The Death of the Emperor
The Forge and The Flame
• The Firechild locates the origin of its quarry: a planetoid whose northern pole has broken and left an enormous crater in the world’s surface. The Crater itself is enormous, spanning at least a third of the world’s total mass. Within its cavernous form are vast volcanoes, lava flows and great walls of flaming, chocking cloud.
• The signal that the Firechild has been pursuing appears to be coming from deep within the crater, near the molten core of the planet.
• The Crater is too violent for the Firechild to descend into, so He’stan arranges to descend to the planet aboard a single Thunderhawk. When the captain of the ship offers to arrange a defence team to go with him, He’stan declines and decides to go alone.
• The Thunderhawk descends into the massive crater, and almost instantly its instruments register intense, almost abnormal heat and tectonic activity. Peering from the armoured glass, He’stan can see huge statues and carvings in the walls and chasms of the crater itself. Some depict vicious daemons and wyrms, others armoured giants and valiant, sword wielding angels. One particular sculpture catches He’stans eyes: a vast giant, clothed in colossal armour wreathed in thunderbolts and twin-headed eagles.
• Descent into the core takes a day and a night, and He’stan is plagued by whispers and half-seen visions. He is certain he can see a form flitting through the fires and smoke. This is of course impossible as the Thunderhawk itself is having problems dealing with the extreme heat let alone a living being.
• Eventually, the Thunderhawks sensors detect a vast structure built upon a huge mesa. The structure is unbelievably massive, carved from the rocks and metals of the planet itself. The entrance to the monolithic building is carved into the aspect of a snarling lizard. He’stan also detects a peculiar drop in temperature as he approaches the structure.
• The Thunderhawk touches down at the citadels entrance, and He’stan approaches on foot. Whilst the temperature is still high, it is well below fatal, much to He’stans confusion. He approaches the serpentine entrance, his weapons drawn.
• Inside the temple, He’stan is astounded at its beauty and craftsmanship. The walls are carved from obsidian, with intricate flowing text chiselled with care onto every surface. Vast statues of dragons, angels and armoured giants adorn the vast corridors, and enormous blazing torches illuminate the edifice. Despite being near the core of the planet, the temperature is cool, and the air is pure and clean. He’stan follows the vast main corridor to a huge golden door.
• The breath catches in He’stans throat. The Golden Door is wondrously made, but is adorned with archaic symbols and serpentine daemonic images. Although He’stan detects no taint in this place, it must surely be a hovel of the Dark Gods. How else could it exist in this hellish domain? He decides to enter, discover the location of the signal and purge the temple of any corruption. With visible effort, He’stan pushes opens the door and enters the vast, dark chamber behind it.
• The chamber is a vast dome, unnaturally cool, and although He’stan can see no means of illumination he has no problem discerning the features of this new place. It is devoid of almost any physical embellishments, the walls are smooth and a deep blue, the floor is a vast mosaic depicting several intersecting circles and interlocking symbols. However, all of He’stans attention is locked on the figure at the centre of the room, who stands immobile and facing him.
• The figure is a giant. Swathed in a deep emerald cloak with a cavernous hood. Faint smoke trails rise from within the hood; its entire body is covered by the cloak which trails along the ground behind it. The figure inclines its head toward He’stan.
• “Speak!” booms the figure, its voice more akin to continents colliding than actual speech, “who enters the Black Palace”
• He’stan is momentarily taken aback by the figures voice, but quickly regains his composure. He speaks loud and intensely: “I am Vulkan He’stan, Forge-Father of the Salamanders Astartes, warrior of the Emperors XVIII Legion and Proud son of the Primarch Vulkan. I command you to…”
• Terrible laughter fills the dome, cutting off He’stan. The Figure paces slowly toward He’stan, each step the sound of hammers striking iron. “You command me, little man?” asks the voice, its tone drenched in malice “who are you to command me. I am the wielder of flame, the master of the core. Look upon my works and despair”
• The figure raises his arms and the cloak opens to reveal his terrible visage. Where his hands should have been, instead there are vast talons which glint warmly in the light. His body is covered in scaled armour, and his feet end in vast bladed claws. However, his most horrifying aspect is his face. Lowering his hood, the figure reveals a metallic, reptilian visage: its mouth is full of bladed fangs, its eyes red hateful slits. Crowning its head are long metallic horns, and smoke drifts from its flared nostrils. It gestures towards He’stan and laughs cruelly “Look upon the face of the creature that will break you little man” and lunges toward He’stan, its claws spread wide.
• Vulcan has little time to parry the monstrosity’s first blow. He swings the Spear of Vulkan in a glittering arc, impacting with savage force into the Lizard-things talons. Metal upon Metal resounds around the chamber as the two figures trade blows. Vulcan feels his strength ebbing away, his genehanced body screaming in pain as he fights like never before. The creature is a whirlwind of death, its claws swing and slicing deep gouges into He’stans armour.
• Several times He’stan gets a stab with his spear through the Monsters defences, only to have it be repelled off the monsters hide. Several links from its scaled cloak are torn from it however, and underneath He’stan can make out dark, ocean-coloured armour and circuitry. Before he can capitalise on his attacks, the Beast grabs He’stan head in one of its huge talons and hurls him bodily across the chamber.
• He’stan lays barely moving, several bones in his body shatter, blood seeping from numerous wounds. The Spear of Vulkan lies across the chamber. The monster laughs again as it approaches his fallen form, “And here was I thinking you a worthy challenge. You are not fit to bear the name of your Father”
• He’stan raises his arm toward the creature, to which it laughs mockingly once again, “Fool, your weapons cannot hurt me, me the wielder of the Forging Flame”. He’stan grimly agrees and suddenly aims above the creature. He fires his flamer in a single explosive burst that impacts with the roof of the chamber. Several tons of rock cascade downwards, burying the creature in a makeshift tomb.
• He’stan rises slowly and painfully to his feet. He limps over to the Spear of Vulkan, and using it as a walking stick hobbles over to the pile of detritus. With a deep groan, and the sound of low mirth, the rocks rise up to reveal the figure once again. However he has changed.
