As usual, the temperature on Calderis was sweltering. A normal man would not survive more than three days in the heat of the desert world and were it not for his power armor and enhanced physiology, Captain Davian Thule would have felt a bit of discomfort after presiding over the Blood Trials for the entire day.

It was his policy to witness the Trials personally, not like other Captains who preferred to let their company apothecary or chaplain view the applicants perform their tasks. After all, the teenage boys before him were feeling a little more than simple discomfort. For the past few hours they had fought and murdered each other in one of the deep basins that marked the Southern Calderan Wastes.

From his position on the lip of the dune, standing upon a natural platform of stone, Thule watched the closing moments of the trials. The applicants had arrived numbering near a thousand, now less than a hundred fought, skin slick with the blood of their peers. Their movements were slow and the fatigue in their blows was evident. Chaplain Automemos had set them against each other with a rousing speech, and it never failed to surprise Thule how eagerly the men, or rather, the boys murdered each other.

A flurry of movement caught Thule's attention and he focused his augmetic eye to get a better look. Deep in the basin and to his right, less than a hundred yards away, a stout boy that looked to be fourteen had just lost his jaw. A giant boy, the largest Thule could see, had struck him in the face with a glinting axe, and then removed his head from his shoulders with a quick horizontal chop. The blood showered the victor, but it made no difference. His black hair and tan features were already saturated with blood, both fresh and old.

"Chaplain, watch that one there," said Thule, nodding to the black haired boy.

"The giant with the axe?" the old Chaplain responded, expressionless with his skull faced helm, "I was about to point him out to you, Captain".

"He would be a fine initiate, if he survives".

It was true that there were many fine applicants, but to survive the Blood Trails, it helped to be both skilled and lucky. It also paid to have loyal friends. Now that Thule was watching him, he noticed that the black haired boy was not alone. He was standing back to back with another, smaller boy. In fact, the boy was small enough that if Thule were not in such a high vantage point, he would have been completely obscured by his larger ally.

The boy wielded nothing but a knife, six inches long and single edged, like every other weapon in the basin it was caked with dried blood. Presently the knife was being put to good use deflecting the attacks of two other applicants, who had also made an alliance. The smaller boy locked blades with his opponent, an applicant with dark skin wielding a curved saber. Taking advantage of the distance, the small boy grabbed the wrist of his opponent and casually raised his knife to tear out his opponent's throat.

The arterial blood showered the smaller boy's face, and obscured the last traces of his blond hair. Blinded, he stepped back and escaped a killing blow from his other opponent through sheer luck. The double-edged knife that would have torn into his chest simply embedded itself in his right arm. The smaller boy fell backwards onto the ground, with his opponent landing on top of him.

Thule could hear the boy cry out in pain from where he stood. Chaplain Automemos was also watching the brutal scene. In the next ten seconds, one of the two boys would be dead.

The black haired boy glanced over his shoulder for a split second with a look of panic on his face. Before he could turn to help his ally, he was assailed from the front. He hacked wildly with his axe. He killed one boy, then another. He removed the arm of one with an upward hack, and then brought the axe head down into his opponent's head. It dug deep into the boy's skull and spilt his brains onto the sand at their feet. Still, for everyone he killed, another stepped forward. There were too many. His ally was on his own.

Behind him, the smaller boy was being crushed under the weight of his opponent, a scarred monster with long bleached hair and pale skin, a rarity in the deserts of Calderis. The pale boy tore his knife out of the smaller boy below him and stabbed down to finish him. With a cry of pain and desperation the smaller boy blocked the stab with the back of his left hand, and cried out in agony as it pierced through the palm and stopped less than an inch from his face. He kicked out, trying to dislodge his opponent, but couldn't find purchase with his feet. In agony, he pulled his left hand down, taking the knife with it. He kept the knife away from his body as he pounded the pale boy's face with his free arm. In response, the pale boy head butted his grounded opponent twice in rapid succession.

Delirious, the smaller boy grabbed a handful of sand with his right hand and with an incoherent scream, threw it into the pale boy's face. The pale boy fell back, unable to see. The smaller boy was on his feet in an instant. A rock was in his hand and he was ready to bash his fallen foe's brains out. He raised it and prepared to strike the killing blow.

"Enough!" shouted Captain Thule.

Only fifty two applicants remained.

Thule and his retinue of ten marines marched into the basin, where the survivors formed a ragged line. Many were wounded, and some would not live to see another morning. All of the space marine supervisors had donned their helmets, showing the applicants nothing but the glare of a red ceremite mask and green eye pieces.

"You have survived the Blood Trials, and have proved yourselves worthy," Thule's vox enhanced voice blared. "Now you must prove yourself to both the apothecarium and the chaplains. They will determine if you are truly able to serve our chapter. If you fail, only death awaits you."

Chaplain Automemos stepped forward. "When we walk the line, speak your name. It will be recorded".

Thule and Automemos walked the line; each survivor they stood before weakly muttered their name. None had dared renounce it and risk the honor of their family. Near the end of the line, the black haired boy and the small boy knelt near the end of the group. The black haired boy looked at his ally; the boy had suddenly come to his aid in the battle, and was injured badly.

The smaller boy was trying to pull the knife out of his hand. Every time he touched it, blood would pour out and the boy would grimace in pain.

"Just leave it for now," said the black haired boy. "You'll just end up hurting yourself if you don't."

"It feels like Horus himself just stabbed me," responded the small boy. His thin face was lined with pain and his blond hair was slick with his own blood.

"What would the people in Aara say?"

The blond boy rolled his eyes and spoke with obvious sarcasm, "They would probably say something like 'Oh dear Emperor, someone has stabbed my hand. Make the pain stop!'"

"You'll be fine, now look tough, they are almost here".

The black haired boy looked to his left; the pale monster was four over, his eyes still red from the sand. He was glaring at both of them. Before the black haired boy could glare back, Thule had reached him.

"What is your name, neophyte?" Thule demanded.

Unlike the other boys, the black haired boy responded with a loud voice. He was evidently not afraid, or was at least putting up a brave face.

"I am Ocella Lyon, my lord".

"Lyon… I believe there was a Brother Lyon that died fighting the Word Bearers on Kronus."

"Yes my lord. A distant relative of mine" responded Lyon, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"A shame, he was an honorable man. Thank the Emperor his killer was brought to justice". Thule took another step and was in front of the smaller boy.

"Your name?" he asked.

"I have no name, give me one". The boy demanded, glaring at Thule.

Hushed whispers passed up and down the row of boys, a mixture of anger and shame that one of their own would forsake his family. Even Lyon had a look of shock in his eyes.

Thule looked down at the boy. By all rights this boy should not have survived. He was not particularly tall, nor strong, nor skilled. His clothing was cheap, a simple vest and trousers made of rough cloth, and his knife was lost to him. A deep slash on his shoulder poured blood freely and Thule could see he had acquired a new weapon in a very personal fashion.

"Very well boy, I will give you a name". Thule stepped back as he consulted with a member of his retinue, another faceless marine in power armor; the color of dried blood and bone that had been left in the sun for too long. It was unusual, but not unheard of that an applicant would reject his own name. Some wished to start fresh; others wished to wipe away histories of crime or dishonor. Whatever their reasons, the Blood Ravens had vast catalogues of fresh identities for these applicants. After consulting a large book that the marine bore, Thule nodded and stepped forward again.

"Neophyte, your reason for forsaking your family's name is your own. Your new name is Nathaniel Augustine."

Nathaniel Augustine grimaced in pain again, and nodded. On the horizon, the boxy forms of Thunderhawk gunships could be seen, flying low and framed by the sun. They would carry the survivors of the Blood Trials on to an uncertain future.

Chapter 2: Cruel Surgeries


This pain is a good thing. That was what Ocella Lyon kept telling himself. Concentrate on the pain; you won't lose consciousness if you can concentrate on the pain.

He was lying on a slab in a Chapter apothecarium. He was sure he was aboard a space craft, but could not confirm his suspicions. The Blood Ravens had not let him travel according to his will. Every second of the day was spent according to a strict schedule. Lyon had lived by it for three years. The bright white chamber around him was bare except for the slab he laid on and a tray of medical tools to his right. The door of the chamber was closed and it had been for a while. He had forgotten exactly how long. Above him, an air vent hummed quietly.

Lyon had heard stories of these vents; stories that the Blood Ravens deliberately pumped foul toxins and diseases through them so that the weakest recruits would be killed by infection. Ocella looked down at his scarred chest and then up to the Imperial Aquila bolted to the plasteel ceiling.

"Please dear Emperor, see me through this." He prayed.

The Apothecaries had cracked open his chest cavity about six months before to implant the Mucranoid, Larraman's organ and the Omophagea. Then they had left him for eight hours to see if he would bleed out. Today the same Apothecaries had broken him open again to give him the occulobe and the precursor to his second heart. Gene therapy and radiation would see to the efficient growth of both organs. The biscopea and multi lung were to be implanted within the coming months.

I wonder if Nathaniel is still alive, he thought. They had been separated almost immediately after the Blood Trials. Before he could truly begin to think about his peer's situation, the door to the chamber hissed open and two Astartes in predominantly white armor stepped in. Lyon's gaze shifted between the two of them, but their helmed heads offered no sympathy.

One of the two stepped forward. "I hope you are prepared neophyte, it is the ordained time. Pray to the Emperor to ease your pain." He turned to the other and said "Brother Harkon, would you please fetch the other surgical tools?"

"Of course," Harkon said curtly.

The apothecary standing beside Lyon turned to him again. "Now you shall receive the blessing of the haemastamen, the blood maker. The tools we will use are saturated with infectious bacteria. If your body rejects the haemastamen, it will surely kill you." As he spoke he reached down and with a practiced motion, cut open Lyon's chest for the second time that day.

"Your larraman cells are working wonderfully neophyte. You will serve Chapter Master Kyras well at this rate." Lyon could almost hear the smile in the apothecary's voice, but could not see past the scowling helmet. Soon however, the pain began to get the better of him and he felt himself losing consciousness.

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Captain Thule had just arrived in the observation room with Sergeant Tarkus when the two Apothecaries exited the chamber containing Lyon. Both Thule and Tarkus were wearing their power armor and carrying their helmets under their arms. The dark observation room was illuminated only by the flashing lights of biometric monitors. Apothecary Harkon busied himself confirming the vitals of the patient as the other Apothecary moved to speak with Captain Thule.

"Captain Thule," he said. Seeing Tarkus, he paused, and then resumed speaking "… and Sergeant Tarkus. What honor do I owe this visit?"

Tarkus was stoic as ever, even when complimented by a marine in such high standing. His face was free of expression, and he calmly nodded back to the Apothecary. "The honor to view your work is mine alone."

Thule stepped forwards to view the patient better. "This is the neophyte Lyon that I brought here? He looks much different." His augmetic eye glowed in the darkness, illuminating his stern face and wide jaw line.

"He is different Captain. We have been working on them all".

"And the other one, Augustine, is he alive?" Thule asked, turning to face the Apothecary again.

"Harkon, confirm Augustine's status," ordered the Apothecary, waving a hand at his subordinate.

Harkon walked across the room to another set of monitors. After typing a few keys he spoke. "He is alive Apothecary. The same cannot be said for three others however."

"Dead?" Asked the elder Apothecary.

"In the head at least, what should I do with the bodies?" Harkon asked, half expecting his teacher to make him carry them down to the techmarines to make servitors out of them.

"Take them to Techmarine Martellus," said his teacher, "The Chapter can always use more servitors."

Expectations met, Harkon replaced his helm and took his leave from the officers. Thule continued to observe Lyon, and spoke from where he stood. "I have received a saddening report from the master of astropaths this morning."

"Captain?" asked Tarkus. It was evident that this was the first he had heard of such news.

Thule continued, "I regret to say that the Kaurava campaign was a disaster. Captain Boreale is dead and nearly five companies of our brothers are lost."

Tarkus' bald head paled. "Who could have destroyed five companies of Blood Ravens?"

"It was the Imperial Guard, under command of General Vance Stubbs."

Tarkus held in his feelings about the matter. As much as he wanted revenge, there was no way they could attack Stubbs now and escape excommunication. The Blood Ravens were toeing the line already after their victory on Kronus. The Inquisition had not overlooked their destruction of the Imperial Guard at Victory Bay. Suddenly cursing his forgetfulness, he spoke up. "What of Cyrus, Captain?"

"Cyrus yet lives, and is bringing the remainder back to us. He will be happy to see new recruits, especially after the death of his initiates on Kaurava."

Tarkus allowed himself a sigh of relief before stepping closer to the Apothecary, who had removed his gauntlets to sterilize them at a sink in the corner of the room.

He stiffened for a moment and then asked, "It is rare for you to operate on new recruits, is it not?"

The Apothecary looked up quizzically before turning back to his cleaning. "Even I have feelings of nostalgia after all this time, Sergeant".

"I mean to say, is that as the sanctioned apothecary of the Honor Guard, do you not have more pressing matters to attend to?"

Apothecary Galan looked up from his work and said "Sergeant Tarkus, Chapter Master Kyras takes a keen interest in all potential Blood Ravens. Surely you must understand that it is my duty to minister to them?"

Chapter 3: Divisions


There were only seventeen recruits left. The gene therapy, implants, and time had taken their toll, but those that were left could truly be considered Blood Raven initiates. The recruits stood in one of the many training halls aboard the Strike Cruiser Armageddon, one of the many Blood Raven ships that patrolled Subsector Aurelia. They were all wearing loose long sleeved clothes of the same bone color on Blood Raven power armor. It was the same clothing worn by scouts under their carapace armor.

Ocella Lyon had grown. Now standing at seven feet and eleven inches, he was the largest initiate in the group. Only the Pale Monster, whose name Lyon had not yet learned, could hope to match his size. Lyon's friend Augustine had grown as well, though not to the extent he had. They had not been able to talk in almost a month; their training times had suddenly been changed so that they were no longer together.

Now they stood in a training hall, outside of the practice cages, and in front of the Astartes that would determine their fate. Three Astartes had summoned them. Davian Thule presided over all new recruits in the Aurelian subsector. The other two wore red carapace armor, marking them out to Lyon as scouts, although senior ones most likely.

Augustine watched his superiors. He had spent what little free time he had scouring Chapter records.

He stiffened as one of the Astartes in carapace armor turned his head to look at him. He had long hair for an Astartes, a rich brown that nearly reached to his shoulders, and an augmetic eye that looked very fresh. He also seemed to be carrying a piece of paper in his left hand.

Through his studies, Augustine had learned that this particular scout was known in the Chapter as Cyrus. He had served in the Deathwatch and as such was a premier xeno slayer. Why was one with his experience not a Captain by now?

The other must also be a scout sergeant, although I have not read of him, thought Augustine. The other man was taller than Cyrus, with a bald, round head and black skin. He was standing absolutely still, as if it was his life's goal not to move. Augustine was jolted from his thoughts when Cyrus stepped forward and spoke.

"Today, you initiates will be split into your squads to serve as Blood Raven scouts. This will be the first step on a long journey to become full-fledged Space Marines". His voice was deep and gravely, and he spoke with an air of command and experience. He continued, saying, "You will be given to either Sergeant Ariston, or myself". As he spoke he nodded to the other scout Sergeant at his side.

Cyrus unfolded the list in his left hand. After working out the creases, he read from it. "Xanthis, report to Sergeant Ariston." One of the initiates moved to stand beside the Sergeant. Augustine was amused to see that this Brother Xanthis was almost an exact replica of Sergeant Ariston, with the same skin tone and body shape. He also seemed to possess the stillness that lay within Ariston. The two marines stood side by side in perfect harmony.

"Severus, you will be serving with me." Another initiate moved forward to stand beside Cyrus.

Ocella Lyon was wracked with nervousness as Cyrus continued to read off names. He desperately wanted to be assigned to Cyrus' squad. Cyrus is famous throughout the chapter, he thought, to be taught be him would be a great honor.

"Ocella Lyon, report to Sergeant Ariston." The shock of the words knocked the breath out of Lyon. Reluctantly stepping forwards to stand behind his new sergeant, he realized he had been sweating with nervousness.

"Nikephoros, report to my squad," continued Cyrus. The Pale Monster stepped forwards, a savage grin on his scarred face. Only Nathaniel Augustine and one other initiate remained. Despite himself, Lyon found himself hoping that Augustine would be sent to Sergeant Ariston's squad as well.

"Augustine, you will also report to my squad".

This is an outrage, thought Lyon. I am stronger and more skilled than Nathaniel, why is he honored with a position in Sergeant Cyrus' squad?Fuming, Lyon left the training hall with his new squad of nine, led by Sergeant Ariston.

Cyrus gathered his new squad around him and spoke, "It is the duty of the scouts to perform reconnaissance for the battle companies. I will teach you how to wield the weapons of the Adeptus Astartes. The holy bolter, the missile launcher, the sniper rifle. These will be the instruments of your enemy's death. The Aurelian subsector is quiet, but there are always enemies to kill. We leave for Meridian tomorrow. The Warp tides are favorable and we should arrive by the end of the week. In that time I will forge you into scouts. The Unknown Primarch and the Emperor watch over us. Knowledge is power."

"Guard it well," said the initiates in unison.

"Good. Report to the chapel for evening prayers," ordered Cyrus before breaking into a jog to catch Captain Thule before he left the training hall. The initiates stood for a few seconds like puppets with cut strings, but slowly recovered and began to leave the training hall.

As Nathaniel Augustine walked through the double doors of the training hall with his squad, he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He turned with his brow furrowed to see the Pale Monster Nikephoros. He was taller than Augustine, stronger too. His long white hair had been shaved down completely like the other initiates. He spoke with malice in his voice "You've got my knife," pointing to the doubled edged blade on Augustine's belt. "I'd like it back".

Augustine's expression didn't change when he said "I seem to recall receiving this knife in an exceedingly personal way. Simply handing it back would be… boring. "

"I'd kill any man who mocked me if we were still on Calderis," said Nikephoros angrily.

Augustine brushed Nikephoros' hand off of his shoulder sharply and marched out of the training hall, ignoring the concerned looks of his brothers. He spoke over his shoulder for a parting jab. "It would do you well to watch your manner of speech. Such rough talk is unbecoming of a Blood Raven."

With that, Nikephoros was left alone in the hall.

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Davian Thule was walking to the bridge of the Armageddon with Cyrus at his side. The hallways were bustling with chapter serfs and servitors, all dressed in robes of bone and deep red, performing their allotted tasks for the chapter.

"You disregarded the list, Cyrus," said Thule as they walked.

"Concerning Augustine? Yes I did. But I as the most experienced scout sergeant in the Blood Ravens; I thought you might allow me to make certain decisions," said Cyrus, aware that he could be reprimanded for a comment this close to insubordination.

Thule nodded. "I would allow that, but I would also ask why".

"It has always been my belief, Captain Thule, that friends should not be in the same scout squad. You told me yourself that you were amazed that this Augustine boy had survived the Blood Trials. When I reviewed his training records, it seems he chose to be partnered with Ocella Lyons. I took charge and put a stop to that. Initiates must learn to rely on their brothers, not their friends."

"Very well. It would not hurt to inform me, Cyrus," said Thule.

Cyrus smiled and said, "I will keep that in mind."

Chapter 4: With Nothing But His Shotgun to Protect Him



The sun was setting on Meridian's capital spire, but the city was showing no signs of darkening. Fires had engulfed the lower parts of the spire, set by rioters, looters and traitors.

Shanks ran through the hab blocks of the 34th level, pausing once to make sure he hadn't been followed. The fires blazed ten levels above him, and the citizens in the area had mostly fled rather than lose their lives in the blaze. He slowed as he approached the appointed meeting place, wrapping his brown coat tighter around him. He shivered, and wasn't surprised to see the vapor from his breath when he exhaled. The Administratum was cutting costs by leaving the lower levels unheated.

What was worse, there was constant flooding from malfunctioning water pipes. He saw his reflection in one of the many pools of water and sewage that marked the dark street. Twenty four years old, gaunt, graying hair, too few teeth for a man his age. He sighed, "Being poor takes a toll."

Realizing that he spoke out loud, he cursed in his head. He could see it ahead and on his right, the meeting place. Like nearly every hab on the level, it stank of sewage and its grey coat of cheap paint was starting to peel off. He walked up to the door and knocked twice. A gruff voice was heard from inside.

"Why does Meridian burn?" it asked.

"It burns for the people" responded Shanks.

"And the burning will continue" the voice said as he completed the code phrase. Before Shanks could speak, the door opened and he was roughly pulled inside. In the darkness of the small entryway, he could see a squat man wearing a black coat similar to his own, as well as an old cap.

"I'm Shanks. They send me down here t-". Before he could finish, the man pressed a snub pistol to his forehead.

"Were you followed?" The man asked. His finger was on the trigger.

"Followed? Wha-"

"Were. You. Followed?" The man said, pressing his pistol into Shank's forehead to emphasize every word.

"N-no, I was not followed. I doubled back on Endar Street and took the back alleys."

"Alright, that's good enough for me. I'm Quint, welcome to the Haven, its temporary location at least. You'll find Colonel Kane inside. We're going over enemy troop movements.

Shanks nodded an acknowledgement and moved into the small living room of the hab, lit only by a bare bulb on the ceiling. The place smelled of grease and rust. The side of the room contained a small kitchen, its sink overflowing with dirty dishes. A small hallway at the back of the room led to a back door. Around a table in the center, eight people started at a map.

At the head on the table was an official looking man dressed in what looked to be antique Imperial Guard Flak armor. He was bald, with a black goatee and an augmetic left eye that glowed red. He stood with a manner of authority and Shanks assumed him to be Colonel Kane. Shanks recognized a few other people at the table as well. He knew Fenria, a small girl with a gift at explosive manufacture. Novus was standing next to Kane; the giant man carried a heavy stubber across his back. The others were unknown to Shanks, possibly mercenaries or other members of the Coalition.

Kane looked up as Shanks timidly entered the room. He spoke with authority, "Well? What have you got for us?"

"I'm Shanks sir, from level 56, Theopia district. Lady Octia sent me over to deliver reports of troop movement."

"Let's hear it. Come over to the map and point it out." Kane said, pointing down at the map covered in scribbles on the table.

"Of course," started Shanks, as he moved over to the map. "Our forces are currently besieging the Capital under command of Lady Octia. They have also seized the spaceport on the eastern fringe of the Capital Spire. However, there is an enemy push from the southwest. Large numbers of House Vandis soldiers are pressing into our flanks, Lady Octia requests that your forces join the fight."

"Vandis?" Asked one of the mercenaries, "What is that upstart thinking?"

Kane replied, "He may be making a grab for power. If the rumors are true that the Governor is dead, there is a power gap that he could possibly fill." He looked up at Shanks with a thin smile on his face. "So it's true that what you call a 'report' is really just a request from that bitch Octia for more bodies to throw into the grinder?"

"Well, sir I-" Stammered Shanks.

"Tell Octia that she can have her troops, we'll move against the Spire in an hour."

Shanks nodded and prepared to leave as one of the men unknown to him began speaking into a small vox caster. When he turned he heard Quint question another of the Coalition at the door.

"Why does Meridian bu-" He never was able to finish the challenge. The door was blown off its hinges with a tremendous crash and Shanks saw Quint's broken body fall to the floor, his upper body nearly gone, coloring the entryway red. A giant man in red carapace armor stepped in; carrying what looked to be a larger version of an arbites combat shotgun. The man was tall and thin, though much larger than any man Shanks had ever seen. Head was bald and round, his skin a deep black.

Quint was definitely dead, and Shanks took no time mourning him. He turned and ran for the back door of the hab. Other figures in the same carapace armor were moving in the front door, their shoulder was marked with a stylized raven and a drop of blood.

The other eight occupants of the room were not prepared to flee, nor go down without a fight. Novus, the giant with the heavy stubber leapt forward to grapple with the lead intruder when he realized it was too cramped to use his weapon. However, as big as he was, Novus did not even reach the intruder's shoulder. The black man in the carapace armor ripped Novus' arm off at the shoulder with his bare hands, and then punched him hard enough to crush all of his ribs.

Another intruder stepped into the living room and fired his boltgun in a four round burst. In less than a second, the room was coated with the blood of three people.

Fenria picked up an auto pistol and shouted "The Oppressors must die!" Before she could fire however, the lead intruder had killed her and another man with a single shot from his combat shotgun. Kane reached for his pistol on the table but was swiftly disarmed and incapacitated. The last occupant of the room, a young girl of about fourteen, dropped to her knees, begging the intruders.

"Please, please" she begged. "Forgive me, I never meant any of this! Please Emperor forgive me! I didn't know his Angels of Death would come for me!"

A brown haired Angel gently took her to the other side of the room. He said "The Emperor will always forgive those who repent."

The girl's eyes brightened. "Thank you, thank you."

"However the punishment for treason has always been death. Your repentance marks you worthy of the Emperor's grace. Receive it in death."

Her eyes widened, and before she could begin screaming, the Angel of Death had silenced her with a single shot from his bolter.

All of this had occurred in less than ten seconds. In that time, Shanks had gone out of sight of the Astartes and reached the back door of the hab. When he opened it, he found himself staring down the barrel of an Astartes combat shotgun. He thought about shouting "Death to the Oppressors" before his demise, but before he could open his mouth, the shotgun flared.

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Lyon looked down the barrel of his shotgun at the mess in front of him. What was left of the man in the brown coat was now sprayed across the walls of the short hallway they were in.

He was a traitor, I had to kill him. Even if he wasn't armed. Lyon repeated this to himself. He racked the slide of his shotgun, ejecting the empty shell, and moved to rejoin his squad mates. Sergeant Ariston had subdued a man dressed in antique Guard Flak armor and had tied him to a chair. It amazed Lyon how the squad had performed such violence, yet were so precise.

The living room of the hab was dyed red. The squad hastily threw the corpses in a corner as Ariston began interrogating the prisoner.

"Name." Demanded Ariston, in a hushed voice. He talked as if it was the universe's duty to listen.

The prisoner was uncooperative. That is, he refused to talk until Ariston tore his right hand off. Then the man was quite open about everything.

"The main forces are attacking the Captial Spire". Said Kane in a quick, pained voice. "If you were looking for Lady Octia here you were out of luck. My personal forces are moving to intercept the House Vandis push. We are going to win this. You oppressors will never keep the people of Meridian down. We will never surrender. We will always fight on. Frak the Empe-"

Before he could voice his heresy, Ariston stood and removed his head with a single shell from his shotgun. He picked up the chair that the headless Kane sat on and tossed it onto the pile of bodies. Then he spoke to the squad. "That is all we were going to obtain from him. We must move to regroup with Sergeant Cyrus' squad. They will be facing a difficult situation if we do not."

The squad regrouped and exited the hab. Sergeant Ariston motioned Lyon to the point of the formation, and he jogged fifty yards ahead of the squad. He could already hear small arms fire and heavier guns in the distance. As such, Squad Ariston advanced towards the Capital.

Chapter 5: Nothing to Do but Rely on his Teacher

Fallen guardsmen littered the streets outside the governor's palace, blood mixing with the mud left after fresh rain. The forces of the Coalition had pushed the defenders made up of the Vendolen 431st back to the final defense ring around the palace. At the moment, Sergeant Cyrus and his squad were three hundred yards from the palace, kneeling in a crater made by an earthshaker round. Every Astartes in the squad was drenched with mud, covering their carapace armor and obscuring the insignia of the Blood Raven's on their shoulder guard.

Cyrus brushed his long hair, saturated with mud, away from his face, and wrapped his camoleoline cloak tighter around his body as he crawled to the edge of the crater. Auto and las rounds tore through the sky above the scouts, who were hugging the ground as best they could. Cyrus' squad had been at the point of Vandis' push toward the palace, but had been ambushed by a new Coalition counter attack before they reached the defenders.

Now Cyrus and his squad were trapped between two killing fields, with little in the way of protection. As he reached the lip of the crater, Cyrus dragged his sniper rifle into position and glanced down the scope. Directly ahead of him was the east side of the governor's palace, now under attack from the new Coalition forces that had just arrived. The road that the Astartes led advance was using was now a killing field created by the new arrivals.

Looking through his scope and covered by his camo cloak, Cyrus was nearly invisible, his squad patiently waiting at the bottom of the crater. There, a Coalition officer directed fire. To his left 10 yards was a collapsed building, probably destroyed by another earthshaker. To his right, nothing but more craters. The enemy was spreading out, preparing to flank them. And in the smoke, Cyrus could see the most dangerous thing he could imagine for the present situation, a Leman Russ battle tank.

As silent as a shadow, Cyrus slid back to the bottom of the crater, and motioned for his squad to gather around him. He spoke softly, his deep voice untroubled by the current situation.

"Initiates, this would be a dire situation for any scout squad. It is my purpose to teach you and lead you into combat, but I will not lead you into a massacre". I have seen far too many in my little time. He thought.

He looked at his squad. He could see the apprehension in their faces. He could see the eagerness on Nikophoros' face. He could see that Nathaniel Augustine was unlike the others. Nathaniel Augustine was impassive. No trace of nervousness or eagerness could be found on his face. Cyrus motioned to the shotgun he carried.

"I must go alone, and use the environment to my advantage. Take my rifle Augustine, kill if you can. That shotgun will suit me better. Alaris, give me one of your demolition charges."

Nikophoros spoke up. "Sergeant Cyrus, I'll go with you. Surely you could use my help!"

"No. Any more than one will risk the entire undertaking. Remain here," He turned, "Tyrion, I need you to provide a smoke screen twenty yards to the southwest. See if you can arc some white phosphorus onto those guns if you can as well".

The squad nodded in affirmation as Cyrus carefully passed his weapon to Augustine, who handled the long rifle with care. With a loud thump, Tyrion fired the first smoke grenades, and in three seconds, Cyrus had left the crater, sprinting to the cover of the collapsed building. Two lasbolts chased him, but missed, no doubt due to the smoke obscuring the firer's vision. Cyrus moved through the rubble of the collapsed building like a red lightning bolt, shotgun in his right hand. Halfway through, he met the enemy flank attack head on.

Even ten men are no match for an Astartes if caught by surprise. The point man of the Coalition squad edging through the rubble of the collapsed building was caught completely unaware as Cyrus leapt towards him from behind a large slab of cracked rockcrete. Before he could let out a shout, the butt of Cyrus' shotgun slammed into his skull with an audible crack, killing him in an instant.

Cyrus wasted no time; the rest of the squad was less than 5 yards away, cramped together due to the rough terrain. He fired the shotgun once, pitching a Coalition soldier off his feet, before charging into the midst of them. One raised his lasrifle to shoot, but Cyrus broke his neck with a simple punch. Gripping the lasrife by the barrel in his left hand, he swung it backhanded into the helm of another. The man fell, the impact so jarring the rifle snapped in half.

These men are less armored than even Guardsmen, it is a wonder they are causing the planet so much trouble, thought Cyrus. Indeed, the soldiers of the Coalition wore no uniform nor bore an insignia. The weapons they wielded were either rusting, or looted from corpses. Though only dwelling on the thought for a second, Cyrus already found himself taking fire from the last four members of the squad. He felt an autoround graze his calf, drawing a spurt of blood before the larraman cells in his body sealed the wound.

Reaching behind his back, he drew his combat knife and charged forward. Although considered small for an Astartes, the knife could be considered a sword in the hands of a normal human. Against lightly armored foes like the Coalition, it was deadly. The first died screaming, his intestines torn out by a fierce slash. The second fired two shots. The first auto round bounced off Cyrus' chest plate, the second missed entirely.

His death was quick; Cyrus' knife impaled his head with a quick thrust. Cyrus removed his knife and spun to his left, swinging the blade in a wide arc. The unprepared Coalition soldier lost his head, a fountain of arterial blood mixing with the dust. Cyrus turned to face the last man.

And was shot in the face.

