Dukel's fleet sailed through the Immaterium, the warp currents curling around the adamantium hulls like serpents of unreality. Within the fleet's navigational grid, the virtual cogitators had now triangulated a rough lock on Efilar's position.
He stood at the prow of the Inner Fire, gazing silently upon the boiling Sea of Souls. Somewhere out there, submerged beneath the screeching tides of daemonic voices, the faint sound of Efilar's pain could still be heard.
Through the psychic noosphere, Dukel clearly sensed the saint's dire straits. Yet he remained calm, unhurried by urgency. Even without Efilar's message, he already understood the enemy's aim in besieging the Imperial fleet.
In truth, he understood more.
The enemy's strategy bore the hallmarks of cunning restraint—like a lupine predator stalking prey, precise and conservative.
Dukel scowled. Only one opponent would command the daemons of the warp to use such tactics: his former brother—Horus. Even after ten millennia, the Arch-Traitor remained steeped in hesitation.
"No matter how confidently you posture," Dukel muttered, "there remains a cowardice in your soul that can never be erased."
Horus had always believed the Emperor withheld the title of Warmaster in the early Crusade due to doubts in his worth. But Horus had been wrong.
In the theatre of galactic war, personal brilliance mattered—but only so much. It was Horus' overly cautious style that made him unsuited for the relentless expansion the Imperium required.
"Your conservatism is born of your inferiority. You waver endlessly between false pride and secret shame. That contradiction… was your undoing."
Though blades had yet to cross, Dukel had already pierced the armor of Horus' pride with insight. Now, all that remained was to strike—repeatedly, relentlessly—at this weakness, while Horus scrambled to adapt.
With a single motion, Dukel raised the Banner of the Sky Eagle of Destiny.
A golden Aquila, burning with the fury of righteousness, tore through the psychic storms of the warp. The Warmaster of Mankind had made his arrival known—declared it to all denizens of darkness without fear or subtlety.
"Since you're so eager to see me," Dukel said aloud, eyes alight with battle-lust, "then come. Call every ally, wrack your twisted mind for clever schemes, marshal all your strength—and I will crush everything you take pride in."
Those who stood at the peak of the Imperium did not trade in endless calculation. They fought with fire and blood, and let courage write their victories.
Their enemies, however, had many concerns.
The Inner Fire's sensors soon detected a warp anomaly ahead. A daemon world, massive and malformed, tore into realspace like a festering island rising from the depths. It blocked the path of the expeditionary fleet with uncanny precision.
But this planet was unlike other daemon worlds. It lived. It pulsed with obscene vitality.
As the fleet neared its orbit, a creeping madness infected the minds of its Navigators and psykers. One name echoed over and over in their thoughts—an agonizing whisper, repeated like a mantra meant to unravel sanity.
Lesser astropaths might have died from such psychic assault. But these were not ordinary psykers. Dukel's fleet was composed of legends.
Each warrior aboard these mighty ships had earned renown across a hundred worlds. Each psyker—whether Lexicanum or Epistolary—was a demigod in the eyes of mortals.
And so, when the whispers came, they met them with silence—and, in some cases, with laughter.
Some senior psykers even sneered, their contempt radiating through the noosphere.
Sensing its impotence, the whispering gradually faded.
"Sally," one astropath finally spoke, carefully articulating each syllable. The name was etched in Gothic. It meant decadence. A world of desire. A place without light.
Dukel stood still as a statue at the prow, his gaze locked on the foul orb that dared impede the Imperium's might.
There was no need to speak.
Behind him, a virtual priest—its form cloaked in flickering flames—tapped the deck of the Soul Fire with its scepter.
On the twenty-second strike, a fan-shaped wave of invisible data-energy surged forward, scanning the world with machine-precision.
Within moments, everything about the planet was laid bare—from its pus-choked rivers to the smallest mutating molecule.
The priest turned and spoke:
"Iron and flame. Rivers of filth cut through crystal jungles. Lightning blooms from the branches—always changing, always returning to nine."
Even as the priest spoke, the Aquila banner above began to blaze brighter.
A golden light—thick as paint—spilled across the daemon world like judgment.
Fires erupted across the jungle. The corrupted ichor hissed in the rivers. The planet groaned, cracking under the wrath of Imperial might. From the depths, daemons and traitors screamed in agony.
Dukel's face remained still.
There would be no mercy.
"Prepare for airborne assault," he ordered. His voice cut through the vox like a blade.
