Chapter 32: Tales from the Ullanor Crusade (4) |
Chapter 32: Tales from the Ullanor Crusade
Part 4
Creation and Destruction
Two figures walked across the ashen and irradiated desert towards the Ork fortifications. Though both were giants, one easily towered over the other. He was resplendent in his purple armor, its deep royal color accentuating the golden trim and golden eagle feather jutting off of his right pauldron. Though his smaller companion kept his helmet which signified his position as the standard-bearer of the Phoenix Blades, the giant wore none himself. It allowed all who saw him to recognize his face on sight, and would be a subtle hint to his enemies that he was made of sterner stuff than he first appeared. That would serve him well for the task he had set before himself today.
"I would be remiss in my duty if I did not protest this one more time, father." Rylanor said, his tone indicating that this was not a new discussion that he was engaging in. "The reward is great, but the risk is greater. Your sons are ready to fight and die in service to you and the Imperium."
Iskandar Basileus looked at his son and herald with a sad smile on his face, reminiscent of a parent with a child that cannot quite understand their actions. Still, he was so proud of his son. The protection of his Primarch was second in the mind of Rylanor only behind the survival of the Imperium itself. Small wonder he was apprehensive about what his genefather was about to do.
"I understand your concern, leal Rylanor, truly I do." the Emperor's Champion assured him, placing a massive gauntleted arm on his son's shoulder. "But this will prevent thousands of deaths. Look at your brothers. Look at how few there are compared to your cousin legions. We have always been, and will always be, a legion of champions. We believe that the single warrior may change the tide of battle so that many will be saved. I cannot defy the ideology that I imposed myself. Think of all the lives that I may save."
Rylanor could see the truth in his father's words there. Imperial forces had only just made base camps on the other side of the planet, and already they had paid a heavy toll to secure their relatively meager position. Even worse than the Astartes casualties were those of the Solar Auxilia that had accompanied the Phoenix Blades to this world. Tens of thousands would never live to see their families again, and the logisticians knew that the figure would only increase unless something drastic happened.
It was with this mentality that the Lord of the III Legion took a single Stormbird and his most beloved herald and flew to the other continent of the planet that the Orks had labeled 'Da Wyrd Wun'. On most worlds, it would have been suicide to do such a thing. Anti-ship rockets would have blow their shuttle out of the sky, but this world was equal parts unique and horrifying. Feral Orks made up almost the entirety of the planet's denizens, used as a staging ground for newly upgraded 'Mork Tunnels' to transport them across the Ullanor Empire to act as shock troops where the Great Beast needed them the most. There were no rockets, no rifles or 'trukks' to worry about, but the savagery these ferals fought with was enough to kill far too many forces of the Imperium. Clearly this Beast Boss was affecting them somehow, and Iskandar meant to put a stop to it.
The pair eventually arrived outside of a massive fortress that was both hideous in its crude simplicity, and terrifyingly imposing. Savagery dripped, sometimes literally, from every spike and painted Ork skull that dotted the barricades. Rudimentary camps dotted the land surrounding the fortress, savage Orks poking at squig meat looked up at them, evil and beady eyes widening in shock at the sight of their new enemy.
A few managed to break free from their stupor and raise their weapons as they charged forward. Rylanor moved in front of his Primarch to greet them as they came. Such a fight was beneath him, and it would show that those who followed Iskandar were capable of mighty feats on their own. How much greater then, would the prowess of the III Primarch be?
He dispatched them with almost contemptible ease, with only a single one of their blades, sharper than the others on account of its owner obsessively honing its edge, making a superficial scratch upon his left pauldron. Rylanor had come bearing only a combat knife, for it was not proper for a herald to be heavily armed for war. He elected not to use even that, choosing instead to bash the faces in with his gauntleted fists. It was quick, it was bloody, and it was above all pleasing. Let them see that there was still savagery behind the nobility, let them see that even in small numbers, the Legiones Astartes were still to be feared.
When the immediate Orks were dealt with, Rylanor switch on his vox speakers within his helmet. It had been specially modified by the Mechanicum assigned to the III Legion to project his voice over a tremendous range. Unaugmented eardrums could easily be shattered by the volume and force emanating from the helmet, and the Herald of the Phoenix felt no compulsion to reduce that level just for the Feral Orks' sake.
"I SPEAK ON BEHALF OF ISKANDAR BASILEUS OF THE IMPERIUM OF MANKIND!" he thundered, Orks nearby fell to their knees clutching their heads as blood oozed from their ears. Iskandar himself seemed to be wholly unaffected by the display, simply readying his uru-blade for any additional attacks that the Feral Orks might have attempted, though they seemed in no state to do so.
