Chapter 199: Today Is the Day You Die
Impech Prime.
Today was destined to be a long day. The contemporary Dark Angels, the ten-thousand-year-old Dark Angels, the Dawnlight Fleet, and the various Chaos warbands—beings of different loyalties and different desires, all locked in a brutal struggle.
The roar of cannons was drawing near. Zahariel, having assumed command, was working frantically to restore order in the city of Ansel. With the assistance of the other Chapters, the process was swift. The Astartes entering the city were disciplined, even going out of their way to stabilize the situation. As for the Inner Circle... one could guess with half a brain what they would do.
Clad in armour stripped of all identifying marks, they moved through the corridors. Unable to contact their Inner Circle command, they could only act on their own experience. They raided armouries, gathering heavy weapons, and attempted to overload the city's void shield batteries to trigger a catastrophic explosion. Following their instinct to destroy everything, they began to move towards any area that could be used to put the city to the torch.
The sound of battle was deafening. Countless unwitting soldiers, even members of the outer circles, were cut down by the silent, frenzied knights. Storms of roars and screams echoed in the night sky.
The situation was clear. The main force of the Dawnlight Fleet, led by Karna, was engaging the Chaos coalition. Facing these disorganized, poorly supplied, and brain-damaged opponents, Romulus, as the overall commander, held an overwhelming number of cards.
The secondary conflict was the Dark Angels' civil war, with Arthur and Ramesses providing surgical strikes against any particularly troublesome Chaos Lords.
Cypher leaned against the bulkhead, sitting in the dim light of the Stormbird's interior. A heavy black cloak covered his power armour, its wide hood concealing his face and the bottomless, burning rage in his eyes. Beside him, dozens of warriors clad in black sat in perfect silence.
The deck of the Stormbird shuddered as it entered the atmosphere of Impech Prime. He lowered his head, lost in the sensation.
"Entry successful. Preparing for landing. Three minutes to destination. Enemy—"
A servo-skull drifted past Cypher's ear, broadcasting the enemy's strategic deployment and combat characteristics. He had no need for such reports. This was not the first time he had faced these fully-armed Fallen Angels. He had stood under skies burned by war many times before. Back then, his armour had been broken, the fuel for his power pack had to be used sparingly, and the only observation instrument their squad had was Zahariel's sniper scope.
He could judge his position by the ship's slightest adjustments and turns, and calculate the time to landing: two seconds less than the servo-skull's estimate. For the same reason, Cypher had already disabled his external pict-feed and tactical display. He no longer needed to observe his surroundings, no longer needed to feel the habits repeated countless times in his muscle fibers, no longer needed to hear the tactical plans that had already formed in his mind with the speed of nerve impulses.
He knew these enemies, who had forced him into a life of exile, all too well.
"One minute," Cypher said, leaning back. He stretched his shoulders and neck, his knuckles cracking loudly. The wind from the ship's thrusters licked the ground below. He released the magnetic clamps on his boots. The Stormbird's assault ramp slid open.
He stood there for a moment. The roar of the gunship's engines softened to a low whine, while in his own chest, the roar of rushing blood grew louder.
"Engage!"
The assault ramp dropped. Cypher roared the order and leaped into the battlefield. Behind him, countless black knights descended.
THUD!
A grey stone corridor stretched out before Cypher. The high, vaulted arches of the cenobite's cloister cast a web of shadows, and in those intersecting darknesses, it felt as if countless eyes were watching. This was a corner of history deliberately erased, a sanctum built of shame and sin, the site of an unspeakable massacre of the local populace by the Adeptus Mechanicus.
On the dome above, the ancient heroes of Impech Prime stood eternal. The features of their stone faces were blurred by time, but the twin swords in their hands were still sharp. One pointed to the stars, as if swearing an oath to the Emperor. The other pointed to the ground, as if suppressing some unspeakable presence. In the cracks of the fire-blackened plinths, dark red stains were faintly visible, like wounds that could never heal.
Cypher's cloak swept across the ash on the floor, the fine grey-white powder swirling in the air. He took another step, then stopped, his gaze fixed on a slight movement near the closest statue. On the rivets of the giant statue's pauldron stood a squad of Firewing Raptors. Five Consecrator Chaplains, lurking in the shadows, had followed him all the way to the shattered sanctum. All decorations and insignia had been stripped from their shoulders, leaving only the Chapter's emblem. They were like the dark twins of the Firewing Raptors who stood in the light. Even their helmets were painted a bone-white of death. In the dim light, only the faint red glow of their optical sights betrayed their presence.
Cypher threw them a look filled with killing intent and slowly drew his blade.
CRACK!
