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I know some people were annoyed at the fact that i released Treachery's Road in five segments, and i realise now that people would rather read the entire story as one thing.
So, i guess...here's the whole shibang, from start to finish, enjoy and please comment, i need feedback!
Feedback! feed meeeee!

The Inheritor Rises

“We raised him in glorious fire,” The uneven voice cackled, the occupants of the dimly-lit steel chamber shuddered.
“On the ninth day, we called to him, and he answered,”
They were Imperial citizens, one and all, and they had all been stupid enough to stay behind.
“On Kronus first, and then on Aurelia, again and again, he rises, the immortal lord of the dark,”
The voice was ethereal, unreal; it clawed at the insides of their minds, tearing their sanity asunder with visions of the infinite powers of chaos.
“On Typhon, he tore the Venerable asunder, and now, we lay your souls upon the bare steel, opened to the infinite sky of the Warp to make him flesh once more.”
Some of the captives screamed, clawing at their eyes, jamming their fingers into their ears so deep that blood trickled from their lobes. Some had taken to ferociously attacking each other to make the voice stop, but to no avail.
A tear opened in the very fabric of reality, the voice giggled in a fit of insanity, and several captives collapsed as their blood spiralled up and into the insane, swirling sea of demonic faces and ethereal lights.
A black shape formed against the insanity-inducing lights, gaining mass and shape until it resembled a man, the pearly white eyes glowing against the figure’s silhouette, rendered black against the swirling contours of the rip in reality.
The figure clenched its fists, a low purr of a laugh ripping out of its throat, and suddenly the captives exploded in a tide of blood, immediately sucked up into the mass of the figure.
There was a burst of light, and the Warp gate collapsed in on itself as Eliphas the Inheritor dropped to the steel floor of the chamber, his pale skin laced with scars and war wounds, his pale eyes looking upon the surviving offerings with loathing, both for them and himself.
He was naked from the waist up, clad only in tattered rags that might once have been guard kit standard issue leggings.
He let out a low growl in his purring, icy voice.
The survivors of the ordeal, the sanest of the sacrifices, were huddled together at the far end of the chamber.
Two men in tattered Guard kit, a sister of the Ecclesiarchy, perhaps a healer, a man in the torn, bloody remains of a Commissar’s uniform, a feeble Greyskin Tau, immune to the voice that plagued the others, but still terrified by the ordeal that befell the others, and lastly, an Eldar witch, most likely a Farseer, the only one not cowering in fear.
She seemed to be shielding the others, who were cowering like children, mentally broken, her arms laced around the Guardsmen protectively whilst they wept.
“How…disgusting,” Eliphas sneered, “That you would protect these feeble creatures, when the allure of Chaos offers so much more.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the putrid sweetness of the Warp pour into him; he channelled the power, throwing the Eldar witch aside with a flick of his wrist.
The beautiful creature slammed into the far wall and fell to her knees, her dark red hair falling over her face.
Pathetically, one of the Guardsmen stood, and Eliphas saw, through the grime and blood that covered his face, that the man was none other than the former General of the Guard forces in Sub-Sector Aurelia.
“Castor,” he chuckled darkly, “Do you still preach your pathetic Imperial creed? Do you still believe yourself above mortal men?”
Eliphas reached out, watching Castor squirm as he grasped the man by his throat and lifted him clean off the ground.
Castor gagged, scrabbling at Eliphas’ tightening hand.
The newly fleshed Inheritor heard a roar of fury off to his right, as the other guardsman rushed him with a feral glint in his eye.
Eliphas swung Castor round like a blunt weapon, slamming the other guardsman away across the decking.
Dropping Castor, Eliphas strode over to his attacker, revelling in the feeling of being clad in flesh once more.
He kneeled on the man’s chest, his sheer, Warp-fuelled bulk cracking the man’s ribs.
Extending both hands, Eliphas slapped the man several times in the face.
“You do not disturb the predator when the prey is in his maw.”
Eliphas placed a hand either side of the guardsman’s face, and with a deft flick, snapped the man’s neck.
Castor was on his feet now, taking a boxer’s stance. The General had little chance against the corrupt Astartes warlord, but Eliphas enjoyed crushing his enemies slowly.
The Ecclesiarchy sister was up now, also taking a fighting stance, as was the Commissar. The Tau filth was curled up and sobbing, and the Eldar witch was clutching at a broken rib.
Eliphas rose to his feet, deliberately slow.
“The Inheritance is nigh, friends, come take me.”
The Commissar was the first, he leapt with an adrenaline-fuelled roar, and Eliphas caught him by the foot, swinging him to smash into the Ecclesiarchy sister who had tried to tackle him from the side.
Both went flying, as Eliphas ducked a sweeping kick from Castor and lashed out with his palm flat, striking the General in the knee and laughing as he heard the sharp crack of bone splintering.
Castor crashed to the floor on his back as Eliphas rose and smashed his foot into the General’s left arm, watching it bend at an inhuman angle as bone; sinew and muscle were pulped out of shape.
Castor let out a scream.
Eliphas heard a swish behind him, and turned in time to catch the charging Commissar.
He grasped the rage-maddened Commissar around the waist and disposed of him with a shoulder toss.
The Ecclesiarchy sister leapt and lashed out at him with a punch towards his chest.
Eliphas caught her fist and twisted her forearm as he sidestepped her.
She screamed and thrashed as Eliphas drove her to the floor.
Placing a foot carefully on her head, he braced, and then pulped the structure of her skull, prompting another roar of rage from the Commissar as he lashed at Eliphas from behind.
Eliphas channelled the pure energies of the warp, directing his hand at the commissar, whose head exploded in a fountain of blood.
Eliphas knelt beside the whimpering Castor, wrenching the man up by his hair.
“This is the fate that awaits your Imperium, Castor; thank me for sparing you from what comes after.”
Castor spat blood at Eliphas, before the Chaos Lord filled himself with pure warp energy, and tore Castor’s head and spine from his body.
Striding over to the feeble Tau, Eliphas prepared to soak himself in Xenos blood.
“So fragile, your kind, I could pulverise your empire between my finger and my thumb.”
The Tau, a female, by the shape of her body, lashed out with a sharp kick of her hoofed foot that sent Eliphas stumbling back.
“FILTH!” he roared, grabbing the Tau female savagely by the neck and slamming her repeatedly into the wall, paying no attention to the Farseer behind him.

