Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

[Gu Long: Ancient Dragon]

I WANT MORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hehe, awesome once again man. Any plans to make this into a full document once your done?

Gu

[Turok117]

This is great!

And not just because the ultrasmurfs are dead

[nicholasakira]

“I don’t know where he hid,” finished Brukks as he firmly clasped Afennor by the shoulders, holding him in front of the Astartes scout, “could you spare but one bullet?”

“No,” replied the scout. “One gunshot may attract the aliens.” He walked away from the pair. “Make yourself useful and help us salvage what we can.”

The thunderhawk lay amidst a carpet of downed trees, on its side, broken and smoking. Scouts and the Black Tomb tended to the wounded machine, humming prayers to its machine spirit. The other scouts were tending to the three men who had died in the crash: the pilot amongst them. Rarend’s three surviving henchmen stood around Afennor, in front of the thunderhawk wreck.

“Perhaps we should, a long march lies ahead. And may the Emperor we with the souls we lost this day,” said Brukks. He bowed his head twice: one for each dead friend. “Now, the Astartes need…” a distant alien rasp echoed to them through the night-dark forest. Brukks released Afennor and turned with the other two to look into the trees from where the sound had came. They saw two scouts with shotguns duck into the trees. It was followed a minute later by the sound of a shotgun blast. Both scouts returned, dragging the body of a dead warrior between them.

‘If that didn’t alert the aliens then another shot for Afennor won’t hurt,’ Brukks thought. He wasn’t a murderer, but supplies were too scarce to spend on a useless mouth. Only then did he notice that Afennor had vanished.

…

The tower on Krieg was almost complete, but the Kriegans were struggling to construct the point of it. The tall imperial aquilla that was to make its nest atop the tower was proving to be more difficult in its construction than anyone had ever realized. The Emperor’s blessings had made the building of the great thing easy, but as the dragged it atop the tower, they found it grew heavier. So they built it out of lighter materials: the debris of war, cobbled together, to represent the lives lost to win the victory.

Yet as they mounted the ugly Aquila atop the tower, they found the golden-skinned aides had vanished. Though the placing of the eagle had been successful, they now found themselves facing the most ugly sight imaginable. The eagle was so crude that it lacked the strong majesty of an eagle. Instead, its wiry neck built from the shards of derelict tanks and feathers made from combat fatigues of slain men made some think of a two-headed vulture.

With the Emperor’s help, they had finally finished it.

“Your victory is complete,” the booming voice of the Emperor spoke. “Your reward shall be an endless day.” He made true on his word as night across Krieg was banished along with the stars, and the moon, and the sun. The Kriegans stood dumbfounded beneath a glowing shield of blue that wreathed their planet’s sky: and endless source of light for their whole planet. “Now,” the Emperor spoke, “toil more! Make your Emperor proud!” The Kriegans carried on working, dreaming up new building projects under the eyes of the two-headed vulture that stood on top of their tower. It was all they could do now. Something had siphoned their need to eat, love, fight, or work from their minds. All the Kriegans could do now was labor for their Emperor; it was all they wanted to do.

This ignorance made them oblivious to the realization of what the glowing shield that covered their sky actually was. It made them ignore it when the Emperor ceased communicating with them. It made them oblivious to their lack of visitors. If they had a desire to do anything except work for their Emperor, they would quickly understand the truth.

Magnus the Red looked out across Krieg, his new daemon world. Conquered without firing a shot, now it had been sucked into the warp to join the armada that would strike Holy Terra when the time came at last to attack. From atop the tower, built by the Kriegans, Magnus’ one eye could see the mindless humans were already toiling to build the next temple to Tzeench.

…

“They come my lord,” whispered the scout to the Black Tomb. From his suit, the Black Tomb could see the trees through the evening’s dark as though it were day. This was the fifth attack they’d sustained in as many days. His cannon was thirsty, but had very little sustenance for it. Five of his scouts had died and their weapons distributed to the inquisitorial personnel. Even Afennor had a weapon: a sniper rifle. He hid in the thunderhawk, coming out when the tyranids came. He presently crouched inside the open hatch, aiming the weapon out.

“They come,” he muttered darkly as his ancient ears heard the oncoming chatter of alien voices. Through the trees, hundreds of them, against twenty-one scouts and their guns. The Black Tomb thanked the Emperor, hearing only the voices of the smaller creatures. The throaty roar of a canifex would chill even him in this scenario.

Darting, lashing, through the trees they came. Shadows at first, but bigger and more distinct the closer they got. This was the biggest attack yet. Packs of the smaller creatures lorded over by nine of the warriors. The Black Tomb prayed to the Emperor for the fifth time in as many days, asking for forgiveness when he died.

A shot from the servant-boy took the head off one of the larger creatures. The boy’s marksmanship was astounding. The Black Tomb saw in him the makings of a space marine, not only in his shooting, but also in his survival skills. Were they not so stranded; he already would have extended the offer to the boy.

The scouts fired next, one shot at a time, so to spare ammunition. The surviving scout sniper fired, matching the youth’s shot with equal results. They now had seven warriors to contend with. If they were lucky, they could break the smaller creatures’ link to the hive mind. The Black Tomb stomped forward, just as the tyranids came within one hundred and fifty yards. He let out a short burst from his cannon, shredding a tyranid warrior to pieces. Then, as they closed within one hundred yards, the beasts did something strange.

They turned around and fled the other way.

“Never do…” the Black Tomb heard Afennor fire his rifle again, clipping off the head of another tyranid beast. “What can we make of this?” He found the henchmen, standing by the thunderhawk. “I cannot explain this. Is there something yet about these beasts that has escaped my experience?”

“No my lord” replied Brukks. “Perhaps some charade of their mad xeno minds?” The Black Tomb knew the tyranids well. There was always a plan.

“I shall go forward, alone,” the Black Tomb said as he returned to his scouts. “One man remain behind me at a safe distance. The remainder, remain here.” The Black Tomb strode out across the forest then, bending down bullet-ridden trees to carve his way deeper into the unknown, stepping over fly-covered tyranid corpses from the previous attacks of the other days.

Silence prevailed inside these woodlands. The mindless chatter of alien maws held no power in the Black Tomb’s ears while he bent another tree aside with an ancient black power fist that could, and had, crushed a man in full power armor. He pushed up to the first fallen tyranid and bent down as far as the bulky machine would go in order to examine the thing. It was indeed slain, killed by a holy bolter rocket. The hive mind did use massed rush tactics more often than it did anything else. Yet these floods were not wastes. Each thing had a purpose. The Black Tomb thought to his ancient days, his studies, and his battlefield lessons to find an answer to the behavior.

There was one campaign that stood out. During the tyranid advance into Ultramar, during his last days as Lord Calgar, the Black Tomb had battled the swarm alongside a chapter of pitiless die-hards, who’d been brought into existence in the hopeless battle of halting the hive mind’s assault into Ultima Segmentum. Titled the Shadow Angels, in honor of their role as hit-and-run troops who moved in under the Shadow in the Warp, seven-score-and-nineteen of their battle-brothers had once been caught in an ambush. The tyranids used expendable soldiers to attract their forces and draw them away from a valuable target by retreating. The Shadow Angels had been good fighters, but not even they could save Ultima Segmentum.

