Chapter 481: The Black Legion Squabbles at the Altar, the Despoiler Leaps into Badab
The power output roared to a crescendo before guttering once more. The conduits of the Vengeful Spirit, scorched a ghost-blue by plasma discharge, shivered with a violent tremor.
Around the teleportation dais, the members of the Dark Mechanicum exchanged uneasy glances.
Once again, the initiation sequence had been aborted.
They whispered to one another, debating technical minutiae and proposing arcane alternatives. Confusion clouded their augmetic eyes; they could not fathom what had paralyzed the Despoiler's will.
The Vengeful Spirit had drifted through the tides of the Empyrean for ten millennia. It was more a part of the Warp than a vessel of realspace. Even if one harbored a newfound distrust for the Ruinous Powers, it was tactical suicide to discard the very means by which they had survived the Long War.
"Try again!" Abaddon barked, his voice like grinding stones.
"Warmaster, a ninth attempt will overload the primary trans-location matrix," the lead Magos explained, his vocal synthesizers clicking with apprehension.
"I said: Again!"
"We have reached the threshold of material tolerance, My Lord," the Magos countered. "The Warp-saturation within the Vengeful Spirit is too deep. Without the blessing of the Omnissiah's logic, we cannot safely lock a signal through the interference. We have attempted eight cycles. Without a cooling period or a proper ritual of sacrifice, another attempt will incinerate the entire system."
The Magos secretly wondered if the Warmaster had finally succumbed to the madness of his bloodline. Abaddon's whims were becoming increasingly erratic—first ordering them to scavenge Space Hulks for scrap, then launching Black Crusades that were spent as quickly as bolt shells, and losing the Planet Killer to Vashtorr's treachery...
And now, he demanded they operate a teleportation array using "pure technology" on a ghost-ship where the vengeful soul of Sanguinius was rumored to manifest in every shadow.
Even the Imperium didn't take risks this absurd anymore.
The Magos thought of his colleagues in the loyalist Forge Worlds—the ones who had merged with hallowed metal, wielded self-repairing machinery, and operated plasma that never overheated. He felt a sharp pang of jealousy.
They had both pursued Truth. He had abandoned his soul for freedom, while they had bound theirs to the Omnissiah. Yet now, the "lackeys" of the Throne were more adapted to the Warp than the Traitors themselves.
Abaddon took a menacing step toward the Magos.
"Do not provoke him."
A raspy, clicking voice cut through the tension.
A massive, obsidian-and-gold mechanical limb, shaped like the leg of a giant spider, barred the path between the Warmaster and the priest.
Slaakshia, Mistress of Armaments, Arch-Magos of the Dark Mechanicum.
Slaakshia's form was a nightmare of biomechanical engineering: a giant, centauroid chassis with a golden-masked female torso of disturbing elegance. She towered over even the tallest Chaos Terminators. Iskandar Khayon, well-versed in the forbidden texts of the Old Night, had often remarked that she resembled the multi-armed goddesses of ancient Terran myth.
She blocked the headstrong Magos, her voice a low warning: "Cycle it again."
The technical crew withdrew, scurrying away from the unpredictable aura radiating from the Despoiler.
The warriors of the Black Legion, gathered for the boarding action, watched the drama in grim silence.
Falkus Kibre raised his right hand, finger extended. For ten minutes, he had not uttered a single word, issuing orders only through sharp, military hand-signals.
He stood silent, directing the Wolf Brothers and the Bringers of Despair to the staging grounds before the array. He monitored the status of the vanguard. Haarken World-claimer's Raptor squads were already engaged with the outer defenses of the Star-Ring fragments; vox-logs reported vicious close-quarters fighting in the arterial corridors.
Though consumed by fury, Abaddon had not forgotten the lessons of ten millennia. He sent the vanguard to "paint" the targets rather than blindly charging into the unknown.
And though the Black Legion had been marinated in the Warp for ages—rendering many cowardly, rebellious, or feral—they still retained the core competencies of the Legiones Astartes.
Through the vox-link, Kibre heard frantic fragments of battle, screams of agony, and the wet sounds of death. Haarken was regrouping his units, feeding tactical data back to the bridge in broken bursts.
But Kibre could not focus on the tactics.
His mind was a recursive loop of "Huron's" words. The details of the raid Abaddon had led against the Star-Ring rang in his ears.
In the past, he had blamed the failure on the weakness of the Emperor's Children, the desertion of the Iron Warriors, or the indecision of the other Primarchs. He had never considered that the plan itself—a plan that had cost the lives of Torgaddon and "Little" Horus Aximand, and gutted the leadership of the XVI—had been Abaddon's brainchild.
As the leader of the Bringers of Despair, Kibre had studied Abaddon's tactics. They were precise, aggressive, and effective. But now, with the secrets of the past being dragged into the light, Kibre couldn't help but wonder: Did the Warmaster learn these lessons because he was a master, or because he was a fool who stumbled into every trap imaginable?
The mockery of the Maelstrom Guardian acted like a chisel, chipping away at the statue of the "Perfect Warmaster" that Kibre had worshipped, revealing the flaws hidden beneath the armor.
