Chapter 465: Everyone Knows Their Duty
The Death Guard seemed to change in a heartbeat.
The miasma of confusion that had long hung over the Legion evaporated. Their greedy clinging to existence was suppressed by a more primal, potent emotion: resolve. Unyielding. Unfathomable.
Their tactics turned obsessive; their movements became decisive. Under their hardening will, the battle lines began to lurch forward. Though still clumsy—hampered by millennia of stagnant rot—every soul on Calth engaged in this war felt the subtle, terrifying shift in the atmosphere.
The Dark Angels remained noncommittal.
The Death Guard had indeed found a shadow of their former selves from the Great Crusade.
But a shadow is just a shadow. The Death Guard could not simply manifest the logistical abundance of realspace, the disciplined ranks of the Imperial Auxilia, the spiritual aegis of the Empyrean, or the direct command of a Primarch at will.
They had a bit of bite, but not enough to break the line.
BOOM! BOOM!
The Endurance endured its baptism of fire.
The Death Guard fleet had been torn apart, weathering the onslaught of the High Mobile Fleet of Greater Ultramar. The severe loss of effective combat strength, combined with the worsening environment for their daemonic essence in the Warp, made an effective counter-attack almost impossible.
Yet, the Endurance remained.
As other XIV Legion vessels collapsed and flickered out of existence, this Gloriana-class flagship seemed to grow more "complete." Supernatural power wreathed the ship, a malevolent aura so thick that any who turned their sensors toward her could feel her becoming increasingly lethal.
"Mortarion has held out this long because of his sons. I see it now," the Lion observed from the bridge of the Invincible Reason. He ordered his attack wings to maintain suppression while keeping a respectful distance from the Endurance. He spoke to Ramesses, his remote advisor.
Ramesses cared little for the "Art of War," but his knowledge of the Warp was peerless among the Imperial leadership. In this era where the Lion found himself "inexplicably" trusted by his brothers and "forced" to shoulder heavy burdens, he naturally turned to the Formless Lord for insight.
"Indeed. Nurgle has found Himself an excellent contingency," Ramesses replied, nodding as he analyzed the data.
Poor Mortarion, Ramesses thought. The Dawnbreakers want to crush him, the Ultramarines are busy defending their borders, and his own Death Guard have finally realized that their Gene-father is the only thing worth their loyalty. Meanwhile, Nurgle is playing a desperate hand of all-in to secure a better result, using the Death Guard as His final insurance policy.
And in the center of it all was Mortarion, still locked in a duel with Karna, oblivious to the walls closing in.
"Can he be killed outright?" the Lion asked bluntly. "As you killed Perturabo?"
The news of Perturabo's end had made the Lion sigh with a complex mix of emotions, but given the devastation the Lord of Iron had wrought, the Lion offered no protest.
If they are enemies, even brothers must be purged. It was that simple.
The Lion's logic was always a straight line.
"That depends on Nurgle Himself," Ramesses said, shifting his focus to the application of the God of Death's power. This war had broken out at a convenient time; the surges of death-energy were providing him with invaluable data. "The difference between Mortarion and Perturabo is that Mortarion actually has a slave-master sitting above him."
"Nurgle is clearly looking for a scapegoat. The Godblight is being bottlenecked by Tzeentch; whether it succeeds might not even matter anymore. It's a good thing the Death Guard came to their senses at the eleventh hour. Better to die a 'good' death at our hands than be recycled by Nurgle back into the Great Game."
Ramesses glanced at the 'Apprentice' standing beside Inquisitor Aglaia Hesiod—the Emperor's camera, using a young girl as His lens.
"Mortarion's fate depends on how much Nurgle values His own skin. Given His current reaction and His rejection of 'True Death,' we are mostly calculating how much blood we can squeeze out of the Plague God before the end."
"Not even Arthur can do it?" the Lion frowned.
In their brief time together, he had realized Arthur was fundamentally different from the other three Dawnbreakers. Arthur truly negated certain aspects of this reality, whereas the others integrated into it to varying degrees.
His instinct was sharp.
"Perhaps if Master Art were there, it would be possible. But to be honest—" Ramesses looked at the planet below, torn between the red of the Blood God and the green of the Plague Lord. He watched the two golden and grey vortices clashing at the world's core. "With those two monsters down there? Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't manage it."
Which meant Arthur shouldn't be risked on such a gamble.
The Lion understood instantly.
"So, my objective is to annihilate the Death Guard?"
He tactfully avoided the subject of helping Karna.
"Correct. Pressure Nurgle until He is forced into the next phase of the protocol. Force Him to make a choice."
Ramesses' projection patted the Lion on the shoulder.
"You handle the killing. We'll handle the headaches."
The most comfortable aspect of working with the Dawnbreakers was their clarity. They set the objectives and the standards, then handed over the keys to the Legion, trusting the professionals to do their jobs without constant meddling.
The Lion surveyed the bridge and issued his decrees.
Under his leadership, the Dark Angels moved in silence. Cogitators hummed as they captured battlefield imagery, processing the movements of enemy units and comparing them against the detailed combat archives of the Great Crusade. Tactical patterns were cross-referenced, verified, and implemented with clinical speed.
