Extremus Fors Chapter 43

Ares' Promise sat in orbit of Lujan Minoris, running on low power as she awaited word from the team below. For weeks she had lurked in silence, her halls cold and quiet. Power was reserved for the most vital systems so life-support was on low. Ice formed in corridors and air grew stale, barely stirred by recycling systems. The Machine Spirit of the ship slumbered, kept placated by constant psalms sang over the Logic Engines. Her main hanger sat empty too, devoid of crewmen as Servitors hung slackly in their alcoves. All was silence, until it wasn't. A flash of light, a rippling distortion of space convulsing, then the actinic blast of matter translocation as hundreds of objects appeared from nowhere.

Hypras rematerialized three metres above the floor. He hung for an instant before artificial gravity took hold and he dropped like a stone. Hard metal slammed into his rear and he grunted at the unexpected shock. The impact rolled him over and he nearly impaled himself on the Daemonsword in his grip, only recovering at the last moment. His head came up and he instantly saw he was not on his own ship, this was the Storm Herald's frigate. That was a problem.

All around groaning bodies sprawled. The Teleportation field had been set to its widest aperture and so the translocation had snatched up everything inside the Forgefane. Piles of dead bodies lay in heaps, mixed with dying Technobarbarians and Beastmen. A ruptured Dreadnought chassis lay on its side, amniotic fluids dripping out of the ragged gash that ran down its front. There were even broken Undying scattered about, their flames extinguished. Of the Storm Heralds there were a few survivors, the whelp Arvael, Cortha the blinkered zealot and the freakish Primaris Geryon.

Everyone present was battered and bruised, even Hypras. He had tested himself against a Daemon-Primarch, a battle that had strained his abilities to the edge. Victory was scant consolation, he felt little triumph in the deed. His Brothers had died one by one to Fulgrim, leaving him alone among Storm Heralds. Hypras didn't believe for a second that was random chance, Fulgrim had surely known the Grey Knights were the greatest threat to his Daemonic nature, the Primarch had been picking off the strongest first, leaving the weak dregs for later.

Arvael was first to rise, scrabbling over to a sack of ruined meat and melted Ceramite. The remains of Novak were burnt beyond recognition, a charred husk of a Marine. There was little left of him, a fused lump of gristle, without limbs or eyes, a gaping hole in the head where the nose and mouth had been. Hypras would have taken it for a corpse, had air not rattled in and out of that hole, evidence Novak was still alive, though that was stretching the term.

"He breathes!" Arvael cried.

"Not for long," Geryon hissed, "Look at him."

"We have to get him to the Apothecarion!"

"And do what?" Geryon retorted, "These wounds are beyond healing, Fulgrim has left him a blasted ruin of skin and bone."

Hypras pulled himself to his feet, "Do not say that name aloud, lest you draw the attention of powers you wish not to face."

"Keep out of this," Cortha snarled.

"All matters concerning the Primal Evil are my affair, including the fate of their victims."

Geryon stooped over the body and remarked, "I cannot understand how he yet lives. This wounds should have killed him thrice over." The reply was a mocking laugh, scornful in tone and dripping in condescension. All heads turned to a corner, where they spied a limp figure slumped against a wall. Jubila, the Chaos Warlord, laying broken and spent. Hypras couldn't believe the worm lived, yet alone had been scooped up in the Teleportation, but it seemed fate had a cruel sense of irony.

Jubila's broken jaw worked out the words, "Your friend lives because Fulgrim wanted him to suffer. The Phoenician delights in tormenting his victims, drawing out every last drop of misery. Your comrade pricked his pride, that is not something the Palatine Eagle will let stand. You fear the Traitor-Primarchs for their rage and cunning, but Fulgrim… Fulgrim is petty."

"By the Golden Throne, why aren't you dead?!" Cortha snarled.

Jubila laughed around a mouthful of blood, "Death, been there, done that. Kill me by all means, I won't stay dead for long."

"Then you can shut up," Cortha hissed as he strode over and drove his fist into Jubila's skull, rendering him unconscious.

The rest leaned back and Geryon said, "We should ensure the rest of the dregs are truly dead." Cortha and he moved off, checking the bodies of Technobarbarian and Beastmen, and executing any who yet drew breath. Meanwhile Arvael placed his hand on Novak's ruined head and a trace of power played over his Psychic hood.

Hypras lifted an eyebrow, "That won't heal him."

"Not trying to," Arvael stated, "I'm trying to trigger his sus-an-membrane. The fire should have sent him into a coma already, but I'm guessing the Daemon didn't want an easy end. There's a block… if I can just… there… Novak's in a coma… we can move him to an Apothecarion."

Hypras retorted, "You intend to summon serfs, know that any who enter this bay will die, by my hand."

Arvael rose with an angry glare, "You dare threaten Storm Herald servants, on a Storm Herald ship?!"

"Of course, I am Hypras, Grey Knight of Titan. None may look upon me and live."

Arvael's eyes hardened, "We at least need to contact the bridge and order our departure. The Exterminatus Fleet will reach orbit within the hour."

"Do as you will, but first you will signal my ship for a shuttle. I intend to leave this system as I arrived."

Arvael retorted, "And take the Daemonsword with you?!"

"It is my prize, claimed for Titan. I have succeeded and you have failed. And your punishment is overdue."

