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#Post#: 8108--------------------------------------------------
The Brotherhood of the Lost: Legio XII, The Wardens of Light
Chapter One - Part III
DIR By: Apothecary Meros
Date: October 13, 2016, 5:03 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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“First one to fall off owes the other a drink.”
“Bite me,” He retorted, spitting a few rounds of the nose
mounted bolters on our bikes into the sand ahead of me.
“Such harsh language! Didn’t Remembrancer school tell you to be
polite to true Imperial servicemen?”
We exchanged many similar pleasantries on our sandy voyage. We
humoured ourselves with the knowledge that our other companions
were growing ever distant and that we were sure to win. Whether
it was a competition or not I had no idea. Either way I doubted
there would be a bottle of champagne and a pretty woman at the
end.
I braced for my near-white hair slashing at my eyes with the
savage elegance of a Howling Banshee to glance over my right
shoulder. The kicked-up sand from the thick tires made those two
seconds an even more painful moment, yet I endured with my
vision just about functioning. Maybe it was just the particles
of sand digging in under my eyelids, but I thought I saw a
gunmetal grey Storm Eagle rising up behind us. The shout to my
left informed me that my current companion, perhaps starting to
border on friend – although that prospect unsettled me slightly
– had spotted the same thing. “Oi, the Sergeant wants a race it
seems!” He semi-snarled, if such a thing was possible, and
gunned the engine to its full capacity.
“I wouldn’t bother trying, he’s got a lot more fuel than you and
I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he has more ammo t-” I was cut
off by the ground being sliced between myself and Cervantes
caused by a dozen high velocity bolter shells smashing the sand
apart. We veered away while more rounds traced our paths. The
rounds stalked me like a shadow, weaving as I weaved and
scattering large amounts of hot sand onto my back, which I far
from appreciated considering the sun was already doing the best
it could to make my pale flesh uncomfortable. The firing paused
and the white-hot bolter muzzles hissed in exasperation high
above me, almost impossible to hear over the engines. Cervantes
decided that instead of highlighting his concern for possibly
becoming a smear of scarlet paste trapped in the inferno of a
flaring bike, he’d relish in the chance to stand out in Moragh’s
eyes. It was a success, if you count standing out as being
intensely hated for years to come.
“First one to get shot owes the other a drink!”
“You’re a fool, Cervantes. A wonderful, wonderful fool.” I
roared in time with my engine, a harmony of flesh and machine
which, perhaps rather ironically, would be what I would become
by the end of all this.
We drew our bikes in closer together, bathing in the dark shroud
projected by the dropship. I suppose you could say I was quite
surprised that the sergeant was willing to fire live rounds at
us – more so at the bikes with which from past, although
limited, experience I knew he had a strange metaphysical bond.
Unless it wasn’t the sergeant and the local wildlife was
decidedly more intelligent than we first perceived.
“Incoming!” My foolhardy companion clamoured. Expecting a hail
of bolter shells, I curved my steed to the right hand side. I
braced, the clap of bolt impacts spearing through my cochlea,
after which the stream of empty shells created a merry tinkle
that seemed very much out of place. To my unhidden bewilderment,
a taste of the crimson fluid that had splashed across my cheek
during the fusillade wasn’t mine. How pleased I felt knowing
that I still had all four limbs and a functioning bike seemed
irrelevant when the gaping maw and nine inch talons of a Basques
Uçan bird presented itself upon the flat ground no more than
twenty meters in front.
“Emperor’s blood!” I darted back to the left, skimming the tires
over the edge of its wings and leaving a dark smear behind me.
Squawking animalistic curses, a flock of nearly a dozen Uçans
descended upon myself and the other aspirants – who it would
seem had noticed the danger long before Cervantes and me, and
had done their upmost to catch us up – with sets of five fatally
sharp talons on a pair of legs thick with muscle and sinew.
Their beaks seemed akin to a Terran Kestrel, if Terran Kestrels
were capable of snatching up a speeding bike and swallowing its
rider whole as these did, as the gargled shriek from behind told
me.
“Cervantes, maybe we can use the bolters mounted on the front.”
I yelled, pulling up to his right flank. By the time we were
level however, it would seem that – to use an ancient Terran
saying – great minds think alike.
Wrenching free the Boltgun mounted onto the left of the front
fender, De Leon sprayed the sky with wild, random bolter shots
apparently aimed toward the circling flock before they came
back. By now, Moragh’s pilot had split off and was following the
Uçans like a harvest servitor would herd Grox on an Agri-World.
A feathery hulk drooped from the crowd every now and again and
made a small crater in the bronze sand. My companion’s fire drew
their attention to us – something which I would have rather
preferred not to happen. To my surprise a good few met the spout
of Cervantes’ bolter, but even when affixed to a bike, those
weapons only had a limited ammunition supply.
They seized us, trying to wrench us off our handlebars, and keen
to show off their scything talons and their ability to gouge
painful lacerations across my back. To this day, the Uçan
variety of Paraves have the most impressive unguis on a creature
of their size in my records. Impulse reaction took Cervantes to
his combat knife – more akin to a gladius outside of the power
armour we would soon wear – and saw that one particular foul
organism was a couple of arms short. Maybe the one on my back
had been a close friend, for its attack grew into a violent
frenzy. Not to say that it had been like a back massage before;
the scars running the length of my spine provide enough evidence
for that. My own attempt to reach for my weapon was hampered by
the disablement of my right arm. I wasn’t quite as educated as
the Apothecary I am today, but screaming so loud that it bounces
off the distant mountains is normally a good sign that something
is definitely wrong. My right arm fell limp, and I heard the
clattering of my sword against the side of the bike and then the
whoosh of air as it flew away behind me. This was the moment I
began to theorize on the intellectual properties of the Uçan, as
well as curse it to the warp and back for being sentient at all.
