, as he thrust it toward the next man’s jugular, tearing into the soft tissue and sending the mortal reeling, while the chainblade roared once more, eagerly biting more flesh and bone, the slaughter accompanied by shrill cries.
The men scattered. Brylla let them. They wouldn’t get far. On the ground the man he’d gotten in the throat was rasping away his last breaths. The wolf recognized the expression on his face. Desperation. Fear. Brylla brought his boot down with a satisfying crunch.
He saw yellow, harsh light up ahead. It fell through a passageway that led to another room. He heard the whimper of many voices. He could smell stress, fear and feces.
He slowly entered a large room. It was filled with men, women and children. Some were covered only in the ragged remains of their uniforms. All were staring at him. Only one could hold his gaze. A young one, with fierce, blue eyes. His clothes were entirely too big for him. The knife he held in his hand was calm. The boy shouted at him in his strange tongue, as if he had anything to say on the matter. Finally, the teen charged at the marine.
A challenge. From him?
With a single move Brylla concluded the duel. He brought his left fist up, leaning into the punch. There was a gnarly crunch as his fingers connected to the boy’s face. Blood spurted in a few places as fractured bone pierced misplaced skin. Without another sound, the boy fell to his knees, dropping dead shortly after.
Just as Brylla wanted to turn his attention toward the rest of the rebels, a dark voice stopped him.
***
The woman had called him brother. There hadn’t been the same honour-bound comradery of his old chapter-brethren, nor the sacral conspiratory tones of some underground cult.
Varx had been stirred from his meditative slumber by the harsh realisation that he’d forgotten something. Though he could claim to know much, he’d given up many of the memories he’d deemed irrelevant. Part of these memories had been friends and family.
Was this information relevant now? Did it truly matter if he’d had any siblings, once, before both the warp and the effect of his gene-seed had made him who he was now?
Varx banished the idea from his mind. It was time he put a stop to this senseless search, that had been robbing him of so much of his focus!
He rose from his mat, sucking in the stale, dead air.
It seemed so much less appealing than usual now.
***
The city they now entered had been reduced to a paltry hovel, even by Brylla’s Fenrisian standards. There was little of value to be seen.
Their pack was united once again, Gunnar in the lead, Brylla just behind him. Tjost and Hrafni were watching over the mortals they’d taken prisoner, as Gunnar had insisted on not outright killing them.
Did it make sense? Brylla didn’t think so. He didn’t know what to think of it all really. He’d have put them all to the sword and been done with it. Hrafni had proposed to simply let them run off into the wilderness, but Gunnar had shut down all proposals.
Suddenly the old wolf came to a halt, bringing the rest of the pack to a stop as well.
Brylla instinctively tried to smell, to take the scent of the air, but in his helmet he couldn’t detect anything. He hated these buckets sometimes.
The pack waited for what seemed like an eternity. Nothing moved.
From the rubble by the side of the street broke bands of mortal soldiers, some firing primitive guns, most running at the Astartes with tools and crude cudgels.
Did they really think this would help them?
Brylla fell into a sprint, toward the foes, gunning his chainsword eagerly, hearing its roar, layering his own above it. Two steps. One bounding leap later he crashed into their lines, the sheer force of his titanic body forcing a man down to the ground, to be trampled by the marine. Brylla’s hearts became war drums, his blade an extension of his arm, the young wolf a totem of slaughter. He lost himself in the carnage, hacking arms and legs, revving the sword, demanding all of the engine to grind through a torso while he choked out a woman with his free left hand. Even through his helmet the scent of blood and guts, of dead meat, filled his nostrils. Soon the chain of the blade was so crusted with viscera that it refused to run smoothly, soon the engine smoked and choked, but the killing did not cease. Brutishly swinging the sword as a cudgel at the next attacker, Brylla howled savagely, Fenris-born fury seething from within.
Then, suddenly, there was noone left. Panting heavily Brylla looked around, like a stunted beast. He could feel the acidic saliva dribbling from his open maw. Pulling the helmet from his head, he sucked in the gore-scented air. The Blood Claw’s eyes wandered around, to the crows-feast he had made. Abruptly his vision went white, a stinging pain in his chest that nearly brought him to his knees, he looked down. His armour hadn’t been breached, but his vision shifted more and more.
The viscera on his armour slowly revealed itself to truly be his opened torso. There was a twisted marine standing next to him, with his hands in Brylla’s body. Derrus didn’t turn to face him as he sank back into blackness.