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The alarms sang their vermillion warning song, deep thunderous bellows of horns warning of impending doom and crimson warnings flashed deep in their desperate appeals for attention.
Yet for all their appeals to panic, the listeners of these sirens of catastrophic prophecy merely adjusted sensors and calmy plugged in supplementary vox connections and override codes.
Fore this was not the first time such cries and warnings had been heard, and while each heralded pain and bloodshed, they had been dealt with efficiently and lethally.
The Rock was no stranger to war, to invasion and counterattack- as the leading blade of the Firsts arsenal it was often the first thrusting strike towards inevitable victory. There was no larger blade in all of the imperium – though heretical comparison to the VII th Phalanx could, in part be forgiven – the Rock was more than just a refuge to the Firsts, it was their home, their anchor to the past, to their liege, to their father.
Lord Belaphor, Mater of the Rock, simply accepted his sensors warnings and began the micro procession that was required to decipher their screaming prophecies into more tangible threat markers. A process the venerable tech-priest had undertaken on a dozen or more practical occasions and a million or more on the theoretical, yet he was forced to pause. The Rock was sitting in the Kolrion Belt zone, a dozen or so warp jump points away from the dreaded Crux Nihilius. The recent Deamon Prince Marbus attacks had left the Rock vulnerable, the significant damage to the infrastructure was slow to be repaired and the loss to crew was beyond significant. Though Lord Belaphor knew not of the Grand Masters worries in relation to this attack, he was more than aware of the mundane effects on his charge – and the ebbing of his warning systems so fresh after this last attack was indeed concern.
Yet the venerable Master of the Rock, hard wired into the very heart of the Rock’s mighty main frames could find no reason for their concerns. No unauthorised ship swam in the void, no threat stepped on the sacred ground of the First lost world, all seemed calm, all seemed in order.
Yet, still, at the Gate of the Keep – deep within the Rock but in essence of no import – a place of nutrients holding there had been a brief warp presence, small but powerful.
Alerting the remaining Deathwing warriors still functioning to gather at the Scycorax junction to intercept any invasion Lord Belaphor messaged Lord Commander Azreal who was at station his concerns.
Azreal took but a second to receive and comprehend his Master of the Rocks concerns and orders, deducing they lacked in nothing except understanding of the deeper circles that by choice of role made him barred. Azreal merely accepted this knowledge with a grunt, unsheathed the Sword of Secrets and donned the Lion Helm, triggering its many auspex arrays and sensors he marched off to meet his brethren and face what ever foe dared once more to walk on the sacred grounds of the Rock.
The Deathwing rapidly deployed, a dozen squads in their Tatical Dreadnought Armour, heavy flamers, storm bolters and assault cannons armed and primed. Also present were the Rocks remaining Deathwing Knights led by Sir Belial himself. Their many ancient auspexs chimed blank, linked machine spirits – glad to be enjoined once more with their brothers – found nothing of note.
Azreal longed for the sage advice of Grand Master Ezekiel, his master of Librarians – but he and many other notable figures of the inner circle were away on vital missions, it was only fortune that had meant Azreal himself was here to coordinate the defences – though Master Asaram would maintain the watch as his duty ordained. What was here was the primary thought but also why here ?
The Scycorax junction itself was as much a non-entity as could exist on such an ancient – the only reason is was deemed worthy to be named was a secret to only a few chosen inner circle devotees.
As the warriors spanned the wide hall, a dozen sevitors modified for lifting heavy victual crates by replacing arms with fork lifts and gene-enhanced backs had been re-directed to stand facing the Gate of the Keep. They were not expected to be a defence, merely a hinderance to anything that came through that door.
As Lord Azreal took stock a heavy twin thudding step announced the presence of the wardens in white, their armaments though were lowered and unpowered. They took position at the key stone of the defence, remaining silent and ignoring any request for enlightenment from the host arraigned behind them.
Their presence, usually such a balm on the grim soul of the Grand Master of the Firsts only further troubled him.
A sharp crack rang the air, a thunderclap rending the air and fading just as fast. Power fields were activated, weapons raised and targeting auspexs rapidly seeking the source.
A second crack, quickly followed by a third and all attention was focused on the 20-meter-high gate. With each crack the huge gates bent in, a fourth, fifth till on the sixth the gates spread open to the rushing of an ice storm.
