AN : hello, dear readers ! Here comes the next part of the battle for Asthenar. That one was surprisingly difficult to write : I had the whole thing planned out from the start, but each step was difficult to put down in text. Tell me what you think about it in your reviews.
By the way, in the previous chapter's reviews, Sarnakh asked how the Sons of Calth were able to come to the planet with a full thousand Space Marines while only having one ship. I am going to use a cop-out on that one, but it has also been used by Games Workshop themselves, so I don't care. See, while the term 'battle-barge' is generally used to describe Astartes vessels holding one Company, there are exceptions - especially when ships from the Great Crusade era are concerned, when the Imperium had far more resources and technology that it does in the forty-first millenium. For example, the Conqueror, flagship of the World Eaters, is referred to as a battle-barge, while being able to hold hundred upon hundred of Astartes. So I am going to say that the Sons of Calth had only one vessel, but it was a big one.
There are more and more of you following and/or favoring this fic, and I am very grateful for your support. There were especially a lot of reviews for the last chapter, and I thank you all for your praise. Please review this chapter as well, so that I can write better stuff next time. If you have ideas for what to do after the 'battle for Asthenar' arc is over, don't hesitate (I already have a few ideas, but nothing really strikes me as the one).
Next up will be the next part of the Roboutian Heresy, about the World Eaters. It is nearly complete, so if you have any suggestions or pieces of lore that you would want to see used and fear I may have missed - and there are probably a lot of those - PM me or leave a review in the corresponding fic. After that, I should continue the battle for Asthenar - there are only a few chapters left now, and I want them to be as good as I can make them. The next one will have more ... visceral action. You will understand what I mean at this chapter's end.
Also, does anyone know what happened the 9th January 2016 ? There were more than four hundred hits on the Roboutian Heresy that day, and for the love of the Emperor I cannot figure out why. I mean, I am glad more people take interest in my work, but I am still curious.
That's all for now. Enjoy !
Zahariel out.
I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.
He screams as he sees his father fall.
All around them, the world is dying in an inferno started by ignorant barbarians. The great towers have crumbled, their foundations torn apart by the Wolves' bombing. The libraries, which held in their archives the collected wisdom of a million worlds, have been burned to ashes by Sixth Legion's flamers. Priceless tomes, tablets, rolls of parchment, and relics of a hundred more shapes have been destroyed in the wanton rampage of the Emperor's butchers. Pyramids of glass perfectly arranged according to geomantic patterns and observation towers aligned with the stars have been reduced to dust by the tremors of fighting war-engines.
The last survivors have gathered at the command of the greatest of them, standing defiantly against those who would be their executioners. Ahriman has called them, pulling them from a hundred battlefields to stand with him at the foot of the great pyramid. He is the one who refused to bow and let the Wolves kill them – he is the one who led them in this fierce, desperate battle to protect their home, their people, their lives. Ahriman's soul shines with power greater than any other Legionary of the Thousand Sons, and for a moment the dreamer can sees the future echoes of what the Captain of the Corvidae will do and become in times yet to be. It is a vision as beautiful as it is dreadful.
There they waited for the final battle, when the Wolves of Fenris and the other murderers of the Emperor would come for them. They are ready to die. But they are not ready for what they are seeing now. Magnus, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, their father and king, is laid low by his most hated brother. His back is broken upon the Wolf King's knee, cast down like an idol of old. Agony radiates from him, but he is not defeated yet. His one eye stares at his gathered sons, who stare back in shock, horror and sorrow, and something changes in him – some great decision is made, and the galaxy itself holds its breath as it waits for Magnus' choice to be revealed.
The Crimson King screams in defiance of fate, and unleashes power unlike anything he ever has before. The last Legionaries of the Fifteenth Legion and their human allies are engulfed in a wave of Warp energy, their minds blanking out in the face of such awesome might. The last thing they see is the Legion that murdered their homeworld at the Emperor's command, standing before them with the burning city of Tizca in the background.
Asim, lord of the Coven, brother to Arken the Awakened One and known amongst the Forsaken Sons and their fearful servants as the Sorcerer of Blood, opened his eyes. Slowly, his mind drifted away from the remembrance and back into the present, which he saw through the tinted eye-lenses of his psychic hood – the only reason he had allowed himself to lapse into a trance in the first place. The memory had been an unpleasant one, for it brought with it the knowledge of his own past ignorance – of the many betrayals that had brought the Thousand Sons so low. They had been betrayed by the Emperor, who had desired to crush Mankind's ascension as a psychic race with His Edict. They had been betrayed by the Wolves, who had come to Prospero with hatred in their hearts and ready to murder their cousins' world. They had been betrayed by Magnus, who had hidden the coming of the Sixth Legion from his sons until it was too late, out of some misguided belief that he could earn forgiveness for his sins by dying a martyr, and had been willing to drag his Legion down with him only to change his mind at the last moment, when he himself had faced judgment. And they had been betrayed by Horus Lupercal, who had deceived them into thinking the Emperor was the one who had ordered their purge, while he had been the one who had changed the Vlka Fenryka's orders from arrest to execution.
