Imperium Ascendant

Book II: The Great Crusade

Chapter Twenty-Two: Rising from the Ashes

Location: Proxima System, Centauri Cluster

Date: 884.M30

The remaining Solitaires leaped forward to dance with the Primarch in a duel of blades, souls, and minds. Eleven Aeldari blades twirled around humanity's champion, hunting for any weakness. They found none. In fact, Iskandar was winning more and more with every clash of blades. With each parry and thrust, Iskandar was growing faster, stronger. Capable of not only holding his own against nearly a dozen of the Galaxy's greatest warriors but winning. The rest of the battle continued, psychic powers and spiritual adrenaline pumping through transhuman muscle. The Astartes drank deep of the Talismans essence. Laughing, singing and cheering as they carved through the never-ending tide with newfound vigor. The Custodes, by contrast, were struggling. The warp-song channeled through Iskandar's talisman wore on their minds. Its wild beauty/horror grinding at the Custodes restructured post-human minds.

Iskandar was thoroughly intoxicated with power. Laughing madly as he danced with the Harlequin. Roaring ancient Terran battle anthems with pitch-perfect precision. His body was cloaked in a cloud of iridescent smoke. A byproduct of the talisman and its effect on Iskandar's soul. It followed his every movement and persisted a moment or two after. As the Primarch lept and struck, its trail formed a serpentine tail of kaleidoscope vapor. With his remaining arm and a telekinetic lance formed around his stump the Primarch struck. Blade and psychic energy lashed out at the Eldar which, to their merit, blocked what should have been hundreds of killing blows, relying on their own gifts of physical and psychic skill to duel a demigod.

It would not be enough for the youngest remaining Harlequin. A prodigy by Aeldari standards, she had kept up with her seniors, surviving even as two fell to the god-prince's blade. She alone of the Harlequin attackers was born after the Fall. Her mother had hidden away among hundreds of fellow refugees in a webway realm barely a mile wide. As a child, she alone escaped this pocket's collapse. When She Who Thirsts children came calling, this daughter of the new galaxy had been given a wraithbone dagger and told to run. She ran for what could have been days or weeks, eventually collapsing at the base of a technicolor shrine. The Laughing God's followers found her there, realizing that she was an example of the new Aeldari, the fractured Eldar. Newborn to a dying species. A spark of light in the Dance Without End. As she clashed with the Primarch, a whip of warp-smoke and telekinesis wrapped around her leg. Pulled from her performance, she died thinking of her mother's face as the Uru-Blade sunk through armor and flesh.

This death was of course expected by her god. This was a performance, a tale of the foolish Mon'keigh struggling against an unstoppable tide of darkness. Iskandar had felled three of his children, each playing the role of Slaanesh, but won the duel at great cost. He was forced to rely on increasingly mad and dangerous power, which set the stage perfectly for act two. The death of three Harlequins is not an event to go unnoticed. Somewhere deep in the Warp, the Dark Prince and the Laughing God dueled for three souls, distracting the God of Pleasure just enough to let other prey sneaks by, giving the Harlequin an opportunity to dive into the sea of souls. Teleporting vast distances, in a chaos-defying feat of psychic prowess.

Just as Iskandar pulled his blade from his kill, the world cracked. A fissure of space/time splitting from the fallen Aeldari body to the sky, ripping straight through the dome and the corpses scrabbling across it. The Primarch jumped back as it widened, alarmed at the new, yawning grin into the Warp. Music of haunting beauty and disoriented volume shook the plaza, blasted forth from the Xeno ships on great vox-equivalents. The sound expanded the new crack in the crystal bubble encasing them. This was the stage cue the Harlequins were waiting for. With a flash of light comparable to an atomic weapon, the Rift exploded and shattered the dome into a billion pieces, releasing a deluge of flesh-puppets. The safety and protection the Imperials had fought to keep were gone in one horrifying instant.

Then the rest of the play's performers arrived. Using the Solitaires' death and subsequent warp-rift as a door, the Harlequins arrived in force. Appearing from thin air in a motley detonation of color and light. Hundreds of Aeldari attacked, leaping from the warp-rift in grandiose displays of inhuman acrobatics. Mimes and Death Jesters careened through the air. Wearing the garish grin of Cegorach, the High-Avatar flipped over the head of the human soldiers, decapitating an Astartes and Custodian with a single magnificent stroke. Gas canisters filled with powdered wraithbone and hallucinogens capable of driving planets mad were unleashed. Troubadours attacked the Imperials in perfect synchronicity, forming a whirling maelstrom of holo-fields, shuriken fire, and wraithbone blades.

