AN : at last ! This chapter took forever to write, and only partly because that's the longest one yet. In this one, we will see the Forsaken Sons facing the Sons of Calth on the field. Big battles like this one are really hard to do. I had to switch points of view often to show everything, and I am not sure it worked out really well. As always, please give me your advice on what you liked and what you didn't. At the moment of writing this, there are more followers for this fic than reviews, so please give me some feedback (I am fairly certain that this statistics are unusual, and word from readers is really useful to me for matters of inspiration and motivation).
Also, this fic has a TV Tropes page now. Please feel free to add to it - though I am legally and morally obligated to warn you of the dangers of going on TVTropes, for this site is actually a time vampire from outer space feeding on the hours lost by the poor souls trapped in its web.
To answer Spider's question : I have plans about the Forsaken Sons and the Inquisition. But first the Parecxis Campaign must end, and the next step I have planned after that. It will take a long time for us to reach the point where the warband leaves the Warp Storm and face the Imperium.
After that chapter, I think I will write another entry for the Roboutian Heresy. I have several pages of notes, and the Imperial Fists will allow me to tell what happened on Isstvan III for the first time and expand on the situation of the Traitor Legions in the Eye of Terror.
On another note, I am running out of ideas for short stories, so I am posting here a demand for some. Here are the themes that interest me most for now : the Legion Wars, and the Necrons. Of course, if you have an idea on a totally different subject, DO NOT HESITATE ! I am filled with inspiration right now, and while the feeling is most definitely an illusion, I am sure I could write at least one or two stories before the next update.
That's all for now. Enjoy this chapter, please leave your opinion about it, and most of all :
Death to the false Emperor !
I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.
At the command of Arken, the Forsaken Sons were marching to war. Three mighty hosts advanced on the coastal hive-city of Meridis, each hundreds of Astartes strong. One came from the captured capital, and was led by a son of Lorgar named Karalet. The self-named Lord of Ash had proved his resourcefulness by surviving Calth, and even if he wasn't a proper member of the Coven, the Dark Apostle's sorcerous talents were nothing to scoff at. With this host marched the bulky form of the Steel-Wrought, leashed to the will of a group of tech-priests through a cocktail of drugs and altered scan returns.
The second group had descended straight from the Hand of Ruin, and its members were eager to finally fight on Parecxis. Thousands of mortal troops accompanied them – trained militia from Mulor, renegades from Parecxis Beta, and the results of the Fleshmasters' experiments. At the head of this nightmarish host was none other than Arken himself. The Awakened One had returned from Hive Anaster by his personal Thunderhawk, bringing with him the Sorcerer Asim and the Blood Champion.
Behind them, approaching Meredis from the south, was the army of the Unbound. Lucian, brought back from the brink of death by the craft of the Fleshmasters, led the young Marines. At the front of his horde was the newest creation of Asim. For now, the daemonhost appeared normal enough, save for the black smoke rising from his armor's joints. Ever since the lord of the Coven had bound them together, Illarion and the Shadow of Horus had vied for dominance over their shared body. The rest of the Unbound, even those who had been loyal to the spire-born, gave the Possessed a wide berth. Until they were sure Illarion was back in control, they weren't going to risk being killed in a fit of daemonic spite.
The armies of the Forsaken Sons were an overwhelming force, far more than what was needed to crush Hive Meridis. Once the remaining defenses of the city were broken and its population either culled or brought to compliance, the army would be joined by its transports, and pursue its unrelenting advance onto the other continent. There, at last, the renegades would face the weakling sons of Guilliman.
The first sign that not all was as planned came in the form of a report from the Hand of Ruin. The storms that obscured the planet from auspex scans had cleared for a moment, allowing the ship to scan the city its masters were about to invade. These scans had revealed that the evacuation of Meridis was still ongoing. Thousands of vessels – literally every sea craft the loyalists had found – were forming a giant chain stretching across the ocean, from Meridis to Talerxon. Civilians were being herded onto every ship that arrived in the harbor before it returned to the safety of loyalist-held territory. That spoke of breathtaking control over the subtleties of logistics and crowd control. There was no way a human organization could pull off something like that – not in a hive that had suffered a Warp Storm for months and was about to be attacked.
The second sign was even more obvious. As the Forsaken Sons reached the outskirts of the hive, entirely abandoned as the population massed in the harbor to await evacuation, several of the hab-blocks detonated, raining tons of debris on the advancing columns and rising enough dust to blind even the Astartes' sensors. Though the Traitor Marines shrugged off the damage before continuing their advance, their mortal slaves died by the hundreds. Only the fear of their masters kept the survivors going forward – that, and the prospect of vengeance. Vehicles were lost in the explosions, whilst others were unable to cross vast gulfs that had doubtlessly been deliberately formed. Minutes later, the first reports over the barely-functioning vox-net confirmed what every warrior of the attack force already knew to be true : the Sons of Calth were here.
They have tried to blind me, but I can still see them. Their souls shine bright in my second sight, burning with hatred and nobility in equal measure. Even as I run through the rubble toward them, flying from rock to rock, some part of me that still is a soldier counts them. There are more than two hundred of them, standing between us and the innocents they are protecting. We outnumber them four to one, even without the mortals. They cannot hope to defeat us, no matter what tricks they employ.
But even as the bloodthirst rises in me, I know this is not their goal. We were wrong about the Sons of Calth. They haven't abandoned the people of Meridis. Instead, they have turned their rescue into a trap for us, where they will be able to harass us and slow us down while the evacuation is complete. Some part of me admires them for such a combination of strategy and humanity. But a far greater part of me hates them for their nobility, and I am still lucid enough to know this hatred is born of envy. Even before the Heresy, we were never that noble or that resourceful. We were …
You were as you are now. The children of the Blood God, marked by His hand and killing in His name !
I burst out of a cloud of dust and amongst them. Three warriors in cobalt and jade, who fire at me as soon as they see me. They know me for what I am – the Sondof Calth have all seen Possessed in battle before. Their long-range weapons, fired at such proximity, pierce through my warped armor, and one of the projectile tears a hole through my left wing. Blood flows from both wounds, and I laugh. It has been a long time since I last bled in combat. My axe swings and cuts a Legionary apart, showering us all in gore. It has been a long time since I killed a brother Space Marine too. Heker'Arn roars in pleasure and I roar too, sending my remaining foes tumbling back. I can feel the gaze of the Blood God from the skies, just as I hear the laughter of Heker'Arn's kin. They crave the blood being shed, the pain and sacrifice of the grandest souls. On the opposite edge of the city, the mass of humanity is drawing countless lesser spirits – but is is here, on this field of battle were demi-gods wage war, that the true scions of the Warp gather.
My opponents have drawn their own blades, and are moving to encircle me. They know that to turn their back to me would mean certain death, as opposed to the mere near-certainty of it now that they face me.
