were filled with Elysian and Imperial Navy aircraft, and Elysian drop-troopers descended through
the darkness above to fall behind the enemy lines. Laron felt a touch of admiration and awe for the
enemy, for they fought without rest as never-ending waves of the Imperials attacked, and they
resisted every push and new attack with great fervour. He dismissed the thought as soon as it
formed. To even think such a thing bordered on heresy.
Arcs of lightning reached out from the tower to ensnare Valkyries, Thunderbolts and droptroopers
that strayed close, and they were dragged through the air into its sheer stone sides. Pilots
fought with their controls as the circuitry of their aircrafts was fried and they were drawn in towards
the tower. There were no explosions, however; they merely disappeared as they should have struck
stone, sucked into the Ether, to be fed upon by the army of daemons waiting just beyond the thin
membrane separating the physical world from the warp.
Missiles screamed from beneath the wings of fighters, detonating explosively into the side of the
daemon tower, and keening, high-pitched, maddening screams echoed across the skies. The attacks
caused great rents to appear in the side of the tower and dark blood seeped from the wounds, thick
and glutinous. Bombardment from the advancing Imperial line joined with the attack and battle
cannons and siege ordnance were directed towards the giant tower as they too came into range, and
bleeding pockmarks appeared across the sheer walls of the tower.
The tower’s pain resonated within the soul of every warrior on the battlefield. The traitorous
enemy seemed to become enraged by the power of the cries and they attacked with renewed fury.
Laron staggered beneath the twisting power of Chaos that burst in waves from the tower, his head
spinning and nausea making bile rise in his throat, and he knew that every Elysian on the field of
battle suffered. Even the tech-guard warriors of the Adeptus Mechanicus seemed affected, pausing
mid-battle in confusion at the unwholesome stimuli washing over them.
The Ordinatus continued its relentless, unstoppable advance and it levelled great sections of the
Chaos defences with every titanic blast from its sonic weapon. Laron swore as enemy warriors and
Elysians alike were caught in the blasts, their internal organs exploding and their bones shattering as
the resonating blast ripped through them. The foes’ ancient ceramite power armour shattered into
millions of tiny shards beneath the potent Mechanicus weapon.
Clearly recognising the threat that the Ordinatus posed, the Chaos Marines hammered thousands
of rounds of fire into its void shields, overriding them completely several times. Little damage was
sustained by the behemoth before dutiful Tech-Priests and the army of servitors that swarmed over
the machine restored the shields and it continued its relentless advance. Soon it would be within
range of the cursed daemon tower. Laron prayed to the Emperor that the war machine would fell it.
The enemy was pushed back to the third tier and then back to the fourth. Here it seemed that
they had determined to make their stand. They would hold the fourth tier or they would be
slaughtered to a man. That suited Laron just fine. It was brutal, gritty fighting, but he took heart in
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the fact that they were grinding the enemy down, though it was a slow process. The enemy were
being beaten, individual by individual, even though Imperial losses were horrific.
Communications remained completely inoperative and Brigadier-General Havorn’s corpse had
been found behind the tech-guard cohorts. Colonel Laron had donned a black armband in mourning
for the old general, but he had taken over as the overall commander of the Elysian 72nd and 133rd
with some reluctance. He set up crude communications using runners, flags, loudhailers and
searchlights to organise attacks and retreats across the peninsula. Commissar Kheler proved an
admirable and forthright advisor. Kheler tempered Laron’s more foolhardy attitudes and the acting
colonel developed an appreciation of Kheler’s uncompromising expectations of the captains of the
regiments. He allowed no talk of retreat and shot any man who showed the slightest sign of doubt or
reluctance to perform his duties.
It will all be over soon, thought Laron. The enemy could not hold out for longer than hours at
most. They would be victorious and they would return to the Crusade bearing Havorn’s body with
full honours.
This was the final push. They just needed to break the enemy from the fourth tier of defence and
that would allow the Ordinatus to begin its barrage upon the cursed tower. It was unholy, the
massive thing that rose up and pierced the skies over head. It must have been over a kilometre in
diameter, and the aura of wrongness that it exuded made him feel physically sick. It must be
destroyed.
