Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 142
The taint was spreading quickly. Even as Vorshaan vaulted up the winding stairs he found himself racing against corruption. The stonework around him was becoming flaky and grey, its lustre fading as entropy took its toll. Skulls of hallowed servants left in alcoves were crumbling and a faint tremor under his boot spoke of dangerous things happening to the foundations. The Invasion-Cathedrum was sanctified no more, exposed to the very epicentre of the God of Decay's demesne, the fetid malignancy of Nurgle was spilling out of control.
Behind him the Dark Tusks flowed upwards, the treacherous Astartes exiting the stage of their betrayal. They radiated satisfaction at the sins they had wrought, finally casting off the cloak of righteousness to reveal the suppurating cankers that were their souls. Vorshaan would dearly wish to take credit for their corruption, but he'd only hastened their fall to Chaos, encouraging them to hide new allegiances till the moment was ripe. Chasquit IX, during the horrors of the Virus bombs, that was when Nurgle had claimed their fealty, though even Vorshaan didn't know the full details.
"Thunderhawk is en route," Empex spake as they vaulted up the stairs.
"It better hurry," Vorshaan hissed, "Things are happening faster than I anticipated."
"I feel the seeds placed in my flesh stirring to life, blooming at the nearness of the Grandfather's presence. Such enlightening pain, my eyes open at last. The galaxy shall share this revelation: all living things must wither and die."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Vorshaan muttered.
The Dusk Prince had faced the Daemons of Chaos many times and knew their peril well. He had a high opinion of his skills but against the infinite hordes of the Ruinous Powers even he could not prevail. He'd be amazed if any of the Black Templars still fought on below, and once they fell the blight would spread like wildfire. The Invasion-Cathedrum would become a palace of decay, the base around it a breeding pool of disease, the lands in all directions consumed by fecund depravity. He'd counted on having days to exploit his victory but was already wondering if leaving the planet immediately would be advisable.
Their rapid ascent brought them to a vaulted gallery, a connection between the soaring gun towers at the corners. Wide and broad, large enough for ammunition carriages to pass unimpeded and fashioned to resemble a fane worshipping war and death. Already the rot was taking its toll, causing magnificent victory banners hanging from the roof to disintegrate into moist clumps, while the frescos of blood-soaked battlefields were crumbling from the walls. Stained armourglass figures were hooded by necrotic growths, becoming grim reapers of obliteration instead of noble heroes of Imperial might. It was a testament of the power of the Grandfather to corrupt anything, and yet it was defended.
At the far end a team of serfs were taking up arms, following ingrained training to defend their home. Vorshaan didn't give them a chance to get off a shot, snapping his wings to propel himself high, as if he bore a jump pack. The wet air creased his face as he shot overhead, enjoying the sight of aghast faces below. When he landed the dying commenced. His Chainglaive swept wide, cleaving through chests and necks, his fists shattered faces inwards and the claws tipping his wings punctured jugular veins and opened throats. The Serfs were many but they were only men, Vorshaan was murder incarnate and in seconds had reduced a dozen mortals to wet rags.
Empex charged up to him snapping, "Leave some killing for us!"
"You move too slow, we need to be gone!" Vorshaan retorted.
"Years have I waited to taste the blood of the Corpse-Emperor's lackeys, I shall wait no longer."
"You stay and butcher them all you want, but I am leaving on that Thunderhawk!"
"I do not take orders from you," Empex growled, "I was promised slaughter!"
Vorshaan's eyes widened, "Looks like you get your due after all."
Behind the Traitors another force was rising from the stairs. Black Templars, chasing the Chaos Marines with hatred firing their steps. At their head was Bezharad, the Marshal holding his great mace in both hands. This Vorshaan had not counted on, he assumed the Black Templar would stay and fight with his Brothers to close the portal. Brave but futile, instead he'd sacrificed his own brethren to chase Vorshaan, casting aside all other concerns to ensure the Dusk Princes' demise. Such reckless hate, such blind fury, Vorshaan was impressed but also in danger.
