Chapter 31: The Missing IXth (2: The Nature of a Warrior) |
Part 2: The Nature of a Warrior
Location: Irradiated Hive Ruins of Old Muscovy
Date: 792.M30
There was nothing that made Tyric Baldrson happier than being on a hunt.
It almost didn't matter what they prey was, because actually catching his quarry was only part of the fun. He never felt as alive as he did when he was stalking his target and finding out when exactly to strike. He'd hunted mutated fleshfighters from the deepest, darkest depths of the demented remains of Ursh, he'd felled insane Abominable Intelligences responsible for the death of entire cultures, and he had even sparred with his father's Custodes guards. But today, he was hunting the most exotic prey of all, the kind that truly made him happy.
Today, he was hunting a Primarch.
The setting of this hunt was the ruins of Old Muscovy. It had been a site of culture, power, and combat dozens of times throughout the history of mankind. It had been completely destroyed, only to see itself rebuilt time and time again until its final descent into destruction during the Unification Wars when the Thunder Warriors employed nuclear warheads to eradicate all traces of the evil regime that ruled over this land with an iron fist.
He had no clue which of his brothers it was, but that was most of the fun. He'd graduated from needing to know who his target was years ago. Now he had other ways of finding out who his quarry was. After all, that is why he'd brought along a squadron of his troops.
They nodded, going off in various directions that were already prearranged. Countless hours of hypno-indoctrination and combat training were paying off as there was no need for verbal communication or even for precious seconds to be wasted on signals. They were a pack on the hunt, and they acted like it.
Only Tyric and a single guard stayed behind, acting as a commander and his champion. Though he desired to be out on the hunt, chasing down prey, and feeling the rush that only a primal contest between predator and prey could bring, he knew that it was only one of his roles as a Primarch. Though he was Beast, the incarnation of mankind's desire to vanquish its foes ever since they first comprehended the monsters that circled their fires, he was also the embodiment of the Savage King, a cunning and masterful warrior who could send out his companions to do great deeds in his name. Hunting demigods might not have been in the realm of possibility for the Nord Kings he took inspiration from, but it was the favorite pastime of Tyric Baldrson.
So he waited, as vox reports trickled into him as his sons scouted ruined spire after ruined spire. He occasionally offered commands to assist in their scouting missions, but for the most part he listened and gathered information. Clearly it was one of his brothers that liked to work in the shadows. Eddard Iskandar and Dante would have tried for honorable combat long ago. Horus, Marcus, Baraca, Phillip, Moric, and Alexio would have made themselves known by now, Octaviar, Rogal, Culain, and Ogadin would be far too loud, and Kalib and Magnus were… well, they were Kalib and Magnus. No, it was a silent prey that he hunted, and he knew that it would be all the sweeter when they did finally reveal themselves.
As he knew they eventually would, his brother revealed himself. Shouts of surprise and roars of pain erupted over the vox system, and coordinates were called out as they called for their Primarch to provide them the aid they needed.
Tyric grinned a particularly wolfish grin and let out a joyful howl. The hunt was truly on now, and it was time to show why he was one of the most feared warriors among the Twenty. With breathtaking speed, he leapt over rad-scorched pockmarks in the earth and relied more on his senses are he drew closer and closer, all the while listening to his sons trying to give him as much information as possible.
"Came from the shadows, I didn't even see hi-"
"-everywhere! I can't get a lock on him!"
"Immaterium attack was ineffective. Interference with cryogenic manifestations! Switching to bolter rounds!"
"Will hold him off as long as I can. Good hunting, my lo-"
It was enough information for him to know who he was pursuing today. It seemed that Uncle Arik wanted him to have experience tracking down Kota. Good, he relished facing off against his younger brother, one of the few he had yet to face in these hunts.
He ran faster and faster, yearning to reach his prey as soon as he could. Tyric found his brother standing in the middle of an arena, its finery ruined long ago by a war that few who still lived could even remember the cause of. But its use as an area still had one last chance. If Tyric was fast enough, he could fight Kota with his sons beside him. A wolf was a fearsome predator, but it was even more formidable if it had a pack to back it up. His hopes were all in vain, for by the time he arrived, all of his sons lay unconscious and bloody around the feet of his brother.
Kota was completely clad in a set of black armor that obscured all his features, but it was clear who it was nonetheless. His brother bore a cloak of synthraven feathers that obscured most of his features and what wasn't obscured was in the process of being covered by acrid smoke that burned Tyric's nostrils as he inhaled it.
"Any last words?" Tyric grunted, leveling a thunderhammer at his brother as he did so.
