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#Post#: 7792--------------------------------------------------
The Brotherhood of the Lost: Legio III, the Crimson Lions - Part
II
DIR By: Apothecary Meros
Date: September 9, 2016, 11:48 am
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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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Not the deaths of many of his fellows as a result of the Wraith.
Death was a certainty of war, and not a thing he would stop to
consider. A despondent alternation within a fellow warrior’s
spirit was worth stopping for. A dark steel blade tore free from
its lion pelt scabbard and left the material hanging lifeless.
An ornate bolter strap split and fell away in rags when the
weapon was tore from its resting position. Stoyäk ripped away
his helmet and subsequently shredded the black carapace around
his neck in the process. He, glared at Mekallios with hungry
eyes surrounded by a maze of red tattooed pictograms, and froth
flooded over his open lips and rained on his power armour. In
his mind the patch of sunlight in the ceiling glowed like an
incandescent halo that gripped him and propelled his body
forward. A red tint painted the landscape but the sounds of the
battle faded and the feral war cries came back as inviting
laughter and clinking tankards. He, now it for all intents and
purposes, charged headlong to the source of the feasting under
the supervision of shadowy guardians forever at the corners of
his eyes. Like a freak on a leash, none of the glances on his
armour or ear-splitting detonations at his feet dragged him off
course. Guided too for reasons only the insane could justify,
Mekallios rushed in with his power sword and followed. The five
left in his squad had little reason not to follow. Neither did
anyone else in that room have a reason not to free their minds
from the shackles of reason, and embrace the calling of the
blood.
Seeing the game change to a violent brawl, the Wraithknight
stomped its right foot into the ground, clearing an area where
Space Marine and Eldar alike were once fighting and now
scattered like leaves in the wake of a storm. A battle like this
would be best suited for a Wraithknight of a different loadout.
Firing its guns now would only take more Eldar life than it had
a hope of saving.
Was this even about saving lives anymore? They were huddled
together and surrounded like Grox on the day of the cull. The
Eldar were few and becoming fewer by the second. Not too
dissimilar to how their entire race was faring at this point.
The Knight could try and save the Eldar lives but for how long?
Mon’keigh reinforcements wouldn’t be far away. They could fit a
Contemptor through these corridors. They were so wide that
(maybe with some strategic demolition to clear obstructions –
mainly corpse piles at this point) a Fellblade could fit down
there. That wouldn’t be much fun…
“Hey, why don’t we get a Fellblade down here? That would be
fun!”
Stoyäk merely growled a reply, returning to his feet after being
knocked down by the seismic tremors from the Knight. The
Eldritch blood running down his armour and dripping from his
fingertips gave the impression of his armour melting, the cruor
pooling in a thick sludge around his feet. Whether the other
Guardians thought this too, or if they were just terrified at
the sight of a chainsword armed giant who had just cloven its
way through their allies, was of little importance when they
soon found themselves in a pile on the floor and missing a
majority of their limbs.
Somehow surviving despite the intestines hanging out of his
pelvis, one knife-ear stroked a messy hand over Mekallios’
greave. The sergeant put a bolt through its skull as easily and
instinctively as one would find the act of breathing. It wasn’t
a mercy killing; given the option the Kahoier would have enjoyed
eviscerating the remnants of its torso with his sword. He had to
be swift though, or else Stoyäk would be lost amidst the carnage
without a chance of saving himself from the gene curse that had
plagued the Crimson Lions since their inception.
“Slow down you mental bastard!” His responsibilities as squad
leader rested heavily in his arms like his sword, although only
one of them was currently embedded in some unfortunate sod’s
spine at that current moment. Stoyäk on the other hand was
relinquished of all responsibility for collateral damage, and
was thoroughly enjoying the experience. There was one thing not
bleeding in the room. That fact troubled him greatly. It was
blasphemous to think that he’d left even one thing alive. Even
with his eyes glazed with insanity and blurred by the primal
cravings circulating through his conscience and blocking his
moral sensibility, he could see the white and blue scheme of the
Wraithknight and the blanket of shadow it made against the
ceiling light. He had clambered his way up many mountains in his
time. The arid climate and harsh winds could shear his skin away
if exposed for too long, and the petrifying cold always spelled
ill for his vulnerable extremities. The environmental dangers
were replaced now with the threat of a shuriken severing his
spine, or the seemingly omnipotent Wraithknight simply shaking
him off and crushing him under its heel. Both were unfortunately
fatal consequences, but as many Trodaiar exposed to brothers
under the gene-curse’s powerful hold would soon come to realise
that their afflicted brethren truly knew no fear.
The Kahoier’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious…” while Stoyäk
dug his blades deep into the foot of the construct like ice
picks and began to determinedly climb up. Sighing, and muttering
various curses under his breath, Mekallios discarded his empty
bolter on the floor and made a running leap into the other leg,
poised to insert his power sword through the side and continue
his ever more elaborate pursuit. (The bolter had been empty for
some time already. He’d bashed so many bodies in with the stock
that he’d need a Techpriest to fix it back into shape. Even
then, he’d be hard pressed to remove the pungent aroma of Xenos
viscera that had gouged itself into the mechanism like glue. The
younger Astartes had made it to the knee when the pilot caught
wind of what was happening, and tried to pluck him off with a
sweep of its hand. Stoyäk’s chainsword dislodged and he was left
to hang by his combat knife. Mekallios reached a parallel
position, and in what he considered to be a vain attempt to get
its attention he plunged an adamantium thorn into the beast’s
side.
