Extremus Fors Chapter 33

Jubila jerked back with a snarl of frustrated rage. He couldn't remember a time when he had been this angry, not even during the most epic confrontations. Never had he been denied so, not by a mere mortal, never had he been rejected so thoroughly. Rebre had turned down his most generous offer and laughed in his face. Jubila wasn't going to stand for that and he swore his revenge would be thorough and exacting.

"Didn't go well, I take it," Varador snorted mockingly.

"That bitch is going to bleed when I get my hands on her!" Jubila snarled.

"Told you I should have made the approach."

"Smug talk is a good way to get one's face removed," Jubila retorted.

He turned to look at his army, or the shambling herd that passed for one. In an icy chasm they lurked, many thousands of them squatting in the ice as they awaited orders. Far from any settlement, in the middle of nowhere. After the Grey Knights had slipped through his grip Jubila's wroth had been mighty. He wanted to run them down and finish the fight, but had no way to track them. Leaving him chewing on bitter resentment.

Varador and Moragann hadn't been any help, the pair secretly loving his pain, Jubila was sure. Their mocking looks and sly glances rubbed the warlord badly and if he did not need them so much, he would have killed them on the spot. As it was he was not content to returning to poking through old ruins, so he had decided to change tack. Moragann had summoned his magics to forge contact with Rebre, allowing Jubila to speak directly to her, not that it had done any good.

"Tell me you at least got her location," Jubila muttered.

Moragann lowered his staff and sighed, "The spell does not work that way."

"Then cast another!" Jubila spat, "Track the Daemonsword... do something!"

"Amid this lot?!" Moragann laughed gesturing to the indifferent herd, "That's like trying to smell one Grox-turd in a sea of manure."

Jubila threw up his hands in ire, heart burning with annoyance.

Varador however sniffed, "If you're out of ideas, maybe it's time for someone else to lead."

"You? Don't make me laugh."

"Your leadership has gotten us nowhere, time I took my rightful place."

Moragann sneered, "Your lust for power is feeble, you drool at the prospect of advancement but have no understanding of the machinations of Chaos."

"Stay out of this freak."

"Yes, this is between true champions," Jubila agreed, "Keep quiet as I cut this one down to size."

Varador hefted his fists, pilot lights igniting as he growled, "I think it's time we settled this once and for all."

Jubila drew his sabre with a smooth motion, "I couldn't agree more, I've had more than enough of your yammering mouth."

The beastmen looked on with interest as the pair faced off, standing up to watch as they gathered round. Varador ignored them as he hissed, "I will kill you, take the Daemonsword and present it to Fulgrim myself. I shall become his right-hand man."

"You appear to be suffering from delusions of adequacy," Jubila retorted.

"You prancing dandy!"

"Are we going to talk all day or..."

Jubila was brought up short as a sudden quiet spread throughout the crowd. Beastmen falling silent as standing vaguely like puppets whose strings had been dropped. They seemed asleep on their feet, nearly catatonic and yet in their eyes glimmered a faint witchlight. Even Moragann stood still, his mind displaced by another presence, one Jubila knew all too well.

Varador looked to and fro in confusion, "What's happening?"

"We're about to have our leashes yanked," Jubila muttered.

"By whom?"

"You have to ask?"

The assembled herd craned their heads to the left, each and every one identical in motion and the same wicked intelligence burned in each eye. A thousand mouths moved together to rumble, "Worm."

"My lord," Jubila purred insincerely, "You honour us with your attention. Truly we are in the presence of greatness."

"Save the boot-kissing, I have had enough of your empty promises!"

"My lord Fulgrim..."

"I wasn't finished speaking!" Fulgrim's voice bellowed from the depths of the Warp.

Varador gasped in shock, "Fulgrim...Daemon-Primarch... Fulgrim the traitor?!"

"Yes, and don't go on," Jubila hissed, "He doesn't care for the T-word."

"Too late," the crowd growled, "You, Vulkan's whelp, I have something to say to you."

Varador spread his arms wide and said, "I am humbled by your generosity mighty lord. Your wisdom and power are legendary, millions hang on your every utterance."

"This is my message unto you: keep your arse-licking mouth shut when your betters are speaking, or I will extract your eyeballs and tongue. Then remove your head. Then give your still living skull to the Daemonettes to uses as a chamber pot! Then I'll put it back on your neck and watch your veins fill with Daemon piss!"

"Oh..." Varador groaned.

"And put your arms down, you look like you want a hug."

As much as Jubila enjoyed watching his rival be humiliated he wasn't sure he liked where this was going. Fulgrim sounded angry. His Daemonic master was volatile at the best of times, but this sounded worse. This anger was immediate and fierce. The sound of one whose patience had been worn down to a nub, and then broken utterly. Jubila didn't like the idea of an upset Primarch, not in the least.

"Mighty lord," Jubila crooned, "All is well, we are closing on the target, Rebre is within our grasp. She is so close."

"Don't lie to me! I have been watching your every step since you set foot on this miserable iceball, watched you run in circles as your prey eludes you. Even now Rebre descends to the lowest caverns, escaping your hunters by the deepest roads. You are no closer to finding her than you were when you first stumbled into the snow!"

