A Light in the Dark: A King Arthur/Warhammer 40k Imperial Knights Story

[MysticKnightJoe]

As it turned out, Sagramore had suffered an adverse reaction to the bright flash of lightning. Claire explained, in a voice filled with barely concealed nerves, that he had suffered from such fits since he was young. They were countered with pills brewed by druid medics.

The light and sound had proved too intense for the old magics to counter, which did occur from time-to-time, and he had quite suddenly collapsed. He was currently being kept as comfortable as possible on his cot.

"Will he be alright?" Pellinore asked immediately after hearing this news.

"He should be fine," Claire answered softly. She took a deep breath, and Bedwyr thought she might be crying. "I'm sorry. If we are going to fight today, I'm not sure if he'll be able to. He begged me not to say anything about his affliction, and I didn't for his sake. He has found it makes Kings and potential employers reluctant to bring him on quests and battles."

"It's ok," Pellinore said gently, "I wasn't inclined to bring anyone along to begin with. Your brother proved his skill and determination to me personally. Even if I had known about his medical problems, I would have still trusted him from that alone."

"We should have known that," Claire replied bitterly, "it has just been a long time of struggling to find a ruler willing to look past it, and being found out on it is always the worst part."

"Such is the nature of rulers," Pellinore said sadly, "Always seeking the greatest knight in the world, so they throw aside good men and women who can't meet that improbable ideal." He added, after a careful moment of thought. "We need to give some time to plan. Sagramore will get some rest in that period."

The place they found themselves in was an outcropping of dead, grey, land, just overlooking the mist filled cauldron below. Pellinore left his car, wearing his relic druid-forged armor. Everyone else made do with the ancient and much-repaired protection suits. This close to a land entirely held by Chaos, they had little choice in the matter.

Claire had her arms crossed, looking pensive and nervous, clearly still expecting Pellinore's wrath. "I've put my brother to rest," she said softly, "I think he'll be ok in an hour or two."

"Then we will wait an hour," Pellinore replied. His voice softened. "I'm not angry, Claire. I must stress that, and I will say the same to Sir Sagramore when he awakens. He's been a good and honorable companion through all this, and I don't intend to throw that aside for a happening that wasn't even his fault."

Clarie managed a smile, nodded, and returned to the car. Everyone was quiet after that.

Bedwyr sat down on a boulder, from which he could overlook the realm of the Beast. Nothing concrete could be made out through the clinging mists, but Bedwyr's nervous mind made him imagine tentacles and fanged maws that could almost reach all the way out and swat him down. His hand clenched were his sword-hilt should have been, and he sighed when he remembered that his sword was lost, broken on the enchanted armor of the Green Knight.

It hit him strangely hard. He'd carried that sword for some time, into the sewers of Londinium with his friends. Cei, Gawain, Tristan. And Wart, of course. He wondered, with a melancholic sigh, what they were doing right now. It felt like he'd almost lost a part of himself.

"Bedwyr," Pellinore's calm voice interjected into his bitterness.

Bedwyr smiled up at his master. "Yes, lord?"

Pellinore sat down beside him, staring out at the same expanse of corrupted mist. "I won't mince words, Bedwyr. I'm going to have you, Claire, the psykers, Palamedes, and Bedwin stay here. What I must do is too dangerous for people on foot to face, and frankly I don't think psychic power is the best idea right now."

Bedwyr swallowed. "Right." He could see the logic, but it didn't assuage the immediate sting in his heart.

Pellinore patted his head, he was able to feel it even through the hood of his suit. "It will be fine." He smiled softly. "I think you won't be a squire for long, son. When we get back, I'll sponsor you to Knighthood. King Geriant will raise you and give you your spurs, and we will have your Becoming as soon as a Throne becomes available."

The sting was replaced by an excited sense. "You mean it?" Bedwyr asked.

"Of course!" Pellinore responded, laughing. "In fact, I think we will be able to have Cei knighted alongside you. It will be a grand ceremony."

"She may be knighted already," Bedwyr said.

"Possibly yes," Pellinore said. He looked back down at the mist. "Both of you should be ready for the tournament, I'd say."

Bedwyr shook his head immediately. "I'm not a King."

"Think of it more as knocking down people who would make even worse Kings," Pellinore said with a laugh. "Besides," he continued, "it will probably be a sponsorship kind of deal. People will be fighting for their liege lords, so if they win, their lord becomes the High King."

"So if I win, Geriant becomes King?" Bedwyr asked.

"Essentially, yes. Unless you choose to fight for yourself."

Bedwyr shook his head. "I don't think a Knight is supposed to fight for himself. Though I don't think I should be fighting for King Geriant either."

Pellinore burst into laughter. "I didn't know you had such a negative feeling for King Geriant."

Bedwyr flushed. "I don't. He's fine. I just don't know."

"Well, you have three years to figure it out." Pellinore patted Bedwyr's shoulder and rose to his feet. He seemed to consider something for a second, then drew the blade at his side. It was Dyrnwyn, Bedwyr realized. The weapon of power. "I believe you should carry this. For now."

"I can't!" Bedwyr gasped.

"It will be your job to take care of everyone here. The sword won't be much use to me fighting the Beast, but if anything happens here, it will be up to your strength of arms. If nothing else, you need a sword."

Bedwyr hesitated for a second, then reached out and gripped the offered hilt. The balance was perfect, and it seemed to perfectly meld to his hand. He had the irrational thought that a man could conquer a world with such a blade.

Pellinore smirked knowingly at him, rustled his head once again, and left, leaving Bedwyr to stare at the blade in his hand.

Sagramore, pale and embarrassed, emerged from his car shortly after to great fanfare and offered food and drink, which he accepted.

The final meal before the battle was set, and everyone came together to eat. Both psychics looked pale and weak, and Melissa eventually simply curled up and fell asleep, carried back by Claire.

Somehow, before a battle, things became light and friendly, and Bedwyr realized he couldn't imagine anything bad happening. It seemed, for all the darkness, everything was filled with light.

***********​

"We should attack them now," hissed the warrior at Killomer's side. "While they eat and drink like foolish children."

Killomer lashed out almost without thought, and grinned as his fist found metal and he heard the crack. Teeth, if he isn't mistaken. "No. Recall, friend, that Gruffydd has claimed the right to face the Knights. Our job is to wait until they leave. We will settle for Bedwyr and his lot then and there."

"And the psykers?" another of his minions asked.

"The Priest is dealing with them, subtly he says."

The dark armored marauder spat. "Filthy bastard. We'll cut his throat when this is over."

Killomer laughed. "Oh yes, we will settle that." A shudder ran through him. Anticipation of a battle ahead. He thought of Bedwyr. Stronger now, for sure. Almost a grown man, really. Almost a warrior. He'd test that mettle. Such was the demands of the Cult of Blood, of Khorne of Skulls. Killomer grinned. It was good to be the inheritors of the universe.

 

[Icipall]

As it turned out, Sagramore had suffered an adverse reaction to the bright flash of lightning. Claire explained, in a voice filled with barely concealed nerves, that he had suffered from such fits since he was young. They were countered with pills brewed by druid medics.

Click to shrink...

Oh, he has epilepsy.

"We should have known that," Claire replied bitterly, "it has just been a long time of struggling to find a ruler willing to look past it, and being found out on it is always the worst part."

Click to shrink...

True, very true.

His hand clenched were his sword-hilt should have been, and he sighed when he remembered that his sword was lost, broken on the enchanted armor of the Green Knight.

It hit him strangely hard. He'd carried that sword for some time, into the sewers of Londinium with his friends. Cei, Gawain, Tristan. And Wart, of course. He wondered, with a melancholic sigh, what they were doing right now. It felt like he'd almost lost a part of himself.

Click to shrink...

That sword was Bedwyr's Caliburn.

"Well, you have three years to figure it out." Pellinore patted Bedwyr's shoulder and rose to his feet. He seemed to consider something for a second, then drew the blade at his side. It was Dyrnwen, Bedwyr realized. The weapon of power. "I believe you should carry this. For now."

Click to shrink...

Oh my!

Dyrnwen

Click to shrink...

Shouldn't that be Dyrnwyn? Or is Dyrnwen another way to write it?

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

Bedwyr held the sheathed Dyrnwyn in his lap as the Knights readied themselves to move out. Bedrydant, as proud as the first time Bedwyr had seen it, led, Power Lance gleaming in the sun. Sir Sagramore and Sir Gowther followed close behind. Together, they represented a sturdy force. At the moment, they seemed near-invincible, able to take anything the world threw at them.

Bedwyr was sitting beside Palamedes and Bedwin at the door of Sagramore's car, the only one that was going to stay behind. Claire stood nearby, arms crossed, and staring up at her brother's mount. She had an open look of worry. "He might still be shaky, after yesterday," Bedwyr heard her mutter to herself. "He always gets at least a day's rest after an episode if he has to fight."

Old Blaise was breathing heavily, his eyes visible beneath his hood ringed and nervous. Melissa was in similar straits, and for all that she was stronger than Blaise, she was much younger, which amounted to both psychics rapidly showing signs of strain.

Bedwin was glaring at both of them, hand clasped tightly on his aquila. "They look an inch from collapse," the priest whispered, "terrible things happen when a psyker breaks."

Palamedes replied nervously, "Don't have to tell me that, everyone knows that well. Have to have faith in their training and inner strength, I suppose." He looked to Bedwyr. "Right, Bedwyr?"

Bedwyr flinched, looking away from the marching Knights. "Yes. That's right. We are all in danger, we just need to have faith in everyone, that includes psykers." So much was being left to chance, he thought. The Dark Druids could decide that the people they let past were actually a danger and strike them hard. Like that, he would simply trust their resident psykers had a handle on their situation.

Bedwin swallowed. "Right. Yeah. We've matched the training of the Black Ships as best we can. That is enough, it has to be."

Bedwyr returned his focus to the Knights. They had stalled just before the ridge, the two cars grumbling just behind them. Pellinore shifted forward another few steps with a rumble.

He raised his lance, the point gleaming dangerously, and declared, "Here is the end of our quest, dear friends! Today, at long last, we take the head of the Questing Beast! Though the journey has been long, and foes stand before us, we will prevail! We form a grand lance that can pierce through any defense and shatter any foe, and we will pierce through the Beast's horde, straight to the heart! We will not hesitate, we will not yield, we will not fall! Ride with me this day, my friends! For Avalon! For the Once and Future King!"

Sir Sagramore and Sir Gowther gave a ragged cheer, and Bedwyr found himself joining in, raising Dyrnwyn in salute to his teacher. He was the only one. Claire was lost in nerves, staring up at her brother with her hand near her mouth, Bedwin had his head down, and Palamedes only looked curious. Bedwyr didn't care, he was in this moment.

And then, with a clanger of metal, and a proud display of their panoply, the Knights were over the ridge and gone. The two cars followed carefully behind, and the last remained.

Claire sighed. She shook her head, a wistful smile on her face. Then she curtsied to Bedwyr. "Well, Sir Bedwyr, I am under your protection." She batted her eyelashes, and Bedwyr could see she was struggling not to laugh.

"I wouldn't be so foolish to presume you need protection, Lady Claire," Bedwyr said, smiling back.

The damsel laughed. "You have the magic sword, Beddie. I believe that makes you the Knight of our little company."

Bedwyr flushed red. "I'm not a Knight yet."

"But you will be, and soon." Claire smiled, ruffling his hair. "Best get into practice."

"I'm going to be a Knight as well!" Palamedes interjected. He puffed out his chest. "So I'll practice as well."

Bedwin smiled weakly. "Never let it be said that a Priest of the God-Emperor doesn't do his share!"

"Well, I feel nice and safe!" Claire declared.

Bedwyr looked at the two psykers. Not much they could do to defend themselves if something went wrong with them. It was really odd how quickly they seemed to be falling into exhaustion.

"Bedwyr," Claire said softly, "get Melissa and bring her in, I'll help Blaise."

"Right," Bedwyr replied. Melissa didn't resist when he bent down and lifted her easily in his arms.

The little girl muttered something under her breath. He couldn't quite make it out. He went into the car, and laid her out on one of the cots. "...ey comin…" She feel asleep, snoring gently.

Claire led Blaise in a moment later, the old man slumped hard on her shoulder. "Perhaps I should have had you bring him in," the damsel admitted glumly, "he is heavier than I expected." She helped set him down on a chair.

