Extremus Fors Chapter 40

Novak was left stunned by the unexpected turn of events, gaping in awe at the warring powers on display. On one side the infernal might of an ancient malevolence brought into the waking world straight from the pages of history. He had met a Primach, his own gene-father and thought him majestic, but at least he was understandable. Fulgrim was utterly alien in all aspects, defiled and corrupted in ways none would wish to know. Set against him the blazing purity of the Grey Knights gave battle, shining light contesting with vile darkness, and losing.

As the battle raged Novak felt his arm being tugged and stepped back, eyes fixed on the fight. He realised Arvael was heaving him behind a cogitator and followed, finding the Storm Heralds hanging back. Cortha, Geryon and Arvael, urging him to stay out of the fight.

"What, are we hiding?!" Novak cried with incomprehension.

"We are making a tactical reassessment," Geryon hissed.

"Run from a fight?!" Novak spat, "What madness is this?!"

"That is Fulgrim incarnate," Arvael spat, "We could not take him with less than a Battle Company."

"What of pride, what of honour?!" Novak hissed, "Cortha, you cannot agree with this!"

But the Chaplain replied, "This was never the mission. We are not here to brawl with Archfiends, our only objective was to capture the Daemonsword. That has not changed."

"He's right," Arvael confirmed, "Jubila is down, if we can but grab the blade and get out, we can snatch a victory from under Fulgrim's nose."

"And how do you suggest we get out here? The gunship is days away!"

Arvael turned to Geryon, "This Forgefane is a teleportarium, can you make it function?"

Geryon looked about, "These machines have not been consecrated in millennia. Their spirits require ritual appeasement."

"Make it work," Arvael commanded, "While we keep Fulgrim distracted."

"Now you want to fight?" Novak hissed.

"Now we have a reason to get involved," Arvael explained.

Novak glanced around the cogitator and said, "We should align our efforts with the Grey Knights to flank him."

"You suggest we team up with them," Cortha snorted, "We are not on the same side."

"No," Novak countered, "I'm saying we let Fulgrim waste time slaughtering them, then when he thinks he's won we sneak up and stab him in the back."

"I like this plan," Arvael said, "Geryon get to work, we shall charge as soon..."

A sudden green flash burst into being, overwhelming autosenses and blanking out all vision. Novak didn't know what intent it heralded but when it faded Fulgrim was still there. He turned his full attention on the Grey Knights and launched a barrage of blows unlike anything Novak had seen before. Furious and dazzling but also distracting.

Novak was up and running before he knew it, Arvael and Cortha a second behind. He ran for all he was worth, feet pounding metal and vaulting bodies of Beastmen. His sword shone with lethal power and twin hearts thundered in his chest as he pushed his body to the limit. He ran faster than he ever had before, sinews straining for a morsel more speed, but still he wasn't fast enough. He saw Fulgrim launch a flurry of blows at Pelleus, and when it was over the Grey Knight was no more.

Fulgrim reared high, shadow wings billowing as he prepared to finish off the remainder but the Storm Heralds struck first. Novak leapt over a wriggling tail, broad as a man's chest and slashed Honour's Edge across a scaled rear. Hexagrammatic runes shone as the warded metal touched Daemon-flesh and parted it, letting filthy blood flow. Arvael was a second behind, swinging his Force-morningstar overhead to slam into the tail and compact a section flat. Cortha was last, punching the head of Dread-hand into the towering figure. More than any blow yet landed the Crozius hurt Fulgrim, a lingering essence of the late Sister of Silence clinging to the finger bones encased within. Anathema to all things Chaos.

Fulgrim roared as his Neverborn body was wounded, the first real injury he had sustained in the fight. Novak exulted at the wounding, but Fulgrim was not diminished by pain. The giant figure spun on his tail and six Hellmetal blades came at them, moving faster than thought. Novak's only chance was momentum, and he did not stop running for an instant. He swerved aside as a blade parted air at his flank, vaulted a low blow and twisted around a slice at his helm. He didn't even think to block, knowing his strength was not equal to the task, seeking only to stay alive for another second.

A torrent of blows chased his heels as Fulgrim roared, "You dare interfere with my triumph! Your suffering shall be legendary!"

Novak kept running as he yelled, "Keep trying Traitor scum, you can't hit..."

A silver blur caught him off-guard, the tip of a sword kissing his helm. It was the lightest touch imaginable, merely brushing the crest but the force of it sent Novak flipping over. He crashed onto his back, helm's autosenses reduced to smears of hash, utterly demolished by the blow. Novak expected the next second to spell his doom but surprisingly it did not. He fumbled at his helm's clasps and pulled it free, allowing a barrage of noise and light to pound his senses. All was calamity and bedlam, suffused with a cloying stench of soured perfume that made him want to gag.

He rolled over and saw Fulgrim looming above, fully engaged with Grey Knights and Storm Herald. Hypras threw bolts of lightning, forcing Fulgrim to guard high. Mordad unleashed sheets of flame at the waist, keeping the middle arms engaged to block. Agriff and Cortha were duelling with the lower arms, dodging annihilation and hammering at Daemonflesh as angles opened.

Fulgrim was fighting duels physical, elemental and psychic all at once but still roared, "You have nothing that can hurt me, nothing!"

"I've got a lot of swords!" Arvael yelled from the rear.

