Blood Brothers

The thunder of war rolled across the blasted plain, carrying with it the screams of a dying world. The air was impregnated with the dying wails of billions, the earth quivered under the weight of piled dead and every breath carried with it the wet tang of spilled blood, threatening to drown men in the vitae of their fellows. Rolling artillery barrages obliterated vast hordes of filthy mutants with every volley, but in return screaming hails of burning skulls wiped out regiments at a stroke. Blocky tanks let rip with shell and las, sweeping aside droves of cultists but could not stop brass-sided monstrosities rampaging wherever they will, leaving trails of gore miles long in their wake. Proud Primaris in many colours traded blows with howling berserkers in blood-drenched plate, pitting swords and spears against raging chainaxes. Across a front a thousand kilometres long the armies of the Imperium met rabid hordes of Chaos in a clash that would end a world, or save it.

Amid that devastation Roboute Guilliman stood in a ring of brass-clad corpses, hundreds of enemies all slain by his hand. They had come against him again and again, each seeking to be the one to claim his head. Each had been a slaughter king of the Traitor Legions, a blood-soaked ender of lives, but set against the Hand of Dominion and the Emperor's Own Blade they had been found wanting. Guilliman took them apart with brutal efficiency, not bothering to count the slain, they were mere obstacles to be overcome, not worthy of his attention.

Guilliman lifted his helmed head to take in the battlefield. His eyes beheld a vista of carnage, from the hacking and bleeding warriors to burning Hive cities on the horizon. He heard every wail and sob, detecting whimpers so faint as to be lost in the booming roar to any other ear. His tongue tasted blood in the air and revealed hints of lung-shredding bone splinters and metal toxins laced into it, the very wind becoming a deadly thing. Such vistas were far from unknown to him, across a thousand worlds, a million battlefields, he had led the Indomitus Crusade, seeing the sheer calamity overtaking the galaxy firsthand. Lord Commander the masses called him, Imperial Regent and last hope of the Imperium. He alone knew those were false titles, he was lord of a dying empire and a broken people, master of blasted ruins and burning ashes, and currently commander of an army that was losing badly.

"My lord, you must withdraw!" came the impassioned cry of Trioe, Chief Librarian of the Fire Lord Chapter.

Guilliman didn't bother to look down at the Firstborn ally to his Crusade as he replied, "There will be no withdrawal."

"Sire, you must fall back, this battle is lost!" cried Cato Sicarius, commander of the Victrix Guard.

Coolly Guilliman replied, "If we lose this battle then Berrangham is lost to the Imperium. Without this world as a staging ground the Crusade cannot advance on Ophelia VII, without Ophelia VII Segmentum Tempestus is lost to us. That cannot be allowed to pass, we must win through."

Cato Sicarius drew in a slow breath to argue, "With all due respect, forget strategy! This battle is lost, if we stay you die. I cannot allow that."

Trioe added his voice, "He comes, he comes for you. Here and now. I can smell his foetid odour upon the wind. The Prince of Slaughter and King of Ashes comes to finish what he started so long ago."

Guilliman finally deigned to lower his head, taking in the pair. Cato's armour was as battered as his own, the glorious heraldry scoured bare by hours of battle. His cloak was in tatters and helm absent, broken long before. Only the Tempest blade shone unblemished, its edge sharp but not enough to win this day. Trioe clasped a Force-axe that shone dully, its power nearly spent. His plate was black with soot, made by the incineration of many foes, covering his flaming iconography in ash. Both were weary to the bone, spirits sapped by watching friends and comrades fall. A dozen Victrix Guard had died this day, and a score of Librarians from many chapters, and still the fight was not over.

Guilliman softly said, "If you wish to withdraw, you have my permission to do so. I will remain alone if I must, but I ask you to stand with me."

Cato's spine stiffened at the thought of running and he spat, "I am sworn to your service, if my death can avert but a single blow upon your armour, I would gladly lay down my life for yours."

Trioe pledged, "I would count it the highest honour to stand with you in this hour."

"Courage and honour," Guilliman proclaimed as he lifted his head, "Hold to that, for here comes my thrice-damned Brother."

Across the battlefield came a black cloud, sweeping over the struggling combatants like a rolling fog. It was no normal smoke, but instead the immaterial suggestion of great wings, a score of them beating fast. Where those gossamer shades touched ground men fell dead, their blood exploding through skin in showers of vitae, even mighty Primaris Marines reduced to clouds of red mist, demolished by infernal power. In the heart of the cloud were impressions of black axes, flaming whips and iron spears, all clutched in meaty paws bigger than a man. Bull heads and goats and dogs were suggested in the smoke, rising and falling as the mass approached.

Guilliman stood firm before that horror, his feet planted and sword raised high. In response the cloud divided, becoming twelve spreading monsters, each a bestial nightmare of destruction. They spread out around him and set hoofs upon the ground, ringing him in a circle of Bloodthirsters. The soil smoked where they trod, reality burning at their touch but they were mere sideshows compared to the thirteenth of their number. Last to land was the biggest, a towering abomination of immaterial muscle, drooling jaws and red skin hidden inside wings of smoke. A black axe was in hand, and a flaming whip and from its head hung many snaking coils, like obsidian braids driven into its skull, yet its face had not changed in ten thousand years. Guilliman recognised it immediately, Angron, once Red Angel of the Great Crusade, gladiator-slave of Nuceria and Primarch of the World Eaters, but no longer. Now his once-brother was a creature of Khorne, all fury and rage and empiric might set loose.

There was no battlecry, no challenge to duel, Angron was beyond understanding such things. Instead the trio lifted their weapons and charged, meeting the Daemon-Primarch head on. A whip of fire lashed out and Trioe was split from groin to scalp, the Psyker falling before he could land a single blow. Cato Sicarius barely avoided meeting the same fate at the edge of the black axe, dodging aside at the last instant. Guilliman could not pause as he charged into the smoke, watched by a ring of Bloodthirsters, all waiting upon the greatest of their number to claim the prize.

Darkness took him and the universe ceased to be. All Guilliman could perceive was smoking dark, the flames of the Emperor's Own Blade his only light. He swung blind, trying to hit something, only to be lashed in return. From nowhere the flaming whip struck, tearing a golden filigree from the Armour of Fate. He swung to block in that direction only to be hit from behind, then the left, then the right. On and on, faster and faster, a hundred blows in a minute, a thousand, ripping his armour to shreds. Guilliman was fighting blind, lost and alone, being worn down as the Armour of Fate was reduced piece by piece.

Suddenly he spied motion in the dark and swung high. The move saved his life for the black iron axe was stopped a hairsbreadth from his neck, meeting the golden blaze of his sword in an explosion of light and dark. Guilliman felt the sword being torn from his grasp as he was thrown back, ejected from the smoke to hit the ground hard. He rolled to his feet in an instant, Hand of Dominion raised to block an attack that did not come. Of Cato there was no sign, he could only trust the Captain yet lived, but the Emperor's Own Blade lay twenty metres away, as good as on another planet.

A dark laugh echoed from the smoke, "Huuuurhuh, lost your little pigsticker you High-Rider scum."

Guilliman's lips drew back as he recognised the tone and he hissed, "Found your tongue I see."

"Father's little toy is full of tricks... gurrrgh... it stole my serenity... but it will change nothing... hurrrrrgh... I'll kill you all the same."

Guilliman lifted his fist slightly and said, "You had your chance on Nuceria and failed. This time will be different."

"Hahahraagha... you dream... I am so much... nuuurgh... more than I was then..."

"So much less," Guilliman spat, "You nearly had me before, I can admit that, but you haven't learned anything since. I know you, I know your capabilities and weaknesses. I studied you Angron, I know what it takes to defeat you."

"You arrogant bastard... huuurgh... You are no match for me as I am now!"

"Alas that is true," Guilliman sighed but then grinned, "Let's do something about that."

Suddenly the ground shook under his feet, not the rumble of artillery or clashing armies but the rising tremor of something stirring underground. The earth heaved as ten metal spikes erupted from under the surface, breaking free like whales breaking the skin of an ocean. Spinning drill heads chewed their way upwards, flanked by melta-arrays and shimmering phase-field generators. Grinding caterpillar tracks propelled them upwards, revealing the distinctive shape of Termite transports, heaving themselves into the light of day.

Portals slid aside on their flanks and from the darkness within poured lithe figures. Silver armour did they bear and heavy broadswords, fur cloaks hung upon their shoulders and half-grilles concealed their mouths. Swiftly and surely did they disembark, fifty to a transport, a potent force by any measure but what made them unique was the aura of nothingness that wafted off them, sheer emptiness oozing out every pore. Null-maidens, witch seekers and Anathema's daughters, five hundred Sisters of Silence entering the fray, a force unseen even in the halcyon days of the Great Crusade.

The combined aura of the Nulls hit the Bloodthirsters like a tsunami, obliterating their forms in an instant. Warp flesh was unmade, weapons collapsed like wax in a furnace and thin screams of denial echoed in the underverse as the chosen of Khorne were violently ejected from reality. The armies beyond staggered in disbelief, feeling the sudden cessation of Khorne's blessings. The greatest locus of their God's favour had been excised and the sudden lack was a dagger of ice to the heart of every one of the Blood God's followers. The Imperial armies rallied as their foe lost precious fury, but Guilliman's eyes were fixed only on Angron.

The Daemon-Primarch was hit as hard as the rest but unlike them he was not only Neverborn. For all his tainted nature he remained a Primarch, remained a son of the Emperor. His immaterial flesh smoked as wings and hooves dissolved but his spirit remembered another form, one that could withstand the Null aura. Warp flesh became pink and scarred, obsidian braids became dull metal and hellbrass plate became merely power armour. Even his weapons lost their lustre, becoming a plain power axe and whip. He remained a Daemon, remained warp-flesh, but so long as he dwelt in the Null aura he was limited, merely Angron, as he had been in life.

While that happened Guilliman had sidestepped to the Emperor's Own Blade and swiftly he took it up and assumed a guard position. Angron shook his head in pain but snarled, "Clever trick, clever trap... you always were the... gurrghh... cunning planner... But you are still high-rider scum... I will end you... pigsticker or not..."

Guilliman braced himself for the clash of arms to come and uttered, "Come then, you thrice-damned bastard. Let's settle the question of which one of us is better, once and for all."