This was not looking good. The numbers were all wrong, the losses too severe. 14 plague marines lost, bolters and plague spewers damaged beyond repair and all of their bloat drones lost in the battle against the greenskins. Philemon, Tallyman of the Lords of Silence sighed as he rolled the parchment accounting for the losses and handed it to his nurgling. The nugling grumpily accepted the scroll and let out a loud fart in protest. He clearly didn't enjoy having to carry all these scrolls.
He looked up and finally started to register the sound of flies around him. He had blocked them out, as he always did when he was focusing on his work, and now he was looking at the source of the swarm. Typhus, the Plague Father's chosen had commandeered multiple warbands for this assault. Vox traffic had even confirmed that an Iron Warriors warband was on the way to reinforce them, though they will probably not be needed.
"This has better be worth it" - Philemon said under his breath. Typhus' head quickly turned towards him, "There is no place for doubt. I wouldn't have gathered all of you mongrels here if it would not serve our cause". Typhus pointed his manreaper towards Philemon, the Destroyer Hive started swarming around him with a dreaded sound that only Fulgrim's lot could tolerate. "Now, do as you were told or I will relieve you of your duty. You are not the only one who knows how to count.". Philemon looked to his left where Kledo stood. The Plague Surgeon, also of his warband gave him a look that was urging him to comply. Philemon nodded towards Typhus and the Destroyer Hive dispersed. "Good. I need to focus now."
It was not an ideal situation being stuck in a ruined manufactorum, the only backup being 60 poxwalkers. Despite their "charming" smiles, they did not make for pleasant company. Furthermore, there was a suffocating sensation that was pressing onto him. The veil between the Empyrean and the material realm was thin here. You didn't need to be a psyker to feel that, even the poxwalkers war groaning and twitching more than usual.
Suddenly a shot came from a ruin close by. It was clearly aimed at Typhus, but it hit the wall behind him. "Sniper",he growled, "I will have that coward's head". Philemon took cover and looked at where the shot had made a small crater. He started writing down calculations on a piece of parchment, "This was too close to be a greenskin". Another shot came from the left flank, hitting a Blightspawn's tank and cracking it. "My guess is eldar".
From the left flank, Starweavers came, their occupants yet unknown. Overhead a Phoenix flyer passed and unloaded on the small horde of poxwalkers. From the right flank, Fire Prisms as orange as the sunsets of old Terra from Vorx's stories. Where was Vorx? Or Dragan? They would need reinforcements. The numbers were wrong yet again. "We are not going to survive this, not at this rate".
From the south, giant wings could be heard. Typhus left out a sigh "Unfortunately, we will". Philemon could not believe his eyes. He could barely resist the urge to kneel. The primarch was there in all his putrid glory. The air was shimmering around him as the power of the warp coursed through him, yet at that moment Philemon also saw Typhus starting to concentrate and all that power around Mortarion dispersed. Typhus gave off a small chuckle. The primarch grunted and dashed towards an eldar transport cleaving it in half with a swift slash from his scythe. The two halves of the transport fell to the ground and laughter could be heard coming from inside. The Harlequins sprang from the ruined vehicle in a well coordinated dance. They spoke to each other in a weird language that made Philemon cringe at the sound of it. It sounded like it was rhyming and it was dreadful.
The sound of the Harlequins cover was suddenly covered by chanting and gunfire. It seems that the Iron warriors had finally brought their slaves to bear. With the primarch and mortal bodies to sacrifice, they now stood a chance.
The harlequins wasted no time in leaping over the Horde of poxwalkers which had started to dwindle. They slaughtered left and right and would have been triumphant against the slow, clumsy husks except for one thing. Regardless of how nimble their performance was, hitting them was no problem for the Blightspawn's plague spewer. Hot liquid enveloped most of them and as they fell, they started to change. When their masks fell off, they had an even wider grin on their faces. "Finally, they have a reason to laugh" said Philemon out loud. Everyone ignored him.
Despite this small victory, the cultist Horde had also encountered problems as even more harlequins debarked and starting slashing through their ranks. They had almost broken when fresh reinforcements arrived and started fighting back against the harlequins. The few survivors leapt over a nearby wall to challenge the Iron Warriors warlord and the Malignant Plaguecaster aiding him. The Warlord went down easily as he was caught unprepared by the sudden leap from the troupe master. The cultist reinforcements froze at the sight and were unsure what to do. Their morale quickly returned as the Plaguecaster vaporised his opponent.
The eldar were starting to panic. This was getting out of hand and needed to be ended quickly. The sniper managed to hit mortarion to no effect. The Fire Prisms also focused fire on him, managing to wound him, however the psykers had failed miserably at their attacks and the Primarch still stood. By his might and by the power of the Death Guard artillery that had recently arrived, the eldar Dire Avengers that were protecting the psykers were eliminated and now, mortarion stood face to face with none other than Eldrad Ulthran. With a sweep of his scythe, two of his allies were lost and one was badly wounded, yet Eldrad gracefully dodged the attack. He fought back, but there was little he could do.
A last futile attempt to sabotage the ritual was made by another Starweaver, yet it ended up destroyed and most of its occupants now lay dead near the central ruin. The eldar had failed, their deaths having contributed to the ritual. A Great Unclean One and several lesser nurgle daemons emerged from the newly created tear in the warp. The remaining eldar were decimated, except Eldrad who had the foresight to retreat after he had attacked Mortarion.
Philemon gazed at the now bolstered army. They could now take the fight to the Imperium and bring the Plague Father's blessings upon the unfortunately ignorant. He finished the head count and yet again, he handed the scroll to his nurgling who was just as happy to help as before. A vox transmission came from Solace in high orbit, Thunderhawks were en route. The day was won for the glory of Chaos.
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