Hearing the battle-brother's attempt to make light of the situation, a nameless fire ignited in Marbo's chest. Rage welled up within him, and he was determined to act — the culprit would pay.
The Catachan Legion, battered by the ambush, had halted for a short rest.
But Sly Marbo had no patience left.
Driven by fury, he slipped away alone.
Few noticed his departure — save for the veteran commandos who had been shadowing him all along.
The commandos, though wounded in the earlier ambush, were still combat-ready. Seeing Marbo leave, they easily guessed his intentions.
They shared the same burning anger.
Without hesitation, they, too, peeled away from the main force, silently following their legendary brother toward the heart of the royal palace-fortress.
They were few, but they were fearless.
Though the Catachan troops had suffered heavy losses in the earlier blast, the rebels had not escaped unscathed either. The explosion cared little for friend or foe — it had obliterated the last defenses of the palace-fortress.
Marbo and the commandos infiltrated the High King's residence with barely any resistance.
Inside, they encountered the final defenders — High King Caligus's personal guard.
These warriors, the pride of Darok's forces, wore polished argent armor etched with intricate patterns, their crimson cloaks flowing behind them.
Their panoplies were masterworks of craftsmanship — beautiful, but in Marbo's eyes, utterly useless.
To him, such ostentation was the mark of simpering lords, not true warriors. Better to forge armor strong and plain than waste wealth on decoration.
If these guards had clad themselves in practical gear instead of artistry, they might have lasted more than a heartbeat against the fury of Catachan's finest.
They did not.
One by one, they fell under Marbo's savage assault, their corpses strewn across the polished floors, blood soaking into priceless tapestries.
Realizing they could not best Marbo and his warriors in close combat, the palace guards broke and fell back, abandoning direct engagement. Instead, they retreated to fortified firepoints, seeking to delay the inevitable.
"Kill them all!" the commando leader barked over the vox.
"For the Warmaster — and for the dream he carries for all Mankind!"
Hearing the cry, Marbo gave voice to the roar in his heart.
He surged forward, his combat blade gripped in both hands, the reinforced plates of his Destroyer-type carapace armor groaning under the strain of his strike.
The blade cleaved through one of the retreating guards, splitting ornate armor and flesh alike. The man shrieked, crimson spilling across the gilded floor. He collapsed, clutching at the wet coils of his own entrails, trying in vain to hold his life inside.
"I... can't die... yet..." he rasped — then toppled, lifeless.
"Marbo! Keep moving forward!" came the urgent order through the vox.
The commandos locked into a defensive formation, covering the palace entrance, blocking any guards seeking to pursue their leader.
"Don't stop! Glory to us! Victory to the Warmaster!"
Amidst the chorus of gunfire and defiant roars, Sly Marbo pressed onward.
He moved like a silent predator, stepping over mangled corpses, stalking deeper into the heart of the fortress. Ahead of him rose a towering, nine-tiered staircase, its grandeur almost obscene amidst the carnage.
At its summit stood a colossal stone gate, crowned with a lavish portico, carved with intricate scenes of triumph and vanity.
Marbo ascended.
As he passed through the shifting shadows cast by the ornate archways, the din of the outside world faded. The pounding artillery, the rattle of gunfire — all of it fell silent.
Only his own breathing, the faint drip of blood from his blade, and the whisper of boots against marble filled the space.
Behind him, a trail of scarlet dotted the steps.
From battlefield chaos to cathedral stillness — the transition jarred him for a heartbeat. But he shook it off, sharpening his focus, stalking forward into the gloom.
Towering spires loomed to either side, their sheer heights vanishing into the shrouded heavens above.
Before him rose the tallest and most majestic of them all: a Gothic needle of stone and metal, soaring more than a kilometer into the sky.
At its base lay a platform of impossible opulence — an expanse paved entirely in rare gemstones, each gleaming under unseen light.
Even a sliver of these jewels would buy a hive-born citizen a lifetime of luxury.
Marbo scarcely spared them a glance.
At these heights, the whole battlefield below was visible — armies clashing, artillery thundering — yet up here, no sound reached him.
He prowled the platform's edge and found a hidden stone stair spiraling along the inner wall.
Upward he climbed.
One platform after another passed beneath his boots, his senses honed, every nerve alert for hidden enemies.
But none came.
It was as if he had entered another world — one of silence, stillness, and flickering reflections, the only movement the glints of gem-light dancing along the cold walls.
Marbo moved on, the hunt not yet over.
Sly Marbo advanced alone, reaching the second-to-last floor of the towering spire. There, he caught sight of the burning remnants of Darok's royal city.
Once the proudest jewel of Darok, the capital was now a smoldering ruin. Crimson flames devoured its streets, and buildings glowed blood-red under the light of destruction. Gunfire flickered like deadly stars across the darkness, energy beams cut through the smoke-choked skies, and the heavens above were stained by the fires of war.
Explosions echoed from every corner of the city. The battle's end was clear—the Imperial forces had secured victory. Yet the rage in Marbo's heart showed no signs of cooling. Too many soldiers had died. Too many civilians had been caught in the senseless slaughter. Their sacrifices were meaningless, paid for by the ambition and greed of one man.
Marbo gripped his combat knife tightly. His gaze fell upon the final staircase.
He would end it himself. He would sever the High King's head from his body and bring this futile rebellion to a bloody conclusion.
Marbo ascended to the tower's top floor.
