Apocalypse - No RemorseThe Chaos world of Daizann
on the fringe of the galactic core, stronghold of the daemon prince Khastarax
and his diabolical hordes. The Imperium has mounted a crusade to scourge the
planet of evil, unheeding that Chaos is already suffering at the hands of the
Emperor’s servants… The
Chasm of Lost Souls stretched across the northern edge of the plain before
Khastarax’s fortress, a deep, inhospitable, bleak and shadowy place of ancient
terrors whence no Imperial citizen has ever left sane. Four were leaving it now. Gideon
heaved aside the great stone door that was the last obstacle between them and
the outside world. They had fought their way out of the Chaos temple in the most
hideously disorientating way, lost and blinded in the tunnels for what had
seemed like a lifetime. Only now had they finally found their way to the
surface. The stone ground aside as his servo-assisted arms pushed it out of its
seal. Light streamed in over Gideon’s power armour, the matt black surface
concealed under dust and blood congealed from the dozen skirmishes fought down
there in the dark beneath the world. He stepped out of the tunnel and into the
perpetually shadowed depths of the Chasm. Even the weak luminosity of the Chasm
was blinding after all those hours in the stinking pit of the temple. He fell to
his knees and prayed, stern and yet celebratory, hailing and thanking the
God-Emperor for safe guidance out of the pit. In the Chaos-corrupted landscape,
it was a sound that had never been heard before. Behind
him the other three members of the party were in a state of even greater
rapture. Darius, his burns healed now after the weeks of wandering in the
endless caves, coughed and spluttered his thanks to the cleaner, fresher air –
dank and cold it may have been, but it was the sweetest breeze after the vile
confines of the temple. Inquisitor Carravar simply laughed his heart out at the
red sky dimly visible above them through the mist, laughed and cheered at their
survival. Mariana, the Assassin, vaulted out of the tunnel and cartwheeled along
the edge of the precipice they had arrived on, limbs flailing madly, trying to
forget the claustrophobic tunnels. For a few brief moments, their hearts sang at
the joy of freedom. For a few brief moments, Khastarax’s rage was even more terrifying to behold than his battle-lust. The immense daemon stormed up and down the length of his throne-room, clawed feet grinding and scraping the stone floor, balefire flickering out from his fanged maw, his fists clenching and unclenching as he yelled his anger to the never-ending twilight. “THEY CANNOT HAVE ESCAPED!” he roared. “HOW DID THEY LEAVE THE MIRROR? NONE HAVE EVER LEFT THE MIRROR!” “Rest assured, master, that they will not last long!” his aide soothed, the robed figure fluttering to his side. “They are four mortals against an entire army of Chaos commanded by the greatest and mightiest daemon prince in the service of Khorne, save Angron himself! None shall stand against you, my lord.” “Then why did your man Malachi let them free?” “Malachi has not reported in. We can safely assume that they fought their way out using some hidden technology or trick. Curious though that they managed to best two-dozen Fallen and the finest of our Possessed without weaponry. Perhaps the spirit stone…” “THE EXARCH!” Khastarax pounded his fists on the throne as he passed it. “She has long been my enemy, that Exarch. And yes, she gave the boy her spirit stone for safekeeping.” “Turning to less irritating matters, my master, there is the Crusade to consider! We must strike into Imperial space soon; the legions grow restless in their ships and demand carnage and slaughter for your lordship’s eternal master Khorne. They are growing uneasy in inactivity.” “Let them be uneasy and restless, soon they’ll have bloodshed enough to sate their war-lust.” “Maybe that is so, sire, but the Imperium must know of us by now and will probably move against Daizann. Perhaps these two inconveniences can be solved as one?” “Launch the Crusade early and destroy the Imperial fleet? We are not ready! The Khornate troops are only part-embarked, still twelve thousand should be loaded.” Khastarax thrust his wings out behind his vast shoulders as he sat down in the granite throne. “I will not have my lord’s thirst despoil his plans!” “Then send the fleet and whatever troops are ready to intercept, then have the rest embark upon their return. Spare maybe two squadrons to protect Daizann in their absence?” “Your squadrons. Khorne does not wait any longer for blood. My own fleet shall take part in this … this aggressive defence. Disgusting as you are, my friend, you speak truth in this and every matter.” ‘The time will
come when I shall no longer need the truth!’ thought the aide bitterly. It
stung his dignity having to serve this brutish creature’s whims and frenzied
‘plans’. He felt his master’s displeasure at him rising – both his
masters, but the Crusade had to remain stable or else all would fail, and
Khastarax’s bloodgreed threatened to destroy the scheme altogether. Absently,
he began to dream of toppling the daemon prince from his throne as Khastarax
stormed out of the throne-room to meet his leaders. Yes, bloodgreed had its
uses, but ultimately he would have to go. Maybe these four loyalists could be of
some use after all… A
week’s warp travel from Daizann, the Imperial Crusade Fleet was powering
through the ether, hell-bent on revenge. Marshal Crassus, the new commander of
the fleet and the vast army aboard, was sitting gloomily in the command chair on
the bridge of the Black Templars battle barge Chaoshammer and pondering
his lot. The Moldion Crusade carried with it a great deal of honour and
prestige, saving the sector from Chaos was a task that Crassus would be indeed
honoured to carry out. But on the other hand, the Crusade had claimed two
commanders already. First Brion had been slain fighting Chaos troops on the
forgeworld of Rigol Prime, then Dargan had been lost in the wreckage of the Absolution.
