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It is the 402nd year of 40th millenium, and the esteemed forgeworld of Ryza has called upon its allies and those indebted to aid their leadership, the Fire Lords and Executioners among them, to explore the truth behind a troubling distress call hailing from the Golan system. There, is a mining scale of massive proportions, where floating orbital plates collect the precious gaseous resources from Golan Primus and refine them into elements used in Ryza’s unique plasma-based weapon designs.

An exiled Magos sent to oversee the Golan Operation, is believed to be a turncoat, and has the Golan defense forces under his command. Preparing for the worst case scenario, a large and diverse group of forces is assembled and sent to crush any and all opposition. The massive fleet, its Lord militant, Admiral, Captains and more, will come to find the supposed worst case scenario... nothing compared to the reality.



This work is a collaboration between Locrinus and myself. We will be alternating chapters, and who wrote each part will be shown. Respectful comments and critique are, as always, welcome.



The Rusting of Golan


Prologue

Written by: Unxpekted

402.M40 - Ryza Sector
Xolanis sub-sector
Golan Star system
Second Tier Golan orbital plate: Foxtrot


“Gammin IV,” Ikrixiel prodded, reaching out his long, thin, multi jointed mechanical arm to what could only be described as his friend. Or, who had been his friend sometime ago before all of these... strange circumstances. The chords slung under his wrist seemed to move more than the cloaked individual.

He prodded again, “Gammin IV. Gammin IV. Do you respond Gammin IV?”

The pressure in his head seemed to increase. The discs and gears whirring where his jaw used to be tightened together. What little organics he had left caused his overall temperature to increase slightly, despite the dank location where he now stood.

The green light in his eyes searched the empty corners of the room. He had already looked at these corners and had confirmed nothing of interest several times. He was beginning to grow concerned about himself now, never mind the well being of all his fellow Aeriform Refiners. He was precisely 94.632% positive that he was now the only Magos left on this orbital plate who was still functioning at normal parameters. The stationed Skitarii, the priests, the labourers of Golan Secundus, and by the Omnissiah’s name even the servitors were functioning oddly. He tried to think back when it all began, to try and figure out if something had happened to everyone else, or only himself.

Gammin IV had been particularly good at his duties. He knew the exact temperatures the collected Aeriform should be at during each stage of purification and separation. The exact pressures, when to add chemicals, when to remove them, and how much of course. His true specialties were isomerization and hydrotreating. He had even been one to delegate which materials should be used to store and transform the elements gathered from Golan’s atmosphere. He had been offered, several times, to help coordinate the responsibilities required of the Third Tier. Yet, he had always refused, preferring to be right amongst the refining processes here on Second Tier Foxtrot. He would often say, “It is only logical that I qualify for these tasks. I am the fourth, newest, and thus most efficient Therik Gamma assigned to the Golan Resource Collection and Refinery Operation.”

Their binary chatter had always been pleasing to Ikrixiel. Until, and he had to approximate this, just…had to, until about one year and seven months ago standard Terran time. He was certain, however, that changes in the relative proximity of Second Tier Foxtrot had started long before that.

He went over these changes in his mind, logged for the 751st time. The number of times he had gone over the changes he had observed had increased exponentially in the last few months.

It had started with decreases in productivity. There was a peculiar presences of deadness to the workforce, in their eyes both….the augmented and biological ones, he had noted, perturbed. Then, the complete opposite. The eyes around him became wild. Lenses glew bright, even outside in the gaze of Golan’s light pupils were expanded as wide as possible. Conversations became filled with odd chatter. Binary was being used less at first, until his comrades found ways to utilize it in a manner he had still yet to decipher; something similar to prayer.

Strange illustrations that had nothing to do with any machinery he was familiar with began appearing on the walls, on the pipes, and on the sides of the massive cooling tanks. Then, he began having conversations of sorts, with several of the other low ranked Magi on the Second Tier plates. It very quickly became only them talking, Ikrixiel standing in silence, awestruck and rather disgusted. Though, none could tell this from his fully augmented face. His co-workers had grown bored of their usual tasks. They spoke blasphemy. Rules of the Cult Mechanicus were broken before his very eyes, left and right. Personal chambers had become filled with heretical experimentations. Some of the human crew had even begun volunteering their bodies for the…these…he shuddered everytime he reviewed this. He did not know the words. He could perhaps describe the things he had witnessed in binary, but he was too repulsed to do even that.

Ikrixiel had stayed silent. None of the well-functioning workers from the Hive were able to hide their repulsions and disagreements from the others. The pheromones, facial expressions, grunts, and loss of appetites were all indications that they felt differently. These workers had completely disappeared from the station within months. The conversion of those belonging to the Orders of the Mechanicus took much longer to become so one-sided. Either that, or it was simply a much less obvious change.

Ikrixiel had not once asked anyone a question about any of this. He had observed, and tried to figure out where these changes were originating from on his own, but it had been so long now. He wasn’t getting answers without asking questions. However, he didn’t really need to ask questions anymore. He was surrounded by unlawful, heretical behavior, but there were no options that came with this conclusion. He had no access to any long range communications, if he intruded into the communications area, it would just be another thing that would blow his cover. There was no need for Ikrixiel to enter communications, for he was solely assigned to refining duty.

The idea of this sort of thing actually happening around him was hard to grasp as something that was entirely real. Of course, he had been taught the signs of taint during his time on Mars, but what could one actually do? He hadn’t realized it soon enough, not until the entire station was immersed in it.

Then sixty-four days ago, for the first time in over a century, came a change in formula. Ryza was requesting something different, specifically, a change to the nanofluid coolant. Little...he enjoyed his humor... no changes could be made to the basic hydrogen and oxygen they pulled from the planet’s atmosphere. Atoms could be added to them of course, but Ryza would always need a large supply of each of these elements in their independent states. The Aeriform, the way it had been, was essential for the neessary nanofluid coolant used on the unique plasma weapon systems manufactured and exported from the forge world. He had never been informed why the request for changes had been handed down from the operation’s leadership.

Then a second odd command from the Golan Operations leadership came. Munitions and structural materials for weapon batteries were brought to his orbital plate’s doorstep, and much of the servitorial labor was re-tasked. In weeks, the orbital plates defenses had increased tenfold.

Leadership...

The mechanisms in his neck clicked hard with the speed in which he turned his head back towards the crouching Gammin IV.

Leadership.

Beginning situation evaluation number 752:

It had started when Magos Errant Rho-Theta XVII arrived in the Golan system, the new commanding Director of the Golan Resource Collection and Refinery Operation. Then the decreases in productivity. There was a peculiar presences of deadness to the workforce, in their eyes. Both the augmented and biological ones….


From what He had gathered, Gammin IV had taken a long time to succumb to the changes around the orbital plate. One of the last aside from himself, if not the last. He wasn’t about to give up on him. Ikrixiel used his three wide, tong like fingers this time, squeezing the dark grey robes that lay over Gammin IV’s cranium, deltoid, and dorsal regions. His claw began to pull the cloak, tenting it from the spindly joints and machine parts of Gammin IV’s physiology.

Gammin IV stood. Ikrixiel stepped back, releasing his vice on the dark, oil stained cloth. Gammin IV turned to him, the light in his three eyes a bright purple. There was something black painted on his forehead region. Ikrixiel’s stomach would have felt like it was sinking, if he hadn't replaced it with something much more efficient. His right eye protruded some, focusing sharply on the black symbol. A multitude of mechadendrites rose, slowly, from beneath Gammin IV’s cloak. They were like snakes, waiting to strike.

His friend spoke in Gothic, the discordant sounds emanating from the skull shaped faceplate. For the mouth, only the lower jaw was represented.

“Ikrixiel. You have disturbed me in my worship. I have never seen you pay respects, nor, homage. I have never seen you kneel. You do your duty without question. Why? Ask that question Ikrixiel. Why don't you do something... different?”

He took to step forward, forcing Ikrixiel back.

“I’ve had a very uncomfortable suspicion. A suspicion that somehow, someway, you have avoided the greater going-ons of Golan. Shall I review the words and teachings of the Rust King? He has blessed us, and given us liberating vision! It took so long for me to see that the slave labour the governing worms of Ryza have commanded of us, can be used against them.”

A cackle of static and spurts of binary exploded from the vox unit behind his false teeth. They were chuckles, laughter, and half-formed ideas.

Ikrixiel only said one thing in response to this new Gammin IV, which he had never met before now.

“Rust King?”

The dozen or so mechadendrites hovering about the form of Gammin IV moved in unison. They ceased their floating posture, stiffened to target him, and launched forward. Three of them grabbed his faceplate, the rest his other limbs, pinning him to the wall. Gammin IV pushed his face in close, roaring, screaming, or some version of both.

“You don’t know of the Rust King!? How dare you Ikrixiel!?”

Ikrixiel’s multi-jointed arms twisted and turned over the ribbing and coils of the mechadendrites. He managed to pull some free, but the moment he went for another the previous one went straight back to its place. Finally, he knew what needed to be done. With the change of Gammin IV now 100% evident, his resolve was completed. He would get to communications, push the signal past Third Tier as best he could toward Ryza, and pray to the Machine God it got through.

“He is our visionary! He is everything. How did I leave you in the dark for so long?”

Ikrixiel gave up on the mechadendrites. He unfolded a third arm from beneath his metal ribcage and slammed a fist into Gammin IV’s abdominal region. His servo-arm unfolded simultaneously, throwing off the hood of his dark red cloak and smashing the face of his assailant aside. His feet dropped, reconnecting with the floor.

He was at the door, sliding through its automatic operation and punching in a code to lock it when six mechadendrites latched onto each side, forcing it back open. Ikrixiel ran, various parts of his body clanking as he did so. His third arm folded back into his chest cavity as he moved. His own mechadendrites latching onto poles, pipes, or anything else in front of him they could use to pull him forward faster. The tail end of his cloak fluttered through the refinery. A screeching blurt of machine code echoed sharply throughout the chamber behind him, reaching his audio sensors with an unrelenting stabbing. It bounced off the large cooling tanks and distilling chambers that reached all the way up to the ceiling. Their normally soothing, humming bass tones were lost with Gammin IV’s cries of chase.

The cover of complete darkness disappeared in an instant as Ikrixiel made his way through the chamber entrance, following a trio of massive copper colored pipes out into the void-skied corridor. The industrial plate was emotionally lit by the bright blues and greens of the gas giant’s atmosphere.

He ran along the pathway he had walked thousands of times in his duties. Normally there were figures here, everywhere, maintaining the massive equipment that surrounded him now like buildings. He could see servitors, sitting in the seats of new structures; ones that pointed their angry fingers toward the stars. They rotated, searching, begging for something to shoot down. As always, he couldn't help but notice a couple of the other nearby orbital plates lazily floating their own paths in the distance.

He could see shadowed figures far off, grouped together, not doing a single one of their duties. Hundreds of hands were raised up, which was all he had time to see before he was in cover of structure once more. The beautiful view of the void vanishing. The metal sheets covering of the Operations Control Bay shadowing him in complete black again.

For whatever reason, the workers had cut the lighting, nearly station-wide. Fortunately he had replaced his poor excuse for ocular devices, so sprinting through the darkness was no hard task, but it wasn’t for Gammin IV either.


Minutes later, he had reached his destination. The automatic door did not acknowledge him standing before it. His awkwardly designed arm reached out to it, punching in multiple codes. Nothing was working. Again he felt the discs and gears in his head and neck tighten, the pressure increasing. The piston-like parts of his legs and arms audibly tensed. His servo-arm raised up again, punching the door. He tried three more times, creating a large dent with each connection. His mechadendrites slapped uselessly at it as he gave the servo-arm one last try. A dent, just large enough for his fingers to fit into, appeared along the center. He shoved the servo-arm into the trench and split the difference.

He moved from one console to another. His ocular lenses took in information at lightning speed, scrolling the text and code at each of the stations control’s, learning their function.

The clicking came first.

Ikrixiel turned his head to look over his shoulder, knowing what he would see. Gammin IV stood like a devil between the wrenched open mess of a doorway. Sparks spurted out in handfuls, lighting him up with soft flares. His three purple lenses stared at Ikrixiel. Intent was clear even without iris or sclera, lid or brow. He stepped in.

Ikrixiel looked frantically for it now. The void communications station practically hiding from him. As he turned he noticed Gammin IV was walking closer to him, though he didn’t waste even a nano-second focusing on the figure while spinning around looking for the right controls.

There.

He found it. He pushed past the other consoles and stations, his fingers and mechadendrites striking the station to life. Static came through the comms. He adjusted the dials. He found Ryza’s numbers. He selected them.

Connection error. Waiting for signal.

Ikrixiel crashed his fist onto the dashboard, yelling out in anger. He turned his head again and Gammin IV was right...there.

He was already being lifted by an arm. The pulling grip of mechadendrites returned to his frame. He couldn’t look down to see if the channel had successfully connected. He glanced down just enough to see the comm button. With one of his own mechadendrites he slammed open the link. He knew what was coming, so he made his message as fast as possible.

“The Golan Operation has been corrupted! Rho-Theta XVII is traitor to both the Mechanicus and the Imperium. System needs repair!”

Whatever it was, it was sharp, and It punctured through his abdominals with ease. He stared into Gammin IV’s oculars as it happened, his own lenses flickering with the pain.

Gammin IV gripped a metal spike of some sort, torn from a piece of machinery that he knew of along the way. He pulled his weapon out, blood and oil pouring from the same wound.

Ikrixiel attempted to strike back, but his servo-arm punched the air. Gammin IV had his tentacle limbs throw Ikrixiel to the closest wall, which sent him through two console stations first. Gammin IV followed the limp body, leaping to it, and shoved it up against the wall with one hand.

Ikrixiel stared at the door he had wrenched open, a few sparks still flying out of its damaged frame as dozens of holes were punched into his body. Onyx colored oil, blended with blood, flowed everywhere. It splashed with each puncture.

Ikrixiel heard a whisper from the comms station he had activated. Then he became the corpse of the last being loyal to the Imperium inside the Golan system.



Written by: Unxpekted

324.M40 - Seventh year of the Hassla Campaign.

Astartes Forces present:

Imperial Fists
Executioners
And as of Q2 of the current year, the Red Talons

Xenos force:

Krusher Mog OrkTribe

Battle:

Hassla Majoris
Continent Epsilon
Unnamed valley, just outside the ork city designated Mog Teef by the Krusher Mog tribe, and City Red by Imperial Forces.

Condition:

Imperial offensive


Conric Alnun was already agitated. The Executioners’ allies were being too safe for his tastes. This war had already gone on for seven years. He half leaned, half sat in a filthy trench dirtying his dull, metallic-blue armor. The trenches were dug by the Guard forces present and as such were barely deep enough for the Astartes to cover themselves with. His shoulder guard was pressed firmly into the dirt wall, and his legs tightly bent at odd angles. He was watching a grainy pic-feed on his helmet’s display that was being transmitted to him from another squad. They were showing him a higher angle of the Orks’ position up ahead.

He held his chainsword in one hand, his other flat against a rock helping to support his large frame. He had thought the arrival of the Red Talons would help push things along faster... The damned Fists and their need for precision in all things. It had taken months to raze City Green. He almost wanted to scream into the air at the thought. During the first year he had been impressed by the incredibly short number of losses the Imperial Fists had taken, but by the second he and the rest of the Executioners had had enough. Most of the Fists had relatively cool heads compared to the Executioners, though, causing few fights to actually break out between the two groups. It also helped that the Executioners held high respects for their founding Chapter.

However, the Red Talons were a different story.

There was one now, hunched into the dirt just across from him, the blue of his eye lenses meeting Conric’s red. He knew they were both scowling at each other. He thought, they being forged from the same blood as the Iron Hands, that their Primarch’s doctrine of strength would push the campaign where the Executioners felt it needed to go. It did, somewhat. Unfortunately, the Talons’ utter distaste for the practices and culture of the Executioners caused them to continually bicker, clash, and quarrel. The Imperial Fists were constantly forced to play the role of peacemaker. Any speed gained by the Red Talons’ presence was countered by the three Chapters’ infighting.

Conric narrowed his eyes,

Look at you, you and your pathetic bolter. Such a tiny blade at your grieve. Honourless fool. Scared of blood.

He admired his chainsword with a grin. Its teeth were modified, extended length and curve, each tooth mended with two smaller ones on each side that spun in the opposite direction. It was a wide tool, but he was using it as practice for something bigger. The brutal double headed chain axe he aspired to use one day. It was a rare weapon, even amongst his chapter. It was inelegant in every way. If not perfectly used it was a burden, but if so, it was bloody hell in any close combat situation he could think of. He was getting ahead of himself, though. It would likely be decades until he was ready to carry the double edged chainaxe into battle.

Somehow, he had ended up the only Executioner in this elongated pit. Five Imperial fists, a combat squad, were to his side. Three of them stood hunched, bolters laid on the edge for firing support, taking single shots at the coming Orks. He wasn’t watching, but he knew every time they pulled the trigger and heard one of their bolters bark, the round hit exactly as intended.

Besides the Red Talon who was still staring at him, there were two and a half others.

In his three centuries of service, Conric had made a habit of putting his finger through the blood of his most challenging or highly ranked foes, and marking his faceplate with a vertical streak of it. He had maintained them as well as he could, but he had clearly started on the right side of the helm; the streaks going through shades of dark red to faint brown. If he had to guess, the Red Talon staring at him was probably aching to insult this feature.

“You’re not going to lure them out this way, Kaiden,” Conric spoke out, directing his thoughts towards the Imperial Fist Sergeant, who was hunched to the left of the Red Talon across from him, his finger on his earpiece. The Sergeant’s power fist was shoved into the soft dirt at his feet. He took his finger away from his ear and looked up at Conric, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

“I wasn’t aware we were trying to lure the Orks out, Executioner.”

Conric gave an exasperated sigh.

“We are trying to get through the Ork forces in this valley, in order to reach City Red.”

He hadn’t really phrased it as a question, but the pause that he left linger in the air suggested it as such. Unsure, Sergeant Kaiden grimly nodded his head in affirmation.

“Orks are attracted to challenges, they are primal-minded beasts who need war to survive. Instead of taking pot shots and taking down a couple at a time we should lure them out to fight us, defeat them quickly en masse, and move on. We use less ammunition that way, take the objective faster, and don’t have to worry so much about reinforcements coming from another part of the Tribe before taking the city’s defensive position.”

One of the Red Talons snapped in reply, “We are luring them you barbaric idiot! They are coming out of their holes straight to us, and being shot dead! Piecemeal!”

Part of Conric’s face twitched in frustration, his grip on the rock tightened, pushing it further into the dirt.

“We aren't giving them a clear decision to make. This isn’t enough to get all of them running toward us, only the few who get aggravated to the point that they disobey their leader’s orders to hold a defensive.”

A grumbled shout came from one of the Imperial Fists. Bullets thudded into the dirt around their trench, throwing debris from the earth up into a storm. The Marine had taken one to the shoulder, but was fine. They all ducked for a moment before continuing their aimed shots.

“That's the other thing,” Conric mentioned, “by declaring ranged warfare, we encourage them to shoot back instead of charge. If they throw a bomb in this hole, there won’t be much I can do about it. If I am in hand to hand with them, none of them will stop me."

Two of the Red Talons now openly laughed at him. One, who dramatically held a hand over his abdomen, called him out.

“None of them will stop you? Did your brothers think the same when they fell today enacting your foolish stratagems?”

The air seemed to drop, filling the trench with pressure. None of the Imperial Fists said anything, but the Marine closest to Conric stopped his firing for a moment, turning his head in the direction of such a careless remark. Nothing meant more to an Executioner than his honour. They fought each other, to the death over it, if need be. Another practice the other two Chapters found appalling. The Imperial Fists had been fighting this campaign with the Executioners for seven years now and they had already learned their lesson. The newly arrived loud-mouthed Red Talons, apparently hadn’t.

A small explosive hit the ground just outside the trench the very moment Conric began to rise. The charge detonated, sending dirt flying over the back of his head and power-pack as his fist smashed into the side of the Talon’s faceplate. Shots began to fly past him, and ineffectively into him. Unphased, he continued to pummel the Marine’s helmet, denting the armor and chafing the red paint. The two Talons capable of doing so were on him, pulling him away with grunts and shouts. The Imperial Fists shouted as well, Kaiden the loudest with absolute fury in his eyes. He had grown exhausted of dealing with this.

Conric pushed himself away from the pulling and beating of the Talons. He grabbed the edge of the trench and climbed his way out, another detonation shaking the earth as his second foot made it out of the hole. He would do it himself. His brothers may have fallen, but all it had meant was that they weren’t good enough. They should have trained harder. He was better. He would prosper. He cared not for his life compared to his honour. He had to prove to his allies that he was right, or he may as well die anyway.

Kaiden ordered him back into the trench.

I do not take orders from you. Thought Conric.

“Let him get killed! He has attacked us. Betrayed us!” shouted the marine with a dented helm, his hand busy pulling away the shattered pieces of his left eye lense.

Rage.

They dishonoured his brothers, they dishonoured him, and now they called betrayal. That, was far more damaging than a few punches to the face. He yelled - a bellowing roar emanating from his helmet's vox grill. He stared through the smoky haze that covered the orks’ position. Through it he saw the shadows. A bolt pistol was mag-locked to his waist, but his hand did not move to it. He gripped his chainsword and revved it, focusing on its sound of sawing, speeding up and slowing down. Daring the enemy, he stood tall, still, and defiant. He saw the green, brown, and black.

Kaiden yelled orders for covering fire. Bolter rounds shot out from behind his feet, flying into the greenskins running toward him creating clear-aired spirals through the clouds of dirt raised by the recently thrown explosives.

With another agitated yell of no words, and still staring forward at the approaching enemy, Conric kicked the closest bolter aside, causing it to fly into the second and third one simultaneously. Suddenly empty handed, the Fists’s were shocked at such an occurrence.

He could see their teeth now, the Greenskins, in succession with their wide-mouthed wails. His armor dumped adrenaline into his system, his massive muscles twitching and flexing. He was too focused to make out the words of Sergeant Kaiden’s demands.

Crude blades were raised, and muzzle flares blinked their short lives. Rounds flew into Conric, hitting hard, causing him to move slightly with each one. One round made it through the armor and into his arm, a spurt of blood splattering out of it. Still he stood, unwavering.

The Fists gave up trying to convince him. They couldn’t go back to their old plan at this point anyway. Conric had done what he wanted. He stood proud and in the clear. He had made the challenge and drawn the enemy out. The Orks couldn’t resist slaughtering him in close combat now, and they would be upon the trench in seconds.

Just as their feet were firmly on the same level of earth as Conric’s, one of the Fists was knocked straight back into the trench with his chest blown out in a shattered organ mess. There was no telling what hit him. Conric didn’t blink. He didn’t budge.

He could smell them now; their stinking rot. Horrible. To the acute senses of an Astartes, there was no way to describe it. The Fists drew their combat blades. Kaiden activated his power fist; a wave of electricity visibly running along its course from the wrist to the fingertips.

There were horned helmets, falling saliva, and too many Greenskin vocal cords vibrating at once. It stirred his hatred further the moment before taking his first step forward. A thick blade swung down at him as he moved. The first Ork was already dead, and now the second. His chainsword revved at full speed, its whine a song warning the Ork’s of their failure. The sound went numb at quick intervals, while being repeatedly buried beneath the flesh of another Greenskin. Weapons clashed with the Fists behind him. Conric didn’t know if the Red Talons had decided to help yet or not. It didn’t matter to him. He knew they would all be dead by the end of this. To help make sure, he slipped cleanly past the largest Ork of the bunch so far, letting the beast stumble past him with a crazed roar. It was carried onward by the momentum of its massive swinging power claw, straight toward the trench Conric had risen from.

Have fun with that one, Talons.

An Ork Boy came at him from the side, trying to emulate the roar of its much larger kin. Conric shot out his fist, pushing it clean through the Ork’s throat and out the back of its hunched neck. He raised the Ork up, letting its body become cleaved in half by his next attacker before sawing that one in half as well. He flung the remaining corpse off, spinning round and fully immersing himself in the warband’s grasp. As he spun, through all of the kicked up dirt, he caught a glimpse of the Sergeant doing some good work of his own.

The Executioner never stopped moving. The metallic blue of his armor aiding to the fluid-like effect of his movements. He would crouch low, long-stanced, slicing legs and bellies only to rise high and leap at the throat of a taller enemy. But they kept coming. For exactly 15 minutes and 19 seconds, they kept coming.

Conric stood, breathing heavy. His chainsword finally coming to a rest. An enormous gash now rendered his right shoulder guard ineffective at protecting any further substantial strikes. His arm had stopped bleeding, but multiple wounds to his legs and midsection still streamed steady. He felt somewhat dizzy, but stood tall. He knew his armor was providing the necessary aid to his already incredible anatomy.

He turned around to find the Sergeant’s grim face staring him down. He was the only one left. Conric smiled beneath his helm as he looked past the Sergeant at the bloody mess of Red Talons in the trench. One of them had died half-crawling out of it.

Wouldn’t make the Iron Hands very proud with behavior like that. He thought to himself.

“There.” Conric said with a heavy breath, “Now the armor can roll on through to the city, unimpeded.” He moved closer to the Sergeant.

“There, and now eight astartes are dead who may not have been.” Kaiden was now as unmoving as Conric had been when the Orks were still charging.

“What does it matter, Sergeant? They were weapons. They died doing what they were designed to do. If their martial skills had been better, they would still be alive to complete another objective, but they’re not. We can’t waste any more time in this war, its gone on too long already and there are other threats in nearby systems that need dealing with. There are three Chapters in this conflict, we won’t be running low on men, and if we do, then we deserve our demise.”

“They were not as old as us, Alnun. They weren’t as experienced. They didn’t stand a chance in an onslaught like that. We Astartes need to be raised like any other soldier, not thrown into a meat grinder they’ve never experienced and then blame them for dying.”

The Sergeant raised a pointed finger, no longer caring about the Executioner’s justifications, “You will be censured for this, Alnun! I will not have you fighting beside my men anymore in this war.”

As Kaiden spoke he heard the click of a vox channel activate inside Conric’s helmet, who now stood rather close.

“I doubt it Sergeant, my commanding officer just thanked me for clearing the path.”

He took a deep breath. He didn’t mean to offend the Sergeant, in all honesty. Kaiden was, after all, the only one he actually had respected of the group. He had been the only one with some real honour on his belt.

“A newly initiated Executioner fights in the same circumstances as the rest of his Chapter-brothers. If they had been Executioners, and one of them had survived instead of you, he would understand completely. I’m not sure how to make you understand this. We’ll throw one of them into the same fires as a veteran. This is how we gain our honour. If they survive, it is recognised, and they have established themselves for the next fight.”

Conric shook his head, “If they die, they die in honourable combat doing what they were designed for... killing as many of the enemy as they could before being slain themselves.”

They could hear the rumble of engines, and feel it in the soles of their feet. Sergeant Kaiden raised his hand to his earpiece again, loudly asking for an Apothecary. Geneseed needed to be extracted. Without saying another word, the Sergeant simply turned away from Conric, walking from him. The Executioner wondered if the Red Talon Apothecary was also still on the way as he looked over the mess in the trench, and the previously two-limbed Red Talon that was now for all intents and purposes, nothing.

Conric took off his own helm, placing it on the maglock at his waist. His short black hair went back to standing on end as soon as the helm was lifted. He was unperturbed by the Fist’s hidden emotions, watching the yellow armored figure grow ever more distant now. Even still, this campaign needed to be done and over with. He was sick of it.




Written by: Locrinus

402.M40
Ryza Sector
Sanction System
Fire Lords chapter


The war upon Sanction had been a short and brutal affair. I had been there from the beginning, sword and bolter in hand, marching proudly under the banner of Lord Isca Brennus. We had chased the Dark Eldar, the Kabal of the Cruel Hands, as they called themselves, throughout the Gulf - Vengeance in our hearts, murder-lust in our blood. Sanction itself was a garden world, with continent-spanning flowerbeds and thorn-bush mazes; vast pastures for the grox, great, ornamental ponds. It was relatively low-tech, with a sole space station hovering in geosynchronous orbit, manned by a skeleton crew of Mechanicus Adepts operating out of Ryza. Early on in the campaign, their throats had been split by treasonous pleasure cultists, and the guns of the station turned upon Sanction itself.

We shattered it all. We were indiscriminate in our slaughter. It shames me, now. Women, men and children - The Fire Lords gave no mercy. I, as a member of the Second Company, was billeted aboard the Chariot, and thus witnessed the destruction of the orbiting station with glee. Our guns roared silently in the void, and the station had come apart by the seams; twisting and pirouetting, decompressing as it lost integrity. It was a systematic destruction, the entire vessel relishing in the killing. Afterwards, with Sanction lying defenceless before us, the might of the Fire Lords - Over three hundred battle-brethren - fell upon the garden world. We burned her cities, toppled her statues, hauled the people before mock courts of Sergeants and Captains. All were found guilty of the most terrible crime - Housing and concealing the monstrous Eldar.

City-by-city, we depopulated a world. In the Gardens of Scylla, we met with the Eldar - A vast warhost of chrome-armoured scarecrows, wielding wicked blades and malicious guns. They had corralled the last of the Sanctioners before them, and with wicked whips, forced the Imperials onto our blades. We butchered them. I remember nothing of the battle, but afterwards, when the carrion birds pecked at the dead, my sword-arm was stained brown to the elbow. They had to pry my Chainsword from my grip, heh. It had been glued - With blood - To the palm of my hand.

The few survivors, Xenos and Imperial alike, were bound to stakes and roasted. I dragged one man, a frail and bearded fellow who begged for his life, into the flames - Watched him writhe and blacken. My battle-brothers jeered. I watched him impassively from behind my face-plate. Emperor, I enjoyed that. We all did. We all relished in it. We bathed in the blood, warmed ourselves with the funeral pyres of untold millions. It was a long-time coming, this revenge.

'Sergeant Aeron,' Someone said, behind me, as I watched. I snapped out of my reverie and turned. The swordsman, Caderyn, was standing behind me with folded arms - His tremendous blade, the famed Illuminos, sheathed at his side. His emerald eyes, marvelous in their intensity, danced with flames. He was, as he is now, a handsome bastard. 'Greetings.'

