The Last and the Lost
FT
Mature
The Primarch Zeta stood aboard his battle barge, awe inspiring in his obsidian MK IV Armor. The ashen Planet of Turgov, the new home planet of the Death Cult legion of Space Marines sat below. Appearing a sickly gray-green, the Marines and Menials had begun to fondly call it the Spherical Enigma. The surface of Turgov being completely devoid of plant life or anything remotely green being the enigma. Ruins and stone covered the majority of the planet and it seemed a fitting home world for the Death Cult.
Zeta, the last, gazed down at his planet. A mix of fondness and revulsion upon his marble features. His Brother Primarch of the Death Guard, Mortion, had once said that with this look Zeta could end civilizations and it seemed that if given the chance he would end his own now. The Death Cult and the Death Guard bore many similarities. Both Legions claimed the word Death in their titles, both refused to ornament their war gear, both Primarchs rarely spoke, and both had blazed a path of destruction before the Heresy. The Heresy that Zeta had to return to stop, to end, to exterminate.
The Death Guard and Death Cult had one difference, one that was in the eyes of many, insignificant. The sons of Mortion emulated the methodical approach of Death, the Death Cult emulated the fury of the grave. Here was Zeta’s secret, his fury, his rage, the emotion that allowed him to reduce whole species to dust without despairing. His brother could boast about his grim resolve but not even Angron could match Zeta’s rage. The silent rage that was the inevitable advance of death.
Zeta stared at his planet and thought of his Legion’s history.
The Death Cult had been at the forefront of the Great Crusade, claiming large swaths of territory for the Imperium on the eastern fringe of the Galaxy. World after world succumbed to the finesse and fury of the Death Cult, until Horus the great usurper unleashed his trap at Istivaan. What would come to be known as the Horus Heresy, the Death Cult would not be a part of. The great crucible of the Imperium, the most trying time in Humanity’s history, the Death Cult would miss. Another log to the fire of rage that burned within their many hearts, another deed to be righted as soon as they returned to the Imperium of Mankind and Zeta personally took Horus’ head.
The Death Cult received word from the Emperor to turn about and assist the Space Wolves in the purgation of Prospero the home world of the Thousand Sons space marine legion just before Istivaan. En route to Prospero the mighty Death Cult flotilla was lost in the warp, the marines battling the non-ending tides of Gibbering Daemons for weeks. Hope was hard to come by and the Primarch had personally prepared himself to die. Finally exiting the warp due to the skill and finese of their Navigator, the Death Cult was down to roughly half of it’s original strength. Where once was ten thousand proud warriors, now stood only five thousand.
The Legion exited the warp in an uncharted system in an unknown corner of the galaxy. There was a single planet that showed evidence of human life, an unknown dead hive world renamed Noctis. The Marines and Primarch Zeta fought a remarkable lightning campaign that installed them master of Turgov, crushing the petty Xeno Empire that had dominated a human minority.
With millions of “Cultists” to serve the Death Cult, the painfully slow task of rebuilding the lost strength of the Legion began. Great medical libraries were constructed and ancient tomes taken from the halls of Remembrance aboard the Cult’s Battle Barges. The few Tech-Adepts the Legion had brought labored intensely and while they could not reproduce the Gene-Seed lost to the creatures of the Warp they did make many discoveries that were put to use. The Cultists (as the menials had become known) were quickly the recipients of experimental genetic augmentation that saw them become more than men but still far less than Astartes.
Zeta, the Last, was however short of patience with the Adepts of Mars. Taking two hundred Marines he departed from Turgov to seek out the Imperium.
Zeta quickly stepped through the science lab, his aids were always showing him the various ways to augment his massive human armies, but what he wanted was to make more Marines and reforge his legion! The civil war was raging in the Imperium and another space marine legion would tip the scales firmly against Horus. Firmly against the foul traitor who had ended the Great Crusade and shattered any hopes for a future free of fear and carnage.
