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The massive preparations were nearing their end. It had been weeks since the original incident, yes, but they had been spent not only correcting the mistakes of the past attempt, but also combating the various planetary militias and the few Imperial Guard and Navy forces that were near enough to respond immediately. Not to mention managing the majority of a population in the multiple millions with limited supplies, manpower and even basic essentials took their own toll.
But now, his life's purpose was nearly ready. The massive ritual set before stretched for miles, all the prisoners there being lined up for their ultimate purpose. It almost drove him to wretch, to vomit on the floor at his own heinous actions, the ones he had already committed and the ones to come in just a short while.
But they would die neither in pain, nor in vain. He would make sure of it.
His greatest acolytes were now gathering around him as most of the tributes had been secured in their special containment. They looked toward him, all men and women there, whether fanatical or conservative.
In any other circumstance, these men and women would have already devolved into bickering warbands of different dogmas and and gods. But under his mantle of the Powers Undivided, they had kept themselves steady and strong. Bickering still occurred of course, it inevitable, but it was kept in check.
What was not were the extremists. Zeno wasn't exactly fond of them, but if he tried to get rid of them, he'd have no manpower left at all. The very worship of any single aspect of Chaos incited and indeed even required excess, as the quarreling gods were known to be very fickle with whom they granted their blessings to, prompting their followers to engage in greater and greater acts of worship.
But all fell under the banner of Chaos Undivided. Zeno had to admit, not only were there extremists here, but they were likely even more numerous in proportion, but restraining those of his own ideology was far easier than any of the other aspects of the cults he had cultivated.
Nonetheless, beyond the service to each of their gods or all of them combined, every man and woman in this room had pledged themselves to him. He had established himself as the sole authority among these extremely...eccentric individuals, to say the least. And now, he would them all to their deaths.
"Friends, brothers and sisters. It has been a laborious journey to where we are now. Our road here has been paved with the blood and souls of a thousand of our compatriots and a thousand more yet to come."
Zeno paused at the moment, looking at the crowd, whom he know had the full undivided attention of.
"But, we must not despair. For although the cost shall be great, we are one step closer to the dream we all share: an Imperium freed from the chains that shackle it to a despicable existence, drowning in it's own hypocrisy, terror and ignorance. We may be reviled, purged and forgotten for what we do here today, but our work here will serve as the basis for an insurrection that shall sunder the realm of the False Emperor, of the misguided and the idiotic. We shall serve as martyrs for the new age that follows! We shall be the messengers of a new dawn of humanity, one where we are free to utilize the generous gifts of our patrons to better ourselves and the rest of mankind!"
Uproarious applause and bellowing followed. In all honesty, Zeno had half-expected a dialed down response. After all, the followers of Chaos were not particularly known for their self-righteousness, and he himself knew he was essentially lying to them. But, encouragement was better than them learning his true plan, which would almost certainly end in their rebellion and his death.
He knew he was playing a long and dangerous game, one that he was likely to not survive regardless. But he had hung his head low for most of his life. He would not back down now. If there was one aspect of his speech he intended to carry by heart, it would be his martyrdom.
As the group had dispersed however, going back to inspecting their work one last time, a fellow sister of his own cult of Chaos Undivided burst into the catacombs, running frantically and calling for his name. By the time he had stepped forth from to greet her, she was still catching her breath, but immediately straightened when she caught a glimpse of him.
"What seems to be the situation, sister?"
"M-my lord," she was still grasping for air. The way she addressed him almost made him cringe. He despised such titles, but alas, he would have to endure, as it seemed to be a matter of great importance. "We a-are under attack."
"...By whom?"
"The Adeptus Astartes my lord. There is just one at the moment, but more are expected to follow."
Zeno eyes darkened as he realized the true implication of this statement, one that was beyond the knowledge of his acolytes. If the Marines were coming, the Custodian was coming with them. At that, he began bellowing orders for every person to maximize their speed. The ritual would be done soon or not at all.
"Die, traitorous scum!"
