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Winds of magic
Then came Kharn.
A beast and his entourage cut deep into the system’s heart, disembowelling the unprepared Imperial pickets, bleeding their populace dry. Altars are erected and sanctified with mountains of skulls bathed in crimson sacrament. Khorne, the Dark God of Slaughter, is pleased with this offering. His eye is turned, his favour courted. In response his thralls turn to even greater depravity; they war among themselves now that frail Imperials are scarce.
Kharn -- the Betrayer -- leads the host to 19378-LU and in response a temple rises from the wastes. A temple marked in signs and sigils that proclaim the glory of Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways and not Kharn’s God of blood and skulls. The temple is empty and void of power, giving the manipulated servants no outlet for their stoked rage but their comrades. In the vast melee, Kharn breaks a tooth of his mighty chainaxe Gorechild on the brazen helm of a bloodthirster.
Consumed by his impotent fury, lost to the Nails, Kharn cuts a path back to his voidship and leaves the horde to fall amongst themselves for a treasured prize: their leader’s chain-axe is armed with the teeth of the fabled mica-dragon, and to possess one is to hold a shard of their patron’s strength. A vicious struggle continues for a full hundred days, challengers depleting or fleeing with the relic finally claimed by a mighty Astartes champion in pocked, cratered ceramite marking him as one of the original Legionaires, the Word Bearers.
As he holds the serrated tooth up to rusty light, what thoughts spark in his transhuman mind? Did he do this for his own plans, to seek the favour of the Gods? Did he brave this charnel house to deny the fragment in some petty revenge, a long-ago slight Kharn gave to a high-ranking member of his Legion? Or was it at the command of a higher power?
Exhausted, for even the mighty Astartes cannot fight forever, the Word Bearer summons his shuttle, a Thunderhawk as battered as he is. He allows himself a moment of laxity, of well-earned victory. He lays down his stump of a crozius, the head smeared in gore, and calls in a hoarse voice for wine and robes as he begins to unseal his armour.
This contest had an original designer. Khorne’s eye is not the only one turned to this rock.
The tides of fate run dark and deep. The winds of magic blow fierce and free.
He feels them before they move and is up from the bench with a roar, his enhanced senses giving him the advantage of strength, speed and calculation. He has already accounted for them: simple mortals and a dishonourable ambush to steal away his prize. Bold, prideful, arrogant, he never considers that this is not the beginning of his storied legacy, but an ignoble end.
An accursed crozius will pulp a human body with little effort, but fatigue and injury slows the warrior by milliseconds, enough for his opponent to evade the blow with a neat pivot, slamming a man-portable thunder hammer straight into the Astartes chestplate. Concussive detonation separates the two, throwing the Word Bearer tumbling back down the ramp and into the grit of 19378-LU and the unseen mortal back several steps in the aftershock. Dazed, reeling, the Space Marine takes a moment on his knee to gather bearings, wits and will in one.
“Defend yourself,” a feminine voice echoes from the Thunderhawk’s hold. “Get up.”
A mortal tenor will never match the low, bass piston of a transhuman. The woman striding down the ramp had abandoned the single-charge hammer in favour of a whickering two-handed daemon blade, eyes darting and mouths slavering from cross-guard to spiked tip. Her height was something astounding, a mere head shorter than a full-grown Marine, and her knotted muscles and supernatural musculature spoke of both the dark gifts of Chaos and the gene-enhancing science of the Dark Mechanicum. Burning in smokey blue on her brow was the unmistakable Mark of Tzeentch.
“Mortal,” hissed the Word Bearer, staggering to his feet and adopting a solid guard, “You are favoured, and yet you do not recognise that I am your master here?”
“I think not.”
The daemon weapon moved in short, sharp jerks, unlimbered, sniffing for prey, drooling in hunger. It leapt and snarled with a mind of its own towards the Astartes, panting in thrusts and parries. Desperately the Word Bearer calls to the Warp and finds his will smothered, his spectral fingers broken as he reaches for the power he needs to fight back. He has felt the touch of a blank before and this is nothing alike: a blank is a severance, and this is a hideous power deliberately interceding. This battle must be fought physically.
A wild strike catches the female warrior on the shoulder, shattering bones, and her sword falls from nerveless fingers as she howls in hurt and rage. On the offensive and out in the open, the Astartes’ superior speed and strength tell immediately: now disarmed, the daemon sword yipping uselessly out of reach, she is easy prey: a series of smart flourishes force her back against the Thunderhawk’s hull, and a feint -- a gauntleted fist cracking her sternum even so -- and nowhere left to move.
The sound of mace breaking skull is sickening. Crozius embeds itself in the dented plating as blood fountains from the twisted stump of neck that remains. To be sure, the Word Bearer grabs her uninjured arm at the shoulder and pulls it away in a secondary stream of red, stamping down on her legs in pique rather than certainty. The sheer hubris of a mortal to challenge a Space Marine offends him righteously, though her wargear is valuable and will make great spoil along with Gorechild’s tooth.
He breathes out, finally, and activates his vox-link to the orbiting vessel.
“Meretseger, you were right about a final assassin in the Thunderhawk.”
The crisp reply has a pleasant lilt, a songbird quality to it.
“Bryn’varr telmon! A child’s ploy, so obvious. Did you recover the artifact?”
“Aye, it’s here, a pretty enough bauble.”
“Honour to you, Freeborn. Is that stolen plate up to a teleport?”
The false Word Bearer scrolled through a systems report: a cracked breastplate and numerous other serious errors, but the teleport homer was thankfully intact. He would have offered a prayer of thanks that Lorgar’s wretched get still maintained their utilities unlike so many of his brother Legions, but by the quaking of the empyrean -- Khorne’s anger and Tzeentch’s laughter -- knew better than to risk the full notice of the Powers at that moment.
They would have to be contented later.
“The homer is functional. I would not linger here any longer, if it please you.”
A response was instantaneous. The howl of the Warp, the brushing of claws against his armour, the faint screams of beings desperate for his soul -- and it was over, and he stood, wreathed in earthing energy, in the Meretseger’s teleportarium. Serfs in pathwork robes rushed to his side to begin the process of removing and securing armour pieces, tutting over this break or that warping, applying specialist tools where the armour fitting had shifted too much. It was a tedious process, and the comedown of combat stimms and triumph made it even more so.
Yet triumph it was, and all the sweeter, it was done under the eye of the Dark Gods.
And with the mica-dragon tooth, their way to the Warmaster’s side was open.