There was no reply, only the telltale ignition hum of twin power claws as the Ravenwing beckoned him to join in this dance.
The VIth primarch just grinned in resignation. His younger brother was truly a man of few words, but he was still disappointed that he couldn't get the grim Primarch to at least make a sound before they fought. He motioned for his sole remaining conscious son to stand at the ready, but remove himself from this duel. As proficient as his personal guard was, and this particular member was extremely tall and graceful, he would do nothing but get in the way. No, this was a clash between two demigods. Mortals had no business being in such a conflict.
It happened so fast that Kota almost didn't have time to react. One moment, Tyric was motioning for his son to stand aside, and the next he seemingly teleported next to his brother, thunderhammer in mid-swing. There was no trickery of the Warp here, however. Tyric was simply that fast, having trained his superhuman reflexes to allow him to move at speeds only the quickest of his siblings could truly match. As it was, Kota was immediately forced on the defensive, relying on a defensive set of maneuvers that would have made Rogal proud.
Each swing of Tyric's weapon would have pierced through a Land Raider like it was a piece of wet parchment, but the XIXth Primarch was always just a split second faster that Tyric's swing. Craters appeared wherever his hammer landed and sonic booms rippled through the semi-enclosed area. Though his brother was dodging every blow, Tyric was slowly herding him backwards, towards the part of the arena that still had pillars supporting a roof over its head. Once there, the blows became noticeably sloppier, lagging far behind the rate they once swung at. Kota almost didn't notice what Tyric was planning. The VIth Primarch had been methodically destroying the pillars holding the roof up, intending to bring the structure down on top of them both and rely on his superior strength to emerge from his new concrete tomb more intact than his brother. Though he couldn't see his face, Tyric noted the surprise in his brother's posture as he scrambled like mad to get out into open ground. It gave the Slayer endless satisfaction to see his brothers realize that there was a cunning to the VIth Primarch's strategies and that they had just walked into a trap by underestimating him. All around them, but far enough away that his unconscious sons would not be in danger, the roof fell all around them. Kota barely managed to get away from the cacophonous deluge with Tyric right on his heels.
As Kota stumbled out of the collapsing arena, Tyric knew the fight was over. No matter how compromised they might be, a Primarch was still one of the greatest warriors in the galaxy, with even the lowliest of them able to take on almost any warrior they fought. Unfortunately for the XIXth Primarch, Tyric Baldrson was no ordinary foe.
He was crafted by the Emperor of Mankind to be the Slayer of Monsters, able to catch bolter rounds between his fingers and shrug off direct hits from artillery shells. He was designed specifically to target the biggest, baddest, most unkillable monster on the battlefield and ensure it met its end. In an open duel, with no terrain advantages or hidden surprises, there was perhaps only two or three Primarchs that could beat Tyric in a fight, and even that would be a dangerously risky proposition. Kota Ravenwing could not number himself among that two or three.
In the end, a tremendous blow from the thunderhammer caught the Avenging Raven in the center of his chest and he flew through the air before crumpling to the ground. The Slayer let out a primal howl of victory before striding over to his vanquished foe. His remaining bodyguard made his way over to his father and took up position behind him, constantly scanning the horizon for an attack as he had been trained to.
"I commend you for your for your performance today, brother." Tyric said, breathing hard as he looked down upon his brother. The Primarch let out a faint wheeze that turned into a chuckle as it continued on. "You almost had me fooled. Your strategy was almost without flaw, but I still spotted some…"
Mid-sentence, he spun around and slammed his bodyguard into the rubble with a thunderous impact, right before the bodyguard could subdue him with a stun baton he had concealed. Tyric growled and punched the figure hard in the chest, dazing them as he wrenched off their helmet and cast it aside.
"Omegon."
His youngest brother's bald face stared up at him in a bloody smile, a tooth that Tyric had knocked out as he slammed him to the ground was already regrowing.
"How did you know?"
Alpharius was slow to get to his feet, casting off his XIXth Legion armor to display the classic gunmetal gray tunic that was so common among members of the Last Legion.
"The first hint was my Librarians not being able to use their powers. You had already played your hand that you were impersonating one of our brothers that worked from the shadows, so copying Marcus' favorite tactic was a sloppy move."
"Next was the smell of the smoke. The Warp has a metallic smell to it. Perhaps you tasted it during the Lunar Crusade? Well it smells just like it tastes: metallic and foul. It's a far cry from the chemical smoke you were using to play your role as Kota."
