Whilst the sky over Rondhol burned in the apokalyptic battle between the Fae’s hordes of thralls with the monstrous Voidfang and the Procession of Blood and their Orruk and other, even more unlikely allies, Templar Oron had found himself with the duty of commanding the rearguard. Situated close to the Monolith, without a doubt the most important asset of the Procession’s host, this was an essential task, even though many of the Khornate members of the Procession lacked the tactical acumen to truly understand the importance.
This was why the rearguard mostly consisted of what remained of Archprophetess Sytharith’s Furyoth Dell expedition force and freshly recruited Tzaangor Sariant warriors eager to prove themselves as true Templars.
Inspired by the steely discipline of the heavily armoured Templars, these newly recruited Sariant warriors did well in aiding in protecting the monolith, Templar Oron found, leaving ruined corpses of their enemies in their wake. They had adapted quickly to the Templar ways, likely inspired by the Monolith’s vast chaotic power.
Indeed, there had been many attacks from behind, by the Fae’s thralls and opportunists alike. Even the razored edges of Oron’s own sword were slick with the blood of the latest wave of brainwashed Ogors.
With a contemptuous kick, Oron cleared the Tyrant’s disembodied head out of his way as he barked orders at those under his command, signal horns carrying his words over the battlefield.
He watched as his men and women got back into formation. From what he could tell by the peripheral view of the grand battle raging around him, the forces opposing the Fae had gained the upper hand, and the thrall’s army was close to shattering completely. Even the Voidfang itself struggled, was staggering, faltering under the constant attacks.
Their victory was signaled by the Temple of the Chalice crashing into the jungle floor. Cheers and cries of praise to the Dark Gods sounded all over the battlefield.
Oron meanwhile remained silent, even as a “Glory to the Flame!” thundered across Templar ranks.
He watched silently and with growing concern as the Monolith, remaining almost stationary during the final moments of the battle, now moved ever closer towards the fallen fortress, with increasing speed.
From high above, a grand host of Templar Enlightened lead by a Paladin of Fate descended upon his position.
“The heretics are all but vanquished.” the Paladin addressed him. “The head of their leader has been taken by some Khornate assassin. Prepare our forces for a final charge, to the Glory of Our Burning Saviour.”
Oron simply nodded his beak, the slits of his helm still focused upon the movements of the Monolith.
“It is the Archprophetess’ Fate.“ the Paladin’s eerily calm voice reached his conscience. “I would advise against your thoughts.”
The Templar Oron did not turn to face him.
“Is it not my Fate as well?”
The Paladin stood, unmoving.
“Is it not?!”
Slowly, almost unnoticeably, the Paladin lowered his golden beaked Helm.
“Then go, Chosen.” Veshirnath the Solemn spoke, and Oron broke into a sprint.
At the last second, Oron reached the Shrine dangling below the Monolith, grasping it, barely holding on to it, clambering inside with great difficulty.
He witnessed as the chains holding the shrine aloft slowly crystallized. Slowly, but surely, the shrine the Templars had built morphed, changed, became one with the Monolith.
With determined steps, he entered the main hall, and spotted her.
Sat upon her throne in deep meditation, motionless despite all the commotion around her, the sounds of war and death – there she was, Archprophetess Sytharith the Intricate. Emaciated, corpse-like. The control of the Monolith had taken everything from her – she looked strained, nearly spent, at death’s door.
Grouped around her, already crystallized, were the bodies of her personal slaves, their expressions stuck in abject terror and agony.
“Archprophetess…”
“Begone!” A strong burst of energy hit him, smashing him into the closest wall. Despite her frailness, there was fire burning in Sytharith’s feverish eyes as she stared at him. Her voice was strange, otherworldly, and as if many spoke at once.
“You will not take away my Fate! You will not tell me I am not enough!”
“Archprophetess! I…”
“You knew from the start, Templar Oron. You judged me from the beginning, for every decision I made. You knew it was a lie. That everything was a Lie.”
“I always trusted your judgment, Sytharith. I knew of your wisdom, and your power, even if you did not. This is why I followed you upon your Fated Path. And you led us to Glory.”
Sytharith opened her beak to speak, but she instead remained silent.
“Let me walk this path with you .. to the end.” Oron pleaded.
One second elapsed, a second, a third. She let him go.
The Templar stumbled away from the wall, and came to a halt in the centre of the room.
Sword and runeshield drawn, Oron positioned himself between Sytharith and the entrance. These sounds could not be mistaken – a mighty roar told of an Orruk warrior coming in, and it was not one of Urgoth’s or Razgor’s men, as the tabard bearing the Fae’s chalice proved.
