Chapter 284: The Tide Turns (Patreon)

The Sanguinary Guard quickly purged the berserk, newly mind-broken Tyranids that still raged from the fall of the Swarmlord, then approached Commander Dante to assess his condition.

“I am unharmed,” Dante said, removing his death mask and lowering himself onto the scorched bio-deck to catch his breath.

The warriors of the Sanguinary Guard exchanged uncertain looks. They had noticed that their Chapter Master, the Lord of the Host and ancient Regent of Baal, had been doing this more and more lately: pausing, breathing, gathering his strength.

Given the strength he had just shown in dueling the Tyranid Swarmlord, there was no reason, even with his advanced age, for Dante to appear as drained as a mortal. Especially, not now, not in the midst of war.

But the Sanguinary Guard did not carry the weight Dante bore. Their duty was to protect him, not to carry the burden of an entire Chapter, nor the fate of Baal itself. And they were still in the vigor of their prime. They did not understand that what exhausted Dante was not merely flesh, but spirit.

A weary body can be driven onward. A weary soul cannot.

“Leave a detail behind to guard the Chapter Master while he rests,” ordered the Captain of the Guard. “The rest of you, form on me. We—”

“I am not some frail relic in need of children to watch over me,” Dante growled, rising and striding toward the shattered corridor beyond.

The Guard looked at one another, resigned, then followed.

The wrecked bio-ship was massive. Even though half of it had broken apart during the crash and now lay scattered across Baal’s crimson sands, at least eight kilometers of hull remained intact.

On closer inspection, it became clear that it was not a pure bio-ship, but a fused construction, part Tyranid biomass and part Imperial voidcraft. Its exact original class was impossible to identify, but Dante recognized the decor and sigils scorched into the walls.

It had belonged to the Baal’s Gate Fleet, the Imperial Navy formation sworn to defend the Baal system.

They had failed.

The Navy fleet guarding the Cryptus region had been catastrophically annihilated, drawn close when the Aegis froze the Tyranid bio-vessels, only to be obliterated when the xenos ships regenerated and struck back without warning.

Baal’s Gate had died more honorably at least, they were not slain by their own overconfidence.

Guided through the shattered ship by Chief Librarian Mephiston’s psychic direction, Dante began finding other survivors. But even a decapitation strike had its cost.

When the Tyranid behemoth tore free of the flesh-grown ground, the impact threw battle-brothers apart, scattering squads. At once the Hive Mind sensed where every lone human was, and the swarms converged.

More than seven hundred Astartes died in moments.

When Dante located the survivors of the Lamenters, he saw that, by their standards, they had fared well. Their 1st Company, originally one hundred strong, had more than eighty still standing.

Chapter Master Malakim Phoros lived, barely. A jagged Tyranid bone sabre protruded entirely through his abdomen.

“You were ambushed by a xenos?” Dante immediately asked as he took Phoros’ arm from one of his sons, supporting the wounded Commander.

It was the most reasonable conclusion. Dante knew the Lamenters, sons of Sanguinius like himself, often fought alone across the stars. Any warrior who survived long enough to lead them had to be both master of war and commander of remarkable skill.

But that was not what had happened.

“I… teleported,” Phoros said weakly. Just two words, but enough.

Dante understood at once.

Phoros must have attempted to use the Talon teleportation under desperate pressure. He must have rematerialized exactly where a Tyranid warrior already stood mid-strike.

The bone blade had fused seamlessly with flesh, ceramite, and adamantium plating. There would be no removing it without killing him.

“I am sorry,” Phoros said suddenly, unprompted, as they continued forward.

Dante turned his head, puzzled.

Phoros continued, “My warriors were scattered at the first impact. Those facing the fewest Tyranids cleared a safe zone, and we teleported to regroup. We wanted to save the others… but the xenos numbers were too great. If we forced a teleport, we would have rematerialized inside the swarm, fused into their bodies.”

“I understand,” Dante answered softly. “You did what you could. As did I. That is all any of us may do.”

Phoros lowered his gaze, silent.

Eventually, all surviving Space Marines were found. Of the thousand warriors who began the strike, only a little over two hundred remained. They had not fought the Swarmlord, yet their struggle had been no less severe.

Dante also did not forget the Datasmiths and their robotic Iron Men. But instead of a hundred war-constructs, barely a dozen were still functioning.

One stood atop a hill of Tyranid carcasses, a machine with many arms, each clutching a different weapon. It tore chitin plates apart, searching.

“What is it looking for?” Dante asked, pointing.

“Core units,” the Datasmith replied. “We cannot upload data here. It must recover the core-logic of its fallen brethren physically.”

Dante nodded and surveyed the killing ground. The killzone was colossal, a landscape remade into a graveyard. Nothing could be seen of the deck anymore, only mountains of xenos dead. One could imagine the intensity of the battle that had taken place there.

When Heatdeath located each core, it integrated or printed them into its own armored limbs, then strode past the Datasmith without a word. The "tech-priest" followed, almost like an attendant following a king.

Heatdeath walked in front, the others following behind, leaving the crashed ship and reaching the outside.

....

Outside the wreck, the deserts of Baal burned. Waiting there, suspended above the ground like a living star, was Nyadra’Zatha, the Burning One.

Throughout the battle it had held the Tyranid hordes at bay beyond the ship. Not even Heatdeath, who was fighting at the entrance, had seen a single Tyranid breach from outside.

Only fire had entered.

〈“The operation is complete,”〉 the Burning One declared, its voice echoing in every mind. 〈“The strike was highly effective. The Hive Mind’s control has collapsed.”〉

Dante nodded. The effect was better than he had dared hope.

Baal would not fall today. The surface was secure. Only Baal Secundus, Baal Primus, and the bioship fleet still required resolution.

“Gather together,” said the Lamenters Techmarine, preparing a teleport device.

But the Burning One merely lifted a hand and instantly, every survivor was standing within the Fortress-Monastery of the Blood Angels, across a distance of thousands of kilometers.

Only then did Dante fully grasp the scope of the entity’s power. There had never been any need for teleport beacons. If the Burning One had intervened earlier, all could have escaped when the massive Tyranid beast emerged.

It sensed Dante’s thoughts, answering within his mind, emotionless:

〈“Regardless of cost, the Swarmlord’s death was required. Had I entered the vessel, the swarm would have fled rather than committed to battle. Time is not a resource I possess in excess.”〉

Dante said nothing. What was done, was done.