Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 164
The first Plaguebearer stood in the dome, drinking in the heady scent of a world yet to be corrupted. Vast continents of verdant fecundity, billions of innocents, all waiting to experience the rapturous torments of the Grandfather. So much life to defile, so much purity to sully, it was an irresistible draw for Daemonkind, and it hungered to begin.
Damchak stood aghast, feeling the fetid vapours wafting through the gate brush his face through the rent in his helm. Putrid and rank, the raw essence of Nurgle, the merest brush made flesh curl in disgust, rejecting the promises of putrefaction. He had thought the corruption he had seen previously to be the true face of Chaos, only now did he realise it had been a mere shadow on the wall. This was the distilled truth of the Warp and it was vile.
The Plaguebearer let out a wheezing roar as it lifted a sword more rust than iron and charged on bandy legs. A Smoke Jaguar lifted his Obsidian Blade to counter but the sword cleaved through without resistance, carrying on to bury itself up to the hilt in a chest. A Kinsman's life lost, Damchak gasped, a noble son of Copan cut down like a mewling babe. That was only the start, age piled upon the dying Marine, the curse of years compressed into seconds. Ceramite grew brittle and cracked as skin and bone withered and organs rotted. The Progenoids, the precious legacy every Marine carried, dissolved into liquid slush, which dried up in moments. When the Plaguebearer pulled back its sword only a pile of faded Ceramite fell to the floor, spilling dust from every crack.
"Avaunt!" Damchak shouted as he threw himself at the Daemon, leading with his power claw. The Plaguebearer's response seemed languid but somehow it lifted its sword to parry. The energised field met rusty blade in a crash of disruptive power, flaring as it struggled against entropy itself. Damchak whipped his Obsidian Blade under the tangled weapons, opening the Daemon's guts but the blow barely made an impression. Intestines spilling from a ragged gash in the belly the Daemon pressed the attack, drawing back the rusty sword to swing wide.
Damchak was forced to retreat, lest his head be separated from his shoulders. Again the Daemon struck, making the Smoke Jaguar back peddle furiously. Every step seemed slow, lazy almost and yet the slashing sword was everywhere, coming at him relentlessly. Damchak's world shrank, his focus keen as a laser. There was only the sword, only his desperate attempt to stay alive. He danced on the edge of obliteration, feeling the ground give way beneath his feet. So when a blurring Chainglaive swept in to decapitate the Plaguebearer Damchak was most surprised.
"Quit running and start fighting!" Vorshaan barked at the amazed Smoke Jaguar.
"The worm-faced fiend of the night turns his hand to good fortune?!" Damchak spat.
"We don't have time for Frakking poetry!" Vorshaan spat, "The warp is summoned, this world is doomed. There are only two options: bring down an orbital barrage to obliterate this city or kill the summoner. If you don't want to watch all your Brothers die then help me kill Empex!"
Vorshaan turned and bounded away, leaving Damchak stunned. More Plaguebearers poured through the gate, jostling each other to touch reality. Against them a narrow line of Smoke Jaguars fought, so few, so very few and yet aided by disorder. Dark Tusks too were being assailed, the Daemons unable to tell friend from foe, or uncaring. Madness, utter madness was loosed and the corruption was spreading. The floor was black with furry mould, the walls riddled with holes that grew as if being gnawed and stained glassic fell from the roof, its mortar turned to slurry.
Into that madness Damchak tore, chasing Vorshaan's heels. They passed embattled Space Marines fighting for their lives, but the target was more important. Empex, the traitorous Chapter Master, standing with his arms wide, bathing in the foul glory he had unleashed. His hands had ripped the veil, his will had broken the laws of the Materium, and he revelled in his evil deeds. Empex gloated, while his Brothers died to the atrocity he had wrought.
Vorshaan reached him first and dove in, Chainglaive roaring. Empex reacted with blinding speed, swinging his flail across his body to deflect the blow. Instantly Vorshaan was spinning, bringing the taloned end to bear. Empex avoided the blow by stepping into it, smashing bodily into the Dusk Prince and driving him back with his bulk. Vorshaan was thrown backwards, boots screeching over the decaying flooring, leaving a momentary gap between them.
Into that gap Damchak drove, slashing for the head with his claw. Empex was exposed, his attention elsewhere, yet somehow he saw the blow coming. The Dark Tusk met crackling talons with his flail, unleashing a blaze of warp power. Damchak's arm shook with the reverberations, but his will was unbroken. He feinted with his Obsidian Blade then struck with the claw, lashing for the flank. Again and again, a frenzied torrent of blows, as fast and deadly as any he had ever struck but none of them penetrated that spinning web of defence. Three seconds they traded blows, then Empex showed his true power.
A cloud of white spores spilled from that flail, spreading rapidly. Damchak knew well the power of that miasma and doubted even Space Marine physiology could withstand it. To breathe in those spores would spell death but not without reason was he First of Umbral Flame. A plume of black fire shot from under his claw, blasting into the cloud at point-blank range. The fungal matter went up in a bonfire and backwashed heat scorched the exposed skin of his scalp. Damchak dared not relent, emptying his reserve, bathing Empex in flames. He burnt away the spores, but the Dark Tusk was not unmade, emerging from the conflagration with black wisps clinging to his frame.
"You think this matters?!" Empex roared, "You are nothing compared to the power of the warp, nothing!"
"A slave to madness you are!" Damchak spat.
"It is mad to deny the facts of existence, all things must die, this is the truth of life!"
"You die first!" Vorshaan snarled as he bounded back into the fight.
