The Death of The Emperor
The Second Siege of Terra
-Old Friends...-
He was alone.
This had always been a certainty in his mind. Ever since he had first accepted his Rosette from his masters, through the trials and tribulations that had beset him from all directions throughout his life, he had been alone against the insurmountable odds that stood before him. There had always been people around him: friends, colleagues, enemies, and even now he knew there were people with him, but they didn’t, couldn’t understand. None of them could know the depth of his despair, the sacrifices he had made simply to be here, and the loss he was willing to endure for his people. No, he was truly alone, and the constant shadow that stalked him in the bitter recesses of his mind grew ever darker as he approached the end of his days.
Gregor Eisenhorn, Inquisitor of the Imperium of Man, leant heavily on his staff as he marched through the golden corridors of the Terran Palace. The huge structure was a flawless marvel, a testament to the achievement and great enterprise that mankind could attain if it had a single, noble cause. The corridors and chambers of the palace were ornate and fantastic: crystalline chandeliers of sapphire hung on delicate suspension fields casting a regal, clinical glow upon the tapestries and frescoes that dominated the walls and ceilings. Paintings of alien landscapes and strange sunsets stood alongside portraits of military commanders of renown: Castus, Macharrius, Ulusius, and Yarrick. Vast pillars of marble and obsidian rose from the mosaic floors to support the frescoed ceilings like a scene from antiquity.
But these wonders were lost upon the darkened mind of Gregor Eisenhorn. He was here for a single task, and nothing would distract him, not the glory of the palace, nor his own wasted, ancient form. He leant suddenly on his staff as a wracking cough shook his body, his insides protesting at the physical demands he was placing upon them. The heavy servo-harness that had supported his muscles and bones in his later years squealed in protest as he doubled up, his body heavy with spasms of pain. He raised his gloved hand to wipe his mouth, and was unsurprised to find a thick, blackened liquid there. It was a vicious, darkened liquid, and one he had become accustomed to. It tasted of bile and blood, of waste and necrosis, and had become a constant reminder of what he must do. He closed his eyes, and forced the pain in his lungs down, breathing slowly. Come on old man, his mind mocked, don’t give up now. Opening his eyes once more, he rose again using his staff for support, his expression neutral and unchanging, Gregor Eisenhorn stalked through the corridors of the Imperial Palace with one goal in mind: The Council Chambers.
The old Inquisitor marched ever onward, time seeming to warp and distort as his mind focussed on the task ahead. He walked through the grand halls for what seemed like hours meeting no resistance as he went, the halls barren of guards or defences. Eisenhorn knew he would not encounter any, not today. No, he mused, where would the fun in that be, eh? The only sound that resounded around the halls was his own booted footsteps and the rhythmic metallic ring of his staff on the marble floor. He had long discarded his vox-caster, having lost contact with Ravenor, Efferneti and their storm-trooper bodyguards almost as soon as they had separated for their disparate targets. Eisenhorn was to go with his own Storm-troopers to the Custodes barracks deep in the palace and trigger charges at the generator systems located nearby. However, almost as soon as his fellow Inquisitors had gone their separate ways, Gregor had sent his men ahead to complete the task without him. He had other business to take care of, business between him and the monster that had brought Terra so low…
Cherubael
Even thinking the name brought Eisenhorn great pain, and he stumbled as the blood in his mind screamed in white hot agony. At the back of his mind, he could hear the Shadow laughing and cooing at him, mocking him like a spiteful child. Tightening his grip on his Force Staff, Eisenhorn gritted his teeth and cursed through black spittle. We had a deal, he whispered to the Shadow; do not turn on it now. The Shadow laughed again, but softly and without vehemence, and soon the Inquisitors sight and balance returned. He took a deep breath, his chest hiking painfully, his harness groaning as he straightened up. His eyes swam lazily back into focus, and he gazed down the corridor at the grand entrance to the Terran Council Chambers. Clenching his teeth, and with more purpose than his body wanted to allow, he marched toward his, and Terra’s, fate.
