Part 1: Stalemate
Fragments
Ar-Osmium was notified by one of the sensors on his visor that yet another servant under his command had died.
The skitarii marshal made the sign of the Machine God's interlocking gears with his fists, and immediately resumed the pitched battle against the vile xenos. It had been the greatest honor of his life when the Tech Priest in charge of their maniple had informed him of the Omnissiah's will that this menace was purged from the galaxy. Many of the unascended human forces had attempted to assail this position, but had been found wanting. They had not undergone the excruciating ascension that Ar-Osmium and his fellows had been through to make their minds and bodies able to withstand the radiation the Rangda implemented on this battlefield.
To even call it radiation was a heresy that made Ar-Osmium enflamed by rage. It was a holy aura, a manifestation of the Machine God's divine power that imperfect human souls could not withstand being in the presence of, for how could the imperfect survive the encounter with perfection? The aura exposed the impurities of the flesh, made it transform and rebel against the ordered soul and metal of a holy human being. Even some of his counterparts in other skitarii legions referred to it by the blasphemous name of radiation, claiming that the 'superstitions' of the Cult of the Machine were merely allegories warped by the death of knowledge during the Age of Strife. Yet, for all of these heretic's supposed wisdom, Mars had seen fit to send legions that still believed in the true power of the Real Trinity to fight the greatest enemy of mankind. It made the marshal almost spark with pride.
Yet, the Rangda used a form of the holy aura too. So potent, that even his blessed soldiers occasionally succumbed to its perverted weaponization. His visor flashed again. Another death. Another soul taken by the Motive Force as a part of the grand design.
A sudden flash of movement on the hillside brought the skitarri back to the present, and with a quick chirp of binary cant that moved at the speed of light, orders were relayed to the skitarii under his direct control who aimed their rifles and took aim. They too were weakened by the heretical aura, and calculations Ar-Osmium made in his head told him many of them were about to miss their shots. Normally not enough to require correction, but the endurance of their foe was legendary and the Omnissiah demanded perfection. Shots were calculated and redirected before their foe even realized they were there. Dead Rangda littered the hillside and the archeotech weapons glowed white in the hands of the Machine God's chosen soldiers.
Taste buds had been removed from Ar-Osmium as a part of his ascension into this perfect warrior, but he was sure that he would have tasted metal as he coughed up blood. Some of the others did the same.It did not matter. They would take this hill. Their regiment, and others like them who still believed in the Triune Machine would win this fight for the Imperium of Mankind.
If they died while doing so, so be it.
More alerts on his visor. More dead skitarii. More movement on a hill nearby. And so back into the fray Ar-Osmium went, knowing that in all that he did, he praised the Machine God.
Black Deeds, Blackening Hearts
Location: Battleship Vestige of Truth - Interrogation Deck 5
Lord Commander Merir Astelan sat on a nondescript metal bench with the pommel of his sword resting in his hand, blade pointed down into the ground. He was assigned to command an entire theater of war in which the still unnamed First Legion found itself in, freeing his Primarch to push the frontline of the campaign even further as Astelan and the other Lord Commanders kept Eddard's flanks secure. With so much that demanded his attention, it was rare for the Astartes to gain a moment of quiet reflection. It also helped to calm his mind before the moment to come. A moment that Astelan felt honored and horrified by in equal measure.
He had been one of the first five thousand Astartes ever created from Eddard Fendragon's geneseed. Among them, he could not have been sure that he was the first, but he was easily in the first hundred ever made without flaws. And since the First Legion was the Emperor's original experimenting ground, Merir was quite possibly among the first thousand ever created among the millions of Adeptus Astartes.
Though he might not have been the very oldest, many of those ahead of him had perished either from the evils of the Old Night or the various perils of the Great Crusade. It had pushed Merir into various positions of leadership that led to him commanding an entire cohorts of soldiers. He could count the number of people whom he had to kneel upon meeting them on one hand. Yet, he never enjoyed the command. It prevented him from getting to know all of the people who served underneath him.
He often thought of a visit one of the Sigilite's many servants had paid to him in the early years of his Astartes training. They'd spoken about his squad that he was leading, and the strengths of each of them. Astelan had been enraptured, becoming a changed man and seeing his fellow Astartes as people in need of care and mentorship as well as a need for good leadership. It made him love and care for his Primarch deeply, for how could the people underneath him survive if their ultimate leader did not have their full support? The conversation and the subsequent vows he had sworn to himself in the privacy and solitude of his own quarters had carried with him through the years, and had made his rise through the ranks of the First Legion nothing short of meteoric.
But there had been a side effect, one that perhaps even the Sigilite's servants had not predicted. The higher up the ranks he climbed, the more he missed the interactions he had with his fellow rank and file legionaries under his command. More and more of his time seemed to be taken up every single year, especially with the current campaign Lord Fendragon had sent him and the rest of his fleet on. Though he was glad to do it, the fact that the Sigilite's meddling was one of the reasons he felt obligated to perform his current task bothered him slightly.
"Lord Commander?" a battleline Astartes asked him hesitantly. "It is time."
Astelan didn't look up from his sword's pommel, merely staring straight ahead and giving a long sigh before nodding and rising to his feet, The sound of it mercifully silent without the normal protest his armor joints would have given. This was a task that could only be honorably done without armor, and his legion treasured their honor above almost all things.
It was a short walk to the common area, and his escort who had been summoned to escort him knew better than to follow once the doors closed behind the Lord Commander. What happened between their superior and the people inside were between them and them alone.
An Imperial lieutenant, dressed in his formal uniform, stood up straight as Astelan entered the common area. The uniform itself was wrinkled from disuse, and the Lord Commander's keen eyes could not help but notice the lieutenant tugging at the collar of a prison shirt underneath.
"Lord Commander." the soldier said, kneeling as soon as he heard the pneumatic hiss of the doors opening and closing. "I cannot believe you came."
