Day 22, Continued
Eight regiments, wearing the garb of Malum's PDF, sat in silence as trains as wide as warehouses sped down railways, carrying them towards their enemy. They were quiet and dead-eyed, heads bowed as though in silent prayer. The only signs of life among them were the sounds of breathing, easily smothered by the mechanisms that mobilized them.
Only one train was different, only oneneededany commotion that was equally as pointless. In this train, soldiers chatted about nothing, joked, and double-checked their already pristine equipment. Because, in this the foremost train, they were not alone.
A thousand Sisters of Battle and nearly twice that number in servants walked about, unaware that almost every single one of them had already been infected. The only exceptions among them were those who had kept their helmets on for one reason or another or those who couldn't remove them. Tide was well-aware of the fact that not even one of the Sororitas' Tech-Priests, including those who could remove their breath filters, was infected. That they were more aware of Organism-04 than the Canoness and yet had said nothing was… telling.
The battle in Deimos, seen from afar by Purilla, the Planetary Governor, and a steadily growing, but select group of individuals he'd carefully infected, had ended less than an hour ago. His own battle, based off estimations of the damage caused to the rails, was approaching as rapidly as the trains that carried his forces.
Elsewhere, Tide was already working on increasing the number of his Puppet regiments. While he had more than enough of the biomass to spare to field an army even thrice the size of this one, he lacked the material resources that could arm such a force. His Underhive factories were still growing in size, complexity, and number, but it would be some time before they leveled out with his current rate of growth via biomass. Especially now that he was starting to spread through the Underhive via Flork mold in addition to his spores.
More concerningly, eventually he would run out of scrap and salvage to arm his forces with. While the Underhive was a vast treasure trove, he was essentially ripping it bare of anything that wasn't a structural support and his efforts were only growing. He'd have to begin using the mines of Malum to start harvesting raw materials. That the expansion of such mines would double as excellent hiding places for his growing reserves of biomass was simply an added benefit.
The Inquisitor's infection had been a long time coming, though he'd been surprised by the amounts of sympathy he'd felt from Purilla towards her former abuser. The psyker was a kind soul, he knew that perhaps even better than she did, but that she was even willing to extend genuine pity to someone like Ellen in a time of need was… Well, it was humbling. Tide could not say for sure if he would have taken the high road as she had.
He could empathize with some of Ellen's feelings and the despair she felt, but none of that made up for her past actions. He'd refrained from interacting with Ellen beyond simply infecting her for the moment. She was too fragile to really do anything with and… well, Tide honestly wasn't surewhathe wanted to do with her now that he had her at his mercy.
For the moment, the core of his attention turned to what was quickly becoming his most personable puppet, Marcus Agrippa, and the Sister of Battle treading towards him.
Serrita felt good.Reallygood. Possibly the best she'd ever felt. Her steps felt lighter, her sight sharper, even the weight of her armor seemed lessened. Was this the tension she had been told of that came before battle? While she had not fought in any conflicts as a true Sister of Battle, the training of an Adeptas Sororitas ensured all of them were, in some respect, a veteran. There were none untested among their ranks. She had felt battle tension before and this was different. Was it because she would now face true enemies of the Imperium in open war? She wasn't sure.
Still, her spirits were high, as were those of her Sisters, save a few of the true veterans who rarely seemed pleased about anything and the Repentias who were the dourest and most focused among them. Still, she could tell they were not displeased in this moment. To go to war with His foes… It was the reason for their entire existence and they had been denied the honor for too long.
Malum's PDF were similarly of good morale, though Serrita wasn't sure if the Sisters had infected them with their cheer or vice-versa. They joked and laughed, though it all seemed somewhat subdued, perhaps to match the level of the Sisters. Serrita thought that was a shame, as she wondered what they might have acted without the presence of the Adeptas Sororitas.
Their colonel, Marcus Agrippa, didn't seem to have time for such displays of comradery, focused as he was on his work. Though adept in the art of battle and an adept tactician, Serrita could freely admit she was no strategist, but Agrippa seemed well-suited to the task.
At the very least, he wasverybusy when she entered one of the many compartments in the front car of the train, one that had been taken over by their small Crusade as a command center. He was a flurry of motion, moving from one hastily set-up vox station or display to another, issuing orders that spoke of supply lines, timesheets, and other logistical terms that Serrita was familiar with and knew the importance of, but would have had very much difficulty dealing with herself.
Although the Canoness had been given overall command, Serrita couldn't help but notice the lack of any of her Sisters other than Praxiah, save the pair of Celestians guarding the door. There were servants of the Order and tech-priests that bore the holy symbols depicting them as attachments to the Cleansing Rains, but no Battle-Sisters. An oddity that caused her eyes to narrow slightly.
"Canoness," Serrita came to a stop behind the taller woman and made the sign of the Aquilla. Without her helmet, Serrita could see Praxiah's solid white hair and when she turned the piercing brown eyes set in a heavily scarred face which was missing several chunks of flesh from her cheeks, lips, and ears. The God-Emperor had tested the older Sister many times in her Crusades throughout the Ghoul Stars and Praxiah had yet to be found wanting.
By comparison, Serrita's own face was empty of scars. She'd taken wounds there in her life, of course, but they'd been surgically repaired at her own request upon joining the Order. It wasn't required by any means, but many of the Cleansing Rain's younger Sisters saw only scars taken in His service as a true Battle Sister to be ones worthy of bearing. As a result, few in the Order save the true veterans like Praxiah had any scars.
"Legatine," Praxiah responded with a nod. "Our scouts have determined the traitors of Janus are not content to let us throw off their tyranny and restore the order of His Imperium. They have sent a force, either to intercept us or to siege Malum."
Serrita listened with rapt attention, but she could not help the tiniest wrinkling of her nose at that knowledge. There had been the chance, however small, that the four hives had seceded by misunderstanding rather than outright treachery. It was still an act that would have to be punished, of course, assuming they swiftly begged to return to the fold and accepted their purge quietly, but it was not as decriable as a full-blown betrayal.