Auspex’s stretched to breaking sought for targets only to flander in vain. The dozen servitors were blown a clear 100 meters back, their multi-tonne bodies nothing to the power of the storm that raged through the now breached Gate of the Keep. Yet none of this fearsome storm reached the host assembled, not a breath of wind, nor drop of ice, touched white armour of the Deathwing.
Azreal stepped forward, his great blade held erect before him, activating his helms deepest defences he roared his defiance into the unnatural storm, demanding that whom ever or what ever it was that caused such ignoble storm to show themselves and be judged for their foul intrusion.
There then came another crack, lighter than before, the unmistakable sound of wood on stone, perhaps the caw of an avian, again, crack, perhaps the echo of a wolf howl, again, crack, pause crack. Each crack a decibel louder, a step closer, a warning and a welcoming.
Azreal again repeated his challenge but still his ancient sensors could find target amongst the swirling ice of the storm.
Then a shadow formed, tall, taller even than one of the white wardens, though slimer at the shoulders. Trusting to sensors he again was shocked to see they still had no lock on the form slowly emerging.
A quick pulse to his gathered host revealed none saw what he saw or heard the ghosts of raven and wolf call.
Crack, crack, crack, the shadow entered the hall, forming into a tall figure, bedecked in a long grey leather trail coat, a grey wide brimmed hat hiding its face, using a long twisted wooden staff as aide to walk. The howling wind did not touch the figure nor impede its progress. Once fully in the hall it raised it’s head, old and scarred was the face that peered out, weather worn and leathery, deep wrinkles criss-crossed both brown and cheeks. A short white beard covered that thin face. One eye was covered in a patch, some ancient cruciform in black stone on its face. The other eye was a deep ice blue, no cataract or impairment blemished that stone cold gaze, judging all who stood before it.
Once fully formed every warrior in that small space felt a calling deep with them, at a genetic level, a pull that none had ever felt before – to obey this figure.
Azreal felt it most, and raged against the idea, only one person did the First accept as their Lord and Master, and He was sat many light years away on the golden throne.
“For the Lion” he roared and stepped forward ready to engage, honest hatred on his lips, righteous loathing in his heart.
“Indeed…honoured nephew”, a whisper of voice, cracked deep with age but still mighty.
Even as he spoke a shield of wind and ice surrounded the grey clad figure – as bolter, missile and plasma strike enshrouded him. For a brief moment in time there was enough fire power to level a war hound titan before a natural pause, a second to reload, recalibrate was required.
Crack, crack, crack – the grey figure emerged from the dust uninjured his one eye blazing with power- but not fury, if anything a slight hint of mirth sat on his thin lips.
As the host swung their weapons up to resume their onslaught, he merely twitched the head of the staff in their direction, arms become frozen, trigger fingers leaden with ice.
Of those Knights equipped with their ancient relics of melee they began racing towards their Grand master and this interloper, who simply clasped his free hand into an upraised fist. The very stones of the Rock betrayed their lords and warping like water grasped their legs in a grip that was beyond mere weight of stone and earth.
The knights roared their disapproval at such foul warp sorcery and struck mighty blows at their own bindings but to avail.
Azreal remained conspicuously free of any impediment and raced to close the gap. He swung the Sword of Secrets with all the skill that his many years of battle had granted him, when the Supreme Grand Master of the Inner Circle, Chosen of the First’s, Chapter Master to the Dark Angles sought a foe death there was never any doubt of the outcome.
Yet not this time, his powerful blow was parried by the tip of the wooden staff, in principle an impossible feat but this was turning out to be an hour of impossibilities. He felt a sharp blow on the wrist and his whole hand spasmed – it was as if ceramite and power field were not there for this grey clad stranger and again the impossible happened, Azreal dropped his blade.
Though it did not fall, it gently floated in the ice storm that still refused to touch him or any of his brothers.
“Honour is satisfied…Dark Angel, and this blade was not meant for loitering in the dirt”.
With a flick his staff the blade floated hilt first to the surprised warrior who grasped it quickly in his other hand.
Through the seconds of this encounter the Wardens in white had not moved or fired, instead they now stood 10 meters apart and now saluted the figure with their primary weapons.
Walking between them the figure nodded to each – and walked to the eastern wall. The sounds of struggles and curses behind him did not seem to affect his path at all, though calls for his head and heart were loud and clear.
Azreal walked behind him, blade resting on his hip as he struggled to understand just what was happening – why were the Wardens failing to act out their duty?
The figure approached a patch of wall, like most of the Rock re-formed with the intention to remind the observer of an ancient Caliban fortress wall it had no marking of interest that Azreal could see.
