The streets were a bustle of activity, with cries of 'He's coming!' and The Great Saviour is here!' carrying across the city with great ease. Hundreds of civilians crowded the streets, all chanting the name of Marneus Calgar, the great saviour of the Yelosa campaign. The Ultramarines had recently claimed this world for the Imperium it being a primitive world cut-off from the Imperium. The population had revolted, leading the many warriors to war. With a week, Marneus had led the Ultramarines to victory. Now he was returning to the capital of the captured world, with already half of Ultramar’s population transported here for a victory march.
He moved amongst the crouds.
Now a full company of Ultramarines, removed from the front lines, were leading Calgar down Victory Street, the last street taken by the Space Marines. A glorious cloth had been lain out for the Hero of Yelosa to walk down. The sound of guns were heard as the salute went off as Marneus passed them. Hundred of devotees were heard, screaming from the rooftops and the streets. Cries of adoration carried throughout the sub-town, and millions of Imperial Guard lined the streets, holding back citizens, but as keen to see the commander that had led them to victory.
He moved to the roofs.
Finally great shakes racked the ground, making people sway were they stood. A hundred massive Astartes walked down the line of buildings, led by a God at the front. He was a magnificent sight to behold, a behemoth of glory and a great saviour of the Imperium. Just to look upon him was a great honour, what that embedded itself in everyone’s lives and minds.
He loaded the rifle.
Marneus came, a giant amongst men, war wounds still evident on his armour and scars. He looked upon his citizens with an equality that was unmatched across the entire galaxy.
He looked down the sight, uttering the Death's Story song, a mark that who he looked upon would die.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The screams reached a deafening climax, only now they were of terror and shock. By the time the whole procession had realized what had happened, the Dark Assassin had disappeared.
And Marneus lay dead, now a true God of War, merely a myth left for the Imperium to mourn over.
The ground shook under his tread, the earth splitting beneath his great armored feet. He crushed heretic after heretic with mighty swings of his Thunderhammer. Skulls caved in and he rejoiced in seeing the traitor’s faces as they met their end. Blast after subatomic blast hit his great shield and dissipated before his eyes. Hundreds had died by his hand, and thousands more were to come. At the head of his spear tip of terminators, Darnath Lysander drove himself home into the heart of the Iron Warriors fortress.
He surveyed from above.
Lysander had the distinct feeling he
was being watched, more intently than he was comfortable with. He paused for a second, and that was all the Iron Warriors needed. One Chaos Champion drove his dark blade into the abdomen of the great warrior, and the Imperial Fist cried out. He spun his gaze onto the warrior that dared defile his relic Terminator Armour. He snarled, a deep growl of hatred, then swung his hammer round in a wide arc, driving the Iron Warrior into the wall. Following through on this, he brought the Fist of Dorn over his head and let it fall to the floor before him, breaking another servant of Chaos. Hot shards skitted off his shoulder cauldrons, and grenade-like bullets blew apart on his chest-plate.
He smiled beneath his hood at the sight of one so powerful...
Lysander roared a great praise to the Emperor, before charging forward with all his might. The Warriors were taken aback at his brutality, but had little time to react as he barreled into them, knocking dozens to the floor. He continued his charge, his hate for these foul servants of the Ruinous Powers driving him forward. He came to a stop as he thundered into a Deamon Prince, forcing it back, but stopping in his tracks as he began to swing his hammer round again. A sharp pain was felt in his side, but the ancient warrior continued his swing. It connected with the Deamon Prince in the side of the face, and sharp, teeth-grinding clicks of bone were heard. Darnath looked down, and saw the Warp-abominations great saber sticking out the side of his fibs, just below his shoulder. He wrenched it out, and tossed it into the midst of the Chaos Warriors.
..being felled by one so small. He felt to the bag on his back...
Lysander grit his teeth as the Deamon Weapon made him sway beneath its corrupting essence. He fell back into the swarm of Imperial Fists as he clutched his side. The Terminators poured through the corridors breach, supported by massed Tactical marines. The sight of nearly half the Chapter massed in one place made Lysander swell with pride and glory. He had devotion to his mighty chapter unmatched by all, even the mighty Chapter Master. Dorn’s finest hammer was in his grasp, and he felt invulnerable with his great shield by his side and his thick Tactical-Dreadnought Armour on his shoulders.
