I am back once more! This chapter was a pleasure to write, which is why it came out quicker than usual. The final battle reaches its climax. I won't go any further so as not to spoil what happens. There will, of course, be more chapters after this. Can't leave the story unfinished, can we?
I thank you all for reading, particularly all of you who have reviewed and all who have read both this story and Technophiles. Even if you haven't reviewed, I still thank you for your viewership. All of you mean a lot to me, and it was my consumate pleasure to have you all as readers. On to reviews, and then the story!
Savior16: Not 110% sure what you're saying, but we do need more love for our boy Torgaddon.
gamerphoenix333: Thank you for the suggestion. I'm glad you liked the story, and hope you liked this chapter!
187: I'm glad you like it! The Garrus and Eldar scenes seem to be a hit among the readers, which is great. As an Imperial Guard fan, I can say with the utmost confidence that the Eldar need more love. Someone needs to write a good Eldar book.
Dezagstin: I probably will not be going back into the 40k galaxy, though I hope you do enjoy the aftermath of the war chapters.
valhalan guardsman: Sorry about the Ogryns. There are a lot of deleted scenes I've wanted to include, and the Ogryn might as well number in them, but I simply don't have the time and the pacing would be thrown off by those scenes, as great as they would be. Palaven is doing just fine with Graia's Titan Legion and two First Founding Marine chapters. I'm also glad you liked Trazyn, the Custodes, and the Imperial Fists.
n7laegion: Thank you! That's quite the compliment and I'm glad you enjoy those scenes. They're very fun to write.
Dragon Blaze-X: Glad you liked the slower space battle, and I'm glad it worked out. And yes, Garrus is indeed everyone's favorite xeno.
ChaosRaptorEye: No spoilers for what happens to Trazyn's collection, though you'll see this chapter. The Watchers in the Dark with Garrus is a fantastic idea, so thank you for that. I'll see if I can fit it in with the pacing, but no promises.
Yankee718: I'm glad you liked it, and I'm glad you liked Azrael, Grimnar, and Garrus!
Brother Bov: Glad to have you, and I'm glad you liked the Wolves and Dark Angels on Palaven. It was a very fun scene to write.
themadnimrod: Trazyn will be Trazyn. It's always a good day when the Olympus Mons goes down.
Cringyusername SSBVQQ: Thank you! I'm glad you liked it!
Guest: The Dark Angels and Space Wolves arrived over Palaven with Legio Astraman (Graia's Titan Legion) at the same time the Fists and Custodes arrived on Earth. As both those chapters are want to do, they just went for a full shock-and-awe deployment without warning the Turians, which is why I didn't have a scene of them showing up. Trazyn has been around for a while (see The Infinite and the Divine), and either he woke up very early or was never really asleep in the first place. Of course, Trazyn being Trazyn, he'll deploy what he wants, and we'll see what happens to them in this chapter.
Asta: Fair, I suppose. The Emperor is conflicted on Shepard: one the one hand, he gets along with aliens and is far too diplomatic of them. On the other, he is humanity's savior and (as the joke goes) has a thirst for alien booty rivalling only Guilliman and the Emperor's own.
Chronus1326: Thank you! I'm glad you liked it. Thanks for your input on the slower style of space battles. I'll take them into consideration for any future slow battles; they were very insightful. As for Trazyn's forces, we'll find out what happens to them this chapter.
Ranschaj: Warhammer 40k writers are really, really terrible with scale and seem to constantly contradict each other. I am absolutely sure that you are correct and it does give those dimension somewhere, but from what I read it specifically says the Phalanx is "the size of a small moon or planetoid". So I just decided to make it vaguely moon-sized because that seems to be its most-likely size to me. It's a lot like the Titans, and you kind of have to juggle a bunch of different dimensions and try to see what fits the best or makes the most sense.
lucho406: Thank you! I'm glad you liked it. The Dark Mechanicum and Lord Hal do indeed always have a plan (they're Tech-Priests, after all), but we shall see what happens and who shall win. Everything remains up in the air.
Anatheras: Thank you, and thanks for your input on the space battle. I appreciate it. As for the shock-and-awe scenes... well, I hope you enjoy the Dread Host in action.
shipwreck321: I'm glad you liked it!
Austin: Thank you! I'm glad the humor went over well. We shall see what happens to Trazyn's armies, and we shall see what happens to this galaxy in the coming chapters. I hope you like them.
BonesofSmite: I'm glad you liked everything! The Garrus, Grimnar, and Azrael scene was quite fun to write, and I'm glad it went over well with the readers. You are most definitely getting about three or four aftermath/epilogue chapters, so don't worry about that. We have to see what happens, after all!
Guest: I'm glad you liked everything! The Phalanx and Garrus/Grimnar/Azrael scenes seemed to be the favorites, so I'm glad those went well. As for Trazyn's exhibits, we'll see what happens to them this chapter.
Dovahsinn270: Snarky Azrael is great. He's very underrated. As for the librarian, that's Ezekiel, Chief Libraian of the Dark Angels. I believe the guy from Space Hulk (can't remember his name) is the head librarian of First Company. As for the Eldar, we'll see what happens to them this chapter.
oOo
From Golden Light They Come II
"We are vigilance unending. We are duty unstinting. We are punishment inescapable. We are the Adeptus Custodes, and all must fear our wrath." -Shield-Captain Rothrian Ganyth
"Let them come, insidious monsters that they are. Let them flow like a tide into the killing zone. Await my signal to activate the teleportariums, and then unleash the Emperor's fury upon these abominations from every direction at once." -Oldorian Mefistal, Shield-Captain of the Dread Host
oOo
"I shall take the one in the center," came a deep baritone voice from behind a beautifully ornate helmet of gold. Filigree and ornate carvings adorned his helm, taking the form of a golden eagle, wings splayed wide, in front of his eyes.
"I will take the ones on the right," replied another Custodian, Guardian Spear held standing in his right hand. The standard-issue weapon of the Adeptus Custodes, the Guardian Spear was just that: a long, heavy spear, crafted by the finest artificers of the Imperium specifically for use by the Custodians. However, unlike a typical hand-to-hand weapon, a bolter was mounted near the end of the shaft near the spear point itself. The Emperor's bodyguard did not need to switch weapons or worry about the differences between close and long ranges; their weapons worked at both.
Of course, any weapon would be incomparably deadly in the hands of a Custodian, from a plasma cannon to a steel knife. None could compare to the Emperor's elite.
"We shall take the left flank," said a different Custodian on the left of the group, nodding to the brothers surrounding him. All wore the golden auramite armor with a black shoulder pauldron and white trim of the Dread Host. All hefted Guardian Spears or a combination of powerful swords and massive golden shields.
They all stood around their captain, ready for battle. Currently, they were in a huge, ancient room. The size of a ballroom or cathedral aisle, it was lit only by soft golden light coming from the ceiling and glowing from the baseboards of the room. Around them, the ornate carvings of countless millennia spread throughout the walls and ceiling. Beautiful, flowing, script from the Dark Age that no one but the Custodians and their absent Master could remember how to read intermixed with sagas of Imperial glory and the tales of Custodian valor over the span of ten thousand years.
Strange machinery, knowledge of their make lost over the course of time, curved throughout the room. Pipes and gears of bronze and gold intermixed with pneumatic tubes and strange symbols of carved power. Tiny intricacies of woven gold wire coursed through the walls, so miniscule that only the highly advanced superhuman senses of the Custodes themselves could detect it.