They had a meal of reheated rations and clean water. Between them, it was decided Palamedes would take first watch. As the sun sank down, they all clambered into the car, with the exception of Gowther's squire, who sat at the car door, his short sword on his lap. He waved goodnight.

Bedwyr lay on his cot, staring up at the ceiling. It was the worst, he thought. All he could do was wait now. Pellinore could die, and he'd just be sitting here, far away from his battle. In ancient days, squires would fight alongside their masters in the Armiger, but that time was past. It couldn't be risked. He knew that. But it pained him.

He lay there as the sun set and his mind filled with more and more horrific imaginings. The Questing Beast had killed Uther Pendragon. What if it did the same thing with Pellinore? He gripped Dyrnwyn's hilt tightly, trying to get himself to sleep.

There was a loud clanging noise at the door. Bedwyr groaned, sliding out of bed. "It is my watch next," he said as the others stirred. He walked up. "Dammit Palamedes, you don't have to be so loud!" He flung the door open.

At the door was a giant figure, a hulking black figure, armor that blended with the knight, a horned helm like that of a monster torn straight from a nightmare.

Bedwyr stumbled back, starting to draw Dyrnwyn. "Who are you? Where is Palamedes?"

"Well." The voice was a rumble. "That's plain rude. You don't recognize me? I'm Killomer, boy. I saved your life that time ago, let you be able to run about playing squire. I'm here to collect."

Dyrnwyn flashed from his scabbard. Bedwyr held it up in shaking hands at the Chaos Warrior's chest. "What do you want?"

Claire was out of bed now as well, a gun pulled from somewhere in her dress and aimed at Killomer as well. Bedwin just looked terrified, clutching his aquila.

"Now now," Killomer hissed. He backed away a step. "Let's not be hasty."

Bedwyr's blood ran cold. There were six more black armored giants in the dark, armed with a hideous assortment of swords, axes, and jagged shards of metal. One had Palamedes gripped tight, blood running from the boy's temple.

"Make a wrong move, and the kid dies," Killomer snarled. He made a gesture, and the Blood Cultist holding Palamedes slid a long dagger up to the squire's throat.

"What the hell do you want?" Bedwyr roared. He wasn't scared. Suddenly, he was just livid.

Killomer backed into the clearing. He drew a massive war axe, and slid a shield on his arm. There was a livid red symbol on it, that made Bedwyr's headache to look at. "You and me, boy. We will fight to the death. Here and now."

Bedwyr stared at the old man. "Why?"

Killomer set down his axe. He reached up, and with a motion removed his helm. Suddenly, he wasn't quite a horrific monster, but the old man Bedwyr had always known. "I am curious. You made a choice then, boy. You rejected the treacherous dog, Tzeentch, and chose to fight with the followers of the Corpse Emperor. I wish to see the fruits of that choice through the only way that matters." He slammed his fist on the axe-hilt. "Battle."

Bedwyr smiled grimly. "I don't think your cult approves of this. I don't follow the God of Blood, thought that was the only route to real strength in your eyes."

Killomer slammed the helm back home. He was a monster again. "Better the Corpse Emperor than the slut, the deceiver, the old fucking bag of pus. Regardless, you have been learning how to fight. That is what I want to see."

Bedwyr glared up at the Chaos Warrior. "Just give me a moment to get ready, unless you are willing to kill a warrior grown in his underclothes." He could swear he heard a light rumble of laughter from one of the gathered maniacs.

"Wouldn't be a proper fight otherwise," Killomer declared.

"And let Palamedes go!" Bedwyr added hotly.

"No. He is there to ensure that your damsel doesn't decide to cheat and shoot us all." Killomer waved at Claire easily, as if greeting a neighbor.

Claire slid her gun back into her dress, eyes fierce and defiant.

It didn't take long for Bedwyr to slide into his chainmail, and strap a shield to his arm. "His armor and weapons are stronger than they seem," Claire hissed, "they say the war-gear of the great Warriors of Chaos are blessed by their Gods. They may even be able to resist Dyrnwyn to some extent. Your armor simply isn't as good, and one hit could turn you into mush by the sheer force of it."

Bedwin stumbled about, whispering desperate prayers. "...the Emperor protects the righteous from the blows of the ruinous powers!"

"I hope that is literal, Bedwin," Bedwyr joked weakly.

"So do I," Bedwin said softly.

Bedwyr left the car again, followed closely by Bedwin and Claire. The cult had formed a circle, and Killomer was waiting in the center. Palamedes was still gripped tight, dagger at his throat.

"Alright, Killomer," Bedwyr snarled. He drew Dyrnwyn once again, and thumbed the activator rune. The sword of power came alive in his hand, and he felt briefly invincible.

"So be it!" Killomer roared. With sudden, unexpected, energy, the hulking Chaos Warrior surged forward, axe swinging.

Bedwyr set his stance, and with a cry, began the fight for his life.

 

[Icipall]

He raised his lance, the point gleaming dangerously, and declared, "Here is the end of our quest, dear friends! Today, at long last, we take the head of the Questing Beast! Though the journey has been long, and foes stand before us, we will prevail! We form a grand lance that can pierce through any defense and shatter any foe, and we will pierce through the Beast's horde, straight to the heart! We will not hesitate, we will not yield, we will not fall! Ride with me this day, my friends! For Avalon! For the Once and Future King!"

Click to shrink...

The little girl muttered something under her breath. He couldn't quite make it out. He went into the car, and laid her out on one of the cots. "...ey comin…" She feel asleep, snoring gently.

Click to shrink...

Oh boy, company is on the way.

At the door was a giant figure, a hulking black figure, armor that blended with the knight, a horned helm like that of a monster torn straight from a nightmare.

Click to shrink...

Well, shit.

Killomer backed into the clearing. He drew a massive war axe, and slid a shield on his arm. There was a livid red symbol on it, that made Bedwyr's headache to look at. "You and me, boy. We will fight to the death. Here and now."

Click to shrink...

Well, it is better offer than them just starting to kill everyone.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

There was no way Killomer could move with any dexterity. The man was, by all appearances, well into his eighties, his black armor the bulkiest Bedwyr had ever seen. By his estimation, it had to weigh somewhere in the realm of tons.

But Killomer moved swiftly, faster than Bedwyr could have ever even considered possible. There was a rumble of metal, and a roar that seemed to come from somewhere deep and terrifying, and the Chaos Warrior was on him.

The axe, the strange weapon that was more the primordial concept of an axe than an axe itself, swished through the air with near supersonic force. There was no time to even attempt a block, even if Bedwyr thought he could resist the near superhuman force of the swing. He lept back, and felt the breeze as the axe just missed the bottom of his neck.

Bedwyr knew that a counterattack was imminent. Killomer controlled the momentum personally, and the axe was already arching towards the lower part of his thighs. It would take off his legs cleanly if allowed to hit.

Bedwyr slid to the side, and swung Dyrnwyn at the swiping axe, just below the head and straight the heft. Dyrnwyn impacted with a scream of metal, and immediately the power field began to hack through the thick steel like a high-velocity stream of water.

Bedwyr felt a thrill of triumph pulse through him, an instant before something impacted on his helmeted skull. It took him a second to realize that it was Killomer's shield arm.

He stumbled back, stunned, feeling blood flow down one side of his face. He wasn't sure if it was fortunate that the blood wouldn't enter the eye, as it was the side where he was already blind.

"Disappointing," Killomer hissed. He stepped forward, raising his axe high. Bedwyr could see the gleam where Dyrnwyn had started its cutting work. He steeled himself, gripped his shield tight.

Killomer swung, and Bedwyr flung his shield up to block. But instead of simply awaiting the stroke, Bedwyr hurtled himself forward with all his weight. He slammed hard straight onto the axe-head, only getting part of his momentum. Still, he felt something snap in his mechanical limb, and winced with pain.

There was a metallic crack and a thud as the axe heft, weakened by Dyrnwyn, couldn't take the stress and snapped clean in half. The axe-head just slid by Bedwyr's head, and he kicked it back, away from Killomer.

Killomer grunted in surprise, and Bedwyr took the shock as an instant to strike. He thrust the blade straight at the brute's chest.

But the old man was a canny and experienced warrior, and his shield slid straight in front of the piercing weapon. It struck straight into the evil red rune and stopped suddenly short, barely touching the shield.

Bedwyr screamed, and forced himself to step forward. Dyrnwyn budged an inch, and started to hack through the shield. There was a clatter, which Bedwyr barely registered, then a haymaker to his skull that he became immediately aware of as stars burst in his brain.

Momentum arrested suddenly, Bedwyr stumbled and fell, clattering to his ass. His helm had saved him, but at cost, and it dug painfully into both temples, dented horribly. Blood was running into his good eye now.

"Pathetic," Killomer growled. "How disappointing." Bedwyr could make out a glint of metal through the blood as Killomer drew a long dagger from his hip. The thing seemed to already be dripping fresh blood, which sizzled as it struck the ground.

Hot rage brought Bedwyr back to his feet. "I haven't even started," he growled. He took a deep breath, and remembered Myrddin's lesson of awen.

And suddenly, he knew where Killomer's dagger would be, and he brought Dyrnwyn to meet it. Enchanted sword met Daemonic dagger with a burst of red and blue sparks, and then again and again.

Bedwyr was moving on sheer instinct now, blocking and parrying and striking with such ferocity and fierce skill, that he suddenly found himself gaining ground. He struck and struck, and many times heard shards of metal strike the ground as Dyrnwyn carved them free as if he was skinning Killomer alive.

Killomer was suddenly silent, moving with grim determination to keep himself alive. His dagger flashed quickly, always there to deflect Bedwyr's attacks away from a fatal stroke. He played defensive, letting Bedwyr hit again and again.

Killomer's dagger was closer to a short sword then a pocket knife, and though it didn't have nearly as long a blade as Drynwyn, the fact that Killomer was a grown man evened them out in terms of reach.

Bedwyr's arm felt like it weighed a ton, and he felt sweat mix with the blood flowing down his face. He realized, horrifically too late, that this was what Killomer was doing. The veteran Chaos Warrior had realized that Bedwyr had grown too skilled for him to overpower, so he was instead relying on Bedwyr's lack of experience and stamina. By drawing out the fight, Killomer was trying to drown Bedwyr in exhaustion.

The instant Bedwyr's attack wavered, the second his sword drooped, Killomer struck. One instant, he leisurely parried a strike, the second his dagger darted and dove straight for the gap between Bedwyr's chain shirt and helm, right for his unprotected throat.

Bedwyr just barely registered a scream, from Claire or Bedwin, he couldn't tell. Still relying on sheer instinct, he ducked his head at the last moment, and the dagger clanged hard on his helmet. Made of reinforced druid-forged metal, the helm held, but Bedwyr felt more blood flow down his face.

He lashed out with his sword in the brief respite, and Killomer sprang back just in time to avoid a stroke that would have carved clean through his armor and his guts.

"You have had more training than can be explained by King Pellinore," Killomer said. He sounded husky, and Bedwyr realized he must be tiring as well.

Bedwyr was past words, past thought, he leveled Dyrnwyn, pointing it at Killomer's chest like a spear.

"Are you a berserker?" Killomer rasped, he set his feet, readying his dagger and battered shield, the rune almost chipped clean off at this point. "Or am I just getting old?"

Bedwyr wasn't able to answer, wouldn't even know the answer if he could speak. He sprang forward, one step, and with the second rammed Dyrnwyn deep into Killomer's chest, piercing through the veteran's armor, and carving through to the hilt.

He held still for a long moment, gripping the hilt in a death grip. There was no blood, Dyrnwyn instantly cauterizing the fatal injury.

Killomer stared down at the sword in his chest. He sighed, releasing his life's breath. "A good death. I'll confess I didn't expect it, but such is war. One never can know where the death blow comes. All one can do is hope you die with a weapon in your hand, with Khorne's gaze on you." He fell to his knees. "Let the boy go. This is over."

Palamedes was released without a word. The squire tumbled bonelessly to the ground, his chest weakly rising and falling. Claire rushed over and gathered the boy up, carrying him back to the car.

Finally, Bedwyr yanked Dyrnwyn free, the sword easily slicing free of its victim. Killomer fell to the ground with an earth-shaking crash. All the while, he clung to his dagger. The old man lay still, his blood flowing into Khorne's endless river, and his skull joining the Skull Throne. As was the fate of all who truly served the Dark God, and those who fell to their deadly blades.

Without a word, Killomer's followers gathered up their fallen fellow, ignoring Bedwyr, as quickly and silently as they came, they vanished into the dark like phantoms from the Otherworld.

