Chapter 36 – Crusade's End

"Sire?"

Roboute blinked. Somehow, he had fallen asleep.

"Hmm?"

"Sire, are you well?" It was one of his sons. What was his name? Titus!

"What is going on?"

"I need your opinion."

"Let me see the map."

His massive wheelchair was pushed towards the holographic display. His attention was anywhere else.

"The traitor lines are merging," Titus said. "It appears they have learned the value of working together, of using the same singular chain of command. The Black Legion is linking up with the Iron Warriors, and seem to be pressing…"

The vision still burned after-images on his brain. His own empire, his own glorious expanse of mankind. Everything was built to his desire. Everything in order, everything in its right place. And him alive and well, overseeing the expansion, crushing all who resisted it.

He saw himself as ruler of the galaxy. Him, and him alone. And Roboute knew that to have that dream, all he had to do was kill everyone in the room.

The bone saw was close to his hand.

Wait, what was he thinking? Him, ruler of the galaxy? Roboute shook his head.

He was the builder, not the ruler. Ruling was solely his father's expertise. He was trusted to build the very foundation of the Imperium, to make it a place where humanity could flourish. Even after the great betrayals at Istvaan and Calth, when Ultramar was cut off from the rest of the Imperium and he made the Imperium Secundus, even then he didn't choose to become the ruler; he had given that honor to Sanguinius.

He was a builder, not a ruler. He was a general, not a statesman. What was he even thinking, being able to run his own empire? Was this some kind of sick test?

Suddenly, his heart caught in his throat. Was this what Horus saw when he turned from his father's path? Was this the damned Ruinous Powers that he had heard much about? He had to admit, they were awfully convincing.

No, he was dying, that was that. But Titus, Titus gave him hope. Maybe his sons could be saved from their own blindness. Maybe they could see that his greatest work wasn't so great anymore. Not when it was assumed as an iron-clad truth.

"…sire? Genetors, what is ailing my Primarch?" Titus demanded.

"We…we don't know, lord," the tech priest Legato said weakly.

"The Emperor cured him! He should be recovering!"

"But his Larraman's Organ is practically dissolving in front of us," Legato said. "And as it dissolves, it's creating a noxious poison. We don't know what is causing it."

"Then find a way to augment it. Purify his blood, he cannot—"

"It is fine."

"Sire…?"

"I said, it is fine," Roboute said. "Whatever is killing me is beyond even my father. Mother. Whatever the Emperor wants to be called now."

"But sire, you cannot pass," Titus pleaded. "Whom shall lead us?"

"You have done a decent job of it so far."

"But we have waited for you to return to us."

"And sadly, I will be leaving you," Roboute said. "My father is strong, but I do not think even he could stand against fate for very long. I was a dead man when Fulgrim sunk that blade into my chest. It had just taken…how long was I in stasis?"

"Nearly ten thousand years, sire," Titus said.

"Then it nearly took ten thousand years to get to me. But it is here for me now; I can't ignore it. You'll have to do without me."

Titus looked ready to fall to his knees.

"There are still a few things that I would like to do," he said. "Is there a Rememberencer here?"

"Sire, we use servo-skulls now," Legato said.

"Then bring me one of those damned skulls, I still have a few lessons to teach my sons."

"The men would never follow me without you," Titus said. "They think I am a latent traitor."

"Then use my name when I am gone," Roboute said. "We have to win this war, else the traitors will put Terra under siege again."

"Please, sire. They would never believe me."

"Have they asked to talk to me since you took command? Have they asked to hear my voice, telling them to do what you have already told them to do?"

"No, sire, they have not."

"Then let me go. Please, the pain of dying is killing me. Let me find my peace. You have already made me proud, but there are a few things that I must address."

Something spun in the field of his view. Roboute had to focus on it before he realized it was a floating skull.

"The red light means it is recording, lord," Legato said.

"Ah, right. Titus, you have men to lead. Ignore me." He turned to face the floating skull. So macabre. He missed the human Rememberancers that were attached to his legions. They were much better. Charming, relatable, and human.

"My name is Roboute Guilliman. Soon I will be dead. Before I pass, I want to record a few messages for my sons and their Successor Chapters."

The image of his own empire shone brightly in his mind, but he ignored them. They didn't show him his father, or his brothers. It was only him, and he would never focus on himself. He already had his chance to be the leader of another Imperium, but he could not stand such a title, just as he couldn't stand it now. No, just being the nameless builder of empires would be enough for him.

The traitor howled.

He was a screaming, frothing-at-the-mouth berserker of the Blood God. To have survived this long, no, to have thrived this long, he must have butchered thousands. And to be here, on this spot on Cadia, meant that he had to cut hundreds of threads, both of brother Astartes and mortals alike.

He was dangerous, walking death. At least, he was before Katla finally cut his thread.

Aevar brought his thunder hammer across his chest, holding her close while keeping the shaft high. The Khorne Berserker's axe bit against the pure adamantium rod, finding no purchase. Aevar twisted his hips and dropped his legs. Katla pushed the axe off her, all while bringing her killing surface to bear. It hit the traitor dead in the helmet. Katla sparked, thunder cracked, and the traitor was turned to bloody bits before him.

"Throne dammit, I miss this!" He howled as he moved onto the next traitor. "How many is that for you, Helfist?"