It was, quite possibly, a doomed command. He turned his gaze to the fleet
spread out behind him. Eight transports carrying the Imperial Guard infantry and
Sisters of Battle, three heavier ships loaded with armoured vehicles and even
two of the mighty Adeptus Titanicus war machines. Surrounding them were hundreds
of Imperial escorts and cruisers, twelve immense battleships, and the Space
Marine fleets. Five Black Templars strike cruisers and three from the Dark
Angels. Three Black Templars battle barges, one Dark Angels. And then there was
the Inquisition, the lone Dauntless-class keeping pace with the leaders of the
fleet, never transmitting any signal, never responding to any hail, but on
their side. No doubt the Inquisitors had some hidden motive here. Crassus
had no doubts about that whatsoever. Aboard
the Dark Angels battle barge Avenger, the leader of the Dark Angels army
was perusing his own fleet database. His name was Master Chaplain Sapphon, and
he’d come out of his retirement on the Rock for one last very special mission.
His quest was to seek a being of such ancient evil that most mortal men would
quail before it. Not Sapphon. He was a Dark Angel, one of the Unforgiven Legion.
His quest was to seek a Fallen Angel Champion, the greatest prize a Chaplain of
the Dark Angels could hope to seize. Ten
thousand years before, the great Dark Angels Legion had been torn apart by a
bitter civil war, a war commenced by the second-in-command, Luther. Luther had
been possessed by jealousy at his post beneath his comrade, the Primarch and
founder of the Legion Lion El’Jonson. Transformed into a daemon by his hatred
of his former friend, Luther had led his Fallen Angels into a battle on the Dark
Angel’s homeworld Caliban. The battle had only ended when he fought the
Primarch face to face, while all around the planet tore itself apart under the
bombardment of the loyalist fleet. When the Dark Angels descended they found the
Fallen scattered, El’Jonson gone and Luther alive but crazed, a broken husk of
a man. Since then, the Dark Angels and their three Successor Chapters, the Angels of Absolution, Vengeance and Redemption, had pursued their Fallen kindred across the galaxy for the ten millennia since the Battle of Caliban. And when captured, the Fallen were subjected to tortures unimaginable, forced to repent of their sins and granted a clean death – failure to repent would see a long, drawn-out demise. Sapphon was the second most successful Chaplain alive – the third greatest in history – and a great leader of men and Marines alike. Now, however, he was pensive. His brooding thoughts were interrupted by his second in command, Gorian, the Master of the Fifth Company. “You appear pensive, brother.” Gorian bowed his head in deference before the aged Chaplain. “A brief thought of remorse, brother Gorian, nothing more.” Sapphon’s voice, old, wise and powerful, chimed through the still air of the bridge. “A word of advice, if you would, brother-Chaplain.” “Speak away, my brother. Let me hear of your thoughts and guide your faith toward glory.” “It is of glory I wish to speak, Sapphon.” That alone made the Chaplain start. Hardly ever was he addressed by name, and the use of it signified an affair amongst equals. Sapphon got up and led Gorian into a shrine on the corner of the bridge. When they ducked into the small space and sat down opposite one another, facing over the Imperial Eagle on the altar, Gorian shook his head. “Here perhaps our greatest test in life will take place, facing the forces of evil on their own ground, and yet I am afraid, Sapphon, deadly afraid. I fear for our well-being against the powers ranged against us. The threat of the greatest champion of Khorne outside the Eye of Terror and his loathsome companion in evil has instilled in me a terror I have never felt before.” “That is understandable. The Fallen Champion will be a deadly adversary alongside his daemonic master.” “But I should not be afraid!” Gorian leaned across, his bionic right eye lunging forward to focus on Sapphon. “I am Deathwing and Master of a Company, commander of a hundred Marines. I should not feel fear.” “You should.” Sapphon stretched out his right hand to touch Gorian’s forehead in a gesture of blessing. “Fear is strength, brother. Only a coward lets his fear master him, but only a maniac knows no fear. It is in the conquest of fear that true bravery is found.” “For we shall know no fear.” Gorian completed the catechism. “But if I turn from the fight –“ “If you turn from the fight you shall be dead before you know of the turning.” Sapphon stared at him, trying to read his comrade’s eyes. “In this battle to retreat will be death. We must strike surely into the heart of the damnation on Daizann.” “I am convinced, brother Chaplain. But stay your departure!” he started, barring Sapphon’s exit from the chamber. “Are you not afraid, brother Sapphon, afraid that your lifetime’s work will desert you on Daizann and that the Fallen will better you?” “I do not fear the
impossible.” Sapphon replied coldly, shoving the arm aside and striding onto
the bridge. Gorian stared after him incredulously. Faith was one thing, but
overconfidence quite another. In the centre of the fleet the great transports roved into the warp, their primitive weapons trying to cover their bulk, the smaller escorts and light transports fluttering about them. Aboard each light transport a thousand Imperial Guard were gathered and prepared for war. And a thousand Imperial Guard were worried. “So what are we up against?” Trooper Cerna asked, glowering at the five cards in his hands. Around the small burners in the mile-long spaceship, the small enclaves of light in the dark hull, hundreds of similar scenes were being played out. He glanced at his opponents. Gord, a vast hulk of a man who carried the squad’s heavy bolter ammunition; Ranlo, a small, wiry whippet with a penchant for cheating and lying; Kroll, the corporal and comm.