‘I shall not let that happen again,’ the Black Tomb turned his massive form about and trundled back to the wrecked thunderhawk. ‘Recall the mistakes of your slain brothers, live to avenge them.’ He returned to the thunderhawk.

“The beast flees, but we need not know why. Continue your sentry duty as usual and the beast will show itself surely,” the Black Tomb thundered to his scouts. “Remember, the enemy works to kill you always. And take note of even the most subtle, unassuming action.”

“Yes my lord,” the scouts replied in near unison. The Black Tomb looked up at the servant-boy, who had also spoken. The boy put his hands over his mouth and prepared to slip into the thunderhawk.

“One moment, boy,” the Black Tomb said as his stomping feet took him to the ramp. The child straightened his back and stood at attention like a guardsman, shouldering the heavy rifle like he would a lasgun. He could not have done that my error, a man of the Imperial Guard had taught him how to stand like that. “What is your name?”

“Afennor Aeoiar Zodan,” replied Afennor. “Conscript, been so since I was nine. Ork killer. I fought on the planet…”

“Where did you learn to shoot, Zodan?” asked the Black Tomb.

“In the city where I fight in, I shot orks from windows. They teach you to aim for the eyes, and on an ork, that’s an easy thing to do because they glow and stuff,” Afennor replied timidly. “And…and I learned to shoot good. I really do like this gun…um…much. Do you think I did well?” he was nervous.

“Black Tomb?” asked a scout.

“One moment,” the Black Tomb told the man, then he resumed with Afennor, “you are a very talented young man. I assure you, if you had been born under the gaze of the Astartes, you would be invited to one of the fortress-monasteries. Perhaps if we make it out…” he let Afennor’s imagination fill in the rest and watched his eyes open saucer-wide. “It is a difficult life and not an easy test. But perhaps you could consider it, Afennor Zodan.” As he turned to the scout, he heard one of the inquisitorial henchmen behind him whisper a vulgarity.

“Brother dreadnought,” the scout said, “our long range scanners indicate no large warm-bodied life out for one hundred meters,” he showed the Black Tomb his reader to verify the claim.

“The tyranid is a fast beast. Perhaps…” the Black Tomb reached into his mind for an answer. During the Caeross Crusade, which had blunted one of the largest tendrils in the Ultima Segmentum hive fleets, and ultimately saved worlds like Malamrecht and Catachan, he’d encountered beasts that tunneled. Even so, the sensors would detect that too.

“There is only one thing in all the galaxy that kills with such speed and leaves no signature for our tracers to follow,” the Black Tomb muttered in disgust. Two hive fleets, and now…them? “Death’s locusts leave their fingerprints here. We may battle the necron.” Shocked at the word, the scouts gathered together tightly. Rumors of necron awakenings had reached their battle barge before they’d run into the tyranids over Sifo VI.

“Pray to the Emperor it is not so,” one scout whispered. He sounded afraid. The Black Tomb would make a point of having the man examined upon their escape.

No sooner had he thought this, when a dreaded necron wraith arose from the naked ground, leaving no sign of its passage, as soft as a cloud of steam with cruel talons as sharp as a diamond knife. Centuries of experience served the Black Tomb well and he fired a single round. The shot broke into the thing’s neck, severing the power flow. A sporadic flurry of shots punched it to the ground. The thing vanished in an explosion of green energy before it hit the ground.

“Emperor save us,” whispered one of the henchmen in terror. “First two hive fleets and now these things.”

“The necron could erase the invading swarm if the Emperor is on our side,” suggested another henchman.

“The Emperor does not control the necron,“ thundered the Black Tomb. “Sentry duty is now changed. We stay inside the thunderhawk and minimize our heat signatures. I shall remain outdoors on low power to watch for our machine enemies if they prove aggressive.” He looked around the trees. “One wanderer, that is what I believe we encountered just now. As it is, I believe the necron may be slaying our tyranid foes. But be warned, for they are not our kinsmen. Stay cautious, stay together, and remember, the Emperor protects.”

“The Emperor protects,” echoed the group.

“The Emperor protects,” said Afennor.

[Exitas-Acta-Probat]

good stuff i like how afennor now has a bit more character.

[252nd Fire Dragoon]

Aloha,
This is very good read man. It is very detailed, and just what I could think as an ending. Good riddance to Krieg.. haha joking.

[nicholasakira]

It was night.

Asseah knew that from this day on her young son Rucknor would be only a memory to her. He would cease to be a person who grew older as she did with whom she could share new experiences with. No longer would his young face brighten her concrete world of gunfire and screams. From this day forth he would become a face in her past who she could never find in her future. A person in her memories would grow dimmer as time the time passed. He’d just be a thought that would fade from being with an agonizing slowness or a hole in her life that could never be filled. All because some commissar decided he was running the wrong way.

At very least, she still had Afennor. He’d gone to bed early after returning from the illegal funeral, so titled because the arbites criminalized funerals for “traitors” like Rucknor. Deep within the bombed-out maze of rocky debris, twisted pipe, and ashen heaps, lay a single cot, where the brotherless Afennor now slept.

Tears of joy in her eyes, Asseah crouched on the floor by him as he lay in his bed to bring her head level with his. With one hand she softly stroked his silky hair and her other hand patted his left shoulder. The sensation of touching him after burying her other son brought an unbelievable feeling of attachment. It was having a weight lifted off her shoulders, like being allowed to breath after long suffocation, like being given a second chance at life. She just couldn’t think about anything else except how deeply she loved Afennor.

Above her own occasional sniffles she could hear Afennor breathing. It was signs of life like this that promised Asseah that her last beloved son was with her and not a lifeless corpse, like…Rucknor, as Afennor could appear to be when lying still on his bed. His breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of his belly with each breath, his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin, all of it let Asseah know that he was alive.

Unlike his baby brother.

…

Afennor sat in the thunderhawk, huddled in the corner, staring at his bare left hand in the soft neon glow of the nearby scanner. He clutched the knuckle of his middle finger, where once a band of steel had been coiled. It had been a gift from his mother, Asseah.

The tau had taken it.

In his heart, Afennor wanted to accept the Black Tomb’s half-offer. He wanted to puff out his chest and accept the task, to bellow out that he, Afennor Zodan, was ready to become an Ultramarine. Unfortunately, his head warned him of an invulnerable barrier between himself and his acceptance of the offer.

They were likely not going to escape.

Supplies were running out, the enemy closed in, the thunderhawk was a wreck, and hungry guns went unfed. He thought about his brother and wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was an afterlife.

“Is there something the matter?” whispered a scout through the night’s darkness. About him, the other scouts sat in cross-legged meditation. Flanking him, the loud, snoring forms of Rarend’s henchmen sat in human piles of splayed clothing.

“No,” Afennor stood up and made for the doorway, not wanting to be caught looking at his hand by these strangers. He wanted to be alone when he prayed.

