Lords and Tyrants

by Warhammer 40K

  The mountain.

  It appeared far more impressive from the ground than when Segas had first laid eyes upon it from orbit. It towered over the distant, lesser peaks of the Blackrocks, utterly dominating the skyline. Many were the myths surrounding its dark history, and only a select few within the Chapter knew them all.

  No matter how deeply Segas and Wenlocke pressed into the creaking quicktree forests, the mountain was always just visible beyond. For the most part they walked in silence, feeling faint and sporadic tremors in the earth beneath their feet.

  Though it was a laughable notion, it seemed that Mount Pharos might be following their progress.

  Or, at the very least, listening out for their approach.

  As the day’s heat grew, their path began to climb into the foothills. Without warning, Wenlocke froze mid-step – Segas saw the veteran’s hand flick reflexively to the empty holster at his hip, then up in a halting gesture. Something cracked in the thick undergrowth ahead of them, and Segas’ own fingers closed around the grip of his crozius maul. The two warriors edged apart, scanning for the unseen threat.

  A man trudged into view, walking with a rough wooden staff in one hand and a las-lock rifle slung at his back. His clothing was simple, his frame lean, his gait assured. His tanned flesh and lined features spoke of countless summers beneath the open skies, and a wholesome life working close to the land. Only when he looked up to see the two armoured giants before him – one in cobalt blue, the other in black – did he slow his pace, his expression more vexed than alarmed.

  Segas and Wenlocke held their ground, saying nothing. The man leaned on his staff, and mopped his brow with a ragged sleeve.

  ‘Good day to you, friends. Tell me, have you seen a stray quarian pass this way?’

  The Chaplain kept his voice level, his gaze as piercing as he could make it. ‘Quarian?’

  ‘Aye,’ the man replied. ‘Herd beast. Crafty little boggarts. They give me the slip every chance they get, up and down the hillsides.’

  Brother Wenlocke looked to Segas. They both knew that the mountain was forbidden. The paths were supposed to remain untrodden by the people of Sothopolis, and yet here was a simple herdsman wandering wheresoever his animals took him. But he had a straightforward manner about him, and he held the Chaplain’s eye without fear. He clearly believed that he had every right to be there. Was this, then, the famed pride of the Sothan people?

  It mattered not. They did not have time to dwell upon the trespasses of the locals, and Segas waved Wenlocke back. ‘We have not seen your beast, citizen. We cannot help you.’

  The man grinned, scratching his chin. ‘Citizen, he says? Heh. You’ve never been to Sotha before, that’s for sure.’ Still showing no hint of being intimidated, he sidled up to Segas and reached out to paw at his battleplate, appraising him. ‘The Chapter, then? You’re a tall one, like the Scouts and their training sergeants. More than twenty hands from toe to tooth, I’ll bet…’

  Segas remained guarded. The herdsman rapped his staff on the packed, loamy earth.

  ‘Do you know anything of this world, my tall friends? When I was young, the Chapter sent many Scouts. They were taught their craft on Sotha, and took what they learned to the stars, yes? They arrived as boys, but left as gelding-warriors, taller than any man from the plains or the cities. Not as tall as you two though, I think!’ He screwed his face up, thoughtfully. ‘And not as tall as the old man.’

  At that, Segas leaned in sharply. ‘The old man? Another Chapter warrior, like us?’

  The herdsman grinned again. ‘Aye, a gelding-lord like you, but without any pretty war-plate or badge of rank. The old man on the mountain, we always called him. Even before the Scouts stopped coming, he was the only one allowed up to the top of Mount Pharos. The braver lads from the herds used to help him clear the pathways, and he would tell us such tales about the horses and whatnot from his home world. But you’d never cross him. He has a fearsome manner, when he’s riled.’

  Wenlocke stepped in behind the man, and placed his gauntlets firmly upon his thin, mortal shoulders, enveloping them completely.

  ‘This old man on the mountain,’ he whispered, ‘you know where we might find him?’

  The herdsman frowned, looking from one gauntlet to the other and then back up at Segas.

  ‘I dare say, my tall friends, that he’ll be up at the old castellum. The ruins are hard for you to see from the air, I’ll bet. If you’d be so kind as to unhand me, I’ll take you there.’

