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Inspired by the Dornian Heresy, by Aurelius Rex.

"Hear now, for this is the Word of Guilliman, Blessed Scion of Ruin, Avatar of the True Gods and Dark Master of Chaos.

Let only His truest servants hear these truths, that they may prepare for His return.

This is His Word, this is His Will :

When the Age of Endings come,

When the False Light fades,

When the Storms scream,

When new Gods rise,

War shall come to the heart of His sons' dominion.

A host of traitors and cast-offs shall rise,

Gathered by the hand of the Unfaithful One.

They will pass under the Gods' gaze,

And shatter the chains of His treacherous sons.

Then shall fire and blood come upon Macragge once more.

The Ruined Prince shall reveal himself, cloaked in the tattered remains of his former glory,

And by his command shall the walls of the Tomb-Keep be brought low.

The Witness shall perish before his warning can be heard,

For none may oppose what has been ordained by His will.

The great beasts who sleep beneath the white shall be awoken by the one who hears their call during his every waking moment,

Turned from the fiercest enemy of the Primordial Truth into pawns of its one true champion.

Amidst the ghosts of past shames and failures,

The Half-Breed shall claim honor at last,

His life given to serve Him as the mingled souls of foes and sons

Are offered up, to be the first part of the Gods.

At His command, from death itself shall the loyal sons return,

To oppose the wraiths of traitors past and bring them unto judgement.

The First of the Reborn shall heed the command of their one true lord,

Their claws and fangs shall spill the blood of the unworthy unto the hallowed grounds.

And as the Dark Master rises, those who foolishly sought to defy His will shall see the truth,

And be brought to heel to the One they have always served, even in childish rebellion.

A great cry of joy and sorrow shall echo, to be heard across all the stars,

And the galaxy shall tremble once more before the power of the rightful Master of Mankind !"

From the Lost Epistles of the Codex Chaotica

The Battle of Macragge

Part Two : Lords of Hosts

After successfully crossing the Path to Glory, the forces of Marius Gage launched their assault on Macragge. For the first time since the hordes of the Great Devourer had first entered the galaxy, war descended upon the homeworld of the Ultramarines. Ruinous priests called out to their flock to prepare for battle against the invaders, while in the Fortress of Hera, Marneus Calgar marshalled the forces under his command. Ancient powers stalked the surface of this thrice-accursed world, emerging from their hiding as their schemes approached fruition. Plans set in motion in previous ages were about to culminate, either in terrifying success or abject failure. The long-awaited revenge of the Sacrificed Son was but one of these dark agendas, and the Dark Gods watched eagerly, waiting to see which of their champions would triumph and prove worthy of their favor in the coming age. For all who knew of the Black Crusade knew that, however the Battle of Macragge ended, its result would shape the course of history for centuries to come …

The Black Crusade's forces rained down upon Macragge from skies burning with the fire of the orbital battle. In thousands of infernal temples, arch-priests of Chaos declared that the time of judgement had come, and that the Gods' faithful now had one last chance to prove their worth by fighting against the invaders and displaying their might and devotion to the Ruinous Powers. The streets of the intricate network of districts and temples covering most of Macragge's main landmass ran red with blood as billions of cultists were roused to fight and die for their Legion masters. Bloody sacrifices to the Dark Gods took place in the temples as magi summoned daemons, binding them to the bodies of their congregation's most exalted members in the hope of creating enough daemonhosts to stand a chance against the Legion forces descending upon Macragge. In many cases, these attempts resulted in disaster as the priests lost control of the Neverborn, which rampaged freely, devouring the souls of their would-be masters before emerging from the temples in search of more prey, uncaring of the battle raging on the rest of the planet.

Anti-aircraft artillery, installed to defend against another Tyranid assault, opened fire on the waves of troop carriers, sending many plummeting to the ground in flame. But orbital bombardment took out all such emplacements as soon as they revealed themselves (a tactic not available to the creatures of the Great Devourer) while also clearing out a vast section of land where the Black Crusade troops could land relatively safely. Once that breach was established, Gage stopped sending sacrificial troops. Thousands of Evocatii, bred in Gage's gene-laboratories at Calth, were unleashed upon Macragge, their minds consumed by implanted directives and infused with the hatred of the Sacrificed Son to drive them onward. Behind them came Gage's true allies, Astartes from all Legions, united only in their hatred of Guilliman's legacy and desire to see Macragge burn. As their boots hit the ground, warbands that had been on the verge of turning on one another as the Black Crusade made its way to Macragge fought side by side like sworn brothers, their feuds forgotten as they exulted in the destruction they wrought.

Gage fought at the head of his troops, leading from the front as a true Lord of Chaos, and all who faced him fell. His claws cleaved Ultramarines in two, while his gaze caused them to ignite with inextinguishable flames. Many came at him, seeking the glory that killing the Sacrificed Son would bring them, but none could come so far as to scratch his armor. He dodged all attacks, moving with a swiftness that belied his bulk. As if he were showing off, he avoided even blows that would have had no hope to penetrate his armor and infernal aura. Those who stood at his side knew that this was because he was wary of the possibility of assassins hiding among his enemies and wielding disguised weapons capable of slaying him. Paranoia, always a prudent way of life among the servants of Chaos, was something Gage had made into an art form over the millennia. The fact that Ultramarines warbands, Traitor Legion agents and Imperial assassins had been trying to kill him for thousands of years in increasingly inventive ways only added justification to his caution.

The Sacrificed Son fought surrounded by the Loathed Ones, the wraiths drawn to their former lord. Had they not been on Macragge and facing the enemies responsible for their entombment, there was little doubt that they would have turned against Gage, who had abandoned them and left them to rot for thousands of years. But their hatred for Guilliman's slaves was stronger, and they ravaged the forces arrayed against them with all the terrible powers at their disposal. Psykers in a kilometers-wide radius around Gage fell to their knees, wailing in terrible pain as the Loathed Ones' malicious aura stabbed right into their darkling souls.

Marius' landing point was several hundreds kilometers south of the Fortress of Hera, for the stronghold was too well protected for a direct assault from orbit. The first planetary target of the Black Crusade was one of the world's hundreds of temples, one that had only been built a couple of centuries ago but which already held sway over several million souls. This temple had been built around the body of a Chaos preacher whose fiery charisma and inspired rhetoric had caused a dozen Imperial worlds to rebel against the False Emperor. So powerful had been his hold on his followers that when he had been slain by a World Eater champion, they had recovered his body and brought it all the way to Macragge, where it had become the focus point of a new cult of Chaos Undivided.

But for all the strength of the cult holding the temple, it was swept aside with contemptuous ease by Gage's forces, its priests' pleas for help from their dead saint going unanswered. Once the purging was done, Gage himself strode into the temple, ready to unlock the next step of his plan.

The temple was a place dedicated to darkness and debasement, where Ruin ruled supreme. Icons of the Eightfold Star were emblazoned on the walls, anointed in the blood of human sacrifices. Braziers burned with eldritch flames, casting shadows that moved whenever they weren't directly looked at, and seemed to stare back when they were. The Chaos Lords walked through the blood-soaked remains of the battle, where cultists had fought among the relics of their faith.

Marius' infernal countenance was right at home in this décor, as was that of Castus, who walked at his side. The ground cracked under the feet of the massive Plague Lord, with the corpses rotting and the very stone moaning in protest at the kiss of his entropic aura. They passed devotional scriptures and tapestries of the preacher whose remains were buried at the center of the temple, not sparing them a single glance. They were alone; at Marius' command, his forces had departed the temple once it had been cleansed of life.

At the heart of the temple was the sarcophagus of Mhaeros the Eight-Eyed, Prophet of Chaos Undivided. It was fashioned of obsidian, sculpted in the image of the holy man. So precise was the artistry that had gone into the sculpture that it looked like the stony prophet was merely sleeping on an ornate bier. The dark blessing that had given the prophet's his title had also been rendered : in addition to the two pairs of eyes on its face, the statue sported another eye on the back of each of its hands, which were clasped on its chest in prayer, and another pair of eyes was visible on its exposed chest. All eight eyes, which had seen so much in life, were now closed.

'Castus,' commanded the Sacrificed Son, and the Plague Lord walked forward, rising his mace above his head with both hands, focusing all his strength before striking at the sarcophagus. The energies of the weapon clashed with the protective spells woven into the stone, and after a deafening boom, there was only the smallest crack running down the petrified Mhaeros' face – but that was enough. The wards had been breached.

'Get back,' called Marius. 'Now !'

Castus stepped away, as a thick black smoke began to rise from the crack in the sarcophagus. He had only taken a couple of steps before the coffin exploded, sending a hail of obsidian shards that shattered against Gage's and Castus' armor. More black smoke rose from the debris, and within it a figure coalesced into existence, tall and terrible. Only impressions of its form could be glimpsed by Castus, for it was not a thing meant for mortal eyes and thoughts – what Marius saw in the smoke, the Plague Lord could only guess. But Castus saw skeletal hands, and a great horned skull. He saw blood-dripping fangs and reptilian scales, feathered wings that turned into bat-like appendages and black, rune-covered antique armor that dissolved into an assemblage of crystalline interwoven plates. There was a sense of immense power in the figure, but also one of incompleteness, as if something had been ripped out of its very core. But in spite of this gaping void, there was still power in the entity that rose from the tomb of Mhaeros, and Castus stepped back until he was standing several meters behind Marius, watching what he had unleashed with the slightest tremor of unease in his rotting guts. Even Parmenides was silent before this ancient nightmare.