Bedwyr tore off his battered and blood-stained helm, and threw it aside with a clatter. He felt suddenly numb, now that the awen was off him. He almost lay down himself, and couldn't find the energy to force himself to his feet. Drynwyn dropped until its tip touched the earth itself.

"Good." The nasty, inhuman voice made even Bedwyr's exhausted body leap. The Priest of Tzeentch limped forward. He was dragging a cauldron behind him with chains that looped around his body. "That moron got himself killed." A cackle. "Just like a Khornate, thinking he can stand in front of what is planned. Idiots, the lot of them. Just like that fool Gruffydd. But not me. Oh no, not me. I waited, I schemed, I even slowly attacked those psychics, sapping their strength." The cackling grew truly deranged. "It is perfect. All perfect! You are mine, boy! Mine!"

Bedwyr tried to move, tried to go on the attack, but his body refused to budge. He was utterly drained of strength.

The cauldron screeched on the stone as the Priest took a step forward. "Oh yes. It ends now, boy."

 

[Icipall]

There was no way Killomer could move with any dexterity. The man was, by all appearances, well into his eighties, his black armor the bulkiest Bedwyr had ever seen. By his estimation, it had to weigh somewhere in the realm of tons.

But Killomer moved swiftly, faster than Bedwyr could have ever even considered possible.

Click to shrink...

Chaos cheats.

Hot rage brought Bedwyr back to his feet. "I haven't even started," he growled. He took a deep breath, and remembered Myrddin's lesson of awen.

And suddenly, he knew where Killomer's dagger would be, and he brought Dyrnwyn to meet it. Enchanted sword met Daemonic dagger with a burst of red and blue sparks, and then again and again.

Click to shrink...

Bedwyr wasn't able to answer, wouldn't even know the answer if he could speak. He sprang forward, one step, and with the second rammed Dyrnwyn deep into Killomer's chest, piercing through the veteran's armor, and carving through to the hilt.

He held still for a long moment, gripping the hilt in a death grip. There was no blood, Dyrnwyn instantly cauterizing the fatal injury.

Click to shrink...

Victory.

"Good." The nasty, inhuman voice made even Bedwyr's exhausted body leap. The Priest of Tzeentch limped forward. He was dragging a cauldron behind him with chains that looped around his body. "That moron got himself killed." A cackle. "Just like a Khornate, thinking he can stand in front of what is planned. Idiots, the lot of them. Just like that fool Gruffydd. But not me. Oh no, not me. I waited, I schemed, I even slowly attacked those psychics, sapping their strength." The cackling grew truly deranged. "It is perfect. All perfect! You are mine, boy! Mine!"

Click to shrink...

Oh, right, that asshole was still hanging around.

 

[baud]

away from a fetal stroke.

Click to shrink...

should be fatal here.

And nice cliffhanger

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

Another step, accompanied by the clatter of chain and the crunching growl of the cauldron, the slosh of something vile in its depths. Something spilled over. It was deep red and smelled like corruption.

"Nine of us, and eight died. But that is fine." The Priest laughed, completely crazed. "Their blood completes the spell of binding! Tzeentch will have you, he'll claw you to shreds and remake you!"

Bedwyr tried to back away, but every muscle in his body was on fire with sheer agony. The duel with Killomer had taken so much out of him, physically and mentally. He had nothing left.

Claire burst from the car, leveling a gun at the Priest. The Priest flicked his hand dismissively, and the damsel was flung back into the car with a shriek of surprise, her gun discharging harmlessly above the target's head, a ruby red beam of energy.

The car door slammed, and with a snarl, the Priest crushed the frame inward. The door was stuck fast within its frame, no longer able to be opened.

Faster than Bedwyr could think possible, the madman rushed forward, and seized his arm, divesting him of shield in an instant. "Ah. Metal, how intriguing. The change will take it as well as flesh, change is eternal, change is forever, change is the sole constant!"

"You aren't talking about change," Bedwyr croaked, his voice harsh with exhaustion. "You speak of corruption and mutation. Cancer on human life!"

If this jab was meant to offend the Priest, it did the exact opposite. The reptilian mutant grinned widely, revealing his remaining, sharp and yellow, teeth. "Oh that's the point though, boy. This 'cancer' you refer to is the holiest of holies. Your precious Imperium keeps everything so stagnant. They will slaughter billions just to keep their precious little status quo! But Tzeentch understands you can't control it, you should let everything grow unfettered, a grand morass of ceaseless mutation! It is the natural state of existence, the grand endpoint of creation!"

Bedwyr couldn't argue, even if he had the energy. The Priest's mind was lost in a miasma of his own making, twisted by exposure to his God. There was nothing to argue with, the man was mad.

His fingers went over the rim of the cauldron, and he could feel the corrupted blood of the eight dead Chaos Sorcerers. The metal of his hand began to steam, and the artificial nerve endings screamed in protest. Bedwyr struggled to escape, letting out weak cries and trying to wrench his arm free.

"Why do you struggle? It is over!" The Priest at last forced the hand to dip fully into the cauldron. There was a horrific sizzle, like meat being dropped onto the grill. The stench of melting metal filled the air. But it wasn't melting, it was shifting, twisting, changing into something else. One moment it was metal, the next flesh, then it was some horrendous corrupted fusion of the two. And it was spreading up through Bedwyr's arm from the source.

"Pellinore!" Bedwyr yelped. It was his last hope. Pellinore would kill the Priest. Pellinore would save him!

"Pellinore is dead!" The Priest screamed over him. He gripped Bedwyr's head in a firm grip. "See and despair!"

And suddenly, Bedwyr could see. He saw miles away, where King Pellinore, Sir Sagramore, and the Mad Lance Gowther were battling the Questing Beast.

The Questing Beast was a stinking, corrupted, hulk, indistinguishable from what it had once been so long ago. It had a long, spotted, neck, erupting from its bloated, puss-filled body. It was easily the size of a Knight, and could battle three at once with frightful ease and ferocity. The thing wasn't truly living, it had long since passed the threshold from animal to monster.

All around the three bold Knights, the carcesses of lesser beasts lay, soaking the already corrupted ground with their hideous life-blood.

All three were battered, bruised, and covered in the blood and gore of their foes. Pellinore was toe-to-toe with the Questing Beast, and he had taken the worst of it. Sparks flew from a gash in Bedrydant's side, and his lance was so soaked in the blood of monsters that its original color was entirely obscured. The blood even seemed to have a corrosive effect, and watching it eat into the arm of Pellinore's mount made Bedwyr's arm ache in sympathy.

Sagramore moved in for the attack, hacking off several limbs, and striking deep into the Beast's heaving side. Gowther hacked wildly, and Bedwyr could hear the mutant's war screams as if muffled by distance.

The Questing Beast reared back, howling, raising its massive claws and fanged maw to the sky, and swooped down like a hawk for the deathblow.

Bedwyr was yanked back to his present, to the Priest's fetid breath in his face. "They are dying, of course. That is the end of King Pellinore. A fool to fight the Ruinous Powers."

Bedwyr didn't react, his head was ringing and his energy was, at last, gone. As far as he could tell, there was nothing he could really do. He was doomed. He was past crying, past caring. It was true, he couldn't beat the powers.

"I never took you for a coward, Bedwyr. Quite the opposite in fact."

The familiar voice broke Bedwyr's defeated funk instantly. "Myrddin?" He thought back.

"Letting this pathetic wretch beat you. Some half-rate hedge sorcerer who got his whole nine killed through his pathetic attempts at sorcery. He couldn't even kill Blaise and Melissa properly." Myrddin's smooth voice grew sad. "After you bested a Champion of Khorne, at your tender age, when you are so close?"

"They can't be beaten," Bedwyr groaned, "I'm worse than dead, and there is nothing I can do."

Myrddin's voice exploded in sudden rage. "Oh? You think I risk nothing here, boy? Do you think I taught you, Pellinore taught you, so you could give up now?"

"Pellinore is dead." That fact rang through his skull. What else could be left?

"So what if he is?" Myrddin's voice was blunt, but strangely lacked cruelty. "Pellinore fought to the end, and if he fell against his foe, that would be death on his terms. Such a death should be mourned, yes, but it is the most respectable death a knight can earn. And he certainly wouldn't want you to fall to this moron."

"He has me caught tight," Bedwyr replied, utterly defeated. "I can't beat him."

"You have before, and can do so again. Easily in fact."

"The Puppeteer has his strings fixed tight on me." The phrase came from nowhere. Perhaps it came from the corruption still crawling up his arm, now midway to his shoulder.

Myrddin chuckled. "Well, Bedwyr, I think you know the answer to that. If there are strings controlling you, the answer is to cut the string."

"I don't have the strength."

"All you have to do is lift your arm. I'll count it down for you. One. Two. Three. Lift!"

The Priest hadn't disarmed Bedwyr, foolishly expecting that the boy was defeated. Or perhaps he had simply forgotten in the thick of his own madness. The instant Myrddin's count ended, Bedwyr thumbed the rune, and lifted the sword with the last of his strength.

Dyrnwyn didn't require much power behind it to sever through flesh and bone. It's antimatter field was made to cut and destroy just about everything in the universe. So the sword hacked cleanly through Bedwyr's arm as swiftly and cleanly as it would through anything short of the fearsome hides of the Fomorians.

The arm fell free, flopping like a wet noodle across the cauldron. The Priest stared stupidly at the severed limb. "What?" was all the maniac could manage.

Bedwyr fell forward, his arm slumping, sending the blade plummeting perfectly straight into the Priest's confused face. The petty sorcerer didn't even have time to scream. The magic sword evaporated his brain, and kept going clean through to his crotch. He split apart lengthwise, the sword preventing his blood from spilling.

At last, Bedwyr let himself collapse, just barely managing to turn off the power field of Dyrnwyn before he simply slumped forward. He forced the weapon's tip into the ground, staggering to his feet, and using it as an improvised cane. His head throbbed like a drum. He could barely even process the fact he had won. He simply tried to force his way to the car, stumbling weakly forward.

The car door at last cracked open, someone stepping out, hammer in hand. Bedwyr looked up, and through the blood and the fog of battle, he couldn't tell who it was. He forced a smile, and an instant later tripped on a rock. And knew nothing more.

 

[Icipall]

Bedwyr couldn't argue, even if he had the energy. The Priest's mind was lost in a miasma of his own making, twisted by exposure to his God. There was nothing to argue with, the man was mad.

Click to shrink...

That's the thing with mad zealots.

Bedwyr fell forward, his arm slumping, sending the blade plummeting perfectly straight into the Priest's confused face. The petty sorcerer didn't even have time to scream. The magic sword evaporated his brain, and kept going clean through to his crotch. He split apart lengthwise, the sword preventing his blood from spilling.

Click to shrink...

FATALITY!!!

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

As the Questing Beast lunged for Pellinore's head, a blow that would shatter and end him as it did King Uther Pendragon so long ago, the old King didn't flinch or fear. With the expertise of a veteran of hundreds of battles, his physical shield intercepted the strike with a clang and the shattering of many fangs.

But the Beast was already attacking, with its many limbs and mouths. More struck at Pellinore's armor, both physical and energy. The King staggered, grimaced away the pain with fierce determination. He had said nothing since the battle began, vocalizing no pain or distress.

Gowther howled a voiceless battle cry as he rammed straight into the Beast's side, hacking wildly, sparks and blood flying wildly. The thing lashed out with a screaming tentacle, and the mutant knight staggered back, his yelp of pain evident.

Sagramore was dueling viciously with the monster's flailing tail, tipped with a maul of spasming spines sharper than the many teeth of a Singing Sword. They pierced through armor, not quite reaching important systems, and Sagramore drew it in tight and hacked it off with a strike of his own blade. Blood jetted and the Beast screamed. But already, a new tail began to sprout.

"Pellinore!" Sagramore bellowed, "We must retreat! We can't take this thing this day!"

"We only have this day!" Pellinore yelled back. He pierced through, shattering more tendrils, crushing more maws.

The Beast couldn't move, so it fought with the sheer insane ferocity of a cornered gretchin. Gowther blocked another blow with his gun, and the weapon's casing dented heavily. This was no big shame, Gowther had already fired all his shots. Blood was pouring from three massive holes in the Beast's side, evidence of the mutant's marksmanship. They were closing slowly but steadily.