'Caderyn,' I grunted, offering my hand. He clasped it, his grip firm. 'What brings you here?'

'Lord Brennus has summoned the war council,' Caderyn sang, ash falling upon his flesh. 'An envoy of the Mechanicus has arrived.'

I nodded, gathered my Squad, and followed the swordsman to the war-tent.

The war-tent was blisteringly hot, braziers burning in the corners, embers dancing in the wind. My brothers had assembled there, in various states of disarray - Some, like myself, still wore our battle-plate, but most lounged in pelts, like jaguars, eyeing the Mechanicus envoy. Have you ever witnessed a gathering of three hundred Space Marines, boy? It is a terrifying, awe-inspiring thing. I've seen men piss themselves before one Marine. But this Priest, his name was Jacyn, stood before us with his chest puffed out and his shoulders squared. I liked him.

Lord Brennus, unmistakable in his gold-etched armour, met Jacyn before us all. That is the way of the Fire Lords, there is no secrecy. We are a brotherhood, we share. We make a collective decision. If the men do not wish to march, then that is that. Archaic, eh?

Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, Lord Brennus. We loved the First Captain. Brennus was a careful man, a magnificent leader. He was proud, fierce, charismatic. He was confident without being arrogant. He knew the ways of war like no other. I have never known such a man, Space Marine or otherwise, to be so universally loved. Brennus was like a force of nature, it was impossible not to like him.

He met Jacyn like a feudal king, sitting atop an ivory throne.

'Adept of the Mechanicus,' He purred, fingering his beard. His voice was soft, sweet. It is ironic, now that I think of it - Our lord, the most powerful man in a dozen systems, was gentle. 'I welcome thee.'

Jacyn bowed deeply. He had augmented eyes, both blue, that clicked and whirred. His flesh was milky-pale. There was something odd about him. And he stank, too. Like blood and oil and corpse-flesh. It permeated from him, ebbed and flowed from somewhere beneath those voluminous, crimson robes. He was not alone. A pair of Skitarii accompanied him, both carrying banners that depicted the half-skull, half-machine emblem of the Mechanicus. They were, curiously, unarmed. Not that weapons would have done them any good.

'Thank you, sire,' Jacyn said, in his flesh-voice. His words sounded awkward, disjointed. He was unused to speaking, I realised. 'It is an honour.'

Brennus nodded. 'There's no honour, here, Priest. This world is a grave. We discovered a cult of the most perfidious nature,' Someone in the ranks produced an Eldar helm, conical and glossy like a beetle's carapace, and tossed it to Jacyn's feet. The face-plate had been shattered by a fist. 'And, delivered His Judgment. Dirty work. Honourless.'

'Eldar?' Jacyn asked, tilting his head. 'Here?'

'Once,' Brennus pointed to one of the war-tent's flapping entrances. Outside, it was raining ash and embers. 'We burned them.'

The First Captain was a blunt speaker.

Jacyn made a satisfied noise and spoke once again. 'I am here to summon you.'

'Summon me?' Brennus echoed. Everyone, including myself, laughed. Jacyn shrunk before the noise, looking mortified. 'Who has the temerity to summon me, machine man?'

'The Fabricator-General of Ryza,' Jacyn replied, stiffening. 'He has instructed me to remind you, noble Astartes,' Jacyn produced a bejeweled pendant from his robes. It twinkled. It was the symbol of the Fire Lords. 'That your Chapter is indebted to my forge.'

There was an outcry. Voices were raised, fingers rapped against tables. Brennus looked down, at his feet. He was thinking the same as I.

If Ryza was calling for help, then she was threatened. You have to understand that Ryza rivaled Mars in those times, before the Orks came. Ryza was responsible for manufacturing the Ultima Segmentum's war-goods. If she fell, the entire Segmentum - Throne, the entire Imperium, would be destabilised. My hands curled into fists.

'Silence,' Brennus called, and everyone obeyed. 'Ryza is an old ally of my Chapter, Adept,' He grumbled, standing. He towered over us all, in stature and personality. He was a great man. 'Go. Tell your master that the Fire Lords will answer.'

Everyone roared, and this time, it was of approval. Jacyn grinned, ear-to-ear.

'We sail at once, brothers!'

And, here's my first contribution. As always, comments and criticism are more than welcome - And, it's good to be here, Dakka.

Chapter One: I

Fire Lords Strike Cruiser Chariot

En-route to Ryza

Sanction had scarred the minds, flesh and armour of every Fire Lord. My own pauldron had been bent out of shape by a maul, a primitive and unwieldy weapon, and the muscle beneath had been pulverised. One of my brothers - Kaer, called the Just - Had lost his left hand, stolen by a cackling, half-naked Eldar. He had grumbled, for the three-week transit between Sanction and Ryza, about how the new augmetic was unresponsive, how it itched. I trained my Squad ruthlessly, granting them no reprieve - We practiced swordsmanship, marksmanship, boarding actions, search and rescue operations. Blood was spilled, bones were broken, flesh was torn - Other Squads worked in tandem with us, trading blows in the practice cages, jeering and mocking us.

On the second week, our Lord Antigonus gathered us together in one of the Chariot's holds, and in that rock-grinding voice of his, decreed that there would be games. I, and many of my brothers, scoffed at the idea. We were, potentially, entering an hostile warzone - You see, boy, we were going in blind. Ryza, for all we knew, had turned its back upon the Imperium, - And Antigonus, revered and respected by many, wanted us to hold a competition? It was ludicrous. But, he was our Captain, and we trusted his judgment. Ninety-five Space Marines, gene-forged giants of uncontested magnificence, dueled and sprinted, recited prayers and preached their causes. It was, I admit, brilliant.

We endured this for four days, feasting and drinking gratuitously at the end of each night, before Antigonus came before us once again.

He was suited in his battle-plate, scarlet and gold, a gauntlet clasped around the jewel-encrusted hilt of his blade. His face was hard, beautiful in a strange, angular way - With dark, angry, eyes and a long, plaited beard.

'My brothers, my sons,' He began, standing at the head of our half-naked, sweating phalanx. 'You have performed masterfully,' Antigonus stared at us, locking gazes with each and every Marine present. 'But, alas, a victor must be chosen.'

There was an intake of breath. My hearts hammered against the reinforced rib-cage. Besides me, Kaer stiffened, fingers closing into tight, crushing fists. I longed for, my Squad longed for, the victory laurels.

'Aeron Stormcrow,' Antigonus said, looking at me. Stormcrow was an honourific - One that had been bequeathed upon me by one of those Fenrisian mongrels, almost a century before. 'Step forwards, Sergeant.'

I marched forwards, feeling eyes upon my back. Bastard, my fellow Sergeants whispered. I must have grinned, then, because Antigonus arched an eyebrow and tilted his head - Rather theatrically - And gripped my wrist.

'Aeron Stormcrow,' He said again. 'Aeron Stormcrow and his brothers of the Fourth Squad,' He lifted my arm into the air, his grip uncompromising. I had bruises on my wrist for a week. 'Have conquered all,' Someone in the crowd snorted, and threw a graphic insult my way. Brothers laughed, even Antigonus grinned. 'They have excelled in each and every task, beaten you all bloody, and so,' He looked at me, then. There was a glint in the black of his eyes, a predatory intelligence. 'Deserve a prize, a reward, an honour.'

'First-Captain Brennus has informed me, rather kindly, that we are to make planet-fall on Ryza,' There were grunts, then. Deep, throaty growls, some curses, a few laughs. Mixed-reactions, but everyone knew that it sounded bad. 'Fourth Squad's performance has swayed my decision. They, and only them, will form my escort.'

That was not the prize which I coveted.

***

The third, and final, week was a blur. Little happened - We trained harder, with an unprecedented ruthlessness. My nose was broken - For the fourth time - By Kaer's mechanical hand. I deserved it, I let down my guard whilst wrestling, and then Kaer was atop me, hammering his fists into my face, again and again and again. He was furious, the augmetic was driving him insane, and he had to be dragged from me. My eyes were swollen shut, my skin bruised and cracked. But, I did not berate him, did not return the blows. What was the point? Tensions were high, we were excited. Even the Emperor's Angels, you must understand, fall to murder-lust. We are, after all, just weapons. Living, bleeding, roaring weapons - We aren't no different to a chainsword, or a bolter, save the fact that they are forged, and we are engineered.

On the twentieth day, our flotilla exited the warp and entered the Ryza system. We were running cold - Our engines were navigating us through the outer-rim with deliberate, pinpoint bursts. Our weapons were powered down, the devastating lances and world-crushing turrets secreted within their ports. The Companies, however, were ready - Locked in our Thunderhawks and Storm Eagles, armoured and helmeted, waiting to be unleashed; slavering like bloodhounds. Eventually, the order to stand-down echoed through our communications net, and everyone returned to their quarters with sagging shoulders and bitter grimaces - A cruel mixture of disappointment and relief. No-one wanted to face the Mechanicus, yet no-one wanted to be away from war.

Fire Lords, heh.

Fourth Squad remained aboard our Thunderhawk - Antigonus' in reality - And awaited our Lord. It took him three hours - We sat, discussing trivial things, praying and cleaning our weapons - But, he arrived. Eventually.

I was taken aback by his appearance. Antigonus wore a long, flowing robe - The colour of freshly-fallen snow, - And a torc that shone like sunlight. His hair was braided, oiled and woven with ribbons, and fresh tattoos were inked upon those broad, flat cheeks. He was completely unarmed.

Behind Antigonus, two figures lurked. One wore an intricate helmet, his armour the colour of rust, a half-mechanical skull carved into his chest-plate. Sinuous, clawed flails danced around his head, as though alive. This was Belenus, Techmarine of the Second Company, and I hated him. He lacked passion, honour, emotion - He was as cold as ice, in a Chapter that burned like an hearth-fire. His other companion, garbed in blue, made my gums ache and my hair prickle - Carrying a tome in one hand and a long, electrified halberd in the other. Mempricius and I were never friends- In truth, his presence hurt me, made my teeth ache and my head pound like a war-drum - But, when it came to war, we pulled together and respected one another.

'Going for a stroll, sire?' I asked, when Antigonus trudged up the Thunderhawk's rear-ramp. The Captain barked a laugh, slapped a hand on my knee, and sat besides me.

'No weapons, he says, no armour,' Antigonus grumbled, adjusting his position.

'Who?' I asked, unsealing my helmet. Cold, recycled air washed over me. Antigonus surveyed my injuries - Faint bruises still discoloured my cheeks, thanks to Kaer - And smirked.

'Brennus, of course,' The Lord was saying, as he fingered his beard. 'This is a peaceful delegation,' The laugh that escaped Antigonus' mouth was unpleasant. 'Like our kind has ever known peace. Hypocrisy, I tell you.'

'I assure you, Captain Antigonus,' The Techmarine chimed in, in a voice of iron and steel. 'My brothers amongst the Mechanicus are nothing but honourable. There are no ill intentions, here,' Belenus was examining Kaer's hand, injecting fluids into the Marine's wrist. His fingers twitched, opening and closing. 'No ulterior motives. If there were, Lord, we would not still draw breath. Ryza is the mightiest forge-world in the entire Segmentum.'

'Nevertheless, Techmarine,' Antigonus said, voice thick with scorn. 'I do not trust your metal-men. Something is wrong here.'

'Oh,' Belenus said, looking up. His eyepieces, green like grass, locked on Antigonus. 'I never said that.'

Even I smiled.

***

I had no desire to set eyes upon Ryza. Belenus, and several of Fourth Squad, gazed out of the Thunderhawk's portholes - Watching the passing orbital defences, battleships, refinery vessels. I heard, for weeks later, how the planet was wondrous - All chrome cities, hive-factorums, dispersal fields that spanned continents. To me, it was just another planet - And, besides, I had lain eyes upon a forge-world once before, fifty-point-three years earlier. It was not as important as Ryza, and lacked her majesty and grandeur, but.. I digress, my apologies.

We were directed to a landing field, in the shadow of a vast, smoke-spewing pyramid, and touched down with a thud. Fourth Squad were on their feet instantly, bolters clasped in fists. Kaer and Hudibras were the first out, dropping to their knees at either side of the ramp. The remainder of my Squad followed, auto-targeting systems scanning the surrounding buildings, and formed a perimeter. I exited, alongside Antigonus and Mempricius - The Techmarine was dallying, soaking in the wonders of Ryza - Which, to me, looked remarkably unremarkable.

A single adept, drowned in the robes of his office, awaited us.

Antigonus marched straight towards him, stopped about five feet away, and slammed a fist over his hearts - An archaic, half-remembered salute - Bowing his head, ever so slightly.

'Adeptus Astartes,' The adept blurted. The man's voice was raw - Unused, probably for many years. 'I welcome thee to Ryza.'

The Captain sniffed.

'Smells awful,' He grunted, mouth twitching in a smile. 'And, the air is thick with pollutants. Probably poisonous. Starting to wish I had wore my plate.'

Beneath my helm - I had replaced it - I grinned widely. Antigonus was a barbarian, but he was a charismatic barbarian.

Belenus had joined the Captain, hastily making the Icon Mechanicus with his hands, and exchanged words in tech-cant with the adept. I gripped the hilt of my chainsword tighter.

'Why,' I remarked, quietly, to Mempricius. The Librarian was standing nearby, examining a vast, smoke-belching tower. 'Are we alone?'

'Alone?' Mempricius almost laughed. He arched a soot-grey brow. His skin was the colour of coal, and he radiated heat. Never - And I stand by this - Have I come across such a potent pyrokinetic. Once, upon Erskine's World, I witnessed the Librarian melt an Orkish dreadnought to slag. 'We are not alone, Sergeant. You were not on the bridge, when we arrived.'

'No,' I admitted. 'I was not. What have you seen, Epistolary?'

'A great armada. Dozens of vessels, battleships and cruisers and frigates. Even an Astartes cruiser - The Bootscraper.'

'I am unfamiliar with the name,' I said, searching my memory banks. I had not served alongside such a brutishly named ship.

'It operates out of Stygia-Aquilon,' Mempricius smiled, turning his attentions to me. 'Our cousins of the Executioners are on Ryza, Aeron.'

I'm enjoying this as I read it. I wanted to voice my support now and I will provide feedback once I've read the full story. I know what it's like to get feth all feedback for your work.

Both writers are tackling an interesting subject - let's hope you keep this up.

Chapter One: II

Date: 328.M40

Stygia-Aquilon, Aboard the Darkenvault

Several months after the conclusion of the Hassla Campaign.

Subtle vibrations from a kneeling warrior's soft-spoken words rolled over the dark surfaces of Fifth Company’s Chapel.

'My name, is Conric Alnun.
A warrior of the Executioners Chapter,
A branch of the Adeptus Astartes.

We have faltered.
We have fallen.
Our branch has been leafless,
Covered in ash.
Then, came my initiation.

I will never falter.
I will never fail.
I am a perfect weapon, to carry out the Emperor’s will.

Those found amongst our blood without honour,
Without deed worthy of notation inscribed by the Speakers of Death,
Will be cast down.
Must, be cast down.
They will be forgotten.

My honour, like the honour of all my brothers,
Means everything to me.
My skill in battle,
Means everything to me,
My actions,
Mean everything to me.
Nothing else matters.

The final word has already been spoken before my arrival.
It is not my charge to speak.
My only function,
My only obligation,
Is to bring down the Axe.

My enemies will know me,
All cultures know me.
I,
Am the Executioner.'

Conric remained on one knee a moment longer within the chapel, absorbing the words of his litany. He breathed in the air of Darkenvault, relieved to be home again.

It was unlike him to feel such a thing, but the Hassla campaign, and everything that had preceded it in the past few centuries, was more than enough cause for a deep breath of familiarity and true ownership. He knew most of his brothers felt the same, the older ones even more so. He opened his eyes, keeping himself frozen in place.

A group of serfs was to his left, huddled around an ornately designed prayer bench made of carved wood from the densest forests of Stygia-Aquilon. They were sewing his honours from the campaign onto his ceremonial sash. The cloth was black with a shine, like panther’s fur. He hardly felt honoured, though.

The Executioners were glad to leave that sector behind, and that war. The moment the Warboss had been slain by Executioner hands, he and his brothers gathered themselves up, went back into their ships, and let the Fists and Guard clean up the rest. He supposed the Red Talons lent a hand in mopping things up as well, but he hadn’t even bothered to look into it. They meant nothing to him, even after fighting beside them for years...especially after fighting beside them for years.

His Captain had killed the Ork leader, but Conric had created the opportunity. The Executioners had proved their point, and their worth to the Imperial Fists and Red Talons. For all their berating and judgement, it was not only his chapter that reached Krusher Mog first, it was his squad, beside his captain.

Seven planets, this Warboss had reigned over, that aggravating pile of offal, and he had given the almighty Imperium one hell of a run for its money.

He still held respect for the Imperial Fists, but by the Emperor had he grown sick of their sense of superiority that had surrounded them with each encounter. As soon as they had arrived, every other organization involved bent their knees and bowed their heads, giving over command of the campaign to the Imperial Fists, as if no one in their right mind would have done otherwise. The Executioners hadn't necessarily wanted overall command themselves, but Conric and the rest of his brothers despised being told what to do.

It was the Executioners who had fought the hardest, pushed the furthest, and cut off the head of the enemy’s leadership, both literally and metaphorically. They had ended up following the orders of the Fists better toward the end of the Campaign, but more to sedate the nagging of the Red Talons than anything else.

He had spent over three hundred years living with his Chapter's blood-laws, and as all Executioners are expected to, he forged his own glory and secured his own honour within his chapter. He knew his place, he knew his doctrine, he was well aware of his chapter's sole purpose in killing the Emperor's enemies… He didn’t need to be told what to do. In battle, his brothers relied on him to know what to do and be able to do it, just as he relied on them to do the same.

Of the twin feral home worlds, Conric was born on Stygia. Amongst fire and ice he practically raised himself. Again, as he was expected to by his people. The Stygians would come together when there was a threat to them as a whole that no individual could overcome, but otherwise had to fend for themselves. He cared little for the deeds that got him into the Chapter's ranks and if asked what he remembers of his three century-gone childhood he would likely dismiss the question without a word.

“Your sash is ready, my Lord,” came a soft, sweet voice from one of the female serfs.

“You may fasten it to me,” replied Conric.

He remained still, as a dozen fragile hands affixed the massive sash to his power armor. They first fastened it underneath the inner edge of his right shoulder guard, then wrapped it around the bulky pauldron, using large chains to hold the cloth in place. It slashed across his chestplate at an angle, terminating at his waist, where the rest was tied loosely around his belt line hanging like a loincloth.

The serfs made sure that the campaign badges stitched into the fabric flat-faced forward. The section of the sash around his shoulder and across his chest had one of his many Oaths of Honour woven into it with faint red lettering.

Once finally finished with the painstaking process of making sure the sash was perfectly draped and fitted, the serfs knelt with their faces toward the floor. The Head Serf spoke again, asking if he was satisfied. He was, and bade their leave with a flick of the wrist.

He wore MkVII plate, from head to toe. A pair of painted black axes were crossed over his chest armor. His chapter symbol was represented on his left shoulder pauldron. His right shoulder was painted green for his role as a tactical marine, but much of it was covered beneath the chains and sash.

His helmet was placed on the floor in front of him, facing toward the pulpit, and the banners of Fifth Company. Finally he stood, scooping up the helmet and slowly turning it in his hands.

He inspected the newest blood marking he had made. Starting from the left earpiece and continuing to right between the eyes, was a series of vertical streaks drawn with the blood of his greatest victories; honour markings. These were his trophies.

Despite his best efforts to keep them preserved, the oldest one by the earpiece was now a faded brown in color. Fortunately, he had only taken damage to the head a few times. His helmet was the only piece of his warplate that he would allow to be repaired for cosmetic purposes. The rest of his armor bore dozens of scars, many of which were ages old.

Most marines he had fought beside, who belonged to other bloodlines, seemed to have an obsession with keeping their armor as pristine as possible. It was as if they felt the need to look perfect for the enemy, without a scratch or dent allowed to stay.

They were always so well composed, complete with a shine.

The only repairs to his armor he allowed were for damages that inhibited the proper functionality of his suit. He was not sure where it came from; this need to look brand-new that so many of his peers had.

And their smell. His cousins all too often had an overwhelming stench of decadence. The lapping powder, the sacred oils, the incense...

He adored his armor, or the closest thing to adoration that Conric could feel. When an individual looked upon him in his battle plate they immediately knew who he was, what he was capable of, and much of what he had already been through. To this effect, the painting of his armor was a unique aspect to him entirely when it came to the subject of maintenance. In fact, both of the legs were covered in paintwork that depicted ghostly skulls within a smoky mist rising from his feet and thinning out toward his knees, giving him the appearance of perpetually wading through the dead.

He had seen countless examples of power armor that had to be read, or be explained. Between the damage to his armor, the ghosts at his feet, the blood streaks on his faceplate, and the chapter symbols on his chest and shoulder, friend and foe alike would gather the same information about Conric when viewing him.

A handful of Marines from Fifth Company had been chosen by Captain Osranik to feast with him this day. This sort of thing was occurring all throughout the Fortress-Monastery. Only within the last few weeks had every member of the Chapter returned home, both from the Hassla campaign and various other missions. For days, the chapter would be holding feasts within their Companies, leading up to feasts with joint-Companies, and finally the largest with every brother present on the final day of celebration. Conric wanted nothing more than to avoid the private meal with his Captain, because he knew what Osranik was hoping to bring into discussion.

He heard the chamber doors open behind him. He took a deep breath, preparing his mind for what he was sure would come.

Turning to leave, he saw that all three of the Company’s Death-Speakers had entered the Chapel together. He did not know their business, and knew it was not his place to ask. He nodded to them in acknowledgement. All three of the Chaplains said his name and bowed their heads in return as they passed.

---


Teeth sank into meats, and only a few short moments after the servants turned their backs to fetch more from the Monastery Refectory, entire baskets worth of steaming breads and vegetables were consumed in a chomping, gulping filled silence.

The table too, was a fine example of Stygian-Aquilon carpentry. Much of the engraved detail was covered by the barbaric number of plates that lay upon its surface. Upon the walls, were large scrolls of parchment hung one after another from ceiling to floor by the Company’s Death-Speakers. Each one described the chronicles of Fifth Company’s contributions to the Chapter, its battles and victories, its members and their actions worthy of record, all dating back to the founding of the chapter itself.

Conric’s teeth punctured deep into another piece of juicy meat. He held the large bone jutting out from one end in his gauntlet’s grip. Everyone had their Helmets placed on top of the table, all facing the Captain who sat at the head of the rectangular slab. They all wore their armor and sashes while they ate. Conric was familiar with each of the other Executioners here. All of them, himself included, had been known to be in Osranik’s favor for some time now. They were the best in his Company, and the closer their place to the Captain’s seat, the higher regard he held for them. Conric Alnun was at the corner of the table, practically by Osranik’s side. Across the table from him and slightly further away from the Captain was Eirgrud, Sergeant of First Axe.

“And with each assault, every axe will slice apart the enemy. One by one they will make their strike. We will bring down the First Axe! We will bring down the Second Axe! Then the Third, and the Fourth, the Fifth…”

Conric stared at the side of his Captain’s face for a moment, watching Osranik chew his food with ferocity. He recalled how much Osranik enjoyed dictating his adrenaline-raising dramatic, always with a vicious wet-toothed grin.

Conric had to admit, he liked that one in particular and it always came to mind. First because Osranik had used it the most, but mostly because it always worked. Each squad would practically jump when their Axe was called out. A hundred Executioners getting ready to kill something, anything, all in the same room aboard the Bootscraper. It was exhilarating; a rush by anyone’s standards.

Conric wore a smile as he chewed now, not realizing it.

Seeing this, Eirgrud broke the silence, “Aye Alnun, it's good to devour a few Stygian brood-hogs again isn’t it?” he mused for a moment, looking back at his own servings, “All the rummage I had to eat those last three years at Hassla. Damn Fists kept us there so long, our kitchens ran out of real food to eat.”

The Company Champion looked back at him, “The filth.”

The rest of the Astartes at the table laughed at Conric’s short words, reminded of what they had begun calling the nutrient infused sludge that they had to eat for so long.

One of the others, another of the Sergeants present, spoke out next, “Not just the Fists fault, If my memory serves me right, there was another band at Hassla. Some foolish runts in red.”

“I don’t recall gak else but us and the Fists!” Roared Eirgrud, laughing boisterously after. The others laughed with him, all understanding the deeper meaning. There would not be a single notation or marking of any kind made in the Halls of Darkenvault, within any Executioner ship, or on any of their suits of power armor that gave testament to the Red Talons Chapter participating in the Hassla Campaign.

Such a display of positive emotion from his brothers was something Conric rarely witnessed. Seldom would an Executioner be at ease, let alone laughing in a group setting. It was in this rare moment that his Captain decided to bring up his inner conflict.

“Unfortunately, the faults of the Hassla Campaign, as well as the turmoil our Chapter has been through these past few centuries is not solely on the shoulders of others.” he paused, “The High Executioner is to blame as well.”

Conric couldn’t be sure if Osranik had intended the good feeling around the table to continue into this new subject, but regardless, it did not. He set a bone down with scraps of meat still hanging from it, returning the leg to its marble plate. He began wiping his gauntlet clean, and felt the urge to mask his face with his hand, but refrained from such a clear act of dissent in front of everyone else. He was likely the only one who knew this had been bothering the Captain.

Eirgrud, with his jaw-dropped, stared in surprise with the others. They recovered quickly, though. It was common for Executioners to commit blood-duals against one another, but this was a case of high rank. Allowed, but significant indeed. Osranik didn’t have to say it. Every Executioner at the table understood what he was implying.

“Fine then,” seeing the concern on his men’s faces, “out with it. What are your opinions on this matter?”

Not surprising to anyone, Eirgrud answered first, “That there should be no matter. I won’t say that there aren’t any faults to Akillian’s leadership, but I must admit I am blind to them. He has led us through a challenging set of centuries, and though we have dwindled in number twice, we are still alive and well.”

“Well.” Osranik almost scoffed, “We are nowhere close to where we could be, or rather where we should be. When leading us through the countless waves of xenos invasions at the edge of Tempestus, coordination was nothing but poor. We numbered three companies worth by the time the Darkenvault was attacked and because of this we almost lost this fortress. We were on the brink of extinction. It wasn’t Akillian who saved us, it was the Astral Claws who saved our sore and beaten remains. It took us a century and a half to rebuild our number, and what does the High Executioner do next? He throws us into the Hassla Campaign, a war that felt so pathetic, that for the first time since I became a part of this Chapter, not a single one of my brothers feels like getting into another fight. Unprecedented, Eirgrud, it is unfathomable to me.”

Conric hadn’t been there for all of it. He had been initiated in 089.m40 at the age of 14. In fact, he had been one of those recruited to help rebuild and reform the ranks, after the Darkenvault had come under siege from that hideous Xeno race that nearly extinguished them.

“It’s a bad idea.” Said Conric, blunt and to the point.

Osranik turned his head, a quick snap of a motion, “After everything I just said, how is it a bad idea?”

“You’ll lose.”

A moment of silence took its rightful place.

“It’s good to know my best warrior has so much faith in me,” replied the Captain, sarcastic.

“I’ve stayed alive through all of that, my brothers,” he said spreading his arms wide over the table, looking at each of them, “and I’ve always kept this Company alive with me. Even while preparing for the Chapter’s final stand in this very fortress, I stood, a group of Fifth Company still surrounding me. Sixth Company was wiped out! Completely! And the scouts, ha! Nothing of them, either. Ninth was down to a man, but the Fifth...we stood proud, next to Akillian and the rest, soaking in Honour.”

He continued, while Conric silently gave him credit for remaining seated during his barrage of pent up turmoil.

“And now, I have just led Fifth Company at Hassla, through that tidal wave of Greenskin abominations, straight to their Warlord. I won Hassla for the Imperium.”

It was a bold statement, but Conric had to admit that his Captain was mostly right.

“I do have faith in you, Osranik. What you say about the deeds you have done and the honour you have accumulated, is true. The Death Speakers have made sure these acts have been recorded and remembered. But, I have seen Akillian fight, and he is better than you. You have to remember that there are reasons he became High Executioner in the first place. I am honoured to have you as my Captain, and in my opinion the Executioners would not be nearly as formidable without you. I mean no dishonour to you, Sir.” He almost shook his head in distaste. He hardly ever said that word. “But I do believe Akillian would beat you, and Fifth Company would lose its Captain for nothing.”

“You do dishonour me, Alnun. If you do so again, I will maim you first before I get to Akillian. It would not be for nothing. If I don’t challenge him, your High Executioner will continue driving our Chapter into the ground. I don’t need your consent. I have the right to do it.”

Hearing the first part, almost caused a short in the workings of Conric’s brain. You’d lose to me as well, fool. He thought to himself.

According to Chapter doctrine Osranik did, most certainly, have the right to challenge the High Executioner in combat for his position as Chapter Master. All of the Captains did.

“You do have the right, Captain.” Conric said in conclusion, “And no Executioner backs down from a fight that is deserved.” he finished, suddenly thinking on the Imperial Fist, Sergeant Kaiden, and what he had said to the Marine. He began to realize the potential hypocrisy in telling his Captain that he shouldn’t fight.

Osranik loosened up as well, clear in his shoulder posture and jaw line, remembering he was speaking to the warrior he trusted above all others. Conric was a supreme fighter, and as such he didn’t have to tiptoe around his opinions like so many of his brothers. He would call someone out on their honour if he felt the need arise. He spoke bluntly, to the point, and had no need to play games with his words. His Champion was merely pointing out what he believed to be the truth.

In lieu of this, Osranik’s chest sank, suddenly realizing that Conric was probably correct about him losing to Akillian. The way he had said it… as if it were obvious.

He knew this would not change his mind. Even if he lost his life, it needed to be done. He would die knowing that at least one of the Executioners had challenged Akillian’s position. He would force the High Executioner to understand why he had chosen to challenge his rule, to gauge his faults and seek improvement, lest he next be challenged by someone who could beat him.

Eirgrud spoke again, a concluding statement before returning to a silent feast, “We will all be there to witness your challenge, Sir. Your Company will honour you.”

The rest grunted in agreement.