'Marius,' spoke the creature, glaring at the Sacrificed Son with eyes that had seen the rise of fall of entire species. 'The time has come for our bargain to be fulfilled.'

'Aye, Be'lakor,' replied Gage, standing before the Firstborn Daemon Prince without any sign of fear. 'It has indeed. My armies march onto the surface of Macragge once more. Can you provide what you promised me, that we might at long last take our revenge upon Guilliman ?'

Be'lakor laughed, and expanded his wings behind him, tearing great rents into the temple's walls.

'Oh yes, son of the Gods. Long have I dreamt of this moment, as I waited in this prison of stone and sorcery, weaving my power into the minds and souls of this world's fools. Behold !'

Centuries before the Sacrificed Son had issued the call for a Black Crusade against Macragge, Marius had forged a pact with the Daemon Prince Be'lakor, Master of Shadows, Firstborn of the Gods and, once, the Dark Master of Chaos, a mantle that had been taken from him by Guilliman at the dawn of his rebellion against the Emperor. Be'lakor had plenty of reasons to hate Marius, who had fought at Guilliman's side in the Eye of Terror, in the very campaign that had led to the Daemon Prince being stripped of most of his power and left a ruined reflection of his former glory. But Gage's proposition managed to catch the ancient fiend's interest. Taking a human host, Be'lakor had unleashed his evil upon the galaxy in an open manner, ruining no more lives than he would have otherwise, but earning fame in his new disguise. He had manipulated his followers to ensure that, upon the apparent death of his host – a nameless wretch whose soul the Master of Shadows had only deigned devour to hide his tracks – the body was taken to Macragge.

Released from his tomb and the seals that had hidden his presence on the world, the Master of Shadows could finally wield the full measure of his power once more. He reached out across Macragge, through the psychic connections he had subtly cultivated for centuries, and exerted his will. Old grudges flared in the black souls of ruinous priests, and they commanded their flock to attack the followers of their old enemies instead of marching to the frontline to fight the invaders. Seconds-in-command stabbed superiors they had faithfully obeyed for centuries in the back, their ambitions stoked to unprecedented heights. Keepers of unholy relics whose strength of will had held the whispers of their charges at bay succumbed to temptation, breaking the casings and picking up tools of damnation that gave them a brief taste of power before swallowing their souls and puppeteering their bodies to wreak havoc. Three of Macragge's cult were even completely swayed to the cause of Be'lakor, their members having been slowly brainwashed by their priests' sermons until little enough of their free will remained that the Master of Shadows could simply break it.

Not all who had knelt and prayed in Be'lakor's temple fell under the daemon's sway. Some of his targets resisted his influence, whether they sensed the intrusion in their thoughts or not. Others failed to perform their task, and were promptly slain by their own comrades (or, in the case of one priest, torn to bloody pieces by his own congregation for trying to lead them astray). But the Firstborn had had centuries to weave his influence across Macragge, and enough succumbed to throw the entire front into chaos. Accusations of treachery and heresy flew, and soon the billion-strong host of cultists roused to stop the Black Crusade was tearing itself apart while monsters stalked the streets, feeding their ancient hungers upon those who had kept them sealed for so long. For these Neverborn, no worship, no matter how fanatical, could match the sweetness of blood spilled in slaughter. Be'lakor laughed at the madness his schemes caused, a dark and terrible sound that drove those closest to him and not strong enough to insanity. Next to the Daemon Prince, the Sacrificed Son nodded approvingly.

And, far to the north, a Sorcerer in blue and black armor suddenly went very still, before dropping his quill, turning from his open grimoire, and stepping out of his chamber, driven to go where only a very few souls were allowed to venture. The mind of that Ultramarine had all but collapsed as hidden instructions took over his body, but such was the size of the structure he was in that it would take him hours to reach his destination. And while he walked, Macragge burned.

With Be'lakor unleashed, Gage's army began their advance toward the Fortress of Hera. Not all followed the Sacrificed Son's lead : entire warbands broke off from the main force, seeking their own glory and plunder, both of which could be found in abundance within Macragge's countless temples. Gage let them go : he had always known they would act this way, and their actions still served his designs, increasing the mayhem and keeping the cults from regrouping. The bulk of his army (a host of nigh twenty thousand Astartes all told, and millions of mortals) was still under his control, and they tore a bloody path through the megalopolis, toppling dark cathedrals and slaughtering millions of cultists. The air was filled with the stench of blood and burned flesh as fires spread unchecked across entire districts. No natural flames were these, but the result of sacrificial pyres that had not gone out in thousands of years only to be spilled as their temples were ransacked.

For all the might of Gage's army, however, the cults of Macragge were experts at urban warfare, and even disunited by Be'lakor's tricks, there were still many who fought tooth and nail against the invaders. They had spent a hundred generations sharpening their skills by fighting one another over doctrinal differences and to capture sacrifices to offer to Guilliman on their blood-stained altars, and these skills were turned upon Gage's soldiers. Ambushes and counter-charges were sprung every kilometer, cultists rushing the army with hooked daggers, daemon-mouthed pistols, and other, more improvised tools of war. While these weapons were little threat to the Astartes in Gage's army (except for a few of the sacrificial knives, which had been imbued with genuine power by thousands of deaths), they still exacted a toll upon its mortal element, and slowed the Black Crusade's progress. The carnage drew more and more Neverborn like carrion-eaters, and they fashioned bodies for themselves from the corpses of the dead, adding more mayhem and confusion.

At the side of Marius Gage, Cato Sicarius watched as the warbands gathered under the Crusade's banner rampaged through the streets of Macragge Civitas. Many of the temples the Warrior-King had known during his time on the planet were gone, replaced by other congregations as their fortunes fell. Not that it mattered – they were chaff, slaves only fit to serve their betters and, on this day, die at the blades and bolters of the great host come to end their world.

There was displayed the grotesque unity of Chaos, as warriors sworn to rival Powers fought side by side, revelling in the slaughter of weaker prey. The heavens rumbled with the Dark Gods' booming laughter as their servants butchered each other, driven by a hatred ten thousand years old. The hate of Roboute Guilliman, who had led them to break their oaths to the Emperor, and failed to deliver the glorious victory he had promised – the victory for which they had bled. Sicarius didn't share that hatred himself – his reasons for joining Gage were more personal – but he could still appreciate the spectacle, the strength of the emotion. With the power of Amnaich's pulsing through his soul, he could actually see the spiritual connection between the warriors.

Blood Angels and Imperial Fists fought back to back against the tides of cultists, laughing together as they bathed themselves in mortal blood. Salamanders called out to their distant Primarch as they burned temples to ash with powerful Warp-flamers, dedicating the souls caught in the inferno to the Black Dragon. White Scars riders and Space Wolves Wulfen hunted ahead of the main force, spreading chaos within the enemy ranks and claiming the choicest prizes in return for this most risked assignment. Vat-born Evocatii fought the one battle they had been bred and trained for, led by renegade Ultramarines whose spite was perhaps the strongest of all.

And there, emerging from the broken gates of a dark cathedral whose bells had rung without pause for aeons and that had finally been silenced, was a group of one Raven Guard Pureblood and a pack of Spawn Marines, surrounded by dozens of men and women wearing the finest finery of Imperial nobility, slaughtering the cultists with their bare hands, their strength as inhuman as the expressions on their faces. The son of Corax and his minions had come to Calth just before the Black Crusade's departure, and Gage had not dared deny them a place in his armada, even though he was certain he had not called for them. Even in the throes of battle-lust, the other warriors of the host stayed well away from the strange and disturbing presence of the Raven Guard Legionaries. Even as they started to walk against the tide – their purpose on Macragge apparently fulfilled by the destruction of that particular temple – the other forces parted to make way for them. The Champion of Slaanesh caught a glimpse of something being cradled in the arms of the Purebloods' leader – a container of some kind, blocky and black as the void. He did not know what it was, and he did not care – let the sons of Corax have their trinkets, he sought a far greater prize.

Gage had called to the Dark Angels and the Iron Hands, sending emissaries to the Eye of Terror to petition the lords of the First and Tenth Legions, offering great treasures and the chance to claim vengeance upon the one who had led them to ignoble failure. But the sons of the Lion had their own wars to wage, and he had received no reply from the Tenth Legion – nor had any of his messengers returned. Cato had expected as much – from what he had read in the Legion's archives, the bond between Guilliman and Ferrus Manus had been strong, and during the Heresy, the Gorgon had been the Arch-Traitor's most loyal general. But he would have thought millennia of exile would have soured that bond … No matter. They had plenty enough warriors, enough to kill every soul on Macragge if that's what it took to reach the Fortress of Hera and the prize within.

Cato's mouth-grill watered at the thought of the feast that awaited him, and he plunged right back into the melee, shouting dark oaths to his divine patron.

