Warhammer [509-511] (Patreon)

Chapter 509: Mortarion vs. Typhus

Some of the Death Guard's ten-thousand-battle veterans who followed Primarch Mortarion were growing dissatisfied with Typhus's attitude. Even if you resent your gene-father, it doesn't change the fact—he is our Legion's gene-sire; we are all his genetic offspring.

"What kind of gene-father is he? Does a gene-father like that even count? Since the Great Crusade he's been a spineless fool.

Only Lord Typhus can lead the Death Guard. We are devotees of Nurgle; it's Nurgle who granted us power!

Mortarion, you're just a Daemon Prince, one more Daemon Prince among the Legion's ranks—there are plenty, even among mortals who ascended after corruption.

But Lord Typhus is different. He is Nurgle's chosen." Another Death Guard trooper spoke up.

A foul reek seeped from him; countless flies and loathsome insects buzzed around the Space Marines, unnoticed—merely another of Nurgle's blessings.

The Death Guard differ from other Chaos Astartes: they maintain immaculate operating theaters, able to perform all manner of Astartes augmentation procedures.

They possess their own sterile laboratories; even the newest Astartes biotech mastered by the Imperium—they've acquired it too!

The Death Guard's numbers are the only ones to rival the Black Legion's, thanks to Lord Typhus's plotting and development!

Thus, the Chaos Space Marines who have joined the Death Guard over the past ten millennia revere this true master of the Legion. As for the gene-primarch—sorry, who is that again? We don't know him. Even some ten-thousand-battle veterans had now taken their place at the side of their former company captain—now, the true Legion Master—Typhus.

"It seems ten thousand years have dulled your memory of my might—of a primarch's power. You think a few petty tricks can oppose a primarch?" Mortarion snorted coldly.

Having accepted Nurgle's task, stepping out of his millennia-long shut-in existence to rejoin his Legion, Mortarion had intended to win over his gene-sons by diplomacy—but they refused him any face at all.

"Cut the self-aggrandizing crap, Mortarion. You're trash. I thought so before; I think so now. If you disagree, duel me. I'll show you what power really is," Typhus said.

Once, he would never have dared speak this way to a primarch. Though he despised Mortarion in his heart, a primarch turned Daemon Prince was among the strongest of the strong.

Even Nurgle's Great Unclean One could not match them—that was a gap of dimensions; their combat power was on different planes entirely.

Even as fallen Daemon Princes, primarchs wielded power beyond ordinary Astartes' comprehension.

But now—ever since some ten years ago, when the lesser Chaos god Vashtorr invented a new augmentation—things had changed.

Nurgle acquired a miraculous monster's corpse from the Imperial primarch Rhodes, and after analyzing powers within, all the Great Daemons received an upgrade.

Now they possessed gigantification; their strength was leagues beyond before.

That was Typhus's confidence to act brazen before a primarch. Today, before the entire Legion, he would humiliate Mortarion—grind this primarch under his heel.

Hence, at first meeting, Typhus chose to unleash full firepower at Mortarion—to smash the primarch's prestige.

He wanted every Legionary—whether ten-millennia veteran or newly joined Chaos Astartes—to understand that he, Typhus, was the Death Guard's true ruler, the rightful Legion Master.

"Come then, my former company captain, my former gene-son. I will kill you here.

So you understand: so-called god-chosen, compared to a primarch, are but ants."

Mortarion had no intention of coddling his former captain. If you insist on a fight and provoke me thus, then I'll kill you here.

Besides, this contest was likely permitted by Nurgle. Otherwise, this wouldn't be happening.

Indeed, Nurgle was remotely watching the match with other Great Unclean One.

This was a cross-era battle. Since the lesser Chaos god Vashtorr upgraded gigantification tech, Chaos had strengthened over the last decade.

Yet all Chaos gods tacitly withheld upgrades from their own primarchs. Why?

Because Slaanesh had gone missing—Fulgrim was wandering and lost.

