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Whom the Gods Kill
Whom The Gods Kill
(c) Jeffrey Arp (jeffwood@teknetwork.com)
The Warmaster of Chaos breathed in the
rustic air of the "Dead Hand of Authority". The millenia-old ship was currently
orbiting over a backwater planet in an Ork-held region of space. The Despoiler couldn't
recall the planet's Imperial name, and he couldn't care less. He was here for a greater
purpose.
His bodyguard eased from their defensive positions around Abaddon as
Nasri moved towards them. The rich, dark green flowing robes of the Fallen Angel seemed to
absorb the dim lighting of the boarding dock. The Warmaster, who had just teleported
aboard from his own space hulk, took in the sight of the ancient Sorceror. Glimpses of his
black, archaic DA armour belied the millenium that he truly belonged to. Had it been that
long, thought Abaddon. Had he not watched the novice Sorceror fell countless loyalists in
the anarchy after Horus's death? How the sands of time run fast. And deep.
************
Ten millenia. Yes, ten millenia thought the Fallen Sorceror. Ten
millenia is the price I have had to pay for my faltering during the Heresy. Not that I'm
tortured like the few remaining. I do not shed a tear for the Emperor's Grace. I do not
long for his guiding hand. Indeed, I long for nothing. Oh, yes, there had been a time when
the promises and secrets whispered in my ear chilled my spine and warmed my heart, but
that was long ago. So too were the agonies and the anguish of realizing the price I paid.
The centuries lost due to insane despair, bitter remorse over the deeds of a lifetime that
was, and was not, mine. Had I not spent a millenia of time in search for the
Remainders? For the ones who might know the True Path out of this? But that was
long ago. He cared not anymore. Even in the dark and eternal nights of pitched battle and
warfare, he did not look upon the Emperor or the Dark Gods for sustenance. In many ways,
thought Nasri, wasn't I not unlike the rotting carcass that sits atop the Golden
Throne? I am as living, and as dead, as He. The only difference is that billions do
not worship and kill in my name. Not that I would want such pettiness, he told himself.
For what else was religion, but a pacifier for the helpless and desperate? For those who
cannot help themselves, there's always a way out. That is what religion is all. Nothing
more, nothing less. And who would want to diet on such displays of pettiness and
weakness? Even before the question was asked, Nasri knew the answer. There was a man.
A man whose zeal for Godhood was as unstoppable as the Imperium's decay. The Master of
this floating carcass, and its legions of fanatical Wordbearers and other assorted muck.
The Bearer of Woe, as he was known. Lord Tubal-Kahn. Die hand die Verletzt. The Hand that
Wounds. The most feared religious zealot of Chaos. A glorified pirate from the wasteland
of the galactic core, thought Nasri. But he held power. Real power. Imperial planets
trembled before the Lord's minions. Many were the children who didn't hear of stories
about monsters under their beds, but of monsters outside of their windows. Grahamakiah,
the Bloodseeker. The hulking monster who would come and kill your daddy if you didn't say
the right prayers. Namech, Tubal-Kahn's Exalted, the Vampire who would sacrifice your
brothers and sisters upon the altar of the War God, unless you were a good boy or girl and
followed strictly the Imperial edict. Twisted men who had both fought countless battles in
the name of the Kahn, of their Lord. Of the two, Namech had paid a terrible price. A
metallic skull was all that was left of a once beautiful, angelic Marine face. What
chapter did he come from? Nasri could not recall, and the foul creature didn't seem
to either. For Khorne had marked him as His own. He had been gifted that horrid face,
along with his batlike wings. But his bloodthirst... No, thought the Fallen Angel,
Namech's bloodthirst was his own. Grahamakiah, though, was different. He was perhaps more
dangerous than Namech. He was a born again convert to the Wordbearers, but was not focused
with his worship like Namech. And he also had Tubal-Kahn's favour. Whispers floated
through the ancient space hulk that the Wordbearer Lord would select a new Exalted, and
that the Bloodseeker would replace Namech, who now spent most of his time in ravaging fits
of bloodlust, eternally preparing for each battle with his own personal army of Beserkers.
************
"Well, Nasri?", asked the Despoiler. He had been
patiently waiting for the Sorceror to come out of the trance he had put himself in. Mere
seconds had passed, but it seemed that the Fallen Sorceror was prepared to stay like this
for eternity. "Where is Warmaster Tubal-Kahn? There are deals to be
made..."
************
Abaddon's irritated voice snapped Nasri back into the
present. How many times did the feelings of ancient millenia catch up to him? How
many times did he become adrift on the thoughts of the company he currently kept? But
enough. The Warmaster was right, there were deals to be made today. Emphasizing the
powerful Wordbearer's preferred title, Nasri softly responded, "The Lord is ready to
meet you, Abaddon. He will entertain you only out of curiousity. He does not trust you.
And I? I do not care for such things. This is a matter between the two of
you..."
************
Abaddon was expecting a lavish throne room when they entered
Lord Tubal-Kahn's Command Center. Instead, he found himself and his bodyguards in a sea of
grey. Plasteel. Ceramite. Marble. Concrete. The room had been shaped much like an
ampitheatre of ancient Terra. Huge columns of decaying marble ringed the huge circular
room. Upon each were the metallic likenesses of a multitude of Daemons. They were more
than decorative. Their hands and mouths, if you cold truly call them that, held aloft
burning candles, the only sources of light in the room beside glowing buttons and
flickering monitors. Soft breezes caressed the Daemonic statues, and the high ceiling
danced with shadows of daemons in play. No doubt, thought the Warmaster, that some were
real. Gazing down towards the center of the vast Control Center, he came upon the
Wordbearer Lord's throne. A simple one, of rock and metal. Oversized to compensate for its
users Terminator armour. Brass and gold etchings depicted battles fought over lives long
lost, for ideas long dead, and for dreams long crushed. The flickering of the candles made
the heroic Legions of long ago seem as if life still breathed in them. The Siege of Earth.
The breakthrough into the Palace. The broken body of Sanguinius at Horus's feet. Abaddon
had to fight to keep the memories from flooding back. There would be time for that later,
he promised. After the galaxy burned. After a new Imperium was forged. The throne turned
slowly around to face him. Tubal-Kahn moved his archaic body slightly to better view his
guest, the dark red armour covered in numerous trophies and scars. Next to him stood the
champion Abaddon recognized to be Grahamakiah. Also in Terminator armour, the favoured
champion of Tubal-Kahn scanned the Warmaster's bodyguard, instinctively flexing the wicked
looking chainfist that had won him so many battles. But who were the smaller marines that
surrounded them, many lazily strewn about the two as if they were enjoying a sporting
event, or recalling glorious tales of previous battles?
Women! But how? Abaddon had only seen a handful of female Astartes
in his long history, let alone the dozen or so that were staring back at him, all from
apparantly the same chapter. He was intrigued. Perhaps Tubal-Kahn has pursuits outside of
religion and warfare... That would be valuable to know, thought the Warmaster, for the
coming deals and pacts...
Wait! Those symbols...Not of loyalist Marines, but of...Sororitas! But
how!! Had the Wordbearer Lord cut a deal? Abaddon wasted no time. He readied his
fabled sword Drach'nyen as his bodyguard, always at the same mental level as he, readied
their weapons. If Tubal-Kahn has set a trap, thought Abaddon, he has picked the wrong man
to spring it on...
*********
"Heh heh heh..."
Tubal-Kahn's laughter echoed softly off the grey columns surrounding the
room. The amplifiers and speakers of his Terminator armour, known by all as the
"Ancient of Ancients", hissed and cracked as the Lord let out his laugh.
Distortion and feedback intermingled to make the Wordbearer's voice reminiscent of a
metallic snake.
