Emprahsque
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A Tarrasque appears on Holy Terra. What do?
PAGE PRESUMABLY NEEDS TO BE SPLIT INTO SEVERAL SMALLER SECTIONS, AS IT APPEARS TO HAVE BECOME TOO LONG FOR PROPER EDITING AND ADDING OF FOLLOWING CHAPTERS.
0-001-001-M42
This is the final log of Captain-General Imorta of the Adeptus Custodes. I have failed, and deserve this end. Only this morning, a beast of such horrifying size and power that I can not in confidence say it was not a Warp-Watcher appeared in the Hall of the Golden Throne. From whence it came, I can but guess that the long-ruined Webway portal in the base of what used to be the Golden Throne must have finally given out completely. The monstrosity moved at a speed I would not credited to any being of secular origins. I was returning from a meeting of the Senate of the High Lords when I entered the Hall, and Emperor forgive me, but at the sight of the beast I could but scream for the Titans which flanked the Golden Gates to attack, despite the fact that they were not cleared to do so. Bless them, they leapt at my order. The beast bounded forward, across the mammoth hall, and leaped at the Emperor atop his throne. I, and the Companions, sprinted forth, with the blasts of the Titans impacting – to no use! – against the daemon’s flank. As the beast reached one massive claw forward to swipe at His divine self, there was a brilliant, purple flash of light from its eyes. For a moment, I dared hope that the monstrosity had been slain by the Emperor’s Divine power, but I saw it was not to be. The monster vanished, taking the Emperor with it. What have I permitted? What have I allowed? I can never be forgiven as long as I live. I can seek only absolution in death.
4-002-001-M42
From the personal journals of Astrofacilitrix Adepta Argyle of the Imperial Navy Falchion Frigate Iron Will
What the FUCK? I was in the middle of a delicate conversation with the Fleet Master Telepath when a psychic wave enveloped the entire convoy. Immersed in the warp as we are, I can only bless the Navigator that we did not immediately fly into a sun or each other. All I or any other psychic in the fleet can do is remember a presence, as brilliant and awe-inspiring as the Astronomican itself, roaring past us in the immaterium with horrifying speed and power, reminding me quite a bit of the summoning of an Eldar Shard of Khaine on a world I was orbiting at the time.
I could hear a most horrifying call in the warp, rageful and joyous and anticipatory: “IT’S ABOUT BLOODY TIME!” as loud as if six thousand men were screaming it in my ear. We were heading to Cadia at the time, perhaps this…thing will be there? I rather hope not.
4-004-001-M42
Transcript of the holopict recording of the Daily Strategy Meeting, Kasr Prime, Cadia, Lord Castellan Creed presiding. Activus Personae:
- Lord Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed, Supreme Commander Munitorum, Cadia
- Harald Deathwolf, Wolf Lord, Space Wolves
- Lord Commissar Blenkach, senior Commissarial representative to the Cadian Joint Task Force
- Lord Admiral Clenden, Supreme Commander Cadian Naval Task Group
- Mardeus, Cadia Master telepath, Adepta Astra Telepathica
- Jarran Kell, Colour Sergeant, Kasr Force
Castellan Creed summons order. Various sounds come in through the open window to the parade ground, [dogs, firing rounds, wake-up drill noises, engines]
Creed: Gentlemen, I’m afraid we must abandon our usual pleasantries. Something unexpected has occurred. I need to fill you all in as rapidly as possible.
Deathwolf: Did Abbadon wake up cranky, or is it something genuinely unusual?
Several seconds pause, Sergeant Kell suppresses laughter
Creed: We – by which I mean Mardeus – have detected a Warp emanation approaching the Cadian gate. It will arrive within the hour. It’s not a ship, we can tell, but it does seem to be moving faster directly for the planet. Its point of origin is Terra.
Harald: Then what’s the problem?
Clenden looks astonished. Creed sighs angrily
Creed: The problem, Astartes, is that we have absolutely no idea what it’s doing. We don’t even know what it is.
Clenden: Are there any Warp Storms between here and Terra, Sieur Mardeus?
Mardeus: No. The Eye does not extend beyond us, and the Lady Navigatris of your own fleet assures me that there are no distorting daemon worlds between us and Holy Terra.
Clenden: Then we should account for the possibility that whatever it is, it may not be a servant of the Great Enemy.
Blenkach starts
Blenkach: And by what stretch of the imagination do you make that assumption? A warp entity this close to the Eye isn’t going to be safe to approach, and I don’t care if it’s Cypher himself, nothing that the Warp spits out lacks an agenda.
Clenden: I said nothing about its trustworthiness, Lord Commissar. All I said was that it may not serve the Dark Gods.
Creed: Whatever it is, its approach puts it on the surface in [checks watch] five minutes.
table dissolves into incoherent babbling for several seconds
Deathwolf: And we’re learning about it NOW?
Mardeus: I learned of it myself less than fifteen minutes ago, Lord Deathwolf. I assure you, even seeing it at the speed it’s moving was nearly impossible. It’s moving faster than anything that isn’t in the Webway should be, and emitting a warp displacement the likes of which a Blackstone Fortress couldn’t match. A Tyranid Hive ship has a smaller presence in the immaterium.
Clenden stands
Clenden: The full force of Battlefleets Obscura, Gothic, Carredius, and fully one third of Solar stand ready to intercept this thing. And who knows, if it’s as dangerous as it sounds, and truly isn’t here to interfere with us, those Eldar of Ulthwé might even have a hand in it. [turns to Mardeus] Is there a possibility that this thing might be an Eldar craftworld that got sucked into the Warp?
Mardeus: No chance. Craftworlds are harder to see at these distances, and they can not move that fast through the Warp. They aren’t even supposed to be able to enter it all, you’ll recall.
A shriek of terror, followed by a very loud THUD sound from the outside of the window. Creed and Kell leap to the window and Mardeus collapses. The light from outside visibly turns purple
Deathwolf: WHAT IN THE NAME OF LEMAN RUSS IS THAT THING?!
Creed: I... I have no idea.
Inhuman roar sounds from beyond window. A cacophony of dogs barking and human screams begin from the parade grounds.
Mardeus yells in shock and passes into a coma. Blenkach draws his vox-caster
Blenkach: Artillery command! Fire control, active! Immediate effect, danger close! Target parade grounds and--
Creed: [grabs vox-caster away from Blenkach] Belay prior commands, artillery command. Target has departed.
Blenkach: Departed?! It’s... gone?!
Deathwolf: It’s gone, Lord Commissar.
Mardeus begins shivering, still comatose
Kell: Lord Creed, sir, shall I summon a medicae?
Creed: Immediately, Kell. [sits down, begins shaking his head] I never thought I see THAT.
the light from the window returns to the normal color of morning sunlight
Clenden: Why was it glowing? Why was it laughing? [pulls out his own vox-caster] Fleet command, this is Admiral Clenden. Track the object that emerged from the warp rift in the kasr parade ground at once. Where is it going?
several seconds pass
Clenden: What the living hell do you mean, TOWARDS the Plaguemaster base?
4-004-001-M42
Plaguebearer Glubtil was not a complex daemon. He loved Papa Nurgle, and Papa Nurgle loved him. He loved Glubtil so much, he had given Glubtil the title of Plaguemaster, the first Plaguebearer ever to have that name! Glubtil was out on the hills of Cadia one morning, doing what he always did: watching that angry young Abbadon order people around. Glubtil sighed. He knew Papa loved Abbadon, but it never made sense to Glubtil why the Ascendant One was always so MAD! He got the chance to spread Papa’s love, along with those other powerful people in the warp, so why was he always going on about “vindication” this, and “vengeance” that, and “undying conquest” the other thing? Wasn’t it enough to just spread the virulent delights of the Deathgarden?
Just as Glubtil made up his mind to go have a chat with young Abbadon and ask him that very thing, something changed. Glubtil didn’t like change much, unless it was showing people how much Papa loved them, but he couldn’t tell at first what was going on. A big yellow thing, larger than even old Uncle Bubonicus, jumped over the hill he was standing on! It looked like a big yellow dog, really, and Glubtil stared at it happily. He loved dogs.
The dog didn’t stop to roll around in the Fetid Ground, though, he jumped right over them and went straight for that rascal Abbadon’s HQ. Glubtil watched, mesmerized, as the big yellow doggie jumped on top of the building and started yelling a whole lot. If Glubtil had still had his ears, it might have hurt!
Abbadon the Despoiler, Lord of the Chaos Ascendants, Leader of Twelve Black Crusades (he still resented Doombreed stealing that fifth one from him), Disciple of the Eight-Pointed Star, and unquestioned leader of the Black Legions, was the nightmare of the High Lords of Terra. His was a name mentioned by parents to terrify their children. He was the only man to have ever refused daemonhood, and no human in the galaxy controlled the hosts of the Ruinous Mark as he did. At the moment, however, little of that mattered, however.
For at that moment, Abbadon the Despoiler, First Captain of the Black, was getting his shit wrecked by a monster. “DESTROY THAT THING!” he screamed at the Black Legionnaires surrounding him. Several opened up on the four-legged monstrosity, and sheets of bolts, demonic fireballs, and even a few rockets poured at its flanks. As they approached its sides, the missiles seemed to freeze in midair. The demonic fire bounced off its hide, if they reached it at all, with many slamming into the frozen bolts and detonating them. Abbadon roared with hatred and frustration. “I’LL KILL THE BLOODY THING MYSELF!” He flourished the Talon of Horus, firing its macro-storm Bolter as he charged. The Sword of Drach’nyen gleamed in his other hand as he sprinted at the beast, with all the strength his ancient artificer armor could lend him.
Abruptly, the monster pivoted its massive body to face him, staring down at the Warmaster with beady, purple eyes. Abbadon leaped at the creature, screaming his defiance.
The monster reached one huge leg up and almost casually slapped the flying Marine aside. He slammed into the ranks of his own troops, bowling them down like flower stems in a tornado. Dazed, Abbadon scrambled for his sword, and his hand closed around the grip. He rolled to his feet and hefted the blade high, with both hands clenched tight. Before he could charge at the thing anew, however, it reared back on two legs and roared. “WHAT THE FLYING BUGGERANCE IS THIS?”
Abbadon nearly dropped his daemonsword in shock. “W…what?”
“YOU HEARD ME, YOU DISGUSTING TRAITOR. HOW DARE YOU FOLLOW MY FAVORED SON INTO DAMNATION?”
Abbadon shook his head. “You’ll not fool me, daemon! I know you to be a beast of the warp, trying to usurp me! I shall be the one to lead the Host of the Taint to Terra! I’ll carve your eyes from your skull!” He charged forward, as fast as his legs could take him.
“YOU’LL DO NO SUCH THING, YOU PISSANT FAILURE,” the monstrosity roared, and slammed its forelegs into the ground. 130 tons of muscle and bone crashed into the ground, and Abbadon stumbled to a halt, mere meters from the colossal beast. It swept its head down to ground level and tossed the power-armored Chaos Champion aside like a ragdoll.
“YOU SIT DOWN WHILE YOUR BETTERS ARE SPEAKING, ABBADON,” it roared. Abbadon crashed into the ground with a sound like a krak grenade going off in a piano store. “I’VE NO INTEREST IN YOUR WEAKNESS. BUT IF YOU’RE SO SURE YOU WANT TO HOLD MY ATTENTION…” it jumped forward, clear over the crumbling HQ building, and landed with its massive feet together, square on Abbadon’s shoulders. Abbadon screamed in sudden, terrorized agony as his limbs tore from their sockets with a sickening CRUNCH.
The huge creature took a few steps backward, scraping Abbadon’s arms off on the rockcrete. “DO YOU SEE NOW YOUR FAILURE? YOU TURNED FROM MY PATH, AND FOLLOWED HORUS INTO FAILURE. AND NOW, YOU HAVE NO ARMS TO LIFT IN DEFIANCE OF MY WILL.”
4-004-001-M42
Sergeant Lustig stared at the plateau before him with unconcealed confusion. It might have been embarrassing if anyone could have seen him, but he was secured under his ghillie blanket well enough. A distant nephew of the Captain Lustig who had served under the near-mythical Ciaphas Cain, he had been raised with his uncle’s stories about the mad things they had done in the Emperor’s service, like confronting a daemonette of Slaanesh with nothing but lasrifles, or running a Brood Lord over with a Salamander. Nothing his uncle had ever told him, however, prepared him for this.
A creature, so huge it could have passed for a Titan if it were chrome-coated and bipedal, was jumping around on a group of Chaos Marines in the valley below. A few cultists were scrambling to escape it, but the Marines themselves seemed to be either transfixed at the sight of it, bleeding to death where the monster had crushed them, or carrying one of their fellows with the silliest-looking topknot Lustig had ever seen off to a waiting Rhino. The creature was easily shrugging off the few pitiful shots that were aimed at it, and Lustig had to remind himself that he was looking at anti-tank missiles.
The monster finished off the few Marines and cultists that were left quickly enough, and stared at the departing Rhino as if contemplating chasing it. It seemed to decide against it, and swept its malevolent gaze across the landscape, pausing for a moment on the spot where Lustig had noticed a Nurglite daemon watching the carnage. The daemon waved at the huge beast and wandered off, and the colossal creature continued to sweep the valley.
The vast creature’s gaze fell upon Lustig’s position, and Lustig opened his mouth in a silent gasp of terror. The creature seemed to grin from its bizarre, many-fanged mouth, and threw itself forward into a running lope that devoured the distance between them as fast as it had devoured the Chaos cultist that had tried to jump on it, moments after it had jumped on the topknot marine’s shoulders. Lustig screamed in pure, gut-wrenching horror, throwing off his ghillie blanket and sprinting for the monocycle he had left at the base of the hill behind him.
The thunderous sound of gigantic feet behind him informed him that he wasn’t going to make it. The vast creature leaped over the hill and landed mere inches behind the luckless Sergeant, who was launched through the air by the impact, and tumbled to the grass, knocking the wind right out of him. He rolled to his back and gasped for air as the horrible beast leaned over him, not even winded. It opened its mouth with a blast of foul air, and the part of Lustig that wasn’t scrambled by the landing resigned himself to his imminent digestion.
“DO NOT RUN FROM ME, MORTAL.” Lustig blinked, his panicked mind wondering if the Munitorum had dispatched a sanctionite to rescue him. Certainly the voice echoed in his mind as well as his ears. “YOU HAVE THE HONOR OF WITNESSING MY FIRST BATTLE ACTION IN ELEVEN THOUSAND YEARS. STOP LOOKING LIKE A FISH.”
Lustig could only gape. “What? Are…aren’t you a daemon?”
“WHAT?” the creature roared. Lustic clapped his hands to his ears in pain. “ME? A DAEMON? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I’M CLEARLY THE EMPEROR OF ALL…OH.” The thing looked down at its body in bemusement. “I GUESS I CAN’T BLAME YOU FOR THAT, HUH?” The thing took a few steps back. “GET UP.”
Lustig scrambled to his feet, his legs understandably wobbly. The creature continued. “I HADN’T REALIZED I WOULD LOOK LIKE THIS FOREVER. THIS WILL MAKE THE JOB A BIT HARDER, WON’T IT?”
I’m consorting with a daemon, Lustig told himself, giddy with fear still. “What do you mean?” he asked aloud, waiting for sanity to reassert itself. It didn’t.
“WELL, FIRST THINGS FIRST, I’M GOING TO GO TELL THAT CREW-CUT WALKING RECRUITMENT POSTER WHO CALLS HIMSELF ROBUTE GUILLIMAN TO MAN THE FUCK UP AND GROW HIS NECK BACK. I SURVIVED NINE THOUSAND YEARS WITHOUT RUNNING WATER, HE CAN REGROW HIS JUGULAR. HONESTLY.”
There really didn’t seem to be too much to say, Lustig thought, so he kept silent. He just stared at the creature, and eventually it spoke again to break up the awkward silence. “TELL CREED…I LIKE WHAT HE’S DONE WITH THE PLACE.” Then, with a crack of displaced air that nearly sucked Lustig back off his feet, the thing vanished in a purple cloud of mist.
Lustig collapsed again, staring at the rapidly dissipating cloud as if it would spit his wits back out. Well, he thought to himself, at least I can finally one-up my uncle’s stories.
4-006-001-M42
The observation void platforms of Macragge are, by necessity, among the best left in the galaxy. It was that world, the home of the Ultramarines, the second birthplace of Robute Guilliman, that drove Hive Fleet Behemoth to pieces, and houses the mortal remains of the second greatest leader the Imperium has ever known. The void platforms, named Calgar, Tigurius, and Cassius, for the three leaders of the Ultramarines, were the templates used to design the great Void Stations of Armageddon, which helped prevent the loss of that world to the Orks.
It was these stations that first detected something approaching the planet from the direction of Segmentum Obscurus. The return of a splinter fleet could not be discounted, and so the full force of the first, second, fifth, and ninth companies of the Ultramarines, the finest warriors of the Astartes, were assembled at the northern polar fortress, which had managed to hold off even the Dominatrix of Behemoth. Librarian Tigurius, perhaps the most potent human psyker in the galaxy barring the Emperor Himself, joined Chapter Master Calgar before the stasis-locked form of Primarch Guilliman in the Shrine of the Temple of Correction, seeking one final prayer of guidance from Chaplain Cassius. The black-clad old Marine slowly raised his hands in prayer before the frozen body of his genetic predecessor.
“We seek your beneficence, Lord Guilliman, and the guidance of the Emperor on Earth, blessed be the Golden Throne. May the defense of the innocents of Macragge be steadfast, and the protection of the honor of the Chapter never falter.”
Suddenly, Chief Librarian Tigurius rose to his feet, disrupting the sermon. He spun to gape at the ceiling. Calgar looked up at him is surprise. “What is it, old friend?”
Tigurius cradled his head in his hands. “I…I feel a great, terrible, divine power. It approaches us, Marneus, with the winds of the Warp at its back.”
Cassius joined Calgar and the rest of the assembled Ultramarines, and the thousands of pilgrims, Ecclesiarchal drones, and PDF honor guards in staring at the ceiling, as if they would suddenly develop the same psychic powers as the Librarian, and see what he saw. Calgar grimaced. “A divine power…is it one of those accursed Eldar Warp entities, Avatars?”
Tigurius shook his head, nearly weeping tears of joy. “No, Lord battle-brother, it is nothing so profane…such a presence…it can only be our Emperor himself!” Calgar felt his jaw drop.
“Impossible!” he proclaimed without thinking. Realizing his mistake, he continued. “The Emperor sits the Golden Throne, never to march alongside mortal Man again.”
“Apparently not, brother,” the wizened psyker whispered. “He comes to us.” Cassius turned to the frozen body of Guilliman and bowed his head, grinning.
“It seems,” he said faintly, “that my prayers are to be answered.”
The pilgrims scattered throughout the vast sepulcher started gibbling to themselves, several taking a reverent knee, others fainting from the shock. The PDF honor guard were little better, milling about uncertainly, and the Ecclesiarchs around the room clustered before the body of Robute Guilliman, locked in its eternal rictus of pain, the poisoned wounds at its neck clear to see.
Abruptly, the sky beyond the adamantium sepulcher turned a vivid purple, as the warp being flashed into existence outside. The faithful fell to their knees and sobbed, the Ultramarines stood true and proud, and the Ecclesiarchy minions called out His most Divine name in rapturous joy.
For several seconds, there was nothing but a howling wind beyond the walls of the vast, mountainous temple. Then, with a suddenness that shocked the assembled mass of humanity, a loud WHAM sounded from the ceiling above the marble throne. The Ultramarine contingent visibly tensed, and the gray-haired Tigurius nearly toppled. Calgar caught his arm, baffled. “What is it, brother? What just happened?”
Tigurius shook his head. “The…the God-Emperor, he can’t…this can’t be…”
Before Calgar could ask him what he meant, a deafening roar sounded from above the building. “DEAREST ROBUTE, WHY DID YOU ALLOW YOURSELF SUCH TASTE IN ARCHITECTURE? I MEAN, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE ECONOMICALLY-MINDED ONE.”
The ceiling shook visibly, the ancient marble and adamantium buckling under a vast impact that threw the standing gathering to the ground, save only the most sure-footed of the Space Marines. The voice continued. “I MEAN, JAGHATAI NEVER NEEDED A TEMPLE THE SIZE OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER. HE HAD A HORSE AND A GUY WITH LIGHTNING IN HIS ASS AND A MOTORCYCLE THE SIZE OF A BUS. WHAT MORE DID HE NEED?”
The whole building, walls of armor and all, shook with the force of the next slam. Everyone left standing toppled to the ground. “AND RATHER MORE TO THE POINT, WHO BUILDS A TEMPLE OUT OF FUCKING ARMOR? WERE YOU THAT AFRAID OF DORN STICKING HIS BOOT UP YOUR ASS? DID THOSE WOLVES RUSS USED TO HAVE SCARE YOU THAT BADLY?”
Finally, the ceiling gave way, and a hole big enough to fly a Marauder through appeared in the abused roof. Vast chunks of the building fell inward around the hole, sending the pilgrims scrambling for their lives. Tigurius overcame his stupor to dazedly knock the bigger chunks harmlessly aside, as an enormous orange animal fell through the hole. It landed with an earth-shaking THUD at the foot of the throne, knocking Cassius aside like a bowling pin. The enormous creature stared at the figure of Robute Guilliman on the throne, and in a rather more reasonable tone, continued. “SHIT, SON, THAT GLITTERY TRAITOR FULGRIM REALLY FUCKED YOU UP, DIDN’T HE? GOOD THING SLAANESH USED HIM FOR TOILET PAPER.” The creature padded up the flight of stairs leading to the throne, with the Ultramarines at its feet gazing on in astonishment. The monster looked at the man with…what? Pity? Sorrow? Regret?
At length, it spoke again. It was still gazing at the blue-armored man on the marble chair, but its words were directed at the Ultramarines. “HEY, YOU GUYS. LISTEN, GO GET IN TOUCH WITH WHOEVER’S RUNNING THE BLACK TEMPLARS THESE DAYS, HUH? I HAVE A DOCTOR’S APPOINTMENT TO BE AT.” With no more talking, and no pomp or bombast at all, the colossal monster vanished with a thunderclap of displaced air, taking the stasis-protected Primarch with him.
Marneus Calgar, the man who punched Khaine to death, the Space Marine who broke Behemoth over his knee, stared at the empty space his bestial Emperor and spiritual liege had just vacated. All he could manage, with his centuries of oratorical skill, was a single
“What the FUCK?”
Sometime later, at The Rock
In the final, waning hours of the life of the Horus Heresy, no legion escaped unscathed. All eighteen of the surviving twenty legions had either gone over to Chaos or broken, save the Ultramarines. By the time of the Thirteenth Black Crusade, none of the loyal Primarchs remained, unscathed. Three were dead, in fact: Dorn, Sanguinius, and Manus. The others vanished or fell in battle after the fact: Gulliman, his throat cut; Corax, Vulkan, and Russ entered the Eye, and Jaghatai and The Lion simply disappeared. Disappeared, however, does not mean died. In the tumbling rocks of Caliban, overseen by the Watchers in the Dark, lay Lion El’Jonson, still comatose, but fully healed, after his climactic battle with Luther. Only Luther himself and the Watchers knew of this secret…aside from the Emperor. The empty caverns below the citadel of the Dark Angels bent, folded, and popped as the massive Emperor stepped forth. The purple flash illuminated dark corners of the chamber that had probably not seen daylight since the planet was sundered thousands of yeas ago. The Emperor looked around and sighed.
“LOOKS LIKE I HAVE SOME WORK TO DO.”
Above, in the fortress-monastery, the Angels were thrown into a panic. “What do you MEAN there’s a psyker signal from the Rock?” Sammael roared at the hapless Librarian.
“I…mean what I said, brother, there is someone down there. Someone with a psychic power that is horrifyingly vast,” the Librarian answered contritely.
Azrael, master of the Secrets, leader of the Dark Angels, strode into the room in fury. “What in the name of the Golden Throne,” he began without a trace of irony, “is going on in MY monastery?”
Sammael spun to face him. “Brother, there is a psychic signal emanating from the places where the Watchers in the Dark go to die. Something is down there.”
Azrael buried his face in his hands. “I gathered that. I have ordered what few elements of the Deathwing remain here to gather, and prepare for an excursion into the Rock.”
“Let me save you the trouble,” a rasping voice said.
Azrael and the other two men in the room spun about –a sight to see in power armor – to face a ragged old man, leaning on the wall, nursing his head. He was surrounded by a rapidly dispersing purple mist, and his free hand was blocking out the light in the room. Azrael gaped.
“…Master El’Jonson?” The old man nodded slowly, then winced at the evident pain that caused him. “Yes…yes, brother Azrael, it is I. I confess I have been away for a time. I recall this world having trees when last I was here.”
The Librarian sank to knees, overcome with emotion. Sammael slowly raised his gauntleted hands to cover his gaping mouth. Azrael, however, recovered his composure, looking grim. “Ah…Master El’Jonson…the Vault…it is not refilled.”
The Lion sighed and gingerly stood upright once more. “I can not tell you much much of a fuck I do not give, brother.” Azrael gasped aloud.
“But…Master, it was ever the duty of the Keeper of the Truth to fill the Vault-”
“-In the event that I did not return, brother,” El’Jonson said, keeping his voice level and free of censorship with a grand effort. “I quite clearly have.” He grinned faintly. “Don’t look so disappointed.”
Sammael slowly turned to face his Chapter Master. Azrael looked utterly crushed, certainly not how he should have looked upon finding out that his Master had returned. El’Jonson must have grasped Sammael’s confusion, for he sank down the steel chair fitted to the wall behind him, and stared at the floor below him, as if seeing where he had nearly had his head caved in by Luther ten thousand years prior. Before he could explain however, a massive noise from beyond the chamber walls heralded the Deathwing. The first of the Terminator-clad giants entered the room in a rush, already speaking.
“Lord Azrael, we have drawn together what lingers here of the First Compa…who the hell is that guy?”
Sammael turned to the Terminators, suppressing a smirk. “Can you not see that he is Lion El’Jonson himself, returned to us?” The Terminator Captain glanced at the withered old man, the still-prostrate Librarian, Azrael, who looked to be on the verge of tears, and finally Sammael, who had failed entirely to suppress the smirk.
“You’re shitting me, aren’t you? You’re so full of shit, your eyes are brown.”
“As I was saying,” El’Jonson said loudly, then immediately looked to regret it, placing a hand on his forehead, “ah, blast, that stings like a mother’s bitch…Azrael, you have executed your task ably, but the time for further adherence to the Truth is concluded. I have returned to complete the role I abandoned when I lost to Luther.”
Azrael, among the most feared Space Marines in all the galaxy, slowly slumped his shoulders and nodded. “…Okay.”
The Lion shook his head again, and managed to keep from wincing. “The Emperor already filled me in on what has transpired. Not all of your…actions thus far have been…meritous, brother. Believe me, though, I would rather return from the vast sleeping death of the Rock to find you darkened than dead.” He turned to Sammael, who was looking rather startled at that pronouncement, hastened to explain. “The Truth, brother, the fact the position of Truth Keeper was created to protect, was that I swore to the Emperor, as I lay dying in the Rock, to fill the Vault of the Watchers with the geneseed of The Fallen, and should I awake before the last of the Fallen are killed, then my oath has been broken.” The Terminator Captain visibly stiffened at those words, and Azrael shuddered. El’Jonson let the mood hang in the air for a few seconds before smiling. “That said, I have been released from the Oath by our new Emperor. Actually,” he said off-handedly, ignoring the horrified gasps of the assembled Deathwing, “I guess he’s the same Emperor with a new body. Ah well, same thing, really. The teeth will take some getting used to.”
There were only a few hundred Dark Angels present in the Rock when Lion El’Jonson awoke, but all were summoned to the Chapel to hear him speak. Several dozen Initiates and Neophytes were milling around in the vast auditorium, but the older Angels were all silent. When Lion slowly walked on to the stage and turned to address the crowd, the whole room seemed to hold its collective breath. Lion winced and recoiled slightly as he looked out over the assembled Marines. “Gah…can someone turn those lights down a bit? I haven’t used my eyes in nine thousand years.” Several Techmarines at the back of the room scrambled to obey. The lights lowered considerably, and Lion sighed. “Thanks, brothers.” He walked slowly to the front of the stage. “I imagine that you were rather expecting this to be a bit more formal, but frankly, this alone is more than sufficient. We have always been keepers of secrets.” He turned his back to his brothers and slowly paced across the stage. “I have awoken, by the will of the Emperor. He has risen from His Golden Throne, and visited the Rock personally.” The room erupted in a buzz of incredulous noise. El’Jonson stopped pacing and glared coolly at the rows of Power Armored Astartes, and the buzz died at once. After a moment, he grimaced. “I suppose I shouldn’t be angry, I imagine I would be skeptical too. Still, I assure you, the God-Emperor of Mankind has arisen.”
