Capítulo 41: The Thrones of Nuceria
998. M31
Sector Nuceria Primus
Nuceria Prime
New Deshea, The Red Citadel
Rainfall washed over the capital city, soaking the scarlet noxturaan stones that formed both base and peak of its high walls.
Its skies were filled with traffic from in and outbound sky-cars, ferrying produce and people alike to and from the massive skyscrapers that pierced the clouds.
The citizens of the bustling metropolis cleared the streets to take shelter from the coming storm. Every now and then, a passerby would dare and gaze upon the frowning, piercing stare of the great statues that took up every square and corner. The statues of the Red Angel, the Slayer of the Maw and Conqueror of Old Nuceria. His legends were molded into steel or immortalized into solid marble, that it would stand the test of time and never weather. His stories were etched in the walls, they were told in sermons in hidden conclaves, away from the prying eyes of Imperial enforcers, that people will never forget.
Those eyes, ever-leering and ever-present, gazed down with contempt at the insignificant masses that moved below. A disapproving sneer was on his lips, and the armored fingers clutched tightly to the hilt of the sword before him. There was no mistaking the obscene spires that protruded from his skull, a remnant of the demigod's bloody past- his crown of thorns. These statues were made in honor of Angronius Thal'kyr, God-King and Eternal Ruler of Nuceria,
Son of the Emperor of Mankind.
There were loftier titles. Everyone knew that he did not rule Nuceria, not directly, but none dared speak of it outside of certain circles. The story that was that he ruled from the heavens, removed from this world as he led the legions of Nuceria through the stars on the Great Crusade. While he fought the long war to free the worlds of men from the tyrants and the xeno, his house ruled Nuceria. A division of power, held together by familial ties and careful alliances.
And all of that stemmed from the great palace sitting in the middle of the red-stoned capital, the Exalted Palace. Named after the prized bastion of Angronius' long-dead enemy, Marsus Acraesius, the God-King thoroughly enjoyed the cruel bit of irony that came with exceeding the splendor and grand scale expected of its construction. Like many great places he had erected all across the capital world, a Primarch's masterful design towered above the works of mortal men, and Angronius' craft was no different. It towered above a foundation laid to waste by a time of war and perdition, a foundation of bones and skulls reaped from the millions slain in war of Old Nuceria.
It was beautiful, a euphoric vision of gold and silver, an alcazar of the gods. Angronius left it as one of many gifts for his beloved queens, and the children they bore for him.
It was their home, their bastion and fortress. In the years before he finally left for the Great Crusade, Angronius and his legion occupied the great halls of the Exalted Palace. It was little more than a noisy, busy military installation rather than an official residence of a sovereign. When they were gone, there was a noticeable emptiness within the palace grounds. The great halls that once housed the mighty spacemarines were now silent, and the workshops and smithies located beneath the complexes no longer bellowed or tolled. There were some, a handful of the War Hounds left to administrate the affairs of recruitment and training, but it wasn't the same when the bulk of the legion was on Nuceria Prime.
Patrolling the grounds became a lonely endeavor for the guardsmen marching down the corridors, for their rounds were long.
Blasting from speakers and vox-casters came the welcoming and cheery words of Titus Thal'kyr, The Voice of Nuceria or otherwise known as The Charmer or Silver-Tongued. He greeted the citizens with uplifting news of the numerous successes of the War Hounds from the front, where they continually liberated worlds from beneath the heel of the oppressive xenos. Although it was a stormy day, his words were enough to keep the city mood at an all-time high.
Titus finished his recording and moved from one room of the palace to the other, ever accompanied by his entourage of diplomats, servants and administrators ready to carry out the day's tasks. Diplomatic relations between the factions that made up the Imperium were a tenuous link, and required a steady hand to remain as such. It wasn't as glorious a task as conquering a world or besting a rival in a duel, but it was vital to the preservation of the order of things. A great deal rested on the Charmer's shoulders, a weight that almost equaled that of a crown.
