AN : the number of views for this story is OVER NINE THOUSAND ! MOUAHAHAHAHAHA!
So, here is the last part of the 'Seeds of Ruin' arc. Gods almighty, I swear I will never do something like that again. I have literally spent weeks forced to supress my inspiration so that I could focus on the guidelines I had foolishly set up for myself.
This particular chapter, dedicated to Tzeentch, was especially difficult because at the moment of writing this, I am still suffering of a mild cold and fever. Nothing really dramatic, but if you see any misspellings or other mistakes, it probably because of that (and please tell me, that I may correct them).
As always, I would like to thank my reviewers. I am really glad that there are people who enjoy what I write this much.
On another note ... The Talon of Horus is out ! Yeah ! I got it, I read it, and it is GLORIOUS. ADB is really my favorite author in the Black Library staff. As there are probably some of you that haven't read it yet, I will not speak of it further (except to tell you to read it. Seriously. It is great).
So, with this, back to the story ! See you at the end, after a little bonus.
I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe, nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.
+Fifteen minutes before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Alpha+
A lifetime of paperwork, boot-licking and conspiracy in the service of a dark and forbidden god had left him ill-prepared to this. Yet here he was : running for his life across the derelict remnants of broken and empty buildings, pursued by someone far more apt at this game of chase. He knew, on some level, that running was futile, that escape was impossible. But he was a worshipper of Tzeentch, the God of Hope and Change, and every second he bought was one more during which a miracle of some sort could occur, so he kept running.
Scribe Primaris Ptolemeus Daron, esteemed member of the Adeptus Administratus – and murderer, traitor and heretic – was still running three minutes later, when an armored hand caught him by the throat and lifted him a whole meter above the ground. Terrified, Ptolemeus looked into the eyes of the one being that had been able to track his treacherous activities back to him, and was now going to kill him for them.
A pair of red lenses stared back at him. A towering giant in green armor was holding the scribe aloft, making the already small man looking positively tiny. Scales were painted on his ceramite armor, and the image of a multi-headed reptile was inscribed on his shoulder paldron with exquisite detail. A dirty cloak hung from the warrior's shoulders, broad enough to cover the entire giant if needed. Ptolemeus could feel, with the gift he had received from his god, that there was some power weaved into the cloak, probably as a mean to hide its wearer's colossal frame. But this was overshadowed by what he felt from the warrior himself : a deep, tightly controlled anger that was wholly directed at him.
'Wh-who are you ?!' managed to ask the scribe before the giant's grip crushed his windpipe. He knew this was a warrior of the Legiones Astartes, but that made no sense. He knew the heraldry of the Angels of Death, be they loyal to the False Emperor or having sided with Horus during the rebellion, yet he did not recognize the Marine's legion insignia.
As his brain shut down from the lack of oxygen and he felt his soul leaving his body to join with his god, he heard the giant's answer, all intonations erased by his helm's speaker :
'I am Alpharius.'
+Two months before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Alpha+
There was a majesty to the Governor Palace that was unequaled by any other building on the planet. Its architecture had been inspired by the grandiose work of the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra, and even though its was a much smaller size, the grandeur of it was still awe-inspiring.
As he marched toward the gathering of officials he had been called upon to record, Ptolemeus thought back to the strange path that had led him to become, if he was perfectly honest with himself at least, a traitor.
His treachery had gone unnoticed for years before this moment, where he would finally make a move he thought had even a remote chance of being noticed. Up to this point, he had only used his position for his own gain, carefully channeling wealth to secret accounts. While he couldn't use this money without drawing attention to himself – unlike what he had first believed, the Imperium of the thirty-first millenium was quite good at noticing its agents' mistakes – the mere thrill of challenging the oppressive organization that had controlled his entire life was quite rewarding in itself. Still, even that could hardly be considered treason – at least when compared to the galaxy-splitting betrayal of the Warmaster Horus. Not that it would have made any difference had he been noticed : he would have been executed, no matter that the reasons behind his treachery were mere greed and thrill-seeking.
But he had only truly become a traitor a few years ago, as the fleets of the Warmaster neared Terra and the galaxy held its breath for the ultimate confrontation. A vision had come to him : in his sleep, he had seen what happened on Terra just as it actually unfolded thousands of light-years away. He had seen Horus kill the Angel Sanguinius and maim the Emperor, and he had seen the traitor Warmaster being killed in turn.
He had seen that even though the Warmaster would fall, the war itself would never end. He had witnessed this with his very soul : the exiled sons of the Nine Legions would return, and burn the Imperium to ashes. He had seen the Storm coming years before it had actually done so, yet it and the horrors it would bring were nothing compared to what the rest of the galaxy would endure. Ten thousand years of oppression, of war, of atrocity, that would end in a galactic slaughter and the eternal reign of Chaos. The Imperium would die, after an agony of a hundred centuries during which those who served it would endure painful, meaningless lives, followed by an eternity of torment in the claws of the Dark Gods. Ptolemeus' only hop was to side with the inevitable victors, so that was what he had done. Mankind was doomed, though it did not know it yet, and only those who embraced the power of the Four could even hope survive in the coming darkness.