• Where once there was a bestial visage, now is a gleaming emerald helm, sophisticated nano-machinery coating its surface. The scaled armour is in tatters and underneath is a vast suit of armour, intricately crafted with beautiful text tracing across its plates. The claws of the monster have retracted into vast armoured gauntlets, and now bear more resemblance to an Astartes, only on a much larger scale. The figure laughs at the previous events “Well met, son of Vulcan, you fight with your mind and not just your body. This is what it is to be an Astartes” He’stan is wary of this sudden change and shakily asks “who…who are you”
• The figure raises it arms and disengages the advanced-looking helm, steam spraying from the disengaged locks. Underneath is a proud, handsome face, incredibly obsidian-black and with eyes like flaming rubies. A finely trimmed beard adorns the face, and its black hair is swept into a long ponytail. Under one of its piercing eyes is a small black tattoo: a stylised Salamander, a sign that the individual has completed the Trials of Fire back on Nocturne. He’stan instantly falls to his knees before the being. The being places one mighty hand upon He’stans shoulder, and in a reassuring voice intones “Do now bow to me, my son, you stood before my rage and did not shirk from it, you truly are a son of Nocturne, you truly are one of my sons”. He’stan looks up, his eyes full of tears as he looks upon the face of his Father, the Primarch Vulkan.
The Dragon and the Beast
• The hostilities between the Necrons and the Tyranids are interesting in several respects.
1. The quest undertaken by the Void Dragon to unlock the Shadow of the Warp, and the frenzied attempts to assimilate Necrodermis by the Tyranids are terrifying mirror images of one another.
2. The Void Dragon wishes to unlock the secret of the Warp Shadow used by the Hive Mind. Its previous experiment (The Pariah Gene) was successful but only on a very limited scale. The Dragon never took into account mankind’s own base fear of things that are different, so the Pariah Gene never spread in numbers sufficient to its plans. Coupled with its millennia long imprisonment by the human Emperor, it needed to find a new way in which to defeat the Psy-species.
3. If the Dragon could artificially replicate the Shadow in the Warp and apply it to its ships and warriors, it would have an almost unstoppable horde, a terrifying army of soulless and soul-destroying warriors in which it could reap its ultimate reward.
4. Similarly with the Tyranids, they have always avoided the Necrons due to the state of Necron Worlds (generally a 0.5 – 0.7% of Biomass is found on Necron Worlds). However, splinter fleets have been sent into Necron Space with the sole purpose of assimilating Necrodermis. Mostly this is met with disaster as either the Necrons phase out if the battle isn’t going well, the Tyranids are destroyed by the cybernetic menace or the Tyranids successfully consume the Necrodermis only to have the nefarious mineral regenerate within them usually ending in a horrifically painful and messy death.
5. However, the sole Bioship (designated “Gorgon” in future records) that survived recent combat with the Necrons did successfully assimilate the Mineral. The Mineral, whilst similar to other metals, has an almost organic make-up at its core. It mimics organic processes but at a purely synthetic level. Essentially, Necrodermis functions like Organic Matter but at a much more efficient and high speed level, thus allowing Necrons the ability to heal grievous wounds in seconds. By successfully assimilating Necrodermis, Gorgon was able to heal its wounds and return to peak efficiency.
6. However, this assimilation comes at a price. The Bioship was not designed for such a task (the assimilation itself being a fluke) and is living on borrowed time. The Necrodermis is healing itself at an astonishing rate and will eventually overcome and nullify the Tyranid processes of the ship, in effect leaving it dead in the void. The Tyranids own processes are attempting to stave off the creep of the Necrodermis, so the two parts of the Bioship are literally tearing each other apart as each tries to assert its dominance. Gorgon’s primary mission is to locate its fellow hive ships and allow itself to be re-absorbed along with its Necrodermis biowork. Whilst it is having difficulty dealing with the new information itself, a Norn Queen or equivalent could process the new code and extract the beneficial portions to be filtered throughout the hive fleets.
7. There is one final fatal flaw, one that affects both the Dragon and The Gorgon: Necrodermis is a material that naturally affects warp presences and signatures, and in itself isn’t compatible with the Shadow In The Warp. The Dragons work is almost futile in the face of this fact, and The Gorgon no longer registers a warp signature, and so is all alone in the void…
The Wheel of History
• En route back to Fenris, the Space Wolves receive a distress call from a nearby damaged ship. The distress is heavily corrupted and hard to make out, however it is undeniably imperial. Russ bids his sons make ready for a rescue mission and sends two Strike Cruisers to the location of the stricken craft.
• The Borealis and The Oroborous translate near the vessel, which they discover is a heavily damaged civilian freighter. Scans reveal it to be named The Ultimate, and there are several life signs aboard, many of them very weak. Several Scout teams infiltrate the vessel and find 200 human refugees, about a third in a state of injury or distress. One individual steps forward claiming to be the leader of the ragtag group. His name is Melchior Amadeus.
• The Strike Cruisers tow the Ultimate back to the Space Wolves fleet, and Melchior requests to meet with the Space Wolves commander. Food and shelter is provided for the civilians, whilst the Space Wolves work on repairing the stricken Ultimate.
• After he is rested and his people secure, Melchior is brought before Russ. Many of Russ’s retinue are surprised that the little man is not taken aback by the glory or presence of their Primarch, but Russ see’s through the situation immediately. “I am not the first Primarch you’ve encountered, am I Melchior?” asks Russ.
• Melchior sighs deeply and with much sadness. He looks up at Russ with tear stricken but anger-filled eyes. “No my Lord” he says “I bring grave news from my home of Calth…your brother the Lord Guilliman has returned, and he has damned my home to madness…”
• There is visible shock from the gathered Astartes, and many of them wince at whatever punishment Russ will deliver at such a heinous accusation. But Russ’s face is one of sadness. “I have seen that expression that you bear now too many times Melchior” the Primarch sighs “It is the look of brothers betrayed, of kin turning on kin at the whims of madness. I saw it on my Fathers face all those years ago, and also on my brothers face before I myself shattered his spine and sealed his fate”
• A silence follows, with many of the assembled Astartes shuffling uneasy at the melancholy of their liege. The silence is broken when Russ raises his gaze at all assembled, his brow furrowed and his eyes shining with determination. “We have brothers in need of aid my sons!” he bellows “If my brother has indeed doomed our people to madness and suffering then we must alleviate their burden and make Roboute see sense.” A mighty cheer goes up amongst the Astartes, and Melchior weeps silent tears of joy. Russ activates the fleet wide Vox and in a voice like thunderous victory bellows “All ships, make for Calth! For The All-Father and Our Brother Man”
Thorn Wishes Stone
Meanwhile, the Sol System.
