Abaddon roared, commanding all Arks of Omen to increase speed immediately. Since leading the Dreadfleets to ravage the galaxy, he had never suffered such catastrophic losses in a single engagement. In the eternal war between the Imperium and Chaos, manpower remained the most precious of resources. Mortal renegades and cultists were easily replaced, but reliable Chaos Warbands were rare treasures. To lose hundreds of Black Legion overseers stationed across those vessels was a bitter draught to swallow.
Upon the surface of the planet Wyrmwood, Roboute Guilliman watched the Arks of Omen slowly closing in. Without hesitation, he began coordinating the evacuation of all personnel. Guilliman had never harbored the illusion that they could utterly defeat these daemons and traitors here. This had been a daring feint, a tactic to lure the enemy into a killing zone and utilize Axion's terrifying Pectaro to inflict massive attrition upon the foe.
As the Imperial fleet turned its full attention to the Dreadfleet in orbit, the surviving daemons on the surface surged in a relentless tide toward the Dark Angels and Ultramarines. Now, the time had come to withdraw.
The Lion surveyed his battered sons, his expression a mask of cold fury. Casting a gaze of pure loathing toward Vashtorr's position, he issued the order for the Dark Angels to commence a fighting retreat under heavy covering fire. Abaddon, in his arrogance, had no inkling that he had fully ignited the Primarch's righteous wrath.
As the Imperial fleet lowered its altitude to evade the Pectaro's high-energy particle streams, Vashtorr sensed an unexpected prize. His eyes burned with predatory delight as he looked up at The Rock.
Deep beneath the battlefield outside the fortress-monastery, a damaged mechanical parasite was awakened. Its vermicular form squirmed out from a pile of shattered metal wreckage, burrowing deep into the foundations of the fortress as directed by Vashtorr. The Arkifane had his own ways of locating the shards of the "Key."
Initially, Vashtorr had intended to take The Rock by storm, but he had opted for a more insidious approach. Though Lion El'Jonson had inspected the relics within the fortress upon learning of Vashtorr's objectives, the specific nature of the daemon's target remained elusive. Consequently, the Lion had transferred the most vital Chapter relics to the Invincible Reason.
However, tucked away near the power core of the fortress was an ancient, mysterious machine, the Tuchulcha Engine, which had been overlooked in the haste.
As the mechanical parasite's tendrils extended through the earth and breached the chamber, piercing alarms shrieked throughout the corridors of The Rock. Vashtorr knew his intrusion had been detected, but he cared little. Using the parasite as a beacon, he tore a rift in the Warp and manifested directly before the ancient construct, sparing not even a glance for the core of The Rock itself.
Rapid, complex streams of data flowed between the Daemon and the machine.
"I have secured the other two shards of the Key. Now, I shall take you to join them," Vashtorr pulsed.
"Agreed," the Tuchulcha Engine responded. The ancient sentience had long grown weary of its confinement. Once the three artifacts were reunited, its purpose would be fulfilled, and it would finally be free of the oversight of the Watchers in the Dark.
By the time the Dark Angels guarding the chamber of relics reached the core, the ancient engine had vanished. In their fury, the Unforgiven annihilated the remains of the parasitic construct and reported the loss to their Primarch.
The Lion remained silent. Since Dante had found him, he had glimpsed a fragmented prophecy suggesting that perhaps no force could halt the Daemon's design. With the arrival of Guilliman and the devastating power of the ancient Pectaro, the Lion had almost believed they could defy fate.
Reality proved otherwise. He had never anticipated the enemy's true target was the Tuchulcha Engine nestled beside the core. Without the engine, the mobility of The Rock would be severely compromised, a dire omen for the campaign ahead.
…
The last of the planet-side forces completed their extraction just before the fleet was fully encircled. The breakthrough maneuver began immediately. To protect the sluggish Rock, Guilliman ordered the Pectaro to take the vanguard. Its Nova Cannons spat colossal beams of light, each shot punching through the blocking Dreadfleet vessels with ease.
The Imperial ships plunged through the debris clouds, shattering the closing ring of the Arks of Omen. Volley after volley of enemy fire hammered against the Pectaro's void shields, but the silver leviathan emerged from the fire and explosions time and again, obliterating any Chaos vessel in its path into scrap.
Only after the Imperial fleet had breached the blockade did the Pectaro accelerate. In the distance, the Second Fleet and the Wrath of Baal merged with the escaping Dark Angels, maintaining a staggered pattern of suppressive fire as they withdrew.
The Rock was the first to plunge into the Warp, followed by the vessels of the Second Fleet. Finally, once the Pectaro, Guilliman's Honor of Macragge, and the remaining Dark Angel ships vanished into the Empyrean, Abaddon's face contorted with incandescent rage.
Technically, this was a victory for Chaos; they had routed a Loyalist fleet carrying two Primarchs. Yet the cost was unacceptable. Nearly a thousand Chaos ships had surrounded a force less than a fifth their size, yet they had lost over three hundred vessels. Even though only forty-odd Dark Angel ships escaped, the exchange ratio was an insult.
A twisted Chaos servitor approached Abaddon, its voice a cacophony of grating binaric and screeches. "Warmaster... casualty reports indicate a loss ratio of approximately one to eight. Eighty percent of vessel losses are attributed to the unknown warship."
With a casual flex of the Talon of Horus, Abaddon reduced the foul machine to a slurry of meat and metal. He stared out at the floating graveyards of his fleet, his voice echoing across the bridge.
"You call this a victory?! Argh! Guilliman! You will regret this! I will make you suffer for this!" Abaddon felt his fury slipping toward the abyss of madness; this triumph felt more hollow than many of his defeats.
The sting was worsened moments later by a transmission from Vashtorr.
"Abaddon, move your fleet away from Wyrmwood. I have obtained what I sought. The Dissonance Engine can now be awakened."
Abaddon could hear the smug satisfaction in the Arkifane's voice. To a Warmaster who had just traded a significant portion of his fleet for a pyrrhic victory, Vashtorr's success was like promethium poured onto a wildfire. But Vashtorr cared nothing for Abaddon's losses; the Great Game moved forward, and the Key was nearly complete.