StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Awakening



The first few breaths are always the most difficult.

Inhalation was shaky and ragged, and when he breathed out he coughed hard, as if his lungs were full of fluid. Eyes shut tightly, he curled into a ball and wrapped his arms around his midsection as he groaned, rocking back and forth. Each breath was a struggle, and spots danced in front of his eyes as his body fought for every scrap of oxygen he could give it. His muscles screamed agony, posioned with their own acids as he shook and coughed, the kind of rasping, hacking that shakes a man's body down to the bones. Had any happened by to slay him, he would have welcomed it. It felt like he was dying.

In fact it was the opposite.

As the moments passed and his chest continued to heave in and out, he found it was slowly becoming easier to breathe. His airways were not quite so clotted as they had been moments ago and with each lungful of clear, cold air, his muscles quieted further, his body calming as instinct was satisfied. Seconds ticked by at a slow, glacial pace as his breathing slowed and calmed towards a more regular beat rather than the frenzied intake of moments ago. Opening his eyes, he blinked once, twice, and a third time, his sight clouded and flecked with black from the way he had clamped his eyelids shut.

He sat up with a heavy sigh, shaking his head and then running a hand through his short hair. Am I dying? he thought abruptly, and then just as quickly decided, no, I am not dying. He took in a deep breath and exhaled smoothly, without a trace of the difficulty he had experienced earlier.

Am I injured? He frowned slightly and rolled his shoulders, moving his fingers, checking each of his joints for pain. No. I am not injured.

Can I stand? The man's mind seemed to be going down a careful checklist, watching himself for any sign of weakness, and he decided he would continue to trust his instinct. Pulling up his legs, he leaned forward and used his hands to push himself upright. He swayed briefly, feeling pins and needles in his legs for a few moments before the blood flow was equalized. I can stand, he thought with a tinge of pride.

Check your surroundings. He turned his head first left and then right, looking about him for the first time. Though his vision had cleared, there was little to see. The air around him was full of mist. Below his feet was stone, and when he tapped a foot against it, he noted that though not polished, it was a clean, solid piece, with no broken rubble or scree to upset the feet. Although there was light, when he looked upwards he saw no sun.

Where am I? That one he didn't know, and with no immediate threats, he shuffled it to the bottom of his checklist.

Who am I? Looking down at himself, the man realized that he wore armor about himself. It was styled in polished metal plates colored onyx black and gleaming silver. Power armour, custom-made, his mind supplied, though he was unsure how he made the distinction. Power armour was a suit of metal, constructed to both protect and enhance the wearer, increasing their durability, strength, and stamina.

Name? He blanked.

Mission? He blanked again.

I am amnesiac, he realized. Amnesia. A condition of the mind causing short-to-long term memory loss. Possible causes were damage to the brain, disease, or severe psychological trauma.

Am I injured? Did I miss something? He lifted his hands to touch his forehead and his temples, moving them slowly backwards to the nape of his neck. Nothing felt damaged. Momentarily aggrieved, he scratched his chin. A moment later he froze, looking at his hand. At first, looking down at himself, he had made the assumption that his armour included gloves or gauntlets of some type. It didn't. His hand was metal, silver and shining the damp air. Augmentic. An augment. A replacement for a lost or damaged body part. How had he lost the hand? Had whatever caused that injury also taken his memory? He frowned, lifting his other hand to compare to two only to find that like the first, it was polished metal. Augmentic. He flexed his hands several times, watching as the fingers moved. When he curled his fingers into loose fists, he could feel their touch against his palms.

He frowned and lowered them. The mystery of his hands could wait for another day. For now, he was alone and without food or water in a strange place. He tapped his hands at his waist, back, and chest, but found no equipment aside from his armour. No auspex to scan the surrounding area. No emergency rations. Not even a helmet or a headset with which to contact his fellows. Though he felt no hunger, he knew that he had to find sustenence.

