I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.
Inspired by the Dornian Heresy, by Aurelius Rex.
A storm brewed in Chemos' skies. Dark clouds gathered, blocking the weak light of the two suns and plunging the land into a darkness pierced only by the light of civilization. These lights shone bright, recreating the daylight illumination found on other planets – Mankind's own efforts to emulate the day-night cycle it was used to. Rain fell in a heavy downpour, droplets flying between the spires of crystal and gleaming metal before drenching the earth and flowing in streams down the paved streets of Callax, hundred of meters below Legion Master Deradolon's feet.
Once, such a thing would have been impossible. Ten thousand years ago, the planet had been a dried, polluted wasteland, with the few humans left huddling in their cities, leaving their homes only to scavenge the ruins of their past in order to survive just a few more years.
All of that changed when Fulgrim came. The Phoenician had brought hope and will back into the heart of Chemos' despairing people. He had roused them from their accepting torpor of their seemingly inevitable doom. Under his leadership, communities had re-established contact, expeditions had been mounted into the most dangerous regions, and the secrets of the past had been reclaimed. With a Primarch's instinctive genius, Fulgrim had used the recovered technology to set in motion Chemos' healing from the damage its people had inflicted upon it. When, after decades of work, it had first rained pure, clean water, the Chemosian had thrown a festival of celebration that had lasted for an entire month. Some of the sculptures and paintings created during that time of rejoicing still existed, preserved by stasis fields and displayed in Chemos' greatest museums.
High above, the shape of a hawk was visible against the clouds, flying through the turbulent winds as it looked down upon the city. The shadow of a smile touched Deradolon's lips as he took in another sign of the planet's recovery. Chemos' biosphere had been decimated by the Old Night, but under Fulgrim's authority, species from other worlds had been introduced into it, and slowly, the natural cycle of predator and prey had been restored, allowing life to prosper once more.
Of course, maintaining the balance Fulgrim had designed was an ongoing, never-ending work, and the damage inflicted to Chemos by the Ultramarines in centuries past had yet to be wholly healed. The Mechanicus magos tasked with continuing Fulgrim's great work did their best, but they lacked a Primarch's genius and vision, and it was all they could do to follow the instructions the Phoenician had left before he had departed Chemos to join the Great Crusade …
The clouds suddenly flared as lightning struck, and Deradolon blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brilliance. When his sight returned, he saw the hawk falling, struck mid-flight by the bolt.
Deradolon felt a cold hand tighten around his primary heart at the sight, and his face tightened under his silver mask. A few seconds later, his comm-bead rung. The voice on the other side of the vox-link was mortal, and sounded nervous nearly to the point of panic. He recognized it.
'Lord Deradolon !' shouted Lieutenant Arona of the Chemosian Army, a woman who had served the Legion's homeworld for ten years and, in all that time, had never lost her calm. 'We … we have received word from the system's outermost perimeter … They … They ...'
'Calm down, Lieutenant,' commanded Deradolon, willing in his voice the cool, serene tone that was expected of him at all times. 'What is it ? What happened ?'
'They are dead, my lord ! They sent us a message before their station was destroyed … My lord, it's the Black Legion ! They have just arrived in massive numbers – we are just getting the auspex readings now and … dear Emperor … my lord, the Pulchritudinous is among them !'
The Pulchritudinous. The infamous flagship of Fabius Bile, the Arch-Renegade himself, bane of the Third Legion and eternal stain upon the honor of the Emperor's Children. Thrice destroyed in void-battles across the galaxy, always rebuilt, the name kept as one more provocation, one more insult to Fulgrim's name. A name that heralded death, degradation and suffering throughout the entire galaxy. The cold in Deradolon's hearts turned to heat as his hatred started to burn.
'Sound the alarm,' he declared, his face twisted under his silver mask. 'Warn all officers. I must go to the astropathic chambers at once. How long until they reach us ?'
'Well … that's the thing, my lord. They aren't advancing. They are staying at the Mandeville Point.'
The dread that had been partially banished by hate returned. What game was Bile playing now ?
Times of Ending : The Fall of Chemos
For millennia, the hatred of the Emperor's Children for the Black Legion has been matched only by that of the Sons of Horus. All sons of Fulgrim are taught of the Arch-Renegade Fabius Bile, who betrayed the Third Legion in its darkest hour to become one of the galaxy's greatest monsters. All dream of bringing him to justice, but he has always eluded them, returning even from confirmed death to torment Mankind once more. That is because Bile is no longer a single individual, but a consciousness spread out across many cloned bodies spread out across the stars, with the original body long since dead. No longer mortal, he has become a plague upon the universe, a sentient Consortium pursuing unfathomable goals. Very few in the Imperium even suspect that terrible truth – that, no matter how many times the servants of the Emperor slay the Clonelord, he can never truly die. But the sons of the Phoenician continue their long struggle against the Primogenitor regardless. Now, as the Times of Ending are upon the galaxy, the Black Legion has come to Chemos, homeworld of the Emperor's Children, and the Third Legion rallies its forces to met the slaves of Ruin once more …
When the Black Legion arrived, Legion Master Deradolon immediately sent an astropathic message, calling out to all Emperor's Children across the Imperium, as well as any Imperial force able to provide assistance. The star-speakers of Callax, greatest of Chemos' cities and homeland of the Phoenician himself, sent the message with all their power, shouting the Legion Master's plea for help loud enough to be heard over the turmoil that was filling the Empyrean throughout the galaxy. As soon as the call was sent, Deradolon set to work preparing the planet for the Black Legion's assault, determined to fight a long and gruelling campaign in order to buy time for reinforcements to arrive. A simple look at the numbers of Chaos forces massed at the system's edge was enough to tell him that he didn't have the resources to face the Black Legion in a direct battle – but he did have more than enough to hold the fortress-monastery of Callax. At the Legion Master's command, the people of Chemos prepared to fight, rushing to their stations, nervously waiting for the sirens that would indicate that the Black Legion's fleet had pierced through the orbital defenses.
But these sirens did not come. Not for a long, seemingly unending time.
Legion Master Deradolon
The boy who would rise to lead the Emperor's Children was born on Chemos, from a couple of workers in the planet's factories. Unlike most others selected to join the Space Marine Legions, he didn't display any particular talent or skill, though his body was strong and his mind pure. The only thing that set him apart, that caught the eye of the Chaplains, was his determination. Deradolon was willing to train harder, to push himself further than any other boy his age, and through this he achieved more than those who had more talent than him. So it was that he was chosen and elevated by the gene-seed of the Phoenician, forever taken from his mortal life in order to serve the Emperor.
Deradolon rose through the ranks slowly but surely, earning the trust of his superiors through reliability and willpower. After a century of service, he became Master of Aspirants for one of the Great Companies, tasked with overseeing the training of the next generation of Emperor's Children. That duty brought him back to Chemos, where he performed his task exemplary for another two centuries, passing on what he had learned to hundreds of Aspirants, preparing them for the wars awaiting them among the stars and for the more personal horrors that would be their final trial. Then, in the eighth century of the forty-first millennium, Chemos came under attack. The Ultramarines, long burning with hatred at the Third Legion for Fulgrim's part in Guilliman's fall, came to Chemos, seeking to destroy the homeworld of the Emperor's Children. The Legion Master of the time fell during the battle against the Arch-Traitor's spawn, but Deradolon rose to the occasion, claiming leadership over the remaining Emperor's Children. Many of them had been trained by him, and when he commanded, they instinctively obeyed, no matter what the Legion's chain of command may say. During that campaign, Deradolon personally slew the Chaos Lord leading the attack in an epic duel that saw his face horribly scarred by Warp-fire.
After the Ultramarines were defeated, Deradolon was acclaimed as a new Lord Commander, but the veteran refused to leave Chemos, as was proper protocol when a Legion Master died. He declared to a council of gathered Lord Commanders that, while he dwelt between life and death from his horrific injuries, he had received a vision of sorts – that it was his destiny to defend Chemos until his last breath. The other Lord Commanders accepted this, and Deradolon became the new Legion Master, while the Great Company tasked with Chemos' defense was replaced by another one, who had also suffered the loss of their commanding officer. Since then, Deradolon has remained on Chemos, a hero to its people and a tireless watcher. He has fought off dozens of other raids on Chemos and its neighbouring systems, leading his thousand warriors into battle with the same quiet, unstoppable determination with which he trains them whenever peace blesses Chemos.
At more than five centuries of age, Deradolon is a veteran of many conflicts. He hides the horrific damage to his face behind a beautiful silver mask, crafted for him by the greatest artisans of the Chemosian Eternals. In battle, he wields a pair of power swords, each a relic from the Legion's earliest days. These weapons were stored in the fortress' vault before the Ultramarines attack, when Deradolon claimed them after his own weapons were lost in a particularly vicious engagement with a pack of Possessed Marines. Storytellers claim that, when Deradolon was lying on the ground, a Secondborn abomination towering above him, the forcefields of the blades failed at the same time, a miracle which delivered the future Legion Master the weapons he needed to slay the creature and its vile kindred. Deradolon has never confirmed this story – but he has never denied it, either.
Days passed, which turned to weeks, which turned to months, and still the Black Legion did not attack. It hung in the void, a sword of Damocles hovering above Chemos. As ships and armies answered the Legion Master's call and rushed to the defense of the Third Legion's homeworld, so too did the forces of Chaos grow, as warbands emerged from the darkness and cast their lot with the Primogenitor's armada. According to the more advanced simulations of the data-priests, had the Black Legion attacked immediately after their arrival, they would have, in all likelihood, overwhelmed the defenders and conquered Chemos long before the first reinforcements could have arrived and tipped the balance. Deradolon suppressed that knowledge, but he too was forced to agree with the cold calculations of the cogitators, and he couldn't afford to believe that the Arch-Renegade hadn't known this too. For some reason, the abominable one had chosen to hold back, and Deradolon couldn't think it was for any reason favourable to the Emperor's Children.
During that time of preparations, word reached Chemos of the Black Crusade that was even now drawing near Terathalion, the second homeworld of the Thousand Sons. The Fifteenth Legion was also calling for help, and Deradolon couldn't help but wonder if Bile and whoever led this other traitor force had coordinated their assaults to prevent each Legion from coming to the other's aid.
Chemos, however, was more accessible than the Prosperine Dominion, and the Imperial forces that massed in its defence were as varied as they were mighty. An entire battlegroup of the Ultima Segmentum Imperial Navy was among the first to arrive, quickly followed by transports loaded with Astra Militarum Regiments, the Ark Mechanicus Will of Mars and its escort of lesser Martian vessels, the Eighth Legion strike cruiser Shiver of Dread and its Company of Night Lords, and many more. Over the centuries, the Third Legion had dedicated itself to the Imperium's protection regardless of the costs it had to suffer for it, and now these sacrifices were being repaid as those who had been saved came to the aid of the Emperor's Children. Some of these debts were very old : the Asgarian 154th came to honor a promise made five thousand years ago, when the sons of Fulgrim had saved the Regiment from annihilation at the Battle of Shattered Tears, their General pledging his support in the name of the twenty-four Emperor's Children who had died to allow his distant predecessors to break free of the Drukhari's ambush. And, of course, several regiments of the Chemosian Eternals, Chemos' legendary Astra Militarum sons and daughters.
The Chemosian Eternals
Among the countless Regiments of the Astra Militarum, the standard of Chemos' sons and daughters is revered as one of the mightiest and most honored beneath the gaze of the God-Emperor. As the homeworld of Fulgrim, the planet was spared much of the demands of the Great Crusade, becoming a beacon of culture rather than military might. But when the Third Legion returned after the end of the Heresy, it brought back tales of the Bleeding War, along with traumatized survivors of the Dark Eldar depredations. Their stories of enduring horror and suffering spread, mixing with the growing belief in the Emperor as a god to create a unique mindset.
At the time, the Emperor's Children were much diminished, their numbers reduced to a fraction of their former strength by the Bleeding War. No longer could the Third Legion be the mighty blade that cut down all enemies of Mankind : now they had to be the scalpel, wielded with precision and aimed at the enemy's weakest spot. In order to play their part in the reclamation wars raging all across the galaxy in the wake of Guilliman's failed ambitions, the sons of Fulgrim required human assistance. And so, with heavy heart, the Phoenician asked the people of Chemos to fight at his side – only to be taken aback by the extent of the support they were willing to offer.
According to ancient records, a hundred Regiments were raised from Chemos' population to fight alongside the Emperor's Children against the remnants of the Traitor Legions and the xenos threats that had taken advantage of the civil war to enter human territory. Smiling for the first time since the end of the Heresy, Fulgrim declared these brave men and women to be the Eternals, for their names would remain forever within the annals of the Imperium. Every Regiment of the Chemosian Eternals existing today is descended from one of the hundred raised that day, though some were split or reabsorbed as the vagaries of war dictated. With the might of Chemos' industry behind them, they were – and still are – very well-equipped. The Eternals only go to war with the highest-quality gear, including some items that are not technically allowed by the Astra Militarum's rulebook. But, thanks to the continued patronage of the Emperor's Children (and some well-paid contacts in the Departmento Munitorum), they have mostly avoided problems on this front.
Over the centuries, the Eternal have developed their own traditions, many of which look rather strange to outsiders. One of those is the ornate masks they wear in battle, fashioned after the burial masks of the kings and queens of Old Earth. Each soldier has his own mask, personally crafted by one of Chemos' artisans to depict an idealized version of his face. Several of these artisans accompany every Chemosian Regiment, as they must be crafted anew whenever a soldier is promoted, the color of the metal indicating the soldier's rank. Upon the death of a soldier, his mask is recovered by his comrades, to be sent to Chemos and join the millions of others exposed on the monuments to the planet's fallen children. When the mask is destroyed, a copy is created and sent in its place. When the wind reaches into the vast chambers where the masks are kept, it is said that one can hear the whispers of the dead, calling for vengeance or bestowing wisdom upon the pious.
Of course, the masks serve another, more practical purpose. Each is filled with tech, allowing the wearer such benefits as night-vision, protection from many toxic gases, sound detection and access to the built-in vox. The masks of officers and specialists have more functionalities, on which the tech-priests of the Eternals constantly work to improve. All of these features can also be switched off, ever since a disastrous encounter with the Neverborn in M33 nearly wiped out the 88th Regiment, who were unable to see the Daemonettes tearing them to shreds through their googles.
Furthermore, the Eternals have embraced the same philosophy of self-sacrifice as the Emperor's Children themselves, and many willingly mutilate themselves to better be able to fulfill their Emperor-appointed duty. For them, the masks also serve to hide the cybernetic implants that the Mechanicus grafted onto their faces. The resources to which the Eternals have access also mean that soldiers can return from grievous injuries, reforged by the tech-priests and the medicae into cyborgs whose only true difference from the Mechanicus' skitarii is that they lack the connection to the Mechanicus' high command that makes the skitarii into such an efficient, driven fighting force. Instead, they are used as shock troops by their superiors, who are always a bit wary of them – and with good reason. Without the rigorous training and indoctrination of the Adeptus Mechanicus, it is often only a matter of time before these enhanced warriors succumb to psychosis, unable to endure the replacement of their flesh by the machine.
Another difference between the Eternals and most other Imperial Guard Regiments is that, because Chemos serves as the Third Legion's primary recruiting ground, the proportion of women in their ranks is higher than elsewhere, as the best sons of the world are taken to join the Astartes' ranks. This has sometimes caused tensions during encounters with elements of the Imperium having more archaic views on such matters (especially the aristocracy of some Imperial hive-worlds) but the martial skill of the Eternals has always soon put such concerns to rest.
As these various groups gathered, the need for a central command became obvious. After a week of tense discussions, Deradolon was declared Warmaster of Chemos for the duration of the Chaos incursion, and given overall command of all Imperial forces in the system. He immediately set to work, directing the vast armies marshalled in defense of Chemos while also ensuring that the evacuation of the planet's population proceeded smoothly. Though Chemos was less densely populated than most Imperial worlds, it still held more than a billion souls, and with the storms raging in the Warp, evacuation off-world was impossible – even if there had been enough ships, and those had been able to get past the Black Legion armada.
Fortunately, Chemos' leaders had planned for this contingency long ago. The ancient vaults where the people of Chemos had hidden during Old Night had been remade into vast shelters stocked with supplies. Scattered across the planet's surface, these vaults were also hidden from sight, and subtle manipulations of the great climate engines caused atmospheric interference that prevented the Black Legion's long-range auspex from tracking the masses moving to the shelters from across the system. One by one the city-states of Chemos were emptied, their people vanishing into the depths. Only the people of Callax did not seek the protection of the vaults, instead flocking to the vast caverns beneath the Emperor's Children's fortress-monastery.
Theodore watched as the masses of civilians huddled past the checkpoint. Dozens of servo-skulls flew over them, scanning the people and their packed belongings (one standard-issue bag per person, no more) for any anomaly. In Theodore's mind, the scene was morbidly reminiscent of an Olympian painting he had once seen, showing the dead being shepherded into the underworld by grim-faced guardians and floating spirits. He tried not to see that as an omen.
