The Tales of the Emperasque: Part Fourteen

The following article is a /tg/ related story or fanfic. Should you continue, expect to find tl;dr and an occasional amount of awesome.

Continued from The Tales of the Emperasque: Part Thirteen.

6-111-001-M42

Tyranids are not of our worlds. They crawl and fly, from beyond the outermost edges of the Galaxy of Man, pulled towards us by gravity and hunger alike. Some of the Archmagos Biologus of the Mechanicum speculate them to be an unthinkably powerful alien bioweapon, perhaps unleashed as an act of desperation in another galaxy and spread beyond control. Others think them to be a form of gestalt community, with “clans” exchanging biomass and genes as they congregate in galaxy after galaxy, drifting around the Local Group, devouring all in their path.
Whatever their origin, they are as alien as anything in this galaxy untainted by Change. Their minds are a gestalt, as alien and vast as their very species, and as immune to the powers of the Warp as anything that lives can be.
The Emperor found this to be, at most, a mild inconvenience.
The massive, scaly Lord of Man stood on the edge of a ragged cliff, staring out at a massive battlefield. The ground was ringed with small semicircles of sandbags and concrete blocks, lined with shallow trenches, and coated in dead fleshborers. Heaps of dead Guardsmen and PDF dotted the field, as the Rippers and Hormagaunts dragged corpses together for digestion. Shrapnel and shot sent up tiny puffs of dust wherever they landed, or gouged flesh where they found their mark. The Guard and PDF were clearly putting up a good fight, but they were never going to hold out until Elysius and Lokris arrived.

The horrible shriek of a Manticore missile salvo broke through the din and clamor of battle. A mushroom of red flame erupted at the edge of the battlefield, incinerating the growing digestor pool, even as the last few lines of Guardsmen fell back before the encroaching waves of chitin.
“WELL, THAT’S QUITE ENOUGH,” the Emperor said, cricking his neck and bracing against the rock wall. With a minute effort, he sent a ravening beam of purple energy cascading over the battlefield. The first several groups of Tyranids evaporated, even as the Hive Mind awoke to the threat on its flank. A few Guard survivors noticed what was going on, and screamed orders and coordinates into their voxes, presumably retargeting those Manticores. The Emperor wasn’t greatly concerned, shifting his aim away from them, into the packed hordes of Tyranid creatures.

The bioforms reacted instantly, throwing themselves at the Emperor, with several dozen Vultures and Gargoyles swooping down from above. The Emperor swept his gigantic arm above his head, swatting the flying beasts with clear disdain. “BEGONE, BEASTS.” The rearmost creature – no less than a carnifex – spat an orb of bioplasma forth, splattering over the ground at the Emperor’s feet. In response, he shifted his baleful gaze in its direction, sending it staggering from a wave of psychic energy.
The Guardsmen below gaped at the carnage. “What…a daemon? Firing on Tyranids? What’s happening?” one of them managed, watching in awed terror as the battle played out.
“Don’t be distracted, soldier!” their Commissar barked. “Keep firing on the ‘Nids, we’ll use the Deathstrike on the Daemon. It’s the only way to be sure.”
“…But, sir, we’re less than two hundred meters from that daemon,” the soldier responded slowly.
“And taking a Greater Daemon with us will be worth it!” the political officer roared, firing his laspistol at the horde of Rippers that had kept up the assault on the Imperial position. “We can go before the Throne with heads held high knowing we bested that thing! Now FIGHT!”
The Emperor finished off the pack of Tyranids nearest him, nodding in satisfaction. “A GOOD START.” Abruptly, he noted the sound of the lasgun fire from the Imperial position had ended, as the last of the Rippers fell to concentrated lasgun fire.

Immediately, the Guardsmen switched their fire to the Emperor, scattering lasbolts over him. He sighed irritably. “STOP IT. DON’T YOU GUYS WATCH THE NEWS?”
“Ignore his wiles, men! Turn your thoughts to victory!” the Commissar cried, flourishing his chainsword overhead.
“I MEAN IT.” The Emperor glanced upwards, wondering if maybe the regional commanders would be more reasonable. His eyes widened in astonishment as a distant metal pinprick resolved itself overhead. “…YOU CALLED IN A NUKE ON YOUR OWN POSITION? WHAT THE FUCK?” He stared at the Guardsmen, still apparently quite willing to die to take him down. “OK, MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE CALLED AHEAD.” He tilted his head back to point at the missile, firing his energy beam once more, vaporizing the Deathstrike before it could come in range. Deciding to leave before they could get off another salvo, he opened a rift and moved through, the Guardsmen still firing in his wake.
Floating through the Warp towards the Imperial command post, the Emperor reflected that maybe he should have identified himself BEFORE joining the fight, and resolved to do so as soon as he arrived.

9-112-001-M42

Isha stood on the shores of the tiny inland sea and smiled. The Webway portal she had utilized to travel to Menhsamesh was situated in a cunningly disguised waterway fortress, and the first thing she had done upon bidding Ulthwé farewell was walk to the sea.
Her guard of several Exodite riflemen and the Knight leader stood distant, keeping a respectful watch, as Isha leaned back and enjoyed the fresh salt breeze across her scarred skin, at ease. At length, she turned and beckoned one of them over, and she obligingly trotted over to her Goddess.
“My lady?” she asked, as she came within range.
“Tell me…how many Webway gates are there on this world?” Ishas inquired, glancing back at the rock fortress.
“Only two, my lady, one here and one at the Infinite Dome,” the guard said reverently.
“That being…?”
“Ah, the place where the World Hub is stored,” the guard hastened to explain. “It is to be used only for trade and travel.”
“Of course,” Isha said, returning her gaze to the sea. The guard pressed on.
“May I ask why, my lady?”
“Because I expect that I will need to visit other worlds from time to time, and am led to believe that your people make little use of them,” Isha said.
“Very true, my lady. We are nomads in our ways.” The guard nodded once to acknowledge Isha’s silent dismissal and turned, moving back to the others.

---

Nearly ten kilometers away, in a high cliff overlooking the spectacle, a pair of optic magnifiers fell to the ground and shattered, dropped from trembling hands. An alien, clad in dark metals and human skin, sank to his knees, shivering in realization and horror…and a slowly building hatred. The alien clenched his wiry fists, crushing shards of his instrument until they cut into his alabaster flesh, and dark blood oozed down the contours of his skin. A myriad of hateful thoughts tore through him, a long-dormant hatred unleashed upon his sight. The alien slowly stood, glaring furiously at the spot where the Warp Goddess stood, his thin lips pressed so tightly together that they drained of blood. A single word drifted through, his voice strained with spite and rage.
“…bitch…”
With a *crack*, a slender black line appeared behind him, and he jumped back through it, teleporting to – and THROUGH – the Webway gate from which he had slipped, unseen, moments before Isha had. In moments, he stood in the middle of the bustling port of Commorragh, his home, and the most depraved realm in all of the galaxy. He slipped between towering spires of dark metal into a tiny Webway gate, emerging instantly in the courts of one of the towers high above. All around him echoed the sounds and psychic emanations of the tortured slaves he had brought with him on previous trips into the real universe, and as much as he would have liked to indulge in them under any other circumstance, he no longer had the time.

