Serras into Canon 7: A plan most audacious
Khaine's Gate, Commorragh
Captain-General Trajann Valoris had not fought by the Emperor's side. The only living Custodes who could claim such a thing were the 300, the Companions, who had been sworn to guard the Emperor at the dawn of the Imperium. Though he would accept his duty without fail or resentment, he could not deny that the tales of the Custodes during the Great Crusade stirred his own yearning to go and spread the Emperor's words to the most exotic of places. Valoris wished to cut down Ork Warlords, Eldar Farseers, traitor Astartes, or whatever other aliens roamed the galaxy wherever they thought they were safe.
Now he was in Commorragh. Commorragh! The bastion of the Dark Eldar, those miserable fleas who drained the Imperium's strength as they took the Emperor's servants to be enslaved, consumed, tortured, and killed, all at the whims of their alien masters. The origin of a thousand different raiders who pillaged across the entirety of the Imperium. The last remnants of the Eldar Empire, continuing the old ways even after their ancestors had heralded the creation of the fourth Ruinous Power and birthed the Eye of Terror.
Here he stood, less than a kilometer from these alien whoresons, and he was forbidden from striking them. His blood boiled at such restraints, but he was no mortal or mere Astartes. Though his anger burned inside his mind, he stood perfectly still, body loose to avoid cramping, but ready to spring into action in less than a microsecond.
He doubted he would need to react. The Empress' golden barrier still surrounded them, against which none of the alien weapons could penetrate. The quiet irritated him; he preferred the irregular but constant noise when the Drukhari tried to assault their position. Not a single bolt had been fired nor a single blade's thirst quenched by the Emperor's chosen. No matter the vehicle, weapon, or being in question, anyone and anything that touched the barrier died, burned into oblivion with not even ash to mark their presence.
"It is strange, is it not, Captain-General?"
He did not need to turn to know the Saint stood next to him. "What is?"
"Here we stand in the fortress of the hated xenos, but we do not cut them down and burn it into oblivion as we should."
Far in the distance, Valoris' eyes could make out the frantic and angered movements of the mismatched Dark Eldar forces. Kabalite warriors milled about a bit as the aliens appeared to argue amongst themselves while Wyches eyed the barrier separating the Emperor's finest from the disgusting aliens. Occasionally, he spotted troops who wore more distinguished armor, marking them as elite soldiers or warriors, though even then, the women disdained to wear much in terms of practical armor. Their disgusting attempts at seduction only made Valoris look forward to leaving this place. No wonder the Eldar had birthed the God of Excess.
The sudden crackling above them made both saint and warrior glance upwards. Bright flashes appeared constantly where the barrier ended. In brief glimpses could Dark Eldar warships be seen, shooting lances and torpedoes at them to no avail. Even the noise was largely muted, like the buzz of weak electricity.
"The Empress protects," Celestine said. Valoris detected something not quite supportive in that statement. "What do we wait for, Captain-General?" Reinforcements through Khaine's Gate?"
"I do not know what our Empress waits for."
"But you have some suspicion," she pressed.
He looked out towards the vast armies still growing larger with every moment, but useless no matter their numbers. "If we were here to burn this place to the ground, we would not have the time to speak. Nor would we be the only ones here. Instead, we stand behind this shield and confuse our enemy. No doubt they wonder if we are pressing for time. I suspect the Empress is doing exactly that, but to what end, I cannot say."
They watched silently as a few of the enemy's grav-tanks, jetbikes, and even skimmers shot their Splinter weapons. Once more, the shots were negated by the barrier, forcing the slow withdrawal of the vehicles as they were completely ineffectual.
"The Empress did not let me speak when I appeared through the Gate," she said. "She simply ordered me to go to your side and defend this place." It was a blatant excuse and they both knew it.
"The Custodes were the first to be told that the Emperor was no god and that the Empress shared this view. Perhaps your presence is a slap to the Empress' views."
"A shame, if so, that the Emperor's own children would deny his divinity."
Valoris didn't respond to that. Arguing with a Sister of Battle on this topic was meaningless, much less so with a Saint.
----
Far away from Khaine's Gate in the tallest spire of Upper Commorragh, heads rolled. Alien slaves hurried forward to clear the bodies and heads away, listening intently as their master told them what tortures would be inflicted on the offenders (whose final crime had been their inability to reclaim Khaine's Gate) as they were resurrected.
"Have them flayed and make a rug with their skin, the old one in my chamber is getting worn out," he commanded. As his slaves scurried away, hoping to remove themselves from his sight and hopefully his memory (though they would have no luck, he noted which ones weren't fast enough in bowing as he spoke), Supreme Overlord Asdrubael Vect sighed. He delighted in the almost-imperceptible shiver than went down the backs of the other Archons and Succubi. The Haemonculi weren't as bothered. He would need to fix that. "What is the status of Khaine's Gate?"
"The Mon-keigh still hold it, sire. A golden barrier protects them from our weapons. All they do is stand behind it, not even firing back," a warrior explained nervously. "We have even used our tanks and warships, but none of our conventional weapons are doing anything to the barrier. Shall we use some of the stronger ones?"
Vect simply looked at him before giving a silent order. The warrior was slain on the spot. He turned to the next-in-line, hoping this one wasn't as stupid. "Have the Mon-keigh expanded their holding?"
"No, my lord. They hold only the immediate surroundings to the Gate, and we have more than enough troops to kill them if they move even a bit," she explained. Suddenly, a message played in the warrior's helmet. "My lord, forgive me, but I have just been informed that the Mon-keigh brutes are sending a message to us. Shall…shall I play it for you?" At the curt nod, the warrior played the message on her vocalizer.
I am the leader of the Mon-keigh forces who possess Khaine's Gate. Bring me Vect or I will release the barrier on the gate, leaving it forever open to the neverborn. You have one-eighth of a cycle to comply.
The voice had to be a Mon-keigh, no Eldar would dare to attack Khaine's Gate. But the words were spoken in perfect Aeldari, using many sounds that were impossible for an inferior race to vocalize. There was no real choice, however. The mystery of the speaker's mastery of the Eldar language would be answered at the meeting, though Vect would bring a bit of an insurance policy.
"Have the farseer brought to the site as well, he will follow me into this meeting. And inform the Queen of Knives to meet me there as well."
Phalanx
As was the new routine, Andrea rose at 5:30 A.M, Terran time. With practiced efficiency, she made her bunk silently along with her three roommates. Their mother had promised that it was a temporary situation until the Sentinels had full housing, but Andrea didn't mind. It reminded her of her time as a child in one of the Schola Progenium's facilities, with 99 others in the same room.
There was a total of 20 Sentinels assigned to this section of their housing, sharing one large washroom. It was filled in less than a minute as the women used the facilities to clean and prepare for the day. Again, all silently.
At least, that is how it would appear to a normal person. A psyker would have felt the Sentinels reach out to each other telepathically, though it was more of an attempt for some. Almost everyone by this point could greet their sisters by speaking directly into their mind barring two of them, who were not yet adept enough to speak words, relying on sending feelings or emotions of warmth.
With their bodies cleaned, the group donned their clothing and made their way to the communal eating area. It was a massive chamber capable of holding the entirety of the Sentinels in it with ample space for even war machines. Unlike the chambers she was used to, Andrea's eye found few decorations depicting praise for the God-Emperor or any of his servants. A depiction of the Emperor as he descended on Mars was painted on the wall near the front of the room, something their mother had personally done. Otherwise, the room was spartan, possessing only round tables, chairs, and a raised platform for the leaders of the legion.
Andrea was one of the few assigned to sit at the leaders' table, taking her place quickly. Food was automatically served by the servants nearby. She began devouring her food, ravenous as the smell. All around her, her sisters were doing the same, tearing into the meat, bread, and vegetables they were provided. It was all specifically chosen to boost muscle growth, provide energy for training, and otherwise maintain their nutrient requirements.
"So, what's the Lady Empress' right-hand woman doing today?" The question was voiced in her mind. The speaker was Captain Althea, a slender androgynous figure whose glares were known for how cutting they could be.
"Probably writing in a diary about how she misses our mother!" commented Thamarta, the beefy captain's voice coming across as loud as she normally spoke. Andrea had spent quite some time learning not to flinch at the volume.
