Three Years Later
Of the seven seedbeds you laid on this terrace at the start of the year, only one still survives, and the plants that grow from the blackened earth are stunted and pale. In isolation you would call this a devastating failure, yet you find yourself smiling at the sight like a proud father before his sons. Half this mountain is terraced farms by now, the majority planted and run by you, but none are even close to this altitude. Only you could survive up here without protective equipment, you and now these tiny, stunted shrubs. It took you half a year of wandering Barbarus to find the right progenitors, and as much time again to get the splice to properly take, but this humble little sight is the vindication of all your efforts.
Nodding in respect to their warrior spirit, you kneel by the side of the plot and dip your fingers into the irrigation channel running along one side, tasting the water there with a brief flick of the tongue. As you had hoped, it is purer by far than the water just a few metres up slope, the majority of the toxins leeched away and stored within the leaves and stems of your cultivated shrubbery. It makes the plants themselves completely inedible, of course, and entirely reliant on human intervention to survive and spread their seeds, but you don't care. Enough greenery like this, planted in enough locations across the planet with the right amount of oversight, and the groundwater of Barbarus will be something approaching potable.
"Perhaps I will call you
Necare," you murmur to the seedlings, allowing yourself a dark chuckle, "He would have hated that."
You do not think of your father often, these days. Sometimes whole weeks pass without you considering the shadow of the old monster at all, and when your thoughts do return to those bleak heights and the beast at their summit, you smile at what he would say to see you now. Victorious Mortarion, Conqueror of Barbarus, mightiest warrior beneath the poisoned skies… crouched next to a pile of earth, fussing over a handful of shrubs. It would enrage him, and you are spiteful enough that even the act of spitting on the old wretch's memory warms you like nothing else. With exquisite care you pluck a handful of seeds free from the most mature of the plants, tucking them safely away in a pouch. Then you rise and look upon your kingdom.
There are forty-nine terraces in the side of this mountain, each one carved by your own hand, steps that ascend into the hell you would make a heaven. On the lower levels you grow hardy the roots and cereals that serve Barbarus as a staple crop, just enough to meet your needs and provide enough of a surplus to take into town come market day, while the others play host to your true work. The trees that will purify the air, the flowers that will support insectoid pollinators, the water-grass that feeds the amphibians that produce some of the best anti-venoms… so many of them have fallen short, but from each setback you have risen again stronger and better prepared, and piece by piece you put together the world of tomorrow. Barbarus will be clean again. It will take generations, but you will have your victory in the end.
Still, for today the work is done – you have learned to leave checking on the upper levels to last, lest your obsession with their success ruin all hope of scheduling. Satisfied, you make your way back over to the long flight of stairs leading back down the mountain, poisonous mist coiling around you like a lover as you contemplate what to do with the now-empty plots that held the failed crops. Perhaps you can see about transplanting some of the wiregrass up here? You've had some success at convincing it to spread already, and if you can find a way to see it survive the more toxic altitudes then you might be able to make headway on the mudslide problem that those traders from Grint Gulch spoke of last time you crossed paths with them in town. You are so caught up in these thoughts that you almost don't notice the danger in time.
A Daemon has come to your home.
It wears the shape of a man, just another visitor waiting for you at the gateway to your farm, but the details are all wrong. The build is too tall, the skin too dark, the eyes too bright. In a world of poisoned air and tainted ground it stands proud and unafraid, without scar or blemish, and though it stands on the very threshold of your domain it shows no fear or deference. You scowl at the sight, the cold calculus of war filtering back into your thoughts like an unwelcome neighbour come around again. Someone has summoned this thing, has breached the fallen temples of the murdered Overlords and drawn upon their twisted lore, and if they have grown so bold as to send a servant for you already their plans must have advanced to a perilous stage indeed.
Muttering a curse, you alter course to pass by the tooling workshop, snatching up a heavy corn-scythe from where it leans against the wall. Your actual weapons are inside, but you dare not take your eyes off the daemon for a second, and with a scowl on your face you move to confront it.
"When they told me you had become a farmer, I was surprised," the daemon says, smiling as if you might somehow be fooled by the genial attitude. You can feel the creature's power now, the way the fact of its existence seems to press like a weight against the thin skein of the air. The Overlords were always careful to only summon lesser sprites and minor daemons, fearing the consequences of calling up what they could not easily put down. Their successors, it seems, are not so wise. "It seemed such a waste of your talents."
You come to a halt on just the other side of your gate, feeling the subtle barrier of the threshold that keeps the daemon from stepping closer. This land is yours, wrought and claimed by your own two hands, and that matters to such beings more than it might to mere men.
"Touch but one of my people and I will scare the crows with your flayed hide," you say bluntly, stabbing the scythe into the ground blade up and leaning slightly against the haft. "Harm them, and it will be worse."
The daemon blinks, and you'll give it credit for being a good actor. If it were not for all the other ways in which its disguise is fundamentally flawed, you might even believe it was genuinely surprised.
"Harm them? Mortarion, why would I.."
