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#Post#: 7779--------------------------------------------------
The Brotherhood of the Lost: Legio III, the Crimson Lions - Part
I
DIR By: Apothecary Meros
Date: September 8, 2016, 2:02 pm
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The following is a short story about the third legion of the
Emperor's Adeptus Astartes during the Great Crusade. However,
this is no normal crusade. The third legion here are no
Emperor's Children, they are the sons of Hectarion - The Crimson
Lions. The Imperium is a different place in this alternate
universe. The Interex and the Aurelian Technocracy have been
absolved into the Imperium by Warmaster Alexandros instead of
destroyed by Horus. There is no massacre at Isstvan, but there
is a heresy - an insurrection by the Primarch Icarion - and just
like the war set in motion by the evils of Chaplain Erebus, it
cripples the Imperium to the very brink of annihilation.
The full story is 4352 words (20,916 characters) in length, so
due to a post limit of 20,000 characters this shall be split
into 2 parts.
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“The cool wind in the atmosphere, the lush grass around your
feet, the sun kissed hilltops on the horizon and even the cool
depths of this sanctum; we call Tarsis.” The speaker begins,
raising his arms and letting his fur cloak trail in his wake
while stepping down a marble staircase at the front of the
platform. His pointed shoes met the carpet of grass that grew in
a ring around his square pavilion. Stone stretched from the edge
up to the walls of the large granite dome, with light pouring
from a drop-pod sized hole nearly a hundred metres above: the
vent of the volcano that was active here many thousands of years
prior to Tarsis’ ownership by the Eldar. “Our land has come
under siege by savage mon’keigh, who seek to destroy us and our
culture for nothing more than their own ego and
self-satisfaction.” His wrinkled face contorts in a sorrow
expression. “We must defend it to our last breath. Rise, my
sons, harness the wrath of Khaine!” He raises an azure blade in
the air and it ripples with psychic lightning.
To punctuate his speech, the light on the grass intensifies with
a golden sheen licking at each emerald blade. A distant roar
grows ever louder as seconds pass by. His audience looks up at
the light. On closer inspection, some begin to run. Others
shiver where they stand and squirm with fright. The sound takes
on the quality of a dragon’s snarl ripping through the air. The
golden light breathes a blinding orange flare through the
dormant vent that climaxes in a ripple of impact knocking the
psyker and his audience down onto their backs. Like a meteorite
slamming down from the heavens it leaves a smoking crater where
his pearl white platform used to stand. Grinding metal followed
by a brisk slam and dust kicking up over the psyker’s fur cloak
signalled the opening of one of the first of five adamantine
petals around the hull of the vehicle. The others open up in
quick succession, revealing a squad of ten armour clad
humanoids. The sigil of a roaring lion on a bronze background
fills the space on their left shoulders while a deep crimson
paints the rest of their large, bulky suits.
“S-sir knight. Please…” He sobs, as the closest giant stomps
slowly toward him.
“Farseer Indryll? The Emperor of mankind sends his regards.” It
growls, pointing a blocky yellow and mithril pistol between his
horrified eyes, before everlasting darkness envelops Indryll’s
once bright world.
One single shedding of viscera is all that needs to be seen to
usher forth the next field of war for a legion long starved of
it. One bolt is all that is needed to seal the fate of whoever
blocks the Lion’s path. Xenos are a stain on the Imperium. For a
beacon of such majesty and hope it cannot afford to let stains
go uncleansed.
“Target down. Squad, rally on me.” A humoured growl escapes once
the vox link goes quiet and the air quickly fills with the
inferno of battle. “Everyone not in power armour is hostile. I
want to be knee deep in gore in less than two minutes, so you’d
better get cracking!” He pauses, before remembering a vital
command. “And I don’t want any of you going mental on this op,
or Hectarion will have my head!”
No more than a second later, the vox chimes again, and a suit of
crimson ceramite glares with emotionless cyan lenses. “Don’t
hostiles shoot back? Personally, I’d call these terrified
civilians, Kahoier.”
“Do you have a problem with my orders, Stoyäk?” He snarls,
firing wildly into the dispersing crowd.
Somewhat impertinently, a response hails through the Kahioer’s
helmet’s vox. “Of course not, I’m just correcting you,
Mekallios.” He was filled with the same manner-of-fact attitude
that the Kahoier had seen from his brother in arms since their
first combat mission. He acknowledged this fact himself with an
amused snigger.
