Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 141
With his wrists shackled by heavy chains and wings bound by thick cords Vorshaan was marched from the Thunderhawk. Stern faces greeted him, lines of hate-filled eyes, bolters tracking every movement. The Dusk Prince saw Squads of Black Templars assembled to escort him, each and every one of them ready to pull the trigger and end his life. Normally such mundane threats would not cause him trouble, but there were an awful lot of them.
The morning sun was breaking over the landing grounds as Vorshaan alighted. His helm had been removed, letting the cold air tickle his skin as the smells of exhaust and unwashed bodies rammed up his nostrils. As far as the eye could see shuttles disgorged tanks and transports, fuel bowsers and ammunition pallets. Larger craft brought down heavy equipment, and the horizon was cut by the enormous silhouettes of Titan coffin-landers. Men and material enough to conquer a world was flowing through this basecamp, it almost reminded him of the heady days of the Great Crusade.
"Move scum!" Farthan's voice snapped as the haft of the Chainglaive whacked Vorshaan's rear. The Dusk Prince tried to look defeated, head low and arms heavy. It wasn't easy, to appear weak went against four thousand years of habit, but he contented himself with the knowledge all these fools would be dead soon. The Daemon puppeteering the Black Templar's body had breezed past any questions with a tale of harrowing battle and hard-won victory. Taken in by cunning lies the Black Templars had retrieved them from some battlefield, bringing him straight to their Marshal for execution. Perhaps if they had Librarians they could have scented the deceit, but the Black Templars eschewed psykers, the Emperor's moronic Edict of Nikaea yet again crippling the Imperium's best efforts to thwart Chaos.
Between the twin lines Vorshaan was marched, Farthan's armoured boots squelching in mud. Vorshaan was mildly concerned his gaolers would strip his armour from him, but they seemed in a hurry, eager to deliver justice. More fool them, Vorshaan gloated. Ahead rose an orbital drop-fortress, or a parody of one. Long ago such bases had been stark and functional, but the Imperials had turned it into a grotesque celebration of death, replete with skulls and gargoyles. The Night Lords were no strangers to macabre decoration, but this was amateurish, children playing at being scary.
No soul spoke to the Dusk Prince as he was marched into the atrium of the Invasion-Cathedrum, a shadowy cavemouth where monsters lurked. Stained armourglass displayed icons of long-dead heroes and scenes of Champions slaying Daemons. Grinning skulls leered down from vaulted arches at hundreds of lapdogs, swelling the number of Black Templars present to three hundred, plus another fifty Dark Tusks. Numbers Vorshaan hadn't counted on, but he'd faced worse odds in the Eye of Terror.
Two mighty lords awaited him. Bezharad, Marshal of the Black Templars, grim and foreboding, his armour covered in a red tabard and a mighty power mace set head down on the marble floor. Next to him stood a lean figure with haunted eyes and a feral aspect. He carried a heavy flail in his hands, its bronze orb crackling with caged lightning. Empex, Chapter Master of the Dark Tusks, come to witness Vorshaan's execution.
"Kneel!" Bezharad commanded as soon as Vorshaan crossed the threshold.
"If it's all the same to you I'd rather stand," Vorshaan quipped.
"He said kneel!" the Daemonhost snapped as a boot caught the back of the Dusk Prince's knee.
Vorshaan had to remind himself that Chzugral was playing a role as he went down. The Marshal and Chapter Master loomed over him but Vorshaan snorted, "Not very honourable, to kill a helpless man."
"You have done a thousand times worse," Empex hissed.
"A million," Vorhsaan smirked, "I have done things you can't imagine."
"His weapon," Farthan said as he handed the Chainglaive off to a waiting Dark Tusk.
"You have performed admirably, Brother-Sergeant," Bezharad declared.
"He killed my whole squad, before I took him down," Farthan's voice retorted.
"Wasn't hard, you fight like babes in arms," Vorshaan jeered.
"You should speak carefully when surrounded by bolters," Empex growled.
"Death is coming either way," Vorshaan sniffed, "May as well make my last words memorable."
Bezharad's grim countenance hardened further, "You will have no last testament, no resounding words for the ages. Your fate is to die by my hand and be quickly forgotten. This is not a trial and you have no defence to make. You cast aside any such rights when you betrayed the God-Emperor!"