"Shit, greybeard, I lost count at fifteen," the Rune Priest laughed. He was surrounded by the green spirits of Fenris. He had kept the blessing up for what seemed like hours, even days; Fenris was truly feeling grateful for giving him the spirits of the dead heroes for this long. Then again, this was the Black Crusade. The heroes must be begging for a chance to be in this murder-make.

Helfist used his boosted strength to sink his fist deep into a traitor's chest. He pulled one of his hearts from the gaping hole and crushed it without a second thought. As the traitor fell over, dead, Vermund wove another blessing for the squad, giving them endurance that would only be rivaled by a Primarch.

Aevar laughed like he was a damned Blood Claw again, his voice adding to the cheer and battle-hymns that surrounded the Sons of Russ. Being in exile for over twenty years had given him quite the appetite for destruction, war and the murder-make. And in the bloody grounds of Cadia, there was plenty to be had.

"Fucking Hel, I haven't been this alive since gorram Armageddon!" He howled as he crushed yet another berserker. They had fought like madmen, but in the last hour they seemed to turn lose yet again. They hit harder, faster, and more often, but his armor was strong, and Katla and Iounn seemed to be drawn to exactly where they were needed to be to cut a thread.

Maybe it was the twenty-plus years of exile and blue-balled, pent-up aggression. Maybe it was the Black Crusade. Maybe it was the chance to fight with Russ himself. Whatever the reason, Aevar was beyond top form. He was slaughter, murder incarnate, like so many other of his brothers. They matched the ferocity of the berserkers. They tested them, and found the traitors wanting.

Wave upon wave of traitors crashed upon them, but they were able to push them back.

"It's like we pissed them off or something," he laughed as he swept the legs out from under a group of traitors. Katla sung, tearing their legs from their bodies. He switched to Iounn, and put a bolt in each of their heads. Then it was back to battling the next berserker who thought he could cut his thread.

"Who would've thought," Helifst laughed as three chainaxes hit him. Each ground, but found no purchase on his iron-wrought muscles. He killed two with his punches while Aevar took the last one. "Glory hog."

"Sorry, got blue balls from exile. Need to get this out."

"You and me both, greybeard," Helfist said. He nodded over Aevar's head. "I'm just glad that the Claws are keeping up with us."

Aevar turned minutely, slapping a new magazine into Iounn. He peered over his shoulder while hearing the many sounds of battle. Sure enough, there were a group of Claws that were so Throne-damned lucky, they never seemed to die.

"Fenrys hjolda!" He yelled.

"Fenrys hjolda!" His brothers yelled. And the traitors replied in kind with a mindless bellow of fury. But theirs was weaker. Aevar saw the next berserker hesitate. Katla cut his thread, and the next traitor was slower to launch himself into the fray.

"They're scared!" Helfist bellowed as he dove headlong into a small group of berserkers. They didn't mindlessly throw themselves at Helfist like they always did; they let him attack. Vermund brought his hands together and crushed one, smashed him into giblets. "They're fucking scared!"

"Then let's keep pushing them!" Aevar laughed. "Come on, one of you has to be good in a brawl!"

Jaghatai Khan hissed as he brought his bike around. The massive war machine pivoted on a dime; it floated, the boosters kicking in to spin the front end up and around. It came up at just the right time. Any later, and Mortarion's damned reaper would have found his armor. Any sooner, and he would have missed his dodge all together.

His bike shook as the massive scythe clattered against it. He gave it more gas, and it pushed the blade down, leaving his fallen brother open to attack. He swung his sword around, hitting Mortarion dead in the neck.

But Mortarion was not the Primarch he used to be. The damn daemon that corrupted his flesh made him impossibly tough. His sword clattered off his twisted, rotting flesh. Jaghatai boosted back, just as Mortarion moved in closing, swinging high and wide.

The point of the scythe punched through the thick metal of his jet bike. The blade sunk deep into the machine, and Jaghatai could feel it die. He leapt from it, just as Mortarion unleashed a barrage of gunfire straight at the rider's seat from his wrist-mounted gun.

"Your pitiful bike is dead," his former brother said, pulling his scythe lose. "You will join it."

"It might be dead, but it's still got its use," the Great Khan said, rolling to his feet.

"What does it do, make threatening insults?" Mortarion laughed, his massive wings beating the air. But he stayed on the ground; Mortarion wanted to kill him personally.

"No, it doesn't," Jaghatai smiled. "When it is alive, it's a bike. But when it dies…"

Mortarion paused, either from his smile or from his cryptic message.

"Fine, I will bite," he said. "When it dies, what does it do?"

"It doesn't do anything, brother," the Khan said. "It just turns into a nuncio-vox."

"A locator beacon?"

"The very same," the Khan smiled.

The air split apart in a brilliant burst of light. Mortarion was stunned by the sudden arrival. He was so stunned he didn't see Vulkan's hammer coming. He took the hit dead center of his head, and for the first time in their nearly hour-long fight, was knocked back.

Reeling, Mortarion made an easy target. Jaghatai leapt in, swinging with all his might. This time, his sword found good purchase. It tore open one of his membranous wings, and opened a great gash along Mortarion's side. The stench that rolled off him hit the great Khan harder than any hit he had taken. The sheer noxious smell made him pause, give Mortarion room to recover.

"So, you need help with this fight," he chuckled, shaking off the massive blow that Vulkan unleashed. "How pathetic."

"I'm sorry, you confused us with someone who gives a fuck," Jaghatai grinned.

"There's no shame in killing a traitor," Vulkan spat. "Your time has come, brother."

