Warband of the Forsaken Sons

by Zahariel

Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of Chaos, is dead, and the Traitor Legions run from the wrath of the loyalists. Amongst them, Commander Arken of the Sons of Horus gathers on his ship an army from the ranks of all renegade Legions, and begins to plan his vengeance against the Imperium of Man ...

21. Chapter 21 : Death in the Dark

AN : hello, everyone ! It has been more than two months since I last updated this story. I apologize for the delay, but I wanted to write a bit on my two other fics. To compensate, this chapter is the longest yet in this fic, and I think I am going to focus on Warband of the Forsaken Sons for the moment. I have a clear plan of what I want to do next, and I would like to finish the current arc as soon as possible.

In this chapter, I mostly prepare the terrain for the next chapters, although I did take care of the cliffhanger of last chapter (which, by the way, had very positive reviews. Thank you very much for that !) We are nearing the climax of the Parecxis campain, when all the plot threads will come together and the fate of the system will be decided by bolter and blade. One word about the timeline : the story takes place during the Great Scouring, about ten years after the death of Horus. At least that was the date when the Warp Storm was unleashed, so all those trapped within are unaware of events happening later - except for the visions of Arken in the Oracle's Chamber. Chronologically, the execution of Konrad Curze hasn't happened yet, though the Night Lords in the Forsaken Sons know it will happen and have more or less accepted it. In the ADB trilogy, it is written that the Night Lords rampaged for two hundred years before Tsagualsa was destroyed by the combined force of the Ultramarines successor chapters. I don't remember how long before that the Night Haunter was slain, but it can't have been more than a century or so. The reason I am clarifying this is because I ran into some difficulties related to it while writing this chapter, difficulties that ended with me having to rewrite an entire scene in order to avoid contradicting myself.

WARNING : this chapter contains descriptions of things that may be shocking or disturbing to sensible persons. Seriously, I think this may be the darkest chapter I have written yet, and I am considering changing the fic's rating to M. We aren't in horror domain yet (I think) but if I receive any feedback complaining about unadapted rating for this story, I will do it. This is a Warhammer 40000 story, and the Forsaken Sons are villains, remember that. Many of them are monsters, Arken is only more practical than cruel, and the gods they are enslaved to - whether they realise it or not - are beings of pure evil distilled into the Warp. You have been warned.

There, that should be enough for me to avoid being sued.

Like always, if you like this story, see some problem to correct, have a question or an idea for a short story (though these will have to wait a bit, since as I have said I want to focus on this fic for now), then review or send me a message !

So, that's all for now. Enjoy the story, and see you next time, when the focus will be on the consequences of this chapter's own ending.

EDIT : changed the name of one character after Spider pointed out it was already the name of another. Thank you very much for pointing it out. Cursed random name generator !

Zahariel out.

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.

---

Captain Tarek was a tall man, though he certainly didn't look it while standing before the eleven Sons of Calth who were coming aboard his ship through the open cargo bay of the Lady of the Three Seas, the last evacuation ship to have left the doomed city of Meridis. Behind them, the Thunderhawk that had brought them to where the ship was currently quarantined – several dozens of kilometers away from the harbor of Talexorn – took off, the winds caused by its engines causing seawater to splash in all directions.

'The man looks ridiculous in that getup,' Lycaon sent over the squad's private vox-channel. 'And it can't possibly be practical.'

The Librarian, who alone still stood in the blue of the Thirteenth Legion, was referring to the Captain's overly decorated uniform. In truth, the man looked like he belonged more in a upper-hive gala than down here amongst the dirty refugees. But there was steel in his eyes, and the weapons he bore at his belt were more than mere decorations.

'It is symbolic,' Argus explained. 'There is a reason for him to dress like that : it gives him an air of authority that helps keep the civilians calm. These people have lost their homes, and were packed aboard this ship even as the traitors closed in on them. He probably isn't actually commanding the ship, just giving the impression of control in order to avoid a riot. Given what happened here, I would say he performed admirably well in that regard.'

It was hard for the Librarian to argue with that. The mass of unwashed humanity gathered in the great cargo bay stank of fear, but there was no sign of panic. Even with his psychic hood on, Lycaon could feel their emotions, radiating from them in waves. They were scared, but they were holding up. Tarek had managed to keep them from loosing their nerves, and the arrival of the Astartes was helping tremendously on that end. A closer look revealed that those on the outside of the group were holding bars of metal in loose fists, forming a protective circle around the women and children inside. Several of the men displayed bandaged wounds.

Others were keeping watch. The crew of the Lady had taken positions at the bay's edge, behind rudimentary barricades, their las-rifles aimed at the entrances of the room. A few of them were stealing looks at the transhumans in their midst, but they were mostly focused on keeping watch for signs of attack. The Librarian's sixth sense picked up vague impressions of what lurked in the rest of the ship, and his respect for these men and their leader increased greatly.

'Yes,' he admitted. 'He did.'

'My lords,' Tarek saluted. 'I am glad to see you. The situation here is growing worse by the hour. I am glad to see that reinforcements are on their way.'

'We are the reinforcements, captain,' Argus said grimly. Seeing that Tarek's expression was growing dark, he continued : 'Do not think that our officers are insensible to your plight – but all Astartes are needed, be it to help with the rest of the evacuation or to securize the continent.'

'I thought we controlled the East ?' Tarek asked, surprised. Argus sighed.

'We do, in a strictly military sense.' Argus wasn't about to share more than that, but he decided that an explanation of the wider situation may help the mortal keep his calm. 'Most of the traitors' infiltration was concentrated on the other side of the ocean, but there are still pockets of renegades holding out in the wild. Many of my brothers are currently purging them, so that when the traitors attack they won't be able to use them to harass our lines. The others are guarding the hives, preparing them for the Forsaken Sons' inevitable assault. My squad and Librarian Lycaon were all we could spare. Now. I have read your reports, but what exactly happened here ?'

Tarek looked around him, sadness welling up in his eyes. Then he began his tale :

'After leaving Meridis, we were sailing toward Talexorn as part of the evacuation plan. Apart from the fact that the city fell just after our depart, it was the same as the other runs at the start … But halfway to our destination, the first accidents happened. Something must have sneaked in at Meridis, and it attacked the passengers.'

'After that first attack, we established a defense perimeter in this room, but the concentration of the weight in one place forced us to sail very slowly to avoid the ship breaking apart under the strain. Not all were capable of reaching us, however … Then we were attacked again, but this time by Warp-born creatures, and though we took many casualties, we were able to drive them off. Nevertheless, we had to abandon the deck and the engines to gather here. I sent the call for aid at that moment, before stopping the ship and coming here. That was two hours ago, and we have been waiting for your arrival since.'

The captain looked down, shame and anger at himself burning in his eyes.

'I didn't expect any of it', he murmured. 'I thought that the danger was behind us, that we were bringing these people to safety – or at least, as safe as anyone can be on this world … and now, so many of them are dead …'

'You did what was expected of you, captain,' Argus interrupted. 'It is already impressive that you managed to fight the Warp-spawn. Not many men can do such a thing and survive.'

'That creature that attacked the civilians in the beginning,' asked Lycaon. 'What can you tell us about it ?'

'We don't know for certain what it was : the survivors' testimonies are … troubled. Whatever it was, it heralded its attack with several hours of psychological warfare, cutting off the lights for a few seconds and playing with the nerves of the guards and civilians with disquieting sounds. What we do know for certain is that this initial attack was the doing of a single being, who slaughtered dozens of civilians and ignored the fire of the guards' weapons. I would suspect one of the Traitors, or perhaps a stronger daemon than the ones who attacked later.'

'It is indeed the most probable possibility.' Already a suspicion had begun to form in the back of the Space Marines' minds. This description reminded them all to much of one of the most hateful enemies they had faced during the Heresy – a title wildly contested by the filthy traitors.

'You left the boat's control room. Could our foe move the ship if it went there ?'

'No,' answered Tarek. 'At least, not without a tech-priest. I destroyed the controls before leaving, to ensure that the Lady wouldn't be used as a weapon of the traitors.'

'A wise decision. Once we have dealt with the threat, we will call for evacuation – we can't risk more assets until it is removed. You said that there were other attacks, led by daemons this time. How many died ?' the Sergeant inquired. Tarek shook his head, sadly.

'Too many,' he said. 'There were almost a thousand people aboard when we left Meridis. Now, the only ones remaining are those you see here. Only a third survived, and we still have several wounded who may not make it if they aren't given proper medical care.'

'Then there is no time to waste. We will …'

Argus was interrupted by a screeching wail coming from the bay's other side. At once, Tarek drew his laspistol and his saber and ran toward the barricades. The sergeant turned to Lycaon, not needing to ask the question before the Librarian answered in a voice filled with hatred :

'Daemons.'

