Drol Kheir. A single world orbiting its star that burned with purple light and seemed to look back into the souls of those who stared at it with a single, impossibly large pupil. In an island of relative tranquillity amidst the Eye of Terror's furious tides, with the half of the Warp on one side of the plane defined by the world's orbit being filled with the images of an infinity of outstretched hands and the other raging flames dancing around unblinking eyes. The planet had no natural satellite, though its new masters had built a plethora of orbital stations and dockyards around it, along with other structures that had nothing to do with the arts of the Dark Mechanicum.
Once, the planet had been a shining jewel of the Eldar Empire, like the vast majority of the Eye of Terror's worlds. Now, it belonged to Slaanesh, much like the old Empire itself and the souls of all its people, from now and unto eternity. Whatever shape Drol Kheir had assumed in past years had vanished with the arrival of Eidolon and the remnants of the Slaaneshi host, as the psyches of the Soul-Severed and the other monsters he had brought with him transformed the daemon world into a form more pleasing to their demented intellects. Thanks to the Eye's time-bending properties, decades had passed for most members of the Host since their defeat at Sortiarus, though the scars and humiliations they had suffered there were still as fresh as ever.
For in the Eye of Terror, no wound is ever healed by time, and grudges last until death (and beyond). It is one of the subtler yet clearer signs that, for all the power and glory to be found here, the Eye is and remains Hell, the kingdom of the Lost and the Damned, where the Champions of Chaos fight for the amusement of the Dark Gods.
The Slaaneshi Host had conquered the system easily, and its warbands had sustained themselves through raids on neighbouring domains, stealing supplies and slaves from other daemon worlds and Legion outposts. So far, the Soul-Severed had managed to maintain some semblance of order, using his rank as Fulgrim's right-hand and the threat of his considerable power to keep the other warlords' feuds from descending into outright warfare. The promise of retribution against the Illuminated Empire, combined with carefully cultivated rumors that the Phoenician would one day return to lead them to glorious victory against the Thousand Sons and their Iron Warriors puppets, had also helped in that regard. Almost every warrior of the host was a veteran of the battle of Sortiarus : the defeat they had endured there had marked them to the Eye's other forces. None would ally with them, and few would trade. The disparate, broken warbands of Drol Kheir only had one another to rely upon.
Even so, there were plenty in the host who sought to elevate themselves above their co-conspirators, and Eidolon typically faced a dozen assassination attempts every month. The Soul-Severed had survived these attacks through sheer power and paranoia, and the assistance of a cadre of Noise Marines. Bound to Eidolon through unknown means, these monstrous warriors also ensured that the rabble was kept in its place through regular purges of the masses of cultists flocking to Drol Kheir, drawn by the siren choir of the Neverborn feasting upon its debauchery.
It was to this world that the Sons of Horus and their allies among the Illuminated Empire came, to finish what had been begun at Sortiarus. The Sixteenth Legion warships emerged at the system's edge in formation, with the Vengeful Spirit and the Tlaloc at the head of the armada. They did not bother to announce their purpose to the Emperor's Children : the presence of the Tlaloc was declaration of intent enough. Aboard the vessels of the Sons of Horus, Legionaries made ready for war, their hearts burning with the desire to fight a true war once more, and to punish the Third Legion for its failure at Terra. While the other Traitor Legions had turned against the Sons of Horus for running after the Warmaster's death, the sons of Lupercal remembered things differently : to them, the rebellion had failed because Fulgrim's get had abandoned their allies, instead indulging their perversions with the trillion-strong population of the Throneworld.
On the bridge of Tlaloc stood Iskandar Khayon, Necromancer of the Thousand Sons and Sorcerer Lord of the Illuminated Empire. At his side were Lucius the Eternal and the daemons Gyre and Lilith, and behind him, elevated on his dais, was Ashur-Kai the White Seer, who had led the Tlaloc and the fleet of the Sons of Horus through the tides of Eyespace and to Drol Kheir. In the age of Antiquity, long before Humanity had first left the surface on Terra and taken its first tentative steps into the countless horrors of space, there had been pantheons worshiped by entire civilizations that had held less power than these individuals did. One (or perhaps all) of them had likely been a member of several of these ancient faiths, and the mutant tribes of the Tlaloc certainly still regarded them as such, along with the iron goddess who ruled the entire ship.