I batter the sword of the first aside with my left hand, the claws resisting the bit of its adamantium teeth with unnatural ease. My axe takes his skull off his shoulders in the next breath, and in the same moment his comrade rams his own weapon into the back of my right knee. I screams in anger and turns to face him with a flap of my wings, and the shaft of my axe crashes against his armor.
He falls to the ground and me on my knees, but while I am merely waiting for the wound he inflicted to heal, my enemy will not get up again. I heard the crush of his spine when I hit him – an improbable result, but Warp-touched weapons have a way of tweaking the odds to their whims. Despite his injury, the cripple yet lives, and I can feel the hate and contempt in his gaze as he looks upon me.
I lift my axe to deliver the final blow and give this worthy foe a warrior's death – and then the world around me explodes. Too late, I realize that they brought me here, and the charges buried under the ground detonate. As tons of rockrete begin to bury me, and the rage threatens to overtake me entirely, the only thing I can think of is this : after Armatura, I cannot believe that any son of Angron fell for that trick again.
Damarion had no idea what Arken was thinking as they struggled to cross the rubble created by the loyalists' trap. If the lord of the Forsaken Sons was angered by the Sons of Calth's defiance, he showed no sign of it, simply moving forward with all the speed he could force his Terminator armor to. They were spearheading the advance of their forces, tearing a path for the rest of the Legionaries and the mortal auxiliaries to follow. The enemy was giving ground, falling back while firing disciplined volleys at the renegades' ranks. They weren't retreating : they were drawing the Forsaken Sons wherever they wanted them to be. That much was obvious to Damarion, and thus it had to be to Arken.
And yet, in such conditions, it was better to walk forward in a trap than to wander aimlessly – or worse, turn back and retreat. The other groups, with which all but the most intermittent contact had been lost, would also be pressing forward in order to reach the port. The Sons of Calth wanted to protect the civilians; therefore, all the attackers had to do to find them was to get to the mortals. Besides, with no way to contact Arken, none of the sub-leaders would risk being the only one falling back.
All Damarion could do for now was keep pace with his lord and protect him from whatever else Guilliman's get had planned. He and the rest of Arken's bodyguards – a group of seven Terminators in all, wearing black armor and carrying the best weapons Merchurion had been able to forge or restore – formed a loose circle around their liege. All of them were Sons of Horus, a fact that had rattled more than one of the Forsaken Sons. To end this grief, Damarion had allowed anyone who beat one of the bodyguards in the training chambers to take the place of the one they had defeated. Since that rule had been installed, shortly after their depart from Mulor, there had been fifty-two such challenges, six of which had been directed at Damarion himself. All of the original members of the group still held their positions.
It did not mean that they were the best fighters of the warband. Even Damarion had to admit, in the privacy of his own thoughts, that they were a few of the Forsaken Sons who could defeat him in single combat. But most such skilled individuals were leaders of men, and the warband needed leadership more than bodyguards. If nothing else, their own ambition prevented them from seeking a place amongst Arken's guardians. Still, all of the current guards were champions in their own right, who could have led their own pack had they chosen to. It fell to Damarion to direct them so that they would remain focused on the Awakened One's protection.
At this moment, Arken was communicating with the Hand of Ruin, whose emitters and sensors were the only thing capable of opening a stable vox-link in this situation.
'No,' he grunted to whoever he was talking to. 'You can't try to bombard the harbor. In these conditions, you are just as likely to hit us.' There was a short pause while he listened to the answer. 'I don't care how good our gunners are ! This is a world drowning in the Warp, teetering on the brink of full-scale daemonic incursion ! Why do you think I didn't order you to flatten the other hives from orbit in the first place ?! Just tell the other commanders to keep advancing east and rendez-vous with us there. We will take care of this mess here on the ground.'
He shut down the vox-link and turned to Damarion, who was walking to his right. Unlike the chief of his bodyguards; Arken appeared to be bare-headed, his bald and scarred skull seemingly exposed but the slight shimmering of the forcefield surrounding it.
'Where is the Blood Champion ?' asked the lord of the Forsaken Sons.
'Gone,' answered Damarion. 'He went ahead of the rest of us, with these wings of his.'
As soon as he had finished speaking, another explosion shook the ground. A scream of daemonic fury and dismay pierced the ears of he attackers, and the march faltered as the implications of that scream sank in. Arken turned his attention back toward the general direction of their foes, his expression still as unreadable as stone.
'Forward !' he shouted, his voice booming over the background noise of a murdered city. 'Bring me the skulls of Guilliman's bastard sons !'
The Legionaries and mortal auxiliaries following in the Terminators' wake roared back at their lord, and kept advancing with renewed vigor.
Karalet and his men were, to the leader's increasing wrath, not advancing at all. The Sons of Calth – and by the blood of the Dark Gods, how he loathed that name – had pinned them in place. More than three hundred Marines were blocked by the collapsed buildings, and the loyalist sharpshooters were taking down all those who tried to climb the obstacles. How in the most holy name of the Pantheon were they managing it in that dust, Karalet did not know. Perhaps the faithless dogs of the Mechanicus had managed to create a new version of the Astartes power armor, capable of piercing the dust clouds.
Several of the warriors entrusted to him by Arken already lay dead, several others were incapacitated, and they hadn't so much as seen their enemy. When he had received his command from the Awakened One, Karalet had seen it as a sign of the Gods, a chance to impress them and prove his worth to Arken. The son of Horus shone with the favor of the Greater Powers, and Karalet, just elevated to his circle of lieutenants, was going to fail at fulfilling his objectives.
The shame of it burned in his soul, and he wanted nothing more than to rip apart those pathetic shade of a dead world with his bare hands. He couldn't reach most of his troops, preventing him from ordering a massive, coordinated charge that the loyalist snipers would have been powerless to stop. His sorcery was being blocked – a group of Librarians were combining forces to single out psychically active minds and cut them off from the Warp. While it meant that the Sons of Calth were dedicating a huge amount of resources to saving the miserable humans, all that mattered to Karalet was that he couldn't call upon the bargains he had made with the Empyrean's denizens.
So his only option was to do something he had really hoped he wouldn't have to do. He turned to the tech-priests who had followed the host since Santorius. He could see the power of the Warp stream through their bodies, though they were as candles compared to the raging inferno of Merchurion's own ascended being. Sometimes, Karalet wondered just what the adepts of the Dark Mechanicum would turn into at the end of their journey to illumination. All those who sought the wisdom and power of the Gods were changed by the trials and blessings of the Ruinous Powers – and often, even those who did not seek them.
'Unleash the Steel-Wrought,' he commanded them.