As the forces of Gage fragmented and the war spread across Macragge, more of the planet's secrets were revealed. Powerful daemons were roused from their temples by the bloodshed, or freed from imprisonment as their prisons were destroyed in the confusion. Ancient mutated creatures, devolved far from the human form after thousands of years exposed to the Warp's baleful energies, burst from the ground. Chaos magi who had spent centuries obsessively developing their knowledge of the Dark Arts were forced out of their lairs by the battle, unleashing devastating sorcery against their attackers. One such warlock was a Legionary who emerged from the rubble of a destroyed temple, clad in a power armor of ancient design that was so covered in ash and gore that it was impossible to make out any Legion markings. This psyker slew hundreds of Evocatii from both sides of the conflict, displaying incredible power, before vanishing in a flash of Warp energy when he was attacked by several Loathed Ones. The wraiths vanished along with him, and none could tell who the mysterious warrior had been, or even whether he had been the master of the temple or its prisoner – only that his mastery of the Warp was great.

Marneus Calgar watched the devastation unfold from the Fortress of Hera, and knew that the battle would reach its walls. He had always suspected that would be the case, but Be'lakor's stratagem meant that the Ultramarines would face the traitors without the latter having been bled by the cultists as much as they could have been. He had thought Gage couldn't sink any lower when he had seen the renegade Legionaries in his host, but then the Sacrificed Son had revealed his alliance with the Master of Shadows, Guilliman's own nemesis from ancient times. The Lord of Macragge seethed at the revelation that the Spiritual Liege's most hated foe had been here, on the world he was sworn to defend, for hundreds of years without his knowledge. His followers sensed his rage and, unwilling to risk it, worked even harder to prepare the Fortress for the coming battle.

The man hiding on the lower decks of the Thirteenth Legion frigate Pyre had forgotten his name many years ago, when the Apothecaries had torn him from his people and made him into what he was. But he had chosen a new name for himself after his doom had manifested itself, one charged with hidden truths and bitter irony. He called himself Testament, for he was quite possibly the only living soul in all the galaxy who knew the truth of the Ultramarines.

Even now, after so many years, Testament didn't know for certain why he knew what he knew. He had been too busy surviving the consequences of that knowledge to investigate its origin. He had theories – an aberration of the gene-seed, latent psychic powers, or just what passed for the Dark Gods' sense of humor at work. But regardless of the cause, he had seen the bonds, both genetic and sorcerous, that chained the entire Thirteenth Legion together – and worse than that, he had seen the hand that held them. He knew Guilliman wasn't dead, and that the Spiritual Liege felt nothing but cold contempt for his Legion, manipulating them from within his stasis tomb to some unknowable end … an end that Testament had glimpsed in those final moments before the madness had given him the strength to break free of his pod and kill his way out of the laboratory.

After years of fleeing through the Ruinstorm evading hunters both mortal and immortal, Testament had finally arrived to Calth, thinking to find safety in the Sacrificed Son's shadow. And for a time, it had worked, but then Gage had sent out the call for his Crusade. Testament knew full well the terrible might Gage had pitted himself against, but in the font of dark lore that bubbled within the most chaotic parts of his mind, he thought he had seen a way to end the hunt for his life. A way for Marius to succeed, and free the Ultramarines from the shackles of their undying lord. For so long, he had not even dared dreamt that such a thing was possible, but his visions hadn't lied.

And so he had hidden aboard the Pyre, hiding his presence with wards he had learned from witches and daemons, both asking dark boons in return. For months he had remained in the circle as the ship crossed the Ruinstorm with the Black Crusade's armada, his thoughts utterly still lest they betray his presence to his hunters. But now was the time to come out, to get to the flight decks and find a way down to the planet below. The Pyre was shaking from the battle against the defense fleet, and it wouldn't do for Testament's journey to be ended by a stray shell piercing the frigate's hull and detonating its Warp core. He didn't have a plan beyond "get to Gage and help him winˮ, but he had learned long ago that making detailed plans only backfired, since his enemy was one that was very much still present in his own head. He checked his equipment, stepped out of the circle …

… and was immediately met by a towering figure blocking the corridor, some thirty meters ahead. Testament froze in his tracks as he recognized the figure (which hadn't been there a heartbeat before). He had seen its like – four like it, mighty and terrible, silent avatars of the will of the Dark Master of Chaos. It was humanoid, and bore some outward semblance to a Space Marine, but no one could ever mistake that being for a mere Legionary. It was a thing from the infernal pits, clinging to the image of what it had once been in order to be able to walk in the realms where gods and mortals met, and it radiated power. How it had come aboard the Pyre without every psyker aboard the Black Crusade sensing it was beyond Testament, but what it was wasn't.

Tetrarch.

More than anything, Testament wanted to run. There were other paths out of his lair, and he had been able to outrun every hunter he hadn't been able to outfight before. But he knew that this wouldn't work on the Tetrarch. All of his life, the four Daemon Princes had haunted Testament's nightmares, impossibly large silhouettes that drew ever closer to him, never pausing in their hunt. Astartes knew no fear, but Testament was no Astartes. He was Evocatii, with only a fragment of Guilliman's gene-seed flowing through his blood, and he knew fear all too well. The sight of the fiend blocking the corridor filled him with primordial, atavistic terror.

But, perhaps it was because he knew fear, and therefore courage. Perhaps it was because he knew what was to come, and had no desire to live to see it. Or perhaps it was simply because he was tired of running from the monsters who had hunted him all his life. Regardless, Testament did not run.

The Evocatii stood his ground before the Tetrarch, a young offshoot of the Avenging Son's line facing off against one of the Legion's greatest lords. He used every trick he had accumulated during his long run – and he accumulated plenty. He threw explosive devices that detonated with the shrieking sound of caged daemons being released; he spoke words of power that caused the metal walls to bend and crack; he fired wildly with a gun that had been crafted to kill a world's god-king. But the Tetrarch simply kept walking, never slowing, never accelerating, and any damage inflicted upon him seemed to vanish as soon as the Evocatii took his eyes off it. When the last of Testament's tools failed, he drew his blade – his oldest weapon, taken from the corpse of the Legionary who had tried to stop him from escaping the gene-laboratories – and charged, screaming in fury, terror and hate. The Tetrarch batted the sword aside with casual ease, shattering it without even trying.

The strength of the blow threw Testament backwards and he fell to the ground. He turned up, determined to at least see his death – and saw the armored hand of the monster approach his head.

The hand was the last thing Testament saw before the darkness closed in.

In orbit, the battle continued, and despite the casualties they had suffered Calgar's ships were still able to deny complete orbital supremacy to their foe, preventing the Black Crusade armada from simply bombarding Macragge into oblivion. But the ships loyal to Guilliman's legacy could not cover the entire planet, and one ship bearing clear marks of Tzeentchian influence detached from the main Black Crusade fleet, sailing toward the planet's northern pole. Above the frozen wasteland that covered this region of Macragge, the ship, called the Beckoning Whisper, disgorged several aircrafts that descended slowly and purposefully toward the undefended icy plains.

From these transports emerged the one called Oberdeii, the Oracle of the Pharos, and his warband of Tzeentch cultists and Neverborn. The Oracle led his forces further north, braving howling winds born of the souls of unfit sacrifices to the Dark Gods. He had come to Macragge for one purpose and one purpose only, and nothing would stay him from his course.

The call burned inside his head.

He had heard it constantly, ever since he had been dragged into the Pharos and made to listen to its chatter. It echoed inside his skull, on and on, never fading for a single moment. It was the psychic call, the beacon that had drawn the Great Devourer's horde from the unimaginable darkness beyond the light of the furthest stars. It was the signal that heralded the end of all life in the galaxy, and it was loud enough to silence even the voice of Tzeentch at times.

In his rare moments of lucidity, Oberdeii knew that he was mad. He knew that his enemies struggled to find a pattern in his actions, and knew too that they would find none, for there simply wasn't one. His mind jumped from one goal to the next simply to occupy itself, to try to drown out the noise of the call with his own thoughts. At other times, he was pulled into one direction or another, not knowing what he was supposed to do until he reached his destination. His followers thought he was being mysterious and secretive to prevent betrayal, but in truth, he genuinely didn't know what he was doing most of the time. It was only afterwards that he understood the purpose behind his actions, though whether that was the actual reason or something constructed by his mind to justify his own madness, not even he knew.

But this time, things were different. He knew why he had come to Macragge, why he had come to Gage's gathering even though he hadn't been invited. The Sacrificed Son had accepted his presence warily, and Oberdeii knew that he had been watched, just in case. That was fine – his presence on Macragge truly would help Gage's cause, though not in any way the warlord could anticipate.

All around Oberdeii and his warband, the frozen desolation of Macragge's northern pole spread from horizon to horizon. Things very much like boreal auroras danced in the heavens, and terrible shapes could be glimpsed in the luminous displays when the snow clouds parted for long enough. Horrors of Tzeentch in Oberdeii's retinue chattered among themselves, speaking of the Gods looking down upon them in approval or hatred or both. Mortal cultists trembled in the punishing cold – more than half of them had already perished, their frozen bodies left behind on the ice. Only the Chaos Marines remained silent, their bolters held at the ready, knowing better than to assume they were safe just because they couldn't see any obvious peril in their surroundings.

Without warning, Oberdeii stopped. There was nothing special about the spot where he stood, but his forces didn't question him, and at a gesture from him they withdrew, forming a defensive position some distance behind him. With the white mists blocking his visibility, Oberdeii felt as if he were truly alone with the noise in his head.