THUD.
A heavy footfall snapped Kibre back to reality.
Someone had noticed his distraction and stepped forward to take command of the assembled host.
As a warlord of renown, Kibre would not tolerate the challenge. He swung his power maul instinctively, but the newcomer was preternaturally fast. Despite the bloated, daemonic bulk of his shell, the warrior moved with a sorcerous celerity.
Two moves. A longsword was pressed against Kibre's throat, the roaring teeth of a chain-bayonet inches from his face.
"You have grown weak, Falkus."
The speaker's tongueless mouth licked at his fangs. Eyes burning with daemonic fire stared into Kibre's lenses.
Telemachon Lyras, the Herald of Slaanesh, one of the Abaddon's Chosen.
The Chosen were the four pillars of the Black Legion—Abaddon's most trusted lieutenants. Each represented a different god of the Pantheon, ensuring the warbands remained unified.
Kibre analyzed the gap in their power and realized his only advantage was precision.
His wrist snapped. The spiked vambrace of his plate sheared through Telemachon's gauntlet. Kibre kicked the swordsman's weapon away and jammed his twin-linked melta against the Herald's helm.
"Oh... how unpleasant," the Herald chuckled, sounding entirely unbothered for a Slaaneshi devotee.
"There will not be a second time," Kibre warned, holstering his weapon. Around him, thirty of his Bringers of Despair let out a collective roar.
Shortly after the founding of the Black Legion, thirty Justaerin Terminators had been caught in a Warp-engine breach. All thirty had been possessed by the same daemon-entity, granting them terrifying strength. They were the Warmaster's personal guard, the Bringers of Despair. Those Justaerin who remained unpossessed were still elite, but they could never stand among the Chosen's inner circle.
The other half of the Warmaster's guard were the "Wolf Brothers"—Horus's version of the Gal Vorbak. They were possessed warriors who had received rituals from the Word Bearers. Unlike the lumbering Justaerin, the Wolf Brothers could match Abaddon's own inhuman speed in combat.
They were massive, bloated engines of slaughter, yet in moments of peace, they were clumsy and vegetative.
Kibre looked at Telemachon. The Herald was staring into the void, his eyes glazing over as something within his body gurgled and hissed. Ichor seeped from his cracked lips.
The Wolf Brothers and the Bringers of Despair were often like this.
It was as if an immortal power was being funneled into mortal flesh that was simply too small to contain it.
Perhaps that is what happened to Horus, Kibre thought with a sudden, unbidden surge of disgust.
He looked at Abaddon's silent, raging silhouette, then glanced at Iskandar Khayon.
He closed his eyes and tried to meditate, to push away the doubts that were unraveling his loyalty. He didn't want a confrontation with the Warmaster. He didn't want to provoke the sorcerer—Abaddon's most devoted acolyte.
Possession to enhance martial power. Daemon engines to fill the gaps in heavy armor. Sorcery to navigate the lethal tides of the Warp. Plague-blessings to ensure the wounded never fell.
Every tool that had forged the Black Legion into a galactic threat had been secured by Khayon and Abaddon. Khayon had even bound his own sister's essence into the ship's machine spirit.
If anyone in the Legion truly loved and trusted Abaddon, it was Khayon.
The last Slaaneshi champion who tried to cross him had spent centuries without feeling pleasure—until he was lucky enough to be put out of his misery by the Lord of Knights during a botched ambush.
Yet even Khayon was not as unshakable as Kibre believed.
He was directing his coven of sorcerers—the "Masters of Deception"—to refine the teleportation coordinates, but his eyes were cold as he watched the farce.
The Black Legion was losing its soul.
As one of the few minds in the Legion still capable of objective thought, the sorcerer felt a rising tide of fury. And with that fury came an indescribable dread.
From the countless warbands to the elite cadres, from the pirate kings to the Imperial Navy traitors who had served them for ten millennia—his army was being bled dry in a campaign that had yet to yield a single victory.
Khayon's hand trembled.
Losses usually didn't bother him. Traitors were an infinite resource; as long as the Imperium rotted, men would flee to the Black Legion.
But now...
"Abaddon."
He spoke the Warmaster's name. He was a member of the Ezkarion, the high council. They were the founders, the investors, the kin of the Despoiler. They were the only ones permitted to address the Warmaster by name.
"Khayon," Abaddon turned.
"This is a trap," Khayon whispered through the psychic link. "I advise against this descent."
Any fool could see the bait. The Maelstrom Guardian had stripped away Abaddon's pride, and the Warmaster was walking exactly where the enemy wanted him.
Abaddon's expression soured, especially noticing Khayon was still using his sorcerous senses.
"No. I must go!"
His rejection was absolute.
To flee from such a visceral provocation? That was not the way of the Despoiler. A proper conclusion to a war was written in steel, not in a tactical retreat or a keystroke.
Blades and courage had won the Great Crusade. They would win this war. Not "Theoreticals."
Certainly not Warp-sorcery. Not the filth screaming outside the hull, or the things living inside his "brothers."
Abaddon lowered his head, his face lost in shadow.
