Serial blog post

Well, it’s been a minute. And I’m here to tell you, it may be another minute. But, I’m hoping to give myself a reason to keep this damn thing going. In the coming months, in order to give myself something to do beyond beat myself up over the shape of my novel, I’m going to try and post a serial. Based in one of my favorite universes, Warhammer 40,000, the virtues of which I have extolled in my previous posts, this is just another creative outlet that doesn’t require a ton of work on my part. Just, fun. Or whatever.

I’m hoping this will help break the dam that’s built up in my head over the last month or so and help me break through this writer’s block. There will be minimum proofreading and editing. In part, because I want to see how far I’ve come. Mostly though, I just want to force myself to write without having to worry about how (im)perfect my writing is. So, without further rambling, this is Called the Herald of Night. It’s is based on a bit of fluff and head canon that I’ve had for a long time. Hope you enjoy.

This is a work of fiction based on the Warhammer 40,000 universe created by Games-Workshop Ltd. I will remove this work upon request.
The Herald of Night.

Part I

A star was born, and the fury of its christening illuminated the dim confines of the observation deck of the Inevitable Judgment. Inquisitor Haverman squinted slightly, the implants in his eyes adjusting too slowly, something they were prone to doing more and more as he reached his one hundred and seventieth year.

A trio of servo skulls hummed as they descended from the shadowed eaves of the vaulted ceiling above, empty eye sockets glowing a dull, ominous red. They came to life with a droning whir and circled their master. The voices of their owners had long ago been stolen, only able to speak now in a stream of yellow parchment that spilled from jawless mouths.

Inquisitor Haverman turned from the birth of another star as its terrible light bled into the observation deck. It was the light of judgment. The light that preceded the death of a world. He took hold of the parchment spilling from the nearest servo skull. So much death. So much loss. So little need. Yet, necessary. Required. The searing light of the newborn star began to die, its halo replaced slowly by a wall of incandescent fire, violet lightning spreading outward from its molten cradle like the fingers of death.

Another star was born, its birth more magnificent and terrible than the last. And then, another. Inquisitor Haverman clenched his eyes shut. He let the parchment slip from his boney grasp and pressed a branchlike finger to his temple. It wasn’t the light that tormented him. It was the wailing, the cries of a billion souls as they echoed across the immaterium, a haunting and otherworldly symphony that always accompanied the birth of those terrible stars and the deaths of worlds. How beautiful, how terrible, how awesome. How easy it was.

The power to destroy a world, to end billions of lives. That was the power at his command. That was the responsibility that he had to shoulder. That was why, whenever he ordered the death of a world, Inquisitor Haverman chose to observe from the observation deck of his Black Ship. Away from the cold, dreadful silence of the nulls that haunted the halls of the Inevitable Judgment, Inquisitor Haverman could hear and feel the consequences of his responsibly. Of course, he could never allow guilt to cloud his judgment. That would require him to feel it in the first place, and there was no guilt in carrying out the Emperor’s will. But he could never allow himself to take it for granted, and here, he could fully comprehend that responsibility and its dreadful consequences.

Another cyclonic warhead detonated, silent but for the whispers of the dying breaths of uncounted millions in its wake, carried to Haverman’s mind by the infinite tides of the Immaterium. Haverman waved off the servo skulls and they obeyed. He didn’t want the data now. He didn’t need it. He needed the silent screams of the condemned. Those he had condemned. He watched as the detonation of the warhead spread outward and upward into the atmosphere from the flickering cloud at its epicenter, sheets of flame like the petals of a ghastly flower, blooming as it fed upon the blood of millions.

“The death of a world can be quite beautiful from the void of space,” Haverman said, his voice dry like old parchment. He lifted his bearded chin, shaped and pointed like a dagger, filaments of silvery-white hair like strands of fresh silk falling backwards from his shoulders. Silence once again filled the observation deck as the echoes of his crackling voice faded into the gloom. He turned his head, slowly, deliberately as if drawing the edge of his dagger-like beard across the neck of a condemned world.

Haverman slammed the bottom of his adamantium cane against the deck with the sound of thunder. The hooded figure, huddled and poorly hidden to his enhanced vision, startled and nearly fell forward. Haverman clicked his tongue. “Much better, acolyte Davelor. No need to hide in the shadows. That domain is mine, anyway. Mine and the monsters we hunt. Perhaps, someday soon, it too will be yours. But not this day.” He waved the hooded acolyte forward and it obeyed. He eyed it with the same paternal instinct as a Carvarian Lion would his cub, and the acolyte approached with the appropriate caution.