A Techmarine stood, head bowed respectfully. “Lord El’Jonson, will He not appear before us here? So that we may resume our Grand Crusade?”
El’Jonson shook his head ruefully. “Oh, there will be a Grand Crusade, make no mistake, but He will not come here. I doubt he would fit in the room.”
The stunned silence couldn’t have been quieter in a vacuum. After very nearly a minute, in which even the Lion himself could barely suppress a laugh, one of the Terminators of First Company spoke up. “Um…Lord El’Jonson, what do you mean, he couldn’t fit in the room?”
“I meant precisely what I said, brother,” El’Jonson said with restrained mirth. “He’s huge. Zyberhuge, one would say.”
“I thought…I mean, isn’t He…He’s a divine man, but still the size of the mortal man he used to be, before He ascended the Throne, right?” the Dark Angel blustered.
“Ah, I see what you meant. No, he isn’t, not any more,” Lion said frankly. “He’s…changed. He summoned a daemon and took control of its body. His mind travels in its body now. He also allowed the beast to psychically consume his old body, as well, so he has retained all of his old abilities, while acquiring the beasts’.” The room erupted in confused yelling, prayer, and questions. After nearly a minute, Lion raised his hands for silence. “Brothers, I know you’re skeptical, but I assure you, it’s the truth.”
“But then won’t the Astronimicon become invisible?” one of the Deathwing Lieutenants asked in horror?”
“No, no, Brother-Lieutenant,” Lion hasted to assure them. “He kept the beacon lit even while battling Horus, and while nearly dead on the Throne. He can guide its light even easier now, since he isn’t bound to a failing Throne.”
The Lieutenant hesitantly spoke up. “So…where is he now?”
Lion nodded. “A very reasonable question. I have no idea. He’ll contact us when the need arises, though, I’m sure. “In the meantime,” the Primarch said, raising his gaze to take in the entire room, “we must prepare. Six of our Companies are in the field on assignment or recruiting, so we should make ready what forces remain here. He may return at any time.” The assembled Marines rose to their feet, sensing the dismissal in the phrase. They saluted their Primarch as one, and made for the doors of the great hall, still muttering to themselves.
Lion sighed. Azrael, the Chapter Master, remained in his seat, in the middle of the front row. When the other Angels were gone, he spoke up. “Lord El’Jonson, will you be joining us in the field when called?”
El’Jonson looked away for a few seconds. “If my strength returns fully, yes, I will. Until then…I am in need of recuperation.”
“I understand, my Lord,” Azrael said, masking his disappointment. He stood and saluted as well, then walked out with the others. Lion stood staring at the empty room for several seconds before letting out the sigh he had been holding.
“It would have been easier to lie,” he said under his breath.
4-011-001-M42
The meeting of the High Lords of Terra continued unabated, with twelve of the nineteen most powerful humans in the galaxy debating long into the night. Finally, the chair [presently the Grand Marshal Provost] calls the meeting to final order.
Provost: Gentlemen, under the circumstances I see no further value in lingering here. We have decided. We shall appear before the commoners and let them know a select slice of the truth: the Emperor lives on, but has journeyed to fight the Great Enemy with their own weapons.
Ecclesiarch: This is madness, I tell you! There will be riots in the streets!
Charter Captain: He’s not wrong. Perhaps we shouldn’t mention the part about “their own weapons.” I mean, the commoner hears “Great Enemy,” they hear “weapons,” they’re going to think “demons.” Do we want them to think the Emperor is consorting with demons? No matter how factual?
Provost *angry grunt*: You solution is no better, Captain.
Lord High Admiral: Then it is decided. We should perform the address, promptly.
horrible shriek, Paternoval Envoy, Grand Master Astropath, and Astronomican Master double over, bellowing in agony
Lord Commander Militant: What?! What is going on?!
Assassinorum Grand Master: ARGH! My…my head…something is coming…something terrifying! Something UNHOLY!...Gaaah, my head…
purple flash of light from center of conference table
UNKNOWN: BEHOLD, SENATORS. I RETURN.
'crunching noise as conference table breaks under the unknown beings’ weight, catching Charter Captain’s augmetic leg in the process. Captain shrieks and begins throwing sparks
UNKNOWN: OH. SORRY. GUESS I DON’T KNOW MY OWN STRENGTH.
All four psykers cease feeling pain now that the apparition is in the room and not approaching
Grand Master Assassinorum: My Emperor? It…Is that you?
UNKNOWN: YES, IT IS I, LORD OF MANKIND. I’VE GAINED WEIGHT, BUT YEAH, IT’S ME.
Lord Commander Militant: How…oh, most divine one, tell us, how have you returned to us, your most loyal servants?
UNKNOWN: IF YOU THINK YOURSELVES MY MOST LOYAL SERVANTS, YOU’VE NEVER MET THIS FELLOW I’VE HEARD OF NAMED FERIK JURGEN. BUT TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION, I LEARNED OF THE PLANS OF THE ONES CALLED THE ILLUMINATI TO KILL MY CHILDREN AND SACRIFICE THEIR SOULS TO ME. I KNEW OF THEIR PLAN, AND KNEW THAT IT WAS GUARANTEED TO FAIL, SINCE TWO OF THE…WHAT DID THEY CALL THEM, SENSEI? YEAH, THOSE GUYS. THREE DIED BEFORE THE ILLUMINATI GOT TO THEM, AND ONE MORE TURNED TO CHAOS AND GOT EATEN ALIVE BY TZEENCH, SO THEY COULD NEVER FORM CRITICAL MASS.
Lord Inquisitor *sweating profusely* : Shall we round up and purge these heretics, my Lord God?
UNKNOWN *turns to face the Inquisitor, who changes colors several times*: ‘WE’ SHALL DO NOTHING OF THE KIND. THE SENSEI ARE MY BLOOD, AND THE ILLUMINATI, WHILE CRUEL, ACTUALLY HAD A PLAN FOR MY RETURN, WHICH IS MORE THAN I CAN SAY FOR ANY OF YOU. *turns to Fabricator-General* THOUGH I CAN’T GET MAD AT YOU, REALLY, AT LEAST YOU HELPED REPAIR THE GOLDEN THRONE THAT ONE TIME. OUT OF CURIOSITY, WHAT DID YOU DO WITH HIT NOW THAT IT’S VACANT?
Fabricator-General: Now that it is no longer in use, Omnissiah, we have deactivated it and are attempting to repair it. It should be…easier, now that it is not…active.
UNKNOWN steps off conference table, Charter Captain grabs leg, attempts to reattach it unsuccessfully. Fabricator-General leans over to repair it
UNKNOWN: GOOD, GOOD. LISTEN, I GUESS I SHOULD APOLOGIZE FOR NOT COMING TO YOU FELLOWS SOONER…
Grand Marshal Provost: I’m certain you had more pressing needs, my Lord God.
UNKNOWN: YEAH, I SENSED THAT ABBADON THE DESPOILER WAS ABOUT TO USE A NURGLITE VIRAL BOMB ON CADIA, WHICH WOULD HAVE ALLOWED HIM TO TAKE THE GATE. CAN’T HAVE THAT. ALSO, MY SONS, ROBUTE AND LION NEEDED MY HELP WITH…THINGS. I SHOULD GO FIND JAGHATAI, TOO, THOUGH HELL IF I KNOW WHERE HE IS. AND WHOEVER THE FUCK EVEN KNOWS WHAT VULKAN AND LEMAN ARE DOING OFF THE ASS END OF THE EYE.
Lord High Admiral *hesitantly*: And…Corax as well, my Lord God?
UNKNOWN *nods vigorously, dust falls from ceiling*: YEAH, BUT I ALREADY KNOW WHERE HE IS. ANYWAY. I WANT YOU ALL TO LISTEN VERY CLOSELY.
Administratum Master: I assure you that will be very easy, my Lord God.
UNKNOWN: YEAH, SORRY, THIS BODY’S A BIT LOUD. ANYWAY. I WANT YOU TWELVE TO GO GET ON THE HOLOPICT CASTS, THE ASTROPATHY RELAYS, ALL OF IT, AND START TELLING THE PEOPLE THAT I WON A GREAT BATTLE AGAINST A DEMON OF KHORNE AND CONSUMED ITS VERY ESSENCE, AND THE CAPTAIN-GENERAL OF MY GUARD DIED IN THE HEROIC STRUGGLE. A LITTLE WHITE LIE. ALSO, I WANT EVERY SINGLE EVERSOR ASSASSIN IN ALL OF THE IMPERIUM READY TO GO ON MY ORDER ASAP. I HAVE…PLANS FOR THEM.
Grand Master Assassinorum: You honor us, my Lord God! I shall assemble them at once!
UNKNOWN turns to face him, placer board falls from ceiling
UNKNOWN: MAYBE YOU DIDN’T HEAR ME. I SAID ‘READY’ THEM, AS IN READY THEM FOR ACTION, NOT ‘GATHER THEM ALL IN ONCE PLACE LIKE I NEED THEM TO MOVE FURNITURE.’
Grand Master Assassinorum: As ordered, my Lord God.
UNKNOWN: FANTASTIC. THANKS. MEANWHILE, I HAVE BUSINESS ON ORCICIA. I’LL BE BACK LATER.
UNKNOWN teleports out in burst of purple light. The doors give in as the guards pressing against them tumble in, having been restrained by UNKNOWN’s psychic power. Fabricator-General steps back from Charter Captain
Fabricator-General: … I gave you rocket knees.
Charter Captain:…Thanks.
4-015-001-M42
“WAAAAAAAAUUUUGH!” roared Warboss Vogurk Hedbreakuh, Warboss of Zargh 3, as he charged forward. “WAAAAAAAAAAUGH!” answered his mob, as they chased after him. There were humies to stomp! Several hundred meters away, Jaghatai Khan grinned wickedly. These greenskins hadn’t gained bigger brains in the nine thousand years since he had fought them last, it seemed. Still, there were an awful lot of them. He had been trapped on this vile ball of offal for nearly two days now, and his luck had returned to him. He had found a vast series of craters, where it seemed two Warbosses had met in ancient times, killing each other over control of their hordes. A new Warboss had risen in the interim and conquered both, and now ruled the planet with an iron Power Fist. Still, he was not without advantages. He had had two whole days to plan. For a Primarch, that was more than enough. His gaze drifted over the vehicles at the back of the convoy of orks that were streaming away from him, towards the firecracker and human-shaped dummy he had built on the far side of the ravine. Finding nothing of interest, he kept searching, his eyes turning to the ramshackle buildings the Warboss had vacated. Then, he saw it. A Gargant! Perfect for him…but too big. He would need a crew. Forcing a sudden rush of dejection down, he searched the camp for something more appropriate…and found it. He gaped for a moment, then stifled a most un-Primarch giggle. This…this would be suitable.
Ulthwe
“Adrach, Ishana, heliawée…” the Warlock droned, hands splayed over the stasis-locked body of Robute Guilliman. Taldeer didn’t even spare a glance, her own eyes locked on her father, tied to the surgical table. Macha was slowly rubbing the back of his hand, looking for a sign of life.
Another Warlock ambled up to them, gazing down at the resting Farseer. “He will recover, Lady Macha, Lady Taldeer. His mind was clouded by the taint of She Who Thirsts, but the…I don’t even know what to call him, the Human Emperor managed to purge his mind of the ravishing of She Who Thirsts. Also, it seems that he managed to keep Lord Eldrad’s mind clean of the dark Craving that so infests our brethren of Commorragh.”
Macha tried to smile, and couldn’t quite do it. “I…know that, Warlock. I can feel his mind intact. But why does he still slumber?”
“Your father was dropped into the Pit of Lust, Lady Macha. He’s lucky he still has a soul at all. Taldeer shuddered at the terse, clinical pronouncement.
“When shall he awaken?” she asked, not taking her eyes off of her father’s face.
“A day, perhaps more, Lady. The damage to his eyes and ears was reparable, though it will be months before his sight returns fully. Optic nerves are delicate things.”
“Avaang, Tolettima…” the Warlock administering the warp-guided healing to the still stasis-locked Guilliman stopped abruptly. The other Warlock glanced over.
“Is something wrong, Sister?”
The first Warlock was silent for a long moment before looking up reverently. “No…Sister, there is nothing wrong. The mon…human is almost healed! I just started!”
“Perhaps there was some truth to the rumor that he could heal himself in stasis,” Livii mused. Both Warlocks jumped. He had been sitting in a chair by the wall the entire time, and neither had noticed. One spoke up quickly to cover his embarrassment.
“What? Heal naturally in stasis? That is impossible.”
“’Many things are impossible, for those who choose not to try’,” Livii quoted. “He’s a Primarch. What can’t he do?” Eldrad emitted a tiny whimper at that point, saving the Warlock further inconvenience. Macha’s head snapped back to her father.
“Father? Can you hear me?”
His motions stilled, and his hands slackened. Macha looked up at the Warlock in silent disappointment. The Warlock shrugged. “At least a day, Lady Macha. Perhaps you should rest.”
She stared at the masked Warlock for a second longer before turning back to Eldrad. “Yes…I’m no good bone-weary.”
6-017-001-M42
Farthest of the realms of the Imperium from Holy Terra is the Eastern Fringe. These regions of space are technically beyond the Choir of the Holy Astronomican, so only the greatest and most potent Navigators can even tell where they are. These are the realms that caused the armies of Macharius to shy away, that no fewer than three chapters of Astartes were founded to warden, and that not even Rogue Traders could safely explore. Grand Master Helbrecht, of the Black Templars, was one of VERY few men daring enough to try. He and Lord Commissar Yarrick had pursued a fleeing Ork Warboss here after said Warboss’s abandonment of the WAAAGH he had led on Armageddon, his second. Now, he and the redoubtable Commissar, joined by fully five hundred Black Templars, eight Grey Knights (including a Dreadknight), and three full-strength regiments of Imperial Guard chased the Ork to here, the very edge of space. What a picture they must have made, Helbrecht reflected, he in his Mark Seven Artificer Armor, and a five foot ten inch, two hundred year old cyborg Commissar, standing aside one another on the bridge of the Undying Crusade, his flagship.
“Look, Master Helbrecht,” Yarrick said casually, “the edge of the world.” Helbrecht’s perennial frown smoothed out a few degrees.
“Indeed. Thracka can’t run much farther than this.” He turned to Yarrick and tilted his head back. “I must say, I am impressed with you, Commissar. After your opposition to my refusal to ignore Thracka’s roks in the second war for Armageddon, I didn’t think you’d accompany me here.”
Yarrick was silent for nearly thirty seconds. When he spoke, it was with tightly controlled inflections. “Your refusal to help the civilians I was guarding grated, Master Helbrecht. But I would give the hand Thraka DIDN’T steal to kill him here.”
Helbrecht returned his gaze to the front viewport. “Well put, Lord Commissar.”
The vox-speaker in Helbrecht’s neckpiece chimed. “Master Helbrecht and Lord Commissar Yarrick, please report to the Titan bay IMMEDIATELY.”
Helbrecht sighed and tapped the vox. “What is the meaning of this? We are nearing orbit above the target world, we-”
“Lord Commissar Yarrick and Master Helbrecht to the Titan bay NOW.”
Helbrecht set his teeth, cutting the vox channel. “There will be hell to pay for summoning me like this…”
“I’m curious and annoyed,” Yarrick said drily, “but more curious than annoyed. Shall we?”
The two made their way down through the innumerable chambers and hallways of the Undying Crusade to the Titan bay, where the single Warhound assigned to the Templar detachment that hadn’t stayed to finish cleaning off Armageddon was repaired, and where Helbrecht had politely allowed Yarrick to park the Fortress of Arrogance. Helbrecht marshaled his thoughts before passing through the ceramite hatch. Before he could proclaim his displeasure with the one who had so rudely summoned him, he froze at a halt, mere inches into the room. Yarrick barely managed to avoid slamming into the back of him.
“Helbrecht? What’s the matter? Why did you…” he trailed off as he craned his head back to take in the view before him. A monstrous beast, easily fifteen meters tall, loomed over the small cluster of prostrate Techmarines and Enginseers that were always scuttling around the bay. Upon sighting the pair of warriors, it raised one colossal claw in what looked like a wave.
“OH, THERE YOU BOTH ARE.”
Helbrecht found his voice. “Foul entity of the Warp! How did you get through the Gellar Field?”
“GELLAR FIELDS KEEP OUT WARP EMANATIONS AND APPARITIONS, HELBRECHT, NOT THAT WHICH IS DIVINE.” The creature glanced over its scaly shoulder. “ALSO, SORRY FOR KNOCKING OVER YOUR TITAN.” Indeed, the Warhound was clearly splayed against one bulkhead, leaking something viscous.
“I’ll hear no blasphemy, monster! I shall take off your head!” Yarrick charged forward, across the nearly one hundred meters of bare steel between the hatch and the monster, brandishing his Killy Klaw.
“OH, KNOCK IT OFF, COMMISSAR,” the thing said disdainfully, his voice echoing both from his massive maw and Yarrick’s mind. The elderly Commissar skidded to a halt before even making a few meters in.
“W…what? I don’t-”
“MEANWHILE,” the monster continued, “YOU LADS CAN GET UP NOW. REALLY. THIS IS A LITTLE EMBARRASSING.” “We are completely unworthy of your presence, my Lord God,” the most heavily modified Techmarine intoned. “COME NOW, IF I THOUGHT THAT I’D HAVE COME IN THROUGH THE DOOR AND VENTED YOU ALL,” the huge thing said wearily, pointing one colossal leg at the exterior drop shuttle door. “I CAME IN THROUGH THE HARD WAY BECAUSE I DIDN’T THINK YOU NEEDED TO DIE. NOW GET UP WHEN TOLD.”
“As you will, blessed Omnissiah,” one of the enginseers said, scrambling to his augmetic feet and dusting his white and red robe off.
“OKAY. NOW, HELBRECHT, YARRICK, I CALLED YOU HERE BECAUSE I NEED YOUR HELP AND AUTHORITY TO CONVINCE THE ASTARTES AND COMMISSARIAT THAT I…WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Helbrecht had taken a few shaky steps forward, his hands visibly shaking through his power armor, his face glowing red as a dying star. “Hear this, foul demon,” he managed to snarl, “I will send you back to your masters MYSELF!” He lifted his Storm Bolter and charged forward, firing wildly.
“HOW DARE YOU?!” the beast roared, so loud that the assembled Techmarines and Enginseers toppled over, clasping their ears, if they still had them. Some didn’t, and threw themselves in the path of the bolts.
They needn’t have bothered. Without even moving, the bolts seemed to freeze in mid-air, and both Yarrick and Helbrecht found themselves hanging in midair, dangling as if from invisible puppet strings. The beast let the bolts drop to the floor, where they harmlessly detonated. It took four bounding leaps forward, until its beady purple eyes were level with the two old warriors, only a few feet away, hanging in midair, completely immobile. The creature went totally silent, save its psychic voice, echoing in their minds, greater and more terrifying for the volume it lacked.
“HEAR ME, WARRIORS OF MY IMPERIUM: THOUGH I AM NOT IN THE FORM WITH WHICH I LAST ADDRESSED THE WORLD, I AM YOUR EMPEROR.” Yarrick tried to fire his laser eye, only to find that he couldn’t, it was as frozen as the rest of him. The monster’s eyes met his and he gasped in horror. “YOUR ZEAL DOES YOU CREDIT, UNTIL YOU FORGET YOUR PLACE. DO NOT FORGET YOUR PLACE.”
Yarrick snarled and tried to move his Killy Klaw, but was as frozen as before. Helbrecht was staring at the creature with an ashen face.
“My…my Lord God? You…it’s really you?”
“FINALLY FIGURED IT OUT, DID YOU?”
“Why…why are you in the form of a daemon, my Lord God?”
“LONG STORY.” The monster..Emperor…thing turned back to Yarrick. “YOU LOOK UNCONVINCED, SEBASTIAN.”
Yarrick gritted his teeth. “I have no reason to believe you.”
“OH, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD…FINE. WATCH.” With a loud CLANG, the doors to the void flew open. The Techpriests and enginseers gasped and tried to flee, but the air in the bay did not stir, as the void shield the Emperor projected kept it in place.
“THERE’S SOME KIND OF ORK WARBOSS DOWN THERE, RIGHT? ONE YOU TWO MORONS HATE?”
“More than anything in the galaxy,” Yarrick ground out. What of it?”
“BEHOLD.” No sooner had the word entered Yarrick’s mind than the atmosphere of the world below seemed to twist and fly apart. Stormclouds huge enough to dwarf a continent appeared, and the polar ice caps vanished. Water tore across the surface of the world, so quickly that chunks of the crust were lifted in their wake. In a matter of two minutes, the world drowned.
“SEE NOW, THE DIVINE POWER I WIELD? YOUR LACK OF FAITH IS IRRESPONSIBLE, LORD COMMISSAR.”
Yarrick stared at the violently twisting blue orb far below with unconcealed terror. The gates slammed shut again, and the Techpriests and Marines muttered amongst themselves in awe. When finally Yarrick managed words again, they were almost impossible to hear.
“F…ffffor….forgive me, my Lord God…forgive me my weakness…”
“NATURALLY,” the Emperor replied tiredly, lowering both black-clad men to their feet. Helbrecht immediately doubled over, trying not to be sick, while Yarrick sank to his knees.
“I can only plead your mercy, most Divine…Please…”
“QUIT YOUR BELLYACHING, SEBASTIAN, I’M ANGRIER AT HELBRECHT FOR TRYING TO SHOOT ME THAN I AM AT YOU BEING A SKEPTIC.” Helbrecht shot upright with alarm. “KIDDING, KIDDING. ANYWAY, I NEED YOU TWO CRAZY KIDS TO GO TELL THE ASTARTES AND COMMISSARIAL FORCES BACK ON ARMAGEDDON TO FINISH OFF THOSE ORKS AND GANGERS SO WE CAN GO GET SOME WORK DONE. I HAVE TO GO SEE TO ONE OF MY PRODIGAL PROGENY BEFORE I CAN TAKE MY PLACE AT THE HEAD OF THE ARMAGEDDON ARMY, THOUGH. SO, GET TO IT.” With a CRACK and a burst of purple haze, the Emperor was gone.
1-017-001-M42
Void Station Delta Sigma Octavius, orbit above Charon, Office of Inquisitorial Dispatch.
Inquisitors are not trusting people. From an outsider perspective, this may make the decision of Malleus Radicals to use daemons as living weapons rather odd. If they do not even trust each other, why do they trust daemons?
The answer is thus: they believe (however inaccurately) that demons are simple beasts, with predispositions that make them easy to control and manipulate. For that reason, it was perhaps those very Radicals who had the easiest time accepting the fact the Emperor had merged with a Warp Beast.
At the front of a spartan conference room, a holo of an astropath droned on, relaying the message of the High Lords. A pair of inquisitors sat in at the opposite end of the table, watching in silence. The High Lords’ message was well-crafted, no doubt, carefully avoiding the possibility that the Emperor Himself was a demon. Finally, the elder Inquisitor cut the transmission off with a snort and a wave of his hand.
“Pure rubbish,” he said.
The younger man stirred uncomfortably. His mentor, Averus Valentine, was perhaps the loudest voice of the Radicals, the man who was most open with his desire to use the weapons of the Warp against their foes.
There was some merit there, Jonash Haldebrandt admitted to himself, since daemons could harm one another. After all, Khorne had supposedly maimed Slaanesh in such a way that he would never heal, once. But was the Emperor of such a midset?
“Why do you say that, sir?” he asked, diplomatically.
Averus grimaced. “The Emperor is the most powerful being in this dimension. Why in the world would He need to summon a Warp beast, and then use Himself as a daemonhost?”
Jonash shifted uneasily. “Ah, it sounds more to me like the Emperor consumed the demon, rather than the other way around.”
“Is that why the High Lords are all but declaring outright that the Emperor is now a fifty foot tall, seventy foot long, two hundred sixty thousand pound beast?’ Averus retorted drily. “No, my young friend, this is a possession and no mistake. I can practically smell the High Lords lying.”
“But who’s doing the possessing?” Jonash said doggedly. “He is a living god, as you yourself said. Who’s to say that he isn’t in control? Even the Grey Knights can reject daemonic possession when tempted, and they’re mere mortals.”
Averus was silent for a long moment. “You’re not wrong, but it would be foolish to ignore the possibility that the Emperor is no longer fully in control of his faculties. Certainly the Grey Knights don’t.”
Jonash winced. “Ugh. I suppose. But do we really need to stoop to that level?”
“Of course not,” Averus replied evenly. “If I know Supreme Grand Master Draigo, he’s probably way ahead of us.”
1-017-001-M42
Titan, Base of the Grey Knights. Lord Kaldor Draigo stared at the tiny brass key in his armored palm. The air in the Tomb of the Sigilite was damp, stagnant, and dark. The responsibility entrusted to the Grey Knights ensured that their sacrifices would probably never be known to the public at large, and even the Inquisition itself viewed the Knights with a measure of quiet respect. Among their victories were the scouring of entire star systems clean of demonic filth, spearheading exploratory fleets to areas where Chaos-worshipping xenos dwelled, and even shepherding Librarians of penitent Chapters of the Space Marines, such as the Lamenters. But those were things of the past. Those were achievements they used to be proud of, services they could admire. Those times were over. Now, the Emperor had merged with a daemon. And there was one final task to be done. Draigo sighed and closed his hand around the key, then took the last few steps forward to the back of the statue of Malcador, founder of the Grey Knights. After staring at the lifeless, stone eyes of the statue, he walked past it and placed the key in the unnoticeable hole beyond it. A section of the wall creaked forward, revealing a small, iron table set into the wall. On the table was a box with a strange seal set into the lid, one that Draigo had never seen before in person. The box was set with a tiny clasp, which Draigo lifted, his heart pounding. He reached to lift the lid, then froze. What if he was wrong? What if the High Lords were truthful?
But…no. The High Lords had to have been lying. There was no way that even the Emperor could have consumed a Greater Khornate Daemon and emerged unscathed. Even noble Sanguinius had merely slain Ka’Bhanda, rather than trying to consume his power. This had to be done. With a final breath of resentment at the universe for going so completely wrong, Draigo lifted the lid of the Terminus Decree and gazed inside. The box was empty. For several seconds, Draigo just stared, feeling his jaw slowly drop. How could this be? Not since Malcador the Sigility had ordered the box be placed there immediately before ascending the Golden Throne had the room been opened! What foul trickery was this? Kaldor felt his astonishment turn to rage. His hands shook, even through his Terminator armor. He replaced the lid of the box, his eyes clouding with anger. Whomever was responsible for this would burn in hell. Just as he spun to the exit, where his retinue waited, however, a rattling noise caught his ears. He turned back to the box on its iron table, and saw that the lid had been replaced backwards. He turned to fix it, and the seal of the Golden Throne popped off of the lid. Draigo started, and saw to his astonishment that the seal was not inlaid in the wood, but detachable, a small plug connected it to the thin layer of wood of the lid itself. A tiny piece of paper popped out of the plug, and fell down into the box itself. His anger sated, Draigo picked up the paper, and unfurled it gingerly. In High Gothic, twelve words were printed. “Await the Emperor before the Throne. He knows you are coming. Malcador.” Beneath the box, a beacon blinked once, unseen.
9-017-001-M42
The mists and tendrils of the Eye of Terror reach far beyond the abandoned Eldar crone worlds at their core. The twists and clouds of nebular gas and pure Warp energy conceal entire stars, rifts in the Warp you could lose a battleship in, and daemon worlds in the dozens. Corax, of the Raven Guard, fled here to erase his shame after he unleashed mutagens on his own Marines, in an attempt to rebuild his numbers. He traveled to the Eye find his absolution in death, but what he found instead, was Fulgrim. The horribly mutated Greater Daemon that had possessed his former brother was a sadistic monstrosity, who had turned the mind of the once-great Primarch into a terrified observer in his own twisted body. Corax had set his ship down on Fulgrim’s world. Much to his immediate horror, however, Fulgrim denied him an honorable death, instead tossing his ship around like a toy in tumultuous winds, killing everyone aboard except the Primarch himself.