"Do not say that, you sound like damned Fulgrim."

Vulkan leapt at Mortarion. He went too high, and his fallen brother brought his scythe to bear. The tip punched through the underside of Vulkan's mouth, and out the top of his head. Vulkan went limp as Mortarion threw his lifeless body aside.

"That did not last long, did it?" He chuckled. "It does not have to end like this, brother. You could accept Grandfather Nurgle into your life; you will be welcomed with open arms, and we could make the galaxy shake."

"I'd rather see our father's plan come to completion," he said. "I can see his true goal; the survival of the human race. A unified race, whom has beaten every challenge, and turned an uncaring galaxy into a place safe for all."

"You are hopelessly disillusioned," Mortarion spat. "There is only death and decay. And the master of it is Nurlge. All must die."

"You'd be surprised what doesn't die," the great Khan laughed.

Just as Mortarion was about to say something, Vulkan leapt up from behind him and brought his hammer down dead center of Mortiaron's head. Somehow, his fallen brother clung to life and was able to jump away from being cornered.

"I killed you!" Mortarion bellowed.

"I got better," Vulkan said.

"You were? Then the rumors are true," Mortarion said. "You are a Perpetual. Nurgle hates Perpetuals. But at the same time…"

He never got the chance to finish. Vulkan swung wide, and Mortarion realized that by turning to face Vulkan, he forgot about Jaghatati.

The Great Khan cut opened another gash across Mortarion's side. The toxic flesh began knitting itself, but it would take time to fully heal. Vulkan's hammer kept pounding Mortarion, testing the famously resilient Primarch.

"You escaped me once," Jaghatati spat. "Not again. This hunt will end!"

"It will end with me banished from this realm," his former brother said. "You have achieved nothing!"

"You thought I was the only one who teleported towards the beacon?" Vulkan chuckled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaghatati spied the approaching black-suited figures. They might not be Sisters of Silence, but according to his sons and Vulkan's, they were the exact same: Pariahs. Men and women of whom were born without souls, taken in by the Inquisition to be trained to become deadly assassins. They were Culexus assassins, and they were the very anathema to anything that drew power from the warp.

Their simple presence caused Mortarion to howl with pain; being this close to assassins had undoubtedly sucked the daemon's energy from his soul, paralyzing him with pain. Jaghatati felt nothing but relief as the world just began to feel right. No more warp, no more witchery. Just the ground beneath his feet and his sword in his hand.

"Alright Russ, you had one good idea for once in your life," he chuckled. "Don't let it get to your head."

Mortarion fell to his knees. The presence of the soulless had robbed him of any damned power the daemon gave him. Vulkan hammered at him, hitting him again and again. Jaghatati brought his sword to bear, slashing again and again. He would carve his traitorous brother until nothing was left but bits and pieces.

"Keep at him," he yelled to Vulkan. "He has to collapse eventually."

Mortarion moved. Somehow, he fucking moved. He should have been paralyzed with pain; the daemon had his soul wrapped around him. The pain the daemon felt should have been magnified a dozen times over. But the bastard moved.

The Great Khan moved on instinct. The air whistled mere inches from his face as Mortarion's scythe nearly took his damn head. And he kept moving.

Jaghatati hissed with frustration as he threw himself backwards, just avoiding the follow up slice. Mortarion might have been slowed, either from the presence of the Coulexus assassins or from Vulkan's hammer blows, but he made up for it by putting every ounce of strength into the swing.

"Vulkan, hold him," he cried. Vulkan's hammer rang out, the sound of thunder being split, but Mortarion seemed to ignore the grievous damage.

"If I must fall, then you fall with me," Mortarion screamed. He moved with what seemed to be no pain, but his voice was full of nothing but pain and suffering. "I will see you fall!"

Death.

Death was all the daemon could think about.

Ever since his ship entered the warp and the daemons befell them, all that Mortarion could think about was death.

The ever-present rot. The natural conclusion of natural life. The end of suffering, the end of struggles, the end of the endless cycle of cellular repairs to stave off the inevitable end that awaited all.

He even thought about the inevitable death of heat itself. It was all that the damn daemon could think about.

It was more than a splinter in his mind. It was what his mind could only think about. It was his fixation, his raison d'etre.

When the black-clad monstrosities appeared, and severed his connection to the warp, the daemon that possessed him howled in pain. But at the same time, it laughed. It laughed and wept with joy; death was at hand. Its death, as well as his own.

And it wanted more death, more to end so more could begin. How could one create if one did not erase the previous work?

So Mortarion fought. He fought the only one who could actually be killed: Jaghatati. Vulkan was a perversion, one who could not end. The daemon, writhing in pain as the connection to its birthplace was severed, screamed at him to kill, to end the life of Jaghatati. In all the years before now, the daemon had only whispered to him; its screams were more painful than Vulkan's hammer blows.

Perhaps his desire to obey the daemon was because time traveled differently in the warp. Whereas a mere ten thousand years had passed to the realms of man, the entire lifespan of the galaxy had passed for Mortarion.

He had witnessed the galaxy been born, saw its birth pains, had witnessed its rapid adolescence growth, saw its expansion grow to a halt and saw every nanosecond of its collapse. He saw the beginning and the end; the daemon made him watch. He saw the beauty of beginning, middle and end, and saw that all had to end. He saw what the daemon saw, what Nurgle had professed, and knew its truth. He knew he had to obey the daemon above all.