Behind him, the twenty-two Extinction Order weapons—classified relics of annihilation—began charging. Once ready, they would reduce this world to ash and data fragments.
But first, the Warmaster would test his warriors.
The Primaris Astartes under his command would descend and scour the surface. They would gather intelligence. And they would kill.
The fleet's orbital cannons opened fire. Explosive payloads rained down, transforming the crystal jungle into shards and flame.
Each detonation unleashed unclean psychic backlash—chaotic energy erupting as the crystalline trees burst.
The enemy's own corruption now turned against them.
With a safe drop zone cleared, the first wave descended.
Dukel led from the front.
He was no rear-echelon tactician. He had no interest in distant command.
He lived for the front line—where death was a whisper away, and glory could be seized with one hand. He would be the tip of the spear.
As soon as he touched down, the enemy swarmed.
Screamers shrieked through the air. Pink Horrors gibbered and fired warpflame from the treeline. They had been waiting, lurking in ambush within the jungle's shattered remains.
Dukel's smile was cold.
He had found his entertainment.
The daemonic legions of Tzeentch surged from all directions, hurling themselves at Dukel's forces in a chaotic tide of shrieking sorcery and twisted flesh.
Pink Horrors—formless, shrieking entities of raw warpstuff—gibbered with high-pitched laughter as they flung arcs of pink fire from clawed hands. Their ever-shifting bodies shimmered with a garish fluorescence, glowing with sorcerous energy. But under the withering barrage of Imperial artillery, their maddening laughter was soon replaced by agonized wails.
Even in death, their corruption persisted. With a pop and a scream, each slain Pink Horror split into two smaller Blue Horrors—creatures birthed of spite and venom. These blue-skinned imps were crueler still, spewing curses and warpflame as they scrambled over debris and corpses alike, desperate to vent their malice on any living soul that trespassed upon their master's domain.
Above the battlefield, Screamers sliced through the air—winged daemons shaped like warped rays, gliding atop the winds of the immaterium. Their pale lightning crackled as they skimmed the tides of the warp, diving with razor-fanged maws and barbed tails to shred anything in their path.
Once, their charge could scatter entire battalions, turning men into shredded meat beneath their raking dives.
But this was no ordinary host they faced.
These were the elite forces of the Imperium, handpicked and forged in fire under the direct command of Warmaster Dukel. Their cohesion was impeccable. They moved with machine-like discipline, their bolter fire measured and merciless, their formations unshakable. The daemons found no weaknesses, no hesitation—only death.
Dukel himself strode the battlefield like a wrathful god. He laughed thunderously as he cleaved a Pink Horror in half with a single blow, then crushed the two newborn Blue Horrors in his massive, ironclad fists.
He didn't need to indulge them. He chose to. Like a child reveling in the destruction of a toy, he fought not only to win—but to savor the bloodshed.
Behind him, his blood-red cloak billowed like a storm of gore, an ominous banner of death and fury with every motion he made.
The Warmaster's colossal figure stood out against the battlefield's infernal backdrop. Every loyal soldier who lifted their eyes beheld their living god of war—and from that sight, courage blossomed anew.
Their morale surged. Their cries rose above the din. Millions of voices, unified in defiance of the Warp, became an unstoppable tsunami in the Sea of Souls. The very winds of the immaterium faltered. The Screamers, once masters of the skies, plummeted from the void like meteors, crashing amidst the shouting mortals.
Elsewhere, the sorcerers of Tzeentch etched luminous glyphs in the air, warping reality itself. Crystal shards—deadly and iridescent—reshaped into blade-like constructs and launched themselves like guided missiles, chasing down Imperial aircraft with murderous intent.
And then came traitors.
On the ground, corrupted Astartes in crimson and gold armor advanced with grim purpose. These were the Red Corsairs—the damned remnants of once-loyal Chapters, now servants of Chaos.
At their head loomed the infamous Huron Blackheart—the Tyrant of Badab, the self-styled Star Reaver.
Once, they had been the noble Astral Claws, guardians of the Great Vortex and bulwark against the warp-spawned horrors spilling from the Maelstrom. For decades, they had fought in the Empire's name, sacrificing endlessly.
But loyalty curdled into resentment. Chained by bureaucracy, denied recognition, they finally broke. Huron defied Imperial tithe collectors, declared independence, and plunged the Segmentum into civil war.
The Badab War raged for eleven long years. In the end, the Imperium's retribution proved too great. Huron's forces were broken, and the survivors fled into the Maelstrom's heart, reemerging as the Red Corsairs—rebels, pirates, and heretics.
Now, their numbers swelled with renegades and deserters. Dozens of fallen Chapters had joined their cause, forming a vast and dangerous warband. But even their brutal prowess, bolstered by Tzeentchian sorcery, was not enough to turn the tide.
For above all loomed Dukel.
His fleet dominated the skies. Imperial Thunderbolts, Lightnings, and Marauders screamed overhead, executing bombing runs with ruthless precision. The forces of Chaos—both daemonic and traitor alike—were slowly, inexorably, being driven back.
The Imperium had not come to hold the line.
They had come to burn this world to ash.
With the skies cleared of warp-beasts, Warmaster Dukel plunged headlong into the heart of the daemon tide. His massive ripper-pattern chainsword roared like a caged beast, its teeth shrieking through daemonic flesh. In a ballet of brutal efficiency, each swing disemboweled, dismembered, or annihilated another abomination of Tzeentch.
A Red Corsair in hulking Cataphractii Terminator plate attempted to stand in his path—an arrogant fool.
Dukel seized the heretic like a broken doll and hurled him hundreds of meters away. The traitor's armored bulk plowed a 222-meter-long trench through the densely packed enemy horde. The ground ruptured, splitting open into a chasm that consumed thousands of cultists, mutants, and artillery batteries in a single catastrophic moment.
Above it all, the raw might of the Supreme Heaven—the Astronomican's echo through the Warp—still flowed into Dukel. His physical form had long surpassed the limits of mere mortals. Now, towering like a living fortress, he stood as tall as a hab-block, his presence warping the air around him with heat and force.
The Warp-tainted Red Corsairs, even bolstered by daemonic pacts and unholy blessings, were as children before him. The very vibrations of the flame-charged air around the Warmaster knocked them to their knees. Their sacred Terminator plate—once proof against orbital bombardment—was nothing before his wrath.
Dukel smashed into the combined forces of Tzeentch's daemonhost and the traitor marines. The loyalists who followed in his wake fought with fanatical courage, many giving their lives in the effort to keep pace.
But the daemons… they had begun to falter.
Fear—an emotion nearly alien to them—slithered into their chaotic minds. The red firelight cast by Dukel's wrath burned away their frenzy. One by one, they began to break. Screaming, howling, they fled in all directions.
Amid the collapsing enemy lines, Dukel stood motionless. A living monolith. The daemons scattered before him like rats—but he did not pursue. Instead, he slowly raised his gaze to the heavens.
There, the sky rippled and tore.
The warp above twisted violently, forming a shrieking vortex of psychic energy. It pulsed with etheric rage, and the very souls of the soldiers below quaked beneath its pressure.
Reality buckled.
From the howling rift stepped a monstrous figure wreathed in unnatural majesty.
A massive daemon prince descended from the Immaterium—anointed of Tzeentch, Lord of Change. Behind him spun an iron halo of shifting geometry. Blue-violet armor shimmered with cursed runes, a regal cloak billowed in defiance of gravity. In one hand he held a staff crackling with sorcery; in the other, a long blade wreathed in warp lightning.
The Mocker of Fate had arrived.
His voice echoed not just in the air—but within the minds of all who listened.
"Son of the Cursed, you were destined to come here. But your path ends now. Your ambitions—mere dreams. Your ideals—illusions to be forgotten."
"I have seen the tides of fate. All outcomes end in your irrelevance. You are a discarded relic, a name the gods themselves avoid speaking. The Imperium did not forget you—they simply found you unworthy."
Despite the psychic storm, despite the malicious grandeur, Dukel remained unmoved.
He studied the daemon prince with the calm of a predator.
Then his hand pointed—not at the monster—but at a tattered yet glorious banner beside him. The Fate-Eagle Battle Standard. Upon it, a double-headed aquila, carved in the likeness of Carlos, shone with blinding golden light.
Dukel spoke, his voice cutting through the warp-roar like thunder.
"The last wretch who claimed mastery over the future? He's been hanging from this flag for years. I searched the entire Segmentum for a flagpole worthy of him."
He raised the banner high, its shaft a carved column of fused bone and adamantium.
Then, with a grim smirk, he added:
"Tell me, Mocker—
Which bone in your body shall I use for the next flagpole?"
...
TN:
Support me on P-com/LordMerlin