"Better not linger here, we're already late."
Those courtyards and balconies were crowded with people, fat priests shuttled between the altars, accompanied by swarms of assistants, and the people about to be sacrificed squirmed in sacks.
Wizards walked among them, some of them Unbroken, twisting the whips in their hands. Huge deformed creatures with stretched limbs and bloated bellies staggered up the twisted stairwell, growling and panting.
Within the palace there is a palace.
In some places, astrologers would refer to swinging galaxies and tilt their charts toward slits in thick glass windows.
In others, alchemists toiled over bubbling racks of instruments, and even more, surgeons whetted their blades on whetstones before turning to trembling figures strapped to tables.
Seven-eyed occultists scrawled on stone tablets, their quills soaked in pools of living blood, demonologists tied screaming beings to horse chestnuts, the air filled with its filth And with a bang, the butchers, wearing bloody aprons, walked out of the large canteen with their heads held high, and the pharmacists were weighed down by many fallen phage glass bottles and struggling.
It's noisy, lively and unorganized here.
Every piece of flesh was pimpled and yellowed, every piece of stomach was flaccid and burned.
Steam surges in brass incense burners and green flames burst from holes carved into the walls of pulsating flesh.
Buried deep underground and high on crumbling spires, these chambers are filled with life, death, and many things in between.
The two of them did not stop to observe these wonderful things, they continued walking inside.
Slowly the life grew thinner and they entered an area lit only by thin candles, where the stone was damp and covered with a smooth coating of seaweed.
The hustle and bustle gradually disappeared, and soon, only the Unbreakables like them could be seen, silent and depressed, immersed in their own affairs in the most lifeless place in the Plague City.
"They are still as energetic as ever."
Ngarta couldn't help but comment.
"Vox has always run things very well."
"You listen to him, don't you?"
"certainly."
Now they reach a dangerous place, passing under crumbling gates and emerging into an abyss connected by a rotten ropeway.
There were many shafts, from which coils of unnatural steam rose.
They could hear machines rumbling in the distance, and low screams - everything echoed here in an uncanny way, as if there was a wall that shouldn't be there, or was invisible. Room.
Eventually, they reached the inner gate.
The door was modeled after that of Malcador the Markbearer, though larger, but these ancient Terran designs had been twisted with indecent divine taste.
Two Deathshrouds stood guard on either side, motionless, barely visible in the repulsive darkness.
They said nothing, but as Deathstroke approached, the door opened.
"You wait here."
The order only allowed him to enter, so Ngarta had to ask his entourage to wait outside.
"clear."
Soon, he entered the inner hall.
He had only been here once before, and many in the Legion, even some of the highest ranks, had never gotten this far.
No one else is allowed in unless the Primarch himself speaks, and these words have always been rare.
It's cold here, hoarfrost hangs from the far ceiling, ice forms on the floor, the dark columns glow faintly, and swarms of flies crawl instead of buzzing on the dark vaults.
Engalta walked through the long nave, which was designed in the Imperial Gothic style - solemn, solid and heavy, so his footsteps kept echoing between the tall columns, which was eerie.
There is a throne at the end of the nave, shrouded in shadow. Above the throne are spears with low-hanging war flags hung on the arches. Each one is engraved with the name of a certain world. .
Many scrolls lay scattered on the stone floor, covered in frost, their writing a mixture of human and xenos languages.
The throne's high, fluted backrest was topped by a pile of tattered skulls, covered in a thick web of spiders, with a bloated spider crouching in the center.
The size of this throne is far beyond ordinary imagination.
Engalta stopped, it was almost dark, all the light and heat had been sucked out of the place, sucked away by an empty heart.
The air smelled musty, like a prison.
"Welcome, Engalta."
The owner of the throne made a low voice.
N'Galtar had experienced many things during his long service, and he was not easily intimidated, but the sight of Mortarion was an exception.
The Primarch was always a striking figure - thin, gaunt, and foreboding, even as a child, but since he was consumed by the Dark God, the last of his restraints have been lifted.
He was a giant now, a gigantic corpse, his armor reforged and plated with demonic alloys, his gray muscles atrophied further, clinging to oversized bones, his back sprouting thorns and pores, his shoulders piled with muscle. , used to support the dilapidated wings draped behind rags.
As he breathed, yellow-green steam erupted from an ancient and worn-out rebreather. Engalta saw his sunken chest rising and falling under the corroded armor. Under the worn-out hood, a pair of dim eyes peered through. The shadow looked out, its pale gauntlet pressed against the arm of the throne.
Ngarta immediately bowed his head.
"It's really nice to see you again, Master."
Mortarion stared at him. It was always difficult to know what those eyes were looking at. N'Galtar knew the price of becoming a demon. He understood that despite the great power of the primarch, he was now almost alone. Can vaguely perceive the real universe and barely hold on, just like everyone who makes this deal.
Given enough time, most enchanters would turn into howling idiots, but this was a Primarch, one of the sons of the Lord of Mankind, whose indomitable spirit was unyielding even as they compromised with the daemons. Still will not be lost.
"I didn't see this coming..."
The primarch's voice sounded like the iron bars of a tomb being lazily opened.
"I didn't foresee a loving father being so angry."
Ngarta remained silent.
"Isha, the Eldar goddess of life, is the most cherished treasure of the loving father. It does not allow any flaws in her."
He chuckled, which made his neck jiggle and the horrible gadgets on his armor rattle.
"We never knew about this, but now it is no longer a secret. The last fragment of Isa's soul is in the world."
He coughed for a while, shaking all over, stirring up the dust on the ground.
N'Galta was not sure if these words were directed at him. The Primarch always liked to talk to himself loudly, and the isolation here for centuries had made him even more solipsistic.
"I have resigned myself to my fate. I look here and there, but most of the time I stare into the abyss... This is the choice I made, to abandon this boring little game and leave the old world and the old world behind." Leave war to mortals and turn to the truly great game."
His eyes focused briefly, and he seemed to finally see Engalta for the first time.
"So, what good news do you bring."
"Master, after a period of reconnaissance and seeking the assistance of the Red Pirates, we finally determined that the Eldar's Arkworld Uthvi had briefly appeared in the Armageddon galaxy. This coincided with the time when our loving father burst into anger. We are convinced that the Daughter of Isha is on the craftworld of Uthvi.”
Mortarion looked confused for a moment, then recovered.
"Ah, yes, Hajime Doton."
He leaned forward on the throne, the slight movement causing streaks of dust to fall from the roof.
"The Forbidden Lady of the Thirsty has been hiding in the Webway for tens of thousands of years. Why are they showing up at Armageddon?"
"Not long ago, the greenskins invaded there again, and it seems to be related to it."
"This won't happen on my watch."
"Green skin, yes, green skin..."
Mortarion gasped, a long intake of breath coming from the ventilator's filter.
"That place has unique meaning to the greenskins. They will not give up there, but what does this have to do with the Eldar... Ha, that's ridiculous."
"Sir, what should we do next?"
"This is your business."
Mortarion waved his hand, as if to ward off something disturbing.
"Such a glorious task has fallen on your shoulders. Whatever you need, just go to others and they will give you everything. I... still have to wait."
Ngarta tried to understand what he was saying, but failed.
"I'm sorry, my lord, I don't understand."
"No need to understand, just do your thing."
Engalta thought for a while, and finally slowly exited the hall, leaving only the decaying giant still breathing slowly on the throne——
"Yes, the wind is blowing..."
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