The Disaster at Mot

Chapter 3: Weak Points and Strong

Izdubar put his fist through the Throne-damned lying device in front of him. May Khorne’s worst scourging be inflicted upon whatever snivelling fool invented these auspex machines! They were far too easily deceived; this was the third time this week he had commanded his strike cruiser and escorts out into the deep void chasing what turned out to be phantom signatures.

Those wretched infidels in the Holy Judges were toying with him, Izdubar just knew it. These were not true warriors who wanted open combat where might would decide who was right, as is proper. No, they wanted to dance around and play childish games, avoiding a contest they knew they would surely lose. And it wasn’t hard to see why they would do this either, even besides their manifest dishonourable cowardice. They wanted to undermine Izdubar, to make him look foolish.

The Qarnu Anšar were not a complicated bunch, and they were not prone to politicking. But by the same token they were also neither patient nor prone to extended displays of gratitude. Izdubar was in charge because he was stronger than any who might challenge him, and he had shown himself to be capable of guiding his men into superlatively sanguine engagements with pleasing regularity. He had volunteered his leadership on the void warfare front in the expectation that it would consist mainly in boarding actions, no holds barred, vicious close-ranged combat against idolator Astartes. His men, when not so addled by blesséd transcendent rage as to be incoherent, had been happy with this decision; they trusted Izdubar’s instincts to guide them right. Yet here they were a month later and, outside of some (paltry, bloodless) ship-to-ship void combat, they had very little to show for themselves. Izdubar could feel his Qarnu Anšar growing restless.

The men blamed him! They thought it was his mental weakness, his failure as a commander, his inability to meet the enemy. The Centurion had been forced to beat one of his most trusted lieutenants to a bloody pulp the other day for speaking out of turn, something that would have been unthinkable a month ago. Evidently this was just what the Qodesh Sufetim wanted; since they could not win a fair fight against a united Qarnu Anšar, they sought by psychology and subtle stratagem — the weapons of the weak, at the thought of which Izdubar spat onto the decking — to divide them. After all, only then may they have a hope of conquering.

Fortunately, Izdubar knew what needed to be done, and he was tired of letting that mewling mortal hold him back. Gal-Uru’s name meant something like “Predatory canid, seeking out prey” in Uruk’s native tongue. Izdubar thought that fitting indeed — ever on the verge of battle, always holding back; never actually taking the bold action needed to sink one’s teeth into the enemy’s gut. Typical that these contemptible mortals, little more than toy soldiers with their absurd superstitions and pious ramblings, should mistake that for wisdom and bravery. It was simply cowardice with extra steps. Izdubar was sick of having to accommodate it.

When eventually he stomped into Naramutu’s meditation chambers, the fully armed and armoured Astartes was unsurprised yet somehow still disgusted to find that Gal-Uru had been at prayer. From the general state of things clearly him and his lap-dog Dumuzi had been leading a sirdar brigade in guided meditational duelling, and Gal-Uru was now kneeling in prayer as his men moved the training equipment back into storage. His shirtless torso was sheened in sweat, glistening in the flickering torch light, and his sword was lying by its side — returned to its scabbard. The sight only aroused Izdubar’s passions all the more. Here he was trying to actually win a war, while this idiot murmured nonsense and played around with his friends!

The Centurion had to shout to be heard across the deck, above the hustle and bustle of the busy troopers.

“Gal-Uru! Get up, now!”

Those who have never heard a warrior of Khorne bellow, one raised to the status of space marine at that, can little imagine the effect it has on others. Suffice it to say that activity on the deck ceased at once, with all eyes turning to the Centurion — some dropped what they were holding in terrified shock, while others instinctively scrambled for weapons before seeing what produced the noise. Gal-Uru himself was apparently the only one not too affected, calmly finishing his prayer with all due ritual propriety.

“… may our skulls’ teeth be whetted and placed on vigilant watch; their eyes upon the river aeternal.”

Only then did he get up and turn to Izdubar, ignoring the tone and manner of his hail and greeting him as he would on any other occasion.

“Ah, Centurion! Good to see you onboard. Dumuzi and I were just discussing the situation and we owe you our thanks! Coordinating the data you sent us from your fight in the void with what we have seen of the Qodeshi intelligence gathering operations on Mot itself, we think we ca —”

Izdubar cut him off, striding towards Gal-Uru’s place of prayer as he spoke.

“And now you dare mock me too! It’s not my fault there has been no true battle in the void. In fact, were it not for your machinations to deny me glory I am sure there would have been by now! Do not think you can pass the blame on to me, Demigaur.”

To that last word the Centurion added a hideous emphasis, sounding somehow like the word was acid to the tongue even to speak aloud, and revving his chain-axe’s blades to punctuate the point. The men were by this point gathering around the scene, murmured whispers passing among them as they tried to identify the source of this sudden confrontation.

