Warhammer 1. Introduction

It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships, led by the former imperial Warmaster Horus, are beginning their campaigns against the corrupted Imperium of Man.

Against them, the nigh-immortal Emperor waits on his Golden Throne. Allied with him are the four Chaos Gods, eldritch nightmares thirsting for human suffering. The Space Marines, once the Imperium's finest soldiers, are divided. Horus Lupercal's own Luna Wolves lead a coalition of eight Legions that have declared open rebellion against the Emperor; two others have privately sided with the rebellion. On Terra's side, eight more Legions have remained loyal to the Imperium.

In the wake of the destruction of the Thousand Sons' homeworld of Prospero, a galactic war has begun in earnest. The Emperor seeks to ascertain the loyalties of the White Scars and the Alpha Legion, who have not made their allegiance clear. Vulkan, the Primarch of the Salamanders – once the most compassionate of the eighteen – is becoming more and more twisted by the whispers of a daemonic hammer. And in the cradle of humanity, under the Emperor's own feet, three legends begin a journey of their own.

The screams and pleas of the innocent will have no effect - not anymore. The age of debate and enlightenment is over. The dream of empire has ended.

The nightmare has begun.


	2. Chapter One

There was no denying it now, not now and not ever: his father had been known by many names over the millennia, and no doubt, god had been one of them before. He did not blame him for not desiring worship at first. All faith had ever brought was misery and death, persecution and horror. But that was then and this, this was now; that had been lies, and this was truth. His father was a warrior, an artist, a ruler, a builder and a god, all in one mighty spellbinding package. Who else could do the things he did? Not even Magnus could achieve everything that his father had done, and would do in the future. Whosoever denied the Emperors divinity now was mad, and therefore there was only one course of action left open with regard to them. And if innocents were to be forever cast into the pits of hell along with the heretics, well, Vulkan had thrown off his compassion a year ago. The true sons of the Emperor would continue the Great Crusade.

They had all been summoned here; the news of Angron's success in destroying Prospero and most of its people, many millions by the last count, had pleased the Emperor. However, Magnus's and his sons' escape to a world unknown had not pleased him; and as Rogal cast a wary eye at his silent brother, he could almost sense the fires of shame burning in his eyes. He had killed every one of his sons who had failed him when they had attacked the _Photep_. The human and Astarte crews of that World Eater vessel, _Angron's Wrath_, had certainly lived up to its name. Dorn had asked his father not to judge Angron too harshly: after all, none of them had expected Leman to side with his old nemesis. Still, Angron had been made to endure the torment of his father's disappointment; the scars would take a while to heal.

Finally, after seventeen hours of communion with the powers of the Warp, the Emperor began to speak. His voice, like his face, carried different aspects to each Primarch, which of course depended entirely on how they viewed him. It may have sounded gruff or soft, regal or calm, powerful and menacing, all these and more. But, no matter how they saw him or how they heard his voice, the words were the same. He opened his eyes and focused on Vulkan, and Vulkan alone, for the moment.

"I have a task for you, my son, one that you and your Salamanders would excel in."

Vulkan moved to one knee almost immediately. "Name it, father, and it shall be done."

The Emperor moved from his throne and came down to stand before the kneeling Vulkan. He rested his hand on his son's shoulder and bid him to rise. Vulkan did so immediately, in one fluid motion. "I want you to go to Chogoris: I want you to meet with the Khan. I know he is there, overseeing recruitment and seeing to the bolstering of his world's own Imperial Army regiments. It has been a while since he was last there, I believe."

"Twenty-seven years, father," Lorgar confirmed quietly.

"Thank you, Lorgar. It will be a while before he will return when he is finished there this time. I want the mighty Warhawk with us. Jaghatai would be an exceptional addition to the ranks when he is here. His White Scars are faster than even the Lion's bikers. I long to have the sons of Chogoris within my chosen circle."

"I will do as you ask, father." Vulkan stepped back. "May I take my leave?"

The Emperor nodded and watched as Vulkan strode out the throne room, signalling to the two Custodians who opened the doors for him. The Emperor smiled to himself: always he had heard of the Lion's, Horus's, Guilliman's victories, for their names were spoken high and proud along with Sanguinius, Russ, Dorn and even Lorgar. And yet he knew that Vulkan and Jaghatai both had given much to the Great Crusade and were not lauded enough. This would bring Vulkan and his Salamanders into his own light; he wanted all his sons to have victory, and even Angron would have a complete victory one day.

"Now," he turned to the others, "I understand some Salamanders and World Eaters who did not wish to embrace the new order managed to find their way to the Thousand Sons' and Space Wolves' fleet."

Each brother looked at each other, wondering how their father could know this; all with the exception of Lorgar. "Typhon," he enlightened them before anyone could ask.

"You are seriously having a joke with me, a poor attempt of one at that," Konrad scowled disbelievingly.

"No, brother, I am not. Typhon and a couple of others are our spies in the camp of Horus, their so-called Coalition; it really is them and us now."

"Gather round, my sons, let us decide how best to proceed." The Emperor retook his seat and his sons sat around him on their own seats. To those who saw them, they might as well have been warlords making plans… which, indeed, they were.

* * *

The White Scars mingled with the native peoples, making sure that everything was as perfect as it could be in the nomadic tribes that made up the populace of Chogoris. Fathers were instructing their eldest sons on techniques that would see them through the hardships of the tournaments which, the Great Khan willing, would see their names carry much honour as a son of Jaghatai Khan.

Amongst the populace, in the shadow of the great Fortress-Monastery of Quan Zhou Palace, the sons of Jaghatai Khan walked, exchanging pleasantries with the older members of the populace and showing them great respect. Like in any nomadic tribe, the elders were seen as having wisdom beyond others from their great years. One of the giants garnered much awe and cheering as he strode through the busying crowds. Of course, the Noyan-Khan of the First Horde was indeed a sight to behold. His stature and honour scars spoke volumes about his experience, and with the great Jubal Noyan-Khan being here, everyone suspected the Great Khan himself would not be far behind.

Jaghatai Khan himself was sitting in his massive throne room, thinking about the events on Prospero. Even now, he was cursing himself that he could not be beside his beloved brother Russ when it came to fighting Angron's dogs. But the fact that he had not been able to help Magnus stung far, far worse. He respected Magnus for his wisdom, for despite the way some of his other brothers viewed him, Magnus was a never ending fountain of knowledge and hope. Now - well, now he was not sure what role the Thousand Sons would be able to play in the conflict. Many sons of the Wolf and the Crimson King had lost their lives defending what they believed in, but Russ himself was at least healthy, whereas Magnus...

He sat with his eyes closed, honouring the fallen from both Legions, and looked forward to aiding his Wolf brother against the enemies of man. Though he had not publicized his alliance with Horus, he had no doubt about which side he was on. Now, however, he was here to oversee the next choosing, and - in light of Prospero's fate - to ensure that his world was ready to defend itself from his mad brothers. Chogoris was a world of beauty and splendour, and he had not spent all his youth uniting the tribes for it to all be washed away by his turncoat brothers and tyrannical father. Besides, he also had to deal with the Dark Eldar, although frankly the savagery of the tribes made sure that those raids were inconsequential.

He opened his eyes slowly as Noray Singh came before him; the Khan of the Brotherhood of the Ideal, also known as the Second Brotherhood, bowed his head low.

"My apologies, my lord, our astropaths have received a message for your eyes only." He handed Jaghatai a data-slate and stepped back.

Jaghatai took a moment to look over his Second Captain. His dark hair was tied up into a tall topknot, and his moustache was beyond his chin. His battle scars and tribal marks made him second in the number of those only to Jubal, and the Warhawk knew well that some considered Singh as deserving a Noyan-Khan's rank. Those included, as it happened, the Great Khan himself. Jaghatai allowed himself a wry smile: he had chosen Noray personally. He had been one of the young warriors from his own tribe of the Talskars, and he had a fire in his eyes that much resembled Jaghatai's when he was younger, in the sense that he had ever been young. He had garnered many victories for the Scars and was rumoured to be Jubal's successor, should anything happen to him. In truth, Jaghatai would make him Noyan-Khan, but if Jubal fell the First Horde would be renamed. All too many of his sons derived undue pride from that position.

The Primarch moved his attention to the data-slate and read it. His brow furrowed deeply and he stroked his long moustache slowly, a sign that he was not altogether certain about what he was reading or seeing.

"My Lord, is something wrong?" Singh asked.

"Probably, possibly not" Jugathi replied. "It would seem my brother Vulkan would like to have a conference with me."

"And you believe him, lord?"

"I do not know what to believe, Noray; I do not want to believe that Vulkan is part of this madness, but everything points to just that. I will accept his request, but I will not welcome him with our faces of peace. It will be a few days before he is here, time enough for me to oversee the choosing." Jaghatai rose from his throne. "Then I will see what the Great Fire Lord wants."

* * *

The _Promethean_ made its way towards the White Scars home world. In his strategium, Vulkan sat listening to a Warp-imago of Lorgar. It crossed his mind that none of them had seen Valdor or the Sigilite for some considerable time. Lorgar had taken up many of the Regent's former duties; he may have still officially been the High Priest of the Imperial Creed, but he was more than that as well. He had even killed his First Captain to stamp his authority, once and for all, over his Legion.

Vulkan's red eyes glowed eerily in the limited light of the sanctum, listening not only to his brother but also to the chattering of the creature bound to his Gorgon-forged hammer. It seemed to agree with whatever Lorgar said, but there was also an underlying chatter, one that told the lord of Nocturne that as a Primarch he was equal to all his brothers. He tried to analyze it analytically, now.

"Try and sway the Khan, brother," Lorgar gently said. "The last thing we need is for the fate of Prospero to befall the peoples of Mundus Planus."

"With Angron's actions, Lorgar, it is safe to say that Jugathi will not be so willing to be swayed easily," Vulkan reasoned. "In fact, he will have his home world's defences ready to react to a moment's action. Magnus and Horus were his two closest brothers, after all."

Lorgar cocked his head a little. "Do as your heart tells you, brother; you are part of a bigger destiny now. No more will they sneer at the Great Drake himself, and no more will the Salamanders be seen as a small insignificant Legion."

"And if Father cannot have his way?"

"Then you and I both know, brother, that it will be war. We are trying to avoid such a conflict, but if it must be, so then so be it."

Vulkan nodded and inclined his head towards his brother, breaking the connection. Somehow, he knew that it was already happening, the incessant voice of his Warp-gifted hammer had already told him the sparks of war were beginning. And if he was honest, he relished it, with a dark fire he had not known he possessed. He touched the symbol etched onto his hammer, the eight-pointed star of Chaos Undivided, and thought of the laughter of thirsting gods.

* * *

On the other side of Holy Terra, as it was now becoming known, was a land in the Pan-Pacific area known for its climate and its harsh conditions, which made it ideal for training Astartes, Custodes, and even the Imperial Army.

Deep under one of the oldest rocks in the centre of this land, a land known throughout its long history for many things - convicts, animal wars, drunken superhumans, sapient (and malevolent) reptiles - a small group suddenly had an inkling of what the first ancient peoples must have felt like. They had been here for weeks, waiting for a chance to get their charge to safety. It was getting harder rather than easier, though, with the Black Templars enforcing the new Imperial Creed upon the billions of Terran citizens and the Gal Vorbak looking for the Sigilite; they had to take their chance soon.

Amon sat beside Valdor and looked out upon the desert landscape, part natural and part artificial, that was a large part of this continent. The Custodes did not have bonds of brotherhood like the Astartes, fighting individually even when they fought together. But though not brothers, Amon and Valdor were friends, and when Constantin Valdor had decided to take the Sigilite out of harm's way, Amon had gone with them. With eight others, they alone were responsible for keeping the former second-in-command of the Imperium safe.

Neither man knew what had happened to their master deep under his palace, all they knew was he had changed, and none of it was good.

"I cannot believe Magnus is crippled" Amon finally spoke "He would be the only one to subdue the Emperor… listen to me talking about subduing the mightiest psyker that has ever lived. Who would have believed I would be uttering such words just a year ago, Constantin?"

Constantine shrugged but said nothing, his gaze watchful, his duty clear. He would get Malcador to safety. They would not be safe here for long, eventually they would have to move on, but if they could get off-planet and reach Horus then the Sigilite would be safe. Then, and only then, would he be able to honour his fallen Custodes, and there had been more than a few. Amon cast a glance at his commander: of them all, Valdor had been with the Emperor the longest, there even being suspicion that he may know the Emperor's true name. But whatever they had shared it was gone now.

The whoreson Lorgar would hunt them down because he would not forgive or forget the perceived slight Malcador played in the shaming of his sons. Frag, he would not be surprised to discover that this was all that blasted Theologist's fault in the first place.

"This is more than Lorgar could cook up, Amon."

Amon spun round to see Malcador approach them both and scowled a little.

"Forgive me, warrior, your thoughts are angry enough for me to pick up. I meant no intrusion."

"My Lord, you should not be here." Amon recovered from his annoyance. "We are camouflaged by our cloaks, you are not; and if the Emperor should see your imprint…."

Malcador held his hand up. "I am masking my signature, and I am tired of being cooped up like a gecken."

There was a silence before Malcador gave Valdor a meaningful look. Valdor heaved a sigh and told a somewhat reluctant Amon to check the perimeter of the rock they were perched on. Amon was not one to shirk his duty, but nor was he one to leave the two most respected individuals in their group. However, when Constantin Valdor said to do something, you did it. Even though their master was now a total stranger to them, Valdor still spoke with the authority that he had been given centuries ago.

Malcador sat his frame down and looked out across the desert landscape. "The ancients of this land called this rock Uluru," he mused. "It was sacred to them; you have seen the cave paintings?"

Valdor nodded. "From less enlightened times"

"Yes, this was a sacred site to the ancients. One story held that there was a war between the creator beings, and the resulting bloodshed caused this rock to rise up, coloured red with the blood spilt. Given the upcoming situation, there might be some ironic symbolism in those tales of the past and today."

Valdor glanced to the heavens. "He will find us eventually, Mal, you know Lorgar's accursed Gal Vorbak are on our tails."

Malcador nodded. "But we can beat them. We need to get to the disused station at Alyce Springs, get off-world, and head for either Ultramar or the _Vengeful Spirit_."

"And how long can we travel before he picks up your psychic imprint? Mal, you are powerful, but you are not him; no one is. Even without Magnus gone, I am not sure if there would be anyone to stop him."

"Magnus is not gone, Constantin; he is severely wounded but he is powerful in mind."

"And you have seen it?" Malcador nodded. "So, then, has the Emperor."

Malcador was about to retort when the colour seemingly drained from his face and he turned his face southwards. Valdor felt it too. It was power and terror on a primeval level, a contained rage that seemed to encompass the air around them and permeate through to their bones.

"_He_'s come with them," Malcador whispered.

Valdor got to his feet and called his men out. With swift instructions, he gave the care of Malcador to Amon, Tzeun, Ramas, Torn and Arten. He cut off any disagreements and arguments telling them their only mission was to get Malcador to Horus or Gulliman. They were Custodes, and the protection of the Regent was their duty.

Amon swallowed and rested his hand on Valdor's shoulder. "We will not meet again, will we, Constantin?"

"Do your duty, Amon, and fates willing I will see you there. If not, then I will see you in the next life, when we battle side by side once more."

Amon nodded and, with his men and Malcador, they began to move, leaving Valdor and the last of the loyal Custodes to the Imperial Truth, to face whatever wrath was coming their way.

* * *

Garl Hanal, one of the newest members of the Gal Vorbak, felt pure pride at serving in what had essentially become the Primarch's bodyguard and, simultaneously, the most elite unit of the Word Bearers. They marched to Lorgar's and the Emperor's orders and right now, under the leadership of the mighty Argel Tal, the Crimson Lord himself, they hunted with the Emperor.

Their task had started a few months ago, when Constantin Valdor and some of his elite Custodes had gone missing with the former Regent, Malcador the Sigilite. The father of mankind, already annoyed by Angron's failure to bring back the Crimson King and his elite cadre, had displayed a rage so incandescent that he chose to personally hunt down his oldest friends and punish them.

Lorgar had sent the Gal Vorbak to aid the Emperor; and although it had taken a long while to pick their scent up, finally they had. He looked around him and felt pride that man had, once upon an age, managed to live here. It had seemed inhospitable to him, but it was the genius and strength of man that ensured that Hive cities made this land liveable, at least before their destruction. He wondered why the Emperor had not filled this desert with towns or villages, but then again he could see why: the Emperor had left this desert the way it was as a reminder of what once was, of the serenity of nature but also of the wars that boiled the oceans away and turned much of the landscape to molten, blasted glass.

**"First time in Australasia?"**

He turned to see Brenton Harg, and nodded.** "This would be a good place to train, brother."**

**"We do what the Primarch and God tells us to do, and right now we are hunting. Argel Tal requires you and I to scout ahead, so let us allow the blessed beasts to come to the fore and hunt our enemies."**

Hanal nodded, holstered his bolter and closing his eyes, which allowed the daemon inside him to come to the fore. He had been chosen for the Gal Vorbak because of his scouting abilities and his devotion to the creed of Lorgar.

He had been killed, then reborn in the fires of the Gal Vorbak, his body changed. Hanal was already a well-muscled youth before the changes that had made him an Astartes; now, with the merging of his body with the demon Arc'alatha, the hunter was even bigger. His face altered, red eyes replacing his human eyes; fur came out along his body, then hardened into spikes. Two horns erupted from each side of his head, curling inwards like a bulls horns. His face became such that he looked like an ancient minotaur, his mouth filled with razor teeth; and with a nod from the Crimson Lord, he and Brenton Harg, already changed to his demonic half Arcatades, lopped off ahead.

The Emperor turned to the Gal Vorbak. "Malcador and Constantin are to be kept alive, and I will face Constantin, is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord." The Crimson Lord bowed his head, his hearts hammering in his chest as his deity spoke to him and his brothers.

Satisfied that his word would be obeyed, they continued onwards, and the Emperor gripped his sword. He did not want to kill his old friend: he could use Constantin's strengths, and all he needed was persuasion.


	3. Chapter Two

A world of lush greenery, soaring mountain peaks, snow white clouds and azure seas shone in the darkness of space. The ravages of pollution, so common in the populated worlds of the Imperium of Man, were pleasingly unseen here. Chogoris was the jewel in the crown of the sector, a region perilously close to the area of space called the Maelstrom.

As the _Promethean_ made its way towards the fertile-looking world, the giant on the bridge walkway gazed at the world appearing before him and went over what he knew about the origin world of the White Scars. It was a feudal world; and aside from the Scars using the levels of technology they were famed for, the populace had only just been introduced to black powder weapons, much like the Age of Progress in Terra's distant past.

He was here because this was the homeworld of his brother, the Great Khan, the warrior that had united a world under his banner. Nomadic tribes retained their way of life, but all bowed to the authority of the Great Khan; and Vulkan knew that for all their projected image of an army behind the times, the Scars were feared and for good cause. No one struck like the Scars; they were famous for their hit and run tactics, their speed, and their skills at riding the Astartes' assault bikes. The Raven Guard were known for their lightning aerial attacks, with use of jet packs, and the Night Lords for their night time terror strikes. However, when it came to lightning fast attacks by bike or land, none were better than the Fifth Legion.

He was aware of why the Emperor wanted the Khan, but whether Jaghatai would come over to the Emperor remained cause for concern. It was well-known that he was closest, among the Legions, to Horus and his Wolves, but also a friend to Magnus the Red; it was also known that he had, together with Russ, had restored Perturabo's honour when a plan by the Lion to capture one of the Comrade's citadels went awry. He honestly did not believe that Jaghatai would join the elite, and perhaps (in a corner of his mind that still retained his old, naive kindness) he did not quite want the Khan to do so. He gripped the hilt of his hammer tightly, listening to the voice that was forever guiding him and counselling him. If the Khan did not join the new order, then there would be only one outcome; and if that was the case, then Vulkan had come prepared. Behind the _Promethean_, the whole Legion's fleet manifested and kept their distance.

They were ready for their lord's order, to either welcome the White Scars to the Emperors new order… or destroy them so utterly that it would make Prospero look like a walk in the park.

* * *

The trials were over, and now the Legion of the White Scars was lined up and ready to receive their visitor. However, despite them showing respect to the impending entourage, there was an air of threat around them, from the highest-ranked Noyan-Khan to the most junior Novitiate; not one of them had not heard of what had happened on Prospero, nor had they been kept in the dark about what had happened to World Eaters and Salamanders who had not followed their fathers into the Emperor's new service.

This in mind, the White Scars were ready to deal peacefully with their cousins, but also violently if the need arose. Although, of course, not one of them relished the possibility that they might have to fight their own. Astartes did not fight Astartes, Astartes did not kill Astartes, it was a mantra that had been in effect since time immemorial; and, despite what they had been told or had learnt, they still found it hard to believe its reign had come to an end.

