A Feast Amongst the Dead

Shal ran. All around her, people died.

The agonised screams of her fellows echoed throughout the oppressively dark, claustrophobic corridors. Her foreman had told her she had been chosen. She hadn’t known what for, but she had been ‘chosen’.

Tears spilled from the young girl’s eyes. They were dead, all of them. All those who had joined her, who had been chosen, in the shadowy depths, they were dead. The monsters had killed them.

Even as her mind whirled, she could see it. Her brother, clutched by the horror. The viciously fanged gash it had in place of a mouth slowly, inexorably biting into his skull. His arms weakly flailing as if he were trying to ward the creature off.

The screams grew louder, Shal slowed. She was exhausted, her mind was spinning. She ran more out of instinct than conscious thought. That mindless energy, brought on by fear was waning.

She slammed into something. Slowly, she looked up; it was a monster.

It towered over her, draped in shadows, its blade-like teeth gleaming in the half-light. Slowly, deliberately it reached for her, gore thick talons flexing.

She screamed.

In the cold void above Visegrad, death loomed, like a hunter at ease. Drifting slowly over smog choked skies of the hive world, the Karpathos was an ominous sight. Older even than the Chapter she served, the Impaler’s flagship was a vicious, fearful beast. Spiked with lance weapons, bristling with bays for boarding torpedoes, the ship’s purpose was clear.

As he reclined in the command-throne on the near-silent bridge of the Karpathos, Strahd Tepes; Grand Voivode of the Impalers, Devil Dragon of Laiota and Scion of Sanguinius smiled. To the few anaemic serfs that scurried about the bridge, handing officers data-slates, and lurking in the shadowed corners, it looked more akin to a terrifying warrior-ghoul. A monster lounging on a great torture instrument. Though it was indeed a command-throne, it was rowed by great and horridly wicked blades. They seemed to drape the Lord of the Impalers deep, wound-like shadows. It only adding to the utter menace he emanated.

The crimson fleet had emerged from the warp above Visegrad months ago, yet they had done nothing. Seemingly content to hover above the world, even as it proclaimed its independence from the Imperium, as its ruler spat upon her oaths to the Emperor. From the moment they had arrived, Strahd had been silent, simply resting on his throne and staring fixedly at the shimmering orb below him. To the withered bondsmen, this behaviour was bizarre, even for their sinister and capricious master.

None gave voice to this, however. Even in the most forgotten depths of the Karpathos, Strahd heard all. Blinkered as they were by fear, the serfs were ignorant of their master’s discontent. Something troubled the Grand Voivode. In his gloom-filled realm, there was an impurity, a foreign entity that vexed him.

“Grand Voivode.” Astorath’s voice, grim as his title, sheared through the smothering silence. Strahd mutely snarled at the Blood Angel’s voice, his vexation had arrived, as though summoned.

For a moment, the Lord of the Impalers made no move to acknowledge the new arrival, before, with a lipless smile, he turned to face Astorath. “Ah, marvellous again to see you Redeemer. How may I help you?”

The question was entirely unnecessary. It had been the same since the Karpathos’ arrival above Visegrad; “Why do we linger?”

The Grand Voivode gave an ugly scowl, already anger had crept into his voice “Because I will it, Blood Angel.”

“This is pointless Strahd, every moment we stay in the void, is another opportunity for the Rage to take your 3rd Captain.” Astorath’s voice was entirely subdued, calm.

“Do not tell me what is and isn’t necessary. The Chapter acts as I command.” Serfs scurried further away from the brutal-looking throne. Strahd’s voice was already an ill-tempered hiss.

Despite the ghoulish Grand Voivode’s open aggression, Astorath remained serene “Lord Tepes, I have done as requested once I boarded. I have ignored your obvious secrecy; I have allowed your silver-clad horrors to shadow me everywhere on this ship. I simply wish to know, why have we not attacked Visegrad?”

“Because the Grand Voivode does not wish it.” A new voice, a whisper, gentle, but somehow, like a dagger, slid from the omnipresent shadows on the bridge.

It was a strange effect, as though the speaker had always been there, simply unnoticed.

Where the Sanguinary Guard of nigh on every Chapter of the Blood was a golden-clad avatar of Sanguinius’ glory, the Impaler’s were not. The Virtues, clad in shimmering silver, with great obsidian pinions and wielding brutal eviscerator chainswords, were a disturbing mirror to their contemporaries.