Gal-Uru kept his calm, building to a crescendo from affable starts in his reply:

“There is no blame, friend, none at all. In fact, victory awaits! These Judges evidently mean to bait us into a trap, and we believe that by a simple feint we can over-extend them. Think of it, to offer these infidel skulls to Khorne! Not blame — glory! Triumph!”

Izdubar had once been a warrior of honour, to whom camaraderie and the bonds forged in battle had meant something. That part of him still existed — it could see that Gal-Uru did not seek to humiliate him, did not want division between them at all. That he was excited, honoured even, to serve with the Centurion; he thought the adventures to come would be worthy even of all their decades together so far. It gave him pause, perhaps he did not need to do what he had come here to do, perhaps they could work together yet. As it happened, this would be the last time, ever, that Izdubar would pay any heed to that aspect of his personality before making a decision. Forevermore this would only be a memory, inducing shame and regret in those vanishingly rare moments of contemplation allowed by the life of a Khornite warrior.

Because, alas, the chance flicker of a torch on the chamber wall happened to draw his eye to an unremarkable pactsman in the crowd around them. This Sherden was looking to their High Demigaur with awe, with admiration. It had been centuries — literal centuries — since any of Izdubar’s men had such fire in their eyes. And so Izdubar saw through his little ruse — oh yes, he could see what this was: Gal-Uru was trying to put Izdubar in his place, remind him of their supposed differences in skill as leaders of men. Izdubar’s fury flared; this could only end one way.

“You speak to me of glory, mortal? You speak to me of glory and yet you propose yet another feint, yet another refusal to face the enemy in open battle? You are afraid to face Astartes, you run and hide from what one such as I can do to one such as you! I know what you call triumph for what it really is: cowardice.”

At that last word there were gasps throughout the audience, and some cries of “Blood!” and “Death!” Everyone, including Gal-Uru himself, knew what this meant. They would have to duel, and one of them would have to die, for order to be restored. Anything else would be a blasphemy to the Blood God, which neither piety nor principle could possibly let stand.

Izdubar had killed so many men (and women, and children, and pets) in his years. In many cases he had done so while looking directly into their eyes; he was by this point a practiced interpreter of the thoughts of those who were about to die and knew it. In Gal-Uru’s face he saw, first, shock, then hurt (the aforementioned remnants of his honour would never let him forget this), then anger - a fury of his own, combined with grim resolution. No fear, never fear. Did the others see this too? Was Gal-Uru’s final insult to prove him wrong, so immediately and in front of so many observers? Was there no end to the humiliations this cowardly cur intended to put Izdubar through!?

“Pick up your sword, dog! I will not have your men think I took your skull by legerdemain! I will triumph because I am the Mightier and for no other reason!”

(Gal-Uru was exhausted, unarmored, a mortal on the wrong side of middle age, somewhat less than half the size of the fully plated Astartes before him. There was no question, at all, of who the Mightier was. None of the Sherden watching needed to see the fight play out to know as much.) .

Izdubar found it curious, and years later would still reflect on why it was, that Gal-Uru took a moment to look him up and down, as if appreciating the ornate armour of the Qarnu Anšar for the first time, before picking up and unsheathing his sword. He then took the blade and ran it slowly down his own chest, making a shallow cut from the right to left of his chest. His own blood trickled out, decorating his blade in crimson splatters. Was this a bizarre ritual Izdubar had not previously witnessed? Some sort of expression of defiant contempt for the Centurion himself?

But now was not the time for questions. Pushing the thought aside Izdubar leapt into a strike. The jump was made with all his gene-enhanced speed and strength; activating his chain axe midair. Gal-Uru barely had time for a parry. He stumbled aside — barely regaining his footing before Izdubar was upon him once more. The Centurion stormed down upon Gal-Uru, a tsunami of blows battering against the old man’s raised guard. Izdubar could end this at any moment, he knew it — but he wanted to simply beat him into submission, be seen to break the pathetic mortal by sheer overawing application of force. He would savour seeing Gal-Uru lying before him, his sword shattered at his side, no doubt begging for mercy in front of his now disgusted troops, before Izdubar delivered the killing blow.

So it was with some consternation that Izdubar suddenly found himself lurching forward, the ferocity of his hammer-blow strikes becoming a liability as they met empty space and tilted him badly off balance. Somehow the wiry Demigaur had managed to slip between his sword-falls and sidestep, pitching Izdubar ahead in an ungainly fashion. Impossible! Where did such speed come from!? Worse, now Izdubar found himself on the defensive, turning to find Gal-Uru making direct strikes at his breast plate. Deflecting the thrusts with wild swings of his own, Izdubar could see that Gal-Uru’s face was a study in concentration; the bastard was actually trying to win!

