The Death of The Emperor
The Second Siege of Terra
Quod Filiolus addo Salus
To look upon the warp is to look upon the lifeblood of existence itself. Reality could not exist without the roiling currents of unreality and unending madness that is the Ether. For every burgeoning storm of emotion that arises from the deep dark of the infernal realm, cause and effect ruptures into our own mortal plain, casting the stones of fate and choice into the strands of time. Vast, monolithic consciousness’ swim the eddies of infinity, bringing to bear their schemes and petty cruelties, vying with each other for dominance over the conceptual realm. Their ageless intellects, entirely beyond the ken of the human mind, shape and form the very un-matter of the Warp, and give it purpose and drive, just as we bring form to our own reality.
However, on this day, something is different.
A small, golden light shines in the tumultuous seas of blinding light and swallowing dark, and travels gracefully through the madness like a tiny, graceful fish. Distance and time are irrelevant concepts in the warp, but this slight, this tiny spark of purity finds itself in conjunction with a point in the material universe. It stops suddenly and shudders, its golden rays causing larger conceptual predators to squeal and swim away in fear. It shudders, suddenly erupting into a thousand tiny slivers of golden dust, and bleeds through the thin skin that separate realties. And although none can see its radiance or its descent, it’s will and benevolence is felt by all it touches. With quiet solemnity and definite purpose, this tiny light descends upon the smoke-choked, war torn world of Terra.
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Blood gushed from a wound on his brow, and covered his left eye in thick sticky matter, obscuring his vision and stinging his face. When he had lost his helm he could not recall, but the ringing in his ears and galling bruise forming on the side of his head told him it was a most unlovely separation. He ducked behind a broken piece of fallen masonry as vicious shells shrieked past him only to explode in the warriors who followed behind him. He shielded his eyes from another flash from the sky as the duelling starships miles above him shook the void with their anger. Already, colossal shrapnel from the battles above screeched through the atmosphere like comets of flaming steel, only to impact upon the blood strewn killing field that once was the graceful courts of the Terran palace. The sounds of screams and guttural oaths spoken in anger filled his ears and his head swam with the sheer scale of the horror about him. Another armoured form slammed down next to him, its armour a cold grey beneath a heavy coating of mud and viscera. It turned its cold, unfeeling visor towards him, and its helmet distorting and deepening its voice.
“Brother-Sergeant Augyen, we are pinned down. The Custodes are sweeping around our right flank and cutting us off from our own forces, we are being picked apart.”
Augyen swore under his breath, and flinched as another pain shot through his head. He recognised the pennants of the marine’s armour, and knew the man to be Aetiphos, a marine from Sergeant Golbrate’s squad. He scanned quickly, but could see no sign of Golbrate, or his men. He gave Aetiphos an inquisitive stare. The mud-covered Astartes sighed heavily:
“Dead, Sergeant, taken by the Custodes counter charge”
Augyen closed his eyes in sorrow. So much needless death, so much wasted power. The men they were fighting were no traitors; they were not the monstrous servants of Chaos. They were simply blinded to the truth, and the commander had a plan to show them the light. But the Grey Knights could not hold the storm of their fury for long, and already half their number lay strewn and broken upon the rain-slicked killing fields. The staccato roar of gunfire split the air, and the deep throng of super-massive munitions cast ungodly echoes across the battlefield. Augyen whispered in ancient Terran: Eli, Lambda Sabacthani, and turned to his comrade with sorrow in his eyes. He clattered a gauntlet onto Aetiphos’ shoulder guard and smiled solemnly.
“Come brother” he said, his voice straining to hide the mourning in his soul, “the Emperor’s Will is still to be done”
Aetiphos nodded, and checked the load on his Storm Bolter. Augyen mirrored his brother’s actions, and nodded briskly. The two marines hurled themselves over their makeshift cover, and immediately opened fire. Bolts screamed and smashed into golden armour, and the pair of Grey Knights bellowed their faith to the Emperor in their rage. Their boots slammed into the mud as they bounded forward, like great armoured beasts, swinging their weapons in a slow deliberate arc, raining hellfire down upon their erstwhile foes. A golden blur caught the side of Augyen’s vision, and he spun around to draw a bead on this new threat.
Too late
Aetiphos slammed into the ground spraying mud and filth from under him, his head missing from his shoulders. His assailant stood behind him, his guardian spear spinning in an elegant figure-of-eight casting energy and electric discharge in all directions, its form encased in heavily inscribed, golden armour that’s radiance and artistry shone through even under the thick layers of gore and dirt. The Custodes turned its attention to Augyen, pointing the tip of its weapon toward the Grey Knight. Explosions rang out around them, and the air was thick with screams and gunfire, but Augyen heard the Custodes words as clear as if they were alone, amplified and thick with gain through its Helmet grille:
“You fight without a helm Traitor. That is bold of you! Unafraid are we? Very well, I’ll meet you partway…”
With a violent gesture, the golden giant tore his own helm from his head, revealing a surprisingly young, unmarked face, sweat-soaked blonde hair and pale, cold eyes that seemed far too old to belong to such an individual. He snarled a wild feral smile, and crouched into a combat stance, his Guardian-Spear held firmly in both hands, its blade sparking with power.
“I am Yuri Asphoda Gullihan, of the God-Emperor’s Custodes. Look upon me traitor and quail, for I am the instrument of Uriah and your doom.”
Augyen shook his head, and let out a breath of sadness. He looked at the pale-eyed Custodes and spoke in an unshaken voice.
“You may have my name Brother – I am Brother-Sergeant Augyen of the God-Emperor’s Grey Knights. It brings me sadness to cross arms with you, for we are brothers and you have been deceived. We are not your enemy; Jole has twisted your love of the Emperor into…”
“SILENCE!” bellowed the Custodes; his eyes alight with righteous fury, “I will not hear such filth about the beloved Uriah. He is the vessel of the Emperor, and you are not even fit to speak his name”
Augyen lowered himself into a defensive stance and held his Nemesis Halberd at an angle. “Very well Brother” he said, no anger or hatred in his voice, “We both do what we must.”
