Grijs
Breezi
Fetzen
Hos
Little Bill
Master EffeX
LauderThe War for Indoi
-Before the Battle of Ouran-
The vast lands of the Indoi spread out in great, leviathan chunks of sickly green and rotten brown. Valleys, flanked by black-topped mountains, rose as stalwart giants over the urban sprawl of humanity’s overpopulated hives. Rivers of poisonous green slithered through the ravines, disgustingly poured from the top of the tallest hive as a venomous waterfall. Clumps of flora still lingered in the former jungles of Eurasia as horrible fragments of their former beauty. Putrid vines hung from megaflora trees with deadly spikes and oozing pustules of mutated flesh. Abominable monstrosities stalked the wastelands, hunting on six legs and tearing sinew with three maws. Far and few entered the urban sprawl of the Indoi, loomed over by great towers of their oldest faith. The ruins of gargantuan maglevs fell apart in the acrid drip of the hazardous runoff, formerly used to travel the many cities of the continent. In the absence of such architecture, large hordes patrol the Indoi cityscapes with bestial-genewarriors and chained mutants. Psyker-monks of the disparate overlords watch, cleanse, and purify where they can with little success to restore their once beautiful lands. Clouds gathered endlessly and ominously over the Indoi, raining acid and mutating byproduct into the land once more. The cycle repeated itself every day in the burgeoning lands, mutating over and over while the inhabitants tame what can be tamed. A dull stalemate with nature that persisted for eons.
The monotony was broken only in the northern plains of the Indoi, where great banners bearing the raptor and thunderbolt unfurled from bastions of brutal rockrete. Agents of the Imperium, an empire of the Himalazians, worked tirelessly to cleanse the areas with handheld flamethrowers and roiling juggernauts that belched horrendously black smoke. Warriors as tall as the monsters they slaughtered walked in conjunction with these machines, butchering everything in their path. It was thankless work that contributed little and worse, yet it was a portion of the bargain between Indoi and the Imperium. A fire that consumed the untamed lands, ravaged by dogmatic fanatics and mutants alike, was key to easy movement from the Himalazia. So it was that His soldiers worked in blissful ignorance to the chaos that ignited in the southern jungles.
In the southeastern lands of the Indoi, the drums of war beat against instruments forged from the flesh and bone of men. The slaves of the Indoi ran for their lives, choicedly fleeing into the mutated jungles of their land to evade a worse fate. People that they had once callied allies chased them with grim determination, tearing apart those that they caught. Their bodies were dragged back from the plains, jungles, and ravines of their homes into the poisonous basins close to the Yndonesic Bloc’s territory. Where the old, frail, and ailing were slaughtered for fresh meat in their warmachine, the young were left to a crueller fate in mind. Each of the adolescents were pumped with the mutagenic runoff of the spires, filled with the invasive augmentation of the psyker-monks, and fused together with the endless hordes of mutants in their jungles. Fierce, berzerking beast-genewarriors were secretly forged in the wicked labs of the southern lands. No sooner had they been born anew into the world were they sent out into the wastelands for new components. Either succeeding where the last failed, or dying to the malevolent horrors of their continent.
An endless tide of refugees fled from the southern lands of Indoi, fleeing away from the things that hunted within the jungles. Those that pledged protection had turned away from their vows and slaughtered wholesale with new purpose. Ravines were filled with the unwanted dead of the hunters, jungle-flesh was chopped for infernal warmachines, and surrounding hive-villages were dismantled for new wargear. Enormous waves of spire runoff flooded the lands, choking the life from outskirting civilization with religious fury. Mutants were emboldened, ruinous jungle mutation thrived, and the zealots that poured across the lands did so with reinvigorated enthusiasm. Few were able to comprehend the destruction that surged through Indoi, many firmly believing that it was a prophetic occurrence that humanity’s time was finished. Those that understood, however, noticed a particular detail on the raging zealots. They wore nothing save for ragged attire seen in the Pan-Pacific Empire. These tales were spun, woven, and threaded to the ears of the northern plains. A defense was mustered to halt the unstoppable tide. Only their defiance would survive to sing the events to their warlord…
Akash Tigerheart leaned on all four of his claws from the ruins of a toppled spire. He could smell the myriad stink of the southern zealots. A growl bubbled up from within his throat, emerging from his toothy maw as a muted groan. He ushered his body forward, rustling the powered plating that pressed against his furred body. As his burgeoning form stalked down the spine of the toppled tower, those that accompanied him fearfully parted away. Rightfully so, they were part of the lower caste, never meant to rise above their station beyond wayward service to the Padshah. His claws met the end of the spire as the lower caste began to regroup, every scent painting a new scene about the village-hive’s destruction.
Ethereal phantoms painted themselves around him, coalescing around the squalid forms of his lower caste grunts. Although they were invisible to those beneath him, Akash could keenly watch their erratic movements and twisted actions. His body perked upright as he witnessed the events playing out on a phantom stage. Ghastly zealots in scrap armor akin to the lesser caste fought against similar warriors. His brotherly genewarriors, righteous half-beasts as tall as armored personnel transports, fought in violent duels against other of their kin. Revered monks, donned in flowing robes and heavy beads, shot out strings of lightning at those they had called brethren. To his dismay, the zealots were winning beyond a doubt. Other vestiges moved through the shadows, something foreign and disgusting was woven into the scents. It paled in comparison to the stink of the Imperials.
The Imperials. A long growl vented out of his mouth, stirring the ethereal shadows and rippling fear throughout the lower caste. He twisted his maw in wounded defeat, spitting out the bones that he sucked upon. The fight with the Himalazians had left the Padshah in a bad position, perhaps leading to the current situation. Akash smelled the grimes, oils, and fabrications of their equipment on the non-zealots. Despite the fact that the Imperial wargear was present, those that defended the hive-village were dying as swiftly as they were appearing. It was a grim phantasm, one that he had finished experiencing. With one swipe of his armored claw, the shadows of the past disappeared from his refined senses. The lower caste watched on in a mixture of fear as his rending talons tore through the air. A small amount of joy bubbled up as he watched their formation topple from the shockwave.
The formation stumbled back, tripping over the corpses of their fellow servants. Lower caste warriors that had fought to defend the village-hive with everything that had. Their corpses were maimed, dismembered, and butchered beyond recognition, yet they still remained in the wreckage. Regardless of their standing, Akash’s entourage didn’t scream for their lives or vomit their lungs out in disgust. His maw split in a wicked smile as he pounced off the last stretch of spire. His men pulled away from him as they regained their composure. He had gained enough information from this battlefield to properly address the Padshah. As he began to turn away, one of the Padshah’s royal caste marched over to him. They stank of hypocrisy, delicateness, and a life spent in perfumed quarters. It revolted him, yet he was expected to serve regardless.
“By the Padshah’s grace.” Akash growled out in a tone thinly veiling his disgust. His enormous form bowed down to the member of the royal caste, who sauntered forward on strange shoes that lifted him above the ground. He despised their presence with every fiber of his being, donned in robes longer than their person and with gear that made them impervious to his claws. An aura of superiority radiated from the royal, pushing his disgust further in.
“Tigerheart. The most holy Padshah has allowed your investigation into this… little insurrection. Be thankful that a meager, artificial being like yourself was granted the grace of His blessing. Now, without wasting more of my time, tell me what has happened.” The man was pompous and regal, yet thin and tall regardless of his position. His tone, by all the Gods, was the most infuriating out of everything. The royal spoke as if he was a personal gift from the Cycle, born from the fruits of the Eternal Vine. It angered him to such a point that he actively suppressed a snarl. He reminded himself that not all royals were like that, especially not the Padshah.