"Then there was the business of barely being able to dodge my attacks. Kota would easily be fast enough to counterattack. You weren't. I knew something was wrong when it was all starting to feel a little too easy. Plan contingencies in the future to accommodate for the fact that while you can accurately mimic any of us, you cannot mimic all of our abilities."
"But what about me?" Omegon chimed in. "Uncle Arik told us about this months before you found out. I'd been stalking your bodyguards for weeks and my infiltration was flawless. How did you know it was me?"
"That was the simplest of all." Tyric laughed. "The VIth Legion are good soldiers, but they are just as much beasts as they are soldiers. None of my legion would ever have sat idly by while I dueled an enemy. They would have clamored for the right to be at my side, in victory or glorious death. Your acceptance gave you away."
"Extraordinary, truly extraordinary." Alpharius said, extending a hand and giving his brother a warm handshake and embrace. "Thank you, Tyric, for what you have taught us today. Please, we are both always eager to gather new information to make us better warriors and Primarchs. How are you able to do what it is that you do?"
"Father once told me that if I was to truly become all that I could possibly be, that I would need to trust my instincts." Tyric shrugged. "My instincts told me that there was something wrong with this test, and so I followed that intuition, leading us here. Be true to what you are supposed to be, and you shall always find victory."
"At my core, I am a hunter. And as long as there is breath in my body, I shall always be out hunting amongst the stars."
Location: Pariah Processing Center on Formendacil
Date: 896.M30
Raldoron-bin-Vir was furious.
Not at his brothers, for they were fighting their hardest, taking down dozens of Rangdan war-forms for every single one of their own that was lost. Not at himself, for he had done his duty to both Primarch and Legion. Leading the IXth Legion through this great tribulation had been a taxing job, and the Primarch had been generous with his praise. Dante had claimed that without Raldoron's leadership, the Dawn Angels would have long ceased to be an effective fighting force long before this attack could take place.
No, he was enraged because he did not feel that his mission was done. He was perhaps the only member of the Dawn Angels besides the Primarch himself that had not let Formendacil break them in any way. The various tragedies and surprises may have been a shock to other members of the legion, but not to Raldoron. Of course their plan to take the processing center had failed, that was an easy one to guess. The moon orbiting the planet turning out to be a gigantic mass of genetically altered pariah tissue had been less expected, but he wasn't about to lose all hope.
"'Only in Death does Duty end". It was a creed that all Astartes lived by, but for Raldoron it was the very air he breathed. Some of his brothers and cousins greeted their imminent death as a release from their promise, a way to finally rest after work that was well done. But Raldoron never felt that it was some sort of burden. It was a glorious purpose, and he wanted to stave off death as long as possible in order to serve for centuries to come.
It was for this reason that as Rangda war-forms started encircling his formation's position and picking them off one by one, Raldoron found himself realizing that this was the end. Expected, but still frustrating. There was still so much that he could offer to Imperium, to his Primarch. What a shame that none of it would ever come to pass, for if they all fell, Dante would soon join them in death. And once the Rangda got their hands on a Primarch's genetic material, who knew what sort of incomprehensible horrors they could make from his flesh? It made Raldoron shake with rage. This could not, would not happen. Not as long as there was still breath in his body and strength in his limbs.
It was just him and a single company of soldiers left. The Rangda had consumed all other bioforms in their path and it was just them left now. They would fight the wretched xenos to the bitter end, but it would all be pointless to the end.
No matter, for the Imperium, and for Mankind. Ave Imperator.
"You are the Dawn Angels, soldiers of the Glorious Emperor, and you know no fear." Raldoron called out, rallying those that remained alive to his side. "We shall stick together, and we shall kill many of them. If it is our fate to die this day, then we die with smiles on our faces and the enemy's blood on our blades!"
There were Omniphages among the enemy, but their most common type of soldier was a human corpse, infected and transformed with obsidian black spikes of infected Rangdan genetic code that communicated every single direction to the human subject's brain. They were still technically alive, but unable to do a thing to stop the waking nightmare that they lived. The spikes were capable of absorbing new flesh, just like the Ominiphages, and tendrils of spike-connected flesh allowed for more lethal appendages to appear, for a strong enough spike could pierce through all but the strongest ceramite. These 'Spikers', as the Dawn Angels called them, were not dangerous enemies when they were alone, but they were never alone. Before him, Raldoron saw that they numbered in the thousands. They made a formidable foe, but the IXth Legion would not be found wanting.
