70: The End of Silence (II)

"Forward!" Dantioch roared as he charged forward, slamming his Warhammer down.

He smashed a Death Guard's left shoulder and arm to pieces—no, no, let's not call them Death Guard anymore; Dantioch didn't want to label these traitors with the name of his allies.

He didn't understand what had happened inside the Death Guard, but he was on the bridge when it happened.

He heard Mortarion angrily rebuking the traitor who called himself Typhus in the communications, and the voices of some Death Guard swearing oaths beside their Primarch.

They said that in the name of Terra, they would make sure Typhus suffers a terrible death.

At this moment, within the narrow, gray corridors of the Iron Blood, one bloody battle after another is unfolding.

The fact that their flagship had been boarded enraged the Iron Warriors. However, anger aside, reality was reality. Being boarded in a void battle was quite fatal, even for a battleship of the Gloriana-class.

Moreover, their opponent was Horus, one of the deadliest generals in the galaxy.

Without Perturabo issuing many orders, they quickly mobilized, sending small, dispersed teams to various parts of the ship. Their sole objective was to kill any traitors who dared to board.

Compared to his colleagues, Dantioch had a broader vision.

He knew perfectly well that these traitors who boarded the ship were merely the first wave of attack, the vanguard and the hounds. The traitor who called himself Typhus had gone mad, just as only a madman like Horus Lupercal would choose to ram a ship carrying the Gloriana-class Battleship.

However, absurdly, the cannons couldn't hit it at all. Not a single shot, as if the cannon decks were cursed.

The Dantioch didn't have time to deal with this unusual scene; all they knew was that, under these circumstances, the impact of the Terminus Est was practically a foregone conclusion.

Even if Typhus had a sudden change of heart and decided to turn the ship around, it would be too late. A ship that had been traveling at full speed for so long could not suddenly stop; it would inevitably crash directly into the Iron Blood.

The Warsmith twisted his wrist and, with a heart burning with anxiety, brought the Warhammer down once more.

The traitor fighting him staggered back several steps, dodging the Warhammer's attack. The massive wound on the left side of his armor had stopped bleeding; the Astartes possessed remarkable regenerative abilities, but none could possibly be this strong.

Dantioch realized what was happening, but he didn't have time to think. The traitor lunged at him, his Chainsword roaring and clanging. The Warsmith took a small step back, his right hand sliding down to instinctively grip the tip of his Warhammer.

He placed the hammer precisely in the path of the traitor's lunge, creating a horrifying hole in the latter's breastplate, splattering blood and destroying his internal organs and spine.

Dantioch coldly swung his arm again, completely turning his enemy into a pool of still-breathing mincemeat.

Half a second later, he began to regret it—perhaps he shouldn't have done it.

Because that mass of flesh is changing. To be precise, it's healing itself, but not in a "normal" way.

In place of the traitor's internal organs was his decaying, diseased lung, covered in black mold. It swelled up, with worm eggs and maggots crawling inside. The flesh and blood clung together, beginning to rot rapidly, oozing a yellowish pus.

Under the horrified gaze of the Warsmith, the traitor stood up once more.

His spine was made up of individual teeth, his chest and abdomen were wide open, and maggots and white eggs were constantly falling from his swollen lungs. He was laughing, his voice hoarse, as if he had phlegm stuck in his throat.

Dantioch also saw that the flesh and blood at the shoulder of his missing left hand were falling off, and the bone, which seemed to be rotting away, was beginning to grow and twist to form a sharp claw.

And all of this was accomplished in less than two seconds.

"What exactly are you?" Dantioch asked earnestly.

The traitor chuckled and lunged at him again. The Warsmith calmed himself and began to face this battle, which he had never encountered before, with absolute focus.

With his first strike, he destroyed the monster's lower limbs with his Warhammer. With his second strike, he smashed its claw, formed from twisted bone. With his third strike, he crushed its skull.

Metal and flesh fragments flew everywhere as the headless corpse began to convulse on the deck floor. Blood mixed with pus gushed from its wounds. Killing it was easy, but the Warsmith suddenly realized something was wrong.

This feeling didn't come from his thinking or speculation, but from an intuition of distrust that he almost ignored until he smelled the pungent stench.

Dantioch took two steps back and heard a cough.

No.

His heart sank.

It shouldn't be what he thinks, absolutely not.

At the same time, a violent jolt came, knocking him hard to the ground.

--

Mortarion watched helplessly as the Terminus Est crashed into the hull of the Iron Blood, sparks flying and fragments swirling in the vacuum. The shattered Void Shield slowly faded, its glow fading, while the bow section of the Terminus Est had completely rammed into the Iron Warriors' flagship.