The Oracle knelt, and passed his hand on the surface of the ice, pushing aside the accumulated snow to reveal the crystal-clear frozen liquid underneath. For a few seconds, he peered into the lightless depths beneath his feet, before rising once more and brandishing his staff over his head, holding it in both hands. The sound of call grew louder and louder, until Oberdeii's arms were trembling with its beat and his eyeballs shook in rhythm with it. With a great cry, he rammed the staff into the ice, channelling the power of the call downwards, along with all the psychic energy he could muster. Lightning descended from the heavens and struck the staff, travelling down its length and into the ice, using Oberdeii's very soul as a vessel to express itself. Entire blocks of ice vaporised, and the surface cracked as steam burst out, sending shards of frozen liquid in all directions. And from the depths they rose, climbing over shattered ice.

Centuries ago, when the Hive-Fleet Behemoth had entered the Ruinstorm and attacked Macragge, millions of Tyranids lifeforms had rained down upon the daemon world. Among these, tens of thousands had landed on the northern pole, for the xenos Hive-Mind had been driven mad by the Ruinstorm and did not act with the vicious cunning it would later display across the rest of the galaxy. These Tyranids had been caught in the cruel climate, made even worse by the rituals of Chaos Sorcerers, and had been trapped beneath the ice. All Ultramarines had assumed they were dead – but the spawns of the Great Devourer were resilient. Most of the smaller creatures had indeed perished, but the rest had survived, entering hibernation, preserved by the unnatural cold.

And now, they rose to the surface, heeding the call booming out of Oberdeii's psyche.

There were hundreds, thousands of them, and among them there was one taller than any other, a huge Carnifex who had only one eye left. This was the creature known to the Ultramarines as Old One Eye, a beast who had fought the lords of Laphis and slain six of them before leaving the daemon world as the Hive-fleet moved on to Macragge. Its carapace was covered in the scars left by countless attempts to slay it, including several wounds that still glowed with eldritch fire where it had been struck by infernal Warp-imbued weapons. Old One Eye screamed as it rose, and the ice shook and fell apart, revealing yet more Tyranids heeding the call of this biological warmachine.

For a moment, the Oracle waited for the claws and fangs that would end his life, convinced that this was to be the moment of his death. But the xenos passed right by him, seemingly not seeing him – or at least not registering him as an enemy. Oberdeii laughed a disbelieving, mad laughter even as his escorts were torn to shreds by the Tyranids. He cared nothing for their deaths, even as they called to him for help in their panicked, shocked last moments. He didn't care because, for the first time in millennia, the noise in his head was silent.

Alone on the ice, the Oracle of the Pharos laughed as the monsters he had released from their centuries-long slumber continued their advance southward, drawn toward the sprawling cities of Macragge by the heat and promise of prey.

Silence, at last.

The Tyranids of the north pole lacked true leadership, but there were plenty of Warriors in their ranks, though the Synapse Network was still perturbed by the Ruinstorm's baleful emanations. It was enough to prevent the lower beasts from turning against each other, and the Tyranid host went south, driven to destroy everything in their path, obeying some ingrained instinct that not even the madness of Macragge had twisted. Scholars and hereteks had spent many years trying to understand why the Tyranids had entered the Ruinstorm in the first place, and come to Macragge in particular, yet they had failed to come up with any explanation more satisfying than the displeasure of the Dark Gods. That theory was left unspoken on Macragge, lest it draw the ire of the Ultramarines, yet it was still spread among the cultists, pushing them to ever-greater depravities to reclaim the favor of the Pantheon. And as word arrived that the Great Devourer had returned in Macragge's darkest hour, panic began to spread, and armies were sent north to face the new threat. But before the xenos could reach the sprawling mega-city, they would first need to cross what had become of the region once known as Illyrium, now called the Fractured Land.

Illyrium, the Fractured Land

Ten thousand years ago, before the young boy who would become Roboute Guilliman arrived on Macragge, Illyrium was known as the "bandit country" of the planet, a savage land where barbarian tribes fought one another for glory and occasionally went south to raid their more civilized neighbours. Then Guilliman came, and brought the tribes to heel – only to abandon the campaign and rush back home when the conspiracy inspired by Be'lakor unfolded, killing his adoptive family and setting Macragge Civitas ablaze. In the years that followed, Guilliman never returned to Illyrium, though he sent armies and diplomats to finish what he had started and bring Illyrium into the fold of his new kingdom. But the whispers of dissent weren't quite completely silenced when Marius Gage sacrificed himself at Calth and unleashed the Ruinstorm.

When the Warp claimed Macragge, Illyrium was hit the worst by its power. Whatever power preserved the rest of the planet from dissolution into chaos wasn't in effect there. The very land broke apart, divided as its people had been divided for so long. Great landmasses rose into the air, flying slowly with erratic patterns. As for the people of Illyrium, they were transformed into inhuman beasts, their genetic code completely rewritten in mere seconds, their bodies reshaped by the terrible power of the Warp – and as to their souls, few dare wonder as to their fate. Certainly the things that now inhabit Illyrium lack anything a psyker might recognize as a sentient mind.

Since then, Illyrium had been a land of havoc and mayhem, torn apart by endless fights between its monsters. Islands of floating rock clash together, driven by the aggression of their inhabitants. Every monster of Illyrium is descended from human stock, and the horrors on display in that savage land are nearly on par with those of the Nineteenth Legion's own daemonic homeworld. From time to time, champions of Chaos will venture into this dangerous region, seeking glory by slaying the greatest beasts : few ever return, and those who do don't make that mistake again.

There is only one path between Illyrium and the mega-city of Macragge : the Bridge of Cold Torment, guarded by the Illyrium Legion. The Bridge of Cold Torment is built from the soul-stuff of everyone who took part in the infamous riots that killed Konor Guilliman, foster father of the Avenging Son. Their shades were dragged from the Warp's depths and bound into this haunting structure, from the corrupt senators who feared Konor's reforms to the soldiers who merely followed the orders of those whom their families had served for generations. The Bridge itself is a structure of bone, muscle, tendon and faces. As the wind courses through their open mouths, the sound of screaming fills the air – and there is always wind on the Bridge of Cold Torment, freezing and biting. Ice forms on the bridge out of the souls' pained tears, forming outstretched hands that are smashed to pieces by the armored boots of its defenders with the sound of shattered bone.

No one is quite sure how the Bridge came to be : there were no Ultramarines on Macragge when the Ruinstorm erupted, and the construction was already there when they returned after the Siege of Terra. There were those who advocated for its destruction, as it gave the monsters of Illyrium a way into the more "civilized" lands of Macragge, but the myth that it was created by the Primarch to punish his old enemies prevented that from coming to pass. None wanted to risk bringing the disfavour of the Spiritual Liege upon themselves by releasing his enemies from their suffering : instead, the lords of the Ultramarines raised the Illyrium Legion to stand guard at the Bridge.

The Illyrium Legion is a name given in mockery to the thousand Evocatii who are stationed at the Bridge permanently, tasked with guarding it and preventing the dangers of Illyrium from mixing with the perils of Macragge Civitas. Attacks are infrequent but unpredictable, forcing the thin-blooded warriors into a state of perpetual readiness. The lifespan of these Evocatii is short, and those who survive more than a few years are some of the most capable warriors on Macragge, though it is rare for them to have a chance to use these skills to enhance their lifestyle. There are no true Legionaries at the Bridge, for the sons of Guilliman consider this duty beneath them. The Ultramarines closest to the Bridge are the Apothecaries who maintain the genetic facilities where new Evocatii are bred to replace the losses of the Illyrium Legion. They are also tasked with ensuring that the conditioning of their creations holds, and have performed that duty well over the centuries : it is exceedingly rare for a member of the Illyrium Legion to rebel against the cruelty of his assigned fate. And, on the rare occasions it has happened, the would-be rebel has always been slain promptly by his brethren, who are all convinced that only through honorable death can their souls be elevated from their hybrid condition and be reborn as true sons of Guilliman. The one mercy of their condition is that all memories of their previous lives are wiped out – none of them remember how they were offered up to the Ultramarines as babies, often by their own parents.

The Tyranids flowed out of Illyrium in a compact mass and hit the Bridge of Cold Torment like a hammer-blow. The Illyrium Legion was ready, having already had to fight off the beasts that the xenos horde had driven before it. Automated defenses opened fire, while Evocatii stood on high walls and fired at the mass of chitinous flesh with all manners of weapons. But the walls were covered in a thick layer of supernatural ice, and the Tyranids' claws could pierce through it to form rudimentary holds to climb. Soon battle was joined on the battlements, while acid projectiles arced over the wall and rained down into the courtyard beyond.

Thirteen successive walls barred the path of the Tyranid horde, each higher and better defended than the last. Among the hierarchy of the Illyrium Legion, to be assigned to the outermost wall was a death sentence and a mark of honor all at once. This was where the newest recruits, the unstable and the damaged were sent, to deal with the most frequent assaults and absorb the casualties. But despite their flaws, the Evocatii of the Bridge's outer wall were still scions of Guilliman's blood, however diluted, and they fought bravely against the Tyranids.

The few psykers stationed at the walls – humans and mutants all, thralls of the Illyrium Legion, of which no member would ever have been allowed to possess psychic abilities and live – screamed at the coming of the Swarm. Their minds had already suffered much as Macragge was shaken to its core by the battle being fought in the south, and now the pressure of the rabid, insane fragments of the Hive-Mind that had endured the Ruinstorm and the long sleep were too much to bear. They wept and laughed and clawed their own eyes out, while around them reality rippled as their power tried to reshape it into the shape of their nightmares of chitin and claws. Fortunately for the defenders, the Tyranids also lacked psychic forces, as the Zoanthropes that had come to Macragge hadn't survived the cold, their enormous brains too susceptible to the freezing temperatures.