But where to go? He turned slowly, ninety degrees to his right, keeping his right heel against the stone. Nothing. He turned again. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. When he returned to his original position, he still saw nothing. The mist covered all but a few feet of visibility. Was one way as good as any other? No, he told himself. A good soldier did not simply wander off at a whim. That was likely to only get him more lost. And yet, what good would standing still do? Clearly, there was nothing here. Was anyone even looking for him?

Filling his lungs he called out, "hello?" his voice shockingly loud and deep after the prolonged silence.

Hello...hello....hello...hello...hello... his voice echoed back to him.

If there's an echo, then that means there is something for the sound to echo off of, he mused. "Hello!" he called out again, and this time he listened sharply. As the echoes once against bounced back to him, he estimated that there was something ahead and slightly to his left, though he was uncertain how close it was. He took an experimental step forwards, watching his feet carefully. Though the ground seemed solid, it was not entirely smooth. It reminded him of volcanic flows that hardened over time into a frozen rictus of obsidian, though rather than shiny black, this rock was grey and striated with discolorations that hinted at ores buried beneath the surface.

Who, what, and why, he reminded himself. Those are the important questions now. He began to walk fowards, slowly and cautiously, ears alert for the sound of any possible danger in the mist. Though armored, he would be vulnerable unarmed like this.

Well, not entirely unarmed, he thought with a bit of pride as he flexed his augmentic fingers. Surely the strength in them would be sufficient for him to deal with anything foolish enough to mistake him for prey. My iron hands are the greatest weapon at my disposal. The thought was comfort to him as he moved through the cold mists.

Huh. How does the Iron Hands primarch wind up ... here? Wherever here is. Here's hoping this doesn't die slowly like some of the 40k fic we have on the board.

I'm assuming Manus' ID can be verified by testing his DNA against Iron Hands gene-seed, and that his "sons" will have a thousands-strong orgasm when they learn their Primarch has returned. But didn't Fulgrim present Manus' severed head to Horus, as described here? Does this mean this "Ferrus Manus" is a clone?

I'm VERY curious about the setting. Is it set between the Horus Heresy and the 40th millenium, i.e., an alt-history story? Or is it about a Primarch's return to the Imperium as of the 40th millenium, and his IMPACT- literal and figurative- on Holy Terra?

You will find out.

I can't wait to find out.

Rescue


The mountain loomed out of the mist so quickly that even at his measured pace, he nearly walked right into it. It was like a god had pushed the point of a weapon into the ground from below; the rock did not crack or show any signs that it had shifted in the past but only curved rapidly upwards, forming a needle that stabbed into the sky as far as he could see…about ten feet. With a frown, he knelt by the base of the protrusion to inspect it. Even a cursory look proved his suspicions: with no seam or fault, the rock simply warped upwards, making a nearly ninety-degree turn in the space of a meter or so.

Placing a hand against the near-vertical surface, he dragged his fingers across the rock, feeling the miniscule whorls and contours in the face of it. For some reason he found them reassuring and after a moment he hit upon the reason why. They made the odd tower feel more natural as opposed to something that might have been deliberately drawn up from the rock.

He decided to try an experiment. Using the tip of his left index finger, he made a scratch in the surface of the rock, a simple ‘X’ shape roughly one foot in diameter. That done he walked to his right, keeping the fingers of his left hand against the rock. Thirty steps brought him all the way back around to his ‘X’. Walking around a second time he kept his gaze outwards, but could see no signs of any other such pillars. Deciding to try a gamble, he filled his lungs and barked out a sharp, “hey!”

Hey! A distant echo answered him. By his estimation, it came from roughly a seventy-degree angle to the right of his original path. He felt a smile touch his lips and he even gave the pillar a little good-luck slap as he left it, moving cautiously towards his next destination.

Like island hopping, the man thought as he walked. Or perhaps traveling from world to world through the Warp. As long as there was another destination, there was hope.

Twice more he came upon the strange pillars, and twice more he shouted into the mists to find his next destination. Though it was impossible to truly tell, he estimated that he had traveled nearly three kilometers following a more or less zigzagged path.