For a long time, he had slumbered. Pain and anger had been taken from him, replaced by a cold numbness of his senses as well as of his mind. He had not dreamed, lost in utter blackness and sensory deprivation. His thoughts had been halted, letting him experience something more akin to death than to any kind of sleep mortals and immortals could enjoy. But no more, though he did not know why.
Now he was awake once more, and with awareness the memory of pain and the flood of fury had returned. He hungered for vengeance against those who had hurt him, who had broken his flesh and … and …
He couldn't remember. He was still dizzy, and his memories were blurred. He couldn't remember his name, but he did not need to. He could see his enemies through the dust of the city they had murdered, their armor red and emblazoned with blasphemous markings. Looking at them filled his heart with hatred. How many innocents had died when they had collapsed these buildings, all to trap him and his loyal allies ? Thousands ? Millions ? But they would pay for that.
He advanced on them, their fire ricocheting on his armor. In response, he lifted his left arm, and unleashed a wave of burning promethium at the traitors. Promethium ? How could he do that ? Hadn't it been a bolter the last time he had fought against those who had turned against the God-Emperor ? He couldn't remember, but it did not matter. All that mattered was that the traitors burned and died, cooked in their armors, screaming to their dark gods for aid even as they finally perished. It was a good death for heretic like them – may their souls burn forevermore in whatever hell awaited their worthless shades.
The others were retreating before him, but he would not let them flee. He was retribution incarnate, a ghost kept from his rightful repose and tasked with the destruction of all traitors. None would escape from him.
'RUN AS MUCH AS YOU WANT, TRAITORS,' he shouted at them through the speakers atop his metallic body. 'I WILL STILL KILL YOU ALL !'
The monstrosity of steel and adamantium screamed something inarticulate at them, but Librarian Nemius didn't need to understand the words to feel the emotion behind the horrifying sound. Hatred and pain radiated from it like heat from a sun. This was nothing unexpected from a servant of the Ruinous Powers, let along one entombed into the profaned coffin of a Dreadnought. And yet, Nemius felt something at odds with what his eyes were telling him.
On the outside, the creature that was tearing through his brothers appeared much like the other renegade Dreadnoughts he had faced during the Shadow Crusade in Ultramar. Few warriors of the World Eaters were ever interred, and the Twelfth Legion's engines had seemed normal enough – beyond the fevered madness caused by the crude implants set in their brain. His current enemy was much more like those ancients of the Seventeenth Legion Nemius had seen. It was painted in black and gold, and the machine's head-like bunch of scanners and augurs were shaped in the form of a daemon's skull, with a circle of chains sculpted around it like a loose collar. Corrupt blood and other foul humors dripped from its massive arms, and the fire projected by its left was purple and unnatural, eating through ceramite with ease and howling with Neverborn's cries.
Here was no pure union of flesh and metal, but a corruption of both through the madness of the Warp. And yet, he could feel no taint from the hellish machine, only bottomless pain and fury. Something was terribly wrong here, and Nemius suspected he knew what. The mere thought of what the Forsaken Sons may had done made his blood run cold, but it also opened new possibilities and ways of action. Standing atop what had once been a forty-story building, far enough to be sure that no enemy would take a shot at him, the Librarian lifted his staff, closed his eyes, and projected his mind within that of the Dreadnought's host. His brothers in the circle, back at the hive's port, sensed his coming and let him pass into the Sea of Souls. Brushing aside the tendrils of daemonic energy reaching for his soul, he focused his sixth sense on the Dreadnought's soul and established a telepathic link.
As always, his transhuman mind struggled to express the inside of the host's mind in a fashion he could understand. The Dreadnought's occupant, however, was a soul far more troubled than any he had ever met. When his surroundings became stable again, he was shocked by how his subconscious had chosen to express what his powers had found. It was as he had thought. Here was a soul that was as loyal as any of his brothers, bound into slavery by invasive technology and the blackest of sorceries. Veil after veil of deceit had been placed upon its eyes, and it was kept half-comatose by drugs flooding through the pitiful remnants of its flesh. For the man trapped within the machine, the Sons of Calth were the traitors, appearing to him as Word Bearers bearing the debased insignia of Chaos corruption, while the Forsaken Sons were perceived as Ultramarines themselves. And the interred soul was too weak to realize the deception. This was a blasphemy such as Nemius found it hard to believe any Legionary would ever allow, even one who had fallen so far as to betray his oath to the Emperor. Yet the evidence was there, plain to see with his mind's eye.
As Nemius felt the state of the host's body, he was appealed at the desecration that had taken place. Not only had the traitors placed a human inside a Dreadnought chassis – something that was considered impossible, for no human mind and body could endure the strain of half-immortality – but they had reduced the poor soul to his most basic biological component. Only a brain and an attached spinal cord floated in the walker's sarcophagus, kept alive by the Warp energy alimenting the machine.
While most of the brain was nude, the bones of its skull stripped off to allow cables and needles to be inserted into the grey matter, the right side of the cortex was covered in silver metal, the color of which Nemius could perceive even with his sixth sense. He recognized it, though he wondered how a human had come to receive an augmentation from the Tenth Legion, and then fallen into the traitors' hands. The augmetic was how the human was capable of controlling the Dreadnought, even in his half-aware state. Its Medusan technology – something that not even the Tech-lords of Mars had ever been able to study – was enhancing his reflexes and connection to the machine-spirit of the engine, twisted and corrupted as it was.
He didn't have long. Soon, the daemon engine would detect his intrusion, and shield its host's mind against his touch. Yet as he looked upon the tortured spark of life of the man trapped within, he realized that he couldn't simply kill him and free him from his torment. Wards had been placed around his brain, intended to protect the flesh component of the machine from being consumed by its aetheric aspects, but also effectively blocking any brutal psychic assault. As much as Nemius was repulsed at leaving the poor wretch to his fate, all that the Librarian could do was punish those who held the leash. He looked for the connection, the link that bound the Dreadnought to those controlling it, maintaining the veil of lies upon the man's mind.
Three beings were keeping the being – the Steel-Wrought, he heard the name spoken in daemonic whispers at the edge of his perception – under their control. They weren't far, for they had to be : the stream of data received by the Dreadnought was constantly transmitted to them and altered by their own cogitators before being sent back to the deceived spirit within. If there was anything human remaining with their corrupted shells of metal, Nemius couldn't detect it and didn't care. With a psychic roar that cast Neverborn spirits away from his prone body in a radius of several dozens meters, he sent a wave of purifying fire down the link, feeling a bitter vindication in the destruction of these slavers, even if he couldn't free the slave.
