TRUE END- Bittersweet ending. Some things go right, other things go wrong. Some sacrifices have to be made, but most people are happy in the end.
Well, you got the “bitter” part right at least.
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The Warp screamed around them.
This was no strange thing, for the lashes were no less storm-ravaged than the rest of the Eye. In its edges and outskirts, the eternal storm raged with a ferocity that defied belief, capable of scattering even the largest fleets, humbling the mightiest lords of Chaos as those of their forces not scattered across time and space were dashed apart. The tattered remnants rarely lasted long, for they were easy prey for roving Loyalist patrols.
Fickle favour and Imperial vigilance were two inescapable realities of life.
Even so, with the correct rites, careful bargaining and a sufficient number of sacrifices it was possible for a determined Warsmith to force his way out, though not without suffering a reduction in ships. Mixed with the maddening howl of the Empyrean and piercing the stifling silence on the bridge, the whispers of the Neverborn could be heard, guiding the weeping thrall-navigators. Had the ship possessed viewports, strange astral predators would have been visible. Once, in the distant ages of Old Earth, aquatic predators had stalked sea-bound vessels and devoured scraps thrown overboard. Here, their counterparts fed on the souls of the dead - and the minds of the weak.
With a final groan of metal forced past the limits of material endurance, the Dominance of Olympia tore its way into real-space, and hell came with it. Ship after ship made the transition, ranging from immense Battle-Barges and capital ships to smaller frigates and lightly armed bulk transports. Even having suffered significant losses from turbulence in the Empyrean, the fleet was vast. The outermost listening stations did not last long, and soon they had been put to the torch, their defenders slain and their serf-citizens enslaved. As the fleet drew closer to Zegurael II and the vessels of the Imperial Navy deployed alongside the veteran naval system defence, battle was at last truly joined. Here was an adversary somewhat worthy of the name, for among the mortals were mongrel bastards of Guilliman to be found – disgusting Primaris aberrant, no less.
Had Horus not warned them, that the Legions were to be erased and the Emperor deified? Guilliman had returned for less than a solar year before signing the death-warrant of the Astartes foolish enough to chain themselves to the corrupted Imperium, evidently not satisfied with merely cutting the Loyalists down into Chapters.
Their much-vaunted courage and honour matched their feeble strength. Neither Navy nor false Astartes could halt the tide of traitors. In truth, the Chaos force was barely slowed, and it was not long before the last loyal souls above Zegurael II joined with their Corpse-Emperor, the ruin of their fleet scattered across the void of space. Mere hours later, the skies were dominated by the Iron Warrior fleet. As mighty bastions weathered the bombardment as best they could and void shields flickered and flared and died, as the sky was darkened by landing vessels and choking ash, the remaining regiments of the Steel Legion readied for war, bolstered by children in strange armour.
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His Grand Company was dead.
Oh, the corpse still twitched. Individual squadron sergeants were attempting to rally the handful of surviving Legionnaires, but those pitiful few remnants were unlikely to have the strength to carry his banner further. If they survived to escape to Medrengard, they would be swallowed by the hosts of other Warsmiths. Perhaps a few would join the Despoiler’s false Legion, or else abandon their colours and live as honourless mercenaries – it didn’t matter. Nothing could expunge their failures here, his failures. The Dominance was dead, reduced by a surprise assault of an entire fleet of Eldar death-cultists. Her sister-ships, the Malevolence and the Stalwart Sentinel, had tried and failed to halt the Macragge’s Honour. The rest of the fleet was scattering or dying, a handful of ships trying to recover the grounded troops.
At first, the invasion had gone well. The commanders of the PDF and the Steel Legion had failed to cooperate, and it had been a simple matter to draw the mechanised Guardsmen, used to battling predictable Ork Xenos, into terrain that limited the movement of their Chimera transports. As tracks split and fell apart, a raiding force of Bikers had struck their supply convoys and burned them to slag, leaving the Steel Legion stranded in a poisoned waste, half a continent away from food and water.
Bereft of their mobile veterans, it should not have been complicated to encircle them and destroy them in detail – not even the yellow Libator Primaris would have been able to prevent this, and had Guilliman not brought the entire fucking Indomitus Crusade down on his head, his victory would have been assured.
Instead, humiliating defeat as his mortal soldiers died in their millions, ships burned in their dozens, and hundreds of honourable Iron Warriors fell against thousands of Primaris monstrosities.
He should have been angry beyond words, livid, furious, enraged – he should have commanded his ships to deploy virus bombs and take Guilliman’s whores down with him, he should have challenged Guilliman to single combat and safeguarded the honour of the IV Legions Astartes against the encroachment of the blue rats and their army of mongrels.
Instead, a malfunctioning artefact had torn a dozen of his sorcerers apart and opened a path through the Warp, leading… leading…
Leading home.
He saw thousands of Iron Warriors discussing architecture, metalwork and politics. Every Legionnaire who had given their life to further his ambition and that of his Legion, safe and happy and satisfied. They did not wear their Legion plate, for there was no need. Instead they wore comfortable robes, drank fine wines and ate good food. A small group of them appeared to be sharing caustic jokes at the expense of the Imperial Fists.
He stepped forward, then hesitated.
No.
Not yet.
The portal flickered and died, and all was silent.
He strode over to the battered comms-unit of his wrecked command-bunker, and began to rally his remaining forces.
The Dominance may have died, but the Malevolence might yet be saved if the Sentinel was sacrificed. Near a hundred Legionnaires remained on the surface, twice that number in space, perhaps another hundred scattered across the Tower and Despot I-IV. The losses he had sustained would diminish him for centuries, not least for the lost equipment dating back to the Crusade – near irreplaceable Terminator plate, Dreadnoughts, volkite and plasma and…
And nothing he couldn’t weather.
One way or another, he would burn the false Imperium to the ground – It was the purpose of his Legion, to destroy the enemies of Man no matter the cost to themselves. The Xenos would wait their turn. Guilliman and his hypocrisies would be addressed in time – for now, to salvage what could be salvaged, and to make safe the Towerfrom encroachment.
Iron Within. Iron Without.