Chapter 19: Primitives, Launch!
Finally, after two years in the void, Petros stepped onto solid ground again. He felt rooted.
In the Senate Hall of Nopae, Petros sat on his newly-forged iron consular throne. He was waiting for the planet's Governor and the high nobles to deliver their reports, so he could understand what had changed in his absence.
Of course, he wouldn't be taking their words as gospel. The reports from the brothers who had remained on-planet were far more trustworthy. But this was a necessary ritual—partly to gauge the mortals' thinking, and partly to cow them with his presence.
But as the great wooden doors were violently thrown open, it wasn't the mortals who entered, but a Battle-Brother of the Forged Steel. The warrior with the void-coal black skin strode up to the throne, his face uncharacteristically grim.
"Boss," Phelon said, "we've got a problem on the homeworld."
Seeing the Warpsmith's dead-serious expression, Petros knew it was real. He felt a sudden tightness in his throat. "What happened?"
One week earlier.
Phelon was in the forest, 'slacking off'... no, 'prospecting'. Yes, prospecting. He was on Lemnos III's second continent, having landed only a few hours prior.
The area was a dense, lush forest, the ground soft and loamy, giving off a rich, earthy scent with every step. The beautiful, natural environment had even convinced Phelon to remove his helmet. He was carrying his power hammer, a hand-flamer mag-locked to his thigh.
He had wanted to check out this continent for a while. What was the point of just watching it from a Storm Eagle? But Sergeant Vornab had insisted they maintain their distance. He said these primitive tribes were "fiercely savage," a "valuable quality," and that they shouldn't risk "contaminating their culture" with premature contact.
Phelon scoffed, grabbing a handful of leaves from a nearby tree and shoving them into his mouth, chewing them to taste the forest.
The Warpsmith noted this continent was completely different from the main one. The main continent was mountainous, arid, and barren. This second continent was vast, flat, and covered in lush plains and forests.
It accounted for a quarter of the world's landmass and, according to the Dark Mechanicum's scans, had a population of only about one million. This was a true count, unlike the main continent, whose "official" census of two million citizens didn't include women, children, slaves, or outsiders—its actual population was over ten million. This place, however, was truly sparse. The people here hadn't even developed metallurgy.
From the gunship, he'd seen their primary weapon: a club made of wood, with sharp shards of obsidian embedded in the edges, used for both bludgeoning and cutting.
Vornab had said 'don't make contact,' but Phelon figured a little look-see couldn't hurt. If he was spotted... well, he'd just slaughter the village. What was a hundred-odd dead, out of a million?
So, he stood on the new continent, pulled out his auspex, and began scanning for the village he'd seen from the air. He was interrupted by a large, rat-like marsupial, half-black and half-white, with a baby on its back. Phelon snatched the mother, tossed it into his mouth, and began chewing. A second later, he spat the half-masticated pulp onto the ground.
"Throne, why does it get stinkier the more I chew?"
Grumbling, he continued toward the village. As he neared the perimeter, he stopped. He heard something... not just a sound. It was the sound of battle. The wet thud of weapons on flesh and bone.
Phelon could hear it clearly from this distance thanks to his Lyman's Ear implants. The augmetic organs gave him superhuman hearing, allowing him to filter sound, isolating a whisper in a firefight or tracking footsteps, while dulling the roar of gunfire. The implant also governed his equilibrium; no matter how violently a gunship dodged and weaved, an Astartes would never lose his balance, and certainly never need a sick-bag.
Phelon moved fast, dropping into a tactical prone position on a small rise. He unclipped his magnoculars and scanned the scene.
He let out a wide, white-toothed grin. "Ha! This is way more interesting than watching Ogryns dance naked."
In the clearing below, a small village of wooden huts and tents was under attack.
The defenders were painted with blue woad, wore feathered headdresses, and were wrapped in rough-spun linen. About forty warriors, men and women, were fighting with hide armor, obsidian-tipped spears, and obsidian clubs. A back line was firing crude bows and, surprisingly, blowguns. They were protecting their women and children.
The attackers were fewer, maybe twenty or so, and were almost completely naked, save for hide loincloths and the skulls hanging from their belts. They wielded bone spears and stone axes. Their one common feature was a red cross painted across their faces, and a strange, green-tinged saliva drooling from their mouths.
The attackers were crushing the defenders. The blue-painted warriors' arrows found their marks—they were clearly poison-tipped—but the attackers simply ignored the wounds and charged, roaring. The largest of them, riddled with arrows, bellowed a guttural chant:
"Skulls and blood! A sacrifice for the servant of the Blood God, the Hand of Slaughter!"
The red-cross cultists smashed into the blue line, their axes and spears reaping a bloody toll. But just as the line was about to break, an old woman in blue robes and a full feather-headdress stepped forward. She grasped at the empty air. The charging cultist leader froze in place.
"The Feathered Serpent delivers his judgment!" the crone shrieked.
The berserker stood rigid, his eyes bulging. Then, with a wet pop, his head exploded, showering the battlefield in gore.
Phelon's good mood vanished. Chaos worshippers. Not just Khornates, but a Psyker-Shaman? Throne. He'd been on this planet for two years and had no idea there were heretics here. That idiot Vornab and his "don't contaminate the culture"
crap!
Phelon scrambled to his feet, turning to sprint back to the Storm Eagle. He had to warn the others.
Just as he did, a sharp CLINK rang out. He felt something tap his bald, black head. He looked down. A stone axe lay at his feet.
In the treeline, two of the red-cross cultists were staring at him. They had dared to throw an axe at his head.
Phelon grinned. "Have you never seen a Space Marine before?"
He hefted his power hammer, not even bothering to ignite its disruption field.
"Trying to act tough? I'll make you fly."