The truth of Horus' deceit had been revealed to the Thousand Sons aboard the Hand of Ruin soon after the Siege had ended, but Asim suspected that Magnus had known it for much longer. Though his father had proven over and again that he was a fool, he was far from ignorant, and little escaped the sight of his cyclopean eye. He would have known the exact reasons of the Wolves' coming, but he had not shared them with his sons. There had been whispers among the rest of the Thousand Sons too, when their rage at the Wolves didn't blind them entirely – but no proof had been found, or if it had, those who had discovered it had either chosen to remain silent or made so by the Warmaster's agents.
Arken had been the one to give the truth to the members of the Fifteenth Legion among the Forsaken Sons, soon after the end of the Exodus and the binding of Serixithar. But even knowing that the Imperium's forces had been manipulated by the Warmaster had done nothing to quell Asim's hatred of the galactic empire he had helped to build as a Captain of the Fifteenth Space Marine Legion. His eyes had been opened to the truth of the Emperor's lies, and to the power of Chaos. There was no going back for him – nor for any son of the Nine Legions. With blood and fire, he had freed himself from the Emperor's shackles, and while his soul may now be marked by the Great Mutator – and, if the Herald of Blood was any sign of it, other powers as well – he was still his own man in the ways that truly mattered. His existence was his to choose, and he had chosen to give his loyalty to Arken – the one who would make the most use of his talents in the Long War against the Imperium.
The Sorcerer stood before the wall surrounding Asthenar, atop a stopped Rhino transport. He was studying the battle raging on the battlements, where packs of Forsaken Sons were fighting squads of Sons of Calth and human soldiers. Like his non-gifted brothers could smell the scent of blood and gunpowder, he could sense the rage and death emanating from the wall, rising from the thousands of souls involved in the struggle. He could sense countless Neverborn spirits pressing at the city's borders, eager to feast on the powerful emotions and the souls of the fallen – yet unable to do so.
It was clear to Asim that the battle was in his brothers' favor, but many had already fallen, their armored corpses falling down the wall and crashing on the ground. Too many. They should have torn their way through the defenses – the Coven could have brought low the wall, turned its very stones to dust through the power of the Warp. But the Sons of Calth had prepared for this. Even now, Asim could feel the combined might of the Chapter's Librarians, all linked together in a gestalt entity that shielded the entire hive-city from sorcery.
It was similar to what the loyalists had used in Meredis, but even stronger, with all the remaining Librarians taking part, their efforts bolstered by the few human psykers who had survived this far without losing their minds or being shown the truth. They would home in on any user of psychic power inside the city within seconds, and any weaving of the Warp unleashed from beyond their reach would be shattered the moment it entered the zone of effect. It was probably very taxing on both Legionaries and mortals, but it was very effective. Clearly, the Sons of Calth had learned one of the most important lessons the Thirteenth Legion had been caught when the Word Bearers had turned on them : that the power of the Warp was an essential part of any battle against the Illuminated Legions. Asim, the Coven, and the various daemonic allies gathered by the Forsaken Sons were useless so long as the gestalt was active. Even the shapeless spirits of the Immaterium were unable to go beyond the city's walls, which spoke of more than breathtaking power and control. Somehow, the Sons of Calth had managed to harness the power of the false faith spread by the Ecclesiarchy, channeling it into their spell to act as a barrier against the Neverborn.
That wouldn't last for much longer. He had just broken the psychic connection with Orpheus, the only member of the Coven who was accompanying the northern army – they had just finished breaking through the wall. Asim didn't understand how his colleague could bear the prolonged presence of the Sha'eilat. The resurrected Eldar were abominations even by the standard of Traitor Marines – xenoforms whose very essence had been rewritten by the Dark Prince. Asim understood their usefulness to Arken, and the Sorcerer Lord even knew the true reason for their resurrection, but even if he didn't object, he still found the necessity of this alliance repulsing. Standing near one of them was enough to set any practitioner's teeth on edge – their attuned senses could perceive the creatures' wrongness even more acutely than ordinary mortals. It was probably due to Orpheus' own link to Slaanesh that he could stand the Sha'eilat's presence.
Now, all four armies had entered the hive-city. The Sons of Calth were ready to unleash their counter-attack : a succession of ambushes and withdrawals across the entire space of the hive. Despite the numbers massed under the Forsaken Sons' banner, all of their armies were still insignificant compared to the size of Asthenar. They could walk for days without finding a single enemy or each other. With the Warp Storm raging, vox and auspex would be all but useless. Sorcery could locate the loyalist forces – but the Librarians prevented that. The warband and its allies would take months searching for the Sons of Calth, and it was all too possible they would be bled so much in the process that the sons of Guilliman would be able to claim ultimate victory – though there would be little left of the city itself by that point. Even if they managed to exterminate every single loyalist, it would leave them far weaker than they had been before they arrived in the system.
