Happy New Years, and Happy Holidays apologies for the massive delay in uploading, but life has gotten crazier the past year but I'm hoping that I can still get back into the rhythm of writing and finishing this story, which I can't lie the google doc for this story has easily become one of the biggest I have and it's not stopping. So with that I hope you all enjoy chapter, and feel free to send me PMs if anyone feels inspired in using this as a base for their own story. I love working together on stuff.
Chapter 14: In the Shadows of Death and Kings
My hunt for Vodin and his elusive Cabal, has led me to many battlefields, various uncharted corners of the galaxy that are far too dangerous for even an Imperial armada's might. However, I believe there was not an engagement as dangerously treacherous as the one deep in the galactic east of Segmentum Obscurus against a powerful psychic alien race known as the Angelic. From what I understand of the old religions of ancient Terra, they fitted the descriptions of Abrahamic angels, both the more ancient and modern descriptions, for the race was divided into two classifications. One class were labeled the Witnesses, and resembled giant eyeballs the size of an Astartes chest, flying on six strange glowing wings, they were the most psychically powerful of the race and practically sorcerers of their own caliber. The other class were the warriors known as the Heralds, they had muscular humanoid sexless forms wielding weapons and shields of pure psychic energy, and were often the forward vanguard for the Angelic races. They controlled a number of worlds where human populations were forced to worship them, and puppet monarchs were raised to further impose the Angelic's will upon their slaves. I was not the one who discovered their horrible existence, that honor fell upon Mortarion, lord of the Death Guard legion, a brother whom I can both condemn and sympathize with.
Mortarion's utter contempt for psyckers is well known throughout the Great Crusade, as is his contempt for tyrannical oppressors regardless of their species, and so is his singular focus in delivering death upon those who have earned his scorn. His actions during the Galaspar campaign had been reported and reached the ears of every legion's Primarch, along with every Imperial commander of an expedition. I remember a silent tear rushing down my cheek when I read the number of casualties his forces had suffered, it baffled me to see how casually one of my own could send his gene-sons to death from such reckless tactics, but then again both Perturabo and Angron were even more brutal towards their warriors. Mortarion has never liked nor understood me, and I somehow doubt that fact will change in the foreseeable future, no doubt he resents my psychic abilities alongside my continued usage of Librarians. Despite our differences, I have a deep respect for my brother, from what sparse details of his life upon Barbarus I have unearthed, and I respect both his resolve and ability to inspire the oppressed. In this I saw a similarity between us, yet I doubt he has bothered to learn what has been documented of my upbringing, and one day I hope we can clear the air between us, so to speak. That reason was not why I had deployed to reinforce the Death Guard, the whispered presence of a cancerous psychic grimoire, its name translated to gothic was Towering Oblivion of the Stars, an overly dramatic name but then again sorcerers did enjoy that sort of thing. According to legends, folklore, and texts my Librarius had collected, the book held the power to unleash a devastating force from the outer dark upon the galaxy, such a dangerous artifact could neither be ignored or so casually destroyed. I had sent word to Malcador before I made any further preparations, and he made my redeployment an official order, something that did not please my brother.
"Did Father send you to keep me in line?" Mortarion asked, not bothering to hide his anger or the insult he felt, and it was only then I realized the true extent of his disgruntlement towards our Father. We stood aboard the Endurance, the Death Guard's primary flagship, as my invitation to hold council aboard the Arcadia Retribution had been swiftly declined, but an offer to join council with the Endurance with a minimal standard Astartes honor guard of a single squad. To this day I have no idea if the offer had been made by Mortarion or one of his more diplomatic captains, but regardless it was impossible to miss the distrust woven through the offer. I had brought both the 2nd and 10th War Hosts with me, as both had a smaller number of librarians than others, a choice I wish I could say was not made deliberately, but I promised honesty. The Pale King met me in the loading bay, escorted by a pair of terminators, each wearing badges of honors that denoted their conquest against psyckers or brutal efficiency, no doubt another reminder of the difference between us. Meanwhile, I was escorted by two Paragons, one librarian, one apothecary, and six tactical hunters each armed with unloaded bolter and sleeping blades. We received no warm greeting from the Death Guard, save for the expected gestures of respect from the ship's mortal crew. My brother and I walked side by side, our escorts trailed behind us in single file, and he spoke as we waited for the arrival of a lift platform.
"The day I act as our Father's agent of discipline," I told him, "Is the day I try to feast on the skin of a battle barge. I read reports of the threat the Angelic present, and requested to be redeployed alongside you." His scowl only grew at that, and then I wondered if silence would have served as a better response.
"Yet I was the last to hear of this…request." I was doing my best to avoid using the gift to sense his emotions and surface thoughts, but the contempt and mistrust radiated off Mortarion like a recent nuclear bombardment. We had barely any interactions up to that point, and I can not help but wonder if there had been an established history between us if his hostility would have been reduced. Granted I respect that he felt I had gone over his head, by not asking him for permission to fight alongside him, but I felt I could not risk his refusal. The grimoire and lives of the human slaves the Angelic had gathered were my primary concern.
"Aye, forgive me brother," I said honestly, "I simply wished to aid your efforts in liberating these worlds from this tyrannical alien breed." He still did not look convinced, and I easily guessed what his next voiced concern would be, even without the use of the Gift.
"You think your…what is you insist they are? "Psychic disciplines" are instrumental to victory in this war?" He did not hide either his disgust or reluctance using the proper name for my librarians' abilities, yet I was grateful for his usage of it. At the very least it meant he was not eager for hostilities between us, but beyond that there was no warmth towards me. In all honesty the exchange had been going far better than I could have hoped, on rainy days I can still feel where Angron once punched furiously into my jaw, so thankfully I earned no physical injury from Mortarion.
"I wouldn't say vital, Mortarion," I confessed, "But I won't lie and say that their usage could haste victory here. At the very least my Librarians can counteract whatever psychic sorcery the Angelics use, they've experienced enough alien sorcery to achieve that much."
"So even you call it sorcery." I fought the urge to sigh, and calmly explained what I had countless times before.
"There's a fine line between a psychic discipline and psychic sorcery," I told him, "Disciplines are abilities that one harnesses and develops to the point it can be deployed reliably. Sorcery is calling upon powers beyond the practitioner's control, hoping that it does not take too great a toll upon them, and rarely can be replicated reliably. Sorcerers often let the power control them, my librarians would never allow such a thing to happen to them." I felt a flicker of surprise within him at my words, no doubt he had been expecting me to react as Magnus would have to such an accusation. You cannot imagine the number of times I have urged the Red King to change his legion's name to something more scholarly to aid in dispelling the accusations of magic or sorcery, but he is determined to carry the name as a sneer at his accusers.
