Chapter 1

He shall call forth the Death of Light, when dark portents wax nigh. Ten thousand sufferings he shall inflict, upon the world he grasps. Tearing from the Eye of Blood, he shall release his Legions. And a galaxy shall mourn. – Eldar prophecy-stone found on Cadia, date of inscription estimated 65,000,000 years ago.

High Magister Mordeghai, master of the Sons of Magnus, floated serenely in the core of his mighty vessel, the Power through Change. He was calm, floating in a cruciform position, his void-black eyes closed, his mind dancing along the paths of fate. He was undefeatable in here. No assassin could penetrate his ship; no commander would dare to open fire when it was in the Warp. He was secure and safe, guarded by a thousand of Magnus’ sons and his own personal guard, the Chosen of Mordeghai.

‘Master,’ a voice said, the voice of Tzenaar, his Lieutenant. ‘Have you decided which world to despoil?’

‘Yes,’ Mordeghai proclaimed, his voice grave. ‘We go to Malkorra IV.’

^^^

Tzenaar removed his helmet in his quarters, perfect calm on the outside, filled with rage and spite within. Prospero, home-world of the Thousand Sons, had been razed by the Space Wolves ten thousand years (in mortal time) ago, but it felt like mere centuries. What he had in his quarters was the meagre number of books he had managed to preserve, tiny when compared with the High Magister’s Grand Librarium. The tomes spoke of sorcery and psychic energies, of the many ways to harness Warp energies and control them. There was a time when he believed that what he had done was for the good of mankind.

That time had ended with the false Emperor’s, the corpse-god’s betrayal. He could remember the day when Prospero burnt. He had sworn a vow that day never to rest till Fenris, home-world of the Space Wolves, was naught but ash and dust. He could remember when the Imperium had been young and exuberant, but now, with its bloated and corrupt nature, destroying it felt almost like an act of kindness. He alone had been selected by the High Magister, as his successor in the case of death, Daemonhood, or the accursed state of Spawndom. But that did not matter. Soon he would be on Malkorra IV, and then he could work out his frustrations on something.

^^^

The Power through Change appeared out of a screaming tear in real-space, lightning sparking off its hull as it swept out of the Empyrean. On Malkorra far below, the astropathic choir that formed its greatest link with the Imperium died to a man, weeping blood and spasming as they fell dead to the ground. Steadily, the great ship annihilated the weak orbital defences almost casually, blasting them to debris that soon rained down upon Malkorra. This was a key part of the Thousand Sons’ plan, for the falling debris would rapidly obscure the very real gunships and drop-pods raining down upon the capital city. Steadily, the drop-pods were launched. An assortment of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds swooped out of the flight deck, dodging swiftly around the flak that protected the capital, which was firing futilely into low-orbit against targets moving at hypersonic speeds. Indeed, this whole battle was futile.

^^^

Tzenaar grinned as the drop-pod crashed to the ground, landing in the middle of a plaza. These people were obviously soft and weak, fit only for the slaughter. He marched imperiously out of the pod, watching as the Rubric-marines behind him mindlessly followed, then he communicated an order.

Fire inferno bolts.

The screaming, milling crowd was massacred, waves of multi-coloured flame washing over their bodies and annihilating them in explosions of warpfire, cremating them alive. The screams were terrible, but Tzenaar didn’t care. They were less than the dirt beneath his boots to him. Finally, he gave another order to the Rubric-marines.

Take them alive.

^^^

Enforcer Marius was terrified. Orbital bombardments were raining down atop the city, destroying buildings and forcing the people into the streets. He stood, lasgun in hand, ready to defend his home, his people, from the heretics. That was when he suddenly lost consciousness. Sergeant Khenmu, Aspiring Sorcerer and servant to Mordeghai, had him quickly dragged back to the Stormbird, to be healed by the Black Chirurgeons. Mordeghai did not want any potential slaves dead and neither did Tzenaar.

^^^

Marius woke up, the pain burning through him. Then he realised what had happened. His organs were on display. A star of chaos symbol had been fused to his skull, and a black iron collar surrounded his neck. Figures loomed over him, clad in black robes and wielding strange medical implements. He was terrified.