---

The being that called itself the Shadow of Horus floated lifelessly in its containment tank. Black fluids flowed out of the dents in the Possessed's armor, before dissolving in the nutritive liquid. When the unconscious Unbound had been brought back from the ruins of Meridis, his body torn by loyalist blades, the Sorcerers who had examined him had declared that the balance of power within Illarion's body had shifted. The daemon had been weakened by the blows of the Sons of Calth, and now the spire-born was ascendant in their union – though he was still too weak to wake up. The rate of regeneration was still very low. It would take weeks before Illarion's wounds were fully gone, but that was fine – Arken had assured that he wouldn't need the Shadow of Horus on the battlefield for a time. And while the members of the Coven were curious as to how exactly the loyalists had inflicted such damage, it was of little concern to the one who was to ensure Illarion would retake his place amongst the Forsaken Sons.

Satisfied with his examination of the Possessed, Jikaerus turned to face the other subject in the room. His own armored figure looked back at him, reflected in the reinforced glass of the other containment tank. As always, the Fleshmaster wore his helm, concealing from sight the mutations he had acquired on Mulor Secundus.

Doubt had no place in an Astartes' mind. Like fear, it was removed from the Legionaries during their induction, and replaced by an intellectual process aimed at making them more effective soldiers. A Space Marine didn't doubt : he questionned, seeking the most effective way to his goal. To doubt your commander's words and orders was anathema, for it was the root of confusion and disorder – and these were the quickest path to failure. Yet standing before the fruit of his work in the room of the Hand of Ruin he had claimed as his personal laboratory, Jikaerus, former Apothecary of the Alpha Legion, Fleshmaster of the Forsaken Sons, couldn't help but feel a sliver of unease at what he had done at the Awakened One's command.

The body that floated in the pod was outwardly perfect, yet also wholly alien. It was humanoid in form, but could never be mistaken for human : it was too thin, too graceful, the bones and muscles subtly different from humanity's template in a way that even an uneducated child could realise was wrong. Here was the body of an eldar, recreated from the scraps of genetic materials found in the remains Jikaerus had excavated in the temple of Parecxis Beta. Not the genes of the Craftworld Eldar, who denied themselves emotions in order to avoid their doom, nor that of their Commoragh kin, whose thirst for pain was the only way to stave off damnation – this was the body of an eldar from the time of the xenos great empire. And not just any eldar : a lord of that mighty realm, which had conquered the galaxy in a time when humans were still exploring the uses of sharp rocks on distant Terra. Not that Jikaerus cared about the nobility of his specimen, but the attention given to the mortal remains had ensured that the Fleshmaster could find what he needed in order to perform what Arken had demanded of him.

However, while the cloning of an alien species was in itself enough to warrant the Traitor Legionary execution under Imperial law, it was only the first step of the heresy the Awakened One had ordered. The body was only a vessel, and with it forcefully grown into adulthood, it was an empty one, devoid of soul or consciousness. The next part of the process, the one that truly worried the Fleshmaster, would be performed not by him, but by the member of the Coven that was with him in his laboratory.

Orpheus was a Sorcerer in whose veins flowed Fulgrim's gene-seed. Like most of the proud sons of the Phoenician amongst the Forsaken Sons, he had kept his Legion's colors, only marking his shoulder pad black to signify that his allegiance was no longer to his uncaring Primarch. He was wearing a psychic hood that had once belonged to a Thousand Son who no longer needed it, having been torn in twain by a daemon's claws during the Exodus. The hood still left his noble and cruel face visible; there were several runes carved into the skin, forming a pattern pleasing to the Two force swords hung from his belt, their blades adorned with several of the symbols of Slaanesh. One, Jikaerus knew, had once been wielded by a Librarian of the First Legion, while the second had been claimed on the corpse of an Imperial Fist psyker.

Unlike the sons of the Cyclops aboard the Hand of Ruin, Orpheus hadn't been born a psyker, nor had he ever been part of a Librariums. The Third Legion had refused the instauration of such an organization, and the Edict of Nikaea had only comforted Fulgrim in that decision. But after the Emperor's Children had thrown away their allegiance to the Golden Throne and embraced the path of the Dark Prince, many amongst their numbers had sought to gain mastery over the Immaterium, seeing it as a way to access sensations previously undreamt of. Through study of the dark arts and various pacts with the Neverborn of the Dark Prince's court, they had attempted to gain psychic powers of their own. Most of them had failed, or died in atrocious agony as their soul was rent apart by the energies they ought to master. But those who hadn't had become very powerful very quickly, capable of unleashing unto their foes the wonders and horrors of their divine patron's domain. It was said that the scions of Slaanesh whispered secrets into the ears of the Sorcerers who served the Profligate One, increasing their knowledge in the hope that they may one day use their disciple's burst corpse as a gateway into the Materium. Many had met just such a fate at Terra, when the Emperor's Children had unleashed their twisted lusts upon the Throneworld's population, and four of Orpheus' brothers had succumbed that way during the Exodus. The last surviving psyker of the Third Legion aboard the Hand of Ruin had been closely watched for the rest of the journey through the storms, but Orpheus had managed to keep the daemons seeking to use him at bay. Now, he was a member of the Coven, and the one who had the greatest chance of successfully performing the arcane feat required by the Awakened One's design.

While Jikaerus checked on Illarion, Orpheus had drawn a circle around the xenos clone's pod, using the blood of slaves slain after hours of tortures and the tears of their loved ones as they watched. The regeants would act as a sympathetic catalyst for the Sorcerer's ritual, drawing the attention of the Neverborn and giving potency to the invocations of the Emperor's Child. As ever, the sight of a technological marvel surrounded by eldritch symbols still conjured a sense of dark amusement in the Fleshmaster's heart. This was the proof that the Imperial Truth had always been a lie, that superstition and madness were actually the way things worked in this galaxy.

Adding to the blasphemy were the xenos devices connected to the pod. They were relics from Parecxis' time under the corrupted Eldars' rule, plundered by the Forsaken Sons from the secret vaults where open-minded adepts of the Mechanicum had sought to unlock their secrets. Jikaerus had succeeded where they had failed, thanks in part to the visions of Parecxis Beta's past that he had had in the temple where he had found the remains. Somehow, these had granted him an understanding of the mechanisms designed by the aliens who had survived the Fall and embraced Slaanesh. Ever since returning from that cursed world, the Fleshmaster's slumber had been haunted by images of the time between the birth of the Dark Prince and the coming of the Imperium to Parecxis. What he saw every time he let himself sleep may have been useful, but it also made him understand why the Ultramarines had razed the entire planet rather than conquer it as they had done on Parecxis Alpha. From what little he had learned of the system's capital-world, its people had got off easy compared to the horrors inflicted on the human slaves of the second planet. Every dream not only made him fear for his own soul – for they were clearly a sign of mental pollution, and Jikaerus had no desire to be forced into the service of the Dark Prince – but also made him uneasy about the whole plan.

The Alpha Legion had dealt with aliens before. Indeed, it had been the words of a group of xenos that had first determined the course of the Twentieth Legion when Horus Lupercal had called for rebellion. But even Alpharius would never have considered what the Awakened One had commanded Jikaerus to do : bring the xenos overlords of Parecxis back to life, so that the Forsaken Sons may ally with them and gain favor in the eyes of Slaanesh by returning his toys into the Materium. If they succeeded, there was no doubt that the fallen Eldars would be powerful allies, but Jikaerus wasn't as certain as his lord that the arrogant, self-serving, utterly corrupt xenos would accept to serve under Arken's command – for what other relationship could there possibly be between the Awakened One and those who would own him their very existence ?

But it wasn't Jikaerus' place to doubt. His place was to ensure that the plans of Arken were made reality – and even on that front, he had his share of misgivings.

'Are you sure you can do it ?' the former Alpha Legionaire asked Orpheus. Despite the Sorcerer's confidence, he still wasn't convinced that what they were about to attempt was actually possible.

There was just no precedent for it. Cloning itself was a fairly common technology in the Imperium, though it was generally limited to the growth of replacement limbs or the purveyance of flesh-bodies for the creation of servitors. Even the recreation of the genetic code, in itself, wasn't that unheard of – there were old bloodlines of Terra that had sought to purify their own genetics after they were polluted by radiations or inbreeding. The means by which Jikaerus had accomplished both may have been unorthodox, involving Warp energies and daemon engines, but he had still known that it had been done before. What Orpheus was about to do, however, was unprecedented even in the ranks of the Dark Mechanicum, at least as far as Jikaerus knew – and the Fleshmaster's knowledge reached quite far indeed.