Karalet watched and laughed as the Steel-Wrought tore into the enemy lines. There was something deeply satisfying into seeing the servants of the False Emperor fighting amongst themselves, each side believing the other to be heretical and treacherous. Even with his connection to the Warp stunted, the Dark Apostle could feel the approval of the Gods as they looked upon what had become of Mulor Prime's Governor. In a glorious instant, the Lord of Ash had a vision of the whole Imperium torn apart by civil wars, butchering loyal citizens by billions for imaginary crimes against the False Emperor, while the Dark Gods laughed in the heavens at the results of Mankind's ignorance. He knew then that in the millenia to come, whether by the influence of Chaos or not, the empire of Humanity would be fighting itself as often as any of its other, countless foes. That would, in time, be its undoing, and allow the chosen of the Pantheon to rise from its ashes to rule forever in the material realm.
Karalet's pleasant vision was interrupted when, all of a sudden the Dreadnought stopped its advance. The commander turned to the tech-priests, ready to castigate them, but froze as he saw them. Blue warp-fire ran on their limbs and in their bodies, destroying everything it touched until the trio of adepts collapsed on the ground as charred husks. Psychic intrusion – someone of not inconsiderable power and skill had stopped the Steel-Wrought and destroyed its handlers. Karalet quickly turned back his gaze to the machine, half-thinking that it would turn on them now that those who deceived its senses were gone. But his worries appeared to be unfounded, for the Dreadnought simply remained still, despite lacking any trace of damage grave enough to have deactivated it. Deciding to wonder about it later, the Dark Apostle lifted his crozius high and charged, singing prayers to the Dark Gods, his guard surrounding him and the rest of his army quickly following. The line of the Sons of Calth was broken, their ranks still in disarray. Now was the time to use the opportunity the Steel-Wrought had offered them.
'Blood for the Gods !' he shouted, and the battle cry was taken up by the troops following him. 'Death to the False Emperor !'
To the ignorant, an army may seem to be nothing more than a gathering of warriors, pointed in the direction of the enemy and ordered to kill until either them or the foe lay dead. In that interpretation, war was nothing more than the cold application of mathematics, with troops superior both in number and quality crushing all opposition under the sheer strength of their forces. That was how war happened in war stories, anyway – something Lucian had once enjoyed reading, if only because it was one of the few things that could make him laugh. But, of course, as with so many other things, remembrancers – at least those who had never seen war from any closer than a ship in orbit – had gotten it all wrong.
The truth was that an army was much, much more than the mere sum of its components. It was similar to a living creature : the cells that composed it could, together, accomplish things far beyond what they could have done alone. What enabled them to do so was the ability to exchange information between themselves, so as to act in a common effort. But now, the Forsaken Sons had lost that ability. The Sons of Calth had effectively cut each of the assault groups from the others, and even amongst each group, communication was problematic. Not only had the vox and the visibility been disabled by the dust, telepathy was similarly blocked – the members of the Coven dispatched to each group unable to synchronize in the ether to fight off the loyalist Librarians efficiently.
In those conditions, the Sons of Calth stood a very realistic chance of annihilating the attackers. If they focused on each group in turn, using their apparent ability to see through the dust clouds, they could slowly erode the Forsaken Sons' numbers – and considering how many warriors the Awakened One had committed to the assault on Meridis, this could very well cost the warband the war for Parecxis. Lucian admired the cunning behind the trap. It was, as he was sure others amongst the Forsaken Sons had noticed, the perfect union of idealism and practicality : striking a blow against a foe while buying time for those they had pledged to save. Mercy and devotion, combined with the ruthlessness needed to destroy the very city they protected. The dust alone would kill hundreds of unprotected mortal slaves, choking them to death without the loyalists needing to use a single bolt.
Yes, it was a great plan. Against any other foe, it may even have worked. But the Forsaken Sons had trump cards that their enemies could hardly be blamed for not including in their theoreticals. With a feral smile, Lucian turned to the one that had been placed with his group. As always, the sight of the creature sent a wave of unease through his veins, which in turn caused his armor to pump a new dose of stims into his bloodstream. Learning the truth about the creature – both its mortal and immortal one – had only increased the feeling, but he had to admit that the daemonhost was impressive to look upon, at the very least. Now they would see what it could do on the battlefield.
'Illarion,' he called, his voice easily picked up by the Possessed's supernatural senses. The answer came as a whisper in his thoughts, dripping with impatience and unspoken promises of suffering and bloodshed. Merely communicating with the creature filled Lucian's mind with images of slaughter and ruin.
Yes ?
'Kill them,' he managed to say, feeling blood begin to trickle to his lips from his nose. 'Kill them all.'
They shall know no fear.
These words had first been spoken by the Emperor Himself, then repeated by the Primarch Roboute Guilliman upon his publication of the Codex Astartes. They were more than a platitude, or a metaphor. Space Marines were literally fearless – at least in the sense mortals understood it. They were genetically engineered killing machines, and cowardice was bred out of them during their ascension. Yet they could still feel concern for their own lives, and those of their comrades – reckless fools would, after all, made poor soldiers. Duty was the anchor of a Space Marine's violent existence, around which their entire psychological landscape was built.
And it was in failing of that duty that the loyalist Astartes could experience dread again. During the Heresy, Astartes had known fear when their brothers had turned against them, seemingly driven mad and threatening the ideals for which they had all fought and bled. Those remaining loyal amongst the Traitor Legions had known fear as they lost the trust and brotherhood of their kindred, and the traitors had known it when the Siege had failed or when they had been forced to face their own daemons. As the galaxy burned in the fires lit by Horus Lupercal, the Emperor's words had been proven untrue. The Neverborn had drunk on that fear like a rare wine, feasting on the strength of that most potent emotion. And few had drunk as much of it as the creature that would come to call itself the Shadow of Horus.
The first thing that the Sons of Calth felt was the unnatural cold. Despite their power armor, they all felt it bite into their flesh. Then, their enhanced helm-augurs, designed by a tech-priest allied with their Chapter during the Scouring, began to scramble. They heard the screams of the damned and static filled their vision before abruptly clearing, revealing a vistas known to all warriors of the Chapter : Calth. Not the Calth-that-was, the verdant paradise that shone with the promise of a glorious future. The loyalists were looking at the ruined hellscape of the world which name they bore in stunned disbelief. The skies burned with the sickly light of a poisoned star. For miles in every direction, there was naught but scorched, radioactive ground and the remnants of the armies slain in this conflict that had murdered this world and almost destroyed the Thirteenth Legion.
And there, before the translocated warriors, stood a figure clad in shadow and black flame. The creature wore an Astartes' battle-plate, its emblems invisible beneath the bones and spikes that rose from its distorted shape. Yet it was clear that this was no son of a Primarch. Smoke rose from the joints, forming screaming, terrified faces. Its hands ended in long, scythed claws that burned with the same unholy fire that shone in the creature's eyes. Its face was a helm, sealed into the rest of the armor, but that appeared to be made of a flowing black metal that took the aspect of a living visage – one that all the Sons of Calth knew very well. It was that of Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of the Imperium, Arch-Betrayer and Chosen of Chaos.