He halted before a hovering symbol in the middle of the room, which he thrust his bloodied hand into with distaste. Within moments, a cruel visage shimmered into being above the symbol glowering at him. “What the hell do you want, Kor-rk?” the hologram spit. “I was in the middle of something.”
“Your forgiveness, Overlord. I come with most terrible news,” the alien said, bowing obsequiously. “I have returned from the Exodite world of Menhsamesh-”
“Which is indeed terrible, for you, should you interrupt my ministrations for such trivialities again,” the hologram snapped, reaching for some unseen controls.
“-which is currently playing host to a very important guest,” Kor-rk finished. The hologram paused to glare.
“And whom, if I may ask, are they hosting?”
“Lady Isha.” The room nearly fell silent as the giggling torturers around its exterior halted to stare. A few slaves made a break for the exit, and were swiftly cut down. As their pitiful screams ended, the holographic man stared, his mouth tightening.
“And you can confirm this?” he asked.
“I can.”
“Then do so,” the holograph said, his truculence vanishing, replaced by something far more unnerving: calm, absolute loathing. “I shall…prepare.” After a moment of contemplative silence, the holographic man stretched his leathery arm towards the unseen controls, and paused again. He glanced at the monitor, his pitiless eyes searching. “You did well to bring this to me. Bring it to no other.” The holograph died. And in a far-off tower, Asdrubael Vect sat back in his chair, and clenched a fist.

---

The Emperor sighed internally as the prostrate Imperial Guard commanders arrayed before him offered endless variations of “I’m really, really sorry,” to him, with several openly weeping in shame or fear. “GUYS, REALLY, KNOCK IT OFF. I CAN’T HAVE SOLDIERS THAT FALL TO THEIR KNEES EVERY TIME I STOP BY.”
“Nor can you have soldiers who call in nuclear strikes on you, my Lord God,” one young officer wept.
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, COLONEL, ENOUGH APOLOGIZING. AM I GOING TO HAVE TO GO OUT THERE AND SEE WHAT THE BATTLEFIELD LOOKS LIKE IN PERSON, OR ARE YOU GOING TO DO AS YOU’RE TOLD AND SHOW ME YOUR MAPS?”
The Guard officers nearly fell over themselves to show the Emperor their holographic maps of the field, eagerly and obsequiously noting every detail. The Emperor, who had designed the system, largely ignored them, instead drinking in the details of the battle for himself. He paused, however, upon noting a solid return on the radar map that had not been there before.
“HEY, IS THAT THING DRAWING POWER?” he asked, indicating the hard return with a massive claw.
“No, my Lord God. In fact, it’s completely inert,” the techpriest at the controls replied.
“THEN WHAT IS IT?”
“A glitch, in all likelihood,” the priest said. “It’s not there. Flybys reveal there to be nothing there.”
“HOW OLD IS THIS RADAR MAP?” the Emperor asked.
“One hour, seven minutes, fifteen point two seconds old,” the priest said. “Our radar systems were knocked offline by the shockwave of the detonating Deathstrike missile.”
“GET THEM BACK ONLINE AND RE-SCAN THAT SPOT AGAIN,” the Emperor instructed. “I THINK I KNOW WHAT THAT IS.”

“May I ask, Omnissiah, what it is?” the priest asked carefully.
“I THINK IT MAY BE A WEBWAY GATE. THEY DON’T SHOW UP ON RADAR MAPS UNLESS THEY’RE ACTIVELY DOING SOMETHING, LIKE TRANSPORTING SOMEBODY IN AND OUT OF THE WEBWAY.”
“Eldar? Here? Fantastic,” the priest groused.
“WELL, WE MAY BE AT PEACE WITH THEM NOW, BUT I CAN’T SEE THEM COMING HERE FOR OUR BENEFIT, THAT’S FOR SURE.” The Emperor peered at the map, noting where the object lay. “ALL RIGHT, YOU KNOW NOW THAT GENERAL LOKRIS’ FLEET IS EN ROUTE WITH SALAMANDER BACKUP, AND I’LL BE HELPING YOU HERE UNTIL THEY ARRIVE, BUT BEFORE I HEAD OUT TO THE FRONT TO ASSIST YOUR MEN, I WANT TO GO SEE WHAT’S GOING ON THERE.”
“As you so desire, my Lord God,” the overawed Guard colonel said. “How may we assist?”
“A DIVERSION. THOSE MANTICORES RELOADED YET?”
“They have indeed, my Lord God. Where shall we target them?”
“ON THE GROUP OF TYRANIDS CLOSEST TO THE GATE, IF THAT’S WHAT IT IS. I’LL TELEPORT IN AND EXAMINE IT WHILE YOU’RE DOING THAT.” As soon as the colonel relayed the orders and the hailstorm of missiles slammed into the herd of Tyranids at the designated the coordinates, the Emperor suited actions to words, teleporting to within a few hundred feet of the sensor contact and examining it closely.

“…HMM. NO VISIBLE MARKS HERE, BUT…” he said under his breath, glancing around. “BOY, THIS SPOT RIGHT HERE SURE IS PERFECT FOR A WEAPONS TESTING FACILITY! THERE’S CLEARLY NOTHING OF ANY STRATEGIC VALUE HERE, NO SIR! JUST A BIG OPEN STRETCH OF ROCK I CAN HAVE BULLDOZED WITH NO CONSEQUENCES! HEY COLONEL, GO AHEAD AND START THAT BARRAGE NOW!” he yelled into the air, speaking to nobody in particular. Right on cue, a few of the Manticore missiles detonated a few klicks away, casting a red pall over the tableau.
For several seconds, nothing seemed to happen at all. Just when the Emperor thought that his little experiment would bear no fruit, however, a Dark Eldar raider vessel shot out of nowhere to skim past him, its crew desperately firing splinter weapons at his daemonic body. The Emperor watched with interest as the vessel vanished into thin air with a shower of sparks, right where the radar map had said the Gate was concealed. “I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT WORKED,” the Emperor said to himself, filing the incident away for further scheming. He turned from the scene to rejoin the battle, already pondering what use he could make of this newfound knowledge.

4-113-001-M42

Vulkan tilted his head back, watching the molten rock of Mount Deathfire pour out of its maw, and let the memories flow back to him. He had been standing not far from there, hammers in his hands, when he first fought the Dustwraiths, driving their foul presence from Nocturne once and for all. He wasn’t far from where the shamans had ordered the Sanctuaries be built, and the foundations of true Nocturne civilization began.
He’stan stood a few paces behind, allowing his Master his silent memory. Ir’Shal and Tu’Shan were onboard Prometheus Station, preparing it for Vulkan’s return, but the Pilgrim had felt the need to be with his Primarch on this occasion.
Vulkan glanced over his shoulder, down the sides of the scarred walls of Hesiod, to where a massive throng of Nocturneans had gathered, eagerly assembling for a chance to witness their ruler-in-absentia, since Vulkan had never rescinded his title before leaving for the Eye.
A few of the Chapter’s finest had already been in Hesiod, recruiting, when the Primarch had arrived. Though each and every one had wished to greet their Lord in person, he had requested the chance to reacquaint himself with his home as soon as he could. None had objected.