“It’s grim. The scents are vague but distinct. The southerners seem to have risen up against the Padshah. They’ve got bestials, monks, and something foreign mixed with them. Scents that stink of the Pacific. Imperial equipment was used against the insurrectionists,” Akash began to reply, raising his head enough to speak but not enough to stare directly at the royal. Despite his prowess in combat, he wasn’t allowed to gaze at the upper class. A right that was reserved for the most exalted of His court. He continued with a snarl growing on his tongue. “But our warriors lost badly. If it happened here, then it’s already happened across the Holy Land. This isn’t a typical rebellion.”
The royal ruminated over what Akash said with a disapproving sneer. His body shook with disgust, ruffling like an avian in uncomfortable conditions. Both of his prismatic orbs closed to the world, allowing two additional sets of eyes to open up further on his head. They observed in several directions, consuming the sights of the destroyed village in seconds. It appeared as if the royal was looking beyond what the Tigerheart could see even with his own unique senses. A minute passed before the spheres disappeared into the folds of his skin.
“I’ve deemed your words as truthful and holy, bestial. Your senses, despite repulsive and fake, were correct in their appraisal of the situation. The southerners are in rebellion. Worse of all, they’ve accepted the most unholy and foul of foreigners into their forces. This is an unprecedented situation,” He responded in a defeated tone, defiant enough to be haughty but yielding enough to be humble. The royal gestured with one hand for Akash to look upon him and follow. Tigerheart rose wordlessly to his full height that towered even over the aristocrat. A grunt of disgust spurted out of their lips before continuing to speak. “His Holy Benevolence, High Padshah Siddharth must be informed.”
No sooner had the royal made the statement did the sounds of battle ring out in the background. A reinvigorated assault by the zealots had erupted in the nearby area. The horrific sound of butchery mixed effortlessly with the screaming of a mutant horde. The royal rolled his eyes once more and turned to the gargantuan form of Akash Tigerheart. A simple wave from his elegant hand was enough to unleash the bestial and his cohort. A wicked smile split the tiger maw of the genewarrior. The warlord raised his head to the sky and released a tiger roar into the fetid jungles. Their hunt was on once more.
Nolus Dolhai. The pinnacle of Indoi, holy summit of the High Padshah and grand temple dedicated to the Millennium Gods. It sprawled across all of the northern lands as the grandest hive of Eurasia. Spires rose as towering epitomes of Indoi culture, each topped with shrine-like mandapa. Brilliant gardens of cultivated mutant flora blossomed in beautiful squares in the hive, while fountains of diluted poison waterfalled from the tallest towers into ancient aquaducts. The hive was alive with activity from the bioluminiscent underhives to the tips of the holiest shrines. Transports of archaic design glided between the many towers to deliver unknowable materials. Functioning maglevs ferried an unquantifiable amount of men and women to different portions of Dolhai. Parades of well-groomed warriors marched the streets in reinforced carapace and carrying magnificent weapons, courtesy of the Imperial Himalazians. Beast-like genewarriors stood sentinel over the sacred sites, each designed with a different type of Terran animal in mind. The psyker-monks of the Cycle vigorously trained in specially designed plazas in attempts to achieve equilibrium.
And above it all, High Padshah Siddharth Enue watched with a troubled expression on his gold-tinged face. Typically, his twelve eyes would be alight with the joys of life and better spent divining the way forward for their culture; however, the words of his followers troubled him with each passing moment. One of the member from the royal caste, Raja Nayak, had further elaborated on the quickly progressing insurrection in his kingdom. He steepled his six hands in a fervent prayer to the Cycle, hoping that Indoi would return to blessed righteousness. Enue knew, though, that it wouldn’t come to be. Even Akash Tigerheart, one of his Divine Companions, had confirmed the events playing out across the land. Siddharth shook his head in defiance of fate, the myriad of ochre earrings shaking against his gargantuan golden body.
As he began to build himself up into a long prayer, one of his companions barged into his sanctum of worship. He turned to address the bestial as they prostrated themselves before his golden might. A crocodilian woman bowed to him, lowering her head in a majestic gesticulation. Unlike Akash’s defiant desire for armor, she wore an elegant robe over her lumbering form. It paled in comparison to his own, a mantle as long as the stars were bright and flowed with the smoothness of a snake’s scales. Regardless of her approval to gaze upon him, she remained impassive before his twelve-eyed observation. He spread his six arms wide in an accepting gesture of the crocodilian woman.
“Sadhika Scaleheart! O’ companion of mine! I pray that you bring me news that will radiate my day! Please, speak with my blessing!” The golden form of the High Padshah gestured with all six of his open palms turned towards Sadhika. Nervously, she raised her eyes to behold the holy monarch of Indoi. A look of sadness passed her reptilian orbs.
“Most blessed Padshah, I deliver news that will despoil your divine ears,” She began to speak in a tongue that defied logic, one crossed between a soothing song and a crocodilian growl. To him, it was beyond pleasant to listen to, yet her news brought a frown to his illustrious facial features. “Akash Tigerheart, your divine companion, has eliminated the next wave of insurgents; however, several other hordes of zealots have torched the farm-hives around the defended area. Despite the losses, we’ve managed to divine the name of their leader and backers. They are-”
“Thakur Vimal Sura, Diviner of the Cycle and Tender of the Fruit. They are backed by the Yndonesic Bloc and the Pan-Pacific Empire.” The High Padshah replied in a disheartened voice, his radiant aura dying down to a low dim as he delivered the truth. His companion looked confused, yet surrendered to his divine commandment. He had skeined the fates and learned what had befallen his kingdom moments before her arrival, yet he rejected the destiny laid out across reality. Siddharth simply wished to hear it directly from one of his most trusted servants first.
“Akash was certain of betrayal in the south, yet I refused to listen. I had hoped that the Tigerheart had been wrong in this one instance, but I was a fool not to adhere to the whims of the Gods. They had sent a songbird and I set it free without listening.” Siddharth turned away to step out onto the shrine’s balcony. Nolus Dolhai sprawled out before him in all of it’s beauty, complimented only by the cascading poisonfalls. He dipped his head in distress, golden tears beginning to build at the edge of his twelve eyes. “I know the answer to the issue, but speak the words that I need to hear, o’ companion of mine. Let me hear your song of revelation, dear Scaleheart!”
The crocidilian genwarrior was bothered but unsurprised about what had just occurred. She expected that a certain amount of information had already been passed to the High Padshah, but Sadhika hadn’t expected the precise details to be revealed. The words he demanded, though, were ones she was prepared to speak. Once more, her head was lowered to a humiliating bow as she spoke.
“We cannot hope to win without external support. We once failed to beat back the Himalazian Emperor with our combined strength and relented to their demands. Their support has born plenty of fruit. Now, more than ever, we must bow our heads and request the Imperium to intervene. Kalagann would butcher us and Narthan Dume would execute your most holiness.” Her words were wrought with a mixture of reason and desperation. Each syllable was spoken with the most humility she could muster in her geneforged being. She was heard, however, as the High Padshah placed a golden hand on her scaled skull.
“Thank you, o’ companion. Go now and reach out to the Imperials. Let the Himalazian Emperor know that we have reconsidered Unity and wish for their full support.” He said with a pitiful smile, pulling his golden hand back to steeple it with the rest of his digits. His head was bowed in a reverent prayer as he uttered the next words. “Let us pray that it is the correct path and that the Cycle may be allowed to continue.”