This proved that such was not to be the case.
Praxiah gestured to the display she had been standing in front of, one which depicted the tunnel spanning the distance between Malum and Janus. Their own trains were marked by green light on one side, swiftly moving. On the other side, moving more slowly, were red lights, moving to meet them at a middle section, where a vast section of the tunnel had been destroyed.
"We believe their trains are not as well-maintained as our own, hence their slower speed," Praxiah said, glancing at Agrippa, who seemed unaware of their conversation. "It seems the colonel ordered repairs and maintenance be moved forward ahead of our arrival. The traitor leadership seems to lack that foresight or is otherwise impaired."
"Such is the blindness of those without His light to guide them," Serrita said and Praxiah offered a smile, a strange thing that revealed too much of her teeth due to the missing flesh.
"Indeed," She agreed before continuing. "We will take advantage of this. By the estimations of Logis Calarn," she gestured to the head of the Order's tech-priest attachments who was standing nearby, his mechadendrites plugged into several of the train's systems, "We will reach the center of the tunnel three hours before our enemy. That gives us a decisive advantage I intend to take full advantage of. We will garrison a defense at the end of their stretch of tunnel and hold there. The number of trains and, most likely, the forces they have is greater than our own numbers, so we will let them bleed themselves against us."
The plan was… unusual, Serrita noted. Sisters of Battle were not defensive fighters, like some in the Guard or the Adeptus Astartes. They did not hold the line, but pushed it forward, rallying those around them to do so, whatever the cost. They had whole units dedicated to shock and awe, like the winged Seraphims and the Repentias.
Something of her surprise must have shown on her face, because Praxiah grimaced. "I understand you may not be as pleased with this plan as one where we take the fight to our enemy… But you will still be able to honor His name in this battle.Youshall be commanding the defense."
Serrita blinked. That… couldn't be right. She was an officer, yes, but not one of that high a rank! Not to mention, she was not a true veteran, could she really-?
She squashed the doubt beginning to bubble up inside her and schooled her face into one of grim determination, trying to match the fierce look in Praxiah's own expression. "I will endeavor to do my duty in His name, Canoness."
"See that you do," Praxiah nodded. "For you will have only one regiment of Malum's PDF under your command, along with three companies of your Sisters and our armor contingent. The rest of the Order and the PDF will be required for another task. Colonel Agrippa will assist you."
"Yes, Canoness."
The trains of Janus were filled with a thick, virulent stench. The blessed scents of disease and rot were ever-present, accompanied by the soft groans of suffering of those few troopers who had not yet fully succumbed to the concoctions crafted by Doctor Ferrik.
Twenty regiments of PDF, ten million new children of the Grandfather. Minus a few that had not survived the onset of decay or had tried to escape. Such small minds, Ferrik knew, unwilling to embrace the truth of the universe.
He drank deep of their suffering, feeling himself grow even more bloated as new plagues filled and swelled his mortal body. He would have to thank 'Lord' Ahsael if he cared to ever thank a follower of the loving Grandfather's rivals. While the fallen angel had told him to refrain from sharing his afflictions, and would surely be displeased to learn of just how vehemently Ferrik had disobeyed him, there would be little issue once all of Malum had fallen to the Grandfather's beloved. Ferrik's own might alone would certainly grow to match even the sorcerer's great power and his viral armies would become unstoppable.
Ferrik waddled through the corridors of the train, entering the only section where the scent was not that of rot and decay. His nose curled at the difference. Instead of the smells of the Grandfather, it was the unwelcome filth of his rivals.
Chained in iron that was not just iron, a hundred and more pairs of eyes gazed at him from the darkness. Some snarled and rattled against their chains, trying to break their physical bindings as much as the spells that held them. Others whispered alluring nothings, promises of power in exchange for freedom. Finally, and most detestably, some just laughed, cackling as though everything were some joke.
Not one of the hundred daemonhosts provided to him by Ahsael was bound to a neverborn of Nurgle. Tzeentch was the most heavily represented, but Khorne and Slaanesh also had their wretches present. Only the Grandfather was excluded and Ferrik could only believe that was intentional. Few things with Ahsael and his lot weren't.
He'd have to have them all put down once he took Malum and no longer needed them. With luck, he wouldn't require them at all and could keep them bound. A thousand Sisters of Battle were a threat, but a minor one, nothing before a force ten thousand times their sizeandblessed by Nurgle's might. And, should the faith they held in the Corpse-Emperor falter, the Plague Lord would gladly welcome them into his toxic embrace.
Ferrik sneered at the daemonhosts and left the otherwise empty section, content in the knowledge that they remained bound and trapped. Perhaps, one day, he would help the Plaguefather chain his rivals like that.
The cackling of the daemonhosts grew louder and he imagined he heard the laughter of something greater behind their voices. Three things, to be specific.
His waddle was just slightly faster leaving than it had been coming in.
While the PDF were not as well-equipped as the Guard, Malum was not defenseless by any means and Tide had made sure the regiments leaving to liberate Janus were given the best of what the city could provide. At least, the best of what wouldn't raise any eyebrows or accusing glares from any tech-priests who actually knew anything about anything.
Mostly, this was in the form of heavy stubbers and lots of explosive devices, ranging from hand grenades to breaching charges. Few of his PDF had anything better than an autogun, but he had enough fun stuff to turn a tunnel into a killing ground. The regiment under the command of Serrita, who he'd recommended through the voice of Marcus Agrippa solely because she didn't seem as batsh*t insane as certainothersamong the Cleansing Rains and Sisters in general, would make itself into an excellent bulwark.
What Tide was less certain about was how he would reign in the Sisters without relying on more direct methods. Zealots were wont to martyr themselves and he'd rather keep their deaths to a minimum if possible. Not to mention the fact that if they started a 'glorious charge' his own forces would be expected to abandon their extremely advantageous positions to assist and that could cause a great many problems in a bad situation.