Vulkan slowly ran his hands over the rock at the top of the wall, frowning slightly. “Cracks. Everywhere.”
“We were attacked, here on our home soil,” He’Stan said. “A traitor to the Chapter, a former Lexicanum turned to Chaos. He found a Seismic Cannon STC in the soul of a Rogue Trader he ‘met.’ He used it to bombard us from orbit.”
“A Seismic gun…that explains why Deathfire seems to have gained a new vent since I saw it last,” Vulkan said, squinting at the ragged hole in the gargantuan volcano.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Sire, Master Vel’cona, our Chief Librarian, broke said traitor’s spine over an anvil in the Vault you carved into the mountain, where a book from the Tome was kept,” He’Stan said drily. “He was trying to steal it, you see. To use its lore to resurrect a Black Chaplain whom he revered.”
“I didn’t put an anvil there,” Vulkan said, thinking back.
“Well…when Vel’cona had looked again, it was gone.”
Vulkan shook his head. “Not by my will. Perhaps the Emperor’s. I was far too busy dying for such an intervention. I’m no psyker, anyway…” he added under his breath.
“In any case, the traitor’s massive fleet shattered against the might of our own, though at horrible cost. Fifty Fire Drakes lived through it.”
“Out of 120…” Vulkan said heavily. “Well. I can see to tracking him down once we rebuild from the losses suffered in this Armageddon place.”

He’Stan was silent for another moment. “Well…my Lord, if I may, your public awaits,” he added, a touch of humor coloring his words. “The people wish to see their King.”
“There’s a title I haven’t heard in a long, long time,” Vulkan said, smiling despite himself. “Very well.” He turned from the endless plains of ash to face the people in the courtyard below. The dull roar of conversation and whispered excitement swelled as the people saw his fiery gaze sweep over them, taking in every detail. He hadn’t been planning a speech, but under the circumstances…
“People of Nocturne. I suppose, first and foremost, I should thank you for your patience,” he started, “ten thousand years is a hell of a coffee break.” While some of the people in the crowd looked baffled or even offended, most laughed, hesitant and confused. This was clearly not what they had been expecting. “I eschew the pointless formality of doctrine when interacting with the people amongst whom I lived and learned. I save such things for those alongside whom I enter the fires of war. You, my friends, are above that. It is for you, and all the people of the Imperium, for whom we, the Salamanders, eternally fight. In time I expect I will make my way to the Sanctuaries…all of them…and take the time to see you, see our home world, see what has changed and what hasn’t. For now, let me say this: it is a relief like you cannot imagine to be home again, and to be reminded firsthand of just what it is I fight for.” Several of the people in the crowd, wearing the green armbands of the civil militia, saluted, as the majority of the crowd roared their approval and anticipation. Vulkan let the sounds echo around him for a few seconds, before waving a massive gauntlet for silence.

He’Stan nodded his head in respect as Vulkan walked past him, into the crowd, helmet clipped to his belt, letting well-wishers and worshippers approach him and touch his armor, ask him questions, or simply let their emotions overwhelm them, welcoming him home with teary eyes. A soft ping sounded from He’Stan’s helmet vox, and he tapped the stud with his tongue. “He’Stan.”
“Forgefather, the Astropath has just relayed a message from Segmentum Command to be relayed to Lord Vulkan immediately,” the serf on the other side said.
He’Stan looked over the crowd, Vulkan towering over the tallest of the adoring humans by nearly a meter. “Give it a moment. He’s meeting family.”
“Yes, sir,” the serf replied. After another few minutes of letting Vulkan greet the crowd (under the watchful eyes of several Seventh Company Scouts), He’Stan politely tapped his Primarch on the shoulder.
“Sire?”
“Right.” Vulkan gestured the crowd to part, and it did, as he and the Forgefather walked back up to the top of the wall, where the crowd could not be harmed by the teleporters’ harsh aftereffects. As soon as they were clear, he triggered his beacon, and both Astartes disappeared in a flash. They reappeared on the hangar deck of the Prometheus, where Tu’Shan was waiting.

The Chapter Regent saluted as Vulkan stepped off of the pad, looking about. All across the huge chamber, which he noted looked as if it had been repaired in stages – and quite recently – serfs and Battle-brothers snapped to, saluting or slamming their gauntlets across their pauldrons. Several of the Salamanders stepped forth, kneeling reverently, as Vulkan’s gaze passed them, bowing their heads in respect.
Vulkan let them. He knew how badly the Chapter had missed him in his interminable confinement. After acknowledging their reverence, he gestured for them to rise, noting that the group looked rather harried. Several of the Chapter’s two hundred plus Thunderhawks were resting in repair cradles, too, surrounded by busily working repair serfs, and a few Techmarines.
Several serfs looked quite different from the others, their stances hunched and skin white as paper. Vulkan noted their presence and resolved to ask about them later.

The Master of Apothecaries stood patiently at the end of the room, waiting for his Lords to approach. As they grew near, the white-armored healer slammed his gauntlet against his pauldron in respect, beaming under his helmet. “My Lord Vulkan, Regent Tu’Shan. I cannot overstate the honor which you bestow on your Chapter, today, Sire.”
“Thank you, Apothecary.” Vulkan tilted his head at the expansive array of nartheciae on the Apothecary’s gauntlets and belts. “Expecting a fight?”
“Indeed not, Lord. The Emperor himself has instructed that the Chapter be made ready for battle as soon as our losses at Armageddon are replenished,” the Apothecary explained. “In fact, the Lord of Fourth is even now preparing the Column of Fire for immediate sortie. Second Company’s numbers are replenished in full by a new batch of Scouts, and depart for Cyldrim at midnight. He was quite disappointed to learn he would miss your return,” the Apothecary added, shrugging.
“I will make a visit to the vessel before they depart,” Vulkan said. “I do not recognize its designation.”
“It is the Saturnine-pattern Battle Barge that holds the flag while the Flamewrought and the Hammer of Vulkan are in for repairs, Lord,” Tu’Shan added.
“Just how many bloody ships did you name after me?” Vulkan asked with a chuckle. An awkward silence greeted his question. Vulkan slowly raised his eyebrows.
“…Many, Lord,” the Apothecary supplied. “It is a gesture of respect from the Lord of the Burning Skies.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Vulkan said good-naturedly. “Well. My quarters. I assume you have some picked out for me?” he asked. “Well, we thought we would give you a choice, Lord,” Tu’Shan said. “The Chalice has returned, and one of the Fire Drakes has also offered up his own room.”
“I would prefer to rest on my ship, I think,” Vulkan decided. “I’ve missed that old tub.”
“It was the first of the Artefacts to be recovered, Lord, shortly before the Mantle,” He’Stan said, from his silent position behind the others. “We’ve been crafting Terminator armor aboard ever since.”
“I should hope so,” Vulkan said with approval. “Tell me, was my decision to limit the Companies ever overridden?”
“Er, what do you mean?” Tu’Shan asked in confusion.
“Their size. One hundred twenty brothers per company, plus a Company commander each, plus sixty scouts,” Vulkan said.
“Oh, no, we left it as it was, as a reminder of the losses we suffered at Isstvan,” Tu’Shan said.
“Fair enough.” Vulkan seemed to lose himself in memories. He’Stan asked the question he knew all of them had been burning to ask.
“My Lord…how DID you escape Isstvan?”