Aethys clicked the talons of his gauntlet together impatiently as the stormbird rattled around him. Unlike the typical glove that covered his digits, an oversized fist with long claws occupied both of his hands. He had grown accustomed to them after the Unification of Nabatae, shed blood with them in Abyssna, and planned to master them in Indoi. The warriors of the thirtieth clade, the Sanguine Claws, prepared in a similar manner to their clademaster. Their role to play in the skirmishes of southern Indoi were as they always had been - instigating chaos and sowing fear. New armaments, their powered claws in specific, had proven their tactics worthwhile during the rebellions following Abbaba’s defeat. Such was their glory that Legion Master Zaid had given him command over an entire clade.
Their transport violently staggered as chaff was jettisoned beneath their greaves, no doubt to deter anti-air solutions from the ground forces. The hull suddenly darkened as klaxons began to whir and whine with their approaching vector. As one, Aethys and his clade automatically unbuckled from their restraints to stand at the ready. Jump packs, those utilized in the assault of Abbaba, were mounted to their backs. Each of their fists were covered by man-sized gauntlets with elongated claws wreathed in arcing electricity. The clademaster stood at the forefront with his slopped helmet, topped with bronze laurel, looking outward. As the alarms began to dim, the assault ramp quickly dropped to reveal the dense, mutated jungles of southern Indoi.
Poison banks filled with saline snaked between fast canopies of sickly green jungle. Black-topped mountains smaller than the Himalazians rose up in the background beyond their sight. The chaos of war was raging below them in the form of erratic gunfire, swarming projectiles, and manifold explosions that threatened to wipe the flora from existence. Teeming around the flying form of the stormbird were other transports, each emblazoned with the Raptor and hued in black-bronze colors. Satisfied with their position, Aethys ignited the jump pack and leapt out into the toxic winds of Indoi. His clade followed swiftly after him with their armaments roaring to life on wings of promethium.
The clademaster of the Sanguine Claws and his clade were not alone in this ordeal. Other Astartes leapt from their stormbirds with jump packs screaming into the toxic winds. Their numbers were innumerable, all of them released from a flock of roaring transports that drew the attention of the insurrectionists. Their attention quickly swiveled over to the rapidly descending forms of the genewarriors. Small arms fire rattled against their reinforced plating to no avail, yet heavier munitions on long-legged machines plucked them from the sky in dense storms of shells. Many of them died on the descent into the jungles below, but many more survived the fall to begin the slaughter anew.
Aethys and his clade were amongst the lucky to survive the southern Indoi response. Their jump packs threatened to shudder into nothingness as they reverse-fired their variable thrusters to achieve landfall. One of his number suffered such a fate that their jetpack clogged on final descent, crashing from the sky in a plume of fire. Their sacrifice would be remembered for a time, but their death would be overshadowed by the slaughter to come.
And so it did as Aethys dived into the four-barreled, long-legged machine manned by a crew of fifteen individuals. His claws flashed left, decimating four in a brutal cut of electricity, while his clade members purposefully crashed into other automata such as he did. Their taloned instruments raked through flesh and machine alike in a catastrophic dance of nightmares. Men screamed as they were torn apart by arcing powerfields, hunted by being larger than their own genetic monstrosities. No sooner had the chaos began did it end in an explosion of gore and metal.
+’Instrument Site Epsilon-One-Five-Seven-Beta has been incapacitated. Beginning advance to Instrument Site Fennec-One-One-Three-Alpha.’+ Aethys spoke in a stiff, somber tone through the vox. His helmet, like many of their number, had been modified this campaign for wide-range transmission as part of an experiment. Though only available to the clademasters, he was certain that all of their consuls and the Master of the Legion were the first to receive this new equipment. Static followed his transmission until a voice pierced through the technological fog.
+’No. Reinforce Battle Site Concord-Five-Three-Five-Zulu. Our predecessors require assistance dispatching an ambush.’+ A voice as familiar as his warplate, Master Zaid N’dar had commanded him away from the precious duty of decapitating strikes. More importantly, he referenced those stunning, barbaric warriors that came before them. Thunder Warriors, the Legio Cataegis, their gene-ancestors and havoc dispensers of Terra. He alighted at the thought of working alongside them once more.
+'Orders received.'+ He responded in a curt voice, though Aethys could do little to hide his excitement. His talons clicked together in anticipation, a motion that he had attempted to rid himself of many times before. Although many clade members would relay their orders to their cohort, Aethys felt no need to do so. Wordlessly, the Astartes leapt into the air on burning turbines. They followed him in a great blast of pyroclastic energy.
The battlefield, closer than it had been previously, laid out before them as they leapt to their next destination. An entire swathe of the mutated dark green flora had been burned away towards Nolus Dolhai. A swarm of human flesh bearing the red-black of the Imperium trudged in violent protest to the southern Indoi insurgents. Behemoth vehicles akin to castles on treads flattened hills, trees, and trenches beneath their wake. Others swam between the human waves as augmented mercenaries with their own plethora of disastrous weaponry. Where the wall walked, tidal waves of trenches were left behind and used by thunderous cannons pointed into the sky. Be it anti-air or roaring artillery machines, the Imperium reinforced and reaved like an Nordyc axman with a shield.
All of this paled in comparison to the brutal genewarriors mixed amongst them. Clad in fully encased suits of gray power armor, the Third Legion marched as a bulwark of violent repression. Aethys had always admired their stalwart, cynical attitudes as they systematically neutralized their targets. Upon his next descent, he had watched a squad of the gray giants precisely tear apart one of the Indoi warwalkers and suffer no casualties.
His boots planted across the soft jungle floor, threatening to sink his armor in the mutated mire of Indoi. The Astartes refused this, pushing forward with the might of a demigod through the dense flora. His warriors chased after him with their claws at the ready. Their destination began to unfold in a wide opening of the tall, fungal vegetation. Giants, akin to themselves, brutally fought in close combat with bestial monstrosities. Bedecked in yellow-orange powered armor, a warrior with a standard raised an insignia of a Raptor Imperialis backed by a radiant sun and paired sabers. Aethys knew them immediately, hypno-trained and forced to memorize, as the IX Legio Cataegis - the Dawnhunters.
He awaited no alliance hail from the Dawnhunters, descending into the fray with his clade and claws. Genewarriors - if they could be called that - with myriad faces of Terran fauna fought back. Larger than the Astartes and armed with a variety of powerfielded weapons, Aethys could understand why the Cataegis were finding issues with the enemy. His claws tore through the ramshackle powered armor of the first bestial, pulling the warrior apart in a display of brutal viscera. Those behind him managed the same, decapitating and tearing their prey with relative ease. Despite their losses, the Dawnhunters held their own with roaring chainsabers and powerswords akin to equine-choppers.
The source of their call for reinforcement appeared before they could hunt it out. A smaller, lither bestial emerged from the woods with a plethora of arms weaving in apparent chant. Words, such that he had not heard before, began to spill forth from their maw as unnatural lightning arced off their apparel.
"Witch!" Aethys roared out as he pulverized the next bestial attempting to intercept him. Though he had not screamed it into the vox, his warriors had heard the call all the same. They moved in sync, weaving around the battlefield against the crushing wave of animal genewarriors and mutated hounds. Before the mutant could finish their chant, the Astartes were already upon them with claws descending.
"No!" One of the Dawnhunters screamed out as he kicked one of Indoi genewarriors in the chest, crushing their entire torso into a deep cavity. "It is not their witches we falter against!"
