“This is research team Delta-84.
Arrived at the designated coordinates.
The cordon fleet is completely destroyed.
I repeat, completely destroyed.
Found a survivor.
Identity still being determined…” Guests of a Galaxy Far, Far Away.
First steps in an unfamiliar world.
“Oh, merciful Emperor on distant Terra, protect our souls,” Sergeant Pivius of the 574th Scintillian Fusiliers barely managed to force out.
The bitter smell of iron crept into the soldier’s nostrils, making him wish he had brought a breathing mask.
What barbarism!
The officer’s cabin of Colonel Astolfo, decorated with such piety, was now a rather sorry sight.
Antique furniture, parquet flooring made of a rare wood worthy of the High Lords of Terra themselves… all this splendor had been destroyed in the most barbaric way imaginable.
Everywhere, there were traces of autogun fire.
Wine from shattered racks spread across the floor, slowly mixing with the blood of the slain.
The noble commander of the Scintillian Fusiliers regiment, Abel Astolfo, his five personal bodyguards, eleven orderlies and servants, and twenty-three camp followers lay piled in a small heap of corpses by the cruel-hearted murderers.
Honestly, the sergeant, looking at this carnage, wanted to return his hearty breakfast under the Emperor’s gaze.
Perhaps if he had found himself here with his servants instead of the soldiers under his command, he would have vomited without a second thought, but right now he couldn’t show weakness.
Madness among the plebeians during Warp jumps was common, and here they were talking about a Warp Storm.
But Pivius could fully savor the irony of the situation.
The heir to one of the most influential Houses of his native Scintilla had been brutally murdered by a mob of madmen in a galaxy alien to the Emperor’s servants.
The 574th Regiment was now in for significant changes.
* * * In the darkness of the semi-abandoned corridors, a massive figure cast aside a spent autogun with slight contempt.
His light Phobos armor was hidden under a camouflage cloak, while the helmet of his power armour was adorned with a terrifying skull image.
The matte-black armor with yellow shoulder plates marked the Angel of Death as a brother of the Order of the Sons of the Anathema, but the dead targets could no longer share that knowledge with anyone.
* * * This path had led towards inevitable death from the very beginning.
All variants of the future converged on a black veil of uncertainty.
Whether it was the influence of dark forces, the mighty “WAAAGH!!!” of an Ork Warboss, or trivial human nature, the outcome was always the same.
All threads hopelessly broke at the craftworld that the mon-keigh, in their ignorance, had designated as “Minvantis Secundus.” Irilit the “Dreamer” of the craftworld Kael-Melokha smiled at the subtle irony that had imperceptibly woven itself into the course of her own thoughts.
The red-colored shoulder plate of her runic armor clearly showed her allegiance to the followers of Ynnead, but for her, among other things, it signified a challenge thrown at fate itself.
Whether it was the hungry predators of the Warp, the intergalactic devourers of life, or the ancient enemies of her race risen from their tombs… It didn’t matter.
The Seer was ready to do anything for a guaranteed future for her people.
Providence.
Inevitable doom.
Such things always contradicted her very essence.
For thousands of lived cycles, Irilit had stubbornly, like one doomed, proven the opposite.
The Great Crusade of the mon-keigh religious fanatics, who in their frenzied rage destroyed everything in their sight; the breakthrough through the sealed Webway gates of the servants of She-Who-Thirsts; the chaos and discord brought by the appearance of Datedian… Finally, the awakening of the god of the dead became that ray of hope that could radically change the fate written in the prophecy of Rana Dandra.
The return of the ancient enemy was like a blow to the gut for the followers of the god of the dead.
The glorious days of the mighty Aeldari Empire were long past, leaving behind only pitiful shadows of former greatness.
A scattered handful of survivors, whose souls were relentlessly hunted by She-Who-Thirsts, were hardly capable of putting up a worthy resistance against the Necrons.
Even if the old enemy himself had not yet regained his full strength, the reunification of the scattered dynasties for the Silent One, who had returned from the void of deep space, was only a matter of time… Not such a distant time as many would have liked.
The final act in the play of the Laughing God had reached its climax.
The Priestess of Ynnead and the followers of She-Who-Thirsts were locked in a final, fateful confrontation, with the souls of a dying race at stake.
The Silent King… that cold machine had chosen an excellent time to return.
In such a situation, the proposal that came from the humans to form an alliance against a common enemy was like a blessing sent by the long-lost Eldar gods.
Destroying enemies with someone else’s hands had always been a favorite tactic of the craftworld dwellers, but when the tools themselves voluntarily swim into your hands… The mon-keigh did not know the Necrons as well as the Aeldari knew their ancient enemies.
The servants of the dead Emperor did not know how to fight against the strangling grip of mechanisms built from black stone.
The “Flame of Vaul” could be a saving solution.
An artifact from the ancient times of the War in Heaven, which in a limited area around itself reversed the nullifying effect of the monoliths on the connection with the Immaterium.
An artifact that, according to the runes, was buried on the croneworld of Aksha-Reya, now known by the absurd name “Minvantis Secundus.” It was far from the first time the mon-keigh had built their cities atop the ruins of past civilizations.
