"Dukel broke into my father's garden and beat you? By the Grandfather, how could he do that?!" Kugath's bloated face twisted in shock and fury.
"I've told you before, that brute is nothing but a thug. Everyone should steer clear of him!"
Rotigus coughed violently, his corpulent, plague-ridden face looking even more grotesque after his brutal encounter with the Primarch. With each racking cough, loose teeth tumbled from his maw, plopping one by one into the thick, festering broth before him.
The convulsions doubled him over, and in the moment Kugath looked away, he greedily gulped down mouthfuls of the precious elixir—Nurgle's blessing in liquid form. The rancid concoction burned with disease and rot, a flavor that brought him nothing but bliss.
"It is good to see you, my festering kin," Rotigus rumbled, extending a swollen hand. A glistening, pus-filled orb spun idly in his grasp. "Ah, you seem to have dropped an eye."
Kugath grumbled as he snatched the gelatinous organ back and unceremoniously shoved it into its rightful socket. "I am not pleased to see you at all! Now get out of my cauldron!"
"Ah, ah, ah," Rotigus drawled lazily, submerging deeper into the bubbling stew. "That won't do. This is not your crucible, rotting brother. This cauldron belongs to the Loving Grandfather."
"My father entrusted it to me!" Kugath growled, his pustule-ridden form trembling with barely contained rage.
"And He allowed me to find sanctuary in it," Rotigus countered with a chortle. "Were it not for our kind Father's generosity, I might have been reduced to a pulped heap by now. Truly, a gift most divine." He punctuated his statement by scooping another handful of the viscous broth into his maw, slurping noisily.
"What putrid delight have you concocted this time?" Rotigus mused, smacking his bloated lips.
"None of your concern, you filth-ridden lout!" Kugath snapped, seething as his unwelcome guest continued guzzling the sacred mixture.
"A plague, then? Something to fell Guilliman?" Rotigus chuckled, lifting a handful of the thick liquid and letting it ooze through his fingers. He sniffed at it before taking another casual sip. "A bit strong, I must say."
Steam hissed from Kugath's ears, and bubbling bile churned in his swollen gut. His rage manifested as thick clouds of diseased vapor that leaked from his flared nostrils.
"Cease your drinking at once! You're ruining it!" he bellowed.
"I can improve it," Rotigus said nonchalantly, reclining against the cauldron's rim. His battered body was already rejuvenating in the filth, his wounds knitting together as the blessed rot seeped through his flesh. He sighed in contentment. "I must admit, brother, this is quite the nourishing brew. Have you considered abandoning your obsession with plaguecraft and becoming a rot-doc? A healer of pestilence?"
"You!" Kugath's rot-swollen fingers tightened around his ladle as if it were a spear, veins pulsing with malice. "This is no ordinary disease! It is perfection! Anyone who so much as inhales its essence will wither. Anyone who drinks it—dies! It is the ultimate plague! The worst pestilence ever crafted!"
"Is that so?" Rotigus hummed, taking a larger gulp before spewing out a fine mist of putrescence. He smacked his lips. "Hmph."
"This disease is the Divine Plague! It will fell all who serve the False Emperor! Even his most cherished little toy soldiers will succumb! Nothing will stop its spread!"
"Charming." Rotigus sank deeper into the cauldron, his rotten bulk nearly submerging. "Tell me, dear brother, does it work on Mortarion? Or Dukel?"
"Yes! Yes!" Kugath's voice rose in a crescendo of triumph. "It kills everyone! Mortarion will perish! Dukel will rot away! And you—" he sneered, "—you will dissolve into nothing but soul-fungus food!"
"Even the Rainfather himself will be no more!" Kugath gloated, his pustulent form quivering with sadistic glee. "This is true annihilation! Irreversible! Utter extinction!"
Rotigus chuckled, the sound wet and gurgling as he leaned back, arms draped over the cauldron's sides like a corpulent noble lounging in a bath. "Oh, brother, you mustn't try to frighten me so. I've already glimpsed oblivion once before... but not this time."
He grinned, his yellowed teeth gleaming with filth.
"And yet, here I am. Unharmed. Not perishing. In fact, I feel better than ever. That's why I'm here, Kugath."
Kugath's beady, oozing eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself."
Rotigus exhaled heavily. "There isn't much time left. Khorne and Tzeentch have forged an alliance—an unholy pact against the Grandfather's domain. They are moving even now, their forces already marching upon our father's garden. And then there's the son of the accursed... Dukel. By the Grandfather, I have never seen a creature so rude and ill-mannered! Who could have ever imagined I would be beaten so disgracefully within our father's sacred grounds?"