Magnus, who had thrown in with Tzeentch, had in fact been the Emperor's mole all along; he returned to the Imperium bringing troves of daemonological data, even creating a special psychic ritual that could enslave daemons.

As for Khorne's Angron—an empty-headed fool. Rather than a Daemon Prince, he's basically just a Bloodthirster.

Thus, the only rational, army-commanding primarch left was Mortarion under Nurgle!

Frankly, with gigantification tech and Nurgle's methods to upgrade Great Daemons,

the primarchs no longer impressed as they once did. God-chosen were more worthy of Chaos gods' favor. And since Typhus alone had developed the Death Guard these years, making him the new Legion Master was most fitting.

"Come then! Typhus—defeat Mortarion! Let me see whether my investment in you bears fruit," Nurgle said.

The other Great Unclean One cheered. If Nurgle deemed it right, they deemed it right.

On the Death Guard's Plagueworld, Primarch Mortarion and his former first-company captain Typhus squared off, power weapons in hand for a duel.

"I'll make you kneel and beg forgiveness," Typhus said.

"I don't need your apology. I will take your head. No one insults a primarch," Mortarion snorted.

"Hahaha! The age of primarchs is over—you're obsolete," Typhus jeered to the extreme.

On the Plagueworld, in the fetid swamps beneath the Cathedral of Pox, the ground heaved; murky miasma swathed the arena.

Death Guard Chaos Astartes formed a ring—some silent, some snickering, some openly backing Typhus, glaring at Mortarion with malice.

The droning of fly-daemons filled the air, like a blasphemous hymn to Nurgle.

Mortarion slowly raised Silence, his scythe; pus dripped from its corroded metal. His voice was low and cold:

 "Typhus, you've betrayed not just me—you've betrayed the entire Legion."

Typhus laughed, maggots spraying from his rotted throat. "Betrayal? No. I simply saw reality—you're a coward who hid in the Eye of Terror for ten thousand years.

You didn't even dare lead your own Legion! I, Typhus, brought the Death Guard to prosperity!"

He lifted the plague scythe—the skull at its tip vomited toxic smog, warping the air with corrosion.

This was Nurgle's blessing. His power scythe was no whit weaker than the primarch's Silence.

"Now I'll prove it—the god-chosen is stronger than a primarch!"

Mortarion didn't waste words. He burst with near-invisible speed; his scythe traced a sickly green arc, aimed at Typhus's head!

Typhus was ready. Tearfall swept across—when the two scythes met, the thunderous impact hurled dozens of Death Guard from their feet.

"That all you got?" Typhus grinned, suddenly pressing forward, actually forcing Mortarion back several steps!

Gasps rose from the Legionaries—Typhus was overpowering a primarch!

Mortarion's gaze sank. He sensed something off. "Your strength… isn't right."

When had his former company captain matched him in raw power—let alone exceeded him?

Against Astartes, a primarch's might was overwhelming—like an adult handling an infant.

But now that infant bore strength equal to his own—Mortarion felt a twinge of disquiet.

Typhus cackled. "Nurgle gave me new power!" His body swelled; armor split; rotten flesh surged. In moments he ballooned to triple size, becoming a sixty-meter plague behemoth.

 "Gigantification, Mortarion. That's why you're obsolete!"

The giant Typhus swung his scythe—each blow carried annihilating force. Mortarion was forced to dodge; even parries left his arms numb.

"What's wrong, Mortarion? Where's your arrogance? Where's your primarch pride?"

Typhus roared, slammed a fist down; the ground collapsed; toxins geysered.

Mortarion was flung by the shockwave, crashing through a rotted fortress ruin. Gigantic Typhus showed crushing superiority.

The Legionaries began to cheer. "Lord Typhus! Lord Typhus!"

"A primarch is nothing special!"

"The Death Guard doesn't need a cowardly gene-father!"

From the rubble, Mortarion rose slowly. His armor was damaged, but his eyes were colder.

"You think… this is enough to defeat a primarch?" He drew a long breath; his warp essence began to boil.

