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#Post#: 8106--------------------------------------------------
The Brotherhood of the Lost: Legio XII, The Wardens of Light
Chapter One - Part I
DIR By: Apothecary Meros
Date: October 13, 2016, 4:57 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 twelfth legion here are no World
Eaters, they are the sons of Gwalchavad - The Wardens of Light.
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 6841 words (39,358 characters) in length, so
due to a post limit of 20,000 characters this shall be split
into 3 parts.
Note: The legion here are referred to as the Apostles of War -
the name given to this legion by the Emperor prior to
Gwalchavad's discovery.
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“We haven’t made planetfall already… what’s the delay?”
“The Captains are still discussing tactics – this is our first
encounter with the Orks-“
“Tactics?” The masculine tone released a feral growl of
discontent, “we need not bother with tactics! These are
primitive greenskins who can barely fire a pistol! We could go
in there unarmed and still claim victory in a matter of
minutes!”
“You fail to see past your own foolish ignorance, brother. They
are no match for the Emperor’s fury, but it doesn’t allow us to
show hubris when faced against them.”
“Any other Legion would have pasteurized them without a second
thought! Yet we, the noble twelfth of his Lord Emperor’s
Astartes, dawdle on this ship discussing tactics!”
“This is our first major xenos engagement, brother, we can’t
afford to go in blind-“
A grim pause followed as a third figure, tall and clad in
armour, walked slowly to the elevated segment of the command
bridge, bathed in a cyan glaze projecting from a holographic
image of the planet Batu on a square gunmetal-grey table. He
paced his way across from the tall, onyx shaded door fixed to a
bland metal wall, his eyes averted from the data displays and
sprawling information that filled a number of blue glass
screens, and focused on the two grumbling Astartes who stood
either side of the hologram.
“Brother-Sergeants Kelenteil and Moragh – Twenty First Company,
squad leaders of the Second and Third respectively. I do request
you cease your ‘discussion’. We should save our anger for when
we are fighting the enemy, not fighting ourselves. I doubt your
Lieutenant would be best pleased.” His voice projected around
the entire bridge, yet it was not another malicious shout.
Soothing authority dominated the room in its stead. A couple of
human crewmen in silver uniform turned their heads for a quick
glance, letting the temptation of fascination lure them away
from their workstations, before returning to their idle state at
consoles on the semi-circular bridge of the Firebrand – the
flagship of the legion – amongst the rows of astropaths and
servitors; their eyes were wide and faces suddenly damp with
sweat at the sight of the third figure, regardless of his soft
tone. The last time they had felt truly nervous in this way was
when they first looked down to see four floors of identical
operating equipment suspended over the infinite cosmos. The
closest to the void was the Orbital Deployment Command Bridge,
with the advantage of the best view of any planet unto which the
Firebrand was orbiting. Advancing upwards was the Navigator
Choir, Deep Space Auspex Control and Primary Weapon System
Command. The crew here busied themselves with Orbital Artillery
and Internal Defenses, ignoring the bustle of feet above them
conducting a multitude of other vital tasks, from Vox Relay
Operation to the Engines and Thrusters. It was a command
structure fit for a Primarch. All sentient life aboard the
Firebrand hoped that one day they would have proof of that
statement.
“Of course, Legionmaster Amalasan. My apologies,” One of the two
marines mumbled, his Mk.II Crusade helmet bowed between two
white ceramite and plasteel ablative shoulder pads trimmed with
a shade of ultra-blue, proudly bearing the black sigil of his
legion – a winged fist, clutching a sword in its grasp, raised
for a killing blow. His armour was vaguely reminiscent of the
ancient knights who roamed the kingdoms of Terra, back in time
many millennia when it was known as ‘Earth’. At least, the
helmet shared the same design of vertical slits at the facial
area, like a visor on the ancient counterpart. That is where the
similarities ended. The rest of the armour plating is
substantially bulkier, housing within it a biologically enhanced
super soldier. A benevolent angel of the Emperor’s will made
manifest. A Space Marine.
The other, the more agitated of the two at the table, grunted in
recognition. He did not hide his face behind a war helm; instead
the twisted frown was completely visible to Amalasan, as well as
the swept dull grey hair that covered his left eye, leaving only
the right to stare grimly at his commander with an emerald
varnish. The wrinkles on his ageing brow contorted, a vein
twitching beneath his skin, as he slowly breathed a reply.