The Librarian's arms spun like cartwheels and from across the battlefield weapons were ripped from dead hands. Swords were plucked from dead fingers, knives from slack hands and spears torn from cooling corpses, even stubbers rose, pointing upwards at the giant in their midst. By Arvael's will a hundred weapons were hurled at Fulgrim, flying high as he inundated the Primarch. They fell like rain, gleaming points stabbing at shadow-wings and slicing at his white locks. More he threw, grabbing every blade and bullet in the Forgefane, even sharp implements from antiquity. Anything that could be thrown was sent into the fight, till Fulgrim was struck horned head to tip of his tail.

Novak pushed off the floor to join the fight, but then Fulgrim bellowed in fury. His wings snapped wide, hurling flying darts away as his long tail swept wide. Ceramite boots were bowled over as the tail knocked the legs from under all combatants, every last one of them sent toppling to the floor. Novak was caught in the side by the tip and went skidding away, feeling ribs break in his chest.

Fulgrim rolled his many shoulders and wounds over his form began to close. He was regenerating, faster than Novak could believe possible. Space Marines could repair almost any injury, but never so fast or completely. It was rammed home to him how far Primarchs were above Astartes, not only in combat but in every way, even healing. Space Marines were brittle, simple things compared to their gene-fathers and never had he felt so utterly outclassed.

Fulgrim shook his body like a mastiff and backed up, and that was when he made his first mistake. An Undying was lurking behind, trying to figure out if it should be attacking this strange apparition. Fulgrim's back came too close and the flaming halo licked his spine, charring and blackening his Daemonic hide. Flames immaterial met Empyreal flesh and burned it raw.

"Raaaagh!" Fulgrim bellowed as he whipped about, "You odious little cogtoy!" A middle hand flexed and a sword dissipated into nothingness, allowing him to scoop up the Undying in his fist. The Abomination tried to fight but was helpless to resist as the Primarch lifted it high and squeezed, hissing, "Cheap knock-off! You ape something you couldn't possibly understand!"

The Undying burst, spilling flames up the Primarch's arm, scorching him badly and making Fulgrim snarl. Novak saw their only chance unfold and was on his feet in an instant. He vaulted his fallen comrades and dove at the Primarch's flank, sword leading the way. Purple flesh rose as a pillar before him and he drove the point deep, slicing further and further till he hit bone. Fulgrim whipped about but Novak was already diving to the side, ripping his sword laterally to carve a vicious furrow.

A storm of blades fell from on high, each able to obliterate him utterly. He could barely see for the flashing Hellmetal, feeling the wind of their passing claw at his hair. Parrying was beyond a joke so he ducked and weaved, spun and dodged, all the while lashing at the pillar. Never in his life had he fought so well, never he pushed himself so far. Every fibre of his being was committed to the fight, anything less would spell his doom. Novak fought with the strength of a proto-mythic hero and the speed of legend, his skill dazzling to behold. He surpassed all the forms and styles of his tutoring, transcending every teacher he had ever known. His blade scored and hacked, his feet were never still and his hearts bursting with elation. He was doing it; he was holding Fulgrim at bay. One marine, all alone, holding his own against a Primarch. He lasted exactly eleven seconds.

Novak saw a blade sweeping down at him, cleaving air as it swung like a pendulum. He tried to throw himself aside, he tried to avoid the impact, but he was too slow. The blade swept at him with speed no Astartes could dream to match. It caromed into his right side, tearing at his flank and shearing through his sword arm. The impact sent him flying away in one direction, while his right arm flew in another, taking his sword with it. Blood sprayed high as he soared, watching his limb fall to the ground, a second before the rest of him did.

Novak hit the floor with his right side an inferno of agony. He could scarcely believe it, his whole arm was missing from the bicep down, made a truncated stump that gushed blood. Shock and denial rang through him: his sword arm had been taken, the greatest asset he owned, that which set him apart and made him Chapter Champion. It was gone, leaving him a useless husk of his former glory. Desperately Novak pressed the remaining fingers of his left hand to the stump, as if he would find the arm where it once was, and reveal this all to be a terrible dream, but reality was not so kind. All he found was a stump and a sticky mass of Larraman cells clotting.

Fulgrim swayed high, grinning at the damage he had wrought, fully aware that he had inflicted a wound worse than death. "You must be ashamed, but it is only natural that you failed. Do not weep over your inferiority, accept it. I am better than you, I was made to be better. From the moment I was spun into existence I was superior, and that was before I embraced the glory of the Warp."

"You..." was all Novak managed to hiss.

"Sush," Fulgrim crooned, "The truth is hard to bear but it strengthens you. Embrace your inferior nature and bow to me as your master. I do not offer to bring you into my fold, you are unworthy to know the glory of Chaos, but in my munificence I will grant you a swift death."

"Never!" Novak wept.

"As you will, a drawn-out and painful death it is. Let us..."

Fulgrim broke off as his perfect ears heard a distant noise. Novak heard it a moment later, the sound of metal scraping on metal. From the distant doorway it came, echoing from the shadows, drawing nearer and nearer with a slow but steady pace. A shape in the darkness, bulky and looming, emerging into the light, one Novak never expected to see again. Armour hung from his frame in tatters and one whole smokestack was missing. A lens had been shattered in his sensor dome and a fist was painted with gore. Scored was he, so badly that not a sliver of blue remained to be seen, but yet he strode with a furious gait, determined to join the fight.

From the ashes of defeat he arose, victorious against all odds and eager for the next fight. Hope embodied in this darkest of hours. A new player in the game looked up at the towering Daemon-Primarch and Honourable Ajax snarled, "GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY BROTHERS!"