"Every wound we deal heals," Pellinore said grimly, "we can only take it down temporarily." There had to be a way, there was no such thing as a mortal without weakness. Fionn mac Cumhail had managed to slay the mad Tuatha Ailen armed with a spear against the enchanted armor of the deranged fire-breathing xenos.

Another thrust of the lance ripped through the Beast's skin like it was nothing but tissue paper, the monster letting out a mad scream of agony. And Pellinore noticed, for a fraction of a second, something moving beneath the skin.

It seemed to be a kind of pulsing orb, almost a gemstone, but ringed by green veins. It took Pellinore only an instant to realize that it was the horror's brain.

The orb vanished, barely disturbing the skin. Pellinore chased it with a burst of stubber fire, burning through his scant ammunition in a second. Holes split open, and he could just make out the corrupted brain hurtling through the monster's system, ichor spitting.

"Crush the brain," Pellinore barked. "Nothing can live without a brain!"

"I know a few people who might stand to challenge that claim," Sagramore grunted, voice tight with exertion. He slammed another blow into the creature, sending it staggering.

"But where is the brain?" Gowther asked. "In the head right?"

"It moves, some nuance of its sorcerous mutation!"

"So hit it everywhere?" Sagramore grunted, another blow making him stagger and grunt with pain.

Pellinore took a deep breath. Some warriors could almost form a sixth sense for this sort of thing. He had seen something like that develop in his own squire, and that adopted son of Sir Ector, Arthur. He had never had anything like that, beyond the simple mortal sense that kept veteran warriors alive on the battlefield. "I'm not sure that is possible," he said grimly, "we only have weapons designed to focus on a single point. If we had a flamer it would be different."

The Questing Beast moved on two long, sinewy, limbs, seemingly incapable of holding its hulk. The fact they did with utter ease added to the thing's uncanny nature. They twisted and shifted with the mad dexterity of an octopus' tentacles, easily avoiding any strike directed at them.

They were at a stalemate, and it was clear that sooner or later, someone would make an error, and the most vulnerable to death were the all-too-human knights. It would only take one unlucky blow, and one of them would shatter and die in the corrupt mire.

The battle had to be ended, and soon. And Pellinore knew it would have to be in victory, or shameful retreat if the death of one of his companions was to be avoided. "Right," he said softly, "We run. There isn't any way to win today."

"My King, you despair way too quickly!" Liemire's voice boomed through the vox. "I for one see a way, and I for one ain't getting back here again just to fight the same damn battle."

"Liemire! Don't!" Pellinore yelled.

He was too late. Liemire had held himself back along with Ganieda, but now he floored the gas with all the force his leg could muster. The massive truck hurtled through muck and mire, sending murk, blood, and bile flying in the air. The Beast's sibilant legs could avoid precision strikes, but the sheer brute stupidity of a truck going at full speed was unanticipated. Liemire struck the left one with a snap of bone and a clang of metal. The truck held, and the Beast started to stagger.

An instant later, Ganieda slammed into the right leg, with less force than Liemire perhaps, but the effect was instant and brutal.

The eldritch bones, thin and flexible but strong, couldn't take the blows, both shattering near in half. Already, sorcery started to mend them, but by the time it began, the Beast was already on its back, flailing and shrieking with agonized energy.

The knights fell on it at the same instant, Gowther and Sagramore hacking into it with blade and clubbing blows. Pellinore stayed back, watching, ready.

The Beast writhed and moaned and howled its rage, hideous ichor flowing from it, its skin being rapidly shredded into strips. Bone and innards were exposed and shattered, but still the thing lived, still it healed with the insane rapidity granted by the unholy abomination known as Tzeentch.

Pellinore held still, the power lance gleaming despite the blood that soaked its entire shaft. He took a deep breath, made a fist in his haptic gauntlet, and glared down at the writhing monster.

The pulsing orb that was the heart of the beast appeared, trying to escape the vicious scythe of Sagramore's sword. It throbbed and pulsed once, twice, and was about to vanish behind a regrowing patch of hide.

At last, Pellinore lunged, the finest strike he had made in his long and storied career. The tip of his lance struck the Beast's unholy heart, and shattered it with a burst of sparks and a gush of boiling blood.

The Questing Beast spasmed and expired almost instantly. The rage and boiling insane hate that seemed to animated it vanished and it collapsed into a shapeless blob of rapidly decaying flesh and bone and bile.

Pellinore stared down at the corpse of his foe. He felt strange, not at all how he thought it would be. "Strange," he said, "how in the end, battle holds little joy." The man sighed, feeling his age at last.

Gowther stomped up and slammed one leg onto the dead creature with a hardy squelch. "It's dead!" If a Knight could jump, Gowther's would be now.

"Liemire, Ganieda, are you two alright?" Sagramore asked through the vox, clearly worried.

Liemire's voice flickered through, sounding nauseous and irritated. "I am never doing that again."

The sound of a clumsily played flute came from Ganieda's car, the woman clearly having survived the battle as well.

"Better than I could have hoped," Pellinore said to himself. He frowned. "So why do I still have a bad feeling?"

**************​

Bedwyr woke up with a severe headache and a hollow ache where his right arm should have been. The car was in motion, and he groaned as the rocking set off even more aches across his body.

With a weak cry, he started to struggle to his feet, but hands pinned him down. He spasmed, gripping for a sword, but found nothing at his side. The hands kept him down.

"Bedwyr calm down! It's just me!" Bedwin cried. The young priest gripped him tighter. "Claire! He's awake! I think he's still in shock!"

"Of course he is!" Claire snapped, voice quivering with emotion. "Wool-headed idiot cut his own arm off!"

"What do I do?" Bedwin gasped, almost sounding like he was in shock himself.

"I thought you priests had medical training?" Claire snarled. Footsteps, and something fell over Bedwyr. "Just keep him still, make sure he doesn't hurt himself, and don't give him anything to eat or drink, he could choke. If he goes entirely still, get me."

"Right, right," Bedwin stammered. There was a creak as the priest sat down.

Bedwyr felt himself slowly regain control of himself. He reached across and tentatively touched the stump that had once been his right arm. A jolt of pain made him groan.

"Bedwyr! I wouldn't do that, it is cauterized, but it is tender and can still kill you if we aren't careful," Bedwin's worried face leaned over him. "We are returning to Vercingtorix's war camp, he should have medics there, but it will be a bit."

"What happened?" Bedwyr croaked. "Where is Pellinore?"

"He's alive!" Bedwin managed a grin. "He killed the Questing Beast! He returned shortly after you killed that heretic freak."

Everything relaxed after that. "Is he here?"

"No, he is in his own car. You are in Sir Sagramore's. Claire wouldn't let anyone move you once she got you on the cot." He giggled weakly. "She almost punched out old Liemire when he tried to move you out."

Bedwyr managed a weak chuckle, imagining the two fighting. He started to sit up, but Bedwin gently pushed him back down.

"Is Sir Sagramore here?"

Bedwin shook his head. "King Pellinore was on edge, so he and the rest of the knights are escorting us. We are taking the long way, so we can avoid the Dark Mechanicus."

With an assertive grunt, Bedwyr forced Bedwin's hands away. "I'm fine," he said. It took him a second, but he managed to rise to unsteady feet. Bedwin slid an arm under him and helped him stay upright.

And outside the window, Bedwyr could see the still-proud Bedrydant striding beside the car. The mount was battered, soaked in mutant blood, and covered in gouges from the Beast's desperate strikes. But Pellinore still stood proud.

Bedwin grinned, and the two went closer, now able to see Sir Sagramore and a brief glimpse of Gowther. Pellinore certainly couldn't see him, but he smiled up at his mentor with pride.

The landscape the machines swept through was all murky swamp and gurgling muck. Brown, black, and sickly green, with only the occasional lump of dead mutant spawn breaking it up. The swamp would generate more, from plants and animals and the occasional unlucky human, but hopefully it would be long years before a new alpha spawn arose.

"This place needs to be cleansed," Bedwin grumbled, "with fire."

For now, at least, the destruction of the Questing Beast seemed to tame the corrupted land, and they went unmolested. Spotting the deeper pits that would stall them out became another role of the knights, who could easily step through and measure with their long and powerful mechanical legs.

Over the course of this time, Bedwyr felt his strength return until he felt almost normal. The loss of his arm, however, was still a surreal sensation. Now and then he could feel the agonizing sensation of a phantom limb, something he had never experienced with his prior disability, as he had never had the limb to miss.

It was the most unpleasant result of his confrontation with his foes, and Bedwyr found himself hoping for any kind of distraction.

The mountains that formed the eastern side of the rim over the swamp were smaller than the ones to the west, especially the strange and jagged hulk that was Mont Saint Michal. There was on passable gap, and that was the one they aimed for.

Bedwyr was up front with Claire and Bedwin, watching his mentor stomp ahead of them, when they came on the mountain pass.

"Oh no," Claire hissed.

Standing in the middle of the path was a knight, red and black and hideous, seeming to have been stapled back together through mighty industrial sorcery. It was Sir Gruffyd, Bedwyr realized, remembering the Chaos Knight immediately.

"King Pellinore!" Gruffyd boomed. It carried everywhere. "We have business to settle!"

"Get out of my way, Sir Gruffyd. I defeated you last, our quarrel is over."

"No, King Pellinore. Our quarrel doesn't end until one of us dies. Such is the rule of the Code. You can't suffer a heretic to live, and I can't suffer a pathetic follower of the Corpse Emperor to stand against the truth!"

Pellinore gestured with his power lance, and Gowther and Palamedes stood back. "So be it, Sir Gruffyd. I will fight you again, and once again you will fall. One on one, knight to knight. As the Code demands."

Bedwyr watched with a sense of excited awe as Pellinore and Gruffyd set themselves up, mimicking their joust from so long ago.

"Everytime," Claire muttered, "Pellinore better make this quick."

"He will!" Bedwyr declared with pride and confidence. Sir Gruffyd had stood no chance before, and now was no different.

With no more hesitation, Pellinore lunged, engine roaring. His lance expertly positioned, it would be an immediate death blow if Gruffyd hadn't equally expertly positioned his shield.

The heavy, brutal, dance continued, the match even, metal clattering together again and again.

A sound like thunder rang, just louder than the sound of the duel. "What was that?" Bedwyr asked, confused.

"Pellinore!" Claire screamed, diving for the vox. "Get out of there! Now! They-"

It was too late. The Earthshaker struck with horrific violence directly within the two combatants. All the sorcery that held Gruffyd's mech together shattered suddenly and instantly, and the Chaos Warlord let out an agonized shriek of rage and pain as his mech collapsed into a dozen pieces.

Pellinore and Bedrydant were more lucky, if such a thing could possibly be said. King Pellinore had managed to react somewhat to the danger, mind unclouded by Khornate rage. He was just out of the most deadly radius of the artillery weapon.

It still hit like a catastrophic meteor, and Bedwyr heard himself scream as his mentor's mount sprayed a gout of blood-like oil and shards of metal armor, and fell to the earth with a resounding thud.

"My King!" Liemire howled through the vox, and with the speed of a loyal retainer rushed to the fallen knight's side.

Bedwyr refused to look, he felt sick, horrified, and instantly, fanatically, livid. Instead he looked up. And saw the man on the face of the cliff, staring down at the pathetic display of the broken knights. Even from here, Bedwyr could see the man's long pure white hair, his mighty black armor, and could swear he saw the cruel look in his dark eyes, the violent sneer on his beautiful, cruel, features.

Claire followed his gaze. She paled instantly. She gripped the steering wheel in a death grip, and growled a name. "Vortimer."

Vortimer ap Vortigern, the Chaos Prince of Avalon, the Bloodsucker, the King of Vampires, gestured forward, and knights and armored tanks came forward, balanced precariously on the face of the cliff, but all ready, all aimed at the party with expert precision.

Another man, wearing similar dark armor, and carrying a standard with the pale, hideous, dragon of the family Vortigern depicted, stepped beside his lord. "You weak fools have been deemed trespassers and traitors. Your lives are thereby forfeit to Prince Vortimer's leisure. He has chosen death for you, of course."

Two tanks aimed their heavy guns downward. Somehow, Bedwyr knew there was much more aimed down at them, enough to rain death with nothing more able to do.

"He wants something," Claire said coldly, "otherwise he'd have killed us all already."

Liemire ignored all of this, focused on getting Pellinore's brutally battered mount set and ready, even in the face of death doing his duty.

