Even here on the battlefield, the Discords blared at the slaves and Varnus knew now that they spoke the truth.
The Emperor was no god; he was a shattered corpse that clung to a last vestige of life by feeding off the deaths of those dedicated to him, and he cared not at all for Varnus or any of the other wretched, deceived slaves that invoked his name in prayer.
But there were true gods in the universe, ones that took an active interest in the lives of mortals: gods that granted strength to their followers and brought ruin upon their foes.
He had been blind, but now his eyes had been opened wide. He didn't hate the Imperial Guardsmen for their ignorance, for he too had been duped into believing the lies of the Ecclesiarchy. He hated them for betraying him and all these poor chained-up individuals. They had waited for liberation, enduring hell at the hands of their captors, and now they were being killed by those they had waited so long to save them.
He had picked up a lasgun from a corpse and he stood waiting for them to come to him. He would damn well kill as many of the bastards as he could before he was overcome. It would not be long before the fighting was upon them once more. The Chaos Marines were even now pulling back towards the fourth line and it was time for the slaves to do their part.
The overseers had attached the slaves' chains to dozens of massive living machines of horrific power and brutal will. These daemonic, infernal creations roared as they fired their ordnance into the advancing Imperial ranks and the closest to them were deafened by the sound. Scores more slaves were killed by the daemon engines, dragged beneath their claws and within reach of snapping mouth-tentacles of flesh and metal.
Varnus could feel the ceaseless anger of the daemon essences bound within the vehicles and he felt somehow akin to them. At some unheard command, the daemon engines were released from their bindings of words and shackles, and they surged over the barricade of the fourth and last defensive line, dragging the slaves forward between them.
Varnus screamed his hatred and pain, and followed, clutching his lasgun.
Marduk stood atop the fourth and final embankment, watching as the enemy began its final push. The bombardment of artillery began afresh and the lines of the Host were hidden beneath plumes of smoke and flame. An endless wave of enemy troops and tanks spilled down into the open ground between the third and fourth lines of embankments, the intensity of gunfire lifting dramatically as they came into bolter range.
'The end is nigh,' commented Burias.
'It will be a close run thing. This will be the final battle,' said Marduk. He glanced over at the Icon Bearer. 'Watch out for your nemesis, Burias. Fear the dreaded Chimera.'
Burias laughed out loud and rubbed his unmarked head with one hand.
'Damn thing hurt,' he said. He had returned to the lines of the Word Bearers, driving a battered enemy tank through the ranks of battle servitors, crushing them under its tracks, but they did not target it. It was an Imperial tank and it was not in their programming to raise a weapon against it. As it drew near the Host's lines a missile had sent it spinning into the air. Burias had crawled from the flaming wreckage and told a laughing Marduk of his tale.
He had gripped onto the tank as it thundered over him and had crawled across its hull before ripping away a hatch and slaughtering the occupants. Then he had ripped the driver's seat from its housing so that he could fit his bulk into the compartment before driving back towards the lines of the Host.
'I saw you speaking with the Coryphaus,' said Marduk.
Burias looked over at him and Marduk raised his eyebrows.
'Yes, First Acolyte.'
'Of what were you speaking?'
'Things of little consequence,' said Burias. 'The deployment of our Havoc squads, the use of the slaves.'
Marduk narrowed his eyes. The Icon Bearer was concealing something. He was a conniving snake, and Marduk had no doubt that he would turn on him if that would benefit him.
'The Dark Apostle comes!' Marduk heard one of the warrior-brothers exclaim, and he turned, his thoughts pulled away from Burias, inclining his head to witness his lord's arrival.
He floated out of the roiling, black, lightning filled clouds, surrounded by a glistening nimbus of light, descending gently towards the battle like a glorified angel. He was borne aloft upon a disc-like daemon pulpit, one hand upon the spiked railing at its front. Daemons swirled around him, filling the air with their keening screams as they scythed around the Dark Apostle in intricate weaving patterns.
They were daemons blessed by Tzeentch, the Great Changer of the Ways, and their bodies were long and smooth, rimmed with thousands of jagged barbs. Hunters of the Ether, they resembled the ray-fish that existed in the oceans of countless worlds, sleek and deadly. Their bodies were ovular in shape and long barbed tails swished behind them as they cut through the air, fleshy wing tips rising and falling deceptively slowly. Colours played over their dark hides, glistening patterns of iridescent shades. Each was the length of three men and they cut through the air in a deadly dance, spiralling down in steep dives before turning into climbing corkscrews, interweaving with the paths of others of their kind.
Smaller versions of the screaming daemon-rays, no larger than a hand span across, whipped around the Dark Apostle, spiralling around him like a dense shoal of frenzied fish.
Jarulek held his crozius of the dark gods high before him and a roar rose up to greet him from the assembled Host.
He certainly knew how to make an entrance, Marduk thought wryly.
'The way you appear to the Host is paramount, First Acolyte,' he remembered Jarulek lecturing him. 'Always you must project an aura of authority and religious awe. We are beyond the warrior-brothers of the Legion, we are the chosen of the gods, exalted in Lorgar's eyes and raised beyond the morass of the lower warrior. Our warriors must worship us. And why? We must appear glorified and exalted so that always we can inspire utter devotion in the Host. A warrior fuelled with faith fights with twice the hatred and twice the strength of one that does not, and he will fight on past the point when he would otherwise give in to death. A Dark Apostle must always inspire such devotion in his flock,' said Jarulek, his eyes filled with passion and belief.
'That is the reason that we need a Coryphaus, Marduk. The Dark Apostle must be separate and aloof from the Host to maintain the utter devotion of the warrior-brothers. He must not be one of them, he must be beyond them. The Coryphaus is the war leader of the Host, but he is also the conduit through which the Dark Apostle can gauge the feeling of the Host. For once you take on the mantle of Dark Apostle, you must be one apart from the Legion. Always you must project a holy aura that will inspire utter, fanatical loyalty and devotion.'
The full power of the Dark Apostle's words were driven home to Marduk as he felt the spirit of the Host rise as Jarulek made his descent upon the back of the hellish daemon construct.
The daemon pulpit was a work of mad genius, formed from the lucid dreams of the Dark Apostle's mind and birthed in the Immaterium before it had been dragged into the material realm to serve his will. Its skeleton was of blackest iron and the ribs of the metallic frame formed an eight-pointed star beneath his feet. Between these was living, red-raw flesh and muscle, and it was upon this that the Dark Apostle stood.
The whole daemon construct was disc shaped and razor sharp barbs of black iron lined its edges. Black, iron rib work rose up at the front of the pulpit, curved to either side of the Dark Apostle like a chariot of old, and living, bloody flesh filled the gaps between the struts. An ancient book bound in human leather was open before him and a pair of burning braziers trailed oily, black smoke in his wake.