"HE IS THE PRIMARCH OF THE PHOENIX BLADES, THE RISING PHOENIX, THE EMPEROR'S CHAMPION!" he continued. "YOUR SAVAGE KIND IS WELL KNOWN FOR THEIR CRUEL ENJOYMENT OF FIGHTING THE BIGGEST AND THE MOST FEARSOME. HERE HE STANDS BEFORE YOU! LET YOUR BEAST COME AND FIGHT HIM! LET ALL OF YOU KNOW ONCE AND FOR ALL WHO IS THE BADDEST KILLER ON THIS PLANET AND IN THE WHOLE GALAXY!"
There was a pause, as all who heard the news processed the information. The brutes took quite a bit of time, and in the end, most of them simply scratched their heads and decided trying to figure out the fancy words was a little too difficult for them. Instead, they turned and looked at the gates, waiting for their leader to respond.
Eventually, the gates opened, and the path forward was clear. No Orks came to the gates to greet them, but neither were there any blocking their path. With a shrug, Iskandar briskly marched forward into the waiting jaws of the Orks. Rylanor couldn't help but feel his fists clench so hard it made the ceramite groan. If the Orks tried to attack them now… it would be a bloodbath. Iskandar might survive, but he certainly wouldn't. He needed to trust his genefather, but there was only so much the mind could do against millennia of a species' survival instinct.
The path Iskandar walked down led to a throne in the middle of an open fighting pit. The skull of some massive beast formed the basis for the seat upon which a truly massive Ork sat. A touch over three meters tall, this brute stared at the Primarch of the Phoenix Blades with an intelligence that was leagues above whatever semi-insane rabble it had amassed around it. Unlike the other Beast Bosses that Iskandar had seen picts and hear reports on, this one was draped in all sorts of mystical trophies, skulls and pieces of fabric that dripped with psychic power. An ancient staff made out of some unidentified black wood leaked acrid smoke that made Rylanor think of bloodshed without end whenever he got a faint whiff of the fumes. The Herald of the Phoenix could see he was not alone in this feeling. The Orks that smelled it seemed to become even more wild. If it was possible, the appeared to become even less intelligent than before, and muscles seemed to swell under the surface of their skin as it groaned from the extra mass beneath it.
Like some ancient mythical hero of legend, Iskandar stood proud and defiant in front of the throne, and leveled his blade at the creature who sat atop it. In future centuries, engraved images of the posture would adorn many propaganda works created by the third legion, including a slab of granite in the Primarch's personal quarters.
"I have a herald who announced who I was, foul creature." Iskandar said. "Are you worthy to cross blades with me?"
The Beast on top of the throne tapped one of the nearby Orks, a specimen that seemed to possess a small bit of rationality more than the rest of its comrades. The moment the staff hit its head, it cleared its throat and began to introduce its master.
"Uh, dis 'here is Da Warp Spewa!" it bellowed, gesturing to the grinning figure above it. "He… uh… he spews Da Warp! He's da weirdest of da wyrd! And 'es da biggest and da baddest around! Next in line after the Beast of Beasts. Especially since you lot killed a lot of da others an-"
Da Warp Spewa swung his staff with frightening speed, twisting the neck of his hapless subordinate and let its body fall down the steps without another look at it. The beast rose from his seat and descended the steps, power crackling in his eyes as he did so. He stopped a mere meter away from the Primarch and looked at him with eyes that betrayed his cunning brutality, or perhaps his brutal cunning.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have my boys cut down you and your whelp, human." he sneered.
"For one, you should prove how strong you are to your 'boys'." Iskandar replied, scorn evident in his voice. "Another reason is that with me dead, my troops won't know what to do. They'll leave you and this planet in peace."
"And third, if you can even count that high, is that you're aching for a proper fight."
It was all that Da Warp Spewa needed to hear. With a mighty roar, he raised his staff up high and brought it down hard, creating a small crater in the ground where it impacted only a fraction of a second after Iskandar moved out of range. The Primarch was one of the greatest duelist among all of the Primarchs, and showed it here, striking quickly as the hulking brute left its side exposed for a moment as the shock of the blow reverberated across the ground.
It was a tough thing, this Beast, and it was not a slow creature either. It raised an arm to block the strike and while the uru-blade pieced its forearm, it only went in a small amount. Thick skin, coiled muscle, and a body built to withstand truly titanic amounts of punishment combined to make for an opponent that would be tough even for a Primarch to take down.