"So you acknowledge the risk of the psychic curse," he chuckled, "Good. Perhaps you are not as arrogant as I had feared." I could sense a sudden tension grip my Bale Hounds, a reaction that touched me given their steadfast loyalty towards me, but they did not need to be insulted on my behalf.
"No more than the dangers we Primarchs present." I replied in kind, and I felt the sharp surprise take root in his mind. Again, I seemed to have caught my brother off guard albeit this time not in a pleasant manner. Despite the desire I felt within him, he did not ask for clarification, so I will state it here instead. We twenty Primarchs alone are physically comparable to the mythological ancient Gods of war, each of us a master of a certain aspect of combat that can not be matched by conventional means, and each of us leads a legion consisting of hundreds upon thousands of warriors genetically enhanced according to templates of our genomes. Imagine the destruction just one of the twenty legions could unleash upon the galaxy before they could be stopped, and I believe no greater example exists than the Night Lords or the World Eaters in regards to the ruin we are capable of. I shudder to imagine what horrors we could unleash if my brothers and I were not united in our goal to strengthen mankind, and given his silence I suspect Mortarion has harbored similar concerns, not that he would ever tell me.
Once we reached the Command Strategium of the Endurance, I noted with concern the utter reverence most of the mortal crew held for both Mortarion and his Death Guard, but few if any wore the legion's colors or symbol. While the visiting officers of the Solar Auxiliary seemed both eager and frightened at the promise of learning the Pale King's plan for routing out the alien abominations, I recognized three of the officers. General Juban Snoke of the Shrouded Vertlian Rifles, a regiment that specialized in long ranged fire support, that would serve both them and the Legions well in the coming campaign. General Snoke is a voice of reluctance when it comes to the usage of psychic assets in the Great Crusade, but he had been known to put his misgivings aside in favor of grasping victory. The other two I did not know, but I was familiar with their regiments' vocal stance against the usage of psychic powers, they glared at me as though I were a fearsome beast that barged into their private domicile. I suppose contempt was a welcomed change to forced politeness, no matter the headaches those two caused me.
A quick glancing summary of Mortarion's plan was to overwhelm the Angelic swiftly with brutal numbers and a nonstop forward charge. Admittedly, my brother had the resources and wisdom to execute that plan while suffering "acceptable" casualties for both Astartes and Imperial Army, upon official review the speed he could achieve that victory would outweigh any losses he incurred. Still I cannot say I approve nor appreciate Mortarion's desire for swift victories, Vulkan would point out all human life was too precious to callously sacrifice, a noble sentient, but for me I could only see the murder of future potential. Not many have the wisdom to grasp the full measure of another life's weight, especially those who soldier into the fires of war, they could either bring victory or defeat to their own kin, but that potential is often cut short when they are committed to all or nothing tactics. I am no stranger to such methods, but Mortarion had built a reputation for favoring such costly tactics to the point that even I and Russ have called it callous recklessness. I felt my brother's gaze shift upon me, as if silently baiting me to challenge his authority over the war zone, and I would be lying if I did not say it disappointed me. I was not there to provide the familial conflict he seemed both aggravated by and anticipated so eagerly.
"My legion has access to the various reports on the Angelic's star system," I admitted, "While your forces focus on the bursting the heart of the alien's realm, mine will strike at the orbital yards surrounding the other two oxygenated worlds, and ensure they cannot deploy any reinforcements." I left out that one of those navy yards orbited a planet seeped in dark rituals, and that I would take a full company to scour it clean of darkness. If Mortarion knew the truth, he would have either accused me of gathering witchcraft or switched the target of his legion's wrath, and I could not risk either. Success against a psychically powerful race like the Angelic required a far more cautious and steady heart to defeat, especially when they would be guarding a relic of psychic witchcraft, and Mortarion had yet to display either traits when facing psychically gifted enemies. Perhaps I do not fit the requirement of a still heart in many battles, but I have never committed my forces to high casualties actions on the regular.
"You would not fight alongside the Death Guard?" Asked one of the generals, not bothering to hide the suspicion in his voice, but incredibly Mortarion's expression was neutral.
"If Mortarion thought the presence of the Bale Hounds would bring a swifter victory," I answered professionally, "Then I'd happily fight alongside him into the thickest portion of the foe. We have yet to get a full grasp of the aliens' interstellar capabilities, they could be using their psychic sorcery to further bypass the laws of physics, and give their ships greater speed." There were a number of reports detailing the impossible speed in which the Angelic's vessels traversed the void, yet there was no way of determining how they achieved such an incredible feat. The success of Mortarion's strategy hinged solely on the Angelic being unable to receive reinforcements, but instead of advising him to alter his plan, I sought to compliment it while also achieving my own objective. If my brother asked for my support or presence in his forward assault, I would have done so, entrusting the capture or destruction of the foul grimoire to my legion. But Mortarion had never trusted, nor seemed willing to truly tolerate me, and while I knew of his reason for hatred of psychic powers, I suspected that was not the only reason we did not get along.
The gathered commanders seemed to accept what I had said even if they did not like the idea. I did not need the gift to know more than half of the gathered commanders shared Mortarion's prejudices against psyckers. Despite this, they saw no issues with my plans, and I suspect they were grateful that I did not require any of their soldiers to reinforce the Bale Hounds' efforts. Regardless, once I and my honor guard were back aboard Arcadia's Retribution we began preparations right away. The armor and equipment of all squads were being ritually oiled and marked with sigils, all in the effort of warding away the foul taint of dark psychic powers, but this precaution is not without flaws. While performing such ceremonies certainly offers more protection to those without it, they are no guarantee that one will walk unmolested by such powers. It is after all down to a contest of will. The Aegis Armor of my three elite librarian squads, such ritually crafted armor paired with their well disciplined souls offered greater resilience to outside influences. Hence, why I assigned all three squads to join me in assault on the fortress shrine that both our intelligence and seers were certain protected the foul grimoire we sought to retrieve. This fortress shrine was a strange blend of human and alien architectural fortifications, that befitted both a bastion of martial power and pious devotion, and it would have intrigued me under different circumstances.
