One thousand of him stand before the storm. In past efforts there had been so many more, but those were days of a strength that has long since been exhausted. This is the last gasp of Hesiod’s mental strength. The last chance.
As one they charge, just as before. The storm waits, malignant yet impersonal. It resists their advance as a twisted simulacrum of a natural impediment would, gleeful of their failure yet possessing no guiding will capable of remembering the past struggles.
One by one the projections of Hesiod’s will are cut down, just as before. Desperation has driven the host faster than the last time, and even now they wade into the inky turbulence with nearly half their number. The sense of sound imposed by the limits of the human mind stirs with ghostly howls as the figures of light are engulfed and boiled away, the power that had conjured them into being now returning to the wellspring of the ether itself.
The Epistolary’s greater consciousness flickers between projections, giving a modicum more will to a single one before phasing to another as it fails. All the while the words thud in the idea of his chest, in tune with his illusory heartbeat.
The message. The message. The message.
Then comes the inevitable crush. The claustrophobia of encirclement as his projections shrink to one hundred. Then fifty. Panic sets in, a wholly different experience from the fear that defines those of mortal ilk and the honed ignorance of his own non-empowered brethren alike. A dread that can only come from one who gazes into the Sea of Souls, and knows the truth of its nature.
He knows then that he must attempt something he has not before. The risks are abundantly clear, but in fractions of what his mind construes as seconds, Hesiod chooses. He gathers the light of the remaining forty-three projections, and collapses them into one.
For a short instant, the storm recedes, forced back by the blazing intensity of his soul’s energy. Its morass of malicious emotion reshapes itself, changing from formless black ooze into claws and grasping hands. They had had many opponents to withstand before. Now they have just one.
Hesiod reels from the sole concentration of the Neverborn mass. Tendrils and barbed limbs lash against his astral form, leaving bleeding wounds upon the body he inhabits in reality. The words he carries shake his skin of golden light with their import, tearing across the nightmare realm from his locus point.
The message. The message. The message.
The words become muffled as the storm sweeps over him. He fights the idea of drowning, the pressures placed upon imaginary lungs in a dominion where air has never and would never exist. Hesiod pushes forward, tearing at the utter blackness around him. Burbling laughter pounds over him, and his soul’s vision begins to narrow.
The concept of heat prickles at Hesiod’s back. The shadow begins to thin in spherical patches, lightening to a wan green that grows stronger with each passing moment. It defies the red, black and gold that has comprised his surroundings, and the laughter subsides as its half-formed voices curdle in pain.
Figures appear, wreathed in crackling jade fire. They form a half circle behind Hesiod, placing hands upon his back and pressing him forwards through the storm. Their voices are cold, strong things, felt as much as heard as they take up his cry and amplify it with their choir’s echo.
THE MESSAGE. THE MESSAGE. THE MESSAGE.
Hesiod feels the resistance against him weaken. The Librarian throws himself forward. He channels every last ounce of his will, imagining himself as a cutting blade parting effortlessly through the currents that seek to destroy him.
The warp seems to swell, and then shrink away before his projection. He strains against a membrane of noxious thought and dark emotion, and feels the skin as it begins to split and fail. The oil peels away from his lips, cold from the storm’s absence on the other side. Hesiod draws in the idea of a breath, and cries out his warning into the greater immaterium, using the burning souls protecting him to hurl the message towards his father.
It leaves his tongue as a zephyr of golden light, flying free through the churning tides. Failure after failure has been vindicated. The message is away, and now he can only pray that it reaches its destination.
Hesiod’s head struck the stone floor of his cell. His hands reached out to feebly hold onto the ground on either side of him, to prevent him from slumping onto his side. He barely heard the hurried swishing of robes as his serf rushed to his side.
‘Lord?’ the serf whispered, offering water in a beaten tin bowl. The Librarian took the bowl, slowly lifting his head enough to drink.
‘It is through.’ The words wheezed out of Hesiod, an exhalation more in line with a final breath than a gasp from fatigue. The serf nearly collapsed at the words, relief spilling from his aura in meagre waves.