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Sawney stared down at the space marine he had just killed. Though he had won, he had lost his entire squad, all of his friends, and felt no happiness. He edged forwards towards the space marine garbed in an odd cloak that seemed to change with the surroundings. He had spun and fallen on his stomach when he had been shot, and now Sawney was poking him with his gun to make sure he was dead. Little Narcia would love to hear about how he had killed an Angel of Death. She always loved his stories. A hand like steel gripped his gun as the shiny cloak was thrown over his head.

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Cyrus beat the man trapped under his cloak until he was surely dead. He reached up to his face and pulled the bullet out of his augmetic eye. He was ashamed. With his standing; he should have killed all of them untouched. Cyrus retrieved the shotgun from where it had fallen and donned his cloak again.

He crawled out of the rubble. I should be parallel to the enemy gunline, he thought. Looking to his right, he confirmed his suspicions. While the gunline was there, Tyrion had fulfilled his orders. The white phosphorus grenades had devastated the lightly armored Coalition soldiers. Many were now dead and burning on the ground.

Cyrus ran down the line, not even bothering to execute any of the men still dying. His objective was still alive, the leman russ tank. Even now it lobbed shells into the House Vandis soldiers, who were suffering heavy casualties trying to advance. Thanking the Emperor for his fortune, the majority of the gunline was dead, and Cyrus faced little resistance.

As he neared the Leman Russ, he noted multiple dead Coalition soldiers with their heads blown to pieces. Their blood had made grotesque artwork on the ground behind them. Cyrus suspected this was the careful work of Augustine. He paused at a large slab of rockcrete that had been torn up from the road and glanced around it at the Leman Russ tank.

It was twenty five yards away and unaware of his presence. Cyrus dashed from cover towards the tank and pulled the demo charge from its satchel. He tossed it in a high arc and grinned to see it land on the engine block of the tank. Though he had moved back into cover when the explosion engulfed the tank, the second shockwave nearly threw him from his feet.

Cyrus stood as a warcry pierced the air. The House Vandis soldiers had broken from cover and were charging down the pockmarked road, firing their lasguns as they ran. Cyrus turned and saw that his squad was running to join them, Augustine at the head carrying Cyrus' prized weapon. Nikephoros stood in the back of the formation, his face grim. Evidently he felt slighted by Cyrus refusing his offer for help. Cyrus shrugged inwardly; the boy will have to learn his place. Being a space marine is not about honor, it is about victory.

Tyrion was the first to speak. Apparently he had been wounded during the time Cyrus was gone, his scalp was dripping blood down his wide face, mixing with the mud that covered them all. "Sergeant Cyrus, I have received word from Sergeant Ariston. His squad is advancing perpendicular to us. The House Vandis forces and Sergeant Ariston have captured the enemy flank attack in a pincer maneuver."

Cyrus simply nodded. "Very well, praise the Emperor. Initiates, let us advance". None dared question what had happened to his augmetic eye.

Chapter 6: With Nothing but his Own Assurances to Console Him



Eight hours after the elimination of Colonel Kane, Sergeant Ariston's squad rendezvoused with Sergeant Cyrus. The brown haired scout sergeant was found under an overhang that was part of a bombed out building, taking shelter from the rain. Ariston's squad moved quickly across the square, trampling over the already ruined decorative plants. Cyrus' squad waved Ariston forward, and the two squads consolidated their position. They were one hundred yards from the palace. House Vandis soldiers rushed past their position into the immediate area around the palace, moving to the north side where the assault was the heaviest.

Ariston paused before moving inside to meet his fellow sergeant. Cyrus' squad was intact, a few superficial injuries, but nothing too deadly. He saw an initiate carrying Cyrus' rifle, Augustine was his name. Like all Blood Ravens, Ariston had perfect memory, a byproduct of their Sus-an membrane malfunction that also left them unable to dream. He wondered why Cyrus would give the recruit such a weapon, before moving inside. The last thing he saw of his squad before he entered the bombed out building was his point man Lyon greeting Augustine like an old relative, the smaller initiate passively nodding at his comrade.

Inside, Cyrus was muttering to a much smaller man in black battledress. The man was much shorter than Cyrus, but still held an air of command. His grey hair was slicked back and a monocle was hanging on the bridge of his nose. Hearing Ariston enter, Cyrus and the man turned to him. To Ariston, it seemed they were discussing the contents of intelligence documents. Ariston was inwardly shocked to see that Cyrus' augmetic eye had been shattered, the wires and cables torn from his skull so as not to impede movement or distract. Being Ariston however, he would never show such surprise on his face.

The man in black battledress was the first to speak. "Welcome my lord. Commander Cyrus told me that we would expect you shortly. The good commander and I are discussing final preparations before we personally move to the defense of the Governor's palace. If you would care to join us?" His voice was rich with the tone of the aristocracy and the spire lords.

Ariston nodded and looked up to Cyrus with a question written on his face. Seeing this, Cyrus spoke. "This is Commander Tybalt Vandis, the head of House Vandis and the supplier of our support on this mission. His stubborn advances have greatly helped the effort."

Ariston nodded again, this time a greeting to Vandis as he stepped into the circle. His guess was correct, they were discussing intelligence. On the top paper they held was a picture of a woman. It was wet with rain and a red material that looked suspiciously like blood. The ink was beginning to run off but Ariston could clearly see the picture of a woman on it. She was around 70, to Ariston's best guess, with numerous juvenant treatments muddying his assessment of her age. She had brown hair dyed an auburn color, with a pale scar down her perfect jawline. Her eyes were a bewitching grey.

Vandis broke the silence. "As Lord Cyrus and I were discussing," spoke Vandis, "this is who the Coalition calls Lady Octia. It's almost certain, Lord Astartes, that she is the current leader of the Coalition. She most likely has around 800 soldiers under her direct command. Our counter attack as well as your timely arrive has cut their numbers in half."

"With less than two thousand men, how is it that this Lady Octia has inflicted so many casualties?"

It was Ariston who spoke. Cyrus cocked an eyebrow, his only eyebrow as a matter of fact. It was rare for Ariston to question facts. To him, combat was combat, if an enemy inflicted many casualties, they must be strong. Yet something was nagging at Ariston, there was no way that such a small force could be active for so long. The arbites could rein them in all by themselves.

Vandis answered, "My Lord, it seems the Coalition has quite a bit of talent in vanishing into thin air. Any attempts to counter their advances in previous months have met with severe casualty rates and no results to show of it. Yet now, they die like flies at our guns. I'm as puzzled as you are".

Ariston said nothing in response. No force was as skilled as this. Yet it mattered not. The enemy was scant minutes away and nothing would save them from the wrath of the Emperor now. As he moved to the door he heard Cyrus announce to Vandis, "It is time we joined the battle Commander, my initiates will follow you in."

Ariston heard the drawing of a power sword and bolt pistol as Vandis replied "My House is ready to fight, to the death if I order it. For the Emperor, my Lord Blood Raven." Vandis jogged past Ariston and through the scouts, joining up with his house forces that were still moving through the square. Ariston noted that Vandis' forces were large, and almost as well equip as an Imperial Guard regiment, all dressed in the same black uniform.

Ariston stood by Cyrus at the door of the bombed out building, prepared to join his squad. Before he could however, Cyrus spoke. "I do not think this Coalition has survived so long on their own abilities."

"Chaos?" Wondered Ariston, his face an unreadable mask again.

"I doubt it. We would have heard of such a large Chaos infestation long ago. Perhaps they are simply lucky. Perhaps the Emperor has not been watching over Meridian."

"Sergeant Cyrus, would it not be wise to watch what you say around the initiates?"

"Ariston, we cannot coddle them with the belief that the Emperor always protects. Even we will die one day."

Ariston's mask was shortly replaced with a scowl. He loved the Emperor and the Primarch equally, as all in his village on Calderis did. It disappointed him to hear Cyrus say such things. He ended their conversation by saying "The Emperor will not forsake me when I place my trust in him, Sergeant Cyrus. He has never forsaken me. The day I curse his name will be the day I die."

For Ariston, this was the equivalent of shouting. Never had Cyrus heard him say so much at once. He often heard such naivety from Angelos or his recruits, but he never thought that Ariston was like that. Dismissing it, he marched to his squad. 'Initiates, prepare to move out. We go to join the fight; it will be like nothing you have ever seen".

Ariston and Cyrus' squads ran to the Governor's palace together. In the middle of the formation, Ocella Lyon ran alongside Nathaniel Augustine. He carried his combat shotgun in his hands and ran with long strides, in contrast to Augustine's short but quick steps. His carapace armor was chipped and smeared at parts with the blood of his enemies. Pulling a thin grin on his face, he asked Augustine, "Say, Nathaniel?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think about House Vandis?"

Augustine thought for a moment, looking up for a bit. "I would say that they are a powerful ally. If we were set against them, I am not sure how we would fare."

"It is good that they are on our side then?"

"Indeed."

Before they could say another word, Cyrus cut in, "Cut the chatter initiates!"

The squads had reached the Northeast side of the Governor's palace. To their left, a wide flight of stone stairs would take them to the square in front of the entrance. The gunfire and screams of combat were directly above them. The squads scaled the stairs at a full sprint.

Cyrus was the first to clear the stairs. Ahead of him was the most brutal combat Meridian would see for almost fifty years. Ahead and to the left, the Imperial Guard and House Vandis soldiers were consolidating their defense of the palace from a line of sandbags and tank traps, as well as two rockcrete bunkers. Dozens of corpses lay across the square where they had fallen. Opposite the palace, two wide bridges overflowed with Coalition soldiers, uniform in their diversity. Their bodies greatly outnumbered those of the Guard and House Vandis, yet they still came on, howling cries of "Death to the Oppressors!" and "The Emperor has abandoned us!"

Few of the Coalition noticed the arrival of the scout squads. The House Vandis soldiers had reinforced the defenses, taking positions behind the sandbags and laying down blistering lasfire. For every foot the Coalition took, a dozen died.

Cyrus shouted "Initiates advance to the defense line! Augustine, get on one of those bunkers and kill their leaders, you have the only sniper rifle here!" The young initiate shouted "Yes, sergeant!" He ran to the nearest bunker and quickly climbed to the top.

The scout squads took a position behind some tank traps and began laying down fire into the massed ranks of the Coalition, who had began taking position in the craters that pockmarked the square. The charge had lost its momentum and had become a shooting battle.

Ariston loved the combat shotgun, both for its versatility and its stopping power. Carrying heavy buckshot, an unarmored human target was dead without a doubt. Ariston believed that his superiors, and even possibly Cyrus himself underestimated the usefulness of the combat shotgun. One may think that it has a short range, but Ariston knew for a fact that it was deadly up to one hundred yards. And the Coalition forces were well within that distance.

Ariston aimed down his sights, pointing his shotgun at a clutch of Coalition soldiers crouching in a ditch, laying down fire towards the Astartes. He pulled the trigger and felt the kick of his shotgun. One of the soldiers fell, his head spewing blood. The others seemed injured, but not killed yet. Ariston fired again, and that particular crater fell silent.

Cyrus sat behind a tank trap. Unlike Ariston, he was not as skilled with combat shotguns. If the scouts could not approach the Coalition positions, almost half the scouts were going to be ineffective. He thought about ways to approach the enemy as Tyrion stood up to fire his grenade launcher into the midst of them. With a meaty impact, a burst of auto rounds took Tyrion in the chest and throat. He fell back, blood spewing from his torn neck.

Cyrus reacted immediately, pulling Tyrion into cover. The initiate's windpipe had been severed and the boy was gasping for air that would not come. His blood spilled down his chest, giving his armor a fresh coat of paint, before his larraman cells finally stopped the bleeding. His eyes begged Cyrus for help, though he could not speak.

Cyrus tried to calm him. "Concentrate, do not panic. You remember how to activate your multi-lung". Tyrion nodded and closed his eyes for a bit, then seemed much calmer. When he spoke, his voice sounded higher pitched.

"It seems I am alright Sergeant. Thank you."

Your vocal cords sound damaged," responded Cyrus, "They will take time to heal".

Tyrion grabbed his weapon and aimed at the approximate position that held his shooter, part of a decorative garden wall that many Coalition troopers had taken cover behind. He looked through his grenade bandolier, picking out one with a red tip. He looked over at Cyrus and smiled as he said, "Incendiary". Then he leaned out from behind the tank trap and fired the grenade on a low arc. The position he had aimed at erupted in flames. Six Coalition soldiers were engulfed in the initial explosion, their clothing incinerated and their bodies charring to black. Eight more were caught in the promethium burst that all Imperial incendiary grenades are filled with. The initial explosion lights promethium stored in the grenade for a tremendous fire burst.

The Coalition forces were close to breaking, and Ariston could see that behind the sandbags, Vandis was rallying his house soldiers for a charge. With a cry of "For the Emperor! For the Unknown Primarch! Knowledge is power!" Ariston leapt from behind the tank traps and charged towards the nearest Coalition soldiers, behind a short wall near one of the two bridges. His squad was surprised, but soon followed him. When Ariston reached the short wall, he vaulted over it and was met by three Coalition soldiers.

He casually killed the first with a blast of his shotgun; the man was torn into bloody chunks. The woman next to him stumbled back, clutching the arm that was mangled by the same shot. Ariston racked the slide and fired again, ending her life. The last Coalition soldier stabbed at him with his bayonet. Ariston took the blade in his side, dripping blood before grabbing the man's face with his open hand. With a bit of effort, the man's head was crushed. Ariston shook the brains off his hand and began directing his squad, his wound ignored. They had to confine the Coalition to a smaller location.

On one of the two bunkers in front of the Palace, Nathaniel Augustine lay on the hard rockcrete with Cyrus' sniper rifle in his hands. The Coalition forces were now being pushed across the westernmost parallel bridge. Ariston's scout squad had killed the small number of Coalition forces on the eastern parallel bridge, and was now moving to engage the main forces in the deadly melee that had erupted, Cyrus' squad not far behind. He looked down the scope of the sniper rifle at the massed forms of the enemy engaged in the fierce close combat. He was the only sniper in the scouts at the moment; he had to make his shots count.

Tracking over the brutal combat, he saw a Coalition soldier kill a Vandis soldier with his bayonet. A thump against Augustine's shoulder, and the Coalition soldier's chest was left with a large bloody hole. Augustine racked the bolt. He saw a Coalition officer directing forces. A thump, then Augustine racked the bolt. Another clear shot. Thump, the slide racked. Two Coalition soldiers back to back. Thump, racked the slide, two dead this time. Ocella Lyon and Ariston killed every trooper that neared them, no need to interfere, he tracked on. Nikephoros killed three with his bare hands. As much as he hated him, Augustine tracked on. A Vandis soldier and Coalition trooper locked in combat. Thump. Augustine paused and looked down the scope at what he had done.

The Vandis soldier had moved in front of Augustine's shot. Now both he and his opponent were dead. Killed by an Astartes. Augustine had never killed an innocent man before. He thought about the recruits he had killed years before. They were his enemies; they would surely have killed him. Yet just now he had killed a man who not only bore him no ill will, but idolized him. Augustine reassured himself, the man would have been dead soon anyway. The Coalition soldier had been more skilled. He was not a murderer.

Thus reassured, he looked down his scope again. He found his next target, a Coalition woman carrying stubber bandoliers, and pulled the trigger. Click. The firing chamber was empty. He was so shocked by the death of that Vandis soldier, that he had lost track of his ammo count. He quickly got into a crouch and pulled back the bolt on the rifle. As he pushed the rounds into the breach, he saw the Coalition was preparing to break. He quickly dropped back into position, hoping to score a few more kills. Before he could fire, he saw a flash at the corner of his eye, the color of polished bone. He spun and fixed his scope on the roof of a building across the bridges. He could have sworn he saw a figure standing on it. Dismissing the thought, he turned back to the battle.

It was then that the Coalition routed, fleeing across the bridge. At the same time, drop pods colored in the red of the Blood Ravens impacted the far side, kicking up large plumes of dust. Captain Davian Thule and twenty Astartes of the 4th Company walked to greet the fleeing traitors, bolters reflecting the dying sunlight. Augustine began tracking targets. Thump, rack the slide…

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Davian Thule walked at a slow pace towards the fleeing enemy. Unfortunately for the Coalition, they were fleeing towards him. The heavy bolter in his hands sung praise to the Emperor with every round he fired. At his side, two full squads marched with him. Tarkus and his brothers were on the right, bolters pumping dozens of rounds into the fleeing enemy, their bodies exploding with bursts of pink mist. On his left, Sergeant Mercutio walked, his plasma gun melting the enemy into sludge and the bolters of his squad leaving broken bodies in their wake.

Thule fired another burst, reducing a brace of Coalition to bloody chunks. He saw a flash of red, and moved to fire, and managed to stop himself before killing one of his scouts. Sergeant Ariston stood in front of him, behind him, a grey haired man with a monocle impaled the last traitor with his power sword. It seemed that Ariston had been in the thick of the melee. He had a deep wound in his side, and multiple scratches on his head and arms. Yet the sergeant had fought on, seemingly uninjured. He nodded curtly to Captain Thule. Thule had given up on ever hearing Ariston speak to him. The man simply took his orders, prayed under his breath and killed his enemies.

Cyrus slowly walked the bridge, carefully executing any survivors among the Coalition. Some begged, claiming that they were forced to do it. Others cursed Cyrus and his brothers for being lap dogs of an oppressive regime. Others were silent, either unconscious or accepting of their fate. Others yet prayed. They begged the Emperor to forgive them for their crimes. They knew what it warranted them and they awaited it. For each that prayed, Cyrus muttered words of blessing before ending their life. As he finished killing a woman and her brother, lying together wounded, Cyrus spotted someone amongst the bodies. He reached the body and turned it over.

It was a woman, probably around seventy, juvenant treatments could have thrown off his guess, with brown hair dyed auburn and a pale scar down her jawline. Her grey eyes were calm in death. Cyrus looked down at her fatal wound and smiled. He could be a great Astartes yet, he thought.

The woman had an Astartes sniper round embedded in her heart.

Chapter 7: Beginnings and Endings



Cyrus walked the halls of the strike cruiser Armageddon, the gargantuan craft was in orbit above Meridian. It had been less than twelve hours since the defeat of the Coalition. Captain Thule had consolidated the Blood Raven forces in front of the Governor's Palace and gave out new orders. Sergeant Ariston was to remain on site with two land speeder storms. If there was any unrest, they were to deal with it. Cyrus and his squad were called back to the Armageddon to await further orders.

Now Cyrus was wandering the cruiser without purpose. He had yet to tell Captain Thule his intentions and now he found himself in the 4th practice range in the stern of the ship. The range had eight shooting halls, some occupied by brothers who wished to either improve their aim or test new weapons. The sound of bolterfire filled the air, but it was calm and practiced, and brought calm to Cyrus.

Kneeling on a rubber mat in front of the mesh grating that divided the foyer and shooting halls, Cyrus spotted an old comrade. Sergeant Avitus the devastator was busy cleaning a heavy bolter. He was carefully working an oiled cloth over the weapon, assembling and disassembling it over and over again. He was wearing his power armor minus his gauntlets, his pale hands moving swiftly over the weapon. His rough, craggy face had a serene smile, his white hair uncombed as usual. His neck was plated with augmetics that stretched up to his jawline.

"Sergeant Avitus, I see you are keeping yourself busy" Cyrus stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a slight smile on his face. Avitus looked up, a blank look on his face before he nodded in recognition.

"Well met Cyrus, I have heard of your recent exploits. Were the traitors worth fighting? You were never one to repaint your armor. I can no longer tell which marks are old or new. Although I am quite sure your augmetic was working last time we met."

"They were fierce for a militia. Had one of my initiates not slain their leader, the combat may have seen more of my scouts killed."

Avitus cocked an eyebrow, "One of your scouts slew the enemy commander? How?"

"Yes, Initiate Augustine. He shot her with my own rifle. I do not believe he knows."

"Does he have potential?" asked Avitus, busy cleaning the firing chamber of the heavy bolter.

"Immense potential for command. He is not the strongest, but he has a precision that is hard to find in new recruits. There are others in this batch that will make good sergeants as well."

"Good, we will need new officers within a decade or two."

Cyrus nodded, then spoke suddenly, realizing he had news that Avitus would want to hear. "By the way Avitus, after the battle we discovered that the Governor of Meridian had been killed in the combat."

Avitus shrugged, working on the trigger mechanism. "What of it? His death affects us little."

"My point is that the people have rallied around the 'Hero of the Capital', Tybalt Vandis. He was installed as Governor this morning."

"The man leading his house troops took credit for the whole operation? I understand that he was a Guard colonel in the past. How predictable for a guardsman to grab at power." Avitus' voice was filled with scorn. The deaths of his squadmates in the battle for Victory Bay had unleashed a deep set hatred of the Imperial Guard.

Avitus continued, "Greedy cowards the lot of them, relying on Astartes to kill the enemy, then taking credit for the victory."

"Without their aid, Avitus, we surely would have been killed".

"Astartes do not die to rabble, Cyrus".

"It was a pleasure seeing you again Sergeant Avitus. Knowledge is power, guard it well".

Avitus looked up from his cleaning as Cyrus walked away. He thought to say something, but decided against it. Cyrus was unlike most marines in that he sometimes became more formal when he was angry. Now that he had used Avitus' formal title, Avitus realized that his gruff comments about the Emperor's Hammer had displeased the scout. He shrugged and returned to his cleaning.

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Cyrus walked the hall, contemplating going straight to the bridge to speak to Thule. Instead he walked to the Apothecarium. Painted a crisp white, unlike the metal and bone color of the rest of the ship, the Apothecarium was filled with both medical instruments and the means of creating new space marines. It also contained two medical bays and a gene lab.

Inside one of the medical bays, Cyrus found the 4th company's two Apothecaries, Gordian and Harkon, the new addition. They were in the middle of a discussion on how to properly inject the black carapace.

Gordian was lecturing the younger apothecary. His voice was deep and unwavering, almost frightening in its seriousness. "Understand Harkon, this procedure is the most valuable of all, even more than the progenoid. For even if we have no progenoid glands, we can fight for a time. However, if we are unable to implant the black carapace, then our chapter is lost. Knowledge is power, and it is mine to share with you."

Harkon nodded, his long brown hair flapping over his eyes before he combed it back. "I'll memorize the procedure, sir" he replied as he tied his hair back. Both apothecaries' power armor was set in their mounts at the side of the room. They both currently wore white chitons. Harkon was facing away from the door and quickly turned around when Gordian looked up at Cyrus.

Gordian was the first to speak. "It truly is good to see you Sergeant Cyrus. Harkon, this is the man who determines which initiates we operate on. He is a genius that even taught me."

"You give me too much credit, I wish to simply influence the chapter for the better" replied Cyrus.

"It is truly a shame that some do not follow your teachings. I- I received the gene seed from Kaurava. It has been stored. It must have been hard on you. You must understand that it was not your fault." His voice took on a saddened tone.

"It was the foolishness of Captain Boreale that caused the deaths of my initiates. I know full well it was not my fault." Gordian could hear Cyrus' hate of Boreale in his voice. He paused before he spoke again, his tone neutral. "I apologize for the outburst Apothecary. I have disturbed you."

Gordian waved his hand. "You did nothing of the sort."

Cyrus nodded, "I take my leave then. Well met brother Harkon".

The younger apothecary made the sign of the Aquila as Cyrus walked out the door.

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Martellus sat on a stool inside the Armegaddon armory. His hands were clasped under his chin and his servo arm and mechadendrites were busy assembling a Godwyn pattern bolter on the work table in front of him. His face was stern with concentration. Both his eyes and most of his scalp were augmetic, and he had other implants covering most of his head. His mouth and cheeks were organic however. It gave him an almost creepy look to him, and he usually kept his armor on. Ironically this only made his flesh paler, and more disturbing. He slide the receiver over the barrel and as a finishing touch, poured a vial of the slightly opaque machine oil on the finished weapon, its fragrance filling the air of the room. All around the giant hall, which contained both the armory and the vehicle maintenance bays, other techmarines worked on their own projects. Servitors trudged back and forth, fulfilling their programmed orders.

Martellus stood, picked up the bolter, and set it on a rack of similar weapons. He moved to a row of power armor, all unpainted. Their grey ceramite was supremely polished, reflecting the light of the welding emanating from the vehicle maintenance. Martellus leaned down and picked up a paintbrush from on the ground. In his servo arm, he carried a bucket of red paint, the color of dried blood.

He began coating each piece of armor in an even layer of paint. He chuckled to himself, in the time before he was taken by the Blood Ravens to join their ranks he had collected an army of model space marines. He had painted them in the blue of the Ultramarines before his friends had ridiculed him for not painting them in the colors of his patron chapter. How nostalgic, he thought. A voice snapped him from his thoughts.

"Brother Martellus, what chapter previously owned that suit of armor?" Martellus sensed that there was at least some sarcasm, but he could not tell how much of a joke there was. He was not used to humor; the Priesthood did not believe it necessary. He turned to see Cyrus sitting on his work table.

"I take offense to that accusation Sergeant Cyrus. The Blood Ravens have never stolen another chapter's relics". Martellus had no joking tone in his voice.

"Say what you will Martellus. One of our chapter's pursuits is the search of knowledge. It is no duty of mind to impede that. Even if it does require the theft of relics."

"I will say again Cyrus, we have never stolen relics. Any items from other chapters were gifted to us".

"Gifted. My mistake". Responded Cyrus.

"And regardless, this batch is almost one hundred percent Blood Raven manufacture. I believe there is one suit of Marine Malevolent armor here, as well as two Ultramarine suits."

Cyrus was well aware of the extent that his chapter hoarded relics, included the relics from other chapters. The methods used to acquire these pieces were rarely touched upon. Cyrus did not care one way or another about the means used to obtain them, but he erred on the side of caution. More than one chapter had been declared Excommunicate Traitorus by the Inquisition because of the relics they held. Cyrus believed that relics of other chapters gave the Blood Ravens the best chance at discovering their origins, so he advocated the collection.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

He finally found himself on the bridge. Thule sat in the Captain's chair in full power armor. The large Captain had yet to remove it after the combat on Meridian. The Blood Ravens crewed their ship with mainly chapter serfs, servitors used for positions such as life support regulation and artificial gravity control. Cyrus quickly walked up to the 4th Captain, saying "Captain Thule, if I may have a word."

Thule nodded, "You may, Cyrus. I assume this concerns your initiates?"

"It does Captain. I wish to nominate them. They have all proven themselves worthy of joining our ranks in the 4th Company."

"I had prepared for this. I had Martellus begin preparing new suits of power armor."

"Indeed, he was providing a fresh coat of paint when I visited him. I have written my assignment preferences for my squad, I will allow Ariston to make his own."

Cyrus handed Thule a scroll, which he began scanning immediately. "I see, Nikephoros to Tarkus, and… why an assault squad for Augustine?"

"I knew you would question that decision Captain."

"It is my duty to question the decisions of my subordinates Cyrus" reprimanded Thule.

"My mistake Captain, I request to place Augustine in an assault squad due to the precision and accuracy he possesses. He is quick thinking and will know the perfect time to strike. An assault squad will prepare him for positions of higher command"

"You expect him to rise through the ranks quickly?" questioned Thule.

"He will rise, should he live. And he would not be the only one. Ocella Lyon from Ariston's squad is also an impressive prospect. They will serve well as battle brothers."

"The Emperor expects great things from every Blood Raven Cyrus. I have faith in your decisions."

"In the name of the Emperor and the Great Father, I will not disappoint you Captain".

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In the depths of the Eye of Terror

The planet Sicarus is a monument to the might of Chaos Undivided. Under a sky of blood and fire, thousands of slaves and servants raise basilicas and temples dedicated to the worship of the Ruinous Powers. Black cathedrals cover the entire planet, soil saturated with the blood of a thousand sacrifices. The construction is never ending, new temples are built on the roofs of the old, rising high into the unnatural sky. Next to the gargantuan Templum Inficio sits the Basilica of the Word, a massive Cathedral fortress, its walls miles high. From its battlements, thousands of still living sacrifices hang impaled. In the depths of the fortress, the Dark Council holds their meetings.

First Chaplain Erebus spoke to the group of sorcerers. He stood at the center of a long rectangular table made of black iron, his power armor the color of a scab, with silver trim. The insignia of a flaming daemonic head sat on his pauldron. He said to the sorcerers, "Bring him forth." The six sorcerers concentrated their arcane powers, and Erebus felt an almost pleasant tingling cover his ancient body. The other seven members of the Dark Council experienced the same sensation.

Within mere moments, a portal directly into the warp appeared in the room, 10 feet tall and the same distance wide. An unnatural wind, hot and grimy, with a smell like burnt flesh filled the room as a naked man was thrown through the portal, landing on his face in the middle of the room.

He was curled in the fetal position when he regained consciousness. He stood, rising to his full height of seven and a half feet. His physique was of an Astartes, but he was far from beautiful. His skin was horribly scarred with burns, and it was colored a clammy grey. He stood. He spoke, his voice ragged with pain. "Why have you summoned me here?"

The Dark Council was shocked. Such insolence, thought Erebus. Despite his shock he was the first to speak. "We felt that M'kar's treatment of you for your defeat was unfair. You will be reinstated to your former rank."

The naked Astartes smiled, "I seek to avenge my last defeat. Grant me a Host. I will scour the stars until I have destroyed them all and sacrificed their souls to Chaos almighty. Their screams will be such that Lorgar himself wakes from him meditation and the Emperor's own Custodes shiver and hold their weapons tighter! I will not stop until the Emperor's Finest are but a faded memory in the minds of our slaves! Death to all who oppose the Word Bearers!"

His speech over, Eliphas the Inheritor inhaled deeply, breathing in the dust and ash of his Legion's home.

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On the Kroozer Hunk O' Boltz
Warboss Bonesmasha stood on a stack of boyz. He was the biggest ork in the entire sector, standing at a massive fourteen feet. His nobz barely reached his shoulders. He cleared his throat to speak, and inadvertently spat all over the front row. He didn't care though; they were all stinking grots to him. He didn't even care that one was now suffocating due to the amount of spit that hit him. He bellowed to the assembled orks.

"BOYZ! NOBZ! AND GROTZ! DIS TIME WE IS GONNA 'AVE A BIG STONKIN' SCRAP! I'Z FOUND A BIG OLE' GROUP OF DEM ASTAR… er, um…. Ester… uhhh, DEM MARINE BOYZ! WHEN WE GETS DERE, WE IS GONNA GIVE DEM DE B-" He paused, he had forgotten his speech, he had worked for weeks on it as well.

He abruptly continued, ad libbing. "WELL, UHHH, WAAAAAAAAAAGH !"

The assembled orks took up his cry, shaking the ship itself with their voices. A dozen mekboys immediately left to make sure the ship was still in one piece. Ten thousand orks hurtled through the warp, bent on war and destruction.

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In the Great Hall of the Seer Council, Craftworld Ulthwé

Farseer Idranel awoke from her trance; she was sitting on a cushion in the center of the council. The other members of the council sat in wraithbone chairs around her. She was dressed in a black robe with her rune armor over it. Her red hair was tied back in a bun, her pale face beaded with sweat from the exertion. His voice eager, the head of the council asked, his voice eager. "Is it done Idranel?"

She nodded, "the greenskins have taken the bait. They will move directly into the path of the humans and the Great Devourer. We must move in the meantime".

She stood, picking up her singing spear from the ground next to her. The Seer Council stood and followed her to the giant double doors. Like everything in the craftworld, they were made of wraithbone. With a thought, they opened, revealing a host of four hundred Eldar standing in formation. Idranel seemed sad, almost as if she were about to cry. She stood in front of the host. Standing next to the door was Tyrea the Howling Banshee and Nemerian the ranger, who had returned from his long walk as an outcast to aid Idranel in this endeavor.