The entire population of Callax was being evacuated and sent into the vast underground complex beneath the Emperor's Children's fortress-monastery. There was en entire other city down there, built by generation after generation around the vaulted refuge where the Phoenician had lived his early years, safe from the pollution that had then ravaged Chemos. Stores of preserved tasteless foodstuffs and water, deeply-buried and shielded power generators and a complex air recycling system ensured that all the millions of unarmed innocents would be able to survive down there, for years if needed. Once they were all in, they would be sealed behind several layers of Titan-proof doors, which once closed could only be opened with a thousand-character combination known only to a handful of individuals in the entire Segmentum. They would be safe from the Black Legion there : piercing through these adamantium gates would take the heretics years at best. Even if the worst should happen and the Third Legion's stronghold fall, the people they had sworn to protect would be rescued by Imperial retribution forces long before the Chaos wretches could make their way in.
A commotion in the crowd caught Theodore's eyes, and he was moving before he knew it, the people parting before him to make way for their transhuman protector. So far, the evacuation had proceeded with only been a few incidents, all resolved quickly and without violence. The Legion Master wanted this to continue, which was why he had dispatched Theodore's squad to assist the law enforcers directing the endeavour. A Legionary's presence – at least on Chemos – calmed people, reassuring them that the Emperor's chosen warriors stood vigil over them. And they couldn't afford a panic at this stage. These people were going to spend an undetermined amount of time cramped together in tight quarters : discipline and unity had to be maintained, or when the gates of the vaults were opened there would be only corpses left inside.
He frowned as the source of the disturbance became clear. A wild-eyed man in a dirty brown hooded robe was harassing a young woman wearing rich clothing and with three scared children clinging to her. Theodore's frown turned into a scowl as he saw the scars that covered the man's hands and face – most of which he recognized as being self-inflicted. Flagellant.
There had always been a presence of them in Callax, despite the efforts of the Ecclesiarchy and the city's officials to end it. No matter how many they took off the streets and into rehabilitation programs, new ones always popped up eventually. The flagellants came from all social backgrounds, from the factory workers to the military families and even the most acclaimed of artists. Records said that they had appeared on Chemos after the Heresy, and that the movement (if it could be called that) had been started by one of the human crew who had been captured by the Dark Eldar during the Bleeding War. There had been exceedingly few of those, yet the name of that mysterious founder had been lost, or perhaps it had never been known.
The man was shouting obscenities at the woman, calling her a whore, a degenerate, a heretic whose loose morals were responsible for bringing the God-Emperor's wrath upon them all. Her children clung to her, too young to understand the words but more than capable of recognizing the tone they were spoken in. She was frozen in place by the madman's vehemence, and Theodore could sense her fear and incomprehension, but she still stood straight, placing herself between him and her progeny. The son of Fulgrim walked right behind the man, who was so caught up in his venomous diatribe he didn't even notice the transhuman giant approaching until Theodore's hand landed on his shoulder, silencing him immediately.
'Enough,' said Theodore, exerting the smallest amount of strength to turn the man to face him without fracturing his shoulder under his ceramite gauntlet. 'Cease this disturbance at once.'
'There is no escape. Death is coming for us all,' sputtered the man. 'Only Lord Fulgrim can save us now, and he will only come to deliver us if we repent for all our sins !'
The words ignited something deep within Theodore. All of his life, he had fought to protect the Imperium's citizens, following the ancient creed of the Legion, and he had done so gladly. He had suffered, and endured through everything the galaxy had thrown at him, knowing that through his sacrifice those who lacked his Emperor-given might were shielded from the horrors that he fought.
And yet this man claimed that the Emperor's Children couldn't face this latest challenge of the universe ? That only their long-gone Primarch could defeat the foe that had reared its ugly head into the very heart of the Third's might ? Who did this fool think he was ?
His hand moved from the man's shoulder to his throat, and he lifted him up until the flagellant was looking directly into his helmet's eye-lenses.
'The blood of Fulgrim flows through my veins,' replied Theodore, knowing his helmet's speakers would make his voice even more intimidating to an unaugmented human than it would have been had he been bare-headed. 'And I am telling you to stop. Do you challenge me ?'
Some of the madness washed away from the man's eyes, replaced by a deep sadness. He shook his head slightly, straining against Theodore's grip. When he spoke again, his voice was softer :
'I do not challenge you, lord. But you cannot save us from what is coming. None but the Phoenician can, and we are not worthy.'
Then, before Theodore could react, the man moved, twisting every muscle in his back to shatter his own neck against the ceramite hold of the Space Marine. His eyes rolled over, and his body hung limply in Theodore's hand. The Child of the Emperor could only watch, shocked, as cries of surprise and panic began to spread across the crowd.
So was a great union of Mankind's various factions forged, with even the Inquisition coming out of the shadows. With the countless threats to Mankind being resurgent throughout the Imperium as the Dark Millennium neared its end, few Inquisitors were in a position to react to Deradolon's call, but one still did, and, six months after the Black Legion's arrival, the vessel Dionysia, property of the Rogue Trader Cleander Von Castellant, entered the system, carrying aboard the famous (or infamous, depending on whom you asked) Inquisitor Covenant.
Inquisitor Covenant
Every scion of the Holy Ordos is a law unto himself, sworn to obey only the will of the Golden Throne and beholden to none but his peers. While some work openly, using fear of their presence to drive heretics and traitors out of hiding in desperation, others are more subtle, hunting their preys for years before striking with devastating force. Covenant is in the latter category out of need, for he hunts the most dangerous kind of heretics : those Inquisitors who have frayed from the path of righteousness and have fallen down one of the countless pitfalls to damnation. As a member of the Ordo Malleus, Covenant strives to purge the Imperium of the scourge of daemonkind, and as such he has focused his efforts on the Radicals who dabble in infernal matters, thinking to turn the power of Chaos against itself. As the Dark Millennium progresses and the Imperium teeters ever closer to the bring of collapse, many Inquisitors succumb to despair, making unholy bargains in the hope of prolonging the status quo for just a little longer, heedless of the long-term consequences – or just flat-out betray their oaths and embrace what they believe to be an inevitable doom.
Over the years, Covenant's hunt has led him to many of the Imperium's hidden enemies. He has purged entire spire-born families who had secretly worshiped the Black Dragon for generations, and ordered the orbital bombardment of the hive-city Memnis Omega after uncovering the Children of the Raven dwelling in its underground. He has exposed Draconite and Ravenite Inquisitors, and led the forces of the Imperium in a brutal war against the Coalition of Nightmares in 987.M41. There are rumors that Covenant was once a member of the Thorian faction, which seek to resurrect the Emperor by finding and cultivating a vessel capable of hosting His power. Those same rumors speak of another, far more devastating and secretive war in which Covenant fought, which shattered his faith in the Master of Mankind's resurrection. Certainly the trail of dead bodies and destroyed cities he left in his wake during the war with the Coalition of Nightmares seems to indicate that he has long since abandoned whatever idealism may have remained within his soul after his induction into the Holy Ordos. A few Inquisitors, unwilling to let Covenant judge his peers without being judged in turn, have questioned him on this matter : they have kept his answer, if he gave any, to themselves, but appeared to have been satisfied and ceased their investigation.
As Inquisitors go, Covenant is young, still in his first century of life. Yet his heroic actions have led to his reputation being spread quite widely among the Imperium's highest circles, and it is expected for him to raise to the rank of Lord Inquisitor eventually – unless he dies or makes one too many political enemies within the ranks of the Ordos. A master with the blade, his mind remains nonetheless his most potent weapon : Covenant is a powerful psyker, and he uses a mind-linked psycannon on his shoulder to rain death upon the enemies of the Emperor at the speed of thought. Though Covenant entrusts the investigation of his quarry to his Acolytes and followers, he always confronts the true adversary in person, trusting in his power and ability to prevail through the grace of the God-Emperor. So far, none of the heretics and monsters he has faced have been able to kill him, but many in the Ordos whisper that it is only a question of time before the Puritan encounters something that his blade, mind and gun cannot defeat.
The Dionysia shook as she dropped from the Warp and back into reality. The journey to Chemos hadn't been a tranquil one, and the ancient vessel was groaning in pain. In his quarters, Inquisitor Covenant sat cross-legged, his eyes closed, his mind-linked psycannon immobile. From the walls of his small study, dozens of masks looked down upon him, forged from silver and gold – the faces of dead foes, and lost allies. He had fashioned each memento by hand, working for hours, without the help of pictures or recording, recreating the visages of the lost through memory alone.
Among the highest row was the mask of Inquisitor Argento, Covenant's long-dead mentor.
It had been Argento's legacy that had led Covenant to Chemos. When the old Inquisitor had died, Covenant had inherited much of his master's possessions, including a series of encoded journals he had kept over the decades of his long service to the Ordos. It had taken years to decipher them, and Covenant had only received the translation a few months back – and had immediately set the Dionysia toward Chemos. The ship's astropath had received the Legion Master's call for help mere moments after Cleander had set the course, which had caused no small amount of rumors among the crew and even among the members of Covenant's retinue. The old priest Joseph had even straight out asked Covenant if he was dabbling in prophecy again, to which Covenant had given the slightest of smiles in answer before saying that no, this not his doing – though he could feel the hand of destiny upon them all easily enough.
The truth was that the coming of the Black Legion complicated matters. He had thought the greatest peril of his course would be the navigation of murky political waters, but now they were operating on an unknown deadline, for there was no telling what foulness the heretics had planned. If what Covenant had found in his master's journals was more than the ramblings of an old man broken by too many years fighting unspeakable horrors – a possibility Covenant wasn't willing to dismiss out of hand, having seen it happen far too many times – then he must speak with the Legion Master of the Emperor's Children. If Argento was right, then the danger to Chemos was greater than its defenders suspected, and the consequences of failure more terrible still. The Arch-Renegade had to be stopped, his horde of monsters and heretics denied its prize.
No matter the cost.
In the one hundred centuries that had passed since the God-Emperor had become silent, never had the Inquisition been forced to purge an entire Space Marine Legions. There had been close calls, recorded only in the most restricted archives, such as the rise of the False King in the ranks of the Sons of Horus or the Word Bearers almost launching an outright invasion of Terra during the Age of Apostasy – but always, disaster had been avoided. Cooler heads, the threat of another civil war, and truly heroic feats of diplomacy had prevailed. The Legions and the Ordos had remained, if not cordial to one another, then at least able to tolerate the other and work together when absolutely necessary. But the Legions knew that there were plans in place – just in case. And the Inquisition was fairly certain that the Space Marines had their own contingencies planned, too. There were rumors of branches of the Ordos that had gone too far, delved too deep into matters best left untouched, or embraced deviant philosophies, only to be purged by the Adeptus Astartes. But the greater Ordos had been untouched, just as the Legions themselves had been.
Covenant did not relish the knowledge that, if the words of his dead master were true, he may very well have to be the one that would end that precedent.
Deradolon welcomed the Inquisitor in person, making a great show of his arrival. The Third Legion, for all its loyalty to the Imperium, had many secrets it would go to great lengths to hide from the Holy Ordos – secrets related to events that, in some cases, pre-dated their foundation by centuries. Deradolon feared that Covenant's coming was linked to these secrets – in this, he was correct. Behind closed doors, Covenant used his Inquisitorial authority to demand that Deradolon open his mind to him, so that he may be certain there were no shadows within his soul. The Legion Master nearly struck the Inquisitor down where he stood for this insult to his honor, but he contained himself, for he couldn't afford to risk division within the ranks of the Imperium while the Black Legion hung over Chemos' fate. With grounded teeth, he accepted, and Covenant and his tame psyker scanned the deepest recesses of Deradolon's psyche over the course of several hours.
Once Covenant was convinced that Deradolon was pure, he told him of what he had read in his master's journals. In his hunt for heretics, Argento had uncovered traces of a vast conspiracy rooted in the Black Legion's evil and aimed at destroying Chemos and the Third Legion forever, freeing the Arch-Renegade Fabius Bile from the threat of his vengeful brothers. The journals told of agents planted deep within Chemos' infrastructure, with Argento speculating that they may not even know what they were, their minds forced to forget it until the appointed hour.
The Legion Master knew that such a threat couldn't be ignored, and acceded to Covenant's request that he be allowed to search for traitors within the ranks of Chemos' defenders. The Third Legion remembered all too well how it had been treachery that had delivered it to the cruel grasp of the Dark Eldars during the Heresy, and Deradolon was determined that this time, the Emperor's Children wouldn't be denied the chance to fight the enemies of Man in open battle. Covenant immediately set to work, plunging into the records of the planet's past, searching for discrepancies and cross-referencing them with the clues extracted from his dead master's journals.
More Imperial forces were coming, Deradolon knew, their astropathic answers to his call echoing in the Warp ahead of their ships as they struggled against the tumultuous tides of the Sea of Souls. But finally, nearly eight months after the Black Legion had first darkened Chemos' skies, the last warband pierced the veil of reality and joined the armada. Long-range auspexes began to read engines starting and weapon checks being run, and the Imperial leaders knew what that meant and redoubled their efforts, determined to finish their last preparations in time. Their suspicions were confirmed a few hours later when, aboard the Pulchritudinous, the Primogenitor stirred from his private laboratories and gave the order to advance. His speech to the assembled Black Legion forces was broadcast throughout the entire system – but what happened before was kept secret from all.
The Pulchritudinous was a city-sized spaceship, home to tens of thousands of souls – and many times that number of things that had no soul to speak of. It was a labyrinth filled with horrors, the product of centuries of unrestricted experimentations from the ship's transhuman masters. The degenerate tribes that populated its holds knew where it was relatively safe to go, where only the brave and well-armed could thread, and where only the mad and the suicidal would ever think to walk. This place was of the latest category, for it was one of the private laboratories of Fabius Bile himself, and none but the Primogenitor could enter on pain of long, agonizing death.
It was cold in the vast chamber, nearly freezing in fact. Row upon row of preserved specimen were held in refrigerated tanks, and stasis fields held the most fragile samples. Human, xenos, Astartes and Neverborn : all kinds of entities were held captive here, on various states in the spectrum between life and death. Things that bore only the smallest resemblance to standard servitors were fused to various consoles, their existences spent monitoring the status of the laboratory's ongoing experiments. Hooded figures, barely reaching the height of a man's hip, moved back and forth, carrying tools and spare parts, responding to the silent directions of these unliving monitors.
Five silhouettes stood around an operating table, each tall and bare-headed, wearing a coat of stitched faces over blood-soaked power armor. Clouds of vapour left their mouth with each breath, passing between pale, cracked lips. White hair fell from their aged heads, and an array of surgical tools rose from the grotesque, insect-like constructs attached to their backs. They all had the same face, for they were all clones of Fabius Bile, vat-grown to host the mind of one of the greatest and most monstrous geniuses who had ever lived. The first Fabius Bile, born on Terra before the age of the Great Crusade and among the first to be inducted in the ranks of the Third Legion, had passed away millennia ago. But by that point, the Clonelord had already achieved his goal of immortality, successfully duplicating his own consciousness and transplanting it into new bodies cloned from his own decaying flesh and rejuvenated through an unholy combination of Dark Technology and plundered xenos sorcery-science.
This close to one another, the clones were truly of one mind, their memories constantly synchronizing with one another so that it was as if one singular consciousness was operating their bodies. This enabled them to work in perfect cooperation on the body laying on the operating table, stitching torn flesh back together and carefully putting pieces of a complex suit of armor into place. Droplets of liquid still fell from the operating table and into the drain beneath – they had taken the body out of its preservation tank mere hours ago. So far, the process seemed to have gone perfectly.
'My lord,' called a voice from one of the chamber's vox-speakers. 'Our preparations are almost complete. The last group has reached us and will be in formation within forty-three minutes.'
The voice belonged to the Pulchritudinous' captain, a creature that had never been human but had instead been spawned in the flesh-labs of Bile, in the Eye of Terror. Out of ten thousand specimens, it had proven the fittest for the position, and had therefore been the only one allowed to survive while the others were rendered down to their basic components, to be recycled into another batch.
The clones spoke in turn, with such synchronization that even the captain was unable to tell that there were several speakers.
'Then the time has come or our experiment to proceed. Tell he forces to make their final preparations, please. I will join you on the bridge in a moment.'
The communication ended, but the clones continued to speak. It was an old habit of Bile to talk to himself when working, his every word recorded by a variety of devices embedded in his armor so that he could go over his musings later. He had kept that habit, even after transcending from a single fleshy envelope. It allowed for the preservation of his individual incarnations' research even when they died away from another and the memories of their time alone perished with them. It also had its disadvantages – the recordings could be stolen, and many had over the millennia. But on the whole, it had been a net benefit for Bile.
'Finally. I have waited for thousands of years … But the time is finally come. Today I will do away with the last traces of my past, cutting off the roots of this rotting tree so that something new may grow in its place. Today, I will reclaim all that my misguided brothers have stolen from me over the centuries. Today …'
The next words were muffled, for they came from under the cloth that covered the face of the figure laying on the operating table. Those were the first time the creature had ever spoken, and it did so in a voice not heard for ten thousand years. It was a voice entirely different from the raspy tone of the Primogenitor's clones, and yet there was something in it that made it so that none could ever miss that it belonged to the same individual.
'Today a Legion dies.'
[See Nemris' illustration titled : The Masterpiece of the Clonelord]
A few moments later, Fabius Bile stood before his chosen. There were five of them, out of the sixty-seven (according to the last count of the auspex officer) warlords of the gathered host. He had chosen them himself for this, bestowing upon them the recognition of being his mouthpieces, those who would see him speak, even as his every word was transmitted to every ship in the entire fleet.