Hesiod pushed himself up to his hands and knees as his senses came back to the forefront. His face matched the armour of his Chapter, a crimson mask of congealing blood issued from tortured pores. The distant reports of boltguns firing reached his ears, sounding as though they came from just above the chamber.
‘The enemy has broken into the citadel?’
‘Not yet, lord,’ said his servant, priming the power pack of a lasrifle. He swung the weapon’s sling over his head and moved to his master’s side. ‘But it is only a matter of time, now.’
‘You have done well,’ rasped the Librarian. With a snarl of armour servos he surged to one knee, and then stood. He would meet the fate coming for him on his feet.
The serf looked to Hesiod, a strange calm permeating him. ‘I am honoured to meet my end here, master, standing at your side.’
A faint smile crackled the blood caked around Hesiod’s lips. This servant was very much like his father had been.
+It is done.+
Hesiod’s sending echoed over Helios’ thoughts, the Chaplain cringing at the presence of another mind touching his own. ‘The message has been sent,’ he called out over the vox.
+And now, you must go, cousin.+
‘Your position here is precarious.’ Helios silenced his vox and whispered into his helm. ‘If you move quickly, we may be able to take some of you with us.’
+This is not your world. This is not your fight. It belongs to us. Your destiny lies south, keeping the instruments of destruction from our adversary. Fail at that, and all that has happened here is for nothing. We will give you the time you need. Now go.+
Helios drew in a single deep breath. ‘Ultramarines,’ he called out to both squads. ‘Rally on me.’
The fighting had ebbed, and the Iron Warriors had withdrawn to mass for their next attack. The blue-armoured Space Marines stepped back from the wall and gathered around their Chaplain.
‘There is a landing pad towards the rear of this complex,’ said Helios. ‘Proceed there and await the Pilum for extraction.’
‘Our cousins as well?’ asked Seneca. ‘And what of the civilians?’
‘The Genesis Chapter will remain here.’
Caprico moved to Helios’ side. ‘We are leaving them all behind?’
Theron stepped in front of the Primaris Marines. ‘We are following our orders. They are weapons, just like us. They perform their duty and fulfil their purpose, or those they were created to protect die. The shame of that failure does not quickly leave you. When you prioritise the weapons over the war, you deserve nothing but dishonour and defeat.’
‘The sergeant is correct,’ said Helios. ‘The Genesis Chapter swore their oaths to safeguard this world and its people, and so they remain here to honour that and if it is the Emperor’s will, give their lives. But their mission is not ours, and just as they must follow their duty, so must we.’
Caprico drew breath to speak, but said nothing. The Ultramarines walked from the barricade, following Helios towards the landing pad.
‘Sergeant.’
Theron stopped, turning as the Genesis Chapter Apothecary approached. With delicate reverence, Jovian removed each of the armourglass vials that hung from his armour.
‘Ryvan,’ said Jovian. ‘Daenos. Thevolin. Grakal. Batra. Kiril and Holen.’ He brushed a gauntleted hand across the bundle of containers. He held them out towards Theron, and the Ultramarine accepted them with both hands.
‘This is the future of my Chapter,’ said Jovian, his grip lingering on the vials for a moment before he released them. ‘See that they survive to be beneath the skies of Newfound again, and restore what has been lost.’
Theron brought the gene-seed of Jovian’s fallen brothers to his chest. ‘By the blood of the primarch, I swear it will be so.’
Ten times, the Iron Warriors had failed at breaking the enemy’s wall. When their Warsmith arrived, the wall fell.
A single shot from their Thunderhawk’s turbolaser had torn a ten-metre gap in the Space Marines’ barricade. With their single wall broken, Bolaraphon himself led the charge, his Terminator-armoured bulk the first thing into the breach.
It was a bloodbath. The corpse god’s slaves were broken from their defence, their ammunition gone, armour destroyed and weapons near useless. Even post-human bodies grew exhausted from ceaseless fighting and wounds that refused to close. The Warsmith killed everything in sight, rampaging through their line and into the citadel itself.
