LamentationsDarius’ feet slammed down on the metal of the battle barge’s floor. He didn’t have much time – Voss was sure to check up if he had returned the Black Sword or not, and he had to call in his favour as soon as he could. Pressing the entry code for the armoury, he stalked in and stood opposite Ferrus, the old tech-priest who had helped Gideon train him years before. The techmarine looked up and nodded to Darius. “All is ready, brother. I’ve spoken on your behalf
with the brethren – a dozen of us are prepared to follow you to hell and back
to avenge the fallen of Daizann.” “One squad. One squad from a Crusade of six. If we
have the advantage of surprise it might just work.” Darius nodded and stepped
towards the Champion’s armour. “I hope you don’t mind my taking this?” “The Chapter is dedicated to holy vengeance. I was a
friend of Gideon’s. I will not allow the beast that destroyed him to go free.
It’s that simple, Darius.” Ferrus’ red power armour whirred as he rose.
“If you don’t mind, my boy, I’d like to come with you.” “What?” spluttered Darius, obscured by the
unopened vents of his helmet. “I’ve seen six centuries of war in the Emperor’s
name. My time among my brothers is almost up, and I’d like to die in battle
rather than on some festering battle barge.” “I trust you still know how to use a power axe?” “Old soldiers never die!” “Good. I’ll be glad to have you at my side, Ferrus.
Let’s go.” They were met in one of the Lightbringer’s
conference rooms by the small, red-faced form of Gerallt, flushed with rage, his
hands working at the hilt of his swordcane. The old inquisitor was standing
stock-still, but had his withered legs had the strength he would have been
pacing restlessly. Around him stood the massive shapes of ten space marines,
four neophytes and six full battle brothers. As Ferrus and Darius entered, the
assembled Black Templars snapped to attention, and Gerallt looked up, glowering. “If you want my advice, Templar, this is a suicide
mission. Not that that will stop me from accompanying you, but I would have it
known by your battle brothers.” “It changes nothing,” intoned one of the marines,
an old warrior whose single hand clutched a chainsword scarred by years of use.
The other hand was a bionic replacement, and clutched a plasma pistol that bore
the scorch marks of many misfires; Darius guessed one of those had claimed the
flesh of the marine’s right hand. “Senior initiate Claudius. I was present
on Daizann, along with brothers Cato and Eliphas.” Two other marines who both
wielded boltguns nodded. “We will follow you to death and beyond, brother.” “As will I,” said a neophyte, cutting across the
elder marine. “Corleone is my name, replacement neophyte to brother Cato.
Aradio and Lineaus serve brothers Lucian and Antonius.” The two neophytes and
their masters bowed their heads. All carried assault gear; bolt pistols and
chainswords for the initiates, combat knives for the neophytes. “Senior initiate Uriens,” snarled a
swarthy-looking figure whose hands were tight around a power axe. “I have seen
too much of Chaos to let it conquer this innocent world as well. If that means I
must sacrifice my life then so be it, but I am not prepared to sacrifice it for
the memory of one fallen brother.” “Brother-neophyte Christus. I have no master; I
serve nobody save myself. I did not wish to join the Chapter. I live for the day
I am released by the Emperor… and the only way I can do that is to perish
first.” A blond-haired youth, not much younger than Darius, but already
heavily scarred with ritual tattoos – Darius guessed he came from a feral
world – stared around with empty, soulless eyes. “Ferrus makes eleven, you make twelve and I am the
thirteenth. Thirteen of us against whatever horrors Diabolus has created;
assuming, that is, that he is even here.” “It doesn’t matter. I have to face him. I would do
so alone. We will prevail or we will die.” Darius placed his helmet on his
head, and when he spoke again his voice was given an extra degree of
reverberating confidence by the vox units within. “Victory or death!” “Probably both,” muttered Gerallt, clapping the
Champion on the shoulder. Far above, at the apex of Babel’s Tower, he waited.