“Bleeding out in Corax’s arms,” Vulkan said darkly. “Even as I rallied the Drakes for a push for the bunker, a group of Renegade Iron Warriors Assault Terminators opened fire on the squad that was with me. My Drakes forced them back with a set of Multimeltas we had brought with us, and the renegades hit us with long-range grenades. The shock from one nearly…” Vulkan looked down at his left arm and flexed his fingers. “…nearly took my arm off. Corax took a hit square on the plate, knocked him on his ass. A Raven Guard Apothecary…can’t remember him ever introducing himself…he hauled me up, propped Corax up on a chunk of a tank. I fell back down, and blacked out as Corax caught me. I woke up on a Loyalist Death Guard frigate burning hard for Terra.”
“Death Guard?” He’Stan asked in surprise.
“Of all the Traitor Legions save the World Eaters, they were the one with the most loyalists left in them,” Vulkan said, shaking the memory away. A loud *clang* echoed through the huge hanger as a pair of Thunderhawk Transporters settled down on their refueling cradles, and the servitors attending the cradles slid fuel hoses into place. Vulkan watched them for a moment, enjoying the distraction. “Of course, we had…maybe eight hundred men left alive in the entire Legion after that mess. Maybe fifty of which were actually battle-ready. We raced for Terra, and arrived just as Jaghatai’s flagship broke Fulgrim’s carrier group. If I recall correctly, that was what drove Horus to drop his shields…he knew he couldn’t fight us off and have the strength to face Leman, Lion, and Roboute when they arrived.” He shook his head again, remorse coloring his basso murmur. “We won because we bluffed our numbers.”

“Our history…varies somewhat, my Lord,” Tu’Shan said. “Some of our records insist that you created the Artefacts and disappeared immediately after the tumult of the Heresy. Other say you stayed for a thousand years first.”
“Then they are both wrong.” Vulkan clasped his hands together in front of his armored torso, noting the spots where it had been breached by the Tau pulse guns and wondering if he would have time to fix them before he was dispatched back to the front. “I stayed for a hundred years. I saw Corax flee for the Eye…Jaghatai vanish. I saw Leman follow after Corax, and of course…Rogal. Poor son of a bitch. After the Harrowing ended, and the Imperium started to reconquer all the of the worlds we lost to Horus, or to rebellion, or to the Harrow Beasts, I had simply had enough. I left the Artefacts I had created behind, and flew straight here after I hid them. The Tome…I had created that with the aid of the Earth Shamans who founded the Seven Cities, you know. I’m not a psyker myself. The Shamans of my village were far too old to become Space Marine Librarians, but some of them lived still, and we created the Tome together. One of them even knew the Gates of Infinity ability, and used it to leave my mark on a hundred worlds I had never visited.”
“Scoria,” Tu’Shan said with spite.
“Never heard of it, but it’s possible its name has changed.” Vulkan turned to face the brilliant orange shimmer of energy around the void shield relays protecting the station, as the great doors into the vacuum of space ground shut behind the Thunderhawks. “After we were done, I built seven of the Artefacts. The other two…the Chalice and the Eye…them I stole.”

“What.” Tu’Shan’s voice was a flat note of absolute disbelief. He’Stan’s jaw nearly fell out of his head.
“I stole them. Well. ‘Salvaged,’” Vulkan said, punctuating his last word with a shrug. “The Eye was a Space to Space Defensive Laser cannon from the Segmentum Tempestus I had retrieved on behalf of an Arch-Magos of the Mechanicum, who had, in the interim, joined with the Fabricator-General and sided with Horus. He had found records of an STC being used to create a great weapon and asked me to salvage it. By the time I had returned, Lorgar had already turned. I figure, hey, he doesn’t want to keep his giant space gun, I may as well keep it. The Chalice was a ship we actually shot down in the Crusade. It had belonged to a planet of humans who had refused to join the Imperium. I kept it after the battle, meaning to break it down and ship it piecemeal to Saturn for reverse-engineering. When Saturn’s shipyards were demolished by Abbadon in his retreat from Sol, I decided to rebuild it as a Forgeship and construct the Artefacts there.” He noted Tu’Shan’s naked shock with a smile. “What?”
“You…I mean, we figured you had had help with some of the Artefacts, but…” Tu’Shan said.
“Well, I DID go to the trouble of hiding them, and goodness knows they would have never worked again were it not for my repairs and upgrades,” Vulkan said. “So…after the Heresy ended and the Harrowing did too, and a hundred years passed, I flew here, had the Tome written, crafted or reappropriated the Artefacts, had them all hidden by Librarians sworn to silence, then took off for the Eye. The rest is history.”

“I see.” Tu’Shan allowed himself a moment to think of the rigors and fear to which his Primarch had been subjected as a plaything for daemons and shuddered. “Why Librarians?”
“Because at the time, it was policy for all Salamander Librarians to learn the Old Words. The language spoken amongst the psykers native to Nocturne. Nearly a tenth of the Tome was written in that language, and some of the passages related to the locations of other books and relics are in the Old Words,” Vulkan said. He frowned suddenly. “Surely that has not changed?”
“Well, Master Vel’cona, our Chief Librarian, does teach it to his designated successor,” Tu’Shan said. “And of course He’Stan and I are both fluent.”
“That is good. Such an important part of our history should be preserved.” Vulkan paused as the hangar doors ground open again, this time allowing an interceptor to swoop in, settling down on the pad. The Apothecary shielded his optical sensors with one hand, as the brilliant glare of the engine faded. “You are keeping busy, brothers.”
“Our ships returned from Armageddon in some disarray. The greenskins proved disgustingly resilient,” Tu’Shan said, pressing his finger against his helmet vox. The speaker buzzed in acknowledgement. “Lord, your shuttle has arrived to ferry you to the Chalice.”
“Superb.” The Primarch turned to the Apothecary, nodding a farewell, as the ship slid into the hangar, steam wafting from the ice forming on its wings. “Brother, I will see you later. I should see to my armor.”
“Of course, my Lord, do not allow me to delay you,” the Apothecary said. Vulkan walked aboard the shuttle’s ramp, and it lifted smoothly, turning to soar back into space, towards the distant forgeship.

4-117-001-M42

“So I stabbed the fucker and took his mints,” Russ said, leaning back in his leather chair, telling outrageous lies to the assembled Rune Priests. He looked wistfully at his empty tankard, and a few serfs nearly fell over themselves refilling it. “And…well, that’s the story of how I met Roboute Guilliman.”
“Dare I ask how he would tell the story?” Bjorn asked from the corner of the room.
“Nope,” Russ said cheerfully.
“Aw. You never did let me have any fun.”
“Well, if you want to have a go at it,” Russ said, gesturing expressively at the crowd of Wolf Brothers.
“No, thanks,” Bjorn said quickly. “I’ve had enough storytelling for one decamillienium.”
“Well, then I guess the next one I should tell is the time Sanguinius and I fought against the largest Ork in recorded history,” Russ said, lining up the memory. “It was late in the Crusade. Very late. Maybe forty months, at most, before Lorgar went bad. The Emperor had left the Crusade for Terra, Horus was running the show, and there were almost ten thousand Space Wolves…” he started, as the younger Initiates leaned forward to listen, and the older Brothers tried not to. Bjorn’s optics drifted across the small hall in which they were gathered, looking over the changes Russ had wrought since his return. He had to approve.
Gone were the petrified wolves and pelts that had decorated the walls. Russ had declared them “macabre.” In their place were banners of the Subsectors in which the Wolves had won at least one battle during Bjorn’s lifetime. There were a lot of banners.