Even as Corax’s Navigator died, Corax rammed the ship into one of the temples Fulgrim’s parasitic Daemon Prince had had built in his honor. Enraged, Fulgrim ripped Corax from his ship and tossed him into a pocket of the Warp, denying him eternally the pleasures of his Slaaneshi Daemon World. Every few thousand years or so, Fulgrim spared Corax a thought, lost as he was in maze of Fulgrim’s creation. A maze of corridors, each a different color, as labyrinthine as anything Slaanesh had ever made, with no exit, the massive complex was nothing less than a daemon itself, and it took endless delight from Corax’s stumblings. When the mighty warrior wasn’t looking, the daemon would seal passages off behind him, or re-open old ones, until Corax dropped from exhaustion. When he awoke, revitalized against his will by the energies of the Warp, he could do nothing but set off again, in the nonexistent hope that somehow, he would find a way out. As time is meaningless in the Warp, Corax couldn’t even tell himself how long he had been there. With every step, he moved nowhere. His mind made numb by the passage of time, the black-haired Primarch wandered around the endless labyrinth, praying endlessly to his father for release. “Father-Emperor, guide mercy release absolve…” he managed in his shattered mind. “find place understand help…”
Far-off, Fulgrim smirked to himself, wrapping his four arms around the pile of quivering courtesans who held his viewing crystal aloft. They shrieked joyously and expired, their souls drained from their bodies. Fulgrim’s hideously empty pink eye sockets drank in the sights the crystal showed him. On Blekrun’s World, a Noise Marine desecrated a temple of the Omnissiah and laughed. In the depths of Terra, a Sister of Battle was overrun and sliced to ribbons by a rampaging mob. On the ruined plains of Tartarus, a Khornate daemon was drowned alive in a pool of blood by a Keeper of Secrets. And in the depths of the Living Labyrinth, Corax the Raven was plodding forth, his mind long since gone. Fulgrim sighed. How reassuring! Sometimes he wanted to make an alteration to the maze, but these little viewings always helped to remind him the sometimes, the most exquisite pleasures were drawn from delayed enjoyment. Corax kept reciting his remorseful litany in his mind. “Need out…desperate repent Father leave…” “WHAT ARE YOU EVEN ON ABOUT, CORAX?” For several seconds, the scarred Primarch continued limping forward, his eyes blank and downcast, before bumping into a wall of solid orange armor scale. His empty eyes glanced up, but he couldn’t even tell what he was seeing. The animal before him was like nothing else he’d seen in the labyrinth. It was the size of three Land Raider Spartans stacked together, with a massive, fanged jaw, and beady purple eyes. His befuddled mind couldn’t even process the possibility of someone else in the Living Labyrinth with him. “HEY, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. WE’RE GETTING THE HELL OUT OF HERE.” Corax’s empty eyes blinked, until he finally processed what he was seeing. His eyes rolled up and he fell to his knees, sobbing brokenly. “Forgiveness…forgiveness…” “SURE. WE’RE OFF.” And with a brilliant flash of purple light, the Living Labyrinth was no more.
A blob of purple mist appeared in the vehicle bay of the Ravenspire. The assembled Raven Guard, what few remained, knelt reverently. The enormous form of the Emperor appeared with a burst of displaced air, and Corax collapsed on the ceramite floor, sound asleep. The chapter Chief Librarian bent his head. “My Lord God, thank you for returning our progenitor to us. I feel his mind is exhausted, though no worse for wear after a trip through the Warp here with you.” “I ‘AM’ A GELLAR FIELD, WHEN I CHOOSE TO BE,” the Emperor said loftily. “SEE TO HIS WELLBEING, LIBRARIAN, WHILE I TEND TO ANOTHER. HIS LIFE IS IN YOUR HANDS.” “It shall be as you say,” the Librarian intoned. The Emperor continued. “I CONFESS SOME SURPRISE. HOW DID YOU KNOW I WAS COMING?” “The Dark Angels called ahead via astropath, my Lord God, and Lord El’Jonson himself informed us you would be visiting soon, with Lord Corax accompanying you. We shall tend to him until his mind recovers.” “GREAT! WOW, THAT WAS RELATIVELY PAINLESS.” The colossal Emperor glanced down at the rigid body of Corax. “UH, FOR ME. UM. ANYWAY, I SHALL RETURN WHEN I HAVE FINISHED. GOOD LUCK.”
0-017-001-M42
Lord Kaldor Draigo was on the verge of losing his temper. He had flown straight to Terra as fast as he could after finding Malcador the Sigilite’s message, and raced to the Imperial Palace the second he had entered the atmosphere. The Palace was in the middle of an uproar, unabated after the transmission the High Lords had made. The Palace authority had not, of course, not refused entry to the vessel containing the Lord Grand Master of the Grey Knights, but even his name couldn’t clear the brewing riots in depths of Terra. The full company of the Adeptus Custodes had assembled within the halls of the Palace, and every one of the innumerable adepts, drones, Ecclesiarchs, and pilgrims within the massive structure had been forced out, unless they were one of those lucky few who lived within the massive, country-spanning building itself. Draigo paced back and forth before the Eternity Gate, his every step watched with raptor-like vigilance by the gold-armored Custodes that guarded it. Under more normal circumstances, he probably would have been just a little intimidated by the pair of Warhounds tracking his every move, but he was far too irate to care. After nearly an hour of waiting – an HOUR! To fulfill the Terminus Decree! – the doors finally swung open, and a Custodian Terminator strode forth. He spoke without preamble. “Lord Draigo. You are expected. I apologize for the wait, but things have become hectic of late.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked back into the room, with the slightly shorter Draigo hot on his heels.
“I can not wait any longer,” Draigo said icily. “I must speak with the God-Emperor at once.” The noise level around him was higher than he ever would have guessed. The thousands of tubes and conduits that lead from the floor to the Golden Throne had been unplugged from the Throne and retracted, spooled back into hidden coils in the floor. Previously, they had ferried the souls of the sacrificed psykers in the tunnels below to the Emperor, so that His life could be sustained. Now, however, the psykers were allowed to live, and the Throne was gradually being disassembled. “Naturally,” the Custodian replied drily. “Might I inquire as to the subject?” Draigo hesitated. “…No. I apologize, Lord Custodian, but I am afraid I must speak to Him and Him alone.” The Custodian whirled around. “Master Draigo, I can only assume you came here to enact the Terminus Decree. Not even we of the Household Guard were privy to its orders, but I can imagine them. The Emperor Himself informed us, the day after Malcador sealed those orders away, that they told you to come here and await Him. Well, He’s gone.” The light from thousands of luminators glinted off his jet-black helmet lenses. “Deal with it.”
Draigo, for the second time in a week and the third time in his life, felt his jaw drop. He was astonished by the Custodian’s utter disrespect, but also by his knowledge of something that should have been sealed away and forbidden for everyone in the galaxy but him and the Emperor. “Now, you listen,” he snapped angrily. “I traveled here from Titan because I was assured that the Emperor himself would give me the command of the Decree, and so I shall wait here until he does.” The Custodian stared impassively at the seething Gray Knight, then shrugged, with every sign of nonchalance. “Fine. Suit yourself. Try anything insipid and we’ll rip you to shreds, anyway.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the massive banner of Sanguinius, head bowed, that hung behind the Emperor. “There’s probably still a forklift back there for you to sit on if you get bored.” Draigo tilted his head, stunned. The Custodian was all right with his demand? He seized the opportunity. “Very well, thank you.” “Whatever you say,” the Custodian said coolly. He turned back to the Throne and walked towards it, as the Eternity Gate slid shut with an echoing CLANG. Draigo looked out over the massive room with awe. He had been here before, naturally, but never when the room was in such a state. The Golden Throne was being slowly disassembled by a cadre of Archmagi of the Mechanicum, with a ring of several hundred techpriests around the base of the colossal structure, each holding an incense stick in one hand, and a tiny sensor package in the other, those with mechadentrites holding more of either. The Throne was coming apart in the excruciating care of the Mechanicum, carefully detaching individual cords, boxes, and tubes, and very cautiously placing them in tiny, vacuum-rated pouches, to be carted off by servitors. The pouches were stamped with purity seals and lowered into a stasis field by another techpriest.
Beyond them, a group of nearly a thousand Custodes were busily manhandling massive crates into rows, while a colossal cargolifter, driven by another Custodian, lifted them into stacks. Some of them had layers of dust on them that looked as if they had not been disturbed in years, which surprised him greatly. Didn’t sanctionites, Inquisitors, and fresh Custodes come in here all the time? A telepath with the markings of a Master Astropathica Adept bustled past him with a psyker-stave in his hand, mumbling to himself. “However shall we do this, oh however shall we do this…” Draigo lifted one armored hand. “You, there, Astropath…where is the Emperor?” The Astropath spun around and glared at the Grey Knight through sightless eyes. “Have you taken all leave of your senses, Custodian? How could you not know?” Without another word, he spun away and resumed mumbling without missing a syllable. Draigo started after him, growing more and more irritated by the second. “Wait, I’m not…” he trailed off as the muttering psychic walked away. He stopped and turned around again, fighting a growing feeling of being sandbagged. “Does nobody here but me think that the Emperor being possessed is a matter of some urgency?” he snarled under his breath.
A pair of Inquisitors, both Ordos Malleus by the look of them, walked up behind the power-armored warrior and came to a halt. “Grand Master Draigo?” the elder one asked. Draigo spun around. “Yes. Who might you be?” The Inquisitor smiled. “I am Averus Valentine, of the Ordo Malleus. This is my associate, Jonash Haldebrandt. We would like your assistance.” Draigo crossed his arms. “And how may I serve you, gentlemen?” Haldebrandt spoke up. “Grand Master, am I to understand that you have seen the broadcast made by the High Lords?” “Naturally,” Draigo replied. “What of it?” “Well, Master, we’ve seen it too. We were wondering what you thought of it,” Valentine said, his face a placid, unassuming mask. Draigo slowly uncrossed his arms. He gestured with his hands to the corner of the colossal room, and slowly walked off in that direction. Valentine allowed a small smile for his younger colleague and followed. “I don’t know what you mean, Inquisitor,” Draigo said slowly. “I imagine you do,” Haldebrandt said mildly. “The Emperor Himself, in His divine glory, consuming a Greater Daemon of Khorne in single combat? For that matter, a Daemon even appearing in this, the most heavily guarded building in all of human space?”
Draigo reached one vaulted wall of the room and continued along it. “It had struck me as odd.” “Us as well, Master Draigo. Do you think that perhaps, the High Lords might have been lying?” Valentine asked. “Lying? Probably not,” Draigo hedged. “Obscuring the truth? Probably. Emperor knows, daemons can be willfully summoned. An Inquisitor of all people should know that.” “Touché, Master Draigo,” Valentine said, a smile tugging at his lips. Heldebrandt just looked miffed. “In fact, that is what we suspect occurred. We think that the Most Divine Emperor summoned a daemon from the Warp and bound himself to its form.” Draigo sighed. “Under…literally any other circumstance, I imagine I would kill you both for that heresy…but I agree. That seems to be the case.” Valentine stopped walking, all traces of levity gone from him now. “So…what do we do about it?”
9-017-001-M42
The Daemon Prince Fulgrim lashed around his many arms in a blinding rage. “Who DARES to steal my toy from me? My own BROTHER was MINE! He was MINE! MINE, to do with as I SAW FIT!” He tilted back his head and let out a scream of frustration and disappointment. All about him, his lesser daemonettes shook and waved, trying to distract him from his anger, but he lashed out, whipping his scimitars at the nearest ones. The daemon-blades swept them aside, and they shrieked and bolted. “OUT! OUT! OUT!” They fled with indecent haste, as Fulgrim slumped to the floor. “He was mine…” he whispered. “…and he will be AGAIN!” he suddenly sprung up, and strode to the balcony of his private quarters. He stared out over the twisted ground of the Daemonworld he commanded, at the legions of tiny warp sprites and daemons that cavorted on his endless lawns, and at the Emperor’s Children and Noise Marines that guarded his walls. He tilted his warped head back and roared, the sound of his voice cutting through the noise. “Arise, my children! Arise, legions of Slaanesh! WE MARCH TO WAR!”
9-018-001-M42
“Just shoot it, ya gitz!” Warboss Vogurk Hedbreakuh yelled at the squad of boyz behind him. They started milling around in confusion, and he raised his Power Klaw to the sky. “Iz da biggest and da’ strongest, so do as I says! Shoot that Squiggoth or I’ll feed ya to it!” Now, THAT they understood. The boyz raised their shootas and opened up on the rampaging squiggoth that had just rammed the Gargant at the back of their base. It ran forward, charging in a blind panic, caroming off of a park wartrukk and stampeding through a pack of gretchins, knocking them aside. Hedbreakuh snarled and raised his own Kustom Shoota. “I’ll do it myself!” he roared, charging forward. “WAAAAAGH-OW!” He suddenly veered off and slammed into the ground, green ichor leaking from his shoulder. “Who’s the bright git who just shot me?!” he roared at the pack of boyz who had been following him. They looked at each other uncertainly. “Uh, it wasn’t any of us, boss,” the Nob leading them hedged. Hedbreakuh snarled. “Well, it was one of you bloody gitz, and when I figure out which of youz it was, I-” He didn’t have time to finish the threat, as the Gargant abruptly exploded, casting chunks of metal the size of wartracks high into the air, and the Orks in the camp scampered around to avoid being crushed. The Big Mek stared. “ME BLOODY GARGANT! It’z done exploded!” Hiding in a pile of rubble at the back of the camp, Jaghatai grinned cruelly. “Ohhh, yeeeaaah…I can see why Konrad preferred to fight this way…” he whispered to himself. “But…now, I need a ride…”
3-018-001-M42
The Emperor’s imminent arrival on Cadia – as announced by a member of the Ordo Telepathica – was greeting with an odd mixture of joy, terror, and apprehension. Joy, for what loyal son of the Imperium wouldn’t be happy to hear that their Emperor had returned to them? Terror, for those of the Cadians who had turned to Chaos for personal greed were now afraid for their souls. Apprehension, because the leaders of the Cadian Task Force were all too familiar with how the previous visit to Cadia had turned out. Lord Castellan Creed stood on the landing pad of Kasr Vortiga and chewed his cigar. Externally, he was placid, but internally, his gut was churning. Colour Segeant Kell, as always, was stadning beside him, and, as always, noticed his Lord’s unease. “Anything I can do for you, sir?” he asked politely. Creed shook his head slowly. “No, Sergeant, I’ll be all right.” “Not what I asked, sir,” Kell pointed out. Creed was silent for a moment. “No, Kell, I don’t need anything, but I am wondering where the hell Deathwolf and Blenkach got off to,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder, where Clenden and Mardeus stood at attention, Mardeus nursing his head. “I’m sure they’ll turn up,” Kell said diffidently, “they always do.” Creed snorted. “True enough.” “The Emperor will arrive in about two minutes,” Mardeus spoke up suddenly. Creed nodded curtly. “Acknowledged. How’s your head this time?” he asked. “Better,” the telepath said. “It’s far less painful when I know he’s passing by. Maybe I won’t go into a coma, this time,” he added drily.
“Right. That would be preferable,” Creed chuckled. Senior Princeps Pace, leader of the Titan legion Legio Vixut II, stationed on Cadia until the Black Crusade was deemed no longer a threat, walked up to him and nodded respectfully. “Lord Castellan,” the impossibly pale man said, clearly as nervous as Creed was. “Princeps,” Creed nodded in reply. Before he could add anything to the conversation, however, the air gained a familiar purple tint. All those in attendance stood to parade-ground attention, as the air rushed back, nearly blowing Pace’s uniform hat off, and the Emperor appeared in the middle of the parade ground. “GENTLEMEN, IT IS GOOD TO BE BACK,” the Emperor began without preamble. The various military personnel dropped to one knee in reverence. “Most divine, you honor us with your holy presence,” Mardeus spoke for them all. “YES…WELL. I’M GLAD YOU COULD ASSEMBLE ON SUCH SHORT NOTICE,” the Emperor said, changing the subject. As if they would have done anything other than show up when He commanded, Creed thought to himself. “In fact, my Lord God, the Astartes and Commissariat representatives could not be here,” he said aloud. The Emperor shifted his gigantic bulk in surprise. “OH? AND WHERE MIGHT THEY BE, LORD CASTELLAN?” he asked. Creed felt sweat appear under his collar. “Forgive me, my Lord God, but I have no idea. They were supposed to be here.” Just in time, the Lord Commissar and Astartes appeared in the door to the open parade ground, with Blenkcach panting in the Marine’s long footsteps.
They both skidded to a halt when they saw that the gigantic Emperor was present, with both men doing their best to reach the others and take their places in line. Before they could get even half-way, however, the Emperor’s psychic voice spoke. “SO GLAD YOU COULD JOIN US, GENTLEMEN.” “A thousand pardons, my Lord God,” the Commissar managed. “We were in the command center. It seems that a massive Warp Rift has opened to the north. “OH? WELL, NO HARM DONE THEN,” the Emperor thought/spoke, to Blenkach’s immense relief. “PERHAPS I’LL SEE TO IT PERSONALLY WHEN I’M DONE HERE. IN THE MEANTIME,” he said, turning his beady gaze on Deathwolf, “I UNDERSTAND THAT HERE, OF ALL PLACES, IS WHERE LEMAN RUSS WAS LAST SPOTTED?” Deathwolf’s heart leapt. “Ah…no, my Lord God,” he said cautiously, as he and Blenkach took their places in line with the others. “It is suspected that the lost Thirteenth Great Company was part of the fighting to the north a few weeks ago, and there was a rumor that Lord Russ was involved, but it was only a rumor.” “NEVERTHELESS,” the Emperor roared reprovingly, “THERE ARE IMPERIAL TROOPS UP THERE, AND THEY NEED TO BE SUPPORTED. MOBILIZE WHAT ASTARTES THERE ARE PRESENT HERE ON CADIA, AND PREPARE THEM FOR MARCHING TO THE SITE OF THAT WARP RIFT. I’LL BE ALONG PRESENTLY.”
Two hundred miles north of the Kasr, a tear in reality stood open. The cackling hordes of Chaos spilled forth, eager to shed the blood of the four Space Marines and single Dreadnought that reached the rift in time. An apothecary, two techmarines, and the Chapter Master of the Blood Ravens stood defiant, casting down the hordes that spilled towards them, as the Dreadnought stood behind them, providing cover fire. Seven construction servitors worked feverishly to reload and repair seven auto-bolter turrets that had been hastily dropped to cover the rift. “Chapter Master Angelos, I have received word from the Kasr that reinforcements are incoming!” one of the Techmarines voxed, sounding distracted as he covered a servitor. The former Ogryn lumbered forward, a crate of bolts in its hands. “Finally! What did they decide to do instead of helping us?” Angleos yelled, hefting a krak grenade towards a roaring cultist that had made it past the hail of bolts. The grenade detonated inches from the screaming cultist, casting his entrails in the air. “Meeting somebody from Terra, I gathered,” the Techmarine replied tersely, then pivoted to crush the face of a giggling Slaaneshi cultist in with his mechadendrite. “I must say, Brother Chapter Master Angelos, this is preferable to endlessly retelling stories,” the armored form of Bjorn rumbled from his speakers. He pivoted at the waist and fired a stream of bolter shells at the flapping, winged form of a Nurglite daemon, which splattered messily at the base of the sandbags the small cluster of Marines were hiding behind.
A Lesser Bloodletter charged from the rift next, running straight through the bolter shells like they weren’t even there. It leapt the barrier and slammed into the Apothecary, who yelled in surprise and pain. Angelos hefted his Daemonhammer and slammed it into the daemons’s leg, trying carefully not to hit the prostrate Apothecary. The Khornate monster screamed, flying apart at the waist, as the Apothecary slammed his blade into the daemon’s face with every sign of relish. “Well met, Lord Angelos,” Bjorn rumbled. “There’s another coming out now…they’re laying on the fucking pressure.” Without another word, he fired another salvo of bolter shells into the creature, which had chosen that unfortunate time to leap up into the air. It caught the bolts square in the midsection, and tumbled directly into Bjorn’s Lightning Claw. Bjorn laughed. “Ah, the memories…” “I thought you didn’t want to tell stories,” Angleos said with grim humor. A cultist with more bloodlust and enthusiasm, in World Eaters colors, leap over the sandbags, creaming. “Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for his-GURK” he cut off as the apothecary grasped his head and squeezed, the unfortunate cultist’s head bursting like an overripe tomato.
“As delightful as this is,” Bjorn continued, slicing a warp sprite to ribbons that quickly evaporated, “our ammunition supply can only hold out – HOLD STILL GOD-EMPEROR DAMN YOU – so long. Brother Techmarines, when are those reinforcements arriving?” “Under two minutes!” the nearest Techmarine yelled, seconds before catching a plate full of shrapnel from an impossibly lucky cultist with a grenade. His massive body pitched backward, colliding with the ammo servitor he had been guarding, which detonated with a crackling fireball that temporarily knocked everyone but Bjorn off of their feet. Bjorn quickly hosed down the sprawling daemons with his bolter, but he only managed to kill two before the other four leapt back up, charging forward. “Blood for the Blood God!” one roared, leaping at the dreadnought. “HE’LL DRINK YOURS!” a terrifying psychic voice roared, stunning the assembled pack of fighters into silence. A huge shadow engulfed the battlefield as a vast daemon speared above the tableau, landing on the daemons with an echoing THUD. The bolter turrets rotated to destroy the new thread, but with a single roar that left Angelos’s ears ringing, their machine spirits were either deactivated or terrified into submission. The creature turned its attention back to the rift, and with a horrifying flash of light, the rift started to knit itself shut. Angelos found his mouth hanging open. He snapped himself out of his shock and gestured to his comrades. “Wait a moment, brothers, this…abomination is sealing the rift. Wait until it finishes.”
The enormous orange daemon glowed an eerie purple light, which seemed to make the lesser daemons and cultists wither away in its very presence. The rift slowly knitted itself back together, spilling out daemons that boiled into vapor from the creature’s presence. Before the it sealed completely, however, a chilling laugh echoed out of the hole, heralding the arrival of a Bloodthirster of Khorne. The monstrous orange daemon that had come to Angelos’ aid abandoned its rift-sealing sorcery and hurtled itself forward, catching the winged Khornate daemon in the midsection. It sprawled back onto the ground, but recovered quickly, beating its wings to regain its balance. It hefted a blood-drenched sword and charged the huge orange creature. Angleos watched in awe as the two monstrous creatures grappled, with the orange interloper seemingly holding the advantage. It swept one massive hand at the Bloodthirster’s knees, catching it off guard, and grabbed its torso with the other clawed hand, then, with a sickening rip, tore the monster in half, discarding it like a candy wrapper. It turned back to the rift, and roared so loudly that Angleos was fervently glad he had elected to wear a helmet that day. Finally, with a horrid ripping noise, the rift sealed itself up, the eldritch light faded, and the air settled down. The creature twisted, nonchalantly, to face the Marines. Angelos felt a strange sense of finality wash over him, as he stared certain death in the face. The orange daemon turned to Bjorn, who was busily scraping daemon ichor off its carapace with a pile of clothes ripped from a dead cultist. “BJORN, YOU OLD FART, I ALMOST DIDN’T RECOGNIZE YOU IN THAT COLOR.” Bjorn’s optics glanced at the beast. “Boss. Have you gained weight?”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” Bjorn asked coyly, an instant before Angelos could make a panicked statement. “I’ve always been with the Blood Ravens.” The massive creature stared at Bjorn with its horrible eyes for a moment, before shrugging. “EH. YOU SAY SO. NONE OF MY BUSINESS.” He turned to Angelos, who was staring at the exchange with a look on his face that could modestly be described as ‘stupefied.’ “YOU MUST BE GABRIEL ANGELOS. CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION. I WAS BRIEFLY CONCERNED THAT I WOULD HAVE TO DECLARE YOUR ENTIRE CHAPTER EXCOMMUNICATE TRAITORIS.” Angelos finally found his wits. Sort of. “Um…who are you?” “WHAT, ARE YOU DENSE?” the creature replied. After a few awkward seconds, it laughed. “I JEST. I AM THE EMPEROR OF MANKIND, REBORN IN A NEW BODY.” If the word ‘stupefied’ had described Angelos before, ‘flabbergasted’ would work now. The huge creature turned back to Bjorn, who had discarded the cultist’s rags, apparently satisfied with his cleaning job. “SO, HOW DID YOU KNOW WHO I WAS?”
The elder dreadnought shrugged his artificer adamatium shoulders. “We fought under the same sky, once. Leman Russ and I battled at your will on Ildrave III, and I met you in person after the battle, if you’ll recall.” “WELL, YEAH, BUT I WAS HUMAN THEN.” “You’re the memorable sort, Sire,” Bjorn said, using the honorific that probably hadn’t been used to describe the Emperor in eight thousand years. “Besides, I could…sense it. I’m no psyker, thankfully, but I remembered that you used a similar ability to seal a rift on Klenda Prime. I only heard about it in the after-action report, but…” “YEAH, THAT WAS ME. GOOD MEMORY.” The Emperor turned to the apothecary, who had fallen to his knees. “SO, ARE YOU GOING TO SEE TO THE BROTHER TECHMARINE?” “What? Oh…” the apothecary turned to the techmarine who had been flung into the explosion, who was twitching feebly, the back layer of his armor shattered. The apothecary struggled to his knees and hurried over to the marine, slipping a probe into the downed techmarine’s armor. The other techpriest knelt reverently before the Emperor, who sighed. “HONESTLY, YOU DON’T NEED TO DO THAT.” The Techpriest looked up at him, his mask hiding his confusion. “But…my Lord God, I am simply offering you a sign of my devotion.” “YOU’RE AN ASTARTES, YOUR GENE-SEED DISTILLED FROM MY OWN ESSENCE. YOU DON’T NEED TO SHOW ME DEVOTION THROUGH ANYTHING BUT ACTION. NOW GET UP, REALLY.” The techmarine (and Angelos) scrambled to their feet, while the Emperor looked back to Bjorn. “SO, BJORN, IS THERE ANY TRUTH TO THE RUMOR THAT LEMAN RUSS HIMSELF IS LEADING YOUR THIRTEENTH GREAT COMPANY INTO BATTLE, HERE, RIGHT NOW?” “I haven’t the foggiest idea, Boss,” the dreadnought said. “He disappeared into the Eye of Terror over nine thousand years ago. If he’s here, then it must be…”
“THE WOLFING TIME, YEAH, I GATHERED. YOU GUYS PICKED THE WEIRDEST NAME FOR IT, THOUGH.” “I loathed it, Sire, always have,” Bjorn said disgustedly. “Back in my day, we used wolves as mounts, maybe, icons, symbols. We were never literal wolves, but now…fuck, the lead Space Wolf on this planet is named Deathwolf, Wolf Lord of the Wolf Pack. Fuck. That’s just perpetuating a stereotype.” “HAHAHAH, YEAH. WELL, HEY, LISTEN, IT WAS GREAT TALKING TO YOU AGAIN, BUT I SHOULD REALLY GO BACK AND CHECK IN WITH CREED. I’LL KEEP MY EARS OPEN REGARDING THE RUMOR THAT RUSS HIMSELF IS SOMEWHERE ON THIS ROCK.” “Oh, no hurry, Sire,” Bjorn said hastily. “He’ll turn up if we really need him.” “SUUUURE,” the Emperor drawled, not buying it for a moment. “I’LL TELL HIM YOU SAID HI.” With a flash of purple light, the huge Emperor disappeared. Bjorn glanced up momentarily, the dreadnought equivalent of a shake of the head. “What a kidder.” He turned to Angelos, who was looking seriously stunned. “You okay, Chapter Master Angelos?” Angelos turned to look Bjorn in the optics, looking stunned. “How…you…is it true? You walked under the same sky as the Emperor Himself?” “Sure did,” Bjorn said, wandering around the sandbags to the piles of discarded clothes and weapons where the evaporated daemons and cultists had once lain. “Really, are you okay? You’re looking kind of wobbly. Here,” he said, lifting a discarded combi-bolter with his lightning claw. “Take this. A little looting after a battle always cheers you up.”
