The Death of The Emperor
The Second Siege of Terra
Task Force 642
The scribe didn’t know he was dead until it was too late. At first he had the strange feeling he was being watched, then suddenly a hand was upon his mouth and a flash of steel against his throat. Then there was an agonising pain for a brief second, followed by a darkening calm before the rough, gloved hands let him slide to the floor. Then he was gone.
“Buseer, cover our progress. Candroth, get that body out of sight. The rest of you form up, covered approach.”
Sergeant Grieves waved his hand in splayed, chopping motion as he gave his orders to the men and women of Task Force 642. Everything had been going exactly to plan so far: they had grav-chuted into the Palace at the exact coordinates after a synchronised bombing strike by the Cadian XV Valkyrie Wing, and they had proceeded through the vast corridors of the Terran capital in stealth and secret. They had met minimal resistance as the Lord-Commander had deduced: most of the Terran Forces had been pushed to the frontlines against the combined Loyalist Assault, and so far Grieves’ unit had only encountered small patrols and menials. In short, nothing the Kasrkin couldn’t handle.
Private Candroth knelt beside the corpse, and drew her hand slowly across the dead mans face, softly closing its eyelids. She whispered a prayer to the God-Emperor to see the slain man to safety, and to forgive her for ending his life. Like her comrades in the 642, she was deeply religious and faithful to the cause, and the immensity of the bloody struggle they were involved was not lost on her. She signalled over to Chiasson, who stooped and helped her gently lift the dead scribe. They carried his surprisingly light body over to a stowage arch built into the long corridor, and laid him gently within its shadows. She had almost been taken away by the vastness of the Palace: its corridors were more akin to Hive Highways, only etched in majestic marble and gold, with thin veins of pearl running through their mass. Everywhere stood statues and altars to the God-Emperor and the human race, staring impassively as the sands of time drowned the past in the torrent of the future, judging every man and woman who looked upon them. Chiasson had muttered “Hell of a party to crash, don’t you think?” before Sergeant Grieves had scolded him for his levity. But Chiasson was right, it was.
The veterans of the 642 swept through the palace like murderous shadows. They stuck to the walls around them, stealthily slinking round corners, gripping every piece of cover as if it was the last piece of earth they would ever see. So far, none of them had fired a single shot, their sharp Cadian knives proving sufficient, but it didn’t stop them hugging their hell-guns close to their chests. Privates Kay and Waitout covered the long approach, scanning the monstrous chambers with their gun sights, signalling back to their comrades when they detected movement. Child and Uhuine followed close behind, Uhuine’s Melta-gun humming quietly in his fists, read to unleash the fury of an inferno on any who dared oppose them. Following close behind was the Sergeant, Private Tih and the squads medic Vent. Finally holding the rearguard was Buseer, Candroth and Chiasson who watched the backs of the Veterans for ambushes and patrols.
Sergeant Grieves felt uneasy. Things were going well, and whenever things went well, Grieves felt uneasy. The corridors and chambers of the palace were huge and complex, like a golden labyrinth wrought for the use of colossal Gods of the Sea and Sky, but they had met almost no resistance. Surely if the palace was so important then the enemy would have deployed more of a rear-guard. The palace was admittedly wildly impressive: paintings the size of small buildings depicted scenes from mankind’s history, complex chandeliers wrought from crystals and suspension fields hung from frescoes showing the ancient Crusades that the Emperor himself had led. Suits of ancient golden power armour stood sentinel on podiums and pillars, and banners of historic units and heroes hung like billowing curtains from some renaissance fair. All ideal places to strike an ambush from, but Grieves and his team had yet to encounter any strong enemy resistance. Most would put it down to luck, but Grieves didn’t believe in luck. He believed in the gun in his hand, the wits of his men and the God-Emperor of mankind. That is all he needed. But despite these things, Sergeant Grieves felt uneasy.
The task force had been moving in an easterly direction for about an hour, each room and corridor swept meticulously for traps and foes alike. From Private Tih’s calculations, they were quickly approaching the main gate generators. The plan was to rig the generators with Melta and Void charges, get to a safe distance and detonate the Reactor. This would cause what the Mechanicum called an “Intrinsic Feedback Cascade” which would knock out the Void Shielding and powered gun-emplacements around the palaces main entrance, and also cause fluctuations in the Sub Generators which would hopefully disrupt the traitor forces defences. There had been questions about who should lead the mission: The Grey Knight forces were required on the frontlines as only they could hope to fend off an assault by Custodes. The Mechanicum offered a Skittari Stealth team, but The Lord-Commander wanted flesh and blood and good old fashioned human wits on this mission, and so had chosen the 642, the best of the best. They would stealthily insert, take out the objective and then regroup with the main assault.
That was the plan, and it seemed to be going far too smoothly for Sergeant Grieves’ liking.
“Private Tih, Sitrep?” ordered the Sergeant, turning to the shorter Veteran. Tih unfastened his Auspex from his kit-belt and scanned the way ahead. The team stood in front of a monolithic Golden door etched to resemble an ancient skyline across mountains that no longer existed, and the Sergeant wanted to know what was behind it before they even thought about going through. The Auspex cast a green glow across Tih’s visor, and a gentle ping filled the room as the small device scanned for hostiles. Tih turned to the Sergeant.