Astorath’s calm features shifted in distaste as he looked at the Marine. They unsettled him, they were a far cry from the Guard of Baal, far too like the Angels Vermillion. And like them, he had despised them immediately.

“Patience speaks the truth High Chaplain.” Another Virtue, identical to the other, again seemed to simply emerge as if always there.

“And why, pray tell, does the Grand Voivode not wish it?” The acid edge to Astorath’s surprised even himself. He had a grim purpose, so attempts to stymy and drive him away were expected. The sheer blatancy of the Impalers however, was not.

For reasons unknown, even to himself, Astorath felt almost as if he was being challenged, as if Strahd’s brazen hostility and enigmatic behaviour was an attempt to goad him. Turning away from the two silver warriors, the High Chaplain stared at their master.

Strahd had not moved. If not for the slight flickering of his eyes, as he stared at Visegrad, he would’ve seemed frozen. It was clear that he was calculating his reaction, weighing the next words he would say.

The Grand Voivode sighed, slipping from his ominous throne. He turned to face Astorath, his pale eyes cold, but oddly resigned.

With a snap of his fingers, several skittish serfs over, that same unsettling hiss echoing out through the bridge’s smothering darkness “Inform 1st Coterie that they are to prepare for war. Samael is to take the black. Deploy all within the Karpathos’ crypts. Astorath will lead the Lemures. Go. Now.” That last word was punctuated by a sibilant snap, sending the already twitchy, wasted looking bondsmen scurrying to their stations.

Strahd stared at the Redeemer of the Lost, that hateful, lipless sneer spread across the Grand Voivode’s face “Ask, and you shall receive Executioner.”

After looming over Visegrad for months, the Impalers descended upon the world. Like some dark monster they fell upon the planet.

Since the Karpathos’ arrival, Orsika, the Planetary Governor, who had declared Visegrad’s independence, had scrambled about in terror. Hoping to fortify her world against the Emperor’s Angels of Death. As the Impalers crimson dropships flooded the skies, it was clear that she had failed.

As the Black Wings roared through the atmosphere, towards the capital of the planet, Astorath inhaled, his senses closed off to the chaos around him.

There was no bellow of the atmospheric entry, his vox-feed was not roaring information at him. The Death Company: The Lemures, that he stood amongst, were not howling madly, thrashing against their restraints. For a moment, there was nothing. He was Astorath the Grim, Redeemer of the Lost, Son of Sanguinius. He opened his eyes.

Samael had rapidly fallen to the Rage, once the thunderhawk they now stood in had taken off. The speed he had been claimed by it was starling, so like the Cretacians.

As they had set off, he had demanded release, begged Astorath, whom he had called Raldoron, to stay behind. Those echoes of his long-dead gene-sire still pained the High Chaplain. But, as the Black Wings fell towards Visegrad, that ghost of Sanguinius’ love had gone, replaced with foaming madness. Amidst the cacophony, the vox-crackled, a droning servitor’s voice barked out **“One minute to arrival.”**

The roar of the descent was quickly replaced by dim explosions and pings of anti-air fire, and the booming retort from the Black Wing’s on weaponry. Again, the High Chaplain closed his eyes. He was Astorath. Warrior of Baal. Executioner. “**Landing successful. Assault ramp opening.”**

Like a screaming tide, the Lemures poured from the thunderhawk. The traitors, those caught up Orsika’s arrogance, were like smoke, the Black Rage blinded those Impalers lost to anything. Sanguinius’ revenant fury drove them forwards, nothing mattered, nothing would slow them.

Above them, like some terrifying Angel of Judgement, Astorath the Grim flew, his winged jump-pack roaring with fire. With a thunderous crunch of ceramite, flesh and bone, the High Chaplain landed amidst the insensate Marines. Like a guillotine, his crackling power axe swung through a great throng of traitors. It was as though their skin seemed to simply evaporate before his blade even touched them. This was no true battle. Strahd had to have known this. It was an exercise in butchery.

Through the clamour of combat, through the hail of las-bolts and geysers of blood, Astorath could see them, more terrible now than when they simply slipped from the shadows. The Virtues were like an elemental force, some great thresher, their silver forms shimmering among the whirlwind of gore that seemed to surround them.