Revealing himself to them was not in the cards, at least not at this stage. Even if he lied and pretended to be some kind of Saint or vision of the Emperor, more than a few would certainly be doubtful if not outright rejecting him as the imposter he was. He could not outright take control of their minds and make them do anything unusual without causing alarm among the tech-priests. The same tech-priests who he knew were checking their own consistently for any signs of Organism-04. He could try to infect them all at once, but he suspected more than one had replaced enough of their brains with mechanical components that he wouldn't be able to fully control them.
With luck, Marcus Agrippa could ensure Serrita was not going to expend a needless number of her Sisters on a frontal assault. That was the whole point of this plan the 'good colonel' had pitched to the Canoness, after all. He didn't mind losing his Puppets all that much, they were inherently replaceable after all, but letting the Sisters of the Cleansing Rains kill themselves in suicidal charges did not sit right with him.
Which led him to his…otherimpending problem. His enemies were human.
True, the genestealers had sent armies of humans, but those had been infected. Anything of their former spirits were gone and they were not that different from his Puppets in that respect. It wasn't their fault they had been infected and he wasn't happy about killing them by any means, but it was necessary.
This was much the same, he knew. Chaos corrupted those it touched and these humans were serving Chaos. Knowingly or not, they were his enemies, aiding the cysts in reality that were the Chaos Gods… But that was the same line of thinking as many inquisitors and others in the Imperium had and it led to an assumption of guilt by association.
He didn't want to be like that, but did he have a choice? Even if the enemies he faced appeared corrupted and monstrous… He didn't want to kill them if he didn't have to. Could he save them? Heal them of their corruption somehow? He didn't know.
He couldn't take chances, or could he? The galaxy was dark and vicious and often punished those who were anything but the same in their actions… But did he have to be the same to survive?
He was going to kill millions of people in the next few hours. They didn't deserve to die. The genestealer cultists hadn't deserved to die either. At best, he could infect their bodies and ensure their souls entered his Domain, where they could rest and he could try to undo anything that had harmed them… But he wasn't going to be able to save them all. How many souls would the Chaos Gods gain this day, sent screaming into their wretched embrace because of what he was about to do?
True, they'd probably cause more harm further down the road if he let them live. He'd be saving untold numbers of innocents by defeating the cult, not to mention protecting his own existence… But he would still be killing them.
It was too easy to let his mind drift from its focus. To let his emotions get lost in the sea of information, cause and effect, action and reaction that were his senses. Not to shut down, but to stop caring, to stop considering the individual and only look at the whole.
That was how the Precursors saw things, he suspected. It explained a lot of their actions, how they could seemingly be both callous and nurturing. They didn't see individuals so much as they saw wholes. It was not that certain persons were worthy of holding the Mantle of Responsibility, the custodianship of the galaxy and of life itself, it was that a certainspecieswas worthy. In the case of the Halo universe, humanity had succeeded where the Forerunners had failed. He wondered if the Precursors, almost certainly being multiversal beings, had ever visited the 40k universe.
Probably not if they still thought humanity as a species was worthy of such a thing.
Then again, he was doing the same thing to the Precursors, ascribing them all to a single point of view. The Primordial, the precursor mind in control of the Flood from Halo, was all but proof that its kind were not all alike in their world views. Tide, if he could even really be called a Precursor give his situation, was certainly not familiar with his own kind all that much.
Maybe, one day, he could leave this universe and seek out others. Then again, that would essentially be abandoning this universe to its fate…
He pushed such thoughts aside for the moment. While he was not distracted by them, his multitasking abilities had grown as vast as his gravemind form had, he simply didn't wish to think about them for now. He had more immediate concerns.
Namely, that they had just arrived at the center of the tunnel.
The tunnel that connected Malum and Janus was close to a kilometer wide out of sheer necessity for the number and size of the trains expected to run between them. The orks, perhaps out of a sense of cutting off the supply lines of their enemies combined with an uncanny aim or, far more likely, out of sheer dumb luck, had crashed one of their rock fortresses directly onto the tunnel, causing a rupture along its length that totally destroyed a near-kilometer of the structure.
There were a few orks left in their miniature fortress, but not enough to mount an actual defense and these were swiftly purged by a strike team of Sisters equipped with flamers while the regiment of PDF surrounded and shot any orks attempting to flee from the makeshift bastion. Even while this purge was being undertaken, the majority of the 22nd Malum Cohort was moving into position on the Janus side of the destroyed tunnel, bottlenecking that section with as many heavy weapons emplacements as they could cram into its width, gathering up the broken scrap of the tunnel and stacking it into defensive fortifications.
Colonel Agrippa was given quite a bit of leeway in how he positioned his troops by Serrita, something he took full advantage of.
"Place our heaviest weapons along the sides of the tunnel on the platform, keep them off the railways," Agrippa said, dragging his fingers over the areas indicated on the hastily drawn battlemap of the tunnel. It was really just a series of freshly inked lines scratch onto a plastek flimsy, but it was functional in the image it produced. "The center will have to be held with regular infantry. If the enemy get it into their heads to break through by throwing a train at us, I don't want to lose any of the more powerful equipment."
Serrita nodded. The logic was sound and, if the enemydidattempt such a dishonorable attack, their losses would mainly be in manpower rather than more important things like heavy stubbers or tanks.
"We can hope they'll avoid that and instead try to break through the old-fashioned way," Agrippa added. "If they think our center is weak, we can let them push us back there and then descend on them from the sides."
"What of our tanks?" Another man, a major whose name Serrita had never been told, spoke up. She wondered what he was talking about, as Agrippa had already said their heavy weapons would be on the sides of the tunnel, but the colonel responded with a different answer.
"We should keep them near the back. Make a few piles of scrap and put the tanks on top of them to shoot off of."
"Would it not be better to keep them near the front lines, where their armor may do the most good?" Serrita questioned, before realizing the mistake she had just made. She was in command here, her question could inadvertently be viewed as an order when she was really just curious about why Agrippa had made the decision.