The room was made of machinery, covered with a thin veneer of carved metal as decoration. The purpose of this room would have stumped even the most knowledgeable of Tech-Priests. Even Kelbor-Hal would have trouble figuring out what everything here did.
But the Custodians knew.
The members of the Dread Host were splayed out in line formation, two deep. In the center was the Shield Captain of their group, face unreadable behind his gilded mask. The rest of them stood casually readily, calling out in turn.
"Center-right. Slash forward. Lock shields and bash," said another Custodian, nodding to a group of his brothers around him. Each held heavy shields of gold on their left hand and swords in their right.
"Center-left. Push up with the direct center," said another.
It would have been strange if anyone was watching. The Custodians were simply staring at each other and a blank wall in an empty room, speaking of battle strategies as if they were planning on the front line. Untrained mortals would have been asking questions, utterly baffled, and even Marines would be staring, confused.
"I have the far right," came a different voice, though the same deep baritone as the rest of his brothers. "Protect the flank."
"Excellent," said the Shield-Captain with a nod. He turned towards the far wall. Soft golden light shone off golden armor. Spear tips glistened. Ancient writings from an age long forgotten curled above their heads.
With a nod, the Shield-Captain raised his Guardian Spear high. As one, the line of Custodians accelerated from a perfect standstill to a dead sprint. Golden armor flashed in the dull light. Around them, machinery whirred to life. Pistons clanged. Steam hissed. Pneumatics fired. A dull buzzing sounded throughout the massive room. Wiring fed throughout the walls started to glow, giving the entire space an eerie, illuminated feel.
The Custodes continued their run, uncaring at the noise and light around them. They sprinted directly towards the wall, seemingly with absolutely no intention of slowing down.
Just before they collided head-first with the metal wall, the Custodes disappeared in a flash of light and an almighty thrum of sound.
oOo
With a shockwave of golden power, the Custodians of the Dread Host arrived at the battle in a dead sprint. The explosion of gold knocked back hordes of Reaper constructs and corrupted skitarii as the Dread Host appeared in a flash above them. A massive crack of displaced air sounded throughout the battlefield like the thunder of hell itself.
There was no warning. There was no announcement, no fanfare, no preliminary bombardment or scream of gunship engines to warn the enemy they were coming. There was simply nothing, then the Dread Host was among them.
Golden swords and shields flashed in Sol's holy light. Spears gleamed a wicked blue-silver. Auramite plating shone a brilliant golden sheen. Soon, the glory of the Custodes' gear would be soaked in the blood of the enemies of the Emperor, but that, too, was a glorious testament to their strength and an unsung song of praise to the Master that had given them life.
There were multiple different squads of Custodians that had teleported into the open fields of the north-central part of North America. The group that had just teleported in from one of the Moiraides was not the first, nor would they be the last. Everything was in precise, clinical, and in exact accordance to the plan laid out by Shield-Captain Thrax and the other commanders of the Dread Host.
There were multiple reasons why the Custodes were such an effective fighting force. The obvious, of course, was that they were nine foot-tall genetically engineered, effectively immortal superhumans who could fight for weeks on end without tiring. They were armed with the best weapons, technology, starships, and armor in the Imperium. They had the direct influence and patronage of the Emperor of Mankind Himself.
However, such a force would still be nothing without tactics, strategy, and planning. Much like the Custodes were masterworks in body, so too were they masterworks in mind. Unlike what many might think, their assaults were not simply just appearing in golden light and relying on their skills to slay whatever enemy they might be facing at the moment, but were instead planned out to extensive, nearly microscopic detail. Each and every movement was calculated with exact precision. Everything had to be perfect; and, for the soldiers of the Dread Host, it was.
They went about their pre-prepared plan with flawless perfection. The captain of the group strode forward in the center, Guardian Spear spinning elegantly in his hand. The rest of his squad took the flanks, smashing through Dark skitarii, Cannibals, Husks, and Banshees alike with the ease that most mortal humans used to simply walk. Blades, so sharp they could cut through adamantium power armor, sliced through enemies as if they were tissue paper. Flesh was torn into ribbons. Black blood spurted high in the air.
Bolters from the Guardian Spears rang out, blowing away leaping skitarii and Husks. They impacted through heads and torsos, smashing ragged holes into them or knocking them off entirely. Weapons, teeth, and claws bounced off refractor fields and golden auramite, not even leaving scratches in the armor.
The Shield-Captain spun his spear in a blur, so fast that mortal eyes could not follow it nor replicate the gesture. Lines of Husks lost their heads. The soldiers beside him locked their shields, just as planned, and pushed. A line of skitarii tumbled back, sent flying through the air by the Custodians' far superior strength. Blades flickered. A line of skitarii died. Golden boots trampled over mountains of corpses, uncaring of their origin.
The only ones on this battlefield were the corrupted abominations of the Reapers and Dark Mechanicum against the golden power of the Dread Host. The Custodes knew the Titans of Ordo Sinister and Legio Ignatum were swiftly driving the engines of Mortis this way, but apart from what would come in the future, the battlefield's only occupants were the Dread Host and the mobs of mindless monsters.
Thus, there was no one to witness what the Dread Host did. However, if there was, they probably would have simply fallen on their knees in awe, completely unable to function.
This was not simply soldiers in action, like one saw on the movie or propaganda reels. This was not like Commander Shepard, or the Imperial Stormtroopers in action. While such mortals were skilled beyond measure, their actions on the battlefield as utterly breathtaking as a dancer on the floor, it could not compare.
It was not like the psykers of the Imperium or the biotics of the Citadel. Wreathed in fire, lightning, and power, channeling holy power from beyond and the dark energy of element zero itself, such advanced individuals had the literal forces of nature at their command. They could smite their foes with a gesture, their eyes glowing dramatically. They could zip across the battlefield, or create black holes, or simply disintegrate the enemy into ash. But, again, they were mortal.
There were also, of course, the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, the gene-forged super-soldiers of the Imperium of Man.
This was none of those. To even compare the Custodian Guard to them would be not only an insult of the highest order, but a gross misinterpretation of fact.
This was none of those things. Nay.
This was the personal wrath of a living god made manifest.
This was power, in its most pure, undiluted form. This was glory, the conquest of kings, the might of warrior gods shown to the battlefield. None could stand against the Dread Host. The enemy numbered in the millions, if not billions. They were creatures that could slay a normal human, even someone like Shepard or Kevral, in a heartbeat.
These facts merely slowed down the Dread Host. None could stand before them.
It was a law of nature, as unchangeable as gravity or inertia.
Respect the power of the Emperor of Mankind, or die beneath the blades of His Praetorian Guard.
oOo
High above, in Earth's orbit, Shield-Captain Thrax, commander of the Dread host, stood aboard the lead Moiraides and frowned at the tactical display splayed out beneath him. Around him, the beautifully ornate and overwhelmingly gold interior design of the grand starship flowed around his massive frame.
Nearby, other Custodians stood at their places, still as statues. Servitors trundled around, checking machinery and making sure everything was in place. The beautiful blue, white, and green marble that was the uncorrupted Terra shone through the large glass windows of the room. It was quite nice, Thrax admitted; a sight into the past and what could have been without the ravages of the Dark Age. But, still, their Master was not here, and thus this was not their Terra.
"My lord, we are ten minutes behind schedule," came the stoic and emotionless baritone of one of the Custodians standing around him. Thrax frowned. Though the man's voice did not betray it (he was Custodes, after all), he was nervous and disapproving. Ten minutes behind schedule for a mortal army was nothing. Ten minutes for the Dread Host was utterly unacceptable.
