Author Information
BigMekKrump was once a disgusting teenager who briefly corrupted the General Discussion with questions so idiotic that it would put a Grot to shame.
He disappeared as swiftly as he had arrived, and was not seen for many years, until he returned as a slightly older man, but with a maturity level that had grown exponentially. Unfortunately, his spelling ability did not improve, and he created the article with an embarrassing spelling mistake. It's meant to say 'descent'. Seriously, I can't fix this, someone help.
Later, he would go on to post one of his stories written for the Eternal Crusade fan fiction competition.
This is that story.
Descent to Arkhona
Over the months, the Warlord had gathered some thousand Astartes under his banner, from Warbands great and small. They had chosen a path of conquest which would start at the Kharon system. Now all that remained was for the Warlord’s champions to pick out the men, munition and vehicles from the pool of stock. It was a chaotic process, full of bartering, squabbling, and negotiating, made sense and kept in order by the Warlord’s equerries, who scribed furiously to keep up with the exchanges. It occurred within the high chamber, the sickly hued light of the Warp washing down on the affair from high windows, as the ship ploughed through its immaterial seas.
Koran left his own strike force, determined to create his very own from the stock, determined to become a champion. He had promised himself glory, power, and a small force, whilst under the command of the Warlord, to call his own. Reimer, his close friend, had accompanied him in the delegation, offering his advice and support.
But now, many hours after they had commenced, the delegation and negotiations were winding down, the great champions had had their fill of firepower and warriors, and the aspirants were picking up the pieces left; the ad hoc strike forces and stray squads. One champion Word Bearer, Marveil, had been gobbling all the leftovers he could, having intimidated, compromised, and swindled. Koran’s luck had seemed to leave him that day; he had gained very few men and munitions, which he had almost immediately lost through intimidation or trickery.
Koran now had nothing to command in battle when they arrived on Arkhona, the promised world said to be rich with plunder and slaughter. He had cast himself out of the shelter of his lord, naively thinking he’d be able to gather up a force, which he had not. He was alone, and humiliated.
Until now. In the background, there was a dispute among a large group of warriors. The leading champion let go of fifty men whom he discovered to dislike, adding themselves to the little stock left to be handed out and bartered. They called themselves Hellion, and it had come to the head equerry to announce their availability. He raised his hand, the chatter and squabbles lowering to an acceptable volume.
“Newly detached squad, named Hellion,” most looked up hopefully, “fifty men, ad hoc armoury, no vehicle attachments,” then lost interest and stopped listening, “willing to fight for anyone, except, and I quote, those bloody Neckcleavers,” there was a small chuckle, “any keepers?”
Koran didn’t bother to answer. He had given up, knowing the more powerful champions would answer loudly and shout down anyone else that could be intimidated (which, Koran hated to admit, included him), just like every other time that evening.
But there was no sound in response to the equerry. The fires of hope sparked frantically inside of Koran. Could it be that no one else wanted them? Were they up for the taking, could he finally be in command of a force with no one to challenge its ownership? He looked to Reimer, who sensed this and immediately pulled him upwards to speak out. Koran, his heart pumping faster with each moment, blurted out;
“I’ll have them!”
It was two voices that had spoken.
Koran turned, in abrupt dismay, to the other speaker. It was Marveil.
“It seems they will not go untested,” the equerry remarked, “The two of you sort it out, if you will,”
Marveil bowed in response, and made his way towards Koran’s bench, his elite guard walking behind him, half of them the former leaders of forces he had assimilated. Reimer gave his friend a sympathetic look. Koran realised bitterly that his men, his power, once again had to be fought for. But this time, he would not give up his only chance at glory. Not to Marveil.
“Champion Marveil, look-“
“Koran” he cut in, “It is Koran, right? Let us bargain. How about…you lend me the men of Hellion, and I shall take you under my wing, as one of my elites, one of my best, under my protection. Surely, to be a part of something as grand as my influence is tenfold greater than what you are left with now,”
Marveil spoke to him as if their numerous past quarrels had never happened, as his diplomacy, no, his deception worked itself onto him.