Mekallios barked in laughter, feeling his jubilation reborn
while great swathes of fleeing Eldar were gunned down before his
eyes by the bolter fastened in his grip. The collection of
Astartes warriors at his flanks began to advance on his order
down one of four corridors that lead away from the
semi-spherical courtyard area. They locked in tight formation, a
wall of armour plate to sweep away whole families of the xenos.
They made the stone floor so damp with blood it was akin to
looking in a mirror.
Finding themselves in a moment of near silence as the few
survivors escaped out of effective range, save the bones of the
living wounded crunching under the Trodaiar’s advance, an
unsettling mood seeped in and whirled around the air. Something
spoke in a soft, umber tone that gnawed away in the backs of
their skulls: until the wailing of captured Eldar, with serrated
blades cut across the neck, echoed around and swept the shrouded
voice away. Their vital fluids painted the pearl dressed
wraithbone columns holding up the cave ceiling a much more
eccentric pattern, which Mekallios and his brusque subordinate
paused for a moment to admire.
“A fine piece indeed. Reminds me of the Monus Lisarius in the
Terran galleries.” His broad grin peaks midway through the
sentence.
A marine from the advancing line turned his head and nodded. “My
pleasure, Ka-“ the word trailed into a wet gargle caused by the
molecule thin slice cut through his gorget, punctuated by
several more shots puncturing his chest and abdomen. The
fusillade coming to an end, the marine’s peppered carcass
splashed onto the ground, adding his own unique shade of crimson
to the lake around him. Others in the barricade took glances on
their bulky shoulder pads, but were not disabled in the same way
the unfortunate artist found himself in.
“Bastards!” The squad snaps to attention, those closest to the
walls taking cover behind the looming wraithbone arch holding up
the dizzyingly tall ceiling while the violent chorus played in
the background. The others withdraw their chainswords and
chainaxes and throw themselves into a melee.
“You see, these are hostiles.”
“Not for long they’re not. Get a grenade down there and
advance.” Snapped a brisk reply. “Or else I’ll stick a melta
bomb on your chestplate and tell you to hug them.”
The resultant explosion called the Lions forth to continue to
carve their blood stained road through the Eldar construct. Thus
far the environment was unusual in many ways, as noted first by
Kahoier Mekallios and his vanguard, such as the Eldar’s choice
to live underground and a lack of Aspect Shrines. Further
investigation by legion serfs and the ‘clean-up crews’ of the
Crimson Lions would unveil the fact that the realm of Indryll
Krone had been isolated from the contact of any other Eldar
civilisation since the Eye of Terra shook their species into
disarray and near extinction. It was evident that they hadn’t
descended into savage barbarianism; judging from (what was left
of) the architectural design of their structures and its
similarity to other maiden worlds. The Shuriken weapons
recovered afterwards were in line with the most up to date Index
available, as well as the small array of War Walkers deployed
and promptly destroyed by Heavy Support units. Such trivia
wasn’t of Mekallios’ concern at the time, when he lopped a
sapphire shaded mesh armoured soldier’s head from her pale
skinned shoulders with a fluid swing of his Power Sword.
“They’re like children!” One of his more thirsty warriors roars.
“Even Stoyäk could stand a chance against them in a melee.”
“Some of them are children.” The more cautious voice of Stoyäk
lingering behind Mekallios replies quietly, while peppering the
defenders with more one handed bolter shots and the occasional
swipe of his blade. The highest concentration of Eldar warriors
shielded a group of civilians on a makeshift barricade made by a
fallen column which, as much as Mekallios hated to admit, was
proving difficult to dislodge.
“I don’t think they particularly care” another squad member
calls, looking upward while he and the squad storm onward to
meet a squad of jump-pack bearing Getae landing in the centre of
the barricade, cracking the stone underneath, and barging
headlong into the fray; “and neither do I, Stoyäk.”
The Getae, bloodthirsty and rebellious by nature, had deployed
outside and had fought their way in through another entrance. As
it happened it was luck that brought them down the same path as
this squad. Swiftly, their assault cleared the way.
