This was originally going to be part of the Last Chancers Age of Dusk fic I'm also working on. but it simply grew to large and unwieldy for it since it's really back story to the Blasphematii. So I decided to put it on a separate thread. It will be in two parts and here is the first. Please enjoy comments and criticism welcome.
RISE OF THE BLASPHEMATII. PART ONE
Kol Basilis hated the inactivity forced on him by his duty. Technically, to be a guardian of the Basilica of Torments on the Word Bearer home world was an honour, bestowed upon the warband he served on by the Dark Council, but to him it was a torment. Every Word Bearer, without exception, lived to serve the True Gods of the warp. And the holiest shrine to Chaos was the battle field, punishing unbelievers, spreading the Word and tearing down the rotting edifice of the hated Imperium of Man. That was the truest service any could offer them, the path to recognition, promotion through the ranks of the legion and the rewards of service. However, the Dark Apostle that the aspiring champion had served since the Heresy seemed content to rest in his laurels and play politics on Sicarius, leaving the Aspiring Champion little outlet for his ambition.
Standing at over eight feet tall in his ancient crimson Mark 4 power armour, a casual observer might take him and the other 7 guards for statues, so still were they. His olive toned, Colchisian features, hidden beneath his helmet, were currently locked in a sneer of discontent as he watched the day to day monotony of life in the capital city of the Word Bearer Theocracy from atop of the 100 metre wide marble stair case that led to the main entrance of the vast structure. At least, as a consolation, from this vantage point he could gaze upon the great Avenue of the Faithful, the longest street on Sicarius.
Holy Sicarius. The world upon which Blessed Lorgar first stood in audience with the Gods, the first world claimed by the Word Bearer legion upon its exile from the Imperium of man and now the greatest Cathedral World in the Eye of Terror. The red armoured giant stood stock still as he scanned the world through his helmet lens, the awe of having his warband permanently stationed on the holiest world in the galaxy having long since faded with time.
The entire planet was dedicated almost exclusively to the worship of the True Gods. As far as one could gaze, temples and fanes lined the street and beyond, where Word Bearers, favoured cultist priests and, occasionally, even Dark Apostles and daemon princes carried out sacrifices and worship almost continuously throughout the day. The scent of blood was omnipresent as it pooled down from the open air alters at the bases of each temple. Chaos furies cackled and swooped down from the minarets and spires that dotted the landscape to lap up the blood or feed on the corpses of the victims. A few more daring of their kind even tried to pluck the herds of captured slaves being driven through the streets by the cruel mutant overseers, to where they would either become sacrificial victims themselves or be put to work erecting even more places of worship to the gods.
Indeed, the only thing that rivalled the piteous wails of the condemned sacrifices, chanting of the warp touched and the susurrus of the daemonic spirits was the sound of construction. For millennia, the Word Bearer had dedicated themselves to building greater places of worship Chaos. With the exception of the holiest sites, such as the Templum Inficio, the Basilica of the Word and the Basilica of Torments which were raised up above other constructions as they built, previous holy sites were built upon, leading to the world resembling a hive city that crossed the planet. This fitted with the de facto social structure of the world.
The very deepest part of the hive, near the ruins of the ancient Eldar city that they first built upon, was populated by slaves. It amused the Word Bearers to allow captured slaves from their many holy crusades loose beneath the surface, those who were not immediately driven insane would form gangs and try to struggle, both against each other and against the things that lurked there, for food and survival. They provided a ready source of labour and sacrifices, whilst the constant warfare provided the Word Bearers with experienced recruits for their slave armies. A lucky few of the boys born and raised in the harsh environment would even be elevated to join the ranks of the Word Bearers.
Favoured Chaos cultists, mortals who had proved themselves in the eyes of their Astartes masters, stood on the rung directly above the slave fodder. They were a constant presence on the Avenue, outnumbering their lords near ten to one, trailing behind particularly important Aspiring Champions and priests, or attending any of the vast numbers of religious ceremonies constantly taking place. They thronged through the streets, babbling in tongues, showing off mutations or conspiring to win favour from the ceramite clad Angels of their gods.
