Unease filled the air of the command post at the western edge of the Rub Al’Khali. The Sigilites had been ever busy as the fortunes of war shifted among the siege lines. Reinforcements here, supplies there, a fresh unit rotated out, the most maddened Thunder Warriors brought in. Victory in war was in many ways the tallying of death and despair, a balance of sorrows where the triumphant was simply the least overwhelmed. Some of the keenest individuals in the galaxy were pouring over those measures, and they all realized the same thing.
Memphos was about to fall.
The nature of the Dynast Cities ensured that this would be the most brutal phase of the fighting, and only skill at arms and strength of will would determine if it was the swiftest conquest or the most sluggish siege. The Emperor’s forces had seen the first layer of defenses scattered like chaff before the wind, and now it was time for those seeking refuge in their fortresses to be terrified by his storm. But only a fool would think they would go gently. The wealth of the Dynast-Kings including a great panoply, mighty arms and stout armor, forbidden relics of a bygone age, charges of the Sigilites that they had failed to safeguard.
Each and every scribe knew of the horrors that could be unleashed, none more so than the head of their order. Malcador stared intently at a hololithic tank, an artifact from the era of his birth now worth a king’s ransom many times over, the flickering runes updated by a haphazard combination of IFF feeds and couriers relaying positional updates. A great front at the Northern Bulwark was a snarl of such icons, a contingent of Thunder Warriors pressing forward under the banner of a lone Custodian.
And then suddenly a rune flickered upon the other side of the great defensive line.
Champions of the Emperor were due rewards, and despite the intensity of the moment there would be no shirking their due. “Aristagoras shall henceforth be granted the glory of being known as Borethensipulas,” Malcador said softly, a dozen scribes recording the earning of a name. An ancient hand remained gripped tight about his staff even as he spoke, the man’s thoughts consumed by the question of what the Dynast-Kings would do next.
He had need not wait long for the answer.
A bolt of baleful flame sprang to life in the west, its fury demanding that even the distant scribes bear witness. For but a moment all pens and cogitators were put down, the Order giving the witchfire its measure of due respect. But only for a moment. With a glance from Malcador, they at once returned to their work, a lone robed figure sprinting away after meeting eyes with the Master and sharing a single, knowing glance.
Moments later and the Sigilite was racing beyond the field tent, seated within an ancient hovercraft that bore him effortlessly above the shifting sands. His personal guard lounged alongside him, veterans of the subjugation of the Himalayzans equipped with the most exotic and destructive of weapons. They passed the border into Gyptus proper like the wind itself, marching columns of Imperial soldiers with camels and mules catching only a glance of the twin banners of the lightning bolt and sigil that marked his personage.
Picking up a baroque device with a strange grill upon its face, Malcador began to speak. At once, a voice was heard upon the lines of the advancing Imperial forces, ancient and distorted, but carrying true nonetheless.
“To all those who fight beneath the banner of the Master of Mankind, know this. Your Emperor has sought to overthrow the reigns of butchers and the tyranny of witches. Your foes fight to defend the former, and they have now sought the might of the latter. I shall not lie to you, my conquerors, you shall be tested in this battle. What terrors they have unleashed, I cannot yet say, but know this. I am coming, and I bear with me the full might of your lord’s will. Humanity shall and must topple the spires of craven sorcerers, and the wrath of the Sigilite is with you.”
—
The words of the Sigilite were almost lost by the surge of chatter cascading over the vox as Aristagoras moved. While he was clad in plate that would swallow a lesser man, he was but a blur to mortal senses. As easily as he crossed ground, he slew. Living and breathing foes of the Emperor, or the twisted abominations that now arose alongside them, it did not matter to him. The precise killing strike required to keep such a foe down no additional challenge to his superhuman nature. Other servants of the Emperor were not so fortunate, and it was for their benefit he now pushed for decisive action.
