P.F. White
The Iron Republic
Chapter Two
Chambers of Cold Glory, The Watchtower, planet Frigus Ferrus Vigalantes in the Pax Tantum system, twenty light years from the Veiled region of space.
Chapter Master Rechtshandler made his way ponderously down the seemingly endless winding stairs that led from his personal chambers to the central chambers that made up the Fortress Monastery.
The stairs, along with the towers that wound around one another like vines to form a massive, twisting structure that cut deep into the sky, were designed to give the fortress the maximum possible advantage in the case of an attack. The chambers beneath them was deep under the planet's frozen surface, the walls of disused rooms sometimes coated in half a meter of glittering ice. The towers themselves could also be sealed off, if necessary, and secret passages led from tower to tower, or through underground routes to the multitude of silent missile defense systems located all over the planet. Rechtshandler himself had designed it that way. He had painstakingly gone over every detail of his Chapter's new home, determined to ensure its survival no matter what.
Some of the younger battle brothers within the chapter considered this elaborate defense a foolish precaution, saying that not even a xenos would be stupid enough to attack such an out of the way location with no real strategic value for the system itself. Indeed: the planet Frigus Ferrus Vigalantes (which had quickly become known as simply the “Cold Iron Watchtower” by all but the most stubborn of Iron Shields,) was located so far away from the rest of the Pax Tantum system that it was all but outside of it. One would need to traverse nearly the entirety of the system itself to even reach the next planet (the gas giant Tempestatem Lacrymarum, whose seven moons served as the base of operations for the Iron Storm Space Marines.)
When these two facts were taken together: such defenses did indeed seem a foolish waste of resources. It was only when one considered other factors that their placement began to make a certain sense.
Frigus Ferrus Vigalantes had an incredibly fast orbit. It made a complete circuit of the system itself in less than an Imperial Standard Day. Because of this it always served as a preliminary defense against any threat of invasion, and the planet itself was riddled with long range torpedo tubes capable of sending hundred meter long projectiles across the entire system at a moment's notice. There were more than a hundred adepts from the Adeptus Mechanicus permanently stationed on the planet for that very reason. In the case of invasion: Frigus Ferrus Vigalantes was more than capable of defending the entire system
The Iron Storm marines Fortress Monastery on Tempestatem Lacrymarum was, by contrast, less of a distinct bastion and more of a staging ground and manufactorum for the chapter's various needs. The Mechanicum itself held its only base upon the moon: TL7, and they worked far closer with the Iron Storm marines than most chapters could manage.
This created a unique landscape for the entire system. While other Imperial worlds often fell to bickering and power struggles: in Pax Tantum several distinct branches of the vast Imperial war effort worked and fought in tandem. Many years ago, during the cleansing of the Thisbe (one of a pair of binary planets that made up the third and forth orbits within the Pax Tantum system,) the crusading order of Golden Arms Space Marines had remarked to a young battle brother named Cotant Iyago: such cooperation was so unheard of that it was nearly heretical to the Imperial way of war. It had been a joke at the time, but something that had stayed with Iyago as he had gone on to win glory and rank in his many subsequent campaigns.
The Chapter Master of the Iron Storm was now that same man. Cotant Iyago, a giant in nearly all respects, and a lifelong (if unlikely) friend to Rechtshandler himself, did everything in his power to ensure the two chapters and the Mechanicum shared their close cooperation. It was in this that the two Chapter Masters most agreed.
Iyago himself was a savage born into one of the many savage worlds still existing within Imperial space. He had been chosen for his unwavering loyalty to the ideals of the Imperium, his massive size, his utter fearlessness, and because he never allowed his spirits to dampen because of impossible odds arrayed against him. His birth tribe had, supposedly, always fostered a spirit of friendly competition among their warriors and it was just that spirit that Iyago worked hard to promote whenever the two friends would meet.
His favorite boast was the following:
“Old man-” (his favorite term for Chapter Master Rechtshandler,) “You being cooped up in this tiny little snowball is all well and good, it suits you as the unrepentant cowards that you are. My chapter, where we take men to serve the Emperor, and not stray yellow dogs hiding behind shields, is all but inviting the enemy to invade!”
He would usually pause at this point to await rebuttal, something that Rechtshandler had long since learned to avoid unless he absolutely had to.