• A tense standoff has descended in the Sol System, with the amassed Jupiter Defence Fleet defending Terra, and the Cadian Imperial Fleet led by Creed. No shots have been fired yet, but the Council has demanded Creed’ immediate withdrawal from the system.
• However, things are soon to change. Through the Jupiter Blockade flies a single tiny ship. It is the colour of the void itself, its angles perfectly crafted to deflect radar and avoid the interests of visual sensors. Surrounding it is an energy field of pure shadow, and anyone who see’s it almost instantly forgets that they have seen anything at all. It darts between the lumbering defence fleet and makes all haste toward the picket line set up by Creed.
• As soon as the ‘stealth-ship’ is out of range of the Jupiter fleet, it lowers its stealth fields and broadcasts a message direct to Creed’s flagship The Blade of The Emperor. The message states “Thorn wishes Stone. Shadowed Eagles Bringing Revelation. Twin Moons ascending.” Creed smiles as he realises the implications of the message, and immediately makes ready for the Stealth Ship to dock.
The great ironclad Cargo Bay doors of The Sword of The Emperor shut with a dull clang and an irritated hiss of escaping steam and pressurised air. The cacophony was joined by the excited shouting of men, calling to each other to get into formation, to draw targets on the vessel which had just entered, and to watch those corners. The men were Kasrkin: the literal best of the best. They were warriors born and raised on Cadia, a world were constant battle was the norm and the weak and undisciplined were weeded out early. Out of this planet of warriors came the Kasrkin, who were head and shoulders above even the finest human warriors bar the God-like Astartes. Ten of these individuals could infiltrate and enemy stronghold and decimate an unsuspecting foe without hassle or pre-amble. There were fifty of these men now in the Cargo Bay, some in open sight, others hunkered down behind crates and loading equipment, and all of them had their weapons pointing at the angular Starship in the centre of the bay.
The ship had docked with the mighty Sword of The Emperor several minutes beforehand, and it was a sight unlike anything the assembled warriors had encountered before. It was sleek and angular like an arrowhead, bisected down its middle by a shallow irregular pyramid. It had broad, thing wings that started at its frontal tip and swept backwards to it cleverly concealed engines. Every part of the ship, every surface, every join was angled and had a matte black sheen. Several of the snipers in the upper gantry could see sophisticated circuitry and joins through their advanced scopes. The ship appeared to bear no weapons, no visible cockpit but the danger and threat of violence that emanated from it was palpable. There was but one mark of identification on the ship, and that was a small mark of flowing golden text on its right hand side. It read Aura Glorias II and was stamped over a stylised I. Many of the Kasrkin looked uneasily from the ship to their commander and from him back to the black vessel. But their leader was impassive, a simply grinned wryly, moving the pungent cigar he always seemed to be chewing from one side of his mouth to the other.
The Assembled warriors did not flinch when steam erupted from the front of the vessel. No stray rounds were fired as the front of the black ship opened wide to reveal a faint green haze. No panic set as a long docking stair descended jerkily from the ships interior to bang loudly on the docking bay floor. But there was a collective sense of shock and awe at the figures who descended to greet the assembled throng.
At the head of the group came a giant in ocean-grey armour. He stood easily several heads above the Kasrkin, and his face was deeply lined and noble, but seemed to bear the weight of much harshness and suffering. Several flowing pennants and tribute papers flowed over his army, and a stark white heraldry shield emblazoned with a red and black star sat proudly on his armoured shoulder. In one of his hands he held a massive polearm topped with a wicked blade, and in the other he carried a heavy and ancient looking tome. The tome was chained to his wrist, and bore several scrapes and dents.
Behind the grey giant came a smaller, slighter but by no means less enigmatic figure. Incredibly tall and thin, but with a somewhat shapely female form, she walked with a peculiar elegant gait that suggested she wasn’t touching the ground at all. She was swathed in deep robes of the brightest red, and most of her face was obscured by a deep heavy hood. Long straight hair hung from the hood, and the lower portion of her face revealed pale skin with a hint of hidden circuitry and augmetics beneath. Her hands appeared to be constructed from pale glass, and moved with an almost ethereal grace. In her right hand, she bore a single golden cog, which reflected the light of the cargo bay into an almost holy aura.
The procession of strangers was completed by three individuals who walked in close formation. The first of them was a seemingly old gentleman, whose unsmiling face spoke of hardship and trauma. He was bald, and walked with the aid of a vast Iron Staff. His legs moved in a slight jerkish motion, and the sound of machinery could be discerned with every step. His cold, dark eyes scanned the room, showing no fear at the collected guns arrayed before him. His companion was a tall thin young man, swathed in a long leather coat. Beneath this could be seen the gleam of carapace armour and at his side was a finely-crafted chainsword. His long hair was swept back in an elegant ponytail, and his pale eyes suggested hidden power and wisdom.
The final individual (if indeed it could be described as so) was a peculiar metallic construct, shaped roughly like an gigantic egg with the narrowest part at its front. It hovered several inches above the ground, and its matte form was covered in the same intricate script that its parent vessel was coated in. Two speakers were built into the front of the contraption, and it kept next to its two companions with an eerie grace. The procession halted in front of the Kasrkin’s commander and came to attention before him. The Grey Giant was the first to speak: “Do we have the pleasure of addressing The Honourable Lord Ursarkar Creed?”
The commander grinned warmly around his cigar, and drew himself into a respectful salute. “You do indeed. Loyal Servant of the Emperor and Defender of the true Imperium of Man…and might I enquire to your identities”
The Grey Giant bowed his head and smiled warmly:
“I am Brother-Captain Sturmmgad of the Emperor’s most Holy Grey Knights; I am a friend and ally to all who truly serve the Emperor of Mankind. I bring an offering of friendship in these dark harsh times”
The Astartes unfastened the mighty tome from his wrist and laid it on the deck before Lord Creed. He look the Lord Castellan directly in the eye, and both could see the mirrored view of a respectful ally. The Astartes gestured to the lady in red robes.
