Escape from Kathalon
“What do you mean it isn’t ready?!”
Thirty-six hours of ritual and repetition in reverence to their contact in the Warp had passed, yet the summing pit loaded with sacrifices yielded no portal. Sorcery hung thickly in the atmosphere – rainbow wisps of aetherial energy winding out from the pit and snaking around them, an ever-present cerulean mist lapped at their boots, black static lightning crackling and arcing along the edges of their armor – but the Immaterium’s door remained locked. Nine sorcerers surrounded precise points around the well, symbols and runes laser-etched into the dark stone beneath their feet, but their unceasing efforts still produced no results. And until the offering was accepted and the daemon entered this realm, Rahaund’ul Dhelmas would remain trapped on Kathalon – trapped amidst endless feud between the Architect of Fate and the Lord of Skulls. This reality brought a strong unease to the sorcerer lord of the Scourged.
He did not want to hear that the summoning ritual was not ready.
“I mean exactly that, Brother. We lack the fodder necessary to open the rift. The demands of the daemon are high.”
“So I am learning, Scindus. What more do we need, then? “
“At minimum, two hundred and sixty-three more minds. However, Brother, I would urge that we collect all that we can to gain this daemon’s favor. I know I don’t have to remind you of their… fickle nature.”
“Of course not. And must you continuously regard me with such scorn in your voice, Scindus?”
“No, Lord Dhelmas, it is not required. But, I do have such a hard time letting go of the past, Brother. You know that.”
He did know that. Scindus held grudges longer than any living man. He lacked the empathy to forgive. This fault earned him no friends as a child as each harmless transgression was remembered, recorded to an inventory in his mind, until a contemptuous rage saw him lash out at his assumed offenders. His family was subjected to the same behavior, every parent and relative at the mercy of the cold and accusatory child, all except for his younger brother. Scindus spared his brother this aggression at every turn, as the younger boy had never once wronged him. In truth, the boy worshipped his older brother, and they relied on each other above all else.
No tears were shed when a young Scindus was accepted as an Aspirant of the Seekers of Truth and left behind all those who knew him. He abandoned a world and life that he did not want, and that did not want him in return. The self-imposed hardships and solitude of his life crafted a hardened and ruthless warrior. A better future awaited him in service to the Emperor of Mankind. And whether by coincidence or luck or Fate, the one shining light in Scindus’ life was joining him in this new life – his younger brother had also passed the trials and was an Aspirant as well.
“What would you have me do, Scindus? I cannot change the past – I don’t have the powers of our new Master. What was done cannot be undone. You chose to make me your enemy. I will not ask your forgiveness any more – I gave up on that decades ago.”
“There was no choice to make, Brother. There is nothing to interpret. It’s acceptance of the truth – unfiltered, unaltered truth. And the final truth is you threw away any hope of understanding that when you accepted your ascendancy, Lord Dhelmas.”
Scindus excelled in his new life as an Astartes, with his brother always at his side. Together they grew and excelled, finding their niches within the Chapter. Their emerging aptitudes saw them diverge down very separate paths after earning their Black Carapace. The endless scraps and fights as a child developed within Scindus a foundation of martial prowess on the battlefield, seeing him become the sergeant of 4th Company’s assault squad. His sibling, however, was gifted in mind instead of body and flourished within the Librarius. Their differences only bonded them tighter to one another, forging the two halves to a coin.
Then the foolish Gallus Herodicus damned every last Seeker of Truth with his mewling pleas into the Warp. The Gift spread through the ranks of the chapter until no human mind was unaffected. Their thoughts exploded with the sounds of the Imperium’s falsehoods, louder and louder as the Gift grew within them. For the major of men and at least half of Astartes, such an affliction leads to panic, paranoia, and insanity. But those souls possessing powerful mind or an indomitable will found the strength to resist falling into psychosis. Scindus and his brother were among the lucky to win their renewed sanity, but irreparable damage had been done: that which is spoken cannot be unheard.