Idranel spoke to the assembled Eldar. "I cannot see the outcome of this undertaking. You, sons of Asuryan who take this quest with me are the bravest of your kind. You Black Guardians who wish only to protect your families and ancestors will forever be remembered in the Infinity Circuit should you fall. But we will not fall. The full force of Ulthanash Shelwe, the Song of Ulthanash, shall fall upon our foes. Our guardians will tear them to pieces; our Aspect Warriors will outmaneuver them. Our Banshees shall howl their doom. Isha will cry no tears for our foes; they are dead to her already. The only God that will smile shall be Kaela Mensha Khaine, for in his name we spill the blood of our foes!"

She paused and then cried the last of her speech "Blood runs, anger rises, death wakes, war calls! The enemy will know the might of Ulthwé the Damned!"

The Eldar Warhost marched through the webway gates of Craftworld Ulthwé to meet their uncertain fate.

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The Omnis Arcanum

Chief Librarian and Chapter Master of the Blood Ravens, Azariah Kyras, sat in his office, ancient tomes covering his desk. He spoke in a hushed voice to someone only he could hear. He held his head in his hands as he slowly shook. The color had receded from his face. His eyes were deep, bloodshot pits and the holes where his psychic hood connected to his head had become crusted with dried blood.

"Yes, of course. Angelos would never expect something like that." A pause. "The Great Devourer? Perhaps I should… No. I cannot. Even if you say that, I cannot submit to that proposal. Yes, of course. Indeed, Blood For the Blood God… Send someone? I suppose the schedule should be pushed back, should it not? Yes, Aramus will do. I will have Diomedes fetch him… An excellent choice Maledictus…"

The year is 999.M41, and there is only war…

Chapter 8: Change and Preparations


Farseer Lantillifieth Idranel shook her singing spear, the thick ork blood dripping off of it. The sun was setting on Calderis and the temperature was dropping fast. The desert wind chilled her and for once she was grateful for the long, black seer robe and rune armor she wore. The orks that they had fought in this small village were small in number, no more than fifty. They were a roving band that had arrived before the main horde. Without a clue where they were, they had traveled the planet's surface looking for a fight. They massacred the villagers and were preparing to loot when Idranel and her Seer Council had arrived.

They had moved in small numbers as to not attract attention, Idranel, her personal bodyguard Drochasal Draoi, and three others. They were veterans of a thousand battles and the orks had required little effort. However, these orks would have been irrelevant if it were not for one fact.

Idranel walked past a row of small stone houses, desecrated and looted by the orks as she approached the members of her Seer Council, standing around a prone figure near a well at the center of the village, the small area around them brightened by their ethereal powers. Ten yards away, Idranel could clearly see the ork weirdboy on the ground, the objective of their mission. A weirdboy was necessary for the Eldar's plan to succeed and Idranel counted herself lucky that they were able to find one so early and undefended.

The weirdboy was held down by the powers of her council, his hands bound to the ground by near invisible force. The monstrous greenskin stood at nearly seven feet tall. It was resisting heavily, its forehead veins protruding. As Idranel bent over it, she heard a small groan from one of her Council. It was taking all of their effort just to keep the monster on the ground. It was resisting not only physically but psychically as well.

Idranel reached down and placed her palm on the ork's forehead. She tried to grip his bestial skull with her fingers but its head was too big. It roared as she grabbed it and struggled with all its might. Etherion, a member of her council, reached his limit and stumbled backwards, his influence no longer pinning the creature's left arm. It shot up and wrapped around Idranel's throat. She choked and for a horrifying second thought that she was going to meet her death here. In an instant however, a witchblade tore through the arm strangling her, so fast it turned the blood to mist. One hand still applying his powers to the ork, Drochasal Draoi spun his blade, cleaning it of the ork's blood. Idranel look up with gratitude on her breathless face, and received a simple nod from him, his warlock's helm covering his head.

Lacking an arm, the ork was completely pinned down. Idranel replaced her palm on its head and projected her thoughts into its mind. Once she had broken through its feeble barriers, it was simple to control. She used the weirdboy's own powers to call all the orks inside the sector. The ork, controlled by Idranel, told them of great opponents, the Space Marines and Imperial Guard of the Imperium of man, and that the orks had already begun making war against them. Her job done, Idranel sighed and stepped away from the ork. Drochasal's blade slashed twice at a speed barely visible to human eyes and the ork was separated into four green, spongy, pieces.

The Council turned to Idranel, slightly fatigued from using their powers for so long on such an opponent. Idranel was facing the last lights of the setting sun as she spoke to them. "Disperse and return to the portal separately." Her voice was as sharp as her features, like a double edged blade. "We must avoid attracting attention for now. Our numbers must be preserved but soon the orks will arrive in force. Then it will be time to act, to kill many and hope that more flock to the fight. Only then can we hope to save our long dead kinsmen, and stave off the Great Devourer."

The Council dispersed into the night, leaving only Idranel and Drochasal. Idranel leaned her spear against a three foot high wall and sat on it, turning to look at her bodyguard. He had sheathed his sword, and was now taking off his helmet. His pale face and bright blue eyes reflected the moonlight, in contrast with his long braided hair, a jet black that seemed to absorb all light. He smiled slightly, a kind smile that Eldar almost always reserved for their own kind. The Eldar contain their emotions the best they can, lest they become noticed by the Great Enemy. Idranel and Drochasal had been friends for hundreds of years, and this was the extent of the affection they would show each other.

He sat next to her. For a long while they sat, listening to the wind moving across the dunes, listening for anything out of the ordinary, taking in this new world. At long last, Drochasal broke the silence. "Can we prevail?" he asked, a tiny bit of hope in his smooth voice.

"You know full well my sight has diminished of late" Idranel responded.

"I did not ask 'Will we prevail?', I asked 'Can we prevail?'. Even this dying race of ours must have hope for the future, Lantillifieth".

It was rare for even Drochasal to call her by her given name. Taken aback, she did not know what to say. "It is possible Draoi, Khaine will guide our blades." She spoke with confidence that she did not possess. As a race, the Eldar had suffered defeat after defeat in these recent times. Their number was diminishing, and some radicals believed that the time of Rhana Dandra, the Eldar's final struggle with Chaos. An even smaller minority believed that with Rhana Dandra would bring the birth of Ynnead, the Eldar god of Death, who would arise to defeat the Great Enemy, Slaanesh, once all Eldar are dead. Lantillifieth Idranel was one such believer. To her, as long as the soul stones were recovered, every Eldar death paved the way to victory. However, so many stones remain lost. It was for this reason she undertook this task. Her kin must be recovered. Her life or death did not matter, so long as this objective was accomplished.

"Farseer?" asked Drochasal. Idranel realized she had been silent for more than thirty seconds. She stood, picking up her singing spear.

"It is time to return to the host, Warlock. My plans have never failed us before, even when my vision was obscured."

Drochasal stood as well, and with little more than a blur, they were gone.

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Nikephoros knelt next to the well near the center of the village. His bolter was attached to his chestplate by magnets and his helmet was perched on his knee. It was the dead of night when his sergeant, the stoic and unwavering Tarkus, had brought them here. He and another, Ocella Lyon, the friend of the scum Augustine, were the only new members of Tarkus' squad. Right now the squad was spread across the village, piling ork corpses in the center while searching for stragglers, as well as trying to identify what had killed them.

Nikephoros sniffed the air. He smelled the machine oil of his bolter. He also smelled the promethium from the pyre that the orks were burning on. Under everything else, he could smell a faint scent that he could not identify. His brow furrowed as he concentrated, but soon determined that he had no idea what he was detecting. He donned his helmet as Tarkus approached him.

"Brother Nikephoros, report". The Sergeant's voice was full of experience and Nikephoros could almost hear the hundreds of battles that Tarkus had fought from his speech alone.

"Brother-Sergeant," he responded, "From a preliminary estimate, I have discovered no traces of the attackers nor anything more unusual than a faint smell in the air".

"A smell? My autosenses report nothing".

"Neither does mine, but I had the best tracking rating from my scout squad, Cyrus himself said so."

Tarkus nodded, "Very good brother Nikephoros, take up patrol with Lyon and finish another pass of the village, if nothing is discovered, we shall call in Thunderhawk extraction."

"Yes, Sergeant, on my way now. Knowledge is power".

"Guard it well", finished Tarkus. Nikephoros jogged off in long strides, his power armor allowing him to move with virtually no effort. Nikephoros and his squad had been sent to investigate a possible ork raid. What they found had baffled them. The town was looted and destroyed, yet the orks had been slaughtered. No projectiles had been used in the killings of the orks, only bladed weapons. These orks weren't killed by Astartes hands, thought Nikephoros as he reached the position of his squadmate.

Ocella Lyon was patrolling the outskirts of the village, moving behind sand dunes and rocks to obscure his silhouette. He raised his bolter slightly at the movement behind him, not used to the identifier in his helmet.

"Planning to murder me are you?" asked Nikephoros through helm to helm vox, their voices unheard from outside their armor.

"I would never kill a battle brother." Replied Lyon evenly.

"I'm no brother of yours, Lyon. You're far too ponderous and considerate" Nikephoros spat as they began to walk side by side, occasionally checking the horizon for movement.

"We are all brothers in the Emperor's service. We exist to protect the people of the Imperium, and uphold justice." Lyon's voice was proud; he had grown to be even more pious than he already was. Many considered him the most honorable out of all the recruits. It was suspected among the sergeants that he would die to protect even a single citizen of the Imperium. There were some who applauded this, there were many more who did not.

"There you go again, Lyon. Words like that will get you killed. We exist to kill our enemies, whoever they may be. We exist to follow the orders of our Chapter."

"You are more like Augustine than you realize," murmured Lyon.

"Don't compare me to that weakling," Nikephoros nearly yelled, "I've got no clue how he managed to gain the respect of Sergeant Cyrus, but I'll be damned if I'm going to be compared to a man like that."

"You hate him simply because he was your opponent in the Blood Trials. The one opponent you could not kill."

Nikephoros said nothing. It was true that Nikephoros had been able to kill everyone he faced before Augustine, but was that the reason he hated him so much? Perhaps, but Nikephoros felt it was something more. It was not that a person had lived; it was that he shouldn't have lived. No one that weak should have survived against him. In fact, Nikephoros thought that had he faced Ocella Lyon in the Blood Trials instead of Augustine, they wouldn't be having this conversation right now.

Like Nikephoros, Ocella Lyon was silent, thinking. His thoughts were of the past, of the day of their true acceptance into the Blood Ravens. That was the last day he had seen Augustine, six months before…

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The seventeen initiates knelt in the Chapel aboard the Strike Cruiser Armageddon, clad in black body gloves. The body gloves were pockmarked with holes from which metal plugs protruded. This was evidence of the Black Carapace that each initiate had been implanted with. It was placed under their skin, and the plugs would allow it to communicate with their power armor. It allowed them to move gracefully in such large armor, its servos moving in coordination with their own limbs. Less than a week before, they had each undergone their final surgeries to receive both the Carapace and their progenoid glands, the holy gene-seed which allows for the creation of new space marines.

Ocella Lyon was at peace, listening to the booming sermon of Chaplain Automemos. The 4th Company Chaplain had prepared this sermon specifically for this occasion. He spoke of duty to the Chapter and the Emperor, that each brother has a place in the Chapter, and should perform his duty with pride. As he spoke, servitors dragged in sixteen suits of power armor on wheeled stands, as well as racks of weapons. As Automemos concluded his sermon, each brother save Xanthis had a suit in front of him.

Captain Thule ascended the steps to the altar, clad in full power armor save a helmet, and stood next to Automemos. Cyrus was next to rise, then Tarkus. Sergeant Mercutio stood, the only marine wearing a helmet. Finally, two Sergeants that Lyon did not recognize rose. One was a young looking marine with close cut brown hair and the other was a grizzled veteran with a wrinkled face and grey hair, his neck covered in metal plates. When they were all side by side, Captain Thule spoke. "It is with pride today that I accept you all as true Blood Ravens, as battle-brothers. Your service to Chapter and Emperor has only begun, yet I know none shall find you wanting. Chaplain, if you would".

Chaplain Automemos stepped forward. His voice rang out. "Again, you shall be split into new squads. Then you shall be presented with your power armor and holy armaments." He opened a large scroll. "Brother Xanthis, you have been chosen to remain in the 10th Company. You will report to Sergeant Cyrus. May the Emperor protect you. Brother Tyrion, your aim is true; Sergeant Avitus will hone it in his devastator squad. Brother Alaris, your prowess is noted, you will serve under Sergeant Thaddeus. Brother Nero, your flexibility is impressive, Sergeant Mercutio will take you. Brother Lyon, Sergeant Tarkus will have your skills. Brother Nikephoros, Tarkus will be honored to have you as well. Brother Augustine, your precision will be valued by Sergeant Thaddeus…"

He continued speaking assignments as Ocella Lyon looked around. So he was in a squad with the Pale Monster… When all the names had been spoken, the techmarines and chapter serfs stepped forward as one. The Blood Ravens had an abnormal amount of trainee techmarines. Lyon did not know why, but he suspected it was because of the rumors that the Blood Ravens were avid relic hunters, even those of other chapters. It was a widespread rumor and other chapters were wont to call the Blood Ravens a chapter of thieves and kleptomaniacs. Surely it wasn't true, was it?

A trainee techmarine stopped in front of Lyon with a suit of power armor on a rack. Also on the rack was a polished bolter that glimmered in the light from the stained glass windows. Even a space craft was lavishly decorated, as they were hundreds, if not thousands of years old. The techmarine was wearing full power armor, the dark red of the Blood Ravens mixed in with the bright red of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the priesthood of Mars. His servitors shuffled around him as he spoke, grease and drool dripping from their bodies.

"Stand, brother" His voice was monotone, unfeeling and cold. "Receive your holy power armor and bolter". The servitors began taking pieces of the armor and placing them on Lyon, greaves, thigh guards, a plates for the arms and each finger. As they armored him, the techmarine continued speaking.

"This armor was found in the Armory only yesterday, may its machine spirit find you worthy."

"I am honored," thanked Lyon.

"This armor was gifted to us by the Salamanders, the First Founding Legion itself. Its craftsmanship is superb; it shall never fail you should you honor it."

So the rumors were true, thought Lyon. Unable to help himself, he asked, "Why is it that we possess Salamander relics?"

The techmarine cocked his head, as if it was unusual that the subject spoke during his arming. "It is well known among the chapters that we seek out our origins. Some are helpful and provide us with relics to study. Others call us thieves…"

Lyon nodded, he wasn't sure if he believed the techmarine, who reached down and picked the bolter off the rack. He presented it to Lyon.

"This bolter is of Blood Raven manufacture. It saw service during the Tartarus campaign. Brother Versio used this weapon to kill Champion Dyrben of the Alpha Legion. Do the weapon honor, for Versio believed that it was not he that guided the bolts, but the machine spirit."

Nikephoros was being addressed by another techmarine. "Brother Nikephoros, this suit was worn by Ultramarine hero Lionus Sern during the Corinth Crusade. It was gifted to us in an exchange thirty years ago. Be honored to wear the garb of a hero and the exemplar of a Space Marine."

He was presented a bolter. Its gleaming metal surface looked brand new. The techmarine began his lecture once again. "This bolter was recovered after a battle between the Thousand Sons, the Black Templars and ourselves. Although we are hated by the Black Templars, they praised our assistance against the vile sorcerers. Were it not for the redeemed Epistolary Isador Akios, they surely would have perished…"

Techmarine Martellus placed a chainsword in Augustine's left hand. "This is Thanatos," he said. "It has served our chapter for many years. May it scream the deaths of your enemies." He reached down to the rack and removed a bolt pistol. He held by the barrel towards Augustine. "This bolt pistol is unnamed. It was manufactured personally by me. Its machine spirit is strong. Take care of it, and it shall protect you. Provide it a name through your deeds."

Augustine looked down at the weapons through his new helmet. His power armor fit perfectly, its color a deep red with coal black trim on the pauldrons. The insignia of the Blood Ravens was freshly painted on the right pauldron. His left held the image of a stylized "X", symbolizing an assault marine. It seemed to be a new armor pattern; there was some sort of neck guard that rose from the chest plate almost to mouth level. Curious, Augustine asked, "Brother-Techmarine, what is the history of this armor?"

"Ahh," exclaimed Martellus, "I never thought you would be one to appreciate relics such as these."

"Knowledge is more than simply power, it is everything" replied Augustine. "I enjoy knowing everything that may give me an advantage."

"Indeed. This suit of power armor is a relic from the Astartes chapter known as the Marines Malevolent. It was recovered at the site of a skirmish between the Salamanders and this violent chapter. It seems that they had held a feud with the Salamanders that broke into open conflict. Negotiations were established and the fighting ceased, but not before more than one died. Your armor was recovered off one of the dead."

"What are its specifications?" Questioned Augustine, examining his plating on his arms.

"Mark VII power armor, made for an honor duel with the Salamanders after an argument in the Third War for Armageddon, in which both participated. It is specially made to protect against flame weapons. However, it was a bolt round to the neck that killed the previous owner of the armor. Therefore I modified it with the neck guard, and brought it up to Mark VIII standards."

"Very good. You have my thanks Brother Martellus".

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It had been so long ago, thought Lyon. He had not seen Augustine since. He had heard from Cyrus that Thaddeus had taken his squad to investigate some strange xenos activity on Typhon. There had been reports of six limbed creatures killing techpriests and civilians.

Before long, Nikephoros and Lyon had completed their patrol and returned to the center of the village, where Tarkus stood with the other seven members of the squad. When they were close he said "We have discovered little. However, it is still our duty to report to Captain Thule. These orks trouble me. I believe there may be more coming."

It scant moments, Lyon heard the whine of a Thunderhawk engine. Tarkus must have ordered one while they were still far off. Soon he could see the landing craft, a giant red monster descending from the heavens, its multiple weapons poised to bring death to any foe. With a thunderous thump, the Thunderhawk landed and dropped its boarding ramp. Slowly, the squad entered and strapped in, ready to ascend back to the Strike Cruiser.

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Eliphas the Inheritor stood before the five members of the Dark Mechanicus that had been summoned for him. They had presented him with the armor he wore during the Kronus Crusade. However, the Helm of Lorgar had not been returned to him. He was not redeemed enough for that.

One of the fallen techpriest spoke, the black spider chassis he was built into scuttling across the ground. "Perhaps we could find you another helm, Lord?"

"No." He drew the word out, filling it with the bombastic tone that had rallied so many to his cause before. "Forge me an Iron Halo out of relics stolen from the False Emperor's lapdogs. I will forgo a helm. The butcher's meat will look upon my face and tremble."

The fallen techpriest bowed, and the group scurried off. Eliphas turned to face Amphion, Sorcerer of the Word Bearers. "Warp blessed Amphion; it seems you have been ordered to join me on my Crusade. I will find a use for you."

"Do not think I respect you as much as before Apostle Eliphas. Zathus was killed at Deimos. I will never forget that."

"Do you not think I mourned for Zathus, brother Amphion?"

"No. I do not." Amphion's rough voice was filled with hate for the Dark Apostle. "Everyone under your command is simply a tool to be used."

"Grandfather Nurgle is the Lord of All, Amphion. He took your brother sooner than you. Rejoice in his blessing, for I seek to bring Nurgle's love to the entire galaxy!"

"It is only for your dedication that I follow you, Lord Eliphas."

The two walked the corridors of the Basilica of the Word, before meeting Erebus near the Chamber of Absolutions. The First Chaplain was waiting for them. "Eliphas," he said, "I have been waiting."

"I would not want to inconvenience you, First Chaplain," Eliphas' voice clearly indicating otherwise. "Why is it that you are here?"

"It seems that I cannot provide you with a Host. They are occupied with Lord Abaddon's 13th Black Crusade. However, I have found an alternative. One of Abaddon's many lieutenants is moving towards the Korianis sector, your destination. Abaddon has agreed to you accompanying as an advisor."

"I will not join the Black Legion, Erebus. I make that clear. I shall be an advisor and preacher only." Erebus, you scoundrel. You planned this all along, he thought. Erebus smiled at him, unaware that Eliphas had discovered his original plan to get rid of Eliphas. Clearly, Eliphas thought, it was not Erebus' decision to bring me back. Perhaps Kor Phaeron?

"May the Dark Gods guide your righteous fury, Apostle. Make the Blood Ravens a sacrifice to Khorne himself!"

Eliphas moved past Erebus with Amphion at his side, clutching his bedlam staff. "I intend to… Come Amphion, we have planning to do."

Amphion, for all his hate, could not keep the respect out of his voice. "Planning for what, Apostle?"

"It seems we are to be mercenaries for Abaddon's wolves. Let us see if we cannot tame them for ourselves…"

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Aboard the Strike Cruiser Armageddon, the one man who had seen the most space combat was not Captain Thule, who preferred to join battle on the ground. That marine was Apothecary Gordian. At the Kronus Campaign, the space combat was particularly fierce, and the Armageddon acted as support for the Battle Barge Litany of Fury. When the commander had been killed, it had fallen to Gordian to command. He did so admirably, and was commended by Thule after the campaign. Ever since he had studied the arts of space combat fervently.

Now he and Captain Thule stood on the bridge of the Armageddon, in orbit over Calderis. As if Gordian's shadow, Apothecary Harkon was behind his senior. The Captain and senior Apothecary were looking over Navigator reports at the tactical table. The mutated human had left the report earlier in the day before retreating back to his quarters.

Thule furrowed his brow at the report. Across from his, Gordian held his chin in his gauntlet also concerned. The Apothecary had left his helmet in the apothecarium, showing off his combed black hair and trimmed mustache. He looked up at Thule and said, "If these reports are true, we should begin preparing immediately."

Thule nodded quickly, "We need to consolidate our ground forces as soon as the hostiles make warp exit." Under his breath he said, "So many that the tides of the warp itself are altered…"

Harkon looked from behind his senior; the chart showed the warp tides in the Korianis sector. A massive fleet was moving towards subsector Aurelia.

"Captain," asked Gordian, "Do you believe this is a Chaos fleet?"

"If it were, we would have to recall the entire chapter to the subsector. I pray to the Emperor it is not. In any case, you will be in command of the Armageddon. It is not as the Codex Astartes would order, but you have proven yourself before."

Gordian bowed once and moved to leave saying "I am honored Captain Thule. I will not fail you." Then he barked "Come Harkon, we have planning to do."

His junior jumped and left with him. Thule heard him say something like "I'm ready to kill 'em all Brother Gordian!".

Thule studied the charts for a while longer. There was no organization to the movements. It cannot be Chaos, he thought. Even they would not be this erratic. Greenskins… It must be more greenskins. He walked down one of the aisles on the bridge to the astropath's station. The eyeless, emaciated human was built into his chair. They died so quickly that the Blood Ravens didn't even bother keeping them alive any more.

He said to the newest one, TZH-1735, "A message, to all Blood Raven forces: In the name of the Chapter and the Emperor."

"Come to our aid…

Chapter 9: Nothing but an under strength Battle Company


The Vorga system was a peaceful area of space in a galaxy full of war. The Tau had brought their philosophy of the Greater Good to a population of slavers and beggars, not worth the time and attention of the Imperium. Their Governor idled away in his space station, ignoring the famine and warfare below. At the hands of the Tau, it flourished. Under Shas'O Tau'n Kais Pah're , the system had been transformed into the ideal Tau society. The earth caste set up infrastructure for the poverty stricken system, the air caste allowed for fast transportation between sites of government. The Fire Caste disposed of the Governor in a most permanent fashion. In less than ten years, the Tau had created a society that rivaled that of the First Sphere of Expansion. All citizens, alien and human alike, embraced a doctrine that protected against suffering and want.

Then the Blood Ravens came.

On trails of fire, the Astartes fleet entered the system, led by the battle barge Litany of Fury. Within days, the Tau fleet, minimal due to the relative peace in the area, had been completely destroyed. The Blood Ravens deployed to the outer worlds in the system first. They crushed the governments and hierarchies, and left death and destruction in their wake. Two months later, the Blood Ravens deployed onto the capital planet of the system and in less than ten days, had isolated the capital city from all outside aid.

The capital city of Beroph, or Tau'n Nei'Va, was a warzone, the massed forces of the Fire Caste combating the Blood Raven elements pushing into the city from the ground. Pinpoint lance and bombardment cannon strikes had destroyed the air defenses, but Captain Angelos wanted to be sure. He wanted to see the dead Shas'O personally. Sergeant Corallis viewed the battle from aboard his land speeder typhoon. He was at the helm, with his steadfast Brother Arkian as gunner.

He dove low, over the curved white buildings so evidently of xenos manufacture. The roar of the speeder, as well as the air rushing past, was deafening. However, Corallis' autosenses lowered the cacophony to a whisper. Seeing movement in a building ahead, still so far away, he said to Arkian "Brother, missile in the third floor window". Arkian simply nodded, and pressed a button on the panel in front of him. His missile struck true, Corallis seeing the explosion as the land speeder swooped past, readying for another pass over the city.

"Armored spearhead under attack from xenos heavy weapons!" The vox crackled in Corallis' ear. Checking his position in relation to the battlefield, he banked right, the roar of the engines mixing with the ambient sounds of battle. The red craft dove towards the area of the fiercest fighting. The Gue'la district was just as it was named, the home for all humans in the city. Their buildings were more human in nature as well, lacking the round edges and blinding white color that was common in tau structures. This was where Angelos had decided the armored spearhead would press through. Even now, Corallis could see the forces arrayed against them. Angelos' land raider, as well as multiple predators and razorbacks, against a horde of battle suits, piranhas and hammerheads.

It would have been impossible… if Angelos had no support. Swooping down from the heavens, Corallis' land speeder typhoon strafed a line of broadsides, heavy bolter ammo and missiles finding even the tiniest weaknesses in their armor. Corallis climbed and weaved to escape enemy plasmafire, before Arkian turned his heavy bolter on group of fire warriors deploying into a wide thoroughfare. The large caliber explosive ammunition made short work of any hit.

As other land speeders joined the fight, it became just as much a battle of air supremacy as it was a ground war. Tau piranhas gracefully and silently dueled space marine land speeders. Both equally fragile, it was down to the pilot's skill to determine life or death. Corallis rolled to the right as a squadron flew in, hoping to be blotted out by the light of the sun. Useful on most foes, this tactic was worthless against a warrior with such advanced eyesight as a space marine. The squadron overshot Corallis' speeder, and the Sergeant quickly pulled it into a daring flip. Now behind the tau, Arkian had a small window of opportunity. The tau vehicles were much faster than those of Imperial manufacture. In the three seconds he had, Arkian managed to down two of the piranhas. Their burning hulls smashed into white buildings below, the smoke of their ruin joining the haze that covered the entire city, the flames from the crash unnoticed in the conflagration that was the capital city.

Corallis jolted, before turning to see a formation of hammerheads advancing perpendicular to the Astartes spearhead, followed by groups of Crisis Battlesuits, the grace with which they leapt across the roofs belying their bulky forms. Three presses of a trigger, and Arkian had sent six krak missiles down, tearing through the light armor of the hammerheads. The Crisis suits scattered, looking up before pouring blue plasma fire at the swift land speeder. Distracted, they were caught off guard by the fast moving Astartes assault squads that were following the armored spearhead. Under threat from power weapons that rendered even their thick armor useless, they withdrew further into the city, towards the Fire Caste headquarters, a large walled complex.

Inside the land raider at the head of the assault, a space marine Captain plotted his entrance into the tau stronghold ahead. Gabriel Angelos sat with his command squad, hunched over the holographic display of the battlefield. His marines were working perfectly together. They had suffered less than twenty casualties since the campaign in the Vorga system had begun. The Tau however, seemed very unorganized. Angelos suspected it was because they had yet to encounter a Crisis command suit or the like. No tau leader, Fire or Ethereal caste, had been identified. Without their leaders, the Tau were functioning on their own, on a squad by squad basis. As true in all warfare, when command and control are severed, the fighting force as a whole is crippled.

"Brace for impact!" The driver of the land raider shouted, snapping Angelos from his thoughts. The land raider shook with tremendous force.

"Driver, what was that?" questioned Angelos.

"Railgun, we were lucky Brother-Captain. If it had hit a foot to the right, it would have pierced straight through. Our left lascannon is not going to function however".

"Understood. Delegate a predator annihilator to those heavy weapons and keep pressing forward." He opened up a link to all Blood Raven forces. "Brothers, my spearhead is nearing the outer wall. All land speeders target point K7.35 on grid 37. For the Great Father and the Emperor!"

With that he cut the link, checking the map in front of him. The swarm of speeders above the battlefield was grouping like gnats, each craft unleashing their ordinance on a point in the white outer wall of the Fire Caste stronghold. By the time Angelos' land raider reached it, it would be rubble. He looked across the aisle of the large transport at his librarian aides. Brother Libarian Ourous clutched his force staff in both hands, his eyes closed, his mouth moving just barely. His gaunt face had never changed from a near translucent paleness. Some believed it was the strain of his powers that give him such a sickly look for an Astartes. A powerful telepath and divinatory, it was his task to warn the Blood Raven forces of clear and present dangers, often without the Astartes even knowing they were being spoken to. Although he didn't know it, it was Ourous who had warned Corallis of the hammerheads' flanking maneuver.

Next to Ourous was Librarian Hallevelt, an exemplary pyromancer. His force weapon was a great axe, constantly wreathed with blue flame. He was built like an ox, seemingly bursting out of his blue and bone colored power armor. His psychic hood clamped tightly on his head and from his pauldrons draped multiple sheets of parchment, detailing his achievements in combat.

Finally, Librarian Jonah Orion waited patiently near the assault ramp of the land raider. His grip on his force sword and bolt pistol was loose and steady. From under his psychic hood, his dark skinned and wrinkled face showed no signs of stress. Where Hallevelt was eager, Orion was prepared. The telekine was tapping into Ourous' psychic links to examine the tau strategies.

After passing his glance over each of the librarians, Gabriel looked at the other Astartes in the transport area of the Land Raider. The command squad of five was prepared. Sergeant Tanthius had joined the squad to carry the banner of the Company, a great honor. It now sat between his legs, ready to be carried into glorious combat.

Apothecary Cargenie checked over his tools before donning his helmet. Brothers Leonid and Eraston checked their bolters and undid the safety catch. Angelos himself, the fifth member, gripped the haft of his great daemon hammer, God-Splitter, which slew the daemon prince Sindri Myr. Inquisitor Toth had gifted him this weapon after the Tartarus Campaign, and he would not dishonor it.

A clipped statement from the driver informed Angelos that they would cross the ruined wall in ten seconds. The Land Speeders had done their task well. Angelos spoke to the Astartes. "Brothers… Brothers, this is what we have fought for. Today, the Blood Ravens 3rd Company will claim the head of the xenos leader that believes he can corrupt the proud masses of humanity. At my side, we shall destroy that which the Emperor has condemned."

His squad nodded. A sliver of light entered the transport as the assault ramp lowered. The land raider slowed to a halt as the ramp slammed into the ground, kicking up clouds of dust from the dried, brown earth. Angelos was the first out of the transport and was immediately enveloped in the sounds of combat. Forgoing a helmet, he preferred to show his face to the enemy. If they could see him, they would fear him personally.

He leapt off the ramp, his squad following seconds behind. The cracks of bolter fire and the whine of pulse weapons filled the air. Ten feet from the foot of the ramp, a fire warrior was rising to his feet. He had been thrown off balance when the outer wall had fallen. Just now rising, he fell again when God-Splitter crushed his ribs with a brutal strike to the chest. Angelos pointed to the command center five hundred yards away. It was the tau rally point. The fire warriors were falling back, hoping to set up a defense line. Broadside battlesuits began to lay down fire, reducing two razorbacks and a predator to burning wrecks. It was too late however; the Astartes were moving on foot.

The red clad space marines charged across the open field, tearing through the retreating tau. The disorganized withdrawal was cut down by bolter and chainsword. The dry soil's thirst was quenched with the purple blood of the Tau. Led by Angelos, little could stand against them. Gabriel's enhanced legs pumped him faster. Ahead, the first line was a simple redoubt make from rockcrete. The fire warriors were laying down withering fire, and many of his company were attempting to find cover rather than charge through the tempest. Already six marines had fallen, the plasma weaponry melting glowing holes in their power armor. With screams of defiance, disappointment and hate, they fell to the ground, dead or awaiting medical treatment. Gabriel paid it no heed. His artificer armor would more than stand up to the pulse weapons. At his side was Jonah Orion, the telekine minutely adjusting the trails of plasma fire to move around him.