So when the daemon told him that Jaghatati had to die, he knew that he had to kill the bastard.

Everything hurt, but he was used to pain; every breath on his home world was pain. Each time he swung his scythe was agony, and every step he took was pain unlike he had ever experienced. He couldn't care about the pain. It was a simple matter of existing; so it goes, by Nurgle's decree.

He swung, and landed a blow. The tip of his scythe punched through Jaghatati's top-knot. It split his skull and traveled down his head, cleaving his brain in two and even plowing through his neck. The tip was able to slide down, sinking down to his heart.

Death was immediate. Just as Nurgle decreed.

Vulkan cried out. Just when Mortarion was sure than his brother could hit no harder, he was proven wrong. The next blow from Vulkan's hammer cracked his armor clean open, split his skin, and liquefied his very bones. It was a light tap compared to the next blow.

The daemon inside him laughed. Mortarion laughed. Death came to all, even him. Even to Nurgle. He truly felt every blow. He could feel his organs rupture and liquefy, but at the same time, he couldn't help but laugh. The daemon didn't make him laugh, it was in too much pain. But at the same time, he knew it was what the daemon would make him do. And if spending an eternity with a daemon as his only companion made him realize one thing and one thing only, it was that the daemon was always right. He had to do what the daemon did, so he laughed.

He was laughing until Vulkan brought his hammer down for the last time. Then everything went black. The End finally came for Mortarion, just like Nurgle decreed.

The traitor's lines were moving.

They were moving to grid G-5. That left an open sector that was just behind them. He still had assault troops in reserve; they would land in the open ground, and link up with a Decurion group to the south. It would split their lines. And on the off-chance the Alpha Legion was playing them for fools, there were enough available Thunderhawks in the air to rescue them.

"All assault units, strike now," Titus commanded.

If we defile the Codex any more, we will ask the Black Legion if we can join them, a bitter sergeant spat.

"Strike now, and we can push them back," Titus growled. "I do not ask that you respect me, but you will respect the rank I hold, sergeant. Sire!"

Guilliman stirred, and Titus had to try his best not to cry. His Primarch was wasting away in front of him. His cheeks had sunk almost as if the very flesh from his face was being drained. His eyes were withering away, becoming more and more dried and vacant. He was wrapped in a blanket, sparing Titus of the worst of it. But his arms were still visible, and had seemingly turned to sticks.

"Sire," Titus said, somehow managing to hold his voice steady. "We are driving a wedge into the Black Legion's ranks."

"Good," Guilliman said. His voice was almost like a croak, as if his vocal cords were decaying and threatening to snap. "Divide and conquer, while we still have the reserves…"

"Sire. Please, let the genetors help you," Titus begged.

"No," Guilliman shook his head. "I have been dying for ten thousand years. If my father…mother…if the Emperor said that I even died, then it is all the more assured."

Guilliman leaned back in his chair, trailing off.

"Sire."

"Hmm?"

"You were saying if the Emperor could not save you…"

"Yes, if he could not, then it is truly my time."

"But sire, you were just returned to us."

"I was put into stasis mere moments from my death," he chuckled. "There are miracles, and then there are impossibilities. Just as…yes, just as impossible as the Imperium."

"Sire? What do you mean?"

"My father wanted the impossible," he said. Titus felt that his gene-sire didn't hear him. "A Utopia. He created me to build a Utopia. No wonder it failed. We cannot create perfection. No one can."

"Sire? What do you mean?"

"Death gives surprising clarity," Guilliman said. "Must mean I am talking riddles to you. The Imperium was a wild fantasy, something that could never be attained. Then again, maybe we did not want it enough, fought hard enough against the encroaching darkness. If things were only done differently…"

Guilliman gestured, and the servo-skull floated towards Titus.

"My last teachings," he said. "My last lesson. Titus, you must know this. You are the most receptive, the one least stuck in the ways of, of whatever we have become. Please, never lose that. What I wrote, the Codex, it was never to be followed literally. It was guidelines, suggestions, with examples of how each maxim should be delivered. It was never meant to replace thought. Nothing is more powerful than a mind that does not follow mere guidelines. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sire, I understand."

"You do not."

"But sire-!"

"No, do not argue," Guilliman said. "You may not understand, not perfectly, but that is fine. You are better than the rest. You do not understand, but you feel it. You can empathize with it. And that is so much better than the rest.

"Give my lesson to the others. Maybe then they can become what I truly wanted; true warriors, not just unthinking, blind servants. To survive in this world, we must be better than that."

The skull bobbed in the air, awaiting orders.

"Now finish the damn fight," Guilliman said.

"Not without you, sire."

"Nonsense," Guilliman laughed. "You have already won. Victorious warriors win the battle first, then they go to war. The traitors have not won first; they simply went to war first. They seek to win while in battle. Now show them the error of their ways."

"Sire?"

Guilliman didn't respond.

"Sire, please," Titus pleaded.

"Forgive me," Legato said, "but he has passed on."

"I can see." Titus realized he was crying. He never cried, not since his ascension to the Astartes. He didn't even know he could cry.

Only the death of his gene-sire could have such an effect on an Astartes.

"Put his body back in stasis," he said, trying to dry his eyes. He looked at the floating servo skull. "Can you copy what he made?"

"Of course."

"Then do it. Make dozens of copies of this. Hundreds. This is his last lesson. We must all learn it. I will do what my gene-sire has commanded me, and win the war," Titus said. "Are there any Imperial Guard forces left?"