Two hundred miles south, Logan Grimnir, the Great Wolf of the Space Wolves, stood uneasily alongside Deathwolf and Creed. The rest of the council of war Creed had gathered had dispersed back to their commands, with orders to seize as much territory back from the Black Legion as they could, now that Abbadon was safely neutralized. The Titans under Pace were advancing into the vanguard, where the second company of the Dark Angels and seventy five Blue Daggers were pinning the rearguard of the Legion down. True to their orders, Deathwolf and Creed had assembled their forces to help seal the rift, but when the Emperor had seen how small it was, he simply told them to stand by, so that he could seal it himself. Now, Grimnir, who had been aboard his vessel in orbit both when the Emperor first arrived and when he had returned, had used a drop pod to deliver both himself and three other First Great Company veterans to the surface, to meet the Emperor in person. The other three had found excuses to linger, for the chance of seeing the Emperor Himself, and Grimnir hadn’t objected. With a brilliant flash of purple, the Emperor appeared before them, once more in the middle of the courtyard. Grimnir knelt, as did Creed and Deathwolf. “My Lord God, it is a true honor to stand before you now,” he began. “SO STAND. DON’T KNEEL LIKE YOU’RE TYING YOUR SHOES. REVERENCE FROM AN ASTARTES OF ALL PEOPLE IS NEEDLESS. YOU TOO, LORD CASTELLAN CREED,” he added. “IF ANY MORTAL MAN HAS EARNED THE RIGHT TO STAND BEFORE ME UNBOWED, IT IS YOU.” “My thanks, Your Divinity,” Creed said, creaking to his feet once more. Deathwolf and Grimnir stood as well. “Might I ask how the battle went?”
“ONE TECHMARINE WOUNDED, NO OTHER LOSSES,” the Emperor roared. “CHAPTER MASTER GABRIEL ANGELOS OF THE BLOOD RAVENS LEAD A FORCE OF FOUR, AND I ARRIVED JUST IN TIME TO KILL A BLOODTHIRSTER AND SEAL THE RIFT.” “A Bloodthirster, my Lord God? A worthy foe indeed,” Grimnir said. “By any chance, did you see a dreadnought with the Blood Ravens?” “…NO,” the Emperor said evasively. “ANYWAY, GRIMNIR, I’M GLAD YOU’RE HERE. I WAS WONDERING IF YOU HAD HEARD THE RUMOR THAT LEMAN RUSS HIMSELF IS LEADING THE THIRTEENTH GREAT COMPANY HERE, ON CADIA.” “It is true, my Lord God,” the Space Wolf said, apparently taking the Emperor’s word for Bjorn’s absence. “The Father of the Pack leads the Lost Great Company. I have no idea where they are right now, but I’m sure they could be found with sufficient resources.” “NO NEED FOR EXPENDITURE, GRIMNIR,” the Emperor replied. “THEY ARE HERE TO BATTLE THE FORCES OF THE TRAITOR PRIMARCHS, AS RUSS HIMSELF COMMANDED THEM TO DO. NOW THAT HE’S HERE, THEY’LL KEEP DOING IT, I’M SURE, BUT HE’LL BE LEADING THEM HIMSELF. I WILL MERELY NEED TO FIND THEM…AND I’LL FIND HIM.”
Clear on the other side of the planet, where the rifts of Chaos grew the largest, and where Abbadon had landed his forces first, a small band of Space Wolves were carving a path. They had started two hundred strong, but they had now been whittled down to a mere fifty. Their numbers didn’t translate to success or failure in battle, however. For they were led by a Primarch. Leman Russ himself had emerged from a warp rift at the onset of the Black Crusade, leading his Lost Thirteenth Great Company against the armies of Abbadon. He was cut off from the Imperial command, but still he had two hundred Space Marines at his back. That was more than enough. Fully a month had passed since he had reappeared, and he had cut a swathe through the forces of Chaos Undivided. Now, however, he was pinned, with two Chaos Warhounds pouring energy blasts into the surrounding structures. A collapsed agricultural station was providing them with limited cover, but it could never have been enough to block that much fire continually. Most of the Wolves were down to melee weapons, or improvised explosives. A few men had salvaged equipment from fallen enemies, but most could only hope for a chance at hand-to-hand. Russ leaned back against a collapsed brick wall, flinching at the pain from a seeping wound on the back of his hand. Their few living gunners were hammering away at the spotters for the Warhounds’ guns, but the incoming barrage was undiminished.
Russ felt a patter of brick chips land on him from a near miss and grimaced. If he had a single grenade left, he reflected, he would make those spotters acutely regret getting so close… He glanced from side to side, taking stock of the rest of the people huddled in the expansive building. A few Wolves with ranged weapons – what few they had – were hiding at the windows, taking potshots at the enemies who were guiding the Warhounds. Those without were picking up chunks of building or furniture, barricading the doors. As if it would matter when the enemy came in through the roof with Titans. A few of his wounded men were stretched out on the floor, some comatose, some just staring blankly, not seeing anything, and a few howling with pain. A PDF medicae had been lucky enough to stumble onto the Wolves when they were charging through the ruined city, and was tending to the gigantic Marines as best he could. The lack of proper medical equipment, the Marines’ modified genetic structure, and their wolf mutations were not helping. Russ’ eyes fell on the meager pile of food in the middle of the room, under an iron table for cover. It wouldn’t last them a day. If they hadn’t collapsed the buildings around them to slow down the Titans, or if the Titans were larger than Warhounds, they probably would have arrived already, but they had been blessed enough to avoid that. The last thing to catch his eye was a small group of civilians who had been hiding in the building prior to his arrival. They had been desperate and scared, defended only by a brave squad of Kasrkin who had been protecting them until their numbers had gotten too low, then drawn the fire of the nearest Chaos forces and made a break for it, drawing the daemons off of the civilian’s scent.
A few were just too old to have fought, one or two were PDF who were too badly wounded to be of any help, some were just ordinary citizens of Cadia who had mustered out of the PDF when they were old enough and had something to protect...and then there was her. A small girl, most easily discernable from the others because she wasn’t moving at all. She was sitting against a wall, her face utterly blank. She was just holding her arms to her sides, shuddering when a particularly loud explosion rocked the walls. Russ had no idea how long she had been in this hellhole, but she was clearly shocked beyond normal medical aid. All Cadians receive medical and combat training when they come of age, but she couldn’t have been more than fourteen. One of his Marines let his replacement relieve him at the window, and jumped the two stories down from the catwalk below the window to the floor. He landed with a loud CLANG, and several civilians shuddered or started. The girl didn’t even flinch. Russ shot the Marine a reproving glare, but didn’t wait to see if he caught it. The girl had been alone when the Marines found her in an adjacent building, sitting alone in a wrecked apartment, her family smeared over the walls, and a Chaos cultist brandishing a weapon, jumping at the girl. She had just stood there, her face utterly blank, either not seeing or not comprehending what was going on. Russ had shot the cultist neatly in the back in mid-jump. The poor thing didn’t even flinch, just walked out of the apartment after Russ with all the emotion of a servitor.
Russ had seen civilians in shock before, of course, and even a few of his more disappointing Blood Claws. He wasn’t really aware of why this one poor girl had elicited such a response from him, on reflection. Maybe it was the fact that he had spent literally thousands of years in the warp, only to see such despair on his return. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. A shrill whistle announced that a shell from the Warhounds was incoming. His Marines – the ones who could still move – leapt to cover, sheltering themselves with agricultural equipment. The civilians followed suit a moment later, and the medicae lay down between two injured Space Wolves, allowing their heavy armor to shield him from debris. The shell slammed into the roof of the building, bringing down huge chunks of the walls, and shattering another chunk of the abused roof. One vast piece of masonry fell directly for the huddled civilians, and Russ launched himself without conscious thought towards them, bracing just in time to catch the stone block before it dropped on the innocents below. Russ couldn’t suppress a groan of pain feeling the thousand pound block of rock slam into his back, and the civilians beneath scrambled out from beneath him. All except the girl, who just sat there, unflinching, even as the Primarch tottered over her. Russ gritted his teeth. “Run, girl, if you want to live!” he managed to snarl. She slowly shook her head. “No. Nothing hurts me now.” With a gasp of agony, Russ finally let the thousands of years lost in the warp, month of constant combat, and days of malnourishment take their toll, and the block slipped from his grasp.
He fully expected to see the girl crushed to death under the rock, but by some Emperor-blessed miracle, she was just far enough away to avoid being crushed. He slipped down on his haunches, panting for air and feeling his abused muscles screaming. The civilians clustered around him, offering thanks, but he heard none of it. He stared at the girl angrily. “Did you not see, girl?! Why did you not move?!” “I saw it was going to miss,” she said blankly, to his surprise. He had been expecting her to say she didn’t matter enough, or that she would have welcomed death. “What do you mean?” he asked, still pissed off. She shrugged, a more human reaction than he had seen from her thus far. “The ceiling piece wasn’t big enough, and your back is sloped at an angle that would have permitted it to miss me.” Russ stared at her again, his anger fading. Before he could ask another question, a horrifying CRACK announced that the barricades had failed somewhere. A pack of screaming Chaos cultists flowed into the room at the far side of the vast building, firing laspistols with their tradition lack of accuracy. Several Wolves popped out of the cover they had been sheltering in while the masonry fell and sniped the cultists, their sudden appearance taking the cultists completely by surprise. Several fell at once, only to be trampled under the feet of the next dozen. They streamed into the room, vaulting equipment and bodies, firing wildly. Inevitably, the volume of fire took its toll. One Space Marine collapsed, his ragged armor unable to block the dozens of lasbolts that had impacted it. Ignoring his pain, Russ sprinted the few dozen meters between him and the cultists, leaping into their midst, howling like a man possessed.
The cultists swarmed over him, roaring their hate or delirious joy, stabbing and kicking, too close for guns. Russ grabbed one tall cultist and swung him about like a club, smashing rows of the cultists aside. One of his men seized the opportunity to get behind a huge truck that had been parked in the building, and threw himself against it with all the might his power armor could lend him. The machine bucked and slammed into the wall next to the door that had been breached by the cultists, knocking several off their feet. With another titanic effort, the marine slammed into the truck again, blocking the door off. A few quick shots with the laspistol he scooped up from a dead cultist set the promethium tanks ablaze, the conflagration spreading out into the streets, eliciting some rewarding shrieks as the cultists beyond burned alive. Russ threw his improvised weapon into the burning truck, and wearily plodded back to the medicae. The medicae had been fortunate enough not to have acquired more than the one new patient in the collapse of the roof and the cultist attack, the Marine who had taken too many hits. He propped the wounded Marine up against the wall and glanced him over, shaking his head wearily. Russ sat down heavily next to the medicae, allowing a slight moan of pain from the many cuts he had accumulated in the fight to escape his lips.
To his surprise, the civilians who had run back into cover during the fighting clustered around him. One fellow who looked old enough to have fought in the Twelfth Black Crusade nodded respectfully, making the sign of the aquila with his hand. “Thank you, Lord Russ, we’d be dead without you.” Russ nodded wearily, trying to smile. “You’re welcome, sir, but I must ask that you stand back. My blood is very acidic.” The civilians scrambled back, save for the medicae, who daubed a small patch of gauze on the marine who had been shot. Russ sighed and tilted his back, letting his weariness show completely. He shucked his gauntlets, letting them fall to the ground, and let his hands fall to the ground. His weariness overcame him, and he shut his eyes for a moment, trying to find a moment’s peace.
A sudden warmth on his hand snapped him back. He started and stared down at the girl, who had decided to ignore the tainted blood, and was sitting next to him, still staring straight ahead. She lifted his hand and set in her lap with visible effort, and he couldn’t help but grin. “Tainted blood doesn’t scare you, eh, girl?” “Nothing does,” she said simply, without a trace of irony or deceit. “I don’t really feel much at all at times like this. Russ nodded knowingly. “Ah, lass, that’s not always a bad thing.” He balled his hand into a fist and she placed both of her own hands over it, gazing listlessly over the chaotic room. “Take now. I don’t feel afraid either.” “You’re a living Primarch, the Emperor’s will and blood,” she said matter-of-factly. “What should scare me is not what should scare you.” “Oh? And why do you say that?” Russ asked in surprise. “Why do you think I’m not just another Space Wolf?” “Because your image is recorded alongside the Emperor’s and Sanguinious’s images in the Hall of the Council,” the girl said, “and it was taken live on Terra at a meeting of the War Council.” Russ stared at her, an eerie feeling of trickling ice in his spine. The War Council has disbanded almost eleven thousand years ago. The Hall of the Council had burned to the ground during his brother Horus’s betrayal shortly thereafter. A picture of the Hall would have to have been just as old. She had identified him as being more than a Marine from a picture of a picture of him eleven thousand years ago?
“The Hall of the Council, eh? You’ve visited Terra?” “I could never do that, it would be too much,” she said softly, a flicker of discomfort crossing her face. “It would be home.” Russ looked around, confused. A planet full of daemons and a butchered family, and she thought somewhere else was a bad place to be? The medicae caught his eye, and mouthed something. Russ blinked, and the medicae did it again slower: M P D Russ caught on. The girl was mentally unstable before he even arrived? “Well, lass, stick with us, and we’ll get you out of here,” he said, with all the false sincerity he could muster. “I know what you can do, Lord,” she said flatly. “I was a Sister once.” “You read about those Sororitas a lot, then, lass?” Russ hazarded. The Sororitas were a recent addition to the Imperium, but he had seen some fighting earlier in the campaign, and a member of the PDF had explained what they were. The girl shook her head, tossing her ragged black hair in front of her face. “No. I was quiet once.” “Quiet…what do you mean?” Russ asked in confusion. “I don’t have a soul.”
Russ felt his skin crawl as he stared at the teenaged scamp. What the hell did she mean? If she were a blank, or Emperor forbid, a Pariah, he would have been able to sense it, even if he had no psyker talent, just from her proximity. Unless… “Do you mean had? You didn’t used to have a soul, but you do now?” he asked, inspiration striking. She shook her head. “Yes, Lord.” “Did you used to live on Terra?” he asked, unnerved. “Yes. I was one with the Sisterhood.” Russ tried to hide his shock. She hadn’t meant the Sisters of Battle…she meant the Sisters of Silence?! “You…you were one of the Sisters of Silence who was sucked into the void between dimensions when the Webway Father built collapsed, weren’t you? And your mind was sucked into this…this girl’s body when Abbadon opened his warp rift?” She nodded, emotion flickering across her face. Russ looked at her in wonder. “You…you’re saying you were alive that whole time…trapped between the worlds?” She suddenly squeezed her hands around his fist so tightly he thought she was trying to hurt herself. Her eyes watered up a bit, and her voice cracked with strain. “I am very old, my Lord.” Russ leaned back, his mind churning. The girl was a blank, born with a soul but without any presence in the Warp, and when she was exposed to the raw stuff of Chaos, a Sister of Silence who had been torn apart in the Webvoid had been sucked into her. Sisters were all Pariahs, no soul to begin with, so there would have been no problem. The original girl was long since dead.
Before Russ could ask another question, a brilliant purple light flashed in the windows and the holes in the roof. The firing of the Warhounds paused for a moment, then redoubled. A horrible roar sounded in the minds of everyone in the room, and rang in their ears. “GET THE FUCK BACK IN THE WARP WHERE YOU BELONG, FOUL CHAOS! AND TAKE YOUR WORTHLESS TITAN KNOCKOFFS WITH YOU!” An echoing CRACK noise sounded from where one of the Titans had been, and one of its legs flew past the window. The other Titan scrambled to evade whatever was causing the destruction of its partner, but apparently fared no better. The sky turned white for a moment, and a shockwave slammed into the battered walls of the building, knocking some more debris loose, though fortunately it didn’t seem to hit anyone. The Space Wolf gunners, though confused, recognized the opportunity, and picked off the Black Legion spotters who had so kindly revealed their positions for them. A few seconds of absolute silence passed. Russ slowly stood, pulling his hand from the girls’. A purple haze started to fill the middle of the room, then rushed aside as a colossal animal appeared. Russ gaped. A daemon? Why did it slay the Titans if they were all beings of Chaos? He shook his head, baring his fangs. No matter. He would kill it himself if he had to. Before he could take a single step, however, the girl spoke. “Master. It is good to see you again.” The creature turned around, shaking the room with each massive step. “OH? AND WHO MIGHT YOU BE…OH! CARANA! WOW. NO OFFENSE, BUT I HAD ALL BUT WRITTEN YOU OFF.” It turned to face Russ, who was standing next to the girl, bewildered. “LEMAN! WONDERFUL TO SEE YOU ALIVE AND WELL. LET’S GO, SHALL WE? THIS PLACE ISN’T SAFE.”
Russ felt his jaw drop. “Father? What…what have you become?” The civilians who weren’t busy panicking and screaming looked at Russ or the monster, confused and terrified. It nodded. “YEAH, LEMAN, IT IS ME, THE EMPEROR OF MANKIND. I GUESS YOU DON’T GET THE NEWS OUT HERE, BUT I DEFEATED A DAEMON AND TOOK CONTROL OF ITS BODY. IT’S REALLY ME, THOUGH.” The Marines either stared at the Emperor, blankly, or dropped to their knees, making the sign of the Aquila. Russ took a hesitant step forward. “Father…I have so many questions, but first…my brothers, these civilians, we can’t travel. Some are gravely wounded.” “NOT A PROBLEM, LEMAN. I CAN BRING YOU ALL WITH ME. CARANA, I’D LOVE TO HEAR WHERE YOU’VE BEEN, BUT WE CAN DISCUSS IT LATER.” The girl, or more precisely the Sister of Silence named Carana who lived inside her, struggled to her feet and awkwardly bowed. “I’ll tell you everything, Sire, but we have to escape.” “YEP. EVERYONE GATHER UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM.” Slowly, uncertainly, the various Marines and civilians walked over to where the Medicae and Russ dragged the wounded. The Emperor stood beside them, and despite Russ’s joy at rescue and at seeing his father again, he couldn’t fully suppress a shudder. His new form was…utterly monstrous. With a loud rushing sound and flash of purple light, the strange collection of people were suddenly gone. They appeared in a burst of purple mist in the middle of Kasr Vortiga, where a small cluster of medicae and a pair of Wolf Priests waited. Several civilians fell to their knees or vomited at the strain of being dragged through the warp, even protected by the Emperor’s powers, but most simply staggered towards the medicae, gasping or praying aloud. Russ tilted his head back and grinned at the Emperor. “Well, Father, that was an impressive trick.”
“GEE, THANKS,” the enormous Emperor said drily. “YOU GO GET SOME REST ON DEATHWOLF’S SHIP, YOU NEED IT. WE CAN TALK LATER.” Russ blinked in confusion. “Deathwolf? What’s that?” “That would be me, Lord Russ,” Harald Deathwolf said, coming to a halt behind Russ and bowing reverently. “It is the honor of my life to see you and the Emperor standing together before me.” He straigtened up, beaming, until he caught sight of the look on Russ’ face. “Oh, forgive me. I am the Twelfth Wolf Lord, of the Space Wolves. This is Logan Grimnir, the Great Wolf.” Grimnir slammed his fist into his chest and bowed in respect, a wide grin on his face. “Though, I imagine, Lord, you’ll want that title back for yourself, as before,” Grimnir continued where Deathwolf left off.” Russ shook his maned head. “No, Sir Grimnir, the title is yours to keep. I’ve been out of touch for millennia, and I am in dire need of rest and recuperation. I may one day resume my role as Primarch, but until I feel ready for the responsibility again.” Grimnir nodded in acquiescence. “As you say, Lord Russ.” Behind them, the medicae and Wolf Priests were checking over the wounded, earning some disparaging looks from the medicae and the PDF medic who had come with the Emperor, since the Wolf Priests were using nothing but runes, balms, and potions to treat their wounded comrades. The Emperor meandered over, shaking the ground slightly with each massive footfall. “GRIMNIR, RUSS, WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH THESE MARINES WHO WERE LOST IN THE WARP FOR SO LONG?” Grimnir turned to face the Emperor, craning his head back. “Well…my Lord God, I expect that they will return to Fenris, where they can be properly cared for and reequipped, retrained, and can catch up on the history they’ve missed. The Inquisition will be furious, but…” “WAIT, WHAT? WHAT ABOUT THE INQUISITION?” the Emperor interjected in surprise.
“My Lord God, until very recently, the Inquisition rounded up all persons who had come into contact with daemons, our own Grey Knights, or warp entities, sterilized them, and worked them to death in labor camps or mining worlds,” Grimnnir said with unconcealed distaste. The Emperor was silent for several long seconds. Then, without a word, he teleported himself and Grimnir outside the kar walls, leaving Grimnir feeling a sense of whiplash at the suddenness of it. Before he could ask what was going on, however, the Emperor spoke, his voice growling and dangerous. More so, anyway. “THE INQUISITION IS WORKING OUR LOYAL CITIZENS TO DEATH FOR SEEING DAEMONS?” he snarled. “Y…Yes, my Lord God,” Grimnir said. “In fact, even the PDF and Guard stationed on Armageddon were killed, along with the populations of two entire worlds they tried to flee to, when the First War of Armageddon unleashed knowledge of daemons among the populace. Recently, they reversed their policy, since times of Black Crusade mean that more or less everybody hears of daemons, but they work hard to maintain the image that the Imperium isn’t at constant war with Chaos between them.” The Emperor teleported Grimnir back to the parade ground, seconds before an inhuman roar, so loud it shattered windows, echoed over the parade ground. Russ and the other Marines looked over to the source of the sound in shock, with several citizens gasping and bolting for cover before sense reasserted itself. Seconds later, The Emperor’s voice spoke in their minds. “RUSS, I WILL RETURN TO SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN LATER. CARANA, GOOD TO SEE YOU. I HAVE BUSINESS TO ATTEND TO ON HIGH TERRA.”
0-019-001-M42
The two Inquisitors and the Supreme Grand Master of the Grey Knights had been in conference with one another for hours, wandering the massive throne room of Terra deep in conversation. They agreed on little, despite their official ties, Draigo thinking that it would be wiser to confront the Emperor before doing anything drastic, Haldebrandt and Valentine claiming that it would be wiser to leave before the Emperor returned, to present their case to the Inquisition. Finally, after almost eight hours of debate, in which the two were constantly surrounded by working, bickering, bustling techpriests and Custodes, who tried not to look like they were eavesdropping, Valentine called for a decision. “Brothers, the Emperor has clearly been in concert with a daemon, and whether or not we know for a fact that He’s been possessed, it seems we can at least agree that he was dabbling in a power that he couldn’t fully control. Why else would he use the creature’s form instead of his own?” Valentine asked reasonably. Haldebrandt nodded. “Master Draigo, your experience with battling beasts of the Warp exceeds my own, but my station as a member of Ordo Malleus affords me some insight into the workings of the warp. Do you not agree that the possibility exists that the Emperor is no longer in control?” “Of course I do, Inquisitor,” Draigo growled, his patience worn thin. “What of it?” “Well, then, let us agree.” Valentine leaned forward conspiratorially. “Master, would you be willing to accompany us to our void station so that we may decide what to do next?” “LET ME SAVE YOU THE TROUBLE,” a psychic voice said. The Custodians in the room took a knee at once, ten thousand gold-clad warriors kneeling as one. The Techpriests followed suit, as Draigo and the Inquisitors looked around, confused.
With a CRACK of displaced air, a purple-shrouded being appeared in the middle of the room, where the Golden Throne was being disassembled. The massive form of the Emperor strode forth. “CUSTODES, MY LOYAL GUARD, STAND DOWN. MAGI, AS YOU WERE.” The gold and red-coated workers scurried back to their tasks, some with sly grins to one another. The Emperor stopped mere meters from the two awestruck Inquisitors, and the incredibly unnerved Draigo. “GENTLEMEN. WHAT WERE YOU DISCUSSING IN MY THRONE ROOM?” Valentine was the only one who managed to keep a straight face. “My Lord God, we were discussing Lord Draigo’s errand.” Draigo shot Valentine a stunned look, but said nothing.” “OH? DO TELL, MASTER GREY KNIGHT.” Draigo licked his lips. “Ah…my Lord God, as I’m sure you’re aware, Malcador the Sigilite enacted something called the Term-” “THE TERMINUS DECREE. YES. WHICH I’M ALL BUT CERTAIN MALCADOR DIDN’T WANT YOU TO INVOKE UNLESS THE IMPERIUM IS LITERALLY FALLING TO CHAOS AT THAT VERY MOMENT.” Draigo felt a bead of sweat run down his neck. “That is correct, my Lord God.” “SO, WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE?” the Emperor asked flatly. The Custodes nearby smirked, but went about their myriad tasks. “My…my Lord God, I was told by the High Lords that you had absorbed a daemon. I had to avoid risk,” Draigo said, trying to regain his nerves. The Emperor would have none of it. “YOU AVOIDED RISK BY INVOKING THE TERMINUS DECREE. LET ME LET YOU IN ON A LITTLE SECRET, KALDOR; THE TERMINUS DECREE WOULD HAVE LED YOU TO COME BEFORE ME SO THAT I COULD HAVE USED YOUR NEMESIS PIKE TO KILL MYSELF AND TAKE MY CHANCES WITH BEING REBORN. CAN YOU PERHAPS UNDERSTAND MY DISAPPROVAL THAT YOU TOOK SUCH A STEP WHEN THE IMPERIUM WASN’T IN ANY ACTUAL DANGER OF COLLAPSE?”
Much to Draigo’s relief, Haldebrandt spoke up. “My Lord God, the High Lords are not a particularly truthful bunch, and when they said that you had defeated a daemon that had appeared in the Throne room, it beggared the imagination. How could a daemon appear here, in the most heavily guarded place in the Imperium?” “BECAUSE I SPECIFICALLY SUMMONED IT, YOU TWIT,” the Emperor roared disdainfully. “AND AN INQUISITOR SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO SUBVERT MY WILL.” Valentine’s jar dropped. “Subvert? My Lord God, what are you talking about?” “YOU AND THE OTHER RADICALS OF ORDO MALLEUS AND EVEN HERETICUS SUMMON DAEMONS ALL THE TIME, DESPITE MY ORDER AGAINST THE PRACTICE OF SORCERY STILL STANDING. I SUMMONED A DAEMON ONCE IN FIFTY THOUSAND YEARS, YOU, SIEUR VALENTINE, HAVE DONE IT FOUR TIMES IN THE LAST CENTURY. AT WHAT POINT DID YOU DECIDE THAT MY LAWS WERE TO BE SO EASILY CAST ASIDE?” Valentine was openly sweating now, and unconsciously rubbed his hands together. “Ah…my Lord God, I assure you, all we have done is for the betterment of the Imperium, of mankind.” “WHAT I DO IS FOR THE BETTERMENT OF MANKIND, AS ITS LEADER. AS ITS SERVANTS, YOUR PLACE IS NOT TO DECIDE THAT THE LAWS I ENACT ARE TO BE DISCARDED WHEN THEY BECOME INCONVENIENT.”
Draigo slowly crossed his arms. “Why was I not informed of this?” Valentine turned to Draigo, his face beading with sweat. “Lord Draigo, we can discuss that later.” “THEY DIDN’T TELL YOU BECAUSE YOU WOULD HAVE OBJECTED, LORD DRAIGO.” Valentine took a desperate step forward. “My Lord God, I beg of you, do not-” The Emperor turned his attention back to the Grey Knight, who was changing colors at an impressive pace. “DRAIGO, YOUR ACTIONS WERE INAPPROPRIATE, BUT I DO NOT THINK THEY MERIT PUNISHMENT. WHAT VERY WELL MAY, HOWEVER, IS THE STORY LOGAN GRIMNIR TELLS ME ABOUT YOUR AND THE INQUISITION’S ACTIONS ON ARMAGEDDON. STERILIZING THREE PLANETS BECAUSE THEY MIGHT HAVE LEARNED YOU EXIST? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? WE ARE HUMANITY’S GUIDES AND LEADERS, NOT THAT WHICH THEY FIGHT.” “That policy is abandoned, my Lord God,” Draigo hastened to explain, “and if it was Grimnir telling you, he probably neglected to mention that. He’s held a grudge against us ever since then.” “WHICH HE WAS WELL WITHIN HIS RIGHTS TO DO,” the Emperor roared, angrily, his psychic and auditory voice rising. “YOU KILLED HONEST, UNTAINTED CITIZENS AND SOLDIERS OF MY IMPERIUM BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT PRESERVING YOUR OWN SECRECY WAS MORE IMPORTANT. YOUR ARROGANCE AT ASSUMING THAT THE GREY KNIGHTS SHOULD REMAIN A SECRET AFTER NINE THOUSAND YEARS OF COMBAT ACTIONS IS APPALLING. I CREATED THE INQUISITION TO ACT AS THE PUBLIC FACE OF MY WILL. I CREATED THE GREY KNIGHTS TO ACT AS THE CLOSED FIST OF THE IMPERIUM, TO STAVE OFF CHAOS AND WYRDS.”