It was all the fault of that most ancient of traitors, Kelbor-Hal. The Emperor's bodyguard had never liked nor approved of the ex-Fabricator General of Mars. To them, he was an unknown variable, an unacceptable security risk, and a very shifty individual. Too bad they had been proven right during the Heresy.
But now, they had a chance to capture Hal and drag him back to the Dark Cells to rot there for all eternity for betraying the Master of Mankind. The only problem was actually getting to him.
The Dread Host had deployed in southern Canada and the northern United States to push up to Vancouver. However, they had been met by Hal's armies… and slowed down to an unacceptable rate.
Hal's armies numbered in the billions. The Reapers and Dark Mechanicum had captured people and xenos from all over the galaxy and twisted each into horrific abominations. It seemed as if each and every one of them had been transported to Earth to defend Hal and secure his base of power. Thrax frowned again.
The Imperial Fists had deployed across the planet, shoring up the defenses of their cousin Marines. With the arrival of three full companies in the southern United States, the utterly massive enemy army there had been checked. The Blood Angels, holding desperately, finally found some respite.
The rest had spread throughout the world to trouble spots. The Raven Guard, flitting through the shadows and striking from every direction at once, needed little help in actually beefing up defensive lines because they did not actually have any. The Consecrators, fresh arrivals and still at high strength, were similarly fine.
The Guard and Alliance Marines were struggling, and so that was where most of the other Imperial Fists went. Thrax tactically approved.
Ordo Sinister and Legio Ignatum had pushed the remaining Titans of Legio Mortis back. They were now nearby to where the Dread Host had deployed. However, Thrax had instructed Sinister and the somehow still-alive Grand Master of Ignatum to push Mortis on a parallel course to where the Host was fighting. While Custodes were a force of nature on the Ground, a man could not fight an engine. That was simply how things went.
"I realize that," replied Thrax to the other Custodian's previous comment. He sighed. He probably shouldn't have snapped at the man. It was unbecoming.
"Sorry, my lord," replied the Custodian with a slight bow of his head.
"No; you're right," said Thrax. He frowned down at the tactical display once more. His face was sharp and powerful, framed by extremely short-cut black hair and countless scars: the face of a Custodian. His helmet and weapons rested by his side. "We are indeed ten minutes behind schedule, which is unacceptable for the Emperor's finest." He turned over to the other members of the Dread Host in the room.
"Your orders, my lord?" asked one, sensing the Shield-Captain would want to shred through the enemy lines as soon as possible.
"Send a message to Ordo Sinister. Order one of their engines to break off and join the Dread Host's attack," replied Thrax. One nodded and raced from the room to carry out the Shield-Captain's command. In the command room itself, Thrax picked up his Castellan Axe. In one fluid motion, he slammed his gilded helm into place. His stern features were changed into a snarling feline's head of gold. "As for us… Unleash the lions."
oOo
Every single Allarus Terminator of the Dread Host teleported into the battlefields of southern Canada in almighty shockwaves of golden power. Their armor was of auramite and adamantium, painted solid gold with flying aquilas and golden thunderbolts carved throughout. The Allarus-pattern armor was much heavier than the normal Custodian armor, sharing the same large, hunch-backed appearance of their counterparts in the Space Marines. However, instead of the normal Space Marine Terminator armor, the Allarus armor was not some crude, cheaply-produced thing. There were no sharp lines, no ugly snouted helmets or heavy plodding steps.
No, these were suits of armor created for the Adeptus Custodes. Everything was machined and tooled to perfection. They were driven by interior generator-shrines, articulated with the finest shielding systems in the Imperium, and carved to the finest of perfections that only befitted the Emperor's own bodyguard.
They came down upon the battlefield like gods of old, smashing through skitarii with the sheer power of their arrival. The Allarus Terminators, led by Shield-Captain Thrax himself, came directly into the center of the Dread Host formation already fighting on the ground. The Terminators would add their weight to this fight so that it might finally be won and the push to Vancouver secured. Kelbor-Hal would fall this day and be brought back to Terra to face the Emperor's judgment.
Shield-Captain Thrax himself was in the direct center of the incoming formation. Surrounded by his chosen bodyguard, he spun his Castellan Axe in his hands and began his bloody work.
Axes, spears, and swords flashed out, cutting through skitarii, Brute, and Marauder armor as if it did not exist. Bolter shells flew forth, scouring bloody chunks out of enemy monstrosities. Balistis Grenade Launchers, mounted on the left arms of the Allarus Terminators, fired, making a strange noise between the blam of a bolter and the thunk of a grenade launcher. Triggered with but a thought by the Allarus Terminators, these weapons fired sanctified and highly-artificed drum-fed explosives into the enemy ranks, shredding them like slabs of meat through a grinder.
None could stand before the golden warriors of the Eternal King. They were untouchable, unbreakable, indefatigable and undefeatable. They were the wrath of a living god, each warrior kings in their own right, and to the enemy they brought naught but swift and merciless death.
Thrax's axe smashed through Brutes, Banshees, Marauders, Husks, Cannibals, and skitarii. Nothing they could throw at him could harm him. Nothing they could do could stop him. He swung and fired and swung again, reaping hundreds upon hundreds of enemies as the battle went on, corpse after broken corpse left in his wake.
His bodyguard performed much the same, slaughtering without effort anything they came against. Nothing could stop them. Nothing could slow them down.
Holes were made by the Balistis Launchers, and swiftly exploited by the Allarus Terminators. Despite their heavy plate, they moved cleanly and fluidly, faster than even the speed of the legendary Adeptus Astartes. Spears and swords rose and fell, chopping and slashing, killing and falling and killing again.
A wave of nameless dread washed over the battlefield. A pulsating, whirring pressure filled the minds of the Custodes and their beastly adversaries.
With an almighty, howling, screaming crack that echoed through both the sky and the very being and souls of every living thing present, a wave of gravitational lightning, throwing stone and electricity alike, washed over the unnumbered hordes of the Dark Mechanicum. Skitarii and Husks were burnt to a crisp as even Brutes and Marauders went flying.
With a roar that echoed through hell, Polaris-Bellerophon, Nightmare Titan of Ordo Sinister, came crashing through the ranks of Custodians and skitarii alike. It deftly wove around its golden allies, feet placed carefully so as not to crush any of the Emperor's Ten Thousand beneath its massive tread. The enemy mobs were not so lucky. Blood spurted high, coating Polaris-Bellerophon's armored feet as hundreds were smashed beneath its mammoth weight. Skitarii and Marauders tried to run from it, but were cut down by the Dread Host or the psi-Titan's own weapons.
Missiles and turbo-laser shots flashed forth, impacting on where the impetus of enemy hordes were packed tightest. Limbs, gore, and ravaged and burnt bodies went flying. Waves of ethereal lightning and tempests of rock and fire washed over the enemy ranks. Monstrosities, created from the damned dead, died screaming in agony, their bodies finally put to rest where their souls had gone long ago.
As the Nightmare Titan broke the back of the enemy hordes, the golden knights of the Dread Host advanced, weapons singing their deadly song. As they pushed forward, slaughtering anything that stood in their way, Shield-Captain Thrax smiled beneath his beautiful helm.
This was the plan. This would bring them victory. To be sure, the Dread Host would have won, but it would have taken much longer, bogged down even the Emperor's golden warriors for enough time for Kelbor-Hal to make alternate plans. The Arch Heretek must not be allowed such time, reflected Thrax as he slashed the head of a Marauder.
