by shadowhawk2008 » Sat Oct 22, 2011 9:38 pm
The heaviness of his step, the rigid set to his shoulders and the perturbed expression on his face told all that met him that Captain Adrastos was not in the best of moods as he walked through the high-ceilinged hallways of the Montisgarre. Serfs and even several of his battle-brothers politely and hurriedly stepped out of his path as he made towards the battle-barge’s tertiary docking bay.
As he stepped through the armoured portal of the vast hangar, his eyes immediately went to the lone Thunderhawk that rested at the far end, framed by the emptiness of the deep void beyond. The low, background hum that permeated the air inside was an unnecessary reminder that the docking bay’s force fields were still in place.
Standing before the towering gunship, a bare-headed and white-armoured Space Marine addressed a group of young boys, their clothes matted with blood, their hands hanging limply at their sides, and their faces covered with dust and smoke.
Their dishevelled appearance served only to irritate Adrastos further as he approached them.
‘Apothecary Vex,’ he called out in anger. ‘Explain yourself, brother.’ At his sharp tone, several of the serfs looked up in surprise but one glance at his expression and they busied themselves with their work again.
As Adrastos came to stand next to him, Apothecary Vex turned around with a pained expression on his face and nodded at him in greeting.
‘Captain Adrastos.’
‘What is this... this... rabble you have brought with you, Vex?’ thundered Adrastos, pointing at the boys who looked up fearfully at the two Space Marines.
‘These twenty-seven boys are the only survivors of the trials, Captain,’ Vex answered, his voice low but firm. ‘The rest proved far too unsuitable.’
‘Twenty-seven,’ said Adrastos to himself. ‘Twenty-seven,’ he repeated. ‘What the frak are we going to do with twenty-seven initiates, Vex? We are not even going to be able to replace our losses on Medan with this... this... rabble!’
Vex understood the Captain’s anger perfectly. These twenty-seven young boys that he had culled out of a pool of nearly four-hundred aspirants were indeed a sorry sight to behold. Under Vulkan’s rule, Armageddon had prospered well, but some things never changed.
Malnourishment on a hive-world dedicated to constant war was one of them. Not to mention, the wide-eyed stares the unkempt youth gave the two Astartes.
But they had proved themselves well in the arenas. Each of these boys had killed at least three of their fellow aspirants. Some among them had gotten as high as seven kills. They might not be the best of what Armageddon had to offer, but it could not be denied that the hell-blasted hive world bred strong, hardy folk.
And malnourished they might be, but they had all passed his stringent medical tests, and the results had been positive. No genetic degradation, no malaise of the body.
Looking at their stunned and bewildered faces disgusted Adrastos like nothing had before.
‘Has Lord Svydro been summoned?’ he asked
‘He is unavailable, Captain,’ answered Vex. ‘Lords Astinon and Svydro have been conferring with Captain Saigun and his command cadre for hours now and the discussions are expected to continue throughout the day.’
‘What of the other chaplains?’
‘Chaplain Lokiir will be joining me in the Initiation Chambers shortly, Captain.’
Adrastos smiled at the mention of the frequently belligerent campaigner. Vex relaxed slightly at seeing the Captain’s obvious amusement. It meant his anger would be directed away from him for a while longer.
‘Good. Make sure that Lokiir’s examinations are thorough,’ said Adrastos, his smile still in place. ‘If these boys are going to be our future, then I don’t want to take any chances with their training.’
‘As ordered, Captain.’ Vex breathed a sigh of relief and then motioned to the aspirants to follow him.
-][-
The chapel echoed once more to the sounds of Space Marines at prayers as they chanted various litanies of thanks and devotion to the True Emperor and his son, their gene-lord, Corax. Large enough to easily accommodate hundreds of battle-brothers, today the chapel held only mere hundred and thirty-one warriors.
Clad only in simple robes of varying colours, the Corvians stood at parade rest, their manner easy and humble as they prayed. There was no idle chatter among them. No friendly camaraderie that was visible.
Standing in the presence of their three great lords, the Corvians were mindful of their actions. This was a holy place to them and to sully the devotional atmosphere with meaningless banter was anathema to them.
Silence descended on the chapel as the iron-bound door at the far end of the wide, high-ceilinged chamber opened and three figured entered. The gathered Space Marines snapped to attention immediately.
The Lord Commander of the Nineteenth Commandery, Astinon Dras, marched down the central nave, his bearing erect. Unlike his battle-brothers, he was dressed in full armour, his freshly-forged battle-plate gleaming with its dichotomous colours of black and orange. His helmet was clipped to his belt, next to his iron-grey scabbard that held his weapon of office. A light carmine-coloured ceremonial cloak flared behind him.
He did not meet the eyes of his brothers as he walked towards the Triad of Lords but he knew that pride flared in their breasts at the sight of their Commander and his new armour. He did not need to ask them openly to know that they approved of his new armour.