"However!" The man continued. "Lord Vortimer can be merciful. You can live if you but give one thing. The prodigy psychic, Melissa. Lord Vortimer desires her for his Nine. She is too strong for you pathetic wretches, you know nothing of her true potential."

"We can't give him Melissa!" Bedwin hissed.

Bedwyr tightened his fist, shaking with rage. This bastard might have just killed the closest thing he had to a father, threatened to kill his friends, and now was trying to force them to give up an innocent to save their skins. "We give him nothing." The only thing he would give Vortimer was a bullet in the brain or a sword stroke to the throat.

Claire looked at him. She smiled sadly, and rose to her feet. "Can you drive, Bedwin?"

"Claire?" Bedwin asked, stupidly.

"No!" Bedwyr realized. "You can't! He'll figure it out and kill you!"

Claire chuckled lightly. "I have my ways." She leaned down, and kissed the top of Bedwyr's head. "Just promise, Bedwyr, that when you are a knight, you will save me."

"I'll do you one better," Bedwyr hissed, "I vow that one day I'll kill Vortimer, for everything he has done today." There was, of course, no guarantee that Claire's gambit would work. It all depended on how much information Vortimer had about Melissa.

Claire smiled grimly, and with utter dignity, left the car and stepped out into the mountain pass. "I am Melissa!" she yelled up to the gathered monsters of Chaos. "To save my friends, I shall go with you, Lord Vortimer." She pointed up at him, her face a mask of defiance. "But know this! I will never be your servant! I will never fall!"

A vile, hideous cackle from the spokesman. "Keep telling yourself that! You will know the truth, and that will make you see the way of things."

Then, Vortimer spoke. His voice was smooth and beautiful, almost perfect. "You are older than I thought, Melissa, and far more beautiful."

Bedwyr was pretty sure he could see Sagramore quivering with rage. The knight's gauntlet flickered and crackled with electricity. The man was an inch from losing control.

"You will never have me in that regard either," Claire said coldly, "I will be your captive, your hostage, but that is all. I stand defiant of all you are and all that you stand for."

The Chaos Lord laughed, flinging his head back, his beautiful hair catching the sun. "We shall see." The blood-drinker gestured. "Your companions may leave. Even King Pellinore, if he survived."

"And your man?" Bedwyr heard himself bark through the vox. He ignored Bedwin's strangled gasp.

"He is dead." Vortimer sounded bored. "And if he isn't, he is trash. Let him die as he should have a long time ago, the weakling."

Bedwin flicked off the box. "Don't engage with him! He's a madman!"

Hot rage boiled through Bedwyr's veins. He wanted to leap from the car, charge up the building, and murder Vortimer with his bare hand. But he relaxed, he forced himself down, his heart still pounding, his breath tight.

Sagramore seemed to be going into a similar issue. His knight refused to hold still, his sword and gauntlet flickering endlessly. Sir Sagramore was infamous for his black rages, his berserk fits of temper. During those, he was almost uncontrollable.

Gowther slid in front of the other knight, in a rare show of insight. But it was Claire who stopped the rage in its tracks, with nothing but a cold, warning, glare. At last, Sagramore calmed, and joined the retreat.

For retreat it was. Desperate retreat, embarrassing and so bitter it made Bedwyr want to puke. They fled back into the murk to find another pass out, a way home. And they left Claire to face the Vampiric Prince.

Pellinore was hooked back to his car, his mount sparking and sputtering still. Liemire had said nothing, not even whether the King was alive or dead.

Bedwyr sat beside the pale Bedwin, hand in his lap. It felt like the shock was returning. The rage drained from him. Rage, he decided, wouldn't help. As ever, all he could do was focus on his goal. He would become a knight. He would make Pellinore, alive or dead, proud. He would kill Vortimer and save Claire. That was his tynged, he knew. He was going to be the finest knight in the world.

***************​

Claire was brought before Vortimer. Her head still held high, refusing to back down or show weakness, even as she found herself surrounded by foes and mutant horrors.

Vortimer had set up a throne carved from pale bone, which he sat in as if he was holding court in a castle, instead of being out in the open air in view of a hideous mire.

The vampire was almost beautiful, a perfect figure of masculine beauty. But there was just enough that set him apart from mankind. His eyes were the bright gold of a hunting falcon, and gleamed with the same predatory hunger. His fingers, which tapped at the metal of his greaves, were long and tipped with razor sharp nails, which Claire knew with grim certainty would rend and tear into her as easily as daggers. His ears were pointed, like those of the Tuatha de Danum, though if he had any blood from that ancient race, it was very little.

The spokesman was a wolf-headed abhuman, one of those werwulfs who believed themselves to be children of the Dark Gods. He sneered the moment Claire came forward. "We have been tricked, Prince Vortimer! She is no psychic!"

A chuckle. "It seems so. Such treachery must be punished, of course."

The wulf drew a blade with a growl. "Then I will kill her now!" Without waiting for permission, the livid soldier rushed forward.

Vortimer slid to his feet and lashed out in an instant. The wulf's head came off with a gout of blood that just missed Claire before the fool's corpse planted right in front of her.

"Her friends," Vortimer said softly, cleaning his bloodsoaked sword before he slid it back into its sheath. "It is they who betrayed my mercy."

Claire said nothing through this. She would not be cowed by anything, unshaken and unbroken, she would not fall to the Gods.

"But I am magnanimous," said Vortimer. He smiled with no true joy, just cold predatory excitement. "I will give them a three-day head start."

"You are most generous, my Lord," Claire said, her voice filled with nothing but loathing.

"I am indeed," Vortimer said softly, "know this, my little fraud, I will not torture you. I am no Slaaneshi who must brutalize and torture. I will keep you near, and you will realize the truth of Chaos soon enough."

"I am Claire, a damsel. I am a follower of the Lady of the Lake, and I will fight the Ruinous Powers to my final breath."

The same predatory smile. "I see. Soon I will test that hypothesis. For every last one of those who dare resist Chaos."

Claire didn't respond. She felt satisfied, suddenly. This was a good way, she realized, to see the interior of this predator's scheme. She would serve the world of Avalon even here and now.

**************​

Servants of the Magos Legres were gathering as much as they could of the remains of Gruffyd's mount. The men and women were dressed in filthy reddish robes. They had little will of their own, all of them could be subsumed at any moment by the Heretek Magos.

One pulled away a thick chunk of metal, and stopped. Gruffyd lay before him, bloodied, battered, almost as broken as his knight. The adept cocked his head, and readied his hand-flamer. Biological matter would be burned and destroyed. Such things were useless.

Broken metal fingers spasmed and seized the earth in a death-grip. Gruffyd moved, forcing himself forward. Still, the adept pointed the flamer.

Legres slammed into the adept's mind so suddenly and so quickly that he shattered what little will and ego the man had left. He threw aside the flamer, so it clattered on the ground, and kneeled before the Chaos Knight, reaching a hand to check.

"You live!" Legres cried. His laughter filled the pass. "You are the most stubborn and willful man I have ever met, Sir Gruffyd." More adepts appeared. "Bring him to the transport. He is perfect for our purposes."

Gruffyd spat out blood as he was placed on a swiftly improvised stretcher. "What do you want with me, you honorless dogs?" he managed through almost destroyed lungs.

Legres laughed again. "You will earn much honor, dear Gruffyd. It will be you and you alone who will excise the worthless growth that is the followers of the Corpse Emperor." As Gruffyd was placed awkwardly inside the transport, the Magos bowed deeply. "Be proud, oh Prince. For you shall ride the apocalypse itself." The door shut, and for the moment, Gruffyd knew no more. The Hereteks returned to the Mont, ready to begin the final steps.

Apocalypse would come. Within a matter of years, the people who rejected the true Gods would, at last, die.

Explicit Liber Primus​

 

[dermenscha]

"Be proud, oh Prince. For you shall ride the apocalypse itself."

Click to shrink...

"Here's your complimentary upgrade to Titan Princeps! Don't worry, you'll get to feel every second of it."

 

[Icipall]

Another thrust of the lance ripped through the Beast's skin like it was nothing but tissue paper, the monster letting out a mad scream of agony. And Pellinore noticed, for a fraction of a second, something moving beneath the skin.

It seemed to be a kind of pulsing orb, almost a gemstone, but ringed by green veins. It took Pellinore only an instant to realize that it was the horror's brain.

Click to shrink...

It has a weak point! Strike it now for massive damage!

"So hit it everywhere?" Sagramore grunted, another blow making him stagger and grunt with pain.

Click to shrink...

Sounds like a plan.

"My King, you despair way too quickly!" Lemire's voice boomed through the vox.

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Liemire.

At last, Pellinore lunged, the finest strike he had made in his long and storied career. The tip of his lance struck the Beast's unholy heart, and shattered it with a burst of sparks and a gush of boiling blood.

The Questing Beast spasmed and expired almost instantly. The rage and boiling insane hate that seemed to animated it vanished and it collapsed into a shapeless blob of rapidly decaying flesh and bone and bile.

Pellinore stared down at the corpse of his foe. He felt strange, not at all how he thought it would be. "Strange," he said, "how in the end, battle holds little joy." The man sighed, feeling his age at last.

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"This place needs to be cleansed," Bedwin grumbled, "with fire."

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You're going to need a lot of fire.

Pellinore gestured with his power lance, and Gowther and Palamedes stood back. "So be it, Sir Gruffyd. I will fight you again, and once again you will fall. One on one, knight to knight. As the Code demands."

Click to shrink...

I have a bad feeling about this.

It was too late. The Earthshaker struck with horrific violence directly within the two combatants.

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Dammit, knew it was a trap!

Claire followed his gaze. She paled instantly. She gripped the steering wheel in a death grip, and growled a name. "Vortimer."

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Oh. Oh shit.

Gowther slid in front of the other knight, in a rare show of insight. But it was Claire who stopped the rage in its tracks, with nothing but a cold, warning, glare. At last, Sagramore calmed, and joined the retreat.

Click to shrink...

Live to fight another day.

Bedwyr sat beside the pale Bedwin, hand in his lap. It felt like the shock was returning. The rage drained from him. Rage, he decided, wouldn't help. As ever, all he could do was focus on his goal. He would become a knight. He would make Pellinore, alive or dead, proud. He would kill Vortimer and save Claire. That was his tynged, he knew. He was going to be the finest knight in the world.

Click to shrink...

You will be among the finest.

Apocalypse would come. Within a matter of years, the people who rejected the true Gods would, at last, die.

Click to shrink...

That sounds bad.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

Book 2: Arthur Rising​

Her eyes snapped open, she felt the cruel chill of space all the way down to her bones. She had seen space, the true void, so she knew of the cold. A moment passed, and she knew that it couldn't quite compare.

She was still on her bed, the hard thing she always slept on. The Shipmaster wouldn't provide much better to any of his crew, much less the Navigators.

Diane was a member of the most minor of minor Navigator Dynasties, of a kind that even a dirty Rogue Trader like Captain DeVoll could employ.

The ship, Prydwen, creaked and groaned in protest. Diane shivered in time with it. "Have you seen it?" she whispered.

Her senior, Gavan, croaked, "No. It's gone. The light. I can't."

Diane frowned. Gavan's heart and soul were dying, she could tell. Ever since they had fled the Black Legion, just missing their assault on Anguish, the hive world where DeVoll had been selling his goods and resupplying for continued runs.

The worst had happened. One moment they had been flying hard, having only captured the barest glimpse of hideous Black Legion war ships, free with what refugees could pay the fee. And then everything had stopped. Gavan had started to scream. He came out of his trance, out of his agony, long enough to deliver dark news. The Astronomican was gone. They were lost, directionless, hurtling through the void.

There were stories of such happenings, horror tales told to young navigators to put the fear of the God-Emperor into them. Yet something told Diane that there was more to it. The Astronomican had vanished, flicked off like it had never been.

And now Prydwen was groaning, spasming like a dying man. Wherever they had blindly hurtled was poor for the ship's health.

Further sign was the recurring dream Diane had been having. Over and over again. It starred a beautiful young man, which was normal enough during lonely space flights. What wasn't normal was how it was all about the same subject. A sword, and a stone. Over and over, the exact same dream, as the ship hurtled through the scratching, creaking, hell.

Diane sighed as she walked by Gavan, who was sitting in his own waste, obsessively looking for the Astronomican. He'd look until he starved to death or worst, and she was growing tired of being in close proximity to him.

There was a soft knock on the door, followed by a gentle little voice. "Diane? Are you decent?"