“My companion here is Aurora Istavael, the recently elected Fabricator-General of the Mechanicum of Mars.”
The Adept bowed shallowly and placed the golden cog alongside the book. Creed bowed with deep respect to the Fabricator-General, a warm and thankful smile on his harsh features. The Astartes continued:
“And these three individuals are…”
Creed waved a hand, cutting the Grey Knight off softly. “It is quite alright Brother-Captain” said Creed in a warm and pleased voice “I know who these three are”
Creed opened his arms in welcome to the group, and addressed his Kasrkin around him. “Men” he intoned “We have before us one of the mighty Grey Knights, whose piety and faith to the God-Emperor puts even us to shame, they are prepared to stand alongside us in the cause of the Emperor” there was cheering from the assembled throng.
“And he brings with him” he continued “words of hope and friendship from our Brothers and Sisters on the Red Planet, our allies of the Mechanicum”
The cheering and celebration intensified, the usual disciplined men of the Imperial Guard overwhelmed by the good news in such harsh times. Finally Creed turned his attention to the final three figures, and a genuine smile of friendship lined his weary features.
“And these three” he intoned, stepping toward them “have saved my arse more times that I care to remember. They have always defended the Imperium from its enemies within and without, and who I welcome their friendship and aid once again. Men I give you Inquisitor’s Eisenhorn and Ravenor of the Ordo Xenos and Inquisitor Efferneti of the Ordo Hereticus. Welcome Brothers, Welcome!”
The cheers thundered throughout the ship as the true servants of the God-Emperor of all Mankind shook hands and embraced each other for the future.
Ill Tidings
• After warm greetings and welcomes, Captain Sturmmgad, The Fabricator-General and the three Inquisitors are taken by Creed to The Sword of The Emperor’s conference chamber.
• Sturmmgad reveals the atrocities being enacted by the Terran Council on the people of the Sol system. A single individual known as Uriah Jole has become the most prominent member of the Council through intimidation, blackmail and an iron hold over every Arbites precinct in the system. He also has complete control over the Jupiter navy, his Uncle Arthemi Jole being the current admiral. Together they have spread misery throughout the system, all apparently in the Emperor’s name.
• The Grey Knights have tried several times to gain a place on the council, or even an audience with them, but every time have been rejected. Uriah is a keen politician and surprisingly able strategist. He has relocated the council to Terra itself, in the Eastern wing of the Imperial Palace. Creed enquires into why the Knights have not taken the council by force.
• Sturmmgad winces at the memory. A single squad of Grey Knights Terminators had attempted a Deep Strike insertion right into the council chambers to apprehend and arrest Uriah for crimes against the system, but Uriah’s genius revealed itself in his choice of location. Almost as soon as the Grey Knights materialised with a blinding flash in the chamber, that the chamber itself erupted in a titanic explosion. Several council members lost their lives (excluding Uriah).
• Into this chaos came a full five-man team of Adeptus Custodes. Seeing the devastation caused in the room, and the squad of Grey Knights standing suspiciously nearby, the Custodes instantly opened fire. A pitched and bitter battle was fought, and the Grey Knights had to teleport back out. They had lost three of their number, the Custodes had lost none. According to Uriah, the Knights had led a terrorist attack on the council in order to usurp power for themselves. He established a cordon around Terra, and decreed that any Grey Knight was to be destroyed on sight. The Custodes were duty-bound to comply.
• Creed acknowledged this fact sadly. To have the Custodes stand against them was grim indeed. He enquired into whether the Council had assaulted the Grey Knights fortress orbiting Saturn. To this Sturmmgad smiles, and says “The Bastards grip would be strong as the stars if he could get to us on Titan. He hasn’t dared come to face us in open war.” Although the Custodes are duty-bound to defend both Terra and its Council, they refuse to launch an assault off world (much to the chagrin of Uriah)
• The Fabricator-General reveals that unrest is also brewing on Mars because of Uriah. Although most of the Mechanicum are unified in their new forward-looking outlook and faith, many still cling doggedly to the old ways and resent the rise of invention and innovation in the Machine Cult. Uriah has been playing on this, sending his spies covertly onto the red planet. He has promised the old guard of the Mechanicum (or The Cult of The True Omnissiah, as they refer to themselves) power if they support him in his endeavours. He has secured weapons and technology, The Titan Legion Orion, plus a legion of Skittari warriors from his rogue Mechanicum allies. Open war hasn’t been triggered on the Red Planet stresses the Fabricator-General, but she also knows that it could spill into even more bloodshed if steps aren’t taken.
• Finally, Eisenhorn rises to his feet and with a heavy sigh reveals perhaps the worst part of the whole affair. Uriah Jole is simply a public face for something far worse: a Chaos Cult known as the Divine Brothers and Sisters is behind Uriah and his scheming. Ravenor and Efferneti were hot on the heels of a Daemon Prince named Khar’sattoth when the Emperor died. The Princes direction changed sharply and it headed to Terra. En route to the Sol System, the Inquisitors linked up with Ravenor’s old mentor and made all speed to Terra. When they arrived it was too late: Khar’sattoth had taken possession of Uriah and was now leading the Terran Council into madness.
Best laid plans...
• The Loyalist factions led by Creed begin to make plans for a full invasion of Terra. Inquisitor Eisenhorn is certain that if they could reveal the true nature of the enemy to the Custodes, then they would also side with them. The Arbites and Jupiter Fleet however are too deeply entrenched in the Chaos subversion and would require purging.
• Operation: Fury of The Gods is a complex, three-fold affair, with each part relying on the success of the others, and the complete synchronisation of all involved.
• The initial stage of the Invasion will come from Creed and his fleet, which will approach the Jupiter Fleet at full Assault Vectors. Whilst damage will be heavy on both sides, Creed deduces his side will be the victor due to the experience of his crews and the superior design of his vessels. The initial Battle is simply a ruse, to allow stage two.