All who laid eyes upon him were in awe, for they were in the presence of a primaris. The first of the natural born astartes, and direct descendant of a Primarch. His hair was dark red like the fading light of dusk and hung low over his massive shoulders. Like all his brothers, both primaris and astartes, his face was the face of his father. A high brow, cheekbones that angled down like axe-strokes to an aquiline nose and a broad, thin-lipped mouth.
The Warp that brimmed within his soul swirled in the irises of his purple eyes, and reverberated in his words whenever he spoke.
When he passed the courtyards of the Exalted Palace, he met his older brother Mercerandres, who was on his way with a crowd of fellow aspirants to be inducted into the ranks of the War Hounds Legion. Their brother, Corso, had long ago joined the creed of the noble spacemarines.
Now, it was Mercerandres' turn.
It had been but three years since their father had left, and in that time the eldest of Sonjita's four children had made a name for himself. Though Nuceria Prime had long been established as the capital world, it was not without its own share of trouble. Rebellious subjects who chafed at Imperial rule, or cultists who shunned the atheistic beliefs of the Imperial Truth and called for a return to the old ways- to the old gods of Nuceria. All of them were in need of Imperial correction, and Mercerandres took it upon himself to purge his homeworld and its neighboring planets of this sickness before it fomented a full-blown insurrection.
They called him Black Mercer, The Orcusian Dragon. He inherited Gorefather, after its restoration by the finest smiths in New Deshea, a gift from his father Angronius. With this weapon, he cleaved scores of cultists and rebels alike, reminding them that the godlike rage of the Primarch came in other forms. He was a shadow of his father, but a fearsome shadow still.
Nevertheless, who he was to them was not important to the legion. He would come as all aspirants would come, without the trappings of office, nobility or standing. Within the proving grounds of the War Hounds, all were equal and equally worthless. But Mercerandres was proud. He would make the proving grounds bend to his will, for he was above all men- mortal or ascended. It was only natural.
Titus smirked at his brother as they passed each other. He had paid attention to the trials of the spacemarines, and how they broke even the mightiest of Nuceria's champions. No, the legion sought more qualities than mere strength or brute force. Theirs was the test of spirit, and the spirit of man was always frail. But there was hope for him yet. Last he heard, their brother Corso succeeded in the trials and became a War Hound. Perhaps Black Mercer would fare as well.
As the late afternoon sun finally breached the dark clouds that yielded their heavy torrents, so did the rays shine upon the palace library. There, the bookish Morgana could be found perusing the great tomes of the arcanic archives. The vastness of the great library was such that one could find seclusion within its halls, which was to her liking. Morgana loved the solitude, the quiet existence between her and every page brimming with secrets.
No one could disturb her there, no one had to. Her mother, the Sovereign of Stygia, ruled the Freelands and kept the peace. Queen Polgara ruled Nuceria with Titus as its voice, and the armies of the sector were within the capable hands of her half-sister Lotara Sarrin. She would not be needed, and she liked it that way. For many hours, as she was wont to do, she soaked in the knowledge that only she and a handful of souls in all of Nuceria Prime were permitted to read. The knowledge of the Empyrean, and its practice, was punishable by death in most places.
Here, under the watchful eye of the Emperor's enforcers, certain practices were permitted. Although Morgana was no natural at the mystic arts, she loved reading the tomes. She turned another page, eager to learn more secrets and add it to the growing library within her own mind.
"Still pouring over ancient tomes and scribbled parchments, Morgana?"
A voice, deep and scarred by a lifetime of curses and oaths, wine and dry desert winds, greeted her from the shadows of the gargantuan shelves. A man, a towering giant with the upper half of his face hidden by a crimson cowl, emerged. His cloak emitted a hushed sigh as it brushed against the marble floor. He lifted the cowl to reveal a golden mask that hugged his cheeks and skull, stopping only above his upper lip.
This was the mask of the Outcast, he forged it himself from the gold of idols, the ones that once decorated the temples of the old faith. It was the mask of Ichabod, a pariah of House Thal'kyr.
The pariah.
Morgana's lips curled upward into a smile when their eyes met. She pushed herself away from the table filled with stacks upon stacks of finished and unfinished books, then leapt into her half-brother's arms. Her hands reached upwards to lift the mask, revealing the face of a demigod- one that filled her dreams in her loneliest of nights.
