Chapter 31: The Missing IXth (3: Godslayer) |
Part 3: Godslayer
Location: The Jormungandr, flagship of the Wild Hunt
Date: 896.M30, 5 hours after the beginning of the Battle of Formendacil
When the Wild Hunt entered into battle, they did so with the full force and fury of an entire legion. Quite a few comparisons were made to the Dawn Angels, actually, but while their shock-and-awe tactics might have had similarities on the surface, they were very different in their purpose and implementation.
The Wild Hunt might have struck as a legion, but their attacks were all done with pack tactics. Wound the prey, encircle them, and devour what remained. It was brutally, animalistically effective, genetically encouraged in humans since the days that the fought with sticks and stones.
Though the tactic was an effective one, in a battle taking place in the 31st millennium, something was needed to ensure that the hunter-killer packs of the Wild Hunt could get in place: a powerful opening blow to disrupt the enemy and remove their force multipliers.
For this battle, the target was an easy one: The Black Miasma must die. It was an abomination, the antithesis of everything that the Imperium of Man stood for. To pervert the human form, to farm it, mold it, and harvest it in such a horrific and alien manner was a crime deserving no less than the worst punishment possible. For Tyric Baldurson, he could think of no worse fate than being brought low at the moment of its grand reveal.
"Proceed at full speed towards the miasma. The faster you can make us, the better." he informed his helmsman. "When I have struck, task my sons with dividing their attention between killing this Rangda filth and helping our cousins in the Dawn Angels. The wounded members of the pack must not be left to suffer and die."
"At once, Great Primarch!" the man shouted, giving a crisp salute and returning to his duties. Almost imperceptibly, Tyric felt the massive flagship of the VIth Crusader Fleet begin to shoot forward.
"I take it this means you have a plan ready, my king?" one of his sons questioned as they marched down a corridor.
"What is my mantra when hunting the enemy?" Tyric asked, responding to the Astartes' question with one of his own.
"The greatest strength of the enemy also hides their greatest weakness." the Ulfsark responded, his wolfish teeth peeking out from behind his lips as he flashed a quick smile. "Take the forces of Chaos for instance. They are thoughts and emotions made manifest, a formidable foe. But that tie to emotion makes them hurt much more by intention and meaning than other enemies. Our righteous rage and desire to accomplish the hunt makes us perfect predators for such creatures."
"Well said." Tyric nodded. He enjoyed these dialogues with his sons. Though he embodied the role of a Nordic King, who were to a man, warriors famed for their savage battle tactics, they were also great thinkers and even scholars. Conversations such as these honed his sons' critical thinking skills, a necessary trait in any successful hunter.
"Do you know the fatal flaw of the Miasma?"
"I know its strength." the Astartes answered slowly. "It negates psychic powers in a massive radius around its form. I must admit, I cannot ascertain its weakness."
"You will in time." Tyric said with a kindly nod. "Now go and make ready the rest of my personal guard. I must confer with the Wyrd Callers."
The Ulfsark's jaw clenched as he bowed and departed. Though all of his sons accepted each other, the strange and sometimes magic-seeming powers of his psychic sons troubled the others.
Tyric Baldurson had been aboard the Vengeful Spirit for one of Horus' ritualistic ceremonies where his younger brother and his elite captains purged themselves of their guilt and sins. It was a beautiful ceremony, but the Slayer of Monsters had always found it to be a little… sparse. A ritual was about becoming more connected to the people around you, to commune with them on a physical, mental, and spiritual level.
Thus, the ritual chamber for the Wyrd Callers aboard the Jormungandr was a cluttered place, filled with incense, tapestries of great battles, and the bones of the great monsters they had slain over the years, with the throne that Tyric sat down upon being a testament to his own glory. Shortly upon arriving on the planet Fenris, he had slain a kraken emerging from the sea to prove his valor to all those who lived upon the Death World. The skull had been taken from the corpse and he sat down inside its cavernous maw, which dwarfed even the gigantic primarch.