Tough, but not impossible.
Iskandar flashed another brilliant smile and with a mental command he caused the uru-blade to transform into its whip configuration. It wrapped around the Beast's arm and began to contrict, but once again the expertly crafted biology of the Ork allowed it to shrug off the normally crippling blow with barely any effort. No matter what Iskandar seemed to do, the damage was minimal.
He would win, that much was certain, but it would take hours that he did not have, and Iskandar didn't want to test the patience of the Feral Orks and have them grow bored of a boring fight and decide to gang up on the Primarch and his son. As powerful as he was with that cursed staff, Iskandar could tell that the Ork's true power lay in the realm of the Immaterium. No matter how hard it tried, it would never be able to him in a true duel. Iskandar was simply too fast. Not that Da Warp Spewa saw things that way. The stupid monster didn't see it that way, though. It would keep trying to smack him over and over again, without ever realizing it was fighting a doomed battle.
No, that wouldn't do. And failure wasn't an option. So Iskandar took the only remaining route open to him, one that many of his brothers wouldn't have even thought to entertain: he was going to lose on purpose.
His next parry was just a touch too slow, and Da Warp Spewa roared with glee as the blackened staff crashed into the Primarch's skull. No amount of bioengineering could possibly withstand such a forceful blow, and his brains splattered all over the Beast and the surrounding dirt. A roar went up from the orks watching the spectacle, and the 'Wyrdboy' turned around to display the gory marks of his victory to those that followed him.
Rylanor alone seemed unaffected by the demise of his Primarch, not even flinching as a small bit of his father's blood landed on his feet. Even as the Ferals Orks moved closer and closer to his position, he paid them little attention. He was waiting for the next act of the plan to begin.
With a flash of brilliant golden light, Iskandar's face fully regenerated, looking no worse for wear than it had when he strode into the camp. Da Warp Spewa was still in the full throes of his celebration when the uru-blade vainly attempted to skewer him in the chest. The duel was back on, only increasing in fervor.
But even with proof of his reincarnation, the monster did not fully open himself to the Warp. Oh to be sure, it called upon the powers of that fell dimension to increase his reflexes, but that would only serve to prolong the duel. The poor thing was even able to land a few legitimate blows that did minimal damage, the same that Iskandar had inflicted on it. And so Iskandar let himself die a few more times. And after having his heart stabbed, his spine crushed, and his head stabbed, it seemed like the foreign concept of logic was finally making its way through the very thick skull that Da Warp Spewa possessed.
After pulling both arms and both legs off of Iskandar and leaving his armor badly compromised, only to see the Primarch come back to life again, caution was finally overridden by frustration. As yet another flash of light burst forth from the Primarch's body, the Wyrdboy finally opened up his soul, or whatever passed for one among the Greenskins, and a torrent of fire erupted from his fingertips.
Finally seeing his opportunity, the III Primarch touched the Singer's Talisman, a golden crescent-shaped scar of metal on his now exposed chest. Just like it had upon Proxima, the talisman flared to life and infused Iskandar with all of the creative energy that humanity had put into their craft. Da Warp Spewa might have been formidable in its mastery of the Warp, but Iskandar was the incarnation of all the hopes and fears that humanity had ever dreamed of through all of the years of their imagination. Much like their physical combat, this simple Beast was no match for his mastery of the Immaterium. But this defeat would be a great deal quicker, and leave a much more lasting impression.
Magenta and golden light streamed from Iskandar's pores as he stood up defiantly, seemingly unaffected by the inferno surrounding him. Many of the surrounding orks had to turn away, such was the brilliance of the sight, with some even yelping in pain as they scampered away due to the high temperatures.
Da Warp Spewa looked equal parts puzzled and enraged. The stupid thing still didn't understand, and increased the temperature and volume of the flames he was shooting out of his hands. If there was a need for a scene to depict why humanity was the true inheritors of the Warp, Iskandar could think of no better one. The Wyrdboy wanted to make the flames larger and hotter, so all he did was strain the small brain he had. Iskandar opened himself to the flow of the energy, and allowed it to fill him up as water would inside an empty container. He would provide the form, the Immaterium provided the substance, and the Singer's Talisman gave the whole process a bit of sorely needed guidance.
The more fire that Da Warp Spewa tried to immolate Iskandar with, the more the Beast became connected with the torrent of energy that Iskandar was wreathing himself with. As fast as the Primarch was dying, he was regenerating from the combined power of his Perpetualhood and the Singer's Talisman. As he reincarnated over and over again, he began to share what he experienced with his foe, hoping to throw it off guard.
