Chapter Twenty-Two: Rising from the Ashes (Part IV)

The Aeldari ships opened fire, their monomolecular killing edges flying around the Imperials. Even beings as touch as transhumans could not withstand sustained gunship fire. They would be butchered if they did not move away from this place and quickly. Hurriedly, the five elite Librarians within the Primarch's honor guard erected a kineshield around the party, borrowing mental strength from their brothers to block the wave of crystal munitions. Gritting his teeth with anger, Iskandar mustered his own psychic power. A spear of warp flame erupted from his remaining hand and flew at the xenos gunships. It exploded into a wave of fire that resembled a crudely shaped avian, its heat and psychic power jostling the Aeldari while denying them a clear shot

Flanked by stormshield carrying Astartes and Custodes, the Imperial force moved at speeds mortal eyes could barely track. While numbering slightly over two hundred and fifty, the Imperials were still able to move with supernatural precision and cohesion. They darted between cover and kill zones, all of them putting flesh and steel between the Emperor and their enemies. Iskandar fired half a dozen more of his fire bolts before they reached their destination.

The spherical plaza they had arrived in would be their stronghold. Its crystalline structure was deceptively strong. That, along with its four securable gates and proximity attracted the Imperials. Pushing past its gates, they were greeted with the stench of recent death. Thousands of fallen Proximans filled the kilometer sized bubble of glass. Every single one of them was puppetered with Xenos warp craft. Armed only with meat and bone, the nobility which had so eagerly greeted the Emperor attacked the Imperial party. With disdainful ease, the Astartes and Custodes butchered them but were careful to not blunt their weapons or spend ammunition on this distraction.

The Aeldari ships floated around the plaza, occasionally testing the Imperials sanctuary with spats of weapon fire. Designed to protect against orbital dangers both natural and artificial the Crystal sphere held strong. Iskandar could not understand why the Xenos did not use more powerful weapon? He was not arrogant enough to assume the Aeldari lacked weapons of that power. What he did not understand was the severity of the Aeldari Fall. It made mankind's suffering during the Old Night seem a minor cultural setback. The vessels that floated around the sphere were not gunboats deployed as part of a fleet. They were jury-rigged pleasure craft hastaly salvaged for this mission by Cegorach's servants.

The III Legion Astartes sent ahead had cleared most of the surrounding Soul-Puppets, both flesh and wraithbone. The Hive-around the Plaza resembled a park and was sparsely inhabited. Being easily cleared of the false-dead. The bodies were burned with fire both natural and warp-based. The Primarch hated giving these poor fallen mortals rest by burning pit, but time was of the essence. The rest of the hive scrabbled towards them in a tide of puppetered flesh.

Helix shaped paths wound around the Hive spire. Beautifully crafted roads that guided traffic like a river current. Now those streets and tram ways were packed with an unliving tsunami. Every man women, and child of Proxima had been turned into a golem by Cegorach's puppeteers. Soon they would make it through the natural barriers and obstacles built into the hives structure and enter the upper-hives palatial district the Imperials hide within.

The Massive gates to the Plaza-sphere were shut with Astartes muscle and welded shut with psychic fire. All except one. The central gate would be were the Imperial forces made a stand. Iskandar and his Librarians had noticed a subtle difference between the puppets made of human flesh and the ones made of alien crystal. The Crystal ones were intelligent and powerful, carrying a fragment of the puppeteers soul within them. By contrast the flesh ones were simply injected with a bit of warp-energy to light up their lizard-brain and instill a basic command.

The enemy far, far, far outnumbered them but the vast majority of that force was mindless. Leaving one gate open gave a path of least resistance for the puppets to attack. Where the combined might of a Primarch, the Legio Custodes and Legio Astartes could hold their ground. Any crystal dolls or Aeldari warriors would lack the power to puncture the crystal sphere. Forcing them to fight among the unliving hoard, hampering the natural agility of the Xenobreed.

Soon the constant deafening roar of a billion corpses screaming eternally was matched by a thunder of footsteps. The Flesh-puppets would soon be upon them. Of the Imperials only two figures did not ready themselves for the defense. The Emperor of Mankind and his firstborn Custodes. The Master of Mankind was radiant, steeped in ancient power even as he lay half dead. Valdor kneeled beside his fallen creators comatose body and not moved. Nearly a third of the Emperors flesh was gone. Stretching from his left arm to his left eye and down to gut level. Where one would expect blood and gore a stream of light instead poured from the wound. Like sunlight pouring through a cracked plaster. Constantin Valdor grimly thought that the analogy was accurate. Muscle and bone that holding the Emperor's star like power had been split open. He could sense his creator struggling to seal himself shut and not burn everything.

