Torvann Lokk & Kar-Gatharr -- Iron Warrior & Word Bearer friendship!
Posting this because it's SO unusual for Iron Warriors or Word Bearers to be allowed to have friends in Black Library novels, never mind to be friends with EACH OTHER. These quotes are all from The Gate of Bones, by Andy Clark, which is sadly the only place these two appear together.
Lokk drove by neural linkage. In Legion days the tank had required a crew of three. Now, he alone was sufficient to man it and fire its weapon. The malevolent spirit that dwelled in Dracokravgi’s systems, a gift from the gods for his devotion, helped with other tasks. The laser destroyer never failed. Its power couplings never needed replacing. Dracokravgi was loyal and fierce. He thanked Kar-Gatharr for that.
Lokk’s hand strayed to the metal disc around his neck, another gift, from an earlier era, pierced at the top for a leather thong he’d replaced a thousand times. The disc was worn paper-thin by millennia of handling, the design on it long gone, though Lokk remembered it clearly: a three-headed serpent, the badge of a warrior lodge long disbanded.
It remained the symbol of his brotherhood with Kar-Gatharr, and so he had made it the symbol of the Beasts of Steel.
Lokk remembered asking Kar-Gatharr about his own medallion, long ago, when the Word Bearer had been assigned to his Grand Battalion to foster bonds between the Legions. Kar-Gatharr had grinned broadly, and covered his medallion with his hand in a mock display of secrecy.
‘I cannot say,’ he had said.
Lokk received his invitation to join the lodge the next day. He and Kar-Gatharr had been friends ever since.
Notable also for the implication that the Lodges were more successful in the Iron Warriors than was suggested in Angel Exterminatus -- perhaps in Grand Batallions further away from the Primarch and the descendants of Olympian nobility, the Lodges were more welcome.
More Lokk & Kar-Gatharr behind cut.
‘This is artful destruction,’ Lokk grunted, scanning his tactical read-out.
He had said as much to Kar-Gatharr days before, as they had stood on the walls above the despoiled Saint’s Gate and stared out over the blasted city. They watched the ongoing battle, listened to the crackle of las-fire, the chatter of autoguns, the thumping of bolters and the roars of the warp-born terrors they had unleashed. Lokk smelled brimstone, blood and smoke. Once, that would have raised real passion. He had felt nothing.
‘This is the Despoiler reaching out,’ Kar-Gatharr had said. ‘He is preparing the way for the end. It is the Warmaster, the true Warmaster, readying himself to do what the pretender Horus failed to achieve. And we, war-brother, are instrumental in it.’
‘Yes,’ said Lokk. ‘Soon it will be finally over, and we will have played our part, for what little that will contribute.’ He spoke not triumphantly, but wearily. He shifted his
weight. His right ankle, boot and greave had fused, giving him a lumbering cripple’s walk. Standing for any time was uncomfortable. He had wanted to see Kar-Gatharr, craved contact with the one being he still held any love for, but his mood had soured, and he had the urge to retreat back to Dracokravgi to brood.
‘You are right to be humble,’ said Kar-Gatharr. ‘We are but the tools of the powers. We are blades to be drawn against the Carrion-Emperor as the Dark Gods see fit. Never set yourself above the gods. As these mortals are nothing to us, we are nothing in the great struggle. We are proud weapons, but weapons are all we are.’
‘Our purpose is at hand,’ said Lokk, and he could not hide the yearning in his voice.
‘Patience, brother. You are touched by dark majesty. You are on the cusp of glory. Think not of death, but of eternity.’
Lokk smiled his crooked smile, felt the sting of lips tearing from the decayed interior of his helm.
‘I think of nothing else,’ he said.
Kar-Gatharr was the only one who could see Lokk’s desperation: the need, the mania even, for the Long War to finally be at an end.
‘Stand firm,’ Kar-Gatharr said, ‘and remain steadfast. I know you wish for release, but the end is not at hand. Your reward is.’
More of them:
‘War-brother? War-brother, it is I.’
‘Kar-Gatharr?’ Lokk said. He shifted himself. His bones hurt with a fever’s cold.
‘Come out, my brother. Let us speak.’