"Every single officer who requests me shall be given my participation." Merit Astelan replied simply, not even looking at the man as he approached waiting servitors who held up various weapons, testing their sharpness and the heft of the swing. "You all deserve that honor."
"I… thank you, Lord Astelan." the lieutenant said, taken aback by the casual tone the Astartes Lord Commander took with him. "And before I forget my manners, congratulations on this victory. The one that will allow us to rejoin Crusader Fleet One for an assault into the core Rangdan empire."
"It does not feel like a victory at all, lieutenant." Merir corrected. "Not when so many have died for it."
"Ah, I suppose it doesn't." the man said sheepishly.
As Merir backed away from the servitors, content with the quality of the weapons, the young man came forward. He looked at the weapons, clearly not familiar with melee options. Astelan wanted to start forward, to help the boy out and give him something that he would do well with. But he stopped himself at the last minute. This wasn't about being effective or even comfortable. It was about giving the lieutenant a modicum of control before it was taken from him. No advice, no words of wisdom. Astelan would remain silent unless spoken to. That was what was best, and he regretted it had taken multiple failures for him to learn that lesson.
The lieutenant picked a simple power sword. One that was very similar to the ones that were given to regimental officers in the Solar Auxillia. A few swishes of the blade, and it was clear that though he would never become a renowned swordsman, he would not make a fool of himself with what was to come.
The Lord Commander stood ten paces away from the boy, sword safely stowed in its sheath. There was usually one more step to this, and he would not dare draw his blade until his future foe either accepted or rejected this optional step.
As if he could read the Astartes' mind, the lieutenant hesitantly looked the Lord Commander in the eye, as if he was a student in the newly founded Schola Progenium that was about to be scolded by a headmaster for undesirable behavior.
"So, how does this usually go?" he joked, trying to force his humor to rise about his fear. "This is my first time in one of these, probably my last one too!"
Silence was the only response that greeted him.
The lieutenant let out a terse chuckle, and gazed around at their surroundings, finding nothing in the bland environment that could distract him from the moment fast arriving.
"Look, I'm about to die." he said finally, acceptance starting to trickle into his voice. "And I don't want to die without a fighting chance. Can I at least talk to you about what happened, Lord Commander?"
And there it was. The confession and the plea. Sometimes separate, sometimes rolled together. But always important to those who wished to be warriors at heart. To go out fighting meant trying to fight in every way that one could, with words and blades alike.
Merir Astelan simply nodded and the lieutenant began to talk, faster and faster in a stream of thought that the Lord Commander did not dare to interrupt.
"I've been a fighter, my lord. Been one my entire life. My family has been high up in the Administratum of my homeworld. There could have been a nice, comfortable job where I became wealthy early and left menial workers do most of my job for me. But I didn't. I felt the call to serve, and I did so proudly.
My mother wept, my little sister couldn't even bear to look at me, but I went anyway. When my regiment was sent to serve in the Xenocides, where no Remembrances recorded our names and our deeds would live and die in ignorance, I still served with honor and dignity. When the hell that the Rangda command was unleashed upon us, I stood firm and told my soldiers to stand firm because the Emperor protects and so did we. Time and time again, I've been unlucky. But not once did I complain. Not once did I allow my soldiers to shirk their duty. I personally have been in battle nine times. Nine drops into a living hell where I saw my best friends die. Only to get new best friends, and have them die as well. Still, I have never thought about running away.
Then our latest campaign came. Your plan was brilliant, my lord. Though we fought the Rangda on world after world, the losses kept mounting. But that was nothing new. We all had become close to loss. Little by little, their warforms died to our guns. They could not stand against our might. No, that wasn't what made us all wake up screaming. What made us dread each and every fight was the talking.
The xenos filth kept them conscious and able to speak. When we fought to liberate their villages, they embraced us with open arms and wept tears of joy. Within a week of freeing their planet, they took up rifles we had given them and slaughtered as many as they could. All the while, they screamed for mercy. They sobbed how sorry they were and that they couldn't control their bodies. Even when we shot them through the head they didn't stop coming towards us. The only thing that worked were the weapons our Inferno Units carried. One of my men took his life that very night. He wasn't even close to the last.
But we killed them all. The entire planet was dead in a week. All of that work, all of that sacrifice. Some said it was all in vain. Some grumbled about the waste of a campaign. Not me, not any of my soldiers. We were loyal. In both word and deed.
Then the army fell apart. You were there, probably had a better view of it than I did, but two fifths of our fleet and the soldiers within those ships rebelled. They screamed just like the people on the planet, begging for death and apologizing that they had no control over their actions. We didn't all fall aboard those ships, Lord Astelan, you have my word. My men never once hinted at rebellion, and we took our ship back from those maniacs and their puppetted bodies. There was a moment, brief but sweet, where we thought that we had escaped the worst of it.
It wasn't meant to be. We were among only a few ships that had been reclaimed. The others were brought to bear against the rest of the fleet and fired upon our own vessels. The shame we all felt, the dishonor that our mortal comrades would betray you and the rest of the Emperor's chosen servants. We tried to shield your ship with our own, but the pilots had been puppetted and we could only take a few shells to our hull as the rest sailed past us.
The First Legion came a day later, boarding our ship and killing those who had escaped our purges. We surrendered when they found us, maybe out of loyalty, but I think most of it was out of sheer fatigue. We were sick and tired of fighting and your soldiers promised an end to that. I told them all that we were going to go home. An honorable discharge for us as others fought the Rangda and added their own nightmares to their dreams.
Cruel part of it is that we're still going to die. The First Legion threw us into cells where I've been the entire time. The guards said that the Magos Biologis was never able to figure out what caused the infection in the first place. Any one of us could be infected. So they killed all of my men. Every last one of them got a round to the brain and their bodies were burned. I was the last officer left, and I guess that gives me the honor of at least getting a duel before I die."