His golden sword lying across his knees, Diabolus stared into the
uncomprehending sky. The Tower was complete; he only had to wait a few more
hours for his plan to be put into operation. Something in the deep fastnesses
rumbled, and it brought a smile to the sorcerer’s face. “Soon, my child. Soon your world will be ready for
you.” “Here’s the plan. I’ve set the teleport to bring
us out in the palace ruins. Once there, we split into three groups.” Ferrus
paused and summoned a vague scan of the bowels of the Tower. “Some kind of
anomaly has rendered the scanners next to useless, but we’ve been able to
pinpoint the key areas the central spire rests on. Planting demo charges there
should bring the Tower proper crashing down, and the side spires should just
fall in without it to support them. While we split up to set the charges, Darius
and Lord Gerallt lead a ground assault up the tower to destroy the Fallen
leaders – if Diabolus isn’t there, they’ll fall back and meet us at ground
level. And finally, Uriens’ team will storm the Tower gates and clear us a way
out.” The grim-faced Uriens raised a hand, and spoke without
waiting for acknowledgement. “Volunteers to follow me in the forlorn hope?” Only one hand was raised – that of Christus. The
scarred young man rose and moved to join Uriens without a word. “Will two be enough?” asked Darius. “The two of us will be. Neither of us has any fear of death – not any more.” Uriens took his power axe in his hands and stared Darius down. “Argue with me, little Champion, and I shall take this blade to you.” “Very well. Now hear me; I
don’t want to force anyone into coming with me. I don’t expect anyone to
share my revenge.” “Brother, I would follow you into hell if it meant
avenging the deaths on Daizann.” Claudius’s words were echoed with approving
nods from Cato and Eliphas. Corleone stared at the floor before his garbled
response was heard. “Where my master leads, I follow.” Gerallt did not respond for a few seconds. His face
moved in silent hate, the pearly white eyes closed, and then he spoke in a voice
thick with rage. “I do not seek to aid or assist you in any way. I
wish to face the leader of this invasion no matter who he or it is. It is my
duty to save this world and I will do it – and I will not allow my
daughter’s sacrifice to be in vain. I come with you, but not to avenge your
mentor or because I need your help. I come for my own reasons. Clear?” “Understood, lord. That leaves Aradio, Lucian,
Lineaus and Antonius to accompany Ferrus.” “Wait,” Lucian interrupted. “I want to go with
you, brother-Champion.” “If he’s coming with you, so am I!” Aradio drew
his knife and weighed it in his hands. “No,” answered Darius. “I won’t waste
neophytes on a suicide mission. You stay with Ferrus; your master may accompany
me if he wishes.” “Isn’t that against Chapter law?” “This whole mission is against Chapter law!” The
neophyte had no response for that. They picked up their weapons and began to
hurry through the corridors of the Lightbringer, as quietly as Space
Marines can. The teleportarium was unoccupied when they arrived,
the immense whirring metal bulk of the warp-anomaly generator towering over a
platform big enough for the fourteen of them to fit on with a squeeze. The duty
servitor looked blankly at them and was about to call for clearance when Ferrus’
servo-arm clenched its shoulder briefly. It bowed its head to him and began to
move the keys and sliders of the arcane interface. There were flashes of blue
light from above as the warp was allowed to flow smoothly into reality, and the
pad’s hexagrammic shields began to hum. One by one Templars, techmarine and
inquisitor filed into place, and the servitor pressed the final stud as Darius
took his place on the platform. “Suffer not the unclean to live!” he cried as he
faded away into nothing. Flashes and sparks of blue light crossed his vision,
the view of an opening door and several space marines striding in and
questioning the servitor vehemently fading to be replaced by the darkness of the
Tower catacombs. Back on the Lightbringer, Chaplain Thectus
raised his bolt pistol and blew the servitor’s head open, leaving the
fragmented cyborg to keel over. “Damned fool let them go… brother Ramus, check
their input trajectory.” “Co-ordinates four-zero-one by seven-six-three,
brother. They’ve gone straight for the Tower centre.” “Isn’t that the zone we couldn’t scan?” “I believe so, brother.” “Then may the Emperor have mercy on their souls –
He alone knows what they’ve just run into.” Diabolus smiled once again to himself. It had been so
easy to corrupt the servitor’s crude but still contactable mind, to send the
hated Templars soaring off course and into the heart of his plan. It was time to
end the folly once and for all; time to seize Gerallt’s soul for his dark
masters. And then there was Darius. The little marine had the audacity to seek
him out again, even after losing their last duel two years before. He would
perish – or perhaps not. Perhaps Diabolus would release him once more, allow
his hatred to flourish further, or maybe even… “Master?” “If you interrupt my meditations again, Asmodeus, I
will see to it that you spend the rest of your miserable existence in the
hellforges of Tzeentch; as a briquette. Now what do you want?” “Well, most glorious master,” the homunculus
whined, “now that we have the imperialist scum here, what now? You never
explained the second part…” “Now, you pitiful excuse for a drudge, the game
begins. No Tzeentchian ever attacks until the odds are in his favour.” Almost a mile below them, the thick, musty air of the
Tower’s deepest cellars was filled with light, light driving the shadows back,
light illuminating every dusky recess of the chambers. Twelve looming shapes and
one huddled, much smaller, but proud figure stepped out of the light, armed and
ready, and looked around them at – at a perfectly normal set of foundations.