The time for talk was over.
With a cry of rage Yuri hurled himself at Augyen, and as their weapons struck with the fury of the betrayed, they cast brilliant sparks to join the cavalcade of lights and destruction that blossomed around them.
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“My Princeps, Primary voids depleted, auxiliary voids activating. We need to finish this fight quickly or we’re going to be open to the storm. The Machine-Spirits are growing wild and reckless; we must reel in our fire rate or risk losing both arms to an overload.”
The wiry Tech-priest gestured to several points in the noosphere as he relayed information to Tshockia in his command throne. Several parts of the shielding grid shone an angry red, whilst other parts had gone black as they were torn down from relentless gunfire. The Vetus Imperia was the last Loyalist Titan still standing on the field, its siblings having either fallen back damaged or had been claimed in the intense fire fight. The Loki’s Children had fared no better, and already burning hulks like molten volcanoes scattered the march to the Emperor’s Palace. Only a pair of Warlords: The Daedelus and The Godstorm, remained of the Children, and Tshockia had poured all his will into finishing them. The spirit of the Imperia howled joyously as the Princeps let it off it leash and blinding plasma flashes and Vulcan Shells that dwarfed the armoured vehicles at the Titans feet, set the air between the duelling God-Machines alight with smoke and embers.
Not that the two enemy titans were making the fight easy: The Godstorm had retreated behind a partially toppled wing of the palace, and was using its shoulder mounted weapons to pepper the Imperia with flack. The Daedelus meanwhile was scarring the ground and walls with heavy gunfire, spraying mud, debris and scores of slain infantry into the air, raising a thick smoke screen to shield its speedy advance toward the last Imperial titan. It bellowed mournfully, its call echoing wildly off the surrounding battlefield as it closed the gap. Tshockia peered through the dense clouds with the eyes of his beloved Titan and whispered, “Come out you Gakker, show me your face…”.
The gun crews sent constant data through the noosphere requesting firing to cease to allow sacred coolants to be applied to the machines weapons, whilst the Seers responsible for the core pleaded with the commander to make for cover. But Tshockia and the Imperia were too deep now, too locked in the guise of war to back away. Suddenly, with a mechanised cry of fury, the Daedelus broke cover under a storm of fire from its sibling and made straight for the flank of the Imperia. Bursts of cannon fire leapt from its right arm, and its left crackled as it activated its assault weapons.
Titan Assault weapons are terrifying to behold. Shaped like blades and maces, but on a massive scale, they crackle with unrestrained energy as the power of entire continents is forced through their edges. Much like the metallic beasts that wield them, they are designed for a single purpose: to unmake and rend the foe utterly, to inflict massive amounts of damage in as quick a time as possible, to kill without mercy. The Daedelus wielded such a weapon, a monolithic chain-blade that activated with the sound of skies cracking, and casts neon bolts of energy about its leviathan length. It howled a challenge as it lunged toward it larger foe, and plunged its blade into the armoured flank of the Imperia. Void Shields burst under the pressure, and flames and sparking entrails ruptured from the open wound. The Imperia roared in agony as The Daedelus forced more power behind its weapon, pushing the monstrous teeth to greater speeds and depth.
Tshockia retched blood and vomit over the deck as his sides tore in sympathy with the Titan. The noosphere stained black and purple as vital systems ruptured and the life-signs of crew members were extinguished. The Techpriests and Enginseers wailed in lament and the bridge crew howled in uproar at the damage done to their Titan. Steam vented from ruptured pipes, and cables flashed as they overloaded casting insane shadows around the cacophony of the bridge. With a reflex Tshockia gritted his teeth, his eyes bleeding crimson tears from the huge pain that raged through his and his Titans body, and mentally sliced his hand in a wide chop.
Outside the vast cockpit, the Imperia mirrored its Princeps actions. With glacial slowness it pulled its Plasma arm back toward itself, before swinging it round with the force of a comet. The Plasma Cannon smashed into the face of the smaller titan, caving in its reinforced skull, killing the enemy bridge crew instantly. The Void shields of the Daedelus sparked weakly for a split second, before imploding sharply upon the duelling titans. A catastrophic Void loop sparked through the already over-heated Plasma arm of the Imperia, and the weapon exploded with the fury of a newborn sun. The entire battlefield glowed white for a brief second as the carcass of the Daedelus collapsed wreathed in flame and sparking voids, whilst the Imperia pulled away, its arm a sparking tangle of melted metal and venting plasma. It cried to the skies, a call of victorious pain and turned unsteadily toward its remaining foe, its remaining weapon arm growling furiously. The Godstorm roared in anger for its slain sibling, and charged through its cover spraying masonry and stone down upon the forces duelling below it. Its arms spat death at the Imperia, its Voids dead and done. The shells impacted with colossal force, shearing armour and cables form the majestic Imperator, its howls rising in anguish as its body was ravaged.
Tshockia bled from several stigmatic wounds that had formed during the battle, and his right arm was a bloody mess of twisted meat and bone. His remaining hand gripped the Command throne in agony, his knuckles white and bloodied, and his chest heaving with effort. The noosphere sparked and crackled around him, and lances of white hot pain shot through his MIU, the world about him fading in and out of view, and through it he could see several of the bridge crew had been thrown unceremoniously from their posts. Many lay groaning amidst the wreckage. Some did not move at all. He willed the Imperia to carry on, to raise its arm and fire back, but the Spirit of the Machine was weak, its bloodlust shocked into agony. Tshockia could see through his Titans eyes at the charging Warlord, he could see mile-long sparking blades sliding out from its forearms and trailing bright arcs of energy behind it. It wanted to finish this up close, to destroy its enemy face to face, to avenge its fallen siblings in the bloody heat of close combat. “Moderatii Thoms” Tshockia coughed through blood-flecked spittle, “re-arm main weapons, prepare boarding cables. If these whoresons want a fight, we’ll give it to them”. The Moderatii didn’t respond, but sat in his secondary throne, scanning the Noosphere intently. Tshockia glared at the man and shouted painfully, “Dammit man, didn’t you hear me. Rearm the…”
The Moderatii turned suddenly to his Princeps, a look of pale confusion on his face. He hesitated for a brief second, before speaking in a tense stutter.
