The Lightning Struck Tower - Part 1

*In my dreams, I am still in that cave, standing with a promising then-Sergeant Eirian Carhaix. The two of us, alone, protecting our brothers from those foul Xenos witches. Their instruments of war were meant to maim us, to preserve us for the twisted amusements of their eldritch gods. Eirian moves like the wind, barely needing any protection from my mental barriers; still though, I worry. I worry for them all, nestled away like so many eggs, as their sires protect them from opportunistic predators. However, my duty, my* honor*, is to ensure that* none *of those in my care fall; death comes first. It is the fourth oath and tenant we take as Librarians of the Silver Basilisks: Protect and Preserve. I watch a bolt of energy flash against my kine shield at Carhaix’s flank while he dispatches another Dark Eldar with an expertly placed bolter round, and feel a slight smile tug at my lips, even in the Dream, at the sight. However, this time the Dream is different, instead of Carhaix cutting down dozens more the landscape rocks, Eirian stumbles. A hundred impacts penetrating his armour in the instant that he falters. My focus breaks as I roar out in shock, denial. The familiar pain, the disconnection, cuts through me like a cold knife. Pain. Loss.* Consciousness.

Drystan’s eyes snapped open, a dozen overlays passing before his sight, displaying vital signs, system checks, and the date. A young boy, actually a group of them as the world comes more into focus, none of them older than fifteen standard years of age, stands terrified before him, pounding on his Dreadnought shell, casting panicked looks over their shoulders. Finally, his audio systems kick in and he can hear their leader’s panicked voice shouting in his ears.

“-please, Revered Drystan, you have to wake up! Something is wrong! High Chaplain Omid and the Cus-” the hysterical youth cut himself off, choking in terror as one of the Emperor’s golden armoured Custodes turned into Drystan’s chamber. His two Flaenors, Llarawyn and Edessa, freeze mid-stride as they groggily exit their chambers at the commotion. Drystan watched as the Custode produced a pistol of a construction unknown to him, pointing it at the nearest boy and says in a cold, flat voice a word Drystan thought to never hear one of their kind utter to an Astarte, boy or not, as he pulled the trigger: “Traitor.”

The boy died instantly, as the scene slows to a crawl in his mind’s eye. The blast reverberating in Drystan’s ears, what’s left of the boy’s upper torso flying across the room, entrails fluttering like horrific banners, as the youth’s legs collapse twitching where they stood. Llarawyn and Edessa dive for the youths cowering at his feet, as he watches the Custode’s hand blur to another boy. Another discharge joins the echoing of the first as another boy simply explodes in a shower of gore, staining Drystan’s silver chassis red. As the Custodes pistol begins to blur again to another victim, Drystan’s decision is made: chosen of the Emperor, blessed by His hand, or no, We. Protect. Edict be damned.

Black smoke curled around Drystan’s Dreadnought shell as he touched the Warp, snapping a kine shield into being in front of the group, its appearance distorting the air slightly as the next projectile deflects off of it with a sharp crack into the nearby wall. The Custode’s helmeted head snapped to him, a mastercrafted maul in his golden hands, drawn in a blink from its magnetic sheathe, the golden warrior’s voice trembling with zealous fury as he hissed, “Sorcery.”

“Duty,” responded Drystan, his voice as cold and flat as the Custode’s was only moments before, and gripped the golden warrior in a vice-like grip with his mind. The Librarian felt him struggle, the Custode’s titanic might flexing against his mental will, but physical strength rarely has any power against a trained psyker, especially in a duel. Drystan flicked his clawed fingers as he pressed back with an attack of his own, compressing his foe further, the golden power armour resisting briefly before giving a horrendous screech as it, and the man inside, were crushed flat.

It took less than five heartbeats, the sounds of the gunshots bleeding together as they echoed in Drystan’s chambers.

He looked down at the trembling youths, splattered with their comrade’s gore. The Flaenors held them close, in an almost motherly embrace, as they looked at him with angry eyes and an unasked question.

“Suit up,” Drystan rumbled, rising to his full height and flexing his massive clawed hands. “There will be others."

Read Part 2 ->