The outer walls fell quickly, as their defenders withdrew to the next ones in good order despite the Tyranids snapping at their heels. The first three walls were abandoned, still slowing down the horde as it was forced to climb up and down each of them – and the Tyranids descending the third wall's inner side were easy targets for the Evocatii manning the fourth. The lascannons, heavy bolter turrets and other defenses opened fire on the xenos, turning the space between the third and fourth wall into a killing zone that few Tyranids managed to cross. For a while, it seemed that the Illyrium Legion was going to win, to hold back the swarm through sheer firepower.

Then came Old One-Eye, immense and terrible and followed by more of its gigantic breed. The Fractured Lands were home to some huge monstrosities, but none compared to the sheer bulk of the ancient Carnifex. It crashed through the fallen walls, barely slowing its charge and leaving in its wake a path for the rest of the swarm to pour through. The fourth wall's defenses were trained on it immediately, but what damage they managed to inflict to its thick carapace vanished almost immediately, the creature's regeneration unaffected by its long slumber. Even when the Evocatii bathed it in Warp-fire from a device the Dark Mechanicum had sent to the Bridge to be tested, the Carnifex simply walked through the flame, its chitin blackened but otherwise unharmed, and tore the engine to shreds, sending the daemon bound within back into the Sea of Souls.

The fourth wall fell, and this time the retreat was neither orderly nor disciplined. Twelve Carnifex followed Old One-Eye, roused from their hibernation by a call no spawn of the Great Devourer could ignore. The Evocatii were as brave as children reforged into instruments of war and sent to die in a war no one important cared about could be, but even they recoiled from the sheer size of the Carnifex, and the seeming invulnerability of the beast leading them. One by one, the walls fell, with the smaller, faster Tyranids running through the rubble to join in the carnage. Hundreds of Evocatii fell between one wall and the next, fighting till their last breath to break through the swarm. From time to time Old One-Eye caught an Evocatii in its enormous claws, biting off pieces of flesh with teeth the length of a chainsword. There was far too little nourishment to be had in such bites, but the psychological effect was great, and every aspect of the Carnifex' shape and behavior had been carefully designed by the Great Devourer's cold, alien intellect.

True Astartes may have hold their ground, but the Evocatii, for all their transhuman prowess, were still thin-blooded. Many still knew fear, and indoctrination could only go so far to suppress survival instinct without making them useless as warriors. But when the battle finally reached the thirteenth and final wall, standing taller than any other at eighth-tenth of the way on the bridge, the retreat stopped. No matter the strength of the enemy horde, the Illyrium Legion could go no further, for the Sorcerers of the Ultramarines had cast a powerful geas upon the Bridge and every member of the Illyrium Legion. The Evocatii could not leave the Bridge from the southern side, not without direct orders from an acknowledged superior in the Thirteenth. They were trapped, caught between the strength of the spell and the Tyranid swarm.

Still, they had the thirteenth wall to defend, and the last barrier between Illyrium and the rest of Macragge had been the one in which the Ultramarines had put the most resources over the years. They may not care how many Evocatii died fighting the horrors of the Fractured Land, but they didn't want these same horrors reaching their own territories either. The last wall was several hundred meters high, its exact height varying from day to day thanks to the Warp-infused metal that had been used in its construction. It was very much alive, host to a vicious consciousness that fed off the suffering of the Bridge's souls and answered only reluctantly to the commands of the Illyrium Legion, fighting against the geases binding it every time it was given orders. Evocatii stationed at that wall had been known to disappear without trace, and it was rightly suspected that the wall itself had swallowed them, devouring them body and soul when they had wandered into dark corridors alone. For that reason, only the leader of the Illyrium Legion and his direct subordinates were stationed there permanently, though only the former was somewhat safe from the daemon's depredations thanks to the authority invested in him by the Ultramarines.

The current leader of the Illyrium Legion was named Illiyan Nastase, called the Half-Breed behind his back, along with a variety of even less respectful nicknames. Illiyan had been the result of a unique experiment, when an Apothecary of the Thirteenth Legion had attempted to add Eldar DNA to the thinned gene-seed used to create the Evocatii. Of the hundred and eight test subjects, only he had survived the ravages inflicted by the two conflicting gene-codes. He had the bulk of an Astartes, but was unnaturally thin, his face gaunt and with too-long bones that showed his origins to anyone who had ever seen an Eldar. His creator had lost interest in him soon after he had passed a few tests of his endurance and martial ability, both by fighting in training pits and by avoiding the assassination attempts from other Ultramarines who saw his existence as an abomination. These attempts had stopped after he had been sent to the Bridge, though he had had to kill several other Evocatii to force the rest to accept him. The only reason he was the leader of the Illyrium Legion was because something in his xenos-tainted blood allowed him to control the daemon wall more easily than any other candidate, and because none of the other claimants wanted to fight him for it. At least, not after he had gutted the first three to challenge him within seconds of the ritual duel.

Standing atop the thirteenth wall, Illiyan now called upon that advantage. He exerted his will and commanded the wall to unleash all of its power upon the Tyranid horde. The metal rippled as the xenos started to climb, and the thin ice upon its surface shattered as claws reached out and inhuman maws opened to swallow the aliens whole. Atop the wall, the remaining Evocatii of the Illyrium Legion fought on, slaying the xenos who managed to reach the battlements. A protective circle formed around their leader, that he may continue to call upon the wall's power to aid them.

When Old One-Eye charged the wall, this time the structure held, though it shook from its base to its top. Illiyan winced as sympathetic pain flowed through his link to the wall, and once more when the Carnifex hammered the wall again, and again, and again. There was a strength in the beast that went beyond mere muscle and mass, a strength of purpose that burned the daemon inside the wall and weakened its hold onto the metal caging it. The Half-Breed could sense the anger of the Neverborn, both at the impact and at the futility of its own attempts to damage the Tyranid. No matter what the daemon unleashed, the Carnifex shrugged it off, and continued to beat onto the wall, joined by the rest of its enormous kindred. These the wall could kill : it tore them apart with tendrils of pure blackness, rotted their tiny brains with clouds of pestilence and made their bones twist and break with words of power shouted from screaming mouths. And as it did so, blood began to flow from Illiyan's mouth and eyes as the exertion caught up to him. No Evocatii had ever been meant to wield such sorcerous power, even by proxy.

Yet still Old One-Eye stood, still it hammered at the wall, and still the Tyranid horde came, climbing onto the pile of their dead at the base of the wall. Cracks began to spread where Old One-Eye struck, and the Half-Breed felt the daemon's panic and the focusing of all its efforts onto the Carnifex – giving the rest of the swarm free reign to climb and fight the Evocatii. And as the wall suffered, so did the entire Bridge, which shook with the powerful Neverborn's impotent fury. His mind burning with the daemon's rage and pain, Illiyan threw off the arms of his concerned comrades and rushed toward the edge of the battlements, his blade cutting any Tyranid in his path to ribbons, and leapt from the edge of the wall, plunging hundreds of meters down – and landing directly onto the head of Old One-Eye at the exact moment it struck the thirteenth wall for the last time. Illiyan's power sword, driven by the strength of his fall, pierced through the Carnifex' thick skull and stabbed into its brain, frying it instantly. Inside his armor, nearly every bone in Illiyan's body shattered at the impact. And as the commander of the Illyrium Legion died from the extreme trauma, the pain flowed through the link between him and the daemon. Combined with the damage inflicted by the Carnifex, this was too much, and the daemon screamed in agony as it lost its hold onto the half-reality of Macragge. Ancient wards shattered, and the thirteenth wall fell.

And as the last barrier between Illyrium and the rest of Macragge fell, the final defense activated – a last recourse, a final solution to protect the rest of the Avenging Son's world. Sorcery woven into the very Bridge of Cold Torments thousands of years ago flared to life, and in one single moment the Bridge exploded, taking with it every single one of the surviving Evocatii and Tyranids. Such was the strength of the eldritch detonation that everyone on the planet sensed it, as did the auspex of the ships in orbit, temporarily blinded by the overload.

In his ritual chamber, deep within the Fortress of Hera, Varro Tigurius sat with his eyes closed. The Sorcerer Lord and second-in-command to Marneus Calgar had sensed the ancient pacts protecting the world shudder as the renegades tore their way through the Path to Glory, disrespecting the Thirteenth's sacred traditions. Combined with the release of the Loathed Ones and the destruction of Mortendar, Tigurius feared that the entire system may collapse, engulfed into the wild dissolution of Chaos unbound. More than that, he wondered if this may be the Sacrificed Son's true plan.

There were many stories about the lord of Calth : no one knew for sure what exactly he had become after unleashing the Ruinstorm. He had survived the efforts of the Legion to destroy him – more than that, he had thrived, judging by the armada he had gathered. None could tell just how powerful Gage had personally become, that he could keep such a varied host under control. Tigurius feared that the entire Black Crusade, with all its destruction and mayhem, was only a ploy, a distraction to the traitor's true ends. He had shared his concerns with his lord, and Calgar had ordered him to find the truth before the enemy reached the Fortress and his sorcery was needed.