“My chapter,” he would invariably continue, “Is spread like a feast across six fortified moons, each more welcoming to gak brained xenos scum than the last. We appear weak, we appear disorganized, but we are no chem addled guard unit just waiting for the chance to run from battle- though I can't say the same about the dog-eating children in fancy dresses you call Space Marines...Anyway: what my moons can do, that yours can't, is to provide fire support from one moon to the next. Invade TL1 will you? We can shell you from TL2 to TL6. Invade all of us will you? We have a strike cruiser waiting inside the gas giant itself at all times. Every way you slice it: while you lot are cowering in the cold and lobbing rocks across the system in an effort for the twice damned enemy to notice you...we are already bleeding them dry.”
It was both an old argument and one that had never held much truth from the start, not that it mattered to Iyago, of course. This little jab didn't take into account the Iron Shields base at Pax Perfidem, which had been holding nearly half the Iron Shields for more than two hundred years. Nor did it take into account that the only time that Tempestatem Lacrymarum had been invaded: the strike cruiser had become entangled in a space battle and all seven moons had been invaded at once.
Chapter Master Rechtshandler was not as keen to quibble over such details as some other Astartes though. To Rechtshandler: the many facets of the Astartes were but redundant systems built into the vast Imperial war machine. If one should exhibit poor tactics, and thus become exploited by some foul enemy to the point of their own demise: then some other chapter would instead hold the key to that enemies defeat. It was for exactly that reason that deviations from the blessed Codex Astartes were tolerated in the first place. Any machine with a single weakness would soon be broken, it was something that the ever-cautious Rechtshandler understood well.
Of course Iyago didn't share such a philosophy. To him: war was only about the glory of the bolter kicking in your hands, the glory of the Emperor fueling your heart, and the glory of the feast following your successful return from the battlefield. His chapter was regarded as unsubtle even by the standards of the Space Wolves and Imperial Fists. Iyago believed in firepower, supported by heavy firepower, which was in turn supported by even heavier firepower. The long-standing rumor among his own recruits was that the man wasn't even a Space Marine at all: but a Leman Russ battle tank somehow given power armor and cloaked in a massive black beard.
It was not an unbelievable rumor, in all honesty.
As Rechtshandler finally completed the grueling decent to the feast below he could already hear the massive Iyago bellowing out condemnation and challenge to the dueling marines who were still finishing up their penultimate round of the Chapter Master's competition.
Rechtshandler looked out across the vast floor of the hall with amusement, seeing hundreds of battle brothers feasting, drinking, and talking excitedly with one another while two of their number clanged sword against shield in a reproduction of ancient sport.
It was good, he thought, to see such comradeship between chapters. Even though it was nothing new to the two chapters that called Pax Tantum their home: the sight still filled him with pride. So many of the other Astartes found their brothers to be off putting, inferior, or dogmatically incorrect. It wasn't even unheard of for disagreements between Chapters to turn to open bloodshed, though such instances were often covered up before the larger organization of Administratum caught wind of them.
None of that had ever happened between the Iron Shields and Iron Storm Space Marines. They both were cut from the same cloth, both had the same founding legion, and were both ultimately more alike than different. Even now, among a ritual that might be kept secret from all but the upper echelons of the Imperium: the battle brothers of the Iron Storm had been invited to both watch and even take part in the festivities leading up to the crowning of the new Chapter Champion. A champion who would replace Rechtshandler as Chapter Master when the time finally came to entomb himself within the metal coffin of a dreadnought.
When Rechtshandler had extended this unique invitation: Iyago had been hesitant.
The Chapter Master of the Iron Storm was quickly concerned that one of his marines would, quite legitimately, take control of his brother Chapter if allowed to participate in the grand contest. Rechtshandler waved away such a concern. To his mind: if after all this time the Iron Storm had produced a more fitting champion to lead them, then so be it. He would accord whoever it was that proved themselves superior to all others the rights that came with that position. He would not stand on ceremony simply because that battle-brother belonged to a different chapter.
Iyago had told him plainly that he would not do the same. Rechtshandler accepted that too.
“Is that the Emperors favorite tin can finally come down from his ivory tower? Got your makeup just right do you? Picked out your favorite dress?” bellowed out Iyago from his seat. Wine sloshed from his overfull cup as he laughed at his own joke. Rechtshandler wasted no time in crossing the distance to his counterpart as quickly as possible. Many Battle Brothers stood and bowed as he passed them and to each he raised a quick and formal salute, as befitted his station, before continuing onward to greet his friend.
When at last he was near enough to his counterpart he broke into a full run, the servos in his legs whining with the strain of his heavy metal form and the plasma conduits in his wound steel muscles powering up for the next feat of strength.
Iyago leapt to his feet, moving far quicker than one of his bulk could seem capable of. His giant black beard swept down to cover most of his chest, and his arms- even without his powered armor- were as thick as an Ogryns. Iyago met Rechtshandler's charge and the two men grappled, just as they had done at every time they had met in the last hundred years.