..and brought the rifle, marked with hundreds of kill-lines, the latest of which was Marneus Calgar. Once again, he sung the death song, and squeezed hard on the trigger. Lysander’s head blew apart.
Since he was at the rear of the Astartes Column, no-one saw or heard him die.
He crouched in the shadows, unheard, unseen, unnoticed. He would have laughed had he less self control, for this captain, a great stealth assassin captain, who's senses were more alert than any others, had not heard him tailing him over the past weeks. His blades kissed his fingers, the sleek steel caressing his tips, and he smiled under the dark hood. Before him, three dark figures were hunched over a map of the planet below, planning for attacks that would never happen.
'There are three major Ork attacks at the current time, Commander,' said a voice deep and commanding. The Captain contemplated this fact while the other man spoke. 'I suggest we lead quick surgical strikes into the enemy's commanding generals, kill them, then mass the Chapter while the Guard op up the remaining greenskins. Then we launch a gathered attack on the Warlords main hold.' The third man seemed to remain quiet all through the meeting. That was his target, along with the others, but they were secondary’s, this man was his primary. For weeks he had been trailing this bastard, and each time he had his crosshairs trained on him, he slipped into the darkness like a shadow. So he had forgone his rifle to allow him quicker travels and a chance to get close to this captain. How he had managed to get on the ship was a mystery to even him. Still, a good assassin does not listen to facts which may deter him.
He shook his head, snapping himself back to the matter at hand and the pressing situation. he was outnumbered 5 to one, with 2 extra Marines standing behind the captains up ahead. He slid out his blades and put them against his fingers, readying them for the throws. They made a muffled 'shing' sound inside of his robes, but even this was enough. The third man turned to look in his direction. He could tell the man had seen him and, abandoning all caution, leapt to the sky of the tall chamber. He was over the holo-map, time slowing down. He threw his two knives at the First and Second Raven Guard Captains. They found their marks, and embedded themselves in their victim’s necks. They grasped their spilt necks, shocked looks on their faces. He turned to the third man, but where he was meant to be, there was only empty space. He cursed, once again Shrike had slipped away. He fell to the floor, on his feet in less than a second, is pistols in his hands. There were blinding flashes from the barrels, and the two marines fell dead on the floor, their helmet fronts gone and their flesh fried. behind him he heard a stir. He turned, and the First Captain was laying there, blood pouring from his neck and the knife whetted with his blood. He rasped, froth coming to is mouth. Finally words reached his lips.
'Who..who...are you?' He cried, gore filling his mouth.
The assassin lowered himself to the floor and for the first time in ten millennia, he spoke. 'I am death incarnate,' he said, lifting his hood and showing the dying Astartes his face. The man’s eyes widened in fear, and a scream of terror escaped his ill-gotten mouth.
Chapter 003Shrike crouched low in the corner of the chamber, his long Claws extended, and his senses on full alert, his helmets enhancers on at maximum strength. How had this assassin managed to enter the ship without the Raven Guard managing to detect him? And, more importantly, how was he nearly able to kill Shrike without being detected? Now he was stalking the corridors, a living shadow and a deadly one at that. Shrike knew from his past that assassins had enough power within themselves and their arsenal to clear out the better part of a major hive. Now this man was loose on the Black Deliverance with no-one knowing he was even there. Shrike could have activated the ships warning sensors, but no. That was exactly what the assassin wanted. To lure him into his trap, then take him like a sitting grox.
Shrike heard footsteps approaching his cell, approximately 200 metres away. Now was the time to move. Flexing his legs, Shrike set off at rapid pace. He turned the corner, not even breaking his pace. Suddenly the footsteps behind him accelerated and instantly he knew this man was the assassin. Activating his Jump Pack, Shrike rocketed down the corridor, leaving the man behind forever.
Jurnis stopped running, the clutch-bomb still on his back. 'Good, he is coming,' he heard, the assassins voice loud and clear. 'You have done your part, there is no use for you anymore.' And with that, the darkness of the corridor lit up with the light of a small sun.
The assassin slid his knife out of its holster, the cold metal once again caressing his flesh. He smelt the fool’s promethium fumes as he rocketed down the corridors of the ship, towards the trap that the assassin had prepared. Now he waited.
