"Oh, merciful Emperor on distant Terra, protect our souls," Sergeant Pivius of the 574th Scintillan Fusiliers regiment managed to force out.
The bitter metallic stink crawled into the soldier's nostrils, making him regret he hadn't brought a rebreather. What barbarism. Colonel Astolfo's officer's cabin—once adorned with such reverence—now presented a rather sorry sight. Antique furnishings, parquet trimmed with a rare wood worthy of the High Lords of Terra themselves… all of that splendor had been destroyed in the most barbaric fashion imaginable.
Everywhere there were traces of autogun fire. Wine from shattered racks spread across the floor, slowly mixing with the blood of the murdered. The noble commanding officer of the Scintillan Fusiliers, Abel Astolfo, five of his personal bodyguards, eleven valets and attendants, and twenty-three camp whores lay piled into a small mound of corpses by cold-hearted killers.
To be honest, looking at this slaughter, the sergeant wanted to offer his hearty breakfast back up under the Emperor's gaze. Perhaps if he had ended up here with his servants instead of the soldiers under his command, he would have vomited without a second thought—but now was not the time to show weakness. Madness among the rabble during warp travel was common enough, and here it was a warp storm besides. Yet Pivius could savour the irony of the situation in full. The heir to one of the most influential Houses of his native Scintilla had been butchered by a mob of madmen in a galaxy foreign to the Emperor's servants. Significant changes now awaited the 574th.
***
In the darkness of half-abandoned corridors, a massive figure tossed aside a spent autogun with faint contempt. His light Phobos armour was hidden beneath a camouflage cloak, while the helmet of his power armour bore a terrifying skull image. Matte-black plate with yellow pauldrons marked the angel of death as a brother of the Sons of Anathema—though the dead targets would share that knowledge with no one now.
***
From the very beginning, this path led toward inevitable death. Every possible future ended in a black veil of uncertainty. Whether it was the influence of dark powers, a mighty Ork warboss's "WAAAGH!!!!," or simple human nature, the outcome always remained the same. Every thread broke off hopelessly at the shrine world that the mon-keigh, in their ignorance, designated "Minwantis Secundus."
Irilith "Dreamer" of the craftworld Kalm-Melok smiled at the thin irony that had quietly woven itself into the course of her own thoughts. The red-painted pauldron of her rune armour clearly marked her as one of Ynnead's followers, but to her it also meant a challenge thrown at fate itself. Whether it was the hungry predators of the warp, intergalactic devourers of life, or the ancient enemies of her race rising from their tombs… it did not matter. The Farseer was ready to do anything for a guaranteed future for her people.
Providence. Inescapable doom. Such things had always run counter to her very nature. For thousands of lived cycles, Irilith had stubbornly proven the opposite, like one already condemned. The crusade of mon-keigh religious fanatics who, in the throes of frenzied rage, destroyed everything in their path; the breach of She Who Thirsts' servants through sealed Webway gates; the chaos and discord brought by the coming of the Datedian… And finally, the awakening of the god of the dead had become that small ray of hope that could radically alter the fate written in the prophecy of Rhana Dandra.
For the followers of the god of the dead, the return of the ancient enemy was like a blow to the gut. The glorious days of the mighty Aeldari empire were long gone, leaving behind only pitiful shadows of former greatness. A scattered handful of survivors whose souls She Who Thirsts hunted without rest could hardly offer the Necrons worthy resistance. The old enemy itself had not yet regained full strength, but the reunification of the fractured dynasties was only a matter of time for the Silent King, returned from the void of deep space… and not as distant a time as many would have liked.
The final act in the Laughing God's play had reached its climax. A priestess of Ynnead and the followers of She Who Thirsts locked in a last, fateful confrontation, with the souls of a dying race as the stake. The Silent King… that cold machine had chosen an excellent time to return. In such a situation, the humans' proposal of an alliance against a common enemy was akin to a blessing sent down by the long-lost Aeldari gods. Using чужие руки to destroy enemies had always been a favored tactic among the inhabitants of the craftworlds, and when the tools themselves drift willingly into your hands…
The mon-keigh did not know the Necrons as well as their ancient Aeldari enemies did. The servants of the dead Emperor did not know how to fight the suffocating grip of mechanisms wrought from black stone. The saving answer could be the "Flame of Vaul"—an artifact from the ancient days of the War in Heaven which, within a limited area, reversed the suppressing effect of the monoliths that choked off contact with the Immaterium. An artifact which, according to the runes, had been buried on the crownworld Aksha-Reya, now known by the ridiculous name "Minwantis Secundus."