The room broke into cheers, howls, and roars of approval as the two Chapter Masters crushed one another together in an embrace that would easily kill lesser men.
Rechtshandler whispered an invocation to the machine god as he supercharged his arm servos with plasma and somehow managed to lift the gigantic Iyago off his feet. There was a hushed silence that lasted all of a moment, the massive form of Iyago suspended above Rechtshandler's head in a show of strength without equal. Then Rechtshandler threw Iyago nearly a dozen paces to crash against a table piled high with steaming meat. The table exploded with the impact, cleaning servitors and support staff already heading mindlessly towards the mess to begin their thankless task. Iyago himself stood quickly, wiping grease and flesh from his face and arms. He held aloft a single bird leg, roughly the size of a sword, and roared for the approval of all his men.
He was bested this time, but not beaten.
The men gave their approval in spades: shaking the very foundations of the tower with the strength of their voices. Rechtshandler only had to raise a metal fist to the air to ensure his own men followed suit. The noise was just as deafening, if not more so. Even the combatants in their ceremonial armor and ancient weapons paused to join in.
Then Iyago took a bite of the drumstick, laughed, and came over to his longtime friend. Gradually the entire commotion settled down again as brother space marines took back up their goblets and meals and resumed their conversations. The two Chapter Masters returned to their place of honor before the dueling ground, sitting at a table no more set apart from the rest but still acknowledged as the residing place of utmost honor. The two men sat and immediately began to chat to one another. It started, as it always did, with business:
“That damned governor is demanding we be more a presence on his fething farm-world you know,” began Iyago, “The gak smear claims it's good for the faith of the citizens to see us.”
Rechtshandler shrugged and took a small sip of his wine. He could barely taste it any longer, but what taste it gave him was pleasurable.
“They always do,” he replied, “Every governor in the Imperium would like to show us off as their personal pets. I trust you did not soil your dignity in giving him a response?”
“Feth that!” spat Iyago before taking another massive bite of the drumstick, “I had half a mind to go down there and throttle the grok spawned son-of a-”
“But you didn't, did you brother?” insisted Rechtshandler. Iyago grumbled deep in his chest.
“I didn't...no,” he admitted, “Maybe I'm getting old. Feth it all...”
“So, what did you do?”
Iyago chewed thoughtfully for a moment before responding.
“I sent him a packet of the last nine hundred requests for aid we have received over the past month. I made sure to include every heart-felt plea, every data slate with details of slaughter and famine and heretical atrocity. I told him that if he manages to look through each one and can tell me specifically why sending a company to his fething planet to parade around like trained apes is more important than all of those dying worlds...then I would consider it in earnest.”
Rechtshandler smiled. At last it seemed his brother had learned to temper his baser instincts.
“I then had some of the boys go down there and steal his personal flyer.”
Rechtshandler spat out his wine.
“You WHAT?”
Iyago laughed long and hard while a servitor gently wiped the flecks of wine from Chapter Master Rechtshandler's metal face.
“I'm not old Rechtshandler,” said Iyago by way of explanation, “The way I see it: the moment I stop acting like myself is the same moment that the Emperor loses his most valued servant.”
“There are some that caution humility as a virtue to temper all others.”
“Feth that,” said Iyago. He took another bite and then washed it down with his entire goblet of wine, most of which spilled across his massive chest as he drank, “If the Emperor wanted me to be humble he wouldn't have made me bigger, and stronger, and meaner than all of his enemies put together. Let the clerks be humble. Let the warriors be strong. That is my motto.”
“No it isn't,” corrected Rechtshandler, “Your chapter's motto is: We are the Thunder, We are the Storm.”
Iyago shrugged his massive shoulders.
“Eh, same difference.”
Rechtshandler smiled at that, thankful in some way for his friend's simple and unchanging ways. We wondered then: how would the relationship between the two chapters change when he stepped down as Chapter Master? How would the newcomer account for the bold, brash, and even rude behaviors of the Iron Storm? Would their close bond fracture, or even break in the transition? He sincerely hoped it wouldn't, but he simply couldn't be sure.
“It's not too late you know,” said Iyago, seemingly reading Rechtshandler's mind.
“Too late to call off the tournament? I believe it is. The final round will be starting within minutes my friend.”
Iyago only shrugged.
“Tell them you changed your mind. They will understand. If they don't? I will make them understand. I'm very persuasive.”
The Chapter Master belched loudly for emphasis, eliciting cheers from several nearby tables.
