Avant-Garde
“There is no good and evil, there is only power and those too weak to seek it. Is that not right, warmaster?”
He had been in contemplation. He had ordered there to be no disturbances. He was keen to see who would die for their disobedience.
Abaddon the Despoiler sat alone in his throne room, in the bowels of the Vengeful Spirit. Whispers of the galaxy rearranging had reached his ears, and from what little he could learn from the few reports, he would have to change his plans.
There was a new beacon in the Warp. It had taken mere hours to form, and it was a vast improvement over the Astronomican. Who knew what would find its way out of the Warp now?
But his thoughts would have to wait, for he was to make an example out of the pitiful creature that had dared disturb him, whatever it was. “Show yourself, coward.” he answered, bored by this feeble attempt at intimidation. Still, he would not make the mistake of underestimating anything that could find its way into this room, with not a single alarm raised.
His eyes narrowed as he saw a large, black snake slither across the floor, it’s tongue tasting the air. Beady eyes watched him. Eyes too intelligent for a mere animal. He wondered what it was, unsure even of its allegiance. Friend or foe was an often useless distinction, as a Warmaster of Chaos.
“If you wish, Warmaster.” spoke the voice, just before a vortex of black feathers sprung to existence before his eyes, growing larger and forming a man - an abomination. Seven wings, one more damaged than the others. Six spreading out wide, creating a wall of black feathers. One laid softly over the man’s face. If it was a man. Seven eyes were on it’s body. Two on the hands, one over its heart, one on each chest, and two watching him from the largest pair of wings. They were slitted, just like the snake’s, and Abaddon would know the look of a seasoned destroyer anywhere.
It’s many gazes were calm and calculating. It’s pose, hands folded, standing casually, was an insult in itself. Whatever the thing before him was, it did not fear him. “Your name, intruder, so I may know whose I shall erase today.”
“Tom Riddle,” the thing answered. Its teeth were black, yet not from rot. Its veins pumped black blood, yet it was not cursed. “I have come to see you; take my measure.”
Abaddon chuckled, slow like a growl. “Amusing.”
“Indeed.” the black winged thing smiled, thin and without humour. “They have told me of your prowess, the terror even your presence is supposed to exude. I am as amused, as I am disappointed. Just another warmonger. Just another Astarte brute, angry about his father never loving him.”
Abaddon stopped chuckling. He had not expected that this man, this Tom Riddle, would be capable of getting him to stand up. “You prefer your death slow, I see.”
“I prefer it eternal.” Riddle answered, still standing like an unmoving monolith. “I prefer it outside the grasp of beasts that call themselves gods. You are my obstacle to such salvation.”
“Tell me, then, who put this obstacle before you?”
“Death,” Tom Riddle stretched out his hand, on which a frantic eye kept staring at Abaddon. He pointed at him, and something within the Warmaster began to shiver. “You have been marked for punishment. Eternal damnation awaits, Ezekyle Abaddon.”
Now he truly laughed at the winged man. “You think I fear death? Damnation? I am damnation! I am death! I am the one who brings it upon this cursed galaxy!”
He swung his claw, wide and powerful, slamming the sharpened adamantium into the wretched visage of Tom Riddle. His roar of rage shook the Vengeful Spirit, when he realized he had been fooled. He had cut through Tom Riddle, like one cuts through smoke. It was an illusion, projected onto the ship.
“Silly child,” the illusion spoke, still not quite reformed into its full form. It did not even bother to, now that the deception was revealed for what it was. “This concludes my visit. I have seen who you are, and I find myself unimpressed. No wonder it took you thirteen attempts, and still you are not done. You are weak of mind and will - a laughable, pitiful replacement for the great Horus. The Emperor is a corpse, and still you cannot even come close. He is all but dead, and still he is more man than you will ever be.”
“Silence!” Abaddon roared once more, “Stand and fight, pathetic worm. You hide behind your tricks, as if they will save you from my wrath.”
“Save me from it? You misunderstand. I welcome it. This is a declaration of war. Find me. Fight me. I will be waiting for you on Cadia.”
Tom Riddle opened his eyes on board the Baba Yaga. The ship had been given to him, to liberate a world that seemed to have great value to the muggles and to the war effort as a whole. His days of questioning such endeavours were over. He would find the completeness of his soul; his eternal salvation on a liberated Cadia.
He sat on the deck of the ship, where above him and to his side, enormous solar sails faked a method of acceleration. They had magic, they could travel space in a rusty bucket. However, as the former Veela, the Grand Architect, had insisted, it was a matter of presentation. That was why they had built a golden, copper and crystal structure the size of the Greater London metro area. It was built like a sailing ship of the eighteenth century, beautifully decorated with all sorts of patterns and carvings, that made the gold imitate wooden grain and flowers. It was a whimsical, beautiful bit of camouflage, belying the methods of destruction hidden within.
He would make great use of those, once they reached Cadia. He was eager to find out, if fiends died by fiendfyre. What would a Cruciatus do to a warrior addicted to pain? Could an Astartes in the service of Tzeentch ever fall prey to an Imperio? So many experiments to conduct, and the Chaos legions were the perfect subjects for it. Maybe the only ones in the galaxy deserving of such punishment.
Seeing them for himself had put a new perspective on his life. Wizards could not be corrupted by the demonic powers lurking in the Warp. They could, however, give themselves to them. Seven times had he sacrificed to them. Each horcrux, forbidden knowledge from the libraries of Tzeentch. He had gladly accepted, back then. What was a soul, if you would never die?
He had been a fool to believe it. Every last Chaos marine was a fool to believe them. They would all be consumed. When no blood was left to spill, Khorne’s warriors would massacre each other. When all knowledge was eradicated from the galaxy, all that was left for Tzeentch’s chosen was apathy. The dead end of Slaanesh should have been too obvious for anyone to fall prey to. He was loath to think what must have come over someone to choose to serve Nurgle.
A cold shiver ran down his spine, thinking of the time he had spied on Mortarion, Primarch of the Death Guard. He counted himself lucky that his forces would most likely not enter the fight.
Careful steps behind him alerted him to the arrival of his companion. He turned to see her tortured form, two large wings ripped to shreds, skin scarred and beaten. One of her eyes had been torn out, and replaced by a golden sphere on which the symbol of Death was engraved. The triangle, the circle and the line - the cloak, the stone and the wand - gifts of Death. Harry’s reminder to them both that they were granted a great privilege by being here.
“Bella, dear. I hope I haven’t made you wait.”
“Not at all, darling. I know you like to play with your food. So? What do you say about the mighty Abaddon?”
“He is mighty,” Tom nodded in agreement, then shrugged. “Easy to offend. Arrogant. Quick to anger. It was like looking in a mirror. He will surely follow to Cadia. I don’t know if he’ll realize I will never meet him head on, once he is there.”
“Angron was much the same for me.” Bella sat down next to him, leaned back and gazed at the solar sails, and the stars behind them, with a soft smile on her face. “Powerful, with such rage inside him, it is hard to describe. When he doesn’t rage, he is in pain, ever driven to inflict it onto others so he might not feel it for a few moments. I’m unsure if killing him is a punishment, or a mercy.”
“A mercy, I would like to think.”
“Hmm,” Bellatrix laid down on the floor, arms, wings and legs stretched out in all directions. He smiled, seeing her silliness come through once more. They both wore their sins as physical scars and deformations. Harry had freed them of their madness, but it had to go somewhere, until the day they would prove themselves worthy. So the Herald had formed them bodies onto which he directed their corruption. He was glad for it. Otherwise, he would not be able to appreciate her beauty in the light of the stars.
“Have you contacted the Cadians?” he asked her. “Will they fight?”
She shrugged. “I seeded the call to war, but they neither trust easy, nor are they especially eager to fight for a world they deem irredeemably lost. It seems we must be the avant-garde.”
“No matter,” Tom took her hand, and squeezed it lightly. “In fact, maybe this is good?”
She squeezed his hand back. “Yes, this is pretty good.”
Within the Arcadrome, in a basement hall of the great university of magic on Wukong, Hermione rubbed her temples to ward off the coming headache. Even tough she shouldn’t even physically be capable of a headache, it somehow manifested itself. “What did I agree to?” she whined.
There were, without exaggeration, millions of acceptance letters to their many schools of magic, and it was her responsibility as the Grand Headmistress, leader of all academic endeavours in the Elysium system, to sort through them. They had capacity for about five hundred thousand per year, across all five of their worlds, and their seven-thousand schools. Not nearly enough, unfortunately. At least three-hundred thousand children born in Elysium also awaited their acceptance letters.
Then again, how many of those muggleborns could even be reached? She decided to start the process of dividing the enormous stack. “Alright,” she clapped her hands to get the stack to listen up. “Give me a separate pile for the Death Worlds.”
There was a tiny pile, that steadily shrunk with every muggleborn dying on one of these planets. Sometime in the future, they may be able to save them, but for now she had the macabre duty of ignoring them.
“Remove all that are within cults, including the Mechanicus.” Another large pile was thrown to the side. She could not afford to have cults roam around Elysium. The normal, everyday fanaticism of the average imperial citizen would be enough of a challenge to get out of them.
“Hive worlds,” She saw a good half of the pile separate itself from the main one. It was hard to comprehend just how many humans lived in those mountain-high ant-hills. “And now, all of them who can read.”
The Hive World pile suddenly became rather small. She sighed, thinking about the damning statement about humanity this was in itself. Truly, most humans in those hives were cattle, bred for menial tasks, and replacements for smarter machines. Human lives were cheap and plenty in the Imperium. She waved her wand, and silently cast a counting spell. There would be somewhere around ninety thousand Hive worlders invited to join their magical brethren.
The rest she took from worlds less cruel, once she had removed the feudal worlds. One-hundred thousand and then some students were now picked to receive an invitation. Less than their capacity, which Hermione thought was probably a smart idea for the first ever muggleborn students. She turned around, to a small army of assistants eagerly awaiting her work to be finished. She nodded to them, “Send these letters. Ignore the others. We have to start somewhere.”
Soon after, a swarm of owls that blotted out the sky shot out into the galaxy. They vanished into the space between, teleporting to their destination in their very own way. She smiled after them. They could have used a hundred other methods, but that would deprive them of their beloved winged companions, wouldn’t it? Some traditions were worthy of upholding. Anybody could just receive a letter. No muggleborn she had ever spoken to forgot the owl that delivered theirs. So many of them wanted an owl, just because they were the first living thing from the magical world they had ever seen. Hermione herself had wanted one, before Crookshanks charmed her, like the debonair gentleman he was.
She scratched the man-high cat next to her. Crookshanks had been more than annoyed at being ripped from his eternal nap. His face-sized tongue liked over her cheek, giving her some resolve back. She would not disappoint Harry. He had laid his hopes for new muggleborns at her feet, completely trusting her judgement. Not once had he doubted her. She hoped he had been right in his trust.
Now she would wait. She and her Guardians. Sworn to the protection of the students, they too would heed the call of any who had received a letter.
“Hoo?”
He didn’t know how he could even hear it through the never ending, futile barrage of artillery fire. Leor huddled in the remnants of his home, using his dead father as cover above him. Maybe they wouldn’t find him down here. He just had to wait it out, until they passed him.
“Hoo!”
“Shoo! Git!” he hissed at that weird, winged animal, trying to keep as silent as possible. He had never seen such a thing down here in the Hive. What an odd animal it was. Sleek, but with a head that could turn around its entire axis. “Please, go away!” he begged it.
If it kept doing its odd sound, it would no doubt alert the orks to his hiding spot. He took a pebble and threw it at the animal. It merely dodged, and gave an even angrier “HOO!”
He cursed under his breath. “What do you want?” he hissed again, sobbing in between, when he heard the marching feet of an orkish warband nearby. “Please, just go!”
“Hoo.” He felt like it seemed insulted? It stretched out its leg, revealing a scroll hanging on it. Leor didn’t grab the scroll, but the entire animal. He pressed it tight to his body, always aware to not squeeze it. That would make an even louder sound. He snatched the scroll, his hands trembling, and began to read the fine script on it.
Dear Mr Leor,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at the Ocolos Academy of Magical Arts on Veles within the Elysium system. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. If no magical shopping district is available near you, please let us know via the owl (the airborne animal this letter was attached to), and we shall arrange an orientation day on Hecate.
If you cannot find transport to the system, or experience a threat that would hinder your attendance, please also use the owl to reply. Evacuation efforts will be made forthwith.
Term begins in [Seventy] standard days. We await your owl by no later than thirty standard days after receiving this letter
Yours sincerely,
Grand Headmistress Hermione Granger
“What the…?!” None of this made sense. However, even tough this was sheer insanity, and probably some form of trap, or worse, a prank, it seemed like it was his only hope to get out of here alive. He took the parchment, turned it around and with a wound on his finger, he scratched a fat, bloody “Help” on the back of it. He shoved it into the creature’s claws, and despite knowing it would probably spell his doom, sent the owl to fly away with his reply.
“Oi! Boyz, looke ‘ere.”
He slapped his mouth shut. They were right on him. He wanted to sob, to cry, buried under the corpse of his father, and looking at the mangled form of his mother at the other end of their levelled home.
“Roight brave, ay? Reel propa humie, rite dere, boyz.”
Leor heard a chainblade begin to turn. Through his father's limp fingers he could see a commissar, limping and wounded several times over, use his one good arm to fight the orcs.
He swung his blade, and in the blink of an eye the commissar vanished in a bloody mist. The orks laughed, and the one who had fired his weapon looked at it in astonishment, as if he hadn’t expected it to be so effective.
“Where's da reel fightin’?” one of them asked.
“In da Hive, propa,” one of the others pointed towards the collapsing spires. “Da boss sent us da wrong way! Stoopid git.” he shouted in anger.
Emperor protect him, they were coming towards him. He couldn’t move, and dared not to breathe. He trembled in more fear than he had ever felt. He would die here. Eaten by filthy orks, while he hid under his father’s dead body. He envied his father, right now. Being torn asunder by artillery shells seemed the more merciful end.
He did the only thing he could. He prayed to the Emperor, hoping beyond hope that he could hear him. Hoping endlessly that he would grant him his gift again.
One of the orks threw the corpse of his mother away, looking for something. He felt his father’s body lifting from him, and the ork staring at Leor. He stared right at him, but not as if he was about to eat the little human. He stared at him as if he wasn’t even there.
The ork threw away his father’s corpse as well, like debris that needed clearing. Leor did not dare move. He laid exactly where he was, and he would do so until the orks were gone. Not a fibre of his muscles dared twitch. But his eyes roamed, and he swallowed a scream when he saw that there was nothing where his hand ought to be.
What happened? Was this all a nightmare?
It must be. How else could he explain that a wooden door just grew from the ground? How else could one explain the two men stepping out from a doorfame that was not connected to any house, just standing in the middle of a bombed out field.
One of them lifted a wooden stick, and before the orks could fully realize they were here, light in the form of a net shot out and sliced each of the orks into cubes of flesh.
“Right’o. Seems clear? This is where the distress call came from, but I don’t see the kid.”
One of them cringed, and looked at the orkish corpses before them. “Reckon we’re too late?”
“Reaper take me, I hope not. This whole muggleborn thing is not going great, and the headmistress is already in a right state. I’d like to come back with some results.”
“Alright, let’s get through the standard spells and then go to the next.” the older one of the two said, pulling a parchment from his robes and once more cringing. “Next one is in the bowels of an Astarte battlecruiser. Well, damn.”
“We picked really good ones, huh? Ork invasion. The sewers of a battleship. What's next? Get an eleven-year-old out of some Necron tomb?”
“Don’t even fuckin’ tempt Fate, lad.”
Leor decided this was a dream. He stood, and still he was invisible. Quickly, he grabbed a stone and threw it towards them. He kicked up dust, and took a handful of ash and threw it over him, so that it would cover his form.
“Woa!” the younger man pointed the stick at him in shock, which quickly transformed into a hearty laugh. “Ayy, if that isn’t our quarry. Disillusionment, huh? You got good instincts, kid.” he cheered, and waved his stick at him.
Suddenly, Leor felt like a liquid ran over him, and the next moment he saw his hand again. “H- How?” he stammered.
“Magic,” the older guy answered, as if that was the most reasonable answer. In truth, to Leor, it seemed to fit his situation. “Where are your parents? They still alive?”
“No,” Leor shook his head, and pointed at the corpse of his father, a few meters away, then at his mother, even further.
“Ah, damn.” the younger man frowned. He waved his stick, and both corpses gently flew through the doorway, to wherever it led. “We’re going to bury them near you, on…. What planet is your school on, again?”
“V- uhm…”
“Veles?”
“Yes.”
“Then off you go, after them. You’re safe now, kid.”