147 - Abaddon's Ambition

Trapped in the Warp, Celestine could neither advance nor retreat. The enemy still had not attacked, but ships fell silent without warning. By the time rescuers could reach them, the storms had already swept them into the depths.

Under that suffocating pressure, the soldiers began to lose control of their emotions. Even Astartes with second-generation bodies grew uneasy and exhausted from constant vigilance. The fleet's countless servants, workers, and Chapter serfs could not endure such prolonged strain without consequence. Symptoms ranged from vomiting and diarrhea to impaired cognition.

Every day, Celestine blessed the survivors to shield them from the Warp's maddening whispers. At best, she could grant them a good night's sleep. Visions appeared everywhere, until they could no longer tell what was real.

The Imperium's enemies had clearly raised this tempest. Why had they not used it to strike a killing blow? Why summon the storm and then refuse to attack? The questions tormented every commander in the fleet.

With no way out and no direction to follow, the remnants of Celestine's expedition struggled through distorted time and raging Warp storms. They used their onboard positioning systems to search the turbulence for a path back to the material universe.

She had abandoned the hunt for Abaddon. Now she understood that this had all been his design. Even the Chaos servants they had captured were probably planted to lure her into this vortex. Yet the enemy remained hidden, making no attack. What were they waiting for?

Elsewhere in the Warp, a vast fleet waited in utter calm, far removed from the storm engulfing Celestine. Here stood Abaddon, the Dark Warmaster whom the Imperium feared. Massive in black Terminator armor, he closely resembled Horus, especially in his wide-set eyes and long, straight nose.

From the bridge of an Imperial warship, he watched with cruel satisfaction as a scrying eye opened by sorcerers showed him Celestine's fleet. His enemies struggled onward, trying to escape the trap. Footsteps approached. A prisoner's labored breathing interrupted his thoughts.

Abaddon looked down at the Primaris sprawled on the deck. The possessed warriors who had brought him had stabbed his battered body more than a dozen times. Blood covered the loyalist's broad, handsome face. Defiance and anger burned in his eyes.

Abaddon smiled. The Corpse Emperor's warriors were growing stronger, nearly a match for beings made from daemon and man. Breaking their resolve had become all the more entertaining. He approached the prisoner. Yellow armor and Chapter insignia identified him as an Imperial Fist of the Seventh Legion, a son of Dorn.

“Traitor. You will pay for this.” Blood spilled from the loyalist's mouth with every word. His body's powerful regenerative abilities drew energy from his armor to repair the damage, while weapons steeped in the Warp's malign power continued to destroy it. The two forces held a delicate balance, keeping him alive.

The storm had torn his ship away and dragged it deep into the Warp. They had been attacked while trying to rejoin the fleet. Traitor Astartes and Chaos daemons had swarmed aboard, taking them by surprise.

“Pay? No one can make me pay. Only fools like you believe Guilliman will save you.”

Abaddon sneered and waved a hand. A group of mortal soldiers was brought forward and thrown into the arena before the captive Astartes.

“Destruction and war are eternal.” As he spoke, a hell-beast was released from an iron cage. Bony spines rose from its back, and fangs filled its enormous mouth. Chains restrained the monster.

From a tower, a possessed warrior announced the simple rule for the successive bouts: “Survive the beast.”

Several humans were hauled up on chains. Sharp steel barbs tore at their bodies, drawing red blood that trickled along the links and onto the floor. The spectators cheered in excitement. Fury filled the captive soldiers' eyes. They were nothing but playthings for these creatures.

A chain studded with blades slowly lifted several men who tried to resist. It tightened a little at a time, cutting their flesh without allowing them to die. With such instruments of torture at work, even death was an unattainable luxury.

“Bastard!” the loyalist Primaris roared. Abaddon pinned him beneath a boot. He could do nothing but watch the mortal soldiers being forced into combat and torn apart by the beast.

One after another, soldiers entered the arena for duels to the death. Armed with short knives, they fought bout after bout until they died. After they finally wore one hell-beast down and killed it, a World Eater stripped of his power armor stepped into the arena. His towering frame made even the strongest mortal look frail. Killing them was as easy for him as crushing chicks.

He battered warriors apart one by one and threw their broken bodies straight to the ravenous daemons and hell-beasts.

The only surviving loyalist Primaris could only watch and roar, powerless to stop it. “Traitor! You will pay!”

Abaddon gave him a cold smile. “No one can make me pay.”

He surveyed the Imperial warship's bridge. The Warp's intrusion was already visible. Flesh and filth grew across its surfaces. The captive Tech-Priests could even hear the machine spirit's lament as terrible dark powers corrupted it.

Abaddon studied the vessel. Refitted with the latest technology, it was far superior to the old Imperial models in his own fleet. Arched gun emplacements lined its edges; many were large enough to hold an entire Imperial Knight. Upgraded servitors were fused into the ship's tangle of internal piping. Blood had stained much of it dark brown.

Drach'nyen stirred angrily behind him. The daemon sword seemed unsatisfied with this slaughter. It wanted more. “Be patient,” Abaddon told it. “Soon you will drink your fill of a Primarch's blood.”

“You'll only bring about your own destruction.” The captive Primaris coughed beneath his boot. Fresh blood ran through the dried blood on his cheek and dripped onto his bright-yellow pauldron.

“You amuse me,” Abaddon said, though there was no laughter in his deep voice. “Every court should have a jester. That is why I keep you.”

The Primaris coughed again, then fell silent. Abaddon could feel the hatred boiling in the prisoner's mind. It was delightful. He turned his gaze beyond the ship.

His enormous fleet waited outside. At its head stood an ancient god of war, his flagship, the Vengeful Spirit. It was a Gloriana-class battleship, one of the most powerful vessels the Imperium had ever built. Only the Imperial Fists' mobile fortress Phalanx and the Abyss-class ships surpassed them.

The Emperor and the Adeptus Mechanicus had built the Glorianas together. Every Legion had possessed at least one as its Primarch's flagship. Their astonishing weapons arrays could force an entire fleet or a defiant planet to surrender to a single ship. Every Gloriana had distinguished itself during the Great Crusade, and the Imperium treasured them as part of its inheritance.

With the arrival of Skyblade-class battleships, however, Ultramar no longer valued the Glorianas as highly. They had been relegated to second-line service. Among the forces of Chaos, they still held a central place. Hundreds of great ships followed the Vengeful Spirit, and new legions arrived daily from daemon worlds and hell-forges throughout the Warp.

Forces of equal size waited in several other directions. Destroying Celestine's badly damaged fleet would have been easy. Even the Imperium's more advanced weapons could offer little advantage in such a position. Yet Abaddon gave no order to attack the ships trapped in the storm.

He did not want so small a victory. He had never lacked victories. Since joining the Sixteenth Legion on Terra, he had seldom known defeat. Time after time, he had taken what he wanted, or more.

He savored the feeling of triumph drawing near and recalled his gene-father's war against the Emperor's deceitful realm. What a war that had been. Pity Horus had failed in the end. He had been too weak. He could not withstand the power the four gods granted him, could not take Terra, could not even defeat the Emperor.

Abaddon was certain his own fate would be different. The expeditionary fleet that had dared venture so deep into the Warp would perish at his hands. The awakened Primarch Guilliman would die with it. Then the galaxy would sink into a tide of darkness, and no one would remain to stop him.

Without the Cadian Gate, without Guilliman, the galaxy would be crippled and helpless. Prey for him to hunt at will.