"Punishment?"

Hypras barked, " A Grey Knight died at the hands of a Storm Herald! I have not forgotten that, and I do not forgive simply because the murderer is a charred husk. The debt is still unpaid and it shall hang upon your necks like a tombstone. I shall make sure your entire Chapter burns for this."

Arvael's hand drifted to his weapon, "Thats not going to happen."

"You cannot stop me," Hypras snorted, "I can overpower you three with ease."

"And then you return to Titan and throw the Daemonsword into a vault?!"

Hypras tipped his head back and laughed, "Bury it, never! There is such power here, I felt it when I defeated Fulgrim. I finally understand the might we have denied ourselves, the tools of Chaos are the very weapons we need to defeat the Dark gods! With such a tool we can best any Daemon, defeat any incursion. The Grey Knights can finally stop holding the line and hit back!"

He turned to the open hanger hatch, staring through the atmo-field to the stars, "I can see it all. The Grey Knight should never have limited ourselves to a mere thousand. We can expand, increase our numbers a hundred-fold! The failed and useless Astartes shall be swept away, replaced by a better order. Legions of Grey Knights, armed and equipped with the tools we need shall drive out Chaos. We shall close the Great Rift and seal the doors between reality and the Warp. Mankind shall be safe at last, grateful to be guarded by righteous champions and I shall knock that arrogant fool Guilliman off his pedestal to take my rightful place as the Emperor's Regent!"

The vision entranced him, promising eternal glory and the adulation of the masses. It was wonderful, and yet a scrape of noise behind made him turn. He found Arvael, Geryon and Cortha standing in a line, their weapons held tight as they glared. The sight should have enraged him but something about their stance stirred a thought in his head. Something deep within screaming for attention. Ignore this impulse, you are too great to be bothered by petty foibles, and yet the thought arose that he should be listening to them.

"Hypras," Cortha growled, "Put. Down. The. Sword."

No, don't do it, kill them all, Hypras thought but his lips moved, "I… I can't…"

"Hypras, look at your hand," Arvael urged.

"I…" Hypras stammered as a scream to kill them echoed in his head, but down he looked anyway. What he beheld was a nightmare. The Daemonsword rested in his grip, the vile hateful thing oozing malice. Sharp thorns were buried in the palm of his hand, digging into bones and from them rancid veins of corruption spread. He could feel it, vines of pink and purple hatred boring into the network of arteries, sinew and nerves that made up his arm. Even Ceramite was not immune, pulsing channels opening in the pure grey, spreading ever further as he watched. It had already reached his elbow, but that was secondary to the spiritual taint. His mind was beset, the vileness of the Primal Evil sinking its claws into his essence, polluting his righteous soul.

"No…" Hypras gasped as he tried to let go, "Get out of my mind!"

"Mineee," a voice hissed inside his head.

Hypras grabbed his fist with the other hand and tried to force it open but the sword could not be removed, it was part of him now. In desperation he levelled the storm bolter attached to other his wrist to his elbow, intending to blow the arm off, but another will forced it upwards, refusing to allow them to be separated. The Daemon-Prince Ozymandias was stronger than anyone knew, the spiteful thing's will overpowering Hypras'. He tried to form a banishment incantation, to summon power to excise the rot, but it wasn't his power anymore. The Daemon-Prince was in his mind, taking over, neuron by neuron claiming dominance of this brain. Hypras was fading and Ozymandias was taking over. The Grey Knight's soul would be eclipsed and there was nothing Hypras could do to stop it.

He fell to his knees gasping, "This cannot be, Grey Knights are immune to corruption. We cannot be turned."

"Sooo deluded," the voice hissed, "Youuu bathe in sin. You let meee in. I owwwn you."

"No," Hypras wailed as his mind filled with a presence not his own, "No, this cannot be!"

Cortha stepped forward, Crozius raised, "Hold out your arm, we can chop it off before the corruption reaches your hearts!"

"It's too late!" Hypras gasped, "When I picked up the sword I opened myself to its toxic nature. I wielded the power of corruption and so tainted my soul. It's already in my head, I can't stop it. I was wrong to think I could match Castellan Crowe, I was a fool!"

"What do we do?!" Geryon snapped.

"Arvael!" Hypras barked in desperation, "No Grey Knight has ever fallen to the Ruinous Powers… no Grey Knight can be allowed to fall. I will not be the first son of Titan to fail the test! You understand what must be done."

Arvael hefted his weapon and closed, steel in his eye, "I understand."

Hypras nodded, "I thank you, but promise me this: the Daemon cannot be freed. No matter what, it must remain imprisoned. Give me your word and I shall know my life's mission was not in vain."

"I swear it," Arvael intoned, "Prepare to receive the Emperor's Peace."

Hypras closed his eyes and whispered the ancient litany, "I am the Hammer, I am the sword in His hand."

"Nooo!" the Daemon wailed, "Liveee!"

But Hypras intoned through gritted teeth, "I am the gauntlet about His fist, the tip of His spear."

"Becomeeee a God! Claim your gloryyy! "

Every word was an effort as Hypras hissed, "I am the bane of His foes, the woe of the treacherous."

A tread at his side, the suggestion of someone near and the sound of a weapon being drawn back to strike. Hypras accepted his fate as he breathed, "I am the end."