A couple of minutes later, the Third Captain came into view, covering remarkable ground in seconds.
Now the trap sprung.
Remote explosives collapsed the tight walls, damaging one of Shrikes Jump pack tubes. The Captain whirled around, coming closer to the assassin. He smiled, and threw the blade at Shrikes exposed neck.
The dead captain fell to the floor as the last of his Promethium fuel burnt out.
The assassin removed the Astartes helmet, savoring the expression of shock and rage exposed on Shrikes face. After a couple of minutes, the dead hero hung from one of the flag poles that lined the ship, a grotesque and horrifying tribute to the slaughter that was yet to come.
In his forge on Nocturne, He'stan bent low over the anvil. The weapon he had spent blood and sweat over the past weeks was finally finished. It was a blade, infused with the power of Nocturne ancient fire-breathing dragons, the name-sakes of his Chapter. It would slice through the armour of all enemies, and not even a Heretical Warmaster would stand to it. Holding it above his head, he breathed upon it, the name of the sword glinting in dark gold in the warm forge. He was pleased with his work, a testament to the talent of the hammer that was his Chapters inheritance. He ran his finger down its side, a cool feel of the sharp metal upon his skin a tantalizing feeling. He smiled at the creation of such a wonder, a weapon unmatchable in the fire of combat. The only pain he now felt was that he could not create enough to arm the whole Chapter. But now he had heard word that another relic of his Primarchs had been discovered on the Chaos infested world of Hrolthrax, and he must search for it, regardless of who would get in his way, be it friend or f-
Footsteps were heard behind him, the billowing of a cloak in the steam of the Forge-pit. Vulcan He'stan turned, to lay eyes upon a cloaked figure, the crimson eye of Chaos on the hood, above where the face should have been. He held a long weapon in his hand, one with a firedrake head above the hilt where it met the blade. A stolen relic of his chapter, this bastard dared to hold the Spear of Vulcan when only the Forgefather was blessed enough to touch it. Fire burnt in Vulkans eyes, mirroring the flames that wreathed their way around the forge. His hands bristled at his side, and his lip curled in complete disgust. There he stood, only under armour on his burly body, his skin would have been enough to hold off the bolt of a bolter, or maybe even a Vengeance round, but when faced with the Spear, he would not stand a chance. He would need all his skill in this duel, and even that might not be enough.
The assassin leaped, leaving He'stan barely enough time to grab the newly forged blade and bring it to his defence. Sparks flew as the two majestic blades met in the air. The assassin jumped in the air, and landed behind Vulcan before he could blink. He span round, but was caught off-guard, and assailant slashed the Spear across his stomach. Blood poured from the wound for the briefest of seconds, then the Astartes metabolism kicked in. He'stan swung the blade in a wide arc, making contact, but only with the end of the robe. The assassin was behind him before he realized, and the Spear broke through his chest, the ribcage splintering and his two hearts ripped apart by the jagged blade. He gasped for air, and offered praise to the Emperors it turned in his chest. He let a single tear drop from his eye, not of pain, not shock, nor hate. But of failure. He had failed in his quest to find the relic of the Chapter, and his name would be forgotten, another name on the Wall of Heroes.
He dropped to the floor as the spear retracted from his body, and the assassin left him there amidst the flames to die.
The ground rumbled. The earth shook beneath their boots. Dante looked to the skies, expecting to see a xeno’s ship come into orbit, but the real enemy lay far below. Far beneath the planet’s surface, the Necrons stirred and the eternal war upon the living began again. Activating his jump pack, Dante leapt to the skies, sighting the first Necron Phalanx on the horizon. Around him, his Honour Guard hovered above the ground, the sand around them kicking up like a great storm. As they neared the Necron attack force, a white blur smashed into the Necron lines from the far left flank. Pausing momentarily in their advance, the Blood Angels heard the buzz of their helmets vox.
'For the Khan, and the Eternal Hunt!' came a cry from the other side of the network. Dante laughed heartedly at the arrival of the White Scars.