It was far from the first time that mon-keigh had built their cities atop the ruins of bygone civilizations. Some among the followers of the god of the dead considered this race of absurd parodies of the Aeldari to be mindlessly breeding locusts, little different from Orks—or from the comparatively new scourge to all sentient life in the galaxy: the Tyranids. Still, where once the Aeldari, to reclaim the "Flame of Vaul" for the Elder People, would have had to spill a great deal of blood storming a well-fortified human world, now there was a rare chance to settle everything "amicably." If only not for the "inevitable" doom hanging over every accessible thread of the future…
For her part, Irilith found certain traits of the servants of the dead god worthy of respect. For example, their willingness to stand to the last, to sink their teeth into any chance to prolong their existence by even a single day—a quality she valued highly in others. Qualities her own craftworld so sorely lacked. That was why she had volunteered from among Ynnead's followers, even if it meant a one-way ticket.
And yet… another galaxy, where Irilith scarcely felt the presence of She Who Thirsts. The sense of the Immaterium here was so unfamiliar that the Farseer's head spun at first. It was as if you had breathed stale air your entire life, and then one day managed to take a full breath at last. The warp as she understood it seemed to be separated from Irilith's mind by a thin, half-sentient film that did not allow the hungry predators of the Beyond through.
Yes—the inevitability of doom was, once again, somewhat exaggerated by cowardly Seers unwilling to go to the end. Before Irilith's inner eye rose enticing prospects of the future to come. The only question was how she would play the cards hidden up her sleeve. Fortunately, the right instrument for realizing those prospects was always close at hand. It only needed a slight push in the direction the Farseer required.
***
A long, drawn-out siren announced the imminent deployment to the planet's surface. At the feet of the Emperor's rage made metal, the servants of the Machine God bustled, chanting psalms in binharic as they completed the final preparation rites before sending the blessed engine into the very heart of battle.
Linked into his command throne, Freeblade Baron Theodor von Kusland bit at his lips, savoring the glory to come. Just think—an entirely different galaxy… At first, rumors of the Astronomican's light being gone had genuinely unsettled the noble lord. The very appearance of the Cicatrix Maledictum in the heavens had been interpreted by many as the harbinger of the End Times, and now this, too…
"This galaxy had better find us worthy foes whose deaths will not stain our blade's honour!" The voices of ancestors also savored the coming battle.
An unfamiliar galaxy, where the faithful servants of the Emperor had never set foot! More than that—his "Justice of the Faithful" would be among the first to take part in battle! Even if his target was only some small town on the planet's surface, how many could boast that they were among the first to bring purification from the accursed xenos to the worlds of a new galaxy?! Though in the future, he would prefer fighting great monsters or enemy Titans…
"Let the whelp not disgrace our glorious name again," came the previous rider's tedious grumbling. The old man had been a spiteful old bastard in life and had decided not to change his nature in death, either.
The speech of the Chapter Master of the Sons of Anathema, broadcast across the entire fleet, struck the prodigal son of the esteemed House Kusland to the depths of his soul. This was a chance. A chance to cleanse his name of the shame he had borne and return to his knight world in triumph—not like a beaten cur, but like a victor. Theodor would never again show the enemy of mankind his retreating back.
"Wait, why 'among the first'?!" the nobleman snapped at himself. "By the Emperor's sight, today my war-steed will be the first to crash into this glorious battlefield!"
"I'd better have that fool keep his word, or I swear by the ancestors, I'll fry him right where he sits on this throne!"
***
Orest Bloodmore watched as a swarm of tiny dots departed the fleet, battered by the warp storm, and raced toward the green-covered planet. The Ordo Xenos Inquisitor did not even know whether this chunk of rock out in the void had a name of its own. According to Intelligence, the planet served as a waystation hub for numerous bands of xeno-pirates, a few mining settlements, and other genetic refuse whose lives, on civilized worlds of the Imperium, would have been valued lower than the lowest mutant from the underhive's depths.
Even so, the armada that had gone to storm this miserable world—doomed to cleansing fire—could have made even Abaddon the Despoiler himself waver. It seemed the Chapter Master of the Sons of Anathema had decided to let his people blow off steam after a month of brutal trials in the warp boiling with rage. Still, the reason for such an act clearly ran far deeper than that alone.
"My lord, are you certain about your choice?" a woman clad in carapace armour bearing the distinctive symbols of the Adeptus Arbites asked, perplexed. "Taking only me as your personal guard is not the most reasonable decision."
Arturia Dotis, an Arbitrator Judge from the hive world of Tetric-Merkula. A faithful servant of the Emperor, an excellent interrogator, capable not only of carrying out orders but also of thinking. The servant of the Credo Imperialis had impressed the throne's agent with her talents when, by the time Bloodmore arrived on the planet, the judge had practically single-handedly exposed a Genestealer Cult. All Dotis had needed from the Inquisitor was his authority to mobilize the sector fleet to purge the world. No—talent like that is not simply let go.