“No life signs Sar! Just like the previous rooms.” He stated matter-of-factly “This last corridor leads directly to the docking lifts that lead to the Generators. We should be at the target within the next 20 minutes or so.” Grieves nodded his understanding, and signalled Child and Uhuine up to open the door. His uneasiness had turned into a full pain in his stomach, as if some terrible dread were about to befall them. Get a grip, he thought; maybe the Emperor is watching our backs. Privates Child and Uhuine gripped the vast handles of the door and pulled with an audible grunt. The doors leisurely swung open revealing a short white corridor with a baroque, metallic portal at its farthest end. Aligned along the walls stood busts of famous Terran commanders and tapestries of the Emperor’s faithful sons standing proudly. Grieves breathed an audible sigh of relief, and turned to address his team. “Right you lot, I want no heroes and no mistakes. We get in, we drop the load, and we get the Gakk out of there, are we clear?”
But none of the 642 was looking at the sergeant. They looked past him to an oily wisp that had started to materialise in front of the portal. The air seemed to warp and distend, as if something vast was moving within it, just out of synch with the rest of the room. There was an audible tearing sound as an elongated, feathered arm tore from the air itself, followed by a body that was surely much to long to support itself. The space between realities bled onto the floor of the corridor as another taloned hand punched into the real world grasping a Black Iron staff that seemed to breathe and slither with a morbid life of its own. A deep monstrous hood sat between the shoulders of the coming horror, and piercing golden slits considered the 642 with an infinite hunger and madness. Chains and deep blue robes surrounded the beast and dragged along the floor, leaving a trail of brightly coloured fauna that grew at insane speed before withering instantly to dust and despair. With a final pull, the giant cloaked monstrosity tore into the corridor, unfurling mighty pinions of black feathers and leering faces. It stood to its full height, the staff and hood almost touching the ceiling and bellowed a hideous call. The 642 clasped their hands to their ears as the blood thumped in their heads with the force of fist. The creature turned to them and said in a voice that was every voice the 642 had ever heard “That snake Cherubael was right, you idiot primates did try to shamble your way in here.”
The monster lowered its staff into a stance that promised only violence, “well come here and dance with me man things” the voices said “face the legacy of the Lord of Fates himself. Face the Crow-Lord of Times, the Unending Question and the Never-known Answer. Face a servant of the True God of this Universe”
The 642 opened fire as the Lord of Change pounced at them screaming a song of Change and Betrayal.
For the Emperor!
The traitors stood before him like an endless sea of filth and corruption. They drove on toward him like rancid cattle, screaming an endless chant of oppression, hatred and ending. They ran the gamut of the flaws inherit in all human kind: from the ordinary man and woman, to the bio-giants who walked amongst them armed and armoured like heroes of old. And even above them clanked machines of ludicrous and wrathful design, bellowing smog and enmity into the blessed air of Terra. At one point, long ago, he may have considered this wave of human flesh kith and kin, but no longer. They were the enemy, a hideous tidal wave from the stars that threatened to buffet and destroy everything that he held dear. They came with fire, with hatred, with madness and now attempted to tear apart the grand institution of Terra from where it had stood for generations. Couldn’t they see? Couldn’t these fools accept that the Emperor was returning to them? Couldn’t they see their Lord and Master had found a vessel for His voice in His prophet Uriah Jole. Tightening his grip on the haft of his Guardian Spear, Brother Yuri of the Adeptus Custodes raised his weapon above his head and spoke in a deep, booming voice.
“My Brothers! We stand today on the brink once again. We were there, when the arch-fiend Horus took arms against his Father in a mad bid for power. We were there, when the Reign of Blood threatened to drown us and all we hold dear. We were there, when the Red-robed spawn of Mars usurped the Golden Throne and slew our Father, our Master, our Strength. We were there, when His light returned to us in the hands of Uriah. And we are still here, in the face of invasion and destruction. Men and women we once considered kin are kin no more! Today we fight for the Emperor Returning, we fight for valour, for honour, and the sovereignty of Terra from oppression. For Uriah! For Terra! FOR THE EMPEROR!”
Behind Brother Yuri, one thousand of his Custodes kin raised their Guardian Spears as one and gave praise to the names of Uriah and the Emperor. Then as one, they charged.
Above them the vast cathedrals of war that were the Titans of Legio Loki’s Children traded blows with the two corrupt Titan Legions that the heretics on Mars had sent to usurp the Throne. Already three titans on the heretic side stood blazing from Head to Foot, their malfunctioning void shields casting vast neon bolts about them, ploughing through the heretics lines like the gaze of the Blessed Emperor himself. The Custodes charged onward even as the Warlord Titan Everest’s head exploded like a newborn star, vast shards of shrapnel streaking in all directions, slaying several dozen of the brave citizen-militia who had amassed to defend the palace. None of the Custodes fell to such a paltry death.
The Custodes charged onward, the citizen-militia and PDF of Earth running around them like water flows round a shark. The charge was not the frenzy of the mob, or the fearful last stand of the insane, this was a glorious charge of Gold and Faith, of Steel and Strength, of Gods and Glory. The advanced targeting in Yuri’s helmet cut through the chaos of battle, the vast plumes of smog and the ceaseless rain of gunfire as he hammered through the mud and hell and detritus of the Terran battlefield. He could make out the shapes of the enemy soldiers, drab green and brown on their clothing and red rubies of las-fire flying from their weapons. Behind them he could see the silver and grey of Astartes, once proud sentinels of the Emperor, now misguided fools ripe for the cull. Above them rose the traitor titans, calling their heretic songs to the skies, but they did not worry Yuri or his brothers. The Loki’s Children had them in an open fire-fight, and the Children had numbers, power and the will of the Emperor on their side. No, his one concern was the shape that crouched behind them all, surrounded by enemy armour and machinery.