But now, as the Emperor's Right Hand fought alongside His Left, none could stand before them. None could stop them. To challenge them was to die, to see them was to go blind, to hear them was to be deaf. The wrath of the Golden Throne had come to Earth, and Kelbor-Hal would fall this day.
oOo
"My lord, the engines of Legio Astraman have engaged and pushed back the traitor engines with great success. The Knights and Ravenwing, along with the remaining elements of Pallidus Mor are supporting them. Legio Tempestor is in disarray and will likely be destroyed soon enough," came the message over Supreme Grand Master Azrael's comms. The lord of the Dark Angels slashed the head off a skittering in one fluid motion as he replied.
"Excellent. Sammael is doing good work, as are our newly-arrived allies in Hawkshroud." Knight House Hawkshroud, always one to answer calls for aid, had arrived on-planet with the Dark Angels, Space Wolves, Legio Astraman, and the rest of House Vulker. "Continue the push, and drive the traitors off this world."
"As you command, Supreme Grand Master," came the respectful reply. The communications cut.
Azrael looked around him, sword flashing in a defensive pattern. The press of skitarii was not overwhelming here, but there still were quite a lot of them.
It mattered not, though, for the Dark Angels were here. While Grimnar and his Wolves had gone another route, the Dark Angels pushed through a large, open street in the center of… whatever city they were presently in. Whatever was here certainly could not stand against Belial and his Deathwing supported by Azrael, Asmodai, and Ezekiel.
Of course, there were also the Turians. As Azrael casually bisected a Husk, he looked over to the strange, tall, spiky and mandibled xenos. One of them glowed with pure blue energy and a lance of that same strange power lanced out to smash through a skitarii.
Despite the fact she (at least, Azrael thought this xeno was a she) was with Garrus (apparently that was the funny xeno's name), Azrael did not fully trust her due to her abilities. Ezekiel had reassured him she was not actually psychic and that these powers came from some scientific element in this reality, but he still did not know for certain. Apparently, she was more like a Mechanicus Electro-Priest than a psyker, which was scant reassurance to Azrael because those zealots were insane.
He had gotten some strange stares from his officers due to his liking of Garrus, but Azrael did not care. They had been ordered to get along with these aliens, had they not? They also tolerated the Watchers in the Dark, did they not?
Besides, this alien was funny and actually appreciated Azrael's jokes and sense of humor, which was more than he could say about the likes of Asmodia or Belial.
Even now, as Garrus's sniper rifle rang out, his drawl, smooth voice rang out through the smoky air of the city.
"Cities are no fun to fight through," he complained dryly. Next to him, Camivia threw out a biotic warp and turned to stare, flabbergasted, at her boyfriend.
"What is fun to fight through?" she asked. Nearby, the other Turians and Deathwing Terminators continued their fight, unleashing round after round into the enemy ranks.
"Gardens," shrugged Garrus. "Electronics shops. Antique stores, but only if they're classy." Camivia shook her head in exasperation. Azrael grinned beneath his helm.
"I suppose I would agree with you on antique stores and gardens, though I suppose most of the ancient reliquaries we usually fight through would not be counted as mere antique stores," commented the Supreme Grand Master. Nearby, Belial shot him an odd look. Azrael ignored it. "You haven't lived though until you've fought through the spires of an upper hive, particularly one of the more grandiose ones that reaches high enough in the sky for you to be among the clouds," sighed Azrael happily. A skitarii jumped at Garrus. The Turian turned and saw imminent death coming straight towards him. His mandibles widened in terror as he realized he could not bring his rifle across in time.
Azrael swatted the thing out of the sky with the casual ease of a man shooing away a fly and continued his monologue as if nothing happened.
"They often have gardens, too. The planetary governors make their seats of power quite comfortable. I would say the upper hives are quite enjoyable to fight through. The slums can be too, but only if they're open with a view up at the surface of the planet." Azrael shrugged. "The effect gets rather ruined when you're being mobbed by daemons, though." He sighed. "Such is life, I suppose."
"My lord, why are you speaking with a xenos, of all things!" protested the Marine with the mace and string of black pearls at his belt.
"Asmodia," sighed Azrael, sounding like a tired parent, "Behave." Garrus desperately stifled a laugh as Asmodai muttered something childishly under his breath and continued bashing skitarii heads open.
Who knew fighting in city streets could be so much fun?
oOo
The filthy and polluted air managed to filter its way even through Tali's mask. Though she remained as of yet unaffected, she could still smell the reek of a thousand corpses lying around her, and the acrid stench of spent ammunition. As the battle went on, the smell became more and more powerful, and her enviro-suit less and less able to filter it out.
Her suit itself, that accursed and still wondrous thing that gave her life outside Rannoch and her and John's shared cabin on the Normandy was ripped and torn by a thousand rounds and slashing blades. It was still mostly intact in the sense it could perform its medical functions and supply her with immune system boosters.
Not that they would do much good now. Her suit was ripped. John had given everything to protect her, for she wore no armor, but it hadn't been enough.
Her husband, her love, her life lay unmoving at her feet. He was still alive, for the first thing she did when he collapsed was connect their omni-tools and read his vitals. But those vital signs were fast fading as John's scarlet life blood leaked from the dozens of wounds littered across his body.
He had fought desperately, gloriously, with every single ounce of strength and power he possessed. But, as Tali took in the battle around them, even her husband's N7 training and superior skills were not enough.
Nor was the training and dutiful wrath of the Stormtroopers. There were three of them left now: one Iotan and two Cadians. They kneeled in the dust around the thousands upon thousands of slaughtered corpses, firelight flickering off their dusty armor as they blasted away on full automatic with their hellguns.
Even the fury of the Blood Angels, the proud sons of Sanguinius, was not enough. There was only one Angel left, fighting directly in front of Tali with chainsword and bolt pistol. The Marine spun, blade dancing, bisecting a skitarii in a gory squeal of shrieking teeth. His bolt pistol boomed, throwing back a leaping monster in a shower of corrupted blood.
All of the dead Blood Angels corpses had been dragged back by the Stormtroopers and the Marine wounded, out of reach of the hungry skitarii. This was why they were here after all, why they didn't retreat: the gene seed of the Blood Angels must be protected at any cost. So far, that mission was still completed, though in moments there would be no one left to defend the dead.
However, to Tali, there was a cost to the mission. There was a cost to not retreating and leaving the dead where they laid, and that cost was too high.
Her husband lay at her feet in the dust, shattered and severely wounded. Nearby, Zaeed's singed corpse was sprawled over a broken piece of rubble and half a dozen broken skitarii bodies. The mercenary had fought tooth and nail to the last, just as impressive as John or any of the Stormtroopers. However, the press of skitarii had proved too much. As Tali and John fought side-by-side, the N7 quite literally shielding his unarmored Quarian with his own body, the skitarii had broken through and laid to waste all but one of the Angels.
Zaeed had moved up, cursing and firing all the way, hellgun spitting crimson death into the skitarii ranks. The skitarii had come up close, too close, and John and Zaeed had desperately fought them back. But the press was too much, and John had taken several wounds protecting her.
For his part, Zaeed had been surrounded. Cursing all the while, he had run out of hellgun ammunition. With one last gruff "It's been fun!" yelled at Tali and John, he charged the skitarii and detonated every single grenade on his body.
It was one hell of a way to die, and probably the way Zaeed wanted to die, if he could so choose. At least he had that going for him, mused Tali grimly.
Solana and Robert had been overrun. A group of skitarii had managed to make their way into the group's position. The Normandy's crew fought them back, but one exploded. Tali did not know precisely what happened; she only saw the flash and heard the boom, and she and John had cried out as one for their friends.
