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THE FANATIC SERIES

MILLENNIUM
OF WAR
Fan Fiction Anthology
 This anthology is a non-profit project dedicated to all the 40K fans on Terra and beyond.

A Fanatic Series Production

CREDITS
PRODUCER/EDITOR/AUTHOR: G. P. Mayer

ARTIST: Jeff Porter (cover art)

AUTHOR: Paul Ascylte Aguila

AUTHOR: Niklas Erwin

AUTHOR: Ray Gamer

AUTHOR: Steven Jiang

AUTHOR: Ibrahim KM

AUTHOR: Aggelos Kotsikos

AUTHOR: Chris M.

AUTHOR: Andrew Ottley

AUTHOR: Anthony Protonotarios

AUTHOR: Nicolas A. Protonotarios

AUTHOR: Dan Rich

AUTHOR: Michael W.

AUTHOR: Donovan Walls

Warhammer 40,000 and all its related intellectual property as well as related works are solely the
property of Games Workshop. Absolutely no profits or proceeds will be made by this book, as it
is priceless and not for sale. The ‘Fanatic Series’ name and logo are solely owned by G. P.
Mayer and may not be used without his clearly expressed and written permission.

MMXXI
 Table of Contents

MIND WAR (by Paul Ascylte Aguila)…………………………………………………….. 1

BLOOD AND IRON (by Aggelos Kotsikos)……………………………………………… 41

THE HUNTER (by Chris M.)……………………………………………………………… 77

AZORIAN (by Steven Jiang)……………………………………………………………… 103

PURE (by Michael W.)……………………………………………………………………. 129

THE HORROR AT BLACKROCK (by Niklas Erwin)………………………….……….. 151

A HIDDEN SWORD (by G.P. Mayer)……………………………………………………. 183

PRUDENTIA (by Andrew Ottley)………………………………………………………… 201

THE GHOST (by Dan Rich)………………………………………………………………. 237

BY THE SKIN OF OUR TEETH (by Nicolas A. Protonotarios)…………………………. 251

ONE FLESH (by Donovan Walls)………………………………...………………………. 269

THERE IS ONLY SILENCE (by Ibrahim KM)………………………………...………… 299

DEATH OF LOYALTY (by Anthony Protonotarios)……………………….……...…….. 325

FLAMES UNTO THE DARKNESS (by Ray Gamer)…………………………...……….. 355

Afterword…………………………………………...……………………………………… 377

Contact Information………………………………………………………………...……… 378

MILLENNIUM OF WAR 1

MIND WAR
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 3

Seachma’Ann, the Dream of War

- Prologue: At the Beginning was the End

To paradise had come Hell, visiting a terrible vengeance upon those who once thought
themselves gods. Throughout their peaceful domes now echoed the full cacophony of
destruction, from the howling of warriors and victims alike to the crackling of all-consuming
fire. Grim-visaged war had breached the gates and scattered its defenders, turning into wanton
ransacking of apocalyptic scale. Nothing was to remain untouched, be it living, craft, and above
all, the treasure of the dead. Indeed, the alabaster-like halls were merely the stage set up for the
unfolding tragedy, the sublime pieces of art they contained but accessories to lend more gravitas
to the end of it all.

To his mind, this is all that ever was, and all that would never be again: a world that could as
much be the very cradle of civilization. She was home and mother alike, though one that was not
destined to die before her sons, but to welcome them back even then in her soothing bosom, thus
peacefully closing the cycle of life. She was the beginning and the end, but ones played for the
infinite eons of eternity, alive before the beginning and forever growing through every end: the
only oasis of life, safety, happiness, and peace in a galaxy of chaos and aggression.

And now, these elemental forces had forced their way inside what had always been anathema to
them, and that sinister presence alone was enough to consume everything forever.

The Great Enemy had found entrance, the doom that had stalked the remnant of their race since
her calamitous birth many thousand passes ago; a futile parenthesis encompassing the reach for
balance of a whole new society, now about to close without a ripple left behind. Yet to the
people trapped in it like in a black hole, it felt like a screaming vortex of madness and
inescapable terror. Not for them, the dull sleep of death they had been promised as a reward for a
life of constant sacrifice and self-imposed control, nor even the smothering oblivion of a void
darker than space; Even the wild hunt of damnation was not for them, for they were already
claimed. The very sins they kept at bay since their birth had coalesced into physical form to
enrapt them, and in this moment of reunion, they came wearing their own faces, as being more
attuned to their deep nature than they were themselves.

And the true horror of their existence dawned upon them as, even as they were painfully flayed
of every layer of conscious will by a metaphysical storm of pure agony, they all revelled in it.
They found what had been missing all along in paradise, and that was the sweet taste of the Fall.

Around them, the gilded statues and racing towers collapsed back in entropy, only now
reaching the perfection that had always evaded them despite lives of effort. Will receded before
Desire, Shape crumbled before Essence, Aim bowed before Lust. As they were cut down body
and soul by the claws of daemons, they felt whole for the first time and wept to have postponed
that blissful moment, without restraint other than the fleshy whips of the sadistic entities. Their
screaming conscience of self was fast devolving, pushed back into some silent corner of their
dissolving mind, in echo to the mad dilatation that was leaving in their eyes but a white fringe to
silently scream around a wholly dilated pupil.
 Culpability and wrongness were part of the performance wrought inside each one of them, from
innocent young leaves to wizened ancients. They all died knowing they would only remain as
pleasure from pain and pain from pleasure, for all eternity inside that nurturing and nurtured god
of passion that more than any other was the avatar of their race. They were coming home, at long
last, leaving behind the dampening coffin encasing their mortal shelves, to be birthed anew as
they were ever intended to be, again and again in an unending cycle of ever-changing perfection.

Among the chorus of psychic dissonances rose the voices of the dead, snatched from their
numbness to feel again, a thousand fold of what their life had been. Terror and pain, the reckless
abandon of submitting wholly and yet unwillingly to something viciously hostile they craved but
denied themselves. The raging pulse of defeat and desecration, to see the failure of children they
had sacrificed everything for and their punishment; everything was to be savoured in the deep
plunge that goes with acceptation of the inevitable.

And in the middle of it all stood the ravening presence of a giant of a man, sleek and powerful,
towering amid the torn souls flooding from the broken remains of the Infinity Circuit, his face
changing, his body swelling under the influx of satisfaction coalescing in him. Behind the
warping appearance, something truly hideous irradiated from him, like an aura of treachery and
sadism, the feeling of it enough to sweetly sicken even those already enraptured. Monstrous yet
mesmerizing, he too was becoming one with all his victims, forever trapped with their tormentor
inside of his dark patron; ascending as a reward for his bountiful harvest to become the doom he
was born to be and already was, and to spread its demonic taint farther into the Heavens.

Unable to take it further, and afraid to see his resolve falter, Caerhyn shook himself from the
foetal stupor he was falling into and pulled from the vision.

The Cycle Unbroken

In the Garden of Perpetual Wisdom, Farseer Caerhyn opened his eyes for the first time in half a
cycle amidst the delicate leaves of the grove he favoured as meditating place. Though visions of
the death of his Craftworld were uncommon, it was his duty to search for these particular events
in the Skein to ensure they would never come to pass. Thus, he had already been privy to quite a
few of these distressful moments, where everything he lived for had been torn apart before his
eyes and his very soul almost turned against him to invite this very destruction. Though the
shock had somewhat dimmed over time, as had promised his tutor, he still couldn’t escape the
lingering shame and dread of feeling part of himself wanting to dive into what he knew to be the
doom of all.