'Push on brothers, so we may aid our allies!' cried Dante, pushing his jump pack to the limit, reaching the Necron lines in seconds, and pushing them forward deep into the metal warriors lines. Just as the Necrons recovered their attack, a second wave of Blood Angel Terminators teleported into the midst of the combat. The joint forces of the Emperors Chosen cut a swath through the metal xeno’s, felling two with every stroke of their mighty blades. Descending from the sky on wings of fire, came the Death Company. Fearless warriors all, and the bane of the Imperium’s enemies. 'Our brothers of the Death Company arrive to aid our strike, and the Necrons are in retreat! Victory is ours, brothers!' cried Dante, his voice full of praise for his brothers. 'Push on to a great victory, and make our Emperor, and Sanguinius proud!!!!' Roars of adoration to Dante were heard amongst the Blood Angels, and the whir of chainswords and humming of power weapons increased to a deafening roar. As the marines forced the Necrons back, there came a buzzing from Dante’s side. Suddenly, a Necrons Lord appeared, with a great staff in his hands. He was a sight to behold, the walking dead, a soul trapped in a metal skeleton. He felt no pity for this creature, and set about him with gun and sword. His Death Mask glinted in the desert suns, the twin stars beating down on his armour. He struck a quick blow to the Lord, but received a great offense from his opponent. He parried every blow, before breaking several of his duelists metal ribs. The glowing green end of his staff began to hiss, and Dante looked up in time to see the blade swing down and impact him in the skull. He staggered, momentarily blinded by blood in his eyes. He felt another slice of the sharp blade across his stomach, and clutched it with his right hand. Infused with rage, he roared at the top of his voice, and decapitated the Necron Lord in one swift stroke. Removing the Death Mask, he threw the helmet down on the floor. He cleared his eyes, and saw that his army was in disarray. From the skies, three Monoliths had come, their gauss weapons flaying the armour of the Blood Angels and White Scars. Before he could reach for his Death Mask, two giant claws erupted through the ground and sliced the Mask in two. As he looked round, more and more of the mysterious attackers were rising up from the ground. Now that he looked, he saw hundreds of the Necron Warriors that his chapter had killed re-attaching themselves and joining the fray again. He heard a sound from above, looking to the skies. Out of nowhere, a robed figure landed on his shoulders and had, in an instant, pushed a blade into the skull of Lord Dante...
To Be Continued...
Khan looked on in horror as blood seeped from the gaping wound in Dante’s head. All combat between the Blood Angels and Necrons had ceased, at least on the Blood Angels part, as they stood, transfixed for the longest second of their lives as their Lord and Commander died, and there was nothing they could do about it. For a single moment, nothing but pain flashed through the minds of the Angels, before something phenomenal happened. Naught but blind anger and rage seared hot through their minds, and all were gripped by the uncompromising embrace of the Black Rage. One hundred marines, all at once, fell into a state of repressed memories from the Primarch himself. As one, they roared praise to the Immortal Emperor of Mankind, and set about their foes with a natural hatred rarely seen amongst Astartes. Metallic xeno’s fell all around Khan, and he was snapped back from the awe of so many Astartes all gripped by the same madness at once.
He looked around, and he saw the Necrons, and thought how simple it would be to break their metallic spines now, but no. His true target lay ahead of him, Dante’s severed head in his hand. Looking at Khan, the assassin made a split decision. He turned.
Igniting Moondraken, he sped forth on his beloved bike. The assassin moved at unnatural speed, his legs a blur as his long cloak billowed in the desert wind and the air resistance from his run. Sharp blades glinted in his view, and Khan ducked to avoid two of them just in time. Suddenly the assassin stopped, and Khan spun his bike as we whizzed past to face him, just in time. He dismounted, drawing Moonblade as the assassin drew a long spear from his back holdall. The heraldry on it was clearly recognizable, a Dragons head wreathed in flames, and the Spear of Vulcan glinted in early afternoon sun. Khan narrowed his eyes as the assassin activated the spears power supply, and lightning ran up and down the deadly weapon. Knowing he wouldn’t have much longer before the assassin struck, Khan leapt forward, attempting to bring down his sword on the assassins head. The killer ducked, bringing the spear round to strike Khan in the side. Khan parried, his lightning fast reactions allowing him to block the murderers blows. He backed up, knowing that, although Khan was holding his ground, this opponent was a far better swordsman. This hunt would have to be continued another time, as he could not leave his Chapter hunter-less. Alas, this would end, but at a different time.