The unknown Stormtrooper supporting Robert and Solana's last act in life was to drag them both to safety behind John and Tali. He was torn apart a second later, trying to go back for his comrades.
Solana was missing her left limbs. Both her leg and arm were bloody stumps, cobalt blood leaking into the earth to join the crimson human, rich scarlet Astartes, and corrupted black skitarii managed to patch her up, to ensure that Solana didn't bleed to death in the middle of the street, but if there was no help coming right now she would die. It almost didn't seem possible, that Solana, Garrus's sister, the funny and fun and sarcastic one, who made everyone laugh and smile and comfortable in her presence, was going to die. It just wasn't fair. But the war and the Dark Mechanicum did not care about fair.
Robert was little better, his torso ripped to shreds. His fate was much that of Solana; he was still breathing, laboriously, painfully, unconsciously, but he would die soon enough without the care that only a hospital could provide.
Again, Tali reflected on everything. Kevral was gone, torn apart by the skitarii. The loyal, intelligent man who had given so much insight to the crew of the Normandy and proved that Imperials were people, not uncaring xenophobic automatons, was dead.
Kasumi, cheerfully Kasumi, who loved her teases and had been one of Tali's longtime and closest friends, was also dead. There was no warning, nothing anyone could do to help: she was shot through the head and died instantly. Tali mourned her even as she fought. Kasumi had been there for her on the Normandy's second iteration when few save Shepard and Garrus had. She was her closest female friend. Now she was dead, and there was nothing that could be done about that. The fact she died instantaneously was no consolation: she was still gone.
Zaeed, the grumpy, tough mercenary who had survived a betrayal and shot to the head, who had more experience of anyone here save the Imperials, was gone. He and Tali had never been close, but Zaeed had stayed when few others had, and despite his thunderhead presence, Tali realized she would miss the man. She laughed quietly to herself; this time, she could take solace in the fact he died exactly how he always wanted to die. Many times, he said his life was forfeit, that he did not fear death and he only wanted to go out in a blaze. At least he got his wish.
Robert, quiet Robert, a man of few words but infinite kindness, would soon join his comrades. He was a quiet backbone, a reassuring, grounding, and comforting presence to anyone that needed it. Though Tali was not very close to the man (few were save his husband and perhaps Solana), she considered him a friend. She would miss him.
Of course, there were Kelly and Steve, who would be utterly devastated at their partners' demise. Tali couldn't think of a worse thing. At least she would die with John. She took comfort in the fact. Her greatest fear was not death, but that he would die and leave her alone.
She would die with him. That was all she wanted.
The last of the Angels fell. The few remaining Stormtroopers grunted and continued to fire, but without the protection of the Astartes no one here would be long for this world.
Tali herself was using her pistol, putting pot shots through the skitarii ranks. Her arms were heavy and weak, unable to lift her shotgun. Mucus dripped down her face, the result of the incoming sickness she would receive thanks to her ripped enviro-suit. Indeed, her head pounded and ached; her vision was growing darker. Even in the best of circumstances, tears in a Quarian's enviro-suit were a massive problem. In this environment, with pollution everywhere and dozens of cuts and tears lining her body… well, Tali didn't fancy her chances.
Weak, she fell to knees that somehow no longer wished to support her body. Her sinuses were stuffed, her body aching with half a dozen wounds and incoming fever. She looked down forlornly at her destroyed enviro-suit, then at John who lay dying at her feet. It almost felt like she was someone else, as if she were watching this from high above outside her own body.
John. Oh, John. They promised they would never abandon each other, and it seemed that promise would be fulfilled.
The last of the Stormtroopers were probably wondering why she wasn't running. She was a xenos, a coward, who only cared about her own skin and certainly didn't understand the importance of Astartes gene seed or Imperial honor.
What they did not understand was her love. Her love for Shepard was so great she would stand by him even unto death and whatever might come beyond. While she did not fully understand the mission, nor the Marines, and suspected she never truly would, she would certainly not abandon her friends and the one man she loved most above all.
Of course, all that was rather secondary to the fact that she could not run. Her legs were heavy, her mind foggy and weary with fever. Her husband, her John lay at her feet, breath growing more shallow with every passing moment. Silently, she cursed him. John, oh John, why did you have to take those hits for me?
Kneeling, panting in the dust, her head pounding and vision swimming, she tipped forward with a groan. The blurry black shapes of the skitarii came ever onward. Tali continued to fire, her heavy pistol bucking in her hand. Even in this state, she couldn't miss. There were too many skitarii. Distantly, the scream of one of the last Stormtroopers cut through the air.
There was a low, whining, humming annoying buzz in Tali's ears. She wished it would go away. She wished the skitarii would go away. All she wanted to do was die in peace with John. Her ripped enviro-suit would lead to her demise anyway; why did the skitarii have to come to kill her?
A series of impacts shook the earth. Tali toppled forward to the hard earth beneath. She landed on John.
Protect John.
Protect John.
Protect John.
The words went through her head like a mantra. Protect John, as he had protected her. Nothing else mattered. Her love had to be safe. She couldn't think of anything beyond that through her pained and blurred mind.
More sounds of fighting pounded through her weary mind. Why? What else was left to fight? Why even fight? There was nothing more; all was to die with John on the battlefield.
Tali managed to tilt her head up. She sucked in her breath; even that hurt. Her throat hurt. But the sight in front of her….
An angel.
An angel clad in gold, wielding an axe crackling in holy lightning. Tali blinked. Hard. Was this the afterlife? Were the humans right about what it was like?
The golden figure advanced.
The last thing Tali saw before she passed out was the carved visage of Sanguinius staring down at her.
oOo
"My lord, the Dread Host advances as we speak. The psi-Titans are with them. Our armies cannot hold…" came the distorted voice over Kelbor-Hal's comms system.
"Send more!" raged the treacherous Fabricator General, whirling and gnashing his teeth in fury. "We have near-endless reinforcements! Send them! Send them all! The Custodes must not be allowed to reach Vancouver!"
"Ye- yes, my lord," stammered the Tech-Priest on the other end of the comms, afraid of her master's wrath. "It shall be done as you command." With that, she cut the link.
Within his inner sanctum in Vancouver, Kelbor-Hal paced angrily. Damn the Dread Host! Damn the Custodes and their rotten master into Tzeentch's endless labyrinth!
It was all going so perfectly until they arrived. Yes, something had stopped his code. Yes, his armies were also losing ground in the central United States, but such miniscule things could be fixed. He controlled this world; he had billions of endless reserves to call upon.
But not against the Custodes. Not against the Emperor's perfect (and, in the foul man's own words, heretical and illegal) super-soldier constructs. Hal snorted. The Emperor of Mankind had always been a hypocrite of the worst sort, especially when it came to his relationship with his closest allies. He constantly demanded, never gave, and would seamlessly break his own edicts if he found it useful.
Of course, if anyone else broke the Terran interlooper's laws, then they would find themselves visited by the very things created by breaking those laws.
But now the Dread Host was knocking on Hal's door. The Phalanx and the rotten sons of that rotten man who had defended Terra to the last had shown up alongside them. High in orbit, the Olympus Mons, his secret pride, was no more. Hal sighed. It had put up a valiant effort, and its captain had gone down with his vessel, which was all he could ask, but even his beautiful Olympus was no match for Lord Rogal bloody Dorn's floating moon.
Hal would have liked to escape on the Olympus. With the arrival of the Custodes and the Phalanx hanging in orbit, it was only a matter of time before he was overrun. In such a case, having the most powerful ship (not battle station, unfortunately) to sail the stars would be a great boon.