Lokk was in no mood for conversation, yet something made him get up. ‘A moment,’ he grunted. He yanked at his interface cables. A machine bleeped, as if in pain. He pulled again, and felt the spikes break in the sockets in his armour, obliging him to fish out the spines. What he cast out onto the deck was made of gristle.
He made his way out of Dracokravgi, and found Kar-Gatharr waiting, helmless and solemn, a few yards behind the tank. Lokk stopped when he saw his friend.
‘You are changed,’ he said.
‘You will be too, soon, my war-brother,’ said Kar-Gatharr.
Lokk limped towards the Dark Apostle. He had not changed physically, yet seemed larger somehow. Once, this would have alarmed Lokk, but he had seen far stranger things in the Long War.
‘Then,’ Lokk said, ‘you have your wish.’
‘My wish has only ever been to serve the gods,’ said Kar-Gatharr.
‘You have done that well,’ said Lokk. He limped past his friend, and went to a stowage bin on the back of Dracokravgi. It was a simple metal box, surprising by its quotidian nature, when one considered what lived within the tank. From inside, Lokk took out a glass bottle protected in a net of twisted cord.
‘Drink?’ he said. Speaking was becoming more difficult for him.
Kar-Gatharr nodded. Lokk thrust the bottle at him, and took off his own helm. It was so hard to remove now. The joins kept sealing over, like fresh skin, and the shape of his face made disentangling himself from it awkward. He took the top off, then removed the distorted mask, tossing both onto the top of his tank.
Kar-Gatharr had not seen his war-brother’s true visage in some years, and now he looked in wonder upon the blessings the Dark Gods had bestowed. Lokk stood in discomfort as he looked him over, the bestial lines, his jaw heavy and distorted by the suggestion of tusks, the vestigial horns which jutted from his temples. Below them, Lokk’s eyes were amber, his pupils black slits.
There was murder in those eyes.
‘Such fine acolytes we are. Both blessed,’ said Kar-Gatharr.
Lokk’s twisted mouth smiled. ‘You perhaps. I bear their blessings with discomfort.’
‘It is a test, brother,’ said Kar-Gatharr. ‘Pass it and know real reward.’
‘Like you?’
‘Not like me,’ said Kar-Gatharr. ‘Better.’
Lokk retrieved the bottle and uncorked it. He handed it back to his friend.
Kar-Gatharr drank, pulling a face. ‘What is this?’
‘No weakling’s wine,’ said Lokk, with a real smile now. ‘Olympian slozo, or at least an approximation of it.’ He took back the bottle and drank long, finishing with a gasp. ‘Burns like I remember.’
‘It tastes like engine lubricant.’
‘That may be one ingredient,’ Lokk admitted. ‘It is good to see you. To what do I owe this visit?’
‘Comradeship,’ said Kar-Gatharr softly.
Lokk looked again at his friend, knowing immediately why Kar-Gatharr had come. ‘You have come to say farewell. You think you are going to die.’
‘We all die, war-brother.’
‘Don’t give me your priest’s riddles!’ Lokk said angrily. The rush of emotion surprised him.
‘When? When did you know?’
‘The power I hold within me will consume me.’
‘Then why take it?’ said Lokk. ‘Why now?’
‘The weapon. Tenebrus. The war. The Adeptus Custodes are here. They will not be bested by mortal means.’
‘So? There’s nothing but war,’ said Lokk. ‘What makes this one so special you must surrender your life to it?’
‘Faith,’ said Kar-Gatharr without hesitation. ‘Matters here must go according to the will of the gods. The Warmaster. Abaddon…’
‘Ach, Abaddon, another vainglorious fool,’ said Lokk. ‘He’s the same as Horus, a liar who has deceived himself.’
‘Maybe,’ said Kar-Gatharr. ‘But he will triumph. Victory must be won correctly. It must be done with faith. Abaddon does not honour the gods, not as he should, not yet.’
‘Nor does my primarch,’ said Lokk.
‘Would you have an eternity of rule by the Lord of Iron?’
‘I would have no eternity under anyone,’ said Lokk.
‘Then why do you go on?’ said Kar-Gatharr.