The Word Bearers themselves stood head and shoulders above the heaving masses, each one moving with purpose and surprising grace through the streets, where the crowds parted before them like water. Occasionally, one could make out Chaos Marines wearing different livery could be spotted, Iron Warriors, Black Legionnaires and others, given permission by the Council to pursue the dark knowledge available in the many libraries of Sicarius, for a tremendous price in slaves.
The air, saturated with chaos energy, writhed and twisted in ways that would unsettle him were he not already long since parted from the illusion ignorant mortals called ‘sanity’. Warp energy drenched the world to such an extent that miracles were common place. On some days the sky was forged of balefire, which would rain down on the teeming crowds, on others beautiful auroras of unholy colours, which would suck a man’s soul out of his body, were he to gaze at it too long. It all depended on the whims of the gods. Today, however, it was completely clear and ones vision could stretch out to space, where he could see hundreds of ships in orbit, bringing tithes of slaves and bounty, or departing on missions to strike at Chaos’ enemies, a sight which never failed to make him seethe with envy and awe. The satellite worlds of Grau’tel, the Mechanicus world that supplied most of the Word Bearer armaments, and Dalout, the prize agri-world were also perfectly visible to him.
The Basilica itself was one of the few Eldar structures remaining upright when they made the world their new Colchis. The great cataclysm that ad wiped out that degenerate race had occurred here, in a once holy place that they had used a centre of the violent excess that had doomed them. The flesh of the aliens that had been within the area had been welded to the great structure, covering it in a sort of external living muscle. When they had arrived, the flesh had long since dried out; it was only when they poured blood on it that it awoke, displaying a dreadful sentience as its flesh was rejuvenated.
The Basilica, being of such great importance to the birth of the Eye, was proclaimed a holy site. It was used as a place of judgement and punishment for those Word Bearers who failed grievously. Such individuals were judged by the gods themselves within the Basilica, each Bearer facing the direct scrutiny, not of a lesser daemon, but the Four themselves. Very few ever survived, their souls subjected to torments and tests that even the most warped minds could imagine. But those who did were often considered to be marked out for a great destiny. Avadarak the Faithful, Tzo’lotz of Colchis, even the turncoat who now wore the colours of the Black Legion, Eliphas the Inheritor. All had passed through the Basilica and survived and were considered to have the approval of the gods for some great feat.
The Basilica’s constant need for nourishment was supplied by left overs of the hive ganger wars beneath the surface. The building was surrounded by holes to the under hive. Rail tracks led from these tunnels, upon which ogryn servitors would drag massive carts, each 9 feet across, containing the gangers’ tithe, limbs and dead bodies which were then fed to the Chaos Temple, granting it a full fleshed and bloated look. A few favoured slaves were given the duty of overseeing the hulking servitors as they pushed the bloody cargo to the surface. One such individual caught the Word Bearer’s eye as he walked along side an unusually large servitor.
The ragged man was painfully thin, the tattered remains of a filthy military uniform clung to his skeletal frame as he marched painfully up from the tunnels that led to the hive prisons. The remains of a commissar cap tied around the short man’s throat with a string hung forlornly on his chest as he wheezed painfully up hill. Despite this, it was clear he was trying to maintain a military bearing as he walked, occasionally turning to mutter to the vast ogryn servitor by his side.
Suddenly a moan came from one of the carts. A bloody hand rose from the bodies. The old man became animated and, with a startled whoop of excitement clutched at it. Leaning over the side, he could see the lacerated female ganger it belonged to, barely alive with the many wounds she had received.
“Oh Praise His name! You live!” The little man grinned with a manic joy. “Give me your confession, and I will recommend you to Him before you die!”
His voice, used to barking out orders over the din of battle and across vast parade grounds, carried out clearly to the other servitor overseers and to the Basilica Guard themselves in spite of the cacophony, many who turned to watch this with interest.
The young woman wept, she might once have been pretty beneath all the grime. “I don’t want to die! Please do some thing!”