• Amidst the battle will be several ‘Stealth Ships’, deployed by the Mechanicum, which will close with the enemy vessels and deep strike in Skittari Assault teams to take key points in each ship. The beauty of this section of the plan is the make-up of the Skittari being used: each one has a thermo-nuclear detonator implanted in their cranium, so even if the Skittari fall, they will detonate their charges causing horrendous damage to the enemy vessels. In they event they are successful in taking the enemy bridge, then they are to hard wire themselves into the enemy control consoles and turn the enemies weapons on their own fleet.
• During the battle and Mechanicum stealth assault, the true nature of the attack is revealed: The entirety of the Grey Knights will punch through in a Drop Pod Assault aimed directly at the palace itself. They will hammer through and secure landing zones within the Palace grounds so both Creed and the Mechanicum can land ground troops and armour. The three Inquisitors will follow via Stealth Ship also, their primary objectives being the Throne Room, The Custodes Barracks and the Council Chambers.
• Creed will also send the Cadian XVII Armoured Regiment, The Valhalla VII Super-Heavy Division, the Catachan VV and the Cadian XXI Rangers to Mars to aid the Mechanicum in defending their forges from The Cult of The True Omnissiah. Although the Mechanicum have a dizzying array of weapons and Titan Legions at their command, most of these will be deployed to Terra to aid in Operation: Fury of The Gods. It is surmised by Creed that the Mechanicum splinter factions will most likely do the same and deploy their most powerful weaponry to Terra.
• And so, on the morning of the 50th anniversary of The Emperor of Mankind’s Death, his followers descended upon the world of his birth to usurp those who would flaunt his name.
The Second Siege of Terra
The Calm before the Storm
Terra: known to antiquity as Earth. Planet of mankind’s birth.
As the Sun blazed down upon its bronzed surface, and reflected off the vast ecumenopolis that surrounded its majestic form, there was a pang of regret in Creed’s soul. As he stared through the tinted viewports at the world of his people’s birth, an incredible ache overtook him at what he must do. He remembered back on Cadia, when he was first being schooled at the age of six on the arts of war. He remembered his old tutors and Commissar-Lecturers telling him that to truly achieve the supreme tactical mind; he must be prepared to go beyond, and be prepared to sacrifice what he treasured most in order to secure victory.
He remembered reading vast tactical essays by Guilliman, Corax, Yarrick, Ulthaman, Andros and Dorn. Out of all these genius’ thoughts and advice, one thing stuck in his mind and stayed there like a splinter of wood, lodged forever to torment him. It was Dorn himself that said his second greatest regret was the nightmarish militarization he had wrought unto his Father’s planet, how he had tore down the glorious walls of the Royal Palace of the Human Race in order to defend it against the Arch-Traitor Horus. And now, here he stood, about to enact total war upon the world of his species birth in order to save it from itself. ‘Terra’ he thought ‘what monsters we are to defile you so…’
Terra: Astral Designation Alpha/Omega 115X. Sister Planet of Mars.
Fabricator-General Istavael adjusted her optical implants to filter out the harsh glare of the Sun. She stood on the bridge of the Mechanicum Forge Cruiser Linchpin, gazing at the amassed forces of the enemy arrayed before them. The Jupiter Fleet was vast, coloured grey like ocean waves on a freezing bay, ready to sweep over them and wash her and her allies away. At the last count, it numbered more than ninety vessels, all cordoned in a tight cage formation around Terra. Her optics focused beyond them and at the great sphere of the planet itself. She hadn’t been born on Terra: indeed, she had never even set foot upon its blessed soil, but Aurora felt a connection to this piece of astral detritus. It was the centre of her people, the great joining point for all mankind. Whether Mechanicum, Imperial, Psyker or abhuman, every human in the cosmos could trace their history to here. The thought comforted her.
She adjusted her cranial implants, and sent orders through the noosphere, informing the Industrial Servitors to prepare the Stealth Fleet for launch. She could detect Creed’s fleet moving to attack the Jupiter Fleets, and although outnumbered two to one, she knew Creed’s fleet had the tactical advantage. They had the Mechanicum on their side. Her Skittari Commanders informed her of their readiness and eagerness to begin. Their battle-lust stained the noosphere around her a deep scarlet, and usually she would cajole them for their fleshling bloodlust. But she needed them ready to fight, and if necessary to die, in the name of the Emperor and the Omnissiah. ‘Terra’ she computed ‘what monsters we must become to preserve you…’
Terra: The Emperor’s World, current home of the enemy.
Eisenhorn checked the clip on his bolt pistol for what seemed like the umpteenth time. His unsmiling face focused on the weapon, running through the mental rituals that were needed for the upcoming battles ahead. The bulkhead behind him sighed quietly open, followed by the light whispering buzz of suspension fields. “Are you well my friend?” enquired a mechanical but friendly voice.
“Reading my mind are we Gideon?” enquired Eisenhorn, partly in mirth but mostly in reservation “The Grey Knights would have a fit if you gave away our positions with your powers”
An electronic ping rang from the frame of Gideon Ravenor’s Grav- Chair, and Eisenhorn realised his old student was laughing. “I don’t need my abilities to realise something troubles you my friend. Come, trust your worries unto me as you did once before”
Eisenhorn sighed, and placed the Bolt Pistol down on the black velvet he had been using to clean it. He stretched his limbs, a dull ache ringing through his legs, and a faint squeal of resistance issued from his mobility harness. He stood slowly, and paced slowly over to his old friend, placing his hand upon the smooth metallic surface of his shell. If he could smile he would do so wearily, but the damage wrought upon him all those years ago had left their horrible mark.
“What if we’re not strong enough to defeat him, my friend, what if he defeats us? Who will stand against him? We have chased him from one side of the cosmos to the other, and he has eluded us at every turn. It’s as if the monster knows me, as if he knows what I’m going to do. I swear, when we face him I will gut him and send him screaming back to the foul pit from whence he came.” Eisenhorn was shaking with fury now. “I curse the day we ever encounter Cheru…”
“DON’T” blurted Ravenor “Don’t say his name…it could alert him to our presence. I understand your fears my friend, for they are mine also. But we will not fail in this, simply because we cannot.”