The Grand Chamber of the Terran Council had been designed for a grander time, a time before the corruption and malaise of the past centuries had rendered mankind’s achievements to nothingness and despair. It had been designed for the audiences of the Emperor himself, when he still counted himself among the living. Legends and tales had been writ of the grand meetings held here between the God-Emperor and his sons the Primarchs, between the emergent Lords of Terra and the lectures and concourse of the Sigilite himself. A vast hololithic display dominated the ceiling expanse, and rows of marble benches rose in a semi-circle around the gilded walls. The floor was a mosaic depicting Terra as it had been in the ancient days when it still had oceans of her own, sitting in the vast talons of a red and white Aquila. At the farthest end of the chamber, in front of the benches and dominating the chamber was the High Seat, the very throne the Emperor had used when meeting in the chamber. It was massively regal, with the Aquila rising proudly from its back, and engraved lightning bolts twisting from its majesty to encompass the room itself. Behind the High Seat hung several heavy banners depicting the personal devices of the Emperor himself: Eagles, Lightning Bolts, Terra and Golden Halos. Even after the Emperor had been entombed in the Golden Throne, the High Seat had always been empty to represent the Spirit and will of the Emperor himself, no man had ever dared sully the seat with his presence. But as Eisenhorn entered the regal hall, he saw a lithe, wire thin form draped in the seat surrounded by what first appeared to be young women in various states of undress.
As he approached Gregor could see the individuals more clearly and his stomach turned. The young women weren’t women at all, but foul she-things from the warp, their limbs pale and dainty, and their lithe naked bodies were scrawled with obscene tattoos and symbols. Where hair should have rose elegant horns and manes of vicious bristles, and their faces appeared regal and beautiful, but their eyes could not hide their millennia-long madness and hunger. They were dressed in revealing silks and chains, and they writhed decadently around the central figure who sat at the High Seat. Their tongues licked and wriggled around their sordid mouths like serpents and as they giggled and whispered, they cast their eyes hungrily on the approaching Inquisitor. Despite their obvious otherworldliness, it was the central figure that evoked the deepest loathing from Eisenhorn.
He was naked from the waist up, and his body was pale and thinly muscular. Dark lines and tattoos enveloped his form, and his arms glowed dimly with barely restrained power. His hands ended in dark talons, which at this moment he was stroking and caressing his female ‘companions’ in obscene gestures. But his eyes were fixed on Eisenhorn. His eyes were black like the void, devoid of all shine and life, his face was angular and handsome, and he wore a sharp spiteful grin which compounded his peculiarity. Like his compatriots he had no hair, but bore a pair of regal, pale horns, twisted like some goat or ram, upon his forehead. Where hair should have been there was flame, a burning blaze rose majestically from the back of the creatures head and shone a deep blue. It framed his features like a halo of light, and despite the physical differences in his appearance, Eisenhorn recognised the monster immediately. It turned its attention to the approaching Inquisitor.
“Ah Gregor” it cooed in sadistic mirth “How wonderful to see you, I was hoping you’d get here. I was afraid you might keel over on the way”
Gregor stopped, and straightened with visible effort. Although his face showed no expression, his eyes burned with barely restrained fury and hatred. He spat at the monster and spoke in a spiteful tone: “What should I address you by today, Daemon? Uriah Jole? Lord of Shadows? Angelsbane? Khar’sattoth?”
The daemon smirked at Eisenhorn, and rose gracefully from the High Seat. It’s companions parted and crawled after him in a feline fashion, their whispers promising pleasures and pain in equal measure, their eyes fixed intently on the human before them. The Daemon stepped toward Eisenhorn, raising its right talon in a gesture of welcome.
“Oh, come now Gregor, you wouldn’t deny me my anonymity now would you? People are so nosey these days, it sometimes helps to have a pseudonym, don’t you think?”
Gregor stood impassive, his hard stare fixed on the daemon. The smile never left its face as it continued.
“Very well, let us do away with the formalities…let us be familiar with one another, old friend”
“I am no friend of yours - Cherubael…” snapped the Inquisitor.