As every Asuryani, he had been trained since birth to harness the torrent that was his psyche.
Moving along the path of the Seer, while teaching him to lower these very defences to tap into
his psychic potential, had required further control nonetheless to keep a strong grip on his ever
more exposed self. Yet after hundreds of passes spent casting the runes, the lingering was still
there. He knew it to be inescapable, but to feel it this way was something else altogether. As all
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 5

of his kind, he was fighting a perpetual inner war by means of peace, trying to suppress the
sensibility and violent desires of his nature through contemplation and spiritual enlightenment.
Yet that was at best a thin layer of ice on a still lake bellow which pulsated the fiery heart of a
sleeping volcano.

To this metaphysical war echoed another, one fortunately spared to most of his people. He had
taken that mantle with glee to shield others and allow what could be left of their innocence a
chance to flourish. And now that he had seen and felt coming defeat, one more battle was about
to begin; For the Aeldari of this Age were cautious and fearful as their ancestors should have
been, and they paid too heavy a price to forgot that the mightiest could fall from a single moment
of careless pride.

Through the Skein, they lived beyond time and space, a million existences of visions and
prophecies yet to pass but still very much real. They spied on battle plans before their would-be
enemies had even considered attacking. They knew every secret trick they would throw at them
and their outcomes. They looked for defeat before going to battle assured of victory. Through all
of this, in a game of opposing wills, they rendered themselves masters of the opponents.

Yet victory on the battlefield was still always too much akin to defeat to a people so hard
pressed to replenish losses. They had no need for conquests, properties or glory, having fallen
only through excessive success. They were not depending on plunder nor trade, for their artificial
paradises provided everything the most sophisticated of people to ever sail the void could ever
dream of. Even at their nadir, they still wanted for nothing, but the safety of their kin from an
uncaring and violent universe full of bitter enemies. There was only life precious enough to fight
for, and thus it was a war on war itself that was waged on the Skein, with battles of wits to save
sweat and blood.

To further that goal, the Aeldari were moving not against the symptoms, but aimed to strike at
their very source. Rather than annihilating an army and disturbing the balance of powers, risking
worsening the odds and endanger themselves in the long run, they elected to bind that force to
their own ends. Neither consent nor understanding was required, neither diplomatic appeasement
nor show of friendship. As always, they needed no-one to play their game with them.

For a game it was, the Great Game between Gods vying for dominance across the many
dimensions to which the Skein gave access, and beyond. Once, they had gods of their own to
play it in their stead, but with this Pantheon fading, then gone, their children had to step up and
fend for themselves, ascending despite themselves in an ironically opposite fashion to the
omnipotence they once claimed. They had reached godlike powers and were now left with
godlike responsibilities, to find that it was not quite the demotion it seemed at first. Since then,
the Farseers on every Craftworlds had stood from the recess of their minds against the infinite
and the divine, often prevailing as proved by the ongoing survival of their scattered people. Yet
the risks were greater for them, as their gone patrons were no longer here to shield them from the
strain.

Caerhyn’s thoughts drifted again toward the Fall, an event so traumatic it shattered the deities
themselves. The scar left on the survivors and their descent was so deep it was now the true
foundation of their society, impossible to elude, as inescapable as the fate that awaited them
upon death… And yet, they managed to escape death altogether through the Tears of Isha, again
removing part of the equation to alter its final result. Here though, it was more of a postponing, a
strategic retreat to keep the fight going; as long as She Who Thirsts would be, they would know
fear.

And perhaps fear was the answer, a way to adapt to overcome the Fall; There was no common
ground for comparison between now and then, and the only fear their hedonistic ancestors would
have allowed themselves to feel would have been the result of their quest for new exotic
sensations. They were still so close in time and in body to these lunatics that fear was probably a
feature as necessary as the Path at this point to keep them from the same shortcomings.

So little time had passed, barely the span of ten generations whereas the old empire effortlessly
endured for tens of thousands. To one used to the Skein, it was still occurring, innumerable
threads yet expanding from the impenetrable knot, like pyroclastic flow running down in every
direction from the fuming top of a blasted mountain. So many futures had been erased in this one
precise point that it appeared truly as the mass extinction it was, by far the largest and deadliest
the galaxy had known. Echoing the tree of evolution starting anew from a single tiny twig, so did
all the futures of the Great Wheel emerge from this single event.

Yet the apocalypse came mostly unforeseen, except for the few that turned their back on
everything and left. It was so because they never bothered looking, and those who did rather tried
to hasten than halt it. Among the lasts to depart, Craftworld Usiall-Annath remembered too well
the madness they had for too long allowed to grow. Thus, the foremost importance of scrying,
and why Caerhyn soothed his scarred mind by spending his life between the many dimensions of
possibility.

He had seen his home burning or drifting dead in the darkness of space over and over more
times than his fingers could count, yet she remained untouched for every other soul harboured
within her domes. Almost every one of these visions was the end result of the coincidence of
impossible odds, still they were studied in detail and avoided. On some occasions, the game was
rigged by other players, foremost among them the Powers of Chaos, warranting special attention.
Then the Skein was harder to navigate, for such fickle entity was prone to waver between fates.

Despite this, no harmful intention existed on its own. They rather emerged as links from great
chains of events, each one leading to another. Such was the structure of everything, a force so
strong that even the Gods of Chaos couldn’t fully escape it, bound as they were by the very
hatred they were paradoxically compelled to harbour for a thing so anathema to their nature.
Even the Great Enemy lusted for Aeldari souls not through wanton appetite, but because of their
shared history.

Hence the Farseers waged war on no living nor immortal foe, but on this very fabric of reality,
causality itself. Beyond time and space, they moved back and forth through the threads of fate to
understand and alter it. Causality was the true pillar of everything, the very substance of this
universe and of many more, always in motion even behind those vowed to rewrite it.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 7

Like everything powerful, it was a simple thing, merely transmitting the echo of the primordial
impulse coming from the very moment reality was born – the first link of an unbroken chain
binding this plane to what came before. It was cyclic in the same meaning a wave would convey
energy through water, without actually displacing any particle, except in a small, circular loop,
bringing back everything exactly where it was before. Hence the present hurled the future
forward on a decipherable trajectory all the while coalescing into past, one that could be
followed backward to access it.

Fate was also cyclic in another fashion, as it shaped the living as much as they shaped it – as a
popular saying went. This extended beyond the truism to any observer, from this specific time or
another. Nothing could be touched without consequences, even through witch-sight; thus,
farseeing impacted the Farseer, allowing him to learn and grow wiser, but also altering his own
thread by setting new paths into motion. As much as the need for a cause, the many-levels of
consequences could not be ignored. This was embodied in the symbolic ambiguity at the core of
the rune of Elehar’Ann, at once “War of the Mind” and “Mind of the War”, a vivid reminder that
everything was always fluid and intertwined.

And yet it was more than worth it, as removing the cause – the very possibility to think - of a
war from the mind of any potential rival was far more efficient than to unleash the mightiest
engine of war upon him. In this way, the triumphs of his race blossomed unsuspected and
unacknowledged, a sheathed yet victorious sword the privilege of the truly peerless warrior.
Now, as the artificial increase of starlight signalled the mid-time of the cycle to the still close-
eyed seer, such a secret battle was about to begin.

All these considerations dawned on him in a moment, even as he absorbed himself into his art,
his mind as branching and multidimensional as the Skein he was scrying. Indeed, the Skein, as
an extension of his innate ability to envision and follow multiple trains of thoughts, was but a
reflection of the patterns of his own brain. It was by-product of Aeldari physiology, an in-built
sense applied to a multi-dimensional universe, as barred to other races as the extreme
wavelengths of light that also fully contributed to his perception of reality. As focused as he was,
he couldn’t shut his mind to the implications of what he was contemplating, and in turn these
parallel threads expanded as full blown, simultaneous analysis. From there, these forked too in
an arbores cent canopy reaching higher for enlightenment from everywhere at once.