The lights emanating from his body expanded, and passed through the wall of flames as if they didn't exist, and perhaps for them the fire was no more than a figment of a broken dream. For it was impossible to burn away an idea. The only way those were killed was by suicide, and the Singer's Talisman ensured that even death was no longer the end.
As the illumination hit Da Warp Spewa, its eyes alternated between their normally wicked red, stunning magenta, and brilliant gold. Sights, sounds, and even smells flickered in its head, and it bore unwilling witness to the creative power of the human race.
*A mournful song, given voice by a man who lost all that he loved through a tragedy of epic proportions.*
*A poem of failure, as a mentor told their pupil that their success or failure did not affect their pride in the pupil's work*
*A sculpture that reeked of desperation. A masterpiece that thought itself a disgrace*
*Two lovers, standing before a hospital bed, looking out at the greatest creation either of them would ever make*
It was all too much for Da Warp Spewa. The concepts that it had witnessed when exposed to Iskandar's power were completely foreign to its existence, but the strength of the visions had exposed the truth to the Beast in such a way that it knew they were right and it was wrong. And never would it get to experience such an event again. Its brain, its soul, its very existence were not meant to handle such things. But the prospect of living a life devoid of such beauty was now an anathema to its being, and it had no wish to live in such a world. Luckily for it, there had been a vision displayed amongst the others of an old warrior who was full of bitter regret of living past his usefulness that had the exact same idea as the Wyrdboy did.
Almost inevitably, the psychic flames were turned back on Da Warp Spewa. It did so of its own free will, with Iskandar merely rising to his feet once again. His latest, and hopefully last, reincarnation had removed all traces of the horrific burnings he had gone through to get the duel to this point.
Yet as hot as the flames were, the Wyrdboy's power was still not enough to immolate its bioengineered body. Iskandar knew good craftsmanship when he saw it, and could not help but feel a begrudging respect for whatever species eons ago had made this species into the weapon he saw before him. But no matter how good of a creation it was, the meager sentience that the Weird Beast carried within it was working to undo its painful existence. No amount of creation could stop that forever.
The end finally came when Da Warp Spewa took its still burning fingers and clawed its way through its own skull to expose its brain underneath in a vain attempt to stop the pain in its soul. The action would not alleviate its suffering, but it would be the avenue that the Primarch would use to end the duel. With almost contemptuous ease, Iskandar Basileus, the Emperor's Champion and Primarch of the Phoenix Blades sunk his sword deep into the skull of the Beast Boss. A blast of fire rushed forth from the wound, but the Primarch withstood the force with ease, as did his son. With the power of the Warp gone from its body, Da Warp Spewa looked much smaller than he had before, though still a foreboding size.
The Feral Orks nearby gawked at the sight, and sniffed the air suspiciously near the two humans. They were clearly wary of trying to fight Iskandar, but Rylanor was not as sure about his own safety, and readied the settings on his helmet once again in case it was needed for a quick escape.
"Well that was a refreshing duel!" Iskandar said, almost jovial in his tone. He clapped his hands and started to move towards the startled orks who immediately backed away from his advancing form. "What a splendid fight. I haven't fought so hard in ages! You really all should be proud. He was the biggest and the toughest without a doubt. But that now means that since I killed him, I am your new boss!"
The orks looked at him dumbfounded, their biology at odds with their cultural structure as to who was exactly in charge at the moment. Indeed, they were so puzzled by this newest development that Rylanor was fairly confident he could slay half a dozen before they even realized he was attacking them. But he kept a hold of his instincts and let his Primarch complete the plan they had talked about on the flight over.
"But my skin isn't green enough to be a 'propa' leader." the III Primarch assured them. "No, that won't do at all. So I know I should give the warband over to one of you. It should be the biggest and the strongest, of course. But who is that going to be?"
Immediately, the orks started jostling amongst themselves, with some even trying to show off their muscles to the Primarch that they had so recently wanted to kill. All of them knew deep in their hearts that they were the biggest and the baddest ork out of them all. Anyone who disagreed was going to be sorry when they went 'krumpin'.
"Tell you what, why don't I leave you to figure out who is the strongest one." Iskandar offered. "When I come back tomorrow, I had better see the strongest ork, and I don't want any rivals waiting for me either, or I'll keep the warband for myself and you'll never be the biggest!"