“Marveil-“
“Quiet. You see, I am a warrior dedicated wholly to the will of the Gods, I fight for them and I bleed for them and I spread their worship. Because of this, they lend me the capacity to be as great as I am. You will have my favour, and thus the favour of the Dark Powers. Partake in my victories, and they will grant you their wonderful gifts. The power, Koran, just imagine it! Let me command Hellion, and achieve the greatness you deserve!”
Reimer was about to speak up on his friend’s behalf, but Koran stuck his arm out to silence him. Koran stood up to Marveil, tightened his jaw, and spoke with such finality and certainty it left the chamber silent.
“No,”
The word was steely and cold. It conveyed so much of his certainty that he was not going to give Hellion to someone else other than him. That fact only served to make it a greater insult. Reimer was in awe. Marveil was not.
“Koran…are you…refusing me?”
“I mean no offence,” he reproached, “but I am adamant in my intentions. Hellion is mine. You will not have it, hell; you already have too much power than you deserve…to…have…”
“What was that?” pressed Marveil, his eyes now alight.
Now most, if not all, of the chamber was listening to the two warriors.
If they expected Koran to say “nothing” or “I didn’t mean that”, then they would be sorely mistaken.
“You have taken too many men under your command already. You are fuelled by greedy ambition and snatch whatever stock you can, even with a full force of your own, while many other champions are now left with nothing -“
“Enough!” Marveil shrieked, “Such arrogance, such disrespect! I give you a chance, a bargain, and you throw it in my face! I will not let your presumptuous insults go unchallenged. For the right of the command of Hellion, before the Dark Gods and everyone here, I urge you into the arena of combat!”
The chamber shook with the coarse cheers of hundreds of warriors, and Koran felt his blood go chill.
Marveil trudged into the area, a thick heavy cloak hanging from his bulky stature. He lifted his arms up to the roar of the crowd; fellow Astartes, privileged serfs and fanatical cultists alike. The bellowing heightened when he threw off his cloak. His skin was hard, scarred with scripture engraved into his flesh, prominently the symbol of Chaos etched into his back. He spun around, basking in the attention, showing off his devotion to Chaos to the masses. Then he turned to Koran on the other side of the ring, and the roar abated to respective hoots and jeers.
“All before me see now, I am the hand of the Gods, deft and firm. I am to be rewarded! Right here, right now, they will grant me the power to take you down, Koran, and take Hellion for myself, as it should be!”
Maybe you are such a strong hand, Marveil, because you fondle with the Gods so much? The words were at the tip of his tongue, but Koran held them back. An insult to the Dark Powers before going against one of their most fanatical worshippers would be a very bad idea.
Marveil nodded to the side, and a few adept heaved a large steel case in front of him. The lid was lifted, and Marveil drew out his cruel weapon, personally favoured by himself, and the Dark Gods.
He lifted the iron flail into the air, its balled ends igniting with unholy incense from within. The crowd’s roar went up. The weapon itself was a prayer to the Dark Gods incarnate; it was a weapon of Chaos, every inch ornately inscribed or embossed with dark symbols, pictograms and passages. It was a weapon that a warrior like Marveil deserved to wield.
Any weapon is permitted, thought Koran, those are the rules. Let’s see how much that can be pushed.
He looked behind him, and nodded to his own adepts, and they dragged the three large cases up to him. Reimer walked up before them.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“You know I need this, Reimer. This is my last chance, and the odds are stacked up against me; I need every advantage I can get. If I don’t take them, he will, and I doubt he is going to keep this fight bloodless. I damaged his pride publicly; he will kill me given the chance,” he breathed heavily, “Open the cases, friend,”
Reimer nodded, gestured to the adepts, and went to the cases.
Marveil was about to give his flail a few show-off swings for the crowd, when he saw. He was silent as they were unloaded.
Those of the crowd that were unsure mumbled, those with a sense of humour laughed hoarsely, and those that had some idea of honourable combat brooded silently.
Reimer passed up the heavy bolter up to Koran. He tested the grip on the large blocky gun, feeling the tough leather handles in his hands. He reached down, and loaded it with one of the dozen round-drums that he had brought in. This much ammo would last him at least an hour of thick combat, he thought. He looked up, and smiled inwardly at his opponent’s sullen expression.
“What’s the matter, Marveil? You’re not thinking of backing out, are you?”
Marveil struggled to retain his cool guise through his anger, “This is preposterous! You…this can’t be allowed!”