“My Princeps, it’s the Lord-Commander. He…he says to disengage with the targets and relocate fire to these sectors.”
At the Moderatii’s gestures, a tactical map flowed onto the static-filled noosphere, with several areas marked with glaringly red markers. Tshockia stared in confusion at the screen, counting the ever increasing number of marks, all of them streaming from the palace. The Princeps flinched as he activated the Titans long range scanners, sweeping out beyond the enemy Titan and the duelling armies, and cast his enhanced view toward the Imperial Palace.
What he saw pained him more than his wounds.
A horde of diseased filth, seemingly without end, poured from the palace gates that burned with unnatural fire. Grime-encrusted banners rose above the stinking mass of bodies, and a thick cloud of flies and carrion hovered over head. Leviathan monsters of wasted bloat-flesh lumbered alongside: cruel mockeries of beasts of burden that drooled sickening pus from every orifice. Disease and rot followed in their wake, and everything they touched turned to a mire of bubonic slime and filth. They swept into the back of the defenders and tore them apart in a frenzy of blood and decay.
Tshockia shook himself from his shocked reverie and began yelling orders and sending data through the damaged Titan.
“Battlement Gunneries focus fire on the horde. Main weapons disengage all power from the Plasma arm and focus it on the Vulcan. Fire when ready. Let us show this filth how the Emperor’s Titans fight!”
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What happened next was unexpected, and is considered by those who know of it as a miracle. The Vetus Imperia turned from the incoming enemy Warlord and began a barrage of heavy artillery fire on the daemonic hordes spewing from the entrance to the most Holy Imperial Palace. What went through the mind of the Princeps of the Godstorm at that moment none can say, but the colossal Titan slowed its pace, and turned its upper body towards where its foe was firing. It stood as if in shock, having finally seen the wretched horde, its form groaning and swaying from its sudden inactivity. Then it opened fire on the daemonic horde with all its fury. Mass-reactive shells pummelled the ground; piercing white laser flashes seared the mud and detritus into pools of super-heated steam. Missiles flew in corkscrew paths, throwing pillars of dirt and rotten bodies miles into the air. But still the horde came. The Godstorm marched toward its former foe, firing on the monstrosities below and stood proudly next to the Vetus Imperia, both Titans bellowing in unison. The Titan battle was now a petty concern, Daemonkind was on Terra, and both Titans would be damned if they let it walked unopposed.
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“They’re coming out the Walls! They’re coming out the Gakking walls!”
They had been descending through the dark gantries and service ladders of the Imperial palace when the rotting daemon-things attacked the remaining members of Task Force 642. They had been approaching the target through a narrow set of cooling corridors, heavy with dust and industrial steam, when a wet, sickening moan sounded all around them. Child looked left and right, panic in his eyes and his hands raw from gripping his Hellgun, his aim twitching from side to side. Chiasson spoke a prayer to the Emperor under his breath as he scanned the darkness behind them, adrenaline pumping through him like river rapids. Candroth had discarded her Hellgun, its power-cell fused and useless, and carried a pair of elegant las-pistols she had received from her Grandfather after she graduated from the Cadian Military Corp. They were matte white in colour, with the Cadian Planetary Anthem etched elegantly into their handles, and were overcharged for a stronger shot. She aimed them in both directions of the corridor, confident that a single shot could put down any foe.
But the Horde of The Black Flesh is not just any foe.
The daemons seemed to seep out the walls and darkness, thick coils of meaty matter sloshing from their newborn forms and forming pools of viscera on the floor. They came with blades and talons, all with a single, baleful eye that spoke of infinite hunger and madness. Child screamed as he wrenched the trigger, ruby las-bolts spraying wildly into the approaching monsters. Candroth and Chiasson followed in short order, and a storm of crimson laser-fire filled the space between the humans and the daemons. Limbs flew off, bones melted and buckled and thick, oily blood sprayed as the heated rounds found their marks, but did nothing to halt the ceaseless advance. Choking fumes and ethereal figures clothed flies and cockroaches filled the corridor, and the 642 fell back toward the objective, their guns barking over the wretched cacophony. Beneath the shambling daemons came a carpet of poisoned vermin, chattering and shrieking as they scurried toward the human foe. They swarmed around the feet of the 642, biting and gnawing, trying to swarm up the Kasrkin’s legs. Candroth beat at the tiny creatures with the handles of her pistols and Chiasson stamped on anything that dared approach. Child however, continued to fire in panic at the approaching daemons and too late noticed the encroaching vermin.
The tiny fiends swarmed up Child with startling speed, and soon blood seeped from tiny gouges all over his body. The Kasrkin hurled himself to the ground and began to roll frantically, his screams echoed by the filth that consumed him. They poured in a vicious wave into his open mouth and soon his body swelled and distended to grotesque proportions. There was an audible crack and tear as his body began to buckle, and blood flowed from him in all directions. Candroth called out to him in horror, and Chiasson seized her hand and pulled her from the grim scene. The survivors turned and began to bolt down the darkened corridor toward the target, the filthy host marching behind them, singing a cruel mocking song as they went. They swatted aside hanging cables, their boots drumming a staccato beat upon the metallic floor. Their chests burned with the effort and fear, and even though they move at incredible pace, the monsters always seemed just behind them, the cloying smell of their rotten forms stinging the 642’s eyes.