The trap had already been sprung. It was too late to respond before the first of the Astartes had fallen to the blades that crashed upon them. Robed figures in lithe power armor flitted into existence around them. Each wore a helmet with a howling skull, their gauntlets carrying a single-edged sword in one hand and a strange bundle of beads in the other. Edged with plasma, their swords pierced easily through the Astartes armor. Aethys had been lucky enough to avoid a decapitating strike, but he paid for that periless dodge with his helmet and one side of his face. Two of his clade perished to their ambush, decapitated and sundered. The last two managed to flit away on their jump packs with minor wounds.
Now, Aethys understood, why the Cataegis had been forced into this position. He reached up and tore the remainder of his helmet from his skull. The Scorpion had been lucky that the plasma had seared his wounds closed, elsewise he'd have to worry about the bleeding. The entire right side of his face was a mixture of devastatingly scorched and horrifically maimed. If the blade had striked an inch close, then his brain would certainly leak from his head. His tanned skin kissed the sun for the first time in Indoi, drinking deeply of the poisonous air. Brown hair descended the back of his head to his neck, cut abruptly on the right side by the wound. He lunged into the fray once more, their tricks unveiled and thwarted. It would prove to be his first of many mistakes against the eastern menace.
One of the Dawnhunters rushed into him, shouldering him away from a blast of pyrokinetic, unearthly energy. The Thunder Warrior disintegrated under the wave of wyrd, leaving nothing behind besides the charred air. It had been a warning. One that Aethys wouldn't forget or forgive. Every ounce of his training as an Astartes kicked in, words whispering into his ears from an unknown language in an unknown time. Sunder the black sands with obsidian talons. It had told him and he answered with violence.
Beams of wyrd were called forth from the unknown warriors. His preternatural senses allowed him the ability to dodge, even as they came as close as a carcharadon's tooth. Aethys focus heightened to a razor's edge, his body and claws lowered into a hunting jaunt. The black-bronze phantom, aided by the swiftness of his jets, pounced upon the warriors. They had been swift in the initial strike. They were not Astartes. His claws mauled the first, carving through ancient power armor and shredding mystic robe in single slashes. The second came upon him, cleaving through his right pauldron before being eviscerated by his talons. The next sliced through the powerfield of his left claw, rendering the weapon useless.
Anything is a weapon. The words came upon him as his unpowered, hulking fist caved the assassin's torso in. A flicker of movement saw his foot kick up one of his fallen ally's helmets, then punched down onto the aforementioned victim's skull. The last of the enemies sliced through the last of his talons, their plasma-edged sword easily carving through the humming powerfield. Aethys acknowledged his opponent, retreating backwards before charging forward with his jumppack. He was swiftly met with lightning quick stab from the sword. The Astartes caught the blade in his right fist, quickly melting through his oversized gauntlet. Their surprise was enough for the Scorpion to smash his left fist into the warrior, ending their life in a satisfying crunch. It came at the cost of his right gauntlet and part of his now-exposed hand. To him, it had been worth the price.
With their superior allies defeated, the insurgents quickly faltered. The Dawnhunters rallied after Aethys, murdering and butchering the last of the bestial warriors. Those that attempted to escape were intercepted by the last two Astartes aside from the clademaster. No sooner had the slaughter been finished did a rush of black-red mortals begin to filter through the opening. Reinforcements, smaller and expendable, filled the gaps with the rumble of heavy armaments following closely behind.
Aethys breathed heavily, his battle focus wearing off and his dual hearts rapidly thumping in rhythm. He wanted to curse his frailty, a burden of his geneseed, but remained standing solemnly. The Dawnhunters, those few that remained, approached him with similarly harrowed conditions. Both of his surviving Astartes came to his side.
"You fought like a demigod, fresh out of the anvil!" One of them said, the one that had initially warned him of the impending assassins, "I am Centurion Aralles of the Ninth Legio Cataegis, though we could hardly be called a Legion anymore." The warrior guffawed as loudly as the artillery in the background. Many of his kind would find this attitude annoying, but Aethys found it surprisingly charming.
"You have my thanks and more, Centurion," Aethys responded, pressing his wounded fist against the Raptor Imperialis across his breastplate, "I am Sergeant Aethys of the Thirteenth Legio Astartes." The title felt alien on his tongue. He had fought against Terra's earliest threats as a clademaster or cohort centurion. Now, however, the Legion's structure was rapidly changing and so too were the Cataegis.
"We had expected some of the Grey Third from the frontline, but not quite the heroism from the Thirteenth." Aralles spoke, removing his helmet to display the giantism that plagued his imperfect features. Deep bronze skin, darker than Aethys' own, and black hair with a single stripe of smoldering orange. No doubt, amongst the number of the Cataegis, this one was better looking than others.
"The Lightnings of the Third Legio Astartes," Aethys corrected him without missing a beat, "They're dour and melancholy, but they are inexperienced and raw. Their duties are the frontline to veteran themselves within a campaign. Ours is the blood of our enemy's backs upon our daggers and claws."
The response appeared to have caused some amount of approval in the eyes of the Cataegis. He beamed with delight, a great smile breaking up the scars and marks that plastered his face. An unnatural feeling filled his chest. Had they bonded in such a short time?
"A warrior after my own heart. Proper descendants. If you are an example of what comes after us, then Unity will come sooner than we expected. Raptor Imperialis, Astartes!" Aralles said, smashing his fist against the Raptor on his chestplate. The Thunder Warriors departed for the next objective, all five of them leaving three behind to fester in the Indoi jungles. Their corpses reminded him of his next duty.
"Bring the fallen to the apothecarium. Their geneseed must be recovered." Aethys stated, watching as his subordinates began to move away to the dead Astartes. With a grunt of effort, the black-bronze giant shuffled off the talon-severed fists from his arms. His right gauntlet was a maimed mess, severed and singed just as his face now was. His left was remarkably fine.
As the fallen Astartes were removed from the battlefield, lifted aloft on the jetpacks of his squad, Aethys moved towards the eviscerated corpses of the assassins. Kneeling down, he plunged the claws of his left fist into the skulls of the warriors. Tearing out clumps of grey matter, the Astartes shoveled them into his mouth. Already the augmentation began to filter images, names, words, and places into his mind. A part of him wanted to snarl at the things that he witnessed.
"The Pan-Pacific Empire." Aethys spoke aloud to none but himself. His voice bordered on a deep growl. Their involvement had been reported yet unfounded by Nolus Dolhai. His commander, Legion Master Zaid, had assumed much and more. He would need to report this to Consul Zameel. Something stirred within his person as he stood up once more. His eyes lingered on the single-sided plasma-blades of his foes. Anything is a weapon. The words, foreign and unusual, came to him once more.
He reached down and lifted the weapon into his left gauntlet. It was a sword that would normally have to be used two-handed effectively by mortals. To him, it was a weapon fit for his palm. Aethys justified that he would need a new weapon to fight with. Similarly, he thought, he would need a new helmet. Strapping the blade to his waist, the Astartes picked up one of the skull-faced helmets of the assassins. Some fitting would be required, no doubt.
With one hand he pressed the helmet over his skull. He strangely felt at peace behind the skull-faced mask. He felt as if he could walk over a thousand and one grains of black sand untouched.
Zameel flicked the new blade in his hand clean of enemy blood - or whatever remained that hadn't evaporated on the plasma field. His sergeant had brought him one of the enemy's weapons as proof of his kills. Though, he thought, it was odd that Aethys had decided to keep one of their skull-faced helmets to himself. Despite the grimness of the apparel, the Astartes found himself enjoying the contrast of bone-white on bronze-black. No doubt his Legion Master would agree, were it not for their current predicament.