As he came upon the fourth pillar, he felt a growing sense of wrongness as the dark shape materialized out of the mists. Immediately he could tell that it was much smaller than those he had encountered previously, barely rising higher than his head before ending in a level plane as if someone had sawed it flat. As he approached to within an arm’s reach, he saw it; halfway up the side of the stone face was the impression of a hand. No, he realized a moment later. Not an impression. Rather, the shape of the hand jutted outwards from the rock, the fingers spread wide and bent as if in entreaty. Disquieted by the disturbing sight, he stopped and lifted his own hand to touch the stone fingertips, noting that they were a match for his own in size.

A tiny sound reached his ears and he froze, listening. Moments later it came again: a soft crunching, cracking sound. Then he snapped his head around, looking down at his hand. His fingertips had registered something. A hint of movement? He narrowed his eyes and leaned closer and realized that miniscule cracks had appeared in the rock where the fingers met the knuckles of the hand.

Someone was buried inside there!

Without stopping to think he drew his arm back and then plunged the metal fist into the pillar. The rock shattered beneath the force of the blow as his arm sank all the way in to his elbow. Beneath the hard outer shell of the obsidian was softer rock like sandstone and he quickly began scooping out handful after handful, breaking away more of the pillar as he rushed to extract the poor soul trapped within. His hand struck metal and he scraped his fingertips against an armour plate similar to his own. Given a shape to work with, he found it easier to scoop the rock away from the figure entombed within, a colossal armored form not unlike his own.

Finally, when much of the man’s torso had been exposed, the rescuer was able to wrap an arm around his midsection and haul him out of the ruin of the pillar, trusting to the man’s armor to protect his legs. Where his face was uncovered, his face was ashen. “Hey!” the black-clad man said aloud, giving his charge a shake. “Hey! Wake up!” For a few terrible moments, he thought that he’d failed in his attempted rescue, but then the man coughed thickly, his body shaking. His lips parted and he drew in a moaning breath, his frame contorting as he pulled at the air.

“Good,” the rescuer said gently, as the man’s breaths began to grow steady, his eyelids flickering as he swam towards consciousness. “Good. It’s all right now. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” He repeated the words over and over, as if they were a lifeline. Joy and relief washed over him as he watched the man‘s color grow stronger. Now, live or die, he was no longer alone.

The man’s hand came up and gripped his shoulder as his eyes flickered open and stayed that way, a last errant cough working through him. “Thank you, brother,” he said, his voice a rasp.

The rescuer smiled. “You are most welcome,” he said thickly. His charge, now that he had a spare moment to look the man over, was indeed every bit as large and bulky as himself. His armor is not unlike mine, but green rather than silver. In addition to that difference, the man wore additions that struck his rescuer as somewhat feral, as if the man had gone native on some world. A cloak of emerald scales fastened at his shoulder and added to that was the bleached white skull of some reptilian creature that formed an extra shoulder guard. Where his own skin was pale, his companion’s was a dark shade - once the deathly ashen cast had faded. His eyes were likewise brown and liquid.

He helped the man sit up, watching as he ran a hand over his shaven head before looking over with a puzzled expression. “I…know you?” he said, his voice uncertain.

The silver-handed man frowned. “You called me ‘brother’ a moment ago,” he pointed out.

The dark man nodded. “That’s right,” he rubbed his chin, staring hard as he furrowed his brow. “I do know you, yes?” It sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

The first man briefly thought of shelving the discussion in favor of moving on, but violently overruled himself. If they let go of these tentative threads of self, they might never get them back.

I might be wrong, wont be the first time, but did he just recuse the primarch of the Salamanders?

I balso have a feeling we will be seeing more primarchs be recused....with maybe the Emperor at the end of it all?

I'm not sure where this is going, Kuja, but I like it. Keep writing, homie.

Mr. Coffee wrote:I'm not sure where this is going, Kuja, but I like it. Keep writing, homie.

You got it.






Brother



“You are my brother,” he said slowly, grasping desperately at half-remembered sights and sounds. If felt like trudging through thick mud, cloying and pulling at his legs. “Do you know your own name? I…cannot give you mine.”

The dark man frowned deeply. “Surely you can remember your own name? Mine is…” he trailed off into silence, looking past his rescuer’s shoulder. “I…cannot remember either!”