His Wyrd Callers were a strange group when compared to the psyker corps of his brothers' legions. Fenris produced an abnormally large number of psykers and many of them were powerful ones at that. After an Imperial investigation, it was found that the psykers upon that planet tapped into something potent that they had dubbed the 'Spirit of Fenris'. But synthesizing the practices of Old Earth Shamans and Xeno ritual practices, they had been able to contact and harness a small fraction of the power the unusually potent World Spirit the planet possessed, a feature rarely found outside of Aeldari worlds.
While some of his brothers might have stamped out the practice, Tyric saw the wisdom in harnessing it and bringing it under the mantra of the Imperial Truth. Primitive notions of witchcraft were put to rest, and modern techniques were developed to better harness the power of the world. With an incredibly low rate of Chaotic corruption, the Wyrd Callers of Fenris proved capable enough to harness the spirit of their planet from over half the galaxy away. Though they would never rival one of the more psychically potent legions, they had a special weapon that no other Librarian Corp could hope to possess: they could tap into the spirit of other worlds if it was potent enough.
"Do you have something?" Tyric asked, settling into his throne as the Callers passed him a data slate with the information they had gathered.
"We do. The planet has a strong spirit of its own." the High Caller said triumphantly. "Formendacil means 'Victory in the North' in an old tongue. There was a great battle that was once fought here, with a proud tradition. The spirits who manifested from that are outraged at being used for such a dishonorable purpose. It yearns to help. It yearns to be free of the Rangdan Yolk."
"And its psychic signature?" the Primarch asked, hoping for the best.
"Different enough that we don't believe the Miasma is affecting it!" the Caller crowed. "You can't defend against what you don't know is there."
This was good. Very good. The Miasma was good at defending against psychic attacks, but only ones that it knew were there. A part of how its greatest strength held its greatest weakness, but only a part of it. There was more out there that Tyric planned on utilizing to achieve victory.
"But its spirit has been trapped for millennia." the Called continued. "We must sing to it in order to awaken its wrath and for you to channel its power, my Primarch."
They were not titled 'Wyrd Callers' as a throwaway. Song was a primal human conduit, meant to harness and channel the vast psychic power of the collective human consciousness. Not unlike what the Wild Hunt meant to do with the Spirit of Formendacil.
Ancient musical instruments, such as the horn, lur, and taggleharpa were brought out, as singers began to hum and incense was burned to heighten the mental state of the performers.
On his throne, Tyric Baldurson began to concentrate, trying to focus on the source of the power that called out for desperate release.
"Join with me, my brothers!" the High Caller shouted. "There are songs to be sung, battles to be fought, and wars to be won!"
And so the Wyrd Callers who were not playing instruments began to sway and shake, chanting and joining their voices to their leader's as they lent their powers to their Primarch.
Lo there, do I see my Emperor
Lo there, do I see my Primarch
Lo there, do I see the line of my Legion,
stretching back to the beginning
Lo do they call to me!
Our blood shall be shed
Steel painted red
A thousand brothers dead
Scavengers fast fed
Lo do they call to me!
And so the veil falls
Revealing the walls
Of cavernous halls
Always duty calls
Lo do they call to me!
The feasting is done
The fighting has begun
A saga shall be spun
Of battles won
Lo do they call to me!
I hear their command
Bidding me to take my place
Among them in the memories
of the Glorious Imperium
Lo do they call me home!
Where the brave may live forever!
Tyric Baldurson's eyes snapped open, filled with the power of an indignant planet. This was not his to keep and to protect, but to unleash, to revive and slay its jailers.
The VIth Primarch had always had a gift with cryomancy. It was natural to him, to take one of the most lethal forces in the galaxy and bend it to the will of the ultimate hunter, to turn the elements against his prey. As his mind's eye connected with the Spirit of Formendacil and bathed in its awesome power, he saw one of the outer planets in the system was home to a massive ice ring that rivaled that of Saturn's back in Sol.
"Are we moving at top speed?" Tyric asked through gritted teeth, desperately trying to keep a temporary lid on the power he possessed.
"Aye, my king." a Caller replied.
