Part 3: One More, Oh Emperor, One More (Arch-Cardinal Gabriel Mossad's Perspective)
It's strange, this clarity.
The battlefield stretches out before me in ways that defy the eyes and ears of mere mortals. To them, it must seem like chaos—a tide of bodies, a fog thick enough to strangle light, and the ringing chorus of weapons firing into the gloom. But for me, it is something altogether different.
The mist isn't mist.
Not really.
It has the feel of skin, stretched too thin, damp and alive with the pulse of something massive beneath. Every ripple, every coil of that shroud seems to breathe. It's alive—not metaphorically or poetically, but alive. I can feel it, like the clammy touch of a cold, dead hand sliding across my soul.
Nullmaw.
The name isn't whispered in my ear. No, it's pressed into my mind, branded there by the millions of voices caught in the folds of that mist. They chant it, a dirge carried on a current of despair and madness.
Nullmaw. Nullmaw. Nullmaw…
It's not a name; it's a hunger, a yawning abyss that calls everything to it, demanding to consume, to devour, to end.
And the mist is only its skin.
I can see the rest of it, or maybe "feel" is the better word. It stretches down, impossibly far, into the warp. Into there. That's where the mind of it lies, a terrible, pulsating brain of darkness, laced with threads of power that surge back up into the fog, connecting it to the world of the materium. It's not just a daemon; it's a presence, a thought that has bled into reality itself.
But it's not alone.
There are psykers out there, points of sharp heat glowing against the fog's freezing chill. They're not free. They're nodes, tiny receptors plugged into Nullmaw's will like nerve endings in some vast, grotesque organism. They aren't individuals anymore, if they ever were. Their thoughts are the daemon's thoughts; their lives, the daemon's fuel. And they're doing something.
I can feel it—a thrumming, like the heartbeat of a terrible machine being built piece by piece out of raw madness.
My gaze turns back to the basilica. It glows, not with light, but with two kinds of radiance that could not be more different.
At its heart sits Aurora. She's not a girl. Not to me.
To me, she's a sun—a bright, golden beacon radiating warmth and hope that cuts through the cold, black emptiness that surrounds us. She's not here in body, but she's everywhere in spirit. Threads of her light stretch out like veins of gold, connecting to every single one of the defenders. I see them stand a little straighter, move a little faster, act as one without hesitation. It's not control. She's no puppet master. It's something far more beautiful. She gives them strength, trust, and a unity of purpose that would take lifetimes to achieve on their own.
But deeper—lower—is Jessamine.
She is light, too, but it's a cold, biting radiance. If Aurora is a sun, Jessamine is a dying star, collapsing in on itself. Her light spirals inward, feeding itself in an endless cycle, a beautiful and terrible ouroboros consuming her own essence to power the fortress above. And that machine, that chair—it's eating her, bit by bit, siphoning her spirit into raw energy that flows through the walls, the shields, the guns.
I can see her, or what's left of her. Her mind is a shattered thing, a labyrinth of broken glass and splinters that cut even as I try to perceive it. Her existence is pain, unending and absolute. But she doesn't stop. She can't stop.
It's horrifying.
It's beautiful.
But there is also a void, an emptiness in my perceptions, a blind spot, not true blindness but superimposed over my third eyes, something I'm being prevented from seeing. Aurora's ward, her lock in my mind, blocking out my sight like an eclipse. It is unnerving, and yet, if the saint wills it then I must trust it. Perhaps I should be grateful, no doubt there are a myriad of distractions that she is sparing me from.
I turn back, pulling my mind away from Jessamine.
Around her and Aurora, the defenders fight. They fire bolters and lasguns into the mist, but they're not aiming at soldiers but at puppets. The enemy is driven, their bodies little more than meat animated by Nullmaw's will. They stagger forward in waves, heedless of pain or survival, like cattle being herded to the slaughter.
And suddenly, I see what the slaughter is for, the fruits of the labor of that wretched cabal of psykers.
The corpses pile high, the dead becoming a grotesque ramp, each body one more step toward the walls. And it's not just that. Deep within the heaps of flesh, tiny tears in reality begin to shimmer as the psyker cabal lets their presence be known.
Little warp breaches, each one a spark that ignites the horror to come.
The Flesh Golems rise.
I have no words for them.
To say they are abominations feels too small, too tame. They are not alive, but they move. They are not soldiers, but they march. Their forms are wrong, twisting and shifting with every step, as though the warp itself cannot decide what shape they should take. At their hearts, the warp tears undulate, their energy binding the corpses together into a single, writhing mass.
They are not meant to kill. No, their purpose is simpler and more horrifying—they are stepping stones, lumbering monstrosities meant to ferry more bodies to the walls.
One turns its gaze to me.
It doesn't have eyes, not in the way we understand, but it sees me, more probably the psyker cabal sees me through its visage. Their presence presses against my mind, testing, probing.
"You see," it whispers, though it has no voice. "You know."
