Chapter 320: The Reliable Death Guard
Mist brushed against the pale space marine armor, blurring the boundary between reality and thought.
Beyond the archway flickered an unsteady light. Countless Eldar faces were carved into the stone arch—some sad, some joyful, some laughing, some wailing—yet under the eerie glow of the fog, every single one of those stone pupils was fixed, unblinkingly, on Mortarion.
A faint creak echoed. Mortarion tightened his grip on his great scythe, Silence. His eyes, buried deep beneath his hood, gleamed dimly as toxic vapor hissed out from his mask.
He had nowhere left to go.
The Lord of Death had reached the end of the tunnel. On his left stood the portal built from stone arches—Mortarion could sense its potent connection to the Warp. Perhaps, on the other side of that gate, lay the Immaterium itself.
The immense psychic energy saturating this place also originated from that device, but Mortarion quickly determined that, on his own, he could not destroy such a structure.
To his right was that strange illusion chamber—the one he refused to look at, refused to remember, refused to accept.
But when he tried to retreat, the endless corridor trapped him instead.
Mortarion began walking backward along the wall, his steps measured. Identical stone walls. Fog filling every inch of his sight. And when another doorway emerged ahead, the Lord of Death was shocked to find that it did not lead to Ferrus Manus—it was still that same room, the one prepared for him.
Mortarion snapped his head to the side. On his left, the familiar Eldar statues were still gazing silently at him.
Two doors now stood to his left and right, as though mocking him, demanding a choice. Forward and backward were sealed—for him, the question was only: left or right?
Mortarion's face remained expressionless. There was no chance he would act according to his enemy's will—no chance he would foolishly step into their trap.
He took a moment to curse Vulkan, Ferrus Manus, and every last Eldar—"those that ought to be chopped into bits and thrown into the compost heap."
As for the Eldar's earlier prophecy... Mortarion decided to bury it somewhere deep within his mind. The Lord of Death had no interest in wasting thought on useless riddles.
The Primarch thought quickly. He had ten black rounds and thirty-two white rounds left—but in this intense psychic field, the white rounds had lost their effect.
Even the black rounds weren't enough to nullify the psychic currents here. In a desert of the warp, they were mere drops of water—utterly futile.
He took a slow breath. Ignoring the whispers from either side, he gripped a black round, pressed it against the wall, and activated his comm-channel's locator beacon. Static crackled—no signal.
Mortarion paused. He anchored his mind deep into the soil of Barbarus, into the fleets of the Death Guard. He had to make sure his will would not waver.
'Hades… wish me luck.'
Then the Lord of Death closed his eyes and began to walk forward, his gauntlet scraping softly against the ashen wall.
He carefully sensed the fluctuations of the warp energy around him. Wisps of black mist began to drift across his white armor, merging seamlessly with the toxic vapor vented from his respirator.
At one point, Mortarion crushed the black round in his hand—a sharp pulse jolted through the comm static.
He had found the right place.
Without hesitation, Mortarion drew another black round and continued forward into the darkness.
The ammunition at his belt dwindled rapidly as the Lord of Death's thoughts sank deeper, cautious and deliberate, tracing a path through the unseen maze—yet all the while, the voices calling to him grew clearer.
The voices that lingered near the archway, within the mist.
"Mortarion, Lord of Death—we bear you no ill will. Why rage against the wailing of the doomed?"
Mortarion pressed on, unmoved, scattering the ashes of the soulless from between his fingers.
"Murderer of our homeworld, you ape!"
Mortarion began recalling which parts of an Eldar's body were most satisfying to cleave with a scythe.
"Your old comrades have committed unforgivable sins. The gods are enraged, the rift widens—will you blind yourself and pretend not to see the end coming?"
Mortarion's breath hitched—just slightly.
He forced his mind to focus on something tangible—how to kill Eldar efficiently, and the sulfur compound lessons he had once taught the Death Guard.
Silently, he kept walking through the endless tunnel.
At last, the Lord of Death came to a halt between the two doors.
Only one black round remained. He had successfully disrupted part of the psychic network—but not enough to escape. If he only had more ammunition… No. If Hades were here…
Mortarion drew a deep breath once more. He needed to think—to plan again.
But as he stopped moving, the voices grew louder. They began to laugh.
"You hold dominion, Lord—we would aid you. The storm devours the sky; who can stand alone against the tide?"
There were sounds from both sides now, movement, but Mortarion did not turn to look. He simply stood still.
He should have realized sooner—the moment that damned Eldar had shouted his name across the ice plains, he should have known these xenos were preparing for him.
"The Imperium will fall! Lies cannot endure forever! Your brothers are gone, their blood corrupted—why persist?"
Mortarion closed his eyes, sensing, listening—
The ground beneath him was trembling.
The Lord of Death counted the rhythm of those vibrations, feeling them grow stronger, until he could hear them.
Then Mortarion spoke, his voice dripping with mockery, echoing down the long corridor:
"Persist? You think killing xenos needs a reason?"
The warp energies on both sides immediately flared, writhing in fury—but Mortarion no longer cared, because at that moment—
"Praise be to Hades!!"
A thunderous explosion erupted ahead, mingling with the mechanical roar of vox-speakers. The tunnel before Mortarion was torn open; he staggered back a few steps as dust and smoke flooded the air.
The fog that had filled the corridor vanished—and so did those damned whispering voices.
The Lord of Death turned his head and saw that the illusory chamber was now empty.
Mortarion lifted his gaze with grim satisfaction. Above him, the ceiling had been blown apart, and through the gaping hole, light poured down.
Beneath the mask, he allowed himself a brief, bitter smile.
He watched as his Deathshrouds were the first to leap through the breach, rushing toward him anxiously, surrounding him, asking if he was hurt.
Then came Magos Korklan—the red-robed magos descended with an agility that defied reason, shouting "Praise be to Hades!" at the top of his lungs, while his hidden mechadendrites whipped out from beneath his robes, gesturing sharply as he directed the Zero Company's soulless warriors into formation.
Mortarion could feel the psychic concentration in the area dropping rapidly—though the presence of that cursed portal device kept the warp energies dangerously high.
After Korklan came Bast, poking his head through the hole—only to be kicked down by Enrique.
Next were the Techmarines, burdened with their tools and equipment. They saluted the Primarch hastily, then began reinforcing the blasted tunnel walls.
Mortarion stood in the middle of the corridor, watching his Deathshrouds cluster protectively around him, the tech-sergeants laboring to stabilize the structure, and Magos Korklan moving—quite obviously—toward the portal device.
A low chuckle escaped from beneath the rebreather. Mortarion reopened his restored communication channel.
"Garro. Report."
"My Lord. The nodes have not been attacked. Lord Vulkan and Lord Ferrus remain missing. After Enrique and Bast reported your disappearance, the situation met Zero Company emergency protocol. Vorx and I jointly authorized full deployment of all Zero Company assets."
"Rest assured, my Lord—the Death Guard have concluded negotiations with the Salamanders. They're isolated in a safe zone. The Armoury detonation masked the special litanies of the Zero Company."
Mortarion glanced over his shoulder. He saw Korklan, still shouting prayers—utterly deranged—yet his mechanical limbs moved with perfect precision as they coordinated the soulless troops.
A sigh escaped Mortarion's chest, soft, almost human. For the first time in a long while, he felt a faint sense of ease.
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