"Typhus, you forget—I am no longer mortal!" In a blink, Mortarion's form swelled; rotted wings unfurled; plague energies coiled about him. He transformed into a Daemon Prince over ten meters tall.

The size contrast looked almost absurd—Typhus a sixty-meter horror, Mortarion a winged daemon barely over ten meters.

Seeing the disparity, Mortarion frantically churned his warp power, drawing in the surrounding pestilential miasma. Empowered by the warp, he grew to over thirty meters, a terrifying daemon with vast, decayed pinions.

That was his limit. His gigantified body wasn't fully material—more a construct of warp energy.

The fetid marsh boiled under Mortarion's feet; turbid fumes whirled around him.

He looked up at the mountain-like Typhus; his rotted wings spread.

"You forgot a truth," Mortarion's voice was like the wailing of myriad dead.

 "Primarchs never win by size alone. Don't think becoming a beast lets you stand against me."

Typhus loosed a deafening laugh; his rotten fist slammed down. "Show me, old man!"

Mortarion vanished—reappeared behind Typhus. Silence drew a sickly green arc.

The blade bit deep into Typhus's decayed spine; pus geysered like a waterfall.

"That all?" Typhus sneered as he turned. The wound sealed before the eye. "Nurgle granted me undying flesh!"

He swept Tearfall scythe; the colossal stroke raised a bloody gale. Mortarion dodged at speed but still caught the edge; his breastplate corroded into ragged fissures.

Mortarion spread his putrid wings; swarms of flies poured from the seams of his armor, whirling into a plague-storm that blotted the sky.

"You forget who embodies pestilence! I am pestilence."

The flies burrowed into Typhus's flesh, gnawing, breeding, spreading—his huge body began to collapse from within.

But he only laughed harder. "Useless! Every inch of me bears Nurgle's benediction!" His body unleashed a horrific suction; millions of plague fly-daemons were sucked into him, making him stronger.

You claim pestilence—but you are merely a Daemon Prince. I am god-chosen. Typhus raised his scythe to deliver a killing blow to his former gene-father.

The savage strike hacked Mortarion out of his gigantic form, knocking him back into a mere Daemon Prince—shattering the primarch's last shred of pride.

"No—this is impossible! Nurgle—save me!" Mortarion knelt, roaring in disbelief.

He had lost—to his former gene-son!

Chapter 510: Nurgle's Great Plan

Mortarion was in a pitiful state—his lower body smashed to pieces, his wings in tatters. If he weren't a Daemon Prince—and a primarch-turned-daemon at that—he would be dead. The daemon primarch even set aside his pride, pleading to Nurgle for aid.

To the Death Guard's ten-thousand-battle veterans, the sight was like a lightning strike from a clear sky.

Though Typhus had led the Death Guard for ages, in their hearts their only Legion Master was the primarch, their gene-father Mortarion.

But now their gene-father lay so wretched—defeated head-on by his former company captain Typhus!

"Do you see? You all see it? The age of primarchs is over. I won! I beat him! I beat this coward—this despicable wretch!" Typhus shrank back to human size and raised his massive scythe high.

He howled in exultation. In this moment he fulfilled a ten-millennia ambition. Since joining Mortarion's Legion he had looked down on the primarch, scorned him to the core.

Spurred on by Erebus, he had trapped his primarch, driving him into Nurgle's embrace.

He hoped to humiliate Mortarion and gain a rank above a primarch—but the Chaos gods prized primarchs exorbitantly.

For ten millennia, Mortarion hid in the Eye, ignoring the Legion. Typhus ran everything—yet everyone still called Mortarion gene-father.

Until Abaddon changed the script. He broke with his own gene-father; after upgrading to a Chaos Daemon Primarch, he obtained his own gene-seed and could found his own Astartes—making the Black Legion formally sever ties with Horus.

Abaddon's success filled Typhus with confidence. Add Vashtorr's gigantification and Nurgle's blessings—

and now this challenge. If he failed, he'd just die. He would never again bow to that primarch—that coward!

"Typhus! Typhus!"