Rechtshandler smiled. He knew that his friend was only worried about the same things as he, that they would lose the close bond that had been forged over countless battles together. Rechtshandler wasn't really concerned over that, not really. The Emperor would help them to find a way. Man, he thought, would find a way.
Rechtshandler turned his eyes back to the combat in front of him. At long last a winner had emerged, a very large Space Marine with battered armor, a broken sword, and a large cut across his unshaven face. His opponent lay in a heap at his feet. The crowd cheered him on respectfully, if not enthusiastically.
“That's Oberon,” explained Iyago, “He's nothing but gak fodder. Never should have even taken him on, in truth.”
Rechtshandler inclined his head as if in question, Iyago continued.
“He causes problems. Nothing serious of course, he is still a loyal and valued member of my Chapter- and I will not abide disloyalty...but he quarrels with nearly everyone. He once even broke the Chaplains skull. Not his helmet- but the actual skull beneath it. He's really that strong. May even be stronger than me...”
He shook his head disapprovingly.
“I would like to say that his prowess in battle makes up for it, but I'm starting to worry about that. He's a born killer, and make no mistake on that, but he is no true warrior. There is no honor in that one.”
Rechtshandler considered these words for a moment before replying:
“Sometimes a battle needs no honor. There is little enough of it when hunting greenskins or traitors anyway. Compare the last dozen campaigns we have been on together, and tell me where the honor lay in any of them...”
Iyago only shrugged.
“Maybe I just don't like him,” he said.
“Maybe you do brother...”
Iyago laughed and raised his glass:
“At least you won't have to worry about that any longer eh? No more Chapter politics to go around, no more young pups, no more veterans determined to advance to cap-”
“I won't be dead Iyago. My body will simply become something greater.”
He flexed his metal fingers absently. Iyago watched the action with obvious disapproval of the implications. The dreadnought that would become Rechtshandler's permanent home had already been constructed, and Rechtshandler himself had inspected it half a dozen times. It was a massive construction, cold and hard and inhuman. It walked on two legs, it held two arms, it could lay waste to the Emperor's enemies...that would have to be enough for him. Iyago cleared his throat and said:
“It is supposed to be an honor...but personally I could never stand the idea of being interred forever in one of those walking coffins.”
“Hans and Ubrect don't mind it,” said Rechtshandler. Hans and Ubrect were the Iron Shields only two venerable dreadnoughts: marines who had spent so long interred in the machines that they barely remembered their lives of flesh and blood. Rechtshandler had recently been spending a lot of time conversing with them. They seemed happy- well, as happy as a marine could anyway. Their new bodies afforded them opportunities to do the emperors bidding that would have never happened otherwise. They could wield weapons impossible for men to carry into battle. They could tear open tanks, and stand blow for blow with the strongest xenos abominations in the galaxy. There was certainly something to say for all that.
“I don't talk with Jotrek and Frenzik much,” admitted Iyago, referring to his Chapters two venerable counterparts, “From what I see they don't do much anymore. They pray. They fight. They train with the other veterans-”
“Is that really so different from our lives?” asked Rechtshandler. Iyago laughed.
“Fair enough,” he said. Before them: servitors were already dragging away the fallen and setting up for the next combat. A Chaplain of the Iron Shields marched up to stand in the center and announce the next combat:
“My brothers!” he called out, his voice enhanced by the power armor he always wore- even in festive occasions such as this, “Over the course of our festival we have all witnessed the best and most powerful champions of our two beloved chapters proving their might and devotion to the emperor. We have seen sergeants topple captains, scouts overturn veterans, and even my own prowess with the ancient Terran weapon: the 'long-bow'.”
There was some mild laughter at that. During the archery competition the normally reclusive Chaplain had at last been convinced to take part, albeit while still wearing his power armor. The end result was a quickly broken bow and the chaplain standing confused for all to see.
He had spared his shame by then hurling the arrows of the weapon- one by one- like giant darts and sticking them all in the smallest ring of the target nearly a hundred meters away. Some claimed that the Emperor himself had guided his aim, but Rechtshandler knew that the Chaplain had once come from a savage world where Javelin throwing was still a viable hunting practice. It was a good sign that even that astounding feat of accuracy had not been the most impressive displayed over the last several days. The Chaplain continued when voices had died down again:
“But at long last we come to the final stage of our tournament. The champions have all, by now, been chosen. The list stands at only two for each chapter. May those men now step forward to be honored in the light of the Emperor?”
With notable pride: four men stepped forward into the dueling grounds. They held their heads high and chests out and appeared at a glance as titans among their fellows. All but one wore the mighty honor of the Crux Terminatus upon his shoulder. All but one stood easily at eight feet in height. They were the best and brightest that both chapters had to offer. There was but one as the obvious exception to this rule.