In the next instant, his step had shattered the flagstones into a spiderweb of cracks. Cypher was gone.
Then, a shower of sparks erupted.
CLANG—
Sword met sword, sparks flying. The Inner Circle knight froze in shock. But before a volley of fire could be unleashed, Cypher had already disengaged.
SWISH!
A blade sliced across a neck. A headless body knelt. The retreating Cypher then dropped low, listening to the echo of his blade cutting through flesh. He ducked his head and swung his sword behind him.
CRACK.
Another head flew. The eyes beneath its lenses still held a look of confusion. Confusion as to why the enemy was so strong. Confusion as to why the Inner Circle fire support had not yet arrived.
THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
Stray rounds chipped shallow craters in the floor. Cypher's form did not waver. He sheathed his blade and continued his charge.
The infiltrators had disrupted the enemy's tactical deployment. The veterans had completed their one-on-one duels. The Librarians were beginning to locate the next target. In a brief engagement, everyone had completed their mission. Because they were fully armed, and because they were superior.
"Where is the Prince?" Cypher asked.
"The Prince will not interfere in how we deal with the enemy," Gareth replied, "just as he will not allow this feud to interfere with the Legion's future." He was chewing on the words the Prince had spoken to the entire Legion. "They are the enemy. We have a feud with them. That is all."
"I understand," Cypher nodded.
The black-clad force continued its advance, marching into the cold wind, across the grey-white ground. Within the forge-city, the Emperor's Cathedral had collapsed. On a plaque made of countless gears and steel plates, ancient words were inscribed.
[WHAT MORTALS CANNOT ACHIEVE, THE EMPEROR SENDS HIS WARRIORS TO ACCOMPLISH. THEY ARE THE ANTIDOTE TO WEAK FLESH AND CATASTROPHIC THOUGHT, THE SINS THAT PREVENT MEN FROM ACHIEVING GREATNESS. HE SENDS HIS WARRIORS TO BEAR THE BURDEN OF LIFE AND DEATH, TO ACHIEVE THE PROSPERITY AND GLORY OF MANKIND. SUCH A BURDEN IS A POISON IN THE BLOOD OF HIS WARRIORS, AND SO THE EMPEROR SENDS HIS EXECUTIONERS TO GRANT THE TORMENTED RELEASE.]
The wind howled. The extreme cold brought on by the warp-weapon had summoned a blizzard, blurring the landscape. Azrael and Ezekiel gathered the last of their forces they could contact. Ninety-odd Inner Circle knights formed a defensive circle, moving towards the spaceport. Around them, hidden by psychic means, the other Dark Angels were slowly converging on the remnants of their force. These knights, averaging nearly three meters in height, watched the marching force in silence.
They were waiting for a signal.
"Are you ready?"
High in the stratosphere, Ramesses raised a hand.
Ezekiel, who was forcibly using his psychic powers to guide the squad, froze.
WHOOSH! The snow that had been trapped in the folds of his hood was suddenly shaken loose. His tall, powerful body was lifted into the air by an unseen force.
THUD!
All the Librarians, including Ezekiel, were seized as if by an invisible hand and slammed into an adamantium support pillar, their Sus-an Membrane instantly triggering, knocking them unconscious.
"Avengers!" Cypher roared, the first to draw his blade.
The black-armoured warriors behind him materialized from the shadows like nightmares, drawing their cold steel in unison. The hum of dozens of activated power weapons resonated in the corridor, vaporizing the falling snowflakes into a pale mist.
"KILL!"
The roar was a storm.
The black tide instantly swallowed the corridor, the sound of master-crafted power boots shattering the flagstones like a war drum. The first Fallen Angel to meet the charge had just raised his boltgun when he was torn to pieces by three intersecting sword-strikes, the splattering of flesh and blood vaporized by a power field before it could hit the ceiling.
On the support pillar, Ezekiel twitched. The nerve bundles of his Sus-an state were still instinctively trying to send out a warning. But all comms channels were filled with an eerie silence, only the precise tactical chatter of the black-clad warriors as they slaughtered their foes echoing on the frequency. They knew the enemy's methods all too well.
Ten thousand years, and all they had to show for it was regression.
The two black tides crashed into each other, every move a death-dance rehearsed a thousand times. As Cypher's blade pierced the throat of a guard, its tip rested perfectly on the Legion's sigil. As the enemy's body slid to the ground, the blood-stained winged emblem was split in two by the sword's edge.
"..."
He flicked the ash from the tip of his blade and pointed it at the enraged Azrael.
"Repent!"