Vorshaan snorted in derision, "God-Emperor?! Your god would strike your head from your shoulders if he could hear you. He hated faith and belief in all forms, he razed worlds to the bedrock for regurgitating such nonsense. The Emperor denied all Gods, and you built a temple in his name! You are everything he hated."
Empex hissed, "And yet Gods do exist, you know this."
Vorshaan nodded, "True again, Chaos is real, he knew it, he lied. The Emperor was false with us! If he had been honest then things may have been different, but he chose to deceive everyone and here we all are."
"Enough," Bezharad growled as he took up his mace, "Your words mean nothing and your execution is millennia overdue."
"Well then," Vorshaan sighed, "We'd better get on with it."
"Accept your deserved punishment," Bezharad growled as he hefted the mace.
But Vorshaan cocked his head, "I wasn't talking to you."
A blur in the corner of the eye saw a bronze flail crash into the Marshal's flank. A thunderous peal of discharging energy and Bezharad was flung away, armour smoking along his right side, hitting the ground in a din of Ceramite on marble. Stunned silence swept over the atrium as Empex spun about, even Astartes' senses struggling to process the shocking scene. Fear did they not know but disbelief and denial were powerful impediments to action as the Black Templars struggled to comprehend this turn of events. More than enough time for the Dark Tusks to bring their bolters to bear on their erstwhile allies and open fire.
Vorshaan threw himself to the floor as the terrifying din of mass reactives striking Ceramite battered his ears. Armour cracked and blood flowed from enormous wounds as the Dark Tusks gunned down their brothers-in-arms, taking vicious delight in blowing heads apart and making merry ruin of chests. In seconds they cut down their own number. They were spiteful in their executions, pouring bolts into those already dead, disfiguring corpses beyond recognition. Surprise was on their side, treachery was theirs to wield, but they were still outnumbered six-to-one.
Bellowed oaths of retribution and condemnation carried over the roaring of bolters as the Black Templars recovered their wits. Even as they were battered by close fire they charged into the fray, casting aside ranged fire to sink their blades into traitor hearts. Chainswords chewed through armour, Transhuman blood made the floor slippery and in the atrium two breeds of former friends became the most bitter of enemies.
Vorshaan could barely see, rolling over and over to avoid being trampled. Boots slammed into the floor as Space Marines wrestled, trading blows in a furious scrum. A heel caught Vorshaan's temple and snapped his head back, causing him to regret not having his helm, but he spied what he needed. His Chainglaive, laying upon the floor. The Dusk Prince rolled over, suffering several more kicks to the back and belly but got his hands on his weapon. He wrapped his chain around the head then gunned the motor, allowing the spinning teeth to shatter his bonds. His wings were a simpler matter, he casually burst the cords with a shrug, that also propelled him to his feet.
Vorshaan arose in the heart of madness, caught in the clash of Transhumans. Dark Tusks grappled with Black Templars, all former comraderies cast into ruin. Hatred was in every heart, ancient loathing set against vindictive ire. No anger compared to that born of treachery and Vorshaan scented it on the air. With every life ended the rage grew, every wound exchanged driving rusty nails into the soul. There was no coming back from this, no forgiveness, the deed was done and all that remained was blood. Vorshaan intended to reap his fair share and then some.
The Dusk Prince spied a pair of Black Templars beating down a Dark Tusk. He was there in an instant, ramming his weapon beneath a backpack to tear out the spine. The other lapdog spun to attack but Vorshaan was already advancing, Chainglaive held laterally to slam into a faceplate. The helm snapped backwards and the Dusk Prince leaned away for space, whipping his weapon about so the talon at the end tore through the soft neck seal.
He had no time to celebrate for another pair jumped him, chainswords revving. Vorshaan deflected one, but suffered a jarring blow to the breast that tore a furrow in his plate. The confines were too tight for him to use his wings, his arms hampered by crushing bodies to either side, but he was not undone. As the Templars barrelled into him he triggered a neural-impulse, allowing a hidden blade to spring from his right boot. A kick to the groin saw him sever the femoral artery of one foe, a wound even Larraman cells could not clot. One enemy down, but the other was attacking while he was trapped.
A flash of bronze from behind caught the Black Templar and down he went with the skull crushed. Empex stood behind, the traitorous Chapter Master swinging his flail around to clear room. Vorshaan leapt to meet him, slamming back-to-back, fighting to hold the wall of bodies at bay. They had never sparred or trained together, and yet they held ground as one, sweeping blows casting foes to ruin.