Reacting quickly, the Imperials abandoned the kill-box formation they had used with such effectiveness against the Corpse-Puppets. The puppets seemed to be slower and less coordinated. They were no longer an unliving tide, but a shuffling mass of corpses. The Imperials had no way of knowing this, but it was actually their doing. The increased psychic interference from Iskandar and the rift was wreaking havoc. Now the Imperials joined together into sword-squads. To cover each other, and hunker down from the Xeno onslaught. Even as they parried and blocked the Custodes and Astartes moved into a tighter formation around the Emperor's body. Each sword-squad becoming a living bailey in a shrinking fortress with the Emperor at its center. As the dome had cracked and rained crystal-dust and broken bodies. The Emperor lay undisturbed. His slumber undisturbed, guarded by Valdors blade and will.

Throughout this, Iskandar fought on, providing the Imperials valuable time to regroup. The Primarch reaved a path of death through the Eldar. Standing alone, drenched in gore and laughing maniacally, an incarnate of Wars madness. The Harlequins danced through the air, leaping from corpse pile to corpse pile. Weaving between Imperial blades and Bolts. Faced with a proper target the Custodes and Astartes had opened fire. They filled the air with exotic energy and diamond-tipped rounds. Every shot that missed pummeled the Corpse-Puppets, turning them into sprays of red mist and bone fragments that added another gory display of pyrotechnics to the battle.

Imperial transhumans are some of the most deadly warrior-types in the galaxy, fusing the armor and killing power of a tank with the mobility and reactivity of special forces. Few things could withstand an attack by them, or pierce their defense. The children of the Laughing God could be counted among that small number. Exhausted physically and mentally, overdue for armor and weapon maintenance, the Astartes and Custodes were faced with a legitimate threat. The grinning players of Cegorach danced between the human bullets and blows, slashing with force-swords and cruel monofilaments. Though they were cut apart by Xeno weapons the Imperials fought on. Talon Pellon of the III Legion would later become renowned for his incredible feat of impaling two Trouper, one in each of his blades. After one of the perfidious Xenos drove a crystal dagger into his right eye and out the back of his head. It was just one of many acts of heroism the III Legion and Custodes performed in the line of duty.

Throughout this bloodshed and madness, the Primarch fought on. Separated from his sons and kin by Flesh-puppets and Harlequinn. He drank deeper from the Singers talisman. Forced to draw upon greater and greater amounts of psychic power to keep up with his enemies. The remaining solitaires and the High Avatar fought perfectly together, pushing the Primarch to his limits. The High Avatar was fast and powerful, playing the role of Cegorach and channeling a drop of the Clown God's power. This troupe master Avatar danced around Iskandar, exploiting every opening created by the Solitaries. The carved bloody marks into the demigod, all while whispering dark lies and cruel truths to the infuriated Primarch.

"The thing you call father thinks of you as nothing but a tool." the Avatar called, jabbering away in its lyrical accent " It is a miscarried god wearing a Mon'Keigh skin. You are marked by She Who Thirsts. Even now I can see her fangs in you. Once you are used up and damned, he will cast you into the void or her mouth. Why do you think he clothed you in flesh, God-Golem? A vessel for the gods! Let us pass! We will erase the Emperor from this universe and save it. He is but another pawn of the Enemy. As deluded and mad as Chaos. You just need to let me pass, you poor, deluded thing."

Ignoring these taunts, a whisper stroked against the Primarchs mind. A faint alien thought of seductive potency. "It is the right of sons to surpass their fathers. Let the Aeldari do what it will. Stop fighting the inevitable. Why struggle for 10,000 years against me, when I want nothing more than to embrace you?"

The Dark Prince had found Iskandar. The Singer's Talisman drew from mankind's creativity and experience. Casting a bloody lure into the Warp for the youngest God. Now xhe had found him. Xer favorite Primarch, xer destined serpent. Slaanesh coveted the III Primarch, and would never let go. Iskandr felt the tendrils of corruption slither across his psyche. Even with a feast of Aeldari souls, he was what Slaanesh wanted. The Dark Prince desired him, as consort, scion, prophet, trophy, and champion. Intoxicated by arcane power and esoteric experiences, the Primarch laughed. Facing the Chaos God's lust and the Harlequins malice he proclaimed: "I have tasted madness! It burns in my soul like a mighty star! It mine and mine alone. Xeno, Daemon, whatever comes, has no claim. This is my doom, you shall have no part in it."

Across the Warp a psychic thunderclap echoed, blowing away tendrils of corruption and shocking the Dark Prince. Iskandar knew his time was limited. The power drawn into his flesh was distorting him, infecting his mind with the Warp's poison. Yet he would not let this path of lunacy be dictated by another. To defend his father and ruin the schemes of both Chaos and the Aeldari, he would fight. Iskandar Basilious was going insane on his own terms.

Gene-forged flesh rippled and shifted. It became near impossible to tell where the psychedelic mist covering Iskandar ended and where his body started. Limbs ending with whips, talons, and blades faded in and out of being. His face was a spectral projection flickering between Imperial Adonais and eldritch rictus. The High Avatar took this manifestation of the demigods unraveling mind and body as an opportunity. With force sword in one hand and monofilament sting in the other. The Xeno plunged his weapons into the Primarchs twin hearts. Psychic plasma and thrashing filaments eviscerated the Primarchs organs.