The fortress shrine was almost the size of a large city, with various dwellings for the "faithful" masses, towering pillars of imposing ornate design complemented with advanced technological defenses, and numerous domed buildings dedicated to worship of the Angelic. The largest dome, which the analysts had simply designated the Citadel, was not only the most heavily fortified structure, but was the most rank with such foul energy that I could feel it echoing through the Warp. My legion's plan was simple, coordinated attacks upon the orbital shipping yards from the elements of my legion's fleet, led by the Retribution, complemented by void worthy bombers piloted by both Astartes and Imperial Naval personnel. Once the shipyards' defenses were broken, would we deploy ground assault elements via teleportation, droppods, and other traditional means. Terminator teams of two would be teleported into positions that would allow them to compromise the enemy's defense systems, while the first round of drop pods carried dreadnoughts and battle tanks to further soften the enemy, finally joined by infantry units who would mop up whatever survived the initial assaults. Meanwhile, myself and librarians would teleport inside the Citadel, and cleave our way through whatever defenses laid within the structure, secure the foul grimoire, return to the Retribution, and give the order for a full withdrawal from the planets' surfaces. Then we would begin orbital bombardment of their holy sites, and lay waste to whatever bastions of defiance still held firm. It was by no means a perfect plan, but time was not our ally, and any delays in swiftly destroying our foes would garner far more questions than our unorthodox tactics.
Not including the Arcadia Retribution, five of the ten vessels under my command were outfitted with Nova Cannons, or more commonly known as ship killers, and the Retribution had two of the weapons on either side of its hull. Along with the various weapon arrays of my fleet and the bombers, paired with us beginning our assault before the Death Guard's, the shipyards of the Angelic's forces were destroyed within an hour. The fleet sustained minimal damage from the enemy's return fire, and for the most part the laid plan for the ground assaults went well. Together with the help of my Librarians, we managed to unleash a wave of psychic energy with enough output to disrupt any teleport barriers, clearing the way for both the terminator teams of the 2nd Host and our own objective. It may surprise you to know that since leaving Arcadia, I have grown to become more cautious in the use of teleportation, namely because as the Great Crusade proceeded a sense of hostility from deep in the Warp seemed aimed towards me. So I became more cautious of deploying such technology more so than any of my brothers, at least to my knowledge, and I hope I need not explain in great detail as to why I have taken such a stance. Even in that instance, in the moments of teleportation, I could feel a thirst for my death raging from depths of the Immaterium, and those echoes lingered once I rematerialized within the Citadel.
The interior of the Citadel would have been beautiful were it not for the various murals depicting the Angelic conquering and lording over other species, and no fewer than two hundred depicting crude renditions of humans. The acolytes of the Citadel were a mix of humanoid species, and a sparse amount of the Herald caste of the Angelic, all armed with various weaponry that ranged from simple ballistics to high powered lasguns of strange design. I lost track of how many we killed from the time when we first teleported inside the structure, to when we finally located the chamber that housed the foul grimoire, the Towering Oblivion of the Stars. I only know that it was one of the most grueling tasks that I have asked my Librarians to take alongside me, for while the Heralds were not the equal to the Witnesses' psychic power, they were still impressively gifted with such powers. They emitted this strange aura that sought to infect our minds with a melody that would spread sluggish movements throughout our ranks, and I then understood the lethality of these creatures. Had the Librarians and myself not been vigorously trained in protecting ourselves from psychic influence, I doubt even the wards of our armor would have stopped the Herald's foul influence from slowing us. Combine that and the seemingly endless tide of zealous followers that threw themselves in the way of our wrath, perhaps believing that they would somehow protect the Angelics from our blades and guns. I try not to recall how disturbing the sight was, but there is one thing that haunts me over everything else: a malnourished human woman, a slave judging by the torn state of her garbs, threw herself before a bolt intended for a Herald. Instead of a look of pain or horror before the bolt exploded within her, she looked overwhelmed with joy for having sacrificed herself for her Angelic slave master.
What disturbed me so greatly was her elation was not the result of psychic mind control, but felt like true love and devotion. It stank to me of the working of societal conditioning, propaganda, and other subtle yet cruel indoctrinations. It sickened me to my very core, that I could feel my soul revolt from the very suggestion of such terrible machinations. That revolution turned into rage, which I directed towards the Heralds that stood in my path, and soaked the halls of the Citadel in their alien blood. My warriors and I fought not only in the physical realm for the foul xeno sorcerers continued to thrash at the bulwarks of our souls and minds, seeking purchase in the smallest cracks to control or hinder us. In this they failed. I had spent the entire transit to this battlefront testing my Librarians, hand picking those whose mental and spiritual fortitude showed the greatest resilience than the others. While also further honing the defenses of those who did not meet the standards I was looking for, namely to banish any possible notions of failure or that they had disappointed me in some way. Such power is rarely earned with practice or experience, but learning is the first step to achieving it.
Yet, it was not until we reached the chamber housing the foul grimoire we sought that the battle took a turn for the strange, even by my own standards. The chamber, or the Divine Gateway as the locals called it, was in the simplest terms out of the ordinary from the rest of the Citadel's interior. Instead of the traditional strange stone or a similar material, the walls of the chamber seemed to be the pulsing twitching pink innards of some gigantic beast from the myths before Old Night. Eight pillars that supported the weight of the glass dome ceiling, seemed to echo the femur of some great beast, and bore delicately carved inscriptions that made my eyes ache. Near the base of each pillar were shelves that wrapped around the surface perfectly, each had foul offerings that I recognized. Then there was an unmistakably sweet yet sour musk that lingered in the air, that clashed against the stinging scent of burnt incense, and it confirmed my worst suspicions about the Angelices. In some capacity, they were familiar with the lingering malicious powers that dwelled in the Warp. Inside the chamber mutants stood guard, their features far too twisted by the Warp to distinguish from what species they originated from, but they were not the most notable occupants of the chamber.
Atop the raised stone platform that housed the foul grimoire decorated with skulls, swords, and treasures fused into the stone, stood a creature whose stature, height and bulk easily eclipsed my own while in full armor. Its face was both avian and beaked yet somehow bore human characteristics. Its eyes glowed with sickly sinister light, and conveyed an arrogant belief that it was a cunning superior presence. Its neck was crane-like, yet thick and had unmated feathers that drooped like a shaggy mane. Its torso bore some resemblance to a human form, yet the chest was too pronounced forward, almost barrel like. What could be called muscles were undeniably defined, yet the proportions were wrong, too stretched out. Its thighs were reminiscent of an Astartes, but from the knees down looked like the legs of some predatory bird. The arms looked like sleeves of darker feathers, and the hands were feathered claws. It wore loose white robes, marked with aggravating symbols, held together by strange silver chains, a brass headband topped with a moving depiction of fire, and grasped in one of its claws was a staff. With a moment of focused concentration, the staff appeared to be made of some glassy silvered metal, topped by an ugly wavy depiction of a sun, but its surface was littered with countless blinking eyes, each of different color and likely species. Yet to this day the color of the creature's feathers eludes any clear recollection, and I feel as though that somehow saved me.