Torn between two targets slowly making their way upward, and the
sea of other hostiles at its feet, it was needless to say that
the pilot of the Wraithknight wasn’t especially confident about
how the next few minutes would turn out for him. With the defeat
of the Eldar defenders below him though brought the freedom to
kick and swipe anywhere he liked.
Stoyäk was ungrateful for the aid it would seem, and stormed
ahead without as much as a glance. Mekallios continued and
remained near enough level with his comrade throughout. Getae
marines flared up their jump packs to join them like hornets,
their chain blades slashing into the armour. These attacks were
as harmful to the Knight as a real hornet’s sting – viewed as
nothing more than a mild inconvenience. If lascannons were
having difficulty punching though then a chainsword would need
to be far luckier. By now of course, with so many friendly units
attacking the Knight in unison, Malconus and his Heavy Support
unit had ceased fire. There was more ceramite in view than
wraithbone at this point.
The Wraithknight swatted at its body, as if trying to extinguish
an invisible blaze engulfing it. One of the Getae had managed to
get their hands on a flamer and made a show of sending a gout of
golden fire into its face.
“Stoyäk!”
The two marines met on either shoulder, grappling onto the
Starcannons to avoid falling off – not without stabbing them a
few times to deactivate them first of course.
“His blood will be mine to spill.” He spits, in a daemonic
sounding fusion of a hiss and a snarl. Tossing the now blunt and
broken combat knife away, he sets his cerulean blue eyes on the
face mask of the Knight. Before Mekallios had a chance to
recover from its violent swaying Stoyäk was upon its head and
beating the cockpit with his bare fists. The armoured glass
began to splinter, sending black shards scattering around the
gorget upon which the marine stood. Using his power sword to
keep himself upright, Mekallios came to Stoyäk’s flank as the
cockpit fractured and rained millions of tiny black jewels in
all directions.
He reached inward with raw fingertips, keen on tearing the
pilot’s jaws apart and hoisting the ragged body from atop the
Knight like a trophy.
“Savages!”
A slender, pearlescent dagger slides through the crystal mist
and pierces through Stoyäk’s throat. All motion from that point
on slowed considerably for Mekallios, as a thin slither of
crimson drips down the length of the knife and washes over the
pilot’s hand like a river joining the ocean shade of his body
armour. The Eldar’s pale face is drenched in a panicked sweat
that trickles through strands of russet shaded hair to rest on
the blue mesh plates on his shoulders. His eyes blinked rapidly
and he hid his face from the sun with his arm the best he could.
Having barely woken up from the trance-like state that an Eldar
Wraithknight pilot is held in to use the construct, it was
understandable that he wasn’t in the best physical state.
Without hesitation, he removed the knife with a wet squelch and
opened up a wide slash across the marine’s neck. A spout of red
fluid burst amidst disorientated gargles. Mekallios caught the
other marine in his arms and pressed a firm hand over the
rapidly bleeding cut. “I bet you’re wishing you’d listened to my
orders now.”
A savage smile crossed Stoyäk’s bleached skin, before pushing
the Kahoier’s arms away and falling from atop the knight.
Without a moment to gather himself, Mekallios was faced with an
Eldar pointing a short blade caked with the blood of his friend
in his direction. “We were perfectly fine here, we weren’t a
threat to you.”
He slowly looked up, the brewing fury coursing around his
circulatory organs. He prepared a retort, but noticed the pilot
shy away from him. Instead of blurting out Imperial propaganda
or the repetitive dogma of a Firrinoimeadai Sagartaith he stood
in silence, resting his baleful stare on the Eldar.
He seemed to think it was some kind of standoff, and began to
circle around. Mekallios went along with it, moving to his left
and into the open maw of the cockpit while his impromptu
sparring partner stepped gingerly around the crest of its torso.
“You didn’t need to come here, no you could have just-”
A Remembrancer might have put the climax of this tale in such a
way as to idolize Mekallios, and to seal his deed as one of
heroism that would forever be remembered as the act that secured
Tarsis for the Imperium. There’s no doubt that climbing up the
Knight was a courageous spectacle, but the true ending is a lot
less glamorous.
“You dropped something.” Mekallios grunted suddenly. The pilot
snapped his eyes downward, buying the diversion completely, at
which point the Kahoier punched him in the teeth and sent him
reeling backwards. Terror and bewilderment manifested as a
mortified yell that slowly faded into the distance. The knife
escaped his thin hand and clattered near Mekallios’ left foot,
as the cobalt figure slipped away from view. A muffled crack and
the cheer of the Astartes was enough to convince him that his
assailant had been successfully broken by the fall.
Exhaling, the torn and scarred crimson body flumped down in the
slightly undersized seat within the Wraithknight’s cockpit. He
glanced around at the various runes and ran his fingertips along
the intricate details on each glossy black surface. The
atmosphere shattered with the interruption of an impatient
sounding Heavy Support trooper.
“No, tell Malconus to bugger off. I want to keep it.” Mekallios
put his feet up and leant back, closing his eyes and smirking to
himself while shuffling deeper in his seat to find a more
comfortable spot. “No wonder Stoyäk wanted to get here so fast.”
He allows himself a flash of humour before a heavy handed dose
of regret and melancholy seep into his bloodstream. “May he rest
in the arms of the Valkyries, forevermore.”
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