Alas, the Olympus was no more. It was an annoyance. While Hal could easily come up with something more, he would have liked to keep his flagship. Ah, well. Such illogical musings on the past were beyond a Tech-Priest of his caliber.
The focus was now on the present. What to do?
Well, Hal certainly did not plan on being killed or dragged back to Terra to spend the rest of his immortal life rotting in the Dark Cells. But with the Olympus gone and the Dread Host swiftly advancing on Vancouver, what was he to do?
There were still options remaining. For all the power of the Corpse-Emperor's foul creations, they were still only so fast. The literal billions of soldiers being thrown at them as cannon fodder would easily slow them down long enough to allow Kelbor-Hal to escape. But how?
Well, the North Pole was untouched and unmonitored. There was nothing up in that frozen and landless wasteland that interested either Hal or the Imperials. He could easily order a ship to slip through the loyalist defenses (not exactly hard to do with his mastery of technology), and be up and away before anyone realized he was gone.
But what of Vancouver? What of the Tech-Priests that remained loyal to the true Fabricator General of Mars?
Contrary to the beliefs of many and the actions of most servants of Chaos, Kelbor-Hal actually valued his subordinates. Sota-Nul, Lukas Chrom, and Ardim Protos, not to mention the dozens of others, had been his loyal servants since before the coming of the Emperor to Mars. To throw away such loyal and powerful subordinates would be an idiotic move. If he had them by his side, he would be that much more powerful.
Thus Kelbor-Hal reached his decision. He would inform Nul, Chrom, Protos, and his other most valuable and loyal subordinates (at least, as many as could fit on the escape ship) of his plan. They would then make their way to the North Pole, where a Warp-capable craft would pick them up or send a shuttle to pick them up. They would then slip from Earth's atmosphere under the protection of Hal's shrouding codes and make a Warp-jump to some planet that was still under Reaper or Dark Mechanicum control. There were plenty of colonies outside the reach of the Citadel that he had harvested.
Once there, he could figure out his next move. Hal nodded to himself, satisfied. Yes. An excellent plan.
The Fabricator General spun, determined to contact Nul, Protos, and Chrom before things got too hectic or the Custodians got too close. As his many spider-like legs clicked on the floor, a strange, almost imperceptible hum sounded behind him. If not for his augmented hearing, he wouldn't have even noticed.
However, this sound was foreign. Different. A threat.
Kelbor-Hal spun around.
Behind him was…
A necron?
The necron did not look like most of its kind, with a more powerful, ornate body and a strange hood coming up around its head. A cloak of interlocking metallic scales adorned its back, shining regally even in the dim light of Hal's inner sanctum. In one hand, the necron held an incredibly ornate staff of bronze-gold, topped with an orb that glowed with an eerie pale green light. In the other, the necron tossed a cube of pure blackness up and down, up and down, toying with it like an experienced athlete might toy with the ball of their trade.
Hal looked up and away from the dark cube, and saw the necron's face. While necrons did not nor could have facial expression, Hal could easily read this one's expression. Upon it was the most smug, self-satisfied, gleeful smirk he'd ever seen in his life.
Fabricator General Kelbor-Hal didn't even have time to scream as he was sucked into the tesseract labyrinth's depths.
oOo
Elamavor Rynesea wrenched her sword from the fallen body of some massive, brutish creature, the flesh sticking. She pulled harder, and it gave way with a sickening pop of corrupted flesh.
Looking around her, Rynesea watched as the warriors of Craftworld Iybraesil dispatched the last of the remaining Chaotic forces. Shurikens spun and danced as the Swooping Hawks lived up to their name and, well… swooped. Darting through the air, more graceful than birds, they rained death from the skies where the foul enemy could not hope to reach them.
The Mon-keigh soldiers had been stupified over their arrival. As the warriors of Iybraesil had charged, some had even turned to stare with their mouths hanging open. Rynesea scoffed. Idiotic Mon-keigh. So primitive. They should have been focusing on the battle, not gaping at the incoming Eldar, helping to give away their position. Stupid Mon-keigh.
The fact that Rynesea herself was equally as confused over how they got here was not important.
A Ranger appeared next to her, seemingly sprouting up from the soil itself. Around them, the last of the enemy died, blasted away into so much fetid meat. Behind her long, plumed helmet, Rynesea's mouth set itself in an approving line.
"What shall we do now? About the Mon-keigh?" asked the Ranger, (most likely) frowning behind her hood. Rynesea looked around. The Mong-keigh were casually approaching. The ones marked with the symbol of the Anathema, their eternal King, had their weapons raised. Curiously, they did not immediately open fire. Rynesea cocked her head.
Around her, the other warriors of the Craftworld clustered behind their commander, weapons held warily in their arms. They did not point them at the Mon-keigh. Not yet, at least. That could all change in an instant, though, depending on just how reasonable these Mon-keigh were going to be.
Surprisingly, it was an officer in blue-gray armor that approached them. This one was not marked by the symbols of the Mon-keigh God-King, a fact Rynesea found curious.
There were, of course, two scowling officers in green and gold backing him up, so there was that.
Rynesea stepped forward, weapon held loosely and casually. The Mon-keigh soldier did the same. He opened his mouth to speak… But was beaten to the punch.
"Ahem," came a polite, curated, and utterly smooth voice from behind them. As one, the Mon-keigh and Eldar whirled towards the sound, weapons raised.
Standing behind them, standing comfortably slouched against the bark of a nearby tree, was an Undying. It did not look like the typical standard of its fellows. Instead of a plain and bony metal body, it was more powerful, with a hood covering its head and a cloak of interlocking metal scales on its back. In its hands was an incredibly ornate staff of bronze and gold, tipped with an orb of pure glowing green.
Rynesea was instantly on high alert. An Undying. This was most likely why they were here. Her mind put together the pieces of the puzzle quickly, though she did not know the full details. Did she dare ask?
What was more, the sheer power radiating off the Undying's cloak and the orb atop its staff was disconcerting. Whatever these things were, they were relics from the War in Heaven. She shuddered at the thought. Perhaps this was why they were here. Such things could do unspeakable acts and carried unspeakable power.
"I do so hate to break up what seems to be quite the important diplomatic meeting," said the necron apologetically, "But I'm afraid leaving everyone here would cause more problems for everyone involved than if I did not intervene. Thus," he continued, completely uncaring of the incredulous stares being leveled his way, "You shall join my collection." With a grin, the Undying pulled a cube of pure blackness from thin air.
Rynesea's eyes widened behind her helm. Whatever this Undying technology was, it did not bode well for them.
This was the last thought the Eldar warrior had before both she, the soldiers under her command, and every human trooper present disappeared into the tesseract labyrinth.
oOo
The squad of Dread Host warriors moved through the rubble of a broken town, weapons at the ready. Nothing around them was alive; nothing alive was being relayed to them from the Moiraides in orbit. The entire town, or what remained of it, was completely devoid of any life save that of the golden-armored warriors of the God-Emperor.
However, despite the fact they had orbital scans confirming the fact there was no life anywhere nearby, the Custodes still remained vigilant. Vigilance, patience… these were the chief virtues of the Custodian Guard, and while the Dread Host might not spend centuries standing stock-still in the presence of their Master, they still appreciated them as any Custodian should.
Thus when the faintest, most tiny, minute hum sounded through the air, the Custodians reacted instantly.
One turned, spinning, sword already in hand, threat already identified. The stroke was so quick an eye-blink would have missed it, so level it could have been used to measure earth. His sword sung through the air, ready to decapitate the humanoid foe he knew to be behind him, his brothers already reacting around him, readying their own weapons and springing into action.
