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.
I am falling.
Shadows surround me, inhabited by monsters of eternal hate and hungers, clawing at my soul with talons made of the galaxy's every sin. They seek to drag me into their realms of lies, to tear my spirit apart and feast on the bloody shreds. But I am stronger than they are still.
I fight back, even as I fall, lashing out with fire and lightning. The light of my powers burns them, forcing them back into the roiling darkness, but always others take their place.
I am tired. So, so very tired. I know my mind works more and more slowly, thoughts that should have been processed in nanoseconds taking a thousand times more to cycle through my mind. There is no need for physical rest, for I have no body here but the aetheric aspect of my soul, shaped as a one-eyed eagle with broken wings. But my mind is oh so weary.
They show me glimpses of the outside world, these enemies of mine. They taunt me with images of what the Imperium has become, showing me the misery, the ignorance, the superstition and the blind, terrified worship of my father. From the moment we put His dying body on the Golden Throne and activated that infernal contraption, I knew it was inevitable – but it still hurts to see trillions of souls pray to Him without having the slightest idea of who He really was, what He really fought for. They show me my sons, too, especially the one who wear the blood-soaked raven on his armor, and I weep for him, lost to the lies of the Blood God. He will find no victory on this path, and all the power Khorne grants him will burn him from within until he is nothing more than a withered husk, all traces of what he was and could have been long gone. How they laugh, every time they show him to me as he fights against his own brothers. How they laugh, as they show me what he intends to do.
Then there are those of my sons who are still loyal to their oaths, but whose souls are all but drowned in ancient grudges. They walk in the shadows, surrounded by the ghosts of the past, caught in an endless, self-sustaining cycle of vengeance, denying the dead peace just as the dead deny it to them. I sense a greater hand at work in their fate, a power on which my foes have no hold, and one they fear might grow to threaten them.
But this is nothing compared to the visions of my ashen dead, the silent ranks of my sons who were consumed by the flame meant to protect them from the influence of the dark. Every time one of them falls to its destructive touch, they show him to me, show me all that he was and all that he could have been, while the God of Lies laughs in the background. Each time, I weep for the cruelty of Fate against my sons, knowing it is the result of my defiance – and fully aware that the alternative would have been much, much worse.
Because even now, as the jaws of Chaos snap at my heels while I fall ever deeper into the tides of the Empyrean, I still hold hope. There are two of my sons that they never show to me, either because they cannot see them, or because they do not want me to see them. But even if they don't show my two greatest sons to me, I am not without sight of my own, even here, even now. The visionary and the avenger, walking their own paths, seeking their own ends. One driven by the search for salvation, the other burning with the pure flame of vindicta. Their destiny is shrouded to the Dark Gods, though for very different reasons.
And so I fall, and so I fight. I will not stop until the end. I will never give up, never give in.
For I am Magnus the Red. I am a son of the Emperor. I am the Crimson King. I ...
I will never be your slave.
The Siege of Terathalion
Part One : The Coming of Chaos
For ten millenia, the Thousand Sons have acted as the defenders of Mankind in the Game of Fate. Under the direction of their Seers, they have fought to preserve the Imperium from the depredations of the alien, the madness of the mutant, and the ravenous, eternal hunger of the Dark Gods. While their Primarch slumbers, struck down by a terrible curse, they labour to keep the flame of hope alive in an ever-darker galaxy. In the Prosperine Dominion, they have kept the secrets of the past safe, preserved from the rabid mania of those who would destroy all traces of ancient failures and sins. Yet within their most hallowed sanctuary is also the proof of their greatest shame, the true cost of the Rubric that shields their souls and bodies from corruption. In Magnus' mausoleum, ranks upon ranks of silent brothers stand, their minds and bodies destroyed by the power of Ahriman's Rubric, keeping an eternal vigil upon the unmoving body of their Primarch. And as the Times of Ending finally descend upon the galaxy, the sons of Magnus shall be tested like never before …
The Invisible Hand had once been a proud vessel, fighting at the forefront of a fleet that had conquered dozens of worlds. It had been created by a xenos species whose name was no longer remembered by any mortal soul, for their rise to the stars had drawn the gaze of the Changer of Ways. Tzeentch had deemed the aliens unfit for his grand design, and dispatched one of his minions to remove them from the board. Sarthorael the Ever-Watcher, one of the mightiest Lords of Change, had cast down this forgotten race, turning its members against each other until they had destroyed themselves in a terrible but short-lived civil war that had left an entire region of space a haunted graveyard. During the twenty-seven years this had taken, Sarthorael had remained in hiding, his presence undetected by his victims until the very end. Only the Invisible Hand remained of the dead race's accomplishments, stolen away by the Greater Daemon at the climax of the war, the fate of its remaining crew too horrible to contemplate. Remade in the depths of the Warp, the ship was now an extension of Sarthorael's own being and power, a daemonic vessel like few others plaguing the galaxy. Nine kilometers long, it was ever-changing, its corridors shifting without warning or pattern, while its surface bristled with all manner of weaponry that only remained for the blink of an eye before vanishing as if it had never been there. With it came other daemonships, as well as a fleet of the Lost and the Damned, cultists from all over the galaxy which had been cultivated by the Ever-Watcher for centuries and had finally been called upon to serve their feathered "god".
Sarthorael, the Ever-Watcher
Among all the daemons that serve the Changer of Ways, there are few as dangerous as the one responsible for the downfall of Magnus, and who now leads the attack on Terathalion. As a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch, Sarthorael wields considerable sorcerous power, and merely looking upon his incarnated form is enough to drive most unprepared mortals to madness. But like most daemons of Tzeentch, it is his cunning and long-term planning that make him truly dangerous. The Ever-Watcher has brought entire civilizations to ruin without ever revealing himself, whispering in the dreams of those susceptible to contact from beyond the veil and manipulating the course of history over centuries. When Magnus drew the wrath of Tzeentch by refusing the Dark God's deceitful offer of salvation, long before the Heresy began, the Architect of Fate tasked Kairos the Oracle to corrupt the First Legion instead – but it was Sarthorael who was commanded to punish the Crimson King. This punishment was a long time in coming – the entire Heresy passed by while the Ever-Watcher made his preparations. When the Thousand Sons laid waste to Fenris and scattered the Space Wolves across the stars, Sarthorael was there, helping Commander Vaer Greyloc escape from the Emperor's retribution. When the Dark Angels were trapped in exile within the Eye of Terror, it was Sarthorael that first approached the sons of the Lion with knowledge of hidden paths out of the storm and beyond the Iron Cage. Finally, more than a thousand years after the Heresy, the Greater Daemon called on these two debts, and orchestrated the first Black Crusade aimed at Terathalion. For several months, the Prosperine Dominion was caught in war as the Fifteenth Legion did battle against its ancient enemies, Magnus himself directing the Imperial forces.