He screamed at his scientists, his mighty voice raised to a deafening roar. He told them how no matter what combat drugs and armor they put a human into he just would never be an Adeptus Astartes. In the end, a man was a man and a Space Marine was something more. Something far more. The men cowered but quickly returned to work, roused by their overseeing Magos, 01. The Primarch turned and departed from the glaringly bright and sterile domain of the Tech Adepts, muttering as he went.
Everywhere his cultists worked and his Marines trained, the dark gray power armor made his men almost blend in with the dark marble walls. The fiery glow that emanated from the old style Mark Two helms cast hauntingly beautiful images, silent tears in the dark. Zeta snorted in laughter, muttering a name several times.
“The Tears of Darkness….”
Zeta walked quickly into the command, Tech marines were busy plotting satellite launch dates and manning sensor array. Towering over the two meter tall space marines he seemed like a father to his children. They all resembled him since they all had come of his genetic stock. The precious Gene seed, that is what the legion lacked, the gene seed from the fallen. They needed a way to produce more of it, they needed technology. They needed technology of the most potent kind, they required one of the fabled STC Machines.
Zeta flashed back to the present, he had boarded his battle barge the
Fury of Death and with two hundred of his chosen had departed from the freshly built docks of Turgov. They would scour the galaxy for either the Imperium or the Technology they needed. His navigator a sickly little man who shrieked as he was bolted into his chair. The metal rods holding him down went right through his spindly little hands, earning some disgusted glances from the Cultist Crew. Yet despite their revulsion they managed to go about their duties and soon the ship orbited over the silent Hive World of Noctis.
The Battle Barge orbited over the dead hive world, Zeta gazed upon the planet through one of the sensor arrays. Marveling at the smoke still drifting across the continents from ancient industrial fires that burned still. Broken buildings loomed like the broken teeth of some primitive God out of the darkness of the unknown and if the mighty Primarch ordered maximum magnification he could see the cracked streets of the Hive. Centered around a massive fortress, the Hive was protected by anti air batteries that still covered the sky. Ancient machines still performed their task and made it impossible for the Death Cult Legion to land on Noctis Hive directly.
Zeta smiled, it had been too long since the Warp Journey. It had been too long since he had wetted his great sword in the blood of his and his Father’s enemies. The Primarch turned to his closest adviser and said,
"Markus, you are in command of the fleet, I am taking Squad Alpha and landing. We will make our way to the fortress and disable the anti air batteries."
Markus said nervously,
"Sir, we have no idea of what’s down there, remember The Blood Angels' legion on Murder..."
Zeta motioned to him to stop talking, he slowly said,
"I am landing with Alpha squad, there is no discussion here."
Markus looked like he would say something but Zeta finished the conversation by saying,
"If you question me again, I will shoot you and tear your gene seed out myself."
Markus nodded, knowing all along that his Lord would demand the right to do the necessary tasks himself. He paused, partially to see if his Primarch was indeed drawing his ornate Bolt Pistol before saying,
"Yes sir I will command the fleet."
Zeta smiled and walked quickly to the hanger, every step filled with purpose. His Chosen Marines had to jog to keep up with their Primarch. He pushed his way into the drop pod as did the rest of the squad with an almost boyish eagerness. Preparations were made quickly, the fury of the Primarch ensuring that the flight crew performed as able as they could. The drop pod shot out of the hanger, rocketing down towards the streets of Noctis.
The pod smashed through a decrepit Hab, all the way down to the ground level. The bolts holding the panels shot off, and the squad under Zeta pushed their way out of the pod and out of the hab. The decrepit moldy building smelled of old death and fear, two things that the Space Marines did not know. The squad ran out into the street, covering each other perfectly. The ancient evidence of warfare were everywhere, ancient skeletons held decrepit ancient weapons, burned out tanks sat as silent guardians of the hive's streets. This great discovery did much to enlighten the warriors but still they did not know what caused this or how the Anti Air batteries remained active.
The squad ran off through the streets, shades of people glimpsed out of the corner of their eyes followed them. Zeta said slowly over the vox,
"We're being followed, head for that large manufactorium to the west."