“Who is the runty one?” asked Iyago, nudging Rechtshandler and pointing.
Rechtshandler chuckled, the noise coming out deep and growling from his metal mask.
“That one is called Proteus Manus. He is a mere veteran Sergent here at the tower. He works directly for the Castellean and his men ensure that the security of our home remains paramount. It is a task he does with distinction...if not enthusiasm.”
Iyago laughed.
“Looking to rise above his station then I take it?”
Rechtshandler nodded solemnly. He searched his memory of the last few days, recalling that Proteus had only competed in the challenges directly related to this final event, and even then had always appeared to hold himself back from displaying his true capability. Proteus was thus either a very pious man, not wishing to disgrace his brothers with his might, or he was hiding something special for this final event. As Rechtshandler scanned him now he became convinced of the second facet.
“I'm not sure what he is doing, but I believe he bears watching,” said Rechtshandler.
Iyago shrugged at that.
“I'm not so sure. The other fellow looks both bigger, and more highly decorated. If I'm not mistaken that is-”
“Typhion the Bull- or at least that is what his men call him. He commands a squad of assault terminators in the first company, and always leads from the front. He is a pious man, and I believe an exceptional one. His tactics are brutish, straight forward, but often conceal a carefully thought out plan. On several occasions now he has led his squad deep beyond the battle line to destroy important enemy positions beyond the scope of the engagement. Each time he returns battered, but alive. If he takes command from me: our chapter will be in good hands.”
Iyago nodded.
“He will make a fitting competition for Oberon then. The other fellow there, Janus, is a good man and I suspect he will be made chaplain soon...but the real competition I believe to be between Oberon and your Bull.”
Rechtshandler shook his head.
“No. Every man who stands before us deserves his spot. Even your Oberon might well make a fitting Chapter Master if given the right instruction into the duties required of him.”
“I doubt it,” said Iyago. He shook his head again for emphasis, “Whoever wins: pray it isn't him my friend. Pray hard.”
Rechtshandler nodded slightly and stood up to address the crowd. Everyone immediately went deathly quiet when he stood, their respect for him immediate and total. His voice echoed off the high walls and seemed unnaturally loud...and uncomfortably mechanical even after these many years.
“You have all done the Emperor proud upon these days,” he began. The pride at those words touched every Space Marine here, but most of all it seemed to fill the four champions with even more vigor. Good, thought Rechtshandler, You are going to need it for what comes next.
“Chapter Master Iyago and myself have thought long and hard as to the best way to determine the ultimate victor of this competition- for there can be only one...we have devised tests and tribulations of varying complexity. We have studied the rites of those who have come before us. We have debated with the Librarians and the heads of each company represented in our two great chapters...and ultimately we have come back to the simplest way...”
He looked around then, his eyes resting upon each of the Champions in turn. Oberon leered sadistically, his face still covered in dried blood, his jaw bristling and unkempt. Beside him Brother Janus had fair hair, and wore it longer than most Space Marines. He also appeared calm, measured, and cool under the immense pressure of the competition. Beside him: Typhion the Bull stood proud, if hunched from many years wearing the heaviest armor in the armory. His eyes had acquired a white and almost milky color from years of exposure to lasers and plasma at point blank range. A jagged line of scar tissue reached out from both sides of his jaw, where it had been restored after being torn away by a greenskin lord many years ago.
Only Proteus seemed to really meet Rechtshandler's gaze. His eyes were green, deeply so, and contained a hint of savagery that Rechtshandler could not help but find slightly intimidating. His body language spoke of barely contained energy, fairly quivering with a desire to explode into action.
“The contest will be simple, and familiar,” said Rechtshandler at last: “We will allow each of you to choose weapons of personal combat- weapons you are all intimately familiar with from your years of service. You will not wear your power armor, and combats are expected to be until your opponent yields and no longer. I expect there to be bloodshed- perhaps even death...but that is nothing you will not encounter on a daily basis as the head of the Iron Shields. You will need to be strong, but also cunning. You will need to be swift, and to show no mercy. You will need to be stronger than the enemy...no matter the cost.”
There came a great cheer at these words and from the sidelines servitors wheeled two great racks of gleaming weapons towards the arena. The Champions immediately began to gauge these weapons, eyes flying across them to find their preferred methods of armed combat.
All but one.
Proteus Manus stood with arms folded and looked instead at Rechtshandler himself. He said nothing, yet Rechtshandler felt that a question was being asked of him anyway.
“Brother Proteus,” said Rechtshandler, “Is there something you wish to say?”