A las-bolt pinged off his pauldron, jolting him back to immediate reality. His assailant already seemed to be dying, as though the sheer weight of what he had done was too much for him. As he collapsed, the former 3rd Captain barrelled into the man, swinging a great chainaxe, almost immediately reducing him to a sticky red mist. Once again Astorath leapt, his own executioner’s axe raised, he roared, with near religious passion “Sons of the Blood! Forwards! Forwards in the name of Baal!”

With a terrifying immediacy, as though a regimented flock of predator-birds, the black armoured flood shifted, seeming to follow Astorath’s roaring voice on instinct. His vox-feed crackled. Despite howling sounds of war, Patience still spoke clearly, in that damnable whisper “High Chaplain, beware, Orsika deploys banewolves to your position.” Sure enough, the stink of chemicals and toxins that heralded a banewolf filled the air. Even the insane fury of the Black Rage would not be proof against the horrific effects of those foul, venom-spewing tanks.

Immediately, the lead banewolf vindicated the High Chaplain’s thoughts, its chem cannon pointed squarely at the surging horde of insane Marines, it spewed forth a great pestilential cloud. Instantly, several snarling Lemures spasmed and buckled, foul sludge sloughing through their armour as they seemed to dissolve.

More and more of the septet of banewolves began to fire their main guns, the cloud of gas seemed to become a near invisible barrier. The howling tide of the Lemures thinned, as more and more of the screaming Marines were liquified by the vile cloud. Immediately Astorath blink-clicked open a feed to the Grand Voivode “Strahd. The banewolves have blunted our assault. We need reinforcements now.”

“As you say. Ecsed, Kerth, Vararn Squads are deploying. Maintain your attack.”

Astorath dived. His axe raised. He landed on one of the far banewolves. His axe shank into the tank’s side, with the whine of buckling metal.

As though he was opening a can, the High Chaplain gouged open the iron-skin of the tank, even as its chem-spewing main gun turned to face him. The tang of ozone, the tell-tale sign of teleportation filled the air. Even as he lunged into the bowels of the banewolf, crushing the pale-faced, horrified pilots under his armoured feet, the compressed, static thrill buzzed through him.

Like a bolt of lightning, that odd tenseness was shattered, and in the blinding flash, the three squads stepped forward. Each of them wore that strange, gladius like blade on their arm like every Impaler.

Before the wall of banewolves had a chance to respond they were on them, carving them open as if they were simply shellfish, prizing the screaming crew free with claw and hammer.

Astorath saw one of the traitors, a tank commander hauled from the ruins of his vehicle, howling in terror, one of the Impalers clutching him by the throat. In an instant, too quick to even be a flash, the forearm blade was lodged in the man’s skull. He paled immediately. But there was no blood.

Astorath stared for a moment. The banewolves were being prized open before they even had a chance to respond. The toxic cloud was dissipating. More and more of the screaming Lemures were charging through it, though staggered by its vicious effects, they still came.

“DAMN YOU HORUS! LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” Samael, his massive chainaxe spitting out great chunks of ceramite gouged open the leading banewolf, he was bleeding. More than he should be. Once again, the vox crackled, Strahd’s voice echoed out “All units, converge of the governor’s palace. Orsika has squirrelled herself away in that little den of hers. We’re going to tear her out of it.”

Slowly, the Impalers had ground their way through Visegrad’s capital hive. It was no battle. With the banewolves destroyed, Orsika could muster nothing that could make this a battle. The near animal viciousness of the Impalers made it more akin to a feeding-frenzy, save for Strahd and the Virtues. Theirs was an almost refined barbarism.

One of the Virtues; Wrath he assumed, seemed like an elemental force, a wind which chewed through anything that stood in the Grand Voivode’s way. Tepes had yet to even draw his blade. Even amongst the tumult of near-feral Marines, the charnel path the Virtues carved was unmistakable.

Even with the immense form of the governor’s palace looming over them, searing flashes of las-fire and ceramite shattering blasts from an autocannon pouring out from its every ornate window, the seven silver angels and their crimson lord seemed almost hungry, almost like some stalking beast pacing around its dying prey.

For a moment, amidst the fire, Strahd, like Astorath had earlier, stared for a moment. The High Chaplain didn’t know what he was looking for, but in an instant, he knew he had found it.

“Silence, on the second level, their commander is by the autocannon. Mercy, third level. They are ready for forgiveness. Honour, the door. Break it down. Devotion, Justice, Patience, with me. Wrath, no one escapes this world.”