To act, or even better not have to, one had first to think, and there was nothing the mind of his
kind left untouched.
The Beauty in the Beast

Even the manipulation of time and space followed rules, another tribute to the very
inescapability that allowed causality to be reliably weaponized. To break them, one was bound to
follow them first, if only to make them be by acknowledging them. Paradoxes: the Aeldari mind
was made to navigate them, as surely and easily as a sailor would use a windsail, to open new
dimensions of thinking. By doing so, they lived and acted anywhere and anyhow in seemingly
incomprehensible and mysterious ways all at once, the Craftworlds but the tip of a gigantic and
eternal iceberg.
 Yet it was still all bound to reason and logic. Though accessed through mental thoughts, the
Skein was far from the seas of dreams or souls, where the pulsion of desire was the motive force
powering the sailor; there, emotions could dictate, alter and create reality on a whim. It was not
so in the place Caerhyn was dwelling in, quite the contrary. The Skein was an infinite tapestry of
branching threads, with patterns spreading in more than four dimensions, as each knot expanded
both in almost-unlimited futures and divergent presents. Each of them was as real as the tranquil
garden the Farseer slowly breathed in with closed eyes, at last the way his craft made him
perceive the concepts of Time and Reality. Was his perception of such things what made them
truly exist, if only for him? Or was the incessant skimming above them the very cause of this
peculiar conception of existence?

Another interesting causality loop, he noted in the back of his mind, trained and used as he was
to catch them to further his aims; they were everywhere, he reckoned, like backdoors to
circumvent anything, though all but invisibles to the eyes of the lesser races. In truth, he felt
bound to mention to himself, through sheer psychic will details could be altered even in the past,
pulling forsaken threads to be trodden from oblivion; but such a direct assault on causality came
at the price of drawing a new thread of consequences in the present time, with the interference as
a cause. In the end, it was far too risky and difficult, and besides rendered quite redundant by the
thorough scrying of times ahead.

That he had done, and now it was only a matter of following back the tread of the mysterious
man destined to be the doom of Usial-Annath. Then he would understand his motivations and
find the very best moment to safely erase this path. Should no peaceful settlement be found, a
quick smothering in the crib would deal with it just as well, though this solution would only be
considered as a last resort should there be no other option. This concerned but a fraction of
glimpsed futures, and the very rarity of military intervention in turn reduced the chance of threats
rising against the unsuspected Craftworld. Again, the cycle of causality: music to play for his
kind, with its familiar tunes and chorus.

As ever, the Aeldari way of handling anything was more akin to art than science, though to
them art was but the pinnacle of science; not two altogether separate nor opposing things, but
one the embodiment of the other. Caerhyn reached for such concepts with as much ease as a
musician performing a well-known song. Indeed, he shaped time and space in very much the
same way a Bonesinger shaped matter. Though the form of the facts were new to him, their
being and their motion were old companions already met in a thousand different settings. This
artful approach to computing had but one downside, namely that it relied very much on the
individual potential of the living computer. Yet was it really an issue, when intuition and instinct
were, as art was to science, the crowning of intelligence, the foam above an unfathomable wave?

Still, it was no magic; he had to be meticulous, starting from somewhere to make his way to
what he was looking for. Already he had stumbled upon the vision of doom while not directly
looking for it, but routinely checking the threads of one of the Autarchs, bound as her foremost
defender to Usiall-Annath’s destiny. It was his death that attracted Caerhyn’s attention to the
knot where he found eventually every life ended, his very own included. Rather than petitioning
a machine for a solution in a literal deus ex-machina, he could now follow the thread of the
antagonist backward to find it himself. That was his craft, and it assured him much more control
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 9

and scope than any artificial construct would provide.

For now though, he couldn’t even figure who nor what was this creature. It exuded an aura of
hideous yet familiar wrongness. As a matter of fact, the unsettling came precisely from the
oxymoronic alloy of alienness and kindred. It bordered the mystical horror, like the butchered
and desecrated body of a loved daughter, or the Drukhari fashion to use someone else’s face as a
mask. Could he be a flesh construct from Commorragh, built to harvest the very distress he
experimented in his vision? It would not be below their unrepentant cousins, nor beyond their
grasp. Furthermore, in sorrow even more than in everything else, the Aeldari knew no equal.

As a late Craftworld to depart, Usiall-Annath harboured a fierce defiance toward those that
revelled in repeating the mistakes of the past. It was all his people spent their every moment
fighting. Her very name bore witness to such a drastic adherence to the Path, alluding to a
Victorious Journey of both physical and metaphysical nature. As they travelled silently through
space as far as they could from the extinguished core of the old empire, so were they living
through the many temptations laid bare before them, ever defiant of treacherous confidence right
until the final rest of the Infinity Circuit. Life was now a struggle beyond even power and
resources, for their very soul, and as the Exodites understood earlier than anyone else, it was that
very struggle that protected them from the complacency of the Fall, a time where unbound
success had spelled absolute disaster.

Diving deeper on the future-past, Caeryhn quickly reached the beginning of the Beast’s thread,
one yet to come but closing fast, a matter of weeks now. Yet it would not take more than two
decades for it to reach its apotheosis upon the cracked core of the Infinity Circuit; another hint of
engineered or nurtured origin. Furthermore, the thread was bloodied from its very start, meshing
completely with three others, conveying a feeling the Farseer could not translate better than
“born from three fathers yet without mother”. Three male genitors, swayed by promise of power,
their alliance cemented by the will to hurt the Craftword?

Knowledge of their race was not well spread amongst the bulk of the lesser races making most
of the Great Wheel’s population of this age; Indeed, it was harshly frowned upon if not out
rightly forbidden in the fearful theocratic empire of the Mon-keighs – the slandering term came
naturally to his mind as he slipped back into defiance –, a way for their corrupt rulers to pose as
the rightful owners of the stars in the eyes of their malnourished thralls. Furthermore, the scope
of such an endeavour was beyond the means of all but a wealthy and knowledgeful elite – occult
covenants or secret military projects. Both were credible explanations at this point, even
accounting for one obvious fact: the psychic stench of the Great Enemy pulsated heavily from
the knot of fates, as a hypnotic beacon all too much familiar. Her mark lingered around the Beast
from the very start of its existence, painting a feeling of monstrous perfection born of obsession
and lust for more. It was the very definition of She Who Thirst’s absurd and frustrating approach
to life: how could perfection be satisfying as a timeless end that could not be improved upon?
The Asuryani had seen through this delusion already.

Hence the Path, a philosophy aiming to funnel that harmful obsession by providing multiples
reaches for perfection throughout a long, safe yet fulfilling life. Each cycle of eschewing and
donning anew tempered the burning quest for transcendence through the wisdom of growing
even beyond that. It was a matter of mastering the self as the finale frontier, beyond superficial
control all the way to attunement. It allowed to reach contentment through many iterative cycles
of change, progressively shedding every layer of Form until only Being remained. Obsession
was stagnation, as was perfection, but life was change, and change was good as long as balance
could be maintained.

Caerhyn couldn’t help but to recognize a familiar pattern guiding his secondary thoughts, and
he wondered if he was not being played by another Great Power in the game. As his tutor had
made it clear so long ago, Chaos by its very definition invited Chaos, and from one of the Four
the three others were never too far away. As a consequence of endless probing through different
planes of time and causality, the Farseer mind stretched around a very relativist view of his life,
one he saw as but another thread that could be lured to branch in one way or another without him
ever knowing the decision was not his. Even caution could be of another’s design. This
multidimensional way of thinking pervaded everything, progressively cutting him from the
company of others who avoided this prismatic perception by curtailing their true psychic
potential. Thus, had it become the burden of a dedicated Path, the most arduous one: the path of
the seer. From discipline paradoxically came unbridled power, but also long-term consequences.
Unless properly addressed, reflexivity to the point of paranoia would paralyse him long before
his body solidified under the strain, a prospect that made customary for each Farseer to check the
thread of the others.