It was a good plan, Asim had to admit that. Had the Forksaken Sons been led by any lesser warlord, it could even have worked. But Arken had anticipated the move of the Sons of Calth, and he and Asim had devised a countermeasure. It would take considerable resources and effort, but its success would all but guarantee the victory of the Forsaken Sons in Asthenar – and by extension, in the whole Parecxis system.
The Sorcerer descended from his perch and rejoined the rest of the Coven. The Sorcerers were standing in a precisely arranged circle, holding their focuses in both hands before them – most favored staves, but a few used swords inscribed with runes of power. One – who had been a member of the Seventeenth Legion before casting his allegiance to the Forsaken Sons – held a short ceremonial dagger between his palms, an athame, not unlike the rumored weapon that was said to have brought low Horus Lupercal at the dawn of the Heresy.
There were eleven of them – while Orpheus was accompanying the Sha'eilat in the north, Pareneffer had gone to the west, allowed by Arken himself to perform the final test of his own personal project. They came from different Legions, but like all those who had been trapped on the Hand of Ruin during the desperate flight from Terra, they had cast aside the disagreements which had existed between their bloodlines and come together as one powerful cabal. Even during his days amongst the Thousand Sons, Asim had never seen such a group as the Coven. Not in raw power – there were many cabals and circles within the Fifteenth Legion which would have surpassed them – but in the sheer diversity of skills and approaches to the Art. In the time since the Exodus, Asim had learned more about the Warp and its denizens than he would have thought possible. He had underestimated the lore accumulated by the other Legions, like most of the Thousand Sons. Pride had ever been the greatest flaw of both Magnus and his sons, but Asim had sworn to himself that he would learn from his Legion's past mistakes. Such was, after all, the only thing the past was good for.
Asim took his appointed place, completing the twelve-pointed circle. Flickers of lightning began to course from one focus to another as the Sorcerers gathered their power, and the skies above flashed in reaction to what was taking place below. At the same time, those sitting within the circle in chains began to moan and wail, sensing what was about to happen even if they didn't truly understand it.
Dozens of men and women in dirty rags had been dragged to the ritual's location. They were the wyrds gathered by the Prophet in Rags before he fell to a loyalist ambush. Without the leadership of the Prophet, the wild psykers were not just useless – they were a danger to the renegades as well. The moment Arken had learned of the psyker lord's death, he had ordered them to be contained and brought here. They could still be of use, but the Coven members didn't have the patience required to teach such wrecks how to use their power. More than half of them had already been driven mad by the Storm and the whispers of the Neverborn, and without the iron will of the Prophet uniting them, more were succumbing with every passing hour.
But it would be a waste to simply kill them, even if it would have been a mercy for the tortured souls (though given what awaited them on the other side of the veil, Asim doubted even that). If they couldn't serve the Forsaken Sons with their lives, then they would serve them with their deaths.
Asim took a deep breath as he gathered yet more power, linking his mind with the other members of the Coven. He could feel his brothers raising their own defences, preparing to defend their souls from the daemons' hunger during the ritual while letting their own power flow through the link and into his own being. Their wills would shield him as well, allowing him to dedicate all of his focus to the task demanded of him.
All of the Sorcerers started to chant their own mantras, slipping into a meditative state according to each one's personal traditions and preferences. Some called upon the Dark Gods for their blessing, while others focused their minds through ritual chants and others still recited the names of fallen comrades to stir the fire of their hate. Around them stood fifty Forsaken Sons, keeping watch on the Coven's physical form while their spirits waged war against the foe. The moment the Sons of Calth realized what was happening, they would think of striking at the Sorcerers' defenceless bodies – but they would be too busy fighting the invading forces to be able to send enough warriors to defeat the packs defending the ritual.
Asim's mind reached up to the highest Enumerations, sharpening his mind for the coming battle. Power flowed through him from his colleagues, far from that which he had wielded on Parecxis Gamma, but terrible nonetheless. The collective psychic might of twelve Sorcerers was nothing to scoff at, and there was yet more power at his disposal should he need it – as he thought he would. But first, he had to engage his foe : to make his presence known to the circle of Librarians maintaining the psychic construct over Asthenar, and issue his challenge.
As he closed his eyes, his stare met the eyes of one of the chained wyrds, and though there was more than ten meters between them, he unwillingly caught his own reflection in the wretch's cloudy eyes. As always, he saw not his own armor, but the horned crimson form of the Herald of Blood – and he heard the daemon's voice, as if it was whispering into his ear.
You should let me help you, father.
He ignored the daemon's voice, and let his spirit leave his mundane perceptions behind as his aetheral self abandoned his flesh and raised into the roiling streams of the Warp. At once, his conscious mind projected images and forms to the senseless madness of the Empyrean, creating a psychic representation of the mental battlefield upon which he would face the Sons of Calth's Librarians. His own spirit took a form similar to the one he had in the material world, though he couldn't help but notice that one of his armor's shoulder pauldron now bore the sigil of the Blood God, while the other was emblazoned with the mark of Tzeentch. He could feel the conflicting energies emanating from the two symbols, but they did not turn on each other – both were fueling his emotions and power, not exactly working in concert but not interfering with each other. Once again, Asim wondered just what game the Dark Gods were playing with his soul.
I could tell you that secret, father. It would cost you so little, and you would finally be freed of the burden of doubt …
In this realm, the voice of the Herald came from within his own armor, but he ignored it again, as he did with the implications of this provenance. Flames and screaming souls surrounded his psychic body, which floated in an endless abyss, where physical directions had no meaning but were still tentatively used by his mind to try to understand the madness of the Warp. In the distance, he could see a huge wall of golden light with cracks of pure blackness running on its surface – the faithful city of Asthenar, fighting against the legions of darkness. Neverborn spirits were clawing at the wall of faith and loyalty of the city's defenders and denizens, trying to find a way inside and claim the body of one of the millions of civilians as their own. But they were kept at bay by the light, which emanated from all souls within the city and was directed by …
Found you.
Atop the wall of light stood a being that looked similar to what the ancient Terran myths called an angel. It was an humanoid clad in armor the color of clean skies, with twin wings of golden fire rising from its back. In its hands, it held a staff ending in the symbol of the Imperial Aquila – a symbol that was also present on its chest. Power radiated from it in waves, and Asim felt the emotions that fueled it – confidence, determination, honor, duty. Threads of golden light were running up and down the staff, and the angel was staring straight at Asim.
Its face was a golden mask shaped in the image of a noble, haughty face locked in a perpetual expression of cold, righteous fury. Asim remembered seeing some of the Blood Angels wearing similar masks during the Siege of Terra, and he knew that some Word Bearers had also adopted similar headgear before and after their turning to Chaos. It echoed the ancient traditions of several cultures of Old Earth, who had once buried their nobles in similar masks. Of course, Astartes did it for different reasons : to make sure their enemies knew the face of their killers, to honor their homeworld's tradition, or for more esoteric purposes. He suspected that the reason why the angel wore one was because, since it was constituted of the combined minds of several Librarians, it did not have a face of its own.
For a moment, the two stayed still, glaring at each other and trying to get an impression of their opponent's capabilities. Then, the angel – no, Asim corrected himself : the Son of Calth's thought construct – sent a message to the Sorcerer. It was wordless, a pulse of emotions and concepts that was only rendered into words by Asim's consciousness. To his faint surprise, the voice was not a chorus but a single, hard tone, and it spoke in Tizcan – the language of his own thoughts.
I see you, traitor.
And I see you, false angel. Do you feel no shame in assuming such a form ? Or have the sons of rational Guilliman come to believe the lies fed to the Imperium's masses about the nature of their transhuman protectors ?
I am the Bound Circle. I am the shield of the innocents, their defence against the evil you serve. This appearance merely reflects how they think of me.
Asim sneered at the construct's posturing. His contempt radiated from his spirit in the form of cruel, laughing shadows that leapt in the angel's direction, only to be consumed by the fiery light surrounding it and dissolving back into the aether from which they had been spawned.
You are a lie, sent the Sorcerer, loading the message with as much conviction as he could gather. A symbol of false hope, the promise of a salvation that will never come.
I am a warden. I am the defender of their souls. You … You are an abomination. A traitor to the Emperor, and a slave to ruin. Your very existence is an insult to Mankind itself.
Wrath swelled within Asim's mind. What did this creature, this lifeless construct of combined thought, knew of him ? He was Asim of the Forsaken Sons ! He had fought at the side of his Legion during the Burning of Prospero, uncovered the secrets of Chaos on Sortiarus, burned a path across the galaxy when he had joined the rebellion, and unleashed his mightiest sorceries at the walls of the Imperial Palace itself !
He had been betrayed by the Emperor, by the Imperium, by his father, and by Horus Lupercal himself. He, himself, had never broken his word : it had always been the other party which had betrayed him first. Some part of him realized that he was lying to himself, but he ignored it. It was of no use to him, and it would only make him weaker – and in this new existence that was now his lot in the galaxy, weakness could not be tolerated.
Cobalt and crimson flames rose from his armor's joints, and he held high his staff in front of him, channeling as much power as he could for the first strike. The Neverborn surrounding him howled in animal joy at the display of power, mindlessly bathing in the spiritual warmth of the Sorcerer's rage.
I am no slave, he pulsed. I was once, but no more. Now it is only the fate of you and your brothers.
And then, he unleashed his attack. The power took the form of one of Asim's usual attacks in the material world, though it was far more powerful than anything he could have accomplished alone. A stream of black fire roared from the staff's extremity, but before it could engulf the angel, it was dispersed by a stream of golden light.
The angel's counter-attack took the form of a rain of fire that clung to the armor of Asim's spiritual form like acid, burning through his mental defences. He felt the contempt and hatred of the loyalist Librarians as they weaved their own emotions into the spell, and laughed. The intensity of the emotions was just so weak compared to those dwelling in his own soul that he could only laugh at them.
You know nothing of hate, he sent to the construct. You know nothing of what it makes us do, or of the power it grants. Let me show you.
Then he called upon the power of the wyrds trapped within the Coven's ritual circle. Though the link he had with the mortal psykers was tenuous – he had no need to listen to their petty, terrified thoughts – he still felt a dozen of them twist in agony and die, their souls drained of power by the Sorcerers around them. At least, he thought absently, their souls wouldn't have to endure the eternal tortures of daemonkind – they were doomed to oblivion, their essence burned away to serve the needs of their masters. In return for their sacrifice, a wave of black light born from their torment pulsed from Asim's psychic form, scattering away the fire of the angel's attack. Then, with a surge of carefully controlled fury, he hurled his avatar at the loyalist construct, flying through the distance separating them in the time it took to him to think of it. Their forms clashed with the thunder of opposing gods, sending sparks of unbound thoughts and emotions all around them.
Around them, the image of Asthenar's great wall began to dissolve, as both the Coven and the Bound Circle elevated their thoughts, slipping deeper and deeper into the Aether, where material forms had even less meaning, while the energies unleashed by their battle tore the reflections of physical objects to shards of psychic essence. Soon, their avatars were the only things with any constancy of form, fighting a deadly duel in the middle of a storm of Chaos. Their staves clashed again and again, each blow more a manifestation of will than an echo of martial skill.
After several minutes of exchanging attacks in the midst of ever-changing madness, Asim realized that he needed more power. The Bound Circle was strong, stronger than he had anticipated, stronger than he had thought it possible for a creation of witless loyalists. They had practiced for this, he realized, and not just during the battle for Meridis. They had experience – they had probably used the same trick before, during the Heresy and the galaxy-wide Scouring that had followed. There was no telling how many Sorcerers from the Nine Legions had fallen to them in the past.
The construct had quickly recovered from Asim's onslaught, and was holding its ground. The unity of thought gave it the combined skills of all those who composed it, while Asim could only call upon his own knowledge and experience of the Warp. But while the loyalists held the advantage in discipline, he had the upper hand in raw power – both because he himself was superior to any of his opponents, because he had more mortal psykers to call upon, and because he didn't care if he drained them dry. And in the end, if you had enough of it, power was the only thing that mattered in a duel of minds. With a snarl, he called forth more energy from the wyrds, draining them of their lives so that he may claim victory. But as the stolen power ran through his soul, it burned him, searing at his thoughts like liquid fire, threatening to shatter his concentration. It was all he could do to avoid the sudden attack from the construct, who had felt his distress.
That made no sense. He had wielded far greater power before, when he had unleashed the great ritual that had teleported millions of mortals from one world to another. Though he had suffered from it, he had been able to complete the spell – yet now, wielding a much lesser if still considerable power, his very being was slowly torn apart by the energies of Chaos. For one terrible second, he thought that he had unknowingly maimed himself, that the healing he had bargained for with the Herald had been incomplete …
The Dark Gods gave you what was agreed upon in the bargain, father. Your power was restored to what it was before you struck the deal with the scions of mighty Khorne.
… But then he understood that the situation had been different back on the penal world : he had been able to wholly focus on channeling and weaving the power, instead of reacting to the ebb and flow of battle as he was now. He had only needed to steel his own self against the raging energies as they ran through the mental pathways he had set for the ritual. To those who could wield the power of the Warp, the state of mind was just as important as the power itself. He needed to place himself in an emotional status that would give him the advantage over his opponent – and fortunately, he knew exactly how to achieve that. The vision he had had just before the beginning of the battle had shown him the way.
Diverting part of his focus away from the battle, he dredged up old memories, that he had spent years trying in vain to forget. He brought images, sounds and scents to the forefront of his mind, ignoring the pain as grief and regret tore at his twin hearts. Around him and the false angel, the Warp reacted to the emotions the memories caused in him, and soon the two were no longer fighting amidst random chaos.
Sorcerer and thought construct now stood in the middle of a replica of Tizca during the Burning of Prospero, frozen in a single moment of time. Rather than the final confrontation at the foot of the pyramid of Photep, this was a scene of the battle itself, when the madness of civil war had raged across the streets of a loyal city. Around them, Thousand Sons Legionaries and their allies of the Spire Guard were immobile, locked in combat with Space Wolves, Custodians, Sisters of Silence and other Imperial forces. The shadows of Titans loomed on them all, the god-machines similarly frozen in time.
For a moment, both combatants stopped their duel, instead taking in the vista around them. Even the swathes of dust and ash that thickened the illusory air between them were static. Finally, the Sorcerer broke the mental silence.
Look well around you, false angel, sent Asim. This is the true face of the Imperium. No matter how civilized you may claim to be, at the core of it all your Emperor and the Dark Gods are the same. The Ruinous Powers are just honest about it.
The Wolves were deceived, answered the construct. Even if they do not like to talk about it, and claim that the battle of Prospero was their triumph, they can never quite hide the doubt in their hearts when they speak these words. It was Horus who ordered you world burned – the father of the one you follow now.
Asim laughed bitterly at the construct's pathetic attempt at a psychological attack. Did the Librarians animating it believe he had not known the truth of Lupercal's deceit ? Did they perhaps think he would turn against Arken, enraged by the revelation ? The fools.
You were there when the Seventeenth burned Calth, he sent back. You saw your world die at the hands of madmen. Tell me, oh noble son of Guilliman : if you had been told that they believed such destruction was the will of the Emperor, would you have accepted it ? If you had learned that the Word Bearers had been deceived into thinking you traitors, would you have forgiven them ? Would you still fight for the Imperium ?
The angel didn't reply, and Asim struck it with a wave of wrathful power. It broke through the construct's shield and sent it crashing against the frozen image of a Warhound Titan's foot. For the blink of an eye, its golden form lost its coherence as the psykers who granted it substance were stunned, but they quickly realigned their thought patterns and the construct was restored.
Tizca burned because we were too weak to defend it, but at least we fought as soon as the Wolves touched the ground, sent Asim as he marched in his foe's direction, no longer caring if the Sons of Calth within the creature could hear him.
The words were for himself, to fuel his emotions, and with them, his ability to control the awesome power granted to him by the ritual carried out by his brothers. Anger, hatred and torment were the sustenance of Chaos, and the Ruinous Powers rewarded those who indulged in them. He was dimly aware that his words weren't making the kind of sense a scion of the Fifteenth Legion was supposed to – all sons of Magnus had been trained in the art of debate, sharpening their minds through intellectual practices long before they were taught the first secrets of the Art. Now, though, he was lying to himself, ignoring the stark differences between Calth and Prospero. He was also aware that it didn't matter. Sense and logic had no value in the Warp – it had been the mistake of the Thousand Sons to believe otherwise. These were things of the Materium – here in the Sea of Souls, instincts and emotions were the natural laws.
But Calth … he felt the rising anger in the construct at the mention of the dead world's name, and he reveled in it. The Warp around them also reacted to the name – countless Neverborn had feasted on the planet's suffering when the Word Bearers had bathed it in fire. Calth burned because you were too weak to fight the Word Bearers as soon as they opened fire on you, instead of waiting for your Primarch's permission like children. You have learned much since then, I will grant you that, but so have I. I will never be weak again.
He drew more power from the circle, not even feeling the lives he extinguished any longer. His mind was burning with the rage of a betrayed warrior; hatred strengthened him, enabled him to ignore the searing pain in his physical body as he channeled more and more Warp energy through it. Black fire and dark lightning surrounded his psychic form, and the emblems on his shoulder plates shone with a baleful light.
And what will your strength bring you ? sent the construct, its words loaded with contempt. What will the dark powers you sold your soul to grant you in return, traitor ?
The only thing left for me to desire : revenge, pulsed the Sorcerer, his silent voice carrying all the hatred that dwelled within his heart. This city will burn, false angel. What was inflicted upon Tizca will be as nothing compared to what the Forsaken Sons will do to Asthenar. In time, the whole Imperium will burn, and from its ashes something stronger and better will rise. But not here.
The lord of the Coven let out a stream of energy at the angel, pinning it to the ground and tearing at its insides. He felt something burst within – like an organ in a living being when submitted to the same kind of treatment in the material world. He heard an agonized scream, and he laughed as he understood that one of the psykers composing the creature had just died.
There will be no conquest this time, Asim continued as he pressed his advantage. He brought low his staff, piercing straight through the construct's breastplate, eliciting another dying scream as the soul of one more Librarian was lost to the Warp. No pacification of the streets and reducing the human livestock into servitude to a different set of idols and masters this time. No sons of Lorgar spreading the word of the Octed as we search for worthy servants among the masses of our slaves. Asthenar will burn for its defiance of Chaos, for its loyalty to the False Emperor. This is the will of Arken, a sacrifice to the Gods so that all on this world understand the price of defying us.
Keeping the construct locked on the imaginative ground, unable to stand, Asim poured all of his anger and hatred at it, using the illusory staff as the medium. The angel shrieked in pain, one of its creators dying after another, but still it tried to fight back, its power scattering uselessly against the black fire cloaking Asim's figure. When it tried to speak, its words were no longer in Tizcan, and the voice was no longer serene. Instead, they were sent in Gothic, and expressed as though through clenched teeth and a mouthful of blood.
You … will not win. This city … will be where the story of your pathetic warband ends, sorcerer.
No, replied Asim, twisting his staff in the creature's psychic guts as the did so. It will be the place where your Chapter dies, the souls of your warriors fed to the Warp to fuel the Awakened One's grand design.
And then, at last, it was enough. The angel let out an anguished cry as those whose power gave it form finally grew too weak to maintain its existence. Its form collapsed in a shower of golden energy, the last thoughts of its collective mind scattered to the winds and whims of the Warp. The echoes of its mind-scream quickly dissipated, and nothing remained of the entity that had called itself the Bound Circle, except for those who had created it in the first place.
Asim looked upon the shattered pieces of the construct, each the soulfire of a Son of Calth Librarian whose mind was fleeing back to his body. To his psychic sight, they appeared as streams of light, their wills too weakened by the confrontation to retain a stable appearance. Despite their defeat, many of them still lived – half of the Librarians at the very least. But they would be weakened by the battle, barely able to fight as Legionaries, let alone as psykers.
You know that they might yet be a threat, despite the humiliation you have inflicted upon them. We could kill them all, father. Let me help you, and none of them will be able to oppose you again. The hounds of mighty Khorne will hunt their spirits and drag them before you if you are but ready to ask for my aid. The only price I will ask is the right to consume their souls.
The Sorcerer ignored the daemon's words yet again, instead focusing his mind on slowly returning to his own body, unraveling the link between himself and the other members of the Coven. The offer was tempting, of course – all offers from the Neverborn were, that was the point of them. Even the price wasn't one he would mind paying – but again, that was the point. Daemons didn't tempt men into damnation by presenting it to them in such blunt terms. But Asim knew that he had already gone too far with such pacts already – his soul bore the marks of the deal he had made to restore his power after his deed on Parecxis Gamma. If he relied on the Herald of Blood too much, he would grow dependent on the creature's assistance, and sooner or later, he would find himself in a situation where he had no choice but to accept a price he wasn't willing to pay. That was the nature of the Warp, even if he had to admit that it was virtually unheard of for a creature of the Blood God to display such patient planning.
He opened his eyes to find himself on his knees, his armor covered in frost. His hands were stuck to his staff by the black ice, and it took him several seconds to gather the strength to break them free – each filled with the dread thought that perhaps his hands had become fused with the weapon's handle as a twisted joke of the Pantheon. He had seen such things happen before, among the Thousand Sons, during the Heresy. Like all other Legionaries, Sorcerers put importance on their chosen tools. Several of the Forsaken Sons had been afflicted with a similar boon, their limbs fusing with their weapons – even if Asim was supposedly safeguarded from wild mutation by the Rubric, he knew that his body was far from fully preserved. Wielding the true power of the Warp came at many risks, and one of those was the alteration of the Sorcerer's flesh. This time, however, his body appeared unchanged.
Looking around, Asim saw that none of the wild psykers had survived. Their bodies laid down within the circle, ravaged by the power the Sorcerers had extracted from them. Many of them had been reduced to dust, while others were decaying rapidly. A few had been mummified by the energies of Chaos as they coursed through their flesh. Their faces were frozen in the expression of mute horror they had worn as their very soul was drained from them.
The Sorcerer Lord gave them nothing more than a glance before dismissing their fate. They had served their purpose. Instead, he tentatively reached out toward the city with his mind, searching for any sign than the barrier was still there. He found nothing. His psychic sense easily passed over the wall and into the streets of Asthenar. There, he sensed the fleeing Sons of Calth, who were abandoning the wall and retreating to their next line of defence.
The spell of the Librarians had been broken. Asthenar was defenceless against the power of the Warp : the mission of the Coven was a success. Now, it was time for the next step of the Forsaken Sons' plan. The Sorcerer Lord raised the warp-flask hanging at his belt and stared at the single eye of the small Neverborn trapped within.
'Merchurion,' Asim said, with his mind as much as his mouth. Despite his weariness, he felt the creature establishing the link with its twin on the Hand of Ruin without difficulty despite the roaring of the Storm. There would be some interference, but the intent of the message would be transmitted – the Techno-Adept of the Dark Mechanicum knew that the Sorcerer would only contact him for one purpose. 'The psychic barrier is down. Blood has been spilled on the four fronts. All is in readiness. Open the portal.'
His meditative state shattered, Chief Librarian Ortan Merenda opened his eyes. Tears of blood were running down his cheeks, and he was also bleeding from his ears and mouth. His skull was laced with spikes of agony, and his vision was blurred by the sheer amount of pain he was experiencing. It took him several moments of deep breathing and restorative meditation to clear enough of the pain that he was able to think somewhat coherently again, but even then, he wasn't in any state to fight. The psychic backlash of the gestalt's destruction had taken its toll on his body and mind, and he wondered how the rest of the circle had endured.
He was on his knees, in the same meditative cell where he had gone in trance several hours prior, when the assault on the walls had begun in earnest. It was small, with barely enough space for him to sit, and a few supplies were stocked against the wall – fresh water, rations and stimulants, in case he needed to stay there for weeks on end while keeping his strength. The place, and others like it across the city, had been prepared long ago in preparation for this very day – here, the Librarians were cut off and sealed from the physical world, able to focus all of their intention and power on the matters of the Warp.
Ortan forced himself up, placing his hand on the wall and using his staff as a crutch to support his trembling legs. It took him several tries to turn open the heavy lock on his cell's door, but he finally succeeded, and pushed it open. He emerged into one of Asthenar's streets, his appearance drawing the attention of a squad of his brothers. They approached their Chief Librarian, questions already on their lips – but before they could voice them, Ortan felt something hot and vile tear through his mind, and he collapsed on his knees once more. The Space Marines rushed to his aid, but he ignored them, instead seeking the source of the blow.
