Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor

The Warp, Nurgle's Garden.

Giant flies swarmed through the air, the humid, oppressive atmosphere causing bloated lifeforms to ooze foul fluids.

The Beasts of Nurgle lay sprawled on the ground, tongues lolling out as the Nurglings scurried about, teasing and tormenting them with gleeful mischief.

Every so often, triumphant music rang out, triggering fresh waves of ecstatic celebration.

It was the music of victory.

"Praise Grandfather! We have birthed yet more plagues!"

"Victory! More victory!"

A Plaguebearer herald stood proudly, its tattered gut swaying as a deep croak rumbled from its swollen throat:

"Ah, Grandfather's beloved child, Mortarion, master of the great plagues, has destroyed yet another Imperial space fortress above Ultramar… Another world falls before him."

Nurgle's armies won victory after victory across the galaxy, claiming ever more territory.

The rotting garden expanded at a frightening pace.

Grandfather Nurgle's countless centuries of scheming and patient waiting were now bearing the most putrid, rancid fruit imaginable.

These days, there was never a moment without celebration in Nurgle's Garden. All rotting life believed their greatest age was dawning.

Grandfather's love would soon spread to the entire galaxy!

The Plague God's mood was light as His colossal body squeezed out from within His Black Manse, His steps buoyant.

More and more triumphs poured in. His beloved children conquered further lands, strengthening Him immensely.

Of course, there had been failures too – such as the war within the Savior's domain.

The Corruption Engines there had been entirely dismantled, with multiple Death Guard armies lost.

But such setbacks were of little consequence to the wider Plague War.

The true battleground lay within Ultramar. Almost all of Nurgle's elite forces were committed there. If they succeeded in claiming the Imperium's jewel, the rewards would be unimaginable.

He would ascend as the strongest of all Chaos Gods.

Thinking of this, Nurgle quickened His pace, each step leaving behind vile pools of pus capable of poisoning an entire world.

"Rejoice, my children, and embrace all rot and decay!"

He strode forth, encouraging His exultant offspring and granting fresh blessings of plague, some of which were sent forth to the galaxy, spreading ever more misery.

Before long, He arrived at the entrance of a verdant garden.

That place grew ever more lush, radiating pure life energies – a reflection of its owner's mood.

Isha, Goddess of Life, was clearly in a gentle and happy state.

Thud—

Nurgle halted, careful not to step within and risk withering the plants with His foulness, lest He sadden Her.

She was so sensitive and melancholy. It was rare for Her to smile.

He looked upon Isha, who sat upon a vine swing, an ugly grin splitting His monstrous face. Yet the smile was immediately shrouded in clouds of lethal yellow fumes billowing from His maw.

None could see His true expression.

At that moment, Isha curved Her lips faintly, gazing into the distant void as if longing for something.

"…Hm?"

Nurgle's brow furrowed. He sensed something amiss.

It was rare to see Isha with such an expression – at least within these past millennia. Only recently had She begun to change.

What was She yearning for?

He pondered this mystery but found no answers, not even a single clue.

"Ah…"

Suddenly, His musings were interrupted by a small groaning noise.

Atop His head lay a pudgy little Nurgling. Perhaps overwhelmed by the pure life energy emanating from Isha's garden, it flopped limply upon His scalp, refusing to move.

"Poor little one."

Nurgle shook His head, stepped back from the garden's influence, and touched a fingertip to His toxic slime, bringing it before the Nurgling.

To the Nurglings, His poisonous secretions were the finest nourishment and most delicious treat.

Sure enough, at the scent of corruption, the little creature perked up at once, squealing with delight as it slurped up the deadly droplet.

Then, satiated, it flopped down again atop its master's head, snoozing contentedly.

Nurgle paid it no mind, turning and lumbering back to His Black Manse.

For some reason, a faint unease gnawed at Him. Perhaps… the Plague War needed to accelerate.

His appetite grew ever more ravenous. He craved the corruption of countless billions of human souls, to spread plague far and wide.

And so, beneath His fearsome, world-ending bulk, the Nurgling upon His head swelled, becoming so large it nearly engulfed His skull entirely.