"Aren't we comfortable, Warmaster Abaddon?" His voice was at
once indecipherable, and yet, crystal clear, as if he spoke some foreign tongue that was
translated inside the listener's head. The tone was mocking, even threatening. Grahamakiah
motioned with his rhinocerous-like helmet, and from between the columns arose the Terrors,
the Terminator-armoured squad that served as both Tubal-Kahn's bodyguard and as his most
prized fighters. Their minds were pledged to Tubal-Kahn, while their bodies went to
Grahamakiah, for he was their Champion.
"I've been told that you came to make a deal. Let me hear it. And
if it's the women you are so concerned about," Tubal-Kahn motioned to the assorted
women around him, all with their weapons drawn towards the menacing Abaddon, "then
don't be. They are Sororitas, true, but like the Astartes, they too can be fall astray
from the guiding beacon of the Emperor. But men like us already know of such
possibilities, don't we...?"
The Wordbearer Lord could see movement beneath the robes of Sorceror
Nasri. He wondered if the Fallen Angel was as really emotionless as he claimed...
************
Abaddon sat down upon a smaller throne brought in by daemons even he had
never seen. They looked almost like a cross between ab-human Ogyrns and the creatures of
the Hive. Upon sitting the simple brass throne, also covered in etchings of battles past,
they plodded slowly back to the hallway from which Abaddon had entered. His bodyguards
were still not convinced of their master's safety, and took a rather defensive position to
the back and side of the seated Warmaster.
"The Imperium grows weaker by the day, friend."
Unlike Tubal-Kahn, Abaddon didn't wear a helmet. His voice was clear and
to the point, as was his reasons for being here.
"I have led many Black Crusades against the bastard sons of the
Imperium. Each time have I grown closer to victory. One more Crusade, Tubal-Kahn, and the
fiery mouth of Hell itself will belch forth upon Mankind. The universe will be rent as the
final battle draws near. The time is coming for Chaos to takeover in Man's failed place.
It is time!! Don't you feal it? Even the brute Orks murmur of coming End Times. Even
now there are Orks who prophesy of great battles in the near future. Squats on a thousand
worlds tighten the hatches that much harder during their night patrols! The Eldar sit and
tremble as they view visions of the things to be! Even the void of the Hive whispers to
its pawns of the plentiful harvestings to be made! All that needs to happen is for the
Imperium to crack, crack ever so slightly, that I may usher forth a new Dawn!"
************
"Why are you telling me this?", asked Tubal-Kahn. His
serpentine voice hid nothing of the contempt for Abaddon's speech so far.
"If you are here to ask for help in forming an Imperium in your own
name, than you are wasting my time. I do not care for such petty issues as taxes, armies,
wealth, revenge. These are nothing, each but a grain of sand in the existence of the
universe. "The Galaxy Will Burn!", you bellow, "Man Shall Fall!", you
rage. You are a fool, nothing but a minion to our Gods for their eternal enjoyment! And
what will you do once you get your toy, Abaddon? What then? Will it all be
over? Will you promise the Dark Ones that you'll write on the holidays? You are
their slave. You will do as THEY say! Whether or not you get your precious revenge is
their's for the choosing, not yours, my dear friend..."
The Wordbearer's final words slithered and hissed before finally
drowning in a sea of metallic distortion, hollow yet full of weight. The Wordbearers
gathered around him watched for any sign to act. The Sisters simply gazed back and forth
between the opposing Warmasters, enjoying the tension that raised the hair on the backs of
everyone's necks.
************
"You may think me foolish, Tubal-Kahn, but I have my reasons."
Abaddon turned to motion his men to ease off. They had become involved
with the Terrors, each side increasing their subtle displays of power until they weren't
so subtle. Abaddon was counting on too much for egos to crush his desires as they already
had his dreams.
"I do know, however, that you are in search of your own
"empire". I have seen the reports of the Imperial planets you have attacked. I
have heard the rumours of what you seek."
That's it, gain his interest. He doesn't know if he wants to deal with
me or kill me, thought Abaddon. He's in my grasp.
"You seek Godhood, don't you?"
Tubal-Kahn didn't budge, save for moving his helmet down to better fix
Abaddon in his sights. Abaddon continued.
"You seek to become a Dark One yourself. I have heard of your
excursions for power, for the objects of antiquity, for the MEN of antiquity. Your fingers
spread far, Lord Tubal-Kahn. You have already garnered yourself one of the Fallen, but he
isn't enough, is he? You search for the one called Cypher. You believe that your
future Godhood lies in the dim memories of the past, don't you? You think he holds
some great key to the power that the Primarchs possessed, that the Emperor Himself
possessed. Help me, Lord Tubal-Kahn, and I can, in turn, help you..."
************
Nasri stared at the nearby candleholder. A seductive Daemonette stared
back at him, her hands covered in wax melting from the hot wick. What did Abaddon
mean? Did Tubal-Kahn truly believe that something could be gained from such figures
of the past, all of whom were dead? And did Abaddon know the truth about
Cypher? Nasri himself couldn't find the fabled Fallen One. And the rumours about who
Cypher really was... What juggernaut was being set in motion? What events were the
Warmasters setting in play? What heroic deeds and tales would be written on the skins
of flayed humans by the Imperium's countless scribes?
And what of the powers of Chaos? Abaddon could not be acting alone.
What whispers of glory drove Abaddon? What sensations of ecstasy and horror fueled
his bitterness? But the plans were done.
After Tubal-Kahn showed interest in the Despoiler's words, the pact was
sealed. Since the last Black Crusade, a great Imperial force had arisen admist the plains
and forests of Thessaloniki, a great planet near Fenris and Armaggedon in the galactic
northwest. A Colonel by the name of Arp, a madman by all accounts, had built a great
armoured force. He had won praises, he had won renown. Tales were told of how he lost his
arm to Orks, and of the wicked buzzsaw that replaced it. Rumblings could be heard in the
warp as the Colonel cut a swath through the minions of the Gods of Chaos, above all
Nurgle. Both Marine and Inquisitor looked in awe as Colonel Arp and his regiment, fanatics
who called themselves the "Dead Kennedys" after events long ago, defeated Chaos
Cult after Chaos Cult. It was joked that Arp had only killed a single Daemon of Nurgle,
but that the foul creature's name was "Legion".
But the great Colonel had his weaknesses. Not all agreed with him
militarily, and few agreed with him politically. And Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways, knew
that the Colonel's alliegance lied not with his Emperor, but with his beloved wife. A
young couple born out of political dealings, the two were foolish enough to believe in
love. Well, thought Nasri, things would change.
The plan was simple. Kill the Wife. Show the Colonel that only through
Chaos could She return. Incorporate the Madman into the Lord's army.
I sound like a Hive Tyrant, Nasri chuckled to himself. But only
chuckled. Tubal-Kahn had surprised everyone by picking Nasri to lead the mission. Both the
Fallen Angel and Abaddon had first pleaded for another to be sent. But Tubal-Kahn would
have it no other way. And when the two asked why it wouldn't be easier to simply kill Arp,
Tubal-Kahn would say nothing, other than cryptically remarking that "Scores
would be settled, and that Exalted Ones would be risen even further."
"Who do we kill, then, my Lord?", asked Namech, Tubal-Kahn's
Exalted, during one of his brief periods of lucidity between the Bloodrages he suffered as
a Champion of Khorne.
"Who do we kill?" asked Tubal-Kahn.
"Whom the Gods kill", replied the Bearer of Woe, "Whom
the Gods kill."
*********
"I'm in hell."