***

A bright blast of light radiated out through the small clear window set into the chamber’s door.
On the opposite side to the blast, the Chaos Lord, Seraphos the Bloody stood with his arms folded over his ceramite-plated chest.
Seraphos was a Dark Apostle, a preacher of the divine powers of Chaos undivided.
His armour was a faded, rust-covered red, rimmed with silver, his face would have been handsome, were it not for the pale skin, the steel studs replacing his teeth, and the amber, cat-like eyes. A crop of blood-red hair topped his head, obscuring one eye from view.
He cradled his horned helmet in the crook of one arm, and a serrated axe was belted at his waist.
He basked in the cold glow of the warplight.
Nearby, Eravas, his lieutenant, stood with his hands folded behind his back.
“You say the Inheritor is more psychically apt than the Farseer?” Seraphos murmured in a wolf-like growl.
“He ought to be,” Eravas replied, his power armour clinking as he shifted his feet, “The warp energy he absorbed ought to be sufficient enough to manifest him as he was at the height of Aurelia.”
Seraphos nodded quietly, his upper lip twitching as it always did whenever he discussed someone he disliked.
Just now, he’d mentioned two.
The cold, icy light of the warpfire dissipated, and a second later, the door clinked mechanically on rusted gears as it slid into the wall.
Eliphas the Inheritor, in all his scar-laced majesty, stepped through the doorway, holding a limp female figure in each hand.
One was a beautiful Eldar female, a Farseer they’d acquired in the wake of the Tyrannid invasion of Aurelia, before Eliphas had even set foot in the system.
The Word Bearers had been stealthy; this one was worth something to them.
The other was a Tau female, a disgusting thing that Seraphos had brought from a slaver for a discount price.
“Eliphas,” Seraphos uttered in a mock tone of welcome, “So glad you answered our summons.”
“Seraphos,” Eliphas returned, not bothering to disguise his anger, “You didn’t die on Kronus, then.”
“Not at all, Eliphas. In fact, Lorgar bade me take command of the forces you abandoned.”
Eliphas snarled, “Yet I see no Accursed Crozius, Seraphos, are you not one of Lorgar’s trusted?”
“I would have taken yours from your corpse, Eliphas, but the Loyalist Astartes had it burned.”
Seraphos couldn’t keep a tone of amusement from entering his voice.
“Davian Thule now lies dead.” Eliphas growled firmly, “And a good portion of his Blood Ravens with him.”
“But not all,” Seraphos reminded him, “It is a good job we got to you first, Lord Abaddon is reported to have been…quite upset.”
He expected Eliphas to flinch, but instead he seemed to grow more feral, the look in his eye suggested he wouldn’t think twice about strangling Seraphos, even without the aid of power armour.
“So,” Eliphas spat, “What miserable backside of a planet have you spawned me into?”
Seraphos grinned, exposing the iron-stud teeth.
“This is Maras, Eliphas, and we have a war to fight.”
Eliphas let out a cold, chilling laugh, handing the two limp females to Eravas.
“Secure these two,” Eliphas instructed, “These fleas will die slowly for inclining me to scratch.”
Seraphos noted a faint, hoof-like imprint on Eliphas’ bare, scar-covered chest, which seemed to match one of the Tau female’s hooves.
He grinned, taking satisfaction in the idea that Eliphas might one day be destroyed and humiliated by something half his size.
“I presume,” Eliphas began in an irritated growl, catching Seraphos’ grin, “That I will be fighting in power armour?”
“A courtesy, Eliphas,” Seraphos replied with an over-exaggerated bow, “The very armour you wore on Typhon, recovered from where you expired at the hands of the Astartes Captain.”
“Apollo Diomedes will get his comeuppance,” Eliphas muttured throatily, “If Thule hadn’t sent out a distress signal before I finished him…”
“Then you would not be here, which is unfortunate.” Seraphos finished for him, “Go, don your armour, this Bastion was once a Loyalist stronghold, pray it isn’t again.”
Eliphas looked set to rip someone’s head off, but he obeyed, leaving the room with a muttered curse.
Though Seraphos despised the man for his immortality, he could not deny Eliphas’ tactical supremacy. Eliphas’ demonic pacts meant that fate curled around the man like warpfire around a Daemon’s feet.
The eddies and currents of fate bent, allowing circumstance to bring Eliphas back, time and time again.
Seraphos had made careful preparations before summoning his ex-commander. Eliphas was treacherous, as was proven on Kronus, when he had abandoned Seraphos to die at Deimos, and again on Aurelia, when he had betrayed Araghast.
Seraphos knew Eliphas would attempt betrayal again. Like all things in Chaos, it was Eliphas’ nature to hold his own survival over those of his comrades and superiors.
“Ready the sacrificial pit,” he ordered Eravas, “When the time comes, we abandon this place, I won’t risk taking him with us.”
“So he is…a distraction?” Eravas asked.
Seraphos didn’t reply, his attention had been caught by the stirring of the Eldar witch.
“Eravas, what was the witch’s name again?”
“Idranel.” Eravas replied simply.
“Throw her in a cell with the greyskin, she can rot there until we need to use the pit.”
Eravas nodded, moving off and dragging the two females behind him.
Suddenly, Eliphas’ voice rang through Seraphos’ micro-bead.
“You neglected to mention the Loyalists at our door.”
“Consider it…a test, Eliphas,” Seraphos chuckled, “See if you still have the spark you had on Kronus.”
There was an earth-shaking rumble, and Seraphos heard yelling and screaming at the other end of the Vox link.
“They’ve breached the outer walls.” Eliphas stated icily.
“Then repel!” Seraphos barked, shutting off the link.
He couldn’t deal with the bastard Inheritor right now.
He strode down the corridor, ceramite clanking on metal with every step until he came to a bulk-door. The thing was designed to withstand all but the heaviest ordnance.
A high-calibre Las-Cannon wouldn’t breach it.
Keying in his passcode, Seraphos stepped through onto one of the Bastion Medrogus’ many battlements.
Basking in the red light of a battlefield dawn, Seraphos speculated once again on Kronus.
If Eliphas hadn’t left him to die, he would now hold that Crozius, and Eliphas’ warp-spawned immortality would never have come to pass.
The warp was like all things in chaos, it ultimately acted to its own ends; it would chew you up and spit you out. Seraphos took some small comfort in the idea that one day, when the warp was done with him; Eliphas would be a rotting carcass, and nothing more.
As he closed his eyes, and listened to the comforting thud of distant artillery, Seraphos offered a prayer to Chaos undivided that he would live to see that day.