"Nothing of the sort. I have choir practice today," Andrea responded.
"Again? That's all you've been doing for the last month," Althea thought.
"They are practicing the Beast Lores; I enjoy such lessons."
"I might join you then, sister," Sergeant Nyala added. She was one of two of her rank allowed to sit at this table. Andrea had not been alone in gawking when they first saw the video of her killing a Heldrake in one blow by jumping on the beast and tearing its brain out through its eyes. There were rumors she was part animal. Certainly, she preferred her meat slightly bloody.
----
Andrea took a deep breath before once more linking her power with the other Sentinels in her group. Once they sent affirmed telepathically that the group was connected, they began speaking the powerful words as one while channeling their psychic power through their armor.
As they chanted, the air grew heavy and reality seemed to possess some electric energy. The lights dimmed as a nearly invisible form appeared between them. The longer they chanted, the more solid and detailed it became. First were the legs, four of them, putting the animal at twice their own height. The body was next, followed by the head. Both were lumpy and primitive but became more defined as the words kept being spoken. Muscles began showing up everywhere, large and powerful to even the casual observer. They could only be slightly hidden by the thick fur that went over the skin. Black stripes stood out to the eye, covering the beast's back.
The head was the last thing to be detailed, but it was done quickly. The Sentinels all felt the flow of power stop as the spell was complete, though the more obvious sign was the loud roar the beast gave. It eyed them with intelligence it should not have had, one that spoke of far more understanding than the simple brain of any normal animal. It sat on its rear legs after a moment, its amber eyes staring directly into Andrea's. The ears flicked forward and back, hearing something beyond the Sentinels' ability to hear, perhaps. Most important was the desire to submit to it that it inspired in others. Even the Sentinels had to learn to fight the unconscious order to kneel in front of this majestic animal.
As they dissolved the beast, the choir leader flipped the book to the next beast they could attempt to summon.
----
As always, Andrea was ravenous long before lunchtime. Using her power was taxing, mostly due to the control that always needed to be exercised. Their mother had told them that they were in no danger of being possessed by Warp spawn, but that did not extend to being immune from the effects of all psychic powers.
Speaking of said powers, Andrea still found it surprising just how many different applications of the Warp existed in their mother's books. These dense, large, but surprisingly coherent and simple to read contained anywhere from a few dozen to over a hundred different spells that one could learn. They were also far more in-depth compared to the training they had been given by the Astartes they were forbidden from speaking to others about. Some books were dedicated to helping a psyker learn to control themselves, while others discussed issues with interpretations of divination results.
The focus of these books, however, was a collection titled
The Eight Winds. It contained the eight sub-collections, each connected to a metaphorical Wind. Some seemed intuitive, like Fire or Life, but others not so much, such as Metal or Beast.
All other thoughts were put aside, however, as the first plate of food was placed before her to be devoured for energy.
----
As the last three bullets exited his rifle, Nathaniel sighed. His training at the range was done for the day. The holographic display in front of him showed his perfect accuracy. Not that such a thing was special, of course. All his brothers were expected to do as much against such a shallow simulation. The real test would be actual combat or the environment simulators.
He placed the modified bolter on the gun rack after ensuring the safety was engaged. Not with his fingers, but via the neural link between him and the gun. Archmagos Cawl had said it was the Empress' wish and it was too obvious why. Being able to control anything you were touching simply by thinking it was a small luxury in the pile the Empress threw their way.
Dax was waiting for him as he stepped out of the room. "Have you finished for the day as well?"
Nathaniel nodded. "I have. We have a few hours before dinner, then. What shall we do?"
Before Dax could answer, they turned to see a serf and a tall, buff woman walking towards them. Nathaniel recognized the woman instantly. "Sister Andrea?"
"Hello, Brother Nathaniel. I hope I am not disturbing you?"
"No, not at all. I had just finished with my training for today and was leaving the firing range. Ah, forgive me, this is Brother Dax," Nathaniel added with a gesture to his squad member.
"Oh! It is good to meet you, Brother Dax. Nathaniel has spoken of you before," Andrea replied.
Dax had been flicking his eyes between the two of them. He suddenly grinned somewhat maliciously. "I am pleased to meet you as well, Sister Andrea. Are you expected elsewhere soon?"
She shook her head. "No, that is why I had come to visit Brother Nathaniel."
"Excellent! Why don't you join us? We were just about to do something fun until dinner." Without waiting for an answer, Dax put his arm around Andrea's shoulder and guided her towards the elevators. Nathaniel followed, shaking his head at whatever Dax had planned.
----
"I've returned, brothers!" Dax announced as the group stepped into a large room, equal in size to Andrea's squad's room.
"Unless you went off on a mission, Dax, I doubt anyone cares," said one dark-skinned Astartes wearing a plain black toga even darker than his flesh. He was lying in his bunk reading something on a tablet designed for his large hands.
"But I have a guest!"
At this, the marine glanced backward, doing a double-take once he saw Andrea. Turning off the tablet, he rose and approached with some curiosity on his face. "I am Brother Bjoan. You are one of the Empress' daughters and our sister, are you not?" he asked with a deep, almost gravelly voice.
"I am," Andrea replied with a slight nod of respect. "My name is Andrea."
"It is good to meet you. I have heard rumors but dismissed them. I hope Dax has not done anything dishonorable?"
"No, no, nothing like that. I was actually coming to visit Brother Nathaniel, and Brother Dax happened to be there."
"You see? These most offensive implications you make are entirely unfounded!" Dax said with a booming voice. His grin showed the lack of anger in his rebuke.
Bjoan rolled his eyes. "It's a question of time with you, brother. In any case, have you brought her here for our game?"
"I think it's time we learned about our sisters, don't you think?" Dax replied.
Holy Terra
Deep inside a place known to less than 100 people, including the High Lords of Terra, a man sat in a comfortable reclining chair. The air was thick with incense and the smoke was almost dense enough to obscure all vision.
The man, known to a few as the Grand Master of the Assassins, was quite fond of creature comforts. The incense was made with real Terran wood, not the Mechanicus synthesized version more readily available. His chair was hand-crafted by the finest guild-masters in the solar system.
The man also had a problem. It was the same problem his predecessors faced: too many targets, not enough time or assassins. In his hands was a dataslate that showed current numbers and deployments from all the Assassin Temples along with countless details down to the level of individual assassins. The power he commanded in the form of silent weapons was incredible, he reflected. What force could hope to stand against tens of thousands of incredibly deadly assassins and spies? His eyes were everywhere, from mundane worlds that had seen no conflict since the Imperium's inception to the cutthroat factions that wrestled for power on Terra.
His enemies were infinite, however. For every corrupted psyker, alien, and traitor he had killed, another dozen appeared from somewhere, intent on harming humanity. Choosing targets had always been a decision between which souls to damn and which to keep from utter annihilation. Which was more deadly: the corrupted Astartes warband ravaging a defenseless system or the gathering Waagh on the Northern Fringes? Whichever was left alone would not be easy to destroy before causing great loss to the Imperium.
Those were merely the obvious targets. Sadly, the Imperium faced many internal opponents as well. Greedy planetary officials, decadent nobles, corrupt bureaucrats, politicians weakened the Imperium everywhere, intent on securing their own luxuries over the survival of the plebeians. They broke few laws and were usually safe due to pressing concerns elsewhere; it was difficult to justify ending the lives of a slaver ring if they provided industrial support when the Despoiler inevitably would try to attack once more.
That was changing, thankfully. The Empress had not only provided a huge list of targets for Officio Assassinorum, but also times and locations when the target would be most vulnerable. He did think it was excessive to go as far as indicating how the target had to die, but he didn't question it. If the Empress desired a life to end, it was his duty to obey.
Still, the list was massive, truly massive. Over 10 billion names were given to him. Locations were spread throughout the galaxy, and the time to kill them ranged from a few months to more than a century. It was not much larger than his own lists, but the Empress' requirements made far more sense if he had previously known of them, though the ones he did not know of would have damned entire sectors if allowed to act unhindered.