Though Greyloc had appeared to be in command of the Black Crusade, the Thousand Sons had suspected another's influence from the start – for it was supremely unlikely a Wolf Lord had managed to obtain the assistance of the First Legion. Their suspicions were confirmed when Sarthorael led the raid on the Photep, the flagship of the Thousand Sons. While Ahriman was fighting and slaying Greyloc, the Ever-Watcher put a terrible curse on Magnus and destroyed the Gloriana-class vessel, striking a blow against the Fifteenth Legion from which they still haven't recovered. Sarthorael vanished afterwards, his god-given task accomplished centuries after it had been issued. Ever since that day, the Thousand Sons have hunted him, bending their farsight toward uncovering his plans. They have succeeded in ruining many of those, but the Lord of Change himself has always remained one step ahead, evading righteous banishment at the hands of the sons of Magnus. It was during this hunt that the Thousand Sons learned of the Invisible Hand, the daemonship Sarthorael uses when the time has come to reap the harvest of deceit through violence.
In the years leading to the Times of Ending, Sarthorael was once more summoned by Tzeentch, and tasked with finishing what he had begun ten thousand years before – the complete destruction of the Thousand Sons, and the execution of their slumbering Primarch …
Second in size and power to the great daemonship was the flagship of the Dark Angels presence among the Chaos fleet. The battle-barge Implacable Will had fought against the forces of the Emperor for ten thousand years. Unlike other ships of the Traitor Legions, it had never fought for the Master of Mankind. Instead, it had been forged in the secret lairs of the First Legion before the Roboutian Heresy, and its first engagement had been the Isstvan Massacre, where it had butchered the loyalist ships. In the last centuries, the Imperium had come to know the vessel as the personal flagship of Grand Master Azrael, the Lord of Lies, one of the nine Dark Angels who obeyed only the direct command of the Daemon Primarch Lion El'Jonson. Azrael had brought with him the entire Order under his command – thousands of Dark Angels Legionaries aboard dozens of ships. Never since the Heresy had the First Legion showed itself in such numbers : Azrael had called all the Captains who owed him their service to gather this host. With the sons of the Lion came their mortal slaves : massive transports packed to the brim with cultists of Tzeentch and Broken Ones, former Imperial subjects whose minds had been shattered by the cruel ministrations of the Interrogator-Chaplains. From the moment the Chaos fleet entered the Terathalion system, these vessels began to broadcast the tormented cries of the Broken Ones at full power on all frequencies, a symphony of tortured souls begging for release heralding the coming of the Dark Angels.
Azrael, the Lord of Lies
The Grand Masters are the highest-ranking officers of the First Legion, the Chaos Lords who sit only one step beneath the Daemon Primarch of the Dark Angels in the complex hierarchy of the Legion belonging to the Changer of Ways. Their names are a curse for all within the Imperium who know of them, few as those are, and each is responsible for atrocities no unsullied mind could imagine. The Inquisition has kept track of them for the last ten thousand years, learning the names of those who rose to replace those who fell in battle – or out of their dread master's favour. Among this shadowy brotherhood, Azrael is the most recently elevated. He might have only been risen to the statute of Astartes in the last millennium, or he might be a veteran of the Roboutian Heresy who finally earned the Lion's approval, or he might be something else entirely, something no one would ever suspect – no one knows for certain, not even Azrael himself. For, unknown to everyone in the galaxy save Tzeentch himself – and perhaps the Lion – Azrael's title of "Lord of Lies" is more than Imperial propaganda or self-aggrandizing. Upon being elevated to rank of Grand Master, Azrael's mind, memory and very soul were reshaped by Tzeentch to turn him into a perfect instrument.
At every moment of Azrael's life, his memory of the past changes – one hour he remembers fighting at his Primarch's side to breach the Imperial Palace, the next, his first memory is that of First Legion vessels descending upon his homeworld, the emblem of Tzeentch on their hulls burning itself in his mind. It is not just his distant past that he cannot clearly remember : more recent memories are no more stable. This shifting memory allows Azrael to speak what he truly thinks is the truth to someone's face, and no amount of instinct or telepathic ability will reveal any deception. Azrael himself is unaware of what has been done to him – that knowledge is the one thing that never lingers in his mind, his memories always reshaping themselves to erase all contradictions that might lead him to the truth of his condition. Through this manipulation, Tzeentch himself controls Azrael like a puppet, guiding the Grand Master's great intellect and power toward the Dark God's own, unfathomable desires. To the outside eye, Azrael appears to be a master manipulator and deceiver – but in truth, he is the greatest pawn in the universe, forever blinded to his chains.
In battle, Azrael fights with a long, double-handed blade inscribed with sorcerous runes channelling the power of Tzeentch – the Sword of Secrets, a sacred relic of the First Legion which was forged from the shards of the Lion' own blade, shattered by Luther during the final battle of Caliban. Because his memories of training change endlessly, his style with a blade is never the same, and he will often appear to change schools in the middle of a duel, taking his opponent by surprise. While his surface thoughts can be perceived by telepaths, even the strongest of them cannot pierce the depths of his mind, as they interpret the shifting memories as a mental defense against such intrusion – unable to conceive of the terrible truth.
The last element of the attacking fleet was made up of the Space Wolves and their allies. Logan Grimnar, the Wolf Lord responsible for the summoning of Rogal Dorn upon the world of Armageddon more than a millennium ago, was the leader of the Sixth Legion forces from his battle-barge Gylfarheim. It had been Sarthorael who had convinced Grimnar of joining the attack, playing on the Space Wolf's hatred of the Thousand Sons to overcome his inner distrust of the Dark Angels. Across the Eye of Terror and beyond, Grimnar had reached out to all warbands of the Sixth Legion that he knew of, spreading the word that, at long last, they would bring about the end of the Thousand Sons by destroying the heart of their Prosperine Dominion.
Even so, many of the thousands of sons of Russ among the fleet disliked having to fight on the same side as the Lion's get, whose father had led their own to his doom ten thousand years ago. Tensions between the two Traitor Legions were high, and Sarthorael used this to keep his hold over the assembled force – none of the two Legionary leaders could hope to seize control from him without the armada turning against itself. The Wolves had brought with them their usual complement of xenos technology and allies – Rak'gul mercenaries, ancient weapons whose initial function no one was really sure of, and a plethora of other aliens bound to the Sixth Legion by incomprehensible pacts.
Logan Grimnar, the Old Wolf
The Bane of Armageddon. The Lord of the Silent Callers. The Wielder of Morkai. All these titles and more have been heaped upon Logan Grimnar, but to those who fight alongside him in the Long War, he is simply known as the Old Wolf. The title is something of a private jest among the sons of Russ, for Logan Grimnar is young by the standards of the Traitor Legions. He has never fought under the command of the Wolf King, and has only plagued the Imperium for the last two thousand years. Yet any who look upon him cannot doubt his age : his face is ravaged by time, his long beard and mane of hair white as the snows of his ancestors' homeworld. This is because Logan Grimnar has never set foot within the Eye, where the timelessness of the Warp seeps into the bones of the Traitor Legionaries who seek refuge there, making them all but immune to ageing even as it ravages their flesh and soul. Apart from his journeys through the Sea of Souls, Grimnar has lived through each of the twenty centuries of his life, prolonging his transhuman existence through xenos techno-sorcery and the dark rites of his cabals of Sorcerers. Born among the slave crews of the Sixth Legion, he was selected for transformation into a Space Marine, and rose through the ranks by displaying great tactical acumen and prowess in battle. He finally seized control of his warband when he slew his former master in single combat after a disastrous battle against the Imperium had left them on the brink of total destruction due to his lord's mistakes.