With a precise movement, Oron drove his blade deep into a gap of the Orruk’s armour, forcing his opponent to his knees with a powerful twist of his sword. One of the Orruk’s crude twin axes scraped uselessly over the Templar’s golden armour, the other bit deep into his runeshield, before Oron ended his life with a forceful bash of said shield in the Orruk’s face and a slit throat.
The runeshield clattered to the floor as the Templar Chosen let go of it, gripping his blade with two hands instead. The sword began to glow blue with Divine Sorcery.
Oron and Sytharith understood each other without words. There was nothing left to say. She had given him her blessing, and he would defend her to the end. It had come.
Standing at the entrance of the more and more crystallizing shrine hanging from the Monolith, Oron, the Templar Chosen fought off attack after attack from the Order of the Chalice and other Fae Thralls.
Precise swipes, executed with uncanny speed, the razored edge of his blade cut down one challenger after the other. A one-Tzaangor wall of Steel, Will and Faith, Oron would let none of them break through to the Archprophetess. A quick stab between the eyes of a Ghurish flying beast with feline features and a hard kick saw its human rider tumbling screaming down to her death.
Steadily, the Monolith, the ancient weapon blessed by all four Dark Gods in the Age of Chaos, now deserted by one, drew closer to the Fae’s unholy temple fortress.
Wiping gore from his eyeslits, Oron could see it clearly from above, how the few remaining defenders scrambled to set up defences, how more of the flying Cavaliers charged towards him, into his blade – with deep satisfaction, while skewering an Aelven knight, the Chaos Chosen realised they were too late.
The Monolith settled above the temple, and with it, the Fae’s Fate was sealed.
Vast arcane energies arched between the Monolith and the temple, tearing the latter apart with great might, turning flesh to stone and stone to flesh to the horrified and agonized screams of the defenders.
The Chalice within the temple began to fold into itself, and with a crash that rent apart the stormclouds in the sky above and parted the land in a chasm below, both disappeared in a glowing arcane flash.
“Cleansed with Fire! Anointed in Blood!” The warcry from Vardeshir’s beak sounded over the battlefield, echoing back from masses of voices from the Procession, and as the horns called for the final attack, the forces of Chaos charged the few remaining defenders of the Fae’s fallen Fortress down, slaughtering them to a man.
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With the defeat of the Fae and their thralls, the death of the monstrous voidfang, the Procession of Blood had fulfilled its Purpose.
The remaining Khornate Demons dissappeared into the Jungle, to hunt Seraphon.
The Mortal Crusaders of Chaos Undivided feasted for days in celebration.
Then, without a Holy Monolith to unite them, they dissolved.
The Paladin of Fate Vardeshir the Solemn led the forces of Our Burning Saviour and assorted Tzeentchian and Slaaneshi warbands out of Rondhol, northbound, to rendezvous with his own Templar fleet set for Thondia.
Within Archprophetess Sytharith’s Procession, the Khornates had born the brunt of the losses inflicted by the Fae and their allies. The losses of the Tzeentchians and Slaaneshi were – comparatively – minor, although not suspiciously so; after all, it lay in the Khornates’ very nature to seek out carnage in the first battleline.
The surviving Khornate warbands had been skillfully redirected south by Vardeshir – towards Lendu, where Korghos Khul led his glorious Goretide against Sigmarites and Orruks, which promised glorious battles and much Blood to be spilled.
Thus, not only had the Templar Expedition to Rondhol ended with a glorious Triumph over the Fae and Seraphon – the outcome had also been made fortuitous for the approaching war in the north.
While the Holy Monolith and Archprophetess Sytharith the Intricate would have certainly been excellent assets in his Crusade, Vardeshir understood that after it being tainted by the Fae, and the instability caused by the Nurglite aspect deserting, the Archprophetess had made the right choice.
An Enlightened approached the Paladin, bowing deeply.
“Your Eminence. We have intercepted another group of humans. They are surrounded, and standing down.”
Veshirnath nodded, and followed the Enlightened on his disc, his arms folded on his back.
He found them in a clearing.
Refugees from the fall of Khardihr. Lower class citizens who had not been evacuated in an orderly fashion; civilians, not warriors mostly, even some families amongst them, huddled together fearfully. Only a couple of them were City guards, helplessly pointing their halberds towards the disciplined golden-armoured Templar force surrounding them.
Without being saved by the Templars, they would surely have perished within a few days. Rondhol was unforgiving. They knew it, he could see it in their eyes. There was a little spark of hope alight there, that had almost been extinguished before.
Veshirnath the Solemn, Paladin of Fate, floated before them upon a disc of Tzeentch, resplendent in his Holy Armour, his arms open and welcoming, as he addressed the refugees with a sonorous voice, both soothing and commanding.
“Rejoice! For Our Saviour has cast His Burning Wings around you.”
And Hope returned to the Survivors of Khardhir, like a bright Flame flaring up.