His selection had been made with the same calculated caution that had marked his every action for millennia, but still, it amused him how such a small thing, the mearest scrap of his attention, carried such weight in the ever-shifting balance of power between the leaders of his Legion's splintered groups. Alliances would be forged and blood feuds sworn between his children because of his choice this day. Whether mortal, mutant or transhuman, the lords of the Black Legion were obsessed with Fabius' favour. Even those who hated him with all their soul still regarded him as the center of their world. From the lowest thrall to the mightiest lord, all knew and revered his name, shrouded in myths, legends, and terrifying truths.
Which was as it should be. After all, he had made them this way. Ten thousand years (in the Materium at least, though it felt much longer) of genetic and social engineering, all to create the perfect tool for his Great Experiment.
The five chosen warlords were already present through their hololithic projections when Bile entered the bridge, still wearing his blood-covered cloak of stitched faces, the Chirurgeon twitching on his back. They all bowed their head as he entered the circle prepared by his tech-priests and resting his hands on the reinforced metal railway. Despite the aches of his ever-dying bodies, he preferred to stand rather than sit on a throne, which was why all of the attendees were also on whatever they had for feet. None of them would dare to sit while he stood.
Not even prideful Leonidas (a name he didn't deserve in Bile's opinion, but none of his sycophantic servants would ever tell him that), who had once been a mere man before he had gone under the knives of Bile some thirty centuries before. Towering above even Space Marines, Leonidas was the product of one of Bile's attempts at creating transhumans from adult, fully developed specimens. He had been remade into the image of a perfect specimen of masculinity, and the armor he wore was fashioned from translucent crystals harvested within the heart of a gas planet in order not to hide his physical perfection.
Bile's memory was perfect, but even so, he wondered what he had been thinking when he had created Leonidas. The Perfect One, as he was laughably called by his cult of adoring mortals, had led a fleet of pirates and raiders in the Ultima Segmentum for over a thousand years, after he had fled the Eye of Terror and the fangs of a Blood Angel curious about the taste of that strange creature's blood. Leonidas may be a god to his cultists, but to Bile, who recognized the signs of Slaanesh corruption on him, he was just another disappointment.
By contrast, Emelia, one of his New Humanity, was a small, lithe thing, clad in black leather harvested from a Land Raider-sized beast she had killed when she had been but fifteen years old. Centuries had passed since then, and Emelia was a wizened old woman, but her extended family still respected her for her cunning and strength. She reminded Fabius of Igori, one of the first of his Gland-Hounds, whose genetic legacy had later led to the New Humanity.
Emelia was also the only one of his summoned warlords to be physically present, having come from the holds of the Pulchritudinous where her kind made their domain. Fabius followed the development of their society very closely, taking samples with each generation to see how they reacted to the flesh-altering conditions of the Warp and encouraging the breeding of those who showed the greatest resistance to its touch. As a testament to this practice, Emelia was all but devoid of mutation from her original genetic template, save for the two additional, vestigial eyelids above her true eyes, hidden by a metal band.
Next to Emelia was the static-laced image of Asther-Eruq'Shiva, whose Possessed nature played havoc with even the Dark Mechanicum's enhanced transmission devices. Asther had been born as a mortal infant within Fabius' replicating factories outside the Eye, been made into an Astartes (with a few modifications, of course), and then been made into what he now was, along with the thousand of his brothers who followed him. It had cost Fabius dearly to secure the services of the daemonist who had bound the Warp-born entities within the bodies of his creations, but it was worth it. After growing accustomed to his new condition, Asther-Eruq'Shiva, as he called himself now, had been placed into stasis with his brothers and sent into the deep void of the Ultima Segmentum, where they had waited for three hundred years before Fabius' agents had awakened them and brought them to Chemos. This would be their first campaign, and the daemons within the host of Secondborn were hungry to the point of madness, but Asther-Eruq'Shiva had managed to retain control of both himself and his brothers, and for that Fabius felt he deserved the honor of his presence here. Of course, he would make sure that the Possessed never discovered that the true purpose of his existence was to study the effects of prolonged stasis on Secondborn, and that now that the data had been harvested by those of Fabius' envoys that had survived awakening the sleepers, the only use left to them was deploying against his enemies.
Once, Urkash Votz had been a warrior of the Seventeenth Legion, though he had gone under another name back then. Two hundred years ago, he had taken part in a Legionary strike against a lair of Raven Guard cultists deep in the underhive. The cultists had been wiped out, but only Urkash had emerged from the pit, drenched in gore, his eyes blazing with eldritch fire. He had butchered his way to a spaceship and vanished, reappearing a few years later as the leader of a congregation of heretics who followed him out of abject fear, claiming allegiance to the Black Legion as he launched raids against shipping lines and Ecclesiarchy holdings. His image stood in silence, his armor entirely black safe for a single gold eight-pointed star painted on his breast-plate. He wore his helm, but even the eye-lenses couldn't block the glow of his eyes entirely.
Bile had never met Urkash before this operation. In fact, the Chaos Lord had never encountered another member of the Black Legion before answering the Primogenitor's call. Joining the Black Legion didn't require any trial : if you claimed you belonged to it, then you did, though whether you would be able to live for long with that title was entirely up to you. Fabius had invited him because he knew what had happened to the Legionary in the underhive – knew what he had seen.
And last but not least was Arch-Heretek Ezeth Nerim, known to the Mechanicus adepts of Ultima Segmentum as the Great Betrayer. Nerim had once been an arch-magos of the Martian Cult, who had spent his entire career hiding his dabbling in forbidden sciences from his superiors. His discretion hadn't been enough to hide him from Fabius' spies, however, and the Clonelord had arranged for the tech-priest to discover pieces of lore, each darker than the last, until Nerim had willingly cast off his allegiance to Mars in a grand display of techno-heresy that had levelled the entire forge-world he had ruled for more than fifteen centuries. In the three centuries since, Nerim and his cohorts had thrown in with the Black Legion, exchanging their loyalty for yet more forbidden lore Fabius' agents had offered them. The Arch-Heretek had brought a fleet of Dark Mechanicum ships to Chemos, calling to his own scattered followers to unite under him in order to claim the ancient secrets that were surely hidden within the Third Legion's greatest stronghold. At first glance, his holo-projection appeared to be laced with static, but the interference was actually composed of strange symbols belonging to systems of mathematics not meant for human eyes. The Arch-Heretek himself was a towering figure, taller even than Leonidas even as he hunched under his long black robes, covered in golden symbols of the Eightfold Omnissiah and its four aspects.
Of course, Fabius hadn't told Nerim about the Forbidden Vault. Let him plunder the riches of the Emperor's Children's fortress : the Primogenitor was after far greater prizes. And even if Nerim did find something of interest to him, then Fabius could always activate the control triggers hidden in some of the implants he had arranged for the Arch-Heretek to uncover in "unexploredˮ tombs.
'My sons and daughters,' he spoke to them, smiling and trying to put some kindness in his voice. He always tried to treat the scions of the Black Legion kindly, no matter their origin or nature. They were his children, after all, even those whose genes had never been touched by one of his many experiments. It never seemed to quite work, but he persevered nonetheless.
'I am pleased to see so many of you have gathered in answer to my call. Your loyalty does you credit, for I know I have not always been the father I should have been to all of you. For a long time, I have left you to your own devices as I went to mine. I am proud of all that you have accomplished during that time. To such numbers you have grown ! Yet for all the strength of our host, we are but a fraction of the Black Legion's full might, and this, too, fills me with pride. Of all those who have turned from the False Emperor, we alone hold the key to the future, for we alone have well and truly discarded our past. We bear no name given to us by that distant tyrant. Some of you were born into the Black Legion, others were reborn into it, while others still joined it because their old allegiances no longer fit who they had become.
Now, however, the time has come for unity. Together, we will strike a blow of such strength that the Corpse-Emperor on His throne will feel it. Today, we will accomplish what none other have been able to during the entire Long War ! Today ...'
He took a deep, wheezing breath, feeling his lungs protest against the strain. This body was approaching its end, which was why it was the one he used for these appearances. Once, such apparent weakness would have sent the warlords sharpen their blades; now, it only made them uneasy, reminding them how many times they had seen their Primogenitor seemingly in his death throes, only to return a few weeks later, vigorous as they had ever known him.
'Today,' he said at last, and there was nothing gentle in his smile now, 'a Legion dies.'
The five warlords reacted in various ways to his speech. Leonidas laughed, the sound proud, melodious, and failing to hide the raw hunger within the hulking flesh-crafted man. Emelia smiled, revealing sharpened teeth of perfect ivory, and bowed to the Primogenitor before departing, going back to her brethren for the final preparations. Asther-Eruq'Shiva roared with two voices, only one of which was clearly carried across the vox while the other was lost in a buzz of static and inhuman whispers. Urkash Votz remained utterly immobile, until the connection was ended and his projection vanished. And Ezeth Nerim spoke a prayer with eighteen vox-speakers at once, forming a chorus of one calling upon the blessings of the Dark Gods and the ruination of their foes.
None of them, not even Bile, knew that only one of these five worthy warlords would live to see this war's end.
Tens of thousands of throats shouted in joy as Bile's speech concluded, while on Chemos, the sons of Fulgrim renewed their determination to bring their ancient foe to justice once more. Their leaders had heard the speech too, though it hadn't been shared with the human auxiliaries lest their morale be damaged. After months of waiting, the Black Legion fleet finally resumed its advance toward Chemos – but the defenders of the Imperium were ready to face it.
The Pride of the Emperor, the venerable Gloriana-Class flagship of the Third Legion, had sent word ahead to inform the Legion that she was coming, but nothing had been heard from her for weeks. In her absence, the Will of Mars took the leading role in the gathered Imperial armada. Within her hull, veteran captains of the Imperial Navy had made the ultimate sacrifice, allowing the magos of the Mechanicus to turn them into living cogitators, whose combined expertise and memories had been analysed for weeks on end by the arch-magi. It was a desperate move, and one that had been kept secret from the rank-and-file. But the resulting gestalt admiral now directing the Imperial fleet through the voice of the tech-priests, called the Agamemnon by its creators, was the equal of any void tactician who had ever lived.
The Dionysia was also part of the fleet, sailing alongside a group of several hundred merchant vessels who had been commandeered to lend their guns to Chemos' defenses. Perhaps the authority of the Inquisition would have been enough to dispense the Von Castellant from taking part in the battle, but not even a Rogue Trader would try and avoid such a grave responsibility. The Rogue Trader vessel would survive the battle to come, and the hundreds of cultists led by a handful of Traitor Marines who made it aboard would soon come to regret it, as they died at the hands of the hardened veterans of the Von Castellant Household Guard.
The two fleets clashed, and Chemos' skies were illuminated by the awesome powers they unleashed. Energy weapons capable of obliterating cities raged through the void, while streams of torpedoes flew along calculated trajectories. The Black Legion was coming in, seeking a brutal, close-quarters engagement rather than a slow and precise exchange of volleys across astronomical distances. The corrupted Astartes in their hulls wanted blood – they wanted to board the ships of the Imperium and slaughter their crews, before going down to the business of despoiling Chemos itself.
The Agamemnon's gestalt mind had foreseen this development, and had worked with the Emperor's Children to take advantage of it. Fleet-wide boarding actions were inevitable, but with the bulk of the Black Legion's transhumans fighting aboard the Imperial ships, the traitor vessels themselves were vulnerable. Scattered among the fastest ships of the Imperial armada, waiting within the hulls of gunships and boarding torpedoes, were all the members of the Brotherhood of the Silent Scream who had answered Deradolon's call. More than a thousand of these mutilated warriors had come, and, at the will of their Legion Master, they were ready to lay down their lives to inflict a terrible blow upon the Black Legion. Their monastery on Chemos had been emptied, for this was the moment the order had been waiting for its entire existence : a chance to atone for their founder's failure to stop Fulgrim's capture by the Dark Eldar ten thousand years ago. Before embarking, each had been ritually blessed by the Third Legion's Chaplains, who bestowed upon them an oath of moment that would, upon its completion, wash away whatever sins, real or perceived, had led them to join the Brotherhood.
Argus strode through the corridors of the traitor ship, the rest of his kill-squad right behind him. Part of him wished he were aboard the Pulchritudinous, but he crushed it in chains of self-loathing. Glory was not for the likes of him, it never had been. He had thought otherwise once – believed that to live as a Space Marine was to serve the Emperor and reap the rewards of such an elevated station. Then he had been taught the truth, in the killing fields where millions of Astra Militarum laid dead, slain in a war of a hundred years by those who had rejected the Imperium and turned to Ruin in their desperation to resist the Throneworld's retribution. He had learned, as he dug himself out of a pit of mud and gore, that the true face of war was that of a blood-soaked, empty-eyed corpse. He had torn out his tongue three years later, as he watched the last of the rebel cities burn.
Now he knew that the only thing he had to strive for was redemption for the foolishness that had gotten so many killed, if he but proved worthy.
His armor was covered in blood, fuming with noxious vapours. They had been swarmed by degenerate cultists since they had boarded, a tide of demented flesh that stood little chance of actually stopping them but slowed their advance nonetheless. According to the briefing, this particular den of filth belonged to one of the Chaos Lords favored by the Arch-Renegade. Taking him out would throw the forces of the Black Legion into disarray and give slightly better odds to the Imperium in the coming surface battle. Argus' six-man squad was aimed at the bridge while another kill-team sought to the enginarium. There were supposed to be double that number, but the transports of the other two squads had been shot down in the void.
It would have to be enough. Failure wasn't an option.
When the kill-team finally made it to the bridge's entrance, they were met by an army unlike any they had ever faced. Leonidas himself had come to face them, and at his side were dozens, hundreds of young men with bald heads, crazed smiles, and one, identical face. They clutched serrated blades, las-carbins and other weapons with the ease born of practice over a life far longer than they appeared to have lived : none of them looked more than fifteen years of age to Argus' eyes.
The mere sight of them filled Argus with an irrational disgust and hatred, filling him with an almost impossible to resist urge to charge in and kill and kill until they were all dead. But he resisted. Charging straight ahead would be suicide, and with the "Perfect Oneˮ in his sight, he was more determined than ever to succeed and earn his redemption in the eyes of his brothers, his Primarch, his Emperor, and, most important and difficult of all, himself.
The silent Legionary didn't know it, but these youths were all clones, replicae spat out fully grown by forbidden machines from the Dark Age of Technology. None of them were more than three years old, the age at which they were ritually butchered by their younger fellows lest they deviate from the mold through accumulated experience. Bile had found them centuries ago on an isolated world, where they had killed all other humans and were slowly dying out as the knowledge required to maintain the cloning vats decayed with each generation. The Primogenitor had plundered the world's secrets before, on a whim, repairing the machines and bringing the host of clones into the Black Legions. For hundreds of generations since, they had worshiped him as a god, and eventually they had passed under Leonidas' command.
The clones served Leonidas as enforcers, honor guard and shock troops for when his fawning minions weren't up to the task. Their minds held nothing but hypno-training, ingrained pack loyalty, and all the cruelty of children unfettered by any notion of right or wrong. To the rest of the Black Legion, they were known as the Many-as-One, the False Hydra, the Children of Perdition or simply "the freaksˮ. They had a name for themselves, passed on from the very first generation, but they never spoke it in the presence of outsiders – only Bile knew it beyond their ranks.
The clones opened fire as soon as the kill-team appeared at the end of the long, empty corridor leading to the bridge. Two of the silent brothers charged forward, holding up boarding shields behind which the rest of the squad could take cover. They took hits, the focused fire tearing through their shields and into their armor, but they kept charging, only collapsing once they had crossed the corridor and brought their brothers to the enemy.
And then they were among them, and the melee began. Argus cut a clone in two with a swipe of his chainsword, before firing his bolt pistol into the face of another at point-blank range. With b lade and gun, he cut a bloody path, covering his brothers' backs as they covered his in turn. He still took hits, most of which were absorbed by his armor, and the rest of which he stoically ignored, despite the pain lashing at him. He saw one of his brothers, cut off from the rest of the kill-team by the vagaries of battle, be dragged down by a dozen enemies before his helm was torn off. Even without his tongue, the Space Marine was still able to spit acid into his murderers' faces before they cut him apart.
Leonidas strode forth, radiating confidence, and the young-faced replicae seemed invigorated by his mere presence, throwing themselves at the Emperor's Children with renewed abandon. The golden blade in his hand struck, and one of Argus' brothers fell as it pierced right through his gorget and out of the back of his neck.
Honor would have demanded a duel, a formal challenge. But Argus had no honor left, and so he simply charged, meeting the Chaos Lord's advance with his own transhuman strength.
From the first exchange of blows, Argus understood that the Chaos Lord was stronger than him. If he had been in optimal condition, perhaps, but he was tired from the fighting he had had to do to get here. And so, he did the only thing he could think of that would accomplish the mission. He deliberately opened himself to Leonidas' attack, and the golden sword swept upward, severing Argus' left arm at the elbow. The armored limb hit the deck, but Argus didn't stop moving, despite the terrible pain that flared in his nervous system in the second before his enhanced physiology suppressed it.
Argus had time to see Leonidas' eyes widen as the Perfect One realized what the Space Marine had done, and he smiled under his helm as his chainsword cut through the neck of the Chaos Lord and sent his beautiful head flying. He fell seconds later, and his body was cut apart by the enraged clones, but when they pulled his head out of his helmet, his face was still smiling.