Clean plasteel columns held the roof up, the floor was rockcrete and in
relatively good condition – where was the baroque finery of the Palace or the
expected torment of Chaotic architecture? This looked – normal! “This isn’t right.” Ferrus spoke for all of
them, his eyes scanning the towers with practised ease. “I scanned a massive
warpspace anomaly here.” Gerallt looked from side to side, his eyes taking on a
distant, pearly sheen, the air around him whispering with psychic energy. “We’re inside some kind of illusion, beyond even
my ability to dispel. Someone or something is –“ The end of the sentence was lost amidst a deep,
throaty rumbling, emanating from all sides, from the very walls. The air
flickered red in an optical whirl of spirals, the growling stone becoming louder
as the lights grew more and more intense. Darius saw Gerallt fall to his knees
and cry out in pain, his squeal lost amidst the thunderous roar of whatever
power was assailing them. The neophytes staggered too, their superhuman sense of
balance disrupted. Darius thanked the Emperor for the implant in his ear that
enabled him to blot out the worst of the sound. As swiftly as it had begun, the deep soul-destroying
sound faded and died. Gerallt rose haltingly to his feet and brushed himself
down. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but the less
time we spend in this place the better. Ferrus, is this where you were going to
set the charges?” “Around the edges of the anomaly, lord; but I
don’t know if we can locate them precisely. If this is an illusion, we might
have to plant them and see what happens.” “Go ahead.” Darius’ voice was slow and hollow.
“We have to find a way out of this labyrinth.” Outside the great looming bulk of the building proper,
the eyes of a watcher would have seen the Tower beginning to shudder, the dread
light all around it flickering and wavering as if under some great strain, some
effort not to be put out. The stones themselves howled and keened under the
pressure that throbbed from ground to spire of the immense structure, rubble
grinding on rubble, dust falling from the myriad spires; and amidst the riot of
destruction, a booming voice laughed a long, low, loud laugh. The rumble had faded to the level of background noise,
but was still audible between the thumps of power-armoured boots. Darius’ team
stamped through the never-ending columns in search of a door, a hatch, anything
that would allow them to enter the Tower itself; and they found nothing at all. Diabolus and his hunched companion swept into a small,
round chamber near the very peak of the tallest spire of the Tower, a chamber
without a floor. Instead it was filled with a clear, slightly shimmering
luminescence, which might have been water had it not been able to support the
weight of a fully armoured space marine and the gargoyle-like Asmodeus. The homunculus gazed down into the pit he was
suspended over and hissed in appreciation. Tubes and wires coiled about his
head, pale flesh twitching with the cold, and with the rest of his body
concealed within his filthy robes, Asmodeus seemed almost to be swallowed up by
the shadows. “Whatever is it, oh wisest artificer in Chaos?” Diabolus allowed his lips to curve into a hidden smile
as he replied, touched by the little creature’s praise. “It is a window into the heart of the Tower; it
allows me to observe and control events without venturing anywhere near the
Black Templars.” Asmodeus nodded in mute confusion, and gazed down. He could
see nothing. “Of course you can’t see anything, it responds to psychic
potential. Observe, my hapless underling, and marvel.” Whirling turquoise flowed around Asmodeus’ feet,
winding his head into tingling joy as he tried to follow the pattern; and then
the ripples faded and resolved into a slightly distorted image of Darius,
leading his strike team. “Is that he, oh master? Is that the worthless
Champion of the Dead Emperor?” “It is.” Diabolus laughed horribly, extending the
hand that didn’t rest on his golden sword. “Let it begin!” As the Black Templars stalked forward, Corleone and
Cato covering the advance, the night was torn apart by nine blasts of turquoise
luminosity, nine columns of shimmering Chaos driving from floor to ceiling.
Before Cato could call out a warning, a hail of bolter shots were already
emerging from the lights, mostly flying wide of the Templars but forcing them to
bunch in closer around Darius, who was glaring from side to side, trying to
fathom the assault. From nine towers of radiance nine black-armoured, baroque
figures emerged, the suddenly bright lights gleaming off marble surfaces. “Fallen!” Darius cried, brandishing the Black
Sword and charging for the nearest Chaos space marine. The ancient weapon shone
as it roared through the air and smote the floor where the dark warrior had been
standing. Looking up, Darius saw the shadows close in and the Chaos worshipper
become solid again. “What treachery is this?” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Gerallt
closing with one of the Fallen, his unearthly blue sword carving a shadowy shape
apart in a flash of psychic light, and the old inquisitor’s face shone with
delight as he turned on another. “Daemonhosts! They are daemonhosts!” In perfect, mechanical unison, five of the nine
warriors drew short combat swords and advanced on the Templars, while the other
four continued their steady bombardment of fire. Darius’ heart ceased to beat
for an instant as he saw Cato fall; he saw the small explosions burst across his
battle-brother’s body, battering him down, and heard Corleone scream in rage. The neophyte leapt over his fallen master and on into
one of the bolter-wielding Marines, pure holy wrath driving the gloved hands
that knotted around his enemy’s throat and twisted until the helmet broke.