"As you wish, Legatine," Agrippa nodded, his face a stony mask. She couldn't tell if he was displeased with the change in plan or if he thought she had deeper reasoning for it. "Place them near the front on the flanks."
Serrita would have to be more careful with her words from now on. She was more used to being given orders rather than the other way around. Some of her superiors in the Order often thought of her as too independent a thinker, partly because she dared to occasionally ask for clarification and partly due to her other tendencies and she had found it too easy to fall back into that role when she was meant to be leading.
The rest of the planning session concluded quickly after that. Around a hundred thousand men and women of the 22nd were packed into just under two kilometers of tunnel, packing it to the brim with weapons, bodies, and armor. Another three hundred thousand would be arrayed outside the tunnel's entrance, building yet further defenses in case the enemy managed to get through. And, should all that still not be enough to stop the tide of enemies, the final hundred thousand would provide a third and final layer of defense before the enemy would have a shot at reaching Malum.
"Finally, our elites, the Sisters," Agrippa said, turning to face Serrita along with the majors.
"The Order of the Cleansing Rain will fight as we always do, at the front," Serrita said firmly, though she knew that her words weren't entirely true. Of those Sisters she was leading into battle this day, only a score had seen a true battle, let alone one of this scale.
They were few, but their presence would have a powerful effect on the rank-and-file, Serrita was sure. They were His Adeptas Sororitas, after all.
Hours later, the trains of the enemy could not be seen, but could be heard when they halted, the screeching of metal against metal and the rumbling of the slowing colossi heard and felt from kilometers away. Despite what she had expected, the 22nd seemed to be in neutral spirits, if not good. Where before they had been hearty and cheerful, now they were grim, professional in a way she hadn't expected from local PDF, even battle-hardened as they were.
Serrita could appreciate the stoicism, though she wished they'd had a greater reaction when the battle-chants and hymns of her Sisterhood began. The 22nd did not seem particularly fervorous now, only quietly determined. Perhaps they were nervous. She couldn't quite find it in herself to blame them for a lack of zeal. She was nervous too, after all.
Serrita, rather than command from the center with Agrippa and his staff, had taken to the front. Perhaps it was needlessly dangerous, but the colonel didn't seem to really need her there and she was a better fighter than she was a general.
She spoke prayers to Him on Terra and asked for His light to guide not only her hand, but also those of all under her command this day.
"They have gathered quite a harvest for us to reap, Doctor," Ferrik's second-in-command, one of the cultists most blessed by Nurgle upon Monstrum, a man who had taken the holy name of Festil, said. He was taller and more muscular than Ferrik, though still bloated by sickness, appearing like not unlike a waterlogged giant, though he was not close to the size of a space marine like Ahsael. Where Ferrik was a scholar, Festil was a warrior and it could be seen in their appearances, beyond their disease-ridden flesh.
Their scouts had reported the gathering of enemy troops at the end of their broken tunnel. Ferrik hoped to repair the tunnel to resume transit between the hives, if only because it would allow the diseases of his cult to spread more easily once Malum had fallen, so he'd held off from the tactic of sending one of their trains crashing into the enemy's lines. Instead, they'd disembarked some kilometers away and were now in the midst of marching towards the foe. Ferrik and Festil now viewed a hastily sketched battlemap made from a scrap of flesh that one cultist had removed like a scab.
"Indeed," Ferrik agreed, thick folds of his flesh shaking as he rumbled with mirth before breaking out into hacking coughs from his partially liquified lungs. "They no doubt still believe us to merely be unenlightened mortals like themselves."
"It is a shame they will not live to see the love of the Grandfather," Festil said, tears of pus streaking down his face. Ferrik smiled and placed a caring hand atop his lieutenant's shoulder, bursting a cluster of pustules and releasing a variety of airborne blights.
"Their souls shall be the rot that grows the Garden," Ferrik comforted his crying companion. "Send them to his viral embrace."
Festil nodded, still sniffling, before straightening and putting on a brave face, perhaps for Ferrik's benefit. He waved over a man who looked as though his flesh had partially melted into the vox caster he bore on his back. "Send forth the feeders."
The sound of the enemy approaching was not that of an ordered army on the march, but the slow shuffling of the mob, quieter than what an army should have produced. The lights of the tunnel were only partially powered, casting everything in a dim, flickering light, and a thick mist, a pale fog had settled. Whether it was steam, runoff from some massive engine, or something more sinister, none were certain. Visibility was low, but when there was only one possible direction to come from… it wasn't really needed.
"Fire."
The order came down across all vox channels. Unlike the Imperial Guard, the forces of the Malum 22nd were autoguns rather than more advanced laser weaponry. As a result, the flash they produced was relatively muted in comparison to what even a tenth their number of lasguns could have created, but the thunderous cacophony they created was far more deafening. Serrita's helmet was barely able to reduce the violent sound of endless autogun fire to something that wouldn't permanently damage her hearing, so she was not sure how the PDF, whose helmets lacked any such systems beyond the barest physical countermeasures, could manage to not go deaf instantly. She wondered if they had and just didn't care.
The heavier weapons of the tanks joined their voices to the chorus of blasts and Serrita could make out shambling forms through the fog, temporarily outlined by explosions before disappearing less than a second later. Something was… off about those shapes, but she wasn't sure what. The weapons of the Sisters were not drowned out by the noise of thousands of autoguns and cannon fire, the bark of bolterfire cutting a clear note.
For nearly a full minute, the tunnel in front of them was an unending torrent of death and destruction, the walls and floor shaking from the sheer amount of shrapnel and ballistics flying through the air. The smell of death grew thick in the tunnel, even through the filters of her helmet.
Despite this, Serrita was astonished to see the outlines of the enemy continuing to appear closer and closer. They should have been scything down rank after rank of their enemy, far faster than those behind the newly dead could gain ground before being themselves cut down, not at the shambling gait they seemed to be moving at. How was this possible?