For all that, though, Gal-Uru lacked the strength or stamina to actually press this momentary advantage. Upon regaining his footing and sense of superiority Izdubar could fairly easily take back the momentum. Indeed, sensing this turning tide Gal-Uru risked putting everything into a leftward sweep of his sword. With a sneer Izdubar raised his axe to meet this amateurishly telegraphed move of desperation — and was taken utterly aback when it turned out to be a feint, and Gal-Uru’s blade actually cut upwards from his midriff.

It was as if time stopped. That moment of stillness only broken by a mass-gasp. The whole crowd reacting in shock to see the Centurion bleed. The Centurion, though, was an Astartes. His reflexes were enhanced by both the arcane technologies of the Imperium and the blessings of a patron deity who had use of him yet. So it was he had been able to leap back and avoid the worst of the cut. Even then, if it had not been for his armour he would have been badly wounded. But, as it was, Gal-Uru’s blade merely made a deep scar in the plating across his mid-riff. The blood dripping from the wound was Gal-Uru’s, merely transferred from the blade to the armour.

Izdubar screamed in frustration so loudly that many in the audience collapsed, temporarily deafened by the auditory assault. For his part, upon seeing his own blood trickle down the Centurion’s breastplate, Gal-Uru simply smiled serenely. He starting murmuring to himself:

“My eyes upon the river aete—“

— But would never finish the thought. Izdubar’s scream turned into a strike, which decapitated the High Demigaur in an instant. The victorious Izdubar was left panting, looking around with death in his eyes, still locked into a murderous rage. The only hope of mollifying him before this turned into a general slaughter was if he saw what he expected; the soldiers of the Sherden now, finally, kneeling before him. People finally giving him the respect he was due.

Instead, what he saw was Dumuzi leaping towards him wearing a fully charged power fist. So taken aback was he that his superhuman reactions simply did not kick in, and he took the blow squarely on the chin. His helmet shattered, falling to pieces around him. His jaw cracked, the lower half of his mouth now hanging slack-jawed and loose. He was dizzy, the chamber spinning through blurred vision. He was more furious than he had ever been in his unnaturally lengthy life.

Dumuzi, for his part, was screaming obscenities, the worst insults he could think of:

“Traitor! Coward! PACIFIST!”

With his left hand Dumuzi drew his pistol and started firing at the Centurion. At this point, of course, Izdubar’s battle reflexes were well and truly activated, and he was able to jerk his face aside to dodge the auto pistol’s attempted head-shots. But the whiplash movement caused him intense pain to the shattered wreck of his visage, the searing agony nearly incapacitating him even through the Khorne-fuelled combat-high he was riding.

Dumuzi was advancing as he blasted, clearly going for another strike with the fist. No. This ended now. In a single flowing movement, Izdubar reached down, picked up a fragment of his helmet, and threw its jagged edge straight into the engaged equerry. The fragment had been a horn, standard adornment for a high ranking Qarnu Anšar. It pierced Dumuzi’s neck and he stumbled to the floor, gurgling out rage filled epithets even as he drowned in his own blood; his spasming finger firing off the last of his pistol shots. So it was he died. Covered in blood, his gun run dry, carried into the warp on a tide of unreasoning fury. Khorne received him gladly.

Through the haze of his rage Izdubar was only just able to discern the blaring alarms. At some point, during his brief battle with Dumuzi, alert condition one had been called, and the Pactsmen were now scrabbling around to get to their stations. He grabbed one running past him and held him up to his face, screaming incoherently at him and becoming enraged when the worthless mortal refused to explain what was going on. It took Izdubar a moment to realise this was not because the coward was afraid, nor even because Izdubar had perhaps not fully articulated his query in an entirely comprehensible fashion. No. It was because he was dead. The idiot had managed to get his neck instantly broken when Izdubar grabbed him.

Tossing the worthless fool aside, Izdubar grabbed another. (He would never admit that he had to be careful to do so with a bit more delicacy this time, for to do so might have suggested he was to blame for the last weakling’s death.) Without even needing to be asked she actually offered a stammering explanation for the current state of affairs: the Qodeshi Sufetim’s fleet was mustering above Mot-Secundus. They intended open battle at last!

Izdubar dropped the Sherden and barely paid attention as she scrabbled away, towards Gal-Uru’s corpse as it happened. Perhaps if he was not still infused with Khorne’s holy wrath he would have found it odd that after so long avoiding open battle the Judges now simply declared their purpose. But, as it was, he was simply delighted to continue the killing. He was, by right of combat, the new commander of the invasion of Mot. He had orders to issue, and a war to win.