The Custodian's sword, along with its wielder, disappeared a microsecond before it made contact with Trazyn the Infinite's neck. Around him, the other members of the Dread Host squad were sucked into the tesseract labyrinth's ethereal blackness.
The Lord of Solemnace himself gave a relieved sigh as he picked up the cube. So small. So unassuming.
There were a few Custodians in his museum, though hunting one of the human Emperor's bodyguards was nightmarish in difficulty. Not that it dissuaded Trazyn. Far from it. He enjoyed the challenge.
These were the first Custodes from the Dread Host he had, though. The thought made him smile. His slim necrodermis fingers gently tapped the side of the cube of pure darkness.
"Do you hear that?" he asked the cube. Unsurprisingly, it didn't reply. "You're the first of a new type in my museum!" He shrugged. "Actually, the simply one of quite a few new and completely unique exhibits." He began to walk away, metal feet crunching through the rubble, talking to the tesseract labyrinth all the time. "Coming to this galaxy was such a good decision. I'll tell you all about it if you want…"
oOo
Palaven was ruined. Everything was in shambles. The smoky, dust-infested air hung still in the sky, unwilling to grant any measure of comfort to those inhabiting the world. The entirety of the sky seemed to have dust hanging in it: the normally brilliant sun was dulled from the sheer scale of the war on the ground.
Thankfully, the heavy tan gas masks of the Steel Legion protected Angela from the worst of the debris and poor air upon the planet. She had always been rather… indifferent towards the gas masks. Some Legionnaires hated them, some were thankful for them, but she just… didn't care. They were just another object of attire, much like her coat and boots.
Said coat and boots were now covered in dust. Everything seemed to be. Around Angela, utter destruction reigned. The only things left standing were the broken, lifeless shells of buildings. They were few and far in between. Most of what had once been a city was now simply rubble and debris piled meters high.
Everything was utterly, completely silent. No animals or insects made sounds; not, of course, that Angela had ever heard animal noises either here or on Armageddon or the other world's she'd been deployed to. But still, the fact remained. If there was any wildlife on Palaven to begin with, it was now certainly extinct.
There were no voices. No chatter of soldiers or whispering murmur of crowds like in the slums of Armageddon reached her ears. The crackling chatter of vox communications of errant patrols was absent. Angela was completely alone.
What was stranger was that there was no weapons' fire. All throughout her career as a soldier, and certainly all throughout the battle on this planet, there was gunfire. Occasionally there was silence (like that one terrible time when she contemplated… well… that in the rear lines before Nictus stopped her), but for the most part, the Imperial Guard was constantly engaged.
Here there was nothing. No sharp crackle of las fire or distant booming thud of artillery echoed through the smoky sky. The rumble of tank treads, shouts of orders, muffled voices of Steel Legionnaires and flanged voices of Turians were absent.
Everything was utterly, perfectly, eerily silent.
As she walked, Angela thought back to what happened, to the long, arduous struggle of getting back from the 117th artillery. It had taken far longer than she had thought, far longer than she wanted, but a battle had been raging and she had no choice in the matter. All in all, it was perhaps one of the most harrowing experiences of her life.
Angela had been making her way back from the 117th artillery's headquarters, desperately picking her way through an endless sea of broken rubble to get back to her own regiment. She tried to move as quickly and quietly as possible, cursing whenever she tripped or smashed her leg against jutting pieces of masonry from the rubble surrounding her.
All the while, in the distance, the noise of battle continued to grow.
Explosions, deafening even though they didn't seem to be close to the frightened and panting Angela, echoed through the air. Almighty whines followed by huge crackling booms pounded as she tried to pick her way back to her regiment. Once she lost her footing when an almighty, all-encompassing explosion shook the very ground beneath her feet.
Her mouth dry and limbs shaking with both exertion and fright, she continued on, wondering exactly what could have caused such a huge detonation.
All the while, as she made her way over veritable mountains of unsteady rubble, her mind whirled.
She thought of the 117th behind her, of whether they had managed to get out in time. How many of them were dying even as she walked? Could an artillery regiment with all its guns and personnel even outrun engines?
And what of her own regiment? Where were they? How were they? Their communications had been cut; the reason why she had been tapped as a runner in the first place. It seemed as if Legio Tempestor had been softening them up for a full-scale frontal attack. Why else would their communications be cut?
But most of all, she worried about Nictus. For some strange reason, she couldn't keep her mind off the handsome black-plated Turian with his soft smile, gentle ways, and good heart. What about him? What about Nictus? Where was he? Was he alright?
Her thoughts kept returning to him. All she wanted to do was to see him again. To know that he was alright- to tell him that she wanted to be near him and that…
She liked him.
She liked a Turian.
The war was going on around her. Palaven was destroyed, with or without the god-engines. There was no respite. She no longer cared. If she got out of this, then, Throne-dammit, she would talk to Nictus, try to make this work. She'd survived worse.
But now, as she finally, after hours of detours and hiding and trying to avoid the worst of the fighting, she was back where her regiment should be. Her long, long, harrowing walk was done, and she was back, back to where she should be, back to her regiment once again.
And there was only silence.
Stepping past the last shadow of a nearby building's husk, Angela blinked as the smoky sunlight filtered through the lenses of her gas mask. In front of her, rubble stretched to infinity. Besides a few single, solitary walls, there were no stones left standing atop each other. Everything was gone. Everything was devastated.
There were two solitary landmarks in the scene of pure ruination besides the walls. Ahead, to where Angela recognized the right of her regiments line had been, was the wreckage of a downed Titan.
The engine was painted a vibrant forest green, with diagonal black and white stripes across its left shoulder pauldron. Angela gasped at the sight of it. She'd never seen a Titan before, much less a downed one.
It was obviously not one of the enemy's. It was not corrupted, not evil, and did not leak rancid fluid into the dusty rubble beneath it.
Angela stepped closer, moving around to get a glimpse of the fallen engine. Putting her gloved hand to her forehead to block out the sun, she peered at the shield-like pad beneath the Titan's arm. Upon it was a yellow and black haloed mace in front of a halved yellow shield and white cogwheel. She could just barely make out the wording beneath the symbol at the far distance she was at:
Legio Astraman
Much farther ahead, from the fallen Titan, the rubbled dipped downward into a massive crater. It smoked and sizzled, glowing a strange incandescent, shining color that reminded Angela of spilled oil. Inside the utterly massive crater, nearly the size of a building, was the smoldering wreckage of what looked to be a walker. It was burnt and blackened beyond recognition, but Angela could still see its twisted architecture and corrupted spires. An enemy engine, then, apparently destroyed by the incoming Legio Astraman. Although, beyond that, Angela knew nothing.
It was eerie to be in this place, this graveyard of giants. Nothing moved, not even the wind. The dust and smoke stood still, hovering in the air. The corpses of the god-engines lay in the dust.
As Angela moved forward, she came to a horrid realization that there were more than Titan bodies upon the rubble of this empty city.
This was where her regiment was. Was. Messy smears of red and blue covered the rubble. There was little more than that besides a few articles of clothing. Commissar Savron's cap, torn and tattered, lay behind the line. A scrap of Steel Legionnaire greatcoat stood near a drying puddle of gore. The bisected corpse of a Turian soldier, hands still on her weapon and mandibles open in a horrifying rictus of death, lay nearby. The body of a Legionnaire, fully intact with gas mask and greatcoat on, was pinned beneath two huge fallen chunks of masonry.