Afennor slithered into the tube, whatever it was called, where the shells for the thunderhawk’s cannon ate its shells from. His nimble body fit nicely into the cranny where normally went the bullet-shaped containers of untapped hell, ready to erupt in fire and violence upon the wretched heads of the Emperor’s foes.

“Dead, um…” what did Afennor need to say as he lay inside a metal tube, waiting to die? “Emperor? If you can hear me, my name is Afennor I’m a conscript and the Black Tomb thinks I’m a good shot.” There. That was all he was. “I fought all my life in your name and I only ask that when I die…it doesn’t hurt.” His mind filled with thoughts of death. He’d always imagined he’d be the only kid in his regiment to grow old. Now reality set in. “Emperor, can I please die quickly…”

“Yehn Ay Yad,”

Afennor heard, or rather, felt the voice. It was like remembering a noise that had just gone mute, the memory of three alien syllables that his mouth could say but his brain did not understand. The top of his head tingled and instinct caused Afennor to bend his head up.

He found himself glaring into a masked face pressed close enough his to lick if he so chose to. The mask glowed softly and was featureless and black: the perfect replica of a human face of neutral calm. It rested upon the face of a black hooded and cloaked man who lay on his front inside the narrow confines of the tube so to stare at Afennor. Though the cloak and mask no doubt held a body, Afennor’s eyes could not pierce the glow of the mask and could see nothing but void looking back at him from the eyeholes.

“AH!” Afennor hurt himself as he slid himself from the tube and threw himself down the hall, tripping, stumbling, sprinting like he had never ran before. He leapt into the chamber where the scouts lay and stopped only when the scouts had subdued him.

“What happened?” one demanded, shotgun trained on the door he’d come in through.

“A…g….ghost,” Afennor’s heart still beat like it was ready to break from his chest. Being startled so horribly was a terror that rose its head higher than the terrors that even the largest, maddest ork could induce.

“Necron?” asked a scout.

“I don’t know,” Afennor shuddered. The scouts looked doubtfully upon one another, silently asking their fellows for an opinion. Each confounded stare wrought him deeper into confusion. From what he knew of these machine warriors, what he’d beheld was something entirely different.

The question haunted him long into the night. The thunderhawk was searched carefully, but not a trace of the being was found. Not even the Black Tomb, with his infinite experience, could identity what Afennor saw when he described it.

Whatever it had been, his odds of seeing it again fell. From the sky, as beautiful as a charge of angels, as loud as a storm, as sleek as lightning, came a transport ship of the Sifish PDF, accompanied by two valkyries.

“Black Tomb?” Afennor asked as the scouts solemnly trudged aboard their rescuer’s ships while the henchmen laughed in thanks to the crews, “I was thinking about what you said…”

“The Astartes need as many new recruits as we can have in these dark days,” replied the Black Tomb. “If you believe you have what it takes.”

If only his little brother could have heard those words with him.

…

Chaedrosarr was a civilized world of relative peace. It was a source of pride amongst the happy inhabitants that there were no mutants amidst them. Their cities were bright and beautiful. Across the war-torn swamp of the galaxy, Chaedrosarr was a single flowering tree of calm and quiet.

It was therefore inhumanly cruel that Fulgrim set his eyes upon the world when Abaddon put out an ultimatum to his followers for each legion to drag one world for each chaos legion into the warp.

The sun was eclipsed the world’s lonely moon. The eclipse lasted a whole day, then two, all the way to six. When the world got its sun back, the inhabitants found the sky not to be sea blue, but sickly and pink, like a swollen wound. Little did they know that their paradise world had been sucked into the warp. The landscape changed then, covered by an impenetrable pink fog. When it was gone, glittering cities became plains of marble. Alpine forests, tropical jungles, and temperate coniferous woodlands were reduced to sterile desert, ringed with writhing pink tentacles. Mountains were warped into odd, wondrous shapes that defied gravity. The seas dried up, their water blinking away. Animals went insane and slaughtered one another.

Most obvious was the interesting change inflicted on the population itself. The majority of the two billion-strong population of Chaedrosarr felt their flesh twisted and morphed, their bodies reshaped like clay, growing bigger or smaller. When the fog cleared, every human on the world had been transformed back into their younger selves. Ancient men on their death beds suddenly found themselves not in the spent bodies of a man who’d lived, but in the supple forms they’d once had after living the first year of their second decade. Fresh babes and young children who hadn’t even met their teenage years found similar fates, growing older, not younger, into young men and women. Those already in those years looked in puzzlement, even in laughter, at their compatriots.

Before the population could come to terms with the comical change, the forces of Slaneesh invaded. Daemonettes washed over the land, routing all resistance, turning their weapons and tanks into functionless, but perfect, replicas of crystal. The giggling fiends rounded up the people of Chaedrosarr and imprisoned them in the sprawling dungeons beneath huge six-spired palaces that rose from the naked ground in the Prince of Pleasure’s honor. From there, the sixty-thousand most desirable sons and daughters of Chaedrosarr were sent to the Emperor’s Children, who had just landed on the planet, each warband summoned by Fulgrim. Each corrupted Astartes received six of this group, to be turned into their personal slaves.

Those who escaped this fate faced an eternity of damnation at the hands of the whims of Slaanesh and a host of Slaaneshi daemons. Deep pits sank into the surface of the planet, and to these abysses were consigned millions, to face sensuous torture from the daemonettes, never aging, never starving, never dying. Others were sent to daemon princes where their souls would be dragged before them to be caressed by the claws of unhuman monstrosities. Millions more were warped and tortured to become one with the beautiful daemon world. Clouds became fleshy pink as shrieking faces appeared on them. Human bodies were worked into the cliffs of the world. The soil across some plains became the stretched skin of living prisoners. Rivers became boiling tears, the blow of the wind turned to the cries of daemonette victims.

For all the pleasing horrors the world endured, it would only be a prelude to what was to come. When the gates of the warp were opened, one million Chaedrosarrs and their mortal inhabitants would be laid bare to Slannesh and his every sickly whim. From there, the decadence would last for all time.

Fulgrim contemplated all of this as he sat in the clearing inside the daemonic forest. Each handsome tree had visibly once been a person. They even retained the hair, heads, and faces of the people they used to be. Skin was their bark, long human arms reaching up in mute pain towards the sky replaced the branches, of which each tree had only two. The trees had no feet, their legs having been fused together by Slanneshi will. They stood tall, four or five meters high. Their faces were frozen, paralyzed, into an expression of screaming terror of one who knew they were being transformed into something unnatural. Tiny daemonic parodies of woodland animals skittered through these fleshy trees. How Fulgrim enjoyed this world!

“Ah, my brother primarchs can take their time,” sighed the primarch lazily as he sat back against a formless lump of marble and stared at the pink sky. Somewhere behind those clouds, the galaxy heaved in agonized war while tyranids and necrons slaughtered one another by the billion, dragging world after world into extinction. Let them fight, let them die. They did not know the pleasure of Slaanesh.

The previous day, Fulgrim had heard word that Magnus had conquered his world: Krieg of all places. Since Fulgrim, the Alpha Legion, and Lorgar had their worlds, only five remained. Then they would have their armada to strike Holy Terra. Until then, Fulgrim had the world to enjoy.