So he had betrayed the Imperium, and embraced the faith that the preachers in the streets denounced as blasphemous and damning. These fools may claim that those who turned from the light of the Golden Throne would burn in the Warp for all eternity, but they didn't understand that such was the fate of all souls. The Warp was Hell, and Hell only. There were no illumination, no celestial paradise to reward the faithful after their death. Only by following the Gods and proving your value to them could you hope avoid the eternal torments. A thin hope, for sure, but it was better than nothing. And so Ptolemeus had chosen to follow the path of the one god who had sent him the visions : he had become a disciple of Tzeentch, the Architect of Fate and God of Hope.
The visions' frequency had increased after he had made that decision and honored his new patron by building Him a shrine in his house and closing down an entire manufactorium with a single number changed in a report about its productivity. That still brought a smile to his lips every time he thought about it – it had been glorious.
He had seen that, soon after the Storm had engulfed the Parecxis system, a legion of Angels would come from the skies, braving the tumultuous tides of the Sea of Souls. Wearing his master's color and brought here by His design, they would wage a terrible war across the planet. His task, his holy duty, was to prepare the way for them. Today, as his visions had proved true once more, he would take the first step toward that goal.
Passing in front of a squad of soldiers who were guarding one of the room's entrances, Ptolemeus crossed the threshold just before the last of the guests arrived. He rushed to his position, next to the planetary governor, and lowered the keyboard that was usually kept strapped to his chest. He checked that the power of the data-slate was on, flexed his fingers, and waited for the meeting to start.
The reason for the gathering was obvious. Mere hours before, the skies had exploded with fire and madness. Thousands had already died, their hearts bursting in their chests or crushed as buildings suddenly collapsed in previously stable zones. The planet's very mantle was troubled by the energies of the Warp Storm that now raged. Officially, this was due to the Immaterium interfering with the gravitational forces at work in the system, but the superstitious whispered that it was caused by daemons, tearing the planet apart from within. Both, Ptolemeus knew, were true enough : one was simply a metaphor for the other – but which one, he had no idea. While the dreams he had and the communions he was sometimes granted had revealed him much of the galaxy's inner workings, this particular piece of knowledge eluded him.
They were several dozens people gathered in the room in all, roughly separated in seven groups. An impressive gathering given the circumstances, yet the vast room, made to welcome hundreds of souls as they discussed the life of billions, seemed almost empty. By some caprice of the fates, the giant table that had occupied most of the room had been destroyed, crushed by falling fragments of the ceiling in the earthquakes. Another table had been installed with haste, one much more adapted to the reduced cadre of dignitaries who had gathered there to answer this day's crisis. Two hololithic projectors had been installed for those who had been unable to come in person.
The group to which Ptolemeus belonged was that of the Governor of Parecxis Alpha. It was composed of some twenty advisors, Administratum officials, and various sycophants who had no reason to be here but no one to throw them out either. Due to his station's need to be able to hear every word, Ptolemeus was standing at a position of great honor, next to the Governor himself – theorically the most powerful man on Parecxis Alpha, and by extension in the entire Parecxis system.
Governor Valantir Drusian certainly looked the part. He was a tall man, regal in his robes of office despite the dust that had fallen upon them during the confusion. He was bald and sported a short beard, cut in the fashion of his homeland, so far from here. Valantir had been born on Terra, to one of the ancient ruling lines that had willingly joined the Emperor during the Unification Wars. As a colonel of the Imperial Army, he had been part of the Expeditionary Fleet that had reclaimed Parecxis from xenos hands. For his exemplary service, he had been rewarded with governorship of the planet he had helped to free, and rejuvenating treatments had kept him in his prime ever since – a fact that his heirs had long since begun to mourn when they thought no one was listening. Valantir was a master politician, and had eased the integration of the system into the Imperium's great machine. But he had no experience in dealing with such a crisis – even his time in the Army had been mostly him following flawlessly the Expedition's command's orders – and, to Ptolemeus keen eyes, his discomfort and fear were plain.
Admiral Oswald Von Libestat wasn't here, but a flickering hololith transmitted his words and occasionally his image from the bridge of his ship in orbit. The Maleficence's Reward and the rest of the fleet had been hit by the storm just as badly as the planets, but they were the most used to dealing with the matters of the Warp. There was no one at his projector's side – all members of the Navy in the system were needed to man the fleet.
To the left of the old man's image stood the Director Nemurian, ruler of Parecxis Gamma's carceral population and provider of promethium for the system's two worlds and orbital craft. He had come in person, leaving the control of his dominion in the hands of his subordinates while he took a transport to the capital world. A group of servitors teemed behind him, while two troopers in recently cleaned uniforms stood at his side, nervously watching the august assembly.
Looking at the adept of their order who ruled a world despite his youth and hierarchical insignificance, the representatives of the Adeptus Mechanicus did not appear to be led by any leader. Six hooded figure stood, neglecting the chairs offered to them, speaking to each other in blurts of binary and transmitting everything they saw and heard to the contingent of the Cult of Mars aboard the space docks and orbital platforms of Parecxis Beta.
At their side was the Supreme Commander of Parecxis Beta. The title wasn't one officially known in the Imperial Army, but Sartan Pratus had fought and led against marauders, xenos raiders and even a few Traitors Astartes during the Heresy. He had protected the Parecxis system from the depredations of the Heresy's wake, and had reforged the fragmented forces left in the system into a true army. In that light, few were willing to dispute or challenge the nickname his men had given him being recognised as his actual rank.
Sartan ruled the garrison world with an iron grip, making it an even more unbreakable stronghold than before. He had already been on the hive-world when the storm had arrived, and was listening to a report from one of his aides with a grim expression. Apparently, the situation on Parecxis Beta was little better than on the capital world.