“Does this mean anything to you? Perhaps it holds some significance?” The silver-handed man rested a finger against the wicked skull that adorned the other man’s shoulder.

“It belonged to a beast of my homeworld,” the man replied quickly, tapping his fingers against the skull‘s jaw. “They live in the lava flows of our volcanoes. This one I slew in a contest, the largest I had ever taken. We call them firedrakes, or salamanders.” He paused, pursing his lips. “Salamanders,” he repeated.

“Yes? That means something?”

The dark man frowned, looking about himself. “This is not Nocturne,” he said definitively.

The silver handed man blinked his eyes. “Do you know where we are?”

“No, do you?”

“No, I do not recognize this place.”

“I don’t think…I…you!” the man suddenly barked, his hand whipping out to grab his rescuer by the wrist. “Iron Hands,” he said with reverence, emphasizing the words carefully.

The words touched off a firestorm of emotion and memories so powerful it was almost as though he could feel them rushing through him, just behind his eyes. “Iron Hands,” he repeated. “My Legion. X Legion.”

The dark man smiled. “Iron Hands…and Salamanders, XVIII Legion. We are brothers in war.”

“That explains the armour, at least. But not how we came to be here.”

“No,” the dark man agreed as he hauled himself to his feet, “but it is a starting point. You lead a legion of soldiers. I do the same. Do you remember your homeworld?”

“Medusa,” the silver-handed man replied instantly, before he even had a chance to think. “Yes, Medusa,” he confirmed as he rose to match his brother.

“Hmmm…perhaps it would be better if we asked, what do you remember last, rather than what you remember first. I recall being on a ship, en route somewhere.”

He nodded. “It was a mission of great importance. And…we had another brother with us.”

“Yes, yes!” the dark man replied, rapping a fist against his brother’s chest plate. “We must be at our destination. Something must have happened along the way.”

“That seems logical,” the silver-handed man agreed. “Which changes the question to that of ‘what happened?’ A malfunction with the Gellar Field?”

A blink. “The what?”

“A bubble-”

“-that protects a ship from the Warp,” the other man finished. “Could our ship have crashed? Merged, somehow, with our target world?”

“I cannot answer that question, my brother,” the silver-handed man replied. “I woke up some distance from here, and I had not seen a thing aside from rock and mist until I found you.”

The dark man patted at his armour. “Perhaps I have a…no…perhaps I don’t,” he said lamely.

“I’ve been following a trail of pillars like these,” the silver-handed man explained, slapping his hand against the ruined stump of rock. “The mist doesn’t seem thick enough to conceal echoes.”

“Good thinking, brother. Maybe they lead somewhere. But, before we continue…” He gripped the silver-handed man’s arm, staring into his eyes. “Please, please try and remember who I am. Try and remember the primarch of the Salamanders.”

He clenched his teeth, staring into the man’s dark eyes. The word ’primarch’ had struck a chord, and he struggled to remember his brother’s name, fought for it, trying to focus on the details of his legion’s men, their armor and colors, customs and faces. He remember these things slowly, one flash following another. The dark skin, the white icon on their shoulders, the cloaks they wore to mimic their leader. Most of all he remember the weapon he had crafted for his brother, the dragon-headed cannon he had presented as a gift to… “Vulkan,” he said aloud, the syllables harsh upon his tongue. “Your name…is Vulkan.”

Vulken’s eyes lit up. “Yes!” he all but shouted. “And you…you are…” he lifted a hand, pointing with an index finger. “Ferrus.”

Ferrus Manus, the slayer of Asirnoth, leader of the Medusan tribes, and primarch of the X Legion, smiled upon his brother.

YAY! They Remember!

And there's one more Brother to find.

LadyTevar wrote:YAY! They Remember!

And there's one more Brother to find.

Found



“These mists are damnable,” Vulkan said as they walked. “Worse than any smokescreen I’ve ever seen.”

“Agreed, brother,” Ferrus said. “We must be in a valley or a place of low elevation of some kind for it to collect like this.”

