Chapter 133: Divine Opposition
Without gene-seed enhancement or their awakened primarch essence, the three sons of The Emperor possessed no natural means of flight, a tactical disadvantage against their airborne foe.
"Permit me to assist," Malcador declared, stepping forward with the Sigillite's staff in his aged hands.
Ancient words of power flowed from his lips as psychic energy coursed through his robed form. Even Elminster showed visible astonishment at the raw magical force radiating from this newcomer. Such potent mystical emanations exceeded even his own abilities.
These outsiders grew more formidable with each revelation.
As the incantation reached its crescendo, streams of golden light materialised behind each Primarch, weaving together into wings of pure energy. A gentle flex of these ethereal pinions generated tremendous lift, bearing their massive forms skyward.
"Remarkable," Perturabo admitted, testing the sensation.
"Now, I understand what Sanguinius must have felt soaring above Baal's crimson skies."
The Iron Lord launched himself upward, his brothers close behind.
The Primarchs' combat prowess far exceeded that of the Dead Three's champions. Even with the elder brain's psychic interference attempting to cloud their minds, victory clearly favoured The Emperor's sons.
Orin the Red proved herself a masterful assassin, her movements blur-fast and enhanced by supernatural abilities.
Crack!
Mortarion's scythe struck her. She exploded into crimson mist and vanished, only to rematerialize behind the Death Lord with twin daggers seeking his spine.
Clang!
Mortarion's weapon intercepted her strike, sparks flying as enchanted steel met ceramite. He twisted his scythe's haft, using leverage to throw her off balance, then swept the blade in a devastating arc.
Whoosh!
Orin dissolved into red light again, escaping the killing blow through her shapeshifter abilities. She reformed at a safe distance, circling like a predator.
Mortarion remained motionless, his senses attuned to the slightest disturbance. When instinct screamed warning, he spun and struck, his scythe cleaving through empty air just as Orin materialised in that exact space.
The assassin's eyes widened in shock before Silence claimed her. Her body separated at the waist, crimson vitae painting the tower's stones as her organs spilt from the precise cut.
This devotee of Bhaal, who had orchestrated countless murders, met her end with surgical efficiency.
Mortarion retrieved the netherstone from her cooling corpse, feeling the artefact's power thrumming against his gauntlets.
Meanwhile, Perturabo had cornered Enver Gortash. The chosen of Bane proved himself a capable strategist and politician, but his personal combat skills paled before a Primarch's martial excellence.
After mere moments of engagement, Gortash found himself pinned beneath Perturabo's boot, the Iron Lord's hammer poised to cave in his skull.
"Spare him," Raven's voice whispered through their mental link. "His knowledge of the Steel Watch may prove valuable."
Perturabo's killing blow halted inches from Gortash's temple.
The man would live, for now.
Lorgar's battle with Ketheric Thorm had devolved into systematic brutalisation.
"A pathetic worm worshipping false divinity," the Word Bearer snarled, his crozius arcanum shattering Thorm's jaw with an upward strike.
The general's body tumbled through the air before Lorgar's wings carried him above his falling foe.
The primarch plummeted like a golden meteor, his staff crushing Thorm's skull into the tower's foundation. Stone cracked in spiderweb patterns as the impact crater deepened, filled with what remained of the immortal general.
Within moments, dark mist swirled and Thorm reformed, emerging from his grave with grim determination. Lorgar descended again, this time driving both feet into his opponent's head with the force of a falling star.
"This is grows tedious," Lorgar muttered, watching paste-like remains slowly reconstitute themselves. "Let us discover the limits of your cursed resilience."
Each resurrection brought fresh agony. Thorm, who had relied on immortality as his greatest weapon, now found it had become his greatest torment.
"Enough!" the reformed general pleaded as Lorgar approached for another execution. "Perhaps we might... negotiate?"
"I have no interest in discourse with vermins," Lorgar replied coldly, his crozius reducing Thorm to component atoms once more.
BOOM!
Reality ruptured as malevolent will descended from higher planes. The ground split like rotten fruit, revealing fissures that glowed with sickly emerald light.
"Death is not the end, it is transformation incarnate."
A voice echoed from the depths as skeletal fingers emerged from the widening cracks. The entity that arose defied mortal comprehension, a towering skeleton draped in funeral shrouds, its bleached bones adorned with the skulls of murdered souls. Upon its massive cranium sat a crown of tarnished gold shaped like an inverted triangle.
Myrkul, Lord of Bones, had answered his champion's desperate summons.
The death god's bony fingers closed around a scythe of absolute darkness, its blade seeming to devour light itself. Though greatly diminished since his defeat during the Time of Troubles, divine authority still radiated from his undead form.
"So the false god reveals himself," Lorgar observed with contempt rather than awe. His staff remained steady as he faced down a deity. "How disappointing."
"MORTAL WHELP!" Myrkul's voice shook the foundations of reality. "You dare mock one who commands the very concept of death?"
"A god?" Lorgar's tone dripped with disdain. "Forgive me, but I serve only the God-Emperor of Mankind, and perhaps the sacred spirits of fried and crimson condiments."
The Word Bearer's reverence for divine beings had shattered completely.
These entities possessed power, certainly, but they exhibited the same petty jealousies and cruel ambitions as mortals. Where was the transcendent wisdom? The selfless guidance? The salvation they promised their followers?
Gods, it seemed, were merely mortals writ large, and Lorgar found them wanting.
Golden wings spread wide as he launched himself skyward, meeting Myrkul's descending scythe with his own weapon.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The impacts sent shockwaves rippling through both air and aether. Each collision threatened to tear holes in reality itself as divine power met primarch determination.
"That scythe has excellent craftsmanship," Mortarion observed, watching his brother duel the death god.
"Consider it yours," Perturabo replied with a shrug. "Such weapons hold little appeal for me."
"Scythes possess excellent utility," Mortarion mused, "though paired with a hammer, the combination becomes truly exceptional. Pity you lack appreciation for proper reaping tools."
"Hammers serve all purposes adequately," Perturabo countered, hefting his personally forged weapon, its adamantine head decorated with golden skulls and the Imperial aquila.
"Scythes remain... specialised."
He had initially claimed an ever-burning greatsword from a defeated cambion commander, but after field testing, found hammers more versatile for both combat and construction. The weapon in his hands bore his own forge marks, crafted to primarch specifications.
Both Primarchs spread their light-wings and ascended to join their brother's battle against the undead deity.
Myrkul's scythe tore reality with each swing, opening void-black fissures that howled with otherworldly winds. Occasionally, something vast moved within those cracks, entities best left unnamed.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The three Primarchs coordinated their assault, their combined might forcing the death god onto the defensive. Though Myrkul retained fragments of his divine essence, the spark of godhood that elevated him beyond mortal limitation, his power had been drastically reduced since his fall during the Time of Troubles.
Those watching from below witnessed an impossibility: mortals matching a god in single combat and gaining the advantage through pure skill and determination.
Ketheric Thorm, who had summoned his patron in desperation, now stared upward with growing horror. Even divine intervention could not save them from these golden-armoured destroyers.
CRACK!
Perturabo's warhammer connected with Myrkul's skeletal hand, spider-web fractures spreading through ancient bone as the death god's grip faltered.
[End of Chapter]
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