Immerging himself into the vision at the very origin of the nascent thread, Caerhyn could see
the birth of the Beast with as much clarity as he had witnessed the same thing wrecking Usiall-
Annath. Its lair was a great room with rows of monolithic glass tubes lined against one wall of
unadorned concrete, displaying organic tissues at different stage of growth. Some were
distinctively human, others too primitive to be identified; quite a few were obviously alien, from
both human as well as Aeldari points of view: prostrated serpentine forms suspended amidst
greenish fluids, articulated long bones linked by strong elastic ligaments to provide at once great
agility and explosive strength.

One of the vat tanks was empty, its glass panels still damp from the liquid goo it had contained,
confirming the artificial nature of the Beast. The creature itself was still in the room, a towering
presence as imposing as the one that would later feed upon the souls of Usiall-Annath. Its
dripping nakedness accented how out of proportions it was; among the numerous other humans
present, none stood higher than its shoulders and most would have been hard pressed to reach its
head with their fully extended arm. Long sinuous members of rather osseous than muscular
appearance ending in talon-like fingers stretched the illusion of humanity to an uneasy
equilibrium. Indeed the pervading feeling of silent dread would have betrayed it even before its
look were it not for the soul-turning effect of its hypnotic gaze, like a pharos of compliance
sweeping around the binding stillness of an enrapturing aura.

Despite his utter revulsion, Caerhyn could not deny the hold the creature had on the massed
guards and scientists assembled in circle around it, neither could he hide the push of lascivious
probing that crept in the subconscious depths of his own soul. An animal-like predator exuding
physical and moral threat, it managed to subdue the judgement of those around it to have them
lower their defences and relax their fear-tensed muscles. For one such as the Farseer with the
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 11

lore and discipline to see it for what it was, it appeared as a vicious spider in the middle of a
paralysing insect-ridden web. The fools that sought to control it were fools already dancing to its
tune, or rather to the one that composed the part. Without surprise, the unnatural attractiveness he
recognized as the trademark of She Who Thirsts was the usual answer to prayers and acts of
consuming obsession. And as he knew it too well himself, there was but one reward to this kind
of devotion.

Caerhyn needed no insight into the future to see what was coming, his own experience of the
past quite enough to warn him. Indeed, in a swift strike the Beast reached for the throat of its
genitor and would-be master, a far shorter man clothed in vulgar and colourful attires of bad
taste, lifting him high while utterly crushing his trachea with nails ploughing through jewelled
scarves and pussy bows. Among the dozens of armed bodyguards and mercenaries that
surrounded the enlaced duo, none even blinked, as if they were unaware of the change in course
that was happening. Rather, they gasped in awe before what they saw as their long-awaited
avatar of Perfection, their true and proper leader, with no more regards for the broken corps to
which they owed their loyalty up to this point that if he had never existed.

The Farseer then contemplated the merciless culling of every relative of the departed, the
Creature slowly picking the limbs of women and children alike throughout the velvet-walled
chambers and porphyry bathrooms of the upper levels, all the while basking and revelling into
their suffering in a sickening fashion that strengthened his resolve to see his people spared the
same fate.

Stinged by anguish, his attention moved toward the memory of his own dead child, one he
would not dare reach for through the Infinity Circuit by fear of exposing him to the lingering
madness of the vision or to the trouble it stirred in his soul. Instead, he elected to reflect on the
twist of fate that had taken a daughter before his father, along a wonderful mother whose death
had left him forever disinterested in the future. Yet he had dedicated himself to the scrying of
coming events precisely as a consequence of his crumbling past and forlorn present.

He had been a healer once, dedicated to the mending of broken things; yet too soon had he
discovered that some things couldn’t be repaired. The searing fire of war would often cut the
thread of life beyond any reasonable remission. Of course, he later learned through the errands of
his current path that there was always a way, providing one was willing to pay the price. Alas,
innocence was too much to trade even for life, a truth the thralls of the Great Enemy could no
longer understand precisely as they had already willingly discarded this most precious treasure as
a burden. What would be the point to free his loved ones from death to chain them to a lust for
suffering? They were better off under the peaceful care of the Infinity Circuit.

As the familiar mantras cleansed him of what might be left of the nightmarish vision, he
reached for his family in the psychic matrix of Usiall-Annath, only to find them numbed in
lifeless sleep, as if they now relied on him to dream in their stead, which they did. He drifted in a
fashion across space and time in the same quantum state of being-while-not that was elsewhere
the privilege of deep, comforting rest, all because those he would give his life to protect could
not do it anymore. They needed his attention as much as his protection; that’s why he allowed
himself to be trapped on the path of the Seer; that’s why he now needed to act.
Reweaving the Tapestry

Despite reigning supreme, causality merely invited to usurp a power so inescapable as to bind
itself to its very laws. Such was the purpose of science; to understand the necessary rules of the
universe to bind them back to the entropy of individual will. Yet the apparent paradox resolved
itself peacefully into another, at a higher level of awareness, as through the mastery of the many
dimensions around time, he and the college of his peers merely opened new paths without cutting
through the fabric of reality.

That’s what allowed the Craftworlders to make such a constant use of precognition without
consequence other than victory; they broke no rules, quite the contrary leaning on and upon them
to the point of bending. As the Old Ones before, they mastered without inviting disharmony,
getting more from simply steering the flow than opposing it. More than any others, they had
contributed to shape the present, and still felt responsibility toward it. They created, nurtured and
domesticated in a galaxy they once regarded as their garden, always avoiding destruction as a
fool’s endeavour. Such was the power of art.

Caerhyn would now use that art to prevent everything he had foreseen from happening without
negative downside, from the yet-to-pass birth to the distant ruin of Usiall-Annath. Not for him
the random, naturally occurring clashes of mindless primal forces that opposed the lesser races.
None appeared structurally distinct from the Orks to him, all children fighting to steal from the
others with the Aeldari no longer here to correct their decision-making beyond the strategic
level.

Yet he reflected that this doctrine cornered his people into a defensive stance limited to the
upholding of a status quo that could never be to their advantage. They now lacked the mindset
required to draft long-term plans for themselves, having indeed locked themselves into
stagnation as a result of the trauma of the Fall, when daunting, boundless experimentation was
all the rage. In truth, as long as the Great Enemy would hold its grip upon the soul of their race,
there would be cornered into a kind of ironically one-dimensional thinking, with survival as only
horizon.

Again, Caerhyn felt the touch of other players at work: She Who Thirsts, obviously, but maybe
more? Without any solid evidence, he elected to fall back to the mantras of scrying to focus and
keep his vision clear and unbiased. From the knot starting the thread of the Beast, he projected
his consciousness through small changes toward different outcomes to try and amend the thread
without direct intervention.

He first attached himself to study the soul of the progenitor to look for a way to steer his course.
Fear and doubt he quickly revealed himself impervious to, having no space left for anything but
his thirst for perfection. In a repetition of the Fall, the lure of the Great Enemy traced for him a
direct course toward destruction, one he would never willingly eschew. His will was no longer
his, and despite the certainties this fact brought, it ended up blurring the threads of fate. Indeed,
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 13

they disintegrated quickly into a myriad of ever-changing ways. The analogy of the tapestry,
used to explain the Skein to novice seers, still amazed him in its accuracy as he followed
insignificant threads so closely intertwined through different dimensions mirroring warp and
weft that apparent direction was often misleading, compelling him to try innumerable
adjustments while keeping track of the emerging pattern.