Ice from the storm leapt at the wall, forming at first a circle…no Azreal realised not forming a circle, filling in one that was already there. More ice hurled itself onto the wall, forming another pattern within the ring, a hexagammon…
Azreal screamed his denial his armour expelling his words in a blare of anger, he leapt forward, knowing that to attack a single foe in the rear my lack honour but the secrets that were in danger of being revealed weighed heavier than a single warriors honour.
Lunging forward his hit the gale of ice and wind and was stalled, from within the storm there was shift and two wolves, one grey furred one black, each as tall as an un-augmented male at the shoulder, prowled towards him. Their growls as low and loud as Rhino starting up.
The figure in grey simply turned his head unconcerned and gently pursed his lips and a slight nod of admonishment was all it took to stall the Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels.
The lines on the wall formed more sigils were woken, the rush of ice and wind grew and the roar of the wild became thunderous. Slowly, as if time had itself been caught in the ice storm, the wall turned in on itself and revealed a large chamber, hidden from all sight for millennia.
Azreal stopped dead in his tracks, he was master of the keys, he knew all the secrets of the rock – a duty that weighed heavy on his soul. Yet he knew nothing of this room. He let his sword drop, the wolves blocking his path stepped back dipping their heads with respect, though their eyes never left him.
He looked into the chamber, his helms auspexs refusing to target the grey figure or the wolves, not acknowledging the storm in any fashion but clearly seeing the narrow chamber.
Inside was a series of long dead cogitators along both sides, in the centre was a sarcophagus, nearly as long as a boarding torpedo but only the width of two men. A desiccated carcass attached to corroded metal frame with a large empty crystal tank on its bank, frayed tubes hanging limply between it and the sarcophagus – sat slumped at the foot of the mysterious object.
The blizzard eased around the grey warrior slightly, his ice blue eye flared with power and the whole sarcophagus is encased in wind. Azrael can feel that he needs to react; to defend his chapters secrets but he is held immobile as the odd device be lifted off the floor, ancient tubes and wires stretching and falling off. Held immobile not by some guile or charm by this invader, nor was it by the force of the storm that still blew, once again it avoided any dark green or white plate. No, he was held by what was in that cavern, he could not take his eyes of it – he knew no fear, this was something genetic – something deeply personal.
The tall grey stranger leaned over the top of the glass and wiped a 100 centuries of dust from the top. Peering deep inside, those thin lips parted in a smile that showed large canine teeth.
In a voice that was broken by age but still mighty he whispered, “Time to wake Brother” and with a sharp rap of his wooden stave on the side of the lid. Long dead electronics were given brief life and a dozen ports opened, flushing out a foul-smelling blood back liquid. The lid pulled back and a cloud of crystalised chemicals misted out.
At first a single massive hand reached out and pushed the rest of the lid back, then a blonde giant sat up, deep green eyes instantly taking in the arrayed host before him, analysing, sorting and questioning.
Azreal knew that bearded face – from a thousand fresco, paintings, tapestries and prized relics. It was too much for a single soul to bear, he dropped to his knees, his sword held, point down in salute. He could feel a connection, a sense of loss he never knew he had suddenly felt filled. This was his Lord, his commander, he would follow any order, charge any gate – this was his Father.
At this terrible realisation a terrible crushing guilt cascaded through him, how would his Father judge him, for judge him he most certainly would. How would The Lion react when he heard of the Fallen and the many other secrets that Azreal knew would pour from his lips when he was spoken too.
So transfixed was he that Azreal had near forgotten the grey stranger, when The Lion locked eyes with him.
“Leman? Leman! By the Throne – your old”, his tone, a little dry but quickly becoming majestic, and aghast.
“I have been busy while you have been sleeping El’Jonson.” A sneer crept over his face, quickly gone like a shadow of a sea eagle over a frozen lake.
“You are healed brother, and you are needed – now more than ever.”
“How long have I been healing Leman?” he started to rise, a magnificent statue made flesh, glorious in its power.
“Speak to your equerry,” motioning to the kneeling Azreal “but catch up fast for the wolf time has come upon us and I seek not to face it alone”.
With that pronouncement he spun and walk away, the winds howling around afresh.
“Russ. Damn you – what is happening here? where are you going?”
Azrael felt a cellular need to answer these questions, to satisfy his Lords will but he no answers for him.
In a whisper that howled from afar, “You need to prepare for our brothers coming, do not tell him about me, and I need to save one more soul, if I can”.
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