The Cursed King, Chapter 61

Sukuna watched the lights of the warp transition burn themselves out against the black. He stood on the primary bridge of his flagship, the Malevolence, and his presence alone silenced the officers at their stations. They moved with quiet discipline, voicing only the necessary signals or confirmations in hushed tones. Outside the forward viewports stretched the roiling emptiness of the void, cut through by the pale reflection of distant suns. The Isstvan System lay ahead, its worlds scattered like battered stones. And as his ships slowed from the warp, they slid into position behind the main loyalist armada.

He kept his hands at his sides and his back straight. Four arms, each resting in a way that betrayed no tension. A habit of centuries. The Malevolence was no typical Astartes vessel. It was old, older than most of the craft in the Emperor’s fleets, and modified beyond recognition by Sukuna’s own legion. Its plating bore deep scars from expansions and retrofits, the segmented hull merging Standard Template Construct design with archaic xenos craftsmanship gleaned from half-forgotten crusades. The ship’s corridors were wide to accommodate certain monstrous things that Sukuna’s gene-forged warriors sometimes bound to their cause. And above all of that were the curses and enchantments that’d been etched unto the hulls itself.

He gave a short glance to the hololithic display near the command dais. Ghostly shapes flickered there. The Blood Angels, the Space Wolves, the Iron Hands, the Salamanders, the Raven Guard. All present. Their formations formed a loose screen of capital ships and escort vessels that had begun to spread across the system like a net meant for catching ghosts. The Emperor’s loyal legions, assembled and bristling, searching for a foe that was not yet there.

Sukuna knew the truth. He knew Horus and the others had planned this well. The Isstvan System was meant to appear abandoned, a graveyard for the gullible. And indeed, the auspex readings and the spy reports all suggested emptiness. Preliminary scans showed no significant energy signatures, no mustered armies, no sign of the rebellious warfleets. If one did not know better, they would call the system deserted.

He breathed in through his nose and let the air linger in his chest. Then he reached up and keyed the vox-link fixed beneath his collarbone.

“Report,” he said.

A voice answered from belowdecks, coming through tinny and distant. “Legion stands ready, my lord. Weapons primed. The Malevolence holds position per your instructions.”

Sukuna inclined his head. His eyes roamed the wide bridge. At the edges of his vision he saw the silhouettes of Devourers in station guard, tall and silent, their armor black as pitch, ridged with bone-like exoskeletal plating. Their helms were fixed forward, and each warrior stood unmoving with bolters held across their chests.

“Maintain distance,” he said. “Let the others draw the net. We observe.”

The vox went quiet. On the hololith, he could see the bright sigils that marked the Blood Angels’ capital ships spearheading the approach. Sanguinius commanded them from the Red Tear, a vessel that had once been famed for outrunning the orks of the Ullanor campaign. The Space Wolves were close behind, a pack in wedge formation with Leman Russ’s flagship at the fore. The Salamanders, led by Vulkan, had formed an echelon, each vessel scanning the wide orbits of the outer worlds. The Iron Hands and Raven Guard spread further still, methodical in their sweeps.

Sukuna’s own legion, the Devourers, hung back, engines idling. A few of his escorts had fanned out, but only to feign cooperation. He saw their runic icons on the display, well behind the main mass of the loyalists. It suited him. Let them think he was as uncertain as they were. Let them assume he was picking up any potential stragglers that might flee.

He stepped down from the dais. Officers glanced at him but did not speak. The deck rattled with the hum of plasma generators somewhere deep in the hull.

“Status of the planet,” he said, directing his question at a junior officer who stood near a console flickering with data readouts.

The young man consulted his instruments. “Scans show minimal life signs, my lord. No large gatherings. Mostly scattered pockets of local fauna. No energy spikes consistent with hidden armies or starships. There may be subterranean structures, but nothing that pings high enough on the scale to suggest a legion presence. It’s empty.”

Sukuna took a slow breath and exhaled. He had expected as much. He turned and walked toward the starboard observation deck. A wide bay window spanned the length of the corridor there, and from it one could see a slice of the planet below. Isstvan III, its surface mottled with dull browns and grays, cut by ragged seas. He stopped at the edge of the window. The glass was thick as a man’s leg and reinforced with diamond braces. A subtle reflection of his face and chest showed in it, ghostly in the low lumen.

Below him, drop-ships and gunboats from the Blood Angels, the Salamanders, the Iron Hands, the Raven Guard, and even a contingent of Russ’s Wolves cut through the atmosphere. Sanguinius, Vulkan, Corax, Ferrus Manus—at least some of these Primarchs would be on the ground soon, leading search parties to scour the deserted hives and wastes for signs of the enemy. All the while, the main fleets orbited, scanning the vacuum, dispatching patrol craft to the outer system. Confusion spread among them. They expected to find Horus here, or at least some sign of the traitors. Some kind of forward base. Instead, nothing. Tension built like a coiled spring.