"It does." Astelan replied, looking at the soldier. The boy seemed foolhardy on the surface, but just past his outer layer was a man who loved the people under him and was a valiant warrior. The Lord Commander was glad that such a person would receive a valiant death in combat. Anonymous execution was not what such a servant of the Emperor deserved.
"Look, I have no symptoms. It's been months, and nothing happened." the officer said pleadingly. "We don't have to do this. Let me go back to the cell and keep me there for a year!"
"No chances will be taken." Merir did not think too harshly of the soldier's pleading. It was only human for someone to fight to the very end to try and live. "It is better to kill two thirds of this fleet than to risk infection."
"Then keep me in my cell permanently." the man replied. "I can write to my family and let them know I'm alright, even if I am a captive. I'll take a role with the Administratum that I can do from the prison cell."
"Lord Eddard has commanded that the casualties of the Rangdan Xenocide be kept secret." Merir Astelan replied softly with a hint of regret in his voice. "Your family has already been informed that you died heroically in combat against an unknown xenos threat that you saved the army from. You are considered a hero, and they have been sufficiently compensated."
A sigh. One long, defeated sigh as the young officer realized his fate. It only lasted for a second, however, and he was once more a proud warrior who raised his saber and saluted the Astartes in front of him.
"There was never any chance I was walking away from this, was there?"
"No… there wasn't."
"Alright then."
The fight was over quickly. The Lord Commander didn't try to insult the man or give him false honor by trying to let him land a blow he didn't truly earn. The officer lashed out once, connected with Astelan's sword, and quickly received a punch to the ribs that left him gasping in pain.
The young man fell to his knees in shock, but knew that the killing blow was going to come from above within seconds. Ducking and rolling away, still taking short and painful gasps, he sprung up from his crouching position with his sword held high to strike at a foe he was sure was already on top of him.
He was right, but only just. Merir Astelan was one of the greatest swordsmen in the entire First Legion, a legion renowned for their skill with the blade. The downward strike that the officer thought was coming never arrived. The Lord Commander thrust his blade right underneath the raised saber that was expecting the downward blow. It connected right in the middle of the forehead, and the soldier was dead before the pain even registered. With an unceremonial collapse onto the ground, the honor duel was over.
"You fought well." Merir Astelan said to the body. "Your death was one to be proud of."
Location: Command Bridge of the Gloriana Class Battleship Ty Pyrdwen
Eddard Fendragon gazed at the hololithic image of his son and knew immediately that Merir Astelan burned with rage. It was not a new emotion for Eddard to experience in his sons, and sometimes he even encouraged it. Oftentimes a king needed the advice of his knights when they felt he was wrong, and suppressing their emotions made their words less valuable to him.
"Merir." Eddard said calmly. "Congratulations on the compliance of the Lengdagon system. A vital redoubt for the Rangda has been eliminated, and I thank you for it."
"I would pass on that congratulations to my troops, father." Astelan spat. "But there are so few of them remaining to do so."
Eddard just sat, staring at the Astartes. The rant wasn't over. He knew it.
"How many more victories can we have like this one before we end up losing the war?" Merir continued. "My army and fleet shattered, and it will take months to rebuild them both. Good soldiers, ones that served the Emperor faithfully, have died by my hand. Is that your plan, my Primarch? Is this all that the Imperium envisions from this war? Will we leave behind anything other than destroyed worlds and broken people?"
"The Emperor has entrusted his toughest battles to the only Legion he knows will emerge victorious, no matter the cost." Eddard replied, his tone neutral and his expression unreadable.
"Is that all we are?!" Merir asked, throwing his hands up in the air with frustration. "A angel of darkness that wields the sword of mercy? If the Third or the Ninth are the glorious shining warriors of the Emperor's Imperium, then we are black knights that do dark deeds that must be done, father. It is high time we step into the light!"
Something about his son's words resonated with Eddard, and he was so drawn into his own thoughts that he almost forgot he was still speaking with Astelan.
"Merir, we are instruments of the Emperor's will, and glory goes to those whom He deems worthy." the Primarch replied sternly. "Those who seek it are often the ones who deserve it the least, and we are not lesser creatures that require it to function."
"The Rangdan Xenocide shall continue on the path I have laid out. Continue standard operating procedures and rest assured that a strategy is being implemented to ensure victory." The Lord of the First said in a tone that booked no argument.
"I…" Merit Astelan started before slumping his shoulders in defeat and making the sign of the aquila on his chest. "Yes, my lord and Primarch."
The hologram was dismissed and a mental signal traveled from his brain down the electrical connections to his throne. The Primarch of the unnamed First Legion was not to be disturbed until expressly told otherwise.
"Hmmm. Black Knights indeed…" he mused to nobody in particular.
Fragments
Retreat.
A word that was alien to the Imperium of Man, especially to those assigned to serve among the Legiones Astartes. There was only victory amongst the stars. The enemies of mankind were always pushed back again and again. Victory was always imminent.
And yet, here he was. A captain of a destroyer in the Imperial Navy who was covering the retreat of Void Champion battleships as they fled from a defeat in the cold, unforgiving darkness of space. The remembrancers told stories about the crushing victories that the Void Champions were responsible for. They preached ceaselessly about how none could stand in the way of Alexio Garva and his fleets with a population equal to a planet.
No remembrancers would remember this battle. Almost all had died and the ones who hadn't were serving as soldiers in the rearguard action the captain had been assigned to.
As the Void Champion fled back through the Mandeville Point to lick their wounds and strategize for their next assault on this system, the destroyer and several other ships had been told to stay behind so that the Astartes could preserve the hull integrity of their main fleet strength. That meant firing every single shell the ship possessed without worrying if there would be another battle. There wouldn't be one.