The Command Vehicle belonging to Judas, the traitor Creed.
Yuri’s HUD pinged in his ear as it calculated his speed and distance to the enemy, numbers and lines appearing in his vision. At this pace the Custodes would hit the traitor lines in less than a minute. He activated his Vox, speaking to every brother that stood with him.
“Arms Ready my Brothers! Cull the heretics, cull the Astartes, and make for the arch-heretic. FOR THE EMPEROR!”
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Brother Augyen stood shoulder to shoulder with his Brothers, gripping his Halberd with more fervour than he had ever felt before. Standing above him on the broken ruins of an enemy tank was Chaplain Creevos, who was praising the name of the Emperor and the Holy Task they must undertake. Creevos gestured toward the incoming mass of armoured gold rushing toward them and beseeched them to look to their brother, look to their hatred and to look to their Emperor. Augyen focused on the oncoming Custodes, and felt a peculiar feeling he had never felt before. It was not fear that he felt, for that had been bred out of him, he was as alien to the concept of fear as the Daemons of the Warp were alien to the concept of order. No, it was not fear, it was a certainty. A certainty, that he and his brothers would not survive this day. He had fought hundreds of enemies before: he had crushed cults and daemons when the Emperor was alive, and he had continued his task after his death, but he had never felt this shadow of imminent destruction over himself before.
It was not a lack of faith that triggered this: he knew he would fight to his dying breath and so would his brothers. But this foe was unlike any he had fought before. These were Custodes, the closest the Emperor had to sons bar the blessed Primarchs. They had guarded the Emperor for generations, and they had yet to encounter a foe they could not best. And now, one thousand of them were charging across the field toward them, and Augyen knew with clarity he had sought his whole life that he would die on this field. But this was a comfort, for he would die for the right cause, and he would die in the name of his Emperor. Each Grey Knight knew this, and they knew it was their task. They were to hold the Custodes long enough to allow the Plan to succeed, to allow Creed and the Inquisitors to unmake the horrors that had descended upon Terra. And only they could hope to hold the Custodes, for they were the Grey Knights, the Bane of the Daemon, the Shield against the Corrupt, the sons of Garro and the Emperor. They would hold, simply because they must.
He glanced to his right and saw the noble form of Captain Sturmmgad and his Terminators step apart from his brothers, their pennants fluttering in the wind. Although gunfire raged throughout the field, and the colossal Titans boomed their war song to the bleeding skies, a peculiar calm surrounded the Captain. He slowly raised his Halberd, a look of determination and grim acceptance etched on his lined face. Time seemed to slow as the Captain turned to consider Augyen, and Augyen’s heart froze at the intense sadness in his commanders eyes. Sturmmgad nodded once solemnly, and then turned again to the enemy. Raising his fist slowly into the air, he said one phrase and one phrase only.
“For The Emperor, my Brothers…”
The amassed Grey Knights bellowed the consent and launched into a ferocious counter charge. Augyen doubts vanished as his Storm Bolter roared and he ploughed through the razor wire, through the death and through the madness unto his fate.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
It would be written ever after that even though the Titans and the War Machines of the Imperial Guard shook the very skies themselves with their firepower, Terra trembled most when two seas of warriors, one in Gold and one in Grey, collided in the centre of the battlefield. Even though the fate of Terra and the soul of mankind itself hung in the balance that day, no battle would be as hard and as bitterly fought as when the Custodes drew arms against the Astartes clothed in Grey. Angels would weep, men and women would cry in lament, Gods would balk in shock, and the God-Emperor himself would shed a fiery tear from his place in the void.
Incoming!
The shields of The Heretic’s Bane flared in the inky black of the night sky, tendrils of lightning and energy striking our randomly, haloing the ship in a cacophony of light and colour. Her sister ships held their positions close by cordoned tight like a cage of thunderous war around their target. Operation: Fury of The Gods was being stretched to breaking, but it was holding. The Cadian Fleet of Admiral Thao had punched through the initial waves of the Heretic Jupiter Fleet and had delivered their troops and supplies to Terra. Several of the vessels formed a staggered route between Terra and Mars, allowing Martian Freighters and Cargo Vessels passage to Earth. The orders were to hold the line, and to let no Traitor Force through. “We wouldn’t bomb our own from Orbit, Thao” the Lord Commander had said to him “But I guarantee you, this Jupiter Fleet would have no such qualms. They cannot get by you once we begin the battle proper. I’m depending on you Thao!”
Thao recalled the Lord-Commanders words as the shield erupted into neon Starfire once more. The Jupiter Fleet had pulled back to a respectable distance, and was now using long range Lance and Nova Cannon fire to pepper the loyalists. Already, two ships had been horrendously damaged by this interstellar sniper fire, and had to drift behind the picket line lest they suffer more damage.
‘I’m depending on you Thao’.