They barely paid any attention to the two humans after that. Immediately, whatever control Da Warp Spewa had kept over these Feral Orks melted away as they turned on each other with charnel glee. As the Astartes and his Primarch exited the camp, both could see that the massive warband was going to tear itself apart far sooner than the 24 solar hour deadline Iskandar had set. Even if one of them managed to unite their fellow orks under their banner, it would be centuries at the earliest before they managed to understand how the Mork Tunnels worked, and the Phoenix Blades would be back to finish the job well before that happened.
"My lord Iskandar," Rylanor said, his tone formal and crisp as they walked back to their shuttle. "May I speak freely and request a favor from you?"
"You always have the ability to speak freely with me, Rylanor." Iskandar replied warmly. "What is it that I may do for you?"
"I know that you won't stop doing stupid things like this, so I would just request in the future that I not be brought along. I'd rather be stuck in a dreadnought than have to deal with the stress of a situation like that again."
The III Primarch's booming laugh was full of love and joy, alien concepts on this world, but perhaps not for much longer.
"Oh my dear Rylanor." he chuckled, throwing an arm around his son's shoulders as the shuttle doors parted to let them inside. "You can lie to yourself, but don't lie to me. You'd follow me on each and every one of these foolhardy missions, even if you found yourself in a dreadnought and uninvited!"
Rylanor was glad that he had a helmet on, because while he could suppress the chuckle that threatened to escape his lips, there was precious little he could do about the smile on his face. As grumpy as his facade could be, he truly did love his father, and would follow him into the mouth of Hell itself if the Emperor's Champion asked him to. For he loved his genefather, and knew that he was loved in turn. And there was nothing that an Astartes of the III Legion wouldn't do for those that they loved.
Such was the way of life in the Phoenix Blades.
Primacy
The space station itself was old, built when humanity was at its zenith during the Dark Age of Technology. Miraculously, it had survived the millennia of strife and destruction relatively unscathed, as its only function had been to host dignitaries of various human and xenos civilizations that wished to make treaties and formally discuss matters of great importance upon its neutral decks. It was not within the borders of any of those old nations, and had thus escaped the violence that had led to those respective polities' downfalls. It had sat empty in the cold darkness of space, an icy husk waiting for new masters to awaken it to serve its old purpose once again.
And its new masters were strange indeed, for they had summoned a Primarch of the Imperium of Man to meet them, wishing to discuss terms of surrender after a long and grueling campaign. Their ship decloaked near the station, seeing that a vessel bearing the markings of the XIII Legion was already docked and powered down, with servitors onboard being the only signs of life and power besides the support systems needed to keep the ship running and functional. It seemed everything was going according to plan, a rare turn of events considering what the last decade had looked like for them.
Any other strike force on such a dangerous mission would have felt nerves, but these particular individuals had long since had that emotion stripped from them. First by the torturers of Commorragh, then by the representatives of the Laughing God, and finally by the hypno-indoctrination their leader put them through before this mission. They were Drukhari, they could not fail.
Especially because the chance to assassinate a Primarch did not happen often, and those who failed would most certainly not have a chance to learn from their mistakes.
As the Imperium of Man moved closer and closer to breaching the Webway and destroying what was left of the Aeldari Empire, the servants of the Laughing God had approached the ruling nobles of those scattered cities within the labyrinthian structure and made a bargain: in return for providing access to their top assassins, the wretched Harlequins would provide information and assistance in helping the nobles stay in power. There were rumors that Cegorach was building an alliance deep in the bowels of the Webway, an alliance that resolved to united the Craftworlds, Exodites, Harlequins, and even the Drukhari into one fearsome faction that could hold back the seemingly unstoppable tide that was humanity. The rulers of Commorragh hadn't even needed to scry the future to see the possible opportunities before them: surrender and serve the filthy Mon'Keigh as dutiful slaves in all but name like the wretched traitor Eldrad had done, die as their precious cities went up in flames around them, or relinquish some of their sovereignty to see their species free and alive. It was hardly a choice after that.
So they had trained these three assassins, ensured they knew exactly what awaited them, and gave their bodies as well as their minds the necessary modifications to complete their various missions. Then the word was sent from Cegorach. The greenskins needed to be propped up, at least for a little while longer. Boost the Ullanor Empire as much as they could from the shadows, and eliminate high value Imperial targets when the opportunities presented themselves.
It had worked well, for a time. Then word reached the Drukhari squad that a Primarch was leading the campaign in their region. At first, their missions went on as they had before, but slowly the tactics and strategies of the Imperium had changed. Plans were anticipated, schemes were unraveled before they had even been given a chance to be implemented. No matter what they seemed to do, the Drukhari found themselves flummoxed time and time again. Soon, a name became known to them that was uttered like a curse word wherever they went: Marcus Augustion. Primarch of the Prime Legion. The utterly despised Imperial Chancellor.