---

402.M40

Stygia-Aquilon

Aboard the Darkenvault

Conric held his weapon in both hands, the double bladed great chain-axe. It rumbled, engaged, but its chains still and bristling. He wore nothing but the cloth wrapped around his pelvis, as a means to continue mastering the bulky weapon. This helped instill within him the weapon’s grave threat to its own user.

A fierce creature from the surface of Aquilon, an animal that lived amongst active volcanos, lay dead beside him. It was three times his size, but had been just as quick. Its black eyes whitened with its death, its stony skin relaxing. The people of his homeworld had their names for it, but he cared little for such things. It was a defeated enemy, and had raised his skill with the great-axe.

Sweating, but keeping his mouth closed tight, he looked down at the weapon. He had fastened a skull at the end of the pole. The skull he had taken clean from the shoulders of a former Chapter-brother. Starting from its open-mouthed posture, a chain wrapped around the metallic-blue of the weapon’s shaft up to the small engines of the chainblades, ending on a hook just below the housing compartments. He found the chain helped him to keep a better grip, even when in his power armor.

Using one of the four blade panels as a medium, he had already lead the serf painters through a finished piece. He intended to have each of the four panels depict one his most honorable deeds. Upon the canvas that was now his weapon of choice, one panel was now an incredibly detailed recreation of he and Captain Osranik striking the Ork Warboss at Hassla. This first painting was not only a mark of honor for him, but had also been made in remembrance of his Captain. He held a high opinion for Osranik, and though he had never served under the others, he had felt the late Fifth Captain to be the most distinguished and worthy of revere.

Osranik had failed. He had fallen. However, he had fallen to the highest ranked Executioner in the Chapter and had done so with honour. He had challenged Akillian on sound reason, and had fought to the best of his abilities. Though he had died, as Conric and many others had anticipated, Osranik’s plan had worked. Akillian had spent the last seven decades reevaluating himself, his actions, and his role. And Conric had been right at his side, bearing witness.

The Executioner he had slain, had tried to intervene. It was disgraceful beyond words. Conric hadn’t given it much thought, even after so long.

He tried not to.

He supposed the veteran’s place he had taken, had felt so compelled to make sure Akillian stayed alive, so starkly against the idea of Osranik rising to High Executioner…

Conric shook his head, moving away and summoning the servitors to dispose of the beast’s remains.

It didnt matter. One event had led to another. His Captain had died in the blood-duel, after turning the Chapter’s celebratory feast into an uproar. Conric had acted without hesitation, preventing the duel from being manipulated by a third hand. Akillian had looked upon him, and rewarded him.

The High Executioner knew the faith that the mutinous Captain had held for Conric, and with Osranik no longer leading Fifth Company Eirgrud became the successor, while Conric was inducted under Akillian’s wing.

With his new position, and Akillian being steadfast on the Chapter withholding from any major actions of war until he was absolutely certain the Chapter was ready for it, Conric had decided to quicken the pace and take up the weapon he now held.

It was massive. He lowered the axe into the waiting hands of half a dozen serfs, who immediately upon contact began wiping it down with cloths, cleansing the weapon of blood and sweat, and sharpening the blades along the chains. One of them went straight to work with a brush and pallet on any chippings or marks made to the headstock painting.

Another group of serfs had prepared his power armor for him, both shoulder pauldrons now the same metallic blue as the rest of his plate, leaving the green of tactical behind. This told other Chapter members that he was now integrated in full. A right reserved for Captains and First Company only. It symbolized his ability to perform any role on the battlefield with a lionized mastery.

He was considered the Vanguard squad leader. Oddly, he found, he was able to wave off this task to the next in line of the squad, resuming a role closer to that of his time as Champion of the Fifth.

It was hard to say what role, exactly, that Akillian would have him enact in battle. There had been no major engagements in seventy years and most of the Executioners had wanted it that way.

Due to the fatigue caused from fighting the beast, he felt vomit lapping at his tongue as his chest plate was fastened to his flesh; connector ports locking in with the black carapace beneath his skin. He grimaced, and swallowed.The High Executioner, and his Chapter as a whole, were willing to wait for a new campaign that they saw fitting, and honourable. One that was worth their time and deaths.

Today, an emissary had come. An emissary, from the forge world of Ryza. His current position in the Chapter also came with more responsibility in diplomatic relations.

They were calling an armada together, a council with the Fabricator General himself. Ryza’s leaders, apparently, had gotten wind of the Executioners not only being available, but were also deemed perfect for the role they wished to discuss due to the Chapter’s particular methods of waging war.

This was something that held promise.

Thank you NoPoet.

The two of us have spent a considerable amount of time on this story and all the background information involved to create what we hope to be a fully comprehensive work. We would certainly enjoy your continued following, and feel free to comment if you'd like. I don't think it would bother us really.

(placeholder so i can find the thread again when i have the time to read it, sounds interesting already)

Shame this has already had so much written, because I wouldn't mind chiming in, maybe with an Inquisitor or a Commissar or someone like that (it might be more interesting if a Commissar was sent there, perhaps as a logistical error by some prat in the Administratum - he's supposed to be visiting a civilised world to assess the population for its first Guard tithe).

If we could work this out, I could make him super-British. Most people seem to like super-British dialogue.

The title alone, "The Rusting of Golan", is extremely evocative and makes me want to be a part of it. I understand if there's no opening for me.

As it turns out, there is a Commissar who will make his initial appearance fairly soon. I don't think I would consider him a 'major' character, though. We'll have to see what happens.

We have the whole plot and pretty much all the characters planned out already as we've ben working on this for a while, and actually have up to....chapter four written already, I believe.

Thanks for the offer though, I'm glad you like it!

Maybe one day, we can get a Roleplay Threads section started on this site. That's a lot better for a bigger group of people, imo.

Chapter One: III

Surface of Ryza

Gaelan the Gold, Captain of the Fourth Company, arrived several minutes after us - Descending from orbit in a Thunderhawk, decorated with high reliefs of the Emperor and our Primarch-Progenitor, Rogal Dorn. Gaelan the Gold was Antigonus' bloody right-hand, a close friend and confidant of my own Captain. I had had little interaction with the man, but his reputation preceded him - He was wild and reckless, always where the fighting was at its thickest, blade in hand. He came, much like Antigonus had, unarmed and unarmoured - Wearing a cloak of Talassarian silk around him, hair falling in lazy, blonde curls; he was unhandsome, Gaelan - Thin-lipped, sunken-cheeked, flinty-eyed. When he smiled, he looked like a corpse.

'Antigonus,' He called, and there was genuine happiness in his voice. Behind him, twenty of my brethren - Gaelan was paranoid, his mistrust for the Mechanicus was deeply-rooted - Clambered from the Thunderhawk. His Lions, he called them, and their reputation was strong - Fierce fighters, adept swordsmen, ruthless and efficient. They carried shields and blades, bolters locked at their thighs, cloaks fluttering about them. Laurels hung heavily on tattooed brows and gleaming helmets.

Greetings were traded, I clasped hands with the Sergeants- Fire Lords who I had known for over a century - And was pleased by the reinforcements. There was, now that Gaelan had landed, a significant force of Space Marines on the ground.

'What is this about?' I overheard Gaelan asking, as he embraced Antigonus.

'I know as little as you,' Antigonus said, with a smirk. 'And Brennus knows even littler.'

Gaelan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He and Antigonus walked towards the edge of the landing platform, whispering among themselves.

'The Executioners are here,' I said, to my fellow Sergeant, Albanac. He was young, with flashing blue eyes and a cruel, mocking smile.

'The Executioners?' He asked, incredulous. He pursed his fat, petulant lips together and purred. 'I thought they were extinct.'

Several of his Marines, all handsomely armoured, laughed. Their plate glittered, polished to a mirror-sheen. Each of their chest-plates were fashioned into the visage of a rearing, clawing lion. Gaudy bastards, the Fourth Company.

'Watch your tongue,' Mempricius hissed, embers twinkling in his breath. 'They are our cousins.'

'And they dislike your kind, witch,' Albanac sneered, rolling his shoulders - Not an easy feat in power-armour, I tell you, boy. 'I would not be so quick to defend them.'

Mempricius opened his mouth to speak, but instead, there was a blinding flash. For a moment, I believed he had unleashed his flames - Immolated Albanac - And my chainsword was suddenly in my fist. The light faded, stars dancing at the corners of my eyes, and I was standing before a quartet of giants. Mempricius and Albanac remained where they were, weapons raised.

The four giants, each clad in cumbersome, reinforced tactical dreadnought armour, stank of ozone. Teleportation was risky - An ancient method that had never quite been perfected - And it was not unheard of for warriors to emerge, broken and twisted, or welded into the floor, into the wall. I hated teleportation - It sickened me, being dismantled and then reassembled. A patina of hoarfrost had formed around the feet of the Terminators.

These Fire Lords, all of the First Company, looked completely unworried.

'Lower your weapons,' Their leader ordered, from beneath a crested helmet. For a moment, I believed it was Brennus, until I recognised the blade at his hip - A long, gilded sword with a pommel shaped like ivory hands. No-one moved. 'Are your auditory systems malfunctioning? I said lower your weapons.'

This time, we relented, sheathing our blades and mag-locking our bolters.

'Welcome to Ryza, Caderyn,' I said, bowing my head. Caderyn was younger than me, but his rise through the ranks had been meteoric - He was the greatest swordsman in an era. He had bested Gaelan the Golden, everyone knew, in seven heartbeats. It was said that Brennus listened to Caderyn's counsel, but that was hearsay. Caderyn was not a leader of men, he preferred to fight alone. An air of loneliness, of solitude, clung to him like a cloak.

'Sergeant Aeron,' He said, with a snorting breath, like a warhorse.

He stepped aside, and Lord Brennus was there. He wore robes, much like Antigonus and Gaelan - What had brought him to attempt a teleportation, without power armour, escaped me.

Fire Lords slunk down onto their knees, others saluted. Only the Terminators, and the Captains, did not move. Gaelan, I noticed, was gazing at Caderyn.

'Get up, you fools,' Brennus scrunched his nose as he spoke. 'We have a council to attend, you can worship me when I am dead.'

***


The magos, Feruma, led us along a winding path of iron. Albanac and I had positioned our Squads along the flanks of the delegation, while the third Sergeant - A whipcord, quiet man called Pinner - Brought up the rear. Caderyn and his Terminators, lumbering like huge, armoured bears, never left Brennus' side.

Ryza opened up around us, black-bottomed smelting-valleys, infinitely large factorums and expansive, transport-lined landing filling my helms optics. The skies were choked with vessels - Some so large, so monolithic, that their bellies could be seen, peering through the toxic clouds. And yet, I was still unimpressed, never taking my eyes from the nooks and crannies around us, bolter clutched firmly in my hands.

'I have never seen such wonders,' Porrex, one of my Marines, gasped. He was young, a replacement for poor, ill-fated Dunvallo, but he had proved himself a capable fighter upon Sanction. 'Is it true, Brother-Sergeant, that the Executioners are here?'

'I trust Mempricius,' I said, speaking through my Fourth's inter-comm. 'Aye, Porrex, they are here. How many, and for what purpose, I cannot say.'

'The same reason as us,' Kaer interposed, with a dispassionate grunt. He was several feet behind me. 'The metal-men summoned them.'

'Or they are the reason we were summoned,' Porrex theorised. 'I know little of the Executioners, save that they are an unruly lot.'

'None of us do,' I said, wetting my lips. 'The Executioners seldom leave their little corner of the Imperium,' That elicited several laughs, much to my pleasure. The mood was grim. 'We have not waged war alongside the Executioners in living memory.'

We were moving through a man-made canyon, the walls formed by towering, illuminated habitation blocks. Mechanicus magi, slave-menials, servitors - Tens of thousands of them - Crowded on balconies, looking down at us in awe. Others bustled around us, reaching out hands and touching our sacred, anointed armour. One poor woman - No, a girl, with copper-coloured hair and a soft, gentle face, - Grasped for Albanac. The Sergeant reacted, as was his nature, by striking out with a hand - Twisting the female's arm until the bones broke into dust. We marched passed her twitching, screaming form. No aid was given by her fellow Ryzans, none of the Fire Lords halted to offer medical attention.

After that, no-one dared dwell near. Albanac, grim and smiling, had put fears into the hearts and minds of an entire population.

Ahead, the cliff-habs dropped away, opening up into a large plain. Impossibly large, so large that it took me a moment to comprehend the immensity of it. There was dust in the air, thick and glittering with metal particles.

'The Field of Mars,' Feruma announced, using his raw, rasping flesh-voice. 'Welcome to Ryza, most noble Astartes.'

There was a collective release of breath.

Blocks of skitarii, tens of thousands strong, stretched before us - Pendants and banners, displaying all sorts of symbols, including but not limited to, serpents, eagles, golden apples, gate-mouthed skulls, snapped in the wind above the Ryzan force. Each of the skitarii carried a lasrifle, held in their taloned hands; clad in their gender-less, shining armour - All of their faces were hidden beneath smooth, domed helmets. There were formations of tanks, Leman Russes and Baneblades, Shadowswords and Land Raiders. Knights, their armour hanging with banners, strode between blocks of skitarii, representatives from a dozen Houses.

There were Titans.

Dozens and dozens of Titans. An entire Legio, out to greet us. Seventy-one engines, garbed in the black and white of Crucius, were assembled on the Field of Mars. Most were hunched, feral-looking Warhounds, but there was no shortage of dignified Reavers. There were eight Warlords, each one casting shadows over the Field of Mars. There was even a pair of Imperator-class, crested with battlements and cathedrals. Each of the God-Machines wore a banner, denoting kill tallies, sub-divisions and service records.

When we appeared, eyes staring at the vast assembly, warhorns blared. It was a long, mournful noise - Echoing out across the Field of Mars like a peel of thunder.

'There are two-hundred vexillationes of skitarii present,' Feruma was explaining, up ahead, as we advanced across the Field of Mars. 'Each vexillatio is composed of roughly one-thousand combat-efficient units, including armoured support.'

Two-hundred thousand skitarii. A Titan Legio. Thousands upon thousands of battle-tanks, hundreds of super-heavies. This was a gross show of power, designed to intimidate us. I gripped my bolter tighter, scanning the ranks of skitarii, weary. There was a tremendous amount of fire-power aimed directly at our little group, and it made the hairs stand up upon the back of my neck. There was no viable cover, no escape route. If, I realised, the Mechanicus were going to betray us - We would be annihilated with little effort.

'The Metrobius Samnium,' Feruma said, introducing one of the Imperators, as we passed through its icy shadow. 'Princeps Majoris Ghral and the Metrobius Samnium are responsible for thirty-nine confirmed engine kills,' He waved a hand, palm upwards, at the pack of Titans that surrounded the Metrobius Samnium. 'Demi-Legio III, under Princeps Majoris Ghral, is considered one of the most elite, and competent, battle-groups in the Segmentum.'

I feigned interest - We all did. This was a pointless, needless, parade. The Fire Lords were indebted to Ryza, we were honour-bound to perform whatever duty was asked of us.

Soon enough, the Field of Mars dropped away into mega-structures and suborbital dockyards, and Feruma announced - Cheerfully, I believed - That we were in the forge of the Fabricator-General.

We had reached our destination.

***


We were permitted into an expansive, pillar-fronted building. It was formed entirely of marble, black-veins threading through the floor, the walls, the stanchions. Bronze machines and cogs, wreathed in smoke and oil, twisted about us.

It was here that I first laid eyes upon an Executioner.

He was leaning against a pillar, arms folded across his chest, a chain-axe at his side. Jagged markings, crude and eye-watering, adorned his power-armour; which looked rough, beaten - There were gouges in the ceramite, entire sections were scoured away to reveal bare, bone-grey metal.

My lips peeled back in a silent snarl. How had such a noble son of Dorn, a brother-cousin, allowed himself to fall into such a ragged, heathen state? This Executioner, with his bone-trinkets and scars, regarded us like an hawk regards a mouse.

He spoke two words, two words that sent anger rippling down our spines. He looked up, his eyes blank. In a voice that sounded sutured together, as though he was unaccustomed to speaking High Gothic - I realised, after a moment, that he probably was.

'You're late.'

The Fire Lords contingent halted.

'And you speak out of turn,' Called Caderyn, fingering the hilt of his blade.

The Executioner raised an eyebrow, unperturbed. There was something about his posture, about the relaxation of his facial muscles, that unnerved me.

'What,' Hudibras announced, loud enough for all to hear. 'Do you expect? Fafnir Rann was a barbarian bastard.'

'Aye, one who laid with dogs,' Albanac jeered, hands on his hips, utterly composed. 'And drank piss!'

Now it was the turn of the Fire Lords to laugh. It was a tremendous noise, a crush of syllables, a sound that would send lesser men scampering.

Caderyn strode forth. His legs were braced wide, a combat stance, one gauntlet woven around the hilt of Illuminos. He dwarfed the Executioner, a man-tank, a murder-maker.

'Retract your statement,' He demanded, sounding like thunder. 'Retract your statement, brother-cousin, or face penalty.'

Figures detached from the shadows - One, two, five...

They were Executioners, big, brutish and feral. They looked wild, untamed. Caderyn faced them down, alone, focused on the first. Some went unhelmed, their faces nothing more than ugly twists of scar tissue and hard, piercing eyes. They clutched cleavers and axes, billhooks and chainswords.

Caderyn grunted, rolling his shoulders.

'This is getting bad,' I murmured, curling my hands into fists. Kaer and Porrex looked ready to pounce, straining against their leashes.

I looked to Brennus, to Gaelan and Antigonus - Even to Mempricius. All looked horrified, disappointed, saddened. This was a reunion of brothers, it should have been a joyous occasion, a celebration. It was escalating towards bloodshed. Caderyn, I believed, would carve his way through this heathen mongrels - He was clad in tactical dreadnought armour, Illuminos was made of the greatest, truest steel. There was no armour, no flesh, no scales, that could stop the sword's furious bite. These Executioners were brave, to a point of audacity, but they had no idea who they were facing.

I saw what was happening with painful clarity. The handsomest of these rogues, who in reality, was not handsome - Merely the least scarred - Sprung forth, twinned swords windmilling. Caderyn was quick, devilishly quick, drawing Illuminos in one of his massive gauntlets. I, and I alone, bulled through the Fire Lords, seizing Caderyn's wrist in my hand. Mempricius was suddenly besides me, a placating hand laid upon Caderyn's free arm, psychic hood crackling with unreal flames.

There was a clang. I looked past Caderyn, expecting to see blood spill from my brother's chest, and felt my eyes widen. There was a figure between him and the Executioner.

A dreadful figure. He was garbed much like the other Executioners, all barbarous trinkets, battle-worn plate and skin-pouches. His clawed fingers were sealed around a Crozius, which flared and spat electricity, leaking the smell of ozone from its ancient mechanisms. There was an oiliness to his armour, an unfathomable black, from which dangled surprisingly well-maintained robes. They were blue, like the armour of his brothers, of my cousins. His face was a skull, leering, crimson-eyed, fang-mouthed. Chaplain.

His Crozius held the Executioner's blades. He glanced at Caderyn, at me and Mempricius, and then back to the Executioner. The Marine relented, bowing his head and his blades, and slinked away like a whipped cur.

Another of my cousins appeared, wearing a metal face-mask. It was grotesque, yet beautiful, dull but ostentatious. It was neither one nor the other. It seemed to shift, before my eyes, from beauteous to monstrous. There was a coronet on his brow, flowing, graceful High Gothic marked upon it - DOMINE CARNIFICEM. He looked at me, locked eyes. A moment of understanding passed between us, and I bowed my head. This was a lord, a leader. No, more than that. This was a war-king, an Executioner. The Executioner.

He was shadowed by another terrible Astartes-beast, who bore himself with savage dignity. None of them spoke, turning and marching into the chambers ahead, throwing the doors wide.

I released Caderyn's wrist.

He looked down at me, eyepieces like pools of blood, and shook his head. 'I would have gutted him,' Caderyn said, his voice laced with the last vestiges of slaughter-lust. 'And the rest.'

The first Executioner, now standing freely, cocked his head. 'The rest? Meaning who exactly? Point out which of us you believe you could beat.'

Caderyn raised Illuminos, tip-first, and aimed it at the Marine's chest. 'You,' He jutted his chin to the Executioner's axe. 'Fancy thing, that. I'll snap it over my knee.'

'Let me see your face,' The Executioner grunted.

Caderyn looked around, taken off-balance. 'It takes time, I cannot simply-'

'Off with it,' The Executioner said, more urgently. There was a blistering edge to his voice, now. His eyes were full of passion, and I knew, in that instance, that it was hate.

The sword-master sighed and began to remove his helmet, laboriously unlatching the seals, uttering a prayer with each hiss. It came away, and Caderyn clasped it in the curl of his arm, lowering Illuminos for the first time. Soft, pale lips pressed together. He had startling eyes, green as emeralds, and full of intelligence. Upon his cheek, inked masterfully, was a raven.

'What is your name?' The Executioner asked.

'I am Caderyn,' My brother said, slow and precise. 'Champion of the Fire Lords.'

Once again, the Executioner's shoulders slumped, relaxing. A smile, or some horrid mimicry of a smile, flickered on the Marine's lips. 'I am Conric Alnun,' He announced, pride in his voice. 'Champion of the Executioners.'

I stepped forwards. 'And them,' I pointed a finger at the trio of Marines who had halted the fight. 'Who are they, Conric Alnun?'

There was a brief pause, during which Conric shifted, tiny movements, eyes darting, fingers twitching. The other Executioners began to sheath their weapons, some hung them from belts. They still stood apart.

'Now I see,' I said, with a grin. 'You're a ragged bunch, you Executioners. But full of honour, it permeates from you. Your honours must fill the archives of Stygia-Aquilon, cousin. Your name will be legend, someday.'

Conric smiled. 'Someday?' He asked, with a laugh. 'I like this one,' He said, looking around at his Executioners. 'Entire corridors of the Darkenvault are dedicated to my name, but if you haven't heard it, then I haven't done enough,' He paused, pursed his lips, and then continued. 'What Company do you command?'

Behind me, Fourth Squad laughed uproariously.

'His mane may be grey and his hide scarred, but he is no Captain,' This came from Kaer.

'Captain?' Antigonus mocked, slapping his thighs. 'That whore-born bastard won't be Captain whilst I'm around!'

'And you're still an awful fighter, sire,' I snarled back, bowing theatrically. 'How many times have I saved your arse? Five, six?'

'Watch your tongue,' Antigonus said, still chuckling. 'Before I cut it free.'

The Executioners looked startled. Were they not accustomed to such bantering?

'If not a Captain, then what are you? What is your name?' Conric asked, bluntly.

'I am Aeron,' I smiled graciously. 'Brother-Sergeant of the Fire Lords, Second Company, called the Stormcrow.'

Conric nodded in affirmation. 'That was the High Executioner, Absolutius Akillian. He leads our Chapter.'

I knew as much, admittedly. Akillian had a grim majesty about him, there was no doubt in my mind, from the moment I laid eyes upon him, that he was Chapter Master.

'And the other?' Caderyn asked. 'The Chaplain?'

'He's the Lord Speaker of the Dead,' The Executioner corrected, rather condescendingly. 'His name is Wulfric Grimir, the other was my Captain, but he doesn't matter much, not here.'

I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could utter a word, a bell sounded. Feruma was standing in the archway, tiny next to the waiting Executioners officers. He indicated the hallway beyond with one glinting hand.

Brennus led the senior Fire Lords away, Caderyn and his Terminators trailing in their wake. I looked at Conric, grinned a cheerful grin, and stroked my chin. 'I suppose,' I began, walking past him. 'That we should follow.'

Really enjoyed these thanks Especially the first one

I read this quickly and I'm excited about it.

Thank you for the comments, all. Both Unx and I appreciate it.

Chapter One: IV

Surface of Ryza

Council Hall

I would have gutted him.

The muscles in his neck were tense, his lips pressed together. Breath hissed from between clenched teeth, hot and loud in his helmet. He couldn't remember replacing his helmet, nor sliding Illuminos back into its scabbard - Only the Executioner's - Conrad, Conric? - Only his smile. Ugly, sneering, leprous.

I would have made a cup of his skull, and a necklace of his fingers, and playing pieces from his knuckles.

He inhaled deeply. I would have gutted him.

Executioners. They have sullied our bloodline. A hand wrapped around the hilt of Illuminos, fingers sliding into well-worn grooves, and he exhaled.

He inhaled. And I would have gutted them, like hounds, and wore their skins.

Leather creaked against the mail of his gauntlet. He exhaled.

Lord of Sunlight, he prayed silently, inhaling. Give me strength.

He exhaled. Conric Alnun, was his name - that caricature of a Space Marine.

He inhaled, he could smell his breath, the oils and the lubricants that coated his body. He exhaled, and broke into a laugh. Lord of Sunlight, forgive me. I am a fool, my anger does not control me.

They were led into a chamber that was long, broad, and rectangular. Banners were draped from the ceiling, displaying heraldries and battle-honours, some of Guard Regiments, others of Space Marine Chapters - He saw the upraised gauntlet of the Iron Hands, the proud avian of the Raptors, the lightning bolt of the White Scars. Here, the twinned axes of the Executioners, picked out in blood-red, and there was the flaming fist of the Fire Lords. Caderyn’s hearts swelled with pride.

Veins of magma and plasma, shimmering oranges and blues coalescing around one another, filled the walls, floors, and ceiling. The room was hot from its broiling blood, the air acrid and foetid, the taste of ash and oil bitter upon his lips. Like home, he thought, with a wry smile. But not at all. Where the lava-fields of Mundus Pyra flowed freely, breathed, lived and died, these fires were shackled, tortured, and false.

He glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Aeron and Conric walked side-by-side, talking quietly. Aeron's antlered helmet was in the crook of his arm, long, grey hair flowing past his shoulders. His free hand was woven around the hilt of his Chainsword. One hand offered in friendship, the other wielding the dagger.

Behind them, in silence, trudged the rest of the Fire Lords and Executioners. There was a cohesion in the Executioners that Caderyn had mistaken - An inner savagery, drowning their honour and their pride - Masking their true nature. Killers the lot, he thought, with a sniff. They appeared relaxed, shoulders slack, hands at their sides, but that wasn't right - Relaxed Space Marines, Caderyn reflected, was an oxymoron. They were bred, engineered, for warfare and bloodshed.

A long table sat in the centre of the room, housing dozens of individuals, all talking quietly amongst their own groups. There were tiers of seats rising above, swarming with adjutants and Departmento Munitorum officials, red-robed priests, sub-commanders and dignitaries of a dozen other offices. Fire Lords and Executioners ascended the stairs, Conric and Aeron still in conversation. Caderyn saw the Executioner's teeth, bared in a grin, and heard the Stormcrow's laughter. Some of the Fire Lords took out data slates, others unhooked helmets and basked in the heat.

The Fabricator-General of Ryza greeted the newcomers. He was tall, taller than Caderyn, and rake-thin. His body was a work of genius, all whirring, clicking bionics and glass-jarred organs. He had four discernible arms, each tipped in a gleaming forest of bronze fingers. The inhumanity, the extensiveness of his augmentation, made Caderyn’s bile rise. He was flanked by a pair of figures, one in slim, studded power-armour - A cloak of scarlet shrouding his left-hand side. The other was a transhuman, a Space Marine, wearing chainmail and leather. Pale-fleshed, dark-eyed, square-jawed. Iron Hand.

‘Honoured Space Marines,’ The Fabricator-General crackled, voice laden with static. ‘Lord Akillian of the Executioners, Lord Brennus of the Fire Lords, welcome! Sit, friends, allies, revered Angels of Death,’ One of the Executioners, a scar-faced Captain, snorted. ‘My table awaits you.’

They complied, as was expected, splitting off. Eyes followed the Space Marines, their every step sounding like the boom of a battle-tank, their armour growling and fizzling. The Executioners sat opposing the Fire Lords on great, broad-backed thrones. Caderyn stood nearby, close enough to protect Brennus, in the case of perfidy. He noticed the Executioner Chaplain, Grimir, sit opposite Mempricius. They did not trust him, he was a witch-breed, a warp-dabbler, a consort of the dreaded pantheon.

More fool them, Caderyn thought, bitterly. Mempricius was as loyal as a hound, unmatched in his fire-weaving, but that mattered little to the Executioners, more-so the skull-faced Grimir.

Some of the seats, those carved with lightning bolts and war-hawks, were empty.

‘Ryza is wondrous, simply wondrous,’ Belenus, the Techmarine, said. The table had fallen silent, the Fabricator-General taking his place at its head. ‘I will be petitioning for access to your archives, Lord, after this business is dealt with.’

Caderyn scanned the assembled officers. Here, a severe, gaunt man in the uniform of an Admiral, surrounded by a gaggle of Naval Captains - A sole Commodore, roguishly good-looking, sitting awkwardly between them. There were ruddy-faced, mustachioed officers of the Mordian Iron Guard, consulting data-slates and one another in clipped, accentuated tones. A group of dark-haired, handsome men, each with beards upon their sun-kissed skin. Their leader, or the man Caderyn assumed their leader, looked too young. His eyes sparkled with vigour, with enthusiasm. Next to him, shrouded in a great-coat, was an Imperial Commissar. He was sniffing a cup of wine, face crunched into something distasteful.

‘Consider your request sanctioned,’ The Fabricator-General chimed, nodding his eight-eyed head. ‘Now, now,’ Everyone fell into silence, eyes focusing on the Fabricator-General, who stood. He walked with a click-clack of gears, his breathing ragged. ‘You are all here, finally, and I am thankful.’

Antigonus rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘Nice little world you have here, metal-man,’ He growled, a deep, angry noise. ‘But you owe us answers. Why do you bring us here?’

Caderyn smiled beneath his helm. Some of the Guard officers shifted nervously. A Space Marine was a rare sight, a half-true legend, something that mothers told their children about so they would sleep at nights. Many of these men, young as they were, had never encountered the Adeptus Astartes beforehand. To hear one speak so brazenly, with such challenge in his voice, was alarming.

The Fabricator-General stopped pacing. One of his eyes spun and refocused on Antigonus. ‘There is a crisis, yes, a most startling turn of events. I need allies, and you are allies, are you not?’

‘Aye, I suppose we are,’ Antigonus shrugged. ‘When it suits us.’

Gaelan the Gold laughed, heartily. Brennus did, too.