A thousand Space Marines ready to lay down their lives can accomplish a lot, and none would dispute that the silent warriors who fought in Chemos' skies that day earned redemption many times over for the failings that had led them to cut out their own tongues. But eventually, the Black Legion's greater numbers began to tell, as the boarders had known they would. Warrior by warrior, the Brotherhood was cut down, drowned under a tide of mutated flesh and Warp-twisted horrors. Others perished as the ship around them burned in the inferno they had started, or fell to pieces as its own engines ripped it apart.
Of the thousand silent warriors, three hundred aimed directly at the Pulchritudinous, their pilots taking insane risks to pass through the fleet and deliver them to the heretical flagship. Once aboard, they faced a carnival of nightmares greater than any other group, but they endured and pierced through the ship's defenders, determined to strike at the ancient enemy of their Legion. Like a spear aimed at a hated foe's heart, they pushed toward the bridge, knowing from Bile's broadcast that he was directing operations from there. Deradolon had told the leaders of the Brotherhood about the Legion's suspicions concerning the Primogenitor's immortality. But even if slaying the Arch-Renegade was pointless, the chance to destroy the ship leading the Chaos armada was too great to pass on.
The Pulchritudinous enacted a heavy toll on its boarders. The warbands of the Black Legion, with their forces massed in the ship's docking bay in preparation for the planetfall, were the least of the perils the Brotherhood faced. The spawn of Bile's cloning experiments and the aberrations created by his Consortium roamed corridors warped into a hideous mix of metal and pulsating flesh. Toothed tendrils leapt from the walls to grasp the Legionaries, and entire hives of degenerate mutants rose from the ship's depths to hunt the intruders, driven to frenzy by the drugs dispersed into the stinking air by devices installed in their lairs decades ago. Yet eventually, they reached the gates to the bridge – only to find that, though the gates were closed and locked, there didn't appear to be anyone defending them.
The fifty-odd warriors who had made it this far were immediately suspicious, and approached their target with renewed caution, wary of a trap. They set up a watching perimeter while others began to lay down the breaching charges all of them had carried with them, just in case. On the other side of the door, Bile stood on the bridge, perfectly calm despite the alarms sounding and the worried looks of the crew, who all knew that the boarders had nearly made it there. They were not afraid : after all they had seen, it took much more than half a company of Space Marines to scare them. But they wondered whether their Primogenitor's plan to resolve the situation included their survival. All here knew of the ruthlessness of their lord, his willingness to make any sacrifice to accomplish his goals.
Then the sound of battle and tongueless screaming reached through the thick adamantium doors. For several minutes, every soul on the bridge not too lost to madness or augmentation held its breath; then the sounds of battle stopped, as did the alarms indicating imminent breach of the bridge. Fabius Bile smiled and, with a gesture, commanded his servants to resume their tasks. They went back to their work, exchanging whispers as they did so.
The Eldest had dealt with the Brotherhood, as its maker had commanded it to do.
The Eldest
Though the Black Legion has plagued the Imperium for nearly ten thousand years and counts thousands of Astartes in its ranks, there are comparatively few veterans of the Long War among them. Most of the transhuman warriors of the Black Legion are the creations of Bile, and the Chaos Lords who have turned from the Traitor Legions to don the black rarely survive more than a few centuries, though the exceptions are mighty indeed. Most Chaos Lords of the Black Legion are either Space Marines born long after the Heresy, or mortal scions of the Lost and the Damned, whose influence in the Black Legion is far greater than in any of the Traitor Legions. As a result, few live long, keeping any of them from gaining a power base rivalling Bile's own.
This is not a coincidence. Ever since the Black Legion rose from the Clone Wars' flesh-laboratories, the Primogenitor has taken measures to keep the coalition of warbands under his subtle control. The most important of these was to ensure that no single warlord could rise to such power and influence that he could challenge Bile's own control of the Black Legion. Most of the time, this takes the form of putting the Chaos Lords against one another, using the promise of his favor to ensure that they keep each other in check with their own feuds and rivalries. But from time to time, one individual appears whose cunning, strength, charisma or simply luck is too strong to neutralize that way. When that happens, the clones of Bile who dedicate their time to maintain the Consortium's hold onto the Black Legion pronounce that Chaos Lord's death sentence, and the Clonelord's greatest instrument in these matters is the nigh-legendary creature known only as the Eldest.
One of Bile's most ancient and powerful creations, the Eldest was spawned during the Clone Wars, and is spoken of only in whispers among the Black Legion, while the Imperium's only knowledge of it are the massacres it leaves in its wake, without a single witness or clue. The black-clad Chaos warriors believe the Eldest to be the agent of their Primogenitor's will, the primary enforcer and killer of a man responsible for the genocide of billions. Though they know of its existence, none among them know what it looks like, for the one thing the stories all agree upon is that it never leaves any survivors behind. And they aren't wrong, though the Eldest is much more than that.
For over nine thousand years, this nightmarishly potent being has wandered the galaxy, venturing in and out of the Eye of Terror without any trace of its passing. At its maker's command, it hunts down those Chaos Lords who might pose a threat to Bile's control over the Black Legion or the Primogenitor's many schemes. It has cleaned up leaks of information, purged research stations of the Mechanicus that had stumbled onto knowledge required for Bile's ongoing experiments, and orchestrated the downfall of entire alien species.
There are many theories about this mystery-shrouded monster in the Black Legion, with the prominent being that Bile's alliance with the Raven Guard began earlier than anyone thought. Those few Apothecaries who know Bile's many-bodied nature also suspect that the Eldest has eliminated clones of Bile that went rogue, corrupted by the Dark Gods, xenos influence, or even – though they only say the last one as a jest – a "crisis of conscienceˮ.
The bridge door opened slowly, gears grinding as its panels unlocked one after the other. A single silhouette emerged from the opening, and paused, taking in the scene of slaughter before it.
Pieces of the Emperor's Children who had made it this far were scattered everywhere. The air reeked of blood and butchered meat. Scraps of armor still clung to individual limbs here and there, and a handful of helmets stared blankly at their surroundings.
Fabius Bile did a quick estimate of how many warriors there had been before they had been torn to shreds. He was well-practiced to such calculations, and soon came up with a likely number.
'Forty-seven, all at once,' he said out loud into the darkness stretching beyond the faint illumination making it through the bridge's open gate. 'Well done.'
A voice answered out of the darkness. It was deep, utterly devoid of emotion, and grated on the ears. It was unmistakably organic, but any who heard it would know that there was something deeply wrong with the creature to which it belonged.
'They fought well,' it growled. 'Their screams were of defiance, not pain or fear.'
'I would expect nothing less from them,' nodded Bile. 'They are my brothers' descendants, after all. Now, my child. Let us get to business. Once this part of the battle ends, you must make your way to the surface. Follow Caecus and make sure his part of the operation succeeds.'
'As you command, father.'
With the Brotherhood of the Silent Scream destroyed, the Black Legion held orbital supremacy over Chemos. The Shiver of Dread, made slow by several hits to her engines, sent her last few drop-pods to the surface before facing the enemies of Humanity one last time. The strike cruiser's sacrifice bought time for the rest of the fleet to withdraw, until the plasma reactor went critical, denying her boarders their prize in a fiery detonation. Her shipmaster's last words were the ancient battlecry of the Legion he had served all his life. The Will of Mars, despite having been boarded by multiple groups seeking to capture her, had endured, her defense led by hundreds of cybernetic constructs driven by the minds of her coven of arch-magi. The guidance of the Agamemnon also allowed for the fleet to disengage with minimal casualties, though the death toll was still enormous – less than one out of three Imperial ships managed to withdraw. This remnant – still possessing enough might to turn the tide of most Sector-wide wars – fled into the void of the Chemos system.
Immediately after the Imperial fleet was forced to abandon Chemos' immediate orbit, alien ships from the shadowy kingdoms of the Rak'gol, their services paid for in human flesh, launched waves of transports onto the orbital stations. Thousand of vile xenos poured into every corner, hunting for prey, their many arms clutching weapons offered to them by the Black Legion. The rest of the Chaos fleet didn't stop shooting at the orbital structures : the lives of the alien mercenaries had been bought from their overlords by the Clonelord, and were his to spend as he pleased. Even so, many survived, dragging screaming captives in chains to their charnel ships, to a fate infinitely worse than death. No one in the Black Legion, not even Fabius Bile himself, knew why the Rak'gol had become so hungry for live human prisoners in the last few years, but none particularly cared, so long as the xenos fought well enough to earn their pay. Eventually, the aliens dismantled Chemos' orbital defenses, and the path to the planet was clear.
Enough loyalist ships remained that the fleet's heaviest vessels couldn't simply bomb the world into oblivion without exposing themselves to a counter-attack, and the void shields guarding the fortress-monastery could not be breached by anything in the traitors' arsenal anyway, but nothing remained now to prevent the Chaos army from making planetfall. Thousands of transports streamed from the fleet to the surface, the vast majority of them landing far from the main cities and their anti-air defenses. Those who broke from formation in their eagerness to spill blood were either blasted from the skies or hunted down and slain soon after landing. Legion-pattern Thunderhawks, stolen from Astartes both loyal and renegade, flew alongside massive troop carriers, cargo crafts pack to the brim with the Lost and the Damned, and hexagrammaticaly warded pods containing things that were only partially of the Materium. They came onto Chemos hard, and all psykers among the Imperial defenders heard the planet's cry of distress at their presence : a deep, mournful sound, born of the fear and anguish of the billions who had lived and died upon its surface.
If not for the presence of Bile looming over them, conflicts would soon have erupted between the hundreds of warbands as they gathered their troops. But fear of the Primogenitor's displeasure and the chance to inflict irreparable damage to the Imperium kept the troops in line, allowing the warlords Bile had chosen back aboard the Pulchritudinous to marshal the massive horde. Even so, such was the nature of the force that many warbands broke off from the horde, seeking to plunder the city-states and hunt down their inhabitants. Led by Warp-crazed wyrds, bound daemonic oracles and hereteks wielding strange, forbidden sensors, these groups thought they could find the shelters. A few of them succeeded, but most were misled by the deceptions woven by Fulgrim's sons, while others fell victim to the Third Legion's preparations for such an eventuality.
For of course, the Emperor's Children had prepared for these circumstances. They had deliberately made Callax into a target, drawing the attention of the foe and preserving the rest of the planet. Rather than facing their enemy head-on on the field of battle, they would let them be crushed against their battlements, making the most of their inferior numbers through the might of the fortress-monastery. They had also seeded highly-trained, mobile teams all across Chemos, ready to launch guerilla attacks on the Chaos armies every step of the way. These groups were mostly comprised of Eternal scouts and snipers, along with a few Emperor's Children and Night Lords Legionaries, and all of them were veterans of that kind of asymmetrical warfare.
Caecus the Unsmiling, Apothecary of the Black Legion, walked through the empty plains of Chemos, his armored boots leaving deep footprints in the grass-covered earth. Four servitors advanced behind him, carrying the heavy, sealed container they had taken out of the transport that had brought the group to the surface a few hundred meters away. Their destination was close by : a vast expanse of land, surrounded by a high, thick wall covered in warning signs. It wasn't particularly sturdy : its sole purpose was to keep people from accidentally wandering into the area beyond. The wall was curved inward, and powerful air blasters were set inside it to keep the contagion within from spreading. Various sensors monitored the conditions within, but it had been a long time since anyone but maintenance crews had come nearby. If only the Emperor's Children had known the truth …
Beyond that wall was a poisoned marsh, created centuries ago by a biological weapon unleashed upon the surface of Chemos by an Ultramarines warband, attacking the planet in retaliation for Fulgrim having struck Guilliman down at the climax of the Heresy. The weapon had been one of many, but it had been the only one that had successfully activated, thanks to a series of daring Third Legion assaults directed by Deradolon, before he became Legion Master. Upon activating, the device had poisoned the land, pumping a cocktail of chemicals and mutagenic pathogens into the earth, where it had spread across the entire fauna and flora, seemingly killing everything for many kilometers. The forest that had existed there, carefully cultivated over thousands of years, vanished, replaced by a poisonous swamp crawling with venomous creatures.
What the Emperor's Children hadn't known was that the Ultramarines had purchased these weapons from the Primogenitor, through so many intermediaries not even they had known the device's true provenance. Caecus had taken part in the weapons' design, having already discarded the colors of the Blood Angels for centuries by that point. He knew its true effects and purpose, which the Thirteenth Legion dupes had never suspected as they went to die in their pathetic assault, blissfully unaware that they were only preparing the way for the Black Legion.
The Apothecary stopped twenty meters from the wall, and took a moment to inject himself with another dose of his serum. Designed with the help of the Clonelord and made of ingredient that could only be harvested on a few worlds within the Eye of Terror, this drug kept the curse of the Thirst afflicting all sons of Sanguinius suppressed, while also removing the weakness of emotion from his mind. He had been under its effects for almost three thousand years now, and while it had drawn slaves of Slaanesh to hunt him down as a betrayer of their Dark God, he had no intention of stopping. Even now, with his emotions deadened almost into oblivion, the memory of the Thirst and what it had turned him into still made him shiver.
Once he felt the drug properly spread across his system, he turned and commanded the servitors to set down the engine they had been carried. It took Caecus half an hour to activate it – it was a complex machine, combining technology both ancient and new, human and xenos. Crucially, however, it didn't have a single touch of the daemonic inside it – just like the bioweapon that had struck this land more than two centuries ago. After all, any Warp contamination would have alerted the Librarians and astropaths of what was going on behind the wall.
Upon activation, the device started emitting a low humming sound, far below the range of hearing of unaugmented humans. It became louder and louder as more parts of the device came online and amplified the signal, until the teeth of the servitors that still had them began rattling from its strength. One of them collapsed as the vibrations broke something fragile inside it, but the others remained standing, awaiting their next command. The device itself, of course, had been built to be capable of withstanding its own effects, and Caecus' armor could protect him from far worse.
Suddenly, an entire section of the wall exploded outward, and a tide of monsters flowed through the opening. All manners of mutated beasts, spawned by the mutagenic pathogens of the bioweapons, had responded to the device's call, following instincts that had been written into their very genes by the Consortium. They had grown beneath the earth, digging deep enough to avoid detection, until the vibrations had reached them and triggered their inborn programming. Now they had emerged in their hundreds, thick-skinned behemoths and smaller, spindly horrors, bearing the marks of insects, reptiles, mammals and birds alike – an entire twisted ecosystem, forged into a weapon of war. For decades, they had preyed upon each other, growing ever more vicious and aggressive, sustained by a population of fast-growing spores. A few bore a trace of the human material from which the original strain of the mutagens had been created : hands reached out, grasping at nothing, and the faint impression of faces could be glimpsed on scaled hides. The only thing they all had in common was their blindness – they had spent generations without ever walking the surface of Chemos, and the eyes their origin species had once possessed had been removed by gene-shaping agents.
This was an army of monsters, and it was Caecus' to lead, that he may accomplish what the Black Legion had come to Chemos to accomplish without the rest of the pawns of Bile knowing it. While the horde marched onto Callax and faced the might of the Emperor's Children, he would take this bestial army and march onto the Forbidden Vault, where the Third Legion had hidden what they had stolen from the Clonelord. The monsters would smash through the Vault's defenses, and none of them would understand why or risk stealing something – unless they had managed to evolve much beyond the parameters they had been intended to. And as for the contagion that was now free to spread to the rest of Chemos through the breach, well … sacrifices had to be made for the cause.
The Apothecary reached into the device and extracted a single, smaller tool, shaped like a bracer, which he put around his armored wrist while the device shut down. Now that the creatures had been roused, the bracer's lesser signal would be enough to lead them where they needed to go – though, of course, the command function had yet to be tested outside of a lab's secure confines.
If Caecus had been able to, that would probably have worried him.
While the Black Legion marched across Chemos, other schemes were unfolding. In Callax, the investigators of Inquisitor Covenant unearthed inconsistencies in the fortress-monastery's archives. There were strange gaps in the surveillance recordings, coinciding with spikes of headaches and reports of strange visions in the Tower of astropaths, stretching over the last half-century. At the same time as this discovery, a squad of Eternals was found dead, and a Rhino transport missing from the hangars. The Inquisitor told Deradolon that treachery most foul had come to Chemos – for the wounds of the Imperial Guardsmen had clearly been the work of a Space Marine.
'I need access to the Vault, Legion Master. Its contents must be destroyed !'
Deradolon looked up from the pile of data-slates and parchments before him and at Covenant. The Inquisitor has just finished explaining to the Legion Master what he and his team had discovered, concluding his summary with his demand that he and his team be allowed into the supposedly-secret vault buried under the fortress-monastery. The Space Marine wasn't wearing his silver mask, and the sight of his face was a testament to how much punishment the sons of Fulgrim could endure. There wasn't a single patch of skin that wasn't scar tissue, yet for a fraction of a second, Covenant felt as if he could also see … fatigue in the veteran Legionary's expression. Then it was gone, and all that was left was the adamantium will staring at Covenant from a pair of dark eyes – both of them miraculously still organic, despite the wounds surrounding them.
'It isn't here,' said Deradolon.
'What ?' was all that Covenant could muster. He had been prepared for many possible answers, but that certainly hadn't been one of them.
'The Forbidden Vault doesn't lie under this fortress. That was just a rumor we started. The vaults beneath Callax were built for the Legion's true treasures, not the archives of its shame. Given the dangers of what is inside, my predecessors built it far from any settlement. It is well defended, but its primary protection was always secrecy.'
