Light and shadow flickered in Nareth's eyes. Hundreds of black points were interspersed among them, mottled and mixed.
His spreading consciousness was like a tide blocked by massive reefs.
The Primarch withdrew his consciousness, avoiding the black reefs, focusing on a single point.
His concentrated consciousness hammered on an iron door covered in bullet holes and blade marks.
CRASH!
His powerful consciousness breached the momentary obstruction.
Though the Vessorine's resistance lasted only an instant, it showed the steadfastness of his will.
'Not inferior to an Astartes's tempered will.'
His consciousness seeped into the Vessorine's mental gates, feeling its way.
The Vessorine's memories were covered in layers of wet tissue paper.
This was the mental defense they had built through interrogation-resistance training.
He focused, gently peeling away the tissue paper, obtaining the information he wanted:
The Vessorines' Phuthu language and script.
The Sorbor tribe's current strength: nine hundred forty-eight, one hundred fifty-three Blanks.
The tribal chieftain 's name: Etrich.
His eyes flickered. 'The Sorbor tribe is indeed powerful.'
He recalled that ten thousand years later, when Gregor Eisenhorn encountered the Sorbor tribe, learning they numbered eight hundred, he was terrified.
He repeated the name "Etrich," following the mental trail to a burly Vessorine holding a falcon short sword.
The moment his consciousness was about to lock onto Etrich, he felt a collapsing hole.
A powerful Blank.
His obsidian eyes fixed on Etrich. His shoulders were broader than any other Sorbor. Animal hides could barely contain his powerful frame.
He immediately merged the figure with the tribal chieftain who, ten thousand years later, would duel Eisenhorn atop a frozen railcar.
That tribal chieftain was also named Etrich.
Eisenhorn was a top-tier mortal swordsman. He had killed Mandragore Carrion, an Emperor's Children veteran of ten thousand wars.
Carrion was a champion of Slaanesh, with a string of titles: Slayer of the Living, Defiler of the Dead, Keeper of Secrets.
'Etrich is the title of the Sorbor tribal chieftain .'
Recalling that beyonder duel, he gave an order.
He raised his right hand, pressed his communication bead, and quickly issued a command.
His consciousness withdrew from the Vessorine's mind. His wings beat, carrying him down.
A thousand meters from the ground, a falcon-like screech rose.
Etrich nimbly dodged a lunging claw and looked up at the black-armored, golden-winged giant. He was like a Phuthu war god descending, inspiring an instinctive urge to kneel.
His knees bent slightly, then stopped.
His sharp eyes blazed. Even a Phuthu war god was just a target.
He glanced at his falcon short sword, recalling his father's stories:
A Phuthu god descended from the sky, its sharp claws tearing chests, ripping out hearts.
Its bird-like beak swallowed three at once.
Blood rained, filling rivers that flooded the black mountains.
In the crisis, an ancestor stepped forward, fighting for four days and nights, killing the Phuthu god.
He earned the respect of the Vessorine tribes, creating the Phuthu script and language.
A thought of the ancestor's legend flashed through his mind. More tangible was the falcon short sword forged from the Phuthu god's spine.
Slay a god, gain a divine weapon.
Black armor, golden wings, a blue-white-bladed longsword, a gauntlet, and two guns.
With these, he could conquer thousands of tribes, conquer the world.
His eyes blazed. He lunged, his shoulder dipping, his sword hilt rising, piercing the neck of a lion-like beast.
He stepped back, avoiding its death throes, and let out a low growl.
Nareth deciphered the series of concise Phuthu words: "Air, strong enemy, approaching."
"Finish the hunt quickly."
"Prepare for battle."
He watched with interest as the Sorbor warriors leaped into action, killing the beasts with efficient, concise swordsmanship.
Even with time short, they still showed the Vessorine way: calculating, minimizing injury, maximizing effect.
As he admired them, the Vessorines, looking up, took cover behind the black basalt rocks.
Children with sharp daggers, neither panicked nor reluctant to leave their spoils, quickly retreated to the dwellings on the other side of the cliff.
He knew from the Vessorines' minds that such dwellings were only possessed by large tribes like the Sorbor.
Vessorine tribes of less than a hundred lacked fixed territory, hunting like wandering beasts.
The Sorbor's dwellings were both their homes and fortifications.
Children over four skillfully set up heavy stubbers, loading them, aiming at the surroundings.