The ogryn continued with its preset orders despite her protestations, approaching the wall of the edifice which seethed and pulsed with unnatural life.
The man scurried alongside “Do not fear, even in this hell pit. He hears us. I can’t save your life, but He can save your soul. Just speak the words and commend your soul to him!”
The woman screeched in anger and with her last faltering breaths began cursing the Emperor, for leading her to join the PDF of her home world, then abandoning her to the slave ships of the victorious enemy she had fought so hard to defend. She cursed him as well, and tried to spit in his face. The man’s face fell, but only for a moment as he saw that they had reached their destination. A massive buboe at the end of the track tore open, exposing the bloody ichor that pumped through the beast temple’s body. The woman began shrieking as the ogryn began slowly tipping the cart’s contents over into the waiting maw. The preacher began redoubling his efforts.
“He is always with us, He always watches and hears. Please I beg you.” His eyes grew desperate as he pleaded, his voice rising louder and louder “ He came to me in my dreams. He will come for the faithful. Be numbered among them!”
Her cries went silent as the tithe was poured into the buboe, which sealed shut. The ex commissar, forced to release her hand at the last, just seemed to be driven into fresh fanaticism by this.
As his ogryn lowered the cart, the man began shouting preaching loudly to all who could hear.
“And lo His time is near. Woe unto those who do not believe for His wrath shall strike down the mutant, the alien,” A mad look in his eye, the scraggly figure turned his gaze very deliberately to Basilis, staring him right in the lens “the heretic!” He spat the last word.
“He brings-“
The man was cut off suddenly as a stone few overhead and connected with his skull. Already weakened from his long incarceration, he fell into a heap and gazed around bewildered. Several of his fellow overseers were jeering and throwing abuse and debris at him, their eyes occasionally darting to Basilis.
Basilis growled beneath his breath as he watched the abuse, surprised that his contempt for the slaves could get any stronger. Former imperial Lapdogs themselves, they hoped to curry favour with him by showing how far they had rejected their original creed. While on the other hand, despite all things, this one had maintained his faith despite the horrors he had faced. Indeed it had actually seemed to grow stronger. He was responsible for having started countless imperial cults among the slaves over the years, almost always among new arrivals, dedicated to escape or the death of important officials.
The Basilica guard, of course, knew about almost everything he did. Basilis’ master, Dark Apostle Phegan, had purposefully allowed him to continue his activities. It contributed to the disillusionment of the new slaves, as they clung to the old man’s rhetoric in the hope that the Emperor would somehow save them. Receiving no relief or rescue, they all eventually turned with bitterness on their former beliefs, making excellent slave stock for the crusades. But through it all, the old man’s faith remained untarnished! The Word Bearers held faith and devotion as the highest possible ideals for a mortal to have and this- Basilis stopped that line of thought and sighed inwardly as he realised what he had been doing. Admiring the misguided ignorance of a fool who could ignore the glory and truth of chaos when it was abundantly clear all around him. Truly, he was losing his edge here. He sighed, and began relaying instructions by vox to the Disciples of Penitence to prepare their blades. He would assign himself an extra hour of penitence to atone for such unworthy thoughts.
The ex commissar stood up groggily, wiping blood from a cut on his face. The other slaves, seeing that their masters were not interested in their actions, had slunk off. His servitor had ignored the stoning and had moved to the other side of the cart, ready to return it for yet another tithe. For a moment, he held his head between his hands, feeling the utter despair of his situation envelop him again. How long had he been here? How long since he had fallen to the cultist rabble, into disgrace and shame? His beloved regiment torn asunder, the few guardsmen taken captive with him long since fallen or dead. Time was meaningless here, though it had felt like an eternity had passed. Now he alone remained faithful. No, not alone.
He opened his eyes and cursed his weakness. A commissar never showed weakness on the field, regardless of circumstances. He glanced up to see the servitor pushing the cart back to the tunnel and hobbled over quickly until he was walking side by side with it.
“Don’t worry old boy,” he grinned up at the impassive face through broken teeth “we’re not lost yet, keep your buttons all nice and shiny and we’ll be out of here in no time.”