Iskandar's legs buckled, his new talons and tentacles gripping the ash-covered floor. Where the Primarch once towered over the Avatar he now faced its mocking mask at eye level. Cupping his face like a lover the Avatar whispered ancient lullaby, willing the demigod to die. Removing one of the Dark Prince's destined Princes. Iskandar stared into the Harlequins eyes, hidden behind its dreadful mask, and smiled. From the iridescent fog covering them both, a blade erupted. An Uru-Blade in the shape of a stiletto knife shot through the Eldar's skull. With a super-sonic killing blow, the Primarch drove the dagger from one side of the Xeno's head to the other.

Stumbling back, like a drunken fool the Avatar grasped at the blade stuck through its brain. Dying neurons misfired as it thrashed pointlessly until the spasms of death ended and its movements became fluid again. Blood far too bright to be human dribbled down its costume as the Harlequin cocked it head to one side. Looking into the eyes of the mask, a chill erupted through Iskandar. The Avatar was dead and its master stared at him through stolen eyes. Cegorach had come to orchestrate the performance.

Spinning with grace beyond any mortal Aeldari, the Cegorach-Avatar started to clap. Dead-hands cracking sarcastic applause, soon mimicked by his followers. The Harlequins disengaged from the Imperials as one, applauding and making gestures of mocking congratulation. Soon the flesh-puppets took up the display as well. They began to fill the air with a thunderous ovation. After a perfect Terran minute, it stopped, instantly. Where echoes should have followed there was perfect silence, as if some great conductor had turned off sound.

Cegorach-Avatar saluted the Primarch and spoke, the god's words were eldritch caresses upon the psyche. "Oh, noble sons of Terra! You have performed wonderfully. In the face of betrayal, death, and madness you held firm, doing everything possible to save your God-Caller. You sacrificed your minds and bodies for an unloving father-smith. Such a tragedy, such talent, such will. All wasted on a wasted second chance. You rage against the dying of the light, uncaring that this struggle is what will extinguish the stars. The Mon-Keigh King will only lead your species to a miserable end. I will not insult you by asking you, his most loyal thralls, to abandon him. I will, however, tell you this. The Anathema must die for the universe to live. His own arrogance and blind ego convince him otherwise."

Taking a deep bow the Cegorach-Avatar continued: "Now, the show must go on. The betrayed Mon-keigh suffer and struggle. Fighting against impossible odds and enemies beyond your ken. Do you see light at the end of the path? It is but an illusion. Rage! Rage mon-keigh. Show the universe your willful madness!"

Still bowed low, the Cegorach-Avatar lifted its face up to peer at Iskandar. With a dramatic gesture, it grabbed its smile. A hand on the masks upper and lower lips. In an act of grotesque farce, the Clown God pulled the mask's mouth apart. Stretching it open wider and wider, all without breaking its form. In the space drawn between the mask's fangs was a void of pitch darkness. Just as the mask would stretch no further, the darkness erupted. From it came to light. Blinding, ugly light.

The Cegorach-Avatar seemed to deflate as it disgorged a hulk of fire and gilded light. Standing before Iskandar was the newest member of the Dance without End. An Eldar clad in gilded armor of sickening ostentatiousness. The Xeno stood taller and broader than any Aeldari Iskandar had seen. Layers of sigils, medallions and skull ornaments covered it. In one hand it held a sword of cruel flames. In the other a vicious talon. Where other Harlequin wore masks of oversized expressions or haunting plainness. This Harlequin was clad in a helm crafted like a screaming corpse. A rotten death rictus cast in chipped gold. Staring into the mask, Iskandar realized what he was facing. Before he could voice his horror, the quickly collapsing Cegorach-Avatar proclaimed: "In this act, the Mon-Keigh Corpse-Tyrant joins the performance. The infant Chaos God of Oppression joining the dance without end. Alongside its siblings of the first order of Solitaries!"

Turning to face Iskandar the Corpse-Tyrant lifted its sword and charged. It roared in twined voices: "Purge the unclean/Mael Dannan"

Moving like some ancient serpent of Terra Iskandar dodged its blow. Hissing in pain as a wave of flames forged in mindless hate scalded his skin. Diving past the Corpse-Tyrant he pulled the Uru-Blade from the Avatar's corpse and faced the Xeno parody. With new vigor, the Harlequins attacked the Imperials who fought back with reckless abandon in turn. The mockery of their wounded liege ignited the blood-fury even in the Custodes.

Desperately, Iskandar fought the Corpse-Tyrant. Its blows matched meteor strikes in power and heat. Wounded and exhausted, the Primarch fought against this horror almost beyond imagining. Protected by Cegorach and infused with Anathemic energy, the Corpse-Tyrant easily matched the Primarch. If this continued much longer Iskandar would be struck down. Feeling his mounting corruption seeping into his soul, Iskandar laughed. The Dark Gods wanted him to strike down his father. What better way to deny them by killing this mockery.