The Inquisitor

“Up! Aim!”
He clamped his hands over his ears as the Basalisk’s Earthshaker cannon thumped, throwing them all off balance whilst a hole was blown in the ground where a corrupted and debased Leman Russ had been seconds before.
Hands over ears, mouth open, wait ten seconds.
Inquisitor-General Benjamin Mordecai counted ten, then removed his hands from his ears, glancing at the Basalisk’s loader, who was busy lighting a Bac-stick.
Benjamin wasn’t the image of fear and retribution that most people expected an Inquisitor to be.
Tall and handsome, with dark-brown, close-cropped hair and striking, icy blue eyes, Benjamin was clad in standard Guardsman Flak armour and black breeches, over which he wore a Navy Blue stormcoat.
In a sling on his back, he carried a weapon which resembled a cross between an old Terra crossbow and a shotgun. Benjamin had designed the weapon himself, and called it the Brutal Bow. It took several different rounds; with ammo stocks mounted either side of the barrel, giving it its appearance and name.
He stood from his position on the Basalisk’s loading deck, looking out over the ice plains towards Maras’ seat of government, Galespire.
Before them lay the bulk of Bastion Medrogus, its mighty outer walls breached.
Even as he watched, Benjamin saw Guardsmen of the Jurdani Elites pouring in through the breech.
Jurdani had been Benjamin’s Homeworld, and the Elites were the only thing he had left of it.
Jurdani had once been a major space port and trading post, the entire planet covered in a vast ocean; all save for its one continent, a utopian thing with one large hive city engulfing it.
Until the metal monsters came.
Drilling for oil in the planet’s southern ice cap had disturbed a Necron tomb, and by the time Benjamin Mordecai returned to salvage his homeworld, the nightmare had engulfed most of Jurdani Hive.
He’d salvaged two thousand fighting men and women, the only remnants of Jurdani, the Elites.
“Sir?” The gruff, deep voice shook Benjamin Mordecai from his thoughts, as did the firm hand grasping his shoulder.
Rennard Osbourne, a veteran of the Jurdani Elites, was the Captain of Mordecai’s personal guard, the Blackwatch.
Muscular and compact, Osbourne’s shaven head was disfigured by a scar that tugged the right corner of his lips and ended just below the cheekbone.
His dark eyes always shone with a light-heartedness and humour that few soldiers could maintain in the thick of battle.
Clad in modified Astartes Scout armour the colour of polished silver, Osbourne was watching his master curiously.
“I wonder what goes on in your ‘ead half the time, Benj.” He uttered over the rumble of battle, his mouth tugged in a lopsided grin by the disfiguring scar.
“Thinking.” Benjamin replied firmly.
“Yeah, well, maybe best to think on the battle, eh?”
That was one thing Benjamin liked about Rennard Osbourne, he paid nearly no attention to rank whatsoever.
“Let’s go.” Leaping down from the Basalisk, he took his Brutal Bow from its sheath, flicking the safety and loading two ammo stocks.
Rennard slammed into the dirt behind him, arming his own Brutal Bow, and the two set off towards the breach, joining the Jurdani elites pouring through.
No-one needed to wear extra thermals this close to the city, the excess heat vents from the Manufactories ensured that the ice underfoot was little more than thick slush.
Keying in his vox-bead, Benjamin called up the rest of the Blackwatch and his retinue.
“Fall in, all on me. We’re on foot from here on in.”
Four more Blackwatch members fell in step behind him, and recognition from the rest of his retinue indicated they weren’t far away.
Weaving and dodging over the broken ground, the Inquisitor and his squad moved closer to the breach.
The constant hiss of lasfire and the crack of shot weapons were a constant background noise, and even as the Elites swarmed into the breach, chaos cultists clad in bronze, spiked armour poured out to repel them.
“Contact!” Osbourne cried, as a dozen cultists climbed the rim of the shell crater nearest them.
Raising the Brutal bow, Benjamin fired, smiling at the hard thud of the recoil as a frag shell detonated on the head of a cultist as he raised to fire.
The shell fragmented, and three more cultists hit the floor as the shrapnel sliced through flesh, muscle and arteries.
The Blackwatch opened fire, cutting down the cultists as more surged forward to meet them.
Not far away, a solid ridge of rock jutted out of the ice, providing natural cover to any who had the sense to use it.
“Flank pattern, sidewind.” He spoke into his vox bead, strafing towards the rock formation as he reloaded, racked and fired three more frag shells, downing seven cultists in total.
In the thick of the fighting, Benjamin could only focus on what was in front of him, trusting his squad to work like a well oiled machine, he continued strafing and firing, his icy calm a polar opposite to the shrieks and cries of the enemy cultists as they continued to fire.
A solid slug round panged off the plasteel of his shoulder guard, sheer luck dictating the fact it hadn’t exploded.
He knelt, loosing off shots from where he crouched by the jutting rock.
The satisfying crack of Jurdani Brutal bows sounded all around him, and Benjamin let out a savage cry as he saw the ranks finally beginning to thin.
Over the din of the Brutal bows, he heard a louder thud, and several of the bronze-armoured cultists dissolved in a blizzard of debris and fire.
He looked up, and saw, atop the slab of rock, a slim, wiry figure clad in Guard kit in the colours of the Maccabian Janissaries.
The most noticeable thing about the man was the extra arm protruding from his spine, which ended in a standard issue grenade launcher.
Darius Fitch unclipped his helmet and tossed it aside, revealing a prosthetic eye which served in place of his real one.
Hefting his Maccabia pattern Las-Rifle, he leapt from the rocky outcrop and landed next to the Inquisitor.
“I would have been at the original rendezvous point,” he explained over the crack of solid slug weapons and the satisfying recoil of the Brutal Bows, “But the Basalisk I hitched a ride with blew before we got close.”
“At least ya got ‘ere.” Rennard stated, holding his Brutal bow between his knees while he lit a Bac-stick.
The smell of nicotine soon added to the metallic tang of war, and Benjamin suddenly became aware of an absence of firepower in the immediate vicinity.
The distant thud of artillery was still a constant in the background, but it wasn’t the ordinary crump of Earthshaker rounds.
“Fitch, can you locate those guns?”
“Already done, Inquisitor.” Darius replied, his prosthetic eye whirring in its socket.
“And?”
“Most of the heavy stuff is located to the south of the city; General Elys of the Cadian 50th is trying to silence them. Down our end, I’d spec at least eight guns, spaced along the ramparts of the Bastion’s inner wall.” Darius shouldered his Las-Rifle, folding his arms smugly.
“Why ain’t they targetin’ us?” Rennard put in, the Bac-stick in his mouth wobbling as he spoke.
“Standard battle tac, you know I said my Basalisk got hit?”
“Ah.” Osbourne replied, racking his Brutal bow.
They looked up at the walls, as tall and impenetrable as a Reaver Titan.
“Priority is to recapture the Bastion,” Benjamin stated, “Best way for us to do that is by ensuring we have the ordnance to crack that inner wall.”
“That means taking out those guns.” Darius replied.
Benjamin’s Vox-bead crackled.
“Inquisitor-General?” The voice was that of Drevan Stubbs, the Admiral of Benjamin’s Armageddon class battle cruiser, the Lady Lucent.
“Admiral? What is it?”
“We ha-….” The rest of the transmission was laced with static, too much to hear.
“Admiral, say again?”
“We have a Deathwatch team inbound from Gaeis, designation Aramus.”
“Have them re-route, air drop onto the inner walls.”
“Aye, Inquisitor-General, re-routing now.”

***

The Thunderhawk rocked with turbulence as it descended through the crystal blue air of Maras. The vibrations that shook the troop compartment were barely felt by the six Space Marines who knelt in prayer, making final battle rites before they reached their designated drop zone.
Leading them in praise of the God Emperor was Deathwatch Captain Karel, a young but capable commander from the Crusade vessels of the Black Templars.
Kneeling directly before him were Veteran Sergeant Leondras of the Dark Angels, a steely and incorruptible man who had been Karel’s second for twenty years, and brother Gallus, an Apothecary of the Ultramarines, a quiet, reclusive man who was just as prepared to kill as he was to heal.
Behind them knelt Brothers Stephos, of the Blood Angels, and Tech-Marine Gheren of the Imperial Fists.
And kneeling at the back was a man who, though Karel knew he was faithful, still unnerved him.
His chapter markings had been erased, but nonetheless Sergeant Aramus was still a Blood Raven.
Aramus had led the Blood Raven forces during the first and second Aurelian Crusades, but the corruption of half his strike force had wounded the then-Captain so much that he had renounced his chapter and joined the Deathwatch permanently, becoming a Black Shield and erasing all iconography of his previous chapter.
“Thy Emperor, I am thy sword and thine shield, as thou art mine. Let thine will carry us into the heat of battle, that we may serve or die, and spill blood in thine glory. By the fathers, so let it be.”
Karel stood, his part done.
Leondras nodded his approval.
“Brother-Captain,” The pilot’s voice blared over the vox, “ETA to Bastion Medrogus, five minutes.”
Karel hefted one of the jump packs from where it sat in one of the wall alcoves that lined the Thunderhawk’s interior.
“Strap in,” he ordered, “Prepare for drop.”
After strapping on their jump packs, the Deathwatch Marines stood in file, in rows of two, waiting for the pilot’s indication that the drop zone had been reached.
Karel reached up and brushed a strand of black hair out of his eye.
He felt the familiar tightness that all warriors experience before a battle. That sense of waiting, of impatience, of wanting to be in the midst of the battle, of knowing that every delayed second would cost lives.
The light above the Thunderhawk’s frontal hatch flashed red, and Karel slammed the opening mechanism down.
The hatch opened with a smooth whirr of hydraulics, and the sounds of war far below drifted into the troop compartment like a sickly sweet symphony.
Karel clasped his helmet on, checking the seals before nodding to Leondras beside him.
As one, they leapt from the hatch, freefalling whilst observing the battlefield below them.
“Deploy.” Karel spoke into his vox bead, indicating to Stephos and Gheren that they were clear to drop.
With a short burst from the jump pack, Karel rolled and saw both in freefall above him; Gheren’s Servo arm was sucked neatly beneath the jump pack’s bulk.
Turning his attention back towards the ground, Karel opened his vox link again as Aramus and Gallus joined them.
“The missile silos, on the inner ramparts, we destroy them and rendezvous with the Inquisitor. Fire squad designation primus will consist of me, Gallus and Stephos, Secundus is Leondras, Gheren and Aramus.”
“Acknowledged.” Leondras replied, shouting over the roar of the wind.
Using another short burst from his jump pack, Karel swung his body around so that he was falling feet-first.
“Secundus breaking away,” Leondras barked, “we’ll take the south rampart.”
“Acknowledged,” Karel voxed back, “Primus taking the western ramparts, Emperor’s speed, Leondras.”
“May he grace you, Karel.”
As the ground rushed up to meet him, Karel jetted a fierce blast from his jump pack, slowing his descent before he slammed into the steel decking of the western ramparts.
Rolling to absorb the impact, he unclipped his jump pack mid-roll, unsheathing his power sword as he came up into a crouch.
This part of the ramparts was empty, but the enemy would have noticed six Astartes dropping on top of their fort.
Karel registered two metallic thuds as Gallus and Stephos landed behind him.
“I’ll take point.” Karel voxed, loading a clip into his wrist-mounted bolter.
He set off towards the nearest missile silo at a steady jog.