When they ran out of rounds, they tried to ram their ships into the Rangdan vessels hoping to slow them down. The Astartes strategist had forbidden them to do this before their doomed assault on the system, but the captain reasoned that those orders no longer mattered. They were all dead anyway.
Then the true horror of the Rangda manifested itself and the captain started to understand why they were forbidden from close contact with Rangdan ships. From the inside of the metal of the xenos vessel, milky white flesh emerged and attached tendrils to their own ship. The flesh soon began to spread throughout the ship, with writhing tendrils snaking their way past the outer shell.
The captain was not a sentimental fool. He had ordered the reactor powering the ship to go critical immediately and waited with bated breath for the inevitable detonation. But the flesh seemed to realize what the captain was doing. It made a straight line for the reactor room, and the flesh seemed to absorb the reactor into it. Reports from the surviving tech priests were scattered and only some of them were coherent, but it seemed as though it 'replaced' whatever its tendrils consumed. It became clear to the captain and those left aboard that this wasn't a weapon sent from the Rangdan ship. This was the ship itself. A monster that used the hull of a ship like a shell for it to grow until it was too large. Then it was on to the next ship in a cycle that would repeat itself until the scars went cold.
It had been one long fight since. The flesh could be repelled, it could be reduced, but it seemed as though it could never be defeated entirely nor purged from the ship. Anyone in contact with the flesh or the secretions it left behind soon either devolved into a homicidal rage which made them kill everything they could see, or caused tumorous growths to appear seemingly at random in such quantity that their movement would be restricted before they inevitably died.
There had been enough people to populate a city on this ship mere days ago. Now all those who hadn't been subsumed into the flesh were with him in the corridors trying desperately to fight against the fleshy invader and the maddened individuals enthralled by it.
The only consolation he could take on the job well done was that they had successfully delayed the Rangda. The days spent fighting had allowed the Imperium to retreat.
No… not retreat. Never retreat. This was merely a tactical repositioning that had never happened in the first place. The Imperium didn't retreat. That was a fate reserved for those destined to lose. And all the Imperium did was win. That was what the remembrancers said.
Ooze dripped from the ceiling. It was in the pipes above them now. The crafty thing had somehow managed to withstand the searing heat inside and was all around them. A retreat was the only option, and it needed to be ordered immediately.
Then a drop of the ooze hit him on the cheek as he looked up and the captain started to wonder why he cared. He really shouldn't. They had left him. Betrayed him. And they had left him with such incompetent fools for a crew that it was a miracle he had survived as long as he did. Were the Rangda really the enemy here? They were simply a virus, mutated beyond all recognition, but still following their natural desires. He was the freak here. The one that decided to suppress his true feelings and let the lesser beings around him feed off his superior skills. It felt so wrong. But something in him felt like finally being free.
All he had to do was start slaughtering, liberating himself from this stupid existence, and his new Rangdan friends would take care of the rest. It was so easy. So right. So simple.
He would have wondered what other liberations the Rangdan had in store for humanity, but he was too enthralled in the impending bloodshed to care.
The Price of Victory
Location: Battleship The Abiding Warrior - Medical Ward
"Sergeant Librarian? Pardon my intrusion, but you are needed on the bridge."
Calas Typhon opened his eyes and let the pain flood back into his body. The injuries he took on the field of battle were already well on their way to healing, but it would still take time before he was fully ready. The campaign against the Rangdan menace in this system had taken years and had demanded a high price in blood and materials, but they had triumphed in the end. Now, they were in the very last phases of their closing operations and all that was left for Astartes like Typhon to do was recuperate before the next battle.
It had been a vicious engagement that sent him to the medical levels on board the Dictatus-class battleship delegated to lead their part of Crusader Fleet XIV. The Rangdan infection had tried to worm its way into his mind, to make him as psychically vulnerable as possible. Calas was no fool, and he had paid special attention to the Lord Commander's briefings about this threat. Their enemy was always on the lookout for psychic hosts that they could inhabit and use to breed further monstrosities that could breed Rangdan warriors of unimaginable horror. For mortal humans, that process could take years or perhaps even decades, slowly drawing out and nurturing their psychic potential to create the perfect host as the infection lay dormant. For Astartes, their genetically enhanced biology isolated and segregated the viral infection before it had time to deeply infiltrate its host, so a more aggressive approach was needed. Psychic viral strands bombarded the host and caused them to have heightened sensitivity for all of their powers. Though their bodies would quarantine the virus in minutes, a few minutes would be all it would take for the infection to do its job. For many Librarians in the Adeptus Astartes, the sheer psychic power would be too much for even their training to handle and the power of the Immaterium would flood through them and destroy their soul even as the daemonic newcomer mutated their body. In the brief moment before the daemon took full control, the Rangdan strain would infect the daemon as well, and a new warform would be born. Only the strongest wills among the Librarians could hope to survive the onslaught of the Warp, and none but a Primarch could do so without suffering injuries that would cripple them for weeks.
Calas Typhon was among those with a strong enough will to survive the surge. When the Eternal Guard had arrived on Barbarus, hardly any humans worthy of the title had remained. His village had been scoured by the servants of Necare when he was a small child and he had been forced to subsist on edible plants and small animals in the foothills surrounding the toxic ruins. Though he hadn't known it at the time, his skills as a psyker kept him alive and out of trouble. It was a losing game though, and he knew it. Sooner or later, Necare's forces would find him and they would kill him, or worse, turn him. Though he doubted he would ever fall to the forces of this 'Nurgle' god they all gave praise to. He'd been tempted often enough, and the sufferings he had witnessed and occasionally been part of had purified him of his despair instead of adding to it. There had been an occasional golden light that pierced through the noxious clouds that covered Barbarus. Though he could only catch glimpses of it with his mind's eye, the light filled him with hope and immunized him against the noxious whispers that ceaselessly poured in from the mists.