Valdor knelt by the Emperor and reached into his Soul. He was no psyker, none of his kind were. That part of the human soul had been… altered in him. Still, knowledge of what he had to do came quickly. The Emperor had inserted a beacon inside his very being. Now was time to unleash it. As the first wave of Aeldari flesh-puppets came into view Constantin Valdor sent for help. A blast of golden light ripped forth from the Custodian. Shining in the Warp it seemed for a single moment the Astronomicon had a pale reflection. Bright but short lasting the signal burned itself out and left the Captain-General exhausted. It did not go unnoticed.

Across the void, in orbit of Komorokh the Bucephalus slumbered. Its arcane engines rumbling and its crew busy with matters of compliance. The intelligence that dwelt within the Master of Mankind's steed was, for lack of a better word, bored. Away from the frontlines of the Crusade and centers of Imperial power, the Cognatu Ferrum lacked in tasks. It had calculated and recalculated the logistic needs of Crusader Fleet Zero at first. Then started analyzing the vessels of both the Centauri Cluster fleets and Third Legion. Once it learned all it could the Cognatu Ferrum started drawing up battleplans against this Centauri Cluster.

This mental exercise would become disturbingly useful when a light flashed across the Warp. Picked up by the Bucphalus's collection of sensors and quickly fed to the Cognatu Ferrum. In the pillar of psychic fire was an arcane message. Encoded with a traditional Custodes cipher it proved quick work of the Cognatu Ferrum to understand. Its content was simple and sent a wave of shock through the Psychic intelligences circuits. "Proxima is a Trap. Aeldari Laughing God Puppets. The Throne is Empty."

"The Throne is Empty" A code phrase known to only the Custodians, Primarchs and a scant few trusted by the Emperor. It meant the Master of Mankind is incapactiated and possibly severely wounded. While little more than a psychic echo sculpted into a machine the Cognatu Ferrum felt panicked dread. Its existed solely to serve the Emperor. The Psi-Intellgence would do anything to save its creator. Practically no warning was given to the ships crew and surrounding Imperial fleet as the Buchphalus thundered towards the nearest Mandeville Point. Emergency broadcasts echoed from the vessels vox as it informed the rest of the Imperial fleet of its destination and the ambush underway. Quickly the Custodes and Astartes commanders divided their forces. Three quarters would head to Proxima, the rest would guard Komorokh and the other systems at the Centuari Cluster's edge. Nothing without an Aquilla mark would make it in or out of the star-cluster.

Back upon Proxima, Iskandar stood at the gate. Custodes and Astartes formed a living wall of adamantium and transhuman flesh. The message had been sent, now all they had to do was survive until it was answered. That was far easier said than done. An oceanswell of corpses rampaged across the palatial district towards them. A slight bridge and the plaza's gate would be the thin, firm line they had to hold. Organized under multiple layers of defense the Imperials would do anything to prevent the enemy from reaching the Emperor.

Terminators both Astartes and Custodes would hold the first line. They could not stop the coming horde but instead sought to break them. From a solid mass of corpses to tendrils of puppet-flesh more easily hacked to pieces. The Imperials braced with shield, axe, sword, spear and fist. Ragged corpses stretching as far as the eye could see screamed, their echoes ringing with the hideous false life they were infused with. Many of the puppets had already collapsed under the stress of the warp craft pushing them to their physical breaking point. Still, they were carried forward by sheer inertia.

Right as the tide was about to hit, Iskandar gestured forward, channeling psychic power from his remaining hand, creating a telekinetic wave that crashed into the tide. Like throwing a boulder into a tidal wave, it made a splash, scattering some corpse while burying others under their coming replacements. The attack was utterly futile at stopping the wave but that was not the purpose. Iskandar was skilled in the use of psychic power as a sensory tool. It was a probe, searching for how the enemy might be controlled.

Warp energy had been infused into the corpses on an integral level. Not easy to disrupt, but lacking in adaptability. This was not universally the case, some of puppets had 'strings' of psychic energy guiding them. Iskandar guessed that they were the alpha marionettes who were connected to Cegorach's servants and acted as conduits for commands and control over the lesser puppets. These were what needed to die. Cutting the strings might not break the spell, but it would reduce these poor wretches animated by xenos magik to droll autotomons unable to do anything beyond a single command.

The first wave smashed into the Terminator clad astartes, minced to paste by Adamantium armor and the sheer pressure of the second and third impact. Almost instantly, the Third Legion soldiers were inundated with sheer walls of bodies, ramping up and over the transhumans like a storm over a breakwall. The Terminators fought on, even as they were completely submerged beneath the bodies of their foes. Mere muscle, bone and what ever crude tools scavenged by the Aeldari puppets couldn't hope to scratch the paint on their armor. Each and every one of the astartes swung his weapon wildly. Relying on the sheer mass of the mech-suit and power-weapons to kill. Even buried under the tide of mindless flesh, the occasional crack of a Thunder Hammer or Power Fist could still be heard, always accompanied by an explosion of viscera as the impact detonated upon a swarm of corpses.