Everyone lies – it is a fundamental aspect of human nature. It is not a new or novel concept to understand, and will never change. But for all his life as a human and an Astartes, Scindus had never once believed his brother could ever lie to him. Not once. That fact is what cemented the one emotional bond Scindus kept. But the Gift revealed the truth in an unbearable barrage and crushed that belief. His sibling was just as tainted and foul as the schoolchildren who shunned him and the adults who betrayed him. Everything was changed now. A new life began for him once again, but this time Scindus Dhelmas would live it without his brother to depend upon and trust.
“Enough, Scindus. I have not forgotten either, but this eternal feud can wait. I want to leave this world behind us. Since our arrival we have faced nothing but disaster, and this bargain from the daemon is our only chance to leave. Captain Piliae, raise the Deception’s Call and inform them that we need three hundred more of the Curse-touched dregs from the holds.”
“Impossible, Lord Dhelmas. All long range communication is down – localized warp rift interference. Even if it wasn’t, updated data shows our holds were exhausted of the fodder already.”
Absolutely perfect. Yet another misfortune to plague them. Destiny saw them pulled out of the Warp mid-flight and thrown into orbit at Kathalon. Serendipity saw the warp storm encapsulate the system to prevent any retreat. Fate saw the daemon offer an escape if Rahaund’ul and his men opened a portal and summoned it on the planet’s surface. Coincidence saw to it that the ceremonial location was overrun with zealots of the Blood God that had to be eradicated. And now random chance saw to it that the ceremony could not be completed, all thanks to keeping sacrificial humans in short supply. What could possibly come next?
“Fine. I don’t care how you do it, but find a way to contact the Call and tell them to sacrifice whatever human crew they… wait, warp rift interference? How bad?”
“Worst since we made planetfall. Communication with the Call has been unsteady at best, but it has since evaporated in the last few moments. Auspex readings show a massive tear in realspace forming on our northern flank. Something big is coming.”
As if on cue, Piliae’s briefing was punctuated with an auspicious and thundering crack from reality ripping itself open. The landscape withered and corroded wherever the edges of the materializing Immaterium touched. Wider and wider it grew, stretching like an angry maw of color and emotion attempting to eat the planet. All members of the Scourged had turned to watch the rift open, the ceremony momentarily forgotten. As many stood motionless, whether in trepidation or amazement, Ghan Xeras came excitedly bounding over to Lord Dhelmas, as filled with pointless glee as ever.
“Do you see? Lord Dhelmas, Dhelmas, do you see it? See it there? Reality splits itself open, yes! Visitors are coming to see us!”
Yes, of course he saw. A horde was fast approaching, having spilled out from the rift. Every servant of the Lord of Rage came running at them: men and women with axes and blades screaming for blood, mutants shambling as best they could wielding their own talons and fangs as weapons, and abhumans and beastmen thundering forward on claws and hooves. While numerous, the renegades scurrying forward were not the focus of Lord Dhelmas’ concern. No, the real threats came from the vast amount of bronze and crimson Berzerkers leading the charge, chainaxes almost silenced by the Astartes’ bellowed hatred.
Rahaund’ul Dhelmas looked to the cascading army of rage advancing and sighed. This ordeal would simply never end. This incursion would only delay their summoning for many more hours, never mind the numerous casualties such an assault would bring. Assuming they survived, that is. Not that it mattered, anyway: the sorcerers lacked the necessary minds and bodies to sacrifice within the earthen pit.
No, wait… the arrival of one problem is really the solution for another. Based on initial readings via his autosenses, the blood-red renegades could take casualties at 40% and still be in numbers great enough to appease their daemonic envoy. Perhaps this was not yet another inconvenience, Rahaund’ul realized, but an intervention from his new Master. After reciting a silent prayer of thanks to Changer of Ways, the Sorcerer Lord finalized his revised plans and turned back to his men to relay the new orders.
“Xeras, take our automatons and defend our flanks. Lay down suppressing fire and flame. I want every soul that pours from that rift bottlenecked and driven to this position. Understood?”
“Oh my, yes. Understood! Very much understood Lord Dhelmas! My Revenants and I will bring visitors to you!”
As Xeras joyfully ran off, his Revenants moving with machine precision to dedicated fire and choke points, Scindus approached his brother. Surely the arrival of a blood-hungry horde led by devout Berzerkers signaled a sign for retreat, yes? And yet, the Lord of the Scourged was ordering his men to not only stand their ground, but to funnel the enemy into the heart of their ceremony.