The ceiling was decorated with tiny blue chips of glass and metal, taken from one of the trophies in Russ’ room. They were relics, he had declared, of a prize he had wrested from the grip of Mortarion less than fifty years after the Heresy. What, precisely, that prize was, he had never made clear. Bjorn suspected that Russ simply liked the way they looked like stars.
A downright maudlin portrait of the Emperor (in his original body) and Russ standing together on the steps of the Palace with Rogal Dorn was tucked away in one corner, over a roaring fireplace. Several of the other rooms of the Fang (including some of the great Halls of the Wolf Brothers) had been nearly stripped bare, though of course Russ had been tactful enough to simply “request” that the offending decorations be replaced to his liking. In their place were coming new decorations, including an intact Eldar shuttle that Harald Deathwolf had captured during his glorious reign as Great Wolf; which would have had the Mechanicum spitting nails if anyone had bothered to tell them.
“…well, he jumped about ten feet straight up, not that that means much when he could fucking fly, but, details…” Russ continued, holding his audience rapt. Bjorn glanced through the door of the hall into the much larger room beyond, one of the Galleries of the Fang, where entire Great Companies could be fed or equipped as needs demanded. A ruckus from beyond caught his ear, and he trod over to the door to see what the commotion was.

A fistfight between two Blood Claws was well under way, with several others quickly forming a ring around them, passing slips of paper to one who seemed to be in charge. The two Claws grappled until one managed to get the other in a headlock and twist, the other feebly thrashing before slamming their hand on the floor in defeat. Bjorn watched from his second-floor viewpoint as the seeming leader of the pack passed out the paper slips again, the losers grumbling and the winners exultant.
“Something wrong, old friend?” Russ called.
“Just Blood Claws in a scrap. Nobody’s dying,” Bjorn rumbled back.
“All right.” Russ turned back to the group of Wolf Brothers. “So, the greenskin’s nearly as tall as a Titan, because Orks get bigger as they get older, you know, and the green filth had controlled that chunk of space for fifteen million years. ‘Course, that was his weakness too. He was fast as hell, but he had a blind spot so huge you could park a truck in it. So, we did, basically. Sanguinius danced out of range, slashing at him to provoke him, while I dragged a multi-melta into position behind him and cook it off. Didn’t kill him, though, just baked off a few meters of green. So he turns around, screaming in rage, and Sanguinius actually lands on the fucker’s back and drives a sword through his brain. That offed him good enough.”
“Amazing. Are there still Orks that big?” one Long Fang asked.
“Within the realm of the Astronomican? Hell no, they were easy to detect from range with a Waaagh imprint that huge, we just killed them from space or in tank battles,” Russ said dismissively, waving his hand. “Outside the Imperium? Sure.”

Bjorn plodded over to the Wolf Father and hesitated, words weighing on him. “Boss, you have a second?”
Russ cocked an eyebrow, standing and following Bjorn out into the hall. A few men on the floor below stared up at the heroes, gesturing and pointing, but Bjorn’s demeanor was all Russ was watching. “What’s wrong, Bjorn?”
“I’m exhausted, Leman. I’m so tired I feel a bit ill,” Bjorn said heavily.
Russ stared at the Dreadnought, the implications of that statement cutting through his alcohol-induced buzz. “Well...you’ve been awake much longer than Dreadnoughts are supposed to be…”
“I have. So…so much longer,” Bjorn said. “I’ve been up since…well, since Angelos ‘received’ me two months ago. I need to rest.”
“I understand,” Russ said, feeling a sudden sense of loss. “You don’t mean anything permanent, do you? I remember some Venerable-”
“Cutting you off right there, boss,” Bjorn said. “No way. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just…tired.”
Russ nodded slowly, processing that. “Okay. Well…the Iron Priests have their instructions.” Russ squinted at his ancient friend, curiosity getting the better of him. “Do you dream under the needle?”
“No. It’s a deeper rest than that.”
“All right.” Russ struggled to find words. “Can you put it off a few more hours? There’s something I want to show you first.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Well, it’s Grimnir’s idea, actually. Meet us in the lowest Hall, near the armory, in, say, four hours?” Russ asked.
“All right, then. See you there, I guess,” Bjorn said wearily.

True to his word, Bjorn plodded into the hall in four hours, where Grimnir and Russ were waiting. Joining them were the requisite Iron Priests, to perform the sedation rituals…and nearly all of the other Wolves in the entire Fang.
“What the fuck?” Bjorn asked, before realizing what was happening. “Oh, you didn’t.” Russ shrugged. Grimnir smirked through his fangs.
“What can I say. Lord Father?” he asked of Russ. Russ nodded once and turned to the crowd.
“Lads, this, here, is Venerable Bjorn, the first Great Wolf after me. He’s stood at the helm of the Legion, or Chapter, for ten thousand years. A few months back, he sleepwalked his way to Cadia, where he had a grand old time, blasting the shit out of some of Abbadon’s little pets. Do you think he did a good job? He was half-asleep and all, remember.”
A chorus of laughter, assent, and general insults rose from the throng of Wolf Brothers. Russ shrugged theatrically. “I got there after he did, so I don’t know, but I’m told he made a fair accounting of himself. That said, lads, Bjorn here is feeling, well, a bit long in the tooth. Do you all think he’s lost it? Think he doesn’t have thirteen more Black Crusades – or one Second Great Crusade left in him?”
Thousands of the Wolf Brothers shouted the idea down, shaking their heads and jeering Abbadon's chances of success.
“Lads, he’s ten thousand years old, his hearing’s gone a bit faint. Could you repeat what you just said?” Russ asked mildly.
As once, the seven thousand Marines roared their disapproval, egging Russ on as Bjorn stood stock-still.
“Better.” Russ turned to Bjorn and grinned wanly. “They seem to disagree, my son. You still wanna go hang out with those dirty little kleptomaniacs?”

“…Hell no,” Bjorn said, nearly overcome. He amplified his own speakers, trying to respond to his brothers’ overwhelming support, but couldn’t quite do it. After several seconds of trying, he hung his armored torso in a brief moment of emotion, before straightening up. “My brothers, thank you. I’m glad to hear that. You have no idea what it means to me.” Words failed him again for a moment. “I can go to sleep confident,” he finished.
“There you go then,” Grimnir said. He raised his voice, gesturing silently at the doors behind him into the Fang Crypt as he did so. “Brothers, please show Elder Bjorn the way out.”
The Wolf Brothers cheered uproariously as Bjorn slowly walked through the doors into the crypt. The muted sound of their clamorous applause carried through the door as the Iron Priests tended to the artifice that had sustained Bjorn for nine thousand years. Bjorn turned his speakers back down, his voice synthesizer managing to convey his emotional upswell. “…Thanks, Boss. I really needed that.”
“Thank Grimnir,” Russ said with a grin. “His call. And frankly, old friend, just so we’re clear, if you ever ‘sleepwalk’ over to Cadia or anywhere else again, I will drag you back in irons. Clear?”
“You won’t need to,” Bjorn managed. “I’m…not going anywhere.” Iron Priests worked at the controls, prodding runes and whispering litanies. The sarcophagus slid into place with a metallic *click*.
Russ kept talking. “I’ll be here when you wake up next century, my friend.” The crypt sealed, and the tubes leading into it flooded with their orange mixtures, instantly rendering the ancient Space Wolf comatose. The Space Wolves walked out into the hall, silencing the cheering Brothers out of respect, as the door behind them locked, sealing Bjorn away, until the Space Wolves needed their guardian again.