The Necromancer was in psychic communion with his sister, the Anamnesis, seeing through her eyes the defenses of the system and the massed fleet of the Slaaneshi Host. Clearly, Eidolon had been expecting them. Squadrons patrolled the system, all of them already rushing back to the world as they saw the might of the incoming fleet – there were here to deal with infiltrators, and could do nothing against a Legion's unleashed wrath. Space forts orbited Drol Kheir, constructs of metal and jewels that glimmered in the light of the system's star. Even from the Tlaloc, Khayon could tell that they had been crafted by infernal artisans, the essence of defeated daemons bound into their core to power their weaponry. He did not know what price Eidolon had offered for the dozen such structures orbiting Drol Kheir, but he doubted it had been the Soul-Severed paying it.
Under his black helmet, Iskandar's lips curled into a smile.
'This is going to be interesting,' he said out loud, to no one in particular.
I sense something on the planet, sent Ashur-Kai. Khayon's mentor was too tired from the effort of leading the fleet to speak, but he could still broadcast his thoughts for everyone to hear them. Something older than the taint of the Third Legion. Can you sense it too, Iskandar ?
Khayon extended his perceptions, careful to brace himself against the aura of madness and sensation that surrounded Drol Kheir. A lesser practitioner would have been driven mad by the cloying corruption, but Khayon had fought and defeated the Greater Daemon Zarakynel, and his soul was proof against such second-hand influence. And there, underneath the miasma that covered Drol Kheir, was what Ashur-Kai was talking about.
This is the Maze of Drol Kheir, said Lilith's voice in his head, and he knew from the way Lucius and Gyre flinched that they were hearing her too. In ancient times, before the rise of the Dark Prince, it was a place of meditation and contemplation of the inner secrets of the universe, where the soul-broken went to seek wisdom. Now it has become something else entirely. The sons of the Phoenician are wary of it, and have left it undisturbed despite their proclaimed quest to experience all things.
'Well,' said Khayon, 'then we will have to make sure not to disturb it ourselves. We are here for the Slaaneshi Host – Drol Kheir's secrets are not our concern.'
You will go into the Maze, Iskandar, replied Lilith, and this time Khayon knew she was communicating with him alone. There you will learn the truth, and it will break your heart.
She said no more, and Khayon forced himself to not ask any question, and to ignore the shiver of cold premonition coursing down his spine to focus instead on the campaign ahead. He had learned long ago not to trust prophecies, and that was even more important when those prophecies were spoken by a daemon of Lilith's power.
'We are being hailed by the Vengeful Spirit,' said the Anamnesis from the bridge's gargoyles.
'Put them through,' commanded Khayon.
'Sorcerer,' came Abaddon's voice. 'Here we are at last.'
Abaddon's thirst for battle was obvious in his voice. Just like the Sons of Horus were blamed by the other Legions for the failure of the great rebellion because they had fled after the death of the Warmaster, so did the warriors of the Sixteenth believe that the sons of Fulgrim were to blame for the death of their Primarch and the abject failure of the Heresy. After all, it had been the Third Legion who, upon landing on Terra, had abandoned the rest of the rebels and instead sought to slake their decadent appetites on the Throneworld's population.
Iskandar shared in that hatred, for he too had lost brothers to loyalist bolters because of the Emperor's Children's treachery. He was worried, however, that the Cthonian temper of his allies may compromise their discipline. It hadn't during the Great Crusade and the rebellion, but the Eye changed all who dwelled within it, drawing out their worst traits. As far as he had been able to tell during the journey from Maeleum, the Sons of Horus weren't as far gone as the World Eaters … but their already legendary temper had certainly grown more violent and unpredictable.
'We are indeed,' he replied. 'Do you see these forts, Abaddon ?'
'Yes. They don't resemble any design in the Vengeful Spirit's data-banks, but considering that the witches who looked at them are still screaming, I am guessing they are dangerous. The fleet of the Third Legion seems to keep formation near them, which implies a level of discipline surprising for these wretches. Can you take them out of the equation ?
Iskandar took a moment to consider the problem.
'Yes,' he finally answered. 'Me and my brothers will deal with them. But your ships shouldn't get too close with those of the Emperor's Children until we have. Is that acceptable ?'
'It will have to be,' grunted Abaddon. 'I didn't intend for my Legion to bleed in a chaotic, confused void engagement anyway. Me and my brothers will keep our passions for the battle planetside. You and your warriors will join us there, of course. I look forward to fighting side by side with the infamous Necromancer and his cohorts as we tear our way through Eidolon's precious stronghold.'
'As do I, First Captain. I will see you on Drol Kheir.'
The link was cut, and Iskandar immediately turned to depart the bridge, his mind already calling out to his brothers scattered aboard the Tlaloc's upper decks. Ashur-Kai moved to accompany him, but Khayon shook his head.
'You must recover your strength, brother. You spent too much of it guiding the fleet here. Me and the others will be enough for this duty.'