  The Aegida Castellum, Segas recalled from the Chapter’s archives on Macragge, had been constructed during the Great Heresy as a base of legionary co-operation on Sotha. Ravaged by traitor assault and never fully rebuilt in all the centuries since, it stood now only in name upon the lower slopes, with tumbles of mossy ferrocrete strewn down the mountainside beneath it. What a casual glance might have mistaken for a rocky outcropping, Segas now saw was the overgrown remnant of a blocky, armoured keep, shot through with pale quicktree trunks and choked by vines.

  Over the afternoon chorus of insects and birdcalls, there came the rhythmic threshing of a blade, and the mumbled refrain of what sounded like a work song.

  Segas looked often to their guide, who seemed at times as surefooted as any quarian might be upon the uneven surfaces of the steep forest floor. Where previously he had been happy to engage the two Space Marines in inane chatter about the changing seasons and the preposterous price of a sack of grain at market, he fell to a respectful silence as they climbed the outer curtain wall of the ruins. Now that they could hear the old man’s gruff voice, the herdsman had become visibly uneasy.

  ‘I shall leave this to you, my lord Chaplain,’ said Wenlocke with a bow of his head. ‘As you said before, this could be delicate.’

  Handing off his skull helm to the other warrior, Segas approached the final gate. Wenlocke followed at a distance, with the herdsman trudging warily after him. Through the fallen arch lay what had once been a courtyard or mustering ground, the flagstones now cracked with grasses and weeds.

  At the far end, in the shadow of the ruined keep, the old man on the mountain toiled.

  His transhuman physique had been little dulled by the centuries. Age had not wearied him as it might a mortal, yet he remained largely free of the battle scars or augmetics that one would expect upon such a venerable warrior of the Adeptus Astartes. His bare limbs were clean, his torso rippled with corded muscle, and only the neural interface ports of his black carapace broke the skin of his back. His wild, white hair was tied back, slick with the greasy sweat that covered his body and darkened his tattered breeches.

  He hefted an immense agricultural scythe, oversized for his grip, with which he cut back the vegetation. The rhythm of the sweeping, repetitive motion was a counterpoint to the song on his lips.

  ‘In avis, in novas, farsoni…’ he murmured as he worked. ‘Invere, vesu ves ni vox…’

  Segas cleared his throat, and called out.

  ‘Brother-Captain Oberdeii, Warden of the Pharos and commander of the Ultramarines Aegida Company?’

  The warrior let his scythe fall still. He straightened slowly, and turned to face the Chaplain. There, in his cold stare and not upon his physical form, were borne all the hardships of his life.

  Segas came to attention, saluting him with the sign of the aquila over his breastplate. Behind him, he heard Wenlocke do the same, and waited for a response.

  Oberdeii stared at them for a long while, the butt of his scythe resting upon the ground. He showed no sign of recognition at their livery, nor even the Ultima adorning it. Segas began to wonder if they had made a mistake in coming unannounced after all, and whether or not they would live to take word of it back to Macragge.

  Reaching up slowly to smooth his long whiskers, the aged captain’s gaze moved to the mortal cowering in the archway. ‘You,’ he barked. ‘I remember you. You are called
Benvis. You brought me milk when my bovid was taken by the rot.’

  The herdsman let out a gasp of relief. ‘Yes! Many years ago, I think you mean, when I was a boy.’ He patted the strap of the las-lock on his back. ‘You taught me the best way to hold a rifle, as thanks, and–’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Oberdeii growled. Benvis did not need to be told twice.

  Segas looked to the captain’s chest, and the twin-scythe emblem tattooed in faded golden ink across it. He saw the afternoon sun glinting from the curve of the actual blade at Oberdeii’s shoulder, and recalled the provenance of that simple icon – the noble Sothan martyrs that it represented, the soldiers who had been farmers, and who had always intended to be so once again.

  Oberdeii glowered at him in return.

  ‘Who are you? A Chaplain?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. I am Brother-Chaplain Segas of Second Company. My companion here is Veteran-Brother Wenlocke.’

  ‘Hnh. What do you want? As you can see, I have work to do.’

