Chapter 194: The Liberation of Drune (Part I)
Smoke and fire danced together in the air, ash swirling like snow under the blaze. The ground trembled, and the skies were torn open. Giants emerged from machines of war forged in steel and fire—death glimmering faintly along the curved edge of the Reaper's scythe.
"For the Emperor! For the Lupercal!!"
Abaddon cried out the name of the Lupercal with fervent glory, leading the warriors of the First Company into the heart of the battle, where mobs of psyker-controlled humans surged like a tide, relentless and vast.
But for these war machines, the true trouble had never been the fragile, weak-bodied mortals.
Unholy strands of warp-light crackled through the crowd, as if an invisible hand guided the mob. The moment Abaddon neared the enemy, an unbearable weight pressed down upon him, nearly forcing him to his knees.
Then came the psychic onslaught—attacks not of flesh, but of soul and mind. His vision blurred violently. Veins pulsed with strain. A creeping sense of weakness crawled up his limbs. The weapon in his hands nearly—
Found it.
Abaddon suddenly raised his arm. A bullet screamed through the throng, a head exploded, blood sprayed like mist—and a shriek, hysterical and primal, echoed from within Abaddon's very soul. His vision went blank for a heartbeat, a ringing flooded his ears… and then everything snapped back into focus. The battlefield was once again before him.
Abaddon blinked hard, clearing his vision. There it was—the corpse of the xenos psyker he had slain, its tentacles dangling limply from a human neck, dripping thick mucous down to the dirt.
These psyker aberrations had hidden within the crowd, using their powers to strike at the Astartes from cover.
Steadying his mind, Abaddon resumed leading his squad through the sweep. Psykers had always been among the most hated enemies of the Legions. Besides the Librarius, few could truly predict what damage such unstable forces might inflict.
And yet, the warriors weren't disheartened. On the contrary, their morale was soaring—for on this small battlefield, two demigods fought alongside them.
The valiant Lupercal and his brother, the Death Lord, stood together at the center of the conflict, within the heart of the carnage, reaping lives with chilling precision. Though neither had issued any formal orders, all eyes—friend and foe alike—seemed magnetically drawn to that place.
Primarchs were born as demigods.
Horus cast a subtle glance at Mortarion. The howling of the xenos psykers reverberated within his soul, creating an unbearable resonance—but the Lupercal betrayed nothing. He continued to fight, his actions alone rousing his warriors to greater heights of fury and faith.
Horus understood well that his mere presence served as a powerful anchor of belief for his soldiers. And strong faith was the best defense against the powers of the Warp.
In contrast to the roaring Lunar Wolves, however, the Death Guard were shrouded in silence—just like Mortarion himself.
Their dulled armor blended into the battlefield as they advanced wordlessly, killing with calm precision, enduring the front lines in eerie quiet. For the Lunar Wolves fighting beside them, it felt less like fighting shoulder to shoulder, and more like fighting alongside shadows.
Mortarion was the same—surrounded by his Librarians, wielding scythe in one hand and bolter in the other, the Primarch advanced with measured determination. Each flicker of his Lantern marked the death of another alien monstrosity.
What surprised Horus was how different Mortarion truly was from his appearance.
He had always seemed sickly and fragile—like a man perpetually on the edge of collapse. Combined with his alchemical expertise, Horus had long assumed Mortarion to be more of a support or infiltration type of Primarch.
But this? This was not the man he had envisioned.
What Horus had never expected… was that Mortarion was actually a Primarch adept at direct, sustained frontline combat.
Even though every breath Mortarion took rasped like a dying consumptive, the scythe of the Death Lord moved with calm, fluid grace. His advance never once faltered. Surrounded by his silent Death Guard, the battle line was pushing forward at a pace that brooked no argument. The enemy was inexorably breaking apart.
If the Luna Wolves weren't here, Horus thought, then against the Death Guard alone—any sentient enemy would feel true fear from the depths of their soul.
This was a silent army—one that gave no response to the foe. It simply marched forward, crushing resistance beneath its feet without a word.
But this was only the present battlefield.
On the battlefield lacking a Primarch… the one on the city's far side, where more enemy psyker units awaited… the Death Guard Astartes likely wouldn't last long.
After all, their opponents wielded psychic attacks, and Mortarion was too confident in his sons.
Horus mulled this over, already beginning to formulate fallback plans in case the surprise assault from the rear of the city failed.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[Maintain formation. Advance.]
Hades stood atop the Wraith Knight. Behind his Tartaros Pattern Terminator Armor was a jump pack he'd personally cobbled together—if you had enough tech points, even a Terminator could fly.
He held a white lance, calmly taking aim at a "tentacle-head" within the enemy crowd. These smaller xenos creatures had wrapped their tendrils entirely around the heads of humans, staring at the Death Guard with eerie whites of their eyes.
Bullets occasionally shot toward him, but glowing fluctuations shimmered across the Knight—its void shield absorbed every shot with ease.
Due to the Wraith Knight's Untouchable pilot and Hades himself also being a Pariah, the two of them remained stationed toward the rear. The Knight's cannons unleashed volleys, covering the advancing Death Guard with precise supporting fire. With Hades and Nyx sniping the psyker beasts from afar, the Death Guard had a far easier time dealing with the remaining human thralls.
Since both Hades and Nyx were Untouchables, eliminating those psychic monstrosities posed no real danger to them. In short order, they'd cleared out large numbers of the tentacled abominations.
The Death Guard, well aware of this, even made a point of opening up firing lanes for Hades and the Wraith Knight to maximize their kill efficiency.
The battle line steadily advanced, at least until an eerie glow appeared at the edge of their vision.
Flesh twisted grotesquely. A small altar had been constructed from writhing tentacles and moaning human bodies. The ripples of the Warp shimmered visibly in the air—ominous light pulsing like the tide.
Atop the altar stood a narrow gate—just a slit—and from within it, a small tentacle slithered out with a wet pop, landing on the bare body of a human lying beneath it. The tendril wriggled and burrowed, gnawing into the still-living victim's skull.
[Th-this is… what the—?!]
[By the Emperor!!!]
Nyx's horrified wail came through the channel—sharing sensory input with the Knight, he likely had the clearest view of anyone aside from Hades.
[Kill them. KILL THEM!]
[This is why we're here! KILL THEM ALL!!]
Raibo's trembling, furious voice joined the comms, her wrath and sorrow sparked by memories of something all too similar. Her shouting mixed with Nyx's anguish in a chorus of rage and grief.
Hades didn't reply to either of them. He remained calm, analyzing the situation.
The distance… was almost right.
He activated the front-line comms. It was clear that the closer the Death Guard got to the altar, the more sluggish their movement became.
[All units: short-range dash forward, then hold the line. Open a gap to the southwest—Knight charging corridor.]
[Understood.]
Branka's voice came through clearly. Veterans of the 7th Company fired another coordinated salvo, suppressing the enemy to clear a path for the Knight's charge.
[Good.]
Hades patted the massive war machine beneath his feet.
[Prepare to charge. Get us right to the altar's edge.]
The only reply was the sudden roar of the Knight's engine beneath him, erupting like thunder.
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