"Do not say my name," you grind out, scythe groaning beneath the force of your grip. It seems you have loose lips to deal with as well, for the way the daemon speaks your name implies familiarity, a connection you do not wish to deal with. Who has betrayed you? Who would dare? "I know what your kind can do with a name, and I refuse you."
For a moment there is only silence, tense and unbroken. A faint gust of wind stirs up dust around your feet, but you do not take your eye off the intruder. His form is perfect in a way that cannot be real, his features shaped into something sharp and imperious, like it was designed to throw your every flaw and shortcoming into clear relief. He – it – is mocking you.
"I am no daemon," says the intruder, raising his hands and showing you his palms, as if you would believe him harmless for lack of a sword or burning fire, "nor do I mean you any harm."
"Prove it," you snort, keeping your eye on him, wondering if you will be able to catch him if you swing your scythe now.
"…Tribune. A low pass over the residence, if you would," the intruder says, sounding more bemused than anything, "As nonhostile as possible."
You frown, taking a step back and to the side. The residence can only be your house, a squat structure built of wood and stone and filled with furnishings donated by grateful friends and relatives of the fallen, but… a low pass? Has the intruder brought some manner of winged fiend with it, to outflank and bedevil you? As it turns out, the answer is stranger by far.
It is a machine that comes roaring over the hillside, not a living thing. You can smell the chemical propellant that burns in those mighty furnaces, feel the way the air bends and twists around its hawk-like wings, see the lesser humanoids in shining gold seated behind the windows at the prow. You have never laid eyes on anything of its like before this day, but you know flesh and you know artifice, and this is too clearly the latter. It circles your domain once, roaring like a hunting beast and scattering dust and dirt in its wake, dips its wings in what might almost be a gesture of respect and then vanishes back into the poisoned fog once more.
"…who are you?" you ask, for 'what' no longer seems relevant. The whole world is shifting beneath your feet, but you will be damned if you stumble now.
"I am the Emperor," the stranger says simply, as if it were a name and not a title. He is not dressed like a lord, you think. There is no mantle of fur or cloak of monster hide, no crown of beaten gold upon his brow… and yet the word does not seem wrong. It is something about the eyes, perhaps. They look upon the world with the confidence of one who knows it might all be bent to his will. "I am your father."
"I killed my father," you say sharply, cutting the air with your spare hand, "And you are not Necare come again. I would know."
"You killed the man who claimed you, but he did not make you," the Emperor says, looking you over from head to toe with an artisan's pride in his eyes, "You know this already. I have heard the stories of the things you fought, the shambling beasts and twisted horrors that the so-called Overlords unleashed upon this world. You are as different from such wretched creations as night is from day."
You blink, shifting your weight from one foot to another. Your form is different from other men, this you know, and to learn that you were created is no great shock. The reaction, though… your pale skin, your yellow eyes, the sheer height and presence of your form, these things always marked you apart, set the people you approached stepping back in fear. The Emperor evinces none of those reactions. He looks truly and honestly pleased to see you.
"What do you want?" you frown, pushing the unwelcome and confusing feelings aside for now. "You have travelled far to be here, to seek me out. I would know why."
Part of you wants to know where he has been, these last decades. Why you grew up alone, save for the company of an undying monster and his pets. The rest of you disregards the thought as unworthy. Perhaps the Emperor cast you out, to make your own way in this world, to be a man of your own devising? If so, let him look upon you and feel pride. Raised in darkness, nursed on poison, you have become a man worth knowing.
"You were made to be champions, Mortarion. You and all of your brothers," the Emperor says, smiling at the way you flinch, at the sudden shock that steals your breath away. "I made you to fight at my side, to wage war against this galaxy and all the dark and loathsome things that dwell between the stars. I came here to ask you to join me – to fulfil the purpose for which you were made, and repeat the triumph of Barbarus across the stars."
You are silent. What do you say to that? What does he mean brothers? There are others like you. Of course there are, there have to be, if he could make one like you then it stands to reason he would make others. None of your kin stand on Barbarus, but perhaps they had trials of their own, crucibles to forge their bodies and temper their wills. What must they be like? How much of you is inherent, and how much the product of this land that taught you all you cared to learn?
"You call yourself Emperor," you say at last, "ruler of men, forger of monsters. How am I to know you are not an Overlord, kin to those I slaughtered?"
"I seek unification, not control. Liberation, not subjugation." The Emperor says these words with sincerity, but you do not feel they are as opposed as he presents them. "You might come with me and speak to those who have already sworn to my service… or perhaps you might devise some other means. How do men on Barbarus prove their worth?"
How shall you test the Emperor's character? What qualities will you look for, that tell you if he is worthy?
[ ] Resilience. Together, Father and Son climb the highest peaks of Barbarus, testing themselves and each other in the purest expression of body and will.
[ ] Humility. The Emperor may wage war on the stars and rule over billions, but has he ever laboured for his bread?
[ ] Camaraderie. It was mortal men that scaled the peaks of Barbarus and followed Mortarion into battle. What manner of men have followed the Emperor to this star?