Altan took the roar of battle to heart. War was his song and he was more than adept in giving it's melody justice. And as he broke through heretic barriers and bodies, he could not be more willing to do so.
He had given the signal to his brothers, and one would expect the wise choice to be taken and for him to wait for the few reinforcements he had. But his heart still burned with righteous fury and vengeance from the brothers he had already lost to the filth he was now slaughtering. Justice for the wicked would not be delayed any longer.
The warriors and armaments he went up against were mighty indeed. Hundreds of cultists, along with several Traitor Marines had lined up in the defense perimeter. The cultists were only currently armed with Lasguns and such, which provided little effect overall on his armor, but their fighting was ferocious and some even possessed higher grade weaponry that packed a bit more of a punch.
His traitorous cousins were an entirely different tale. They were brutal, merciless, without restraint, and backed up by millennia worth of fighting experience along with still-superb weaponry that could end his life with a well placed shot. They were the hardest targets, but also the most advantageous, as they would frequently trample tens of cultists underfoot in their insane dashes, consideration obviously long gone from their minds.
But for all their strengths, their ferocity, their grit and determination, nothing could halt the White Scar's rampage. He was on an Assault Bike, a vehicle he had been bred to ride with skill and efficiency unmatched by even most fellow Space Marines. On his own two feet, he was certain he would've been dead already. But on his bike, he was untouchable. A level beyond most of the warriors there.
And not once in the last few minutes had he ceased the firing of the twin-linked Bolters on top of his mighty engine, nor that of the Meltagun he possessed, a small thing that nonetheless fried quite a few targets, courtesy of his regular Bolter not being operational during driving. With them so far, and the din of battle in his heart and soul, he had felled hundreds of the enemies who opposed him, and he would fell hundreds more.
"Burn in the name of Great Khan!"
When the reports came in of the White Scars rider tearing through their ranks, Xephos and his retinue were in the middle of escorting Kalathros.
"Escorting" as in keeping several loaded Plasma Guns on him. And even then, Xephos was half-convinced they were only for show. Even if they melted through his armor, the monster inside would remain mostly unharmed...and tear them all to pieces in retribution.
That feeling was only reinforced by the massive Chainsword and Thunder Hammer the Black Butcher carried in each hand, both large enough to require dual-wielding by a regular Marine. But Xephos couldn't concentrate on that now, as one of his Brothers came running to him.
"Commander Xephos."
Xephos gave one last look back at the Terminator, before acknowledging the Marine, one that he recollected went by the name of Sven.
"What is the situation?"
"Commander, a White Scar is here."
"What?"
This complicated things. The ritual was not yet complete, and although a single one of the Space Marines was of no issue, Xephos had no doubt what followed said Marine.
"He comes," Xephos attempted not to take heed of the whispering of the Terminator behind him. It seemed he too had figured it out what the arrival of the Loyalist meant, and Xephos could only guess he was barely containing his itching for a fight by the skin of his teeth.
"How did this Marine even find this place? How is he not dead yet?"
"He must've followed the Land Raider we sent to dispatch the Custodian's group, Commander."
"You mean to tell me the Land Raider was not enough to halt them?"
"We did not expect them to be harboring heavy armor-piercing weaponry. We could not risk the loss of the machine."
"And as of his life?"
"We have attempted to halt him Commander, but he is a White Scar and in possession of his Assault Bike. Current efforts to eliminate him have failed and he has overrun the first perimeter. We have no significant presence there beyond lightly armed and armored infantry."
"Correct me if I am wrong, but the first perimeter contained over 300 cultists and one of our own squads of five?" Xephos did not even attempt to hide his ire this time.
"Yes Commander."
It took all of his self-restraint to not throttle the Marine right then and there. He expected this kind of incompetence from a fledgling Imperial Guard regiment, not his own superbly trained, armed and armored troops.