9-118-001-M42

“JOB WELL DONE,” the Emperor said, staring at the radar map in the command center. The Guard officers clustered around him nodded sycophantically, watching as the last few red Tyranid icons on the map vanished under a tidal wave of Imperial blue. The techpriest at the controls read off his tally counter.
“Eight regiments sortied, eight regiments retrieved at approximately twenty percent casualties, two Armored Fist columns retrieved with thirty percent losses. No Titan losses.”
“It would have been far worse for your absence, my Lord God,” the portly Lord General at the front of the room said, making the sign of the Aquila reverently. “The scourge will still need to be purged from the worlds’ civilian population, of course, but…”
“WITH NO MORE CARNIFEXES APPEARING IN THE SKIES, YEAH, YOUR MEN SHOULD BE MORE THAN CAPABLE OF PURGING ANY LINGERING GENESTEALERS,” the Emperor finished. “ALL RIGHT. IN THE MEANTIME, I THINK I’M GOING TO CHECK OUT THE WEBWAY GATE I FOUND.”
“So it was a Gate, then, my Lord God?” the techpriest asked. “Do you know where it goes?”
“WELL, ALL GATES ARE THEORETICALLY CAPABLE OF CONNECTING TO OTHER GATES, BUT IN REALITY, THEY’RE LIMITED BY THEIR RELATIVE SIZE,” the Emperor said. “I’D BET THAT WAS A SMALL GATE USED FOR DARK ELDAR RAIDS.”
“What will you do with it, my Lord God?” the Lord General asked, staring at the spot on the map where the Gate lay hidden.
“FOR NOW, GO THROUGH IT,” the Emperor said. “I’VE GOT A BIT OF AN IDEA, REGARDING GETTING THOSE ANNOYING DARK ELDAR OFF OUR BACKS FOR A WHILE.”

Asdrubael Vect stared at the two reports in his hands with a mounting rage. In one, a scout team had reported that the Emperor of Humans had possessed a daemon, and was tearing through the Tyranids. In the other, one of his own men had sighted Isha herself, alive and well, on an Exodite world.
Vect didn’t care about Isha, very much. His attitude towards the Gods was more or less the same of that as the rest of the Dark Eldar: loathing mixed with antipathy. What reason did he have to care for a failure? She hadn’t the strength to fight She Who Thirsts like Khaine, and hadn’t the foresight to flee like Cegorach, so what did she matter? It was her alliance with the Exodites that truly bothered him. The Craftworlders, in their arrogance, were of little importance in the longest term; transitory and fleeting. But the Exodites…they were not shrinking in number. Instead, they had managed to thrive in their self-imposed solitudes and barbarity. And now that the Imperium was reported to be fleeing from the Maiden Worlds as fast as they could…
By the same token, though, it was the very same Exodites who barely mattered in the more immediate sense. According to a Harlequin ‘friend,’ the Emperor of Humans had used the Webway to travel to Ulthwé. How, he didn’t know. But if he had managed to travel to a craftworld using the Webway…Commorragh was vulnerable, too.
Not that that was his problem. The Dark Eldar numbered in the tens of trillions now, with technologies more advanced than any left in the entire galaxy, even if not all of the power of the Eldar before the Fall had been preserved. No one Human sorcerer, no matter their power, could threaten him.

2-118-001-M42

“Are you kidding?” Jaghatai Khan asked. “It’s great! Oh yeah, I’m finally home again! Have you any idea how much I missed this place?”
“GLAD TO HEAR IT, JAGHATAI,” the Emperor said. He had arrived in the skyport of the Great Fortress of Mundus Planus mere minutes before, to deliver a message of great import to the Khan of the Scars, and now the two were discussing the improvements Jaghatai had seen fit to make on his return. “AND THE NEW RECRUITS?”
“Three thousand volunteers per day for the last three weeks,” Jaghatai said with grim satisfaction. “We’re allowed to pick and choose, really. So many more recruits than geneseeds, that we we’ve turned away thousands of candidates. We can screen those whom we may have accepted out of desperation for numbers before.”
“AND OF COURSE VOLUNTEERS USUALLY HAVE BETTER MORALE,” the Emperor noted.
“That too,” Jaghatai said. He gestured to the massive retractable door overhead. “The fleet’s still en route from Armageddon, though. I understand that High Marshall Helbrecht returned to personally lead the defenses again.”
“WITH THRACKA DEAD, THE ORKS WILL CAVE BEFORE MUCH LONGER,” the Emperor said. “AND THAT MEANS THE WHITE SCARS WILL BE ABLE TO PURSUE A VERY…VERY IMPORTANT NEW MISSION.”
“A new mission, eh?” Jaghatai asked. “What do you have in mind?”
“A JOINT TASK GROUP ASSIGNMENT,” the Emperor said, surprising the Khan. “TWO WHITE SCARS COMPANIES AND FIVE MINOTAURS COMPANIES WILL ASSAULT VOLGRATCH DIRECTLY.”
“What’s Volgratch, Sire?” Jaghatai asked. “A Hive Fleet?”
“BETTER. IT’S THE LARGEST DARK ELDAR SPACE STATION LEFT IN THE GALAXY.”
A cruel smirk twisted Jaghatai’s lips. “I like the way you think, Father.”

2-118-001-M42

Roboute Guilliman closed the small, portable keypad he had been using with a decisive *click*. The serf at his desk lifted it and made off, bowing out of the small office. Severus Agemman, his nominal Regent, replaced the serf, looking expectant. “My Lord Guilliman, Lord Calgar has instructed me to inform you that the Anti-Tyranid Rapid Reaction Force vessels assigned to this region have returned and are requesting orders and supplies.”
“Then supply them,” Guilliman said, glancing up. “And have all recent intelligence gathered on these genestealer beasts sent up to them. Perhaps the Arbites can help with this.”
“As you will, my Lord,” Agemman said. Before he could depart, however, Guilliman held up finger for pause.
“Captain, why are you taking it upon yourself to carry such administrative details to my attention? Surely, one of the small army of serfs out there could do just as well.”
“Perhaps, Lord, but in all honesty, I am hoping for a chance to speak with you on a rather important subject,” the First Company Captain allowed. Guilliman gestured for him to continue. “It has been a matter of grave importance for the Ultramarines to uphold the standards set for us by your own Codex Astartes, ten thousand years ago. And, personally, I think we’ve done a bang-up job. However…there has been a concern of late that the newer Space Marine Chapters formed by the Senate of the High Lords are far too willing to disregard its wisdom in their formation, and infrastructure, and titles,” Agemman said.
Guilliman thought for a moment. “How so?”
“A new Chapter was founded less than six hunded years ago, Lord, in the Northern Fringe,” Agemman said, thinking of an example. “They were founded from our gene-stock.”