"Good. Maintain at all cost." the King of the Hunt instructed. "Divert energy from weapons systems if you need to. Keep those shields and those engines working at all costs!"
The VIth Fleet moved with incredible speed, the Primarch's flagship the fastest and foremost among them. As they passed the ringed gas giant, Tyric sent the power out from his body and bade it to immerse itself in the icy comets. Slowly, massive amounts of the ring's debris began to congregate in front of the fleet, pulled away from the planet by Tyric's psychic might, aided by the spirit of this system.
As more and more debris began to arrive, the amorphous mass began to take shape. First legs began to appear, two sets of four that bore the carnivore traits common on Old Earth. Then the bodies took shape, though on a massive scale, each being easily the size of the Jormungandr itself. An impossible task, except for the great power being channeled through the Wyrd Callers and their Primarch.
Finally, two wolf heads formed, howling and snarling their desire to slay in their maker's name. It was a formidable display of psychic power, to form two wolves from the ice and rock of a planet's rings and to make them the size of a Gloriana-class battleship, but the Wild Hunt did not shy away from the use of psyker powers in pursuit of their quarry, and this would be an excellent tool for a powerful opening blow.
"Skol. Hati." Tyric commanded, his voice blazing with power that radiated Anathemic energy. "You are the avatars of a power long imprisoned and oppressed. Deliver justice and vengeance. Slay my enemies in the Emperor's name!"
The wolves howled in the depths of space, their psychic echoes being heard even on the fields of Formendacil where a broken primarch battled with a House Lord. They surged forward, using the momentum of the fleet to add to their own speed as they tore through the system in a crazed fury.
Some of the Randgan War-Worms emerged to greet them, but any attempts to devour them were met only with a mouthful of ice and rock that provided no purchase at killing either of the two Void Wolves. If a worm tried to tear at their flanks, the spirits simply turned their charge ever so slightly and bisected their new opponent, barely even halting their gate as they sprayed viscera into the coldness of space. The charge towards the Black Miasma was inexorable, and much of the Rangdan Fleet was lost before whatever alien mind commanded the battle fleet called for a retreat, trusting in their new superweapon to deliver them from this new foe.
The Black Miasma was designed for just an attack. Psychic powers had no purchase on an orb tissue cloned from billions of psychically void humans. Anything that passed into its invisible radius was separated from all psychic power. For most humans, this resulted in an unsettling discomfort, perhaps even mild headaches as their body told them something was terribly wrong, even if they could not comprehend what it was. For a psyker, it is being cut off from the soul itself, with all but the strongest willed reduced to gibbering madness and bleeding eyes. Any psychic powers suffer worst of all. Their existence ceases to exist, as the laws of reality reassert themselves in the most unpleasant manner.
This was the fate that met the two Void Wolves as they charged into range of the Black Miasma. One second they were there, the next second any psychic hold they had upon their physical form was gone, and the wolves dissipated into clouds of ice and stone. Skol and Hati were no more, once again returning to the realm of legends from whence they came.
But that was the second part of Tyric's plan to defeat the Black Miasma. It was a creature designed to defeat psychic attacks. Physical threats would be dealt with by the fleet. A fleet that had just been scattered by the Wolves' attacks. Though the wolves were gone, the debris they had consisted of was very much physical in form, and hurtled towards the Black Miasma at the same supersonic speed as the Jormungander was, traveling with the inertia that remained even if the psychic force propelling it had vanished.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Tyric crowed, reveling in his impending attack. "It appears that the laws of physics still reign supreme. And Ayesacc Newthon is still the deadliest bastard in space!"
Rangdan ships tried to intercept the twin debris missiles, but the clouds were so vast and the ships so relatively small that only a small fraction of the ice and rock were diverted by impacts with enemy ships. Even that was a benefit, for it would be one less ship for the Wild Hunt to destroy in the next phase of the battle.