Colonel Kazar Lico was the last of the men of war present at the table. He was the leader of both the Planetary Defence Forces and the Arbites personnel on Parecxis Alpha – the offices having been fused at some point during the Heresy and not yet rescinded, thanks to the Administratum's inertia. As such, he was responsible for the planet's order and rule of law. Lico was surrounded by subordinates who were constantly telling him the latest updates of the hive-world's situation, and from what Ptolemeus could hear the story they told was grim indeed.
Last to enter, but certainly not least influential of those present, was the 'Cardinal' Akarus Tranos, spiritual leader of the so-called 'Ecclesiarchy' of the God-Emperor on Parecxis. Born in the aftermath of the Horus Heresy, the Ecclesiarchy was still an informal organization, but the belief in the Emperor's divinity, still so fiercely outlawed not so long ago on His own command, was well on its way to becoming the Imperium's official religion. Akarus had been a mere worker of the hive-world's factories until the day he had started preaching the word of the Lectitio Divinatus. In the dark times of the Heresy, his message had quickly taken roots, and hundred of millions of souls now prayed to the Lord of Mankind and listened to the speeches of Akarus and his disciples. That had made him de facto one of the planet's leaders, and his growing hierarchy of priests and monks was spreading all over the world and beyond.
The discussion was about to start : it was time to begin his record, with the date and the names of those present. Ptolemeus' hands moved by reflex, typing every word faster than an unaugmented human should reasonably be able to. Servitors were sometimes used for these duties, but they lacked the ability to translate the inevitable … outbursts caused by such gatherings into more polite phrasing. Thus, human scribes were still used every time two members of different Imperial organizations officialy met. And rarely before had Ptolemeus witnessed such an important meeting.
When the talking began, the speakers were, thankfully, able to show enough calm to dispense with speaking at the same time, but the urgency of the situation nonetheless made their voices go faster than they should have had they been perfectly calm. Still, Ptolemeus was a Scribe Primaris, and this was nothing to him. He was even able to follow the actual discussion while recording it.
The first to speak was the Governor. He asked for everyone's attention, and thanked all those present for coming. Then he suggested that they begun by each of them telling the others what he knew about the situation. After that, they would start to plan their answer to the crisis. He started himself, looking at the notes pushed toward him by the Administratum's adepts :
'Here is what we know. Four point seven hours ago, the Parecxis system was engulfed into a spatial anomaly known as a Warp Storm. While we have little information about that kind of phenomena, given that … ' he frowned at what he was reading, before coughing slightly and resuming : 'well, given that most human worlds falling to such things are entirely devoid of life by the time they return into real space. But so far, the most obvious effects are making both Warp travel and astropathic communication impossible, and a bleeding of the Immaterium into our own dimension. Though the full consequences of the latter cannot possibly be predicted, it is safe to assume it is the cause for the recent earthquakes in Parecxis Alpha, as well as the death of most of our astropathic choirs. Colonel, do you have any more information about the situation on the capital world ?'
'Several riots have already started in this hive alone,' answered Lico. 'There are reports from the other hives that the same is happening there, but the vox is being jammed by the storm. In truth, I have no idea of what is happening in the other cities. I have arranged for some of my aides to travel there themselves and assert the situation before reporting back to me, but it will be a few hours at best before the first of them comes back. As for the situation here, the riots appear to be mostly caused by panic, and the Arbites are making short work of stopping them. However, a few of the people involved appear to be … influenced somehow.'
With these last words, the Colonel looked at Akarus, and the Cardinal followed immediately :
'My priests and I have looked into that matter. While some of the riots are genuinely caused by frightened souls who do not know how to react to the present situation, some of them are being deliberately instigated. Those of us who are the most open to the God-Emperor's will can feel it : there is an intelligence at work here, one serving the dark forces of the Warp. The riots are led by traitors and heretics, who have turned from His divine light and embraced the powers of Chaos. Their words twist the minds and fears of the innocents, and manipulate them into doing their bidding. We have doubled the number of sermons, and the vox-net regularly broadcasts my own speeches, but it is not enough. I suggest that all patrols of the armed forces be accompanied by one of the Ecclesiarchy at all times, so that they may report when they come across the taint of the Dark Ones.'
Not so long ago, these words would have been met with derisive laughter. Now, however, after what they had faced during the Heresy, the lords of Parecxis knew better than to dismiss what was quite simply sorcery and demonic worshipping out of hand.
There had been much discussion, when the first news had arrived, of why exactly Horus Lupercal had turned from the Emperor. What could motivate a man, let alone a Primarch, to betray everything he had ever stood for ? What could possibly bring him to murder his own sons and brothers ? They had spent months, years trying to figure out the answer, and when they had found it, they had immediately wished they had not.
Chaos. It had firmly placed its roots into the Warmaster and his cohorts, and turned them into the pawns with which it would wage war against the Emperor. And if they could turn even one such as Horus, how easy was it for the Dark Gods to turn mere mortals to their side ? Ptolemeus knew all too well that the temptations of Chaos were not so easily resisted, especially when what it offered - survival – was so deeply ingrained into Mankind's very genetic code.
Despite all his vaunted 'sanctity', however, Akarus was unable to detect Ptolemeus' betrayal even as they stood in the same room. It wasn't that the Cardinal was a scam : he had proved his faith was true years ago, when he had banished a daemon summoned by Horusian cultists with nothing more than his bare hands and his will. No, it was simply because Ptolemeus' gifts had been cloaked by his master, precisely to prevent such detection.
