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The Chielari Delta Rebellion took place in the year 871.M30. That year, the noble houses of the Tallith and Nerratus hive-cities, who for years harboured a grudge against the Imperial conquerors, gathered their own armies, overthrew the Imperial administration, took over the respective garrisons and armouries, and, having united their forces, marched to the ancient capital of Korundus.
The famed city was once known as the Jewel of Chielari. Its aurumglass spires pierced the ever-clear turquoise skies, and whenever the twin suns rose or set, the reflected light was seen for miles; at night, their warm golden glow illuminated the streets and walkways. This was the centre of trade for the whole system, where precious metals and stones from the plentiful mines were exchanged for provisions and amasec, for expensive goods and essential items. This was the place of military power; the nobles weaved intricate webs of intrigues and conspiracies to control it, and occasionally went to war with each other when all else failed.
For simple folk, however, Korundus was the place of worship. Millions of faithful pilgrims arrived here each day to venerate the Painted Gods. And among them, none were more beloved than the Lazuli Twins. Brother Turan was the one who taught people to work the stone and metal, and his blood painted the oceans dark blue and purple. Sister Elcara showed the humans how to wield fire and magic, and when she died, her blood turned the sky turquoise and green. Every di-solar cycle, when both Lazuli Twins were reborn, the believers who wished to pray at the feet of their giant statues crowded the streets of Korundus.
The glory days of Korundus, however, were over long before the Imperium found the distant Chielari system. When tall warriors with fiery eyes and anthracite skin descended from the turquoise skies, Korundus was a shadow of its former self, the aurumglass spires half-abandoned, the mines depleted. Only the great temples were still full of life, and the rivers of red never ran dry at the altars of the Painted Gods. The faithful prayed, and their prayers never went unanswered.
The giants clad in emerald green, who called themselves the Astartes, cared little about the Painted Gods. The Imperium only believed in Man, and once Chielari Delta was conquered, their Gods had to be forgotten. Once the leader of the Astartes ascended the Needle of Alticari, the tallest of the aurumglass spires, he proclaimed a new law — an Edict, as the Imperium called it. Veneration of any god or spirit was now a crime, and the punishment for it was death. The temple gates were closed once and for all, and the altars of Lazuli Twins, the Tourmaline Healer, and the Malachite Mother became dry and devoid of colour.
The Imperium returned the capital status to Korundus and breathed a new life into the old city. New, different people now inhabited the aurumglass spires. They did not speak Chielarian and had no desire to learn it; they had their own language called High Gothic, and now Chielari Delta had to learn it as well. Ore and precious stones now left the system to fill imperial coffers, to become armour and weapons for the Emperor’s troops. So did thousands of Chielarian men and women, who had to conquer new worlds for Him. Yet the Imperial Compliance did not lead Chielari to prosperity; the tithe kept growing, yet the viceroy Niranthius never seemed to notice. With each di-solar cycle, the noble families and their subjects kept getting poorer, each new law and each new tax only fueled dissent and resentment; soon the nobles grew to despise not only the Viceroy but the Imperium and the Emperor. The fire was built, all that was left was for the right man to ignite it.
His name was Elessius Thormantus, second son of the Tallith’s most noble house. His father, a celebrated Chielarian general, had lost to the emerald-clad Astartes and chose death on the battlefield over a life of shame. Elessius himself was but a youth of fifteen when this happened; the fall of his homeworld, the death of his father, shame and pain of a loss scarred his heart permanently, planting a seed of hatred for the Imperium and a desire for revenge.
By the time Elessius was thirty-five, the seed had borne its bitter fruit. Many nobles joined him, unable to feed their subjects properly, unwilling to tolerate the Imperial rule any longer. Their troops marched on, and the Imperial soldiers were barely able to hold them back. When the rebels reached Korundus, Elessius’s first and only order was to retake the Temple of the Lazuli Twins. In his heart, he rejected The Imperial Truth and still believed in the Painted Gods; he suspected that many Chielarians shared his convictions. The temple was the symbol that could reunite the whole planet against the conquerors, Thormantus thought.
He was right: when the gates were finally open, welcoming the rebels, hope returned to Chielari Delta, for many longed for the return of the old faith. Volunteers joined the rebel troops in droves, and Viceroy Niranthius’s troops could do nothing but retreat. Soon, the city council was overtaken by rebels, and the old starport and orbital station followed suit. Viceroy Niranthius was taken prisoner and brought to the temple to be used as a bargaining chip. The rebel leaders were already compiling a message to Terra.
When a familiar silhouette of an Imperial battleship showed up on the radars, the rebels were alarmed, but not afraid. They knew the Astartes as fierce, but merciful warriors. Besides, Thormantus was well aware that the Imperium would never let Chielari out of its grasp, and never demanded full independence — simply fewer taxes and a new Viceroy. These were reasonable demands, and he hoped that the Astartes would hear him out and agree.
***
“Is anything the matter, my lord?”
As always, First Captain Jago Sevatarion of the Eighth Legion, spoke plainly, his tone devoid of servility or desire to please his superiors. Only those who knew him well could discern the sincerity and warmth.
“You know me, Sevatar. Something is always the matter”
Turning away from the hololith, Konrad Curze replied in a similar tone, and nobody but Sevatar sensed subtle playfulness in his Primarch’s voice.
“This is exactly why I’m asking.”
“Ah, of course. Is there anything that can escape your sight?”
“Only the smallest of beasts and insects, my lord. Paying close attention to them is most inexpedient.”
Sevatar’s tone didn’t change in the slightest, and Curze smiled at the well-delivered joke.
His smile, however, was short-lived.
“Here. Taste this,” Curze said with a heavy sigh as he poured wine in a golden goblet and set it before the First Captain.
Sevatar did as he was told, carefully smelling the ruby liquid first, then tasting a small amount, rolling it around in his mouth, and carefully discerning the aftertaste. Curze, meanwhile, started slowly pacing the room.
“So?”
“It’s the Mantellian red. A gift from the Primarch of the Third. They served it at your table on my orders.”
“It tastes like blood, Sevatar.”
“It does not, my lord. Some wines do have a peculiar aftertaste, like the Bhaalian crimson, but not this one. Does it taste like blood to you?”
“Yes.”
“The bottle was pristine and opened in your presence. Not to mention that your brother Fulgrim—
“—Has absolutely no reason to poison me.”
“Exactly”.
“It is an omen, Sevatar!” Curze said as he grabbed Sevatarion by the shoulder, long bony fingers digging into flesh.
It could also be tricks of the Immaterium , Sevatar thought but said nothing.
“You believe it is connected to our current mission?”
Curze nodded, not letting Sevatar go.
“If you feel beset by dark thoughts, I could always arrange for the apothecary to see you”.
This wasn’t the first time Sevatar made such a suggestion, but, as always, the Primarch shook his head, as he loosened his grip on the First Captain’s shoulder.
“Tell the boarding team to be at the ready. I want them at the orbital station as soon as we leave the Immaterium”.
“Right away, my lord. Would you like to send a missive to Chielari Delta?” Sevatarion bared his sharp teeth in a predatory grin.
“I would. And prepare my armour. I will join you later”.
Curze grinned in response, and Sevatar instantly felt better. With a curt nod, he left Curze’s sanctum and set upon executing his Primarch’s orders.
***
A terrible feeling gnawed at Elessius Thormantus, driving him insane. He woke up long before dawn, while Korundus was still surrounded by thick mists. The twin sunrise painted sky gold and turquoise, yet did nothing to ease his fears. Only by the time both suns had reached their zeniths, the uneasiness slowly subsided, releasing Elessius from its grip. Soon after that the rebellion lost connection with the orbital station.
Thormantus ordered to check the equipment on his end. Everything was in perfect order. Having no other options, he sent a scouting team to board the shuttle and check the space station. The scouting team reached the destination without an incident. As soon as they entered the station, however, the connection was lost.
The first sun was sinking behind the horizon, painting the sky chrysolite-green, when the shuttle finally returned, its chassis breaking on impact and leaving a dark trail on the rockcrete. The pilot was barely alive, his uniform soaked with blood. Somebody cut him deep enough for the wounds not to close, yet careful enough to avoid the major arteries, letting him live for the few hours needed to return to the planet’s surface.
The rest of the crew were long dead. At first, it seemed that their clothes were also drenched in blood… and then Thormantus realised they lacked not only clothes but the skin itself. Some of the faces were twisted with expressions of fear and unbearable pain, leaving no doubt that the crew was alive and fully conscious as they underwent horrible torture.
A package wrapped in burgundy fabric lay near the pilot’s seat. Someone started unwrapping it before dropping the contents in fear and disgust. A severed head rolled onto the rockcrete. It belonged to the orbital station’s chief. The rebels had to muster their willpower to pick the head up, and when they did, they noticed something lodged in the mouth.
It was a piece of paper, crumpled and stained with blood. The message on it was brief, consisting of three words only.
Venimus ad vos.
***
The darkness enveloped Korundus — real darkness this time, for the lights didn’t work and aurumglass towers didn’t shine brightly in the night, making the rebels realise that the main power plant had been sabotaged.
The Temple of the Lazuli Twins had its own generator, rickety and old, but still better than nothing. Five men went to check up and restart it. While they were gone, Elessius had nothing to do but wait, trying desperately not to think about what had happened at the orbital station and the powerplant. Nobody was left alive, yet the mutilated corpses spoke louder than any words could. Seconds seemed to be minutes, minutes seemed to be hours, and each was filled with dread. Even the smallest sound seemed to suggest something sinister, as if an unspeakable monster was lurking outside, waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack. Even his own heartbeat seemed deafeningly loud to Elessius.
The sound of glass cracking ended the waiting. Right beside Elessius, something — or someone— heavy landed, and immediately he heard an agonising scream, only barely resembling a human voice. Elessius heard a blade cutting through something dense, yet soft, and then felt drops of liquid hitting his face. The air smelled of copper and entrails.
Elessius wanted to run, but couldn’t. Someone was holding him by the shoulder, his hand much bigger than a normal human’s, heavy like stone and ice cold. Elessius tried to wrestle out of its grip but immediately felt a blade right next to his throat.
“Bad idea”, someone giggled right into his ear. The voice was coarse and the breath was foul.
After the total darkness, even the soft light of a few lumens seemed unbearably bright to Elessius, but the pain subsided when realisation had set in. The magnificent mosaics of marble, hematite, and aventurine that covered the temple floor were now hidden under pooling blood. Bodies of rebels littered the floor, twitching and moving, their throats slit, their bellies open, yet many were still alive, begging for death and not finding it. The Astartes responsible for this bloodbath were different, clad not in emerald green, but in midnight blue, their winged helmets painted with skulls and lightning strikes.
The one standing behind Elessius had no helmet, his pallid face tinted with a corpse-like shade of bluish-grey. Short, deep scars had forever changed his face, one separating the left eyebrow in two, another disfiguring the lower lip. His eyes were completely black.
“Is the temple ours, Sevatar?”
The voice came from atop one of the lapis-lazuli encrusted statues. Another Astartes descended, blood and stone splashing around him as he landed. He was taller than the rest, his armour elaborately decorated, and he moved with a terrible grace of a predator circling his prey.
“Yes, my lord, exactly as you ordered.” Said the one who was holding Elessius.
“Thormantus,” the tall Astartes said as he approached. He spoke softly, and yet his voice filled Elessius’s head, leaving no space for other sounds or voices.
A giant hand clad in a heavy glove with sharpened claws dragged his chin upward, forcing him to look at the Astartes. The thought of looking at the man who orchestrated this bloodbath, of seeing him this close was too much to bear. Terrified, Elessius closed his eyes; in response, the grip around his face tightened, the adamantium claws piercing tender skin.
“The time to be afraid is long gone,” the leader of the Astartes laughed, his breath reeking of stale blood and decay. “I am here, and I have come for you. So open your eyes and gaze upon me”.
Struggling against fear and disgust, Thormantus opened his eyes.
Looking at the Astartes was like staring into a freshly dug grave. His eyes, completely black and shining like obsidian, seemed to drain Elessius of his will to live and fight until only the all-consuming fear was left, the fear of prey that had spotted its predator. His thin, chapped lips parted to reveal yellowed, filed teeth. Long strands of unwashed hair framed a pallid face, that was, despite sallow skin and layers of grime, strangely regal and classically perfect.
“W-what are you?” Elessius asked finally.
The Astartes tsked, obviously disappointed.
“How rude,” the claw sank deeper into his cheek, piercing it all the way through. “You’re talking to the Emperor’s son, Elessius. Can’t you spare at least a modicum of respect?”
Once again, Elessius had to bring himself to answer the strange Astartes.
“The Em-emperor sent you?”
“Who else would have? I am Konrad Curze, Primarch of the Eighth Legion, the instrument of my Father’s righteous wrath. You dared to defy Him, and so you shall know His anger, for I came here to judge you.”
Curze stepped away. He dragged dead and dying bodies closer to Elessius and piled them onto each other, then sat on top. Something in the pile made a horrible sound. It seemed to finally wake Elessius up — overcoming fear and stupor, the rebel leader glared at the Primarch.
“You’re not a judge, you’re a butcher! A torturer! A monster!” he screamed, forgetting about the blade near his throat.
The Primarch laughed.
“You killed your people, not me. The moment you started thinking your rebellion through, the moment you found your first ally, the moment you gathered your first squad, you defied the Emperor and signed their death sentence. I’m merely here to execute it. Am I the monster?”
“Liar! It’s you and your Emperor who tortured my world, who drained its wealth and its people! We gave you our best warriors, and you turned them into cannon fodder! We kept paying our tithe, but it was never enough! You took our faith away, and now you come to slaughter us like cattle! Well, go ahead, for I do not care about your Emperor and his will! Kill me, and billions more will join the rebellion once I’m dead!”
“What a rousing speech,” Curze said.
“Primarch of the Nineteenth would no doubt approve,” Sevatar agreed. “Pity he isn’t here.”
Curze nodded, furrowing his brow. For a while, he looked at Thormantus without seeing him, then turned his gaze to the First Captain.
“Sevatar, what of the Viceroy who informed us of the rebellion?”
“He was captured by the rebels: no doubt they wanted to exchange him for some privileges. We found him chained to one of the altars. Would you like to speak with him, my lord?”
Curze nodded, and Sevatar shouted something in a language Elessius did not understand.
It seemed that the Astartes did not think much of the Viceroy’s status. His hands and feet were chained when one of the warriors dragged him to Curze. The Primarch, still sitting atop his pile of corpses, didn’t rise to greet Niranthius.
The Viceroy, however, fell to his knees.
“M-my lord! Your Hi-highness! It is s-such an honour to be finally rescued!”
Curze stared at him in disgust.
“I have questions for you, Viceroy.”
“B-but of course! I will answer anything!”
Curze leaned forward, tilting his head to the side.
“Tell me, Niranthius, how should I punish those who defile the Emperor’s name with their own wretched crimes?”
“I d-don’t think I follow, my lo—”
“Oh, you don’t follow?”
In one swift motion, Curze grabbed the viceroy by the neck and lifted him up into the air.
“My Father entrusted this world to you! You were supposed to lead it to prosperity, and instead, you lead it to ruin! You robbed its people — and Father! Do you follow now?”
“Lies, my lord!” Niranthius gurgled, his legs dangling in the air. “I would never—”
A grimace of contempt and anger twisted Curze’s face. Rising up from his seat, he threw the viceroy on the floor. Niranthius wailed in pain as something inside him made a wet crunching sound.
“You think I did not read your reports? Each year you raised the tithe, didn’t you? And yet, you reported the old sum to the Imperium and pocketed the difference!”
Curze’s boot pressed lightly onto the viceroy’s chest. Something crackled once again.
“My brother brought Chielari to Imperium nearly bloodlessly. It seems his efforts were in vain, seeing how I had to be brought here. You tried to disguise your own greed as my Father’s cruelty, and now these people curse Father’s name! All because of you!”
The Viceroy tried to say something, but couldn’t.
“Tell me, Thormantus,” Curze turned to the prisoned rebel. “What were your plans for him?”
“Had he not surrendered, I’d have him hung from the temple entrance. A warning to others who dare steal from my people”.
Curze didn’t respond. He didn’t even move. Instead, he stared at Thormantus, thin lips slightly moving, whispering something nobody could hear. The blank stare made Elessius feel uneasy.
“My lord?” Sevatar called to his Primarch.
Upon hearing a familiar voice, Curze looked up, his stupor dissipated.
“You take care of our friend the Viceroy, Sevatar”, the Primarch ordered. “The entrance to the temple does need some new decorations, after all”.
***
Silence now filled the great hall of the temple. Sevatar left, dragging the Viceroy with him, yet Elessius stood still, afraid of making any movement. Besides, the rest of the Astartes watched him closely, weapons at the ready.
Curze was the only one who wasn’t looking at the rebel leader. Looking the great hall over, he ascended to the main altar, and carefully examined it. The alabaster cup with traces of something brown seemed to draw his attention. Finally, the Primarch put it down, and sat on the altar steps.
“Come closer, Thormantus”, he beckoned.
Elessius obeyed, and when Curze gestured at the steps, he sat at the Primarch’s side. From here, he could hear every shriek and scream that Sevatar managed to get out of the Viceroy, every stab of the knife and move of the blade.
“How long will this take?” Elessius asked.
“A while,” Curze replied. “Sevatar knows his craft.”
They sat in silence, listening to the sounds of torture.
Finally, Curze broke the silence.
“I saw that cup at the altar,” he said. “I know your people filled it with blood recently.”
“It’s an ancient custom”, Elessius explained. “Many have renounced it, but…”
“…You didn’t want the gods to turn away from you.”
“I could not risk it.”
“My father’s law says that such sacrifices are vile and barbaric. The punishment for those who take part in them is death.”
“Oh, what is the point?”, Elessius said, his voice seething with hate. “Even if I denounce my faith, you will still find a reason to kill me, no matter how small”.
Curze glanced at him, his emotions strange and unreadable behind the shining obsidian eyes.
“I have no desire to kill you, Thormantus. You might think I enjoy sowing terror and death wherever I go, but I do not. My purpose is to bring order and justice. Death and terror are the swiftest, easiest way to do so, and humans seem to understand their language quite well. Or rather, theirs is the only language you understand. When everyone learns that your troops were decimated, your allies will put their weapons down. As to the new viceroy, I believe will not want to repeat his predecessor’s fate”.
“So either way the Imperium wins”, Elessius said.
Curze nodded.
Outside, Viceroy Niranthius could not scream anymore, and they could only hear strange, gurgling noises he made.
“Still… you don’t want to kill me?”
“I wouldn’t, were it up to me”.
“Why?”
“Most are too cowardly in the face of injustice and lawlessness. They would rather pretend not to notice it. Even when it is too late and injustice has claimed their livelihoods, most will simply accept it. But not you. You tried to fight it, to destroy it”.
“And in doing so, I defied the Emperor”.
Curze nodded again.
“Can you see it now? I am an instrument of punishment, not mercy. The fate is preordained; your life will end this night, Elessius, and I cannot change it. There is, however, a choice that I can give you”.
“What is it?”
The Primarch looked at him and said nothing. For the first time, his eyes, dark like polished agate, were full of sadness.
***
Chielari Delta’s first sun slowly rose from behind the horizon, painting the sky green and gold, yet the cool night winds were still blowing around the Needle of Alticari. Konrad Curze paid no attention to the winds, however. Sitting on a stone balcony with the broken railings, he watched the aurumglass towers slowly filling with morning light. Next to him, pale and lightheaded, Elessius Thormantus stood, the Primarch’s red cape hanging loosely from his shoulders.
“Painless, is it not?” Curze said in a tone that was almost fatherly. “You will feel a bit cold, but not much more.”
Thormantus nodded. Blood ran down Thormantus’s body, staining the fabric of his shirt, trickling down his pant leg, pooling inside his boot, mixing with the red of the Primarch’s cape. Staying upright suddenly seemed like a challenge, so Curze stretched his arm to support the man.
“Quite a beautiful world,” Primarch noted. “It is no wonder you’re willing to die for it. What would you be like, I wonder, had you been born on Nostramo?”
Elessius started to tremble, and Curze wrapped the cape tighter around him, then sat him in his lap in one quick motion. This made no difference, Thormantus thought — he was still cold, and the sharp edges of Curze’s armour only caused him pain. But he had no desire to argue with the Primarch.
“You could have been part of my Legion. Command one of my companies,” Curze whispered. “You know what Justice is, and I would have taught you to strike fear into the hearts of the Emperor's enemies, to make them shake in terror,” The trembling became stronger, and Curze patted Elessius on the head, trying to comfort him. “My Astartes would have followed us into battle until the very end. Somewhere in the Segmentum Obscurum, on a newly found world where they have energy weapons we didn’t know about. It would have been a good, clean death. But we both know you will not die this way…”
Curze kept talking for minutes, until Elessius stopped trembling and both suns were shining brightly above the horizon. Then, he looked at Elessius, and, trying his best not to damage the eyelids with sharp adamantium, carefully closed his eyes.