Like a titan born of blood and fury, Zameel witnessed Zaid cleave through the rank-and-file Indoi like a reaper to their harvest. In one hand, his chainaxe was a crimson phantom of gore and viscera. In his other taloned gauntlet was the Lance of Abbaba, easily slicing through armor with an archeotech powerfield. It was impressive that any black or bronze remained to be seen with the sheer amount of shed life splashed against his warplate. Nothing remained of the Legion Master's tabard, tore or burnt asunder by his own weapons or those of his opponents. With a grunt of effort, the Astartes pierced a bestial genewarrior in the chest to lift him up into the air. The barrel on the lance vibrated to superspeed before expunging volatile energy into the sternum of the warrior. Nothing remained behind save for a pink mist.
The battlefield around him was filled with similar feats of abominable strength. The loyalist bestial genewarriors carved through their lesser cousins with religious ferocity. Astartes of the Third walked in straight lines, annihilating in waves of volkite rays and heavy bolt drills. Cataegis of the Ninth and the Eleventh marauded as they had centuries ago with crackling claw and reaving chainweapons. Zameel had even noted that the 10th Excertus Imperialis - the Black Wolves - hadn't fallen behind with their cannons ablaze and their infantry roaming in raiding squads. In truth, he loved this war more than anything at the moment. A true testament of mankinds dedication to brutal violence.
He flicked his gauntlet out, decapitating one of the multi-limbed witches with a lightning fast strike from his blade. It's carcass slumped to ground, regurgitating vile black blood out onto the jungle floor. His helmeted gaze scanned the horizon for fresh opponents as the battle continued. Delightfully, Zameel observed them as they marched from the depths of the jungle. Gargantuan suits of bolted metal and billowing engines emerged from into their trenchline with greatblades and towering shields. Both of their armaments were stacked with a plethora of ranged devices, their sword with fat-barreled rifles and their bulwarks with heavy cannons. Monstrous machines on oversized treads crunched through the foliage in support of their advance, a great mouth with a belly of plasma atop the lumbering vehicle.
"It seems the true enemy has revealed themselves. Just as you had said, Zaid." Zameel called out to the Lord of the Thirteenth, who bisected another mortal with a casual slash of his chainaxe. His helmet turned towards the new arrivals. The praetor was certain that the elder Astartes had begun to form a snarl on his lips.
“It matters little. It is the Emperor’s will to see their greatest warriors defeated.” Zaid finally responded. Zameel never believed in coincidences, yet he couldn’t deny the timing on the part of their Legion Master. Perhaps he had anticipated when, how, and why their true enemy would deploy from the depths of the jungles. Nevertheless, the praetor watched as warriors clad in the golden warplate of the Custodes strode the battlefield at lightning speed. The Astartes had always considered himself fast but never as fast as the personal vanguard of their Master. They shredded through the freshly arrived bulwarks with disgusting ease, dancing around their mighty shields as if they weren’t wearing the heaviest armor known to man. Their spears punctured thick, multilayered plating where powerswords and chainweapons would struggle to pierce. Where their legionnaires operated as a cohesive team built on genetics, they were in sync on a metaphysical level with twinned feints and assisted reloading. He admired them as much as he admired the Cataegis for their violent brutality.
+’Continue the purge, Thirteenth, our Master demands Indoi.’+ The voice of one of their warriors, Gjallahar, spoke while slaying the intruders in vast swathes. His voice was as calm as untouched water and deep as the oceans of Old Terra. No doubt he was respected amongst their golden number, but not nearly as much as their famed commander.
+’And Lord Aristagoras?’ Legion Master Zaid asked, pulling the Lance of Abbaba free from the disintegrating corpse of a bestial genewarrior. Free of enemies, he strode the battlefield with reinvigorated purpose. Zameel had wondered how his mind worked in time such as this. Similar to his own, he wagered, yet instinctually built for an entirely different purpose.
+’Worry not for the Axe of the Emperor, Astartes, he fights his own battles. When he is required, Captain Aristagoras will arrive with axe and laugh.’+ Gjallahar frankly responded, cutting the vox communication with the abrupt rudeness expected of their lineage. If it had offended the Legion Master, then Zaid hid it well beneath the knightly visage that was his helmet. Locking the chainaxe to his belt, the elder genewarrior rose up onto one of the vehicle wrecks with the Lance of Abbaba raised high. To some, mortals mainly, it was a sign to charge and advance onto the enemy. To his legion, it was a call to splinter and begin sowing operations. Such was the way of their number.
A flurry of their number, either on jetpack or on foot, spread out in all different directions to handle different tasks. His own number were amongst those soaring through the skies on burning wings; however, he was assigned a different task compared to those of his rank like Raamiz or Alim. His duty was to the Legion Master, trusted as a vaunted second-in-command should the old man ever perish on the battlefield as was his want. He thought of his duties as the Legion Master stepped from the wreckage of an Indoi warwalker.
“You’ve grown, Zaid, I didn’t hear a single snarl over the command vox.” Zameel said with a tinge of sarcasm seeping from his lips. It nearly earned him some form of backlash from the vaunted commander of the Thirteenth were it not for their current situation.
“Lord Aristagoras’ Host will handle the Yndonesic interlopers,” Zaid responded, ignoring his praetor’s sardonic attempts, “the Thirteenth has been charged with intercepting the infiltrators from the Pan-Pacific Empire. As was the plan from the beginning.” He knew what the Legion Master spoke of. Both their commander and the Emperor’s Axe had rightfully assumed that the southern Indoi separatists were backed by greater powers. They spent thirty minutes bitterly fighting over the honors of which force to fight.
“Excellent! More of Narthan Dume’s legendary blades to add to our collection.” Zameel responded, having known from the start that his comment would be disregarded and his thoughts refocused by the Legion Master. Several of their number had gathered around them in preparation for the next phase. Hunters that he and Zaid had personally selected for the mission. Seven in total, all with their preferred weapons in a mix-match of veterancy. Those that had survived the first tests of the Thirteenth. He had jokingly called them immortals. Their commander had grown accustomed to referring to them as such: the Immortals – command squad of the Bronze Scorpions.
Legion Master Zaid thrust himself into a dead sprint, his fabled lance lowered and his body propelling him forward in a wild hunt. He was never one for words as it was. Zameel chased after him with the plasma blade drawn low and activated in preparation for combat. The Immortals followed behind him in a v-shaped formation, their wide array of weapons ready for the kill. Each of them passed the conflict between the Yndonesic Bloc and the Custodes, the former quickly losing to the sheer might of the latter. Behind them, the great tide of red-black and slate gray marched in an unending wave of war. All around them, their fellow genewarriors fought for their objectives with the decisive callousness that made them Astartes. He never doubted that they would find their Pan-Pacific infiltrators.
And so it was that the first of many appeared before them, their shrouds uncovered and their objectives laid bare to the Imperium. A group of five, skulking through the underbrush, raised their weapons and minds to fight off the Astartes. It was foolish to think they could deal with them as they had the Cataegis. Zaid N’Dar, the greatest of their number, lanced through the first with a speed that surprised many but never ceased to amaze Zameel. The infiltrator was hoisted into the air and vaporized by the archeotech’s internal cannon. The praetor fell upon the next, stunned by the sudden arrival of the Lord of the Thirteenth. He had expected to fight warriors on the same level as him. He was sorely mistaken as his opponent fumbled to deal with transhuman dread. The one-sided plasmic sword cut through the robed carapace of the interloper with definite ease. His Immortals echoed the slaughter, vaporizing and churning the Pacific menace with arms of incalculable violence.