All nodded to Akarus' proposition – even the tech-priests. The stance of the Cult of Mars on the Emperor's newly alleged divinity was quite simple, at least in the Parecxis system : the Emperor had always been a god, and they had worshipped Him under His guise as the Omnissiah long before His entombment upon the Golden Throne. To them, the Ecclesiarchy was simply another branch of their own faith, although one focused on their god's lesser attributes of flesh.
The next to speak was Admiral Von Libestat. He gave a list of the ships and transports under his command, and of how they could be used to arrange inter-system exchanges now that they were cut off the rest of the sector. After him was Numerian, who told the other lords of Parecxis that, even though the inmates of the penal world were currently rebelling, enough promethium's pits remained under his control for him to keep fueling the other worlds' needs.
Next came the Priests of Parecxis Beta. They still had enough ore in their vaults to keep repairing the fleet's ships if they were to be damaged, and their orbital factories could also produce weapons and tools for the rest of the system. Though some of the lowest Tech-priests had succumbed to the corruptive touch of the Warp, the overlords of the Orbital Belt were confident that, as beings less of flesh and more of metal, they had not much to fear from the Sea of Souls.
Sartan Pratus was the last to speak. He delivered his reports on Parecxis Beta's statut : the garrisons were ready, weapons and ammunition were stocked. But he did have a problem :
'Corruption is spreading across the ranks. The commissars are doing their best to suppress it, but they are formed to fight cowardice and disobedience, not the taint of the Ruinous Powers. If I am to keep the army of the Immortal Emperor in a state where they can fight His enemies, I need your help, Cardinal.'
Across the table, Akarus nodded and turned to one of his adepts. He spoke lowly to him, listened to the answer, then turned back to the Supreme Commander :
'We will send you some of our people, Lord Commander. They will teach the ways of the God-Emperor to your men, and elevate those who are worthy of it to their own ranks. This way, His glorious teachings shall protect the souls of His servants from the yawning abyss of heresy.'
Pratus expressed his thanks, and the discussion went on to the countless details that needed to be arranged. A myriad of orders were given, concerning the disposition of the fleet, the supplying schedules, and the patrols that would walk the hive's streets. This was the moment Ptolemeus had foreseen, the one had to seize in order to do his master's bidding.
All it took was two single, minuscule changes. He just had to misspell one character, modify one number in his notes and the deed was done. By the time the notes had been processed and converted into orders, no one would be able to know who had written them. With this, one of the patrols of the PDF would find itself on the other side of the hive compared to where they were supposed to be, and a pile of ammunition that should have been sent to the slums would be kept in the highest levels instead. Amusingly, he still found it difficult to go against years and years of practice and write what he wanted to write instead of what he was dictated to. Old habits, it seemed, truly died hard.
+Fifty days before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Alpha+
Despite the best efforts of Lico's men, the riots weren't dying down. The streets had been aflame for ten days now, and every time one of the warp-possessed leaders was brought down and his influence over the crowd released, a new one would rise to take his place. And now, a thousand-strong horde had broken through the Arbites' barricades and was spreading across the hive's upper districts. Maddened by the whispers of Chaos cultists and the emanations of the Storm, the rioters were killing everyone they found, screaming endless pleas for salvation to entities that no sane mind could possibly conceive.
Ahead of the waves of violence and death, another plague was spreading across Parecxis Alpha, one that may very well have even worse results : fear. Utter panic was infecting the wealthy of the capital world, and a massive exodus toward the Palace of Glass on the moon was starting. And it was being led by no one else than the Governor himself.
Old Valantir's nerves had finally cracked under the pressure. After days of trying to calm down the hysteric masses with speech after speech, he could no longer gather any courage to himself. The death of almost all of his heirs the previous day, when their so-called 'safe house' had turned into a death trap, had been the final straw. Almost two dozens of his children, nephews and nieces, as well as their own progeny, had been crushed by the very walls they thought would protect them. The one traumatized grandson that had emerged from the rubble had told that the stones of the manor had moved to kill those who had taken refuge behind them. That had been too much for the old soldier, and now Valantir Drusian and his closest aides were running toward a requisitioned shuttle, eager to find solace in the one place that had remained untouched by the madness so far.
Truly, terror was a potent poison, able to twist even the most stalwart mind. Of course, the mind-altering drugs Ptolemeus had mixed with the ink of his reports and the various drinks he had been ordered to go fetch by the insufferable buffoon had certainly helped.
Governor Valantir was a liability, a threat to his master's plans for the cause of the Architect of Fate. If he were allowed to live, the warriors in blue would lose the war before it even truly began. The man would join their enemies, and rally the entire planet against them. This, Ptolemeus had seen, and he had been commanded to act. Obviously, he couldn't just have stabbed him in the middle of the palace – not only would this have signed his death warrant, it was too crude and simple a ploy for a true devotee of Tzeentch.
But now … Now, that was a different thing. Valantir wasn't exactly alone, but he had no guards, having slipped away from them so that they wouldn't try to stop his cowardly escape. Not that they would have made any difference in the end, but they would have carried vox, and while that wouldn't have saved them, it could have troubled Ptolemeus later.
