Chapter 478: Abaddon: Was My Damnation All for Naught?
Abaddon the Despoiler strode through the primary thoroughfare of the Vengeful Spirit.
He was caked in dried gore. In his hand, he gripped a daemon blade "gifted" to him by Fulgrim—a weapon whispered to be the very instrument that began the Phoenician's descent into depravity.
It is no Drach'nyen, Abaddon thought, shaking his head. He flicked a crust of dried blood from his cheek. The black topknot at the crest of his helm was singed, a testament to the scorched-earth tactics of his enemies. Recalling the relentless, coordinated "ganging up" that had nearly overwhelmed him, he cursed the name of the Primarch who had seized his true relic, The End of Empires, and handed it over to the Imperium.
Since Fulgrim's failure, that daemon sword had vanished from the material realm. Only its resentful, endless murmurs echoed through the Empyrean. Even beneath the golden glare of the Anathema, the shifting veils of the Formless Lord, and the searing purge of the Ever-Burning Torch, that blade continued to scream to those who still held to Horus's dream. It shrieked of how far Humanity had truly fallen.
Lackeys of xenos-tainted abominations!
The Imperium had fully embraced the filth of the Warp, leading the galaxy's souls into a cradle of Chaos while masking it with a layer of logic and lies!
"My Lord—"
Beside Abaddon, a Daemon Sorcerer was reporting with frantic persistence.
"We have successfully dismantled the orbital ring into eight segments. However, the machine spirits within remain fanatically defiant. Neither malefic ritual nor technical subversion can compel them to stand with us."
"The situation on the surface is equally opaque. The Corpse-Emperor's curs have usurped the great powers of the Empyrean; they have stolen the blessings that should be ours alone. The 'Burning Ghosts'—those warriors forged of profane light—have manifested even within the Garden of Nurgle."
"The auxiliary hosts of the Plague God show signs of a rout, but it matters little. Their flesh shall serve as tithe, transformed into higher forms of Empyrean life to tear through the illusions of these false gods."
"Time is on our side. We retain the numerical advantage. The inexorable might of the Black Legion will eventually crush this resistance."
"Badab will be yours, Warmaster. It is only a matter of time."
"..."
Yes, Abaddon thought bitterly. Though we cannot subvert their machines with our corruption, though we cannot outmatch their summons with our own daemons, and though our fighting will is being ground into the dirt by their fanatical zeal... Badab will be mine. Eventually.
The news did not please him. He kicked open the massive blast-doors to the bridge.
"THIS SHALL BE A GLORIOUS TRIUMPH!"
The booming voice of Haarken World-claimer echoed through the command deck. Nearby, Iskandar Khayon was locked in a metaphysical duel with various "warp-spawned horrors" of the Imperium.
The Warmaster's sorcerous advisor looked as though he had seen a ghost. His long-held authority on Warp-lore was being challenged by realities that defied his ancient knowledge.
In response to Haarken's boast, only a weak, weary cheer rose from the crew. A heavy silence settled over the bridge as Abaddon entered.
"We have breached the Star-Ring that barred our path! We shall drive the spears of ruin into the soil of Badab! In eighty days, I shall declare the total annihilation of this world!"
Haarken was Abaddon's mouthpiece, a role he relished. He made a habit of plunging a spear into the soil of a dying world to mark its end.
Currently, his spears were planted in the frozen soil of the outer bastions, on the scorched hulls of the sector defense fleet, amidst the wreckage of Ramires-class Starforts, and upon the crumbling orbital rings.
But at what cost?
Forty-three Chaos fleets. Forty-three warbands he had personally hammered together. Six Titan Legions. Thirteen fleets of the Dark Mechanicum.
Half of the forces engaged in this campaign were effectively spent. His elite "Bringers of Despair" required total replenishment. Warbands that had sworn fealty to him had been wiped out in their entirety. He wondered how many would remain loyal when the dust settled.
The sorcerer's chatter and Haarken's repetitive "80-day victory" cycle were grating on his nerves like a serrated blade.
Eight hundred days had passed since they struck the Badab heartworld.
Eight hundred days since he had seized Typhus's fleet and burst from the Maelstrom.
In that time, the Dawnbreakers had slain Vashtorr. They had retrieved the Lion. they had reinforced Greater Ultramar and won the Plague War. They had held their victory parades and finally turned their collective attention back to the enemies still ravaging the stars.
And he was still stuck at Badab.
If I cannot secure this victory...
No!
Abaddon cut off the thought.
He would take Badab. No matter the cost in blood or soul.
There is only one victor in this galaxy. And it shall be me!
Anxiety was a luxury he couldn't afford. Abaddon unleashed a sudden, terrifying surge of killing intent, silencing the reporting sorcerer. Haarken, too, took the hint and lowered his voice.
The Warmaster of Chaos stepped to the command dais, staring fixedly at the hololith—at the name of the man who had stalled him for two years.