‘You speak out of turn, cousin,’ The Iron Hand said. On some distant world, in some distant past, the Iron Hand’s throat had been tore out. A vox-caster had been sewn into his larynx, and when he spoke, it was a monotonous, inhuman noise. Antigonus grinned, bowed his head in form of an apology, and shut up. ‘He will explain.’

The Fabricator-General shot the veiled Iron Hand a glance. ‘Yes, as Garr of Clan Morragul says, I was getting to that.’

There was a brief pause. Guardsmen were recording details with styluses behind Caderyn.

‘Then I must alarm you, Fire Lord, that one of Ryza’s vassal-systems has fallen,’ The Fabricator-General produced a light-tipped wand from his hip, and waved it around. The lights of the room faded into darkness, a hololithic projector descending from the ceiling. A world flickered into reality, orbited by dozens of moons. Some, the largest, had atmospheric stations. ‘Golan, a source of Aeriform. I correct myself, the source of Aeriform.’

‘Aeriform?’ A voice said, from nearby. It was youthful, yet stern, demanding respect. Caderyn pinpointed its source - The bright-eyed, bronze-skinned individual. His eyes were filled with a hundred hungers. ‘What exactly is Aeriform?’

The Fabricator-General turned his attentions to the man. ‘What is Aeriform, General Seleucus?’ The Mechanicus lord made a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a grinding of gears. ‘Golan's particular Aeriform, when refined, can be transformed into a nanofluid coolant that we use in our plasma technologies here on Ryza. Golan is our chief provider of this substance. This forge world is held in high regards, General, everyone. Our plasma based weaponry is unrivalled, there is a high demand for unique designs.’

Seleucus stiffened. The men around him began to talk amongst themselves, others began to heckle the Fabricator-General with questions.

‘Throne!’ One of the Guardsmen, a lanky, pale man exclaimed. He wore mesh-armour over his body, all rigid, illuminated plates and a high, mouth-encompassing collar. ‘This simply will not do. The Parxan Regiments rely on your Executioners, Fabricator-General!’

Caderyn glanced around. The air was full of servo-skulls, taking picts and recording the conference. Adjutants were jotting down details, relaying information into vox-casters. The Fire Lords and Executioners remained still, though some of the Stygian Marines were grinning, eyebrows raised quizzically.

One of the Executioners released a snort, like a braying stallion. ‘I didn’t know they named tanks after us, such an honour.’

Brennus slapped the flat of his palm on the table. The bustling voices fell silent. ‘Quiet,’ He growled, more like a bear than a man, and set his dark, stormy eyes on Executioner. ‘Allow the Fabricator-General to continue.’

The Fabricator-General bowed his head, and in one graceful movement, swung his projector-wand. The hololithic display swirled and recalibrated, zooming in on a serious of platforms that swarmed around Golan. ‘These are the orbital plates,’ He squawked, hands folding behind his back. ‘They mine, refine, store and help deliver the Aeriform components. It was from one of these platforms that we received the following distress call.’

There was a brief moment of silence, and then - ‘The Golan Operation has been corrupted. Rho-Theta XVII is traitor to both the Mechanicus and Imperium. System needs repair.’

It was laced with static, a noise that reminded Caderyn of cracking bones. Each word was panicked, human emotion bursting through the lifelessness of a Mechanicus adept.

‘As you can see,’ The Fabricator-General said, hesitantly. ‘We are faced with a most dire situation. Repeated attempts to contact our operation base in the Golan System have been met with silence.’

‘A traitor,’ One of the Mordian Colonel’s growled. ‘Who is Rho-Theta?’

One of the women at the table, superbly armoured, muttered a prayer. She was bald, her head elongated, devotional tattoos covering the pale, unhealthy flesh of her face. Adeptus Sororitas, Caderyn thought, disgustingly. Foolish sycophants, wailing banshees, half-arsed warriors.

‘Who sent the message?’ Asked the Naval Commodore, rubbing his chin. ‘Can we confirm its authenticity?’

‘You doubt the Fabricator-General, man-thing?’ The Iron Hand, Garr, intoned. His left hand, a bionic replacement that ended in long, glittering claws, scraped across the table.

The Commodore stared him down.

The Fabricator-General flinched, as if slapped. ‘We cannot confirm the authenticity, or the sender of the distress beacon,’ He looked to around, seeking support. ‘We have continued to receive our transport ships, and there’s been no reports of unrest in the Golan System,’ He paused, refocusing the hololithic display to focus on a series of blunt, ugly ships. ‘Dockmaster Tanner, our correspondent with Golan, has been interviewing the crews of the transportation fleet,’ The Fabricator-General indicated a fat, balding man in the rust-red of Ryza. ‘He reports no abnormalities in their persons, or their cargoes.’

Grimir, the death’s-headed Executioner, barked. ‘This better not be a joke.’

Silence, pregnant. Empty, a void, even the hiss-snikt of styluses seemed to halt.

‘My colleague asked a good question,’ The Navy Admiral asked, pursing his leathery lips. ‘Who is this Rho-Theta?’

‘Admiral Kassar,’ The Fabricator-General said, lifting his hands. ‘Rho-Theta XVII is one of Ryza’s adepts, a brilliant man, the suggestion of his treason is extremely worrying.’

‘One of Ryza’s golden boys?’ Antigonus laughed, his tone mocking. ‘And yet he’s not even here!’

‘A series of most unfortunate events, accidents and stalling of our production line foremost amongst them, rendered Rho-Theta XVII’s career here an unnecessary thing,’ Said a voice. Antigonus swung around, facing the stud-armoured individual who had accompanied the Fabricator-General. ‘It was decided that he could serve better at Golan.’

‘And who are you?’ Antigonus boomed.

The man bowed his helmeted head. Wisps of oxygen escaped his mouth-grille as he did so. ‘Ludus Ghral, Princeps Majoris of the Legio Crucius, the Metrobius Samnium, Omnissiah Blessed, is my steed.’

‘Ah, yes, pretty words,’ Antigonus grumbled. ‘So what you’re saying is, Princeps Ghral-’

‘Princeps Majoris,’ Ghral corrected.

‘-Princeps Majoris Ghral, is that you exiled this Rho-Theta, and he’s come back to bite you in your chromed arses.’

‘You are.. Correct,’ The Fabricator-General admitted. Everyone had relaxed somewhat, sitting back in their chairs.

‘So,’ Gaelan the Gold purred, leaning forwards. He smiled, and Caderyn knew that smile well - I’m going to ask you a question, I already know the answer to it, but I want the satisfaction of hearing it from you - ‘Why are we here, Fabricator-General?’

‘We require a task force to seize Golan, and if needed, defeat Rho-Theta XVII,’ The Fabricator-General spoke. ‘Who was given command of the Golan Defence Force.’

‘Oh, this just gets bloody better,’ Mempricius complained, eliciting a laughter from his Captains. ‘What is the disposition of the Golan Defence Fleet?’

The Executioner Chaplain, Grimir, stared at Mempricius. Brennus stopped laughing, and after a moment, Antigonus and Gaelan the Gold did, too. They stared at the Chaplain, silently.

‘I don’t find this funny,’ Grimir said, before breaking his gaze and turning towards Akillian. The Chapter Master had barely moved, sat like a statue. Silence reigned, before Grimir turned his attentions to the Fabricator-General. ‘So this defence force is for a local mining operation. Small, then.’

The Fabricator-General looked towards Grimir. He was terrifying, in his worn armour and skull-helm. ‘One battleship, four cruisers, unknown amounts of support craft. Ten-thousand Skitarii accompanied Rho-Theta XVII to Golan, but,’ The projector-wand cut a path through the air, and the hololithic display changed, zooming onto a pale, arid moon. ‘Golan Secundus has a standing military, of unknown numbers. There is an Hive upon Secundus from which he could have drawn manpower from.’

The Naval Commodore smirked. ‘Five vessels?’ He asked rhetorically. ‘Between my Battlegroup and the good Admiral’s, I say we leave tonight.’

Admiral Kassar shot him a sidelong glance, more of a glare, Caderyn reflected. ‘Don’t chase glory, lad, or it’ll get you hurt. Five vessels could break both of our fleets, if this Rho-Theta uses them properly,’ He leaned closer to the Commodore. ‘Nymeros, isn’t it? Well, Commodore, have you ever lost a vessel before? Fifty, sixty, a hundred thousand souls, snubbed out in one insignificant flash?’

The Commodore, Nymeros, shook his head. ‘No, I have not. I don’t lose.’

Kassar leant back. ‘Then I feel sorry for those souls, because it will happen. With arrogance like that, it will be a sad number indeed.’

‘Very good, very good!’ The Fabricator-General called, rubbing his bronze hands together. ‘It begins, our fleet is assembled, who, ladies and gentlemen, Space Marines and Sororitas, will accompany our valiant sailors?’

No-one moved.

‘The Mordian 97th and 98th Regiments have already been forwarded to the task-force, as has the Parxan 22nd Armoured,’ The Fabricator-General said at once, and each of the Regimental officers inclined their heads. ‘The Arcadian 201st,’ A man, his face tattooed and studded with rings, grinned with sharpened teeth. ‘Will also be attending. What of Catachan, General Hawkren? What does your world send forth?’

A massive man, with corded muscles across his arms and chest, looked up. He bit his lip. ‘Now that I fully understand the situation, I must consult my superiors, honoured Forge Lord, before I can confirm.’

‘I was hoping that your Regiments would be the meat of my force, General,’ The Fabricator-General said, disappointedly. ‘I shall await your answer with eagerness. What of Corinth, General Seleucus? Will your Regiments come to my aid?’

Seleucus looked at his subordinates, Colonels and Majors all. Caderyn noted, once again, that he was younger. Such a strange, strange concept. He would never understand the politicking of the Imperial Guard.

‘We will march, for Ryza and Terra and Corinth, Lord.’

One-by-one, Guardsmen agreed to lend their aid to the investigatory force. Even the Sister, the bald-headed Hospitaller, agreed to send her nurses and medicae.

‘And the Iron Hands, Garr? The Sons of Medusa have always been our erstwhile allies, will you lend your unbreakable resolve to my force?’

The Iron Hand nodded. ‘Clan Morragul are delayed, sire, but will attend. I will relay the information at once.’

The Fabricator-General turned towards the Fire Lords.

‘We don’t have a choice,’ Brennus spat, before the Fabricator-General could talk. ‘Honour, debts. If I were to say no, our reputation would be sullied, wouldn’t it? Aye, we’re with you.’

Finally, he turned to the Executioners. They regarded him blankly.

‘And you, lords?’

Akillian spoke, finally. He spoke one word, one word that brought a gasp of shock from the crowded stands, jeers and curses from the throats of the Fire Lords.

‘No.’

Chapter Two: I

Rendezvous point en route to Golan System

On board the Hyperion

Josif Brandt found himself staring at the raw beauty of the fountain’s sculpture. The culture and artisanship of the Corinthians was breathtaking. The water flowing from the spouts and making its way down the myriad mazes of tropical roses and hand-smoothed rock formations was unbelievably clear, as if it had been taken from the rivers of Corinth itself and filtered dozens of times over. He never thought he would think twice about something like this, but he hadn’t seen water that wasn’t collected and refined on a void faring vessel in ages, or shipped in extensively used containers onto docking stations. He suddenly realized how murky and distasteful the water he had been consuming for at least a third of his life, had truly been.

This entire section of the Hyperion was crafted to replicate the sensation of an actual dining garden from the Corinthians’ homeworld. The rooms and interlocking corridors had high walls around them, but only reached about half way up toward the high-domed ceiling, like a hedge maze made of marble and gold.

The artificial light hardly seemed that way at all. With all of it coming from a single hardpoint angled to simulate a mid-afternoon, it was extremely hard to look at directly. But with intricate mirror work around the ceiling edges, the light cast an even glow around the entire section of the ship, just as a young sun would for its adoring planets.

A constant breeze was kept, no, he realized after concentrating the flow of air over his cheekbones, it wasn’t constant. It was perfect. A cool blanket of air that enveloped him just long enough to comfort him and left the moment it became too much, continually regranted the moment his senses desired it once more.

‘How had the Corinthians become such a strong people?’ he wondered to himself. The idea of this being an adequate resemblance of such a pleasure world made him want to take off his uniform and never pilot a Fury Interceptor again. It made him want to forget everything he had ever been proud of and never care for anything else for the rest of his life. He would wither away in the breeze, as content as can be.

His peaceful state of mind was brought to a halt before it went too far. A hand patted him on the back of his stiff, formal uniform.

'Time for you to grab a drink, Brandt. We’ve just made our way through the main room a bit, and its quite the occasion.'

It was his gunner, Cordiul. As hard as he hit the enemy he was always a relaxed and easy-going individual. Josif supposed that’s what made him such a good gunman, he was calm, relaxed, even under pressure of death. The Lieutenant Commander turned from the massive fountain, to find that Bailig, his navigator, had come with Cordiul to find him. Both of them already had glasses in their hands; fine crystal-like glasses filled shallow with a deep-amber drink.

'Please,' said Brandt lifting an open hand, a smirk on his lips indicating he would be glad to get inebriated with them, 'lead the way.'

And so they did, rounding the closest marble hedge where the noise of hundreds or more engaging in polite conversation could be heard. The trio passed numerous officers and wives of officers from too many different ships and regiments for Brandt to keep track of. Servants hurried through the passageways pushing gem-cornered carts filled with plates of finished appetizers.

Hektor Seleucus had been ordained as the Lord General Militant for the Golan Campaign. Even Though thats what the Corinthians were already calling it, Brandt knew that many of the leading officials currently on their way to the Golan system, still had their strong doubts about its problematic nature. Some hardly thought it would be worthy of calling a mission, let alone a campaign.

Flashbacks of the meeting on Ryza came back to him. He had been there personally, in the stadium seats surrounding the table of war-delegates. Despite the enthusiastic remarks of Commodore Nymeros during the Council, it had taken several days to fully prepare everyone for the trip, and to load the vast number of ships with full ammunitions and food supplies in the unlikely case that their encounter with Rho-Theta’s forces at Ryza were in fact hostile and lead to some form of attrition.

The day before the fleet had actually departed from Ryza, the Catachan general had contacted the Fabricator General’s staff with news that Catachan would be unable to send aid at this time. Following that, the choice was made quickly to move the expected command from the Catachan, to the Corinthian.

Lord Seleucus was young, inexperienced some might say, having never been in overall command of a multi-regimented and multi-cultured force. Either way, he had been equal in rank to the Catachan, and had brought the most men with him to Ryza.

There were two main Warp routes the fleet would be taking to the Golan System, and they were about equal in length. Despite the passing of time always being unpredictable when traversing the Immaterium, these particular warp routes were deemed stable before entering, and were also rather short, meaning a strong likelihood of accurate exit time and location. These relatively stable warp routes were yet another factor in making Golan a prime system to transport resources from. It would take about two weeks to reach Golan. According to averages and estimates of the Warp’s time differences, this would lead to the fleet arriving at Golan just over a month from leaving Ryza.

During the first warp jump, Seleucus had sent out messages to all of the fleet captains requesting they pause in their travels after their first translation back into real-space, before the second jump, and join him on his personal ship for a celebratory banquet. The reasons were three fold. One was to celebrate his becoming Lord Militant of the mission and his hope of leading the Corinthians to a better known prestige. The second was in celebration of the group coming together for a common goal, which coincided with the third reason of raising spirits before a potential war with traitorous forces.

Brandt stared at the backs of his friends as they grabbed some appealing leftovers from a servant’s cart. He realized how unperturbed he was at the thought of Lord Seleucus’s possible downfalls. He had served in Kassar’s personal fleet nearly his entire career, and he always felt comfortable under the Admiral’s watch.

Being the commanding officer over all of Admiral Kassar’s fighter wings, Brandt was stationed on the Illustrious, the Admiral’s Emperor Class among his team of Battleships. When his long-time home exited the warp, he was genuinely glad to hear that most of the fleet’s ships had indeed stopped and convened near the Lord Militant’s flagship. Everyone could always go for a fine dinner after all, even the Astartes apparently, since their mighty golden-orange battle barge and flame-decorated strike cruisers were among the resting vessels.

And here it was, the main dining...chamber. Brandt wasn’t sure what to call it. A vast circular room, the center of the hedge maze opened up before him. Rather than the usual style of long, rectangular tables set up by many of the Imperium’s cultures, they were all circular here, like a flower bed of tables. The largest buds were on the outermost edges, shrinking in size but gaining importance, leading towards the center most table, and raising in elevation as they did so, more like a bouquet than a bed, Brandt reconsidered. He could see Lord Seleucus from here at the center table with his Colonels and a group of the golden hued Fire Lords near him, all fully resplendent in their warplate gathered on the wide, tiled steps leading up to the center table. Even from this distance he was reminded of how large they were as countless servants moved around them carrying wide bronze platters full of feasts, their heads never going above the Astartes’ chests. Between the moving servants, lower ranking officers slithered their way up and down the steps of the various levels from their larger tables below, trying to meet their commanders in person to shake hands and say “what an honour.”

Brandt couldn’t begin to count how many people were actually here. He found it funny, that even though he was the leading commander of a fleet’s fighter wings, his gunner and navigator seemed much more confident here, pushing and sliding their way past dozens of people with hardly an “excuse me” just to find him a drink.

'Ah, here we are. Looks like the same drink we’ve had. It’s excellent. I’ve had two already, mate. You’ll have to catch up!' said Cordiul.

The glass was shoved into Brandt’s hand. As he took his first sip, tilting his head up slightly, he better noticed the hanging gardens above them all. Decorative vines linked many of them, flowers of all shapes and colors were displayed perfectly, and blended with more fountains that were placed throughout the entire room. There were several statues among these fountains, but they all seemed random in shape. It made him admire them even more, he theorized.

The drink was fine indeed, quite bitter at first but unexplainably rich on the tongue after going down. Brandt graciously thanked his friend and comrade for getting it into his grasp.

Bailig smiled at him, 'You needed it. You’re staring too much again. This isn’t a void battle Brandt, you can relax.'

Brandt took a bigger gulp, at that.

'Now, there must be a thousand beautiful women in here! Something tells me there’s at least one in here that isn’t someone’s wife, paid companion, cold-hearted soldier, or faithful.' said Bailig, winking with a laugh. Brandt knew the man could navigate his way to women just like he could their fighter through a battle. And off he went, leaving him with Cordiul.

Cordiul knew where their assigned table was, he pointed toward it, though Brandt still wasn’t sure exactly which one he meant. He felt some pride well in him, seeing his friend’s finger pointing somewhere fairly close to the central table.

'Just look for the Admiral, Josif, our table is next to his but on the level below it. They were about halfway to the center platform now, the largest tables behind them. They passed tables with Mordians, Parxans, Arcadians, and even a small group of what he was fairly sure were Royal Validians. Of course, there were many, many Corinthians.

'With all of these Corinthians, there may truly be a thousand beautiful women here,' said Brandt, going from where Bailig had left off.

Cordiul laughed without looking at him, 'No kidding! Whenever I get to take leave again, I’m going to Corinth. Screw going home.'

Their boots had travelled up a few of the levels now. Brandt couldn’t help but take some good looks over his shoulder behind them, with hundreds of people moving and dining below them, now. From here, the artistry of the on-ship garden maze truly came together. He could only wonder at the perfect view the Lord Militant’s seat at the very center must have provided.

'Look, that one’s got stag horns on his helmet.' said Cordiul. Brandt realized he was talking about one of the Fire Lords. He remembered seeing this one present at the Ryza Council. It was hard to look away from them. Their suits of armor were incredible works of art and craftsmanship in their own right. Admiral Kassar had spent a good many years helping protect the sectors surrounding the Eye of Terror, but even when fighting near Astartes forces, Brandt had always been in his fighter. He had never been this close to them before. Their every movement was filled with lurking, ferocious strength. What should have been a simple wave of the hand, or a crossing of the arms, seemed like so much more. They were iconic, truly. It was difficult to wrap his mind around the fact that they were, super human.

Cordiul announced they were at their destination and promptly took a seat, folding a heavy threaded napkin over his lap, pulling Brandt’s stare away from the Fire Lords allowing him to catch the back of Admiral Kassar’s grandiose cap, which was part of his formal uniform.

'Evening, Admiral.' Brandt caught himself saying without thinking.

Kassar, who still looked like a healthy man in his late fifties, turned in his seat. Brandt always had to remind himself that this was only through pharmaceuticals, augmetics, and surgeries. The Admiral was nearing two centuries of life. The wrinkles in his skin turned with the smile of pleasant surprise on his face. He must have had a few drinks himself, because without even standing the Admiral said his name and waved Brandt up and over to his table.

'It's good to see you, boy,' he said, pushing his seat back and standing to pat Brandt on his arms.

Lord Admiral Xandyr Kassar had four Battleships in his personal fleet, along with several cruisers and escorts, of course. He tended to be regarded as a rather unimaginative commander, preferring slow, brutal campaigns, wearing down the enemy through attrition and tremendous world-shattering broadsides. There was no question, he certainly had the boats for it.

The Captains of the other three Battleships sat at his table as well. Captain Malkarion, of the Retribution Class Vengeance, a flesh-spare man with an augmetic eye. Captain Khaler, of the Avenger Class Brawler, a warm, welcoming fellow who, out of the trio, was the only one who didn’t seem like a pompous bastard, if Brandt were to be honest with himself, including the third and his own, Captain Saulema of the Illustrious. Saulema was dark haired and dark eyed with wormy lips, and all of this reflected his usual attitude.

'Sir.' Brandt nodded with a smile towards his familiar Captain, who to his surprise offered he have a seat with them. Brandt turned hoping to see his friend gazing up in jealousy, but Cordiul was too infatuated in discussing available food with a Corinthian server.

'If it's alright with the Admiral,' Brandt said, being sure to stay modest and polite.

'Of course, of course. You’ve won more than one battle for me Josif. Please, sit with your Captains.'

The Admiral himself was Captain of the fourth Battleship, the Victory Class Warsong. It was as elegant as it was crushing. Its kill tallies were more than remarkable.

While engaging in small talk Brandt noticed that on the same level of the bouquet, one table over, was the other naval group commander - Commodore Nymeros. He was clearly handsome as well, but not in such a fine way as the Corinthians. He was rather roguish. Ever stroking the hairs on his chin, he was sitting and conversing with the shipmaster of the Hyperion, Tiades. Brandt had heard that this Tiades fellow was like a grandfather figure to the royal Corinthian commanders here. Though Tiades was missing half his left arm, had a large steel colored beard, and slouching muscles that told of his aging state, the man was still physically imposing and Brandt could instantly tell that his presence demanded respect.

Now at such proximity, Brandt turned his head slightly upward to the highest, center-most table in the room - the Lord Militant’s. He realized only now that the table was half full at the moment, and that he had mistaken Commissar Harward Gaddes for Lord Seleucus at a distance. Three others sat at the table, Seleucus’s Colonels. He recognized all four men from the council room on Ryza. Though no one knew of his mistake, he felt ashamed for mistaking the Commissar for Lord Seleucus, as Gaddes was not even Corinthian. Brandt couldn’t say exactly where he was from, but whatever his birth-heritage, the Commissar seemed to have adopted the Corinthian style of dress. Two of the Colonels, one with a large red beard wearing the badge of the 14th Armored, and the other, pale of skin for a Corinthian and wearing insignia of the 73rd Rifles, held a conversation in their native tongue. The third, the Colonel of the 391st Rifles sat silent and aloof, staring at a notation stylus while the majority of his food was pushed slightly to the side, getting cold.

A second foreign tongue struck his eardrums. Once again his attention was brought to the Marines. They spoke in their native tongue too, with low but powerful voices shoving through the rest of the noise. From this perspective he could now see for a fact that there were five of them. For the first time he was close enough to see the detail of their armor. All fine. All exquisite. Each one was a masterpiece, a treasure chest that could feed a mortal man for eternity. They were covered in painted patterns of forestry, animals, stars, and moons. They bristled with gems, rings, and head and neck ornamentations. Ivory plating, gold plating, all so perfectly blended with the deep yellows and oranges of their Chapter colors.

Brandt had yet to blink.

One, the Captain of their Second Company if he wasn’t mistaken, was bearded and wore a cloak of raven feathers. It was the only drab piece of material among them. The Captain of the Fourth on the other hand, framed his wondrous armor in a cloak of what he believed must have been Talassarian silk. A very rare, and very rich material.

As a group of servants passed them by, all carrying large platters of food across the wide step, the Fire Lord with the antler-sprouting helmet in the crux of his arm plucked up a full-sized avian entrée in his opposite hand, without hesitation. Brandt figured the servant smart for also not hesitating, in continuing to move along as if nothing had happened. The Fire Lord turned it over in his hand a few times with confusion on his brow, a smile on his lips, and a subsequent joke from his tongue. Three of the other Astartes filled the air with boisterous laughter.

The one who remained silent wore blue paint upon his face, and carried the largest sword of the group across his backside. As the others laughed, this Marine turned to look at something, or perhaps, Brandt speculated further, he was simply never off guard. Either way, Brandt almost felt the need to drop to his knees and pray to the sword on his back for its magnificence. Such human folly, he thought, trying to shake his head clear. Afterward, he had to hurriedly play it off while answering the Admiral’s inquiries about flying something the size of a fighter again rather than his Battleship. 'It had been over a century', Brandt heard him say.

Then, something caught the attention of the Fire Lords, causing them to place the cooked bird upon the nearest table to them. It was Lord Seleucus and his escort, consisting of four men. Steadily, applause grew to a deafening volume as more and more tables saw their new Commander climb to the Garden’s height and center. Seleucus waved in kind, appearing modest, whether it was truly his nature or not.

The Lord Militant had something of an ember burning behind each eye. A mysterious yet unparalleled hunger. A cloak of royal purple flowed effortlessly around his muscular frame. He had long, flowing black hair, a clean shaven face in contrast to most his men, and bronze evenly sun-kissed skin, just like most his men.

His retinue consisted of the man closest to his side, a bear-like individual, though still as handsome as any Corinthian, aside from Seleucus himself who was quite possibly the peak of perfection in that regard. A dark hue was set about him despite, and in contrast, to his snow-white breast-plate over a robe of silk, and a leopard pelt fixed to his throat by a golden brooch. The other three men Brandt, as of yet, knew nothing about. Their rank, however, was that of Major and they each wore a different colored cloak; one blue, one yellow, and one grey.

The applause came to a respectful decrescendo as the party took their seats. No speeches were given, or anything else that may have over exaggerated the occasion. Brandt smiled. It was certainly a welcome amount of modesty. It wasn’t too modest, either. It was just right. He turned his head back around and reengaged his conversation with the Battleship Captains across the table from him. At least, until the Fire Lords approached the center table a bit closer and began conversation with the newly arrived.

'Congratulations, Hektor Seleucus.' said one of the Captains.

'Aye, let’s hope this Rho-Theta puts up a decent fight, or else it all be for nothing.'

Their accents were thick with their Pyran.

Despite all of the Colonels, Majors, their wives and companions, and more seated around the table, everyone ceased any and all conversation for the five giant warrior-men standing at the edge of the glittering tablecloth. They stood behind the Majors. Their fine braids and ram-horn hair styles now making them feel more self conscious than proud. Their necks were struck far straighter now than when they had escorted Seleucus through the garden. Shadows eclipsed half the table.

'Thank you, Fire Lords. You are kinder than you appear.' replied Seleucus, and three of the five chuckled lightly.

'I certainly hope to broaden my name in the Golan system, and the name of my people,' continued Seleucus, looking over the vast marble garden and the enormous crowd within.

'I am not the type to throw away my men’s lives solely for that cause, however. Only if each one of their lives means something when spent, is my name and that of my homeworld made worthy of note. I have met many men who doubted the strength of my people, who have said that pleasure worlds create nothing but soft, weak, and spoiled populations. Precisely the opposite rather, our homeworld is what we have to fight for that most men don’t. We won’t die for the sole glory of death, but we will not hesitate to die for each other or a worthy cause.'

The man sitting closest to Seleucus was the one wearing the leopard pelt, and with these words his posture changed and a solid grunt of affirmation escaped his lungs.

'You speak well. You enter the room having already made your prospects happy and come with a fine level of modesty to be sure. A politician, in another life perhaps?' said the Fire Lord with the cape of raven feathers.

Brandt’s ears perked up even further. The Marines had picked up on that as well, just as he had.

'I was denied the art of politik by my elder brother, so I have studied well the art of war and hope only to better master it, now, with more tools available to me than ever before. Some commanders may not appreciate my ways,' He met the gaze of the silk cloaked Captain, 'but, my dearest and most fruitful allies, if what I have heard of the Adeptus Astartes is true, then perhaps I shall be met with positive reinforcement.'

'Upfront and forward, aggressive and honest. Indeed, our Lord Militant is no politician, Antigonus.' Some more laughter followed, but Brandt could hear the sincerity in the Captain’s voice. They liked what they were hearing, he was sure of it.

'Your armor, Lords,' spoke the red bearded Colonel, suddenly, with his eyes wide and jaw pinned open, 'There are no words I can think of….what….who?' he began to reach his fingertips toward the Fire Lord nearest him, stretching them out toward the Marine’s forearm. The Marine was the most heavily laden with jewelry of the five, a pair of rearing lions on his ivory chestplate. If Brandt were to be honest with himself, this one had the most arrogant look to him of the group. The Fire Lord saw the hand coming and spoke up quickly with a smile, still appreciative of the unspoken compliment the man had given.

'The last mortal to touch my armor was on Ryza. I believe she’s dead.'

The Colonel, almost flinching but keeping his resolve, paused his hand mid-air before pulling it away. Hie eyes, starting to glisten, betrayed his inner-world falling apart.

The one carrying the antlered helm spoke next, again to Seleucus.

'The appearance of the Corinthians interests us in return, actually.'

The table exchanged several confused looks, before the Marine continued.

'I mean, the genetic makeup of your people seems to be astounding. Nearly every Corinthian that we have seen aboard this ship has been aesthetically profound, physically fit, and from what we can tell, in very good health. I believe Corinth would make a fine recruiting world. Your people do not grow up roughly, in some savage environment killing and bleeding, killing and bleeding,' he rolled his hand around in the air indicating a continuous cycle, 'but this does not seem to have hindered their potential as warriors. If one of our cousin Chapters has no claim of your homeworld and its requisition of potential brethren, I would be shocked.'