He patted its elbow, which was as high as he could reach. The servitor continued to stare dully ahead, as it had since the chirgeon had cruelly lobotomised it, obeying the orders implanted in its data wafers. The mad old man continued speaking regardless, as he had for years.
“I had,” his eyes grew sly, as they darted around conspiratorially “I had another dream!” his voice grew reverential as he spoke, “He was in it. He is free now! And this time He’s coming, He promised!”
The old man’s face fell for a while, as though remembering all the other times he had promised salvation or escape to his other followers, only to have it fail to materialise, but then rallied. It was not his fault that they were weak of will! As long as he had one follower still here, one loyal servant of the God-Emperor, then he had a duty to succour his spirit and maintain his faith!
“Come, let’s sing the Hymn of Dimmamar together! That’ll cheer us right up Nork my boy.”
Greiss’ began the first part of the ancient hymn, and then suddenly faltered when he felt it. He was not the only one. The chaos furies were the first to react, the surly daemons suddenly taking wing with raucous cries and screams. Like a constant noise that isn’t noticed until it falls silent or a sudden change in air pressure, the creatures of the Eye of terror felt it. The incessant wars paused, daemon, mortal and alien alike lowering their weapons and gazing upwards. Sorcerers paused in their chanting, sacrifices and torture halted. Even in the deepest dungeons and manufactorums of the industrial hive worlds the wretched slave workers paused in their labours and their overseers did not strike them. For one moment, the Eye fell still as a great weight of expectation fell across it.
And it was thus that the denizens of the warp saw as a sector of space hundreds of light years across suddenly grew static. The riotous ever changing colours of the warp stopped their random churning entirely, a never seen before occurrence. A brilliant golden light blazed forth from the epicentre of the phenomenon, causing Basilis helmet’s display to blank out. Basilis instinctively raised his arm across his eyes, his other hand reaching for his chainsword. When his vision cleared, he saw a great golden stairway now occupied the centre of the Eye seemingly reaching back into infinity. Standing on the lowest step was a magnificent golden being, dressed in a silver robe. In its left hand it held a massive staff, encrusted in what looked to be suns while its right hand stretched out towards them, as though beckoning.
Kol had no doubt whatsoever that the inhabitants of all other planets in the warp were also viewing this unprecedented phenomenon. Somehow, he could make out every detail on the impossibly handsome face, though it must have been billions of miles across, as it spoke:
"Come forth my Sons! Heed the call of your Lord and Father! All will be forgiven if you come and kneel before me again!"
Basilis realised that, even as he had been watching the sky, he had been walking forth from his post. All around him, cultists and slaves were running, panicking or simply crumpled up on the ground gibbering. But the crazed old man stood out. He stood next to his servitor, his hands raised above his head as he exalted.
“Oh, Ave Pater Dominious, Lord of all Dominions! We Adore and Obey!”
Suddenly, Basilis knew without a doubt why he had been walking. He had to kill that man. It was important, he did not know why, but the gods did not always announce their demands overtly to their followers. He just knew that it was important. With a snarl, he knocked aside a cultist to slow to get out of the way, his chainsword roaring to life as he broke into a run, the crowds scattering before him. The old man saw him, his face creasing with fear, then turned and ran. Basilis, still running whipped out his bolt pistol. The old man was half running half limping to the tunnel, but at this range he knew he could not miss.
A fist like a hammer smashed down on his hand, causing his shot to go wide, exploding harmlessly on the rockcrete floor. He instinctively brought up his chainsword to parry the follow up blow, which nearly knocked it from his hand. Taking a step back his eyes widened incredulously as he saw the massive servitor had attacked him! The huge creature lumbered ungainly towards him, its fists pulled back for another heavy blow. Basilis placed two shots squarely in its chest and the brute fell.
The Word Bearer, looked up and felt a wave of despair come over him. The old man was nowhere in sight. For a moment he debated pursuing the madman into the tunnels, but felt the feeling of urgency ebb, as though a great opportunity had been missed. Instead he turned his face skyward, grimly watching as the Forces of Chaos mustered to meet this new threat. Whatever happened he would redeem himself for this failure.