The slaughter ended as soon as it had begun. Until the jungles began to shift, sigh, sway, whisper, and moan in a ritualistic dance. The air grew dank with a sour scent, reinforced only by an acrid tinge of sulphur and ozone. Zameel understood what was happening, yet he couldn’t pinpoint the direction. Their Legion Master was the same, staring down in one direction to observe maps hidden from the praetors view. Perhaps that was their folly. The jungles of Indoi were never their hunting grounds. The sands of the blistering deserts were their home. It was foolish to think they could rapidly adapt to geological changes on a whim. Scattered across the repugnant, mutated trees of Indoi, the Empyrean spilled into the acid rivers like a torrent of toxic waste from a manufactorum. Cries and screams rose up from a thousand voices as those in attendance were slaughtered by unspeakable things. Only the voices of the Custodes broke through the chaos.
+’Retreat.’+
A damnable word. An understandable word. This situation was beyond what they were capable of, especially for the Astartes of the Third. The Excertus Imperials, aided by the Third, could fend for themselves; however, the Northern Indoi battalions were another story. They broke. Entire sections of the advancing tide buckled, their psyches shattered and bodies sundered by daemonic threat. Multilimbed priests of the Golden Padshah burst into multichromatic fragments, bestial genewarriors mutated into great horrors of apocalyptic proportion, and trained beast-mutants transformed into throbbing masses of meat and teeth. Those that survived were forced back by the brutalization of their ranks. The Imperials remained, their slaughter continued, and their protectors pressed forward with renewed vigor.
Lord-Commander Crucias of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis – the Black Wolves – observed the end of the psychic cataclysm with his one remaining eye. Red-black soldiers in trench coats and reinforced carapace stabbed pulsating flesh masses in squads of five with bayonet and blade. The stoic giants of the Third – the Lightnings – walked with them, conflagrating those mutants that still thrived with their volkite cannons. None of the Northern Indoi militants remained to cull their deteriorated brethren. He didn’t blame them for their cowardice. A smattering of the Emperor’s greatest tanks, one of his included, idled nearby while the tides of war were stalled. His ear buzzed with tens of different reports as he watched them continue their gruesome work. The last of the abominations were being swept aside by the vaunted knights of the Emperor’s personal retinue. The Bronze Scorpions – Astartes of the Thirteenth – assisted them in their culling. The Legio Cataegis, in staunch disregard for orders, continued their mayhem in the jungles. They would be successful, no matter their casualty margins.
“Commander,” one of the robed initiates of the Sigilite’s order approached. Three of their number had always travelled with him from Europa to Jermani to Abyssna to here. This one in particular, a relatively young man by the name of Sharaid, presented him with a dataslate. He ranked the lowest amongst the gaggle of intendents, perhaps as a show of faith by the Sigilite or as a test to see if Crucias would remain loyal. Malcador never failed to draw amusement from Wolfgang Crucias’ endless calculations and deliberations. The lad continued to speak as he mused. “I bring tidings from our Master and word from Lord Aristagoras.”
“Speak it then.” His voice was as sharp as a shot from a lasgun. There was no softness left in his voice from his youth. It had been tempered in the fire of Terra’s greatest battles. The same could be said about his scars. To Sharaid, he probably appeared as the most ancient commander outside of Malcador. He would assume correctly, rounding the corner of his fifty-fifth year. The Sigilite’s dataslate was as expected, no surprise there. Stay away from the psykers and pull back from quadrants Alpha through Victor. The manifestations in those zones had grown incomprehensibly. No doubt they would lose their Cataegis and Custodes support; however, the Astartes remained with them for the siege. Crucias raised his eye back up to the intendent.
“Zones Warlord through Zulu have been cleared for the assault on Protosia Agras. The Thirteenth have established a clearance corridor for a funneled siege. However,” Junior Scribe-Intendent Sharaid relayed with the carefulness of an adolescent, yet remained reluctant to part with the last piece of information. Wolfgang had already surmised what he would say, yet allowed him the time to spill it out. “Lord Aristagoras and his host will be reassigned to dealing with the incursion. The Ninth and Eleventh Cataegis are being dispatched as reinforcements as well. Squad Gjallahar will remain for the final push to settle the insurrection.”
He blinked. An entire squad of the golden plated knights were remaining with their siege. They lost nearly five-hundred Thunder Warriors to the incursion, yet gained five of the Emperor’s greatest warriors. Despite how he felt about the Cataegis, Crucias felt it was a good trade. Either Aristagoras had felt pity for the Black Wolves or the Emperor’s Axe had anticipated a greater menace in Protosia Agras. It mattered little to him.
“Relay to Lord Aristogras that we’re humbled by his willingness to allow five of his knights to remain. Dispatch a hundred of our non-mercenary Wolves to act as intermediaries and bolt-loaders. Use your guile to ascertain their inherent resistance to the wyrd. Dismissed.” He hadn’t planned to levy some of his personal troops to the Custodes, as they operated better as a cohesive unit without external support, but Crucias knew that his more veteran infantry would suffice for suppressive fire and reloading operations. Sharaid bowed his head in respect, claiming the dataslate offered by the Lord-Commander before disappearing into the hulking hull of his command tank. He had grown thirsty in the dry period of the incursion. His thirst would be quenched by the fall of Protosia Agras’ walls. His hand touched the vox-bead attached to his left ear.
+’All gathered forces. Proceed to coordinates as instructed. Ignore obstacles in the specified zones. Begin phase one of the staging operations at points Warlord-One-Seven-Nine and Yankee-Nine-One-Three. Protosia Agras will fall by night fall. Raptor Imperialis.’+ His commands were sent out across a thousand vox-beads and vox-speakers. His words were taken on immediately as the red-black mass, joined by the Gray Third, shifted towards the incursion exclusion corridors for the final assault. His voice left no question about their chances of success. To Lord-Commander Crucias, Protosia Agras had already fallen as soon as the Emperor had commanded it felled. It was simply a matter of adhering to His will.
Protosia Agras. Where Nolus Dolhai was a spectacle of the Old Night, a golden city of ingenuity, the seat of the Diviner was the core of the Cycle’s divinity. Great trees that towered as large as spires twisted in a dance around soaring temples. Incense permanently blanketed the air in a thin miasmic fog, while basins of purified acid floated amidst pools of cultivated sap. At the center of the city was the pyramidic temple of the Diviner, rising as the greatest structure even amongst the leviathan flora. Surrounding the spiritual hive was the Millenium Wall, formed by statues of their deities and reinforced by undefinable energies.
Where some had seen it as the culmination of their spiritual journey, it would forever now be the tomb of the Cycle’s infinite divinity. If anything, Zaid would be sure to torch every single one of their decrepit temples with his own talons. He regrets having to establish the incursion corridor. Protosia Agras was burning, shattered by the wail of a thousand cannons by the time the last of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis had been escorted through. The Legion Master knew he would have to share words with Wolfgang, stealing the glory of the siege for himself and intentionally separating the Astartes away from the action. Or perhaps his praetor was affecting his thoughts more than he had expected. Those thoughts vanished from his mind as his warriors approached the hive. Those walls that he had observed from a distance were demolished, a hundred breaches formed for them to enter.