It appeared the ancient Terran saying was yet true: if you wanted something done right, you did it yourself. He motioned for his squad to follow him, Kalathros in tow. Just as they were approaching a massive lift to take them to the surface from their underground station, a vox-comm could be heard coming through his helm, which he responded to.
"Commander Xephos here."
"Commander, Brother Emiel speaking."
"Report," Xephos already had a bad feeling regarding this transmission.
"The White Scars are here, Commander. The Custodian is with them."
At that, Xephos could only do so much as to not crush the vox-caster or punch through the nearest wall. The matter was only exasperated by the massive Terminator releasing an amused huff. How good was his hearing anyway?
"Engage all of our assets, do not allow them to breach the lower levels at any cost."
"Yes, Commander."
"Xephos out."
He stood silent for a few more moments as they entered the lift. The Terminator however would not take his eyes off of him, however. After what had already happened, perhaps out of frustration or stress, Xephos decided to speak to him.
"It seems you are getting everything you wanted."
"...Indeed. This shall be a glorious battle."
"You are unbelievable in your single-mindedness."
"And I could say the same for you in incompetence."
Xephos would've pushed it, but he decided it'd be better to focus on not risking his life uselessly and instead tearing Zeno a new one, if only verbally at this point, but he was certain he would have the chance to get physical soon enough as well.
In absence of the opportunity at present however, he opted for his Vox, dialed to the frequency of his unfortunate underling. The reply was swift, as per usual. Some habits died hard, even in the face of catastrophe it seemed.
"Zeno speaking."
"Finalize your project or the deal is off. And so too, shall be your head."
Xephos then broke the connection. It had been brief, perhaps even idiotic-looking to any nearby observer, but the both of them knew exactly what their roles were in all this. Some active encouragement would go far in getting the little man to quicken his work. Or, at the very least, Xephos hoped so, for the little man's own good.
As the din of battle grew louder and closer, he could see the Terminator behind practically shivering in excitement. If he had not been one of the greatest killing machines Xephos had ever seen, he would've had him killed already. And probably die himself in the process, as he hardly believed the spiteful bastard would allow himself to burn in the Warp without dragging him as well.
"Took you long enough!"
Even whilst screaming at the top of his lungs, Altan was doubtful any of his recently arrived companions could hear him. After all, their hearing might've been enhanced, but the roar of war around them did not make it easy to pick out any singular thing.
It did not matter however, as he saw his brothers and the Custodian tear apart at the hordes of cultists that were now springing forth from the complex. They were better armed and armored at the very least, and their numbers now easily breached the thousands, but it was still poultry compared to the might of the Emperor's Swords.
He roared once more, the twin-linked Bolters on his Assault Bike having run out of ammo at this point. It didn't matter as his Meltagun burned to life once more. A good Space Marine always had a way to rip apart, blow up, slash, shoot and generally slaughter the enemies of mankind, a lesson Altan had learned by heart and was eager to use whenever the opportunity presented itself. And thankfully, the traitors he faced now were even lightly-armored enough to allow even some spine-breaking backhands.
This could be a fine day indeed, and perhaps the souls of the fallen could be payed back in full yet.
As the battle began, Kronos noted it was more a slaughter than anything else.
Their arrival had been swift and merciless. His allies tore into the enemy cultists like a pack of wild Fenrisian wolves set upon fleeing cattle. The blood rained like an apocalyptic vision. The Scars' pent up frustration and hatred for those that had so thoroughly outmaneuvered and humiliated them had come back tenfold. Of course their enemies were little more than fodder at this point, but the savage efficiency with which they dispatched them was something to behold.
Truly, the Sons of the Khan had not lost their edge at all during the 100 centuries he had been cast adrift in the miasma of madness that was the Warp. But as they carved their way through hundreds of cultists, competent military in any other engagement, but utterly useless against the enraged demigods, Kronos felt no anger. No hatred. Just cold contempt and indifference. To him, a traitor was deserving of a Bolt shell through the head, and nothing more. It was better to discard them as the worthless filth they had become rather than give them anymore thought.
