The Cave

This story, part of the community effort on the Emperor's Nightmare chapter, provides more information about the rite that young boys have to go through before becoming Marines. (by Kjax)

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He ran. His feet chewed ground at a pace he’d never known before, weaving between the pitted, ashen colored ground and the dying trees strewn about by the onset of mankind. He ran because the distant muted roar of the crowd mingled with the thunderous echoes a single skyward shot of the giant’s weapon. He ran for a life, a future, a dream? Something that calmed the beating of his heart even as it threatened to burst from his chest, that soothed the flames of his lungs, and turned his muscle to steel allowing him to go on. He ran because there was no reason not to, not a single valid argument to stop and go back. Nothing waited for him back there. Nothing ever would again.

He was aware of others running with him, around him, behind him, in front of him, but he couldn’t see them. He wondered if they felt the same as him. If they were aware of the gravity of the choice they had made. How everything in their lives would be shaped by the very actions they were taking in these moments. Everyone knew that most boys answering the Call never returned, but that didn’t stop them. Nor did it stop the parents. From the lowliest slums to the tallest spires, all families desired a son to complete the trials. All of them wanted the honor of the Golden Aquila gifted to families of successful sons, even if it meant never seeing that son again.

But he didn’t think of such things as the Hive began to fade into the distance behind the pollution haze that shrouded the world in a milky dim. No, he only had thoughts for what lay ahead. The Cave. They said you’d know it when you saw it, and if you never saw it…then may the Emperor have mercy. He had received a knife when swearing to take the trial, a pitted, stained but undeniably sharp thing, but that was all. If he were to truly have a chance against whatever lie in the cave…he’d need more.

Ghostly shapes in the haze passed in and out of sight. He could only hope they were the other runners. He heard a scream now, but kept running, it would do no good to slow now. The snapping of a once great fir tree’s branches caught his attention. He spared a glance up to see great feathered wings swirling the haze about two golden eyes that glared back at him before flying off noiselessly. An owl. Or what was once any owl, now almost more a wolf, mutated and changed since being introduced to this world so long ago. That such a thing so big could be so silent was terrifying in its own way, talons the size of a man’s fingers did enough for the rest.

He stopped. Dead bodies lay on the ground, their blood mixing with the gray dirt. It took him a moment to recognize that their wounds were not the making of an animal. He’d seen their like before…

“You’re from the underhive aren’t you, boy?” the voice came from his left, “I don’t know why they even let your kind compete.” The other boy ran at him slashing with confident strokes.

He jumped aside, narrowly dodging a stab aimed for his sternum. His hand went for his own knife, only for that hand to be met with a quick slash that sent the knife clattering to the dirt. He let loose with his good hand; an awkward left that caught the boy by surprise just below the temple and staggered him.

Whatever animal that still lurked within his genes since the dawn of mankind took over. He leapt at the other boy, twisting to take his back while slipping an arm around beneath his chin. He fought to control the arm that still held the knife, clutching at a wrist, an elbow, any part that he could get a hold of. They struggled against each other before finally falling to the ground.

Air left him, but held on as his life depended on it. He squeezed with his arm as the boy on top of his chest stabbed wildly and desperately trying to get him to stop. The blade sliced by his face, cutting his cheek just below the right eye. He dodged his head to and fro, avoiding the further attacks. He could see his enemy’s face turn red, feel the desperation as his legs thrashed around searching for any sort of leverage.

The boy stabbed his arm, the blade digging deep into the flesh, but he held his choke. Even as the pain flashed through every nerve in his arm and seared the muscle with white hot protests to the strain, he held on, screaming defiance as he squeezed even tighter.

Slowly the legs stopped kicking. The muscles in his assailant's body seemed to give way. God-Emperor! I have killed him! He rolled the other boy off of him, where he lay, face-down in the dirt, not breathing. He pulled the knife from his arm, the pain amplified as he moved the blade. The wet blood on both arms collected the fine ashen dirt from the ground as he began to push himself up.

Another shadow came barreling out of the haze; a chubbier boy with hair frazzled and frayed all about his head. Imagining the scene through the newcomer's, he could only guess at what went through the other boy’s mind.

“This isn’t…” he began to say.

But it was too late. “Throne!” the chubby boy whispered to himself as he drew his own knife. But the adrenaline was still with him, and he threw the knife that had been lodged in his arm. A clumsy throw from the knees to be sure, but it was enough, catching the chubby boy in the hip, causing him to fall to his back.

Mad with rage, he scrambled towards the chubby boy, picking up a rock before falling upon him. He swung at the other boy’s skull. He swung again and again and again. He swung until he saw enough blood to satisfy himself that he was safe to stop.