'I am certain, Fleshmaster,' Orpheus answered. The Child of the Emperor's voice was as soft as velvet, and utterly at odds with his scarred face and his demented eyes. 'The Youngest God looks fondly on our master's plan, and how could I fail in His sight ?'

This was one aspect of Orpheus that the Fleshmaster didn't appreciate. Like the half-breed Mikhail, he was a devotee of the Dark Prince, an actual believer, not a simple hedonist like many of his Legion. He sought the favor of his god with uncanny greed, and while the rewards he had received for that devotion had served the warband well, Jikaerus still didn't consider him trustworthy. But he was the Sorcerer with the greatest affinity with the task at hand, and so Jikaerus couldn't afford to alienate him at this point. Still, it couldn't hurt to ask for confirmation, so close to success or abject failure.

'And will that favor help you locate one soul amongst the trillions that dwell in your patron's realm ?'

'The souls of the Eldars burn with a particular brightness in the Sea of Souls, and those of the few who have embraced Slaanesh's path brighter still. With the support of the circle, and considering what we are using as a receptacle' – he gestured to the floating clone with one gauntleted hand – ' there is little doubt that this will work. Besides, I will not seek one particular soul, just one belonging to one of Parecxis' old masters. The only risk I see is if something else uses the opportunity to enter the Materium, and you and I are more than capable of dealing with any daemon that would try to possess your work. Of course, in that case you would have to start over, but …'

'That wouldn't be too much of a setback,' Jikaerus finished. 'Now that I have the genetic sequence, recreating a body is but a question of days.'

'There, you see ? Even you know that we are close to success. And think about what our deeds will entail for the future. Once the first of Slaanesh's scions is incarnated, we will bring others into our reality. Think of the pleasures and secrets we may learn from them ! It will be glorious !'

And the fact that Arken seeks to forge an alliance with aliens doesn't disturb you ?

Though the question burned his lips, Jikaerus knew better than to ask. Orpheus probably wouldn't even understand what the Fleshmaster meant, so engrossed was he in the possibilities the resurrection would open.

'Very well,' he said instead. 'Begin the ritual.'

The Sorcerer of Slaanesh drew both of his blades, and held them vertically before him. His mouth began to move, though no sound left his lips. As he channeled raw power within him, his eyes and the runes of his swords started to glow with an unearthly lilac light, while the other illuminations of the room dimmed. Jikaerus' head began to throb as the veil between dimensions began to thin so that Orpheus may reach into the Warp and drag back the soul of one of the damned xenos. His eyes darted back to the sigils inscribed on the walls of the laboratory – seals designed to keep the ambiant power level beneath a certain treshold, or contain the destruction to the room in the worst case.

Jikaerus was no psyker. He wasn't able to perceive the titanic effort of will by which Orpheus' soul dwelled into the realm of the Prince of Pleasure without succumbing to its lures, nor was he able to feel the power the Sorcerer expended in order to defy the natural order and bring the dead back into the world of the living. But he did catch glimpses of the Hell behind reality as the veil was breached, and saw the Sorcerer's hand close into a fist a moment before something black and swirling was torn from the Sea of Souls. For a few seconds, the black cloud hovered in the air above the clone's tank, before plunging through its lid as if it wasn't there and into the clone's open, slack mouth.

With the completion of the spell, the power gathered in the room began to dissipate, and Orpheus stepped away from the glass tank, his steps unsteady so great had been the strain, letting Jikaerus approach. The Fleshmaster looked at the clone, while at the same time monitoring its vitals, displayed on his helmet's retinal display. The first sign that Orpheus' spell had had any effect at all was a spike in the bio-rythms of the eldar, quickly followed by the xenos opening its eyes in the tank. For a fraction of a second, Jikaerus gazed into eyes as blue as the skies of Old Earth, before the clone's entire eyeballs turned black. Its mouth opened, revealing pointed teeth, and it hammered its fists into the glass, cracking the reinforced material and displaying physical strength far above what the fragile aliens were supposed to possess.

---

In the days to come, what Argus would remember most of the battle would be the laughter. Not that of the daemons that surged from the shadows to attack the guards, though it was certainly disturbing in its own right, but that of the crazed humans who were hurled before the Neverborn, forming a wall of flesh behind which the creatures could hide. The sound was entirely mirthless and devoid of humor, instead conveying all the horror of a soul broken to pieces by the dark power of the Warp and afflicted with the same corruption that, not so long ago, had turned half of the Imperium's Space Marine Legions against their legitimate Emperor. Tarek hadn't talked about these wretches, and judging by the horrified reactions of his men, it was clear that this was the first time the Warp-spawns attacked with the support of their mortal thralls. Whatever fell power was at work here must have kept them in reserve, or perhaps their tragic transformation had only recently been completed.

Men, women and even children charged the lines of the guards, screaming and laughing insanely. Their bodies bore hideous, self-inflicted wounds that reflected the dam the beardage done to their souls, and their clothes were torn and dirtied by blood and excrement. Most of them were weaponless, but a few clung makeshift clubs : iron bars, repurposed tools and even a few human limbs. Whatever the daemons had done to them, it had shattered their sanity to the point that they kept charging and laughing even as they were cut down by the few volleys the shocked sailors managed to loose. Part of Argus wanted to scorn the mortals for their hesitation, but the rest of him remembered all to well how it felt to see one's own kin turning to madness and attacking you. If even the genetically engineered transhumans of the Legiones Astartes needed time to adapt, it was to be expected that the guards would react that way. Although these men had lived through the horrors unleashed upon their world by the arrival of the Warp Storm, it was only human of them to hesitate in the face of such a scene.

Fortunately, Argus and his brothers weren't human anymore. Their hearts, already tempered by the process that had turned them into Astartes, had grown cold after the betrayal of their kindred and the death of their birthworld. They still cared about the humans under their protection, but they would not let misplaced sentiment get in the way of carrying out their duty. The mad wretches were already lost – the Ultramarines had paid in blood to learn that there was no return for those who had been claimed by the corruption of Chaos. The only thing that mattered was the protection of the remaining civilians, and the only mercy that could be granted to the attackers was that of a swift death.

As one, the Sons of Calth opened fire, the sound of their boltguns resonating in the enclosed space with near-deafening force. Bolt shells tore through skin and muscles and shattered bones to pieces with contemptuous ease before detonating in showers of gore. Each shot was a kill, no matter where it hit, and with the throng of madmen as compact as it was coupled with the short distance between the charge and the Astartes, every bolt found its target. Dozens of poor souls were laid to rest in a handful of seconds, none of them making it as far as the defenders' barricade – but then again, it had never been their objective.

Behind the first wave of sacrificial flesh came the Neverborn, protected from the onslaught by the sacrifice of their mortal pawns. They were creatures of pure darkness, as if their half-material bodies had materialized from congealed shadow. Humanoid in form, they were a bit smaller than an Astartes and a lot thinner, with multiples eyes that blazed with unholy light and claws that dripped drops of black liquid on the metal floor, causing small holes to appear into it as the steel suffered the touch of the unnatural substance. The daemons were laughing, the sound so filled with malice that it made Argus wince. Their laughter was the sound of screams of terror, cut apart and distilled before being released into the material world as a sonor plague that drilled its way into the mortal brain.

'In the Emperor's name, brothers !' Argus shouted, sheathing his bolter and drawing his chainsword. He advanced across the defenders' line, holding his weapon high. 'Destroy these abominations !'

The daemons crashed into the Astartes like an evil tide on a fortified shore. The nine battle-brothers and their sergeant fought with their blades, knowing that their guns would only have a slight effect on the aetheric creatures, while Lycaon unleashed bolts of coruscant energy at the nightmarish host. To the Space Marines' surprise, the human defenders' own weapons did damage the daemons – by acting as teams that focused all of their firepower on a single creature at a time, the mortals were capable of felling even the unholy spawn of the Warp. Then again, they had faced the creatures before, and survived the confrontation without the Astartes' help. Although this particular assault presented greater numbers of daemons as before, the sailors still knew how to fight against the Neverborn.

Yet the daemons kept coming, no matter how many the Space Marines and the humans cut down. The pressure on the battle line intensified, and it was all they could do to prevent them from breaching through sheer numbers. Behind them, Argus heard Lycaon shout a warning – the veil between dimensions was thinning even further, allowing more of the infernal creatures to join the fight. Someone – probably the first enemy that had infiltrated the ship – was performing a ritual, granting new strength to the daemonic assault. But even the blasphemous servants of the Ruinous Powers had their limits : if they could hold on long enough, victory would be theirs. And so they kept on fighting, Astartes and humans united against the forces of darkness. There was a symbolism in that battle that didn't escape Argus' attention. This was what the Legions had been forged for, but they had allowed their pride and superiority to distance them from the Humanity they were made to protect. Perhaps if more Legionaries had fought alongside humans, the Dark Gods would have found the corruption of the Emperor's scions less easy.

