Chapter 131 - Forest Path Teleportation
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Lion had been getting the hang of it, using the forest to teleport to any location he chose.
Short-range precision jumps were within his grasp now.
With a single thought, the mist-shrouded forest materialized out of nothing before his sons. Most of the Sons of the Lion went still. Zabriel and Sevatar were the exceptions.
Startled voices crackled through the comm channel. Their Gene-Sire had acquired a new ability, and it unsettled them. In the eyes of the Fallen, that kind of power belonged to one being: Magnus, Lord of Prospero.
In their minds, their father was a warrior. A warlord. A commander without peer. Psychic talent had never been part of that picture.
But they were sons of the Lion, and they had inherited his pragmatism along with his gene-seed. They were practical men. They accepted it.
And Lion intended to use it, to jump straight to the beacon Seraphax had transmitted.
As Sevatar had pointed out: the application was obvious. Decapitation strikes. Bypass every defensive line and land directly behind the enemy commander.
Anyone who knew the Lion understood what it meant when he got behind you.
You could start writing the death certificate.
The Lion led his retinue into the forest.
The journey was short. They followed his steps through damp, hazy mist and tangled trees until the terrain opened slightly, trunks spaced more evenly, branches higher off the ground, wide stretches of bare bark on every side.
Lion stopped. He turned to face his sons. Sevatar included.
"We have arrived."
"The Emperor of Mankind still lives, but He can no longer walk among us. The great works He built are gone. As His warriors, His loyal servants, we must step forward. This is our purpose now."
"If anything matters in this galaxy, it is that the old order no longer holds us. We are free to choose our own path."
"And your choice is clear, warriors. You chose to follow me. To stand at my side. To help others by every means available. For that, I give you my highest respect. We will become what we choose to become — the blade that stands against the darkness threatening humanity. Are you ready, warriors?"
The answer came back as one voice. Every man roaring in unison, every voice at full force. Sevatar among them.
In each of those bodies, born ten thousand years ago, ancient now beyond reckoning, blood that had lain dormant for centuries boiled back to life.
Their will to fight blazed.
Lion gave a single nod. Then he turned and faced the center of the empty woodland. The group fell in behind him, boot soles striking black soil with dull, steady impacts, weapons ready.
Lion raised his hand and pushed aside the last thin veil of mist.
The next second. The next step. The forest was gone.
The air in the central courtyard of the Governor's Palace on Black Sable was dry and scorching. The rough stone floor was covered in dark stains, dried and old, rust or blood, impossible to say.
The surrounding buildings rose tall and oppressive. Their walls were draped with the banners of the Ten Thousand Eyes Warband.
The eye patterns on those banners shifted faintly in the wind. Every painted eyeball aimed at the uninvited black-armored warriors standing in the center of the courtyard.
They had walked straight into an encirclement.
The courtyard was packed with Beastmen.
So many they nearly filled the space wall to wall. A rough count put the number at 500, minimum. Possibly more.
When the black-armored intruders appeared from nowhere, every Beastman head swung toward them at once. Dense pupils gleamed with greed, brutality, and hunger.
A heartbeat of shock. Then the roaring hit like a wave breaking. The nearest Beastmen were already raising weapons, hooves scraping harsh and sharp against the stone as they coiled for the first charge.
Lion raised the Sword of Loyalty. The broad blade cast half his face in shadow. The half that remained visible was solemn, expressionless, and beneath that stillness, something colder. The cruelty and indifference of Caliban's deepest forests. The mark of an apex predator.
"Warriors."
His voice was not loud. It didn't need to be. It cut clean through the wall of roaring and reached every ear.
"Before we begin — let us raise a cry."
"For the Emperor of Mankind!"
"FOR THE EMPEROR OF MANKIND!"
The slaughter began.
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"My lord! My lord!"
A Beastman crashed through the door and practically rolled into Bela's room, stumbling over its own hooves.
"The Lion — the Lion is here! He's in the central courtyard!"
Bela was on his feet before the words finished.
His first thought was: impossible. Black Sable had been sealed against psychic signals by Seraphax. Any unauthorized teleportation would be strangled at its origin point in the Warp.
The Lion could not have appeared silently in the heart of the Governor's Palace. Not unless,
Not unless it wasn't psychic teleportation.
Cold sweat rolled down Bela's forehead. Possibilities cascaded through his mind, each one analyzed in an instant, each one discarded just as fast.
He was a son of the Lion. A former warrior of the Dark Angels. He knew his Gene-Sire's capabilities better than anyone alive.
Lion El'Jonson was never a brute who won through raw force alone. He was the deadliest hunter Caliban had ever produced, the kind of existence that could slip behind you in total silence and leave you dead before you ever heard the footsteps.
And now he had circled behind all of them.
There was only one outcome for any enemy the Lion got behind.
"Report this to Knight-Commander Seraphax immediately!" The order came out as a roar. "Now!"
The Beastman scrambled out of the room, hooves hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against the stone as it sprinted toward the Sorcerer Lord's chambers.
Bela stood where he was and watched his subordinate vanish at the end of the corridor. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear the blood crashing against his eardrums.
By duty and allegiance, he should move. Rush out, organize a defensive line, muster every available force to intercept the intruders in the courtyard. That was the standard response. That was what a deputy commander was supposed to do.
He didn't move.
Beneath the churning panic, beneath the emotions that should have registered as catastrophe, something else was rising.
A thought so small it had barely existed. Suppressed for so long it had no shape left. Like a bubble held underwater by sheer weight, it had finally slipped free, and now it was drifting slowly toward the surface.
Relief.
And beneath that, something even quieter. Something he wasn't willing to name even to himself.
His old commander had lost his mind.
And Bela had spent years doing nothing but playing along, a supporting role in a madman's play that had no ending.
He raised his head slowly and looked at the banner on the ceiling. The Ten Thousand Eyes Warband sigil, stitched in thread that had never faded.
That massive, never-closing eye stared back at him. Cold. Patient. Unblinking.
He spoke. Barely a murmur. Low enough that only the silence could hear it.
"Father... please kill Seraphax."
The moment the words left him, something shifted. Something that had been pressing down on him for years, heavy enough to break a lesser man, loosened. Just a fraction. For the first time.
He drew a slow breath. Reached for his weapon.
Bela sealed his helmet and walked out of the room at a steady pace, heading for the courtyard.
His steps were firm. His silhouette was set. But only he knew the truth: that on the way to the battlefield, his heart was running toward something else entirely.
A liberation it had been waiting for far too long.
➤ Next: The Lion's Battle
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