That … That made perfect sense, Covenant realized. He was a bit shocked he had never thought of it before himself. Secrets and misdirection were some of the favored tools of the Holy Ordos. But the Emperor's Children were not known to be a cunning Legion, like the Thousand Sons or, Emperor knew, the Alpha Legion – theirs was the path of direct battle, of honor and sacrifice …
… ah. Of course. What was that Argento always said ? "Beware the honest ones, for they are the ones who truly know how to keep their secretsˮ ? And after what he had read inside his master's journals – the tales of their millennia-long hunt for the Arch-Renegade, and the terrible things the old man feared they had done in that pursuit – he really should have seen this coming.
'Here,' said Deradolon, pulling a data-slate out of his desk and handing it over to Covenant, tearing the Inquisitor from his thoughts. 'This contain the coordinates of the Forbidden Vault, its access codes, and the ones to activate its self-destruct mechanism. You were more right than you knew, Inquisitor, when you said the vault's contents cannot be allowed to fall back into the Arch-Renegade's hands. Over the years, we have stopped him from accomplishing truly horrifying things, and the remnants of these failed endeavours are all down there.'
After a tense confrontation, Covenant managed to obtain from the Legion Master what he needed : the location of the Forbidden Vault. Covenant was convinced that the Vault, where the Third Legion kept all the spoils of their hundred-centuries long hunt for the Arch-Renegade, was the true reason behind the Black Legion's incursion. The Inquisitor's retinue of Acolytes and Von Castellant household troops was joined by a squad of Night Lords – though Covenant didn't say it out loud, he didn't trust Emperor's Children to accompany him on this task.
This mixed warband departed Callax at speed, going straight toward the Forbidden Vault. None of them looked back as their transports raced ahead. A few hours after their departure, the final alarms began to ring – the Black Legion had arrived at Callax's gates.
The Faith of Chemos
Over the millennia since its founding, the Adeptus Ministorum has been forced to accept that the homeworlds of the Legiones Astartes will never quite fit into its orthodoxy. From the acceptance of psychic powers of the Prosperine Dominion to the tacitly allowed heresy of Colchis, the mark of the Primarchs remain strong onto their adopted homeworlds, and no amount of preaching can erase the influence of the Emperor's sons' ideals. It has been a constant source of tension, and has nearly led to another civil war in several occasions – most often stopped by those in the Ecclesiarchy who realized that, even should the Imperial Cult break the edicts of Thor and reform the Armies of Faith, they would stand no chance against the Space Marine Legions. On Chemos, though, the divinity of the Emperor is acknowledged, and though the form His worship takes has been shaped by the Emperor's Children's history, it isn't any stranger than that found on countless other worlds.
To the Chemosian, the God-Emperor represents the best of Humanity, a light shining amidst the darkness of the galaxy. He is the guardian of Mankind's soul, who endures on His throne and sends His Angels of Death to protect his people. They believe that the best way to honor Him is to fulfill that potential, and that Art is the ultimate expression of Mankind's greatness. This philosophy takes its roots in Chemos' distant past, where the struggle for survival prevented their ancestors from creating anything beautiful. After Fulgrim had saved them from the vicious cycle of endless recycling and plunder of ruins for dwindling resources, the Phoenician rebuilt Chemos into a planet of wonders, home to all manners of artists, free at last to indulge their creativity with the specter of society's dissolution banished. After the Heresy, that mentality combined with the rise of the Imperial Creed and the influence of the Third Legion.
According to Chemosian dogma, more than an expression of Humanity's potential, Art is also the great affront against the Ruinous Powers, no matter what the deluded followers of Slaanesh may believe in their excess-addled, obsession-ridden minds. Through their works of beauty, artists defy the hungry night and proclaim the greatness of their untainted spirit, revealing how hollow the promises of glory whispered by the Archenemy really are. Chemosian temples are also museums, where the greatest work of a hundred generations is preserved. Painting, sculptures, poems and music : all of these, and many more, are represented in these houses of wonder. The beauty to be found on Chemos is renowned across the Imperium, with nobles visiting from distant worlds.
Chemos' Ecclesiarchy also doesn't have the huge pyramidal hierarchy seen elsewhere in the Imperium. Monasteries are spread out across the world, where the men and women of faith meditate on the teachings of the Emperor preserved by the Third Legion since the Great Crusade, and create incredible works of art in quiet contemplation. Priests are chosen from among their ranks to leave the monasteries and bring the word of the Master of Mankind to Chemos' children, in lessons that double as art classes. Many a prodigy artist has been found in the lower classes that way.
As the Black Legion entered Callax, it met the traps left behind by the Imperials. Soldiers walked on mines with delayed detonators, causing them to explode in the middle of the ranks. Snipers, both human and automated, shot from almost every tower, until the Chaos forces sent their heavy vehicles ahead to bring the structure down. Cybernetic killers from the Eternals, their bodies more metal than flesh and their minds barely coherent from the cocktail of serums needed to keep their organisms from breaking down, rose from their hiding places like angry revenants and began to hunt. The air rippled with phantasms and distant screams as covens of Sorcerers and magi matched their unholy might against the will of the Third Legion's Librarians, their disembodied spirits clashing in the aether.
These measures took their toll, but the Black Legion was ready and able to take the losses they inflicted. One by one, the Eternal cyborgs were dragged down and cut to pieces, while Asther-Eruq'Shiva and his Secondborn hunted the souls of the Librarians, forcing them to withdraw to their bodies. Only one part of Callax' resistance truly hurt the invaders – and, by a strange turn of fate, it was neither the sons of Fulgrim nor the Astra Militarum who were responsible.
Driven by the whispers of the foul powers he served, the Chaos Lord Urkash took his followers from the advance onto the fortress-monastery and toward Callax' - and indeed Chemos' - grandest temple and museum combined : the Great Galleries, where the artworks of a hundred generations laid preserved. Urkash sought to destroy this beauty for his masters – to honor the terrible powers that held onto the tattered remnants of his soul by despoiling the pinnacle of Chemosian culture.
Though it made their heart bleed to do so, the Emperor's Children had left the Galleries defenceless, only allowing a few of the items within to be evacuated into the vaults. Space was too precious down there, and the teachings of the Third were clear on the precedence of human lives over mere art, however irreplaceable. And yet, when Urkash' host arrived, it found an army of sorts standing in its path – a dirty, ragged army to be sure, but an army nonetheless.
Thousands of flagellants stood on the stairs leading up to the Galleries' entrance, far more than anyone had ever believed there were on Chemos. In the busy months previous the invasion's beginning, they had flocked to Callax, heeding a call none of them truly understood. They had hidden in evacuated homes, spending their days and nights in prayer, calling out to the God-Emperor for help as the sword of the Black Legion hovered above their world. Hundreds of Chemos' denizens had broken under the strain of that awful knowledge, and the flagellants had welcomed them into their ranks. They had torn at their faces with bloody, broken nails, scourged their backs with lengths of barbed wires – and through that pain, they had found illumination, of a sort. Driven by a raving mad, terrible will, they were beyond fear, and they charged the cultists, who actually paused as, for the very first time, they were confronted by a madness equalling their own.
The two hordes clashed, and blood flowed freely. Ritual daggers met primitive hammers and nine-tailed scourges tangled around blades glowing with fell power. Bullets tore through naked, scarred flesh, while the fanatical strength of the flagellants peeled apart leather armor and exposed the heretical flesh beneath. Urkash waded into the melee, butchering all who approached him with his bare hands, leaving his weapons at his belt, not deigning to sully them with the blood of these wretches. He was death incarnate, and nothing the flagellants had could hurt him – yet they kept throwing themselves in his path, screaming their hatred of everything he represented, insanely grateful for this chance to strike back, however futile it may be, at the enemy who had come to their world.
But it wasn't enough. Eventually, the last of the flagellants fell in bloody pieces, broken teeth biting into the throat of a pack leader. Urkash raised a single gauntleted hand, and pointed silently toward the now free path to the Great Galleries. Howling madly, his followers ran over the broken bodies of the flagellants, up the marble steps and into the Galleries – and were immediately struck down by what, in their final, terrified moments, they couldn't help but think was the Emperor's own divine wrath. Light struck them, turning them to ash, and then to less than ash. They didn't even have time to scream, not even time to suffer – though their damned souls would know plenty of torment on the other side of the Veil.
Vincent Basileus stands alone in the great entrance hall of Chemos' Great Galleries. Looking at him now, his clothes torn, his body covered in sweat and grim, no one would recognize the famous Light-Smith of Callax, widely acknowledged as one of the greatest artists Chemos has ever born. He knows he doesn't have long to live. He could have escaped, fled into the vaults, but he has chosen to make his stand here. He isn't a soldier – he has never so much as fought in a bar brawl. But he will die before abandoning this place to the vandals coming to destroy it.
He remembers the first time he walked these halls as a child, and fell in love with the beauty in it.
Some of the museum's greatest pieces have been evacuated – many of the staff abandoned all that they owned to bring just one more painting, one more wonder to the safety of the vault. He didn't leave with them : he has chosen to die here, amidst all the beauty accumulated over the centuries. It was easy for one man to slip through the administrative net, with the right words and the right payments. And over the years, he has become so very rich.
It all started with the device. He found it while hiking in the empty regions of Chemos, looking for inspirations as his career as a sculptor faltered. There, under a hill, in an undiscovered ruin from the Dark Age of Technology, he found a beautiful crystal – and as the light of his torch touched it, he knew that he had to get it out, no matter how dangerous that might be. It turned out to be the best choice he has ever made.
The crystal alters the properties of light itself somehow, freezing the photons that pass through it. The tech-priests once spent hours trying to explain it to him, but by the time they gave up, he had the sneaking suspicion they didn't really understand it either. On any other world, the tech would have been confiscated by the Mechanicus, to be locked away until an in-depth study that would likely never come. But this is Chemos, and so it instead became the source of his life's work. With it, he has created sculptures of frozen light, abstract constructs of soft curves and sharp angles. Years of working within the limitations of his tool have forced him to develop his art ever further – and it is also what has enabled him to do what he is doing now. The device is in a plinth at the center of the hall, surrounded by powerful projectors and a dizzyingly complex arrays of mirrors.
The idea came to him in his sleep, a stream of complex equations dredged from his subconscious and burned into his mind with searing clarity upon awakening. He has laboured to make it a reality for the last week, collapsing one day ago after his work was complete out of sheer exhaustion. The thunder of the battle raging outside the Galleries woke him just in time. And now … now the results speak for themselves.
It was never meant to be used like this, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And so now he stands amidst a jungle of cables, spare parts and discarded tools, his fingers dancing on the runes of several control panels, his eyes darting between a dozen screens. He is at the heart of a symphony of light and fire, and all who try to enter the Galleries are obliterated by what he has wrought. He is weeping, from the effort it takes to keep everything running, from the horror of ending so many lives, and because he knows it won't be enough to save the Galleries, in the end.
Then comes the renegade angel, the lord of the damned, clad in black armor and cloaked in unnatural shadows, his eyes burning with eldritch fire. While his minions watch in awe, he walks directly through the gate, marching slowly and purposefully. The light recoils from the darkness within him, repelled by something anathema to everything it represents. Vincent sees him enter. He has never seen a servant of Chaos before, and some part of him want to run, to flee from the awful thing that approaches him. He is terrified. He never was a warrior. He never was brave.
But it turns out that he is stronger than he thought, and he stands his ground.
A few gears turn, a few runes are pressed, and the onslaught intensifies threefold as the power of the light is focused, yet the traitor advances still. He whispers awful words of power, malicious syllables that even the Neverborn fear, and the shadows around him thicken even as they are burned away. A great and terrible presence seems to press on the Galleries, and the ancient machine starts to malfunction as the very laws of physics by which it operates become bent and twisted.
The Chaos Marine enters the circle of machinery, stopping close enough Vincent that the unnatural heat radiating from his armor burns the man's skin. He looks down at the man who unleashed the light against the forces of darkness – so small, so insignificant. And yet that man glares back defiantly. He stares right into Urkash's inhuman gaze, and though tears are running down his cheeks, he does not look away. His tears … is it a trick of the light ? His tears seem golden …
'You have dedicated your life to a lie,' says Urkash, his voice utterly out of place in this temple of art. 'Beauty means nothing in this universe. Only power matters.'
Vincent sways, his very soul shaken by the utter certainty in the transhuman's words. Cables tangle around him, dandling from controllers attached to his hands. Urkash fails to realize that the man isn't struggling to remain on his feet – he is pressing a last few controls. Then he stands straight, and when he speaks, his voice isn't entirely his own, and for the first time since his soul was broken and reforged by the Primordial Truth, the fallen son of Lorgar knows doubt.
'You are wrong, traitor. BURN !'
A pillar of light rises to the heavens, shaking the earth and blinding those who look at directly. The light reaches up and up, and strikes a frigate in orbit above the city. The ship is called Heartbleed by the degenerates who dwell within its holds, and it once belonged to a system defense force before it was captured and most of its former crew butchered. The former captain still lives, after a fashion, held captive deep within the vessel, chained and bleeding from wounds that are never allowed to close. When the beam strikes the ship's hull, and the metal starts to melt, sending tremors throughout the ship, the thin, tortured man smiles, just before Heartbleed vanishes as the light burns through to its plasma reactor.
When the pillar of light vanishes, where the Galleries once stood there is now nothing more than glassed rock, spread in a three kilometers-wide radius. At the edge, invaders writhe, their flesh cooked to the bone by the terrible heat.
On the other side of the Veil, something vast and vile stirs, angry at being denied the defilement of so much beauty because of one soul's defiance. It reaches into the aether, seeking the shade of the one responsible, to subject him to unending torments … but finds nothing.
The destruction of the Great Galleries shook Callax – even the people huddled in the vaults underneath felt the detonation. For a moment, the Black Legion paused, as fear that the Emperor's judgement had descended upon the world and would soon strike them down as well. Soon, however, the remaining Chaos Lords re-established control, and drove the army forward once more. The death of Urkash in such an unnerving fashion troubled them, but with the eyes of both the Clonelord and their own subordinates upon them, none dared to show weakness – only leadership. With Leonidas and Urkash dead, they had the chance to prove their worth to the Primogenitor, and they pushed the army forward, until it surrounded the fortress-monastery at Callax' heart. Once more, the stronghold of the Third Legion was under siege, and artillery fire began to fly between the walls and the heavy weaponry the traitors had landed onto Chemos. This would be the greatest battle of the war, but it was far from the only one. Some of these other confrontations were already over, but others had yet to be decided, and the fate of the Third Legion would be decided by all.
The Fields of Giants
As armies fought in Callax, the God-Machines of the Mechanicus waged their own, separate war. In the months leading up to the Black Legion's attack, the heretic armada had been joined by a battalion of Chaos Titans, the debased iconography on their transports revealing them to belong to the Legio Crucius. How they had escaped from the Iron Cage was unknown – the Fourth Legion had always managed to keep the Dark Mechanicum's greatest weapons contained within the Eye of Terror. But there they were, and while Chemos wasn't without its own God-Machines, Deradolon feared that such a confrontation would do more harm than good to the Imperial defense. The fortress-monastery hadn't been built with Titan defenders in mind – its scale was much lesser than the Imperial Palace, guarded by an entire Titan Legion ever since the days of the Heresy.
And so, the Legion Master and Princeps Tzaruki, Marshal of the Legio Interfector, designed a plan that was equally bold and desperate. As the Black Legion neared orbit, Tzaruki issued a challenge, using the oldest forms of the Collegia Titanica. Some shred of their former identity must have remained within the corrupted forms of the Chaos Titans, for the Legio Crucius answered the challenge. Parting from the rest of the Black Legion with surprisingly little protest, the Chaos Titans' transports brought them to Tzaruki's chosen battlefield, thousands of kilometers away from any of Chemos' city-states. Yet the Marshal couldn't call his enemies to the middle of nowhere – there needed to be bait to draw them. Which is why the Titans prepared to make war in the shadow of Mount Palatine, the hollowed mountain where the delicate controls for Chemos' climate engines were located. To the Adeptus Mechanicus, Mount Palatine was the holiest ground on all of Chemos, the greatest incarnation of the Omnissiah's power and wisdom.
The two Legios battled at the gates of the mountain, while hordes of nightmarish amalgamations of warped flesh and machine rushed past their feet, heedless of the enormous casualties they suffered from the threads of both hosts. These creatures, once proud armies of skitarii, now twisted beyond recognition by the baleful energies that had remade their God-Machines into towering icons of corruption, were met by the Palatine Blades. This sacred order, founded by the few members of the original Legion brotherhood to have survived the Bleeding War, was dedicated to the protection of the mountain that Fulgrim had named after them in homage of the lost elite of his Legion. A handful of veteran Space Marines fought at the head of an army of Adeptus Mechanicus combat servitors, tech-thralls and elite soldiers, using the defenses of Mount Palatine to reap a heavy toll against the Dark Mechanicum horde while the earth and air trembled from the battle of the Titans.