According to my sons who joined me in that chamber, they felt their very sanity assailed relentlessly by a sudden burning curiosity and thirst for all the power the warp had to offer. It was only thanks to their decades of discipline paired with the strength of their wills that any of my sons could resist such infectious influence. However, their struggle left many vulnerable to the physical threats of the foul xenoforms that had summoned the beast. It saddens me still that I could do nothing to aid or relieve my sons. No, no that is not true, I realize now I could have done something to help them, yet I choose to prioritize the foul feathered fiend's destruction. I think it would be pointless to argue whether I was justified or not, because either argument diminishes the value we place upon life, and disregards the full weight of such a threat a creature presents. All that matters is that I made a decision and have lived with it, like countless others I made in the past and will no doubt make in the future. Regardless, the beast raised its staff before leaping towards me, letting out a shriek that not only pained the senses, but weakly attempted to plant in my mind the notion that all was as it should be. I was able to easily dispel such a false notion, but I felt one of the wards of my psychic hood break, and was later told all but a handful of my Librarians' most potent wards inscribed into their own hoods had been broken.
Despite the hindrance of the creature's mental assault, I did not hesitate to raise Rhngoyaid to meet the downward swing of the beast's staff, our polearms crashed in an echo charged with a shockwave of psychic energy. It was then my conscious mind became aware of what my instincts had been screaming at me. That this creature served that cackling power that portrayed itself a benevolent trickster, yet it always twisted fate in its favor, by manipulating all those around it. The beast was a lesser reflection of that cackling entity, and in truth I should not be surprised that the Angelic either worshiped or favored by such a power. The creature appeared surprised by my defiance, but then a wave of recognition washed over it.
"Ahhhhh, a son of the Anathema," it chuckled in amusement, "Your arrival here was but the slimmest of possibilities foretold. Hehehe, how amusing! Your expiration shall mark a momentous in Zalzoresh's designs for the Changer of Ways' attention. Will it break the Anathema's iron curtain or shall he dismiss it as acceptable?" The method these creatures, or more specifically this Zalzoresh, use to communicate to those of the material universe, is not simply telepathy. That would undermine the subtle complexity of the method, but to put it simply, what they transmit is somehow translated by our mortal minds into something more familiar to us. While I have no doubt it could sense my thoughts, I would be impressed if Zalzoresh could freely or easily access my thoughts, and I felt the probing claws of its mind trying to find purchase in mine. I allowed it no such thing. Mentally, I was reciting the seven poems of virtues of the highlands, tailored by its derwydds to prevent treacherous presences access to one's mind, and with a roar amplified by my helmet's external vox speakers, I drowned out Zalzoresh's next words.
My roar was in the melody of the poems' rhythms, and not even vox distortion could dull its effect against the primordial darkness. Zalzoresh's eyes twitched, its avian facial features somehow expressing horror and pain all at once. In a mortal target, the harmony of the poems would disrupt any mental focus required for warp sorcery, and though I truly doubt it could score such a blow to a denizen of the sea of souls, it clearly was painful. Zalzoresh did not have the chance to cast whatever foul spell it intended to use upon me, and perhaps for the first time, found itself on the defensive from both a psychic and physical assault. Rhngoyaid's blade glowed with psychic energy, as I chained thrusts and swings to rend the warp creature apart, but Zalzoresh was just barely able to parry or avoid them. It was clearly less accustomed to physical combat, and had miscalculated thinking its size would grant it an advantage over me. Around us, bolts exploded, psychic energies cracked against bodies and structures, my Librarians holding their own against the Angelic warriors, and punishing them for any drop of Bale Hound blood they managed to spill. After a long five minutes, I paused my roar to inhale a new breath, and the creature took that to speak again.
"Y-you hasten your species' final curtain," Zalzoresh declared in a panic, "The true powers won't be denied their due succor, and each victory shall turn more souls against your golden light!" It summoned a wall of sickly pink fire, forcing me to take a leap back from it, but I raised my bolter gauntlet squeezing off three quick shots of negatively psychically charged rounds. Although I lost sight of them as the pink flames rose, I heard one detonate on the wall of the chamber, but quickly I found myself surrounded by a ring of the foul pink flames. Instinctively, I understood that not even my warded armor would protect me from whatever horrors lied within those flames. Zalzoresh cackled once again, perhaps believing I was truly cornered, but I was reflecting on the initial blow that sparked our battle. I have fought countless beasts enslaved to the will of those cancers in the Warp, but there was something odd about this battle. A quick glance at Rhngoyaid shaft, which now had speckles of the strange glassy silver material of the staff, gave me the answer. Zalzoresh's staff was of the material realm, or perhaps some portion of it was.
"Become familiar with this fate," the creature taunted, "For you are doomed forever to repeat it! But we can change that! Simply accept the Changer's favor and you may attain the power to alter what has been decided!" I paid no heed to Zalzoresh's pathetically veiled attempts to coerce me, and focused my thoughts on its staff. It was perhaps the anchor to the material world, and if broken then banishing it back to its foul home would be easier. I suppose Zalzoresh was annoyed or insulted by my silence, because the ring of flames began to inch towards me. In response I focused my sixth sense on a patch of calm in the tide of the sea of souls, through force of my will alone I tapped into that gentle calm, and allowed it to channel through me.
"I call upon the power of the veil," I chanted in Arcadian, "Give me your fire." Rhngoyaid's blade kissed the floor lightly, and ignited in radiant emerald bale fire. I spun the spear around my body, pushing forth an expanding ring of my own psychic fire that snuffed out the collapsing ring of pink flames. Not wasting any time, I leapt right towards Zalzoresh, only to see the coward was opening a portal, yet I did not halt my attack. With Rhngoyaid pulled back, ready to thrust out and pierce the ethereal hide of the foul creature I roared out my resolve. The psychic fires flickering in the corner of my vision, and I could see the creature's surprise cause it to hesitate for only a moment. That moment should have been all I needed to shatter the staff, severing the creature's tether to this realm, but it was beyond human and transhuman capabilities.