The Dawn Angels roared, moving to his side as they drew their power swords and reloaded their weapons. The Rangda charged their position, but as one, the Astartes held their ground. Swords pierced through chitin, bolter rounds smashed through infected flesh, and human will triumphed over the local consciousness of the viral form. They were holding, but their defeat was coming. Each time the Randga were driven back, fewer and fewer Astartes were standing tall to meet the next wave. Ammunition was running low, and even the superhuman physiology of the Dawn Angels was beginning to be spent. Some of his brothers had been Lost to the Blood, and were the only ones looking fresh for the next wave. That came with its own problems however, as they were only marginally responding to orders Raldoron was giving. As more and more of them became Lost, the Captain of the First Formation wasn't sure how much longer they would even respond to orders. If they left their positions to kill as many enemies as possible, their body count would be truly formidable before the enemy finally managed to slay them, but it would also irrevocably damage the line strength of the remaining Astartes, dooming them all to slaughter.
A shriek sounded from where the Rangda had been amassing. They were preparing to attack again.As Raldoron steeled himself for yet another wave of Rangda troops, the most peculiar thing happened, something that he could not have expected. Wolves began to howl all over the skies of Formendacil, and accompanying them were thousands of drop pods, all bearing the mark of the Wild Hunt. Their cousins had come to rescue them in their darkest moment.
It was a miracle beyond anything that the Dawn Angels could have hoped for. The VI Legion rained down from the sky, seemingly heedless of the dangers that sprung up all around them. For every drop pod that was blown out of the sky, five more successfully made it to the surface and continued the savage hunt.
And what a hunt it was. With a brutality that was both wholly alien and disturbingly familiar to the members of the IXth who bore witness, the Wild Hunt tore into the exposed flanks of the Rangda army, gleefully howling that "The Hunt is Unleashed". Weak points that Raldoron didn't even know existed within the Rangdan force were exploited and torn to gory shreds. Animals wearing power armor poured out from the remains of other drop pods and seemed to relish in the chance to spill xenos ichor.
The most elaborately decorated of those pods landed nearby, spewing out the fur-clad warriors of the Wild Hunt, who let out fearsome bellows that leapt into battle with a glee that was wholly alien to the Captain of the IXth Legion's First Formation. One of the warriors in particular fought with a tremendous fierceness, taking off the head of an especially nasty war-breed that was seconds away from killing yet another Dawn Angel. The Astartes let out a wolfish how as his battleaxe sunk deep into the creature's skull, spewing black ichor into the savage face of its slayer.
"Well met, cousin." Raldoron said, still shocked at the sudden appearance of their saviors. "I am Raldoron-bin-Vir of Baal."
"Bjorn of Fenris." came the gruff reply, though Raldoron was perceptive enough to know that Bjorn appreciated his thanks.
"How did you ever manage to find us?"
"We are the Wild Hunt." Bjorn said simply. "Trackers of both enemies and allies."
"I thank you, cousin." Raldoron nodded gratefully. He knew that it was pointless to press him further, and it was just poor manners to complain about your rescuers. "But I fear it is too little, and far too late. That Black Miasma still resides in orbit above us, and we cannot even begin to hope while it still lives. I fear that coming here was a mistake for you…"
His musings were interrupted as the ground trembled at their feet. The biggest Omniphage Raldoron could ever remember seeing burst upwards and scattered the two captains. Rangda Spikers began pouring from the newly formed hole and Raldoron found himself battling for his life once again.
"For the Emperor!" screamed Bjorn as he ran towards the Omniphage leading the charge. As was the custom of the Wild Hunt, he entered into melee range as soon as he could, counting on his superior agility and ferocity to win in a fight against the monster's strength and size. In one fluid motion, he produced a Warp grenade from his belt and shoved the grenade along with the arm that held it deep into one of the many mouths the Omniphage possessed. With a muted boom, the grenade exploded inside the creature, showering the area with viscera as the Materium and Immaterium mixed in strange and unpredictable ways.
The gore itself had a lethal effect on Bjorn, with the black ooze eating through the right arm of his power armor. The Wild Hunter dropped to the ground, writhing in pain as he fought in vain to stave off the necrotizing effects of the Rangdan virus strain as well as the mysteries of the Warp that were given purchase in reality for a short period of time. Once again, Raldoron found himself fighting alone.
With perfect grace and effortless motion, Raldoron proved why he was considered among the utmost elite of the Dawn Angels as he slew every single warrior who had the misfortune of meeting him or his blade. He did not defeat them all without considerable effort, however. His wings had been torn off, his plasma pistol had overheated long ago, and the power sword he had wielded for almost a century in faithful service to his Primarch was chipped in several locations.