Children who could barely walk struggled to carry ammunition belts.
Children too young to walk, who had been left in the dwellings, gripped daggers with both hands, sharpening them on obsidian whetstones.
When he was still dozens of meters from the four-hundred-meter extreme range of their matchlocks, about to dive, Etrich gave the order: "Fire!"
Black smoke rose. Crude bullets shot.
CRACK, CRACK, CRACK...
Bullets struck the armor Vulkan had forged, exploding into grey-black flowers.
The Vessorines' dedication to marksmanship drove most of their shots to hit the diving black figure.
They pushed their matchlocks to their limits.
His eyes lit up. He suddenly stopped, hovering a hundred meters above them.
CRACK!
Etrich seized the opportunity. He had expected their shots wouldn't threaten the Phuthu war god.
He popped out from behind the black basalt and fired his charged, fatal shot.
The bullet screamed upward, flying at the target in the air.
His hands rapidly reloaded, firing his second shot faster than any other Vessorine.
His sharp eyes tracked the figure. He saw the giant raise his right arm, his large hand catching the bullet as easily as picking fruit when no beasts were around.
But the fatal bullet, exploding in his palm, only raised a wisp of smoke.
The "Mentor of Disorder's" finger muscles rippled, absorbing the impact. With slight pressure, the bullet was crushed to dust.
He casually swatted away the second bullet and spoke in Phuthu, his voice low.
"I have come to hire you!"
"Fertile land, magnificent dwellings, powerful weapons!"
As he spoke, he raised his left arm.
A burst of bolts shot, exploding against black basalt a kilometer away.
CRACK, CRACK, CRACK!
As the deafening explosions echoed, Etrich's eyes narrowed. Their matchlocks could not match the black giant's gun in power, range, or accuracy.
The "Majestic" voice echoed in the Sorbor's ears. Their eyes lit up, staring at the rubble, breathing the wonderful scent of gunpowder.
CRASH!
He landed among the Sorbor. Over eight hundred Vessorines stared with burning eyes at the black-armored, golden-winged giant.
They saw fine weapons, magnificent castles, vast lands.
He keenly felt their gazes. 'A good start.'
But he also felt the flicker of light in his eyes slow. Hundreds of black reefs suddenly rose.
His perception range was compressed to unprecedented levels, only three kilometers in diameter.
A coppery, bitter taste filled his mouth. His temples throbbed.
He withdrew from the Magnus mindset, entering a meditative state, then ascended to the third level of the Thelema mindstate.
His discomfort eased. His temples stopped throbbing.
'Much better than I expected. At least my psychic powers aren't completely suppressed.'
'With more than a hundred Sisters of Silence, I would be unable to use any psychic power, only beyonder abilities.'
'Wild Blanks are ultimately inferior to the Emperor's trained Sisters of Silence. Hmm, training...'
His ambition blazed. He thought.
'Wild ones are fine. Once the Emperor is on the throne, I'll take in the neglected Sisters of Silence and have them train you.'
He recalled that when the High Lords took power, the Sisters of Silence, beyond their control, became a target.
The Sisters of Silence, once the Emperor's left hand, rapidly declined.
They left Luna, disappearing from the Imperium's sight.
When the Imperial Fists found them during the War of the Beast, they refused to serve the Imperium again.
Only upon learning that the Primarch Vulkan still served, did they agree to join the war.
A new plan formed in his mind:
When the Sisters of Silence are ostracized, he would extend a helping hand.
They would submit to him, helping him train the Blanks.
He would "corrode" some of them, making them devout followers of the Black Emperor.
'Hmm, I truly cannot bear to see the Sisters of Silence, who sacrificed so many lives in the Webway War, abandoned and alone by the Imperium.'
'I will extend my warm hand to them.'
A smile crossed his face, ever ready to help.
His obsidian eyes watched the Sorbor's reaction.
He saw that after their initial shock, they all looked to their tribal chieftain .
'Etrich has great authority among the Sorbor.'
As he thought, Etrich, falcon short sword in hand, approached.
"You want to hire us?"
"What will you give us?"
Hearing the engine roar overhead, he thought. 'The duel ten thousand years from now is about to occur ahead of schedule.'
"Not so fast. I need to know your capabilities before I name my price."
Etrich stared at the black giant. "You want to fight me?"
"Not me." He shook his head. "My son."
....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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