Confronted with this shade, the Space Marines froze only for a moment – they had seen and fought many daemons and their Secondborn kin during the Heresy, and only this one's unusual appearance put them off. But that moment was all the Possessed needed. Moving with impossible speed, it cut a first loyalist in two with a single sweep of its talons, before ripping out the innards of a second. As it killed, the handsome mask twisted into a daemonic figure with a fanged mouth that never closed and howled at its foes. The sound was that of a thousand dying screams. To some of the Sons of Calth, it seemed that there was another voice beneath the ghostly echoes, one that screamed not in agony, but helpless fury and despair.
Three warriors charged the abomination, but they died when it turned its head toward them and vomited a stream of black fire. The daemon laughed as it kept killing, feeding on the death-cries of its victims and their rising sense of powerlessness. The memories brought back by the illusion of Calth, the face of Horus, the slaughter of their brothers : this was starting to make them doubt they could win this battle.
And then, one warrior struck it. He bore the mark of a sergeant on his armor, and carried a chainsword decorated with purity seals that had been given to him by the planet's Cardinal Tranos. His name was written on his shoulder guard : Karl of the Sons of Calth, once a battle-brother of the 247th Company of the Thirteenth Legion. His blow did little more than scar the armor of the beast, yet it drew its attention to him. Faced with the visage of Horus Lupercal and a creature that had killed ten of his brothers in as many heartbeats, the veteran held his ground in defiance. That, more than anything, seemed to annoy the daemon. It spoke, its voice a chorus of the damned :
'A good effort, son of Guilliman … but that's all you get.'
'We will see about that now, won't we ?' answered Karl, his blade held up at the daemon's flowing visage.
Too quick for the eye to follow, the Secondborn moved on the sergeant. It batted the chainsword away, though its hand hissed where it came in contact with the weapon's purity seals. With its left hand, it lifted Karl up, holding the veteran at the same level than its own face, and spoke once more, its tone filled with arrogance and the promise of pain :
'I am the Shadow of the Arch-Traitor, little man ! I am the fear of a billion billion souls given form, brought together by the tides of the Sea of Souls and incarnated by the sorcery of one who could end you with a thought ! I am …'
The daemon was interrupted by the impact of the Son of Calth's fist on its mouth. Fangs broke under the shock, their fragments dissolving into nothingness before they touched the ground. The creature staggered back, letting the loyalist escape from its grasp. He picked up his fallen blade, pressed the activation rune, and threw himself at the abomination before him.
'You ! Are ! Nothing !' shouted the Son of Calth, adding a new word at the top of his lungs for every wound he inflicted.
His first blow cut a deep scar into the Possessed's torso. His second severed three of the claws of its right hand. His third pierced right through it and burst from its back, splattering black ichor on the rubble beneath. The Shadow of Horus screamed in pain and outrage. It pushed the loyalist away, tearing the blade free from its chest as it did so. Already the wound was healing, but the black flames that surrounded the beast were growing dimmer. It was getting weaker, and the Sons of Calth could all see it. More than the blade, the warrior's dismissal of its power had hurt it. Neverborn were creatures of symbolism and emotions, and this one was made of fear and the image of the traitor Warmaster. Faced with the denial of the Son of Calth and his absence of fear, it was weakened.
'You are failure,' said the same warrior that had wounded the daemonhost. 'If there is even a shred of truth in your claims – if you truly were born from the remnants of Horus' dark soul – then you are the ghost of a man who failed in everything. In his honor. In his duty. And even in his betrayal !'
The scenery of Calth began to blur as the daemon's hold over its power faded, denied by courage and honor. The other loyalists gathered around their enemy, blades held high. They had learned long ago that bolts were ineffective against the Neverborn, but that the sword – a weapon whose symbolism came from the first days of Mankind – was capable of hurting the creatures. Together, they struck once more. The daemon blocked or dodged all of the blows but one, roaring in anger and casting away its would-be slayers. But the blow that reached it was the most telling of all. Karl's sword pierced deep into the creature's breastplate once more, right where it had done so but a few seconds before. The fiend screamed as its control over its host weakened. The mirage of Calth vanished, and this time it was mortal blood that spilled onto the stones, tainted as it may be.
The black fire that surrounded it receded and, with a disgustingly organic sound, the traitor's armor returned to a classic Mark IV pattern instead of the twisted abomination it had been under the spirit's influence. Holding his wound closed with his hands, the renegade, now once more in control of his flesh, stumbled backward. His helm was gone, and as he locked gaze with Karl, the Son of Calth saw a face that may have once been regal, but was no distorted by pain tics and hatred. He tried to speak, but only blood left his mouth. Then he fell, vanishing at the bottom of the pile of rubble where the creature in his soul had fought against the loyalist sergeant.
Karl took a moment to catch his breath, before calling for a retreat. Already the Forsaken Sons were advancing, ready to crush the Sons of Calth while they were still exposed from the battle against the daemon. As his brothers fell back in precise formation, a signal passed through the vox-channels, and Karl smiled, for he knew that the trap had been sprung. All that remained was for them to do their duty and delay the traitors once they turned course, having learned of what had just happened.
It happened all at once. One moment they were pursuing the Sons of Calth, the next they had turned back to face them. One moment all they could see were twenty or so Legionaries in front of them, which they outnumbered ten to one without the mortals. The next, the group of Terminators had been isolated from the rest of its group by a cordon of dozens of loyalists, and surrounded by yet more of them. A perfect ambush, and one they hadn't even seen coming, so lost they had been in the prospect of spilling the blood of Guilliman's sons. Its purpose was obvious : to kill Arken. Without their leader, the Forsaken Sons would most probably collapse into warring factions. The unity they had been able to maintain through their bonds of brotherhood forged in the Exodus would not endure long without the authority of the Awakened One.
Which meant that, as Arken's chief bodyguard, it was Damarion's duty to ensure his lord's survival. Without asking for permission, he activated his armor's vox beacon, establishing a liaison with the Hand of Ruin. Within seconds, the trusty mechanisms of his battle-plate had awakened the link, and he gave his orders to the one mortal he needed to hear them :
'Perseus, we are being ambushed by the Sons of Calth. Get here with the Thunderhawk, now !'
There was the briefest reply of acknowledgment, and the link shut off. The Terminator refocused his attention on the battlefield, ready to kill anyone who dared to threaten his lord.