The Dawn Angels around him fared no better. One by one, they all became Lost to the Blood, becoming terrifying warriors but terrible soldiers. Their vengeance gave them abilities their cousins did not possess, but that anger burned hot within them. The combined yearning for an avenging angel was not a ration emotion, for precious few humans ever called out for deliverance from a heart filled with logic. They were surrounded, and the Rangda slowly destroyed them, but not without terrible losses of their own. Wherever Raldoron went, his brothers forgot their madness for a little while, fighting together with him as they vanquished their foes. It was only enough to hold them for a little while. Hammer blows were swung a touch too hard, leaving them exposed for just a second longer than they needed to be. The mistakes added up over time, and either an Omniphage tendril wounded them too gravely to recover, or Spikers swarmed over them, drawing them in a tide of infected flesh.
Minutes later, all that was left on this battlefield of carnage was himself and the lead Omniphage, and both were wounded from vanquishing their enemies. This was it. He knew it. His duty would end here, though he did not wish it to be. At least he could take some small amount of solace in the fact that this enemy would die with him, saving the lives of countless brothers and cousins.
He had no regrets, other than wanting to continue living. None, perhaps, save wishing to see the face of his Primarch one last time.
"Come then." he muttered to his hated foe that stared at him with uncomprehending, hate-filled eyes. "Let us finish this."
The Omniphage let out a shriek and prepared to charge, but as it did so, the sound died in its many throats. It seemed to be stopped dead in its tracks, unsure what was even the source of its distress. Raldoron raised his blade high, prepared to strike down the creature should it regain its senses.
It never did. A black hand with razor sharp claws burst out from the center of its mass before clenching into a fist and jerking up with considerable force. The top half of the creature was bisected immediately and the parts that weren't severed were frozen over as a white frost covered every inch of the creature. With a push from whatever was behind it, the Omniphage fell forward, shattering into a dozen different pieces that stayed stationary and unmoving. Against all odds, Raldoron was once again proven wrong. All thanks to this new ally.
Standing behind the recently fallen creature was the most unlikely of candidates in Raldoron's eyes. Bjorn of Fenris stood tall and proud, a crazed look in his eyes as he beheld what had become of his right hand. Where once there had been a completely normal looking Astartes limb, the combination of the Warp grenade and Rangda virus-strain had melded together to latch onto the very genetic code of his arm, transforming it into something else entirely and only being stopped by the sheer force of will that the Astartes possessed.
The hand was more of a claw now. Still humanoid to be sure, but the jet-black fingers were just a touch longer and slightly more spindly. Claws now sprouted from the ends of those fingers, and steam from the rapidly thawing ice that Bjorn had so recently conjured was rising all around the arm, giving it a white aura of mist.
"I see your heart, Raldoron-bin-Vir of Ball." the Astartes who would soon be called Bjorn the Fell-Handed said, pointing an accusatory claw at him. "You are a warrior without peer, an exemplar of what it means to be a member of the Adeptus Astartes. You despair that your mission is over, that you shall meet your death on this planet, that your Primarch will be lost without you.Never give up hope, for it is something the enemy cannot take from you, no matter how hard they try. Your duty has not ended, cousin, and it will not end here. Have faith. Faith in your Primarch, in your mission, and most importantly in yourself."
Raldoron just stared at his cousin in mute silence, awe, and confusion. He could hardly stay on his feet right now, much less comprehend what Bjorn was saying.
"You are tired, I know." Bjorn said with a sympathetic nod. "But we must continue the fight. The Emperor still requires my services, and I am desperate to see exactly what my new arm does."
Raldoron could not help but let out a chuckle at that. The Wild Hunt didn't pursue glory like the IXth did, or have dueling senses of identity. They were hunters, pure and simple and that made their job all the more fulfilling. They knew their purpose, and whatever tools they could bring to bear in that hunt, whatever their origins, was acceptable to them.
As the two of them made their way down from the hill that Raldoron had chosen to be his defensive spot hours ago, he felt the strangest feeling in his chest, as if a massive weight had been completely lifted from his shoulders.
Despite everything that had happened to him and his legion, despite the fact that the Black Miasma still hung over their heads, it seemed like Raldoron was taking his first breath of air in years. The war was not over!
"Only in Death does Duty end." he murmured as they looked out over the battle that still raged on. The Black Miasma still orbited over their heads, the House Lord the size of a hive spire still loomed large in the distance, and millions of war-forms still roamed the land. But he knew he had to have faith.
They had won a small victory, him and Bjorn. Who was to say that more of his brothers and cousins would not do the same? They had each other, and faith in the Great Plan of the Emperor. That would be enough.