JudgesBabel’s Tower was almost
completed. The towering structure had blossomed horribly in the weeks since the
city had first been subjugated. Lesser towers clambered up its huge flanks,
stretching towards the sky, but at the very pinnacle there was only one, tall
and dully shining in the dim light shining up from ground level, a cunning
artifice of Chaos if ever its master had seen one. And he had seen many in his
long career, a century of centuries and never had he come so close as this. The
material aspect was completed – now all he needed was the spiritual. Even by his generous
standards, this was a masterstroke of evil planning, a web spun to ensnare his
enemies. First he had placed the ork spores stolen from Charadon out in the
mountains, creating the strife he would need to land unnoticed. Then, once the
orks had begun causing trouble, as was their nature, he had revealed himself to
them – and as planned, the savages had willingly pledged themselves to his
cause. The rebellion? As far as the Imperium knew it was a result of the ork
predations becoming too much for the population. From his infinitely more
enlightened point of view, it was the result of careful months of planning,
negotiation and bribery, coupled with the ever-present threat of his guards at
the rebels’ backs. And now the Imperium had sent its finest, the Black
Templars and the meddling Gerallt – exactly as he had planned. The prophecy,
created to engage Gerallt’s wandering attention to Babel, was a minor work of
genius in itself. A shame he hadn’t thought of it himself… his daemonic
masters had placed it on Arx following the Gothic War. Truly their scheme – no,
he thought, our scheme! – was brilliant and subtle in the extreme.
It had taken over a millennium for the conditions to be right – the prophecy
had been placed during the Black Crusade in the Gothic Sector, Abaddon himself
nothing but a tool in the plots of Tzeentch. Again he checked himself, but this
time less egotistically. He could never think of Abaddon as a pawn. A Warmaster
of Abaddon’s prestige forged his own destiny, and the gods served only as
advisor, not as guide. There were some who craved
the power of a Warmaster, to have the Dark Four themselves keep half an eye on
them every waking second – not he. The Tower master was born to this subtle,
conniving waging of war. He lived his life amongst a web of servants, always the
power behind someone else’s throne, or hidden by a mask of deception. A mask the accursed
resistance were on the brink of tearing from him. His rebel gangers had become
consumed by infighting since the accursed Templars had arrived, decamping Port
Babel in droves or squabbling amongst themselves for the places nearest the
back. It was time to crush the resistance – and with them Inquisitor
Gerallt’s resolve. That was the essence of his
plan. From out of the web a straightforward purpose was emerging, the paradox at
the heart of Tzeentch. Complexity breeds simplicity; and in turn simplicity
gives rise to complexity. All this scheming and plotting was merely to disguise
him – his aim on Babel would be achieved by corruption of the simplest and
most artistic kind. A single soul, a hero brought low. Why else would he have
brought someone of Gerallt’s standing here? And of course, if that
failed, he still had all those fine upstanding Black Templars. Perhaps a hundred
souls would suffice in the absence of a hero? He banished the thought from his
mind with disgust. That kind of quantity-not-quality approach was sickeningly
un-Tzeentchian. Gerallt would fall to him, and in the turning raise his Tower to
the stars. He would not fail here as he had before. He would conquer not by
strength but by his intricate intellect. “Master?” Who dared intrude on his
thoughts? “Master? What do you wish
of me?” He raised his great armoured
head and stared as imperiously as he dared at the cringing slave who knelt
before his ornate throne, ripped from the bridge of the Blackstone and laid onto
the Tower’s daemon-infused stone. He was indeed a terrifying sight for such
mortal minds as these – eight feet tall and encased in onyx armour, ancient
and terrible, a dark medieval-looking helmet, gold-trimmed with cold shining
blue eyes, and the crest of his ancient chapter emblazoned on his shoulders and
knees, together with archaic and long-ago-corroded honour badges. “How did you know I
required your services, presumptuous imp that you are?” His hands caressed the
hilt of his sword, but they did not draw. Not yet. “Forgive me, master – my
mind is ever bent to your great purpose. I can tell when you need me.