But that was probably what they wanted him to feel.

^^^

Good.

Tzenaar grinned as he fired his bolt-pistol again, stepping on the decapitated head of a PDF trooper as he did so. It burst like a melon, staining his boot with gore, but he didn’t care. This battle was a clear demonstration of his obvious superiority. 100 sons of Magnus, 30,000 PDF soldiers, and this battle was obviously and certainly turning in his favour.

The PDF lacked tanks or heavy artillery, and what little armour they did have was easily taken out by a single inferno bolt. The PDF were climbing over mounds of their own dead, stymied by the same defences designed to protect the now-ruined city. On top of that, they had to advance through a narrow pass and easily tired, while the Thousand Sons could fight on nigh-indefinitely, and were protected by Tzeentch’s blessing.

Space curved around them, lasgun shots missing even when they were point blank, the ammunition of the Thousand Sons appearing out of the Warp while the PDF soldiers were running out of ammo, resorting in final desperation to attacking maniacally with their bayonets, hoping with futile hope to finding non-existent weak spots in the armour of the sons of Magnus.

This would be a good fight.

Chapter 2

Tzenaar watched as the PDF retreated, a broken remnant of their former selves. The regiment, once numbering in the tens of thousands, was now a pitiful remnant of its former self, a few hundred where once thousands had marched. All in three days of unremitting slaughter. Now, it was time to address the slaves, those pathetic fools who had been captured. It was time to find the Death of Light.

He walked imperiously to where they were. They screamed and made cries of defiance, but he knew that they couldn’t harm him.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘You slaves will begin the first demolitions. Then, you will dig until what we have sought here is found. Begin!’

The slaves immediately got to work, the engines of destruction at their side destroying the buildings and tearing into the earth. Tzenaar watched for a few hours, then left to attend to the defences of the valley.

^^^

Tzenaar watched as the workings began around the valley, the mine-layers blocking off the cliffs. But he had a greater surprise for the enemy in the valley. Strange, balloon-like things floated around, their fleshy tentacles exuding poisonous black blood into the earth. Where it fell, plants withered and died, petrifying trees and grass, turning a once-verdant valley into a wasteland of stone. It was also highly flammable, the poison, and if it touched flame then the whole valley would burn.

That was what Tzenaar wanted.

^^^

General Gregor Vance sat, waiting. Lord-Commissar Lekzius was at his side, as he always had been. They were waiting to jump out of the Warp, so that they could strike back at the fiends who had invaded Malkorra. Malkorra was of prime strategic importance, being located on the Flavonian Course, a vital trade-line that was incredibly important to the Imperium. Vance’s soldiers included the 35th Valarrian, the 64th Cadian, the 21st Elysian and a detachment from the Order of the Valiant Heart, a minor order of the Adepta Sororitas, an impressive force for any man to wield. He hoped he could survive the coming storm.

^^^

Tzenaar sensed it as the transport ship came out of the Warp, the psychic release flashing through his veins like fire hotter than the sun and yet colder than the void. He stayed calm, in control of himself, keeping the core of rage and spite that gave him reason to live locked away safely inside. He contacted Mordeghai. Lord, the enemy prepare to land.

Good. He grinned as he watched the drop-pods of the Imperial Guard land, crashing on the other side of the valley as the drop-ships came down from orbit, preparing to drop their detachments of Elysian Guardsmen and Imperial Storm Troopers.

Now!

He chanted the Ninth Litany of Invocation, reality rippling and tearing around him as the daemonic minions of Tzeentch tore their way into existence. Gambolling Horrors, flying Screamers and Flamers, and a Disk of Tzeentch that he rode like a steed, they flew high into the sky, Tzenaar laughing maniacally as he unleashed bolts of purest hate and spite from the tip of the bedlam-staff he bore.

This was just the beginning.

^^^

‘Will you look at that?’ Sergeant Ladon asked. ‘There’s something happening outside. Something bad, if the warning lights are any indication.’

Suddenly, the craft exploded, torn apart by a Screamer which feasted on the soul-meat of the Storm Troopers and the pilot. In the few seconds before they died, they saw the other Valkyries ripped and torn apart, destroyed in seconds by the Screamers, which ripped through flesh and metal like it was insubstantial.