Ptolemeus hadn't been chosen to be part of the Governor's small retinue. He only knew the 'relocation of the headquarters to a safer position' was happening because he had been expecting it, and had watched the flying schedules for any sudden modification caused by someone with high-level clearance. Clearly, Drusian was on his last ropes : it would have been difficult to make his escape any more glaringly obvious to anyone watching.
And so here he was, in a hanger that was empty safe for the servitors attending to the newly arrived transport. In a few seconds, the doors would open and the Governor and his suite would barge in, eager to reach the relative safety of the aircraft. Then, the three human pilots – a standard precaution ever since the Warp Storm had turned some piloting servitors into killing machines and driven more than one mortal pilot to suicidal insanity – would fly the vessel in orbit, then to the moon station. Or so they would have, had they still been alive.
The three men had left Ptolemeus come aboard when he had voxed them that he was here on Valantir's own command. Why would they have denied him ? No one but the Governor's most trusted agents would have known of the transport's arrival and purpose. He had claimed to be here to deliver a last-minute gift from the Governor – under the unspoken implication that this was a bribe to guarantee their loyalty and vox-silence. The gift had been real : a box of the finest delicacies in the upper hive, bought at quite a high price with Ptolemeus' own embezzled coin. What Ptolemeus hadn't told the pilots was that they were laced with daemon blood, and each pastry was covered in minuscule runes, engraved by hand, spelling the blasphemous names of an host of the Changer of Ways' children.
After leaving the craft, he had remained in the hanger. Hidden in the shadows, he had watched the pilots' station with his second sight. Where light couldn't cross the void-sealed plates of reinforced metal, the soulfires of the doomed men were clear, drawing their silhouettes in shapes of white-blue flames. Minutes later, they had burst from within, their very beings consumed by the daemons that sought to wear their flesh as a mantle with which to walk the Materium for a time.
To Ptolemeus' surprise, one of the pilots didn't vanish, his soulfire instead burning brighter as fear seized him at the sight of his friends' fate. Either he hadn't partaken of the gift, or he was some kind of latent psyker who had subconsciously used his powers to protect his soul. It didn't matter, of course. The survivor died within seconds, his screams cut off by the ship's hull. The scribe idly – and quite fruitlessly – wondered which of them had had the worst death until the gate opened.
Valantir Drusian did not look regal and imposing anymore. His hair was messy, his face pale and haggard, and his robes were torn and dirtied by spots of the spirits he had drunk in abundance over the last weeks. Sorrow, fear and the pressure of an entire world on his shoulders had drained him of his strength, leaving him easy prey to Ptolemeus' mind-altering substances. His aides looked little better, having all been exposed to the traitor scribe's poison at some point in time.
Well, their torments would end soon enough.
Having made sure that the Governor had entered the transport, Ptolemeus left the hangar and activated the code he had previously loaded in the control panel. All the hangar's gates shut down immediately, and shrieking alarms began to howl all across the palace. Hurrying his step, Ptolemeus marched toward the nearest shelter, ready to play his part as a little man rightfully terrified of sirens warning of a daemonic incursion upon the palace's grounds.
When the cogitators were examined, hours later, they revealed that the alarm had come from the very hangar where the daemons had manifested, according to the few psykers who were still alive and relied upon. Later, when the mangled bodies inside had been identified – long after the daemons had burned themselves out of the mixed reality of a world trapped in a Warp Storm – they had found out that they were those of the Governor himself and his closest aides. It was claimed, and more or less believed, that they had bravely sealed themselves with the warp-born in order to save the rest of the palace. Already the people in the streets were chanting the dead man's name, paying homage to his sacrifice. The riots were stopping, shame bringing the mobs back to sanity, while the Chaos cultists were ruthlessly hunted down by the Arbites and the PDF.
Naive, guillible fools … just as Ptolemeus' master had planned.
+Ten days before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Alpha+
Ptolemeus watched as the carrier took off. Within its hauls were food rations at destination of the Maleficence's Reward. Before it had left, the scribe had walked in right in front of the guards, claiming he had to check that the contents of the ship matched what was marked on the shipping list. Ironically enough, the order was genuine, though it hadn't originally been Ptolemeus' duty. He had taken it off the hands of another overworked scribe mere minutes ago, acting as if he were doing the man a favor out of commiseration for his exhaustion. Even more amusing, he had actually found a discrepancy, as it turned out that a crate of grox steaks had been 'forgotten' by the loading crew.
Of course, his true goal had been an altogether different purpose. While left alone in the cargo hauls, he had injected one of the ration packs with a syringe he had kept concealed. The mixture had been brewed by Ptolemeus on a night when the raging skies had shone with the light of nine times nine black stars aligned in a pattern that had driven twelve time twelve men and women insane across Parecxis Alpha. It was made of the tears of young children, dust from the world's biggest graveyard, and a drop of Ptolemeus' own blood.
The ration pack had been in a crate bearing the emblem of the Astra Telepathica – a stylised 'I' with an eye on it – which meant it would be used to feed the ship's only remaining astropath. The fragile biology of the soul-bound psykers required special nourishment. Ptolemeus wasn't certain what the ration would do the unfortunate individual who consumed it, but it would undoubtedly be unpleasant.