Again, Eisenhorn sighed, and stared out the porthole of the Strike Cruiser Aegissa. He could see the first lance shots from both fleets flare towards each other with the power of unbound stars. “Terra” he sighed “what monster has unmade you so…”
The Spark
+++ALL HANDS, BRACE FOR IMMEDIATE IMPACT+++
The bridge of The Heretic’s Bane shook violently for what seemed the thousandth time in the space of a minute. Sparks and steam erupted from consoles, and deckhands flew over railings, their broken bodies rolling with the myriad impacts. Admiral Thao gripped the iron railings of his command pulpit, primarily for balance, but mostly out of rage. Through a static-drenched viewport, he could see the traitorous Jupiter Fleet pummel the Flagship and its escort with seemingly endless broadsides. The Lord-Commanders plan required the utmost success of individual units, and Thao could see victory slipping through his fingers. Although the glorious fleet of Lord-Commander Creed far outweighed the heretic fleet in terms of firepower, technology and experience, the blasphemous Jupiter Fleet seemed to swarm the loyalists, their numbers slowly throttling the life out of the Loyalist plan in its infant stages. Through the steam and chaos Thao called out to his second-officer
“Tamier” he bellowed “Turn us around, show the heathen scum our strong side, rolling broadsides on my mark”
The tall man known as Tamier relayed the orders quickly and efficiently to his command staff despite the grievous gash on his forehead. When the enemy fleet had engaged a bulkhead had erupted fling metallic debris into his forehead. Tamier was bleeding and in pain, but he would not abandon his admiral, or the Lord-Commander. From the command teams, the order filtered down like rain down a creek, sweeping to every area of the ship. A Cadian crew prided itself on its efficiency and every member, from the lowliest deck-hand to the highest commander, was proud of the synergy of their vessel.
In the void of space, all was silent. Despite the horrendous violence being unleashed by both sides, there was no sound: no screams of rage or pain, no deep bass throngs of destruction, just the glacial calm of the stars. The Heretic’s Bane turned slowly to present its starboard side to the enemy. Miles of steel and industry turned gracefully through the glacial void, and vast gun ports capable of swallowing cities whole opened into the cruel blackness of the eternal expanse. Gun-gangs, hundreds strong, heaved on chains to pull cyclopean shells into the waiting maws of the Broadside Guns. Red Robed adepts raised their hands and cried out adulation to the Omnissiah in binary as the great impact chambers closed. Enormous cogs and gears, larger than any mountain on Terra, wound tight shut with the sound of planet cores erupting, gang leaders bellowed make ready, huge servitor-loaders checked pressurisation and safety-levels.
A moment of silence descended on the Gun Decks as all eyes looked up to the Vox-casters of the gun deck.
“FIRE”
The side of ship erupted like a chain of metallic volcanoes, their vicious payload vomited in the void like the fists of angry gods. The shells densely packed and on a single trajectory, impacted the heretic ships and cast them to the endless galactic sea. One of the ships buckled clean in half under the fusillade, its two parts spinning wildly and tearing rends into its comrades. Thousands of slain foes poured from the rents in the enemy vessels, freezing in the cold of night, looks of pain and horror forever etched on their faces.
“FIRE”
The second salvo shot into the enemy rearguard, impacting on engines and gunnery wracks and smashing them like dried wood. A large enemy cruiser, designated The Pride of Jupiter, took a shell direct to its engine and exploded with the force of a supernova. All ships, loyalist and traitor, were momentarily blinded by the blast, but the hostilities could no stop. Fighters plummeted, escorts diverted and the great game of interstellar hostilities continued.
“FIRE”
The final salvo punched a hole right through the enemy line, escorts scattered like ash to the wind, cruisers bleeding their vital gases to the sterile monster of the void. The slow dance broke apart at the fury of the Loyalist counter-assault, and soon pockets of the traitor’s front lines began to falter. Several of the traitors began to turn for a retreat, which the loyalists pounced upon with the righteous fury of the Emperor.
Admiral Thao grabbed the Vox again “All hands, I want immediate Sitrep. Get groups Alpha and Beta on the Horn, prepare for fleet link up. Prepare to approach primary target”
He could see through the viewport the other prong of the loyalist assault, including the glorious flagship Sword of The Emperor of the Lord-Commander. The enemy were fighting back, the mass of their secondary fleet slowly approaching the battle, but for the first time in this battle, Thao knew they could win!
The Siege
The Sun gazed upon the Earth as it had done for countless millennia, it’s bronzed and gleaming complexion offering light, warmth and security to its small and dependant child. Although it blazed dimmer than it did millennia ago, it was still a reassuring sight in the Terran sky. People in the hives, in the docks, in the palace itself would gaze up at that fiery orb in the sky and feel that the Emperor himself was watching them even beyond the deep veil of death. In the eternal darkness that was the cosmos, the Sun, the Eye of Ra, the Chariot of Ezekiel hung like an impassioned plea of hope and dignity in the tapestry of the night. But today, something covered the sun, a vast shadow loomed in its sight. Starfire and flash dotted its surface and surrounded its circumference like a vile halo. It was as if, on this day of days, the God-Emperor himself was shedding tears of fire for what was unfolding, and slowly turned his gaze away.
From the Minaret of His Sight, a single figure gazed into the sky. His obsidian eyes drank in the scene above him, as he stared directly at the sun itself. A cruel smile played out on his sharp, lined face and his muscles tensed as another flash enveloped the sky. To what this man was thinking, none can say, for to know the thoughts and minds of daemons is to know the Abyss itself. To gaze into the abstract structure of a daemons psyche would drive men mad, and draw cries of horror and lament from all who witness it. But today, on this day of days, the man speaks to no one around him, but to another hundreds of miles away in the fathoms of space. He casts his sight upward, and in a voice like honey and thorns he whispers “So, has it come to this old man…is this the endgame we have both so longed for?”