Apart from a few loose limbs, there was nothing else.
Angela resisted the urge to vomit. So, this was what happened to her regiment. It didn't take a genius to figure out.
They had been caught in the middle of a Titan battle. Legio Tempstor had attacked and annihilated them. The enemy engines had, in turn, been engaged by the new-coming Imperial Legion. Where the Titans came from Angela did not know. She did not care.
All she knew was that her regiment was dead. Nictus was dead. This was the only family she'd ever known; the gang she had been a part of in the slums of Armageddon certainly did not count as friends, let alone family. She was not particularly close to anyone (Nictus, Nictus, her brain cried out, what about him?), but they were the only people she knew. And now they were all dead.
She knelt in the dust, rocks scraping against the fabric of her pants, before the distinct scraping, clunking noise of moving rubble caught her ears.
Turning, grabbing for the lasgun on her back, she whirled around, only to see…
Nictus.
Her Turian.
He was just as dusty as she was, with grime staining his armor. His Phaeston was folded and on his back, and a slight trickle of dried blue blood made its way down his shoulder. His helmet was gone, and dust coated his face. It wore an expression of utter exhaustion, and defeat, but in that moment, despite the face, despite the grime, Angela decided he was by far the most handsome man to ever exist.
As she scrambled up from her kneeling position, he spun towards the noise she made. His mandibles and eyes widened in shock as she tore off her gas mask.
"Angela?" he gasped, voice a mixture of both surprise and giddy excitement. "A- Angela?"
"Nictus," she whispered as she hobbled towards him as fast as she could. He still looked stunned, unable to move.
When she got to him, she stopped, gas mask still in hand and dirty face looking up at his greater height. She did not move to hug or kiss him; instead she simply stared, taking him in as if she still didn't quite believe her eyes.
"Angela?" whispered Nictus, once-sauve dual-toned voice more gravelly from the dust swirling around them. "Is… is that you?" There was a desperate light in his eyes. "You made it? You're alive?" She couldn't help the grin come over her face.
"Yes," she replied, smiling. "Yes. I made it." They simply stood there, breathing heavily, looking at each other.
Eventually, Nictus looked beyond her. His mandibles went slack.
"What… what happened?" he asked, looking at the corpses of the Titans laying on the rubble. In lieu of a response, Angela simply took his hand.
Never had any gesture felt so right for the moment.
Nictus looked at the interlocking fingers, one hand with three, one with five, in confusion before Angela led him to the center of the field. There, they both slumped down in a shelter behind a large rock.
"The regiment…" Angela swallowed. "The regiment didn't make it," she whispered. Next to her, Nictus said nothing, mandibles and eyes wide in appalled shock as he took in the sight before him.
Angela said nothing as her companion processed the details of what happened. She kept her hand in his, though.
The shelter was rather comfortable, she reflected. There were no rocks, only a large coating of dirt and dust to sit on.
"They're… they're gone…" whispered Nictus. "They're all gone." He sounded close to crying, though for his comrades or in utter exhaustion she did not know.
"Yes," she said in reply. He shifted her body next to his, and looked up at his face. He looked tired. Scared. Yet he still looked down at her. "But I still have you."
He smiled. Somehow, through all the pain, through all the bloodshed, through all the sheer fatigue, he smiled. For her.
"I… I gave my message to the Turian command post," he whispered to her. "I got there… and they said there were enemy Titans moving up. I was…" He stifled a sob. "I was so afraid… for you," he managed to finish. "I didn't… I didn't think I'd ever see you again." His tall body slumped down into the dust. Hesitantly, slowly, Angela moved hers next to him…
And rested her head in his lap. He seemed surprised, shocked, at her action, but his upheld hand came to rest on her head and began to softly stroke her hair.
Angela did not want to talk about what she had done, what she had been through. She did not want to press him, to force him to speak, to relieve what were perhaps the most terrible moments of their lives. Yet, even though running messages while battle raged around them was horrifying, if Savron had not picked them, had not specifically, luckily, randomly picked them, they would be dead.
Though neither knew it, Legio Astraman, Graia's Titan Legion, had arrived on Palaven with the Dark Angels and Space Wolves and threw back a very surprised Legio Tempestor. The traitors were reeling, and the engines of the treacherous Martians were falling beneath Graia and the remaining vengeful Titans of Pallidus Mor. The Knights of Vulker, with additional reinforcements from their homeworld of Aurous IV, combined with the addition of a few Knights of House Hawkshroud, had joined the attack, breaking Tempestor alongside the god-engines.
The addition of two full First Founding Space Marine chapters had scoured the world clean. Additional numbers of the Legiones Skitarii from Graia had bolstered the faltering numbers of the Guard and Turians, ensuring they would hold as the more powerful Marines, Knights, and engines cleansed Palaven.
The massive Gloriana-class Invincible Reason, flagship of the Dark Angels, had ensured the space battle above Palaven was won. The ground war was soon to follow; Great Wolf Grimnar and Supreme Grand Master Azrael would ensure it.
With the arrival of the Phalanx and the Dread Host on Earth, Kelbor-Hal was no more. The Reapers and Dark Mechanicum were finished.
Though Angela and Nictus did not know it yet, the war was won.
As of now, though, Angela fell asleep on Nictus's lap, completely and utterly exhausted. Never had there been a more comfortable pillow. Nictus himself tried to keep his eyes awake, to watch and protect her, but eventually the rhythmic stroking of her hair ceased as he dropped off to sleep.
Around them, the slain bodies of gods slumped silently in the dust of a dead city. Everything was dead. The regiment, the Titans, the insects, the city, even the very air around them. The only two living things for kilometers around were Angela and Nictus.
And so they slept the dead sleep of pure exhaustion, the last bastions of life in Death's wide kingdom.
A galaxy-wide war, a war to end war, was finally over, and the price, the terrible, terrible price was paid in full.
oOo
There we have it! The end of the Reaper war. I hope you all liked the Dread Host in action fighting alongside Ordo Sinister. I also hope you liked the last scene, because I tried to make it as poignant as possible. Much like in the previous few chapters, where I mentioned that Trazyn arriving to save the day instead of the Legion of the Dammed or God-Emperor, it somehow just felt right that Trazyn would get Kelbor-Hal. The Custodes aren't necessarily going to be happy about that though. And, yes, as many people were speculating over, Trazyn did indeed take all his gallery armies back into storage, along with a few... new additions. It was quite the profitable venture for the Lord of Solemnace, all things considered.
The war had ended. The forces of His Divine Majesty reign triumphant. Nearly half the galactic population was slain. Earth, Thessia, Palaven, Tuchanka, and myriads of other worlds lay desolated. The Reapers have been destroyed as their dark master whose code sustained them disappeared. Legio Mortis and Legio Tempestor are no more; at least those forces that came here. The Dark Mechanicum forces that went to Palaven, Rannoch and Earth all lay dead. Those who were on the colonies or fringes of the war have retreated back to their own reality in terror, never to come back. The Eye of Terror is the most secure stronghold in the universe, after all.
The war has been won, it's price paid, and we shall see what happens after in the next few chapters. I am sorry if the end seems perhaps slightly abrupt to some, but the new arrivals from the 40k galaxy are overwhelming in force and numbers, and realistically the Reapers and those Dark Mechanicum forces that remain would not be able to satnd against them. I do not want to write, and I don't think you want to read, scenes of Marines fighting boring clean-up operations. The fighting is done, and now we shall move on to the aftermath.
I thank you all for your viewership. It means a lot to me. Please, as always, feel free to leave any comments, criticisms, questions, concerns, and reviews!