Nasri again muttered the line to himself. Things had gone horribly
wrong. Tubal-Kahn had sent Nasri and a select squad of his Raiders, veteran Marines
capable of working far behind enemy lines, in to kill Colonel Arp's wife. Along with them,
the Wordbearer Lord sent Namech and a host of his Beserkers. Their mission was to start
trouble on the neighbouring planet of Cambodia. Lord Tubal-Kahn mentioned that he had a
reason for ordering such a mission, but that Nasri wasn't ready yet to hear it.
Or trusted enough, thought Nasri. Why DID Tubal-Kahn send me here?
Grahamakiah was much more adept at taking out any target he was given. And if it was
stealth that the Kahn was after, there was Namech. How many assassinations had Tubal-Kahn
sent his Exalted One on? Even with the bloodthirst, and his descent into Khorne's
possession, he could still carry out such a mission...
Alien sounds brought Nasri back to the present. And the present had gone
horribly wrong. It had been three months since Abaddon and Tubal-Kahn had agreed upon the
pact. Three months since Nasri and the Raiders were handed a map of Thessaloniki. A
beautiful forest planet, Nasri had thought at first. The target was known. The Colonel's
wife lived in Thessaloniki's capital, Hive Spokane. The plan drawn up by the Fallen
Sorceror and the Raiders was simple. They would land near the Hive, use Nasri's psychic
power to teleport inside, and then execute the wife. Nasri would then find Arp, tell him
of his wife and the choices he had. If he agreed, they would bring the wife back to a
meeting point with the Raiders, where they would teleport out of the Hive, and wait for
Tubal-Kahn's ship to pick them up. If not...well, there was no other choice allowed to the
Colonel.
But that plan was no more. According to the three-month old map, they
should have landed in a small plain less than 3 klicks west of Hive Spokane, along a lazy
river basin that stretched to a distant sea. But instead, they had watched in horrer as
the landing spot zoomed up at them on entry. What was supposed to be flat grassland turned
into dense jungle, full of towering trees that stood defiantly against the Heretics'
plans.
The landing ship had not survived the impact. And it was a wonder that
Nasri had. All six of the Raiders had perished. Many were gored on the huge decidious
trees. And with the ship smashed to bits, there was no way of contacting Namech. Not that
it mattered. The Khornate champion was howling incomprehensible warcries and promises to
his men, who also sounded like they were being overcome by incredible bloodlust, the last
time they had conversed. But contact wasn't a priority on Nasri's mind at the moment. The
Fallen Angel was steadily working his way east towards Hive Spokane.
"If anything else, I'll finish the damned mission while I wait for
pickup."
Such bold thinking for an ignorant man, Nasri reminded himself. For the
forests of Thessaloniki were alive with creatures, veritable forest daemons that thought
nothing of a "higher creature" like the Sorceror. Like some sick cross between
man and vegetation, they appeared out of nowhere, perfectly blending in with the
surrounding forest. Nasri had so far killed all but one of the two dozen or so entities
that had crossed his path. This final one, though, was tricky. It was hiding, waiting for
Nasri to make a mistake.
Which Nasri did. He had drifted off onto thoughts of how the mission had
gone wrong. Convinced it wasn't a ploy, the creature jumped Nasri from behind. A short
fight ensued. The creature, though gruesome and strong, was no match for the cunning of
the Fallen Sorceror. Only numbers and cover had kept him alive thus far. With surprising
speed, Nasri clasped onto the creature's limbs. Suddenly, the Sorceror's hands burst into
flames as he channeled energy from the warp into his archaic gloves. The creature howled
in terror as it caught fire, its very existence being consumed in the fiery wrath of the
Fallen Angel, who watched emotionlessly as the creature fell to the earth, blackened like
an old campfire log. The Sorceror then proceeded on his way.
************
"Blood for the Blood God! Blood for
the Blood God!"
Unrepeatable screams pierced the dawn sky on Cambodia. It was at war
once again.
************
The "Dead Hand Of Authority"
dropped out of the warp. The outside merely moaned and creaked under the pressures brought
by such a common occurence. Inside, however, grins crossed a thousand faces. The belly of
the huge space hulk contained the entire Chaos Cult of Omahaus Secundus, a planet near the
galactic core. They had been instigated by Tubal-Kahn's Wordbearers on a previous raid,
and now they would be used in their Lord's righteous plan.
************
Namech's Daemon Sword danced in the air. His powerfist crushed one, than
another, than another helpless villager. His thirty strong warband of Bezerkers were
caught in the same vicious bloodthirst as he was. Oh how good is the Lord Tubal-Kahn!,
thought Namech, twisting to reach for yet another victim. They say he plans to replace me,
but surely I wouldn't have been given such a mission unless I was still truly his Exalted.
No! My Lord has bigger plans for me. Did not he say that the "Exalted Ones would be
risen even further"?
But such coherent thinking was quickly lost on the minion of Khorne, as
he swirled further into the dawning carnage.
************
Nasri had finally reached Hive Spokane. It
had been a simple matter of using a single thought to teleport himself inside such a
hulking urban monstrosity of the Imperium. He had used this power many times before. It
was still dark in Hive Spokane. The dawn was still hours away.
More than enough time, Nasri thought. More than enough.
************
Nasri had nearly given up on finding the
Colonel's wife. Their palace was huge. Slipping in and out silently like a monster from a
children's tale, he went from room to room, wing to wing, searching for her. Until
finally, he came upon her, fast asleep in a luxorious bedroom.
She was alone. The Colonel was supposed to still be planetside. Perhaps
he was going over plans for future missions, the Sorceror thought.
Such beauty.
Such waste.
With a disgustingly easy snap Nasri broke the sleeping woman's neck.
He let go.
The woman's head rolled down the side of the silk pillow, resting at a
horrible angle on her shoulder.
I should have it so lucky, thought Nasri. He pondered taking her with
him, proof to the Colonel that she was really dead. But he decided against it. By the time
he found Arp, Nasri figured, the Colonel would already know her fate. He began to
formulate a plan for finding him when the door to the bedroom opened, the lights flicked
on.
Alarmed, Nasri turned around. He couldn't believe his eyes.
"You..." spoke the Fallen Sorceror.
"You..." hissed back the serpentine voice belonging to an
incredibly ancient suit of Terminator Armour.
************
Soft shades of green lapped the ancient,
helmeted face of Lord Tubal-Kahn. The Imperium hadn't discovered him yet. Good, he
thought. Plans always took time to unfold.
"My Lord," spoke Grahamakiah, pointing to a pair of large
monitors to their right.
"The Blood Angels have arrived, as you prophesied. What is your
course of action, my Lord?"
"Simple, my Exalted One. I knew the Blood Angels would be in this
sector during our, "visit". As you can see, the poor people of Cambodia have
desperately called for heros to save them from daemonic madmen. The Angels will answer the
call. The Omahaus Cult shall be sent in to tie the Marines down. You and I, Grahamakiah,
We shall cut the Blood Angels' throat ourselves, while the rest of my servants harvest the
pathetic chapter like wheat to a scythe." The Wordbearers in the room exchanged
glances. They felt for their weapons, already envisaging the war to be fought.
Concerned that they might be left out, the Sororitas Sisters slinked in
on the conversating Wordbearers, hoping to find favour with them for the coming glory.
"What about the Fallen Angel, Nasri? By now he should have
found the Colonel's wife. Shall I send a small detachment to pick him up?"
Tubal-Kahn's throne room was quiet, save for the humming of scanners and the groaning of
the ship's engines. Everyone wanted to know of the mysterious Fallen Angel's fate.
"There won't be nothing to pick up, my Exalted One."
Tubal-Kahn noted with satisfaction that Grahamakiah was the only one not to gasp and stare
in amazement at his announcement. He is indeed worthy, thought Tubal-Kahn. Namech will not
be missed.