The Empress provided in other ways as well. Even now, all but the most crucial assassinations had been called off as his agents were brought back to Terra. Every day, the men and women he controlled were subject to incredibly powerful flesh and gene-surgeries, boosting their abilities to absurd heights for even the most skilled assassins. Synthetic muscles to let the owner approach the strength, speed, reflexes, and endurance of Astartes neophytes were fabricated in secret laboratories, while many organs were removed and replaced with superior ones. With these, an assassin would be able to see in places with no light, observe things more than 10 kilometers away as if they were right next to them through even dense smoke, and even survive in vacuum for more than two days.
Some enhancements were more indirect. Better devices and psycho-indoctrination techniques would prevent the subject from any possible mental breakdown while also providing increased resistance to the powers of Chaos. It would even be possible to control the Eversors without needing powerful chemicals and stimms, furthering the lifespan of the brutal assassins.
By far, the most important boon had been the technology given to the Assassin Temples. Methods for everything from subcutaneous healing gels for rapid recovery in the field to the secrets of constructing Phase Blades without needing alien technology.
As he heard a knock on his door, he sighed. Whenever that door opened, he got more paperwork to fill out. Despite his best efforts, no assassination would reduce that.
Khaine's Gate, Commorragh
Celestine was forced to admit that Eldar architecture was beautiful in a grotesque way. Or, at the least, restrained in its own way. Her mind was shielded by the God-Emperor's blessing, letting her see the pointed spires that surrounded them. Every spire contributed to the overall environment perfectly, creating what was no doubt a sublime expression in the minds of the alien. An expression of madness, sadism, and cruelty unsurpassed in the galaxy.
Boredom would not keep her from doing her duty, but it was also the first time she had felt such a thing. Though her rebirths were tedious, they did not require her non-action as her current task did.
Guarding the edge of the barrier along with the Custodes was a waste of everyone's skill; the mysterious technology of the Dark Eldar had been unable to even weaken the protective barrier thus far and there was no reason to think it would come down soon. Though, of course, the alien sorceries were not fully known to the Imperium, and there was always a chance.
She turned her mind to the Empress. For one chosen by the God-Emperor to officially rule the Imperium, her presence was a far cry from the vast glory that was the Emperor. The Astronomican was a blinding beacon to those who could see it, a powerful statement of their god's beneficence. The bright golden light guided ships through the Warp just as the god behind it guided his flock through the darkness that crept around their souls. Celestine had even seen the mighty soul of Guilliman, unyielding as the demi-god slept in stasis. To even be near it evoked a desire to stand in awe at the glory that was a Primarch.
The Empress' presence was the exact opposite. Instead of exerting pressure on all those around her, the Empress could not be felt even if you stood nearby. Certainly, one would see her, but it was no different than seeing any other mortal human. In the Warp, where the saint hoped to see in greater detail the true nature of the Imperium's ruler, practically nothing could be detected. It took great concentration to make out the orb of dull silver no larger than a child's hands, its color allowing it to blend in perfectly with the surrounding Warp energies. Only the slight disruption it created in the currents indicated its existence as even staring directly at it did not compel rightful obedience. The crown's power was hidden, despite bearing some of God's soul.
Then there were her words. Celestine could not help but think that the Empress did not wish her to be here. The reason was beyond her, but it was not Celestine's place to care. The God-Emperor commanded her, and she obeyed.
At the sight of some Custodes moving to where Valdor had been, Celestine turned back and flew to the Captain-General. The reason for the reinforcement here was revealed as a group of the xenos approached the barrier, the front being Kabalite warriors with distinct armor and a far more dangerous aura than the rabble in the armies behind them. Between them and the larger armies was another of the Drukhari's floating vehicles, though this one was slightly wider and had two extra platforms on either side and a throne. Said throne had a back that let the owner sit with two large curved points behind them, enveloping their head if looked at from the front, while the sides under the armrests were filled with skulls.
The group of 20 aliens stopped a few meters from the golden screen. Her eyes could make out the minute shifts in the Custodes' postures as they prepared for sudden combat. It would not come to pass as the warriors shifted to let three distinct figures come to the front.
The first was dressed in armor with more malign than all the Dark Eldar Celestine had seen thus far, black with bronze-gold lines. The crown was pointed with the same curved points from the throne placed on the side, though they were serrated here. Two skulls covered the kneecaps.
The second wore black armor similar to the first's, but it was smoother and less painful to look at. White lines and alien symbols were drawn on it, while the right hand clutched a powerful staff a few centimeters taller than the wielder's helmet and was decorated with Aeldari scripts. The power inside it was too obvious. Dark green gems were inlaid into the armor and robes over it.
The last figure was not as distinct in appearance, practically indistinguishable from the hideously lewd Succubi that had fried themselves into oblivion attacking earlier. Long, wild, black hair was messily held back by a spiked hairclip the size of a grenade, and serrated daggers glinted in the unnatural twilight that shone in Commorragh.
The first figure spoke in High Gothic, the condescension rolling off its tongue. "I am Supreme Archon Vect, slaves. Bring me to your leader."
Valdor and the other Custodes stepped out of the path in perfect synchronization. The alien pirate and his bodyguards walked forward, even their strides possessing a sneer at their so-called inferiors.
----
Eldrad Ulthran was worried. This was not an unusual state for him. What was different this time was that he felt a keen lack of agency to change his surroundings.
Khaine's Gate was secure, he could tell that much. The golden film between Commorragh and the Sea of Souls was unaffected by the gnawing legions of neverborn on the other side. How long that would last, he did not know.
Surrounding the group was hundreds of the human emperor's bodyguards, each watching with a stillness that lent itself to trick a viewer into believing they were merely suits of armor. He made note of their weapons. Primitive, like all Mon-keigh weapons, but more than enough to slay himself, Vect, and all the others. These warriors were not complacent in their melee skills either.
The main figure, the one they had come to meet, sat in front of a table with the gate to their back. It was clearly a woman, the softer facial features attested to that. Her white skin was unblemished save for whatever marks he could see that the silver hair didn't cover around the right eye. She was tall, easily taller than the tallest eldar in full armor. On her head sat a dull golden crown made of metal flower petals. Her bone-white armor was untarnished and possessed no visible joints, covering everything but her head, neck, and hands.
Wraithbone. Her armor was wraithbone, he realized.
The woman's bored expression did not change as Vect, Hesperax, and he stopped opposite the table. Her eyes looked over them with laziness Eldrad had not seen in any but the most gluttonous and slothful from the Aeldari Empire. "Asdrubael Vect. Eldrad Ulthran. Lelith Hesperax. Greetings to all you." There was no more doubt as to who had spoken the words in the message that had brought them here, Vect realized. The mon-keigh woman spoke in flawless Aeldari, not a single syllable betraying her species.
"Let us dispense with the pleasantries, mon-keigh. Are you here to negotiate your surrender?"
"In time, perhaps. But that would be rather boring, wouldn't it? I propose we make this interesting."
"I think it would be rather interesting to simply watch you fall as my armies kill your soldiers and capture you for my torture pits," Vect retorted. It was an empty threat and they all knew it. As long as the woman controlled Khaine's Gate, she held the dominant position. A checkered 40 by 40 board suddenly appeared between them. Colored pieces were placed in equal numbers on either side.
"Let us play a game of regicide to decide who should be the victor here," the woman suggested.
Hive World Uinteih
Governor Alfric was usually a smart man in Magos Arachnos' opinion. When he had first been appointed as ruler of Uinteih more than a century ago, the elderly ex-lieutenant had reached out to gather a group of advisers who knew far more about the world than he did. Compared to his predecessor who seemed to enjoy lording his minuscule power over the Mechanicus, Alfric was an excellent governor. He knew when to delegate and when to not. That said, the man was being very foolish currently, just like Cardinal Jumo next to him.
"This is madness, governor! The words themselves speak of heresy so great I am at a loss of words to describe it!" the hulking orange-skinned woman yelled, slamming her had on the governor's desk. Arachnos didn't point out that it was a blatantly false statement since the woman had not ceased speaking since the meeting began. By the looks of it, he was not the only one tired of the woman's ranting. The PDF general, a man with more cybernetics than any other Arachnos had seen on non-Mechanicus personnel, was filing his nails so intensely his gaze could have set fire to his fingers.