  This was it, Segas realised. This was the moment. He steeled his nerve, feeling the weight of a thousand years of Ultramarian glory resting firmly upon his shoulders.

  ‘Brother-captain,’ he declared, ‘by the authority of the Lord Macragge, ruler of Ultramar, we are here to relieve you of your command here on Sotha.’

  The wooden snath of Oberdeii’s scythe creaked as he tightened his grip on it. ‘No you aren’t,’ he spat. ‘Your Lord Macragge has no authority in this. Only one individual could release me from my oath, and he’s dead.’

  Caution. Segas had advised caution from the start. He cleared his throat again.

  ‘My lord Oberdeii, I understand that this must come as–’

  Oberdeii let out a wordless roar, and snapped the wooden haft of the scythe between his immense hands. In spite of himself, Segas flinched even as he heard the whimpering Benvis fleeing back down the forest path and away to what he probably considered safety.

  ‘Do not speak to me,’ Oberdeii bellowed. ‘You understand nothing. I am the last Lightkeeper…’ He began to trail off, frowning. ‘Though… no light comes from Sotha anymore…’

  A curious turn of phrase, under the circumstances, Segas thought. Nonetheless, he stiffened into a deferential bow.

  ‘You have upheld your oath, brother-captain – none could ask for a more worthy guardian. But this world no longer requires the protection of the Aegida Company.’

  Oberdeii’s jaw worked silently for a moment. ‘If you want my command,’ he mumbled, ‘then you’ll have to take it from me. I won’t yield without a fight. You can’t deny me that.’

  It was an honourable enough request, Segas had to admit. A ritual duel, against a living legend of the Great Heresy, no less. He turned to Wenlocke for approval, though the veteran was eyeing the broken scythe that remained in Oberdeii’s hand, and the edge of the wickedly sharp blade that still glinted in the sunlight.

  Nevertheless, the Chaplain nodded. ‘Very well then, my lord. I shall stand as Chapter Master Decon’s proxy in this, and let the matter be decided between us in combat. Brother Wenlocke will– ’

  The blow was devastating. It lifted Segas from his feet and sent him sprawling to the broken flagstones in a clatter of plate, ears ringing, his vision hazed red.

  Oberdeii stood over him.

  ‘Get up.’

  Gaping and blinking, Segas tried to shake the dullness from between his temples. He hadn’t even seen the old warrior move. Wenlocke stepped forwards to help him to his feet, but Oberdeii shot the veteran a look that would have reduced a mortal to panicked tears.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, boy? This is what he agreed to.’

  Without breaking his gaze, he drew back one bare foot and kicked the Chaplain squarely in the face, snapping his head around. Blood splattered onto dusty stone, and Segas let out a pained gasp. ‘S-Stay back, brother…’ he managed, between coppery gulps that caught in his throat.

  Wenlocke shook his head, backing away slowly. ‘This is lunacy.’

  Segas rolled onto his hands and knees, with Oberdeii pacing around him. The captain twitched and murmured to himself, twisting the scythe blade free of the broken haft and holding it like a falx. ‘This is my duty, my honour…’ he hissed. ‘And my worthiness is not for the likes of you to judge…’

  As Segas brought one unsteady foot underneath himself, he reached for the crozius arcanum at his belt once more. Oberdeii froze, his improvised blade ready.

  ‘Better make it count, Chaplain. You’ll get one chance. One chance only.’

  It was true. Segas knew now that Oberdeii would kill him – and Wenlocke immediately after – if he could. To him, this was no merely symbolic duel for the sake of saving face.

  This was the only honour that the old captain had left. For that, Segas found that he pitied him.

  The Chaplain rose painfully, activating the maul’s power field and holding it in a guard position. His words came at first in a slur. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I was given this task, though in truth I feel blessed to journey here and meet you in person.’ He took one last, steadying breath. ‘Long have I made study of the Chapter’s hidden records – I know who you are, and what you have done for the Imperium.’

  Oberdeii hesitated only a moment before he lunged, the blade moving in a masterful feint intended to bring him inside Segas’ guard and strike for his vulnerable neck-seal.

  But this time, the Chaplain was ready.