Which was why he was here, in the middle of a protective circle that had been consecrated with the names of a hundred daemons and the blood of a son of every Primarch (and by the Gods, had the second eleventh samples been hard to obtain). Nothing of the Warp could get through without his permission,not even Dorn or Sanguinius themselves – at least not for a while. With his body protected from outside interference, Tigurius' spirit soared high, contemplating the tides of the Great Ocean, searching for patterns and threats.

Usually, the beauty of the sight would have given him pause. The balance of the Four Powers, the flow of worship and offerings, the will of the Spiritual Liege made manifest – Macragge was a perfect exemplar of what Mankind could be, under the rule of the Ultramarines. But today, that beauty was marred, the delicate balance unravelling. For now, nothing had been done that the pacts could not repair – things had been much worse after the Tyranid invasion. But with Be'lakor unleashed (Tigurius had honestly thought Calgar would kill him on the spot for not sensing the Daemon Prince's presence before) and all the other things the invaders were blindly disturbing, things could turn much, much worse.

He could see the destruction wrought by the Black Crusade, sensed the prayers and devotion of the cultist host as it threw itself in the path of Gage's army. But something else had drawn his attention – something to the north. Flying above the still untouched northern districts of Macragge Civitas, he arrived at the Bridge of Cold Torment, and watched as the Tyranids once more fought and killed the sons of Guilliman. At least this time only Evocatii were dying … But there was something wrong. Tigurius saw one Evocatii die, torn to pieces by the great beast leading the xenos horde, but he did not see his soul depart from his torn flesh. In fact, he could not see the swarm of incorporeal Neverborn he would have expected to see on such a battlefield, feasting upon the emotions and souls of the dead and dying.

Something was very wrong here, something that had nothing to do with the damage the war was inflicting upon the great spell keeping Macragge intact. Tigurius called upon his power, threading the paths of time backward and forward, looking at the slaughter of the Bridge from all angles. He needed to look at the bigger picture, to see things from a god's own point of view. He followed the threads of a thousand Evocatii souls as they passed from life to death. Then he saw the destruction of the Bridge, felt the obliteration of the souls that made up the great construction – and in that moment, he discovered the truth of what was really happening on Macragge.

The shock knocked him back into his body, behind his wards, still glowing with eldritch power, still impervious to intrusion. But he wasn't alone in his chambers anymore. On the other side of the circle, standing directly in front of him, was a being the likes of which he had only encountered one time before – but no psyker who had ever met a Tetrarch could forget their aura.

'I know why you are here,' said Tigurius, kneeling. 'I am loyal, and do not fear my fate. I serve the Legion and the Primarch with my life, and shall do so with my death. Do what you came to do.'

And with his invitation, the Tetrarch passed right through the inviolate field, the defenses no longer able to stop him. He raised his clawed hand toward Tigurius' head …

When news of the Bridge's battle reached Calgar, he was enraged. He had wanted to call the Illyrium Legion back to the Fortress of Hera, so that the Evocatii may give their lives to defend their betters under the silent gaze of Guilliman himself. But though the Tyranid advance had been stopped with the Bridge's destruction, none of the Illyrium Legion had survived. To make matters worse, his greatest Sorcerer, Varro Tigurius, was nowhere to be found, even after the Chapter Master sent a squad into his second-in-command's private chambers. Fuming, Calgar ordered all his forces to be even more cautious, wary of assassins in their midst.

With Tigurius missing and probably dead, the Sorcerers of the Fortress of Hera were leaderless, and now was not the time for them to go through the ritual challenges and intrigues that would allow one of them to rise to supremacy. The Black Crusade had continued its advance, and would soon reach the outer perimeter of the Fortress, and then the loyal Ultramarines would face the might of the host gathered by the Sacrificed Son, and the rage of the first Daemon Prince. Fortunately, the Fortress was still protected from sorcerous attacks, thanks to the Sorcerers of the Temple of Ptolemy, keepers of the stronghold's ancient wards.

The Temple of Ptolemy

While the Ultramarines are fanatical in their devotion to Chaos, their Sorcerers have an approach much more similar to that of other Traitor Legions. Immensely proud, they see themselves as masters of the Warp's powers rather than servants of the entities found therein. They see the Dark Gods from much closer than anyone else, and those not driven insane by that knowledge become much less devout, understanding that in the end, the Ruinous Powers care little for ceremony so long as their fuelling emotions rage on and deeds continue to be performed in their name. Such heresy is tolerated by the rest of the Legion because of ancient provisions made for them by Guilliman himself during the days of the Heresy, though part of the reason why they are still respected is the sheer power wielded by the Warp-weavers. Nowhere is this difference in beliefs more obvious than in the Temple of Ptolemy, a vast structure occupying an entire spur of the Crown Mountains chain, where the Fortress of Hera is located. The Temple is said to have been founded by "the first and greatest" of the Ultramarines' Sorcerers, though that is likely to be mere self-aggrandizing hyperbole, seeing as the Imperium has no record of any Ultramarine of that name.

Within the Temple are countless tomes of dark lore pertaining to the summoning and binding of daemons, including the True Names of thousands of Neverborn. The Sorcerers who live in the Temple fiercely defend their privacy, performing unholy experiments behind closed doors and powerful wards. On several occasions, these rituals have gone catastrophically wrong, but the Temple's activities are still tolerated by the Chapter Master of Macragge. That is because the Circle of Ptolemy is also responsible for the maintenance of the powerful spells that keep several Greater Daemons imprisoned within a complex nexus of energies, their power fuelling the arcane defenses of the Fortress of Hera. How these daemons came to be imprisoned has long since been lost, safe in the deepest archives of the Temple, accessible only to its circle of Masters.

The Temple is also responsible for the training of the Thirteenth Legion Sorcerers. Recruits with psychic potential are brought by the warbands sworn to the Lord of Macragge's banner, and less than one in ten emerges again, those who do are among the most dangerous Warp-weavers among the Traitor Legions. The teachings of the Temple's Masters are harsh, and no Sorcerer completes his training with his soul intact. It is said that the Masters keep a sliver of the soul of every student to ever pass through the Temple, as insurance against treachery. Certainly, on the few occasions where a Temple-trained Sorcerer has attempted to share his secrets, their deaths have been quick and horribly painful – and it's unlikely their torments ended after their demise, either.

How the Masters are chosen is unknown to any beyond their ranks : many believe that all of them are Legionaries from the time of the Heresy, and that they have stayed in position all this time, despite the dangers of their craft and the ambitions of their apprentices. Regardless of the truth, their power is immense, and even the Lord of Macragge must respect their boundaries and phrase any request to the Temple of Ptolemy politely. In the long history of the Ultramarines, the Chapter Masters who did not soon vanished, their names removed from the Legion's annals except as cautionary tales about the perils of drawing the Temple's wrath.

Unbeknownst to Calgar however, Gage's coalition had already a plan in motion to deal with the Temple. When Be'lakor had been released, the Firstborn Prince had activated one of his most useful pawns : none other than one of the Masters of the Temples themselves. The Sorcerer's mind had been infected through one of his apprentices, who himself had been infected by one of the Temple's acolytes, who in turn had been infected by one of Be'lakor's cultists while on an errand for his lords outside the Temple. It had taken centuries for the tiny psychic seed to grow, and in that time Be'lakor had had to be extremely careful, refraining from even the smallest manipulation lest he reveals his hand before the appointed time. And when the seed had bloomed at last, it had destroyed the Sorcerer's free will, making him nothing more than a puppet following Be'lakor's single order.

None barred the puppet's path, for he was a Master of the Temple, and only his peers may question him. He went deep below the Temple, into the vast caverns where the Greater Daemons were bound, their power slowly bled and replaced by carefully monitored sacrifices. And there, with the baleful will of the Firstborn Prince burning in his soul, he spoke the words of unbinding, destroying wards that had stood for thousands of years. The other Masters sensed the intrusion at once, but the disturbances of the Aether caused by the ongoing war and the destruction of the Bridge of Cold Torments prevented them from teleporting directly into the caverns. By the time they arrived on foot, it was too late. One by one, the Greater Daemons were freed, each vanishing in a flash of eldritch light, leaving behind nothing but scorched stone and echoing promises of retribution.

Only one Greater Daemon remained when the twelve Masters rushed in : a Lord of Change, cackling as it loomed over the unwilling betrayer who had freed it. Before the Masters' eyes, it picked up the Sorcerer Lord and bit his head clean off with its toothed beak, swallowing what little was left of his soul. It stared at the Masters, its inhuman glare piercing through their golden masks, and spoke two single words before vanishing back into the realms of its kind : he comes.

With the release of the Greater Daemons, the sorcerous defenses of the Fortress of Hera fell for the first time since Gage had last come to Macragge to bring fire and death to his own Legion. The last obstacle between the Black Crusade and the Fortress was gone, and a great cry rose from the burning city as the scattered host gathered once more, to march onto the final battle. Marius led the way, surrounded by swarming Loathed Ones, and cult troops broke and fled before him. They had seen too much of their world destroyed, and the sight of the Sacrificed Son and his escort of Lords of Chaos was too much for them to stand against. And so, the Black Crusade entered what had once been the Valley of Laponis, changed beyond recognition by the Warp and dark industry.