Turning to mount his bike once again, he saw a flash of steel pass his shoulder. He breathed a sigh of relief, but he saw too late that the killers target wasn’t him. The steel met hard ceramite, but with other-worldly strength, the knife hit the fuel supply. And Khan suddenly heard faint ticking, increasing by the second. As oil and promethium spread around his feet, he realized too late that the assassin had planted a bomb on his beloved bike. The relic of the chapter exploded in a hail of fire and rockrete. Flames licked around his body, and his amours paint blistered and split, and finally the fire took him, burning his life out. The hunt was over, and now he could see a great war coming, one that would ravage the Imperium, one that would end all life in reality. However, it was far too late.
Inquisition files. 001939, recording of Abbadons conversation.
Shadows clung to the corners of the room, darker than possible. It seemed as though a thousand eyes stared from the shadows at the figures gathered around the Black Throne. Abbadon sat atop his dark seat, warp energies waxing and waning around it. In the chamber stood Khârn, Lucius and Typhon. Before these Chaos Champions, knelt the assassin.
'I am nearly finished, my master,' said the assassin, his voice cold and calculating.
'Good, good...' purred Abbadon, stroking his small white warp beast.
'My lord,' spoke up Lucius, 'Let me finish off the last two, my god wishes it.'
'If any should have the honour of slaughtering the last two of the Imperium’s greatest heroes, it shall be me!' cried Khârn, raring up at Lucius' interjection.
'Neither Khorne nor Slaanesh is deserving of these kills, however Nurgle does. I shall please my god,' commented Typhon coolly. At this, all the Chaos Champions began bickering at one another. Abbadon sighed, and the assassin smiled with his head in the shadows.
‘Enough!’ roared Abbadon, throwing his warp beast to one side, and the champions stopped, looking up at the Warmaster on his Black Throne. ‘I shall let you all have a chance at killing these two champions of the Imperium. However, if you all fail, you will all die.’
Great shells hammered into the side of the Cathedral, scattering rockrete and ceramite on the Black Templars in the trenches. Bullets ripped through the air, scattering the falling dust atoms. In the bunker, Grimaldus and Helbrecht considered tactics.
'Be wary, sir, the Guard may have backing from a Chaos Legion, possibly the Word Bearers, as all signs point to these Renegades fighting with religious ferocity,' said Grimaldus, his Crozius slung over his shoulder.
'I agree, though we have had our initial attack stalled because of these Traitors. I think we should launch a counter-attack when their heavy weapons teams begin re-loading.'
Behind the main advancement of the Renegade Militia's tanks, Khârn and Lucius couldn't stop moving. They constantly checked their weapons, whispering to them in hushed tones, and tapping their armour to test the strength of it. The assassin stood in his robes, his weapons dangling around his belt. He couldn't help but laugh, these were the warriors that would assist in the destruction of the Imperium? It was pitiful.
In the trenches, the battle between the Renegades and the Black Templars raged. The Templars cut a swath through the enemy as they closed with the traitors of Valdorox. The guns of the Marines pummeled the renegades lines into breaking, several units breaking off and falling back. However, two more units took the place of the previous one. Leman Russ' turret weapons disintegrated Marines all around, while high powered bolts blew apart traitor guardsmen. ‘Hold the line!’ called Ferric over the din of battle, ‘the Emperor wishes it to be so!’ With this it seemed the guns themselves tried harder and scores of renegades died in seconds. Bringing his Crozius down on a traitor Psyker, the enemy witch cried out in pain and the symbol of Tzeentch burnt bright on his forehead, before his brain exploded in a shower of gore. From his right a cry came from some two score men, and cries for the Blood God were heard. Gaining the upper hand against these traitors, Ferric counter-charged the berserk renegades, smashing two with his armour as he thundered into them, killing four more with his mighty weapon. The golden double-headed eagle atop an ivory skull gleamed in the light of the planets two suns.
‘For the Emperor, and for Dorn!’ came a battle-cry behind Ferric, and he turned to see five score marines running to join the battle. A dark blue armored warrior was leading them, a massive blood red fist spread wide, and a venerated Storm Bolter was mounted in his left gauntlet. To the fray came Kantor, leading his defiant and ancient Crimson Fists to battle like the true hero of the Imperium he was.
Suddenly a loud crack was heard from the towering Cathedral, and it groaned as 3 more shells hit the walls of the Hall of the Emperor. Another hammered into its walls, and it fell.