Some among the followers of the god of the dead considered this race of ridiculous parodies of the Aeldari to be uncontrollably breeding locusts, little different from the Orks or the relatively new scourge of all sentient life in the galaxy — the Tyranids.
However, whereas before, for the successful return of the “Flame of Vaul” to the hands of the Elder race, the Aeldari would have had to shed a lot of blood storming a well-fortified human world, now a rare chance presented itself to settle all matters “amicably.” If only it weren’t for the “inevitable” doom hanging over all available variants of the future… For her part, Irilit found some traits of the servants of the dead god worthy of respect.
For example, their willingness to stand to the end, to fight tooth and nail for any chance to prolong their existence by even a day — a quality she highly valued in others.
Qualities that her own craftworld so sorely lacked.
That was why she had volunteered from the followers of Ynnead, even if it meant a one-way ticket.
Nevertheless… Another galaxy, where Irilit barely felt the presence of She-Who-Thirsts.
The sensation of the Immaterium here was so unfamiliar that the Seer’s head spun at first.
It was as if you had breathed stale air your whole life, until one fine moment you managed to take a full, deep breath.
The Warp, as she understood it, seemed to be separated from Irilit’s consciousness by a thin, semi-sentient film that did not let the hungry predators of the Othersea through.
Yes, the inevitability of doom was once again somewhat exaggerated by the cowardly Seers, unwilling to go all the way.
Tempting prospects of the coming future rose before Irilit’s eyes.
The question was only how she would play the cards she had up her sleeve.
Fortunately, a suitable instrument for realizing these prospects was always at hand.
It just needed a slight nudge in the direction favorable to the Seer.
* * * The long, drawn-out howl of a siren announced the imminent landing on the planet’s surface.
The servants of the Machine God, scurrying at the feet of the Emperor’s wrath incarnate in metal, chanted hymns in binary code as they completed the final preparatory procedures before sending the blessed mechanism into the thick of battle.
Baron Theodor von Kusland, a Free Blade connected to his command throne, bit his lips, anticipating the coming glory.
Just think — an entirely different galaxy… At first, the rumors about the disappearance of the Astronomican’s light had seriously alarmed the noble lord.
The very appearance of the Cicatrix Maledictum in the heavens was interpreted by many as a prelude to the end of times, and now this… “I hope this galaxy will find us worthy opponents, whose death will not stain the honor of our blade!” The voices of his ancestors also anticipated a glorious battle.
An unfamiliar galaxy, where the foot of the Emperor’s faithful servants had never trod!
Moreover, his “Justice of the Faithful” would be one of the first to take part in the battle!
Even if his target was a small town on the planet’s surface, how many could boast that they were among the first to bring purification from the accursed xenos to the worlds of a new galaxy?!
Although in the future, he would prefer battles with huge monsters or enemy Titans… “Don’t let the boy disgrace our glorious name again,” came the tedious grumbling of the previous “rider.” The old man, as troublesome as he was in life, had decided not to change his nature even after death.
The speech of the Chapter Master of the Order of the Sons of the Anathema, broadcast throughout the fleet, had struck the prodigal son of the honorable House of Kusland to the very core of his soul.
This was a chance.
A chance to cleanse his name of the shame he had incurred and return to his home Knight World in triumph, not as a beaten cur, but as a victor.
Theodor would never again show the enemy of humanity his retreating back.
“So, why ‘one of the first’?!” the nobleman abruptly corrected himself.
“The Emperor is my witness, today my warhorse will be the first to charge onto that glorious field of battle!” “That bungler had better keep his word, or else, I swear by my ancestors, I’ll fry him right there in that throne!” * * * Orestes Bloodmoor watched as a swarm of tiny dots departed from the fleet, battered by the Warp Storm, heading towards a planet covered in green.
The Inquisitor from the Ordo Xenos didn’t even know if this piece of rock in the middle of space had its own name.
According to intelligence data, the planet served as a transit hub for numerous xeno-pirate gangs, a few mining settlements, and other genetic refuse whose lives on the civilized worlds of the Imperium would be valued lower than the lowliest mutant from the lower levels of an underhive.
Nevertheless, the armada that had set out to storm this unfortunate world, doomed to purification by fire, could have made Abaddon the Despoiler himself waver.
It seemed the Chapter Master of the Order of the Sons of the Anathema had decided to let his men blow off steam after a month of brutal trials in the rage-torn Warp.
However, the reason for such an action obviously lay far beyond that.
“My lord, are you sure about your choice?” a woman clad in carapace armor bearing the distinctive symbols of the Adeptus Arbites asked, puzzled.
“Taking only me as your personal guard is not the most sensible decision.” Artoria Dotis, Judge-Arbitrator from the hive world of Tetrits-Merkula.
A devoted servant of the Emperor, an excellent interrogator, capable not only of following orders but also of using her head.
A servant of the Credo Imperialis, whose talents had managed to impress the agent of the throne when, at the time of Bloodmoor’s arrival on the planet, the Judge had practically single-handedly exposed a Genestealer cult.