Lugft Huron.
The Star-Ring Huron had built was falling apart under the weight of an army ten times its size. His hiding places were being exposed. His "dishonorable" tactics of evasion were reaching their end.
"How much longer?!" Abaddon growled, seizing a Lord of Change by the throat.
"Soon! Give me nine hours—no, nine minutes! Nine hundred and ninety-nine more sacrifices, and it shall be done in nine minutes!"
The Greater Daemon babbled instinctively. As Abaddon's grip tightened, the creature desperately contacted its superior, Kairos Fateweaver.
The Despoiler had intended to summon the most infamous daemons of the Pantheon for this final push, but some unseen force was interfering. Kairos could only direct this lesser puppet to handle the grunt work.
Since the Warp had begun to shift, the hierarchy of the Empyrean had become ruthlessly strict.
The named champions, even the ascended favorites, were being hoarded by the Gods like treasures. The nameless ones were being spent as pure cannon fodder.
As a nameless Lord of Change, this daemon had to worry about being hacked apart by a Dawnbreaker at any moment, and about being "recycled" by Tzeentch if its performance metrics didn't meet the quota upon its return to the Warp.
Damn it all! Does a nameless daemon's life mean nothing?! it screamed internally, before offering Abaddon a soothing lie.
"Trust me. Nine minutes!"
"Hmph."
The Despoiler released the creature.
The hour is at hand.
Abaddon watched the targeting beacons stabilizing on the hololith. He had never been so impressed by a "junior" of the 41st Millennium.
It would end soon. The fleet engagement was merely the prelude. Abaddon would descend upon this upstart with the most brutal punishment imaginable, crushing everything he had built and mocking his hubris in the face of the Long War.
It truly was the end.
Creation versus Destruction. Which power would claim the final word?
It shall be mine, Lugft Huron thought, staring at the Star-Ring he had spent decades constructing.
The Steel Ring Orbital Defense Network.
Its defiance had finally reached its limit.
The massive ring still rotated under the gravitational pull of Badab Primaris, but the critical junctions were snapping as the gravity-stabilizers failed.
Fragments, accelerated by the planet's pull, spun along their orbits like monomolecular razors, shredding any Chaos cultist foolish enough to board them in search of slaughter.
The orbital gunners adjusted their firing solutions. In an age where Warp-taint was warping reality, mortal flesh was prone to mutation, but for Huron's men, this was a non-issue.
The Grey Knights were there.
The silver-clad warriors of the Emperor's gift wielded power that transcended the mundane. In this era where the Veil was thin, they stood upon the battlefield like avatars of the Emperor's own wrath.
The runes they had inscribed upon the stations allowed the mortal crews to operate at peak efficiency. It ensured that even if a man fell, his soul remained anchored to his post just long enough to lock a firing solution, turning the Star-Ring's disintegration into a final, concentrated volley against the invaders.
BOOM!
A sector of the ring lost altitude rapidly, hammered by a concentrated barrage. Void-shields flared and died, exposing the reinforced adamantium skeleton beneath. Traitor aircraft swarmed the thruster arrays, launching salvos of missiles. Some were intercepted by White Scars interceptors, but many hit home.
The damage was cumulative, but the structure held.
The sheer scale of the Star-Ring was its greatest defense. It was thicker and denser than most moons. Even as the atmosphere bled into the void and the superstructure buckled, it would take the traitors an eternity to chew through those layers of iron and ceramite.
Command and Control remained functional.
Most of the mechanical systems were failing, but the survivors clung to the manual overrides. It was their only purpose now.
The rest was handled by the "Machine Spirits" currently waging a digital war against Chaos scrap-code within the logic-stacks.
A new faith had risen since the Battle of Cadia. The Tech-Priests on the front lines relished the chance to share their secrets, focusing purely on their duty to spread the glory of the Omnissiah.
They believed that by doing so, they would merge with their beloved machines upon death, becoming "Spirits of the Omnissiah" to defend the Hallowed Engines from another dimension.
Huron didn't need to be told what they truly were.
The Star-Ring was shattering into a million pieces.
Two hours ago, Huron had ordered a total fuel dump to force the fragments into a controlled spin.
It was a decision born of foresight. Even though Badab Primaris was a fortress-world with overlapping void-shields capable of withstanding even an Exterminatus, Huron couldn't risk the kinetic energy of the falling ring smashing into the surface. He had to account for every variable, clearing the board of potential disasters.
Now, as the malicious silhouettes of the occupied spaceports dominated the horizon, the energy fed into the descent-engines took effect.
The massive plates were slung away by centrifugal force. They shattered as they went, losing the mass necessary to threaten the planet below.
Huron stood, watching the transition.
He had stood at his post for weeks, even as the command center began to spark with static and systems were severed.
He didn't care.
Inexplicably, the feeling of making the Despoiler swallow the bitter dregs of failure brought him a profound sense of satisfaction.