“Rahaund’ul… what are you planning?”
“We need sacrifices for our summoning. I’m going to provide them.”
***
Tactically speaking, the Berzerkers would have been better off as the second wave of the assault, not the spearhead. Use the mortal chaff to eat the brunt of the overwhelming firepower and soften the initial ranks with the charge, letting the power armored warriors sweep them in the second wave. But, Scindus accepted, sound logic and berserk rage seldom meet. No matter. He blink-clicked the activation runes in his display and power immediately surged to his unwieldly fist and electrified claws. He flexed his wrists and arms, habitually testing the weight of his weapons. As always, his hands felt comfortable and ready for the fight.
Despite the hail of warpflame-infused bolter rounds pummeling them into a tight rank, the Berzerkers ignored Xeras and his Revenants. The fallen Astartes shouting for blood, skulls, and battle seemed intent on reaching the center of the temple ruins where seven squads of Scourged waited. Another foolish decision. Ignoring the entrenched automatons would ensure their numbers dwindled further before reaching the melee proper, as well as guaranteeing the mortals and mutants lagging behind would be shredded.
“We have no use for these insensate champions of the Blood Throne and rejects from the Eaters of Worlds,” called out Rahaund’ul over the chapter-wide vox. “Open fire and let them watch their own demise fly toward them on the tips of bolter rounds. Release your psionic strength and flay their minds in the name of our Great Conspirator. Then steel yourselves for the assault. Let them know we have heard their lies and have come to deliver their punishment!”
Well said. Though Scindus lost faith in his brother’s virtue long ago, Little Raha’s skill with words did still impress.
All around him bolters and plasmaguns fired into the charging warriors of blood and brass, yet still they plowed forward. Those psykers that were not devoted to the summoning struck with bolts and blasts fueled by the Warp, yet still the barbarians charged at them. More and more fell to the ground, dead or dying or dismembered, weapons shameful discarded as they fall dying. Yet it impeded the charge of no other Berzerker. Once the crimson wave crashed on their shores the Scourged outnumbered them four-to-one, but the odds for survival were still only even, at best.
Scindus wasted no time and was already slashing his powered claws at the first combatant to engage him, his fist thrusting to his left and pummeling another. Claws met chainaxe in a squeal of metal, sparks and lightning flying everywhere. The crazed Astartes shouted some curse or proclamation at him, but Scindus was not listening to his spoken voice. Instead he attuned his mind to the Berzerker’s silent intentions, hearing every feint and false strike telegraphed as clearly as any other lie. Four seconds was enough time to find a killing blow with the lightning claws and welcome the next challenger.
One minute into the fight, and both warbands saw themselves at half strength. Puddles and rivulets of blood were everywhere, soaking the battleground, dotted sporadically with islands of gore. Scindus spared a glance to ensure the sorcerers maintaining the summoning were unharmed – thankfully they all still stood – but it cost him a glancing blow with a mangled blade. Alarmed, and angered with his lapse in guard, Scindus struck with a countering uppercut of his left fist, and the offending warrior was now a red mist from the waist up.
One more minute passed and brought with it the hundreds of mortal zealots that trailed behind the Berzerkers. Those that survived the gauntlet of Revenant’s guns wove their way into the ranks of battle and struck blindly at any target they could reach, friend or foe. Inferior and improvised blades beat and scratched on Scindus’ armor but he paid them no mind as he parried another chainaxe. The mortal chaff was a secondary concern.
That’s when Lord Dhelmas spoke on the vox once again. “They play into our hands, brothers. Their foolish assault is the fuel we need for our summoning! Push them into the pit with the others, and open the door for the daemon!”
At the end of the third minute, the Scourged had fallen to just shy of one third their numbers, but the Berzerkers had been defeated. Only the collection of mutants and humans remained, but at least their presence was welcome. Every Astartes in azure armor worked to rout the gore-soaked cultists straight into the sacrificial pit, but the fight was still far from easy. The inferior beings swarmed around them all, stifling their movements in a desperate struggle to shed blood. Still, the tide was finally turning in favor of the Scourged. More energy poured out in bolts from the pit, and the mist grew thicker. It wouldn’t be long now. And it’s just as this renewed hope was spreading that the blood on the ground began to boil.