Sukuna closed his eyes. He saw in his mind’s eye the conversation he had with Horus not long ago. He saw the quiet seriousness in his brother’s face, saw the determination in each word. Horus’s plan was clever: lure the loyalists in, disperse them across the system, and strike at the moment of their greatest confusion. It was a tactic as old as war itself.

He opened his eyes. On the horizon, if one strained, one might glimpse the faint glimmer of the warp, a violet shimmer at the edge of realspace. That was where the traitors would come from. At a time of their choosing. And they would do so with overwhelming force.

He turned away from the view. He crossed the corridor back to the command dais. A hush fell across the deck. His hands rested at his sides. Four arms, each muscle in them fluid and measured.

A comms officer looked up from her console. “My lord, the Salamanders have begun to land en masse. The Raven Guard are deploying scouts. The Blood Angels—”

“Let them,” Sukuna said.

She nodded and returned to her station. He watched the hololith. The loyalist symbols now split into clusters across Isstvan III. Another portion drifted out to the system’s perimeter. And still the middle region, the ring between planet and outer belt, lay open. No sign of an enemy.

Sukuna waited, eyes narrowed. Each tick of the console, each faint beep of a sensor reading, felt like a step on a path he already knew. He had no intention of giving away his knowledge. Not yet.

Time passed. Ships took up station. Ground forces continued their search. Reports came in of empty ruins, deserted installations, the sunken frames of old refineries. Over vox-channels, he heard the voices of legionaries from multiple chapters, describing the silence they found. The gloom. The sense that someone had just left. The Devourers, at his command, remained in high orbit, offering to “move in later for support.” None of the other Primarchs had questioned him—Sukuna’s reputation was that of a man who fought when he chose, and no one questioned the eccentricities of the Devourers’ gene-sire.

He leaned against the dais. The hololith updated. Sanguinius’s forces had established a perimeter near the largest hive cluster on Isstvan III. Vulkan’s Salamanders spread across the southwestern continent, scanning for geothermal anomalies that might hide an underground base. The Iron Hands moved with unwavering discipline, patrols in patterned sweeps, each one overlapping the other’s route. The Raven Guard were more elusive, rarely sending updates, but when they did, it was always concise. The Wolves, never subtle, ran rampant across the plains to flush out any hidden foes. But there was no one to flush.

Then the ship’s sensors beeped in a frantic staccato. Officers straightened. One of them called out to Sukuna.

“M-my lord… warp signatures. Dozens. No, hundreds. They are emerging… near the planet itself.”

Sukuna stepped forward, eyes fixed on the flickering data. The vessel’s machine-spirit tried to parse it, streaming lines of text across the hololith. Arcs of energy, massive power fluctuations, warpfire spewing from the aether. The traitors. He could feel the shift, as if the entire system tilted.

“Identify them,” he said.

One after another, new icons blossomed across the hololith around Isstvan III. Cruisers, battleships, carriers. Many bore the heraldry of Horus’s Sons, some with the marks of Martian separatists. Others, more obscure. Factions from the fringes. Even a handful of unidentified signatures that carried energies beyond the usual measure.

The comms flared with panicked chatter. Loyalist ships in near orbit sounded alarms. A Space Wolves frigate that had been anchored in high atmosphere found itself pinned between two traitor capital ships. Sukuna watched those signals flicker and vanish as they were obliterated. The kill was swift.

Within moments, the traitors had begun planetary bombardment. Great arcs of plasma and melta beams lanced from orbit. The loyalists on the ground scrambled to reinforce. Explosions blossomed in the hive spires, throwing up black columns of smoke that spread across the sky.

In the swirl of chaos, Sukuna saw a single runic emblem pulse on the display: Sanguinius trying to coordinate a response. Vox-chatter hammered out orders. He caught glimpses of Vulkan’s voice. Ferrus Manus. They called for a regroup, demanded immediate orbital coverage, sought to find a defensive posture. But it was too late. The traitors had arrived at the perfect moment, turning the planet into a killing field.

Sukuna glanced at the strategic display. His own legion’s ships floated on the periphery, unengaged. By design. He gave a short nod to one of his senior captains, who stood near the dais.

“We wait,” Sukuna said quietly. “Horus wants them scattered. Let him herd them into one place.”

Another officer on a side console spoke up. “We’re receiving direct requests for assistance, my lord. The Salamanders’ fourth company is pinned in an orbital strike zone. The Blood Angels are requesting any support we can spare. The Iron Hands—”

Sukuna raised a hand, stilling the man’s words. “We do not move yet.”

The officer’s throat bobbed. He nodded quickly. “Understood.”

Outside the viewports, plumes of fire flickered in low orbit. The traitor warships hammered loyalist frigates and corvettes with disciplined volleys. Some loyalist vessels returned fire, streaking the blackness with macro-shells and las beams. The second wave of traitor craft emerged from the warp an instant later, completing the encirclement. They had come to Isstvan with an overwhelming presence, and their timing was precise.

On the surface, Sukuna watched from the data feeds as entire platoons of loyal Astartes retreated across blasted plains, scattered by the fury of the bombardment. Some made stands in the burned-out hives or the old refineries. Others tried to break for the outskirts. The ground was quickly turning to blackened slag in places. He recognized the handiwork of Martian Titans as well—massive god-machines stalking the horizon, spitting streams of plasma. They marched in from hidden landers, relentless, unstoppable to any unprepared ground force.

And so the trap was set. The loyalists had come in good faith, believing they might catch Horus unawares. Instead, they themselves were caught, separated by the wide ring of the system, squads divided on the surface, no immediate synergy between them. Command was chaotic, each Primarch pinned down and forced to coordinate local defense. Lines of communication jammed or slow.

Sukuna’s eyes traveled across the hololith. He watched how the traitor fleets maneuvered. He could pick out certain flagship identifiers: the Vengeful Spirit among them, Horus’s personal capital ship. A leviathan of steel and guns. Another was the Echo of Midnight, a Martian war barge bristling with macro-laser arrays. He recognized in the swirling runes the presence of some of the Twisted Mechanicum, the ones who had turned from Terra. They had chosen this moment to reveal themselves in force.

He stepped up to the dais and tapped a sequence of runes on a control panel, zooming in on the planet’s surface. A partial vantage of a battered cityscape. The Salamanders had dug in near the central spires, Vulkan presumably at their head, resisting the traitor push. Further east, the Blood Angels rallied around Sanguinius, their jump packs blazing arcs of golden contrails across the smoldering sky. Ferrus Manus and the Iron Hands entrenched themselves in a ring of industrial foundries, guns hammering at the invaders. Corax and his Raven Guard had vanished into the shadows of the hive city, picking off traitor elements that ventured too far from their main lines. That left Leman Russ and the Wolves, forced into a swirling melee at the city’s outskirts. The howls of the Space Wolves came across the vox in bursts, feral and raw, but pinned by Titan fire from the west.

All the while, Sukuna’s legion remained out of harm’s way. He let the moment stretch. Let the traitors think the Devourers had done nothing. Let them believe Sukuna had fallen for the ruse like the rest.

At last, he gave a small grunt and keyed the vox to his legion’s command channels.

“Bridge to all Devourer vessels,” he said. “We engage. Prepare for orbital drop. Full muster.”

The men and women on the bridge stirred, a tension crackling through them. Weapons officers turned, flicking switches and pressing runes that armed the macro-cannons and lance batteries. Tactical lieutenants readied the drop pods, gunships, and Stormbird transports. The Malevolence came alive with klaxons and the hum of charging void shields.

Sukuna felt a pulse in his hearts. This was the moment. He had always known it would come. And though he had orchestrated a large part of this deception with Horus, that did not mean he would allow the loyalist legions to be destroyed. Not yet. The script demanded that he must preserve them—at least enough to keep the farce of the conflict going. Indeed, the “Golden Path” required a great war, not a swift extermination.

He lifted a hand and pointed at the hololith’s depiction of the southern continent. 

“Deploy the first wave there,” he said, indicating an area near the Salamanders’ position. “The second wave will flank the Titan battalions. I want them hammered from two sides. Keep the Blood Angels free to maneuver. Let them break out.”

His captains assented, relaying orders.

Another officer came forward, handing Sukuna a data-slate. He glanced at it. The tides of war were shifting rapidly. The Sons of Horus were massing to the west, looking to drive a wedge between the Blood Angels and the Wolves. The Martian Titans, supported by traitor regiments of the Imperial Army, marched across a wide dust plain littered with the remains of old manufactora. The Iron Hands were battered but unbowed, pushing back with methodical, punishing strikes.

Sukuna set down the slate and tapped his gauntlet’s display. The lights overhead dimmed for a moment as the Malevolence’s void shields adjusted to war footing, energy rerouting from engines to defense.

A brief ripple of raw power coursed through him. He pulled it back, forcing himself to remain contained. Despite his outward calm, the chance to wade into the fray called to him. He had withheld his legion by design, but now, when the trap was fully sprung, he would enter the stage as if he had been fooled along with the rest—and deliver a stinging blow to Horus’s carefully arranged assault.

“Launch,” he said.