Never had one phrase weighed so heavy on the Admirals mind. He knew the Heretics would eventually amass once more, and he knew that to let even one shot, one torpedo, one enemy carrier by the cordon line would mean he had failed. That was simply unacceptable. The Loyalist Fleet had taken a severe hammering, and had returned the wrath in kind, but his fleet numbered only a few dozen vessels spread thinly between here and Mars. The Traitor-Fleet had numbers, range and the Jupiter Docks on their side. The situation, whilst not hopeless, seemed grim.
The Admiral cast his attention to the holo-display that dominated the bridge. “Mr. Tamier, report”. His first officer turned round to address his captain, his wounds having been bandaged with Black Cloth and padding. He resembled an ancient mariner of Old Earth mused Thao, the black fabric crossing his head and covering his left eye. Despite this, Tamier had the look of stoic determination and pride that he had always worn, and even in the darkness of the situation, Tamier seemed more proud than ever. Tamier consulted a data board he had been holding and addressed his commander.
“The Heretic Fleet is holding the distance on us Admiral. Their long-range fire is inaccurate and infrequent, but they are starting to hit home. The Mechanicum Stealth Fleet is harrying them as much as they can, but the Heretics have become wise to the Priesthood of Mars’ tactics.”
Tamier paused as he cross-checked further information. The Data Board cast a pale blue glow onto Tamier’s severe features, giving him the appearance of some marble gargoyle or bird of prey. He nodded once he found the information he had been scanning for.
“We have detected a lot of movement and energy signatures around Jupiter and Saturn. We suspect the Heretics are deploying their reserve fleets, and we estimate they will join the fight proper in the next half hour.”
Thao closed his eyes wearily. Half an Hour, he thought. The deadline was tight. The Loyalist forces had been fighting on Terra for several hours now, and the body count was ever rising. And despite Thao’s faith in the Commander and in the Will of his Beloved Emperor, he doubted that the campaign on Terra could be brought to a conclusion in that time-frame. He, and his skeleton fleet, would have to hold against the Jupiter Fleet in a direct fire fight, and Thao did not know if his ships could take it. He opened his eyes slowly, and considered his Tactical Officer, a young woman named Price. “Ms. Price, what of the operation on Luna?”
The young officer checked several screens, and ran her nimble fingers over several consoles at once. She had lost both her arms several years ago in operations against the Tau Empire, and they had been replaced with crystalline Augmetics that for all intents and purposes resembled human arms. However, the ingenious of the Mechanicum allowed the arms to split right down their middle and the hands to splay into a wide, band-like form and effectively gave Ms. Price four arms and data nodules in which to connect with systems of the ship: this made her a fine officer to have on the Admiral’s Bridge.
“The Mechanicum and Sororitas forces are pushing the Heretic Forces back Admiral” she said matter-of-factly, the youth in her voice quite at odds with the words she was saying, “They have yet to secure the defence batteries however. Arch-Magos Abraham and Sister-Superior Adriana speculate that they will have them secured within the next two standard hours”
The Admiral chuckled softly. Oh how the fates love to stick the knife in, he thought. The defence rings on Luna could turn the battle significantly, but time was against them. Time never seemed to be on their side. Time was like a vast serpent that choked life from humanity for its own sport, its coils surrounding everything and everyone. ‘If only you’d choke the enemy some more, eh?’, the Admiral whispered. Tamier turned to face the Admiral from his console inquisitively. “What was that Sir?” he asked. The Admiral waved him off and shook his head, “Nothing Mr. Tamier, just musing to myself, hold position, tell the Fleet to inform me of any changes in…”
The Alert Sirens blared as the Holo-Display turned a deep red. An emergency transmission was being received, coded Alpha-Ruby. The command staff on the bridge checked their instruments, and swept the message for malicious spyware or Scrap-code. The Admiral stared at the screen, his face like granite. “Mr. Tamier, what are we receiving” The First-Officer punched at keys and dials as he addressed the Admiral “Sir, it’s a distress call from one of the Mechanicum Vessels posted near the Heretic Boundary. It’s from one of the Magi.” Admiral Thao gestured at the holo-display with a nod. Tamier typed frantically, before ceremoniously punching the switch to transfer. The Holo-display went with a static howl, before an image resolved itself.
It was always hard to read members of the Priesthood of Mars, at lest Thao had always thought so. But the image on the Holo-Display was of a man gripped with fear. Even under his heavy cowl and the various pieces of machinery grafted onto his face, his eyes showed terror and uncertainty, and Thao felt his legs almost give way at a sight so tragic. A voice, bathed in machine gain but unavoidably human in its terror issued across the bridge.
+++This is Magos Kostoglotov of Mechanicum Vessel Proteus Vex. We have detected several incoming energy signatures from outside the system moving at high speed toward Terra.+++
The blood from the Admirals face drained as the terrified Adept continued.
+++They are Astartes, several ships strong. They are not carrying any form of Imperial Transponders, recognition codes and the ships are of non-standard Imperial design.+++
Emperor no, The Admiral’s mind screamed, it can’t be, not here, not now…
+++We have Incoming Traitor Astartes; I repeat we have Incoming Traitor Astartes+++
Unexpected Developments...
Private Tih was the first to fall.