Because Grimnar doesn't seek refuge within the Eye of Terror – nor any of the galaxy's great Warp Storms – he has spent his entire life as a Chaos Lord hunted by the Imperium. First by Navy patrols seeking to end his piratical activities, then, after his part in the First War of Armageddon, by every loyal Legion and many operatives of the Officio Assassinorum. But he has survived each attempt on his life, and his influence among the enemies of Mankind greatly increased after he helped summon Rogal Dorn on Armageddon, unleashing the Daemon Primarch against the World Eaters and their human allies before the Grey Knights arrived and successfully banished Dorn. Consumed by his hatred for the Imperium that destroyed his ancestral homeland, there is no line Grimnar will not cross in the pursuit of his vengeance – but he is still possessed of a streak of ruthless pragmatism. He has made pacts with aliens and daemons alike, and always kept his end of such bargains, earning a reputation for trustworthiness that allows him to gather more allies to his side.
The Old Wolf wears a suit of antique Terminator armor at all time, and wields the daemonic axe Morkai in battle. This weapon hosts a powerful daemon of Khorne, bound within the metal by the Rune Priests who swore allegiance to Grimnar. The Neverborn whispers endlessly to Grimnar, even when the weapon is kept in warded stasis fields between battles, trying to push him into servitude to the God of War, promising ever greater power in return for loyal service. So far, Grimnar has resisted the temptations of his blade, but no soul can endure a daemon's whispers forever …
Such a force of daemons, Traitor Legionaries, Chaos cultists and xenos reavers had rarely been seen in the galaxy, and never on such a scale. The initial reports of the outpost turned out to have been optimistic – or rather, the station had been destroyed before the entire enemy fleet had reached its sensors. Rather than the two hundred vessels it had warned of, the fleet that massed at the edge of the Terathalion's system was closer to five hundred ships of all kinds. Most of those weren't warships but mercantile craft, captured and re-purposed by Sarthorael's mortal minions, packed to the brim with cultists ready to lay down their lives in service of their master. Others were pirate ships whose captains had been haunted by visions of the Ever-Watcher for decades, manipulated into obeying his commands until they were little more than puppets dancing on his strings, their souls swallowed by their infernal lord, their crews unaware of their terrible fate.
For several days, the Chaos armada mustered at the Mandeville Point, new vessels emerging from the Warp in small groups. For all that they had gathered before and followed the same path through the Empyrean, even ships guided by the malign intelligence of a Lord of Change couldn't completely avoid the vagaries of the Warp. How many ships they lost to its turbulent tides is something only Sarthorael himself – and the cackling mad god he calls master – know, but what survived the journey was more than enough to send shivers of dread into those who stood against the slaves of the Archenemy. It became clear then that this was no mere spiteful raid, seeking to bleed the Thousand Sons' resources and make their people suffer for imagined sins. This was truly a host worthy of being called a Black Crusade, a blow guided by the Dark Gods' hand.
The three lords of the Black Crusade did not meet in person, of course. Such a meeting would not have ended well for any of them. Instead, each of them stood in one of their respective flagship's chambers, communicating with the other two through various means. Sarthorael had established communication through purely sorcerous means, while Grimnar used technology of xenos origin to project his image onto the ships of the other warlords. As for Azrael, he was using the result of one of the Dark magi enthralled to the First Legion, a machine that was as much infernal sorcery as it was mechanical wonder. It clicked and hissed in the corner of the room, projecting the images of daemon and Space Wolf in the air before the Lord of Lies.
'Here we are,' began Sarthorael, his winged form much reduced in stature in his projection yet still towering above Azrael, despite his attempts to change the settings of the projector. 'The greatest armada of the Changer of Ways ever gathered, with the might of the Vlka Fenryka. The sons of the Cyclops do not stand a chance against us.'
'Perhaps,' growled Grimnar. 'As long as the Dark Angels can stop themselves from stabbing us in the back long enough for us to actually win the war, at last.'
Azrael carefully maintained a neutral face. He had already tried to have Logan killed three times since the rendezvous in deep space, sending daemons to slay him and making sure they could not be traced back to him. All had failed – two had been caught and banished by the cabal of warp-dabblers that surrounded Logan, the last torn to shreds by the Khorne-marked axe of the Old Wolf. That was a shame – Grimnar had offended the God of Fate many times, spurning his gifts in favor of the brutish strength offered by the God of War. But there would be a reckoning, in time.
'Come now, Logan,' said Sarthorael with a crooked smile somehow appearing on his beaked face. 'You are just being paranoid. Azrael would never turn on his allies when something as important as what we intend is at stake. Isn't that right, Azrael ?'
'Of course,' bristled Azrael. 'Our work is is paramount to the Lion and the Changer of Ways.'
How foolish did the Old Wolf think he was ? They were here to destroy the Fifteenth Legion once and for all. This was far more important than any other plot – this was the will of Tzeentch himself written large upon the galaxy. To sabotage it was unthinkable. He would not turn on his allies until Magnus was dead and Terathalion destroyed – why, he had even held back from trying to have Logan removed during the trip, knowing that without the Old Wolf, the Space Wolves elements of their fleet would disperse.
'See ?' chuckled the Lord of Change. 'Now, onto the grim and delicious business of war ...'
On Terathalion, the Thousand Sons had no idea how such a massive force could have bypassed the Iron Cage trapping the Traitor Legions (other than the Ultramarines) within the Eye of Terror. While the ships of the Lost and the Damned could be explained by Sarthorael's collecting them from all across the Sector and beyond, and the Space Wolves had ever wandered the galaxy's dark paths, the presence of the Dark Angels in such numbers was disquieting in the extreme. In the past, the Sorcerers of the First Legions had only been able to slip single ships or small flotillas out of the Eye of Terror, and always at great cost – yet now an entire fleet had made the journey. The ability of the God of Change to seemingly manifest such an armada out of nowhere and with barely any warning was seen by many Seers as another sign of the growing influence of Chaos over the galaxy.
While the sons of Magnus dreaded the long-term implications of the attack, they had little time to spend on such considerations. The preparations of war were in full swing on the Fifteenth Legion's second homeworld, and there was much to do. Raids from the Sixth Legion throughout the Imperium's history had kept the population of Terathalion sharp, and the billions of inhabitants reacted to the news of the imminent attack with calm. Those who were part of the defense forces prepared, while the civilians went to their assigned places in the vast, warded underground shelters beneath each of Terathalion's cities, designed by the architects of the Iron Warriors to withstand even the strongest orbital bombardment. Thousand Sons Legionaries checked these shelters, reinforcing the wards against daemonic intrusions. But they were few, and there were dozens of shelters for each of Terathalion's fifteen great cities – and so, inevitably, many went unverified, a failing which would come back to haunt the sons of Magnus in a most terrible manner.
