Exitus Ultima Chapter 5
Beta had seen many things in his millennia as a Chaos Sorcerer. He had walked the surface of worlds where Daemons rewrote physics on a whim. He had seen billions of innocents drowning in ethereal fires as planets were sucked into the Warp. He had infiltrated Slaaneshi warbands and Khornate hosts, the filthy degenerates of Nurgle and the scheming covens of Tzeentch. He had parleyed with Xenos, dealt with Heretics and duped loyalists. He had walked the new homeworlds of the Traitor Legions and seen the passing of Primarchs. An eternity of danger and opportunity, and this was among the most notable.
In a crumbling chapel the ritual progressed. This ancient shrine had not succumbed to bombing or firestorms, it had merely been a victim of time and neglect. The Imperial faith had its fashions and fads, certain creeds rising and falling as the masses' fickle favour shifted. Saints were canonised, lauded, faded, pushed aside by more popular icons and eventually forgotten. This shrine was such a place. Dedicated to a saint whose name had been lost to history and the occupying priests dwindling generation by generation till none remained. The relics had been claimed by more prosperous fanes and the precious icons collected by various Cardinals. What remained was a hollow shell of bare walls, mouldering pews and hollow windows, boasting only shards of stained glassic.
The shrine was empty but it was still consecrated ground, which made it mystically significant. A coven of Tzeentch's acolytes had claimed the shrine and ritually desecrated the ground with profane rituals. The corruption of purity always resulted in surges of warp-energy and the coven took advantage of it. They had set up a bubbling cauldron in the heart of the chapel, where four captured pilgrims had been drowned in piss. Their corpses floated on the pool of boiling urine, bloated and stinking as robed acolytes chanted in a circle. Beta thought it was veering into the Plague God's remit, but the Daemon Harbinger was steeped in mystical lore and knew well how to craft a poison.
From the sidelines Beta eyed the Daemon. Harbinger possessed a meagre host, a thin slip of a girl in primitive furs. Such a frail host for so mighty a Daemon, but Beta was not fooled. Harbinger was known among the highest courts of the Warp, hated and esteemed by his kind. The Greater Daemon had burned worlds, orchestrated the deaths of trillions and brought low the mighty with a whispered word. In the quixotical fashion of the Warp, Harbinger was young among the potentate of Chaos, and old as the universe itself. Some forbidden tomes claimed Harbinger would exist till the end of time, the last Daemon, fated to witness the stars die out as black holes evaporate and the universe slid into inevitable heat death. Beta was under no illusions that he could match Harbinger in sorcery, so pissing him off was a bad idea.
The ritual chanting reached a crescendo and Harbinger revealed three crystal vials filled with vitae. Blood of the 33rd Psyker Son, the Thrice-Betrayed and the Threefold Traitor, potent totems for any learned in the ways of the Psykanna. Harbinger unstopped the vials and let a single drop from each fall into the cauldron. A hissing screech burst from the liquid as the corpses twitched, then Harbinger reached into the cauldron and pulled out his prize. It was a coil of mystical energy, wrapped around his arm. Screeds of glowing text, that spun and rotated in dimensions unseen. The spell twisted as if alive, slithering up his arm like a serpent and Harbinger grinned at the sight.
The chanting stopped as Harbinger stepped down and strolled over to Beta. The host girl barely reached his navel, her arms thin and her neck frail. Yet the Daemon within bore power like a cloak, he oozed threat and cunning dwelt in the pits of infinity that were his eyes. Stars were birthed and died in those depths, in endless cycles of change, and Beta made sure not to look into those hypnotic depths.
"The conjurations are complete," Harbinger declared, "Here, take it."
"Is it safe?" Beta asked, his exposed face wary.
"Absolutely," Harbinger explained, "The blood trace I used to forge it is specific to one individual. It is lethal only to our target; to all others it is harmless."
"And I am supposed to trust your word?" Beta snorted.
"Do you have a choice?"
Beta grimaced but knew the Daemon was right. The Sorcerer extended his arm to touch Harbinger's and the spell oozed from one to the other. No searing pain, no sense of his soul being bored into, the spell crawled up his arm and rested about his elbow, like a python hugging a tree branch. Beta flexed his arm and noted the faint glow, a displeasing fly in the ointment.