***

Leondras righted himself, ready for landing. In one arm, he cradled his Ryza variant Boltgun, in the other, a pair of melta charges.
He braced himself, shrugging off solid slug rounds as he coasted towards the missile silo.
He had to execute this perfectly, or he’d blow him and his men as well as the silo.
“Brace for detonation.” He ordered, skimming low over the silo and releasing both charges before slamming into the steel decking, crushing a pair of bronze-armoured cultists underfoot.
Leondras stood as the missile silo exploded in a violent plume of fire and smoke.
He didn’t even flinch as the rolling inferno washed outwards over him, cooking several cultists in their armour.
Those that weren’t cooked alive fell subject to Gheren’s bolter and Servo arm.
With a few well-placed shots, the two cleared an entire section of the southern ramparts.
“Where is Brother Aramus?” Gheren chimed in his artificial, monotone voice.
“Aramus?” Leondras called over the vox, in response, a high-pitched, static laced frequency forced him to switch channels.
“No response,” Leondras replied, “either Aramus’ vox bead is clipped, or he’s deceased.”
“Then we press on?” Gheren asked, though in his metallic, grating voice, it sounded more like a statement.
“Indeed.” Leondras responded, fixing a bayonet the size of a man’s arm onto his bolter.

***

From his vantage point on a raised platform in the Bastion’s enclosed parade square, Eliphas watched as Cultists of the Bronze Fist sect assembled by rank and file behind their Word Bearer masters.
Clad in his matt black, gold trimmed Terminator armour, Eliphas had to admire the tactical efficiency of his old Legion, even whilst technically belonging to the Black Legion.
No! He thought savagely, I do not belong to anyone!
Using his warp-tainted powers, Eliphas spoke to the army assembled before him, his voice magnified to a roar, echoing his usual icy-cold purr.
“Make ready, enlightened of Chaos, the true traitors are beyond those walls, seeking to enter and break us!”
There was a cacophony of angered cries and jeers from the assembled warriors, before he held up the massive, clawed Power Fist he wore over his left arm for silence.
“This Bastion is ours, it is ours by right, ever since Horus’ enlightenment, what the loyalists have the nerve to refer to as his ‘heresy’!”
Again, more cries for vengeance and blood.
Eliphas had been alive so long; he found it almost too easy to manipulate the simple minds of these creatures, these mortal men.
Most turned to Chaos out of desperation, jealousy or fear, and after that, it was all too easy to mould their minds until they faithfully believed their cause was just.
“What if we believe this Bastion should be ours and not yours, Chaos Marine!?” A muffled voice issued as a man stepped out of rank.
Eliphas looked the man over.
Though mortal, he was certainly intimidating, compact and muscular, he wore a tattered and faded guard uniform, with the right sleeve and shoulder guard ripped off, exposing several marks of chaos carved deep into his flesh.
His mouth was covered by a rebreather mask that Eliphas supposed the man wore for the sake of inducing fear, and atop his shaven head sat a Mohawk of blood-red hair.
On the man’s back were sheathed a power sword and a monstrously big chainsword.
Eliphas grinned coldly; he could crush this man easily, and yet…
“You are welcome to try, soldier, but first I shall know your name.”
“Fexus Ragon.” The man answered simply.
“The come,” Eliphas beckoned, removing the power fist and dropping his Daemon sword.
Fexus stood, facing Eliphas for a mere moment, before leaping forward, covering the ground between them in two easy strides, before somersaulting over Eliphas’ head, drawing and slicing down with his power sword in one smooth, split-second motion.
Eliphas caught the blade in one warp-corrupted gauntlet, slamming the man down into the ground, hard.
Fexus rolled to absorb the impact, before twisting and springing back towards Eliphas, dancing nimbly to the left and then slashing downwards towards the gap between Eliphas’ thigh and hip plates.
The chainsword grinded against the ceramite of Eliphas’ forearm, before a violent shove wrenched the weapon out of the man’s hand.
Tossing the weapon away, Eliphas watched with amusement as Fexus took a stance associated with most agility-based fighting forms, feet about a foot apart, hands in front of him, palms flat, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
Eliphas lashed out, bringing the man down with a swift chop to the ribs.
The chaos lord was calculating, he knew just how much force to use to bring a man down without killing him.
He loomed over Fexus as he began to rise, pressing a foot against the man’s chest to keep him pinned.
He glanced at the nearest Word Bearer; the crimson-clad Space Marine cocked his helmeted head to one side.
“Take this man,” Eliphas stated, “Grant him the rank of Sergeant and assign him a squad.”
He allowed Fexus to stand, before turning to raise his hands to the assembled legions.
“Am I not merciful?!” He echoed, “Do I not reward those who show promise?!”
A vicious cry broke from the silent lips of the spectators, a chorus to the background symphony of war.
“Fight well for me today, and I will reward those who bring back for me the heads of those who seek to overthrow us!”
He was met with a cheer as he re-attached his power fist and picked up his daemon sword.
“Ready yourselves!” he roared as the inner wall began to shake under the firepower of the enemy guns.
“My lord,” Fexus muttered from nearby, “Why not meet them, instead of waiting like cowed sheep?”
“Small steps, my friend, let them take the first,” Eliphas purred, watching with feral anticipation.
“Small steps corrupt.” He muttered to himself, and smiled.

The Farseer

Three armoured Imperial Guard sentinels clanked past and into the breach as Benjamin Mordecai studied the Astartes warrior lying in front of him.
The Space Marine was a soldier of the Deathwatch, but there were no markings on his right shoulder guard to denote his chapter of origin.
The Space Marine had lost his helmet in the drop, and a ruined Jump Pack nearby suggested that something else had caused it aside from the Marine’s carelessness.
“Battle-brother?” he muttered, kneeling by the Astartes.
The Space Marine’s eyes flickered open, and his head turned to fix on Benjamin, pale green eyes glinting with the experience of countless wars.
“My brothers…” He began in a deep, well-spoken tone characteristic of a Space Marine.
“Are on the ramparts, taking care of the mortar batteries.” Benjamin finished.
“Then I will serve you as best I can, Inquisitor.” The Space Marine climbed to his feet, at his full height standing head-and-shoulders above Benjamin.
Just then, Benjamin heard the percussive THUD-BANG of a Demolisher cannon.
Two of the Sentinels that had entered the breach disappeared in a roiling cloud of flaming debris and shattered earth.
Benjamin covered his face at the intensity of the explosion, and when he removed his hands, he couldn’t keep a small gasp from escaping his throat.
Rolling towards them, crushing cultist and guardsman alike under it’s armoured treads, a Baneblade Super Heavy tank forced it’s way out of the breach.