'No!' Argus screamed in bitter fury as his blade missed one of the Neverborn by a hair's breadth. It landed behind him, and ran straight toward the gathered civilians. The sergeant turned, but it was too late : he couldn't fire at the creature without risking hitting one of the humans. Memories of the Underworld War flashed in his mind's eye : images of carnage and butchery, when the Word Bearers had breached through the Ultramarines' defences and reached the caverns where the world's survivors had hidden from the radioactive sun.

'Avast, foul creature !'

The daemon of shadows screamed in pain and mindless anger, and stepped back from the crowd. Before him stood an old man wearing the dirty robes of Parecxis' Ecclesiarchy and carrying in his hands an Imperial Aquila. The symbol was shining with golden light, smoke rising from it at its proximity with a creature of the Warp. Sparks of energy danced along the Neverborn's silhouette as it focused its attention on the priest.

'In the name of the God-Emperor, who watches over all from His Throne on Holy Terra, I command you ! Begone, spawn of the Ruinous Powers !'

As ever, hearing the words of humans venerating the Emperor as a god caused conflicted feelings within Argus' heart. As an Astartes, and a loyal son of the Imperium, he respected the Emperor, Beloved by All, and carred within him the fruit of His work through the gene-seed of Guilliman. He knew the kind of effect the Primarchs had on mortals, and that the Emperor Himself had a far greater aura. So when news of the Ecclesiarchy's ascension had reached him, Argus hadn't been much surprised. The galaxy was a dark and dangerous place, and belief in a supreme being whose benevolence and protection were spread across the star had a undeniable appeal as well as moralizing effect to it.

But he had also been a warrior in the Great Crusade, when the Legions had fought to free Mankind from superstition and ignorance. He knew now that the Imperial Truth had been wrong, that there were indeed powers that bypassed the laws of the universe and grew from the prayers of those they fooled into worshipping them. Gods were real – but they were also creatures of sapient evil, whose only desire was the damnation of Humanity. For the Emperor to be turned into a divinity by those He had struggled to lead to ascension was both supremely ironic, a dark necessity of this new age, and an insult against every ideal for which the Legions had fought before the Heresy. Confronted with these contradictions, most Space Marines chose to ignore the faith of the humans they fought for, honoring the Emperor through their own rituals and expressing their devotion through battle.

The priest continued to recite his prayers, keeping the Neverborn at bay. But even Argus, who was still fighting the rest of the daemonic horde, could see that the old man was weakening. Sweat ran down his wrinkled face, and veins bulged all around his eyes as he pushed himself beyond his limits. He was no psyker, had no special gift to call upon in order to perform this miracle. All he had was his unwavering faith in the Emperor of Man, and his burning will to protect those under his spiritual aegis. Perhaps the Neverborn was being hurt by the emotions of the priest, so contrary were they to those who constitued the daemon's core. Perhaps the collective psychic potential of the civilians was being channeled through the priest, allowing him to repel the creature. Or perhaps it was truly the Emperor's divine intervention, reaching even here in the Warp Storm to protect His people. Perhaps it was none of these things, or all of them.

Either way, it wasn't enough. The Neverborn kept advancing toward the priest, struggling every step as if it was walking against a powerful tide. Finally, it stood less than a meter away from the old man, who looked like he was about to go into heart arrest from the exertion he was subjecting himself to. The daemon lifted its claws …

And was blown apart by a bolt of lightning cast from Lycaon's staff. With a final scream of helpless fury, the Neverborn's form dissolved into smoke that quickly vanished altogether, its essence banished back to the Sea of Souls. With the last of the assaulting daemons dispatched, Lycaon had finally could turn from the frontline and use his powers to remove the threat to the civilians. His armor was covered in a layer of frost, and small arcs of energy danced over his staff as he rested it on the floor. The vitals Argus was receiving from his squadmate's armor told him that the Librarian was tired, if not yet exhausted.

'Faith and prayers are all good and well,' Lycaon breathed through his helmet's vox-grid, 'but I think these abominations require a more concrete expression of the Emperor's Wrath. Don't you agree, priest ?'

---

The second hit of the creature's fists shattered the panel. Foul liquids, tainted by xenos fluids and aetheric energies, poured through the opening, quickly followed by the body of the resurrected Eldar. It crashed on the floor, its limbs trembling as the soul now inhabiting it tried to understand what was happening, and relearned how it felt to be made of flesh, bone and blood. Jikaerus lowered himself to his knees to examine the fruit of his and Orpheus' work closely, still on his guard in case the creature attempted something violent. For all that it was supposed to be the first of a new race of allies, it probably didn't know it, nor could it be trusted in any fashion. Xenos were notoriously treacherous, Eldars even more so, and those of their number who had embraced the Dark Prince would doubtlessly prove the worst of all.

Once again, his paranoia proved an asset, for the alien turned on him the moment the Traitor Marine's shadow fell upon it. It jumped, and crashed against Jikaerus' armored form. Its hands – whose fingers now ended with claws of sharp bone – struck at his armor, seeking a weak point through which they would reach the flesh beneath. Despite the xenos' lithe form, its strength was enormous. Not enough to force its way through Jikaerus' mutated, half-living armor, but enough to be a threat if they had met on the battlefield, each carrying weapons. As it was, Jikaerus and his creation fell on the floor, struggling against each other like wrestlers from some primitive feral world.

Subject shows strength at the level of an unarmored Astartes, some corner of the Fleshmaster's psyche thought idly while he was struggling to free himself from the xenos' hold. Possibly greater.

'He is using the Warp to strengthen himself,' Orpheus warned. The Sorcerer's tone was utterly unconcerned with the Fleshmaster's predicament. It contained only curiosity and a faint amusement at what he was seeing. 'Do you need my help ?'

Strength seems to come from drawing into the Warp's energies, probably using the soul's familiarity with its depths. Potential limitation : subject cannot draw it for an extended period of time.

'No,' Jikaerus answered. Then he noted the pronoun the son of Fulgrim had used to indicate the clone, and a scowl formed under his helm. 'I can deal with it.'

Using the additional force provided by his armor's systems, the Fleshmaster managed to free himself from the xenos. He then drew his weapon, eliciting a sharp exclamation from Orpheus – the Sorcerer wanted their common creation to remain alive, not be blown apart. But Jikaerus ignored his brother, and hammered the bottom of his bolter into the creature's delicate face, breaking bones and splattering black blood on his armor. Damaging his work went against his nature, but he wasn't about to let the wretched thing kill him. If worst came to worst, he and Orpheus could always make another. Yet these thoughts were not needed : the moment he looked at the xenos' visage again, its skin was already knitting itself back, and its shattered nose and cheekbones were fusing back in place. Its eyes flickered open as its battered brain reasserted its hold over its body, and its snarled in both delight and undiluted fury. Jikaerus shuddered. Fighting devotees of Slaanesh was always a disturbing experience, mainly because they enjoyed being hurt almost as much as they enjoyed hurting others.

Subject displays a regenerative ability, apparently activated subconsciously by taking damage. Process appears similar to the Secondborn's own ability to mend their own flesh and armor through the power of the daemons they harbor in their souls.

Ignoring the voice in his head – apparently the latest symptom of the madness that had taken hold in his psyche during his sojorn on Mulor Secundus and had been strengthened by the frescoes of Parecxis Beta – Jikaerus knocked the clone unconscious again, this time by headbutting it. The ceramite of his helmet, propulsed by his neck muscles and his armor's servos, would have been able to pulverize concrete. He held back just enough to ensure he didn't turn the clone's head into pulp. It took twenty-three seconds for the creature to regenerate from this blow, and when the xenos opened its eyes again, it found itself looking up the barrel of Jikaerus' bolt pistol, aimed straight at the center of its forehead. Regeneration or not, a shot from the weapon at point-blank range would turn the creature's skull into crimson mist – something even pure Neverborn had difficulties surviving. It would be the resurrected Eldar's death, its soul cast back into the Warp, and all present in the room knew that its god would be greatly displeased with its servant if it allowed itself to be banished so soon.

Jikaerus had half a mind of simply pulling the trigger, then kill Orpheus as well before destroying his work and tell the Awakened One that the whole experiment had been a catastrophic failure. There was a darkness in the clone's eyes, a vicious and depthless hunger that the Fleshmaster remembered all too well : the wretched creature that had guided him on Parecxis Beta had displayed the same thirst for sensation, the same obscene pride and arrogace – a deep-seated belief that its own existence was the only thing that mattered in the universe. Such a creature was dangerous, perhaps more so than Arken himself could suspect. He played with the idea for a moment, before abandonning it. It wasn't even sure that he could kill Orpheus before the Sorcerer blasted him apart with his mind, weakened from the ritual or not. And after all that he had done, the Fleshmaster just had to trust that Arken knew what he was doing.