As the Imperium's glorious landing on the planet under the command of the Primarch Moric Thane and Lord Paladin Kiddu was taking place, Calas decided that now was as good a time as any to reveal himself fully and fight back in memory of a planet that was dead in all but official classification. His valor was notable, and he impressed even the notoriously dour members of the XIV Legion with his tenacity. But the corruption upon the planet was too great, and the necrotic influence of Necare had seeped into his very soul. He perished, along with everyone else that had tried to fight alongside the Eternal Guard against their oppressors. But the funeral pyre the legionaries lit for him and his comrades did not end with their ashes finally being purged of all chaotic influence.
Golden Anathemic flames leapt up from the pyre and brought Calas and several others back to life. In his fervor to fight for the Golden Path of Humanity, Calas Typhon had unwittingly tapped into the power that the Emperor desired for all psychically capable humans to wield some day. The miraculous survival of the few dozen Barbarus natives was taken as a sign, and they were allowed to either become members of the legion or honored serfs working for the Eternal Guard in their unceasing mission to rid the entire galaxy of this corruption.
In the years that followed, Calas' psychic powers grew, and he slowly rose through the specialist ranks within the legion, to the point where now he was called upon in the absence of his superiors to make an important decision in the prosecution of their war against the Rangda. Many of the rest of the Eternal Guard were busy on the capital planet in the system, and could not be reached as the Lord Commander threw all available units into the fray in an effort to make a quick strike against the Rangda and move on to other sectors that needed their forces just as much, if not moreso. The siege of this system had gone on for years, and their forces were becoming too depleted to be effective if they continued a conventional war for longer than one to two standard months.
Everyone on the bridge quieted down and looked at him with concealed awe as he made his way towards the command throne and took appraisal of the situation on the ground. Word had spread about the severe injuries that Calas had taken in service to the Imperium, and just how many lives he had saved with his subsequent actions. He may have only been at the rank of Sergeant Librarian, but there was authority that one could not codify, and he possessed it in abundance.
Data poured across the pict screens in front of him, and he saw how poorly the situation was unfolding. Their ship was in orbit above a world close to the center of the system, it was a vibrant planet, full of plant life as well as Dark Age of Technology manufacturing capabilities. Before the Rangda had come, this world had clearly been the industrial heart of a burgeoning empire, and the Imperium had been on the receiving end of their formidable weapons, not to mention the sheer amount of them.
The planet had fallen after a long siege that had cost the XIV Legion many legionaries, and countless mortal members of the Imperial Auxilia had perished alongside them. But finally, mercifully, they had been victorious and had used the same machinery that had slaughtered their men to turn the tide against the Rangda.
But reports were reaching the fleet that even though the defenses planetside had been stout, a Rangdan ship had slipped past the blockade and deposited its foul contents on the planet. An infection, much stronger than before, had ripped through the civilian population. The warrior strains both from the ship and bred groundside destroyed the Auxilia fortifications and soon the situation became clear to the orbiting ships of Crusader Fleet XIV. The planet had fallen under Rangdan control once again, and the Eternal Guard did not have the resources to spare to try and take the planet back. Leaving it alone was not an option either, as reconnaissance had shown weapons of titanic proportions once again being crafted on the surface. The fleet itself could be in danger if nothing was done.
"I see why you have summoned me to the bridge." Calas Typhon said, uttering the first words he'd spoken aloud since arriving on the deck. "What you know needs to be done needs my approval."
The ship's captain was clearly uncomfortable with the gravity of the situation, but had the self-assuredness to not let that affect his tone.
"Yes, my lord." the captain said finally. "With our susceptibility towards Rangdan infection and indoctrination, the Primarch has commanded that any implementation of Exterminatus-grade weaponry be authorized by the highest ranking member of the Adeptus Astartes available."
Calas paused for a moment, keenly aware of the burden of responsibility that was placed on him. But no matter how strenuous the decision was, there was truly only one option before him.
"Do it." the librarian nodded. "Full authorization granted. Give them the Emperor's Mercy."
Commands were shouted, warning klaxons sounded, and a virus bomb was loaded into a missile the size of a small building. It rushed towards the planet below and exploded in a brilliant flash of light.
Pain.
White hot pain coursed through his very soul. The virus burned through him, with him, and in him. His body dissolved into ashes and only then did the pain stop. It was over as quickly as it began.
Only to begin anew with the next unfortunate soul that lived on the planet's surface. The Rangdan infection that Calas was fighting off had temporarily enhanced his psychic sensitivity, and that combined with the weight of responsibility on his conscience had forced him to experience the pain and terror each and every person still residing on the planet as they died. It happened all at once, but also each one lingered individually in excruciating detail.
After an eternity and only mere moments, it was done. Calas Typhon had died a hundred million deaths, and none at all. All that remained was himself, writhing on the deck in a pain that quickly faded.
The librarian rose to his feet unsteadily, wiping the sweat that had accumulated on his brow. The mortal crew stared at him with unease, and they had never seen an Astartes react even remotely similar to how he had.
"I…" Typhon croaked, before rushing from the room without a further utterance. The sensations still overwhelmed him, even if their effects had vanished. He knew in his heart that there was only one way forward for him, and the faster he enacted it, the sooner he would feel peace.
Servitors were summoned, and unpainted gray armor was brought forward that he was soon fitted in. Uncontaminated soil samples, taken from the laboratories of the Adeptus Biologis, were brought forward and smeared across the armor to add streaks of mud.
Chimes sounded as the doors to the armory was opened and an Astartes rushed into the room. Before Calas even had a chance to identify who he was, he was slugged in the face with a resounding crack.
Durak Rask was one of Calas' closest friends within the XIV Legion, and one of the few people that he truly trusted. A fellow veteran of Barbarus, he had been on the pyre alongside Calas, and the apothecaries of the XIVhad ensured he made a successful conversion to an Astartes of the Eternal Guard soon after. He had been one of the most fanatical and devout members of the legion when it came to fulfilling their mission.Calas and himself had been close during their training, and though Typhon would eventually be selected to join the Librarius, they still took efforts to make sure their bond developed.