She kissed him. It wasn't the kiss of a sister, but a long passionate kiss of a lover.
Ichabod felt her hands press against his chest through the layers of leather that formed his armor. His twin hearts beat harder when they crept up onto his neck, her slender arms slipping around it like coiling serpents. He smelled the fragrance of her hair, felt their softness between his fingers. They were black, smelled of freesia flowers and milk. He wanted to take her, then and there as he'd done so many times before. There, in the library, her body pressed tightly against his. Against the shelves, over the table or underneath it, with his hand tightly clamped over her mouth to keep her from screaming.
And yet, this wasn't why he'd come back to the Red Citadel. Reluctantly, he pulled himself free from her and gazed into her loving, kind eyes. Here was the only woman who ever cared for him, where even his own mother had shunned him. He'd come for her, to warn her of danger and purge a great evil brewing within the capital.
"I've missed you so much, Cab." Morgana gently stroked his cheek, "It's so good to see you."
"And I've missed you." Ichabod squeezed her shoulders, regathering his thoughts after seeing them scatter on her account. "I wish there is time, but you must listen to me very carefully, Morgana. The House of Angronius has been marked for death."
The woman's face turned serious, "W-What are you talking about?"
"A rebellion forms from the shadows, enlisting the help of the otherworldly and the aid of vengeful forgotten gods. I have seen them, fought them, but I cannot stop them alone. You must speak to the Queen, and the Sovereign too."
Even in an age of enlightenment, their age, there was still room for terrible things. Ichabod had left the House of Angronius long ago and wandered the world, for he found no place that would ever give him peace. He traveled, meddled in many affairs, formed his own story... until he stumbled upon a plot that involved the same house that cast him out.
There were those who clung stubbornly to the ways of Old Nuceria, and worshipped still the pantheon of gods that all Nucerians once worshipped. Of them all, there was one who would not sit idly by while the interloping Emperor of Mankind robbed him of his followers and faith. They were known as the Children of Mars, and they would not rest until they offered up to their god the skulls of the entire House of Angronius and bathed Nuceria in the blood of the faithless.
"You cannot imagine what I've seen with my own eyes, Morgana..." Ichabod said wearily as he covered his face with his hands, wishing he'd never seen what he'd seen.
Blind zeal could push men to do things that no mind could possibly comprehend. In their reckless pursuit of glorifying their god, the cultists performed all manner of atrocities from within the shadows of fallen cities and ruined strongholds. Ichabod witnessed this in all his travels from the shores of Hyrkan to the mountains of Stygia. Skin flayed from the bodies of men and women adorned their halls, carved up with unholy writ to act as invoices for some dark pact. Children were fed to mutated monstrosities, while their parents watched helplessly from sacrificial tables, only to be offered up as sacrifices for the summoning of beings from beyond the veil.
It was enough to drive a man mad.
The atrocities continued, unheard and ignored, for those who were tasked to protect these victims proved to be too inept to carry out their tasks. Or, in most cases as Ichabod found out for himself, they were a part of the cult.
"Perhaps it's for the best that you never will."
The Exalted Palace, West Tower
Heavy footsteps echoed through the wide hallway as a figure emerged from the grand staircase, heading straight for the West Tower where the Sorceress Supreme resided with her daughters. Clad in shimmering silver mail sheets that clung tightly to her breasts and loins, with long blood-red hair offset with a single streak of white hair, there was no mistaking that this figure was none other than Sonjita the Red Maiden, wife of Angronius and Sovereign of Stygia.
Thirty years had passed, and still she weathered the time with the tenacity of an oak tree. Her skin remained smooth and taut as a maiden, and the strength of youth with the faint pulsations of the Warp ebbed within her veins. She was beautiful, a fitting trait for one who was chosen to be a wife of the God-King. A silver circlet weighed heavily upon her brow, and the burden of her ill-boding news weighed heavier still. The thick cloak of bear furs flapped behind her as she ascended the heights of the tower. Her coterie of guardsmen struggled to keep up, but the Red Maiden was faster.