The Khan stood, with his First and Second Khans to either side of him and the First Horde's Terminators behind him. Jaghatai watched the Stormbird begin its descent; he could pick out the green of the Salamanders' colours and arched an eyebrow as he saw the firedrake head wrought to the nose of the Stormbird. It came down gracefully; and once the engines had settled, the ramp opened to reveal blackness. After a moment or two, six warriors of the Firedrakes came down the ramp, marching in perfect harmony following their First Captain Jarek Vas'ra. Jaghataix could see the scars upon his dark face from where he stood. He stayed his First Khan's attempt to move and shook his head.

"They come here uninvited," he whispered. "Let them come to us, not us to them."

The White Scar in question - Bavat Khan, leader of the Brotherhood of the Echo - stepped back and shared an uneasy glance with Noray Singh Khan, but then refocused his attention on the emerging Primarch. Whether Vulkan was a Primarch to be trusted or not, such was his power and his magnetism that every single White Scar moved to one knee. The Great Khan could not blame them; such was the mighty personality of a Primarch that only another could stand without effort in his presence. He nodded at Bavat and Noray, and they moved to one knee as Vulkan finally emerged.

Like all Primarchs, Vulkan exuded strength and power; and his youth as a smithy showed in the power of his arms, arms that the Khan believed put Russ or Angron to shame. His onyx skin glimmered with a sheen that seemed otherworldly and his red eyes, the strange genetic quirk that all the Salamanders had, glowed with an ember's heat. The eyes had something to do with the radiation in Nocturne's skies; and Jaghatai knew that it was the eyes more than anything else that seemed to scare the fight out of the enemy.

He wore armour wrought in emerald and jade, and across his back sat the skin of a great Salamander, one that he had killed when he had first met their father. The head formed the left pauldron, whilst a great claw sat upon the right one. He carried two hammers; one, however, was very different to the other. One he had used in his youth, constructed himself, and had battled his way across the stars with since his founding. The other was a thing of beauty, inlaid gold with the head of a Salamander wrought into the iron; and the Great Khan recognised the work of the Gorgon.

Vulkan looked around him and then, in a quiet and yet powerful voice, bid the White Scars to rise, as honour had been done. The White Scars did so and snapped to attention. Vulkan now focused on his brother. With respect to the Great Khan, his mission was clear; but as he gazed into the stone face of his nomadic warlord brother, he realised again that this was not going to be easy. He moved towards him, and Jugathi met him halfway, with an embrace and a whisper in his ear.

"Do you come to see me out of brotherly love, Vulkan, or do you come to do to me what Angron did to Magnus?"

Vulkan's red eyes widened a little and he was momentarily wrong footed, but soon recovered. "Father has asked me to speak to you on his behalf, alone, Jaghatai."

The Great Khan nodded and stepped to one side. The two brothers walked, side by side, towards the Khan's private sanctum; and the First and Second Khans of the White Scars watched the Firedrakes with suspicion.

* * *

Amon glanced over his shoulder and urged his men to pick up the pace; there would be no more time, after Constantin had battled the Emperor and his hunters. Malcador was the last, best hope, and if he died in this attempt to get the Sigilite off planet then, as long as he succeeded, his duty would be done.  
Malcador pointed to a small township, puzzling Amon, and the Custodes followed; this was not Alyce Springs, this was some place called Cutters Creek.

"My Lord…" Amon began.

Malcador raised his hand to silence him for a moment and looked around himself. He was not going to get off planet; he knew this, just as Constantin had known it. However, he would still do what he had set out to do; although this was risky in itself, it might just work.

"Amon, do you know how the Emperor came into existence?" Malcador asked as they headed towards Cutters Creek.

"No one knows, Lord." Amon glanced over his shoulder once more, hoping not to spot any of the Gal Vorbak. He was afraid of no one, but Lorgar's bastard merged sons had power that was from places he did not want to contemplate.

He really did not want to hear any stories about the Emperor, not anymore; all he wanted was to continue his duty and, the fates willing, get back to Valdor. Unlike the Astartes, who valued the bonds of brotherhood, the Custodes had no such bonds, only individuals who fought in their own styles and still worked well together; and yet Amon considered Valdor a personal friend: he was his mentor and the one who had congratulated him on getting closer than anyone else had in the Blood Games, when times were not so twisted.

"Some say that he was born to mortal parents, others say he is the product of ancient shamans," Malcador continued, as if he was oblivious to Amon's disinterest. "But, only he, I, and Constantin know how he came to be; and for this reason we had an inkling this was going to come to pass. So with that in mind, we came this way, knowing that he would follow us."

Amon turned to face the Sigilite. "You both knew he would hunt you down?"

"Of course; we and we alone know where he comes from and so, with that in mind, we concocted a new plan, one which would ensure word got to Horus but would mean that neither of us would escape the fate that has been ordained for us."

Amon was still unsure what the Sigilite was leading into; but when Malcador led them into the ghost town that had been Cutters Creek, he did not like the way the other Custodes moved away into a protective circle. Did they all know something he did not?

"As Constantin's favoured Custode, this task has fallen to you. My frail body will not be able to withstand a beating from the Emperor; I was barely able to recover from the blow given me by Lorgar on Monarchia."

"What are you going to do to me, Malcador?"

At a nod from the Sigilite, Tzeun, Ramas, Torn and Arten held a shocked Amon Tauromachian fast. Amon began to struggle, believing that his comrades had all come under the sway of the Dark Emperor; but it was not so.

Malcador leant in and touched Amon's brow. "One of us can get to Alyce Springs unnoticed more easily than a group of us. I am not long for this world, my friend; but I wish to impart some of my power into you. It will keep you hidden long enough and enable the message to be delivered to Horus and the others. This, my friend, is my last order to you."

Amon did not care for the powers of psykers; he did not even like them anywhere near him, the exceptions being Malcador and the Emperor. And yet the finality in Malcador's eyes stayed his instinct to lash out.

"What would you have me do, First High Lord?" he whispered.

"Just relax and then let this be my last stand. The mission is more important than the people, Amon; this, as a member of the Custodes, you know."

Amon closed his eyes and Malcador nodded. He was released, and Malcador began his work.

* * *

Vulkan walked with his brother to the throne room of the great fortress-monastery. He stood and admired the works of art that depicted the Khan's unification of the tribes and the coming of the Emperor. On the other side of the vast chamber were works depicting the victories of the Khan and his sons with other Legions and their own battles. Great banners hung from the ceiling, including not only the brotherhood banners of the White Scars but their tribal banners too.

Vulkan was amazed at how much the Scars sought to keep their heritage and their past omnipresent. The depictions of battle, by contrast, did nothing to surprise him; he had always known his brother to be a master of lightning strikes that could put the Night Lords and the Raven Guard to shame. Although the Dark Angels and other Legions' bikers could move and perform seemingly impossible combat moves, the White Scars were second to none in those domains. It was no wonder their father craved the co-operation of Jugathi Khan and his sons. Jaghatai had always followed the Emperor without question, for he was the Emperor and he was right, but in view of recent events Vulkan wondered if the Khan's bond with the Crimson King and his respect for Horus would win out over his duty and love for his father.

He was alone for the moment, and he took the time to think over what had happened in the Imperium's new direction thus far. He was accommodating to his brother's requirements when it came to a hands down fight, he was diplomatic where others might be pragmatic. He was reforging a good relationship with the Gorgon; the blade he had given Ferrus as a mark of love had been dourly accepted, and it was only when the two had finished prosecuting a theatre of war in the Harken System that Ferrus had taken him to one side and told him he had named the blade Drake, in his honour.

Vulkan's heart had soared at the words; everyone knew that the Gorgon's moods were like his home world of Medusa, molten and always shimmering with repressed anger and rage. In fact, in some people's minds, it was only his First Captain's influence that had seemed to stop him from becoming another Angron. But since news had filtered through of Santor's death on Mars, several months after Harken, the Gorgon (according to hearsay) had become more and more unstable - perhaps a dormant volcano awakening, or perhaps an active one preparing to explode.

Ferrus had, long ago, gifted him with a weapon that he now again wore by his side, a seadrake-headed bolter that Vulkan had named Mercurial in honour of the Gorgon's unusual hands. He now had to use all his diplomacy and candour to avoid any unwanted bloodshed.

Sometimes, in moments of clarity, he wondered what had happened to him when his father had brought him into the fold. His memories were increasingly cloudy on that matter: he had received the hammer, another gift wrought by Ferrus, and then void. He even pictured himself kneeling before his father, but nothing between that, getting the gift, and shooting his own sons. He drew in a deep breath at the memory of his sons' faces as he gunned them down, as brother turned on brother, cousin turned on cousin, which surfaced unbidden. For a moment, the briefest moment, he faltered in his belief that his course was right, though he never doubted that it was necessary.

_It is only natural to feel remorse at the deaths of your sons, Vulkan,_ the hammer in his hand that had been his constant companion since receiving it from his father spoke in his mind. Sa'gera was a voice of reason and it continued its chatter unhindered. _But sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Your father is on a journey that will make humans the rightful rulers of the universe; and like any father, he wishes his sons and his grandsons to follow in his footsteps._

"I do not want the death of a brother, any brother," Vulkan scowled. "There has been enough bloodshed already. I wish Father had sent me after Constantin and Malcador, instead of the Gal Vorbak. If we are to succeed in persuading our brothers, then this is not the way to go about it"

_This is true, my master, but there are some brothers that will not agree to this; and the only recourse is war or to prevent it before it even starts. Your compassion for your brothers is admirable, my lord, however your father's will must come before any fraternal loyalties. _

"And did Kor Phaeron and Gabriel Santor deserve to die because they felt differently?" Vulkan snapped irritably. "Did Magnus deserve to have his back broken and his world destroyed?"

_Kor Phaeron was calling the Emperor a fraud and Santor, I believe, was a mistake. Magnus went against his father's laws and therefore had to be punished. If you are not ready to do this, master, then may I suggest leaving and returning when you are?_

Vulkan sheathed his hammer to stop the chatter; he was not about to walk away from a sworn oath, but he would not blindly destroy a brother and his world because of a difference of opinion. He paced the throne room once more, his mind at conflict. One moment it was clear and calm, the next he was like a raging fire wanting to destroy what would not do as it was told; and he continued to rant to himself, unaware that the exchange had been overheard by a perplexed and concerned Jaghatai Khan.

_What has happened to you, brother?_

He had not heard the other voice; he had just heard Vulkan seemingly talking and ranting to himself, and the Khan began to worry that his silent and thoughtful brother was slowly losing his mind.

* * *

Amon had braced himself for the pain of psychic intrusion, but Malcador's gambit was not like that at all. He had seen what the Emperor was capable of when he had culled the ranks of the Custodes, but this was far from the awful pain those poor souls would have felt - pain so strong Amon had himself felt an echo. It was a gentle nudge, almost paternal and regretful in nature, gentler even than the Emperor had usually been in brighter days; but even though this was a regretful action, he was under no illusions. If he needed to, Malcador could be as violent with his psychic power as the Emperor had become. With that in mind, he opened his eyes and found himself on a landscape that was calming and beautiful.

There was a figure before him, young and strong; and he knew this was Malcador as he was seen on the psychic plane. Amon looked around him, taking in golden sandy beaches and a beautiful sea of green and blue. Around him, people were screaming with joy and swimming in a sea that no longer existed; they were carefree and loving the sun, under a sky not yet toxic.

He got to his feet and walked towards Malcador, the people around him oblivious to the giant amongst their midst; or maybe they could not see him, he did not know.

"Lord?" he whispered.

Malcador turned and gripped his staff, and Amon suddenly had an inkling of what Malcador was like as a younger man, if that had ever been possible.

"Forgive me for this, Amon."

"Is this how you spend your time alone?"

Malcador smiled a little. "It is a memory of better times, one that I have clung onto. The Emperor had a shining city in his mind, a place of wonder. I always had simpler tastes. Now, I have planted in your memory everything that the renegade Primarchs need to know." Amon did not fail to notice the abrupt change of subject. Malcador wanted this done and underway. "Use whatever means are acceptable to fulfill this mission, my friend; you came closer than any other Custode to assassination of the Emperor in the blood games, so do not fail us now."

"It will be done."

There was a slight flash of light and once more Amon found himself in the ruins of Cutters Creek. Malcador moved back. "Give yourself a moment to recover, my friend, for this is not an easy transformation."

"I am well, Lord." He got to his feet.

Malcador rested a gnarled hand on his arm. "Then go, my friend, using all your cunning and your skill; and get to Horus or Guilliman, whoever you deem fit."  
Amon bowed his head and, for a brief moment, looked back towards where they had come from; then he was gone. Malcador watched until he was out of sight, then turned to the remaining Custodes. "Prepare."

* * *

They came like beasts from a horror simulation. Constantin Valdor had seen them hunt traitors to the new design, had witnessed what had happened to the poor souls when they were caught. But whereas they were human, he was a Custode. He was made different to these abominations, and he would show the whoresons of Lorgar why it was he had been the Emperor's right hand and Lord of the Custodes.

He stopped the first of the Gal Vorbak with a timed swing of his guardian spear, knocking the possessed warrior sideways. Before he had a chance to recover, a blast from his spear sent the possessed warrior to his knees, and finally Constantin spun his weapon round and brought it down in an arc that cleaved the enemy from head to crotch and had him fall in two separate halves, his life blood pooling around his guts like some unholy and savage gift to whatever foul being he now served.

Garl Hanal stared as his pack mate Jan Torman fell in two halves at Constantin's hands and howled in rage. He wanted the bastard, orders be damned; and without thinking, he leapt over the body of a Custodes who was still fighting, despite the fact he was being torn to pieces by his attackers. His goal was clear; but, as he leapt through the air to reach his prey, he was slammed down by the Crimson Lord himself.

**++When I tell you not to attack someone that is what I mean; he is for the Emperor, not us++**

**++He killed Torman++**

**++Do not disobey me brother, less I rip the beast from you; now vent your choler elsewhere++**

Hanal narrowed his eyes. His choler was up and he wanted revenge; but the Crimson Lord was the alpha, he spoke with the authority of the Primarch... and yet Torman had been his friend since his induction into the Word Bearers and even, somewhat, before. He narrowed his eyes and he openly challenged Argel Tal's authority.

The Crimson Lord took the attack made upon him by one of his own in his stride. He had no need for any ostentatious show. The child had guts, but needed tempering. With a blow from his fist, he sent the younger Possessed to the floor and barred his own demonic visage.

Without a word, he battered him into unconsciousness and stepped back, calming himself. He was then joined by Xaphen; already, he had blood on his Crozius from the Custode he had battered to death whilst reciting the words of Lorgar.

**++What should we do with him? ++**

**++He has spirit and balls to challenge me, Xaphen; perhaps a course in temperance at your hands will be sufficient to teach him that we have a command hierarchy++**

Before the Chaplain could answer, they felt it. Indeed, all the Gal Vorbak felt it. The Emperor roared, silently and yet deafeningly; and the slain Custodes, each of which had taken at least one possessed with them, moved with the shock of his shout, even their dead bodies unable to ignore the call of their master.

Constantin was released from his hold by two of the possessed and got to his feet. He was bloody and bruised, and around him were the slain bodies of five Gal Vorbak that had been stupid enough to attack him. He got to his feet, his broken and battered helm lying by them, and grimly faced his former master. The silence was deafening, and not one of the possessed dared to breathe as their deity came into view.

"Constantin," the Emperor whispered, cupping his hand around his old friend's face in a fatherly gesture. "Why?"

"You are not the same anymore. I went along with your empire, but only until you slew and usurped the ideals we have been led by from the beginning. You have taken everything that the original Thunder Warriors fought and died for, following your emphatic words that there is no such thing as God, you have taken their sacrifices and the sacrifices of those who joined you, and you have thrown them all away, to be trampled in the dirt."

Constantin held his master's gaze; and despite their oaths, every single one of the Gal Vorbak respected the master of the Custodes more in that moment then they had in any other.

The Custodes were called the Lions for good reason, but here, amongst the death and destruction of their own and the Custodes that had fought with Valdor, stood the true leader of the pride.

"You ask for trust and loyalty? All my trust and loyalty for you went the day you killed my men and set brother against brother! How many innocent people died because you underestimated the Crimson King?"

His face snapped hard as the Emperor slapped him into silence and then stepped back. A trickle of blood fell from Valdor's mouth, and the Gal Vorbak murmured as they smelt the rich gene-code of the Custodes' leader.

"I tolerate much from you, Con, because of our past together. You have a rich history with me and you know me better than those who claim they do, perhaps even better than my beloved sons, with the exception of Horus. Do not suppose that our friendship will stop me from punishing you."

"I never assumed that it would. So go ahead, Master of Mankind." Valdor jeered the sentence. "You are no longer master of your own destiny, you are a slave to those creatures that you long ago made a pact with, then turned on. You think they do not know that? You think they have forgotten how you defeated them through cunning once before?" Valdor spat his blood to the ground. "Fight me to the death in melee or kill me with your psychic might, it will not change anything now. What I do now, I do for those that will come and those that have gone. I am not afraid of you, I never have been, and I never will be."

With a roar of anger the Emperor grasped his sword and went to strike his former friend; but Constantin Valdor moved his Guardian Spear up to block the incoming blow, and then countered with a blow of his own. He was no novice, he was no raw recruit, he was a warrior and the lord of the Custodes. He had put many a Primarch on their arses in his time, and he had no qualms about fighting the Emperor if the situation dictated, which this one did.

He did not mourn this fight; to his way of thinking the Emperor was already dead, killed in the Warp by whatever existed in there, and what was before him was not his beloved master. He landed blow after blow, and received more than his fair share back, but neither man gave a quarter of an inch to the other.

The Word Bearers formed a circle; it was like observing a battle of the giants from the old Romanii games, or maybe two ancient gods fighting in the heavens. This was not some easy put-down fight; whenever the Blessed Emperor struck, Valdor countered, and vice versa. The battle between the two men raged for hours, neither giving ground to the other, and it was a fight that not one of the Word Bearers would ever forget.

However, the outcome was inevitable, for Valdor was fighting with his full strength and the Emperor was not. The Emperor sank to his knees as exhaustion began to show on his body; and Valdor, knowing well that the Word Bearers would rip him to shreds given half the chance, stood over his master's body knowing that what he must do, he must do for the good of the Imperium. He spoke no words and raised his spear, ready to deal the killing blow, when the Emperor moved and ran his sword through Valdor's chest.

With a snarl of anger, he sent a psychic charge through the sword that caused Valdor to jerk like metal caught in a lightning storm. When his body fell, it was charred beyond recognition. The Emperor caught him and laid his burnt head on his lap.

"You should have trusted me, old friend," he whispered, his voice heavy with the grief that he genuinely felt.

"Better – I die – then live in whatever hell – you are creating," Valdor moaned, then closed his eyes. They did not open again.

The roar of loss and betrayal that erupted from the Emperor's mouth was incomparable to anything a Primarch could do, the last time he did such a gesture; but the Crimson Lord would never forget that Valdor fought with honour, and so ordered some of his men to honourably escort the body of the master of the Custodes back to their vessel. He would be given a warrior's burial, one that befitted his status.

The Emperor got to his feet without difficulty, as psychic power once again flooded his soul. "I want Malcador," he snarled. "He is responsible for Valdor's change of heart and I want him now. Find me him!"

"Yes, my liege." Argel Tal bowed his head and, once again, they went on the hunt.

* * *

Vulkan was getting a little lost in his thoughts, so lost that he did not hear Jaghatai's approach behind him. When the Great Khan placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, Vulkan flinched; and for a brief moment, it appeared that he was not even in this place. Jaghatai again wondered what hell had invaded the Great Drake's mind. Perhaps he could use this and get Vulkan to see what he had done. However, the moment briefly passed, and his dark skinned brother was himself, whatever that was, once more.

"It is good to see you again, Jaghatai." Vulkan smiled broadly, resting his hand on his brother's shoulders, the moment of instability unmentioned as if it had never happened.

"That, my brother, depends on what it is that you are here for and the end of this day."

Vulkan shrugged, an odd gesture for one of the Emperor's sons. He moved to the table and poured some native ale into a tankard, then drank some and made an approving noise. "Your people make mead like no other," he complimented.

"Except maybe Fenrisians," Jaghatai corrected. "So, what happened to Prospero?"

Vulkan took another swallow of mead and poured himself another, and one for Jaghatai, which he held out. "Magnus turned his back on our father; although father did not want Prospero destroyed, just brought to heel."

Jugathi set his tankard down. "Lying does not become you."

Vulkans' red eyes narrowed at the Great Khan's simple statement. He set his tankard down and stepped in front of his brother. Jaghatai could not believe what he was seeing: Vulkan was always the diplomat, always the voice of reason to some of his other brothers' impetuous natures, and yet he was now facing the Great Khan like some caged beast, waiting to be unleashed. The volcanoes talked of by the Promethean Cult burned in his eyes and his veins, and Jaghatai realised that Vulkan had always been the strength of his sons, and to that end his anger and his choler, whilst kept reined in, was no different to any of his brothers. He had to play this very carefully, very carefully indeed.

And instead, he had provoked Vulkan in every way, likely pushing him even more towards his father. No, he did not want a war on Chogoris, and it was time he ceased to drive towards one.

"Sending Angron does not validate your sentence, brother, which is all I meant," Jaghatai conceded.

"Lorgar felt that it might make Prospero come to heel quicker; however our father did not want that much bloodshed. He merely wanted the Thousand Sons to come to him, as he does all his sons and grandsons."