With a dragon-like roar the jump-packs of all eight Marines flared into life, Strahd turned to Astorath, his cold sneer back “Do as you will Redeemer.” The Grand Voivode finally unsheathed his blade, curved, and wicked. It could never kill cleanly. Astorath set his own jump-pack roaring to life.

Already he could see the Lemures surging towards the massive doors, wading through the fire. It would fall soon.

Despite the swirl of combat, the gladius arm-blade had remained lodged in his mind, like an itch. Strahd wore one. He had to see. The nine angels of death rose into the air, illuminated by fire.

Already, traitors were screaming for mercy, for forgiveness. Lasguns where thrown down, and they had yet to land. The cries for pity were ignored.

As he dived towards the shattered palace windows, Astorath heard Strahd let out a hissing snarl. Throughout this, he had maintained an aristocratic haughtiness. Now the façade cracked. The first traitor, his face slack with terror, the stench of excrement filling the air around him, seemed to simply crumble as the Devil-Dragon of Laiota landed, as though his heart had simply burst from fright. Strahd lashed out, that same feral growl on his lips. A traitor’s head went sailing away from his body, drenching the crimson armoured Marine in a geyser of blood.

A lasbolt pinged off Strahd’s right pauldron, one of the traitors, near mad with panicked rage charged him, her bayonet aimed at his chest. In one fluid motion, he whirled around, thrust his weaponless hand forward, grabbing her head. Almost immediately, her skull burst.

As he landed, Astorath stared at Tepes. He was no stranger to fury, no child of Sanguinius was, but with The Impalers it was different, almost a schizophrenic change, Strahd seemed to be more animal now, slaughtering on instinct.

The Grand Voivode was gone, only the Devil-Dragon of Laiota remained. Knee-deep in fresh viscera, one of Orsika’s renegades was bawling, begging, his face pressed to the blood-slick ground in horrified surrender. Strahd snarled, with an eye-watering snapping of bone, the Grand Voivode stomped on the grovelling deserter, crushing his spine.

Devotion, Justice and Patience landed beside him, their eviserators already roaring “To the Grand Voivode.” Patience’s voice was still that hateful, whispering monotone.

More and more of the wide-eyed collaborators were charging down hall, the shimmering white marble slowly giving way to the encroaching river of blood. The one in-front, a great gash splitting her face apart with a horrid, forced grin, bore a flamer, in the corridors of the palace, there would be little refuge from it. Astorath’s jump-pack roared into life, it would need only a short burst to reach them, but even so, there were far too many to kill alone, a single lucky shot to the head would end it.

As he slammed into the gaggle, what seemed to be two silver shadows joined him. The Executioner’s Axe fell, the scarred woman let out a horrid gurgle, as her raggedly bisected corpse sagged to the ground. Orsika was near, the absolute mass of troops in this single corridor, seeming more like a desperate attempt to obstruct than kill. Presumably, she sought to escape. Wrath would not allow that.

A man’s face collapsed in as the High Chaplain thrust the pommel of his great axe into his head. Beside him, Devotion, the great banner he bore, of Sanguinius weeping blood, ripped through one of the renegades, his chainsword ferociously tearing through him. The banner itself, so elegantly carved, was soaking with the carnage he wrought. A tremendous, echoing bang suddenly wracked the hall. Honour had opened to the way for the rest of the Chapter. The roar of the Chapter outside moved with them as they flooded into the palace.

The mass of traitors seemed to shatter almost immediately. Many simple froze in surrender. Others charged at them, screaming, the three Space Marines were covered in blood. They carved through them with as little care as a farmer harvesting his crop. As he hacked through a trio of Orsika’s men, Astorath turned briefly, Tepes, his pale eyes, wide and crazed, was charging down the corridor. With a strangled howl, the Grand Voivode leapt into the fray, the gladius arm-blade flashed through the air, tearing through a traitor’s neck.

For an obvious, pregnant moment, there was no blood. As he fell, blood started to pour out. Even as he slashed through another man, Astorath frowned. That delay was still unnerving. A man charged at Strahd, flailing his bayonet wildly. The Devil-Dragon brought his blade up, the stench of cooking meat filled the corridor as the barbed sword seemed to drag, rather than slice the screaming man’s hands away.

The end of the massive hallway was visible now. As the Astorath and the four Impalers tore through the fragmenting mass of traitors, the Redeemer of the Lost could see the stair-well at the end, leading deeper into the palace, towards Orsika.