“Legionmaster… I… I simply do not understand why we laze upon
this starship when the Orks wreak havoc below us, on Batu!” He
directed a flat power armoured hand in a gesture to the
flickering blue sphere, rotating slowly on its tilted axis.
“That was not a suggestion, Kelenteil.” Submitting, the
sergeant’s downturned palm rolled into a fist, and he returned
his arm to his side, the green balefire of his eye boring into
Guaire Amalasan’s noble expression. The Legionmaster let angelic
white hair flow down to his shoulders, the minuscule outline of
a smirk on his lips below soft azurite eyes. His left hand
flexed, the fingers of the Power Fist he wore mimicking the
action as it cradled his helmet. His right was tightly gripped
around the sheathed hilt of his power sword. Ancient texts
described this specific kind of weapon as a ‘Bastard Sword’.
Amalasan considered this a more than suitable name, considering
their lack of a Primarch. The fitting name humoured him, but a
deep seed of concern would always seep through this irony in
regard to their lost father. He was out in the cosmos somewhere.
He vowed to find him before damnation beat him to it.
“Of course, lord.” Kelenteil worded behind gritted teeth. Any
other commander would have discarded a marine with such an
attitude, even going as far as execution in the case of the more
‘strict’ legions. Even those who took pride in being more
‘human’ would not put up with such apparent disrespect. Amalasan
knew why the Twenty First Captain kept this temperate marine
close though, for his rage was a beautiful sight to behold with
a chainsword in his hands and a target in his sights. Every
commander needs tactical advisors, but Chief Berserker is much
more appealing to some than Chief Vox Operator.
“Very good.” He grunts, his smile pushing itself down into a
straight line across his face, determination gleaming like the
distant light that now shined umber tones through the bridge
windows, sprawling an orange glaze all around. “You may be
pleased to hear, brother sergeant, that a decision has been
made.”
Kelenteil raised his revealed eyebrow keenly. “Then speak,
m’lord. I wish not to spend another second aboard this hulk.”
Guaire moved his eyes to his sergeant, after spending a moment
to admire the glint of the sun off Batu’s surface. “We have
created a battle plan that we believe to be the most effective
against the Orks. The entirety of the expeditionary fleet is
readying to deploy within the hour.” He paused, looking across
to Moragh. “You two are to return to your squads and gear up –
details of the plans shall be relayed to you by Captain
Arngrim.”
The sergeant had already began moving to the door, his muscles
aching with impatience. “Understood, lord.”
Moragh watched his comrade exit, glaring beneath his helmet. His
gaze turned slowly to meet the Legionmaster’s and straightened
his stance, before promptly bowing and marching purposefully
through the dark void beyond the entrance.
Content, Amalasan strode deeper onto the bridge and into the
golden light now flooding uncontrollably onto the deck like a
virus spreading. A new sensation made him pause for a split
second. The illumination brought an aura of heat – natural
warmth had become a rarity during their deep space expedition.
The corridor was littered either side with serfs at consoles,
frantically tapping at screens to ensure the stability of the
Firebrand. Guaire took a purposefully slow and dramatic walk
between the serfs, watching as each one quivered at the sound of
his footfalls. Even the servitors seemed to shrink in their
seats, anxious in the presence of their master.
One, however, seemed to resist the aura of intimidation that
stalked Amalasan like a shadow.
“Phillipe. What’s the status of the fleet?” Guaire bellowed, his
voice deep and slow.
Dwarfed in size by comparison to the towering form of the Space
Marine, Phillipe twirled his command throne at the head of the
bridge to face the Legionary. The glaring sunlight was now
behind him, leaving him drenched in the oily black shadow that
hid all facial features in a blank mask. White hands sat upon
the armrests - they were all that was visible. In this light,
even Amalasan – the Legionmaster of an army revered enough to
earn the name the Apostles of War – was ever so slightly
unnerved by the shady demeanour of Admiral Abras.
“Our fleet, my Lord, has been orientated in the formerly
requested manner,” The man had a very particular speech pattern,
his softly spoken words emanating like a dull hum that would be
best suited coming from the engineering deck. Each letter rolled
off his tongue and slithered to the Marine’s finely tuned ears,
and his left hand danced around the armrest; the elastic noise
of contracting muscles and stretching skin on his face just
audible by the Astartes’ acute senses – allowing Amalasan to
hear the Admiral’s sly smirk form on his wrinkled lips. “The
warships of the Imperial Army are readying their regiments for
immediate distribution to the surface.”
“Good. We shall deploy soon,” Came the reply.