The Monstrous Crow-Lord had launched himself bodily at the 642, screaming in a myriad of voices that spanned every emotion and dialect the Kasrkin had ever encountered. They had fallen back in short order, spreading in a web like fire pattern, denying the enemy range and unloading shot after shot into the monstrous cloaked beast. The creature staggered under the hail of fire, but still came at them, its wounds healing and suturing quicker than they were made. Mocking laughter and lights filled the air, and every step the monster took summoned parasites and sinister weeds from the marble floor. The corridor became a kill zone, as the Kasrkin maintained a level of fire that would make even the blessed Astartes balk. But while falling back, Tih bumped slightly into a marble bust of the Primarch Rogal Dorn and he hesitated for a second as he got his bearings back.
A second was all the Crow-Lord needed.
The Beast seized Tih in his vast claw and lifted him into the air. Tih unloaded his Hellgun one-handed into the daemon, the shots tearing shards of cloth, chain and immaterial flame from the creature. The Crow-Lord screamed at the soldier before turning his spiteful gaze at his comrades.
“See now your fates, and the fates of all, and the fates of none man-things”
Tih screamed as his body suddenly erupted in neon flames, burning every colour under the sun and some that should never be seen by mortal eyes. Sergeant Grieves bellowed to Uhuine to open fire, before a scar of white-hot liquid fired from the muzzle of his Melta. The beam smashed into the Crow-Lords shoulder, loosening his grip on the burning body of Tih. The creature took a step back, it’s robes smouldering from the Melta impact, and the burned corpse of the former Kasrkin exploded into crystalline dust as it impacted the marble floor. His comrades doubled their fire, crouching at the entrance, pushing over marble busts and altars to form makeshift cover and fire holes. The noise of gunfire was staggering in its intensity, but still the Crow-Lord stood against it, like an ancient cliff facing the storms and seas. The Beast raised its staff in the air and fixed its slitted eyes on the human that had scarred it.
“So keen to leave this coil are we, it is all change, all change, all change”
There was deep boom, barely heard on a human level, but Uhuine seized his ears and fell to the floor, vomit and blood seeping from the grill of his re-breather. Vent ceased firing and ran to the stricken man, wrapping his right arm around Uhuine to shield him as he worked frantically to yank the soldier’s helmet off. “Don’t worry” he yelled over the cacophony, “I’ve got you Uhuine, I’ve got you”
“He has changed, yes he has…you will not like what you find”
Vent pulled the breather of Uhuine’s face and instantly started to scream. Uhuine’s face had liquefied and moulded into shapeless mass dotted with holes, and despite his lack of a mouth, he was still crying and moaning for death. Suddenly his face erupted over Vent, and a horde of vermin poured over the Kasrkin medic. Spiders, insects, scorpions, rats, worms and maggots poured in horrific number from the stricken mans face onto his comrade and Vent slapped at his body in vain. He screamed and screamed, and his scream was met by the Vermin as every one of the vile creatures had Private Uhuine’s face. They started to bite and gnaw and consume Vent in a cannibalistic roar.
Sergeant Grieves stopped firing for an instant at the Crow-Lord and turned his aim toward Vent and Uhuine. “Emperor save you boys…” he whispered as he planted two neat shots into each of their heads, ending their suffering. The vermin cried in lament and burst into twinkling Starfire, adding to the riot of colour and sound that had descended on the chamber. Grieves realised they could not win with their guns, they needed heavier fire power, the needed to really hurt the daemon. He bellowed to Buseer and Candroth “Launchers, high shots, Light him Up!”
In a motion quite beyond the abilities of most human beings, both the Kasrkin ceased fire. They both moved in an intense symmetry, unclipping the fire-cover from the front of their launchers, loading the wrack that hung below the Hellguns power cables, and popped open the Iron sights that allowed them to calculate the range of their foes. Both then aimed high and fired. Both the launchers made a deep popping noise, and two small twinkling projectiles flew from the weapons into the hood of the beast, trailing thick heavy smoke and exhaust. There was an explosion of light and noise as the grenades impacted, and the constant noise of the monster grew shrill and panicked. The Kasrkin fired again, and again, and again until the end of the corridor was thick with smoke and detritus. The noise had stopped. The Kasrkin stood aiming into the smoke, all breathes held in case of the worse.
Grieves rose slowly and began to move with careful precision toward the dust-loaded corridor. Candroth and Child looked uneasily to and from the Sergeant and their gun sights, whilst Buseer and Chiasson both whispered prayers to the Emperor under their breath. Grieves gestured with his right hand for Kay and Waitout to back him, and both of the Veterans stood slowly and paced equally behind their commander. Grieves now stood directly at the edge of the destruction, smoke and dust still heavy in the air, gripping his weapon till his palms stung. He reached to the side of his helmet and clicked a small switch built into its side. His vision blurred slightly as his visor switched to a new vision mode, picking up heat blooms in the detritus. He scanned left to right and whilst the corridor was a riot of heat and light, he could not make out the abomination that had been there moments ago. His grip eased slightly, and he reached to switch off his visor when a blackened shape entered his view.
Sergeant Grieves flew backwards like a comet as a long staff of black Iron smashed into his chest. He sailed through the air, over the heads of his team and landed with a sickening thud on the marble behind them, his leg twisting under him and his rifle sliding several feet from where he landed. The 642 stared aghast at his broken form, then spun quickly as hideous laughter issued from the dust.
“Oh very good, very good my children. But you cannot halt change, you cannot even comprehend it!”