“Faster!” he laughed to the dancing daemonette before him, twirling a stick, mounted at its opposite points by two bland masks. This lithe creature, whose name to some mortals was “The Masque” could not stop dancing since the day Slaanesh cursed her.

“I am born!” laughed The Masque as she spun one of the masks to her face while her nimble hooves too her into the air. As Fulgrim watched, the mask morphed into a sharply handsome face of indeterminable gender. She flipped the mask from her face and spun the opposite end of the stick to her face, so to cover it with her other mask.

“Ahhhh!” she screamed in mock pain while falling to the floor in a mess, her mask taking on the likeness of an eldar. With a dainty cartwheel, she jumped to her feet and deliver a bow, which was the first step in the first step of her next dance. Fulgrim enjoyed his private show and clapped his many hands.

“When we have dragged the Emperor from his palace, you shall have a new, grand story to tell!” he laughed with his poisoned honey voice while a moaning wind tossed his white hair. Before The Masque could answer, a whirling, three-edged knife sang through the air. Fulgrim ducked, narrowly dodging it, while The Masque nimbly danced aside, without missing a step. The star thrust itself into the trunk of a tree. Blood spurted from the crack it rended.

Lashing out of the forest, from a nimbus of gold that tore even the timeless air of the daemon world, came a tall eldar huntress, at the head of a fifty-strong charge of other huntresses, armed with swords and pistols. Howling Banshees.

“Death to Fulgrim!” the masked huntress shouted, a mane of hair billowing around her silvery armored body. The cries of banshees lit the silence.

Fulgrim recognized the leader as the Phoenix Lord Jain Zar herself, yet how she had found him here was beyond him. Nevertheless, as great as he enjoyed the luxury of dance, war was another item from which he drew pleasure. Fulgrim drew back while Slaanesh sent him reinforcements.

Bursting from the tree trunks, running out of them as smoothly as through water, came a host of sixty-six daemonettes. Fulgrim retreated into the forest from the clearing, but the banshees and their lord leapt through the daemon forest, coming closer as they avoided the charging daemonettes, whose lashing claws and daggers could match the eldar weaponry.

As he plunged deeper into the forest, Fulgrim saw the nimbus of gold disappear. Whatever it had been it could plague him no longer with the torments that the eldar could send to ruin his pleasure.

‘Surely a trick of the Black Library,’ he thought in dismay as the daemonettes finally caught up with the Howling Banshees, The Masque at their head. Fulgrim calmed down and witnessed the onslaught.

Leaping, bounding daemonettes fought with equally graceful banshees, who jumped and bounded off tree trunks and into the branches of the fleshy trees, taking the trees by the hands and using them to swing towards Fulgrim. Shuriken clattered off his unholy hide as they sought to end his life from range, but Slaanesh protected him.

The fight became less of a clash and more of a choreographed dance of leaping blades. Fighters who missed a step found their bodies ripped apart by the other side. Around the trunks of trees they fought and amongst the branches, leaping, shooting, dodging between them. It was beautiful.

A banshee leapt over a pair of daemonettes and used their heads as a springboard to jump higher up. She gripped a fleshy branch and swung herself towards Fulgrim, sword ready, body twirling in midair. Fulgrim watched as a daemonette came up behind her, claw raised. The banshee ended on the ground, held erect by one arm, which held her sword, driven point-first into the forest floor. The other hand held her pistol, and she fired it with total accuracy, upside-down. The charging daemonette sizzled.

As deadly as the energetic battle was, there was not a single fighter greater than The Masque. She cart wheeled over banshees, grabbing their heads, and ripping them off, only to drive her bladed hand into an eldar spiritstone when she landed. When a banshee fired her pistol at The Masque, she hit her companion and sent the eldar’s soul into Slaanesh’s maw: The Masque had already bounded away, leaving a wake of dead eldar behind her.

Jain Zar killed as intensely, where she went, the daemons burned. Her stave cut them down, her blade, which she had recovered, was thrown through the air, where it cut down beautiful creatures of Chaos before returning to its mistress. By the climax of the dancing fight, only she and The Masque remained. Jain Zar and The Masque landed in front of Fulgrim. Jain Zar looked into Fulgrim’s eyes with an intense glare of ancient hate, while The Masque gave a bow.

“Monster,” Jain Zar said as Fulgrim began to clap.

“Indeed that was a performance fit for a monster like me. Now, would you care to become a part of this forest?” Fulgrim asked, stroking the trunk of the nearest tree while a warp-tainted wind carried the screams of victims through the air and ruffled the forest’s hair.

“Die!” Jain Zar yelled, jumping at Fulgrim, throwing her blade at him and stabbing with her stave. Fulgrim caught the knife and Jain Zar’s stave, then heaved her in amongst the trees.

“Beautiful, indeed you are. But the show is over,” sighed Fulgrim as a fresh wave of daemonettes emerged from the trees, now 666 in number, their blades and claws gleaming under the infernal sky. “Kill her,” Fulgrim commanded to The Masque.

Jain Zar was an ancient warrior of honed skill. Not even she could stop the wave that descended on her in a thunderstorm of leaping and darting forms. Still she fought back, still she broke daemons apart, still she jumped amidst the hurricane of attackers. She leapt around trees, jumped into their branches and back down again. But the servants of Slaanesh came on and Jain Zar missed a step. Her long life ended upon being ripped apart, The Masque chopping off her arms and legs personally.

The Storm of Silence struck down by the Storm of Silence

As Fulgrim looked around the forest, he came to realize that no piece of it bled. No tree had suffered any damage in the intensity he’d witnessed. As the daemonettes retreated, leaving Fulgrim alone with the skipping, hopping cursed one, he allowed himself some measure of amazement at what he saw.

“That perfect?” he asked, stroking the skin of an unhurt trunk.

…

Indeed, the dance had been that precise. Tzeench turned away from his brother god’s world before Slaanesh spotted his spying. Things were going well. With two phoenix lords dead, they only had four more left to endure. Tzeench yawned with exhaustion and slipped back in his throne to take a nap.

Why was he so sleepy? And why were his seers still unable to fix the future? He looked at the future suspended in from the ceiling where he could keep an eye on it. It was as foggy as ever.

‘The solution will be made clear,’ Tzeench thought as he toyed with a ball of fate, tossing it from claw to claw. He faltered and dropped it, sending the ball of fate to the floor where It shattered. Tzeench knew the mistake was due to his fatigue. He needed to sleep it off.

And Tzeench, the architect of fate, closed his eyes and slept.

Chapter 8: Deceiving the Deceiver

[theblackenddemise]

awwh poor tzeench is getting old, I just LOVE how the battle went, could you imagine the fine choreography! looking forwar.... noo, demanding more :P
//black

[Exitas-Acta-Probat]

but how could he get old? maybe if he is the embodiment of change in the real world, then perhaps a state of endless unchange is approaching, therefore effectively neutralising/killing him. like if how all war stopped khorne would die. or maybe im ranting...