I feel a tremor pass through me, but not fear. No, what fills me is resolve.
"I know," I say.
The thing roars, and the mist convulses. My mental form—an avatar of light, with four great wings and a blazing spear—raises its weapon. I hurl it, a streak of incandescent energy cutting through the gloom. It strikes the golem's core, and for a moment, the warp breach within it collapses. The monster explodes, chunks of flesh disintegrating into ash, and for a brief instant, the ground beneath it is sanctified.
But it doesn't die. None of them can die.
The daemon watches me. It doesn't strike, not yet. It's focused on the horde, on the siege. But I can feel its malice, a shadow looming just beyond my defenses.
I glance down at the basilica again, at Aurora's light, at Jessamine's cold glow. And I know.
I am going to die here.
The thought doesn't frighten me. It feels... inevitable. Like the closing of a book. Whatever is happening inside the basilica, whatever Aurora has hidden from me, it's for a purpose. She blinded me to it, and I accept that. My role is clear.
I will stand.
I will burn.
And when I fall, it will be as the toughest cockroach that daemon has ever faced.
No more hiding Gabriel, I tell myself, throwing out every rule, every careful practice, the whole law and code of being a sanctioned psyker. Today is not about the rules, today is about making a difference, the last difference, about making it count…
I've played it safe, kept my head down, masked my presence in the warp to avoid drawing attention my whole life, much less these past ten years in this accursed underhive as the madman Trebor. But that's over now. I warned against the threat, my visions etched into the Saint's mind, my futures, the futures I was cursed to bear, honored to carry. And now, thanks to the Saint's light, I have one more use for this warp-tainted mind of mine.
I step forward, feeling the weight of my years, the weight of my failures, my triumphs, my fears, and my hopes. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. No, today is not about holding back. Today is not about living in fear of the perils of the warp. Today is about burning as bright and as long as I can…
"I am Gabriel Mossad," I declare, my voice cutting through the din like a blade, piercing every mind, every heart, defenders and aggressors alike. "Arch-Cardinal of Gilead Primus. Sworn Ecclesiarch Minister to the Holy Imperium of Man. Servant of the God-Emperor, Master of Mankind!"
My words echo, amplified by something more than sound. The defenders nearby turn to look at me, eyes wide, but I don't pay them any mind. My gaze is fixed on the enemy, on the fog that isn't fog, on the daemon that calls itself Nullmaw.
"Emperor, hear me!" I begin, and the words come unbidden, a prayer and a plea woven into one. My last prayer, my final sermon… let's make it a good one, shall we ol'boy?
"Wake O Master of the Light, and ignite Thy flame anew,"
"Cast down upon this shadowed field Thy wrathful view."
"Though darkness gathers, thick and vast, around,"
"One more spear, O Lord, let one more spear be found."
I feel the warp stir around me, a tempest that threatens to engulf me, but I hold firm. Aurora's lock in my mind glows bright, a shield against the perils that would consume me. I reach into the warp without fear, without hesitation.
My spear appears in my hand, glowing with a brilliance that matches the system's distant star. Then it splits, becoming three. My wings multiply, four becoming ten, each feather a blade of pure light. My form expands, towering above the walls, an avatar of the Emperor's might even as my words ring in the minds of every being in sight.
"Against the tide of sin, we stand and fight,"
"Not seeking solace, nor the saving light."
"But one more chance to strike against the foe,"
"One more blow, O Lord, one more blow."
I hurl the first spear, and it slices through a flesh golem, tearing it apart. The creature explodes in a shower of ichor and bone, its warp tether snapping like a frayed cord. I don't pause. The second spear flies, then the third, each one finding its mark, each one obliterating another abomination.
The daemon stirs. I can feel its attention turning toward me, a gaze colder than the void between stars. But I don't flinch.
"O Emperor, who sits on Terra's throne,"
"Look upon us here, we fight alone."
"Join me now upon this battered wall,"
"Let not these heretics see us fall."
My arms move in a blur, spears manifesting and launching in a relentless barrage. Ten arms, ten spears—a storm of righteous fury raining down upon the enemy. Flesh golems burst under the assault, thirty of them reduced to nothing more than memory and foul mist.
"We do not ask for mercy or reprieve,"
"Only that Thy justice we achieve."
"Rejoice with me in this, our final stand,"
"One more, O Lord, one more spear from my hand."
The horde hesitates. The connection between Nullmaw and its thralls wavers ever so slightly. The daemon is forced to choose, divert a fraction of its will to counter me, or maintain the momentum of the relentless tide of thralls.
I laugh, the sound echoing with a joy I haven't felt in years. "Come on then!" I shout into the void. "Is that the best you can do?"
"Though death awaits, I do not fear its call,"
"For Thy name, in truth, is all in all."
"Let faith be spears, yet my mind be steeled,"
"One more spear, O Lord, let it fly afield!"
The daemon's presence presses against me, a tidal wave of malice threatening to crush my spirit. But Aurora's lock holds strong, and I stand unbroken.