Bolt pistols hammered as a score of Black Templars entered the gallery, charging headlong into the traitor's rear. Dark Tusks spun to engage but were hit by flying rounds, ceramite cratering as they stumbled. Quickly they recovered and fired back, sending a pair of loyalists to the ground riddled with holes, but then the fight became close and bloody. The clash of Ceramite on ceramite rang loud, as Chainswords made grizzly ruin and combat blades were coated with blood.
Vorshaan had no time to wonder for Bezharad was upon him. The Marshal's charge was like facing an oncoming Ambull, a mindless rush of pure aggression. The crackling mace swung for Vorshaan's head and he was forced to duck, only to find Bezharad crash bodily into him. The impact sent him backwards, feet dancing to keep from falling over. Bezharad was already pivoting, using his momentum to turn three hundred and sixty degrees and loosen one hand to bring the mace about in a roundhouse blow.
Vorshaan entertained no delusions his armour could withstand such a blow and shot upwards, using his wings to fly high. His boot projected the hidden blade and he drove the point for Bezharad's face, only to find a hand clamp about his gauntlet. The Marshal was still spinning and used his grip to heave Vorshaan out of the air, slamming the warlord face-first into the hard floor. Vorshaan's nose broke, splattering blood across his cheeks but he rolled instantly, avoiding the mace crushing his skull by an inch.
The Marshal swung again one-handed but Vorshaan pushed himself away, using the Chainglaive for leverage to snap upright. Bezharad's rage saw him draw back for another blow but Empex came out of nowhere, swinging his flail into contact. The blow caught Bezharad's already wounded flank but impossibly did not sway him. Discharging thunder rocked the Marshal but he rode it, enduring the torment with unyielding strength. Vorshaan was growing worried, he'd seen Khorne Berserkers show more concern over their injuries, but Bezharad was unbreakable. Resolution flowed in his veins, condemnation was the breath in his lungs and judgment lay upon his brow. He was an implacable destroyer, inviolable, unbeatable, as stark and brutal as the Imperium of Man itself.
Bezharad swung his mace one-handed and Empex was thrown away with his breastplate shattered. Vorshaan saw an opening and thrust his Chainglaive for the Marshal's flank only for a black gauntlet to catch it behind the head. Vorshaan blinked and then found himself heaved forward, drawn closer for a sable helm to slam into his battered face. Pain blossomed as the Dusk Prince was sent staggering, unable to redress his stance.
"Traitorous filth," Bezharad growled as he advanced.
Vorshaan backed off, Chainglaive held laterally, "You abandoned your brothers to chase me."
"They accept their duty," Bezharad snarled, "As do I."
"You will allow this planet to fall into the grip of Chaos."
"Chaos shall not have this world; I have seen to that."
"You fool, no man can halt Chaos!"
Bezharad kept advancing, "Death comes for us all, but first I will break your body so your soul shall know despair. I was chosen by the God-Emperor to teach you humility, and you have so much to learn. Your last moments will be torment so fierce that they will ring through the ages. Warbands in the deepest pits of the Warp shall hear the echoes of your screams and remember what fear is. He brought us together for a purpose. When I squeeze the life out of your lungs Chaos itself shall tremble in dread. I am the God-Emperor's instrument: let His will be done!"
Vorshaan paused, "I just wanted to kill some people and call it a day, but you are completely insane."
Bezharad snarled back, "Do not question the purity of my purpose!"
"Purpose yes," Vorshaan replied, "But blind purpose."
"Cease your prattling, prepare your soul for death," Bezharad barked.
"I can't stall him any longer, Empex now would be good!"
A shape in the corner of the eye revealed a dark arrow moving behind the stained armourglass, then a second later the windows exploded as missiles slammed home. Vorshaan threw himself aside as a Dark Tusk Thunderhawk closed in on vector thrust, filling the gallery with flying shrapnel. It had closed unopposed, the base defenders not yet knowing the Dark Tusks had turned on them, now it hovered outside, weapons ready. Tiny shards laced his cheeks but the gunship wasn't done yet. Heavy bolters pivoted and fired, tracking Black Templars across the gallery. Armoured figures were inundated with shots, torn apart by furious barrages of mass-reactives. Tracers lit up the walls and the din of constant firing drowned out the wailing of jet engines. All was thunder and destruction, then it was done.