[theblackenddemise]

Originally Posted by Exitas-Acta-Probat

like if how all war stopped khorne would die. or maybe im ranting...

<33 gotta love that one, but hey I think time will tell us :P

[nicholasakira]

The skies of the crone world crackled with lightning. Beneath the rainless clouds, Rarend stood between two autarchs of the eldar, their moody black armor traced with strange alien runes that Rarend could only barely translate with his decades of experience. His robe was curled tightly around him, but even that did little to stave off the cold that gripped the sterile air. The mood of this desolate place passed on to the eldar there as well. All faces were helmeted and masked, all stood with a slouch, all were death-quiet. Where there were once six there now stood four.

“A prayer for Altansar for the lost lord of death and one to Jain Zar for her loss,” Asurmen, the crested Phoenix Lord, solemnly spoke while the others around him bowed their heads. “Martyrs, both.” Rarend noticed Asurmen did not bend his head, but seemed the most grief-stricken of all. As far as Rarend understood, Asurmen was the first of the Phoenix Lords and appeared to hold sway over them here.

“What now, my lord?” asked Fuegan, “we are assembled once more. Now the farseers weave the threads of fate in preparation for our next move. The harlequins are ready to send us to our next destination. Where?” The harlequins, the keepers of the Black Library. It was they who wove the magic needed to send them through time and out of the sight of chaos to where they needed to go.

“As it is,” Asurmen said to the small group, “now the act reaches the point where death must be made ready to die. We unleashed the servants of the C’tan, now we must be prepared to strike them down when they are finished with the tyranids.”

“What of reports of the chaos primarchs creating new daemon worlds?” asked the scorpion-headed one. Karandras, or something, Rarend did not stoop too deeply to relate to these monstrous aliens. As tremendous as their sacrifice to destroy the Nightbringer had been, they had still awoken the necrons with their meddling. Rarend understood that the eldar only wanted to use them like tools to burn away the hive fleets of the enslavers….tyranids, but like an arrogant inventor, they wielded their power over fate carelessly. How could such a pitiful race slay the necrons?

“The chaos legions cannot be stopped by us,” Asurmen replied. “Our priorities lie with the destruction with a foe far older than even the Great Enemy. As it is, the humans of chaos who hold the Talisman of Vaul make pilgrimages from world to world, leaving nothing but torn reality in their wake. It is only by blind serendipity that they have not been mangled by our foes. IF we are to slay the other C’tan, we need that Talisman of Vaul.”

“Which of our fleets can contest it?” asked Fuegan.

“We shall not assault the device. Doing so will bring losses upon us. We need trickery on our side,” explained Asurmen. “We must gather our forces together for…for what will come.” There was a glint of knowing in Asurmen’s voice. Rarend wondered if the great lord of the eldar knew exactly what the next years would bring. But if he did, then why did he not tell others? Damn the eldar!

“Taking the Talisman of Vaul shall fall to Ulthwe. Only they can weave plots thick enough to avoid a confrontation with the warriors of chaos who hold it. The human Rarend will go with them,” Asurmen explained. “He must see the weapon for himself, so that he will understand what it is we will ask of him.” Suddenly Rarend understood why he had been brought here. Asurmen was tempting him to butt into their meeting, to demand what the eldar wanted him to do! It was working, Rarend now struggled to stay still.

‘Why didn’t they just tell me what they wanted?’ Rarend thought. The answer came from elsewhere in his brain. ‘Because I would not listen if they told me.’ Unable to suppress his curiosity anymore, Rarend worked his way into the eldar plans and moved accordingly.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Rarend, “why was I captured, brought to Altansar, brought here, and acquainted with the Phoenix Lords?” The answer was forthwith, for Asurmen had expected the question.

“Because we need you to help us destroy the C’tan,” replied Asurmen. “There are three now in the galaxy. The Deceiver, the Outsider, and the Void Dragon. Of those three, the Void Dragon has the most prevalence to you, for he lies within Imperial space, out of our reach.”

“Where?”

“You would call me a liar if I told you.”

“WHERE!”

“Mars.”

“Liar!”

“You see? You would not help us slay a creature on Mars unless you saw for yourself our battle against death. The C’tan will strip the Imperium of life if not stopped, leaving Chaos unopposed to take Holy Terra and turn the universe into a playground for chaos. This is as much your war as it is ours, our enemies the same. You are not ready to help us yet, but the time will come when you will have to choose between eternal damnation or victory over death.”

“I do not aid the alien,” Rarend spat arrogantly.

“You will. When the Blackstone Fortress is ours and only one C’tan remains, you will aid us,” Asurmen said. “The necrons are, but puppets. Slay the puppet masters, and death halts in its tracks.” Rarend was still dissatisfied, though deep in his heart, he feared the eldar’s plan made sense.

“I am an inquisitor of the Imperium. You may be my foremost enemy, but Chaos casts the darkest shadow. I did overhear your mention daemon worlds and…chaos primarchs?” Rarend asked. The other Phoenix Lords laughed while Asurmen shook his head.

“All you need to know is that right now, while necron and tyranid kill one another, the chaos lords amass an armada of planetary proportions to assault Holy Terra with. When the rift near Terra opens, and the C’tan still live, you will be naked to the onslaught of nine daemon worlds and wish you had helped us kill Void Dragon.”

Damn the eldar!

…

Abaddon stood on the bridge of his ship and stared at the runes on the control panel as they listed the battles the tyranids and necrons had, as well as the cost to the Imperium.

+The Sabbat Worlds now lifeless, their final settlements destroyed by necrons+
+ Keldes ravaged by tyranids. 4 billion dead+
+ Necron and tyranid fleets continue to battle in Ring of Fire. Tyranid presence decreased by 16%+
+ by the eyes of our Tzeench-blessed seers, we see necron advances through Ultima Segmentum. Tyranid ships lost estimated in the hundred billion+
One report confused him.
+ Hive ravages necron catacomb+
Never before had he heard of such happenings. The tyranids simply did not attack necron worlds, yet here they were, doing just that. This was the fingerprint of a greater intelligence in the Hive Mind. Either it had learned to strike at the necrons in their fleshless homes or another mind helped direct them, one that did not live to feed.

“Number eleven, the second of the Emperor’s lost sons,” Abaddon muttered. Apollyon: one of the only things Abaddon envied. “May he keep the Imperium occupied long enough.” The screen flickered and a new report was added.

+ Necromunda falls to Perturabo. Astartes retreat+ The Iron Warriors had their world.

Abaddon looked away from his screen and out the window. Orbiting there, around the red sphere of the tainted Cadian sun, were the planet-hells of Krieg, Cadia, Chaedrosarr, and Dis, which had been taken the Word Bearers. Soon to be added to their ranks was the world of Necromunda and Ashmotaria, the latter of which had fallen to the Night Lords. The cowards had actually plucked a cultist-filled world from real space, rather than conquering a loyalist one. Abaddon would have a talk with them about meeting his standards.

Only Angron and Mortarion needed worlds to claim. Abaddon himself already knew which one he would take, and how, so he waited on only two.

Nine worlds of Hell, nine tiers to his assault. And with the Imperium defending itself from the tyranids and necrons, they wouldn’t even notice the missing planets.

