Chapter 191: The Consecrators
Aboard the Malevolent Eye, a Slaughter-class cruiser of the Warband of a Thousand Eyes.
The bridge was bathed in the dim, red glow of emergency lighting. A hololith projected a distorted image of light and shadow above the command console, from which the ephemeral figure of Cyraxes slowly coalesced.
"Baelor."
A smile touched Baelor's lips beneath his faceplate. At least Cyraxes was not communicating purely through psychic means. It wasn't that he disagreed with the practice, especially considering the nature of their allies, but a caution ingrained from the days of the Legion constantly reminded him that sorcery and the powers of the warp were best saved for when they were truly needed. And Cyraxes's actions demonstrated a clear line: he would not debase himself with the powers of Chaos.
"Your orders, Knight-Captain?"
"The Flawless Host has gone silent."
Baelor's knuckles rapped a dull rhythm on the edge of a data-slate. He frowned. "Silent?"
The Flawless Host, a Chaos Space Marine warband devoted to the Chaos God Slaanesh. Recently, rumours of four new Primarchs appearing in the Imperium had been spreading through the warp, and for some reason, the forces of Slaanesh had shown an unprecedented enthusiasm for these leaders of the Dawn Crusade. Naturally, this had attracted not only the followers of Slaanesh, but also them.
The Warband of a Thousand Eyes, a Dark Angels warband led by Cyraxes, classified by the current Dark Angels Chapter as Fallen. They had learned of this news long before the other warbands. As early as 741.M41, Cyraxes had obtained this information through some unknown means and had made extensive preparations, even secretly attacking a fleet under Abaddon's command to use as a bargaining chip to attract a large number of Chaos Astartes to his cause.
Unfortunately, the strength of the Crusade Fleet was far too great, its might comparable to that of a smaller Legion. They had not been able to find a good opportunity to strike.
"Perhaps they got carried away after conquering that feudal world?" Baelor suggested. In Chaos warbands, the existence of discipline depended entirely on the nature of the commander and his troops. Some still adhered to a strict military code; others had long since degenerated into disorganized mobs. Fortunately, thanks to the traditions inherited from their Legion days, their own force still retained some of its former efficiency.
"I would hope so. I would even hope that they are the 'Primarch' we have been waiting for. But the outcome is not optimistic. I received their final transmission."
Baelor knew what he meant. He meant a psychic transmission. Over interstellar distances, conventional Imperial communications were almost useless. While sorcerous messages using the warp itself were not perfect, they were far more reliable than physical signals.
"Who is the enemy?" he asked.
"The Consecrators," Cyraxes replied with a sneer. "Or, as they are now called, the Firewing of this era."
"I knew it," a suppressed curse hissed between Baelor's teeth. "Do we withdraw?"
"Yes. If we must also count the Unforgiven among our enemies, it will indeed be... tricky." Cyraxes's hololithic image began to flicker unstably, as if he were deliberately obscuring his own signal.
"Are you certain of success?"
"Of course."
Aboard the Blade of Truth, Cyraxes gazed down at the planet engulfed in chaos below. The hive world of Hossack. The Warband of a Thousand Eyes had repelled a Tyranid attack. Thanks to Abaddon's brutal exploitation of his Dark Mechanicum followers, the Warmaster of Chaos's warships still maintained a decent level of performance, not far behind those of the Imperium. And this planet would be their next sacrifice.
Cyraxes was following the trail of the 'Primarchs'. The Flawless Host was preparing on another feudal world. If neither of them encountered the Dawnlight Fleet, Cyraxes would take the gathered souls to the next potential location. Because the 'divine power of the Emperor' protected them and veiled their forms, the Warband of a Thousand Eyes could only cast a wide net, hoping to run into one of them.
'This is the power of the Emperor!'
Undeterred by the many difficulties he had faced, a thrilled smile touched Cyraxes's lips. Look how powerful He is! Even the Chaos Gods cannot glimpse His treasures!
Cyraxes raised his staff. A drop of blood began to smoke, the vapour spiraling outwards along the lines marked on the deck. A blood-red mist appeared over the entire planet's surface. The human survivors of the previous battle were stripped of their flesh and, after enduring endless agony, were consigned to an eternal torment. The xenos skull at the tip of his staff began to glow with a terrible light, and a blood-red blade solidified within the mist.