'Yield,' Jikaerus snarled. He wasn't sure if the creature could hear him, let alone understand his words. But despite the differences between species, body language still held some sway amongst the Eldars, and there were few things easier to understand than the unmistakable shape of a gun's barrel aimed at one's skull. Across the entire galaxy, all the species Jikaerus had met that had invented gunpowder could recognize such a gesture.

Apparently, even the returned soul of a xenos whose species had once ruled the galaxy before its arrogance gave birth to the dark god that would one day consume them into oblivion could recognize the threat for what it was. It froze, and the bloodlust in its eyes began to dissipate as realization settled in its mind. Its black eyes returned to their blue hue, and the aura of unnatural power that had surrounded it since its awakening dimmed. It did not disappear – being this close to the creature still set Jikaerus' teeth on edge, and not only because it was in his every instinct to abhor the xenos in all its forms. The Fleshmaster suspected that the reborn Eldar would always have an active Warp aura, whether it was using it or not : the consequence of spending centuries of objective time into the Sea of Souls as a fleshless entity.

Subject is capable of reasonning and survival instinct, and displays signs of self-awareness despite the intense psychological trauma it has undoubtedly undergone. Limited shapeshifting abilities exist, though they appear to only manifest when the subject uses its connection to the Warp. Link to the Secondborn's transformation ?

Then the clone opened its mouth and started speaking in a stream of song-like syllables that grated on Jikaerus' nerves. He had heard these words before, in the corridors of the Hand of Ruin as he fought against the spawn of the Warp. Seeing that its interlocutors didn't understand it, it changed dialects, this time using a language formed of guttural sounds, but still neither the Fleshmaster nor the Sorcerer understood it. After several more attempts, it finally begun to speak – with what seemed to be reluctance on its proud features – in a bastardized version of Imperial Gothic that the Astartes, thanks to their hypno-training, could understand. The language, like so many others across the worlds colonized during the Great Diaspora of Mankind, took its roots in idioms of Old Eart, but had been twisted by centuries of isolation and, if Jikaerus was correct, the merciless attentions of its speakers' cruel masters. The Fleshmaster remembered what he had seen in the temple. This was the language of the slaves to darkness, those humans whose ancestors had crashed on the ancient Eldars' worlds, and had been made to serve the xenos through their work and their flesh.

'My apologies' – the last word actually meant 'regret for an experience not fully savored', but Jikaerus chose to interpret it otherwise lest he lost his temper and kill his creation – 'for this assault, warrior. I was … troubled by my unexpected, but welcome return into the world of flesh and matter. Are you the one I have to thank for this wonderful experience ?'

Cognition established. Communication possible. The alliance sought by the Awakened One seems to be conceivable.

'We were the ones who engineered your return, yes,' answered Jikaerus, cautiously standing up, his bolter still aimed at the clone's skull in case it decided to resume its previous attack. 'Through the bones of one of your race's leaders, I recreated your flesh, and my brother here dipped into the Immaterium to reclaim your soul from the Dark Prince's grasp.'

'He did not reclaim my soul. He pleaded at the foot of our common mistress' throne, and asked for a boon that would benefit all of the Court of Pleasure and Pain. And it pleased my mistress to grant this boon to him. I am the first of the Sha'eilat,' said the xenos. 'The firstborn child of the Goddess That Thirsts, returned from Her embrace by your work and the power of your sorcerer, as you say. But I am also the herald of a new race, forged in the image of the Goddess from the frail flesh of those who brought Her to life yet failed to give Her the worship She is due.'

Sha'eilat. That word wasn't from any Gothic root that the Fleshmaster could identify. Jikaerus knew several eldar dialects, even if the ones the creature had employed at the beginning of its attempts to communicate were not amongst them. The word didn't exist in any of them, but its meaning could be divined from a few others. Had he still possessed eyebrows on his scaled face, the Fleshmaster would have risen them. The rest of the speech was irrelevant – self-aggrandizing religious nonsense, the kind that the Word Bearers used to rouse the human herds. But that word caught his attention.

'You claim to be one of the "Children of Hell" ?' he asked. Regardless of how accurate that may be, it was a strange thing to name yourself.

'Of Hell ?' the eldar-thing mused. 'Ah, yes. I see how it could be understood as such. In your language, I would rather say 'Son of the Goddess'. But you of all people, son of the Hydra, should know that words can have many meanings, depending on who is speaking.'

'I am no longer a son of Alpharius,' groaned the Fleshmaster. Behind him, Orpheus chuckled. The cloned Eldar merely looked puzzled.

'Alpharius ? I know not of one of that name. I speak of the creature to the likeness of which your body is being remade by the gifts of the Sea of Souls. Its mark is upon you, and it is reshaping your flesh.'

'The hydra,' he said cautiously, 'is a mythological creature. My former Legion chose it as its emblem because it appealed to our methods of war. It does not exist on any world known to Man – indeed, it cannot possibly exist as a living creature. It is a metaphor for something which cannot be put down, which return from death every time it appears to have been slain, even stronger than before. Nothing more than that.'

'Now you are being willingly obtuse, Jikaerus,' said Orpheus. 'We are no longer fools blinded by the false light of the so-called Imperial Truth. We know that the Warp is filled with these very things we once derided as "metaphors" and "myths". If our friend here say that the Hydra exists in the Warp, who are we to doubt him ? He would know of such things better than you or I – perhaps better even than my esteemed leader Asim.'

'And do you have a name, xenos ?' Jikaerus asked, ignoring Orpheus' words. 'Once he knows you are awake, our lord will want to speak with you. It will be an awkward conversation if he does not know what to call you.'

'A name ? Yes, I had one once, before your blue-clad kin came to our empire of wonders and slaughtered us. It has been so long … ah, I remember now. Ezyrithn. That was my name in my previous life. Not the one I was born with, of course – the one I chose for myself after the Goddess elevated me and my peers. And what would your lord' the xenos barely kept its contempt from showing in the word, 'want with me ?'

'I am privy to some of our master's designs,' answered the Fleshmaster, 'but it is not my place to inform you of them. He will tell you that himself.'

Conclusion, the scientist part of Jikaerus' mind finished its analysis of the creature that had just named itself Ezyrithn: experiment is a success. Proceed to the Awakened One for the next step of the process.

---

With the last of the daemons and maddened humans slain, the Sons of Calth left the civilians under the guard of Captain Tarek and his men, and began to search the ship for the source of the daemonic intrusion. The priest – a man named Father Colin, who had once been a rich merchant and had given up all of his possessions when he had found religion – had begun to give their last rites to the crewmembers who had died in the battle, as well as to the poor souls that had been turned against their kindred. Argus wasn't certain that prayers could do anything for the shades of those who had been ravaged by Chaos, but he hadn't said anything about it. Instead, he had promised Tarek that he and his brothers would find the one responsible for this and bring it to justice.

They were following Lycaon's lead across the Lady's corridors. The Librarian was deploying his psychic sense around them, trying to trace the source of the ritual that had allowed the daemons to manifest and empowered them during the fight. As they advanced, the reality around them began to shift and twist. Typically, there wasn't much space wasted on a ship, and every place not designed to hold cargo or as living space for the crew was filled with the machines needed to keep the vessel sailing. But here, there were vast corridors and halls that would have been more fitting aboard a long-abandoned starship.

The transgression of Euclidian space was only one of the signs of daemonic presence. Another were the corpses that the Sons of Calth passed as they made their way through the ship. Not all of the civilians who had been lost to the intruding forces' advance had been turned into insane wretches to be hurled at the survivors' lines. The Sons of Calth passed before piles of bodies, maimed and bled dry, with their blood used to draw blasphemous sigils on the walls. The Space Marines ignored those, simply letting their anger be stoked by the atrocities wrought upon the Emperor's subjects, until they found one particular sign.

Drawn in blood on a wall that had once been metal but now appeared to be made of some kind of grey stone was a skull surrounded by two bat-like wings. It was a mark that all Legionaries and many traumatized Imperial citizens who had lived during the Heresy knew. It was a symbol that many amongst the Five Hundred Worlds had cause to hate, for those who bore it had inflicted many horrors upon Guilliman's kingdom after the Lion had broken their backs.

It was the emblem of the treacherous Eighth Legion, the Night Lords, masters of terror and butchers of countless innocents. At last, the identity of the one responsible for the horrible fate of the Lady of the Three Seas's passengers was revealed, and the theory of the Sons of Calth vindicated. The Marines paused before it, taking a few seconds to renew the oaths of vengeance they had sworn against all traitors and remembering all they knew of Eighth Legion's tactics in preparation for what was to come.

Ten minutes later on Lycaon's chronometer – which were five on Argus', and twenty on another of their brothers – the Sons of Calth reached the nexus of the Chaotic energies that were warping the structure of the ship. The room was vast, its walls seemingly made of living, pulsing flesh. Smashed tables and chairs indicated that prior to the daemonic intrusion, this had probably been a diner room of some kind. At the center of the room was a circle drawn in blood, with symboles traced in the same foul ink around it and glowing with contained power. Within the circle laid a single male human, no more than a child if Lycaon's memories of what mortals were supposed to look like during their growth were correct. Though the boy was unconscious, his body twitched regularly and was covered in sweat, and his face was frozen in an expression of utter dread.

Around the circle were dozens of the shadow daemons that the squad had fought alongside the sailors. While the Space Marines took stock of the situation, another of the creature formed above the prone form of the child, manifesting from a twist in the air that was the reflection of a Warp breach on the mortal plane.

'What in the name of the Emperor,' hissed Argus over the vox, 'is that ?!'

Already Lycaon's training was taking hold, pushing aside his concern and moral revulsion and focusing on the arcane implications of what he was seeing, both with his eyes and his sixth sense. Currents of energies went from the boy to the rift in reality, and immaterial daemons pressed around him. A more focused look revealed to him the nature of the energies going from the boy's tormented psyche to the circle, and he felt his lips curl in disgust.

'Fear,' he growled. 'This circle is using the child's nightmares in order to fuel whatever fell purposes this blasphemy was designed for.'

'Exactly,' said a voice coming from the circle's direction. The Sons of Calth tensed, aiming their bolters at the shadows but holding their fire.

'So you have arrived. I wondered how your commanders would react to my presence … I am somehow vexed that they would only send one squad – but then again, it was only useless mortals at risk here.'

A silhouette emerged from amongst the crowd of daemons, manifesting from their midst as if coalescing from the Neverborn's very essence. It was an Astartes, wearing power armor the color of night sky and lightning, with a winged helmet that was the color of bone and mimicked a leering skull. Though his shoulder pad had been repainted black, it was obvious that this was a warrior of the Night Lords Legion. Runes that hurt Lycaon's eyes were inscribed on the ceramite's surface and glowed with unearthly light, while tendrils of shadow emanated from the joints in his armor. As the Librarian was able to look at the newly revealed foe with his second sight, he saw that these runes were also linked to the ritual circle, drawing power from the heresy taking place within.

'My name,' the traitor declared with a mock bow, 'is Zarl Korak. Formerly of the Night Lords Legion, now a member of Arken the Awakened's Forsaken Sons.'

For a long, tense moment, the two sides faced each other, neither willing to make the first move. They could all sense the tension in the air, though Lycaon could also feel the eyes of daemons being drawn to them all, eager for the spectacle of bloodshed soon to come. The pressure on the veil intensified, and the Librarian suppressed a wince when a small cry came out of the circle as the torment of the child increased in response as more of the daemons sought to manifest through the circle's power.

'What surprises me,' said Argus, breaking the silence, 'is this display of unholy sorcery. I thought Curze's bastards didn't like to involve themselves with the powers of the Warp ? Tell me, Night Lord, have you fallen even farther than the rest of your debased kin ?'

'I am no longer a Lord of the Night,' declared the Traitor Marine. 'Though my veins carry the blood of the Night Haunter, I have renounced the weakness of the Eighth Legion. No longer do I cling to my father's blind refusal of the power of the Warp. No longer do I refuse to embrace the truth of the universe, instead seeking to impose order to the Chaos that is its natural state. The King of the Night, for all his power, is a fool. He has seen his fate and has accepted it, even if it means that he will die with his duty undone, with the lies he fought to destroy still existing. But I will not ! I will fight against the False Emperor and those slaves who willingly serve His hypocrisy ! I will claim the power that I need to do so, no matter the cost ! I will bring ruin to the servants of tyranny and weakness !'

Zarl Korak paused in his diatribe, and took a deep breath. As he had gone further in his mad monologue, his voice had gotten louder and he had allowed more emotion to show in his originally dispassionate, mocking tone. Around him, Lycaon could see the shadows of countless Neverborn, whispering to his soul, dragging him deeper into insanity with every passing moment. The sorcery practiced by the Night Lord lacked the countless restraints and barriers used by true psykers to protect their souls from the powers they manipulated. This had driven him insane, lacking even the tenuous grasp on reason and logic that most traitors still possessed, no matter how far they had fallen. No wonder Arken had sent him here, on a mission he had little to no chance of surviving. Such a creature could hardly be controlled and would end up doing harm to all around it; it was better to simply point it in the enemy's direction and let it destroy itself while doing as much damage as possible.

'In the decades to come, the shade of the Emperor that sit on the Golden Throne will order my father's execution,' the former Night Lord continued, his voice calm and collected once more, 'and in doing so prove that He and His son are not so different. This will be the Night Haunter's vindication, and it will turn the Eighth Legion into a thousand claws that will bleed the Imperium forevermore. So Arken has seen. So it will be. My father has accepted his fate, and none can now change it. But I promise you this, sons of the fool Guilliman : the Imperium will pay dearly for my father's murder.'

For a moment, the Sons of Calth simply stared at the one that, in another age, they would have called brother. Then Argus broke the silence, his voice heavy with hatred :

'You are mad, traitor.'

The Night Lord snarled, the sound half between a laugh and a cry, and that was the end of the tense truce that had held between the two forces. With the Traitor Marine at their head, the daemons charged the Sons of Calth, who replied with a counter-charge of their own, blades held high and oaths to Guilliman and the Emperor on their lips. The two groups clashed, and the slaughter began. Immediately, Argus and Zarl Korak locked blades with each other, while around them Space Marines and Neverborn fought to the death. The runes on the traitor's armor were channeling power from the circle and into his flesh, granting him superior speed and strength. But Argus was used to fight creatures with supernatural abilities, and compensated for it through pure skill, taking advantage of the fact that for all the boost the traitor was getting, he was clearly unused to fighting while under its effects.

Lycaon surrounded himself with psychic fire and tore through the ranks of the daemons, his advance covered by his battle-brothers. Without needing to speak, they had understood what he was planning to do, and acted to ensure his success. Most warriors without the gift wouldn't have been able to do that, but these were Astartes Lycaon had fought along during the Underground Wars, and they had fought more than one daemon during these darkest of days. They understood the matters of the aether as well as it was possible for non-psykers, and so understood that as long as the circle was in place and the Neverborn drawing power from the child's terror, they would be at a distinct disadvantage. There was also the boy's suffering to take into account – such a thing had to be stopped as soon as possible. Practicality combined with humanity, cold calculation tempered by convern for those they protected : such was the way of the Sons of Calth.

Finally reaching the edge of the circle, Lycaon extended his aura of soulfire, pushing back the tide of daemons, before opening is psyche and plunging into the maelstrom of energies, trying to touch mind with the boy bound at the center of the markings. The pressure of the Warp on his mind as he did so was considerable, the entities that were using the conduit to incarnate feeling his presence and reacting with hateful anger. For a few seconds, he feared that he had overreached himself, that his soul was about to be extinguished by the collective malice of the Neverborn and that his body would follow suit. But even as he was about to try a desperate retreat, something came from within the circle, a new presence that pushed away the pressure of daemon spirits.

The presence was shining with pain and fear. It was reaching out to Lycaon on instinct, terrified, seeking someone to help it. The Librarian understood immediately : this was the child, trapped within the circle, trying to call for help. The boy was linked to the ether by the abominable ritual, and just as his terror was feeding the Neverborn, his plea for aid was also taking form in the Sea of Souls, the sheer innocence it contained anathema to the daemons. His determination renewed, Lycaon pushed forward with his mind, and linked his spirit with the psychic message, going up the cord of emotion until he finally reached the boy.

The poor child's psyche was under assault, dozens of daemons filling his mind with nightmarish images and dragging up tormented memories. Lycaon felt furious at the sight, and he used this wrath to gather energy. Once he was certain that energy was enough, he unleashed it in a torrent of white-hot mind-fire, whipping out the daemons that laid siege to the young boy's soul.

At the edge of his sight, Argus saw Lycaon's armor blaze with white light, and the unmoving body of the child shine with the same power, moments before the boy rose to a seated position, screaming for a few seconds in shock and relief and then collapsing again. Something had changed, though, that even Argus could feel despite not possessing any talent as a psyker. The arcane construct that had drawn power from the boy's powerful fears was now broken. And, from the look of things, Argus' opponent knew this as well.