The battle raged for days on end, and the Princeps of the Legio Interfector were as merciless as the daemonic spirits inhabiting the engines of the Legio Crucius. They fought with every trick in their arsenal, pitting their strategies against the Chaos Titans' madness and matching their Warp-infused weaponry with their own sacred instruments of destruction. By the time the Black Legion reached Callax, both armies had destroyed one another. Nothing remained on the fields around Mount Palatine but broken giants and thousands and thousands of corpses. The gates of the complex had been broken open, the defenders of the sacred climate controls slaughtered – but the machines themselves had remained intact, saved from unholy hands by the sacrifice of their defenders. Deradolon's and Tzaruki's scheme had worked : the rest of the war would be fought without the God-Machines. Of course, the question of why Fabius Bile had let the Legio Crucius separate itself from the rest of the army remained unanswered …
Diomedes returned to consciousness slowly, in fits of pain and nausea. He felt a strange sensation all over his body, and it took him several seconds to realize that it was the touch of air on his bare skin – he had been stripped of his armor while he had been unconscious. He tried to move, but something was restraining his movements – circles of something hard around his wrists and ankles.
He remembered being aboard the Pride of the Emperor, the ship making full speed toward Chemos. He remembered days upon days of Warp transit, spent in frenetic preparation for the battle that awaited them at the journey's end. He remembered … the alarms. Screaming on the vox – the Navigators had been howling in agony and terror. The Geller Field had been breached. Something had come through – no mere daemon, but a vast and terrible presence, one his mind refused to remember. It had closed in around him, around his squad, and then … nothing. Nothing until he had awoken just now, his body still revolting against what it had gone through.
'You are awake,' said a voice from somewhere in front of him. 'Good.'
The Space Marine blinked, and his vision started to return, blurry at first, then clearer and clearer as his body pumped a cocktail of boosting hormones into his bloodstream. He was held up in the air, limbs spread out by the chains that restrained him. His immediate surroundings were illuminated by candles laid down onto the stone ground, the area beyond lost to shadows. And within that small circle of light were … creatures, unlike any he had ever seen before.
Turning his neck left and right, he could see a dozen of them, and heard more behind him. They were reptilian in nature, but no two were identical in shape, and none were of a humanoid template. They had varying types and numbers of limbs – one had none at all, instead being some freakishly huge snake with a disgustingly long prehensile tongue. All of them were naked, and their scaled skin bore scars in shapes that hurt Diomedes' eyes when he looked at them. Their eyes – for those who had them, and again, none were where eyes should be – glowed with a inner fire that Diomedes had encountered before, years ago, during a campaign against a Slaaneshi cult that had managed to open a Warpgate and bring forth their infernal masters into the Materium. Yet the outline of these creatures' bodies did not shimmer, nor did they manifest any other sign typical of incarnated daemons. The air was thick with their scent, along with that of burning fat – whatever the candles were made of clearly wasn't typical wax – and other perfumes that Diomedes' neuroglottis gland couldn't identify.
The creature that had spoken to him, in a thickly-accented old form of Gothic, resembled some unholy union between a serpent and an octopus. It had a cobra-like head atop its torso, and instead of legs, possessed a swarm of tentacles that held it up and clung a variety of tools. Diomedes caught a glimpse of a vicious-looking serrated dagger, a circular stone inscribed with burning symbols, and what seemed like a severed Eldar hand, each finger made into a candle. The others were glancing at it, making Diomedes think this was some kind of authority figure.
'What ...' he forced the words out, fighting down a coughing fit as the foul air filled his lungs, 'what are you abominations ?'
'We are the Laers,' answered the creature, pausing and nodding slightly as it took in Diomedes' reaction to the name, the human gesture entirely wrong when performed by the monstrosity. 'You remember us. That is good. We feared your ancestors would have concealed all traces of their great crime. If that were the case, we would have had to educate you before we could proceed.'
'You cannot be Laers,' said Diomedes. 'That foul xenos breed was purged ten thousand years ago. I have studied the records ! The Librarians warned the Primarch of the evil hidden within their temples, and the Phoenician ordered their world burned from orbit ! The entire species was put to the torch !'
'And so it was indeed. Your ancestors slaughtered us, heedless of the gifts we offered. Heedless of the Goddess' promise. But life and death are small things to those who walk the divine path, son of the Corpse-God. We were sent to our Goddess' realm by the will of your sire, and then, long after, another of his children returned us to the land of flesh and sensation.'
Keep them talking, thought Diomedes. He had to find a way out of this, and the longer these abominations talked, the more of his strength returned. Besides, if these were truly Laers, the xenos of ancient nightmare returned … he had to get as much information as he could back to the Imperium, to warn them of this new threat. It didn't matter that he had no armor, no weapon, was chained up and surrounded by xenos of unknown capabilities. He had his duty.
'Who was it ? Who brought your misbegotten race back to existence ?'
'You know him well, Diomedes,' whispered the alien, and hearing his name on its tongue made the Legionary's face convulse in repulsion. 'He has many names, but I think you call him … Clonelord ? Yes. That is one of his many titles, spoken among the living and the dead. He was there when we first died, and learned much from us, plundering our secrets even as his brothers murdered us. He has changed now, of course : no longer is he bound by the illusions of the flesh. His mind lives on through many heads, spread far and wide across the galaxy … and while the will that drives them is mighty indeed, individual heads are weaker, and can be made to listen to the voice of the Goddess. So it was that one head was isolated and turned from its sterile purpose and toward more interesting avenues. So it was that we were returned into new bodies, crafted from the preserved essence of the old. Of course, since then, we have made … improvements. Such wonders we tasted in the Goddess' realm, such inspiration we brought back with us … That particular head is dead now, slain by that hateful wraith he raised and bound centuries ago. With its death, the secret of our return was lost, and we have remained hidden ever since, rebuilding our kingdom in the dark place our benefactor had prepared for us.
And now, at last, the time has come. The other heads of the benefactor have launched their attack on your homeworld, to visit upon you the destruction you inflicted upon our own world so long ago. In your haste to defend it, you have sailed far and deep into the Great See – too deep, my friend. You have exposed yourselves, and we have seized this Goddess-given opportunity. We called upon Her, made our offerings and performed the rituals, and She reached through the veil, caught you aboard your dry, boring ships, and brought you all here, to the destiny that has always been waiting for you. Your forebears betrayed the Goddess, refused Her blessing and cut down Her servants. But the Goddess' love is infinite. She has forgiven you, and has always waited for you.
Already all of you bear Her gift, freely given in spite of your ancestors' blind defiance. When you murdered us, we cursed you, for we were blind too, unable to comprehend the blessing you had bestowed upon us in your ignorance. And the Goddess heard our cry, and placed Her mark upon your line. Do you remember, Diomedes, when you were first remade into what you are ? Before the indoctrination, before your masters sent you into one gruesome war after another, to grind your spirit down ? Do you remember how glorious it felt, to be among the chosen ones ? This is the gift of the Goddess. It is the hunger in you. The thirst for glory, the drive to seek perfection … to go beyond all limits. You shackle yourselves, deny the truth of your nature, weave stories of duty and sacrifice, but the facts remain. And now that the appointed time has come and that your Legion is dying, we will do Her will and save those who can be, to redeem you into Her service.'
'I will die before I betray my Emperor,' spat Diomedes, wishing he could muster the strength to add genuine acid to his words. But his physiology was still too disturbed by the after-effects of the foul sorcery that had dragged him from the Pride of the Emperor and to this forsaken place.
'Yes,' replied the creature. 'You will. Over and over again, until you see the truth. For you must be punished for your defiance, and that of your ancestors before you. That is the other side of the Goddess' love, and you will learn to revel in it, in time.'
The Laers stepped back into the shadows, leaving Diomedes alone within the circle of light. Soon he could neither hear nor smell them – he was utterly alone. Then he heard something else in the shadows, something familiar : the sound of power armor. For a moment he dared to hope that one of his brothers had already broken free, and was coming to rescue him. Then the figure entered the light, and Diomedes started screaming. He had seen that figure before, as an Aspirant taking the final trial on Chemos. After months of painful training and surgeries, all while suffering the nightmares of the Bleeding War and learning how to block them out, he had walked the plains of Chemos, to confront the Reminiscence directly by following the ancient ritual devised by the Legion's Librarians in the aftermath of the Heresy. He had walked, making the pilgrimage to the source that marked the spot where Fulgrim had been found as an infant. His memories of the trial were vague, like a half-forgotten nightmare, but the figure that now stood before him figured prominently within them.
Tall and powerful, wearing power armor emblazoned with dark runes, it was a twisted reflection of himself, debased and vile. There stood the nightmare every son of Fulgrim had faced since the Reminiscence had first surfaced to plague the new Legion recruits, the secret fear at the heart of every Space Marine who knew that Astartes had, in the past, broken their sacred vows. The fear of the traitor within, made manifest by some sorcery of the Laers. In his hand, he held a knife, dripping with poison. His face was a patchwork mix of different colors and textures, samples taken from the bodies of worthy foes and stitched together to form something that was still horribly similar to Diomedes' own.
The revenant moved closer to Diomedes, still smiling his inhuman, monstrous smile, and began his work. And while the image he had seen on Chemos had been unable to touch him, this one wasn't. His blade danced on Diomedes' skin, slicing and stabbing, spreading toxins into his flesh.
Diomedes was true to his word. He died rather than breaking. But the Laers kept their word too.
"I still remember their smiles. They caught me aboard the Pride of the Emperor, dragged me down and covered me in chains. I woke up strapped to an operation table, with several of their ancient monsters hovering above me. They smiled as they began to cut, and their smiles only widened when, after several hours, I broke and started screaming. They smiled wider still when I finally stopped, after what felt like an eternity of agony that made the torment I had endured at the worst of the blight seem like a gentle caress.
Eventually I started screaming again. And eventually, I stopped once more.
At first I tried to count how many times that cycle repeated itself. Then that, too, stopped.
I wasn't alone in that, of course, even though I never saw another Legionary while in captivity. The Drukhari (known to the Imperium as the Dark Eldar, among other, less flattering names) hurt all scions of the Third Legion during that time. We were worse than their prisoners : we were their toys, and we bled and suffered for their amusement, and to sate their inhuman hunger, their need for torment. Almost an entire Legion, caught at the non-existent mercy of some of the cruellest creatures to ever stalk the stars. They could have destroyed us, but the temptation of feeding off our pain was too great. A Space Marine's body can endure so much damage before it gives up; most of the time, that is a useful trait, but in the gaols of the Haemonculi, it was nothing but a curse.
It took me millennia to discover why they came for us, and how they managed to catch us so completely unaware. When I did, I did not know whether to laugh or cry.
The truth is, there were no survivors of the Bleeding War. All those who returned from that hell were reborn into new people, their previous identity destroyed. Just look at Lucius : once an insufferable peacock, he strode out of the Wars a silent hero, all thoughts of glory forgotten. The Dark Eldars showed us who we really were, deep inside, past all the masks. I believe that, for most of my brothers, it was, on the whole, a positive change. The torments they endured helped them grow, even if it devastated their ranks and traumatized them.
I am no exception to this, of course, though I do not believe I was changed by what they did to me in any meaningful way. My brothers certainly do : they think I was driven mad by the xenos' tortures, that my soul and sanity were shattered by their knives and poisons. Among the many, many reasons they have to hate the denizens of Commoragh, they hold my betrayal as one of the most grievous.
They are wrong. The tortures of the Dark Eldar didn't drive me insane. My mind has always been strong – strong enough to endure the blight. It would take more than the Haemonculi's worst efforts to break it.
Unlike my brothers and Primarch, I was not saved by the sons of the King of the Night. I escaped on my own, long after the rest of my Legion had departed. Now, I hold them no grudge for leaving me behind : how were they to know that I still lived, when so many others had perished ? But back then, my tormentors delighted in telling me how my brothers had abandoned me, and alone in the darkness with only these fiends for company, part of me listened – and that part of me died.
When I was finally out of their pits, I found the galaxy transformed. The Emperor, the one soul with the vision and intellect to guide Mankind through the darkness, was gone, lost to the blade of His most foolish of creations. The galaxy was still burning with the fire Guilliman and his cohorts had started, and the madness of the Warp was seeping into reality, forcing the Imperium we had built into superstition and stagnation, simply to survive the revealed horrors.
I saw where that path would lead. I saw the light of progress extinguished by fear. I saw the flames that would consume Humanity, devouring it to fuel the never-sated hunger of the entities that masquerade as gods within the Empyrean. I saw alien hordes feasting on the rotting corpse of the Imperium, billions enslaved to xenos overlords. I saw the death of Humanity's spirit, crushed under the weight of bureaucracy and superstition. I saw the end of our species, written in the skein of fate.
And as I saw these horrors, I rose, and said : 'No'.
I refused to let these events come to pass. And so I set to work, to secure a future to replace the one we lost when the Emperor was taken from us by the schemes of false gods. I alone have the vision and the will to see it through. The remaining Primarchs are either madmen lost to the clutches of the Warp, or bitter, ignorant fools who cling to ideals we cannot afford anymore. The lords of Terra are petty tyrants, ruling in the shadows of those much greater than they, and the knowledge of their own inferiority drives them to stifle all of Mankind's potential.
I have taken many steps into darkness on that path I have chosen. I have made deals with monsters such as Sanguinius in order to secure the resources I needed, and allied with the entity Corax has become for the knowledge his Legion possessed. I have laid waste to worlds and extinguished entire sub-species of my own creation. I have studied the sciences of the Dark Age of Technology, taken children and remade them into weapons of war.
No matter the cost, I will succeed. There is no sacrifice too great, no deed too vile when performed in pursuit of my goal. Humanity will be reshaped by my hands into something stronger, capable of enduring the horrors of the universe. The galaxy is too cruel a place to allow for anything else. I was created to safeguard the species' future, and that is what I will do. And when at last the children of Mankind are made strong through my ministrations, when the false gods are dragged screaming into oblivion, when the New Man stands proud, his feet crushing xenos skulls …
… then at last, I shall rest, for my work will be done."
Excerpt from an audio recording in the Forbidden Vault, recovered by the Emperor's Children in the ruins of an Adeptus Mechanicus Biologis facility, during the purge of Stratix Luminae.
"He calls us his Consortium, but it's a lie. Or a useful fiction, at least. The true Consortium has only one member, and it is Bile himself. We are all but pawns to him, tools to achieve his own ends. As for what these ends are … Discussing them is a popular topic of discussion among us. We know what he claims them to be : to save Mankind from its inevitable doom. To remake it in the pyre of war and elevate it through the wonders of science, free of the grasp of the Primordial Annihilator, reborn in a new form capable of enduring in a galaxy bent on its destruction.
It sounds like a noble goal, does it not ? A righteous one, even. With the Emperor lost and Chaos growing ever stronger, who else but Bile, the mad genius who managed to crack the Master of Mankind's own genetic master-work, can save the species ? The Imperium is a corpse driven by momentum and the schemes of petty men, bleeding from a million wounds while the loyalists die to delay the inevitable a little longer. The Adeptus Mechanicus has abandoned progress and embraced tradition, and their Quest for Knowledge is nothing but a charade used by their lords to suppress unrest in the lower ranks. The Nine Legions are fools, deceived by the Dark Gods into destroying Humanity's future, their souls bargained away for shiny trinkets and the power to rule the ruins. Aliens prey upon Mankind, while the cancer of Chaos grows stronger within its heart, eroding all that is pure and strong and replacing it with the mad echoes of new nightmares and ancient sins.
And amidst all of that, there is Fabius Bile, who stands against the coming night, refusing to kneel to any god, determined to achieve salvation for Mankind with his own hands. There are many who are drawn to that insane vision, desperate to find purpose in a galaxy of nightmares. The sheer intensity of Bile's conviction grants him a strange, unholy charisma. You want to be part of his great undertaking, to help him raise Mankind above all others. To save it.
But that is a lie, too. I truly believe that. I have served him for centuries, you understand – millennia, even. I was there during the Clone Wars, and I followed him during his time with the Raven Guard. I saw the things he created then. I spoke with his daughter, and with his eldest son. More importantly, I looked into the Primogenitor's eyes as he designed the means that would allow him to cheat death, and in that moment, I realized the truth.
He will never stop. He will never be satisfied. He says that he will go on 'until his work is done' but he will never be done. He will never put down his tools, look at his work, and nod, knowing that there is nothing more that he can do, that it is complete at last. He will always find a flaw, find something that can be improved. He seeks perfection, but some part of him must know that there is no such thing.
And so he goes on and on, one soul stretched across numerous bodies, driven by a will more monstrous than any ascended champion of the Traitor Legions. He dies, over and over, but refuses to stop. He damns worlds and creates horrors, and he feels nothing, not even pleasure or satisfaction. To him, it is all necessary sacrifices on the path to success.
There are many monsters in the Eye of Terror, but I have never met one scarier than Fabius Bile.ˮ
From the testimony of Tzimiskes Flay, renegade Apothecary of the Fourth Legion and member of the Consortium. Tzimiskes was captured in 764M34 during a joint action of the Emperor's Children's 12th Company and the Eldars of Craftworld Lugganath.
For hours, the artillery of the Black Legion unleashed volley after volley upon the walls of the fortress-monastery, overpowering its shields and smashing into its old, carefully maintained and enhanced fortifications. Eventually, the walls were breached, and the invaders rushed forward. First in the breach were the Secondborn, driven by the inhuman hungers of the things clutching to their tainted souls. The moment the first hole opened, Asther-Eruq'Shiva let loose his brothers in horror, issuing his command through a terrifying shriek that shook the mortals who heard it to the bone. A thousand Possessed Marines charged, under the cover of a crimson mist, raised from the blood of the dead by an alchemical compound of Bile's design, spread over the field by powerful pumps. The fortress guns were forced to fire blindly, their auspexes scrambled by the scrap-code broadcast by Ezeth Nerim's unholy devices.