Her arrival at New Deshea was unexpected. Customarily, if she ever intended on visiting the capital, certain protocols would push her to announce her intentions well in advance. This could only mean that she had a good enough reason to skip all those steps.
The tower housed a special room exclusively reserved for the Queen, and none but a select few were permitted to enter. Several attendants, robed in gold and white, barred the way when Sonjita approached the door. Before them, she had to go through several squads of guardsmen who kept pressing for their documents to allow them entry.
"Move!" She snapped, hand on her sword as she was wont to do when faced with an obstacle. It worked for the most part. The leading attendant, however, an old and frail woman who had long grown accustomed to the Red Maiden's outbursts, bravely stood her ground.
Respectfully, she stated. "She bathes, and must not be disturbed."
Ever the stubborn one, Sonjita ignored them all and pushed her way through the gilded doors. Her eyes took in the large pool of deep blue waters, mixed with the shimmering emerald essence poured out of great marble jars by half-naked servant girls. The lights bounced atop the pool and reflected against the domed ceiling and alabaster walls. She caught sight of an old and wrinkled figure disrobing herself before stepping into the pool. The marks of time had dealt their ugly hand upon her flesh, turning her hair whiter than snow and her skin spotted like a leopard.
Slowly, the woman dipped into the waters until she was totally submerged.
When she finally resurfaced, the old woman was gone, replaced by a youthful and lively Polgara Thal'kyr. In an instant, her body was restored to its original, shapely and beautiful state. Her skin was glamorous and smooth, her hair was deep brown like chestnut, and once again she was full of vigor as though the last few decades were reversed. She stepped out of the pool, unashamed as all eyes beheld her in all her naked splendor. The servant girls approached their queen and wrapped her in towels to dry the magic waters, then proceeded to dress her quickly in a simple blue silk robe. They departed soon after when Polgara commanded them to leave, pulling the doors shut behind them once they've gone.
"Sonja, come." She greeted her sister-wife, opening her arms to invite her in for a warm embrace. Sonjita sighed and returned the gesture, lingering a bit to find comfort in her soft, welcoming touch. After what she'd been through, she needed all the love from her family she could get.
"Welcome back to Deshea." Polgara kissed her on both cheeks, "How long has it been since we last spoke?"
"Too long." The Sovereign replied, glancing around cautiously before proceeding. "Are we alone?"
The Queen adjusted her robe as a quiet breeze suddenly wafted into the room. She twisted her fingers to cast a minor spell of silence, enveloping the tower in a protective cocoon that allowed them all the privacy they needed. No prying ears would hear of their exchange if she could help it. "None shall eavesdrop on our conversation."
"Good, I'll get right to it." Sonjita undid the large pin holding her fur cloak together and bared her chest to Polgara. Right there, in the valley between her breasts was an ugly battle-scar. A sword's mark, with the way it was thin upon entry and ever so slightly parted the flesh into folds. It was still fresh and tender, as though it had been healed recently.
Polgara's eyes widened with concern, for she knew that no mortal blade had dealt that injury. "What is that?"
"This was the most recent attempt on my life." The Red Maiden explained, "The assassin who dealt it is dead, but he was only a pawn. A rebellion grows within Nuceria, a cult devoted to the ways of the old world, and it has spread into Stygia. They denounce Angronius as a usurper and a false god, they call for a return to the faith of the old gods of Nuceria."
"Do you know who they are?"
"They call themselves the Children of Mars. These were the words of those I have interrogated. They have sworn to destroy the House of Angronius and restore the worship of Mars. Whoever leads them has proven elusive, but nonetheless a threat to be taken seriously. This scar is proof that they have the means to achieve their goal, but they must be stopped. I came all this way to warn you of the danger and seek your aid in ending this madness."
Polgara heaved a heavy sigh. Ever since Angronius left her and Sonjita with an empire to run, everything escalated with the coming years. Hand-in-hand with the novelty of royal life came the dangers of it. It was almost as if they were vulnerable without him, and their enemies could smell it.
The Queen turned to call for her attendants, instructing them to summon for Lotara Sarrin. An attempt on the Sovereign's life was an act of war, and this cult would know war.
They will know her wrath.
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