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Internally, he trembled uncontrollably, the recently received reports still overwhelming. Through the viewing port, he surveyed the milling ranks of astartes rushing to form up alongside Thunderhawk Gunships on the volcano’s landing pad. Five whole companies, fully half the chapter, along with hundreds of serfs working feverishly to ready the marines for departure. He frowned at the chaotic scenes he surveyed, the usual discipline forgotten as they hurried to their positions. Even up here in his low-lit chamber he could hear the din through the plastiplex of the viewing port and could well imagine the questions and speculation resounding around the cavernous interior of Hell Lock, volcanic fortress monastery of the Cerberus Guard.
“My lord Jar Lee,” rasped a metallic voice from behind him. “Perhaps it is time for us to assist you with your suit?”
Turning, Jar Lee first looked upon the massive bulk of the suit of tactical dreadnought armour in the deep shadows of a chamber corner. An ornate work of destructive art, the deep black Terminator suit would have been naught but a silhouette to the human eye had it not been for the grinning skull helmet which denoted his rank as High Chaplain of the Chapter. His gaze moved on to take in the trio of serfs waiting respectfully by the far wall. Their leader was a wizened old human with a long grey beard and heavily creased tanned skin. He wore a charcoal coloured sleeveless robe which opened slightly at the neck, revealing the bionics which replaced his throat and voice-box. Myr-drath had been the High Chaplain’s manservant for over a century and the long years spent within the volcanic atmosphere had slowly destroyed his respiratory system. Whilst Myr-drath gazed up at his master enquiringly, the two men that flanked him remained with hooded heads facing the chamber floor. Similarly robed to the old man, whilst Myr-drath’s arms were thin and weak, these two sported heavily muscular biceps and forearms and stood over a foot taller.
“You presume to order me about, Manservant?” Jar Lee arched an eyebrow, raising himself to full height. He could sense the robed men tense and seek to take a step back, though their backs were already firmly pressed to the wall. He couldn’t blame these humans. Even without his armour he knew he made an awe inspiring sight. Well over eight feet tall, he towered over the three men. Unlike them, he was robeless and simply wore a loincloth around his waist. As such his powerful inhumanly muscled torso was in full view. Ritual tribal scars covered much of his flesh, old wounds from before the Chapter had found him and remade him in Gulliman’s image. Aside from these he carried a number of others that he wore as battle trophies, scars that should otherwise have healed had not the apothecaries preserved them, as was the Chapter’s tradition. His left upper arm, for instance, was a mass of puckered skin where an elder assassin had showered him with razor edged discs. An entry wound still showed on his mighty chest where a sniper’s bullet had penetrated his armour and destroyed his primary heart. The scar that he wore most proudly, and the one he was sure the two robed servants were eyeing, was the gruesome wound that bisected his lower abdomen, a gift from the ork warlord known as the Mangler. Jar Lee had struck the Waagh leader down in return, hailing the end of one of the Cerberus Guard’s bloodiest campaigns. Perhaps even more daunting to the serfs was the mask that encased the High Chaplain’s face. Fashioned from the bladder of a jackavyle, it laced up tightly at the rear, fully enclosing his head. A crude skull was daubed on the mask using white volcanic ash and Jar Lee’s unusual amber eyes regarded the old man from the dark, would-be, sockets.
Myr-drath, however, scowled up at the chaplain, unfazed by the astarte’s posturing. “Neither of us have time for your pettishness,” he snapped, years of service allowing him a familiarity no other man would dare show one of the most feared men of the Chapter. “The Cerberaii ready themselves for departure and hunger for my lord’s blessing.”
“I fear they will be unable to depart without knowing their destination, Manservant” Jar Lee rejoined. As if the Emperor himself was listening, the door chime rang out softly. The chaplain intoned the word of opening and the door slid away into the rock face to allow entry. The three serfs bowed respectfully as Ven Shay Tal stepped into the room. He was garbed in full power armour, though helmetless, as was his wont. Unlike the black armour of the High Chaplain, he wore the chapter colours of charcoal grey with red trim. Shunning ostentation, the only acknowledgement of his status as Chapter Champion was the jackavyle cloak, clasped at the throat by an iron skull and the huge powersword, Lifehacker, which was currently slung across his back. Ven Shay Tal wore his silvered hair long and his face was framed by thick mutton chop side burns, tho his chin and top lip were shaved. His eyes, much like his gait, cast an aura of suppressed aggression; as a human he had been a member of one of the most savage tribes of Styxia and his indoctrination had not completely rid him of his more primitive tendencies. His tone, however, was respectful as he approached the High Chaplain, a chalice gripped within his huge hands, hands more suited to encircling throats and tearing off jawbones. He bowed his head briefly in acknowledgement of Jar Lee’s status.
