In the skies above the northern plains of Kasr Kraf, the main fleet of the reinforcements prepared for an emergency withdrawal. The Black Fleet in near-Cadian orbit had begun its final encirclement, closing the noose around the newcomers.
On the bridge of a Gorgon-class battlecruiser, Admiral Brand—entrusted by Alexei with full command of the fleet—stared at the tactical hololith with a grim expression. Alarm klaxons wailed throughout the ship, and the deck plating vibrated under the strain of incoming fire.
"Lieutenant, silence that alarm!" Brand barked.
The piercing red lights dimmed to a steady amber, but the tension remained. A cold, synthetic female voice announced, "Short-range warp drive recharge at one hundred percent. Warning: there is a fifty percent probability of engine failure or catastrophic overload..."
"Silence!" Brand snapped at the adjutant, his eyes fixed on the encroaching swarm of red icons on the screen. He took a steadying breath. "Attention all ships: initiate warp-jump countdown."
The mechanical voice resonated through every deck of the fleet: "30, 29, 28..." As the timer ticked toward zero, the ships groaned as if the metal itself were screaming.
"3... 2... 1..."
"Jump!" Brand roared.
Above the plains and the Martyrs' Fortress, every reinforcement vessel vanished in a flash of displaced reality, followed seconds later by a torrential rain of orbital fire that struck nothing but empty air.
"Damnation! Damnation!" Urkanthos roared, his bellows causing the command deck to shake. The mortals chained to the control consoles near the Lord of Raids had already been reduced to a pulp of mangled flesh by his fury. "How did they vanish? Where is their coward's trail?!"
"My Lord, I—" a mortal lieutenant began, stumbling into the chamber, only to be seized and torn asunder by the enraged Urkanthos. "Useless! You are all useless filth!"
As his roars subsided into heavy, jagged breathing, the Butcher's Nails at the base of his skull continued to pulse with electric agony. Another mortal entered, immediately prostrating himself and slamming his forehead against the deck. "My Lord! My Lord, mercy! The Warmaster summons you... he demands your presence at once!"
Urkanthos strode toward the egress, his heavy boots crushing the messenger's skull in passing. Blood splattered his crimson plate, leaving a trail of gore-slicked footprints behind him.
Abaddon sat motionless upon his throne. Urkanthos knelt before him in uncharacteristic silence, his internal rage suppressed by an instinctual chill. He knew the source of that dread: the warrior standing nearby, watching him with cold, predatory intent.
"Urkanthos..." Abaddon spoke at last, his voice a low tremor of suppressed violence. He addressed the Master of the Black Fleet once more: "Urkanthos, tell me. From which corner of the galaxy did these reinforcements emerge?"
"My Lord, I do not know! They translated into the system as if from nowhere! It was not my failure..." Urkanthos stood abruptly, his frustration boiling over. He would not be interrogated like a common thrall.
"I require their origin, not your excuses!" Abaddon lost his composure, rising from the throne and stepping toward the Lord of Raids.
Urkanthos watched the Warmaster approach. The Butcher's Nails screamed at him to draw his blade and strike! But a strange, heavy emotion restrained his hand. By the time he realized he was being dominated by Abaddon's sheer presence, he had already taken a reflexive half-step back.
The Warmaster halted before his servant. Looking down at the Lord of Raids, he did not strike him, but merely whispered, "You disappoint me."
The Chosen of Abaddon watched the exchange with varying degrees of contempt. Abaddon turned back toward his throne. This unexpected intervention had derailed his schedule; the assault force in the western canyon of Kasr Kraf had been nearly annihilated.
The air wings he had dispatched to cover the Iron Warriors were still locked in a stalemate with the combined Cadian and reinforcement air power. The Raptors on the northern curtain wall had also been repelled.
"Sylon," Abaddon called to his ground commander, "what is the status of Gorth and his Iron Warriors?"
"Gorth's deployment is proceeding. Despite the long-range batteries of Kasr Kraf and constant air harassment, he has established a foothold. However, the 'Wolves' are proving problematic. They have entrenched themselves within the city ruins. Even in the rubble, the underground power grids remain active enough to fuel their vehicles, complicating Gorth's advance," Sylon replied respectfully.
"Those Space Wolf whelps," the Warmaster spat. "They always find the most inconvenient places to die. At least we have the Son of the Lion pinned within his crashed cruiser."
"Indeed," Sylon said, then hesitated. "However..."
"However what?" Abaddon's gaze narrowed.
"Abaddon's Hounds have suffered catastrophic losses, yet they have failed to breach the ship," Sylon reported. "The Plague-Chosen suggests a bombardment of viral munitions from orbit, though it may risk the cogitator-arrays within the vessel."
"No, Ersos would not permit it," Abaddon interrupted. "Khorne's Chosen do not share glory with the rot-god's filth."
"Ersos is no longer with his host," Sylon added. "He was last seen gorging on the blood of the Sororitas at the Temple of Saint Morricen."
Abaddon remained silent. An ill omen stirred in his mind, though he could not yet define its shape.
"Our primary line of success remains the Vulcan Titan Legion in the east," Sylon continued. "The local Knights are no match for our engines."
"Mocas," Abaddon addressed the mortal girl beside him, his adopted ward. "Can the Blackstone Fortress fire again?"
"The core remains unresponsive," Mocas replied calmly, her mismatched eyes—one black, one pale purple—staring into nothingness.
"Ah, yes," Abaddon remembered. "I think you will find this of interest, Mocas." He gestured for her to follow him. "After the battle to intercept the Firehowl, we observed six boarding craft breach the fortress's perimeter and enter the core. We intercepted two. The others are... missing."