***

“Charges!” Leondras yelled, holding out his free hand as he impaled a cultist on his bayonet with the other.
“I’ve got it.” Gheren stated coolly, swiping aside three more of the bronze-armoured traitors with a swing of his Servo arm.
Holding his bolter in one hand, Gheren threw a string of Melta charges towards the mortar battery on the ramparts below.
Leondras grinned at Gheren’s uncanny accuracy as the string of charges clinked inside one of the mortar’s rotary barrels.
Throwing himself flat, Leondras felt the rumble of the battery’s munition tracts blowing up as a roiling wave of fire washed over him.
Looking up, Leondras saw Gheren still standing in the exact same spot he had been in before the battery exploded.
The Imperial Fist Tech-marine stood tall, immune to the flaming debris that still rained down around him.
Reloading and continuing along the ramparts, the two fell into an uneasy silence.
Gheren wasn’t always the most talkative of Marines.
“We’ve only seen cultists thus far,” Leondras wondered aloud, “Where are the Word Bearers?”
“Maybe the entire assault has been a hoax?” Gheren grated in his monotone voice.
“Maybe, but I’ve never seen anyone fight so hard to protect a hoax.”
As if on cue, Leondras heard the distinct thump of Astartes boots on the metal decking of the ramparts.
“For the Dark Gods, for Chaos undivided!”
Sighting down their bolters, both Marines calmly awaited the five-man squad of corrupted Astartes charging towards them.
“There are your Word Bearers.” Gheren stated coolly.

***

“Can we det it with Melta charges?” Stephos asked quizzically.
“No.” Karel replied, “It’s too thick, and it’ll only alert them to the fact we’re here.”
They stood in front of a heavy bulk-door, designed to survive Earthshaker rounds.
There was no chance Melta charges would breach it.
“Maybe…” Apothecary Gallus began, “If the door is designed to survive those kinds of blasts, it hasn’t been fortified against a simple assault?”
“How do you mean?” Karel quizzed, frowning.
“The door itself is several feet of Ceramite, but we don’t know about the locking mechanism. Maybe, with the right amount of force in the right place, the mechanism might snap.”
“Worth a try.” Karel grinned, stepping up to the door; he grasped one of the door’s bulky Ceramite plates and braced himself.
“Cover me.” He ordered, and heard the sound of a bolter and a wrist-mounted Melta pistol clicking into position.
Tensing his arms, Karel pulled against the bulk-door, and stumbled back as the mechanism cracked and broke, slamming the heavy door back into the wall.
“Sometimes I wonder if you would have made a better Tech-Marine.” Karel glanced at Gallus.
“I’d rather fix men than machinery.” Gallus replied.
“Proximity alarm!” a pre-recorded female voice warbled.
“They know we’re here now,” Karel stated, drawing his power sword, “We’ll have to keep moving, stay on our feet. If a man falls behind, we leave him, taking the Bastion is our priority.”
And the three ventured into Bastion Medrogus, leaving a bloody path of gore in their wake.

***

Sentinel F10NA, nicknamed Fiona, was the pride of the Jurdani Elites Sentinel regiment, and was coined a lucky charm for having survived seventy-three conflicts without gaining as much as a scratch.
As Fiona’s cockpit-mounted Plasma Cannon swivelled round to target the Baneblade’s hull, a lancing blast from one of the super-heavy’s hull-mounted Lascannons sliced clean through the lucky Sentinel’s leg, causing the F10NA to keel over sideways, seventy-three conflict’s worth of luck forgotten.
“Blast the bastards to buggery!” Rennard Osbourne shouted, firing off several armour-piercing rounds with his Brutal Bow, barely scratching the paintwork of the Baneblade’s thick hide.
“Strafe right, find cover!” Benjamin roared over the repeated thud of the tank’s quad-linked heavy bolters.
Scores of Jurdani troops were downed in the first few minutes of the conflict, and those that were left now ran for cover wherever it could be found.
“Inquisitor, if you’ll provide a distraction.” The Astartes muttered, loading a new cartridge into his Plasma Pistol.
“Darius, flank me, Rennard, set up a cross-fire, but keep low!”
Strafing left, Benjamin reloaded and fired off several solid-slug rounds.
Cheap and inefficient, the rounds were purely for distractive purposes.
Benjamin was soon accompanied by the repeat hiss of a las-rifle and a standard-issue grenade launcher as Darius Fitch flanked him.
Both men reflexively ducked as bolter fire rippled over their heads, accompanied by a burst of superheated lasfire.
Across the breach, the five Blackwatch guards set up crossfire.
Darting from cover to cover, the Space Marine leapt onto the Baneblade’s hull, his Ceramite-clad feet denting the tank’s thick skin.
“Aramus to all Guard units, cultists on the Super-heavy’s right, flank and eliminate.”
The voice had come from the Deathwatch marine, and Benjamin was surprised to find three detachments of Guardsmen flanking around the tank to meet the onslaught of cultists.
As the Baneblade’s main cannon swung round to fire again, Brother Aramus braced himself and caught the cannon in his hands.
Gritting his teeth, Aramus slowly began to turn the cannon back around to face the Bastion’s wall.
***

Tank Commander Fargus practically had a fit in his seat as two foot-shaped dents appeared in the hull of his tank.
Several of the wires and tubes which connected him to his beloved tank came free as he slammed his fists repeatedly into the control panel.
“Someone get up there and deal with that brute!” He yelled as the main battlecannon began to swing back around.
Putting all the reserve power into the main cannon’s rotary mechanism, Fargus screamed as the readout on his screen showed the mechanism failing.
There was a brief mechanical spark, and several more tubes and wires flew free and lashed one of the secondary gunners in the face, dropping the man instantly.
“Fire!” Fargus screamed in panic, “Just fire at something!”
The events that followed proved the man really shouldn’t have been a tank commander…

***

By the time the main cannon fired, Aramus had swung it around to face the Bastion’s wall.
The cannon fired, and a sheer chunk of the Bastion’s wall fell inwards, crushing the cultists who were filing in from the courtyard and opening a way for the imperials.
With sheer brute force, Aramus of the Blood Ravens twisted the cannon’s barrel back upon itself with a squeal of twisting metal.
Leaping clear, Aramus was propelled forward by the explosive blast as the super-heavy tried to fire again, igniting the ammunition batteries and demolishing the tank from the inside, cooking it’s crew alive in the inferno.
As he watched, Benjamin Mordecai saw a single man running from the wreckage, screaming and burning alive with tubes and wires streaming behind him.
Lifting his Brutal Bow, Benjamin fired a single round that burst Tank Commander Fargus’ head like a balloon.
“The way is open!” He roared, raising his Brutal Bow, “Into the breach!”
Sprinting from cover, five platoons of Jurdani Elites, along with Benjamin’s retinue and Brother Aramus, poured through into Bastion Medrogus’ main courtyard, and a fierce firefight broke out between the imperials and the drilled ranks of waiting cultists.
Across the courtyard, Benjamin could see a hulking figure charging through the mass of cultists towards them.
Clad in terminator armour of black and gold, the Chaos Lord clearly wasn’t a Word Bearer.
Beside him, Aramus growled, drawing his chainsword.
“He is the reason you’re here?” Benjamin muttered.
Aramus nodded.
“Then go, meet him.” Benjamin called over one of the Jurdani soldiers before heading off to join his retinue.
“What’s your name, Guardsman?” Aramus asked, his gaze fixed on the advancing Chaos Lord.
“Benton Muir, Officer. The sergeant, he…”
“You’re sergeant now, Benton, show me you can lead.”
Scowling, Aramus advanced to meet Eliphas the Inheritor, in the midst of hell.
***

Grasping a bronze-clad cultist by the horned helmet, Karel flung him around to slam another two into the ground.
Firing his wrist-mounted bolter, he downed another two as they rose to fire from cover.
Beside him, Gallus obliterated the upper halves of two more cultists with a single blast from his wrist-mounted melta pistol.
Stephos was a blur as he danced among three Word Bearer chaos marines.
None of the Word Bearers, each armed with a vicious chainsword, could keep up with the Blood Angel’s brutal melee assault.
Using just his fists, Stephos sent the first Chaos Marine reeling with a broken arm, before whirling and high-kicking the second in the face, quickly dropping as the third’s chainsword whirred over his head.
Rising, Stephos elbowed the third marine in the face, turning as the first lunged towards him.
Side-stepping and grabbing the first Marine by his remaining arm, Stephos snapped the Marine’s wrist and then reversed it to embed the Astartes’ own chainsword in his helmet.
As the second rose, Stephos sent the still-upright corpse of the first slamming into him, bearing both to the ground before leaping over them and landing with a loud crack on the head of the second.
As the third Marine circled him, Stephos picked up a discarded chainsword and threw it.
The third Marine screamed as the chainsword embedded itself in his shoulder, shortly before suffering a punch from Stephos that sent him plunging over the side of the walkway and into the darkness of the Bastion’s interior.
“All done?” Karel teased.
“Aye.” Stephos replied.
All three turned their heads, their ears picking up the distinct sound of an unholy chant.
“A summoning,” Gallus commented, “I remember from the Georus assault.”
“We need to interrupt it,” Karel growled, “Gallus, take point, I’ll flank left and Stephos will flank right.”