On the walls of the Fortress of Hera, Marneus Calgar had passed beyond fury and into a cold, quiet rage that made his subordinates even more uneasy. The cults had been broken, the sorcerous defenses cast down, but he was far from done. There were one thousand Ultramarines holding the Fortress, and though the Legion of Illyrium was lost – and with it, the most veterans of the Evocatii – he had still been able to marshal a veritable host of the thin-blooded spawns of the Apothecaries. They had not been allowed within the Fortress, lest they desecrate it with their presence, but they had been massed before its walls, their minds filled with promises of the glory that awaited them if they fought well here, under the Primarch's gaze.

The most dangerous force of the Black Crusade was the ghostly traitors Gage had freed from their rightful imprisonment in Mortendar. The Loathed Ones were beyond physical harm, and there weren't enough Sorcerers and daemonic weapons among the defenders to fight them off efficiently. Marneus didn't know how to fight them – but there were other powers at work on this battlefield, and as the Black Crusade approached, they made their move.

In the depths below the Fortress of Hera, a gate that had remained sealed for ten thousand years opened. A host of the dead passed through, walking by the desiccated corpse of an ancient caretaker, at last released from his millennia of faithful obedience to an oath he had never understood the true implications of. Animated statues of black-veined white marble, gisants born of the echoes of every Ultramarine who had ever died in battle with Guilliman's name on his lips. For an entire age, they had remained hidden from sight, their numbers slowly growing, but now they had been released, set free by the unseen hand of the Tetrarchs.

They were the Glorious Ones, from an ancient Terran legend related to the antique goddess after which the Fortress was named. Nothing remained of who they had been in life save for their appearance – the soul of the dead was long since gone, departed to whatever afterlife their deeds had earned them. These were mere after-images, imprint left onto the Warp and given new bodies of animated stone, driven by a singular will none could resist – for they had no will of their own.

The Glorious Ones emerged from hidden entrances in their thousands, and the Evocatii parted to let them pass, filled with a deep sense of awe at the sight of the Legion's honored dead, returned to fight in one last battle. A pause descended upon the battlefield as armies that had been about to butcher each other watched, incredulous, as the Legion's past returned to haunt it. The forces of the Black Crusade stirred uneasily as these unexpected reinforcements approached, but the Loathed Ones reacted much more violently. They recognized some of the warriors marching toward them, and their hatred flared at the sight of the other, "honoredˮ dead of the Legion they had sought to destroy. Enraged beyond any hope of control, they surged ahead of Gage's army, and the living of both sides watched as the dead of the Thirteenth Legion waged war against each other.

The Loathed Ones were outnumbered by the animated gisants more than a hundred to one, and their psychic manipulation was useless against these undead golems. But they had other powers, and marble flew as the walking memorials were shattered by storms of eldritch lightning. However, the echoes that animated the Glorious Ones also gave them purchase on their enemies' ethereal forms, and one by one the Loathed Ones were pulled down and destroyed by sheer weight of number. The wraiths could have departed at any time, flown far from the reach of the Glorious Ones, but their hatred and desire to destroy them were too strong. For several hours, neither Gage's host nor the Fortress' defenders dared to make a move, as the space between them was torn by a battle none of them had any place in. The grudges of the dead belonged to the dead, and the living had no place in them.

Eventually, the battle relented. Both sides had obliterated each other, with the last few Glorious Ones turned to dust with a single command from Gage to his sharpshooters. What had become of the Loathed Ones defeated by the animated statues was unknown : certainly none of the psykers in either army could sense their hateful aura anymore. In any case, they had been removed from the equation, and now it was time for brute force of arms and Legion-to-Legion warfare. Marius Gage raised his clawed hands to the blood-tinted sky, and with a great roar, the armies sworn to his banner charged forward, crushing the shards of marble underfoot. And the Evocatii Calgar had gathered to bleed for his cause roared too, and charged as well. Both sides were made mostly of the Ultramarines thin-bloods, but no one cared. The Gods were watching, and all that mattered was war.

But when the two hordes made contact and transhuman blood flowed, Marius Gage and his Lords of Chaos were nowhere to be seen.

They landed far beyond the walls, far beyond the lines of the battle whose sounds followed them as they flew. Be'lakor had carried them on wings of shadows, hiding them from all detection with his power. And yet when clawed foot and ceramite boots hit the ground before the stairs leading to the Temple of Correction, Calgar was still there, waiting for them with a hundred Terminators.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, hatred coursing through every single one of them. Then, the Lord of Macragge and the Sacrificed Son stepped forward, leaving their warriors behind until they were less than two meters away from each other.

'Slave,' growled Marius Gage.

'Traitor,' spat back Marneus Calgar.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, before Marius spoke once more :

'You can still stop all of this, you know. Just step aside. Let me in. No more of our brothers need to die today, but he must be destroyed, before he drags us all into oblivion.'

'He is our master ! He is our lord ! Everything you have done, your entire miserable life, is a betrayal of what it means to be an Ultramarine !'

'WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF BEING AN ULTRAMARINE ?!'

The sudden shout was so powerful it forced Calgar back a step, and sent cracks running through the ground. The Terminators focused their weapons from the warlords to Gage, but didn't open fire.

The fire around Gage's skull flared – the equivalent of taking a deep breath for the Chaos Lord.

'I was there,' he said more calmly. 'At the very beginning. When we really were Ultramarines. Before he broke everything we were on the altar of his dark ambitions and remade us from warriors into mere tools to his ends. You are no Ultramarine, Calgar. You are what he made the Legion into. You are a slave.'

'I am a loyal son,' said Calgar.

'You have never seen your father. Never talked to him. You don't know who – what – he was at the end. Listen to me. Right now, thousands are dying outside these walls, and you know what ? He isn't worth it. He does not deserve your loyalty, your devotion. Look at those who stand with me. Even the Dark Gods themselves have turned their back on him, and send their champions to end his legacy once and for all !'

Gage spread out his arms, gesturing to the splendor all around them.

'If he is truly blessed by them, then how I am here ? If he is all-watching and powerful, then how is it that I stand here, at the heart of his power ?' He started shouting again. 'Where is your liege now, Marneus Calgar ?'

'He is with me always, for I am faithful,' replied the Lord of Macragge, before charging the Sacrificed Son, with the Gauntlets of Ultramar crackling with sorcerous energies.

And that was it. The Lords of Chaos and the Terminator fought, while in the center of it all two of Guilliman's greatest sons tried to kill each other. So complete was their focus, so absolute their determination to end their opponent's life, neither of them noticed the larger battle. Gage's infernal claws clashed with the Gauntlets' power field again and again, each collision sending shock waves of such strength that the nearest Terminators were sent flying like leaves in the wind.

Body parts rained as Be'lakor picked up warriors and tore them apart with gleeful abandon, revelling in the slaughter after so long restrained. Titus' daemon-bound chainsword cut through reinforced warplate with ease, while Castus' mace broke through it like wet paper, its aura of dissolution too much even for the warded armor of Macragge's Terminator elite. Sicarius danced around the blows, moving with inhuman speed, his blade aiming for the weak spots in their warped armor. With the power infusing him, the Warrior-King needed only nick the flesh of his foes to doom them to a slow, agonizing death, as the energies he had claimed from the Greater Daemon poisoned them. And Uriel's alien blade simply ignored the physical presence of his foes, cutting through them with the same ease as through empty air, allowing Uriel to focus all his attention on avoiding being hit. The Chaos Lords took wounds, but they were soon surrounded by a growing pile of corpses, while the duel inside the circle both sides had quickly formed around their leaders continued.

Eventually, the last of the Terminators fell, and the Chaos Lords circled around the duel, keeping their distance, watching as two legends of the Ruinstorm fought to the death. Calgar hadn't truly fought since the Tyranid invasion, and it had been many centuries since Gage had been forced to use the full extant of his skills and power – yet neither of them had lost any of their edge.

After several minutes, the battle ended when Gage, tired of the duel, unleashed his inhuman abilities. A wave of black fire burst forth from his skull, engulfing Calgar's head and passing right through his personal force field as if it weren't there. Calgar staggered as his face burned off his skull, and in that moment, Gage rammed both of his clawed hands into the Lord of Macragge's chest, lifting him up with the strength of the impact.

The Sacrificed Son held his skewered foe up, and Calgar glared down with eyes that were the only thing left of his once proud patrician features. He tried to speak, to cast one final curse at his victor, but all that came out of his charred lips was a mouthful of blood, and the light finally faded from his eyes. Without ceremony, Gage threw the corpse to the ground, and went on to fulfill his destiny.

At the precise moment the Lord of Macragge fell and the Lords of Chaos entered the Temple of Correction, the battle outside the Fortress' wall shifted. Both sides of the war had brought Daemonium Venatores into the fray, these ancient Possessed Marines who had been the first to receive the dubious gift of sharing their flesh with one of the Neverborn. They had fought both for the Black Crusade and against it, though they had never come to blows. But now, all of a sudden, all of them started killing indiscriminately, turning on their former allies without pause or mercy. The battle descended into utter chaos as the lines between friend and foe dissolved, and the power of the Venatores battered at the psyches of the Evocatii, driving them insane with bloodlust.

And during all of that, every time a scion of Guilliman's blood fell, his soul vanished from sight, caught and drawn into a ritual ten thousand years in the making. Far above the blood-soaked battlefield, the Dark Gods watched and held their breath, as a destiny long denied was once more set into motion.

