Chapter 42: The Collapse of Horus
On the journey back to the Vengeful Spirit, Horus observed the Sons of Horus working diligently on the fortifications. Their armor gleamed with cold, black and gold luster under the sunlight, but something felt wrong.
Horus frowned. "Why are only our people here? Where have the World Eaters, Emperor's Children, and Death Guard gone?"
Ahriman's face darkened as he answered, "The other Legions are occupied with matters concerning their Primarchs."
"Lead the way," Horus commanded. "I want to see what's going on."
It would prove to be the sentence Horus most regretted that day.
Their first stop was the Death Guard Legion. Even before they arrived, a pungent stench assaulted their senses—like dirty socks left unwashed for thirty days, soaked in water and allowed to fester for half a month. From a distance, they could already hear the heated argument within.
"Mortarion, embrace Father Nurgle!" Typhon's voice rang out. The First Captain of the Death Guard had foul-smelling fumes constantly billowing from the seams of his power armor. "Father Nurgle will grant you everything!"
"Oh, really?" Mortarion's roar shook the air. "Let your Father Nurgle come out and defeat the Emperor, then I'll believe it! Can he do it?! Who gave you permission to take them to Isstvan III without my authorization?!"
"As long as they believe in Father Nurgle after death, they can still achieve eternal life! I'm helping them understand Father Nurgle!" Typhon protested.
"Get out! I don't want to see you! Begone from my sight!"
Typhon fell silent.
Horus witnessed the entire exchange and let out a long sigh before turning away. "This really can't be helped. It's clear this was handled very poorly." He tried to maintain his composure. "Angron should be fine, at least. As long as he takes action, none of his subordinates would dare disobey."
"Uh, Angron certainly has no subordinates who disobey him," Ahriman replied carefully, "but his mental state isn't very good."
As they approached the World Eaters' position, Angron's voice thundered across the field like a force of nature.
"I hate! I hate why it's me! Why did those damned xenos attack me?! I hate! Why did the Emperor stop me! Ah ah ah ah!"
With each roar, Angron swung his fists. The wails of the World Eaters accompanied each strike. Every charge he made was like a landslide—countless World Eaters rushed forward one after another, only to be knocked down with a single punch. The ground was littered with injured warriors.
Nothing could stop Angron's rampage. The sounds of breaking bones and tearing muscles constantly emanated from the melee.
Ahriman scratched his head awkwardly. "Primarch, only you can stop him now. What do you think?" After all, only a Primarch could stop another Primarch.
Horus turned and walked away, shaking his head. "Fulgrim should be fine. He's usually the most reliable and steady."
"How about we don't look anymore?" Ahriman tried to intercept him. "They are truly very busy."
Horus pushed him aside. "No matter how busy, they still need to participate in construction, don't they? That's not an excuse. I only require obedience." His anger was building. He felt things shouldn't be going so wrong.
When they arrived at the Emperor's Children's area, Horus stopped in his tracks. A massive party was underway, with bottles of super dopamine hormones scattered everywhere. At the center hung a super pineal gland, elevated high above the revelers. A group played games below, and whoever won got to use the gland for a while.
"To Dick! Cheers!" someone shouted.
"Cheers! To the Primarch!" others replied in unison.
The air was thick with the smell of alcohol and various rotting foods. Fulgrim lay naked on a huge cushion, reclining on his arm which extended off the edge. The Emperor's Children knelt devoutly around him, arranged like figures in a medieval oil painting.
Horus watched it all expressionlessly. A single thought crystallized in his mind: if the loyalists arrived now, could they truly defend themselves?
"It's alright," Ahriman said, trying to sound reassuring. "The Word Bearers are still hidden in the shadows. When the time comes, we'll attack from inside and out, annihilating the three Legions in one fell swoop. Then, pointing our swords at Terra will be as easy as turning over a hand."
Horus took a deep breath and patted Ahriman's shoulder, as if everything remained under his control.
Then Abaddon rushed over, shouting urgently.
"Warmaster, it's bad! The Word Bearers have been discovered! They're already fighting the Salamanders, Iron Hands, Raven Guard, and White Scars!"
Horus's eyes widened. "How did the White Scars get involved? How were they discovered?" His breathing became ragged, his eyes bloodshot.
"I heard it was Francis who gave them information about the rebels," Abaddon explained. "When the Iron Warriors were heading here, they encountered the White Scars who had just quelled a rebellion..." He trailed off, unable to finish.
Horus felt as if struck by lightning. He stumbled back two steps, his mind reeling. From making Angron so unstable to pushing Fulgrim deeper into desire, from letting the loyalists know his plans in advance—behind all of this was Francis's shadow.
"Was the plan to rescue those loyalists on Isstvan III also prepared by Francis long ago?" Horus asked, his voice trembling. He didn't want to admit that all of this was Francis's doing. Francis looked so pure and innocent. How could he possibly...
"Yes," Abaddon confirmed. "Erebus said that mad dog Leman Russ attacked them, and when they had the upper hand, Russ revealed it from his own mouth."
The last sentence struck Horus's heart like a heavy hammer. His eyes seemed to split, and blood oozed from all seven orifices as he roared.
"Beast! Francis, you beast! May you die a horrible death! Order all Sons of Horus to stop construction and deploy to the Adeptus Mechanicus on Mars! Capture Francis alive!"
His furious roar stunned all living creatures within a hundred meters.
At that moment, Horus no longer cared about the other Legions. Even if he commanded only his own Legion, he would tear Francis apart. His hatred for Francis now surpassed even his hatred for the Emperor.
But bad luck always strikes the most vulnerable.
A series of massive explosions erupted from the direction of the Vengeful Spirit.
"What's going on? Who can tell me what's going on again?" Horus looked around furiously. Abaddon and the others all shook their heads in confusion.
When they arrived at the scene, fires raged everywhere, illuminating the dark sky. Each burning battleship was like a falling meteor, trailing a long fiery tail. Explosions echoed one after another, deafening and accompanied by the wails of twisting metal. The wreckage of the battleships lay silently on the ground, still smoking.
Horus grabbed a nearby Tech-Priest and roared, "What's going on? How can a battleship explode while being maintained! What's wrong with you Adeptus Mechanicus?!"
The Tech-Priest was equally furious. "I wanted to ask you the same thing! Who would carelessly dismantle screws and parts from the devices! How long have we been here, and machines break down every day! If it wasn't your people deliberately breaking them, were we deliberately sabotaging our own work?"
The words triggered a memory. Horus recalled the earlier scene when he'd had Francis and Fulgrim build fortifications together. He had asked Francis why his warriors liked to wander around, and Francis had answered that it was a side effect of being confined on Terra for too long.
Horus felt a ball of fire in his chest, desperate to erupt. "Francis! You ruined me! FRANCISSS!" His vision darkened, and he collapsed.
"Warmaster!" voices cried out around him.
"Warmaster! What's wrong with you?!"
"Warmaster! Don't scare us!"
Aboard the Dictator-class battleship, Francis's heart suddenly fluttered.
"Hmm? Why am I feeling goosebumps? Must be the wind," he murmured to himself.
The demonic legions surged forward like a tide, and the Soul Drinkers met them fearlessly. They wielded power hammers and engaged in fierce combat with the daemons, using the mobility of their power armor and the devastating power of their bolters to strike with precision.
The daemons slashed back with thick, hard claws that scraped across power armor with ear-splitting screeches of twisting metal, leaving huge scratches in their wake.
The largest daemon raised its bone-bladed scythe and swung it down with tremendous force, repelling dozens of Soul Drinkers in a single blow. As it prepared to charge forward again, the Soul Drinkers opened a path through their ranks. The daemon found itself facing Francis, who sat half-reclined as dozens of large eyes across his body began to emit a terrifying aura.
The air buzzed with power.
Before the daemon could move aside, a thick beam of chaotic energy struck its body directly. The powerful force pushed it and the daemons behind it clean off the battleship and into the void.
At the same time, the Soul Drinkers raised their power shields and constantly impacted the remaining daemons, driving them systematically off the battleship.
"Phew, it was indeed too oppressive being with Horus and the others," Francis said, standing up. A scent of roasted meat emanated from his body. "Now I feel much more comfortable!"
Fabius, who had been hiding behind during the battle, now came before Francis and began examining the bio-armor on his body with fascination. "These are the Navigator's eyes, aren't they! Respected Primarch, where did you get them?"
"Do you want to learn?" Francis's voice came from above him. "I'll teach you."
Fabius looked up at the Primarch, his eyes gleaming with scientific curiosity.
[End of Chapter]