"IT BURNS!" The creature screamed inhumanly as the burning blade pierced its hide, as it had accurately determined the intention of my thrust, and so moved it away sacrificing its torso to safeguard the staff, its sole anchor to the material universe. With my momentum my bulking form slammed into the foul beast with enough force that sent us both flying into the open portal, tumbling into a free fall through the Warp. Since my childhood my mind, soul, and body had been tempered to resist the corruption that dwells within the Warp, not to mention my armor and weapons had been warded, yet still shudder recalling that tumble through the warp. I could feel the anger and talons of yet born hungering consciousness thrashing against my armor, cursing me for not giving them the sustenance they needed to become fully formed. I heard wailing echoes of the past, present, and futures in a disjointed chorus hoping to find purchase in my attention. Promises of power to ensure that the human race never finds itself at the mercy of others, and other false promises that can only lead to ruin. The creature fared no better, perhaps the wound from my spear thrust had damaged it more than either of us expected, or perhaps it was unprepared to face the thousands of unborn, half formed talons of jealous kindred grasping at it. Keep this forever in your minds, the Warp is hostile to all intelligent life, even those born from its ever churning tides, only those with significant power and will can create stable domains of their own. Perhaps my attack interrupted the creature's spell, or perhaps it had not yet finished its spell? I have no way of knowing, nor any true desire to uncover the truth.
Regardless, my instincts roared at me to escape this corridor of the Warp, and my lips moved, chanting the necessary words to channel my power. I pushed my spear further into the foul creature, until the entirety of the blade was pushed free of its back, and the flames changed their hue from green to gold. With effort, I was able to use Rhngoyaid to cut through the veil between the material and immaterial, creating a portal large enough for both the creature and myself to escape. We found ourselves free falling in yellow skies, greeted by a symphony of roaring aircrafts, the bellows of gunfire, and the screams of missiles. Looking to the left, I caught sight of a filthy pale white Astartes transport, and in an instant I was able to make an educated guess as to where we had arrived. The Angelica's throne world, and by the sound of it in the height of Mortarion's assault. The creature thrashed trying to remove my spear from its body, and the sight of which urged me into action. I could not afford to let this creature land on the planet's surface, else I risked not only the Imperial Truth, but also Mortarion's legion.
"No further monster!" I roared through vox filtered speakers, as I laid a hand upon the creature's ethereal flesh, "This is your end!" I began chanting in tongues known only by myself, the Sigillite and the Emperor, weaving my own power into the syllables, formulating what those more superstitious would call a spell, but I would argue into a psychic program. It would use both the veil and my own power to unravel the creature's form in this plane, banishing it back to whatever dark refuge it called home. The creature recognized my intention, but could only scream as I used golden psychic fire to burn the Emperor's Aquila upon it, the efforts taking all my concentration as I was doing my best to imitate the Emperor's fire. I could feel my body cry out in agony under the strain such a monumental undertaking placed upon it, yet I had no choice but to ignore it and push the unraveling incantation forward.
"You will fail!" The creature yelled in pain, "You will fail, Child of the Anathema! Yours will be a future cursed with poor timing. Unable to stop or prevent atrocities. To save the lives of those you care for!" I continued my chanting, ignoring the implications of the creature's words, dismissing them as nothing more than the poisonous words of a desperate creature unwilling to return to the Warp. Still, its words stay with me, replaying in my quiet moments as of late. Slowly, I watched as the creature's form began to pull apart bit by bit, and moved the hand I placed upon its chest to the staff, crushing it in my ceramite grip. It started cracking before shattering with the echo of glass, and the creature unraveled completely. It was then I finally paid attention to my helmet's display warning me of the distance calculated between myself and the ground, fifty kilometers that were rapidly decreasing. I blink clicked to cycle through to surrounding imperial vox channels, finally finding the frequency used by the air assault units.
"This Arwyn Clay, of the Bale Hound legion," I calmly spoke into the vox, "I'm currently plummeting in free fall. Xeno trickery displaced me from my legion and sent me here. I require assistance. Any units please respond, activating transponder beacon frequency Delta-2-1-777." I adjusted my body so as to slow the descent slightly, but given the weight of my armor it was not by much. Giving me a moment to fully take in the planet's surface, a mix of sand, dirt, dead grass, craggy spires of rock, industrial towers, and the familiar movements of warfare sweeping across all I could see. As strange as it is to say this, it was an oddly calming moment, if you ignored the threat gravity would eventually pose to me, but in that moment I was an observer, nothing more and nothing less. I watched the detonations and flashes of Mortarion's assault with an unbiased perspective, picturing what the surface must look like with the full assault of the Death Guard pressing forward. I know that the Great Crusade is lanything but peaceful, yet in that moment, I felt as though I was in the center of a hurricane, seeing with greater clarity. I believed at that moment that this was mankind's nature, to fight regardless of the reasons, but through the Emperor's vision, we could become so much more. But first, wars would have to be waged in order for mankind to push forward, away from the mistakes of the past and become something greater. I was brought out of my musing as my vox link crackled to life.
"Primarch Clay," a voice called out, "This is Battle Captain Nathaniel Garro, my squad's Thunderhawk is on an intercept course towards your transponder. Please acknowledge." I smiled. It may surprise you that I knew the name of an Astartes outside my legion, but that means you undersell the deeds of the last of Dusk Raiders within Mortarion's Death Guard legion. An Astartes whose valor was matched only by the honor in which he conducted himself, a warrior my Terra-born gene-sons spoke not only highly of, but fondly.
"Acknowledged, Captain Garro," I replied, unable to stop the grin from settling on my face, "Many thanks. It is not often I am rescued by a hero of your standing." The micro-cogitators in my helmet traced the source of Garro's transmission, guiding my gaze towards a distant yet approaching Thunderhawk.
"Forgive me lord," Garro responded, "But I cannot tell if that is a jest or not."
"No jest, Captain," I answered, "My Terran sons speak highly of you."
"Then you are too kind, my lord," Garro replied, "I only hope our Thunderhawk isn't too cramped for you." I could not help but find some spark of amusement that I was to be saved by a hero from another legion, not because I found it ridiculous, but simply at how strange the thought sounded in my mind. Needless to say, Garro's Thunderhawk succeeded in catching me with and with minimal damage to itself or my armor. The pilot had performed a rather daring maneuver nose diving past me with its rear ramp lower, aligning the transport so that I could "drop" into the loading bay gently, before pulling out of the dive. Once inside Garro offered to take me into orbit to secure transport back to my chosen theater of battle, but I politely refused, instead I offered to add my wrath to the fury of the Death Guards assault.