They ran for several minutes before screeching to a halt in front of a heavily built pressure door. It was stencilled loudly with a white Aquila, and had several warning signs posted around it, warning of the immense powers and danger that lay beyond its armoured form. This was the last door before the generator chamber, the last door before their target.
Chiasson dropped to his knees and wrenched a control panel from the wall, whispering a prayer to the doors Machine Spirit as he frantically hammered keys and realigned wires to bypass its security and void shielding. Candroth stood anxiously over him, her twin pistols aiming into the encroaching darkness. A fearful tear ran down her cheek and she willed her comrade silently on. The moaning and cloying stench drifted down the corridor towards them, and the dark itself seemed to bend and distort as the corpse-things shuffled into view. The crack of las-pistols sang out as Candroth opened fire, putrid heads snapping on weakened necks as she planted several neat headshots into the monstrous mass. She cast a panicked glance to her colleague, who punched the final key with a resounding “Got it!” The massive door gave a whine of pressurised steam and grinding gears as it slowly opened, the two Kasrkin jumped to their feet and turned to enter when a chillingly familiar voice stopped them dead.
“Friends, where is it you go to in such a hurry?”
Chiasson and Candroth stopped in their tracks and turned fearfully around in a slow arc. The dreadful horde of daemons stood a few feet before them, but at their head was a monstrously bloated figure whose distended form rippled with carrion movement. Blackened blood coated its vast swell, and blemished talons hung grotesquely from its splayed limbs flexing like diseased reeds in a summer breeze. Maggots and flies dripped from numerous scars covering its bloated skin, and its mouth flowed with phlegm and pus with each sucking breath it took. It opened its gaping maw, but no teeth hung from its blackened gums, in their place fanged maggots clung to the meat of its mouth and wriggled obscenely in the expectation of meat. The face of the figure was horrifically stretched and mottled with disease, warts and pox erupting from every space, and eldritch fire burned hungrily in its eyes. And even though it was a ruinous vision of its former self, both Candroth and Chiasson wept bitterly at the ruination of the figure. It cooed mirthfully at their distress, slime coating its chest as it spoke.
“Don’t cry now friends, your friend is here to soothe your pain”
The thing that had formerly been Private Child of the Cadian Taskforce 642 lunged with a braying roar at his former comrades. Chiasson saw what would occur instantly, and with blinding speed he span and palm-struck Candroth firmly in the chest. She flew backwards with a surprised yell, through the armoured door and landed with a heavy bang on the Generator room floor. She looked at Chiasson in shocked surprise, and knew what he had done instantly from the intensity in his eyes. He spun quickly and aimed his Hellgun at the door control panel, loosing a flurry of shots into its control gears. The door screamed metallically in protest and slid shut with a resounding boom. Candroth looked in horror at the now sealed door, as the muffled sound of intense gunfire was suddenly halted with a deafening, bloody scream. Then there was silence.
Candroth let out a painful sob, and curled into a ball on the floor, pulling at her own hair, and tried to vanish into herself. She had been with the 642 for 8 years of her life, through some of the worse horrors mankind could know. They were her family, her rock, her one constant in a galaxy of disease and danger – and they were gone. They had all been snatched away. Such needless death, such unending horror, it was too much to bear. Her mind darkened as she questioned the futility of it all. What was the point? Why continue? Her eyes stung with tears, and her face reddened at her anger and sorrow. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind there was a sound: a tiny, faltering sound like the ringing of a cool wind on distant chimes. It sounded in her mind, spreading through her body and mind, radiating warmth and comfort, and she understood.
Do not lose faith.
Candroth sat up suddenly as an immense weight resounded of the outside of the metallic door. She wiped the tears from her face and rose shakily to her feet, her eyes ablaze with righteous fury. Taking a deep breath, she unbuckled her kit bag and withdrew the last remaining Void Charge. She turned with grim determination and marched down the generator chamber to her objective.
She would not lose faith.
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Augyen ducked frantically below the wide swing of the Custodes spear, and drove forward with his fist, his feet hammering through the blood-clogged mud. His gold-armoured opponent rode the blow out and spun gracefully on the spot, bringing the butt of his Guardian Spear down in a vicious arc. It resounded off of Augyen’s head with a sickening wet thud, and the Astartes staggered unsteadily backwards, swinging out with his own spear to ward off his foe. The Custodes sprang backwards like a cat, and lowered himself into a deep, dangerous crouch, his weapon held low and ready. A wild smile played out on the pale warriors face as if relishing the battle. Augyen’s senses snapped back into focus as his genehanced body compensated for the damage done to it, and he tightened his grip on his Nemesis Staff. He spat a wad of bloody phlegm onto the dirt and loosened his shoulders in a circular motion, his muscles protesting at the pain. Gunfire raged around them, but none dared sully their arena. All about Astartes and Custodes traded fire, Golden skimmers shot overhead deploying explosives on the hordes below, bulky armoured vehicles smashing through cover to deploy troops and spray the defenders with horrendous torrents of heavy shells, the sounds and grotesquery’s of modern war surrounding the duellists.
Augyen feinted left and loosed a flurry of shells from his wrist-mounted storm bolter, his arm aching from the fight and the sudden recoil. The shells whipped around the golden giant who charged straight through the cavalcade and impacted with Augyen in a rough tackle, winding the Grey Knight in surprise. Both armoured forms flew through the air and impacted heavily on the ground, filth and grime exploding from beneath them as their combined weight left a deep indent on the sodden mud. Augyen felt something crack in his armour and his spine was suddenly alight with intense pain. The Custodes was on his feet again in the blink of an eye, and spun his weapon in a complex arc above his head, he gazed down at the stricken Grey Knight, his eyes alight with victory:
“All enemies of the Emperor must die, you understand?”