The acolyte met Inquisitor Haverman’s gaze, sharper still than his beard, for only a moment. Haverman snorted as those pale eyes, as cold and hard as a glacier, turned to watch the unfolding destruction below. “What do you think of this, acolyte?” Haverman asked as he too turned back to the dying world. Classified as Rasmos III Alpha by Mechanicum Explorators, it was slightly larger than its twin, Rasmo III Beta, the two orbiting each other around a common barycenter. Rasmos Alpha was the most populace of the two worlds. At least, it had been less than an hour ago. Much would change. Much had changed.

Haverman pounded his cane into the deck again after a moment of silence and the acolyte flinched. “If you are to sneak into the observation deck, the least you could offer is some conversation, acolyte Davelor. This is not a trick question. I assure you, this question comes without the risk of punishment.”

“Yet, I may still give the wrong answer.” The voice was as cold and smooth as the acolyte’s glacial eyes. “The answer determines much of my future.”

Haverman nodded slowly. “Indeed, so. Perhaps more than you know. And such a response, such a decision requires swift and concise action. Your delayed response could be as deadly to your future as any answer, just hesitation would in a firefight. But the Emperor, in His wisdom, has seen fit to give you another chance. So, tell me acolyte. What do you think of this?” Haverman swept his hand from right to left over the vista of stars and the burning world once known as Rasmos III Alpha. It could have been a macabre painting, suspended in the rafters nearly fifty meters above, stretching to the floor at their feet and across the deck, end to end.

The acolyte took in a deep breath. “Some may question your right to destroy a world. Those who understand know that you have no right to let it live.” The acolyte exhaled the recited response, then breathed in again. “As for what I feel, Inquisitor, I feel no remorse for the lives lost. They betrayed The Emperor, His Imperium, their humanity. They used alien technology to advance their own ends, without though of how such blasphemy might corrupt their souls. They used that technology to fire on agents of His most Holy Inquisition, on soldiers of His Imperial Guard. They deserved nothing less than Exterminatus.”

Haverman shook his head, his thin hair waving back and forth in a slow, ghostly dance. “You are still reciting lessons, acolyte.” He pointed the silver skulled head of his staff at the hooded acolyte, the diamonds set into its eye sockets glowing with the light of a burning world. “Combine what you think and what you feel. Dig deeper into your soul. What do you see here? Why did this happen?”

The acolyte’s cold gaze regarded the burning sphere again as if searching for meaning amid the swirling clouds that now consumed it. “It is a warning,” the acolyte said. “Neither Rasmos Alpha or Beta are particularly vital to the Imperium. Of the two, Rasmos Alpha holds the most mineral wealth, but minerals can be mined from the bedrock of a world, dead or not. “Rasmos Beta has fewer people, and no trace of xenos technology on its surface. The six billion souls that inhabit it may yet be salvaged once the Imperial Guard and The Astartes have finished crushing the rebellion. But they will need a reminder. The whole sector will need a reminder.”

The acolyte nodded towards the world. “A scar in the night sky. A wound, visible for all eternity, and etched in the memories of those that inhabit Rasmos Beta. Should the seed of rebellion ever find its way into the hearts of those on Rasmos Beta, they need only look to the heavens to be reminded of what heresy and betrayal will bring them.”

“Very good,” Haverman said, his thin, blue lips stretching into a smile. “But, do not forget, when the taint of xenos technology, when the sweet allure of alien culture has seeped into the roots and foundations of a world…”

“We must tear it up, and burn it as we would a rotting tree,” the acolyte finished. “Abhor the alien, as you would the mutant, the heretic.”

Haverman nodded, a reply dying on his lips as one of the servo skulls floated down to hover before him. The voice of the Inevitable Judgment’s captain sputtered from a vox grill protruding from the skull’s side. “Lord Inquisitor. The governor of Rasmos Beta wishes to speak to you. He wishes to offer his surrender.”

Haverman chuckled, the sound dark and humorless. “I’m sure he does,” Haverman said. “Come, acolyte. There is much work to be done.” Haverman turned and left the observation deck, his acolyte in tow, and the embers of a dead world in his wake.