The equerry turned to the Warlord, leaning forward to speak in hushed tones. Koran swore he saw amusement on that leathery, powerful face. The equerry nodded and turned to the chamber.
“The rules lay unbroken,” he announced, causing many into chamber to cheer or argue, “The combat will proceed, now,” he cleared his throat, and bellowed, “The opponents have been readied; their weapons have been chosen and wielded,”
“Good luck, brother,” whispered Reimer as gave his friend on last look in the eye, and hurried off with adepts out of the arena. The chamber shook as the crowd fired up, stamping and hollering and chanting. Marveil stood there, his pangs of uncertainty and borderline fear giving Koran newfound energy and confidence.
“In the eyes of the Dark Gods, the Warlord, the Astartes, the men and women,”
Koran felt the beat of the roaring match the beat of his hearts, as he shifted into stance and aimed his weapon at his opponent.
Marveil had never looked so lost, so angry, and now…so hateful. He gripped his flail tightly, swinging it in circles above his head, its ends now burning hotly and spewing smoke. His eyes never left Koran.
“I declare this single combat, by which the victor will take the spoils, that being the leadership of Hellion, to…”
Make every bullet count, went Koran’s thoughts, as swift as a blade, make every moment count, make every shot hit home, leave absolutely nothing to chance, he will not allow surrender, only death-
“…BEGIN!”
And the spectator’s cacophony exploded.
Marveil’s feet hammered on the ground as he strained his every muscle, focusing his hate and anger into pumping legs, into reaching his enemy as soon as possible. He spun his deadly chain flail around. It yearned to crush bone.
Koran fired, and felt the buckle and kick of his heavy bolter in his grip. Flashes of fire burst from the gun, and Marveil was kicked in the shoulders and chest with fat, exploding bullets. Koran watched, amazed, as Marveil’s form was repeatedly kicked back by the thick red puffs of impact. He marvelled briefly at the warrior’s strength, at his ability to still stand with such devastating firepower against him. Koran focused back when he realised that Marveil was still getting closer. The shots only slowed him down! Koran backed away uneasily as the weapon kicked harder with repeated shots, threatening to unbalance him. And Marveil was still thrashing his way towards him, flails and arms and…his arms…his arms were twisting…
Marveil reached into the depths of his mind and formed a will so powerful and determined that the things found it difficult to ignore.
I will give anything; just grant me the power to kill him.
The deal was done in an instant. The luminescence from outside intensified.
Marveil felt lines of fire on his skin, pain so acute that it overpowered his damaged organs and bones, and felt his body warp. There was new energy in him, new power; but not his own.
Everything else happened at once. Koran unloaded his entire gun barrel as he saw his enemy’s scars glow hot and burst in flames. Marveil lunged through the gunfire with burning hate and fury.
The spectators struggled over one another to see what had happened.
What was supposed to be Marveil fell screaming and burning onto the ground. Koran quickly fitted a new barrel into his heavy bolter and emptied it all into his enemy’s head.
Koran blinked, and the body of Marveil returned from its volcanic state that lasted two seconds, and into a twisted, burnt corpse of a man.
What had just happened was beyond him, but he was so overcome with relief that he didn't care.
He was alive. Marveil was no longer a threat to him.
Koran collapsed on the ground, all of his energy spent on those intense moments. The crowd tore down the ring as they rushed to him, cheering vehemently for the victor. Koran was happy enough to be alive, let alone be a winner.
“Koran!” Reimer pushed his way through and embraced his comrade, “You killed the sod. I’m proud of you,” and that was enough.
The crowd parted widely to make way for the champions, each one briefly congratulating Koran, before the equerries and the Warlord himself.
“Koran,” he thundered, “you have come out of this victorious, and as such Hellion is yours. Your part in the conquest of Arkhona will be that bit grander now, no doubt. Say…any idea what went on with Marveil?”
Koran was about to speak when the far doors swung open, the navigation-sorcerers storming into the chamber with urgent words for the Warlord. The barriers were being breached.
We gave you power, that was the deal. Now, for our part of the bargain.
The ravenous daemons from the outside tore into the ship, hungry for the souls bartered from the desperate dealer called Marveil.
Koran could finally look forward to glory on Arkhona. That is, if he survived long enough to get there.