“I think there is more to it than that,” the dark-skinned primarch replied. “Do you hear any water, brother? Any sort of hissing that might signal the release of steam? These mists feel unnatural.”

“There is that,” Ferrus admitted. “I’d not given it much thought, but the temperature is wrong as well. A low-lying valley with a mist cover like this should be hot, shouldn’t it?” He shook his head. “Hard to think, damn it.”

“I know what you mean,” Vulkan said. “Trying to concentrate is difficult. The problem doesn‘t just seem to be amnesia, it feels like…trying to put together a puzzle when you’re not allowed to look at the pieces.”

“As if our memories are being actively suppressed?” Ferrus asked with a deep frown.

“No,” Vulkan said with a slight grimace. Lifting a hand, he snapped his fingers in Ferrus’ direction. “Answer quickly. Who is your most valuable subordinate?”

“Gabriel Santor,” Ferrus answered matter-of-factly. His equerry and first captain had been his trusted right hand for decades. A moment later the Iron Hands’ primach scowled deeply.

“There, you see?” Vulkan said. “The memories are there, right there where they’re supposed to be. It’s as if we’ve forgotten how to access them.”

“So, what do you propose we do? Spout questions at each other in the hopes that we will remember something?”

“Well, yes,” Vulkan said with a slight smile. “That was essentially what I had in mind.”

Ferrus sighed. “I was afraid of that. I’m going to look like a complete idiot, aren’t I?”

Vulkan’s smile grew. “Fear not, brother. I’ll not tell a soul.”

Ferrus laughed and slapped a hand against Vulkan’s shoulder guard. “You win, my brother. Ask away.”

“The last I remember, we had another brother with us. Who was it?”

“It was Corax,” Ferrus replied promptly. “Primarch of the XIX Legion. Raven Guard.”

“Yes…I remember his black armour. He’s a taciturn one, isn’t he?”

“Very. Now it’s my turn,” Ferrus answered. “Where were we going?”

“The Isstvan system,” Vulkan replied instantly. “Our Legions were in the vanguard, with the others following.”

“Other Legions? Who were they?”

“Let me think…Word Bearers, Night Lords, Alpha Legion, and the Iron Warriors.”

“Perturabo’s lot,” Ferrus commented.

“Aye. Who commands us?”

“The Emperor,” Ferrus said gravely.

Vulkan actually stopped short. “Of course,” he said. “The Emperor. How could I have…?”

Ferrus laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Do not be so hard on yourself, Vulkan. We will get to the bottom of this.”

Vulkan smiled slightly and tapped Ferrus’ forearm. “That we will.”

“Back to the issues of relevance,” Ferrus said as they resumed walking. “Why were we going to Isstvan?”

“Horus,” Vulkan said gravely. “We landed on Isstvan to apprehend Horus.”

Ferrus felt cold. Of course. Horus. Horus, first amongst the sons of the Emperor. How could he have forgotten? The very idea seemed- “Wait,” he said. “We were en route to Isstvan.”

“No,” Vulkan said insistently. “We landed on Isstvan. Remember? We were engaging the Sons of Horus.”

“No.”

“Ferrus, now you’re just being obstinate.”

Ferrus growled, but Vulkan was right. He didn’t want to acknowledge the idea that he might have gone to war with his brothers - his former brothers. There was a repellence in his mind that made him want to deny his brother’s words, but he knew that ultimately, it would be a futile effort. “The last moments are still murky,” he admitted reluctantly.

“We’ll work on them,” Vulkan promised. As he spoke, the dark wall of another pillar rose out of the mist. “So, these are what you’ve been navigating by?”

“They’re the only landmarks I’ve found,” Ferrus replied as the primarch of the Salamanders laid a hand upon its surface. With a thoughtful ‘hmm’ the dark-skinned man tested his fingertips against a few spots, and then without warning punched a hole into the rock.

“Pfah,” he spat contemptuously as he extracted a handful of stone and let it drop. “Loose sandstone, barely better than pumice.” He took a step back as he wiped his hands, looking upwards. “Doubt these walls could support our weight, so we can’t climb. Think we could bring it down?”