Both of its legs grappled around my shattered bone and launched
me into the air. The smell of promethium died away and my senses
were flooded by moving air and rhythmic flapping. My attempts to
rid myself of the beast’s hold had the look of a child squirming
when faced with an arachnid.
Glancing at his arm now, Alexandre felt the servos of his armour
working to lift the ceramite plate on the outside closer to his
eyes. His fingers flexed with dread and anticipation. Fighting
the feeling, his eyes fixed once more on the screen. Cervantes
found himself hesitant to continue. The entities within his mind
were not so considerate, and cast memories of a decade ago into
images scrolling past his eyes.
The bike next to me buckled and swayed, before tipping over on
its side and rolling in the sand a dozen times while I rode on
past. For a single moment of fleeting apprehension, I thought
that my friend was amongst the twisted metal remains. Feeling
relief after identifying his safety I began to grow in viguor,
but then I found myself washed with dread at the sight of his
dangling legs 25 feet above my gormless expression.
“I hate to admit this Cervantes, but I think I might need a bit
of help.” He shouted down, shaking in his voice.
“Fear not, Moragh is coming round for another pass.” I yelled
back, turning my head to see the sleek silver hull approaching
and the nose mounted cannons spooling.
He clearly wasn’t as pleased as I’d imagined. “You can’t be
serious! By the time he’s stopped firing I’ll be more bullet
than man!” He tried to shake free of the grip around his
shoulders but to no avail. A more violent method of punching the
Uçan’s underbelly was attempted but without any physical
enhancements courtesy of power armour it was as effective at
hurting it as using a toothbrush to wash the tracks of a
Fellblade.
I was conflicted to say the least. My mind was alive and flaring
with activity, at the time I was searching for alternate methods
but I knew from the moment he was caught that the Bolter in my
hand was the only useful tool I could employ. Moragh’s ship flew
by for a final time to scatter the shattered remains of the
flock. This one here though was determined to fly off, yet their
ignorance at their inability to ascend and carry the full weight
of a Space Marine was somewhat of a blessing.
My target was shaking as if we were amidst a sea-bound tempest.
My shaky, one handed grip on the bike’s steering and the
irregular flight of the Uçan assisted in making this an even
more perilous shot. I was timing myself, steadying my aim until
the bird’s feet came directly into the sights. Making my last
heavy breath I gritted my sand filled teeth together and
squeezed my index finger around the trigger.
An unpleasant chill emerged from the base of my neck and snaked
a path down my spinal column. The sensation sent my armored
steed into a swerving pattern like a pendulum, before embracing
the tires with its icy illusion and shaking the sand beneath.
Now nested in the ground, whatever thought had escaped my mind
reached up with phantasmal hands and warped around the legs of
the aspirant. Panicked agony pierced into his pale flesh with
enchanted blades and lured the masculine form downward on a
lucid plume of vermillion. My work done, my errant vision faded
into sand, as did a bleeding body which Cervantes could never
forget was of his inception.
The Apothecary rested a hand on the biker’s shoulder pad. His
recipient didn’t feel the warmth of kinship that was intended,
only the icy shiver of regret.
“You should know it was the right thing to do. I’d prefer being
shot by you to being eaten by a giant bird any day.”
Cervantes smirked and rolled his eyes with masked ire at his own
history. Alexandre didn’t appear to have changed since then, if
his choice of words was anything to go by. Yet even the most
imperishable relationships can be a source of deceit.
“At least your aim has gotten sharper since then.” Cervantes
squinted, trying to uncover a hidden barb in the remark but
seeing only a sly grin spread across the healer’s mouth. “You’re
too easy, honestly.”
A light crackle emerged from concealed vox relays in the ceiling
and ushered a monotone and controlling voice from within.
“Twenty First Company, assemble – you know where. War is
calling. We shall answer.” It cut off abruptly, allowing silence
to slowly diffuse back into the air.
“Valten sounds thrilled.” Cervantes stood up straight and
affixed his helmet with a clank and a delicate hiss.
“That’s his happy voice,” The other replied. “Try being in his
command squad; you’ll swiftly learn that right now he’s
absolutely ecstatic.”
The pair paced along the length of the starboard window,
occasionally breaking step to allow a huddled serf to scurry
past. Their steps masked the muted throbbing of the ship’s
power. Cervantes could see its veins and arteries twining above
his path. Thick rimmed tubes of iron stretched for miles,
drawing fuel and energy from all over the ship to the starship’s
herculean engines protruding from the stern.
They took a turn and went deeper, until their footsteps faded
into the steady heartbeat of the Firebrand.
#Post#: 8109--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Brotherhood of the Lost: Legio XII, The Wardens of Light
Chapter One - Part III
DIR By: Lucan Tyrius
Date: October 13, 2016, 6:20 pm
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I'm going to respond to all three here:
Overall it was engaging and well written. Though there were some
grammatical ticks that bugged me, but they are not wrong, just
not modern. Which seems appropriate for a 40k setting.
Well done, and thank you for posting
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