Initiation Rites

The thunder of the gods heralded the coming of the angels, which made Isac's dramatic entrance into the room, crying: "They're here! They're here! The angel's chariot has descended!" completely redundant. The old man had always been prone to spectacle, Chief Orvas reflected.

They stood in the Victory Hall, lit and warmed by a blazing fire. It was simple: walls of straw and hewn wood decorated with shields and ancient light guns, weapons the angels had given his people, so that they might fight alongside God's army to free themselves from the Maw Devil's. All bore bayonets, and some were even splashed with the black blood of the demons - proof that his ancestors had fought, and a reminder of the debt they owed. He and eleven other fathers stood separated from the crowd, their families standing faithfully behind them, and their firstborn sons - stripped naked, barring a modest loincloth - a single pace ahead, all awaiting the entrance of God's right hand. The grand doors opened slowly, and the angel Isaias entered, cowled in the deep green robes of his people. He was flanked by two guardians, their enourmous shields, each nearly as large the doors, held aloft. They again were flanked by two angels baring the legendary weapons of the heavens; guns capable of splitting the skull of a Wyverdog in two with a single shot. Guns enough to kill every man, woman and child in this room. Orvas shuddered, and patted the shoulder of his son reassuringly.

"Hail!" Isaias boomed, and the villagers replied in kind, their collective din almost matching the volume of the angel's voice. "Lord Isaias, I humbly present our offering!" Orvas called, and bowed respectfully, gesturing with one hand at the boys arrayed ahead of them. Isaias strode across the long hall, covering it in ten paces, waving back his stomping guardians as he approached the first boy. The angel inspected him carefully, asking him to raise his arms, querying him on his various scars, and nodding appreciatively as the boy casually described doing battle with creatures that would be considered nightmare ghouls on fairer Imperial worlds. "Your offering is fair. Do you relinquish this boy to me, honoured father?" Isaias asked, nodding respectfully at the boy's father. "I do." the man's voice only just wavered, his eyes full of tears unshed, pride and agony together. "You do your world proud, honoured father! I claim this boy." Isaias touched two fingers to the child's head, and then gently ushered him towards the other angels, one of whom sheathed him in a thick woolen cape of the same green as the angel. So it continued up the line, until finally Isaias stood before Orvas. "Gracious offerings, oh chieften." Isaias spoke the ritual words, and then added, "I see your own son is amongst the chosen this time." "Yes, my lord." He patted his son's shoulder, "A fine boy." Isaias studied him intently, saying nothing. Orvas' son drew himself up, squaring his shoulders, sticking out his jaw. Even standing tall the boy was scrawny, fully a head shorter than every other offering. He was lean, underfed almost. "This is your firstborn son, chieften?" Isaias asked after a moments study. "Y-yes my lord! Of course! He is small for his age but truly my son!" cold sweat broke out on Orvas' brow, and trickled down his back. He suppressed a shudder.

"Hm. Yes, truly your son, but is he your firstborn?" Isaias gently moved the boy aside, and stepped up to Orvas. The chieften was a tall man, taller than any in his village, but even he had to crane his neck to look at the angel as he spoke his next words. "My lord. I- I-..." Orvas stuttered, terrified. "Have you forgotten the pledge of your ancestor, chieften? A dozen firstborn sons for a dozen centuries, each delivered on the tenth cycle of your world. The God-Emperor's price for freeing you from demon enslavement." "Of course not, my lord. But, my firstborn- I need him. He is precious. Surely my seco-..." Isaias struck the man, a mighty backhanded blow that sent the chieften sprawling onto the ground. The angel began to scan the frightened crowd, laying his eyes on each boy, until he found one who couldn't meet his gaze. One who had a remarkable resemblence to his father. "There." Isaias pointed, "You are the chieften's firstborn. Brother, fetch him!" The boy tried to flee, but even the coltish agility of adolescence seemed slow and clumsy compared to the alacrity of an astartes. As soon as he was caught he began to wail, and so too did his father. "No, oh angel! Mercy!" Orvas crawled forwards on his knees, hands held in supplication, "Mercy!" Isaias turned his back on the sniveling man and inspected his son. The boy was tall, as large as a fully grown man on some other worlds, and broad. He appeared well muscled, but lacked the scars and scrapes of the other boys. His face was red, and as soon as Isaias touched his chin, forcing the boy to look him in the eye, the child began to sob and whimper pathetically. From nearby came the whir of a lasgun charging, Isaias snapped away, turning towards the threat, reaching into his robe for his bolt pistol.

Against the wall stood the chieften's second son, his lips curled back in rage, the lasgun held in a perfect guardsman's stance - butt against his shoulder, eyes aiming down the sight. The gun continued to whir, and as the boy sighted it on Isaias' head, he pulled the trigger. It sputtered, and refused to fire. The boy's eyes blazed with rage, and before any of the angels could react, he threw it overarm, as though he were hurling a harpoon. The weapon soared through the air and Isaias jerked aside. Too slowly, he felt the bayonet crease his jaw, leaving a long hot gash as it kissed him. His brothers reacted immediately, two moving forward, throwing their shields ahead of them, blocking any further attack from reaching their Captain. The others sighted their boltgun on the boy, and his fellow villagers fled screaming whilst he stood defiant and angry. "Leave my brother alone!" The boy screamed, his tiny hands balled up into fists. Isaias raised a hand, halting any vengeance, and wiped his jaw with his robe, contemplating the wet smear for a moment. Then he turned back to the chieften. "I will take your second son." He proclaimed, "If you will relinquish him to me?" "Yes, oh lord! Yes!" Orvas was still on his knees. Isaias approached the wild son of the chieften slowly, as if he were dangerous game, and gently pressed two fingers to his forehead. The other boys had bowed their heads, but this one stared at him defiantly, and spat. "Thank you, oh lord! Thank you for your mercy!" The chieften called as Isaias ushered the children out of the hall. He turned to face the man, who had yet to climb to his feet, and was now clutching his firstborn child in his arms. They were both sobbing. "Do not thank me, Chieften." Isaias said softly before he left, "Time will show that I have done you a grave disservice today."

They stepped back out into the blistering cold. Isaias caught up with the smallest of the initiates, who, it seemed, had also refused one of the warm robes of the order. "What is your name, boy?" He asked, putting his arm around the child's shoulder, keeping him warm and ensuring he wouldn't attempt to flee before they reached the thunderhawk. The boy spat some curse back at him in a tongue Isaias didn't understand. "Your name, boy. Or I'll feed you to the maw." The boy looked up at the night sky, fully one-third of its stars blocked by the planetside view of the Deep, a source of superstitious terror to these plain citizens of the Imperium. "Mokoyll." He replied sullenly. "I have a good sense of you, boy." Isaias laughed, remembering the child's iron will in the hall, "You shall be a great champion some day. I wager my vessel on it."