Just as Helbrecht and Grimaldus came running from their bunker.
The first to die was a meaningless servant, but the next was Grimaldus crushed beneath a giant block of rockrete. A cry of pain and anger was heard from the Chaplains lips, before another two blocks fell on him and crushed the life out of him. Helbrecht rushed to assist his brother, but four blocks fell on him before he reached the Chaplains side. The rest of the Cathedral came crashing down on Helbrecht and nearly all of the Black Templars. The rockrete formed a giant mound, crushing the defenders.
Seeing the Cathedral fall, Kantor shouted to his brothers. ‘Look men!’ he roared. ‘A hill! Quick, get to the top and commence defence pattern alpha gamma omega! We must not let those traitors recover our brothers’ bodies!’
‘So we just fire at whatever comes our way, sir?’ cried a Crimson Fist. A stern look came from Kantor in response. Rushing to the peak of the mound, the Crimson Fists unloaded their deadly payload at the enemy. However, just as the Renegade wave began to fall back, two cries were heard amidst the traitors. The first was a ringing sound that penetrated the defensive sensitivities of the Astartes ears.
‘Blood for the Blood King!’
The second was a cry of pure ecstasy, a shout that would turn any mans blood cold. Lucius the Eternal was among their numbers. And that first cry was unmistakable. Before long, a great, red-clad armored giant slaughtered his way through the retreating traitors. He rushed up the hill, butchering his way through Kantor’s men. Kantor rushed to engage him, and met him toe-to-toe. Khârn brought his mighty chainaxe down on Kantor’s left shoulder pauldron, the ceramite torn apart by the chain weapons relentless bite. Eventually blood sprayed through, splattering his helmet red, the blood mixing in with the spilt gore of countless others.
Just as he was about to bring his mighty fist down on the traitor, a whistling sound was heard in the air. Kantor looked to the top of the Cathedral, and a bullet ran through the palm of the clenched fist on his helmets forehead. Shocked, he staggered backwards. His fist fell, and the Arrow of Dorn dropped from his hand. He fell to the floor, blood pouring from the wound on his head. A cloaked figure stood over him, two blades in his hands. One punctured his chest, and for the last time, Kantor roared in defiance. However, he had to give in to pain, and he lay there, a dying hero of the Imperium. Before him, his mortality flashed and he saw his true meaning. He saw flashes of the defence of New Rynn City, and the obliteration of the Ork horde on Rynn’s World. Knowing that his duty was fulfilled, Kantor slowly passed into deaths cold embrace. But one last scene was left in his mind, a picture of a warrior, with his same weapons, clad in black armour, emblems of bone and flames wreathed across his body. Two skulls were on his backpack’s vents, and his eyes burned a crimson red.
Khârn paced the top of the hill, Gorechild growling softly. He snarled at the assassin, as he removed the power armour from his cloaked body. Trickery was the last resort, even in Khârn's twisted mind. His plasma pistol was glowing a deep blue, and his green eye lenses were glowing even darker. Lucius was off down the side of a hill, looking over a body of one of the loyalists. He looked away as he began his rituals. Anything for pleasure, thought Khârn, by a Slaanesh worshipper.
'This was not meant to happen,' said the assassin. 'I was meant to kill two people, now I am at a loss.'
'What does it matter? Abbadon just wants them dead.'
'You obviously do not know my true goal. Uhh, foul ignorant...' he trailed off, then his head snapped up. He had realized something. 'I can't claim the life of this hero of the Imperium, but the Gods care not from where the blood comes, right Khârn?'
Khârn stood confused for a second, but realisation dawned too late as a blade erupted from his chest. The assassin had jumped behind him and killed him before he knew what was happening. Well, if he was to die, at least it was by a worthy opponent. 'Kudos,' were Khârn’s last words...
Abbadon sat atop his dark throne, brooding over the plan to come. This was to be his greatest triumph, the ultimate destruction of all things non-Chaos and Chaos' complete rule. His gods had relished the chance for the ultimate blow to Humanity for millennia on end and now he had begun it. When he first told the Gods of his plans, they had at first been exhilarated by the idea, but then they had seemed quite withdrawn, almost sad to have their source of misery and pain lost forever. However, Abbadon cared not for any bar himself.