He was followed by two Space Marines in midnight-black armour adorned with fanged raven skulls. The sharp gold trims on their armour winked in the dim light of the chapel, and seemed to glow, contrasting with the rest of their armour.
Old Svydro, senior Chaplain of the Angels of Retribution, was a sallow-faced warrior with harsh features. A single disapproving gaze from him could unnerve even the most stoic veterans. He trailed after Astinon, his crozius arcanum gripped loosely in his hands. He observed each of the gathered warriors for any weakness, his face without expression.
At his side, Lokiir Tael’s face displayed more emotions but he still appeared stern and unyielding. The last Chaplain of the Raven Guard, he was youthful and eager but tempered by his solemn duty. His own crozius was clipped to his belt and he carried a smoking censer in one hand. The burning herbs and sacred oils evoked the harsh and bitter scent that permeated all of Armageddon, a reminder to the Corvians of where fate had taken them.
As the three warriors came to stand before the Triad of Lords, they knelt for a brief moment in supplication, offering their own prayers, and then faced their battle-brothers.
As Astinon looked on impassively, Svydro gave a single command. ‘Kneel.’
The sound of armoured knees reverberated around the vast chamber as the order was obeyed instantly. Lokiir stepped forwards, swinging his censer and unclipping his crozius.
‘For more than twenty thousand years, the offices of the Chaplains of the Adeptus Astartes have maintained litanies and prayers,’ he said. ‘They have been passed down from one generation to the other in an unbroken tradition. The greatest of these is the Psalm of the Warriors. Say it.’
Without hesitation, and in unison, the battle-brothers obeyed once again.
‘Blessed be the warriors, brothers of steel and fury,
Those who stand against the enemies of man,
And carry forward His light into the darkness between the stars,
Shall ever be in His grace.’
Lokiir extended his gauntleted fist and slammed it into his breastplate three times in rapid succession. Astinon and Svydro mirrored his actions.
‘Nost esun Angelius Nexrum, nost ado nexrum quodis ruinan uter nostrum inimicusi,’ intoned Lokiir in the old language of the homeworld of his chapter and bowed, stepping backwards as he did so. Svydro dipped his hands into the smoking censer and chanted the Litany of Sanctification as he drew ritual symbols of battle and purity on Astinon’s armour.
He nodded to the Commander once the ritual was complete and retreated two steps behind him, Lokiir standing to his side once again. Astinon stepped forwards and withdrew the Stormblade from its scabbard, pointing the blade down towards the floor and knelt.
‘My Emperor, my Primarch, my Master,’ he began. ‘Your humble servants give praise to you as we set out to the world of Kiavahr. Glorious and honourable battle will be our thanks to you as we deliver this former bastion of our might from the ravages of the enemy. With your grace and your blessing, Triad of Lords, the wisdom of the New Imperium shall soon prevail in your name on that blighted world. This we pray in your name.’
‘Honour and fealty!’ bellowed Svydro. The battle-brothers echoed his words and thumped their breastplates three times in rapid succession. Astinon rose and addressed his warriors.
‘My brothers, we travel to the birthplace of the Ravenlord, to deliver his world from the tyrannical grip of an ancient enemy. They have defiled his domain, and we shall not stand for this affront to our honour or the honour of Corax. You have my oath upon it!’
‘So shall it be,’ called Lokiir, the acoustics of the chapel echoing his words throughout the chamber. ‘The oath of one is the oath of all.’
The chapel rang once more with the deafening boom of clenched fists to breastplates.
‘Rise my brothers, and heed me,’ continued Astinon. ‘When we pledged our service to Lord Vulkan, we were given a great bounty of arms by our new lord, the better for us to bring the wrath of the True Emperor to the alien, the heretic and the mutant. Many of you benefitted from our new rewards but I held the greatest prize back from you.’
A murmur of confusion rippled through the ranks.
‘We were also gifted with ten suits of Tactical Dreadnought Armour. None among us has worn Terminator armour for over two thousand years, when the last of our suits was lost in war against the Petty Imperiums. I am here before you today to tell you that I have finally reached a decision.’
Astinon drew strength from the grand arbalstone statues of the Triad behind him, their presence focusing his mind and giving him clarity of thought.
‘Ten warriors among you shall have the honour of going into battle on Kiavahr wearing the armour worthy of any of the greatest heroes of our past. Blessed be the Primarch!’
‘Blessed be the Primarch!’
Svydro strode forwards once again and bellowed. ‘Leven. Rosto. Zharel. Cremon. Kremalius. Afvaan. Solios. Tariakus. Falis. Xenophon. You have been chosen.’
As their names were called, the ten warriors stepped out of the ranks and knelt on one knee. Lokiir took the burning censer from Svydro and approached the chosen warriors one by one, repeating the Litany of Sanctification and marking their armour with signs of battle and purity.
When he was done he nodded back at the Commander.