A loyalist in scorched white armour smashed into Bolaraphon’s side. The Warsmith lowered his weight and spread his legs to dissipate the force of the charge and keep his balance. He twisted, slashing with his talons and carving through the Space Marine’s head and chest. Bolaraphon leaned aside from a lazy swipe from his foe’s chainsword, responding with a hacking strike from his axe that terminated the sword arm at the shoulder. He opened his palm as the Genesis Chapter warrior staggered back, bathing him in a rush of flame from his gauntlet.
Another Space Marine died to the Warsmith’s axe as he felt an arm wrap around his waist. It was the loyalist Apothecary, still breathing despite mortal wounds and armour that was drooling to slag from the furnace heat of his flamer’s touch. Still the false emperor’s slave persisted, struggling in vain to drag him to the ground from his knees.
For a moment, Bolaraphon nearly admired him. But the feeling left just as quickly, unable to stand against his hatred. He took hold of the Apothecary’s head and drove it into the ground. The loyalist was still fighting even as the Warsmith’s axe struck clear through his neck and parted his head from his shoulders.
Stooping down, Bolaraphon gathered up the warrior’s severed head. With a cold, detached reverence, he bound the battered white helm to his armour, suspending it from a length of bronze chain. He hated them all, but this one had died well, and therefore he had earned the defilement of being taken as a trophy. It clattered on its chain, knocking against another white helm of a loyalist veteran the Warsmith had killed storming the ramparts.
The path ahead of him was barred, its bulkhead sealed and locked. Bolaraphon could almost taste the reek of witchcraft in the air, knowing that one of the corpse god’s psykers was on the other side.
He raised his open palm before the doorway. His lips curled back from his teeth as he loosed a screaming torrent of liquid fire over its surface. The blast was sustained for ten seconds, leaving a glowing orange smear across it as the flames guttered out.
The Warsmith reared back and chopped into the doorway with his axe. The dense metal deformed and parted under each pounding strike. He wrenched it free, splattering his chest with molten gems of glowing metal, before hacking into it again and again, tearing a hole through the bulkhead and looking at the small, austere chamber inside.
‘You!’ Bolaraphon roared at the armoured figure standing on the other side. ‘Your death has come for you!’
The Warsmith blinked as something that felt like a burning needle pricked the flesh of his face. A thin beam of energy struck his collar, and another blasted above his head. Rage nearly overcame him as he saw a human holding a lasrifle, taking aim at his head through the gap. His talons wrapped around the jagged rim of the opening. He pulled, hearing a sharp ping as the hinges began to warp and snap.
‘Nearly there,’ whispered the Imperial witch.
The Warsmith snarled, pouring his strength into the effort of hauling the door from its frame. The lock mechanism sheared loose. Triumph flooded Bolaraphon as the last hinge separating him and his enemy gave way.
The door flew back, lifting Bolaraphon from his feet and smashing him between itself and the far wall. The heavy sheet of compromised iron teetered, and fell to one side in a booming clang that echoed down the corridor. Dazed, Bolaraphon straightened from the wall, bloodied, his barrel chest dented and gouged, and surged into the chamber.
A flurry of las-bolts pattered harmlessly against his Terminator plate. Bolaraphon seized the shooter in his talons and engaged his flamer. Screams of agony rang from the walls of the small room. The ceiling became shrouded in oily black smoke. The Warsmith was careful as he fired, using just enough flame to ensure the man would burn for some time before he died.
The loyalist made no move to come to his servant’s aid. Bolaraphon could see how much the petty attack with the door had drained him, robbing him of the strength to make this anything other than an execution. He threw the smoking corpse in his fist aside and backhanded the Librarian, feeling with satisfaction as something crumpled in the Space Marine’s skull. He kicked the witch onto his back, drinking in all of the rage and defiance on the psyker’s face that so mirrored his own.
‘Did you call out to him, witch? Did you cry in your pitiful way to send your gene-sire here to intercede?’
‘He is coming,’ rasped the witch, each word bringing blood flecking over his beard. ‘The Avenging Son will come here, and he will kill you all.’
‘Perhaps, but he will not save you,’ the Warsmith hissed. He crouched down over the Librarian, slowly brandishing his claw. ‘Your father will come, and the only thing that will be here to welcome him…’ The last thing the loyalist saw was Bolaraphon, sneering as the Warsmith’s talons pierced his heart.
‘Is me.’