Exitus Ultima Chapter 9
No one knew where the whispers came from but they were everywhere. In the Cathedrals of Bybblas rumours spread that the Imperial Regent was dead. In shanties clustered around the Triumphal arches of Eybril gossip rang that an assassin's knife had cut out the hearts of the Primarch. In the seedy dives of Dramacus, dens of iniquity that lurked in the shadows of holy shrines, whores passed word that a plague bomb had been left by the heretics and even now a deadly virus was sweeping the planet. And in the Crusade's fleet above officers yelled at ratings to get back to work as they fell to their knees and wept at the mere thought their commander was dead.
Panic erupted, mobs formed in every city-state, beating upon the doors of Cathedrals to demand divine intercession. The priests were no help, running to dens of iniquity to try to escape into hedonistic oblivion. Guard regiments still embarking broke down as troopers began ransacking stores and looting supplies, convinced the end had come. Officers should have moved to restore order but stood helpless, unable to act as conflicting orders screamed across vox-nets and Generals began to bicker as to who held authority. Several Captains in orbit broke formation and fled to the stars, thinking only of survival, they would become brigands and raiders in days to come, blights upon the Imperium they had sworn to die for.
The last bastion of order should have been the Space Marines, but they only added to the panic. Squads of Astartes fell upon the strong and weak, demanding answers. Storm Heralds under Jemiel bludgeoned a path through the slums of Antyfe, working their way through criminal gangs, thinking their cruel masters must be hiding answers. Disciples of Caliban seized the troopship Munificent Splendour and every officer, crewman and trooper aboard were subjected to the knives of the Interrogator-Chaplains in their quest for truth. Canoness Heleya Trest was interrupted at prayers by a Smoke Jaguar who appeared from nowhere, she was never seen or heard from again. Charnel Guard fell upon the shrine of Saint Eskerina, convinced the priesthood was in league with corruption. No man knew what questions were made in those sealed halls but when the Charnel Guard departed they were empty-handed, leaving behind a pile of bodies drained of every drop of blood.
The Indomitus Crusade's Primus fleet was the elite of mankind's armies, the best and most renowned fighting force in the galaxy. The bravest of the brave, the most disciplined and stoic. Without the Primarch they fell to bits. All order was lost, all sense of cohesion frayed apart. Years of careful organisation, contingency upon contingency laid down by Roboute Guilliman himself was destroyed in hours. Against his most fervent urging the Crusade had invested all its hopes and dreams in one soul, and his loss was the shattering of the keystone.
In the third hour a change came. Cato Sicarius sent out an emergency broadcast, forced onto every pict-screen, vox-net and Holopit in the system. The Knight Champion of Macragge spoke at length, denying the rumours. Yes, Roboute Guilliman had been attacked by a vile assassin, but his death had not come to pass. The Primarch lived, deep in convalescence as he recovered. He was regaining his strength, he would live and return in time. The Primarch expected to be with them again in a few days, and thank the people for their patience and calm response. It was half-truths at best, outright lies at worst, but it had some effect. Riots quelled as prayer vigils were set up, Cardinals sheepishly returned from their whoring to lead sermons imploring for swift healing. Armies hastily set aside their looting and pretended nothing happened, while officers made sure to steer clear of Commissars.
All this greatly displeased Beta. Standing in an observation room deep below ground the Sorcerer watched banks of Pict-screens, thieving images from across the planet. His timetable had been meticulously planned; the agents he had positioned to spread rumours had done their work perfectly. His second wave of cultists, Heretics and saboteurs were standing by, and then it had all fallen apart at the eleventh hour.
"Send a stand-by order," Beta reluctantly commanded, "Tell all agents to hold off, for now. Pause the Glykonae awakening, their moment has not come."
"We don't have to," Delta argued, "We can still pull this off."
"He's not dead yet, he has to die before we move."
"He's dead, he has to be. This is just Imperial Propaganda."
Epsilon cut in, "Negative, reports from our agents in the inner circle confirm Guilliman is still alive, if only just."
"Can they finish the job?" Talgor asked.
"Absolutely not, they can't get close enough to touch him, not twice at any rate."
"God's Below," Delta spat in frustration, "We had this all planned out. Where did it all go wrong?"
"When we trusted a Daemon," Talgor growled, "We should have known Harbinger was selling us a gunship with no wings."
"We don't know that," Beta countered.
"Wake up," Delta retorted, "Harbinger played us for fools, we should never have listened to him."
"How displeasing to hear you say that," hissed a wicked voice from behind. All turned and saw Harbinger standing in the doorway, the Daemon-host standing there as if a child seeking parents to fetch water in the night. Beta's hackles rose in alarm, knowing how many layers of security the Daemon had just strolled past to get here. Sorcerous wards even he would find difficult to break, let alone bypass. Harbinger hadn't set off a single alarum, a testament to his ability to manipulate events.