"Yes. Since we have met the Legion in battle, the Cadian forces have been regrouping."

"Excellent. We will need to work with them to put the damn traitors down."

Julas stood awkwardly, and not because of the small room of the Imperial bastion he was in. He had stood on dozens, perhaps hundreds of planets, plenty of times with agents of the Inquisition. But never as an actual agent himself. Never to root out the evils that threatened the Imperium. And certainly not to test the 'purity' of Imperial troopers.

"By the Throne, it is something I would never forget," the guardsman said in awed tones. "The Emperor was perfect. Just, perfect. Like I was staring into the sun; I had to look away."

Julas grunted, taking notes on a small data-slate. It was human sized, making him scribble like a child.

"Was there anything the Emperor said that struck you as odd?"

"Other than I was meeting the damned Emperor, risen from the Throne?" The guardsman laughed. His laughter seemed to die in his throat. "Yes, yes there was. She was always talking. Never stopped. Throne, if she wasn't talking, someone had better be. She ordered Serge to chatter away. Didn't matter about what, just something, you know?"

"Is that all?" Julas couldn't do this work. He was an Angel of Death, not an Inquisitor.

'Was.' He was a reject, chaff that somehow lasted longer than it should have. He was a walking omen; two men had turned from the Emperor's grace under his watch. He was an Angel of Death, but now no longer.

It was strange. Suddenly he wished he was back at Dimmimar, teaching with the Sisters of Battle. Teaching Laura.

"We couldn't kneel," the guardsman said. "Or pray. Mikel wanted to pray, but the Emperor…he yelled at him, but not really, you know? Made Mikel and all of us piss our pants. Why would she do that?"

"It…it was a test," Julas said. He was no longer the Emperor's Chosen. He might as well be a liar for the Inquisition. "To see if you could keep the Emperor in your heart, even as the Emperor told you otherwise. A true test of faith."

"But why?"

"These are dark times, Guardsman. With the Black Crusade, we must remain ever vigilant. The Emperor simply wanted to see if your faith was as she thought; unshakable."

The guardsman nodded. Julas didn't know if he bought the lie, or if he was simply doing what was told of him to avoid reprisal.

"As you were, guardsman. And keep the Emperor in your heart."

"Yes, my lord. Thank you," he said, making the sign of the aquilla on his chest.

Julas had spent the last three hours interviewing dozens of soldiers whom had worked in the bastion when the Emperor made planet fall. Dozens of men and women, loyal and faithful, had said the same thing: the Emperor's refusal to accept prayer and faith.

To hear that they were wrong in faith was one thing. To hear it from the Emperor himself was another.

"How does the Inquisition handle such feats?" Julas mumbled to himself. He was already exhausted, and not in the physical sense. Still, that was the last mortal soldier he had to interview. He marked his notes and stood to find Parsef.

The men and women of the guard were glued to their posts. They were too busy to bow, let alone notice his presence. Perhaps they had already grown accustomed to the Custodes who were stationed there earlier.

"Inquisitor," Julas said. Parsef was standing in the main foyer, Geist at his side.

"Julas," he said. "How goes your work?"

"It is not one that I was trained to do, but I have done it to the best of my ability," he said. Julas turned, giving one last look to the bastion. "Do you think the Empress' plan will work? Do you think ours will?"

Parsef sighed.

"As long as the Emperor suspects nothing, it can't hurt us," he said. "But I understand what you mean. We balance on the knife's edge. Any slight tip…well, I don't need to say what will happen. Now do you understand what the Inquisition goes through?"

"All too well," Julas said. His replacement arm ached with phantom pain. He caught himself mentally reciting the litany against pain.

Julas handed his reports over, and Parsef took them.

"Were there any individuals that stood out to you?" Parsef asked.

"None. They were the model of compliant soldiers."

"Good. It is as the Grandmaster said, we simply need to spin this with minimal interference. With luck, they will remain loyal and faithful."

"And if they do not?"

"I dare to assume you knew of the plan to restore Armageddon to full productivity after the First War?"

"The War spearheaded by the daemon Primarch Angron? The one that brought you to blow with the Wolves?"

Parsef nodded. Julas suddenly realized what he meant. The men and women of Armageddon had been culled, to stem the spread of Chaos. All on the chance one person turned.

"It is bad that we must stoop to such depths."

"But worse if we didn't, wouldn't you agree?"

Julas was about to respond, but found that he couldn't. He had faced thousands of foes, possibly tens of thousands. He had killed all who faced him, either in honorable combat, from a distance with bolter, or even though indirect means such as orbital bombardment.

But the thought of sending even one loyal member of the Guard to their death pained him. They were simply following the orders of the Master of Mankind, the very one that dictates the very course of the human race. And they would die simply because they followed the one person they were supposed to follow. They couldn't even begin to fathom the plan they were a part of.

"Tell me, Parsef, do you ever ask yourself if we are truly on the righteous side of this?" Julas asked. "That we are the ones doing what is necessary, and not simply planning and plotting for the sake of planning and plotting?"

"Every damn day," the Inquisitor said. "I tell myself that this is what separates me from the blood simple brutes, but I know better."

"Then do you believe that what we are doing is right?"

"We need to move on," Parsef said. "We have spent enough time here. The Emperor may have moved on, but we need to limit the spread of the Truth."

