Chapter 271: Beware of Tzeentch, for He Loves His Amusement
A dazzling, seductive figure of cerulean flame surged upward. Phantom feathers spun and drifted down, countless plumes layered like scales, shimmering with endless hues of change.
The very fabric of space began to warp. In the distance, the slums burned like foul fire, where screams, laughter, and sobs—voices beyond number—poured from the breaking bodies of the Absyrtus people.
The warp's density had reached its zenith. Psyker tides thundered from beyond the veil, and the entire altar trembled like a lone skiff tossed in a storm. Upon the boat, some were struck down at once by the sheer psychic shockwave.
Hades' expression never changed. His scythe, Obituary, struck sparks against the ground as he planted his stance firm. He opened the Black Domain, signaling the Blank to come under his protection.
Around him, the Castellax-class Battle-Automatas stood sentinel. Their impenetrable armor meant Hades needed only to guard himself against assaults of the warp.
As he expected, the density of the immaterium here could not be suppressed by his strength alone—outside force was needed.
He counted silently within.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
Metal groaned within the tanks. Red warning-lights flared faster and faster.
Hades kept his eyes locked on the still-forming apparition, wary of its strike. Yet—unexpectedly—beyond useless psychic surges, the daemon clawing its way from the warp made no move to attack.
He blinked. So, this forcibly summoned creature had no intention of fighting him.
Three. Two.
A faint spark glimmered at the detonator's mouth.
The phantom at last gained solidity. A two-headed bird glared down at the seemingly insignificant Hades beneath it.
Hades raised an eyebrow. Kairos Fateweaver. Oracle of Tzeentch. And now, surely, comes the part where you boast.
One.
As expected, both of the bird's beaks erupted into deafening laughter—
But at the same instant, its talons reached for its own unnaturally long neck.
+ —Fool who toys with destiny— +
+ —Flailing upon rails of fate— +
In the corner of its eye, just as Hades loaded the Blank bomb, Kairos Fateweaver caught sight of his smile.
It also saw the bright, crisp spark blooming within the labyrinthine streets, black mist rising, all perception smothered in its advance—
Kairos acted at once. Its words froze in its throat as its talons pierced its own half-formed flesh. Sleek neck-feathers burst apart between clawed digits. A strangled scream cut off the prophecy.
+ Then pay the price! +
Zero.
A tide of blackstone mist surged upward, clashing with the smoke of chaotic flame. The saturated warp-field shuddered violently. Suddenly stilled psyker ashes, abruptly heightened blackstone density—the throne had been offered, and to Hades it must belong.
—The Underworld descends—
All fell silent.
Foreboding clouds hung low, emerald lightning flashing with stark, jagged might. Death fell as rain. Beneath the storm, mortals collapsed wordlessly in terror.
No chorus of psykers howling in a tide of immaterium. No prophecies twisting men's hearts. Silence—silence was the dead's prerogative, and Hades's delight.
Raindrops fell. The sea retreated. The flood receded, leaving only wasteland behind.
Hades glanced regretfully at the last fading trace of blue.
It's a pity that he can't see the sight of Kairos, the one who could see the future, exiling itself back into the warp at the final moment.
Hades lowered his gaze, feeling the sudden extinguishing of souls within the Underworld. Further out, in regions where death could not reach, he still brought the psykers nausea, dizziness, and revulsion.
The wind at high altitude was ever sharp. The blackstone dust, once risen, now rapidly dissipated. Hades could sense it—the brief welcome was ending, and the environment here was beginning to turn hostile against him once more.
The heavy shroud of storm clouds faltered, thinning, until the winds carried it away.
As the clouds broke, sunlight returned—ordinary sunlight, bound by the laws of refraction, shining once more upon this land.
But in that final instant, before the last whisper of the warp dispersed, Hades' eyes flashed with sudden alarm—
[Regroup! Stay close to the Battle-Automatas!!!]
The Blank channel shrieked with harsh warning. A heartbeat later, the earth beneath their feet thundered with explosions.
. . . . .
[Never expect danger—danger requires no invitation. There is no destiny offered for men to test themselves against. A hunger for war has never heightened morale.]
[—Notes of the Ultramarines, 56.xxi]
They were famed for their tempered reason: to observe, to analyze, to decide, to act. Such was the keenest blade of the XIII Legion.
It was by this discipline that Guilliman led the Thirteenth, winning glory after glory during the Great Crusade.
And now, by that same observation, he knew Mortarion was in ill temper.
From his analysis, Guilliman swiftly concluded that Mortarion had just learned of a failed operation—one of significant, even critical, weight.