Diane pulled a shawl over her forehead. She moved to the door and opened it with a flick of her wrist. As always, the damned thing stuck fast, but she was stronger than an average human, easily tearing it free.

Lady Isolde smiled up at her. She was a tiny, delicate, beautiful little woman. Impossibly beautiful, some whispered she had been carefully constructed in her powerful families' gene factories. Her hair was long and pale gold, her eyes deep pools of blue, seemingly designed for a lover to get lost in.

Diane, of course, was also a creation of carefully selected gene splicing and supervision, but hers was a form made for showing ships through the relatively safe passages in hell. She wasn't vain, but being next to the Beale Isolde made her feel gangly and malformed.

Another woman just ghosted behind the Lady. A flint-eyed member of Anguish's particular Imperial Guard Regiment, the Heaven Dancers. Brangaine, Diane was fairly sure, Trooper Brangaine.

Isolde was never anything but kind and gentle, but Brangaine was always judging. This wasn't the first time the Lady had visited the Navigator. Brangaine wasn't always the Guard who followed Isolde along, but she was the only one Diane recalled, exactly because of how harsh that flinty stare became. Coldly, Diane wondered how the Imperium would react, if they knew the finest family of Anguish had bribed entire regiments of the Imperial Guard to serve as their personal army. She suspected that it wouldn't be a pretty sight.

Entirely guileless, Isolde didn't notice the enmity between her two companions. She simply wasn't made to be cruel or duplicitous, and had approached Diane out of a simple need for companionship. She never mentioned the fact that Diane stood over two meters tall, or that she was slim as a willow but strong as an ox. She hardly seemed to be aware that Diane was a navigator and mutant, and thus well below her own social class. What mattered to Isolde was that she was lonely, her family and friends more than likely dead, and she was on a ship with little female company. So Brangaine and Diane became the main source of said companionship.

Isolde seemed nervous, fiddling with a scrap of cloth. "Are you alright to leave, so we may speak?"

Diane looked back at Gavan, who was drooling now. She nodded. "There is nothing to find," she said.

Brangaine sniffed. "If a route is found while you two have tea, you will be most discredited." She didn't really try to get in the way, perhaps she wanted to see Diane get whipped or killed for dereliction of duty.

They ignored the guardswoman, and traveled quietly through the creaking halls of Prydwen. Prydwen was an ancient ship, full of character and ancient tales. It had been built in the shipyards of Baddon, a world lost for five thousand years behind the Warpstorm known as Macsen's Folly.

They passed crew: cold, bitter, men and women, wearing filthy and work-stained garments. Despair and anger hung over them like a cloud. Diane felt glares at her back, and knew many blamed her and Gavan for them being lost.

Isolde's cabin was one of the finest available, just below Captain DeVoll's. Diane was fairly certain the Rogue Trader had attempted to get Isolde to share his cabin, but the Lady had deftly avoided that particular issue in a manner that gave DeVoll a limp and Brandaine a look of smug satisfaction for the first week.

Isolde's cabin was as well decorated as she could manage, given the circumstances. She had been unable to carry much from her home, just enough to give her current home a sense of wealth and dignity. The tea-table alone could feed a low-hive family for a year and a day. The tea Isolde carefully poured out with shaking hands would keep them going for five years, and the pot and cups for ten.

Diane sat at the table, trying not to feel like she was looming over something delicate. The dainty cup felt like she was trying to hold a butterfly with a Space Marine's gauntlet.

After they took a moment, ritually drinking and trying to build something resembling calm, Isolde said, "I had the dream again."

Diane set down the cup a little too hard, wincing at the loud clack. "About the boy and the sword?" She asked.

Isolde nodded. "A sword in an anvil and stone. A young man comes forward, and draws it free. It would be minor, I suppose, if I hadn't had it seven nights in a row."

"Ten nights, for me," Diane said. The tea wasn't helping her nerves, she could barely taste it. "I suppose I should ask, did you feel anything unnatural in it?"

Isolde shivers. "I have never heard good things about such dreams. I spoke with a maid once, and she told of creatures that lurk in the inbetween, and reach into the subconscious minds of humans to lead them astray."

Diane didn't think it would help to say that she had heard far more literal stories, horror tales of what happened to navigators who peered into the wrong parts of the warp. She wouldn't speak of what was happening to Gavan right now as they spoke. "I don't think we have reason to fear," she said instead.

"I had Brandaine speak around, and according to her the crew says there is one man who might know." Isolde looked Diane right in the eyes. "Someone named Dagonet."

Diane flinched. "Dagonet? That's not possible. Dagonet is dead." Dagonet was a voidborn, a strange being who had lived in the lowest decks of Prydwen. DeVoll, in one of his fits of zealotry, had decided to kill him, and had had the lower decks gassed.

"The crewmen I spoke with said they had met with him a week ago," said Brandaine, "I didn't ask for the personal details, but according to them, the fool still lurks below decks. DeVoll is convinced he is dead, and Dagonet is apparently quite alright allowing that to be the common belief."

Diane felt a shiver run down her spine. Dagonet the Fool. The strangest of men. And evidently he had insight into dreams and premonitions. There were many worlds where such men were hanged or burned. Dagonet himself should be dead, gassed and left for dead.

"Do you wish to visit him?" Diane asked.

"I do," Isolde said calmly. She giggled weakly. "Why, even if it turns out he is deceased, I haven't been to the lower decks. It could be fun."

"The lower decks are dangerous, milady," Diane said carefully, "not unlike the lower hives of your world."

A flicker of sorrow passed through Isolde's eyes, and Diane felt suddenly sorry for mentioning Anguish. No doubt, the Black Legion was tearing through it like a hot knife through butter, the slaughter horrific. "Still, I wish to try."

"As my lady commands," Brangaine declared boldly. She looked at Diane hotly, as if they were in a competition of devotion.

Diane sighed. "I'll fetch my mace."


[Here begins Book 2, with a shift in setting. Don't worry, Bedwyr's story will continue soon enough]

 

[Icipall]

The ship, Pyrdwen, creaked and groaned in protest. Diane shivered in time with it. "Have you seen it?" she whispered.

Click to shrink...

They ignored the guardswoman, and traveled quietly through the creaking halls of Pyrdwen. Pyrdwen was an ancient ship, full of character and ancient tales.

Click to shrink...

Prydwen.

The Astronomican was gone. They were lost, directionless, hurtling through the void.

There were stories of such happenings, horror tales told to young navigators to put the fear of the God-Emperor into them. Yet something told Diane that there was more to it. The Astronomican had vanished, flicked off like it had never been.

Click to shrink...

Seems that this is taking place during the Gathering Storm.

Coldly, Diane wondered how the Imperium would react, if they knew the finest family of Anguish had bribed entire regiments of the Imperial Guard to serve as their personal army.

Click to shrink...

Badly. If they learned from it.

Entirely guileless, Isolde didn't notice the enmity between her two companions. She simply wasn't made to be cruel or duplicitous, and had approached Diane out of a simple need for companionship.

Click to shrink...

Now that's rare in 40k.

"I do," Isolde said calmly. She giggled weakly. "Why, even if it turns out he is deceased, I haven't been to the lower decks. It could be fun."

Click to shrink...

That sounds like a horrible idea.

 

[Dark Mage]

"I do," Isolde said calmly. She giggled weakly. "Why, even if it turns out he is deceased, I haven't been to the lower decks. It could be fun."

Click to shrink...

I forget.

How does this normally go?

Ah, yes.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

Diane's mace was little more than a slab of metal, forged into a club, and with a simple generator slapped on. It didn't need to be much more than that. Swinging it with her inhuman strength was enough to shatter bone, and she outreached most men and women.

She wished she had a gun, however. She was a wretched shot, but a good shotgun meant that aim barely mattered in the tight confines of a ship.

Gavan moaned something, and Diane briefly considered caving in his skull. It would be a mercy, now, the man was clearly going mad. Madness in Navigators always led to madness and damnation.

She rose her mace, the head crackling to life. She tried not to think about the man Gavan had been. A mentor, a guide, a friendly face. The mace wavered in her hand. All it would take would be a good hard swing, and her senior's misery would be over.

Isolde's soft voice broke her out of the murderous mood. "Diane? Are you ready?"

Diane felt suddenly embarrassed and ashamed. She slid the mace into the loop at her belt. They were already damned, killing Gavan wouldn't help anything. "I'm ready," she replied, as she forced open the door once again, slamming it shut. As she did, she decided she would never return to that foul room of madness and death.

Brangaine wrinkled her nose at the mace. "A crude tool."

The standard issue lasgun slung over her shoulder was off-set by the cutting edge hotshot laspistol at her hip. Isolde's family had spared no expense. It amounted to nothing in the end, the Anguish 63rd, Heaven Dancers, lounged miserably with everyone else on the ship.

They passed many such people, crew, guardsmen, and refugees alike. The air was miserable, and growing desperate by the day. Diane knew that all it would take was one spark to set off everyone.

Their weapons kept people away, shrinking into their little corners into their own private misery. Once Isolde may have been a shining display of hope, but now she meant as little as everything else. They were all waiting for death, and now only hoped it would be quick and painless.

The lower decks of Pyrdwen had always been a dangerous prospect, the people who lived having never seen the light of day, or felt the natural wind. They lived and bred into grim and fierce tribes, the tangle of corridors and pipes their territory, the work they did sacred ritual and unthinking tradition. Birth was rare in the void, any addition to their number was done through the bitter cruelty of conscription.

Diane kept her hand on her mace, mirroring Brangaine's on her laspistol. Every now and then, they'd see an emaciated figure peering from the shadows, that would vanish an instant later.

"Did the crewman you speak with say where Dagonet could be found?" Diane asked, her voice echoing in the halls in a manner that made her instantly uncomfortable.

"He said we will know his lair when we see it," Brangaine replied.

"Lair is such a foreboding term," Isolde said. She'd kept between the other two, the only one unarmed.

"I am liking this idea less and less," Diane growled. Another figure came into the light, only to flicker away an instant later. "No one has been down here to survey in a while, we have no idea what to expect."

"Actually," a new voice interjected, "I have been here for some weeks for precisely that purpose."

All three women screamed in terror, huddling immediately together. Diane swung her glowing mace about, finally alighting as a dark-skinned woman came into view. She was wearing rather dirty robes, those of an adept or scribe. "Who are you?" Diane growled in what she hoped was a threatening voice.

The scribe held up her hands. "I'm unarmed! Just lost! Please put that thing down!" The poor woman's voice was trembling with terror.

Diane sighed and lowered her weapon. "I ask again, who are you?"

"Junior Adept Orgeluse," she managed, "I have been down here for so long, are you the rescue party? Captain DeVoll sent me down here to make sure the lower decks aren't getting restless, but I've barely seen anyone. Then I got lost."

"Embarrassing," Brangaine muttered.

Isolde smiled gently. "Oh you poor thing! We will escort you back when we return to the upper decks, we are just on an errand."

"What could possibly bring you here?" Orgeluse asked, startled, "why there is nothing here but rusted pipes and machinery that seems to only run on the will of the God-Emperor!"

"We seek a man named Dagonet, who may have insight in the workings of dreams," Isolde explained.

"Dagonet!" Orgeluse gasped. "Yes, there are rumors he is still alive, the Captain told me to seek him out." She fiddled with her robes. "I wouldn't mind an escort, really." She shivered. "The Captain was very insistent that I look into the truth of the rumors. He believes that allowing a creature like Dagonet to live will only make the matter worse."

"So he sent you to kill him?" Brangaine asked.

"No no, just to see if he is alive, then I'm to contact him on my vox."

Diane swore. "He's going to gas the lower levels again!"

"What? No, that can't be right," said Orgeluse, "that would kill me as well, and he wouldn't do that." Suddenly, she blanched. "Oh blessed Emperor, he would do that, wouldn't he?"

"Yes, yes he would," Diane said gruffly. Gavan had told her that DeVoll hadn't cared who had been in his way the last time he had tried to gas Dagonet out.

"Oh dear." The adept fiddled awkwardly with her vox unit. "I suppose I shouldn't then. Tell him that is. Oh dear."

Brangaine was unable to suppress the instinctual fear of the Guardsman against disobeying. "I believe you should."

Orgeluse sighed. "I see. I suppose we are all going to die anyway."

Isolde seemed to want to argue against that, Diane could tell. But the darkness seemed to absorb any good feeling, and Orgeluse's fear was supported. It didn't help that a loud scratching sound rang through the halls, vibrating the ship and creating a horrific metallic sound.