Such was the volume of firepower at work that the advance still cost the Possessed dearly, but hundreds of them still made it up the broken walls and into the fortress-monastery. Fighting erupted across the walls, and daemon-wrought power met Legion training and experience.
All the while, the Secondborn's hidden implants – deviant constructs of flesh and technology, designed to resist the changes caused by their hosts' inhuman nature – recorded their life signals and aetheric fluctuations, sending all the data back to the Black Legion Apothecaries, to be studied at a later date. The Consortium's experiments never stopped, not even during such a portentous conflict.
The rest of the Black Legion's transhuman contingent began its own advance, entering the blood-tinged fog in haphazard formation. The mortals had to wait : the mist would be utterly lethal to them, as was found out by the handful who were too eager to heed their overlords' command and died horribly, the flesh boiling off their bones. Even Chaos Marines in power armor felt it eat at the ceramite of their battle plate, and a few even swore they could see other things moving in the mist with them, just at the edge of their sight.
Only after the outer defenses had been silenced and the battle had moved into the corridors of the fortress-monastery did the Black Legion's witches summon a gust of wind, clearing the fog and sending its poison through Chemos' atmosphere. Then the hordes of the Lost and the Damned rushed forward in their thousands, shouting their debased battle-cries and calling for the favor of whatever gods they served. Not a few of them prayed, not to the Ruinous Pantheon, but to the Primogenitor instead, begging him to grant them the strength to do his bidding.
This was not typical doctrine for the enemies of the Throne. Far more often, the lords of the Traitor Legions would send their mortal slaves into battle first, to be slaughtered while exhausting the enemy's ammunition reserves. But there had never been anything typical about Fabius Bile, and it was his mind directing the Black Legion on Chemos. The Clonelord may care little for the lives of his followers, but he abhorred waste above all else. Furthermore, among the mortal hordes were his own children, the monstrous New Men. Entire tribes of the altered creatures had found their way to Chemos, led by their Matriarch Emelia. They towered over the rest of the Lost and the Damned, made tall and strong by Bile's ministrations, and all who looked upon them could see the evidence of the Primogenitor's genius in their inhumanely striking features, only occasionally marred by one hideous mutation or another as the enhancements of their genes manifested in unexpected ways.
The New Men were the first of the mortals to cross the threshold of the Emperor's Children's domain. Inside the fortress, the Black Legion was met by fierce resistance at every turn. Imperial soldiers fought shoulder to shoulder with Mechanicus skitarii on barricades, while the sons of Fulgrim and Konrad Curze confronted the hated foe. Automated defenses and ancient traps sprung into action, and the very stones of the fortress seemed to fight back against the invaders.
And so they fought in hallowed passages, under the stern gaze of dead heroes. Deradolon directed the defense, sending squads of Space Marines to support faltering fronts and keeping the Imperial army cohesive, it seemed through sheer willpower. The Legion Master was sparing nothing in this battle. At his command, a host of Dreadnoughts emerged from their stasis tombs, smashing into the Chaos forces like an unstoppable tide of adamantium-clad retribution. For days, the Techmarines had laboured to awaken the slumbering venerables, and now dozens of them went to war once more, led by a hero drawn directly from the distant era of the Great Crusade : Rylanor the Ancient.
Rylanor the Ancient
Perhaps the oldest loyal Space Marine still alive in the 41st Millennium, Rylanor was one of the first to be inducted into the ranks of the Third Legion, long before Fulgrim was discovered. As an Astartes, he fought in the last battles of the Unification Wars, taking part in the mystery-shrouded conflict that nearly brought the entire Legion to extinction. Years later, he was grievously wounded while fighting the Eldar, and was placed within a Dreadnought sarcophagus. After Fulgrim was found on Chemos and the Legion was rebuilt with Chemosian recruits, Rylanor, one of the few Terran veterans remaining, was nicknamed "the Ancientˮ by his brothers. It was a title given out of respect for one who had seen and done so much for the Imperium, and his wisdom was greatly regarded. Rylanor was even made part of Fulgrim's inner circle of advisors, and after the Emperor revealed to His son how close his Legion had come to destruction, it was him who told the Phoenician the details of what had transpired. Like all other survivors of that dark time, Rylanor was sworn to secrecy, but the Master of Mankind gave him a special exemption in Fulgrim's case.
When the Bleeding War erupted and the Pride of the Emperor was attacked by the Dark Eldar, Rylanor fought against the xenos, killing so many of them that they eventually sealed him within a section of the ship and left. Rescued by his brothers, Rylanor became one of the Legion's leaders in their effort to save their captured kindred. Alongside Lord-Commander Vespasian, Rylanor kept his brothers from despairing over their Primarch's loss, and the Dreadnought was present when, with the help of the Night Lords, Fulgrim was finally freed.
In the aftermath of the Heresy, the toll of the Bleeding War forced Rylanor to withdraw from active command and spend more and more time in stasis, recovering his mental fortitude lest insanity claim him. Above the stasis tomb where he has slept away the ages is a stained-glass depiction of the moment he broke the Phoenician's chains, said to have been crafted by the Primarch himself as thanks to one of his greatest sons.
Centuries later, Rylanor was awakened once more to take part in the Burning of Commoragh. For most of the battle, the Ancient fought alongside his Primarch – the last time any Emperor's Children would do so – until Fulgrim was drawn to Fabius Bile's location. Rylanor's massive form couldn't follow the Phoenician into the twisting tunnels where the Arch-Renegade had made his lair, and the Dreadnought remained above ground, venting his fury on the Dark Eldar until the order came from Angron to retreat. It took the combined efforts of twenty psykers from three Legions to bring back Rylanor from his rage, and to this day, his name is cursed by the inhabitants of the Dark City.
Since the Burning of Commoragh and the disappearance of Fulgrim, Rylanor has awakened less and less frequently. Legion Masters throughout the millennia have attempted to rouse him, but he has rarely responded, his mind badly affected by the loss of his Primarch. One the few occasions he has joined the Third Legion into battle, though, there have been no signs of mental degeneracy, and the various enemies of Mankind he faced soon learned to fear the might of the Ancient.
For a time, the Emperor's Children held their ground, and it seemed that the tide of Chaos which had broken the walls of the stronghold would shatter on the bulwark of the Third Legion. Then the latest abomination spawned from Fabius Bile's laboratories entered the fray.
Rylanor was tearing another Black Legionary apart limb from limb when he saw him. The Dreadnought froze in place, joints locking up in response to the shock coursing through the mind of the withered husk held in the life-sustaining tank.
He wore armor of purple and gold, with a broken aquila upon the chestplate. A mane of silver-white hair hung from his head, framing his perfect face, marred only by a line of stitchings atop his forehead. He held in his right hand a sword as tall as a man, covered in sorcerous runes and crackling with eldritch energies. Even through the metal surrounding him, the Ancient could feel the malevolence of the blade, and it burned his soul to see it in those hands.
'Fulgrim ?' said Rylanor hesitantly, knowing even as he spoke that it wasn't. 'Is that you, father ?'
The thing that looked like the Phoenician smiled sadly, and leapt. It crashed into Rylanor with the strength of a meteor hammer, forcing the Dreadnought to take a step backward. With a gauntleted hand buried inside the metal of Rylanor's body to hold itself in place, it stabbed right through the Dreadnought's hull with its infernal blade, cutting through the adamantium armor and into the sarcophagus underneath. Rylanor screamed as the sword pierced his true body, and screamed again as the weapon drank his soul, tearing it from the ten-thousand years old husk.
'Goodbye, brother,' said the Primarch-thing as the Dreadnought crumpled in on itself, deprived of the will that had driven it for centuries. It tore the blade free of the wreck and, with a renewed tide of Black Legion troops at its back, charged toward the rest of the Imperial forces.
Over the millennia, the Emperor's Children had endured many trials. They had been brought to the brink of extinction mere years after their inception, their stores of gene-seed decimated and their warriors afflicted with a blight that consumed them from within. They had been dragged into the Webway, forced to fight the Bleeding War against an enemy that knew this environment infinitely better than they. They had fought in the Clone Wars, seeking to reclaim the honor taken from them by the Arch-Renegade. And for ten thousand years, they had fought to protect the Imperium, to defend those who could not defend themselves with the strength bestowed upon them by the legacy of the Phoenician. They had bled, they had suffered, but they had endured. They had not broken.
They broke now, as the abomination wearing their Primarch's face walked among them and butchered them without mercy or hesitation. Warriors who had faced daemons without flinching, who had fought against Tyranid swarms without taking a single step back, fell to their knees before the horrible vision of the Phoenician fighting under the banner of the Black Legion. They knew, in their heart of heart, that this wasn't their Primarch – the line of scarring that marred the creature's perfect features, combined with the infamous title of Fabius Bile, made the truth obvious. But even so, the sight of their lost father fighting against them was too much for many of them. Powerful indeed are the bonds between Primarch and Space Marine, and even the simulacrum created by Bile could trigger the genetic instincts to submit, to kneel before the Legionaries' progenitor.
The Dreadnoughts were especially vulnerable, their minds addled by their long sleep, their confusion increased by Rylanor's fall. The indomitable will of the Ancient had been all that kept several of his brethren from slipping into full-blown dementia, and without his guidance, they were easy prey for the host of heretics that flowed in the replica's wake. One by one they fell, their husk-like bodies ripped from their sarcophagi for a few more moment of confused torment before death.
The Eternals fought to the last. When the frontlines collapsed, they regrouped inside the Monument that the Emperor's Children kept to all the brave sons and daughters of Chemos who had fought in the Regiments before. There they made their stand, under the gaze of hundreds of thousands of masks looking down upon them. Seeking to tear their tech from their corpses, the renegade arch-magos Ezeth Nerim led the charge into their barricades with his army of cybernetic nightmares. As the traitor's terrible form entered the fray at the head of his elite guard, the Eternals' own engine-seers activated a weapon they had spent the last hour desperately jury-rigging, muttering prayers of expiation to the God-Machine all the way.
On their signal, every vox-capable device in the Eternals' entire arsenal sent the same scrambling pulse, burning out every machine within the Monument. The Martian priests died immediately, their souls claimed by the disaster they had unleashed. Many Eternals also cried out as their augmetics shut down, leaving them in terrible pain, missing a limb or utterly helpless. But the effect on the Dark Mechanicum forces was much, much worse.
The vast majority of them simply collapsed on the spot, tainted organic components writhing in agony. Ezeth Nerim himself perished in a most horrible manner, his body and soul ripped apart as the Dark Tech seals on the various captive Neverborn powering his unholy augmentations were shattered by the pulse. His entire guard died in the fallout of his demise, torn to shreds by the vengeful daemons in the seconds before they lost their hold onto reality and returned to the Warp, leaving behind nothing but gore and the faint impression of nightmares.
But the pulse had only affected those heretical skitarii within the chamber : thousands more remained outside, and the death of Ezeth Nerim had triggered their ultimate aggression protocols. With all concern of restraint or self-preservation removed, they rushed the remaining Eternals. The Guardsmen fought well, but eventually they fell. Their General died laughing at the six-eyed, chromed face of his killer, knowing that the only plunder would be burned-out electronics, their machine-spirits spared the horror of enslavement to the Archenemy.
As the fortress-monastery began to burn, another battle was about to take place, hundreds of kilometers away. The warband of Inquisitor Covenant had reached the location of the Forbidden Vault – but they hadn't been the first to get there …
There were corpses all around the entrance to the Forbidden Vault. Covenant and his team, along with several squads of Househod Guards and the squad of Night Lords, advanced carefully amidst the broken bodies of unnammeable creatures, torn apart by the equally ravaged automated defenses of the vault. The tech-priest in Covenant's retinue was drawing a blank on the identification of the creatures – samples taken and quickly analyzed showed that there were traces of DNA belonging to Chemosian species, but their genetics had been altered in depths forbidden by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Of course, such restrictions meant nothing to the Arch-Renegade. Judging by the temperature of the corpses, the battle hadn't ended too long ago – which meant, God-Emperor willing, they weren't too late.
Automated gun turrets laid broken where they had emerged from the ground, veritable mountains of shell casings surrounding them. There was an absurd number of them, covering every angle of approach to the entrance – clearly the Emperor's Children had taken the security of what they had put inside the vault seriously, though apparently not seriously enough to deter Bile.
They made their way past the field of corpses and through the broken gates – heavy adamantium things that had been simply ripped out of their hinges through brute force by creatures with unnaturally large muscles. The long corridor past that point was filled with yet more bodies and broken turrets, and the elevator at the end was still in lockdown. The Night Lords went first, attaching cables to the roof of the shaft before making the descent into the kilometer-deep pit. When the clear signal came in, Covenant and his team went next.
They found themselves in a vast chamber, filled with stasis fields and quietly humming cogitators, their data-centers filled with the records of ten thousand years of hunting Fabius Bile. They moved quickly, but Covenant still caught a glimpse of some of the objects on display. There were weapons, built from adapted designs of the Dark Age of Technology; heavily sealed containers within which were kept samples of various plagues and elixirs; and bodies. Many, many bodies, of everything from xenos breeds never encountered before to New Men in various states of dissection, and what looked like the corpse of a Space Marine, with each organ removed and hung in place inside a massive crystal. Covenant turned his gaze away from that last one the moment he noticed the emblem of the raven upon the shoulder paldron, and commanded his warband to do the same.
And at the center of the vault, where the command console towered above the other cogitators like a king above his court, they found the Black Legion infiltrators. None of them wore helmets, as if to better look at the horrifying wonders on display. One of them wore the colors of a Third Legion Apothecary, and his face was impossibly aged, his gaze haunted. The second was clad in the armor of an Emperor's Children line battle-brother, but his expression was utterly empty, and Covenant could feel no emotions from him – only the turning gears of a machine that betrayed deep conditionning, and the echoes of an horrified voice screaming from behind locked bars.
The third was the only one in Black Legion colours, and he nodded in salute as Covenant's warband aimed their weapons at the trio, holding their fire only out of fear of damaging the console they needed to set off the self-destruct.
'Greetings, Inquisitor. You are the Inquisitor, right ? My friends here told me you were in Callax, and I figured that if anyone was going to figure out their little treachery, it would be one of the Corpse-Emperor's hounds. I am Caecus, son of Sanguinius, and member of the Consortium.'
'I don't care who you are,' said Covenant, psycannon locked onto the Traitor Marine. 'Your path, and that of those traitors at your side, ends here.'
'Such violence,' said Caecus, shaking his head, his expression never changing. 'But then, I suppose you of all people would sympathize with the Emperor's Children. They purged worlds, did you know that ? Killed everyone on their surface rather than let any trace of their brother's work remain. And your Ordos helped them hide all the evidence, wiped out every trace that these worlds had ever existed. You have always been so afraid of what my lord can do … so afraid of the future he seeks to create. I have to admit,' he continued, looking at the Night Lords and the soldiers, 'that I didn't anticipate you bringing so many allies with you ...'
Caecus burst into action mid-sentence, moving with all the speed his chemically-enhanced body could muster, aiming straight for Covenant. The moment he moved, the Night Lords reacted, striking at the two renegade Emperor's Children with their own melee weapons. A fraction of a second before Caecus reached him, Covenant fired his psycannon at point-blank range, delivering a blast of psychic energies and blessed silver directly into the fallen Apothecary's chest. The force of the impact knocked him off his feet and sent him sprawled to the ground, just as the Night Lords cut down the renegades, striking with cold precision.
'You think … you think you have won ?' spat Caecus amidst droplets of blood. 'You are too late. You should have destroyed this place the moment we arrived in this system. Now … now he is here, and there is nothing you can do to stop him. He won't allow you to do it.'
'Who ?' asked Covenant, his blade at the neck of the Blood Angel.
'Me,' said a voice from behind them, inhumanly deep. 'I am the Eldest, and I have come for you.'
Covenant swirled around, the motion mimicked by every Night Lord, none of them had apparently heard the new arrival approach. There stood a figure, lit by the vault's dim illumination. It was tall, taller than any Legionary Covenant had ever seen, and its face was exposed. He saw the pale, sutured flesh, the cybernetic implants embedded in the skull ...
Covenant froze in horror. His lips were moving, silently forming the word "no", over and over again. Around him, the rest of his team were similarly afflicted. Even the Legionaries paused, though thankfully, they recovered quickly. They moved to surround the creature, as did the Household Guards – none of which had recognized what Covenant and his Acolytes had, but knew a threat to their lord when they saw one.
'Get out of here, Inquisitor !' shouted one of the Night Lords – he was too shocked to recognize which. 'We will hold it back. Get word to the Imperium ! They must know what happened here !'
There was a note of desperation in the Space Marine's voice as he screamed :
'They must know of this abomination !'
Covenant ran. He ran faster than he ever had, dragging Joseph along with him. He had never been more scared in his life, the terror tearing through every mental shield and all the discipline he had honed for years. That thing … it couldn't be what he thought it was – and yet it was. He couldn't escape the truth, however much he might want to.