"Surely Vulkan you, one of the most reasoned of us, can see this is not anything like how our father operates. Sending Angron was like sending Russ, overkill." Jaghatai lowered his cadence, extinguishing any hint of threat in his voice. "And brother, since when does Lorgar speak for Father? What of Constantin Valdor and, more importantly, Malcador?"

"Since Lorgar was appointed the new regent," Vulkan answered as if it was the most natural explanation in the world. "The Imperial Truth is gone, father has said that everything he believed was a lie. He has lived a lie and he intends to rectify that lie. Lorgar is the Pope to the Emperor's ascension."

"Pope? Ascension?" Jaghatai was hearing those words in disbelief. "Listen to yourself, Vulkan, the very words you speak were words that caused so much pain and anguish on Terra millennia ago. The very tenets that the Emperor unified Terra with, and founded the Legions and created us has been destroyed because Lorgar has somehow got into his head…"

"NO!" Vulkan's angry shout silenced the stunned Jaghatai. "_Father_ went into the warp and received his answers, answers to questions that had been plaguing him for centuries. Lorgar had been vindicated, that is all."

Jaghatai walked to his great throne and sat upon it. "And you are here to what? Persuade me to give up everything I believe in and fall into line with father? You know I cannot do that, Vulkan. I never have embraced, and never will endure, the lies of lords."

"I need you to listen to me, Jaghatai, very carefully. If you do not follow the Emperor's orders, he will order me to do something I do not want to do."

Jaghatai sat forward in his throne and cocked his head to one side. "You are threatening me, brother? Is this how it is now?"

Vulkan shook his head "I am merely stating a fact, brother; and the Emperor has never looked kindly on revolt." He touched his head a little as the voice of his hammer urged him to strike his brother down now, take his soul and…"No, stop, stop, stop!"

Jaghatai jumped and looked around to see who it was that Vulkan was shouting at. He could see no one around. Vulkan moved to one of the windows that looked out upon the villages of Chogoris. Jaghatai watched him for a moment and then, getting up, approached him carefully.

"Vulkan, brother of the forge, please, let me help you."

When Vulkan span round he had a mask of anger and hunger on his face that caused the Great Khan to step back; and he could see his brother visibly straining to not grip his hammer. "Vulkan, calm your humours, brother; this is my home and you are causing me dishonour. This is not the Vulkan I have known for a century."

Vulkan snarled a little, and the sound came like some ancient reptile, perhaps a dragon from the lairs below the volcanoes on Nocturne. Jaghatai suddenly wondered if any of his brothers ever really knew Vulkan.

* * *

Amon moved quickly across the nuclear-blasted terrain. He no longer used a disguise; in this part of the world he did not need to. It would not have mattered anyway, for as soon as the accursed sons of Lorgar had finished their hunt they would know one was missing and would start the hunt anew. Disguise or no disguise, they would know it was him.

He had no idea what had happened to his commander and his friend, but he had certainty that it was not good, these days nothing ever was. When the Emperor had stared his alterations to the doctrines of the Imperium, many of the Custodes had followed him. After all he was their master and they were sworn to him and him alone. At first Valdor and Amon too had followed him; but Valdor had been with the Emperor when Vulkan had been turned to the new order. He had been haunted by the pain that had wracked the Salamanders Primarch's face. The Emperor had seemed unmoved by his son's plight. That was when Valdor knew the man he had loved was gone.

He got together those he could trust and spirited Malcador away, knowing that the former Regent would be next to die, if Lorgar had his way. Lorgar was especially spiteful when it came to Malcador, for he had never forgiven the Sigillite what happened to the world of Monarchia, on the day the Word was shamed. When the Emperor handed Malcador's duties to Lorgar, it was akin to ringing the executioner's bell. Finally after the shaming of his sons and the destruction of Monarchia, he could extract his revenge. Amon had been shocked to learn that instead of the Sigillite, he had been chosen to get the message to Horus or Guilliman. He had not wanted to leave the Regent, but it had been arranged between Valdor and Malcador. His head still tingled, almost as if someone else was living in there, guiding his steps so that he avoided any of the Imperial outposts and their personnel, undoubtedly loyal to the Emperor.

The roads had been clear; and after two and a half hours he came towards the old, disused spaceport of Alyce Springs. He recalled the stories; they had ignored the call to worship their Emperor and his brother gods, and indeed the populace had taken up arms against the Emperor. The town was fairly large and there were no Hives; the homes that were here had been here for centuries. As for the terrain, it had been known to them and their ancestors for millennia beyond millennia. They had used that ancestral knowledge to defeat the armies that had been sent to bring them to heel like wild beasts. As he made his way through the town's main street, he could not see a single soul, but that did not mean they were not there.

He stopped halfway up, opposite the town law enforcement office, which really looked like something out of the old days. A figure came out into the street with an old carbine rifle slung on his shoulder. He was a well-built man with a tanned complexion, and his whole body spoke of attitude. He would have come up to Amon's chest, but that did not detract from the sheer power he radiated.

"So, the Emperor sent one of his so-called Lions out here to cull us? I thought you would have learnt the last time."

Amon had not been present when the Word Bearers and Custodes came here to attempt to cull the town; they had reaped a high tally, as was expected, but the locals had also reaped their own tally. Still, Amon knew it was only a matter of time before they were attacked again.

He removed his crested helm and shook his hair free. "I am Amon, formerly of the Custodian Guard; and I am here under orders from the Sigilite."

"Lorgar sent you, then. Well, let's hear it...wait, did you say former?"

"I did, and I was referring to Malcador."

"Malcador lives?"

"At the moment," Amon somewhat reluctantly admitted.

The man lowered his weapon and met Amon halfway. He was tall and well-built, but even his height was overshadowed by the Lion before him.

"They will be hunting you."

"If they are not already," Amon added.

"I am Rafe Insolas, the sheriff here. Malcador sent word months ago that one of his men would be coming through here. Just did not expect it to be a Custodian Guard."

"I don't think even I would have thought that," Amon sighed. "It would seem that things are moving beyond even my ken. I must reach the old station."

Rafe nodded and whistled once. Suddenly, out of nowhere men and women appeared, armed with all manners of old and new weapons. Amon's senses went onto alert but he remained neutral; whilst he had no doubt he would be able to kill these people, they would not make it easy, nor would he survive; and in truth he did not want to kill them. He had respect for them for their actions a few months ago.

"Louise, Kelan, Tommy, Margareta, and Harok, take the Lone Lion here to the appointed place," Rafe ordered and returned his attention to Amon. "The old port is a few kilometers outside of town; you will have to traverse underground to get there, friend Amon."

"I will not leave you undefended, friend Rafe." Amon gripped his guardian spear. "Let me stand beside you as the enemy approaches, it would be my honour." And in truth he felt ill that he had left Malcador and Valdor to their fates.

Rafe shook his head sadly. "Can't do that, Lion. When Malcador came through here, he told us we were to ensure you got to the station no matter what. We will face whatever that creature is that calls itself the Emperor and fight to live, or die trying. Our job is make sure you get off-planet and take whatever message you have to the Prince of Princes."

Amon arched an eyebrow, it was not the first time he had heard it lately. Even Valdor had called Horus by that name. It unnerved him that so many people were now looking to Horus for their salvation, but he supposed it was the most natural reaction. Horus and Sanguinius were the two most popular of the Primarchs, and as the Warmaster and the favoured son of the Emperor, Horus was a more natural choice. All he could hope for was that Horus had not fallen foul to the same malady as his fallen brothers.

"You have my respect, friend Rafe; they will be here soon. Give them hell, and if the end comes - die well."

"You just reach your destination, Lone Lion, and we will not have died in vain."

Amon bowed his head a little and followed his escort to an old shed, then down a shaft, one that he suspected had been widened in preparation for his arrival. He remained silent and vigilant, in case some of the Emperor's spies had gotten here first; one never knew, these days, who to trust and who not to trust.

Aboveground, the populace disappeared once more and waited for their moment in history.

* * *

Malcador got up from where he was sitting and moved to the remaining Custodes' side. He had sensed Valdor's death and had wiped a single tear before returning to his protection detail. Valdor was not only the Captain-General of the Custodes, he was the prime Lion and all the Custodes stood for. With him dead, it all rested on their shoulders to ensure that Amon had that little bit of additional time to escape.

He did not know if that was possible now; he had sensed the Emperors psionic signature when Valdor died and, where it had been a minor irritant, now it was mind-thundering. Already the headache had started; and as strong as he was, Malcador knew that he would not be able to hold off the Emperor. All he could do was garner enough time to allow Amon to get out of the system, before the Imperial Fists stopped him.

Hopefully, the people of Alyce Springs would have done exactly as he had asked them to do several months ago and Amon would have no trouble. However, with the High Lords and the other departments under Lorgar's control, even he was not one hundred percent certain of anything.

Not anymore.

He raised his head and readied his staff. "Well, lads, Valdor is dead, I am afraid; and we may soon be joining him." The four Custodes bowed their heads in remembrance of their beloved Captain-General. "They will be here in moments so, whilst I am not one for rousing speeches, not anymore anyway - " he paused, looking for the right words. He was an administrator and one who moved the chess pieces around as he had done for a myriad of years; it had been so long since he had been a warrior... "oh what the hell; boys, let's take a few of the bastards with us."

They readied themselves, and they did not have long to wait.

The Gal Vorbak came loping in and stopped as they saw the four remaining Lions flanking Malcador. These men were frothing at the mouth to get to the Sigilite, after all, he had insulted Lorgar and their Legion as much as that glory boy Guilliman. It was time for some revenge - except that orders were orders, and so they remained where they were. Malcador's fate lay in the hands of the Emperor, and one did not disobey a god if one still desired their favour.

Malcador met the Crimson Lord's eyes and shook his head. Argel Tal had been one of the few Word Bearers that seemed to carry honour high, and he had been most respectful despite the upset over Monarchia. What had Lorgar done to his own sons was reprehensible; although the one thing he did that Malcador had agreed with was execute his own foster father. Lorgar was now showing his teeth and his claws; it was a fool who thought he was merely a prophet and a monk, and not a warrior, now.

Malcador had always thought of Lorgar as the runt of the litter, the one who whinged and whined his way through life, always looking for explanations when there were none there, and never being able to even understand that he had been wrong until it was shoved into his face with the power of a burning planet. Now, though, it was different. The runt had grown up, and had been vindicated by his father's change of mind and heart.

The Emperor came in with the Gal Vorbak and stood across from Malcador. For the first time in years, Malcador realised that this was not the man he thought he knew, not the man he had followed with the hope of a world behind him. There was cruelty in his eyes and any regality had long gone. He was still a warlord of great might and power, but in truth a god of darkness, more than ever before. There was the loss of Constantin Valdor still in his eyes, haunting him; and Malcador had a snide thought of hoping that, when all this madness was ended, whatever way it played out, that clash would remain a haunting memory to him.

"Well," Malcador leant on his staff, "this is what it has come down to, is it?"

The Emperor cocked his head to one side, giving his former Sigilite a chance to speak. It would not make any difference; and he could see the remaining Custodes eyeing their quarries with all the strength such warriors possessed. The Emperor had created them, and both him and Malcador still felt pride at them.

"The mighty Emperor who has stridden the lands since civilisation began, seeing ancient cities, wars and religions, as well as the rise and fall of countless civilisations, who denied any existence of divinity - for all his countless errors - until now." Malcador shook his head. "Those who no longer follow your creed are to die, is that what this has come down to? A tyrant, except even the old tyrants of Terra did not know your hypocrisy."

"I bring enlightenment; and if you knew me like you should, you would know that. There is still time to come back with me."

Malcador chuckled dryly. "Now, now, my former ally, you know as well as I do that the moment I step into the Imperial Palace, I would disappear. Let's not insult each other." The amusement vanished and he twirled his staff around. "Let's finish this; and for the record, I hope Horus rips your black heart out."

"I am the Emperor; do not even threaten me, Mal."

"I know full well you are what you are, but you are not the Emperor, not the persona that conquered the galaxy. You are not even the being you were before your rise. You are merely another enemy."

With a roar, the Gal Vorbak ran into the Custodes, and Malcador prepared to face the Master of Mankind.


	4. Chapter Three

Jaghatai Khan stepped back as the fury of his brother's assault almost took his head off. It was a myth that Primarchs could not die; even his friend, wise Magnus, had almost become an example of that. They were not like their father, and yet still ageless; but none of them were immortal, and at their brothers' hands, anything could happen. Vulkan had struck with such sudden fury that Jaghatai barely recognised the diplomat his brother had been, the voice of reason between two warring brothers. No, this was something else; and it was attached to that other hammer he wielded. A gift from their father, he had said, forged by the hands of the Gorgon.

Beautiful as it was, there was something else there that seemed to be guiding Vulkan's hand. If he could get hold of the hammer, then he might be able to break the spell of whatever foul witchery was built into the metal. Before he could do anything, though, his bodyguard, alerted by the sounds of the Primarch's roar, burst in. It was evident that they could barely believe their eyes. Two Primarchs, their uncle moving his hammers like they were nothing more than children's toys; had it not been for the fact that their father was stepping back nimbly out of the way, it would have been a lesson to have learnt. One of the Astartes raised his bolter and ordered the Great Drake to stop. Before the Great Khan could yell out a warning to leave, Vulkan turned; and more from reflex then any real desire to harm a Primarch, the shot from the Storm Bolter hit the Great Drake on his pauldron.

Vulkan glanced at his armour in a manner that would have been comical had the situation not been so serious. He raised his eyes of fire and beckoned the Terminator towards him.

"Nagaya, NO," Jaghatai shouted. "All of you leave; this is between Vulkan and myself!"

Vulkan, however, was not about to let the slight go so easily. Still whirling his hammers, he let his hammer - the one he had forged himself - fly, to hit Nagaya in the chest. Had it been any Astarte, then the Terminator Armour would have held; but this was a Primarch. Whereas an Astartes could rip the heads off humans and aliens, crush beasts and other Astartes, they did not and could not defeat the power of a Primarch.

The hammer struck Nagaya so hard that his armour buckled and his insides were smashed to a pulp. He sank to his knees as blood spurted from his mouth and did not stop falling. It got thicker as it fell from his lips; but Vulkan was not finished yet and, raising his favoured hammer, he stood before Nagaya. With the force of several hammers instead of one, he caved the Astarte's head in. Jaghatai Khan roared a grief-struck cry of denial and drew his sword.

"This is war, Vulkan!"

Vulkan turned, and a demonic grin crossed his face. "This is the Emperor's will, Jaghatai; bow down to it, and honor your oaths to mankind, or die a traitor!"

The Khan shook his head defiantly. "This is the will of tyrannical madmen and monstrous deceivers, and I will have no part of it. I am under no obligation to help those that cannot even keep their own minds under their will."

Vulkan looked down at the body of the dead Nagaya and picked his other hammer up. "Between you and I, then; if you win, then the Salamanders will descend upon Chogoris and sear it clean, whereas if I win you surrender your Legion and yourself to the righteous glory of our father."

The Great Khan drew his gigantic sword and stood before his brother. "The Savage Scars are no one's slaves, Vulkan; the sons of Chogoris will avenge whatever happens here today. You are not the brother I loved, and the Emperor's will is a sham."

The same mad smile stayed on the onyx skin of the Great Drake's face. "I knew you would say that," Vulkan of Nocturne said, as he hefted his hammers.

* * *

Malcador watched the last of the Custodes fall; and yet they had reaped a toll upon the Word Bearers. Bodies lay across the desert sands, come of which had been put there by the 'weakling' that was Malcador. He turned to face the Emperor, and the remaining Word Bearers moved backwards as the Master of Mankind stood in their centre. Malcador met him halfway, his staff quivering with his own powerful psyche.

"Mal, you should have stayed away," the Emperor began. "You should have remained in hiding; you might have walked away from this."

"Into what?" Malcador asked. "A world of war, blood and thirsting gods?"

"Is this what you poisoned Constantin's mind with?"

Malcador laughed a little. "You did that; you needed no help from me, brother."

Xaphen glanced at the Crimson Lord and across their private vox he spoke. **++ The heretic speaks blasphemy and disrespect to our Master; are we to let this continue? ++**

The Crimson Lord nodded. **++It is the Emperor's will to deal with Malcador; I, however, am more interested into why Amon has not been seen. ++**

**++ Argel, he called the Emperor brother, as if he is allowed. ++**

The Crimson Lord turned his head to face his friend.** ++ For all we know they might be; we know so little about the Emperor's and Malcador's pasts. ++**

The Emperor cocked his head to one side. "So, you remember it all?"

Malcador nodded. "Of course I remember. I thought that you had changed, that mayhaps the years of immortality had finally shown you the error of your youth." Malcador looked around him. "You destroyed religion because of what you had seen. Because of the destruction faith had in the past caused many people and governing bodies. When Mother told you that you had a destiny, I do not think that is what she had in mind. But I fought for the Imperial Truth alongside you, and that at least I do not regret." Malcador leant on his staff. "Does the mark still hurt you?"

"Hush."

"No, no, I suppose not; you have passed it on, that is all." Malcador shifted a little. "Let's see, your sons are not from a woman but from a lab, like a bunch of vatvorms. You were always so eager to prove to the being you destroyed that you were more than he was. So let us see which ones carry that ancient curse… Lorgar Aurelian? Hmm, yes, he would have had the piety you once had. It is fair to say that he is like you more than you even cared to admit. How about Dorn? No, Dorn has always been a Praetorian, a champion, so that would not be right. Horus Lupercal? Well, he is your favourite, and will always be, but he is not so easily swayed. I could go on, really, but the sons that seem to be entwined with death, the curse of the original mark… well, that would be Curze and Angron. Murder and violence are their natures, aren't they, brother?"

"Enough, Malcador; come with me and surrender to my will or die."

Malcador thought for a moment and shrugged. "It won't be the first time, in the end." He twisted his staff. "Let's do this; oh, and all that talk of redemption… forget it, it's gone. The world we were born into, the world we saw transform and evolve - what it will be now is the darkness that was in your soul the moment you were born. I thought you were truly my brother, for a time. I would have died for you. Now, I would die to kill you."

The Emperor roared and charged with his sword; Malcador focused his power and, through his staff, unleashed the psychic might that was his to command. The Emperor stumbled a little, still weak from his fight with Valdor; but he was not so weak that he couldn't deal with whatever Malcador threw at him.

The Word Bearers watched as the believed frailty of Malcador seemed to disperse. A bright light shone around him, and for a moment, the briefest of moments really, it looked like Malcador was a younger man and the image of the Emperor. He had an athletic build, not quite the strong build of the Emperor, and his blue eyes blazed with the fury of the elements within him.

The two were joined in battle; and the halo seemed to encompass them both, making both men appear different. That is the way it was when you looked at the Emperor: he could appear to be different things to others, depending on how they saw him. But right now, and Argel Tal would swear till his dying hour that this was so, they looked like a shepherd and a hunter fighting each other.

It was something from a time long forgotten, and it almost sounded like a story that Lorgar had once told Argel, although the context escaped him now; something to do with mankind, anyway. What was obvious was that they were cursing and shouting at each other in a language that had long since died. Malcador definitely appeared younger, and his psychic might lashed at the Emperor like some electrical storm. The Emperor, well, he looked to be a little older than Malcador, which was no surprise; and yet the hate in his face was magnified when Malcador's manifested will struck him.

Malcador snarled and brought his staff around to smash the Emperors head in the side, but the Emperor dodged effortlessly. Malcador seethed; it was wearing on him now, and he never would win this, but each moment he stopped the Emperor for gave Amon more time to get away.

The younger visage grinned despite his growing pain.

The Emperor sneered, and with a swipe of his sword, he broke the staff in two and gripped Malcador by the throat. Like some great vampire, he drew all the psychic might from Malcador into his own body, draining the very life force from the former Sigilite until the skin sloughed from the bones, burning as it fell, and the bones crumbled to dust in his hands. He stepped back and looked at the wispy remains before the winds blew them across the desert.

He knew now why the Sigilite had stayed behind, why he had acted as he had. "Argel."

The Crimson Lord stepped to his god's side and moved to one knee, his head bowed. "Master."

"Do you know if there are any Templar in the area at the moment?"

"I know only that they use the land as training and recruiting."

"If there are, then order them here, and tell them I want them to meet us here. It is time to right an old wrong and destroy any more doubters of my new creed. I want them here within the hour; we head to Alyce Springs." The fire was in his eyes now. "Amon is there somewhere."

The Crimson Lord rose to his feet and bowed his head, relaying the order, whilst the Emperor stared at the ashes as they vanished.

* * *

He stood on the battlements of the Imperial Palace. His thoughts were lost in the whirling winds, high atop the Himalaysian peaks, or rather what of them remained. He had been told that these peaks were the highest on Terra in ancient days, and part of him mourned that legacy. Yet such considerations were far from the heart of his musings.

His father had changed; gone were the days when a brother would be punished for harming another brother. And he, too, felt those changes.