Above him, the dome of the spire bloomed like the petals of a crystal flower. It shimmered with the slow rotation of star-tracking crystals, adjusting their angle to trace the heavens.
An Iron Throne sat upon a heavy dais, facing away from the wide crystal windows. Nine broad steps of shining gemstone led up to it. The throne itself was forged of black iron, with curled handrests and a soaring backplate carved with ancient runes.
Upon the throne sat a king clad in a heavy robe that swept the floor.
High King Caligus.
He was once a mighty figure—his blond hair thick and unkempt, his body broad and strong—but now he was a broken man. He stared at Marbo, and at the Catachan commandos arriving behind him, with a face twisted in despair and pain.
"High King Caligus," the commando captain said grimly. "It's over. It's time you paid for your betrayal."
Caligus sneered, his voice dripping with scorn.
"I have nothing left! Yet still you press on. The Imperium slaughters my people, burns my soldiers, and lays waste to the world my ancestors protected for ten thousand years! I have lost everything! Death holds no fear for me, soldier."
"Nothing ever truly belonged to you," the captain shot back coldly. "Darok belongs to the Emperor on Terra. You were entrusted to guard it in His name. Your folly has condemned countless lives to meaningless death."
Caligus' mouth twisted in contempt.
"My ancestors built this world. We guided its people when the stars were still strange to them. Long before your Warmaster set foot here during the Great Crusade, this world was ours! When he came, he planted the flag of the Imperium atop our legacy and called it conquest. How is that anything but theft? You expect me to kneel to that?"
The commando captain frowned but remained resolute.
"Is that your excuse for betrayal? How pathetic. Your soldiers—your loyal men—offered their blood for the Imperium. They deserved better than your petty pride. Even the lords of Vigilus showed greater wisdom than you."
At that, Caligus waved dismissively, madness glinting in his eyes.
"Of course you wouldn't understand! You have never owned a world. If someone stripped your honor from you, what would you do? There are things worth more than life itself!"
With a sudden motion, he hurled a crystal orb onto the floor.
It shattered into a thousand shards.
A black mist—sickly and corrupt—began to seep out.
Marbo and the Catachan commandos immediately raised their weapons, instinct honed by countless battles, watching the growing blasphemous fog with wary eyes.
Caligus' face was alight with wild hope.
Long before the siege of Vigilus, when rebellion still brewed only in whispers, the forces of Chaos had already reached out to him. Abaddon's Black Legion had sent a messenger, offering him this crystal orb—promising that it could grant his every desire.
At first, Caligus had been skeptical. But when the orb began to offer him visions—visions that came true—he succumbed. Its promises, its whispered miracles, had nurtured his ambition until it consumed him entirely.
In his arrogance, Caligus believed he could manipulate both the Imperium and the Chaos Gods. He thought he could walk the razor's edge, surviving between two titanic forces by offering loyalty to neither. And for a time, it had seemed to work—Darok declared its independence and held its ground for years, thriving under his rule.
But that illusion shattered the moment Primarch Dukel, newly returned, reassumed the title of Warmaster. Under Dukel's command, the Imperium's patience ended. It brought war to Darok with all the fury of a vengeful god.
Now, with his world in ruins, Caligus clutched at his last hope—the cursed crystal.
But Chaos is never a loyal benefactor.
The fog rolled out, swirling with shapes and whispers. A high, cruel laughter filled the air.
"—Everything proceeds as planned," came a voice, distant yet intimate, slipping like a knife between the mind's defenses.
Caligus paled.
There was no miracle. No salvation. Only mockery.
He realized then that he had been nothing more than a pawn—used by Chaos, discarded by the Imperium. His dreams, his kingdom, his people—broken and scattered like the shards of the crystal orb.
And none of it had ever been in his control.
"Hahahahaha... so that's how it is. Go ahead, soldier — destroy me. As you expected, everything I fought for, everything I believed in... nothing but pathetic illusions... hahahahaha!"
High King Caligus laughed madly, but a single, grimy tear slid from the corner of his eye.
"Captain, he's lost his mind," one of the Catachan troopers muttered, eyeing the fallen monarch carefully.
"Let me finish him," the soldier said, glancing toward his commanding officer.
In this brutal civil war, every death, every sacrifice, could be laid at Caligus' feet. Every man present harbored the same burning desire — to take vengeance with their own hands.
"As long as we file the right report after the battle — claiming the High King was killed while resisting arrest — no one above will care," another trooper added darkly. "Dead rebels aren't worth paperwork."
Such 'unofficial justice' was far from uncommon in the brutal campaigns fought by Catachan regiments.
At this moment, Caligus was no longer a king — just another defeated traitor. No one would mourn him.
"You can't kill him," said Marbo, speaking for the first time.
The commando captain gave a small nod. "He's right. Those crystals are tainted — Warp-corrupted. He's evidence, and we need to get him back alive. The Inquisition will want to bleed every scrap of information from him."
As he spoke, the captain retrieved a containment device from his Destroyer Armor's tactical pack — an artifact crafted under the watchful eye of the Fabricator General himself. With meticulous care, he gathered the shattered crystal fragments, sealing them securely within the device's stasis field.
"Secure him along with the crystals," the captain ordered, his voice cold and steady. "He will stand before the Saint and face judgment. Matters concerning the Warp are not for us to decide. This is for Warmaster Dukel himself to resolve."
...
TN:
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