Twenty feet away, Angelos caught a particularly nasty group of shots. His armor would have surely been penetrated, but a blue field of energy flashed, seemingly dissipating the deadly bolts. His iron halo glowed from its position on his backpack. Unlike other iron halos, Angelos' was made to activate only when the marine wearing it was in mortal danger. Reaching the redoubt, he swung God-Splitte and the rockcrete barrier shattered as if it was glass. The twenty tau positioned on it fell from their perches. Before they could rise, Angelos and Orion were upon them. Force sword and daemon hammer painted the rockrete purple with the blood of the Tau. The rest of the Astartes now advanced, no longer under pulse fire.

As they passed the redoubt, a dozen space marines fell. The Tau counterattacked with the last of their might. Six Crisis suits descended from the heavens, along with numerous fire warriors charging across open ground. The Crisis suits' heavy weapons made short work of Astartes power armor. In their center was a smaller XV22 battlesuit, its sleek grey form bearing multiple weapons. Librarian Ourous dropped to his knees behind cover, communicating to the space marines as a whole as Hallevelt charged forwards. He leapt up, a pillar of blue flame carrying him into the air. His force axe embedded itself in the neck joint of one of the crisis suits. With a sweep of its arm, he was tossed like a rag. He rolled along the ground to evade its subsequent shots, warned by Ourous. The crisis suits advanced, not concerned with the bolts that exploded all across their forms. To them, Death had arrived. They were now attempted to take Death with them. One fell, a meltagun reducing the pilot's compartment to sludge. Its killer and his whole squad were targeted, the burst cannons felling four more space marines. Apothecary Cargenie moved as fast as he could between the wounded, but he would never be able to reach them all in time.

Gabriel knew his target. Only a Shas'O would wear an XV22. He pressed forwards through the fire. The first Crisis suit in his way lost a leg to God-Splitter, the hammer shattering the heathen metals that composed it. It crashed to the ground and was consumed in flames conjured by Hallevelt. The Shas'O saw Angelos' advance and concentrated his fire. Missiles, pulse rounds, and pure flame poured towards Angelos, but nothing would stop the advancing Captain. Ten feet away, a pulse blast tore clear through his torso. The Shas'O paused as Angelos dropped to his knee. The Gue'la was dead, he thought. Before he could react, Angelos was on his feet again. The wound, to the shock of the Shas'O, had clotted already.

Two fire warriors stepped in front of their commander to protect him. They were smashed aside with a single wide swing of Angelos' hammer. The Captain pressed on and the Tau commander backpedalled in a panic as the Captain swung again. The alien commander ducked to the right, the crackling hammer barely passing over his white helmet, tearing his missile packs from his shoulders. He activated his jet pack, launching into the air while firing at Angelos desperately. Before he could do any real damage, he was under fire from the rest of the Blood Ravens, the last of the Crisis suits dealt with through pinpoint heavy weapons fire. Bolter fire enveloped him. His armor was strong, most rounds deflected entirely or exploding harmlessly. One struck true, and the commander fell forty yards to the ground.

The sounds of battle were diminishing. The tau counter attack had been short lived for there were so few to bolster their numbers. The standing Blood Ravens moved across the field, executing any they found. Angelos knelt on the bloodstained ground, God-Splitter laid down in front of him. His prayer to the Emperor and the Primarch was unheard by any of his battle-brothers. The Shas'O was dead. A lucky shot had torn out his neck and exploded his jetpack at the same time. His lifeblood had formed a large pool around him. His corpse would lay there to rot. To the Blood Ravens, Tau were not even worth burning.

Angelos stood and looked over what was left of his forces. Only forty marines were standing. He estimated that his 3rd Company was at an effective level of 60 marines. The Tau were worse foes than most, their firepower was a deadly threat and his Company had paid the price. As had he, looking down at the ragged hole in his chest, he vowed to have Apothecary Cargenie examine him when back aboard the Battle Barge. Sergeant Tanthius planted his banner next to the fallen Tau commander. In the eyes of all assembled save Angelos, this alone showed the true victory had been won.

Angelos' vox piece began beeping; the three coded beeping signaling a direct threat to the chapter. He raised a finger to his ear and pressed the stud, saying "Angelos here, status?"

"Brother-Captain, urgent news." Responded the watch officer on the Litany of Fury.

"Proceed officer," ordered Angelos.

"We have an urgent astropathic message meant for you. No one else is authorized to open it."

"Very well. We will return to the Litany of Fury before nightfall. Dispatch Thunderhawks for extraction. Apothecaries will also be necessary."

"Of course, Captain Angelos."

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Angelos stood before the astropath inside the Captain's own private quarters. The blind man wore long, purple robes, crested with the emblems of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. His frail fingers compulsively fiddled with an Aquila necklace.

Angelos spoke, "I do not have a century, astropath. Relive the message if you will."

"Of course, my Lord," the psyker replied. He swallowed audibly, and clenched his fingers tighter around the necklace. The temperature in the room dropped around 5 degrees and when the astropath spoke again, his voice had changed.

"Gabriel. It is I, Azariah Kyras, Chapter Master and Chief Librarian of the Blood Ravens. You are hereby ordered to return to Subsector Aurelia." Angelos would never be accustomed to the inherent unpleasantness of his Chapter Master's voice. It had a menace to it that even the vilest Dark Eldar Haemonculus would beggar himself to obtain. Angelos could not be sure if he had always sounded like that, or if something had happened to him. The astropath continued, "An ork WAAAAGH is poised to strike at the heart of our great chapter. A newly promoted Force Commander from the 5th Company has been dispatched, but you are the closest separate task force. Prepare your forces for battle, our recruiting worlds must not fall… no matter the cost."

The astropath shivered as the power left him. A cold sweat had covered him and he clutched his Aquila necklace with even greater conviction than before. Footfalls informed him that Angelos had already left the room. He looked around at his bare chamber, a shrine to the Emperor on one side and a bed on the other, and once again began to pray.

Jonah Orion was a trusted member of the Blood Ravens 3rd Company. He was currently sitting with the other psykers on the bridge of the Litany of Fury. They had the entire port-bow quarter of the bridge to themselves. The lights were dim, but Jonah knew that they were preparing to make a warp jump. Ourous had been talking about it for the past ten minutes. He was sitting next to Jonah, his eyes fluttering as he relayed thoughts between the psykers of the ship, giving orders to the people who needed them. Ourous raised his head, and turn to look at the entrance of the bridge just before Gabriel Angelos stepped inside and sat on the command chair. He was wearing full armor minus a helmet, and his regal red cape trimmed with black draped from his backpack to its hem a little above the ankle. The entire bridge had turned to look at him, awaiting orders.

"All Blood Raven forces, prepare for a warp jump. Our chapter calls, and as Blood Ravens, we must answer. Brother-Librarian Ourous will provide the coordinates. The foul race of the orks has descended on subsector Aurelia. They seek to tear the heart out of our Chapter. A few brave initiates under Captain Davian Thule stand to face them. However, the orks are too many. Our Chapter Master Kyras has commissioned a Force Commander to join Captain Thule. It is thought that he shall turn the tide of battle against the orks. Chapter Master Kyras has also, however, ordered us to reinforce Captain Thule. We Blood Ravens never shirk our duty. Let none find us wanting!"

Within minutes, a hole tore in reality, and the Litany of Fury and its escorts were racing towards Subsector Aurelia, a three week journey if the warp tides were on their side. As quickly as they had come, the Blood Ravens had left. The people of Vorga were on their own now. With the alien oppressors dead, the Blood Ravens had no duty to remain. That was Imperial Justice. With every passing day as food grew scarcer and arguments became war, the people of Vorga looked to the skies, praying that the Blue Men would not return. For the people knew, that should they return, the Angels of Death would not remain in heaven for long.

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Apothecary Gordian was bored. He had thought it was impossible; there were always wounds to treat, or experiments to devise, but ever since the Navigator had told of the shift in warp tides, the Blood Ravens were on high alert. This basically meant that Gordian was confined to the bridge in case of enemy warp exit. Now he sat in front of a tactical console, switched off for the moment. The bridge lighting was dimmed and the auxiliary lighting left a red glow over everything. The space he could see out of the bridge viewport was empty, save for the glittering of stars and the night side of Calderis. With his chin resting in the palm of his hand, Gordian wondered when Thule would come relieve his position. Yes, he thought, I am the most experienced at ship to ship combat, but there are things I could be doing. A commotion near the entrance brought him from his half-hearted complaints. The Navigator stood panting in the doorway, the mutant's green robes were dripping with sweat and his hand was planted over his bloated forehead.

"They're here!" He shrieked. His bluish skin was paling more every second. Gordian looked at the astropaths, watching for a sign. A pair of them had their heads raised, as if looking towards the ceiling. Suddenly they stopped, and one stood and walked towards Gordian, evidently not mounted to his station like some of the others. Even with a cane, he walked better than a blind man should, though Gordian knew it was some psyker skill that provided a sort of sight. Stopping in front of Gordian, he spoke in a raspy, tired voice. "It would be prudent to fetch the Captain. Though Esteemed Navigator Edric can see the warp tides are about to overflow. We… can hear them my Lord Astartes. They are chanting for blood, calling out to their gods. I pray to the Emperor every moment that we can face them."

"I see. Thank you astropath. Prepare the others, if what you say is true, it is time for battle." Gordian stood, donning his helmet. With a word, he was in contact with Thule.

"Captain Thule," Gordian said.

"The orks are here, are they not?" came the reply.

"In scant moments, Brother-Captain."

"Very well, you are in command of the Armageddon now; cooperate with Martellus to work effectively. Order all squad leaders to the briefing room."

"Yes, Captain. Knowledge is power"

"Guard it well, Gordian." With that, the link was cut, and Gordian set about preparing for battle.

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The leaders of the 4th Company stood around the tactical charts in the briefing room. Thule was with them, staring gravely that the icons that represented the predicted ork landings on Calderis. Sergeant Tarkus was the first to speak. His voice was calm but firm. "It will be a ground war. No matter how many ork ships the Armageddon can shoot down, some will make it to the surface."

"You are correct Tarkus," Thule agreed, "However we do not have the numbers to defend the whole planet. We must plan wisely".

Mercutio, head covered as usual, said, "I propose a defense of the capital. Orks congregate to combat; we must draw them to us."

"No." rejected Chaplain Automemos, already carrying his Crozius Arcanum, both a chaplain's weapon and badge of office. "We must draw the orks away from the cities. There we can leave them in the desert and isolate them."

"With all due respect Chaplain," responded Cryus, "my experience in the Deathwatch has taught me much about the ork. First of which, is that they thrive in harsh environments. We must kill them swiftly if we wish to eliminate them all."

"Then Mercutio is right", rumbled Avitus, "We should draw the alien scum into the ravines and canyons around Argus and slaughter them where they stand!" He glanced around and then added "Where is Thaddeus? He does not seem the type to be absent".

Thule was the one who answered. "I ordered Sergeant Thaddeus to patrol the southern deserts in a bike formation. His squad has slain over fifty orks in the last week alone. There appears to be many stragglers that arrived some time ago. He also reports findings of more dead orks."

Sparking his interest, Tarkus replied, "Captain, my squad never found conclusive proof as to what killed those orks. Possibly Eldar?"

"Nonsense Tarkus," growled Avitus, "Were you never taught not to speculate? Knowledge is power after all! The Eldar have no stake in this, why would they slay orks aimed at us?"

"Indeed. The thought is foolish." Allowed Tarkus.

"Enough. Mercutio and Avitus are correct in this matter. We have no choice but to protect Argus." Thule's order was absolute, and none dared disagree when he used a tone like this. He continued, "Avitus, to the northeast of Argus is a small hamlet. It has little value other than a choke point. You and Cyrus will use it to funnel orks into killing fields. Go now and prepare."

The two sergeants made the sign of the Aquila before exiting the room. Thule looked down at the map again and continued. "The according to these charts, the majority of the orks will land on the east side of Argus. This is unfortunate, due to this here." He pointed at a marking on the map, labeled "locomotive tunnel".

"No doubt the orks will use the tunnel to enter Argus" extrapolated Tarkus.

"We should seal it then" suggested Mercutio.

Thule shook his head. "No, those lines our vital to our own war effort as well. We should defend them if we can. There is a station here," he said as he pointed to another marking. "The orks' numbers will be useless if we defend from there. They will be unable to surround us."

As if a tyranid lictor had appeared in the room, scout sergeant Ariston spoke. "A second defensive line outside the station must be made."

"I see," said Mercutio, "If we were to pull back to there the orks would most likely follow us instead of continuing down the tunnel."

"See to it Ariston," ordered Thule. "Tarkus, you will remain on the Armageddon. Chapter Command has informed me that a newly promoted Force Commander named Aramus is in transit, due to arrive in less than two days. You will meet him and join the battle at his side."

"Orders understood, Captain Thule"

"Chaplain, you will oversee the defense of the city itself. Take Magnus' assault squad and Borian's tactical squad."

"Of course, Captain Thule. The Emperor protects!" The chaplain placed his helmet on his head and left the room.

"Very good, Mercutio, Ariston, with me!" The four Astartes exited, ready to face the orks with everything they had.

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The bridge was tense now. Captain Thule had left with the majority of the 4th Company an hour before, and now Gordian was truly in command of the Armageddon. His apprentice Harkon was arming himself with Tarkus. The young Apothecary was impetuous, ready to kill orks with anything he could get his hands on. He had finally settled on a simple bolter and chainsword.

As the chronometer struck 18:32 Terran standard, a klaxon wailed. Gordian was on his feet and in front of the command lectern immediately, putting his helmet on. Looking at the screen in front of him, he could see dozens of red dots representing the ork fleet. More appeared every second.

"Warn Captain Thule," he said calmly, "and warm up the bombardment cannon and forward weapon batteries."

Shouts of acknowledgement accompanied his orders as he looked out the bridge viewport. He almost thought he could see the enemy, but scolded himself knowing that they were far out of eyesight.

A chapter serf shouted from his console "Captain Thule acknowledges!" Another serf shouted, "Bombardment cannon ready in five, Apothecary! Magma shells loaded for armor piercing spread!"

Tense minutes passed as the dots on the console grew closer. In seven minutes they were within maximum range. Slamming his right hand against the lectern and pointing with his left index finger, Gordian shouted, "Fire! Death to the enemies of the Emperor!" The ship shook as the bombardment cannon flared and Gordian watched the red streaks of the Magma shells tear through space, more than ten minutes before they would strike their targets.

And thus the first shots of the Aurelian Crusade were fired, silent in the vacuum of space.

Chapter 10: Rising Star

In the inky blackness of space, the Armageddon desperately held off the ork craft. People on the dark side of Calderis could see the flashes of magma cannons and melta shells from the orbital battle. The ork craft were numerous, but primitive. Many were nothing more than meteoroids with simple engines strapped on the backs. For a Strike Cruiser like the Armageddon, they were nothing. However, multiple ork kroozers were hidden in the field of roks.

Apothecary Gordian was tense, brow furrowed under his pure white helmet. The Armageddon and her crew had performed admirably as of yet, but there were still dozens, if not hundreds of ork craft out there. He gripped the edge of the command lectern, from which he had not left in more than six hours. The view screen in front of him showed a sea of red dots representing ork craft. His flotilla was insignificant in comparison. One on one, only his Strike Cruiser could face an ork Kroozer. I must prevent roks from reaching the surface, he thought. However, I must also eliminate enemy orbital support.

"Apothecary!" shouted a Chapter serf from his tactical console, "The roks are moving to Calderis! The projected landing zone is just as predicted!"

"Understood. Comm officer," he said, speaking to a serf on his right, "move the escort craft into an intercept course with the roks, have them stop as many as they can."

"Transmitting, Apothecary!" the man replied.

Gordian smiled. If the escorts can eliminate some of the roks, Captain Thule will have an easier time. He looked out the bridge window at the ork fleet. Even with his enhanced vision, he could only make out specks in the blackness. Many of those specks were the explosions of ork propelled meteors.

He raised his voice, speaking to the bridge crew. "Tac officers, search for large signals, we must discover the locations of the ork kroozers."

Before he could even finish speaking, a tac officer exclaimed, "Apothecary, large ork vessel moving out of formation! It's firing torpedoes sir!"

"Initiate evasive maneuvers. Lock onto the heat signal and fire a melta torpedo spread as a counter attack." Gordian was calm, even though the torpedoes were moving at hundreds of miles a second; it would take more than ten minutes for them to arrive, plenty of time to evade, he thought. After a few tense moments, a gunnery officer reported a target lock, and soon their own torpedo spread was streaking through space.

Gordian looked back at the tactical map. The escort craft had engaged the roks, but there were too many. The Blood Ravens did not have the Aurelian Navy Fleet with them, and as such did not have the manpower to mine the shipping lanes. Roks were destroyed by the dozen, but dozens still made it through.

A defense officer reported that the torpedoes were less than a minute for impact. The forward void shields were ready. "Brace for impact!" shouted Gordian, his vox enhanced voice echoing throughout the bridge. The Strike Cruiser rocked with explosions; however its void shields stood fast. The God-Emperor was with us, thought Gordian, only two torpedoes hit. As the bridge settled down, Gordian saw the blip representing the Kroozer disappear from the display.

"Very good crew. Fire the forward weapon batteries on another barrage; we must aid the escort craft with those roks." Space combat suited Gordian, although it could be tense at times, it was also very clinical. It was almost like surgery, the tiniest things could result in victory or loss, and their effects were only known long after the event that caused them had passed.

"Uhh, my Lord? We have some odd readings down here. I think you should see for yourself."

Gordian stepped down from his position and walked down to the officer, in front of one of the more precise tactical charts. His console showed that several of the larger ork craft were pulling away from the horde of roks. Before he could comment, the Navigator was there. Gordian had not noticed him enter. Unlike earlier, the Navigator was now calm, perhaps because he realized the power of the Astartes fleet. The mutant quietly said "They are leaving. With the way the tides run, they will be all across the sector in days."

Gordian paled. He could not; he must not let this happen. From where he stood he ordered, "All craft, divert fire to the disengaging orks! Th-they cannot leave the system!" He shook himself, he was panicking. If the orks left the system, the Blood Ravens would not be able to aid for quite some time. Meridian was under martial law, so it was better off than most, but the jungle world of Typhon was a perfect environment for orks to grow.

The Comm Officer told Gordian, "Hunter-class destroyer Menelaus questions your order! They say that it will bring them too close to the roks!"

"Tell them to follow my orders or Kyras himself will hear about this!" replied Gordian tersely, displeased that someone under his command would disobey him.

"The Menelaus is on the move" confirmed the Comm Officer. Gordian returned to his lectern and looked at the tactical display. His escort craft were trying to move around the sea of roks to gain a line of sight on the retreating ships. One ork ship was already under fire from the Armageddon, and if the predictions were correct, its red dot would blip out of existence in five minutes. Then an alarm pierced the relative silence of the bridge. He looked first to the tactical map, where one of his ships was marked as destroyed. He looked out the bridge viewport, below him, easily seen against the black of space was a flash, no doubt signifying the destruction of a space craft.

"All ships! Status?" questioned Gordian. The officers on the long vox checked in with every ship in range.

"It's the Menelaus sir!" Shouted a chapter serf.

Gordian looked on in shock. "Emperor preserve them." He whispered, then asked "What happened, how did we lose them?" Before he could respond, another alarm blared.

"Sir, Cobra-class frigate Wrath of Aegea reports heavy damage, casualties in the hundreds. Hunter-class destroyer Wings of the Corvidae is listing, heavy damage to bridge and engines."

Gordian finally realized it. "All craft, pull away from the roks, they have ships hidden within them, out of our sight!" It was my fault, he thought, his eagerness resulted in the deaths of hundreds.

As the craft pulled away from the ambushers hidden in the roks, the Wings of the Corvidae exploded in a brilliant flash of light.

Gordian grimaced. It was over now. They could not stop the roks, nor could they keep the others from fleeing. He walked to the vox officer's station and tapped into the frequency. "Apothecary Gordian to all ships, we are combat ineffective, pull back and regroup. The Emperor will preserve the souls of the lost. Knowledge is power." He returned to the Captain's chair, and sat down for the first time in six hours. The fleet was regrouping; their ranks thin with the losses incurred from the ork ambush. Gordian was puzzled. It was strange for orks to use such strategy, he thought.

The nav officer stood and walked to where Gordian was sitting. The man looked tired, his eyes had dark circles under them and his grey uniform was damp with sweat. He was holding a piece of vox paper. "My lord, a craft is exiting the warp behind us; it is broadcasting a Blood Ravens signal. Orders?"

"One of our own? It seems our reinforcements have arrived. Allow them to board." The officer made the sign of the Aquila and returned to his station. As he left, Gordian activated his personal vox.

"Sergeant Tarkus," he said, "prepare your squad, our Force Commander has arrived."

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Apothecary Gordian marched down the hallways of the Armageddon to the drop pod bays. There, he was planning to see Tarkus and their Force Commander off. The corridors were bustling with chapter serfs and servitors. It was as if Gordian was striding through a sea of children. After a short walk, he had reached the drop pod bay. The large room was quiet. Very few were preparing for planetary drop. Sergeant Tarkus stood with his squad near the fifth drop pod from the entrance. The sergeant had chosen five men to join him. Gordian recognized the familiar armor of Brothers Nikephoros and Lyon, each blessing their bolters before the combat drop. Behind the tactical squad, Techmarine Martellus was whispering to the machine spirit of the drop pod. Also waiting was Apothecary Harkon, who was prepared to accompany the squad, bolter at the ready.

Tarkus himself was prepared, waiting for the Commander to arrive. He nodded acknowledgement at Gordian as he entered. The tactical sergeant had his bolter strapped to his leg and was carrying his helmet under his arm. Gordian walked up to him and removed his helmet. "This is my fault Sergeant Tarkus, my eagerness cost us a great deal."

"You made a decision Apothecary; sometimes the Emperor requires deaths in his name. Those men died well."

Gordian was not entirely convinced, but before he could comment, the double doors to the bay opened with a hiss. Turning, Gordian caught his first glimpse of their new Force Commander. His armor was as beautiful as anyone would expect from one of his rank, but what surprised Gordian the most was his face. The Commander was young, no more than a hundred years old. His brown hair was well combed and his face was untouched by the scars of battle save for a single service stud.

The Commander strode up to the assembled marines. Tarkus stepped forwards, "Commander, I am Sergeant Tarkus, welcome to the Armageddon. If you would ple-"

The Commander cut him off saying "There is no time for introductions. There are orks to kill. I am Aramus, you will follow my orders and victory will result. None shall find us wanting. For the Emperor." He walked directly past Tarkus into the drop pod. Tarkus seemed a bit ruffled. Not because he had been interrupted, but because he prided humbleness above almost everything.

Gordian had heard about this, the Commander known as Aramus was an upstart. Due to his elevated status, he believed himself better than others. Not to the extent of a certain Captain of the Honor Guard however. Brushing treasonous thoughts from his mind, Gordian watched the squad board the drop pod and strap themselves in. With a press of a button, the pod was closed off from the rest of the bay, and with a shock, it was gone.

Martellus moved from the control panel to stand with Gordian. "Apothecary," he said, "What do you think of our new Commander?"

"I believe him sorely lacking in modesty Techmarine." Gordian replied.

"They all learn eventually, Brother."

"I certainly hope so."

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Not as planned, thought Captain Thule. The orks had pushed them from the station. Now his brothers were scattered across the valley. The station that connected the tunnels was overrun with orks. Four of the initiates from Priam's squad had died attempting to hold it. When they had pulled back to the secondary positions, the orks had pursued as predicted. However they had come in much larger numbers than predicted. Something must have happened in space.

Mercutio's squad had retreated to the ridgeline and was now stuck in constant combat with ork tankbustas and shoota boyz. To the west of Mercutio, Thule stood upon a mound of earth; above his squads of initiates who were taking cover in the trench constructed at the fall back point. Calderis' sun had just now risen, and the battlefield was bathed in the orange light of the star. He had around twenty initiates with him, fresh recruits. Many had not even received half of their implants.

Thule hefted his heavy bolter, sunlight reflected off both it and the gold trim of his power armor. The orks were pouring across the open ground towards their position, and he had plenty of ammo. As confident as he was however, he knew he was in dire straits. They would soon be overwhelmed. He steadied himself, and opened up with his heavy bolter. He had loved that weapon ever since he was a devastator. He loved the power it had, as well as the voice singing praise to the Emperor. A voice that never tired so long as one had ammo for it.

He dragged the weapon in a wide arc. The high caliber bolts tore through the ranks of the orks, their green limbs and thick torsos shattering and covering the orange sand with their thick blood. The report of the weapon was a hymn in his ear, and no ork that received his sermon lived to take another step.

"Initiates! Stay in cover! Kill the orks that are in the open!" His brothers opened fire with enthusiasm, sending more orks to lie on the dusty earth. Sergeant Ariston stood with them, his combat shotgun never missing its mark. He killed ork after ork, but still more came from the mouth of the tunnel.

Is there no end to them? Thought Thule. His vox crackled in his ear. The Commander was on his way. Pausing for a moment, he looked up to see a streak of red from the sky. A drop pod. He grinned, the tide had turned.

"Scouts, help has arrived, hold on a little longer!" The orks had dropped behind what cover they could to escape Thule's heavy bolter, not that it would help them. Though their numbers were great, they could not reach the Astartes' position alive. Again Thule's vox sounded, and he heard an unfamiliar voice in his ear.

"Captain Thule? I am Force Commander Aramus, here to provide aid." As Thule had thought, it was the newly arrived Force Commander.

He smiled and said, 'Welcome Commander, I am in command here on Calderis, it seems you have dropped south of our position. Aid us in routing these orks and you will have my gratitude."

"I am on my way Captain, the Emperor Protects."

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Ocella Lyon and the rest of Tarkus' squad deployed from the drop pod with practiced efficiency. To their north, the sounds of battle were audible, a rumbling that was marked by the crack of bolter fire. Lyon looked at their two guests, Commander Aramus and Apothecary Harkon. Harkon was known to Lyon. He was dependable as an Apothecary, but Lyon had never seen him in a fight. Aramus was different. Lyon expected that one of his rank and youth would be powerful, but the way he carried himself suggested an overblown arrogance.

The force gathered in front of the drop pod. Aramus inspected the Astartes. In his hands he carried a power sword and bolt pistol, and his head was bare. Tarkus asked, "Commander is it wise to fight without a helmet?" Though it was commonplace for those of higher command to forgo the use of helmets, Tarkus had rejected this idea. A helmet could be the difference between life and death. He removed his in a combat zone only rarely.

"The Emperor protects." Said Aramus with a smile. "An I would have my enemies know their killer."

Already Lyon had an impression of the new Commander. He was certainly brave. Lyon expected things now. Without another word the squad set off to the north at a brisk run. The terrain was light and the moving was easy. Nearing the battleground, the bolter fire became louder and Lyon could hear the savage howls of the greenskins.

Not much longer, the Astartes met their first opponents. Eight orks, a flanking team most likely, had spotted the Space Marines charging out of the more mountainous terrain. Before Tarkus could order his squad to fire, Aramus was in the middle of them. His power sword lopped limbs and sprayed red mist into the air. Lyon watched as the Commander murdered the orks. It was not a fight; the orks were simply animals to slaughter. Next to him, Apothecary Harkon chuckled, "that is what a Space Marine is, Brother Lyon."

Maybe it was, thought Lyon. Aramus had certainly proved his worth in combat. With the flanking attack dead, the squad rushed forward. Within moments, the center of the battle was in sight. Lyon saw the valorous figure of Captain Thule standing on a large mound of earth above his scouts. The bareheaded Captain was mowing down orks by the dozen with his heavy bolter, but there were still more coming from the mouth of the station. His scouts desperately poured fire into the mob, but were doing little to thin their numbers.

"For the Emperor!" shouted Aramus. He charged ahead of the group as Tarkus curtly ordered the squad to open fire. Lyon aimed with the help of his helmet HUD and opened fire. It was impossible to miss such a large group. Every shot impacted an ork, the savage greenskin exploding a millisecond later. He fired and fired and when his bolter clicked empty, Lyon calmly reached down and replaced the magazine. With a snap, the bolt was in place and Lyon began firing again.

The flanking attack had caught the orks off guard, but they quickly turned to fight their new opponents. Their primitive firearms were nearly useless against power armor. Lyon and the rest of the squad took cover behind a small group of rocks nonetheless, the perfect position to fire upon the horde. Only Aramus and Harkon pressed forwards.

Aramus charged forward, rolling and impaling the first ork he met on the edge of his power sword. The beast fell heavily. Recovering his stance, Aramus pressed forwards. Every ork in his path fell, whether it was through a bolt round through the chest or the flashing power sword. An ork swung a crude axe at his head and he calmly stepped aside and moved past the ork. He stabbed behind him, killing the ork and at the same time raised his bolt pistol to shoot another in the face. His armor and face was spattered with the blood of the alien.

As Lyon fired, he saw the true worth of Aramus. He was an excellent combatant. The orks could not lay a single blow on him. He had not parried once and his fighting was precise. Aramus was a dancer in combat, though a brutal one. He sailed past orks to deliver brutal chops and stabs. He was not graceful, simply untouchable. Harkon was different however. He had emptied his bolter on the charge, and lowered his shoulder to ram the first ork in his way. The ork died with a crushed body and the next three in his path were killed with fierce barehanded blows. A large nob swung its club at Harkon. With crazed laughter he ducked the attack and grappled with the ork. Pulling it down by its armor plates, Harkon head butted the ork four times. The ork stumbled; the Apothecary's helmet had shattered its jaw. Harkon leapt up and grabbed the ork around the neck, and tore its head off with a nasty ripping noise. His white armor would need a good cleansing. Lyon had an unhealthy reminder of Sergeant Ariston. The quiet scout had an unnatural fixation with tearing off body parts.

With the death of the nob, the orks were lessened in strength. Every once in a while, Lyon could see the orks strike at each other. The nob's death had shattered their resolve and they were fighting over who was the new leader.

"Forward." Ordered Tarkus. The six marines advanced from cover to cover. The orks were caught in a pincer between Thule, Aramus and Mercutio, who was now pressing down from the ridgeline. The faceless Sergeant's plasma gun reduced every ork in its sights to green sludge.

Thule leapt down from his position and slowly walked into the combat, firing his heavy bolter at the hip. It was much less stable this way, but he needed to lead from the front. "Die greenskins!" he shouted. Before he could take ten steps he encountered a helmetless marine with a power sword. The young Astartes was covered head to boot in ork blood. His bolt pistol was empty and he was swinging his blade two handed. Thule watched as he grabbed an ork by the arm, and pulled it directly into the pommel of his blade. The pommel broke the ork's skull and the squat alien howled as it died.

As he did so, the marine shouted "Is this it? Show me what passes for fury among your misbegotten kind!" Another ork charged him, and he cut its hand from its body before the ork could even raise its blade. An instant later, the headless ork joined the dozens of others littering the valley. The squads, let by Thule and Aramus, pushed the orks back with little more resistance. As they entered the station, the orks began to retreat through the tunnel they had arrived from. Thule fired his heavy bolter, tracing it across the roof of the tunnel. The high caliber bolts broke the rock. The falling pieces effectively sealed the tunnel. Harkon and the other tactical marines mowed down the orks that had not been able to flee.

Thule sighed. Victory was theirs, for the time being. He flipped the safety of his bolter and sat on a long grey fuel pipe. Aramus stood in front of him. The marine was wiping his face with a small white cloth he had grabbed from somewhere in his armor. Tarkus and Mercutio exchanged greetings and moved to gather around the Captain. Apothecary Harkon wandered, treating the injured.