Seleucus seemed taken aback, baffled too strong of a word. He was unsure of what to say, though, that was for certain. Who wouldn’t be? thought Brandt, unaware that his conversation with those he sat with had been lost. Fortunately for him, the Admiral and his Captains were now just as intrigued with the nearby exchange as he was.

'As far as I know, Sir, Corinth is entirely independant other than its fealty to the Imperium. As long as I have been alive, and of all the stories I have been told of our culture’s history, there have been no signs of an Astartes Chapter taking prospective neophytes from our population. Forgive me, I am not sure as to what you would call your new additions.”

There was a collective sigh of relief, of sorts, that came from the small group of Fire Lords.

'I must apologize, I’m so late to the occasion.' said a new, female voice.

Brandt could have sworn the level of noise in the dinner room had been halved. He could see faces turned up towards the center table stretching all the way to the outermost circle. He saw wives of the men flushed and furrow-browed.

The young woman made it to the final step on the opposite side of the Commanders’ table, her head coming into view first. When she stood fully by her seat, Brandt’s jaw dropped, literally, dropped. Her olive skin was as fair as could be, smooth and perfect like an untouched case of fresh cream. It made a man want nothing more than to dive in, or slide his fingers across her features forever. She wore a black lace dress that exposed her outer thighs, and lower back. Her figure was nothing short of breathtaking, stunning, and beautiful. Brandt had complimented women using all of these words in the past, but none seemed adequate now. Her legs were long, the black fabric of her dress fell softly around them exposing how shapely her hips and thighs were. The dress wrapped tight around her midsection. A thin waist, unbelievable breasts. She was decorated in ivory, pearl, and pink-hued jewelry. Her neck was slender, her hair silk-black. Normally, Brandt preferred women with brown or red hair, but this woman’s brought him to an entirely new path of opinion.

Brandt’s eyes had just then made it to her lips, as they were placed on Seleucus’s cheek. She brought a hand to the opposite side of his face, gently bringing him a bit closer to the kiss.

'Lady Arete,' said several of the men and women at the table, bowing their heads toward her.

'I almost thought you wouldn’t show.' said Seleucus as Arete sat down beside him.

'I had a bit of a headache earlier, but it seems to have faded away. Besides, I couldn’t miss this for the world, you know that.'

Her eyes flashed up, suddenly, locking straight onto Brandt's.

He wanted to look away, ashamed of being caught staring, but he couldn’t. He was stuck in place. Her eyes - they were everything he had ever dreamed about. A pirate’s final treasure. When a loving mother is reunited with her long-lost child. A warlord defeating the last bastion of his hated opposition, whispering the words, “...at last”. It was all there within them.

Finally he tore himself away, forever love struck and embarrassed beyond belief. A firm hand gripped his shoulder, the Admiral’s, who was also still gazing upon her.

“Careful, boy. I’ve got several beautiful girls in my fleet. They can traverse the Warp and reign destruction upon my enemies, but I’ve never seen one with this kind of power. Stare too long, and you’ll be gone.”

'Yes, Sir.' was all he could manage. He looked over his shoulder again at his friend who had been facing the opposite way and hadn’t seen her yet.

'Excuse me, gentlemen.' He said, standing up from the table. The Admiral and Captains nodded, saying their silent farewells.

He didn’t bother grabbing hold of Cordiul. His feet made their way across the marble and stone-work circles and steps, sluggishly dancing around the light crowd of people moving in all directions. He brushed past this person and that, striving to get behind the nearest wall.

He didn’t stop when he got there. He retraced his steps the best he could. He wanted to get back to the fountain where his mind had been at peace. That’s all he wanted. No, he shook his head. He wanted her. Beyond anything, he needed her. Lady Arete. He felt his heart rage with a passion at remembering her lips land on the Lord Militant’s cheek.

He had reached the fountain again, and stared deeply into an orange, fiery rose.

'Seleucus.' he said, almost growling the name.

'Lieutenant-Commander Brandt,' came a strong voice in reply.

Brandt spun around, placing one hand on the edge of the fountain, feeling water droplets speckling onto his knuckles. Hektor Seleucus stood before him.

'I didn't realize you were aware that I followed you out,' confessed Seleucus, “I felt the need to leave as well, at least for a moment. I saw you excuse yourself and used it as a reason to leave, saying I wished to speak with you.'

The Lord Militant was smiling. It was a beautiful smile.

'I hope you are feeling alright? Did one of the Corinthian dishes affect you wrong?'

Brandt hesitated, and managed to regain himself.

'Oh! No,' he laughed, 'not at all. In fact I have yet to eat anything, actually.'

'I understand, too much talking to do.' said Seleucus, laughing as well, but saying it in a way that indicated he truly felt the pain of over-socializing.

Brandt simply couldn’t hold it in.

'Your wife, Sir...she is, I do not mean to be offensive and if I am I apologize, believe me, but I cannot hold my tongue! She is... incredible. I have never seen such a beautiful woman. Granted I have spent most of my life on a metal-clad ship that floats through the monotony of space, but even so-'

Seleucus had brought his hand up to stop him, bowing his head slightly, his smile ever brighter.

'She is my sister.' he laughed.

'In fact, she is far from wedded! I know your name because I have heard how much the other pilots admire your skill, as well as your Captains. The Admiral told me of his talented fighter wings, and that you were the one who leads them so gracefully with every encounter. I admit, the Corinthians don’t have many fighter pilots, and I’m sure that those we do have could learn much from you. You sound like a fine gentlemen, Lieutenant. Would you like to meet her? I could arrange something.'

Brandt’s heart had never beat so hard inside his chest. He had seen missiles and las-rounds from enormous warships fly meters away from his Fury Interceptor. He had led packs of fighters above unsuspecting enemy vessels, before diving in for the kill. His heart, had never beat so hard.

'I would appreciate that beyond words, Sir.'

Seleucus lowered his head some, again, but did not make to leave. Brandt wasn’t sure if he sought further conversation or simply wished to remain outside the dinner hall.

'Your ship, is beautiful as well. I can hardly believe this is a ship made for war.' he managed to say, looking across the hanging gardens strewn across the ceiling.

'It isn’t.' Seleucus said, bluntly. 'Just because you always carry a weapon, doesn’t mean you must always use it.' he continued. 'The Corinthians are a strong people,' he said with pride, 'but we are not warmongers, nor gladiators.'

Brandt noticed the sword at Seleucus’s hip. Normally, when he met people with this mentality, their swords were elegant - thin and agile things. This sword, as fine and decorated as it was, was clearly made for hacking the enemy apart. It was broad bladed, heavy looking. Brandt acknowledged Seleucus, saying he understood.

'You seem like a man I can confide in.' He said to Brandt. 'There are some things that have been troubling me. Would you mind some discussion?' He offered.

'Not at all, Sir.'

Seleucus joined Brandt in leaning against the fountain's edge, folding his arms across his chest.

'Do you find it odd that the Catachans said they couldn’t send any forces to the Golan System?'

Brandt curled his lips.

'Honestly, I haven’t thought about it, Sir. Is it strange? It seems many who were called to help were unable.'

'Indeed,' affirmed the Lord Militant, 'but Catachan is very close to Ryza, and they provide military support all across the galaxy. General Hawkren, who represented them at the Council, said he had to consult his superiors now that he knew the situation.'

'Yes, Sir, I remember that.'

'There are maybe only a few men from Catachan with a rank higher than his own. He should have known what forces were available, and besides, why did the situation matter?” Their world is close by, and a significant forge world is in need of assistance. I was hoping to speak with General Hawkren before departing but he was nowhere to be found. Just a few days after the council, his answer was that he could offer nothing.'

'Could they be playing politics with Ryza for some reason?' Asked Brandt.

'I don’t see why they would…'

'Why is this troubling you, Sir, if you don’t mind me asking? We have an incredible array of forces with us travelling to Golan. We have Astartes with us. With the Catachans pulling out of the race, you were selected to be Lord General Militant. Is that not an honour you desired?”

Seleucus sighed.

'It is. I am honoured. It is an exciting point in my career.'

He paused for a moment, before turning towards Brandt.

'What if we arrive at Golan, and there is nothing? What if the evidence that the Fabricator General shared with us, is a fluke?”

Brandt shook his leg in consideration, repeatedly bouncing the back of his knee off part of the fountain wall as he spoke next.

'As much of an adrenaline rush as battle can be... as much as it can throw you into fame and the status of a glorified hero... my instincts always wish to avoid it. I’d be rather glad, I think, but I believe that’s natural.'

'Yes, I suppose it is.' replied Seleucus as he looked towards the floor, seemingly disappointed.

'We are sailing to a mining operation that utilizes orbital plates, correct?' asked Brandt, next.

'We are.'

'And the moons were mostly desert, arid, aside from the water covered agri-moon that feeds the system and the hive on Secundus. The Catachans are jungle fighters, and death world forces. I very much doubt that jumping onto potentially well defended, void-faring Mechanicus mining platforms is part of their forte.'

Seleucus gave Brandt a hard stare.

'You’re right,' he didn’t blink, but kept a straight face, 'They lied.'

Booming footfalls could be heard coming down the corridor adjacent to them on the other side of the marble hedge beside them.

'Sounds like we’re about to see the Fire Lords again, Sir.'

They both ceased leaning against the fountain, and stood tall, backs straight and chests out, just in time for the five masters of war to turn the corner and place themselves before the pair of men. They gave off a sense that they were in a rush, now.

'We must be on our way, Lord Militant.' said the Captain with the raven-feather cape. Their boisterous moods seemed to have subsided.

'Very well, Sirs. We will see you at Golan.' Said Seleucus, confidently.

The Captain nodded his head once, and the five Marines turned and marched down the hallway, soon disappearing as they exited the garden maze. The one carrying the antlered helm turned, the last to leave, and shouted back to Seleucus.

“May the Warp be kind, Commander.”

A long pause in the air came next, as they both continued to stare at where the Fire Lords had made their departure.

'If there is any resistance at Golan, I don’t think it will take long to crush it with men like that on our side.' said Seleucus.

'I suppose it's time we rejoin the dinner, then.' he said in haste, a moment later.

Brandt agreed, hoping to meet lady Arete sooner than later. On the walk back towards the main room he started having doubts, however, after just being caught staring at her like a fool. He wanted time to pass, so that she might forget it was him. When they returned to the banquet, Brandt immediately looked up to the center table from the distance, but the beautiful girl in her black dress was nowhere to be seen.

'It seems my sister has left us,' smiled Seleucus. 'She said she had not been feeling well, but I do hope I have not made her sad by departing from the table.'

Brandt was unsure what to do with himself now, so he made an excuse.

'I am not very hungry, Sir. I will head back to the Illustrious, to check the fighter bays before the next warp jump.'

'I will make those arrangements for you and Arete, Lieutenant. Worry not.'

With that, the Lord Militant began his ascension, and Brandt made his leave.

Chapter Two: II

Rendezvous point en route to Golan System

Onboard the Hyperion

Arete dreamed of home, every night, of flowered hills, snaking rivers and shimmering lakes. Corinth was a pretty world, a paradise, a world of summer and happiness. She missed home dearly; missed the singing of birds, the love of her family, the safety and security of familiar lands. As a child, Arete had wanted to see the stars, to set foot on a dozen worlds - As an adult, Arete wanted nothing more than home. The Imperium was monstrous, cold and unforgiving, always fighting, murdering, butchering. It was inexorable, its armies unending, its wars eternal. The vastness of it was terrifying, awe-inspiring, but Arete held no love for it. On the other hand, Corinth was soft, gentle as a mother's touch; locked in peace.

Arete thought of this, as she slipped into a dress, handmaidens attaching jewellery to her ears, hair and neck. A feast, her brother had told her, to celebrate this new undertaking, this new crusade. Hektor had smiled a smile so like her own, yet so different, so monstrously ambitious, that it made her palms sweat.

'Are you excited?' Her handmaiden, Persephone, asked. She was thirty-one, a woman more handsome than beautiful, with golden hair and a thin, arching nose. 'There'll be many a gallant officer, perhaps even Space Marines, Arete.'

When Hektor had marched his armies into the transports, many moons ago, Arete had led her own - An army of wives, sons and daughters, whores and peddlers, blade-sharpeners and kit-cleaners. There had been cooks and musicians, artists and apprentices, a dozen professions that had no place, and no need, in her brother's bloodshed. Hektor had once quipped that it was her who commanded the Corinthians, not him.

The Lady Arete sighed. Since Ryza, that strange, sulfurous world of metal, Space Marines had been the focal point of every conversation.

'There will be Space Marines,' Arete said back, smiling. A lady never forgot her courtesies, after all. 'My brother invited them.'

'Can I meet them?' Persephone beamed, momentarily a child, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

Arete laughed. 'My dear, if the Space Marines met you, they would run away.'

'Oh, shut up,' Her handmaiden glared, stepping back. 'Maybe they would take me. As a bride, I mean.'

'Space Marines are eunuchs, stupid,' Lysistrata, Arete's other handmaiden, sneered. 'They wouldn't know what to do with you.'

'They aren't eunuchs, they are angels, they have wings and everything,' Persephone shot back, glaring. 'Amyntas told me so.'

'Amyntas? There are a hundred Amyntases aboard the Hyperion, Persephone, it was the name of the year,' Lysistrata's grin was a bold thing. She wasn't called the Queen-o'-Swords for nothing; indeed, she favoured a man's garb, and it favoured her long, ungainly limbs. Her eyes, brown and soft, were her prettiest features. 'Besides, whatever a man says when he's between your legs is a lie. He's just trying to make you happy.'

Persephone gasped, slapping Lysistrata across the arm, harder than she had intended. 'How dare you!'

Lysistrata's eyes flashed. 'How many Amyntases have been there, then? Two, three, a dozen?'

Arete rolled her eyes. 'Enough,' She purred, raising a hand. 'My head hurts -' Indeed, her temples had been hammering, at a drummer's pace, all day. ' -Leave me, now. Go and enjoy the feast.'

Lysistrata and Persephone bowed their heads and turned, bunching the hems of their skirts in their painted hands, and shuffled away. As they left, Arete looked over her shoulder, and called out - 'Oh, and stay away from the Space Marines, Persephone. My brother needs them!'

When they were gone, Arete sagged in her seat, screwing her eyes shut.

The night before, her dream of Corinth had not been peaceful. The fields were bestrewn with dead, the trees hewed into splinters, the skies black and heavy with ash. Arete was alone, wearing a magnificent breastplate, a skirt of leather and carrying a shattered sword. Blood was smeared over her hands, into her long, scorched hair; it was sticky between her feet, thick in her mouth, running from her nostrils, eyes and ears. Her skin, usually golden and shining, was red and black.

Arete gagged, tried to drop her broken blade, and found it locked in place. On and on she walked, through familiar fields, along narrow, corpse-choked ravines, besides a lake that bubbled and hissed. And then she saw it, a thing of bronze, tall and thin and clawed, standing in the distance. It carried a bundle of heads - One, huge and bearded and fierce, lips pried apart in a silent, anguished cry; another thin and gaunt, disfigured by three deep, gruesome gashes, and the last, beautiful even in death, long, dark hair flowing from its scalp, golden eyes staring onwards, dull and blank - Arete stifled a cry.

'Brother,' She whispered, heavy with dread and sadness. 'No.'

And then, from the darkness, they came. Giants both, one of sunlight and vitality, the other of darkness and rage. The first, carrying a flaming sword in flaming hands, stepped past Arete without acknowledging her, his head haloed with flickering, crackling light. The second, a dreadful beast of bone and skin, carried an axe, wickedly sharp. Shadows dripped from it, pooling at it's feet, but when this monster stopped and reached a hand out, to Arete, it's touch was gentle, surprisingly warm.

'You can save them,' It said, and when it spoke, the earth shook beneath her feet. 'Look within, look without. Open your soul and open your eyes.'

And she did.

Arete had woken, lathered in sweat, naked and panting. Blood had crusted on her nostrils, and on the palms of her hands, where her fingernails had dug deep.

Now, hours later, Arete studied the palms of her hands, rubbing them, pondering on the dream. It was a nightmare, she told herself, nothing more. A bad dream, a terrible dream. Perhaps imbued by the warp, perhaps not. But, no matter the reason, it was a dream.

'Dreams can't hurt me,' She whispered, and then, after a moment of doubt, 'Can they?'

As a child, Arete had once dreamed of a cousin's, strong and handsome Kleon, death. She had confided in her mother, who had always been kind, soft-worded, quick to smile and quicker to laugh. She had looked at her daughter, all of six, sweet and innocent, and shook her head.

A week later, Kleon had been found dead, his throat cut by brigands, raped and gutted for his purse of gold. Dreams could hurt, and worse, they could kill. Her mother had been horrified, and after confiding in Arete and Hektor's father, had come to an agreement. Arete would be a way, to the Sighted Sisterhood, away from the prying eyes of the Imperium.

'Oh, Kleon,' She said, wrapping a lock of hair around one slender finger. 'We could have saved you.'

She sat there for a long time, her face set in stone, her lips a tight, sad line.

After an hour or so, a knock came on her door.

'Enter,' She called, standing from her stool.

A Corinthian, wearing a snow-white cloak and an enameled chest-plate, entered. He was tall, his hair bound into a topknot, accentuating hard, stern features. One hand, gloved in leather and fur, rested on the hilt of a machaira.

'My Lady,' He said, bowing. 'You are late.'

'Machanidas, always so formal, so grim,' She said, fastening a bronze sheath to her hip. A hilt of bone, scrimshawed with harpies and hydras and eyes, poked out. 'Did my brother send you?'

'No,' Machanidas admitted, leaning against a marbled pillar. 'Your absence hasn't gone unnoticed, however. A lady should never be late. It's unwomanly.'

'Unwomanly?' Arete guffawed, allowing Machanidas to take her arm. 'A lady is always late, cousin, and if you opened those eyes of yours, you would see as much.'

She felt her cousin stiffen. 'Were I your brother-'

'You're not,' She interrupted, scathingly. 'And be thankful of that. Were I your sister, I'd knock some sense into your thick skull,' She looked up at him, dark eyes sparkling. They were marching along an hallway, now, past statues and fountains. 'How do I look?'

'Wondrous,' Machanidas grunted, through gritted teeth. 'You are truly beautiful.'

'Oh, I am, am I?' They turned into an arched hallway, and from up ahead, voices talking and laughing and singing, drifted towards them. 'What does your wife think of that?'

'She thinks you are, too,' Machanidas smiled, shaking his head. 'Everyone thinks so.'

'So I keep hearing,' Arete replied, licking her lips. 'And your daughters? Are they well?' Machanidas nodded, sniffing. The air was full of scents. 'They should visit me more often, Machanidas. Hektor keeps me locked away with Lysistrata and Persephone - And their idea of fun and games does not correspond with mine,' She laughed, now, not unhappily. 'Persephone seduces or allows herself to be seduced, the airhead, and Lysistrata came to me not a week ago, bloody and bruised.'

'Why?' Machanidas asked, arching a brow.

'She had been fighting with one of Leucon's men,' She said, sighing. 'And she won. If my brother had more Lysistratas and less Amyntases, his campaigns would go far quicker.'

'A wolf in sheep's clothing, that one,' Machanidas said, tutting. 'She is a rascal if I've ever seen one, and I have seen you, cousin.'

'Be quiet,' She hissed, as they entered the feasting hall. She saw many familiar faces, bronze skinned and black haired, some sporting beards, others mustaches; some clean-shaven. There were more that she did not recognise - One big brute, a spider tattooed over his cheek and eye, grinned at her, his teeth golden. She shuddered, gripped her cousin's arm tighter, and followed his lead.

Her brother's table was at the centre of the giant chamber; and her brother, handsome and regal, was seated with his Colonels, Majors and their wives and paramours.

'I must make myself scarce,' Machanidas whispered, into her ear, as he disengaged from Arete. 'There's no place for me with your brother, not tonight.'

The Space Marines, she decided, were not angels. Their armour was marvelous, a fortune of emeralds, diamonds, gold and amethysts; glinting and shimmering in the artificial sunlight, groaning and whirring with every movement, but their faces, though broad and showing signs of gigantism, were decidedly human.

She took her eyes from them, reaching her brother's table, kissing Hektor on the cheek and apologising. She was greeted and greeted in turn, eyes drifting across the faces. They all blurred together; her headache was returning, a heightening crescendo, throbbing at her temples. Her brother excused himself, and she cursed him beneath her breath - His feast and he was leaving? That improper, ill-mannered, stupid boy.

'Are you really following someone, brother?' She muttered, beneath her breath, as she chewed a piece of poultry.

Tiades, Shipmaster of the Hyperion, came and took her brother's seat, after a while. He was a big man, wide as a bear, with a shaggy, grey beard and warm, smiling eyes.

'Little daughter,' He said, as he sat, using the Corinthian term of affection for a young girl. 'You look beautiful,' He smiled, taking Arete's hand and giving it a squeeze. 'Were I younger,' He flashed a grin, some of his teeth were missing, and Arete blushed slightly.

'Were you younger, I would run a hundred miles, lest you carry me off,' She laughed, and he did too, a great, throaty chuckle that elicited smiles.

'I wasn't so ugly in my youth, Lady,' Tiades said, drinking from Hektor's golden chalice. This was his ship, he took what he wanted, when he wanted, where he wanted. No-one so much as batted an eyelash at him. 'And I had two arms, believe it or not, not this useless stump,' He tapped the metal casing around his severed elbow.

'Two?' Arete asked, feigning shock, holding an hand over her mouth. 'Mother used to say that I was born a boy. Is it the same thing?'

Everyone around the table laughed.

Tiades leaned in close. 'I've been sitting with Commodore Nymeros,' He whispered, his breath washing over Arete. It stank of salt, meat and wine. 'He's handsome, and a gentleman to the core. Will you meet him, Lady? He's as eager as a hound, he is.'

Arete pursed her painted lips. 'Not right now, Tiades,' She said, after a moment. She found Nymeros, and as handsome as he was, with his dark skin and darker hair, the way he looked at her made Arete feel uncomfortable. 'My brother will arrange a private dinner between the three of us.'

The Shipmaster stood, kissing her gently on the forehead, and thanked her. The way he looked, with those watery eyes, made Arete feel a pang of guilt. He shambled off, stopping at several tables, talking and laughing with their occupants. In her temples, the pain had started to intensify once again, coming and going, ebbing and flowing.

She dropped her fork and it chinked against a plate, before clattering to the table. She reached for it-

'Are you ill?' A voice said, deep and gravelly. She turned her head, and locked eyes with one of the Space Marines. His hair was grey, his eyes were sharp and gold, and a tattoo of a rearing stag, antlered magnificently, was inked onto his left cheek. 'My Lady, are you ill?'

'A little,' She said, struggling to get her words out. 'It is my head, Lord, it has pained me since we exited from the Warp.'

'I'm no lord, girl,' The Marine growled, and Arete found herself pressing away. 'You are barely eating. Why?'

'Lord, I-'

'I am not a lord,' Gold-eyes sniffed. The stag pranced with every word. 'My flesh-father was a warrior and my mother was his bed-warmer. Your brother is a lord, many of my brethren are lords, but I am not. Your blood is richer than mine.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean-' Arete's words died in her throat. Something stabbed in her head, twisting a poisoned blade into her brain, causing her to drop her glass of wine. The tablecloth began to turn red, spreading out across the surface. She stood, everyone's eyes turned on her, including the Fire Lord's. 'I'm sorry, I must be excused.'

She forced herself not to run, walking brusquely from the feasting hall, wincing with each step. The pain was nigh-on unbearable, she needed to find somewhere quiet, somewhere peaceful.

Voices called out to her from behind, but as soon as Arete was out of the hall, she gathered her skirts up in her hands and ran, footsteps echoing and clattering off of the marbled floor. Blood was already running from her nose, reddening her lips more, much to her annoyance.

Her destination was the Grand Orrery. It took her ten minutes of running, shuffling and walking, but when Arete arrived, she felt calm at last. The doors were unguarded, unusually, but Arete disregarded that - The Hyperion was quiet, tonight. Men were busy eating, drinking, fugging and fighting.

She pushed into the doors and breathed. The Grand Orrery was deep inside the vessel - Called the Heart Chamber by some, the Wayward Home by others, the Chamber of Pools by more - A shrine to distant, beautiful Corinth.

The centre of the chamber was Corinth's sun, Pollonia, painted gold and studded with emeralds, rubies and diamonds. Water flowed from its platform, a dozen frothing waterfalls, hammering into wide, crescent-shaped pools at the base; each filled with hundreds of fish, all brought from home. Four planets revolved around Pollonia - Red, rocky Pallene, ingrained with chips of obsidian, like a thousand black eyes; lofty Psamathe, the World of a Thousand Rivers, lifeless Actor, black and poisoned, a bitter and jealous twin to beautiful, shining Corinth; the prettiest orb present, always pointing the way home - Speckled with jade and carnelian and aventurine, lit from within by dozens of candles. No matter where the Hyperion was, Corinth would be closest to home, a compass of sorts.

She walked towards the nearest pool, crouched down on the edge, and dragged her fingers through the water. Fish nibbled at her nails, and she giggled, watching as a drop of blood fell from her nose.

Only then did Lady Arete notice the body.

It was a Corinthian, laying nearby, one arm draped into the water - Wrapped in a scarlet robe. It obscured the man's head like a bloody halo.

Arete stood, heart hammering in cohesion with her head, and yanked her bone-hilt dagger free.

Something stirred behind her, a disturbance in the shadows.

She spun, holding the dagger before her in both hands, the bronze tip glinting thirstily. 'Show yourself,' She demanded, trying to remain calm. 'Who goes there?'

'Put that needle down,' The shadow rasped. 'Before you have an accident.'

She was suddenly aware of the warmth; it was blisteringly hot, where the Grand Orrery was usually cool, relaxing.

A monster stepped from the darkness. It was a giant, with skin the colour of coal; brows and hair grey, like ash. Raised ridges of scar tissue, pink and wet, covered the beast's front. It had bright eyes, soft eyes, brown and welcoming, at odds with the monster's otherwise ghastly appearance. When it breathed, embers flushed forth from the giant's nostrils and mouth. He smelt of unguents and sacramental oils, incense and flowers, but beneath it all, harsh and tangy, fire and blood.

Deftly, the giant reached out, took Arete's knife, and sent it skittering across the floor.

'Lady Arete,' Said a second voice, soft and lyrical where the first was rasping and agonised. 'You must excuse my brother. Mempricius means you no harm.'

Another giant marched from the shadows, this time from her left. He was beautiful, straight-nosed, black-haired, with crow's-feet around his hard, flinty eyes and laugh-lines around his mouth. Where the first was black, this one was white, and bore himself with pride and nobility; at odds with Mempricius' monstrous limp. He was angelic where the others were barbaric.

'Space Marines,' She said stupidly. 'You are Space Marines.'

'Her eyes work,' Smiled the second, crouching before her. 'I am Kamber,' He said, reaching out and tilting Arete's head upwards with one giant, calloused paw. 'Of the Fire Lords.'

'How did you move so quietly?' She blurted out, dumbfounded. They were so big.

'Mempricius and I have our ways,' Kamber said, looking at his brother. 'As do you.'

'It is true, then,' Mempricius grumbled, circling. Veins, glowing hotly, pressed against the flesh of his calves, thighs and arms. A robe of feathers shuffled around his shoulders. 'She is one of us.'

'One of you?' Arete asked, stumbling from Kamber's grip. 'I am no warrior, Space Marines.'

Both of them laughed.

'Not a warrior of blades and bolters,' Kamber cooed, as he stood. 'One of the mind.'

'You are a witch,' Mempricius said, opening and closing his hands. 'Our brothers decry us as heathens and consorts of the Warp.'

'Your brother hides you,' This from Kamber. 'Very brave.'

'Very foolish,' Wheezed Mempricius. 'Is she beautiful?'

'She is unearthly,' Kamber said. 'And such potential.'

'Then it was her?'

'It was her that we sensed, brother,' Kamber affirmed.

Arete was panicking, now. She glanced at the body, nearby, and then at her blade, laying discarded on the floor. 'You killed him.'

'I did no such thing,' Kamber replied, calm despite the accusation. His smile was unwavering. 'I used him. A flesh-puppet. He will awaken.'

'What do you want with me?' She all but screamed. Where were the guards? Please, Hektor, send someone. Please, please, please.

Mempricius looked at his pale-skinned brother. 'I suppose we should kill you, you are unclean, unbound. You are a danger,' Tears began to flow from Arete's eyes, now. 'But my brother has other ideas.'

'And we could. With a thought, I could snuff your life out,' Kamber laughed. 'But rest easy, Lady Arete. Fate has other intentions for you, we have other intentions. We want to teach you.'

Chapter 2: III

On Ryza. Two weeks prior

‘No.’

The word had little resonance to it. It did not echo throughout the large chamber. Its dead weight crushed all other sounds. At some point the shuffling uniforms, the clatter of medals bumping into each other, the clipping of closing data slates, and styluses sliding into their resting spots broke the silence.

The Fabricator-General, disenchanted, managed to gather himself and officially conclude the meeting.

‘That is all for now, everyone. A host of adepts will be outside to greet those who have just recently arrived and show you to your faction’s accommodations here in the habitation area of my forge. Everyone who has agreed to lend aid will also be given all of the necessary preparation information by day’s end. Thank you for your time and support of Ryza’s concerns and endeavours.’

The audience began standing, and walking down the tiers of steps toward the floor. A slow crescendo of conversational volume began. The multitude of servo-skulls now moved through the air at a faster pace, now finished with their recordings. Some of them left through veiled holes lining the high points of the chamber’s walls. Their crimson optic-lights revealed hidden escape routes, lighting up the edges of these small tunnels as they swam into them, disappearing.

Officers pushed back their large, heavy thrones, shaking the hands of those who had been sitting nearest to them. Several of them made their way around the length of the table to set up further, more private meetings with those they would be working with, or simply for the chance to create a greater camaraderie with the other leaders of the investigatory force. As they did so, they had to be careful when making their way around, and practically under, the towering, armored Space Marines who were now moving to rejoin their respective groups with thunderous footsteps.

The Fabricator-General had barely moved. He stood with his little projector wand, still extended but pointed low toward the floor; same as his gaze. At the drop of Akillian’s single-word decision, the Fabricator-General’s ebullient nature seemed to float away from him like a soul attaining apotheosis, no longer needing its physical husk.