And so they had decided to risk it all on a desperate gamble. The tale of Gharkul Blackfang was writ large across the Ullanor sector, indeed even across the galaxy itself. Second in power behind only Urg Mak Uruk Thraka, there were rumors abound that the cunning brute was so old that it had even fought humans during the waning days of the Dark Age of Technology, enjoying the chaos that the War of Iron had caused and used it to become stronger and more vicious than ever before. After submitting to Urg Mak Uruk Thraka, the Beast of Beasts, Gharkul became his most vicious lieutenant, undertaking his master's will and sharing in the power that he dispensed. While all other Beasts had either been slain by the Imperium or recalled back to Ullanor, Gharkul alone remained behind to ensure as orderly of an evacuation as possible. Billions if not close to a trillion orks were making their way back to Ullanor Prime even as the Drukhari made their way closer and closer to the formerly abandoned space station. The Imperium would lose countless more soldiers because of the Old Beast's actions.
So when the Drukhari had stealthily appeared before Blackfang and told him of their plan, he was more than happy to agree. The WAAAAAAGH!!! had gained so much energy that newer types of orks with roles never seen before had started to appear among his army. Chief among these were actual ork diplomats, capable of meeting and negotiating with intelligent beings of other species without succumbing to the overwhelming urge to kill them. When two had appeared before the Primarch of the XIII Legion and explained that Gharkul had wanted to meet Marcus Augustio in person. Ullanor was lost, the ork ambassadors claimed, and Gharkul wished to vanish in peace right when he would be missed most. All that was needed was an assurance from the Primarch that they would not part as hostile enemies, and that assurance needed to be given in person.
Doubtless the Primarch thought it was a trap, but the mere existence of ork ambassadors, along with the promise of preventing more orks from joining the exodus to Ullanor seemed to be enough to convince the Lord Chancellor that this meeting was worth taking. That was his personal shuttle docked with the station, and power readings said that the station had been partially turned on. Their quarry was close, they could sense it.
Still, the assassins weren't fools. This could be a reversal of their own trap, and Astartes specifically trained to hunt down Drukhari could be lurking nearby, so when their spiked and semi-cloaked ship docked with the station, the assassins leapt through the opened door, they did so with blades that were so sharp their edge was a single molecule wide drawn and ready to cut any foes in their way.
But there was nothing. Oxygen had been turned on, and emergency lighting showed a path further into the station, but there had been no other signs anyone was there to greet them. Something was wrong, they could tell, but no trace of explosives were found when they scanned the structure, and their readings still showed the main power generator, the only one capable of destroying the station, was turned off. So on they went, shurikens dipped in exquisitely deadly poisons ready to destroy anything that got in their way.
The station truly was lifeless save for the hum of energy coming from the grand conference room in its top floor. As they made their way down the empty corridors, they could see a soft glow of light escaping into the void from the windows that overlooked the gorgeous nebula that surrounded the station. Knowing they were in the conference room, the killers set explosive charges in the airlock to the Imperial shuttle. Again. There were no guards. Something was amiss, but there was little they could do besides enter into the conference room.
The room itself was sparse, for millennia of neglect did not lend itself to presenting a warm and welcoming environment. None of those present paid much attention to their surroundings however, because despite all of their reasoning telling them this was a trap, their quarry calmly gazed back at them from a seat at the far end of the massive conference table taking up the room.
Though the three silent Astartes behind him work their ceramite armor, Marcus Augustio himself was dressed in a simple tunic, with none of the customary weaponry or shields he had in his warplate. While his sons gripped their weapons tighter and they scanned all three intruders for a possible threat, the Primarch himself just looked at the three intruders as if he had always been expecting them. Perhaps he actually had.
"Ah, so it appears I was correct." the XIII Primarch mused, talking to himself more than the assassins. "Blackfang won't be joining us after all. Ah well, it is to be expected from such a treacherous warrior."
"Do not pretend that you knew of our coming, Mon'Keigh." the leader spat. "If you did, you would not have come here, especially so unguarded."
"Were I to abandon this talk, or show up with more security, you would not have come at all." came the gentle reply. "And what new information would I have learned then?"
"Considering this meeting a small courtesy." Marcus continued. "A recognition of an enemy that has done a fine job in fighting, and deserved to be heard."
"Ah, but we have nothing to say to you." came the haughty reply. "We do not bow before your Emperor, and we never will."