All Dotis had needed from the Inquisitor was his authority to mobilize the sector fleet for a planetary cleansing.
No, you don’t just let talents like that go.
“Believe me, if he wanted me dead, we would have been dead long ago,” Orestes waved dismissively, sighing heavily.
“This is his ship, and it wouldn’t be difficult for him to arrange a couple of ‘accidents’ for overly curious agents of Holy Terra.” That was true.
The Inquisitor’s intelligence network, spread widely throughout the fleet, had already reported to its master about a wave of “accidental” deaths that had swept through the surviving ships over the past two Terran weeks.
A chain of unrelated “accidents” was suspiciously forming into a targeted cleansing of “unstable” elements.
A smug colonel who, following his petty feud with the colonel of a Cadian regiment, had blanketed him with a salvo of regimental artillery just as a horde of Orks was crushing the Cadians’ forward trenches.
A young preacher of the Ecclesiarchy, whose fiery sermons had already gathered a cult of thousands of religious fanatics around him.
An admiral of a sector fleet squadron.
A fat, bloated idiot who had gotten his position through the patronage of his crowned uncle, the planetary governor of the sector’s capital world.
“I must voice my concerns, my lord.” Dotis cast a skeptical glance at her master.
“Perhaps the concussion you received on Minvantis Secundus hasn’t passed without a trace.” Fearlessness in the face of the powerful was another quality that Orestes Bloodmoor valued in this woman.
The ability to look the mighty of this world in the eye without flinching, while not crossing a certain line oneself, was an important skill in their difficult trade.
Any idiot could barge in on a planetary governor, firing guns with their insignia held high, but then they’d probably have to exterminatus the planet.
Orestes Bloodmoor, Inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos, student of Lord Inquisitor Valthor Meph, preferred more subtle work to slaughter.
The same could not be said for his “colleagues” from the Ordo Hereticus.
Fortunately, their cruiser, although it had survived the Warp Storm, its emergence coordinates in realspace remained unknown.
“Don’t worry so much,” the agent of the throne shrugged.
“I think the Chapter Master of the Order wishes to come to some kind of agreement with us.” Orestes looked intently into the eyes of the interrogator, which continued to express sharp displeasure.
“However, pass the word to our people to activate Protocol ‘Terminus,’ in case something ‘unfortunate’ should befall us…” * * * Sister Palatina Regulia, holding the familiar weight of her blessed combi-flamer, led her squad in an assault on the absurd little town the locals, in some misunderstanding, had dubbed the “Baron’s Fortress.” The Emperor’s Daughter was seething with rage, barely restraining herself from the sinful urge to tear these heretics apart with her bare hands (which her power armour would have easily allowed).
When a mighty Warp Storm had crashed down upon them and the fleet found itself in a completely unknown galaxy, Sister Palatina decided it was the Emperor’s punishment for their failure to protect His shrine world from defilement.
When Regulia learned that this galaxy was inhabited by people who had never known the blessed light of the Master of Mankind, she burned with hope, for bringing lost sheep back into the fold is the sacred duty of all servants of the Ecclesiarchy.
When Regulia saw the seeds of corruption on the planet’s surface — humans and xenos living a semi-criminal existence — she understood the role the Lord had chosen for her.
Through flamer, bolter, and melta, she was duty-bound to cleanse this plague-ridden galaxy, drenching it in blessed promethium!
For the Emperor of Mankind!
* * * In the dark corridors of the damaged ship, Brother-Sergeant of the Flesh Tearers, Cleomenes Agonius, studied the corpses of his slain enemies with interest.
Now that the veil of uncontrollable rage had lifted from his eyes, he could clearly see the abomination in plastic armour he had torn apart with his chainsword not long ago.
They were humans.
Copies of the same man, to be precise.
Two Terran weeks had passed since they emerged into realspace.
Whatever backwater the Warp had thrown them into, the local scavengers had already taken notice of the bleeding cruiser.
First, vile-looking xenos had broken into the immobilized ship.
The warriors among these pathetic failures were as worthless as their equipment.
Now these toy soldiers… Still, credit where it was due.
Unlike the xenos, these abominations at least resembled a regular army in their training and appearance and could have passed for some Astra Militarum regiment.
But what truly troubled Brother Cleomenes were not the toy soldiers.
They had been led into battle by a psyker.
A psyker who, while perhaps not powerful enough to threaten his men, was skilled enough to stand against an angel of death for a time.
“Brother-Sergeant, our augurs have detected a fleet of twenty ships entering the system.” Sooner or later, this was bound to happen.
The ship’s plasma drive was damaged, and repairing it on their own was impossible.
It seemed his brothers would now face their final battle, meeting death as true sons of Sanguinius should.
“Can you identify them?” Agonius asked curtly.
“Yes, Brother-Sergeant.
Our cogitators recognized the codes of the God-Machine’s servants.” The Space Marine handed the sergeant a data-slate.
“It is definitely an explorator fleet of the Adeptus Mechanicus.”