Please…” “Fear not, Asmodeus, I
have not finished with you yet. Make contact with the rebel leaders. Tell them
it is time to wipe out the Precinct Tower and those within. And have one of my
Fallen squads accompany them – this animosity will not spread. We must rule
this city alone, comrade Asmodeus. Now go!” The slight, horned figure of
the gremlin-like servant bowed and grovelled, capering away from his gargantuan
master. Nightfall. Port Babel was
almost normal in the dark, the ruinous buildings shrouded, invisible. Normal,
except for the glowing tower of evil that squatted and gloated on the horizon,
and the battered ruin of the Precinct Tower facing it over the other, lower
structures. The rebel gangers swarmed
down the streets, brandishing long knives and pistols, some with rifles, maybe
one in six lugging a heavy weapon, a big stubber or autocannon. Heavy
anti-personnel weapons, not enough to breach the tower. They didn’t need to,
though. There were over two hundred
gangers gathering in the streets around the resistance strongpoint, members of
over a dozen factions and families massing in close-knit groups, united by their
cause and fear of their master. The fear that was embodied in the Fallen squad
that marched among the largest concentration of gangers, the elite and
best-equipped, seventy-five gangers and a mere ten Chaos space marines, great
dark figures amongst the crowd. But where they walked, the squabbles stopped and
the riot fell silent. They were much more heavily armed than the gangers, as
befitted their status, carrying not one but two lascannons, a champion toting a
combi-meltagun in his armoured hands and two of the squad carrying a demo charge
between them. They were going to break the resistance open and let their
followers feast on what lay inside. Within the Precinct Tower,
the surviving arbitrators gathered with their weapons primed for what could well
be their last battle. There were perhaps seventy trained soldiers left among
them, and a further thirty recruits who had signed on after the start of the
rebellion, eager to gain the protection of the Adeptus Arbites. Cerys’ eyes trailed over
the defenders of the last Imperial bastion on Babel, the last place to proudly
adhere to the Imperial Cult. Throughout all this madness, it had been her faith
alone that had kept her sane – faith in the Emperor, who she had been brought
up to see not as a god but as a man ascended to godhood, proof that humanity was
destined to rule the cosmos, and faith in her absent father. She would not have
been left on Babel for no reason. She had to stay alive, if only for the
chance of finding out one day. She was worried that she
might not make it. Day after day, arbitrators failed to return from patrols. Day
by day she heard reports of gangers massing for a final attack on the Precinct
Tower. Too many reports for her to discount as rumours. At nightfall the attack
began, tracer rounds from the surrounding buildings impacting off the thick
walls of the Precinct, hails of sidearm fire missing the arbitrators, but
forcing some to drop for cover or risk being caught in a torrent of rebounds and
shrapnel. In reply, top-notch Arbites shotguns were fired back at the
searchlights that had just burst into life, pump-actions clicking and hissing,
filling the air with the zip and zing of exterminator rounds. Screams came from
above, screams and the sounds of shattering glass. The enemy were keeping their
distance, circling them, testing the defences. Why? Every report on the rebels
described them as close-range combatants – so why not close in and overwhelm
the tower in a concentrated rush? But then she saw the black
giant shapes lumber out of the shadows and her breath caught in her mouth.
She’d seen space marines once or twice, from a distance, but these were not
the clean-armoured, valiant figures she remembered. These were travesties of
the marine form, bedecked with spikes and chains over their dark, shining armour,
which gleamed like marble in the light from the ruins. Two of them were toting
long-barrelled heavy weapons, and two more were bent low, lugging something the
size of a manhole cover but much thicker and hung on a long chain. The marine
squad halted and the two heavy weapon gunners raised their barrels and fired
together. There was a twang of raw energy; a flash of red light and the
gate was smoking in the centre. Another, and it buckled, part worn through.
Cerys shouted over the sound of smouldering metal for a barricade, but Marl had
already jumped the gun and was exhorting a small gaggle of part-time soldiers
into dragging rubble up behind the gates. There were two more twangs, and
the gates fell inwards, though the entrance remained impassable – the two
sheets of plasteel had formed a natural wall, over which Marl’s squad could
see and shoot while the civvies built up a platform behind them, pushing the
doors outward. The dark space marines had
given up on heavy weapon fire and were closing on the gate, fanning out in
neatly ordered precision, three of them covering the rest, forcing Marl to take
cover. As they sidled towards the gate, the chugging of a heavy bolter could be
heard and one staggered and fell, his neck twisted to one side. Another took his
place, shielding the two bearers. Marl was calling her from the gate… “Demo charge! They’re
going to blow the barricade!” “Fall back to the tower
doors and get ready to drive them out! I’ll get another squad over there!” Waving to the nearest
arbitrators, Cerys began to run for the tower. In a massive pyrotechnic
display of sound and smoke, the improvised blockade exploded, showering the
courtyard with small stones and badly braining two civilians. The renegade
marines were already striding across the flattened gates, blazing into Marl’s
squad, but hampered by the dust and noise. Their leader, marked out by the tall
horns on his helmet and the double-barrelled weapon in his hands, shouted
something in his deep voice, and the others dropped to the classic sniper’s
position and waited. Gangers poured out of the
surrounding streets, closing on the Precinct Tower. With two squads gone from
the walls, they were beginning to swarm through the gates in a tightly packed
mass, while their terrifying leaders kept the defenders at bay. Even though there were so
many of them, the gangers were slowed by the heavy bolters in the tower door.