Vorshaan drew himself up and saw the battle was done, Black Templars laying dead in all corners. A dozen Dark Tusks survived, including Empex, already hastening to the gunship which lowered its ramp. Vorshaan however took a moment to check on Bezharad. The Marshal lay in a pool of blood, his body ruptured by a score of deadly wounds. His mace had fallen out of reach and his left arm was a bloody stump. Life bled from him swiftly, but Vorshaan wanted this kill for his own.
Bezharad's voice was sickeningly wet, "Dishonour..."
"Honour is for the weak," Vorshaan sneered.
"Chaos shall not have this world," Bezharad gargled on blood.
"Could you just die already?" Vorshaan taunted as he aimed the Chainglaive for the hearts.
"I am His instrument... let His judgement fall..."
Vorshaan thrust down and carved Bezharad's hearts in two, then twisted and tore them out for good measure. The Marshal sank back, his soul sent to wherever it was uncorrupted souls went. Another rival slain, another victory for the Dusk Prince. Vorshaan ached from the fight, he hadn't been tested so in many centuries, but then the Marshal's last words sank in and the Dusk Prince was suddenly sprinting for the Thunderhawk.
"Go, go go!" he yelled as he vaulted onto the open ramp.
Empex and his brothers were climbing up the internal ladder, "We depart momentarily."
"Not fast enough!"
"Nurgle's rot will not harm his devoted."
"It's not the Daemons I'm worried about, it's the lapdogs. Bezharad put plans into motion before he died. The Imperials know a warp portal has formed here, and they know only two ways to close one. Either kill the summoner who opened it, or..."
Empex got his point and began barking orders at the pilots. The Thunderhawk banked hard, engines pushing it away as the ramp began to whine close. Vorshaan grabbed a handhold as they tore off, air whipping into the narrowing gap. They were already pulling away but still his eyes were stabbed with incandescent fury as a column of searing light fell from the sky. An orbital lance strike, ordered by Bezharad to destroy his own base. Another and another plunged from repositioning warships in space, righteous fists of heaven, reducing the Invasion-Cathedrum to rubble. The great edifice collapsed inwards, killing every living soul within and burying the Arroyo gate in mounds of debris, reducing Daemon flesh to paste.
It was not enough to guarantee the portal was shut, and Magma bombs followed, slamming into the surrounding base and demolishing it utterly. Buildings and stores and fuel depots were atomised as the land became a volcanic sea of molten rock, fuming with turgid clouds of smoke and ash. Men vaporised before they even understood what was happening, killed by their own masters, who deemed it better they die pure than see the face of Chaos and live. Hundreds of thousands died, as a ten-kilometre crater was punched into the surface of Nova Terra but still the orbital barrage came on. The Imperium knew well the risk of Chaos taint and employed insane overkill to snuff out the possibility of it spreading. Wiping out their own army was a small price to pay in the war against Chaos.
Vorshaan clung tight as the Thunderhawk struggled to stay in the air, engines fighting for lift as shockwaves tried to pull it from the sky. Every second lasted an eternity but slowly the buffeting died down. They were away, fleeing the scene of the crime, escaping into the vastness of the planet's wilderness before anyone could stop them.
Despite the unexpected developments Vorshaan counted the mission a success. He'd killed Bezharad, destroyed the Terran's centre of operations and claimed new allies. He'd expected the Daemons to spread a lot further, maybe even overrun the planet entirely in time, but they'd done enough damage to count this as a win. Vorshaan had everything he needed, he would have to adjust some plans but that was no bother. The Dusk Prince sank back against a bulkhead and let loose a wicked chuckle, he'd faced death once again and emerged triumphant. He was starting to think there was nobody in the galaxy who could kill him.