RISE OF THE BLASPHEMATII. PART ONE
Kol Basilis hated the inactivity forced on him by his duty. Technically, to be a guardian of the Basilica of Torments on the Word Bearer home world was an honour, bestowed upon the warband he served on by the Dark Council, but to him it was a torment. Every Word Bearer, without exception, lived to serve the True Gods of the warp. And the holiest shrine to Chaos was the battle field, punishing unbelievers, spreading the Word and tearing down the rotting edifice of the hated Imperium of Man. That was the truest service any could offer them, the path to recognition, promotion through the ranks of the legion and the rewards of service. However, the Dark Apostle that the aspiring champion had served since the Heresy seemed content to rest in his laurels and play politics on Sicarius, leaving the Aspiring Champion little outlet for his ambition.
Standing at over eight feet tall in his ancient crimson Mark 4 power armour, a casual observer might take him and the other 7 guards for statues, so still were they. His olive toned, Colchisian features, hidden beneath his helmet, were currently locked in a sneer of discontent as he watched the day to day monotony of life in the capital city of the Word Bearer Theocracy from atop of the 100 metre wide marble stair case that led to the main entrance of the vast structure. At least, as a consolation, from this vantage point he could gaze upon the great Avenue of the Faithful, the longest street on Sicarius.
Holy Sicarius. The world upon which Blessed Lorgar first stood in audience with the Gods, the first world claimed by the Word Bearer legion upon its exile from the Imperium of man and now the greatest Cathedral World in the Eye of Terror. The red armoured giant stood stock still as he scanned the world through his helmet lens, the awe of having his warband permanently stationed on the holiest world in the galaxy having long since faded with time.
The entire planet was dedicated almost exclusively to the worship of the True Gods. As far as one could gaze, temples and fanes lined the street and beyond, where Word Bearers, favoured cultist priests and, occasionally, even Dark Apostles and daemon princes carried out sacrifices and worship almost continuously throughout the day. The scent of blood was omnipresent as it pooled down from the open air alters at the bases of each temple. Chaos furies cackled and swooped down from the minarets and spires that dotted the landscape to lap up the blood or feed on the corpses of the victims. A few more daring of their kind even tried to pluck the herds of captured slaves being driven through the streets by the cruel mutant overseers, to where they would either become sacrificial victims themselves or be put to work erecting even more places of worship to the gods.
Indeed, the only thing that rivalled the piteous wails of the condemned sacrifices, chanting of the warp touched and the susurrus of the daemonic spirits was the sound of construction. For millennia, the Word Bearer had dedicated themselves to building greater places of worship Chaos. With the exception of the holiest sites, such as the Templum Inficio, the Basilica of the Word and the Basilica of Torments which were raised up above other constructions as they built, previous holy sites were built upon, leading to the world resembling a hive city that crossed the planet. This fitted with the de facto social structure of the world.
The very deepest part of the hive, near the ruins of the ancient Eldar city that they first built upon, was populated by slaves. It amused the Word Bearers to allow captured slaves from their many holy crusades loose beneath the surface, those who were not immediately driven insane would form gangs and try to struggle, both against each other and against the things that lurked there, for food and survival. They provided a ready source of labour and sacrifices, whilst the constant warfare provided the Word Bearers with experienced recruits for their slave armies. A lucky few of the boys born and raised in the harsh environment would even be elevated to join the ranks of the Word Bearers.
Favoured Chaos cultists, mortals who had proved themselves in the eyes of their Astartes masters, stood on the rung directly above the slave fodder. They were a constant presence on the Avenue, outnumbering their lords near ten to one, trailing behind particularly important Aspiring Champions and priests, or attending any of the vast numbers of religious ceremonies constantly taking place. They thronged through the streets, babbling in tongues, showing off mutations or conspiring to win favour from the ceramite clad Angels of their gods.