In the end, it was over pathetically quickly. The Black Miasma was a supporting weapon, never designed to experience combat on the front lines. It had no propulsion, and no armor, only flailing tendrils of pariah flesh that wiggled helplessly in the void. Two Gloriana-sized masses of debris impacted the moon-sized abomination, tearing through the flesh like a power axe through wet vellum. With each second, more and more of the debris impacted the surface, and the less power the Miasma had to impede psychic power. What the remnants of the Void Wolves did not accomplish, the VIth fleet did, raining down hive spire-sized shells onto the defenseless structure and reducing it to atoms with other, more esoteric weapons borrowed from the XIVth Legion for operations such as these.
The opening salvo of the Wild Hunt had been ridiculously effective, removing the Rangda's greatest weapon and destroying many of their other force multipliers. Now what remained was to secure the void above the planet and start sending advanced parties of ground troops. The prey had been wounded, but the hunt was not over. Now was the most dangerous time, when the wounded animal lashed out with the desperation and fury of one that has nothing left to lose.
"Prepare my armor, ready the telportation chamber, and assemble the Daughters of Sigirdifa for drop insertion." Tyric commanded, rising from the Kraken Throne and exiting the chamber, barking orders and serfs who were running to and fro preparing for the next phase of action.
"Will you be joining the battle yourself, oh great Primarch?" a serf asked, tasking a servitor with making sure that the arms and armor of the VIth Primarch to be ready at a moment's notice.
"I shall." Tyric replied with a nod. "My brother is in great need of me, and I shall not be found wanting. The Rangda shall regret ever trying to kill a Primarch of Mankind, if their kind even know what remorse is."
"But even if they don't I vow that they shall know fear by the time I am through with them." he added darkly as he stalked down the corridor, making sure that final preparation for his insertion went smoothly.
Location: Formendacil, Top of Processing Spire #3521
Date: 896.M30
It was a miracle beyond all hope. The mass of pariah flesh that plagued him and his sons was gone. Dante had called out for deliverance and so it had come.
No, this was no miracle. the Angel chided himself. Humanity needs no miracles. We need only each other, and that is what has happened here today.
Still, he could not help. His wings were torn, lying next to him in a bloody mess of feathers and flesh. The avatar of Opus Jorith was distracted, gazing up at the destruction of the Black Miasma with what could only pass as shock and disbelief.
Despite Tyric's best efforts, Dante was still going to die here. It was too late for him. Though the Wild Hunt would once again prove their mettle and affirm their place as the Emperor's Hunters, the Dawn Angels and their Primarch had fallen short. And woe be to the galaxy, which must bear the tremendous weight of his failure in bloodshed and misery.
Then he saw a small flicker of golden light out of the corner of his eyes. Though his body was half dead, he managed to roll over and look behind him to see a figure clad in golden armor. It held a goblet of blood in one hand and a sword of incredible beauty and lethality in the other. Its mask was a rictus of pain and death, and a single tear of blood was visible, slowly falling lower and lower on its face without ever dropping.
The face… the face on this death mask was his own! How was this possible?
This is not who you are, Dante Uriael.the figure said, pointing the sword in an accusing manner at the fallen Primarch. Its voice was his own, but so vastly different. Tempered by untold loss, despair, and courage. This was not Dante's voice, but the voice of what he could become.
"What are you?" he croaked, the words barely passing his lips, for he feared his throat had been crushed by one of the Jorith avatar's attacks.
I am you, but you are not me. it thundered. You are not even yourself. This must end. I am a Sanguior without a progenitor. You are a painter gone blind, a composer gone deaf, a warrior without hands to wield his sword! You must remember who you are. What are you meant to be? Who are you?
It held out a hand, but did not stoop down to assist him. If Dante was to reach it, he would have to stand on his own.
Kill the Primarch. Sanguinor intoned. Kill the Primarch, and let the Legend be born. Who are you?
With strength he did not even know he possessed, the IXth Primarch rose to his feet. His eyes blazing with psychic power he reached out and grasped his echo from another timeline. The Sanguinor's eyes flared with the same golden light as his did, setting forth one final challenge.
Who are you?
This time, Dante knew the answer. He had always known the truth, even confronted it. But now he was ready. Ready to fulfill the duty and the destiny that was laid out before him in all its radiant splendor.