“Go on.”
“They call themselves the Blue Daggers, my Lord. They were formed specifically to fight against the threat of extragalactic aliens like the Tyranids, or more specifically, the Glasians,” the dour Marine reported.
“I don’t see a problem with that,” Guilliman said. “If their role is different from that of a normal Chapter, or a Crusading Chapter, then what’s the harm in them using non-standard protocol?”
“The problem, my Lord, is that they make a point of utilizing technologies and sorceries alike, which are not allowed for under the Codex, and they don’t particularly need them to win their battles,” Agemman said, coming to the point. “I am uncomfortable with the idea of our own successors utilizing such techno- and warp-sorcery, when they know full well that we would never have allowed them to do so had they remained within our region of the galaxy.”
Guilliman nodded slowly, thinking that over. After a few moments of silent contemplation, he stood, gesturing for Agemman to follow him out of the room, into the courtyard beyond, opposite the door through which the serf had travelled.
The courtyard beyond was neatly groomed, to the extent that it could have been laid out with a T-square and graph paper. The walls of the Chapter Fortress of Hera rose around them, with the contrails of fighter overflights carving white lines across the sky above. The fortress was abuzz, as recruitment and reconstruction to replace the losses suffered at Cadia carried on, and pilgrims by the million flocked to the site where the Emperor had crashed through the wall of the Temple.

The buildings themselves were a mixture of marble and alloy blocks, arranged so that they seemed to be a part of the mountains behind them, when viewed from below, as the walls’ paint lightened higher up, towards the roof. Guilliman raised his hand and pointed at the distant, gleaming construct in the mountain range beyond. “Can you tell me what that is?”
“The third of three surface-to-space defensive laser cannons, my Lord. The other two are located in the polar fortresses,” Agemman replied instantly. “That gun was disabled by genestealers along with the spaceport defenses here on the surface, during the First Tyrannic War, so we had to focus our defenses at the polar fortresses instead.”
“I see. Did you take part in the battle?”
“Naturally, my Lord. I personally led the Second Company armored units in defense of the Capital, while Lord Calgar commanded the forces not assigned to the polar bases,” Agemman said. “Why do you ask, Lord?”
“I am curious as to how exactly you defended the capital against an enemy so…relentless.”
“Firebreaks and dragon’s teeth in the main streets, tripwires connected to claymores and meltabombs in the narrower roads, caltrop and frag mines on the bridges, spotters for artillery and snipers on the rooftops and top floors of buildings. We also stationed Arbites and PDF forces in sandbagged lascannon emplacements in the front doors of buildings, so the facades of the structures could act as cover,” Agemman replied from memory. “It worked, and the back of the horde was broken.”
“So, at no point at all did you find the enemy adapting to your tactics, forcing you to change them?” Guilliman asked.
“We did. When the Swarmlord took to the field and destroyed our last Baneblade at Cold Steel,” Agemman said with a grimace.

“So you had to react on the fly, embrace non-Codex tactics?” Guilliman asked.
“Please do not patronize me, my Lord,” Agemman said coolly. “I am by no means unprepared to utilize non-Codex tactics when they are truly needed. You yourself said it was wise to do so, when you abandoned Codex tactics to ambush Alpharius.”
“I did indeed. So, if you are willing to embrace non-Codex tactics, why do you object to other Chapters doing so?” Guilliman asked, nodding to acknowledge the point.
“I am not...my objection stems from my discomfort at Ultramarine successors disregarding the Codex at all times, rather than simply when it is truly needed,” Agemman replied. “And while they are not purely of Ultramarine stock, I admit, they are our descendants. Most of our successors embrace the Codex as fully as we do, or near to it, and they have driven onward to glory in the Emperor’s name. Some are amongst our closest allies.”
Guilliman nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.” Further conversation was briefly impossible as a Land Raider rumbled by, on the reinforced bridge between the Fortress and the main highway. As the sound faded, Guilliman continued. “I am not patronizing you, brother. I simply wish to know why you find this objectionable.”
“I am no hypocrite, my Lord. I am concerned that they may be taking unnecessary casualties in their disregard of your instruction,” Agemman said firmly.
“These extragalactic aliens you mentioned, these Glasians. What are they?” Guilliman asked, changing tack.
“We’ve no idea. They’re as bizarre as Hrud and as foreign as Tyranids. They come from another galaxy, perhaps fleeing the Tyranids themselves.”

“Why are they a threat to us?” Guilliman asked, thinking that information over.
“They are susceptible to the depredations of the Warp, my Lord. Very much so. As soon as they fly within the galaxy, they become corrupted, subtly, by Change.”
“Tzeentch, eh? How does that work?” Guilliman asked grimly.
“Well…the Warp does not exist outside this galaxy, as far as we know. We think that these creatures are susceptible to the depredations of the Warp because they truly have no idea it exists. Their ships pass through the Warp storms at the edge of the galaxy when they arrive, and they emerge corrupted. I could go on for days on what we know of their physiology and technology, but they arrive in waves. Every one hundred Terran years, a new wave of colony ships and their warship escorts arrive, and the Blue Daggers mobilize to kill them. The problem is that each wave is bigger than the last, and their Taint spreads…just a little farther. They manage to colonize or destroy one or two more worlds outside the Astronomican’s light, where we can’t reach them, and they can reinforce the next wave,” Agemman spat disgustedly.
“Sounds like something I didn’t know about when I wrote the Codex,” Guilliman said. “If they need to use a tactic I didn’t have in mind merely to overcome these aliens, since we can’t actually defeat them, I can’t really hold it against them, can I?”
“And their embrace of technologies outside the Machine-God’s sanction?” Agemman pressed.
“I would have to know what you mean more specifically,” Guilliman said.
“They turn the weapons of the alien against their owners, KNOWING they are tainted,” Agemman said curtly.

“Now, that IS troubling. I assume they have Chaplains and Librarians as we do?”
“Yes, Lord. Rather a lot, for their size.”
“They are non-Codex in size?”
“They are. Their First through Eighth companies are Codex-sized, but their Ninth and Tenth, Devastators and Scouts, are quite overstrength, and they do not count Specialists and Masters against their count of total warriors,” Agemman said. “Specialists being, of course, Chaplains, Librarians, Techmarines, Apothecaries, etc.”
“I see.” Guilliman considered all he had been told, before clasping his hands over his robe. “Have any of them actually fallen to Chaos?”
“Not as far as we know,” Agemman admitted.
“Then as far as I can see, there’s nothing for me to get upset about,” Guilliman concluded. “I have heard the name of the Blue Daggers before, also. I had no context for the name, but I have now. The Emperor bound Lord Chapter Master Gabriel Angelos of the Blood Ravens to the Deathwatch Killteams assigned to the Blue Daggers’ defensive cordon, after his ‘liberation’ of Bjorn the Fell-handed from the Space Wolves.”
“Yes, I heard about that. What in the world is wrong with them?” Agemman asked contemptuously.
“Envy, I suppose. It’s not important. What is important, Captain, is that the internal workings of the other Chapters of the Astartes are, while important, not under our jurisdiction,” Guilliman said. “Anymore, at least.”