The XIII Primarch just shook his head sadly at the pair, as if looking at a wayward pupil who refused to abandon their foolish ways and walk down the path of wisdom. That only made the Drukhari angrier. The one thing that they could not stand, even above the virtue of mercy, was the notion of pity. Especially from an outsider to one of their own.
"It is a shame, how far you have fallen." the Primarch said, his voice never rising above a gentle murmur. "Your people once had so much, and to see you fractured like this, to be a shell of your former self, it does not have to be this way. Surrender to us, beg for a clemency I will be sure to give you. Join Eldrad Ulthran in submission, and rise to greater heights than anything you could dream of.
If Marcus Augustion was expecting them to at least ponder his offer, he was going to be extremely disappointed. All that greeted his offer was derisive laughter and a readying of weapons. The Astartes standing behind Marcus raised their weapons as well, but their Primarch ordered them to lower their bolters and they obeyed without hesitation.
"We may have fallen far, but yours will be much greater." the Drukhari leader spat back. "The arrogance you display rivals our own, and it has such an ignorant confidence that goes along with it, much sweeter to the predators in the Warp than anything we could offer. Tell me, oh humble and mighty Mon'Keigh, did you really think you would attract allies by naming your own forces with the arrogant title of 'Prime Legion'? How think is your skull, truly?"
The assassin coughed slightly, as did the two behind him, but he collected himself quickly and looked back at his prey with a haughty expression so readily used by his kind.
"I named them that not out of arrogance, but out of obligation." came the gentle reply. Marcus' eyes missed nothing, and studied the three Aeldari before him with a keen interest. "I have told my sons that they are to be the 'prime' example of what the Legiones Astartes can be. It is of no bother to me what others think. Our actions will speak for us."
The coughing from the Drukhari continued, and the Primarch could not help but smile slightly as he leaned forward.
"Are you well, assassin?" he asked, his eyes narrowing in concentration.
One of the Drukhari had to clutch the table in front of them to steady their balance, and another had removed their helm as vomit started to pour from their mouth.
"Better than you, Mon'Keigh." the leader said, blood pouring from every orifice in his face. "The moment we saw you in this room, all three of us pressed runes on our armor that began an irreversible process. Our skeletons were replaced with nanocrystal years ago, filled with every kind of vile and excruciating poison the most debased minds in all of Commorragh could concoct. They've been activated now, releasing through the microfibres of our warsuits. We die today, scum. But you will be joining us. No matter how tough your body is, you cannot survive what we have designed specifically to destroy you!"
Marcus stood up then, moving slowly towards the three assassins who were quickly losing their ability to stand as their bodies were too wracked with pain to do anything other than collapse onto the floor. The three Astartes behind him seemingly vanished, and the robed Primarch was the only figure in the room with them as their vision was reduced to the things directly in front of their face. The Primarch seemed physically fine, as if none of the invisible but lethal concoctions had even the slightest effect on him. Even his clothing, which some of the poisons should have degraded, seemed unaffected.
"You see? Useful things came out of this meeting after all." the XIII Primarch cheerily assured them, stopping right in front of their bodies and kneeling down by their sides. "Now I know how deeply entangled the Drukhari are with the Harlequins, I know some of your connections to the Ullanor Empire, and I even learned something about your assassination methods. Your actions saved the lives of thousands of Astartes and Imperial Officers today. For that, you have my gratitude."
"You… live?" the leader croaked.
"The time of the Aeldari is over." came Marcus' reply. "Humanity has outgrown them, and shall soon come to rival even the greatest species of ancient days. Your primacy was supreme during the Age of Heavens, but the Age of the Imperium has come, and with it comes our ascension. Rage against it all you wish, but our destiny shall arrive all the same."
None of it was adding up. The Primarch should have been poisoned, but he wasn't even close to dying. At first, he thought it might be a hologram, but there had been no power readings. No abnormal energy levels of any kind. This was the worst kind of failure for an assassin: failure without knowing why.
He was dying, but the Drukhari leader was not going to go down without at least some small fight. Raising his gauntlet up as much as he could, he fired the nano-blade shurikens point blank into the Primarch's face. He expected blood, the grimace of pain, but he was given nothing. Looking at the Primarch, there wasn't even a mark on him. And three shurikens were half buried in the wall behind his head.
That made no sense, it was almost as if he wasn't really in the room after all…
"I think that's enough." the Lord Chancellor said, motioning to someone that the Drukhari couldn't see. The last sight the assassin saw before he closed his eyes forever was a slight nod of pitying respect as Marcus Augustion simply blinked out of existence.