Following his example, Eliphas charged two of the sword-armed foe, passing
straight through wavering armour and flesh that only half existed and stumbling
to the ground in a crash of armour. The Fallen raised their swords in deadly
concord, but before they could fall both were scythed from their feet by bolts
of pure white energy. Following the arcs of lightning back, Darius saw Gerallt
stalking forwards, an expression of fixed rage on his face, his eyes shining
with psychic backwash. Eliphas staggered back to his feet, the lightning
diverting around him, spreading and re-unifying, tearing the twin enemies apart. Dropping to one knee, Darius intoned a brief prayer to
the Emperor and hoped till his heart felt like it would burst, while his right
hand automatically flew to his belt and withdrew a golden bolt pistol, crafted
to the very limits of some ancient techmarine’s skill. The bullet flew across
the chamber and struck one Fallen square in the neck, sending a black, heavy
head several feet into the air. The body stood perfectly still for a moment and
then dissolved into flickering shadows. Five Fallen remained standing, falling back into a
perfect pentangle, each one covering his neighbour’s retreat. Enough, Diabolus
thought to himself glaring down from above. I have no need to waste troops on
them. As Eliphas and Corleone closed on the pentangle of
Chaos marines, the cobalt pillars returned from above, shining over the black
shapes. When the light faded, they were gone. Darius stormed forward and glared
upwards, trying to reason the situation out. Gerallt joined him and gently
pulled his head downwards. “There’s no point. Those things were
daemon-possessed; I’ve seen the ability before. Some lesser daemons grant
their victims a cloak of shadows, and only psionics or true zeal can penetrate
it.” “So why couldn’t I hurt them?” “Perhaps, Darius, because your faith is not as
strong as you believe.” On the shimmering mirror-floor above, Diabolus’
waving hand summoned a picture of Uriens and Christus, both armed and ready for
combat, but halted and standing over something, their backs inconsiderately
turned away from him. The image was hazy; evidently they were near the edge of
the Tower, almost out of Diabolus’ range. “Interesting. Divide and conquer is the way forward,
and it seems they save me the effort of the former.” The two Black Templars had given up advancing
altogether, staring into Uriens’ auspex and squabbling, trying to stabilise
the wavering image of the surrounding Tower. “There’s a wall in front of us that doesn’t show
up on the screen. According to the auspex, we’re in a huge open space; so why
does it look like a claustrophobic Emperor-forsaken maze?” Uriens punched the
auspex screen hard, and it blanked out altogether with a sad mechanical sigh.
“Whoops. Any ideas, brother?” “We can either fall back and find brother Ferrus’
team, or go on.” “We can’t go on, there’s a wall in the way.” “Then we break it down.” Christus unclipped the
hefty round shape of a melta bomb from his pocket and placed it at the foot of
the wall, busying himself with the timer. “Stand back!” There were three short bleeps, and then the wall
vanished behind a vicious heat haze, the air blurring into a colourless fug.
When it had cleared, the wall stood undamaged, not even scorched. “How in the name of all that’s holy…” Uriens
knelt next to the wall and struck it with one hand. It felt solid enough, but a
melta bomb had had no effect on it whatsoever. “I don’t understand it either, brother. We can’t
go on, but we can’t fall back. We go in search of an answer, or another way
round; we can’t just sit here and do nothing.” “Whyever not?” laughed
Diabolus, banishing the image with a clenched fist. “It’ll save me valuable
time and effort killing you all.” “Masterful tyrant, sire, I must beg your leave to
query once more.” Asmodeus cringed, expecting a blow or worse, but was instead
answered with a waved hand which he assumed correctly to imply ‘go on.’