The daemon smiled at hearing its old name once again, and cast its black, hollow gaze upon its foe. The Inquisitors brazenness was refreshing, and made Cherubael feel young again, if indeed age was a concept that applied to his kind. Yes, it thought, this would be interesting.
The sounds of gunfire were barely audible now; they were but a muffled din from far away, miles of corridor and stone separating him from their cacophony.
Ravenor’s force-chair hovered scant centimetres above the ground as he raced through the corridors of the Imperial palace. Dust kicked up in a small, ethereal cloud in his wake as the advanced Grav-sensors kept him level and steady. He did not see as you or I might see, but he had a perception of the elegance and grace of his surroundings in his mind, the memories of untold years hanging more heavily than any of the banners or finery that lined the halls. He could ‘see’ past the walls, past the stone and mortar, past the iron and flesh to the minds and souls of the palaces inhabitants. He could see the flickering soul-sparks of the Storm Troopers he had left behind to fight the guards left to defend the palace. “Don’t worry sir!” their sergeant had shouted, “We can handle this lot! Get the mission done!”. He could see each of their lights fading and dying under the weight of firepower being thrown at them, but still they fought. His guilt at having left them was immense, and it hung on his heart like a heavy ball and chain, choking him in its painful insistence.
But he also knew that Gregor needed him.
He could see his old mentors light, pale and dimmed, nearby in the Council Chambers. Ravenor could also see purple stains and cancerous blacks surrounding the old Inquisitor, all keen to swallow him whole. Ravenor knew that his old Master felt he had a score to settle, that only he should face the daemon alone. But Gideon would not allow that. He activated his chairs defences, and activated his in-built Psy-cannons. He halted gracefully, his chair spinning at a point and aimed his weapons at the walls. They whined aggressively as he poured his minds will into them.
“Emperor forgive me…” he muttered, before the walls between him and the council chambers erupted like a storm of white ash and marble. His weapons whined and fired again, their discharge a heavy bass throng of power and force. Walls cracked and billowed as the smooth shape of Ravenor’s chair slid through the destruction he wrought. He fired again and again, passing through debris and detritus. Finally he hovered at the main entrance of the Council Chambers, the very psychic scent of corruption hanging in the air like a stale musk. Gathering his wits about him, Gideon drifted gently into the room.
“And so another monkey joins the show, how wonderful”
Eisenhorn turned around slowly, following the gaze of his daemonic foe. His eyes widened as he saw the graceful form of Gideon Ravenor drift into the room, his Psy-cannons open and whining in readiness. No, he thought, you fool, get out of here. He snapped his attention back to Cherubael, his eyes pleading. “Leave him; this is between you and me daemon!”
Cherubael threw his blazing head back laughed scornfully at Eisenhorn’s plea, the chilling sound being taken up by his daemonic harem. He grinned maliciously at Gregor, and began to levitate slightly off the ground, his talons flexing in anticipation. Eisenhorn could see the inevitable bloodshed ahead, and side stepped to place himself between the daemon and his former student. He raised his staff above his head and shouted “In the name of the Emperor, leave him be!” His voice sounded older and frailer than he had intended, and the sound of laughter grew louder as the daemons playfully prowled about the room. Cherubael looked down upon the aged Inquisitor, and with a gleeful yell rose higher into the air. “Oh Gregor” he smirked “How woefully predictable you are”
The sensors in Ravenor’s force-chair sounded: the room was filling with warp energy as the daemons prepared to attack. We’ll see about that, he thought as he filled his mind with thoughts of righteous fury and hatred. His cannons whined louder than before, a pale blue light emanating from their barrels before a barrage of psychic energy spewed toward the daemons surrounding the Inquisitors. Two of the she-daemons exploded in a cloud of gore and energy as the Psy-cannons took their toll, their screams shattering the stone they had previously stood upon. The others growled like predatory animals and leapt toward the force-chair. Ravenor spun gracefully on the spot and unleashed another salvo, liquidating another daemon and clipping the legs of a fourth. She fell to the ground mewling and cursing, before her body burst into flame, her injuries severing her link to the material world. The final two reached Ravenor with dizzying speed, and hacked at him even as he reversed to avoid them. One mounted his chair in an obscene spread-eagle, and hacked at his armoured form with her claws, each strike bringing groans of ecstasy from her and her companion.
Eisenhorn bellowed at the beasts assaulting his protégé, and whipped his Bolt-Pistol from its holster. He charged forward as fast as his harness would allow, its metallic form protesting loudly against the strain the old man was placing upon it, and unleashed a flurry of shots at the daemons. Several went wide, the kick of the weapon catching the old Inquisitor off-guard. But he compensated quickly, and was rewarded when a round struck the head of the Daemon mounted upon his friend. It burst with a sickening pop, and her body flew off Ravenor, going into a wild spasm before it melted into a pool of gore and waste on the marbled floor. The final daemon spun and hissed at Eisenhorn, only to be met with the heavy head of his Force Staff embedded in her brain. She dropped like a sack of wet meat, attempted to crawl away meekly before Eisenhorn unloaded his remaining clip into the back of her heinous body, her remains burning into glittering ash instantly. He limped over to Ravenor, wiping away some of the ichor and grease left from the daemon assault. “Like old times, my friend” Ravenor said through his Vox, his voice strained at the exertions of the fight. “No, my friend” corrected Eisenhorn, “this is different…”
A mocking clap sounded above the Inquisitors, as Cherubael applauded their battle. “Bravo gentlemen” he spat as his lithe form approached the ground once more. His feet touched the ground with no sound, and he walked gracefully toward them still clapping slowly. He turned his soulless eyes toward Eisenhorn once again, and shook his head. “Ah Gregor” he mused “I thought today was supposed to be about us, not this invalid” He gestured toward Ravenor, “He wasn’t invited to out little reunion.”
Gregor took a step forward, placing himself once again between the daemon and Ravenor, and stiffened his shoulders, “leave him Cherubael, this was never about him, this is me and you…” The daemon cocked his head to the side like a bird, and grinned more broadly than before. “Don’t worry Gregor, you won’t need to worry about him anymore”. And with a quick gesture with his hand, Cherubael crushed Gideon Ravenor’s force chair like a hollow tin can.
It all happened so quickly. First the daemon had raised its arm, before making a clenched gesture with its grotesque talons. Then there was the crack of metal and cable.
Eisenhorn spun around to witness his student, his protégé, his closest friend in these dark times buckle and crack under the tremendous psychic force the daemon exuded. There was a sound like weight upon strained glass, as Ravenor fought in vein against the monstrous pressure. Then, the sides of his force chair caved and rent apart, sticky pink liquid and blood flooding free from the newly opened wounds. Cables and sparks shot in all directions, and the sound of meat being torn could be discerned over the horrendous metallic noise. There was the sound of static from the chair in the last second, and a small tinny voice sounded “I’m sorry, my friend…” before the entire construct was crushed entirely with a painful, wet bang. The remains collapsed on the floor, entirely unrecognisable: smoke rose from its battered form, and viscous red liquid boiled from its tears, leaving a pool of ever expanding amniotic fluid and blood on the mosaic floor.
Eisenhorn let out a deep moan, a sound so primal and wracked in pain that only the most cold-hearted would not be stricken to melancholy by it. Cherubael simply laughed at the old Inquisitor. “See how God-like I am unto thee” chirped the monster victoriously, before erupting into barely restrained, wicked laughter. Eisenhorn fell to his knees in front of the smoking remains of his former friend and wept bitterly. He had wanted to avoid this. He had not told Gideon and Creed the full plan to avoid these casualties. This bloodshed could have been avoided if only they had let him go alone. He fought against the tears and the pain in his heart, his entire body wracked with pain at the injustices done this day and shakily rose to his feet.