…

Ulthwe exploded out of the rift in space and time and into real space over the warp-ridden remnants of a world destroyed by the Grey Knights. From his apartment aboard the craftworld, Rarend could see the world now a barren rock, was warped into a nebulous shape and burning. It was fresh work. They were on the trail of the Blackstone Fortress.

[hawo0313]

why only one chapter at a time I want the whole thing now!!!!

man youre putting most of the black library to shame

[Bergioyn]

I agree with above. Seriously, you should try to get work in Black Library!

[Gu Long: Ancient Dragon]

^^ I agree whole heartedly with the comments above and once again must say: MORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Gu

[LokkoRex]

I'd always imagined lucius would be killed by suicide, but i'd never thought of having kharn be his bane! and you did the whole fight justice, pure awesome juice it was! a bit disappointed fabius bile got killed by a lowly berzerker, should have taken something more than that to take him down, with all his self-inflicted drugs, surgery and experimentation. cool to see logan grimnar still around, but how about Dante of the blood angels? still around or feasting at the emperors table? or did he become some über-death company dude?

[Sons of Alaitoc v.2]

So did the Dark Eldar just die, are there no survivors? It just seemed to be too quick.

[nicholasakira]

This is a two-part update
Yup, the Dark Eldar are gone. They went as quickly as the squats, and that was official canon. Plus the Dark Eldar only had one city.

The voyage through the stars was dull for Rarend, who spend dayless night after dayless night lounging in his apartment, distracted only by the occasional visits of his keeper, who was different from the other one only in appearance. His appeasing attitude, tight-mouth, and even voice reminded Rarend the keeper on the other craftworld, which he now knew had been Altansar, the world of Maugan Ra.

His time here was helped weakly when he was presented a tome from Ulthwe’s archives: an outdated compendium of Inquisitorial records involving eldar, stolen from Emperor knows where? Rarend read over the notes in it to refresh himself, the words of Inquisitor Czevak mumbling in his head.

“Ask not the eldar…ask not the eldar…ask not the eldar…” Rarend grew bored of it after its fifteenth reading.

It was therefore a welcome change of pace when the mood on the craftworld changed. Rarend’s apartment was a tall spite that hoisted him high up into the sky: granting him a perfect view of the planet they were coming towards. Outside, he heard calm but strong eldar voices whispering frightful rumors to one another. The talisman was sighted. From a window and with a set of crystalline glasses, Rarend witnessed the chaos unfold…

…

Skander Moorus looked through the main window of the Nero at the oncoming eldar ship, if that small word was large enough to properly title the moon of ivory and lights that bore in on his ship. Such a colossus of the void could easily cripple a fleet ten times of what Skander had, even with half the guns he estimated the craftworld carried. He looked down at the control screen, where redish runes indicated his five escort ships, support frigate, and the Nero itself, plus the Blackstone Fortress.

“Lock onto the craftworld with the warp-cannon and fire, full power! Glory to chaos!” commanded the captain behind him. Skander turned about, his ancient face frowning and his jaws revealing pointed teeth with every word.

“In the name of the chaos gods, do not!” Skander barked, “the eldar would not so deliberately endanger their great craftworlds without cause…”

“Nonsense, fire the cannon!” The ratings at their controls, whose fingers had melted and fused with their buttons, whose heads were skulls that lolled stupidly to the side, whose bodies were etched with unholy runes, did nothing. In the empty sockets of one skull, Skander saw two pinpricks of green light, begging him to make up his mind.

“The eldar would never do this, fools yes, but even the fool has his limits,” Skander continued, as the captain strode over to his controls. “Just as Tzeench bluffs in the Great Game, so too can eldar make their own bluffs. Do you not think that if the eldar were coming that they would not have sent ships…”

“Enough of your whining,” the other Grey Knight laughed as he lunged down and pressed a button upon the controls.” Fire the Blackstone Fortress at the craftworld! HAHAHAHA!” Skander had no choice but to look outside and behold the logic of the eldar’s bluff. “Now we shall see what you were so afraid of, Moorus!” the captain cackled through his leering helm.

As the beam of energy lanced into the delicate craftworld, Skander’s eyes were dazzled by an explosion of flashing white shards, delicate as paper but as razor-sharp as a bladed diamond. The whole craftworld shattered like crystal bursting apart in brilliant hurricanes of gleaming shards. But unlike natural debris, this glittering refuse vanished after the whole of the craftworld had been reduced to pieces.

“And there is your answer. The eldar made a mistake coming here,” laughed the captain. Skander was quiet, but in anger.

“They’re coming,” he whispered as he watched the stars for the first gliding eldar ships to burst into view.

“My lord,” whispered a dusty voice from the teeth of the nearest rating’s skull, “radar detects incoming enemy ships, including a craftworld, from our port side.”

“Damnation,” Skander turned to the laughing Grey Knight, “you see brother? It was a damnable illusion. We destroyed magic…” the Nero trembled. “And the Blackstone Fortress will take some time to cool down.

“We must retreat!” cried he captain.

“Because of you, fool,” snorted Skander as he watched as the glittering shapes of the real eldar ships approach. Behind them, no bigger than a moon and out of range of the warp cannon, was a craftworld. Skander judged it was retreating. Of course, they needed the real craftworld nearby for their witches to generate so convincing an illusion.

“Prepare to enter the warp!” shouted Skander as the ratings began pressing buttons.

“Moorus,” asked the captain, “why in the name of the warp did they not simply forego the grand illusion and assault us with the death of this world below us? There is not but Imperial farmsteads on this planet where our shadows darken.”

“Perhaps they wanted to protect it, or perhaps their ruse is more than it seems,” Skander replied. “Pray for the first.” As the eldar ships approached, the Nero, its escort fleet, and the Blackstone Fortress flew forward, preparing to enter the warp. Eldar torpedoes were spat at them and Skander watched as the runes on the control panel indicated the spectacular destruction of an escort ship. It mattered little as the warp blossomed to life before him.

In they went.

…

“So you see now how serious we are, human?” asked the farseer as she removed her helmet to show him a young face beneath short but splendid ink-black hair. Rarend nodded, false assurance behind his action.

“Yes, the traitors were seen off,” Rarend replied. He actually hadn’t witnessed more than a distant burst of light as the Grey Knights retreated. “I see now that the eldar are an enemy of chaos. Whatever you want, I shall do.” Perhaps if he kept up a convincing ruse, the eldar would let him leave.

“My people command something very simple of you,” continued the farseer as she planted the tip of her bony staff into the ground. “You must go to Mars and follow our instructions. They and they alone will guarantee the death of the Void Dragon and leave the necrons open to the coup de grace.”

“I will do whatever you ask,” Rarend lied. The farseer squinted at him and Rarend felt the inside of his head stung, as if from an insect’s stinger.

“Unfortunately, you do not seem to think so. Perhaps you will think otherwise when you’ve watched the last part of our procedure,” with a nod to her two bodyguards, the pair of eldar descended on Rarend and stood him up. “You will accompany the fleet to Yamatoka, where the Grey Knights have fled, thanks to the manipulations of our farseers. It is the last tau world, under siege by the tyranids. The Deciever himself resides there, defending the tau.”