-link man. Four men, a deck of cards, a long journey and a lot of time, a combination all too familiar in the Imperium’s endless wars. “Don’t rightly know,” Ranlo shifted nervously. “The officers ain’t lettin’ on. Perhaps you’d be knowin’ somethin’, corp?” “Frag you, Ranlo!” Kroll drew another card. “I’m just as in the dark as the rest of you. Twist!” he snapped to Cerna, who obliged, flicking his wrists around to afford Kroll a brief glimpse of his cards as the corporal threw down an ace. “What about you, Gord?” “I’m stuffed,” the big man said regretfully, throwing down his cards. “Four fraggin’ twos.” “I meant the mission, you klutz. What’s up with the mission?” “It’s a dead end if you’re askin’ me,” said Ranlo as he drew his next card from the bottom of the deck. “I reckon we’re up ‘gainst somethin’ bad an’ they’re not gonna tell us what ‘till it’s too late.” “You always say that.” The voice behind them was Commissar Guignol. Turning, Ranlo saw the black greatcoat, the stern face, the cap set just so on his head. “You’re a double-edged sword, trooper.” “Evenin’, Commissar,” Gord touched his cap respectfully. “Would you want a drink, sir?” He offered the whisky bottle next to the fire to the officer. “I don’t drink, trooper, as a rule. But it’s a cold night, and the Emperor’s work is done better with warmth inside you.” Guignol took the bottle and swigged back a mouthful. “Necromundan, eh? How did you get this, trooper?” “Spoils o’war, sir!” Gord grinned. “Found that on a dead tankman’s pack on the planet in question.” “Looting. By rights I’d have you shot, but what the hell. It’ll all come out the same anyway. I’ll be honest with you, gentlemen; I’m inclined to agree with Trooper Ranlo in part. Only the General knows what we face and where we face it, and for morale’s sake he’s not giving out orders until we get wherever it is we’re going.” The Commissar handed back the bottle. “I’ll see you at parade tomorrow, squad, and don’t forget to save that whisky. It’s a lucky find.” All four men smiled. Guignol was like that, an oddly down-to-earth type for a Commissar, promoted from the ranks and proud of it. He was all bark and no real bite, although he dealt harshly with deserters for some reason. He didn’t like his troops running from battle, preferring them to go down fighting. He nodded to them in turn, then strolled off. As he left, Cerna folded and Kroll laid down two Priests. Ranlo grinned and showed him the three Titans, clutching the small bag of credits toward him. The Imperial fleet charged on into the warp. Awaiting
them was the Chaos fleet of Khastarax’s Khornate minions. Hundreds of
Slaughter and Carnage class cruisers, with Repulsive grand cruisers and
Desolator battleships providing heavy firepower and a squadron of Styx carriers
giving fighter cover to the fleet. On the flanks cruised the vast number of
Iconoclast and Infidel raiders that defended the huge cruisers’ exposed side
armour, and in the very centre was the pride and joy of the fleet – the
single, immense Despoiler class heavy carrier, the nemesis of all that was good
and organised in the galaxy. It’s name was the Reaper of Souls, and it
served as the personal command ship of the fleet’s Warmaster. The bridge of the Reaper of Souls was similar and yet different to that of the Chaoshammer. Where the Imperial vessel carried prayer scrolls and holy relics, the Chaos battleship was emblazoned with catechisms of damnation and daemonic plaques. Where the Imperial tech-priests worked silently and loyally at their posts, heretical Mechanicus personnel screamed and shouted their instructions to slave teams and servitors. Where the Navigator sat in his cocoon of fibre, the Reaper of Souls carried its daemonic patron, a Bloodthirster, a Greater Daemon of Khorne, a Khak’akaoz’Khyshk’akami in the hellish tongue of the Chaos Gods. The Bloodthirster cast its malign gaze over its vessel. In this form it was bound up with the very atoms of the ship, its chaotic power pervading every weapon, every shield, every member of the crew. The only part of it solidly manifest was the huge horned dog-like head that hung in the cocoon in the midst of the bridge, surrounded by coils of glowing plasma cable that connected it to the weapon batteries and control rooms. The huge, mad eyes scanned the prostrate form of Warmaster Arkharzan, who was on his knees before the monstrosity. Finally its cavernous mouth yawned open and it spoke. “RISE, ARKHARZAN. YOU HAVE AN ENEMY TO FACE. I SEE AN IMPERIAL FLEET OUT THERE IN THE BLOOD OF CHAOS, A BAND OF DESPISED LOYALISTS WHO SEEK TO BANISH OUR MASTER. WE MOVE TO DESTROY THEM. I HAVE COMMANDED THIS ALREADY.” A common tactic by bound daemons – going over their master’s head and issuing their own directives to their living ships. Arkharzan nodded curtly, backing off. “As you wish,
emissary. We shall crush the Imperial dogs at once.” A formality. The
daemon’s wishes were law amongst the slave-crew, and Arkharzan couldn’t be
bothered to order a course change that he knew was already going ahead. It was a dark day on Daizann. The endless crimson twilight had darkened to a barely visible glow around the horizon. For the four beings toiling across the surface of the daemonworld, it was a welcome relief from the never-ceasing glow. Darius rubbed the blistered skin of his hands thoughtfully as he squatted in the depths of a pit out on the hellish plain, lit by the luminescent lava that bubbled out of its base. Gideon sat next to him, his enormous power-armoured frame unmoving and his stern voice silent. The other two sat opposite, Carravar poking at the rocks with his force axe. “I cannot help but feel,” the Inquisitor began, “that we have come to something of an impasse. We cannot go back, and we lack the resolve to go on.” “Tell us something we don’t know.” Mariana said, stretching out on the fringe of the firelight. “Since you ask, I can tell you that we are a day’s march away from the Chaos fortress on the mountainside. And I must ask: how are we to enter?” All their eyes turned up towards the immense brass and basalt structure towering out of Daizann’s living rock. Vast, impregnable and unspeakable, the fortress of Khastarax loomed over his world, dominating and devastating, the ultimate reminder of his presence. Carravar made a furtive warding gesture toward the fortress, turning his head away from the Khornate symbols and plaques of daemonic faces vaguely visible at this distance. Even this far out, the psychic Inquisitor could sense the low ethereal moans of the daemons trapped inside the fortress, bound to its weapons and into its walls. “It’s only an issue for you three.” Mariana swept herself into the pit, landing in a small, neat crouch on the very edge of the fire. “We’ll decide when