+Twenty minutes before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Alpha+
When the God of War reached out to the capital of the Parecxis system, Ptolemeus was on his way through the streets of the hive. His mission was to deliver a report on the global situation to one of Lico's subordinates, then record the man's own information before bringing it back to the headquarters, where it was to be send to the Colonel, who was visiting another of the hive-cities with which they had restored communications. Ordinarily, a simple vox-transmission would have been enough, but in a Warp Storm, only the most powerful transmitters still worked with any semblance of reliability – the rest only ever received the screams of the damned. There had been no plan, no hidden motive in Ptolemeus that day : he was simply performing his task, following his part as a Scribe Primaris.
He walked between two broken buildings, a few blocks away from the Arbites' outpost that was his destination. Then, without so much as a pulse of warning from his secret senses, Ptolemeus' world burst apart around him. There was a flash of light so bright he couldn't tell its color, and he fell to his knees, atrocious pain throbbing in his skull. After a few seconds, his vision returned, and he opened is eyes to a vision of hell.
The skies burned with a crimson light that was searing at Ptolemeus' brain like it hated him, of all the souls of Parecxis Alpha, with a special hatred. A bloody star shone in the middle of the firestorms that had replaced the planet's heavens, staring down at the world with a baleful glare that spoke of an eternity of bloodshed and madness. Ptolemeus did not dare look at it with his second sight – he felt as if his eyes would burst if he tried.
This was the end of the world, he thought. The enemies of his lord had arrived, and he had not foreseen it. The servant of the God of Change that had sent him the visions in His name had not planned for this to happen. The war would soon begin in earnest, all over the world. He wondered, for a moment, if what he had done would have any real impact on the outcome.
Slow, thunderous, deliberate footsteps drew him out of his reflexions. He turned, and saw his death approaching.
'Scribe Primaris Ptolemeus Quarnolir. I have found you at last. For your crimes against my master and lord, now you shall die. Make your peace with your god, and know that he will not save you.'
Ptolemeus did not answer. He ran.
+Three minutes before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Alpha+
The warrior of the Legions who was known to his brothers only as Dekaros tossed away the corpse of the scribe. The corruption of the man offended his enhanced senses, even though it was much weaker than in some of his comrades on the Hand of Ruin. But corruption was a thing; this … weakness, where the mortal had abandoned himself to the Ruinous Powers entirely, was another.
Now that the man was dead, the Legionary's wrath was leaving him. His rage at the mortal's deeds was gone, leaving him forced to face the truth : he had failed. While some may have said he had accomplished his mission well enough, Dekaros knew that it was not enough. He should have done more. He should have done better. Most of all, he shouldn't have had so many of his plans derailed by a single mortal. That burned at his pride, the unthinkable notion that a son of Alpharius could have been outwitted in such a way. The shame was almost unbearable, and only the prospect of prostrating himself his master to ask for forgiveness could seem worse to him.
Dekaros had been sent to Parecxis Alpha by Lord Arken with a duty. Cast before the rest of the Forsaken Sons by the sorceries of the Coven, he had arrived months before the Hand of Ruin – by some quirk of the Warp, he had, in fact, arrived before he had been sent, at the same moment the Warp Storm had reached the system. The fact that he had been in two places at once – pillaging the Mulor system and plotting the Parecxis' downfall – was one he had little will to dwell upon, lest it drove him mad. As Apothecary Jikaerus had demonstrated, time was not constant where the Sea of Souls was concerned.
His task, had said Lord Arken, was to prepare the way for his brothers. He was to be a seed of ruin, he had said, with his dead, knowing smile on his lips. Plans had already been made and dark pacts sealed that would condemn the other worlds of the Parecxis system, but the hive-world's fate remained uncertain. Dekaros had not felt much enthusiasm at the Awakened One's methods for the penal and garrison worlds and relished the opportunity to prove the worth of his bloodline's ways once more. And yet, in the end, he alone had failed.
Parecxis Beta had fallen to the blows of those of its own defenders who had succumbed to the sirens of the Awakened One's allies in the Empyrean, and even now the inmates of Parecxis Gamma were running rampant through the streets. They were causing the anarchy and confusion that should have been created by him, and would have been if not for the dead scribe's meddling.
Dekaros still couldn't understand just why had the man done what he had. Had any of his actions been noticed, he would have been executed for treason, and yet he had taken them anyway. And for what ? To help the Imperium ? He had worn the stench of Chaos on him like a shroud ! He should have worked to overthrow it just as much as Dekaros and his brethren did !
And yet … All the actions that Dekaros had been able to track back to the scribe had been obstacles to his own purposes. The ammunition caches his cultists had planned to raid had been emptied, their precious content placed elsewhere without any warning. The displacement of four platoons of PDF had allowed the Imperials to quell a protest that the Legionary had engineered over several days and that was supposed to set the entire hive district in fire. The death of the Governor had made his successor the new planet's ruler, and the boy had been far more effective at it than his coward of a father would have been, preventing the massive exode of elites that Dekaros had bet on and could have used to spread further dissent and chaos. How many more such actions had he failed to notice, that would cause harm to the Forsaken Sons in the future ?
It was possible, of course, that Arken had known Dekaros would be opposed. But the Legionary doubted it. Though he still wore the colors of his old Legion, the son of Alpharius respected the former Commander of the Sons of Horus, yet he did not believe him to be infallible. No one ever knew all the details of a single battlefield, let alone a galactic war of guerrilla – and the Awakened One's source of intelligence was dubious at best. A daemon's words could never be trusted, even when these words were torn from its mouth by the iron will of a being like Arken. Dekaros knew the Awakened One did not trust the Oracle either, but he still acted upon the information it provided. In that, had sometimes thought Dekaros, Arken was much like his father, now matter how much he had denounced him when he had founded the Forsaken Sons.