The dust cloud sucked inward and darkened, and began to resolve itself into a corporeal form. Vast black wings shot from its back with a sickening crack, and chains began to drop with a heavy clang onto the floor, leaving cracks and blue flame where they struck. The Crow-Lord stepped from the dust, its cloak burning and rent from where the grenades had impacted. Multi-coloured liquid boiled form its wounds and dribbled on the floor, and where it struck small pink and blue monstrosities crawled from the floor, dancing in a hyperactive whirl around their creator before dying in a explosion of dust and colour. The Crow-Lord stalked toward the 642, laughing as it went. The Kasrkin stood transfixed by the monster, unable to move their limbs or raise their weapons. It stood to its full height, and raised its staff once more.
“You have some sport in you I see, well that’s sure to change, oh yes! Very well, gaze upon the face of the future never to be and the Past that never was. Gaze at the face of fate”
The monsters talons seized its hood and flung it from its head. There was a collective gasp from the Kasrkin at the monsters face, with Private Child ripping off his helmet to throw up on the floor. The monsters face was bird-like in appearance, only warped and twisted to a grotesque size. Its beak was gnarled and cracked, with long serrated fangs poking in every direction from within its throat. Feathers and spines issued randomly from its head, and ticks and beetles could be seen crawling through its foliage. But its eyes where what made it terrifying, for it wasn’t that it had eyes, but clusters of eyes, within clusters of eyes, bundled together like warts within the deep slits of its eyelids. The creature bellowed once more, gas and fire issuing from its gullet.
“Now you have seen your destroyer, let us see if you idiot monkeys can deny your fate”
As one the 642 fired again, their malaise suddenly vanishing as quickly as it had set on. Hellgun blasts coupled with grenades shot through the air into the Crow-Lord, which sang a song of ruination and rending as it swung its staff in a wide, smoke-choked arc. Kay and Waitout were the next to die, the staff passing clean through them, severing them both clean in half through their chests. Blood and gore burst from them, soaking the floor and marble around them a shocking crimson, and flowing in obscene amounts around the feet of the beast. It raised its talon to form a gnarled grip, and crimson lightning scorched from its hand into the 642. Hey leapt to cover, most of the red tips missing their mark, but a spark of it caught Buseer on his leg and the soldier fell screaming. There was a sickening wet crack as his leg twisted and cracked and formed into a malevolent worm-like creature. His foot erupted and splayed, revealing a wet maw full of serrated teeth and eyes, and his former limb turned with sickening speed and began consuming its owners chest. Buseer let out a wet cry before the leg-thing ripped out his throat, killing him and itself.
To the 642’s credit, they did not fall apart in the face of their adversary, as their fellows died about them, the continued to press the assault on the daemon. Candroth had run out of grenades on her launcher, and had switched to over charging her shots on her Hellgun. This was a notoriously dangerous thing to do as the power-pack of a Hellgun could freeze up making the weapon useless or at worse explode. But the shots were taking their toll on the beast, its wounds no longer healing and its pace slowing slightly. Chiasson and Child had switched to their launchers, and were firing a steady stream into the beast and the surrounding area as they fell back toward the prone form of the commander. The Crow-Lord stalked toward them, eldritch light and fire playing around its claws, clucking laughter surrounding it like a cruel wind. It crowed victoriously over the stricken 642.
“See now man-things. See how I unmake you. See how small you are, in the grand design of the Architects schemes.”
But then something occurred that the Crow-Lord and the 642 did not expect. The Crow-Lord stopped in tracks and suddenly stared upward, Hellgun shots and grenades streaking around it. The 642 at first thought it was looking at the vaulted ceiling, but the creature stared through the corridor, through the palace, past the atmosphere and into space itself. A deep growl emanated from its throat, and its eyes scanned left to right as if looking for something. Candroth and Chiasson knelt next to their commander as Child hovered protectively over them, his Hellgun still amied at the distracted Crow-Lord.Sergeant Grieves shakily raised himself into a kneeling position. Chiasson helped his commander stand but recoiled when he saw the mangled remains of Grieves’ left leg. “Sar, are you…are you fit to…”. Grieves turned harshly on the Private and cut him off, “Stop your whining son. It’s just a leg, the God-Emperor saw fit to grace me with two.” Candroth, helped steady the Sergeant, “Sar! We can’t beat it, the guns just slow it down. What are your orders?”
Sergeant Grieves closed his eyes. He had served the Guard for a long, long time, the Emperor for even longer. He had seen wonders and horrors in the galaxy the likes that would drive normal men to delirium. He still woke at night from nightmares of xenos horrors, daemons and armoured giants. And although he was only fifty Terran years old, he felt double, triple that age. He sighed, perhaps it was time to go join the great parade in the skies next to the Emperor. He opened his eyes, and fixed them on his remaining teammates. The 642 were startled, as a strange pale glow seemed to suffuse his gaze. “You complete the mission, you understand?”. Both Candroth and Chiasson nodded, and the Sergeant lifted his kit-bag and limped heavily toward the towering form of the Crow-Lord.
It stood transfixed, as if in communion with something or someone. The flora and creatures that had sprouted in its presence had faded into ash and the daemon ignored the approaching figure of the Kasrkin Sergeant. It growled, barring its fangs at whomever it was staring toward and hissed “You are too late, you cannot help them. The plan is already in motion. You cannot…”
Candroth’s eyes widened in horror as her commander approached the Crow-Lord. He stopped a few paces in front of it, and pulled something black and blocky from his kit bag. “Oh Gakking Hell!” blurted Chiasson “Run!!!”. The Kasrkin turned and bolted for the previous rooms, their boots hammering a staccato beat on the marble floors. Their chests hiked in panic and stress and Child yelled “Don’t look back, just keep going. Don’t look back”
The Crow-Lord returned its attention to the corridor and seemed unsurprised that the Kasrkin were in flight. What did surprise him (and the fact he was surprised, surprised him further) was the human standing before him, a look of righteous fury in its eyes and a black metallic box in its hands, with a blinking red light. It hissed “You cannot stop the plan!”