“To what end?” Ferrus replied.

“To see if there’s anything on top?” Vulkan suggested.

“That works for me.”

Between the two of them, the giants had little difficulty breaking away a great quantity of the porous rock from the innards of the pillar. Contrary to the fears Ferrus had quietly harbored since finding his brother, there were no people to be found inside these larger ones. Finally with one mighty heave they toppled the pillar, which fell to earth with a groan and a resounding crash, revealing…nothing.

Ferrus heard Vulkan grunt as the two primarchs began to sift through the debris. “It was a good thought, brother,” he said. “I would have been kicking myself for a long time if we had found anything of value.”

Vulkan opened his mouth to answer, but whatever he had been about to say was forever lost as he stilled, lifting an arm to warn Ferrus to silence. Ferrus froze, hearing what Vulkan’s sharp ears had picked up on. Footsteps, coming down fast and heavy. “Hello!” Ferrus cried out.

There was an answering shout and the two men turned to face its direction as a tall and dark figure became visible in the mist, running towards them. “Hey, Corax! Is that you?” Vulkan shouted. But as Vulkan spoke, Ferrus realized that he had made a terrible mistake.

The figure wasn’t Corax. Not Corax at all.

“I am coming for you!”

Oh...fuck. Kurze.

I just had a TERRIBLE thought: As we're seeing Primarchs with confirmed deaths running around, does this mean they're copies of the Primarchs' memories and personalities, created by something like this? Should I expect mind-fucking of a scale not seen since 'Star Trek: Enterprise' was cancelled as the Primarchs explore the world they're in?

Sidewinder wrote:I just had a TERRIBLE thought: As we're seeing Primarchs with confirmed deaths running around, does this mean they're copies of the Primarchs' memories and personalities, created by something like this? Should I expect mind-fucking of a scale not seen since 'Star Trek: Enterprise' was cancelled as the Primarchs explore the world they're in?

Bwahaha.

Does Vulkan have a confirmed death, though?

Simon_Jester wrote:Does Vulkan have a confirmed death, though?

No, but Curze does.

Isn't that article fairly explicit about Curze's death not being confirmed?

Simon_Jester wrote:Isn't that article fairly explicit about Curze's death not being confirmed?

It states, "Night Haunter was eventually killed, assassinated by the Callidus M'Shen," and "The vid-log then shows M'Shen leaping forward, although the kill was never confirmed, as the video feed cuts out right before they fight." What does that mean? Well, the article cites Index Astartes II as a reference. If anyone has a copy of that book, please check the "Night Lords" article and see if it has a clear answer.

Fortunately, I have a copy of Index Astartes II. It's very ambiguous as to whether or not he actually died. Based on his last words, it wouldn't be too much of a leap to assume that he did. Given the nature of his prescience, he most likely Spoiler . Of course, what else he saw down the road is never revealed, but presumably nothing good for the Imperium.

Interesting. Go on.

We're going.




Reunion


His name was Conrad Kurze.

They called him Night Haunter.

Terror of Nostromo Quintus.

Primarch of the VIII Legion.

He erupted from the mists with a bone-chilling roar of such duration and volume that it could never even remotely be described as human, a pale giant garbed in night blue armour, the familiar crown of adamantium holding back his mane of bone-white hair.

A lesser man would have been destroyed on the spot, but Vulkan reacted with perfect instinct, dropping back to grapple with the sudden onslaught as Kurze assaulted him with a rapid-fire series of hand and foot attacks directed at the larger man’s joints, his blows delivered with enough power to crush bones and snap tendons. Vulkan fell back under the frenzied attack, desperately turning aside Kurze’s relentless blows.

Ferrus was shocked. “Conrad!” he barked aloud. “Stop this!” stepping forward, the silver-handed giant moved with lightning speed despite his bulk, whipping out an arm and curling it around Kurze’s shoulder, pulling him away from Vulkan.

The primarch of the Night Lords contorted in Ferrus’ grip, snarling like some feral beast. He writhed as he tried to break Ferrus’ hold, but the larger man’s strength held him firmly. “Conrad, enough of this! What is this madness, brother?”