'No !' the Night Lord screamed as the eldritch fires of the circle began to dim and the daemons began to writhe in agony as the source of their power vanished. 'Not now ! Not like this !'

With the interruption of the ritual, the glowing runes on the traitor's armor also lost their light, and the Night Lord's movement returned to the speed of an Astartes. Before he could recover from the shock of seeing his work undone, Argus rammed his weapon into the renegade's chestplate. The Night Lord screamed as Argus' chainsword chewed through his entrails. Blood that reeked of corruption was spilled around the two combattants as they were locked together, until the sergeant tore his blade free, causing another spray of the foul vitae. The wound was grievous, and several organs had been torn apart by the blade, but Argus had known Astartes who had endured worst wounds and remained into the fight – and there was no telling if Zorak's blasphemous dealings had granted him superior resilience.

'Die,' Argus breathed, already lifting his sword to deliver another blow, this one aimed to sever the head of the renegade. 'Just die !'

Before the Son of Calth could strike, however, black smoke began to pour from the Night Lord's wounds, cloaking him from sight. Argus took a step back, wary of further sorcery. He could see shapes in the smoke : angry daemonic faces and claws that rattled at Zarl Korak's armor. A terrible scream came from the shadows, and when they dissipated, no trace remained of the Night Lord safe for the black blood spilled on the floor. Argus felt a presence vanish from the room, a pressure on his mind he hadn't noticed until it had been removed. He blinked, and when his eyes opened again the room had returned to more normal proportions, the unnatural power that had warped its dimensions no longer active. The daemons which had been attacking the squad were also gone, leaving not a single sign that they had ever been here. For a few seconds he thought he could hear wailing at the edge of his enhanced perceptions, but the sound quickly ceased altogether. Looking around him, the sergeant saw that two of his warriors had fallen, their wounds too grave for them to have any chance of survival, and the rest of them were also left in poor condition. If the battle had gone on any longer, then the daemons would have killed them all. Once more, they owed their lives and their victory to Lycaon's psychic powers.

'What in the name of the Primarch was that ?' demanded one of Argus' brothers, his bolter aimed at where the Traitor Marine had stood.

'I don't know,' admitted the sergeant. 'Lycaon ?'

'I can no longer detect the traitor's presence. My best guess is that the Neverborn punished him for his failure by dragging him into the Empyrean before the residual power of the ritual was entirely dissipated. Wherever he is now, I am certain that it isn't pleasant.'

'Good,' said another warrior firmly, eliciting nods of approvals from his squadmates. Deeds such as those commited on this ship had to be paid for, no matter the pitiful rethoric employed by the Night Lord, and there were few punishments worse than being dragged in the Warp by furious daemons – at least, Argus couldn't think of any.

'And what about the child ?' Argus asked, gesturing to the unconscious young boy Lycaon held in his arms. 'He has been touched by the Ruinous Powers.'

They all knew what the sergeant was alluding to, even if none of them wanted to say it out loud. There was only one possible consequence for contact with the darker side of the Warp, no matter the age or willingness of the subject.

'He helped me banish the daemons,' said the Librarian softly. 'I am not sure I could have broken the spell without his aid.'

'Then his will must be strong,' admitted Argus. 'But is that enough ? We all know the law of the Imperium, the rules of engagement against Chaos sorcery, as they were written by the Primarch in the Codex. The taint of Ruin finds its way through the heart of even the most unexpected, and there is no way to walk away from its blasphemous embrace unchanged. Can we take the risk of letting that child live ?'

The Sons of Calth looked at each other, then back at the infant cradled in the Librarian's arms. All of them could feel the all too familiar bitter taste of hollow victory, of triumph tainted by unwilling sacrifice. And all of them knew something else : from now until the end of all things, all victories claimed by the Imperium in the eternal war against Chaos would be like this.

---

As they crossed the threshold of the ship's best-defended room, Orpheus could feel the curiosity and unease radiating from the crew of the Hand of Ruin's bridge just as easily as he had perceived Jikaerus' conversation with Arken over the vox on their way here. The former Child of the Emperor took a moment to bask in the attention. Each of the three drew fear from the mortals, although for very different reasons. While they drew closer to their destination, Orpheus' mind took a moment to divine the reasons for these fears.

Jikaerus was feared because of his mutations, no matter that he hid it under his armor – word had a way to spread aboard the renegade ship. The Fleshmaster was also known to be one of Arken's chosen, those to whom the Awakened One entrusted the tasks that would elevate the warband. Being a member of the Hall of Asclepios' lords did little to make mortals at ease in his presence : rumors abounded about what manners of horrors took place behind the late Apothecarion's sealed gates. Orpheus himself had heard some of these rumors, and it had amused him to see how far they were from the truth – what the Fleshmasters were attempting was generally far more glorious that any feeble mortal mind could imagine, even one no longer restrained by the lies and carcans of the Imperium.

Orpheus was feared because he was a Sorcerer, his psychic hood marking him as such even amongst the most ignorant of the Forsaken Sons' servants. The crew had witnessed the terrible power wielded by the members of the Coven, heard of their binding of Serixithar and of how Arken regarded them as some of his most valued warriors. They also recoiled from his presence because of his armor's colors, which marked him as a son of Fulgrim. By this point, they had learned to avoid the sections of the ship inhabited by the Forsaken Sons who had once been part of the Third Legion, lest they became the newest playthings of the bored Marines that languished there, waiting for their lord to point them at their foe.

But for all that the mortals feared and respected the two Astartes, they felt only hatred and curiosity toward Ezyrithn. Past the first surprise of seeing an alien onboard, Ezyrithn's appearance was also disconcerting. The Firstborn wore a simple tunic, the kind worn by Legion servants – not that the xenos hadn't protested when presented with the crude garment. Most of the bridge crew had seen picts of Eldar before, some of them had even seen the xenos in the flesh, and they could feel that there was something different about the creature marching down the Hand of Ruin's command deck. They couldn't have said what, but their subconscious had picked up the true nature of Ezyrithn: that of a creature whose soul had passed through the Realms of Chaos and emerged as something that was more than mortal, yet still a step removed from true daemonhood. Coupled with his alien body, it filled the human crew with an instinctive impulse to crush the intruder in their midst. The reborn alien ignored their glares as he walked down the bridge's main, walkway with the Astartes before and behind him like a supplicant being brought before his liege, until they were finally facing the lord of the Forsaken Sons.

So far, Ezyrithn had been clearly unimpressed by what he had seen, commenting on the ship's crew and the technology they saw as they went through her corridors. In Orpheus' opinion, it was only to be expected. After all, the xenos had seen the wonders of the Eldar Empire before the Fall, and even greater wonders after the birth of the Youngest God. But now that he stood before Arken the Awakened One, his attitude changed drastically. An expression that couldn't be anything but awe appeared on his face. Orpheus could understand it. Like him, the Sha'eilat was both psychically gifted and a servant of the Profligate One. While the Sorcerer didn't know what Arken looked like to those of the Coven who followed other paths, to him the Awakened One's soul was a dark and terrible wonder. It burnt with a black light that spread around him like a beacon, turning those who walked near him into willing servants of his unyielding hatred for the Imperium of Man. This was no psychic brainwashing or hypnosis, but the reflection in the Warp of the Chaos Lord's determination. It couldn' turn a soul to darkness, but those already pledged to the Ruinous Powers would find themselves bending knees before him, subconsciously recognising a being higher in the estime of the Gods – as well as one they definitively didn't want to cross.

Arken was sitting on his command throne, with half a dozen screens carried by servo-skulls hovering around him, bringing him updates on the situation of the Parecxisian campain. As the group approached, he waved the constructs away, and looked at the xenos and the two Astartes. The lord of the Forsaken Sons didn't wear his Terminator armor, instead covering his body with a meditation robe, decorated in sigils of the Dark Gods – prayers inscribed by faithful servants for their master's recovery. To Orpheus' knowledge, the priceless wargear was still in Merchurion's workshop, its repairs being supervised by the Techno-Adept himself. The Sorcerer hadn't taken part in the battle for Meridis, but he had heard from his brothers that the Awakened One had duelled a champion of the loyalists at the battle's climax. Seeing his lord in the flesh for the first time since the battle, Orpheus had to admire the skill of the warrior who had managed to inflict such wounds on the Chaos Lord. Dozens of fresh cuts were spread across his torso, patched up with the combination of science and sorcery that had become the Fleshmasters' trademark. At the throne's side, reading from a data-slate, was the one who had been responsible for healing the damage done to the Awakened One's body. Orpheus felt a spike of contempt from Jikaerus at the sight of the former Alpha Legionary's colleague, and frowned.