It was then that he saw him, emerging from the clouds of dust like the ghost of an ancient age. The breath of the former Captain of the Sons of Horus was taken at the sight. The newcomer's armor was as covered in dust as that of the rest of them, but his colors were clearly visible. The sapphire and emerald of the Sons of Calth seemed elevated by the dirt instead of diminished by it. His helm was fashioned in the aspect of a golden mask, whose kingly face looked upon the Forsaken Sons with righteous fury. Like them, his armor was a Cataphractii model, yet he moved with a speed and grace that belied its weight. In his right hand he carried a power sword of exquisite craftsmanship, its silver blade kept clean by the crackling energy field surrounding it. In his left, he bore a shield a size of an Astartes' boarding shield, but which appeared no bigger than a buckler in the giant's hands. His shoulder pads wore the emblem of his company – the Third of that Ultramarines' offshoot – and the mark that Damarion knew meant here was the Champion of that division. His name was also written in golden letters on his chest : Thecius.
The awe faded, and Damarion felt hatred course in his veins instead. He wanted nothing more than to face this paladin of false ideals and the lies of a hateful tyrant, but he knew he couldn't. The Champion had clearly come to confront Arken, and beyond all considerations of honor and respect, it was Damarion's duty to ensure that no one would interfere with the duel. After all, he doubted the loyalists had engineered this whole elaborate trap just to rely on the results of a one-on-one battle.
The lord of the Forsaken Sons and the Champion of murdered Calth clashed together in silence, with no pre-battle taunts, threats nor any declaration. Arken was wielding a pair of lightning claws, and there was nothing elegant or subtle in how the Awakened One fought. Efficiency was all that mattered to him, and he was only more dangerous for it. As their escorts collided and began to battle, the two Astartes began their own duel. Thecius blocked most of Arken's blows with his shield, and deflected the others with his sword, while the traitor warlord turned away the loyalist's strike with his blades. Despite the armor they wore, both warriors did all they could to avoid putting it to the test – partly because of pride, mostly because their foe wielded weapons that could truly damage them.
The duel lasted a full minute before the first blow being struck. One of Arken's claws passed through Thecius' guard, pointed directly at his face. The loyalist dodged at the last second, but the energized talon tore through the side of the golden mask, and into the flesh beneath. A few drops of blood were spilt before the field surrounding the weapon cauterized the wound.
'First blood to me,' Arken declared calmly.
'Last blood is all that matter, traitor,' spat back the Son of Calth, his voice thick with hatred. 'I will avenge Chapter Master Veros !'
'Your lord died screaming, little Angel,' declared the Awakened One, still utterly calm. 'His soul yet burns in the claws of a thousand daemons. Soon, you will join him, as will all other scions of your pathetic Chapter.'
'We will defeat you, traitor !'
'No,' said Arken softly, lifting up his claws for another round. 'You will not.'
In the wake of Illarion's fall, Lucian ordered the Unbound to advance. Despite his ultimate defeat, the Possessed had succeeded in breaking the enemy lines, and it was vital they kept their momentum. Two hundred Astartes were running toward an enemy not even a quarter of their strength, but the charge was taking its toll. Mahlone had already lost three pack members, one of which he was sure wouldn't get back up again. The Sons of Calth were retreating before them, but it was the very opposite of a rout. They were falling back to pre-planned position, and shooting at the Unbound from prepared gun emplacements. Sometimes one of them would be too slow, or an Unbound faster or luckier than expected, and they would get one of them. But if the rate of attrition was as bad as Mahlone suspected, there wouldn't be any Unbound left alive by the time they reached the Awakened One.
Damn the loyalists for using such underhanded tactics, thought the young Astartes. And damn us for falling for them !
But it was impossible to stop the charge, now. Too many Unbound were lost to the battle – stimulants flowing into their altered flesh. Mahlone didn't doubt Lucian was cursing the Fleshmaster's 'innovations' as much as he was. And yet, they had to reinforce Arken, and a slow, methodical advance would never see them reach his position in time to matter. Cursing loudly in a dozen languages he had never needed to speak aloud before, Mahlone kept running and shooting ahead.
Life aboard the Hand of Ruin had changed much of the mortal servants of the Forsaken Sons in the aftermath of the Mulor campaign. In the time between the end of the Exodus and the warband's first war, those few who had survived the nightmarish journey had grown used to the ship's emptiness. Of a crew of thousands, barely a few hundreds had remained. They had owed their survival as much to their own skills as to their master's protection, and were all valuable, trained crew. The Astartes vessel had been a place of quiet calm and order, where every soul was required to tend to the great machine's many needs. That wasn't the case anymore. Now the ship was teeming with life, and corruption spread amongst the weak at an impressive rate.
Terrified slaves taken from Mulor's hive-cities, who had clung to golden aquilas and prayed to the Emperor as they were dragged on board, now payed homage to the Eightfold Pantheon by sacrificing their own. Mutation was rife, and creatures that weren't Neverborn yet weren't human either stalked the darkest corridors, hungering for prey. Even the most ordered rabble was still far below the usual standard of discipline on Legion vessels. Things had become more … relaxed since they had turned against Terra, of course, but the degeneration had been less marked aboard the Hand of Ruin than many other Sons of Horus ships. Now, some of the wretches taken were no better than the chattel gathered by the Word Bearers and used as bolter fodder during the Heresy. On a sentimental level, this was a blow to the old crew's dignity. On a much more practical level, it also put their physical safety at risk.
Jealousy of preferential treatments, lingering thoughts of vengeance and plain old stupidity made the new arrivals seek to murder the old crew. There had been few successful attempts to date, all met with prompt and terrible retribution from the Legionaries as well as the other crew members themselves. Still, it never hurt to be careful, and a touch of paranoia could well save your life on a ship filled with lunatics – even when the most dangerous and well-equipped ones were busy dying on the planet below.
That was why Perseus spent most of his time inside the Thunderhawk he piloted for the Awakened One and his bodyguards. As someone personally connected to the Hand of Ruin's unchallenged master, the pilot was mostly safe from these assaults. But several people, either too far gone to care or wanting to hurt their oppressors through their valued slaves, had already tried anyway. They were all dead, of course. Perseus wasn't much of a believer, but he didn't think that the Dark Gods would have made him survive the Siege of Terra, the following retreat, the Exodus and the destruction of Isleas just for him to be brained in a dark corridor. At least, he was determined not to make it happen, which was why he spent as much time as he could nearby the heavy bolters of the gunship. Besides, the capricious craft always required maintenance, even if Merchurion didn't like a non initiated like Perseus dabbling in the mysteries of the Mechanicum.
When the call came, Perseus had another reason to be glad he already was in the gunship. He closed the panel on the circuits he had been worked on, then paused, as the orders he had just been given reached his brain's reasoning parts several seconds after confirming he had heard them. He actually considered asking for further confirmation, but thought better of it. He was already going to have to perform an extraction in the middle of a ruined hive district, with no visibility, and under enemy fire. Better not to further lengthen the odds of his survival by pissing Damarion off.