Even then, most solutions led to short-lived victories. He contemplated a genitor wrecked by
paranoia and ill omen postponing the completion of his work through thorough caution and
maximal security, yet delving deeper into corruption to assuage his anguish. Hordes of
bodyguards, private militias, mercenaries and cultists were garrisoned on extra rooms excavated
next to the laboratory, ready to react to any sign of trouble. The many-layered secret facility was
turned into a true fortress, impervious to outside assaults as well as security breach. Automatic
failsafe mechanisms stood ready to seal any room before flooding it with gas or sucking the air
from it. Armoured generators shielded from electromagnetic pulses hummed at the bottom of it
all, surrounded by barracks filled at all times and to the brim with men, in a reserved area that
was a citadel in itself. Only one way down gave access to it, ensuring the many automated turrets
disposed along the way would be able to fire to the very last moment, turning the exiguous
pathways into unavoidable kill zones. Rows upon rows of crude weapons stored behind heavy
doors made of metal bolstering their confidence, the hardened guardians stood prepared for the
worst, unaware that the danger of Chaos would fester within and feed upon their apparent
strength itself.

Indeed, he followed the rampaging Beast through exiguous corridors filled with corpses and
panicked men their very numbers prevented from fleeing. He witnessed its sheer might and
incredible toughness, surviving hails of small arms fire and quickly regenerating from any
wound, while cleaving its way through every opponent without pause. No weapon could stop it.
They could make it bleed, but not kill it, and Caerhyn, through his repeated visions, learned
much about it without discovering any exploitable flaw except for the mad lust that draw it to
suffering and threw it in turn relentlessly against anyone not in thrall to its magnificent aura of
self-referenced purpose. In such cramped spaces, heavy weaponry could only be brought to bear
by thoroughly calm hands, whereas terror spread ahead of retreating masses of armoured figures
that their bountiful gear only hindered. Amidst such incoherent rabble, even automatic defence
systems were rendered in operant, the wall of body absorbing most of the hailstorm despite the
express deactivation of friendly fire protocols.

It was a slaughter of improbable intensity in regard to the small stage it unfurled upon, dozens
falling in mere minutes before the creature’s voluptuous assault.

In the end, the surviving humans only managed to take it down by closing emergency
bulkheads and security doors destined to contain explosions, though it barely slowed the
onslaught enough to bath it in fire and acid while it clawed at the obstacles with bare hands. The
body was then chopped to pieces, the men trying to kill the fear that would forever poison their
lives. As Caerhyn remarked, many of their threads ended not long after that traumatizing event,
suggesting a lasting inability to cope.

The dreadful spectacle repeated itself in many slightly different iterations, the genitor sometime
surviving to start anew, further refining the process to better weaponize the final product against
the Aeldari, but more often than not falling to the rage of his creature. Even then, the corruption
running deep in the household ensured some of his heirs would take up the mantle, even with
both of them removed. It seemed such display of violence attracted rather than repulsed these
decadent nobles lost beyond gluttony and lust. Perverting tutors, vicious sycophants and
forbidden literacy all combined their assaults to erode what will might try to stand against them.
Through the Skein, the vanity of the quest for the self was shown without convoluting sophism;
beyond the poses and the pretence of originality, every thread converged in the same damnation,
like a great river draining every smaller tributary to serve their essence to the great feast that was
the Sea of souls.

A few times, the Beast managed to escape, fleeing into the depths of the cavernous city only to
lead mobs of discontents, seeking revenge in time against everyone as Chaos engulfed the whole
society. Despite its abhorrent nature and dissembling looks, its mesmerizing presence proved to
exert a magnetic attraction for armies of fanatics entirely bound to its cause to rally to. They
turned first against the recently imposed imperial rule that had brought so much misery in the
name of brotherhood. The puppet government could not handle a discontentment so deep that it
ran throughout even the most favoured of local security forces. All that required the volatile
atmosphere to ignite itself was a first spark of open rebellion, and the Beast instead put every
dam to the torch, unleashing the flow of confusion and violence. The ruling elite fled or faced
vengeful execution, as the palaces of the spires too were sacked.

The henchman of the dying emperor were quick to respond in kind, deploying siege regiments
atop the stormy peaks and against the few gates that opened at their base on ground level. When
the grinding attrition proved too wasteful, the brutish angels of death that had already brought the
world into compliance landed in spearhead attacks, moving deep inside the stone carapace of the
great city, unopposed until the Beast entered the fray itself. Then attrition took its toll again, this
time collecting from the fierce and the mighty. Using the population as an expendable bulwark to
lay devastating ambushes before vanishing, the Beast proved too challenging a game to give
chase to. Instead, the retreating astartes elected to smoke it out of its lair. Almost every time, the
city ended up bombed from orbit and subsequently quarantined, yet the Beast survived bellow
the wrecked mountain range the humans once called home. Eventually, it managed to reach the
freedom of space. In every case its fate remained linked to the Craftworld, only postponing the
confrontation while strengthening its might.

Caerhyn determined to try another course and resolved to explore the outcomes of somehow
attracting the attention of local authorities, their ever useful if short-sighted tool, upon the
festering of Chaos among them. Yet they were ill prepared to such a threat, and without witch-
hunter to lead and shield them, the ensuing culling only served to spread farther the corruption in
the long run. How the Humans would weep, were they made aware of their place on the board of
the Great Game. They claimed the Great Wheel as theirs, yet couldn’t escape being played as
pawn, again and again, as blunt and mindless weapons that needed to be sharpened by others and
protected from themselves.

The song of a Shieluin bird intruded upon his mind, interrupting his thoughts and bringing him
back to his body. He found the grove unchanged, always the oasis of peace it had been designed
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 15

to be. From a distance, the melodious accents of passing Usiall-Annathi echoed the dripping of
water upon polished stones and the babbling of the fauna. Around Caerhyn, the enveloping
presence of the Infinity Circuit filled him with a sense of company and belonging even in this
most serene of places. A dimming light casted growing shadows from lolar and lianderin trees
around him, signalling the coming end of a cycle wholly dedicated to this predicament. As the
slowly falling artificial dusk met the waterfall in glittering sparks of multi-coloured lights, the
Farseer broke away from his unachieved duty to reassert his hold on reality.

The Life of Dreams

Life was sweet on Usiall-Annath, more than in most parts of the Galaxy. There was plenty for
everyone, and no one wanted for anything. There was no forced labour, nor press-ganging, nor
even mandatory service, because they made sure there was no threat to mobilize against, except
in the soul itself. Furthermore, everyone was the master of his own destiny through the Path, not
even required to directly contribute to the whole beyond one’s own development. All of this was
rendered even more laudable in a psychic society that would have the means of total control over
its population, yet only resorted to self-enforced common decency to avoid the perils of the Fall.
Would that burden prove too much for some, they were left free to wander on their own before
reintegrating the Craftworld, their lust for freedom spent, wizened through experience. This was
still far more than any other place would allow on this Great Wheel that knew only war and
suffering.

Alas, this ever state of spring – or was it rather autumn? – only contributed to blur his
perception. Indeed it was hard for him not to see his home as but another dream, its current state
but a reflection of something more. To one always away as he was, it was hard not to see Usiall-
Annath merely through the pulsating structure of the Infinity Circuit, as a living creature of
gigantic proportions of whose he was but a part of, rather than a place to live. Through his mind,
he was becoming one with the Craftworld, a living embodiment of his entire race. As he reached
for one of his glittering, crystallized hairs, he wondered if this ultimate fate was – or would be? –
the consequence of his constant use of psychic power, or just reality becoming a dream slowly
escaping his hold. Never could the metaphor have been more telling, he remarked to himself, as
he contemplated the rigidity of his hand, almost as stiff as the hair he could barely feel on it. Was
he but dreaming of life now?

Yet he couldn’t regret his choice to dwell on the Path of the Seer. The loss of his family had
shaken him in his beliefs, even though as a healer he had not been ignorant of death. War had
taken everything he had, as much as the Fall had taken everything from his people. In a way, he
had lived it a second time, one that played for his heart only. What made such things unbearable
was that they unfolded despite this extraordinary ability to read the future. Thus was the true
tragedy of it that both had been somewhat allowed to pass, a failure no god nor reckless
randomness could be charged with; it was fully theirs, and it left him forever scarred.