"How did you get past the sentries?!" Talgor spat.
"Sentries?" Harbinger chuckled, "I saw no sentries, though there were some bodies in the corridor."
"You killed them," Epsilon accused.
"I did no such thing. It turned out you recruited warriors who fought on the opposite sides of the Kartahaa Betrayal. A most surprising coincidence, but not half as surprised as they were when one of them bragged how many skulls they claimed the day Warbands turned on each other. Knives were drawn, lives ended, all before I set foot in this facility."
Harbinger's grin made plain the Daemon had arranged matters to his benefit, manipulating a million tiny threads of destiny to his liking. For a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch such mind-boggling contortions of events were as elementary as strolling across a room. Beta was begrudgingly impressed.
Delta started forward, "You, explain why your poison failed!"
"It didn't fail, it's doing exactly what I intended. Ever-changing, ever-learning and evolving, killing the Anathema's weapon-son, one blood cell at a time."
"Dying and dead are two very different things. He should be cold already!"
"Fate is not so easily turned, even for me. Many layers of protection are bound to the Statesman. The Anathema works to deny his passing. The Eldar and their Whispering God resist my efforts, pouring resurrecting power into his veins. It is all for nought, they can't stop my poison, only buy a little time."
"Time enough to find a way to reverse it you fool!" Delta snapped, "Every second he remains among the living is a threat, you ignorant, slack-witted..." Delta was cut off as an invisible force slammed into him. The Chaos Marine went sailing away like a rubber ball hit by a bat, flying across the room to slam into a wall and crater it with his mass. He slid to the floor and lay insensate, caught by surprise.
Beta lowered his hand and said, "I apologise for the outburst, it won't happen again."
"I like your treachery," Harbinger snorted, "Good for you, one more word and I'd have turned you all inside out with a thought."
Talgor spoke up, "At risk of being thrown about, you said the powers of Order can't stop you... but... someone can?"
Harbinger scowled, "Annoyingly astute, I'd recruit you, if I wasn't planning to rip reality asunder. Yes, there is an obstacle to overcome, a misplaced fulcrum in the skein of destiny. The possible futures mass behind the victory of Chaos, but a persistent thread of defiance remains. One lone future, only one among trillions, so lonely in its isolation. And it pivots upon an individual."
"And you only mention this now?!" Epsilon exclaimed, "Don't kill me, it's just that we could have dealt with them ages ago."
"I'm telling you now, there is one who must die. One among the Storm Heralds."
Beta blinked under his helm, "Those nobodies again, what have they ever done to you?"
Harbinger hissed, "That odious little Librarian Arvael was there when I was bested, he knows my True Name, and that alone merits his death. But I speak not of him, I speak of another, a witless dullard called Toran."
Beta's ears perked up at the mention of a True Name, a Daemon's most vital vulnerability, but he said aloud, "Toran... Toran, wait I know that name. He was mentioned in my old comrade Alpha's reports, back when he was posing as Halis Paur. A dull-plodder by all accounts, not much good with a sword. Alpha spoke often of wanting to stab him in the back."
"Shame he didn't succeed," Harbinger hissed, "I enjoyed watching Toran squirm when the treachery was revealed, but any amusement in his existence has run out. He needs to die."
"Kill one lapdog," Beta sniffed, "Easy enough."
"We'll find him and kill him." Talgor declared.
"He'll find you," Harbinger asserted, "Just make sure he dies when he does."
With that the Daemon turned and strode out, leaving the Traitors to breathe a little easier. Beta was playing every word over and over in his head, wondering what Harbinger intended. He was not fool enough to take a Daemon at its word, every syllable could be laced with a thousand meanings, the slightest gesture could set cosmic wheels spinning. He needed to consider his next move carefully.
A groan from the corner presided Delta staggering to his feet, pulling a wrecked helm free, "You hit me in the back!"
"I saved your life," Beta snorted.
"What happened to our compact?!"
Epsilon answered, "Better he did it than Harbinger, if the Daemon chastised you, we'd be scraping your blood and bones off the walls."
"You're lucky Harbinger likes playing games with fate," Talgor added, "Daemons of other gods don't have the attention spans for long-drawn-out revenge."
Beta slowly cocked his head to the side, staring at Delta's features as a plan began to form. The angle of the cheekbones was wrong, but the brow and chin were just right. It could work, with a little alteration. The mannerisms would take some schooling though, without neural tissue to digest.
"What are you looking at?" Delta snapped.
"Your face," Beta replied, "I think it's time for a change."
"I... what?"
"We need a surgical-savant, one of the Legion's best. And a record of an infiltration from a century ago."
"What are you planning?" Talgor pressed.
Beta grinned, "We go to face an old enemy, and it's only right they see an old enemy in turn. Time to shake the rules and throw them off their game, strike at their hearts and their sword arms will weaken. When this Toran arrives, I want him to be greeted by the face of his first betrayer: Halis Paur."