"What!" Mocas cried out in genuine horror. "Intruders within the core?! Why was I not informed?"
"That is your responsibility," Abaddon said coldly.
"No, Father, no," Mocas clutched her head. "This fortress is not a machine of metal and wire; it is a 'living' entity. We have only saddled the beast, Father! Our control consoles are merely illusions layered over its true nature. No sensor can find them if the fortress chooses to hide them!"
Abaddon looked at the trembling girl. He removed the Talon of Horus, his massive gauntlet, and gently stroked her head as he had done years ago. "Find the vermin. Exterminate them. You are not like Urkanthos; you will not fail me."
Mocas stilled. "I understand, Father."
Abaddon nodded and turned away. He had new plans to draft, and more pressure to apply to the dying world of Cadia.
Chapter 93: The Descent of a Saint
"Oh, Holy Throne," whispered Canoness Eleanor. "Merciful God-King, look upon us."
"He hears you, Canoness," said Sister Eugenia, the Holy Angel of the Guard. She stepped onto the balcony, her power-halberd tapping against the stone. "He is with us."
Behind them lay a sea of shattered stained glass. The icons of saints had been pulverized by the shockwaves of the endless bombardment. Below the final walls of the monastery, they had finally destroyed a Defiler demon-engine, though at the cost of many brave sisters.
"We cannot hold this position," Eugenia noted, looking at the crumbling ramparts. "We must decide: do we repair the breach, or fall back to the inner sanctum?"
Eleanor didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on a distant, broken form. "Sister Genevieve? Answer me! I saw you fall at the outer gate! Report your status!"
"A noble sacrifice," Eugenia said softly. "Our sister is surely at the Emperor's side."
"No," Eleanor growled, rushing toward the stairs. "She is my sister by blood. I am not leaving her."
Genevieve felt as though her soul were being ground between millstones. She lay in the dirt, trying to flex her fingers, but her body was a foreign object. Her vox-grille hissed with static; someone was calling her name, but the words wouldn't stick to her mind.
Heavy, thunderous footsteps approached. A roar of primal frustration followed: "No! Why! Why do You turn Your gaze from me?! Blood God! I have offered an ocean of gore and a mountain of skulls! Why is my ascension denied?!"
Genevieve twitched, her movement catching the intruder's eye. The breathing grew closer—wet, ragged, and hot. She saw him. A hulking brute of exposed muscle and brass, his flesh seemingly stripped of skin yet hard as iron.
She realized with a jolt of horror that the demon's face and his helm had fused into a single, horrific entity of bone and metal. A brass visor in the shape of the Mark of Khorne covered his eyes. Upon his shoulders sat a trophy rack of jagged spikes, festooned with fresh skulls.
She recognized one of them. It was Sister Heloise, who had fallen on the first day.
Genevieve closed her eyes, preparing to meet the Emperor.
Suddenly, a volley of bolter fire interrupted the demon. "Sister, hold on!" Eleanor charged across the courtyard. She discarded her empty pistol, drawing her power sword and raising her storm shield as she threw herself at Ersos.
The demon's massive axe slammed into the shield with a force that would have crushed a lesser warrior. Eleanor held firm, using the shield's curved face to deflect the blow. She was a master duelist, cold and precise. The axe slid off the energy field and buried itself in the flagstones.
In the billowing dust, Eleanor thrust her blade at Ersos's throat, but the mutated muscle caught the edge, refusing to let it sink deep. Seeing her shock, Ersos roared and backhanded her with his massive gauntlet.
Eleanor was thrown several meters, her black-and-gold plate denting inward at the chest. She coughed up thick, bright blood, but she forced herself to stand. She raised her shield once more. She would not yield.
Ersos laughed, a wet, guttural sound. He drew a combat blade from his hip and snapped it in his hands just to show his strength. The wound in his side was already knitting shut. He raised his Great Axe and charged like a rabid beast.
"Bang!" The collision was deafening. The shield was torn from Eleanor's grasp, and she was sent sprawling into the rubble. She no longer had the strength to rise. As the demon loomed over her, she began her final prayer.
"It is over, Bride of the Corpse-King," Ersos growled, raising his axe for the execution. Then, he paused. He heard it—a woman's voice, singing a melody of pure, silver light.
The head of Sister Heloise on his trophy rack—dead and rotting for days—suddenly began to chant. The flesh regrew, the eyes snapped open, and it screamed the name of the Saint. Ersos tried to rip the head away, but the bone burned his hands like white-hot coals.
"She is here!" the head cried in triumph.
Ersos turned, and his shadow on the ground began to stretch and fade as if a second sun were rising behind him.
He looked up. There she was, descending through the smoke on vast, snow-white wings. Flawless feathers drifted down, scorching the demon's flesh wherever they touched. Her golden armor radiated a blinding purity, and her face held the calm, terrible beauty of divine judgment.
"Saint Celestine!" Eleanor coughed, a laugh of pure joy breaking through the blood. "By the Emperor! Demon, your end is at hand!"
Ersos roared in defiance at the Living Saint. "You are too late, Angel! This place is already a tomb!"
Celestine did not speak. She dived, her blade—the Ardent Blade—trailing a wake of holy fire. She moved with a grace that defied the laws of physics, dodging Ersos's clumsy swings and circling behind him. The blessed steel plunged through the demon's spine and out through his chest.
"Enjoy your 'victory'!" Ersos screamed as the sacred fire began to consume him from the inside out. "Abaddon will burn this world to cinders, and I shall wait for your soul in the Great Game!"
For the first time, the champion felt his essence being violently torn from the Materium. He was banished back into the howling vortex of the Warp, his screams joining the endless choir of the damned.