When the governor grew tired of hearing the same variations of the same message, he signaled Jumo to sit down and stop. With a sigh, he turned to the others in the room. "Do any of you have thoughts on this…message?"
"Not particularly. But I did torture a cultist who seemed to believe it. She was going around with none of her type's usual secrecy, trying to recruit the mutants to rebel and overthrow the 'Anathema's Successor'," Marshal Maractus of the Adeptus Arbites commented. "I suppose that is proof of it being correct. Or at least, of the heretics thinking it is."
"The word of a heretic is meaningless, marshal. You should know better than to trust it," Jumo replied with a barely-restrained accusation of heresy.
Maractus shrugged. "Fine. It's probably true, still. If it was a lie, then it is a poor one at that."
Alfric nodded in understand. "Indeed. The Emperor made 9 Sons to fight the 9 Devils of Chaos. To claim to be of the Emperor's blood, and a woman at that…"
"Precisely! We must ensure the other worlds in the system do not listen to this blasphemy! I have already spoken to several other high-ranking cardinals; they agree that this heresy will be confronted head-on." Jumo interjected.
As the conversation turned into arguing, Arachnos tuned them out. He knew the message was real; the secret communication from Mars had provided decisive proof that the Empress was an avatar of the Omnissiah much like her father had been according to the records he had studied on the Treaty of Olympus.
He could intervene in the argument, show them the video of the Empress in all her glory as she resurrected the god-machines and blessed countless tech-priests. But he was sick of this world and scheduled to be transferred back home soon. Let the Empress deal with her naysayers.
Phalanx
"And then he says, 'I asked for a million Thrones!'" Loud laughter filled the room as Dax finished his joke. Andrea laughed the longest, having never heard such humor before.
"Goodness, our sister must truly enjoy Dax's jests," Catillan remarked.
"Someone has to!" retorted Igneas, causing everyone to laugh once more.
Dax looked offended but couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Of course she enjoys them. My jokes are like fine wine. They have aged 10 millennia since I last told them!"
"Stop, stop!" Andrea breathed out when she could, unable to stop laughing. "I can't breathe!"
"You heard her, brother. Deal already," Bjoan said. Dax picked up the stack of cards and dealt out two cards to everyone. This was a game that Catillan had apparently learned from a tech-priest in between his training on Mars. It was normally played with money, but since they had none, the group played for the greatest treasure in the galaxy: bragging rights.
As he examined his cards, Alfons, another of Nathaniel's squad, asked, "Will you tell us about the Empress, Sister Andrea? I have only seen her in person once myself."
"I do not have too much I can tell you. I barely know anything myself," she replied with a slight blush.
"Really? Nathaniel tells us you are the Empress' right hand. Surely she confides her thoughts to you?"
Andrea gave a half-hearted glare at Nathaniel, who was suddenly very interested in the back of his cards. Looking back to Alfons, she said, "The Empress doesn't tell me or even my sisters too much. She is an excellent teacher and understands how each of us learns best, but her own life and stories are a mystery to me."
"Similar to us, then," Dax commented. When the others looked his way, he elaborated. "I mean that we know who our gene-fathers are. Mine is Dorn, Bjoan's is Russ, Nathaniel's is Corax. All we have are stories and ancient records to know of them and their other sons."
The Primaris Marines all nodded at this. "I am sure our brothers will have more stories to tell us. They knew our sires long before we had even heard of them," Alfons commented. As the round ended with Bjoan's win, Dax redealt the cards. "On another note, sister, I am curious to know how your legion trains. A legion of psykers surely must spend large periods of time learning to control their powers."
Andrea gave a look of confusion. "Who told you that?"
"It is what I have heard from the few Librarians I have spoken to amongst our brothers here. You all remember Brother-Librarian Sowilo?" The others nodded at this. "He told me he and the other psykers in our numbers must spend great amounts of time controlling their connection to the Warp if they do not wish to be possessed," Alfons explained.
"That seems quite odd. My sisters and I did not suffer such a problem. We began learning to use our psychic abilities almost immediately after we became the Sentinels."
"Are you capable of throwing great balls of fire, sister?" Bjoan asked. The deep voice could not mask the excitement.
"I know how to use fire, but we do not focus too much on the traditional psyker disciplines. Our Empress wishes for us to learn the Warpcraft she wrote for us."
"How interesting. Can you show us any?" Dax asked.
She shook her head. "The Empress had forbidden us from using our powers for frivolous needs. Though I think you will see what I and my sisters can do soon enough."
Khaine's Gate, Commorragh
The opening to a game of regicide said much about the people playing it. Did the player prefer offense? Defense? Something in-between?
Pawn to 40-04.
Knight to 26-38.
Vect preferred to let his opponent reveal their mind without too much prodding. Early aggressive plays soured any insights to be gained from seeing the application of a naïve mind to the board. That said, he wasn't simply going to leave the woman completely free.
A few more pieces moved, and the game was on.
Mars
Though the Emperor was said to have conquered Terra during the Unification Wars, the victory was not fully complete. The technology of humanity's ancestors was miraculous in what it could do. Combined with the insanity that infected so many scientists and engineers during the Age of Strife and the psychopaths who became warlords on Terra, that technology went from creating miracles to nightmares as abominations and depraved inventions were fused, forged, or grown to prey upon the enemies of whatever warlord desired them to. Nearly all these monstrosities were so dangerous that their use against even the foulest of mankind's foes was unacceptable.
With each passing century, as mankind's knowledge was lost, so too was the knowledge to defeat these creatures permanently. The Emperor, knowing such beasts could not be allowed to roam freely, empowered a select group of His Custodes. Armed with mighty black power armor and relics to contain the secrets of the Dark Cells. For 10,000 years, the Shadowkeepers Shield Host had done their duty without fail.
Until the Empress had appeared and outdone all of them. Within a year and few months, their Lady had cleared Dark Cells. What had once been an indefinite position was now meaningless as the Empress purged the dangerous creations cell by cell. Flesh monsters were annihilated, machines infected by the lingering taint of Abominable Intelligence were atomized.
Not every occupant or object was destroyed. Some were now useful weapons of last resort or fountains of wealth in the form of technical information found in cogitators here and there, the missing fragments filled in by the Empress if she deemed it necessary.
Such a weapon was what the Shadowkeepers were now transporting to Mars. There were minimal delays; their clearance and authority overrode any bureaucratic obstacle in their path. Their vessel, the
Shard of Salaman, was one of the hundreds defending the Solar System, making it perfectly inconspicuous as it docked in Mars' Ring of Iron for regular maintenance.
As the Shadowkeepers gathered inside the teleportarium, the cage they transported rattled minutely, not enough to be noticed by mortal eyes. Immediately, all but one of the Custodes pointed their weapons at the cage, ready to destroy the contents if necessary. The last Custodian checked his HUD for the container's status. Once he was satisfied, the others moved back into standing formation.
The teleportation went off smoothly, the squad appearing deep underground without any lighting. This was no hindrance as their helmets and natural senses allowed them to easily see with perfect clarity.
They marched on the unlit walkway in perfect lockstep for nearly a quarter of an hour. At the end was a door with no markings on it, large enough for even a Baneblade to pass through. Here and there, a Shadowkeeper's eyes would flick to the side, watching for the first signs of the defense turrets spinning up to shower the walkway with heavy bolter and plasma fire. The door silently opened as they approached, their authorization read as they walked through without slowing down.
"For what reason do you come here, my lords?" The question was asked by a cyborg woman wearing the red robes of a tech-priest. She lacked much visible augmentation, however, the only sign being a plate on the right half of her face that was fused to it. The flesh eye watched them with wariness.
The lead Shadowkeeper informed her of their purpose.
"I cannot allow you entry."
She was ordered to step aside.
"The God-Emperor has commanded this place remain sealed to all. I cannot let you enter."
Two of the Custodes grabbed and restrained the woman, knocking her out with a powerful neural net. The lead, meanwhile, connected to the door beyond through his armor's machine spirit. For a moment, he worried that his authority would not be enough, that the ancient mind that inhabited the next room's controls would find him unworthy to carry out his mission. What seemed like an eternity passed before he was granted permission to enter. With his brothers behind him, the Custodes started moving the weapon into the main chamber…only to stop when an equal-sized group of Tharantoi stood facing them.