"You absolute idiot." Rask snarled. "Tell me you are not about to do this."
"I have to." Typhon replied. "I felt them, Durak. I felt them all die. They still weigh on me. I have to make sure that they are not forgotten!"
The Emperor, in His infinite wisdom, had made each legion of the Legiones Astartes for a specific purpose. For the XIV Legion, he had made them to withstand the harshest environments that the Imperium might face, and also designed them to unleash weapons of mass destruction that no other legion could survive unleashing.
They had done their duty, and the use of Exterminatus weapons was a task that the Eternal Guard did not shy away from. But the Emperor, in His great wisdom, had allowed the Astartes to feel guilt over their actions. Nathaniel Garro had told Calas once that the human emotions they still experienced were the things that allowed humanity to flourish. If they were to become unthinking automatons, they would surely doom humanity to a slow degradation and extinction of all that was important.
It was precious little consolation to the Librarian at the moment.
For some of the Eternal Guard, the burden of Exterminatus was one they could not bear comfortably. There was no shame amongst the Legion for that, but they were not so foolish to believe that such a person could effectively wage war in the Imperium's name. Thus, the Grave Wardens were created. Any Astartes of the XIV Legion who felt such a burden would relinquish their rank, titles, honors, and even their friendships to don a suit of unpainted gunmetal grey and travel down to the surface of the destroyed planet alone save for a small army of servitors designed to withstand even the most hostile environments. There, they would catalog all of the dead that had been consumed by the destruction and ensure that their names and the lives that they lived, no matter how menial or insignificant, were remembered. Astartes lived functionally immortal lives if not felled in combat, with the XIV Legion being amongst the hardiest, but the weapons the legion would unleash during an Exterminatus sanction would kill even the toughest Astartes within decades. Indeed, it was not unknown for members who elected to join the Grave Wardens to be given a solemn funeral rite before their departure.
It was the reason for Rask's fury, for this meant that his closest friend and one of the few remaining pleasant ties he had from Barbarus would be nothing more than a memory.
"Please." he said at last, once he had calmed down enough for speech. "Don't do this Calas. You still have so much left to live for."
"And billions do not because of me." Typhon retorted. "My mind is made up, Durak. Accept it or do not, it makes precious little difference to me now."
They said a few more courteous things to one another, but Calas barely paid attention. His mind was already on the surface below, and how to best delegate the servitors he would command. Of the shuttle ride down to the planet, little and less was noteworthy, as his mind already sought out any signs of great emotional turmoil that were on the planet below.
Once landed, and after he set up the servitors to their various tasks, but strode five kilometers away, the only thing making sound upon the surface save for the wind, and went to a ruined hut that had the ashen remains of a family still inside, the parents desperately huddled around their children to try and protect them from whatever doom was racing towards them.
Kneeling down, Librarian Calas Typhon deployed a servitor to scan the room and took great handfuls of ash in his hands that he smeared all over his armor, ensuring they would continue on forever in the annals of the XIVth.
"Records indicate a family by the name of Deroz." the servitor chimed.
"Rest well, Deroz family." Calas said, making their names the first of billions to be added to the list. "You will not be forgotten."
Fragments
Egil crested over the edge of the hill and made his way back to the pitiful camp the scouts had constructed. His face fell in a long expression that belied how dire their situation had become.
"The warrior warforms still come." he said. "Something tracks us, brothers. Perhaps an infected beast that has caught our scent?"
"No." Arkyn stated firmly. "We did everything right. No beast could track us without at least one of us divining the method. This is something far fouler, and it spells our doom."
Neophyte Arkyn had been one of the most promising candidates from his tribe in generations. As the chieftain's son, he had been trained as a warrior from birth, and it was no surprise when the witches in service to the Wild Hunt had taken him away to be tested, trained, and later modified by the star people on his homeworld. He had learned much since then. He had learned how those women weren't truly witches at all. The star people were only a small part of a much bigger picture, and how much of what his tribe had thought to be magic was really tools under humanity's control.
But it gave him great delight to know that even after completing his initiation, the Wild Hunt still seemed like the angels of death to him.
This was his final test. The Wild Hunt demanded that all neophytes ready to become full battle-brothers complete a deed worthy to be put into the great tales that the Librarius of the legion compiled. Failure was not frowned upon if the candidate took too great a risk, but repeated failure that the neophyte survived spoke to a timidity that the legion would look harshly upon. Arkyn had vowed that his Entrance Tale would be so grand that none would doubt that he deserved a place of honor in the legion.
And it had been glorious indeed. As the Wild Hunt and the accompanying Auxilia regiments had made planetfall on this accursed rock, artillery shells that the Magos Biologis was unable to classify had wrought a formidable tally against the mortal soldiers. If left unchecked, the entire front would have been in danger of collapse and without the Primarch or any senior member of the legion present in the theater of battle, the Imperium stood on the precipice of total failure.
So Arkyn and Egil had gathered five neophytes together to venture forth and find the factory that made these horrific weapons. Their infiltration had been perfect, the combat inside had been vicious, but as legendary as the mission had been, they were all going to die. The Rangda tracked them somehow, and time had run out.
"Do you think we would have been good legionaries?" one of the neophytes asked. "Would we have brought honor to our Primarch and to the Imperium."
"You most of all." Arkyn replied. "Your heart would have made you a chaplain of the highest quality."
"And me?" the second one asked.
"You could have been a Wolf Terminator." said Arkyn. "No foe could have survived your lightning claws."
"And me?" questioned the third.
"A Vargaz." interjected Egil before Arkyn had time to respond. "And knowing you, it would have been as a Grox."