Collapsing backward, the fire in his lungs devouring whatever oxygen came through his spit-filled, gasping mouth. No. He pushed himself back up onto his hands and knees. No rest. Keep going. He grabbed the chubby boy’s knife as he forced himself back to his feet. His mind swam through the murky sea of exhaustion that threatened to pull him under and drown him. Drown him and his dreams.

He started to run again, haphazardly at first, picking his way past the bodies and almost tripping over a fallen tree, but he forced himself back to a brisk pace. Not quite running, but quicker than his body desired.

But he needn't go very far. It was only a short time before the ground gave way before him, descending like a slow ramp into a great gaping maw that seemed to threatened swallow the world. The Cave. He knew he had to enter, though his mind couldn’t quite grasp why anymore. Wings. Wings? The thought eluded him, dancing about his mind ever so silently. His mind continued to churn through some thick jelly preventing him from knowing.

Either way he’d have to enter the cave. Drawing the knife he took one last large breath into his still burning lungs.

He ran.

Into the darkness. Into the swirling mass of lightless black that held… Held what? Glory? Honor? Strength? Nothing he ever desired. Nothing he ever desired more. He ran on through the darkness, waiting for something. Something to stop him and tell him that he’d completed his quest. Something to attack him and swallow him whole into the belly of some foul beast. Perhaps this was the belly…perhaps he’d already failed.

He was lying dead in a pool of his own blood, the ashen soil waiting to claim his corpse.

The boy laughed at him, “Worthless underhiver…” before walking off to find his next victim.

An owl took him with its talons, and he watched as the world faded below him.

He ran. Tripping over a tree and flying face first over a cliff.

He ran. He collapsed from exhaustion, his body nothing more than carrion for the wild beasts.

He ran.

He ran.

He ran.

He stopped.

The darkness changed about him. Something was off about the pitch black of his world. A skittering here. A scratch there. Something occupied that infinite nothingness with him.

The eyes appeared. Or what he though were eyes. First one pair, glowing a sinister silver in the darkness. Then another pair, and another, and then a dozen, then a hundred. They surrounded him, the light from their eyes encroaching on the seemingly endless black. They blinked and squinted. Screeched and scratched.

He raised his bolter. Bolter? Firing off rounds as fast as his finger would let him. The muzzle flashes revealed small twitchy figures no bigger than a domesticated cat clinging to the walls and ceiling of the cathedral. Cathedral? They scampered and screamed as he rained fire at them, small bodies exploding with every shot.

He kept firing, even as they took to the air on leathery wings, swirling and circling about him. They searched for his flesh, clawing and biting at his armor. They tore at the soft bits of his joints. He kept firing. They beat themselves against the thick ceramite causing it to crack and buckle. He kept firing. His faith would shield him. Faith? The strange word tumbled in his head while he searched for a meaning, a definition that would make him more secure in his task.

But his weapon went silent. He reached again for his first source of security: his knife. Feeling the empowering weight in his hand once again, he stabbed and slashed wildly. Even killing them a half-dozen at a time was not enough. They kept coming and coming. They pulled at the plates of his armor and pried at those already cracked. He stabbed and swatted. They would have him soon. They would have their prize. He could feel them digging into his skin, clawing deeper into the muscle, and scraping against his bones.

They found him, the center of him, the core of him. They found it and extinguished it. He let out one final scream of defiance, raising his voice to the unseen heavens above while he crashed to the floor.

He bolted upright, fists clamped down hard on cold steel. His breath was labored and he could feel the sweat coating his body. It was a moment before his muscles relaxed enough to let him rip the leathery blindfold down from his eyes.

His eyes fought the relative brightness, just as his twin hearts fought to calm themselves. He could hear the great words of Randolph’s Liberation being chanted by the Librarian at the end of the hall. His eyes adjusted near instantly, allowing him to see the rows of beds lining the great chamber.

His eyes caught the slow movement of a black robed mountain of a man whose scars marred a short mane of facial hair about his jaw line. The robed figure made his way between the beds towards him carrying a rod and an Aquila stamped book.

“At ease Brother Gideon, you were not in battle when the Sleep took you,” Chaplain Paragus intoned as he placed a soothing hand on Gideon’s forehead, easing him back to the bed. “Though you were armed and armored, no brothers were failed on your account. Quite the opposite I should think. Your deeds have been much admired during your slumber.”

“It is good to hear Chaplain, thank you,” Gideon responded letting his eyes go to the vaulted ceiling above him.

“Yes, well, unfortunately, Sergeant Danton will not be waking. The Apothecaries deemed his body beyond reclamation and gave him the Emperor’s Peace instead of reviving him.”

Gideon’s eyes shot back at Paragus, “And of…”

“I am told The Waking request your presence, after your Morning duties to the Librarium, of course. But first the Prayer of Morning,” the Chaplain offered Gideon the book.

He took the book reverently, clutching it as he began to recite the verses.