we get there,” said Darius. “If their security’s as bad as it seems then
they shouldn’t be much trouble.” Several hours later, when Assassin and Inquisitor had both fallen into sleep, Darius awoke to find his master still motionless, glaring into the fire, its light playing across his features. The Neophyte pulled himself up and leant over to see Gideon’s face properly. His skin was pulled back taut over his bones, his breathing harsher and faster than normal, eyes wide, staring at nothing. Darius spoke softly in an effort to reach him. “Master?” he said quietly. “Why aren’t you asleep?” “I dare not sleep,” the old Templar replied, his eyes dashing madly over Darius’ face before turning back into the flames. “Every time I lose concentration, Darius, I see the end of Aryani’s prophecy. It is the end of me, Darius. I have seen my own death.” “From Aryani?” “No.” Gideon’s fist slammed into the rock. “From the Mirror of Souls.” “What did you see?” “I saw Khastarax on a throne of skulls. We were facing him, the two of us. I don’t know for sure what happened to the others. And then I saw someone else with him, someone in black… a golden sword… glass breaking… wings of heat and fire, fire from out of the sky!” Gideon screamed, his limbs lashing about him. Carravar awoke with a start, rising on one arm to stare at the Black Templar. “The Imperium is coming!” Gideon roared. “The Imperium is coming with fire to scourge my soul and his! Beware, Khastarax!” his voice rose to a crescendo. “I AM YOUR END!” “Gideon!” Carravar shouted, scurrying around the edge of the pit and grabbing the Black Templar’s arms behind his back. “Wake up! Wake up!” Gideon writhed in the smaller man’s arms. The sound of sinew stretching filled the night air before Darius, moved into action at last, leapt to his feet and dealt his mentor a glancing blow to the temple. The older Templar fell, clutching his head. “Sorry, master,” said Darius. “You’ll thank me for it when you come round.” “Thank you.”
Crassus turned away from the aide who’d bought him the data scans and motioned
to his Astropath. “Jarred!” he called. “Get me a link to the Admirals.
We’ve detected an approaching Chaos scout squadron and are moving to
intercept…” “They’re moving to intercept.” Mailokh, the renegade tech-priest, stared up at his master from the scanner pit. “A well-planned ruse, my liege.” “Don’t thank me, thank the eternal foulness of Chaos.” Arkharzan turned to his command desk and spoke into the transmitter. “All vessels into position, strike plan Infestation!” “It shall be done!”
replied the assembled Chaos captains. Slowly but surely, the enormous fleet
broke apart and spread out into a vague crescent. Between the outstretched arms,
somewhere almost an hour’s travel ahead, were the Infidel raiders who had
volunteered to form the forlorn hope. Arkharzan shook his head. Bloodshed was
all very well, but martyrdom? There were some things even he didn’t
understand. Five hundred and twelve Imperial vessels breaking from warp together was an astonishing sight. Columns of white light shot out of nowhere into the empty vacuum of space as the warp shields de-energised and poured their gouting plasma into the void. The huge ramming prows of the Imperial Navy ships, the wide launch bays of the Space Marines and the small beak-like noses of the transports all nudging out of the ether together in beams of radiance. The light panned back over gun-decks and torpedo lines, over bridge towers and lance arrays, over engines and wide, wing-like scanners, and then closed into nothing. Before them, in the distance but visible on ship’s scanners, was the warp-reality overlap that surrounded the Daizann system. Crassus hauled himself into battle readiness, staring at the view screen on which he could see the eight tiny heat trails of the Infidel squadron. “Is that it?” he asked rhetorically. “A whole Crusade on eight scoutships?” “The rest of the fleet must be protecting Daizann itself. Perhaps they have already left the area. We could be too late.” Admiral Harus scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Or perhaps they’re out there somewhere.” “We’d better take out those scouts before they can notify the planetary defences…” Crassus started. On the screen he could see the even tinier trails of torpedoes. He was expecting the tech-priest’s call before he even recognised them. “Incoming torpedoes mark two-zero-seven by three-one-five! Eight salvoes of two aimed at the transports!” “Scramble CAP
fighters!” Crassus punched a command code to Harus’ Emperor-class
battleship. “Launch when ready!” Within two minutes the squadrons of Lightning fighters were cruising out to meet the torpedoes. The minute space-to-air craft whirled along the length of the torpedoes, lascannons and autocannons picking out the weak points in the warheads, detonating them before they could reach the fleet. One made it through, impacting into a Dauntless cruiser’s shields. Crassus pounded his command chair’s arms. “Retaliatory fire!” The lance arrays fired their blazing beams into the darkness, lighting up the length of their ships. Three Infidels pulled off course, one exploding in a wide burst of sparks. Crassus grinned. “Close in for battery fire.” “More torpedoes! Mark two-one-eight by three-two-five!” the tech-priest shouted. “They’re targeting the heavy transports!” “Lightning squadrons
re-route to attack!” Harus uttered the command without even waiting for
orders. “Sword and Firestorm frigates close and attack!” Three escort
squadrons, six Swords and three Firestorms, moved out of the fleet, the lance
arrays of the Firestorms already picking out targets. Two more Infidels blew
apart as the Swords battered them with gunfire, their shields already pulverised
by the lance shots. The Firestorms fired again… again… three Infidels left,
all damaged. The
captain of the Infidel squadron Damnator pushed the ramming lever
forward… The
lead Infidel shot forward, gun batteries blazing, straight for the Firestorms.