A bloated shadow rose above the back of the Custodes, and raised a palsied claw to the stricken sky. Augyen’s eyes widened in horror, and he suddenly leapt forward.
“BROTHER! BEHIND YOU!”
He swept his Nemesis Spear in a low swoop, taking Yuri unawares. The Golden Warrior slipped and impacted roughly on the mud, rolling onto his back. A rotten talon whistled through the air where his head had only seconds ago been, and a cry of ageless frustration issued from its owner. There was a crack of broken ceramite as the creatures bunched claws smashed into the front of Augyen, sending the Grey Knight skating backwards. Yuri’s brow furrowed in rage, and he swept onto his feet once more, bring his Guardian Spear up in a furious swing. Its energised blade gouged into the creatures head, severing blackened skin and bone from its decayed form, and the thing howled in agony. It staggered backwards, clawing uselessly at its face as it tried in vain to keep its brain from spilling from its head, when a single shell whistled into its neck with a resounding explosion. The putrid thing stood for several seconds, before collapsing and melting into the sodden mud. Yuri turned to see the wounded Grey Knight, his weapon aimed and smoking, with a look of disgust on his noble face. He gestured behind the Custodes.
“Do you see now brother…I am not your enemy, they are”
Yuri turned, and what little colour there was drained from his face. A rabble of filth and horror shambled with surprising speed from the direction of the palace, pouncing upon the embittered combatants with aeon-weathered fury. Custodes and Astartes were caught unawares and both groups started to fall beneath the crooked talons and fangs of the daemon horde. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder-guard, and was unsurprised to find Augyen at his side. He nodded his understanding, and both warriors charged into the daemons, their weapons sparking with holy fury. Their brothers and comrades roared their assent and as one the Gold and Grey armoured warriors charged into the Black Flesh, casting the spawn of the Dark Gods aside like mould thickened tinder.
But still the horde swelled as more and more of their number poured from the gates of the palace.
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The Door caved in and the monsters flooded through. They cried and brayed in maddened hunger as they charged into the generator chamber, a living tide of diseased flesh, only to be met by the calm form of Candroth. She stood smiling gently, the void charge held in her hand as if cradling a babe. She stared straight into the rheumy eyes of what was once Child, who shrieked at her in bloodlust, and whispered a prayer for her fallen friends.
The Titans horns boomed a savage cry to the skies as the unloaded superheated rounds into the hordes below. The Daemons had started to wash around their feet like dirty water, and had started to scale the legs of the colossal God-Machines, tearing off armour plates to assault the human prey that dwelled with. The Vetus Imperia lifted a colossal foot, like a mountain lifted by Gods and brought it down with titanic, world ending force, slaying numberless daemons in one glacial movement, but still the Horde came. The Imperia could not continue this fight. Tshockia knew what must be done. He charged forward toward the gates of the Palace, uncoupling the safety protocols on the core as he went. Several gauges screamed in his mind as the heart of the Titan crept toward overload. If we must die old girl, he thought with finality, then we’re taking these bastards with us…
Creed bellowed orders to and fro, entire fronts shifting and moving like colossal waves in the face of the daemon assault, his will enacted on a scale quite beyond the ken of normal men. The enemy was no longer the enemy, and the whole battle-plan had gone astray. Officers and adepts tried in vain to maintain order amongst the chaos of battle, but the Horde had torn into the unsuspecting Imperials like a virus, spreading and rending without recourse to mercy. Creed whispered a bitter prayer to the God –Emperor as his armies fell.
Augyen and Yuri fought side by side, a tornado of steel and violence amidst the crusted, diseased masses. Wherever their weapons fell, blood, viscera and body matter bloomed in a wretched torrent. Their brothers sang songs of glory and faith at their side, and for every casualty inflicted, their efforts were re-doubled. But there was no end to the ocean of madness that assailed them, no respite from this unnatural battle, no hope in the face of the daemonic fury. Each warrior knew today was his final day, and fought like never before. They knew the Emperor was watching, and they would not be found wanting.
There was a thrum of power and the smell of ozone in the translation chamber, and Ahn’Hakkun set his mind to the task at hand. Seven of his brothers stood alongside him, their Terminator armour heavily inscribed, their Reaper Cannons loaded and whining expectantly. He whispered a prayer to the God-Emperor, something that still felt new and foreign to him as the chamber suddenly erupted in blinding light around him.
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There is a great design to reality, this much, dear Reader, I am certain of.
As much as the degenerate would have us believe that all is Chaos and Death, there are several deliberate events in the cosmos that can only be planned to our benefit.
As much as the Chaos Gods would have us mere mortals believe that all endeavour is useless in the face of our inevitable extinction, there is hope in this galaxy of unrelenting horror.
The great design continues, the singing of the spheres swells into a divine crescendo, and several seemingly separate events unfold in a unison that can only be described as destiny.
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The child Candroth sang in praise of her God-Emperor as the arms of Child surrounded her, his face a painting of livid flesh and madness. Her blood-stained hand pressed the detonator on the charge she cradled in her arms and a light brighter than all the stars in the Terran Sky consumed the generator chamber and everything within it. A cloud of roiling unreality consumed the lower chambers of the palace, severing the power supply from the Palace gates. Candroth smiled as she and what was once Child was torn apart by the rapids of the charge. She had not lost faith.
The shields of the gates blew out with a resounding crack of pressurised air. The diseased horde stopped and trembled at the sudden output of force and drew a keening wail that rose in pitch and intensity as the colossal form of the Vetus Imperia impacted with the now vulnerable gates. There was a moment of tremulous silence before the age old Imperator erupted with the force of a Super Nova: A vast cloud of debris and molten plasma billowed in all directions, shattering the ancient gates of the palace and severing the daemons tie to this realm. With the crumbling of the gate, the daemons lost their portal to this world, and what didn’t die upon impact was rent apart by the nuclear storm that raged from the explosion.