He had always been so focused, even cautious, and that had been reckoned one of his strongest traits; now, the drive to bring the order of the Emperor at any price was getting stronger and stronger throughout the court, and his planning was looked down on. He had thought to temper the zeal of his brother Lorgar, and yet, after he had given Sigismund command over the Black Templars, their days of training within the great Cathedral of Calamities, in the old Lewan, had made them just as zealous - if not more so - as their cousins in the Word Bearers.

Their armour had been painted black with white cruxes, Sigismund's own heraldry. They had taken the vow to bring all the worlds of the Imperium to the new order. He was proud of his sons, and especially the fact that the Emperor had named Sigismund as his own champion. Even so, he was uneasy that, when Lorgar had become the Black Pope, it made him more powerful than even Horus had been.

Horus.

His thoughts turned to one of his closest brothers. Horus would never have agreed to this, ever. Already, there was talk of various planets trying to get the Warmaster to come to their aid against the new order. He found that strangely ironic. For years, people had been clamouring for the Emperor to accept his true place, as a god of Mankind. That had been aided by the once-outlawed Lectio Divinatus, which now was one of the centrepieces of the Imperial Creed. He knew, deep down, that Horus would eventually come to Terra. And it would not be in peace - that chance had been lost.

Lorgar had foreseen this. But, as Lorgar stated, had Angron not tried to tear Magnus into tiny pieces, they might have managed to get around to convincing Horus and the others. However, in the golden giant's eyes, it was not just Angron. Curze had antagonised The Lord of Macragge and the Lion had made an enemy of the Comrade. There would be civil war. All he could hope for at the moment was that Vulkan, one of their most level-headed brothers, would persuade the Great Khan that this was for the best, and thus ensure that they would have the numerical advantage in it.

Rogal Dorn turned and returned to his Fists. They had work to do; the _Phalanx_ was going to be away for a while. None of those entities within the Warp that his father called brothers had managed to get a grip on him. He was his own master and needed nothing from them. He followed his father because his father was right.

Still, the thought that Horus would come eventually, that bothered him. He knew full well that when Horus did come, it would change everything beyond repair.

And he could not shake the idea that everything would change before then.

* * *

Jugathi ducked as the twin hammers whirled above his head, the rush of air from them both making his top knot sway a little. Had he not been so quick on his feet, he might have received one hell of a headache right now. All he could think was getting that hammer in Vulkan's left hand out of his reach; maybe he could reach him and talk sense into him.

Even though he had lost a son to the now enraged Primarch, and his grief was starting to make him yearn to fight back, he did not want to believe that his brother was capable of such unrestrained violence. It was like looking at Angron or Curze or perhaps himself, not Vulkan. Even his good intentions at attempting to reach his brother, however, were beginning to wear thin. He had to start fighting back. If he did not, then Vulkan would kill him eventually, and then destroy his world.

And that would not do; he would not let that happen. No matter if his blood was spilt on these floors, he would not allow his world to die like Prospero. He would not allow his brave warriors, his brave men and women of the Chogoric plains, to fall into the slavery of a false god. To fall into an imperial tyranny darker than any before. With that thought of what could happen to his beloved Scars and his people, he roared defiance and went on the attack.

* * *

Whilst demigods fought within the sacred bowels of the Monastery, the world outside was aflame with bolter and sword. The Salamanders had come to the world of Chogoris, and with them had come death.

People ran screaming as the green-armoured warriors moved amongst the market place, seemingly not caring where they trod or what they destroyed. Warriors of the sands bravely tried to stop the advance, but they were cut in half by ordered Bolter Fire and hellfire incinerators. Jubal Khan, incensed that the sons of fire had broken the agreement to let their fathers duke it out, ordered his company to charge into the fray and, in his words, "wipe these murderous bastards off the blessed face of our home world"

Singh came to the side of his noyan-khan, during a brief respite in the fighting, and opened a private vox.

**++Where in the demon-realms did they come from, Jubal? ++**

**++ Hidden from our sensors and auspexes? I don't know, but it matters not how they got here at the moment. All that matters is that they are here, and that they will learn that, whilst on Nocturne they rule, here they do not. ++**

**++ Someone should be with Father. ++**

**++ No; Jaghatai will not forgive us if we leave the populace to the mercy of these traitors. ++**

Singh rested his gauntlet on the First Captain's armour, and his voice suddenly became heavy with seriousness. **++ Jubal, what if they manage to get into the heart of the Monastery? They could destroy all that we are. ++**

Jubal thought for a moment: the Second Captain was correct. If the Salamanders got into the heart of the Monastery, where the novitiates were training and the gene-seed was stored, then the entire Legion could die - especially if the unthinkable took place and Vulkan won the Primarchs' duel.  
**  
++ Take the Second and Tenth Brotherhoods, and join up with the Fourteenth and the Twenty-Third. You are all closest to the Monastery, so protect our initiates, brother, and if needs be…. ++** he paused, his words weighted down by what he was going to say. But in the absence of the Primarch, he was the voice of their father.

**++ If it looks as though our world is lost, get them and as much of our gene-seed as possible away from here. ++**

The weight of what the First Noyan-Khan was asking him sat on the younger Second Khan's shoulders heavily. He was aghast at the thought of running, but he also understood the honour that he was given. Protecting the future of the Legion was paramount. So, with a salute, he turned to leave.

"Noray."

He turned to see Jubal had removed his helm, with the fighting distant at the moment, and removed his as well. "Jubal?"

"Do what you have to. Hopefully we will turn this rabble away, but if not…." he let his voice trail.

Singh clasped his Noyan-Khan's arm and held it tight. "It shall be done, My Lord".

With that said, he went about doing as the First Captain ordered, and Jubal headed into the fray once more.

* * *

He stood alone,; the Word Bearers watched for the Black Templars to arrive, whilst Xaphen and his retinue searched the hidden base of the runaways for anything that might explain why they would willingly die rather than give their souls to their master.

Argel Tal cleared his throat and moved to one knee before the Emperor. The Emperor bid him rise and asked him what he wanted without speaking it. The Crimson Lord kept his eyes lowered, not only because one did not look a god in the eyes, but also because it was difficult to look upon the Emperor without having one's eyes seared by the beauty and power of the man.

"I heard what Malcador was saying to you, Lord." The Emperor arched an eyebrow. "When I came to Terra, I learnt the ancient languages, half as a hobby, half so that I could read the ancient texts in order to best serve my father and my grandfather."

"The others?" the Emperor asked, his gaze flickering to where the rest of the Gal Vorbak stood.

"No, my Master; I just wanted to know if Malcador's words were true."

The Emperor was silent for a long time and then, with a motion of his head, instructed Tal to walk with him and away from the rest of the Word Bearers. When they were a slight distance away, the Emperor sighed heavily.

"What Malcador said was in essence true," he began. "I was born at the dawn of mankind, and I was punished by a god for favouring me over my brother. I had murdered my brother; and for that I was cast out of society, banished from civilisation, and forced to walk the earth with a mark on my back that signified me as a murderer. I have done much evil over the millennia, in the service of justice; but the memory of what I did then remains a scar on my soul, for there was no deep reason for it."

Argel-Tal sat himself down, as the Emperor bid him to sit beside him, and waited; as he realised that he was going to hear a story that no one, not even his own father, had heard, the honour in his chest crested like a tidal wave.

"So, I travelled the world. As the centuries evolved, I stayed hidden away as much as I could, lest I bring the wrath of that god upon my head for daring to try and live a normal life. I had sons and daughters, some of whom died young, while others went onto greater things; but ultimately I was left alone. At first I was angry: I bore a mark that made me hard to kill. What I did not know then was that this mark would serve me for all eternity, enable me to live longer than any normal human and, in time, grant me the powers I now possess to run the Imperium and of course the Astronomican.

"I tried to get men to kill me, but they would not, for fear of what would happen to them. So I wandered the earth, seeking for a way to atone for my brother's death, doing good in various minor ways. Eventually the concept of time became nothing to me. I saw civilisations rise and ultimately fall, empires rise and be destroyed from within. During those long years, I sought out the reincarnations of my brother. I most recently found him as a revered healer and god-speaker, Malcador; and whilst I knew who he was, he feigned ignorance. But still, it was my duty as his older brother to look after him. Sometimes my brother has been an enemy, sometimes an ally; but for thousands of years I stayed my hand from killing him, no matter that he would be reborn. Until now. Until this second murder. It was, I suppose, a necessity for my ascension: my most fundamental promise, broken.

"In those years I came to see how cruel the gods could be. Imagine, Argel Tal, realising in an escalating spiral that gods were cruel as frequently as just. They would play games with mankind, inciting them into wars that they had no concept of. Atrocities occured because of religious ignorance, and I saw the so-called gods for what they were. They were petty and they argued like children, and they had their followers condemn each other and kill each other in their name. My former master condemned me for murdering my brother, but then had his own son murdered as part of a long-running scheme to preserve his power." The Emperor gave the awestruck Astartes a sideways look and uttered a cynical laugh. "Can you not see how ironic that is, my grandson?"

The Crimson Lord nodded. Indeed, he could: when mankind murdered it was a sin, but when a god murdered it was divine retribution. To his grandfather, that must have been the ultimate insult. In his experience, many worlds had the creation story and the story of the first fratricide. Different names, different tellings, but ultimately the same story, as if it were genetically encoded within each human being and each culture to warn their peoples how the ancients punished those who dared lie to them. He did not answer for fear of losing this moment between grandfather and grandson: to be allowed into the long private world of the Emperor was the rarest of occasions. There were even those who believed that he did not remember his past. It was obvious he did remember; he just saw it as inconsequential now.

The Emperor ran a hand down his face and, perhaps for the first time, the Crimson Lord saw how his grandfather's own humanity had never really left him. In fact, in that moment, he looked more human than even a baseline human who was not so blessed with his powers and his longevity.

"My powers surfaced when I was still a young man; but they had reached their peak when I was living in Roma. When I found Malcador, most recently, I spoke with him at great length about rights and gods. All we could see around us, in those days of Old Night, was death and destruction. Demagogues fat with corruption condemned the normal working man and woman, rulers and nobles of all stripes raping the lands and the purses of the people, and the churches encouraged the darkness rather than fight it. I decided that mankind was better off without gods, whether real or fictitious. When I was a child, our god was the power and the law, and we did what we did to please the great creator. We were fearful of his wrath, too, and after watching what his wrath was capable of on others, I am glad he made that mistake with me. He meant to curse me, and instead he made me and my brother more powerful than he could manage."

He was warming to his lesson: he was telling a favoured grandson a story that not even his sons knew, nor any other of his thousands of grandsons. This was a private moment between the Emperor and a grandson that had proved his worth.

"I no longer wanted the gods, whether Warp entities or merely concepts, to have power over humankind; and Malcador was with me. Together, we cleansed the world of the taint of religion and the depravity of corrupt rulers."

Argel-Tal frowned a little: if this was the case, then why did the master of mankind return to the ways of his childhood? As if reading his mind, the Emperor spoke again.

"You wonder why I have seemingly reverted to my first path once more. I shall tell you, last Angel. This is for your ears only; swear your oath to me that this story I have told you will never be repeated."

"I swear, My Lord."

Satisfied with the sincerity in his voice, the Emperor began his conclusion. "Humanity needs something to lead them into an enlightened future, a future where they are the undisputed masters of the universe. Eventually, I could no longer ignore the cries of the masses who proclaimed me divine, nor could I ignore the mistakes of the past, mistakes of ignoring the Warp's might. I took a journey into the Webway, and there I got my answers, much like your father got his answers (incomplete as they were) within the Warp itself. It was not unlike the way you gained your - abilities. I saw the past, the present, and the future, more clearly than ever before, as well as a myriad of other realities and futures.

"It was my destiny to be the man I was born, written from my sin, though I was not in truth the first murderer. And it was my destiny to become the master of mankind. But the Warp showed me, unwillingly, that I could be the one thing that I had denied. I had been battling my old god for so many centuries, and finally I had destroyed him by destroying his religion. That, my grandson, that is the greatest lesson.

"A god is only a god as long as faith and belief fuel it. Out of the old gods that inhabited the universe, the four mightiest are the products of emotions, human and xeno. To create my sons I needed unwilling help from their strength. I had to do what I had to do, to ensure that it would be humans that would be masters of the universe, for another species would exterminate us otherwise. I thought I could deny what I was, but I cannot. I am a god and a godslayer; that is what history would paint me as if it knew the entire truth. But I am what I am, an ancient warrior shunned by his childhood god.

"Malcador was wrong when he said I had reverted to my past; I do not _believe_ in gods, anymore. I _am_ one. But I had to use everything I had learnt from my years as a farmer and a nomad, as well as all the rest of my long life. Ascension does not give power without cost, and some portion of mortal morality is a price that must always be paid, in becoming transcendent. Malcador was wrong, too, when he said that the darkness that had always been in my soul had changed me.

"What changed me were the will of my people, who offered me divinity, and the knowledge of need, which forced me to take it. I alone can ensure that the four who reside within the Warp do not dominate the hearts of men. If I must become a god to do that, then so be it. I will become a god, but I will not be like the gods of the past. My rule will be law, and my powers will light the way for the mankind to reach other galaxies, as I saw in the Warp. Do I want any of my sons to die? Of course I do not! But I have to do this, and sacrifices grant power. In order for mankind to survive, I will do what must be done, by will and will alone. If Malcador wants to call it murder, then so it is. He was always a better judge than myself. I call it survival of the fittest, for only those of my sons that are loyal to myself and the Imperium will endure. As it always had to be."

"Will he return, do you think?"

The Emperor smiled a wry smile. "It is our curse, last Angel: I have no nemesis except my brother. I tried to make him understand, but he did not, for his life - though long - is full of gaps, giving him far less experience than myself. I am a god whether I want to be or not; better that I be a god that does what must be done than one who does not care for mankind. I want warrior sons and warrior daughters ready to do anything, but not sheep. My power was unwittingly given to me by a god who thought I would just fade away into nothing, perhaps become a dark creature that mothers warned their children about, one that haunted their nightmares... does that sound familiar?"

The Crimson Lord chuckled a little. It sounded exactly like the tales that the mothers of Nostraman children would tell their sons and daughters about the Night Haunter.

"I was meant to be nothing. Instead, I defeated the being who made me what I am, and have become more powerful than that minor daemon ever was. For millennia I guided humanity from the shadows; but that only led them to fall again and again. Now I am out of time, and must lead from the front. As an ideal. As an emperor. As a god. And those who stand in my way..." he let his voice trail off, and the Crimson Lord did not need to know anything else. The beast within his soul stirred at the words the immortal had spoken.

For the first time since he was born, certainly for the first time since Erebus had come to speak with his mother, Argel Tal felt a purpose in his soul that dazzled him utterly. This was a greater zenith than the Eye, a greater summit than the news of the Emperor's ascension. His god had shared with him a treasured secret; and he would never repeat it, not even to his beloved father. He had no recollection of his grandparents on Colchis, and this was like a memory of what he had hoped had occurred when he was a toddler. He hoped that his grandfather or grandmother had told him such secrets, knowing he would not be able to repeat them. And this... this was similar, a million times over.

"Do not betray my trust in you, Tal," the Emperor warned. "I have little of it now."

"You can count on me, my master." The Emperor nodded and waited as the Crimson Lord received a vox transmission. "Sigismund is here, Master."

"Good; time to stop Amon. I am not ready for Horus to find out everything just yet."

"Chances are he already knows some of it," the Crimson Lord warned as they made their way back towards the Word Bearers and the newly arrived Black Templars, all of whom looked upon Argel Tal with envious eyes. "Given what befell Prospero and Magnus."

"True, but he cannot get here for months at the least. I will be prepared."

"He will not join you? He is your favoured son, after all"

"He is too much like his Uncle." The Emperor looked elsewhere and felt the wind that had carried Malcador's ashes away. There was something else, something the Emperor was not saying; but Argel Tal did not know what it was. "He will not understand that humanity needs me to be divine in order to endure. He is too full of rage, at the revelation. I could have contacted him earlier; but he can no longer forgive this."

The Emperor said no more; and when the Crimson Lord rejoined the Astartes, after telling them what he wanted, they moved out.

* * *

The Pyre Guard emerged from the wall of smoke that was all that remained of the market square. Bavat Khan and the rest of the Riders of Talaskar, a division of the First Brotherhood, readied themselves; but, even though they were among the best of the Scars, the sight of the elite Pyre Guard made them cautiously stop in their tracks.

With their Terminator armour making them far bigger than their battle-brothers, and their eye lenses looking like the fires of Nocturne's deepest volcanoes, they did indeed look like something out of hell. It was then that Bavat saw the new symbol that had been painted on their left pauldrons: a gold eight-pointed star encased in a ring of fire.

Whatever that meant, to look upon it made even the stout First Khan feel sick to the stomach; and that meant that it had nothing to do with the honour of the Imperial Truth. Nothing that could affect a man like this could ever have anything to do with the Imperial Truth. With a shout to his company, Bavat let the two First Companies clash. Their weapons rang out and the roars of flamers, coupled with the loud and devastating explosive blasts of bolters tearing against re-enforced ceramite armour, made it a killing field.

* * *

In Jaghatai's private rooms, the two behemoths continued their battle. Neither Primarch tired, and neither showed any signs of doing so. For every blow that Vulkan landed, Jaghatai landed one that was equally jaw-breaking. Wounds that would have killed a normal man and even an Astarte began to clot and close; and yet, the chambers not only had the stench of death in the air from the shattered corpse that had been Nagoya, but also from the rich gene-coded blood that was the Emperor's legacy.

Jaghatai grunted and brought his sword up, to block the blows from his brother's hammers. The tremor from the blows reverberated up his arms and, for the first time, the Great Khan got to see just how strong the usually reserved Vulkan was. His strength was never in question, nor his heart, but his style was usually calmer than that of any other Primarch, creating the illusion he was not fighting at maximal power. Additionally, Vulkan was quiet, and thus, like himself and Corax, overshadowed by their more glory hound brothers.

Jaghatai could hear the shouts outside as the Salamanders cut their murderous swathe through the verdant world. He could hear his First Khan's rallying cry over his internal vox set, as well as his sons' cries of victory and of death, and his anger blazed.

"You will not," he said through gritted teeth, "leave here alive, Vulkan."

Vulkan did not seem to hear him; or maybe he was too lost in the battle-mist that had descended upon him. His only action was to carry on and pummel the Great Khan towards submission. If he killed him, the Emperor would not forgive him, and he had no wish to be like Angron after facing their father's wrath.

However, it wouldn't matter if he hurt him. The Emperor could use the Scars and their skills with the jetbikes; there was no other legion that could use those bikes like they could, and the Emperor did not want them with Horus. And no chance of non-violent conversion remained. The only hope was that he could beat some sense into the Khan.

His hammers continued to aim blow after blow on the Great Khan, until a heaving Jaghatai saw his break. As Vulkan raised his arm once more, Jaghatai waited, then - with a strength born from his injuries and the need to deny his father's plan - he grabbed Vulkan's wrists and pulled himself up. He headbutted his brother and made the Great Drake stagger back and drop his hammers, his hands moving to his face in a reflex action, unpreventable due to his exhaustion and pain. It was not the greatest of moves, but it was one that Russ had nevertheless taught him in one of their friendly spars.

He gripped his sword and, as Vulkan began to orientate himself, he ran it through his brother. The razor-sharp, serrated edge cut through the armour of the Great Drake and into his gene-wrought skin, straight into his main heart. Vulkan howled with pain the likes of which he had never felt before and fell to his knees; his hand gripped the demon hammer that Ferrus had forged for him.

His blood dripped off the sword as Jaghatai pulled it back and struck again, piercing Vulkan's secondary heart, severely damaging it but not entirely ruining it; and before the Khan could strike a third time, he flung it round in a desperate strike. Whether it was planned or not, the hammer connected with his brother's armour and sent the Great Khan flying, back into the wall and through it.

Vulkan knew that the damage done to him would be fatal in a matter of days. He needed to be with his father, who would know how to heal him; no one else could. His secondary heart would suffice for now.

**++ Heka'tan, prepare to withdraw. ++**

**++ My lord – are you harmed? ++**

**++ Nothing that will kill me. Withdraw; but first I want you to take the best of the Fourteenth and destroy their gene pool. ++**

The 14th Captain was silent for a moment and then said **++ we could take some for ourselves, Lord; gene-seed is gene-seed, after all.++**

**++No, destroy it all, but have Luminor save samples, and - UGH!++**

**++My Lord? MY LORD! ++**

Vulkan's cry echoed around every Salamanders vox and they began to fight their way towards the citadel, fear pounding in their hearts that their father could be dead. A dread began to wash over the Salamanders: without their father they would be at the mercy of the savages, and the Great Khan was not known for his tolerance of enemies.

Vulkan looked down as Khan's sword protruded from his chest, his life-blood dripping in great gene-rich droplets that were starting to pool around him.

"I told you that you would not leave here alive, Vulkan," the Khan hissed, his own demigod body reaching the end of its endurance, his own wounds making it hard for him to barely stand. Vulkan's hammer had smashed much of his ribcage and damaged his internal organs.

Vulkan dropped his hammer as the last of his strength gave out. The Khan staggered against the wall as his bodyguard, the Keshig, finally came in, along with Noray Singh Khan.

"My lord…."