"You see," said Tubal-Kahn, making sure that his audience was
listening, "Colonel Arp HAS no wife. Abaddon is a fool. But a fool can be very useful
for a cause such as ours." Assured that his audience was still listening after this
confession, the Wordbearer Lord continued.
"For the Blood Angels are not the only Marines in town, my
faithful. In fact, another group of Imperial Angels is currently in this part of the
galaxy. They are looking for recruits to join their merry little band of angelic warriors.
I believe that they are currently the guests of Hive Spokane. I thought it would do Nasri
good to see old acquaintances. Who knows?", hissed the Bearer of Woe, "perhaps
another like him will want to join in on the action that's about to occur..."
************
Blood red drop pods blazed in the cool
morning over Cambodia's vast jungles. Commander Dante prepared his equipment, making sure
everything had been properly blessed. They should have returned home to Baal, but the
people of Cambodia had screamed out in terror. Cults dedicated to the Foul Gods once again
were trying to take them over. And under.
But we must be quick in our victory, thought Dante. Because rumours had
reached out to him from the galactic east. Rumours that an old foe was on the move, that a
snake long coiled was about to strike...
************
What was a chill dawn on the ill-fated
planet of Cambodia had turned into a searing, humid, heat wave by noon. The brightly
arrayed forces of the Blood Angels spread out from their drop zones north of Namech's
position. Opposite Namech to the south laid the drop zone of the 36th Spokane IG Regiment,
the fabled "Dead Kennedys". And between the 36th and Namech laid the Cult army
of Omahaus Secundus, mostly made of variously equipped ground troops, led by a Demagogue
who had found favor enough in Lord Tubal-Kahn to be raised to a Chaos Warrior. Mounted on
horseback with his personal bodyguards, Demagogue Vosk led his men southward. With no
tanks, no vehicles, and no heavy weaponry of any kind, their only hope laid in ambushing
the DK in the thick jungles of Cambodia. Vosk wished that he could have had his tanks with
him, but the Lord had kept them separate. Other plans had been made. Vosk had no choice
but to obey.
************
Brother-Chaplain Turin stared at the
villagers. Him and his Blood Angel contingent had been in the village for 20 minutes, and
had thought it was empty. But slowly villagers had crept out, wary to make sure that the
strangers were truly righteous, and not the foul Heretics who have foughten so many
battles against the citizenry of this troubled planet, known locally as "Green
Hell". Turin almost felt sorry for them. But beneath his Terminator Armour, with its
smiling metallic skull, he knew instinctively that he could not reach them. He simply
bellowed the words and sentences that would prove their loyalty to the Emperor.
Then he continued, leaving the small village, following a narrow road
with strips of grassland on either side. Towards Antiuk, the site of Namech's massacres,
where Armageddon was raging. His rather large advance army, fifty marines plus Rhinos,
Razorbacks, Apothecaries, and two junior Chaplains, had been ordered to push forward
towards Namech, where his Master, Commander Dante was already engaging the enemy. The
blasted Cult tanks were pounding the the Blood Angel army in Antiuk. Factions were racing
in from both sides. But the Imperial Guard reinforcements had landed farther south then
planned, and so would be late in their arrival. Turin knew it was up to him. If need be,
he would fight his way to Dante's side. But so far, there was no sign of Chaotic
prescence. He turned towards Apothecary Cassius to ask a question. The veteran of many
battles, Cassius was keeping a wary eye on his brother-marines. For many, it was there
first battle as a full Marine, as a full Blood Angel. The Red Thirst was always a threat.
But Turin never got to ask Cassius about the army's health. For out of
the dark jungle that opened not even a hundred clicks away strode into the noon sun a
monstrosity none had been expecting. A Chaos Dreadnaught! Donned in the crimson red armour
that Turin instantly recognized as the mark of a heretical Wordbearer, the monstrosity
blasphemied the Cambodian skyline with a blood curdling roar. The tactical squad near
Turin nearly fled, only holding the ground due to Turin's prescence. And before even that
had time to register in the Chaplain's brain, the daemonic monstrosity levelled its
horrific looking Heavy Plasma Gun, and turned day into night for the Emperor's finest...
************
Turin looked at the men around him. Only 14
men survived of what once had been a mighty detachment. And they ALL suffered from the Red
Thirst. They had been too young, too immature, to experience Chaos in the raw.
The Wordbearer attack had been devastating. After the great Dreadnaught
had dropped Cassius and blew open a Rhino, it charged the stunned loyalists. Springing out
of the shadows behind it, dozens of Wordbearers armed for close quarter fighting rushed in
for the kill. Somehow, Turin and these survivors had managed to hold off enough
Wordbearers to make it back to the small village they had passed through earlier. They
were now holed up in a church, along with what appeared to be nearly half the townspeople.
But none spoke, nor even dared looking at the Marines. For Turin, as the lone remaining
Chaplain, the lone remaining officer, was administering the Battle Mass for inflicted Sons
of Sanguinius. There was no ceremonial black paint for them, but there was no other way.
It was too late. They were all going to die. But Turin knew that they could serve the
Emperor in death, by sparing the lives of his subjects. The Blood Angels would die,
yes; but the foul Wordbearers would lose tenfold.
Turin thought that last thought slowly, and hesitantly. He did not want
to frighten his men, for they were already suffering enough, but he had recognized one of
the Wordbearers. Though they had never met on the field of battle, enough tales had been
heard by the Blood Angel Chaplain to recognized the one known as Grahamakiah. The one
whose devotion to his Lord, the infamous Tubal-Kahn, had been felt on a hundred worlds.
Turin knew that he personally would have to deal with Grahamakiah.
Dante's life depended on it.
************
Vosk and the rest of his Cult followers
thought they had heard the rumblings of tanks in the distance. But the jungle offered them
no view beyond their immediate surroundings. Vosk was staring at the blazing sun,
wondering what his Lord had to offer for success in this mission, when a peculiar sound
wafted through the Cult. Bees? No, not quite. But almost. Yes, almost. Almost as if
the droning of bees was being amplified. A definitely metallic overtone could be made. But
what?
************
Vosk and his men never knew what the
sources of the peculiar noise was. They died much too fast. And for nothing. Three klicks
south of Antiuk, they had ran into the "Dead Kennedys". Or, to be more correct,
the "Dead Kennedys" had ran into, through, and finally, over them. The DK was
used to the jungles of Cambodia. Their Colonel, "Madman" Arp, had been involved
in 11 campaigns in the "Green Hell", personally leading the last seven. And
their tanks showed. Originally for use back home on Thessaloniki, where the fast-growing,
migrating forests often cut off vital roads and passes, each tank of the DK was equipped
with two gigantic buzzsaws. Each nearly two men in length, angled slightly one over the
other to ensure that no tree could get between them, and that the tank wasn't crushed by
falling lumber, the tanks of the "Dead Kennedys" cut wide swaths through the
thick tropic jungle as they raced for Antiuk. Blades designed to cut through meter thick
oaks in a millisecond did not even register the feeble bodies of the Cultists. As the
fanatical Guard pushed forward, they cared not for the blood and guts arrayed all over
their dark green armour. The DK kept pushing, they were nearing the target. No one would
expect their arrival so soon.
************
Turin looked up as the church doors gave
way under a heavy blow. Bursting through the wooden remnants, the Wordbearers prepared for
the coming fight. From their midst strode the Champion Grahamakiah. He first gazed upon
the men, women, and children huddled against the wall to his left, and the finally upon
the Blood Angels to his right. He noticed the strange expressions and movements of the BA.