"This is going to be hard to conceal," Beta commented.
"That is your problem," Harbinger sniffed.
"And how will this poison kill a Primarch?" Beta pressed.
"It doesn't have to, that's the beauty of it!" Harbinger crowed, "The poison is already in him, left there by Fulgrim's cursed blade. The Anathame poison still lingers, held in slumber by Eldar witchery and forbidden technomantic arts, wrought by that Martian Magos. All we need to do is awaken it. A poison that constantly adapts to better kill its victim, ever-changing, ever-evolving, a toxin even a Primarch cannot overcome. One little push, that's all we need to kill him, and change the galaxy forevermore."
"And why exactly do you need the Alpha Legion to deliver it?" Beta needled.
An angry expression crossed that thin face, "I had the means, I had the relics and the keystone to kill him from light-years away. But my plans were thwarted by interfering fools. Their short-sighted idiocy cost me dear, but I adapted, I changed. The spell will work, but it must be deployed from close range. All you have to worry about is getting it to our target."
"I can reach Roboute Guilliman," Beta asserted, "But what will you do after?"
"After?!" Harbinger laughed, "You mundane lifeforms have such limited perceptions of time. Past, present, future… it's all the same. A roiling sea of change and possibility. The past is mutable, the future unfixed. All is Chaos."
"That doesn't answer my question," Beta hissed.
"Oh very well, if you must be pedantic my next step will be to murder a certain Librarian Arvael, he's crossed me once too often. Then I'll obliterate his Chapter for good measure."
"Those nobodies?" Beta laughed, "That seems… rather unambitious of you."
"The galaxy will be awash with change, the final victory of Chaos I shall deliver to my master Tzeentch. Destroying the Storm Heralds… that one's personal."
"And how do you intend to achieve this?"
Harbinger grinned, "There are always openings in any defence, weaknesses clutched close to the bosom and treated as strengths. They have left themselves open in ways they know not, but I know, I see all."
Beta kept scorn from his face as he nodded, "I shall look forward to it, but for now I must be away."
"So quick to leave," Harbinger snorted, "When we haven't begun to discuss your future-past."
Beta's face became stony as he growled, "That is none of your concern."
"Your past is dark, but your future is darker. You could achieve so much more in my service."
"Never," Beta spat.
Harbinger's response was a glint in the eye and then suddenly the world shifted. Beta's eyes were dazzled by a bright flash of light and when his vision cleared he was standing on black sand, under a black sun. Endless desert of iron stretched in all directions, broken by craggy spikes that soared to the heavens. Fortress-manufactories that spewed noxious vapours endlessly, home to bitter lords brooding on insults real and imagined. Beta stood in armour of iron-hue, marked by checked yellow and black, the colours of the Iron Warriors. He knew this world, Medrengard, home of the Daemon-Primarch Pertuarbo.
Beta did an admirable job keeping panic from his voice, "Why show me this?"
"To remind you of how you came to be," Harbinger's voice echoed, "Of your many treacheries."
"I betrayed no one, not here at least," Beta asserted.
"A lie, we both know what secrets of your Legion you bartered away for the power to buy your freedom from the stifling orders of your gene-father. Pertuarbo smiled as you bargained, coming from the scion of Olympia that should have been a warning, one you failed to heed. Remember how angry you were to learn that the Lord of Iron had tricked you with worthless baubles, petty toys in exchange for your deepest secrets. The trickster was tricked, deceit worthy of Tzeentch!"
"It means nothing," Beta hissed but the vision shifted. Now he was in a cold laboritorum, where ancient machines whirred and ticked. Chaos Marines in azure fought dancing figures in wraithbone. Bolter against shuriken, chainsword against psychic spear. Screaming maidens in cream flipped over tables, dancing past Astartes so fast as to make them seem lumbering brutes. A figure in black robes with a tall helm threw arcs of lightning at will, scorching Ceramite with every gesture.
"No," Beta breathed, "Not this day."