His mind had been compromised by the barrage of truths "Huron" had spat at him. He was starting to doubt his own agency—was he a man making choices, or a puppet marinating in the whims of the Four? The provocation had made it impossible for him to use his Warp-gifts without feeling like he was proving the enemy right.
He would use the old ways. The ways of the Legion.
"Then at least let us monitor the Empyrean. We must maintain a link with the Gods' agents. To step away from the Warp entirely is a risk we cannot afford," Khayon argued.
This blunt rejection was madness.
Abaddon wasn't like this.
Even when wielding sorcery, he had always lectured on its dangers, demanding the Legion use it with surgical precision to maintain his own authority. Khayon had always admired Abaddon's ability to adapt, to remain the master of his own fate while leading a rabble of warbands through sheer force of personality.
"NO!"
Abaddon was rejecting everything for the sake of rejection.
"..."
This is wrong.
Khayon felt a sickening realization. Have I been following a visionary leader, or a stubborn fool who wraps his blunders in the glory of the past?
As Abaddon spoke, Khayon felt his heart fracture. He was the most devoted of the acolytes, and now his "filter" was shattering.
"Abaddon," Khayon pleaded, hoping to bring the Warmaster back to reason.
He could see no specific threat in the Warp, but the tides of the Empyrean were churning with unnatural violence. Daemons and Gods were screaming in a discord of contradiction. Data was being erased. No one knew what the anomaly meant. The only certainty was that if the Dark Mechanicum could overcome the interference, the jump would work.
And that is the problem!
"We can use boarding torpedoes instead," Khayon suggested.
"You want to challenge the close-in defense grid of Badab with torpedoes moving at two kilometers a second?" Kibre mocked, unable to contain his scorn for the "clueless sorcerer."
"Don't make me laugh!"
Badab's defenses, honed by Huron for fifty years, were legendary. The Black Legion only managed to push this far because their capital ships and Space Hulks were solid blocks of iron. Smaller craft were simply target practice for the Star-Ring.
"Then—" Khayon tried to continue, but Abaddon cut him off.
"ENOUGH! I said we jump! We jump!"
Abaddon was purely reactive now. Selfish. Brute.
He was like the man in a group of friends trying to pick a restaurant. No one knows where to go, so he picks a place with a look of absolute authority. Even if he leads them into a public latrine, he demands they eat, insisting they are superior to the other "idiots" because they can at least finish the meal.
Khayon stared at the Despoiler's hand, still clutching his pauldron.
Perhaps this was the truth.
The reason he had once revered Abaddon wasn't because the Warmaster knew the Gods' game, but because he was simply too stubborn and thick-headed to admit he was wrong, wrapping his failures in the shroud of the Great Crusade.
Just as he was blindly rejecting the Warp now, simply because "Huron" had called him a junkie.
He might be a general. He might be a warrior. But he was not a visionary.
"Abaddon," Slaakshia's voice rang out.
The Mistress of Armaments had completed the ninth diagnostic. She moved her massive mechanical body aside, her expression cold and indifferent.
"The array is ready."
"Hmph."
Abaddon brushed Khayon's hand away and stepped onto the dais.
Falkus Kibre followed in silence.
Khayon wanted to reach out, to stop him. A premonition whispered that the Lord of the Justaerin would not return.
But he said nothing.
He knew he would only be met with another mindless, brutal rebuff.
"Sigh..."
He watched as the elite of the Black Legion—the Wolf Brothers and the Bringers of Despair—crowded onto the platform. The blue light of the trans-location beam ignited, and thirteen hundred of the Despoiler's finest began to dissolve into the shimmering threshold between reality and the void.
Khayon raised his hand. His cards began to orbit him in a blur.
He performed his duty with grim dedication. He watched every soul. He watched their bodies disassemble to enter the gap between the material and the ethereal.
He monitored the coordinates, his psychic will linking every warrior, ensuring they followed the beacons left by the vanguard.
He scrutinized every blip. Every soul.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty...
One hundred and thirty.
Wait. Why are there only one hundred and thirty?
Khayon's eyes went wide. He performed a frantic recount.
Something had been erased.
Nine-tenths of the host—and the coordinates assigned to them—had been wiped from existence. Without warning. Without a ripple.
The physical data they had locked into the logic-engines, the precise destination of their jump, had been altered in a single heartbeat.
It was as if an invisible eraser had passed over their reality, scrubbing away their answers and writing new ones.
"NO!" Khayon screamed.
He felt the nature of the erasure. A panic that could only be described as "Total Despair" seized him.
"No! Father! I beg of you!"
He bellowed to a "Father" he had never met.
He finally understood the source of his terror.
The God-King of the Imperium had mastered His nature. The Gods had finally drawn their battle lines. The Imperium had begun to interpret the power of the Warp on its own terms—utilizing it rather than being used by it.
The brothers they had mocked as "loyalist dogs" and "ignorant fools" were now wielding the same blades as the traitors. The Great Primarchs were waking. The Chaos host no longer held the supreme right of interpretation over the Empyrean. The glory of the Great Crusade had returned to the Throne.
So where do we go? We, the traitors who threw away everything? We, the angry, lost walking-dead?
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