The reply came as Kurze twisted his head up towards Ferrus’ and with a sudden movement sunk his teeth into the side of Ferrus’ neck, his teeth breaking the flesh with the efficiency of a lifelong predator. Ferrus Manus cried out as much from shock as the sudden pain and his grip loosened enough for Kurze to break out of his arms.

“Ferrus!” Vulkan shouted.

“He bit me!” the primarch of the Iron Hands roared, pressing his palm to the injury and feeling the wetness there. Kurze backed away, his black eyes shooting back and forth between one demigod and the other as if expecting one of them to come at him any moment. Ferrus’ blood was so dark against is skin that it looked black. “How dare you!” Ferrus thundered.

Kurze spat. “I dare. I dare. You’re not supposed to be here. Why are you here? I saw Dorn. Dorn’s supposed to be here. Where is he? Why are you here and he isn’t? Where is he?!” he snarled. Ferrus shook his head as the tide of words swept over him, Kurze’s hissed speech delivered just as harshly and rapidly as his blows had been.

“I do not know what you speak of, my brother,” Ferrus said, easing his hand away from his neck as his blood clotted, his physiology quickly reacting to the sudden violence. “We’ve not seen anyone but you until now.”

“What’s happened, Conrad?” Vulkan asked. “Where are Perturabo and Lorgar and Alpharius?”

Kurze’s eyes widened. “You don’t know. You don’t know, do you? You’re not supposed to be here!” He licked his lips, cleaning some of the blood from them. “Tastes real. Never tasted before. You’re different.” He took a sliding step backwards. “Something’s wrong here. Something’s not right.”

“Conrad-”

“Night Haunter.”

“I will not call you by that name,” Ferrus said resolutely. “And I will not ask you again. What is going on here?!”

“I don’t know!” Kurze roared. “Dorn was supposed to be here! I was supposed to find Dorn!” He pointed accusingly at Vulkan. “Instead it’s you! Why are you here?”

“Conrad,” Vulkan said softly, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. “Why would Rogal Dorn be here? He remains with the Emperor, remember?”

Kurze snapped his gaze over to Ferrus and then back to Vulkan. “You don’t remember,” he said, his voice betraying shock. “You don’t remember!”

“Don’t remember what, brother?” Ferrus growled, his patience reaching its end.

“Everything,” Kurze whispered. His fighting stance melted away as he stood straighter, looking back at Ferrus. “Don’t you remember Fulgrim?”

“Of course I remember him,” Ferrus snarled. “And when I find that traitor I’m going to bring him back to Terra in shackles!”

“Fulgrim killed you,” Kurze replied, his voice flat. “He killed you, Ferrus.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of joke, Conrad? If it is it isn’t a very good one.”

“I saw you die!” Kurze yelled. “The daemon cut the head from your shoulders!”

“Daemon? You speak nonsense, Conrad,” Ferrus said, though a part of him was beginning to feel ill at ease.

Kurze laughed - a chilling sound. “You know it’s true! You know it’s true! I can hear it in your voice!”

“Ferrus?”

“He’s mad, brother,” Ferrus growled, though his hands shook. A sudden memory was rising inside of him, his brother Fulgrim’s face twisted in hate and agony as he lifted a blade-

“He sees! He sees!” Kurze exulted.

Vulkan’s patience with the bizarre crowing hit an end. “Enough, Conrad!” he barked.

Those dark eyes turned to him again. “But you…you don’t see. You’re not supposed to be here, Vulkan. I think you need to go.” Kurze began to fall into his stance again.

“’Go?’” Vulkan sputtered. “What do you-”

“If you won’t go then I’ll make you!” Kurze snarled, leaping at Vulkan once again. This time the larger man wasn’t fast enough and the primarch of the Night Lords grappled with him, seeking to lock his hands around his throat.

Ferrus shook his head, banishing the unwanted memory as he stepped forward to intervene. “Conrad, enough of this! Do you really think you can overpower both of us?”

That was when something cold and sharp touched the back of his neck. “Fortunately for him, he doesn’t have to.”