They looked upon the desperate attacks of the traitors with contempt, noted the lingering "ghosts" of the past within their ranks, and applied every lesson they had ever learned to dismantle them.
For these Knights, the mission was absolute. During the Great Crusade, they had extinguished countless civilizations. Some might have even been full of hope, simply standing on the wrong side of the Imperial path.
And these enemies? You could hardly argue they were on any path worth following.
The veterans were focused.
Azrael and Redloss exchanged deployment data. Around them, warriors from different eras—some of whom had been on opposing sides during the fall of Caliban—set aside their grievances. Following the example of their masters, they focused purely on the slaughter at hand.
The neophytes followed suit, mirroring the grim stoicism of their elders.
The Lion looked on. A Legion like this is a dream to lead, he thought.
BOOM!
Lightning arced across the soot-choked sky. Blood mixed with the rain falling from the heavens, interspersed with the wreckage of massive warships and the bones of the dead.
There were the filthy enemies, and then there were the defenders of the home.
CRUNCH.
Armored boots trod upon the broken earth.
Heavy infantry utilized plasma fire to stall the enemy charge. While the range of plasma was short in the atmosphere, its stopping power was immense, and under the newest blessings of the Omnissiah, their rate of fire was unnervingly stable.
The Ultramar Auxilia were elite, equipped for all-theaters of war. Their sergeants were largely men who had failed the final Astartes trials—near-superhumans who wielded volkite and plasma with terrifying proficiency. They could carve paths through fortress walls without needing heavy ordnance.
The air was thick with the stench of coolant and ozone.
Malakim Phoros, Chapter Master of the Lamenters and a paragon among the Crimson Paladins, led his brothers alongside the Auxilia. He peered over the lip of a trench. Around him was the ceaseless thunder of Calth-pattern heavy plasma, volkite chargers, and the rift-weaponry and Gauss tech brought from the Dawnstar Sector.
Normally, such a concentration of fire would reduce an army to ash, but here, the effects were marginal.
The sky wept a torrential rain of blood. The roar of the Blood God echoed in the ears of both friend and foe.
That deity cared not for victory. He cared only for the quantity of blood spilled.
"They are becoming... different," the voice of Gabriel Seth, Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers and Lord of the Angel's Tears, came from nearby.
A brief counter-charge had ended. He was leading his survivors back to the bastion for a combat-reload.
He pushed through the crowd, flicking toxic gristle from his chainsword into a brazier. He met his colleague in this sector—the most intense zone of the war, held by the Lamenters.
Though the bulk of the Chapters were scattered across the galaxy, the Chapter Masters remained by the Burning Angel's side.
Instinctively, they relied on Karna's presence. They could not accept the Angel's light being poisoned by the Warp again.
"Yes. The Lion sent a warning. We are to execute our orders with absolute rigidity," Phoros replied, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
"Tsk." Seth looked away, but he did not challenge the Lion's command.
Karna had led them in the past, but the current state of the battlefield was beyond their intervention.
The Death Guard couldn't stop what was coming, and neither could they.
Seth wanted to insult the Lion, but remembering the Angel's tireless teachings, he turned his venom toward the enemy instead.
He looked at the Death Guard beyond the ramparts—warriors coiling amidst despairing daemons.
"It seems they have found something worth fighting for again."
Seth craved battle with such warriors. It made him feel like he was fighting misguided kin rather than slaughtering cattle in human skin.
"But it is not enough," Phoros countered.
The usually gentle Phoros harbored a cold, deep loathing for these enemies.
The Lamenters rarely cared for the "glory" of the Astartes; they cared for the lives lost on the battlefield. To him, there was no nobility in a warrior finding a "cause" if that cause involved the butchery of their own kind for the whims of the Warp.
"We are stronger than they are," Phoros said. "We have more to fight for. They will lose, and it will be ugly."
Seth felt there was more honor in defeating a strengthened foe; Phoros simply felt a traitor was a traitor.
"Hmph. I know. But I can't exactly be like Dante—" Seth started to retort, defending his honor and his choice of targets.
But he bit back the words.
They were too painful to speak.
As one of the few reliable political administrators among the Blood Angels' high command, Dante was a legend whose presence on the front lines was becoming a rare sight for Imperial citizens.
Seth found his own "savage" reputation a blessing; at least the Chaplains never trusted his "diplomatic" skills enough to keep him in an office.
"You are exactly like Amit," Sarpedon remarked, having been silent until now.
The Flesh Tearers' social graces were a direct inheritance from their founder, the first Chapter Master who had the audacity to publicly criticize Guilliman during the drafting of the Codex.
"It is my honor," Seth replied shamelessly.
"Heh. I look forward to the day you two meet," Sarpedon smiled, rising and leaning on his power halberd.
He looked at his comrades, their plate stained with filth. The mortal Auxilia straightened their posture as the demigods' gaze fell upon them, trying to look presentable despite the carnage.