“What of the others? Those who seek to destroy us from below?” “They will be dealt with – in fact, why not make
them the first sacrifices to our pet?” “A stroke of genius, master. I shall awaken the
beast without delay.” Asmodeus hurried off along the torturous corridors of
the upper reaches of the palace, his small gnarled hands clutching at the flamer
his master had given him to make the sacrifices with. He couldn’t believe that
he was being trusted with a job of this responsibility. Perhaps Diabolus
wouldn’t treat him so badly if he managed this. He reached the hall where the gangers were being held
and banged hard on the door. He could hear them scrabbling about inside…
presumably the fools thought they were being fed again. With one gnarled hand resting on the flamer trigger,
he reached up and opened the door, resting the nozzle of his weapon on the
ground so he had a hand free. It swept open to reveal absolutely nothing. Puzzled, Asmodeus stepped forward into the cell-hall.
He felt rough hands grab him and seize the flamer, before he was turned upside
down and felt the gangers dashing his head on the floor. His vision blurred, and
before he had a chance to swoon he thought of what Diabolus was going to say. It was probably safe to say that he wouldn’t be
pleased. “Sacred relics stolen, a servitor destroyed, twelve
marines missing, including four neophytes… not a very good show, is it,
brother-chaplain?” Marshal Voss stared the much taller Thectus in the eye.
“And it happened on your watch! The brother charged with maintaining the
Crusade Company’s morale and spiritual strength allows a full squad to turn
traitor!” “We don’t know that they have turned yet!”
snapped Thectus, sitting down opposite his commander. “With respect, Marshal
Voss, I think you’re being paranoid.” “They have seized Lord-Inquisitor Gerallt! Are these
the actions, we must ask, of loyal battle brothers?” Voss flushed in rage
before continuing. “I know he might have requisitioned them, but surely he
would have informed one or both of us…” “Or perhaps the matter is too sensitive for our
concern? Perhaps some schism within the Inquisition?” “Nonsense!” the bald Marshal snorted. “No
Imperial organisation would fight within itself…” “The Ecclesiarchy does. The Mechanicus do. The Guard
does. The Astartes did, long ago, and sometimes still do. Remember on Techuan,
when the White Scars attacked our battle brothers… who is to say that the
Inquisition doesn’t squabble in this fashion?” “We have to get down there.” “That might be harder than it seems. Port Babel as a
whole is shrouded in some kind of psychic fog which our navigators are having
great difficulty penetrating. We might have to land Thunderhawks, but if the
storm originates from Chaos it might be some form of aerial defence.” “Then muster the brothers and make ready for a full
assault on the Tower. Damn that Darius! He forces our hand, Thectus! Why can’t
the impetuous little rebel ever learn?” Ferrus sat in the landing area and waited for Aradio
to report in. He would have preferred it if he could have accompanied the
neophyte, but of course Lineaus and Antonius might need his technical skills, so
convenience dictated that he remain halfway between the groups. He was sure he
could hear something among the dense pillars. Darius’ last sketchy contact had
said something about daemonhosts that could only be harmed by… and then
someone had interrupted him, and his signal had faded altogether. The blast of flame took him by surprise. He couldn’t
see the attacking gangers who rampaged through the bowels of the Tower; they
weren’t part of the illusionary world that he was trapped in. He felt nothing,
just a sense of heat, of falling, and then of his armour being trodden into the
ground by a multitude of invisible feet. He tried to stand, and felt weight
flying off his shoulders. Then he felt the flame again, and smelt cooking flesh
and searing paint. Looking down, he realised it was his own. + This is… rus… illusion interference… some kind
of… real-world attack… gers… help… + + SIGNAL LOST + Diabolus was fuming as he saw the Techmarine fall,
dragged down by the shapes of the gangers he could see as vague shadows within
the world of illusion. Trust Asmodeus to botch even the simplest task! The
wizened creature was useless! The sorcerer stared down into the depths. He was going
to have to adapt his plans. The gloriously formatted illusion would have to be
abandoned. The two Black Templars aiming to storm the gate could be contained.
As for the others, perhaps he could rely on the gangers to drag the Black
Templars down… it was impossible to sacrifice them as a whole, but if his few
Fallen warriors were to attack both sides indiscriminately, it might just raise
enough power to awaken the Tower and save his scheme. With a single thought, he awoke the remaining
possessed Fallen. Their orders were simple; kill everything. Let no mortal
survive. Darius stopped in his tracks. The blind, confusing
maze of pillars was gone! Instead of a cramped, labyrinthine maze, he was
standing in a wide, open hall. Looking around, he could see the Chaotic tendency
returning to the place. The buttresses that held up the roof were bronze, but
their surfaces flowed like metallic flesh, faces and hands appearing and
screaming, clawing at the metal around them, at different rates; sometimes none
would arrive for minutes at a time, sometimes dozens would appear in a second.