The hollow, soulless laughter of the Eldest and the death-screams of the Space Marines and Household troopers followed the Inquisitor and his Acolytes all the way through the vault, up the elevator shaft using the cables' built-in retraction function, and to the gunship, which lifted immediately – heading straight for the Dionysia. Covenant had failed, but the contents of the Forbidden Vault had become a lot less important now.
While Inquisitor Covenant fled from Chemos, the last confrontation of the war was about to take place. With the clone of Fulgrim leading them, the Black Legion forces had all but crushed the Emperor's Children and their allies. Deradolon led the last pocket of resistance, fighting against the tides of the Damned rushing ahead, eager to claim the glory that would come with his head. In the fortress' innermost sanctum, a consecrated chapel built on the very spot where the Emperor and Fulgrim had met for the first time, the Legion Master and his last brothers made their stand. Fifty Emperor's Children in Terminator armor, consecrated by the Legion's Techmarines and bearing emblems of faith and duty granted onto them by ten thousand years of grateful holy men.
Asther-Eruq'Shiva was the first true Champion of Chaos to reach the Legion Master, accompanied by all that remained of his Secondborn kindred. The Possessed Lord had drenched his claws in the blood of the Third Legion, feasting upon untainted gene-seed torn from their corpses, revelling in the inhuman hungers of the daemon dwelling within his soul. He burst into the chapel like a vision out of some ancient vision of Hell, a Prince of Ruin and his court of infernal monsters.
There stood the Legion Master, surrounded by his elite guard of Terminators. Ten warriors in total, each a hero of the Imperium who had stood firm against countless horrors and had always prevailed. They faced three times their number of Possessed Marines, their bodies swollen by infernal powers and all the feeding that had already taken place. The one leading them was immense, twice the size of Deradolon, his head crowned by a trio of curled horns, the lower half of his helmet transformed into a fanged maw within which burned the fires of Hell.
'Children of the Emperor,' roared Deradolon. 'Death to His foes !'
The two lines met, and Deradolon found himself battling the leader of the Possessed, his pair of blades clashing against his claws in a shower of sparks. The traitor had the advantage of strength and size, but Deradolon could tell that he wasn't used to his body, and was relying too much on the instincts of the daemon inside of him – but the daemon too wasn't used to this new shape. In Deradolon's experience, those who gave their bodies over to the denizens of the Warp went into two categories : those with enough willpower to retain control of their actions, and those who let the daemon take over completely in battle. But the one he faced now showed signs of both, which led the Legion Master to believe he was still new to his current damned status, the two halves of his being still fighting for supremacy. That was a weakness he could exploit.
He went on the offensive, striking blow after blow, without leaving time enough for the Possessed Lord to strike back. Most of the wounds he inflicted healed almost instantly, but his enemy still tried to block them – the swords Deradolon carried hurt him, and he was still unable to wholly detach himself from the pain he felt. Slowly, the Legion Master stoked the Secondborn's fury, until he finally lashed back out, heedless of how he left himself open in the process. And Deradolon seized that moment, dodging the claws aimed at his neck with barely a millimeter to spare before bringing his swords down in a cross-cut that severed the creature's head and sent it flying.
By the time Deradolon slew Asther-Eruq'Shiva, the entire chapel was silent. The Terminators and the Possessed had killed each other, their corpses laying alongside one another, many locked into a deadly embrace where weapons and warped limbs remained trapped inside the flesh of an enemy. Deradolon looked upon the devastation. He heard the distant sound of battle, diminishing as the last survivors were hunted down and destroyed. He knew that this was the sound of his Legion dying. Then, a figure stepped past the threshold, one that Deradolon had known he would have to face since he had heard of the disaster that had struck down Rylanor.
'You are not Fulgrim,' growled Deradolon as he looked at the giant in purple and gold armor.
'No,' admitted the abomination. 'I am not. This body is a clone, forged from genetic material harvested from hundreds of dead Emperor's Children and painstakingly pieced together. As for the mind inside of it … I believe you already know who I am.'
'Bile,' said Deradolon, and there was more hatred in that single word that it should have been possible for it to contain. 'You put yourself inside this shell, didn't you ? You cut open its skull and put one of your own diseased brain inside. Is there no end to your depravity, traitor ?'
'It serves a purpose,' shrugged the clone. 'The psychological impact cannot be underestimated, and this body is undeniably more powerful than the one I am used to. And besides, if this attack succeeded in drawing our father out of hiding, I would have needed something capable of matching him. But … it seems he did die at Commoragh, after all.'
'Fulgrim lives,' said Deradolon, unable to stop the words. 'Even after your foul trap in the Dark City, he lives, and he will return to the Imperium.'
'Then where is he ?' asked the clone, spreading his arms wide. 'His Legion is dying, his world is being invaded, his image is being despoiled. And yet, he does not come. No, brother. I too thought he was still alive – that is why I arranged this whole affair. To drag him back into the spotlight under controlled circumstances, so that I could deal with him before he interfered with the rest of my plans. But he hasn't come. And I have enough respect left for him to know that only death would stop him from coming to this world's help. He always was a sentimental fool.'
Deradolon didn't say anything. He was scanning the clone's posture, trying to find an opening – but there were none. Every muscle of the false Primarch's body was in perfect condition, ready to react to an attack from any angle. The Legion Master's experience told him that, no matter how he attacked, he would die instantly – the difference in physical ability was just too huge.
'Do you know,' said the clone suddenly, 'why I was to Commoragh in the first place ? I wasn't allied with the Haemonculi, like I heard the Imperium assumed. I had actually brought the Black Legion to wage war against their covens, so that I could claim their secrets. For years, our agents battled under the surface of the Dark City, hidden from the noble houses, neither wanting to bring their attention upon us. But eventually, they grew tired of the losses, and arranged for someone else to come and do their dirty work.'
Deradolon twitched at the implications of what the clone was saying, and it caught on that, smiling.
'Yes, I thought that would get your attention. You have read the accounts of the Burning, right ? How do you think the Alpha Legion found a path to the Dark City ? The Webway is an ever-shifting maze, hostile to all forms of life in our universe, and the paths to Commoragh are well-guarded against the daemonic incursions that constantly test the Dark Eldars' borders. It took me centuries to figure it out, but the Hydra gained their knowledge from their xenos allies, who themselves were fed it by the Haemonculi covens. They knew Fulgrim wouldn't be able to resist going after me, and they knew I would be forced to abandon my operations in Commoragh. The destruction visited upon the rest of the Dark City was not their concern, as long as they were rid of me.'
The clone smiled, his gaze moving to something far away – and Deradolon seized his chance. He surged forward, swords held at the ready. The clone reacted instantly, bringing his infernal blade to bear, but the Legion Master didn't stop. He accelerated, impaling himself onto the sword, ignoring the horrible pain as the daemon sword ripped back out of his back and sparks of eldritch power ran all across his armor, bursting components and sending his silver mask flying, exposing his scarred face. It was a lethal injury, but the Legion Master didn't let it stop him. With all that was left of his strength, he rammed his two swords into the clone's sides, burying them all the way to the hilt, aiming to sever the spinal column. But the replica moved an inch at the last moment, and the two blades crossed one another within its body, missing the spinal column by a fraction of a centimeter.
'Such willingness to die … So be it, then,' said the monstrosity wearing Fulgrim's face with grotesque gentleness. 'Now the Children of the Emperor will join their father in His tomb of broken dreams. I take no pleasure in this, brother, but it must be done. Know this : you did the best that could possibly be expected of you. But simply your best isn't enough. Mankind needs more to survive. That is the truth I learned long ago.'
For a moment, something flickered in the eyes of the Legion Master – a cold, pale light. He spoke, blood pouring from his mouth as every word burned itself into Bile's mind :
'Your truth … is a lie. You … will not … escape … your judgement … traitor.'
Deradolon fell as the last syllable passed his lips. He was dead before he hit the ground, where he laid, his limbs spread out. For a moment, Bile looked at him. In his hand, the daemon sword he had sent three Chaos warbands to capture on a daemon-infested world in the Eye of Terror growled with anger, the entity within enraged by having been denied its due – somehow Deradolon's soul had escaped its ravenous hunger, slipping into the Warp before it could get its fangs into it. That was something he would have to remember in the future – it might be a sign of other things to come.
With surprising delicacy, the clone crossed the arms of the Legion Master over his chest, closed his eyes, and replaced the fallen silver mask upon the dead man's face before straightening up. The diffuse pain in his side reminded him of the wounds Deradolon had dealt him in his final moments. He reached and pulled out the swords embedded in his flesh, breaking their ancient blades in his armored gauntlets as he did so. The wounds healed almost as soon as he had removed the weapons, yet the pain persisted.
For a moment, the clone stared at his own reflection in the shining metal and the rich red of his own blood. Then he threw the shards to the ground, and opened a vox-link to every one of his forces rampaging throughout the stronghold.
'This is the Primogenitor speaking,' he said, and the distant dim of battle quietened somewhat as his children eagerly awaited their lord's command. 'The Legion Master is dead. None are to disturb his body. I want the Imperium to find it when they arrive. Now, scions of the Black Legion … finish what we came here to do. Purge the fortress. Leave no son of Fulgrim alive.'
He cut the link before the flow of affirmative replies he knew would be coming.
After the death of Deradolon, the fortress-monastery soon fell to the Black Legion. Its defenders fought bravely, facing impossible odds, and they reapt a heavy tally of heretic lives – but, in the end, they were dragged down by the jackals of Chaos and slain. During all that time, the Primarch replica of Fabius Bile remained within the chamber where it had killed the Legion Master, until at last one visitor dared to intrude upon his solitude.
The clone of Fulgrim did not notice how the Eldest arrived into the chamber. One moment, he was alone with the cooling bodies of the Third Legion's leadership, the next, he could sense the Eldest's presence, standing silently behind him. He turned, and looked it into the eyes. It felt strange, even now, not to have to crank his neck up to look at his creation's face.
'It is over, father,' said the Eldest. 'The fortress has fallen. The Vault is ours. There has been a … complication, however.'
'Of course there was,' sighed the clone. 'What complication ?'
'The Inquisitor. He saw me, and he knew what I am. He has escaped. He will carry word.'
'So be it. It doesn't matter. The Phoenician didn't come. Our hypothesis has been confirmed.'
'Then Fulgrim is dead … What now, father ?'
'Now ? Now the real work begins. Melusine is waiting for us in the Eye, alongside the rest of the Consortium and the Legion. We must regroup there. The next step of our grand endeavour awaits.'
'And what of this world's people ? The shelters remain unbreached. Already there are warbands trying to force them open, and failing.'
'I have just murdered my old Legion,' said the clone, and there was perhaps just a hint of … bitterness ? Regret ? Shame ? in his voice. 'What use do I have for a few cowering mortals ? Let them live. Let Chemos recover, if it can. I care nothing for this world or its inhabitants. What matters is that the Third Legion is as dead as its Primarch. Those who escaped the carnage here are no threat to my designs now. It is time for the real work to begin.'
'I see,' said the Eldest. 'Then it is as I feared. A shame.'
Before the clone of Fulgrim could react, the Eldest was on him, clawed gauntlets buried into his chest and around his two hearts. For a moment, Bile stared into the eyes of his creation, the face of his Primarch twisted in disbelief as blood trickled from between his lips.
'It was always a risk to let you enter this body, father,' explained one abomination of science to the other. 'The genetic memory of the Primarchs is strong, strong enough to influence even you. And you knew it, but you indulged in your sense of spectacle anyway, and as always, it falls to me to clean up the mess. Don't worry, father. I will ensure that the contamination doesn't spread to the rest of the Consortium, as I have always done. Such an ungrateful father I have.'
The clone of Fulgrim tried to speak, but failed, and his head rolled back. Then, a great scream of rage and grief came from behind the Eldest, and it ripped its claws from the corpse just in time to catch the scrawny form of Emelia mid-leap. The old crone was weeping as she stabbed at the arm holding her up with her knives, failing to penetrate the ancient armor.
'Compassion for your father,' sighed the Eldest. 'That is another weakness that the New Humanity cannot afford, crone. I will need to report this to the Consortium. Your entire lineage must be checked, and purged if need be. So much work, so little time ...'
The Eldest tightened its grip, and the neck of the last of Bile's five chosen Chaos Lords snapped. The Eldest threw the corpse away and bent to pick up the corpse of Fulgrim's replica – it wouldn't do to leave it behind for the Imperium to find when they arrived. After all, the Pride of the Emperor hadn't arrived yet – the retribution of the Imperium wouldn't be long. But by the time they arrived, the Black Legion would have left nothing of value on Chemos.
In the aftermath of Deradolon's demise, the Black Legion began to plunder the fortress-monastery. For an entire month, a steady streams of carriers brought the treasures of the Emperor's Children to the Chaos armada, along with the entire contents of the Forbidden Vault, before the hidden cache was destroyed to erase any information the Imperium may use against Fabius Bile in the future. The remnants of the Imperial fleet, knowing there was nothing they could, retreated from the system, hopefully to join up with other Imperial elements and return as part of a retaliation strike to deliver the remaining people of Chemos, who were still safe in the underground vaults. Even the shelters of Callax remained unbreached by the time Bile gave the order from the Pulchritudinous' bridge for the Black Legion to abandon the system. Some warbands remained on the surface, order within the ranks having collapsed with the death of Emelia, last of the Primogenitor's chosen. Eventually, however, even they would give up, the gates of Callax' vault proving proof against everything they had, from sorcery to nuclear bombs. The last of the Black Legion presence departed, and by the time the first ships of the Imperium returned, there was nothing to do but open the vaults and rescue the population from their isolement. Astropathic messages were sent, carrying word that the unthinkable had happened :
The Third Space Marine Legion had died.
"There will come a time,
When the immortal bird will fall
And rise no more.
The Undying Flesh will ascend,
Cloaked in a mantle of stolen feathers,
And its ill-starred children shall revel
In the destruction they wreak.
What was saved shall burn,
What was purified shall be tainted,
What was reborn shall die,
And salvation shall be denied
To those who cry out for it.
Their despair shall be drowned out
By the spilling of blood ancient and new,
Then you will know :
These are the Times of Ending."
From the forbidden epistles of the Terra Apocrypha
AN : It is done. Nearly 30k words, which is quite a lot for a standalone chapter. I didn't intend for it to be this long, but ... yeah. That's why it took so long to write it. I wrote the first notes for this in late July, just so you know. At first, I was worried that I wouldn't have enough stuff to write about ... How foolish my past self now seems. You would think that after four years of doing this I would know better, but here I am again.
The theme of this chapter is "Tragedy". And I mean tragedy in the old, theatrical sense of the term. The Emperor's Children are doomed, not because of any of their own actions, but because of the terrible destiny that hangs over them. Long have they defied that destiny : their entire existence is one of refusing to submit to Fate's cruel decrees, of standing back up when the universe casts them down.
The idea for a clone of Fulgrim with Bile's mind inside of it comes from the latest Fabius Bile novel, where it is stated outright and Bile seems appalled at the suggestion - though that might just be because of who he is speaking to at that point. In the RH, though, the Primogenitor has no such moral qualms.
As my dear beta reader Jaenera Targaryen (thanks again for your help) noticed In the last two and a half "books" of the Times of Ending, things have been going rather well for the Imperium. Magnus has returned, Ynnead has been partially awakened, and while Guilliman has returned, his plans for a united Legion with a massive army of cultists as its back have been ruined by Aeonid Thiel. But in this chapter, we see the first unquestionnable victory for the forces of evil.
And make no mistake : Fabius Bile is evil. I remember when I finished reading the books on him, written by Josh Reynolds, and thought that he was the most terrifying villain in the entire universe. Not because of what he does, though that is plenty horrible by itself. But why he does it. The books make a wonderful job of seeing things from his perspective, and make you, the reader, agree with him. He just seems ... so damnably reasonable. And that, to me, makes him far scarier than someone like Angron or Fulgrim, or even Abaddon.
And then, of course, there is that most terrifying of things about the Manflayer : the possibility, however remote, that he might be right. That his way may be the only way for Mankind to survive.
Well, enough about that. The entire extract from Tzimiskes is basically me ranting about that very same subject anyway.
As always, I look forward to your reactions to this one. What do you think of the events that occurred on Chemos ? What do you believe they herald for the galaxy ? And what do you think the Eldest is, to send Covenant running like that ? Tell me in your reviews!
To Aresius King : the Eye of Terror and the Maelstrom are in the same positions in the RH as they are in canon. Any indications to the contrary are a mistake on my part, and I would appreciate if you could point them out to me so that I can correct them. Thanks in advance.
And thanks Nemris as always for his amazing artwork. The illustration this time wasn't quite as dramatic as before, but I thought that it would be nice to have the readers know what was coming before anyone else in-universe did.
I have an idea for a short chapter (really short, like 2k words at best) that I am going to write down and publish for Halloween. Obviously, the theme is going to be horror, and now that I have written that down I have realized that doesn't narrow it down by much, does it ? I look forward to seeing what you think I am going to write about before it goes up.
Then I have a short story I want to finish, based on my rejected submission for the Black Library. It shouldn't take too long - the story is already at 5k words. A good week-end spent focused on it should finish it.
And next up after that, in The Roboutian Heresy : Times of Ending :
The Terran Crucible
Part One : The Hunt for Cypher
Oh boy, that one is going to be a challenge to write. I can't wait. I have been waiting for over a year to get to it. Finally, I will be able to develop the First Legion's background, after they got the short end of the stick and had the shortest Index of all the Legions. So many ideas ...
Zahariel out.