On the surface of Calth, the territory they held remained an immovable object.
"Seth. It is as you hoped," Sarpedon said. "Let us give the enemy a proper greeting."
He left the line to Phoros—the True Guardian—and reviewed the Dark Angels' orders once more.
Precise. Clear. The professional acumen and battlefield intuition made every decision compelling. Especially now, under the influence of the Dawnbreakers, the commands were no longer laden with arrogance but infused with a confidence that inspired everyone who heard them.
It was hard to say if they were better or worse than the commands of Lord Dorn.
Sarpedon's thoughts drifted to the Siege of Terra.
He didn't want to compare his new masters to the old, but he couldn't help but wonder: if they had been there, would the ending have been different?
Ramesses had said that Terra back then was the ritual ground for the ascension of a Fifth Warp God, but he also said that if Horus hadn't breached the Palace, he might never have forced the Emperor into that final, ruinous duel.
The Emperor might not have been broken. Sanguinius might not have—
Sarpedon shook his head violently.
He looked up at the sky, wanting to scream his grief to the hidden stars.
But he was an Elder. A treasure of the Blood Angels. A sacrifice who had fallen before the Angel.
You are one who rose from the dead.
You are a hero.
You cannot falter.
Sarpedon walked toward the ranks.
After a rest so brief it was negligible, the Blood Angels rose from the walls, moving ahead of the mortals to face the next wave of the assault.
A minute later, as the binary prayers of the Tech-marines drifted over the vox, the sky ignited. A torrent of fire surged from behind the Blood Angels, pouring into the Nurgle vanguard.
Once begun, the bombardment would not cease.
"FOR HUMANITY!"
Under the burning sky, Sarpedon raised his weapon high.
"FOR HUMANITY!" he roared.
The thunderous cry expanded through the vox-casters in every direction. He stepped forward with a fearless gait, devoid of any emotion save a singular, staggering fury.
Around him, every Blood Angel raised their head. Hearing the words etched into their gene-code echoing across the earth, they finished their final checks and reached for their blades.
"BY THE BLOOD OF SANGUINIUS!"
"FOR EVERYTHING WE CHERISH!"
"FOR ULTRAMAR! FOR CALTH!"
"..."
Now, oaths echoed from walls shattered by war.
At first, it was a dozen voices. Then a hundred. A thousand.
The rhythm of the sound became heart-stopping. They spoke as one—no other words, no more masks. They stood tall, fists clenched like adamantium, hearts surging with an unspeakable hatred.
It was a landslide of sound—the unified roar of mortal and Astartes.
Morarg led the Legion, looking forward.
The scenes were broken, the faces ruined—most were unrecognizable.
Under the weight of time, the Death Guard had suddenly realized they had been twisted into something so foul it nearly froze their blood and shattered their hearts. Most could no longer be identified by their features; only the helmets hidden under snarling fangs, the pitted kill-marks, the rank insignia, and the blurred heraldry on their pauldrons proved these monsters were once Legiones Astartes.
For some, the change was even deeper.
He looked further out.
BOOM!
A shell landed nearby, kicking up a massive wave of mud.
Thanks to the Blood God's "blessing," long-range fire had been dampened enough to allow them a chance at close-quarters combat.
Of course, the humans of this age didn't seem to mind the waste.
Morarg watched the overwhelming barrage. Even with Khorne's favor, the main host had to advance slowly behind portable void-shield barriers.
He looked past the barrage at the thin golden rim lighting the horizon—the shouts that even the thunder of guns could not drown out.
He looked back at the warriors beside him.
No response.
The Death Guard were as they had always been: silent in battle.
"..."
Morarg opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but he knew there were no words left.
In the face of this reality, they could no longer shout for any grander ambition.
An indescribable sadness washed over him.
While their opponents were driven by a fury as bright as a star, the Death Guard's own will had been hollowed out by aeons of corruption.
Morarg remained silent for a long time.
"FOR MORTARION! FOR THE DEATH LORD!"
He bellowed, finding the only truth the Death Guard of this universe could still grasp without a filter.
The Grandfather might never have been loving. The Death Guard might no longer be noble. But Mortarion's care for them was real. It was tangible. And that was enough.
That was enough.
The massive green tide began to move.
The Death Guard did not respond with words. Just as they had ten thousand years ago, they maintained a terrifying silence and began their charge into the meat-grinder.
The wreckage falling from the sky was swallowed by the mud and burning ash under the tread of two armies.
"FOR MORTARION! FOR THE DEATH LORD!"
Everyone knew their duty.
CLANG!
The impact of weapons shattered the silence.
A hoarse howl erupted, resonating with the vibrating air, echoing across the land.
Standing in a crater kilometers wide, Mortarion stared at the Burning Angel before him.
The death of his sons terrified him. Nurgle's anomaly unsettled him. The doubts surging in his heart made him waver.
His strength was failing him; the carefully honed Warp-powers refused to obey his whim. He was losing ground, struggling to parry strike after strike—thrust, sweep, overhead cleave.
Why has it come to this?
The question anchored itself in his mind.
How did it all come to this?
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