He had moved away from the Path of the Healer after the death of his mate, unable to keep the
necessary balance. From there he passed on the Path of Grief, learning to confront his pain to
help relieve others. But this too required balance, as every Path did, as he was to prevent
unchecked pain from reaching such heights as to attract the attention of the Great Enemy. He
was to sooth others by taking a part of their burden; yet how could he while his own proved
already too much for him? He moved again when his daughter left to join her mother in the
bosom of the Infinity Circuit. From there, alone as he now was, his only remaining desire had
been to stay close to the departed, to keep feeling their presence lingering on the border of his
mind, and to protect their immortal souls where he had failed to preserve their life-force.

Hence had he joined the Path of the Seer, an uphill battle for one so troubled in spirit; yet he
had clung to the chance as if it had been the very bodies of those he cherished more than life. His
tutor had shown patience, knowing too well from a foreseen future how much strength this kind
of determination would bring him under proper control. Sometime still he couldn’t help but to
feel it had been no choice at all. As a very organic way to help anyone adapt his life to his
emotional needs, the Path itself was very much sensible to causality. Used as he was now to
follow divergent causes to seemingly unrelated consequences, he wondered at which point his
fate had been set, and how far he could still have steered it in another direction. It was better for
one not to delve too deep nor to look for such details on one’s own thread, as it was not without
danger. It was a sure way to blur one’s future and lock oneself into paradoxical actions or
extreme emotions. Such things were mortal weakness for one wielding the power of the Sea of
Souls, hence he who spent his life guiding the destiny of others was bound to willingly blind
himself to his own to a degree.

He sat in front of a table atop a small belvedere where food and drinks were made available,
dampening fields stopping the conversations from troubling the serenity of the garden around
while allowing the soothing sounds of nature to enter. His presence was felt as he entered, and
the flickering of small talks around signalled the usual mix of deep respect and lingering concern
that his presence inspired. As a member of the Seer Council, he was one of the revered leaders of
Usiall-Annath in all but name, his prophecies setting the course of the Craftworld for
millenniums to come. On a less formal level, his dealing with the future made him for most akin
to the very notion of fate, one that could easily come bearing great sorrows, leading to his
apparition more often than not being regarded as an ill omen. If only they knew how great an
effort he made not to glance over the thread of any present Aeldari, not to spoil his meal nor
distract his thoughts! Hence was he even more isolated in the physical company of his kin than
amidst the abstractions of the grove.

He still had much to think about indeed, having spent the better part of a cycle toying with the
human puppets and the consequences of their foolishness. There was still plenty of time before
any of these could be brought to bear against his people, more than a hundred cycles perhaps
before the Beast could even be born, yet he had found no opening in the pattern he was trying to
avert. Always the creature came, always with lethal consequences, to the point it seemed easier
to give him life than to prevent this most unnatural of acts to pass.

Back in the darkened grove and still at loss for a solution, he ran through the mantras learnt as a
novice, and resolved at last to dive further down the threads leading to this critical knot. There
was still time to act upon what would come before that turning point. With this in mind, he
turned his attention to the “three fathers” that meshed up to the point of disappearing into one.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 17

A simple glance confirmed the artificial nature of everything, with the three subsuming into the
Beast rather than just bringing it into their orbit. The machines and glass tubes he had foreseen,
as well as the monstrous form of the creature, everything hinted to some kind of bio-engineered
hybrid of different specimens gathered throughout the stars and kept for a time in primitive
stasis.

One of the fathers would be human, a favoured son of the corrupted master and his greatest
pride to this point, a fitting sacrifice to give his form and face to this abomination, like an animal
immolated to the thirstiest of gods. Through this, the thrall hoped to demonstrate the magnitude
of his devotion to his dark patron, and to show his love for a great work that was to be his true
legacy. Instead, he only managed to exude madness and disdain for his closest, most vulnerable
kin. All of this was abhorrent to the mournful father Caerhyn was; yet he glimpsed a shadow of
understanding by focusing directly on the spirit of the man, a soul enamoured with perfection
and devoured by the desire to prove himself above everyone else.

This particular endeavour, he reckoned, was born from a childishly hurt sense of superiority
toward the invading brutes he had been forced to call brothers, when the world had been brought
into the fold of the human Imperium. The followers of the dying emperor had unleashed their
own gene-warriors in a precision strike of extreme brutality, beheading the ruling elite in the
very hour their ultimatum expired. Worse, the long isolation of the world had led to a viral shock
that had decimated the population upon contact. Billions had perished before global immunity
could be obtained, with whole communities cut off from the rest. It was now an empty world
where the survivors huddled themselves together in the higher levels, a cold body maintaining
precarious heath in its core only.

Even further, the Farseer found unfathomable hubris in the desire to obtain revenge by besting
the distant, perhaps mythical God-Emperor he was told to adore in his post-human masterwork:
his Angels of Death; Pride mixed with fear, hatred and the ever-present feeling of humiliation,
led to the ambition to destroy and humble them through even better living weapons. Again, and
much to his dismay, Caerhyn reflected on the similarity playing at a higher level with his own
kind, surrounded by stubborn and petulant children playing in the ruins of their galactic garden:
another tapestry as wrecked as the one of fate that echoed it. In this also, the Great Enemy truly
was the daughter of the Aeldari, sharing and twisting their mindset to teach it to the rough
inheritors of the Great Wheel. In a sense, She was their one true legacy, all the rest but a decrepit
shrine to showcase it. As much as they, though with much less reason, the genitor thought itself
above and beyond others, and in doing so, he had attracted the attention of greater powers in
their greatest of games.

Still the man had laboured in the right direction under the discreet guidance of his elusive
patron. Having contemplated dozens and hundreds of fights pitting the Beast against every kind
of opponents the planet could provide, he could not deny its strength. Even the enhanced shock
troopers it had been built to crush indeed fell in time as it matured into a fully-grown monster.
Displaying acute, instinctive tactical sense, it would not let itself be caught in the open, instead
using the many followers that flocked to its cause as both screen and distraction in a truly clever
way. But its true horror dawned on Caerhyn as he suddenly realised it too used time to its
advantage. For all its might and subversion, it could itself only hope to be a nuisance in the grand
scheme of things, one that would in time fade or be put down. But the true perfection in it, the
one that would please She Who Thirsts above all, was its ability to reproduce. It could, through
abominable embraces with enthralled concubines, spread its taint further. This was the glorious,
poisonous gift the genitor destined to his own kind: a new race, better in every way and bound to
replace the hated livestock of the unworthy so-called god that was content to claim this flawed
humanity.

In this systematic view, and though the Dark Kin were regularly doing far worse with much
simpler purpose in mind, the achievement was beyond what one would expect from a simple
man on a backwater world. Such was the power of obsession and its terrible god. They had
inspired and sustained a single-minded quest spawning many decades and consuming all the
available resources. Visions of different times past and ahead revealed the patient research,
spying networks, political intrigues, bribes and military raids that had or would be necessary.
Through these, the Farseer could truly understand what powers had been forced into the Beast.

The second father was already a true aberration: a powerful genestealer patriarch, homegrown
at the end of a costly and convoluted scheme that relied on the orchestrated off world exposure
of innocents to the kiss of a purestrain. The infected humans had then been bred through multiple
generations in a secret complex buried in deserted districts deep bellow the city, up to the point
where the gestating cycle had brought a new batch of purestrains. One was then harvested and
the other disposed of by flooding the entire area with toxic gas, and it all started anew, with more
unwilling subjects released into the underground maze to fall into alien clutch. This artificial
position of dominance tricked the abomination into unlocking the hidden parts of its DNA that
allowed it to become the true leader that was seemingly required, and from then it was only a
matter of processing its genetic code without having to crack its secret sequencing. It was a
clever manipulation, yet full of hazards and collateral damages.