Then it evolved further, its skin turning a deep and vivid green.

It… had become truly green.

...

Death Guard Flagship – Terminus Est.

The hideous, festering battleship drifted through an unknown void, its mere presence rotting the surrounding reality with contagious corruption.

From within emanated a tolling bell – the sound of Mortarion's clock chamber.

The Death Lord's clock room shifted locations unpredictably: at times it sat within the daemon palaces of the Plague Planet, at others within corrupted hives. Recently, it had been established aboard the Terminus Est.

Deep within the chamber lay the fungal abyss.

Breathing heavily, Mortarion struck his massive scythe upon a great bell, commencing a summoning rite.

With the grinding of clockwork gears, black mycelium spread like living tentacles, and one by one, the plague-chosen were summoned to him.

Ku'gath, Epidemius, Great Unclean Ones – the daemonic visages of Chaos appeared in turn.

Last to appear was Typhus, Host of the Destroyer Hive, Champion of Nurgle, and once First Captain of the Death Guard.

"What do you want from me?" Typhus demanded.

Standing with arms crossed, his towering horn curved skyward while the massive fly-hive upon his back buzzed, releasing choking miasma.

He lifted his chin high, addressing his Primarch Mortarion without a shred of respect – an expression of 'I'm your real master here.'

Typhus was arrogant.

After all, it was he who had brought the Death Guard to Grandfather Nurgle's service. He believed he deserved Nurgle's favor – not this cowardly gene-sire of his.

It was an injustice he had never forgiven. Even after ten thousand years, his bitterness festered like an infected wound.

The latest orders from the Plague God's heralds only deepened his fury.

He was assaulting an Ultramarine void fortress when Nurgle's herald demanded he withdraw and coordinate with Mortarion's main assault.

"This will secure victory faster," they claimed.

"You shouldn't defy me," Mortarion growled, leaning on Silence, his scythe. His clouded, vile eyes fixed upon his rebellious son. "We both know plague and blade alone will not bring Ultramar to heel."

He paused, voice heavy with menace.

"And besides, these are Grandfather's orders. I am His true chosen. I am the one to lead this war."

Mortarion's patience with his rival was wearing thin.

"Lead this war?" Typhus sneered, spitting out a clump of mucus that sizzled upon the fungal floor. "Have you forgotten you're nothing more than a Daemon Prince now? I hope you survive the Regent's flaming sword… and don't repeat your humiliating failure from ten thousand years ago."

"Typhus!"

Mortarion's voice boomed with anger. Darkness roiled around him as black mycelium twisted into grotesque shapes, ready to strike.

Typhus merely snorted dismissively, refusing to escalate further. He did not fear his gene-father, but he would not defy Grandfather's orders and lose the sevenfold blessings promised to him.

The Destroyer Hive's master resolved to seize greater victories in this war, to utterly eclipse Mortarion's fading glory.

Silence fell across the fungal abyss. None of the other daemons dared intervene in their dispute.

"…Ah, perhaps some good news to ease the tension."

After a few heavy moments, Ku'gath Plaguefather finally spoke, his mournful voice tinged with grim joy.

"Xithiras is dead. Obliterated, no trace left."

"The Savior killed him."

"This means the southern campaigns have collapsed completely. Grandfather's gaze will now turn fully upon us."

Indeed, the wars in Ultramar and within the Savior's territories were led by different factions of Nurgle's armies, each vying for their master's favor.

They competed for His love.

Although Ultramar was the central theatre, had Xithiras succeeded in claiming large swathes of the Savior's lands with meager resources, Nurgle's blessings and reinforcements would have been diverted to him instead.

That would have brought far greater pressure down upon Mortarion's host.

However, to everyone's surprise, the vanguard war in the Savior's domain ended in utter disaster almost as soon as it began. The corruption networks crumbled completely, leaving no possibility of continuing the invasion there.

As a result, Grandfather Nurgle's gaze turned fully upon Ultramar, promising them His undivided support.

"…That may not be entirely good news."

Mortarion frowned deeply. "With the Savior's domains having repelled the invasion, it is highly likely they will send aid to Ultramar. We may face even greater resistance."