“I know; the terse words between you and your sergeants told me
enough, sir.”
Guaire walked up to the Admiral, and past his chair, placing his
helmet – gleaming golden in the distant sun – over his
flourishing white hair. The heat had changed to a sudden chill
extending down his spine. Guaire carefully rested his hands on
the silver bar running along the length of the bottom of the
curved window, being careful not to bend the metal with his
strength. “Aye. The pair seem to be ever at arms. One day
they’ll end up killing each other, and the blood will be on my
hands.”
“That is not a very optimistic view, monsieur.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be, Abras.” He replied, his voice
amplified by the internal Vox into a volcanic rumble.
He nodded, slowly. “Now that the petty infighting is over-” He
suddenly grunted. The Legionmaster felt at unease with a mere
human ordering him around. But while he was aboard the fleet,
that was how things had to be. Abras drew his right hand upward
to bring down a floating, digital display showing numerous data
logs and scans. “Long range Auspex readings show the Orks are
banding together, and likely preparing for our planetfall.”
“They can prepare however they see fit, they have no hope of
stopping us.”
“That,” he began, grinning, “is correct, mon Seigneur,” The
expression soon faded and a sinister tone took over as he
stalked towards an officer at a console, his face illuminated in
watery shades by the blaring screen. “You, bring the orbital
weapons systems online.”
“Yes Admiral!” The officer shouted in response, frantically
tapping at the keys – various blueprint images of the ship and
its terrifying arsenal flashing up on his screen.
“Très bien, monsieur.” He whispered, his own long and ageing
brow caught in the ultramarine hue.
“I bid you leave, Phillipe. I must attend my brothers. Ensure
the order that we move out with haste reaches the whole fleet,”
The space marine stood upright from his resting position and
marched steadily between the quivering serfs, past the floating
hologram image on the table and through the sliding onyx door
into an elevator – taking him down into the bulk of the ship and
far, far away from the warm serenity of Batu’s golden sun.
***
Gentle thuds of ceramite on deck plates caught her attention.
Ill-maintained gears in the neck and upper torso made her click
her neck to the right. What were formerly legs, and now a pair
of tank-like tracks spun around a second later, and wheeled her
toward the noise. Outside of the crosshair provided by her
bionic eyes, she saw her outstretched arms that ended in metal
rungs, used to lift and carry heavy duty crates or weaponry from
storage departments to the Astartes armoury. The steps came
closer still, and she paused to think.
++Service protocol 022 enabled++
She reversed and stood parallel to the nearest door, with her
head bowing slowly while the servos screamed. A shard of light
pierced the gloomy veil, glinting on the blade of an axe. She
had seen the weapon before, but she knew that not.
“Understood my lord, I shall assemble them at once.” A brutish,
low voice rumbled through the voice amplifier of a curved
rebreather covering the figure’s lips and nostrils. His
demeanour was a perfect antonym of graceful. The axe swinging
with each heavy step in his huge right hand was an unusually
detailed and visually pleasing weapon in comparison to its
wielder. The head was shaped like the spread wings of a gunmetal
butterfly, razor sharp at every edge.
Looking up, the memory implants within her skull sifted through
thousands of database entries to find a physical match with the
axe’s handler. Half a second and 2836 database entries later,
she located an identity which was remarkably similar. The entry
shared the same unwavering brown glare and the dark braid which
flourished in a downward spiral from the cap of his skull and
reaching the tips of the tattered white cloak he wore around his
waist. The shredded material provided false implications of how
much warfare the legion had seen. However, what little there had
been was enough to prove the warrior’s rank.
++Identified: Captain Arngrim Valten – Apostles of War Legion
Astartes 21st Company++
++Service Priority: HIGH++
Her voice was not her own, but a static-filled mechanical tone
created by a vox implant on her neck. “My lord, what do you
require?” She spoke to the armored giant, its dull grey
highlighted by a nightshade blue on the shoulders trimmed with
marble white. The broad chest was a single slate of dense
ceramite with a small vent in the center, from which black pipes
sprouted and burrowed into his back and armoured neck.
Arngrim didn’t spare her a glance as he placed the axe
horizontally into her open arms – with an uncharacteristically
high degree of care that would be expected from a man of his
stature. Sensing the cool metal, the clamps at the end of her
arms naturally curled around the grip. “Return Agony to her spot
in the armoury.” The emotionless broadcast from his mask was one
she was all too familiar with, but she knew that not either.
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