The true shock however was to land far closer to home, and sent Caerhyn reeling, as he
understood at long last the true scope of what he was fighting against. As each piece fell into
place, everything became clear and the blasphemous horror that plagued his attempts was
revealed. Why had every thread, no matter how much he twisted it, led the Beast to the
Craftworld? He had seen the determined steering of the Great Enemy behind it, the hand behind
a tool as mindless as the human he was himself used to play; In that, he had critically
underestimated said tool, one that had been crafted with care and specific purpose in mind, from
the best components a life of obsession could muster. How then could it be such a surprise that
the third father was to be Aeldari himself?

Again, it was the key to everything, in the multi-levelled fractal fashion that was the trademark
of the Great Game, waged through symbolism as much as blood. If this origin was the decisive
factor that shed long awaited light on the whole conspiracy, it was because it was the fulcrum of
it all, as a literal mean to unlock a path to Usial-Annath herself and her ever vigilant Infinity
Circuit. Though there would be no fooling this omniscient guardian, the intrinsic attunement and
ability to interact with it that was the privilege of an Aeldari-derived mind could leverage quite
an edge. He remembered too well the fate of the doomed Malan’tai, broken from inside by such
insidious assault. One creature born of stolen Aeldari DNA had been enough to smother her into
oblivion, feasting upon billions of souls in the process, in a spiralling power surge of exponential
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 19

magnitude. This would not come to pass under his watch; fortunately, it would be easy enough to
deny this ultimate reagent to the agents of the Great Enemy, and to ambush them as they tried to
reach for it, burning their greedy fingers and draining their life-force with minimal casualties.

Then Caerhyn’s mind eyes widened as he realised the events had already happened; he was too
late, a feeling of such disappointment to a Farseer that he instinctively drew from the familiar
mantras to keep his focus. Living Aeldari where a rare sight for most, and he couldn’t fathom
how one of them could have been hunted down, as even the far more numerous and aggressive
Drukhari weren’t keen to leave their dead behind. Answers came quickly though, as not much
could remain hidden for long in the Skein to one that knew what to look for.

The vision showed a heavily armed band of human mercenaries on a Maiden World, burning
undefended exodite villages and executing anyone found alive. The widespread devastation
wrought signalled a manifest desire to force a reaction that soon came as a hail of suppressive
fire burst from the cover of the trees. The intruders ducked and hid as much as they could under
the clinical anger of the pathfinders that pinned them down. The world could defend itself quite
efficiently without the need for external help, and the Usiall-Annathi goal was merely to stop the
criminals long enough for their judgement to reach them. Yet this modus operandi was
apparently no mystery to the plunderers, as other teams descended from the sky on crude flyers
relying on jet propulsion for stationary flight, proceeding to surround the still invisibles rangers
before closing on them without regard for losses. Time was still of the essence as both groups
vied to retain the title of hunter against its resisting prey.

As the circle closed around the Craftworlders, close air support came back scything trees and
living souls alike to break the last pockets of resistance. Caerhyn saw with horror as the Humans
managed to take away the body of a fallen pathfinder, but not before checking his spiritstone
first; they came for his soul as much, if not more, than his flesh! Exodites, while the most
vulnerable of Aeldari and the easiest by far to reach for, had their soul joining the World Spirit
upon death, preventing capture. Fighting far away from their bases, the Asuryani had no such
luxury, instead having to rely on victory and lack of knowledge from their opponents to protect
their precious essence. Such defences proved vain this time, against one deliberately coming for
it.

Around the stolen corpse, the jungle seemed to echo the rage of the seer, rustling of anger and
vengeful intentions. As the precious cargo was loaded into a group of aircrafts landed in the
middle of a small glade, the treeline receded and a giant carnosaurus broke furiously into the
security perimeter amidst sparks of ineffective defensive fire, dismembering every man in its
path with primal fury. Coming straight ahead at full speed, it smashed off a first aircraft and
stomped another, burning soldiers jumping out of the wrecked machines only to consume
themselves on the ground a moment later. Panic settled once again, and Caerhyn could feel its
heavy presence around as a trooper overloaded its plasma gun, disregarding security rules in the
vain hope of stopping the great maw wide open reaching for him. He too ended up burning,
melted by the searing backlash his fear had unleashed on him.

The aircrafts were taking to the sky at last, flying fast on wings of terror as massive leathery
forms descended upon them from above, sending burning wrecks and plummeting bodies
crashing to the ground. There the maddening fear of a lone survivor curling behind a three
attracted the Farseer’s attention, seconds before the man stopped mumbling incoherent words to
blow his head with a large bore stubgun. The attackers paid in their flesh and in their mind their
transgression, yet a few managed to reach orbit with their bounty before leaving the system in
hast.

Temporary satiated by the just violence thus unleashed, Caerhyn came back to the dire state of
the situation to realise the full meaning of this last action. An Aeldari soul would be offered to
She Who Thirsts to empower her mortal avatar, allowing Her to exert control on him as well as
binding him to Usiall-Annath, explaining the always intertwined fates of both. Furthermore, the
soul would unwillingly act as a map and a key, to help locate the Craftworld and open her wide
to Her arch nemesis.

This was already done, the thread of the dead pathfinder maintained only through the dim light
of his spiritstone. There was therefore no more indirect way to prevent the unfolding of events as
he had foreseen them, and only decisive action could still stall the stubborn advent of fate.
Fortunately, there was no destiny set for his people, and no part of the great tapestry beyond their
grasp. If the pattern could not be mended, still the out of place threads could be cut to restore
balance in favour of the sons of Asuryan.

Ishesh’angau, Doom from Within

- From the Shadows

Had someone been dwelling in the seemingly eternal darkness that filled the vast underground
cave, provided his sight would not have devolved from the constant lack of light, he would have
witnessed a ballet stranger that anything the silent depths could provide. Here and now, the
pitch-black curtain of inscrutability that blinded the eyes as surely as if it had been stretched
across its very orbits suddenly tore itself in a circular fashion, revelling the ever-existing
presence of a third and a fourth dimension utterly alien to the natives. For the first time perhaps,
something happened here that could not be mistaken by any would-be observer for another part
of himself; and there was light, and from light conscience was born.

Or could have been, were the temporary portal not already closing, robbing the local life from a
chance to evolve, instead spitting fully sapient alien lifeforms from out of space to seed the very
bosom of the earth. And a moment later, everything was dark and silent again, as if the weight of
the mountain above reached to close the out-of-place bubble of life. Only a few echoes remained
as the huge grotto reverberated quietly the sound waves from the distant walls to the unknown
spaces under and above, hiding the intruders’ cautious progression amidst the background
whisper of the water that first carved this underground kingdom.

Caerhyn was among them, this time in the flesh, to thread the path he had traced. Through
extensive rune scrying and thorough concertation with the Autarchs, it had been established that
action was indeed required, and that the best course for it was to deploy a strike team of silent
killers to restore balance before it was even broken. It would still be weeks before the Beast
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 21

would be ready to arise and reach out of its glass crib. Now was the best time to strike, and they
would do so from within, making their way upward from the deepest, deserted levels of the
human hive to the laboratory level and beyond, through secret passages laid open before the
Farseer’s eye, up to the spire chambers where the household dwelled in decadent luxury. No taint
could remain behind, had the scrying revealed; wrapping the fiery anger of Khaine into the
concealing darkness of the patient hunter, all had to be purged and every bit of knowledge
destroyed, be it theoretical or alive.

Around Caerhyn moved six Striking Scorpions and six Fire Dragons, chosen to overcome the
specific nature of what they would have to face, their individual threads scrutinized to minimize
losses. Counting himself, was the thirteen of these warriors thrown among billions of humans in
a planned collision course against hundreds of them. The symbolic echoes of such a number
were not lost on him, Indeed, he had had to actively shield himself against the influence such
poetic references could level on decisions regarding matters of life and death. Thirteen was
reminiscent of the first cycle of a third usiall-annathi week, thus conjuring the idea of renewal in
a semi-distant future, a notion suggesting in turn outside insight and a firm hand on the thread of
fate. Yet for all its potency as an omen of ultimate success, it had no part in the planning process,
only lending a feeling of rightness and harmony to the result, akin to the artist suddenly knowing
his work to be complete.