"Two Primarchs," Typhus said, eyes blazing with battle-hunger. "If they both die on Ultramar, the glory will be ours. Leave the Savior to me."

He had never killed a true Primarch before.

He felt no reverence for them, nor any sense of inferiority. Had he not once schemed to bring his own gene-father to the brink of death?

Now, stronger than ever, he believed he could achieve what he desired.

To slay one of Mortarion's former brothers – what sweeter triumph or glory could there be?

Typhus turned to Ku'gath. "When will your mysterious plague be ready? I need it to poison the Savior."

"Oh, Grandfather…" Ku'gath sighed mournfully, suddenly urged to work faster.

"The ingredients are all prepared, but I need an entire planet as my cauldron, and some time to complete what will be the greatest plague ever crafted."

He scratched at his rotting scalp, pulling away a chunk of putrid flesh.

"I call it Godblight – a virus that can kill gods. Exaggerated, perhaps, but in sufficient quantities… it will work."

"Godblight will surely kill a Primarch – more than enough…" he finished confidently.

At his words, the gathered Chaos daemons' eyes lit up with expectation.

Typhus nodded as if reserving the Savior's death. "I await your Godblight, First Favoured."

Mortarion voiced no objection.

He needed Typhus to keep the Savior occupied so he could focus entirely upon his brother, the Regent Guilliman.

He would drag Guilliman down into eternal ruin, never again to rise.

"…Ah, I nearly forgot one last crucial ingredient."

Ku'gath added suddenly, "Blood. The final step of Godblight requires Primarch blood – from both of them."

"To obtain their blood will not be easy…"

His voice grew more despondent.

"In truth, I am not optimistic about the outcome of this war. Not only because of the Primarchs themselves… but because of The Accursed One."

At the mention, Ku'gath's corpulent body shivered slightly. So too did the other Greater Daemons: Epidemius, Calarma, and the rest.

The First Favoured moaned softly. "I always tend toward pessimism… but this time it seems warranted. The Accursed One's saints and His undead legions now move amongst the stars. His power gathers…"

Throughout the Ultramar campaigns and surrounding systems, signs of these saints had been seen.

Those wretches could even transmute plague into harmless water.

CLANG—

Mortarion struck his massive scythe, Silence, against the great clock, drawing all attention to him and silencing the First Favoured.

"Listen well," Mortarion rumbled. "The Emperor is nothing but a useless corpse. Even if He stirs again, it changes nothing."

He raised his voice, full of dark certainty.

"He fell into ruin at His height. Now, a full ten thousand years late, what can He achieve?"

"Our Master and His brothers among the Ruinous Powers have made unstoppable progress. The galaxy is fated to be dragged into the depths of the Warp. The Gods will feast upon its souls."

"Until then, we must claim more territory for our Master – so that we sit foremost at His banquet."

"We need Ultramar."

The Chaos daemons listened in silence, their anxieties soothed. None objected to the idea of the galaxy's end within the Warp.

That was the destiny of all Chaos daemons.

"The key to this war," Mortarion continued, "is my brother, the Regent Guilliman. He must die at the appointed place and time to drag all Ultramar into Grandfather's realm."

He laid out his plan:

"Numbers are everything. They must unfold in ordained sequence. We must take Axia – Ultramar's seventh world – and there unleash seven plagues."

"It will serve as the womb of Godblight."

"That will decide whether Ultramar and its seven hundred neighbouring worlds fall to us."

"Ugh… I'll need to relocate my great cauldron there too. Couldn't we have chosen somewhere closer?" Ku'gath grumbled softly.

Mortarion cast him a warning look. "Do you disagree with the plan?"

Ku'gath forced a twisted smile. "No, no… of course not. I love my work. Especially this work. I will remain before my cauldron until Godblight descends upon this world."

Mortarion nodded. He did not press further. He knew the First Favoured's nature.

Ku'gath would pour his entire essence into crafting the plague, to atone for his shame before Grandfather.

The Death Lord continued:

"Axia's corruption networks are ready. Our Plaguebringers have infiltrated the infrastructure. We need only open the gateway."

He turned to Calarma, the silent Greater Daemon.

"You will activate the corruption engines to open the Warp path. Ku'gath, you will lead the plague fleets to that world."

"Turn it into a Great Plague Planet."

"I shall fulfil my mission," Calarma intoned in his deep, guttural voice.

He nodded solemnly.

"All who stand against us will be destroyed. Without exception."

This was no boast.

Calarma was the Second Fallen, the Fifth Favoured of Nurgle, known as the Undying Daemon and the Rotting Dragon. He could see the patterns of time itself.

His power was matched by few here. Even facing Guilliman himself, he would not flinch.

Conquering a single planet would be trivial.

Mortarion then assigned further battle orders to Epidemius and the other daemons. They were to occupy more sectors, building the corruption network and defending against any who might hinder Grandfather's plan.

As for Typhus, Mortarion said little.

His gene-son would act freely, hunting the Savior Primarch and his armies.

Once all commands were issued, the black mycelium receded. The gathered daemonic avatars dispersed, each returning to their theatres of war.

Bzzzz…

A plague fly returned to Mortarion, delivering fresh news from the front.

"…The Terror Legion?"

He crushed the fly in his fist, absorbing its soul-data, frowning deeply.

"Where did this new force come from… and it even claims a new god's name?"

He was stunned.

The Terror Legion had ambushed a Death Guard warband on Ultramar's outer fringes, decapitating them all.

But after reading the entire report, he exhaled slightly in relief.

The Terror Legion's numbers were small – less than ten thousand. They could not inflict significant harm.

Probably just another band of pretenders worshipping some obscure god.

Further reports arrived.

There were shadows of Khorne's daemons sighted near Ultramar… and traces of Tyranids as well.

Reading them, Mortarion felt an icy chill creep through him.

An ominous premonition he could not describe.

But the feeling passed swiftly.

"…Perhaps it's just an illusion," he muttered.

Khorne's daemons were everywhere, after all. The Tyranids' traces showed no indication of heading for Ultramar.

This war remained in his control. Guilliman and Ultramar's key warp routes were all under his surveillance.

For caution's sake, Mortarion ordered expanded reconnaissance and consulted his sacred numerology for divination.

Thankfully, no ill omens appeared. The result was perfect.

"Guilliman… soon, our final battle will come."

The Death Lord exhaled, gathering away his divination tools, and struck the great clock imprisoning his foster father's soul, inflicting fresh torment.

His gaze burned with hatred.

"And you too, Emperor… my dear father. You will watch as your precious Imperium falls to ruin."

...

Ultramar Subsector – Axia

Once an agri-world, Axia had been urgently repurposed into a hospital world. Almost all infected soldiers were transported here for treatment.

This concentrated plague risk in one place, enabling swift extermination should crisis erupt.

Indeed, an Imperial warship loaded with cyclonic torpedoes remained in geostationary orbit. The Exterminatus order had been pre-signed, ready to turn the entire planet to ash at any moment.

Such was the Imperium's method: simple, brutal, efficient.

But that was only the last resort.

With assistance from the Savior's domain, Axia underwent further secret modifications, constructing core facilities of absolute secrecy.

All involved personnel underwent regular audits. None could leave their posts or speak of their work.

Violation meant judgement.

Now, the starports bustled with constant arrivals. Waves of ships descended after orbital sterilisation procedures, each offloading at segregated landing zones.

Whoosh—

One battered shuttle completed decontamination and landed in a heavily guarded quarantine sector.

Down its ramp stepped a tall figure wrapped in ragged robes, his heavy steps betraying an overwhelming presence.

"At last, my brother."

Before he even lowered his hood, a figure in gleaming blue armour approached and embraced him warmly.

"It's been too long."

Eden pulled back his hood and smiled. He saw that his brother had grown even more haggard these past years.

Here stood two Primarchs – the Imperium's final hope – meeting in secret upon Axia.

This meeting would shape the war to come… and the fate of the Warp itself.

Eden looked at the Regent, his tone gentle yet coaxing:

"Robbie… how about we pull off something big together?"

(End of Chapter)

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