Grieves smirked at his foe, and said calmly and without regret, “Wanna bet?” as he pushed the detonator switch on the Void Charge. The Crow-Lord bellowed as it lunged for the Sergeant who simply opened his arms to accept his Emperor’s judgement.
The Mechanicum had designed the Void Charge as an anti-Gellar device, creating a microscopic sub-space anomaly that destroyed its target utterly before removing it from this plane into the Warp. The device was rarely used, as even the relatively tiny size of the anomaly could have disastrous effects on the area surrounding the target, and was notoriously difficult to manufacture. Several of the ships in orbit over Terra detected the explosion, and even the duelling Titans ceased their hostilities to gaze briefly at the Crimson mushroom Cloud that sprung from the palace. It raised high, purple light and streaks of electric power tearing across its form, huge chunks of masonry and debris flying across its broad range. Then, just as quickly as it rose, it hastily sucked back in upon itself and vanished utterly, taking the Crow-Lord, Grieves and several miles of the palace’s corridors with it.
Chiasson picked himself up from the rubble, and helped Candroth to her feet. They scanned the rubble for Child, who stood shakily and coughed dust from his rebreather. They were all covered in thick dust, and blood coated their clothes from were rocks had impacted upon them. The mile of corridors they had run through moments ago where gone, as was the ceiling and huge swathes of the floor. Sunlight poured in through the circular rent, and smoke seeped from the rubble. The scene was as devastating as it was serene, the cries of the Greater Daemon finally silenced. Chiasson looked at his kit-bag, realising the horrible power they had been entrusted with, while Child sweared an oath to the Emperor under his breath. Candroth wiped a dusty tear from her eye, and turned to face her comrades. They nodded to each other, picked up their rifles and headed back down the corridors. They had a mission to complete; the 642’s sacrifice would not be in vain.
A Father's Son
The Commander gazed through the pict-screen at the blaze of stars and light that blitzed past his fleet. Around him was the bustle and commotion of the ships bridge, its lights dimmed to a deep crimson, bathing the controls and people around him in a bloody red hue. Although his gaze was fixed on the pict-screen, he was not looking at it. He was looking past it, at the battle unfolding around the world of his birth, at the strands of fate that connected millions of individuals to this one time, this one place. They bisected and crossed each other like an elaborate web of golden and silver lights, their glow bringing cold and warmth, pain and security, life and death. As some lights dimmed, others flared, as some were abruptly cut by others, some shined in complex patterns shielding those around them. And at the heart of the web, touching everything and everyone that was connected to it was a bleeding violet stain, its form caressing and soiling everything it touched. A leering face rose from the stain, and grinned horrifically as it consumed the dying lights around it. The Commander could feel the coarse laughter that emanated from that dark place. He knew where the Dark Stain hid, in the deepest vaults of the deepest dungeons of his Fathers Palace.
He gently eased his mind away from the glittering web and turned calmly to his helmsman "Reduce speed, bring up a tactical display. Inform the fleet to assume Assault Formation Gideon"
His helmsman, a giant in monolithic power-armour draped in parchment and holy text, nodded his consent and turned to the choir chamber that held the ships navigator. The chamber’s seclusion seals opened with a hushed sigh, and the wasted, monstrous form of the Navigator hobbled out to the Helmsman. It was a crooked, gnarled thing, filmy drool dripping from rents in its throat and its swollen head partially covered in red silk embroidered with symbols and enchantments of gold and silver. The cloth was wrapped tightly around it’s forehead to conceal its mutation, its gift and some might say its curse: the Third Eye of the Navigator genus, the means to look into the Warp and not be driven to delirium. The psyker-thing clung to a brazen copper staff; its smooth face covered in intricate scripture and wards, and leant with a heavy sigh as the Helmsman passed on the Commanders orders. It nodded with visible effort, and turned drunkenly back towards its chamber mumbling as it went.
The Helmsman returned to his Lords side, and spoke in whispered, hushed tones.
“Commands relayed my Lord. We are reducing speed and moving into assault formations. It appears that the battle has started without us.”
The Commander smiled, and ran one of his immense hands down his intricately braided beard. The pict-screen showed tactical data from the battle that was unfolding ahead of them, tracts of information circling the void in frenzy of numbers and colour. A vast fleet of grey ships, Imperial in design, were assaulting a smaller fleet of Green and Red vessels. The great mass of the battle was taking place around the Bronze orb of Terra, but there was stuttering fire and lights around both Mars and Jupiter as well. When the Commander finally spoke, his tone was wise and reassuring.
“This is nothing we didn’t expect Ahn’Hakkun, my son. Remember this day, for it is, and always has been, our fate to be here. Know that even in the dark days, we were always meant to be here at our peoples side”
Ahn’Hakkun nodded, and also turned his attention to the vast screen that dominated the bridge. The fleet had dropped out of high warp, and was now cruising at combat speed. The warring fleets ahead of them were gradually gaining size as the Commanders fleet closed the distance, and HUD icons were gradually fading in place of actual physical visuals. He addressed one of the crewmen, “Brother Hashutt, what sounds in the void?”