Augyen stared up at the rising mushroom cloud, and knew instantly that he and his brothers were doomed. A wall of irradiated flame and ash rushed toward the armoured warriors amidst the waling horde, scouring all life in its wake. Augyen looked to the eyes of his brothers and each understood. As one, they closed their eyes and minds, as one they made their peace with their God, their Lord, their Emperor, as one they prepared to die. The cloud rose above them like a colossal sea predator and impacted with the force of a comet flung by furious deity.
Then all was silence…
But it was not the end.
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Augyen opened his eyes, gingerly at first and looked about him. The explosion never hit, the lethal cloud of flame had not claimed his life. He had been cast from his feet, but he still breathed. Above him the sky seemed to ripple and shift, like flame rolling across thin glass. He stared hard, and realised it was flame, roiling and thundering above him and his men, but not claiming them. It flowed above him like a river of light, its fury held back by some mysterious glimmering force. He sat up suddenly, and saw his warriors clambering to their feet. Custodes were amongst them, apparently equally perplexed. And then he saw them.
A host of Astartes, clad in ruby armour adorned with gold and white stood between the defenders and the ruins of the palace. Tracts of inscribed paper and purity seals flowed from their forms, and glorious banners of white and red rode high above their heads. Many drove at the remaining daemons, their holy bolts and blades scything through the monstrosities with righteous ease. Some stood amongst the beleaguered defenders, offering aid and cover to the fallen, silent sentinels among the madness. All chanted prayers of glory to the God-Emperor. But they paled in comparison to who led them.
At their head was a giant clothed in Gold and Silver armour, a vast plume of red descended between its shoulders and a cloak of purest white whipped about it in the wind. Like an ageless column of rock in a vengeful ocean, it stood against the tide of fire unflinchingly. In its left hand it held a blade easily the height of an Astartes, wreathed in blinding light, and its right was held above its head. Traces of light flew from it, casting the nuclear holocaust aside, shielding the Imperials from their doom.
A shadow fell over him, as one of the Astartes approached. “Allow me to assist you Brother”. He spoke with a deep but learned voice, and his crimson plates were inscribed with holy wards and symbols. Augyen took his proffered hand, as the Red Astartes hoisted him to his feet. Sensing the Grey Knights confusion, the Astartes spoke again “I am Philostrophe Ahn’Hakkun of the Reclaimed, proud son of the Crimson King. We are here to ease your burden Brother”. There was warmth to the voice, and also a sadness that spoke to Augyen. He turned his attention again to the Crimson Astartes giant leader. His mouth hung open limply, words escaping him at the majesty of the figure and the power it wielded. The Custodes Yuri was at his side, equally amazed and whispered reverently “God-Emperor…it…cannot be”. Ahn’Hakkun followed their gaze, and the tone of his voice was full of reverence as he spoke once more.
“The Crimson King has led us back here to repay a debt of loyalty made centuries ago. We are proud to stand within his Father’s light once more.”
Magnus the Red turned to the arrayed warriors, his powers continuing to shield the Imperials from the raging fires of the destroyed Imperator, and smiled. All who looked upon his divine countenance wept at such perfection, and although none of them could believe what was occurring or who it was that stood before them, all felt safe within his gaze. As the nuclear conflagration finally choked itself out in its own fury, Magnus lowered his vast kine-shield and turned to the gathered forces, and although he spoke softly, every mind heard him. He said only one phrase, and in that instant, Terra was becalmed.
“Do Not Lose Faith” he said.
Events of Dark Possibilities
The cramped chamber stank of damp and old gore, and was barely illuminated by the sputtering torches that hung from its low ceiling. It was a dark, oppressive place, scuttling, tiny warp-things clambered along the stone, moss-covered floor, hissing at the light and vying with each other in their petty squabbles over the filth that caked everything. The gentle tapping of falling drips resounded rhythmically from around the small room, drips of crimson and brown falling from cracks in the rough ceiling to tiny pools of waste on the pitted floor. One of the walls was dominated by a heavy iron portal, an ancient mechanical menace covered in rivets and rusted gears, lines and scratches covering its surface as if a frenzied animal once existed in panic within the chamber. A curious symbol of black and white sat at the top of the door, several intersecting circles and lines formed into a mockery of a face. It stared blankly at the figure who sat, cross-legged at the centre of the chamber, but they did not return its empty gaze.
The figure was a heavy-set monster of a man, if indeed a man he could be called anymore. His vast bulk was contained by pearlescent, blue armour plates, inscribed with gold and silver and the light reflected in dazzling colours off of its perfect form. About his person was several voluminous robes of purest white and grey, and along his waste he wore a sash of red and gold. Talismans and charms hung from his belt, and a heavy tome of deepest red sat at his waist, its pages well-thumbed and its bindings notched and battered. His head was unadorned, his gracefully horned helm sitting next to him, its cold, dark visor staring as impassively as the face upon the door. His skin was pale and unmarked, his hair a shock of black to counterpoint to the whiteness of his skin.
He sat with his eyes closed, as if in communion with himself. But his inner eyes scanned the currents of the warp themselves, their roiling and churning seeming as bright waves in his minds eye. His links to the warp had been weakened since the sundering of the Legions, but still he was able to discern the warp and its mysteries with like it was Childs play. Indeed, he had been summoned here to this ‘gathering’ via messengers in the warp, creatures that saw something to gain by sneaking outside the notice of the Gods. He had at first scoffed at the idea of the meeting, but as he gazed at the strands of fate, as he considered the shifting of causality and chance, he realised he had to be there, he needed to be a part of this meeting. He smiled ruefully as the great cogs on the door whined and an imposing black shape entered.