Space/Time twitched and convulsed. The Primarch pulled maddening amounts of psychic energy into the materium, flooding his body and mind with unbound magik. Iskandar was shedding his corporeal form. All that was left was the innate spirit of a Primarch glutted on the power of Mankind's imagination, bleeding out of his body and dissolving it. More ideas than matter, the Primarch attacked. Blades and thoughts, equally sharp, lashed and bashed the Corpse-Tyrant. Its flaming sword and wicked claw scything at Iskandar's mercurial form. Sobbing and laughing the Primarch slithered around his foe. Attacking with everything he had.

An inferno of dominating light clashed with a storm of rabid colors. The Imperials and Harlequin soon found themselves disengaging from each other. The energy discharged from the duel of demi-gods created a gale-force, sending corpse-puppets flying off the cracked plaza and forcing the warriors to brace themselves. The Corpse-Tyrant was an abomination that mocked the Emperor and mimicked him in a twisted way. At its core was a powerful and arrogant Eldar. In another life, he might have become an Archeon, Trope Master or Autarch. Yet today, Cegorach had stolen his fate. The god manipulated and twisted the possible champion into a titan of ego and psychic power, protected from Slaanesh and abetted by the Harlequins. Creating a sacrificial lamb glutted on dominion and arrogance. Cegorach's altar is the stage, and his sacrifice played its role perfectly. The possible champion's soul ignited with stolen fire, creating a mockery of the Anathema which would burn itself to nothingness. Until then, it fought like a god and boasted the killing flames of the Fire-Tide.

It was a living inferno that burned away at Iskandar. The twisted warp-stuff infusing his body ignited in the presence of this false-Anathema. Screaming in delirious agony, the Primarch pushed through the flames, raining blows upon his foe and fighting for his last scraps of sanity. Overwhelmed by a billion, billion ideas, dreams, fantasies and delusions. The Primarch was rapidly succumbing to the Warp. As his mind eroded his power increased. Iskandar's soul was ripped open by the talisman, twisting him into a living warp-gate. A hole in the bottom of the Sea of Souls. Pouring out the raw stuff of possibility through the Primarch and onto his foe. This is what a Primarch is. It is a living warp-rift, given flesh and anchoring in mankind's psyche. That fundamental nature exploited to devastating effects. As Aeldari Corpse-Tyrant and Human Primarch raced to engulf each other in their death throes.

Space/Time along with matter itself distorted around the duel. Existence weakened under the strain of this clash. Power of this nature was rarely seen since the War in Heaven. They were dueling singularities, each desperately devouring each other. Not even a hint of humanoid, or even living shape could be seen in the thrashing storm. Instead, they were two fonts of runaway energy. Each witness saw it in a unique way. The Harlequins saw songs, and stories exchanged in a clash of wit, spirits waging a war in metaphor. The stoic Astartes and Custodes glimpsed the clash of blades and the discharge of weapons. Each group interpreting the incomprehensible through a personal filter.

The duel reached its conclusion as the technicolor dynamo that once was a Primarch grew in size. Swallowing the searing flames of the Corpse-Tyrant like some massive black-hole devouring a dying star. The Corpse Tyrant used his own soul to fuel its dreadful power. Iskandar, by contrast, had only to open up the floodgates hidden within him. In a keening screech that somehow sounded both like a blaze being extinguished in cold water and musical strings snapping, the Corpse Tyrant was snuffed out.

A wave of subconscious disgust rippled through both the Custodes and surprisingly the Harlequin. Even in this play-act version of the Great Game, the death of an Anathema to unbound psychic power resonated darkly. Little time to contemplate was given. The vaguely spherical maelstrom of impossible colors that had been Iskandar was growing. Losing cohesion, the storm grew larger and larger. A living warp-rift that threatened to swallow worlds if unchecked.

Every eye on this warp-swept battlefield of ashen remains and splintered crystal watched the Primarch's doom grow. His physical form destroyed and his soul turned into a gaping Hellmouth. Iskandar Basileus could only scream as he died. Sanity and substance peeled away from him. Leaving the flayed soul of a young god unleashed. Enraptured by this beautiful nightmare, no one noticed a kneeling figure stand. Constantin Valdor, First of the Ten Thousand, rose to do his duty.

With the Apollonian Spear in hand, the Captain-General walked towards the dying Primarch with calm confidence. Moving between the lines of Astartes and Custodes who stood by, shocked by his sudden movement. Valdor approached the maddened Primarch, the lashing wind and warp-lightning coming from it unnoticed by the Custodian. The Aeldari watched with alien curiosity. They had discounted him as another Mon-Keigh golem. A crucial mistake. Valdor had not spent the battle sulking away with the Emperor's fallen form, hiding from his duty. He had been engaged in a higher calling. Putting his, mind, body and soul to the test. He had communed with the damaged soul of the Emperor, providing the Master of Mankind a handhold in the materium to guide his efforts to heal. Now the Anathema of Mankind stirred in his healing slumber. Unable to awake, but aware enough to direct His Spear.

With the words of his creator echoing in his mind. Constantin Valdor pushed through the ever-growing waves of power pouring from the Primarch. Step by step, he pushed through distorted space/time and shrugged off eldritch energies. If the warp-rift he approached caused him any distress, Valdor did not show it. Imperial and Xeno alike were transfixed as the Captain-General marshaled his spear. Taking a battle stance, honed over decades of experience and centuries of genetic lore. Constantin Valdor leaped forward and plunged his Emperor-forged Guardian Spear into the gaping hole at the center of the psychic maelstrom the III Primarch had become.

For a moment nothing happened. Time seemed to slow and the bleak cacophony coming from the rift faded to a murmur. Then the hole in space/time that was once a Primarch detonated. As loud as a supernova and as gentle as a soap-bubble., it ruptured in a conflagration of impossible colors and sound. Pierced by a weapon forged with the Emperor's soul, it lost all pretense of form. A shockwave that defied proper description radiated out, sending Xenos flying, buffeted by warp-gales and forcing transhumans to the ground. Lanced like a festering boil, the Warp-Rift exploded violently. The stuff of manic imagination washed over Proxima and cut the strings of billions of walking corpses. Aeldari fled, scurrying into hastily summoned webway gates and fleeing whatever doom was to come. Astartes wordlessly begged for their Primarch, too stunned to do more than stand and watch the indescribable display before them.

As the wave of esoteric and figment-energy dissipated a grim sight came into view. Gone was the Warp-Rift. Forced shut by Valdor and his spear, shut in the most pragmatic way possible. Where once had been a seething rift was a mangled corpse. It was burnt and broken thing, barely a seared torso and head, impaled through its chest by the shining Apollonian Spear. The III Primarch had burned his mind, body, and soul to ash. His life extinguished and the Singers Talisman deactivated. Its golden disc embedded in the Primarch's blackened flesh.

A scream of despair filled the sooty air of Proxima. The III Legion rushed forward to there fallen genesire. Valdor pulled his spear from the Primarch and let his limp corpse fall. Turning to the Astartes, Valdor spoke. "The Emperor did not create the Primarchs to be frail things. Even less so for the two, he intends to last beyond eternity. My Spear is more than a weapon. It is a tool and a method of your Genesire's rebirth. If he is worthy of it."

Fulgurite formed from a cast-off bolt of the Emperor's light could kill or resurrect. In another timeline, it had been used for wonders and terrors. It had cured the madness of a tortured Salamander and killing immortal traitors. Those feats were accomplished by a piece of captured lightning. A literal hunk of sharpened rock in comparison to what pierced Iskandar. The Apollonian Spear was forged by the Master of Mankind and anointed with his very essence. At the Emperor's instruction, Valdor had impaled the III Primarch. Thrusting a spark of pure light into the broken demigod in the process.

That spark flowed through Iskandar, touching the shattered bits of his soul, pulling them together and healing him with his Father's love. Golden light flowed through the dead Primarch. The light only had to push the immortal biology and eternal soul of Iskandar back to its purpose. Like his younger brother Vulkan, Iskandar was a perpetual.

With a scream of life restored, the fallen Primarch breathed anew. Psychic light danced across his broken skin and ruined muscles like some celestial aurora. Flesh regrew and flames of golden light danced around Iskandar, steadily growing in intensity as life poured back into the Primarch. The Singers Talisman melted into his flesh. The Ur-Gold flowed through reborn veins and into the wound Valdor had inflicted. Transhuman flesh and micro-wafers of tesseract-etched gold came together, creating a mark of gold upon his breast roughly resembling the shape of flames while still retaining its countless inscriptions and connection to the warp.

Struggling to his fast regrowing feet, Iskandar held his hands out and cried a call of victory. Flames erupted from his body, flaring out from his arms in the shape of golden wings that were brighter than the sun and just as glorious. At that moment, the Primarch was more than that. He was a Phoenix. The light of rebirth heralding mankind's birth. The Emperor's Champion. His Phoenix Reborn.

As the flames settled, the III Legion knelt before the Primarch. The statuesque demigod walked through the dying flames and beckoned his sons to stand. With a pulse of telekinesis, Iskandar plucked the Uru-Blade from the ground and held it up. Breathing deep and examining himself, Iskandar let out a small chuckle. "A Phoenix indeed. Well played, Father.."

Bowing in gratitude to Valdor, the Primarch spoke. "Thank you my kin. I owe my life and sanity to you. I am his Phoenix Blade, I shall burn bright and strike hard for the Emperor. Now and forever."

Valdor only nodded curtly. His own mind was flooded with a psychic backlash from Iskandar. His spear pulled memories and emotions from all he killed. Such was its burden and power. In that moment of the Primarch's first death, some of his essence touched Valdor. The Captain-General had been shocked by what he felt. Love, love for the Emperor and love by the Emperor towards his son. It was a primitive and brutish thing compared to the loyalty of a Custodes to the Emperor, but it struck Valdor with its sheer intensity. At that moment, he understood something. The Primarchs were far more dangerous than he could ever imagine. That love could so easily turn to hate, and it left a weakness in his Master's armor. Yet, something deep within the Custodian was moved. Some parts of himself felt that connection and wondered if the Primarchs might be more than he could imagine.

Raising his sword, Iskandar spoke to his legionaries: "Hear me my sons! From the Ashes of War! We rise! From this day on, we are the Phoenix Blades. The Champions of the Imperium. In his name, we shall be the flame that burns away the darkness and lights the future!"

A cheer erupted from his sons. All raising their bloody and blunted weapons. At that moment the sky ignited in plasma-fire. Ripping from the Immaterial in a risky Warp-Jump was the Bucephalus. Ignoring its own safety the ship had arrived straight from the Warp and into Proximan orbit. Any lesser vessel would have been dragged into the gravity well or buried in an astral body. The Cognatu Ferrum had used all of its formidable intellect to propel the Emperor's chariot to its wounded master. Looking up, Iskandar watched a flock of landing craft and drop-pods rain from the ship. The Imperium had come and the Emperor was safe.

At Valdor's direction, the still sleeping form of the Emperor was ferried onto a Custodes landing craft that promptly took him to a hidden sanctum within the Bucephalus. It was a place of peace and meditation where the Master of Mankind could heal. Iskandar cloaked his naked form in a procured robe and started giving orders. The Centauri Cluster would be firmly in Imperial hands by the time his father awoke. Moving to a landing craft to take up command upon the Bucephalus, the Primarch paused. Turning back he approached the splintered remains of the Solitaires who had driven him to his first death. The bodies were in too poor condition for Omophageaic use. Soaked in Warp-taint and stinking of the Dark Prince's desire. Instead, they could fulfill another purpose.

Across the Cluster all 52 systems of the Centauri Cluster a message was beamed. The appearance of the Many Colored King's "Angels" and their true identity. How they were scheming Xeno's who had killed all of Proxima rather than let the Emperor expose them. Iterator spun truth and propaganda together artfully. Telling of the Aeldari Fall and its consequences upon the galaxy. Within a Terran month, 90% of temples to the Many-Colored King would be ruined.

Location: The Warp

Date: ~884.M30 (Impossible to accurately measure)

It had been close to three Terran weeks. The Emperor had slept within his private chambers for that entire time, all the while pulling his molecules back together and consolidating his soul. Cegorach had failed to kill him. The clown god had put on a show for him and his servants. He had watched the battle from his undying slumber with bitter fury. The entire thing was a mockery of the God-Emperor and his Imperium. A chastising message meant for the Emperor alone. Informing him that Cegorach knew of the timelines shift and that any attempt to change it further would be pointless.

Close to fully healed and with the Harlequin Assassins scattered into the Webway, it seemed time for the Emperor to confront the clown god. Diving into the Sea of Souls, the Emperor prepared a lure for his foe. Like a freediver of ancient Terran reef-people, he plunged deep into the Immaterium. His senses focused on a group of souls being pulled into the realm of Slaanesh. Thirteen Solitaires, each fighting desperately to escape the jaws of She who Thirsts. Struggling in the caustic depths, begging their god to rescue them. These damned souls felt the pull of Chaos and then something else… Something bright and terrible. Peering up with frightened witch-sight, a specter beyond comprehension filled the warp. Riding upon great wings of fire, a Raptor of hardened light and ordered thought came with outstretched talons.

In the form of a bird of prey, the Master of Mankind swept down into the realm of Chaos and plucked the Solitaires up in his mighty talons. With a great downbeat of innumerable wings, the Emperor ripped through the Warp up towards the shallows. Into the light of the Astronomicon. Like the cruel predator, this form was modeled after the Emperor smashed the stolen souls on a cliff-edge of solid light. Circling the traumatized souls with wings of fire, he spoke. "++ You hurt my child and arranged the deaths of so many of mankind. This will not go unanswered. Yet more pressing matters are at hand. You are tokens of parley. Pray to your performance of a deity he agrees to meet. If not, I will burn you all. It will hurt less than what the Great Enemy intended, but you will be snuffed from existence in considerable pain.++"

Almost on cue, an explosion of technicolor light came into being around the Emperor. A grinning mask of pale silver appeared. Forming the face of something cloaked in starlight and mystery. It very form an oscillating thing of broken images and stars. Cegorach had come.

A hand composed of iridescent streams swept across the cliff of light. Plucking the Solitaires up and fading away with them. Turning to face the Emperor, Cegorach bowed in an extravagant display of false respect. "--Oh great and glorious Anathema! What a wonder it is to see you! How goes the genocide, the pogroms, the atrocities beyond count my glorious overlord of righteousness. What business do you have with me? Oh! Is it about that little spat on Proxima? Please don't hold it against me. I just hoped to save the universe from eternal impossible torment.--"

Scowling through golden eyes, the Emperor observed the Clown-God and felt disgusted at the being's mockery. "++ You wear mask after mask ancient one. Dancing and distracting. I am a monster, a tyrant with the blood of countless on my hands. Yet you are so much worse. You prance about in the face of a God-Construct and pretend to be just an escaped entity like The Bloody Handed One and the Life-Mother. I know the truth of what you are. I pulled it from the minds of your Hrud toys. You are no god, natural or made. You are a creator of them. The Trickster, the last of the Old Ones.++"

For a split second the silver mask adorning the Clown "God" shifted. Its smile no longer one of mocking humor, but a snarl of bared fangs. "-- Oh I am one of the first, just not the last. Some of my comrades yet linger. One was even upon your prized blue-jewel the day of your birth. He watched the Shamans slit their throats atop the tallest mountain. That ritual would have failed without him. Yet another pack of near-animals dying in vain. Hoping to save themselves from the Primordial Annihilator. If the Craftsman had not guided them, you would have never been born. All that is left of him resides in your primitive soul. I guess… that makes me your kin of sorts.--"

Flaring his wings the Emperor flexed talons of cold gold: "++ You lie, Vaul is but a living tool like the rest of your created gods. A broken thing made to build and build. It could not interfere with another species, let alone help my creation ++"

A cackle emanated from the darkness and the Old One spoke "++ So bright and shiny, yet so dull! I speak not of the creator-god we built for the Aeldari. It was just another tool. I speak of the user of those tools. My kin-comrade the Craftsman. Oh he was glorious. Worlds, species, weapons, and so many wonders. All forged by his will. He made the universe brighter with every passing cycle. For you to be his final legacy.... disgraceful. An ignorant tyrant who would burn the universe in a temper tantrum rather than face the truth. --"

"++What truth would that be, Clown?++" roared back the Emperor. He knew he was a monster, he knew few beings in the universe who would commit more evil than him. Yet this failed relic of the first warp travelers dared to judge him. The Trickster and his kin had unleashed the Orks, the Enslavers, the Dark God, even the C'tan by their negligence.

Glaring through black eye-slits Cegorach sneered: "-- The truth you infantile Anathema is the only way for the Universe to live is for you to die. The Cabal is foolish, not able to see past their own notions. Humanity is not the danger. It. Is. You. As long as you live the Chaos Gods will feed on your sins and scheme to birth the Fifth of their number. You are nothing but the infection vector for Chaos. Deluding yourself that an impossible shining path will save you and your species. If you survive past your Genocidal Conquests then we are all doomed.--"

The Emperor responded softly: "++ The Shining Path is not impossible. If my people can walk it then Chaos can be destroyed and this universe and every universe will be saved ++"

In a voice that could shatter the heavens and drive mortals mad, the Trickster screamed back. "-- IF! IF! IF! IF! You walk a path you don't even fully know. One misstep, one mistake, and we all suffer worse than death. All it will take is a single flaw and you damn yourself and the universe. You failed once before, Anathema. What is to say you will not fail again?--"

To that, the Emperor had no answer, or at least not one he wished to give. Moving close to the Emperor the Trickster's mask became a weeping face and the anger dissipated. Instead was a soft almost pleading voice. "-- I need you to understand why you need to die. If you live to conquer this galaxy, everyone dies. If you butcher and burn your way to dominion the Warp will respond. The Four will find a way to set the birth of the Fifth into motion. You nearly died on Proxima, to a blatant trap. Anathema, just because your Godlings gestated in your sight does not mean they will not destroy you. I was there when Eldanesh died. I was there when his most loyal friend and creation gained that cursed bloody hand. You will not be any different. The fruit of your labor will poison you in the end. Eventually, something will break you. I doubt anything the Dark Gods can muster can truly kill you, but something will break you. It will wound you, Anathema. Then out of your broken body and soul, the Fifth god will be born. You met that abomination as it gripped its last bits of sanity and sent a message. The God-Emperor on the cusp of true and dreadful apotheosis. All roads lead to that or worse.--"

With a gentleness out of character for the crass Old One the Trickster spoke again: "-- That is the shining path you so boldly walk. Certain doom where the stakes are impossibly high. I offer you another option. Within you lies the power of the Anathema. The incarnate sanity of the galaxy. It's flames grow bright, with the souls of billions. Right now if you were to be truly extinguished. That energy would not be shackled to a Soul-Engine or warped by primitive prayer. It would be released. Burning the Warp in a way the Talisman of Seven Hammers could never dream. Your death will maim the Gods. Your soul unleashed into the warp with your death. If you were to die, truly die. The Chaos Gods would be banished from this existence in your funeral pyre. The ancient doom we set in motion all those millions of years ago to stop the C'tan finally ended. The Galaxy would be at peace.-- "

Silent, except for the roar of psychic flames the Emperor pondered this before asking: "++ That may be true, but what of the threats within the Material. Even with the Chaos Gods dead and their minions broken. The other abominations yet live. The Orks, The Rangda, not to mention the Yngir and the Hunger Between the Stars. What is your answer to the other dooms for my people? I would gladly die for mankind if it meant their safety. This plan of yours is flawed ++"

A smile deeper than an event horizon cut its way across the Tricksters mask: "-- You answer the question by asking it. The Orks and the Rangda are my people's creations. While I lack the control we once had, they are still puppets. With the Chaos Gods gone and you gone. The only species capable of conquering the galaxy will be the Ork and Rangda. Who will then fight for galactic supremacy. I will let neither of them win. For ten thousand years two of the most deadly and powerful organisms in creation will hone themselves upon each other. Becoming weapons beyond compare. So when the Yngir wake they will find a galaxy of war-thralls ready to crush them once and for all. They will be at the weakest when they awake and the Krorks were meant to fight them at their strongest. When the Great Devourer comes it will face a parasite cultivated over eons. The Rangda will cripple the Hive-Fleets for generations. Infesting them and wounding that great unfathomable intelligence. If the collective mind refuses to leave this galaxy it will face the combined wrath of the Orkish and Rangda oversouls. I was there when they were first built. I know just how to break them in such a way the ensuing destruction would lobotomize the Great Devourer along with the Orks and Rangda.--"

With a gesture, the Trickster pulled up a thousand Webway portals and continued: "--Then as the dust settles my chosen will reclaim the galaxy. Thousands of species and cultures have been selected to survive this apocalypse. I will hide them deep within the Web Way under my protection. Growing strong and ready to reclaim the galaxy from the ashes. Mankind would be among them of course. My servants have long helped or observed the branches of your species who merit it. Interex, Khazukan, Auretian, Inwit, and many others. Worthy to ride out the storm and carry the name of Homo Sapiens into the distant future. I have protected my chosen from the Fall, the War in Heaven, the K'nib conflicts and so much more. Mankind will survive without you. It can only survive without you Anathema.--"

The Emperor responded with stoic composure. "++ You are correct, that would be the best and most efficient method to ensure the Galaxies survival. Kill the gods and Cauterize the warp, preventing them from being reborn in this timeline. Burn the galaxy and let those worthy ascend from the ashes. I will not allow it. Your plan would save our universe, but only our universe. The Great Enemy will still be out there. Feeding off countless realities. I walk the path that will kill them once and for all. I can do more than just save one universe. I can save them all. Mankind will Ascend. The Imperium under me will guide them on a path to surpass you and your get. Trickster, I have fought too long and too hard to let you run and hide with my people. ++"

Shedding the form of mighty raptor the Emperor took the form he considered his most natural. A simple man with bronze skin, and golden eyes. Looking up at the ancient Trickster-being he spoke. With a voice both calm and terribly, terribly cold. "++ If I fail, I can always start again. The God-Emperor reached back and gifted souls and knowledge to me. If I fail I will do the same as the God-Emperor. With each failure, I will grow in power, with each universe that slides towards dissolution I will learn. The souls of each timeline will be safe within me. Then all that suffering and horror will be worth it. I will exist in living death upon the Golden Throne for millions of years if I have to. I have to win once, and I have all the time possible.++"

The Trickster shuddered, its nebulous body recoiled from the idea of such horror. "-- That is madness. Every failure will birth another universe of horrors. I doubt actuality could handle the strain. All that death, all that pain. You could save only so many from each attempt. You would sentence quintillions to death for this impossible dream!? You play with forces beyond even your understanding Anathema. You are mad Atham the Revelator.-- "

Smiling up at the being that wore gods like masks, Revelation said: "++ I am not insane, I know that if the Shining Path succeeds just once, all will be worth it. All the evils of Chaos and every other horror possible will have never existed. For all your power Trickster, you can barely detect the shifting of time. You know the God-Emperor sent a message from the Grimdark future and it changed the course of history. What you do not know is how many times this has occurred. What attempt do you think I am on Trickster? How many times do you think I have listened to this patronizing argument? My plan is working Trickster, far better than yours. I hope for your sake. That when my son Magnus finally claims the Black Library from you, he is feeling merciful. If not, you will make a fine research specimen.++"

With those terrible words, the Emperor faded from this meeting place. Leaving the last true Old One shaken and scared. Speaking to none other than himself and his memories the Trickster said: "-- Oh Craftsman, what have you unleashed? What possessed you to help those hominids. They grew in the shadow of Chaos and C'tan, and you decided to hand them the keys to the cosmos.--"

Back upon the Bucephalus the Emperor awoke. His body healed and his soul restored. Rising from the crystalline altar within his chambers that focused psychic power. The Emperor opened his eyes and stared out across the cosmos. As attendants and Custodes rushed to him he remarked: "Still so much to do. The Great Work must go on."

(Thanks to Klickator for editing at what has to be record speed!)

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