"I—"

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"I do not believe I can do such work," Julas said. "Place me in combat. Let me face traitors naked with a simple combat knife. Give me a bolter with half a clip and put me on the front lines, but this work I cannot do."

"It's too late for that," Parsef said. Julas could hear the pain in his voice. "I'm sorry. I truly am. We have known each other for decades, and I would count you as one of my true friends. But what you're asking for…I don't have the power to grant it. You know that, right?"

"All too well."

"Then you'll know that we can only do what we are ordered to. Now, we are needed at the nearest church. The Empress had explicitly avoided it, but we must make sure nothing had happened to it."

"I understand."

Parsef put a hand on Julas' remaining arm.

"You don't, but that is fine," he said.

"Do you regret becoming an Inquisitor?"

Parsef barked out a single peel of rough laughter.

"I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before!" He said. "I've had a few rejuvenation surgeries, lived longer than most men, but no one's asked me that before!

"If I could have but one wish, I would go back to when I was a young man, and tell the nice woman in the dark robes 'thanks, but no thanks.'"

Now it was Julas' turn to snort.

"The Wolves are rubbing off on me. I remembered that when Laura had said she wished for something, Helfist would say—"

"'If wishes were fishes, we'd never go hungry,'" the two said. "'But we do go hungry, so what does that tell you?'"

Julas never saw Geist squirm at the mention of Laura. He was too busy realizing how much he missed her, of being her Uncle-Sergeant.

"You're not the only one," Parsef said. "Shit, if I ever have the chance to retire, I just might write a book on the wisdom of death worlders. Now there's something I'd never thought would happen."

"Being close to death gives you surprising clarity. There are plenty of things that I realized when my duty nearly drew to a close, things I would never have thought of otherwise."

"Like how much of this shit was a bad idea."

"I do not know what you speak of."

"Of course you don't," Parsef said. "We need to move. That church must not falter, let alone fall. Faith holds the Imperium together, and destroying it would break humanity."

"And if it were to falter?" Julas asked. "If the priests were to waver in their faith after meeting the Emperor?"

"Then the Inquisition will have to find men and women who are stronger in their convictions."

Their moment done, Julas went back to questioning himself, and the wishes of the Empress. It was truly the time's plague when the mad, heretical, and above all treasonous idea was the one that made the most sense.

Lion saw the hard-fought battle lines ahead of him. Pushing at the traitor's lines were the Repentant, and somehow Luther was at the front. He dodged each blow and parried every hit, but it still was not enough. The traitors kept him at arm's length, and with Luther stalled, the entire Repentant stalled with him.

They needed something to break the stalemate. And that something was slithering ahead of Lion.

"Sire, is this wise?" Azrael asked, looking at the monstrous form of Fulgrim.

"He is right," Fulgrim said. "You trust me too much. You should have killed me when you had the chance. That daemon might return at any second."

"Unless you have noticed, we are taking every precaution."

Fulgrim looked behind him. Dozens of dreadnaughts escorted them, all heavily armed. Dozens of heavy-weapons toting Devestators were with them, and three squads of Deathwing terminators marched ahead of them, all armed with storm shields and thunder hammers.

"Please, I don't want to tempt anything," Fulgrim said. "I have been under the daemon's control for too long."

"And you will get the chance to repay it a dozen times over," Lion said. "Your atonement is out there in the ranks of the traitors. Go get it."

Fulgrim turned to look at Lion again. If it was a daemon that was in charge of Fulgrim, then Lion deserved to be tricked. Pain filled his eyes, and he saw sincerity in his fallen brother.

"You are too good to me, brother," Fulgrim said. Then he was off, slithering towards the front. Fulgrim proved his skill and adaptability; he shot through the rubble of the ruined planet with shocking speed. He hit the traitor's lines, who made the mistake of welcoming him.

"Sire, what are you doing?" A noise marine gasped.

Then Fulgrim went to work.

Lion had seen the purple-clad traitors rejoice in every single punishment they had dished out. They could not be demoralized; it was as if they savored every single stimulation, no matter how debased.

But seeing their own fallen Primarch take arms against them? Even the most fearless of the Emperor's Children faltered at that. His very presence shattered their will to fight, and his skill with his swords certainly helped. The purple-colored lines sagged, then broke. Luther's Repentant were only too happy to leap into the open breach and move forward.

"The traitor's lines are broken!" Azrael said. It was clear he put no faith in the Repentant, or into Fulgrim. "Assault units, aid them! Deathwing, locate pockets in the traitor's lines and strike them there! All units, attack! Today we drive the traitors from Cadia!"

All around Lion, his sons cheered and charged towards the breach that Fulgrim created. Fulgrim himself was already moving through it; he was the center, the tip of the spear that drove into the heart of the fallen and the damned. His position was moving ever forward, and Lion doubted he would ever stop.

Lion advanced, keeping an eye on the rapidly changing lines, wary of any feigns the traitors might be attempting. He walked slowly, and saw a figure that had fallen to the ground.

It was Luther. The old man was on the ground, bleeding from his side.

"Luther, be still," Lion said. "Apothecary, to me! We need to return Luther to the fight, he is not done yet."

"I…I wasn't hit," Luther gasped. He coughed up blood and kept a hand at his side.

An apothecary was quickly at his side. The man hesitated, seeing the face of Luther, but seemed to put his revulsion aside.

"I—I wasn't hit," Luther said again.

"He's cherishing his side," Lion said. "I will open his armor."