“High Chaplain, I offer you this cup so that you may enlighten mine brothers’ eyes.” The Chapter Champion’s low rumbling voice spoke reverently. The formal words over, he eyed the other man expectantly. Over his shoulder in the hallway beyond, an honour guard noticeably broke protocol and neared the door, intent on listening in.
Jar Lee ignored them and reached out to clasp the bronze chalice in his own hands. The small chunks of meat and the crimson liquid inside slushed thickly, enticingly. He forced his hands to hold steady as the wave of anticipation swelled uncontrollably within him and the heady scent of the blood filled his nostrils. He forced his attention away from it for the moment and back to the new arrival. “Are our Brothers ready for departure?”
“They stand ready as we speak, High Chaplain. I have just been given word that all Thunderhawks are prepped for departure.”
“And who remains to guard the Gateway?
”Squads Gen and Temdrir of Sixth Company have taken the oath to stand firm with spear-points ever raised til the Chapter returns in honour.” The Champion smiled ruefully. “I pity them”
Jar Lee snarled, causing the serfs, forgotten for the time being, to back further into the dark of the corner where the Terminator armour stood. “It is the greatest honour of the Cerberaii to be chosen to guard the Gateway!” Privately, though, he had to agree with Ven.
The Champion straightened and crashed a fist to his chest, admonished for his blasphemous comment. “Forgive me, High Chaplain, I spoke in haste. I allowed the momentous events of the day cloud my mind.” Then his eyes fell upon the chalice “Tell us where we must go, High Chaplain,” he said. His word were imploring. “Tell us where our Lord lies”
Jar Lee closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Drinking from the chalice was as unpleasant as it was alluring. As High Chaplain he had drunk from it more than any other living member of the Chapter, and it still was a difficult experience. He needed to prepare himself mentally, to focus on what he needed to glean from the contents. The blood was so dark it was almost black, as befitted the heart of its provider. The eldar, a member of the more depraved species of that abominable race, had been captured when one of their alien craft had tried to attack a Cerberus Guard strike cruiser returning to their Home World of Styxia. The aliens were obviously desperate to take on such a target and indeed all the prisoners had turned out to be malnourished and carrying wounds of some previous battle. As the Chapter had found in the past, these eldar were impervious to torture but when the Chaplain on board had supped of the blood of this particular prisoner he stumbled on a very vague whispering of a vision that the Cerberus Guard had prayed for for long centuries. Finally, the chaplain had seen what no surviving member of the Chapter had seen other than in a mosaic within this very fortress monastery. The Death Maw. Favoured weapon of their founding Chapter Master, Iolo Corvalius. And where the Death Maw lay, surely Corvalius was to be found. At long last the mystery of their greatest Hero would be unraveled.
The High Chaplain raised the chalice to his mouth and took a deep glug of the blood. He could taste the corruption within it but had tasted of the elder before and was prepared for it. Focusing, he swallowed the spicy blood and concentrated on pulling out the memory he required, the location of the Death Maw. The chaplain who had first tasted the blood had been unable to draw out the particular details of where the alien had been when he’d seen the weapon. Jar Lee staggered suddenly as the world around him seemed to drop away and a rush of…something filled his mind. It didn’t last long, it never did, and he desperately sought the name form the randomness he saw. Most of it was unclear, the vast majority was deeply disturbing. He sensed that wherever it had seen the weapon, the alien had been involved in bloody fighting and had been grievously wounded. Struggling, the High Chaplain thought he saw a curved weapon, a scythe perhaps? There were mountains. he rolled around in an alley, nursing a belly wound. A stylized image of a clenched fist. A house of murder. A cavern. Was the weapon there? The spire of a hive city………
Then he was back in his chamber, collapsed to his knees and retching up the contents of his stomach. Ven Shay Tal and Myr-drath were coming to assist him but he waved them away. “What did you see?” the champion asked expectantly. Jar Lee did not respond but slowly rose to his feet and staggered over to the viewing port. With one arm braced against the plasplex he looked down upon the Chapter below and this time hundreds of armoured heads looked back at him. With amber eyes that shone with zeal he activated a switch which would carry his voice throughout Hell Lock. He was dizzy and weak and struggled to form words. But he only needed to form one, the only one the hundreds around him needed to hear, and whilst he barely whispered it, it thundered through the hearts of the waiting Cerberaii, like a cry from the Emperor himself.
“Vulcaria”
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