He wondered if they were suffering the Red Thirst like all the weak Blood Angels finally
do. No matter, he thought. He turned his attention towards the Chaplain, whose banner read
"Turin", under a bright, flowing picture of a bloodied Hive creature. Turin
spoke first.
"I see Tubal-Kahn has sent a dog to do a man's work." The
Blood Angels looked in astonishment towards their Chaplain. They could feel the blood
surging in their veins. Today WOULD be a good day to die.
"I don't know you, Tur-RIN," replied Grahamakiah,
intentionally distorting the Chaplain's name, "but I shall enjoy adding your skull as
a trophy upon my back." Turin noted that the trophy poles of the Wordbearer Champion
was filled with the heads of various enemies. He wondered if any had been battle-brothers.
"Then feel free to try, Grahamakiah. For the Sons of Sanguinius
serve only to protect humanity from such foul abominations as yourself and the one you
call Lord. Our personal well-being is of no concern to us. We shall die, but it will be
YOU who will pay the ultimate price."
"Is that so?" Grahamakiah shifted his head to the left, then
to the right. His personal guard knew what he had in store.
"Well, then, may you die knowing that you failed even THAT, my
precious Chaplain..." If Grahamakiah had said anything more, it was lost as he and
his personal squad of Terminators turned and opened fire on the helpless civilians.
Bullets and energy beams cut down the humans with ease. Mothers with infant child simple
disappeared in the snaking tongue of Grahamakiah's meltagun. The Blood Angels were
sickened and stunned by the merciless slaughter. Sickened and overcome by the shame of his
helplessness, Turin made a motion to charge the infamous Champion, but it was too late.
Two of Grahamakiah's bodyguard wielded the infamous Reaper Autocannon. They turned in
unison at Turin and the surging Angels behind him. In no time the broken bodies of the
loyalists moved for the last time as they hit the floor and pews of the old church. The
wooden floor was a gruesome swamp of blood and dust. Children's hands, many still attached
to the child's favorite doll, were strewn about the Wordbearers. Unrecognizable body parts
floated in the sickening, oily mess that drenched what had once been a holy site.
Grahamakiah motioned to his Wordbearers. It was time to go. Their mission was done. They
were to return to Lord Tubal-Kahn to take further part in his twisted plan. The Gods were
surely smiling upon the Wordbearers, thought Grahamakiah. The Imperium was sure to fall.
The galaxy would burn. Tubal-Kahn had said that their targets were those "whom the
gods kill". Who could stand in the way of the gods? Who could stand in the way
of Lord Tubal-Kahn?
************
Nasri couldn't decide whether Tubal-Kahn
was an incredibly lucky, or an incredibly powerful Lord of Chaos. It didn't matter either
way, he told himself. For standing before him was a Dark Angel. A Deathwing. A
Interrogator-Chaplain. Ancient Terminatour Armour, with stress lines and fractures of a
millenia's worth of use; its bone-white skin brilliantly reflecting the strong
lights of the wife's bedroom. The loyalist Dark Angel looked upon the gruesome sight of
the dead woman, no emotion emanating from the Deathwing's stance.
"I have been set up." Nasri spoke the words as if he was
talking to himself. He noticed the three black pearls of the Chaplain embedded on his
rosarius. So three others were already saved, thought Nasri. No matter the outcome, he
would not be the fourth.
"Only the chamber-girl, Heretic. Only the chamber-girl."
Nasri looked back upon the girl. Had he not killed the Colonel's wife?
Had not Abaddon pleaded Tubal...Tzeentch. The Changer of Ways. Had not Abaddon been told
of her existence by Him? It was all a trap. But of
who? Abaddon? Tzeentch? Tubal-Kahn? In the pit of his stomach, Nasri
knew who it was. The one who wanted Godhood. The one who wanted Cypher. Tie down the prey
and see if another will come to its rescue. That Bastard will pay, thought Nasri. But
first I have an old score to settle...
************
Antiuk had not seen a night in over a week.
The dead air above the battered town was filled with countless beams of energy, missiles,
bullets, warcries. Explosion after explosion after explosion. The "Dead
Kennedys" had reached the city before expected, and combined with the Blood Angels
under Dante himself had almost won the city outright. But the Cult was tenacious even
before their Masters had shown.
The Wordbearers had proven themselves to be the most foul of opponents,
thought DK's commander, Colonel Arp. Under the command of the Bearer of Woe, the heretic
Marines had rallied the near exhausted armies of the Omahaus Cult. And the events
following had been disasterous for the loyalists ever since.
First came the news of Chaplain Turin and the Blood Angel Detachment
under him. The infamous Grahamakiah had ambushed Turin in a neighbouring village. Stories
flooded into Antiuk, even though there was no survivors. They told of fanatical
Wordbearers torching the Imperial Church, of the mass slaughter of the civilians, of how
Grahamakiah and his men rended the village children down for use as holy oil to bless
their weapons and armour. They told of the sickening monstrosity known as the Dreadnaught
Arpachshad, who requires the flesh of pure maidens to sustain the abomination in
real-space.
But who needed tales of such abhorritions? After the slaughter,
Grahamakiah had returned to Antiuk. Once he arrived, the carnage had really begun.
Grahamakiah led his pack of murderous fiends into Antiuk's Imperial Orphanage.
It had been a trap. The cries and screams and anguish of the children
had drawn the Blood Angels. Of the entire company's worth that assaulted the building,
none returned. The only ones whose fates were truly known were the Blood Angels hanging
from the building gargoyles. Their fate had been truly worse than death. Due to his fame,
stature, and experiences with the Dark Angels, Arp, although just a Colonel in the
Imperial Guard, knew of the unrepetent Ones. He could only wonder if the dead Blood Angels
were as stubborn as they...
************
Nasri wasted no time. Not giving the
veteran Deathwing a chance to respond, Nasri called forth a Warp Gate. Instinctively, the
loyalist Angel moved to block Nasri's path. But Nasri jumped back. Bait. Nasri had been
used as bait by Tubal-Kahn, now it was the Fallen Sorceror's turn. The confused Deathwing
stumbled ever so slightly; he had been prepared to crash into the Fallen Angel, but
instead jerked back to regain his balance.
It was too late. The fallen sorceror reached underneath his robes, and
pulled forth an ancient combi-weapon. At such close range, the plasmagun attachment did
not miss. Molten chunks of armour and flesh splattered across the room as the Deathwing
stumbled into the Gate. He was dead even before he reappeared in the cold void of space.
Many Thessalonikians would point out a brilliant shooting star to their children that
night.
************
Sorceror Lord Vogelekk now understood his
Lord's plan. After Nasri's departure, Tubal-Kahn had promoted the former Space Wolf to be
his new Master Sorceror. He had fit in nicely with the Wordbearers. Left for dead on a
small backwater planet in the galactic core during a Great Hunt for Leman, Lord Tubal-Kahn
himself had found the Runepriest's broken body. Sensing the possibilities, the Kahn had
personally overseen the Space Wolf's progress and after Vogel, as he was then known,
accepted the teachings of the Wordbearers, the pleased Chaos Lord had renamed him
Vogelekk, or "First-Born", for he was the first to be converted to Chaos by the
then young Wordbearer Lord.
The target was Dante. Tubal-Kahn wanted the powers of the Primarchs. But
neither them or the Emperor still lived. And Tubal-Kahn didn't believe in the rumours and
whisperings of Leman's return. No, the Lord thought, there was only one other way.
The Blood Angels. Did not the Sons of Sanguinius suffer from the Red
Thirst? A condition in which they believed THEMSELVES to be their dead
Primarch? If Tubal-Kahn could tap in on those ancient memories, the racial dreams of
the dim, dark past, could he not gain the Primarchs' powers himself? It was a bold gambit.
And so far, it had failed. Countless Blood Angels captured, or bought from other sources,
had died in as many horrible ways to do so as there were stars in the galaxy. But they
weren't working. Even those already in the dark hold of the chapter's Fate could not be
harnessed for the Wordbearer's needs.
Tubal-Kahn HAD considered Mesphito, the Blood Angel who had overcome the
Red Thirst so long ago. But Tubal-Kahn believed that by conquering it, the Blood Angel
Librarian had weakened it, watered it down. He wanted the Thirst's full power. So he
turned towards Dante. Surely the chapter Master could survive the Bearer of Woe's
experiments long enough to reveal the dreaded secret of the Blood Angels.
Sorceror Vogelekk turned back towards the setting sun on Cambodia. The
colours pouring over him from the partly cloudy sky reminded him of events long ago. He
had once fought on this planet before. Like on a thousand other planets, under Leman's
banner. The fighting, the sounds, the colours. They all brought him back to that point
long ago.
The time of Emperor, the time of Sagas, the time of Leman Russ.
The time of Heresy, the time of forbidden knowledge, the time when Gods
still walked amongst man.
************
The factories of hell brought forth all
sorts of daemon engines and horrific weaponry. Armies long silent once again chanted the
litanies of crimes committed by the Imperium. Abaddon the Despoiler, Warmaster of Chaos,
would lead the way. The Black Legion looked to their Lord. The time had come. Tubal-Kahn
the Bearer of Woe had unleashed Apocalypse upon the Imperial planet of Cambodia, but
Abaddon the Despoiler would bring Armaggedon...
************
Tubal-Kahn strode forth admist the
slaughter and carnage of Antiuk. The fighting was going good for his Wordbearers. After
the slaughter of Blood Angels at the Imperial Orphanage, the loyalists had lost the edge.
The grinding forces of the Kahn was slowly, yet surely, pushing the Imperial forces back.
The Wordbearer Lord had not seen his former Exalted One, Namech, since the fighting had
begun. Tubal-Kahn neither knew or cared about the Khornate's whereabouts or condition.
After Grahamakiah had returned from the Orphanage, the blood of much innocents coating his
already crimson red Terminator Armour, Tubal-Kahn had ceremonially risen him to Exalted
Status. It had been Grahamakiah's proudest moment. In front of his men, Grahamakiah took
his place at his Lord's side, and with the veteran Terminator squads forming a dense cloud
around the nucleus of the Heretical forces, Tubal-Kahn launched his attack.
As the Kahn led the way, the Heretics swept into the rubbled streets of
Antiuk. The bloodied tanks of the Omahaus Cult intermingled with the advanced hordes of
infiltrating veterans. In the distance, Tubal-Kahn and Grahamakiah could hear the vicious
warcries of Arpachshad. "One that releases" was the translation of the ancient,
possessed Dreadnaught. It was a fitting title. A Heavy Plasma Gun and an archaic Thunder
Hammer were the tools of his trade. Whether it was breaching into the shelters of
frightened civilians, or mowing down shellshocked survivors who wandered within range,
Arpachshad had not rested a single day of his three hundred year existence.
"In the name of the Kahn," bellowed Arpachshad, "you
shall dream no more!"
************
Dante creeped forward with the rest of his
personally chosen assault squad. They had jumppacked into the narrow alleyway just minutes
prior to the adjoining streets becoming overrun by the Chaos Horde. The coiled snake had
struck, thought the Blood Angel Master as he and his men slithered carefully down the dank
alley. Up ahead was a veteran assault squad led by an Epistolary Gracchus. They too had
jumppacked in. The Wordbearer Lord was slowly making his way towards their location.
Dante, Gracchus, and the Blood Angels awaited for the right moment to spring their trap.
It has come to this. Dante prayed one last time to the Emperor and
Sanguinius before igniting his jumppack.
************
Fallen Sorceror Nasri shifted the opposite
axis of the Warp Gate he was sustaining with only minimum effort. Eons of use and
experience had made this particular power nearly secondary to the ancient Sorceror.
Scanning the nearby heavens, Nasri pinpointed Tubal-Kahn's location in Antiuk. Readying
his combi-weapon and his Force Rod, Nasri stepped into the portal.
************
Grahamakiah was first to see the rising
Blood Angels. Bellowing directions and orders to his Terminators, Tubal-Kahn's Exalted
opened fire on the incoming Angels of Death. A trooper of Dante's personal squad caught
the meltagun blast in full. Melted flesh rained upon the Wordbearers as the dead Angel
flew out of control and over them. Reapers and combi-bolters cleared their throats at the
incoming loyalists.
Few of the Blood Angels reached their targets. And those that had were
quickly dealt with by the rocksteady Heretics. Finally, it was down to only Dante and
Gracchus. Grahamakiah wasted no time in bellowing a challenge to the Epistolary. Locked in
mortal combat, the two struggled to gain the advantage. And like with so many others,
Grahamakiah would emerge the victor. The blades of his chainfist and his
chainsword-equipped combiweapon blurred and refracted the light thrown off the burning
village they were in. Gracchus could not keep up with the agile Wordbearer, and the
Exalted One's Armour was seemingly impenetrable to the Blood Angel's weapons. Finally, a
sweeping backhand of Grahamakiah's chainfist caught Gracchus offguard. His jaw broke as
Grahamakiah followed through with the combiweapon. The first shot separated Gracchus from
his left leg. The second from his left arm. The final blast of the archaic meltagun
cleaned out the Epistolary's skull cavity. The Blood Angel slumped down, then fell back in
a pool of his own blood. Grahamakiah turned back towards his Lord, then looked forward
towards Dante. Tubal-Kahn was now safe to engage the enemy.
************
Sorceror Vogelekk, who had watched the
proceeding events from an adjacent, burned out office building, felt a disturbance in the
warp. He looked towards the heavens. Something was screaming towards Cambodia, towards
Antiuk. He could feel it. What it was, though, was still a mystery...
************
The Bearer of Woe, Lord Tubal-Kahn, stepped
forward. He holstered his mighty weapon, "Mezahab", in favour of a heavily
decorated powersword. Flexing the Lightning Claw in his right hand, Tubal-Kahn's
voice hissed and echoed out of his Armour's amplifiers; hollow, metallic, distortion
rolled across the empty townsquare where the two foes stood.
"Dante," whispered Tubal-Kahn, his voice nearly inaudible.
"You have something I want. I need. I deserve." Rolling booms
from the far side of Antiuk gave witness to a renewed assault by the "Dead
Kennedys", who were still fighting when lesser Guard would have pulled out.
"I don't care for what you desire, Tubal-Kahn." The Blood
Angel's voice gave no sign of fear or concern, just cold determination.
"But I know that you will never attain it." And with that,
Dante unleashed a close-in shot with his Inferno Pistol. The shot struck dead on, but
Tubal-Kahn's massive Terminator Armour absorbed the hit.
It was not even scratched.
"Then let the big dogs fight," growled the Wordbearer Lord.
************
Nasri stepped out of the portal into the
basement of an abandoned building. Rubble was everywhere. He quickly bounded up the steps.
Stepping out onto the ground floor, he looked up at the night sky above. His half of the
building had been blown away by some huge engine of war. Turning around, he spotted
Tubal-Kahn and Dante through pockmarks and craters in the walls of the relatively intact
other half. Moving towards the dueling Lords, Nasri realized that he was not alone.
Directly in front of him, in the shadows of the bombed out building, stood Vogelekk. The
Runepriest Sorceror turned slowly around, his weapons already armed and waiting.
"I thought you'd *never* show up," cracked Vogelekk, his
skull-carved helmet hiding the wicked grin on his face.
************
The Black Legion boarded the waiting Space
Hulks. Their Sorcerors plotted and planned the long trip to Armaggedon. Their Lord watched
the monitors and sensors as reports came in of the events surrounding the battle of
Antiuk.
Soon, thought Abaddon. Soon we shall find out just how strong the
Imperium of Man really is.
************
Nasri brought about his combiweapon towards
the Fallen Runepriest. But Vogelekk had forseen this. Drawing energy from the Warp and
coursing it through his body, Vogelekk dodged the incoming plasma blast with inhuman
speed. Nasri had seen Vogelekk's speed first hand. The Fallen Angel cast a shield of
nearly impenetrable Warp energy around him. Tendrils of Nasri's ancient, powerful mind
groped the darkness for clues to his enemy's position.
Vogelekk saw that he was not alone. From the corner of the ruined
building, Vogelekk could see the Wordbearers of Squad Eliphal snaking their way in behind
Nasri. Ahsmaniah, Elkanah, Nezakah. They were staring at the Fallen Angel, aware of the
mental battle the two Fallen Sorcerors were engaged in. Leading them was Sturgis, a young
Champion of Tubal-Kahn's. He flexed his powerfist, wickedly sharp talons glinting in the
light given off by the countless fires that threatened to engulf Antiuk at any moment.
Vogelekk saw his chance. Sturgis had seen him, and now was completely still, awaiting for
Vogelekk's orders. But first the Fallen Runepriest would have to store his energy, if his
plan was to work.
************
Tubal-Kahn and Dante swirled in the endless
melee of battle. The two Lords had engaged each other, both out of desparation. For Dante,
it was to end the fighting, and save as many of Cambodia's innocent as possible, along
with his fellow battle-brothers. For Tubal-Kahn, it was to end not centuries, but millenia
of countless existence as a Chaotic Pawn. Here was real power, he thought. Here is the
chance to become a God in my own right.
But the two were evenly matched. Dante, who had unstrapped his jumppack
long ago, was quicker, faster, more agile.
But weaker. Tubal-Kahn's ancient armour gave no ground to Dante's
weapons. And Tubal-Kahn's powersword and Lightning Claw quickly parried and misdirected
the Blood Angels attacks.
Grahamakiah, Tubal-Kahn's Exalted One, watched the duel unfold. He could
sense the ebb and flow of the battling Lords. Tubal-Kahn was fighting as he always fought.
He was simply waiting. The aggressive Blood Angel would slowly tire from his frenzied
attempts to end the battle early. The Chaos Lord simply repelled and feigned each attack.
Tubal-Kahn could wait eternally for the prize Dante offered. Slowly, the face of
desperation would be seen on the Angel Master.
Suddenly, Grahamakiah saw movement out of the corner of his visor. The
stranger was dashing towards Tubal-Kahn.
************
Vogelekk watched as Sturgis moved in on
Nasri. The Fallen Angel was taking potshots at the Runepriest, who could still feel the
Warp flowing through him. Once Sturgis was within range, Vogelekk unleashed his plan.
First, he summoned a horrific creature from his ancient past. A great wolf, the size of a
tank, lept from him. With howling red eyes and gleaming white teeth, the monstrosity
bounded towards the confused Nasri. As Nasri summoned the energy to dispell of the
creature, Vogelekk turned his mind towards the aspiring Champion. Sturgis nearly stumbled
as reams of white hot energy entered into him.
Yes, he thought. Yes!! The Gods flow through me! The Champion pushed a
button on the armour of his left forearm. Forbidden chemicals mixed and mingled in the
bubbling blood of the Wordbearer as he charged the final distance between himself and the
Fallen Angel.
Nasri could not believe his eyes. A wolf? Was that all that
Vogelekk could offer? He had felt the Fallen Runepriest gather energy. But for such a
prank as this? Nasri wondered if Vogelekk had cracked under the weight of eternity.
Both of the Fallen Sorcerors had been Men of the Heresy. Both wore the eternal yoke of
slavery to Chaos, to the whims of mad Gods. Had the Fallen Runepriest finally
succumbed? Would Nasri find nothing more than Chaos Spawn in Vogelekk's hiding space?
Nasri would never see the frothing Champion rush him from behind.
************
Namech!
Grahamakiah instantly recognized the mutated Khornate as it rushed
towards his Lord. Grahamakiah immediately moved forward to cut him off. Behind him, the
Wordbearer Terminators followed suit, increasing their vigilance in case others tried to
interfere with their Lord.
************
Brother-Chaplain Bushdu closed the books
and rolled up the scrolls. In the abandoned auditorium stood nearly fifty Blood Angels,
all arrayed in the Black Armour of the Chosen. Red crosses and purity seals punctuated the
sea of black power armour. Bushdu motioned to the other Chaplains. The auditorium's great
doors, made of terran oak, grudgingly opened to the bleak outside. Buildings across Antiuk
were either burning or obliterated. Many were just stumps on the pock-marked ground. It
was still several hours before dawn, but the raging infernos poured light into the
bloodied streets, and poured oily smoke into Cambodia's once crystal clear sky, engulfing
Antiuk in a thick blanket of shadows. Bushdu could see only one end in sight, and that was
to fall with the ones that suffered the Red Thirst. He instinctively fingered the
beautiful grenade pinned next to the archaic book that hung on his waist. A device of
magnificent destruction.
And glory, thought Bushdu, as he led the Death Company into the grim
night. And glory.
************
The ravaged mind of Namech reeled from the
bloodthirst. But soon he would quench it. Already he could make out the individual lines
of Tubal-Kahn's armour plating. He had been left out to die. Namech knew that the Bearer
of Woe had meant for him to die. He knew that maybe he should have died.
But enough, thought Namech, voices in his mind raved of the things that
could have been.
Grahamakiah! The Bastard! Namech could see the Terminator-Armoured
Wordbearer move towards him. Protecting the Lord as usual, thought Namech. He could see
the seals and parchment of Grahamakiah's armour, proclaiming him as Tubal-Kahn's Exalted.
"I shall be risen," cried Namech. "Khorne shall feast on
your bones, Grahamakiah. I shall make of you a slaughter that even you would be proud
of!"
************
Vogelekk leaped at Nasri from a pile of
stones and concrete. He was in full sight of the Fallen Sorceror, his poweraxe gleaming in
the Antiukan night. But before Nasri could react, Sturgis charged from behind. The
Champion's powerfist dug deep into Nasri's back. Clutching for the heavens, Nasri reached
for Vogelekk before slumping onto the cold concrete. Sturgis pumped his bolt pistol,
emptying a full clip into the Fallen Angel.
While the aspiring Champion looked smugly at the silent corpse, Vogelekk
shook with rage and hatred.
"He was mine!! MINE!!"
Startled, Sturgis looked up as the ancient poweraxe of the Fallen
Runepriest came down. Ducking out of the way, Sturgis drew back his powerfist. Suddenly,
his body underwent hideous pain as the energy that had sustained him throughout his attack
on Nasri dissipated. It was all that the furious Vogelekk needed. His master-crafted
plasma pistol dropped the aspiring champion. Screaming and howling with inexhaustable
rage, Vogelekk hacked and cleaved the fallen Sturgis, his poweraxe biting and tearing and
rending the Champion into strands of flesh and puddles of blood. Squad Eliphal, who had
watched their Champion bravely kill the Fallen Angel, dropped to their knees, their minds
wrenching as the wild Runepriest's mind went beserk, cascading the area surrounding him
with raw Warp energy.
************
Grahamakiah brought the chainfist down upon
the Khornate Champion, hacking off most of Namech's right arm. But the demented Namech
became only more frenzied, his body shaking in convulsions, trembling with power.