Khan raised his hand to stall any attempt at aid. "Get them off my world; I don't care if you have to kill them all, just get them off my world. This is not over yet."

Singh did not need telling twice; and with the bodyguard, initiated the actions to repulse the Salamanders off Chogoris. Jaghatai sank to his knees beside his brother and looked at him for a long time.

He could not, would not, believe that Vulkan, one of the quietest and most stalwart brothers he had ever had the pleasure to serve alongside, had become this visage of a monster that had been attacking him, like something from Nocturnean or Chogoric legends.

He glanced at the hammer that was lying beside his shallowly breathing brother. It was an exquisite weapon, and only Ferrus could have produced such a marvel of weaponry; but what else was in it, he wondered? Vulkan had been talking to the weapon, telling it to shut up.

"Lord Khan."

He looked up to see a battered and bloody Numeon limp in, behind an equally bloody Jubal Noyan-Khan. Khan knew what they had come for, and he moved the hammer away from his brother's reach.

"I should execute you all," he seethed. "But there have been enough deaths this day. Take your father and know this: there will come a time when we will meet again, and this will be settled then. But I am not Russ, and I will not be the reason my brother is dead. I suggest you get him to his father." Khan narrowed his eyes, his presence intimidating enough to stall any bravado in the Salamanders' eyes. "And give a message to Lorgar from me, Numeon of the Pyre Guard. He will not find me so easy to turn."

With a jerk of their heads, the Pyre Guard that still lived came to their father's side and lifted him gently. Numeon looked at the hammers. Khan picked only the one that Vulkan had forged up and placed it on his brother's chest. The other he left on the floor; and Numeon was not fool enough to argue with a Primarch.

Singh watched as the Apothecaries saw to his father's wounds. He would heal, that much they were certain of; but it would be a while before Jaghatai Khan could take to the field of battle again. Jubal and Bavat Khan stood beside him, and all three men laughed a variation of their deep belly laugh as the Great Khan roared at his Apothecaries to leave him be, and see to the wounded.

The battle for the safety of the gene-seed had been surprisingly easy, and some of the novitiates that had defended the serfs and the adepts were being raised to full Astartes. The 14th company of the Salamanders had all but surrendered when Singh and his men arrived. The Second Captain suspected that it was the sound of Vulkan's defeat that had demoralised them.

He was not surprised: had he heard that groan from his father, he would have been demoralised too. They entered the Apothecarium and stood by their fathers' side. A frown still sat on the Talaskar lord's brow, almost as if he was not happy at the outcome.

Jubal assured him that the hammer that had been wielded by his brother was locked away safely in the vaults, until such time as someone from the Thousand Sons could get here and examine it. Still, something rattled at Khan. The Salamanders were not known for backing down; instead, upon hearing the words of their father, they would have continued fighting to get him to safety and kill everything in their way, rather than surrender.

"They knew you would let them return with Vulkan, that you are not Russ or Angron and would not kill your brother, no matter what you said," Jubal told him when he voiced his concerns. "The Great Khan is not a brother-killer."

An instant later, the explosion ripped up from the Novitiate chambers and straight through the Palace of Quan Zhou.

* * *

Amon allowed the humans their rest. He stood guard over them and watched the tunnel they had come down. He did not know how old the earthworks were, but he suspected about half a century, certainly no less. The wooden structure that held the earth tightly back always seemed to threaten a cave-in but, despite its flimsy appearance, it was strong enough to last many decades more, even without maintenance. It was easy to forget, when one's lifespan spanned centuries, how momentary many things in the world still were.

He marvelled at the craftsmanship of the humans who had built this mine walkway. One of the group, the woman by the name of Louise, was partially descended from the very first aborigines of the continent. She seemed to be the de facto leader of the humans, and she certainly knew where she was going. For several twists and turns on their way in, she and the man called Tommy had doubled back, covered the main tracks, and then led the scent off to somewhere else.

Amon had seen this before, and his respect for the people he travelled with grew. Not only did they successfully cover their own tracks, but in order to confuse the inevitable pursuers, they had taken pains to appear their tracks had gone in a different direction. At one point they had borrowed his boots, measured his stride by eyesight only, and made it appear that he had gone another way.

He did not know, however, if it would work - the once-Astartes of the Gal Vorbak would probably smell the true path - but it was worth a try, for the humans worked quickly. Whilst the Humans rested and spoke amongst themselves, he could not help but notice the sideways looks they gave him, and the untrusting light in their eyes. He did not blame them for that: with all things considered, if he were them, he would not have trusted him either.

He cleared his throat a little, making them turn to face him. "I was not here when my – the Custodes and Black Templars attacked. Did any of you lose anyone?"

Louise chewed on some bread and cheese that had been brought along. Amon had politely refused it when it was offered to him. "Margareta lost her brother to a Word Bearer, Kelan lost his entire Family to the Black Templars. They came in and shot them all in front of him, and he barely got away. Tommy was not at home when then Emperor called on our town; he was on his ancient rites of passage. He lost his brother; and Harok, well, he has no family but he lost friends."

"And you?" Amon had seen the gold band on her finger.

Louise glanced at her ring and remained silent for a moment then, hiding her hand, she shrugged. "Same as others, I lost people too"

Amon had worked out that she was the de facto leader of the group. No one else would talk to him; and it seemed to him that as long as he wore his armour, he would remind them of all that they had lost and all that they were going to lose.

"Where were you when the Lions, Templars and daemons came, following the murdering whoreson we all called Emperor?" Louise finally and bluntly asked.

If it had been any other time, then she would have uttered her death sentence. On other worlds conquered by the Primarchs, there was leniency, because the circumstances of losing their worlds' histories was a great trauma, as he believed humans understood it. This world, however, was Terra, the cradle of mankind. Here, the master of mankind was the law, and his rule was perfection... until now. Until he had been lost.

If it had been a Primarch gone crazy, one like Guilliman or Sanguinius, or even Horus, then he might have been able to piece it together with a detachment that separated him from the Astarte brotherhoods. Not this, though. He had been away, supervising the security of Terra on the western islands. When he returned, Constantin had told him what had occurred with the Imperial Truth, and that both he and Malcador had wanted to speak with him.

The rest was defeat. In the space of a few months, his whole reason for existing had gone out the window. "Where was I? Fighting doomed battles, while filled with vain hopes. And watching, step by step, my brothers darken. Until the new pacification of Terra, and our final failure."

Louise saw him walk away and turn his guardian spear over. His badge of office was now a badge of destruction and murder. Getting up, the woman walked over to where he had took up his post and sat across from him.

"You didn't kill those people, Lion…."

"Do not call me that!" He suddenly and venomously said. "The Custodes are gone; they are not what they once were."

"Of course they are," she angrily retorted. "As long as you still live, then what they were still exists. When your lifespan is cut then perhaps, perhaps then they will become what the majority of your brothers are now."

Amon was stunned into silence: no mortal had ever spoken to him like this before and lived. She ran her hand through her brown hair. "I lost my husband and my parents to the Custodes who followed the orders of the demon-Emperor."

"Demon-Emperor?" Amon frowned.

"I have heard tales of what the Emperor did to unite humanity, malevolent or benevolent. Times were different then but this - never have I ever heard any tales of him doing anything like this. And now, when I watch the vidcasts or listen to the voxcasts, I see cathedrals being built all over the planet and hear the mass words spoken by those appointed by the Black Pope. So what would you call your former master?" She glanced back at her companions. "Like it or not, you are the last Lion of the true Custodes and, like it or not, we are to make sure that you get whatever you have been given to the rightful place, even if it means us dying." She got back up. "If Terra is dead, then you are its last breath, Amon of the Custodes; you are the one man that can reach Horus. So, brush you mane, sharpen your teeth, and roar; we have faith in you to do what you have been ordered to do, because if you do not, then someone better switch the light off, for our beloved planet will be lost in an age of darkness."

He watched her return to her friends and thought for a moment or two. A wry smile crossed his face, and he might have started laughing at the fact that he had just been put in his place by a human woman, something that he did not ever remember happening since his mother did it when he was a boy. He still had vague recollections of that, involving him scurrying away. However, before he could even make a sound, the sound of bolter fire and explosions rocked the old mine shaft and ground. A number of the humans cursed; the Gal Vorbak were three times closer to them than expected.

"We have to go," Louise called.

He nodded. "I will bring up the rear; go and I will follow."

None of them needed telling twice. Picking up what little they had, they began to run, Amon right behind them; and he knew that time was short now, for once the aggressors had finished with the town and its inhabitants, they would come for them.

* * *

The screams of the human serfs and workers within the ruined monastery of the White Scars could still be heard, even over the falling masonry and rubble. There were pleas for help, cries for parents or loved ones; and with every minute a cry or two fell silent.

Angsar Haren, the Khan of the 19th Brotherhood of the Pinnacle, was aiding in the rescue efforts, not even thinking about what might have happened in the Apothecarium but merely concentrating on finding anyone alive. Right now he did not care if they were Novitiate, serf, or Astarte, as long as their heart or hearts were still beating. He had ordered a vox silence; he was scanning the rubble for signs of life, but the silence was so that he might be able to hear a heartbeat, or a cry, or something else that might aid him and his squad.

He had been out in the training courtyard when the explosion had rocked the mighty citadel. The Salamanders had left one last defiant gesture to the White Scars, and the message was clear: that if they refused to side with the Emperor, Horus would not have them either. He had picked himself off the ground and got together as many of his men as he could find, as well as the Scouts that had been raised into his company.

One such scout was now Battle Brother Yan Shan; he had shown promise in his two decades as a scout, so much so that when Haren had been asked to take him into his company, he had only been too pleased too. Shan was from one of the ancient mountain clans that had sided with Jaghatai Khan during the forging. His senses were unerringly accurate, as were his scouting skills, even before the enhancements of the gene-seed had taken hold of him.

He was not as big as some of his other battle-brothers, but the kid had a wiry strength to him; and right now his senses were exceedingly helpful. With Shan's acute hearing, he had managed to find some Novitiates and two Apothecaries: Brother Klien, one of the Terran-born sons of the Khan, and Brother Jaziar. They were as good as unharmed, and had immediately set to work making a makeshift medical area in the forecourt of the Palace.

Shan now turned to his Captain and pointed in the direction of what had been the cells of the novitiates.

"I do not think we are going to like what is there, Captain."

"Oh?"

"Can't you smell it?"

At first Haren could smell nothing except the acrid tang of explosive and fire, some of which had not yet been put out; but, after he filtered them out and turned to the direction that Shan had pointed, he smelt it without difficulty. It was a foul disgusting smell, one that made him want to heave his stomach contents. He had been on the receiving end of Ork shit once or twice in his service. This odour made that time smell like a feast day in his home clan.

The odour was not just burnt human flesh, which reminded him of overcooked boar; there were other smells too. He voxed for Brother Ong to come and join him, The Apothecary was there within moments, his bare face - as ever - stoic and unemotional, even now. His black hair was tied into a topknot like his khan, and like his khan, his long moustache was beaded and braided.

They inched forward and, after several moments and with Shan's help, they managed to move some of the fallen stonework aside, and stared at the charnel-house within. Burnt human bodies lay next to the dead remains of novitiates who had been trying to save them, most likely when the initial attack had begun. Shan and Haren heard the Apothecary sigh and then utter a curse as he saw the other bodies.

Shan's light swung round to see two green-armoured warriors, laying dead by the central pillar. "Bastards," he swore. "Those murderous bastards."

Haren let him have his moment of anger; it would fuel him in the days to come. He made his way over to the bodies and saw the bolter rounds, and then he saw the body of Captain Zhan, the Khan of the 29th Brotherhood of the Chasm and his own blood-cousin. He bowed his head and clenched his fists. He had obviously seen the terrorists before they could escape and, with the scouts and novitiates that lay dead with him, ended their miserable traitorous existence.

But none of that accounted for the other stench here, something foul, something that had made him want to be sick in the first place. There was no real word he could find to describe it, but perhaps he could compare it to a twisted mirror image of biomantic sorcery. He heard Shan cry out a warning and let loose a hail of bolter fire at the two dead Salamanders that were now starting to rise. He drew his own bolter and fired point blank into their faces, but that did not seem to stop them.

The smell from their bodies was like some rotting vulture's meal; he could hear the swarm of flies that seemed to emit from their wounds, perhaps seeking to infest the other bodies. He roared for his men to form up on his location, and the last words he spoke before his voice was lost in the sound of gunfire and groans chilled his bones.

**++ UNDEAD! ++**


	5. Chapter Four

_Skepsis Forever: Yes, "fiasco" is accurate._

* * *

Vox Officer Racheal Corenza frowned a little and asked for a repeat of the message she was receiving; but, even as she transcribed it for the second time, she could not believe what she was hearing. Astropaths from throughout the Chogoris Sector were relaying the news to every vessel that belonged to the Coalition for the Restoration of the Imperial Truth.

She felt beads of sweat sting her brow and, clearing her throat, she called the shipmaster over. A man by the name of Krae Oskata, he had held his position for a good three or four decades and even now, despite the ravages of space born battles, he was just as capable a link as ever in the 140th Expeditionary Fleet. She had never been more prouder of her career than when she had been granted the role of Voxmaster on the _Conclave of Blood_, a battle barge of the IXth Legion themselves; and that had been not only because of the frequent presence of the Astartes, including First Chapter Master Raldoron himself, but also because of the known professionalism of the crew that made a constant Astarte presence unecessary.

Right now, there was someone beyond an Astarte on board; but the Angel's presence was overall quite rare. That was, all things considered, for the best. Sanguinius's aura was too severe to endure constantly, at least for normal men and women.

Oskata read what she had transcribed, and his face paled a little; being that he was naturally pale anyway, what he was reading made him look like a living ghost. He glanced at Corenza and arched an eyebrow, his gaze speaking volumes about his confidence (or, rather, lack thereof) in what he was reading. She nodded.

"Confirmed, My Lord," she whispered.

Heaving a sigh, Oskata gave a glance to the strategium above him and the two massive Sanguinary Guard Terminators who stood either side of the vast doors. They were stoic and immobile, but beneath that slow veneer were warriors who would react to any threat to the being behind those doors at a moment's notice. Suddenly, he did not want to make the walk to Raldoron's sanctum and the Primarch within; and despite being a man who had a reputation of being harsh but fair, he suddenly felt afraid, childlike.

"Would you like me to deliver it to him, my lord?" Corenza offered.

"We both will," the shipmaster said, recovering his composure. "He may wish to ask you some more about the manner of reception, or give you orders to confirm it one thousand permille."

"My Lord?"

"Yes?"

"This is really happening, isn't it? The Legions are torn asunder and the Emperor has gone…"

"Do not speak of it." Oskata raised his fingers in warning and lowered his voice. "Even now, we are not sure who is with Horus or the Emperor; and many will want to flock to the master of mankind. If you value your life, then I advise you, do not get involved in the political debate. Leave such things to the governors and Astartes."

Corenza nodded once and stood up. Oskata was right: none of the context mattered. She had received the message, and it was her duty to report it; she was, however, genuinely grateful for her commander's presence. The ride up to the strategium deck seemed to take forever; and even when they were there, the walk to the vast doors that held Raldoron's private sanctum seemed to elongate with every lead laden step. As Corenza saw the two terminators, she felt her heart rise in fear.

These were the angels of death; and by their hands, worlds had fallen into compliance or died in resistance. Only in times like these, up close and personal with the two silent sentinels, could she truly understand the fear the enemies of mankind had when they faced such genetically engineered transhumans. Their gold and white armour differed from their battle brothers; and each had mechanical wings that were as white as snow. Oskata cleared his throat and inclined his head in a bow. The behemoth on the left turned to face them both and, out of respect for Oskata's technical rank, inclined his head.

"Shipmaster?" The voice that emanated from the vox-grill was like something out of a Baalite nightmare.

Corenza was not from Baal, but she had heard the stories and could well imagine what manners of horrors lived on the Death World. The Blood Angels were without doubt the most terrifying of them all, and yet she felt safe with them around. They were defenders of humankind; such had ever been the reassuring refrain. And whilst she took pride in that she served on a battle-barge that served as a flagship to Raldoron himself, recent events and those that now were sent over through her vox made that a little less reassuring. Had it been any other Legion, she might have even had doubts about whether the rebellion was in the right; but even before she got a commission on the _Conclave of Blood_, she firmly believed Sanguinius could not move falsely in such a direction.

"We have an astropathic communication for the Primarch."

"I will take it to him." The Terminator held out his hand.

"With all due respect, my lord, I think my Voxmaster should deliver this herself."

The Terminator seemed to hesitate for a long time, though objectively Corenza knew it was only seconds. After what seemed an age, he stepped to one side. Seemingly sensing the young woman's trepidation he said, not unkindly, "When you look at him, try to look anywhere but his face. It might make you feel less inclined to abase yourself like a slavering imbecile."

Corenza smiled her thanks, though she had received similar advice the prior three times she had seen Sanguinius. "My gratitude, Lord Asmodean."

Asmodean bowed briefly, and the doors to the private chambers of the vessel's true commander (though Raldoron himself was, Corenza believed, away at the moment) opened and then shut behind them.

"So," a strong and yet soft voice spoke from the shadowed portion of the room. "What is so important that you had to deliver it to me personally?"

As the god of war stepped into the light, both the Master of the Ship and the Master of the Vox moved to one knee and bowed their heads. But it did not stop their hearts hammering in their chests. To be fair, though Oskata had seen the Primarch many a time now, Corenza was not sure he was doing any better than her.

"Stand, my son and my daughter," he beamed and held his hand out to Corenza. "Racheal, isn't it?" She nodded, her tongue seeming to go dry and the memory of speech appearing to fade.

He guided her to her feet and took the slate she held out in a trembling hand. Her eyes did not meet his; they were focused firmly on his armoured thighs. For some, a Primarch's aura inspired things like wanting to throw their clothes off in wild abandon and give themselves to him. The thought that crossed her mind was different, and linked more to a desire to worship him as a god, screaming out uncontrolled incantations. It was a thought abhorrent to her, for the entire reason this war was being fought was the nonexistence of gods. But the thought was just there and then it was gone; such was the power of a Primarch, or at least this Primarch.

"I received it via secure channels, my lord." She stammered a little. "Con-confirmed by two Astropathic choirs."

The Primarch read the contents, and suddenly his beautiful countenance darkened. "You are certain of this?"

"A-as much as I could, lord; two independent Astropathic recipients."

"Krae."

"My lord?" The shipmaster stood straighter.

"How far are we from Chogoris, in the worst one percent?"

"Thirty days, my lord."

The Primarch clenched his fists. "Then make sure the worst one percent does not happen. Inform Navigator Cherizo that I want the fastest course through the warp to get to Chogoris."

"Yes, my lord."

"Racheal, have the choir send a message to Chogoris. We are a good position to answer their call for aid, and will do so."

"Yes, Lord."

Both of them left the strategium, and Sanguinius returned his attention to the vox message in his hands.

"Vulkan," he whispered, "my brother - what have you done? If the Khan is dead..."

The father of the Blood Angels called Asmodean in and looked at him as the Terminator Sergeant bowed his head.

"Yes, Sire?"

"Have a private communique sent to the _Vengeful Spirit_ informing Horus of this," he handed him the data-slate, "and tell him…." The Angel paused for a moment, though his features were unchanged. "Tell him it has started: Prospero was only the beginning. And we must begin our answer immediately, or this will be the end."

Asmodean bowed once more and went to do his father's bidding. Sanguinius moved to the window that afforded him the sight of space and realms beyond. Unlike some of his brothers who had fought the Emperor when he had arrived, he had never even tried. He had known instinctively who the man was, and had seen no need for a contest of arms.

Now, it appeared that they had been right, and he wrong. The Angel did not know who the Emperor was, but he could no longer call the monarch father. He bowed his head; the galaxy was in flames, and this would not be the end of it. He had seen, in fractured meditations, dark potential futures that even a victory in this war was unlikely to conclusively avert.

He also hoped, for humanity's sake as well as Jaghatai's, that the rumors of his brother's death were false. Primarchs could fall, but a blow such as this, and so soon after Magnus's injuries...

Ignoring the direct effects, it would hurt morale, to be sure, but it would also mean that Jaghatai would not be the last, and that Primarchs on both sides of the war would begin to fall into night. He felt the ship subtly begin to turn and head towards a jump point. He hoped that they would get to Chogoris in time to prevent a third brother gone, but from what he had seen, he was not sure of it.

Yes, this was a galactic war. And it was necessary to fight it to the fullest, and stop holding anything back.

* * *

Alice Springs was asleep when the combined force of the Gal Vorbak and the Black Templars, beside their master, entered. They did not so much roll into town as stomp on it from a great height. No one was safe from the two most zealous Chapters the Emperor commanded. The Word Bearers had always been known for their religious fervour, and the doom of Monarchia had not ended that, despite appearances.

But as the luckier residents who lived long enough to emerge, fighting, from their homes, they were not just confronted not only by the Crimson Lord and his possessed warriors, or by the golden Emperor at their fore, but by black-armored warriors with cruxes on their shoulders. And the Black Templars were, as enemies, no better than the Word Bearers.