Resentment, hatred, pain. Almost every negative emotion was condensed in that moment and unleashed in a single roar. However, it could not turn the tide of battle. If the one with the loudest voice could change the outcome of a battle, what would be the point of training and equipping an army?
BZZZT!
The disruption field crackled as Azrael struggled to parry Cypher's blows. He tried to move to the flank, to attack the areas on the armour that were difficult for an individual to maintain after a long battle, areas that were often more vulnerable. He tried to fight them as he had fought other Fallen.
However, this enemy was clearly different. Transcendent swordsmanship, unparalleled physical prowess, superior and advanced power armour. Despite Azrael's vast experience, Cypher's blade still managed to graze his chest in their brief exchange, leaving a gash in the hard ceramite and forcing him into a hasty retreat.
But Cypher pressed the attack, slamming his pauldron into Azrael's wound, and driving him to the floor.
When everyone else had completed their tasks, they watched their Chapter Master get his due, their faces filled with schadenfreude. No one felt that Cypher was wasting time.
Ascertain his crimes. Make him face judgment.
There was no need to brand him a traitor. Ten thousand years of being hunted, six pearls of blood-debt—that was enough to seal the hatred between them.
"Traitor."
Azrael was pinned to the ground. A power sword sliced across the back of his neck, severing his spinal cord. Thanks to the Prince's training, every one of them knew the anatomy of an Astartes with perfect clarity.
"What traitor? Subverting the Legion? Betraying the Primarch? Hunting our brothers?" Cypher's voice was a hiss, every word laced with ten thousand years of resentment. He ripped off Azrael's shattered helmet, revealing his blood-stained face, and then smashed his fist into it.
Gareth dragged a locked-down Fallen Angel over, blue arcs of a stasis field dancing over its armour. He threw the captive down beside Azrael. "We do not know why Caliban was destroyed," Gareth's voice was frighteningly calm. He knelt down, forcing Azrael to look into his helmet's lenses. "But we remember every hunt that was launched against us."
"You should be grateful," Gareth continued, "that you are being executed as a persecutor, and not left to rot in infamy as a traitor."
Azrael spat a mouthful of blood, staining Gareth's greave. "Lies! The sons of the Lion will never—"
"I DO NOT NEED YOUR ACKNOWLEDGEMENT!" Gareth suddenly exploded, grabbing Azrael by the throat and lifting him, the servos of his armour whining under the strain. "Do you think I want to see the remorse of your shattered faith? Do you think I want you to agree with me?" The wall cracked in a spiderweb pattern from the impact, ancient murals crumbling to dust. Gareth's faceplate was almost touching Azrael's twisted features. "I just want you dead. I want you gone. I want to give an answer to the brothers who have suffered the same senseless torment."
Azrael returned his gaze with a cold stare. His faith would not break. He would not accept the ideas of these traitors. He didn't care about the truth. He only needed to ensure the Chapter was loyal, that the Chapter was without stain. It had to be so. It could only be so. Even with his face covered in blood, the fanaticism in his eyes was still sharp enough to cut, a non-human, mechanically stubborn fire. It was not the fire of a warrior, but the madness of a zealot burning a heretic.
"..."
Looking at Azrael, at those eyes, at the cold, mad rage that made him seem less like an Astartes, Gareth suddenly understood the Prince's concern. This was not a debate about loyalty and betrayal. This was a fight to the death between two fragments torn apart by the torrent of history.
"He's all yours," he said, tossing the prisoner to the Librarians. Ramesses's advisors in the warp would carefully extract every last secret from him. Then, their infiltration of the Dark Angels would begin.
It should not have been this violent. The accidental casualties should not have happened. But it was done.
The guards stepped forward and seized Azrael. A hoarse laugh escaped his shattered throat, like a broken vox-caster.
'The Prince was right. This is a feud between us. It cannot be elevated to a matter of which side is loyal.'
Looking at Azrael's state, Gareth's resolve was strengthened. If they continued to cling to the question of the Fallen Inner Circle's loyalty, to the past glory of the Legion, they would one day become just like him.
But they still had a chance.
He looked up at the sky. Through the thick clouds, the lights of the orbital fleet could be vaguely seen, like stars.
They still had the Prince.
"Let's go," Gareth said, turning away, the hum of his power armour a low thrum in the silence. "Our mission is not over."
Inside the Stormbird, the Librarians had already set up the soul-interface device. Azrael was strapped into an adamantium chair, his head entwined with mechadendrites, his memories about to be stripped away and analyzed, inch by inch.
Gareth walked away. Behind him, he heard Azrael's final roar, like the dying howl of a beast, or some twisted oath.
But he did not look back.
They still had a chance.
They still had a future.
And that was enough.
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