The daemon eyed him inquisitively as he stood again, wobbling slightly as if drunk, and mocked him further, “Gregor, why always must we fight? Surely you see how weak you are when compared to the glory of Chaos. Why not just give up? Surrender your soul to me, as I was forced to so long ago. You have no chance of defeating me. You would need the power of a God to even attempt such a feat, and you are but a man. A small, weak, stupid man.”
The old Inquisitor sighed deeply, and wiped his tears away with the collar of his coat. He turned slowly and painfully to face Cherubael once more. His face was grim and tear-streaked, his jaw was clenched in hateful mourning. His eyes were grey, as if finally, the long centuries of his existence had finally caught up with him. He seemed to age and sag visibly, and Cherubael purred in victory. Finally, the old man spoke.
“You are right, Cherubael, you are always right. I cannot win, none of us can. I have fought you, I have captured you, only to have your cage shattered by those misguided enough to follow you.” The Old Man was visibly emotional now, and a tear ran down his left cheek, “I am so tired, so very tired. I cannot fight anymore, for I lack the will or the inclination. The Emperor is lost to us, and you have won…”
Eisenhorn dropped his staff with a resounding crack to the floor and threw his pistol across the chamber. He pulled at the front of his coat and armour to show his bare chest, which was pale and scar-marked: some old wounds of battle and victory, others surgical and man-made. He looked at the Daemon with pleading, tearful eyes and said, “Finish it, Cherubael, finish what we started long ago”
Cherubael looked at the Inquisitor in momentary confusion, before his wicked smile returned and with a carrion crow of hatred and victory plunged his talon into the chest of his old foe, and opened himself up to drink deeply of this most sweet of souls. Eisenhorn gripped the daemons arms to steady himself, and as blood flowed from his wounds and trickled down his chin, he stared the monster right in the face and spat “Got…you…”
There was no soul where Cherubael found his mind, no life-spark or ethereal plain common to most humans. There was simply a great dark expanse, which momentarily confused him. He expected the sweet soul of the ancient Eisenhorn, weak and ripe for the slaughter. But here it was empty, almost like a…no…it couldn’t be…
From the black came a moist, booming laughter which chilled Cherubael’s existence to the core. He had never experienced fear before, never really, but now he understood what it is that the humans referred to as ‘terror’.
LIKE A GOD ARE YOU? Boomed the voice from everywhere at once, it’s sound shaking off the wings of a billion, billion insects WELL LITTLE ONE, LET US SEE HOW AKIN TO A TRUE GOD YOU ARE
There was a sudden tear in the black, and Cherubael was faced with a vast maw of decayed and blackened teeth, and a thick rotten tongue writhing in corpses and vermin. Billions of flies billowed from the mouth, all with three eyes upon their brow and each speaking with the voice that would end time itself.
YOU ARE MINE LITTLE ONE! KNOW ME AS THE DESTROYER AND LAMENT AT YOUR OWN WEAKNESS
And although it went against everything Cherubael was or stood for, as the Maw closed around him and the flies infested his being, he screamed.
The hollow shell that was once Cherubael dropped heavily to the floor, its essence consumed and destroyed forever. Its eye sockets burned, and a decaying, pus-like shade covered its skin. Its clawed hand fell from Eisenhorn, and the Old Inquisitor stumbled and fell to his knees. Blood caked the floor as he struck the mosaic of Terra, and he breathed painfully in a great sucking motion. The Shadow rose in his mind once more and spoke in a soft, gentle tone:
Our deal is complete, Gregor Eisenhorn, the soul of the upstart is extinguished. Now, for your end of the bargain.
Gregor Eisenhorn nodded solemnly before his body shook violently and then became still forevermore. He had sacrificed everything to reclaim Terra and defeat his old foe. He had given his everything to expand his life to ensure his task was completed, his sin was removed. He had broken every rule he had ever followed to ensure the security of his people. And as his soul was pulled by a million flies to the Garden of the Great Destroyer, The Lord of Decay, Grandfather Nurgletch, in repayment of a pact made centuries earlier, through the pain and the eternal suffering that would follow, he would have but one thought.
Gregor Eisenhorn knew his sacrifice was worth it.