The intruder was a monolith made flesh, its blackened armour plates cracked and rent from a life of endless war. Archaic symbols and devices covered its armour, and a red eyed, beast-like helmet covered its face. The metallic visage was carved into the form of a wolf, with vast tusks jutting from its lower jaw. Its eyes were the deepest red, and considered the sitting figure with malice. It spoke with a deep, grating snarl, its voice warped further by the heavy grille set into the mouth of its helm:
“The Master will see you now Witchling, follow me if you value your life”
The sitting figure smiled and slowly opened his eyes, eyes that were the deepest blue. He nodded slightly to the hulking giant, and rose with a grace that belayed the bulk of the armour that he wore. He picked his helm up and slid it over his head, ancient automated systems whining as the ancient equipment locked into the slots of his gorget. The eyes lit a deep crimson to match those of his host, and the figure smoothed out the robes that covered him. He smiled inwardly, and with a confident chuckle, Ahzek Ahriman, the Exile and former chosen of Tzeentch, spoke with a voice that flowed like age-old water down a stream:
“Lead on Pawn of The Despoiler. Let’s see what new tantrums your Lord Abaddon is conjuring now, eh? Let’s see what new imagined injustices he can throw at the cosmos”
The black giant grunted in disdain and turned slowly, beckoning the Thousand Son to follow. Both the figures left the cramped chamber and marched briskly through several rusted corridors, all as poorly-maintained and abused as the chamber they had started in. Ahriman’s mind danced with the possibilities that this council would present, and smiled as the Warp reacted around him. This would be interesting, he surmised, oh yes, this would be interesting…
A Daemon's Warning
This place, he had been here before…
He felt the thick grass beneath his naked frame, and he smiled warmly. He wasn’t sure how long he had lay in this perfect place, but that didn’t seem to matter in the great scheme of things. The grass was supple and wet, as if it had rained only hours ago, but he had no memory of any rainfall, only the quiet, natural splendour that surrounded him. The sky above him shone a brilliant blue, with fat clouds dotting its majesty. The clouds removed none of the beauty from the scene, and he took a deep indulgent breath of the crisp, clean air. It was a chilly air but by no means unpleasant, and his muscular form welcomed the sensations of this beauteous place. Graceful, feathered raptors soured miles above him, their calls and birdsong adding to the calm, their white, long-feathered forms and gleaming compound eyes twinkling in the endless sky. He closed his eyes and sighed again, and wished to be nowhere else in the galaxy ever again.
A dull pain in the back of his mind pulled him from his reverie, a whispered, crooked laughter that flitted just out of earshot. His brow furrowed as he attempted to ignore the pain, but it gained in intensity as if moving slowly towards him, a redness just behind his eyes, scraping at his soul. It was this place, he was sure; he just had to move away from this place and he would be safe. He sat straight up and surveyed his surroundings, the grassy lowlands spanned out for miles upon miles, dotted with small rocky outcrops and trees and all cut by a mighty, foaming river. The pain forgotten, he smiled at the serenity of it all, and flexed his arms to loosen them. The marble-blue armour that contained his form didn’t creak or retort to his movement, and although only moments ago he was sure he had been naked, he wasn’t surprised by its presence now.
Because all this had happened before…
He leapt to his feet, and sped across the valley toward the river rapids. He laughed openly at the perfection of the place and how like a child he felt, without any cares or responsibilities, and spun as if dancing. He increased the bounds in his stride, his run consuming ground like running water. His speed coupled with the pure sunlight glinting off the blue plates encasing his body, cast miniature haze spots in his vision, adding dazzling lights and colour to the natural wonder of his surroundings. The river rushed toward him as he rain, its surface crisp and shining, no industry or grime had ever scarred its body. He thudded to a halt on its sandy bay and fell joyously to his knees, indenting the muddy bay with his bulk. He placed his gauntleted hands into the running water and took a deep drink. It was crisp and cold, life distilled into a natural flow, and he guzzled it down eagerly. As he took his cupped hands away from his mouth he stared at his reflection in the crystal waters: A noble face looked back at him, unblemished and with intense pale eyes. His hair was pale, blonde going on white, and a light line of stubble dotted his chin, giving his an air of rugged masculinity. He smiled at his own perfection. Whoever had wrought him had been a master-sculptor, a lord among artists.
His own hubris morphed his face, until he stared at a face he recognised, a face much like his own. A broad, warm face with shining eyes of amber stared back at him, its expression one of confidence and certainty. The face was clean-shaven, and its hair had been cut right down till its head was shorn. Warmth swelled in his chest as he looked upon the face. To look at it was to know love and peace, and he felt secure just gazing into its eyes. A name formed as he looked upon the reflection that was not his own, a name he knew well.
Horus
Yet as the name formed, a change took the perfect being in the waters surface. The eyes closed and a look of intense sadness and regret took over it. Dark lines began to criss-cross the face like spider webs, and the water began to boil and writhe. He tried to pull himself away from the reflection, but he could not move. The reflection that was not his own opened its eyes showing wellsprings of madness and hatred. A wicked grin filled with serrated fangs slashed open the face, and its brow furrowed in maddened anger. He could hear a voice, a voice he knew all too well even after all these years speak straight into him. It resonated through the water, through time and space and deep into his core.
MY FATE SHALL BE YOURS BROTHER
He screamed as waves of pain lashed at him, and was finally torn from his invisible prison. He swung both his fists into the hateful pool and the water erupted in broad waves and droplets as he smote away the nightmarish vision. He crouched at the bay, breathing heavily, salted tears and river water stinging his eyes. The reflection in the water was his own again, although his look of peace was now one of weariness and panic.
Something moved behind him, something in the corner of his eye.