Many, even those Death Guard who rescued me, were concerned about my absence to lead my legion's assault, all except myself and my gene-sons. Understand that by this point of the Great Crusade, my legion's forces were spread out across a thousand battlefronts, and I had entrusted the command of my splintered legion in the hands of capable Astartes. In truth the leaders of the numerous War Hosts within the II Legion are all capable of carrying on in the case of my absence. I like to believe that this is the true strength of my legion, of my gene-sons. True, they venerate, respect, and often look to me for leadership, but they are not crippled without my hand upon their shoulders. The Alpha Legion believes that by some of its number taking their Primarch's name, altering their face into his, that they have created an unbreakable structure of leadership, and perhaps to an extent they are correct. Yet my sons, my Bale Hounds, need no false Primarch to lead them, they need only each other and the lessons of the II legion, and that is enough. Even against a powerful psychic xeno race, I was well aware that they knew what needed to be done, and they would adapt and overcome whatever the Angelic threw at them. They knew I was not dead, my Librarians would have sensed my death, but were relieved to know I had been simply teleported to a nearby battlefront.
As I fought alongside Captain Garro and his squad brothers, they allowed me to be the vanguard of their assault, but I could tell that secretly they were behaving like an honor guard, in the hope against what was thought to be an impossible outcome. I was not insulted, instead I felt honored that the Astartes from another legion would place such importance on my life. However, I told Garro I would appreciate if he would relay the orders from his Legion command to me, and I suspect it was one of the only, if not the first, times during the Great Crusade that a Primarch " lowered" himself to be a cog in one of his brothers' plans. My own legion refers to this tale as "The Reaper and Huntsman" I cannot say for certain how, or if, the Death Guard refers to the unexpected cooperation between myself and their legion. By the ancestors, the Death Guard are a relentless force on the battlefield, but I feel that must first paint a picture of what the Angelics and their thralls brought to bear to resist the assault. Anti-Grav tanks with advanced plasma cannons, which seemed immune to the shortcomings of human plasma weaponry, and outfitted with energy fields capable of displacing most projectile munitions. Soldiers, humans and countless undocumented humanoid species, outfitted with exo-suits, rifles that varied from laser tech to imitations of boltguns sized for unmodified hands, and blades like ionized plasma. Legged walkers that stood two stories tall, that could move at speeds to match any recon vehicle used by the Legions, equipped high caliber autoguns and explosive ordnance. Commanded by the Heralds of the Angelic, who wore strange ornate armor and swung blazing swords of psychic energy, each capable of crushing an Astartes tank with nothing but a thought. Static defenses such as mounted heavy weapons, auto-turrets, sniper platforms, and layers upon layers of defensive walls.
Not one of these things that our foes possessed, managed to do little more than put a slight hitch in the metaphorical stride of the Death Guards advance. Dreadnoughts, tanks, and heavy support units advanced, cutting down anything in their path. Even the few Librarians in the Death Guards' number powered through the psychic nausea the Angelics projected in an attempt to hinder them. It was like watching death take physical form, unyielding as they strode forward reaping a heavy harvest of life, and it evoked echoes of both fear and awe within my soul. Whatever the Angelics had created this industrial complex for, it would crumble and wither to dust in the face of the Death Guards' assault. Still, I was able to push onwards, carving a path for Garro and those Death Guard that funneled behind the path of destruction I created. I had decided to limit the usage of my more visible psychic powers, in respect to how both Mortarion and his legion waged war, but even then I was never a slouch in combat. My spear was never still for more than a few moments, my wrists mounted bolter ran dry within the first five minutes of the charge, and instead of using ammo or weapons from the Death Guard I looted the enemy dead, using their own weapons against them. I lost count of the number of trigger guards I broke off to make use of enemy rifles, that were the size of long pistols in my hands, or the number of grenades I pilfered then hurled at clusters of enemies. It also felt strange, leading a charge followed by the Astartes of another legion, not bad or wrong, just odd. Perhaps it was the lack of the psychic connection I had with many in my legion, or something else, something the Emperor encoded into my genome? I likely will never know.
I also learned something about Mortarion by fighting alongside his legion, and that he often runs ahead of the main force, leaving the Death Guard to either clean up after him or to their own devices. Another example of our differences, but Garro and his men were at least quick on the uptake. Garro himself managed to keep pace with my advance, almost like a protective shadow. Whenever I cut down a foe, Garro was close by gunning down another in my blindspot, and with a trigger discipline that saw no waste of ammunition. He, like his brothers, was silent with focus, while I cheered for the Death Guard to follow, roaring curses and songs at our enemies, as we fertilized the soil with alien blood. Admittedly, it was an exhausting maelstrom of killing to fight as the Death Guard does, and I commend Mortarion for instilling such resilient stamina within his Astartes. However, I do question if his favored method of war was as sustainable as Mortarion believed it was? I doubt many other legions could make use of such similar tactics and yield the results that the Death Guard delivered. At least I doubt my legions could.
We fought, killed, burned, melted, and tore our way through the industrial complex, which began to look more and more like a communication relay the further in we went. According to Garro, Mortarion was leading a quarter of his forces against the main military installations planetside, and had trusted another quarter, the one Garro's squad had been assigned, to capture and control the central communications center. The resistance we encountered was similar to that the squad of Librarians and myself experienced on the other planet, but with significantly fewer of the Heralds leading the defenses, instead I saw human and alien alike leading other thralls into battle. It disgusted me. Not the idea of cross species cooperation, no it was that these individuals turned their backs on their fellows, and became tools to enact the will of their slave masters upon their brothers and sisters. No matter where you look throughout history, be it humanity or another species, you will find no shortage of traitors, turncoats, or sycophants who cared only for their own personal gain. Whoever those individuals elevated by the Angelic, history will never remember them, at least not fondly, as the Death Guard reduced them into nothing but stains beneath their boots. A fitting end for those who betray their own people.
As we fought our way deeper into the complex, I could feel something through my gift, a powerful presence that I felt both as an aura and as tendrils puppeteering static defenses, whispering into the ear of enemy commanders. In truth it was more than a little concerning. For humans, even a gene-enhanced being such as myself, it requires a great deal of power and control to extend your will to do just one of those tasks that this presence was accomplishing, never mind what it would take to do all these things simultaneously. There was no Librarian in the unit of the Death Guard I had joined, at least none that openly displayed their gifts, and so I doubted many would make sense of the wrongness that psychic presence radiated. I blink click open a vox channel as I cut down a heavy weapons specialist, raising an armored gauntlet to shield his throat from incoming laz fire.
"Captain Garro," I voxed privately, "I feel I must warn you of what lays ahead."