Luther drew his sword and pressed it against the thick plates of armor. It pierced the armor, but he made sure to keep the point extremely shallow; Luther was of more use alive than dead. Lion made a quick slice, then pried the piece of armor up, and pulled it open.

Underneath was Luther's pale skin. The strange wound he had when Lion first saw him was there, leaking blood like a burst pipe would leak water.

"It was the old wound," Luther gasped. "The one you gave me when we fought on Caliban. The one that woke me from…from whatever blinded me. It never healed. I never wanted it to heal, and it never did. Please, tell me, did we win?"

"Yes, we won." Lion took Luther's hand. "Thanks to you."

"Am I forgiven?"

"No, you could never be forgiven," Lion said. "But you have earned your redemption."

"That," Luther said, smiling, "that is all that I want."

"Sire, he is dead," the apothecary said.

"I can tell," Lion said. He looked at Luther. His eyes were closed, and a smile was on his face. "Dammit, I still needed you. You still had work to do."

Perturabo scowled. Even with the Black Legion, the damn loyalists kept him and his men off-guard, and were reaping the benefits.

With the strange, surgical strikes of the Ultramarines, the brutal efficiency of the Space Wolves and Raven Guard, and the ferocious push by the Dark Angels, they were being crushed. The only force where they were making any kind of headway was with the Death Guard, but with the death of Mortarion, a true death, they were sure to collapse sooner rather than later.

"The damn loyalists have beaten us," Abaddon said, watching the battle lines from his side.

"Yes," Perturabo grudgingly admitted. Even the little voice in the back of his mind knew he was beaten. "They have."

"S-sire," a Legionnaire said, nervous to get within striking distance of the two, "the Imperial Guard have re-grouped, and are moving on the Death Guard."

"Then the guardsmen have finally recovered enough to re-enter the fray," Perturabo said. "We need to leave, cut our losses."

"Yes, we have lost much to this damned crusade," Abaddon spat. "But we still might salvage some of our losses."

"What is the status of the Titan Legions?"

"Bogged down, sire," the Legionnaire said. "Loyalist forces are keeping them pinned. They have destroyed many loyal Titans, but they are being outmaneuvered, forced to deal with hit and run strikes."

"Then we cannot rely on them to support our retreat," Perturabo said. "We must give a sacrifice to the loyalists. I will have my troops summon daemons to aid our escape while we make to our ships."

"And we will only loose more in the void," Abaddon said. "The Imperial Navy has gained a considerable foothold."

"Gather our troops, and make to the ships," Perturabo said. The voice whispered at him, and he grabbed his hammer. "I need to vent my frustration to the loyalists. Where was Fulgrim last spotted?"

"Spearheading the Dark Angels' assault, here."

"I will push back, break him. If I can finally end that damned dandy, then maybe this would not be such a lost cause after all."

"And I will gather the remaining berserkers and send them to your position," Abaddon said. "It might make a difference."

Purterabo didn't need to hear any voice to know what the Despoiler was planning.

"You mean it will thin their numbers and put you in a position to control their largest warband. How helpful."

"Do you need the help or not?" Abaddon demanded.

"I need no help," Purterabo spat. "But any chance to ruin the loyalists will be welcome."

"Then get moving, I will send them to your position."

Perturabo snorted. The damned Despoiler was a slippery bastard. He grew like a weed, with the tenacity of cancer. He could see why the dark gods liked him, and why they wanted him for their own. Even his little voice wanted the Despoiler among his ranks, truly among them, entirely devoted down to his very soul.

"To me," he yelled at his legion. "We bring ruin to the loyalists! Iron within!"

"Iron without!" The cheer was repeated.

His sons formed rank and marched with him. They were shaken; this Black Crusade had been full of promise. The dark gods dispatched their most chosen Primarchs to ruin the Imperium, yet somehow the loyalists did more than fight back. They weathered the storm and had even managed to revive his damned father.

Perturabo blinked. The dark gods put much into this, yes, but where was Tzeentch? The Changer of Ways was strangely absent, as was his champion, Magnus the Red.

And Logar was missing, as well. Like him, Logar was sworn to Chaos Undivided, but he had not heard any word from him. Logar was quiet and withdrawn, yes, but when a massive incursion was on the horizon, he would often speak, or send swaths of his Dark Apostles to bolster their ranks and moral.

But Logar was unnaturally silent, and he sent no zealots. It was like he had no desire to see this crusade through to completion, or to even see it remotely succeed.

The rubble of Cadia was piled high as Perturabo stormed through it. Despite the failure of yet another crusade, it had laid waste to nearly the entire planet. It would take the loyalists many years to truly rebuild; it lessened the blow of defeat, but only a little.

As he drew closer to loyalist lines, incoming fire raked his armor. It chattered off, harmless in every way.

"Damned blind men," he spat. "You fight for an ungrateful, uncaring father."

The loyalists brought around heavy weapons. The rounds were pushed aside by the daemon bound in his soul.

"You are a puppet to a tyrant. Can you not see it?"

Ahead of him, he saw the purple-armored slaves to Slaanesh be pushed aside by the four-armed Fulgrim.

"My blind brother," he spat. "Why have you returned to the yoke of oppression?"

"You call me a slave?" Fulgrim said. Perturabo paused. It wasn't the normal voice of Fulgrim, full of hubris and contempt. His brother was different. The voice in his head hissed, telling him Fulgrim was no longer possessed. "You, who have sold your soul to the control of a daemon? Do you know what that thing made me do? Do you?"

