On the training deck of the Invictrix, Lieutenant Sephios of the Second Company of the Charnel Guard stood with his Captain, the storied champion Mordath, reviewing a list of pict recordings of a recent engagement on a wall-mounted console. Warriors of the Charnel Guard were expected to learn from both the actions of their Battle Brothers, and much of their time between awakenings was spent reviewing recordings of their fellow Astartes.
Soliciting an uneasy glance from Sephios, Mordath selected a marker with the icon of the Black Skulls: a pale “X” with the shape of a fanged skull in black at its center. Sephios wondered silently why his Captain had immediately gravitated to the selection of their cursed comrades, as he could imagine very little could be learned from reviewing what would surely be a disturbing display of uncontrolled, clumsy slaughter. Perhaps it was simple curiosity, perhaps a morbid fascination with the ferocity of the Black Skulls, even though the veteran Captain and Sephios himself had witnessed their fury in person on several battlefields.
The capture came from a pict recorder on the interior of a Black Skulls landing chamber—more of a shipping container than a troop transport—just after landing. The screen was black, and the sounds emitting from the console were like that of a den of animals—howling, panting, snarling, even weeping. The ping of small arms fire could be heard intermittently, as the enemy outside likely attempted to shoot down the carrier. After the sound of the carrier vessel taking off, the sides of the chamber fell away with a metallic crunch, allowing the light of the battlefield to flood in and reveal the source of the bestial noises. Along each side of the chamber were five warriors, some kneeling, some crouched like predators, with their arms affixed by short chains coming from locks on the floor below them. As the light hit them, it was apparent that they had all been pulling relentlessly at their chains, pleading with the metal to release them to their bloody vengeance. Their heads were all adorned with helms that resembled something like a cage, rather than a protective piece of armor. Many were missing components of their battle plate: pauldrons, vambraces, even boots had been damaged and wrenched off as they struggled against their chains and bashed into each other in their futile struggles. All were armed with weapons that would befit a hive-ganger more than an Astartes: rusty blades, bludgeoning weapons, antique bolt weapons that looked in a state of disrepair or even obviously inoperable. Some had their weapons permanently attached to their gauntlets, apparently to prevent their habit of dropping them in favor of using their hands to tear enemies apart.
In the center of the chamber, the recording showed another figure adorned in the battle plate and livery of the Black Skulls, though his armor appeared to be in a better state of repair than those that surrounded him. He was the only one standing, though still affixed to the floor with long chains coming from his wrists; only this warrior was not pulling and wrenching at the chains as his lost brothers did. To the left of the warrior, with the point buried in the steel deck, there stood a sword of massive proportions, with a blade easily a head taller than the warrior it was intended for. Suddenly, from a speaker in the roof of the chamber, there came a series of three chimes, during which the warrior finally began to pull against his chains. A mechanical clunk accompanied the release of his chains from the deck, and he immediately turned to grasp the hilt of the giant blade and wrench it from where it was jammed into the floor. As he did so, he looked to the rear of the chamber, and for a split second, appeared to stare directly into the pict recorder’s lens. It could be seen now that he was not adorned with a helm of any kind, and his long, ragged, white hair and beard fluttered in the breeze of this new battlefield. His eyes were terrible to behold, devoid of life, resembling the eyes of a mindless predator from some forsaken jungle world.
“How many studs do you see?” Mordath muttered.
“Six, my Captain,” Sephios replied, as the figure turned and walked forward, past the straining animals on either side, and into the light of the cursed planet he would bestow his wrath upon. As he took his first step onto the dirt, the chamber began to chime again. Before the third chime, he was at a dead sprint, charging headlong into a crowded formation of what appeared to be cultists of the Ruinous Powers. Another loud clunk emitted from the chamber, as all ten of the seething killers’ chains were finally released. Immediately the murderous pack clambered out, following the lead of the ancient warrior ahead of them, snarling and bellowing incoherent curses as they charged. What followed was a slaughter that resembled the furious attacks of World Eaters berserker charges: relentless, merciless, without concern for cover or defense of any kind. The squad moved through the enemy formation like fire through a hab-block, with the ferocious warrior reaping the foe at their head.
“Brother Captain Ariath… Grandfather, as they call him now, not that he answers to any name or title… over 600 years in the service of the Emperor, and he’s reduced to this… beast,” Sephios murmured, shaking his head.
“The curse is indeed a cruel fate, little brother. However, I would be hesitant to say he is reduced. Look upon the path he carves, and more importantly, the way the Black Skulls follow him. It’s as if their rage is focused by his own." After thoughtful pause, the Captain continued. "He has been leading our fallen brothers long enough to have earned at least another stud on his brow, and yet the curse hasn’t worsened. This is indeed a rarity among those who share the blood of the Angel.” Mordath continued to stare at the pict caster, watching the mayhem created by the squad of Black Skulls as they plowed through the heretics. Were they too afraid to run? Or fanatical enough not to see their own deaths screaming towards them?
After a long pause, Sephios finally commented, “Yes, Captain, his longevity is indeed rare. The way it was explained to me, he only endures because he had lost his mind long before the Black Rage overcame him.”
Mordath gave the slightest hint of a smile. “He was… unique, yes. But there was no other warrior I would want by my side during a charge into a hardened enemy position.” Mordath’s face resumed its forever grim, stoic expression.
“I… My apologies Lord, I did not know you knew him personally.” Sephios stuttered, with an amount of panic in his voice. Mordath simply nodded. Seeking a way to change the subject, Sephios asked, “Forgive me, Captain, but what might we learn from studying the battle actions of the lost? Surely there are no strategic lessons in this display.”
“Correct, brother. There is nothing of tactical value in the methods of these killers; this is just a reminder of the fate that awaits us all, should we live long enough to be afflicted,” Mordath intoned, as Sephios lowered his gaze thoughtfully. "But do not despair, young Sephios," Mordath continued, "because even though their souls have abandoned their mortal flesh, to rest alongside the Great Angel, their bodies are still valuable weapons in the service of the Emperor. If that is to be our fate, we must not be apprehensive about it."
With a solemn nod, Sephios acknowledged the weight of his Captain's words, understanding that every brother's path, no matter how dark, would always serve the Emperor's will.