The floor and walls were black and shone with a thick, visceral fluid. “Tread carefully, brothers!” he called, slashing
at the thick stuff with his sword. It healed with a slurping sound. Gerallt
struck his shoulder-pad with an angry expression on his face. “Fool! Are you really so spiritually blind that you
cannot feel it? This entire room is daemon-bound! It’s as if someone has bound
a daemon to the stone itself!” “Can that be done?” asked Lucian, staring up into
the dark recesses of the ceiling. “With great difficulty, yes. I wouldn’t be
surprised if those faces in the wall are sacrifices to the daemon to keep it in
place or boost its power.” Lucian whistled in appreciation. “These heretics are
smarter than I thought.” “Don’t give them credit!” snapped Eliphas.
“Not a single scheme of theirs is worthy!” Claudius said nothing, instead
gesturing to the far side of the hall. “What is it?” “Rebels!” roared the veteran, raising his plasma
pistol and firing. Something dark whirled out of the shadows and struck the
weapon, sending gouts of white fire over Claudius’ armour. He screamed as
superheated fluid struck his face, liquefying him in a matter of seconds. Darius stared ahead, and saw the shapes of gangers
swarming into the hall from the opposite end. There could have been a hundred of
them, all unarmed save for the leader, who carried a dragon-headed, arcane
flamer in his hands and wielded it inexpertly, carving a path through the
living, flesh-like floor. Then the time for thinking was over. Panicked humans stumbled into the Templars, lashing
out reflexively and screaming as their fists broke on armoured bodies. Darius
sliced three of them apart with the Black Sword, and was relieved to see Gerallt
doing likewise, his fiery blade scorching two into a bloody mess at a time, one
on the forward lunge, one on the backswing. The others followed their example,
wading through a sea of humans towards the opening their crazed foes had entered
by. That opening was abruptly filled with a mass of
armoured bodies, striding forward with weapons raised. Bolter shells strafed the
chamber, blasting gangers apart indiscriminately. Darius heard Gerallt’s
mental voice addressing him in sudden shock. They fire on rebel and Templar alike! The gangers
aren’t attacking us; they’re trying to escape! “Let the gangers go!” cried Darius over the
screams of the dying. “Make your way to the Fallen!” “Damn you, Champion!” spat Diabolus.
“Twice now you have thwarted me! You will perish for this!” He raised his
sword over his head and struck the glimmering floor hard. The walls blurred,
there was a sense of lightning speed, bursts of cold as he passed through stone,
and then Diabolus was standing in the entrance to the hall, facing the furious
Darius, who was staggering towards him, weakened from fighting the tide of
gangers. In an instant Darius’ mind flew back to Daizann. He
recalled a shining warrior in black, who wielded a golden sword with a deadly
skill honed over ten millennia. He remembered the contemptuous, mocking voice,
the hail of psychic fire that had driven him away from his master as he faced
the daemon Khastarax. He remembered everything about Diabolus in that
split-second infinity, and then he was himself again. The sorcerer stood facing him, silent, his immense
brooding presence more than replacing any speech. His archaic armour looked just
as twisted and impenetrable as when they had last met, and the sword in his
hands no less deadly. He raised it two-handed, saluting Darius… and he
realised what had changed about his enemy. “I remember you being a lot bigger.” “You would do; you were a child when we last met.”
Diabolus lifted his blade over his head and charged, bringing it down at
incredible speed. Somehow Darius managed to parry, the blue field of his own
weapon crackling with effort as it strove to throw off Diabolus’ golden
energies. The Black Sword’s sacred power reserves sparked gold as the
sorcerous power of Diabolus’ blade overwhelmed it, breaking the blessed metal
into a mass of discoloured shards. Darius fell onto his back; he was still no
match for Diabolus, despite his rage. The sorcerer’s boot thumped into his
abdomen, holding him down, and he heard the monstrous, sneering voice once more. “Two years is not enough
to challenge me. You’ve let yourself grow even weaker, little monk!” Darius was about to reply when the cracked voice of
Inqusitor Gerallt spoke for him, sounding loud and clear over the muffled sounds
of the carnage around them, the Fallen warriors’ gunshots becoming distant,
along with the racket of the Black Templars’ weapons as they carved their way
towards their leader. “You lead this cult of
murderers?” he asked, his sword blazing with inherited rage. “Inquisitor Gerallt – you have found me, exactly
as I planned.” Ignoring Darius, the sorcerer turned and lifted his free hand
on high. There was a flash of blue light and the booming, thunderous laughter of
earlier returned three times louder, the entire room convulsing as the voice
roared through it. “My thanks, inquisitor! You and your deluded band of
brothers have succeeded where my own incompetent servant failed – you have
slaughtered those misguided rebels and cleared me of the need to rid myself of
the orks. You have raised sufficient power for this Tower to fulfil its purpose!
Once more, I thank you!” A halo of psychic force surrounded the Fallen Lord,
flames like those of Gerallt’s sword but a deep Chaotic crimson in colour
flickering over his armour, throwing the marble surface into sharp relief. “What do you mean, ‘raised power’?” the
inquisitor asked in disbelief. “And I would never aid you!” “You already have. I intended the gangers to die;
between my Fallen and your Black Templars, every last one has perished. Their
blood has been spilled here in this chamber, the very same chamber that contains
the bound essence of a Chi’khami’tzann Tsunoi!” “A Lord of Change!” Gerallt hissed. “I
understand now! You wanted their souls to feed a Greater Daemon, and you bound
it to this Tower to serve as a beacon to the Chaos Gods themselves!” “Exactly! Thanks to you, a veritable maelstrom of
Chaos is being drawn to this planet at a rate you cannot begin to imagine.
Within seconds, I will have transformed this rich mining world into a new forge
hell, in the very heart of the Imperium – a factory for Chaos armaments to
rival Stygies in the Eye of Terror!” Diabolus laughed, a low, horrible sound. “I offer you a choice,
Inquisitor Gerallt! Join me and forsake the Dying Emperor – soon to be dead,
thanks to you – or remain loyal to the memory of your god and your departed
daughter and perish!” “My… daughter…” “Yes, I knew about her. That was yet another reason
to select Babel, and to place the prophecy that drew you and these miserable
Templars here. I knew your heart would fail when you saw her dead…” Diabolus
was lying through his teeth. Watching the girl die had cheered him to the very
bottom of his black soul – but he had had no idea she had even existed until
he’d seen Gerallt crying over her through the scrying mirror. “You know,
Chaos could bring her back…” “NEVER!” cried Gerallt, leaping up with a hiss of
pneumatics to face his adversary, sweeping his sword back one-handed and dashing
it over Diabolus’ chest cables. It raised a shower of sparks, and left its
flaming trail across the ancient surface, staggering the sorcerer, but doing no
damage… and in the sweeping, it crashed straight into his open palm. Diabolus
caught the blade, grasping it tightly and hissing in pain as the fire bit into
his hand, then pulled hard and dragged it from Gerallt’s grip, hurling it
back. “So you choose the path of suffering, Inquisitor?”
he asked, batting the old man to the floor and into unconsciousness with a lazy
blow, stepping forward to loom over the collapsed Gerallt. “You will live to
regret this; just not for too long… aagh!” The scream had been caused by Darius’ gauntlet
striking the open wound on his chest. Ichor flooded over the black fingers of
the young Champion’s hand, and then the other as he grasped the rent with both
hands, dug into Diabolus’ chest and pulled. Screaming, the sorcerer fell to
his knees, his pale flesh ripped and torn by the scrabbling digits. The living
hall screamed with him, the daemon sensing its master’s will fade, unable to
transmit its signal without him. Diabolus fell on his back, his eyes clouded with tears
of pain and frustration. To be bested by his own melodramatics… why had he not
cut the fool Darius down? The Templar rose slowly and picked up his broken
sword, then threw it away. “I should kill you now, “ said Darius. “You
stopped me saving Gideon. Your men killed Cerys Gerallt. You would have
sacrificed this entire planet to your gods just for glory.” “So… why not?” the Fallen Angel choked. “Because you’re like Voss. You did none of that
yourself. Khastarax killed Gideon. You didn’t know or care who Cerys was – I
know you, you don’t think about the little picture. You’ve done nothing to
me yourself. I’ve got no reason to hate you. I think I hate Voss more
than I do you. And besides, you’re right. We can’t beat you because we’re
all just like you. The Imperium forfeits whole planets too, leaves them for
aliens to take because it would be too much trouble defending them. We wiped out
Daizann just because your fortress had been there: why? We could have saved that
planet!” Darius paused for breath; this was the longest he’d spoken for a
long time, and certainly the first time he’d cared this much about what he was
saying. “You… think… like a true… Tzeentchian…
little monk. Do… it.” His strength slowly fading, Diabolus gathered his
fading psychic powers and spoke to Darius’ soul. Fulfil your destiny and
take my place. Take my sword. Rule Babel. Take the Imperium and break it into
the dust. You will become Emperor. You have the spirit of a conqueror. “No. I will never carry a golden sword. That was