Phalanx
Captain Garadon was thankful as the vessel dropped into orbit perfectly around Cadia. He, like all Astartes, was sensitive to the psychic energies that were thrust aside as the ship moved faster than light. The unpleasant prickling in his mind was irritating when he was in the Warp, but his headache had not disappeared.
Cadian space was practically empty at this time. Only two dozen ships orbited the world, a far cry from the normal hundred or so that were permanently stationed here. After he proved his identity to the Lord Admiral in charge, he learned that many ships had been ordered elsewhere near Cadia. Though the 13
th Black Crusade had miraculously ended in very favorably for the Imperium, nearly a thousand worlds had burned or experienced internal strife and civil war as long-dormant heretic cults had tried to overthrow the Emperor's loyal servants. Given that Cadia was in no real danger, bringing the Emperor's judgment down on those foolish enough to betray him was only logical. He also learned that the Blackstone Fortress had been left alone after the machine spirits aboard all vessels absolutely refused to take anyone close to it, and that such refusal extended to all shuttles as well.
Such refusal did not occur for the Phalanx as it approached and docked with the Fortress perfectly. He let his second-in-command take over now as he went to rest off his headache in his private quarters. The tech-priests would need close to 40 hours to complete their task, they estimated. After that, they were to wait for the Empress' orders.
----
"Hurry up. I do not want to explain to the Empress that we failed to execute her orders because you couldn't be arsed to move faster."
"I'm coming, calm yourself."
The two senior tech-priests walked the halls of the ancients Blackstone Fortress in awe. With them were hundreds of servitors, menials, and junior tech-priests charged with recording everything they saw. The Empress had provided ample record of how the Blackstone Fortress functioned, but even that was not enough to explain the ancient star fort's capabilities. The documentation had proven to be massive, requiring hours to simply read once with cursory understanding, while a deeper look was difficult as much of the science behind its operation was described as too tedious for an operation manual.
Opening the hundreds of doors and barriers was nothing like what one would normally do in a forge on a forgeworld. There, a servitor or digital cogitator would ask for identification in the lingua-technis, watching those who wished to enter like a hawk for any aggressive gesture. Once verified, the door would slowly rise or move to the side, allowing entry until it noisily closed again. In contrast, doors opened as they approached, never once slowing down the precession as they followed the map to central command chamber. No one, not even the mind-cleansed servitors, could shake the feeling of being watched.
Still, with their path clear and no need for rest, the tech-priests and their servants made it to their destination in roughly four hours. As the final gate slid effortlessly and silently out of the way, the small army immediately spread out, ordering the servitors to place the cogitators where needed. In this way, the alien intelligence that ruled the fortress could be spoken to via standard tech-priest prayer.
One magos glanced at his chronometer and cursed. They had less than two hours and 34 minutes before the station needed to be primed.
Khaine's Gate, Commorragh
The game unfolded in silence. The early stage of regicide was the only time one could assemble their forces in relative peace.
Assassin to 12-13.
Magister to 32-20.
Her moves were disappointingly straight forward. Like all inferior creatures, she sought to rally her forces as if that was mutually exclusive with putting pressure on him.
Well, he would simply show her why that was a mistake.
Palace of Pleasure
Waiting was truly exquisite, Slaanesh thought. The feeling of denial, of choosing to abstain from pleasure to enhance it later, had great value to one whose existence was to bath in the excesses of the galaxy. A shame so few of its followers understood this.
A circular cage of 66 bars contained the offering in the air with a chain to suspend it, hundreds of daemonettes and the few Keepers of Secrets allowed to be here. A cacophony of moans, hisses, and other noises of ecstasy filled the air, all servants celebrating this great victory of their god. Suddenly, a hush fell over the chamber. All daemons bent low and bowed as the avatar of their deity appeared before them in a flash.
The time was auspicious. Six hundred and sixty-six hours had passed since the Eldar Goddess had been offered to the youngest Chaos God. As the avatar approached, Slaanesh realized that it had not just been the time since the offering that it had been denied, but ever since Nurgle himself had taken the Prince of Pleasure's prize at its birth. The unnaturally wide grin with far too many teeth grew wider, and Slaanesh would be denied no longer.
----
Countless legions of less worthy daemons guarded the surroundings to ensure no other Ruinous Power dared to interfere with this ascension. It was a prudent measure. Devouring the Eldar goddess would be a major aid in completing Slaanesh's corruption of the entirety of the children of those who birthed it. With the guarantee of no more soul stones, every battle would have dire consequences. Such an upset in the balance of power would not be tolerated. Unfortunately, Nurgle's forces were committed to fighting Tzeentch, the Death Guard at the forefront of the advance as whatever remaining Astartes psykers and sorcerers who followed the God of Change rallied to simply blunt this advance.
Khorne, however, was untouched by this fighting, and perfectly willing maintain the hierarchy.
"GO! TAKE THE ELDAR GODDESS FROM THE FOOLS OF EXCESS!" he roared. The eternal fighting surrounding his throne ceased as daemons, Astartes, and mortals lowered their blades from one another and sang praise unto the Blood God. Legions of Bloodletters and Bloodthirsters gathered to travel aboard whatever ships had been bound to serve their new master. Slaves were sacrificed and skulls offered to gain even the slightest more favor with their lord before the battle began. From countless worlds where blood was spilled without care, all servants, including whole cults in some cases, were ordered to march into Warp portals leading to wherever their god desired them to go.
After a short while or a long time, it mattered not, the siege began. Guns fired bullets dripping with blood that sought out the nearest blood while shells that spread pleasure and pain simultaneously exploded and fried the nervous systems of those affected. Ships fired missiles, boarding torpedoes, and lances at each other, without a single care given as to where the destroyed hulks crashed. The sky above the Palace was darkened by the sheer number of hulls in question, massive explosions frequently appearing as a ship was destroyed, only to be replaced by another.
On the ground, the tide slowly shifted towards Khorne. For all their hideous beauty and abominable dexterity, the servants of Slaanesh were not the brutal fighters that the servants of Khorne were. The ability to twist and dance in horrific parodies of dances to some forgotten tune from the Eldar Empire meant nothing when every bit of space was filled with bodies, bullets, and blades, sometimes all three together. There was nothing in the way of fortification to shield the defenders. But this was the realm of Slaanesh. A place protected not by physical walls but by strong mental attacks.
Most of Khorne's followers did not care for riches or exquisite sustenance or fulfillment of carnal desires. But even if only an infinitesimal number expressed a desire, their psyches came under attack. The weak-willed turned on their former master's armies, their skin turning pale and purple while their nails grew into claws and their orifices sprouted tentacles as their bloodlust faded. It was meaningless to resist the brethren they had betrayed, and those who converted were cut down without a hint of concern. Those with greater strength of mind found their souls destroyed as loyalty to two gods was a contradiction not even the Warp would tolerate.
This was not the only effect it had. With every step forward, the probes attacking the invaders grew stronger. Whispers turned to suggestions and then into shouts. These had no effect on daemons; they were manifestations of their god. Trying to corrupt them was akin to attempting the same on Khorne. But mortal followers were not so lucky. Some understood as they were cut down by both sides in their final moments that their god had not cared where the blood flowed from, though whether this was a joyous or hate-filled realization differed. As for the Bloodletters, they found their adversaries growing faster and stronger with every meter they advanced towards the Palace. Daemonettes now blurred through the lines, their claws tearing into both mortal and daemonic flesh with ease. Keepers of Secrets dueled with Bloodthirsters, the many-limbed fighting the muscled. There was one group, however, which had been left alone by both sides. The Astartes.
Even if it could have aided him, Khorne commanded all Astartes loyal him to seek out and slay not mortals or daemons, but their counterparts. For some inexplicable reason, Slaanesh said the same to its own Astartes children. The Emperor's Children and whatever other Space Marines had been foolish enough to serve the Prince of Pleasure held their ground in contempt of the fighting around them. They knew their role, and it was not to fight the chattel.