Ocella Lyon calmly reloaded his bolter. He was nearly out of ammunition. He looked over to Nikephoros. The Pale Monster had removed his helmet. Sweat beaded his face, but he looked pleased with himself. The both of them had fought admirably. Lyon moved over to him and said, "37."

"46. Better luck next time," was the response. Lyon smiled. Nikephoros was certainly competitive. Lyon turned to Thule as the Captain cleared his throat.

"Commander Aramus, Sergeant Tarkus, well met brothers."

"Well met Captain," replied Tarkus.

"The orks have fled, Captain." Stated Aramus, "we should pursue."

"No, Commander. The orks will be back. It means nothing to attack now. We must strengthen our defenses and prepare for their counter-attack."

"The Codex Astartes demands that we hound a retreating foe." Demanded Aramus. "We dishonor Guilleman should we refuse to follow his teachings."

"The orks are not a retreating foe. They are broken. Attacking them now would be like attacking a cornered dog. If we wish to defeat them with minimal casualties, we will force them onto our killing ground. Guilleman writes of this as well."

"Yes. Of course Captain." Muttered Aramus. To him, minimal casualties meant an unneeded amount of care. The Astartes were about crushing victories and shock and awe. His favorite tactic was a head on assault. Nothing provided more glory and honor than beating your foe head on. He sheathed his power sword. Looking up at Thule, he saw that the Captain was looking past him. He turned, and saw Tarkus with his hand on his ear. The Sergeant was listening intently to the vox; his normally stoic face had a hint of shock and a bit of sadness mixed in it.

He removed his hand and said, "Captain Thule, Commander, I believe you should hear this. It has been repeating for quite a while. He pressed a button and the vox became audible to all.

"Captain Thule, unfortunate news." The voice gravelly and Lyon recognized the tone of Sergeant Cyrus. It continued, "The hamlet has fallen to the orks. I barely made it out with my squad intact. Avitus' squad was overrun. From where I am, my auspex reads three life signs out of eight. I fear Avitus himself may be among the slain. Requesting reinforcement. I can do nothing here."

Silence reigned after the message ended. Thule was frowning. Avitus was one of his most trusted Sergeants. If he was truly dead, it would be a great loss. He said to the group of Astartes, "We must respond. Tarkus, attempt to contact Cyrus and inform him help is on the way. The strike force will consist of the Commander, Tarkus' squad and Apothecary Harkon. Mercutio, vox the Armageddon and call in a Thunderhawk gunship for transport."

Aramus nodded and asked, "What will you do Captain?"

"I will return to Argus with the scouts and Mercutio." Thule answered. "The orks will return, and in large numbers, we must be prepared to defend the Capital."

"Understood. We will not fail." declared Aramus, gripping the hilt of his power sword in its sheath.

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Lyon and Harkon stood on the ridge, watching for the Thunderhawk. The rest of the strike force was waiting below. Some time had passed and Thule and the others had already returned to Argus using the remaining tunnel.

"You are a fierce fighter Apothecary." Said Lyon.

Harkon laughed, the vox grille distorting the normally pleasant sound to a grating rumble. "And you are a strong one as well. You are quite accurate with that bolter. I prefer to be up close however."

"So I have seen." Stated Lyon.

"Ahh," exclaimed Harkon, "where is your comrade Augustine?"

"With Sergeant Thaddeus," replied Lyon, "I have not seen him for some time."

"No doubt he is deep in combat like us. The both of you are Sergeant material. Thule is lucky to have you."

"The God-Emperor has called, and we were there to answer."

"Indeed. He and the Unknown Primarch."

Their conversation was cut off as they saw the Thunderhawk in the distance. The red craft was dropping low to land in the valley. When it had landed, the squad boarded through the front entrance and strapped in. With a lurch, the bird was airborne and headed to their next combat.

Aramus thought of the orks to kill and victory to come. Nikephoros thought of Sergeant Cyrus, the man who had taught him much. Harkon thought of the dead, and the saddening but necessary act of the progenoid gland extraction. He looked down at his reductor on his right arm, hoping he would not have to use it many more times. Sergeant Tarkus thought of duty, to the Emperor and the Chapter. Ocella Lyon thought of his future. This was his first campaign as a Space Marine, what would the future hold for him and his brothers?

Chapter 11: Potential


Avitus grimaced in pain. He sat with his back against the outer wall of a stone house. His heavy bolter was nowhere to be found and his left hand was clamped over a deep hack in his right abdomen. His side was bleeding thick blood. He looked down with slight worry. The injury was incredibly deep, even his larraman cells were not fully stopping the bleeding. The two bullet wounds in his left leg had long stopped bleeding. If he did not get medical treatment soon, he may pass out or even die. Even Astartes can suffer from blood loss, despite how powerful their physiques are.

It had been horrible. The orks had come from the front, at first. Avitus and his squad had shot them down with barely a thought. In the dead of night eight hours before, the squad had transformed the hamlet into a killing field. The sandbags and rockcrete walls they had set up allowed them to fire upon the charging orks with little need to care for their own safety. The eight of them had killed over three hundred of the wailing greenskins. Avitus, Loron and Arkadios had used their heavy bolters to great effect and the others had proved themselves with their bolters.

It was all for nothing. A group of nobs had found a path that even Cryus had missed. The giant orks had smashed into the side of Avitus' position and tore into his squad. In the struggle, Avitus' heavy bolter had been torn from him and he was thrown bodily from his position by an extremely irate nob. The nobs had provided just the distraction needed. The rest of the mob easily reached the position and joined the melee.

Avitus wasn't sure how he had survived. All he knew was that he was shamed because of it. On the other side of the house he was leaning against, the orks were roaming the hamlet. He wanted to die, in combat against them. His squad was dead and all was lost. He began to drag himself towards the corner of the house, groaning in pain as the wound stretched. More thick, dark blood dripped from his wound, forming a trail behind him as he struggled to move.

He reached the edge of the house and looked around it. Twenty yards from him, the orks were busy setting up their own crude fortifications and talking about something called "dakka deff lanes". Avitus assumed they meant kill zones, but he didn't care. All he wanted to do was face them. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't support him and he fell back to the ground.

At the sound, an ork turned. Avitus could see the Astartes helmet freshly planted on its trophy rack, the dried blood on its choppy. Disturbingly, there was blood on the trophy spike where the helmet sat. Avitus had the feeling that the helmet wasn't empty.

The ork had spotted him, and Avitus couldn't even stand. He fought with all his might to rise to his feet, but he only kicked at the coarse sand. The greenskin twisted his mouth into a grim smile, his multiple tusks protruding from under his lips, and raised the heavy pistol in his left hand. Before he could raise it past his hip, his head burst with a pop. Avitus' eyes widened, he recognized the aftereffects of an Astartes sniper rifle when he saw it. The orks spun around, looking for the source of the shot.

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Then all hell broke loose. The two story stone tower the orks were using to spot from collapsed, its base rocked by a tremendous explosion. Dust spread throughout the hamlet, obscuring the vision of the orks that were wandering about. They were confused. Orks hated being attacked from an unknown location. They enjoyed fighting with their foe directly in front of them.

Through the dust, as if they were answering the wishes of the orks, the Blood Ravens advanced. Avitus could see Tarkus and his squad, following a lone, helmetless Blood Raven. Avitus furrowed his brow in puzzlement. The Astartes' face did not look like a warrior. In fact, his hair was so well combed Avitus at first thought it to be modeled off of the hairstyles of the "pound" artists, popular with the gangers of Meridian. Thaddeus had tried to introduce him to it, and Avitus still remembered the horrible lyrics and grating noises, far worse than the sounds of combat.

Avitus watched as the Astartes with the slightly ridiculous hair charged the orks. His opinion of him as a pretty boy was rapidly changed when the marine had chopped through the first four orks. Tarkus and his squad were keeping the orks from flanking the Commander with accurate bolt fire. The confused orks were slaughtered by the advancing marines. Four boyz armed with crude machine guns dropped behind a piece of sheet metal set up as cover, but before they could fire, a thrown grenade destroyed their position. Avitus retraced the arc of the grenade, and finally noticed Cyrus, who was less than ten feet from him. The scout had remained hidden even from his fellow marines. Brother Xanthis was with him, also covered in the distinctive camoleoline cloak, dark face impassive like his near clone, Ariston.

The last group of orks charged, but was shot dead by Tarkus' squad before they were able to make it half way. The bolts tore out their insides and the greenskins dropped heavily to their faces. With the enemies dead, the Blood Ravens spread across the hamlet. Avitus dragged himself forwards and was intercepted by a white armored marine. Good, thought Avitus, an Apothecary.

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Apothecary Harkon looked over the devastator sergeant at his feet. He knelt down and opened his narthecium, browsing through his medical tools. As he did so he turned Avitus onto his back and noticed the deep wound in his side. He quickly filled his syringe with coagulants and injected it directly into the site of the wound. Avitus did not even shudder, this pain was nothing. The bleeding slowed, and then stopped as Avitus' larraman cells were supercharged by the drug. Next, Harkon stapled the wound shut, and covered it with sealing clay, which would protect it until they could get to a proper facility.

Avitus struggled to his feet with the help of the Apothecary. "Gah" he groaned, "damn orks found another pass through the hills."

The Astartes with the combed hair walked up to the two of them as Tarkus and his squad established a perimeter, watching every direction. The Astartes said "Apothecary, others require your ministrations. Sergeant, it is good you are alive. Your death would have cost us greatly."

"I do not die so easily. I must assume you are the new Commander?"

"Indeed, I am Aramus." He replied, and without another word left Avitus to meet with Tarkus. Avitus examined the now battle-scarred hamlet, and saw a suit of red armor lying amongst the green and brown bodies of the orks. He took a shaky step towards them, finally feeling his strength start to return. He was stopped by a hand on his pauldron. He turned, and saw the figure of Cyrus.

"Wait for the Apothecary to finish," the scout said.

"The damn greenskins slaughtered them, I have to go"

"You will do nothing but interrupt the Apothecary's work if you go now. The dead can wait. They are already with the Emperor."

Avitus scowled. He knew the scout did not mean to offend him, but his squad had paid the ultimate price for the Chapter and the Emperor. Cyrus stepped back and spoke into his vox piece.

"Cyrus to Thule," he said, "We have taken the hamlet. Avitus is wounded but alive. He is too stubborn to die". His mouth turned a bit at the edges at the response. Even such a small smile was rare for Cyrus, Avitus thought. He turned, hoping the Apothecary was done with his work, and saw the ork that had been killed with the sniper shot. He knelt down and jerked the Astartes helmet off the trophy spike; no marine deserved such an ignoble fate. As he had thought, the helmet was not empty. He removed the head, and closed his eyes in anger when he recognized the brutalized face.

Nikephoros watched the Apothecary work with gritted teeth. The Apothecary moved from body to body, laid out before him, and checked for life signs. Two were saved, barely clinging to life. The others were not so lucky. He swiftly tore their chests open with his reductor and cut the precious progenoid glands out with a long scalpel. Harkon's motions were fluid, evident of experience, and a quite unpleasant one for the Apothecary.

One body was headless, its bolter fallen just out of its hands. The weapon was empty and the body was covered in dozens of bullet and blade wounds. Nikephoros prayed for the marine's soul. Whoever he was, the Emperor had him now. Then Avitus dropped to his knees next to the body, clutching something in is gauntlets. He placed the red bundle near the stump of the corpse's neck and muttered a quick prayer to the Emperor. Nikephoros' eyes widened in horror, and then squinted in hate.

Tyrion was dead. Nikephoros' battle-brother was almost unrecognizable under the gore that coated his face. He had not gone without a fight evidently. Nikephoros was beyond simple anger. Tyrion had served with him during the battles on Meridian. They had fought side by side against the Coalition. They were never friends, neither of them was talkative enough to warrant that, but they both had a yearning for victory and combat. This was the first brother that Nikephoros had lost. Only vengeance was on his mind now.

Ocella Lyon stood on the same spot that Avitus commanded before the orks had killed them. His bolter was held loosely in his hands as he watched the other buildings of the hamlet. They were large enough to conceal large groups of orks. The strike force needed to be on guard. His helmet auto-senses helped him, but it never hurt to be vigilant. A dust storm was coming in, and vision was severely reduced. He thought he saw a flash of green in the swirling dust, and shouted out a warning as the ork warcries filled the air.

Tarkus' squad began firing as one, and leapt over the defense to advance into the foe, led by Aramus. The helmetless Commander shouted as he ran, "There has been a reckoning greenskin! The end of days is upon you!"

Harkon ran at Aramus' side, firing his bolter into the horde. The group of orks was small, a mere remnant of the mob that had attacked the hamlet hours before. The orks charged, swinging their choppas and firing their crude pistols. Nikephoros ran, the desire for vengeance filling his heart. He squeezed the trigger over and over, each bolt leaving a dead ork in its wake. As the orks grew closer, he broke out of formation and charged up ahead, drawing his combat knife.

Aramus was the first to reach the horde, with Harkon at his heels. The Commander's first slash was horizontal, the power sword tearing through the chests of two orks. He had already emptied his bolt pistol in the charge. An ork swung a choppa at him. He dodged and drove his knee into the ork's chest, shattering its ribcage. Pushing off from it, he swung his sword diagonally and split an ork from chest to groin. He ducked a choppa and impaled the ork who carried it. Four bullets plinked off his armor and he turned to see a shoota boy firing at him in the melee. Before it could adjust its aim, another marine tackled him. Aramus looked around as he fought. Harkon was to his left, stomping a slugga boy's head into the ground while strangling another to death. The marine that just helped him must be one of Tarkus'.

Nikephoros had killed the shoota boy with his charge. He stood and hacked the combat knife into the neck of a slugga boy that was reloading its pistol. The ork screamed as Nikephoros tore out its throat. Using the body as a shield, he plowed through a larger cluster of boyz. He threw the body away and jammed his knife into the eyesocket of a stumbling ork. The ork fought for a moment as the knife sunk into its brain, before it went limp. Nikephoros felt a terrible impact on his back, and turned to find an ork trying to pull its axe out of his pauldron. He punched the ork in the face, and crouched over its fallen body, pounding it repeatedly. "For Tyrion, for a fallen brother", he muttered as he mutilated the ork.

He heard a roar in his ear, and realized he had been ignoring the swirling melee around him. He spun around, but realized he would never be quick enough to dodge the nob that was about to tear him in half with its giant chainaxe. Before it could swing, the nob stepped back, a jet of blood spurting from its chest. Another jet appeared, and another, and finally the nob slumped to its knees. A bolt round sailed past Nikephoros and shattered the face of the nob. As the nob died, Harkon pulled the last ork into a headlock, slowly crushing its skull. He stood, and then examined realized how many times he had been hit. Harkon's armor was covered in dents, but he only had a thin gash in his right forearm which wasn't even bleeding.

Aramus turned to the marine who had saved him, indignation on his face. "Why did you charge? You broke formation to enter an assault. The Codex Astartes directly forbids this!"

Nikephoros was speechless, he had no excuse. "Commander I-"

"Be silent when I speak!" Aramus snapped, "Sergeant Tarkus, what do you plan to do?"

"Commander," said Tarkus, his tone even, "Nikephoros is a newly promoted marine, he will learn."

"That is-" Aramus started to say as Cyrus stepped forward and grabbed Nikephoros' arm, pulling him away.

"Commander," said Cyrus, "Nikephoros, broke the Codex yes, as did Harkon and yourself. The Codex does not advise charging into combat when the enemy can be gunned down."

"That is so." Aramus said, subdued. Cyrus thought that it was good for the Commander to realize his own mistakes as well.

Cyrus dragged Nikephoros to the rear and said, "I know what it is like to lose a brother, more than you realize. However, duty comes first. Vengeance is useless if you die for it."

"I- yes Sergeant Cyrus. My apologies," Muttered Nikephoros, after taking off his helmet. He realized that Cyrus had saved his life, shooting the nob multiple times before someone had finally killed it.

"Listen Nikephoros, you are a warrior, fight with all you have. You do not need trickery like me. But never succumb to the thirst for glory that your Commander has. It will get you, and more importantly, other brothers killed. A Commander that fights for glory can die for it, but he should never be allowed to sacrifice those under his command."

"Sergeant Cyrus, is it right to be saying such things?" Nikephoros was shocked. He never expected to hear the Sergeant he looked up to speak like that.

"No, do not make a habit of thinking thoughts such as these. They should be mine to bear alone."

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Avitus found his heavy bolter among the bodies. Though he was injured, he was prepared to fight, although his still living brothers were returning to the Armageddon for further medical treatment. When he returned to the force of Astartes, they were gathered around Commander Aramus, who was listening to orders from Captain Thule from a speaker vox.

"Commander, the orks are moving in force. A large force is preparing to attack Argus, while another moves towards the Fellhammer mines. There is nothing there that would interest orks. This must be investigated."

"Orks congregate to battle," said Tarkus. "Perhaps their warboss was slain and they are fighting each other?"

"It does not seem that there were any orks previously in Fellhammer, Tarkus" replied Thule over the vox. "I have already dispatched two thunderhawks. One to return Sergeant Cyrus and the wounded to Argus for the time being, and the other to transport you to Fellhammer".

"What of Avitus, Captain?" asked Aramus. Avitus was surprised the Commander thought to ask.

"No matter how wounded, I did not think Avitus would back away from something like this, and I need a good shooter. Cyrus will perform perfectly." said Thule with a bit of amusement in his voice.

"I'll teach the greenskins a lesson for each of my dead, I will go to Fellhammer and kill them all." interjected Avitus.

"Very good. Get to the bottom of this Commander. Thule out". With the vox off, the strike force was left in silence.

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Twenty miles from Fellhammer mine, Thaddeus had stopped his squad to await further orders. Augustine now sat under an outcropping of rock with his other three brothers in the assault squad. They had all removed their helmets. Their armor was coated in dust, the colors of the Blood Ravens nearly obscured. They had not been back to base in weeks. Thaddeus had allowed them to make a fire, quite the luxury for a Space Marine in the field.

After they had gathered the sticks, they watched as Augustine leaned forwards over the fire. After a moment, he stepped back, and the kindling was alight.

"How?" asked Draco, a bit puzzled. They did not carry any tools with them, and had to start the fire manually. Augustine cupped his hands in front of them, and in a moment, sparks began appearing, solidifying into a tiny ball of swirling flame the size of a marble.

"Psyker? Have you seen the librarians brother? That should not be left unexamined," Said Draco. Augustine had shown up a psyker with little potential when examined the first time by the librarians, and now he could produce flame.

"I saw Codicier Iyason before we set out. He says it's latent. That Astartes training can bring out potential, though he found it odd that it appeared so late. No matter, it has not improved from this pitiful state in three weeks. I am no more of a psyker than Brother Mnason is."

Brother Hypion, face still wary, nodded. Mnason was another marine in their squad, his psychic power manifested in his aim. His bolts struck their targets quite precisely, even in situations where someone like Cyrus may miss. The librarians had called it psychic potential, yet not enough to join the prestigious ranks of the Librarium. There were many like this in the Blood Ravens. Recruits that would be forged, trained and cherished in other chapters were sent back to their squads in the Blood Ravens due to the high amount of powerful psykers in their ranks.

"Brother Augustine, what do you intend to do with your power? They warn against consciously using it without training."

"If it will help, I will hone it."

"But the Codex Astartes states…" Replied Brother Draco, his face wary.

"The Codex is a book. If my powers can eventually result in victory, if using them is necessary to hone their power, I will use them. A book with not keep us from victory, Brother Draco."

Draco wanted to protest, but didn't. He hated that someone would disrespect the Codex Astartes, but it was not strictly adhered to by the Blood Ravens. The amount of Librarians attested to that. It was simply used as a guideline. Despite that, he decided to watch Augustine. If he used the power responsibly, then Draco would have nothing to worry about. Augustine was not stupid, but Draco would watch him nonetheless.

"Put out that fire brother, our Commander has arrived." The voice came from the cliff above them. Augustine looked up as Draco stomped out the fire. Thaddeus stood on the cliff, power sword in hand, Mnason next to him. Thaddeus had a grin on his face as he put on his helmet, no doubt thinking about how blessed he was to be able to serve the Emperor this way.

In moments, the five Astartes were on the move, jump packs shooting them over rough terrain. They were on the way to meet their new commander for the first time.

Chapter 12: A New Foe


"OI! YOU AIN'T WARBOSS BONESMASHA! YOU AIN'T EVEN AN ORK AT ALL!"

Unlike the others, this ork had recognized Etherion and his companions for what he was immediately. He took a step back, blue eyes widening. They were in trouble. The Black Guardians around him tensed, and gripped their shuriken catapults tighter, not yet pointing them at the orks. The Warlock had led his small force of Black Guardians to Fellhammer mine once again, this time to meet with Mek Badzappa. Using Eldar witchery, Etherion and company had taken the appearance of a group of orks led by the so far unseen Warboss Bonesmasha. Through this interference, the Eldar had already directed two mobs towards the human capital on the planet. No doubt, thought Etherion, the Astartes will slaughter the orks, and more will flood to the sector. Perhaps this will stave off the coming doom…

"Ya may 'ave fooled Gutwrencha and Skykilla, but you'ze be zoggin yaself if ya think you can fool me, Badzappa and me shiny new bionik eye!" declared the ork. He was hunched over, standing in the middle of his force of forty boyz. His armor was of higher quality than the others, and on his back was what looked like a crude power generator that was feeding energy to the antennae attached to his armor. Like he had said, the ork had a freshly painted bionic eye, and had multiple pieces of metal sticking out of other parts of his body.

"Mek Badzappa," started Etherion, still hoping to make the best of the situation. "This fight has yet to reach fruition, call for more orks from around the sector and you will have a proper challenge."

"I AIN'T TAKIN NO ORDER FROM A POINTY EAR! ZOG OFF!" shouted the mek.

"But boss!" argued another ork, "dez right an' propa orks! Look et ow' green dey are!"

"Awwww, zog it!" muttered Badzappa. He reached into a compartment in his armor and pulled out a small control panel. After a few button presses, the ork vanished in a flash of light and a crack of rushing air.

The orks stood silent before one said, "He's gone, musta used da sparky ting again."

Etherion sighed. He had hoped to manipulate the ork mek. It would have been the most effective way to bring orks to this forsaken land. Alas, even the Eldar cannot scheme perfectly. He would have to do it the old fashioned way. He drew his witchblade and channeled his psychic energies through it. The orks turned in puzzlement, wondering where their Warboss got such a pretty weapon.

"Guardians, kill the orks. We have no more use for them." Without a word, the black armored Eldar at his side raised their shuriken catapults and fired. With a sound like a thousand snakes hissing, the forty orks were cut to ribbons by the monomolecular projectiles. Caught by surprise, it was over in seconds.

Etherion heard a voice in his head. "Warlock, we are troubled by more unnecessary tasks." Etherion instantly recognized the voice of Exarch Túron of the Warp Spider Shrine. The old warrior was stationed with his squad above the mines, watching all approaches for orks.

"What is the matter, Exarch?"

"Mon-keigh have come, and more orks are approaching your position."

Mon-keigh. The very word brought a bad taste to Etherion's mouth. The humans, the inferior beings thought that they understood everything there was to know about the universe. They thought themselves superior before they had even set out amongst the stars. Such beings knew nothing compared to an ancient race like the Eldar. And now they walk upon worlds that should be ours. Etherion wished that Uthwé had the numbers to cleanse the entire subsector, but alas they did not. The Craftworld's forces were simply there to save that which was precious to them.

"Very well, Exarch. Keep watch and withdraw when you can. The Farseer has told me you are needed elsewhere."

"Khaine guide your blade, Warlock". With the mindlink broken, Etherion looked across the bridge that led away from the mines. More orks, nearly a hundred of them were coming.

"Guardians, form a defensive line. We will extract soon." The guardians took cover, and when the orks had closed, opened fire. Their shuriken fire devastated the charging greenskins. Each pull of the trigger fired hundreds of monomolecular stars in a shotgun pattern. Though ineffective at long range, it would absolutely destroy lightly armored opponents.

Etherion stood with the guardians, sending bolts of psychic force into the orks. Unlike the shuriken fire, his weapon left the orks mostly intact. The bolts hit the orks with the force of a freight train, and destroyed every bone in their body while simultaneously pulping their muscles and organs. The Eldar kept up the fire from cover, safe from ork gunfire. They were nearly all dead. The last of them were taking a few more difficult steps before the injuries would overwhelm them. Then Etherion saw a sight that chilled his blood. Red armored warriors were pursuing the orks.

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Earlier

Argus was an easily defendable city. Three of the city's sides were against a deep canyon. Any plan of attack from that direction would be severely hindered by the terrain. The city, made up of large, white-stoned buildings was only susceptible to attack from two directions, the main city entrance, and the supply pipeline. After the first ork attack, the pipeline was sealed, leaving the main entrance to the city the only convenient way inside. The outer edge of the city was marked by a twenty foot high wall, and the main gateway was fortified with both sandbags and tank traps. It was here that Captain Davian Thule now stood.

The orks were nearing the city, and only the Astartes and what little of the PDF remained were left to face them. Thule was guarding the main gate alongside Sergeant Mercutio and his squad. The Tactical Sergeant had brought his full squad of ten men. Thule stood behind a line of sandbags, resting his heavy bolter on the emplacement. There was dust rising in the distance. It could only mean the approach of more than a thousand orks.

Thule's vox chimed and he raised a gauntlet to his ear to activate it. "Captain Thule," the voice said, "This is Techmarine Martellus from aboard the Armageddon."

"I copy Martellus." Replied Thule.

"The orks are closing in on your position sir. I have dropped Tarantula turrets to the main gate. They will arrive in thirty seconds."

Thule looked to the bright morning sky as Martellus spoke. He couldn't see anything now, but he was sure that the turrets were on their way.

"Captain," Martellus continued, "Commander Aramus is nearing the entrance to the Fellhammer mines. There is a communications relay nearby. Perhaps it will allow us to better communicate with the rest of the subsector. As you know, the astropaths have had difficulty transmitting their messages. I have marked it as a secondary objective for the Commander's force."

"Understood Martellus. Keep me updated with any news from the strike force. It is up to you to manage Chapter communications here. Knowledge is power."

"Guard it well, Captain Thule." Came the response.

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"Kill those ork scouts!" shouted Aramus, drawing his power sword. The Thunderhawk had barely dropped the force off before they were under fire from a group of ork kommandos.

"Kill the alien!" shouted Ocella Lyon. There was no cover to lie in. Tarkus led the tactical marines in an advance towards the orks, who were hiding behind a small rock formation. The orks were directly in the way of the strike force's objective. Ahead of them was a path that would lead them to a bridge. Across it was the first quarry in the Fellhammer mines. Lyon could feel the impacts of their bullets on his armor. The relatively small rounds were nearly useless against the holy power armor of the Blood Ravens.

Without pausing in his step, Lyon raised his bolter. His helmet HUD played valuable tactical information for him; including ammunition, squad orders, as well as his own armor integrity. As he aimed his bolter a crosshair appeared on his helmet display. He settled the crosshair on the head of an ork kommando. He pulled the trigger and the ork fell out of sight, a pulse of blood spewing across the rocks the kommandos were hiding behind. A kommando turned a big shoota in his direction; the heavy rounds forced him to take a step back.

His helmet rang with an alarm. He grimaced; his armor would not stand up much longer. He flipped his weapon to burst fire and pulled the trigger in the direction of the big shoota. The heavy ork gun paused for a second, and then resumed firing. Two rounds pierced Lyon's abdomen. Spurts of blood erupted from his body before his larraman cells sealed the wounds with instant scar tissue. He dropped two his knees with the impact and looked up. Tarkus, calm as ever, turned and put a single shot into the body of the ork with the big shoota. It fell backwards, firing the weapon towards the sky.

Lyon began to stand, before he felt an arm helping him up. On his feet, he turned to see Nikephoros. They had been in their power armor for so long that each suit was as distinctive as a face. Nikephoros' helmet had a groove above the right eye where a round had nearly killed him, as well as a deep gouge in his right pauldron, intersecting the arrow that represented a tactical marine.

Nikephoros nodded to him without a word, and they rejoined the battle. The two of them jogged back into formation with Tarkus'. The Astartes force was steadily approaching the orks. Nikephoros noticed that Aramus was staying in formation as well. After a lecture from Cyrus, the Commander seemed to have less enthusiasm when it came to charging directly into combat. Nikephoros thought that Harkon must be unhappy as well, but he didn't really care. Winning is winning, no glory necessary. They will know us by our work.

As they reached the ork position, the kommandos broke and ran, fleeing down a path between two ridges. Tarkus dropped to his knee and began firing. Of the twenty orks that ran, none made it to the entrance to the small ravine. He reloaded as he stood and then waited as Aramus walked up, Avitus at his side. The devastator marine looked uncomfortable. Tarkus thought that his insistence of joining the force was perhaps premature. No matter, he wishes to do his duty, and I will not rob him of that.

"Sergeant," said Aramus. "Well done."

"I live only to serve Commander. Shall we pursue?"

"Yes, Sergeant. Slow advance, a Calderan PDF convoy was lost near this area. Press forward with caution."

The strike forces pressed forward, Tarkus' squad took point in a wedge formation. Lyon was positioned on the right wing of the formation. As they approached the ravine, motion caught his eye. He looked up at the ridgeline, trying to track what he had seen. He tried to access a short recording from his helmet's camera, but to no avail. There was no recording of what he had seen. He had a faint idea of a thin figure, wearing black and red.

"Sergeant Tarkus," He said, "movement on the ridge."

"I did not see it, squad?" asked Tarkus, panning his bolter across the path in front of the force, searching for targets.

"I saw it Sergeant," confirmed Brother Arza from beside Lyon. "It was no ork."

"Noted, press forward." Interjected the Commander. As they entered the ravine, they noticed the PDF convoy. The fifty odd men had been slaughtered by ork gunfire. The force paused, and Avitus examined the dead. He knelt, a bit stiff from his injury, and took a closer look at the bullet holes in the ground.

"Commander," he said, "These shots came from abo-" before he could finish, the air was filled with bullets. Avitus dropped behind a mound of corpses and looked up. There were ork gunners of the ridge above them, using the superior cover to rain down big shoota fire. We were trapped just like the damn guardsmen, he thought. He racked the slide on his heavy bolter, and pulled the trigger. His chances of hitting a target were slim, but Avitus aimed to suppress the enemy, not kill them. He held the trigger for long bursts, hosing the ridge. He hoped he had bought enough time.

Tarkus could only watch as Brother Paulus was gunned down by the orks, eight bullets tearing into his breastplate. The tactical marine fell, choking. Firing his bolter at the orks with one hand, Tarkus tried to drag Paulus out of the line of fire. He felt a burning pain in his leg and looked down. An ork round had pierced his calf. The bleeding slowed and Tarkus fought off the pain. He looked around for Apothecary Harkon, but couldn't find him. Tarkus dropped to a crouch in front of Paulus, hoping to protect his fallen Brother until help could arrive. He raised his bolter to fire and saw a welcome sight.

"DEATH FROM ABOVE!" Came a shout. With a crash, five Blood Ravens wearing jump packs slammed onto the ridge above them. The impact itself had killed some of the orks, and those that were alive soon fell to the roaring chainswords of the newly arrived marines. After the orks were dispatched, the marines stepped off the ridge, falling twenty feet and firing their jump packs to soften the landing.

The leader of the assault marines stepped forward. Ocella Lyon recognized him. The marine was about as young as the Commander. Helmetless, his short brown hair and handsome face were covered in the orange dust of Calderis. In his hand he carried a power sword, its edges crackling with electricity. The pommel of the sword was a golden skull. This marine was Thaddeus, the young Sergeant of one of Thule's assault squads.

"Well met Commander, I am Thaddeus, my assault marines are at your command," Said Thaddeus. As he spoke, Apothecary Harkon checked the wounded. He stopped at Brother Paulus.

Looking him over, Harkon said, "Commander, I cannot move him from here."

"Understood Apothecary, protect him. We press on."

Avitus approached Thaddeus, "How long were you waiting to make that dramatic appearance Thaddeus?" he asked with a disapproving tone.

"A pleasure to see you too Avitus," said an exasperated Thaddeus. His squad integrated with the strike force. For the first time in months, Nathaniel Augustine saw Ocella Lyon. Lyon stepped forward and made the sign of the Aquila.

"Lyon. It has been a while." Augustine said.

"Nathaniel. Have you been well?"

"The Emperor has provided. The orks we killed were numerous. The cities are devastated in the east."

"If only we had the manpower to aid them…" sighed Lyon.

"We must destroy the orks, Lyon. Only then can we worry about civilians."

Ocella Lyon was appalled. He knew Augustine had always been concerned with victory, but he had never considered him callous. Even Nikephoros didn't think such thoughts.

"Is it not our duty to protect the Emperor's citizens?" asked Lyon in disbelief.

"It is Brother, but not when the xenos scum lay siege to our capital. Were they only attacking civilians, victory would naturally lie in protecting them."

A monotone voice broke their argument up. "Commander," the entire strike force could hear Martellus in their ears. "Ahead is a valuable communications relay. Its components were built during the Dark Age of Technology. You must secure it before the orks loot it."

"We will take it Martellus." Said Tarkus. "No greenskin will taint the technology of the Mechanicus."

"You have my thanks Tarkus. Omnissiah be with you."

As the Astartes exited the ravine, Augustine could see the communications relay. Its grey metal exterior stood out among the orange rocks of Calderis. The antenna rose more than three hundred yards into the sky. From what Augustine could see, there were more than fifty orks guarding it. For a force of around ten, taking it would be difficult. With Paulus down and Harkon caring for him, their numbers were even more depleted.

As they approached, Aramus declared, "Thaddeus' squad and I will charge the orks, while Avitus and Tarkus lay down covering fire." The squad commanders nodded, evidently pleased with the situation.

"Sergeant Thaddeus," asked Augustine "is it wise to charge directly into enemy fire?"

"We do what we must, Augustine," the Sergeant replied, "We have little choice in the matter. The Commander has ordered. We are bound by the Codex to obey."

There was no way for Augustine to argue. The force prepared to attack the unprepared orks. They sat arguing in front of the communications relay. The defenses used to be manned effectively by PDF, however the orks did not know how to properly man firing lines.

"For the Great Father and the Emperor!" shouted Aramus as he charged. As he ran, the air was filled with the trails of bolt rounds. Orks were thrown from their seats and died as they stood to shoot their attackers.

Augustine and the rest of the squad activated their jump packs, the roar of the jets sending them hurtling towards the orks. As he landed, Augustine slammed his feet into the chest of a shoota boy. The ork died without a sound as Augustine raised his Thanatos, his chainsword. He saw a group of orks trying to set up a heavy weapon. "Die!" he shouted as he tore into them.

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Thule dropped down behind the sandbags as he tried to make out what Martellus was saying. "Martellus, say again. I do not copy." The ork fire made hearing difficult. The main gate was under attack. Thule was very grateful for Martellus' Tarantula turrets; they would have surely lost the gate if the automated heavy bolters had not been dropped. The orks were now relegated to firing at the Space Marines from a distance, as over two hundred had died when they tried to charge the gate. Mercutio's squad was firing as best they could, but there were too many orks for them alone.

"Captain, Commander Aramus has secured the orbital relay and regrouped with Sergeant Thaddeus. I will begin examining any long range transmissions we have received."

"I copy. Do so." He stood and fired his heavy bolter, destroying a group of orks that were trying to change positions. A brace of ork rockets flew from the mob taking cover outside Argus. The rockets detonated above Thule, showering him with plaster and stone. In response, one of Mercutio's marines fired his missile launcher. Hitting something volatile, an area of the ork lines erupted in flame. Orks ran out into the open, aflame. They were quickly put out of their misery by Thule and the other marines.

"Captain, this is Chaplain Automemos. The orks are smarter than we have realized. They are within the city. Hold the gate, I will deal with them."

"Understood. We will hold." He fired another burst of his heavy bolter. For how much longer, I do not know, he thought, as the orks prepared another charge.

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Cyrus had ordered his squad into the tallest building of Argus, the Capital building where the province governors would meet and discuss pressing matters. He himself manned the tallest tower, watching over the whole city. He sat with his back to a wall, nearly leaning over the edge of the building to aim. It was he who had first sighted the stormboyz. They had waited in the canyon below until the battle had begun, and then used their rocket packs to leap into the city. The stormboyz numbered around eighty, and were led by a massive nob. Already Cyrus had shot him, but it seemed to do no damage. Cyrus took shots of opportunity, any storm boy that decided to stick his head out of cover for too. He heard a familiar cry down in the city square. He noticed Blood Ravens gathering. The orks were pouring into the square in front of the Capital Building. He raised the scope to his eyes. More to kill, always more to kill.

Chaplain Automemos led the Blood Raven counter attack against the storm boyz in the square. His black power armor was pristine, and his skull helmet perfectly polished. His black jump pack was giving off a dull groan, as if begging to be activated. He raised above his head the Crozius Arcanum, a chaplain's badge of office. It was a rod around three feet in length, capped with a raven-winged skull. A crackling power field covered the weapon. Though beautiful, it was as deadly as any other power sword.

"Rally to me Brothers!" he shouted, "And we will win!" A fierce cry rose from the two squads accompanying him. Sergeant Magnus and Borian were following the Chaplain with a full twenty marines. Rounds were flying through the air in both directions, and though both squads took cover, the old Chaplain stood calm in the face of the enemy, preaching from the open.

"Answer the foul orks shot for shot Brothers! The Emperor rewards those who kill in his name! Though pain and death may take you today, know now that you will be rewarded at the Emperor's side!"

He fired his bolt pistol as a group of orks activated their rocket packs. Two were sent careening out of the city, their mounts malfunctioning. The other four dove down towards Automemos. He leapt back as they slammed into the ground. Shouting "Emperor, guide my hand!" Automemos charged into the orks. He split one lengthwise with his Crozius. Spinning out of the way of a choppa, he shot the next. Before either he or the orks could act, Sergeant Magnus stepped into the melee. Both orks were crushed by the Sergeant's power fist. Their broken remains joined the others.

"Very good Sergeant. Are you with me?" asked Automemos.

"As always Chaplain." Answered the Assault Sergeant.

"Glory to you then. In the name of the Emperor and the Great Father! Charge!" Automemos ran towards the orks in cover as the twenty marines around him broke cover. The marines were overcome with fervor and fanaticism. Cries of "Die, scum!" and "Purge the greenskins" ran up and down the line. Automemos smiled under his grim helmet. It always pleased him when he could inspire his marines to acts of courage like this. The orks began reacting to the charge, leaving cover to engage them. They were led by a giant stormboy nob wielding a two handed chainaxe.

With a crash, the forces collided, the twenty one space marines against the fifty seven orks. The melee was intense, the most brutal yet seen on Calderis. Marines shot orks at point blank and tore their muscular bodies with their chainswords and combat knives. The orks struck back with their choppas, their strength in their numbers. Automemos stepped away from blows and removed threatening arms with his Crozius. His duelist skills had not deteriorated in the years that he had spent in the recruiting worlds. He saw the nob amidst the melee and began to force his way to it. As he passed, he saw Magnus crush a skull with his power fist before swinging it in a large arc, slamming four orks to the ground.

The nob was brutal. When Automemos reached it, he witnessed it tear one of Borian's marines in half at the waist. The marine screamed as he died, the cracking of bones audible over the din of battle. The ork then swung its chainaxe, tearing into the chest of one of Magnus' men. The weapon drove into the Astartes' ribcage. He struggled for a moment, before Automemos saw blood dripping out of his vox grille. Rage in his heart and revenge on his mind, he activated his jump pack directly towards the nob.

He hit the nob directly in the chest. If any other ork was hit by two thousand pounds moving at sixty miles an hour it would certainly be dead. The nob was pushed twenty feet before his weight stopped the Chaplain in his tracks. The nob threw Automemos off. The Chaplain bounced off a low wall and fell to the ground. He rose quickly and faced off with the nob. Automemos emptied his bolt pistol at it. Though the rounds were .75 calibre high explosive, the ork barely flinched before charging in, its chainaxe revving. Automemos dodged the first strike and then ducked the second. The axe tore his jump pack off. Taking advantage of the small distraction, Automemos slashed out with his Crozius, dealing the ork a wound on its side.

The ork roared and raised his axe above his head for a powerful blow before charging. Automemos charged as well. When they met, Automemos dropped into a slide, right under the nob's legs. As he passed under, he slashed the orks neck with his Crozius. Standing on the other side, Automemos turned to face the ork. It took a step towards him, feeling its torn throat before dropping to its knees. Automemos swung his Crozius twice more, splitting the ork's head into quarters, before rejoining the melee.

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"There are the mines, Marines." Said Aramus. "Now, double time." As they approached, they saw that the orks they were pursuing were being killed. Humanoid figures were shooting down the orks with practiced efficiency. No, he thought, not human. They are far too graceful and their armor too sleek.

Tarkus' brow furrowed in anger. Eldar. His most hated foe. His rage brewed deep within him. His grudge against the Eldar stemmed from a betrayal. An Eldar ranger, pretending to be an ally, had led his squad into an ambush. Only Tarkus had emerged alive, and heavily wounded at that.

"Purge the witches! No prisoners!" he ordered, voice nearing a shout.

Nikephoros knew of his Sergeant's hate of the fickle aliens, and did not oppose it. The Eldar were wholly untrustworthy. They could turn on someone in a second. Orks would be a better ally. As one, the squad raised their bolters and opened fire, on both the orks and the eldar.

Etherion was scared, as rare as it was for him. Seconds after he had first seen the red armored mon-keigh, Methanar's torso exploded in a deep red burst. Their primitive weapons were no doubt deadly. The orks were all dead, and now the mon-keigh would focus on the Eldar.

"Guardians, begin to withdraw. Use covering fire to support my delaying action." He leapt forwards with all his strength, witchblade in his hand. He had to cover the guardians and then extract.

"Kill that Warlock!" shouted Aramus. He pointed his power sword at the alien as he charged. The witch moved quickly, no bolt round could hit him. He was making for Tarkus' squad. In an instant, he was there. Tarkus barely dodged the eldar's blade, and Lyon ducked an attack that would have severed his head. The Warlock turn as the squad tried to surround him, and thrust his blade into the chest of Nikephoros.

Good, thought Etherion. He focused his power and released it in a kinetic pulse around him, driving the space marines and their bolts away from him so he could focus on the marine he was about to finish. The human warrior dropped to his knees. Etherion's witchblade had pierced his armor right below the solar plexus, a grave injury even for a space marine. Another marine tried to close on him. Etherion spun and slashed down his chest. The marine cried out in pain as he fell heavily to the ground. The pulse had faded, and another marine charged towards Etherion. The guardians were doing their best to distract the mon-keigh, though six eldar had already been killed.

The mon-keigh that was charging him now seemed to be part of the assault squad. He wielded an ornate chainsword in his left hand. Looking at his wounded prey, Etherion concentrated his powers and fired a wall of fire at the charging marine and then raised his blade to finish the one before him. Movement caught his eye. The assault marine had penetrated the flames unharmed, flames trailing behind him. Etherion's eyes widened in shock as he turned to face the Astartes. Not only was the marine unharmed, the orange flames were swirling around the marine's right hand. No, thought Etherion, that's impossible. He should be dead. The marine threw out a fire-covered punch. Etherion had underestimated the mon-keigh. Too shocked to dodge, he attempted to raise a psychic shield. The flaming hand struck Etherion in the jaw, sending him stumbling back. The shield had saved his life, though it still hurt as if the Avatar itself had slapped him.

"Die witch!" shouted the marine. "Your life ends today, by my hand!" The mon-keigh rose his chainsword. Etherion had recovered his wits. With a flick of his wrist, the marine was sent hurtling thirty yards through the air. He struck the rock face of the quarry with an impact heavy enough to leave an indentation, before slumping to the ground, unconcious.

Lyon dragged Nikephoros to the back of the force. His brother had suffered a serious wound and was groaning in pain. The Eldar were steadily retreating, and had been able to sustain their numbers for this long. Multiple marines were wounded by shuriken fire, but the eldar had to keep their distance to avoid their own deaths. The Warlock, having shot Augustine into the quarry wall, seemed to be heading for Aramus. Tarkus had been silent. The normally stoic marine was angrily but quietly firing at the Eldar. As much as he wished to kill them though, they were very hard to hit.

Why had Augustine rushed to Nikephoros' aid? Lyon truly wondered what had spawned that thought, and was Augustine a psyker? That flame in his hand was not natural. Though, thought Lyon, he could explain why he had emerged unscathed. Augustine had told him once that his armor was of Marines Malevolent manufacture. Because of their feud with the Salamanders, some of their armor was made to be strong in the face of intense heat.

Avitus fired his heavy bolter with long bursts, hoping to catch some of the black armored eldar in his tracers. The aliens were fast. Too fast for his liking. He much preferred xenos that stood still while he killed them. The eldar were fast enough that they could dodge bolt rounds at point blank range. He grinned as one made a misstep and was torn apart by the heavy bolter shells. There were few left. Victory was theirs.

"You! Leader!" projected Etherion, "suffer in measure to your authority, ignorant swine!" The helmetless marine that Etherion assumed to be the leader flinched. He was no doubt unused to being projected to. Having another's voice in your head could be unpleasant at first. The marine emptied his pistol at Etherion. Without even thinking about it, Etherion ducked out of the way of all ten bolts before charging. The marine charged as well. They exchanged blows, power sword clashing off witchblade.

This is the first of them that can face me head on, thought Etherion. Though that one had landed a blow on me, he was not able to take one back. He fought with all his might. Six strikes a second. Aimed at the head, heart, leg, arm, wrist, eye. Over and over again he struck. The marine was fast. He dodged, parried and weaved, like a vicious dancer, thought Etherion. The marine didn't attack, only waited for an opening. Hearing a scream of Eldar pain, Etherion jumped back and turned. Seeing his chance, Aramus attacked. Sensing danger, Etherion spun back and swung low with his witchblade as Aramus attacked.

Blood splattered the ground. Aramus fingered the wound in his right side. It was deep, but Harkon could deal with it when he got around to it. The Eldar Guardians were in full retreat, the marines firing at their fleeing forms. Behind him, the Warlock lay dying, a deadly wound in its abdomen.

Augustine rose shakily from where he had fallen. He had lost consciousness for a moment. He saw the Warlock ten yards ahead of him, dying. He was saying something. Augustine moved closer, trying to understand. His head was still foggy.

Why? This was all Etherion was thinking. Why did fate play out like this? "Those fools. Damned fools. They do not know the true threat facing us all…"

"True threat?" said a voice. Etherion felt a hand prop him up. He looked up into the eye pieces of the marine he had cast aside with his powers. The Astartes had recovered so quickly.

"What? Mon-keigh… you?" said Etherion, breathless from the pain. His lifeblood was flowing out of the wound in his stomach.

"Speak quickly witch. What true threat? Speak and I will send you to your heathen gods." The marine ordered.

Etherion smiled. "I am on my way already human. The Bane of Iyandan, the locusts that prey on life itself. They will consume these worlds. I pray, gah, that Khaine… and your…. Emperor…. Guide your…."

Augustine let the dead Warlock drop from his hands. "Bane of Iyandan?" he said to himself. If he remembered correctly, Iyandan was an Eldar Craftworld that was famous for the use of their ghost warriors. Whatever this is, the Chapter should be warned.

"Augustine," said a familiar voice.

Augustine turned to see Ocella Lyon. The marine had pulled Nikephoros out of the combat. Behind him was the wounded marine, being treated by Harkon. The Apothecary had apparently finished with Paulus.

"Are you well Brother-Lyon?" Augustine asked.

"I am. I saw you face the Eldar Warlock. What sort of witchery was that?" asked a concerned Lyon.

"Psychic powers of mine recently emerged. Though they have rarely been that intense." Returned Augustine. Behind him, the rest of the force was rallying around the Commander. Brother Azra, who had also been wounded by the Warlock, was brought to Harkon as well, though his wound was much less serious.

"Commander," said Augustine, "The dead Eldar said some foreboding things before he died. The xeno spoke of the Bane of Iyandan that will consume these worlds."

"The Eldar speak only lies Augustine, you have been taught this." Aramus was quick to respond. "The only way to shut out the lies of the alien is to stop them at the source."

"Brother-Augustine," asked Tarkus, "why did you consort with the alien?"

"I would never consort with Eldar witches. However, knowledge is power." Argued Augustine.

"No knowledge from an Eldar is worth anything," growled Avitus. "The witches should be killed before they open their mouths, lest they cast a spell on us."

Augustine nodded, ashamed of himself. He knew that the Eldar were liars. Why would he dishonor the Emperor by listening to even a single word?

"I apologize. May the Emperor forgive me." Said Augustine.

"None of that," said Thaddeus, "The Emperor forgives all and protects all."

With a word from Aramus, the force picked up their wounded and moved to the extraction point. They needed to speak with Thule in person. He would want to hear of the Eldar.

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Dead, they were all dead. Thule had personally killed the nob leading the last charge on the gateway. The ork, called Gutwrencha by his boyz, had taken more than twenty heavy bolter rounds before it had died. The beast had fallen three feet from Thule, its body unrecognizable now. The Tarantula turrets had completely expended their ammunition. Mercutio had his squad intact save for a marine with a lost arm. The gate had held.

"I see you fought well Captain," said Automemos as he stepped up next to Captain Thule. The Chaplain's armor was scratched and pitted. His charge had ended in victory, though five marines were dead. Thule disliked that about Automemos. The Chaplain had a flair for the dramatic that got men killed. Thule wished for Mikelus every day. The Chaplain had died heroically on Kronus, dueling the necron lord. He was the best Chaplain the 4th Company had ever seen.

"Thunderhawk two on approach," said a marine in Mercutio's squad. Within minutes, the Thunderhawk landed, disgorging the strike force. It departed just as quickly with Harkon and the wounded, to take them back aboard the Armageddon.

Thule greeted Aramus as Cyrus rushed out the gate with his squad to regroup with his Commander.

"Commander," said Thule, "You are injured. What did you learn?"

"Eldar, Captain Thule, have been stirring up the orks. We do not know their objective."

"This is a grave development. I have fought the Eldar before. Their arrival is never a good sign." Responded Thule.

Thaddeus said, "One of my Astartes said that the Eldar leader spoke of a common threat before he died."

"As I have said Thaddeus," replied Tarkus, "Do not put stock in the words of the Eldar. They are deceitful and manipulative."

"They are, Tarkus," said Thule, "However, I fear this force was not alone. After you captured that communications relay, Martellus discovered distress calls from guardsmen in the nearby Typhon system. The reports sound similar to reports of Eldar attacks."

"We will go there, and crush the alien scum." Said Aramus. "The orks have been driven away for a while at least."

"Indeed they have. Go then Commander. Take the Armageddon. But do not stay long. I fear we will face the true ork hordes before long. Orbital scans have shown massive hordes moving from the east."

"We take your leave Captain." Aramus said. The squad moved outside of Argus to await transport back to the Armageddon.

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Night fell on the Fellhammer mines. In the cover of darkness, Arcadia dropped to where the humans had killed her kin. The Banshee wore her traditional armor, with her power sword strapped over her back. Twelve had died here. She had been commanded to be the collector of the dead. It was her responsibility to collect every soulstone possible for the Infinity Circuit of the Craftworlds. She stealthily swept through the mines. At the entrance to the first quarry, she found the site of the battle. Twelve dead. She moved quickly. She reached the guardians. Most had been killed by bolt rounds. She thanked Asuryan that soulstones were very durable. With a little searching, she began to find the stones. Glowing a multitude of colors, the stones the size of a fist contained the souls of dead Eldar. This way, they were protected from She Who Thirsts.

She dropped the Guardians into the bag hanging from her belt, and then moved to Etherion. She removed the stone from his rune armor and cradled him. She could feel the warmth emitting from Etherion. She could hear him, faintly. She was not a Seer, but all Eldar had some measure of psychic power. Etherion spoke to her, asking of the others. She soothed his worries. He was scared, scared of his new existence. She calmed him.

It will be alright, Etherion.

Tell Farseer Idranel, I apologize for my failure.

I will. Rest well. You are going home, Warlock of Uthwé.

Chapter 13: On the warptide


Nikephoros awoke with a shock. Where am I? What is this place? He was sweating heavily, his torso wrapped in synthskin. The flesh colored material stretched against his scarred, muscular body. He tried to stand before realizing that he was strapped down. He panicked, pulling against the restraints.

"Calm yourself, Brother Nikephoros." The voice was familiar, though Nikephoros was too busy trying to escape to pay attention.

"Who are you?" he nearly shouted.

"It is Gordian, Brother. You are in the Armageddon's Apothecarium. I know it must be quite a shock. You were wounded heavily and lost consciousness."

Nikephoros calmed. He looked around. The bed he laid on was a metal gurney. The room was white-walled, and brightly lit. His bed was one in a row of twenty. On the wall opposite were cabinets full of medicines and medical tools. Looking to his right, he saw the exit, which opened to reveal a helmetless Astartes in white armor. Apothecary Harkon moved to the medicine cabinets and filled the syringe of his narthecium with a clear blue liquid. The Apothecary's long brown hair hanged loosely around his head. He walked casually to Nikephoros, who had stopped struggling and stabbed the syringe into his chest. Nikephoros convulsed. The syringe had pierced less than an inch from the wound he had taken.

"It will help the healing, Brother. We must be vigilant. Witchblades can leave grievous wounds."

Nikephoros nodded, breathless. "Who. . . Who dragged me out of combat?"

"Who? It was Brother Lyon. Though Brother Augustine from the assault squad saved you from death."

"Augustine?"

"Indeed. Perhaps he has changed his opinion of you."

"Well, I have not, concerning him. The man is honorless scum, willing to do anything to win." Grumbled Nikephoros, recalling how Augustine had nearly killed him during the Blood Trials.

"Yet he saved your life." Returned Harkon. "Rest now. We will arrive in the Typhon system in a day, should the warptides be gracious. You will not participate in combat this time."

"But I must. The squad needs me!" Protested Nikephoros.

"Now now, Tarkus has ten marines for a reason. Rest well, and prepare for your next action."

After drawing blood, Harkon exited, leaving Nikephoros in silence.

"That man saved me. . . I am not sure I would do the same." He said, before dropping into a deep sleep, plagued by warp dreams.

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"Come on then, Commander! Show me your fury!"

Thaddeus laughed as he danced around Commander Aramus. The two dueled in one of the Armageddon's training cages, watched by a crowd of Astartes and Chapter Serfs. The two Astartes wore full power armor, dueling with their personal blades, though unpowered. The two Astartes were supremely skilled. From Nathaniel Augustine's point of view on the sidelines however, it was clear that Thaddeus would be the victor.

Aramus charged Thaddeus, trying to catch him off guard. In response, Thaddeus spun out of his way, and swung his blade towards the back of the Commander's head. Ducking the blow, Aramus slashed at Thaddeus' legs. The Assault Sergeant lightly jumped the blade and pulled back. Aramus charged. With a hard swing he knocked Thaddeus' sword away from his body and slammed his shoulder into the assault marine. Thaddeus dropped his blade and grabbed the Commander around the waist, spinning him and throwing him across the practice cage.

Aramus landed in a crash. He grabbed his blade once more, standing to face Thaddeus. The assault sergeant was standing still, blade at the ready. "Come again Commander, we haven't finished yet."

With a roar, Aramus attacked again. This time, neither marine gave an inch of ground. The two stood, feet planted in the middle of the practice cage. Augustine could see that Aramus wanted to prove his skill by beating Thaddeus in a straight sword duel, with no movement or unarmed attacks. Too prideful, he thought. Thaddeus could beat everyone in the 4th Company a hundred times over. In less than a minute, Aramus was defeated. He stood uneasily, the point of Thaddeus' blade at his throat.

"Commander, you have lost." Said Thaddeus. "What could you have done to defeat me?"

"I should have shot you, though that would be dishonorable." Replied the Commander.

"Indeed it would, but it is a smart course of action. Failing that?" asked Thaddeus.

"I would have let you strike me, killing you in the opening you left."

"Commander, you would not survive such a gambit." Smiled Thaddeus.

"Neither would you."

Their fight over, the two space marines exited the practice cages, each grabbing a cloth to wipe their faces of sweat. Outside Augustine played through the battle again in his head. Indeed, he thought, Commander Aramus was completely outmatched by Thaddeus. His proposed tactic may actually be the only way for another marine to bring down the assault sergeant one on one.

"Augustine. Did you see the way I parried his blows?" said a passing Thaddeus.

"I did Sergeant." Said Augustine as he leapt to his feet. His bone colored robe clutched tightly to his muscular figure. He recalled the way Thaddeus turned the side of his blade to block Aramus' attacks.

"Always parry that way. If a man with a power weapon attacks you and you parry normally, your weapon will break. If you present the side, and parry quickly, you will have a blade the next day. I learned that from Captain Thule, and it became muscle memory. Never forget it; it may save your life."

"Thank you Sergeant." Replied Augustine.

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"There is only the Emperor," prayed Ocella Lyon, kneeling behind the front pew of the ship's chapel. "He is our shield and protector. We fight in his name, and for our eternal service, eternal reward. The Emperor, manifold in his blessings, watches over me, and so I will not fear the shadow of the warp…"

"Brother," said a small voice. Lyon stood, behind him, in the dark chapel; he could see the form of Brother Draco. The man's bright blue eyes were nearly glowing. Like Nikephoros, Draco was one of the pale men, a rarity on Calderis. His pale skin and bleached hair was distinctive in a Chapter of tanned marines. Lyon did not know Draco other than that he was a part of Thaddeus' squad.

"Pray with me, Brother Draco?" asked Lyon.

"I have taken my prayers this morning with Alaris," said Draco. His voice was quiet, though sharp. "You saw what happened at Fellhammer did you not? After our Brother Nikephoros was wounded?"

"Concerning Augustine and his newfound psychic powers?" asked Lyon. "Yes, I did see."

"And you see no trouble in it?" Questioned Draco.

"There is no reason to see trouble in it, Brother. The librarians have said that it is normal for powers to emerge late. You shame us by speaking of such things about a fellow Blood Raven."

"Very well. I implore you though," said Draco. "Be vigilant. Suffer not the witch to live."

"Begone, Draco. I will not tolerate talk of that sort when it concerns a Brother of mine." Retorted Lyon.

Without another word, Draco departed the chapel, an aura of disappointment wrapping his figure. Lyon returned to his knees, and resumed his prayer.

"The Emperor protects, both the weak and mighty fall under his grace…"

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Martellus had just exited the vox station when he ran into Cyrus. The scout sergeant had been returning from a training session with his newest batch of initiates. Martellus smiled under his helmet, almost a permanent accessory of his. He liked Cyrus. He didn't have many friends. Astartes did not have many in the first place, and techmarines had even less than librarians, who were shunned in most Chapters.

"Greetings Cyrus." Said Martellus, raising a hand in salutation. His servo arm hung loosely off his back, not needed at the moment.

"Martellus, I was looking for you. I would like to discuss both recent distress reports as well as things I have heard." Replied Cyrus, looking a bit pleased.

"Of course, Cyrus. I was about to go to the bridge. We will be exiting warp soon."

"I will join you then." Said Cyrus.

Martellus was pleased. Contrary to popular belief, techmarines could get lonely. It was boring to spend time with only servitors. As they walked, Martellus asked, "What distress reports are you interested in?"

"Anything out of the ordinary." Responded Cyrus. "Something that looks like neither ork, nor Eldar. Are there any reports of guardsmen being found dead, torn to pieces and eaten?"

"There are 37 reports that contain those parameters." Martellus' memory was perfect, like any Blood Raven, due to a malfunction in their Sus-An Membrane. "However, that number is out of a catalogue of thousands."

"Is it possible for you to forward those reports to me?" asked Cyrus.

"I can arrange that." Confirmed Martellus. "What were these things you have heard?"

"I have spoken to a couple of astropaths that had attempted to contact other planets in the sector, as well as outside of the sector. Each has said that it is become increasingly difficult lately, as if there has been a shadow cast over the warp. You understand the implications of that statement, do you not?"

"I do." Said Martellus gravely.

"I believe precautions should be taken. Would you look into it for me? A way to combat a splinter fleet?"

"I will begin at once. I have a few methods I believe will work with our current situation."

"Very good." Said Cyrus as they entered the bridge. At the same time, the ship lurched, falling back into realspace. Below them was the verdant world of Typhon Primaris.

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On the surface of Typhon, a pair moved quickly, wearing light, flexible armor and dark cloaks that changed color according to their surroundings. They carried long rifles in their delicate hands. The pair moved to the edge of a cliff, hidden by the trees that clung to the edge. Below was a mass of orks, camping for the night. The moon was hidden behind clouds. All was dark.

"Now Ronahn, look. The orks gather below. We must kill their leaders, here and elsewhere."

The one named Ronahn looked at the other. Ranger Nemerian was nearly hidden under the hood of his camoleoline cloak. All that was visable was his striking grey eyes and fringes of black hair hanging down from where it was tied. He leaned over the edge of the cliff with his rifle, and fired. By the time the orks realized their boss was dead, Nemerian and Ronahn were long gone. By daybreak, they were dozens of miles away, near an ancient temple crafted by the long dead indigenous people on Typhon Primaris.

Ronahn looked to the sky. He could see two bright streaks coming down from the heavens. "Nemerian," he said, pointing.

Nemerian was crouching on a tree branch above him. He looked down at Ronahn, a fairly young, white haired Eldar. "It is the humans it seems. All this time, they attack us, when they could be preparing for the storm to come. Come Ronahn, we must move quickly and regroup with the rest of the Craftworld's forces. Túron is not far off with his spider brood. He will be our best force to combat the Space Marines."

Together, the two Eldar sprinted to the ancient temple, where the warriors of Ulthwé the Damned awaited them.

Chapter 14: Late to the Invasion



Life in the Imperial Guard sucked as far as Sergeant Gerard Merrick was concerned. More than ten years in the 203rd Vendoland regiment and not another promotion in sight. For two weeks they had been stationed on Typhon, guarding some sort of communications relay. There were forty men assigned there, and their time was spent either sitting in the damp heat of the day, or huddling inside their sleep kits to keep out of the rains at night. Every couple of days they would hear things in the woods. Merrick had never seen an alien before, even though he was 35 years old. His regiment had always been given cushy assignments, never in the direct path of danger. However, recently attacks had been increasing, and the regiment was pulled from their position on Meridian to bolster the defenses of the rest of the subsector.

"Protect valuable assets, my ass," muttered Merrick under his breath. The sun was high in the sky, and it was Merrick's squad's job to watch for hostiles. The array was very old, and there were only servitors left to maintain it. However, the guard had been told by the Magos Technologis that this array was "a priceless asset". Far be it for Merrick to judge such a claim. The defenses were minimal, just a few fallen pillars and ancient ruins serving as cover. As far as a defensive position went, thought Merrick, this relay was well placed. It sat on a hill that previously was home to ancient structures, all gone now save for the rubble that Merrick now sat on. The hill provided for perfect views of the surroundings, and good lanes of fire.

"Private, quit dozing off, no clue what's out there" barked Merrick to a young guardsman sitting next to him. They both were helmetless. They were also not wearing their flak armor. The heavy pieces were too uncomfortable to wear in such an environment. They sat in their fatigues, soaked in sweat. Every guardsman stationed on Typhon had shaved their head at the first chance, Merrick included. It was too troublesome to have hair on a jungle world.

"But Sarge," said the private, no more than 17 years old. "We haven't seen anything this entire time."

"This is the Imperial Guard, it's time you started acting like it," scolded Merrick.

"Yes sir, sorry sir."

As usual, thought Merrick, the lieutenant was nowhere to be found. Probably inside the array. Merrick hoped there was some sort of arcane recording device inside the array, so the techpriests could gasp at the heresy that was no doubt occurring inside. Standing in a Mechanicus structure, thought Merrick, laughing to himself, HERESY! Even the Commissar would laugh at that one, probably would feel a little bad about shooting him too.

He stopped for a second. Movement had caught his eye. Seeing him stiffen, the rest of Merrick's squad stopped their conversations and started scanning the woods in silence. Merrick only noticed now, the birds had stopped calling. The only sounds were the breathing of his squad, coming in deep and hurried breaths. After a few minutes, the bird calls returned, and Merrick relaxed. It must have been a passing beast he thought.

The conversation resumed, and the squad went back to their normal routine. Four hours passed and it was time for the squads to switch positions. Sergeant Leopold's squad tiredly walked to replace Merrick's. The tired guardsmen stood and stretched and idly chatted with their friends from the other squad. As Merrick shook hands with his fellow Sergeant, a bear of a man with a lopsided grin, he heard a choking sound come from one of his men. They had all heard it. The squad turned to look. One of the privates in Merrick's squad was dead; a large knife was protruding from his chest. Gripping the knife was a thick green arm, about as large as one of Merrick's legs. The arm was reaching over the pillar that the boy had sat behind. From behind the pillar, a bush moved, and then stood up. Another arm ripped the leafy covering away, revealing the thick torso and toothy grin of an ork. He wore green clothes and had a necklace of guard dog tags. In his hands was the knife as well as a large caliber pistol.

The squads were too shocked to move. Merrick slowly reached for his lasgun, leaning against the rock his had been sitting on. Other guardsmen were doing the same. The ork leaned forwards with a large grin on his face. "Gotcha humie," he whispered as the boy fell to the ground.

As the boy landed, Merrick leveled his lasgun at the ork and shouted "Ork Kommando! We've been had boys!" He flipped the weapon to full auto and pulled the trigger. Dozens of orange beams struck the ork, who jolted with the impacts. As it fell backwards, bushes and rocks all around the array were overturned, revealing almost twenty ork kommandos. Completely silent, the orks attacked, drawing knives, clubs and firearms. They wore improvised camouflage gear, as well as goggles and crude gasmasks. The guardsmen had already begun firing, and the orange beams of their Graia-pattern lasguns struck the orks. It still took a couple dozen shots to fell one however. The kommandos returned fire with their much louder weapons, contrasting with their stealthy nature.

Merrick leapt back into cover, firing his lasgun at the large targets that were attacking them. The other members of the guard detail were now arriving. We might just win, thought Merrick, we out number them two to one. By his side, a guardsman was thrown off his feet by a powerful ork slug. Merrick suddenly wished he had put on his flak armor when he woke up. He turned at the shooter, and put a burst into the ork's face. It stumbled, but did not fall. Damn lasguns are useless! Merrick cursed the techpriests and flipped his weapon to full power. It would drain the magazine faster, but it would certainly kill better. He fired at the ork again, and was satisfied to see it fall.

The orks jumped any cover that was in their way, and charged the guardsmen. There was less than ten yards between them at the greatest. Two orks died in this distance. The still silent orks pierced the guard defenses. The smaller humans thrust and blocked with their bayonets, but even with the larger numbers, Merrick could see they were doomed. He barely jumped out of the way of an ork knife and stabbed his bayonet three times into the ork's chest. The ork chuckled and backhanded Merrick, sending him flying back. Sergeant Leopold fired his las pistol into the face of the same ork, before it turned and casually shot the Sergeant.

Merrick scrambled back, reaching for his rifle as the ork walked towards him through the mayhem. Two guardsmen attacked the greenskin, and both were easily killed. Merrick grabbed his gun and rolled onto his back, aiming it towards the ork. He found the muzzle of the ork's pistol pointed at his face. Merrick closed his eyes, desperately praying to the Emperor and the saints for deliverance, just as the primer had taught him. The earth shook; perhaps the Emperor had listened and sent an earthquake. Something landed next to him and Merrick opened his eyes. The ork had lost his footing and had fallen. Merrick scrambled to his feet as the earth quaked again. He shoved his lasgun in the ork's eye and pulled the trigger. He held it down until the pack was exhausted.

He allowed himself a seconds rest before turned to aid his beleaguered squad. What he saw amazed him. The orks were retreating, with nearly twenty giants in red armor pursuing them. The newly arrived warriors had arrived from a pair of large red craft that Merrick assumed were much like the drop pods that Penal Legions used. The giants wielded full sized bolters, and Merrick would recognize the sight of power armor anywhere. Space Marines, the Emperor's Angel's of Death. He had only seen them in the stained glassed windows of the Cathedrals on Vendoland. In all honesty, Merrick had thought they were a myth, even when he was told that the Aurelian subsector was watched over by the Blood Ravens he had believed that they were simply patron saints. He had never once thought that they physically protected the subsector. Merrick rapidly adjusted his own perception of reality.

While the orks had been annihilating the guardsmen, the Angels of Death seemed barely troubled by them. Their weapons could not harm them and the bolters they wielded left deadly wounds in the green-skinned aliens. As the last orks fled into the woods, the Angels of Death approached the relay.

Merrick realized he was on his knees. He looked around and saw that everyone else was kneeling as well. Only around fifteen guardsmen had survived the attack and the bodies of the dead littered the area around the array. Their lieutenant was dead as well, shot in the chest during the skirmish. One of the Space Marines stopped in front of Merrick. He was a god in the flesh. His brown hair was immaculate even in the humidity of Typhon and his clean face had no sweat.

"We will take over here guardsman. You are relieved". The Space Marine spoke with authority and Merrick bowed his head.

"Yes my Lord." He said, surprised at his own ability to speak.

"Stand up brave guardsman, and tell us your name." said another voice, distorted by a helmet vox. Merrick managed to look up now. Other than the leader, all of the Space Marines were wearing helmets, though some were now taking them off. The one who had addressed him now was wearing a jump pack, and wielded a power sword.

"Sergeant Merrick, of the 203rd Vendoland regiment, my Lords." Said Merrick, rising to his feet and snapping to attention.

The Space Marines Commander spoke again, saying, "At ease, the array is secure due to the valor of your men."

"My Lords, who will protect the area now?" Merrick asked. He was the only guardsman that was brave enough to speak to the demigods.

"The Space Marines will, Guardsman. You can come crawling from beneath your beds now." Said an Astartes carrying a heavy bolter.

"Avitus, these soldiers performed admirably," said the one with the jump pack. "You should keep your prejudices to yourself until we leave this place."

"Be silent, the both of you." Ordered the Commander. "Sergeant Merrick." He continued. Merrick leapt to attention without even thinking about it. The Commander smiled slightly, and proceeded. "Our Strike Cruiser is preparing tarantula defense turrets to defend this array. In the meantime, we will protect it. When the turrets are deployed, a Thunderhawk will extract you with us. You will be transferred to a ship of the Adeptus Mechanicus for transport to Meridian."

"Yes, my Lord."

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Though the orks were defeated, Ocella Lyon was not lax in his watch over the woods around them. He stood with the rest of Tarkus' squad, currently made up of five marines. Nikephoros and Paulus were aboard the Armageddon recovering from their wounds, and Lyon found that he actually missed his gruff, no nonsense brother. Next to him was Brother Arza, another that was wounded during the battle at Fellhammer, though not as seriously. Arza's armor still had the sealing putty on its breastplate from where the Eldar Warlock had slashed him.

Cyrus sat with his initiates on the north side of the relay, near Thaddeus' squad. Cyrus lay on a pile of rocks, completely still with his sniper rifle at the ready. To his left, Xanthis sat hidden from view, behind a low, ruined wall covered in moss. The black skinned marine was sniffing the air.

"Sergeant Cyrus," he whispered. "Do you smell that?"

"I smell something. Stay alert; I believe it to be the scent of Eldar." Before the words had even left his mouth, the trees were alight with gunfire. He leaned behind his scope and viewed the treeline. Possibly thirty Eldar were firing from the trees, filling the air with deadly shuriken fire. Cyrus, from his experience in the Deathwatch could also pick out the sounds of two separate snipers in the Eldar force. The Astartes and the guardsmen returned fire. Cyrus aimed and fired his sniper rifle. An Eldar ducked the shot. Cyrus didn't expect to hit. The Eldar were very quick with their reflexes, would not be so easy to shoot. He re-aimed and fired. This time he was satisfied to see an Eldar fall, its chest flowing with blood. His satisfaction was short, as the force turned their fire against his position. Two guardsmen were thrown back, torn to pieces by the shuriken fire and Cyrus grimaced as he felt a star graze his back. His squad was pinned by the heavy fire, at the mercy of the Eldar.

"Stay in cover, assault squad!" shouted Thaddeus, "It would be foolish to charge now."

Nathaniel Augustine hugged cover, emerging occasionally to fire an un-aimed shot with his bolt pistol. The five marines were pinned in cover near Cyrus' initiates, who were under a large amount of fire. Brother Draco was gripping a gash in his arm where a shuriken had cut him and Mnason was wounded as well. Augustine wished that the Eldar would be foolish enough to target the guardsmen instead of his squad. Mnason leaned out from behind the pillar he leaned against and fired his bolt pistol. An Eldar in the tree line exploded. Augustine was always amused to see the effects of Mnason's power, allowing the most difficult shots to be made.

"Thaddeus, initiate assault jump into those Eldar!" Shouted Aramus, in cover near the array.

"Commander! That will put my squad in grave danger!" replied Thaddeus.

"We will support you, Sergeant." Finished Aramus.

"Yes Commander. None shall find us wanting. Activate jump packs squad!" The powerful jet engines pulled the assault squad from the ground and sent them flying towards the mass of Eldar below.

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The firefight had begun with Azra's death. The already wounded marine did not see the attack that killed him. Lyon watched him fall silently, almost reluctantly, even though he knew that his Brother was already dead. The sniper round had entered through his forehead and left no exit wound. Lyon had immediately poured bolterfire into the area where he thought the sniper lay. Then the Eldar attack had begun in earnest. The guardsmen were outmatched. Many were lying in cover without returning fire. Lyon took it upon himself to protect them. He chose his targets wisely and fired. Eldar were hard to hit, but he was doing well. He had killed two, one with an impossible shot that seemed to have curved around a rock. Lyon considered what he was told of his weapon, that its machine spirit guided the bolts. Lyon decided to make a prayer to the Omnissiah as well as the Emperor should he survive this battle. He heard a rush of jets over the gunfire and was surprised to see Thaddeus' squad leap into the air, quickly followed by the order to unleash suppressing fire. Avitus' squad opened up, the heavy bolters echoing of the metal walls of the relay. The Eldar receded into the tree line, while still firing.

Thaddeus landed with a crash next to two Eldar guardians. His power sword rose and fell twice. They were too slow. Up close, the space marines were much deadlier than the range focused guardians. His squad pressed into the guardians, inflicting deadly wounds with their chainswords and bolt pistols. We are at risk doing this, he thought. The Commander had been unwise to send us into this kind of firepower. He could already feel a couple wounds from shuriken that had grazed him. He shot a Warlock that tried to charge him and slashed at a guardian that was raising a blade to strike at him. The guardian dodged and attacked. His blade failed to pierce Thaddeus' armor and the Assault Sergeant counter attacked. The guardian dodged two more blows before being cut in half. Suddenly Thaddeus was consumed in shuriken fire. He stumbled back, trying to cover the weak points of his armor with his hands. He felt dozens of slashes appear on his body. Just as suddenly as it had arrived, the fire stopped. He looked to his side. Augustine stood with a smoking bolt pistol in his hand. The two guardians that had nearly killed Thaddeus were dead.

Lyon chose his shots even more carefully now. The Assault Squad was pushing the Eldar back and a lot of enemy fire had been diverted away from the main force. He heard a scream to his right and spun to face the source. Brother Elpis of his squad was badly wounded, his chest pierced through by monomolecular wire. Four Eldar Warp Spiders had teleported into the perimeter. Tarkus shouted in rage and opened fire. Before the rounds could hit, the Eldar teleported again, this time appearing to the left of Lyon. They fired their exotic weapons again, sending streams of wire towards the Imperials. Tarkus claimed a kill, one of his bolt rounds finally piercing the heavy armor of a warp spider. They teleported once again. This jump was badly judged however. They landed in the line of fire of Avitus' squad. Two heavy bolters opened up on the Eldar, who didn't even have a chance to fire. Two were killed almost instantly, and their leader jumped for the last time.

Lyon pointed his weapon at the Warp Spider Exarch. It had appeared right in front of him, and not prepared for his opponent. It was crouched on the pile of rubble that Lyon had been kneeling behind. For Lyon, the next five seconds seemed like an eternity. The Eldar's eyes acknowledged the young Space Marine's victory. Lyon could see an alien sense of acceptance in the Eldar's face. He had made a mistake, and the hunter that slips up becomes the hunted. Even though he knew he had lost, the Warp Spider still began to raise his twin death spinners. Lyon pulled the trigger. The four round burst threw the Exarch from his perch and covered Lyon with bright red blood. He looked over at Tarkus' who nodded at him with approval. Lyon felt pride fill him, he had saved lives.

Thaddeus was grateful that Augustine had been there, but there was no time to thank him now. The two assault marines charged forwards, killing any Eldar that strayed too close. Both were wounded, but not seriously enough to keep them from their duty. Thaddeus saw an Eldar ranger sitting in a tree. He fired once, and Augustine fell. The marine's breastplate was marked by a small hole and he took four steps before falling to his knees in a daze. Seconds later, the ground rushed up to meet him. In a rage, Thaddeus raised his pistol and fired. The Eldar swayed out of the way and aimed at Thaddeus. Before he could fire, another round flew towards him. The ranger dodged it as well, and locked eyes with Thaddeus. The Assault Sergeant could almost see the blame and hate in those grey eyes. The hooded ranger leapt of the tree, avoiding two more shots as he fled into the woods with the rest of the Eldar. Thaddeus reminded himself to thank Cyrus for saving his life. He recognized the work of the scout sergeant.

Thaddeus rushed to Augustine's body. The marine was alive, though wounded. He would not fight for a couple of days. The round had completely pierced his chest, and may have scratched one of his hearts. Thaddeus removed Augustine's helmet. His face was beaded with sweat and lined with pain.

"A brother has fallen squad, bring him to cover. It would be dangerous if he was here and the Eldar return."

Draco and Mnason grabbed Augustine by the arms and carried him back to the array. Thaddeus walked back with them and approached Commander Aramus. He was speaking with someone over the vox. He lowered his hand from his ear as Thaddeus approached.

"A good fight Sergeant" said Aramus.

"Your order risked the lives of my marines." Accused Thaddeus. "There were other options Commander."

"Others could have been killed by the guardians had your squad not attacked. It was a necessary risk. Now is not the time to argue Sergeant Thaddeus. The tarantula turrets are on their way and a Thunderhawk is en route. We will extract momentarily."

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Merrick numbly walked into the Blood Raven Thunderhawk. It had arrived soon after the four turrets had slammed into the ground and deployed their heavy bolters. His guardsmen had been ordered in after the wounded. He watched as a white armored marine treated another with a bullet wound in the chest. His beliefs had changed so much in one day. First he had thought that Astartes were a myth, and after they had arrived he thought they were invincible. Now he had seen one die, and many others wounded. Outside the Thunderhawk, the Space Marine Commander was speaking with one of his scouts, a marine that Merrick thought was called "Sirius" or something.

"Commander. I request permission to stay behind. There is an Eldar ranger here that must be dealt with."

"Cyrus, I cannot have you keep your squad here, away from the main force." Replied the Commander.

"Just Xanthis and I are needed. You can retrieve us after you speak with Captain Thule." Requested Cyrus.

The Commander sighed, thinking. After a moment, he said, "Very well. Do not die Sergeant."

"Not on this world Commander. Knowledge is power."

"Guard it well." Their conversation finished, the Commander entered the Thunderhawk and it departed.

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Ocella Lyon was filled with conflicting emotions during the flight up to the Armageddon. He had done a great service to the Emperor by killing that Exarch. Tarkus had commended him after the firefight. On the other hand, his friend had been wounded in action. Augustine had been put under by Apothecary Harkon, who had ridden the Thunderhawk down. The Apothecary was now attempting to discover the extent of his wounds. He would most likely be confined to the Apothecarium for the journey back to Calderis. A prayer to the Emperor, a prayer to the Omnissiah, and a prayer for Nathaniel, decided Lyon.

After disembarking from the Thunderhawk, the Strike Force went their separate ways. Tarkus' squad went to the Apothecarium along with Harkon to check on their wounded. Thaddeus alone from his squad went along as well. Avitus went immediately back to the shooting range, if only to expunge the bad taste the guardsmen had left in his mouth. The Thunderhawk had immediately taken off again to transport them to a nearby Mechanicus ship.

Aramus walked straight to the bridge. They had spent too much time on Typhon, even if they had completed some valuable objectives. When he arrived, the Techmarine Martellus was waiting for him, standing patiently next to his command lectern. Aramus approached the Techmarine. In his usual monotone, Martellus said, "Where is Sergeant Cyrus? I have an urgent message for the both of you."

"Cyrus chose to tie up loose ends on Typhon." Answered Aramus, sitting down in his chair, "you may deliver the message to me."

"Very well." Responded Martellus. "At Cyrus' request, I researched reports from Imperial Guard forces. Cyrus feared that a Tyranid fleet was approaching the subsector."

"Tyranids? The sergeant is paranoid. The nearest Hive Fleet was just defeated by the Ultramarines on Tarsis Ultra."

"Indeed Commander," confirmed the Techmarine, "However, I did the research all the same. I discovered more than 30 reports of guardsmen being killed and eaten from all across the subsector. I also found a report from a Magos Biologis on Typhon that recorded spontaneous mutation of plant life and surveillance reports of six limbed creatures unknown to the ecosystem."

"I see." Said Aramus gravely. He cupped his chin in his gauntlet, contemplating the situation. "I have little option to deny these claims. We will return to Calderis and warn Captain Thule. The subsector must prepare for this invasion immediately."

"Commander, I am not finished. I did one final piece of research, on Calderis. Only four of the guardsmen reports came from Calderis, but I dug a bit deeper into our own records. There have been many cases of orks being slaughtered by unknown hands. Some have been attributed to the Eldar, but others were yet unknown. One final report I found chilled me to the bone Commander. A report that unknown plant life was appearing on the southern hemisphere of Calderis. We never noticed because it was such an arid world."

"What does this mean Techmarine? Quit dancing around the conclusion." Ordered Aramus.

"Commander, we do not have to prepare for a splinter fleet. The tyranids are already here."

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Merrick sat on his temporary bunk in the Mechanicus craft they were on. He was never told its name. No one had come to greet the guardsmen other than a servitor. Everything in the ship had a metal coloring, even the bedsheets. The bunk room housed the remainder of the guardsmen. Only eight men including Merrick had survived the defense of the array.

He pulled out his prayer book for the first time in weeks and flipped through the tattered yellow pages, covered in dried mud and sweat. He found the passage he was looking for, a supposed quote of the Emperor describing his space marines. They shall be my finest warriors, these men who give of themselves to me…

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Augustine awoke in the Apothecarium. His chest hurt, and he was strapped to a bed. He struggled to sit, but pain rushed up and down his chest. He conceded and laid back down.

"Just my luck. Getting you to be right next to me." said a voice. Augustine struggled to roll over. He was displeased to see that his suspicions were true. In the bed next to him was Nikephoros. His skin and hair almost matched the color of the walls. Like Augustine, his chest was wrapped in bandages after his synthskin had been removed. The tactical marine was sitting up in his bed, a copy of the Codex Astartes in his hands. He thumbed through the book at random.

"Let us just get though this situation as painlessly as possible." Said Augustine.

"I agree for once. We will be back in combat in a few days anyway. I don't," he paused, correcting his speech, "I do not think we will be strangling each other that quickly."

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Nemerian realized he was crying. Their chance to kill the space marines had failed. Soon after Etherion had been killed, Idranel had realized that there was no chance that enough orks would arrive to stop the Great Devourer. The Farseer had ordered that the backup plan must be implemented. Deny the Hive Fleet resources and destroy it through Khaine's wrath. Túron was dead by the hands of one of the Mon-Keigh and Nemerian didn't have the chance to avenge him or collect his soulstone. He only hoped that Arcadia could easily reach the fallen. So many had died, and for what? Only one, maybe two of the Space Marines were dead. What a waste of precious Eldar life.

It had started to rain. Nemerian squatted under a tree, rifle propped up next to him. He listened to the voices of Typhon, taking in their words. It was a beautiful orchestra of sounds engulfing him. Within it all, he could hear two stray notes. Two mon-keigh, coming for him. He reached for his rifle. It was time to hunt.

The warp had not been kind to the Armageddon. The return trip to Calderis was rife with warp squalls, and the travel had not been easy. Not only that, communication was at a minimum. Four astropaths had died in the span of the two days. Despite the trouble, it was no concern of Martellus. Naturally he was concerned, both about Cyrus, still on Typhon, and Captain Thule, who could be at risk from tyranid attack. There was nothing he could do however. He now sat in his workshop deep in the ship. Hunched over his cluttered desk, he manufactured a servo skull under the light of the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

It was a fine skull. The owner had been a chapter serf that had died recently from an illness. Martellus couldn't remember what illness was like. He had only had a few before he was recruited, and memories from before were hazy. His fingers moved swiftly and delicately over the polished bone. He affixed circuits to it, a primitive viewfinder, and the repulsor lift. Thinking about it now, he did not need any more servo skulls. Perhaps this was just to distract him from his concerns. He heard shuffling at the door and looked up. The one called Nikephoros was leaning against the doorway. He was shirtless, bandages wrapped around his chest. He had one hand pressed against his sternum, apparently causing him great pain. He had something in his other hand, but Martellus couldn't tell what it was.

"Brother Nikephoros, should you be about?" asked Martellus, a touch of concern in his voice.

"No, I do not suppose I should. I have a request Brother-Techmarine." Responded Nikephoros in a tired voice. He stepped into the room, legs shaking slightly. Clearly, thought Martellus, he should be in bed. His wound is still ailing him.

"For what do you ask, Brother?" asked Martellus. He helped Nikephoros over to his work desk, and brushed aside a pile of scrap metal so his brother could lean on something. Nikephoros sat on the edge of the desk, and then placed a small knife in front of Martellus. It was six inches long and single edged. Martellus picked it up and examined it. Its craftsmanship was crude. It was certainly not something that the Blood Ravens created.

"Where did you obtain this knife, Brother? A family keepsake from your previous life?"

"No, Brother Techmarine. I acquired it during the Blood Trials after I lost my knife to another." Replied Nikephoros.

Martellus sat down behind his desk, and examined the hilt of the weapon. He tried to find any marks that would identify a manufacturer, but he could find nothing but a place where the hilt had been filed down. The artist's name would never be known. He placed the knife carefully on his desk and looked up. "What do you wish me to do, Brother Nikephoros?" he asked.

"I'd like that to be made into a new knife." Nikephoros requested.

"I am sure you understand that there is not enough metal here to make a full sized Astartes blade." Martellus stated.

"I thought so. Is it possible for that metal to be the spine of a new knife at least?"

"Hmm," mused Martellus, "I will see what I can do. You would like the same style? Thick, single edged?"

"If you could." Asked Nikephoros.

"Very well. I will begin work soon. Perhaps it will distract me from the current situation." Martellus said as the ship quaked. The shaking was all too common. The Navigator was not as sure of his path as usual. His vision had been reduced greatly.

"Thanks, Techmarine." Said Nikephoros. He reached up to wipe sweat from his bleached hair and breathed in deeply. "It was probably stupid of me to come here. I will return to the Apothecarium."

"Do you require assistance?" asked Nikephoros, half out of his seat.

"No. I believe I am fine." Nikephoros slowly crossed the room and exited, leaning on the wall.

Martellus paused for a moment, before grabbing the blade and making his way towards the artificer workshops. He had a knife to make.

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Cyrus slid through the mud, flat on his belly. It had rained on Typhon ever since the Armageddon had left. From then on, he and Xanthis had hunted two Eldar rangers. They had eluded them quite well, and had tried to kill the scouts multiple times as well. Cyrus crawled over a mass of roots. Up ahead of him was a small ravine. He and Xanthis had chased the Eldar this way, though neither of the Astartes had fired a shot yet. Two hundred yards to the north, Xanthis was closing on the entrance to the ravine. Cyrus squirmed onto a rock that overlooked the ravine. Trees were lightly spaced throughout it, and the rain was making vision difficult.

He pulled his rifle up by the barrel, and pointed it into the ravine. He placed it in front of him before grabbing the hem of his camoleoline cloak. With it, he wiped some of the mud off of his face, and then tried to clean the scope a bit. All he managed to do was move the mud around. He sighed at the misfortune and placed the scope up to his eyes. He looked straight ahead, scanning for Xanthis. After a moments search, Cyrus found his squadmate. Xanthis was wrapped completely in his cloak, sitting at the base of a wide tree in the entrance to the ravine. The ambush was in place. His eye caught movement, and Cyrus slowly panned the rifle to see it. Something was slipping between the trees. Cyrus focused on it, and saw an Eldar ranger in a black cloak, silently moving from tree to tree, a long rifle in his hands. His head was covered by a hood, and his face was obscured from Cyrus' view. Cyrus was sure it was the same ranger that had shot Augustine two days before. He settled the crosshairs of the scope on the Eldar's head. His finger applied pressure to the trigger, and a shot impacted less than six inches from his head.

Kicking with his foot, he spun around, still prone, searching the cliff side to his left. In an instant, he spotted his attack, the other ranger, a white haired Eldar with a cloth obscuring his lower face. The ranger was hidden cleverly between two rocks, laying nearly sideways. Cyrus quickly aimed and fired. He felt the kick, and looked up from his scope. The Eldar was gone. He fired once more into the trees for good measure and then turned back to the Eldar below. As he settled to aim again, he heard a tap and then a series of beeps. He looked up, and stared at the plasma grenade flashing next to him. With a curse he slapped it away; it just cleared the edge of the cliff when it went off. Cyrus was thrown back, rocks pummeling him. He slammed into a tree, and struggled to his feet. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and rolled forwards, barely evading the storm of shuriken that tore the tree to pieces. As he gained his footing, Cyrus slung his rifle across his back and pulled out his bolt pistol. He pointed the weapon at where he thought the enemy was and pulled the trigger twice. Nothing.

The gun was kicked out of his hands. Cyrus had been attacked from his left. He pulled his head back, and barely dodged the katar that had been stabbed at his neck. He lashed out with his right arm, and got a nasty gash on the knuckles for his efforts. The ranger charged him, stabbing with a katar in each hand. Cyrus blocked with the armor on his forearms, each ceremite plate being sliced deeply by the monomolecular blade. He jumped backwards and drew his own blade. Down in the ravine, Cyrus could hear bolterfire. Xanthis was in combat as well. The ranger charged again, pressing his advantage. Cyrus was off balance. He never expected an Eldar ranger, those that usually preferred ranged combat, to charge him so eagerly. Cyrus blocked two strikes, and then stabbed out with his knife. The ranger ducked, and drove a katar into Cyrus' side. Cyrus grimaced and blocked the second katar. With his free arm, he backhanded the Eldar. The ranger fell back, pulling the blade out of Cyrus' flank with a spurt of blood.

Cyrus looked around in the short lull in combat. He saw his bolt pistol lying mere yards away from him. He raised his arm, and threw his combat knife with all of his might at the ranger. The ranger easily swayed out of the way, but Cyrus already had the pistol in his hands. The scout sergeant clenched his teeth and emptied the weapon at the Eldar, who began running. Cyrus tracked the swift figure with his pistol, emptying his magazine to no affect. The bolts exploded harmlessly around the alien. Cyrus sprinted after the ranger, wrenching his knife from the tree it was stuck in as he passed.

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Martellus had just finished attaching the hilt to Nikephoros' new knife when a new Astartes crossed his threshold. Nathaniel Augustine was much more confident with his steps, though Martellus could see a bit of a limp in his stride. The thin, blond Astartes was wearing a full robe, bandages visible under it.

"You are not the first wounded marine that has greeted me today, Brother Augustine." Said Martellus. "You seem better."

"I am, Brother Techmarine. Harkon is a better surgeon than you would think. The projectile was extracted with little trouble. The Emperor protected me."

"Thank the Omnissiah. Every marine is needed such dark times. Why is it you have come?"

"A request, if you would take it." Said Augustine as he dropped a small knife on the table. It was seven inches long, thin and double edged. It was a stabbing blade, meant to pierce between plates in armor as well as between ribs.

"An heirloom?" asked Martellus, at the verge of amusement. He could already guess what the request would be.

"No. I received it at the Blood Trials actually. It gave me this scar." Said Augustine as he held out his hand. The rough, pink scar tissue was still clearly visible on both sides of his tan hand. Martellus leaned forwards a bit. He was unfamiliar with medical skills, as well as hands. His had been replaced more than a hundred years before.

"You would like me to forge it into a new blade?" presumed Martellus.

"Yes, how did you know?" Augustine asked as his eyes widened.

"Sorcery." Replied Martellus evenly.

"W-what? Brother, you should not dabble in such things!" stuttered a shocked Augustine.

"Brother. That was a joke. I know because another marine requested the same thing earlier today."

Augustine sighed inwardly. He had never heard Martellus tell a joke before, and he could see why. The Techmarine had no sense of comedic timing or sarcasm. Augustine looked down at the knife on the table, it seemed oddly familiar.

"Brother Martellus, this knife seems familiar."

"Did you lose a weapon during the Blood Trials as well?" asked Martellus.

"Yes, to the Pale Monster." Responded Augustine, smiling in curiosity at the knife on the table.

"I see. The Omnissiah does work in mysterious ways." Muttered Martellus.

"Pardon?" asked Augustine.

"It is nothing Augustine, I will begin work immediately."

A voice rang across the ship, "Exiting warp in five minutes. All Blood Ravens prepare for battle. Knowledge is power, guard it well."

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Cyrus rushed after the ranger. The Eldar was much faster than him. The scout sergeant could only hope Xanthis was still alive. If his squadmate was gone, Cyrus was as sure as dead. He voiced a short prayer to the Emperor as he pumped his legs.

Chasing after the white haired ranger, Xanthis barreled into the other. He raised his bolter to shoot the Eldar, only to find it slapped out of his hands. The Eldar jabbed at him, katars in each hand. Xanthis barely dodged. He had never fought an enemy armed with katars before. They were an awkward weapon to fight against, their punching motions made parrying difficult. He rolled around the enemy, and swung a kick along the ground towards the ranger's legs. Not even bothering to jump the leg sweep, the Eldar casually planted one of his katars into Xanthis' knee. The bald scout cried out in pain. The ranger stomped on the katar, driving it further into the scout's leg, and pinned him to the ground. He raised his other for the killing blow. Xanthis reached with all of his might, feeling the tendons in his leg rip, and grabbed his bolter from where it had fallen. He spun it around and shot the ranger in the face. Nemerian fell back, slumping against a tree, headless.

Cyrus found Xanthis moments later. The dark skinned marine was pulling one of the Eldar's blades from his knee joint, his cloak between his teeth so he wouldn't bite his own tongue. The scout was hesitating, not wanting to cause himself any more pain. Cyrus silently dropped to his knees and gripped the katar. A sharp tug and it was out, followed by a muffled scream from Xanthis. The blood pooled around the two scouts. The sergeant picked up the younger marine and said, "A good kill Brother, but we are combat ineffective now. We should return to the agreed rendezvous point and await extraction." Looking away from the broken body of the ranger, Cyrus took the first step on a fifty mile trek back to the extraction point.

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Three thunderhawks soared towards the combat on Calderis below. Every Blood Raven on the Armageddon had been dispatched save Martellus and the other techmarines. From the bridge, Martellus performed the newest orbital scan of the world. The planet was rife with unknown wildlife. In just four days, the new presence had become so apparent.

Aboard the lead Thunderhawk, Aramus tapped into the battlefield vox on the surface. He received a testament to the ferocity of the battle below condensed into hours of audio recording. He played through snippets of it at a time. Every clip he played was from Captain Thule.

"Kill those orks Brothers, there are not enough to be a threat!"

"There is their leader brothers, gun him down!"

"Is that all orks? Show me everything you have! Your leader is dead, you are next!"

Aramus skipped ahead a couple of hours.

"Brother Borian, confirm! New xenos attackers? Press forward."

"Tyranids threaten our recruiting worlds! No matter the reasons behind their arrival, kill the aliens!"

"Die xenos! Feel my wra-AAAAUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!"

Aramus paled. A bloodcurdling scream had interrupted the Captain's battlecry. He worriedly skipped ahead and heard the voice of Sergeant Borian.

"Form a defensive circle Brothers, Captain Thule is fallen. Protect him with your very lives." The sergeant's shaken voice echoed in Aramus' head. Inside the Thunderhawk, his strike force was ready to engage the enemy.

"Brothers, Captain Thule appears to have fallen in combat with the tyranids." Said Aramus with deep regret in his voice.

Tarkus did not respond. He simply bowed his head. Next to him, Ocella Lyon was shocked. Captain Thule? Dead? It was unthinkable that such a valiant and honorable space marine could be killed. He gripped his bolter tighter. These aliens must die. No matter the cost.

Avitus wasn't angry. He felt odd, sad. He had always thought that if a friend died he would feel only the need for vengeance, not the need to mourn. This simple fact surprised him. However, he still possessed the need for vengeance. And he would get it. Apothecary Harkon felt no different. He was no stranger to dead bodies, great or obscure. He would do his duty.

Thaddeus put on his helmet to hide the tears. He had been taught by Captain Thule from a very young age. To lose him now would be unbearable, especially when he was not beside Thaddeus, fighting with him. He gripped his power sword. These tyranids, whatever they were, would die. Every last one of them.

"Ten seconds," came the voice of the pilot. "Thunderhawks two and three are prepared for extraction followed by bombing run. For the Great Father and the Emperor."

The ramp dropped and Aramus and his strike force charged out. Twenty yards ahead of them, Thule's force had formed a defensive circle, their backs to a stone wall. They had pursued the ork mek Badzappa outside of Argus to a small suburb. After the death of the mek, they were cut off from the PDF guarding the capital and were beset by the tyranids, arriving from the south. Now only ten marines stood defending the position. The others were either wounded or dead. Some lay on their backs, still firing their bolters in their injured states.

Aramus charged forwards, slashing his power sword through scuttling six-limbed creatures. Their purple and bone colored chitin was cut effortlessly by his power sword. Tarkus' squad followed, their bolters bursting the disgusting creatures with single bolts. Avitus' squad set up their weapons outside the Thunderhawk, defending the landing zone. No alien could approach them without bursting into purple ichor.

Aramus cast the aliens aside with every step. Alone they were even weaker than orks, their claws, though sharp were not very effective against power armor. They rushed across the ground like flightless locusts. Swinging his blade in wide arcs, he tore through the horde. In two minutes, the Strike Force had cleared a path to Borian's defense. Harkon rushed forward. In the center was the body of Captain Thule, broken and torn as well as the body of a tyranid warrior with two pairs of scything talons. Thule had a deep stab in his right shoulder that exited through his left hip. He also had an injury that pierced from his chest out his back. The Captain was unmoving, his face pale. Harkon looked him over and exclaimed, "The Captain yet lives! We must return to the Armageddon immediately."

From his left, Sergeant Magnus shouted, "Take that beast with you; it was the one that felled him. I killed it myself." Next to him, Chaplain Automemos felled alien after alien with his Crozius Arcanum, admonishing the foe.

"I cannot carry him alone!" shouted Harkon. With a nod, two of Borian's men joined him, one helping to lift Thule, the other picking up the tyranid warrior. The force moved quickly, rushing back to the Thunderhawks. Each marine aided another. The xenos tide had slowed. Aramus assumed that this was simply the vanguard of the tyranid swarm that had landed on this world. Harkon moved the dead into the back of the Thunderhawk as the Astartes piled in. Avitus was last into the Thunderhawk, still pouring heavy bolter fire into the tyranids when the ramp closed.

Harkon looked over Thule's body with all of his medical expertise. The wounds were bleeding. This was normal, they were incredibly deep. Most other Astartes would be dead already. He quickly injected Thule with a coagulant and began trying to seal the wounds. After stapling the wound on his neck, he noticed the bleeding hadn't stopped. Even worse, the blood around the wounds was thick and black. Harkon removed his helm, and scooped a tiny measure of blood with his finger. He took a small lick, and immediately spat out the foul fluid. Poison. Deadly. He immediately voxed the Armageddon. He needed Gordian.

"Brother Gordian, this is Harkon. We have a class one emergency! Thule has been felled by a tyranid warrior. His injuries are poisoned. I fear they will be deadly."

"Understood." Came the response, "The Apothecarium is being prepared for surgery. May the Emperor protect him until he can receive our ministrations."

The flight was tense, and no one said anything. Ocella Lyon shook in nervousness. Their Captain was alive, but for how much longer? He reassured himself, the Emperor always protected. The mighty and the weak both fall under his grace. The Captain would certainly live to fight alongside them again. Thirty minutes passed in this silence, and nothing appeared to confirm Lyon's hopes.

The ramp had barely opened when Harkon rushed out, two marines behind him carrying Thule. Ahead of them was Gordian dressed in full armor, medical robe over it. His hands and robe were covered in medical tools and he was already prepped for surgery. The entire Strike Force rushed behind the Apothecaries, Thaddeus at their head.

"Hurry, take Captain Thule to surgery immediately!" he shouted, "You must save him!"

As they reached the doors of the Apothecarium, Thaddeus made to follow them in; he felt an arm on his shoulder and stopped. Tarkus firmly gripped him, his face grave.

"There is nothing more you can do Thaddeus. Leave the rest to the Apothecaries."

Thaddeus bowed his head in helplessness, the tears still fresh on his cheeks. Two unarmored marines stumbled towards the strike force from down the hallway. They were met by Ocella Lyon. Nikephoros and Nathaniel Augustine held each other around the shoulder, fighting to keep each other standing. Nikephoros was nearly crushing the small, blond marine, who was doing most of the supporting.

"Brother," Nikephoros asked, "what is happening?" The concern was evident on his face. Few on the ship knew what had just transpired on the planet below.

Ocella Lyon didn't say anything. He simply shook his head. To their right, Tarkus lay his head on the door to the Apothecarium, one hand at his side, the other flat on the wall. In a soft, quiet voice, possibly only for himself, he said "Today, we have lost something that cannot be replaced."

At Tarkus' statement, there was silence. None could argue with him. Even if Captain Thule were to live, he would be crippled and require months, even years before he could rejoin the Company in battle. Nathaniel Augustine, nearly crushed under the weight of his Brother Nikephoros, had a blank look on his face. Nikephoros' face was wracked with disbelief. Looking at them, Aramus realized that they had never lost an inspirational man like Thule. Indeed, this was the first time that Aramus had lost a leader firsthand. His Captain had been one of the few to survive Kaurava, and Aramus remembered how relieved he had been when he had heard.

He walked towards Tarkus, placing a hand on the Sergeant's ichor covered pauldron. "Sergeant, we must trust th-" he started, before being thrown back by an impact to his face. Aramus stumbled and braced against the wall to regain his footing. As he turned, Aramus put a hand to his face. His gauntlet came off bloody, and he could already feel a dark bruise emerging. The hit had been strong enough to kill an ordinary man, and only the fact that he was a Space Marine had saved him. He looked up to see Thaddeus breathing heavily, a fist outstretched. Aramus' eyes squinted in anger. Sergeant Tarkus was holding Thaddeus by the pauldron, and Avitus looked poised to tackle the Assault Sergeant at any time. The other marines were tense. Ocella Lyon had his finger brushing the trigger guard of his bolter. The two unarmored marines, Nikaphoros and Augustine looked on helplessly.

"Thaddeus, restrain yourself." Ordered Tarkus, his hand not releasing Thaddeus' pauldron.

"It is his fault!" said Thaddeus in anguish, the pain clear in his voice. "If he had not been so eager to go to Typhon. . . If we had remained on Calderis with Captain Thule."

"Then we would be in the same situation." Said Augustine. He did not flinch under the eyes that were turned upon him.

"Augustine. . ." started Thaddeus, an expression of hurt betrayal on his face.

"Augustine is correct, Thaddeus, though he should have more respect when he speaks his mind." Said Tarkus. Augustine quickly took a step back, as if realizing what he had just said, and to whom. Nikephoros struggled to remain upright as Augustine suddenly moved. Lyon was glaring at Augustine, though the unarmored marine could only see Lyon's helmet, and couldn't understand the anger his brother was feeling. Lyon wondered how Augustine could be so disrespectful, right or wrong, in a situation this stressful. Their Captain was wounded, possibly dead, and a lowly battle-brother had contradicted a sergeant. Although, that sergeant had just struck a superior officer, so maybe the chain of command wasn't in effect right now.

"Thaddeus, how dare you?" shouted Aramus. In response the Assault Sergeant threw off Tarkus with a flick of his arm, and placed his hand on the hilt of his power sword. He drew it a couple inches out of its sheath as Aramus backpedaled, ready to draw his blade at any sign of an attack. Avitus stepped forward and leveled his heavy bolter at Thaddeus. Tarkus quickly stepped back.

"Thaddeus, if you draw that blade any farther, I swear to the Emperor and the Primarch himself I will kill you where you stand." Avitus' voice seethed with anger. "I do not care about this quarrel. You may be right, the Commander may be at fault. However, no Astartes draws their weapon against their Commander and lives to speak of it. Not under my watch."

Thaddeus calmed quickly, releasing his grip and allowing the blade to fall back into the sheath. Aramus and the others calmed as well, and to Ocella Lyon it felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Nathaniel Augustine did not look relieved. He stared at Sergeant Thaddeus. Lyon wondered if he was thinking about how Thaddeus would treat him after today. Would he ignore his comment? Or would the young sergeant hold a grudge against Augustine for turning against him. Lyon believed deep in his soul that Thaddeus was a good man. It is impossible for him to hold a grudge against one of his own brothers. Behind him, Draco stared at Augustine with disapproval.

"Thaddeus," said Aramus, "I will allow such an outburst once. However, do not dare to raise a hand to me again."

"Yes Commander. Brothers, I apologize. Such an outburst was uncalled for, no matter what the situation." Thaddeus breathed in and out deeply, calmed and regretful of his actions.

Martellus joined a group from the bow facing hallway. "Sergeants, Commander, if we could gather in one of the briefing rooms. We must discuss how to defeat the Hive Fleet. I have prepared multiple options for consideration."

Aramus was the first to move towards the Techmarine, followed by the other sergeants. Before Tarkus went, he turned to Lyon and said, "Brother Lyon, be sure the wounded are taken care of. That includes brothers Nikephoros and Augustine."

"As you command Brother-Sergeant. Come Nathaniel, Brother Nikephoros, you must return to the medbay."

"Aye," said Nikephoros, "though with Captain Thule wounded I'd be surprised if there is anyone to take care of us."

"The Emperor provides, Brother Nikephoros" answered Lyon, ushering them along.

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Martellus stood in front of a holographic projector in the darkened briefing room. Seated in front of him were the surviving sergeants of the 4th Company, Tarkus, Thaddeus, Mercutio, Avitus, Borian, and Magnus as well as Ariston from the 10th, Commander Aramus and Chaplain Automemos. Like nearly every company in the Blood Ravens, the 4th was severely understrength. They could barely muster 50 marines amongst them. The twenty two initiates that Cyrus and Ariston commanded were a welcome addition to the fighting force.

Martellus crouched down to the base of the projector and connected two wires while muttering the rite of "booting up". As he stood he gave the machine the ceremonial kick and an image formed in the air. Four planets appeared, as well as a black circle with the words "Location/Status UNKNOWN" inside of it. The planets shown were clearly recognizable as Calderis, Typhon Primaris, Meridian. . . and Cyrene. Though all present understood what the black circle meant, none were willing to acknowledge it.

"Brothers," began Martellus, "The situation is grave. A splinter fleet of tyranids threatens this subsector. This is a foe none present have faced. We do not know their capabilities, nor their weaknesses through personal experience."

"How dangerous could they be?" asked Avitus. "Those we fought after Thule was injured were not so tough. I could kill hundreds."

"So we all thought," responded Borian, "Thule underestimated them as well. When they first appeared we easily killed them. Thule saw more in the distance and ordered us to advance. We did kill hundreds Avitus, but there were thousands."

"Sergeant Borian is right," said Martellus. "I researched intensely during the return trip from Typhon. Our records are incomplete, but I managed to determine a few things. First of all, the Tyranids are without number. Their footsoldiers, the so-called "gaunts", are weak and numerous, made to soak up gunfire. They do not even possess digestive systems. Second, the tyranids form a collective conscious. Several historians refer to this as the "Hive Mind". It is a phenomenally large warp presence that connects all tyranids together. The only human that has survived psychic contact with this abomination is the Chief Librarian of the Ultramarines, Varro Tigurius. In his writings, he states that the mind cannot be reasoned with or broken through fear, that it is a monstrosity unknown to human thought or logic. It appears that there is some way to break the Hive Mind's control. However, the notes of Inquisitor Kryptman were incomplete in this regard."

"And the third thing, Techmarine?" asked Aramus, arms crossed across his chest.

"The third thing is the purpose of the tyranids. It is the strip entire worlds of life to feed their insatiable hunger. They consume everything on the world, down to the crust. Everything is dissolved into biomass to create new tyranids. If our worlds fall, they will be destroyed utterly. Failure here would be a death sentence for our chapter."

"Where is the tyranid fleet now Martellus?" questioned Tarkus. The sergeant was writing notes on a pad of paper, his pen looked comically small in his gauntlet.

"I believe the main fleet is between Meridian and Typhon. It moves slowly, however it has many scout vessels that deploy vanguard tyranids to prospective worlds. I fear Meridian may already be under attack.

"We must immediately request aid from Chapter Command." Declared Thaddeus.

"I took the liberty to send an astropathic message earlier today. The tyranid Hive Mind casts what astropaths call a "shadow in the warp". This makes psychic communication difficult. A response may be a long time coming."

Aramus leaned forward. "Techmarine, we cannot sit by idly while these xenos destroy our recruiting worlds. Is there any way to fight them?"

"Of course there is!" exclaimed Chaplain Automemos. "We use the Armageddon to face their fleet and destroy it. With their ships dead, their forces are destroyed."

"With respect to Chaplain Automemos." Replied Martellus, "that plan would end in our deaths. The Armageddon cannot hope to destroy even a small splinter fleet. It would be best to travel to Meridian and contact Fleet Korianis."

"What do we do Martellus?" demanded Avitus.

"I have formed a plan that may work. However, our first objective is to recover the only marine in the subsector that has fought the tyranids before. Cyrus is awaiting extraction on Typhon. With the Commander's order, I will set course for there."

"Do so, and then explain the rest of your plan." Ordered the Commander. Martellus put a hand to the side of his helmet and stood still for a moment, talking through his helmet vox.

As he lowered his hand, he resumed speaking. "My plan has three parts. When Cyrus is returned to us, I will confirm their effectiveness. The first objective is to secure a sample of pure tyranid DNA. This will allow us to examine their biological weaknesses as well as a cure for their poisons. I do not know how to accomplish this. However, using the data we can create a poison to destroy the tyranid Norn Queen, which is the head of the tyranid evolution process. It lays it the depths of the hive fleet. A poison is our only way to wound it.

Our second objective is to rediscover the astronomic array on planet Typhon. It is a relic from the Dark Age of Technology that will be able to scan the Hive Fleet for weaknesses. Using it we can determine how to deliver the poison. Its location is currently unknown and its status is unknown as well.

The final objective is to secure access to Angel Forge on planet Meridian. Its manufacturing capabilities will be able to forge the delivery mechanism for the poison. However, I suspect that there will be heavy bureaucratic resistance to this."

"We will take the Forge by force if we must." declared Aramus. Though it was a radical idea, the sergeants in the room nodded their heads in agreement, even Thaddeus. If the Chapter was at risk, nearly any course of action must be taken, even those that skirt the path of damnation.

"We may not have to. There are reports of increasing Eldar activity on Meridian, as well as the tyranid fleet rapidly approaching. The may be forced to give us access to Angel Forge in an attempt to curry favor with us."

"I see." Replied Aramus, rising to his feet. "Our only choice now is to wait until we reach Typhon."

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Gordian had never seen anything like this before. He and Harkon stood over Davian Thule's body, positioned on a surgical table. The Captain was dying, much to the surprise of Gordian. This poison was worse than any he had ever seen in his long life. The poxes of Nurgle even paled compared to this brew. The Captain's flesh was pale and slick with sweat. His temperature alternated between hot and freezing seemingly at random. Gordian resigned himself to treating the symptoms.

The Captain was convulsing, clinging to life. He bled from every orifice a black blood that oozed out onto the operating table. Gordian had already spent twelve vials of coagulants, each built to supercharge the larraman cells of a space marine. The empty vials littered the floor around the Armageddon's head Apothecary. The bleeding simply would not stop. Across from him, Harkon looked helpless. The younger apothecary was out of his league.

"Harkon, go treat the others, leave Captain Thule to me. There is nothing you can do." Ordered Gordian.

"As you wish Brother." The automatic door hissed and Harkon was gone.

New symptoms and worse now. The Captain's skin was drying up. Gordian quickly injected Thule with a liquid solution to keep his hydration up, yet his skin began turning brown and coarse at the tips of the limbs. Less than an hour later, Gordian amputated Thule's right arm. The arm had dried completely and the skin had dropped off the bone completely. Gordian worked desperately to keep the other limbs alive. He injected Thule with every drug know to him, hoping something would work. Gordian was panicking; he had never been so outclassed in his life. Thule's face had begun to rot from the inside out. Throughout all of this, his wounds continued to bleed. The convulsing had long stopped.

Hours later, Gordian faced defeat. With a ripping noise, Thule's augmetic eye fell from his face. It landed with a clatter on the floor of the Apothecarium. The hole in his head dripped with black blood. Gordian opened the unconscious Captain's other eye. It spun wildly, its iris completely white. All of Thule's hair was gone now, fallen to the floor as well. With tears of shame and helplessness in his eyes, Gordian activated the stasis field. Thule, now locked out of time, would wait on the edge of death for a cure to the poison that was killing him.

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The ancient temple on Typhon was a masterpiece of architecture. Even after tens of thousands of years it stood tall amongst the trees of the forest. Arcadia could see it from more than half a mile away as she rushed through the forest, lightly leaping fallen trees and swinging silently from branch to branch at incredible speeds. In mere minutes she reached the base of the giant, brown stoned structure. With a series of leaps and a short climb, she lifted herself over the outer wall and stood next to Ronahn, who stood watch over the area below. He was seated near a crack in the battlements of the temple, his rifle inserted through a hole in the wall. As she landed next to him, Ronahn silently reached into a pouch at his side and gave her a small red stone, pulsing with a glowing light. She didn't say anything, thinking that the rain itself was mourning enough for Nemerian. In these last few weeks she had seen far too much death. Now she carried the souls of another twenty four Eldar that had died trying to protect their kin. The only stones she did not bear were those of Exarch Túron. The twelve soul stones that lined his body would be taken back by the Warp Spider Temple. There a new Exarch would be chosen, and he would cast aside his name and become Túron once more. From then on, the armor of the Warp Spider Exarch would bear twelve soulstones, and a waystone, ever awaiting the soul of its next Túron.

Arcadia descended a wide staircase into the center of the temple, a wide open arena floor overgrown with plants. There waited the Seer Council. Farseer Idranel looked tired. Her red hair was unwashed and though her face was expressionless, Arcadia could detect uncertainty in her eyes. Around her stood her most trusted Warlocks. Veldoran, a Warlock of Alaitoc, stood to her left. He had traveled to Ulthwé for this mission specifically, and still wore his blue and yellow robes of his home Craftworld. Behind the Farseer stood Uiremon, the oldest Warlock present. He was a spiritseer, charged with leading the Dead Warriors into combat. His braided white hair reached the small of his back in an intricate pattern. Lastly, Idranel's bodyguard, Drochasal Draoi was standing at her right side. His helmet was on and one hand lay on the hilt of his witchblade. As Arcadia approached, dozens of Eldar made their way to the farseer's position. Arcadia could see guardians of all ages and genders, a few rangers, the Dire Avengers of Exarch Cculan, Exarch Tyrea's Banshees and the remainder of the Warp Spider Brood. There were only a hundred Eldar gathered, less than a fourth of the full force.

"Farseer," said Arcadia, "I have recovered the stones of the fallen. What is our next course of action?" The white armored banshee removed her helmet, letting her beautiful blond hair fall across her shoulders. She was the only Banshee that wasn't from Craftworld Ulthwé. Biel-Tan had sent her, a single Eldar to represent the Bahzhakain, the Swordwind. When she had arrived, she was almost offended when she was ordered to collect the souls of the dead, but Arcadia realized that she was assigned this mission because she was possibly the best Eldar duelist in the force. Though, she thought, Draoi and Tyrea could probably best her.

"Our options are limited, but our course is clear." Declared Idranel. The farseer leaned on her singing spear, clearly exhausted.

"Your Aspect Warriors ever await your command Farseer." Said Cculan, proud in his bright blue armor. His face was hidden behind his thin white helmet. Covering his armor were dozens of soulstones, each holding the soul of the previous exarch. Arcadia was sure that the actual Eldar that inhabited the suit of armor was not the thing speaking to them now.

"Yes," agreed Uiremon, "We are all at your command. The dead are eager to fight once more." As if summoned, a wraithlord stepped to his side and crouched down to head level. The sleek wraithbone form disguised a strength that could tear a building apart with its strength alone, not to mention its multiple weapons.

"Farseer." It droned. Its voice was like someone speaking through water, a vibration in the air that was simply understood by those who heard it. The deep voice of the wraithlord echoed in the minds of the Eldar present. "I have waited eons to do battle once more. In ages past, I was known as Aerelth. I am eager to fight. To sing battle songs again. My strength is at your command."

"I thank you all." Replied Idranel, speaking to the host as a whole. "The random hand of fate has not been kind to us. The orks have escaped our blades and now the mon-keigh seek to combat the hive fleet on their own. The will certainly lose. Our only option is to deny the tyranids of that which they seek, fertile worlds to devour. We do not have the numbers to fight them."

"Farseer, can we not present a truce to the humans?" asked Draoi. "These particular humans have allied with us before."

"We cannot Warlock Draoi." Said Cculan. "The mon-keigh would betray us in a second. The Farseer is right. We must destroy the life on these worlds. With the surface of this planet scoured of life. The Bane of Iyandan will certainly pass over that which is precious to us, the Tears of Isha. Blood must be spilled. The only question is how."

"My visions have shown me our path, though it is slippery with blood." Said Idranel. "The human world contains a place that is a horrid mockery of Vaul's forge. Its technology is unstable. Should we disrupt its functions, the world's mantle would shatter, ending all life. The tyranids would be left to starve. We need only destroy this world a different way."

"How shall we deploy Farseer?" asked Veldoran.

"You will remain here Warlock, along with Exarch Cculan and a hundred of our warriors. Draoi and I shall lead an attack on the city-world. If we succeed, our objective may be safe. Failure will cost many lives. That is why we must succeed."

"We will never lose while you lead us Idranel." Declared Draoi. Deep in his soul, for once he did not believe it.

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The air smelled like blood. Eliphas the Inheritor's first impression of the Monument of Sin was a good one. The hall he had been warped into was lined with tapestries. Each depicted the thousands of victories the occupants of the ship had won. Each was also made of the dried skin of the dead. The metal walls of the ship were rusted, and the entire hall glowed dark red, the visibility low. The walled pulsed with unknown power, and at the edge of Eliphas' senses he could hear a distant howling, seemingly coming from the heart of the ship. The Dark Apostle smiled as he strode forward, boots making a loud clank as he strode down the wide hall, Amphion trailing behind him. The fully armored sorcerer carried dozens of tomes in his hands, one of which had gotten them aboard this ship. Eliphas was always impressed with the precision that Amphion could muster.

A mob of wailing slaves passed, each chained to the other. Behind them strode a black armored space marine, his pauldron marked with the eye of Horus. He whipped a fallen slave, then looked up as he noticed the two Word Bearers.

"Son of Horus." Said Eliphas, "Direct me to your bridge."

"That name is unwelcome here, dog of Lorgar. Your priestly position does not allow you to order me!" barked the Black Legionnaire. In an instant, Eliphas had knocked the whip out of the other Astartes' hands, and had clamped his gauntlets around his throat. Behind him, Amphion shifted from foot to foot, wondering if it was a good idea to anger their hosts so soon.

"Let us try again, scum!" spat Eliphas, the slaves quaked and sobbed at the sound of his voice. "Where is the bridge! Speak before I make you explain to Khorne your worthless death!"

The Black Legionnaire choked, and pointed to his left, down a dark hallway. With a satisfied grin on his face, Eliphas released the other marine, who fell on his knees, struggling for breath.

"Do remember who your true master is, pup." Eliphas taunted as he walked away, Amphion hurrying behind him. The Black Legionnaire stood, and after making a note to obey the Word Bearers, shouted at his slaves to start moving again.

"Apostle, is it wise to enforce your authority so quickly?" asked Amphion, his gruff voice at odds with his worrying tone.

"Worry not, Sorceror," soothed Eliphas, "Convincing the lower ranks to support me will reap rewards. Our friends, the twice renamed Luna Wolves, will soon be on my leash."

"I pray to the Gods that it is as you say, my Lord." Said Amphion.

"It is, Amphion. Where Araghast commands with fear, I will through faith."

"This Araghast," asked Amphion. "What sort is he?"

"A mindless champion of Khorne." Scoffed Eliphas. "While he recognizes the use of the other powers, he rarely uses them. Tzeentchian forces are absent entirely from this warband. I have heard that he is trapped in his armor, and has not exited it in thousands of years."

"Such an experience must do wonders for the healthy mind, no?" asked Amphion with mirth in his voice.

"Amphion, I did not know you possessed a sense of humor." Eliphas smiled in sarcastic wonder as the pair stepped through giant bronze doors into the bridge. The bridge was larger than any that Eliphas had seen, even during his days in the Great Crusade, ten thousand years before. It was hundreds of yards long, and almost fifty wide. The majority of the bridge was taken up by a large arena. Its sand floor was covered in dried blood. All around it, slaves were bolted to machines that ran the ship, and chaos space marines screamed at them to work harder, lest they attract unwanted attention.

Close to Eliphas was a brass throne. His scowled at the implication that the fool who sat on it was equal to the Lord of Skulls. The "fool" in this case was a giant, even for an Astartes. Covered from head to foot in black terminator armor, the Lord of the ship was a fearsome man. Somehow hearing the entrance of the Word Bearers over the din of the bridge, he rose to his feet, reaching a height of twelve feet.

"Word Bearers, I had heard of your impending arrival. Welcome to the Monument of Sin. My grand flagship that has destroyed hundreds of worlds! All in the name of the Dark Gods." His voice was deep, though Eliphas could hear something else in it. With every word he spoke, Eliphas could hear echoes and screaming. It was as if a thousand mouths cried out in agony every time Araghast opened his mouth.

"Quite an accomplishment, Lord…?" Eliphas certainly knew the name of the beast before him. He simply wished to gain an insight into the ego of his counterpart.

"I am Araghast the Pillager. I am Master of Hounds, and the Lash of the Black Legion, as well as the attendant of the Despoiler himself! I am the finest warrior the Black Legion has ever seen. The lapdogs of the False-Emperor tremble at the utterance of my name!"

"Then it is truly an honor." Said Eliphas, the lie clear in his voice. He bowed slightly, as if begging Araghast to call his bluff.

"It is, Dark Apostle. Who is the other?"

"This is Warp-Blessed Amphion." Said Eliphas, calmly motioning towards the sorcerer, who nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"A sorcerer?" snarled Araghast. "Speak your concerns to Neroth or Bercastle, I will take no part in such trickery."

"Do not speak ill of the works of Tzeentch in my presence." Scolded Eliphas. "As a Dark Apostle, it is my calling to preach the merits of Chaos Undivided. You will not interfere."

After a moment, Araghast grudgingly said "As you demand, Eliphas. However, on my craft, you obey my orders. I assume you know our objective?"

"Of course, my lord. The Blood Ravens are our objective. We will kill them all, and sacrifice their worlds to Chaos Almighty." Exclaimed Eliphas. Silently he rejoiced. Araghast already thought himself superior. From his experience, Eliphas knew that the best way to control someone was to make them think they were better than you. Now it was only a matter of time.

"Yes, the Blood Ravens, cowardly scum the lot of them! Their deaths shall echo in the Immaterium for all to hear. Look forward to it Eliphas."

"I certainly am, Lord Araghast. I am looking forward to everything. If you could provide us with quarters?"

"Yes. Brother Kalestera, show them the way."

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Eliphas and Amphion stood in their bare room. They had been led their by a surly marine with a black ponytail. Eliphas already had the feeling that Kalestera distrusted him. Finally a smart Black Legionnaire, the Apostle thought, though I may have to kill him if he interferes. The room they were in had no beds, nor any other furniture. Like the rest of the ship, it smelled of freshly spilt blood and the lighting was the usual dim red.

"Amphion, it is time. Begin your search."

Amphion nodded and then reached into one of the bags hanging about his armor. Pulling out a piece of chalk, he began marking all over the room. Soon he had created an intricate design of wheels within wheels, all centered on the eight pointed star of Chaos. Satisfied, he removed his helmet. Eliphas rarely saw Amphion without his two pronged helmet. The sorcerer's face was well shaped but old, and his short but shaggy hair was pure white. The sorcerer sat cross-legged in the center of the circle and closed his eyes. The room chilled and frost appeared on the walls as Amphion concentrated his otherworldly powers. He reached into the depths of the warp, looking for a weak mind.

"Ahh, I have you now." He opened his eyes. "Lord Eliphas. The perfect subject has been discovered. It will take little work to sway him to our cause."

"Well done," congratulated Eliphas. "Begin immediately. I will stand guard at the door." He stepped outside and shut the door. Moments later, Amphion reached out again.

Tybalt, do you hear me?

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Cyrus sat behind a fallen log at the edge of a clearing. He had carried the wounded Xanthis for two days and traveled over fifty miles to reach this point. The wounded marine lay next to him, his bolter held tightly to his chestplate. Cyrus had just received vox contact with the Armageddon, and was now waiting for extraction. Half an hour later, he saw the Thunderhawk descending from the cloudy sky.

Cyrus picked up Xanthis and ran towards the Thunderhawk. The ramp dropped and Cyrus was shocked to see three squads of Astartes deploy. Sergeants Magnus, Ariston, and Borian all set up defensive positions outside of the transport. Cyrus approached Magnus and asked, "What is this?"

"Go on ahead Brother," replied the assault sergeant with a wave of his power fist. "The Commander has given us a task. To discover the astronomic array lost somewhere on this continent. We have a week and a half to find it."

"The astronomic array?" asked Cyrus, placing Xanthis in the Thunderhawk.

"Aye," said Magnus. "We must also find a pure digestion pool somewhere. It is our only hope to cure Captain Thule."

"Cure Captain Thule?" asked Cyrus, before he realized what must have happened. Without another word, Cyrus rushed aboard the Thunderhawk, which took off immediately.

Magnus looked at the ground, angry at himself for breaking the news to Cyrus accidently. The scout sergeant respected Thule greatly. It would pain him to learn of his situation. Before he could dwell on it any longer, Borian motioned them forward, and the three squads set out in search of their objectives.