The vox-feed crackled; Wrath’s voice whispered out “The landing port have been secured. Her Valkyrie is destroyed.” Another of the Virtues spoke, as ever, the quiet monotone made impossible to tell who it was “Acknowledged brother. All Virtues regroup at the traitor’s grand hall.”

The hallway had become a charnel house. No more renegades came. There was no resistance trying to hold them back as they marched up the shimmering marble steps, leaving brazen-red footprints of mangled flesh and blood behind them. Strahd was panting, not in exertion, but an animal hunger.

Astorath hadn’t seen him do it, but as they had slaughtered their way through to the stairs, a traitor had fallen back, his throat torn out. Bitten.

“Lord Strahd.” Astorath was jolted back to reality as Wrath appeared behind them. The other Virtues had reappeared quickly enough, each one caked in blood. “Welcome back Wrath.” The Grand Voivode’s voice was no longer that sibilant hiss, it was a ragged, rage filled rasp now.

As Astorath gazed at the huge golden doors, Visegrad’s fall into arrogant rebellion was made even more stark.

Orsika had her likeness carved into the doors, standing atop a great pile of xenos corpses as angels descended from the heavens. The sight was quite ridiculous and the arrogance it showed sickened the High Chaplain. With a groan, and the whine of tortured metal, Strahd pushed the great doors open, seemingly taking special care to carve cracks into the facsimiles of the treasonous governor’s face.

The grand hall of Governor Orsika’s palace, truly huge; shoulder to shoulder, at least fifty Marines could’ve fit in its black marble walls, were it not for the fact, it had been transformed into a museum to Orsika’s vanity.

Countless portraits of the short governor covered the walls, bizarre sculptures, twisting in weird shapes and brimming with a pretentious arrogance cluttered the hall, save for the path to throne.

Flanked by twenty guardsmen, stiff as though standing to attention in a parade, Orsika sat on a great glimmering throne, studded with countless jewels, a bulky shadow looming behind her. “Lord Strahd Tepes of the Impalers, High Chaplain Astorath of the Blood Angels, I am glad you have come to me, to offer your formal surrender.”

The animal rage immediately drained from the Grand Voivode’s face, his near-translucent features twisted with confusion, mirroring Astorath’s own. “What?” The hatred was clear in Tepes’ voice, but the bafflement was choking.

A horridly smug smile spread across her wide face. Her voice was repulsive, like a wet croak, whenever she spoke, the great flabby wattle that had consumed her chin and neck wobbled unpleasantly “You stand before me, the Mistress of Visegrad, the truest ruler of the Solva System. I have no doubt that warriors of your intelligence would see it is hopeless, heretical even, to fight again one such as I.”

Astorath stared coldly at the rotund governor. Her small, verminous eyes were at complete odds with the excessively civilised egotism she attempted to portray, they were practically shaking with fear. Hubristic and faithless she may be, but she understood her situation completely. The stench of sweat, as the terrified governor rambled filled the hall. This pageantry was a pathetic bluff. But still that bulging shadow loomed behind her.

Strahd snarled furiously, slicing through Orsika’s monologue “Be silent you blubbering sack of meat. Stop your inane words. The Impalers have won. You are going to die. It’s your choice whether you die quickly or...if you will be given to Mercy.”

Orsika seemed to inflate at Strahd’s words, the shimmering golden buttons of her cravatted finery seemed to strain valiantly against the corpulent woman’s anger “Do not insult the truest Empress! Visegrad has cast off the shackled of Terra! I am the rightful ruler of the stars, the false Terran holds no power here! -” She sighed, her wide face a ruddy red “I see it is pointless to argue with those as blinkered as you lap-dogs. Grag. Kill them.”

Now the looming shadow moved. Immediately, Astorath saw what it was.

The Ogryn’s blunt, dim-seeming features were a mangled, drool-filled grimace. Its eyes were wild, mindless, twitching erratically.

The jerky way it moved; it was clear that big hulking brute had been filled with combat drugs. The crude, blade-like approximations of hands its natural limbs had been replaced with jolted back and forth, as though the narcotics in its system caused a mental delay.

Strahd stared at it for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise, then his vicious sneer returned “Honour. Deal with this disgusting homunculus.” The aristocratic scorn had returned to his voice.