Scindus could not comprehend what his senses were telling him at first. The odor of burning blood overpowered him with memories from the galaxy’s birth, and the air distorted in a way that refracted time. Instantly the lake of blood beneath him erupted, and howling out of the miasma came charging a band of Bloodletters, all eight of them heading straight toward him. Scindus dodged the initial attacks on instinct alone, barely able to see the strikes as they narrowly missed his body.
This was bad. He fought well, and he fought hard, but this was not a fight Scindus had any hope of winning. Slowly the Bloodletters closed in around him, avoiding any swipe of his claw as he dodged and blocked their blades. He could not predict their actions – the feints of men are heard clear as day, but daemonic lies are silence to him. A lucky strike knocked him to a knee, leaving him open to a coming blow that would surely finish him. And there was nothing Scindus could do to defend himself. Well. So be it.
But the blow was late. A glowing green force sword parried the strike before it could remove Scindus’ head, and a telepathic push shoved half of the daemons away. He rallied to his feet and swung his fist in a very wide arc, gaining some breathing room for himself and his defender, Rahaund’ul. The Bloodletters never faltered, still fighting feverishly for a chance to spill blood, now having two bodies to rip open. Scindus slashed at a daemon on Raha’s flank, ripping the arm off at the shoulder just as another daemon wailed as green witchfire burned it away from existence.
“This changes nothing, Brother.”
“Just fight, damnit! The summoning is almost-”
Rahaund’ul never finished his words, as the ground shook and fissured beneath everyone left on the surface. The handful of humans and Astartes still trading blows suddenly ignored each other and sidestepped the widening cracks rending through the bedrock. Even the remaining Bloodletters paused as brilliant blue light shone from within the fissures. Everyone’s eyes turned to the pit as every trace of the cerulean mist was sucked deep within the well. For a split second, the atmosphere froze and there was complete silence, followed immediately with a pummeling shockwave and a screeching, birdlike call from the daemonic figure that had materialized.
Pointing a serpentine staff forward, the Lord of Change’s eyes radiated white light as lightning arced from its second hand, vaporizing all but one of the Bloodletters. The lone red daemon rushed forward, Hellblade thrust forward to stab the superior entity. The Greater Daemon relaxed its arm and flapped its resplendent wings in a single gust, sweeping the Bloodletter off its feet and sending it tumbling through the air. Once high above the battleground the daemon froze, snarling as it fought invisible bonds on its limbs, then wailing once its own body compressed unto itself, making a singularity of daemon flesh. Those scant few cultists of blood still alive – whose minds hadn’t shattered by the very presence of the Greater Daemon – were lifted from their feet and drawn into the same singularity, until all that was left of the assault was a single red crystal falling out of the sky.
Every living member of the Scourged dropped to their knees in reverence, save for the mindless Revenants and Rahaund’ul. The Sorcerer Lord and the Lord of Change turned to address one another. Not a word was spoken for some time, either aloud or telepathically. Even as gibbering Horrors started crawling out of the pit in droves and running off onto the planet, the two figures motionlessly appraised each other. At last, the bird-like demigod nodded. Scindus would have reacted to the sudden motion, but he and the rest of the Scourged – alive and dead – were instantly transported to the decks of Deception’s Call. Warpfrost was still sublimating off his armor before Scindus’ mind registered that he was no longer on Kathalon.
Every azure warrior, upon regaining composure, left to either attend to the wounded or resume any preparatory duties for departure. If the daemon was true to his word, the warp storm preventing them from leaving the system should no longer stand in the way. A hasty departure was imminent, so no one could be afforded any time to reflect on the day’s events. Scindus opened a private vox channel with Little Raha as he headed to the armory. Perhaps a century of contempt was long enough.
“Thank you… Brother.”
The channel closed before Rahaund’ul could offer any type of response. Off all the events that had transpired in the last week, Scindus’ warm gratitude was the only one that surprised the sorcerer. But he could reflect on that later. Lord Dhelmas opened up a vox channel of his own, this one to the bridge:
“Admiral Rhomanus, take my ship and get us the hell away from this planet.”