+’Good of you to come to the battlefield, old friend,’+ The Lord-Commander spoke with what could be considered a smug tone over private vox. It confirmed some of his theories, yet he swallowed his pride and fought back a snarl. Patience is the weapon of the serpent. He heard them as they came, words from the ether that he had quickly accepted for his own. Before he could respond, Crucias continued. +’The Black Wolves will handle the separatists. Lord Gjallahar and four of his knights have begun a lightning assault on Diviner Thakur’s temple. Take your bravest and convene with the Custodes.’+
Few had the capacity or authority to command the recently risen Astartes besides the Emperor, Malcador, and the vaunted members of the Custodes. Neither were they puppets to be strung up by unseen hands to be meekly controlled. Lord-Commander Crucias, veteran general of the Excertus Imperialis, was one who he offered no bite back. He had refused orders from those that threatened to usurp the Emperor’s authority, those that challenged the legitimacy of the Sigilite’s operations, and those of whom shared the same office as him. His legion, once slate grey as the Third, attained an identity because of the Black Wolves. He would, and will, never dismiss the orders of Wolfgang Crucias. Zaid N’dar embraced them.
+’Then it shall be so. Raptor Imperialis, old friend.’+ The Legion Master responded as his lips parted in a toothy sneer-grin. The old man had always known how to strike at the warsong in his beating hearts. He beat the shaft of the Lance of Abbaba against the stone beneath his feet. Zaid ibn N’dar raised his other taloned hand to Protosia Agras and pointed out for the genewarriors of the Thirteenth.
“We’ve been given a grand honor, Bronze Scorpions! We strike at the core of the enemy to rip out their entrails and scatter their bones in His name! Pour into their wounds and poison their veins! Blood of the sand! Gloria Scorpii!” Zaid N’dar roared out through his knightly helmet. The Astartes of the Thirteenth cheered in ways that they knew best – by completing their objective. As a tide of insects into the open cuts of a fallen prey, the bronze-black giants descended upon the great city of Protosia Agras. It was here that the Legion Master truly felt as his title implied – the Lord of a Legion. Their numbers were infinite as they rushed through the canopy of the jungle. On burning wings, they rose and sank into the roaring flames of the hive city. They fell from soaring transports that screamed munitions into the ranks of the separatists. They were thousands. They were legion.
His blood boiled with the anticipation he had come to enjoy as being an Astartes. Both of his hearts beat to the hammers of war. He could no longer hold back the excitement that he felt warring for the Emperor of Mankind. Legion Master Zaid flung himself forward at the head of his hunting pack. Zameel followed in close pursuit, a pair of Pacific mono-edge plasma swords unsheathed to the wind. No doubt if his vox-grills were active, then he was certain to be laughing aloud. The Immortals were close behind him, their weapons powered and their barrels smoking. Each hunted forth with black tabards and chains rattling. Each was a veteran of a hundred skirmishes with talon-tipped gauntlets and laurel-crested helmets. Each of these Astartes was the very pinnacle of genemancy and heralds of their farflung progenitor. Each heard the songs of the umbral world, bowed to them, and used them in their lessons of war. They were a single drop in an ocean of thousands of bronze-black knights that scaled over the separatist walls.
And they were unstoppable. As Zaid sprinted over the crumbling ruins of shattered buildings, he observed the situations as they passed by. Where the inexperienced Third and the Black Wolves fought to a stalemate, the Bronze Scorpions descended with a renewed fury that broke the tide with numbers and violence. When the lumbering titan-mutants of the Diviner’s menagerie shuddered out of their pits, the Thirteenth were already carving into their fat flesh with talon and blade. They were innumerable. The actions of his legion proved worthy enough to draw attention away from the great pyramid of the Diviner. In real-time, the Legion Master witnessed the shambling warrior-slaves march enmasse to disruptions across the city. Vehicles were rerouted to handle an outbreak of bronze-black giants desecrating their shrines. Mutant-masters were forced to change their prey-targetting modules to focus on the Thirteenth. He could smell the astonishment, fear, and adulation from the mortals of the Black Wolves. Transhuman dread, the likes of which they had never seen before, was apparent in their body language. They rejoiced at sudden, unprovoked reinforcements and rose the Thirteenth up on internal pillars of glory.
Their glory, their sacrifices, would not be in vain. The golden aura of the Custodes grew closer as they crossed the fractured courtyard towards the Diviner’s grand temple. Their hulking forms were the very essence of lightning, cleaving their way through the thickest plate and densest crowd. To the surprise of Zaid, more than the Custodes awaited their strikeforce. A squad of Cataegis mulched through the temple sentinels, each as ornate as their Custodes counterparts. One bore claws with plasma-wreathed talons, while another pierced a defender with a shimmering spear of licking flames. He knew them before they could introduce themselves.
Primarch Napoleos and Primarch Vladorios. Both were unhelmed, their brazen and bruised faces open to the toxicity of Thakur’s despoiled temple. They were different in strange ways, but they were equally brutish and malformed. The Primarch of the Dawnhunters, Napoleos, bore the spear with his long hair flowing from a tight knot. His armor was orange-yellow with golden accents, decorated with a myriad of trophies from across Terra. The Primarch of the Raptor’s Claws, Vladorios, was a sullen warrior with a shaved head armed with a pair of deathly talons. His white-yellow armor stood stark amongst their assemblage. Two Dawnhunters and two Raptor’s Claws escorted their respective commanders with similarly brazen weapons of humming power.
Further, still, was the peculiar attendance of the Padshah’s Companions - bestial genewarriors of particularly old Terran animals that had long gone extinct. Unlike the Cataegis, Astartes, or Custodes, the Companions wore pseudo-power armor as their hide was enough to withstand several direct hits from explosives. One in particular, a man with intense feline features, led from the front with rending claws and a blood-covered maw.
“Perform your duties, Astartes.” The Custodes at the head of their group, Gjallahar. A crimson plume scurried out of his pointed helmet, slick with Indoi blood. A unique axe was held in his golden gauntlets, double-headed with a conflagrator at the shaft’s end. Despite the gore that decorated his armor, the genewarrior’s voice gave no inkling of fatigue or tiredness.
Zaid ibn’ Ndar and his Immortals acquiesced without verbal or physical confirmation. They bypassed the melee at the bottom of the temple’s long stairway, beginning their long winded ascent to the top. The temple itself was a steep pyramid of rustic metal and reinforced stone, centered directly at the apex of the hive-city to loom over all that reside within. Perhaps, once, it would’ve had automated guardians to defend it. Now, however, it was crewed by mutants and beast-creatures made from the toxic jungles and dank laboratories of the Indoi. Those said sentinels dared to bar their path were alike the Padshah’s Companions - bestial warriors heavily corrupted by the whimsical insurrection of the Diviner.
If they had thought they would be enough to stop the Thirteenth, then they had been sorely mistaken. The Immortals tore into them with all manners of fury. Zameel, with both of his single-edged blades, leapt into a decapitating strike on one of the defenders. Rhaehal, an Immortal, bisected another with a power glaive claimed from Abyssna. Another pair, Aghoris and Martarias, assisted each other in a deadly dance with volkite disintegrators and Jermani-pattern heavy blades. The last two, Hakam and Ghaalib, scythed through the weaker of the bestial warriors with venerable chainswords and thumping bolters. Zaid, himself, pierced through their lead opponent and tossed him from the side of the temple; yet, it was never these juggernauts that truly blocked their path.
Slinking down from the top of the pyramid, exiting from the dark depths of the Diviner’s temple, five figures began to approach them. Zaid could taste their association even before they fully materialized before them. Pan-Pacific knights, bedecked with swords of writhing plasma and power armor with skull-faced masks, squared off against them. Before the Bronze Scorpions could initiate their attack, a flash of three golden figures burst through their scattered rank. Gjallahar’s brethren leapt into combat with the straight-edged menace expected of their pristine genealogy. All at once, the Pacific knights were locked in mortal combat with the veteran genewarriors of the Emperor’s retinue.