“I am not your puppet!” Rarend shouted as he was pulled from the chamber.

“You will learn your place,” replied the farseer coldly. As the door closed, Rarend wondered. Did she really know that?

Damn the eldar!

The tau world below was beautiful, a harmonious clash of sea blue and tree green.

“I swear to you, farseer,” said the warlock through his mind to the distant farseer of Ulthwe, aboard her ship, where the human Rarend sat, “I promise we will fail.” The warlock’s small fleet swept down to the planet below.

…

The Shas’o looked down at the ascending tyranids. Blue flashes from tau guns tore the alien beasts from the cliff and hurled their ravaged bodies down into the misty treetops below, but there were always more. The Shas’o could look at a handful of climbing tyranids and watch them all die, but there were always more. The Shas’o looked at his warriors blasting down the cliff at the rising tide of alien warriors, then up at the glimmering towers of the city behind him. From every summit of every building came blue, flashing shots from tau guns, slashing at the overcast sky. In reply, felled tyranids dropped from their celestial perches, a trail of smoke showing their route to the ground below.

The Shas’o knew more about the battle than any tau here as it loomed over the heads of its fellow warriors, whose blades wrists were held in reserve in favor of a more effective killing method against these razored fiends. Pirates who loved the intimate thrill of cutting up flesh shot tyranids dead from afar. If they only knew…

The Shas’o looked to the horizon, his instincts knowing what was coming. He could hear the voices of his true servants in his head, though to anyone watching him, he was doing nothing but staring at the horizon inside his suit. In actual fact, he was giving orders.

‘Await,’ the Shas’o told its true followers.

“Shas’o, we must retreat!” one overlord shouted as his suit flew up to the Shas’o. In each of its two white hands, this overlord’s suit carried a pair of tonfa, whose blunt ends has crushed the brains of the largest of tyranid ground beasts. As the overlord spoke, it raised a hand and launched a cluster of streaming rockets into the forest below, sending fire and dead alien into the air.

“Then we shall,” replied the Shas’o. “Take your crew back to the city and fortify from there.”

“We’re to wait for them to come?”

“I trust we will have time,” the Shas’o said as he felt the first of his true servants rise out of the ground in the forest below, “why, the gods must defend us.” If the Shas’o could see the overlord’s face, he would see confusion.

“There are no gods, even the foolish ethereals know…”

“Do as I say,” insisted the Shas’o. With a shake of his hand he sent the tau away from the edge of the cliff. His other warriors followed, confused as to why they were withdrawing. Below, the Shas’o could see the tyranid tide end. No more came from the forest. The necrons were attacking.

As the first tyranids reached the lip of the cliff, the whole world was suddenly shaken as if the world was coming apart. A billowing wave of dust swept across the world, throwing everything in darkness. The shockwave obliterated the oncoming tyranid beasts, crushing them into the cliff and sending them tumbling down to the trees below. The invisible battle below the trees, between tyranid swarm and necron, was stalled by the thunder.

‘They’ve come,’ thought the Shas’o as he levitated off the cliff and over the trees. ‘They’re here.’ The Shas’o was, in truth, the C’tan named by mortals as “the Deciever.” It did not enjoy pretending to be a tau, but it needed to do so if it was to spare this species the wrath of the hive. Though they were troublesome, the Deciever liked how little the tau invested into psyker technology. It wished that they, and not the humans, ruled the stars. The Deciever already knew what caused the shockwave even before it saw the wreckage of the Nero, even before the crash happened. Now, the Deciever would learn if what it suspected was true…

…

Skander shook his head as he rose from the ruin. They had emerged from the warp only a kilometer above the atmosphere of this world. Something had blown them off course, twisting them, turning them, guiding the Nero through the warp. All around him, the debris of the crash. Dead ratings lay sprawled across the floor, while the captain was thrown against the far wall, his superhuman body keeping him alive.

“By the dark gods…” rasped the other marine as he rose up.

“The eldar were clever indeed,” groaned Skander, as pained to admit the face, as he was to stand back up. He felt like something had skewered his back, and a few bones were broken. But the ancient giant rose again, thankful the ship was upright, brushing away dust from his armor. “The damned eldar will pay, chaos willing…”

“By the dark gods,” whispered the other marine, raising his force weapon, which had survived the crash, “you eldar witch. How dare you.” Skander looked over his shoulder at the empty bridge behind him. He saw nothing but ruin, but the other man was speaking to someone present. He turned around in time to see the man lunge for him, stave raised, its crackling blade ready to chop his life in twain. “Die eldar!” yelled the bezerk man as he fell on Skander, force weapon ready to kill. Skander seized the traitor by the elbow and snapped it back, sending him to the floor. Skander lifted the fallen force weapon and rose it against the captain’s breast.

“What has maddened you?” Skander asked.

“You…eldar…” the captain tried to move, but Skander stabbed him to death, not wishing to confront the wrath of another Grey Knight. The man died thinking he faced an eldar.

Out in the halls, Skander heard bolterfire. He raced outside the bridge in time to see the surviving crewmen and their Grey Knight overseers slaughtering one another in the control room. Skander watched as three Grey Knights clove through a wall of struggling servitors with their force weapon. All around, men yelled the names of their enemies.

“There! An Imperial!”

“Kill the eldar!”

“How did he get in here? Kill him!” Skander witnessed the last survivors of the battle, two Grey Knights, run one another through with their swords. Skander grimaced as he realized he was alone.

“Help,” Skander ran over to the nearest control and heaved the slaughtered body of its rating off it. “Help!” he shouted into the vox. On the screen, his words appeared in yellow runes. “Aid us,” he called. “Aid us,” the screen said. He hoped the rest of the fleet could hear him. “We need support, our crewmen have killed each other,” how else could he word it?

Behind him, a cold, cackle froze his black heart. He turned around to confront what appeared to be a tau battesuit, covered in blades, in the middle of the room. Yet the voice, so cold, so loud; nothing a confined pilot of the tau race could produce.

“So, it is true. You have found one of the lost fortresses,” the otherworldly voice said. “Those signals, I could taste them as you sent them, I could see where they’ve been sent. To your escort ships in the atmosphere alongside...it.”

“Who are you?” Skander coughed and fell to the ground. Behind him, a single surviving rating, lowered his smoking bolter.

And so the Deciever rose up to greet its foes, the Grey Knights, in orbit with their small fleet above the world. It sent its ships to dispose of the foe guarding the fortress. From the sunless face of the planet, the crescent tombships of the necrons came. Through their eyes, the C’tan witnessed Grey Knight ships being sundered apart by gauss weapons. The fortress itself held firm, gauss shots flying off it, like jets of water shot into a rock wall. Only the C’tan itself could destroy this, the most formidable of the Blackstone Fortresses it had yet seen. A tombship was reduced to wreck by the fortress: one of nine the Deciever sent.

And as Grey Knight and necron ships exchanged fire through the sky, the C’tan’s warriors alerted it to a new threat. Hovering above the planet like a moon, the Deciever was alerted of a small wing of eldar ships approaching the battle.