It was only when Konrad died on Isstvan V that most Primarchs realized that they were indeed mortal, after all. When the blood of the King of the Night spilled onto the black sands and he did not raise again, traitors and loyalists alike witnessed the death of what some part of them had thought divine, no matter what the Imperial Truth proclaimed.

The Imperial Dream died at Isstvan, but it wasn't the only myth that perished in the opening salvoes of the Roboutian Heresy. Every Primarch who still stalks the stars knows that he was born mortal, even those who have since transcended their origins to join the ranks of the Neverborn Princes.

But, barring extreme circumstances such as Horus' destruction under the fangs of Sanguinius …

It takes a long time for a Primarch to die, even from wounds as grievous as the ones inflicted upon Guilliman by his father, in the final hour of the Siege of Terra.

And so, when the mourning Ultramarines placed their father into stasis, not even they knew that some spark of life lingered within his broken form. The tiniest spark, really : had they delayed but a single hour, the soul of Roboute Guilliman would have lost its last connection to the Materium and gone on to the other side of the Veil, to suffer its reward from the Dark Gods he had failed.

In the Ruinstorm, suspended between life and death, caught out of time by the stasis field, Roboute Guilliman endured agonies none could possibly imagine. He was torn from time and space, life and death, and was made to see the universe as the Gods see it. He went mad, then sane, then mad again, over and over, until nothing remained of who he had been – until Roboute Guilliman, son of Konor Guilliman, was gone, and only the Dark Master of Chaos remained.

And in that eternity of torment, he cast his mind through the paths of blood, manipulating his sons even as he saw through their eyes and spoke his will through their souls. He bent his terrible intellect to the one purpose that mattered to him now : freedom from this hellish suffering. No matter the cost, no matter who had to die, the Dark Master would do it without hesitation to be released. Even if it meant committing that most unforgivable of sins, one upon which Mankind as looked with horror since its earliest days.

The murder of one's children.

He had woven wrath and hatred into their hearts, and made them wage war upon one another. He had roused the fires of fury and ambition, whispered of vengeance and glory. And so they had come, to fight and spill the Legion's blood. And with every death, every soul that bore his mark slipping into the Aether, he grew a bit stronger, a bit further from death and closer to life. It wouldn't have worked before, but now, the veil was thinner. Those who thought they were on the side of Order had made it so, in their desperation to rekindle the spark of a hope long since dead.

He fed on the souls of dead Ultramarines and Evocatii, consuming everything they had been in order to fuel the ritual his pawns had crafted all over Macragge across the ages. He devoured their lives and their deaths, denying even the Dark Gods their prize as he claimed it as his own due. And then, finally, as Gage and his cohorts crossed the Fortress while the first Secondborn led the slaughter outside, it was done.

The stasis field failed, and the body of Roboute Guilliman rose from the slumber of ages. His face was drawn and corpse-like, his hair pale, and in his eyes, there burned the fire that would consume the galaxy : an unbearably bright light that promised nothing but suffering to all who defied him.

[See Nemris' illustration on Deviantart, titled Throne of the Dark Master]

As Guilliman stood before his shocked sons, the ceiling of the sanctum exploded, showering all in shards of marble and priceless glass, and a terrible scream burned through their minds. The Last Osirian had come, sensing the awakening of the one who had exterminated its race. The strength of the alien's hatred was so powerful, it temporarily stopped the fighting going on outside the Fortress' gates, as mortals fell to their knees in pain and the Daemonium Venatores paused, warily looking in the direction of this new threat.

The champion of Tzeentch screamed as it descended, speaking curses in its own tongue, which had no word for "mercyˮ. There was its moment, the one point where destiny could yet be rewritten, where Chaos could turn its favor from the Dark Master before he could reclaim his full power. And so it plunged through Macragge's atmosphere like a burning comet, aimed directly at the Arch-Traitor. Four limbs nimbed in eldritch fire reached out for Guilliman's bare head – and froze.

Chains of sorcerous light suddenly appeared in the air, wrapped around the ancient xenos and anchored to the sanctum's walls, holding the Last Osirian in place. It screamed again, in rage and outrage, and Guilliman smiled as his trap unfolded. Slowly, with an almost obscene gentleness, he reached up with his right gauntlet, stroking the alien's face as one might a faithful pet. Then, with a single motion, he stabbed his claws into the alien's skull, perforating its enlarged brain with energy-clad metal and ending its life, before swallowing its soul as it desperately fled. The sorcerous chains, created by a spell laid down centuries before, faded as the corpse hit the ground, and Guilliman turned his gaze toward his sons, who had remained immobile at the sanctum's entrance.

'Kneel before me, my sons' said Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, Arch-Traitor of the Imperium and the reborn Dark Master of Chaos.

The monstrous will of the Primarch washed over the gathered Chaos Lord like a tidal wave, battering at their minds. It called upon the loyalty written into their blood, the conditioning all of them had undergone during their transformation into Space Marines. Even Be'lakor felt the urge to bend the knee, his infernal nature betraying him before the one who had claimed the favor of the Gods, tearing the mantle of Dark Master from Be'lakor millennia ago. The Firstborn screamed in impotent rage as the will of the Gods he sought to replace crushed on him, and finally forced him on his knees for the first time in uncounted ages.

Castus was the first of the Chaos Lords to kneel, with an anguished cry as the strength he drew from the daemon Parmenides failed him for the first time. Then Titus fell down, his face contorted in a purple grimace of hatred. Uriel stood for several more seconds, his body trembling with the effort of opposing Guilliman's inhuman strength, before he too bowed before the pressure. Sicarius was the last to kneel, his monstrous pride proving a greater bulwark against Roboute's domination that all the anger, hatred and determination of his cohorts – but not great enough in the end.

Only Marius remained standing, staring at his father with burning eye sockets.

'Kneel,' repeated Guilliman.

'Never,' replied the Sacrificed Son. 'I will never kneel to you again.'

There was a pause, as the Dark Master watched his one defiant son, truly seeing him for the first time since he had risen from his throne. Something cold and inhuman passed on his cadaverous face, and when he spoke again, his words were dripping with venom.

'You,' said Guilliman, 'are not Marius.'

Far away, in the Realms of Chaos, the clashing of blades and the spilling of blood stopped on the Plains of Slaughter. The Court of Change fell silent. The children of Nurgle stopped their games in their father's Garden. The great debaucheries in the Silver Palace of Slaanesh paused.

'No, I am not.'

On the ground, the Chaos Lords forced their heads to turn to stare at the Sacrificed Son in abject incomprehension. But he didn't look at them, his attention wholly focused on Guilliman.

'Marius Gage is dead,' continued the fiery-headed fiend. 'He died ten thousand years ago, and his soul was devoured by the Daemon Prince Samus. Nothing remains of him save echoes of pain and madness in the Warp. But his name was a useful mask for me to hide behind.'

The Sacrificed Son changed.

His horns and flaming skull vanished, replaced by an old Mark 4 red helm. His wings folded in on themselves and faded from existence. The Ruinous emblems upon his armor seemed to fall off like a serpent's shed skin, while its colors returned to those the Thirteenth Legion had worn during the glorious days of the Great Crusade, save for the shoulder pads where the Thirteenth's emblem should have been displayed, which were painted over black. His claws diminished back into gauntleted hands that held a power sword and a pistol.

'I am your shame and sins, writ large upon the universe's skein in fire and fury,' proclaimed the revealed warrior. 'I am all those you betrayed, every son you sent to die in the name of your ambition. I am the Sacrificed Son, the Lord and Last of the Red-Marked, and you know my name !'

To be concluded in

The Battle of Macragge

Part Three : Know My Name

AN : Let me tell you something first : this was not part of the plan.

The Battle of Macragge was supposed to be the story of Guilliman's resurrection. It was to be a tale of ancient evil returned, of the schemes of a Primarch turned wholly evil by ten millennia of madness-inducing torment. The story of his manipulation of his Legion, his callous sacrifice of his sons to ensure his own return to power. Marius Gage was supposed to be a doomed martyr, struggling in vain to stop his father's plans. After one book ending with Magnus' resurrection and a story bringing Ynnead into play, I thought it was time the bad guys score some point of their own.

And then came the moment to think about the details of that confrontation between father and son, and everything went sideways. Once more, my characters surprised me by doing something I hadn't planned - except this time it went on retroactively for ten thousand years without my knowing. The idea of the Sacrificed Son's true identity struck me suddenly, without any warning, and then I couldn't get it out of my head. And I tried : until the last minute, I wasn't sure I would put it in. Jaenera, my beta-reader (whom I thank once more for her help), hadn't seen the last bit of the chapter until now.

Well, uncertainty was half the reason I didn't show it to her. The other half was because I thought it would be funny, and because I wanted her to enjoy the twist as well.

The third and final part of the Battle of Macragge will come as soon as possible. I want to finish my current chapter of Warband of the Forsaken Sons first, but that shouldn't take too long - and then there is the next chapter of the Fifteenth Ascendant, which is going to be a doozy and requires much preparation. I promise you, all your questions (and I have no doubt there are many) will be answered in that last installment. But please send them to me anyway, in reviews or by PM, so that I can be sure I don't miss any of them or forget a potential plot hole that will come back to haunt me later.

As usual, please review this chapter (I am sure many of you will, if only to say "WTF ?" or some more elaborate equivalent) and follow the story if you enjoyed it, or even if you just want to be told when the answers come.

Zahariel out.