“Zaid. Napoleos. Vladorios. With me.” The command hadn’t needed to be said over vox. Gjallahar was clear enough to be heard even through the filtered grills on his helmet. Four of them, in his mind, would be plenty. Zameel, understanding the situation as it passed, turned around and prepared his blades to fight against a gathering throng of insurrections below. The Immortals, and eventually the veteran Cataegis, followed suit with their ranged weapons ready. As the squad of four rushed past the Pacific knights, the harsh scream of volley fire echoed behind them.
While the war waged behind and below them, the four threw themselves into the upper echelons of the temple. Great braziers of strange, everburning fire were held aloft by metallic statues with unusual properties. Large murals, carved into the hallways of the pyramid, spoke of the long, religious history of Indoi and all of their predecessors. None dared pay any mind to the dreams of bygone tyrants - only one ruler mattered to them. Despite the resistance on the way up, the warriors found none to bar their journey to the Diviner; however, they began to smell the familiar scent of depleted ozone and stinking sulphur. Zaid could audibly hear the two Primarchs behind him begin to growl in response. Of their number, he agreed that the Cataegis were the ones most adequately built for handling the wyrd.
The disgusting scent finally presented before them at the top of the open-roofed pyramid. Standing at the center of a great Indoi cohort, a single figure was hovering in the midst of the air. Like the Padshah, this figure had many arms sprouting from their back in an enlightening gesture. A myriad of eyes were closed on the bald head of the stranger, yet many more were open on the plethora of limbs they held. They easily dwarfed the largest of their number, Gjallahar, and wore nothing save for a flowing robe of yellow silk. All of the attendants had perished, their skin melted and their throats slit to spill into an eight-pointed circle beneath the floating being. Reality threatened to rip apart where they stood as they closed the distance.
Gjallahar failed to hesitate. He sprinted with all of his gene-might, hipfiring the conflagrator from his axe. Similarly, the Primarchs waited for no word to begin their assault. Both split to the left and right, aiming to sync their attacks with the Custodes at the forefront. Zaid, utilizing those perks of his geneseed, flitted across the open-air chamber to the rear of the figure. Each of the veteran warriors dived in for an overhead attack, only to be interrupted by the plethora of arms sprouting from the figure.
“Vile mongrels of the Himalazian Mountains! I’ve heard the Truth! From the depths of Ursh’s nightmare citadel to the jade palace of the Pacific Empire have I seen where our beloved world is heading!” As he spoke, Zaid felt as if his skin would rip straight from the meat. If he hadn’t been certain that the creature was the Diviner, then the Astartes was well aware now that Thakur Vimal Sura was some form of abomination. The Lance of Abbaba was held in place by at least ten of his extremities, even while the disintegrator in the shaft was venting death into the air. The Diviner continued without interruption, “The Padshah - our great eminence of the Cycle - was wrong! We have followed the path set before us wrong! He - and your tyrant liege - will know what the Primordial Truth is!”
Perhaps it was due to their latent ability to resist properties of the wyrd, or perhaps it was the sheer brutality that they displayed. Both of the Primarchs wrenched their weapons free of the abomination’s grip, carving into the soft flesh with fist and tooth as if they were animals. The creature that was the Diviner screamed in agony, releasing their weapons as he was assailed. Gjallahar emptied the volatile reserves of his conflagrator into the right leg of the being, while Zaid pierced through the upper right shoulder. With a wail enhanced by sorcerous energies, Thakur unleashed a shockwave of witchcraft that sent all four flying back. Luckily, the Vladorios and Napoleos recovered quicker than the others.
“You are unable to kill me! I am the Cycle made manifest! I am the Tender, bearer of the Fruits! I am the Render, spiller of the Waters! I am the Diviner, willer of the manifold paths! I am the Enlightener, bringer of Nirvana!” The thing screamed out. It’s voice had never had a human tinge to it, yet in this moment it lost all of it’s humanity. The Diviner lashed out with chromatic rays of fire, beams of stinking acid, torrents of boiling fruit-flesh, and razor-sharp feathers of long-extinct fauna. Gjallahar and Zaid were nimble, crafted from the brightest minds, and able to dodge or parry what the Diviner gifted them. The Primarchs, however, were bulk from a different stock. They trudged forward into every assault, losing skin and armor in droves as they pressed further towards Thakur.
“Submit to the Cycle!” The being said as it focused all of it’s energy into one of the Primarchs, threatened by their insane level-headedness. Zaid watched in awe as Vladorios’ withstood all of the Diviner’s attacks without flinching. His armor had long been ruptured, scattered, and disintegrated in their fight. His flesh threatened to peel, blister, bleed, scab, and more as the wyrd attempted to turn him inside out; however, he marched on with one of his shattered talons in one of his hands. The awe faded as quickly as it had set as both himself and Gjallahar descended upon the shocked abomination.
All at once, the battle ended as Vladorios pierced it’s heart with a destroyed talon. Zaid pierced the throat of the being with the Lance of Abbaba. Gjallahar bisected the creature at the waist with his double-edged axe. Napoleos cleaved the skull from the Diviner with his flaming glaive. The floating priest dismantled like a child’s toy as it spun from the air. Blood erupted from the pierced, cleaved, and cut portions of it’s body. The sigil on the ground faded into the stone. The scent of ozone and sulphur disappeared into nothingness. The sound of fighting outside of the pyramid was dying down in a strange change of tune. Their siege was coming to a close.
Vladorios dropped to his knees, gurgling from the sheer amount of injuries he sustained. Despite his best attempt to remain upright, Zaid knew the Cataegis was not long for this world. All of his front-facing armor was destroyed, nothing remained of the skin on his skull, and his tendons were bare on many of his extremities. To his surprise, it was not Napoleos that made the first move, but Gjallahar that rushed to his side. Before the shattered form of the Primarch could collapse, the Custodes held aloft the warrior in his golden arms. The one remaining eye on the warrior stared up blankly at the ornate knight.
“Unity…” Came the hoarse words of the broken Primarch. It was as silent as the still air that remained after the Diviner’s demise. It brought both of his hearts to a beat. He was witnessing the end of one of their longest-lived Terran conquerors. There would be no Unity without their efforts. He doubt there would be Astartes without the Cataegis.
“Raptor Imperialis.” Gjallahar responded, unsheathing his misericordia - a short blade of diamantine - and plunging the weapon into the exposed breast of the Primarch. An audible gasp exhaled from Vladorios before the warrior fell limp into the arms of the Custodes. Until the day that his duty ended, Zaid internally vowed to commit this scene to memory for all eternity. The body was carefully given to Napoleos, who blanketed his body with what remained of his cloak. The golden warrior then turned to the Astartes with a swift change of demeanor. He did not understand why he did it, but Zaid dropped to his knee before the Himalazian knight.
“What is your will?” Zaid asked. Whatever pride he had before was banished after the loss of the Primarch. He couldn’t help but feel respect for the Custodes before him. Perhaps all of Aristagoras’ warriors were like this - honorable, fierce, and proud.
“There can be only one Emperor of Terra and He sits the Himalazian Throne.” Gjallahar said, reaching down and pulling the Astartes up from his kneeling position. The Lance of Abbaba was gifted back to him by the oversized gauntlets of the Custodes. He bore it with pride, despite his ever increasing lack of emotions. The golden knight began to march from the temple, turning back once more to affirm his command. “We will depose the False Emperor of Indoi - Siddharth Enue.”
And so they marched down the temple on a new warpath for Nolus Dolhai, to burn the great city and tear the High Padshah from his treasonous throne. By His will.