“My lord, this is — we’re under h —- unceasing foe —- won’t stay d — permission to fall back —“
Whatever foul sorcery the enemy had wreathed was playing havoc with communications as much as it was the city, but even still, the motivation was clear. It was given with the clipped professionalism of the more disciplined soldiers beneath the Emperor’s authority, but still, the hint of dread lingered in the words.
“Denied, fight on, the line is drawn, the enemy is desperate, we push on. We ride to you, fight on.” He had no confirmation in return that his order was even received, but still he pounded the stone of the roadway to dust beneath the speed of his tread. Should the mortals fight on, he was determined they would not fall without sight of the Emperor’s wrath in their name. Should they falter, he would be there to deliver it in turn.
The powerfield surrounding his blade spat ionised flesh into the air as it rent through another foe. One of countless that had already fallen, made only of note to the giant who wielded it by the crackle of dimming power as the blade shorted out, overused and with no rest between blows, its power cells had finally given up on him. No matter, it was still a blade.
The Custodian felt the hand of another at play in this matter, the wretched plot of the enemy was sure to bring a heavy toll on the forces of the Emperor, pushing them to take the city faster and more costly than they would have wished, but could it hope to truly rebuff them? Unlikely. This was the masterstroke of someone wishing to sell Memphos dearly, which its Dynasts kings, self serving as they were, would not have orchestrated.
“Honoured Sigilite, I am approaching the Square of Kempfar, join me, and we shall push upon the Citadel.” The priority line to the Emperor’s closest adviser was more secure from the ravages of the warp craft, but not entirely so, a distressing observation. One that was put aside for the moment as Aristagoras finally reached the square, encountering only the burned out ruins of the Imperium’s forces and their hastily erected defences, now swarming with the risen dead. They had fought to a man, and he had failed them.
As the surge of dead things pressed towards the Custodian, he exhaled steadily, feeling the righteous anger suffuse his genecrafted being, before his blade was raised.
“Come then, hellspawn, become the first to earn the honour of being slain twice by Aristagorous.”
—
Malcador cursed as the Custodian spoke to him, not of anger at the message but at the foul corruption despoiling the aetherics. His chosen companions went about their business with the grim disregard that they did most everything, performing final checks upon their arcane armories. The champions of the Sigilite were equipped with the rarest and most horrific weapons ever crafted by human hands, for rarely did he feel the need to march to war himself. Disintegration guns, stasis grenades, graviton pistols, Kjaroskuro lasers, Quill blasters, a motley array of power and monomolecular arms, and sundry more were held ready by the men and women who had followed him this far.
“The Square of Kempfar,” Malcador ordered, after a slight delay as he let sentimentality take control of him for a cursed moment. He had opened his vaults for them, and they had volunteered to do their duty. It would not do to spoil their devotion to this cause with undue emotion. “Make haste, our foe grows in strength, and this is a ritual we can ill afford to let finish.”
The dead rose across the ancient sands, and the Sigilite followed. Onwards they pressed, towards fire and war, shadow and death. The cracked outer defenses of the once grand city flew underneath them, the haggard soldiers of the nascent Imperial Army cheering their salvation as they saw the speck of metal that marked his coming.
Baleful light erupted from the front of the ancient transport as it crossed into the lands of the dead, subatomic beamers dissolving the first ranks of the Warp-risen abominations into elementary particles. Within its confines, Malcador and his companions made ready for what was to come in their own manner, be it in thought or prayer or jest, in food or in drink, or in one particular case a last moment of restful slumber.
Kempfar approached, and with it the first strands of the horrid destiny that Malcador had foreseen for those few he had dared call friends.
—
Lieutenant Alexiou cursed under his breath at the turn of their fortunes. They had been advancing steadily behind those beasts of men, the Emperor’s Thunder Warriors and his patrician Custodians, stepping over the carnage they left in their wake and moving from house to house like clockwork. It had been simple work, clearing that which the feral men had deemed unworthy of their attention. A shop of overturned spices here, a coffee hall there, a residential down the road. All of it, so simple. The occupants had been seen as beneath the Emperor’s most capable servants, and had been left to Imperial Army units, like Alexiou’s. But despite its simplicity, it was dirty work.