They all roared with the laughter of doomed men at that. At least the universe had not denied them camaraderie in the end.
As the laughter died down, a rustling in the brush, barely audible over the wind, drew their attention.
"This is it." growled Arkyn, drawing his combat knife and baring his teeth. "Fight well, brothers, and save me a spot at The Hero's Feast if you beat me there."
The end came quickly for all of them, but not before a pile of Rangda corpses lay at their feet. Every single neophyte had fought with honor worthy of their beloved legion, though none would ever tell the tale of their heroism. Their names would be recorded as 'Missing in Action', and as it always did, the Imperium of Mankind would move on.
The Best Laid Plans of Phantoms and Men
Location: [DATA CORRUPTED]
"It had begun with a declaration. One that had never been seriously uttered by somebody in high command before. But that is one of the reasons why I exist, is it not? To give voice to that which would remain voiceless otherwise. And so I said what had been everyone's thought, simmering beneath the surface:
The Imperium of Man was losing this war.
Come now, do not pretend that this was some startling revelation. The losses we were, and still are, taking against the Rangda are tremendous. Their warriors fall only after an obscene amount of firepower is directed their way. Our own mortal forces suffer losses well above the replenishment threshold, and Dante's legion has been reduced to a shell of its former self. He and the IXth will recover in time, that I do not doubt for even a moment. But it will be far too late by that point. We have, at the most, a decade before the Rangda become too numerous and too fortified for our armies to contend with.
I confronted Eddard with this information. There is a reason he was picked as Warmaster of this Xenocide. I did not even have to beg him to listen to reason. He merely nodded and accepted the truth of this statement. But this horrible, unconscionable truth was the small kernel of my plan. A plan of multiple parts, only to be enacted if our situation did not improve.
The first was cohorts of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the ones that were slow to shed their religious fervor for the Omnissiah. Falsified data delivered by deeply embedded agents gave them final rallying star systems to assemble should the Imperium emerge victorious on this planet. Sabotaged commanders ensured that they didn't. And so the Rangda had been given the first poisoned gift by my sons.
The second came after careful analysis of the Schola Progenium's behavioral studies. Commanders that truly believed there was honor in self-sacrifice were chosen, embedded in certain fleets to ensure that the inevitable void retreats we would undertake would be protected by their valiant last stands throughout the stars. My agents aboard their ships changed the data on the navigational cogitators even as the Rangda began assimilating their ships. They would now show them whatever we wanted them to see.
But the Rangda are cunning, as you all know. And our mortal forces might not be trusted with information of such high value as our ultimate command system. So Astartes were required to sacrifice themselves. My sons that had been inserted into the VIth Legion found promising initiates that were keen to cover themselves in glory before returning home. Egil, my Forgotten Son, ensured that their defeat would lead the Rangda along our chosen path and not their own.
I have given you three examples, but rest assured there were hundreds more, with dozens of false leads designed to cunningly conceal this location. Caspis Minor… a system almost too bland to be recorded. It has very little of value besides quantities of minerals that could and have been found in greater abundance elsewhere. But that blandness means we would sacrifice nothing by having it as our command center. That would make it a truly perfect site for our base of operations for this Xenocide, would it not?
That is what the Rangda have been led to believe. My agents, as well as scouts belonging to Alexio, have all reported that House Leyak, the viral strain in control of what we would consider to be their elite forces, is on the move. Leyak Prime believes that it is on the cusp of obtaining victory in this war, and perhaps they are right. But their arrogance will prove to be their undoing as the vast bulk of their army comes our way. If we can slaughter House Leyak and deprive the Rangda of Leyak Prime's tactical genius, then the way to their core systems lies open to us.
Caspis Minor has been prepared in exquisite detail. Rogal has lent me his expertise and whatever forces I could spare have been hard at work these past few years while you all have been spilling blood amongst the stars. The whole system is one gigantic trap. Explosives, killboxes with lethal lines of fire in all three dimensions, defensive line after defensive line, they have all been assembled with the care a mother gives to her children.
This is why I have summoned you all. This is how we win the war. Moric cannot be spared from holding the line against their main forces, but six Legions, mine and the six of yours, will take part in this battle, and not only will we destroy the most powerful weapon our hated foe possesses, but obtain all of their secrets. Something has been keeping the Rangda one step ahead of us, something that even I have been unable to discover. House Leyak most certainly has it in their possession, and they think Caspis Minor is a valuable enough target to bring it out. This isn't just about eliminating Leyak Prime, or even destroying their army. This is about finding Rangda Prime."
The Primarchs simply stared at Alpharius as he finished his diatribe. Their holograms were projected into the communications chamber of the Hydra Legion's flagship the Gossamer.
Some of them reacted in silence. Eddard and Konrad simply stared at him, eyes narrowing in disbelief and burgeoning distrust.
Understandable. The I and the VIII were both practical legions, though in very different ways. It might take centuries for the XX Legion to earn back their trust, but it would eventually be regained. Perhaps even through information that Forgotten Sons embedded in both legions provided. This could be dealt with, and easily.
Others, like Alexio and Kalib, were more vocal in their reactions.
"You dare!" Alexio shouted. "You dare throw away the lives of our sons and our forces! Were you in my legion we would throw you out of the airlock for such callous insubordination. I wish you the best of luck trying to pull this off without my legion, for we shall go far away from this treacherous farce."
Alpharius knew his older brother was a proud man, genetically distilled from a long line of mariners that valued trust and open communication more than life itself, for their lives often depended on such things. No matter. Those same captains also knew that sometimes sacrifices must be made to save the majority of the crew from a danger that threatened them all. A few carefully placed words in private would do much to assuage his bruised pride, and the Twentieth Legion would file away the data Alpharius gained to make sure that future data probes into the Second Legion would not run afoul of such egos in the future.
And then there was the Wild Hunt…
"You knew!" a captain roared, marching into view of Tyric's holoprojector and brandishing a claw of void-black coloring. "My brothers died for your stupid plan? You are lucky that you are not near me, or we would not part until one of us lay dead upon the ground!"
Tyric, of all people, was the one to calm the situation.
"Bjorn." he said, his voice as cold as the Fenrisian Sea. "That is my brother you speak of. To challenge him to such a fight would not end well for you. And he is not yours to provoke. I too have been wronged by his actions. I demand the satisfaction of his blood. Would you duel me for that right?"
"No, my Primarch."
"Then go assemble your Pack." the Primarch commanded. "The Hunt is upon us."
Bjorn the Fell-Handed bowed his head in shame and retreated from the holoview. Tyric Baldrson took his place, his eyes spoke of a promised vengeance that both Alpharius would have to answer for. That would complicate things. He remembered how he had once tried to infiltrate the Wild Hunt back on Terra and Tyric had sniffed him out within hours. He couldn't have one of his sons duel Tyric pretending to be him, and Alpharius knew that he would surely perish if he fought against a blood-mad Tyric that was dueling to avenge his fallen sons.
Eddard sensed it too. And that was when the Warmaster of the Rangdan Xenocide did something that even Alpharius could not have predicted.
"Thank you, brothers." the Warmaster said, rising from his command throne. "Your outrage and dismay against the Phantom Legion is heard, but I fear it is misplaced. Alpharius did not craft this plan in total secrecy. He was under my direct orders to do so."
All other Primarchs, including Alpharius, turned to start at their older brother in shock.
"If any blame is to be assigned, it should be assigned to me." Eddard continued. "They were my orders, and my commands. Your fury is understandable, perhaps even righteous. But what was done was done with the intention of winning this war as fast as possible. Our father has put me in charge of this xenocide not because of my strategic acumen or martial might, but because I am willing to make the difficult decisions. Just like this one."
"So if the Emperor's blessing of authority and the necessity of my actions do not convince you, then when the Xenocide has been successfully completed, you may speak with me privately." he said defiantly. "We will cross swords, brandish firearms, swing our fists with lethal precision. Whatever your method, I will agree to it. You will have your revenge, but only after the mission is completed, for it must always come first."
A lie. A lie worthy of a Warmaster shielding a subordinate. This is what true command looked like. Alpharius did not truly love any of his brothers. He respected and admired them all, but the XX Legion's role in the hierarchy of the Imperium prevented feelings of true kinship from blossoming. Until today, that was.
Eddard looked every inch a true ruler, and he was far from fully growing into the aspect that their father had chosen from him. For the first time ever, Alpharius looked upon someone other than the Emperor of Mankind and felt that he could call that person a king. Eddard might never know it, but that deceptive, selfless act had earned him the undying loyalty and more importantly the love of Alpharius from now until his dying day and beyond.
The other Primarchs backed down. Challenging Alpharius was one thing, but Eddard Fendragon was another entirely. The dispute between the brothers might not be over, but they were not the egomaniacal child warlords of another timeline. They were sons of the Emperor of Mankind, and there was a larger battle that required their attention. Their argument was not over, but even Tyric understood the need for a temporary truce until such a time that peace allowed old scores to be settled.
Without pause, Eddard gestured to the streaming data coming across all of their dataslates. "As the Twentieth says, the Rangda will be arriving in full force at Caspis Minor within a solar week. Prepare your forces, we shall go over your assignments in the following hours. The Emperor Protects."
"And so do we." five voices said in perfect unison as their projections faded away and Alpharius was left alone in his communications center. But he was never really alone, was he?
A familiar sensation, like being juxtaposed upon ones self, tugged at his soul. Memories, or something akin to them, flashed through his mind and imparted messages directly from Omegon.
+Progress has been made in the Silent War. Another five for the caskets. Father will be pleased.+
+There is a struggle within for the deception necessary for Caspis Minor. I can feel it in my soul too. Damage was unavoidable. Tyric may never forgive. And that Eddard will no longer consider the Twentieth the same as he did before+
+That is not what the Emperor made his Twentieth Son for. To be trusted. Praise will never be the domain of ghosts. Crowns of glory will never sit on the phantom. We were made to be unloved.+
+We are The Hidden Blade. The Obscured Sentinel.+
+The Uncomfortable Truth+
+The mission was accomplished. Success is almost at hand. The Emperor Protects, and so must we.
+Hydra Dominatus,+
Alpharius let out a small smile and stared out the window at the gathering ships, all bearing the mark of the Void Champions. They were rehearsing for when Rangda warships made it this deep into their lines. The maneuvers they were executing were extraordinary, and they would only become better with practice. His nephews truly did master the void wherever they went.
That was not the way of the Twentieth Legion, however. Theirs was a game of deceit, subterfuge, and plans within plans. Many had been laid for what would inevitably become the defining battle of the Xenocide. Alpharius had not done this lightly, but his deep research into the history of humanity's warfare had revealed that time after time the defining battle for the various wars his species had waged happened completely by accident as the various forces clashed on a macro scale that few had predicted. As far back as M1, he had seen evidence of this trope playing out again and again. Often, humanity had been lucky and emerged victorious from such events. But the Age of Strife had shown that the lucky streak wasn't permanent. They could and would lose such conflicts.
The roles of the Twentieth were numerous, but one of them was to discreetly take out the variability of such encounters. Humanity was destined to conquer the stars, and they would not leave such things to chance. The Phantom Legion was there to ensure that no chances occurred.
He clenched his fist tight around the haft of the xenos spear he had taken from a nameless world. For too long, his legion had been fighting nameless wars and enacting plans that would forever remain unremembered. Alpharius longed for the chance to slay enemies alongside his brothers, to raise his weapons up high and let loose a battle cry that would shake the heavens.
And in one solar week's time, he knew that he would get his chance.
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