"Oh yes," Harbinger crooned, "The day you turned on your own, selling out the Unbroken Chain to the Eldar. This place was where your Legion first attempted to reinvent the Space Marine paradigm, using the stolen Ravendelve data to your own ends. You put paid to that, you revealed the location to the Eldar. You knew they would foresee your Legion's rise and move to thwart it, but you didn't expect them to steal your precious data."
"It had to be done," Beta growled bitterly, "The Legion had outgrown the Primarch's blinkered vision. His plans had to die, my Brothers had to die, they would never have agreed. There was no other way."
"Keep telling yourself that," Harbinger jeered.
"It doesn't matter," Beta snarled, "He's dead."
"Is that what you think?!" Harbinger laughed, "Then witness your future!"
Reality shifted again. Now Beta stood in the amphitheatre bridge of the Shadow, his flagship. It lay in ruins, dead crew and Traitor Marines laid out. Flaming consoles illuminated destruction and piled dead in all corners. Talgor was there, his skull pulped. Delta was missing a head, and Epsilon had his hearts torn out. Even the Glykonae, Beta's secret weapons, had been torn asunder. One being had done this, one lone killer unmaking everything the sorcerer had wrought and he knew who it was.
Beta realised he was bleeding profusely, clutching his spear feebly as the lone killer approached with a swagger. Unlike Beta this one's armour was black, hidden iconography glinting as firelight played over the oiled surfaces. His face was identical to every Alpha Legionnaire's, cold and unsympathetic. Yet the spear in his hand betrayed his identity, a twin-bladed stave, greater in every way imaginable to Beta's crude imitation; the Pale Spear.
"You can't be here, you're dead," Beta hissed.
"So I wished you to think," the other replied.
"You died, I watched it happen, I made it happen!"
"The Hydra has died many times, but always returns," the other said.
"You are not Alpharius," Beta gasped.
"Then say my name..."
Beta saw the Pale Spear flash for his neck and in his last second breathed, "Omegon…"
Reality blinked and once more Beta was standing in the defiled chapel. His hand flashed to his neck and he found it unmarked. He breathed out in relief as he sagged, trying to tell himself it had all been an illusion, yet he knew it wasn't. The vision had carried the weight of reality, a dread sense of inevitably. Beta knew fate was a treacherous viper, liable to shift at a whim, but also certain things could not be avoided.
"You see now," Harbinger chuckled.
"You showed me my death," Beta snarled, "But only a possible one."
"Probable," Harbinger countered, "Near certain in fact. You cannot avoid this fate on your own, your friends cannot avert this doom, but I can. Swear fealty to me and I shall change your fate."
"Pledge to you?!" Beta growled, "Never!"
"Then die at the hands of your own gene-father!"
Beta drew himself up and refuted, "Your petty games may fool mortals, but not me. I know the treachery of Chaos, the lies you spin. You showed me a future with no context, no guide map. For all I know swearing to serve you is what brings that future to pass."
"Refusing me shall doom you to death," Harbinger promised.
"I have ever fought for my freedom," Beta declared, "Freedom from the Imperium, freedom from stifling rules and petty restrictions. I set my own course, I am the master of my destiny. You shall not make me dance to your tune, I shall not be your puppet."
"Puppet?!" Harbinger jeered, "You fool, you already are. All mundanes are, behold!"
Harbinger lifted a hand with the click of the fingers. Instantly every cultist in the chapel fell to their knees, choking on blood. They clawed at their throats, they thrashed and vomited but to no avail. Blood flooded their lungs, drowning them in vitae. They fell to their faces and rolled feebly, dying by degrees as Harbinger killed them. Beta was in awe, there had been no cantrip, no spell casting he could discern, the Daemon had simply willed it and they died.
"Think hard upon your choices," Harbinger hissed, "Accept that I am your master, or deny it and die. Life in chains of servitude, or death upon the point of a spear. These are the futures you face." With that the Daemon strode off, not looking back once. Beta was left alone, shaking with the scope of revelation. He had seen the future and the past, and the doom that came with it. He was shaken to the core but held to one ray of hope, one prospect that offered a way out. Desperately Beta gasped, "Daemons are lies incarnate, deception is their nature. Harbinger lies, Harbinger always lies."