Ludus Ghral, the Princeps-Majoris, still stood firmly by his side. Though his posture remained strong, certain points of his facial structure seemed concerned for his long-term colleague. One could safely say it gave away the fact that these two were not just peers, but friends.

‘Not exactly what I had hoped for, Ludus.’ He said quietly, turning to the Princeps.

Ghral shrugged in his heavy, studded plate.

‘The higher you set your ideals, the more room there is for disappointment.’

‘I am disappointed, that out of five Astartes Chapters, only one of them showed up and agreed to help.’ retorted the Fabricator-General.

‘Both Garr and the Fire Lords have agreed to lend their mighty hands, Lord.’ continued Ghral, who had just noticed the Commodore, Nymeros, still sitting patiently at his place along the table’s edge as if deep in thought.

One of the Fabricator-General’s hands waved quickly through the air, dismissing the fact, the rest folding back beneath his cloak.

‘Garr has helped me more than once, yes, he is a longstanding ally. However, my needs have never been a priority for his clan of Iron Hands. He always answers in such a manner - that he will help but to some undefinable degree. Delayed. Who knows for how long?’

He circled around, almost in place, glancing over the groups as they continued their departure from the large chamber.

‘The Fire Lords are in debt to us. They would not have come otherwise.’

Ghral nodded and grunted, indicating he saw that to be true.

‘And the Catachans - they are practically our neighbors! How is it possible the Munitorum has not already sanctioned a force of them for our cause?’ Asked the Fabricator General.

In thought, one of his many long, golden fingers reached up to a delicate head-framing piece that represented a chin.

Ghral noticed the Commodore finally take a deep breath, straighten his jacket with the palms of his hands and stand up, making ready to leave. Beyond him, the imposing, phantom-like figure of the Executioners Chapter Master exited through the chamber doors and into the Grand Hall, light reflecting off of the coronet on his head but little else. His band of feral warriors followed in his wake.

‘I will never see him again in my life. I must admit though, I am curious as to why he made his decision.’ said Ghral.

The Fabricator-General’s jovial nature suddenly returned.

‘Perhaps, it is not too late!’

He was already scurrying across the long, hot room.

---


The Executioners had reached the intersection of the Hall, where they had first ran into the Fire Lords not long before. Now, the very spot was filled with chattering mortals. The crowd began to thin and separate, led in different directions by their Ryzan hosts.

The tech adept that had led them from the orbital station to the Fabricator-General’s Forge was waiting for them, dutifully. He raised his gray-fleshed face, which tugged at some of the shorter cable hoses attached to his neck and throat.

‘You travelled far compared to most of our other guests, Lords, will you be staying?’ asked the adept, bowing his head again, straining the cables in the opposite direction now.

Grimir answered for the group.

‘We will be departing immediately, of course.’

‘Very well, I shall-’

A shrill voice erupted from behind them, hurried, interrupting the adept. It was the Fabricator-General.

‘Lord Akillian! Please, wait! I implore you to stay a bit longer.’

The one in black armor, leered at him with his skull-helm. In it, it was all he ever did.

‘I presume what you implore, is for us to reconsider.’ said the Lord Speaker of the Dead.

The Fabricator-General hesitated, anxiously turning his eight-eyed, metal head back and forth between the Chaplain and the Chapter Master. He found it an odd thing that he had addressed Lord Akillian, and yet, the other had responded. He wished to speak with the one who actually made the decision not to go to Golan. His advanced brain worked arduously for a moment, trying to calculate a way to get Akillian to talk, and not his right-hand.

The Chapter Master’s emotionless metal mask stared blankly at him. Rectangular eye slits with nothing but blackness behind them. The Fabricator-General dealt with augmented men and women every day. Many of them had no flesh left to their faces, either. They should have showed less emotion than this peculiar individual, but somehow, even their machine augmentations seemed to provide more insight to their thoughts than this devious creation of a face. He began to doubt if anyone was actually behind the mask, seeing nothing but a hollow, giant suit of armor and cloak. He may have believed this, if the being inside hadn’t spoken earlier.

The High-Executioner was bigger than his comrades. At least in his armor, he was both taller and broader than any of them. Rather than having the Chapter emblem painted on, he had a physical representation of it strapped to his left shoulder pauldron with large criss-crossing chains. Two battle axes were bound tightly against a large slab of Stygian Redwood, carved into the shape of the shield. The dense wood held only a faint shade of red, but got the point across all the same.

To compensate for balance, his right shoulder plate was covered in large, blunted molecular bonding studs, and heavy-looking skulls dipped in some dark metal alloy dangled from its edge. A large black cloak was draped over the rest of him, falling from beneath his shoulder pauldrons and running over his chest and neck. It concealed everything, all the way down to the king’s feet, revealing no shapes or points to guess where his weapons or hands may have been.

The Fabricator-General only then realized that the Fire Lords’ leadership, those invited to sit at the table and have a hand in the council, had complied with his request to come unarmed. These warriors had not, in the slightest, obeyed that request. Apparently no one who had seen them prior to the meeting had been able, or willing, to do anything about it. He did not blame them.

‘I sent one of my finest emissaries all the way to your homeworlds, to your great fortress in the void. You came all this way. Records indicate that your Chapter has not been committed to any major engagements for more than half a century. Is it too much to ask for at least a more elaborate reasoning to your decision?’

Absolutius Akillian inclined his posture towards Grimir, giving a single nod. The Death Speaker nodded back, looked at the Fabricator-General one last time, then turned and left, taking the other Executioners with him.

The king spoke.

What is your name, Fabricator-General? I admit, it has never been revealed to me.’

‘My apologies, Lord Akillian. My designation is Beta Nine One Four Phi Five Two Xi Three Three Zero Gamma Kander Fi-’.

The High-Executioner revealed one of his hands. He brought it up, palm forward to stop the senior Magos from speaking further.

‘Fabricator-General it is.’ Said Akillian.

‘Very well, as you prefer,’ accepted the Fabricator-General, ‘There is no chance of changing your mind, then?’

Praetorian Guards had appeared as if out of nowhere. Akillian noticed them practically lining the walls in every direction. Ghral, the Princeps Majoris, stepped out into the Hall from the council chamber, arms in their ever-crossed position.

‘I fail to see why you need my Executioners.’

Something beneath the Magos’ robes tinkered and tapped.

‘As I mentioned earlier. The Golan mining operation is essential to our military production here on Ryza. It is of utmost importance that it continues to operate in capable, faithful hands. Beyond that, we are dealing with a traitor. That is not something I am used to seeing taken lightly. Throne knows it is our primary function to expel and prevent any person or group from aiding the Great Enemy.’ he paused, 'The betrayers.’

He formed a many-fingered fist from one of his golden hands, shaking it in the air before Akillian.

‘Make no mistake about it. You are fortunate I have so much patience.’ said Absolutius, ‘You cannot even confirm that there are traitors in this system you speak of.’

The Fabricator-General turned to the side, head low, pressing fingers together from multiple hands. He began to pace, slowly.

‘Lord Akillian, Rho-Theta XVII…’ he shook his head now, solemn, not sure what to say, ‘If something is wrong with the Golan system, then something is very, very wrong in the Golan system. This is not a threat that I can simply wave off.’

‘Even still, you have assembled more than enough force to utterly crush any resistance there into oblivion. Our presence would only add to the already ostentatious display. It feels like I was called here to undertake an errand, not a crisis, not a war, not something that will reaffirm our existence. Waltzing around a few arid moons and orbital refinery stations, barely even knowing what it is that we are seeking is not what the Executioners do, Fabricator-General. We slaughter armies.’

They looked at each other in silence again.

Before the Fabricator-General could think of anything else to say, the High-Executioner’s back was already to him, quickly gaining distance.

Chapter 2: IV

On board Night Hag

En route to Stygian-Aquilon

A fist, gloved in metallic-blue power armor, hit home. The other Marine’s backside slammed into the wall behind him with the distinctive ring of ceramite chafing steel. Their boots hammered the floor as each tried to get the best footing. Uppercuts and knee strikes - clumsy fighting for Astartes.

They were beating each other senseless. So much had been pent up. Here, in a small circular space serving as the connection point between two passageways of an enormous ship, is where a petty and minor disagreement had spilled over the edge. The place they brawled was brightly lit compared to the passages it connected. The fluorescent light above the two Executioners shone harshly off the edges of their suits as they swung, blocked, struck, and dodged.

Their names were Erol and Bharun.

The first and last major war they had been in was Hassla against the Orks there. Ironic that, without a new enemy to fight for so long, they too had fallen to fighting each other instead.

The clang of power armor cuffing power armor flew down the cold corridor hitting Conric’s bristling ears. Three of his brothers, all members of his squad, followed him.

Yells and grunts echoed somewhat, bouncing off the metal innards of Night Hag. This was the Executioner’s main Battle Barge, their flagship, and it was now fully submerged in the Warp as it travelled home from Ryza. The exorbitant crone sailed smoothly, undaunted by the chaotic tides that were thrown against her hull.

The Strike Cruisers Bootscraper and Gallows Glare, her powerful escorts, travelled within the large wake she left in the waves behind her.

Akillian’s First Company was the only one aboard the Night Hag, but its thousands of mortal crew and passengers kept it far from feeling desolate. Bootscraper had remained in the hands of Eirgrud and the Fifth Company. Gallows Glare, was the Eighth’s.

Though some of the Executioners within these three vessels agreed with Akillian’s decision, not one of them was happy to be going home without the good fight they were looking for. Especially the younger ones.

The Executioner to Conric’s left was Tevfik. His armor’s right shoulder guard had been re-shaped into the visage of a giant skull. Plumes of parchment with oaths and deeds scribbled down their lengths spilled from the mouth and eye sockets. He was a grim individual, bleak to the bone. He had come to find Conric, to let him know of the scuffle that had broken out between Bharun and Erol.

Röda was to his right. Both he and Tevfik were slightly taller than Conric. Röda was ever-silent, only speaking when necessary. His armor was styled in such a way that it appeared drenched in blood. The twin battle axes of the Chapter symbol were emblazoned large over his reddened chestplate. Two sets of billhooks hung from his waistline. His hands were balled into fists.

Behind him, was Savvas. His name meant war in their culture’s tongue, Dünyalar Konuşmak, and he embodied it perfectly. Of the four of them, he was the oldest. Tevfik and Röda had been inducted during the same period in the Chapter’s history as Conric.

‘I almost felt the need to put a leash on those two before we stepped foot on Ryza,’ started Conric, ‘Now, there is no question.’

‘The altercation with the Fire Lords and returning to Stygia-Aquilon, rather than sailing to war, were the final nudges, I’m sure.’ replied Savvas as they walked.

‘Bharun’s embarrassment,’ suggested Tevfik, ‘he takes his anger out on the child, since he can do no such thing to the Lord Speaker of the Dead.’

‘He was a fool to strike at the Fire Lord anyway. We could have killed the Champion, but only because he would have been busy slicing Bharun in half.' concluded Conric.

Erol, his face bleeding, got a good angle in and went wild with the opening. A dozen follow up strikes went into Bharun’s front before he lashed out another of his own. Connecting directly with Erol’s knuckles, the punch came with a sickening crack of the wrists. They cared not for the dim figures approaching, until the Red One stepped between them. He put a hand on each of their their chests and firmly parted them. When Erol tried to shove Röda’s arm aside to get at Bharun once more, the older Executioner’s hand immediately went from Erol’s chest, to his throat.

Through clenched vocal chords, practically gagging, Erol tried to speak.

‘My Honor… for my honor!’

‘There is no honor in this.’ said Savvas bluntly.

‘Both of them, Röda,’ ordered Conric, and the Red One’s right hand moved from Bharun’s chest to his throat, as well. Throwing their backs against the walls, he held them both at arms length. Erol’s face was beginning to lose color. His hands were clasped onto Röda’s forearm.

‘The two of you are anything but invincible. The only reason you were elevated to the Ilk Kardeşlik is because the Chapter was lacking in number. You were placed within the Enjur Emektar specifically, because you both had the kind of talent needed for it.’ Said Conric.

His face twisted into a visage of torcherous violence.

‘I need you improving those talents, not wasting them by killing each other over nothing! Imbeciles!’

He slapped Röda on the shoulder guard, who then released both of the Marines. They fell to the floor in a heap. Bharun spoke first, rubbing his throat as he got back to his feet.

‘It won’t happen again, Cavus.’

Erol coughed.

‘Why aren’t we headed to Golan?’ he asked.

Conric looked over Erol for a moment, as he gathered his answer. Erol was the newest and youngest member of the the squad, and Bharun was the second in both of those aspects. During the Hassla campaign Erol had been nothing short of ruthless in his charges and miraculously came out alive from the most daring assaults time and time again over the ten year period. He achieved the first kill of his squad in Third Company so often during engagements that, once a veteran of the campaign, he was chosen for one of the newly needed Vanguard positions of the First.

To represent his renown for diving into the enemy and obtaining first blood, he had his serfs paint dozens of bloody hand prints over the front of his armor, from his greaves to his faceplate. In hindsight, Conric realized It could have been their actual blood, rather than paint. He wasn’t sure.

One could easily see the effects of so much reckless charging. Erol’s face was permanently scrunched, thanks to multiple blows from Ork Nobles. His nose was practically sideways, his eyes looked half-shut, one more so than the other. His jaw was crooked. His shaved head had spots of darkened, marred skin. Scar tissue lay in vulgar display over his cheeks, drawn by the clawing of Greenskins.

‘That mission wasn’t for us, Erol. It would have only angered you further. The likelihood of you getting to swing your blade there once was dismal at best. The time we would spend in the Golan system is time we can spend seeking the next possibility and time we can spend better preparing ourselves.’ explained Conric.

‘Finding the right fight for us...’ Savvas scoffed, ‘How cowardly. I can’t say I prefer this change.’

‘Hassla was a decade, and we have done nothing but hone our skills for decades since. How much more can we attain in the Darkenvault?’ asked Bharun.

‘Can you beat me yet?’ replied Conric without pause or hesitation.

Bharun, did pause.

‘No, Cavus. You will always have some two centuries on me, brother, and have seen several campaigns. How could I ever beat you?’ he said after a moment of thinking.

‘A good point?’ said Tevfik, beginning to raise his shoulders into a shrug. ‘I can’t say I see myself further mastering the art of war without facing a new enemy, either.’

Conric chuckled menacingly.

‘You will never beat me, Bharun, but that’s the point. That is why you make it your goal. The sooner you accustom yourself to facing the impossible, the better.’ he said, ‘And Tevfik, I am disappointed to hear you utter such foolishness.’

Erol found his voice again.

‘If we had gone to Golan we could have simply flown in faster, ahead of the rest, gotten our hands on the traitors first.’

‘You haven’t been paying attention.’ rumbled Conric.

Savvas made a grunt of agreement beside him.

‘The Fabricator-General was just using the problem as an opportunity to show off to his allies, Erol. There is no true threat in that system. The more power and influence Ryza appears to have, the more diligent the Imperium will be in keeping it a secured location.’ he explained.

Both of the young Vanguard members were back on their feet now.

‘If you want to fight so badly, you can spar with me instead.’ said Conric, ‘That way, no one accidentally ends up dead. Go on. To the arena.’ he waved a hand toward the respective corridor. The small group of Executioners followed their Cavus without another word. Erol and Bharun only dared a single grimace toward each other, and that was all.

Chapter Three: I

Enroute to Golan

I remember the days before Golan with painful clarity. I remember the Corinthian feast, the Witch-Princess, and I remember the training. Days upon days of soul-shattering, body-breaking training. Cooperation between the Companies was common; Gaelan's Fourth and Brennus' First training alongside us. I caught glimpses of Caderyn in these days, blinding Illuminos in hand, defeating countless challengers. Until me.

We had watched him, the assembled Companies, best Gaelan the Gold. The Captain was talented, his twin-blades striking out like vipers, but ultimately, Caderyn was better. They danced around one another, testing their defences, before Caderyn plunged into Gaelan's guard and scored a deep, squirting slice through the Captain's thigh. First-blood, Brennus announced, and the crowd cheered. Caderyn did not smile, he did not acknowledge his victory, merely stepped back and thrust his blade into the sand. Half-naked, lathered in sweat, his tattoos shining darkly - He was magnificent.

'Is there anyone else?' He asked, boredom evident, after the cheers subsided.

'Swordsman,' Kaer called, from besides me. His arm was sleeved in a sac of amniotic fluids; the flesh beneath had began to rot. The arm had not taken to his bionic hand, the veins thick and black, like leaches. 'Aeron will take up the challenge!'

For a moment, I failed to comprehend what he had said. And then, arms were pushing me forwards, into the makeshift arena. Caderyn examined me like a wolf, eyes narrowed and teeth bared, and spat.

'Do you want this?' He whispered, having stepped closer. I noticed, dimly, that his breath reeked of ash and raw meat. 'I will think no less of you, Brother-Sergeant, if you turn away.'

I grinned. 'A weapon,' I shouted, turning. I lifted my hands. 'Would you have me face Caderyn unarmed?'

'Of course!' Someone jeered. I laughed and shook my head.

'No weapon,' Caderyn said, gruffly, from besides me. 'No duel.'

'You shall have mine,' I heard, and turned. Brennus was standing there, wearing his war-plate, a scorched, ragged pelt wrapped around his shoulders. He dwarfed me, dwarfed Caderyn, both in size and personality. He was gargantuan.

From over his shoulder, he drew his blade, Soluis. It was beautiful, six-hands long, glittering harshly in the light. The pommel was lacquered bone, inscribed with the names of the blade's previous owners - All the way back to Ancient Locrinus, our Founder. It was older, still, having been forged on icy Inwit. When activated, it glowed a cruel blue, a sharp contrast to Caderyn's flaming Illuminos. Ice and fire, I thought.

'A fine blade, my lord,' I said, reverently. 'But I cannot-'

'Oh, you can,' Brennus interrupted. The First Captain smiled. He was missing teeth, and others were plated gold. 'And you will.'

'I am not worthy,' I admitted.

'Look around, Stormcrow,' Brennus argued. 'Who else offers their arms? No-one. They are afraid - Afraid that Caderyn and his candlestick will beat you, and they too shall be shamed, if you carry their blade,' He snorted derisively. 'Bugger them. Either you take Soluis, Aeron, or you forfeit. What would be worse?'

I pondered the thought, cursed myself for not having my own weapons, and took Soluis. The crowd roared, blood drummed in my ears, and Caderyn smirked. That, of all things, terrified me.

Brennus rejoined the ranks, and in that tremendous voice of his, announced - 'Begin.'

***

Arete reclined, lazily tracing patterns in the pool, eyes unblinking. She had confined herself to the gardens, posting guardsmen at the doors, and ordering that no-one - Be they officer, soldier or courtesan, should be permitted entrance. Birdsong echoed around her, the chirping of bugs, the susurrus of the ornamental waterfalls. Her encounter with the Fire Lords had been startling, horrifying. Their grumbling voices, their sizes, their brutal honesty - It haunted Arete, like no phantom ever could.

She had barely eaten or slept, since. She had shook and wept aplenty, locked away in her chambers, in the dark, hair messy, eyes darkened with tiredness. Witch, witch, witch.

'Sister,' A voice said. Arete leapt to her feet, clutching her blade in one shaky hand.

Her brother raised his hands. 'Easy, now,' He purred. He wore a scarlet cloak over white robes. Blood on snow. 'Put the blade down.'

Slowly, Arete did. 'Hektor,' She stammered. 'I order-'

'My ship,' Hektor blurted out. 'I go where I want, regardless of orders,' He sat down on the grass, indicating that Arete should do the same. 'Your encounter with the Astartes,' Hektor said, slowly. He was angry, Arete noticed. He wasn't looking at her, but rather over her shoulder, at the fruit trees. His eyes looked guilty and his hands were trembling. 'Tell me everything.'

***

Caderyn flew at me, Illuminos crackling in his hands, teeth bared. There was no anger in his eyes, no emotion, just cold, clinical determination. I backpedaled, Soluis thrumming to life, and met the strike.

There was a strange noise, a warbling, as the blades met. Their energy fields overlapped, I felt the vibrations run along my arm, and shimmered. Light blossomed, a kaleidoscope of colours, wavering like oil on water, and I turned the attack aside. Caderyn regained his footing before I could press my advantage, rotating on his heel, and came back at me. He was unrelenting, hammering Illuminos at Soluis, and I realised then, as I retreated, that he was trying to kill me.

I couldn't win. This I realised quickly, as I ducked a cruel blow. Caderyn was unrivalled. He had banished the Daemon Prince, Khra'sa'nek, singlehandedly. He had cut out the horror's heart, laughing, and tossed it into the dirt. He had led the Fire Lords to victory, against the Black Legion, upon the port-world, Vimbaar. He had beaten back Gaelan the Gold, effortlessly, and was now going to beat me. No, I couldn't win. But, I would give him a challenge, I vowed, as I stabbed and parried.

Soluis invigorated me. It fed me with ambition, with power. Illuminos, aflame from point to guard, was a fine blade, a masterpiece. Caderyn had forged it himself, a hundred years ago, on Mundus Pyra. He had consecrated it in a pool of his own blood. It was his pride and joy, his closest companion. He loved that blade, and everyone else admired it, lusted for it.

But, Soluis? Soluis was legendary. We circled, we struck. It was intense, it was exhaustive. Not only was I combating Caderyn, but also my own body. I could feel my muscles cramp and burn. How long had we dueled? Time had blurred. The Fire Lords, their chanting, had become one endless, tuneless cacophony.

And then- Shaking, rumbling, the entire ship straining against itself. The lights dimmed, darkened and then cut away completely. I went at Caderyn, unthinking, and thrust my sword into his forearm. It parted flesh, scorched muscle and jarred against bone. In turn, the swordsman buried Illuminos in my neck, a finger deep, and I slumped over; my chest slick with blood, turning sticky.

'What happened,' I heard Brennus bellow, furious, as the emergency lights tuned in - Bathing everything in a dull, pinkish red. Fire Lords were picking themselves up from the deck, most unarmoured and unarmed, and rallying into their units. 'What was that?'

Kaer was at my side, very suddenly. I was holding my throat together, spitting blood, thinking that I was going to die. My arteries were severed - Caderyn's aim had been unfaltering. Brennus came to me, plucked Soluis from my side, and continued to shout orders and demands. He didn't spare me a second glance, there were no congratulations. In that moment, he was the uncompromising warlord, terrible to behold in his armour.

I propped myself up, onto my elbow, and glanced at Caderyn. He was standing, alone, Illuminos thrown at his feet. 'Well done,' He said, raising his arm. There was a blackened rent there, red-mist rising. His fingers were hooked, unresponsive, and dripping blood. 'You have won.'

His eyes, like shards of peridot, shone angrily. He was marching away, Illuminos left behind, before I could say another word.

I laid back down, smiled redly and everything went black.

***

There was an explosion, somewhere deep in the Hyperion, and Hektor was on his feet. He dragged Arete up with him, iron-hard fingers digging into her forearm, and looked around. A statue of the Emperor had fallen, snapping an outstretched arm and shattering the skull. An ill omen, Arete thought, as she stared at the wreckage.

'Something is wrong,' He hissed, as alarms began to wail. 'Sister-'

Arete pressed a finger against his lips. 'Go, now,' She urged, with a half-smile. 'I will await in my chambers.'

'No,' Hektor said, quickly, and let go of her arm, turning in a flourish of silk. 'Mine. I will send Machanidas to you - You will obey him, Arete.'

And with that, Hektor left the gardens, and his sister behind. Agathon and an escort of storm-troopers, in their overlapping plate and plumed helmets, waited for him outside. Rifles were held tightly, some had drawn their sabres.

'What's going on, Leos?' Hektor asked, as he jogged along a marbled hallway, past women and children and their soldier-husbands. 'What was that?'

Agathon, taller and broader and uglier than Seleucus, shrugged. 'No idea, sire,' He said. If Hektor's voice was poetry, Agathon's was a death-knell. 'We are getting mixed reports. Leucon's led a platoon of men down to the kitchens - Someone reported rioting. Hipponax and Orestan are mustering the rest of the men, on deck eighteen, to repel boarders.'

'Boarders?' Seleucus sneered, with narrowed eyes. 'If they defile the Hyperion, I'll have their heads.'

'We all felt the explosion,' Agathon reasoned. 'It's just a precaution.'

Seleucus pursed his lips and nodded. 'Very well,' Ahead, the bridge loomed. The doors were thrown open, and beyond Seleucus could see the tiered deck. The floor was reinforced glass, and beneath it were streams of water - Corinthian water - Filled with coins. An old custom, older than the Imperium, perhaps. The coins were for the dead, to buy their way into the otherworld, where all must go.

Tiades stood, in the centre of the bridge, receiving reports. His face was creased, angry and concerned, his remaining arm resting on his basket-hilted blade.

'Shipmaster,' Seleucus greeted, as he stepped besides him. Agathon and his troops milled about, weapons slung. 'Care to tell me what that was?'

'Away with the formalities, Hektor,' Tiades said, not once looking at the Lord Militant. 'We exited the fugging warp,' He looked up. Great, armoured shutters were lifting upwards, casting starlight onto the bridge. 'There was an explosion on the starboard side, damage reports should be coming in soon - At best, it was external. If we have been hulled..'

The shutters whined to a halt. It revealed a starscape, and interestingly, planets. Seleucus recognised them - He had studied them ever since leaving Ryza. 'Is that...' He started.

'Golan,' Tiades said, his mouth crinkling into an uneasy smile.

Chapter 3: II

By Unxpekted:

Exiting the Warp was like diving into a swamp; a thick, mud filled swamp. The feeling of restraint returned to the Hyperion, as it entered real space once again, no longer free from the physical laws of the universe. Despite its wondrous, ingenious construction, the Corinthian flagship shuddered hard and it groaned over the new tear in it’s side.

Seleucus remained by the Shipmaster’s side. The entire bridge was silent, taking it all in. None of them had known what to expect, exactly, upon their arrival. There was still noise, but no voices. The officers of the bridge would be foolish not to continue with the standard procedures that ensued an ejection from the Warp, and the servitors, of course, had no choice.

Seleucus’s eyes darted over the large viewport, looking for anything of significance. His pupils scanned for threats, for explosions, for tentacle covered warships with giant maws on their prows -the stories of corruption and heresy stretched far, and he had never been sure on what to believe was possible.

One thing was sure, they were not alone.

There were a handful of ships around them, and all but one belonged to Ryza’s investigatory fleet. The lone, Mechanicus Class Light-Cruiser reading as the Perdurable Golem, sat idling to port - appearing entirely diminutive in the distance.

After several snapped communications were made, and readings read, the Lord Militant learned all he currently could about the situation. Of his own vessels present, one of Kassar’s Dauntless-Class Cruisers, the Iron Duke, had predated them all. The ship's commanding officer, a youthful aristocrat named Merrion Wellesley, had launched preliminary scans of the system - And, much to Seleucus's annoyance, attracted the attention of the Golan System Defence.

His eyes moved to the Perdurable Golem, once more.

Three Cobra-class Destroyers, Buzzard, Shikra and Goshawk - Half of Kassar's Hawk Squadron - Had also been shot from the Warp. Shikra had suffered damage to her port-side, but was otherwise undamaged, though her Captain - A young, inexperienced woman from Cypra Mundi, was shaken. Seleucus made a mental note to convey his best regards, and promise the young lady any aid needed.

He would have done it, then and there, had it not been for the Purifying Flame.

Real-space rippled, and the vessel was birthed from the Warp, trailing unlight from her monstrous sides. Its emergence shook the Hyperion with its horrifying proximity. Even so, a rapturous applause echoed throughout the bridge, when Tiades announced that the battle-barge was approaching them, weapons spooled up. The ship outweighed, and outgunned, everything that Seleucus currently had at his disposal.

'Incoming transmission from the Purifying Flame, lord,' One of the communications officers called.

'Patch it through,' Tiades ordered, glancing across at Seleucus. 'It’s all yours, Lord Militant.'

'Are you early,' A voice sounded across the bridge like a rumbled crush of syllables. It was deep, too-deep, like the peel of artillery. 'Or are we late, again?'

An excited, uncontrollable smile gripped Seleucus, and held him still. He stood captivated in delight and awe, as if he were still a child. Then he remembered Arete, her beauty sapped, and grimaced. 'Lord Brennus,' He replied, icily. 'Welcome to Golan. If you would be so kind, come aboard, we have much to discuss.'

***

By Locrinus:

Leos Agathon shivered, despite the layers of armour and robes he wore, and cursed. The hanger bay of the Hyperion, as marbled and opulent as the rest of the ship, was damnably cold. It was unnervingly empty, save for him and twenty of his finest, in their meshed helmets and scarlet cloaks. Dropships and fighters had been cleared away - Winched into their maintenance areas by the deckhands, whilst the auxiliary servitors had been deactivated and carted away. Lord Brennus was coming aboard, the Lord Militant had told him quietly, and Agathon would be leading the escort.

The way Seleucus had said that word, Agathon reflected, was sinister. They were an honour-guard, sure as sure, in all their polished finery, but they were also - If needed - Heavy-handed minders.

'We are fugged,' Sophron, a Sergeant of some illustrious standing, remarked colourfully. He was a small man, with an iron-streaked beard and tired, sad eyes. 'I mean, hypothetically, sir.'

Agathon looked at him. 'What are you talking about?'

'This,' Sophron said, slowly. 'We aren't s'posed to be here, yet. Half the fleet's missing, the majority of our troops - The fugging Mechanicus haven't bothered to turn up to their own mess.'

'We have the Fire Lords, at least,' Agathon levelled, flexing his gloved fingers around his las-rifle, mist steaming from his mouth. He, alone, went unmasked - And regretted the decision to do so. His skin was prickling in the cold, stinging, turning red. 'Some of 'em, anyway.'

'Angels of death, a potentially hostile system... and Emperor-only-knows-why, no ships,' Sophron uttered. 'Great.'

Despite the direness of the situation, some of the Corinthians guffawed.

'Hush,' Agathon ordered, and they fell quiet. No-one was stupid enough to disobey Leos Agathon. He was, if needed, a brutal man. To get on his bad side was literal hell. 'Here it comes,' He nodded towards the hanger's void-shields, where a vessel - An Astartes gunship - Was banking towards the Hyperion. 'Form up.'