  He stepped the same way as Oberdeii and jabbed at the base of his opponent’s skull with the head of the crozius. There was a bright flash and a crack of percussive energy discharge that threw them apart. Had Segas dialled the weapon’s power field for anything more than minimal output, it would likely have blown the captain’s head from his shoulders.

  As it was, Oberdeii stumbled forwards, failing to regain his footing before crashing down onto his side, stunned and wracked by fading neural tremors. Spittle foamed at the corner of his mouth, and his right eye was bloodshot as it rolled in its socket. Wenlocke reluctantly moved to aid the stricken officer, kicking the scythe blade out of reach.

  From a distance, Segas ran two fingers of his gauntlet across the back of his head where the captain’s wild slash had caught him. They came away traced with cinnabar-red, his genhanced physiology already clotting the ugly gash in his scalp.

  He looked down at Oberdeii, and saluted him with the crozius.

  ‘As I said, my lord – please forgive me, but you are relieved of your command.’

  When the captain had taken water and regained his senses, the three of them climbed the mountain together. Wenlocke, usually quick to voice any discontent or to join in someone else’s conversation, remained quiet. He listened intently as Segas put various questions to Oberdeii, and the embittered captain gave such replies as he saw fit.

  At times, those replies bordered on the nonsensical, and neither Segas nor Wenlocke believed this was entirely the result of a powered blow to the head. Yet it was clear that even the most curious eccentricities of ‘the old man on the mountain’ carried the weight of years and experience in them.

  ‘I have learned much in my time,’ Segas mused as they neared the summit, ‘from the writings of such luminaries as Lamiad, Corvo and Prayto. But here I am, walking with another great hero of our Chapter – one who stood at their side, in their finest hour, and spoke with them as easily as we speak now, and yet lives still among us.’

  ‘I am no hero,’ Oberdeii grunted.

  ‘Come now, brother-captain. You–’

  ‘No hero,’ he repeated, firmly. ‘I did what was asked of me, without question, knowing that to do so would deny me any future glory. No warrior of the Legion was ever a hero simply for doing what was expected of him…’ His attention began to wander again, as it had several times already during their ascent. ‘They say, “Only in death does duty e
nd”. But my name will never appear on any roll of honour, no monument to the Legion or Chapter.’

  Segas nodded. ‘Such was the solemnity of your duty, and the secrecy of your appointment to it. Even so, there is a great deal written of you, in the grand Library of Ptolemy on Macragge.’

  Oberdeii shrugged. ‘Never heard of it. Never been to the capital world.’

  ‘It is a wondrous sight, brother-captain – the greatest of archives, save for those of the Imperial Palace itself on holy Terra. It was named for the first presiding master of the old legionary Librarius, and has been much expanded in the centuries since. Though my calling has ever been to the Reclusiam and the righteous soul of our Chapter, I am often drawn to the halls of the great library in the course of my duties. It represents the sum total of all Ultramar’s knowledge, culture and philosophies. And its histories, both remembered and… otherwise.’

  Unease welled up in Segas’ gut. He was not used to discussing such things openly, though he knew that, in all likelihood, Oberdeii was privy to far more dangerous secrets than he. The Chaplain glanced sidelong at Wenlocke, who glanced at them both in turn before mouthing a silent prayer and touching his fingertips to the golden crux upon his breastplate.

  ‘I feel that we need not be coy, you and I,’ Segas went on, putting his concern aside. ‘There is a place within the Library of Ptolemy wherein lie the two halves of our primarch’s legacy. The first is the great Codex, the foundation of the Adeptus Astartes penned by his own noble hand. Such an important work can never be lost or allowed to fall into the hands of our enemies, and so it is watched over night and day by tireless guardians. Guardians much like yourself, in fact.’

  Oberdeii did not visibly respond. He continued to place one callused foot in front of the other, loose stones skittering from his tread and away down the mountainside.

  ‘The other half is similarly guarded, though for very different reasons. There has been much debate in recent years, between Chapter Master Tigris Decon and his inner circle, as to whether we should purge it from the library altogether. Some urge him to do so, to rid ourselves and our successors of the only remaining proof of Lord Guilliman’s failure and folly during the Great Heresy. Others would seek to remind Master Decon that to destroy our past would blind us to the lessons we might come to learn from it.’