Then, Serrita saw their first enemy shamble into sight through the fog and she inhaled sharply, a cold chill crawling down her spine.
The creature before her, for it was no man, was missing half of its head, the top half of it appearing to have been blown off by an autogun round, yet it strode forward nonetheless, its tongue flapping wildly like a writhing serpent in its jaw. The walking corpse, for how could it be anything else, looked desiccated and starved, barely a bag of bones. It walked with stilted movements, its body riddled with holes some as small as a fingertip others that of a fist having been blown through it. Its uniform, not so unlike that of Malum's own PDF, was ripped and shredded in places. In one hand, it carried an autogun like a club, rendered incapable of realizing the true potential of the weapon it held because of the corruption that gripped it.
Serrita fired her bolter at the abomination and watched its torso explode in a shower, not of gore, but a festering, yellowish-green substance that could not have been anything as natural as blood. The liquid splattered far and a glob of it landed near her boot. She thought she saw it twitch almost as if it were alive and she wasn't sure if this foul corruption actually was or simply being shaken by the tunnel's own vibrations.
She had no time for questions, however, as more creatures emerged from the fog. Almost every one of them bore wounds that should have slain them, yet they continued on without issue and Serrita snarled before speaking into her vox.
"Canoness, our foe has fallen to the dark powers!" She spat with burning rage as she fired a barrage of bolter rounds into the encroaching horde, joined by her Sisters. "They bear signs of disease and sickness!"
"I understand, Legatine,"The Canoness replied."The plan remains the same. Hold fast. We will purge them and all of their wretched kind."
"Yes, Canoness!" Serrita switched vox channels, speaking to the Sisters who fought alongside her now. "Flamers to the front! Purify this corrupt filth in sacred fire!"
Tide had expected the enemy to be corrupted to some degree, but this was a bit fast, even for a plague god. He knew there would be some cultists who had been mutated by Chaos, but an army of this size was just…
He really shouldn't have been surprised.He'dinfected an entire hive city in roughly two weeks, after all. The Imperium's hygiene and medical care available to the common man wasn't exactly top notch. Still, from the steadily growing number of 'sources' he had among the cults, the regiments being sent to conquer Malum were supposed to be mostly regular PDF, not cultists. Which meant these changes had occurred in two days, if not even less time. That was…concerning, to say the least.
He probably would have puked if he'd still been human. Scratch that, he'ddefinitelyhave puked at the sight. While he'd never really minded depictions of Nurgle worshippers in art, seeing them in person was…waygrosser. No way he was letting thesethingsanywhere near Malum. Which was what brought him to what was quickly becoming another problem for him.
They just wouldn't f*cking die.
His Puppets riddled the oncoming horde with autogun fire, however the kinetic rounds only blew off chunks of flesh and bone. Headshots were proving ineffective, but destroying their legs was at least enough to halt them. He focused the attention of his troops on that instead, sending a series of faux-voxcasts by a number of different officers to maintain the charade of an independently minded army.
The tanks, at least, were proving their worth in spades, annihilating scores of the approaching poxwalkers with explosions of shrapnel and energy blasts. The heavier weapons like heavy stubbers were able to at least disable one of the poor souls every few shots. Similarly, the Sisters were able to actually put down the wretches with their bolters and especially their flamers.
Back in Malum, he had begun the needed preparations to convert a number of his factories to begin producing such weapons. While their production rate would be far slower than that of the ubiquitous autogun he'd equipped his army of puppets with, he was sure they would prove far more effective in the long run. Similarly, he began looking into which factories might be able to produce Leman Russ tanks. He didn't know how they operated, not yet, but that didn't mean he couldn't make them. It hadn't stopped the Imperium, after all.
With the change in tactics, the enemy advanced had slowed considerably. Tens of thousands of what had once been ordinary, innocent people were blown apart or partially vaporized or incinerated by their weaponry.
In response, their enemy just wandered forward in endless, shambling hordes, choking the tunnel with their bodies. Not a single puppet or Sister had perished or even suffered so much as a scratch from them, but Tide knew that wouldn't remain the same for long. He wasn't necessarily concerned about this foe's combat ability, however.
With each fresh wound, the enemy released a thick ooze of sickness rather than blood. Already, pools of the corruption was beginning to form and inch slowly closer to the front ranks of his Puppets.
Tide wasn't sure what would happen if one of his puppets was infected by Nurgle's diseases. Memories from his past life told him that such things were sometimes the work of cell-sized daemons rather than a normal plague. He'd managed to defeat the genestealer infection because, while it operated at a high level, it could still be considered a fairly mundane virus.
The flames of the Sisters could keep the pools at bay, but only on the flanks where they were present to do so. The rails, where much of his infantry were fighting, were not so covered.
Would it be like what had happened with Vra'kzil? That was the best-case scenario, he was confident he could quickly deal with such weak daemons. However, if it was different…
A part of him, a very large part of him, told him to run. He didn't need to face this enemy today. He could pull everything back to Malum and prepare proper weapons that could burn and deal with the plague god's followers.
The Sisters were not the sort of people he was particularly fond of. As much as people had defended the morality of the different factions in his past life, he did not have the luxury of viewing them through the lens of a fictional setting. Not anymore. They were zealots and, regardless of what he might have thought of them in his past life, they could commit awful atrocities at the drop of a hat. They could be as cruel as Chaos worshippers, as arrogant as the eldar, and as unfeeling as the necrons. Leaving them to die, possibly even turning on them if they tried to stop his retreat… He could have. He very easily could have and even convinced himself just as easily that he was right to do so.
But he didn't. Because, for all the horrible acts some of the Sisters had committed and all the atrocities they were each willing to inflict upon innocents in the name of their God-Emperor… They were still people.
He could not save the lives of these wretches that had been transformed by Nurgle's corruption. He could not save the lives of those infected by the genestealers. He could not save those who had been slaughtered by the Orks or by any other of the countless threats in this galaxy. He could not save everyone.
But hecouldsave them.
Sister Lelia shouted prayers to Him on Terra as she fired round after rounder of her bolter into the horde, now mere meters away from her. Regardless of the distance, she held her ground and she was gladdened that the 22nd, rather than flee as might be expected of lesser men and women that often filled the ranks of Monstrum's PDF, stood alongside her.
However, despite their fervor, despite their firepower, the enemy was coming closer. They brandished their autoguns as clubs and their rotting teeth gnashed the air in anticipation of flesh to feed upon. One lunged at her with surprising speed, but she blew it apart, feeling its disgusting corruption splatter her powered armor. While sacred rites had been spoken over it and purity seals placed to protect her, it would still have to be cleansed with sacred rite after the battle.
Another three of the creatures moved closer, but they were bathed in flames from the weapon of the nearby Sister Katreen, their diseased flesh melting off them as they burned in the cleansing fires, their bones swiftly charring and crumpling under the heat. Yet more came ever closer.
Lelia was undeterred. If she was to die in this, her first battle, so be it! She would go down in glory, firing her weapon, fighting to the last!
Two more reached out towards her. Her bolter took the first in the chest and she saw the autogun descending. It cracked against her helmet, bouncing off harmlessly and leaving the wretch's hands entirely. It reached out with claw-like fingers as if to grip her throat, until she fired her bolter again point-blank.
However, from behind the one she had just slain, two more arrived and grabbed her arms. She strained her limbs and managed to send one crashing to the ground, but its grasp was replaced by two others, while a third and fourth joined the other side. She lashed out with a kick, her power armored shin crunching straight through the leg of one of the unclean abominations, sending it toppling to the ground, but the shift in her own weight let the horrors drag her down.
More of the monsters rushed her and she felt hands scrabbling around her helmet, trying to rip it off her head. Around her, the shouts of her sisters and the PDF grew muffled under the crush of bodies and she struggled harder but could not break free.
Then, suddenly, there was a loud cry and she felt herself and the pile of what must have been nearly a dozen corrupted humans shifted. She felt a pair of human hands grip her shoulders, stronger than the Chaotic filth, and haul her away from the clutches. She had no time to wonder at the titanic strength that such a person must have had to move the full weight of a power armored battle-sister, before she was struck by another sight almost as incredible. The dozen and more poxwalkers had been pushed over and off her by a trio of PDF troopers that had thrown themselves, bodily, at them in what could be nothing less than a search for martyrdom that matched her own.
They waded through the bodies of poxwalkers, throwing punches and elbows and kicks and knees even as the disease and sickness must have been seeping into them and it was only her training taking over that saw her raise her bolter, which had never once left her grasp, and continue firing.
It had probably been a bad idea to let his puppets use their full, Flood-granted strength, even in such a short burst as to save the Sister of Battle. However, that wasn't really what Tide cared about at the moment as the horrors carried within the poxwalkers in turn entered the trio of puppets that had dared to enter melee range.
The effects were almost immediate. To those looking on, the suicidally brave troopers collapsed to their knees, hacking up a yellowish liquid as their veins flared and bulged green. Internally, it was even worse. Tide's memories had been correct.
Countless daemons, each barely larger than a single cell, wreaked havoc across the bodies of the puppets. Tide could see and feel as the swarm of monstrosities clogged arteries, filled lungs with liquid, burned into neurons, and more. Their bodies were collapsing, shutting down as they were sabotaged from the inside.
Tide was pleasantly surprised; this was not nearly as bad as he had feared. These daemons were numerous, easily spread, and fast-acting. He could certainly see why they were so deadly to humans and normal forms of life… But he was not a normal form of life.
In the depths of the bodies of the infected puppets, the tiny daemons found they were no longer alone. Where before they'd been given free reign, the alarms had been sounded and now the defenders had been roused to action.
Crafted using components from the most vicious bacteria he'd acquired in the most malicious depths of the underhive, tens of billions of Flood-forms the size of a few clustered cells launched their counter-attack.
The war that was fought along tunnels of blood, in the pumping chambers of the heart, upon the laboring walls of the lungs, was not like the war fought without. There was no roar of battle, no screams of the dying, no flash of explosions. It was silent, dark, and vicious.
The hastily named Anti-Nurgles, or Antigles, were remarkably simple in their approach. They swarmed the tiny daemons, latching onto the cell-sized monstrosities and essentially eating them, melting them inside tiny pockets of something like stomach acid that would be harmless to his puppets were the thin membranes broken and released. For all the pain and suffering they could inflict, these tiny daemons lacked the supernatural endurance of even the poxwalkers that carried them, perhaps simply because they'd never needed to be that durable to accomplish their work.
He'd take full advantage of that mistake.
His initial counter was met with great success and millions of tiny daemons were consumed and banished back to the Warp in what to outside observers was mere seconds as he flooded, pun very much intended, his puppets' bodies with Antigles. After that initial victory, however, the tiny daemons seemed to realize that this prey had fangs of its own.
Despite drawing from the best of what he had available, his Antigles were, apparently, not exactly top-tier troops in cellular warfare. Every daemon he banished managed to rip apart a dozen or more of his tiniest soldiers before falling. He adapted as best he could, but the information he could gain was relatively…sparse. The senses of his Antigles were highly limited and while the daemons were anythingbutstealthy, he couldn't exactlyseethem either. He wasn't looking at the battle with a microscope, nor did he have any creature with eyes small enough to see such a conflict that he might be able to adapt for a play-by-play.
Fortunately, the daemons seemed even less prepared for a fight like this than he was. And, while they could shred the Antigles he sent at them apart, that biomass wasn't going anywhere and was quickly reabsorbed by the body before being crafted into yet more Antigles. The only thing he was losing was energy and the daemons were slowly being hunted down. The puppets would not survive simply due to the amount of energy and biomass being used in so short a time, but the daemons wouldn't either, their spread cut-off after a single casualty.
If they managed to infect a Puppet with more daemons than he could counter, or the daemons were more powerful than what he could handle, he'd likely have a bigger issue. He was sure future battles, even with cell-sized daemons like these, would not be as easy… But for now, he had found an edge and would happily capitalize on it.
Across the tunnel, scenes just like what had played out with the first Sister began to occur. He sacrificed his Puppets by the score just to protect a single one of the Cleansing Rain's warriors, sometimes in spite of the zealot's own attempts to go out in glory and honor. In turn, the Sisters seemed only to fight all the harder with every puppet that fell, whether it was to the clubs, claws, and teeth of the poxwalkers or the loss of energy caused by his less visible war. He took no small amount of amusem*nt in the knowledge that he was creating countless martyrs in their eyes, yet not allowing any of the Sisters to enjoy that 'honor'.
Most of the Sisters had sealed their armor upon realizing the enemy they faced was diseased, so he didn't have to worry about them getting infected. While most were fully Altered, he could not draw on their biomass and energy as easily as he could a puppet, so he was glad of the added protection for them. He wasn't so sure the Repentias and Sisters who had more faith than sense would do as well, but he could try his best to keep them out of trouble when the second act began.
Ferrik frowned. Something was wrong, that much was clear even to him, who was not learned in the ways of war as Festil was. He and his lieutenant were watching the battle now on a display projected from the new eyes of a floating servoskull covered in dark runes. The bone's previous owner had been a psyker of some power and their sacrifice had made for a useful divining tool, though Ferrik would never tell its maker, Ahsael, that.
"Why are our foes so… resilient?" Festil spoke the word with no small amount of disgust in his voice. "They perish, yet the Grandfather's plagues do not spread across their ranks."
"Could it be for the same reason why the genestealers and Orks failed in their attacks against Malum?" Ferrik pondered, no less disturbed by the blasphemy being committed, yet equally fascinated by it. "Some kind of antibody, perhaps?"
"None can stand against the Plague Lord's concoctions!" Festil snarled, his large face contorting with such rage Ferrik was reminded of Kalak. His lieutenant's hand gripped the rust power sword held at his waist, an artifact of his old life now blessed with the decay of the Grandfather. "I will not allow such a thing!"
"It is most despicable," Ferrik agreed, nodding sagely. "Will you exact retribution upon them in our Grandfather's name?"
"Gladly, my lord," Festil seethed with rage, drawing his sword, its blade crackling with twisted energies. "I will take our best. If their bodies do not feed the plague, they will feed the worms!"
"Go and bring death to them," Ferrik nodded. Normally, he'd have been less willing to let Festil act on emotions like this, especially when he relied upon the man for his advice in commanding a battle. However, when the battle was in a tunnel like this, it did not take a genius to know there was only one direction from which the enemy would come.
"All breaching charges set, Canoness," The trooper stated with a nod as she handed Praxiah a small, hand-held device. Praxiah nodded in kind before turning to look out across the ashen fields that surrounded the tunnel linking Janus and Malum. Four regiments and four hundred Sisters of Battle stood at the ready along the length of one side of the tunnel. On the other, she knew, were another three regiments and three hundred Sisters, equally prepared.
"All forces at a safe distance?" Praxiah spoke into her helmet's vox. There was a chorus of affirmatives. She smiled beneath her helmet, considering the device in her hand. It was a trigger. A trigger connecting to the six-hundred-and-seventy-three breaching charges currently placed along nine kilometers of the Janus-side of the tunnel, placed precisely over where Logis Calarn and his tech-priests had indicated were load-bearing structural supports.
"Fire in the hole," She heard a voice speak and she looked over to see the trooper from before smiling at her. It was a breach of conduct, but Praxiah couldn't help but chuckle.
"Fire in the hole," She repeated as she unlocked the safety and pressed the trigger.
For a moment, the length of the tunnel's insides were illuminated by white light as countless explosions ruptured the metal frame and seared through its supports. There was a thunderous creaking as metal millennia old could suddenly no longer support its own weight and a pause in the traitor forces as the ceiling above them seemed to dip and bend.
And then, it all came tumbling down.
Logis Calarn's calculations were perfection itself, calculated expertly. Nine kilometers of tunnel, packed even tighter with traitor forces than the section being defended by the PDF, fell onto the heads ofmillionsof traitors, burying them alive and dead with no distinction.
Even before the frame had settled, the seven regiments and Sisters were moving forward, their weapons opening fire on any exposed remnants of the corrupted. The bulk of the forces were placed on the opposite ends of the tunnel. On the side of the tunnel where the defenders had been fighting a grueling slog, nearly two kilometers of tunnel had been left deliberately unaffected by the maneuver, leaving a few of the poxwalkers with their semblance of life intact. On the other side, the rear elements of the enemy forces, not just poxwalkers but those relatively few corrupted that had maintained some semblance of personalities and wills, now found themselves suddenly made the new front.
However, they had other problems now.
Ferrik saw the flash, heard the explosion and shrieking of metal twisting, but it was the cackling of daemonhosts that pierced his ears.
He was blinded, deafened, and disoriented, knocked to the ground by some fool cultist or other. However, from behind him, he could hear the sound of a hundred sets of spellbound chains straining. He turned, blinking away the spots in his vision. Festil was gone, him and his best troops taken by whatever the corpse worshippers had done. The daemonhosts were his best chance at victory now… but Ferrik felt no glee at their release, only a cold dread.
A host of a neverborn of Tzeentch was the first to break free. Its body seemed to writhe with unholy might under its thin flesh, its fingers twisting and elongating, becoming sharp talons that were wreathed in blue flames. Its face was a blank mass of flesh, but nine lines grew there, flicking open to reveal as many eyes that shifted through countless colors, both real and not, in moments. All nine of those eyes were focused on Ferrik.
He heard a voice, a whisper in his mind, babbling and jeering and utterly unnatural, yet understood the meaning nonetheless.
"No, no, please!" Ferrik pushed himself away from the monster, terror infecting his voice, but it was pointless. In an instant, the daemonhost was gone from his sight and then returned to it, floating over him as though suspended in water. It had no mouth with which to grin, but he could feel its malicious glee nonetheless as it raised its flaming claws in preparation of the killing strike. "NO!"
Praxiah stalked forward through the wreckage of the tunnel, liberally applying her flamer to any sign of corrupted flesh sticking out of the debris. Her Sisters around her did much the same, while two regiments moved in towards the next section of tunnel, preparing to deal with any remnants of their foe.
The plan had worked even better than she had prayed, owing partly due to how packed the tunnel had become with the bodies of poxwalkers and other corrupt filth. Millions were crushed under their tread. This defeat was only proof of their corruption in her mind.
Yet, the enemy was not crushed yet and she could hear screams beginning to sound from the dust-filled tunnel where their rear guard should have been. Her eyes narrowed. They had not yet reached their foe, so who was slaughtering them?
The answer soon became apparent as hordes of former PDF troopers, many of whom seemed barely more cognizant than the poxwalkers themselves, rushed out of the tunnel, throwing themselves headfirst into the scything autogun fire of the 25th and 27th Malum Cohorts she had brought to this fight. This was not some desperate last charge, she recognized in an instant, but a rout.
The reason for the terror of their enemy emerged from the tunnel, scores of the worst kind of witchcraft. Praxiah had seen daemonhosts before on a few occasions, but never in such numbers.
They were monstrosities and she knew enough of the dark powers from her long wars against their servants to recognize the differences between them. Hulking beasts with blood-covered claws and slowly elongating skulls were the battle-crazed creatures of Khorne. Sinuous and striking beings that wielded chains as whips were the disgusting and seductive servants of Slaanesh. And, most numerous and varied of this new enemy, were the myriad forms that daemonhosts of Tzeentch took, babbling with mad laughter.
Evermore to their credit, Malum's PDF did not flinch in the face of this fresh nightmare and Praxiah knew how strange that was. She had seen hardened guardsmen and even some of her Sisters balk at the appearance of the Warp's horrors, yet these were mere veterans of two battles, if even that many. Were they so faithful and resilient?
She could not say, but the Cohorts gave no answer save to focus their fire on these new foes. It did not surprise Praxiah in the least to see the forces of Chaos turn upon one another like feral beasts. They were not united under the glory of His light and grace.
"Destroy the witch-crafted!" Praxiah called into her vox and her Sisters descended upon them. Jetpack-equipped Seraphims descended like winged angels, their twin bolt pistols punching holes into the rapidly repairing flesh of the daemonhosts. Praxiah could not help but grin as she saw the Malum Cohorts, no doubt inspired by the sight, break their formation and rush headlong into the enemy, shouting a united and wordless warcry, throwing themselves at the hordes of traitors and tainted with almost reckless abandon.
She saw half the daemonhosts suddenly disappear in flashes of blue flame, each one a Tzeentchian wretch. The remainder of the filth seemed caught off-guard by the sudden departure of their 'allies'. The Slaaneshi daemonhosts seemed to split, some throwing themselves even more fervently at their foes, others attempting to flee only to be cut down by bolter and autogun. The Khorne daemonhosts were too driven by their bloodthirst to even conceive of notions of fleeing.
She burned herself a path through the horde of traitor PDF, stepping over the unclean bodies steadily being purified by flames as she strode forwards. Hooking her flamer to her hip, she drew her chainsword, revving its engine as one such beast of Khorne's eyes locked onto her.
The abomination roared and ripped the spine from a nearby traitor, one which was wreathed in blood and flames that transformed it. The daemon blade was made of brass and glowed with a hellish light as it cut through another traitor to point at her in a challenge.
"FOR THE EMPEROR!" Praxiah roared as she charged.
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" The daemonhost roared in reply. "SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"
Their blades crashed against one another, the motors of Praxiah's power armor groaning from the strain as she struggled to meet the Chaotic filth's own strength. She roared with effort. "YOUR DEATH IS HIS WILL, DAEMON!"
They traded blow after blow, neither managing to strike the other. The other daemons and her Sisters flowed around them, but did not interfere in this duel. Praxiah was fine with that. She did not need help here.
So, she was somewhat disgruntled when she saw four PDF troopers of the Malum Cohorts throw themselves at the daemonhost, who seemed almost as surprised as she was by the act. The abomination acted quickly, its blade flashing through the air and cutting two of the new attackers in half, but the other pair slipped behind the daemonhost's guard, shoving their bayonets into the beast's side. It roared, more with frustration than anything mortal like pain, its balled fist crashing down onto the skull of one trooper accompanied by the crunch of bone as the man dropped to the ground, killed instantly.
She saw the grenade the other trooper primed in one hand, holding it fast to the body of the daemonhost even as it turned to slay him as well. Her eyes widened and she threw herself back, just as the explosion of shrapnel went off.
When she rose back up to her feet, the trooper was in pieces scattered across the ground, while the witch-made beast was mostly whole, but heavily wounded. Its body was slowly repairing itself, pulling its various muscles and bones back together, reknitting flesh as the daemon possessing it tried furiously to maintain its hold on its mortal vessel.
Praxiah's chainsword put an end to that, its biting teeth slashing through its neck in a moment. The head rolled free, but still screeched despite having no lungs with air. Such was the strange powers of Chaos and she brought her boot down onto the thing. There was some satisfaction there, as the creature finally ceased and died, as all enemies of the Emperor must.
She looked around and saw that the battle was nearly over. Despite the unexpectedly Chaotic nature of their foe, His will had seen them through this day. Praxiah raised her chainsword above her head.
"FOR THE EMPEROR!" She cried and her Sisters repeated the cry of victory as they pushed forward all the harder. Malum's Cohorts loosed their own wordless warcry and joined in the slaughter of the enemies of the Master of Mankind. Praxiah could have laughed with glee. This was her purpose, her joy, her duty.
It had been too long.
