Phase 2 Armageddon Lore
Chapter 4
Brother Torismund, of the Order of St Sigismund, has been elevated to an honoured role within the Chapter. However, doubt infects the Order and Torismund is haunted by recent failures.
Chapter 4: We’re Putting You On A PIP
Brother Torismund’s stylus drifted elegantly across the crude parchment, leaving a grim tale in its wake. The Armageddon crusade had barely begun and already felt arduous, so far he had failed to bring his Order closer to reclaiming the lost relic. The holy vision of Koorland’s sacred armour that he had confessed to his Chaplain weeks ago now felt like mockery. Turning his thoughts to the parchment allowed him a few hours of precious solitude away from his prying Chaplain.
Torismund cleared his mind and drifted into the memory of the gruelling voyage from Armageddon’s dense, claustrophobic jungle, across its barren plains to the towering walls of Hive Tempestora.
Ever onward marched the Black Crusade,
A raucous ballad their blades made,
Crosses marked their knightly order,
Midst choking smoke and bloody slaughter.
Not poisonous fog nor beastly foe,
Could seek to halt, tire nor slow,
What duty and hope could kinder,
Not heretic, witch, nor mutant hinder.
Scorched ground newly baptised in gore,
Now consecrated forever more,
With each pious stride did chainsword sing,
Its chorus clear as day did ring.
Boots trampled over enemies felled,
Battle cries erupting while beasts wailed,
For Armageddon! For Armageddon!
The light of hate pierced the unhuman.
With toilsome steps and hateful eyes,
They fought to claim their sacred prize,
Ever onwards marched the Black Crusade,
The Knights of Sigismund’s bloody parade.
In the modest chamber, Torismund set down his stylus and stared at the black sword set carefully on the wall shrine. Shadows danced around it, cast by restless candle flames. It was a simple, clean weapon, without the typical finery a sword of such reverence could boast. In its subtlety it was strangely elegant.
The pommel and hand guard were made of polished, Nocturne-forged steel, fashioned in the shape of a holy cross. They were expertly crafted to balance thehilt perfectly with the long blade. The handle was bound in freshly tanned leather, and still carried the scent of blessing oils from the priests’ ceremony three rotations past. Following the Hive Tempestora skirmish however, the faintest aroma of ork blood still lingered, which only an astartes’ heightened senses could pick up.
This was an instrument designed for the brutal practicality of war, and despite being heavier in the hand than a regular power sword, in a master’s grip it could be swung with the same ease as his stylus. In fact, it was better weighted, thought Torismund, attempting to balance the stylus on his finger.
The blade enchanted the eyes of all who beheld it, even in the fog of battle. At first glance it appeared black, but if the observer dared to hold the sword’s gaze, it answered with an ominous glow – sometimes a pure white, sometimes a deep purple. In the dimly lit chamber, light seeped unnaturally from its menacingly sharp edge onto the surrounding walls and altar. It was a cold light but hopeful, the light of a desperate civilisation driven to the edge of a merciless galaxy, with enemies lurking on every front.
In truth, the Black Sword hadn’t felt right in his hands since the long, humiliating march to Hive Tempestora. Ever since the retreat, he had been nervous to touch the revered weapon, let alone swing it in combat. No one in the Order could fault Torismund’s skill with a power sword, but he had heard whispers of doubt for the title he now held, even from some of his most trusted brothers. This was the Black Sword after all, and only a select few in the Imperium’s history had been worthy of wielding it, including St Sigismund himself. How could he claim the title of Emperor’s Champion after one indecipherable hallucination and a failed attempt to crush the greenskin horde, which now posed an existential threat to the hive city? On top of that, the damn relic still eluded him. He clenched his bruised fist as memories of that cursed city came flooding back.
A pounding clang on the metal door snapped him back to the present. Chaplain Ulrund adorned a faded, white robe with the Templar cross swaying across his scratched cuirass. As he stepped into the doorway, Torismund noted that his keen eyes darted around the room and settled on the parchment, rather than meeting his own.
“Chaplain. Please, enter,” invited Torismund.
“I shan’t be here long, brother Torismund,” replied Ulrund. “I bring news. Orbital sensors have detected strong warp surges at a ruined mining facility near the Tempestora drop site. The Marshal is preparing a strike force as we speak, but I encouraged him to give you the lead of this operation.” The chaplain paced in front of the desk, Torismund sensed he was holding back an important detail.
“Our Lord Marshal agreed,” he added. “As it happens, neophyte scouts have sighted the lost relic, amongst a host of heretic traitors. A legion of chaos clashed with the ork horde after we… returned. If we strike now we can reclaim thembefore they’re taken away through the warp.” He met Torismund’s eyes. “This is our last chance.”
“I am honoured, lord Chaplain. I will serve.”
Ulrund’s tone changed. “Honoured. An odd choice of words wouldn’t you say?” He paused.
“Forgive me,” Torismund replied tentatively. “I did not mean…”
Ulrund cut him off. “You should know that Command have reviewed your latest skirmish and found your lack of progress… disturbing.” Torismund stayed silent, forcing down a surge of anger. “With your station there is a performance bar that must be met, and senior members of the Order have expressed concerns around your… lack of accountability.” His words were deliberate and cutting.
“Your recent failures are not helped by an underlying sense of restlessness that has infected this ship ever since we entered orbit. To be frank, brother Torismund, you’re making us look bad. Important people are starting to ask questions. Questions that lead to investigations. Then committees. Tribunals. Heads will roll if this continues,” he growled.
Torismund composed himself. “I only desire to carry out my holy purpose on this world, Ulrund. Chapter politics are no concern of mine.” The Chaplain’s eyes narrowed, it was uncommon for anyone in the Order to address him by his name alone. “If the God Emperor demands we reclaim the relic, by His divine hand I will see it done.”
“See that you do, and quickly,” replied Ulrund, turning to the door. He paused before stepping through. “Return with the relic this time, or not at all.” And with that verbal jab, the chaplain swiftly departed.
Torismund sighed deeply. Abandoning what was left of his solitude, he stood up, snatched the Black Sword from its altar, and marched out the door.