They did not need victory. They did not even need to live. They only needed this brief contact. Therefore, they had to ensure their plan was flawless.
Cyraxes ordered his fleet to depart, and the Chaos armada composed of multiple warbands melted into the void.
'One of the Imperium's many mistakes was to imprison the Master of Mankind on the Golden Throne. He should have been allowed to die properly. For a being such as Him, death is merely the beginning of another great work.'
'Only by dying in the materium can He fully ascend to the empyrean as a true god. Once there, no longer bound and weakened by His broken mortal body, He can become a destructive force that will annihilate the xenos races, a god whose name will make daemons howl in endless lament, and He will oversee a second Great Crusade for humanity.'
'He will surely lead us to make humanity great again.'
A unremarkable feudal world.
Romulus's original plan was simple: orbital bombardment, surface purification, then leave. But the unexpected appearance of a fleet had completely disrupted his deployment.
An unexpected fleet.
When a battle barge bearing the sigil of the Firewing appeared in planetary orbit, Romulus was genuinely surprised. He had never expected to run into the 40k Dark Angels here.
"All ships, battle stations," he ordered in a low voice, simultaneously opening a fleet-wide comms channel. "This is the battleship Dawnlight of the Dawnbreakers Chapter. I am Romulus Quirinus."
Drawing on his knowledge of the Imperium, Romulus chose his words carefully. He deliberately phrased his message to seem as if he knew little about the Dark Angels. In this era, knowing too much about certain Chapters could attract unnecessary suspicion.
"Unidentified fleet, state your identity and mission."
These demigods were not the beleaguered veterans of the 30k Dark Angels. They had more ships, more forbidden technology, and more manpower. And they were far more prone to getting their hackles up.
He quickly contacted Arthur.
"Arthur."
"I'm here."
The response was so fast it was as if the other end had been waiting. The background was filled with the sounds of shifting armour. On the command deck behind Arthur, the Dark Angels were already at battle stations. The Firewing was formulating a combat plan, the Pentaculum Wing was preparing for a psychic boarding action, and every Wing and Order was ready for battle.
Deep within the relic-class cruiser, in a launch tube that ran almost the entire length of the ship, a projectile capable of accelerating to lightspeed in an instant was being loaded. This weapon of ancient technology could accelerate to lightspeed in an instant, its warhead carrying a stasis-field generator powerful enough to freeze a localized region of space-time around an entire fleet.
"Annihilation protocol initiated. Stasis-bomb strike program is ready. I can guarantee insertion into the enemy flagship's command center within five seconds of engagement."
Meanwhile, in the command sanctum of the battle barge Relic of Ages—
"Lord Ezekiel?"
The Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels, Azrael, bowed his head slightly, seeking the opinion of the Grand Master of the Librarius. Though he was the Chapter Master, within the Inner Circle, he still had to defer to the six Grand Masters.
"They are not the enemy," Ezekiel replied, his crimson bionic eye blinking several times. He did not believe they should engage this Imperial force. They had only just arrived in the Ultramar Sector and were unfamiliar with the situation. But—
Ezekiel frowned. The intensity of his premonitions filled him with an unprecedented sense of crisis.
"Initiate first contact protocols. At the same time, load the annihilation contingency."
"Pre-launch preparations are complete," Azrael confirmed with a nod, not asking any further questions. The battle-hardened warrior was all too familiar with the meaning behind such contradictory orders. In the dark galaxy, courtesy and caution were two sides of the same coin. Especially for them.
Almost in the same instant, the silence of the void was shattered. Both fleets, in perfect unison, activated the pre-launch sequences of their ancient technological weapons. Macro-cannon arrays calibrated in silence, and the seals on torpedo tubes slid open.
'...That's not what I meant,' Romulus thought, a headache blooming behind his eyes. Seeing the perfectly synchronized hostile posture in his tactical simulation, he could feel a vein throbbing in his temple.
'Though I suppose it is necessary.'
Like calls to like, I suppose.
"The Wolves," he said into the comms.
"Get one of the Wolves to make some noise."
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