"It was enlightenment," Perturabo snarled. "To see the Imperium for what it really was, what our father made us into."

"And that justifies selling our very souls to yet another person who would control us?" Fulgrim shouted. He spoke in panic and fear as he slithered towards Perturabo. "You give control to daemons who would enslave us, who tell us what to do, what to think and what to feel?"

Fulgrim's four arms swung in perfect synchronization. Perturabo deflected some while letting his thick armor absorb the rest.

"Daemons who use us as cannon fodder, as pawns, as little more than cattle? You think that surrendering yourself to them is what is best?"

Fulgrim's shrill cries cut more than his swords did.

"Shut up, you spineless worm! You fight for an uncaring empire, led by a man who only cares that you do exactly what he says, when he says, how he says it. He uses you as little more than a tool."

He lashed back, swinging his hammer around. Fulgrim gracefully dodged the slow-moving blow, but Perturabo caught Fulgrim with the pommel.

"Our father works to save humanity from the darkness, and you go and embrace it! Can't you see what you've done?"

"I see what our father truly is: the most powerful butcher in the history of the human race," Perturabo shouted back. The next blow caught Fuglrim dead-on. Bones cracked and Fulgrim's snake-like body flew back. He was slow getting to his metaphorical feet. "Only a tyrant can order his sons into a meat grinder. Only a tyrant would not care about the butcher's bill. Only a tyrant can impose his will on countless trillions, to expect them to do what he wants for no other reason than he wants it done!"

"And what you have done was better?" Fulgrim gasped as he pulled himself upright. "Look at what these daemons made us do. We…I killed Ferrus. It made me kill my own brother!"

"And our father had ordered two of ours to their deaths as well," Perturabo said, advancing on Fulgrim. "Or do you not remember the two we were sworn to never talk about again? The ones that Russ was sent to put down? The ones that he so joyfully brought the executioner's axe down upon?"

Fulgrim blocked his next swing, but the force of it sent him flying.

"Our father is a tyrant, and all tyrants suffer the same fate," he said. "He was wrong: chaos is not slavery, it is freedom. Freedom from his rule."

"You can't possibly believe that."

Perturabo brought his hammer down on Fulgrim, but it was a feign. His hammer hit the ground with the force of a falling star, and Fulgrim shot up, jabbing two swords into his chest. It was able to pierce his armor and twisted flesh, running him through. Perturabo brought his hammer up to drive Fulgrim off, who slithered out of range, leaving two of his swords in his chest.

"Have you heard of the things the daemon made me do?" Fulgrim demanded. "The people I've been forced to kill? To mutilate? How is that freedom?"

Perturabo pulled the swords from his body and threw them away. His flesh was already mending.

"He is offering us a chance to defeat the darkness. Is that not a price worth paying?"

"Not with my blood!" Perturabo bellowed. "Not with my sons! But did our caring, loving father give us an option? Did he give Angron any option? No!"

He swung, forcing Fulgrim to slide back. He twisted his hammer to and fro, forcing Fulgrim into a concrete wall.

"Did he care when our blood greased the wheels of his tanks? Did he show the slightest hint of sympathy when my dead sons were used as sandbags to ward against enemy fire? When my sons were denied the decency of a good burial? No!"

With nowhere to go, Fulgrim tried to block the next hit. The force of taking the hit shattered his arms and cracked his chest.

"He threw us back into the fight, back into the grinder! We were used again and again and again, all for what? So that we could be forgotten, and have my father's virtues extolled to the depths of the black skies? I will tear everything he holds dear down for that betrayal!"

He landed his next hit at Fulgrim's snake body, shattering the bones. Fulgrim fell to the ground, broken and twisted.

"Chaos gave us the freedom to turn from his poisoned grip," Perturabo said, standing over his brother. "It freed us from his damned yoke of servitude."

"If that's true, then to whom am I speaking to?"

"You are speaking to-!"

Fuglrim's head burst.

Thunder clapped, and suddenly Perturabo was covered with skull and gore. A piece of skull lodged itself into his eye, and he reflexively wiped it free.

He stared down at Fulgrim. His hammer was fixed in the ground, right at Fulgrim's neck. His brother's body twitched as neurons intermittently fired.

"What?"

He didn't remember raising his hammer. He didn't remember wishing his brother dead. He wanted to show Fulgrim the error of his ways, of why his father couldn't be trusted, why their way was the right way, the only way.

Perturabo was only dimly aware of enemy fire that bounced off his armor. Why did he do that? How could he do that?

The little voice deep inside his head said that it wasn't a problem that he should spend much time thinking about.

Screams filled his ears. Perturabo spun around, and saw a surging mass of Khorne Berserkers and bloodthirsters changing into the fray. The Dark Angels' lines had formed behind Fulgrim, and were ready for the savage assault.

It was time to go. Perturabo wanted, needed, to find the reason he killed Fulgrim, but that little voice told him there were bigger things to worry about.

Behind the lines of the Dark Angels, he saw Lion. Their eyes locked, and the little voice in him laughed. It made him laugh, too. No matter how much they plotted and planned, Chaos would win in the end.

The world started twisting. They had lost, and with the advance of the Loyalists, their link to the warp was fading. The world faded as he was pulled back into the warp, back to the safety of his own daemon-infested world.

Why would he return here? He wanted to face Lion, to break him down and bring him to their side.

The nagging voice in his head said it wasn't important.