Stoyäk grunted, hanging his bolter around its strap reaching
around his shoulder. The intricately detailed skin belonged to a
Stone Lion, the primary predator of his home planet of Mycenae
that he had slain with a combat knife during the Blooding – the
final test for an aspirant to grow into a fully-fledged Crimson
Lion – in a scabbard of the same pelt. The squad jogged
alongside while the eager Getae bounded away in search of more
bloodshed.
“Good work squad. Apart from Kessorat who dropped his
chainsword.” Chuckles broke out on the vox. “We should face
harder resistance as we make our exit, which means Stoyäk should
hide and wait ‘till the loud noises stop.” The Trodaiar nodded
to the order with another smattering of laughs before they
picked up the pace, bristling as anger boiled within them. “The
Getae shall make the first strike, and we mop up.”
“Janitor duty is normally left to servitors as far as I’m
aware.” Stoyäk countered.
“You’ll become a servitor soon if you keep that up, I can assure
you of that, brother.” He exhaled, taking position at the front
of the squad, “unless your sarcastic comments can win wars.”
“I have yet to test that theory.”
Distant bolter discharge caught the collective attention of the
squad, and they unanimously advanced to the source. The more
steps they took the more instruments joined the symphony.
Chainswords, Shurikens, and guttural vocals spoke in unison,
communicating with the grind of adamantium teeth and the ending
of life as the sound of wet thuds on the ground. “Sounds like
someone is having fun without us.”
Mekallios turns his head briefly. “Let’s crash their little
party.”
Despite Stoyäk’s outward appearance, he was as likely to feast
his urges in a thick melee as any other Lion. This came as a
result of his geneseed, and the geneseed of all sons of Mycenae
that caused increased physical strength even by standards of an
Astartes. His blood was up; he felt it flow with intensifying
speed through his arteries and veins. The warmth encouraged him
to speed up, and not to give the shrewd knife-ears an
opportunity to flee. Mekallios had no reason to stop him. The
sooner he was fighting the less time he’d spend talking. Turning
a corner, their blood caked armour suits glistened with natural
light. They’d arrived in a domed chamber, an exact copy of where
Indryll had spoken and where squad Mekallios had cut his valiant
speech short.
“By the blood of Mycenae…” He trails off, craning his neck
skyward. The surviving members of his squad followed suit and
braced themselves.
“Not a bad size for an Eldar, eh?”
They pause as the lumbering yet graceful behemoth anchors its
feet into the ground and pulls up its arms, both ending with
long barrelled and volatile cannons.
“Almost as large as Stoyäk’s ego.”
They would have laughed given the chance, but war would not stop
and wait for them. The Getae squad that had helped them
previously dove from the skies into a fierce hand to hand fight
with a cluster of Eldar fighters at the feet of the looming
construct. Their apparent last-stand position was at least a
glimmer of hope, though very much overshadowed by the
Wraithknight glaring down at Mekallios.
“Squad Rhal just coming in for a look around.” He paused, and
looked up. “What in the Emperor’s name is that?” Just the same
as the first dome chamber, this room had four entrances. Kahoier
Rhal and seven of his squad emerged opposite Mekallios, barely
visible through the Knight’s legs and the rippling ocean of the
Getae’s combat.
“Aim for its legs, let the Getae sort out the Guardians.”
Mekallios yells into his vox, reaching Rhal and the Kahoier of
two other squads emerging from the remaining tunnels.
Thankfully, one of these was Kahoier Malconus’ Heavy Support
Team. His Lascannons set themselves up in a wide arc, each
marine’s weapon then lightning up in an ethereal turquoise light
and pelting white hot beams into the knight’s leg plates. All
other units aimed upwards toward the centre, peppering the sleek
Wraithknight with hundreds of bolter rounds in barely a second.
Save for the deep gouges and blackened armour caused by the
Heavy Support’s superior weaponry, the hail of gunfire sought
only to invite the construct into battle.
Starcannons mounted on the Knight’s shoulders swivelled to
either side, shearing through ceramite and adamantine composite
armour like a Meltagun. The Wraithcannons affixed to each arm
made swift work of any marine with the misfortune to be on the
other side of the barrel, as well as the surrounding environment
blown asunder into a dusty crater where they used to stand. The
melee at its feet was going the opposite way: now joined by
another squad of jump infantry at the heels of Malconus’ advance
the Eldar warriors and their noble yet feeble resistance
struggled to hold against the crimson tide.
Then Mekallios noted something was wrong.
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