Only moments ago, the Lord of Death had attempted idle conversation. Now he was a war-machine of grim silence, driving the front forward without pause.
And what had happened just before? Immediately following the appearance of those two phantoms, the slums had erupted in catastrophic explosions.
Guilliman raised his eyes, pondering how best to ask, how to pry deeper into the Death Guard's strategy, their knowledge of the foe—so that he might better fight beside them.
But it was plain to see that the Death Guard now drowned in a killing fury. Rage itself burned in their advance.
At their head, Mortarion pressed the front in relentless, calculated strides.
Stormbirds howled across the sky, blasting fortifications into ruins, transmitting fresh aerial maps to the warriors below.
Great slabs of stone and soil burst upward, mixed with flesh and shattered limbs, indistinguishable from the foul dirt around them.
The Death Guard pushed forward swiftly, yet still maintained a flawless battle line. Guilliman observed closely and noted about how not a single squad broke discipline in the fever of pursuit, about how none of Mortarion's sons chased blindly ahead.
Those at the rear advanced mobile missile batteries, clearing obstacles both great and small, scattering dense masses of enemy combatants—preparing the field for those at the fore.
The middle ranks bathed corpses and dying psykers in cleansing flame. To ease the strain on the front, they occasionally released foes rearward into the midline for immolation.
Most of the Ultramarines stood in that midline, striking in support. Yet Guilliman also commanded them to watch—and to imitate—the Death Guard at the front.
At the same time, he ordered his sons to keep their distance from those green fires.
To his surprise, the Ultramarine respirators could not fully filter the poisonous scent that rose from the flames.
The foremost Death Guard were unmistakably elites. They moved with a predator's familiarity around psykers. Where half-mad witches screamed warp-howls or flared sparks of immaterial fire, the legionaries only drew their scythes, ending lives with brutal efficiency.
In regions where agony and warp-sorcery twisted the air itself, they hurled specialized grenades. Guilliman recognized their function at once—devices to stabilize the physical realm, to lock the fabric of reality back into place.
Mortarion drove at the van, radiating an unquiet ferocity. This primarch, long seasoned in the hunting of psykers, showed terrifying mastery. He waded directly into covens as they gathered their chants, his great scythe cutting them apart in a single sweep.
Blood and shredded flesh sprayed across the stone.
The very air trembled. Mortarion barked violently into the vox, his voice thick with ire. Above, specialized drop-pods streaked through the sky.
Guilliman saw their trajectories—toward the densest clusters of population. Some angled directly into the warrens of the slums.
At last, Guilliman knew how to speak.
[Brother! If need be, the Ultramarines can support this sector.]
[No. Unnecessary.]
Mortarion's voice came back, clipped and harsh.
[Stay with the Death Guard. We must clear the road to the slums—fast.]
The updated auspex map confirmed it: the disbanded Absyrtus regiments, scattered outside the royal city, were now converging at speed upon the slum districts.
Heavy transports laden with explosives barreled toward the shattered remains of the true altar.
At present, only the Death Guard's airborne wings intercepted. The main body was mired in the civilian horde—psyker rabble. Even for the most seasoned butchers, it took time to cull a million panicked sheep.
Explosions rumbled from the slumside. Black smoke coiled upward, blinding the Stormbirds. The cramped hovels, packed tight, were the perfect tinder for fire.
And still, Hades' vox channel read as [lost contact].
Mortarion let out a low curse. They had been deceived—lulled. Even if this world belonged to witches, its people still wielded the simplest, most brutal form of war: explosives.
But the Death Guard's drop-pods had landed. That, at least, he could rely on.
. . . . .
From the blasted ruin of the altar, a hand clawed free. A stone slab was shoved aside, clattering to the ground with a heavy thud.
Hades rose, expressionless. His helm was gone, blood streaked down one side of his skull—but it had already dried.
The warp-flow in the altar had not been used to power some sort of ritual, instead, it had suppressed the charges, kept the bombs dormant.
Which meant this—Hades is the only one who could trigger the detonations.
He did not know whether Tzeentch had meant for him to survive, or to die in the collapse. But he knew this much: the Changer of Ways had mocked him, leaving him with that cold, cruel sense of humor.
Through his left eye, the infrared display flared alive. In the smoke he saw them—pathetic, ignorant, stumbling shapes. Enemy soldiers, moving toward him.
He calculated and assessed his situation swiftly, calmly noting that the field was clear of hidden tricks. No further snares.
The Lord of the Underworld raised his scythe.
<+>
Note: Basically, Physic power is what keeps the bomb from exploding, by using his Black Domain to defeat Kairos and other Warp entities, Hades had pulled the safety pin of the dormant bomb.
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