Warhammer : The last hope of the 30th millennium

Chapter 14: Swords and Blades

"Betrayal is a conceptual power. It is part of a vast sacred ritual. It transcends our existing philosophy of war and lies beyond the tactics of the Astartes Legion."

"No one understands the power of betrayal except the Word Bearers, and we already know it well."

Chloe looked around the hall where the Ultramarines and the Word Bearers had gathered to enjoy their feast.

"Imagine," Iron Chorus continued, "if at this very moment, the Word Bearers launched a surprise attack on the Ultramarines—bolt rounds and plasma, chainswords and power swords—offering your blood to the High Heavens. Imagine if you and I turned our swords against each other."

There was a deep meaning behind his words, his gaze indescribable. It seemed as though he wished for his old friend to understand, yet his tone carried an unmistakable mockery.

"Brother, I must admit that this is an extremely vicious thought," Luciel exhaled. "Fortunately, it is not real."

"We Astartes are immune to fear after our transformation and training, but that does not mean we are incapable of being shocked, horrified, or caught off guard."

Luciel nodded solemnly. He had to acknowledge that this was an aspect overlooked by their Primarch. Enemies who believed in the supernatural power of betrayal had to be dealt with.

"This is the first time I feel pity for the tolerance and integrity of the Ultramarines," Nykona Sharrowkyn observed. The sergeant of the XIII Legion was discussing the dangers of betrayal with the Word Bearers seriously, without once considering the horrifying possibility that the Word Bearers were not merely hypothesizing.

The atmosphere froze.

A chilling presence seemed to spread through the cabin, and Nykona felt as if something unseen was watching the events unfold.

"Do you understand me, my brother, my friend, my Luciel?"

Iron Chorus's voice rose as he straightened his back, waiting for a response.

"Understand what? Perhaps you could explain more clearly," Luciel replied.

"I have been asked to walk a new path. I must prove that I have truly devoted myself to this great cause. I must..."

Iron Chorus's eyes met Luciel's.

And in that instant, Luciel understood.

If Iron Chorus had been forced to walk a new path, it meant he had already abandoned the old one.

This was not a hypothesis.

Betrayal had arrived.

With superhuman reflexes, Luciel dropped the wine glass in his hand and reached for his bolt pistol at lightning speed, honed from decades of war. His consciousness lagged behind, still caught in the shock of realization.

Chloe's plasma pistol was already raised. The weapon, fueled by a miniature fusion core, flared as hydrogen plasma ignited, launching a deadly blast.

Nykona fired first.

His silent bolt round struck Iron Chorus's arm at point-blank range, shattering the armor. The heat and shrapnel tore through the crimson plating, slicing through genetically enhanced muscle and alloy-hard bone.

The plasma shot, meant to incinerate Luciel's entire chest cavity—armor, reinforced ribcage, and dual superhuman hearts—veered off course.

Instead, only half of Luciel's left arm was vaporized. His blood and flesh turned to ash, but the superheated plasma also cauterized his wounds instantly, preventing him from bleeding out. The force of the impact sent him flying.

His legs smashed through the banquet table, shattering it into splinters. The still-falling wine glass was blasted aside, its contents spilling onto the deck.

All of this happened in a fraction of a second.

"Enemy attack!"

Luciel's agonized voice, amplified by his helmet, exploded in the ears of the Ultramarines like thunder.

Losing an arm was not a fatal wound for an Astartes. Even as smoldering plasma embers burned his flesh, the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of betrayal.

The Word Bearers had turned against them.

Luciel's men instinctively wanted to react, but the sudden explosions and the unmistakable sound of grenade launchers filled the air. Their genetically enhanced blood surged with the instinct to retaliate, but discipline—ingrained through years of training—forced them to seek cover instead.

The Word Bearers were already prepared. They showed no hesitation, no doubt. Raising their bolters, they fired relentlessly at their so-called battle brothers.

The cozy banquet hall was now a battlefield.

Despite Luciel's warning, more than ten of the seventeen Ultramarines were gunned down in the first wave.

Explosive rounds tore through ceramite armor and flesh alike, leaving gaping wounds. Through the blasted-open chests of fallen warriors, one could see still-twitching organs, charred black from the heat. Metal plating glowed molten red where it had been struck.

At such close range, explosive bolts could penetrate even the thickest sections of power armor.

But the survivors did not falter. Using fallen tables and heavy marble slabs as cover, they dragged their wounded captain toward the rear of the battlefield.

Luciel, still reeling from the betrayal, locked eyes with Iron Chorus.

And Iron Chorus—his arm mangled by Nykona's surprise attack—turned toward the darkness, his expression unreadable. A flicker of surprise crossed his face.

"Raven Guard..."

The Word Bearers had not anticipated a Son of the Raven infiltrating their sacred ritual—a ritual that was meant to go smoothly, to be a sacrifice to the dark forces beyond.

But there was no time to contemplate it.

Nykona fired again.

With machine-like precision, he delivered a perfect headshot to a Word Bearer still in the act of slaughtering an Ultramarine. The traitor's skull exploded, spraying blood and bone fragments across the hall.

Fear—real, primal fear—crept into the hearts of the Word Bearers.

Iron Chorus made his decision.

He issued a single order: retreat.

His warriors provided covering fire, unleashing a final volley as he disappeared into the depths of the warship.

Though the battle had not unfolded exactly as planned, the slaughter still served the purpose of their dark ritual. The blood spilled here was enough to satisfy the entity they now served.

Explosions from the grenade launchers left the bulkheads riddled with holes. Gas was sucked into the vacuum of space, dragging debris and bodies with it.

Nykona's mag-locked boots clamped onto the deck, anchoring him as the chaos unfolded around him.

"No further explanation is needed."

Emerging from the shadows like a ghost, Nykona stood before the remaining Ultramarines.

Luciel, with the help of his brothers, forced himself to stand. His voice was steady, filled with grim fury.

"Notify the Primarch immediately! Tell everyone—

—the Word Bearers are fucking traitors!"

At that moment, the orbital station outside erupted in flames, sending shockwaves through the warship.

The skies of Calth were burning.

And the world was screaming.