The albino hesitated for a moment before conceding his former pupil's point. Slowly, taking care to hide the full extant of his weakness to the mortal crew, Ashur-Kai departed the bridge, escorted by a couple of battle-automatas. The Exalted Sorcerer was returning to his quarters, to rest where none of the Tlaloc's lower class could see him. Maintaining the image of invulnerability was very important to keeping order on a vessel like the Tlaloc, where the mortals outnumbered their transhuman masters a thousand to one. In fact, now that Iskandar thought about it, that principle applied to the entire Illuminated Empire. For all the power the Rubric had granted them, the sons of Magnus were still a very small Legion, outnumbered even by their allies from other bloodlines.
Leaving control of the bridge to the Anamnesis, Iskandar left, followed by his two Neverborn companions, the three other Legionaries who had been keeping guard, and Lucius. The Eternal wouldn't be needed for what was to come, but Iskandar wasn't going to let him out of his sight.
On the way to the ritual chamber deeper within the Tlaloc's holds, Iskandar still followed what was happening beyond the confines of the vessel. The fleet of the Sons of Horus was advancing on Drol Kheir, with the Tlaloc joining the advance but letting other ships pass her by as she retreated deeper into the swarm of Sixteenth Legion ships. Let the Emperor's Children and their allied degenerates laugh and jeer at the Thousand Sons' "cowardiceˮ : what the Necromancer and his brother Sorcerers were about to do required as little distraction as possible, and being aboard a ship at the forefront of an armada during an intense battle between two of the greatest fleets of the Eye was not appropriate.
'Abaddon was quick enough to forsake his desire to wage this war without the schemes of Sorcerers,' pointed out Lucius as the party moved through the ship's corridors, joined by several other Thousand Sons on the way. 'What else do you think he will change his mind about ?'
'His request was for us to face the Third Legion as an army, not to cast aside that which makes the Illuminated Empire strong in the first place' replied Iskandar without breaking stride. 'A good warlord makes use of every weapon in his arsenal, and we are the weapon most fit to the task of dealing with these daemonic fortresses. I would have been very disappointed if he had insisted on neutralizing them himself instead of calling upon me.'
'Semantics,' said the Eternal. 'I can see Abaddon will fit in nicely with the rest of the Empire.'
Khayon stopped, and turned to face the swordsman. Every other son of Magnus in the vicinity had also stopped, and was looking at the potential confrontation, their aura rippling with interest.
'What do you mean by that, Lucius ?'
'Oh, nothing,' replied Lucius, smiling, the expression twisting the scars on his face in a pattern that would have given nightmares to any mortal man. 'Only that for all your pretence at being "civilizedˮ and "nobleˮ, in the end, the Fifteenth Legion is just as violent and destructive as any other. You just hide it behind a façade of nobility that's a little thicker than ours. The moment one of your vaunted principles stand in the way of your ambitions, you discard it without hesitation, only to pick it right back up once you are done. And I don't have any problem with that, truly I don't. We all do what we feel we must. I only find it … amusing. The Thousand Sons have always been that way, ready to justify anything they do as the right thing to do. It's a very … humane trait. The only difference is that you Tizcans are much better at it than any of us can dream of ever being.'
'What prompted this sudden reflexion ?' asked Iskandar, tightly holding his emotions in check.
'I am not sure,' frowned Lucius. 'Maybe the fact that we are about to destroy the remnants of my own Legion is stirring some deeply-buried leftover affection for them ? If so ...'
The Eternal smiled, and Iskandar had to hold himself back from striking him down right there at the sight. Most of the time, Lucius' presence was tolerable so long as he didn't look too deep into his aura – but every so often, the mask would slip, and the true monster would show its face.
'If so, then I look forward to what emotions their actual destruction will cause me to experience.'
AN : and we are back ! I am mostly working on the next chapter of the RH these days, but I took the time to finish this since it was already half-written by the time the last part of the Battle of Macragge went out.
Not much action in this chapter again, but that will change very soon. The next few chapters are likely going to be nothing but action, so I chose to take the time and set the scene.
Concerning the next chapter of the RH : someone mentioned that they were disappointed that the events of Chemos would only get a single chapter instead of a whole book like Terathalion and Macragge. To that person, I want to say ... you will have more than enough. I have had plenty of ideas for that chapter. In fact, it's entirely possible that I will need to change my plans and actually split the chapter in several parts. The only reason I haven't already done so is that I can't think of any good places to make the cut. As things stand, by the time the chapter is completed, it's going to be massive.
Oh, and nightmarish, too. But since Bile is involved, I assume all of you already knew that.
As usual, please tell me what you thought of this chapter and what you are expecting for the next one.
Zahariel out.