One of the frigates clipped the armoured prow of the Chaos vessel as it
struggled to come to a new heading. And then the torpedo tubes caught some vital
power link and fired at point blank range. Both ships exploded into flame and
burning shards of metal. As the last two Infidels sped through the Imperial advance squadrons into the killing field of the Emperor’s fleet, the tech-priests aboard the Righteousness, Crassus’ battle barge, flipped up their comm.-links and screamed in unison. +++Multiple contacts! At least six hundred ships, about two-thirds cruisers or larger…+++ +++Detecting incoming torpedoes on three fronts!+++ +++They’re launching
attack craft…+++ Crassus opened a channel to the fleet. “Protect the strike
cruisers and transports! Break formation and move down lines of least
resistance. All captains may fire at will!” Admiral Caia’s voice cut into the command channel, a clear, feminine tone. “At least one escort squadron or cruiser per transport. Remember what you were told in the academy, people!” “Break… now!” The Imperial fleet spread out into at least twenty smaller groups, fanning out and aiming for the gaps between the blood-red Chaos warp trails. As they did, the Chaos ships became apparent. The Imperial ships were grey, green, blue, always metallic, appearing from the front as manifestations of the Imperial eagle, wings spread to dive. The Chaos vessels were long, red spears of evil, bedecked with baroque decoration and often glowing with daemonic ichor. And among them was the immense bulk of Arkharzan’s Despoiler. The Bloodthirster bound to his bridge snarled and roared. “THEY’VE BROKEN
FORMATION. TIGHTEN THE BATTLE-LINES!” Arkharzan felt the shock in the warp as the greater daemon hurled out its order to the lesser creatures bound into other vessels, and the replying, lesser tremors as they obeyed. From
Crassus’ position on the bridge, it looked like hell itself was manifest. A
Chaos fleet easily the size of his own, mostly composed of blood-red Slaughter
and Carnage class cruisers, the strange shapes of Devastator carriers moving
among them. The fleet was led by Repulsive class grand cruisers and several
Desolator battleships, with the enormous Despoiler at their head. That was one
thing he had over the enemy – his own Retribution and Emperor class
battleships were far more numerous than the Chaos battlecruisers. The
blood-red fleet of Khorne began to close in toward the scattered Imperial ships,
their escorts driving to intercept the hated enemy, cruisers powering along
behind. The first ships came within weapons range. Firstly the batteries of the
Carnage cruisers, long-ranged and lethally powerful, burst into blossoms of
flame, spitting their shells out into the blackness of space. Then the lance
arrays on the faster moving Slaughter cruisers launched beams of glowing light
that carved into the shields of the Imperial ships. And then, slowly, the
ponderous Repulsive and Desolator ships began to open fire. Torpedoes
streaked from the prows of Chaos heavy cruisers, firing into the Imperial escort
squadrons, knocking ships apart on impact, but still the transports moved on.
The immense lance arrays on the Desolators carved three apart – three in a
hundred. Arkharzan
beheld his ships at last engaging the Imperial dogs. He realised he was
salivating at the thought of the human corpses spilling out into the empty
vacuum, despite the control that had won him the rank of Warmaster. His mutated
hand, twisted into a long appendage of bare bone and flesh, clenched about the
hilt of his chainsword. “Close the
distance!” the Chaos Warmaster roared. “Bring us within boarding
distance!” Khastarax
snarled into the empty darkness around his throne of brass. Alone at last, the
daemon prince sat in brooding rage, contemplating the skulls he would take for
his god when the Crusade was launched. Diabolus was an unexpected bonus. The
Sorcerer had been more than happy to pledge his support to Khastarax’s
offensive, already having planned three of the Chaos horde’s bloodiest
victories. Khastarax’s lips twisted into a grimace as he considered his only
‘defeat’ so far in the campaign. Moldion.
It hadn’t been a disaster – the planet was now uninhabitable by either Chaos
or the Imperium. But on that planet four warriors and their daemonic ally from
Biel-Tan had personally defeated him. Wincing, the daemon clawed at the
long, dark scar that ran the length of his left flank. The Avatar’s blade had
carved open his eternally blessed flesh and left him with a near-constant pain
that reminded him of his loss. And the two Black Templars! They were the
greatest insult! Twice now they had escaped his wrath – first on Moldion, when
the Eldar had arrived in time to best his cultists, and now on Daizann itself,
besting the Fallen Angels at the Mirror of Souls. Khorne’s champion roared his
anger to the unheeding walls. He hoped – he prayed – that they would find
him and that he could avenge his banishment and the despoliation of his body. And
then there was Diabolus to consider. The scheming Fallen was evidently planning
something… he would have to wait and see if the Sorcerer proved untrustworthy. Gideon’s eye opened sharply and glanced about him. He tried to move, but found his limbs weighted down by rocks. Looking up, he saw Darius standing near him, bolter ready. “What is the meaning of this?” Gideon heaved the stones off his arms and pushed himself upright. “I wasn’t sure who’d be coming back.” Darius slung the bolter back over his shoulder. “You were acting really, really strangely last night.” “How so?” asked Gideon from the prone position. “You were thrashing around as if possessed, claiming to have seen your death.” Darius nodded to Mariana. “It took all three of us to stun you and keep you out till now. I’m glad to see you’re sane.” He offered his mentor a hand. Gideon grasped the gloved appendage gratefully and pulled himself up. “Thank you.” “Rested, brother
Gideon?” Mariana leant over the Templar’s shoulder. “Good, good. The great
man says we have to go on.” A slender hand motioned towards Carravar, who was
already scrambling out of the firepit. As he reached the top, the three warriors
saw him balk and scrabble back down in horror. “The pit’s moved
overnight!” The swarm of Imperial escorts was breaking against the wall of red ships pressing them back into a battle-line. Now twenty out of the hundred transports were destroyed or crippled, with only thirty or so Chaos losses. Crassus’ eyes gazed up and down the fleet reports, wide in shock. “Tech-priest!” he
cried. “How many troops are left?” The cyborg’s eyes shone as he received the data from the other command ships. +Four and a half thousand Guardsmen still alive, nine hundred Marines, a hundred and ninety Sisters of Battle and no losses for the Inquisition+ “Damnation!”