If there was a portal to hell, it was surely this damned tower. With a nod to his subordinates, he
indicated the commencement of the final push against the enemy. Flags were raised and powerful
spotlights flashed the signal along the Imperial line.
The final chapter of the war would be played out in the next hours of engagement, for better or
for worse.
Varnus paced back and forth behind the picketed slaves, a lasgun in his hands and his mind
seething.
Blood filled his thoughts, anger and bitterness infusing him.
A hundred thousand workers, the last remaining Imperial subjects enslaved by the Word
Bearers, had been herded together and picketed along the top of the third tier. Their chains were
bolted into the plascrete battlements atop the earthen bulwark. There they stood, forming a living
shield of bodies.
The red-armoured priest had dragged him there. Varnus’s thoughts were confused and
tormented. He had not realised at first what was going on. All he could hear were the voices of
Chaos in his head and the pounding of blood, and he had stared at his bloody hands in dumb
incomprehension.
A small shuttle had risen to the top of the Gehemehnet tower and a glorious, terrifying figure
had emerged. Without any conscious will, he had dropped to the ground before this warrior-priest,
screwing his eyes tightly shut and trying desperately to maintain control of his bodily functions. The
figure radiated power and the essence of Chaos and Varnus found his insides twisting within him,
his skin crawling and his head aching. He felt as if he was being turned inside out and pain wracked
his body before he passed out.
He had awoken to find the first warrior-priest dragging him across the earth and he was
deposited at the top of the fourth defensive line with the other slaves.
The warrior had left him without a word, going to join in the raging battle.
The overseers had tried to chain him with the others, but they soon backed away from him after
he had killed two of them and turned their needle-fingers upon them. Some of the slaves had
cheered at that, but their cries died in their throats as Varnus looked at them. Perhaps they saw the
same thing that made the overseers back away.
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And so he had waited with the slaves, unchained but bound there nonetheless. To go forward
was to die, but to go back would only be to lengthen his torment. No, this was the battlefield where
his eternal fate was to be determined and he waited whatever was to come with little care of the
outcome. He stalked back and forth, letting his anger and bitterness build.
He raged as he felt the pain of the Gehemehnet and cried out in anguish as each shell screamed
over his head to strike against it. The child was strong and it would take more than humble shells to
destroy it, but still he roared with anger at the pain it endured.
Even here on the battlefield, the Discords blared at the slaves and Varnus knew now that they
spoke the truth.
The Emperor was no god; he was a shattered corpse that clung to a last vestige of life by feeding
off the deaths of those dedicated to him, and he cared not at all for Varnus or any of the other
wretched, deceived slaves that invoked his name in prayer.
But there were true gods in the universe, ones that took an active interest in the lives of mortals:
gods that granted strength to their followers and brought ruin upon their foes.
He had been blind, but now his eyes had been opened wide. He didn’t hate the Imperial
Guardsmen for their ignorance, for he too had been duped into believing the lies of the Ecclesiarchy.
He hated them for betraying him and all these poor chained-up individuals. They had waited for
liberation, enduring hell at the hands of their captors, and now they were being killed by those they
had waited so long to save them.
He had picked up a lasgun from a corpse and he stood waiting for them to come to him. He
would damn well kill as many of the bastards as he could before he was overcome. It would not be
long before the fighting was upon them once more. The Chaos Marines were even now pulling back
towards the fourth line and it was time for the slaves to do their part.
The overseers had attached the slaves’ chains to dozens of massive living machines of horrific
power and brutal will. These daemonic, infernal creations roared as they fired their ordnance into
the advancing Imperial ranks and the closest to them were deafened by the sound. Scores more
slaves were killed by the daemon engines, dragged beneath their claws and within reach of snapping
mouth-tentacles of flesh and metal.
Varnus could feel the ceaseless anger of the daemon essences bound within the vehicles and he
felt somehow akin to them. At some unheard command, the daemon engines were released from
their bindings of words and shackles, and they surged over the barricade of the fourth and last
defensive line, dragging the slaves forward between them.