He ran to the cockpit, shouting orders down his vox for servitors and menials to clear the hangar. The gunship had been refueled as soon as it had returned from the planet two hours ago. Perseus hadn't expected to be called back to Parecxis Alpha until Meridis had fallen – but the unforeseen was a daily occurrence aboard the Traitor Legions' vessel. The engines roared, and as soon as the hangar was cleared and the door to space opened, the transport launched itself out of the Hand of Ruin.
Perseus hoped he would arrive in time. If Arken was to die ...
Asim was still weakened from binding the Shadow of Horus to Illarion's soul. Had he been at his best, he could have torn through the Sons of Calth's barrier, or at least reach out to the other psykers deployed across the invading forces. Together, they would have been able to oppose the loyalists' focused power and allow their forces access to the Warp once more. It was humiliating to be denied his own powers like that, especially on a world so deep in the Sea of Souls. Power ran all around him, yet as it was, all he could do was block the bolts aimed at him and quicken his reactions through what little energy he could gather to him. From a purely academic point of view, the spell of the sons of Guilliman was fascinating. From a practical one, it could very well kill him if he wasn't careful and dragged the full attention of its makers to him. He could feel them even now, a circle of bright minds at the other side of the city, scrying the ruins their kindred had created for the first sign of psychic activity. It was as if a giant web had been spread on the hive, and to tug at it would bring the attention of the circle to the unlucky practitioner like some monstrous spider. With no way to synchronize, the Forsaken Sons' own psychically gifted couldn't act against the loyalists. Very clever indeed.
A pack of warriors had formed around him, though he had not asked for such protection. He supposed none of the six Iron Warriors wanted to explain to Arken that the leader of the Coven had taken a bolt to his skull while they were nearby. Or perhaps Arken had given them orders to do so, knowing the Sorcerer would be diminished after his recent ordeal. It burned his pride that the former Commander of the Sons of Horus would think he needed to be protected. It burned him even more to know that the Awakened One, if he had indeed given that order, had been right.
He and his escorts were advancing behind Arken, amongst the throng of human slaves. The souls of the mortals were weak flames to his psychic sense, but with so many of them gathered and their thoughts aligned toward one purpose, he couldn't help but feel their emotions. Fear. Hatred. Bloodlust. The raw, savage, mindless joy of battle. As all mobs were wont to do, they reminded Asim of one giant, dumb animal – some beast of burden that the Forsaken Sons could guide toward their foes by appealing to its basest instincts. In truth, the trap of the Sons of Calth had made the mortals all but useless – they saw even less than the Legionaries and struggled to keep up with their masters' advance. Now that they were being attacked instead of pursuing a retreating foe, however, the mass of bodies at least provided some cover, and their wild fire would perhaps pin the loyalists in place.
You don't need to rely on them. If you would but accept my offer, you could rip apart the souls of these petty Librarians, and then nothing would protect these fools from your might …
The voice came from a daemonic visage reflected in the pool of blood and gore formed by the gruesome remains of a dozen butchered cultists. Asim ignored the voice, like he had since the battle had begun and necessity had demanded he deactivated the visual filters he had used.
You are weakened, father, and you have fallen into your enemy's trap. How many of your brothers will die in the time it will take to force back the Anathema's slaves ? What if Arken falls here because you didn't accept my offer ? Without him, all of you will die in vain, without accomplishing a fraction of what you could have achieved. And it will all be your fault, father …
That was it. Asim snarled mentally at the daemon, and let his mental voice express his sentiments while head shooting a Son of Calth with a single psychically guided shot.
And whose fault is it that I am not at my full power now ? Do not think me blind to your manipulations, Herald. You made me use my strength in bringing Illarion into the ranks of the Secondborn so that I would be exposed now. I did consider that it was a suspiciously generous offer … but I will not take the bait this time. The Awakened One doesn't need any help to take down his foes. Whatever you want from me, you will not have it today.
We shall see, replied the creature, before thankfully falling silent again.
The son of Magnus refocused on his surroundings. More of the mortals were engaging the Sons of Calth, but they would not break that line without aid. Drawing to him as much power as he could without the Librarians noticing, the lord of the Coven charged toward those he would have once called brothers. In his hands, his staff crackled with energy, and six Astartes in grey and yellow armor charged alongside him.
The duel between the lord of the Forsaken Sons and the loyalist Champion had now been going on for fifteen minutes, while the troops around the two war leaders fought against each other. Both of the duelists were covered in minor wounds, each insignificant of its own but whose sum strained even the Astartes' legendary endurance. Once this was over, Merchurion would need weeks to repair the damage done to the Awakened One's battle-plate.
Damarion was several dozens meters away from his liege lord, trying to reach a group of Sons of Calth with heavy weapons who were butchering tens of mortal soldiers. Some of the slaves had been able to withstand the volleys of bolts – those who had gone through the Fleshmasters' attentions, and been deemed both successful enough to be of use, and of too little interest to be preserved for further experimentation, and they were fighting at his side. Many of them were hybrids of humanity and Astartes genetics, half of them little more than shambling monstrosities who could nonetheless endure far more than unaugmented humans.
A squad of Tactical Marines rose from behind cover, their guns aimed straight at the armored form of the Awakened One. Damarion watched it, powerless to act. He was too far from them to do anything – in fact, there was no one who could do anything about it. Somehow, the Company Champion had arranged the duel so that it would drag Arken away from his followers, and into the line of fire of these warriors – who had remained hidden since the beginning of the fight, despite their brothers dying, all for that moment. The Astartes were armed with heavy weapons – plasma guns and meltas – that would rip through even Terminator armor. Damarion shouted uselessly to his lord to take cover …
With a roar of engines, the sky darkened as the familiar shape of a Thunderhawk's fuselage came into view, piercing the clouds of dust long enough for all warriors to see the emblem of the daemon's head painted on its side. The heavy bolters placed at the gunship's front opened fire with the most beautiful sound Damarion had ever heard in his life, and tore the squad of Sons of Calth to bloody chunks in a matter of seconds. The loyalists had exposed themselves in order to get the best shot possible at the Awakened One, and they now paid for this missed chance with their lives.
But before Damarion could rejoice, Thecius hammered into the lord of the Forsaken Sons. Abandoning grace and blade-play, the Champion had seized the momentary distraction caused by Perseus' onslaught – blessed be the mortal for his timely intervention – and threw Arken to the ground, keeping his own balance only through a feat of precision that awed even Damarion.
Thecius lifted his blade, ready to deliver the final blow. But as his weapon began its descent toward the Awakened One's unmoving form, the ground near the two warriors exploded as a towering figure in blood red armor burst from the rubble, holding a great axe in its hands and bellowing with rage and the savage joy of freedom. The surrounding groups of Forsaken Sons Astartes and mortal soldiers cheered as the Blood Champion was returned to them. Thecius was thrown away by the shock wave, but rose to his feet with an agility that belied his armor. Behind his helmet, Damarion smiled. He was going to enjoy watching this.
Freedom !