Crassus turned in his throne. “Order the Dark Angels to attack that Despoiler!
The rest of the Astartes fleet will try to break the cruiser line! Attack on my
mark!” The
Imperial fleet reformed into a long column, Imperial Navy vessels forming the
flanks, huge waves of torpedoes shooting out ahead of them. At the head, the
Black Templars strike cruisers fired blast after blast from their heavy
bombardment cannons. And in the midst, the transports committed what firepower
they could, small weapons batteries flashing in the gloomy eternity of night. Arkharzan’s
ships closed around the columns, firing side batteries, their best weapons,
unlike the heavy prow guns of the Imperium, into the Navy ships. Here and there
a Slaughter cruiser pierced the column, disgorging waves of Khorne Bezerkers and
cultists and renegade crewmen into the transports… The
Imperial Guard squads pulled in towards the breach in the heavy transport Wrathful,
bayonets fixed for close-quarter fighting. As they rounded the corner they
heard the whack of a Chaos assault boat sealing itself over the breach,
the pounding feet… Gord hefted his lasgun and prepared for boarding. The
Dark Angels battle barge Avenger broke off from its position above the
fleet, moving forward to allow a strike cruiser to take its place. The immense
vessel slowly swung upwards, a vast armoured prow launching a wave of
Thunderhawk gunships toward the Reaper of Souls. The Avenger powered
up its bombardment cannon. Arkharzan cheered madly as the Dark Angels ship closed in. Without the accursed Space Marines he felt as if he would never taste the blood of a worthy adversary. His bridge crew scuttled around him as the Bloodthirster imparted its orders. “BRACE FOR
IMPACT!” the daemon roared, gesturing with its bound forelimbs for its
minions to prepare. Its massive horned head lurched forward, turning the
Despoiler prow-on toward the battle barge. The ship lurched as the Avenger’s
bombardment cannon fired, scraping away the forward shields. “RAM THEM!” +++
Chaplain Sapphon, continue with the attack on the Chaos cruiser. You have our
support +++ The
first transmission from the trio of Inquisitors who were aboard the lone black
cruiser amidst the fleet! The Inquisition vessel pulled out of the convoy and
began to head upwards, upwards toward the Despoiler. +++
Do not attack the bridge, Master Chaplain +++ ‘Whatever’ was the only thought that passed through Sapphon’s mind as he sat in the prow of the Thunderhawk, crozius at the ready. After all these years he was going back into action against the Chaos scum he hated so much. He turned to the Dark Angels amassed behind him. “My brothers! Hear my
words and speak the litanies of war! Impact in twelve seconds… ten…” The Thunderhawks’ plasma cannons opened fire as the six gunships slowly arced into the Despoiler’s launch bay, blasting the grounded fleets of Chaos attack craft. Here and there fighter ships returned fire, autocannon shots bouncing futilely off the Thunderhawks. Sapphon felt the floor lurch as his own gunship landed. Standing upright, he heaved on the lever that would open the door of the ‘hawk. His fellow Dark Angels gathered around him, armed with chainswords for this close combat. The ramp lowered slowly, biting into the deck with a crunch of steel on steel. Sapphon charged. "Repent! For
tomorrow you die!” His plasma pistol spat death to the scattering Chaos fighter pilots, immolating them on the spot. His skull-faced mask was illuminated by the bursts of energy from his weapon. Sapphon was in the midst of combat again, and his heart sang as each heretic died. The Chaoshammer’s
comm.-link was switched on for Crassus to deliver his orders. Before the column
was the mass of the blood-red Chaos ships, heading straight for them, closing
about them, closing in. +++ Crassus to all
ships! Fire bombardment cannons, torpedoes, nova cannons, lances, everything
we’ve got against the ships directly ahead. Pierce this wall of evil! +++ Huge
bursts of energy scoured into Chaos cruisers as, for the first time, the
Imperial nova cannons were utilised. Huge plasma arrays, the nova cannons fired
blasts of pure energy that was designed to strip away shields, armour, even the
outer structure of the target ship, capable of tearing cruisers apart in one
shot. And now there were over a hundred firing simultaneously. Whole cruiser
squadrons disappeared before the massed bombardment of the Imperial fleet, all
four hundred plus surviving ships charging through the narrow gap in the Chaos
lines. Arkharzan couldn’t believe his eyes. His Despoiler, attacked and boarded by the Imperial scum, and their army having bypassed his fleet! He had to do something… think, think, THINK! The Bloodthirster growled his disapproval at Arkharzan. “PURSUE!” the greater daemon roared. “DESTROY THEM!” “With a ship half-overrun by Imperials? I shall purge the lower decks myself, emissary, and command the rest of the fleet to engage.” “SHOULD YOU FAIL,
ARKHARZAN, I SHALL NOT HESITATE IN OBLITERATING YOU. NOW GO.” The Warmaster backed away towards the lift shaft. Sapphon slammed his crozius arcanum into the face of a Chaos cultist who pounded around the corner, the crackling aquiline staff shattering his face apart. His plasma pistol blasted another one apart. He waved the Dark Angels assault squads on. “To the reactor!”