A flash of confirmation runes flashed on Zeta's helm, the Death Cult legion Marines did not talk much. They were as Zeta said, “Death's followers and Death came silently.” The squad thundered into the factory, the massive machines were decrepit and broken. Massive pistons and presses rusted to the point where they were little more than junk greeted them and the aspirations that had been shadowing them did not enter.
Brother Tor, the grizzled veteran slowly walked to a rusted door. Raising a mighty servo assisted leg, he kicked it in and smiled when he saw that is was the basement.
"Sir I found something."
He voxed to Zeta, who ushered the rest of the squad inside. Brother Tor closed the door slowly, the hinges squealing in protest.
Zeta Smiled and said,
“Tor, Egor, Groton keep watch, the rest of our brothers rest. We have over seventy kilometers to travel tomorrow and possibly a fight to enter the great fortress.”
Zeta sat on the ground, he as a Primarch did not need sleep, but it was luxury he would partake in. He drifted off quickly. He could will himself asleep and yet he remained alert though sheet force of will alone. He dreamed, Zeta saw a bustling hive, serene, and prosperous. He saw people who went about their lives in relative comfort and with a joy that came only from working hard but reaping the fruits of their labors.
Then Zeta saw the end of this pleasant hive. Daemons sat atop piles of human heads and the Traitor legions marched through the grand streets. A flood of Angron's barbaric children, (he had always disliked Angron) butchered those they came across until the fortress was the only bastion of the living and non mutilated.
Zeta saw fighting all across the Hive world, Millions of soldiers fought hundreds of Millions of Daemons. The fortress could not be breeched, so they pilled millions of corpses in front of the main gate. The macabre monument stood, seven stories high with the children of Angron atop it. Like masters of an unholy siege tower, they called praises to their dark god of slaughter.
The last of the World Eaters was obviously a grizzled veteran and favored son of the Lord of Skulls. He called out to Khorne, and a dark Booming laugh sounded from beyond the veil of reality. A dark purple beam of lightning shot out and struck this veteran in the chest, the Warrior fell to his knees and began shrieking in pleasure and pain as his bones elongated, his skin grew leathery hard, and he turned into a mighty Daemon Prince. With the transformation complete he stood and boomed out to his amassed millions,
"Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne!“
His massive hoard charged forth, smashing the walls of the fortress with warp fire. The Daemon himself melting the steel and stone with a whim. The garrison fought like devils, but were worn down to nothing. The Daemon roared and a massive warp riff began to form, the purple haze of the imatrium soaking the bloody fields of battle. The Daemon roared again in victory and began to turn. As he turned Zeta could see his own features on the Daemon's face, twisted into a menacing smile. He shook awake but still heard the dark booming laughter of the god of slaughter fading into the recesses of his mind.
Zeta formed the squad up, all of the Astartes reported having similarly disturbing dreams. Space Marines did not know fear, but this heightened sense of things that now dominated the Legionnaires was the closest they could get. Suddenly they all knew just how isolated they were, effectively trapped in a dead city on a silent world. Zeta himself was taken aback by his foolishness, a well timed ambush could take the leadership from his Legion and sign their death warrant for all time.
The Marines slowly opened the heavy rusty door to the basement, the door oddly silent. Before them stood a child, a thin malnourished pale child. Zeta stared down at the small human, child human opened his mouth wider than it should have gone. With a loud crack the child's jaw snapped and a dark scratchy voice projected from him, the voice said,
"Welcome children of death, my lord has been waiting for you for a long time, and he wishes to send his greetings to you Zeta, born of the corpse god, child of dea-"
The child would never finish, for Zeta had drawn his sword and severed it's head. The lifeless body fell to the ground but it still stirred. The squad crept closer, recoiling in disgust and surprise when a hand made of solid darkness punched out of the former child's stomach. The blood that sprayed out was ancient, little more than red dust. The daemon tore it's way out of the body, it's long head almost coming into view before Zeta roared,
" Sergeant Tor get your flamer on that abomination!"
Tor stepped forward, he lowered his flamer and burned the beast. He screamed the new litanies of hate and fury as he hosed the unholy being. The daemon screeched, his cries ascending into a spectrum of hearing beyond even a Space Marine‘s. Finally the solid darkness that made up the daemon dissipated, it leaked away like smoke and gave off the stale odor of rotten flesh.
Zeta turned to his men and slowly said,
"My sons we must not let the great enemy tarnish our resolve, for we are death, and none can resist the grave."
His marines all nodded, only Tor was allowed to speak, it was one of the privilege of rank. He carefully said to Zeta,
"My lord, should we not contact the fleet and tell them of our find?"
Zeta nodded and replied,
“No Tor, it is but one daemon. We have already sent it back to the warp."
Tor nodded and made the sign of the Aquila.
The squad jogged off down another street in the dead hive, the fortress was still miles and miles away but they could feel it’s silent presence. The dark city seemed to change it's distances at will yet the oppressive fortress always projected it‘s invisible presence. There had been no more Daemons or walking dead, but Zeta still felt like something was watching him and his men.
They ran for the entire period of Daylight and it seemed like the fortress was no closer. Zeta once again ordered the Marines to find shelter. The squad located what appeared to be an ancient Arbites precinct. They walked inside slowly, surveying the entrance area for threats. The black armored skeletons that greeted them held combat shotguns and bolt pistols in their ancient hands. The Marines eagerly looted their corpses taking all the ammunition they could find for their bolt guns, and several of the Death Cult grabbed Shotguns as well.
They pushed deeper and deeper until finally finding the command room of the Precinct. They engaged the perimeter defenses and Brother Egor reprogrammed the automated defenses to recognize the Marines. Zeta pulled off his helm and smiled to his assembled sons. His marbled features making his smile seem more like a grimace. He ordered the other half of the squad to keep watch and once again settled down to sleep.
The first thing Zeta could see was war. War in front of the Imperial palace the traitor legions and the Loyalists battled for control of the Imperium. Zeta saw his father the Emperor kill Horus aboard his battle barge and he saw him enthroned and entombed upon the golden throne. The civil war that Zeta's legion had to get back to was over. The great defining time of humanity had passed.
He saw next the Imperial Scribes writing a great list of the Heretics and Loyalists. One of the scribes an ancient man who's gray hair was tied to his chair quietly asked a question of his Brother Primarch Roboute Guilliman,
"My lord, what of Zeta and his legion?"
His brother frowned and said ,
“They must've fled into the warp for no communication has been received. Mark them traitor and burn all history of their legion, they are beyond the Emperor's light!"
The scribe wrote them upon the list of Heretics and traitors, forever exiling them from the Imperium and marking them enemies of Humanity.
Zeta awoke in the private chamber he had chosen for himself, he screamed and punched through the wall. He knew that what he had seen must surely be the truth! He cried out in his fury,
"Father, why have you forsaken me?!"
A dark voice that surely did not belong to the Emperor boomed out,
"See the weakness of your Father? You kill for him, you conquer for him and yet you are tossed aside! Kill for me, rule for me, destroy for me, and I will honor you forever. You will be truly immortal, beyond the weapons of the weak mortals who infest this plane of existence! You legion will be replenished by my servants! You will have dozens of legions of mortals who will die for you! You will be master of a thousand worlds, and you will be synonymous with the word death. If you but serve me, the lost god, Malal!"
Zeta slowly raised his head and whispered,
"Yes."
Zeta stood before his Marines and told them of what he had seen. Malal had already visited the other brothers and all had converted to his worship. The squad affirmed their loyalty to Zeta and Malal by carving the mark of Malal upon their chests, a writing rune that seemed to thrash against the barriers separating the Immaterium from the Materium. After this ritual was completed they set off from the ancient Arbites precinct.
The street before the precinct was bleaker than when the Death Cult came in. Perhaps it was Malal’s unholy touch, perhaps it was merely the light of the morning sun. The various colors of the world changed to different shades of gray before the Primarch’s eyes. Zeta turned and gazed at his men, they were the darkest black. Their features only visible if Zeta focused on them specifically yet the mark of Malal burned white hot.
The squad ran on, Zeta gazed ahead, following a dark gray trail along the lighter gray of the landscape. It was almost like a pathway to the fortress and in his heart Zeta knew that the Lost God had granted him this power. He turned his head and looked at the fortress, it was dark red like the color of old blood.
"Khorne."
The word just appeared in his head when he saw the fortress. Zeta then immediately knew his mission, deep in the fortress lay a daemon prince once a warrior of the World Eaters. The massive Daemon now ruled the dead hive as a king. A king who had succumbed to hibernation now that no blood ran through the streets. His eyes seemed to zoom in and he saw the legions of warriors and daemons that the Death Cult would have to overcome and Zeta smiled for he knew Malal would aid his warriors soon enough.
The squad covered miles and miles following the unholy pathway. It led them though habs and factories, through streets and alleys, but abruptly the path ended. Zeta looked all around searching for the path but it was ended, the fortress was before them. Still four miles distant across a hellscape with piles of severed heads and skulls strewn about.
The cold skeletal voice that Zeta determined must be a Shadow Lord, one of the greater demons of Malal said,
"My lord spoke to your entire legion personally, and they have accepted your new God. Malal has gifted them with the knowledge of how to make the mark as you did, and has given them his unholy sight like you now have. They can see you from your battle barge, who's machine spirit has also been turned to the worship of the Lost. Call them on the vox, for your landings will be obscured by unholy shadow."
Zeta nodded and slowly said over the vox,
"Markus, land our men here."
There was a slight pause then Markus said,
"Yes my lord, Malal has shown us where to land."
Zeta clicked off the vox and smiled as he saw that a dark cloud had risen around the landing zone. He knew that it would confound the questing spirits of the Anti Air batteries. The shadow lord said,
"Your enemy will be great, but know that every one of your marines who falls will be resurrected in the shadow realm of Malal . He will hold them ready until you find a sorcerer who can open a rift blessed by Malal with two of his artifacts."
Zeta nodded and said,
"After the battle we will worry about this, for now we will prepare!"
The Drop Pods and Thunder Hawks from the fleet were landing, their dark gray paint job replaced by one of black and white. After an hour the entire army of two hundred Marines formed up, with only the Menials left aboard the ships. The Marines of Squad Alpha each led a detachment of Astartes. First to receive Malal's blessing and first to be named Zeta's commanders.
The great host formed up and began to slowly trudge towards the Fortress in a great phalanx, shadow following in their wake. Before them the daemons of Khorne howled and tried to engage, but they were blasted apart by the bolter fire from the Marines. As they neared the Fortress a great horn sounded and millions Daemons of Khorne assembled before the fortress two miles still from the host of the Death Cult.
The Khorneate army swelled as more and more Daemons climbed from the lower levels and cracks in the ground. Zeta could see that their numbers would destroy his host, so he called to Malal, imploring him for aid. Thee Lost God smiled upon him as his own daemons formed. Zeta’s army doubled in size but was still much smaller than the mighty army of the Daemon prince.
Zeta could see the great rift in reality that was pouring more and more Daemonsonto this planet. Zeta then saw six sorcerers, rare for Khorneate armies yet critical. These pskyers were inside the fortress and where the only weakness of the enemy host, this knowledge given to him by Malal himself.
Zeta turned his head to Tor, the grizzled veteran who was now Zeta's champion. He said,
"My favorite son, when the battle is joined, infiltrate the enemy fortress and find the enemies sorcerers. There are six of them that you must send to the Realm of Shadow. It will be difficult, but you must kill all of these bastards of Tzeentch and Khorne. Striking two of Malal's hated kin will please him and is the only way we can win this battle. After you do this, I alone will fight the Daemon prince. Only I have to power to vanquish him, and bind him to my likening. Malal has told me that it is to be so.
Tor nodded, he slowly said,
"Yes my lord."
The Lone Marine broke off from the host and headed for the fortress. He would need to hurry if he was to reach it before the Death Cult reached the enemy.
Tor ran, the dark red fortress was nearer than ever before. Blood rained down from the heavens and gibbering Daemons watched him from above. He turned back for a moment and gazed at his Lord he was black as night to his Malal blessed eyes. Bright red streams of bolter fire stitched out from the Phalanx which was now only two hundred meters from the hordes of the blood god and reaffirmed Tor’s need for haste.
The massed hoard of Khorne surged forward, the notorious fury and blood lust of the God of Slaughter making his subjects prone to berserk rages. Tor turned and continued to climb, he was only ten meters from cresting the walls. He pulled himself the last ten meters and dropped into the courtyard with a silent scream of internal rage.
Zeta and the rest of the Death Cult advanced silently, their fury was articulated by the fire of their bolt guns. The Last Primarch raised his blade and let out one scream, a shrill call to beyond the grave. The call that would sound the end for millions in the future and in the Warp Malal smiled.
With a wave of his hand his Shadow Beasts and Shadow Lords materialized alongside his newest soldiers, just as the Death Cult smashed into the enemy. Hacking and killing their way deep into the unimaginably massive hoard, the Marines quickly depleted all of their ammunition and the battle turned into a brawl. Daemons of Khorne and Daemons of Malal fought, the fury of the Blood God matched by the cold resolve of Malice.
Tor ran through the massive fortress, his Malal blessed eyes showing the location of the foul sorcerers. The unholy union between the powers of Tzeentch and Khorne created an odd brown color that Tor eagerly searched for. He whirled as he heard a patrol of Human Cultists running towards him, obviously the elite guard of the Sorcerers. He fired one round from his bolt gun and killed the lead man, blowing the crimson contents of his chest onto those that followed behind. Tor turned again and sprinted, he had to kill those sorcerers.
The cultists shouted and followed him, the fury of Khorne lent them speed enough to catch the Marine. They swung at him but Tor's armor stopped their blades easily enough, and he chuckled. Tor fired another round from his bolt gun, blowing the next cultist’s brains onto the men behind him. The blood fury of Khorne surfaced at the worst time and the cultists began swinging at each other as well, giving the lone Legionnaire an opening. Tor ran on leaving the now blood frenzied cultists behind him.
Before him was the massive warp rift, he could hear the scream of Daemons and the howl of lost souls booming out from the warp itself. Tor felt an unknown urge to leap into it, to lose himself in an eternity of slaughter and taint. He turned and stopped for a moment, staring down into the rift and seeing the true forms of madness. The cold voice of Malal himself sounded icy cold in his mind,
"If you betray us, you will live an eternity of shame. Complete your mission!"
Tor shook himself and ran on. The unholy chamber was ahead, the silhouettes of the six sorcerers were in view. He kicked open the heavy Daemons Bone door and the six sorcerers and one other, a son of Angron. The blood mad Marine stood in the center of the room, his chain axe gore encrusted and massive. One blood shot eye stared out from the axe at Tor, it howled as the engine inside of it revved. The larger Marine turned to regard Tor.
The small shred of a noble warrior left in the World Eater raised it's axe in a salute before charging at him with a howl. Tor met this howling warrior with silence as he drew his short combat blade, he fired round after round from his bolt gun, the World Eaters armor stopping the bolts easily. Within an instant the Marine was upon him he swung his axe heavily.Tor was forced to dive forward to avoid being cleaved in two! He rolled and stood, the berserker howled again and charged him swinging his Daemon axe in vicious circles around his body.
Tor stabbed forward, his combat blade slipping through the World Eater’s clumsy guard. The small blade tore through the Marine's neck, but was stopped by the rock hard bone of the World Eater. the Berserker swung his axe upwards and snapped the blade of Tor's knife. Tor jumped back and frowned, how could he kill this beast of man?
***
Zeta was death incarnate, reaping a bloody tally as he killed Daemon after Daemon. His legion followed him in silence, they killed and died without a sound. Khorne's host surged forward still, they died in their thousands but there were always more of them. Daemons of Malal and Khorne battled still, the fury of a Blood Letter matched by the resolve of a Shadow Beast. Zeta's Malal blessed sight showed Tor's desperate battle against the Berserker and Zeta silently ordered two flying Shadow Beasts to go to the man's aid. Those sorcerers must die or the forces with Zeta would be worn down to nothing.
***
Tor danced around the Berserker, the large Marines swings were dodged by the more agile and faster Death Cult Marine. Finally the World Eater grew wise to Tor's tricks as he swung his axe one handed his Iron clad fist shot out and struck Tor in the chest as he tried to dance around the blow. He soared across the room and struck the far wall with a bone shattering crunch. He tried to regain his feet, but the World Eater stood over him, spittle and froth dripped from the Astartes‘ mouth as he howled,
"Skulls for the Skull throne!"
millimeters before the Daemon Chain Axe struck Tor the two flying Beasts of Shadow crashed into the World Eater. the Daemon Axe clattered to the floor as he fought off the two Beasts. Before Tor's eyes the World Eater snatched one of the flying Daemons out of mid air and tore it in half, wallowing in the black gore that sprayed out. He threw the one half of the beast at the other flying Damon and grabbed that one as well. With a roar of hatred he tore the wings off of the beast and stepped down upon it, crushing it to a broken pile of flesh.
Tor saw his opening however and grabbed the Daemon axe. With a shout he charged towards the World Eater and swung the Daemon Axe into the Berserker's chest. The teeth of the Axe whining in protest as they ground their way through the cermite of the World Eaters Armor, the Daemon cackling as it slayed it’s own master. The big man was not done though, and he punched Tor in the side his fist crushing the side of Tor's armor.
Tor drew his Bolt Pistol in response and jammed the muzzle into the hole in the World Eaters neck guard. He fired ten rounds, the bolts turning the Berserker's head into an unidentifiable red mush. He turned to the Sorcerers and killed each of them with the Daemon Axe, the pure energy of the Warps flowing into the fell weapon with every killing blow. The floor shook as the Warp Rift began to close. The call of the Blood God sounded stronger than ever, and the Daemon Axe let loose it's own kindred call.
Malal was powerless to stop Tor as he jumped from the tower into the closing Warp Rift. He was sucked into the realm of insanity and chaos without a sound. Tor had severed himself from the Legion for all time and would go his own way. Forsaking Malal and Zeta, he had embraced Khorne and the promise of eternal slaughter. His armor turned from a deep black to a mottled red, like arterial blood. He howled his freedom from the solemn worship of death, his freedom from the Legion, and his freedom from himself.
***
Zeta smiled as he saw the rift close, without it's constant source of reinforcements the Hoard of Khorne was finally being depleted. As the Death Cult and it's Daemon allies continued to push into the hoard, the Enemy shrieked as they saw they were losing the battle. In their frustration they began to strike each other, the unreliable blood fury of Khorne showing it's ugly head again.
Within seconds the battle turned from a battle to an unorganized rout with the few remaining Daemons of Khorne killing each other more often than their enemies. Zeta allowed himself to smile, the Death Cult had practically won.
***
The sun was bright on this new world, the hills were of black obsidian and the trees were massive skeletal constructions. The sky was home to flocks of flying Daemons and the rivers were of blood. Tor gazed all about him, and found that it was oddly arousing. Before him towered a massive mountain, the rock was formed out of ancient bone and sinew. Tor roared and climbed the hill, fighting off the flying daemons with every step.
He stood atop the massive monolith, gazing down and upon a massive city centered around what seemed to be an arena of epic size. Tor howled again and set off towards the city looking for something to kill.
***
The Death Cult stood on the now silent field of battle, the servants of Khorne were all dead and now Noctis belonged to Malal. Already the taint of the Blood God was being replaced by the ashen oblivion of Malal. The fresh corpses of the cultists were fading to piles of ash, their weapons and gear rusted beyond use.
Zeta stood before his assembled force, they had lost many brothers the force of two hundred now stood at only fifty. Their ranks had swelled massively with Malal's Daemonic children, thousands and thousands stood, sat, flew, and hovered all around the Death Cult. A particularly massive Shadow Lord slowly rumbled,
"My lord Zeta, Malal himself has sent you these gifts."
He slowly handed Zeta a massive bone scythe, it glowed with unholy power and as Zeta touched it he could feel the unimaginably ancient intelligence inside of it. Next the Shadow lord handed Zeta a single Gauntlet, it pulsed with ancient energies. The shadow lord waved his hand and a terrified Cultist materialized, he said, "Point it at him and concentrate it's energies." Zeta held out his hand, smiling as the cultist writhed in pain, he slowly disintegrated to ash, before finally blowing away. Zeta boomed,
"Very good, Praise Malal."
A cold skeletal voice sounded in his head, it was surely the unholy voice of Malal himself.
"Zeta my champion, to replenish your legion you must find four artifacts, one form each of my hated brothers, bring them all to this your new fortress world of Noctis, and I will personally lead you in the dark rites."
Zeta said to his new god,
"Yes, my lord."
Zeta turned and watched as the evil magic of Malal the Lost God, the Destroyer of All Things, turned the rest of Noctis to an ashen wasteland. The mighty buildings turning to dust and in their place rose more walls, the original continent sized fortress seeming small compared to the new bastion Malal forged.
Zeta smiled for he and his Legion was now home.
Zeta surveyed his new domain, the entire world had crumbled to ash save the massive bastion that now housed the entire Death Cult legion as well as half of their human cultists. After much digging had been done, ancient relics of unimaginable power had been uncovered but not understood.
Massive obelisks had been found along with thousands of metal skeletons that proved to be very short lived. The power of Malal melted them to pools of liquid turning them into various weapons before the eyes of the Death Cult. Zeta now was armed with one of these weapons, the regenerative metals served him well when he had the luxury of combat. The quest for the four relics was yet to begin but Zeta already knew that it would be a bloody and long search.
***
Tor howled, it had been untold years since he had lost himself on the Daemon world. His once dark armor was copper red, fresh coats of biological paint were added daily and in large quantities as he took part in the many slaughter-games for Khorne. The area was a massive blood stained pit largely because of him. He had fought for days on end, killing and killing until now.
His latest foe was brought before him. A fallen Space Wolf named Etri, leader of the Bloody Wolves Renegade Company.
The wolf eyed Tor’s rare armor, forged and blessed by Daemons. he slowly said,
"I will fight you for your arms, if I die you will have my Wolves."
Tor merely growled and raised his axe in a salute. Etri raised his sword and growled like a wolf as he circled Tor, slowly waving his chain blade from the left to the right. Etri screamed, and swung his blade in a downward arc aiming to split Tor in two. The (former) Death Cult Legionnaire dived to the left and brought his Daemon Axe to bear, hammering the Space Wolf's defenses again and again.
The Wolf recovered and struck back. The chain blade gouged chunks out of Tor's armor but Tor did not care. He grabbed the chain blade itself and laughed as the teeth struggled to tear through his gauntlet of Daemon Bone. He dropped his axe and punched Etri in the head again and again, finally he tore the Wolf's helm off and tossed it aside. Etri tried to draw his bolt gun but Tor leaned in and bit out the marines throat, his berserker strength made the struggles of a space marine seem like that of a tired child.
He drank deep the man's blood and howled in victory. Etri's former pack howled back. The Bloody Wolves now belonged to Tor, victory was sweet but not as sweet as blood. Beneath Tor the Blood Wolves would soon be wetted as a quiet voice whispered,
“The time draws near.”