***

Leondras ducked an incoming swipe from a Chainsword and barrelled his assailant to the ground, arcing his bolter down and yanking the bayonet from the Word Bearer’s head.
Gheren had somehow managed to turn a close-quarters engagement into a ranged fight, loosing off a bolter round whenever one of the two Marines he’d cornered tried to leave cover.
Leaping over the corpse of the Marine he’d just downed, Leondras spin-kicked a second in the face and sent him flying over the railing of the Ramparts.
As he landed, he felt a biting pain in his left thigh as his third assailant plunged his chain-axe through Leondras’ armour.
Yelling in pain, Leondras kicked the corrupt Astartes off his chain-axe, which continued to bite into his leg.
In a split second, Gheren was there, lifting the third Marine up with his Servo arm and dropping him over the side of the ramparts.
As the third marine fell, screaming, the two Gheren had pinned took this as an opportunity to break cover.
The first earned a bolter round in his head from Gheren’s precise aim, and the second toppled over the edge with a chain-axe protruding from his chest.
“You require aid.” Gheren observed.
“No time, we press on.” Leondras replied, limping away.
The wound was already starting to clot; it was the armour that Gheren was concerned about.

***

Benjamin charged out into an adjoining corridor, quickly retreating and slamming himself against the wall as solid slug-shots ricocheted through the space his body had occupied mere moments before.
“Charges.” He ordered, holding out a hand.
“Happy Emperor’s Day, darlin’,” Osbourne smirked, handing Benjamin a string of Melta charges, “Sorry I couldn’t gift-wrap ‘em.”
“Go along!” Benjamin shouted, before Osbourne leapt past the adjoining corridor and landed with a thud on the other side.
Positioning himself and wielding his Brutal Bow like a bat, Osbourne chuckled to himself.
“Serve!” he called and Benjamin threw the melta charges, which Osbourne batted towards the entrenched cultists with a triumphant yell.
The six members of Benjamin Mordecai’s retinue all pressed themselves flat against the wall as the blast rippled outwards.
Stepping out into the smoking wreck of the corridor, Benjamin loaded a fragmentation shell rack into his Brutal Bow, racking the slider as he went.
He could hear a voice, female; it was serene, soothing, but desperate.
He was sprinting now, ignoring Darius and Osbourne’s pleas for him to slow down.
The voice was speaking, and it spoke only two words.
“Help me…”

***

The human was on his way…
Farseer Idranel curled herself up into a tight foetal ball.
At last she might be free…
Ever since her soulstones had been taken from her, she’d felt an overwhelming sense of loss.
Caring for the broken humans had done more than just keep her sanity, it had taught her that the creatures she had once loathed, the beings she had once thought savages, could express moments of beauty and knowledge.
She had once tried to damn an entire sector of these beings just to spare her Craftworld from the Tyrannids.
They had, understandably, reacted with violence.
Sometimes Idranel wondered if there was that much difference between Eldar and humans.
The Tau she shared her cell with was already mentally broken, she sat there whimpering, and Idranel knew there was no saving her.
She sobbed softly to herself.
How could creatures so vibrant and young as humans end up falling prey to such a vile corruption?
She heard the door to her cell clank back into the wall, felt a hand touch her shoulder.
“I came.” A voice murmured softly in her ear.
“Thank you.” She sniffed, brushing a strand of crimson hair from her eye.

***

Benjamin helped the Farseer rise, looping a hand around her waist to support her.
“Darius, grab the Tau.”
The former Janissary did as ordered, picking the Tau female up and cradling her in his arms like a newborn.
The door to the prison block had closed behind them; Rennard and the Blackwatch were working their way around to another entrance.
“Drop the witch, loyalist!”
Benjamin looked down the corridor and saw an Astartes in the silver and red of the Word Bearers, his horned helmet staring directly at the Inquisitor.
In the Chaos Lord’s right hand, he held an axe which exerted an unholy aura, in his left, he held a serrated dagger.
Benjamin subconsciously tightened his grip on the Eldar.
“Darius, go find another entrance, get the Blackwatch here fast as you can.”
“Inquisitor…”
“I wasn’t asking, Darius.”
The Maccabian nodded and began to run down the corridor.
The lights flickered as the hulking Astartes began to advance.
Releasing his hold on the Farseer, Benjamin held his Brutal Bow in one hand and drew his combat knife with the other.
“You would defend the witch?” The Chaos Marine sneered, “Does she have you twisted that tightly around her finger?”
“Heretic.” Benjamin growled coldly.
The Chaos Marine released a roar, charging Benjamin.
The Inquisitor attempted to sidestep, but the sheer bulk of the Chaos Marine slammed into his arm and sent him stumbling backwards.
Righting himself, Benjamin rushed forwards and leapt, aiming a kick for the Marine’s chest.
The cruelly serrated dagger flew up and slashed across Benjamin’s left boot, drawing a spray of blood as he tumbled to the ground.
He tried to rise, but a Ceramite-clad foot stepped on his back, snapping two ribs and prompting a cry of agony to tear from the Inquisitor’s lips.
“You’ll die here, loyalist scum, the true revolution begins with your death.”
Seraphos the Bloody raised his demon-axe for the killing blow.

K'Ril Usarath

The eight cultists exploded in a spray of blood as the three Deathwatch Marines entered the chamber.
The ninth, floating above a mark of Khorne painted in blood on the floor, now pulsed with demonic energy, his eyes glowing a sickly, otherworldly purple.
“Vile beast!” Gallus raised his Melta Pistol, but the daemon was there first, lifting its hand, the warp spawn lifted Gallus off the floor and tossed him against the wall with a flick of its wrist.
On the other side of the chamber, Leondras and Gheren entered, strafing and firing from the hip.
The creature turned, their bullets rippling into nothingness around it.
“Such fragile life…” It mused to itself, speaking in several voices at once.
It spread both arms wide, and a wave of pure warp energy vented from its mouth, flinging both Marines into the air like rag dolls.
Stephos and Karel both charged the creature, leaping to meet it.
The daemon, its fingers now long, black claws, grasped Stephos’ arm and slowly bent it back on itself.
There was no sound of bone breaking, no cartilage snapping, just Stephos’ ear-splitting scream as the warp manipulated his flesh.
With it’s free hand, the daemon enclosed its fingers around Karel’s head, clamping down on it until Karel thought his head might explode.
It dropped Stephos, the Blood Angel, reputedly the toughest of the team, passed out from the sheer pain of being manipulated by the warp.
At this point, Leondras and Gallus were back on their feet, circling the creature warily.
Leondras took one look at the creature’s smirk and knew it was toying with them.