It pressed through the shields, engines whining, sending the Corinthians' robes aflutter. Agathon covered his eyes with the back of his hand, the engine-glare too bright, and turned away. When the engines quieted to a keening, and then cut out completely, Agathon looked up. The vessel was long, with a blunt, brutish prow and sleek, backswept wings. Golden chains clanged against the hull, glittering with frost, and upon them dangled all sorts of grim trophies and keepsakes. Agathon recognised the apeish leer of an Ork skull, a sleek and barbed Eldar helmet, marked with a bloody hand, and disgustingly, a horned Space Marine helmet daubed with crude, flaking paint.

The access ramp lowered, with a dull clang, and the Corinthians snapped to attention.

Lord Brennus lowered himself from the ship with a clang. He was a giant, wearing his war-plate, though unarmed. His armour was filigreed and carved, inlaid with whorls of gold. His beard, long and braided, with a golden ring at the tip, swayed as he approached the Corinthians. Old eyes stared out from beneath a tattooed brow. Agathon was a brave man, but still he felt cowed by this Astartes, this High King, and took an involuntary step back.

'You are not the Lord Militant,' Lord Brennus grumbled, disapprovingly. 'My brothers told me that Corinthian hospitality is unrivalled,' He grinned, and Agathon caught the glint of gold in his mouth. Such a barbaric gesture. 'Perhaps they drank too much of your wine.'

'A desperate time, a most unforeseen circumstance, has made pomp and ceremony impossible,' Agathon said back, quicker and more defensively than intended.

Lord Brennus smiled. 'Well said,' His tone softened, now, sweetened like honey. 'Take me to your master, boy.'

***

'I shouldn't be here,' Machanidas sneered, pacing. He was armoured and armed, his helmet tossed away in annoyance, gloved hands clasped behind his back.

Arete looked up. 'I'm glad you agree,' She said, dryly. 'I would much rather be alone.'

Machanidas ignored her. 'I am a soldier - Not an handmaiden,' His lips curled. 'If there's something amiss, I should be with my men, not here. If there's a fight, I should be fighting.'

'Why do you fight, cousin?' Arete asked and Machanidas came to an halt. 'Tell me. Why do you wear that chest-plate, carry that blade, slay your foes, o' noble warrior?'

'To protect-'

'To protect,' She interrupted, raising a hand. 'So shut up,' She sighed, long and low. 'Or Emperor help me, I will make you.'

Machanidas glared, and then shook his head, but continued to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, he went - Long, purposeful strides. Machanidas was an impatient man, a man ruled by his foul temper, and when he was like this, Arete despised his company.

He means well, she reminded herself.

Hektor's chambers were bare. There was a raised bed, messy and untouched, and a globe - Blue, beautiful Corinth. His weapons, his armour and his clothes were kept elsewhere - Where, Arete was unsure. The floor was grey stone, scuffed by a thousand boots, and once a golden Aquila had spread its wings proudly, but now it was scratched and blurred. The pious would be horrified, Arete smirked, but Hektor never did have time for prayers and sacraments.

Idly, she ran a hand through her hair, and wondered where her brother was. He was a strong man, but he was young and ambitious, and he wanted a name for himself. On times, he had been downright reckless. On others, he was calm and taciturn. That nature, the fierce ambition, had been inherited from their grandfather - Ageaus. In his youth, Ageaus had been wild, fathering a hundred bastards - Or so the tales went. A tour of duty with the Imperial Guard had calmed the storm, cooled the fire, and Ageaus went on to become the most influential man on Corinth. Arete did not, could not, see that fate for her brother. Sometimes, in her dreams-

Arete bit her lip and silenced the thought. Her dreams were just that - Dreams. Or so she reassured herself, half-heartedly, from her brother's bed.

'Where are your children?' Arete asked Machanidas, attempting to distract herself.

'Locked away,' Machanidas said. It sounded choked, desperate even. For all his failures, no-one could ever doubt that Machanidas adored his daughters - Twins, much like Hektor and Arete, and quite beautiful. 'Safe in my chambers. Perhaps I should have sent them to the gardens-'

'You did well, cousin,' Arete smiled. 'They are perfectly fine. And what of Aleksandrya?'

Machanidas clenched a fist. 'I am unsure, she was running errands in the mid-levels - I pray for her safety.'

Arete stood, dragging her brother's blankets with her. They rolled down the granite steps of his bed. 'And still you came here, the dutiful soldier,' She muttered. 'Machanidas, your wife may be in need of you. Round up a search party - If anyone opposes you, have them come and see me.'

'The Lord Militant-'

'Is my brother and your cousin. Besides,' Arete said, and for a moment she was fierce. 'Aleksandrya is one of my women, your wife, and his good-cousin. If Hektor has a problem with me wanting to assure her safety, then he's less a man than anyone believes. Now, away.'

Machanidas hesitated, and then bowed deep, whipping around in a flurry. Arete sunk onto the cold floor, placed her cheek against the stone, and closed her eyes.

How long had past, she was unsure, but Arete was awoken by a gentle hand around her arm. She opened her eyes groggily, and looked up at a handsome face, dark and well defined.

'Brother,' She mumbled lazily, as Hektor hefted her up. He was armoured, a sword fastened around his hip, his sculptural chest-plate as white as snow. Long, dark hair flowed about his head, matted with sweat. 'Where have you been?'

He pursed his lips. 'The kitchen decks, there was a panic. And then rioting, when Tiades turned off nonessential systems. When the lights went dark, the brawling started - Four of my men are dead.'

Arete brushed her brother's cheek. 'Are you hurt?'

Her brother looked insulted. 'No,' He said. 'They are my subjects. They would never harm me - When I walked amongst them, they relinquished their weapons and prayed for forgiveness,' He looked around. 'Where is Machanidas? I ordered that oaf-'

Unthinkingly, Arete slapped him. 'Aleksandrya is missing, you oaf,' She bared her teeth. 'I sent him to find her.'

Hektor's jaw tightened. 'I will have her found,' He said, in a manner that Arete found uncomfortable. 'Now ready yourself. Lord Brennus is on his way.'

Arete's heart sunk. She had yet to meet the Fire Lord, but thus far her experience with them had been less than satisfactory. They had been unnerving, awkward and outright terrifying, actually. After the Council of Ryza, Hektor had taken Arete aside and told her everything in great depth. Of the Lord Brennus, he had said nothing but praise, lionising the Space Marine to her. That made her feel even worse.

The doors swung open. Brennus entered, a tower of armour and flesh, larger than Arete could have imagined. Hektor's retainer, Agathon, followed suit - But Hektor waved him away.

'Lord Militant,' He spoke. In her brother's expansive chambers, it sounded like the peal of thunder. 'I do not appreciate being delayed.'

Hektor marched towards the giant, fearless. 'There were more important matters at hand, Brennus, I assure you.'

'This is not what I had in mind,' Brennus harrumphed. He turned his attentions to Arete. 'Courtesans are an odd feature in a war council.'

'She is my sister,' Hektor sneered.

'And a beautiful sister, at that,' The Space Marine folded his arms across his chest. 'But she has no place here.'

'This is not a war council,' Her brother said, calmly. 'This is a private matter, between you and I, Fire Lord.'

Brennus arched an eyebrow. 'Speak, then.'

'Your sorcerers,' Arete noticed her brother's hands bunch into fists. 'Confronted my sister, rendered one of my men unconscious, and scared her witless. They decried her a psyker, an abomination.'

'Again?' Brennus rolled his eyes. There was an hint of annoyance in his tone. 'I played no hand in the actions of my Librarians,' He waved a hand dismissively. 'But they were not wrong,' He sniffed deeply. 'She stinks of the warp.'

'You will check your liar's tongue, when in my presence,' Seleucus trembled. 'I am the Lord Militant of this Crusade, Space Marine.'

Brennus grunted. 'So you say,' His tone was bitter. He turned his eyes on Arete. There was an unkind quality to the stormy, grey irises. 'More impressive men have bore that title.'

'I gave your Librarians no permission to board my ship,' Hektor was chest-to-abdomen with the Fire Lord, staring up at him. Brennus seemed disinterested in the entire situation. 'And yet they interposed on my affairs.'

'The gall of them,' Brennus drawled. 'But I assure you, Lord Militant,' He smiled. 'It was not my doing. I care nothing for your affairs, and were I not bound to Ryza by debt, I would have followed in the steps of my cousins. There are more important wars to be fought.'

Hektor stepped back. He looked crestfallen, the confidence having evaporated. 'How dare you,' He roared, now. 'You insult my sister, you mock me, and worse still, you insult my war!'

'Your war?' Brennus scoffed. 'War abides no ruler, child. If you had any sense at all, you would realise that.'

Hektor, no, Arete thought. Her brother was going to ruin an alliance over her honour. He was going to damn their entire fleet. She had to do something, she had to reconcile the pair, before their argument went deeper.

'You are both fools,' She hissed. 'Lord Brennus knew nothing of his Marines, brother,' The Fire Lord stared her down. 'And your overprotectiveness is refusing to let you acknowledge that.'

'She has a tongue, then,' Brennus remarked. A smile creased his features.

'And you,' She said to the Space Marine, finding courage where before there was none. 'You belittle my brother's position, you berate him as if a boy, when he has been granted command of this Crusade. He was sworn into his position before an altar of the Emperor - Does that mean so little to you? You want to leave? Then do so,' Arete stood tall, eyes glimmering like embers beneath her long, dark lashes. 'And let it be forever known that the Fire Lords are oathbreakers.'

Brennus stepped towards her. When Hektor stood between them, Brennus pushed him to the ground with an apathetic backhand.

Arete stood her ground. Never turn from a fight, her father had once told her, on the shores of the Glittering Sea, years past. It is better to face down an enemy than be stabbed in the back.

With surprising gentleness, Brennus cupped her jaw and lifted her head. Their eyes locked, and gone was the unkindness, replaced with warmth -And if Arete wasn't mistaken, admiration.

'Few men have spoken to me like that,' He said, tenderly. 'And I have lived a long life. Seen, and done, terrible things,' Hektor was pulling himself to his feet. He grasped the hilt of his sword. 'Draw that, Lord Militant, and you lose the offending hand,' The Fire Lord's smile was chilling. 'What is your name, child?'

'Arete, Lady of the Seleucids,' She said, defiantly.

Lord Brennus let go of her. Arete rubbed her cheeks, grimacing, but continued to stare at the giant. His armour, she noticed, emanated an electrifying buzzing.

'Away from her,' Hektor growled. Brennus wheeled, slowly, and shook his head.

'No harm will come to your sister, Lord Militant, nor you - Provided you listen, and you listen well.'

'Speak, then, Fire Lord,' Hektor demanded. He sounded desperate, enfeebled by the mere presence of Lord Brennus. This was not the brother that Arete knew.

'I am withdrawing my forces from your jurisdiction,' Brennus said, in a tone that commanded no disrespect, and Hektor's shoulders slumped. 'We will remain in this system, as is expected of us, but from henceforth, you have no rule over me. We will partake in your councils, we will listen to your terms and requests. But do not presume to order me around, Hektor Seleucus, like a whipped cur.'

'I-'

'I did not permit you to speak,' Brennus shot him down. 'The Lady Arete is a psyker. Of no considerable power, from what I can tell, but nonetheless a danger. With her permission,' Brennus glanced over his shoulder at her. 'My Librarians will take her under their tutelage. If she remains untrained, I will be left with no other option than to storm this ship. Your crew will be slaughtered, you will be trialed for harbouring a consort of the warp, and your sister will be handed over to the Inquisition.'

Seleucus fell onto his knees, and Brennus continued.

'This I will do with an heavy heart. I like your sister a great deal more than you,' Brennus admitted. 'I have no wish to lower her into the viper's pit. But I offer you this condolence - Your sister will come to no harm, she will be under the protection of my brothers,' The Space Marine pushed past her brother, placing a giant hand upon the door, looking back. 'I understand your compassion. It makes you weak, and weak men die young. The dead cannot protect their siblings.'

And with that, Lord Brennus was gone, his thunderous footsteps fading.

Arete went to her brother, cradled his head in her arms, and wept.

Oh, brother, you proud fool. What have you done?

Chapter Three: III

Five days prior to the present day

Onboard the Iron Duke

Merrion Wellesly was frantic. His eyes darted, his tongue was drying faster than he could give orders. His heart was racing as he repeatedly checked his radar screens for signals. His navigator was groaning in her pit, holding her head in her hands and bobbing in a circular motion.

‘Nothing, I see nothing! Faint glimpses of ships, but,’ she exclaimed, ‘we were on a major trade route! They could be anyone!” she wailed as cables and other, more arcane devices, were pulled back and forth with her motions.

Captain Wellesly cursed out loud, losing his composure in front of his men and slamming his fist into a monitor stand on his right. The last thing he would have expected was for his ship, his ship, to not only reach Golan first, but alone. He thought it would be an easy ride, an escort mission, simply there to float next to a ferocious display of Naval force. He thought he would do little more than add to the view, yet still attain whatever honours there were to be gained from this ordeal.

He could not overcome the idea that the Iron Duke was the sole survivor of the fleet. A mere Light Cruiser, now sitting alone in an area of space that Ryza deemed potentially hostile enough to send an entire armada to. They hadn’t received a single distress call, but the whole fleet being annihilated by the Warp was ludicrous, or so he kept saying to himself. He was having his crewmen send out every type of scan into space that he had available, of both the telepathic and technological.

Just a week ago, he had been aboard the Hyperion, attending the Lord Militant’s banquet ceremony. There were several ships that had continued straight through the pass toward the Golan System, preferring not to stop. Being a full day ahead of him in that case, made it seem even less likely that he would arrive first. Or, maybe those ships had arrived first, which was even more horrifying. His mind spun with everything he had been taught about the Warp. He knew how unpredictable it was but this, well, this was just-

A short laugh burst from his mouth as his hand made an awning at his brow, shading his eyes. During the banquet, he had told his friends and allies that he believed Golan held no real threat. That it was simply Ryza’s Fabricator-General overreacting. Now that he was here alone, in the blank darkness of the void, he was too afraid to look out of the main view port in front of him. A luminescent blue and green gas giant in the distance was all he could see from here.

He felt shame, so much of it all at once. He was a Captain. He had years of training. He had years of experience. He had never been in this type of situation before, outside of simulations and descriptions from digital text. And now, now that it was actually happening, all of his years of training eluded him. He bent over in his chair, placing his face in his hands while his Bridge reported ‘still no signs of comrades’. It had been hours. Already, hours had bled by. His fingers pressed hard into his skin forcing wrinkles.

‘Contact!’

Merrion’s head shot up out of his hands.

‘Coming at us from Golan Majoris. A Mechanicus Class Light Cruiser, reading as... the Perdurable Golem, Sir.’

‘Are their weapon’s primed? Are they hot?’ shot the Captain, hurried.

A different officer responded.

‘I can’t tell, Sir. Normally I’d say that means no, but it’s Mechanicus Class. Its capabilities are, It could- I don’t know, Sir.’

With his back still hunched, palms up in front of him, eyes wide, and mouth half open, Captain Wellesly said the calmest thing he had uttered since entering the Golan System.

‘Warm the lances, arm the torpedoes, engage the shields. We drive a Dauntless, so keep the engines ready. Our strength is our speed, not our armor. Whatever capabilities they may have, we’ll be ready to move. Hopefully we can keep them on their toes or at least outrun them, if we need to.’

----

Present day: Five days into Golan

Onboard the Hyperion

As the echoes of his footsteps followed him, Josif Brandt looked down at the hard-polished epidote floor with swirls of jade. The hall was so empty, it was unbearable to him. He wondered if a sea of people, or a row of staring sentry guards would make him feel any better.

He highly doubted it.

There wasn’t just a war raging inside of him, there was a full-scale system invasion. The echoes of his boots may have sounded confident, but the feet inside were nothing short of trembling. His knees quivered, and his hands shook.

Why am I doing this? He questioned. Have I not come far enough? Do I really need to add more to my life? What, what really, could I possibly have hoped to achieve here? I was a fool to ask this favor. When I walk this hallway back, I will be nothing more than embarrassed.

He suddenly became euphoric, his look of concern gone in an instant. Ever since he entered this long hallway, it was as if he carried with him a handful of theatre masks.

It was surreal. He could not believe this was actually happening. The Lord Militant had pulled through on his promise. It meant more to Brandt than any proposal of fame and victory in war.

He still wasn’t sure what to say to her.

Yes, her. The Lady Arete.

How would he introduce himself properly; should he compliment her first? Should he play hardball? He smirked.

His heart sank. Who was he kidding? Five seconds in, after seeing his face, she would send him out, forever. Brandt had earned a great deal of respect from the Admiral, and from his Captains and colleagues. He had done so from the cockpit of a fighter craft. He could speak formally enough, or curtly enough, when it was required. But, flirtation was by no means his strong suit. Love? He had no idea.

If he ever thought he had been in love before, it all seemed so stupid now. This was top tier, he was aiming as high as he possibly could. The finest woman in the fleet. A fleet, of over thirty vessels. A fleet that nearly half of which still hadn’t shown up yet, allowing the time for this little arrangement.

The Illustrious had broke entry twenty-nine hours ago, which currently made it the only one of Kassar’s battleships to do so. The other three, and therefore the Admiral himself, were still missing.

Less than six hours had gone by after the Illustrious peeled into view, when Brandt received a message from Hektor Seleucus himself, asking about setting up a time to meet his sister within the next day. So now, here he was, on his way to see her. He had taken a shuttle over from the Illustrious to the Hyperion, after strapping into the same formal uniform he had worn at the banquet, with only a few adjustments in case she somehow noticed. Though he only had one formal attire, he was sure she had countless. He had asked more than a dozen individuals for help with directions while traversing the city-sized Corinthian masterpiece.

Brandt thanked the Emperor for the circumstances, but felt shameful afterward. For all he knew, the Admiral hadn’t arrived yet because he was dead. He, and the rest of those missing crews, could now be nothing more than deformed bodies dripping from the wounds of their torn and rendered ships that floated like mutilated animal carcasses in the unpredictable Warp. The ships would stay that way, at least. The people, their souls, would be stretched out and thinned; their durability tested far beyond their limits.

He took a deep breath. This particular train of thought wasn’t helping him prepare in the slightest. It had, however, gotten him to the door without once turning on his heels. His heart fluttered. The Emperor crossed his lips a few times in whisper as he imagined what she might be wearing. Travelling in the Warp for another week had surely only added to the majestic, alluring dreams of sleeping with her. The luxuriousness of it all. He had seen her, wrapped in sheen, almond colored sheets mixed with beige and gold. Her full figure, naked and perfect. Gold and bronze bed curtains, glossed and opaque, fluttered everywhere all around them while they- his knuckles knocked on the door, three times, equally measured.

----

A white-armored guard opened the door in front of him, while his chest grew warm. The guard’s backside was wrapped neatly in a scarlet cloak, and in his other hand he held a helmet, with a swooping crest sprouting from the top. The soldier allowed him through, and even bowed his head saying, ‘Lieutenant Commander.’

The room’s backdrop was an enormous glass pane that looked out into space, letting in the soft moonlight of Golan Quintus. Large, dense curtains used to cover the pane during Warp transit were roped off to the sides. Clear water flowed down a tower of rocks that became a steady stream coursing through the room, surrounded by violet-flowered plants that brushed his sense of smell. There were a few glistening fish floating in the water, big enough to have some character, living out their calm and idle lives. The floor was cobbled stone and his eyes followed the pathway that led to a quaint round table lit by candle. Brandt expected her to be looking anywhere else but where she was, the table in front of her, her hands, the void, the scenery but no, her eyes were deadlocked onto him the moment he stepped inside the room.

Here it was, he thought, she would lift her hand up any second now, and wave him away.

Then it started to happen, her right hand came up, and then it waved, but the wave bid him to her.

He walked. His brain kept sending signals to the muscles of his legs to perform this difficult task that normally came so naturally. He reached the table and looked at her hands, now resting on the edge, and remembered he had imagined taking one of them in his own and planting a kiss upon it soft as she had the Lord Militant’s cheek.

Instead, he merely bowed his head in respect, though in truth it was more in shame.

‘Sit down, Josif.’ She said, indicating the empty chair, ‘My dear brother would like us to meet.’

Her voice was even finer than he recalled, without all the cluttering background noise from the banquet getting in the way of it. Her tone was mostly neutral, rather matter-of-fact. He took in a deep breath and he looked at her, really looked at her, this time.

For a moment he thought her hands had been tattooed since he last her saw her, but quickly realized it was more Corinthian fashion. Painted lines, pink and mauve, began at her nails and swirled up her arms, weaving through intricate floral patterns and elegantly fading near the elbow, where the loose sleeves of her dress swooped across. Her earrings were a Corinthian take on benitoite that waltzed with ultraviolet light, bobbing delicately from her earlobes by short strands of silver and pearl. A subtle prismatic performance played out over her smooth temples and polished cheekbones from their reflected light. Her lips were a dark red that matched her dress with perfection. Small intricate shapes - diamonds, stars and tears - were drawn at the edges and corners of her dark, humbling eyes.

She had already devoured her appetizer. A few dark crumbs were all that was left to decorate her plate.

She was not shy, nor was she coy.

‘How shall I address you?’ He asked.

‘Arete, is fine.’

'I was told Corinthian women decorate their bodies, for men,' He said, sipping his wine, which only seemed to dry his tongue even more on the way down. 'You look astonishing.'

'For men?' Arete asked, a smirk pulling her lips. 'Oh, no. This was entirely for myself.'

She paused to take a sip of her own wine in turn. Along his chest, Badges and honors dangled from his uniform as he leaned forward slightly, uneasy. For the first time in his life, he was embarrassed by them. They felt like a child's playthings, cheap and pretend.

'In our culture, both men and women emblazon themselves for symposiums. We desire attempts at intimate relationships to be as public as possible, for some reason. This,' she paused to look over the artwork on her hand, 'this is subtle.'

He had felt his brief spark of boldness smacked aside, and after an unsettling pause, instinctively switched topics.

‘Do you always come with your brother to war?’

‘I don’t really wish to talk about Hektor right now, but I have, yes. Our parents had already cast me off in any case. He needs me more than anyone, yet he is always trying to set me up with men he meets. I am not entirely sure why, but I do know that he is a fool more than he is anything else.’

Brandt laughed quietly. ‘I would ask why you think that, but, you said you don’t wish to speak of him?’ he asked, with a genuine smile.

He wasn’t sure if she didn’t hear the question or just didn’t care to answer. She seemed to notice something, and his smile faded with the silence.

‘You’re shaking.’

‘...Pardon?’

She scooped up his hands into hers and held them firmly. He looked at her again, and could feel his face filling with heat, and a tightness around his lungs.

‘Nothing is going to happen. Just eat with me, please. Relax.’

‘I’m not sure I can, if I’m honest.’

‘Stop trying to predict the future. Just breathe. Just talk to me, about anything.’

So, he sputtered the first thing that came to mind.

‘Iron Duke.’

She didn’t catch on right away.

‘The Iron Duke,’ he said, shaking his head a bit, ‘the cruiser that arrived early. Have you heard about it?’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘Yes, Hektor told me, but I haven’t given it much thought, really.’

‘What do you think it was like being the first ship of the fleet out of the warp, all alone like that, not knowing what was coming?’

‘I’m sure it was dreadful,’ she replied, ‘I am certainly glad the Hyperion is more capable of defending itself. Hektor has spoken with the Duke’s Captain at least a few times now. It would have been easy for him to make a mistake, or open fire right away, but he did not. I am not convinced that his resolve was the reason for that, though.’

‘More emissaries have come. It looks like Golan is rather peaceful then, doesn’t it?’

She nodded her head slowly, looking down at the table now. The other reports of ship translations were coming back to him as waiters brought out the main course. It had been established that the Iron Duke had arrived roughly two days ahead of the Hyperion and Purifying Flame. When the Illustrious arrived, Commodore Nymeros and most of his group were already there as well.

Looking out of the giant window pane in the background, he could see several ships from Ryza’s fleet now. With nothing else to do, some of them were halfway concealed inside bays along the length of dockyard that orbited Golan Quintus, resupplying since they were here, or repairing minor damages from Warp transit. He quickly spotted the Cobra-class Destroyer Shikra, among them, having heard about its violent re-entry alongside the Hyperion.

The massive Omnissiah’s Glory was impossible to miss- a giant block of a ship that sat in the middle of the slowly turning view. The Princeps Majoris had just arrived early this morning, bringing his Skitarii, and his Titan engines, with him.

Further out, the other two Fire Lords vessels were also now in-system, sitting silently near their mother. Though distant, their bright oranges and yellows could not be mistaken.

‘What do you think about our Fire Lord companions?’ he asked, nodding toward their ships. ‘The banquet was the first time I have ever seen Astartes in person.’

Arete put the first bite of food into her mouth and began chewing, looking at him again rather than the window-wall. In that moment, as he stared curiously and intently out into the void, she decided that if nothing else, Brandt was at least someone she could trust.

‘I don’t like them.’

Brandt smiled, surprised.

‘Any particular reason?’

‘My opinion of them doesn’t really matter, they just make me uncomfortable, and it doesn't help that I am to receive some kind of tutelage from two of their worst ones.’

Brandt was taken aback.

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘They think that I’m a psyker.’ and Brandt clearly did not know what to say next, so she continued.

‘And, their ships sit so far off because Hektor had to get into a petty argument with their Chieftain. They no longer want anything to do with us, though they never truly did, anyway.’ The way she said this was almost pouty. ‘My brother’s potential war meant nothing to them, yet for some reason, they refuse to leave me be.’

‘I imagine that’s the case with most men, isn’t it?’

She smiled, and almost laughed, even.

‘Don’t worry yourself with that. Men don’t distract me, my handmaidens have seen to that. They are certainly talented enough. Besides, the only man I can afford to dedicate myself to right now is my brother, now more than ever.’

Brandt furrowed his brow, spinning his fork.

There was a pause. The air between them thickened.

‘Do not tell anyone that I might be a psyker,’ she said, serious. Her eyes pinned him to his seat. They were so beautiful, so powerful. He felt pleasure looking into them, even though he was sure what she was saying is that she would have him killed if he did.

They continued to eat and drink.

‘When you die, do you hope it happens in one of your fighter-craft, someday, going down in a blaze of glory?’ she asked, changing the subject, and her tone. He hesitated for a moment, giving the question some thought.

‘I suppose,’ he began, ‘that I should hope it happens that way. It does seem the most likely, doesn’t it?’ he replied, but everything about him proved he wasn’t convinced.

‘Arete, most of the people I see, especially people who have been ship-bound their entire lives, they only seem skin deep, nothing to them, so shallow minded. They go about their tasks with such lifelessness. Sometimes, I almost mistake civilian crew for servitors.’

She giggled, which made him chuckle.

‘But, when I look at you, when I hear your voice, when I look into your eyes... it’s as if there’s an entire world inside of you, waiting to be discovered. I’ve never met anyone that truly made me believe that life is a miracle, until now.’

She smiled at him. ‘Seeing as I’m a psyker, I suppose it must the Warp you're seeing.’ She said, teasing, but she could tell this response disappointed him.

She rose from her seat, with a cascade of scarlet flowing down her form as her phenomenal dress realigned with her incredible figure. Her fingertips landed on his cheek, and sailed down to his chin, tilting it. Before he could come to terms with what was happening, her lips were there, meeting his for the briefest of moments. His overloaded senses thought of fluffed red roses, with beads of water still dozing on the petals, and a welcoming fire that only warmed and never harmed.

‘I wouldn’t want you to die in your fighter, Josif.’ she said in a half-whisper, and left.

----

Five days prior

The Perdurable Golem now sat physically linked with the Iron Duke, and Captain Wellesly waited with his hands clasped behind his lower back at his end of the catwalk. The walkway between the ships was simply an extended bridge with a Voidshield around it. Wellesly had faith in the Mechanicus’ upkeep of their technology. He wasn’t worried about the shield failing and getting sucked out into the Void. That actually sounded quite refreshing to him. He was much, much more concerned about how he was going to handle this situation.

An immeasurable amount of weight had suddenly and unexpectedly fallen upon his shoulders. It was up to him and him alone to secure the fleet’s mission to Golan. If he messed this up, and the Golaners felt the need to defend themselves, more ships could arrive one by one just as the Iron Duke had, and be shot to pieces by the waiting Golan Defense Fleet.

The Golem hadn’t attacked right away, at least. It held two of Golan’s emissaries among its crew, and he spoke to one of them over the comms briefly. Archameus Rothesay was his name. Wellesly was hardly in a position to deny them entry to his ship. It would only make it seem as if he were hiding something. The past hour was consumed by a brainstorm, which led him to the story he would use.

Without pretense, a figure, like Death robed in red, turned the dimly lit corner inside of the Golem. Eerily, it began crossing the flooring at a heart wrenching pace towards Wellesly, as if it were a ghost, sliding effortlessly over the bridge. Its face was a shadow. Fear gripped him, and he almost slammed the controls to seal the hatch but saw who must have been Rothesay appear next.

Wellesly turned his body a bit, only to discover that his second and third in command had already darted away silently. The hooded, ghost-like figure stopped before him. Again, there was no effort in this, it simply glided onto his ship and stopped, no moving knee joints or feet that he could discern. Then it turned its head left, and then right, and then forward again as if looking for something specific. It had a full servo-harness on its back, with four limbs folded inward, and mechadendrites that were, currently, peacefully at rest. Despite this, Wellesly felt the need to hold his stomach down with the weak muscles of his throat, certain he was now living his last moment.

Rothesay walked with a haughtiness that Wellesly was not used to seeing from adepts of the Mechanicus. His face was not immortalized as so many of them were. Wires snaked beneath the pale flesh of his face. His teeth were metal, and when he talked, clattered against one another. His eyes were dark round ellipses with thin, bright-orange horizontal slits. In front of the left one was a silver-rimmed monocle with lines of neon turquoise scrolling over the lens, casting a blue glare over that side of his face as data was uploaded to it somehow, from somewhere. Attached to his cranium, was a large headpiece shaped like the Papal Mitre, the symbol of the Mechanicus at its front, with wires and gadgets plunging into his temples from the sides. In his right hand was a walking staff made of a dark metal, and its top was an old cog speckled with rust spots. In the center of the cog was a hololithic, slowly spinning image of Golan. The bright blue and green gas giant hung there, lonely, as a sign of what system Archameus Rothesay represented.