Shortly behind the Terminators were the Blade Companions and Sword Masters of the legion. These paragons of blade art became whirling masses of death, destroying scores of corpses with every single thrust and swing. Their efforts created a dancing column of blades that tore through the tide. Lastly, in a great ring around the gate, was a solid line of Astartes and Companions forming an impregnable wall. Their role was to herd the puppets back into the grinder and butchering those who somehow made their way through the armor and blades. Librarians and Sagittarum Guard worked hard to clear away the ever increasing mass of corpses.

In the center of this melee was the Primarch and his inner circle of warriors. The Talons of the Primarch, as they called themselves. A tribute to the Emperor's own elite. These warriors were handpicked and trained by Iskandar himself, trusted to not only fight by his side but also not slow him down. They had a special task: cutting the puppets' threads. They weaved through the battle and destroying the flesh puppets imbued with a strand of xeno-sorcery, taking noble satisfaction at every corpse denied a modicum of intelligence and strategy. Missing an arm and mentally exhausted, the Primarch fought like a force of nature. His Uru Blade spun around him in the form of bladed whip, reducing any enemy to enter its reach to ribbons. Rarely a crystalline golem of wraith-bone would appear in the tide. Hiding in the corpse-tide and observing Imperial defenses. Iskandar took great pleasure in destroying them.

The Imperial forces fought for days without rest, even as the plaza's exterior was covered in a layer of crawling corpses. A veritable carpet of scrabbling bodies clambering upon each other, and whatever handholds they could find purchase. All sought to reach the gate, which increasingly resembled a waterfall of bodies pouring from every direction into the plaza. The gold and purple of the defenders was hidden behind coats of burnt gore and dried blood. Custodes and Astartes practically indistinguishable such was the mess of ichor covering them. The enemy was individually weak, but almost innumerable in quantity. These flesh puppets tired the warriors of the Imperium not through skill or intensity, but by sheer numbers. The sun set and rose again as they fought on. The Librarians taking turns channeling warp-flames to burn away the corpses. Leaving the Plaza covered in a film of greasy ash. Only one space was clean of the filth. A rough oval around the Master of Mankind. Whose golden light burned away even the wretched stain.

The battle raged on and the Imperiums warriors held strong. Facing down an enemy a billion strong is an impossible feat. Yet with a Primarch his sons and the Emperor's own custodians it was seeming somehow within reach. For five whole days the Transhumans hacked and smashed through the horde. Rotating from the front lines to rest and requip only when their weapons were pushed to the brink.

Allarus Custodian Doukas Meroving was nearing the end of one of these shifts. The fierce Custodes had spent eighteen hours as part of the battle line. Hacking away at the never-ending flood of flesh-puppets. Pure scornful hate filled him as he swung his power axe through the dancing corpses. The imperials had stopped using the power-fields on their weapons days ago. The nearly unblemishable killing edge of Terran metal serving its purpose. No need for extra wear caused by the disruptive energy current. Doukas was a third generation Custodes. Born during the Unification Wars final days. Serving the Emperor ever since. His body and mind could operate in a warzone for days or even weeks without proper rest. Yet that was not what he was doing. This was plain butchery. Trying to stop a river with sheer force. It wore on his armor, his weapons, and even on him.

That slight wear on him, not enough for any but a fellow transhuman to notice provided a chink in his armor. A slight opening imperceptible to even him. So when an atom-sharp blade of Xeno-make slipped past his guard, and into his throat. Without him even noticing. Doukas died confused and bewildered. Choking on his own blood. Out of the tide of corpses, a phantom slithered. Cloaked in shimmering crystal and bedecked with motley armor. The phantom stared up at the dying custodes, with an ivory mask. Clutching the elegant blade in its hands, the Xeno whispered in its exotic tongue "Mael dannan" and parted Doukas's head from his shoulders.

Warning runes flashed across the Imperial Defenders helmet display. Informing them of Custodian Doukas's death. Then barely giving any warning of what came next. Like ancient predators of terran jungles, figures exploded out of the sea of corpses. Dancing between the transhuman defenders and rushing towards the Emperor. Thirteen Aeldari warriors moved at impossible speeds. All wore identical masks. Ivory faces of androgenous perfection, marred by daemonic horns and shrouded by a deep cowl. These were the Arebennian, Avatars of She who Thirsts. Known across the galaxy by an ironic nickname born of their isolation and uncertain fate. The Solitaire of Cegorach.

Bitter fury burned in Iskandar's heart as he saw the Xeno assassins. Easily matching them in speed the Primarch intercepted the Harlequin. His adonais face contorted in a rictus of fury. Roaring a challenge in his Assa-Matrari dialect of gothic: "On ne passe pas!" These hollow-soul clowns would die by his hand. Swinging his Uru-Blade down upon a Solitaries sword with god-like force. Iskandar felt the Xeno's crystal bones crack, it could stop his blow but not the transhuman power behind it. Gesturing with his stump he summoned a wave of force that smashed the Solitaire back into the corpse tide. The puppets jumped to cushion the impact with their rotten flesh. The Maerion-Tur puppet-masters were playing their part, using the corpse-puppets as armor and weapons for the Solitaries.

Leaping forward the Primarch faced down six of the Solitaries by himself. His Uru-Blade shifting between sword and whip in each moment. Bringing a cascade of strikes the Solitaries struggled to deflect or dodge. These motley clad warrior-priests coursed with psychic power and forbidden knowledge. Each could match a Custodes easily. Iskandar danced between the enemies blades and mono-filaments with disdainful ease. To the Harlequin everything was a performance, even this deadly feat of dueling a Primarch. Moving with a rhythm and elegance simultaneously beautiful and disturbing to human eyes. Iskandar started to barely decipher this Dance without End. Each killing blow he should have made struck an afterimage or flesh-puppets. He was faster and stronger then any Aeldari could ever hope to be. Yet even the Primarch could not find a weakness in a style of combat with sixty million years to perfect itself.

A talon of the Third Legion strayed from his formation. Pulled by the meticcous blade craft, forced to dodge and parry till outside his brothers sword-reach. Instantly the Xenos congregated. Riding upon waves of corpses, all thirteen Solitaires attacked. One moment they surrounded the Astartes. Next they plunged back into the corpse walls. The Talon collapsed into a pile of severed limbs and splintered metal. Thirteen blades had cleaved him apart faster than he could react. This could not continue, Iskandar would not let his sons and comrades be cut down like this. If the Aeldari wanted to make war into a performance. The Primarch would oblige them.

Psychic power poured into the Ur-gold medallion dangling from his neck. Iskandar awoke his gift. The Singers Talisman flared to life. Within it was the accumulated beauty and artistry of mankind. Every emotion and sensation ever invoked by creativity left an echo in the Warp. An echo that reverberated in every human soul. Now the Singers talisman harmonized with Iskandar and bled into real space.

Drumbeats of war and horns of victory blared in each and every Imperials mind. The talents and technique of untold billions converted into visceral power. It brought new crystal focus to the transhumans. Reinvigorating taught muscles and fried nerves. Giving insight into the Solitaires dances and dervishes. Protecting from illusions both psychic and physical. Encapsulating each in rainbow-flames that burned away the puppet-strings on any corpse-doll ordered near them.

At the center of this was Iskandar, the primarch awash in kaleidoscope energy. The Singers talisman when awakened with sufficient psychic power called out into the Warp. Harnessing the untold power of human creativity. Such a force is near unstoppable. Equally wonderful and terrible. Mankind's most primal imprint upon the sea of souls unleashed. Creating a conduit of wild magik and mystery. It would not be trapped, it would not be contained. Once awoken and set free into the materium it would not be sated with empowering a few souls and extinguishing other. It fell the the Primarch to bar the gates of reality. A living dam to keep the floodwaters at bay and harness the current. In the coming ages mankind would be worthy of this power and its potential. For now the Singers Talisman and the Hammer Talisman must be both kept under guard. Used only at the discretion of the Emperor's sons.

Now the Primarch bloomed with this power. Giddy on the majesty of human creativity. Guarding and controlling the Singers Talisman would wear down the Primarch. Damaging his mind, body and soul in ways even he could not heal from. Time could not be wasted. Invoking this power was an act of desperate foolishness. A scared child doing anything he could to save his parents. Still one could not deny its effectiveness. The battle shifted against the Aeldari corpse-puppets and Iskandar Basileus struck.

First the Primarch exploded forward at a prancing Solitaire. The Xeno was the least of its kin-warriors. Flinching at the corona of tecnicolor energy pouring through the crystal plaza. Breaking the dance without end and sealing its doom. The Uru-Blade shaped into a longsword ripped through the Solitaires skull and spine. Lodging itself in the dying Aeldari as the Primarch released his weapon. Whirling on the spot, Iskandar used his now free hand to grip a jumping Solitaire by the leg. The Xeno had tried to use its comrades death to create an opening. Its motley armor cracked and stained red as Iskandar brought it crashing down. Grinning madly Iskandar ripped his sword from the first dead Eldar and spoke: "Two down, eleven to go"