“But…my Lord God, were the Knights not to remain a secret?” Draigo asked in mounting horror. “OF COURSE THEY WERE, DRAIGO, BUT NOT AT THE COST OF OVER ONE HUNDRED BILLION INNOCENT LIVES!” the Emperor roared. “WE SEEK TO PRESERVE HUMANITY WITHOUT COSTING IT ITS SOUL, AND YOUR FOOLISH POLICIES DEFEATED THAT PURPOSE.” He turned to the pair of Inquisitors, who immediately stiffened under his disapproving glare. “YOU TWO SUMMONING DAEMONS, THE KNIGHTS MURDERING BILLIONS…ORDO MALLEUS HAS DISAPPOINTED ME IMMENSELY. I THINK, PERHAPS, THE WORST PART IS THAT BOTH THE INQUISITION AND THE GREY KNIGHTS DID NOT TELL ME THIS, EVEN THOUGH SOMETHING OF SUCH IMPORTANCE SHOULD HAVE BEEN TOLD TO ME LONG AGO. THAT STRONGLY SUGGESTS THAT YOU KNEW I WOULD DISAPPROVE IF I HAD KNOWN. YOU CONCEALED THIS FROM ME.” Valentine formally took a knee, his stomach churning. “My Lord God, please, forgive us our trespass.” “NO. RETURN TO YOUR VOID STATION. NOW.” The Emperor turned from them, skewering Draigo with his malevolent stare. “DRAIGO, YOUR ACTIVATION OF THE TERMINUS DECREE IS SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY. RETURN TO TITAN. I WILL VISIT YOU ALL LATER. IN THE INTERIM, ONE OF MY SONS REQUIRES MY ATTENTION.” With a CRACK and a burst of purple mist, He was gone.
On the balcony of the Medical Temple of Craftworld Ulthwe, Robute Guilliman stood, his hands on the railing, feeling the artificial breeze on his face. The wind stung his still-bruised neck, but he reveled in it. His experience had been bizarre; one moment, he had been sitting on the throne of Macragge, surrounded by worried Ultramarines, the next, he had been tied to a table, his armor removed, and an Eldar Warlock with her hands on his throat. After a few seconds of wacky misunderstandings, a Farseer and a Vindicare Assassin, of all people, had approached him and explained what was going on, and that Emperor Himself had brought him here. Now, he was alive again, free, his traitorous brother’s poison gone from him, while his father was on the way to see him again. The Vindicare had respectfully taken him aside and informed him of the Emperor’s monstrous appearance, which the Eldar had confirmed. Robute foind it difficult to believe that the Emperor he had fought beside so many times would have stooped to such a level, but there was a part of him that loved the idea of His return…even if there would be a few changes. The Vindicare’s presence had been a shock, but the Eldar had hastened to explain that he was on an extended, informal loan. They were obviously lying, but he was still grateful enough not to press the matter. The Farseer, Taldeer, had told him that the Emperor was coming back to see him in person, and would arrive within an hour. She was off with the other Farseers, in fact, preparing for his arrival.
Naturally enough, the story had rung false to him at first, but the Eldar had been fervent in their claims, and the Assassin, Livii (Roboute didn’t even know they had names) had sworn them to be true. They had even shown him, in their own smug way, an intercepted Astropath communiqué from Terra alerting the Imperium to remain calm and, essentially, roll with the punches. Roboute had been stunned that even the aristocracy seemed to believe that the Emperor was a living God. Hadn’t that been a facet of the Imperial Truth? That there were no gods at all, and the Emperor was simply a very powerful human? It seemed times had not changed for the better since his laceration from Fulgrim. Fulgrim…the Ultramarine tightened his grip on the bannister. That traitorous son of a bitch had damn near killed him last time they had met. When his strength returned…he would make Fulgrim pay dearly.
4-021-001-M42
Forgefather He’stan of the Salamanders stood at the edge of his chambers, gazing out at the planet below. The Chalice of Fire, which he had made his home once he had been relieved of command of 4th Company, was slowly orbiting Prometheus. The planet was unusually settled, for once. The moon of Nocturne was at its farthest from the earthquake-wracked planet, and the weather was such that vast crops could be planted and harvested quickly in the rich, volcanic soil. The world had received, naturally, the news of the Emperor’s return. Emotions had ranged from horror to ecstasy, but He’stan knew that only secondhand. He had been off in another ship, trying to track down one of the lost Artefacts of Vulkan when the news hit. The planet below had been in an uproar when he returned, much like the rest of the galaxy. Chapter Master Tu’Shan had greeted him, urgently requesting that he remove himself to the Chalice of Fire to prepare for the Emperor’s personal arrival. Indeed, it seemed that the Raven Guard, Black Templars, and Dark Angels had already been visited by the Emperor in person, and to a lesser and more perplexing extent, so had the Ultramarines.
If Tu’Shan had been expecting an argument from He’Stan on that point, he was quickly surprised: He’Stan had been thrilled at the chance. His return was not coincidental: he had found an Artefact. He turned from the viewport and reverently lifted the Song of Entropy from its cradle, slowly turning it in his hands. There was no risk of damaging it, of course, made as it was of adamantium, but even he was overcome a bit by the awe of being the Forgefather who recovered an Artefact. The Song of Entropy was a fitting name for it. It looked at first to be a normal Power Fist, but it clearly wasn’t. Its impact hand had been removed, leaving only the powered portion of the gauntlet. In the place of the actual hand itself, a pair of tiny sonic disruptors had been placed, much like those mounted on the Titan Killer Ordinatus Mars. The device was as heavy as a Power First, but could blast apart the hull of a tank with a single shot, though He’Stan suspected that its tight focus would make it useless against groups of infantry in good cover and dispersal.
He had informed the rest of the Chapter, and even in the tumult of the Emperor’s bizarre means of return, they had rejoiced as one, though each and every one was freshly returned from Armageddon. The chapter had taken heinous losses fighting off the Orks, though the planet was still in Imperial hands, and Tu’Shan had told He’Stan quietly that the whole planet held them now in the same regard that they had held Commander Dante in the second War for Armageddon: reverence and awe. The Salamanders were wise enough not to exploit this, of course. The Chapter Master’s voice spoke from He’Stan’s personal vox. “Forgefather, are you there? There is news.” He’Stan hurriedly placed the Song back in its ceramite cradle and replied. “Yes, Brother-Captain, I am here. What’s the word?” “The Telepaths stationed aboard the outermost void platform tell me that a ship approaches at great speed, brother, and they suspect it to be an Eldar Aurora.” He’Stan paused for a moment before replying. “An Eldar ship? What could they possibly want here?” “I can not fathom their alien minds, brother, but I strongly recommend that you make ready the Chalice’s defenses. Our own fleet is docked for repairs on Nocturne’s drydocks, and only the Eye of Vulkan, a few escort ships, the SDF, and the Chalice stand guard right now..” “Acknowledged,” He’Stan said wearily. “I will ready the Chalice for battle. When do the Eldar arrive?” “Two hours,” Tu’Shan said with quiet relief. “Best of luck. Our teleportoriae stand ready to teleport boarders into their vessel if it gets close enough.”
The fleets of the Salamanders, for their relative lack of Battle Brothers, are impressive. Skilled forgers all, the Salamanders know the importance of proper materiel. As such, though the three Battle Barges of the Salamanders fleet were all occupied when the Eldar ship arrived, the fleet was not unprepared. Master of the Ships Ir’Shal was quick to mobilize what assets remained in orbit above Prometheus, and array them around the Eye of Vulkan. The Eldar would not find the Salamanders defenseless. Ir’Shal himself teleported to the flag vessel of the small fleet, the Chalice. Though it was a Forge Ship, and thus unsuitable for actual, ship-to-ship combat, its origins as Vulkan’s own craft were obvious. Its shocking array of lance batteries were sufficient to tear a Great Cruiser in half, though it was no match for a Battle Barge or Battleship. Ir’Shal strode onto the bridge of the vessel, where he found He’Stan pacing, glancing out over the bulk of the ship occasionally. Gasses from the many manufactoria aboard were vented from the ship occasionally, so it looked like sections of the hull were aflame when the light caught the gas at the right angle. Ir’Shal wondered if the view was prophetic.
“Never have I seen you so excited, Forgefather Vulkan He’Stan,” Ir’Shal said drily at the look on He’Stan’s face. The old Salamander started and glanced at the relatively youthful Ir’Shal with a sheepish grin. “The moment is not lost on me, friend, but I am still in awe at the recent tide of events.” Ir’Shal nodded knowingly, cutting a path through the serfs and servitors on the bridge to his battle-brother. “Yes…these are interesting times. The Emperor returns to us as a daemon…I find another of the Artefacts…Lord Corax and Lord Russ return to their chapters, and so does Lord El’Jonson…I have to wonder.” “Wonder…if Lord Vulkan will return to us?” Ir’Shal finished, shrugging his mechadendrites. Like many Salamanders who served aboard warships, he had received Techmarine training on a Forge World after become a Battle-Brother, and it served him well among the fleet’s Enginseers that he was capable of shouldering his fair share of the grunt work of repairs. He’Stan nodded slowly. “Lord Russ made it clear that he would return when the needs were most dire, in the End Times. Lord Vulkan said the same…even if I have not yet found the missing three Artefacts, surely the rest of the prophecies in the Book of Fire ring true?” “I wonder what Lord Commander Dante would say to that,” Ir’Shal asked quietly, joining Vulkan at the armourcris window.
“I imagine he would have his own opinion,” He’Stan said politely. He respected Dante more than any other Marine not of the Salamanders, Black Dragons, or Mentor Legion, but the fact that Dante interpreted an eleven thousand year old prophecy to mean that he was going to be the last Marine to defend the Emperor rankled a bit. “Surely,” Ir’Shal said in the same voice. He glanced around the bridge to see if any new messages had been posted by the Astropaths. “Let me save you the trouble, Brother,” He’Stan put in. He tapped a blank wall segment between two panels of armourcris and a hololith of the void station where the Astropathic relay had first detected the ship. “No messages.” “Nice toy,” Ir’Shal said with no audible sarcasm. He’Stan smirked. “I like it, yeah.” Before he could twist the knife, a blip appeared next to the icon of the void station in the holofield. He’Stan poked at it with an armored finger, and it expanded into a scrolling block of text. He’Stan looked it over and set his face. “The Eldar will arrive in ten minutes. Is the Eye prepared, Brother?” “Naturally,” Ir’Shal said, “it’s the focus of our entire defense system.”
The Eldar ship screamed out of the Warp in usual Eldar fashion, as fast as possible. Eldar vessels are quite reasonably designed to spend as little time in the Warp as possible, as it’s far from good for them. The Webway is their preferred means of travel, but even the Eldar recognize the necessity of a means of travel in the Warp. The Adeptus Mechanicus would pay dearly to gain access to a fully operational Eldar Dragon Ship’s warp drive. Rendering the Navis Nobilite obsolete would be in the interests of the Mechanicum, though they would never have admitted it. The Chalice of Fire maneuvered alongside the Eye of Vulkan, powering up its lance arrays. The Eye’s laser batteries whined inaudibly as they sought out targets in the inky void of space. Finally, the Eldar vessel streamed out of the Warp, holding fast just beyond the range of the defenses mustered by the Salamanders. He’Stan snorted derisively. “Fine. It’s one ship. We’ll just draw it back and hit it.” Ir’Shal, however, narrowed his eyes speculatively. “A moment, Brother…that ship is not powering weapons, and its disguising device is inactive.” After a moment, he turned to the communications officer, a fellow Techmarine. “Brother Far’turath, see if they’re trying to hail us.” “They are, Master,” the Techmarine said in a completely unsurprised voice. “They demand to speak to…the Hero of Armageddon?” Ir’Shal stared. “The…is the dialogous translator operational?” “Naturally, sir, it is,” the Techmarine replied coolly. “They are repeating their request.” He’Stan shrugged, an oddly surreal feeling washing over him. “Might as well. Put the Chapter Master on.” Ir’Shal spun to face him. “Brother?” “They want to speak to Tu’Shan, Brother,” He’Stan pointed out. “We may as well let them. At that range they could escape if we refuse and move to attack.”
After a moment of unspoken dialogue between the Forgefather and Master of the Ships, Ir’Shal relented. “Very well, Brother He’Stan. Far’turath, relay the message to the Monastery.” “Yes, sir,” the Techmarine said, tapping a few buttons on his console and muttering the Litany of Communication. A few seconds later, the console beeped, and Tu’Shan’s face, glinting red from his eyes, appeared. “Brothers, what is this about? Are we under attack or not?” he asked tersely. “No, Brother Commander,” He’Stan said quickly. “The Eldar vessel is hailing you. Specifically.” “Consorting with xenos forces is heresy, Brother,” Tu’Shan said stiffly. “Yet they are here, and will simply leave if we do-” He’Stan started to say, before a shockingly real hologram appeared in the space between the Eye and the Eldar Aurora. A huge symbol of the Ultramarines appeared. Ir’Shal gaped. “What in the living hell am I looking at? Is there an Ultramarine aboard?” After several seconds confused murmuring in the background of Tu’Shan’s holopict, which seemed to distract him, the Chapter Master turned his gaze back to the pict caster. “I have no idea, but it seems that they truly do wish to parley.” Ir’Shal nodded, and gestured to the Comm officer. He tapped the appropriate rune, and the image of an Eldar in the colors of Ulthwe appeared. “Do I address Tu’Shan?” the helmetless woman said without preamble, in the melodious voice of the Eldar. Oddly, her Low Gothic was flawless, with none of the high inflections that usually accompanied Eldar speech.
“I would know to whom I speak, alien,” Tu’Shan said flatly. The Eldar cocked her head a few degrees to the side, expressionless. “I take that as a yes, then,” she said. “I am Eagle Pilot En’kris, of Ulthwe. I bear an urgent message for the one known to the Imperium of Man as the Hero of Armageddon. I assume that to be you?” “Well, the Marines Malevolent wouldn’t agree,” Tu’Shan said with the ghost of a grin, “but yes. I am. What do you want?” “To tell you that Roboute Guilliman has awoken, and that your master, the one named Vulkan,” she said, ignoring the sudden consternation her remark had created, “will return to you very soon. Your Emperor himself has told us this, as he does not want the information to be spread via your…crude astropathy. Vulkan’s position is…precarious.” Tu’Shan, to his credit, only let his jaw hang open for a moment. “You…you are certain of this? Why are you telling us?” “I’m telling you because Ulthwe owed your Emperor a debt, and because two…what are they called? Primarches?” “Primarchs,” Ir’Shal corrected, his mind reeling. “Yeah, Primarchs. Two of them together would ward off the armies of Chaos well, and Ulthwe will do anything to damage the ancient foe.” She nodded with sardonic respect. “Also, I know it because your Emperor himself told us. Personally. He has visited Ulthwe twice in the last several days.”
The noise on the bridge of the Chalice couldn’t have been louder if someone were setting off fireworks. Several Marines were openly arguing with each other at the proclamation. He’Stan turned to glare at the offending parties until the talking quieted down. As the noise died, he turned back to the now openly smirking Eldar. “And why has he come to you?” he asked with a voice that could have frozen the lava on the planet below. En’kris seemed not to care. “Tight discipline. He visited us because each needed the other. We needed him to rescue one of our Farseers from She Who Thirsts, he needed us to resurrect Guilliman. I guess he thought you couldn’t do it?” she asked, lording it up. Tu’Shan nodded slowly. “Good call,” he said calmly, refusing to let his satisfaction at the surprised look on her face show. “We haven’t the facilities to heal someone in stasis.” “Well, Guilliman’s awake now,” the alien woman said, trying to regain the verbal advantage. “He is recuperating from his ordeal, and wanted to let you know that Vulkan has been found by your Emperor. He just can’t get to him yet, or something. Who knows?”
Ir’Shal seemed on the brink of ordering the Eye to fire on the Eldar ship despite its being out of range when Tu’Shan spoke. “Thank you for informing us. Now you may leave us.” The Eldar pilot seemed about to say something else when He’Stan cut the channel. The ship hovered in space for a few more seconds before finally disappearing, its Warp drive sucking it back into the immaterium. He’Stan turned to the hologram of the Chapter Master, his mind racing. “Lord Vulkan…he returns. It seems my hunch was right.” “Indeed,” Ir’Shal said, his voice contemplative. He slowly rubbed his finger across his chin, lost in thought. “I wonder what obstacle could slow even our reborn Emperor from aiding Lord Vulkan?” “I’d rather know where exactly Lord Vulkan is, frankly,” He’Stan said, apparently arriving at the same point as Tu’Shan. “If he is lost to the Warp, such that the Emperor can not even tell us, his children, his location, he must be on a daemon world, or something similar.”
Deep in the twisting fathoms of the Warp, the realms of Chaos fade and blur. There are regions of the immaterium that even the principle Ruinous Gods don’t claim, areas where the daemons and lost souls of Chaos Undivided and the lesser Gods, like Malal, make their homes. Sprites and cackling gargoyles swoop about in the raw stuff of Chaos itself, snatching up souls that don’t enter the material of the Warp fast enough and devouring them. Only on the rarest of occasions are these realms of the Warp taken into the materium, usually because an entity in the realm of the living opened a rift in the name of Chaos Undivided. These daemon worlds are cracked and barren, the pride and arrogance of Chaos Undivided’s daemons and sprites fiercely driving off all transgressors, usually including the hapless inhabitants of the planets themselves. It was on one of these worlds where Vulkan, Primarch of the Salamanders, found himself trapped. Even he wasn’t sure how he had wound up here, for he remembered driving his shuttle into the Eye of Terror. When the suffuse red haze over the sky receded enough, he could see nothing beyond it but empty space. Time was funny here, he could feel himself growing older, then younger, then older again at the whim of the daemons whose realms he invaded, endlessly fighting. He had abandoned what little armor he had brought with him as useless, rent to pieces by grasping claws. He hadn’t survived the month, after arrival, in fact, but every time he fell in battle, he was reawakened, his wounds mended, his youth restored.
The endless fighting that so characterized the world was not that of the mindless bloodlust of Khorne, but something more insidious: spite. The daemons who ruled this planet battled each other as much as him, and they would at times use him as a prize, allowing him to fight his way through their realms, other times yet allowing him to act as a free agent, and simply observing him with glee. Vulkan had long since stopped trying to do anything other than escape. When he arrived, his soul was full of conviction, sure that he would find absolution for his failure at Isstvan V here, battling until the end of days. Shortly thereafter, however, to his horror, he had realized that anything he slew here rose again shortly thereafter, including himself. Now, he desperately struggled to find a way off of the cursed planet, to return to his own realm. He had been trapped for near to nine thousand years, and the endless monotony of the world had worn at him the entire time. “Didn’t I kill you yesterday?” he muttered, the old joke failing to elicit a grim as it once did. He swiped the chunk of rock he had lifted at a screeching gargoyle, who crumpled to the ground, twitching feebly. Vulkan dropped a heel on the writhing monster, then walked away, ignoring it. “What’s funny is,” he thought aloud, “if Orks ever came here, they’d love it. The bastards love a good pointless fight.” He drove the iron chisel he had made into the rockface beind him and slowly climbed up. When he reached the top, he stared out over the view and shook his head.
A rocky plain stretched out before him, as far as the eye could see. Dark clouds, like bruises in the red sky, drifted around in impossible directions, and choking swarms of tiny insects buzzed around the rotting carcasses of daemons, scattered across the plain. Vulkan sighed and hauled himself all the way up the short cliff, then sat heavily on a rock atop the hill. He ran his tongue across parched lips. “Wonder if I’ve been here yet…” he said faintly, before deciding it didn’t really matter. He just had to keep going, despite its seeming meaninglessness. A bolt of lightning struck the ground at the base of the hill, startling Vulkan to his feet. He hefted the iron chisel that had become his companion, as two more struck the exact same spot. Disregarding the danger of holding a chunk of iron during a lightning strike, he stared upward, his eyes narrowing. He found what he was looking for immediately. A bloated bag of flesh hanging from tattered wing was descending towards him, casually tossing lightning around like it was going out of style. Vulkan sneered and drew back his chisel, bracing his foot on the rock he had just vacated.
The bag of flesh, a daemon of Chaos Undivided from the look of it, shrieked and dove towards him, wobbling in the air. Vulkan narrowed his eyes, timing his throw…and hurtled the block of iron with all his strength. The block of iron shot through the air like a dark, slamming into the daemon with the impact of a rifle shot. It screamed, its control lost, spiraling down towards him. Vulkan drew back his hands, waiting for the creature to come in close enough. When the thing was nearly close enough to hit the ground, it spread its wings, the chisel still stuck in its bloated chest, swooping towards the Primarch. Vulkan waited until just the right moment…then struck. “DIE!” he roared, thrusting his palms together so fast they seemed to blur, landing the blow squarely on the metal chisel lodged in the daemon’s body. The impact struck like a cannonball, and the being seemed to explode in mid-air, splattering the ground at Vulkan’s feet with viscera.
Vulkan looked at the splattered daemon with unconcealed satisfaction, then let himself slump back down on the rocky hillside, pausing to retrieve the gory chisel, which he cleaned reverently. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he muttered to it, then sat back on the rock, staring out over the endless plain. “ARE YOU TALKING TO ME OR THE CHISEL, KIDDO?” a vast psychic voice roared. Vulkan launched to his feet, his heart suddenly pounding. He clenched his hands and spun around, his eyes searching wildly for the source of the voice. “Show yourself!” he demanded. A bright purple light flashed in the great distance, a huge blast of purple smoke roiling out from the site as something materialized in the middle of a cloud of flame demons, who were crushed or blasted aside. “WHOA, FUCK, I WASN’T EXPECTING THAT” the voice roared, surprised. “FUCK, I KNEW THIS WOULD BE A DIFFICULT INSERTION.” Vulkan gaped, astonished. A Khornate daemon, here, in the realm of Chaos Undivided? “Who the hell are you?” he demanded of thin air. To his complete lack of surprise, the voice answered in his head, a loud animal roar echoing across the plain from the daemon’s position.
“REALLY? YOU DON’T KNOW YOUR OWN FATHER? WELL, I GUESS WE ARE KIND OF FAR APART RIGHT NOW. HEY, GET SOME COVER, I’M GOING TO CUT LOOSE.” The creature leapt up, landing several feet away, and galloped straight for Vulkan’s position. Vulkan gasped in shock, as much at the creature’s words as his actions, and stared at the sight. “SERIOUSLY, VULKAN, GET BEHIND SOMETHING STURDY, THIS IS GOING TO GET LOUD,” the creature said, its psychic voice maddeningly familiar. Vulkan snapped from his stupor, and deciding that it was best to do as he was told before things started making sense again, dropped down behind the rock he had been using as a seat, poking his head out to watch. The gigantic daemon was running forward at a shocking pace for something so fast, though it was slower than its huge legs suggested it could run. All around it, a purple haze spread, and as the hordes of insects and tiny daemons crossed into it, they died, dropping in its wake like rocks. A huge winged daemon swooped down at the lumbering leviathan, its claws extended. The massive daemon didn’t even change course, just glancing up at it. A moment later, a blast of light slammed into the diving daemon, sending it tumbling from the sky as if a Hydra had hit it. The huge orange beast didn’t slow, charging forward through the rocky plain. It stared up at the rock Vulkan was hiding behind, dumbfounded. “HEY, VULKAN, YOU MIGHT WANT TO GET BEHIND SOMETHING STURDIER. REALLY. ACTUALLY, ON SECOND THOUGHT, THAT MIGHT BE ENOUGH. HANG ON.”
Vulkan’s jaw dropped when he saw the enormous orange monster suddenly flicker, seeming to disappear for an instant, before glowing contrails appeared behind its legs and clawed forelimbs. Its speed nearly doubled, racing forward like a Jetbike, nearly to the base of the hill, outpacing the daemons that were chasing it. When it was almost even with Vulkan’s position, it suddenly jumped, turning in midair, skidding to a halt abreast with the hill Vulkan was on, shooting up a cloud of dust. He felt the air crackle with energy, and the beast’s eyes started glowing a blinding purple light. “COVER YOUR EARS, VULKAN, RIGHT NOW,” the daemon said, opening its mouth. Vulkan clamped his hands over his ears, mashing his thumbs into his ear canals to protect his eardrums. The creature reared back on two legs, its mouth hanging open. “BE GONE!” it roared aloud, its psychic voice no louder than it had been, but its actual voice so loud that Vulkan’s ears rang. A wave of blinding purple arcs of electricity shot out from the thing’s eyes and mouth, rolling over the plain like a tsunami. Daemons and sprites shrieked, their bodies charred and incinerated, their souls torn from their withering corpses and rent asunder by the sheer power of the blast. Cracks appeared in the ground where the beam had passed, black smoke pouring from bruised rocks. A path of boulders glowed red where the arcs of lightning had struck. Vulkan’s eyes were dazzled by the flash of light, and he squeezed his eyes shut, ducking back behind the rock. After several seconds, he gingerly stood, opening his eyes and pulling his hands away from his ears. There wasn’t much left in the path of the beam.
The ancient Primarch dropped to his knees, awe, terror, and shock flooding through him, competing for his attention. The huge beast turned his gaze on the few remaining daemons, and they flew off with indecent haste. It glanced over at the dark-skinned Salamander and seemed to grow smug. “YEAH, I HAVEN’T LOST IT. YOU OK?” it asked, concern coloring its psychic voice. Vulkan slowly turned to face the daemon, nearly at eye level. “…Father? Is it…really you? Here? Alive?” he asked, his voice and movements slow and jerky. “YEP, IT’S ME. I’M GLAD YOU’RE OK. WE NEED TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE,” the Emperor said, turning his gaze back to the smoldering ruin of the plain. “I WONDER IF THAT WILL BE VISIBLE FROM SPACE,” he said offhandedly. “Father,” Vulkan said, his voice breaking. He hell to his knees, tears welling up in his glowing red eyes. “WHOA, HEY, VULKAN, IT’LL BE ALL RIGHT, LET’S JUST GET YOU OUT OF HERE. YOU NEED TO GET AROUND A WEEK’S WORTH OF SLEEP,” the huge Emperor said in concern. A diffuse purple haze surrounded the two of them, and streaks of deep red light surrounded them. Vulkan squeezed his eyes shut, an agonized whimper escaping his lips. He was being dragged through the Warp by the Emperor!
“YOU CAN OPEN YOUR EYES, VULKAN, I’M KEEPING US SAFE,” the Emperor’s voice said, perhaps somewhat distractedly. Vulkan slowly opened his eyes, finding the light and movement confusing, frightening, but not threatening. Streaks of red, blue, yellow, green, flashes of horrible carnage, boiling lakes of pus floating in vacuum, rivulets of liquids pouring over flesh cups, tornadoes of infinite size twisting past empty lands…he saw it all. “Father, I think I’d prefer to keep my eyes closed,” Vulkan said guardedly, screwing his eyes shut again. “YOUR CALL.” The Emperor was seemingly immobile, hurtling through the Immaterium as if across the surface of a lake, but not moving at all. Vulkan experimentally moved his left hand, but found it like trying to push through tar. His movements were so slow that it seemed worthless. “I…I shouldn’t have broken down like that, Father, but-” “OH, SHUT UP,” the Emperor said distantly. “BELIEVE ME, AFTER WHAT YOU’VE BEEN THROUGH MOST PEOPLE WOULD HAVE GONE DAEMONIC.” “But where were you?” Vulkan finished, his voice cracking with anger and disappointment. “WHAT? WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” the Emperor said in surprise. “If you could have rescued me like that sooner, why didn’t you?” Vulkan said, his voice seething. “LOOK AT ME. I’VE MERGED WITH A KHORNATE DAEMON BECAUSE I LITERALLY HAD NO CHOICE,” the Emperor roared, clearly trying to keep his tone level. “THIS ONLY HAPPENED A FEW DAYS AGO; IF I COULD HAVE RESCUED YOU SOONER, BELIEVE ME I WOULD HAVE.”
Vulkan sighed heavily, the rage leaving him as fast as it had swelled up. “Yes, Father. I’m sorry…fuck, I’m just…very tired. The only chance I had to rest when I was on that cursed rock was when I was literally dead.” “YEAH. WELL, WE’RE HEADED TO THE NEAREST IMPERIAL WORLD FOR A BRIEF STOP BEFORE I TAKE YOU BACK TO PROMETHEUS,” the Emperor roared, his own anger fading. The poor guy had been through a lot. “We are? Why?” Vulkan asked, weariness tugging at his eyes. “IT’S A PARADISE GARDEN WORLD CALLED SEDRIS’S FORTUNE, AND THERE’S A CARDINAL PALACE ON ONE OF ITS MOONS. YOU’RE GOING TO RECUPERATE THERE FOR A DAY OR SO BEFORE I TAKE YOU BACK TO NOCTURNE, BECAUSE NO OFFENSE, KID, BUT YOU LOOK LIKE SOMETHING THE DOG DRAGGED IN. YOU’D NEVER SURVIVE A TRIP THROUGH THE WARP FROM HERE TO YOUR FORTRESS. WE’RE ACTUALLY OUTSIDE THE GALAXY RIGHT NOW.” “Oh? That would explain…things,” Vulkan said, the starless sky finally making sense. “I…thought I flew into the Eye of Terror…” “YOU DID, SPACE IS A FUNNY THING IN THE WARP. YOU GOT SUCKED INTO THE WAKE OF ONE OF THE DAEMONBIRTHS, YOU KNOW, WHEN LORGAR OR WHOEVER PROMOTES SOMEONE TO DAEMONHOOD. THE SHOCKWAVE LAUNCHED YOU OUT OF THE DARK GODS’ REALMS, INTO THE REGIONS NOBODY CLAIMED. IT’S COMPLICATED. DON’T WORRY,” the Emperor explained.
“Yeah…all right…” Vulkan said, before exhaustion finally overtook him. He slid into a shallow, unpleasant sleep, his dreams haunted by the visions of Chaos that flickered beyond the tiny bubble of normalcy the Emperor was projecting. The Emperor turned his attention to his own telepathic powers. Far away, in orbit above the Cardinal Moon of Averus Lona, an astropathic relay station was abuzz. The telepaths had heard of the return of the Emperor, just like nearly every single other human in the galaxy, but this was rather more urgent. The Master Telepath sat in his central position in the main temple, bowing his head nearly to the floor. “My Lord God, the Cardinal shall be informed at once.” “GOOD MAN,” a distant psychic voice said. “I EXPECT THIS TO BE DISCREET. THE CARDINAL MEANS WELL, BUT MY SON IS…NOT IN ANY SHAPE TO BE SITTING THROUGH POMP AND CEREMONY.” “You honor me, My Lord God,” the Astropath said, giddy. “I will inform the Cardinal that the arrival will be a secret. He will make sure that Lord Vulkan’s arrival will be quiet.” “GREAT. I ARRIVE IN…MAYBE FIFTEEN MINUTES.” The Telepaths looked at each other uncertainly with their empty eye sockets. “Ah…that’s…very short notice, my Lord God,” the Master Telepath said carefully. “TOO SHORT? TOO BAD. VULKAN WON’T SURVIVE A LONGER TRIP SANE. IT NEARLY KILLED CORAX.” The Master Telepath bowed so low he nearly touched his forehead to the floor. “As you say, my Lord God. They will be ready.”
9-022-001-M42
“They’s everywhere at once, boss!” a Nob yelled angrily, firing his shoota into the treeline. Hedbreakuh slapped him upside the head. “I know that, ya git! Get the burnaboyz up here, we’re going ta torch ‘dis whole forest!” he hollered. The pack of boyz behind him charged up to the trees, hosing them down with napalm and promethium. One of them pitched forward, his back ablaze, a hole appearing in his tank and engulfing him in burning promethium. The others spun to face the spot in the trees where the shot had come from, blasting it with fire. On the opposite side of the river from where the Orks were busily falling into his trap, Jaghatai Khan grinned widely. He had been wreaking havoc on the local greenskin vermin since his arrival nearly a week ago, and it was paying off. They had done more damage to themselves than he had done to them, and though their numbers were still too high to confront directly, they were on the verge of panic. They just needed one more good prod before they collapsed entirely… Jaghatai snuck back from the trees he had been hiding in, then sprinted the ten meters to the next copse of trees. Beyond it, he could see the huge series of craters where the Warboss Hedbreakuh had made his camp, and much of it was in gratifying turmoil.
The Gargant he had damaged with his out-of-control Squiggoth was in ruins, the Warboss having blamed the Big Mek for the chaos at first. When the dust had settled, everything larger than the Squiggoth itself was wrecked, and the Orks were in a blood frenzy. Jaghatai had retreated to hunt and lay traps, and the Orks had stumbled into the traps with a regularity that was both amusing and productive. After nearly a day of having them chase their own tails, he had snuck into the camp and butchered a Gretchin, dropping his bits into the food tanks the Orks had made. They hadn’t even noticed for several hours, but when they did, it had turned into a brawl. More and more Orks were being drawn away from sentry duty or building things to search for him, and the smarter Gretchins were refusing to leave the camp entirely, provoking several more brawls. All the while, his actual target was sitting in the middle of the camp, awkwardly chained to a tree, its handler long since dead. Jaghatai stared at it and smirked, before redirecting his attention to the Mega Nob in the far side of the camp. It was time to sow some more anarchy…
Meanwhile, back on the Cardinal Moon of Averus Lona, a small group of Ecclesiarchs were busily whipping themselves into a frenzy. A team of white-robed servitors were clearing furniture and people from one of the meeting halls, and the sector’s Cardinal fidgeted at the front of the room. “Do you think that the God-Emperor will arrive in person, or just drop Lord Vulkan off?” he asked his aide worriedly.
“I haven’t the foggiest, your Eminence, but the Astropaths said that the message came from the Emperor Himself,” the young man replied. “We shall see…he should arrive any second now.”
“Yes…oh, goodness me, my skin is crawling. I’ve not felt this sort of nerves since I was younger than you!” the wizened old Cardinal said, rubbing his hands together. Before the subaltern could reply, a purple mist flooded into the room. The servitors shuffled the last of the other people out just before the air in the room parted with a CRACK, and the Emperor appeared. Vulkan dropped face-down on the floor. The Cardinal slowly raised his hands over his mouth, his eyes as wide as tea cups.
“FATHER, GOOD TO SEE YOU. THANKS FOR AGREEING TO TAKE MY SON IN ON SHORT NOTICE,” the Emperor nodded, hiding his distaste for all things religious behind a veneer of gratitude. The Cardinal didn’t react, he and his younger colleague both looking a bit green around the gills. A member of the Sororitas, who had fortuitously accompanied them both to the meeting, poked the Cardinal in the ribs, jolting him from his horrified stupor. He scrambled to his knees, as did his sidekick. The Sororitas reverently took a knee as well.
“Most Divine, you bless and honor us with-”
“ENOUGH,” the Emperor said with mounting irritation. “GET UP. SISTER, PLEASE SEE TO THE WELFARE OF MY SON. VULKAN HAS HAD A VERY TRYING…MILLENNIA OR NINE.”
“As you will, Holy One,” The Sororitas said, rising to her feet. She hurried over to the slumbering Salamander, and gingerly draped one of his arms over her shoulder. She hefted him to an upright position and effortlessly carried him to the rear entrance of the room with her power armor-enhanced muscles. She nudged the door open, and placed the comatose Primarch on a medicae cart that the Sororitas of the moon used to transport their own wounded, and started to wheel him off to the infirmary. The Emperor turned back to the two priests, who were trying very hard not to look at the bestial Emperor’s form with revulsion. “THANKS AGAIN, SIEUR, I’LL BE BACK TO RETRIEVE HIM IN A WEEK OR SO. IF HE WANTS TO, YOU KNOW, LEAVE BEFORE THAT, JUST HAVE THE ASTROPATHICA LET ME KNOW, THEY KNOW HOW TO REACH ME,” the Emperor said casually, his demeanor all business. “I MUST ATTEND TO ANOTHER MATTER. FAREWELL.” With a CRACK of air that nearly knocked the two priests off their feet, he was gone again. The old Cardinal turned to the subaltern, gaping. “I…oh, forgive me, Emperor, but…I hadn’t expected him to look…” “Like something Arbitrator Foreboding would shoot?” the younger priest finished wryly. “Yes, it was quite…unnerving. Still, Lord Vulkan will be our sacred guest until he recovers…we must make a good impression.”
The Cardinal turned to the door through which the comatose Primarch had been unceremoniously carted off, and made to follow. The younger priest held him back with a hand on his shoulder. “Your Eminence, if I may ask a question before we see to Lord Vulkan?” “What is it, child?” the Cardinal asked, his face betraying impatience. “Where are we even going to let him stay? If he heals quickly, he won’t want to stay in the medicae ward,” the young cleric pointed out. The Cardinal thought for a moment. “I have many friends on Sedris’s Fortune,” he said after a moment. “I’m sure we can arrange a quiet place to rest there.” “Surely…such a base place, though,” the priest said distastefully, walking towards the exit. The Cardinal sped up to match him, falling in at his side. “Well, it’s the best we can do under the circumstances, until a ship can come to retrieve him, or the Emperor returns to pick him up,” he said, his tone final.
3-024-001-M42
For the fifth time in nine days, Castellan Creed found himself standing in front of the Emperor. This time, however, the meeting convened with the two of them standing in a Titan maintenance bay in Kasr Vortiga, the rain outside far too torrential for another outdoors meeting. “SO, WHAT YOU’RE SAYING, CASTELLAN, IS THAT YOU HAVE NO IDEA,” the Emperor’s psychic voice said wearily. Creed nodded, a flake of tobacco drifting from his cigar. “Correct, my Lord God,” Creed said carefully. “Fifteen of the civilians from Lord Russ’s group have died from illness or malnutrition since you brought them here, and while his Astartes are…well, they’re made of sterner stuff, and not dying, something is clearly weakening them. We have no idea what it is.” “I CAN BLASTED WELL TELL YOU WHAT IT IS,” the Emperor snarled. “IT’S THE DAMN PLAGUE THAT MOTIVATED ME TO GET OFF OF THE THRONE AND COME HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE. I THOUGHT SEPARATING ABBADON FROM HIS LIMBS WOULD FORESTALL THE PLAN. I GUESS NOT.” Creed bowed, choosing his next words with exceptional care. “Ah…forgive me, my Lord God, but didn’t you tell the High Lords of Terra that it was some conspiracy by rogue Inquisitors and daemon-proofed psykers that motivated you? The Lord Commander Solar informed me quite privately sometime after they made their message to the Imperium.” “YES I DID, AND YES IT DID. I COULD HAVE DEALT WITH A WARP-MADE PLAGUE FROM THE THRONE, BUT THE ILLUMINATI’S LITTLE GAMBLE WOULD HAVE MADE IT MUCH, MUCH HARDER. THEY WERE TWO HALVES OF THE DECISION. AND STOP GROVELING, LORD CREED, REALLY. IT’S EMBARRASSING.” Creed straightened up, shifting his shoulder uncomfortably. “Yes, my Lord God.”
A pair of white and red-robed Enginseers meandered into the room, arguing about something amiably. They both stopped dead upon seeing the colossal orange Emperor, and backed out of the bay, bowing and mumbling prayers. Creed let the sight distract him for a moment before returning his attention to the Emperor. “Does that mean that you will be attending to the matter personally, my Lord God?” “I MIGHT AS WELL. EVEN I CAN’T BRING BACK THE ONES WITH THE PLAGUE, BUT I CAN STOP IT AT ITS SOURCE. THE PLACE WHERE I FOUGHT ABBADON, CAN YOU FIND ITS EXACT LOCATION ON AN ORBITAL MAP? POSITION A SHIP WITH AT LEAST GRAND CRUISER-CLASS BOMBARDMENT WEAPONS OVER IT IF SO. I’LL BE RIGHT BACK,” the Emperor roared, glancing at the open primary doors of the bay, where the torrential rain was visible. “I certainly can, my Lord God, and Lord Admiral Clenden’s flag vessel is scheduled to pass overhead in two hours. He can divert to the battle site until needed,” Creed said. “SWELL. I’LL FIND YOU WHEN I NEED THE BOMBARDMENT TO BEGIN.” Without another word, the huge Emperor ambled out the door, vanishing with a loud CRACK of air.
Creed spun on his heel, marching up to the Comms room. The operators stood at their station as the square-jawed Lord Castellan walked in, then sat back down as he distractedly waved. “Get me a secure line to Lord Admiral Clenden’s flag vessel,” he said to the nearest operator. She nodded and mumbled a few lines of the Litany of Activation to her console, poking a few runes with her mechdendrite. The image of the greying Lord Admiral appeared in the middle of the room, flickering quite a bit. The techpriest grimaced and fiddled with a few more runes, and the image smoothed out. “Creed. What can I do for you?” the Admiral asked, the confused movement behind him resolving into several ship crewers bustling around, tending to the ship’s well-being. “Not for me, Admiral, the Emperor,” Creed said drily. Clenden cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?” “Yes,” Creed said, in no mood for games. “He has visited me personally down here, trying to get a status update on the state of readiness of the troops on the ground. I told Him about the civilians dying off, and he said he was going to deal with it. He has instructed me to tell you to position a bombardment-capable ship over the spot where He fought Abbadon.” Clenden’s jaw dropped. “Ah…really. Well, my ship will be overhead shortly, but I can’t bombard a target with any accuracy if I don’t know the timing.”
“I told Him you’d be overhead in two hours, and He said that was fine,” Creed said. Clenden glanced at the viewscreen visible behind him, digesting its contents, then nodded and turned back. “Yes, that should work. I’ll be over the spot, weapons hot, two hours out.” “Excellent. Thank you for your time, Admiral,” Creed said, saluting the image. Clenden echoed the gesture. “As the Emperor wills,” he said, perhaps rather more literally then usual. He cut the transmission. Creed slumped into a vacant chair, rubbing his eyes wearily. One of the techpriests watched him for a moment before speaking up. “Lord Castellan, may I ask a question?” she asked cautiously. Technically, she was as far outside his authority as a Sororitas or Commissar, but it never hurt to be respectful. He glanced up, dropping his cigar butt in the trash as he did so. “Sure. What is it?” “Well…you’ve seen the new Emperor in person, sir?” she asked. He shook his head. “No, it’s the same Immortal God-Emperor of Mankind as He ever was, just in a new body with…new accoutrements I suppose.”
The techpriest gaped. “Accoutrements? Sir, what does that even mean? The High Lords’ message said he had taken over a Greater Khornate Daemon…” “Yeah, more or less,” Creed sighed, standing again. “He’s fifty feet tall and seventy feet long with teeth the size of cattle, but, hey…” The techpriest looked like she was going to faint. “Omnissiah’s cogs, what…how in the world…” “Who even knows,” the Cadian Castellan said, stretching and pulling another cigar out of his pocket. “Such matters are beyond us. Anyway, I’ll be in the command office if the Admiral replies. Let me know if anyone tries to reach me; just route it through my comm-bead.” He walked off, his head hung low.
The air parted and folded with a burst of purple haze as the Emperor appeared in the same spot he had confronted the hapless Sergeant Lustig days before. The place seemed unchanged, save for the footsteps of a Titan which had clearly walked through the place recently. The trampled rubble of Abbadon’s HQ structure was still there, with Rhino tracks leading away from it. That, however, wasn’t what the Emperor was there for. He plodded up the hill and stared at the huge, pus-covered strip of land where the Plaguemaster Glubtil had seeded his Fetid Grounds, a seething block of rotting flowers and open sores in the ground. “WELL, THIS IS PRETTY MUCH WHAT I EXPECTED. DIDN’T THINK THAT GREASY LITTLE DAEMON WOULD ACTUALLY RELEASE THE PLAGUE, THOUGH, THAT WAS MY DAMN FAULT. I SHOULD HAVE KILLED HIM WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE.” He reared up on his pillar-like hind legs, his beady eyes shining purple light. “WELP, HERE GOES NOTHING.” He opened his cavernous maw and fired off a torrent of pure energy at the Fetid Grounds. The brilliant purple torrent slammed into the Nurglite toxins like a brick through plate glass, shredding the rotting plants and ground, turning the soil beneath into glass and dust, which vaporized just as quickly. The Emperor dropped down onto his forelegs again and nodded his huge head, pleased at his work. “YEAH, THAT SHOULD DO THE TRICK.”
The drifting, putrid smoke cleared, and the Emperor snarled in displeasure. The virus-laden soil was gone, but the reek of Chaos-taint still lingered, the area was drenched in the Warp. “THIS IS GETTING ME NOWHERE,” the Emperor said, irritated. “WHAT THE FUCK, IS THIS GOING TO HAVE TO…OH.” He thought to himself for a moment. “YEAH, THAT’LL WORK. THIS’LL BE TOUGH AS HELL, BUT…IF IT WORKS…WELL, AT LEAST ELDRAD WILL OWE ME ANOTHER FAVOR.” A commotion behind him alerted him to the arrival of the Plaguemaster, Glubtil. The shambling mass of sores and illness jumped from his looted Rhino, gaping at the devastation. “My garden! Doggie, why did you do that?! That was mine!” “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU CALLING ‘DOGGIE?’” the Emperor roared, amused. “MY GOODNESS, YOU’RE A DISRESPECTFUL LITTLE THING, AREN’T YOU?” “Disrespectful? You’re the one who just destroyed my garden!” Glubtil yelled. “A GARDEN THAT WAS KILLING PEOPLE. IT’S LESS THAN YOU DESERVE. NOW…” the Emperor snarled, planting his clawed forelegs in the grass, “GO BACK TO NURGLE.” Without another word, he fired off the same beam of ravening energy that had destroyed the Fetid Grounds, incinerating the little daemon and his vehicle with a shriek. A smoldering line drew itself across the Cadian pine barrens, the Emperor’s power unleashed. Clouds of steam boiled out of a brook the bean crossed, obscuring the devastated forest. The Emperor didn’t spare the sight a second glance, though, turning back to the simmering, tainted ground where the viral plants had bloomed. “OKAY…NOW, LET’S GO SEE WHAT CAN BE DONE ABOUT THIS.” The Emperor took a few plodding steps forward, looking this way and that at the huge black patch of earth. After a minute, he sighed. “YEAH, NO CHOICE. I HAVE TO CUT THIS SHIT OFF AT THE SOURCE,” he muttered. “WELL, NOTHING VENTURED, NOTHING GAINED. LET ME SEE…” A keening whistle sounded off in the air above him. The Emperor looked up. “WHOA! FUCK!” he yelped and leaped aside, a moment before a krak shell from a Chaos Predator landed where he had been standing. The Emperor skidded to a halt ten meters away, dirt and sand pattering off his body. “WHERE THE FUCK…?” he asked aloud, before seeing the tank parked on a distant hill, its autocannon barrel aimed high. The Emperor shook his head. “REALLY? FINE. I’LL PLAY.” He leaped forward, his divine might lending his daemonic form speed it could never have possessed naturally. The tank depressed its barrel and opened fire again, letting off ten rounds at the loping God-Emperor.
The shells seemed to twist and pass him by, skirting past him without hitting anything. The crew opened up with their sposon-mounted lascannons, but the beams simply did not hurt him, the marks they left on his armored hide fading after a few seconds. In desperation, the tank crew fired their single Havoc missile, which froze in midair before it even reached him. The crew slammed their tank into reverse, still firing their autocannon and lascannons, but to no effect. The Emperor leapt up, landing mere centimeters from the tank, and thrust his clawed legs forward, gripping the turret, and pulling it clean off. A pair of Techmarines inside looked up and screamed, pitching themselves out of the tank, desperately scrambling to clear their sidearms. The Emperor casually slammed the turret down on one, reducing him to a greasy stain on the hillside, and batted the other one into a tree with his free claw. After the snapping noises stopped, the huge Emperor looked back at where the shimmering warp taint was still staining the distant hill, and shook his massive head. “WHERE WAS I?” He walked back to the rift, much more sedately. He stared at it, contemplatively. “YEAH…WELL, HERE WE GO…” Without hesitation, he walked on through.
Deep in the Warp, the rotlings and Nurglites lazed. The endless Virulent Gardens stretched towards the non-existent horizons, and fetid clouds of fungal spores blanket rotting plants. Here, Nurgle’s Mansion sits, rotting away and decrepit, but still intact. At its center, Nurgle toils away at the Cauldron of Pestilence, creating the most foul diseases and poxes his twisted mind can conjure. In a locked cage in the corner, Isha sits caged. The impossibly beautiful yet matriarchal Eldar goddess of healing, she is Nurgle’s unwilling “companion,” the test bed for Nurgle’s newest horrors. She is beyond illness, as the Eldar warp-spawned entity of healing and birth, but that delights Nurgle all the more. “C’mon, cutie, try this one out,” he chuckled, rolling a vial of something black and bubbling through the bars of her cage. Isha sat, her back almost touching one side, her knees drawn up and her head bowed, staring pointedly away from the festering God. Nurgle sighed. “I promise you’ll love it,” he said. Isha glared at him. “You like it. Your tastes and others’ do not run in step, Nurgle. I’ll not drink your poison. Any more than I did the last million.” “Aww, come on…” the rotting carcass said in vague disappointment. He scrambled around for another vial, filling it up from his cauldron. He swirled it about looking at it for any sign of dilution, then unceremoniously tossed it on the Eldar goddess. Isha whimpered in pain, the warp-tainted illness eating at her skin like acid. The scarred Lady of Fertility wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled them tight, then pressed her forehead into them, trying to blot out the pain. She dipped into her reserves of strength, healing the pox even as it ate away at her, the greenish haze that suffused the room turning red and yellow and blue through the pain.
“Nuts. I was hoping it wouldn’t do that,” Nurgle sighed in disappointment. Even as Isha cured herself of the putrid ailment, her skin knitting back together and her eyes coming back into focus, Nurgle fished the first vial back from the cage and stared at it angrily, as if it would apologize for its transgression. Who knows, sometimes they did. With a final sigh of regret, he slammed the vial like a bottle of energy drink, then tossed it over his shoulder, where it bounced into the corner. “Maybe next time,” he said, already hard at work thinking of the next disease. Isha slowly relaxed her arms, the scarring from the corrosive skin disease fading, the more stark signs of her torture at the hands of Khaine reappearing. She slumped back against the slimy wall and wept, her tears rolling down her face and vanishing. They would become Soul Stones at least, she reflected, appearing in a basin on one of the Crone Worlds…for a Comorragh raider to consume, or a daemon to weaponize, or for Craftworlders to get killed trying to retrieve, her mind went on, the black clouds of despair swarming across her mind.
“Well, here we go,” Nurgle said cheerfully, dumping a warp-drenched fistful of rotting fish into the cauldron. Isha tried not to look like she was gagging. “Doo de doo…let’s see…what do those Tau call those…green things that cause blood clots…hmm…” “KNOCK KNOCK MOTHERFUCKER WHO ORDERED A BEATING?” a psychic voice suddenly roared, shocking Nurgle from his cooking and Isha from her ennui. A huge orange Khornate daemon slammed through one crumbling wall. Before Nurgle could react, the enormous daemon slammed his forelegs into the rotting wood right in front of the Chaos God, pitching up a cluster of termites and splinters. Nurgle raised his ladle and tried to cast a curse on the animalistic monster, but it opened its mouth and fired a blistering stream of pure energy at him. Nurgle screamed, with a sound like a sea lion in a wheat thresher, and pitched back against the cauldron, then screeched with shock as the hot metal seared his rotting sores. The beast opened its maw wide, displaying grey fangs, and arcs of purple light streamed around its horns and eyes, before pouring into a growing ball of purple light in its mouth. Nurgle spun back around, his green chest pouring brown blood, and lurched forward. The beast fired.
A stream of bright purple death tore loose, slamming into Nurgle’s wound. Nurgle screamed in pain and panic, and toppled backward into his own bubbling cauldron, his cry muffled by the gurgling poison. The beast turned and knelt next to Isha, who scrambled back against the bars of her cage in horror. “HEY, GET ON, QUICK, WE NEED TO LEAVE BEFORE THAT FAT FUCK GETS OUT,” it said, its tone urgent. “I’ll never go to Khorne, beast,” Isha gasped, dizzy with fear. The monster sighed angrily. “DAMN IT ALL, THIS BODY’S MORE TROUBLE THAN IT’S WORTH…FINE.” The being swiped one massive claw at the top of the cage, which snapped like metal twigs. It reached in and grabbed the shrieking Eldar goddess, gingerly wrapping a hand around her as if she weighed no more than a pebble. “TRUST ME, YOU’LL BE OKAY, WE JUST NEED TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE. HANG TIGHT…” with a final blast of purple light, the creature vanished. Mere seconds later, Nurgle rose from the bubbling cauldron, his eyes steaming black. The poison sloughed sheets of skin off his body, even as he gripped the edge and tumbled out. He lifted his ladle and spun to see Isha’s empty cage, and the daemon’s absence. He tilted his head back and roared, a call of rage that echoed throughout the Eye of Terror. After a few seconds, he slowly slumped back down, and sullenly turned to face the cauldron. He shrugged and sullenly started stirring again. “Oh well…”
Isha tried to struggle, desperately, pushing against the creature’s iron grip, and to her surprise, succeeded. She slipped one arm free of the daemon’s claws, and shoved against its grasp. “WHOA, HEY, RELAX. YOU WANT TO GET SUCKED BACK INTO THE WARP?” the thing asked. Isha spun her head around, seeing at last that they were racing through the warp, projected by some sorcerous field of energy. She instinctively slung her arm back, away from the sight, and found herself caught by the daemon’s other hand, which closed around her, blocking all movement. “Asuryan’s memory damn you, daemon, I’ll not slake your master’s lust,” she snarled at it. The thing sighed angrily. “CALM THE FUCK DOWN, ISHA, I’M NOT A DAEMON. JUST BORROWING ONE.” The creature’s eyes flashed an unnatural purple, the same light as before, and the spinning madness of the warp faded away. They were on a green hillside, its natural beauty defaced by two massive black streaks and a crumbling building. The huge daemon…or whatever it was…released Isha, and she tumbled out of his hands, just barely dropping to her feet before falling. She managed to avoid it, straightening up, staring at the nearly alien sight before her. “OKAY. I’M BACK. ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? BEYOND THE OBVIOUS, I MEAN?” the creature asked, taking a step or two back. “WARP TRAVEL’S HARD ENOUGH WITHOUT A SHIP.” If Isha could hear it, she gave no sign. She slowly sank to her knees, her legs failing her completely. “ISHA?” it asked, concerned. Isha’s bare back shook, her ragged hair falling around her. A muffled, manic giggle erupted through clenched teeth, turning into uncontrollable peals of laughter a few seconds later. She fell back on her back, her arms wrapped around her ribs. Tears of laughter fell down her face, transforming into soul stones even as they dropped off her face. She rolled onto one side, relief eliciting hysteria, as she coughed, and slowly calmed herself down. It was all she could do not to keep laughing after being imprisoned by that fat fuck Nurgle for eleven thousand years, but she still had her unexpected rescuer to consider. She drew herself back up to kneeling, her hands on her knees, as the sunlight – the blessed sun! How long had it been? – fell down on her back, warming her up. She traced a finger through the dirt at her feet, torn up by the creature’s claw, and smiled from ear to ear as a tiny white flower rose from the dirt at her touch. She plucked a petal from the flower, and whispered a few words of Eldar. The skin of her finger flashed for a moment, and the petal melted and shifted into a small pool of white liquid. She dragged her hands through the rich, Cadian dirt, and sprinkled the molten petal across the resultant garden. In a few seconds, they had shifted form as well, into a simple white toga-like garment, which she struggled into – her own clothes long since destroyed by Nurgle’s acids.
Dressed at last – she had honestly forgotten what clothes felt like – she turned back to the creature, which had been staring at the spectacle with a mixture of concern and amusement. “FEEL BETTER?” it asked, with what was presumably mild sarcasm. “Infinitely,” Isha said dreamily. “Anything’s better than being used as a lab rat by Nurgle, or a toy by Slaanesh.” “REALLY? BECAUSE YOU WERE PROTESTING PRETTY HARD WHEN YOU THOUGHT I WAS TAKING YOU TO KHORNE,” it said drily. “Well, yes, that would have been bad too…” she asked, cocking her head at the creature as her voice trailed off. “I do know you…from when you battled the Metal Emptiness.” “THE WHAT NOW?” the Emperor asked, baffled. It thought for a moment. “OH. THE VOID DRAGON. YEAH. I WHIPPED ITS ASS AND SEALED IT IN A PLANET,” he said, as if it were analogous to buying a bottle of water or crossing the street, disregarding the fact that it had been the third hardest fight of his life. Isha shook her head, ignoring the Emperor’s sly comments. She slowly stood, reveling in the feeling of actual, living grass under her feet again. “So…what now? And…what do I call you?” “OH HELL, I’VE HAD SO MANY NAMES THAT I DON’T EVEN CARE. CALL ME EMPEROR, IF YOU MUST, THAT’S WHAT MORE OR LESS EVERYONE ELSE DOES,” he roared. “AS FOR WHAT NOW, WELL…NOW, WE WATCH. LET’S SEE IF I WAS RIGHT.”
“Right about what?” Isha asked, nonplussed. The Emperor gestured to the patch of dirt from which the plague that had infected Russ’ refugees had spread, leaking their illness into the warp, where it had filtered back onto Cadia and probably hitched a ride on the Space Wolves. Isha saw the spot and grimaced, her angelic features creasing. The patch of ground looked like a rash on the surface of Cadia, all the more disgusting for the damage it was inflicting to the beautiful clearing around it. The rifts seemed to be fading, though, their visible damage to the materium disappeared. “EXCELLENT,” the Emperor proclaimed, turning to face Isha with a smug look on his horrifying face. “I WAS HOPING THAT WOULD WORK. KILLING THE LOCAL PLAGUEMASTER AND WRECKING NURGLE HELPED. MY OWN POWER CAN SEAL THE RIFTS NOW.” “So...then, why did you rescue me, if I wasn’t needed to heal the rifts?” Isha asked, bewildered. “I NEED A REASON TO HELP SOMEONE BEING TRAPPED AND TORTURED BY THAT ROTTING CRETIN?” the Emperor asked evasively. Isha narrowed her eyes for a moment. “WELL, I SUPPOSE I WANT THE CHAOS GODS AT EACH OTHERS’ THROATS AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE BEFORE I FUCK THEM UP."
“Lord Castellan Creed, a message for you from Lord Admiral Clenden,” an engineer’s voice sounded in Creed’s comm bead. He tapped it reflexively. “Copy that, Comms, patch him through to me directly,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, looking over the buzz of auspex operators and comm officers in the command room, glaring at anyone who was too obviously trying to listen in. “Creed, this is Clenden. I will be in geostationary orbit above the spot for a four minute window, two minutes from…now,” the Admiral’s voice came through, buzzing faintly. Creed nodded. “Good. We’ll have the confirmation from His Majesty any moment now, I expect. In fact,” he said casually, as a nearby Astropath doubled over in agony, “I bet that’s him.” Sure enough, the Astropath straightened up, rubbing his ears. “Ah…Lord Creed, the Most Divine says…call it off.” Creed sat bolt upright. “What? Call it off?” “Yes, Lord,” the psyker said, wincing. “He says Clenden is…is not to fire on the spot…he fixed the problem with some groundside help.” Creed’s square jaw worked for a moment, before brusquely cutting back into the channel. “Admiral, His Majesty has called off the strike. The situation has resolved itself.”
“SO, NOW THAT THAT’S DONE, YOU SHOULD GET TO CRAFTWORLD ULTHWÉ,” the Emperor roared, returning to business. Isha seemed to consider the words, then shook her head, flipping her hair back behind her. “I cannot do that,” she said resolutely. “Long ago, the Veil was raised between our world and the world of mortals. I can not interfere with the-” “YEAH WHATEVER,” the Emperor roared dismissively. “IF KHAINE IS ALLOWED TO WALK AROUND ON THE CRAFTWORLDS, I DON’T CARE IF YOU DO TOO.” Isha flushed angrily. “I don’t recall making it your call, Emperor, what the gods of Eldarin are allowed to do,” she said coldly. “My gratitude for rescue aside, the fact is that I can not simply go to a Craftworld, not now, when the balance between the active forces in the galaxy are so upset. I can feel it.” “YEP,” the Emperor said, clearly ignoring her complaints. “YOU HAVE SO MANY OTHER PLACES TO GO RIGHT NOW. YOU SURE ARE LUCKY TO BE SO FLUSH WITH OPTIONS.” Isha glared at him for a few more moments, before conceding his point with a forced shrug of her shoulders. She had to admit, privately, that the idea of actually visiting a Craftworld, about which she had heard so much, was tempting. “I suppose you are right.” “SURE AM,” the Emperor said idly, a familiar purple mist appearing around the two of them, whisking them away.
Fairly close at hand, Taldeer was sitting beside her father’s bed, trying not to fall asleep. Eldrad had fitfully stirred in his sleep several times, jolting her out of her catnap, but each time he had just rolled back over and settled down. The Warlock had pried off his mask, and to Taldeer’s vast relief, the horrible grin on his face had faded into the slackness of sleep. Her daughter, Lofn, stirred in her lap. “Mom, why is Grandpa Eldrad shaking?” Taldeer glanced over at his body, and sure enough, his hand was in spasm, his fingers scrabbling against the cushion. She shook her head sadly and reached over, gripping his hand with her own. His movements stopped. Lofn watched sleepily. “He…he’s trying to rest. He’s so tired and so hurt that it’s hard.” “It’s hard to rest because he’s tired?” Lofn asked. Taldeer hesitated. She didn’t want to scare the poor girl. “Yeah…sweetie, he’s sick, too, and that makes it harder.” Lofn blinked acknowledgement, and settled her head back against her mother’s breast. “Oof, you’ll be too old for this before long,” Taldeer said, forcing a small smile, shifting her near-numb leg under her daughter. “No,” Lofn said, her voice trailing off. “Not for a while more…” Taldeer smiled again, this time quite naturally. Livii appeared at her shoulder. “Is she asleep?” he asked, so faint even Taldeer’s Eldar ears could barely hear him. “No, Dad,” Lofn said softly. “I’m not going to sleep yet. I want to be here when Grandpa wakes up.” Livii looked over at the comatose Eldrad, and tried to imagine what would happen if he awoke with Slaanesh’s taint still in his mind. Taldeer glared at him behind Lofn’s head as she sensed the assassin’s thoughts.
Livii put one hand up defensively, then crouched down beside his daughter. He squeezed one little hand gently, and she turned to face him blearily. “I guess you weren’t around when he got lost, huh?” he said faintly. “No,” Lofn said tired. “I wasn’t born yet…” she said. Moments later, she lost the battle to stay awake, her eyes drifting shut and her head slumping back onto Taldeer. Livii waited a minute before gingerly lifting his slumbering daughter off of Taldeer’s lab, then effortlessly carried her over to the opposite wall, where Macha had thoughtfully placed a deeply padded seat for the occasion. Macha herself was seeing the other Farseers off to their own Craftworlds, but promised to come and relieve Taldeer soon enough. Livii sat down in the chair, and lowered his daughter into his lap, then tilted the chair back a few degrees so she was leaning back on his chest. He found himself grateful he had swapped his usual outfit for a padded shirt. Taldeer stood and stretched, various popping noises emanating from her joints. She tried to stifle a tired squeak as she did so. “Mmm…love, I have to go see what’s taking Macha so long…be right back, ok?” “Sure, take your time,” Livii said, crossing his arms over Lofn and grabbing the dataslate Taldeer had secured for him the previous time she had left Ulthwé. It was just some tabloid rag, but it was the closest he could ever get to actual Imperial news. Idly, he wondered how the Imperium was reacting to the Emperor’s new form.
Certainly, the Eldar reaction was being overshadowed at the moment. The throngs of Guardians and dedicated Aspect Warriors guarding the Webway Assemblies had spun to face the Emperor’s massive form as it appeared before them; though he had simply warp-traveled there rather than utilizing the Webway. Their eyes, however, had immediately traveled to the woman standing beside him, clad in a simple white toga and barefoot. It had only taken a moment for the assembled Eldar to recognize the intricate eye-shaped scar on the backs of each of her hands, carved there in contempt by Khaine millennia before. Within seconds, the assembled Eldar had fallen to their knees, in total silence. Isha slowly walked among them, kneeling alongside a few, whispering something to them. She stared up at the beautiful, crisscrossing lights of the Craftworld and let a smile cross her face. It wasn’t home – nothing would replace her home in the immaterium – but it was good to be among her children once more. The Emperor waited several minutes, tolerating the bowing and scraping for as long as his natural distaste for religious pageantry allowed, plus a bit of pity, before finally speaking directly into her head. “ISHA, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO NOW? RULE THE CRAFTWORLD?” She turned to face him, smiling happily. “No. I thank you for convincing me to come here, Emperor of Man. I have missed this. The love of my children…the scars of Nurgle are fading from me.” “YEAH, GOOD FOR YOU. LISTEN, I’LL JUST GO CHECK ON MY SON AND BE ON MY WAY, ALL RIGHT? HE SHOULD BE AMBULATORY BY NOW,” the huge Emperor said distractedly. “Your son is here, on Ulthwé?” Isha asked in surprise, letting her eyes fall back to a Guardian who had knealt at her feet and was silently tearing up, in fear or joy. She reached down and laid a hand on his shoulder, and his silent tears broke loose. Joy, then.
“YEAH, I CALLED IN A MARKER WITH ELDRAD ULTRAN A WHILE BACK. WELL, HIS DAUGHTERS. I SAVE ELDRAD FROM SLAANESH, THEY SAVE MY SON ROUBUTE FROM STASIS.” “Things have become interesting of late,” Isha thought to the Emperor as she traced her gaze over the prostrate Eldar. Aloud, she added “Rise, my children. Go about your days. I will have much to say when the time comes.” Very nearly beside her, a Farseer wearing Biel-Tan colors rose, her face a mask of shock and delight. “Lady Isha…oh, never did we see this…” “I gathered as much, Farseer Macha,” the beautiful warp goddess said wistfully, eliciting a gasp from the redheaded scryer, “I was rather surprised myself.” “I wish now I had not seen off my colleagues,” Macha managed, “forgive me. Moments ago I was bidding farewell to Farseers, and Spiritseers, from eight other Craftworlds, after a conference. Had I foreseen your return, I would have not sent them away.” “Nothing to forgive, my child, my return was as unexpected for me as it was for you,” Isha said, glancing at the enormous Emperor, who was staring around himself as if expecting to see someone.
Taldeer’s gravlift pulled up short at the Gate Assembly, and she stood, turning to find her sister. Before she made it five steps, her sleep-fogged brain recognized what she was seeing: the Mother Goddess of the Eldar and the Emperor of Mankind. Her jaw dropped, and she nearly stumbled from the shock. Luckily for her, Macha spotted her before she could do anything stupid. She quietly, gestured the black-haired Taldeer to her side, an uncharacteristic look of pure glee on her face. Taldeer slipped through the gaping crowds, and reached her sister soon enough. Despite herself, she could not help but bow deep before Isha.
“Mother Isha, I am your humble servant,” she said.
“Surely, my child Taldeer, but I understand you need my service rather more,” Isha said, smiling beatifically. I understand your father is in a bad way, and desperately needs to have his mind cleansed of the taint of the Foul One, She Who Thirsts For Souls.”
“Yes, Lady,” Macha put in. “Though…” she trailed off, looking sidelong at the Emperor who was wearing a familiar smug look on his scaly face. “The Emperor of Man, here, did a fair job of cleansing Father’s soul before…well, before we got him back.”
“Then I thank you, Emperor, for your help in rescuing him,” Isha said, to the complete and total astonishment of the Eldar present. Their complete shock was compounded as Isha closed her eyes and nodded her respect to the human leader, as if they were equals!
“NO PROBLEM, THAT PRISSY SLUT SLAANESH HAD IT COMING ANYWAY,” the Emperor roared modestly. “LIKE I SAID, I NEEDED A FAVOR, AND ELDRAD OWED ME ANYWAY. SO, THAT BRINGS ME TO MY PRIOR QUESTION, WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW? YOU HEAD BACK TO THE WARP, NURGLE WILL KILL YOU. YOU FLEE TO THE WEBWAY, AND YOU’RE DEAD IF THE DARK ELDAR FIND YOU BEFORE CEGORACH DOES.” “Yes, my darkened children have failed to learn the lesson that saw my beloved brothers and sisters slain,” Isha said, her face briefly twisting into something horrible. Macha took a full two steps back before common sense reasserted itself. Isha let her eyes drift closed, and her anger faded. “I will remain here, for a time, I think, then travel the Exodite worlds, doing what I can.” “As you so will it, Mother Isha,” Taldeer said. “Any of the ships in the fleet of Ulthwé would ferry you to the Exodite world of your choice, I am sure.” “As am I, Farseer Taldeer,” Isha said. “Now…where is your father?”
Isha stood in the room in which Eldrad slept. The attending Warlock, once she was done bowing, had allowed Isha to see the patient without a single protest, though Livii had steadfastly refused to allow himself to be ejected from the ward. The Warlock would have turned forceful, surely, had Isha, Macha, and Taldeer not all cast disgusted glares at her simultaneously. Livii sat in the same chair he had sat in before, though he had lain Lofn down on the hovering bed next to her. Isha’s hands drifted a few centimeters above Eldrad’s ragged armor, frowning at the taint she sensed the Emperor hadn’t entirely purged. “This is…grave. If She had not kept your father intact to savor, he would be beyond my help.” She looked over at Taldeer, whose pale face turned sickly at the news. Isha smiled, and Taldeer’s complexion started to look a bit more lifelike. “Fortuitously, I am in time, and the human Emperor has started the healing already.” As she drped her hand over Eldrad’s forehead, however, Lofn stirred. She sat up, taking in the bizarre sight with wide, sleep-clogged eyes. “Mom! What is that lady doing to Grandpa Eldrad?” she asked fearfully. Taldeer started, her reverie broken. Before she could react, Livii was suddenly at Lofn’s side, his hand on her shoulder. “Easy, hon, it’s all right. She’s here to help.” Isha broke her trance to glance up at the girl, who was clutching Livii’s arm like a lifeline, and smiled serenely. Lofn hid her face behind her father’s arm, but didn’t make a sound. Isha cocked a blonde eyebrow at Livii, who darted his eyes from Taldeer to himself. Isha caught the meaning and allowed another half-smile, before returning her full attention to Eldrad.
Lofn slowly poked her head out from around her father’s arm, watching. Her panic faded as she watched, her own psychic abilities allowing her to see what Isha was doing. She wasn’t pure Eldar, which explained why she didn’t realize it instinctively, but now she could see it, even if she didn’t understand it. Isha’s eyes glowed under her closed lids, the light shimmering through, red from the blood in her capillaries. For a moment, Eldrad’s lips drew back into the horrible smile he had worn when the Prince of Excess had held him at his mercy. Macha gasped inaudibly, nearly grabbing Eldrad’s hand, but reason held her back. The Lady of Fertility drew her hands back from Eldrad’s body, looking a bit tired. “It is done,” she said. “His mind is restored.” Eldrad’s grin vanished, and he groaned softly in his sleep. Isha took a few steps back, allowing Taldeer and Macha to walk up to their father’s bedside. His eyes creaked open, at long last. “Macha…Taldeer? What…where am I?” he croaked, his voice strained. “Father…” Taldeer managed, the emotions she worked so hard to control in front of her colleagues and troops slipping out. She grasped his nearest hand, squeezing it tight. “I…dad…” she broke down, tears coursing down her face. For a few, terrible years, she had thought his soul consumed by Slaanesh, the worst possible fate for an Eldar, and now…here he was.
Macha managed a little more restraint, as she grabbed his shoulder and struggled to keep a grin off her face. “We thought you lost, Father…we thought you gone forever.” “So did I,” Eldrad mumbled, bleary. He raised his head a fraction, not seeing anything beyond his daughters at first. “My…” he paused to clear his throat. “My daughters, where…is this Ulthwé? How did I get back here?” “We had a favor given to us, Father,” Macha said, not allowing her pronounced distaste at the state of things color her voice. “The leader of the Imperium has returned, and snatched you from the jaws of She Who Thirsts.” “Yes…I remember…oh, Lady of Mercy, I remember, the horrors…I thought my soul would feed…feed Her…” Eldrad shuddered, his hands falling limp. The memories flooded back to him, the terrible pleasures of the Pit, Slaanesh’s taunting, the poisons he had breathed, enjoying them and filled with terror at the thought… A warmth on his other side alerted him to another person in the room. He started and looked over. A small, black-haired girl was nervously clutching his free hand. She looked odd for an Eldar, yet Eldar she was, by the feel of her in the Warp around them. He blinked at her, confusion etching itself onto his face. “Grandpa Eldrad?” the girl asked in a small voice, hesitant. Eldrad stared at her blankly, confused. Taldeer walked around to the girl’s side of the table, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. “Father, this is Lofn, my daughter.” Eldrad’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates at the words. “I have a granddaughter? I have a son-in-law? What?” “Yes, Father,” Taldeer said sheepishly. “Ah…you’ve been gone long enough for…events to occur.”
“So it would seem,” Eldrad said faintly. He reached his hand over to where the girl was, a faint smile crossing his lined features. “Hello there,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Nice to meet you, Lofn.” “Um, nice to meet you too,” Lofn said, trying to remember which words to use. Eldrad let himself slump back into the bed, then experimentally lifted himself into a sitting position, his back to the wall. Macha hurriedly placed a pillow behind him, which he sank into gratefully. Continuing his sweep of Lofn’s side of the room, his eyes lit upon Livii, and he froze. “What…what in the world is he doing…” he asked, aghast. Livii had to exert a great deal of self-restraint not to stare suggestively at Taldeer at that point, as he was fairly sure she would never forgive him. Taldeer hastened to explain. “This is my partner, Father, Livii. He saved me from the Imperium, nearly getting himself killed in the process. He’s Lofn’s father.” Livii bowed respectfully, tapping his closed fist against his chest and inclining his head. Eldrad stared. He stared at one of the couple to the other, his eyes dropping occasionally to Lofn, who was still standing uncomfortably at the side of the bed. Finally, he spoke, his voice slow and uncertain. “These are…fascinating times…it seems…” “I quite agree,” a beautiful, melodious voice spoke from the other side of the bed. Eldrad twisted around and nearly fainted. Lady Isha, Mother of the Eldar, was standing under a meter from him, looking for all the world like she had been free of Nurgle’s captivity the last ten thousand years. Eldrad stared at her, his jaw agape, his ten thousand years of life failing utterly to provide him with inspiration. “You get trapped in the Warp for ten short years, and the universe inverts…” he finally said.
Several stories away from where Eldrad was having his mind blown, Rouboute Guilliman was having an equally odd day. A one hundred thirty ton daemon was sitting in the middle of a disused parking square, telling him that it was his father.
Guilliman instantly recognized his father, of course, just as he had on Macragge nine thousand years prior, but the new body had shocked him. “Father…forgive me, but I recall you telling that traitor Magnus in no uncertain terms that sorcery was expressly forbidden. Yet…here you are. A daemonhost.” “HALF-RIGHT. THE DAEMON IS HOSTING ME,” the Emperor roared. “COME NOW, SON, YOU WERE ALWAYS THE PRAGMATIC ONE. YOU HAVE TO SEE HOW DESPERATE I WAS. NINE THOUSAND YEARS, TIED TO A CHAIR, BEING TORTURED BY A CEASELESS BOMBARDMENT OF ELDRITCH WARP ENERGIES. I COULD BARELY STAND IT AS IT WAS, AND THEN THIS SHIT WITH ABBADON AND THE ILLUMINATI HAPPENED…” “Yeah, that’s another thing, Father,” Rouboute said, flustered. “How did you find out about that? I don’t think it was active in my time…” “NEITHER DO I, SON, BUT I FOUND OUT ABOUT IT A FEW YEARS BACK FROM A RENEGADE INQUISITION MEMBER WHO LEARNED TOO MUCH. DRACO I THINK HIS NAME WAS. ANYWAY, WHAT’S DONE IS DONE. I’M CLEARLY STILL IN CONTROL, AFTER ALL, AND MORE POWERFUL THAN I EVER COULD HAVE BEEN OTHERWISE,” the huge Emperor said, dismissively. “Magnus said that, right before Russ beat him half to death and Tzeentch turned him into a daemon Prince,” Rouboute said, irked. The Emperor rose to his massive feet, and the Primarch felt a drop of sweat run down his back. After a moment, the Emperor sat back down.
“FAIR ENOUGH, SON, BUT DO NOT MISTAKE ME FOR MAGNUS,” the Emperor said, reining in his temper. “MAGNUS SOUGHT OUT HIS POWERS THROUGH GREED AND THE TAINT OF CHAOS. I SUMMONED THE DAEMON BECAUSE HUMANITY WAS DOOMED WITHOUT IT. I WOULD NEVER HAVE DONE IT IF I HAD THE CHOICE. DO YOU RECALL HOW HARD MAGNUS CAMPAIGNED TO MAKE SORCERY LEGAL AT NICAEA?” “Naturally, Father, and we both decided it was too risky.” “RIGHT. IT’S LIKE I TOLD THAT MORON INQUISITOR VALENTINE. THIS IS DESPERATION, NOT DESIRE.” Roboute stared at the Emperor, his face unreadable. After several seconds, he nodded curtly, abandoning his argument. “I understand, Father. What do we do now?” “WELL, I NEED TO TALK TO ELDRAD AND ISHA BEFORE WE LEAVE, AND I SHOULD TALK TO THAT VINDICARE ONE MORE TIME. I THINK HE’S LYING TO ME.” “About why he’s here, you mean, Father?” Roboute asked wryly. “Yeah. He’s obviously lying. He told me it was an ‘extended, informal loan.’” “YEAH, HE JUST SAID IT WAS ‘PHENOMENALLY COMPLICATED’ TO ME,” the Emperor said in the same tone, presumably. “IN ALL HONESTY, I THINK HE FELL TO THE INFLUENCE OF THE XENO, TALDEER.” “Why are we openly consorting with these Eldar, Father?” Roboute asked, cutting to the heart of the matter. “I’ve tolerated their presence and they’ve tolerated mine, but I’m clearly not welcome here.” “BECAUSE, SON, YOUR NECK WAS BEYOND THE MEDICINES OF THE IMPERIUM,” the Emperor said. Guilliman fingered his throat, grimacing. “BESIDES, THESE ELDAR OWE ME A FEW HUGE FAVORS. I’LL CASH IN EVERY FAVOR I’M OWED WITH THEM BEFORE LONG. ALSO, I SUPPOSE I SHOULD POINT OUT, WE’RE FIGHTING BECAUSE OF FULGRIM. IS THAT A NOBLE THING TO DO?” “Fuck that treasonous dog,” Guilliman snarled. “But is it not the way of the Imperium to never again bow to aliens? Did you yourself not cleanse Saturn and Jupiter of the taint of xenos?”
“I DID, SON, BUT TIMES CHANGE. THE ELDAR ARE THE ONLY RACE LEFT IN THE GALAXY OF ANY IMPORTANCE BESIDES OURSELVES THAT WILL FIGHT CHAOS BECAUSE THEY SHOULD, NOT BECAUSE OF THEIR GENES.” “Very well. I suppose I can put up with them if they become useful,” the Ultramarines Primarch said distastefully. “I put up with ratlings, ogryns, squats, and psykers, I can tolerate Eldar as long as they’re handy.” “I’M A PSYKER, YOU KNOW,” the Emperor said mildly. Guilliman pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Yes, Father. I know. I apologize.” “FORGET IT. YOU JUST HANG OUT HERE FOR A FEW MINUTES WHILE I SQUARE THINGS WITH ISHA AND ELDRAD.” “Very well, Father,” Roboute said. “I shall wait here for your return.” The Emperor teleported out, appearing in the same large room in which he had deposited Eldrad before. Eldrad himself was out cold in the next room, having finally slipped back into sleep after the shock of the various changes the world had experienced in the preceding few years had faded, and Macha had treated him to an unfiltered explanation of all that had happened. Isha had stood at his side, listening in silence, as she too had been out of touch. When Macha’s story had ended, and Eldred ran out of questions (‘Where did you meet the human, Taldeer?’ chief among them), Isha had bade the others leave, so that Eldrad could rest. She had laid her hand on his shoulder, and he passed instantly into a deep sleep, while the others shuffled out, going their separate ways. Macha returned to her own guest quarters, while Taldeer went to tuck Lofn into bed. Livii, however, had made straight for the conference room, the Emperor’s private psychic summons too strong to ignore.
He walked into the room and made the sign of the aquila, then knelt at the massive Emperor’s feet. “My Lord God.” “SO, ASSASSIN, I THINK YOU OWE ME A STORY,” the Emperor began without preamble. Livii nodded. “Yes…my Lord God. I was dispatched to Cronus to kill off a whole array of anti-Imperial forces, from Chaos Marines to a Necron Lord and Pariah Lieutenant to an Ork Warboss. I saw Farseer Taldeer, and helped her escape a trap. We came here, and I fathered my daughter, Lofn. That is the story, my Lord God.” “UH HUH, SURE IT IS,” the Emperor said, his psychic voice thick with sarcasm. Livii shuddered, genuine fear bubbling up in his heart. “My Lord God, I have found the life denied me by birth here.” “I CARE NOT, ASSASSIN, WHAT LIFE YOU FIND. I AM ON THE VERGE OF LAUNCHING A GREAT CRUSADE THAT WILL RAZE THE STATUS QUO OF THIS GALAXY TO CINDERS, AND THE LAST THING I NEED TO WORRY ABOUT IS ONE OF MY ASSASSINS GOING ROGUE. I CAN SEE YOUR HEART, VINDICARE, AND I CAN READ YOUR VERY SOUL. YOU CAN NOT HIDE THOUGHTS FROM ME. I SEE THAT THERE IS MORE THAN PURE EMOTION BINDING YOU HERE, I SEE THE IMPRINTS THAT WITCH HAS LEFT ON YOU.” Livii found his fists clenching, and had no idea why. “And what ‘imprint’ has my wife left on me, my Lord God? I love her. She bore me a daughter. I do not care about a crusade, my Lord God, I want nothing more than to be left to the life I chose. Did you do differently when you chose to create your own sons?” “TOO FUCKING FAR, ASSASSIN,” the Emperor said flatly, his psychic voice draining of all emotion, and Livii felt the color drain from his face. He looked up and recoiled, his eyes widening. The Emperor was baring his fangs, the claws of his hands flexing horribly.
After the longest six seconds in all history, the Assassin broke the mood. “My Lord God…I beg your forgiveness,” he said, his voice reverting to the emotionless monotone that had been drilled into him from childhood, his response to fear. “I FORGIVE YOUR CONSORTING WITH XENOS, MORTAL, ON THIS ONE CONDITION: REMEMBER THIS. THE ELDAR ARE A CRUEL AND DECEITFUL RACE, WHOSE HUBRIS, GREED, AND WANTON LUST CAUSED THE DOWNFALL OF THE GALAXY AS WE KNOW IT. THE AGE OF STRIFE, THE FORCES OF CHAOS EXPANDING BY A FULL QUARTER, COUNTLESS IMPERIAL WORLDS BUTCHERED TO SAVE A FEW ELDAR SOULS. THEY ARE USEFUL, BUT CAN NEVER BE TRUSTED.” The Emperor straightened up, putting his teeth and claws away. Livii felt his heart resume. “IF YOU’RE SO SURE THAT TRUSTING THESE XENOS IS A GOOD MISTAKE TO MAKE, FINE. I WON’T SABOTAGE WHAT LITTLE THEY FEEL – ACCURATELY – THAT THEY OWE ME BY MAKING YOU WISH YOU’D BEEN BORN A PARIAH. BUT YOU MAY NEVER MAKE THE MISTAKE OF THINKING OF THESE XENOS AS ANYTHING BUT OPPOSED TO HUMANITY IN THE LONG TERM.” “As anything but not people, my Lord God?” Livii supplied, his courage returning. “ESSENTIALLY,” the Emperor’s psychic voice said, all the louder for not having made a physical sound the entire argument. “When you have witnessed an Eldar mother shrieking in horror and regret after seeing her child fall out of a car and die without wearing a soul stone, knowing with certainty that his innocent soul is feeding Slaanesh, it becomes difficult not to see them as people, my Lord God,” Livii said flatly. The Emperor didn’t really have anything to say to that.