"Is this a prophecy, Lord Clay?" Garro asked, his skepticism clear even through vox distortion.
"No, simply an inference based on what I observed combined with my knowledge of psychic powers," I explained, taking a breath, "There's a psychic presence here. A powerful one. Controlling empty turrets. Guiding thrall officers. Sometimes strengthening the resiliency of these zealots."
"There are wit-psykers here?" I appreciate Garro refraining from the old yet still utilized term for those with the gift, still I could not help but feel disappointed he had to correct himself.
"Just one," I replied, "Which concerns me more. It is powerful. Warn your brothers." I was not familiar with the Death Guard or what their anti-psychic protocols were, but I know that they frown upon the usage of such gifts, even to this day. I was not their Primarch, though by practice I was of higher rank and authority than any Astartes present, this was their assault. I could not order them to remain behind, and I was not certain how to word my warning to the rest of Garro's brothers, not in a way that they would listen to at least. He could. So I trusted him to relay my warning. Perhaps that was arrogant of me, but I could not share the feeling that doing otherwise would insult them. I picked up and utilized the heavy weapon to cover Garro while he spread my warning across the ranks of his brothers. It was no longer than a handful of heart beats, and the heavy weapon ran dry by the time Garro's voice cracked over the vox.
"It is done." I nodded before I charged forward again, spear delivering death with each thrust or cracking bone with the bottom of the shaft pommel. The Death Guard followed behind me, continuing their flawless trigger discipline, only taking shots only when targets were within clear sight, and always taking kill shots. The abundant tangey scent of blood, scorching plasma, and the smokey smell of bolter fire began to overwhelm me, to the point I activated my helmet's internal filtration. My weapon and armor were so drenched in the blood of the enemy that I had to constantly flick the excessive blood off my blade, and scrape off splatters of blood from my helmet's lenses. I had fought countless battles by this point in the Crusade, yet I can say with utter certainty that my battle alongside the Death Guard is still the one that dirtied my armor and weapons so greatly that before cleansing they looked like pieces from the Blood Angel's armory. It took my own efforts to see the armor truly cleaned before I sent it for repairs.
When we finally reached the heart of the complex, we had killed thrall and automated defenses, and found ourselves warded off by two feet thick metallic sealed doors. It would have taken too long for even myself to cut through the door with a power blade. Luckily, there were Destroyer Squads within the cadre of the Death Guard that had followed me into the heart, and they had melta charges to spare. However, none were truly prepared for what laid beyond the threshold of that doorway. Once the charges had created an opening for us, a powerful wave of nausea and disorientation slammed into my senses. While those of the Death Guard clutched at their heads, throats or stomachs, most falling to their knees, some were uttering nonsensical jiggerish, others seemed to be reliving lost traumatic memories. I glared into the previously sealed room, and saw the source of this sudden assault. Floating on some unseen energy and not the strange eight eerily white feathered wings each connected to a singular hateful eyeball the size of an Astartes's torso. A Witness of the Angelic. One of the largest I had seen, and that if not for the sworn word of Nathaniel Garro, I doubt anyone would have believed me. I staggered slowly towards the alien, pushing through the psychic assault it rained upon my mind, and were it not for my upbringing I would have struggled to keep my head clear enough to think. The Witness was not expecting my resilience, so it sent stronger waves of psychic force towards my mind, but I was prepared having erected my own psychic barriers to weather its assault. Under other circumstances I would have simply hurled Rhngoyaid towards the foul xeno psyker, but it took everything I had to resist the first psychic assault, create a barrier against the new one, and keep my slow inching stride towards the foe.
"Xe-xeno!" I heard the captain grunt through clenched teeth, and desperately tried to levy his bolt pistol at the Witness. I admit I was impressed by Garro, he is no psyker, none of the men with me were, but the captain was able to push himself further than the rest of his brothers. Not an easy feat I assure you. Something the Witness was not blind to either. It began gathering up psychic lightning around itself, and I knew the intention instantly. Before the creature could launch the gathered energy, using the gift, I tore a panel of the ceiling down, and left it in the path of that bolt of psychic lightning. The bolt slammed into the metallic panel, its energy arched towards my armored form, sending waves of electrified pain throughout my body, and I knew that had the bolt hit Garro he would have perished. It felt as though a force was trying to burn its way across my nervous system and it was only thanks to the advanced genetic tailoring of the Emperor that I suffered no permanent damage, but even that seemed to only extend the duration of the searing pain of that psychic bolt. Despite the pain, the roar it created from my throat, I maintained my defenses, but had to halt my advance. I could feel a wave of satisfaction, emanating from the alien psyker, it thought that I was the only threat to it, and that was its last mistake. There was a single percussive burst of a bolt pistol, followed by a wet pop and the slow gush of liquid splashing onto the floor.
Garro had shot true, sending a bolt round into the Witness's eyeball of a body, entering just below the pupil a few degrees to the right. The alien somehow looked both in pain and in shock, and I suspect it was using what fading strength it had to keep the bolt round from exploding. I took that hitch, that momentary lapse in its concentration, and bombarded its senses with psychic waves filled with primal unfiltered fear. It worked. The creature had no voice, but I could feel panicked defiance of death, and the disbelief of its own mortality. Its emotions were short lived, as Garro's bolt detonated inside the Witness, the force tearing apart the winged eyeball into chunks of corpse parts, and ended the psychic assault hindering myself and the Death Guard. The strain of the assault now absent, I dropped to a knee, feeling my brain throbbing harshly with roaring pain, and I barely heard the staggering footsteps of an Astartes approaching me.
"Lord Clay," Garro's voice crackled through the vox, "Are you…?" It is a rare sight to see a legionary at a loss for words, and were the circumstances different I would have found silent amusement in it. Instead, I removed my helmet, finally noticing that both my nostrils had been bleeding under the strain of the alien's psychic assault, though the bleeding had stopped I knew the inside of my helmet was covered. It was that day I realized that not even decades bordering on centuries of preparing yourself to ward against the foul churning powers within the Warp, is no substitute for preparing it against psykers of power equal to my own. I spat a gobbet of blood and hissing salvia, clearing my lips of the blood, and gave a grin I half believed to the Death Guard.
"A fine shot Captain Garro," I praised, "I'd hate to trouble you but if you wouldn't mind aiding me." Before I finished, Garro leaned down to purchase some leverage, and he was joined by another of his brothers. Together they raised me to my feet, and another of the Death Guard presented me with my own spear. I had not even realized that I had dropped the weapon, I laughed out of amusement and concern, though I cannot say for certain the Death Guard could decipher my emotions.