"Ten years!" Empex growled, "Ten years have I awaited the day of revelation!"
"Glad to oblige," Vorshaan snorted, "It does no good to hold back."
"Too long have Nurgle's pestilent gifts laid dormant, too long have I worn a false face. Now all see my true nature, now the gods themselves know my name!"
"Gods can wait, we have more immediate problems!"
Through the clashing melee a roar of hate arose, fired by outrage and betrayal. Marshal Bezharad arose from his slump, weapon in hand, his form radiating wrath, his bearing promising a storm of retribution. His home had been defiled, his Brothers stabbed in the back by those they called allies, for this he would be avenged. Bezharad's mace swung once and a Dark Tusk fell broken, another swing and another life claimed, a third gesture and the forces of ruin numbered one less. Bezharad carved a path towards the arch-traitors, inexorable and unstoppable. As Sigismund of old he fought, deadly and focused, all other thoughts cast aside in pursuit of his chosen target.
"Gods Below, I thought he was dead," Vorshaan snarled.
"Bezharad is hard to kill," Empex hissed, "And the numbers do not favour us."
"Numbers are meaningless," Vorshaan retorted.
"My Brothers die, not yours!"
"They bought us time: behold!"
While the melee raged Farthan had retreated to corner, or rather Chzugral did. Unnoticed by all the Daemon unleashed its power, reshaping the host body into a new form. Armour clattered to the ground as Farthan's form stretched upwards, becoming elongated and thin. Bones pulled like rubber bands and sinew was rewritten as Chzugral doubled in height, then bent over. Thin as a whip now, flesh running as water, the Deamon curved over and touched the floor, forming an arch six metres high in the air, or rather a doorway. Chzugral was an Arroyo, a channeller of warp essence, a mobile portal into the heart of Nurgle's gardens, and when it unleashed its power a connection was formed.
Fetid air blasted out of the archway, causing the marble floor to turn black and the nearby walls to weep pus. Brass tarnished and the stained armourglass became encrusted with filth. Space itself tore in the archway, revealing a vista of ruinous decay beyond. A garden, rank and sweating, with fury mould clinging to every bough and bubbling swamps that swam with unholy life. In the distance lurked a mansion, and Vorshaan averted his gaze, knowing what dread horror dwelt within. He had no wish to be drawn into the realms of Nurgle, but then the realm of the Grandfather was coming to him.
A hulking shape loomed in the doorway as something vile stepped through. Bloated and oedematous, with stick-thin limbs but an engorged belly. A horned head with a single eye, and a rusty sword held in taloned fingers. It stank of rot, of dead bodies left to ripen in the hot sun, with flies birthing inside pestilent wounds. Its existence was a crime against reality, a Plaguebearer Daemon and it was not alone. More stepped through the Arroyo gate, dozens, scores, hundreds, sent straight from Nurgle's presence to defile the holiest ground of its enemy.
Instantly the battle shifted, Black Templars recognising the cosmic threat and turning to engage with cries of abjuration on their lips. Chainswords and bolt pistols clashed with talon and rusty blade, as Bezharad bellowed catechisms of banishment over the clamour of battle. Vorshaan found himself in the rare position of being forgotten and decided to make the most of it.
"Call Thunderhawks for evac from the spires," Vorshaan barked.
"But the fight is here!" Empex protested.
"The Daemons will finish them off, we don't want to be here afterwards."
"The truths of Nurgle cannot be denied, beautiful depravity unfolds!"
"A supernova is beautiful too, but you don't want to be near one when it goes bang! If you want to meet your master today, go ahead, but I intend to live beyond the next five minutes!"
Vorshaan didn't give Empex time to argue, turning his back on the battle and sprinting for the stairs to the highest spire. Traitorous Dark Tusks followed, a score that had survived, trailing in his wake. Behind the loyal sons of Sigismund confronted the foulest ranks of Chaos, giving their lives to stem the tide. Such a noble battle, such courage and honour, such futilely. The Daemons wouldn't be stopped by blade nor bullet, they would obliterate all opposition, then take out this base, then the continent, maybe even the planet in time. Vorshaan didn't care but he had known the Black Templars couldn't resist throwing their lives away for a hopeless cause, it had always been their way. So he left them to die, taking his treacherous allies with him. With a stroke he'd decapitated the head of the Imperial army, laid waste to their logistical hub and doubled his forces in the field. All he had to do now was to escape while he could still gloat about it.