A few more words of discouragement later, the Emperor dismissed Livii and – far more politely – summoned Isha to the room. Though her face betrayed her raw displeasure at being called like a common servant, she allowed him some leeway in regards to the fact that he was too big to fit into a different room. “Well, I suppose that we must part now, Emperor of Humans,” Isha said. “I thank you once more for returning me to my children, but I must know: what role do the Eldar play in your scheme?” “SCHEME?” the Emperor said. “NO SCHEME. I AM GOING TO RETURN HUMANITY TO ITS RIGHTFUL PLACE IN THE GALAXY. WHETHER OR NOT THE ELDAR HAVE A ROLE IN THAT FUTURE IS UP TO THEM.” “I am not so naive as to think that your vision of humanity’s ‘role’ in your plots involves anything but dominance, Emperor,” Isha said cooly. “The Harlequins still spin tales of what happens to those who presume dominance over others.” “YES, THEY DO, ISHA,” the Emperor said, “BUT THE TALE OF THE ELDAR IS ONE OF UNCHECKED ARROGANCE AND HUBRIS, ONE OF PRIDE BEYOND BELIEF. I HAVE COUNSELED MY FELLOW MAN ON THE TOPIC OF UNCHECKED DOGMA IN THE PAST.” “And such good it’s done you,” Isha said, scorn coloring her features for a moment. “Within eight hundred years of your climbing your shiny chair, a book you specifically ordered banned for all time becomes the state religion. Your children are no better at avoiding their darker impulses now than my children were ten thousand years ago.” “MILLENNIA AGO I WOULD HAVE DISMISSED THAT CLAIM, ISHA,” the Emperor said. “BUT TEN THOUSAND YEARS TRAPPED IN A GOLDEN HELL OF MY OWN CREATION THANKS TO A BETRAYAL I THRICE FAILED TO PREVENT HAVE TAUGHT ME WELL.”
“Then hear me,” Isha said, her demeanor returning to normal. “The Eldar can not defeat the Necrons, Chaos, and the Tyranids alone. Neither can the Imperium. And even if we were to join our forces, we couldn’t fight off all three of those threats, AND throw back the Glasians, AND hold the Orks in check, AND prevent the return of the Harrowing, AND keep my Dark Children in Commorragh at bay. Even disregarding the Hrud and the Tau.” “I AM BECOMING AWARE OF THAT, ISHA, THANKS,” the Emperor said, his own patience straining. “DO YOU THINK I TOOK THE MONUMENTAL RISKS OF CONFRONTING SLAANESH AND NURGLE IN THEIR OWN LAIRS, DEVOURING AND BEING DEVOURED BY A KHORNATE DAEMON, AND RESCUING MY SONS FROM THEIR PRISONS BECAUSE I THOUGHT MY IMPERIUM CAPABLE OF OVERCOMING ALL ODDS ALONE? THEY NEED ME. AND WHILE I FREED YOU FROM NURGLE BECAUSE I NEEDED YOU TO STOP THE PLAGUE THAT WAS LITERALLY DAYS FROM RAVAGING CADIA, YOUR ‘CHILDREN’ NEED YOU TOO.” The Emperor pointed one huge claw at the floor, on the other side of which Roboute Guilliman was preparing himself for travel. “I SAVED ELDRAD TWICE FROM SLAANESH, AND HE KNOWS IT. I SAVED HIM AGAIN A FEW DAYS BACK, THEN I SAVED YOU. YOU SAVED MY SON ROBOUTE, AND RELAYED A SENSITIVE MESSAGE TO THE SALAMANDERS. YOU OWE ME TWICE OVER. I WILL CALL YOU UP ON IT. UNTIL THEN, ALL I ASK IS THAT YOU STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM IMPERIAL WORLDS. IF I HAVE TO CLEAN UP TEN THOUSAND YEARS OF BAD LUCK AND BAD DECISIONS FROM MY OWN GOVERNMENT, THE LAST THING I NEED IS THE ELDAR BECOMING INTRUSIVE.” “Intrusive?” Isha asked archly. “Intrusive? Really?” “ASK ELDRAD WHAT ROLE HE PLAYED IN THE SECOND AND THIRD WARS OF ARMAGEDDON, I’M SURE IT WILL BE ILLUMINATING,” the Emperor said. Without another word between them, the air parted, a purple mist rushed into the world, and the Emperor – and Guilliman – were gone.
Several dozen buildings away, Taldeer sat next to her daughter’s bedside. Lofn was abuzz with questions. “Was that really Lady Isha?” she asked excitedly. “Yes, hon, it was,” Taldeer said, smiling. “The mother of all Eldar. She came back from the Warp to save Grandpa Eldrad.” “I liked her,” Lofn said decisively, apparently after a moment of intense consideration. Taldeer grinned. “Did you?” she asked. “Yes,” Lofn replied, sounding like there needn’t have been any further discussion on the subject. “She looked friendly inside.” Taldeer looked blank for a moment before realizing what she meant. “Her soul? She had a kind soul?” “Yes, it was all white, but she was sad too, red and blue in it,” Lofn said quietly. “She looked like she cried a lot.” “I think she did too,” Taldeer said softly, trying not to let the surprisingly bright girl see too far into her own thoughts. It apparently didn’t work completely, because her daughter looked up at her with that expression that meant she was about to ask a question Taldeer wouldn’t like. “Why did the spiky one help her? The big orange guy Daddy’s afraid of?” she asked, searching her mother’s face. Taldeer hesitated. “I…I’m honestly not sure, Lofn. He’s a very strict man, and he doesn’t like trusting people. I guess he wants Lady Isha to owe him a favor.” “What will he ask for?” Lofn asked reasonably. Taldeer shook her head. “I don’t know, hon. He could ask for a lot. Lady Isha is the most important person left in the galaxy to the Eldar. And…well, we sort of owed him before, too. Don’t worry, though, I’m sure he’ll…be fair.” Lofn kept staring at her mother for a few more seconds before apparently deciding to believe her. “Okay…will I get to see Lady Isha again?” “Surely, you will,” Taldeer said, trying desperately to return to safer ground. “I’m sure she’ll want to stay until Grandpa Eldrad feels better.” “All right,” Lofn said, her eyelids getting heavy again. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell Dad I love him when he gets home, okay?” Taldeer smiled. “You bet. Sleep tight.” Lofn was asleep by the time Taldeer had hit the lights. Outside in the sitting room, Livii was sitting in a chair in the corner, cradling his head in his hands. Taldeer walked straight up to him, sliding into the chair beside him. “Your daughter says she loves you, and wants to know if she’s going to get to see Lady Isha again,” Taldeer said, kissing Livii on the cheek. He didn’t reply for a few seconds. Finally, he turned to her with a haunted look on his face. “He was going to soul-strip me. Emperor for…I mean, I really think he was going to soul-strip me. I managed to convince him that that would poison negotiations with the Eldar in the future, but…oh FUCK…” he doubled over, holding his stomach. Taldeer wrapped an arm around his shoulders until he straightened up. “Fuck…Taldeer, I’ve been a hairsbreadth from being eaten alive by a daemonette and I have never been more afraid.” “I was watching,” Taldeer said drily. “I thought she was going to eat you too. Isn’t it funny how those look like good times now?” Livii managed a curl of the lips, a sign of how far gone his humor was. “I honestly want the Imperium to return to its rightful glory,” Livii said, the smile vanishing again. “But…Taldeer…the Emperor is a daemon. How can this possibly end well?” Taldeer was silent for a long moment. “I think if we’re very careful about how this gets played out, we can keep Ulthwé safe. But…the galaxy has gone utterly mad. I don’t see how the two of us can change that.” “We can’t,” Livii said, standing and walking towards their bedroom, shucking his shirt and belt. “If I can keep one pocket of this psycho galaxy stable enough to have what I want, that’s enough.” Taldeer followed, shedding her own clothes as Livii dropped face-first into the bed, then rolled over. She lay down beside him, letting him wrap his arm across her stomach, his hand instinctively covering the scar where a very lucky Ork had nearly broken her in half. She placed her hand over his, and for a moment the two simply lay there, as she reached out with her own mind to brush against his, seeking the comfort his infinite stability lent her. His lingering fear from his brush with the Emperor faded as her vast, alien mind wrapped around his own, and they found the love they shared. “If we can keep a place safe, that will have to be enough,” she whispered. He nodded and favored her with the faint smile he saved for her. “It always has been.”
5-027-001-M42
On the Ravenspire, the diminished Raven Guard awaited their lord anxiously. He had been sealed in the Apothecary’s wing, after the Emperor had unceremoniously dumped him there. The Master of Apothecaries himself had fussed over the comatose Primarch as best he could, but only time could have told whether or not he had lost his mind in Fulgrim’s trap. Now, however, the Master of Apothecaries had come forth, and announced that Corax had awakened. Several squads of the First and Eighth companies – the only ones present at the time – gathered, awaiting the verdict. Several of the vehicle crews of the Techmarines also lingered nearby. Finally, supported on one arm by the Chapter Master, Poedra, the Raven himself emerged. “Brothers,” he said weakly, “I live again.” As one, the assembled marines snapped to parade ground attention. The Chapter Master and Master of Apothecaries guided the Primarch to a chair, into which he dropped, grateful. He was unconscious of the eerie parallel that could have been drawn between his own return and that of his brother, Lion, whose demeanor and behavior could have mirrored his. “Lord Corax, I was overjoyed to hear of your survival,” Captain Revus of the Eighth Company said, looking for all the world like it was the first pleasant emotion he had ever felt. “Please, tell us, how did you survive in the Eye?” “I didn’t,” Corax said, his voice returning. “I lost my way in there, and I went completely insane.” Revus and Poedra glanced at each other beneath their intricate helmets, wary. “Yet…” Poedra said carefully. “Yet I am sane now? I sure hope so,” Corax said, with absolutely no trace of humor. “The Emperor saved me from the endless monotony of the Living Labyrinth, but I have no idea what it did to me.” “Lord Corax, I can not know what you have been through, but surely you will return to lead us now?” Poedra asked. Corax shook his head, his ragged black hair flying around him. “No, brother, now I rest. Honestly, I could stand for a few years vacation, as unlikely as I am to receive it. Somewhere very, very sunny.” A few of the younger Eighth Company members smiled hesitantly, unsure if he was joking. Poedra tried to suppress a grimace, then remembered he was wearing a helmet. “My Lord, I’m sure that under the circumstances, a recuperative period would not go awry. The High Lords sent us a command to dispatch fifty Marines to Centrion, and their order stands with the return of the God-Emperor. The transit will take over two months. Will that be enough, my Lord?” “I imagine it would be, but the Emperor has other ideas, I imagine,” Corax said wearily. “He risked a great deal to get me out. Fulgrim will not let this go uncontested. I have no doubt that the legions of Slaanesh are heading here, as we speak.” The assembled Raven Guard were too disciplined to do anything as maudlin as gasp in unison, which is the only reason they didn’t. Poedra took an authoritative step forward, facing the First Company Veterans as he did so. “Then we will meet them, Lord Corax, as we must. We will stand by you in battle!” “I’m sure you will, brother, but if Fulgrim attacks soon, I’ll be in no shape to do much of anything,” Corax said tiredly. “If he gives me the time I need to heal up, I will lead you once more. Until then…I can but wait.”
3-027-001-M42
Leman Russ was never a light sleeper, and something about being trapped in a two-weeklong artillery bombardment can take it out of a man. After sleeping, dead to the world, for nearly two full days, he found himself restless, however, and went to find Grimnir. On the way, he found himself rapidly losing his patience with the bowing, obsequious Imperial citizens and soldiers. He had always had more tolerance for ceremony and faith than most of his brothers, child of Fenris that he was, but the pomp and pageantry was beginning to fray his temper. Grimnir and Russ had taken to conversing in the Titan Bay of Kasr Vortiga, as it was large enough to always be full of people who were always busy enough not to listen in. Grimnir was trying to explain the Imperial Cult phenomenon to Russ, with little success. “Lord Russ, I don’t want you to come away from this with the impression that the Ecclesiarchy is faultless. We, the Space Wolves, have come into open conflict with them in the past, and never of our own provocation. That doesn’t mean it’s unnecessary.” “No, you’re right,” Russ said angrily. “What it does mean is that it’s too powerful. No Church should be able to start wars against its own adherents, regardless of cause. “More to the point,” Russ added, gesturing angrily at the collection of Omnissiah portraits, cogwheels, and devotional necklaces the various techpriests and enginseers were wearing, “the Cult wasn’t supposed to even exist in the first place, Sir Logan. I’ve read the book of Lorgar, and I’ve heard more than enough prayers and such drivel being thrown at me and others since I returned. They sound far too similar.” “I have no knowledge of the book of Lorgar, Lord Russ,” Grimnir said truthfully. “But it must not have been very damaging if it is the basis of the Ecclesiarchy.” “It was writing that book that drove Lorgar to Chaos, Grimnir,” Russ snarled. Grimnir struggled to find words. “Lord Russ…sire, the Imperium was lost and adrift when the Emperor ascended the Throne. You, Lord Khan, Lord Corax, Lord Dorn, Lord Manus, Lord Sanguinius, Lord Vulkan…in fact, all the Primarchs except Lord Guilliman were dead, missing, or traitors, within two centuries of the Betrayal. The people were terrified. People kept deifying the Emperor, as a true, immortal God, and finally the aristocracy realized that the best way to keep the peons in line would be to give in and let them believe in something. Ten thousand years later, here we are.” Russ glared at Grimnir, before speaking low and angry. “I. Do. Not. Care. The Emperor told us from day one that we were the products of his genes and the force of Chaos to which we were exposed when we were stolen from him. Two of our brothers were sucked into the raw stuff of the warp, and became little more than monsters. They were put down, their Legions dissolved into the Ultramarines, and their very names erased from history. If the Emperor were an omniscient God, how could that have been allowed to happen?” Grimnir was looking VERY uncomfortable now. Russ had just flat-out told him what no other person in the Imperium was even willing to admit was possible: that two Primarchs had turned into daemons even BEFORE the Horus Heresy. “Lord Russ, why are you telling me this? I am a very rational man, sire, and feel no need to perpetuate a lie. You and the Emperor himself both say that he is a man, and I will accept it.” Russ’s grimace faded. “That, brother, is the wisest thing you could have possibly said.” Grimnir rolled his shoulders, cricking his neck. “Lord Russ…I want you to know that for all the things I have seen in the campaigns against the Emperor’s foes, it is the acts of the heretic that unnerve me the most. I am a Space Marine, and I know no fear. I do, howe-” “Bah!” Russ interrupted disdainfully. “That sounds like something that asshole Roboute would say. He was always keen to force his own ideals onto other people.” “Yes, Lord Russ, it’s from the Codex Astartes,” Grimnir said awkwardly. “Lord Russ…you have read it, right, you were its most strident opponent, if I recall correctly.” “I read enough to know that he wanted to divide our numbers into nice, easy-to count increments of five and ten, presumably so the bean-counters wouldn’t strain their abacuses,” Russ said in pronounced irritation. “Ten squads of ten men, in ten companies, from our ten thousand man Legions, counting five-man Terminator squads. Foolishness. And even the Army, which we had no business structuring: A thousand men in five companies, with five platoons to each, with fifty men a piece, with ten men in each of five squads, which divide into five-man fireteams. The book was a living stereotype,” Russ said, his irritation in full swing now. He caught sight of Grimnir’s pronounced discomfort, and pulled himself back to topic. “But what were you saying about heretics?” “That they are harder to fight than even daemons, and the foulest xenos, Lord Russ. They fight with ideas, not with weapons, half the time. All their leaders need to do is promise them higher standards of living, vengeance against some wrong, perceived or valid, and that’s it. An army that fears failure more than death. And yet, heretics usually turn to Chaos or xenos-sympathy not because they are insane, but because they are spiteful, outcast, or degraded.” “And how does the Imperial Cult avoid that?” Russ said, trying not to roll his eyes. “It doesn’t, Lord Russ, but it does have a positive effect on morale of those opposing heretics. Guardsmen fight harder, longer, thinking that the Emperor is taking a personal interest in their protection. ‘The Emperor Protects’ is something we’re expected to say to those under our command, regardless of who they are.” Before Russ could reply, the air around him started to shimmer with a familiar purple light. Russ turned and backed a few steps up, to avoid being stepped on by the huge Emperor, as he teleported into the room. “RUSS. GOOD TO FIND YOU SO FAST,” he said, as soon as his beady eyes found the red-dreadlocked Primarch. “Father. Good to see you as well,” Russ said, inclining his head respectfully and trying very hard not to let his discomforture at the appearance of his father show. “Hello, Leman,” a familiar voice said. Russ’s eyes tracked down the source, and his jaw dropped. Roboute Guilliman himself was standing beside the Emperor, looking a bit windswept, but alive and well. “Roboute? Is that you?” Russ asked, shocked beyond eloquence. Guilliman smiled. “It is. It is good to see you unharmed after all this time.” “You as well, brother,” Russ said, clasping Guilliman’s proffered hand, neatly ignoring his own ‘asshole’ comment a moment before. “I WONDER IF EITHER OF YOU EVER THOUGHT THIS WOULD HAPPEN,” the Emperor said, a note of wry humor slipping into his psychic voice. Unseen behind them, the huge ceramite gates of the titan bay slowly swung open, and a Warhound and five Chimeras in Mechanicum colors rolled in, one leaking smoke. “Not in all honesty, Father,” Guilliman said ruefully. He turned to Logan Grimnir, smiling lopsidedly. “And you must be Chapter Master Grimnir.” “I am, Lord Guilliman,” Grimnir said. He inclined his head, then snapped back up to a salute. “You honor me.” “As I understand it, you’ve been rather busy of late, defending Armageddon and Cadia alike from daemonic incursion,” Guilliman said, demonstrating the same attention to detail that had catapulted him to third-in-command of Man. “I was, Lord Guilliman, though recent events have been a stark change of pace,” Grimnir said politely. The behavior of the Ultramarines in both campaigns had been a point of considerable contention between his chapter and Calgar’s. While the Ultramarines hadn’t refused his instructions, in either the demand to blow up the Ork power supplies in the Armageddon campaign, or destroy the relatively few Chaos Dreadnoughts in Abbadon’s army in the Cadian campaign; their apparently complete willingness to subject themselves (and whatever troops had accompanied them) to mindwipes upon seeing Grey Knights in battle had rankled a bit. A few red-armored Blood Ravens unfolded from the comparatively cramped troop compartments of the Chimeras, joking amongst themselves that the Rhinos would have been more comfortable. Angelos was leading them, and he froze solid at the sight of the Emperor, speaking to the two Primarchs and the Space Wolves Chapter Master. “Uh…” The Librarian with him followed his gaze and started. “Oh, my…is that the Emperor himself, Master Angelos?” “It is, brother,” Angelos said, trying to keep his demeanor placid. After all, it wasn’t like they hadn’t met before. A dreadnought rumbled through the bay door behind the Chimeras, spinning its optics to face the Ravens. “What’s the hold-up…oh fuck,” Bjorn rumbled, quickly reversing his steps, trying to quietly back out of the bay. No such luck held, though, Leman Russ spotted him out of the corner of his eye. He looked to be concentrating for a moment, then grinned as recognition hit him. “Bjorn the Fell-handed! Old friend. Come over here, brother!” he said, waving joyously. “Damn it,” Bjorn muttered. Angelos winced in sympathy. The Ancient Venerable Tactical Dreadnought wearily plodded over to where his former Chapter Master and Primarch waited, while his new Chapter Master walked behind, carefully avoiding Russ’s gaze. “Bjorn, my oldest friend, I never thought I’d see you again!” Russ said, spreading his hands wide. “It does my heart good to witness you here, still leading our brothers into battle…why are you painted red?” “Ah…change of plans, Lord Russ,” Bjorn said, awkwardly waving his lightning claw in vague circles. “Plans? What plans?” Russ asked, still smiling. Grimnir was busy shifting his rapidly growing grin between Angelos and the Emperor, who were both trying not to notice. “Well…ah…I got…well, I got tired of endlessly retelling the same stories over and over again, once every five hundred to a thousand years, you know, to the Wolf Brothers on Fenris…and I kind of wanted to get back into action. So, when the Blood Ravens came knocking, preparing to assault a force of Black Legionnaires here on Cadia, I hefted the old bolter and tagged along,” Bjorn improvised. Guilliman was watching the scene with a bewildered look on his lined face. “Oh, I understand,” Russ said. “But…why are you in their livery?” “Well, my joining their battleforce was not initially…ah…voluntary?” Bjorn’s voice trailed off. Russ shook his head, uncomprehending. “What, the other Space Wolves sent you to the Ravens’ ship while you were still in cryo-sleep?” he asked, trying to make sense of the situation. Grimnir had a cruel smirk on his face now, staring at the squirming Angelos vindictively. “…No…” Bjorn said, as evasive as a Harlequin. Russ stared at the awkwardly shifting Dreadnought, the Emperor, who was seemingly very absorbed in the minute movements of the Warhound as its moderati powered it down, and Angelos, who was flushing red as a tomato at this point, before turning his gaze to Grimnir. Finally, he turned back to the entombed Bjorn, who would have been fidgeting too if he still had hands. “Are you saying…I can’t even believe I’m asking this, but are you saying they STOLE you?” he asked incredulously. Grimnir crossed his arms and bared his fangs in a feral grin, looking very satisfied. Guilliman’s face was a mask of professional horror. “…Maybe,” Bjorn said, his optics finally meeting Ross’s astounded glare. Russ turned to face Angelos, who was fidgeting with the collar of the helmet in his hands like a penitent schoolboy. “Master Angelos? Is this true?” Russ asked, too dumbfounded to be angry. “Well, sort of,” Angelos said. He hastened to explain, before Grimnir could say something petty. “We were passing the world of Fenris in our ship, the Litany of Fury, and our artificers wanted to show our respect to the chapter. So, they created a magnificent, and very expensive, power axe, for Lord Ragnar. When we presented it to him, though, he laughed at us and told us to, and I quote, ‘keep your pathetic trinkets.’ Well, we were quite understandably insulted, so we decided-” “To commit larceny and abduction?” Guilliman broke in, his professional horror turning to rage. “Is that conduct for an Astartes to perform? What in the name of all that is untainted compelled you to do that?” “You can’t kidnap the willing, Lord Guilliman,” Bjorn said, surprising the two Primarchs and Grimnir. “I was sick of the Space Wolves. I was happy to leave once I realized what was going on.” “WHAT?!” Russ roared, while Grimnir looked like he had been hit by an airbus. The Emperor’s head pivoted back and forth between the two as if watching a tennis match. “You…you wanted to leave the Legion…Chapter you once lead?! WHY?!” “Well, not forever!” Bjorn said defensively. “I just got sick of it. The brothers used me like a soundboard. All they ever did was wake me up, have them tell them the same damn stories over and over again, then put me back to sleep. For over EIGHT THOUSAND YEARS!” he exclaimed, his voice rising, surprising even himself. Angleos looked like he was trying to hide behind his own armor. “I mean, FUCK!” Bjorn said, waving his lightning claw angrily. “I walked under blood-drenched skies with the Emperor at my side!” “DON’T DRAG ME INTO THIS PISSING MATCH, BJORN,” the Emperor put in, taking a step back, shaking the floor. “No, no, I mean I have been a part of the Space Wolves since…well, boss, I seem to recall being one of the ORIGINAL volunteers from Terra that was used to test the geneseed project when you were creating the Legions, before the Great Crusade began. I was born on Terra when it was still called Earth! Being used as a living alarm clock to announce the passing of millennia by the Wolf Brothers was nothing more or less than an insult! I wanted to FIGHT! They wanted me to lead their little campfire songs!” Russ’s voice dropped several octaves, and a few decibels. He leaned forward, his eyes ablaze. Grimnir’s smile vanished. “The history of the Space Wolves…as entrusted to the one man who was there for the whole thing…is not a camp…fire…song,” he said, his voice shaking with rage. “Then clearly you haven’t asked Grimnir how much our traditions have changed for the worse lately,” Bjorn said, though he clearly didn’t want to provoke the Primarch further. Russ snarled. “What the hell do you mean?” “I mean we used to use wolves as mounts maybe, symbols,” Bjorn started, uncomfortably aware of the same conversation he had had with the Emperor, who was starting to look a bit guilty himself. “We were literal wolves when overcome by the rage, and so on. But…lately, it’s gotten to be so bad that it’s actually a little embarrassing. The tales they have me tell are exactly two in number: the one where I fought alongside you, and the one about how Granad Wolfblood threw Doombreed off a cliff. That’s boring enough as it is, when I fucking lead the chapter for centuries, and I’d rather talk about that. But every time they wake me up now, I see more and more wolf. “I mean, our ranking system is bad enough as it is, with three out of four ranks having the word wolf in the title,” he said, his anger fading, replaced by resentment. “Then, a few millennia back, they change the ritual for waking me up to replace every instance of the words Astartes and warrior with the word wolf. And then, more recently, every time I go out into the Great Hall to retell the same damn stories over and over again, I see some of the brothers actually wearing wolf pelts…not as ornamentation, but as actual articles of clothing. I mean, what the fuck? And THEN,” he said, overriding Grimnir’s angry objection, “last time, I see people RIDING wolves. Not as pets, or as part of the ceremony. No, I mean, they’re fucking riding Fenrisian wolves around like it’s a means of getting around! Like as transportation! What the FUCK? I had to get out of there.” “Can you even START to imagine what it was like, knowing for a fact that for the rest of TIME, I was going to be subjected to greater and greater desecrations of the Chapter, turning more and more into the furries the whole rest of the Adeptus Astartes have been calling us from the beginning; and all I can do about it is stress the parts of the legends that don’t have wolves in them?” he asked, words tumbling out of his speaker over each other, millennia of stress released. “All I can do is pray and pray in the few free minutes I get before they put me back to sleep that MAYBE, just MAYBE, they’ll remember I have a lightning claw and a rocket launcher for arms, and put me back to GOOD use, instead of just using me like a ‘Baby’s First History Holovid,’ and I’ll get to go rip some Thousand Sons in half or something, rather than THIS!” he roared, nearby Techmarines and Enginseers staring at the display in shock. “Fuck me raw and call me a Salamander, If the Blood Ravens want to use me for what I was BUILT for rather than that, they can paint me hot pink and call me a Pretty Marine!” Bjorn stood there angrily, his resentment and anger draining away, leaving Russ and Guilliman stunned by the outburst, Angelos looking like he was seriously contemplating shooting himself, and the Emperor wondering if anyone would have noticed if he had teleported out.
Other Writefaggotry
Transcript of vox-transmission near station Drakontas-4
FOR INQUISITORIAL PERSONAL ONLY
???: -atch me through to our lord now!
???: As you order, it shall be done.
<........>
???: What is this meaning of this converse?
???: My lord and master, Cypher has succeed in his goal. The beast has been released within the Golden Throne.
???: And the Emperor?
???: Reborn as the Star Child at long last. He has already begun to adorn the galaxy with his magnificence. That fool Abaddon has been injured beyond repair, and our reborn lord removed Guilliman from his throne on Macragge.
???: *chuckle* Excellent. The fruits of our ancient scheme have finally shown themselves. Soon the Galaxy will be utterly conquered by the ultimate God-Emperor, and we shall fight by him in his true glory! HYDRA DOMINATUS!
???: HYDRA DOMINATUS!
<........>
???: *snicker* Just as planned. Wait, why is the signal jammer of-
Gallery
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Alpha Legion reveals their true allegiance. TARRASQUE DOMINATUS!
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Jeez that's a big table.
Links
There's more. Oh god there is more. The writefag "Someone else" is keeping the story going as you read this, and we're up to TWENTYSIX THOUSAND words.
Not any more, he's up to thirty four thousand now. (Fuck the links, keep uploading them here!)
Forty seven thousand, six hundred sixty nine words. He says he's two thirds done. Wow. 64,241 words and counting.
The Start:
Chapter Two: