Editing The Tales of the Emperasque: Part Twelve (section)

==9-093-001-M42==
Isha, the Eldar Goddess of Healing and Birth, stood at the edge of the balcony attached to her suite and stared out at the Craftworld of Ulthwé. The vast, artificial construct was alive with activity, as small craft and levitating trams darted about. The Eldar of Ulthwé were returning from the abruptly-aborted 13th Black Crusade, which had skidded to a complete halt with the apparent death of Abbadon the Despoiler and the crippling loss of Isha from Nurgle’s captivity. The Ork auxiliaries the armies of Chaos had recruited were the only ones still advancing, and free of Abbadon’s guidance, they were no more of a threat than any greenskin pack.<br>
Isha tilted her head back and let the artificial wind of the craftworld blow over her. The few weeks that had passed since her return had been a dizzying mix of confusion, sightseeing, prayer, and nightmares. The return of their Goddess and highest Farseer had restored Ulthwé’s morale like no other portent could, but Isha herself couldn’t stay.<br>
A Black Guardian opened the balcony door and stopped through, dropping to a reverent knee. “My Lady Isha, your message has been sent. The Exodites of Menhsamesh will await your arrival.”<br>
“They have replied already?” Isha asked, without turning.<br>
“No, my Lady. However, they have no reason to refuse. No true child of the Eldar would,” the Guardian confessed.<br>
Isha turned and regarded the kneeling man. “You have doubt.” It wasn’t a question.<br>
“I do, my Lady. Never have the Craftworlders needed you more. We teeter on the brink. Your return will breathe new life into the entire race. Why would you confine yourself to a strategically insignificant Exodite backwater?”

“Because, my child, the Eldar are not a united people. The Exodites deserve my help and protection as much as you do, and are even less able to defend themselves from the Great Enemy.” Isha turned back to the great view. “More than that, you need not know.”<br>
“Forgive me.” The Guardian rose and genuflected. Before he could ask another question or take his leave, however, another Black Guardian shouldered his way in.<br>
“My apologies, Lady Isha, but I have an urgent message for you from the Council of Seers,” the new Guardian said hastily. “The Emperor of Humans has specifically requested that you, Farseer Eldrad, and his daughters journey to Earth for a peace conference.”<br>
The other Guardian stared at the messenger as if he was growing extra eyes. Isha slowly turned to face him in total disbelief. “I won’t insult you by asking if you’re joking…but what did Eldrad say?”<br>
“Only that some debts are better paid immediately before they can collect interest, Lady Isha,” the messenger said nervously. “I’m…not sure what he meant.”<br>
“I am,” she sighed. She glanced out at the vista one more time. “And he is right.” She turned away and walked past the two bowing Guardians. “Very well. If he goes, I shall as well. I suspect that Eldrad may actually be able to make more of a difference in the long run here, anyway.”
“With all due respect to both yourself and Farseer Eldrad, he is not a god,” the messenger pointed out.<br>
“And for the last ten thousand years, neither was I,” Isha pointed out drily. “Send my response. I must prepare.”

“Stand your ground, brothers! Hold true, in the name of the Emperor!” Dante roared, laying into the Hrud with his blade. Mephiston lay on the ground beside him, his Sus-an membrane keeping him barely alive. The Chief Librarian had managed to crawl back to his Chapter Master, who had promptly lifted him away, along with all the other surviving Marines in their contingent and as much gene-seed as could be recovered. The three prongs of the Hrud ambush had become four, as their entropic abilities had bored a hole clean through the paving of the airstrip, allowing them yet another avenue of attack. Faced with this overwhelming and brutal assault – and the destruction of his vehicles – Dante had done the only thing he could do: retreat.<br>
Now, he was hunkered down behind a ruined chunk of retaining wall, along with the paltry survivors of his First Company and Sanguinary Guard – half! Pitiful half! – and trying desperately to hold the line, waiting for the last survivors of the Guard and Arbites to arrive and reinforce them. This was not the way of the Blood Angels, not the swooping precision attacks of the Assault Marine, but defensive war, the purview of the Salamanders and the Iron Hands. Dante was an ingenious tactician, but this was not his forte.<br>
The ground before the collapsed wall was invisible beneath a layer of discarded clothing and melted Hrud, spent shell casings and dropped weapons. The sky was darkening overhead as night drew on, with no sign of relief in sight.<br>
“Lord Dante, the Arbites civilian evacuation units are finished! The last shuttles are headed into orbit. They’re requesting permission to join in the assault group,” one of the injured Sanguinary Guards said, reduced to a vox-operator by his wounds.

“Thank them and accept their offer!” Dante called shortly, ducking a swinging meat cleaver and twisting his attacker’s head off.
The Terminator next to him suddenly scoffed and hurtled a chunk of masonry at blurring speeds, bowling a group of the hissing monsters over. “I’m dry, Lord. We’ve killed thousands of the beasts, but still their foul queen does not show herself.” He didn’t need to ask if withdrawal was an option: if they left then, dozens of the gene-seeds of the fallen First Company would be lost forever. Unacceptable.<br>
Dante didn’t respond, biting down on his comments. The grey tide was not breaking. What options did he have?<br>
A dark cloud swirled overhead, abruptly blotting out the sun. Dante glanced upwards in surprise as an unearthly tearing sound, like a thousand sheets of cloth shredding at once, echoed even over the deafening sounds of battle. The Hrud herds stumbled to a halt, gaping at the sky. Though a few Astartes kept firing during the welcome distraction, the rest craned their heads up in horror. A Warp Rift was opening above them, a great rend in reality’s veil.<br>
“ATTACK THE HRUD!” Dante suddenly roared, inspiration striking. He suited actions to words, cycling the power cell in the Perdition Pistol and opening fire, melting a Hrud Fusillor and bolwing his companion over. “THIS IS IT!”<br>
“Lord Commander?” the injured Sanguinary Guard asked in perplexity. “What’s happening?”<br>
“Something I hadn’t thought of, and probably won’t survive seeing,” Dante hissed, scooping a discarded bolter up and balancing it on the rubble, adding its fire to that of his brothers.

A ray of light pierced the Rift, impaling the Hrud mass. The aliens tried to scatter, but their momentum was unstoppable. The sheer volume of Hrud pressing forth from the hangar, pipe, tower, and gap in the runway was forcing them closer, even as simple instinct forced them to flee.
The light bent and scattered as it struck the filthy ground beneath the dying aliens. The air around it warped, as if whatever was directing it had a specific place of arrival for it, and would accept no detours. Some of the Hrud must have noticed, because they leaped for the barrier, perhaps thinking the Space Marines offered more sanctuary than the light.<br>
They found little. Dante’s words, underscored by the kind of urgency only a thousand years of service can impart, had spurred the Blood Angels on, and they fought with renewed vigor, driving the Hrud back. The rip above them continued spilling out its eldritch light, twisting and burning.<br>
Abruptly, the gap widened, until a Terminator could have passed through it unobstructed. The light rippled and faded, blocked by something huge on the other side. An armored figure flew forth, held aloft on vast, blood-drenched wings. The apparition swooped low, cleaving the masses of grey alien vermin with its glowing blue glaive. Dante and the other surviving Blood Angels toned up their optics, to prevent permanent damage from the brilliant glare.

“Hail the Sanguinor!” Dante roared, watching in apprehension and awe as the golden being landed heavily, casting paving blocks and soaked robes into the air. The Sanguinor it was: the apparition that all Blood Angels knew of, though few survived the battles where it had made appearances. The Hrud obviously didn’t know: while half scurried to escape, the other half threw themselves forward, laying into the Warp being with their peculiar mix of cutting-edge and primitive weapons.<br>
It didn’t work. The golden man swept his glaive about at waist level, carving a path through the grey-skinned filth, as Dante and his few survivors added their own contributions from the flank. Within a quarter hour of the Sanguinor’s arrival, it was all over bar the clean-up.
Dante slowly walked up to the golden warrior, the dying gurgles of the last few Hrud that had dared to exit the underground after the Sanguinor arrived fading around him. The Sanguinor was slowly lowering his blade, as the viscera that clung to it sizzled and evaporated.<br>
“Lord of Hosts, I thank you for your deliverance,” Dante said cautiously, coming to a halt a few meters from the Warp entity. “We could not have won without you.”<br>
“No,” the Sanguinor replied, his voice oddly muffled. “You could not. Fare thee well.” Without another word, he took flight, beating his wings and lifting off from the ground.<br>
“Wait! Wait, I am not finished!” Dante called, inspiration striking. The Sanguinor paused above the Chapter master, moments from reentering the Warp Rift that still hung in their above them.<br>
“What do you wish?” he asked.<br>
Dante set his teeth, choosing his words carefully.<br>
“I want you to meet someone.”