No, Arken hadn't known. And even if he had, Dekaros would still have failed. He would have to ask his lord's forgiveness, offer his life in payment. That Arken would doubtlessly spare him did nothing to alleviate his burden. The standing of the Alpha Legion's sons on the Hand of Ruin would be diminished, the other Forsaken Sons would renew the old jabs and insults that had always been aimed at the youngest Legion. In a brotherhood where all that mattered was usefulness, competition between the packs was informal but fierce, and Dekaros' failure would hurt all of his blood-brothers. They would have to regain the credit they had lost, and that would mean waiting for another mission – and succeeding. And given his failure, how long would it be before Arken called upon the talents of the Twentieth Legion again ?
His vox's chime stirred him from his bitter thoughts. The Forsaken Sons were descending upon Parecxis Alpha, and deployment plans had just been sent to his armor from the ship in orbit – the first communication with his kin Dekaros had had in weeks. There was single audio transmission amongst the files, and Dekaros' heartbeats quickened when he saw it bore the mark of the Awakened One's own cyphers. He listened to it, as the skies started to burn for the second time this day, the flames once more heralding the coming of the Gods' chosen warriors. He listened to it as he ran toward the nearest planned landing point, eager to link up with any of his brethren, to wash away his shame in the crucible of war. There were still millions of soldiers on Parecxis Alpha, and they were nowhere near the level of panic and disorganisation the Forsaken Sons had met on Mulor Prime. He listened to it, and his burden lifted :
'You did well, Dekaros. I have just learned that we have an enemy in the Sea of Souls, who has taken action against us in this system. Keep looking for its agents, just as you have. We shall teach it, and all of its kind, that one does not cross the Forsaken Sons … But for now, there is a war to win.'
Dekaros ran, his hearts bursting with anticipation. A war. A true war at last, against a true enemy and with a malevolent intelligence spawned from the pits of the Warp opposing them to boot. This was perfect. As an Astartes, he was made for war; only when risking his life to take his foes' did he ever truly feel alive. Gone were his doubts and guilt : his lord's words had washed them away and replaced them with a burning anger directed at the daemon that dared opposing the Forsaken Sons and had touched the scribe's soul and twisted him into its instrument. No warp-born would manipulate or oppose the warriors under the Awakened One's command; and those who tried who soon learn to envy Serixithar's fate.
He reached the drop-pod, saluting a pack of Forsaken Sons whose armor still bore the colors of the Sixteenth Legion. They looked startled to see him – Arken hadn't made his mission a commonly known fact. For a moment, it seemed as if they were going to open fire on him – the Alpha Legion was notorious for its seemingly impossible to understand actions, and Dekaros didn't bear any sign marking him as a member of Arken's warband. He held his hands up, and started to explain.
He was in the middle of explaining the message he had received from the Awakened One – and the fact that they had more enemies here that it seemed – when the first warning came from the orbit. The Traitor Marines listened in stunned, incredulous silence as the other ships started to report the same impossible news. Then the former Sons of Horus started to howl their rage and delight at the ever-storming skies, and Dekaros couldn't help but add his voice to the choir.
The Ultramarines were coming.
Addendum : Dramatis Personae
AN : As we reach the end of the 'Seeds of Ruins' arc, I believe it is necessary to make a review of the characters that have been introduced so far. I used the 'Aspects' system from the Dresden Files RPG to remind you of the characteristics of each of them. For those of you who don't know what I am talking about, it basically amounts to a series of things that define the character, put into words.
Example : All members of the Forsaken Sons who are also Space Marines of the Legions (meaning that the ones recruited after the Exodus don't count) have the Aspect 'The Bounds of Brotherhood Are Sealed In Daemon Blood'. This Aspect reflects how they are able, on some basic level, to respect and grudgingly cooperate with each other, as well as their expertise for daemon-fighting.
Arken : Former Commander of the Sons of Horus, leader of the Forsaken Sons.
Aspects : The Awakened One ; Hatred Colder Than The Void ; Let The Galaxy Burn ; All Are But Pawns In The Long War ; The Sins Of Our Primarchs ; The Warp Knows My Name.
Damarion : Former Captain of the Sons of Horus, Terminator, leader of Arken's bodyguards.
Aspects : I Shall Protect My Lord Unto My Death ; The Weak Must Obey The Strong.
Koldak : Mortal Shipmaster of the Hand of Ruin.
Aspects : Space Is Not A Sea, You Fool.
Perseus Kilaiz : Mortal Pilot.
Aspects : Crack Pilot ; Protege Of The Legionaries.
Merchurion : Techno-Adept, commander of all Dark Mechanicus members aboard the Hand of Ruin.
Aspects : Knowledge Is Power ; Genius And Madness Look The Same To The Ignorant.
Serixithar : Daemon Prince of Tzeentch, the Oracle.
Aspects : The Deceiver Deceived ; Imprisoned Oracle ; My Voice Reaches Across These Walls.
Asim : former Thousand Son, Chaos Sorcerer, leader of the Coven.
Aspects : I Command The Darker Powers ; Magnus Let My Brothers Die ; The Blood God Has A Strange Sense Of Humor.
Cerurr : Navigator of the Hand of Ruin.
Aspects : I Know The Paths Through The Storm.