Auto-firing point defence systems blazed into the press, exploding bullets
blasting them apart without a trace of corpses. For a moment Cerys thought the
battle might be carried by the blessing of the Machine God – then she saw the
marines split into two groups, one led by the horned champion, the other
including the two heavy weapons. The champion broke left,
heading towards her squad, his gun rapid-firing shells into the tough carapace
armour of the arbitrators, rebounding from them but taking the civilians off
their feet. His companions had drawn long, dark-bladed knives and were charging
in grim silence into the arbitrators. Cerys skidded forward, dropping her
shotgun and swinging her maul up and over her head, bringing it down onto the
head of one armoured giant. He fell, clutching at his skull, and she ducked the
return blow of his companion, who was driven down by two arbitrators firing into
his abdomen at point blank range. A horned helmet and a mass
of bronze decoration loomed over her as the champion stood before her, gun held
high, firing over her head. Heat washed over her, frazzling her hair away, and
she realised that the other barrel was a meltagun. Lucky for her he’d missed
– but he hadn’t been aiming for her. He’d been going for the wall behind.
Roaring invisibly through the air, a wave of heat washed over and through the
rockcrete, tearing a breach big enough for four men to fit through. Outside
Cerys could hear the gangers cheering, and she could dimly see hordes of them
pressing through towards her… In the brief second it took
for her to take all this in, her life was over. An armoured fist the size of her
head crashed down onto her neck, smashing her to the ground, her skull bent
horribly to one side. Slick with blood, she crumpled and died, her last thoughts
of a grey-haired man dressed in pastel finery. ‘Why?’ she asked
herself. ‘Why, father?’ A hollow boom filled the
night as the gangers swarmed forward. From behind them, a vast shell traced its
long, low arc through the air and exploded in the breach, sending up a blast of
pulped bodies and wreckage. Another cleared the last of the rubble from the
doors, and the beleaguered Arbites saw a squat tracked vehicle surrounded by
black armoured figures, smoke hissing from its wide-barrelled cannon. They were
space marines – but they were the real thing. Rebel corpses flew left and
right as the Emperor’s Champion carved his way forward. To those gangers who
turned and dared to impede him, he was a behemoth of black and silver, his
humming sword hewing bodies in two and limbs from sockets, his eye slits tinted
green by night-vision. In a single-handed grip, Darius’ swing was faster than
ever before, the lack of balance no longer a problem in a dense melee where
every stroke, no matter how ill-aimed, struck a target. Dust began to fly as his
boots pounded through the gatehouse and over the low, scattered mound of rubble.
As he reached the top, the Vindicator fired again, silhouetting him against the
night sky, a great black shadow before the bright flash of the cannon. The
demolisher shell hit home amidst the chaos marines, tearing four of them apart
and obscuring them, stopping them firing back. Around Darius his
battle-brothers charged over the breach as he waved them through, sword
brandished over his head, bolt pistol blanks showing the way to go. Thirty of
his battle brothers spread out into the tower courtyard, led by the axe-wielding
Voss, while the breach on the far side was lit from above by the blue radiance
of a teleport attack. The gargantuan, grinding
figures of six Black Templar Terminators appeared from the void, lumbering into
position and blazing away with storm bolter and heavy flamer as the glare faded
from them. Dozens of gangers were blasted and burned into oblivion within
seconds of the black-and-white warriors’ arrival, and their companions
scattered as the huge marines stamped forward, driving the enemy apart with
swinging power fists, bashing them aside into the gouts of flame that formed a
corridor along which the giants were marching. As the Vindicator powered
forward to seal the breached gates, the Chaos marines turned toward their loyal
brethren and fired, bracing themselves as shot after shot tore up the ground
before the Terminators. The lascannons fired twice and a veteran Templar fell,
holes punched through his chest and right shoulder. The champion took down
another with his cursed combi-weapon, the corpse evaporating as it fell. But distracted by the Terminators, the dark warriors failed to notice Darius, his heart alive with fury, storm up to their champion and spin him around by the shoulder. Taking in the gold trim on the marble armour, Darius was struck dumb for a second as memories raced through him. Then his duty as Champion rose from his soul and took control of his lips, and he roared out the challenge of the Emperor. “In
the name of the god-Emperor I challenge you, heretic!” “Die, child of the false
god!” snarled the horned helmet, and letting his gun dangle on a shackle he
produced two chain weapons, a sword and an axe, which ground into life and
flashed in the searchlights of the tower. Darius swung back the Black Sword in a
two-handed grip, rose onto his toes and swung, and although the curved
chainsword flew up to block its whining blades caught on the glowing blue steel
of the holy weapon and tore off, lashing through the night and zinging off their
owner’s helmet, leaving a line of dents in the corroded ceramite. “Good try,” he growled,
“but I’ve seen better.” His axe held in both hands, he swung low, raising
a shower of sparks as the blade bit deep into Darius’ greave, stuck and was
jerked free, leaving the Black Templar limping. Darius scowled into his head-up
display and punched out left-handed. Cracks lined the pointed helmet of the
Chaos follower. Again, and the nose broke completely, revealing the tubes of a
rebreather half melded into pale, clammy-looking flesh. Taking advantage of his
foe’s backward stumble, Darius struck his helmet with the edge of the Black
Sword and scythed his head off. Turning, he saw the Chaos
marines scattering, falling back towards the breach, and he saw the red armour
of a Templar gunner shine as he rose from the Vindicator, manned the storm
bolter and started to fire. Blinded and pinned down, the Chaos scum died an
unpleasant but well-deserved death. While his battle brothers
scoured the nearby buildings, Darius sought out his Marshal, who stood at the
gate speaking with the surviving arbitrator captain in his deep, resonant voice.
As he saw the Champion approach, he nodded to Darius, a curt gesture of
recognition and grudging respect. Darius saluted and pulled his helmet off. “Brother-marshal, I need
to speak to you urgently.” “Very well – speak now.
I have much to do.” “The enemy space marines,
brother – I recognised the markings. They were Fallen.” “Fallen Dark Angels? The
ones you faced on Daizann?” Darius nodded. “There’s worse, brother. We know the Fallen were leading the rebels; and I’m sure they were behind the ork raids as well. And if the Fallen are here, there’s a chance Diabolus could be.” “Very
well. Champion Darius, you may consider yourself relieved of your post as of
now. Return the Black Sword and armour to the artificers tomorrow.” “What?” “I am relieving you of
duty. I believe you psychologically unsuited to face the Fallen again – especially
if that sorcerer you fought before is here.” “You saw me against their
leader, Voss! I can cope with this!” Darius’ face flushed with anger. Dare
Voss infer that he was unable to face Diabolus again? The arrogance of the man!
He’d never even have met the Fallen Dark Angel if it hadn’t been for Voss’
petty obsession with regulations… he was the Emperor’s Champion! He was
supposed to exist solely to face monsters like Diabolus – and he wasn’t
going to miss this chance of avenging his master. “This is not a matter for
discussion, the decision has been made. I have sent for reinforcements by
Thunderhawk – and I expect you to return to the battle barge with them. Do I
make myself clear?” Darius didn’t answer. “Do I?” “Perfectly, Marshal.”
The Champion turned and walked away, jamming his helmet back on. Sitting on the steps into
the tower and moodily glaring into the depths of a puddle, Darius saw reflected
there the plumes of light that signified a descending Assault squad. The jump
packers landed on the roof of the tower alongside the last few arbitrators, one
of them planting an Imperial standard there. It flashed gold in the beams of the
gangers’ searchlights, which dimmed and went out, leaving the scene black. As
Darius’ helmet powered up its night vision capability, he saw a small, slight
male shape swathed in a trench coat stalking across the courtyard, moving as
fast as its withered right leg would allow, and kneeling with a pneumatic hiss
beside the slumped corpse of an arbitrator. Darius strode over to join Gerallt
and found himself staring at the back of the Inquisitor’s venerable head,
listening to the cracked whisper of a man whose world has crashed down around
him. “Sweet
Emperor, don’t let it be…” “Be what?” Darius could
have kicked himself for asking, but his curiosity and eagerness to win Gerallt
over, perhaps even ask the Inquisitor to negotiate with Voss, had got the better
of him. He saw Gerallt roll the body over and tilt the head, saw his auto-sense
unit track up and down the face. “No. NO!” Inquisitor Gerallt clambered
to his feet and drew his sword, his blind eyes glowing with an unreal
luminescence, his breathing thick with rage. “Lord-inquisitor? What’s
wrong?” Gerallt’s face turned to
the floor and he muttered before whirling around, callipers hissing, and glared
at the Champion’s impassive face. “That was my daughter! The
bastards killed my daughter!”
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