‘I don’t know,’ said Lokk. He stoppered the bottle and put it away, his thirst forgotten.
‘Mankind was made to worship, that is Lorgar’s creed. If Abaddon takes the Throne of Terra, insisting on his own supremacy, the gods will destroy him, and mankind will endure a living hell.’
‘Mankind already endures a living hell, Kar-Gatharr,’ said Lokk. ‘Do not pretend any of us are in this for anything but ourselves. If you taught me one thing, it is that Chaos has no mercy. We have been lied to by everyone. All we can do is fight. That is all there is.’
‘It is not true. Lorgar had a vision,’ said Kar-Gatharr. ‘Mankind living in harmony with the gods, as supplicants, and willing vessels for their power. All the potential the Emperor sought to deny us, and keep for Himself. When you speak as you do, Torvann, you outline the Emperor’s path, not mine. You have known their gifts. You have lived nine millennia, you have seen things of such sublime glory. Could the boy you were have imagined such a thing? We all have that potential. If the strong are allowed to prosper, humanity will rise to glory, but the gods are fickle, and they must be propitiated. It is the duty of my Legion to make Abaddon see this. It is our duty to make the victory the right one.’
Lokk laughed. ‘You’re all deluded. There is nothing but death and suffering, so it has ever been, so it will ever be. You can’t control Abaddon. You can’t control what manner of victory he will have. You can’t reason with the gods. What is this that we fight for? We were dupes under the Emperor’s banner, under Horus’, and still under Abaddon’s, while the gods laugh all the while.’
‘Yet the gods honour you,’ Kar-Gatharr said stepping forward. ‘And yet you still dedicate your kills to them. Why, if you are so full of doubt?’
‘Because there is nothing else,’ said Lokk quietly. He looked around his camp. His men sat by fires, their machines silent, hidden by the walls of a roofless building. It could have been any night in his miserably long life.
Some plot stuff cut. Kar-Gatharr agrees to hide Lokk's Iron Warriors from the enemy.
‘Then consider it done, war-brother.’
Lokk smiled sadly. ‘I remember when you first called me that. Before you came, I was thinking of the night you saved me, do you remember it?’
‘I do,’ said Kar-Gatharr.
‘That night you pulled my body from that wrecked tank, my brothers slaughtered all around me. I thought I was going to die.’
‘I knew you were not, though it took me hours to find you.’
‘Yes,’ said Lokk. ‘You have told me a thousand times you went there because the gods sent you.’
Lokk looked up into his friend’s eyes. They were a solid black now, like those of the Lord of Ravens. There was no escaping what they were – the Space Marines, the primarchs, the powers of the warp – he thought. They were all parts of the same cosmic jest.
‘Is that really true?’
‘The evidence speaks for itself,’ said Kar-Gatharr. ‘You live.’
‘No, brother, I mean it, did the gods really send you?’
Kar-Gatharr paused, then he said softly, ‘They aided me, but only because I asked them to.’
They held each other’s eyes a long time, until Lokk broke the silence with a small laugh. ‘There is a primarch coming here. Can you imagine it, after so long?’
‘It has been ordained. This is the last war.’
The smile faded from Lokk’s deformed lips. ‘You can never understand how much I pray that is true, brother,’ Lokk said. He looked away again.
‘This power you have taken. I know you, Kar-Gatharr. You seek to face things you should not. You will fight the corpse-lord’s lackeys. You should leave. Let us fight again, on other worlds.’
‘It is my fate,’ said Kar-Gatharr. ‘My story ends here, but do not mourn me, for I go on to greater glory. Hold true to the faith I have given you, Torvann Lokk, and you will know power untold of.’
‘Another possibility?’
‘A certainty.’
Kar-Gatharr embraced his friend.
‘Fight well, Torvann. This shall be our last meeting. In honour of our friendship, you shall have your shroud of shadow.’
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Kar-Gatharr/Torvann Lokk because I love them, your honor. Set shortly after Isstvan V, with all that meant for them.
"The True Gods do not offer ease, for strength is bought through ordeals and Their favor falls on those who refuse to surrender." He can see Lokk's face stiffening with resolve and pride, the Iron Warriors determination showing through; refusing to surrender is in his bones.