Just then, a lance beam from orbit lanced through a damaged void-shield. It carved through the deck like a hot knife through wax, venting a compartment. Daemons poured from the rift torn by the light, clashing with the "Spirit-machines" within.
The entire plate shuddered, dropping another kilometer toward the atmosphere.
The artillery batteries maintained their precise output. In this age of saturation corruption, the presence of physical ammunition was almost irrelevant. Heavy plasma batteries, their cooling jackets melting and dripping into the void like spheres of molten sun, continued to spit azure death at the Chaos-held positions.
It was a familiar rhythm.
Even with their magazines empty, the traitors could not break the defense grid Huron had so meticulously laid.
Huron smiled.
The traitors in the fleet above must be spitting blood. His Star-Ring had absorbed everything forty-three capital ships could throw at it and had held long enough for a greater power to intervene.
The core structure was finally unraveling, but its mission was complete.
The Chaos warbands on the surface had been annihilated in their staging grounds. Abaddon's prized God-Machine Legions had been hammered into scrap by the orbital batteries. Like the other five Titan Legions that had betrayed the Throne at the start of the Heresy, they were now little more than memories.
BOOM!
The deck lurched. On the command dais, another power coupling exploded.
Huron had once prided himself on knowing the health of every system in his "Little Kingdom" by the sound of its hum. Now, the feedback was a cacophony of alien noise. He knew it wouldn't last much longer.
He tried to open a channel to the Black Templars' Emperor's Champion. It was that warrior's stand in a secondary ring-sector that had bought the artillery one last chance to fire.
As expected, the link was dead.
He offered a silent prayer that the warrior would continue his crusade in the next life.
Huron sighed and prepared to cut the vox.
Although his current position was still impregnable thanks to the selflessness of those around him, he could not remain in the path of the falling debris.
As a leader recognized by the Primarchs, he had to endure to the end. Not for his own sake, but to uphold the authority of his lords and the resolve of the planet.
Huron looked at his bodyguards: Tyberos the Red Wake of the Carcharodons, and Captain Androcles of the Star Phantom vanguard. Beside them stood an Emperor's Champion of the Black Templars.
Beyond his own Maelstrom Wardens, a significant number of Grey Knights stood watch.
The Imperium's investment in Huron's survival was total.
But the vox did not die when he hit the switch.
"My Lord, an unknown signal has forcibly overridden the channel. Shall we—"
Before the rating could finish, a shadow manifested in the logic-stacks. A transmission overrode the entire system.
Huron felt an instinctive chill.
BEEP—
A ripple of psychic feedback echoed through the room. The holographic projection of Abaddon the Despoiler flickered to life before Huron.
"Lugft Huron."
Abaddon stared at the "ordinary" Astartes, his eyes seeking to dig a hole through the man's soul.
"It was no easy task to find you beneath those layers of turtle-shells. You enjoy hiding in your own coffin so much, I almost mistook you for one of those single-minded idiots from the Imperial Fists."
The Black Templar Champion beside Huron tensed, his hand going to his sword, but Huron signaled him to stand down.
Huron felt a sudden, infinite surge of confidence. He tapped into the psychic link blessed by the Dawnbreakers. He saw the Grey Knight's eyes flare with light as the warrior peered into the "Park," receiving a stream of data.
Huron didn't run. He stood tall and spoke with cold arrogance.
"As a proud son of Roboute Guilliman, I have inherited my Father's habit of scholarship. It allowed me to learn the art of the 'Stalwart Defense' from our most iron-willed brothers. I learned the 'Killing Stroke' from the sons of the Raven. And from the sons of the Lion, I learned the art of 'Total Flawlessness'..."
Huron offered a backhanded compliment to every loyalist bloodline, including those of the "Shattered Legions."
The Dawnbreakers had scrubbed the rot from the Legions, exposing the secrets of the past and recording them with clinical objectivity. The warriors of the 41st Millennium now understood the glory of the 31st; they knew that the "pride" of the traitors was a cheap, tawdry thing compared to the ten-thousand-year vigil of the faithful.
And the "Primarch Jokes" had inevitably trickled down to the Astartes high command.
"I even see the 'Invincibility' and 'Discipline' of the former Iron Warriors. I see the 'Grand Ideals' and 'Brotherhood' of the former Luna Wolves..."
Huron's tone shifted.
"But sadly, Warmaster, I have learned nothing from your Black Legion."
"You are nothing but a herd of Grox wallowing in a mire. Your brains have been scorched by profane power until you know only how to charge and rely on numbers, spraying the filth of your own corruption upon everything you touch."
"I need only set my spears and raise my shields to pen you in like swine. I shall use the Hallowed Fire that blesses us to cleanse your stench, break your charge, bind your thrashing limbs, and throw you to the ground to be slaughtered, one by one."
Inhale—
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