"Just the song of the ship," Diane said. It sounded false even to her own ears. She didn't want to think about it.

"Can I stay with you guys?" Orgeluse asked. "You have weapons and I want to die in the upper decks not here." Another creak and metallic scratch made her jump and squeak.

"Of course," Isolde said gently.

They continued the long, dark, trek. No longer did it feel like they were onboard a ship, it was more like the caverns and pits of an underhive. Only empty, completely empty.

"Where is everyone?" Diane asked Orgeluse.

"I don't know," the scribe said weakly. "I haven't spoken with a single person for so long."

Brangaine drew her laspistol. "We shouldn't have come here," she growled.

Isolde placed a comforting hand on Brangaine, gently pushing the pistol back down. "We can't be sure if we are in danger."

"Do you know what happens when a geller field fails?" Brangaine snarled back.

"If it has failed," Diane interjected, "then we are doomed no matter what level we are on."

"It is only a matter of time," the adept whispered, "I know where we are, I'm surprised you don't."

The navigator frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Your kind can see into the Warp, right?"

"I haven't used my third eye for some time," Diane confessed, "my senior Gavan hasn't shut it for that same period of time."

Orgeluse's eyes widened. "Oh. Well he's doomed." She looked nervously at a nearby hall. "We are in the middle of Macsen's Folly. The Warpstorm, named for the man who tried to proclaim himself Emperor."

Diane flinched. "You can't know that for sure." There was another soul-rending creak of metal.

Once again, Orgeluse sank into silence, and everyone tried to ignore the continued moans and groans of the ship around them.

They reached a part of the deck that had apparently been converted into a sleeping quarters, four ancient cots covered with stained sheets, and a large old chest shoved into the corner.

Isolde wrinkled her nose. "What is that stench?"

"Men," Brangaine answered gruffly, "who haven't cleaned after themselves."

Diane checked the first bed. "No one has been here for a while, much less slept. Everything is all dried up."

"Not going to ask," Isolde said, giggling weakly.

Brangaine sighed in disgust, and sat down on the chest. "Disgusting. To allow such to get so bad is a sign of weak discipline."

"The people here are workers, not Imperial Guard," Orgeluse said, "they aren't expected to operate with the same level of discipline, so long as the engines keep running."

"No wonder we have all gone to hell," Brangaine groaned. She leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. "This is a stupid thing to do, at the end," she said softly, "I always thought I'd be facing down a mighty foe, fighting to the death."

Maybe your commander shouldn't have sold you all to the wealthy families of Anguish then, Diane thought. She kept it down. "We will make it out of this," she tried to reassure the soldier.

Brangaine scowled at her, clearly about to reprimand. But suddenly she shrieked and leaped off the chest, pistol out and pointed at it. "Something knocked!"

Slowly, the lid of the chest slid open, and a man sat up. He was a lanky, eerie figure, his hair and skin colorless, his eyes a light pink. He barely seemed to notice the gun leveled at him, and looked between each member of the group with an annoyed expression. "You woke me up," he said drowsily, "all your talking."

Brangaine sighed, slipping her gun back into her holster. "Right." She kept her hand tightly on it, ready to draw again in an instant.

The pale man unbent both his legs, and sat up on the rim of the chest. He was wearing a dirty jumpsuit, almost the same color of his skin. He grinned, revealing surprisingly intact teeth. "A navigator, an adept, a guardswoman, and a heiress walk somewhere they shouldn't be. Will it kill them or save them?"

Diane glared at the man. "You are Dagonet, right?"

The man scratched behind his ear. "Why yes, yes I am. How astute of you."

Isolde brightened. "We have been seeking you!"

Orgeluse fiddled with her vox unit, before finally releasing it with a sigh.

Dagonet sprang to his feet, not quite coming to Diane's chin. "Ask and you shall receive!"

Shaking her head, really regretting their path now, Diane looked to Isolde. She would explain this better, she had no doubt. About the shared dream of the boy, the sword, and the stone.

 

[Icipall]

She wished she had a gun, however. She was a wretched shot, but a good shotgun meant that aim barely mattered in the tight confines of a ship.

Click to shrink...

That is true.

"Actually," a new voice interjected, "I have been here for some weeks for precisely that purpose."

All three women screamed in terror, huddling immediately together.

Click to shrink...

Ok, this was funny scene.

"What? No, that can't be right," said Orgeluse, "that would kill me as well, and he wouldn't do that." Suddenly, she blanched. "Oh blessed Emperor, he would do that, wouldn't he?"

Click to shrink...

Yes, absolutely.

Orgeluse's eyes widened. "Oh. Well he's doomed." She looked nervously at a nearby hall. "We are in the middle of Macsen's Folly. The Warpstorm, named for the man who tried to proclaim himself Emperor."

Click to shrink...

Ah, no wonder they're not doing so hot. But they're heading towards a friendly(?) planet.

The pale man unbent both his legs, and sat up on the rim of the chest. He was wearing a dirty jumpsuit, almost the same color of his skin. He grinned, revealing surprisingly intact teeth. "A navigator, an adept, a guardswoman, and a heiress walk somewhere they shouldn't be. Will it kill them or save them?"

Diane glared at the man. "You are Dagonet, right?"

The man scratched behind his ear. "Why yes, yes I am. How astute of you."

Isolde brightened. "We have been seeking you!"

Orgeluse fiddled with her vox unit, before finally releasing it with a sigh.

Dagonet sprang to his feet, not quite coming to Diane's chin. "Ask and you shall receive!"

Click to shrink...

Interesting fellow.

 

[baud]

A navigator, an adept, a guardswoman, and a heiress walk somewhere they shouldn't be

Click to shrink...

looks like a RPG party.

For the guardwoman, is Brangaine or Brandaine?

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

Dagonet sat cross-legged on his space chest, chin in his palm and taking in the details of the dream with complete concentration. "And this boy, the young man, was the same through all of them?"

Isolde looked at Diane. "I think so."

"He was," Diane confirmed.

The fool steepled his fingers under his chin. "Describe him to me."

"Handsome, dark-haired, a thin beard and mustache, well-built, dressed in common garb for a feudal worlder." Diane listed carefully.

"Same for you, Lady?" Dagonet asked Isolde.

She nodded, eyes wide and curious.

"And you say," Dagonet rose to his feet. He reached out and seized his hands together, miming gripping a hilt. "He took a sword, and drew it forth from a stone."

"Yes!" Brandaine snapped. "They have explained that to you several times."

Dagonet smiled at the guardswoman. "Yes, I am just trying to fully understand."

"And do you?" Diane asked. "This has been worrying Isolde greatly." And her. If this was a sign of the Warp coming in, she wanted to know.

The voidborn man smiled lightly. "Oh, I don't think there is anything to worry about. This is a rather straight-forward metaphor, I think." He mimed gripping a sword hilt in front of him once again. "Now. You both dream of an attractive young man, who takes a long, solid, object, and withdraws it fro-"

"Enough!" Brandaine barked. "See here, you clown!"

Isolde was completely red, hands on her cheeks. "Oh. Oh dear."

Diane found herself up in the man's face. "I thought you'd have some insight beyond just crass desire."

"Who told you that?" asked Dagonet.

"They say you have some ability to derive truth from dreams."

"Oh aye, and the truth is you and the lady want a young man's sword in your stone," the apparent sage said bluntly.

"Psychic foresight was implied," Diane hissed, "why else would the Captain try and kill you?"

The man shrugged. "Who can say. And really, you thought I was a psyker? My dear, if I were a psyker, my brain would currently be mush from sheer proximity to a warpstorm. My skill with reading people's dreams is a simple matter of basic psychology and the understanding of human nature."

Diane backed away. She looked to her companions. "Well, I…"

"This was a waste of time, wasn't it?" Orgeluse asked.

Brandaine was a shade more enraged. "You miserable, psychotic, perverted mutant freak!"

"It's a medical condition, actually," Dagonet said.

Isolde spoke up suddenly. "There is one more thing." She blushed as everyone looked back at her. "There was a dragon. On the sword, built into the channel."

There was a moment of silence. It wasn't Dagonet who reacted to this, but Orgeluse. Her eyes widened. "A dragon, built where the blood flows down. A red. Is that right?"

Diane looked at Isolde. "Are you certain of this?" she asked. She hadn't paid much attention to the sword itself.

"He held it aloft, and light glimmered off it. I didn't see it at first, but the past two nights I paid closer attention."

"The Red Dragon of Pyrdain," Orgeluse said nervously, "it was the symbol of the entire subsector, the banner of the ruler of the planet Avalon and thus the ruler of Pyrdain itself."

Diane swore under her breath. "So the last bearer would have been Macsen Wledig, right?"

Brandaine performed the sign of the Aquilla, a motion to repel evil. It felt lacking, given the circumstances. "The man who tried to proclaim himself Emperor. An arch-traitor nearly on the level of Horus."

"I never did pay attention in the history classes I never had," Dagonet said easily, "perhaps you women of more gentile education can explain?"

"It was five thousand years ago, so much of the detail has been lost, but Macsen Wledig, who was Lord Governor of the Subsector proclaimed himself independent, took his direct superior's head, and built up his own Battlefleet to carve out his own empire. Common belief is that he also proclaimed himself the Emperor of Mankind, an act of sheer hubris and madness." Orgeluse was speaking as a lecturer, and seemed quite comfortable in the role. "The Imperium wasn't able to meet this insanity with the force it may have normally been able to bring to bear, but thankfully it didn't have to, Macsen's ambitions and follies were swallowed up by the warpstorm that presently bears his name."

"And his symbol was on the sword the young man drew from the stone?" Diane asked soberly. She had almost bought Dagonet's simple explanation of sexual frustration, but this threw a new, horrifying, wrinkle into it.

"We are in the storm now," said Isolde, face pale. "Maybe we are seeing him, at a moment of strength."

"They say that worlds and sectors can survive almost untouched behind warpstorms," Brandaine said, "though time may pass differently. Oh Emperor, what if Macsen and his Battlefleet are still there, just waiting for the storm to cease?"

Orgeluse flushed and held up her hands placatingly. "Now, we don't know if it was Macsen's red dragon. I'd have to actually see it, and then compare it to the few scraps of records we have."

"It seems as if we all know the answer here," Dagonet added casually. "We are in the realm of the Pendragons now."

"What do you know of the Pendragon?" Orgeluse asked, startled. "I didn't mention it, and the title Macsen Wledig claimed isn't exactly common knowledge."

Before Dagonet could answer, there was a sudden crack of sound above them. Brandaine cursed, and drew her laspistol. "That was a las! What the hell is going on?"

More crackling fire rang out. Closer and closer. Diane grabbed her mace, realizing as she did that it might not be much use against a lasgun. Only if she could get close, otherwise she would die.

"It seems," Dagonet said, his voice eerily calm, "that something has given out."


[Sorry for the wait, also it will be Brandaine from now on. I'm bad with names.]

 

[Icipall]

Dagonet sat cross-legged on his space chest,

Click to shrink...

Ah, those space chests, so much better than regular chests.

The voidborn man smiled lightly. "Oh, I don't think there is anything to worry about. This is a rather straight-forward metaphor, I think." He mimed gripping a sword hilt in front of him once again. "Now. You both dream of an attractive young man, who takes a long, solid, object, and withdraws it fro-"

Click to shrink...

"Oh aye, and the truth is you and the lady want a young man's sword in your stone," the apparent sage said bluntly.

Click to shrink...

*Snort*

"The Red Dragon of Pyrdain," Orgeluse said nervously, "it was the symbol of the entire subsector, the banner of the ruler of the planet Avalon and thus the ruler of Pyrdain itself."

Click to shrink...

Oh, do tell more.

Diane swore under her breath. "So the last bearer would have been Macsen Wledig, right?"

Click to shrink...

I see what you did there.

"They say that worlds and sectors can survive almost untouched behind warpstorms," Brandaine said, "though time may pass differently. Oh Emperor, what if Macsen and his Battlefleet are still there, just waiting for the storm to cease?"

Click to shrink...

Well, that is something you don't need to worry about.