he cried. “Down into the pit of evil!” The
Inquisition light cruiser closed in towards the Reaper of Souls, its
small weapons batteries pulverising the bridge point defences. A gloved hand
flicked a switch and the teleportarium was filled with light. Gideon clambered out of the pit to join his erstwhile leader. His one eye dilated in shock. “Behold!” he
whispered softly. “The very plains of foulness!” Mariana and Darius scrabbled up behind him, struck short at the sight before them. Borne by the dreams of its maker, the firepit had been sucked through the warp-twisted land of Daizann and brought to the very edge of Khastarax’s domain. The pit now stood on the very edge of the greatest and most unimaginable fortress any of them had ever seen. Mariana’s comment was true for them all. “We’re dead.” The mountainous roots of the stronghold were only part of it… beyond the gate was a scene of total evil and Chaos. Rivers of blood – not lava, but blood – flowed down the inside of the mountains onto the plateau that stood beyond the gates. And on that plateau was gathered an army of darkness such as none of them had ever seen. The plateau was wide and long, and rose gently to the edge of the cleft in the mountains it occupied. It was dotted here and there with great fiery pits, but what it mainly contained was Chaos. Huge warbands of Chaos Space Marines were gathered around the pits, Khorne Bezerkers and other, less dedicated renegades, small, close-knit groups of Fallen Angels, maybe a hundred of the lost souls in all. Squadrons of Rhino transports and Land Raiders roved up and down the sides of the gorge, gangs of Dreadnoughts stood chained among the Bezerkers, Predator tanks kept watch over the great horde of Chaos. In the centre of the plateau, directly above the biggest pit, suspended by columns of pure warp energy, a gigantic cannon stood pointing defiantly at the sky, a mockery of the Imperium’s defence lasers and yet far, far more terrible yet, power lines trailing into the fiery lake beneath it. And rising above it all, dominating the end of the gorge, was the most terrible thing of all. It dominated the Chaos encampment – tens of thousands of Chaos Marines, packs of beastmen and daemons, huge masses of cultists and renegades all seemed to be grovelling in its shadow. Its weapons dwarfed all but the great cannon, it was rising out of the very rock itself, and its doors were almost half a mile high. Atop it was a vast statue of a seated, armoured figure who clutched a mighty axe in his gauntlets and whose wings were folded behind him, an icon of terror and rage. It was a cathedral of the most monstrous sort, a temple to Khastarax and the god who had spawned him, filled no doubt with worse things than any that sprawled before it in unthinking, blind faith. Darius’ hands rose to his face. “How in the name of Dorn do we get to him now?” “I don’t know.”
Carravar fell to his knees and began to offer up a silent prayer, still speaking
to Darius. “We have come so far, and yet now, as I see the diabolical horrors
that swarm before us, I fear that we cannot succeed. We are, as the Assassin
said, doomed.” Gideon stood stock still, his eyes rooted on the fortress. He
was remembering a dream he’d had the night they arrived on Daizann, over a
month ago. The dream that had plagued him since the battle on Moldion. The dream
that he stood outside the most hideous place he had ever seen, and that he was
facing his nemesis again. His fear rose like bile in his throat as he sank to
his knees and joined Carravar in prayer. Arkharzan
leapt out of the lift shaft and drew his chainsword. He presented a formidable
figure in his crimson carapace armour with the fanged, horned helmet and the
immense, buzzing close combat weapon, standing at least one-and-three-quarter
metres high. Around him his crew pushed and shoved, armed with makeshift weapons
– tools, stolen pistols, welding equipment. The Warmaster hacked down one who
barred his way without thinking as he strode around the edge of the reactor
coolant shaft. There! His eyes were drawn upwards to the doors that led to one
of the barracks. He could hear the sounds of violence. Raising one hand in
defiance, he pressed a control on his wrist communicator and activated his
crew’s Frenzon dispenser. Frenzon, the combat drug that drove men to fits of
berserk fury and made them fight till their hearts gave out in exhaustion. The
first were already frothing at the mouth as the Dark Angels breached the door.
Space Marines! At last a foe worthy of his efforts! Arkharzan turned the
chainsword’s power up another notch and stood his ground before the avenging
Angels. Sapphon
led the charge into the Chaos reactor chamber, his ammunition all but spent. The
Assault squads – twenty-nine left out of forty – followed him in, bolt
pistols expending their last bullets. Sapphon beheld the mass of frenzied
renegades and, at their rear, standing on the edge of the reactor pit, just
ahead of the bridge that led out over it, the Warmaster. He heaved the lever on
his jump pack and leapt over the heads of the roiling mass of Chaos crew,
ordering his troops as he did. +Squad Navarus, with
me! Squad Titus, hold the stairs! Squad Mordanus, flamer and frag grenades into
the centre+ +So shall it be!+
responded the Sergeants. The
Dark Angels’ leader, the black-armoured Chaplain with the jump pack, flew down
from his high entrance and into Arkharzan’s reach, the golden staff of his
crozius blazing with arcs of light. Arkharzan snarled up at him from within his
horned helmet, pulling his chainsword back to swing. On
the bridge, the Bloodthirster glowered at the image of the Inquisitors’ vessel
that hung on his viewscreen. His crew were scattering before the Dark Angels’
assault and he had no confidence in Arkharzan. It was time to be a little more
pro-active. Grey Knight Squad Jorus
materialised on the bridge at exactly that moment. Five tall, heavily armoured
shapes, hunched and bound within their adamantium armour, wielding huge
crackling halberds – Nemesis weapons, force axes with built-in pyscannon. The
Grey Knights… the Inquisition’s finest troops, an entire Chapter of Space
Marines, led by the psychic Grey Knight Terminators, the Imperium’s daemon
hunters. They appeared, weapons in hand, and opened fire with the built-in guns
in the halberds. Chaos crewmen fell in droves, blasted apart or hacked in two by
their mighty weapons. And then the Bloodthirster loomed out of the shadows and
stepped groggily into the light. Fifteen
feet high, its muscular red flesh bound in black Chaos armour adorned with the
Mark of Khorne, its right hand bearing a double-headed axe, its left wielding a
great whip of some monstrous leathery hide and tipped with a spike a foot long.
