000.M31.
Ullanor system.
In orbit above Ullanor, over a thousand ships hung suspended.
Plasma engines hummed, countering the planet's gravitational pull.
The Phalanx of the Imperial Fists stood alone.
The ships of the Emperor's Children and the Blood Angels were resplendent in their glory.
A single, gilded ship held the central position, hovering above a continent.
Horus's Vengeful Spirit.
Black and crimson ships approached, weaving through the void.
Nareth stood before the viewport, gazing out at the void: Jaghatai's swift white vessels, Angron's brutal red ships, Lorgar's grey fleet, and his target, Mortarion's armada.
The Death Guard fleet formed a single, compact line, like a steadfast spear.
Their ship names, written in High Gothic, spoke of their unyielding resolve.
At the spear's tip was the Endurance. Its deep green prow was etched with a litany of campaigns, worlds visited, and enemies conquered, in man-high letters.
The ships bore the Imperial Aquila and the Death Guard's own spiked-skull emblem.
Nareth moved his mind. Ulman, the Khrave Progenitor psychically linked to him, acted.
His tendrils twitched. An inhuman mind, silent, projected outward.
Ulman's tendrils quivered with pleasure, tasting the lingering residue of the Triumph of Ullanor. His spirit, once shattered by a terrible will, slowly recovered.
Power from the void seeped into the Endurance's upper decks. Cold tendrils gripped an officer's mind.
"Kunza!" A whisper from the void.
"Mortarion and his sons have never seen you, or others, as human."
"You are regarded as lowly vermin!"
"Now, they are away from the ship. Your opportunity has come."
Black veins spread across Kunza's neck.
He repeated, his voice low, "The opportunity has come..."
Kunza moved, his speed far surpassing a mortal's, swift even by Death Guard standards. He moved through areas he had never been permitted to enter, his steps never faltering, as if he had traversed them a thousand times.
He stopped before an armory. His hollow eyes surveyed the area.
His arms were now covered in black veins.
Enforcers from seven decks assembled around him, as if following their Progenitor, the Death Guard.
Thoughts passed between him and the seven Enforcer officers, unhindered by their ordinary brains.
In their mental communion, their heartbeats quickened, their breath coming in hot gasps.
Kunza stepped towards the door. Black veins covered his entire body.
He raised his hand. The door burst open.
The Enforcers flooded into the armory, their black-veined arms lifting boltguns.
A roar echoed through the Endurance. Their targets were not the crew, but the cogitators, the metal-screened monitors...
In the spreading chaos, Kunza moved silently to the highest hall.
He hid in the shadows, watching the guards.
They wore grey-white Tartaros-pattern Terminator armor, trimmed with brass and dark gold. Their barbed gauntlets gripped the long hafts of massive scythes.
The Death Guard's elite, the Deathshroud.
Ten Deathshroud, shoulder-to-shoulder, formed two ranks, blocking the entrance.
"A riot has broken out aboard the ship. We must go and suppress it immediately."
"Guarding the Primarch's palace is our primary duty. We must leave enough men here." The Captain of the Primarch's Guard raised his scythe, giving the order.
"Palacios and Bard, you will remain."
He strode off, leading the other seven Deathshroud towards the mag-lifts.
Kunza stared at the passage between the ornate railings. Two Deathshroud stood guard, one on each side.
He stepped from the shadows, moving directly between them.
The Deathshroud showed no reaction. They did not sense the psychically concealed Kunza.
He reached a spire. His hollow eyes studied it.
The spire was three hundred meters high, about a hundred meters wide.
He raised his arms, like a bat spreading its wings.
Kunza rose silently, landing on the spire's peak.
The Progenitor's will, guided by the information from his contractor, Nareth, drove his host past column after column, to the end.
Kunza followed the spiral of wrought-iron stairs, entering the spire's interior, to the final chamber, the clock room of the observatory dome.
He raised his black-veined arm. The door slid open.
Kunza stepped inside, immediately seeing the vast array of clocks.
Clocks hung from every section of the walls beneath the glass dome, ticking.
Small carriage clocks and massive, gilded timepieces filled dozens of tables, their ticking echoing through the hall.
Kunza moved to the center. The pendulum within the gilded clock, the Silent Blade, had been taken by Mortarion to Ullanor's surface.
But something else remained within the clock, a deathly prisoner.
A large bell-top, covered in mystic symbols, formed the clock's apex.
Its lower half extended into the clock, forming a small dome containing a pale, massive head.