Void Shield and ship armor are utterly ineffective against attacks of this magnitude; the suicidal collision of a warship essentially exceeds the shields' capacity. This near-suicidal tactic has been prevalent within the Imperium for some time.

But Mortarion never imagined that it would one day be used against his own people.

He didn't understand why this was happening, not at all. But now was not the time to think about these things.

The Primarch took a deep breath, allowing his anger to subside somewhat. He gripped the Silence and began issuing commands.

"Expel Karas Typhon and the entire crew of the Terminus Est from the Legion," the Lord of Death said coldly.

His voice echoed through the ship's communications channels, audible to everyone. The Deathshroud stood silently behind him, guarding the Primarch. The mortal crew strode forward, while the Cogitator array hummed incessantly.

"From this moment forward, he is no longer your brother, nor my friend. He is a traitor, an enemy, one of those who must be exterminated."

"On my orders, send three destroyers and a fast Strike Cruiser to that damned ship, board it, and destroy it. We must get the Iron Blood operational again as quickly as possible."

He suppressed his anger and clearly issued the orders, but his thoughts, temporarily suspended by his rage, drifted to Typhon, no, Typhus.

A dirty name, a tongue-twisting, unfamiliar name, one that didn't belong to his understanding.

Typhus.

Very well, you'll die, Typhus.

Mortarion took a deep breath and calmed himself down again. If anyone asked, he wouldn't deny that Karas Typhon's betrayal had indeed hurt him deeply, but he temporarily put the question of "why" aside; that was something he could think about later.

He began to focus his thoughts and contacted Perturabo via ship communications— the Lord of Iron had just shut down their communication channel, and Mortarion knew why, which made him somewhat embarrassed, but fortunately Perturabo didn't seem to care.

He sent a new channel code, and after successful authentication, Mortarion heard his brothers' voices once again.

"I see the Pride of the Emperor." Vulkan's voice, slightly distorted by the distance, came through the channel. "It's on the enemy's flank, firing at us."

Pride of the Emperor? How could this be—? Could it be that Fulgrim —no, Horus just said he ran away. Mortarion gritted his teeth and gripped his scythe tightly.

"It seems Horus has captured Fulgrim's flagship." Perturabo calmly analyzed the situation, as if his flagship had not actually been boarded.

"This means we need to deal with two Gloriana-class Battleship, while my flagship is temporarily inoperable. Two against two seems fair, but Horus is never one to fight unprepared. Better safe than sorry, Vulkan, he may very well be hiding something dangerous."

The Lord of Drakes gave a muffled laugh, "Understood, brother."

"I sent three destroyers and three fast Strike Cruiser to board the Terminus Est," Mortarion continued. "I will definitely give you an explanation for this, Perturabo."

"No need."

"What?"

"You don't need to explain yourself to me. You're still on our side, and that's enough. Loyalty is the answer in itself. So, keep fighting, Mortarion. We can wait until after the war to Judgment Typhus if he's still alive."

"Good."

Mortarion closed his eyes, temporarily leaving the communication channel. The blade of the Silence reflected his eyes, and the Lord of Death stared into those eyes, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind.

Having come this far from Barbarus, why the sudden betrayal of Typhon?

He silently gripped his scythe, intending to continue issuing orders, but at that moment one of his personal guards spoke up in a hoarse voice.

"Primarch."

"What is it, Cardotulai?" Mortarion uttered the name of the Deathshroud that had called him without turning his head. "It must be something urgent."

"It is a very important matter, Primarch," Cardotulei said, pausing.

Hearing his footsteps, Mortarion frowned, turned around, and suddenly a flash of silver light streaked before his eyes.

His reaction speed was incredibly fast; almost instantly, he leaned back, dodging the attack. The remaining silent Deathshroud erupted instantly, and three of them rushed forward, forcefully pinning Cardotulai to the ground.

They snatched the dagger from his hand by chopping off his arm and handed it to the Primarch. Mortarion remained silent, but his increasingly loud breathing betrayed his anger.

He lowered his head to examine the dagger; its twisted shape and gleaming blade gave rise to a certain suspicion in the Primarch's mind.

After a moment, he slowly began to speak.

"Why, Cardotulai?" he asked, enunciating each word clearly. "Why do you do this?"

The traitor remained silent, a strange murmur escaping his throat, while the Lord of Death had lost patience.

"Kill him," Mortarion coldly ordered. "All traitors must die."

His guards obeyed, their anger and shame driving them to behead Cardotulai. Blood gushed forth, and the head and body were quickly cleared away. The Lord of Death stood there, coldly gripping the dagger, his rage unknown to anyone.

However, being unable to suppress one's emotions is not a good thing.

A faint stench began to permeate the air, carrying a fishy smell, just like the blood of Cardotulei.

Update complete.