 

[bookwyrm]

Wow Arthur's kinda the heir to madness hand in hand with greatness huh? First Maximus/Macsen who defied Terra's iron rule and dashed himself upon a Warpstorm for his trouble, then Cystennin/Constantinus who tried to rule as High King and Governor both and who's futile attempt to escape the Warpstorm and use the rising Vortigern doomed Avalon, and then Uther the terrible who doomed the last great alliance against the rule of chaos. No wonder Mordred is going to turn out the way he does, Arthur is the weird Pendragon for being able to temper their mad wroth with compassion and wisdom.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

The cracks of lasfire grew and grew, until it sounded like a storm directly above them. Other sounds, the more conventional boom of shotguns and the screaming roar of chainblades, made it clear that full battle had been joined. Always, the sounds of battle grew steadily closer and closer.

"How?" Brandiane growled, her own laspistol up and ready. "How did this get started? My regiment has been in tight control through this whole crisis!"

"Yes, I'm sure the Elysian Drop Troop recolors who allowed themselves to be bought by the wealthiest clans of Anguish are a model of discipline," Dagonet said dryly. He shook his head. "Even down here, we could feel the tension building. It may not have been your companions who fired the first shot, but that hardly matters, it won't stop until one side is slaughtered."

Brandaine didn't even seem to notice the jab at her regiment. She darted a look down every angle. "It feels like it is everywhere!"

Isolde laid a hand on Brandaine's shoulder. "Growing fearful won't help matters," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "We need to focus and move."

Slowly, Diane slid her mace from its holster, her thumb hovering over the activator rune that would light its head and let it crush and kill with even greater force. She was sweating heavily, she had never been in a fight in her life, though her house had taught her self-defense as a precaution. Naturally, she wasn't supposed to bring lethal force against loyal subjects of the God-Emperor, but navigators were a commodity, and she had to be able to fight against potential enslavement from raiders and pirates and worse.

Oregluese, keeping with Isolde between the two combatants, held her slate close to her chest. "Oh dear, I should have never come here."

"Consider yourself lucky, if you had been up there, perhaps you would die all the faster, capturing a mutineer's bullet."

"Thank you Dagonet, that helps my nerves quite a bit."

"Do you know anywhere we could be safe?" Diane bit out, trying to cut off the clown's irritating string of jokes.

Dagonet frowned. "There is one shuttle bay an hour's walk away. If we really rush, we can make it all the faster."

"My place is with my regiment," Brandaine argued half-heartedly.

"Weren't you assigned to protect Lady Isolde?" Diane asked.

The look that passed over Brandaine's face was truly uncomfortable and conflicted. Eventually she scowled bitterly and managed, "Yes, that is correct. Let's make haste to the shuttle bay."

Dagonet reached into his chest and came out with two long daggers. He spun them lightly in his hands. "I'll lead, as I know these halls like the blade of my knife."

So Dagonet led them through the cold halls, his knives glinting in the artificial light. Behind him was Brandaine, gun at the ready, with Isolde and Orgeluse huddled behind the two armed warriors. Diane took the rear, mace held tight in a hand suddenly clammy.

Between them, they only had two guns, and Brandaine was keeping a firm grip on both. Diane could accept the point, Brandaine was the only one who fully understood how to handle the weapons. Still, as she held her weapon, Diane couldn't help but feel exposed. If a warrior caught her unawares, they'd easily be able to shoot her before she could attack them with her own weapon.

With the thudding of footsteps, two men in filthy overalls appeared, under-deck workers armed with clubs and a bloodstained lasgun gripped tight in one man's hands. They stopped short at seeing the party.

"Dagonet," the man with the lasgun said.

"Hello," replied Dagonet with faux cheer. "Pray lower the gun, Vin, it is making me nervous."

Vin didn't lower the gun. His fierce eyes grew sharper. "Hand over the woman, Dagonet. That's what we want."

Brandaine barked viciously. "Over my dead body! You won't have the Lady Isolde!"

Isolde let out a frightened little sound, but slid into a defensive stance. Her family evidently hadn't slacked on self-defense classes as many other clans would.

A snort of irritated amusement from Vin. "We don't want the pampered bitch. We want the mutant."

A chill ran down Diane's spine. Her kind were barely tolerated at the best of times. Ships crew usually understood the necessity of the navigator race, though even they were best avoided. This was something she had been warned about. She started to step forward, lowering her mace. Best to allow herself to be killed, for Isolde's safety.

But Dagonet stopped her with an upraised hand and a smile that sent chills running down her spine. "May I ask why?"

"She led us here!" the other man barked, his hand pale on his club. "Right into the storm! We are going to die because of her filthy breed!"

"I see," said Dagonet. There was a clatter, both his knives falling to the ground. "I suppose that does stand to reason. Though some may say that such is outside anyone's control. This ship is going home in a sense, we are simply caught in its wake."

A sneer filtered across Vin's face. "You know something, Dagonet. You've always been a sorcerous little bastard. You've gotten us gassed, killed, and starved more than once. I'm thinking we need to send your filthy soul to the Emperor as well. This is all because we have displeased him by associating with the unclean, the mutant, the her-" His rant ended in a bloody gurgle as Dagonet slid a hidden dagger from his sleeve and threw it straight into his throat.

The underdecker's lasgun fired one shot in his spasms, right into the ceiling, and he fell bonelessly to the ground, a pool of red pouring from his ravaged throat.

The other man screamed in horror, and rushed blindly forward, club raised. An instant later, Brandaine shot him through the right eye. His brain vaporized instantly, and he joined the other man in death.

Dagonet retrieved his daggers, ripping the killing blade out with ease. "Goodness, he just had to threaten me, didn't he. I would have left it to you if they had left it at that." He shook his head. "Vin was always a fool." He wiped his dagger on his clothes, leaving a red stain that he didn't seem to notice.

Diane wrenched her eyes away from the two dead men. It was the first time she had ever seen such bloody action. "I can take care of myself, Dagonet," she said calmly.

"Oh?" Dagonet quirked an eyebrow. "Were you going to kill him? Walk up and snap his neck when he dropped his guard? You are fiercer than you look."

Diane kept her face coldly neutral, even though she could feel her heart pounding like a drum. "I do what I must. As do we all."

She put one foot forward, and forced herself to keep walking, past the stiffening bodies. She was careful to avoid the pool of blood.

The sounds of battle seemed to be fading at last, winding down to only a minor storm of violence ringing out across the decks. "I wonder who won," Isolde said softly.

"No one," Diane heard herself answer. She knew it was the right answer. Whoever had won whatever conflict had exploded across the ship, it was entirely pointless to anyone's continued survival. Just so much blood and death for no reason. It made her ill to think about.

Isolde smiled sadly at her. "I suppose you are right," she said.

The light seemed to improve eventually, until it fully opened into a wide shuttle bay. This had evidently been the scene of some conflict, a jumble of bodies, wearing the work suits of voidsmen, the red robes of tech adepts, and even a few scattered about in the blue uniforms of the Heaven Dancers. All dead, all soaking the deck with their spilled blood.

"A regular slaughter," Brandaine groaned.

The bay had one shuttle, splattered with the blood of the fallen, covered in several burn-marks where shots had scoured the sturdy armored hull. It seemed, by Diane's measure, to be fully functional and respectable.

There was a pained gurgle, and a red-robed figure limped into view, leaning on a polearm and leaking red blood and black promethium from a massive gash in their side. "Survivors. How fortuitous. Perhaps this won't be a waste after all." The tech-adept made a hideous sound, bubbling from their ruined guts. "Bless the Omnissiah."

"You poor thing," Isolde said softly, "is there anything we can do for you?"

"You can survive," the adept said softly. Pointing at the shuttle, the dying being continued, "We are free from the Warp Storm, so this shuttle may be able to take you to freedom. There were many livable worlds in the Pyrdain subsector. It is a small hope, but it is still a hope."

"You tech-priests are always running the odds," said Brandaine. She crossed her arms. "What do you figure here?"

They slumped to the floor. "I couldn't tell you, my mind is fading, breaking. I can't say that it is good odds."

"So why should we?" Brandaine asked angrily. "Way I see it, we could just stay here. We can bunker down, and emerge when everything settles at last."

"It won't settle!" The Tech-Priest barked, as loud as they could through dying lungs. "What set all this off isn't just escaping the warp-storm, it is what is coming. Our sensors have detected a fleet, several ships coming in on an investigative vector. My Magos read their IFF. They are ships that haven't been seen for five thousand years. Battlefleet Pyrdain, ships that belonged to Macsen Wledig. Tension snapped, and panic set in instantly. We, of course, immediately made steps for our escape, but were attacked by panic stricken people. I can't blame them, I can only feel pity. This shuttle has the capability to enter the atmospheres of worlds. Baddon or Avalon will do." Another cough, and their rant ended. "I don't have much time. Hurry and get yourself on-board."

Isolde stepped to the adept, smiling at Orgeluse. "Help me Orgeluse, we can't let our friend die here."

Orgeluse stumbled forward, hanging her vox unit and clipboard at her side. She and Isolde helped the priest up, and carried them to the shuttle. They both ignored the dying tech-adept's protests.

One by one, they followed on board. The shuttle was large and powerful, built to carry many people. Isolde and Orgeluse lay the bleeding adept onto one of the rows of seats, and set to work binding their wounds as best they could.

Diane slumped in one chair, exhausted. Were they really going to flee into open space? She found she didn't have the energy to argue.

Behind her, Isolde and Orgeluse helped the priest sit up, wound bound and strapped into the seat for the lift. It seemed like a pathetically small thing to do, insufficient in the face of the child of Mars' imminent death.

Brandaine moved to the cockpit, muttering about how she had at least some degree of training in piloting aircraft. How different could a shuttle be?

The doors, set to some timer, slammed shut, and then the hanger bay opened, and the void of space loomed. After a moment of hesitation, the thrusters boomed on, and the machine lifted steadily into the air, then hurtled out through space, boiling the bodies behind them into ash as they went.

Diane looked over, seeing Orgeluse and Isolde continuing to try and tend to the priest. Dagonet was curled in his own corner, rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around himself, his blood-stained jumpsuit suddenly looking all the more pathetic.

As the flight stabilized, Diane walked over to the man. "Dagonet?" she asked, trying to sound gentle. The man seemed to be weeping, shuddering and making odd little sounds. "It's ok. It will be over soon."

And suddenly she stopped as she realized the truth. Dagonet wasn't crying. He was laughing, uncontrollable cackles of mirth. He looked up at her, stilling for just a moment. "No. it isn't over, this is but the end of the first act!"

 

[Icipall]

"Yes, I'm sure the Elysian Drop Troop recolors who allowed themselves to be bought by the wealthiest clans of Anguish are a model of discipline," Dagonet said dryly.

Click to shrink...

He's right, you know.

Dagonet frowned. "There is one shuttle bay an hour's walk away. If we really rush, we can make it all the faster."

Click to shrink...

Well, that's fortuitous.

"Weren't you assigned to protect Lady Isolde?" Daine asked.

Click to shrink...

Diane.

Dagonet reached into his chest and came out with two long daggers. He spun them lightly in his hands. "I'll lead, as I know these halls like the blade of my knife."

Click to shrink...

*Licks the blade. The blade was poisoned. Dies.*

"I see," said Dagonet. There was a clatter, both his knives falling to the ground. "I suppose that does stand to reason. Though some may say that such is outside anyone's control. This ship is going home in a sense, we are simply caught in its wake."

Click to shrink...

He knows more than he actually lets on, but plays the part of the fool.

"You can survive," the adept said softly. Pointing at the shuttle, the dying being continued, "We are free from the Warp Storm, so this shuttle may be able to take you to freedom. There were many livable worlds in the Pyrdain subsector. It is a small hope, but it is still a hope."

Click to shrink...

Wait, we're out?

Our sensors have detected a fleet, several ships coming in on an investigative vector. My Magos read their IFF. They are ships that haven't been seen for five thousand years. Battlefleet Pyrdain, ships that belonged to Macsen Wledig. Tension snapped, and panic set in instantly.

Click to shrink...

Oh shit, they're still there?! But then why don't they keep closer hold on their subsector's worlds, like Avalon?

And suddenly she stopped as she realized the truth. Dagonet wasn't crying. He was laughing, uncontrollable cackles of mirth. He looked up at her, stilling for just a moment. "No. it isn't over, this is but the end of the first act!"

Click to shrink...

 

[dermenscha]

"No. it isn't over, this is but the end of the first act!"

Click to shrink...

"After all, the audience on the other side of the fourth wall wants to see the Arthur-Guinevere-Lancelot love triangle!"

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

"After all, the audience on the other side of the fourth wall wants to see the Arthur-Guinevere-Lancelot love triangle!"

Click to shrink...

That'll be 95% of this so you'd better want that