The first battle would be waged in orbit, as the spatial defenses of Terathalion engaged the Chaos armada. Driven by memories of the Burning of Prospero, the Thousand Sons had fortified the heart of the Prosperine Dominion like few other systems in the entire Imperium. Terathalion was the system's only planet, but the void was filled with the defenses the Iron Warriors had installed there after the Roboutian Heresy. Four Ramilies-class Spaceforts orbited around Terathalion, spread out above the planet's equator – enough firepower to raze entire worlds, and an investment in resources and manpower that had enraged many High Admirals of the Ultima Segmentum over the millennia. Dockyards and Mechanicus orbital facilities linked the forts, forming a ring of sorts surrounding the planet. These defenses alone had been more than enough to fend off piratical and Chaos raids in the past – but they were far from the only defenses in the skies of the Thousand Sons' homeworld.
Ships of the Thousand Sons and the Spire Guard had assembled above Terathalion. Thanks to the warning from one of the Dominion's observation outpost, the Fifteenth Legion had been able to call back some of its members in time for the attack. Still, few sons of Magnus had been able to reach Terathalion before Sarthorael's fleet, while others had no doubt been beyond reach, fighting other wars, not knowing their homeworld was threatened. Combined with those who had been present on the planet when the warning had come – either as part of the small Astartes garrison or to bring new recruits to the Apothecaries – less than a hundred Thousand Sons were there to fight for Terathalion's defense. But at their side were millions of Spire Guards, who had flocked to the defense of the planet from all the Prosperine Dominion.
The numbers of attackers and defenders were roughly equal, thanks to the orbital defenses and the call for aid that had been heard through the entire Prosperine Dominion. Still, there was no doubt in the minds of the crew that once battle was joined, many among them would die. Boarding actions from the Astartes element of the Chaos fleet were the greatest threat, as the defenders simply did not have enough Space Marines to guard all ships. Yet they did not give in to fear, though many took precautions to make sure they would not be taken alive – the screams of the Broken Ones a dire warning of what awaited those who were captured by the First Legion. That strong resolve was due to the presence of their leader, Lady Admiral Sarkath, whose adamantium will and calm spread across the entire fleet. As soon as the enemy arrived, she spoke to all those under her command – though her words were also broadcast across the entire planet.
Lady Admiral Kiya Sarkath, the Shield of Terathalion
While most of the members of the Spire Guard are trained for deployment on the ground, in support of the Thousand Sons, the Prosperine Dominion also has its own branch of the Imperial Navy – the Battlefleet Prospero, named after the Sector of space that makes up the Dominion and the surrounding sub-Sectors. It recruits from all the Dominion, but its greatest officers have always hailed from the old families of captains and admirals who guided the ships of the Thousand Sons during the Great Crusade – men and women whose ancestors had once been sailors on Prospero's own seas. It was from one such illustrious bloodline that Kiya Sarkath was born, and she soon proved to be the greatest void-mistress in generations. She combines an instinctive mastery of void warfare with a talent for getting people to respect and obey her, and years at the Naval Academy have sharpened these skills to a razor's edge.
She became a Captain at the very young age of thirty-two, and an Admiral a mere twenty years later, after an engagement against a flotilla of Dark Eldar raiders where she managed to outwit the enemy leader - a withered, evil thing that had fought void battles for longer than Kiya's family had commanded space ships. Though she blew the Archon's flagship apart, he had arrangements made with the Haemonculi of Commoragh, and returned a few years later, promising that he would "wear the dark skin of the mon-keigh bitch as a cloak, and weave her black hair as gloves to wear as [he] strangle[s] her kin while she watches". So far, he has not succeeded, and the entire Battlefleet knows the story of the long war between Kiya Sarkath and Olrik Tessethar, Archon of the Venomous Claw's Cabal. For the last hundred years, the two have tried to kill each other. Olrik knows that, if he cannot make good on his vengeful promise, his own warriors will think him weak and turn on him eventually. As for Kiya, she remembers exactly what Olrik did to the people of the first world in whose skies they battled, and has sworn that she will see the Dark Eldar destroyed.
By the time Sarthorael unleashed his Black Crusade on Terathalion, Lady Admiral Sarkath had become the leader of the planet's space defenses. From the ships patrolling the system and its neighbours to the orbital platforms, space forts and planetary missile silos, all was her to command. Well into her second century of life, she had already fought off several raids by Chaos forces - and one led by her old nemesis - though none on this scale. As the fleet began to advance on the Thousand Sons' homeworld, she vowed that she and those under her command would make the traitors pay for every centimetre of the void they took from her.
As the Chaos fleet drew near, the Lady Admiral worked day and night to prepare her forces for the coming battle. For three days, she worked without rest, coordinating the various elements under her command, familiarizing herself with the capabilities of each vessel and the skills and temperaments of their captains. A Thousand Son member of the Pavoni Cult remained at her side, his psychic powers keep her mind and body at maximum capacity during that time – and the rest of the campain. That son of Magnus had pledged to guard the Admiral with his life in case her ship, the Emperor-class battleship Word of Magnus, was boarded during the engagement. He also acted as a relay between the fleet and the ground defenders, mind-linked to Madox himself in a communion with which even Sarthorael could not interfere.
"Every enemy of the Imperium is out there, brothers and sisters. The xenos. The traitor. The heretic. They have all banded together, united in their hatred of the Imperium, because they know that they cannot defeat us alone. They have come to bring death, suffering, damnation. They have come to finish what they failed to accomplish ten thousand years ago, when our ancestors' world was lost to the fires of betrayal and barbarity.
But they failed then, even though they had the full strength of a Space Marine Legion, and all we had were the men and women of Prospero and a handful of our transhuman guardians. And they failed again when they came to this world with the dregs of that Legion. Yet in each of these battles, they took something from us, something irreplaceable. The first time, they took Prospero from us. The second time, they took Primarch Magnus from us, forcing him into a slumber from which he has yet to wake up. And now they are here to wipe us out, to tear the heart of the Fifteenth Legion, to destroy the future of those who, by their very existence, defy the lie that is theirs. Because they cannot bear for us to live.
I say, enough ! This is where it ends. This is where the cycle stops ! They will not take anything more from us ! Here, at this moment in History, we will teach the enemies of Mankind that Terathalion stands strong against the darkness !
They outnumber us, but each of us has the fire of the God-Emperor in his soul. They have vile sorcery on their side, but we have His light and the wards of the Thousand Sons to guard us. They have the blasphemous technology of the xenos, but we have the blessings of the Omnissiah to strengthen our guns. They are driven to battle by the fear of their slavemasters, but each of us fight in defense of his world and his people !
For the Emperor and the Crimson King ! Death to Their foes !"