The Word Bearers themselves stood head and shoulders above the heaving masses, each one moving with purpose and surprising grace through the streets, where the crowds parted before them like water. Occasionally, one could make out Chaos Marines wearing different livery could be spotted, Iron Warriors, Black Legionnaires and others, given permission by the Council to pursue the dark knowledge available in the many libraries of Sicarius, for a tremendous price in slaves.
The air, saturated with chaos energy, writhed and twisted in ways that would unsettle him were he not already long since parted from the illusion ignorant mortals called ‘sanity’. Warp energy drenched the world to such an extent that miracles were common place. On some days the sky was forged of balefire, which would rain down on the teeming crowds, on others beautiful auroras of unholy colours, which would suck a man’s soul out of his body, were he to gaze at it too long. It all depended on the whims of the gods. Today, however, it was completely clear and ones vision could stretch out to space, where he could see hundreds of ships in orbit, bringing tithes of slaves and bounty, or departing on missions to strike at Chaos’ enemies, a sight which never failed to make him seethe with envy and awe. The satellite worlds of Grau’tel, the Mechanicus world that supplied most of the Word Bearer armaments, and Dalout, the prize agri-world were also perfectly visible to him.
The Basilica itself was one of the few Eldar structures remaining upright when they made the world their new Colchis. The great cataclysm that ad wiped out that degenerate race had occurred here, in a once holy place that they had used a centre of the violent excess that had doomed them. The flesh of the aliens that had been within the area had been welded to the great structure, covering it in a sort of external living muscle. When they had arrived, the flesh had long since dried out; it was only when they poured blood on it that it awoke, displaying a dreadful sentience as its flesh was rejuvenated.
The Basilica, being of such great importance to the birth of the Eye, was proclaimed a holy site. It was used as a place of judgement and punishment for those Word Bearers who failed grievously. Such individuals were judged by the gods themselves within the Basilica, each Bearer facing the direct scrutiny, not of a lesser daemon, but the Four themselves. Very few ever survived, their souls subjected to torments and tests that even the most warped minds could imagine. But those who did were often considered to be marked out for a great destiny. Avadarak the Faithful, Tzo’lotz of Colchis, even the turncoat who now wore the colours of the Black Legion, Eliphas the Inheritor. All had passed through the Basilica and survived and were considered to have the approval of the gods for some great feat.
The Basilica’s constant need for nourishment was supplied by left overs of the hive ganger wars beneath the surface. The building was surrounded by holes to the under hive. Rail tracks led from these tunnels, upon which ogryn servitors would drag massive carts, each 9 feet across, containing the gangers’ tithe, limbs and dead bodies which were then fed to the Chaos Temple, granting it a full fleshed and bloated look. A few favoured slaves were given the duty of overseeing the hulking servitors as they pushed the bloody cargo to the surface. One such individual caught the Word Bearer’s eye as he walked along side an unusually large servitor.
The ragged man was painfully thin, the tattered remains of a filthy military uniform clung to his skeletal frame as he marched painfully up from the tunnels that led to the hive prisons. The remains of a commissar cap tied around the short man’s throat with a string hung forlornly on his chest as he wheezed painfully up hill. Despite this, it was clear he was trying to maintain a military bearing as he walked, occasionally turning to mutter to the vast ogryn servitor by his side.
Suddenly a moan came from one of the carts. A bloody hand rose from the bodies. The old man became animated and, with a startled whoop of excitement clutched at it. Leaning over the side, he could see the lacerated female ganger it belonged to, barely alive with the many wounds she had received.
“Oh Praise His name! You live!” The little man grinned with a manic joy. “Give me your confession, and I will recommend you to Him before you die!”
His voice, used to barking out orders over the din of battle and across vast parade grounds, carried out clearly to the other servitor overseers and to the Basilica Guard themselves in spite of the cacophony, many who turned to watch this with interest.
The young woman wept, she might once have been pretty beneath all the grime. “I don’t want to die! Please do some thing!”
The ogryn continued with its preset orders despite her protestations, approaching the wall of the edifice which seethed and pulsed with unnatural life.