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
An alarm screamed in abject fury as the drop pod thundered through Terra’s skies. It, and nine of its siblings, tore fiery scars through the golden skies, flying like stones cast by furious gods. Brother Augyen of The Grey Knights gripped his harness in his gauntleted fists and spoke the Litany of the Emperor’s Hate through gritted teeth. Around him, his brothers did similar and even over the pitched warning siren he could hear their blessed words –
Blessed Emperor, we beseech thee,
Give us the strength to enact Your Will,
To cast Your enemies down unto the sand and cast them forth like Ash
Emperor Resplendent Above All
We are the Shield, and the Sword and the Steel
That enacts Your Will, and clothes your hate
Give us the sight and the patience to force through the hearts of your foes
Emperor, who art the Father of us all,
Offer us guidance as we draw our sight upon the daemon,
Allow us to see his guild and his seduction,
And allow us to unmake it in Your Sight,
Emperor, we ask not for your Love this day, but we ask for your Hate
“10 seconds till impact” sounded a calm, mechanical voice over the cacophony of the drop pod. Every knight within knew what was expected of them, knew the sacrifice that must be made this day. Never before had they mustered in such force, for today, on this day of days, everything came down to the battle they would fight on the world of their birth. Brother Augyen focused himself, becalming his mind, and whispered once more in shallow, reverent tones “…Father, we ask for your Hate…”
Then the World shook into blackness.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
“Get that thing loaded, I want it be planet-side in the next half hour!”
Creed stood in the docking bay of The Sword of The Emperor, and all about him was organised chaos. Troopers marched in quickstep to waiting Valkyries, painted in the grey and green of their homeworld Cadia. Atlas tow-rigs dragged company armour into the waiting bellies of Transport Ships, while Tech-priests and their servitor thralls checked and rechecked equipment for readiness. Members of the church, those who still preached the Emperor’s Wisdom despite his death many decades ago blessed the ranks of men waiting to be swallowed by hungry cargo ships holds, waving censors in slow glittering arcs adding the faint smell of burned jasmine and thyme to the oily tang of military action. A phalanx of Baneblades, eight strong in number, led by the glorious Relentless Purge, trundled into a Mechanicum Transport. Their commander, ‘Lucky’ Jake Timmons snapped a quick salute and grin to the Lord-Commander from the hull of his vehicle. The transport would be bound for Mars to aid in the defence of the Loyalist Supply line, and Creed almost pitied any enemy who had to go up against the Purge and its sisters.
Almost.
It was all dwarfed by the massive machine that sat at the bays centre, awaiting the attentions of super-heavy lifters and loaders. The commander’s personal Leviathan Command Vehicle, affectionately dubbed “Rosie” (after the Commanders first sweetheart) glowered like a vast cave beast, its Macro-Cannon like a vast throat that swallowed the unwary and the careful alike. Several dozen deck-hands clambered over its surface, disconnecting cables and scanners, within the canopy Creed’s command staff covered every system and weapon for readiness, green-lights showing on their auspex equipment. The people who plied their abilities around it were ludicrously small in comparison.
The Commanders attention was drawn by the sound of booted feet running in quick-step toward him. He turned to see Sergeant Grieves leading a squad of ten men toward him. All were attired in Black carapace armour, with deep grey fatigues underneath. All carried a vicious-looking Hellgun at their waists, with an Apollo-class Grenade Launcher slung underneath. One of the troopers carried a Ragnaros Class Multi-Melta assault rifle, it’s usually bright body-casing painted matte black to match his armour. They were all armed and armoured beyond the norm, and each bore a single white Aquila upon their visored helmets, marking them as Veterans. These ten men weren’t just veterans, but Kasrkin Veterans, a Special Forces powerhouse. They stopped in unison in front of the Commander and Grieves snapped a smart salute. His voice growled from his rebreather mask: “Task Force 642, reporting for duty, Sar!”
Creed nodded his acknowledgement. He looked from each member of the squad individually, and although he could not see their faces, he knew he had their undivided attention. “Men” he spoke in a quiet intense voice “I have asked much of you these past years in which you have served under me, but I have never asked so much of you as I do today, on this day of days”
“You are to join our guests from the most blessed inquisition on their ship Aura Gloria II. Once you are above the palace, at 1250 feet, you are to exact a Grave-chute insertion into the palaces upper wings at co-ordinates 40.44.45 – 79.53.08. Your primary target is the power generators for the East Wing of the palace.”
Creed sighed “I am not going to lie to you, the generators will be heavily defended, so Stealth is the best ally you have. Our best estimates put the Custodes Forces out in the main battlefield against the Astartes and Mechanicum forces, so hopefully any combat you see will be against equal forces. You will have no support from the main body of the assault until the generators are down. Look to your comrades, look to your Emperor. May his Light guide your path”
Task Force 642 snapped a salute, turned on their heels and marched in quick step to the other side of the docking bay where the black form of the Inquisitorial Stealth Ship hunched. Creed sighed deeply, and rubbed his temple with his gnarled fingers. In exactly half an hour, the War to possibly end all wars would erupt. He marched toward the waiting docking scaffolds of his Leviathan, and with every step he took he prayed.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Another explosive shell detonated in their lines, casting red sand and black metal violently into the air. Stuttering fire was the reply, and tracer rounds and las-bolts flew across the crimson expanse, painting patterns of light and noise in the air. Iota-Gore turned his vast mechanical head to his brother devices and roared a cry of attack, to which they replied in kind. They raised and clattered their bladed arms, some fired shells and lasers into the air, and all had the look of wild anger in their blackened, skull masks. Iota-Gore spoke in guttural machine tones to his brothers, the noosphere too laden with static and Scrap-Code to be of any use.
“BROTHERS” he bellowed “UNMAKE THE FOE! REND THEM TO THEIR COMPONENT PARTS! DRINK DEEP OF THEIR ESSENTIAL FLUIDS! FOR THE FABRICATOR-GENERAL! FOR THE OMNISSIAH!”
His fellow Skittari screamed their confirmation, and as one, they smashed through their own barricade to reach the hated foe. One hundred and fifty loyalist Skittari, all more akin to miniature dreadnoughts than men, charged toward the enemy lines, firing off heavy shells and explosive rounds. They looked like the very hordes of Hell themselves as they fought in defence of the Factory Depot.