‘Brothers Leven and Rosto will retain their rank as Sergeants, each leading a demi-squad of our Terminators,’ Astinon announced in a voice full of pride and admiration. ‘But this is not all. Sergeant Drome and Apothecary Vex, step forwards brothers.’
Caught off-guard, the two Corvians stepped forwards and stood uncertainly next to the ten Terminator chosen.
‘It is no secret that ever since our return from Medan, these two have carried out initiation trials across the entirety of the hell-blasted world below,’ said Astinon. ‘And their efforts have borne fruit. Twenty-seven aspirants have been selected for the next stage of the trials. One day these youth will be one of you, as battle-brothers of the gene-line of the Ravenlord. I commend these two warriors for their efforts. Blessed be the Primarch!’
‘Blessed be the Primarch!’
Lokiir repeated the ritual with the censer, marking Vex and Drome’s armour this time.
‘Return to your quarters, brothers,’ continued Astinon, his tone rough and bellicose. ‘War calls us on Kiavahr. The ancient enemy will not be allowed to hold our own fortresses against us. Blood calls to blood and we answer the challenge. We shall not fail in our oaths. In the name of the Triad of Lords!
‘Victorus aut Mortis!’
-][-
The bridge of the Montisgarre was once again a hub-hub of activity as dozens of serfs went about their tasks, making sure that the venerable warship was ready to move out of orbit. A duo of tech-adepts oversaw the serfs and servitors, making their final preparations and chanting litanies to their Machine God.
Astinon wondered how the adepts could still believe in their Omnissiah after everything that had occurred during the Second Strife. Their Machine-God had been exposed as an all-powerful and destructive entity that was old when the galaxy was in its infancy. From what knowledge the Corvians had gathered over the millennia, he was known as the Void-Dragon, one of the few remaining Star Gods whose purpose was to shackle the myriad of civilizations that existed in servitude to sate their eternal hunger.
He only gave it a passing thought however. These adepts had served under Vulkan himself and if the Regent trusted in them, then he would too.
His imperious gaze swept around the bridge, taking in all the frenetic activity in a heartbeat. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he gestured to Lieutenant Kostar.
‘The warship is ready to move out of orbit, Lord Commander,’ said the thin, red-faced officer. He was dressed, as always, in his immaculate Steel Legion uniform. A combination of a mustard yellow greatcoat, heavy black boots and gloves, sheathed power sword and holstered auto-pistol, the Lieutenant cut a strongly martial figure.
The effect was broken only by the rounded, bowl-shaped, black helmet that hung loosely down his back and the drab, olive gas-mask that hung from his neck. The rad-blasted deserts and the harsh environment of Armageddon necessitated such extreme utilities.
Astinon knew from prior experience how effective those masks and reinforced helmets were during combat. The mask itself was nearly as effective as his helmet sensors and the helmets themselves could withstand a bolter shell at extreme range.
His expression betrayed none of his thoughts as he answered back. ‘Connect me to the Hammer of Dorn, I wish to speak with Captain Saigun.’
Within moments, a two-way vox channel had been established between the two vessels, and the bridge speakers came alive with the soft bit firm voice of the Revenant Captain.
‘Tell me you have good news, Commander,’ said Saigun, his tone betraying his jovial nature. Once the honour-duel had been done with, the Revenant had proved to be a polite and supportive warrior. After the fiasco with Nicodemus, Astinon had thanked the foresight of Commander He’stan in assigning Saigun to his command.
He hoped that this temporary alliance between the Corvians and the Dorn Revenants would provide solid bedrock for the future of both Commanderies, allowing them both to prosper and grow together as part of the New Imperium.
‘My fleet is ready, Captain,’ answered Astinon, his tone equally mirthful. ‘Is your own wallowing strike cruiser ready to proceed?’
‘The Hammer will show you the error of your ways, Corvian,’ replied Saigun, his laughter echoing across the bridge. ‘This cruiser can match any of your ships in a straight fight, Commander. Keep that in mind the next time you decide to insult her.’
‘Noted, Captain. Proceed to the jump point in two minutes. We will rendezvous at Station Mannheim II in one hour and then translate to the Mako system as planned. Once the fleet is reorganized, we will proceed to the next waypoint. Astinon out.’
‘Understood, Commander. Saigun out.’
Astinon turned towards Kostar and gestured to him to cut the vox-channel to the Hammer.
‘Issue a fleet-wide alert. All ships are to proceed as ordered with no deviation. Inform all ship captains that Operation Deliverance is a go.’
Kostar gave a crisp salute and then started barking orders at the communications pit.
Astinon gazed out through the viewports at the black depths of the void beyond and his expression hardened.
We come for you desecrators, he thought to himself. We have suffered your presence on the homeworld for too long. But not anymore. Today, we take back what is rightfully ours. Hell-spawn of the Eye, we come for you.
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My current fiction projects - Veergati: The Scarlet Records, an Indian space opera inspired by Star Trek.