The Deceiver weaved the most complex of plans in a heartbeat. Utilizing its resources, it sent what ships it could to the tiny eldar fleet. The Deciever knew now that the last thing the eldar would realize as the Blackstone Fortress came apart, was that they had been tricked. But by then, the necron assault would already be upon them.

…

Rarend watched the battle from the bridge of the eldar cruiser. The Grey Knights were reduced to a single flaming ship and the unscathed Blackstone Fortress. He flinched as another necron ship came apart under the fortress’ defensive batteries. Four remained.

“Why are the necrons not attacking us?” Rarend asked the farseer beside him. There were only one ship, but a grand vessel at that. He knew that twenty eldar ships awaited elsewhere: the rest of the fleet from Ulthwe. Where were they?

“The necrons have their priorities elsewhere,” replied the farseer as the gleaming forms of eldar ships appeared on the horizon: the rest of the fleet.

“My farseer! Our sisters are here!”

“Orders?”

“Carry out the plan,” replied the farseer. The whole ship shook as a single blast was shot at the eldar fleet. Rarend did not recognize the shot: for what could be made of a ball of multi-coloured light? His experience on eldar weaponry was baffled. Then the ball burst into a cloud, bright and colourful, filled with crackling energy. What was once a small ball became a whole storm of colour that covered the approaching fleet. But the energy he beheld crackling light lightning amidst the clouds, it was the same burning shade as the warp cannon’s shot. Only when the glassy chunks of the illusionary Ulthwe drifted out of the cloud did Rarend understand.

“That illusion of Ulthwe, it was more than an illusion,” Rarend sputtered.

“Yes. It was an entity made of pure warp energy. Not quite wraithbone, but not quite eldritch magic either. It took a generation to create, so you can understand my pain when I saw it come apart,” said the farseer. “But it did something for us. It stored the power from the warp cannon’s blast. It carries with destructive energy of the Blackstone Fortress in its very atoms, like untapped energy hiding inside a battery. We have brought it back into being, smothering or enemy with its power.” The farseer turned her face to Rarend. “Those ships, they weren’t supposed to be there. I told the captain of the fleet that he could not join us, that he would fail.”

“He was supposed to fail?”

“How else would we know who the Deciever was impersonating? It as cost us twenty ships, may Isha remember them for their sacrifice.”

“What?” Rarend asked, “I thought you just attacked your own people?”

[nicholasakira]

part 2
“No. The fleet, the whole fleet, was the Deciever in disguise, its form changed to the likeness of an entire eldar fleet, the real one was likely destroyed. The Deciever could not dream of us sacrificing such a large portion of our forces, but we know it would try and fool us.” As the last necron ship came apart, leaving the Blackstone Fortress alone with the eldar and the cloud of shards, the farseer allowed herself a slender grin. “Now, shall we collect it?” Rarned blinked as the cloud and the shard dispersed to reveal a gold-skinned figure, still, and curled up in pain, saturated with an energy that was lethal to it.

“By the Emperor…” whispered Rarend, scanning the Deciever through a special eldar telescope. He could see the C’tan’s tired face, the light reflecting off its skin, everything. “I know this monster. It…it is a C’tan! But never have I seen it anywhere but the pages of my textbooks!”

“Now you understand us?” asked the farseer as the Blackstone Fortress fired its warp cannon. The Deciever disintegrated. Their ship began to shake as the Blackstone Fortress fired on it. “The rest of the fleet comes.” Behind them, more eldar ships appeared to take the Blackstone Fortress before more necrons could arrive. The battle was far from over. It would take nothing less than the intervention of the whole Ulthwe fleet to take the fortress.

Rarend spend the rest of the battle inside his quarters, getting over what he had seen. A C’tan, caught up in a single small error, and destroyed by it!

He was too stunned at what he had seen even when the eldar won the battle and destroyed the last remnants of the Grey Knights in the fortress. He was too stunned to speak when they entered the warp, retreating from a fleet of one hundred necron ships from other, distant worlds. He closed his eyes, refusing to look at the farseer of this ship as they returned to Ulthwe.

“You will go to Holy Terra, with one companion and our instructions. Only then will the third C’tan die,” she said. “Else…”

“I know what will happen if I don’t,” Rarend said darkly. He looked up at the farseer. “Now I know what will happen if I do. Void Dragon…will die.” He shrugged. “One companion?”

“A special prisoner we took from the enemy. Skander Moorus of the Grey Knights. You will know more later,” the farseer said. “Now, you must rest.” Rarend sat back bewildered as his ship, the ships they were with, and the freshly-captured Blackstone Fortress flew up to Ulthwe, somewhere deep in space.

‘I know what I must do,’ Rarned clenched his teeth. ‘Emperor forgive me, but I must work with these aliens.’

And so he did.

...
Three years passed. Tyranid and necron fleets battled each other endlessly across the stars. Both forces, once considered unstoppable, were being ruthlessly pitted against one another in a war of attrition on a galactic scale. It was, as one High Lord of Terra put it, “the calamity of an unyielding barrier being confronted by an unrelenting force.” Both ancient evils, both relentless in their destruction of the other.

Yet as the destruction wore on, both found their endless power to be in wane. The necron, who could for so long take their tomb worlds for granted, found that each world lost dented their ability to repair their fallen. The hive mind, which had taken comfort in its limitless numbers, found that even their eternal tide could be dammed. Yet still they killed. Necrons crushed by the broods, swarms flayed into ashen particles by gauss weaponry.

The toll was taken not only on the two battling forces, but also on the worlds where they fought. Caught in a godly crossfire, billions of people had nowhere to run to escape the rampaging swarms of metal or flesh. Continents were bombed to sterile ash to cleanse the tyranids. Other times, rampaging hive fleets would consume a world to replenish their numbers before plunging into the nearest tomb world. Humanity’s thinning numbers fell fast.

The only race left relatively unaffected was the orks. Their hordes were so formidable and their worlds so densely populated that a wandering hive fleet would travel light years to strike elsewhere rather than risk defeat at the hands of this monstrous species. The war in the stars drew billions of them into the fight. As necron and tyranid swarms battled across planets, the orks too would plunge into the fray, excited by the sheer size of the conflict.

As orks joined the fray, the Imperium was forced into further decline. But the most significant defeat they suffered was not at the hands of any rampaging swarm, but a precise blow struck against one of the most infamous places in the galaxy…

Chapter 9: Catachan Falls

[Sons of Alaitoc v.2]

Sorry about this, but I have one tiny complaint, as an ork player I would like to see more of the orks and why the are joining together, but apart from that it is brilliant!

[Ghost Warrior]

I would like to hear about the Soul Drinkers and if I may suggest work in the 13th company somewhere.
Anyways great work and Im loving the story and craving more.

[Scorpius_78]

I'v said it before and I'll say it again. Great stuff man.

Would like to hear of some major battle during those 3 years. And as said above would also like to hear more of the Soul Drinkers.

But hey its your story (and a great one at that) so what ever you wanta do it is cool by me.