‘Fall back! Fall back!’ the vox-link screamed, falling on empty ears, for the Elysians’ pride was too great to countenance retreating. In the skies above, Valkyries and Thunderbolts and Marauders were effortlessly torn apart by the daemonic tide, ripped to shreds in the air or set aflame to crash burning to the ground.

As the daemons faded and Tzenaar returned to the ground, he smirked. The pacts he had made so long ago had proven worthwhile, but he was wearied and weak from the summoning and would have to face the next assault on his own merit. Good. A challenge will be satisfying.

^^^

Marius was terrified. They had broken his will, like they had so many before him. He and the other slaves had laboured for what seemed like an eternity, beaten and whipped nigh constantly. All he could do was hope and pray to the corpse-god that they would be rescued. No! You will die here!

Occasionally, one of the strange, tentacled machines that aided in the digging would come up to him, maybe pat him affectionally, all the while pouring hatred and bitterness and anger into his mind. No! It is the truth! Oh, he hated it, but a strange sort of loyalty was developing to his masters; the loyalty of a whipped dog, who nonetheless remains with his master.

He hated the false-Emperor now. What had He done to aid him? Where had the carrion-lord been in his hour of need? And now the Imperials would mistake him for a cultist and doubtlessly kill him. All because the bringers-of-truth had arrived upon this blasted rock.

'Come,' a figure said, doubtlessly a Thousand Son. 'You will be transformed.'

Why? was the first thing that came to mind. Then he realised the reason why - he was most likely a psyker, a latent the corpse-worshippers had missed. A witch. And they planned to transform him into something. Most likely one of them. The blessed-by-Tzeentch Thousand Sons. And he dreaded that.

^^^

‘Work harder, you dogs!’ Tzenaar shouted to the slave, cracking the power-whip and leaving the slave’s skin ragged and torn.

The bodies of slaves who had died of exhaustion were piled in the deepest recesses of the pit, left simply to rot and putrefy, for they had no more use now. The pit was constantly being dug deeper and bigger, and with every swipe of the pick-axe Tzenaar was coming closer to finding the Death of Light. Buildings were being demolished to make way for the immense excavation, millions of slaves worked to death in order to find the Death of Light. Tzenaar did not know what his reward would be – perhaps the Ultima Malefica itself?

He had estimated that the Death of Light would be found in nine days, and as they dug deeper, storm clouds began to gather round the pit, a good omen. The engines were working constantly, digging along with the slaves. Tzenaar planned to check the defences next, as more sons of Magnus made planetfall, along with the tanks and walkers.

^^^

Magnus. Magnus the Red. Who knew what the cyclopean daemon-Primarch sought now, Mordeghai? You were his Tribune Senioris, second only to Ahriman, the Chief Librarian. And your power has only grown since. Ahriman!? Curse that name! I am loyal only to Magnus and Tzeentch! And Tzenaar...he is loyal too...he will not turn coat, though his Battle-Brothers are now naught but dust. And...it shall begin.

^^^

Tzenaar grinned. Victory was assured. The Cadians might have their tanks, the Valarrians their rifles, the Elysians their Valkyries and the Sisters their faith, but one thing was certain. Victory. For he had divined the significance of the Death of Light.

Chapter 3

‘Damn those sorceries!’ Colonel Thaddeus shouted. ‘We lost. Five thousand good men, cut down like animals. Next time, we’re going on the ground, through the valley.’

‘I dunno,’ Lieutenant Aleron said. ‘Our boys belong in the air. I don’t want to go through that valley. It’s obviously a trap. The cliffsides are heavily mined, and the plants in the valley...they’re stone. It’s a...trap.’

‘No. That is a direct order,’ Thaddeus replied. ‘Wake up the boys at dawn, tell them to advance. The Space Wolves have said they’re going to arrive soon. It’s just a matter of time now.’