Grahamakiah shoved his combiweapon into the Khornate's stomach, the blast of raw energy
sending Namech tumbling backwards into a lone wall admist the surrounding ruin. Although
chunks of his flesh and armour were now running out of him like a mountain spring, the
demented one got up to charge again.
As if on cue, two Wordbearers, both with Reapers, opened fire. The
blasts of the miniature missiles threw Namech back into the wall. The Khornate Vampire,
for that is what he had truly become, danced a sick jig as the Reapers ammo belts fed
round after round into him. Finally, the wall gave way, and Namech was thrown onto his
back, his silent body sprawled across a collapsed section of wall riddled with bullets
much like him.
Turning around, Grahamakiah watched in horrer as Blood Angels poured
onto Lord Tubal-Kahn and the Wordbearer Terminators that had remained at his side.
Tubal-Kahn's Exalted One recognized the ancient and forbidden weapon that was being
hoisted by a frenzied Chaplain.
There was nothing he could do.
************
Rumblings could be heard in the warp.
Frantic Astropaths launched and recieved thousands of desparate messages.
Abaddon.
Chaos.
Armaggedon.
The Imperium would not rest.
Ever.
************
The first waves of the Death Company had
been slaughtered wholesale by Tubal-Kahn's bodyguard. With combiweapons and heavy flamers
the Wordbearer Terminators had easily dispatched the frenzied loyalists.
But there had been too many. Forming a half circle between the dueling
Lords and the frenzied Blood Angels, the Wordbearers were giving way. Not even the mighty
plates of armour that had been worn into countless battles could stand up under the Death
Company's brutal assault. Powerfists and poweraxes pounded and cleaved the ancient suits
of armour. One by one Tubal-Kahn's warriors fell.
Even Grahamakiah's entry into the fray could not change things.
Tubal-Kahn's Exalted pounced upon the Death Company with unbelievable fury. Blood Angels
left and right fell either to his combiweapon or to his chainfist. Sickening noises could
be heard as chainblades bit deep into loyalist flesh.
But Grahamakiah could not make it to his Lord in time.
************
Blinding pain and a sensory-overwhelming
number of colours told Nasri that he had not been granted release from his pact with the
dark ones.
Vogelekk was no where in sight.
A dead Wordbearer laid beside him. Hacked to pieces, many floating in
the incredibly huge pool of blood that stretched beyond both the corpse and Nasri.
How nice, thought Nasri. I *did* kill my attacker, afterall; though I do
not remember doing it.
The Fallen Angel somehow managed to get to his hands and knees. Blood
soaked his dark green robes. Picking up his Force Rod, Nasri cursed Lord Tubal-Kahn before
staggering into the countryside, much like a drunk after closing hour.
The Fallen Sorceror noticed that familiar men were closing in.
They were clad in the same black armour as he.
The Sorceror passed out. The men carried him home.
************
Dante did not move. Tubal-Kahn started to
move in on the fallen Angel, to where Dante had landed after the Kahn's last blow, a
direct hit from his Lightning Claw that had slashed the Blood Angel's armour to ribbons of
metal and wire.
From out of nowhere rushed Chaplain Bushdu. Tubal-Kahn looked on in
astonishment as the Chaplain dove towards him. The power armoured Marine crashed into
Tubal-Kahn, slumping down to the Wordbearer's feet. Too busy with amusement over such an
unworthy trophy, Tubal-Kahn didn't notice the Blood Angels dragging Lord Dante away from
the scene. Blood Angels, in bright red armour.
All the Wordbearer Lord saw was the blinding flash of nothingness.
Vortex, cried Tubal-Kahn.
Vortex.
************
Grahamakiah looked on with horrer as the
Blood Angel Chaplain and Lord Tubal-Kahn simply disappeared from existence.
They had lost.
Already Grahamakiah could make out the racing forms of Imperial tanks.
Hellhounds and Marine speeders led the charge.
He had failed.
The Wordbearers instinctively clustered towards Grahamakiah. From a
distance the Exalted One could make out the blood soaked form of Vogelekk, standing with a
cadre of Sorcerors.
They knew what must be done.
Giant Warp Tunnels poured forth from the Chaos psykers. The remaining
Wordbearers lept into the blinding light leading back to the "Dead Hand Of
Authority". Even the Dreadnaught Arpachshad instinctively knew it was over, and so he
too walked into the flaring holes bored through real-space.
Grahamakiah and the Sorcerors were the last to go, leaving behind the
remnants of the Omahaus Cult. Even with light casualties among its armoured divisions, the
Cult was no match for the combined Imperial Guard/Blood Angels. Fighting would go on
sporadically for the days ahead, until finally being silenced by the loyalists, but the
fate of Cambodia had been determined the moment Grahamakiah left its bloodied earth.
************
Grahamakiah entered the throne room of the
"Dead Hand Of Authority" alone. He simply wanted to be alone with his thoughts
on the events that had just occured. As the space hulk had entered warp space, and
prepared for its return home, to the Galactic Core, his most senior men told of the
Imperial movements towards Armageddon, and of the forces of Abaddon and his Black Legion
already under way to start yet another Crusade.
But this Abaddon would have to do alone. The Wordbearers had relearned
the limits placed upon the minions of Chaos.
Looking up, Grahamakiah was surprised to see the Sororitas Sisters
already in the throne room. He had not seen them since the fighting in Antiuk began.
Tubal-Kahn had not allowed them to fight. They had been sulking the day the Wordbearer
Legion had teleported in-planet. His blood boiled at the thoughts of what they were doing
in revenge for being left behind. How dare...
Tubal-Kahn.
But how?
On the ancient throne of rock and metal sat his Lord. Motionless,
Tubal-Kahn sat as though he were dead. Light from the dozens of daemonically carved
candles lining the room played upon the Wordbearer Lord's face. But they, the columns that
stood out from the grey walls, the Sororitas; all of them were lost in the sight of
his Lord, oh so regal looking on his huge throne. For the first time, Grahamakiah noticed
a clean slate of rock on one side of the throne, not covered by the brass and gold
etchings that decorated the rest of its archaic sides, shimmering and dancing in the
falling candlelight.
Perhaps Tubal-Kahn shall add this battle, thought Grahamakiah.
We've lost the battle, Tubal-Kahn's Exalted thought, but we shall win
the war. He took his proper place at Tubal-Kahn's side. He said nothing. If his Lord
wanted him, he would make it known.
************
Silence enveloped the greying throne room.
Completely encased in the "Ancient of Ancients", his lavish Terminator Armour,
no one could see the tears running down the Kahn's face, pooling on the rest supports
underneath his scarred and battle-worn face.
I have lost Godhood. Tubal-Kahn repeated the phrase over and over in his
mind, silently replaying the events set in motion by the Despoiler so many days and nights
ago. Tubal-Kahn finally turned towards his Exalted Champion. Grahamakiah responded at his
Lord's first sign of life since entering the throne room. The Exalted One bowed towards
Lord Tubal-Kahn, signaling his readiness for whatever his Lord wished to be done.
"Whom the Gods kill," spoke the weary Lord, his voice rasping
and hissing, its metallic echo intensified by the huge throne room.
"*We are* whom the Gods kill, Grahamakiah. It is us."
Then no more. The silence of the ancient space hulk was punctuated only
by the prayers and sacrifices of the Wordbearers as they thanked their Gods, and their
Lord, for the blood they had shed, for the war they had waged, for the very existence that
they both hated and loved.
THE END.
Copyright 1997 by Jeffrey Arp. Much of the stuff in this
story is Trademarked and/or Property of Games Workshop, Inc. I'm not challenging them, and
I sure ain't making no money off 'em either! :)
Send comments, suggestions, questions, etc., to:
jeffwood@teknetwork.com
Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it.
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