***

“So, the failed Captain comes to redeem himself.”
Eliphas the inheritor grinned, his mouth tugged by the hideous scars crossing his face as he slowed pace, walking towards Aramus.
“This time I will end you.” Aramus growled, thumbing the activation rune on his chainsword.
Eliphas purred a cold, icy laugh.
“Davian Thule failed to do it, as did Apollo Diomedes, as did Azariah Kyras himself, you stand no chance.”
“No more words,” Aramus roared, “You disgraced me, you corrupted my Marines, you killed Venerable Thule! Now stand up and face your crimes, cur!”
“Gladly,” Eliphas purred, unlimbering his Power Sword.
Aramus charged, firing his plasma pistol as he ran.
In the midst of the melee between Guardsmen and cultists, the two giants clashed, with bayonets stabbing and slashing around them, Eliphas slammed his Power Fist into Aramus’ arm, knocking his plasma pistol away.
At the same time, Aramus brought his chainsword up and slashed it across Eliphas’ right gauntlet, drawing blood and forcing the Chaos Lord to drop his Daemon Sword.
“Chapterless meat bag!” Eliphas hissed, slamming his open palm into Aramus’ face and wrenching the chainsword away with his power fist.
He tossed the weapon aside and turned back in time to see Aramus grab his power fist with both hands.
With a swift tug and a roar of rage, Aramus tore the power fist away and slammed it into Eliphas’ chest, causing him to stumble backwards.
Recovering, Eliphas rammed his shoulder into Aramus’ chest, lifting the loyalist Astartes away from the ground with sheer momentum before slamming him into a wall.
Aramus dropped to the ground, but stayed upright, leaping forward and high-kicking at Eliphas’ face.
The Chaos Lord stumbled away, and Aramus pressed his attack, turning Eliphas’ punch away with an open-hand block and lifting his other fist to slam into the corrupted Astartes’ chest, causing his chest-plate to dent inwards.
Eliphas snarled, slamming Aramus sideways with a flat-palmed fist to the shoulder, bringing his free hand up to grab Aramus’ gauntlet and swing him round into a mob of cultists.
Aramus landed with a crack of breaking bone and sinew and the resounding scrape of crushed armour.
“So weak, so pathetic, how it galls me to see you squander your life when you could be so much more!”
Eliphas offered a hand to Aramus.
“Come with me, I will show you more, become my Aspiring Champion.”
Aramus reached out as if to take Eliphas’ hand, then jammed a bayonet down through the Inheritor’s outstretched palm.
“I will never be a slave to them as you are!”
“Then you die here…” Eliphas whispered softly, yanking the bayonet from his hand and making ready to finish Aramus.
He looked around, checking to make sure there were ample observers, and saw the Bronze Fists being effectively subdued by the loyalist forces.
Eliphas glanced back at Aramus, then sighed reluctantly and dropped the bayonet.
“It seems I will have to finish you another day, dear brother, my sights are set higher than your miserable chapter this time…”
“Don’t run from your fate, Eliphas!” Aramus yelled as the Inheritor retrieved his daemon sword.
“I am not running, Aramus, just biding my time.”
Something clicked inside Eliphas’ bulky terminator armour, and the Chaos Lord disappeared in a white flash of light.

***

Karel dropped to the floor with a loud hiss as he sucked air between his teeth.
“I am K’Ril Usarath, mortal, and the world shall tremble at my coming!”
The daemon descended until it was standing on top of Karel.
He extended a hand as Gallus and Leondras fired simultaneously.
Time seemed to slow around the two, their shots fading into nothingness as the daemon lifted Karel’s head by the hair.
“This vessel is fragile; I need something more…permanent.”
“You’ll not take me!” Karel spat at the warp spawn, but it merely laughed.
Slowly, a dark mist filtered out of the daemon’s mouth and reached towards Karel.

***

Idranel watched as Seraphos squeezed the life out of the Inquisitor.
Scrolling through his mind, she had seen he was a good man, a man who had suffered much for the good of his Imperium.
She couldn’t let such a pure soul be extinguished.
Her body shook as she drew eldritch energies into her, shrouding her in a vibrant blue light.
She shrieked, extending a hand and releasing a pulse of eldritch energy.
Seraphos only had time to utter a brief yell of surprise as he was thrown sideways through four walls, coming to rest in a pile of rubble.
Benjamin climbed to his feet stubbornly, clutching at his ribs.
Idranel released the energy, now strong enough to walk by herself.
She supported the Inquisitor on her shoulder, helping him down the corridor as Darius returned with the Blackwatch.
“What happened?” Darius called, eyeing Idranel warily.
“He’s hurt.” Idranel replied in an almost pleading tone.
Her time as a captive had taught her, if anything, that she wasn’t above humans, that they weren’t a lesser species, and that some, if not all, were capable of doing great things.
“Let’s get him to a Medicae.” Darius said, turning to walk back up the corridor.

***

Eravas stepped carefully through the rubble to the limp form of his master.
He was a dutiful lieutenant, obedience had been beaten into him from the moment he betrayed his Battle Brothers.
“My lord?” he asked, picking Seraphos up in one clawed hand.
“Get us away from here…” Seraphos uttered weakly, “I won’t stay to see Eliphas betray me…”
Eravas nodded, activating his armour’s in-built teleporter.
Both men disappeared in a searing blue flash of light.

Now thats what I call a nice ending.

The Architect and the Guardian

Leondras watched with a sinking sense of helplessness as the black mist funnelled into Karel’s limp form.
The Deathwatch Captain went slack, his eyes glowing a vibrant purple for a few seconds as the possessed cultist the daemon had inhabited dropped to the floor, now a lifeless husk.
The possessed Karel climbed to his feet, the air shimmering behind him as a Chaos Lord in bulky terminator armour, black and gold, stepped through.
“What am I?” The abomination whispered.
“Something new,” Eliphas the Inheritor purred dangerously, “Neither daemon nor human, but something in between…”
“What should I do?” The daemon-Karel asked, looking up at Eliphas.
“Come with me, there is much to teach you…”
Leondras saw the Chaos Lord place a hand on Karel’s shoulder, and both vanished in a flash of light.
“No!” He snarled as his feet hit the floor.
Leondras buckled and fell to his knees.
“Veteran-Sergeant?” Gallus placed a hand on Leondras’ shoulder.
“They just…took him.” Leondras couldn’t believe it.
He’d lost brothers to battle, stab wounds, being shot, even daemonic possession, but he’d never had a battle-brother just taken, like it was their right…
“Veteran-Sergeant,” Gallus repeated, “The Bastion has been taken, we’re to make our way to the courtyard for roll-call and to attend the obituaries.”
Leondras nodded, rising.
“Gallus?”
“Yes, Leondras?”
“We’ll tell them he’s dead, better they think he died honourably, rather than becoming an abomination.”
“Of course, Veteran-Sergeant.” Both fell silent as the others began to stir.
Maybe it was best if their fellow battle-brothers believed an honourable lie as well…

***

“Hope you dun’ mind me askin’,” Rennard Osbourne muttered past the cigar clenched between his teeth, “But, why’d we focus this attack on one Bastion alone, ‘stead of the ‘ole city?”
Darius raised an eyebrow quizzically at Osbourne, as if it were obvious.
“The Bastion is the main seat of military defence for Medrogus,” He explained, “Due to concerns about the city being too large to chase out invaders, Bastion Medrogus was stocked with gas shells.”
“Gas shells?” Osbourne questioned, narrowing his eyes.
“Aye, an old Terran method, the gas will flush the cultists out into the ice-fields, where the Basalisks and mortar batteries can pick them off.” Darius’ augmented eye seemed to wink.
“What about citizens, prisoners of war?”
“The Cadian 55th has been granted three days to locate and evacuate as many civilians as they can. The resistance is broken; whatever cultists are left will be in small pockets.”
Both men leaned over the data-screen inside the Chimera transport vehicle as it rumbled towards the Medicae facility.
“How’s Benj doing?” Osbourne asked after a few minutes of silence.
“Scans indicate internal bleeding,” Darius replied, sounding a little shaky, “I’ve treated external wounds as best I can, he should be okay until we reach the facility.”
Osbourne nodded, lapsing into a grim silence accompanied by the throaty rumble of the Chimera’s engine.