Varnus screamed his hatred and pain, and followed, clutching his lasgun.
Marduk stood atop the fourth and final embankment, watching as the enemy began its final push.
The bombardment of artillery began afresh and the lines of the Host were hidden beneath plumes of
smoke and flame. An endless wave of enemy troops and tanks spilled down into the open ground
between the third and fourth lines of embankments, the intensity of gunfire lifting dramatically as
they came into bolter range.
“The end is nigh,” commented Burias.
“It will be a close run thing. This will be the final battle,” said Marduk. He glanced over at the
Icon Bearer. “Watch out for your nemesis, Burias. Fear the dreaded Chimera.”
Burias laughed out loud and rubbed his unmarked head with one hand.
“Damn thing hurt,” he said. He had returned to the lines of the Word Bearers, driving a battered
enemy tank through the ranks of battle servitors, crushing them under its tracks, but they did not
target it. It was an Imperial tank and it was not in their programming to raise a weapon against it. As
it drew near the Host’s lines a missile had sent it spinning into the air. Burias had crawled from the
flaming wreckage and told a laughing Marduk of his tale.
He had gripped onto the tank as it thundered over him and had crawled across its hull before
ripping away a hatch and slaughtering the occupants. Then he had ripped the driver’s seat from its
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housing so that he could fit his bulk into the compartment before driving back towards the lines of
the Host.
“I saw you speaking with the Coryphaus,” said Marduk.
Burias looked over at him and Marduk raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, First Acolyte.”
“Of what were you speaking?”
“Things of little consequence,” said Burias. “The deployment of our Havoc squads, the use of
the slaves.”
Marduk narrowed his eyes. The Icon Bearer was concealing something. He was a conniving
snake, and Marduk had no doubt that he would turn on him if that would benefit him.
“The Dark Apostle comes!” Marduk heard one of the warrior-brothers exclaim, and he turned,
his thoughts pulled away from Burias, inclining his head to witness his lord’s arrival.
He floated out of the roiling, black, lightning filled clouds, surrounded by a glistening nimbus of
light, descending gently towards the battle like a glorified angel. He was borne aloft upon a disc-like
daemon pulpit, one hand upon the spiked railing at its front. Daemons swirled around him, filling
the air with their keening screams as they scythed around the Dark Apostle in intricate weaving
patterns.
They were daemons blessed by Tzeentch, the Great Changer of the Ways, and their bodies were
long and smooth, rimmed with thousands of jagged barbs. Hunters of the Ether, they resembled the
ray-fish that existed in the oceans of countless worlds, sleek and deadly. Their bodies were ovular in
shape and long barbed tails swished behind them as they cut through the air, fleshy wing tips rising
and falling deceptively slowly. Colours played over their dark hides, glistening patterns of iridescent
shades. Each was the length of three men and they cut through the air in a deadly dance, spiralling
down in steep dives before turning into climbing corkscrews, interweaving with the paths of others
of their kind.
Smaller versions of the screaming daemon-rays, no larger than a hand span across, whipped
around the Dark Apostle, spiralling around him like a dense shoal of frenzied fish.
Jarulek held his crozius of the dark gods high before him and a roar rose up to greet him from
the assembled Host.
He certainly knew how to make an entrance, Marduk thought wryly.
“The way you appear to the Host is paramount, First Acolyte,” he remembered Jarulek lecturing
him. “Always you must project an aura of authority and religious awe. We are beyond the warriorbrothers
of the Legion, we are the chosen of the gods, exalted in Lorgar’s eyes and raised beyond
the morass of the lower warrior. Our warriors must worship us. And why? We must appear glorified
and exalted so that always we can inspire utter devotion in the Host. A warrior fuelled with faith
fights with twice the hatred and twice the strength of one that does not, and he will fight on past the
point when he would otherwise give in to death. A Dark Apostle must always inspire such devotion
in his flock,” said Jarulek, his eyes filled with passion and belief.
“That is the reason that we need a Coryphaus, Marduk. The Dark Apostle must be separate and
aloof from the Host to maintain the utter devotion of the warrior-brothers. He must not be one of