The enemy were the wicked servants of the Cult of The True Omnissiah. They were warped and twisted, black-robed adepts raising their hand and scraping lines of Scrap Code into the very air. Their Skittari were like wild beasts, tubes and wires hanging like wild shaggy manes, and all were bristling with corruption and decay. Were shells struck, sticky black ichor blossomed, wild reddened eyes turned in insane circles, and each chattered uncontrollably with the hatred in their souls. Seeing their enemy rush toward them triggered their bloodlust and they returned the charge in kind. Both lines smashed into each other with the force of unbound waves and soon blood, oil and promethium ran across the Martian sands.
This picture played out across the entirety of the Red Planet. Machine fought machine in a battle near as bloody as the one on Terra. The Fabricator-General knew her forces had to hold out; they had to maintain the supply line for Terra. Creed had promised her several armoured units, and these were already inbound to where the fighting was heaviest. Titan war-horns boomed across the planet, super-heated lance strikes ripped asunder work that had taken centuries, data was lost on a massive scale but still the loyalists held and still the heretics kept coming.
But the heaviest fighting of all centred not on any factory, not on any Forge-city, not on any docking yard or cargo spire. The heaviest fighting occurred in one of Mars’ off-limit areas, an area that millennia before had to be buried in time and myth to keep its horrors from ever re-emerging. The heaviest fighting took place over the dusty, ruined fields above the Vaults of Moravec.
The Footfalls of Gods
A mournful boom like the horn of a War God erupted from the vast pillars of smoke and debris, before another fist of vengeful Starfire shot from the dusty nothingness to erupt upon the walls of the palace. Breaks in the cloud revealed colossal leviathans shod in steel and machinery, with leaden fiery craters in their fists which dripped magma and the life-blood of stars themselves. Another deep bass throng erupted from one of these monumental beasts as it unleashed a flurry of bright lights and explosive death upon the ground before it. Explosions large enough to render the unprepared insane followed the gaze of these creatures weapons, vast temples to the art and barbarity of war itself. Every footfall shook the earth, every machine howl summoned another blast of pyrotechnical chaos and every step forward brought these monsters, these giants, these God-machines closer to their targets. The Loyalist Titan Legions had made planet fall on Terra, and they intended to claim it.
Twenty of these God-Machines spearheaded the Loyalist assault on the palace, split equally between the War Gryphon and Jade Wrath legions, and covered the gamut of Titan Sizes. Graceful Warlords stood shoulders above their smaller Reaver Siblings, whilst Warhounds flanked their betters with feral cunning and bloodlust. Wherever these colossi settled their gaze disaster and destruction quickly followed; already several hundred blazes and ash columns trailed and surrounded them, and they marched as if clothed in the souls of the dead they had created, given form in the billowing clouds of murder. Behind them all came the most frightening of their number, a mountain put to walk the cosmos with wrath and fury in its fists. It stood above its disciples like a vengeful God, the will of mankind wrought into a cage of steel and tempered anger. Its name was the Vetus Imperia: The Head Imperator Titan of the Jade Wrath Titan Legion.
Princeps Tshockia had been merged with the MIU of the Vetus Imperia nearly fifty Terran years ago, just after the death of the most blessed Emperor, and this had been by far the closest he had come to losing himself to the Machine’s mind and memories. He remembered the first time he had docked with the blessed machine, and the frenzy of memories and experiences that had filled his head: it’s anger at his intrusion, it’s thirst for the blood of mankind’s enemies, it’s joy of past victories and conflicts and also a strange hollow mourning as if it too realised that the God-Emperor was gone. He had fought hard and long to wrest the machine to his will, and he still suffered severe migraines after the first docking, but now both he and the Vetus Imperia functioned as one. They were the majestic point in the Trident of the Emperor, they were the destroyer of worlds and the Ender of Species. They had seen many victories together: the pacification of Almatha IX, the cleansing of the Hrud Plague on Getthii V, they had even spearheaded the counter assault on the desert world of Vorgotha against the Necron Spider Titans that had claimed entire hives in the long Vorgothan nights. But each time he had been in control, keeping the wrathful spirit of the Vetus Imperia on a tight leash lest he fall in madness and barbarism.
But here on Terra, the blood song of the Vetus Imperia swamped Tshockia’s mind. His teeth were gritted in a rictus grin as the Titan pulled at his mind, beckoning him to give into butchery and hunger. Although he knew it was physically impossible, he could feel the soul of the Imperia, its desire to drink the traitor’s blood and pull the meat from their bones to sate its endless hunger. The Noospheric link attached to the MIU was becoming increasingly difficult to decipher: over the tactical readouts, radar blips and numerical sitreps a deep crimson stain flowed freely, as the rage of the Titan battled to overwhelm Tshockia. He could hear his command crew talking in the vast head chamber, but he could not make out their words. All he heard was a deep growl, a bestial drone carved from the very core of the machine, a bass throng that threatened to force the blood and thoughts from his mind and supplant them with white hot fury.
Tshockia forced his bloodshot eyes to see through the pain, see through the blood, see through the fury, and beheld his battlegroup. He had to lead them; he had to be the shining figurehead that led those truly faithful to the God-Emperor to victory. A flashing of colour and data drew his attention, and he saw the Eternity Gate slowly open in the palace wall. The enhanced sensors of the Vetus Imperia cut through the smoke and chaos to discern several vast shapes lumbering out from the palace. The soul of the Imperia howled as both he and it recognised the foe marching from the gate, and Tshockia felt a quickening in the monolithic machines pace. This is what the Battlegroup had been deployed for, these were the enemies that they would reign victorious over. The Loki’s Children Titan Legion, twenty-nine strong, marched from the Imperial palace toward the Loyalist Titan March. Tshockia and the Imperia howled in adulation, much to the shock of the Princeps command staff, and his cry was heard by the whole battlegroup in Binary, in the Noosphere and in the Horrific Baritone that issued from the Titans warhorns.
“The Traitors are at the gate, my Brothers and Sisters. Show them no mercy! For Mars! For Terra! For The Emperor!”
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 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 V: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_The_Emperor:_Vol._5_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron
Volume VI: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_the_Emperor:_Vol._6_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron