AN : hello, readers. Here comes another chapter. In this one, I set up things for the final act of the Parecxis, take care of a lingering plot thread that will still be used in the future, and try my hand at writing scenes of battle from different perspectives. Please tell me what you think of it in your reviews. Several people told me in the last chapter's reviews that they like what I do, which is always motivating.
In this chapter, we take off right where we left last time : the Librarians of the Sons of Calth have been defeated by the Coven, and the Blood Champion has appeared behind their lines. There are three parts to this chapter, each from the point of view of a different chaotic character. I know some of you enjoy loyalist points of view more, but this is still a story about the Forsaken Sons' journey. I think I have already done enough to establish the Sons of Calth are badass warriors, worthy of being the Forsaken Sons' enemies.
I have the end of the Parecxis arc fully planned now. Three more chapters, and then this part of our warband's saga will come to an end. I hope to surprise you with the twists I have planned - and maybe with some more coming to me during the actual writing.
I have begun working on the next chapter of the Roboutian Heresy, the one about the Ultramarines themselves. Since it's such an important part of that story, I don't want to mess it up, so it will likely take a long time before I find it worthy of being published.
Also, The Beast Arises saga is awesome. The writers are doing a very good job, and I look forward to seeing how events we only know from short notes in historical records actually happened.
If you like this story, please follow/favourite it. If you like this chapter, please leave a review. If you have any questions, PM me or leave a review. If you see a continuity problem or have a suggestion to enhance my style or for the story after the end of the current arc, please do the same.
That's all for now. See you next time, and enjoy !
Zahariel out.
I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.
Hatred and pain run through my veins as the daemon's essence runs through my soul. Heker'Arn feeds on my emotions, turning them into power that it returns to our shared body in a process that is both painful and stimulate my wrath – creating a vicious cycle that forever increases the Neverborn's hold over me. But now, I do not care that it brings me further and further away from humanity and sanity alike. I welcome the power my monstrosity brings me, for I thirst greatly, and at least I have an opportunity to slake the burning need. It matters not that the thirst itself is a result of my changes, that it only grows worse as the daemon grows stronger : all I want is for its torment to end, even if it is only for a moment.
For the first time in weeks, I have been unleashed, let loose by the Awakened One. Part of me resents him for keeping me in chains between battles – it reminds me too much of my Primarch's fate, after he was torn from his broken mortal frame by Lorgar's sorcery and became an avatar of war and bloodshed. But I understand Arken's motives as well. My control over what was once my own flesh is fading, replaced by a fusion of the daemon's will and my battle instincts. There are too many risks in letting me roam freely.
However, the daemon in my heart cares nothing for reason and logic. As I waited, trapped by the ritual circles of the Coven and the word of my lord, its fury burned deep within my soul. Bloodthirst and Heker'Arn's screams of frustration slowly wore away at my mind, and it is with difficulty that I recall how I came to no longer be bound.
I remember the Sorcerers coming in the vast holding bay that has become my lair aboard the Hand of Ruin. With them came others of my kind, similar yet all different. Through the blood-red haze that covered my thoughts, I recognized them : Gal Vorbak, the spawn of Lorgar with a Neverborn bound to their heart. They are smaller than me, most of them capable of keeping the daemon within them under control outside of battle. Only a few signs betrayed their nature to the normal eye as they entered, but my senses are not mortal anymore.
Gal Vorbak they are not. The true Chosen Ones are extinct, their lives sacrificed in devotion to the Primordial Annihilator in the war against the Anathema. These are pale copies, who were made Unburdened through rituals and incantations, not the violence and pain that tested the first flesh-brothers. They are not worthy of the name worn by the Crimson Lord and his brothers – they are weaklings who gave in to their desire for power, instead of fighting for control of their own destiny until the very end … like you did.
The Sorcerers put the Possessed warriors around me in an arcane pattern, then left us alone. Had I not been bound by chains of orders and magic, I would have destroyed them all, or maybe be destroyed instead, for there are twelve of them, while I stand alone. But I endured, and waited, until the creature that is more machine and daemon than man entered my shared lair. His minions laid down devices charged with the power of the Warp, and several hours later, they rent through space at his command, creating a portal through the Immaterium.
I felt my bound slacken at the distant command of Arken, and hurled myself through, sensing that the other Secondborn were following. I felt the madness of the Warp all around me, and sensed countless Neverborn held at bay by the presence of Heker'Arn and the other Possessed's own daemons. They hunger for our souls, as they crave those of all beings of the Materium, but they fear the strength of those who lurk in our hearts and feed upon our emotions and deeds. And now, I emerge from the portal's other end, back into the material plane …
And now at last we are free !
The prospect of bloodshed lightens the burden on my mind, allowing my thoughts to run quickly once more. I can think clearly again, as my blood runs hot with the desire for violence. This is the hive-city of Asthenar, last fortress of the Sons of Calth and the other loyalists on Parecxis Alpha. Me and the others have been deployed behind enemy lines through Warp-touched technology. I do not know whether or not the others have received orders, but I know what is expected of me. To kill, maim and slaughter; to break the foes of the Forsaken Sons and claim skulls and blood for Khorne. It is all I can do now, all I am good for – all I have ever been good for.
You understand the truth of yourself, Hector. Even now, there are those among your bloodline that resist the glory of the Lord of Skulls, refusing the honor He has bestowed upon them. They struggle vainly against the chains your gene-father put upon you all. But their defiance change nothing : they belong to him regardless of their willingness to do so. The Chosen of Khorne made sure of it …
My eyes fall upon a cluster of Ultramarines, their armor pristine and shining with reflected light. They stand before me, bolters raised, but I ignore their insignificant challenge. I look behind them, at the one they are protecting, whose soul burns brighter in my altered vision than any of them. I recognize the emblem on his shoulder, the different color of his armor : he is one of Guilliman's psychic sons, one of these fools who believe they can call upon the power of the Warp without paying allegiance to the Dark Gods who rule there. At the sight of the Librarian, Heker'Arn's sneering voice becomes charged with contempt :
The sorcerous weakling has already been broken. His power is spent, and there will be little honor in destroying him – but his skull belongs to the Blood God, and we shall take it !
I charge at them, screaming my fury and release. Behind me, the rest of the Possessed follow, some of them struggling to keep up with me – but all choosing to let me take point. They may share their minds with the spawn of the Warp, but they aren't foolish. As soon as the last of them bursts free of the Warp's embrace, the conduit linking this place to the Hand of Ruin collapses with a sound akin to the shredding of bones. It must have taken considerable power to keep it open and stable as long as it was, here in the Warp Storm. But the Dark Gods favor the Forsaken Sons, and make all things possible if one is willing to risk and sacrifice enough – especially if it is accomplished with the goal of killing the followers of the False Emperor.
The loyalists open fire, but their bolts fail to pierce my armor-skin. One of them holds a lascannon, and aims it straight at my head. Time seems to slow as I can clearly see his finger tightening around the trigger, and for a moment, I am tempted to simply let him take the shot. No matter how much resilient I have become, there is still enough of the Materium in me that such a hit will kill me, letting my soul fall into the fires of the Warp, free at last of the thirst that consumes my every moment …
No !
… But Heker'Arn refuses to let its host die so easily, and it seizes control of our shared flesh, jerking my head out of the path of the lascannon's beam. The heat of it burns my cheek, but makes no lasting damage.
Still you think you can escape, brother ? You belong to mighty Khorne, and will only die when He sees fit !
My axe slams into the first of the Sons of Calth, breaking through his war-plate like a mace through wet paper. He isn't so much cut down as blown apart, the sheer kinetic energy of my blow sending pieces of his corpse flying all over the street. My return strikes beheads the warrior holding the lascannon before he can take another shot. The rest of them react quickly, abandoning their bolters in favor of close-quarter weapons. Two more fall back, each seizing one of the Librarian's arms and dragging him away. How humiliating it must be for that proud son of Guilliman to be carried away like a powerless child.
He must not be allowed to flee from us ! Slay him, and the Blood God will forget your moment of weakness !
A swipe of my left hand sends a Space Marine flying and crashing onto the ground, where he is promptly beset by one of the Possessed. Screams of agony reach my ears as the son of Lorgar begins to tear the loyalist apart. In my right hand, my axe turns again, forcing the other Sons of Calth to fall back and clearing me a path toward the Librarian and his guards.
One of the escorts abandon his charge to stand before me, interposing himself between me and my prey. He holds an energized broadsword in both hands, like a champion of Old Earth challenging some monster of myth. He manages to turn aside my first blow, and his counter-attack pierces through the skin of my abdomen. But the pain is nothing, and my flesh tighten around the blade, locking it in place. Before he can let go of it, a swipe of my axe pulverizes him, and I resume my advance, blood dropping from my wound and hissing on the ground as it burns through the permacrete.
The last Son of Calth shoots me with his bolter. At such range, despite the fact that he is using one arm to help the Librarian move along, every shell hits me. But they may as well be raindrops : the kill-rage is upon me, and Heker'Arn's power shields me, making what has become of my armor impenetrable by solid projectiles.
I pick up the defender with my left hand and casually throw him behind me for the Possessed to kill. Now I stand before my prey, towering above his kneeling silhouette. He forces himself to his feet, leaning on his staff for support. Despite the cries of Heker'Arn, I let him stand. No warrior of the Astartes should die on his knees.
He stares at me from the shadows of his psychic hood, his eyes shining with Warp-fire the same color as his armor. But he is too weak to actually attack me with it. This close, I can see what Heker'Arn sees : the Librarian's soul has been rent apart by the Coven, and his very essence is pouring out of the tear like blood from a lethal wound. He is emptying his soul into the Empyrean.
I reach out with my clawed hand and put it on his head, tightening my fingers around his neck. Then, with a single pull, I rip it free from the rest of his body, tearing apart armor, skin, muscle and bone alike. Blood pours from the ruined remains of his neck, and his body collapses on the ground, feeble sparks of psychic energy coursing across dead meat and twisting limbs like a puppet with its strings cut.
Blood for the Blood God ! Skulls for the Skull Throne !
I roar my victory to the skies as I hold high the skull of my defeated foe. The heavens boom in answer, and behind me, I can feel the scar on reality left by our arrival tear open once more. I glance backward and see the rip into the skein of the universe, and as soon as it manifests, dozens of Neverborn start pouring from it.
Weakling servants of the Pantheon … But they can be of use.
I sense something else slipping from the crack in reality, something vaguely familiar but that I can't place. However, there is no time for investigation – battle calls. I howl once more, raising my axe, and Possessed and Neverborn alike follow me as I charge further into loyalist territory, guided my Heker'Arn's preternatural senses.
They fall before us like wheat before the scythe. Be they Astartes or mere humans, Asthenar's defenders are powerless to stop the monsters in their midst. I sense the gaze of the Blood God on this city, like a baleful sun radiating heat in the heavens. The deaths of the Sons of Calth please Him, for they are worthy warriors all. Even the mortals fight well, refusing to give in to the terror I can sense in their hearts. They know that they are cornered, that there is no escape – and still they refuse to give in to despair.
They stand their ground in the face of inhuman horrors, dying with a prayer to the False Emperor on their lips. Misguided, for there is nothing the Anathema can do for them now, but brave. In a way, it is even more worthy of respect than the Sons of Calth's valour, for these humans know fear, yet rise above it through courage and duty. It makes their blood taste all the sweeter as it sprays on my armor and is absorbed into my warped flesh – but it also bitterly reminds me that those humans who fight alongside me do so out of fear, greed and madness.
Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it does. But He does care for the quality of it. Where the slaughter of billions of weak-willed fools fails to quench His thirst, the ichor of a champion may temporarily satisfy it. That is why His scions ever seek out the greatest warriors to slay, for the glory of the Blood God !
I ignore Heker'Arn's ramblings as I advance. Does the daemon think I don't know such things already ? It has been repeating the tenets of Khorne to me ever since we were first united, what seems to be an eternity ago. I suspect I know more of the Blood God's teachings than any Chaplain of my former Legion, if any still live, or even than the Dark Apostles of the Word Bearers. It also speaks of many things, some of which I understand, most of which I don't. Sometimes, I think that the sons of Lorgar among the warband would be very interested in what Heker'Arn tells me, but I know even them aren't foolish enough to try to interview me. Revelations are useless to a headless corpse.
I sense the stench of the Anathema's braying slaves nearby. We shall show them that their faith in the Corpse-God cannot protect them from the champions of the True Powers !
Yes. I can feel it too – the burning light of faith, of devotion, of self-sacrifice. It burns in my sight like looking straight into a sun, despite the distance that separates me from its source. Something stirs in my heart as I watch the golden psychic energy radiating from deeper into the hive-city, something unfamiliar and wholly unwelcome. I quash it with a surge of rage and contempt, and begin my way toward it. Whoever hides behind this light will soon understand that nothing can hold back the Forsaken Sons !
As he charged through the ruined gates of Asthenar's western wall, the thought that most occupied the mind of Zyrak Volen wasn't, surprisingly, that he was most likely about to die a most sudden and gruesome death. Nor was it terror or disgust at the sight of the blank-eyed corpses that had once been Imperial soldiers, before the now-dissipated gases had turned them against their Space Marines allies. It wasn't even worry that his short knife and self-built pistol would be useless against the flak armor worn by the Imperial soldiers, let alone ceramite war-plate. No, the only thing he could think about was how magnificent the warriors that fought before him were.
Unbound, he had heard they were called, and the name truly fit them perfectly. They wore armor the color of darkest night, for they belonged to none of the failed Legions and called none of the flawed Primarchs their gene-sire. Many of them bore the emblem of the warband upon their shoulder pauldrons : a daemonic skull surrounded by chains, representing how the Traitor Marines had tamed the wild powers of the Warp to their own purposes. The Unbound had been reborn in the depths of the great starship Hand of Ruin after the Heresy had ended, forged upon the anvil of Chaos Ascendant. They served no one but themselves and the will of the Awakened One, great leader of the Forsaken Sons and the only man to whom Zyrak was willing to kneel.
The way they moved, the way they fought : they were unlike not just the loyalists, but even the other Astartes under the banner of the Forsaken Sons. There was a strength, an unrestrained energy to them that made Zyrak green with envy. They weren't following orders, only their own impulses and instincts. They weren't held back by any concerns for those below them, and only linked with each other on the most basic level of brotherhood. In his eyes, they were perfect, surhuman beings; and yet he knew that the Unbound had once been normal humans, adolescent children who had been turned into demigods by the Forsaken Sons.
The sixteen-years old hiver had craved to be one of the Unbound since he had first seen them in action at Meridis. He hadn't followed the evacuation orders, like the rest of the sheep, but stayed behind and hid, so that he could join the side that would obviously win the war after the dust settled. Why so many still thought the Forsaken Sons could be stopped was beyond him. Anyone with half a brain could see that the forces of Chaos were going to take Parecxis Alpha whether its people tried to fight back or not. In that situation, the smart thing to do was follow the strongest side, which also happened to be the side where he had a chance of becoming an incarnation of death. There were rumors among the human followers of the warband that the Fleshmasters, the group of genetic sorcerers of the Forsaken Sons, were always watching the mortals in search of candidates. All Zyrak had to do was prove his worth, and an eternity of battle and glory awaited him.
The group he was running after counted twelve of the transhuman warriors, led by not one pack leader but two, with one appearing to be following the lead of the other. The leader carried a power sword in his right hand and a bolt pistol in his left, firing wildly in the direction of the retreating enemy. A skull hung from his belt, too huge to be anything but transhuman, staring at the battle with empty sockets. He moved even faster than the others, and the air around him shimmered with half-formed shadows of claws and fangs.
The subordinate had a calmer attitude, though he moved just as fast. He held a bolter with both hands, and his shots were a lot more carefully aimed, even as he kept sprinting. Zyrak saw one bolt hit a Son of Calth straight in the back of his helmet, sending the headless body tumbling to the ground. The young man knew that the Astartes had enhanced vision and reflexes, but he couldn't believe that such a shot was easy, even for them.
Zyrak kept running behind the Unbound as they pursued the retreating Sons of Calth. Around them, the air was filled with the sound of weapon fire, the clash of metal on metal and the screams of the wounded and the dying. Zyrak could still taste the smell of the Puppeteers' alchemical weapon, and spat to the ground to cleanse his mouth from the foulness of it. Even if it seemed the gas was now to thin to affect his mind, he was pretty sure that it wouldn't do him any good to have it in his lungs.
Five minutes after the renegades had passed the ruined wall, they clashed with the next line of defense of the loyalists. Zyrak had a few seconds to take in the battlefield : one of the hive-city many broad streets, where hundreds of thousands of individual vehicles had passed each day before the coming of the Warp Storm. Now, the cars laid in piles of burned wrecks, forming primitive barricades before the actual lines of defense the Sons of Calth and their allies were falling back to. There was a path through the walls of wreckage, but every meter of it was exposed to the fire of the few soldiers who had been left manning the final barricade at the beginning of the battle. If the Space Marines took position atop the wall, the attackers would be slaughtered by bolter shells until they could get some heavy artillery here to bring it down.
Laser fire rained upon the attackers as they ran the gauntlet. Several humans fell, but the Unbound's armor protected them. It was only when they were half-way through that the true plan of the loyalists revealed itself.
On some unseen signal, charges that had been hidden among the wrecked cars detonated, causing an avalanche of metal to fall between the retreating loyalists and their pursuers. Two of the Unbound were crushed by the falling debris, their dying screams muffled by the din of metal on metal. Unfazed, the rest kept on running, climbing up the pile while stile under fire.
Unlike the transhumans, it was difficult for Zyrak to pass the obstacle. By the time he reached the top of the improvised wall, the battle was mostly over. Several more Unbound had fallen, but only on Son of Calth remained, and the human soldiers were firing ineffectively at the renegade Astartes, trying to aid their outnumbered champion.
Unwilling to not have any part in the victory, Zyrak looked around, and found a surviving loyalist soldier, still aiming his las-rifle at the Unbound from atop the barricade. Zyrak judged that about two meters separated his current location atop the pile the junk from the soldier's, and jumped. For a few seconds, he hung in the empty air, knowing full well that if he had misjudged his jump he would fall into a pit of broken, sharp metal parts that would kill him horribly – if he was lucky.
But he had put enough strength into his jump, and crashed into the trooper. Zyrak went for the throat with his makeshift knife, but the soldier was wearing some kind of body armor that turned the weapon away. The butt of his weapon hit Zyrak in the face, pushing him back and breaking his nose. Enraged, the heretic leapt again before the loyalist could take advantage of the distance he had opened between them to fire. This time, the knife found a weak spot in the soldier's flak vest and pierced through his chest. With a feral snarl, Zyrak twisted the short blade in the soldier's guts, grunting in displeasure when he felt it break while still inside.
The man finally fell, clutching his belly as he died. Zyrak took a deep breath that filled his lungs with the scent of blood and smoke. Looking around, he saw that the last of the defenders had also been slain, with other human fighters cleaning up the battlements and finishing the wounded. Then, a booming voice reached his ears, almost loud enough to physically knock him to the ground.
'I have come to destroy the enemies of the Emperor !'
He turned his head toward the origin of the voice, and his blood froze. There stood a giant of blessed iron and consecrated ceramite, covered in insignia of devotion to the Master of Mankind and badges of honor earned through a hundred campains. Each of the giant's arms ended in a massive power gauntlet, with the undying flame of a flame-thrower at the center of the fist. A Son of Calth's helmet sat where the giant's head should be, glaring at the renegades with two green eye-lenses. Below, written in golden letters, was the name of the warrior entombed within : Shilaros.
Dreadnought. The word pierced through the daze that had engulfed Zyrak's consciousness like a dagger, and what he knew of the giant's nature flashed in his mind. A veteran of the Sons of Calth, wounded near unto death on the battlefield, and chosen to continue fighting beyond the ruination of his flesh by fusing with one of the greatest machines of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Terror flowed through the teen's veins, sending him into action. He could do nothing to harm the ancient Space Marine – all he could do was flee from his wrath. He took cover behind a piece of debris and watched, mesmerized, as the Unbound fought the ancient.
They charged the machine, laughing and screaming challenges. Zyrak noted that the leaders were holding back, watching without attacking yet. A second later, he understood why.
'Burn, traitors.'
The Dreadnought unleashed his weapons, releasing two streams of fire that cooked the charging Unbound in their armor. Their screams turned from laughter to agony, and the smell of carbonized meat filled the air. One of them didn't fall, and got near enough that the Dreadnought was able to swat him aside with his left power fist, breaking the charred form of the Unbound into pieces.
Only two Unbound remained besides the commanding duo. The brutal death of their comrades made them hesitate, but a barked order of their leader sent them into motion. They separated, trying to flank the Dreadnought while the leader advanced upon it and the sub-leader opened fire. Bolt shells clanked uselessly on the machine's frame, leaving nothing but scorch marks where they hit.
'That's not going to be enough, Mahlone,' called out the shooter, sounding entirely too calm for this situation to Zyrak's taste.
'Trust me, Ygdal,' answered the other as he twirled his power sword in his hand and began cautiously approaching the Dreadnought. 'I have a plan.'
Moving faster than Zyrak would have believed it possible for a machine this massive, the Dreadnought caught one of the Unbound flanking it in his fist and crushed him with a sickening sound of breaking ceramite and pulped flesh. The other transhuman was incinerated by the Dreadnought's other weapon – but the death of the two Unbound had apparently given their leader the opening he needed.
Suddenly accelerating, Mahlone rushed toward the Dreadnought while its arms were pointed in opposite directions. A glancing blow from its right power fist hit him in the head, sending cracks all over his helmet. Barely slowing from a hit that would have reduced a human skull to pulp, the Unbound ripped the headgear free and ducked below another burst of flame and rolled behind the Dreadnought. He jumped back to his feet and then leapt at the Dreadnought's undefended back.
The blade bit deep inside the power pack of the Dreadnought, tearing through cables and metal with a horrible wrenching sound. The machine screamed in an utterly monotone voice, jerking its body violently in an attempt to shake the Unbound loose, but to no avail. Holding firm with his left hand, Mahlone cut and cut, until at least, with a final machine-cry of agony, the power animating the Dreadnought failed – but not before the ancient entombed within attempted one last act of vengeance. With a final impulsion, the Dreadnought's legs overworked themselves, causing the whole armored walker to collapse backward. The Unbound jumped out of the way a fraction of second before the machine hit the ground with enough force to cause tremors to reach Zyrak's hiding place.
There was a moment of silence, as the two Unbound watched the fallen machine. Slowly, Zyrak emerged from behind his cover. The three of them were the only survivors – he wasn't sure whether that was a good thing for his chances of becoming Unbound himself or not. Mahlone walked toward the immobile Dreadnought, power sword still held tightly in his hand.
The Unbound tore apart the Dreadnought's sarcophagus with his power sword, cutting through plates of reinforced metal until he reached the life-sustaining cocoon where the half-living body of the Astartes who had controlled the downed machine laid. Chemical-smelling liquid poured from the opening, and Mahlone reached into the darkness of the coffin, searching blindly for a few seconds before pulling his arm out – and with it, the Dreadnought's unfortunate pilot.
Out of his murderous cybernetic frame, the ancient was a rather pathetic sight. His body was little more than skin tended over thin bones. Only his left arm remained, and most of his chest had been replaced by a collection of artificial organs linked together by damaged cables leaking purified blood. His skin was pale as that of a corpse, and covered in scars.
'You have lost, old one,' said Mahlone softly to the Space Marine's withered remnants. 'This city will be ours. All of your brothers will die, and all those you have fought to protect will either die as an example of the price of defying us, or be put to work so that we may wreck further damage on your corrupt Imperium.'
Slowly, the ruined Astartes raised his skeletal right arm and touched the cheek of Mahlone with his last , trembling remaining digits. To the surprise of both Zyrak and the Unbound, the wretched thing actually managed to speak. His voice was little more than a groan, but the words could still be understood, as could the raw despair and disbelief that permeated them :
'Brother … Why ?'
Then the hand fell away from the stunned Unbound's face, and the last of the ancient's life left his body. Some corner of Zyrak's mind felt as if he had been witness to something important : the passing of one more of the Legionaries of old, those who were slowly but surely being replaced by the new breed of Space Marines the Codex Astartes was creating. But the bulk of his mind was focused on the fact that, very slowly, the Unbound named Mahlone was turning toward him, his face utterly devoid of expression.
'My … my lord ?' he asked, uneasingly taking a step back.
'Mahlone,' called the other transhuman warrior. 'What are you doing ?'
'You know what I am doing. This is the second time something like that happened; it can't be a coincidence.'
'It could be a simple mutation,' argued the second Unbound, though even Zyrak could sense that he didn't believe … whatever it was they were talking about. 'We were warned that the Chaos Gods like to play games with those who have turned from the Emperor.'
'That isn't what is going on here, and you know it. But even if it is, I can't let word of that spread.'
'What …' Zyrak managed to force the words out of his throat : 'What are you talking about, my lord ?'
The Unbound didn't answer with words : instead, moving just as fast as Zyrak had seen him move during the fight, he pounced on Zyrak and caught him by the throat, letting the corpse of the ancient Space Marine collapse on the remnants of his armoured form,more frail ones shattering on the impact. The young man only had time for one terrified flash of disbelief before the ceramite-clad hand of the Unbound crushed his throat, his windpipe, and his spine in a single tightening motion.
Before the corpse touched the ground, Mahlone had drawn his bolt pistol and shot the other three humans who had survived the battle and witnessed the scene.
The two sons of Mulor Secundus stood alone, surrounded by the corpses of allies and enemies alike. In the distance, the sound of battle could still be heard, but none of them moved to join it. There was a moment of silence, then Ygdal spoke :
'Are you going to kill me now to keep your secret, Mahlone ?'
Shocked, Mahlone turned toward his brother.
'What are you saying ? I would never …'
'This,' remarked Ygdal, disapproval in his voice, 'was hardly necessary. These men probably didn't understand what the ancient was talking about, if they even heard him speak. I, however, was there when we first killed a Son of Calth. I remember how he too reacted when he saw your face, and the words he spoke before the end. But it isn't this that bothers me – I care nothing for which Primarch's blood runs through your veins.'
'I am growing … concerned about your attitude, Mahlone,' continued the calmer Unbound, and there was genuine worry showing on his face as he removed his own helmet to look his childhood friend in the eye. 'We are all killers, but you seem to hold life in greater disdain than any of us. You weren't like that before Ascension. Could it be that something was done to your hormonal levels during your transformation ?'
A cold sensation ran through Mahlone's bones as his brother's words registered. So far, he hadn't dwelled on his growing emotional detachment to murder – his entire life had been filled with violence, from the darkness of the Land to the training chambers of the Hand of Ruin. But now, he recalled what Parennefer had said when he had just awoken from his transformation – or rather, what the Sorcerer hadn't said. When Mahlone had asked him about the Servant, questioning why he felt such contempt for it, the member of the Coven had evaded the question. And now, Mahlone was wondering if Ygdal were right : if the unspoken alterations Jikaerus had committed on him went beyond simply using a different source of gene-seed.
'I will have answers, Ygdal,' swore Mahlone as he sheated both of his weapons. 'Jikaerus will answer for this.'
'He is a Fleshmaster, brother, and well regarded among his peers' said Ygdal softly. 'He outranks you and he is far more experienced than both of us. He will kill you if you cross him. Even if you get the drop on him and put him down, the warband would turn on you at once – he is very valuable to the Awakened One. If you really want revenge for what he did to your gene-seed, you will have to bide your time.'
Mahlone turned toward his comrade, suspicion appearing on his face.
'You seem to have considered all of this already,' he accused. Ygdal shrugged.
'I haven't forgotten why I accepted to be made Unbound in the first place, Mahlone. I still want revenge for what Jikaerus did on our homeworld. He used us all as guinea pigs, brother. He manipulated every tribe in the Land for his own purposes.'
'He did this at the command of the Awakened One. Do you plan of challenging him as well ?'
'Of course not. I am not an idiot. But I want Jikaerus to pay – and so do you. If he really used Ultramarine gene-seed for your transformation, then you are in grave danger. If the other Unbound find out, let alone the older Legionaries …'
'Arken probably wouldn't care,' thought Mahlone out loud. 'Many other veterans would even find it funny, I think – an insult to the loyalists, and possibly a way to infiltrate them. But the rest would either ostracise me at best, or try to kill me at worst.'
'And the other Unbound would probably jump on the excuse to kill you in the hope of taking your place as leader,' concluded Ygdal. 'So what are you going to do ?'
'For now, I am just going to talk,' sighed Mahlone. 'Once this battle is over, I will go to Jikaerus and ask him about his motives. Who knows, he might even convince me that it was for a good reason. As much as we dislike him, neither of us can deny his genius.'
'I doubt that will be so simple,' said Ygdal. 'In the meantime, you need to find a new helmet. If the Ultramarines can recognize your face's alterations, then maybe one of the older Forsaken Sons can too – hell, for that matter, any of the Unbound could, if their training involved memories from a warrior who fought the Thirteenth Legion.'
Mahlone looked around, and picked up a relatively intact helm off one of the Unbound's corpses. It set in place on his armor with some difficulty, and for a few seconds he saw nothing through the lenses but static, until the machine-spirit of his wargear had finished integrating the new peace of headgear.
'We must find another of the invading forces,' he said once his vision returned. 'Before I can speak with Jikaerus, we still have a war to win.'
Ygdal chuckled.
'Good to see you still have your priorities straight.'
Orpheus laughed as he killed. He didn't mean it in mockery of those who fell before him, though many of those who fought alongside him and shared in his amusement did. It was just that the former Emperor's Children Legionary enjoyed this battle way too much not to express his pleasure vocally – and he held himself in too high esteem to indulge in the ecstatic screams many of his Legion brothers howled as they killed. His laughter was dignified and measured, but he knew even non-psykers could feel the intensity of the emotions it carried – the madness and corruption, some would call it.
But only boorish souls would believe that. Emotion and sensation were the pillars of life, the only things making existence bearable. Even if the Sorcerer was less of a hedonist that many of his kin, he was still a devotee of Slaanesh, and his psychic gifts gave him access to a whole new realm of experiences that would forever be denied to those less fortunate. He could hear the agony of the city's defenders, taste their anguish on his tongue, see their screeching souls burn in the Warp whenever he closed his eyes. The symphony of war had engulfed Asthenar, and Orpheus relished listening to it as much as he relished playing his own part in the orchestra.
The northern wall had fallen quickly to the Host of Sensations that had descended from Nalemos at the Awakened One's command. The Gene-Lords had brought with them siege machines crafted from living flesh and Warp energy, and they had torn down the wall as soon as Orpheus had sensed the fall of the city's psychic defense. The engines were too huge and cumbersome to be brought into the city's streets, but that suited the servants of the Dark Prince just fine. Watching the awesome destruction unleashed by the daemonic machines had filled them all with the desire to wreck destruction of their own.
The Host of Sensations was many thousands strong, and their advance through the broken wall and into the retreating ranks of their foe was glorious. Cultists of Slaanesh screamed their praises to their patron even as they were cut down by controlled bursts of bolter fire. Raptors flew above the rest of the Host in their haste to reach their prey, their howls amplified by their armor into daemonic and predatory screeches. Noise Marines sent wave after wave of kinetic energy crashing into the loyalists' ranks, laughing when they 'mistakenly' caught a handful of cultists in the wave and the mortals were reduced to bloody pulp.
Orpheus, however, didn't fight alongside his brothers. He had been given a task by Arken, which was the reason why he hadn't taken part in the Coven's ritual. After much reflection, the Sorcerer had decided to reveal to his lord the murder of the Sha'eilat warrior in Nalemos at the hands of one of their cultists. Arken hadn't been surprised, nor particularly angry at the responsible. If anything, Orpheus thought that the lord of the Forsaken Sons had been impressed at the mortal's cleverness and audacity.
Yet that murder had brought to light the fact that the Chaos forces holed up in Nalemos weren't as united as the others on Parecxis Alpha. There was a chance that they would turn on one another during the assault on Asthenar, and an even greater one that they would repeat what the Emperor's Children had done during the Siege of Terra. Arken hadn't seemed much concerned about the latter possibility for some reason – maybe he didn't care, so long as loyal blood was spilled – but the former was an unacceptable eventuality. Orpheus had been chosen as his agent among the Host, to keep the Sha'eilat under control – and, if required, do anything necessary to preserve the alliance between the illuminated xenos and the warband.
And so, the son of Fulgrim fought side by side with the Gene-Lords and their escorts of warriors and creations. While most of the Sha'eilat fighters were scattered among the rest of the troops, either leading their bands of cultists or fighting at the side of Astartes following the same path they did, each Gene-Lord had called upon debts and bonds of loyalty to gather a few warriors at his side for this battle. Not that the reborn overlords of Parecxis were unable to defend themselves. Though each of them had been returned to the living world in a relatively identical body, they had all altered their flesh to reflect their own natures, creating a carnival of nightmares that was only matched by their lethality.
Every Gene-Lord had left his or her tower in Nalemos to join the battle, eager to test their skills and new pets in such a grand arena – as well as avenge the fall of their empire to the Ultramarines during the Great Crusade. One of them hovered above the battlefield, held aloft by six pairs of feathered black wings. Another was covered in chitin from head to toe, and Orpheus wasn't sure whether it was an armor or the xenos' own skin.
There were others with extraneous limbs, some of which held weapons, while others were weapons in their own right. All of them whose faces were still visible had left their visage untouched – they wanted their victims to look upon them and know that, no matter what they may now appear to be, they had at one point be Eldar. Pride in one's origins was important, after all. Still, Orpheus couldn't help but imagine what would be the reaction of the hidebound Craftworld Eldars if they ever met the Sha'eilat – or even just learned of their existence.
Paradoxically, Ezyrithn the Firstborn was the one that appeared the most 'normal' of them all : Orpheus knew that the two tentacles rising from the xenos lord's shoulders were in fact attached to the suit of living flesh he wore, while his own body remained as it had been when he had first been freed from the cloning tank in which his new incarnation had grown.
In contrast to the Sha'eilat's murderous elegance and refined terror, the beasts that followed them onto battle were malformed, clumsy abominations. All of them had been humans before they passed under the knives of the Gene-Lords, or whatever tools it was that the xenos nobles employed on their unfortunate victims. But now, it was hard to find even one trace of their former nature, even with the enhanced sight of an Astartes or the psychic sense of a Sorcerer. The former wasn't particularly shocking – Orpheus had seen some of the creations of his former Legion's Apothecaries during the Heresy, and they too had looked nothing like the basic material. But the latter both fascinated and repugned him.
Millions of civilians had been taken prisoner when Nalemos had fallen, and the Sha'eilat overlords had claimed the greater part of that bounty for themselves, letting the rest be used for sport by the other components of the force that had conquered the city. Orpheus hadn't been allowed to set foot within one of the great towers they had raised, but he had heard the Sha'eilat warriors speak of what occurred within, and he could now see the results for himself. Where once there had been living and thinking men and women – and probably children too – now there was only misshapen creatures whose every moment was pure agony. The Gene-Lords had done more than reshape flesh and bone, more than modify the very genetic code of their captives. They had broken their spirit, shattered their souls until the subjects were technically alive, but projected nothing in the Warp save for pain and anguish.
Yet even in that state, the toys of the Sha'eilat would continue to serve, and would only be allowed to die when it suited their owners. No two of them were identical, or even similar – the Gene-Lords had only brought the best specimen of each of their designs. Orpheus suspected that to them, this whole battle was as much about honouring their alliance with Arken and feast on the destruction as it was about showing off their creations to their peers. As with their masters, the only thing the creatures shared – beyond their torment – was their lethality. Each had been 'gifted' with several means of delivering death, from claws to acidic projectors. There didn't seem to be any control device implanted in them, and Orpheus couldn't detect any psychic coercion, yet the spawns followed their creators' command without question, struggling to keep up with the pace of the Sha'eilat.
They were unstoppable, though they left a trail of their own corpses in their wake. Hundreds had died since they had broken the wall, and more fell by the second, but the fallen were mostly rabble, and their deaths only made the true chosen of Slaanesh appear more heroic and powerful by comparison. With bursts of sorcerous fire and nightmarish projections, Orpheus was carving a path through the ranks of loyalist soldiers, his two stolen blades carving through flesh and armor with equal ease. In his more honest moments, Orpheus admitted to himself that while competent, he wasn't a true blademaster – but he used his psychic gifts to compensate for any flaw in his skills, moving faster than any mere mortal could thanks to the power of the Warp flowing through his muscles.
This was the reason Orpheus had sought the forbidden power of the Empyrean in the first place : so that he could rise above his station as a mere battle-brother of the Third Legion. Through studying the texts of the Word Bearers and listening to the preaching of the Neverborn who joined the Nine Legions on their way to Terra, he had unlocked his own psychic potential and become one of the Emperor's Children's new Sorcerers. This had given him all that he had desired : power, recognition, prestige. His own brothers had threaded carefully near him, like they did near the Apothecaries and the members of the Phoenix Lodge, where the chosen of Fulgrim had gathered before the Legion had broken apart at Iydris.
Of course, such power had not come without a price. Even the sacrifices he had offered to the Ruinous Powers had merely been the beginning of his trials. He had been tested, was being tested, and would probably continue to be tested forever. The weak could not endure long under the eyes of the Gods, and that was doubly true for those who could peer beyond the veil. This battle was an opportunity for him to unleash his full power, to show to the Gods and the Neverborn just how strong he was, so that he would earn the favor of the first and the fearful respect of the second. With the rest of the Coven having broken the power of the Sons of Calth's Librarians, there was nothing in the loyalists' arsenal that could stop him, and he revelled in the sense of triumph and superiority as he tore apart the slaves of the False Emperor.
But for all that he enjoyed the battle, Orpheus couldn't truly let himself go and embrace the frenzy of it. He still had his mission from Arken to perform, yes, and he couldn't watch over the Sha'eilat if he let himself drown in his passions, but there was something else. The Sorcerer knew something that the other members of the Host could only feel deep within themselves, but that troubled them too : this battle wasn't an offering to Slaanesh.
The Dark Prince had already received his offering when Nalemos had fallen, and what a glorious tribute that had been. This battle had been dedicated to Khorne by the Awakened One, who had chosen not to walk any of the Dark Paths but to stand in the middle of the conflicting gods, all so that he could better lead the warband. The Sorcerer respected him for that choice, even if he also pitied him a little – how sad it was to be denied the pleasures brought by following the Profligate One. He remembered precious little of his life before the Legion had dedicated itself to Slaanesh, but what he did remember was dull and bland beyond measure, to the point that he had difficulty processing the fact that he had willingly lived such an existence.
He could sense the brutish presence of the Blood God in the skies, and the contempt the War God held for him and all his kin. Part of him revelled in the sensation, but the greater part was both angry to be used in a ritual to a rival power and a little afraid. Arken had promised something to Khorne – what exactly, Orpheus didn't know – and this battle was the mean of delivering it. If the Forsaken Sons were to fail in honouring their liege's word, well … Things would get ugly – really ugly, and not in any enjoyable way. The wrath of a Chaos God was something no force in the galaxy could endure – not even the False Emperor, for all His power, had been able to stop the Pantheon from destroying His dream for Mankind.
At the same time, he was also consumed by curiosity. What could Arken have planned that required the favor of all four Chaos Gods ? The lord of the Forsaken Sons had already gained Slaanesh's and Nurgle's approval through offering them the cities of Nalemos and Talexorn, and was now on his way to obtain Khorne's – and Orpheus didn't doubt that there was some plan in motion to gain the favor of Tzeentch as well. What grand design had the Awakened One in mind for Parecxis ?
At the back of his mind, he heard the wailing of the tormented soul bound to him increase in intensity. The shade of Captain Galen was forced to watch as the son of Fulgrim laid waste to the last city his Chapter had vowed to defend, and the loyalist ghost was powerless to do anything to stop it. The moan of the disembodied spirit reminded Orpheus of the other visions he had experienced during his pilgrimage among the ruins of Nalemos, and he quickly swept the Host in search of another specific soul, sharing his attention between the battle and the psychic undertaking.
He found his target easily, for even if that particular soul didn't shine any brighter than those of the Sha'eilat, it was unique in that it was human – mostly. Mikail Korzhanenko, the Astartes hybrid who had killed the Sha'eilat warrior in Nalemos, fought at the head of several hundred cultists, carefully directing them away from the enemy transhumans and into the weaker human soldiers. He moved faster than any unaugmented human could ever hope to achieve, dodging melee weapons and even bullets while his own attacks always found their target. Each strike was directed at a different part of his foe's body, and Orpheus could detect a surge of raw emotion in the hybrid's soul every time he inflicted a new wound upon his enemies.
But Orpheus could also feel something else in the hybrid beyond the pleasure of the slaughter : concern. Something was bothering him. The Sorcerer prodded a little deeper into Mikail's mind, careful to only observe and not damage anything. His brother Melakor would be angry if Orpheus damaged his prized subject. Soon, he found what had Mikail uneasy, and immediately dropped off the emotional high he had been experiencing since the battle had begun. Cold realization tightened around his heart like a closing fist.
The Chaos forces had attacked the city from all sides. They had troops all across the hive by now. And yet, as Mikail had noticed, there hadn't been a single encounter with the hundreds of millions of civilians who had taken refuge in the city until now. Where in the Dark Prince's holy name were they ?!
Orpheus remembered that a deal had been made between Arken and Khorne, and he almost heard the cruel laughter of fate. If the accord had involved the missing civilians in any way and the Forsaken Sons were unable to find them …
He stopped dead in his tracks, disposing of his current enemy with a sharp burst of psychic power that reduced the Son of Calth's head to a bloody mist, and sharply pulsed to a cadre of Sha'eilat warriors to abandon their pursuit and form a protective circle around him. They obeyed his order, though he could feel their fury at being commanded so. Then, once he was sure no one would be able to attack him, the Slaaneshi Sorcerer sent out his mind, scanning the entirety of the hive. One could not hide so many souls, even with wards and meters of permacrete. He would find where the Sons of Calth had hidden them, and then …
Something hit his soul in the Immaterium, lifting his body in the air and sending it crashing into a building several dozens meters across the broad streets. He distantly felt several of his bones break, and tasted blood in his mouth as his brain began to bleed after the psychic impact. As he fell into unconsciousness, the last thing he perceived was a laughter that was vaguely familiar to him. The last thought that crossed his mind was the recall of when and where he had last heard it, and the last emotion he felt before darkness took him was a mix of shock and horror at that realization.
We have been deceived.