Though his sixth sense ached with the aftermath of the psychic battle, he sensed something stirring in the Sea of Souls. With the collapse of the barrier, immaterial daemons were swarming into the city, and the Son of Calth felt a pang of grief for all the fallen whose souls were now defenceless – but he pushed it aside. It was hard enough to defend the living from the horrors of Chaos; the dead were not his concern, they belonged to the Emperor.
Yet there was more to the disturbance he had felt than that. It had not been an attack directed at him – the fact that he was still alive was proof enough of that. He had felt the shock wave of some grand event, and now he sought its origin point. To his surprise, it wasn't far from where he stood : a few dozen meters down the streets at most. He forced himself to his feet once more, and saw with his own eyes the source of the psychic disturbance – at the same time, his battle-brothers did too, and drew their bolters.
There was a hole in space, leading into the utter blackness that was how the human eye perceived the madness of the Warp. It twisted with the sound of shrieking souls as the unnatural conduit imposed its existence on a resisting reality, and from its depths emerged a group of abominations. The creatures were a hideous melange of claws, fangs and blades, no two of them identical. They were humanoid in shape, with twisted limbs and other, stranger deformities, and their laughter as they arrived on Parecxis was a promise of slaughter and horror.
Contrary to what Ortan had expected, and what a human observer could have been forgiven for thinking upon seeing them, the invaders weren't daemons, summoned from the Sea of Souls to wreck havoc upon the loyal servants of the Emperor. No, they were far worse. For all their power and the terror they inspired, daemons were also afflicted with many weaknesses when they entered the material world. But these were beings of flesh and bone, but the unnatural power of Chaos flowed through them regardless. Teleportation, which typically left any being shocked and stunned for a few seconds, had had no effect on them, despite the crude method they had employed – ripping a hole in reality leading from wherever they had come from to Asthenar.
The Chief Librarian knew these creatures, for he had faced their kind on Calth. They bore many names : Secondborn, Unburdened, Gal Vorbak. To the Imperium, they were more commonly known as Possessed : Space Marines who had allowed a daemon to inhabit their own flesh, twisting them further than any other Traitor Legionary. The inhuman hungers of the Neverborn turned them into monsters, but it also gave them great power – at the cost of their soul and any lingering traces of humanity the traitors may still have at the moment of possession. The actual strength of a Possessed varied greatly : at Calth, some of them had been able to decimate entire squads of Ultramarines in mere seconds, while others had been brought down single-handedly by loyalist champions. The only thing they had in common was their depravity, though even that took various forms : some had gathered and tortured helpless mortals to revel in their fear and suffering, while others had sought the strongest amongst the Ultramarines, in search of a worthy challenge.
But regardless of the might and particular damnation of each member of the group before Ortan, they were still here. Behind the Sons of Calth's lines, in the middle of the city that the loyalists had sworn to defend. The tactical implications began to emerge in Ortan's mind as he understood that the Forsaken Sons had known that their foes would deploy the Bound Circle and planned accordingly. Librarians were the best prepared to face Possessed Marines, but all of them were weakened by the battle against the Chaos Sorcerers' combined might. He had felt several of his brothers succumb during the psychic confrontation, their lives sacrificed in the altar of duty, only for the confrontation to end in the Sons of Calth's defeat.
This is my fault, he thought in despair as he beheld the unholy host. Guilt, an emotion he was all too familiar with, crashed into his weakened mind, dumbing his thoughts.
Standard teleportation was impossible due to the Storm : only through sorcery could the Possessed have arrived here. And it had been his task to prevent the Forsaken Sons from using sorcery in the battle for Asthenar. But he had been defeated : he and the other Librarians, even the psykers they had gathered and trained in the ways of uniting their selves to create the Bound Circle. The Chaos Sorcerers had proven superior to them, though he did believe their victory had cost them. In the end, however, it didn't matter what price their foes had had to pay : they had still won, and now monsters were loose in Asthenar. The Sons of Calth were facing enemies on four fronts already, and now they had another threat to deal with behind their lines. The Chief Librarian heard his brothers around him send word over the vox, warning Chapter Master Menelas of the new threat in their midst. They were talking to him too, demanding that he withdraw while they held the enemy at bay – ready to sacrifice their lives to save his own, despite the fact that he was the reason for it all.
My failure is what allowed this to happen.
As if hearing his thoughts, the greatest of the abominations turned in his direction, its eyes burning with infernal hatred as they stared straight at the Astartes psyker. It was a towering giant with bat-like wings wielding a daemonic axe in one hand and wearing the twisted remains of what appeared to be a World Eater's power armor. The light from Parecxis' sun, twisted by the Storm, reflected off the metal in unholy patterns, forming runes of violence and madness. Despite his weakness, Ortan felt the incandescent rage within the creature's mind, the raw, undiluted bloodlust of the monster it had become – and the spark of horror of the warrior it had once been.
'Blood for the Blood God !' roared the monstrosity, its voice echoing like the screams of a thousand madmen baying for slaughter. 'Skulls for the Skull Throne !'