They were the first of a new founding from the Imperial Fists, their chapter master Sigismund himself; they were taken from battle-brothers of the first several companies who displayed particular zeal. They were a force of brutality as well; but, amongst the pulped bodies, they took the children. The Emperor had expressly ordered all boys and girls, from newborn to sixteen, to be taken.

Brother Kalestros of the Black Templars reached the sheriff's office and, with a roar, shattered the door as he kicked it into pieces. Before him stood the Sheriff and two deputies, protecting their children, who were - Kalestros saw - huddled in an office behind them.

"In the name of the ancients," one of the deputies muttered as he saw the black armour loom above him. He swallowed and raised his carbine, only to have a fist connect with his body. Blood gushed from his mouth as his organs were pulped into mesh.

Kalestros smiled grimly behind his mask and turned as he felt the bullets from the ancient weapons ping harmlessly off his armour. How the Word Bearers lost to these maggots the first time round was beyond him: they were nothing to him. It was unfortunate to even spend time killing them; but these people were in contravention of the Emperor's laws, and would not accept him as their god. For that, there was no mercy to be given. He grabbed the second deputy, a woman with a scar down the right side of her face; then he tipped his head to one side and lifted her by her throat. She would have made a good addition to the new sisterhood cadre the Emperor wanted to build, being young, but she was also corrupt and impure, and she would never change.

To show her defiance she spat at him, the spittle running down his vox-grill. Behind the helm Kalestros smiled: she had spirit, and that was something. Perhaps he could find a use for her after all; he tossed her to one side, into the side wall and through it.

**++ She comes with us ++** he voxed to the serf who was taking the prisoners.

The serf didn't know if this was per the Emperor's orders, and severely doubted the woman had survived the throw, but he was not about to argue with any Black Templar, much less Kalestros. His temper was known to be finite at the best of times. Kalestros turned as the sheriff roared an affirmation which made his choler rise.

"FOR HORUS!" Rafe roared louder, and fired point-blank with a melta gun he had secreted away.

Kalestros stared as the shot hit his shoulder pauldron with a kick sufficient to make him stagger back, burning off the decorations and armor's outer layer. Bolstered by his attack, Isolas snarled, turning his face into an angry mask.

"You should not have come here, son of a whore!"

Kalestros laughed, but there was no humour whatsoever; he removed his helm and, although the changes wrought by the gene-seed of his father had changed him, Isolas would know that the glare that hit him was similar. It was like a faded memory for Isolas's genetic code, present in full for Kalestros.

"If I am a son of a whore, then that makes you the great-great grandchild of one; and how does that feel, sheriff of a ghost town?" Kalestros let a twisted snarl creep across his face as he registered the denial and the shock on the sheriff's face. "When you die, it will be imprinted on your soul for all of eternity that you were killed by your own ancestor. _That_ is how far you have fallen."

The Astarte got up and was upon the dumbstruck human within a heartbeat. Lifting him off the ground, he cocked his head to one side. "Where is the Lion that came through here? I can smell him."

"The last Lion that came through here, we hung on a spit!" Isolas finally found his defiance.

It was all a futile gesture, and he knew he was dead anyhow; but his own code and bravado now broke through the fear that this gargantuan being had hexed him with.

"Brave words, descendant, but ultimately a lie. Malcador is dead, and I will find the last of the traitor Lions, even if I have to eat your brains in front of your family to do so."

Isolas struggled as the Black Templar took his arms and carried him to the office where the other humans cowered. He heard the sobs and whimpers of the children and the terrified hushes of his wife, who had stayed there. He read the Templar's face perfectly.

"If you tell me where the one called Amon went, then I will let you live." He turned his gaze to the woman.

In his opinion, women had a stronger survival instinct than unaugmented men. Astartes had their bonds of brotherhood and the oath to protect the whole of the human race, but mothers protected their children and the children of their kith and kin with a ferocity that bordered on animalistic. Given the chance to believe that there would be freedom for their children, they would weigh up the options quicker than a battle-brother on the field. Women had strange ways of thinking, but they were to be commended. For their conviction that they knew what was best for their family was not always right, and it could be a weakness as well as a strength - one Kalestros could exploit.

"Rafe, tell him; for the love of the town, tell him!"

The Sheriff shook his head; he had made a promise, one that his code of honour would not let him break. He did not want to live in the world of the false god. He would rather have reverted back to the faith of his ancestors. Kalestros pulled a little, and the wet snap of bone could be heard; the Sheriff screamed in pain, and the woman called Sheelagh gathered her four children to her and covered their faces.

"If the Emperor truly is a god, then he must know where the Lion is," she snarled; she was blocking out the sounds of the dying and weeping outside and around, mothers silenced by one last scream before their children were taken from them.

Rafe had told some of the townsfolk to leave, those that would have been able to eke out a living elsewhere, so that the spirit of Alyce Springs never died. None of them left: this was their home, and they would die to defend it. They had been victorious before against the false god and his forces. They could be again. But back then, their enemies had been a scouting force. Kalestros pulled with little effort, and the sheriff's left arm fell from its socket in a gush of blood. Sheelagh knew her husband was going to die now: this so-called defender of humanity was not going to let him live. She had to think about her children.

Where would they be taken, into slavery or into the service of a madman and his sons? She saw her husband's eyes and then glanced at her children and the children around her.

"Damn you all to hell," she whispered. "I have no love for the Emperor or his Lions. He has gone to the old spaceport, through the tunnels."

"Sheelagh no!" Rafe said, through gritted, pain-filled teeth. "What have you done?"

Kalestros frowned thinly and dropped the sheriff before standing on his head. His boots made a sickening crunch as bone was crushed to powder beneath the Astarte's boot. He stepped back, the boot leaving a bloody footprint on the boards.

"What is going to happen to our children?" the woman who had chosen her children over honour whispered.

Kalestros owed the woman nothing; however, her strength with her children and the fact that she had made the right choice touched something within him. Perhaps it was the blood ties; and so he crouched down to face her, although she still had to look up at him.

"The sons will become initiates into the Astartes, or the Custodes; these orders will be expanded greatly over the coming decades. The daughters will become the holy daughters of the Emperor; be proud that they will live beyond your years, daughter of Alyce Springs."

"I will not live to see it; you will kill me and the rest of us because we defied the false god."

Kalestros stood up and turned as the serfs came in behind him. He told them to take the children and watched as Sheelagh struggled to stop the Chapter serfs, only to be smacked into place. The tears of children did nothing to move the Astartes, neither did the wails of mothers; they were far from the unfeeling visage they presented, but against enemies they were and had always been merciless. Only Sheelagh, standing tall and proud, felt tears fall, not just at the grief of her husband's death but the loss of her children; however, she would be damned if she let this monster see her weep like some fisherwoman.

Kalestros waited until the children were gone and raised his bolter. He prepared to fire at the woman, as he had at dozens of Alycines before, but hesitated. He smiled to himself and, turning, he walked away, leaving her in the stench of death and pools of blood.

Sheelagh narrowed her eyes and shed her last tears, his last words ringing in her ears; they would be servants of the Emperor. She would not allow that. Turning, she headed into the armoury; and after a few moments, she found what she was looking for. She loaded the weapon and then took it outside, letting it sit on her shoulder.

"Black Templar Kalestros," she called; he stopped and turned. "I am going to take some of you bastards with me. And if any memories of me and Rafe linger within our children, they will honor our family as you did not."

The Black Templar laughed; but the laughter died as she raised the rocket launcher with no trouble. Kalestros saw her planned trajectory and drew his bolter.

**++FIRE++** he roared, hoping that other Marines would join in.

They didn't, but one bolter shell was more than enough to make her body come apart; but not before she let loose her rocket. The rocket travelled upwards, even as the attacker was torn to pieces by the high-powered velocity of the bolter shell, tearing into her body and making it a bloody mess.

Kalestros thought she had been aiming for one of the transport ships, but she had not. Even though she knew her children's eventual fate, she could not bear the thought of harming them even now. The rocket instead struck a group of Astartes on the old town hall roof.

The five Word Bearers of the Gal Vorbak shimmered as their bodies received mortal damage and whatever was possessing them vanished back into the Warp. The explosion was big enough to level the building entirely; Kalestros had no idea where Sheelagh had gotten that thing, but it was a truly powerful weapon. Brother Nados, Kalestros's closest battle-brother both emotionally and (at the moment) physically, thought the same, moving to the twitching body and kicking it away from the gun as he made to grab it - only to trigger an explosion that tore his legs and arm off.

Kalestros roared and fired into the body again; a dead man's trigger, the oldest trick in the book, and one that even through his battle-grief he admired. There was nothing left of the woman, and Apothecary Yanos, who had ran over at Kalestros's cry, was busy tending to Nados. His body was a ruin, and yet he would survive, albeit heavily scarred, once the cybernetics had been fitted. For now, Yanos placed him into a sleep and ordered him to be taken to the Black Templars' Fortress-Monastery out in the desert.

He heard the order to burn the town and ordered his remaining men to tear down the buildings; there would be nothing left of this place that had once dared to defy the Emperor.

**++Cousin.++**

He heard the voice of Argel Tal in his vox. **++ Lord? ++**

**++ You will join two of the Gal Vorbak and two of your brothers, to find Amon. The Master wishes them to be taken alive, having said that enough blood has been shed today. ++**

**++ He is merciful as he is wise. In the name of Dorn and the master of us all, I will find Amon or die trying. ++**

**++ In the name of Lorgar and the Emperor, I accept your oath, cousin. ++**

Walking over to the meeting point, Kalestros saw Brothers Xanos and Resak from the Black Templars, along with Faragar and Onesa of the Word Bearers. Without another word, the five of them headed towards the old mine.

* * *

The Emperor watched as Alyce Springs burnt. The last of the children were rounded up and taken towards the transport vessels and vehicles. He would have given them some reassuring words, just like an ancient prophet, but the sight of him would have made them cry even more. He did not want them to fear him, but it was necessary for this method of warrior-crafting. These would be the new generation of superhuman soldiers, sons and daughters to form his Novastartes Legions. They would be the third iteration of his warriors, not a replacement for the Astartes (as the Astartes had been for the Thunder Warriors) but rather a supplement.

They would be feared, just as much as the Astartes and their fathers, but they would not be the same. They would not have Primarchs, and be the size of normal humans; nor would they host denizens of the Warp. And yet each of them, if things worked ideally, would have the strength of an Astarte, and in a form more easily mass-producible. Lorgar had agreed to this plan, the only being beside the Emperor himself who knew of it.

Now, the master of mankind stood with his arms folded and observed the burning city. He regretted the loss of human life, but Alyce Springs was not the only place on Terra with small pockets of resistance. Terra had needed to be brought to heel, for the second time, before the other Primarchs could be dealt with.

**++My apologies for disturbing you, my lord.++**

He arched an eyebrow as he heard Lorgar's voice come over his private vox.

**++You do not have to apologise to me, Lorgar, and your Gal Vorbak are a credit to you; we will speak of their role when I return. Now, what is it, my son?++**

**++The Astropathic choir has received a message from the _Flamewrought_. Vulkan is in serious condition and will need your ministrations, father. It did not go well with the Khan.++**

The Emperor closed his eyes; he had known the Khan would be difficult, but had assumed Jaghatai was ultimately loyal to him.

**++What about the secondary plan? ++**

**++First Captain Numeon said it was carried out, but he does not know if the Khan is dead.++**

**++I doubt it.++ **The Emperor was more concerned for his son than anything else; Vulkan would recover in body, his Perpetual physiology would make sure of that much, but his mind remained questionable. **++I will return shortly. And Lorgar, it will be time for you to rejoin the Great Crusade soon enough. I want you out there, taking my Word to the stars and worlds. Is there someone who can sit in your place before you begin your pilgrimage? ++**

**++I will let you know before the day is out, father. ++**

The Emperor said no more and watched Alyce Springs burn.

* * *

The bodies that came at the Scars defied belief and logic. Humans did not get up and walk once they were dead, it was impossible and could not have been predicted; and yet, it reminded the Khan of old legends, stories that his human grandsire had told him when he was still a child. He had not thought of the old man in decades, for he had died long before Haren had undergone his trials to enter the Fifth Legion; and yet, as long ago as it was, Angsar Haren Khan recalled the firelight tales with the utmost clarity.

The Salamanders' bodies began to move. Their heads were locked to one side, just as they had been when their necks were broken in the blast that had killed them. Open wounds ran with sores that wept the foulest stench. It was not just the dead traitors, either, but their own kith and kin too. Haren let his weapon bark its vengeance, and yet it did not put them down. He snarled a thousand curses at the Salamanders who somehow dared to still exist and wept as he put down what had been the future of the Scars.

He heard Shan curse as he put several bolts into the bloated and pestilent bodies. The rest of Squad Stansho, along with their Sergeant, brought up the rear and fired into the reanimated bodies. Haren heard a scream and turned to see Brother Henogols beating off what looked like horribly oversized flies. Before anyone could pull him away, he was consumed from within. The bloated green insects had attacked at Henogols's helmetless face.

The death cry became a gurgle and then nothing as the armour fell to the floor and Henogols's remains slopped to the floor in a pile of mush. Haren ordered a retreat as the wet gurgle of the Salamanders reached his ears.

"Death is not the end, Scar." Haren Khan's targeting display identified the undead Marine as Brother Nugyen. The slurping speech of the Salamander sent a shiver of uncertainty up his spine. "It is merely the beginning."

Before Haren could retort, his vox, previously silent, came alive with the sounds of his warriors and other battle-brothers who had escaped the blast, fighting the reanimated Marines.

The Khan turned to the only sergeant present (Stansho being separated from his squad and feared dead in the blast), a big man by the name of Tonsou, and growled, "Burn them, incinerate this room!"

Tonsou needed no telling twice and ordered his two brothers with the heavy flamers to come up and cover the Khan's retreat. But before Haren could join his men, Nugyen, acting far quicker than his previous speed, reached out and grabbed Haren. Opening his mouth wide, he poured those flies into the Scar's face. The Captain roared and repeated his order to burn them all. Tonsou hesitated, unwilling to kill his commanding officer, but Shan reacted. He grabbed a fallen Flamer and poured the flames into the room, the two Devastators following his example without delay. They roared their Khan's name name in his honour as the commander of the Brotherhood of the Pinnacle was engulfed in flames, along with his Salamander killer and every other undead in the room.

**"FOR THE KHAN AND HORUS!"**

Angsar Haren Khan's dying words echoed over the whoosh of promethium flame. Bodies that had slithered to life melted into a putrid, stinking mess, and the Salamanders let a second death rattle go as their already decayed skin burst into separate flames. The boils that unleashed the flesh-eating flies popped, only for them to be incinerated in the intense heat of the fires that now poured into the room.

Eventually there was silence, and the stink of burning human and Astarte flesh, far more pungent than it had any right to be. It was bad enough on a battlefield, but there one could ignore the smells around oneself, concentrating on the goals given by commander and Primarch. Here, there was no such clarity. Yan Shan closed his eyes and reloaded his flamer; despite Tonsou being the ranked officer, it was he that turned to his brothers.

"We have a fortress to clean."

Needing some sort of clarity, the White Scars followed him; Tonsou was beside Shan and stopped him. "You need to follow me, son," the sergeant warned, snapping out of his paralysis at last. "Your day will come, but for now let's do this together."

Shan bowed his head, too caught up in the need for revenge to answer, but Squads Stansho and Tonsou met up with others who had escaped the blast, and began to send their undead enemies back to hell.

* * *

Amon listened in on the enemy's vox chat. The Word Bearer conversations were in Colchidan, and although he knew the language in most of its forms, this seemed to be a new dialect. At first he thought they might be safe: even the Word Bearers might not have found them this far down, and although he cared little about his own life, he wanted to help the humans with him, even leaving aside the supreme goal that was his mission. As soon as he heard the Black Templars' tones, mixed in accent from Inwit or various parts of Terra, or indeed anywhere else that the Fists had conquered in their days of traveling the stars, he knew that they had been betrayed.

Then again, he had heard the orders: take the children, burn the town. If anyone thought they could save themselves and their families they would have told the Imperials everything: sometimes even courage gave way in the face of overwhelming odds. He could not blame them for that. They were, after all, only human.

He had seen the piety with which the Word Bearers regarded the Master of Mankind. It went well into religious fervour. And yet, whilst Lorgar had become the so-called Black Pope and head of this new religion, the Black Templars were far more fanatical in their veneration of the Emperor. If there was to be a second, holy Crusade, then they would be the ones at the forefront of it all. They made even the Word Bearers look calm in comparison. He knew Sigismund had always been devoted, but not to this extent, not while a captain of the Imperial Fists.

All he knew was that he had to get these humans to safety, and the only way for them was with him. The Black Templars were, after all, the opposite of safety at the moment. Amon grabbed Louise, whom he seemed to have developed a rapport with, and pointed.

"We have the Black Templars coming our way, whilst the Word Bearers might let you live to see if they could change your way of thinking, the Black Templars will not. It is me they want Louise; take your people and leave. Find a place to stay and one day return to Alyce Springs, build it up as a beacon to what the truth is."

Louise glanced at him and heaved a sigh. "You do not get it, do you, Lion? Our lives don't matter to them, and do you seriously believe they are going to let a single adult from Alyce Springs live? They will leave a scorched crater, for precisely the reason you gave. The war for Terra? It's lost; we were one of the last settlements in this world to refuse the Emperor's divinity. Now, no one will ever settle in this town again. Only its remains will remind humanity of the atrocity that happened here; and no one will harbour us, for fear of retribution. Are you still blind to the fact that the Emperor, as to who he was before, is gone and his new – persona? – is only fear?"

Amon checked around him as her words sank in, reiterating what he already knew. He had been looking for another way out, to throw the Astartes off their scent, but there was none. And, he supposed, part of him had wanted this nightmare to end.

But that would be betrayal to his duty; and he had not lost that. He would not. Had he truly been so close to giving up? And if so, what did that say about the true limits of Custode psychology?

Louise, Kelan, Tommy, Margareta, and Harok moved ahead slowly, sweeping their weapons from left to right like seasoned professionals. Amon was somewhat surprised that they thought their ancient weapons would do anything against ceramite armour, though he knew not to comment out loud. He supposed, anyhow, that if a lucky shot hit the gaps between armour plates or the vox grille, they would have something to cheer about. Unlikely, but probably not physically impossible.

He was about to say something more encouraging when the earth above them opened up and Onesa of the Word Bearers dropped down, his handsome features twisted into an evil grimace. Harok screamed in fear as the Word Bearer rose up, his facial features suddenly altered by fangs erupting in an undersized mouth and horns effortlessly emerging from the back of his head.

Harok fired twice and hit Onesa in his unhelmeted face; instead of dying, however, the possessed warrior merely touched the wounds the bullets had made and grinned; Harok's gun had been worthless against an Astarte. He said nothing as he extended his jaws and closed them around Harok's head. Amon twirled his guardian spear and fired, point blank, at the Word Bearer. Had the situation not been so serious, the comical expression that crossed the Word Bearer's face might have been laughable. Onesa looked down at his abdomen: the hole that appeared was trying to heal, but the power of the experimental Growl ammunition was not to be denied, and they had sorely underestimated Amon.

Everyone knew that Valdor was the perfect Custode, and he had been, but Amon had been a notable in his own right. He had not been ended his tale, after all, by getting further than any Custode during the Blood Games; he had thus begun it. As Onesa, still munching on Harok's head, snarled his anger and his pain, Amon severed his head neatly and quickly. For added measure he pushed his foot down on the head, crushing it under his boot. The corpse shimmered, as whatever inhuman being had possessed him returned to whatever realm it had come from.

"Keep moving," Amon ordered, monitoring the vox-net. "We don't have much time; how far to the space port?"

Kelan pointed to the far end. "Another half an hour, maybe."

"Then run, because what takes you half an hour will take them minutes. I will cover you."

"No." Margareta pulled some explosives from her pack. "You have a job to do on behalf of the Sigilite; I will slow them up."

"I don't - " Amon began, but was immediately interrupted by Margareta's quick speech.

"It is not your decision to make, Custode. Get a move on and take your message to the other Emperor-damned augments. Maybe we'll get lucky and you'll exterminate each other in this war."

Amon set his jaw tight; he was not used to being told no by humans, especially when recommending that they avoid suicide missions. He was the one that would tell them no. It was not just her reluctance to do as he said that irked him, but also the fact that she was one of the many baselines that hated all transhumans, equally. Unlike the Astartes he had not forgotten his humanity; it was still there, albeit in a past that was no longer of any consequence. And the Primarchs were another sort of being entirely. He shook his head a little and thought of reasoning with her, but he knew it was not going to work. He did not blame her for anything, anyhow; she wanted the same as he had, but without the prime reason to refuse. Without another word, he set off with the remaining trio.

Margareta moved back and picked up the fallen bolter; it was too big for her small hands and she barely reached the trigger. It was not designed for human hands, but she did not care for that, only that she could fire it. She looked up as the first Black Templar emerged; Xanos raised his bolter and his sword. She took in the iconography on his black armour and fired the oversized weapon. Instead of accomplishing anything, the shell went wide, the recoil breaking her arms. She cried out in pain and horror and dropped the weapon. Xanos narrowed his eyes.