Immediately, the silver armoured Virtue was upon the mutant, his eviscerator letting out a meaty roar as it gouged into the ogryn’s chest.

Stumbling back, the hulking mutant let out a furious bellow, its limbs flailing about wildly, attempting to dislodge the sinister angel. One of the berserker’s crude, slicing appendages slammed into Honour, launching off the mutant with a vicious tear, as the chainsword too, was torn free.

Immediately Honour was back on his feet, his eviscerator dripping with fleshy chunks.

The ogryn gave a bestial, roar of fury, its clumsy steps shaking the hall as it barrelled towards Honour, mashing some of the men stood to attention underfoot in its crazed haste.

The Virtue’s jump pack flared into action, sending him sailing over the abhuman, before with the solid crunch, he dropped onto its shoulders, once again sending the brute howling in confused pain.

Before it could even react beyond a slight shifting of its arms, Honour’s massive chainsword slammed into its skull. Blood and mulched brain matter fountained from the ogryn’s orifices as the eviscerator chewed through his head.

With a thunderous crunch of breaking marble, the beast flopped limply to the ground. All stared at its corpse as Honour tore his weapon free.

The feigned arrogance had vanished from Orsika’s face, now she simply sat, wide-eyed and trembling with fear. Strahd smiled, his voice almost a cold sigh “Virtues, kill them.”

Before any of her horrified guards could react, the other Virtues were upon them. Carefully, hungrily, the Grand Voivode prowled towards the cowering governor, his eyes alight with a cold amusement.

“N-now see here Tepes. I-I am the ruler of Visegrad, a-appointed by the God-Emperor himself-” It was as though she was trying to shrink, almost to evaporate into the throne. Orsika’s eyes were full of tears and horror. “Ah, but did you not just say, that Terra, that the Master of Mankind, holds no power here?”

“I-I made a mistake! Please Lord Tepes! P-” Strahd’s smile was an animal’s growl, an anticipation of hunger stated “Yes Orsika of Visegrad. Yes, you did…” The treasonous governor made to bolt, as though somehow, she could outrun a Space Marine.

Immediately, the arm-gladius was plunged into her stomach. The governor stiffened, her flabby form twitching unpleasantly. Still there was no blood.

She paled unnaturally, till she resembled Strahd himself. The Grand Voivode seemed to sigh gently as Orsika’s life faded away.

Astorath’s face twisted in disgust and horror, it seemed almost perverse. Devotion turned to face the revolted High Chaplain, his banner and silver armour splattered with gore and pieces of flesh “Come my Lord Astorath, the battle is over. The Hellsong will take you back to the Karpathos.”

Despite himself, Astorath was glad of the opportunity to look away. It was vile. He raised an eyebrow at Devotion as he and the rest of the Virtues turned to follow the High Chaplain “The Hellsong?” the faux levity in his own voice pained him.

Devotion shrugged, for the first time, a hint of emotion beyond whispering serenity entered a Virtue’s voice “Lord Tepes’ personal moniker for us. ‘The last symphony the Grand Voivode’s enemies will ever hear’…my Lord has something of a dramatic flair.”

Astorath grunted. He could feel the eyes of the other Virtues on him. He had seen something they didn’t wish him to. They would not tell him. But the depths of the Karpathos would.

The chambers that had been given to Astorath were, like the rest of the Impaler’s flagship, bleak, shadowy and ominous. When they had returned to the Karpathos, no one had spoken, but he could tell, even as they lurked behind him, the Virtues, the Hellsong, were talking.

Strahd’s killing of Orsika, the unthinking blood hunger the rest of the Chapter showed, they had been things he was not meant to see.

Silence had followed him to his chambers. True to his name, he had said nothing. Astorath did not doubt that he would be lurking outside, ready to guide Astorath about the approved path.

Ever since his ascension from the 10th Company, rare was the occasion that called for the High Chaplain to practice stealth. But, as he gazed at the large, ancient ducts that ran through the ceiling, now was such a time.

Absent his armour, in the sweltering, dust filled conduit, Astorath dragged himself through the darkness. For one of his station, the quiet grunts as he hauled himself through the claustrophobic vent, were rather undignified.

For a length of time the darkness made inconsequential, it could have been mere minutes, or hours, Astorath dragging himself through the vent. In the occasional grate, he could see nothing, save dark corridors and muttering Impalers.