"The Death Guard's true Legion Master!"

"Our highest respect to you!"

Unlike the veterans, many new Death Guard recruits raised their weapons; their bloated bodies exuded boundless stench and pestilence.

Blessed by Nurgle, they roared to the heavens. Today they witnessed history, the decline of primarchs.

Mortarion felt a wave of desolation. He had longed for a home—an actual home. He'd thought joiningNurgle would grant what he sought. But Chaos—

Everything—all of it—was mirage. This hideous visage, this shambling corpse of a shell!

"Great Nurgle, save me—great Father!" Mortarion stretched out his hands, muttering.

He did not want to die, so he begged Nurgle. Nurgle is merciful—if he begged, he would be spared.

A green radiance wrapped Mortarion, rapidly mending his wounds. Moments later he stood whole again before them.

But at this point, none of the Death Guard acknowledged this primarch anymore.

"Don't get cocky, Typhus. You only beat obsolete trash!" Nurgle's majestic voice rolled from afar into the ears of every Chaos Astartes.

"Great Nurgle, great God of Life, you are the most benevolent being in the cosmos.

I will prove my worth to you. I will prove I'm ten thousand times stronger than that refuse. I will lead the Death Guard.

I will lead countless family to sweep away your foes. I will take back your beloved bride. I swear it!" Typhus slapped his fat, suppurating, stinking bulk and roared.

As long as he possessed Nurgle's gigantification, he was confident he could defeat anyone.

The Imperium's current edge came from gigantification. Soon, that advantage would vanish.

"Vashtorr's gigantification is only a revision. You still fall short of the Imperium's true primarchs. They possess something called cosmic beasts.

It's a power even I cannot nullify—rooted in realspace principles, akin to the Necrons' star-god power; a bane to the warp, an absolute insulator," Nurgle said.

He could hardly wait to take revenge on the Emperor. This time he would teach that golden colossus a proper lesson.

"Great Nurgle, if you grant me this gigantification—if you grant me your blessing—I will surpass Typhus," said Mortarion, now fully recovered.

He could not let that bastard stand on his neck. The primarch's dignity must be defended.

So Mortarion made a decision: he would gain this power too. The loyalist primarchs were said to have gigantified and upgraded; as an old-era primarch, he no longer even ranked among the cosmos's top combatants.

If the Chaos gods could bless his former captain beyond him, then as a primarch he would be stronger still if he received that power.

At this, Typhus's face darkened as he knelt pledging loyalty to Nurgle.

 That bastard—how dare he!

"Mortarion, I can grant you this blessing—but what have you done to earn it?

You are not Typhus. For ten millennia he has sung my praises, spread my gospel through realspace, shared my blessings with my adorable humanity.

You, my child, merely curled up in a corner, sniveling about home. That is not the primarch I favor.

If you want this blessing—this power—then go kill the Imperium's new primarchs.

 I hear two primarchs are waging a crusade—one named Rhodes, one named Elena.

They fused with those special cosmic beasts to become primarchs.

Kill them both, bring me their cosmic beasts, and I will bless you," Nurgle said.

"Great Nurgle, I can complete these tasks too. Please assign them to me. I guarantee I'll bring you those so-called cosmic beasts," Typhus said, kneeling at once.

"Oh, my child, I have another important task for you—one very powerful. I want you to attack Holy Terra and bring back my lovely bride," Nurgle said.

At this, Typhus's swagger froze—his green face somehow greener.

Are you kidding me? Great Nurgle, you want me to attack Holy Terra?

Is that a place I can attack? Last time you four big shots struck together—with hordes of Bloodthirsters—and nothing came of it!

How exactly am I qualified for this?

Even Mortarion was speechless. Holy Terra is not so easily taken.

Horus reached Terra's gates—what happened then? The Emperor cleaved him in two.

"I will send the entire host to support you. All Daemon Princes and Great Daemons will heed your command and attack with you," Nurgle said.

After a decade of preparation, he had upgraded all his Great Daemons and Daemon Princes. The gigantified primarchs would no longer beat them like children.