"That is holy Astarte weaponry, heretic; it is not for you to wield or touch such sacred arms."

Margareta laughed despite her pain and knelt on the detonator. It would not stop this monster and it would kill her; this, she knew, but she did not care. Everyone she had known had stayed in Alyce Springs, the people chosen to accompany Amon having been distant acquaintances at the most to avoid attachment. As the rocks and the earth collapsed on top of her, killing her, she continued to laugh. She would join her loved ones and her ancestors and leave this nightmare behind her. Xanos roared as the earth, metal, and masonry covered him.

**++Brother Xanos! Answer me, brother! ++**

Kalestros, mentally still cursing at the Gal Vorbak's bizarre sense of discipline, heard nothing but felt the rumble of the ground as the explosives took hold. He was about to call again when Xanos's voice came across the vox.

**++ Apologies, Brother Kalestros; I will be delayed. I am going to have to dig my way out.++**

**++Make it quick, brother: we do not have much time and I gave my oath to the Crimson Lord.++**

**++Understood.++**

Kalestros nodded and snarled to his remaining brother and cousin,** ++I will not be made a fool of and I will not fail the Emperor or my father.+**+

They headed towards the space port; the Custode would not escape. He did not truly care about the humans helping him, no matter how much those traitors deserved death in their own way; all he wanted was Amon.

* * *

The fighting around the blasted fortress and in the streets below involved not just the undead Marines, Novitiates, serfs and other Legion adjuncts, but the populace at large as well. Once more, the Scars were fighting for their world, and this time without doubt. None of them had yet managed to see if their father was alive, or the mighty First Noyan-Khan; they were too busy coming to terms with fighting not just Salamanders whom had been killed days before, but the bodies of their own kin too.

It was the things that their ancestors had spoken of in hushed tones, the dead returning to life as ancestral sins incarnate. In the times long before the Great Khan, when blood summonings were even a form of entertainment, such things were said to have been common, though no history recorded them reliably. It was said to be a punishment for particular imbalance in life, to mindlessly move after; that legacy was a chief reason why the Fifth had never used Dreadnoughts.

Now, mortals cried out for their leaders as the power-armored abominations rampaged through the city, killing all they found. Between shots, the Scars wondered where their own father was; they did not know if he was alive or dead, as no one had managed to breach the interior of the shattered fortress, despite applying abundant effort.

Damba Ujin Khan, 53rd Khan of the Brotherhood of the Drum, battled - along with a small number of his Brotherhood - across the dusty plains that had until recently been a market. He ordered his rear guard to get the surviving populace to the safety of the Imperial Army and, taking Squads Ozas, Tumay and Batu, made his way through the screaming mortals, herding them back towards the Imperial Army - the Tasklar 23rd Cavalry and the Tasklar 13th Infantry. He snarled curses at the lumbering Salamanders, but could only stare in horror as, in the distance, a couple of Storm brothers were taken down by whatever lurked within the corrupted flesh of the Emperor's Astartes.

For although the dead sons of Vulkan were enacting their master's last orders, Ujin had sprouts of doubt in his mind that this was what Vulkan had wanted. He might have been a murdering bastard son of a mad Emperor, but he had always had more sentimentality than to do this to his own sons, even as much as he had changed.  
**  
++Bolters are to be aimed at the heads, seems the only way to keep them down. Sergeant Buja, flamers, and Sergeant Tengria, plasma weapons. Send our unrested brothers to the peace they deserve and the Nocturnians to whatever hell they have made for themselves.++**

The two sergeants' runes flashed in acknowledgement and, moments later, a whiff of promethium filled the air as - several blocks off - the heavy weapons squad of Sergeant Buja let leash their fires upon the enemy. Meanwhile, half the city away, the whine of plasma weapons filled the air, and a series of blasts from Sergeant Tengria's squad hit their marks with devastating effects.

Ujin had long since lost track of time as he and his men fought to clear the way for the civilians to get away (to safety - only the Astartes were being affected by this sorcery, and so being far away from them was currently safest). His sword's field cut through Power Armour like a knife through butter, even as both sides' flames cooked flesh like a hog on a spit, both mortal and Astarte. Ujin could smell the stench of human flesh and, for a fleeting moment, thought of wild boar. The smell of the Astartes was different; the rich gene-code that was wrought into their DNA of their fathers hung in the air. As he breathed in the abomination that was a half-decayed Salamander gene-code, a combination that should have been forbidden by all laws of biology, Damba Ujin Khan almost allowed a pause that would have been fatal.

However, he also took in the long draft of his father's gene code, and that he used to his advantage. It let him overcome the revulsion he felt at what had become of the Salamanders and what was happening to his fallen brothers; if this is how it was to be, then the White Scars would fight through it like through everything else. No matter what happened to him, to Jaghatai, even to the Legion, the steppe sky was still blue, and so something of hope would survive. And the planet itself - well, Chogoris would not be brought low by witches and phantoms. It had known plenty of those in the distant past, and overcome them all.

**++FOR THE KHAN AND FOR HORUS! ++** he bellowed into his vox, and his men followed him further into battle.


	6. Chapter Five

The strategium of the Vengeful Spirit was dimly lit. The lone giant within sat watching the stars, his grey eyes piercing through the glass as if his angry glare alone could shift the tides of the Warp. Perhaps it could; there was plenty they still did not know, about both their father and themselves. Even that, though, did not help.

He still could not entirely comprehend what was happening around him and his brothers. He, and he suspected he was not alone in this, felt a deep shame of not seeing what his father had become sooner. He believed his bond with his father would have allowed him to see a turn such as this before the others. And although, even in his arrogance, he had not dismissed Magnus's warnings as mere madness, perhaps due to too many dealings with the Warp, he had not understood just how different the Emperor was.

He should have known that, as the wisest of the Primarchs, Magnus would never speak out of turn about their father without truly apocalyptic reasons. Now, Magnus lay on Kegara, broken in body if not in mind. And Horus was still not sure how they should have stopped the horrific turn of events that had befallen the Thousand Sons.

It would take them years to recover their numbers, if they ever would. They had a new homeworld to build up, resettlement of what little mortal survivors there were left, and the task of honouring the thousands of dead Thousand Sons and Space Wolves who had fallen in defence of Prospero. Despite his revulsion at the details of how he had prosecuted the theater, Horus had to admit that Angron had managed to achieve a victory against two Primarchs with intact minds. It was an impressive accomplishment for the Red Angel, and one hard to imagine in the past, considering the grip the Nails had been getting on his lost brother. Angron had changed too, perhaps even for the better. After all, once upon a time he would have simply charged Russ and Magnus both, and left his army behind.

He turned in his chair as his doors opened and Malgohurst limped in. Horus allowed himself a minuscule smile; despite his equerry's twisted body, his mind was still as sharp as ever. Mal was almost an extension of his beloved Mournival, knew well how to keep the dogs of demand at bay, and despite being a cynical and brutal diplomat, also remained an honorable warrior. Horus himself would have liked to be able to meld both sides as well as Maloghurst.

Horus could read all of his sons like a book, and right now, Mal looked more serious then he normally did. Without a word, the equerry handed him the message from the Astropathic Choir. Horus pressed his finger against the side, allowing his genetic code to be read, and the message unveiled itself. As the Warmaster read its contents, his grim mood became darker, until, finished, he threw the slate onto a nearby desk.

"Which is the nearest company to Chogoris?" he asked.

Mal had expected this and answered without pause for thought, "Captain Foicha's 73rd Company, my lord."

Horus knew the name well and nodded to himself. Foicha had an impressive record, but often preferred to be out in space rather than attend Legion business. Whenever a conclave of captains was called, Foicha typically sent his senior sergeant Seary.

"Foicha is in command of the _Cthonian Dragon_, isn't he?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Good; have him head to Chogoris under my authority. When he arrives, he is to do as Sanguinius says; have the Astropathic Choir send the Angel a message to that effect. I will not have Chogoris burn without my Legion joining its defense."

Malgohurst bowed low and walked out. Horus read the message from his most beloved brother from the cracked screen once more; it showed a scenario even grimmer than that which had followed Prospero. All he had valued was coming apart at the seams, and his Coalition was the only defense. And unlike the Great Crusade, which had been planned centuries in advance, he was facing a war that no one had expected. And through all of that, he was playing diplomat as often as warrior, because of his status as the unofficial leader of this rebellion.

Horus Lupercal felt the weight of the universe on his massive shoulders.

But he would not throw it off, even if he could. He was the Warmaster, and he would yet show that it was by right.

* * *

The roar of an Astarte hit the remaining humans' and the Custode's ears: whatever had happened to Margarita had not stopped the Templar. Louise pointed to a separate corridor, and the party filed down a sloping tunnel, decorated with images of ancient technological triumphs. Amon was unsure of where they were going, but after they had run through the old shaft it became apparent where they were.

Before him loomed a once-mighty spacecraft of indeterminate mark; it looked slightly outdated, not what he was used to travelling on, but its looks hardly mattered. Amon would judge the vessel on whether it got them out of the system alive. Louise climbed aboard, telling them to keep their pursuers off her arse until she had entered the codes that Rafe had given her.

Amon saw the name on the ship's side - _Demeter_; somewhere deep in his mind he recalled vaguely that a classic graphic novel had described the voyage of such a ship, culminating in the crew murdering each other in the sight of a massive Warp Storm. He rather hoped it wasn't an omen of some sort - in matters of the Warp, such ideas were not even laughable.

He held onto his Guardian Spear tightly and joined the other two men in watching the entrance to the bay and listening to the sounds above them. Amon was well aware that, at some point, the Emperor's Astartes were going to get in. Part of him even hoped that it would be now, so that he could extract some measure of personal vengeance for Malcador and Valdor. Another part of him hoped they would be caught in the backwash of the engines as they took off.

Kelan died next. He was smoking a tabac stick when monstrous arms that could not even have been any part of an Underhive mutant, let alone an Astarte, reached down from the ceiling and grabbed the startled human. Amon roared a warning, but it had been far too late, and with a wrench the Possessed Word Bearer ripped Kelan in two. His torso fell to one side and his legs to the other, blood gushing like some deranged fountain.

Amon recognised Faragar, but only after a few moments. His face was not human, and even on an inhuman body, it looked out of place, like it was shifting between reality and something altogether more sinister. Tommy joined his side, his eyes wide with terror; fear came off him in waves.

"Get into the ship and help Louise," Amon ordered. "I will deal with this."

Tommy did not need telling twice; he jumped into the old vessel, yelling at his friend in blind panic to get a move on and that Kelan had just died. Amon raised his Guardian Spear, and as Faragar sprung to attack him, he fired into the neck. The Word Bearer, under the Warp's influence, fell to the floor faster than a normal human would have; Amon twirled his spear with effortless skill and drove it vertically through the face plate of the demon before him, then fired again. Not even Astarte physiology could cope with that, and as Faragar died, the being that shared his body shimmered out of existence and rejoined its brethren in the Warp.  
**  
++You know, Amon, I almost get the impression that they underestimated you!++  
**  
Amon turned around to see Kalestros with his two brothers either side of him, clapping mockingly but tenser than his words would suggest. Amon altered his stance; the combat drugs heightened his already superhuman senses. He had already worked out five different moves when Brother Resak made his move.

He realised it was a move to subdue, which meant the Emperor wanted him alive, Amon was not about to let that happen, and as Resak fired Amon moved. He had moved again before the Astartes had retargeted and fired once more. Kalestros could not believe how fast this Custodes moved. Wondering at how normal Amon's skill was among the Custodes, Kalestros ordered Xanos to move behind his foe.

Amon had already reacted to the new threat and ducked under another series of withering bolter shots, although one shot clipped his shoulder, causing him to wince in agony before his enhanced physiology started the healing process. He ducked under Xanos's blade and grabbed the Astarte by the throat while spinning him round, just as Resak fired again. Had Xanos not been in the way, the shot would have hit home. As it was, Amon used him as a shield and the Black Templar crumpled as his chest was blown apart by the bolter's concussive shells.

Amon let the body fall, even as he finished his rotation and, still in the same motion, fired his Guardian spear three times. It took moments for silence to return; all that could be heard was the clatter of two bodies falling to the floor. Kalestros bellowed with rage at the deaths of his two brothers, and his inability to assist in any way, and clamped his bolter to his side while drawing his sword - a blade that had been a gift from Sigismund himself and one that had never failed the Black Templar, or even come close, in any of the battles he'd wielded it in.

**++Amon, everything is ready - get up here++** Louise's voice came across his vox.

**++I will be there shortly, my lady++** Amon replied cordially, realizing too late that that would wrongfoot the woman.

Louise turned to Tommy and arched an eyebrow. "Did he just call me 'My Lady'?"

"He did." Tommy peered out a reinforced window to observe the battle around them. "Bloody hell that Custode can move! There's just him and the Black Templar commander left."

Louise joined his side, and both watched as the Last Lion of the old order faced off against a Black Templar of the new, fully aware of both the danger and the improbability of ever witnessing such a duel again.

Amon and Kalestros circled each other like wild plain animals. Kalestros was a son of Dorn, and Amon was not about to forget that. He had sparred with Sigismund once, before madness descended, and he knew full well that the Fists' first captain was far more than a capable fighter. Kalestros's brothers had underestimated him dearly, and shown poor technique in their enthusiasm - but the commander was unlikely to make either of those mistakes.

Amon cursed himself as Kalestros's first swing struck home, albeit only as a glancing blow. He moved aside as the return strike sliced through thin air. The Custode grabbed the Black Templar, and the watching humans realised just how much bigger the Custode was, compared to the Astarte. Kalestros struggled to raise his sword arm and reeled as Amon headbutted him, cracking his face plate and dropping him to the floor. Amon raised his foot and kicked the Black Templar across the hangar bay; he'd expected more. The same instant, he was already berating himself for not finishing it at once.

Kalestros groaned and got to his feet, ripping off his helm and tossing it to the floor. He took a run up and then leapt into the air, unnaturally quickly (his own combat drugs, or had Amon's worn off?); with both feet together, he connected with Amon's face, snapping the Custode's head back in a blow that would have demolished a human's brains. As it was, it was going to give Amon a headache.

"I am a son of Dorn," Kalestros snarled. "Yet who are you a son of, traitor?"

Amon got to his feet and wiped his bloody face; Kalestros had given up the element of surprise, and if he thought that had been sufficient to end the fight, the Black Templar was sorely mistaken. He darted to grab Kalestros's sword arm as it raised to strike a blow, and with an elbow spur to the centre joint, he brought it down, snapping the arm in two.

"I am not a son of a Primarch, true," he calmly spoke as a boot to the Black Templar's knee joint snapped that out of place and another boot did the same again. Kalestros hadn't been a challenge after all - it seemed Sigismund was neglecting his training duties - and there would be no benefit in ending it. "I am, however, the son of the Emperor"

"Liar!"

"Oh come now, Kalestros, why do you think we Custodes did not share the same bonds of brotherhood as you Astartes? Why do you think we showed little deference to the Primarchs? Our Primarch was the Emperor himself, and it is the way he had us made that makes us so much different to you!"

He picked Kalestros up and raised him above his head. "My loyalty was to the Emperor, but no more; I am a free man, and unlike you I do not blindly follow my Primarch into damnation. Remember that as you are healing."

He brought him down and smashed his body across his knee. Kalestros shuddered in agony as his body fought to fight the pain and heal itself. Amon wiped his face again and listened as he heard The Crimson Lord's voice.  
**  
++Kalestros, have you found him yet? ++**

Amon picked up the helm and spoke into it, **++He did - traitor++**. Dropping the helm, he boarded the _Demeter_. He gave Louise a small object that looked like black glass. He told her to place that over the ship's engine room; and as the _Demeter_ launched into the sky, she shimmered and then vanished from view.

"Heading, my lord?" Tommy asked, with more respect in his voice than Amon had ever seen him show.

"Let's see if we can find the _Vengeful Spirit_." Amon was drained; he was sore and he was tired, the combat drugs' effects painfully wearing off, but they had to get out of the Sol System first. So he made sure that they remained in a silent run. It would be a disaster to have fought so hard to get off-planet, only to be blown up escaping the system despite the Obsercha-class cloaking.

Those hours grew worse and worse; they could hear the chatter through Amon's vox. Orders were flying to find the vessel that had left Earth's orbit, albeit the Emperor was obviously not commenting on their cloaking, preserving his own security. Tommy headed carefully towards the designated jump point. As soon as they reached it, they would be discovered, so he had to be quick about his actions. As the hours passed, they quietly flew past the asteroid belt and headed towards Jupiter.

They heaved a sigh of relief as they passed under the _Guardian of Inwit_, an Imperial Fists strike cruiser, and once again when they passed by the _Nostramus_, a Night Lords cruiser. As they cleared Jupiter Tommy waited then, at the last moment, revealed the Demeter and jumped into the Warp Gate before any of their seekers knew what was happening. A touch later and the ship would have been torn apart - Tommy had certainly required both skill and luck for that.

Louise made sure the screens were down and heaved a sigh of relief. Amon slumped into a seat and closed his eyes. He could now mourn the loss of his closest friend and the Sigilite, and he did so. All he could do now was wait. It would be a while before they found a loyalist vessel, especially since they could only do short jumps without a Navigator (and even that was far from safe), but they were no longer in immediate peril, for the first time in - how many days?

They had lost on Terra, despite his own escape - lost both the war for the Emperor's soul and that for Malcador's life. But it was not the first time he had lost, and he would continue on his path regardless.

* * *

The warning went out to every son of the Khan on every vessel in every sector. They were to stay away from the home world, for plague had taken it. No more sons of the Khan, or members of the Imperial Army accompanying them, would fall prey to the beasts that now crawled over Chogoris. For every dead Salamander that fell, three or four more rose up to take their place; and it was not just dead Salamanders that rose but White Scars too, animated corpses who now turned on their brothers, guided by some nefarious voice telling them to destroy whatever was before them. Not just that, but they were desperately trying to get to the medical bays, which contained far too many of the Legion's leaders, including Jubal, Bavat, and Singh - and most importantly and troublingly of all, Jaghatai Khan himself.

Garge Khan of the Seventieth Brotherhood, that of the Starmaw, walked to where Sergeant Zhorin was busy advising the human and Astarte rescue teams on drilling locations. He despaired at the damage done to the fortress, but he had no time to mourn the loss of art and the many murals depicting the rise of the Primarch and the companies that had brought honour to the Scars. He wanted the Primarch found and no matter how long it took, they would find him.

They turned as the cracking sound of multiple transporters behind them reached their ears and drew their bolters - only to fall to one knee as the splendour that stood before them reached into their souls and made their hearts soar once more. Only the Khan had a greater effect on his sons, but any Astarte would be moved at the sight of the Primarch that all spoke fondly about. His wisdom was second only to Magnus the Red, his compassion was on par with Horus himself.

Since the news of the Emperor's change of heart and the outbreak of the war, the being that stood before them now had become, in practice, second only to Horus, and he carried the Warmaster's seal wherever he went. Even in the limited glow of the lamps that shone in this part of the citadel, it was hard not to see him.

"My lord." Garge closed his eyes, eyes that were threatening to spill with tears of joy at the sight of the Angel himself, both because of Sanguinius and because of the implication of support.

The Primarch extended his hand and Garge gripped it, being pulled gently to his feet. It was then that Garge saw who else was with the Blood Angels' father. There were the Sanguinary Guard who always accompanied their father, no matter where he went, as well as First Captain Raldoron. But there was also a group of Luna Wolves; by the name that came up on his helm's visor, Garge recognised Captain Foicha of the Luna Wolves' 73rd Company.

"Honour is done; rise, my nephews and nieces." It did not escape the Scars' notice that the Angel was including the humans as Jaghatai's scions. "We are here to aid the children of my brother Jaghatai."

"I humbly hand over command to you, my lord," Garge stammered; he was always struck at the sight of a Primarch, so the heavens alone knew how the humans were reacting. He could hear a small amount of weeping at the sight of the Angel in the long seconds before he had his answer.

"Nonsense," the Primarch replied. "I give myself and my sons, and the sons of my brother Horus, into your Legion's hands. Now tell me what needs to be done and we shall endeavour to aid you."

"I will do better than that, Lord." The Angel turned at the voice of Sergeant Tonsou, stranded away from most of his brotherhood in the din of battle. "I can show you."

Garge smiled a little as the Veteran Sergeant came towards them. "Tonsou was here when it first went to hell after the explosion, Lord," he explained.

"Good. Then, Tonsou you can show me; Foicha, with me. Ral, the rest of you, assist and follow Garge Khan says and help find their father." Sanguinius turned and smiled his most endearing and calming smile. "Lead on, Sergeant."

Sanguinius hissed as he saw a vista of what was happening in the valley below. He could not believe his eyes at the sight of what was before him. Tonsou had filled him in on what had happened leading up to the explosion that had torn the citadel in two, and now the Primarch of the Blood Angels could only watch as he assessed what it had led to. The dead were walking once more and creating undead in their wake, like a never-ending tide or plague. He swore under his breath as he witnessed, kilometers away, a Salamander tear into the neck of a Scar, only for - a few minutes later - the dead Scar to get up and start attacking his former brothers.