Proteus opened his mouth but Janus of the Iron Storm interrupted him:
“Forgive me my lord,” said Brother Janus. Rechtshandler Turned towards him and the champion kneeled in supplication.
“Yes, broth of the Iron Storm?”
“I wish to forfeit, my lord.”
There was a lot of hushed whispering at this, many marines shocked or even angered at this turn of events. The would-be Chaplain continued though: “I simply do not wish to shed the blood of my fellow marines, not even for an honor as great as this. I have fought beside these men. I have witnessed their darkest moments, and their triumphs. To raise my hand against them now would be an affront to my dedication against the enemies of the Emperor. Please, my lord, forgive me this.”
Rechtshandler could nearly feel the building rage of Iyago beside him. The man was huffing and puffing, his anger barely contained. Rechtshandler decided it best to steer the Chapter Master away from it. He said aloud:
“Brother Janus: I am informed of your intent to one day wear the skull of a Chaplain, is this correct?”
“It is, my lord,” responded Janus.
“Then my question is this: What if your duties as Chaplain would cause you to shed the blood of other marines? Will you hesitate then? Will you forgoe that task?”
Janus bowed even deeper somehow, but his jaw was set and resolute.
“If that dark day comes, my lord, then I would perform that duty in the name of the Emperor, and perform it without mercy. Without hesitation. I would purge the unclean, the heretic, and the traitor unto my dying breath...” he looked up then: “However: that would be a sacred duty not given without cause. This is, if you will forgive me, a needless mortal danger imposed upon my Brother Marines. It gives-”
“Bah!” spat the mighty Oberon. He laughed and hefted a massive thunder-hammer in both hands, “Your Chapter Master commands it, dog! What greater cause could there be my brother? If you are a coward then simply take the cowards path and spare us your pathetic excuses. I will show no mercy now- nor when I am made Chapter Master!”
He laughed brutally at his keeling comrade and Rechtshandler understood easily why this man was so reviled among his fellows. To his credit: Janus did not rise to the bait, nor did he seem to notice it at all. He awaited only the judgment of the Chapter Master.
“Leave him be,” said Typhion. Oberon turned to the similarly massive man, looking him up and down in appraisal. Typhion continued: “It is no dishonor to wish to spare your brothers harm. In fact it is admirable. Were I a man with conviction and calling equal to brother Janus I too would bow out. Yet to do so would leave you with a greater chance to ruin the honor of my great chapter. I say leave him be Oberon. He is no threat to you now...I am.”
Rechtshandler looked to Oberon's response, rage crackling across the big man's features visibly as he sought to control himself.
“He was no threat before,” growled Oberon, “Only a stray dog who has wandered into the camp of warriors. I would have swept him aside within moments...a fate I now leave for you!”
Typhion made to step forward, his hand upon the shimmering power axe at his side. Chapter Master Iyago shouted them both down:
“Leave it you bickering recruits!” he called out, “Your prattling irks me- are you champions or old women I wonder? There will be time enough for all that in a moment. If the man wishes out then let him go in peace. No marine will be made to shed the blood of his brother under my orders.”
He then pointed at Proteus, who still had not moved from his spot apart from the others.
“And what's wrong with you? Wish to bow out as well do you?” he asked. Proteus only shook his head slightly. When he spoke his voice held an even tone that projected loud and deep, rebounding off the walls as if amplified by some hidden power.
“I do not, my lord,” he replied, “I am, however...concerned that we no longer have an even number of champions with which to fight.”
Iyago looked at Rechtshandler. He said softly:
“Bastard does have a point. What are we going to about-”
Proteus wasn't done however. He raised his voice even louder and Rechtshandler could feel the bass of it reverberating off his metal face.
“My lords, if I may?” he said. Iyago nodded assent and Proteus continued: “I am willing to fight both the remaining champions at once, my lords, if it means the chance to forever prove my worthiness in leading this great chapter to glory.”
Iyago laughed at that notion.
“You mean leading yourself to an early grave!” he said, “Those two would chew you up and-”
“Your request is granted,” said Rechtshandler with authority. Iyago looked at him and so Rechtshandler explained in low tones: “If Proteus dies, or is defeated, we will still have two worthy men to choose from. If he instead accomplishes the impossible-”
“Primarch Ferrus Manus himself would have a hard time beating those two together,” said Iyago, “The boy doesn't have a chance. Is that what you want? A dead marine before your successor is even picked? Tis a bad omen my friend...”
Rechtshandler only shook his head.
“Let them fight. I smell something in the air. Call it intuition, or the will of the Emperor. Let them fight. I feel we will be the better for it.”
Iyago threw up his hands and sat back down.