‘Why did you run from us?’ he asked without hesitation.

Wellesly did not know what to say, to this.

‘I’m sorry? I-’

‘Do not play the fool with me, Captain. Before our initial communications, your ship began to turn. You even primed your weapon systems! You were going to flee from our approach. Why? What business do you attend to?’

Wellesly had to get a different matter out of the way, first.

‘May I ask who this is?’ he said with a hand up, trembling, towards the hooded figure.

‘This is my fellow emissary, Tensor Covariance RGR0. Please, remove your hood, Tensor.’ which this Tensor then did.

The face that sprouted into being was something beautiful, but handsome, its gender neutral, or rather male at some angles and more female at others. Wellesly couldn’t decide. It was pale, hairless, and had no eyebrows. It had eyes that were milky, but flickered with colour. Vat-grown. There was a vapor rising from its surface. It was slightly nauseating, and yet upon smelling it Wellesly felt the most relaxed he had been since arriving in the Golan system.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Tensor Covariance,’ Wellesly said carefully, making sure to get it right, ‘and you as well Archameus Rothesay. Forgive my lack of polite formality by turning away, as it was a bit of a shock for me to enter real-space a lone vessel.

The two emissaries did not seem to respond to his word choice of ‘shock’ like he would have expected a normal man of flesh and blood to. As always, it was next to impossible to accurately read them, anyway. They had no body language, their faces were distorted, and they probably communicated in numbers more than words.

‘You seem hesitant to speak, Captain. We were never notified of you or any other ships on their way to this system. Are you hiding something? Speak now. Speak!’ Rothesay pressed.

Tensor moved away to the side, looking down the corridor again, as if scanning it.

Wellesly threw his hands up in frustration.

‘Just… give me a minute! By the Emperor’s name-’ he trailed off, regathering himself. ‘My ship and crew are part of a much larger fleet sent from Ryza on our way to another system beyond this one. Since Golan was on the same route, Ryza’s Fabricator General instructed us to stop here along the way and check up on the mining operation here. Ryza’s command stated they have not received any communication from this system for months. However, I seem to either be the first ship to arrive, or the only one to make it out of the Warp intact and as planned. I have not yet figured out what has happened to them.’

The two emissaries looked at each other for a moment, Rothesay groaning in thought.

‘How many ships were in this fleet?’

‘Dozens, I cannot remember the exact number.’

‘I would advise you to seek memory bank enhancement. You will not have such issues, then.’ spoke Tensor Covariance RGR0 with a voice that slipped unnervingly between masculine ruggedness and silken femininity. ‘The Mechanicus knows the procedures required, bless the Omnissiah.’

‘What system was the fleet heading toward, after this one?’ asked Rothesay, further.

Wellesly knew it did not matter if he lied, so long as it kept him out of conflict, at least until more of his fleet arrived. He wondered if he was a prisoner here now; if these people would allow him to jump back into the Warp, back to Ryza.

‘Our business is in the Calixis sector, but the specifics do not concern you. I myself am privy to little of it, in fact. I am certainly not one of the fleet’s highest ranking officers.’

‘No, certainly not. You are a little man, Captain Wellesly.’

The Captain cocked his eyebrow at this.

‘Your facial movements and hormone fluctuations indicate that you are lying to me. I am an Emissary of the Mechanicus, Captain. I told you not to play fool with me. Protocol states that we must keep you here for the time being. The Golan Defense Fleet must be mustered. While speaking, our crew has detected a large incoming presence in the Warp. You have my word that we will not fire first if more of your supposed ships show up, but we will be as prepared as possible for the worst.’

Tensor Covariance RGR0 lifted the hood back over its head, concealing its face in shadow once more, before turning towards the catwalk that led back into the Golem.

‘Who leads this fleet?’ asked Rothesay, tapping his staff into the floor with finality.

‘Lord Militant Hektor Seleucus, and the ship you are waiting for, is the Hyperion.’

At this point there's just so much text that I was pretty sure I'd not get into it but then I saw that rarest of things on Dakka fiction. POETRY! Chapter 1 ii is it? The section ending
"I,
Am the executioner."

I really enjoy when there's something a little different in the writing. A little style change. A little less prose and a little more verse goes a long way.

Anyway, I'm joining the readership and citing that 'verse' 'canto' 'statement' whatever you consider it as the hook that reeled me in.

Awesome man, thank you!. I definitely edited Conric's litany quite a few times before being satisfied with it. I'm glad it came out well.

I am definitely aware of how the mass text sighting goes, heh. Even if it seems like something I am interested in, a huge amount of text tends to make me put it off until 'sometime later'...

But, ultimately, we have absolutely loved coming up with the background, plot, and characters and just genuinely enjoy creative writing and the 30k/40k universe. We figure, hey, if the occasional person comes along and enjoys it as well, awesome, it's free and we strive to make it as engaging as an actual BL novel. I would be awe struck if someone took the time to read the entire thing when it's finished, but if they do I hope they tell us lol. We might even do some art commissions for it or something.

Chapter Three: IV

There is an old tale, on Mundus Pyra, that is popular with the old-folk. Long ago, when the world was young, when the fields were green, the mountains still stood proudly, rather than broken and crooked, a prince ruled. His name is unimportant, forgotten, but his story goes thusly - The prince was young, ambitious and bloodthirsty. His father was peaceful, more suited to the harp than the sword, and for this, the prince hated him. He planned to overthrow his father, to butcher him and reign as the one true king, but on the eve of his betrayal, terrible howls were heard from afar, growing softer and softer as their source - A hound - Grew nearer. By the time that it was upon the prince, it was utterly silent, regarding him with vast, intelligent, golden eyes.

The hound was large, with white fur that shone in the moonlight, and ears, paws and snout of a deep, deep red.

'Begone,' The prince said, and turned away, but as he did so, the hound pounced. It tore away the prince's heels, and as he lay, crying for his soldiers and sycophants, more of the hounds came to him, quiet as phantoms. They circled the prince, and it is whispered, stole his soul - Herding him to the otherworld.

Ah, boy, you wrinkle your nose - A pagan tale? That it is, pagan and ungodly, but one that we Fire Lords carry proudly - I'm sure the Emperor, could he rise, would be horrified.

An old tale, indeed.

Alas, I digress. After the injury that Caderyn gifted me, I danced with the hounds. For a week, I slumbered, as they nipped at my heels, cried for my soul, as soft as a summer breeze. I still bear the scars, here - Yes, on my throat - From the swordsman's blade. Never has Illuminos' touch left me, nor has the sound of my skin parting - A wet, unpleasant whispering. They say that Caderyn visited me daily, so consumed by guilt was he, but in later years - When I called him friend - I knew that was untrue. Caderyn was a bastard, he devoted his time to that damnable blade of his, polishing it, sharpening it, refining his skills. He didn't fight with Illuminos, he made art with it. It was like watching a stream, all fluidity. But Caderyn was never at peace, never happy with his abilities. He was always searching for betterment, forever seeking the impossible, and grasping for the unattainable. Caderyn's duty consumed him, but whether this permanent struggle was self appointed, or self afflicted, we were never certain. He truly was the greatest, and the worst, of us all.

Speaking of brothers lost makes me thirsty, pass another drink.

Hah - Caderyn was the biggest prig that I ever came across. He knew nothing of my waltz with death, he felt no guilt. I doubt his ability to even feel it.

When I awoke, the world was a changed place. Brennus and Seleucus had met, fallen out, and now we Fire Lords drifted away from the fleet, silent and brooding, as the Lord Militant received envoys from Golan. Our Apothecary, Idris - More of a butcher than an healer - Informed me of this, as he examined my wound. He had sewn it shut, sloppily.

'Seleucus has squandered his greatest tool,' Idris said, clenching my jaw in his fingers. They left smears of blood on my face - From where, I knew not. 'And Brennus is too proud, too proud to bow down to lesser men.'

'Then why do we remain?' I asked, and immediately felt foolish.

Idris smiled, chillingly, and stepped away from me. 'Ryza,' He sniffed - Why, the Emperor-only knows. The apothecarium stank of antiseptics, sterilizers and blood. It was always the same - I hated the place, then and now. 'We are oath-bound, brother, to their service. An old oath, coated in dust and rust, but one that must be honoured.'

I pursed my lips.

'This displeases you,' Idris licked his teeth. 'And many more, besides. We are shackled to the Mechanicus, until this system yields or is sacked - If Golan is even rebellious.'

'You have your doubts,' I realised, rubbing my neck. Idris swatted my hand away.

'Don't do that,' He glared. 'We all share your doubts, Aeron. While you slept, no blood was shed, no swords were drawn. Golan is faithful, whoever says otherwise is blind, ignorant or,' He tapped a long, tapered scalpel upon his hip. 'Lobotomised.'

I smiled. 'Am I free to go?'

Idris looked at me, with those dark, watery eyes of his, and nodded. 'I believe so, Sergeant. Your wound has healed, ah,' He turned my head, tracing his work, and smirked. 'Rather nicely.'

As I left the chambers, feet clattering on the tiled floor, I heard Idris going to work on a cadaver. I vowed never to return to the madman, and I never did.

***

Porrex and Hudibras had remained aboard the Purifying Flame, as my honour guard, when Antigonus and the remainder of Second Company had returned to the Chariot. Kaer had been appointed their leader, by Brennus himself, until I was fit to retake command.

Neither had remained at my side. Hudibras, grim and unfriendly, had spent the time alone - Polishing the haft of his axe, a monstrosity of black steel that he, himself, had forged. He called it Headsplitter - And I had seen it do just that. Porrex, on the other hand, had sought out Caderyn and challenged him, to 'regain the honour of Fourth,' Hudibras explained, with a barking laugh. I curled my lips and made a rude noise.

'That foolish boy,' I shook my head. 'Where is he?'

Hudibras shrugged, running a cloth down the haft of Headsplitter, and grunted. 'I don't know.'

I sought Porrex out. When I arrived at his allocated barrack, the door was ajar, so I let myself in. His chambers were dark, untidy and stank. Porrex himself seemed different, kneeling before his armour, his hair matted with sweat and blood.

'Sergeant,' He said. Last I had seen him, Porrex had been as handsome as a statue, with high, hollow cheekbones and a straight, long nose. Now there was a disfiguring scar - From his brow, down across his nose, twisting the corner of his mouth into an ugly grimace, before terminating at the chin. 'I failed.'

Caderyn had been deliberate, I remember thinking. He could have killed Porrex with such a blow - But, rather, had let the boy live. This was a warning. This was Caderyn regaining his status.

I placed a hand on my friend's shoulder. 'I need warriors,' I said, sternly. 'Not broken things.'

Porrex nodded understandingly. Nothing else was said between us, and I left him in the dark, but the next time I saw the Marine, he had painted his face in such a way that the scar seemed brighter, more horrific than it truly was. He took pride in it.

I stood beside heroes, child. This is their tale as much as mine.

***

Brennus summoned me. I donned an ermine cloak, fastened a beautiful bronze short-sword to my hip - On Mundus Pyra, noblemen wore blades as sign of their lordship - And went to the Captain's chambers.

'Aeron,' He greeted me with an embrace, squeezing me tight, and a smile. His hair was lacquered into a single plait, running along the centre of his skull, threaded with gold-wire and precious stones. There were fresh tattoos around his grey eyes. 'You are well?'

'Yes, my Lord,' I returned the smile, untangling myself from his arms. 'I will never be a great orator - But I have returned to the land of the living.'

'And I am thankful for that,' Brennus slapped a hand on his thigh, leading me into his rooms. They were smoky, with a sweet undertone of incense, and the ground was covered in shaggy pelts. For a moment, I was home on Mundus Pyra, in the halls of my ancestors. 'We would be poorer without you.'

I smiled graciously. 'Your words are kind, sire,' And, believe me, I was not lying. Brennus seldom spoke admiringly.

'Here,' He handed me a winged chalice, filled to the spilling point with a rich, ruby-coloured wine. 'From my own casks.'

I sipped the drink. It tasted vaguely like oil and blood, something that all Astartes are familiar with, and burned my throat on the way down. Beneath his beard, Brennus was wearing a mocker's smile.

'Tastes like poison, does it not?' He said, finally, and laughed. He upturned his own goblet and emptied the contents onto the floor. 'Might well have been.'

I have said it before, and undoubtedly by the end of this tale, I will say it again - Brennus was a great man. Now, people say that Antigonus was the greater of the two - They are wrong. Next to Brennus, Antigonus was a beggar. Everything Antigonus does, the way he gestures, the way that he wears his beard and hair, the way that he fights - All of it was taught by Brennus.

'I am troubled, Aeron,' He said, sitting down on a campaign stool. He gestured that I should do the same, and I sat opposite him.

'Lord?' I raised an eyebrow at him.

'I came here to fight,' He clenched his hand, and his goblet broke into a hundred pieces. A world's worth of wealth, gone, I thought. 'Seleucus sits on his throne and plays the benevolent diplomat. Four embassies of the Golan Mechanicus have went aboard his ship, four,' He struck a fist into his palm, emphasising the number. 'And still he holds his forces back. They are delaying us - And Seleucus, that blind boy,' The contempt in his voice was obvious. 'Cannot see that he is throwing away precious time.'

'He was elected Lord Militant-'

Brennus snorted. 'Only to bind the Corinthians to Ryza's cause, Stormcrow. It was a political move, a masterstroke by the Fabricator-General, but nothing more. I took the time to read his service history, and he's not untalented, but this is thoughtlessness.'

'Perhaps, sire, you should present these points to the Lord Militant,' I suggested, quietly.

'No - Seleucus will stumble and fall over his mistakes, and he will learn. Aeron,' Brennus leaned closer. His voice was hoarse. 'I have a task for you.'

'I am at your service, Lord Brennus,' I bowed shallowly.

'Seleucus can have his dalliance with the Mechanicus, but that does not leave me crippled. You will be my ambassador,' He smiled broadly. 'My eyes and ears.'

'You are sending me to Seleucus?' I quizzed. He seemed amused by the notion.

'Not Seleucus, down to Golan Secundus, into the clutches of the Mechanicus.'

'Have you informed the Lord Militant of this?'

Brennus shook with laughter. 'I have not, and I will not, until I have my answers. The Fire Lords are at your disposal - Take what you need, who you need, and find the cancer at the heart of Golan.'

I nodded. 'It will be done.'

I knew who I needed.

***


Belenus came aboard several hours later, muttering and tutting, a gaggle of saggy-skinned servitors trailing in his wake. I met him in the landing bay, having donned my armour and a rich, scarlet cloak. I cradled my antlered helm in the small of my arm, my other hand hovering over the hilt of my chainsword.

'Aeron,' He said, tonelessly. 'You require my assistance.'

'Belenus,' My greeting was as toneless, and as cold, as the Techmarine's. 'I need your expertise.'

'And mine,' A voice rasped. Swathed in a dark robe, leaning heavily on his halberd, Mempricius limped down the ramp. Aether-light flashed in his eyes.

'And yours,' I nodded. Mempricius and Belenus shared a look.

'Why?' Belenus chirped, after a moment of wonderment.

'Because, brother,' I licked my lips. The words felt heavy on my tongue. 'We are going down to decide the fate of Golan.'

Chapter 4: I

Aboard the Hyperion

Day 6

A dog of war.

This is what men had called Leos Agathon. From the sounds of it, they never forgot to mention the leash Hektor Seleucus held over him.

He knelt before the Saint of Corinth, or a fountain-statue depicting him, rather. Leaning forward slightly, supported by his large gloved fist planted firmly on the moss and cobblestone, he gazed into his reflection amidst the soft ripples of water before him. He watched the miniature waves bounce off the groundwork and make their way back from whence they came. They never returned home though, always disappearing half way there.

It was a large fountain with The Saint rising above it toward the expansive ceiling, and the man-made waterfalls that flowed abundantly over the rocks he stood upon made a continuous rush of noise as they poured out onto the rocks below. It was almost thunderous, but only because he was so close to them.

A group of whores, harlots, courtesans, or whatever word to describe them the viewer preferred, were taking their break here. With such a large fleet, they were making the Seleucids a great deal of money, nevermind any potential prize from Ryza. They laid on the Saint’s feet and bathed in his flowing success. The water glimmered and sparkled with layers of coins that meshed together along the pond’s bedding. Their presence here was not offensive, it was not shameful, not to the Corinthians at least. Thanks to the giant Saint standing above him, nearly half of Corinths wealth obtained from foreigners came from their services. Corinthians were beautiful people, and they lived on a pleasure world. Nobles from all over the Five Hundred Worlds, and sometimes beyond even that, came to Corinth to relieve their stresses.

Families of Corinth had their individual trades. The Seleucids began their wealth in the breeding of horses, and the Argives, the Family of the Shipmaster Tiades, began theirs in fishing and shipbuilding. All Corinthian Families wealthy enough, dealt in the business of prostitution and all had their own group of men and women to provide this more global trade with varying specialties.

Agathon had never been one to gaze at the flesh for very long. He simply took note of their presence, always fixated on his purpose of serving and protecting Hektor.

He continued looking at his reflection. There was the red cape climbing over his broad shoulders, and the leopard pelt that always rested upon those mountains, affixed by a golden broach at his throat. Or, he used to see them as such, before being in the presence of the Fire Lords. His large stature seemed so much less to him now.

His black hair was slicked back over his scalp. The long scar that marred his face, running from his ear to his jawline, was even apparent in the water. His eyes were dark points of focused charcoal. The eyes of a killer.

He suspected many mistook his leash for something it wasn’t. What is was, was voluntary. If he was a dog, it was out of his ferocious loyalty for Hektor. He was born the son of Hektor's milk-nurse, and as such, a 'brother,' to the Lord Militant. As a child, he and Seleucus were inseparable, often causing trouble together. Though quickly gaining size over the Seleucid, his place in society kept him the submissive one. He was the bastard son of Seleucus’s uncle, but this meant little in Corinthian society, unless the man chose to acknowledge him, which he did not. After Agathon’s mother died when he was sixteen years of age, Hektor’s father freed him from the Family’s service asking one thing of the boy - That he never leave his son's side, that wherever he went, Agathon would go with him, whether that be to paradise, or hell.

He had done so ever since.

Without Hektor, Agathon had no direction. He was not born into any kind of wealth, and in all likelihood, would have become next to nothing. Now here he was, a Colonel of Corinth’s most powerful branch of military, sailing the stars with his childhood companion, gaining glory and power for his People.

He narrowed his eyes and glared into the pool. He was indeed, most certainly, a dog of war.

A few more seconds passed, and he noticed the ripples in the water no longer reaching the edge at all, let alone returning to their source. It was then that he felt the presence behind him. He did not jump up as if startled, though. Instead, he slowly rose his head and straightened his back, letting his arm hang over his knee for a moment before standing, breathing deep as a cloud of mist drifted past him.

‘You appeared to be in a state of retrospection. I have learned I should not intrude on this type of processing. May I speak to you now?’

Agathon was acutely aware of the fact, that he had never heard such a voice in his life.

A dark red hood, slowly, very slowly, crept into the corner of his vision as Tensor Covariance RGR0 leaned forward to look at him.

‘You are Leos Agathon.’

Agathon finally turned toward the emissary.

‘Is that a question?’

Tensor straightened, now that it had Agathon’s attention, and repeated itself. Though its tone seemed slightly different this time.

‘You are Leos Agathon.’

He stared at the Mechanicus envoy for a moment, finally giving a simple nod of acknowledgement.

‘I understand that you are the Lord Militant’s protector.’

‘I am the Colonel of the Corinthian 41st, often called the Pride of Corinth by some, the Glory Boys by others, but currently called the Lord Militant’s Own.’

‘This is Lord Seleucus’s...personal regiment, then.’ Said the emissary, waving its hand through the air as it did so.

‘You should learn to make it clear whether you are asking a question or simply stating something. I suppose, that you may not be accustomed to using words.’

‘What is the difference between stating something, and simply stating something, Leos Agathon? That is a question.’

Agathon grunted, baring some of his teeth. He did not bother responding further, seeing those he had been waiting for calmly approaching them, their heads rising over the gentle hill nearest the fountain of the Saint. He gestured for Tensor to take notice as well, who glided across the ground beside him as he walked with purpose toward the group.

First and foremost, in Agathon’s mind, there was Hektor. Then there was the fleet leader, Admiral Kassar. Hours ago, the rest of the fleet had finally arrived, and the Admiral was eager to bring himself up to speed on what had transpired over the past several days. The Mechanicus emissary who so far seemed most prominent, Archameus Rothesay, walked with them. Two sentry Skitarii were at his side. An Astartes in much duller yellow armor than the other Fire Lords he had seen eclipsed them all, walking the rear.

They came together in a rectangular stretch of cobblestone.

‘Leos!’ shouted Hektor with a warm smile, ‘The Fire Lord has finally joined us, so we may begin the day’s discussion with our Golan representatives.’ he raised hands to both Rothesay and Tensor. Agathon had gone to the fountain of The Saint because he had tired of waiting for one of the Fire Lords to show up to the meeting. It had almost calmed him, if not for the interruption of the Mechanicus envoy following him.

‘The damn Commodore has yet to show up.’ Stated Kassar with a furrowed brow, clearly aggravated.

‘I wanted Nymeros here more to listen than anything. He can be debriefed later.’ waved Seleucus dismissively.

‘You don’t look like the others.’ Agathon said, looking up at the Space Marine. His armor was not only duller in color, but lacked the many fetishes and intricate designing of the others as well. There were no flames painted across its surface, no red or orange sections of armor. Besides being far bulkier than the others he had seen, it also seemed...old. His hands were encased in two massive lightning claws.

His head was clean shaven. His left eye was missing, scars snaking out from the darkened socket. His right eye was a bright green, alive as ever. When he spoke, it was much gentler than the others, a sweet song compared to the crushing of syllables that cursed his brothers. Still, it was just as powerful.

‘Do not tempt me, mortal.’ he said, glaring down at Agathon.

‘Lord Brennus was scheduled to join us. You have not yet clarified your position, Sir.’ Stated Hektor, ‘Are you in charge of the Fire Lords now?’

The Marine laughed, and laughed long enough to begin making the rest feel uncomfortable. When his lengthy decrescendo concluded, he finally spoke.

‘No.’

He reached his hand up to the large, slightly curved hilt wrapped in dyed leather, being careful to swing the deactivated lightning claws over the top of the handle before gripping it. He drew it just enough for his audience to witness the cold, shimmering steel that seemed to breathe its power upon contact with the air. Even if he had wanted to, he would not have been able to fully draw the sword at such an angle.

‘I represent Lord Brennus. I am his Seneschal, Virar Gwaith the Swordbearer, and Master of the Household.’

Tensor Covariance RGR0 leaned in towards Hektor.

‘I believe the sword is Lord Brennus’s weapon, Lord Militant. It must serve as his symbol.’
Despite Tensor’s low volume of speech, Virar Gwaith immediately responded.

‘Soluis - The sword that split a world. I also bear the armor of our Chapter’s founder, Ancient Locrinus. It represents the Chapter as a whole. The weapon, is who currently holds its voice.’

A hmph was heard from Archameus Rothesay, whose staff tapped the stone in annoyance, but it was Tensor who spoke.

‘I was very much hoping to meet Lord Brennus, Virar Gwaith the Swordbearer and Master of the Household. Why does he not represent himself?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Rothesay, ‘Did he know everything that we would ask? Did he provide you with every possible answer? How will he contribute to the discussion?’

‘Why does it matter?’ Virar Gwaith replied, calm.

Tensor showed no emotions, but Rothesay appeared quite taken aback at this.

It was at this moment that a young man, and even younger woman came laughing over a small arched bridge nearby, that led to the fountain of The Saint. It was Commodore Nymeros, who in very little haste kissed his harlot goodbye, smacking her behind as she ran into the fountain to join the others. She went away laughing as Nymeros straightened his uniform and began walking over to the group, who were all staring in his direction, except for Tensor Covariance whose eyes were fixed on the harlot. The half-naked girl abruptly fell to her knees in the pond water, stopping her giggles short with a high pitched ‘Ow!’. She brought a bleeding knee cap up out of the water, which caused the Commodore to hurriedly turn and wade in after her, fully clothed, calling her name.

‘Let us walk, everyone. Calm your tempers. I am sure we will figure out everything that we need to.’ said Seleucus, beginning his trek down a winding pathway.

The talking began. Agathon did not bother listening, as these things did not concern him. The emissaries had their protection, he noted again, eyeing the skitarii guards. He was Hektor’s.

They passed hanging, bulbous flowers that looked like peaches. They passed more that seemed to follow them as they walked by, colored in swirls of white and blush. They walked over more bridges, some with water calmly trickling beath, and others with a rushing current from a small waterfall. They spoke of what the fleet was sent here for. Seleucus had not lied to them, like the captain of the Iron Duke apparently had. He told them of the message, of the silence and suggested threat of rebellion. They had gone over this before, but it was for the newcomers’ benefit as well as giving the emissaries a chance to express further details explaining why they were not usurpers. They explained the many reasons why Rho Theta was busy, but that he was preparing to greet them formally on Golan Secundus, where the system’s Hive City was located. Seleucus had been asking to meet him everyday since his arrival. Rothesay, who did nearly all of the talking now, expressed their sincere apologies each time. Hektor mentioned checking the condition of the orbital plates in the mean time. It was stressed that Rho Theta XVII insisted on at least meeting with them before their investigation.

There were many species of birds flying freely throughout the vast chamber, all birds of paradise specifically selected for this area together because they were not natural enemies. Several small birds already sat along the top edge of Virar Gwaith’s shoulder plates and power unit. Agathon then noticed a songbird perched on top of Rothesay’s large hat-like headpiece as well, who then waved it away with his staff. The bird flew to the ground where it stopped and hopped into a flower patch. In fact, there were no birds flying directly over them. They were all perched, fluttering occasionally, or walking along the ground beside them. Agathon raised an eyebrow appearing quizzical, but said nothing of it.

They had moved on to Seleucus’s personal military background, somehow. The Admiral was adding in some chronicles of his own. They also asked Rothesay if the Golan system had seen any threats since its colonisation. Nothing more than a few pirate raids, apparently. The number of ships in the system checked out. It was the same number they had when Rho Theta XVII had been sent there to oversee the mining operation.

Agathon noted a handful of Corinthians attending the scenery. Though it was their job aboard the Hyperion, they rarely seemed to mind. Like their physical appearances, the aesthetic of their world was also a high source of tourism, income, and thus pride for them. It was the second global trade of Corinth.

‘Repair our relationship to Ryza?’ asked Rothesay, harshly. ‘This is what concerns us the most, Lord Militant. Your Captain Wellesly felt the need to lie to us. You come bringing with you an immense war fleet. You ask us to repair our ties with Ryza when we have done nothing wrong. From what I understand, they have continued to receive our shipments without dilemma. They have become bothered by paranoia, and have decided it easiest to erase us. I am not ignorant on the subject of heretical investigations. You and your men will search until you find something, anything that is deemed heretical. You might not even bother searching first. How can we trust you? With this fleet of yours, you could wipe out the entire system and return to Ryza claiming victory over traitors to the Throne.’

Hektor looked appalled, as did Kassar.

‘How dare you suggest I would do such a thing.’ said Seleucus.

‘I dare, because in our view, it is a strong possibility. You are young for a Lord Militant. You are ambitious. You come from a wealthy family that expects much from you, and there is nothing stopping you from destroying us and returning to Ryza to attain whatever rewards they have promised you. I am certain the Council of Ryza would be much more relieved to hear us all dead, than a possible threat still lingering in one of their largest resource enterprises. Ryza could likely replace every worker here within two years!’

‘I would never waste the lives of those I command in such a manner!’ shouted Seleucus.

‘Nor would I,’ added Kassar.

Rothesay pointed a pale, lengthy finger at Kassar.

‘You, I believe.’

‘How do you know when a life has been wasted?’ asked Tensor Covariance, suddenly, turning its peculiar face toward Hektor.

‘Indeed,’ continued Rothesay, ‘If we did happen to be heretics and men died leading you to victory, what is the difference if they were to die on a lie that we are as such? You still come out on top, either way. Surely you must see why we ask you to be patient with us. If we are anything but at our most prim and proper, it only serves to increase the chance of you slaying us where we stand.’

Agathon gripped the hilt of his sword, ready for anything. Virar seemed content to quietly observe.

Before Hektor could reply, he received a message to the vox system at his ear. After listening to it, he looked at the ground for a moment, carefully contemplating the words he would choose to speak. Though he managed to control his tongue, he looked up at Virar with fury in his eyes.

‘Why is a Stormbird headed towards the Hive?’

‘What?’ shouted Rothesay, ‘You see? I am correct! We had an agreement that you would wait for us to prepare, and you send Astartes to investigate behind our backs! Do you know anything about Astartes, Lord Militant?’

He waited, but Hektor clearly did not know what to say in this moment.

‘As far as they’re concerned, as I’m sure you are as well, we are already traitors!’

Hektor looked up at Virar again.

‘What do you have to say about this?’ he demanded, ‘Why are you sending forces down? I did not order any such thing!’

‘I have nothing to say on the matter.’ Virar Gwaith said, again, calm.

‘You can stop lying now, Lord Militant. Your ploy has been revealed. The only question I have now is, will you even let us return to our craft, or will you simply kill us right here?’

Seleucus grabbed Rothesay’s robes, alarming the ambassador and causing his digital monocle to fall, dangling from its chain and wires. The two Skitarii brought their weapons to bear, but not before Agathon jumped between them, sword already blocking their potential swings.

‘I will shoot that Stormbird down before I let it ruin the promise I made you.’ said Hektor, releasing his grip on Rothesay with a shove.

‘I would be careful, if I were you.’ said Virar, looking down at Hektor Seleucus.

‘Brennus forces my hand! I must go to the Bridge. You are all free to leave if you so wish. We can delegate tomorrow after I’ve kept my word to you.’ said Hektor already marching off. The Admiral didn’t miss a beat, keeping up with him.

Virar Gwaith made to leave as well, taking his own way.

Agathon relaxed his stance as Rothesay fixed himself.

‘I’ll show you to your ship.’ he said to the members of the Mechanicus

‘We do not need assis-’ began Tensor.

‘I will show you, to your ship.’