Cloven hooves pressed deep into the deck as it strode slowly out onto the bridge
and toward the interlopers, its immense horned and fanged, doglike head arching
to and fro, vast bat wings unfolding with the creak and stench of leather. And
it stank of blood. The Grey Knights gathered in a close circle, their Sergeant
chanting rhythmically, the others bowing their heads inside their Terminator
suits. The Sergeant’s hands spread wide and unleashed the Holocaust, the most
potent psychic power known to the Inquisition. Pure
white fire scythed across its daemonic flesh, but the greater daemon of Khorne
stepped through the psychic attack unscathed. In reply its whip lashed out,
striking one of the Grey Knights in the face. The Terminator fell as the Chaotic
weapon bit into his soul and leeched it out of him, twitchingly feeding it back
to its owner. The other Grey Knights moved into action, swinging their halberds
two-handed, slashing into the daemon’s armour. The axe rose and fell, biting
into another Terminator, gouging away his shoulder-pad but doing no damage. The
Bloodthirster roared… Arkharzan felt the Chaplain lurch back as his sword impacted, knocking him back before he could reach the ground and keeping him off balance. The Chaos Warmaster strode forward towards his staggered foe, but he underestimated the Dark Angel’s abilities. Sapphon blocked the blow with the crozius and fired his plasma pistol into Arkharzan’s chest, scouring a gouge in his carapace. The Warmaster shrieked in agony as his Chaos armour was damaged, then lunged forward, stabbing at Sapphon’s jump pack. An armoured fist shot up and grabbed the weapon, hauling Arkharzan around, plasma pistol discarded. As he fell, he heard the voice of the Dark Angel uttering the battlecry that had lasted millennia. “Repent! For tomorrow
you die!” And then the crozius
fell into his helmet and Arkharzan knew no more. Half
a mile above the battle on the bridge continued. Three Grey Knights had fallen
to the Bloodthirster’s wrath, their immortal part consumed by his weapons. Now
the Khornate daemon stalked about the bridge, his few remaining followers
cowering, seeking out the last two Terminators. Aboard
the Inquisition vessel three men sat in a vague circle, heads bowed in psychic
communion with the Grey Knight Sergeant. “We cannot go on… the beast… too strong…” “We hear you, Sergeant. In Extremis Exterminatus.” “Domina, Salve Nos!”
The Grey Knight completed the words of the rite, preparing his soul for the
Spell of Sacrifice. The
two Terminators were kneeling in prayer behind a bulkhead when he found them,
towering over them, wings and armoured limbs spread to deal the deathblow, when
the triple minds of the Inquisitors reached out and unleashed the power known as
Destrue Abominatus. Destroy Daemon. The Bloodthirster froze as white
lines of force enveloped him, biting deep into his flesh. Daemonic sinews
stretched, his mouth yawned open silently, but to no avail, as his essence was
cast into the warp. The Grey Knights fell to the floor, smouldering. The price
of transcendence was death. Sapphon’s troops gathered around the reactor shaft, hurling their krak grenades down into the Despoiler’s power system. The voice of the Chaotic computer uttered the word “Destabilised!” +Sapphon to Angel of
Vengeance! Teleport us out!+ The Dark Angels faded away into beams of light. Darius and Gideon sat in silence on the edge of the plain of Chaos. The two Black Templars had made up their minds. Gideon’s face was twisted with rage as he hacked away at the Black Templar emblem on his shoulder-pad. The two of them were committing one of the greatest acts of sacrilege it was possible for a Templar to perform. They were destroying the honours their armour had won over thousands of years of service. Gideon’s one eye wept thick, salty tears as his gauntlets gouged great scythes through the Imperial Eagle on his breastplate. “Almighty Emperor, forgive me!” the old Templar gasped as he prised off the purity seal on his greave. “Master, don’t fear the Emperor’s wrath. He would rather we despoil are armour than give up now. You said it yourself – no pity and no remorse.” “Ah, you’re right and I know it.” Gideon punched the ruined breastplate. “It’s just that I feel so – so wrong damaging the Eagle. It makes me think that maybe Chaos has a grip on me too.” Footsteps behind him. He whirled upright, powerfist raised. It was Carravar and Mariana, dragging the corpse of a Chaos Space Marine guard. Darius took up his combat knife and prised off the ten thousand year old knee plate, the studded reminder of a war known by all Black Templars as the moment of their birth. He pulled off the backpack spikes and stabbed them into his own shoulder and knee pads in an attempt to obscure the white Neophyte emblems, working silently in his grief. His disguise was completed by the addition of the Marine’s backpack cloak, passing him off as a Chaos cultist. Gideon stood up, his face drawn, his black power armour torn and dirtied with ash, looking oddly like the Chaos Sorcerer Malachi’s guards had done. Carravar had simply pulled down his hood and re-fitted his rebreather mask, appearing as a Chaos Magus. Mariana pressed the controls on her cameoline dispenser and her slender, feminine shape morphed into the Khorne Bezerker disguise from so long ago. “Ready?” Carravar
asked hoarsely. The others nodded. Defiled in form but pure of heart, the
Emperor’s secret weapon descended onto the plain of Chaos. Daizann
hung in space; a glowing red orb of evil amidst the darkness of the void,
orbited by the surviving battlegroup of the Chaos fleet, protected by all the
strength the Black Crusade could muster. No Imperial presence had come into the
system for thousands of years. A
few hours realspace flight from Daizann, the Crusade fleet broke warp and
rematerialised. Rejoined by the Dark Angels and Inquisitors, Crassus stood up in
horror as he beheld the ancient, horrific planet before him. The Emperor’s
wrath had come to Daizann, and the Chaos world was there before him. The end was
in sight.
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