Kunza knew his objective, the head of Necare, Mortarion's foster father, the xeno overlord.
The black veins bulged, bursting the officer's uniform.
The tendrils struck the bell-top.
Crack!
The mystic device, crafted by the Death Guard and the Mechanicum, shattered. The tendrils grasped Necare's pale head.
A flash of light, and Mortarion's most prized trophy vanished.
Aboard the Photep, Magnus felt a flicker. His eye shifted to orange.
He commanded the Master of Vox, "Connect me to Mortarion's channel."
Seconds later, the Master of Vox's voice: "My lord, the channel is open."
"Magnus. What is it?"
Magnus detected the suppressed urgency in the cold voice. "Something is happening on your Endurance. You may need my help."
"I need nothing!" Mortarion's voice was cold as a scythe.
"I can handle it."
"Magnus, I warn you. No sorcerous tricks!"
Drip, drip...
The channel cut off. Magnus shook his head, helpless.
On the Endurance's flight deck, Mortarion, striding out, glared at the Deathshroud before him.
"Will someone tell me what happened?"
"The Emperor and ten Primarchs are gathered on Ullanor to celebrate a glorious victory, and my flagship erupts in rebellion, at this very moment?"
"Father..." The Captain of the Primarch's Guard trembled before his gene-father's wrath.
"Seven Enforcers mutinied. I have suppressed the riot."
"And my spire?" Mortarion glanced at the eight Deathshroud, a sudden, sinking feeling in his gut.
"Did those foolish rioters disturb my spire?"
"Father, absolutely not. Palacios and Bard were on guard the entire time. No one has defiled your sacred palace."
"It had better be so." Mortarion's voice came from his bronze respirator. He strode past the Captain.
First Captain Typhon and Captain Nathaniel Garro of the 7th Company flanked him.
Moments later, Mortarion, striding into the spire's clock room, stared at the gilded clock at the center.
"No!"
Mortarion's roar shook the spire.
His most prized trophy, the symbol of his greatest achievement, Necare's head, was gone.
"This is what you call undefiled?"
Mortarion's voice was cold. His right fist swung, striking the Captain.
Bang!
The Tartaros-clad form was hurled back, tumbling down the stairs.
"Father!" Nathaniel called out. "There is blood here."
Mortarion followed his gaze to the deck.
A spray of blood was splattered before the gilded clock.
"I smell the stench of sorcery," Mortarion said with disgust.
"Could it be Magnus?"
"I think not. The Thousand Sons Primarch would not do anything to incur your wrath," Nathaniel counseled.
"Perhaps a xenos warlock? The Aeldar?"
"Whoever it is, they will pay," Mortarion said coldly.
The Guard Captain, his shoulder broken, his armor bloodied, staggered forward.
He knelt. "Father, I have failed in my duty. Punish me!"
The other nine knelt as well.
Palacios and Bard trembled. It was their failure that had implicated their brothers.
"You are Deathshroud no longer," Mortarion declared, his judgment cold.
"From this day, you are the vanguard for the line-captains."
"I will ensure they atone," Nathaniel said.
The 7th Company Captain of the Death Guard held the honorary title of Line-Captain, granted by the Emperor when he had commanded the Dusk Raiders.
As Mortarion delivered his judgment, Nareth gazed at Necare's head, now in the Kingdom of Disorder
'The potion ingredients are complete. Now, for the ritual.'
'Hmm… Who to choose as the primary target?'
Nareth immediately ruled out Perturabo and Magnus, whom he wished to win over.
To Tzeentch, Magnus was the perfect Primarch. Unlike other Primarchs, he needed no sacrifice to ascend; he could become a daemon at any time.
In his memory, Magnus chose to ascend before the Emperor, Malcador, and Vulkan.
That was far too conspicuous. Nareth could not ascend to Sequence 4 in the Emperor's presence.
'Fulgrim, ascending in the Eye of Terror, and Mortarion, ascending in the Warp, are also not good options.'
'The primary target should be Angron.'
On one hand, the World Eaters had numerous informants who could track Angron's movements.
In this regard, Akurduana, Fulgrim's favored champion, was also a possibility. But Nareth would not allow him to trick Perturabo and use part of his power as a sacrifice.
On the other hand, Angron's ascension would ultimately take place in the material world, allowing Nareth to arrive in time.
And even Khorne's fury would be muted by the veil.
'Hmm, since I must kill, I should kill Angron, who would amass the most power during his ascension.'
'And Khorne is often the strongest of the Four. Such a ritual would yield the best results.'