^^^

Tzenaar laughed as he watched the Elysians grimly advance. They had met up with the Valarrians, the Cadians and the tiny remnants of the PDF, preparing to strike at the enemy. The Adepta Sororitas were also advancing, roughly 50 Sisters, a tiny force when compared to the glory of the Sons of Magnus, a thousand Space Marines standing at attention. The battle had just begun. A stray inferno bolt, directed at a Leman Russ, missed and struck the poison-soaked ground, setting the entire valley aflame. Thousands burned, the ever-devouring flames rising higher and higher, smoke blocking out the sun, as Tzenaar laughed. The valley was a vision of Hell, not unlike the eternally burning daemon-world of Silence or the soul-flames of Eidolon. Tzenaar had fought in such environments before and he understood fire all too well. The heat rising from below set off the countless mines and melta-charges on the cliff-tops, bringing the sides of the valley down.

A rain of boulders fell, thousands at a time as the mountain literally collapsed on the heads of the guardsmen still crowding into the narrow pass, crushing tanks and men alike with no distinction. There were no survivors; the guardsmen had been pressed into the narrow pass by their leaders, and were still pouring forward as the ground finally settled.

Tzenaar grimaced. He would fight hand-to-hand after all.

There was an ancient martial art from Prospero, long-forgotten to all but the scholar-warriors of the Thousand Sons. It was called zall’nasha: the Way of Sword and Staff. It emphasised the use of both a quarterstaff and a one-handed sword, the use of psychic powers to enhance the strikes, and flowing, beautiful movements. When properly utilised, a master could cut his way through tank armour.

With a daemon-blade in his hand, Tzenaar could do more than that.

With a single, elegant leap, Tzenaar fell among the guardsmen, and began to hack and slash, cutting and hacking effortlessly through flesh and bone and armour. He cut easily through the front armour of a Leman Russ, slaying the crew inside before hacking his way out with pathetic ease.

Every blow he unleashed killed, every blow he sent blasted men back, obviously dead. The hail of bolt shells coming at the guardsmen missed him by a hair’s breadth, but he didn’t care. He jumped up to the mountain, looking from a high-up vantage point as the enemy leader passed into the breach.

This was an opportunity worth dying for.

With a swift application of telekinesis, the colonel was sent screaming into his grasp, and then behind the Thousand Sons’ lines, ready to be interrogated aboard the Power through Change. He teleported up then, taking the colonel with him.

^^^

Colonel Thaddeus could have sworn that he hadn’t planned this. He had been taken prisoner by the Thousand Sons, his Elysians massacred. He was prepared for whatever hideous fate he was ready for. That was when he saw the figure that had captured him. Good. You understand.

Now, let me plunge you through your worst nightmares... He was screaming...burning...no, drowning in his...whatever, he was in pain. And that was what mattered. He was forgotten, never seen again, abandoned, unknown, unseen, uncared for. And that wasn’t exactly what he wanted to be. It was his Hell. He saw...too much. And it drove him mad.

Only a glimpse, but a glimpse was too much. The Immaterium...no...Hell...all the Hells of Chaos couldn’t compare...to...the...actual...thing...

Colonel Thaddeus screamed as he lost his mind. Tzenaar, having found what he wanted and currently feeling merciful, put a bolt through his brain. It had been 3 weeks since the beginning of the invasion. Six more before the Death of Light was found.

^^^ Marius screamed, wanting to die, for he was being brought through years of geno-alteration in moments.The gene-seed of Magnus the Red, the cyclopean Primarch was being, forced into his body and turning him into...something...else...

That was all he discoveresd before he lost blessed consciousness, and endured the final momehnts with grim silence.

^^^

The pit was getting deeper and deeper, now being half a mile deep, driven by the frenzied digging of thousands upon thousands of slaves. The storm was turning the sky pitch-black, blocking all communications and scans, the reason why the Imperial battle-cruiser in orbit could not simply bombard the pit and thus destroy the Death of Light. But there was a complication. The Space Wolves were arriving in two days; lead by Valdr Fell-fist, a Wolf Lord Mordeghai had fought many times in the last few hundred years. After the Rubric, Mordeghai had fought the Long War alone for ten thousand years; occasionally allying with the perfidious Alpha Legion and the fanatical Word Bearers. The Thousand Sons alone remembered the Imperial Truth: they understood that there were no gods, only power and those too weak to seek it, and Tzeentch, the Liar God, was the way to securing that power.

Tzenaar cackled maniacally. Victory was on its way.