Commorragh
Games of regicide could last a long time. Vect had once delighted in elongating one game with an archon who had lost favor to last over three hundred cycles with the promise to restore said archon to power if he won. All the while, Vect had destroyed every asset this archon possessed and delighted in the fear and despair that echoed in each move until the game's end, until he finally had the archon beg for mercy at his feet. That archon was trapped in a time-loop device Vect had created for just such a purpose.
This game, though not reaching that stage, was taking far longer than he had expected. A full eight of the Mon-keigh hours had passed without it being clear who would win.
Queen to Z14, check.
Artillery takes Queen.
The Mon-keigh's strategy was fairly simple. He could already see how no less than three moves would let her bring a powerful sweep down the left-center. Her plays were mostly reactionary by necessity, however, as Vect most certainly wasn't going to let her arrange her forces without ample time to make the threat meaningless. She had some mildly clever ideas, such as a desperate gamble that left all three of her queens misplaced and useless.
One would not think his opponent felt pressured by the same boredom that had been carved into her face since the beginning of the match. No doubt, she assumed she could still win.
Blackstone Fortress, Cadia
"All systems are operational, the main cannon is fully charged, and targeting is set. We must only fire now."
"We still have four minutes to go. Have all ships cleared the danger zone?"
"Affirmative."
"Stand by for authorization."
Noctis Labyrinth
Though none could hear it, Arin was breathing heavily. He suspected his foe was as well.
His enhanced mind let him immediately know the location, size, and severity of injuries as soon as they happened. A bolt shell in the left calf. His left arm cut off at the elbow. Blood pouring down the right side of his face from where his skull was crush inwards, with a side effect of giving him a pounding headache.
His opponent had it worse. One of Arin's Shadowkeeper brothers had nearly gutted this one, leaving a large chunk of armor and torso gone. Even his stance was wavering, his body and armor unable to cope without critical support on one side. That didn't make him any less dangerous, Custodes didn't let pain or fear stop them from completing their duties.
It was only the two of them left. All others were dead. To be honest, Arin was surprised they hadn't been killed right away given the disparity in firepower. Allarus-pattern power armor, far more advanced than anything the Astartes got, carried little weight against the custom Terminator armor worn by the Tharantoi. It was only by a millisecond that they had brought their weapons up in unison and fired. Their brothers opposing them did the same, but the bolts that reached first drew first blood, downing more than he expected.
Arin glanced past the spear-wielding Terminator at the cargo they had been carrying. Thankfully, the container had been undamaged-
A thought emerged into Arin's conscious mind, and he dashed forward to strike at the other Custodes. With a dexterity any mortal would be awed at, the Tharantoi dodged his spear by pivoting on one foot, his spear coming down and severing the Shadowkeeper's leg.
This caused Arin to stagger and fall forward, a high-pitched screeching emanated from the points of contact as his momentum carried him towards the container, but not far enough. Damn. He crawled forward as quickly as his one-and-a-half arms could. His attacker tried stopping him but couldn't move too much faster due to his own injuries. Even the slightest speed was advantage was enough.
Just one meter, Arin thought, reaching out in vain as he felt the pain of his right arm being pinned to the ground at the elbow. In a second, the spear was withdrawn and stabbed through his head.
The Tharantoi Terminator paused and breathed deeply to collect himself, only just noticing the dim flashing on the last Shadowkeeper's wrist. The answer to its mysterious purpose was revealed when the container's top opened.
Then, there was nothing.
Palace of Pleasure
Titanic battles raged across Slaanesh's realm no matter how little progress could be made. There were always more mortals to throw into the meatgrinder on both sides as daemons fought their counterparts on each side. Blood mixed with the overwhelming scents of the Excesses to render all smells into a coppery one. The forces of the Blood God had finally been stalled by the last Excess, where every Slaaneshi's power was boosted a hundred-fold and the gifts of their own patron could not so easily reach.
The count of greater daemons swelled as they died and were reborn by their masters. Bloodthirsters roared impotently as Keepers of Secrets dealt death by a hundred thousand cuts, mauling whoever was unable to dodge the brutal swings of their axes. Strongest of them all was Skarbrand, who answered summons not directed to him as he reveled in the carnage dedicated to a god who would not hear him. It was one of his axes now buried in the shield of Shalaxi Helbane as the two dueled once more.
Even their legendary fight was not one of importance. Daemons killing and dying in legions was the norm of the Warp. No, the truest focus on both sides was the dance between Astartes on both sides. The Anathema's fallen servants held immense value as psychically-enhanced-but-vulnerable to the Chaos Gods. Warbands were recalled in high numbers, leaving only a scant number free to do as they wished. Bribes and betrayal bought the service of non-aligned warbands as well. Notably, a full eighty-eight Black Legion warbands joined the fight on behalf of Khorne.
For all their love of depravity and desire without restraint, the Emperor's Children were not fools. They knew the advantage would be theirs if they delayed engagement until the fighting was close to the Palace. It was near the walls that the great strength and vitality of a Khornate Berserker would be robbed, making him an easy target to be run down or run over. They waited on or behind the weak fortifications that separated the last Excess from the Palace proper.
Their foes came to them as expected. The World Eaters and miscellaneous Khornate Astartes charged full speed at a pace to match the fastest Space Marine bikes, running down any daemonette foolish enough to stand in their way. Where they stepped, the ground turned crimson-red and the desires to rest and relax turned away with defiant roars. None of that was as concerning as who led them.
Golden-bronze armor that dripped with blood. An Octed that looked to encircle the head inside it. A blood-colored head that looked like it had withered away into just the skull. Arms and legs with massive wounds that revealed muscles flowing with blasphemous ichor. Dozens of wires that began at the head and flowed behind the warrior to end in skulls. Two large leathery wings. A massive two-handed ax whose teeth seemed to move like a mouth that desired to feed.
The Red Angel had descended on the battle, his bloodthirst reaching new heights as it knew it would soon be sated. A few of the Emperor's Children were killed as their minds snapped from drinking from Angron's aura of slaughter. The others were not worried, however. The reason became clear when a massive jump saw Angron land on the walls themselves, a provocation that had to be answered. Around him, the Berserkers jumped down with abandon, looking to kill as many as they could. Hundred met their end as flashing blades and perfectly aimed bolts destroyed their heads. The ones who did land immediately began clearing the way for others as the Slaaneshi Astartes were forced to deal with the ones in front of them.
The Primarch did not join this glorious slaughter. His enemy was near, and he knew it. A brief glimpse on the left caused Angron to turn just in time to avoid getting pierced. He and his assailant dropped down to the ground below.
"Hello, brother. Have you given in to your desire to die by my blades?" The speaker was half-man, half-serpent, his powerful and large lower half like the body of a snake. Little armor protected him, save for the four pauldrons covering his four shoulders for his four arms. Purple gauntlets, edged with gold and with brilliant red gems inset in them, covered the top two arms, while plain bracelets covered the lower two wrists. His eyes burned red, and his white hair was combed downward, showing the black horns on top of his head. Purple veiny wings, equally as large as Angron's, were folded slightly down. In each of the four hands was a blade, each unique and deadly both literally and symbolically. The first was a long scimitar with no name, given as a gift by the Dark Mechanicum in exchange for aiding the Black Crusades. The second was a knife with a wavy blade from which dripped the strongest toxins imaginable, concocted by those Aeldari who had fallen to Slaanesh's service over the years. The third was Agony, a twin-bladed sword created when an alien empire had been slaughtered by the Masque of Slaanesh millions of years in the past. The last made the already-cemented identity of the attacker clear. It was a sword made by hands not human, by a race long since dead. The Blade of Laer.
With a mighty yell, Angron swung his ax at Fulgrim, who dodged with deceptive ease. For the first time since the Heresy, Brother fought Brother. But 666 hours had passed since Isha had been chained in the darkest room of the Palace. The auspicious time had come.
----
The Avatar of Slaanesh grinned like a child dreaming of eating sweets after the evening meal. The sounds and tremors coming from outside were muted in this chamber, filled with a cacophony of sounds, sights, smells, pleasures, pains, and all things that Slaanesh lay claim to. The music swelled, the air grew hazy with smoke, and servants both mortal and daemonic cheered as their deity undid the cage holding the Eldar goddess. Without hesitation. Slaanesh's mouth opened impossibly wide. In went the screaming goddess in her whole essence.
Slaanesh's power and presence swelled as it claimed another part of its birthright. A dozen Imperial worlds were assaulted by the Prince of Pleasure's servants and two xeno empires yet undiscovered went mad and butchered each other to gain favor with the god they had been enlightened of. Cadia was buffeted as even sanctioned psykers went mad and had to be put down, the planet quivering as if it knew what fate it had narrowly avoided.
But the worst effects applied to the Eldar. The Drukhari were mostly unscathed since Commorragh had long since banned the use of psychic powers, but the Aeldari were completely unprepared for the sheer power of excess. Soulstones failed and sent the souls of billions screaming into the Warp to be devoured, leaving grieving loved ones behind. Those with sufficient will to not be immediately hurled into the Empyrean but without sufficient humility, had the Mark of Slaanesh burned onto their foreheads, turning their bodies into portals for Warpspawn if they were lucky, or forcing them to kill their friends and family in Slaanesh's name. No less than four craftworlds had their infinity circuits harmed or destroyed as the souls of the dead were pulled by this new gravity to their demise.
All this anguish, all this new sensation, empowered the Prince of Pleasure to heights it had never known. It held up a hand to its screaming servants, silencing their adulation. Slowly, it pointed to the door.
"GO."
The order was simple and understood by all who heard it. It was time to crush the invaders and demonstrate the new status quo. As the sacrificial chamber was cleared out, Slaanesh had an idea, one that was typical of those who sought to break the constraints on interaction.
Picking up a massive ax formed by its thoughts, the Avatar walked out to join the battle.
----
Every servant of Khorne felt it when the Eldar goddess was devoured. The surge in power emanating from the Palace of Slaanesh was irrefutable proof of their failure. Regardless, they fought on just as fearlessly. They refused to retreat as the strength of their opponents sextupled. They laughed as entire groups of Bloodthirsters were wiped out.
When the Avatar of Slaanesh emerged on the battlefield, just a bit of fear was struck in the Khornates' minds. Those who remembered averted their eyes, but the pull of the Avatar's perfect and enticing form was too much for mere daemons and mortals. Countless daemons were destroyed as they fought the compulsion that bathed their beings just as hard as the Legions of Excess hit. Ships were destroyed by the dozen as Khornate morale flagged or broke in some cases, the cowards being burned to ash for retreating without permission. The Astartes were largely unaffected by this, the weak having succumbed to battle already, but their numbers were limited to begin with. They fought as if nothing had changed, but it was clear those Space Marines serving Slaanesh had gained a decisive advantage. The World Eaters roared in frustration before they were hacked apart. Of Angron and Fulgrim, nothing was seen, though Slaanesh knew where they wrestled. The siege was over, the assault had failed.
At least, it seemed to.
The Gods had an Agreement that they would not directly take to the field. All war between them was to be conducted by mortal servants and daemons. Slaanesh had violated this pact when it stood on the battlefield. Khorne would not let this upstart do so unscathed.
A crack, followed by a sizzling feeling on the skin, were all the indication the fighters had before a massive daemon easily twice as large as Slaanesh's Avatar, stood in their midst near the walls. Its skin was deep red but glowed brightly as if it were covered in flames. Massive calloused claws clutched a two-headed ax the size of a Baneblade that shrieked and thirsted for blood and gore. A massive horned headrest cast the face in darkness, save for the burning eyes. Those depraved individuals who served Slaanesh were blasted by an aura that demanded mindless slaughter for the sake of it, for blood to flow endlessly.
The Avatar of Khorne roared as it charged, and the one-sided battle became a stalemate once more.
Blackstone Fortress, Cadia
"Fire!"
When the command was given, the crude electric signal the tech-priests had generated flowed from the bulky interface device into the minimalist one built into the Fortress. The logic that governed this terminal passed on the input to its controller, which verified the message as comprehensible. From here, it was passed on to an old machine spirit that lain dormant for millions of years, unaffected by the ravages of time. Once it determined the signal did not contain malicious instructions, the contents were given to the mind that governed the alien space station.
The Mind paused as it read the signal, then relaxed as it noted the identity of the sender. The Slave wished to use the Psy-cannon's power, so would it be. Ancient and arcane circuits were flooded with power as the Mind flexed its control over its home. Silently, the Fortress turned until its cannon directly faced the Eye of Terror. Lenses made of material no being in galaxy knew how to create any more were focused and ancient converters siphoned the power of the Warp into the stasis containers, filtered of any taint. Millions of checks were run on every square nanometer of the barrel, for a single crack or weakness in the material would catastrophically destroy the station in its entirety.
The silver-white energy being collected and fed to the main cannon's load was detectable by even the crudest and blind sensors available to the Imperium. Order among the ships stationed over Cadia was maintained only by foreknowledge that the cannon would be firing, and all were to stay as far away as possible. Psykers had been incapacitated beforehand.
Two seconds had passed. But the cannon didn't fire. The instructions forbade it. Instead, a separate reservoir of energy, split off from the pool that had fed the cannon, was diverted to just 55 meters in front of the barrel. A circular silver portal of equal radius to the cannon was placed parallel to the opening.
The act of creating a portal between the Materium and Immaterium was crude under the Imperium's hands. Brute force tore a breach to be used before rough hands haphazardly closed it. In comparison, the portal created now was seamlessly written into existence, the Warp coaxed into marrying the Materium here.
The Mind hesitated for a precise number of femtoseconds before firing. Yottajoules of energy were directed forward, not a single bit escaping the portal they were shot into. Two seconds later, the emission stopped, and the portal closed. The beam raced off to the energy signature it had a lock on.
Palace of Pleasures
A fight between the Chaos Gods had always been via mortals and daemons, never direct conflict. It was Agreed Upon. To break the rules in so bold a manner meant dire consequences for all parties involved.
Tzeentch could not help but watch with great happiness as titanic forces clashed in the Warp, though a mere rebuke of Laws was not the only reason for the Chaos God to celebrate. Even Nurgle and his grandchildren were forced to observe with contempt as Change swept the Warp itself. This pause in their campaign against him meant he had more time to rally his own armies, Astartes-less as they functionally were. Without a true counter to the necromantic powers of Mortarion, Tzeentch had ordered his followers to delay and delay, a tactic they were perfectly suited to. But the servants of Nurgle had long experience with fighting their Change-loving enemies.
The Power could feel the eyes of a million different beings gaze on the battle alongside him. Some daemonic, some mortal, and even a few of the creatures from the deeper part of the Empyrean, drawn to the metaphorically splashing. The harsh but distant glow of the Anathema was obvious in its attention, and alien laughter from somewhere revealed the presence of the Harlequin God.
And what splashing it was! The Warp quivered with every movement either avatar made, and shook violently each time their weapons clashed at speeds faster than even light could traverse the void. 6 massive blades were held in Slaanesh's hands, grown to be perfectly crafted weapons. In Khorne's, the two-headed ax was held with both arms, a powerful weapon that could shatter stars with one swing.
6 swords to one ax might sounded like a winning gambit, but some things could not be overcome with psychic power. Try as one might, a one-handed weapon could not be swung with the same force as a two-handed one, and six blades would simply impede one another if used in concert.
The difference in symbolic might showed. Khorne's avatar swung with incalculable force that knocked over Titans with the air that was moved with each blow. The God of War, Blood, and Murder was unstoppable by anyone in physical combat.
Slaanesh was not a fool. Contesting this duel of attrition would simply let its eternal rival win. All the strength and pride in its own skill at swordsmanship was meaningless in such a battle. Instead, its six blades merely created impediments for Khorne, preventing the most brutal of blows or cutting its overwhelming initiative in twain for but a moment.
Khorne, for his part, reveled in the bloodshed as he stepped and struck those around him in accident. It was his nature to do so, and he would not be denied. His savage grin grew with each passing second as his ax struck the flesh-metal of the Frivolous Whore's swords. Each time metal clashed, he could see worlds burn as they were torn apart by the colliding energies. He was forced to take precautions, however. The Whore's power had grown drastically since her challenge had been issued, a poisoned reward for being daring. A glancing blow would be enough to bring even him to his knees, and possibly cost him the title of God of War.
How long the duel had lasted was unknown and meaningless. Time had given way to higher Laws here. But suddenly, the seductive grin of the God of Excess slipped into confusion. Its eyes were cast downward at its own body.
That was all that was needed to change the tempo of the duel. A self-assured backstep turned to a stumble. A blade was microscopically out of position. Five blades had not the symbolic power of six, and Khorne's ax screamed through the air as it impacted Slaanesh's left shoulder. God-flesh was sundered in a heartbeat, spraying thousands of gallons of ichor across the battlefield. Where the drops landed, they transformed into blood-red servants of Slaanesh that fought with the unthinking rage of a Khornate. Anger and shock at the blatant wound their patron had suffered weakened the daemons of Pleasure and Excess as the stalemate turned to narrowly advantage the Khorne. Cruelly, the Blood God dragged his ax further diagonally, now drinking deep of the rich ichor it was offered. The cuts and scratches that stung him now were powerless, trophies of triumph instead of death knells.
It was when he reached the middle of the Whore's torso that something went wrong. His weapon hesitated as it opened the stomach. With a snarl, he pushed it further, only to stop when a glowing white light penetrated through. That was all the warning he had before Slaanesh's stomach burst apart and a beam of corrosive Order hit him. To his credit, Khorne managed to begin dodging, but that all he could do.
The beam's alignment with the Anathema's power burned his flesh the minute they made contact. Khorne was strong, no pitiful beam would kill him like this. But the right side of his body and the entirety of his right arm was cooked and burned away, his ax melted by the sheer energy slamming into it. The weapon was entirely psychic in nature, more a symbol of being the War God than an actual item, but its destruction hurt just as much.
With the sudden and anti-climactic end to the duel, the Warp shuddered in reverse. The rules had been suspended temporarily, but the Sea of Souls was not called a sea for nothing. One could part its briefly, but its waves would come back eventually. When they did, every consequence was applied to the rule-breakers.
For his part, Khorne was lucky enough to escape with his pride hurt. The kill had not been completed, nor had he truly succeeded in showing the Whore its place, making this whole war entirely meaningless. Angron bellowed in impotent fury at the order to leave, but he knew his master. The usual fighting across his realm had resumed, but even that was relatively subdued. Khorne's greatest anger was directed at the Anathema. His arm and weapon had come back when he ordered them to without difficulty. It was needing to do so in the first place that made the god's blood boil even more.
Slaanesh's punishment was worse. Though both were punished, being the loser meant receiving the lion's share of sanction. The Prince of Pleasure's ability to directly caress the dreams and hopes of deluded mortals was crippled. Morale amongst its daemons had fallen to an unbearable low. The wounds it suffered had not healed either, a permanent disfiguration and mark of failure that was plainly visible to any who looked upon it. Sycophantic screeching and prayers meant nothing, and the loudest were killed for reminding the God of its weakness.
And then, in the ruined remnants of its inner Palace, the Prince of Pleasure discovered something that made it scream across space and time.
Khaine's Gate, Commorragh
"Checkmate," Vect declared with his smugness having found its way back onto his face.
The woman appeared to study the board. It was an action that every single one of his opponents had done when he spoke that word, and he would particularly enjoy seeing the growing realization along with despair when his declaration was accepted as reality.
On the board, a single pawn was attacking her king. But despite the fact that she a strong core of pieces left, none of them were in the right position to make a sacrifice for her. Some were neutralized by being too crucial in their current positions, others by sacrificing a piece of high value to move them from their position. His own were placed at various distances from the offending pawn, but all cut off some possible escape in their own way.
Three long minutes passed. The woman smiled. "Checkmate indeed. You win."
"Of course I do. Now then, I think it is time you faced the consequences of trying to take my things. The Gate. Return it to me now, and I will make your death quick."
She hadn't moved from her position, still smiling at the board.
"The Gate. Now!" He growled.
"You truly don't realize it?"
"Realize what, Mon-keigh?"
"The point of the game. Yes, you won and demanded the gate. Why should I give you that?"
He bared his teeth. "My armies will storm your little hideout and crush you. You'll be flayed and hung on display for tens of thousands of cycles! Return Khaine's Gate, worm!"
She looked at him and laughed. "Your kind are so pathetic. You grow so used to thinking of yourself as some kind of master, moving pawns and pieces around at a whim. Never once have you asked what the game is supposed to be. How is it, Asdrubael Vect, that you have never once considered the possibility that someone will refuse to treat the game as reality like you do? You won a game of regicide, Supreme Archon. Your victory is only that."
Before Vect could scream a thousand curses, the Gate flashed brighter.
"Ah, it appears our final guests have arrived," the woman said, standing and walking towards the gate. In groups of two or three, eight bodies were unceremoniously dumped onto the ground. They were not human, and Vect didn't need to examine them know that. On some instinctual level, he understood what he saw here.
The Eldar Pantheon. Or most of it, anyway.
He could even make out which body was which: Asuryan was the tall figure on the extreme left and lying face-down, Gea lay on her side next to him, Kurnous was passed out like a drunk in the middle, Hoec sprawled beside him, Lileath and her mother Isha dumped on one another, Morai-Heg on the far right, and Vaul spread out next to her.
Why couldn't he talk?
Why were his limbs refusing to move?!
A telekinetic force gently lifted Isha up and rotated her until she was slumped over in the invisible grip and floating a meter in the air, her skin rapidly changing from horrifically pale to a darker and more natural tone.
"I have to thank you, Vect, for so thoroughly cementing your status as ruler of Commorragh. Without that, my plan would never have worked," she said. Vect found himself being floated in a similar manner towards Isha, his body completely unable to counter the telekinetic force keeping him still. Even his tongue refused to move. None of his mentally activated weapons were working either,
damnit.
"A ruler is bound to his people when he takes on the mantle of leadership. You may not have taken their oaths in a conventional manner, but you took them nonetheless." He stopped in mid-air in front of the woman. Simultaneously, he and Isha floated towards her until she was able to grab them by their throats. "Goodbye, parasite."
The last thing Vect saw were her glowing eyes. Then, suddenly, he was looking down at a hideous blob of purple, pink, and black. Its skin constantly moved and pulsated. 'Commorragh,' he realized. It was Commorragh. That blob was the True Appearance of the city in the Webway. The skin wasn't moving, those were the souls of his kind below.
He saw the slow-moving fire only once it had reached halfway between him and the souls below. The flames burned pure gold, but they seemed to come from an odd place. He looked at his own body. Sure enough, the fire was emerging from his own chest. At least, half of it was. The other half was coming from the unconscious Isha. He slowly turned his head to look at his jailer. Her soul's appearance made him want to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
The only human part of the Mon-keigh was the left side of her face and upper torso, along with her left arm. The right side of her head was destroyed, fragments of skull trapped nearby, preventing them from blowing away. He could see inside her skull, from which dripped out silver-white blood profusely in thick drops. A crude mechanical mask was bolted over that side, but its transparent nature meant he could see through it. The right side of her face had been slashed, and the deep cuts looked infected. Not in the Plague Lord sense, but something that seemed more a mark of…possession. Yes, possession. Her right arm, the one that clutched him by the throat, didn't even exist, hence the replacement with a psy-construct that glowed like her eyes. Lastly, her body ended at the torso, like something had torn her legs away. No, there was a swirl of something below her.
He looked back to Commorragh and found it in flames. Without any sound, the spread of the fire looked inevitable and perhaps pleasing to the eye. He saw a few flames turn around and go elsewhere. Their destination was made somewhat clear to him when he saw the string that just barely glinted in the ethereal light. It was a string attached to him leading off into the unknown. No, more than one string. Many strings, an uncountable number. Her words about him being bound to his people came to mind.
Time passed at some unknown rate, but eventually, the flames covered all of Commorragh. He could feel the last of his kind die out, their soul sublimated into the Warp, but it didn't hurt as each string snapped.
Nor did it hurt when he turned to ash.
A.N: Whew, that's the longest one yet. As always, ConCrit helps.
@ilbgar123