The shopkeeper and his staff, or at least that’s who Alexiou assumed they were, had come at his men with exotic tools he had discerned were used in the sorting of the spices. Finely made things, with razor thin blades that had cut up one of his troopers bad enough to warrant sending him to the rear. But other than the initial surprise of them they had been simple to dispatch. No armor, no formal training. They had been road bumps. Just as the other occupants of every building they’d swept through that decided to stand futilely before the Emperor’s army had been to Alexiou and his troopers.
But that time had come to an end far too soon. As quickly as they had cleared ten blocks the tide of the fighting changed around them. The sky had darkened, taking on a sickly glow, and the first signs of trouble had been the confusion over the vox. Then the maimed and stricken in the streets had risen around the Lieutenant and his platoon, and hell made its way to the land of the living. That had been nearly thirty minutes ago.
“Vox orders are unclear, aetherics are playing hell with the signal… I think they have ordered a general withdrawal to reinstate the lines and continue the push, but…” the vox operator hesitated a moment, “there was a Custodes, he was calling the Sigillite, I didn’t catch much more.”
“A Custodes? Figure his location, quickly,” Alexiou told his vox operator calmly as he turned back to the remains of his platoon, “Check your charge packs, and get ready to move,” his troopers gave no answer, and he didn’t need one. They had been ready to move since they’d first secured the holdout they sheltered in, and simply been waiting on Alexiou to make the decision on what came next.
They exited the holdout and fanned out down a wide thoroughfare, bypassing the butchered remains of Imperial troopers and Memphos guard with casual disregard as they approached the relative location the vox had returned for the Custodian Guard.
They swept through a blockhouse without a word and exited through a massive rent in the wall to find themselves spilling down a pile of rubble directly into an otherworldly onslaught. The Custodian, magnificent in his golden armor, was a blur of motion ahead of them. The ghastly creatures, those not long ago lost to this world, crashed into the Emperor’s chosen like the waves against the breakwaters of the acid lakes of Hive Ischian and, just like the acid waves, the abominations stood no chance of overcoming the patrician guardian of the Emperor.
His men spread out into the square without the need for a command, their jet black carapace armor a stark contrast to the dirtied yet still impressive gold of the Custodian. Where the Custodian was a blur of movement and the crackling of his guardian spear, his troopers were a clumsy hammer, their lasrifles spitting iridescent bolts into the surging wave of the dead.
“Firstborn, I am Lieutenant Alexiou of the Lucifer Blacks,” he stated over the common close-range vox shared by all Imperial units from within his enclosed carapace helmet, “my platoon is at your command,” he finished quickly as he took the head off a once dead thing with a flick of his saber.
<Posted>
“Greetings, Alexiou, fear ye not, there is glory here aplenty for us all.” Aristagoras spoke as he slew, even the act of battle not altering the cadence of his voice, the damnable distortion caused by the foul work of the enemy, the only factor which caused any change had the two men not been discussing the same matter side by side. “We must clear the square if we are to proceed, allow me to hold their attention, nothing they wield can break the Emperor’s work.” His words were, thus far, evidently true. The Custodian moved too fast and struck with too great a force to allow the sorcery twisted monstrosities to hold him down with weight of numbers, and the scrabble of hands on his armour may well have been leaves falling from Terra’s long dead forests. The threat to the Imperial Army was another matter, and now with their survival to consider, the Custodian pushed deeper into the swarm, seeking to hold the focus of the tide as much as possible. It was successful to an extent, but whatever foul false intelligence still blazed in the risen began to seek easier prey, as the edges of the tide pushed on past to seek the mortals. The Horde would meet wave after wave of disciplined fire, but would it be enough?
“I believe whatever foul acts are at work here are simply a distraction to hold us in place for an even greater evil, Lieutenant, we must cut through swiftly.” He spoke again, weighing the cost of an approach that would be safer for the mortals, but finding the delay unacceptable. “Advance in my wake.”
Alexiou, a seasoned military man, found himself dumbfounded at the casual ease with which the Emperor’s chosen addressed him. Within his helmet he sputtered a moment, grateful that his vox amplifier had decided not to pick up the failed attempt at language before he could rein in his own mind.
“As you command,” he replied as simply as he could, a single runic symbol flickering in his helmet’s display transmitted to the remains of his platoon spurring their actions forward into the mass of the undead things. A dozen grenades flew from bandoliers, the arks tracked on Alexiou’s display before they were lost in the mass of writhing flesh. The hollow thumps of the detonations signaled his platoon forward, lasrifles tearing limbs from bodies and vibroblades laying low the foul creatures effortlessly. Though disciplined and well trained, Alexiou noted the lifesign readings in the corner of his display on two of his troopers run wild before nothing returned.
The process was swift, with the icebreaking point of the Custodian taking on the bulk of the monstrosities ire, the mortal warriors were free to exact a heavy toll on the possessed corpses, even if the pace put more of them at risk than would be ideal. For all that the enemy had summoned to halt them, now they moved in concert, with full view of the threat they faced, they could not stand before the forces of the Emperor. Despite this clear sign of impending victory, Aristagoras felt uneasy. The pulsing wave of foul energy emanating from the core of the city continued unabated. He had little technical knowledge of such things, but this felt more a prelude than the final act.
“Onwards, men of the Imperium, let us claim this c-” The words were suddenly cut dead, in both vox and reality, as a crushing wave struck the Custodian. Exhaustion and strain wracked his form, a feeling he had not experienced since the grueling days of his trials, mortal lifetimes ago. A vast force pushed down on him, and invisible enemy that forced him to his knees, even among the teeming, but thinning, horde of the undead creatures. He tried to call a warning to the soldiers following in his wake, but even this he found beyond him, as he was steadily driven into the ground.
In a fleeting moment of herculean strength, he raised his head, the gleaming optic eyes of his helm flashing as they drew in tactical information, a moment before the glass itself cracked under the strain of withstanding the false-force upon him. As his eyes themselves swam with blood from the pressure, his focus fell upon one figure, standing amidst the soulless shambling tide.
“Wyrd.” He spat, a moment before the force redoubled, and even the ground beneath him began to crack. With the Custodian temporarily neutralised, there was nothing to prevent the bulk of the horde now turning on the Imperial Army scant meters behind him.
A cry went up over the short range vox, so uncharacteristic of a Lucifer Black even as they fell to gunfire, blade or foul creature was it that Alexiou turned in the direction that his helmet indicated the transmission had come from. He breathed for a moment as he watched one of his Sergeants reach out for the Custodes as he fell to his knees, unsure what could have lain such a being as low as this in battle. The thought vanished as his Sergeant simply ceased to exist, the area where he had once stood reaching for the Firstborn a mess of meat and matter pressed into the paving stones of the square with such force that a fine mist ejected in all directions for several meters.
He turned, his helmet barking a motion warning, and blasted the head off one of the undead creatures with a well placed pistol shot. The Lieutenant keyed his vox and barked a warning as he followed the Custodian’s gaze to the source of his trouble, “Sorcerer front, engage.”
A number of the Lucifer’s turned from the closer threats to their lives and began to let loose with salvos of lasfire on the deadliest foe they’d seen since entering the city. An iridescent haze of laser fire criss-crossed around the Sorcerer, the bolts of pure energy bending and snapping off in random directions as the foul powers of the tainted man rendered their shots moot.
—
Within his hovercraft, those sworn to the Sigilite finished their preparations. Meters vanished beneath the venerable vehicle, as all who stood in its way were rendered into something far finer than ash. Ancient ruins and new monuments yearning to replicate their glory were covered in soot and gore, the bodies of the shiftless dead and the forces charged with sending them to their final rest indistinguishable now under the force of the weapons that had torn them asunder. The sound of gruesome war was constant, but it was no mere
sound that stirred Malcador from his ruminations.
A ripple of foulness worked its way through the Immaterium, the taste of vomit assailing the psyker through no mere mundane sense of the flesh. Restraining the urge to gag, Malcador slowly shook his head as he recovered from the aetheric putrescence before summoning forth a hololith of the cityscape below them.
“Livia,” the Sigilite said softly, his voice carrying through to the pilot, “We will disembark here, at the edge of the square,” he continued, stabbing his finger at a section of the city where shops gave way to residences - all now stained by war. “Low hover, then you shall ascend and keep avenues of approach clear for us.. As for the rest of you,” ordered, turning his attention to those warriors who followed him this far, “you shall relieve the Army assets currently pinned down. I shall see to my master’s sons.”
He paused as he was given curt nods of acknowledgement, the silence stretching for a moment too long as he stole a glance at a gaunt face half-hidden by shadows. “Xenophon.”
“My lord?” he asked, voice half a rasp.
“Today is the day,” Malcador whispered. “The hour approaches.”
“As all must,” the man said with a shrug, patting his conversion beamer as he gave it a final once over. “I need no song.”
“For yours is every song you have saved,” the ancient man said with a sigh. He turned his head to face the others in the vehicle’s cramped compartment, his staff held tightly in a gnarled hand. “There is warpwork about. We shall not tolerate it,” he cried as the back hatch slowly opened, revealing a hail of las bolts and shambling corpses - and the unmistakable form of a sorcerer. “The Order endures, our charge is the legacy of Mankind,” he shouted, a fire appearing in his eyes with more power in it than mere will. “To you I have given the fury of the ages, use them well.”
A chorus of “My lord's" followed, the words barely loud enough to be heard over the whipping wind as the hovercraft lowered itself into its final position, and his companions did as they were bid. Gravity inverted, superhot streams of metal shot forth at impossible speeds, and matter simply unmade as they charged forward into the breach, the legions of restless dead nothing in the face of the Dark Age’s surviving relics. The Sigilite himself followed, the psyker floating sedately as he advanced towards his foe, but the Sorcerer was not the sole focus of his attentions.
“Aristagoras,” Malcador said in a chiding tone, extending his empty hands towards the Custode, “such a sight does not befit you. Rise, Borethensipulas, and acquit yourself of your Name,” he commanded, a surge of power flooding through the one and into the other. The works of the enemy clashed against his will, a calming light extending from the Sigilite as his strength set itself to root out corruption. It was not enough to merely kill this man, this profanity, not for one who had sworn himself to his charge so fully. He was possessed of a need to undo all the ills that this Sorcerer had wrought, to see his works thrown down and his power revealed to be the farce it was. Only then did he deserve death.
“The Sigilite stands with you this day,” he roared, his voice carrying upon more than mere wind. “And I shall accept no corruption within my sight,” Malcador spat, the Sorcerer’s defenses visibly wavering, las blasts creeping closer and closer, as he poured his will into unweaving the strands of power that his foe had dredged forth from the Warp.
“I am his wrath.” The words the Custodes spoke were quiet, strained, as every muscle in his superhuman body screamed with strain. The psychic might of the Sigilite had pulled the great portion of the enemies attentions away from him, but it was still as if a great force was thrust upon him. It would not be enough to stop him, however, as once more the Custodian forced himself to his feet.
“Well met, Sigilite, you will find there is still some glory to share.” Aristagoras returned the vox call, before with the grinding force still straining across his armour, he surged forwards. The dead were little before him, the twisted warp-risen beings smashed aside simply by the force of form. The Wyrd’s attentions were forced on his mental battle with Malcador, and that proved a fatal distraction.
“You will sully the champions of Mankind no further,” The vox system on his armour turning the voice into an outward boom, a sonic shock as powerful as a grenade blasting over the Gyptian witch. Stunned and reeling, the human had no time to react before the long blade of the Custodian’s glaive burst through the human’s chest, impaling the man and lifting him into the air. Gesting with the same weapon, the wyrd still hanging from the blade, Aristagoras called out;
“Onwards! Warriors of the Emperor! We take the Citadel!”
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