Their symbol, a skeleton skewered on a spike, now seemed infinitely more foreboding. Astorath hauled himself forwards. A plume of dust seemed to almost explode around him, near-silently, the Redeemer of the Lost coughed for a moment.

He had grabbed something when he had dragged himself forwards. It was small. A bone. The size of a child’s femur. Emanating from the grate in front of him, a scream of terror echoed out.

Immediately, Astorath cast aside the bone, the dark alarm that had arisen the moment he had set foot on the Karpathos now practically a klaxon-call.

Shal screamed, she knew it would not help.

Nothing could, the monster would kill her, she had been chosen.

“No!” With the whine of tortured metal and then feral growl of confusion, something, with a solid slam, landed in-front of her.

A man, bulging with muscle and pale, but not like her masters, he was not ghoulish, stood in-front of her.

He stood roughly the same size as the monster, his face slack with horror and disgust. The monster, clambered up, her saviour, when he had appeared, had evidently knocked it down.

Shal whimpering piteously. Its talons and fangs were still a waterfall of blood. “You. Child. Run.” The man’s voice was stern and aged.

Shal shivered and immediately ran, deeper into the Karpathos.

Astorath, his chest heaving, gaped in revulsion.

It was an Impaler, his eyes were feral, like those taken by the Red Thirst, yet he had not changed. There was a stench of death in these corridors. Walls browned with ancient, unwashed gore.

As the child scrambled away, further into the darkness, the blood mad Impaler roared again, leaping towards the ashen child.

With bellowing cry of pain and rage, Astorath leapt at the armoured Marine, knocking him backwards, his snarl twisted into a confused yelp.

As the Impaler fell backwards with a crunch of ceramite on metal, Astorath was upon him, raining blow after blow after blow on the mad Astartes.

“Lord Astorath. Stop.” One of the Hellsong seemed to slide from the shadows, his voice, as ever, gentle whisper. Astorath paused immediately, his features murderous “What madness is this, Virtue?” He practically spat the final word.

“Lord Astorath. You walk in places you should not. You interfere in things you cannot understand.”

“What. Is. This?” His hand still on the dazed, blood-feral Marine’s neck, Astorath’s voice was filled with a barely restrained fury.

The silver angel sighed. It was a grim thing, there was no emotion in it, like a false attempt at resignation “This is what the Grand Voivode feared. Come, release Brother Rymah…We will show you.”

The bridge of the Karpathos was silent. Strahd Tepes; Grand Voivode of the Impalers, Devil Dragon of Laiota and Scion of Sanguinius scowled. It was a harsh thing, a predator displeased.

Ever since the arrival of Astorath the Grim, he had been turbulent. The natural order of things had been disrupted. A light had been shone on things best left in the shadow.

Before him, stood the Redeemer of the Lost, his face brimming with furious contempt. He had interrupted the Motetz Dam. “What is this Tepes? What have you done?” The High Chaplain’s voice was a harsh rasp.

A false, shark-like grin split the Grand Voivode’s gaunt face “This is the Impaler’s way Astorath the Grim, and you interrupted it.”

Astorath stepped forwards, fury creeping into his pale features. “The Impaler’s way? Not Sanguinius’. Do not hide Tepes. What, is this?” For an instant, Strahd Tepes, ghoulish master of the Impalers was gone. He looked regretful for the briefest of moments.

“You try to maintain the dignity and beauty of Sanguinius, I respect that...” Confusion flashed across the Redeemer’s face, his voice harsh “Wha-”

“But it is a fool’s errand. He is gone. The true Blood Angels died the moment he did-” Strahd’s voice was subdued.

Astorath’s growl deepened, his voice constricted “You seek justification in despair?! You believe you became a monster out of grief?!”

“The Mourning Cherubim did. The Flesh Tearers too. Since the Angel fell that’s all that is left of the Ninth. Suicidal fanatics, blood-mad berserkers, grieving orphans. Each of us feeble shades of what once was-” The Grand Voivode pulled out the knife on his belt, gracefully tracing it over his palm.

Blood welled up, silently, ruby-like drops began to drip to the floor. Strahd smiled humourlessly, his stark eyes cold. “You ask why we are monsters Executioner? Because we were made in your image, then broken even further.” The wound continued to bleed.

“You and your kind are monsters Tepes.”

“Are we though? Are we truly any more monstrous than our cousins Redeemer? Are they any more angelic? What of the Lamenters, the Exsanguinators, the Heart Rippers, the Blood Dragons?”