“My Lord, was it not you who first imposed the restraints of the Codex?” Agemman asked in some surprise.
“Of course it was me. I was also the highest-ranking man left in the Imperium capable of independent action. It was my onus, my burden. Now the Emperor has risen again, and he’s quite capable of bringing such matters to their proper conclusion. Should his action be needed,” Guilliman pointed out, “he will take them. He’s already brought the Blood Ravens and Black Templars to heel. If these Daggers need his attention, then I will bring it to him.”
Agemman was prepared to keep pressing his case, but Guilliman’s words had the ring of finality to them. “Very well, my Lord.”
“Nothing wrong with bringing such matters to my view, brother,” Guilliman said. The courtyard darkened as a cloud drifted overhead. “But for now, please focus your energies on rebuilding your Company. Oh, one more thing, Severus.”
The First Captain stopped and turned. "Yes, my Lord?" "I love Macragge, it being my adopted home, but I haven't gotten the chance to see Prandium in a long time. Well, ten thousand years. Is is possible that I could take a ship there?" The Regent of Ultramar froze, and looked long and hard at his Primarch. Finally, with some difficulty, he said "Prandium is a dead world, my Lord. It was destroyed during Behemoth's initial attack. There is nothing left of it now." Guilliman looked like he had taken a power fist to the chest. His face turned into a mask of sorrow. "..That was why you abandoned the codex. Because following it cost you Prandium"

"Yes, my Lord. I...I'm sorry. There was little we could do."

"It's all right Severus. Not your fault. Please leave me. I wish to have some time on my own." “Very well. My Lord, thank you for your time,” Agemman said, walking out the door. When Guilliman heard it close, he wept into his open palms, crying for the world he wasn't able to save.

9-119-001-M42

The loud footsteps of a passing Megalodon rattled the rocks by her feet, as Isha stood on a clifftop overlooking the migrating herds. A pack of Dragon Riders herded the massive beasts, tapping their thick flanks with electric probes to direct them down the pathsways they had followed for fifteen thousand years. A group of massive, wheeling beasts, with thick membranes of veined leather across their spindly wings, soared overhead, snatching smaller predators on the wing. A sharp, acrid breeze, with the smell of spun Wraith on it, wafted by, from the small camps where the craftsmen were busily fusing the bones of dead saurians with their own Wraithcraft, making all manner of tools.
Distantly, Isha found herself quite content with her decision. Life amongst the Exodites was much more interesting than the staid, structured Craftworld.
A pair of Dragon Elites trooped by the small rock stand where Isha watched the spectacle below, longrifles slung. Behind them trailed almost a hundred Dragon Warriors, eyes alert for wild Clawspinners, threatening the herds below.
Isha had doffed the gown she had worn to Ulthwé and Terra in favor of something more utilitarian. She had selected an outfit like those the Exodite women wore; a simple, utilitarian vest over leather pants, boots and kneepads. Though nothing like the regal appearance she bore in the Eldar legends, she didn’t want to be perceived as insulting her hosts by dressing over them. Besides, she could no more fly here than she could in the House of Rot, and she would have to keep up with the nomadic Exodites when the seasons changed.

Already, the few weeks she had been here had been a salve to the horrors of her confinement. The Exodites had greeted her without reservation, opening their homes to her. The lack of anything that even resembled advanced technology had been a bit of a shock, after the glittering spires of Ulthwé, but she had adapted at once, and looked forward to her recuperation on the sparsely populated world.
She had internally debated about how to use her power here. The population was stable, so her power of fertility was unneeded, and the tribes here did not come to blows, so she wouldn’t be needed as a peacemaker. Ultimately, she resolved, any activity on her part would be fruitless. Even if her power had been urgently needed, its overuse might have drawn Nurgle’s attention…or worse, Slaanesh’s. Fortunately, these Exodites didn’t seem to need them.
Her bodyguard, a Hunter, walked up behind her and waited respectfully. Isha turned to face her, waiting. “My Lady, the camp will be ready to move out in an hour.”
“So soon?” Isha asked. “I was told it would be more like a day.”
“We have hastened,” the Hunter said. “A new beast has appeared at the edge of the plains, looking for food. It’s twice again the size of the Megalodons, and coming this way. We can not risk it finding the herd.”

Isha wearily rubbed her hands over her eyes. “Is it about seventy feet tall and orange?”
“Uh…yes. How did you know?” the Hunter asked in surprise.
“Because we’ve met,” Isha said. “I’ll be right there.”
After a brisk walk out to where the ‘beast’ had been waiting, Isha dropped her hands on her hips and frowned up at it. “And what can I do for you today?”
“HELLO TO YOU TOO, ISHA. THOUGHT YOU MIGHT WANT TO KNOW, YOUR COMMORRAGH-DWELLING CHILDREN ARE USING A WEBWAY GATE ON THIS WORLD,” the Emperor reported.
“Impossible. There’s only two Gates here, and they’re both guarded,” Isha said dismissively.
“DARK ELDAR HAVE A MEANS OF TELEPORTING THROUGH THE ENERGY MEMBRANE OF THE GATE AND EMERGING SOME DISTANCE AWAY, WHILE ALREADY CLOAKED. THEY’VE USED IT AGAINST US MANY TIMES,” the Emperor informed her. “I FOLLOWED A SCOUT HERE AFTER A BATTLE AGAINST SOME TYRANIDS IN A NEARBY SUBSECTOR. HE FLED WHEN HE SAW ME, BUT HE WAS SPYING ON YOU.”
“Really.” Isha heaved a sigh. Her bodyguard looked back and forth between the two Gods, completely flummoxed. “If they want to find me, they’ll know where I am. Did they seem to be preparing for an attack?”
“NOPE, JUST A RECONNOITER. ONE SKIMMER, CLOAKED. HE WAS SPYING ON ME TOO.”
“Then come what may,” Isha said.
“YOU SAY SO,” the Emperor said skeptically. “I’LL BE OFF.”
“Farewell, then,” Isha said, as the Emperor vanished in a burst of purple smoke. Her Hunter guard looked at her in astonishment.
“What in the Warp was that?” she managed.
“The Human Emperor,” Isha said. “My rescuer.” The Hunter looked at the rapidly dissipating cloud of smoke, back to the scarred Birth Goddess.
“…Hell of a story to tell at the campfire, Madam.”
“Consider yourself lucky,” Isha said drily. “You didn’t have to live through it.”

Jaghatai Khan’s vessel, the Minotaur Battle Barge Scourge of the Heretic, tore through the Warp in the Emperor’s wake, streaming towards the Dark Eldar pirate station as fast as the engines would allow. The combined task force of White Scars and Minotaurs was outfitted for a boarding, as they would need to be, for their role was almost pure close-quarters. The Dark Eldar rely on stealth and trickery in battle, in space and on the ground; their primary weapon was their holofield generator, which could hide them from any ships’ sensors. The Emperor, however, had known where to look, having had Commodore Romes compile a list of all the places in the region where his ships had been hijacked by the xenos.
Sure enough, the sites of the hijacking had been correlative. That knowledge in hand, the Emperor had flown straight to the two chapters who would be most capable of (and willing to) boarding a space station full of Dark Eldar.
Jaghatai himself stood in the hangar, running his hands over the new Attack Bike he had acquired from the Chapter armory. The Bike was brand-new, or looked it. The forward twin-linked bolters and heavy bolter on the sidecar didn’t have a visible speck of carbon scoring on their barrels. A neatly-sealed pack of frag grenades on the seat of the passenger car completed the vehicle’s arsenal. Normally, a Bike would have been beyond useless in a boarding action…but Jaghatai Khan knew a trick or two when it came to boarding actions.

Continues in The Tales of the Emperasque: Part Fifteen.