"Then we must redouble our efforts!" Jubila cried trying to end the conversation, "Quickly my minions, after her!"

"Not so fast," Fulgrim growled, "I haven't finished with you yet."

"But time is short!"

Fulgrim growled, "Shorter than you know, little worm. I have given you every chance, graciously humouring your blundering stupidity. Every opportunity imaginable has the Phoenician granted you and you squandered them all. No more. I have had enough of your failures Jubila... of your imperfection."

The crowd of Beastmen leaned in, making Jubila keenly aware that he was surrounded on all sides. He swallowed nervously, "Terrible forces have opposed us, the Corpse-Emperor's witch-knights..."

"You'd be astounded at how little mercy excuses buy with me."

"One more day!" Jubila squawked as the crowd tensed, "One more day is all I need!"

"No more days for you, wretch. My patience has run out and your eternal torments begin!"

With a cry that shook the roof of the world the crowd surged into action. Hundreds of beastmen, thousands even, launching themselves at Jubila. Hairy hands reached for him, grabbing at purple armour as claws and talons scraped over his plate and meaty fists pounded at his mass. Instantly his sabre was in motion, lashing out to cut and slice at the closing mob, but to no avail. Hostile hands were everywhere, attacking from all directions. The meaty press of hot bodies crashed into him, knocking him to and fro as the terrible squeeze tried to pin him still. There was no room for skill, no space to use his superior swordsmanship. The crowd pressed in like a vice, trying to squeeze him to death.

Varador was caught in the crush and swung his fists about, breaking bodies and splattering heads as he yelled, "Not me, him! Kill Jubila and I will serve you in his place!"

"That won't work on Fulgrim!" Jubila snarled, "If you kill us like this, you will never get the Daemonsword!"

A thousand mouths roared, "Snatching my dull Brother's sword would have been sweet, but ripping your arms and legs off will afford me a moment's consolation!"

Jubila snapped, "If that's how you want it, very well. No more nice Jubila!" He lowered his blade and let the crush surge in, pressing against his spiked armour. Mutant blood flowed and savage muscles tore as Jubila felt the intense pressure squeeze his bones till they ached. He was pinned fast, but only his upper body, leaving his legs free. He pulled his knees up, supported by the weight of the crowd and then kicked out. His boots struck with the power of a wrecking ball and knocked a dozen Beastmen down, to be instantly crushed underfoot, but the pressure on his body eased and he dropped to his knees.

The dim light vanished as Jubila stooped, the hammering of hooved feet on the ground and the smell of piss and faeces clinging to their fur ramming up his nose, but the indignity bought him a moment of clearance. His arm swept wide, bringing his sabre about at knee height. Thighs were severed by that razor-sharp edge, knees bisected and shins truncated. A dozen more Beastmen fell, their legs missing, and Jubila sprang into the gap like an uncoiling spring.

He soared past reaching hands, feeling talons brush the corners of his plate but he was too swift to be caught. He flew past his enemies and rammed straight into Moragann, bowling the sorcerer over and his free hand snatched up the staff. The crowd roared as they closed in but Jubila spun on his heel and threw the head of the staff against the ground, shattering it open to spill red liquid from within.

The effect was remarkable. A shudder ran through the herd, a sudden loss of coordination and rising confusion. Legs stumbled as arms went slack and eyes became befuddled, reeling in dismay. Any sense of unity evaporated and Jubila heard a faint roar of outrage echo off the walls, the sound of a demigod frustrated. Fulgrim's grip upon the horde was broken, leaving them unguided and bereft of will.

Varador heaved a drunken abhuman off his frame and snarled, "What did you do?!"

"Remember the killing fields of J'ushora, the Blood God's Fleshhounds chasing us to the portal? Well after I killed a few dozen of them I took the time to hollow out Moragann's staff and fill it with their blood."

"You consecrated the ground to Khorne!" Varador gasped, "The Blood God abides no rivals in his hallowed places, nothing born of the other God's can enter this place."

Jubila sighed, "For a brief time. Never thought I'd have to use it this way, but I am nothing if not adaptable. Unfortunately all we accomplished was to piss-off a Daemon-Primarch."

"What's stopping him retaking control as soon as we set foot out of this chasm?" Varador asked warily.

"Absolutely nothing which is why we must move twice as fast."

"Move, to where?" Varador spluttered.

"You weren't paying attention! He told us where Rebre is hiding: down. Always down. She sinks into the bowels of the planetoid, trying to bury herself deep. But we know where she is headed and can track her. At last we have the means to run her to ground, we must succeed, we have no other choice."

Varador retorted, "I'm not sure it matters anymore. Fulgrim sounded angry, I don't think he can be appeased."

"We have no other options. We can't run and we can't hide, not from him. Our only chance is to capture the prize and barter for clemency. I've talked my way out of worse, but only with a bargaining chip. Get this rabble ready to march, for we must make haste. We shall not stop; we shall not sleep nor eat till we hunt down Rebre and claim our prize. The final reckoning is at hand!"