"That truly was extraordinary!" Marcus exclaimed, exiting his bedchambers of his personal quarters upon the flagship of the XIIIth Legion, the Fidelitas Vigilata. He seemed almost excited, as if a new toy he had just played with had lived up to the expectations. "I can't believe all of this could be accomplished with only a drop of a subject's blood!"
Magnus Rubicar gave his brother a rueful look, as he stood up from his meditative position surrounded by ritual drawings and artifacts. A small trickle of blood was running down his nose that he wiped away casually, his biomancy already fixing the popped vessels that caused its existence.
"Do not get used to it." the XV Primarch told his older brother. "Image projection, especially of that type, is an extraordinarily taxing thing, especially over the distances that you requested. I just psychically checked in on my own sons. Ahriman is fine, but the other two will require at least a day in the infirmary because of the strain that was put on them successfully projecting your own sons into that station. And they were only standing still to better sell the ruse. You can't imagine how difficult it was with all the movement you were trying to do."
"Besides…" the Crimson King added darkly. "You of all people should be wary of what a drop of Primarch blood can do in the wrong hands."
Marcus could not help but shudder at those words. The events on Luna were still entirely too fresh in his mind. But not even his brother's warnings could fully dampen his mood. There had been so much new data to analyze and implement into his battle plans.
"You'll get no arguments from me on that account." Marcus assured him. "But it was still successful, Magnus! The Drukhari have fully thrown their lot in with Cegorach, and I know that Eldrad will want to know that information. We should tell him as soon as possible."
"And what of Blackfang?" Magnus reminded. "He didn't show up at the meeting. The charges we planted onboard the station are useless now. It was a long shot, but I cannot count this as a complete victory while that monster still slaughters our sons."
"I believe that slaughter is about to taper off." the Lord Chancellor objected, he ran a hand through his blonde hair as he brought up digital mountains of information that the two Primarchs scrolled through at a speed which allowed only their transhuman intellects to accurately process. "He's going to know that the assassination was unsuccessful, and he'll be flummoxed as to why. This Beast is old, Magnus. That means he has cut and run before. For all of their talk of bravery, the greenskins are among the most cowardly xenos out there, as long as they feel they can get away with it. Look at the latest intelligence reports about their retreat. They could be heading for either Ullanor or Chondax at this rate, but there is a third option that I don't think even Uruk Thraka has spotted: they could slip out of Ullanor on the opposite side of the sector from Terra. It's a blighted, irradiated section of space, with nothing of interest to our goals, and there is a good chance that even if we conquer Ullanor with minimal casualties, we will send only token forces to secure the borders to that region. It would take millennia, but another empire may form upon the back of Gharkul Blackfang's honed self-preservation skills.
"And you are glad of this?" Magnus asked incredulously.
"It is less orks at Ullanor for our brothers to handle, and millennia of time to improve our own defenses against the greenskins." came a brusque reply with an equally brusque wave of the hand. "Don't create new enemies when they are trying to remove themselves from the battlefield. That will be Horus' job after the Crusade is over, and I am happy to leave him to it. Horus with his soldiers, me with my laws, and you with your books. Tell me that isn't enough to put a smile on your face."
That finally made the Lord of Mysteries relax his attitude, and a grin did indeed appear upon his face.
"You've spent entirely too much time on the campaign with Horus, Iskandar, and Baraca." he chuckled. "They've relaxed the famous cold and calculating resolve of Marcus Augustio."
"Or perhaps I've just decided to relax a little in private, with one of my closest brothers, before I must put on an icy persona of a God-General once again." Marcus offered. He clasped Magnus' hand in his own before pulling him in and turning the handshake into a warm embrace.
"Besides, I could always start emulating Tyric if you want me to relocate to the Rangdan Xenocide."
One playful whack across the back of Marcus' head later, and the both of them dissolved into hopeless laughter.
"I would rather create projections of this ship and every soul on board."
The two of them kept laughing quietly for a little bit, staring out the window at the inky blackness of the void, each lost in their own thoughts.
"Today was a good day." Marcus said, as if repeating a conclusion he had already reached in his mind. "No casualties, no permanent injuries, and valuable data to be used by our troops here, and by our friends back on Terra. And all of it is thanks to you. You have my gratitude, Magnus, and I hope you know that you can always count on me."
A hand reached out and pulled him in for a sideways embrace, as they both dreamed of the creation of an empire once the war was finally over.
"And you can count on me too, big brother." came Magnus' response.
"Now, and forever more."