I AM SANGUINIUS
An aura of psychic light enveloped him, holding him and embracing him within its awesome power. Once more, the power and purpose of his alternate self filled his physical form. His wings regrew from his back, psychically restored to a glory he had never known before in his life. His body felt stronger, more filled with glory and duty than it ever had before. This was how he was meant to be. Dante Uriael was no more. Now he was Sanguinus, the Avenging Angel of Humanity.
The psychic supernova happening mere feet away did not go unnoticed by Opus Jorith. The avatar turned its form back once more, looking at the Primarch with an indecipherable posture and expression.
HOW IS IT THAT YOU HAVE REGAINED, NO, IMPROVED YOUR FORM? THIS IS NEW DATA TO US.
Sanguinius' only response was to pick up his two fallen blades and adopt an defensive stance, the cruel sword Mephiston outstretched and mocking his opponent to come forward.
"The only answer I shall give is one written in steel!" he challenged.
SO BE IT. I SHALL PRY ALL THE INFORMATION WE REQUIRE FROM YOUR CORPSE.
The avatar struck a blow so fast that it was an almost imperceptible blur, but Sanguinius was empowered by a trillion souls, praying that their saviors would arrive before their tormentors did. A trillion more cried out for a quick vengeance for those that had been lost to the cruel twists of fate that the galaxy had visited upon their loved ones. With such prayers being offered up, how could Sanguinius be slow? How could any being who answered to such a calling ever be found wanting?
It was almost easy to deflect the avatar's strike when it finally did reach him. A slight shifting of his footwork here, an upward push of his new wings there, he could finally match Opus Jorith in this duel.
And then he struck back, dealing a blow upon the avatar that caused the House Lord itself to reel back, its titanic form making the ground beneath its feet tremble as it flailed backwards, unaccustomed to pain.
On and on they fought, the Legend and the Avatar. With his new destiny upon him, Sanguinius found that this abhorrent creature was no match for him. Soon his first wound upon the avatar was joined by a cut upon the creature's torso. Then another upon its weaponized limb, severing the sword-like attachment with surgical precision. The final blow came when Sanguinius buried his twin swords into the avatar's head as it slumped to the ground and collapsed, defeated at last. Opus Jorith itself let out a scream of pain and rage that caused several Astartes fighting nearby to bleed from the ears, such was the volume and pressure from its death screech.
Much like its avatar, it slumped to the ground, falling onto its knees, or at least what passed for such by human anatomical standards. It knelt as if dazed, imperceptive of its surroundings. Much of its essence had been put into its avatar, and it would take time for it to recover and resume its higher functions. Time that Sanguinius vowed to not give it.
The IXth Primarch gathered himself and moved to take flight, but collapsed screaming in pain before he could do so. The duel had not been kind to his new form either, for while he had not been touched by the avatar since merging with Dante, the Ascendant Primarch's body was not quite ready to receive his spirit.
Dante was a young thing by the standard of Primarchs and their deeds. Centuries of time had passed for Sanguinius when he was alive, and almost ten thousand years had passed since he became a spirit, and in those years, uncounted souls had prayed to him for deliverance. That resulted in a great deal of psychic power, and that was a power which Dante was still not ready for. He had made great strides since they had first tried to merge at Hossak, but it was still not time. To continue to stay within Dante would be to kill him, and so Sanguinius wailed an anguished cry and departed once again, leaving Dante Uriael as a burned and broken thing, just as injured as his House Lord foe. The wings he had psychically regrown would remain, but he was incapable of taking flight, or even standing upright, for the near future.
Such limitations did not apply to Opus Jorith. An hour after the two of them fell to the ground, stunned by their pain, the gargantuan House Lord began to stir once again. Slowly, but more and more surely as each second passed, it rose to its feet and began to move towards the Primarch. Though moving, and seemingly victorious, there was no gloating this time. No arrogance or apathy were present as the House Lord strode over to its prize. Opus Jorith did not rise to the top of a Rangda House by being foolish, and trusting that such a powerful foe was utterly defeated would be the height of foolishness.