The man scurried alongside “Do not fear, even in this hell pit. He hears us. I can’t save your life, but He can save your soul. Just speak the words and commend your soul to him!”
The woman screeched in anger and with her last faltering breaths began cursing the Emperor, for leading her to join the PDF of her home world, then abandoning her to the slave ships of the victorious enemy she had fought so hard to defend. She cursed him as well, and tried to spit in his face. The man’s face fell, but only for a moment as he saw that they had reached their destination. A massive buboe at the end of the track tore open, exposing the bloody ichor that pumped through the beast temple’s body. The woman began shrieking as the ogryn began slowly tipping the cart’s contents over into the waiting maw. The preacher began redoubling his efforts.
“He is always with us, He always watches and hears. Please I beg you.” His eyes grew desperate as he pleaded, his voice rising louder and louder “ He came to me in my dreams. He will come for the faithful. Be numbered among them!”
Her cries went silent as the tithe was poured into the buboe, which sealed shut. The ex commissar, forced to release her hand at the last, just seemed to be driven into fresh fanaticism by this.
As his ogryn lowered the cart, the man began shouting preaching loudly to all who could hear.
“And lo His time is near. Woe unto those who do not believe for His wrath shall strike down the mutant, the alien,” A mad look in his eye, the scraggly figure turned his gaze very deliberately to Basilis, staring him right in the lens “the heretic!” He spat the last word.
“He brings-“
The man was cut off suddenly as a stone few overhead and connected with his skull. Already weakened from his long incarceration, he fell into a heap and gazed around bewildered. Several of his fellow overseers were jeering and throwing abuse and debris at him, their eyes occasionally darting to Basilis.
Basilis growled beneath his breath as he watched the abuse, surprised that his contempt for the slaves could get any stronger. Former imperial Lapdogs themselves, they hoped to curry favour with him by showing how far they had rejected their original creed. While on the other hand, despite all things, this one had maintained his faith despite the horrors he had faced. Indeed it had actually seemed to grow stronger. He was responsible for having started countless imperial cults among the slaves over the years, almost always among new arrivals, dedicated to escape or the death of important officials.
The Basilica guard, of course, knew about almost everything he did. Basilis’ master, Dark Apostle Phegan, had purposefully allowed him to continue his activities. It contributed to the disillusionment of the new slaves, as they clung to the old man’s rhetoric in the hope that the Emperor would somehow save them. Receiving no relief or rescue, they all eventually turned with bitterness on their former beliefs, making excellent slave stock for the crusades. But through it all, the old man’s faith remained untarnished! The Word Bearers held faith and devotion as the highest possible ideals for a mortal to have and this- Basilis stopped that line of thought and sighed inwardly as he realised what he had been doing. Admiring the misguided ignorance of a fool who could ignore the glory and truth of chaos when it was abundantly clear all around him. Truly, he was losing his edge here. He sighed, and began relaying instructions by vox to the Disciples of Penitence to prepare their blades. He would assign himself an extra hour of penitence to atone for such unworthy thoughts.
The ex commissar stood up groggily, wiping blood from a cut on his face. The other slaves, seeing that their masters were not interested in their actions, had slunk off. His servitor had ignored the stoning and had moved to the other side of the cart, ready to return it for yet another tithe. For a moment, he held his head between his hands, feeling the utter despair of his situation envelop him again. How long had he been here? How long since he had fallen to the cultist rabble, into disgrace and shame? His beloved regiment torn asunder, the few guardsmen taken captive with him long since fallen or dead. Time was meaningless here, though it had felt like an eternity had passed. Now he alone remained faithful. No, not alone.
He opened his eyes and cursed his weakness. A commissar never showed weakness on the field, regardless of circumstances. He glanced up to see the servitor pushing the cart back to the tunnel and hobbled over quickly until he was walking side by side with it.
“Don’t worry old boy,” he grinned up at the impassive face through broken teeth “we’re not lost yet, keep your buttons all nice and shiny and we’ll be out of here in no time.”
