army and incorporate the new releases from next weekend. Enjoy.
The Conclave was growing slower than expected but nonetheless, an improvement. In the three months that had passed since his pact with the so called agents of chaos and their sorcerer puppet Tumikepah, Terranix had seen his forces grow from the paltry, apathetic handful of warriors who had remained in his warband, to the diverse and battle-hungry , before him now. The Dark apostle, Ral Voron, had joined them all too willingly after Tumikepah had led them to him on Stratix VII. He was not like those of his kind Terranix had encountered before. They had been arrogant, power-hungry zealots so wrapped up in their own agendas and self-importance to understand the grand scheme of things. Ral Voron was different however. He was an introspective, almost humble figure, who had willingly and enthusiastically offered both his and his cultists fealty to the agents of chaos. How he had come to be stranded on Stratix VII, Terranix had not asked. If the circumstances of his exile contributed to his need for repentance in the eyes of the dark ones, so much the better.
Then there were the other legionaries of old. The Small band of alpha legion veterans who had sought Terranix out rather than the other way around. They kept themselves to themselves, and despite his suspicions of them they never failed to disappoint. Their prowess at wielding fit-to-purpose weaponry outstripped that of his own warriors, not to mention their intelligence gathering and espionage skills. The small band of Night Lords who called themselves the ‘Warp Talons’, were almost the complete opposite to the Alpha legionnaires. Brash, extravert and insubordinate, with murderous intent behind their glowing eyes, Terranix couldn’t be sure if their prolonged exposure to the warp had brought on such behaviour, or whether this is how they had been all along.
And most recently, they had followed a series of clues divined by Tumikepah which had led them to one who called himself a Warpsmith. Terranix knew not his real name, nor that of his parent legion. He knew simply that this strange, eccentric character had two gifts of great use that he could bring to the Dark Harvest. Firstly. his skill at repairing and maintaining their long-since neglected technology. Secondly, the great beasts that accompanied him to their meeting; perverse mergings of warp-beast and technology. One a winged fiend, the other a lumbering brute, both many times the size of an astartes. Their presence would do much to compensate for the lack of armour in his Warband.
Things were starting to come together at last. He now had an army, not simply a raiding party, and the entire sector would soon tremble at the sound of his name. Terranix stood in his newly repainted battle armour, lustrous gold edging to a gloss ebony plate. The Sorcerer had eventually yielded to his interrogation about the origins of Terranix’ legion. As the Sorcerer spoke the words, memories long since forgotten had stirred for the briefest of moments within his mind’s eye.
‘Yes I, I recall’, he had said. ‘We were there at the final battle for the Emperors palace on Terra.’
‘Indeed you were’, whispered Tumikepah with his serpents tongue. ‘But the Primarch was slain, aboard vengeful spirit, and your flight from Terra took place.
The realisation dawned upon Terranix. ‘Then we were Sons of Horus Lupercal, the Warmaster.’ His heart raced at the idea of such a rich heritage. ‘We are the chosen of Horus, favoured by chaos.’
‘Favoured you are indeed,’ said Tumikepah, ‘But the bastard successor of Horus Lupercal now leads the Sons of Horus as the black legion. What colours shall you adopt my Lord?’
Terranix paused as the thoughts and possibilities of what he could achieved flowed through him. He was utterly empowered by this knowledge, a simple fact that he knew in his heart to be true.
‘The old ways are gone, and the Sons of Horus no more,’ he said. ‘We shall wear black as the legion do, but not in mourning, rather in honour of Warmaster Horus and his personal heraldry. But we shall not wear the eye of Horus. That symbol has been adopted and shamed by Abaddon, and we shall not associate ourselves with him. We shall wear a symbol of the dark harvest; twin bloodied scythes with a skull of bone white atop them. This shall mark our new beginning. Let all who join our cause retain their colours, but let them wear this symbol upon their armour as they pledge their allegiance to me’
With this decree, so was it done. As Terranix looked out upon the crowd of his new army, all were painted, tattooed or branded with the symbol of his new rise to power. From the ebon armour of his own warriors, to the red shrouded rage of the Dark apostles cults and the blues of the legionaries, they were all now united by the cross scythes and skull. Terranix held his hands aloft as he stood upon the dais and silence followed, all eyes upon him.
‘Let the dark harvest begin,’ he roared, and they roared with him.