He spun like a whirlwind and lashed out with his fist, striking nothing but air. A cold, sharp laughter cracked around him and he spun on the spot, lowered in a feral stance of defence. “Who is there?” he called out, his voice authoritative and determined, “show yourself, coward!”. The laughter sounded again, closer than before, as if standing at his side. He swung his arm in a broad arc, but still hit nothing. The laughter increased in harshness with each failed blow, and eventually smothered the very air itself. He called out again, rage-filled tears masking his vision, his frustration
“COWARD!”
“A coward am I?”
He spun around, the voice emanating from behind him. A fog had descended faster than any natural law would allow, and blackened shapes could be seen flitting between its folds. Panic gripped him as the voice spoke straight into him, like an arrow of molten metal.
“Who is the real coward here? You abandoned them all, coward. You abandoned your master when he needed you most. You lay sleeping whilst the thieves, and the daemons and the horrors of this world consumed your people. Coward”
He flinched as memories assailed him: being frozen in place as if a vice held him, the whispers of temptation that threw him into slumber, and the face, that hateful face, so pale and mocking in its perfection, its serpentine eyes laughing at his weakness as it lashed at him with talons and bone and blades. He saw alien horrors descend from the sky to consume his world and the death of dozens of his warriors. He saw his people grow fat and decadent through his isolation, revering him as some kind of base thane or deity. He watched, and he saw the galaxy burn around him. He gripped his head and fell to his knees, a heavy sob wracking his throat. He stared through bloodshot, frustrated eyes and bellowed his defiance to the fog.
“I am no coward. It was beyond my control! I could not have stopped any of it!”
“We both know the truth of it, Coward. We know the offer the blades gave you; we know what you chose…”
More pain. More memories. A harsh purple light filled his mind, and an all too familiar voice sounded in the kinetic skies. He remembered the offering, the subconscious offer that would shape his destiny, and he remembered the vastness of his decision. The pain in his chest was unbearable as panic filled him once more, oblivion or containment, existence or entropy. He remembered the cowardice he felt at that moment, and he was ashamed. He wept openly at what he already knew.
“Leave me daemon, do not torment me anymore…”
The laughter cut through him like a blade, and he winced in agony. Blood boiled through his mind and the old wound on his throat seemed to burn at him. He blearily opened his eyes and beheld finally the source of the voice. A tall, thin figure stood before him, clothed in stained and blackened robes of deep crimson. A heavy hood covered its face, but the darkness that lay there came from no natural shadow. Blackened whips of smoke seemed to flow from beneath its robes and it constantly shifted in and out of his vision. It inclined its head towards him and laughed mirthlessly.
“I am always here Coward, I am here to remind you of your failures. But this time I bring with me a message, a warning of things to come.”
Tears ran down his face, and his lip trembled as the creature lowered itself so they were face to face. He could not discern any features amidst the shadows, but he knew he was utterly terrified of what lay beneath the crimson hood.
“The wolves are coming…they come to punish your weakness!”
Robuote Guilliman sat bolt upright in his bed, panting heavily, sweat staining his body and the deep blue sheets that wrapped haphazardly around him. He gasped in the cold air of his bed chamber and stared into the blackness, trying to blink away the after images of the horrors that assailed his sleep this night. Not just this night, every night. He was no longer in the hatefully perfect valley, he was home, in the Palace of Olympus, he was on Macragge. He held his thumping head in his heads, trying to squeeze the visions of despair from his body. Ever since he was entombed in stasis all those moons ago he had dreamt of the red-monk and his horrifying revelations. For centuries he had endured the visions, unable to move or banish them, and they had followed him into the waking world to remind him of his failings.
But tonight had been different, the warning was new.
Guilliman swept from his bed and padded across the marble floor to his wash-chamber. The ground beneath him was cold and reassuringly real beneath his toes, the beautiful mosaics of krakens and holy warriors clad in blue giving him some comfort. Glow-globes shone dimly as he approached them, illuminating the darkness, and revealing the grandness of his personal chambers. He approached a white marble basin, filled to the brim with cold, icy water pumped from the peaks of Mount Galileo for his personal use and splashed his sweaty face. He gripped its sides, and looked into his mirror. An ashen face stared back at him, its eyes haggard and grey and its skin sallow and pale. The primarchs, the gene-sons of the God-Emperor, were immortal, and did not age like mortals, but since his reawakening, Guilliman had visibly aged and darkened. His eyes were grey and lined, and dark bags hung beneath them a testament to his increasing insomnia. The pressures of the new waking world were taking their toll, this was plain to see. The primarch sighed deeply, and closed his eyes.
His brothers had abandoned him.
The Imperium had abandoned him.
His Father had abandoned him.
He had to do whatever it took for Macragge to survive, as he had always done. If certain luxuries had to be cast aside then so be it, if freedoms were to be lost to secure mankind’s place in the stars then the necessary sacrifices should be made willingly. One man could not shoulder the responsibility of leadership without said sacrifices. But still the naysayers and parasitic whelps complained and rebelled. Why couldn’t they see what was necessary?
And now more interlopers from beyond the stars came to usurp him. More rabble to knock at his door and demand that the galaxy be kinder. The galaxy was death, disease and destruction, and he would ensure that Macragge would not be found wanting. Without him, The New Imperium was nothing, it would crumble and fall, just as his Fathers realm had fallen before him. He needed to prepare, he needed to defend his lands, his people, his Empire. The Basin cracked beneath him as he tightened his grip, water cascading and pooling around his feet, and Guilliman stared at its wreckage. How easily things of beauty could be unmade if care was not taken. He nodded with finality, as the laughter rose up in his memory once more.
Let them come, he thought, let them come and try to take what is mine.
Other Volumes
Volume I: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_The_Emperor_-_A_Continuation_of_the_40K_Universe_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron
Volume II: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_the_Emperor:_Vol._2_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron
Volume III: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_The_Emperor:_Vol._3_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron
Volume IV: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_The_Emperor:_Vol._4_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron
Volume VI: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_the_Emperor:_Vol._6_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron