Chapter 40: Traitors Everywhere
Terra
Within the hallowed halls of the Imperial Palace, Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, stood before his gathered brothers and their representatives.
The assembled might of seven Legions—' Word Bearers', 'Night Lords', 'Iron Warriors', 'Alpha Legion', 'Raven Guard', 'Iron Hands', and 'Salamanders'—awaited his words with the disciplined attention befitting the Emperor's finest.
"We have received word that Horus has betrayed the Imperium." Dorn's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty, each word carved from stone. "The Emperor commands us to destroy the traitors and bring the Warmaster back for judgment."
The revelation struck the assembled Astartes like a thunderbolt. Voices rose in shocked disbelief throughout the chamber.
"How is this possible! How could Horus betray the Imperium!"
"He had everything. What more could the Warmaster want?"
They could not fathom what corruption had taken root in the heart of their most honored brother, the Emperor's chosen Warmaster. However, Dorn noted that several Legions appeared less surprised by this revelation, maintaining an unsettling calm amidst the turmoil.
Pict-feeds from Isstvan III materialized before them, irrefutable evidence of treachery written in blood and flame. The awful truth could no longer be denied.
Dorn raised his hand for silence. "Calm yourselves. I can confirm this intelligence is accurate, but before we plan our battle strategy, one crucial detail must be understood."
His golden eyes swept across the assembled warriors. "During the coming engagement, you are to avoid harming Francis and his Soul Drinkers Legion at all costs. They remain loyal, operating deep within enemy territory. When the moment arrives, he will strike from within to help our assault."
This second revelation sent fresh waves of confusion through the ranks. The Eleventh Legion had been absent from Imperial records for decades, and their very existence remained a carefully guarded secret.
"Didn't the Eleventh Legion disappear from Imperial records?"
"When did they return? Why were they absent from the Great Crusade?"
"Dorn, explain what happened!"
The storm of questions reflected their difficulty in processing such momentous intelligence. Once the initial shock subsided, they began crafting their strategic response.
The plan crystallized: Raven Guard, Iron Hands, and Salamanders would form the first assault wave following orbital bombardment, while Word Bearers, Night Lords, Iron Warriors, and Alpha Legion would comprise the second wave.
Meanwhile, the Ultramarines, Blood Angels, and Dark Angels raced back from distant battlefields to provide reinforcement.
As the war council dispersed, Dorn approached Leman Russ. "Take heart, brother. Eight Legions against four, the advantage lies with us."
"Maybe," Russ growled, clutching his head in frustration. "But I can't shake the feeling that something important is missing. Francis told me other things, but I can't remember what."
The Wolf King's unease gnawed at him like a festering wound. The missing knowledge remained tantalizingly beyond reach.
Something about Francis's warnings was more complex than simple treason, yet the details remained frustratingly vague.
The Shadow Council
In darker chambers, away from Imperial eyes, four Legion representatives held their own conclave.
"A traitor walks among the Warmaster's forces, not just a group but an entire Legion!" Perturabo's fury distorted through the vox-grille into metallic snarls. "Are they all blind to such obvious deception?!"
"Didn't your Word Bearers corrupt this Francis?" The Night Lords' representative spoke with sickly sweetness that barely concealed his disappointment.
Erebus's response crackled through the vox-network. "We have never encountered the Eleventh Legion. They are phantoms to us. The priority now is informing the Warmaster of this intelligence."
"This is madness! If we fail to warn him—"
After heated debate, they agreed that the Word Bearers would transmit all battle intelligence to Horus, including Francis's suspected treachery.
Erebus stared at the prepared message while disappointment weighed heavily in his augmented heart. "The Warmaster still struggles with doubt. He cannot even see the serpent at his feet." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Perhaps we should begin the true Great Crusade ourselves, in place of our failing leader."
His faith in Horus continued its steady erosion. The Warmaster's inability to see obvious threats spoke to a fundamental weakness that Chaos would not tolerate forever. Before transmitting the message, he would seek counsel from Lorgar.
Meanwhile, the Alpha Legion moved with characteristic efficiency. Their embedded agents on Isstvan V received encrypted instructions: warn the Soul Drinkers that their deception had been discovered.
Isstvan V
Chief Librarian Sarpedon received the Alpha Legion warning with grim acceptance. The World Eaters legionnaire who delivered it did not explain anything, simply melting back into the crowd like smoke.
Sarpedon dared not dismiss this intelligence as deception. The Alpha Legion's information networks were legendary for their accuracy, even when their motives remained opaque. Gritting his teeth, he ran directly toward Francis's position, urgent purpose driving his steps.
"What method? Tell me quickly!" Fulgrim's eyes blazed with desperate hope, his perfect features marred by the strain of constant internal warfare.
"First, get rid of that Laer blade you're carrying."
Francis's words struck Fulgrim like a physical blow. The Silver Blade of Laer, recovered during the Cleansing of Laeran, contained the essence of a powerful Greater Daemon of Slaanesh that had been slowly corrupting Fulgrim's soul.
"He will not give up the silver sword!" Fulgrim's expression twisted with malevolent glee, his voice taking on an alien cadence that chilled Francis to the bone. "He cannot refuse the ecstasy granted by the god."
Francis nodded thoughtfully. "I know. It's because you slaughtered all those Laer, isn't it? Did that upset your patron? I can tell you really enjoyed those aliens with their snake tails and four arms."
He stroked his chin with mock consideration. "Brother, maybe you'll transform into something similar someday. By the Throne, you'd be hideous, too disgusting to look at."
The casual cruelty of his words hit their mark perfectly. Fulgrim's vanity was his greatest weakness, and Francis wielded it like a scalpel.
"NO!" Fulgrim's face drained of color, his hands frantically checking his still-perfect form. "Never! Too hideous, I can't accept that!"
Francis placed a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder and leaned close to whisper. "Ferrus Manus means a lot to you, doesn't he? I heard you even exchanged weapons as tokens of brotherhood."
Fireblade, the power sword crafted for Fulgrim by Ferrus Manus, represented one of the strongest bonds between the two Primarchs.
Fulgrim spun around so sharply they nearly collided, but Francis deftly stepped aside.
"How could you know that? Only our two Legions saw the ceremony. Who told you?" Suspicion clouded Fulgrim's features, while the daemon within grew agitated at the mention of such pure bonds.
"Because I saw a vision of the future. I saw you personally kill Ferrus Manus on this very world, using that cursed Laer blade to cut his head off."
Francis shook his head with theatrical sorrow. "What a tragedy."
The prophecy struck Fulgrim like a blade to the heart. In his mind, he could already see the terrible moment, his brother's shock, the daemon's laughter, the weight of Ferrus's head in his hands.
"Impossible! He is my dearest friend, my brother-in-arms!" Fulgrim's entire frame trembled with denial. "I would never hurt him! You're lying! You serve the Dark Gods and you're trying to manipulate me!"
Francis remained silent for a moment, considering his response. If forced to choose a patron, he'd rather serve the crude but straightforward Ork gods than the insidious powers of Chaos.
"You're right, you would never do such a thing willingly. But the thing inside that silver sword?" Francis let his voice carry ominous weight. "That Greater Daemon might be less picky. It can't fully possess you without permission, but it gets stronger every moment you resist."
The words struck home. Fulgrim understood all too well how his will wavered against the blade's insidious influence.
Francis produced a sketch of a grotesque daemon with purple flesh, a serpentine lower body, four grasping arms, and a face of sickening beauty twisted into mockery. "This is your future form, if you fail to resist."
Fulgrim stared at the image in horror while comparing it to his current perfection. The contrast was devastating, showing him exactly what his vanity would cost him.
Seeing his brother's revulsion, Francis continued. "Actually, you might try the Aeldari. They have techniques for resisting this kind of corruption. If you could master their psychic disciplines..."
"Unfortunately, I've already destroyed many of their maiden worlds and driven off their farseers," Fulgrim admitted with growing despair.
The irony was bitter; he had destroyed the very beings who might have saved him from his fate.
Francis drew a deep breath while his mind raced through alternatives. "Maybe throw it into the warp itself? Or go into Chaos personally, undergo daemonic transformation, then come back to devour the thing? Could you just take blessings without giving up your soul? What about converting to another faith entirely?"
Each suggestion was more desperate than the last. Fulgrim's confusion deepened with each one. He was no longer certain what Francis truly believed, or whether his brother was trying to save him or damn him further.
An urgent voice interrupted their discussion. "Primarch, we have vital intelligence that needs your immediate attention!"
[End of Chapter]