The assassin entered the room, and it had become quite clear that his plan was not a false promise, like that which the Emperor had made him those many years ago. He was much larger, almost the size of Abbadon, and the Warmaster had recently become wary of the assassin. So many things had come to light in the recent months, and Abbadon was exasperated with pleasure at first, but then contemptuous jealousy grew with Abbadon’s black heart.
‘I see you have completed the Last Mission, assassin,’ boomed Abbadon.
The assassin lowered his hood, and revealed the most shocking scene Abbadon had seen in his ten millennia of service to the Ruinous Powers, the most perverted mockery of a face that he had ever seen, even by Grandfather Nurgle’s standards. Before him, with a face deformed by twisted sorcery of resurrection and warp-spawned horrors stood Suroh, a deformed son of the Emperor. The once Warmaster.
‘Father Horus, I-‘
‘DO NOT CALL ME BY THAT NAME!’ roared Suroh in his wheezing voice. Pure agony flashed across his face. His soul was tormented by the Gods for his failure, and they screamed his name until even he hated it. It was the name bestowed upon him by the Emperor, and although Horus had loved the Emperor, Suroh, his dark side, had always held contempt for the Master of Mankind. Now Suroh was the dominant one, and he was going to lead the attack against Mankind. Behind, of course, the Warmaster, as he was the stronger of the two now.
‘You seem stronger than you were. How come?’ asked Abbadon, ignoring Suroh’s outburst.
‘I managed to gain an extra kill, another to add to my blood soaked history,’ said Suroh, regarding the question with little concern.
Suroh smiled. It was neither warm nor one of a happy soul. It was a dark, brooding, cold smile. ‘Khârn was weak. I thought his god would be able to defend him from the blades of my armory, but no.’
Khârn’s death didn’t surprise Abbadon; he had died nearly one hundred times in the past century. However, he would soon rise from the embrace of death, and return to the Gods for an eternity of slaughter.
‘So, now there is no opposition to the Chaos Forces, and once I have united them, none shall stand before me. The Primarch’s shall be reunited, or at least those who have embraced Chaos, and the Imperium will be crushed!’ roared Abbadon, his almighty voice filling the chamber.
‘No,’ said Suroh calmly.
Abbadon rounded on his former master, a cold expression on his face. ‘What?’ he roared at Suroh, saliva flying from his mouth. Suroh wiped a bit of spit from his left cheek.
‘You have taken my Legion, and destroyed its honour. You have renamed it and blemished its mighty heraldry. Now I say no more!’ cried Suroh, his enlarged vocal cords swinging wildly around his neck. Before he could react, a large silver knife embedded itself in Abbadon’s neck, blood spilling from around it. He clawed at it, but to no avail. Somehow, by some dark powers, darker then Chaos itself, the knife was slowly pushing itself down Abbadon’s throat. ‘I shall take your head and for the dishonours you’ve performed, I shall hold it on a trophy rack atop my armour!’
A full two hours passed before Abbadon wielded. He was a powerful warrior, but Suroh had built in speed over the millennia, and he had ripped his spinal cord out of his back. Now Suroh had killed him, the powers of his former body were returning. Due to a bargain he made with a beast that resided deep in the warp, every time he killed someone, their power would become his, and slowly he would regain form and power. Now the black powers were rolling around him, as if reluctant to enter his body. Willing them into himself, Suroh closed his eyes and waited for the power to fill him.
It was pure sensation, an experience that filled him and made him feel like the strongest man in existence. As he regained his original shape, he wanted – nay, he needed – his onyx coloured Armour once again. Willing a small amount of his power to become his armour, a black suit covered him and engulfed him in a dark sensation, none like he had experienced before. One thing he didn’t expect however, was the pain.
He screamed and cried as his twisted shape regained that of a Primarch, the pain burning him up. He clutched his head and roared praises to the Warp Child.
When the sensation passed, he rose from the floor, a man so perfect it was unreal. His obsidian armour glowed deep within, and his Talons glinted in the dark light. As he admired his form, the Warp Child touched him.
The shadows thickened and the entire room became engulfed in darkness. ‘I see you have regained your form. Just as I predicted...’ growled a deep voice from the far reaches of the dark shadows. ‘Now, go and destroy the Imperium and the Emperor!’
Edited by Skirax, 07 January 2010 - 05:31 PM.