Others had only Vashtorr's tech, but after obtaining that plague-beast,

Nurgle had independent gigantification capability—though currently only applied to his Great Daemons and Daemon Princes.

With such power, surely Terra could be taken.

"Great Nurgle, to assault Terra, we must first punch through the Sol System. Otherwise the attack is wasted. I propose we first dismantle the Emperor's campaigning primarchs—what do you think?" Typhus said.

He worshiped Nurgle, but attacking Terra was absurd.

 How about a lighter assignment?

"Which primarch do you want to face? Several are campaigning," Nurgle asked.

Capturing a primarch would be ideal. He could trade a live primarch to the Emperor to recover Isha.

"Great Nurgle, I will bring you Guilliman's head. I'll strike the Ultramar 500 Worlds," Typhus said after a moment's thought.

Guilliman was on Terra, not Ultramar. Hitting the 500 Worlds would draw him out—best choice.

"Very well. Then it's settled. Split forces: Mortarion, you go after Rhodes and Elena. Typhus, you go after Guilliman.

Whoever finishes first, I will grant the grandest reward."

Chapter 511: The Plague Hosts Advance — War Ignites

From the Eye of Terror, massive Chaos plague fleets sortied, accompanied by vast hordes of Nurgle's daemons.

Nurgle's forces nearly emptied their coffers, dividing into two thrusts: one led by Primarch Mortarion toward the First Fleet of the Indomitus Crusade;

the other by the Death Guard's new Legion Master Typhus toward Ultramar's 500 Worlds.

Meanwhile, hordes of Chaos cultists struck Imperial worlds everywhere, spreading Nurgle's plagues to the galaxy's corners.

The moment they entered realspace, a dreadful pestilence billowed forth.

In the Ultima Segmentum, the Segmentum Solar, the Obscurus and the Eastern Fringe, different plagues erupted in turn. After infection,

bodies turned sickly green, boils swelled, breathing failed, life ebbed, and victims became nauseating shambling corpses.

The horror-zombies attacked humanity—attacked all living things—turning them into more of their kind. A terrifying pestilence spread.

"Come, join Nurgle's great family—know Nurgle's boundless love!

 This is Nurgle's gift to you—your highest honor," Typhus cackled, seeding the god-plague across Imperial worlds.

…

On the Golden Throne, the Emperor and Magnus amplified their sight with psychic might and sensed the catastrophe at once.

Countless subjects wailed; pain wracked them; after death, the plague puppeted their corpses to assault their kin.

The pestilence spread with frightening speed. Ecclesiarchy preachers and Inquisitors relayed report after report to Holy Terra.

The Astronomican's adepts were overwhelmed; distress calls flooded in.

"This is Hive World XXX—under plague threat—requesting aid."

"World XXX has detected large Chaos fleets—requesting aid."

"XXX reporting mass Chaos Astartes and daemon incursion—requesting aid."

Countless pleas arrived and were compiled for Imperial Regent Guilliman and the newly resurrected Imperial Chancellor, Malcador.

With Malcador's return, Magnus yielded the chancellorship back to the former regent.

The two worked frantically, processing filings and dispatching nearby sector garrisons for relief.

Unlike the sluggish old High Lords, Guilliman and Magnus's new council moved with ruthless efficiency.

Orders were signed and transmitted across the Imperium; even the Indomitus Crusade fleets received directives: the Imperium faced unimaginable peril—halt the crusade and divert to relieve nearby embattled worlds.

"Father, at least ten thousand Imperial worlds are under attack; hundreds have already fallen," Guilliman reported to the Emperor.

"Organize relief at full tilt. Have Malcador assist you. Notify all campaigning primarchs at once," the Emperor said, methodical.

This god-plague—this Plague War—he had prepared for it for a decade. Nurgle wasn't the only one making preparations.

Imperial geneticists, virologists, and Apothecaries had been developing all manner of counteragents.

To truly beat Nurgle's pestilence, however, they needed aid from an Aeldari goddess— Isha, goddess of life.