***

Eliphas stood on a high rise, the ice-fields stretching out before him.
The bombardment had started mere hours ago, and already cultists were fleeing into the field, being picked off by ordnance batteries before they even made it halfway.
Behind him were twenty Chaos Astartes dressed in black and gold.
Eliphas had bade his followers repaint their armour before leaving, he’d never planned on leaving Seraphos alive, but if he was lucky, the fool Apostle would have been hunted and slaughtered by the loyalists by now.
Fexus stood by his side, as did the daemon-construct, Karel.
“Will we not mount a counter-assault?” Fexus questioned.
“No.” Eliphas replied curtly, turning away from the glorious fire raining upon the ice-fields.
“There might be pockets of resistance left-“
“No, Fexus.” Eliphas snarled firmly, “Plans must be made, allies must be gathered, we will return,” He grinned slightly, “Just not today…”
Forming up, the group began their slow march across the wastes towards the nearest Space Port.

***

The bombardment continued for another four days after evacuation, until nearly all traitor forces fleeing into the ice fields had been eradicated.
At the end of the fourth day, fire-teams of the Cadian 55th and Jurdani Elites were sent into the Ice-fields to hunt what few traitors remained.
At the start of the third day, a Basalisk entrenched below the city’s western wall misread targeting coordinates, launching a high-explosives shell into a headstrong wind.
The wind blew the shell far out of its trajectory and brought it down in a neglected, forgotten corner of the ice-fields.
The earthshaker round exploded in a cloud of shrapnel and vaporised steam, blowing a hole in the ice large enough to contain a Valkyrie gunship.
The violent explosion and the breaking ice awakened something that had lain dormant for longer than any being in the galaxy could remember.
Slowly lifting itself free of the ice, the creature shook the plant-life from its joints.
The creature resembled a metal skeleton, though it’s former sheen had since been dulled by rust and disuse, its eyes glowed a luminescent, eerie green.
Lifting a rusted, clawed hand, the Architect released a small pulse of the same green light, and watched as a staff rose from the ice, hovering in a tranquil state until he snatched it out of the air.
In its other hand, the Architect clutched what resembled a glass orb, which contained a swirling, turbulent mist that flickered and crackled with lightning.
The Architect had once been organic, but as with all of its kind, it had been tricked.
Revenge for the Necrontyr had been sweet, but now their cause was lost.
Some intended to rebuild the dynasties and retake their empire, some intended to find a way to inhabit a body of flesh once more, though the Architect, newly awakened from its slumber, knew none of this.
Another figure rose from the ice beside it, its guardian, sworn to protect the Architect when it awoke.
Subliminal programming within the Guardian had awakened, prompting it to awaken along with the Architect.
Guardian Kalitu had once been female, it had once had a family and a home, it had once been Necrontyr, as had the Architect.
But now, both were cold, hard Necrodermis.
Whilst the Architect, as an Overlord, had complete sentience, and could feel emotion as if it were organic, Guardian Kalitu had a lesser sentience.
She…it…could feel, but that programming would be overridden in times when its master was in danger.
Guardian Kalitu, unlike its master, was only half-rusted, having had half its body preserved in rock.
“Guardian Kalitu,” The Architect addressed its Guardian in a grating whisper, “Why does this world look so different? Why be there no trees, or plants? I see before me only cold, hard ice…”
Guardian Kalitu paused to consider this for a minute, and then spoke in a mechanical hiss that was only vaguely female.
“Time has passed, Lord Architect,” It inclined its head as it spoke its master’s name, “The Dynasties are no more, these worlds belong to lesser minds now…”
“Never lesser, Guardian Kalitu,” The Architect stated, “Only different.”
It had never thought much to the war with the Old Ones, even in life.
The Architect had believed in equality.
“Yes, Lord Architect.” Guardian Kalitu replied, once more inclining its head, “What do you propose we do?”
“Why, we must rebuild that which was lost…” The Architect replied solemnly, “I intent mighty structures to house our new order, our new Dynasty. Trade will flourish, and even with these…new bodies, we will rise as a pinnacle.”
“Yes, Lord Architect.”
“Come, Guardian Kalitu,” The Architect grated, “My ship waits in orbit, and its soul awaits the re-awakening.”
“What of the others, Lord Architect?” Guardian Kalitu asked, “The Triumvirate and Echelon Galariu?”
“They are elsewhere,” The Architect intoned, “I feel them on the winds, we shall find them shortly…”
Together, the two strode off through the ice and the cold, new to the world around them, the grim, dark universe…

***

The Medrogus Port landing docks were buzzing with activity as the Jurdani Elites prepared to leave Maras.
The sky was filled with supply ships and trade vessels flown in to help rebuild and repopulate the city, whilst Valkyrie gunships departed for the waiting Armageddon class Battle Cruiser in orbit above.
The Lady Lucent was Benjamin Mordecai’s personal ship, named after his mentor and predecessor, Inquisitor Jenna Lucent.
Standing on the metal decking of Platform twenty-three, Benjamin watched as Servitors and port workers finished checking over his personal Aquila lander for departure.
He exhaled, watching his breath rising into the sky above him.
His ribs had been reconstructed, and the wound in his left leg had healed nicely.
The medicae had told him he wouldn’t be on the frontlines for a while; Benjamin had told them to frag it and went out with the first fireteam.
He allowed himself a small smile.
“Something amusing you?” A soothing voice spoke behind him, soft yet dangerous, young and yet aged.
Idranel stood in tight-fitting leather and mesh armour, holding a staff inscribed with Eldar runes in one hand, the other was resting on her hip.
Her crimson hair was tied back in a tight plait that extended to her waist.
She smiled, her amber cat eyes seemed to demand his attention.
“Just…thinking on something,” Benjamin replied slowly, “What will you do now?”
“I am dead to my people,” Idranel replied, a hint of sadness entering her voice, “To Ulthwe, Farseer Idranel Alaaras died on Aurelia.”
Benjamin tore his gaze away from her eyes, instead focussing on the pre-flight checks being performed on the Aquila.
“Being dead can open a lot of doors, present new opportunities…”
Idranel chuckled.
“And what would you suggest I do?”
“I don’t know…” Benjamin began, “You…could come with me?”
The Farseer sighed, lifting a hand and placing it on the Inquisitor’s cheek.
“I scried your memories while you were fighting the corrupted; you walk a lonely path, Inquisitor Mordecai…” Her hand was cool, soft.
Benjamin nodded solemnly.
“There is nothing left for me here, I think I shall walk the path of the outcast, and see where it leads me.”
She removed her hand, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek.
She turned, striding away into the busy throng of the Space Port.
Benjamin looked on, hoping to see her reappear, walking back towards him.
“cigarette, sir?” a gruff voice spoke from behind him.
“That’s the worst imitation of Captain Osbourne I’ve ever heard, Darius.” He grinned, turning to face the ex-Guardsman.
“Can you blame me for trying?” Darius Fitch replied as the two boarded the Aquila.
The ship kicked up a cloud of hot steam as it rose, rotating on it’s axis before the main thrusters kicked in and it roared off towards the ship in orbit.
All the other Jurdani transports had already taken off, and the lone ship rose through the crystal blue sky with bright sunlight glinting off its emerald hull.

***

Seraphos watched the Aquila rising with a hateful snarl.
“My Lord?” Eravas knelt behind him, quivering despite his superior size and strength.
“The Witch crossed me and got away, Eravas, tell me why…”
“Because I failed to be in the right place, Lord Seraphos.” Eravas replied, struggling to keep his voice under control.
Seraphos turned, backhanding Eravas in the face and sending the power armoured giant sprawling.
“We will launch our campaign, as intended, and this entire sector will become a feast for the dark gods, we will snatch Eliphas’ precious inheritance and leave him crawling at our feet!”
Eravas righted himself.
“Yes, my Lord…”
“Vox the Tranquility’s End, feed them our location!”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Seraphos chuckled, thinking of the victory that awaited him.
The Inquisitor would burn, and he would crush the witch very, very slowly.

@ Thenoobbomb

Thanks, you can expect more where that came from, 'tis the first of many, many brain-children

EDIT: also, hope you read the last chapter, there's a little more you might've missed...