"Believe it—if he wanted me dead, we'd have been dead long ago," Orest said with a heavy sigh, waving it off. "It's his ship, and it would take him no effort to arrange a couple of unfortunate accidents for overly curious agents of Holy Terra."
That was true. The Inquisitor's agent network, spread widely through the fleet, had already reported a wave of "accidental" deaths that had swept across the surviving ships over the last two Terran weeks. A chain of unrelated "accidents" suspiciously formed into a targeted purge of "unstable" elements.
A smug colonel who, following his petty feud with the colonel of a Cadian regiment, covered the man with regimental artillery fire at the very moment an Ork horde was crushing the Cadians' forward trenches. A young Ecclesiarchy preacher who, with fiery sermons, had already rallied a many-thousand-strong cult of religious fanatics around himself. A squadron admiral of the sector fleet—an idiot bloated with fat who had obtained his post through the patronage of his crowned uncle, the planetary governor of the sector capital world.
"I must voice my concerns, my lord." Dotis gave her master a skeptical look. "Perhaps the concussion you sustained on Minwantis Secundus did not pass without consequences."
Fearlessness in the face of the powerful was another trait Orest Bloodmore valued in the woman. The ability to meet the eyes of the mighty without flinching, and at the same time not cross a certain line oneself, was an important skill in their difficult trade. Any idiot can kick down a planetary governor's door, guns blazing with an Inquisitorial rosette held high—but then, most likely, the planet will have to be exterminated. Orest Bloodmore, an Ordo Xenos Inquisitor, apprentice to Lord Inquisitor Valtor Mef, preferred subtler work to slaughter. Not so his "colleagues" of the Ordo Hereticus. Fortunately, their cruiser, though it had survived the warp storm, still had unknown realspace coordinates.
"Don't worry so much," the throne's agent shrugged. "The Chapter Master, I think, wishes to come to a certain kind of agreement with us." Orest looked Dotis in the eyes, which still reflected sharp displeasure. "Still—tell our people to enact Protocol 'Terminus,' in case something… unfortunate happens to us."
***
Sister Palatine Redjulia, holding the familiar weight of a consecrated combi-flamer, led her detachment in the assault on a ridiculous townlet the locals, by some misunderstanding, had called the "Baron's Fortress." The Daughter of the Emperor seethed with anger, barely restraining herself from the sinful urge to tear these heretics apart with her bare hands (though her power armour would certainly have allowed it).
When a warp storm of tremendous power had crashed down upon them and the fleet had found itself in a completely unfamiliar galaxy, Sister Palatine had decided it was the Emperor's punishment for their failure to protect His shrine world from defilement.
When Redjulia learned that this galaxy was inhabited by humans who had never experienced the blessed light of the Master of Mankind, she blazed with hope—for bringing lost sheep back into the flock is the sacred duty of all servants of the Ecclesiarchy.
When Redjulia saw the seeds of corruption on the planet's surface—humans and xenos living a half-criminal life—she understood the role the Lord had chosen for her. Through flamer, bolter, and melta, she would cleanse this corruption-struck galaxy, flooding it with sanctified promethium! For the Emperor of Mankind!
***
In the dark corridors of the damaged ship, Brother-Sergeant Cleomen Agonia of the "Dismemberers" studied the corpses of the enemies he had killed with interest. Now that the veil of uncontrollable rage had fallen from his eyes, he could clearly see the abomination in plastoid armour that his chainsword had torn to pieces not long ago. They were humans. Copies of one man, to be more precise.
Two Terran weeks had already passed since their emergence into realspace. Whatever hole the warp had thrown them into, local scavengers had already taken notice of the bleeding cruiser. At first, filthy-looking xenos had broken into the immobilized ship. The fighting men among those miserable wretches had been as pathetic as their gear. Now these toy soldiers…
Still, credit where it was due. Unlike the xenos, these abominations at least resembled a regular army in training and appearance and could almost have passed for some Astra Militarum regiment. But what had put Brother Cleomen on edge was not the toy soldiers at all. A psyker led them into battle. A psyker perhaps not powerful enough to pose a threat to his men, but skilled enough to stand against an angel of death on equal terms for a time.
"Brother-Sergeant, our augurs have detected the arrival of a fleet of twenty ships."
Sooner or later, it had to happen. The ship's plasma drives were crippled, and bringing them back online under their own power was impossible. It seemed that now his brothers would have to fight their last battle, to meet death as true sons of Sanguinius should.
"Can you identify them?" Agonia asked curtly.
"Yes, Brother-Sergeant. Our cogitators have recognized the Machine God's codes." The Space Marine handed the sergeant a data-slate. "Definitely an Adeptus Mechanicus explorator fleet."