"Emperor, if you can spare a moment," I say, grinning fiercely. "Join me. Let's give them a fight they'll never forget. Come! Come! Surely running the whole of the Imperium is a tedious thing! Come! Come! Come, sit here on the wall and throw stones with me upon these scornful wretches!"
"O Master of Mankind, extend to me Thy grace,"
"Stand with me now within this holy, sacred place."
"Together we shall smite the faithless blight,"
"One more stand, O Lord, within Thy sight."
I unleash another volley, and another, each spear a bolt of pure, unwavering faith and immense mental concentration. The lower hive, far above the battlefield, lights up with their reflected brilliance, cutting through the unnatural fog, piercing the darkness that seeks to consume all.
The defenders below rally, inspired by a spectacle which, in the same shadowy way I view the materium, they see with eyes unaided by warp-tainted sight. They fire with renewed vigor, chants of the Emperor's name rising from their lips.
"Let not the shadows think they own this night,"
"For even in the dark, there shines Thy light."
"We'll cast them down into the pit they crave,"
"Upon my spear, O Lord, thy wrath engrave."
The daemon roars, a sound that reverberates through the warp and reality alike. It hurts—a sharp pain lancing through my mind—but I don't let it stop me.
"Feel that?" I shout, hurtling another volley of spears. "That's the Emperor's wrath! There's plenty more where that came from!"
"I ask not for deliverance nor peace,"
"But that the siege of evil now shall cease."
"With every breath and every drop of might,"
"One more strike, O Lord, please... one more flight."
The flesh golems are gone, reduced to smears upon the earth. The horde falters, the unity of their advance disrupted.
I can feel the strain now. My soul aches, the effort of channeling such power taking its toll. I feel them too, a cabal of psykers, turning their malevolent attention to me and away from the flesh golem masses they were creating. I've made myself the biggest and brightest target in the room. But I won't stop. Not yet. And in turning their minds upon me, they reveal their own position!
"And when at last my flame begins to fade,"
I shout even as below my mortal flesh catches fire, the white flames of the Emperor's wrath competing with the black and purple balefire of the warp as each side consumes me.
"Remember all the sacrifices made!"
But in targeting my mortal shell they are too late. I've left my body, never to return, never to protect, never intending to live beyond this moment. That is what they can't comprehend, the joy of sacrifice, the contentment of a martyr in the making. I am ethereal now, if only for this brief moment, and yet for the sake of those witnessing the horror of my physical form's torment I make my voice heard in the realm of the real.
"Join me, Emperor, in this final hour,"
"One more stand, O Lord, unleash Thy power!"
I raise my arms, summoning every last ounce of my own soul. A spear forms above me, larger than any before, blazing with the light of a thousand suns. I fade to nothing, subsumed, burnt away, consumed, obliterated, melded and molded. I pour into the spear every memory, every prayer, every sermon, every thing that is Gabriel Mossad, Arch-Cardinal, servant of His Wrath!
"For the Emperor!" I roar, and hurl all I have left straight into the heart of the fog.
There's a moment of silence—a heartbeat where everything hangs in the balance. Then the spear strikes, and the fog recoils, ripped apart by the force of the impact. The daemon's scream echoes through the warp, a sound of rage and pain as a dozen enemy psykers detonate in a thunderclap of holy fire.
The psychic backwash is immense, the horde stumbles, then falls, reduced to crawling, scraping, limping, dragging themselves forward. The Mist begins to dissipate as pain, a new feeling for one such as Nullmaw gives the great daemon pause, confusing its control, its psyker surrogates neutralized.
I watch it happen, somehow. Somewhere, from somewhere just above the ashes of my physical body I watch, I linger. I am dead, and yet I am not gone, not yet. My arms fall to my sides and I sit heavily on the rampart, kicking my feet over the edge, staring out beyond the recoiling mist, beyond Sector Sigma, beyond the skin of the world, through the heart of the planet, through and beyond the Gilead System, to a beacon, a golden light. A golden light that makes me weep to look upon it.
"Now take me home, my duty at its end,"
"Into Thy arms, my soul I now commend."
"Let this last act be one that turns the tide,"
"One more time, O Lord, stand at my side."
I feel myself fading, my consciousness unraveling as the warp energy consumes me. But there's no fear, only a profound sense of fulfillment.
"Thank you," I whisper, whether to the Emperor or Aurora or perhaps to both. "For letting me be of use, one more time."
As darkness closes in, I see it—a vision of the Emperor, not as the distant, unfathomable figure upon the Golden Throne, but standing beside me on the wall, a calm presence amidst the storm. He stares out, over my shoulder, and his hand comes to rest on the collar of my robe, straightening it in the same familiar way my old masters used to when I was just a boy of the schola.
"Well done, Gabriel," He says, His voice gentle.
Together, we watch as the horde below falls into disarray, the defenders rallying to push them back.
And then, I let go.