I roar my fury at the skies as I finally free myself from the loyalists' trap. My axe's teeth are worn out from the digging I had to do, but even now they are regenerating, eager to taste blood. The rock flows around me in a torrent as I rise, unfurling my wings to lift myself clear.
Before me stands a Terminator, holding a power blade and a shield. At his feet lies Arken, down but still conscious. Our eyes meet, and once more I am reminded of the power that dwells within him as it tighten around my essence, commanding me to act. He knew I was going to emerge at this moment, somehow. He never doubted it, and now he demands I do my duty and kill the one who thought he could defeat the lord of the Forsaken Sons.
My axe falls, and the Son of Calth rises his shield to meet it. The buckler, a priceless tool of war that I know has endured decades of war and the fires of the Heresy, breaks like kindling before my blow. The blade continues descending, and tear through consecrated armor like paper. Blood, rich and mighty, spills in a torrent, covering my weapon and my armor. The blood of a hero. It eases my pain and closes my wounds, and fills me with a terrible thirst for more.
I look around me, and I see more cowards in blue and green retreating. The blood boils in my veins at the sight of their backs. What manner of warrior refuses to face his foes ? Bellowing a challenge in Heker'Arn's voice, I am about to launch myself at their pursuit. A thought holds me back : last time I did this, it did not end well. I look back at Arken, who is rising to his feet. My wings and my claws are twitching with bloodlust, and it is all I can do to restrain myself from going ahead regardless of the risks. I wonder, for a time, if Arken somehow suspected this ambush would happen, and didn't bring any of my former brothers in this assault for that reason. It wouldn't surprise me, but I cannot spend long on that reasoning. Already the thirst is increasing, and clear thinking is eluding me. I need to kill ! To slay ! To spill blood and claim skulls in Khorne's name ! The death of the Champion was not enough !
NOTHING WILL EVER BE ENOUGH !
The last ship was still visible on the horizon when the Forsaken Sons finally reached the harbor. Even after the failure of their ambush, the loyalists had held their positions and fought to buy time. The three hosts had met and resumed their advance as one, with Arken and the Blood Champion fighting together at the forefront at the advance, but even these two champions of Chaos had not been able to advance quickly enough. With booby traps, collapsing charges and a few lightning-like counter-attacks, they had slowed down the renegades' advance enough for them to do the impossible : complete the evacuation. They even had managed to escape themselves : the figures of a few Thunderhawks and Stormbirds were quickly vanishing, far quicker than the ship, carrying the survivors of the Company the Sons of Calth had dedicated to their ambush-evacuation.
A city of millions, emptied by the will of a few Astartes and the work of who knew how many thousands of clerks and workers. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Damarion wouldn't have believed it. He had expected to find thousands of remaining civilians here – the old, the sick, those who wouldn't be of any use to the Sons of Calth in their war against the Forsaken Sons. Their slaughter would have been a good way for the warriors to vent their frustration after fighting a retreating enemy in the dust for hours, but their enemy had denied them that. The former captain didn't know if the loyalists had done it sorely out of some foolish desire to save the worthless humans, or if they knew it would create tension amongst their foes. Given the bitterness and hate he had felt while fighting them, it could go both ways.
He abandoned his idle musings to turn to his master, apprehension rising in his guts. Though the city was theirs, the prey had escaped, and they had taken unacceptable losses in return. Exact casualty figures were still pending, but Damarion estimated that they had lost thousands of human slaves, and perhaps an entire Company's worth of Astartes. While the former could easily be replaced, each Marine who fell was a blow to the Forsaken Sons' combat potential. The Fleshmasters could restore a warrior as long as there was a spark of life left in his body, and harvest the gene-seed of the fallen to create new generations of transhumans. But both processes took time, and the latter deprived the warband of the dead's fighting experience.
In these conditions, it wouldn't be strange if Arken were to burst in anger. Yet the Awakened One was simply staring at the boat, standing upon a pile of rubble. Behind him stood the Blood Champion, his armor still cracked from the damage it had taken when the Possessed had been buried alive. Blood ran from the cracks, and as Damarion looked on, he saw one of them begin to slowly close as the daemon exerted its power to heal its host's body.
As always, Damarion was amazed at how casually his lord treated the Khornate. Followers of the Blood God despised cowardice, but turning your back to them still didn't strike Damarion as an especially wise move. The World Eater may appear calm for now, but Damarion didn't doubt a second that he – or the Neverborn sharing his body – had considered attacking the lord of the Forsaken Sons. Whether it was loyalty, the knowledge that Arken could stop him with a single word, or some other arcane compulsion that had stayed his hand, Damarion didn't know and cared little.
'We can still order an orbital strike,' he offered his lord. 'The Hand of Ruin would be able to take out a few of the ships, at least.'
'There will be no need of that, brother,' answered Arken.
It was only then that Damarion noticed that the Awakened One was smiling.
The boy was just five weeks shy of his fourteenth birthday. He had lost his parents in the chaos that had followed the arrival of the Storm, but he hadn't been left alone. Friends of his family had taken care of him, tried to help him get over the loss of all he had. He understood what they were doing, and he appreciated their efforts. But there were times when the memories were too strong, when the images of the monsters who had killed his parents – daemons, the priest had called them – were the only thing he could see, and the screams of the dying the only thing he could hear. When these crisis happened, he just had to be alone, and wait until it passed.
Being alone on one of the evacuation ships, however, was proving to be a challenge. Though the weight safety limits were – if barely – respected, it still meant that thousands of people were crammed on the merchant ship, alongside the absolute minimum in terms of personal belongings. Even the boy was awestruck at how the giants in blue and green had managed to get everyone on the boats. He and his guardians had been embarked on the very last one to leave, and the only ones left behind were the Angels and those who wanted to fight at their side. One hour later, they were in the middle of the sea, and he was wandering in the darkest parts of the ship, moving between pipes in search of somewhere to cuddle and wait for the images to stop. He didn't have long – soon he would be unable to see where he was going, and he was still coherent enough to understand just how dangerous that would be. The emergency lights were enough for him to go by, though their red hue didn't help him to keep control of his rising panic. He crawled under one last pipe and emerged into a small square of empty space. He laid down on his back there, breathing deeply despite the stench of machinery in the air. The seizure would take him any moment, and his hands trembled in anticipated terror.
And then, he saw the figure suspended above him, kept in place by its hold over the strongest-looking pipes. It was a giant, but not one of the Angels who had come to save him and his people. Though it was hard to tell in the dim illumination, his armor appeared to be of a deep, dark blue, with strikes of lightning painted over it. The giant's helm was a winged skull who leered down at the boy with red-eyed lenses. Terror seized the boy's heart, and he felt the memories recede before this new, greater source of fear.
'Hello, little one,' said the false angel in a deep voice. 'My name is Zarl Korak.'