He had to note that despite the careful and tactical nature of the besieged beforehand, they were falling apart like any normal militia under the threat of the superlative warriors of the Emperor. Their leader may have been a steady and wise guiding hand, but in direct confrontation they simply were no match.
The Astartes that came after them fared little better. They had clearly been caught off guard as well, and without the presence of any heavy weapons, Kronos was free to engage with no hesitation. They were strong yes, and they did give some trouble to his allies, but they all fell like cardboard figurines before his might. All the while, Bolt rounds from afar peppered the mutated monsters that had once been the scions of the Emperor.
He had still been reluctant within his mind for Mira to join them, even if she was staying far behind the front lines, providing only cover fire. He had allowed her to only shoot at the Astartes. He had no doubts at her resolve, her will or her ability to get the job done. But she was still a child. She had only killed people when it was absolutely integral to her own survival.
Yet, nonetheless, the spite within her heart seemed to be enough anyway, as Bolt shells tore through the regular cultists as well. As another Traitor Astartes approached however, he realized he would have to get his mind away from the child. She was in no immediate danger...well, in as little immediate danger as their situation could provide, and they still had a war to win.
The Marine lunged at him with a Chainsword, intent on taking his head off. It seemed that in all his devotion to his Ruinous Gods, he had forgotten what a Custodian truly was by comparison, as Kronos parried the weapon with his own, rendering it's blades useless in the process, before grasping the traitor's head with his arm faster than what he could react.
The Marine struggled feebly against the grip, but it didn't matter as Kronos simply squeezed with all his might. The ceramite armor, once a formidable bastion against most weapons that the galaxy could throw at it, quickly crumbled under the sheer pressure of the Custodian's inhuman strength.
The Marine's head burst in a shower of blood and gore, his final desperate scream lost in the roar of battle. But just like the other tens or hundreds of cultists he had already slaughtered, Kronos moved past without hesitation. As long as his enemies were dead, they meant less than nothing to him. The second their bodies disgraced the floor with their filthy presence they might as well not have existed in the first place.
And so they moved past the guards and Astartes supporting them, their tide unstoppable and their resolve unwavering, ready to take finally take back this planet and end this madness once and for all.
Zeno saw the macabre ritual as he made his way to his personal bunker. The ominous daemonic chanting, the performance gestures and coaxing, the...tributes meeting their fate in mass sacrifices.
This was all on his head.
His knees felt weak. His mouth was dry. And once more he felt his resolve almost failing. How much? How much more sacrifice was needed? How much more blood needed to be shed? To just what length was he willing to go for a gamble before he was driven insane with guilt?
As he stood within the elevator, panting and barely keeping on his legs, his mind was at a standstill. The world around him, the sound of war surrounding from every side was less than an afterthought. But ultimately, one side emerged victorious within his mind, the one which always did so.
He had come this far, he could not back down now.
As the sounds of thousands of sacrifices and even more terrible acts were hurled to his ears however once his awareness returned, his hatred for that line of thinking increased tenfold. But he nonetheless followed it through. He had nothing else left. And he despised it with all his core.
As Xephos finally made it to ground zero of the enemy assault, he saw carnage not unlike many Imperial worlds he had ransacked before.
Bodies were lying everywhere, corpses potentially numbering in the thousands and even those of his own Brothers contributing to the pile. And framed in the middle, bathed in blood, promethium and sand, were the mighty forces of the enemy.
Just four Astartes, and the Custodian among them. A lesser fool would've underestimated such foes by their number alone. But the countless dead at their feet would silence any such fool. He could practically see Kalathros twitching with anticipation beside him. His wrath would not be abated for much longer, Plasma Guns still loaded on him be damned. And so, he ordered for his retinue to open fire.
The Bolt rounds of five of his brethren tore through the air, peppering the Loyalists with heavy weapons fire. The White Scars on the ground took cover, the one on top of his Assault Bike was not even grazed, while the Custodian simply stood there, his armor deflecting the attempts with soft pings.
At that Xephos heard a bellow behind him before he dodged just in time of the large, rampaging mass that was the Black Butcher. Kalathros went straight for the golden warrior, uncaring of the roaring Bolt-Caster directed straight at him. The shots simply bounced off the Terminator armor, only further fueling Kalathros' rage. As he got in melee range of the Custodian, even through the deafening screams of tens of weapons Xephos could hear his savage roar.
"SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"
With that, Kalathros finally got in range of the slightly smaller warrior before just barely avoiding a swing of his massive spear and tackling him, a brief flash shielding them from sight before clearing just as soon, revealing them to be gone. The fool had actually been crazy enough to use a Teleporter without a Homer.
Xephos couldn't really complain however. Either way two of his biggest problems had been taken care off for the moment and with any hope would kill each-other soon enough. Now, it was ten on four, and with significantly less armed enemies.
He made the signal for those with Plasma Guns to fire at the covered attackers, and they complied. A flurry of superheated plasma streaked by him, the sheer heat energy radiating from the shots being felt even through his power armor. Any protection the Scars might've had was melted away effortlessly, but to Xephos' chagrin, none of them had actually been significantly hurt.
"Bolters at the ready!"
Such ineffective weaponry as Plasma Guns wouldn't be acceptable in a fight such as this. They reloaded and cooled too slowly, and even rooting the Scars out had not proven good enough, as they soon found cover once again in other piles of rubble. And so, his brethren forgoed their weapons in favor of their more ubiquitous choice.
The Scars were showered with heavy fire as their makeshift barricades were ruined in several shots, only managing to survive by scurrying to other pieces of rubble. They took small, sneaky shots as well, breaking out of cover for fragments of a second, but they hardly impacted at all, especially when most of his squad could simply dodge.
However, Xephos had lost sight of the rider. Three of them had been pinned down but the only one with an actual Assault Bike had simply disappeared. Xephos did not like what that entailed. Wherever the rider was, he was planning something. The White Scars never retreated, they never ran away and they certainly never abandoned their Battle Brothers.
Only then did he hear the roar of a massive, powerful engine behind him. Turning along with half of his brethren to witness the sight, Xephos confessed he had hardly seen many more stranger things.
The massive bike had gone in a circle, scaling a collapsed pile of rubble vaguely shaped like a ramp, and was currently flying above their heads. Xephos certainly had to appreciate the creativity, but he had not time for it as he pulled his Plasma Pistol from it's holster to shoot at the still airborne vehicle. His Brothers got the clue as well, and in an act too quick for regular human perception to even attempt to pick up, directing their Bolters at the vehicle as well.
It was a flaming wreckage before it even hit the ground mere seconds later, the Marine one top of it hopefully pulverized by the sheer salvo unloaded into his ride. And just as Xephos felt himself within the cusp of an easy victory, their one minuscule advantage blown into nothing, the Scars only further compounded on this already disastrous day.
The biker, apparently alive, shouted something in their guttural tongue to his hidden brethren as he rolled away from the ruined vehicle, which quickly exploded, creating a concealing smoke cloud. Said smoke cloud was broken soon enough by a massive beam of ionized air and concentrated light, blowing lethal holes through a whole half of his squad before they were even able to react.
Another Bolt round from parts unknown took care of the last numerical advantage they had. If he made it out of this, he'd have to ask where in the godsdamned Warp the White Scars had found snipers.
Now, as they saw his advantage evaporate, they charged from their hiding spots, tackling his brethren before they had the chance to unload unholy Plasma fire on them. He personally was charged by the Sergeant himself, but Xephos wasn't about to be put down by a measly rabid Loyalist with a mere few centuries to his name.
Xephos met the charge head on, stopping the full brunt of a half tonne warrior with brute might, before throwing the Sergeant to the side. He unsheathed his Power Sword.
Unlike many other Astartes commanders Xephos disliked close quarters combat. It was messy, it was inefficient and it was worthless outside of shock assaults. But that did not mean he could not engage in it if the situation called for it.
"You will rue the day you ever stepped foot upon this world, heretic scum!"
The Sergeant's bark gave him no wariness. Nor did his newly activated Power Fist. He had deal with plenty of such boisterous warriors in the past. He wouldn't let one ruin him now, not at the cusp of his victory. Well, at the very least, if Zeno could be trusted.
He had very unpleasant thoughts of the man as he clashed against the White Scar.
Kronos had had the great displeasure of being teleported without a Homer a few times in his life, almost all of them due to dire circumstances. It was not painful. Pain meant little to one such as him. It's unpleasantness came in it's strangeness, at least for him. It felt as if his entire body had been pulled inside-out and was being meshed and shaped like clay.
Even with that confusion however, Kronos was still a programmed and efficient killing machine, and his tactical prowess kicked in immediately, throwing his adversary several dozens of meters away despite his immense bulk. His first concern out of the way, Kronos almost immediately had to deal with a second one, as he felt himself completely off-balance and about to fall.
Kronos dug his foot into the rather soft metal below him, to establish at least some security before righting himself. Immediately upon doing so, he took heed of his surroundings, and was shocked to see how far off the ground they now were. Doing some quick math in his head, he estimated they were at a minimum altitude of 1.2 kilometers. Couple with the marble-white nature of the structure and the sheer dominance it presented above everything else in the city, he was almost certain they were on top of the Grand Spire.
What he also did not fail to take notice of was the massive Terminator recovering quickly from his throw, somehow having avoided tumbling off the awkward shape of the spire they were standing upon.
"You teleported us to the top of the Grand Spire? You're even more of a frothing berserker that I imagined. Gravity will be your enemy just as much as I will."
Kronos hoped he could drive that warrior into a rage, one uncontrollable like most of his fellow worshipers.
Khorne was a name known to him very well by this point. The Ruinous Powers were all equally despicable by him, but Khorne was first among those equals. From being the one whose daemons first condemned, to having possibly the most grueling tortures while he was trapped in the pit of insanity between realms that was the Warp. They were often short and efficient, but excruciatingly painful to an almost maddening degree.
He felt the stench of the Blood God on the warrior, and his previous battle cry had only confirmed it, leaving a bitter hatred in his heart. A reminder of something 10,000 years past that felt like yesterday, mostly because to him, it was yesterday. So he played to his tune, for he knew that once the opponent had lost their cool, they had the battle as well.
Yet, the warrior did not unleash a might wail of murder, nor charge at him blindly. Instead, he simply grumbled under his breath as he revved his mighty Chainaxe.
"Your tongue may be sharp and your reflexes sharper Custodian. But let's see how well you prove your mettle against a worthy opponent," he then got into a charging stance, while Kronos took his own defensive one. "No distractions. No escapes. Merely me and you, a duel to the death. And either way, a great skull shall grace the Blood God's throne this day."
"I hope you're ready to die a martyr to your patron's cause then."
The Terminator granted him no further response as he strode forth at unimaginable speed, as Kronos braced himself.
Zeno looked upon his grisly masterpiece as it neared completion, daemonic seals being ignited by bursts of warpfire and the last of his cultist's sacrificing themselves along with their charges. As the wails of the living were drowned out by the wails of the Neverborn, Zeno feared for his soul.
He truly did.
Author's notes: Wow, three whole cliffhangers at the end of just one chapter. Am I on a roll or what?
Sorry for the rather egregious delay. I'll come out and say it flat that my passion for this fic is not the same as it was several months ago, but nonetheless, I am indeed determined to see it to it's end...however long that will take (and believe me it will take a long time).
Anyway, we're nearing the end of the Sors "arc" if you will, as I've said previously. I will say tho...if you've gotten even a little bit attached to some of these guys, get ready for a doozy cause at least a few of them are...well, you can guess.
That's all I have for now. As always, favs, follows and especially reviews are always appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys have to say about this fic, whether good or bad, as long as it's constructive.
So, see you when I see you. Boneman signing off.