That paranoia was well-founded, but not for the reason that the House Lord thought.
Cra-KOOM
A lance of pure psychic power screamed towards him, and the Fleshforger was only bared able to raise an amorphous limb to deflect the shot, sending it exploding into the ground where it raised a cloud of soil at least two stories tall where it impacted.
Cra-KOOM
Cra-KOOM
Cra-KOOM
Almost before it could collect itself, more shots were heard, firing at a rapid pace and forcing some of the shots to hit home, finding purchase in Jorith's body. The bolts weren't of a physical origin, and the House Lord looked down with something resembling dread as its flesh was sluggish in responding to commands to heal itself.
With the processing power of thousands of assimilated minds, the House Lord determined the shots were too close together to come from one source. Multiple new enemies were bearing down upon its location. Scanning the horizon, it spotted them, and that small feeling of dread began to intensify.
These newcomers were almost as tall as he was, and they were calling for his blood through vox speakers that could be heard even from the distance between them.
Location: Formendacil, A Mountain Range 1 Mile Southeast of Processing Spire #3521
Date: 896.M30
The world of Fenris is in possession of a powerful world spirit, something that not even the greatest psykers outside of perhaps Malcador and the Emperor of Mankind himself have any true understanding of. What is known is that such a world spirit results in the development of an unusually high number of incredibly potent psykers.
On normal Imperial worlds, those psykers are a mandatory part of the planet's yearly tribute, with the infamous Black Ships coming to take them away to countless classified training centers to be instructed on responsible and safe ways to use their powers. On an Astartes recruiting world, however, no such tribute is collected. The toll paid by the flesh of annual recruits into the Adeptus Astartes is considered enough of a price by the Imperium. This means that most, if not all of the male psykers on an Astartest recruiting world are inducted into their respective legions, serving careers as a librarian, vital pieces of the Imperium's war machine.
This leaves the question of what to do with the female psykers on such worlds. Some Primarchs elect to surrender them to the Black Ships anyway, deciding that this is the safest path forward for all parties involved. Others simply leave them be, keeping a close eye on them and waiting for their bloodlines to produce male offspring that will be inducted into their legions. And then there are those like Tyric Baldurson, who see the daughter of Fenris as possessed with a warrior's spirit equal to those of their male counterparts. Though they cannot become Astartes, psyker legions of Fenrisian women are a common enough auxiliary company on battlegrounds the Wild Hunt may find themselves on. But for those women who show themselves to be among the strongest and most iron-willed of all their brethren, there is another fate that can be theirs if they choose.
The Dark Age of Technology saw many of the greatest inventions of mankind be forgotten or corrupted, but there are some small, scant number of STCs that exist into the 31st millennium, and a small number of those have provided instruction for incredibly lethal weapons of war.
One of the most classified of all these weapons is the schematics for a special type of Titan-class combat walker, colloquially dubbed a Psi-Titan for its ability to harness the psychic power of its princeps in order to unleash weapons of indescribable potency. Many a battle in the Great Crusade has been decided because of a legion of Psi-Titans and the awesome destruction they have unleashed upon the Imperium's enemies. Though it is a closely guarded secret of the Imperial Army, it is commonly rumored that each Astartes Legion has at least one accompanying legion of Psi-Titans, crewed by some of the most powerful psykers in the entire Imperium.
For the Wild Hunt, their Psi-Titans are crewed by the best female psykers on Fenris brave enough to answer the call of their Primarch and Emperor to serve until their duty ends with their death. They are called the 'Daughters of Sigirdifa', named after an ancient deity of Fenris whose name loosely translates to the phrase 'Driver of Victory'. And victory the Daughters drove home, time after time. Whenever they take the battlefield, it is to utterly annihilate whatever enemy Tyric has directed them towards. Greater Demons, Abominable Intelligences, and utterly unknowable Xeno Behemoths have all fallen to their psi-cannons, and a House Lord of the Rangdan Empire would be no exception.
