To the slight surprise of the Dark Mechanicum warlord, the Thousand Sons descended upon his fortress with gunships and drop-pods instead of ripping space apart and manifesting within his walls. After the sorcerous display that had displaced the entire ship, he had thought the wards set around his keep to prevent unauthorized teleportation wouldn't be able to stop the sons of Magnus the Red. Perhaps his wards were stronger than he thought, or perhaps the Thousand Sons did not want to risk losing even one of their number to aborted teleportation when they thought more reliable deployment methods would be sufficient to the task at hand. Whatever the truth, they would regret their arrogance. So vowed Ecellion Perroxicus, Arch-Heretek of Nizar Gamma, lord of the Forty-Nine Principles of Dark Machinery.
His anti-air defenses were still in disarray from the blow to his forge-cathedral. Many had been outright destroyed by the impact, and the rest were impaired by the ground trembling too much for them to get a clear shot at the coming forces. Blind firing missed the targets completely – some sort of spell protected the drop-pods, and the Thunderhawks and Stormbirds dodged any onslaught with insulting ease. From his command center deep within the cathedral, Ecellion saw that he could not prevent Ahriman's army from landing, and so he focused his efforts on drawing as many of his own forces to the surface as possible. Thousands of skitarii and other constructs heeded his call, gathering around the damaged cathedral, ready to face the invaders. The outward fortifications were abandoned – a risk, but Ecellion judged it unlikely than one of his rivals would seize the opportunity. They would much rather let the Thousand Sons fight Ecellion, evaluating their martial capabilities and trying to guess at their actual goals before deciding onto a course of action.
Through their eyes, the Arch-Heretek saw the Thousand Sons land, scattered across the central courtyard. Astartes and battle-automatas emerged from their landing craft, opening fire immediately with weapons and sorcery. The sounds of battle filled the courtyard as two armies clashed.
'For the Legion and the Primarch !' shouted Khayon, leading a phalanx of automatas, Gyre at his side and Saern in his hand. 'Brothers ! Illuminate them !'
Ninety Sorcerers unleashed their power at his command, raining fire upon the Dark Mechanicum forces. Hundreds of skitarii died in the first seconds of the engagement, and then the Thousand Sons started to get creative. Cyborgs turned against their brethren as their command protocols were usurped, bound daemons were suddenly released as the wards containing them sputtered and failed, and the remaining flesh of subordinate hereteks twisted and mutated to create grotesque Chaos Spawns. As Ecellion brought in tanks and other heavy vehicles, the Thousand Sons ripped them apart with their minds while the battle-automatas defended their masters, directed by the overmind of the Anamnesis. Some of the constructs fell, and even a handful of Sorcerers were laid down by the defenders' concentrated fire, but soon they prevailed, and the inner courtyard was covered in the broken bodies of dead skitarii and the husks of ruined engines.
Khayon stood amongst his defeated foes, his armor covered in blood and oil, more of which dripped from his ax's blade. It had been a long time since he had taken part in a true battle – in fact, he had not fought for his life since his confrontation with Nirkalesh. The Exalted Sorcerer revelled in the conflict surrounding him, a sense of fulfilled purpose filling him to the brim. For all that the Thousand Sons were scholars, teachers and researchers of the aetheric matters, they were warriors first and foremost, created as such by the Emperor. All the changes that had come to the Fifteenth Legion since its creation on Terra hadn't altered that one thing – after all, no matter what other goals the Changer of Ways had in mind for them, he required warriors to fight in his eternal conflict against the other Dark Gods. There was a purity in battle, in the single-minded pursuit of assigned objectives, in the fighting side-by-side with trusted brothers, that nothing in the galaxy could match.
Ahriman, Khayon sent, breathing heavily and feeling the power he had called within him slowly dissipate, we have taken the courtyard. But our enemy is gathering more troops to attack us.
He could sense them, massing in the underground nearby, waiting for their master's signal to launch their counter-attack. Thousands, tens of thousands, drawn from all corners of their lord's fortress, leaving entire sections of it undefended. His brothers could detect them too, and were already preparing, telekinetically moving wrecks to form improvised barricades and arranging the battle-automatas into defensive formations.
Good, came the reply from the Arch-Sorcerer. Everything is proceeding as planned. I am going down myself. Hold their attention until I am done.
As you command, brother.
In the depths of the fortress, within an empty corridor that should have been guarded by a dozen battle-servitors, reality rippled. When the space-time anomaly resolved itself, Ahriman and Sanakht stood, their battle-plate flickering with the ghost-fire of the Warp. In the back of Ahriman's mind, he could still sense the link with Ashur-Kai, back on the Tlaloc's bridge, waiting for his signal to open the conduit again. Once, maintaining such a telepathic link with someone he didn't have a special bound to would have been harduous, even for him – but since the Rubric, not only had his powers increased, he had been able to link in that manner with any son of Magnus.
The corridor in which the two Exalted Sorcerers stood was dark, and led to a single reinforced door. From looking at it, it was clear the door wasn't meant to contain something inside, but to prevent unwanted access from the outside, both physical and psychic. Still, the wards, locks and adamantium reinforcing were no match for the power of the Exalted Sorcerers, and within a few seconds the door was torn out of its hinges, revealing a small circular space with a single person within. The room was filled with an harsh light coming from a single crystal in the ceiling.
The prisoner was little more than a torso. His legs were gone – he was held in the air by the two thick chains bound to the extremity of the ruined augmetics that had replaced his arms centuries ago. His body bore the marks of cybernetics having been ripped out, only the most vital being replaced with inferior equivalents that kept him alive, if not comfortable. Cranial enhancements had been removed, replaced with old cogitator units bounded with the remaining brain tissue, providing just enough processing power to emulate a complete human brain. Judging by the quality of his exposed artificial lungs, every breath must be agony to the captive, just like every other transplant must have burned his remaining old, decaying flesh with rejection. There was a cruel ingenuity to it all – the prisoner's situation had been carefully calculated to inflict pain without risking his death or descent into insanity. Had he not known the prisoner's nature, Ahriman would have been outraged.
As Ahriman entered the cell, the prisoner lifted his head, staring at the Legionary with cheap, faceted augmetic eyes that resembled nothing more than the eyes of a fly – if they had been black and cracked. The general impression the captive gave was so miserable that, if not for his psychic senses, the Arch-Sorcerer would have thought he had been mistaken all along. But he could see through the physical frailty of the prisoner, and into the incredibly complex and powerful mind trapped within, seething with cold rage and, as he saw Ahriman, a flicker of surprise, recognition and hope, quickly replaced by calculation. This was the individual Ahriman's visions had revealed to him as key to his goals, and though he had fallen far and had lost all of his power, a core of greatness remained within him, a seed of potential waiting to be nurtured into terrible bloom.
'Fabricator-General Kelbor-Hal,' said Ahriman, bowing his head slightly. 'We have come for you.'