Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

I've found them, Mortarion thought, sullenly wiping his scythe on a coarse linen cloth for the seventh time. Or maybe they found me.

He sat among a pile of hay that had become slightly damp due to light rain, waiting for it to get later. He would try to light the firewood brought to him by the villagers to make the stewed gray food softer, warmer and easier to eat. .

Mortarion was hesitant to light the fire now. The fire would remind him of the brilliant golden fire that filled his eyes when he met the two extraterrestrial visitors that day.

The small village, Heller's Pass, was still within the influence of the sorcerer overlord Nakre, but close enough to the edge to stay out of sight of the Plague Eagle.

The air here is relatively clean and there are houses, barns, mills and streams. There are about two hundred residents living in the village, carefully planting the wheat fields here, and cultivating their lives day after day.

He was received by the villagers outside the village's Chaimen. When asked about his identity, he honestly told himself that he was an experimental subject of Nakre.

This brought a lot of fear to the villagers - not to mention that some people actually recognized him. His tall and thin body and pale face proved that he was the lackey of the rumored witchcraft overlord.

Mortarion accepted the people's questions calmly and even nostalgically. When he entered the small village where he first lived, he received almost the same questioning.

However, the people there ultimately chose to give Barbarus what little tenderness he had left, until they died because of him.

When the villagers hesitated, a young man persuaded the villagers to accept him.

"He has been escaping for so long," the young man said. "The overlord may have given up looking for him. And he is so big that one person can cut the wheat for five people."

As a result, he and Karas Typhon were assigned the same residence—a stable located on the outskirts of the village.

The stables were abandoned, and all that remained inside were traces of the creatures that had once lived there. Perhaps the creatures that the villagers had raised here had all died, or people could no longer afford the expense of feeding too many living creatures.

Secretly, Mortarion hoped that the livestock here had just been moved to the edge of another farmland and lived in another place.

Mortarion lowered the wiped scythe. It was time for him to replace his scythe. This one was showing serious wear and tear. He wasn't sure where he would find a second scythe that fit his size.

The scythe's blade collided with the ground, making a dull and hollow sound, which briefly coincided with Mortarion's heartbeat.

Mortarion looked out from the open door of the stable. In the distance that mortals could not see, in the mist under the hillside, he knew that the Emperor of Mankind and the wizard were there, waiting silently.

What can he give them? he thinks.

"What's wrong?" The young man standing at the door asked him puzzledly. Karas Typhon was standing where his gaze passed, and Mortarion realized that he had just been staring at the young man for a long time.

The weak sun during the day finally withdrew its last ray of light harshly, and Karas returned to the stable.

He looked at the untouched dry wood on the ground, confused for a moment, and then said understandingly: "I will do it today. Tomorrow I will teach you how to make a fire, Mortarion."

This misunderstanding gave Mortarion a blushing embarrassment out of thin air, although nothing could be seen on his pale skin.

"I'll do it." He muttered, moved to the fire pit, and easily rubbed out sparks with a flint, and the kindling under the firewood began to emit green smoke. Soon, golden flames rose up, playing with the edges of the firewood.

Karas placed the pot of vegetable porridge on the iron stand and let the heat waves brought by the flames lick the bottom of the clay cauldron. Soon after, it became warmer inside the stable, and the porridge and soup in the pot gently bubbled out gray and white bubbles. Karas filled a bowl for himself, filled a bowl with porridge, and handed it to Mortarion across the fire pit.

A rhythmic, undulating tone floated faintly from the center of the Heller Pass, like thick fog that condensed into water droplets and dripped on the surface of the iron piece by piece, unconstrained by the rules of language.

Mortarion turned his head following the direction of the sound: "What is that?"

Karas almost choked on his porridge. "That's singing. Haven't you heard it?"

Mortarion finished his porridge in one gulp. He drank quickly and could eat more. But even if the Primarch eats less, the price he will bear will be much lighter than that of a mortal. Therefore, he did not serve the second bowl.

"No," he said.

"Incredible." Karas shrugged, "Even if the overlord doesn't sing, doesn't he still listen to songs?"

"There is only noise," Mortarion replied immediately, his voice cold.

Karas burst out laughing and almost coughed out the porridge in his mouth. A few tangled grasses growing there at the damp bottom of the stable wall suddenly withered.

Karas Typhon glanced at the corner and explained nonchalantly: "I have half the dirty blood of the Overlord in my veins. In the village where I was born, they drowned my mother for this. Then I ran here."

Normally, Mortarion would have scolded the other party and warned the pale young man not to be disturbed by evil sorcery. But at this time, he violated the regulations he set for himself.

"What happened?" asked the Primarch.

Karas spat and said roughly, "She's so beautiful."

Mortarion thought about what he should say.

"This is not your fault," he said, "but the fault of the evil rulers. They imposed violence and power on the Barbarians, but you did not have enough strength to resist."

"Who doesn't understand this? But the villagers can only think that she is a witch."

Karas picked up a thin iron stick and stirred the firewood in the fire pit, allowing the flames to burst out more vigorously.

The horn of sunset sounded, and torches were lit around the village to ward off witchcraft ghosts in the mist.

The last group of villagers shuffled back from the wheat fields. Their state was numb and depressed, no one spoke, only the footsteps sounded chaotically outside the stable, full of hasty worries.

Some of them will go to a small gathering in the middle of the village, while others will go directly back to their respective families. They will slowly relax, and they may even laugh.

The Emperor's words echoed in Mortarion's ears. Do you want to kill more, the Lord of Mankind asked him.

"What if I kill him?" Mortarion said suddenly. "Kill those overlords?"

Karas's expression froze, and he waited for three seconds before confirming that Mortarion was not joking.

"For a long time," the young man said, staring at Mortarion, "for a long time, the world has been like this. Some people challenged it, but they all lost."

Mortarion didn't answer.

Calas Typhon drew closer, testing his attitude with suspicion and hidden expectation.

"As long as you are willing, with your abilities, you and I can easily survive on Barbarus. But resist? No, Mortarion, those who resist will die."

Mortarion looked at the stable door. When Karas walked in, he closed the rickety wooden door to keep out the fog and cold at night.

And Mortarion knew that deep in the mist of the mountains where the chemical concentration was too high, the Emperor and the Wizard were there, and they seemed to want nothing but his change of heart.

A general. A leader. An executioner for witchcraft. An exterminator of unshakable oppressive regimes.

"Mortarion means son of death," he said.

Karas opened his mouth, but still didn't say anything. He looked left and right, then stood up and came to Mortarion's side, close to the Primarch's ear.

"I believe you." He whispered softly.

Mortarion put down the bowl and followed Karas Typhon's example, loosening the gaps between the pine logs to allow the flames to burn brighter.

"When will the plowing begin tomorrow?" asked the Primarch.

Karas returned to his haystack, which was covered with two layers of linen, and half leaned on it.

"I just came to Heller Pass not long ago. I only know that after the morning bugle sounds, everyone goes to work in the fields one after another. What, you want to go too?"

Mortarion nodded, took his scythe, placed it beside the haystack, and then lay down on the thick haystack, preparing to go to sleep early. During his journey across the plains of Barbarus, he never closed his eyes for a moment.

The hay beneath him didn't sting his skin at all, it just traced and reminded him of the scars on his back. This is the shame left behind by the overlords of witchcraft.

Mortarion turned on his side and fell asleep.

Calas Typhon tended the fire for a while, having nothing to do during the night, when mist and dark clouds locked the sky, blocking the light of the stars from the atmosphere. After some time, he also fell asleep.

——

Mortarion was awakened by a sorcerous telepathic message that sounded directly into his brain. He turned over, grabbed the scythe and bounced up, his head almost hitting the top of the stable. After a moment of reaction, he realized that he was stepping on real ground.

+ If you don't want to spend your first morning in the village surrounded by corpses slain by voodoo golems, you'd better stay awake, Mortarion. +

A sharp, thin needle pierced into his nerves. Mortarion pressed his forehead, enduring the heaviness of his limbs and the fatigue of his brain. The feeling of being forced out of sleep was terrible, especially since this was the first chance to rest in more than ten days.

Beside him, Karas Typhon was half asleep: "...What?"

"It's okay." Mortarion whispered, picked up the scythe, pushed open the stable door, held one of the two torches at the door, and glanced at the dark fog in the middle of the night.

A strange coldness swept across his cheeks in the silence. He steadied the sickle with his feet, and with his free hand, he grabbed the black hair soaked in cold sweat on both sides of his forehead.

Morse was right. Something is happening in the dark.

+Go to the mill, Mortarion. +The wizard next to the Emperor continued to say to him, +What do you call a corpse puppet that is controlled by psychic energy? It's those things. +

Mortarion looked across the village, across the wheat fields, late night shadows blurred in the mist, the outlines of mills and windmills difficult to discern. The night is like a deep muddy pool, submerging Barbarus's lower world coldly and cruelly.

The cold wind gradually intensified, and the howling of ghosts could be heard in the middle of the night. Outside the small area that could be illuminated by asphalt torches, a dangerous fog was swirling. Some tiny chewing, scratching and eerie laughter echoed outside the village, eagerly waiting for the fruits of the hunt.

Mortarion took note of the direction of the mill and ran through the night fog. He walked like the wind, quietly walking through the sleeping village, and headed towards the windmill alone under the light of the torch that flickered on and off.

As he approached, the outline of the late-night windmill gradually appeared, and the three huge windmill blades stretched out like giant arms. Opposite the mill, in the village's rough sentry tower, the bright yellow light of the night watch was still on ignorantly, and the bright yellow lights of the night watch were still on. The danger is unnoticed.

The fire in Mortarion's hand attracted the attention of the sleepy Night's Watch. "Foreigner," the Night's Watch shouted, "What are you doing here? It's night now, don't go out!"

Mortarion did not answer, but quietly distinguished the blurry figures in the thick fog that gathered. He smelled the chemicals of voodoo golems, mindless biological constructs that learned to stop roaring at night.

They are stupid and clumsy, but powerful and fast. The most important thing is that they cost nothing to build, and Barbarus has no shortage of corpses.

He crossed the scythe, deftly positioning it for battle, just as he had been forced to fight for Nak'rai before, as the Overlord's most useful killer.

But this time, he volunteered to fight for humanity.

+ Well, maybe it’s good news. That’s not Nacre’s army. Who knows which sorcery overlord suddenly had a whim and wanted to have a night hunt... But that doesn’t mean they are easy to deal with. + Morse reminder.

I see. Mortarion thought to himself, knowing that he had not caused the disaster to the village.

In addition, he can sense the chain of witchcraft messages that connects his mind to the black-robed wizard in the mountain valley.

No need to learn, he already understood how to operate short-distance psychic communication. But he resisted sending a word back.

Mortarion dropped the torch, and its light died in the mire. Then comes the fight.

He wielded his scythe, supplemented by his hard fists, destroying one puppet after another, turning them back into complete rotting corpses. He killed the first batch of invaders like a whirlwind, the sickle easily tearing apart pieces of flesh and blood, driving gusts of bloody wind, as if he was skillfully clearing weeds in a wheat field.

crumb. Cut off. Chop into pieces. There is no mercy in death. The shadows moved endlessly, each corpse turned into trampled mud, and the yellowed bones sank in the thick foggy night. Occasionally, a splash of viscous and putrid liquid splashed into Mortarion's face, and more foul blood spurted onto his arms, torso, and feet.

There are also beasts, transformed by witchcraft, with swollen hair, agile and strong. He crushed their spines with one punch. He looks haggard and can fall down with a single blow, but he can still split mountains and break rocks.

+The Commander is behind the windmill, Mortarion. +

Without saying a word, Mortarion completed this silent battle, steadily approaching the mill and windmill, carving a dead road.

It was already late at night, the fog was getting thicker and thicker, and the night was falling like dew. The green witch fire jumped and rolled in the acid, illuminating the puppet's swollen and excessive ankles and the wasteland covered with pus.

In the whispers of the dead, Mortarion harvests the decayed foes. The sound of fighting attracted the attention of the village, and more and more torches lit up dozens of meters behind him. The villagers were shocked by the battle in front of them. Their common sense of survival made them wise not to get close, but only to deliver the harvest to the reapers. My silent blessing.

Under the windmill, Mortarion caught up with the commander of the team. He did not recognize the half-human, half-alien creature, and was unwilling to listen to any word that came out of the other party's dirty mouth. After fighting all night, he had no intention of uttering more bold words.

The sword flashed, and the invader's blood soaked the black soil.

Mortarion turned around, and he was a little surprised by the number of people watching. At the close of dawn, their figures were like a piece of wheat, swaying in the dim morning light.

"It's over," he said firmly. "It's a raiding party."

Calas Typhon pushed his way through the crowd, and there was no doubting the sincerity of his excitement.

"You saved us, Mortarion!" he shouted.

"Yes..." Mortarion was just thinking about whether to tell the existence of the Emperor and Mors, when the wizard's psychic communication suddenly and actively terminated, leaving no trace, as if they had done nothing. .

He composed himself and accepted the gift in silence.

"But the danger is not over," said the Primarch, "the battle between the Barbarus and the sorcerous overlords has only just begun."