He patted its elbow, which was as high as he could reach. The servitor continued to stare dully ahead, as it had since the chirgeon had cruelly lobotomised it, obeying the orders implanted in its data wafers. The mad old man continued speaking regardless, as he had for years.
“I had,” his eyes grew sly, as they darted around conspiratorially “I had another dream!” his voice grew reverential as he spoke, “He was in it. He is free now! And this time He’s coming, He promised!”
The old man’s face fell for a while, as though remembering all the other times he had promised salvation or escape to his other followers, only to have it fail to materialise, but then rallied. It was not his fault that they were weak of will! As long as he had one follower still here, one loyal servant of the God-Emperor, then he had a duty to succour his spirit and maintain his faith!
“Come, let’s sing the Hymn of Dimmamar together! That’ll cheer us right up Nork my boy.”
Greiss’ began the first part of the ancient hymn, and then suddenly faltered when he felt it. He was not the only one. The chaos furies were the first to react, the surly daemons suddenly taking wing with raucous cries and screams. Like a constant noise that isn’t noticed until it falls silent or a sudden change in air pressure, the creatures of the Eye of terror felt it. The incessant wars paused, daemon, mortal and alien alike lowering their weapons and gazing upwards. Sorcerers paused in their chanting, sacrifices and torture halted. Even in the deepest dungeons and manufactorums of the industrial hive worlds the wretched slave workers paused in their labours and their overseers did not strike them. For one moment, the Eye fell still as a great weight of expectation fell across it.
And it was thus that the denizens of the warp saw as a sector of space hundreds of light years across suddenly grew static. The riotous ever changing colours of the warp stopped their random churning entirely, a never seen before occurrence. A brilliant golden light blazed forth from the epicentre of the phenomenon, causing Basilis helmet’s display to blank out. Basilis instinctively raised his arm across his eyes, his other hand reaching for his chainsword. When his vision cleared, he saw a great golden stairway now occupied the centre of the Eye seemingly reaching back into infinity. Standing on the lowest step was a magnificent golden being, dressed in a silver robe. In its left hand it held a massive staff, encrusted in what looked to be suns while its right hand stretched out towards them, as though beckoning.
Kol had no doubt whatsoever that the inhabitants of all other planets in the warp were also viewing this unprecedented phenomenon. Somehow, he could make out every detail on the impossibly handsome face, though it must have been billions of miles across, as it spoke:
"Come forth my Sons! Heed the call of your Lord and Father! All will be forgiven if you come and kneel before me again!"
Basilis realised that, even as he had been watching the sky, he had been walking forth from his post. All around him, cultists and slaves were running, panicking or simply crumpled up on the ground gibbering. But the crazed old man stood out. He stood next to his servitor, his hands raised above his head as he exalted.
“Oh, Ave Pater Dominious, Lord of all Dominions! We Adore and Obey!”
Suddenly, Basilis knew without a doubt why he had been walking. He had to kill that man. It was important, he did not know why, but the gods did not always announce their demands overtly to their followers. He just knew that it was important. With a snarl, he knocked aside a cultist to slow to get out of the way, his chainsword roaring to life as he broke into a run, the crowds scattering before him. The old man saw him, his face creasing with fear, then turned and ran. Basilis, still running whipped out his bolt pistol. The old man was half running half limping to the tunnel, but at this range he knew he could not miss.
A fist like a hammer smashed down on his hand, causing his shot to go wide, exploding harmlessly on the rockcrete floor. He instinctively brought up his chainsword to parry the follow up blow, which nearly knocked it from his hand. Taking a step back his eyes widened incredulously as he saw the massive servitor had attacked him! The huge creature lumbered ungainly towards him, its fists pulled back for another heavy blow. Basilis placed two shots squarely in its chest and the brute fell.
The Word Bearer, looked up and felt a wave of despair come over him. The old man was nowhere in sight. For a moment he debated pursuing the madman into the tunnels, but felt the feeling of urgency ebb, as though a great opportunity had been missed. Instead he turned his face skyward, grimly watching as the Forces of Chaos mustered to meet this new threat. Whatever happened he would redeem himself for this failure.