your prophecy, wasn’t it?” ‘There live two lords of Babel and they fight o’er single throne, one from a tower of iron, and one from a tower of stone. The Dark Star shall rise above them, a sword in every hand, with four feet upon the water and four upon the land. A lord of valour leads them and a lord of evil waits, for the champion of righteousness whose heart and spirit hates. From the stars barbarian fury, from the earth a cursed hand, a dagger dripping venom and a blade in brutish hand. There shall come a final battle ‘gainst the sword of hateful gold, a soul of holy vengeance and a heart of evil cold. And the crusaders they shall triumph though the battle will be hard, for the Eagle reigns on Babel from within the Tower of Guard.’ “I am the champion of righteousness; but it’s the likes of Voss I hate, not Chaos. Your Blackstone fortress is probably in orbit somewhere, in the warp, isn’t it?” Diabolus nodded in acquiescence. “That’s the Dark Star; you were going to bring it here when the Tower had served its purpose. The sword and heart are yours. The soul is mine. The lord of valour is Gerallt. You made that prophecy up, but your gods have tricked you and it’s turned out true.” Voss will not spare you. Diabolus tried to rise and fell back again, clutching at his ruined chest. “I know.” Darius stood back from the crippled Fallen and looked down at the sword where it had fallen, impaled point-first in the floor. Take up the sword. Fulfil your
destiny. Join Tzeentch. Never. I will never be like you,
Diabolus. I am a warrior, not a sorcerer. Then serve me. The soul-voice came out of nowhere, echoing through Darius, mind, body and soul. I am like you. I serve no-one bar
myself. He could hear nothing else. Diabolus’ presence had faded from his spirit, leaving nothing but the resonant cadence that pounded through him now. Who are you? You will discover my name and
nature in due course. Join me now and become stronger than you have ever been! Darius paused, feeling the voice wrenching at his heart. His training faded and died under the onslaught of the voice’s enigmatic power. Then, something inside him exploded with joy. He understood everything. He knew he had the strength to bond with Chaos. He didn’t have to fight it, not when there were so many easier ways. He could embrace it, welcome it with open arms, use it to give him strength… but he did not have to serve it. Not when he could become one with it. YES! Oh, yes! He reached out and took up the sword. He saw the blade tarnish, black stains spreading along its length. It felt so light, looked so beautiful, with the darkness playing across its surface. Darius rested the sword on the open wound in his nemesis’ chest and smiled to himself, picturing the havoc that would be wrought in his name and that of Malal. Born of law, serving Chaos, mastered only by himself. He leant forward and pushed. The sword plunged into Diabolus’ chest, and he felt the life pass from the sorcerer, saw him shriek and clutch at the blade, saw his flesh wither away into a smouldering, caustic tar, and his armour collapse into a lifeless heap of dead metal. All around him the Temple screamed as its master perished, the daemonic essence coalescing out of the walls, tearing at reality as it sought to flee. Darius threw back his head and laughed as Chaos streamed up the blade and swallowed him whole, willingly submitting to the intangible hands that carried him off into the Warp. +++ FILE: Inq.687032, Summary of
report filed by Marshal Voss, 4687999.M41 +++ +++ SUBJECT: Termination of Babel
Crusade +++ Babel is lost to the Imperium. As the report proper will tell you, we
were making ready to assault the Tower itself, after the loss of our renegade
Champion (Senior Initiate Darius, who in my opinion should never have been
granted the post), when we discovered that the warpspace/realspace overlap that
had consumed Port Babel had dissipated. An agency or agencies unknown had
demolished the Tower and slaughtered the population. Interrogation of surviving Black
Templars (brother Marines Uriens, Christus, Eliphas, Lineaus and Antonius) and
questioning of Lord-Inquisitor Gerallt by his superiors indicated that
brother-Champion Darius had slain the leader of the rebel forces after turning
to Chaos himself, and then been consumed by the resulting warpstorm. It is
possible that this warpstorm was responsible for the destruction of the Tower
and surrounding environs. Since then the entire planet has been
designated Perdita by Inquisitor Morduon, pending Exterminatus or later review
of its status. My Crusade has failed, yet I beg your
forgiveness, Inquisitor, for it did not fail through any fault on my part, but
through the treachery of one battle brother. I am informed that Inquisitor Morduon
is seeking standing recruits from my Chapter for a mission to recover the
traitor and bring him to justice. If possible, I wish to be pronounced one of
those recruits. Yours, Marshal Voss, Black Templars Chapter,
Adeptus Astartes. +++ REPORT ENDS +++ Request refused. Marshal Voss to be
executed for incompetence, Grade Secundus. Inform Inquisitor Morduon that the
Inquisitorial Representative has sanctioned his mission to bring the traitor
Darius to justice, pending information on the whereabouts of said traitor.
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