The wiry crewman checked his screens and punched a few keys. One of his hands held an archaic vox catcher to his ear, and the other turned golden dials and switches as the ships skeletal scanner array sniffed the void for scents and sounds. He turned to the Helmsman and spoke in a mechanical, hollow voice, “The enemy know we are here Brother-Helmsman. There’s a lot of chatter from both sides, although we have taken them by surprise. We expect combat in the next 6.2 minutes” Ahn’Hakkun nodded his understanding before returning his vision to the battle ahead. Miniatures suns blossomed around and between the warring vessels, and if it weren’t for the grim truth of the situation, it would have looked quite beautiful; monolithic nations of steel and fire flung into the void, tracing each other with plumes of red and white and starlight, smoke drifting into the blackness until it had faded completely, and crystalline ice shattering in the frozen depths as iron backs broke under the unrelenting Fire of Gods.
“Quite poetic, my Son” the Commanders voice rumbled in mirth. Ahn’Hakkun would have blushed if he was clothed in flesh, but that was a long, long time ago. He merely laughed lightly, as did The Commander. He sometimes forgot the staggering power of his Lord, and the ease at which he viewed the thoughts of those around him. It was his Lord after all, who had saved him from damnation, which had torn his lost soul from the depth of Chaos and returned it in part to the mortal realm. It was his Lord that had ended he and his brothers suffering at the hands of the masters of the Warp. It was his Lord that had found the lost remnants of the Legion, and reunited them as had been written by the Blind Prophet long ago. It was his Lord who led them now to both retribution and resolution. His commander turned his sight upon Ahn’Hakkun, and still he felt the strange thrill of fear that accompanied his master’s gaze.
“Maintain course, engage targets as soon as they are within range. Come my son; let us make ready to aid our people, to make right what once was wrong”
The Commander rose from his command throne, his billowing robes falling about him like snow from an iceberg as it cracks, and collected around his feet like a pool of blood. His ornate armour slid soundlessly around him, having been crafted millennia ago by the finest artificers of Mars. He stood well over a head in height over his Helmsman, and his bronzed armour served only to hammer the point home. He swept around his throne, and marched to the bulkhead that led to the ships arming halls. Ahn’Hakkun followed in his lord’s wake, his soul burning with fierce pride and love for his Lord. The eyes of the crew and menials they passed showed similar emotions, and now, more than ever, Ahn’Hakkun knew that they were doing the right thing. This was meant to happen.
The final bulkhead opened to a steel balcony which glowered over the arming chambers. Its form was coated in intricate banners and displays, and wherever the eye wandered it was met with colour and glorious oaths. The banners showed several symbols and signs: a Red Eye staring from a golden sun, an Oroborous slain by a red giant, glittering silver pyramids under stars of gold and red, a Raven rising into space with bloody tears down its chest, and upon the largest and grandest banner of all; a Red Sun with four points, staring like an all-knowing and all-seeing eye from a white field of stars. Beneath was a cavernous chamber, lined with benches and arming wracks, weapons servitors and menials busying here and there with weapons and parts. And above them all, arrayed in glittering rows of Crimson and Silver stood a host of Astartes, thousands strong, their armour daubed in blessed sigils and icons, their weapons oiled and thrice-blessed, their gaze fixed on the Commander as he approached the edge of the balcony to address them. His gaze fell on each and every one of them, and each knew that he saw not just their bodies, but their souls and minds as well. Each of them knew their task and each would not fail him, their father, their sire, their Lord. He raised his hands into the air in a gesture of victory, and spoke in a calm, intense voice:
“My sons, this is the day that was writ centuries ago, of when we would reforge the bonds we had previously broken in shame and despair. We return now, like the Raven of Prospero returns for the hunt, to reclaim what was once ours, and what was once our Fathers. We have learned well from those years in the dark, for the mind is the greatest weapon we each have, and we have grown from petulant youths kicking at the embrace of our Kin to Proud Men with right on our side once more. We threw off the thrall of the Dark Ones, we stood under their oppression too long. We return now, like the Raven of Prospero, like the Sun of Ra’Hutt, like the glittering Stars of the Eternity Pass to bring faith and glory to our people. My sons, my true sons, we come to aid those that have cried for aid for far too long. We do this now, and forever more, in the name of The Emperor!”
At the mention of the Commander’s father, the Astartes bellowed and sang their praise, and clattered their weapons against their armoured chests in adulation. They sang their praise to the Commander and to the mission, and each embraced and clapped the man next to him at the simple joy of finally having the right cause to fight for.
Above them, Magnus the Red, Son of the Emperor raised his mighty blade Hush’Ahunn, a gift he had received the first time he had met with his father, from its scabbard and called over his sons.
“Sons of Magnus - For Glory! For Prospero! For The Emperor!”
Other Volumes
Volume I: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_The_Emperor_-_A_Continuation_of_the_40K_Universe_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron
Volume II: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_the_Emperor:_Vol._2_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron
Volume IV: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_The_Emperor:_Vol._4_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron
Volume V: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_The_Emperor:_Vol._5_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron
Volume VI: http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/The_Death_of_the_Emperor:_Vol._6_by_Dark_Lord_Seanron