"The communication center will shortly be under our control," Garro informed me, "Thanks to you Lord Clay, we are ahead of schedule, and suffered no casualties to that…thing's influence." I grinned. Not missing the unspoken thanks in the captain's words. While I had no doubt that his words were true, I still felt he gave me too much credit, and ignored his own contributions.
"And without you," I replied, "I would have crashed into the surface from near orbit. Were it not for your unbreakable will and marksmanship, I would still be at the alien's mercy. Again I say, a fine shot Captain Nathaniel Garro of the Death Guard. You are a soul of the rarest character." Without the use of my gift, or even seeing Garro's naked face, I could tell that my words had an impact on the Death Guard Captain, but somehow I knew it had not inflated his ego, rather he felt humbled. Men like Nathaniel Garro are truly a rarity amongst the legions, and my brother Mortarion benefits from such men under his banner. Indeed, I even recommended that Mortarion provide a battle honor to Garro for his actions, and believe it or not, he listened. I was told after the campaign, Mortarion had granted the title of Battle-Captain to Garro, an honorific from the legion's days as the Dusk Raiders, and granted him equal respect to the 1st and 2nd captains of the Death Guard. I was not invited to the ceremony, if indeed Mortarion even held one, but it is no insult, at least not to me. Rather, I would have been surprised beyond words if Mortarion had extended an invitation to me, given our conversation after the campaign.
It had been hours since Garro's brothers and I had taken the communication center, we dug in to fight against waves of enemy reinforcements seeking to retake the center. Not one of them reached the door. Mortarion joined us, followed by his 1st Captain, Calas Typhon, both caked in the stains and marks of heavy combat. I felt something within Typhon, a familiar yet suppressed spark of potential, but after the glare Typhon gave me, I suspected he actively hid this potential and decided to respect his privacy. Mortarion's eyes were the most easily visible feature of his face, readable to me, as his hood and gas mask obscured the rest of his face. He did not look happy. Then again, I've not seen him happy before, but I could tell there was anger in the glare he fixed upon me. Garro and his brothers were spread about, either loading into gunships, or carrying out new duties, leaving me to face Mortarion alone. I was not intimidated, despite how adpt I now found all those who described my brother as the ancient personification of Death in the form of the Reaper, but I was still recovering from the battles' strain upon my soul and mind. Perhaps that was enough for him to mistake my exhaustion for fear of his wrath? He never faltered or took a misstep during his stride towards me.
"Why are you here?" He growled through his rebreather at a volume only I could hear.
"Xeno psychic trickery," I answered plainly, "I thought Garro reported my words?" I was genuinely confused at the hostility that bordered on accusation in Mortarion's voice.
"So you say," he countered, "But I have heard the reports of your legion. Using swift or bombastic tactics, but just as often found sulking in battles where you were not wanted. The whispers that you do the bidding of the Sigillite as well as our Father. Tell me, did you come to spy and report on how I conduct myself to the Sigillite? Will you condemn me as our brother The Angel did?" He had started pointing a finger and jabbing into my breastplate, and I could finally get a full grasp of Mortarion's character. In truth, it disappointed me. Mortarion has a deep rooted sympathy to those who suffer under tyranny, but believed himself incapable of doing what could be considered wrong when waging a war against such tyrants. Clearly, he had been, or believed he had been, judged and found lacking by others, the Emperor, my Brothers, and apparently Malcador. Even with his lack of knowledge on psychic abilities and the true nature of the Warp, he should have been able to see that I spoke the truth to him, but what he perceived as a betrayal of what little trust between us made him see insults where there were none. His frustration and hot fury stunned me with the revelation.
"Brother…" I began, "I wish you would believe my words. I was alongside my own legion bringing low one of the two planets we chose to attack. A xeno psyker of considerable power opened a portal into the Warp, seeking to retreat, and so I pursued then slew them before translating back into real space in free fall of this planet's gravity. I came here not to spy, simply to add my strength to yours, and was content to do that in separate battlefronts. When I realized where I was, I couldn't bring myself to interrupt the plan you and your sons had begun, and so I put myself in the service of your legion's battle strategy." My brother's eyes flinched slightly in response to my words, and for a moment I thought I could see subtle microscopic hints of an inner conflict within the Primarch of the Death Guard.
"Why should I believe the words of a witch such as yourself?!" Mortarion demanded, the spite and bitterness still plainly evident in his voice. I was too exhausted to hide either my annoyance or anger at being called a witch.
"I am no witch!" I challenged, "Nor am I a spy for the Emperor or the Sigillite. I serve the Imperium for the same reason as most of our brothers, to humanity liberated from the cruelty of alien threats and those beyond. I know you and your legion's tactics have come under question, though I am sympathetic to such a blight, you act as though you are the only one to come under such scrutiny. Perhaps you should listen to the bitter disappointment of Konrad Curze, the frustration of Angron's World Eaters, Roboute's criticism of the Alpha Legion, or perhaps hear the tide of complaints towards XIth Legion and Primarch. Myself and Magnus suffer criticism from countless colleagues, yourself amongst them, calling us deviants who delve into magic and crave only the promise of greater psychic power. Yet not once, NOT ONCE, have I let my preconceptions blind me as you have let yours today." Mortarion was shocked, and silently seethed in anger behind his mask. I continued speaking, deliberately ignoring his anger.
"Your legion has earned my respect, brother," I practically growled, "Selflessly did Garro and his brothers come to my aid, allowing me to lend my own fury to their wrath. I see the noble spirit at the heart of your legion, Mortarion. I hope when next we meet, you can see the spirit and truth of me and my own legion." I noticed a gunship wearing the colors of the Bale Hounds descending towards us, Typhon also noted it, but said nothing. Mortarion was silent, a well worn mask of emotion that I struggled to understand. I let out a loud sigh.
"I must go now, brother," I nodded towards the gunship, "To reunite with my legion. If you will heed anything I have to say this day, Mortarion, then heed this. Nathaniel Garro is one of the finest Astarte soldiers I have had the pleasure to fight alongside. I would recommend either a commendation or bestowing a legion honor upon him." Typhon seemed to grimace at my words, while Mortarion silently took in my words and I began walking towards my legion's gunship. I was unsurprised when I learned my sons had fulfilled the mission, securing the accursed grimoire within a sealed lockbox of the same composition of the Black Ships of the Silent Sisterhood. The item was secured in our legion's vault until we could hand off the accursed tome to the Sigillite's agents. There were casualties, but not enough to have soured the Bale Hound victory over the Angelic, and the cancers in the Warp.