Astorath flinched, even though their fall to madness had been millennia before his birth, the Blood Dragon’s betrayal still burned hot and raw.

Strahd continued, his smile still devoid of any humour, his eyes almost maniacal with desperation. “What of the Stormborn, founded to rebuke the ‘Cursed’ yet even they spawned the Pestilential Harvest. You declared Gabriel Seth a wretched berserker, heard his testimony on Baal just as I did. Tell me, are we any more monstrous than that, or even the Knights of Blood? I notice that despite their exile from the Imperium they still have yet to be cast out of the Sanguine Brotherhood.”

Again, the Redeemer winced, there was a truth to Strahd’s words, but still, arrogance lurked in them, one all too familiar to Astorath, echoes of Corinal.

“We are the monsters we were born to be Redeemer, nothing more. Our fate was sealed long before our Chapter was even named. In the gene-labs of Inculaba and on the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit. We are the Blood Angels, absent your pretence. All those bearing the Angel’s blood are doomed Astorath, our Primarch’s death left all of us broken animals.”

The High Chaplain snorted in contempt “You chose to wallow in your pitiful and broken state, Strahd. Don't dare dishonour the one you *claim* descendancy from because of your lack of conviction to fix that which was broken apart."

The wound was still bleeding. Astorath frowned.

Strahd’s faux smile had vanished, there was an ugly, violent anger building there. Before he could spit out a retort, Patience spoke in that silent monotone “Just as you have fixed the Black Rage my Lord? We thrive despite the Waning. Just as you shepherd those lost to their deaths, so too does Lord Tepes lead us to punish those that would wrong the Emperor. We may be monsters, but you need us.”

*The Waning.*

The High Chaplain’s frown deepened. “What, is the Waning ‘Virtue’?”

Before Patience could respond, Strahd’s voice hissed through the silence. “The reason for *everything*. The reason for the Mortez Dam, the reason for our gladii, *everything.* The reason my palm is still bleeding-” The great slice Strahd had opened across his palm was only now beginning to clot.

“We need to feed the Thirst. We wield those blades because otherwise, we would be bled dry. You saw when I gutted that disgusting traitor on Visegrad. Nothing, no blood when there should’ve been fountains. The Gladio Vitae feeds on it, drains our foes, replenishes our own. We hunt our serfs because we must. We stave off one weakness in our blood, by feeding another. We do what we must. Just as you do. You cannot judge the Impalers Blood Angel, you have not struggled as we have. Cursed, monstrous and bleeding to death. We are you, without your airs Astorath. You are looking at your own future. Patience speaks the truth; he is the voice of the Grand Voivode after all. We are the monsters the Imperium needs.”

Nausea filled Astorath’s stomach. He could see it now, just as he had seen Gabriel Seth. Behind it all, behind the arrogance, the violence, that animal hunger hidden behind an aristocratic air, a dark, consuming anguish filled Tepes. He had seen it before. It threatened all of Sanguinius’ progeny. "You delude yourself Strahd we suffer, we never kept that from our brother chapters. But we have never been consumed by it. Neither have the Flesh Tearers, the Lamenters, the Stormborn. You have been defeated by your curses Impaler. The Imperium has need of angels, more than it does monsters. Do not hide behind the failures of 21st, decide, just as the Wallachians did.”

Once again, Astorath stepped towards the throne. His face as dark as his voice “You are right. In my duties I travel the galaxy, aiding those of the Blood. Every Chapter I visit I have taken the measure of; the Flesh Tearers are the Angel’s fury, the Stormborn his pride…you are the despair that threatened to take him, to make him something dark, when the Arch-Traitor betrayed the Imperium, you Impalers, you are that darkness Strahd and I will have no part in it.”

The Grand Voivode’s eyes widened; his voice quiet with disbelieving fury and astonishment “So that is it then? You preach then, you cast us out?” The High Chaplain said nothing. His face brimming with disgust, he made for the door.

As he left the bridge, Astorath paused, turning to face the shadow drenched Impalers, his eyes still swimming with a cold distaste. He spoke finally, his voice deliberate, every syllable considered “I will not advocate for your exile. There is a place for you, a dark place, a place of pain and torment. You are the Angel’s Tears; you bring only despair and death. Farewell Strahd Tepes. I pray we never meet again.”END