From Lady Admiral Kiya Sarkath, at the beginning of the Siege of Terathalion
Despite the preparations of Terathalion's defenders, the first blow was struck before the Chaos armada reached the first lines of defense, coming from an unexpected direction. The arrival of so many ships had torn a massive rift through the Warp as they re-emerged into reality, and it had not closed after the passage of the last vessels. A hideous wound opened in space at the system's Mandeville point, bleeding the insanity of the Sea of Souls. It was so large that it was visible from Terathalion's surface, a pulsating, maddening light that shone like a twisted parody of a true star in the planet's sky. Preachers and scholars alike took to the streets, and worldwide announcements warned against the dangers of staring at this baleful light. The people of Terathalion knew more of the Warp than most Imperial citizens – though even the sons of Magnus knew better than to share its true horror with common folk - and most of them paid heed to that warning. But some - the foolish, the tormented and the suicidal - did not. They peered into that infernal light, and on the other side of the rift, the things that dwelt amidst the Realm of Chaos looked back.
Violence erupted in the streets as men and women were violently possessed, their souls consumed by the Neverborn. The evacuation was slowed as the Thousand Sons moved to confront the manifested daemons, destroying them all. The Seers used their abilities to try and predict where the next incursions would take place, and with that knowledge the Legionaries were able to prevent most of the destruction. But not all, for the foresight of the Thousand Sons, never perfect in the first place, was greatly affected by the presence of the Ever-Watcher in the system. Tens of thousands died or were driven mad, and the Thousand Sons suspected that the rift was not merely the result of so many ships entering the system using daemon-touched Warp engines, but a deliberate ploy by the Sorcerers and warp-dabblers among their foe.
Such atrocities did nothing to weaken their military strength, for the daemons were weak and easily dispatched by the sons of Magnus. But it hurt the people they were sworn to protect, and such a cruel insult was typical of those who had sold their souls to the Archenemy. The wrath of the Thousand Sons, ever slow to build but terrible when it was unleashed, was already growing before the first bolter held by traitor hands ever fired. Brother Madox, one of the most powerful Legionaries on Terathalion and the overall commander of the Thousand Sons on the planet, led the effort to ensure the people reached shelter alive, wielding his great power against the Neverborn.
Madox the Undying
Among all the living Thousand Sons, few have a destiny as entwined with that of their old enemy the Sixth Legion as Madox, known among his brethren and the Imperial forces who fought at his side as the Undying, the Lord of Life, the Great Healer, and many other titles. Born on Terathalion nigh six centuries ago, Madox displayed psychic abilities from a very young age, his touch bringing relief to the sick and wounded. He was immediately noticed by the Thousand Sons and inducted into their ranks, surviving the Rubric and taking his place among one of the Legion's wandering circles of brothers. Through no effort on his part, he has faced the sons of Russ dozens of time, seemingly random coincidences bringing him to worlds about to suffer their raids. Three times, the Wolves have thought they had killed Madox in such engagements – but every time, he has proven them wrong. He even takes care to remove all of the scars above his neck, knowing the sight of his smooth face enrages the sons of Russ to no end with the knowledge they cannot truly harm him.
Such is his mastery of the Pavoni Arts – the discipline of physiokinesis, or the manipulation of the flesh through psychic power – that he can recover from even the most terrible injuries, even regenerating lost limbs and organs. His healing ability extends to others – there is no injury he cannot mend, no natural disease he cannot cure. There is nothing short of true death that he cannot reverse, and the brothers who fight by his side all owe him their lives multiple times. However, a few uses of this same ability on Imperial soldiers who had fought and been grievously wounded at his side has caused some among the Legion's critics to view him as a witch, a necromancer capable of bringing the dead back to a perversion of life. Those humans he saves from certain death are often forced to join the retainers of the Thousand Sons, lest they be slaughtered by mobs upon the departure of the sons of Magnus. In that way, Madox accumulated a circle of former Imperial Guards and other individuals of various ways of life, loyal to him unto death itself.
The repeated meetings of Madox with the Space Wolves have strengthened his hatred of Russ' get. He has seen the trophies some of them still wear from the Burning of Prospero, and witnessed their atrocities and hypocrisy with his own eyes. While his talents lie in healing, the Pavoni Arts can also be used to deadly effect, and he has slain dozens of Space Wolves with his powers, turning their own corrupted flesh against them - and showing perhaps too much relish at their agonized screams. Many of his brothers fear that Madox's destiny lies within the ranks of the Heralds of Prospero, these sons of Magnus consumed by the screams of the dead world, who go to war with the ghosts of the slain at their side. Whether Madox already hears the call of the dead world is unknown.
When Sarthorael's Black Crusade came to Terathalion, Madox was already on the planet, having come back to lay three of his brothers to rest in the Legion's mausoleums and bring their gene-seed to the Legion's Apothecaries. As the strongest and most esteemed Thousand Son present, as well as the one with the most experience facing the Vlka Fenryka, he took command of his gathered brothers. When he learned that Logan Grimnar was leading the Space Wolves among the invaders, he made a personal vow to kill the Old Wolf himself – payment for brothers lost three centuries ago.
"I have looked Death in the eyes many times, and taken from his hands those I did not believe should fall yet. And I have learned something in all those meetings : Death does not hate us, nor does he crave our end. We are all equal before him, and he simply carries us from one place to another, from one realm to the next. Dying is nothing to fear – but what comes right before and immediately after is another story. For Death may not belong to the Dark Gods – but Hell does."
From the private writings of Madox of the Thousand Sons
[Check the illustration made by Nemris for this chapter on Deviantart - titled The Siege of Terathalion]
Then, as the fleets were about to enter each other's range, Sarthorael struck his second blow at Terathalion – and it was just as vile and treacherous as the first. Aboard the Invisible Hand, with the help of a circle of Dark Angel Sorcerers and daemons of Tzeentch, he performed a foul ritual that reached into the minds of Terathalion's defenders. The wards of the Thousand Sons held true, diminishing the ritual's power greatly. The power of the Rubric shielded the Thousand Sons even further, and the only thing they felt was a tightening of the aetheric weave that burned within their very soul as it shielded them from Sarthorael's spell. Every human in the fleet felt a blinding headache accompanied by terrifying whispers, that vanished after a few seconds, causing no greater damage than a few incidents where those afflicted had been performing delicate tasks. But there were still those minds too frail to resist such a blunt assault of their psyche : they fell, their brains bleeding out through their ears, dead before they hit the floor. And then there were those who had been directly targeted by the ritual rather than caught in the wake of its power.
The target of the ritual was the Ramilies-class Spacefort Pythagorius. For ten thousand years it had stood, defending Terathalion from all invaders, its light in the sky a source of comfort and peace for the people below. Like all such immense fortresses, the Pythagorius was a city in space greater than any single ship and housing hundreds of thousands of souls. None of them were spared, the power of the ritual tearing apart the wards engraved on the Spacefort's walls and scouring the souls of those within. As the Thousand Sons recovered from the Rubric's sudden pressure on their minds, they stumbled, their psychic senses nearly overwhelmed by the cries of anguish and horror that rose from Pythagorius, while mortal psykers wept bloody tears, unable to understand why.
The ritual was a creation of Tzeentch, the God of Change, and it bore all of his terrible hallmarks. Those who were caught in its full effects had the very truth of their souls rewritten, their loyalties and hatreds reversed with no regard for their sanity. One moment, they were defenders of Terathalion, loyal servants of the God-Emperor, hating the xenos and the heretic with all the passion that was to be expected of them. The next, they were heretics themselves, despising the Corpse-God of Terra, the Imperium, and the Thousand Sons, with nothing but the blackest contempt for their own families. In the blink of an eye, tech-priests became hereteks and preachers became demagogues of the Ruinous Powers. No son of Magnus was with them, though whether or not the ritual would have affected a Legionary is unknown - and it is perhaps for the best that this question remains forever unanswered. Many of those affected died on the spot, or fell into a coma, their minds simply unable to function under the strain of violently contradicting convictions. The master of Pythagorius, Commodore Nizrak – a veteran of two hundred years, who had fought for the Imperium all his life without giving ground even once – was one of the early victims. According to footage later recovered from the bridge's pict-recorders, the Commodore killed himself with his service weapon, the expression on his face showing immense tension as whatever remained of his noble soul battled the corruption sown in him by the Archenemy's vile sorcery.
But even though thousands died or were incapacitated and the command structure of the Spacefort was completely destroyed – their Imperial-bred respect for authority being one of the first things destroyed by the spell – Pythagorius remained extremely dangerous. Driven by their new hatreds, gun crews aimed their weapons at the fleet and the planet below, scouring the nearest ships, who were still manoeuvring and hadn't yet put strength in their void shields. Swarms of fighters left the hangar bays, their pilots having replaced their discipline and brotherhood with vicious, selfish, predatory instincts. Ships died in flames, or went down and crashed onto Terathalion's surface, sending shock waves that ravaged the nearest hives.
They had trained her to deal with treachery.
Of course, that hadn't been part of the official course at the Naval Academy. To openly acknowledge that servants of the God-Emperor could turn from His divine light and break their oaths would be unthinkable. But the teachers of the Spire Guard knew that it had happened many times in the past - none more devastating than when the thrice-cursed Guilliman had cleaved the Imperium in twain. As Kyla had risen through the ranks, showing more skill than any of her forebears had for thousands of years, they had added many more lessons to her curriculum, nearly crushing her under their weight. Those had included private seances with the oldest instructors. It had been in those lessons that she had been taught how to react when her supposed allies turned against her. She knew how to isolate them, how to select those forces under her command that could be trusted to not hesitate in gunning them down, how to maintain morale and cohesion despite that terrible blow.
But none of their lessons had covered how to deal with the agony in her soul. Treachery hurt in a way no physical wound could ever match. It burned within her, anger and grief and doubt. She had known every man and woman who manned the stations that had turned their guns against her fleet, had spoken and laughed with them. One word echoed in her mind, over and over : why, why had they done it ? Why had they turned against the Emperor ?
Had they even had a choice, or had their minds been broken by the Sorcerers of the Dark Angels ? And if they had, a cold voice whispered at the back of her mind, then who else could be turned in such a way ? Who could she trust ? Her mind was protected by the son of Magnus at her side, but what about the rest of her crew ? What about the tech-priests who guarded the plasma reactors ? All it would take was a moment's control, and the enemy could kill the entire ship. And what about the people on the planet below manning the defense arrays ? One miscaculation, one error in the targeting protocols, and the fleet would be crippled. She could not trust anyone but herself, she could not ...
'Admiral,' said a strong, calming voice, directly into her mind. 'Admiral, come back to me.'
Her eyes snapped open - she hadn't realized she had closed them - and she saw Asim standing before her. His face, shadowed by his psychic hood, was difficult to read, but she thought she saw concern and a touch of shame on his features. She took a deep breath, feeling the paranoid panic that had nearly seized her fade away. A glance at the hololithic projection told her that whatever had happened to her had lasted less than a second.
'My apologies, Admiral,' said Asim. 'The enemy struck at you, using the greater spell as cover for their sorcerous weaves. I should have seen and blocked that attack, no matter how subtle it was. I swear to you on my life that it will not happen again.'
Kiya blinked. Her fears were gone - no, not gone, but under control again, and it seemed incredible that she had been about to lose her mind over them but moments ago. Then the words of the son of Magnus registered, and a cold fury seized her.
'It's alright, lord Asim,' she replied, before turning to her vox officers and beginning to speak the orders that would destroy the traitors in their midst. Even as she spoke, she silently vowed that the slaves of Ruin would pay for this atrocity.
Pythagorius was lost. Even if the Spacefort could be reclaimed from the traitors that currently occupied it – a tall order, considering there were still hundreds of thousands of them – the Imperials did not have the resource or time to crew it again. Therefore, Lady Admiral Sarkath took the only decision available to her : she ordered the priceless void fortress destroyed. The Lady Admiral reacted quickly, and at her command a portion of the fleet turned against Pythagorius, while the two other closest Ramilies-class Spaceforts trained their own weapons against their corrupted brethren. Soon Pythagorius' main guns were crippled, the immediate threat to the fleet removed – but Pythagorius couldn't be allowed to remain in Terathalion's skies. Kiya asked for the help of the Thousand Sons – a boarding party would be sent, to sabotage the main reactors of the Spacefort and grant the Emperor's Mercy to the unfortunate souls within. She left some ships to quarantine the Spacefort while on the surface, Brother Madox gathered his brothers around him and prepared to lead the boarding party himself.
Madox took four of his brothers with him, one from each of the Cults. The five of them went to Pythagorius aboard a venerable Stormbird, the Second Principle, shrouding it from detection by the Starfort's auspexes with their powers. They landed in one of the abandoned hangar bays and fought their way through the throngs of rabid cultists that now populated the Spacefort. Already, confusion and infighting were raging within Pythagorius as people who had once been the closest companions raised warbands to fight another, consumed by unspeakable hatreds. The Thousand Sons tore through battlefield after battlefield, laying waste to both sides on their way to Pythagorius' depths. Speed was their ally, but eventually word of their presence spread, and their shared hatred of the Imperium and the sons of Magnus drew the twisted crew of the Spacefort in vast hordes.
By the thousands they came, their poisoned thoughts nearly bringing the Thousand Sons to a stop where all guns and blades had failed. But Madox shielded his brothers from the corruption surrounding them, purifying their brains of the sorcerous taint that still echoed in the Spacefort's corridors. On and on they advanced, moving faster than the human tide that was closing in on them from all directions. Then they reached the reactors, at the heart of the immense structure. There the fighting was the fiercest, with corrupt magi leading hundreds of tech-thralls under defiled icons of the Machine-God. Two of Madox' brothers fell before they reached their goal, but eventually the remaining three reached Pythagorius' beating heart.
A light in his helmet's display flashed green, and he knew that the Second Principle had gotten clear of Pythagorius. It had been a risk to bring the gunship here - without the Thousand Sons aboard, it could not hide from the enemy sensors. But it seemed the party had inflicted enough damage and caused enough disorder among the foe that even the servitor-pilot that had been left to crew the gunship had managed to bring it to safety. That was good. Madox suspected that they would soon need all the gunships they could find.
Howls coming from the entrance of the reactor chamber warned him that the foe had arrived at last. But it was too late. They had completed their task - the machine-spirits had been driven into a frenzy, all of their restraints removed. Nothing could stop the explosion now.
As Warp-lightning surrounded Madox and his remaining two brothers and they were carried away from the doomed Spacefort and back to Terathalion's surface, Madox found no joy in this success. They were destroying a fortress that had stood vigil over Terathalion for ten thousand years. How much history would be destroyed along with it ? How many lives, even if they were already lost to the cruelties of the Dark Gods ? His hearts burned with an anger that threatened to overwhelm him - anger at the daemon that had cursed his Primarch all those centuries ago, anger at the foul gods it served, anger at himself for failing to protect the crew of the Pythagorius from their vile sorcery. That anger fanned the flames of an older wrath, one that had been born in his soul when he had been but a child learning the story of Prospero for the first time. Ancient voices and screams rose from his soul, as if from a great distance - the cries of the martyred dead of the Thousand Sons' first homeworld. So much had been taken from the Fifteenth Legion over the years … But the Lady Admiral was right. This would end now, with this battle, one way or another.
No more. As his flesh faded from reality, Madox swore that there would be an end to it all.
The Pythagorius exploded in a sphere of star-fire that scrambled the auspexes of the entire defense fleet and obliterated the nearest vessels, despite their void-shields being raised at maximum capacity and their captains having moved as far away from the Spacefort as they could. On her bridge, Lady Admiral Kiya breathed a prayer for the unfortunate souls that were lost along with the venerable void-fortress. At least now the threat lurking among her fleet was gone, painful as the removal might have been.
But despite the Imperials' swift reaction, Sarthorael's vile spell had fulfilled its purpose. One quarter of Terathalion's orbital defenses were now without the support of a Ramilies-class Spacefort, their fleet still reeling from the blow it had inflicted upon its betrayal and with its death, and formations had been thrown into disarray. Now the Chaos fleet was advancing at full speed, the three flagships leading the onslaught. Aboard the Invisible Hand, Sarthorael cackled, preparing to reap the results of all his plots.
The Lady Admiral had known exactly what the daemon lord would do from the moment Pythagorius had been turned. The formation of her fleet was as well arranged as it could be under the circumstances, and her greatest advantage remained - the forces of Chaos lacked the true discipline of the Imperial Navy. She had also given orders for the two Ramilies-class Spaceforts that had fired upon Pythagorius - Tizca's Light and Photep's Fury - to move from their geosynchronous orbits above Terathalion. It was a bold move, for it left the regions they were supposed to protect without their immense strength. Furthermore, it would be many hours before they reached the battle and could bring their full firepower to bear. But Kiya believed, based upon the Thousand Sons' divinations and her own instincts, that Sarthorael would not attempt to break orbit and reach the planet's surface anywhere else. And once the two Spaceforts arrived, the tide would definitively turn in favor of the Imperium.
Sarthorael's host of cultist vessels crashed against the defenses like an ocean's tide against a cliff. The poorly-equiped ships were slaughtered by the dozen in the first moments of the engagement, but they had never been intended as anything but a distraction. While the Imperial fleet's guns were busy tearing the chaff apart, the Traitor Legions ships sent boarding parties, taking full advantage of their greater number of Astartes warriors. Through torpedoes, gunships, teleportation and other, fouler means, the Space Wolves and Dark Angels attacked the defenders, silencing batteries and wreaking havoc within enginariums.
From their posts within the planetary fortresses, Terathalion's defenders saw the skies of their world filled with the light of weapon discharges, destroyed ships and burning orbital installations. For several hours, the two fleets did battle, Lady Admiral Sarkath directing the Imperial efforts with all the skill that was to be expected of her. Yet for all her talent, she could do little more than try to direct the flow of battle, which quickly degenerated into an anarchic free-for-all as the Chaos fleet flew right in the middle of the Imperial formation. The Imperial flagship was boarded several times, but always the elite Spireguards tasked with defending the vessel repelled the attackers before they could reach the bridge.
Such was the confusion, the number of variables, that the Seers of the Thousand Sons were all but blinded to the immediate future. Spread out across Terathalion's cities – with the bulk of them guarding the Sanctuary of Magnus, knowing it would be a primary target of the foe - they watched the war above, wondering why none of the Chaos ships had attempted to send troops onto the surface. They all knew what that meant : Sarthorael had another plan in reserve, for he could not accomplish his goals if his Black Crusade remained blocked in orbit. Still, when that plan was revealed, it caught even the most potent Seers by complete surprise.
On Terathalion's equator, below the melted fragments that were all that remained of Pythagorius, stood the city of Lutaketh, a vast metropolis that housed more than twenty million souls. When word of the coming Black Crusade had arrived, the people had evacuated in good order, leaving their homes and going into the underground shelters. Only the Spireguards, the Thousand Sons, and their other Imperial allies remained on the surface. They were manning the city's defenses, which included cannons powerful enough to reach orbit and beyond. Such was the confusion of the battle above that it was difficult for the guns' crews to get a lock on an enemy target, but they remained at their posts, taking advantage of any opportunity that presented itself. Lutaketh was the only city whose defenses could take part in the battle, being closest to it, and they hurled las-bolts that seemed like the Emperor's own lightning and shells the size of tanks into the heavens.
Then the madness began.
It struck them like a hammer blow, shattering their defenses and tearing at their minds. A wave of agony, of horror and disgust, so powerful that it could not be ignored, could not be pushed aside. Across the battlements of Lutaketh, the Thousand Sons and every human with a shred of psychic potential fell to their knees, clutching their heads and screaming in pain. The other defenders rushed to their side, calling for medical assistance, looking up at the heavens, suspecting some mental assault from their distant enemies and assuming it foretold another attack. They were right in thinking so – but the attack came from another direction.
From the depths they came, numbering in the millions. The gates of the underground shelters blew open, and a flow of corrupted Humanity poured through. Men, women and children, screaming and laughing madly, their skins torn where they had clawed at their own flesh in bloody patterns that burned the eyes of any with some shred of sanity left in them. They ran through the streets of Lutaketh, directed by cultists in dark robes held aloft on infernal discs and wielding great staves of bronze inscribed with sorcerous symbols. These were the betrayers who had brought the poison of Chaos within the shelters, the vile renegades who had forced damnation upon the city's population.
When the tide of madness reached the walls, it took several minutes for the defenders to find within themselves the resolve to open fire on those they had sworn to protect. During these moments, the madmen launched themselves at the walls, breaking their bodies and forming a grotesque mountain of flesh upon which the rest of the horde could climb. Then, when at last their training overcame their horror and they began to fire, more treachery struck, as soldiers of the Spire Guard turned against their comrades, their faces blank, utterly expressionless masks. The Thousand Sons, still shaken from the psychic onslaught caused by whatever fell ritual had taken place in the shelters, were murdered by the Imperial Guard medics who had rushed to their aid.
Lutaketh was lost.
Lutaketh, a city that had stood for nigh ten thousand years, fell in what seemed to be mere moments, and its guns turned against the Imperial forces in orbit. They blasted through loyalist ships and stations, opening a path for the Chaos fleet. At once, what had seemed like a disorganised mess was revealed to have been a cunning plan, and the armies of the Black Crusade rained upon Terathalion. Gunships, drop-pods, transports and mass carriers descended, bringing with them the host of the Lost and the Damned. Like a tide of locusts, they came to ruined Lutaketh, to seize the city and use it as their base of operation in their war for Terathalion. In orbit, the Chaos fleet formed a ring above the lost city, suddenly displaying discipline and cooperation previously unseen. The Lady Admiral was forced to withdraw her fleet from above Lutaketh, surrendering the region of space once defended by Pythagorius to the foe. With the casualties the fleet had sustained when Lutaketh's guns had turned, she could no longer hope to match the Black Crusade's ships in open battle. All she could do was regroup near the other Ramilies-class Spaceforts and wait for the monolithic stations to reach a position where they could open fire on the Chaos warships. But that would take days, rather than the hours they had expected, for as Lutaketh fell, saboteurs had unveiled themselves among the crew, touched by the same delusions as the cultists of the lost city. The engines of the two Spaceforts had been damaged, and while they could be repaired, great care must be taken in doing so. And until Tizca's Light and Photep's Fury could cross the distance, the forces of the Archenemy were free to land on Terathalion unopposed.
Across the planet, the defenders of the remaining cities made their final preparations. Astartes spoke their oaths of moment, Spireguards recited their prayers to the God-Emperor, and tech-priests consecrated their weapons for the final time. And atop the battlements of Magnus' Sanctuary, Madox looked at the horizon, and knew that Sarthorael had come down as well, leading his unholy alliance of daemons and traitors. Twice now had the Ever-Watcher come to Terathalion, twice now had he twisted the minds of Magnus' own people against their own. To many of Madox' brothers, these crimes would have been as nothing compared to the atrocities Fifteenth Legion had suffered in the past – the Burning of Prospero, the fall of the Crimson King. But in the eyes of the Undying, this corruption was even worse.
The descendants of Prospero's sons and daughters had been made to kill their own, to embrace the falsehoods of the Great Deceiver. Those aboard Pythagorius had been soul-broken by the Greater Daemon's foul ritual, but the cultists who had seized Lutaketh were another story. Somehow, some way, the slaves of Tzeentch had wormed their way onto Terathalion, spread their blasphemies among the population. He did not know the details of Lutaketh's fall - all he had heard were panicked reports from the human defenders and horrified sendings from his brothers there, all quickly silenced. But he could guess. Off-world cultists had made contact, or one latent psyker had been touched in his dreams. From that seed evil had grown, hidden deep into the fabric of society to avoid being detected by the sons of Magnus. He could only guess how many generations it had taken for the renegades to spread and gain as much power as they had held - how many centuries, millennia perhaps, had Sarthorael been planning this ? How many other plots did the Ever-Watcher still have, how many pawns hidden in the darkness, ready to strike at their master's command ?
All Astartes are engineered to be immune to the failings of doubt, but even they can be troubled by it when ruin looms large. Yet Madox' own misgivings soon faded in the face of his wrath. His burning hatred had grown cold now, cold as the snows that had fallen on the Space Wolves' accursed homeworld before it had been destroyed. Shadows moved around him, distant screams echoed in his mind. He knew what this meant, and had known for years. Some fates required great effort to be divined, while others were ever shrouded and changing – but his own had always been clear, even if the Seers had been reluctant to speak of it. His brothers sensed what was happening to him - he could feel their gaze on him, feel their sorrow at what awaited him.
They were calling to him, the dead and the betrayed, the fallen and the lost. They called from beyond the grave, from beyond the ages, and he must listen. Yet he felt not the impulse the scrolls spoke of, the need to journey to Prospero and walk through the burned cities of his ancestors. His war, his duty, were here, now, fighting against enemies old and new.
As the invasion of Terathalion began, Madox of the Fifteenth vowed that it would not change anything. No matter how many more spies Sarthorael had hiding behind Imperial lines, no matter how many more spells the daemon held in reserve, his duty remained the same.
Terathalion would stand.
Aboard the Gylfarheim, Logan Grimnar prepared for war. His massive Terminator war-plate shook the floor as he marched through the dark corridors of his ship, toward the Teleportarium. His elite guard marched behind him, each of its members a warrior or sorcerer of such might he could have led his own warband in the Eye of Terror. He held the Axe of Morkai in his hand – he would not take the risk of letting it hang from his belt when there were so many souls nearby the daemon within could tempt into trying to seize it for themselves. The daemon's screams of rage were diminished somewhat as it sensed the incoming bloodshed, the significance of the moment.
The Teleportarium was filled with dozens of hereteks, dark magi, and other scholars of Dark and xenotech. The battle-barge's old Teleportarium had been destroyed centuries ago, along with twenty Terminator warriors who had been transiting through it at the moment of its catastrophic failure. Now it had been rebuilt, using a combination of human genius, plundered alien technology, and the mad inspiration brought by the whispers of the Neverborn. With it, the Space Wolves could bypass all but the strongest shields – yet looking at it filled Logan with bitterness. It galled him that he, that his Legion were reduced to using such means to prosecute their war. This was what the Thousand Sons had done to them, when they had deceived the Emperor ten thousand years ago at Nikea and doomed the Imperium. For a hundred centuries, the sons of Leman Russ had sought to bring the witches of Prospero to justice. And for a hundred centuries, they had failed. But no more.
One warrior was already in the Teleportarium when Logan and his guards arrived. He stood alone, a confident grin on his face as he bowed slightly to the older warlord.
'Lord Grimnar,' greeted Ragnar Blackmane. 'Shall we begin ?'
AN : And so begins the Siege of Terathalion, as the enemies of Mankind gather to do the will of the Changer of Ways. For now, the initiative seems to be on the side of the Black Crusade, but don't worry - the Thousand Sons and their allies are far from done. There is a reason Sarthorael had to spend ten thousand years preparing for this moment.
If I follow my current plan, this "book" should have four more parts before we reach the end of that arc and move on to another theater of the Times of Ending. There is just so much to write, part of my preparations was making a frakking flowchart to help me decide the order of the different "books". I think it will take me years to finish this story - but it will be worth the effort. There are many moments coming that I have already seen play out a hundred times in my head, and that I really look forward to putting to text - one such moment will soon come. Hopefully you all like reading this story as much as I like to write it.
Big thanks to Jaenera Targaryen for helping me with the orbital battle, which is one thing I have little experience with, and for betaing the entire chapter.
As always, remember to check Nemris' amazing artwork for this universe on his Deviantart's page.
Tell me what you thought of the formatting for this chapter, please. I think it's more agreeable to the eyes than the one I used for the last Index Astartes. Also, more generally, don't hesitate to tell me what you thought of this chapter's contents, what you think could happen next, what parts of my writing could be enhanced, etc.
Zahariel out.