“Very well!” he called out, “You can go ahead and kill yourself if you want, Proteus. You other two: try to get this over quickly and with dignity.”
The champions all nodded their assent. Typhion took up a storm shield to compliment his power axe and Oberon took a few practice swings with his thunder hammer, which he held in both hands to accentuate his power. They both looked at Proteus with open incredulity, though at least Typhion seemed to be impressed with the smaller man's bravery.
Proteus walked to the center of the dueling grounds. He remained unarmed.
“It's not enough that you insult our champions?” called out Iyago despite himself, “You must do it unarmed as well? Are you so quick to throw away your life?”
Proteus turned to him briefly, his eyes flickered to meet Rechtshandler's. He seemed to consider the Chapter Master's words a moment before he responded.
“No my lord,” he said, “That would be...foolish.”
He took one step towards the Chapter Master's table and extended an open hand.
“If I may, my lords, a simple eating knife is all I require. The one by your left hand perhaps, lord Rechtshandler?”
Rechtshandler looked down at the blade. It was perhaps seven inches from the tip of its edge to the tip of its handle. It wasn't particularly sharp, nor was it particularly strong. It could cut flesh with proper pressure, but would be all but useless in combat.
“You go too far,” said Rechtshandler. Proteus only shrugged, holding the Chapter Master's gaze without wavering.
“If I do, my lord, then I will soon be dead for it. If I do not, then the Emperor will have chosen me for something greater. Please, my lord, allow me this chance to prove myself.”
Rechtshandler simply could not resist. He took up the eating knife and held it handle first to the marine to take. Proteus did, his eyes seeming to bore deep into Rechtshandler's soul as he did so.
“My thanks Chapter Master. I shall do you proud.”
Oberon called from his place at the other end of the dueling grounds:
“Enough of this! Let us get on with the killing!”
Rechtshandler glanced at Iyago who only muttered something and shook his head.
Proteus padded lightly to the center of the ring, his opponents taking stances far enough apart so that he would not be able to fight them both as one. They awaited only the command to begin.
Rechtshandler nodded to the Chaplain to give it.
“Begin!” called out the chaplain, the single syllable echoing across the chamber.
No sooner had the word left his lips than a glittering silver missile seemed to sprout from the eye socket of Oberon. The large Marine stood motionless for a moment, uncomprehending his own fate. He took one shuffling step forward, his remaining eye rolling up in his head as the first droplets of blood began to drip unsteadily from the wound.
No one had even seen the throw. The action had happened so fast that even when the recording devices of the chamber were later examined: but a single frame within the reel captured its flight.
The eating knife was now buried to the hilt in Oberon's skull. Only the very end of the weapon even protruded. Oberon at last fell forwards onto his face, dead without even the chance to react to his fate. Proteus smiled knowingly at Typhion, all but inviting the man to attack him now that he was unarmed.
Typhion did.
With a roar Typhion charged forward across the battlefield. He had carried a power axe and storm shield through so many wars, charged so many enemies, that the act was second nature to him by now. He knew everything that could be done against him. He knew every move that could be made. He understood every possibility. He taught other terminators, at times, the finer points of every aspect of his preferred method of combat.
Proteus met the man as he charged, intercepting the giant in a single leaping stride, one hand reaching out to push open palmed against the storm shield, the other gripping the power axe directly above Typhion's own hand. The force of the impact of these two men could be felt across the entire chamber. Either one could have ground a stone to dust in their bare hands. Either one could have bent a steel girder.
“Yeild my brother!” called out Typhion, his voice strained as he brought more and more muscle to bear against the smaller and younger man. “If you value your life then YIELD!” he cried out, dragging more force into his legs and even managing to take a step forward against the seemingly impossible strength of the man holding before him.
Proteus replied calmly, even nobly, in three simple syllables:
“I. Will. Not.”
The words rang clear across the chamber. Then, without a moment passing, Proteus stepped back, pulled, and suddenly Typhion was sailing through the air overhead. The nearly six hundred pound marine had been lifted and hurled as easily as a child.
Typhion landed heavily, the wind knocked from him. Somehow he retained his storm shield. The Axe was now held by Proteus himself, who tossed it aside with seemingly little use for it and waited patiently for his foe to regain his feet. Every marine now noticed the ashes covering the face of the shield, and quickly drying blood still burning and crackling upon it. Proteus's right hand, which had held off the crackling storm-shield, was blackened all the way to his wrist. He seemed not even to notice it, walking forward calmly and with little concern as his blood dripped upon the stone.
“Come brother,” Proteus said to Typhion, “I know you have yet more to give.”