"They dare move against my father?!" Kugath's bloated form trembled, his bile surging. "But the accords! Why would they—"
"Listen, Kugath," Rotigus interrupted, his tone suddenly serious. "This is no jest. The situation is dire. Though I was cast down and forced to flee, my task was completed. I slowed Dukel's advance. If only for a moment."
Kugath gripped the rim of his cauldron, bile dripping from his lips.
The Plague Wars were far from over.
"My loving father will not blame me for this. In fact, if it weren't for His permission, I couldn't even return to the Cauldron of Corruption." Rotigus's bloated head lolled against the rim of the vast, festering cauldron, his grotesque features betraying a deep and unsettling satisfaction.
"If only you could see the truth, dear brother," he murmured, his voice a wet gurgle. "You are committing an act of folly. The Great Game of the Gods is eternal. No treaty between them has ever been honored. Why should this one be any different?"
Kugath, the Plaguefather, narrowed his putrid eyes. "Perhaps there will be a new treaty in the future. But for now, the balance holds, and our Father's garden must be preserved. We must bring the clean worlds to decay, spread the gifts He so freely offers."
Rotigus snorted, his rotting bulk sloshing against the cauldron's filth-encrusted edge. He scooped a handful of the vile, bubbling elixir and poured it over the ragged wound on his shoulder. A disgusting squelch accompanied the act, but his expression was one of rapturous bliss.
"You put too much faith in balance, brother. There is no such thing, not truly. The other Gods will never abide by the so-called treaties, not while the Garden of Nurgle thrives like no other realm. The Plague Father has carved out dominion in the Materium itself, a feat no other God has accomplished. You think they will not seek to undermine Him? They are jealous, Kugath. Spiteful. And that jealousy is turning into action."
"And whom do you blame?" Kugath growled, glaring at his bloated counterpart.
"Mortarion, of course." Rotigus sneered, taking another gluttonous gulp from the cauldron, ignoring Kugath's seething. "This all began with him. A mortal should not presume to dictate the course of the Great Game."
"What?" Kugath furrowed his rotten brow. "What are you even saying?"
"You still don't see?" Rotigus tutted, shaking his head. "You are allowing yourself to be ensnared in Mortarion's folly. He is a child, trying to take his Father's games into his own hands. He would dare to play at godhood. And you, oh Kugath, First Among the Favored, are his pawn."
Kugath's swollen frame trembled with rage. "You would question my loyalty? Everything I do is for the Garden! For Nurgle! The Clean must be brought into His embrace!" He jabbed a clawed finger at Rotigus. "And you? You are here to gloat, no doubt. But why? Why waste your time here when the war rages?"
Rotigus stretched, allowing his bloated limbs to drape lazily over the side of the cauldron. His pustulent hide oozed fresh filth into the roiling plague-broth. "Oh Kugath, you poor, self-deluded fool. You chase after perfection in an imperfect realm, thinking to undo what you have done. But the truth remains: Mortarion is not Nurgle, nor shall he ever be. And you—" he pointed a dripping finger at his brother, "—you are walking a path that leads only to irrelevance."
Kugath bared his jagged teeth. "He is a Daemon Primarch! He is one of us!"
Rotigus let out a gurgling chuckle, thick with phlegm. "Pfft! Half of him is. The other half still clings to his delusions of mortality. And you, my dear cousin, you allow yourself to be led by his whims, blinded by your own guilt."
For a moment, Kugath faltered. He had spent eons laboring in his father's service, striving to craft the ultimate plague—the God Plague, the one that would finally achieve what the Plaguefather had sought for millennia. A sickness so potent, so all-encompassing, that it would transform the entire galaxy into an extension of Nurgle's garden, ensuring his dominion over all of reality.
"And yet," Rotigus drawled, his form sinking slowly into the cauldron, "I see change on the horizon. The favor of the Plague God is not eternal, not even for you. All things rot, Kugath. Even the affections of our most loving Father. Consider that."
With a final gurgling cackle, the Rainfather submerged entirely, the churning filth swallowing him whole. The cauldron bubbled furiously for a moment before stilling, leaving only the murky surface of Kugath's work.
For a long time, the Plaguefather simply stirred the festering broth. His movements were mechanical at first, driven by irritation. But as he continued, his mind drifted, his pace slowing, his thoughts tangling in on themselves.
A new treaty? The gods breaking their oaths? That was nothing new, of course. But an attack on the Garden itself? On Nurgle?
Madness. Unthinkable. And yet…
Ku'gath exhaled a noxious breath. He had no love for Mortarion, but the fallen Primarch was his ally. If the Death Lord truly had foreseen this, why had he not spoken of it? The implications gnawed at Kugath's putrid mind.
Then, as if to answer his unspoken concerns, the voice of Mortarion rumbled forth from the void.
"Do not concern yourself with these demons, Ku'gath. You and I both know the power of the Plaguefather. They cannot trouble us, not in His domain. And my brother, Dukel—what of him? A mere mortal cannot even navigate Nurgle's realm, let alone threaten it. He is nothing."
Ku'gath hesitated.
Mortarion continued, his voice thick with grim certainty. "These fools scramble against one another, wasting their strength. But we? We will carve a greater empire for Nurgle within the Materium itself! And when we do, it will be us whom the Plaguefather favors most! Even the Imperium's mightiest will fall before the God Plague, just as it should be! Guilliman will succumb, and with him, the Emperor's dream! What even He has never achieved, we shall accomplish in His name!"
Kugath stirred the noxious cauldron one final time, watching its churning depths with renewed contemplation.
But far beyond the cauldron's rim, a different kind of fire raged.
North of the Garden of Nurgle, the golden light of the Aquila Banner bathed the battlefield in an otherworldly glow.
Amidst the hellish red flames, the shattered wreckage of the Plague Fleet rained down like carrion, torn from the sky by the righteous fury of the Imperium. For nearly a month, the deafening roar of macro-cannons and the searing hiss of promethium had echoed ceaselessly through the blighted realm. Now, for the first time, a momentary lull descended upon the battlefield, though it was anything but peaceful.
The very earth beneath the combatants cracked open, its rotting, pus-slick surface splintering and boiling as the daemonic garden burned. Vats of seething filth burst like tumors, spewing their rancid contents into the air, only to be consumed by cyclonic firestorms that clawed at the heavens. The unnatural smog that had once choked the sky was pulled into the inferno, hissing and huffing in furious protest. The sickly sweet scent of corruption burned away into nothingness, drowned beneath the cleansing fire of the Emperor's wrath.
The fertile forests, wretched with blasphemous growth, shriveled and collapsed into smoldering ruin. The tormented wails of the daemonic denizens rose in a discordant choir as they were reduced to smoldering cinders, their twisted flesh unknitting in the Emperor's purifying blaze.
But for the warriors of the Imperium, there was no fear. The hellscape before them was no nightmare—it was a benediction. To them, the wrathful conflagration was not destruction, but purification; not an end, but a beginning. In the searing air, they heard not screams of agony, but hymns of victory.
Above them, Saint Efilar soared, her vast wings of living flame stretching far and wide, a divine harbinger of righteousness. Gripping the standard of the Imperium, she gazed upon the inferno with serene rapture.
"The glorious Lord of Destruction grants His mercy upon this wretched place," she whispered, the golden light playing across her face like the caress of the God-Emperor Himself. Her luminous wings cast burning halos over the battlefield, a beacon of righteous fury.
Meanwhile, a cohort of Tech-Priests labored over the war machines, their mechatendrils caressing sacred steel as they murmured binharic litanies.
"Calm yourself, O Spirit of War," one of them intoned, anointing the smoking barrels of an Astartes-pattern assault cannon with consecrated oils. The gun's servos whined in frustration, its machine-spirit bristling at the unnatural stillness between battles. As if in protest, it fired a few errant rounds skyward, spitting defiance into the swirling embers.
The nearby Blood Angels Dreadnought gave a rumbling chuckle, his voice a metallic growl through the vox amplifiers. He stomped onto the ruined hill, the scorched ground trembling beneath his titanic form. "Another victory!" he bellowed. "Praise the Angel! Praise the Warmaster! Praise the Emperor!"
He raised a massive, ceramite-clad fist as if reaching for some vision only he could see. What glorious vista played across his augmetic gaze, none could tell. But his fervor was infectious, and the gathered Astartes and guardsmen felt their spirits surge, their bolters clutched tighter, their faith reaffirmed in the face of the blasphemous abyss burning before them.
Dante, regal and golden in his armor, stood amidst the carnage. Though his form remained unbowed, his soul was wearied by the long, bitter years. The great Chapter Master of the Blood Angels watched his brother's outburst and allowed himself a moment's respite, the echoes of Sanguinius' legacy burning within him.
"Brother," one of the warriors murmured reverently, his voice tinged with longing, "I wonder if I shall ever live to see that glorious future you speak of."
Dante remained silent, gazing into the roiling inferno ahead. Before his ancient eyes, the Garden of Nurgle burned. In the distance, through the roiling haze of fire and ash, the Fate Eagle Banner still flew, defiant and untouched.
Even in this cursed place, the Emperor's light would not be extinguished.
And yet, Dante could not shake the dread coiling in his gut, a whisper of foreboding carried on the charnel wind.
The battle was won.
But was the war?