"Despite appearances, it's not an infection - they have to kill you to get you," Tonsou noted. "Oh, for a squad of Death Guard here right now."

"Aye," Azkaellon assented. "None are more resilient then the sons of Mortarion."

"Ujin Khan said to shoot them in the head, Lord; it seemed to put them down permanently. That and, ironically, fire," Tonsou informed the Primarch.

Sanguinius nodded and glanced at his nephew Foicha, who was studying the mass of warriors and humans below with a glint of recognition in his eyes.

"Something on your mind, Angolas?"

Foicha was startled that the Primarch even knew his birth name, let alone spoke it, but he soon recovered. "Captain Loken once said that this had happened to him. One of his Sergeants had been killed, then got up and walked again, as an enemy. Could it be something from the Warp doing this, my Lord?"

Sanguinius didn't answer. The truth was, he had no idea what was going on except that his eyes told him; the Warp was the most natural explanation, but it was in no way the only one. He had never been to the fortress of Quan Zhou, and had the battle not gone as it did, he might have taken time to admire the sheer beauty of the Palace. As it was, no outsider had ever seen the inside. The irony were not lost on the Angel.

He took in the surrounding peaks and had to admire Jaghatai for choosing such an inaccessible place to rule his Legion from. But it also afforded Sanguinius the chance to turn this battle to victory.

"Tonsou, I want your company's best marksmen stationed in the hills to the left and reinforce those on the right. Create a crossfire that will herd them towards the valley there. Garge, I want flamer units surrounding the entrance to the valley, every single flamer unit, Astarte and Human." He looked round once more and saw the Titans of the Legio Xerxes begin to move out from their stations. "Get me the Princeps of those Titans."

Garge did as he asked; the frown on his face was the first sign that the Princeps was not used to being told what to do by an Astarte. The Princeps' intonation was the second and last necessary. Sanguinius rolled his eyes at the arrogance of the man on the other end of the vox.

**++ You will listen to me and listen to me well++** he spoke.

**++Who is this? ++**

**++I am Sanguinius, and if you do not know who that is, let me clarify: I am the Primarch of the Blood Angels. I want those Titans of the Legio Xerxes to do exactly what I tell them to.++**  
**  
++O-Of course my lord, I did not know who I was conversing with++** The Princeps stammered.

**++Of course you didn't. What is your name, Princeps? ++**

Garge thought he saw the slightest hint of amusement in the Primarch's eyes, though he didn't look long enough to be sure - there was a battle to fight.

**++I am Princeps Honsra of the _Flames of Truth_ Titan of the Legio Xerxes++**

**++Well, Princeps Honsra of the _Flames of Truth_, I want you and your brothers and sisters to move into a flanking movement beside the flamer units that will be at the head of the valley. And when the order is given you use those flamers on the Astartes before you++**

**++Lord? ++**

**++You heard me. They are no longer sons of Vulkan or the Khan; they are to be destroyed, no quarter given.++**

**++Of course, Lord.++**

Sanguinius cut the connection and rubbed his brow, sighing heavily. Why did the Titan crews have to be so damn arrogant when, at the end of the day, they were all on the same side? He didn't know, and with Mars firmly in the hands of the sons of Manus, he could not even be entirely certain they were on his side.

"Then let us go." He turned on his heel and everyone around him rushed to complete his orders. Sanguinius glanced at Raldoron and Foicha. "If it is apparent that Mundus Planus cannot be saved, then you know what to do. Remember to follow full quarantine procedures for yourselves as well - it is likely to be a Warp effect, but we are not sure. I cannot allow what is on here to spread to any other part of this system or the larger galaxy."

Both Raldoron and the Luna Wolves Captain bowed their heads, although neither man was happy about the possibility of defeat; still, they knew the lord of Baal had good reason to bring it up. Sanguinius moved to join the troops below, as both Astartes and humans would need encouragement; their spirits were broken at the sight before them. The monsters did not, apparently, feel, but morale could harm as well as aid.

Foicha turned to Raldoron and stopped him briefly. "How did Vulkan achieve this madness?" he asked quietly.

Ral shook his head and rested a hand on his cousin's pauldron. "Let's hope it does not become relevant, cousin"

They were about to follow the Primarch when a shout from where the rescue teams were digging made them run down the steps and towards the men they had left there to aid the Scars. Immediately, both men fell to one knee as the figure emerged from the hole. Bleeding, dirty, face scarred with something uncomfortably cyan, Jaghatai Khan roared his defiance.

* * *

Magnus opened his eye as he felt the ripple of Malcador's death in the Great Ocean's streams. He closed his eye once more and a tear trickled down his face. He had liked Malcador; the man had stood his ground on more than one occasion before Magnus's more formidable brothers.

"Father." He moved his head as Amon, who had, along with Ahriman, ran things in his incapacitation, entered his sanctum. "Forgive me for disturbing you; the Warmaster wishes to speak with you."

Magnus turned his head - he was getting some mobility back, but not much, and it was unclear whether he would ever again stride the fields of battle with his sons. What was left of them, that is - it would take years that they did not have to get their numbers back up to what they had been.

He waved his hand across the screen and saw Horus's face appear. The smile was genuine, much to Magnus's' surprise.

"How fare you, my brother?" Horus asked.

"Advancing," Magnus replied. "Is there a problem that requires my aid?"

"Not yet, Brother." Horus raised his hand. "However, the conversation we had the other day - I think it is time to make arrangements."

"Are the others in agreement?"

"Yes." Horus nodded categorically. "There are those who did not believe it should be done, however with what has happened on Chogoris now…."

"What has happened on Chogoris?!" Magnus interrupted the Warmaster, moving his arms to allow him to sit up, although it hurt terribly. Amon rushed towards him but was brushed off by his father.

"I am not sure on the details, but Sanguinius is there and he says that Vulkan attacked the Khan. He is there attempting to aid the situation; reports I have received have said that the dead are coming back to life and there is no sign of the Great Khan."

Magnus closed his eye once more and snarled in anger. Jaghatai still lived, he would have felt otherwise, but it was far from certain how long the Warhawk would remain that way. And Jaghatai's loss, he would mourn more than even most of his brothers. Some called him the wisest of the Primarchs, and in the sense of occult knowledge that was so, but by most definitions Jaghatai had always been the one most in tune with primal truths. If he was gone, like Prospero... "Then Father is stepping up his agenda. Malcador is dead." He opened his eye to see Horus's stone face, but the shock registered in the flicker of his eyes. "Very well, Horus, I will send the message. I will also send Ahriman to rendezvous with the _Vengeful Spirit_. You must reach the others that we spoke off."

Horus was silent for a moment, as if he was unsure of what to say next. Magnus let him form his thoughts; although they both had other matters, one did not rush the First Primarch.

"Your wisdom is still needed, Magnus, I still need you," Horus finally said, "for if we are to save the Imperium then I will need you to keep me level-headed. Both you and Mortarion."

Magnus arched an eyebrow. He had not received indication that the disagreements between him and the Death Lord had at all faded, as the rivalries between him and Russ had vanished in the aftermath of the death of his home world.

"You have that, brother."

"I have also spoken to some of the others, Corax and Mortarion especially. We are going to send you some aspirants that have shown psyker abilities; they have not been implanted with gene-seed yet, but they did pass their trials. We both know that Mortarion is uncomfortable with psykers at the best of times, and rather than have him execute them or such, I suggested we send them to you. They will have a home and a father who can teach them better than any in the galaxy. I will also be sending some aspirants that have shown the same abilities, along with loyal tech-priests to enable faster gene-seed processing. I do not know how much it will help, for only the earliest compatibility tests could be done, but it is a beginning. I will not let the Fifteenth Legion wither and pass into the pages of history, brother. Even if we did not need your Sons I would not."

Magnus did not know what to say, he was genuinely touched by what the Warmaster was saying.

"Thank you."

"No need to thank me, Magnus, if this works it will imply a greater role in the war. And it would seem that you were right all along - Nikaea was a sham."

Magnus said nothing and bowed his head. Nikaea was the first sign from the Emperor that the Crusade had turned from its path of enlightenment. Not the first sign from the Imperium as a whole, however, far from it. "I shall let you know when I have made arrangement for you to meet with the Eldar."

"Take care, Magnus, and I will see you soon. Amon, remember that he is to recover and you will have to carry the load with Ahriman for a while."

Amon bowed his head, although he allowed the smile to cross his face at his uncle's words. "That can be difficult, Uncle. Our Father does not lack for stubbornness, as you know."

Horus laughed and even Magnus chuckled a little at his Equerry's words. Horus vanished from view, his laughter echoing after his image had faded. Magnus glanced at Amon and arched an eyebrow.

Amon shrugged a little and said nothing more. Magnus dismissed him and lay back down. He calmed his brain, rising through the Enumerations. Although his body was crippled, his mind was not, and so he sent his soul out into the Great Ocean to seek the one xeno who would listen to him.

* * *

Sanguinius heard the shout from the Scars as the figure descended the walkway of the Palace. His heart soared as he laid eyes on the Great Khan, but his happiness turned to concern when he saw the Khan's gait, even favouring one side of his stomach when he believed no one was looking.

He waited until the Khan was beside him and greeted him with the ancient grip, a custom shared from a time before the Imperium by many of the worlds in norhtern Ultima Segmentum, Chogoris and Baal among them.

The Khan saw Sanguinius's eyes flicker to his side and gruffly shook his head. "I will heal, brother. Now I need to clean my lands, and your presence will make that quicker."

Sanguinius was far from stupid: that side wound was more serious than the Khan was letting on, and if he claimed merely that he would live there was at least a significant chance that he would not. But he understood why Jaghatai was being so blase about it. His sons needed the confidence that seeing their father would give them.

He quickly filled the Khan in on his plan; then he raised his blade, whose twin Horus fought with on those occasions he deigned to use a sword, and at his and the Khan's shout the second phase of the battle for Chogoris began.

It was a day that would never be forgotten - not in the next decade, nor the next century, nor any millennium still inspired by Terra's scions. It was the day that Chogoris regained itself and lost itself, as two sides of a single snow-colored coin. At the Primarchs' commands, the marksmen began to fire, making each shot count. The human Imperial Army sharpshooters listened to their Astarte commanders and aimed for the heads. For them, this was a moment of light, even in the grime of battle. The sight of a Primarch in combat was a sight to never be forgotten, but two of them, that would be a song to sail down the line of their descendants.

When an Astarte knew he was going to fall, he would deliberately set off a krak grenade. This not only obliterated himself and his attackers but also his gene seed, so that the contagion would not pass onto the next generation. Sanguinius was not sure why the Khan had mandated this, but the wisps of vision he could snatch in the heat of battle seemed to agree.

As the horde moved forward, their numbers were thinned by the combined fire from Luna Wolves, Blood Angels and White Scars sharpshooters, as well as the Titans and their far larger flamers. The undead continued in the same direction regardless of their casualties, as if answering an old instinct or obeying an old order. Sanguinius' guess had been true - they were moving in the same direction, following a strategy that had once been reasonable but would no t lead to victory as things stood.

The Great Khan cut down son's and nephew's flesh alike: what the Titans and sharpshooters had missed, he and Sanguinius did not. The Primarchs were the main part of the anvil, with support provided by human soldiers; the Astartes were relegated to bombardment. This hardly made them happy, but all understood why the decision had been thus made. He saw them coming and hefted his huge scimitar blade, ignoring the pain from his side. His healing was far too ineffective; something about that damned hammer from Vulkan was preventing his own unique physiology from properly functioning. He doubted, even, that the same weapon would have done the same to one of his brothers - the calibration had been for him, he suspected. His father's work. The Emperor's work - a true emperor, it now seemed.

It was getting harder to lift his sword, harder to see, and harder to think, but somewhere deep within him, the love of his sons and the love he had for his sons kept him going, and indeed drove him higher. It was a place deep within him, a golden spire of serenity capping a snow-swept mountain range. It was infinite love, for the humans, Astartes, animals, and land of Chogoris, a sole devotion pushing him onwards. He was all things - all Chogoris, all the galaxy, all the universe. Peace, at the eye of a storm of war, in a fashion his deepest meditations before could never reach. Peace even with those whom he knew his renegade brothers would have to destroy, whom he knew he should have destroyed entirely when he had the opportunity.

He decapitated all around him. Those that witnessed it wept, both at the grace and at the ferocity of the one they called the Great Khan. Sanguinius thought to warn him against taking unnecessary risks a dozen times, but understood, even though his intuition denied it, that with the precision Jaghatai now demonstrated, so far beyond even a Primarch's norm, he was far from risk.

The Great Angel joined his side nonetheless, concerned at his brother's faltering that only he could see, and the two Primarchs turned the tide of battle. It was sunrise the next day by the time it was over, and only then, after tossing his scimitar to sever the last undead's neck, did Jaghatai collapse into Sanguinius's arms. He had not taken a breath for fifteen minutes.

His eyes flickered with pain well past hellish, the toxin that had been within Vulkan's hammer completing its trail through his system. Sanguinius swallowed as his brother held his hand - not in the ancient grip this time, but rather in the way of Unity. The Imperial way. Future before past, even for one who had always seemed to embody the best of past before future.

There was no air in Jaghatai's lungs, yet Sanguinius could read his brother's lips in that last moment. "Do not let my Legion die," Jaghatai Khan said.

And with those words uttered, the Great Khan, the greatest warrior that the people of Chogoris had ever known, passed beyond the sky.


	7. Epilogue

The fires burnt for days, but the biggest pyre was reserved for the Primarch. His body was cleaned and dressed in his artificer armour before being lain onto the wooden structure. Sanguinius had waited for the arrival of brothers or their favored captains, and in the meantime the Fortress had been returned to gleaming condition, even though it would not be truly rebuilt soon, if at all. Jubal Khan was now the leader of the White Scars, and together with the oath that bound him to the care of his brothers, he had promised to avenge his father against the Salamanders.

Abaddon and Little Horus represented Lupercal, for their father had been unable to attend due to endless duties elsewhere. The depth of his grief had been conveyed in private in abundance. Perturabo, Corax, Sanguinius and Guilliman carried the Khan's body through an honour guard of White Scars, as well as members of every other Coalition Legion. Artenhiem, a Pyrae that had been one of Amon's senior warriors and was now the Thousand Sons' Tenth Captain, had accompanied the Crimson King to Chogoris with his Company. Amon had tried to keep Magnus on Kegara, but on Jaghatai Khan he'd never stood a chance. The funeral was semi-secret; it would be undesirable, certainly, for the Emperor's forces to learn of it, at least while it was ongoing.

The four Primarchs placed the Warhawk's body onto the pyre, standing straight in death, and with a focused stare of his eye, Magnus the Red set the entire structure alight at once.

As the Khan's body burnt, human and Astarte alike wept. The present Primarchs, meanwhile, kept their faces grim. Magnus had clarified the psychomechanics of the zombie curse and allowed the lifting of the quarantine around Chogoris, though he could not say how Vulkan (if it had indeed been Vulkan) had initiated it, but they had no idea what could fell a Primarch, except their father. Something had, however, and it suddenly brought home to those that had not yet fully understood it that this was a total war, in a way even the Crusade was not.

Sanguinius took Artenhiem to one side and pointed to the large metal footlocker whose contents had remained separate from any other weapon within the White Scars' armoury. His instructions were clear: the hammer was to be taken back to Kegara, where Magnus and his senior Captains could slowly examine it and keep it locked away to avoid further harm.

Then, with those of his brothers in attendance, he toasted the soul of The Great Khan; and for a brief moment, Sanguinius thought that he could hear Jaghatai's voice carry a rallying cry across the plains.

Yes, fate had decreed thus. And each of them separately knew that they needed to reach deep within and without themselves, to find what Jaghatai had in that final day approached, because nothing less than the ideal would suffice in this war.

* * *

The _Demeter_ belched into normal space like a little piece of food stuck in its throat. For a while the ship remained silent; no one aboard dared move until, eventually, Amon rose from his seat and made his way to the cockpit. Tommy was breathing heavily and almost a little fearfully. Gently, he coaxed the human to open the shields, and the sigh of relief when they realised they were back in normal space was palpable.

Tommy took over the controls and Louise moved back into the crew area. Amon watched as she sat down and rested her head in her hands. The adrenaline of the day - or maybe of the entire week - rushed out of her, as did the realisation that her friends were all dead.

"They took the young," she whispered. "I heard it over the vox."

Amon, who had been watching her, sat across from her, his massive bulk easily filling the crew seat. He glanced out the window for a moment and watched the stars lazily fly by. Ever since he had become a Custode, he had listened to the Emperor talk about how Man was destined to rule the stars. It had been ordained that way from the beginning of time.

But then again, he had listened to the Emperor say, time and time again, that religion was the bane of man's existence. That he had not killed off the religion of mankind for any other reason except its survival. He had explained to him and Constantin that more human wars had been started over the love a god with different names but the same essence than any other cause.

And if that was a tenet the Emperor could relent on (and perhaps one he had never believed in the first place), what wasn't?

Knowing he would for now find no answers within himself, Amon turned his attention back to the weary looking woman.

"The children will not be harmed," he assured her. "They will be conditioned to love the Emperor and will either go into his orphanages, his Legions, or families loyal to him. Some of them may even become Custodes."

"And that's supposed to reassure me?" She wearily asked.

"They are alive, and whether that reassures you or the opposite I cannot control." Amon ran a hand through his short black hair.

Louise raised her head and glanced over him. He was a handsome not-exactly-man, but one who had lost everything he believed in. He did not know where he fit in; he was a soldier, but one without a unit. The Custodes could fight individually, they had no need for the tight bonds that linked Astartes, and yet he mourned his brother Custodes, the living perhaps more than the dead.

Those who had died defending Malcador... he knew how they must have felt, fighting their own father in a hopeless clash. The universe had gone mad, father against son, cousin against cousin, brother against brother. Still, she reached out and laid her comparatively miniscule hand over his; she had lost her community and family, but he had also lost his meaning in life.

But... "Amon, we have a new war to fight, and I, for one, intend to avenge each and every death in Alyce Springs and throughout purged Terra. I would be honoured to fight alongside the last true Lion."

He raised his eyes and the gratitude that lay within shone in his eyes. He laid his other hand on hers and nodded. "Until we find a vessel bearing Horus's banner, I will train you both. We will endure; and my endurance, you should not fear for. I will fight on until my time is done."

She smiled wearily and started to fall asleep. Amon, gazing into the void in a novel longing from somewhere deep within, carried her to what looked like a sleeping berth. He told Tommy to do the same and took command of the vessel. The destination, he realized now, was imprinted on his brain. Malcador's last orders were speaking to him, guiding him, into an unknown destiny.

The universe was not finished with Amon yet. And Amon of the Adeptus Custodes was not yet finished with it.

* * *

Jubal Khan stood before the great stone effigy of his father, his body trembling with rage and grief at his father's death. As First Noyan-Khan and Legion Master, it was his duty to lead his brothers. He was now the way of the Scars, and while he had no idea if he was going to live up to the Great Khan's ideals, he knew he would have to. And for the future of the Legion, he would have to live up to as much of the rest of Jaghatai's leadership as he could. He heard the feet behind him and turned to see the Khans present on Chogoris snap to attention, their white armour pristine and awaiting his orders.

"When the days of mourning are over," he quietly spoke, "we will allow the artisans to rebuild our fortress. And when our justice has been done to our honored dead, we will destroy the Salamanders."

"Tenger-Khan," Noray Singh said with a bow of his head. "Is this going to be a hunt?"

Jubal flinched at the title given him by the Second Captain, but to his credit he did not let it show.

"It will be a hunt that will last for eternity," Jubal snarled. "Even when this war is over, every Salamander will die by our hands. We will let them know what it means to suffer at the hands of the sons of the steppes, the sons of Chogoris, the sons of Jaghatai Khan."

**"Hail Jubal Tenger-Khan," **the shout rang.

Sanguinius and Perturabo stood watching from the shadows. Perturabo had his arms folded across his chest, a look of approving fury on his features.

"They will endure, brother," he told Sanguinius. "Of that I am certain."

"The sons of Jaghatai will remain a great force," the Angel replied. "Even if they have lost their father, and we have lost a brother... the Emperor has just made the fastest Legion his enemy. And when the remembrancers tell this song, there will be no more wall to sit on in this war."

Perturabo nodded, and the two Primarchs fell silent.

* * *

The Emperor sat sentinel over his son's body. He was certain Vulkan would live, as he could full well repair a Primarch's body, as he had crafted them. It was by his will that his chosen would endure. It was obvious now that the lines had been drawn; and if to get his own way he would have to destroy the other Legions before bringing them to heel, then so be it. Perhaps it could have been averted, before, but he could not change the past, and he did not truly wish to.

It was his will to lead his people into a new future, even if he could not yet explain why to them, and it was his will that would drive that future forward, nothing more and nothing less. He glanced at the medical scanners and smiled; it was confirmed, now, that Vulkan would be fine and would live to lead another war. And many such wars would be necessary.

"Let humanity emerge," he whispered, to center his thoughts. "And if that demands war... then let the galaxy burn in my name."

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED (in time) in the fifth book of the Renegades saga, _Perfection's Cry_.


End file.

Warhammer, Fantasy, Sci-Fi