Typhion most certainly did.
He leapt to his feet and charged at Proteus, bellowing like a mad beast. He swiped with his shield, and Proteus caught it in both hands. A thunderclap erupted from the strike, the smell of burning flesh filling the room. Typhion then did something rather unexpected: headbutting the back of his own shield to drive it forward into the nose of Proteus. Proteus stumbled back, blood pouring from the wound and shaking the crackling tendrils of electricity from his eyes. Typhion kicked his left knee from him. Proteus fell and Typhion brought the edge of his shield down upon the smaller man's chest.
There was the sound of snapping bone and frying meat. Typhion lifted the shield again:
“Yield!” he screamed.
“I. Will. Not,” responded Proteus. He seemed to suddenly slip across the ground at great speed, his body contorting somehow to allow him to escape between the legs of the other man, and appearing behind him like a phantom. His wounds had begun to close, somehow, and he was as calm and collected as before.
Typhion swung the edge of his shield at the man. He missed as Proteus slipped under the blow. Typhion swung again, nearly toppling from the exertion as Proteus again slipped the blow. When Typhion tried it a third time Proteus kicked the legs from him. His arms darted out to pluck the shield out of the air as the larger man fell. Their was a brief struggle, perhaps three heartbeats, and then Proteus twisted the shield hard enough to break the larger man's wrist. Typhion bellowed, in rage more than pain, as the weapon was stripped from him and hurled aside in one motion.
Typhion leaped to his feet, his hands outstretched and face a mask of rage. Proteus slipped around this easily, tripping the man and sending him sprawling to the floor again.
Typhion regained his feet to try again. Proteus slipped to the side, grasping the man's broken wrist, and sent him hurling across the arena once more.
“Yield,” said Proteus.
Typhion, his face too contorted in rage to speak only tried to rise to his feet again, hauling his body slowly upwards.
Proteus kicked him once sharply in the jaw. The force of the blow sent a shower of broken teeth high into the air and when Typhion landed upon his back it was plain for all to see that his jaw had been broken nearly in two.
Proteus took one step towards the fallen man. Typhion even now struggled to right himself and continued the fight. Proteus' eyes flicked to both Rechtshandler and Iyago. His voice rang out loud and forcefully across the entire chamber, startling many with its unbroken clairity despite his injuries:
“I have more than proven myself by now. If you do not force this man to yield than I will. I will not shed any further blood against my fellow marine this day. My task is done.”
Typhion managed to sit halfway up, his eyes unfocused and head dizzy: he none-the-less looked towards the two Chapter Masters for guidance. Rechtshandler considered his plight for only half a moment. Then he stood and nodded to the Chaplain. The Chaplain needed no encouragement, rushing to the center of the dueling grounds and shouting for all to hear:
“My brothers: we have our champion! My brothers give praise, My brothers give thanks, the Emperor has truly decided to shine upon us this day! By the sacred power invested in me by Chapter Master Luthor Rechtshandler, and the authority granted to him by the high lords of holy Terra: I pronounce the next Chapter Master of the Iron Shields to be Veteran Sergent Proteus Manus! Give thanks and glory to his name! Give glory to the Emperor! Give glory to the Imperium!”
The assembled warriors roared out their approval. The halls echoed with their cries. The walls shook. Ice that had stood undisturbed for a hundred years cracked and broke. Servitors and serving staff collapsed or held hands over their ears. Proteus himself seemed to take little note of this, instead going to the fallen Typhion and helping him to regain his feet as the Apothecary hurried to his side.
“My apologies brother Typhion,” Proteus said softly to the larger man, “You fought well. You fought with honor.”
Typhion waved the apology aside. His words were thick and blood spilt from his mouth with each movement of his jaw:
“I fought well as a man, yes. You, brother Proteus, you fought as only a god can fight. There is no shame in losing to one such as you. I will pray for you my brother. I will pray and I will follow you. No matter the cost.”
Proteus nodded at that. The Apothecary was already leading the larger man away. He watched him go, and only then did he at last return his cold green gaze to Chapter Master Rechtshandler.
“Have him meet me in the Chamber of Shields,” said Rechtshandler to his aide.
“I would like to speak to him as well,” said Iyago.
“Very well,” said Rechtshandler, “Let us see together just how such a feat as this has been done...”
As he rose to go he noticed a slow and building chant emerging from the assembled Space Marines of two chapters. It was a simple chant, but one that was sure to spread to legend:
They chanted the name “Proteus Never-Yield.”
|-
|}
Other Stories
http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Iron_Republic_%28Prologue_and_Part_1%29
https://www.facebook.com/PatrickFisherWhite