With Tyric Baldurson leading them in his personal Land Raider, the Titans unleashed volley after volley of energy, wounding the House Lord over and over again. Silhouetted against the nearby mountain range, the xeno monster took round after round. It would appear to grow weaker before stretching out its hand. Contaminated Rangdan flesh formed a steady, ink-black stream flowing towards the House Lord, healing its wounds with new flesh and occasionally causing its frame to grow. In this war of attrition, Tyric knew they would eventually lose. The psychic powers of the Daughers of Sigirdifa were not limitless, and there was more Rangdan flesh on Formendacil than there was psychic power in the women of Fenris. Something had to be done, and though Tyric knew what he must do, he was loath to do it.
Opening the hatch of his Land Raider, the Slayer King climbed out and stood facing his latest foe, now skeletal in appearance and covered in milky-white fluid and writhing infestations. In the Emperor's name, such a monster could not be allowed to survive! How many more lives would it take if it was allowed to live? How much longer would Imperial victory be delayed if it wasn't exterminated here and now? Tyric had to kill it, or rather make it kill itself, and the weapon he was going to use would be one of the most dreaded of its kind in the known galaxy.
Almost all Primarchs were happy upon receiving their gift from the Emperor. Even sullen and practical Perturabo had eventually seen the wisdom in having the Eye of Terror. Alone among his brothers was Tyric, who looked upon his gift with pure and unadulterated loathing.
Gungir, the Dionysian Spear, was the gift that the Emperor had seen fit to gift his sixth born son. Though outwardly appearing to be a normal, if exquisitely crafted blade of auramite and adamantium, it was actually a metaphysical weapon designed to expose all those who touched it to the Truth. Not just any truth, but The Truth, the perfect truth. Known to be able to redeem the lost, break minds, and destroy daemons, it was one of the most potent weapons in the entire Imperium, easily rivaling Eddard's own Titansword or Horus' Longinus.
Yet Tyric also had to touch the weapon in order to use it, and the Truth that it showed him often troubled the Primarch. There was no choice however. If his brother's life was to be saved, and victory was to be his, Gungir must once again be unleashed.
He gripped the spear tightly in his hand as he aimed it at his towering opponent. It was freezing in his hand, for the Truth was often cold and uncomfortable. The physical sensation of the weapon was soon muted by the visions that threatened to drown him.
*A pair of golden hands, plunging into nothingness and plucking him out*
*Form. Flesh and form given unto him.*
*He was hunter, he was hunted. He was barbaric, he was noble*
*Mountains of corpses underneath him. More mountains still to be piled up*
*They look upon me in fear. I am a monster that they fear when they fall asleep*
*Brothers divided. Brothers at odds and distrustful. Mad at him, mad at father. It's all coming apart*
*THE ERLKING COMES! THE ERLKING COMES! THE ERLKING COMES!*
With a mighty roar, he swam through the drowning tide of visions and threw his spear. He did not worry about whether or not he had hit his target. The spear had shown him the corpse of Opus Jorith among those he had slain, and The Truth was by its very nature, never wrong.
Gungir struck true, a tiny speck in the eye of a giant, but this was no ordinary speck. Almost as soon as the spear hit, Opus Jorith fell to its knees once again, cradling what appeared to be its hands in its head.
NO. THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE. THIS CANNOT BE.
It rose again, roaring in terror instead of fury this time, crashing into the mountain and shattering its top before trying to impale itself upon the jagged remnants of its summit.
MAKE IT STOP. I DID NOT KNOW. I WAS DECEIVED. WE ALL WERE. KILL ME. KILL ME NOW!
Tyric was not inclined to fulfill its last request, and informed the Daughters to hold their fire. This monster deserved whatever it was suffering through at the moment. Let it feel the full weight of exactly how terrible its crimes were.
In the end, it was Opus Jorith itself that ended its suffering. With one last horrible shriek, it seized up and fell backwards with a monstrous crash. As it did so, it began to dissolve, black particles floating away on gusts of wind that soon dissipated beyond even that. Opus Jorith, the Forgemaster and House Lord of the Rangda, was gone. Reduced to atoms by the horror of its own existence.