Melakor, like Orpheus, had once belonged to the Third Legion. Though the former Apothecary had chosen to display his devotion to the Dark Prince in a more obvious manner than his brother Sorcerer, the two of them still served the same patron, just like they followed the same lord. Melakor's aura was alive with minor spirits of the Profligate One, swirling around him and whispering to his soul. There were more of them than there had been the last time Orpheus had beheld his gene-brother. Clearly Melakor was rising in the esteem of the Lord of Sensations. Jealousy began to stir in the Sorcerer's mind, but he crushed it with a thought. Let the Fleshmaster claim glory by creating more freaks and perverting the False Emperor's gene-work. He would earn the favour of the Dark Gods by deeds a magnitude darker.

For a moment, Arken simply stared at the Firstborn, judging the result of the two Forsaken Sons' work. Then he nodded, as if he had obtained the confirmation to one of the visions he had received in the Oracle's Chamber, and began to speak.

'Jikaerus told me that you name yourself Ezyrithn, child of Slaanesh.'

'Yes, scion of the Powers,' the half-daemon declared in his melodious voice.'I am the Firstborn of the Sha'eilat, those who, through your orders, your servants have enabled to return to the world of flesh and bone.'

'The Sha'eilat,' Arken said, as if tasting the word. 'I see. An appropriate name. Tell me, what do you remember of your time amongst the dead ?'

Ezyrithn's face took on a dreamy expression, and Orpheus saw the xenos' aura flare at the memories of ecstasies and agonies the likes of which could never be replicated in the Materium. He felt a pang of jealousy at the sight, before reminding himself that for all the pleasures offered by Slaanesh's palace to His faithful, the Neverborn that lived their eternities there still sought to enter the plane of matter and flesh. What he could experience in the mortal world was, in a way, more real than anything his soul would know once he was finally united with his master's domain.

'I remember much,' finally said Ezyrithn. 'But the memories are already fading away now that my soul is once more surrounded by flesh. Though the Goddess has little interest in such things, I also remember hearing the wheel of history turn and the galaxy change greatly.'

'Indeed. This is a different galaxy from the one you knew. Things have changed since what most survivors of your species now call the Fall. The Eldars are no longer the dominant race amongst the galaxy. No more are your kin the unchallenged rulers of the stars.'

'I know of this. I remember how beings like you came and destroyed our paradise, though they were as much different as they were similar to those of your brothers I have met so far.'

'That is because we have changed as well. Many of us have had our eyes opened to the truth of the universe, and to the tyranny under which we served. There was a war, great and terrible, that tore our species apart and set the galaxy aflame, as those who had seen the truth fought against those who refused to see it.'

'I know of this war. Its echoes reached deep into the Palace of the Goddess, and She took great pleasure in the deeds of Her new champions in its battles.'

There was a noticeable tensing in Arken's posture. It wasn't difficult to guess the cause : Slaanesh may have taken pleasure at the Emperor's Children's deeds at Terra, but for the former Son of Horus the excesses of the Third Legion were just another reason why the rebels had lost the Heresy. There was a moment of silence, before Arken spoke as if the xenos hadn't said anything :

'We lost that war, though in doing so we dealt the Imperium a terrible blow. Now, me and my warriors seek to continue it, until we can finally bring the whole rotting edifice down and claim our revenge. But the Imperium is vast and its armies legion. In order to make a significant difference, we need power and allies – which is why I asked Jikaerus and Orpheus to resurrect you.'

The Awakened One gestured to the Fleshmaster at his side before continuing :

'One of Melakor's creations is gathering an army from the mortals we took aboard in our previous campain. Like you, he has been marked by the Dark Prince, and his influence spreads amongst the rabble. Once Jikaerus and Orpheus have brought more of your kin back into our world, this army, your brethren, and those amongst my men who follow the path of Slaanesh will form a single force that shall be unleashed on one of the cities that still resist us on the planet below.'

'An interesting proposition,' Ezyrithn replied. 'And what would me and my kin gain from this assault ?'

'I will let you do as you please with its people, so long as you ensure that our enemies no longer hold it. The same will be true for the mortals deployed alongside you – they are nothing to us. Afterwards, if you want to reclaim your old world, I will let you do it – though I have to warn you,little more than ruins remain of your old empire. If you have no desire to do so, I would welcome you amongst us as we leave this system behind us and go on to other conquests. I will not try to make you my vassals or servants – I know better than to attempt such a thing. What I offer you, Ezyrithn the Firstborn, is an alliance.'

Orpheus noted that Arken didn't mention what he would do if Ezyrithn refused his offer. He didn't need to : it was obvious. Ezyrithn stood in the heart of Arken's power, surrounded by those loyal to the Forsaken Sons and facing their lord. If he refused, he would be dead before his words had ceased to echo on the bridge, and Arken would either make the same proposal to the next clone or abandon the idea of an alliance altogether. Doubtlessly the Sha'eilat knew this, for he only seemed to consider the offer for a few seconds before replying :

'To fight against the descendants of our slaves, those who took our own world from us, with the help of the kin of those who helped them revolt … There is an irony in this that would please She-Who-Thirsts. Me and my brethren will require materials and … subjects in order to prepare for battle, however.'

'You shall have them,' declared Arken. 'I look forward to witnessing the battle prowess of the chosen children of Slaanesh.'

'We won't disappoint you, Lord Arken,' said Ezyrithn, before surprising both the Astartes and the mortals by actually bowing before the enthroned figure.

---

At long last, the Lady of the Three Seas anchored in Talexorn's harbor, dragged to port by other, smaller ships. It was its last journey, for the ship had been touched by the darkness of the Warp, and no crew would willingly sail aboard her from now on. Besides, with the other continent under the control of the traitors and the general conditions at sea following the arrival of the Warp Storm, maritim traffic was all but non-existent. Once its cargo of flesh was disembarked, she would be dragged back into the ocean and sunk. Tarek had asked and been granted permission to be there. Afterwards, he and his men would join the growing defense force of Talexorn, preparing to face the inevitable attack of the heretics. The captain had vowed to make the traitors pay for his ship, as well as everything else. Argus, who along with his squad had left the ship by Thunderhawk, had promised him that he would have the opportunity.

As soon as the Lady's bay was opened, medical personel rushed onboard. Other Sons of Calth had received Argus' report, and arranged for the remaining civilians aboard the ship to be taken care of immediately. They would be evacuated, brought to the refugees' camps that had been built in the three hives still under loyalist control. Vast portions of the cities laid in ruins, towers and spires brought low by the earthquakes caused by the arrival of the storm, and the cooperation of the Sons of Calth and the remaining tech-priests had transformed these ruins into temporary homes for those who had been forced to flee before the Forsaken Sons' advance.

At the same time, the news that the Forsaken Sons had infiltrators capable of sneaking past their lines sent the whole loyalist command structure into alert, and the Legionaries deployed in the hive-cities received orders to be on the look-out for more Night Lords. Many of them remembered all too well the damage caused by Konrad Curze in the time when the Night Haunter had been loose on Maccrage, and for all the cowardice of his gene-line, they didn't underestimate the danger posed by the Eighth Legion.

But as they focused their attention on the hunt for other Traitor Marines, the Sons of Calth's vigilance against other potential threats weakened. Unseen by the rescuers, one silhouette left the ship and quickly vanished in the streets of Talexorn. Had Lycaon not been so exhausted after his battle against the daemons, he would have been able to detect its presence, but the Librarian was barely capable of standing by that point.

The silhouette had no name. When it had been created in the Palace of Glass, on Parecxis Alpha's moon, its maker had seen no need to give it one. Names were for people, and though the creature's outward appearance was human, it wasn't even alive in the proper sense of the word. Beneath its skin, alongside bones that had been stolen from the corpses of the dead, was nothing but a greenish liquid filled with diseases produced neither by nature nor mortal ingenuity, but lovingly crafted by the hand of a god and manifested into reality by the work of one of his priests.

The plague-carrier had hidden amongst the living on the ship, while all their attention had been focused on the Night Lord. Now, it had reached the land of its master's enemies, and was able to perform the mission for which it had been created. Its orders were written on its very essence, and it could no more disobey them as the living could stop breathing. Its task was to spread the gift flowing beneath its hide : to reach these places where it would be able to reach the greatest number of living possible. Food supplies, water distribution hub, transports : the plague homonculus would find them, and leave behind him a portion of the unholy mixture that made up most of its being. By the end, there would be nothing remaining, and the creature would die – but it didn't care. Its mission was the reason for its existence. Nothing else mattered. The gifts of Pharod the Reborn would be brought to the denizens of the southern city, whether they wanted it or not.

… One for the Garden Lord, fallen son of the Red World and reborn son of plague …