Three Space Marines enjoined in combat, unleashing a flurry of blows and counters too fast for a mortal eye to track. Damchak strained himself to the utmost trying to keep up with the pair, stabbing and slashing as best he could. Around him the fight raged, Chainglaive and flail made blurs in the air. Vorshaan was faster and far more skilled but Empex was engorged with warp-power, his blows deadly and endurance indomitable. Damchak pushed his body to the limit, breath hoarse and ragged in the lungs, his twin hearts thunderous in rapidity. He attacked for all he was worth, faster than he had ever been before, muscles screaming in protest and sinews aching at the edge of potential. He felt his veins burning with hyperadrenaline, soul aflame with the frenzy of hatred, but the cold truth was a bucket of water poured on the flames of his zeal: he simply didn't have it.
The flail came out of nowhere and Damchak was sent spinning away, his helm shattered. He fell to the floor and ripped it away, only to find the fight raging without him. Vorshaan and Empex were dark blurs, striking and dancing about each other in a dazzling display. All around Plaguebearers and Space Marines fought, the dome ringing with cries of fury and hisses of promised extinction. The Arroyo gate throbbed as the mortal soul bound within screamed for death and the Daemon Chzugral laughed in scorn at his pleas. The fetid odour of Nurgle grew ever more present, spilling out of the dome into the city beyond. All was calamity and woe, the fight consuming all, so Damchak alone was looking upwards when a shadow fell over the dome and the groan akin to timbers parting cut through the din.
A moment of silence as living and Neverborn paused to see what could cause this. Through the gaping holes where windows had once been loomed a figure, a crenellated bastion of sharp towers and stumpy guns. It was perched atop broad shoulders and an iron-masked head hung low between them. The Imperator Titan Crimson Death, leaning over at a perilous angle. The rot of Nurgle had spread further and faster than anyone could have guessed, clawing its way up the shin bastions of the Titan to touch the legs supporting the Imperator's mass. Refined Adamantium crumbled to dust and the right leg gave away as one of the greatest sights of the galaxy was born: Titanfall.
The Senatorial dome imploded as the Imperator's hip ploughed through it, the noise as if the world itself was splitting apart. A mere glancing blow as the Titan toppled, but enough to shatter the dome into the hollow below. Crimson Death fell face-first into the mass of Nu Zantium, obliterating defensive bastions as it rolled over, toppling down multiple levels to slam into the armies below. Tens of thousands died in that moment but Damchak had more immediate concerns. The roof was falling upon his head, tile and stonework falling as hail. Razor-sharp splinters gouged his scalp, a rock bigger than his head smashed into his broken pauldron, shattering his left shoulder joint and the torrent of broken masonry just kept coming.
Elsewhere disaster reigned supreme. Plaguebearers were buried under debris, as were Smoke Jaguars and Dark Tusks. Lives ended, Kinsmen lost and yet Damchak had no time to mourn. Vorshaan disappeared into a cloud of flying grit but Empex stood amongst the rain, arms raised in rapture as destruction multiplied. He rejoiced in tragedy, entropy his joy and catastrophe his delight. All was woe and he was enthralled by it.
Damchak rose painfully lurching towards the Dark Tusk with a drunken gait. He heard wicked laughter, the first merriment Empex had uttered, but Damchak set his will. Falling stone slammed into his back, bowing his knees, splinters gouged his face and head, making a mask of blood to replace his helm and his shattered shoulder was a vice of agony. Grit flew into his eyes, sandpaper rasping over his irises as choking dust stopped his nose and coated his tongue and throat in cloying mud. Thunder assailed his ears and his legs shook as the floor danced at every impact. Still he pressed on, stumbling through the hailstorm of stone, eyes fixed on his prey's back. The justice of Corax called him on, a light so pure in its blood-hue. The shade of the Dark One lent him the fury of vengeance, strengthening his back and driving his feet on. No wound could stop him, no disaster could stand in his way. Damchak walked with the spirits of the Ravenlord and the Dark One, united long enough for him to stumble into Empex's back and drive his claws into the spine.
The universe shuddered as the blow slipped home, causing Empex to fall to his knees, legs no longer responding. The web of spells the heathen had wrought suddenly flapped free, slipping from his grasp and the winds of Nurgle abated as the summoner's will faltered. Still broken masonry fell from on high and Empex looked up, eyes burning in his helm, "This changes nothing, the hunger of the gods is endless and they will have their due. You, this world, the galaxy... everything dies... you all will die!"
Damchak drew back his good arm, "The shade of Q'umarkaj awaits, to teach you there are worse things than death." Damchak's arm swept but once and Empex's head came free of the shoulders. The Dark Tusk's life was ended and he fell among the piled debris, white spores spilling from the opening of his neck. Justice was served and the revenge owed repaid in full. Instantly the battlefield shifted, the Arroyo gate thrown into flux. Despite standing inviolate among the rain of stone its matter contorted, writhing as it sought to survive. It couldn't, the spells were broken and yet it sucked warp power into itself, the Daemon Chzugral seeking to cling to reality a moment longer. It robbed its brethren of the tide of warp-power sustaining them, greedily devouring every mote of energy in the room, leaving the Plaguebearers flopping like beached fish.
Damchak didn't see it, he fell to his knees, broken inside and out. His strength was stolen, his vitality spent and his left arm hung uselessly at his side. He felt drained, his animus spent utterly. He'd done it, he'd avenged Q'umarkaj, and yet found no solace in the deed. Later he would taste vindication, and steel himself with the knowledge of a Gaes fulfilled but for now it was all he could do to keep from falling over and passing out.
The crunch of a boot on gravel intruded as Vorshaan loomed overhead, Chainglaive in hand. The cur had survived, he always survived and he seems pleased with the death of his rival. "So you did it, I am impressed, you must be the luckiest son of Mastiff ever born... but luck has never been enough in this galaxy. So, tell me Damchak, would you like me to kill you fast or slow?"