All across Formendacil, the Rangdan infection reacted poorly to the House Lord's demise. Suddenly severed from their mutual connection to one another, all of which had been routed through Opus Jorith, the viral forms found themselves cut off from the Warp energy they had used to sustain their forms and functions. Though they did not dissolve and float away as their leader had, every single Rangdan viral form on Formendacil, from the greatest Omniphage to the lowliest nutrient fluid, died within seconds of one another.
Dawn Angels and Wild Hunt legionnaires looked at each other with a mixture of shock and relief. Their battle was over. They had won. The cost was grievous, but victory was theirs all the same.
As one, they dropped their weapons and let out a triumphal roar. Once again, the Imperium was triumphant, in one of its costliest yet most important battles in the history of the Rangdan Crusade.
The battle was won. Victory was theirs.
Location: Hanger One onboard the Seraphim
Date: 897.M30
"Are you sure you will not change your mind?"
Dante did not even bother looking at his brother as he spoke. For six months now, Tyric had tried to persuade him to return to Terra, or at least to Baal, to take stock of his legion and begin the slow process of rebuilding. And for six months, he had been unsuccessful. Today would be no different.
"Brother." Dante said kindly. "There is nothing you can say to make me plot a different course."
"How about gratitude." Tyric joked. "We cared for your sick and injured, rebuilt your precious flagship as well as its escort party. We've been off the war campaign for over half a solar year now. Do you know how hard that is for my legion?"
"And I am grateful for all those things!" Dante countered. "But consider your six month absence. Mine has stretched on for years. Years, brother. The shame is unimaginable. No, we both received the news: data from Formendacil has finally allowed us to trace the location of Rangda Prime. Eddard is on the move, and the IXth Legion will not be found lacking. We will join him in his crusade once more and pay back the Rangda for what they did to us here tenfold."
"Brother, you neither have the men nor the supplies for an extended campaign!" Tyric exclaimed. "Go back, regroup and reconfigure. You might miss out on Rangda Prime, but there is still more glory in being alive and unpraised than being honored and dead."
"Perhaps we cannot make war like I would prefer to." Dante mused. "But our expertise is invaluable. Nobody knows the Rangda like my legion, and supporting companies of my children will do well in the legions of those of us assigned to Rangda Prime."
"I really can't convince you, can I?"
"No… you really can't."
"Well then, my work here is done." Tyric said, nodding in resignation and embracing his brother before motioning for the doors to his Stombird to be opened so he could return to his own flagship. "The hunt calls to me, and I cannot resist its sweet song anymore. Take care, little brother, and know that I shall always be there to rescue you if you ever run into trouble again. And really, it's no trouble. Say a rebelling human colony bests your legion, don't you feel ashamed in asking for help. Eddard might say something, but not me. Your secret is safe with me. No matter how weak you are or become, I'll always be there to save you."
"And with that, I think you have officially overstayed your welcome." Dante said laughing, shaking his head and giving a dismissive wave of his hand. "Be gone with you, and don't come back until you've had your fill of the hunt, if that's even possible!"
Tyric let out a barking laugh at that, so loud that it even carried over the roaring start of his ship's engines.
"You know, you almost have it!" he called out, causing Dante to stop and turn back to listen. "When you said.. well, his name. You were so close."
"Close only counts for Vortex Grenades." Dante shot back, hoping his humor would mask his own insecurities about this subject.
Tyric was a hunter though, and saw right through the deception.
"You were close!" he replied firmly, almost shouting over the engines. "Give it time. You'll get there, I know you will. Because there used to be one thing I believed in without hesitation. Now there are two. The first in the righteousness of Father's plan. The other is you."
Before letting his brother get a word in, Tyric slammed the hatch shut and his Stormbird took off, soaring over to the Jormungander so they could travel to whatever far-flung place the crusade took them.
"Thank you, brother." Dante murmured, moving to a outward facing window and looking at the disappearing outline of his brother's ship against the void. "I mean it."
"I believe in you too."