Whenever a great plague engulfed the galaxy in ages past, the goddess of life would somehow diffuse her grace into realspace, imparting methods to save lives.

Now that Isha had a body to walk in realspace, the Emperor was eager for Rhodes to petition her aid.

Ending this Plague War soon would minimize Imperial losses. The Imperium had only just begun to recover; it could not endure another hammer blow.

"Emperor, our forces are spread thin. Deathwatch garrisons are already aiding nearby worlds, but numbers are insufficient—and this plague is especially stubborn," Malcador said, resurrected for a year and freshly reacquainted with a wretched millennium.

The Imperium of this era disappointed him utterly—one could call it a cesspit.

He even felt tempted to advise the Emperor to wipe it clean and rebuild order.

A millennium ago, during Age of Strife, humanity's tech surpassed today's.

Leaving the Imperium to mortals was, in hindsight, a grave mistake.

Perhaps the Emperor once wished mortals to develop themselves—but in a cosmos crawling with monsters and gods, without divine shelter, the weak are lambs to the slaughter.

So Malcador had changed his mind: the Imperium needs gods; it needs the Emperor; it needs new primarchs.

"Only the life goddess with Rhodes can truly unravel this god-plague," the Emperor said.

"Your Majesty, some things we should do ourselves, not always rely on others. With your current power, shouldn't you be able to crack this plague?" Malcador asked.

The Emperor was now extraordinarily powerful—far beyond his former self—tenfold, a hundredfold.

He was like a warp god shackled to the Throne; the Throne extended his spirit into the warp's strata.

A plague wrought by one of the Four—Nurgle—should be within his reach to counter, if he so willed.

"No. This time I must focus everything on another enemy. I must face Nurgle, Tzeentch, and Khorne," the Emperor said.

He held dominion over darkness, cold, death, fear—but not life. His brilliance shone by humanity's hope.

He could craft a cure—but not as easily as the life goddess. It would take at least a decade or more,

and consume terrifying psychic reserves. He had to husband strength—to strike Nurgle a killing blow.

"You're staking it all on a xenos god—and on a primarch you didn't create," Malcador said.

Rhodes was not the Emperor's creation—he hailed from another universe, bringing novelties from beyond. Malcador felt he could not be wholly trusted.

You cannot rely on him for everything.

"You don't understand, Malcador. When you meet Rhodes, you'll see—he truly wants to help humanity, not with false piety. He harbors little lust for power—of that, I'm surer than anyone," the Emperor said.

If Rhodes were ambitious, he would never have accepted a post within Imperial leadership. He'd launch a grand rebellion, rule countless human worlds, found a new regime, and topple the Emperor.

With that strange power of his, the Emperor was certain Rhodes could handle the Dark King. So long as humanity survived, the Emperor would remain upon the Throne.

Even if the Imperium fell and another regime rose, he would still be the Master of Mankind, still on the Throne, living for humanity.

"May your decision be right," Malcador sighed.

"Chancellor, I trust Rhodes too. Without him we primarchs would not be reunited; the Imperium would not have recovered this far," Guilliman said.

As the Terra conference ended, Guilliman used his cosmic-phantasm power to contact Rhodes remotely.

They had agreed on this method. Warp comms were easily intercepted; with cosmic beasts, no one could eavesdrop.

"Rhodes, plagues are breaking out across the Imperium—you know that, right? How's your crusade fleet?"

"I know. I've dispatched 200,000 gene-sons and 300,000 Battle Sisters from the crusade, dispersing to Imperial worlds to render aid," Rhodes said.

"Right now our only hope is for the life goddess to produce a cure for the god-plague. The sooner the cure arrives, the sooner this war ends," Guilliman said.

"Months ago, when the first outbreaks began, I set Isha to work. She'll have a cure soon—at most a month," Rhodes said.

"Then I'm relieved. Be careful—Chaos may strike at you," Guilliman said.

"You should worry about yourself, Guilliman. A plague fleet is already en route to Ultramar."