Valens Tarsis : Former Governor of Mulor Prime, General of the 147th Libertis Regiment in the 742th Expeditionary Fleet, now trapped within a modified Dreadnought and known as the Steel-Wrought.
Aspects : Pain Beyond Imagining ; Encased in a Dreadnought ; See Only What The Machine Want Him To See.
Hektor Heker'Arn : Former battle-brother of the World Eaters, possessed by a daemon of Khorne, known as the Blood Champion.
Aspects : Possessed Champion ; The Thirst For Blood Is Never Sated ; My Legion Is Dead.
Lucian : Former sergeant of the Sons of Horus.
Aspects : Hatred-Inducing Armor, Damarion Has Shamed Me.
Maerk : Former battle-brother of the Sons of Horus, now fighting in Lucian's pack.
Aspects : My Weapons And I Thirst For Battle.
Mitslav Nikifor Sertanov : Patriarch of House Sertanov, effective ruler of Mulor Prime, allied of the Forsaken Sons.
Aspects : Patriarch Of House Sertanov ; Ruler Of Mulor Prime ; Amoral Nobleman ; I Side With The Victors.
Illarion Sertanov : Grandson of Mistlav, candidate to Astartes's status.
Aspects : Don't You Know Who I am ?!; Marked By The Fates.
Kakios : Former Iron Warrior, pack leader of Iron Warriors who lost their squad prior to the Heresy. Constructor of the Hindsight's Mind.
Aspects : We Could Have Won The War ; I Will Prove My Worth.
Praxiteles : Former Iron Warrior, now fighting in Kakios' pack. Duellist owning a desecrated energy sword that once belonged to a Imperial Fist Champion.
Aspects : Dueling Is But A Complex Equation ; Look Upon My Blade And Despair.
Pelagius : Former Iron Warrior, now fighting in Kakios' pack. Disgraced Warmason.
Aspects : The Walls Speak To Me ; They Cast Me Out, And They Failed.
Nikanor and Xenon : Former Iron Warriors, now fighting in Kakios' pack. Born-brothers.
Aspects : We Are Bound By More Than Blood.
Zosimus : Former Iron Warrior, now fighting in Kakios' pack. Techmarine.
Aspects : Oh The Things I Have Seen ; Iron Within, Iron Without.
Mahlone : Native of Mulor Secundus. Aspirant Marine.
Aspects : My Mind Wanders Through Paths Unknown ; The Rage Burns In My Soul.
Ygdal : Native of Mulor Secundus. Aspirant Marine.
Aspects : I Will Have My Revenge ; Patience And Reflexion Are Rewarded.
Jikaerus : Former Apothecary of the Alpha Legion. Responsible for the breeding program on Mulor Secundus. Member of the Fleshmasters.
Aspects : My Conscience Stirs Still ; Symbiotic, Cold-Blooded Armor ; Can I Trust My Thoughts ?; Evolution Shall Follow My Design.
Tenoch : Former Apothecary of the World Eaters. Member of the Fleshmasters.
Aspects : I Cut To Ease The Pain ; Get Back Into The Fight, You Worm.
Parennefer : Former Apothecary of the Thousand Sons. Member of both the Fleshmasters and the Coven.
Aspects : I Shall Pierce The Secrets Of The Flesh-Change.
Melakor : Former Apothecary of the Emperor's Children. Member of the Fleshmasters.
Aspects : Visage Of The Horror ; We Will Create Wonders ; Failure Is But A Step On Perfection's Road.
Mikail Korzhanenko : Traitor of the Imperial Army devoted to Slaanesh.
Aspects : Devotee of Slaanesh ; Every New Sensation Is Ecstasy ; Wielder Of A Ritual Knife ; Former Killer Of The Underworld.
Pharod the Reborn : The Gardener, once Arch-Magos Biologis.
Aspects : Master Of The Plague ; The Voices Speak Endlessly ; Nurgle Has Shown Me The Truth.
Petronicus : Former Death Guard Sergent, pack leader.
Aspects : Plague Marine ; The Sins of Our Primarchs ; In Chaos I Have Found New Purpose.
Larriman : Former Death Guard, now fighting in Petronicus' pack.
Aspects : Plague Marine ; Glory To Nurgle !
Nicas : Former Death Guard, now fighting in Petronicus' pack.
Aspects : Plague Marine ; Suffer Not The Witch To Live.
Balthazar : Former hitman, dedicated to Khorne.
Aspects : I Have Walked The Darkest Paths ; No One Shall Ever Cage Me Again ; One More Skull For The Blood God.
Kazar Lico : Commander of the PDF and Arbites on Parecxis Alpha.
Aspects : The Rule of Law Must Be Maintained ; The Emperor Protects.
Akarus Tranos : Cardinal of Parecxis Alpha, former factory worker.
Aspects : I Have Seen His Divine Light ; Risen Above By His Faith.
Dekaros : Former Alpha Legion. Sent to the Parecxis system to prepare for the coming of the Forsaken Sons.
Aspects : The Human Mind Is Easily Swayed ; I Am The Seed Of Your Ruin ; Those Who Oppose Us Shall Pay.
AN : And here we are. Another chapter finished. I don't know when the next one will be done, because I am currently dedicating my writing time to the next part of the Roboutian Heresy, which will be about the Emperor's Children.
As always, if you liked this chapter, see something to correct, or have any idea for what is to come, tell me so in your reviews ! I always enjoy having feedback from my readers.
To the next time,
Zahariel out.
PS : Talon of Horus is great !