The group moved silently yet as fast as a strong paced human confidently leaning on
subconscious memory to follow a familiar path. The darkness did not impair the Aeldari one bit;
even without their helmet’s lenses and weapon’s optics, they could rely on their superior acuity,
sensible to more wavelengths than long distilled evolution could provide to most predators.
Beyond these natural abilities, their gear allowed them to tap into multiple view modes through
various spectra, from heath to radiations, and more importantly adjusted itself to avoid blinding
saturation. The suits included communication devices rendered redundant by the psychic bond
that allowed each squad to act with unrivalled coordination. Indeed, most of the training
dispensed in the Aspect Shrines revolved around a specific, collective modus operandi rather
than individual combat prowess. In a sense, the Aspect Warriors were the true militia of the
Asuryani, a point of view that was strongly felt in Usiall-Annath, leading the Craftworld to rely
extensively and almost exclusively on this voluntary force, to the point of confining trained
guardian units to the manning of the engines of Vaul.

Bonded through the rituals of their shrine and a psychic link going beyond both tell and show,
the warriors were all instantaneously aware of what the others perceived. This unbreachable
network allowed them to act as one far beyond pack tactics, but as a single predator, embodying
the fighting instinct of their namesake to reach preternatural levels of efficiency, even before
Caerhyn’s intervention. Thus, in a scorpion-like fashion moved the vanguard, making but one
with the ground, crouching slowly behind every crack or crevasse. Ahead was the Exarch
Faenedor, acting as a primary brain with the experience of multiple long-lived wars wholly
dedicated to Khaine, moving legs and back arched, yet body kept in perfect balance between
tension and sustainability. He pierced the immortal shadows as if he knew the way, though in
fact himself imperceptibly guided through mind communication, the Farseer acting as a mobile
beacon to all those under him.
 As one, they moved without hesitation from the light slopes of the natural cave up to the
entrance of a forlorn excavated tunnel, testimony of the planet’s distant past as a mining outpost
at the far-reaching limit of human expansion. The world harboured a single large landmass bared
by the high mountain range of tectonic origin that now accommodated the great city of the Beast.
By closing the way for the heavy clouds born of the ocean, the great wall completely starved one
half of the continent of rainfall while drowning the other under it. On one side were lifeless
deserts and on the other impenetrable jungles, both almost as hostile to the self-titled masters of
the world. Yet it didn’t mattered much, as the mineral riches stretching from sea to sea under the
perpetually stormy peaks were all that led the upstarts so far on this distant arm of the Great
Wheel. In a pendulum motion, it had taken thousands of passes for the new human empire to
crash upon the very same beach the precedent wave had stopped upon, then recessed from.

The Asuryani remembered this dirtball so precious only as the sister of a small, minor maiden
world by the name of Yisskerun, hidden on the same system. The name was as much
proclamation as description, as was customary before the Fall, translating as “Owned hunt”, the
private recreative garden and hunting lodge of a petty Aeldari of the time of the Dominion, no
more important than any of the other self-appointed gods of that era. It had been taken over by
the same regressing humans that had up to this point been allowed to gut the great mountain they
were now prostrated in. For many cycles, it had fed the voracious growth of its sterile neighbour,
the fertile soil toiled by the untold millions traded for the very food they would harvest for the
rest of a pitiful life. The terrible animals had been eradicated or domesticated, turned into chattel
as degenerated as their masters and bred by the billions. Where majestic forests once covered the
land now stood fields upon fields, sustaining a few landed aristocrats living in decadent villas
surrounded by great orchards of exotic fruits. Only a few patches of untapped woods resisted
around ancient ruins regarded as the kingdom of vengeful fey by the locals and carefully
avoided. Such naivety served the defenders of the webway gates well, of course, allowing the
Craftworld to turn her gaze elsewhere.

Yet with recent rediscovery by the forces of the dying emperor, an endeavour itself wrapped in
machinations and lies, the viral choc used as lever of compliance and subsequent dwindling of
population had disturbed the dynamic of exchanges and left the lower levels of the great
mountain the strike team now entered depopulated and to fend for themselves, hence paving the
way for the influence of Chaos and their current predicament.

At the entrance of the ancient mining shaft, they came in sight of a shanty town of cast-out,
mutated humans. Survivors of the invisible death that has spread in every corner of this
underworld, they had found answers to their fear of something they could not comprehend in
something else of the same kind: faith. Besieged by a pestilence that could not be reasoned with,
their fear reached out where they could not for the one they needed, the one that was defined by
this very need for protection against entropy of his own making: the Chaos god of decrepitude.
Whether they would have survived without such allegiance or not was a matter of speculation,
though Caerhyn could easily follow their threads to the answer. Such act would be wasteful
anyway if not overtly dangerous, as the worth of Chaos worship was already clear to the Farseer.
It would be just as clear now to the damned in their decaying state, had they retained their
freedom of will and judgement. Again, sometimes the price was too heavy to be paid,
particularly when innocence of the soul was the currency.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 23

Against the wrath of Khaine about to befall them, the protection of their grandfather was of
little value anyway. The wretched things could not hope for anything, and this time that lack of
horizon that was a weapon in the twisted realms of Chaos could do nothing to save them. Though
they posed no threat to the Craftworld, they were abominations the universe could only be better
without, a bubo to be excised. Once, the Aeldari selflessly tended to the wellbeing of the Great
Wheel, and they would do so again provided they could without endangering their own future.
Erasing such insignificant cults was a short step to cull the power of the Fours, by denying them
food as well as preventing further contamination.

Even then, they would not be soiled by direct contact with the festering walking corpses. With
the Striking Scorpions preventing anything to escape, the Fire Dragon Exarch Minnuirthil
unleashed the searing anger of his Dragon’s Breath flamer, putting to the torch the miserable
shelters and their inhabitants. The shambling creatures proved highly resistant to pain, one more
reason not to feel remorse had the warriors needed one, but still folded to destruction like leaves
in a breeze. They kept walking mindlessly toward their death even as their skin writhed and
evaporated fast, falling mere meters from their initial position. Occasionally the process was
sped up by a shot from a fusion gun, instantly vaporizing the hideous body without leaving a
trace.

It took only a few minutes for the place to be consumed, lumps of organic tissues slowly
degrading under the action of inextinguishable flames and buildings crashing down on them.
Nothing would remain. They could move on through the mining labyrinth that would lead them
to their true quarry.

Fear is the Mind Killer

As they made their way up, the surrounding of the Aeldari quickly changed. Gone was the
savage coherency of natural stages, whose every asperity sang of eternity; in their wake now
multiplicated the crude corridors that formed the shadow of the mighty hand that once reached
for the coveted heart of the mountain. Round at first like the borrowing of a great stone-worm,
they widened into less defined shapes at some point, revealing abandoned workhouses and
deserted encampments. Bones were common sight, grouped into small piles as if each family or
team had stuck with its owns until the bitter end.

Of course, there had been plunders from the time of the plague itself and later on, when the idea
of property inevitably reared back its head along the necessity to trade the few resources left.
Skeletons were obviously incompletes, their elements dispersed, their clothes and possessions
torn apart or scattered, the doors of their homes broken open and everything thrown around.
There had been no peace in this deepest of grave, as new societies emerged in some upper
underground above, thriving as much as they could on the debris of the lower levels. Now all
was still, yet in a disorder that denied the mind any idea of rest. Following the silent directions of
their leader, the thirteens engaged in another shaft, large enough to accommodate the heavy
engines that had sucked the mineral wealth to the surface.
 After a few loops on the spiralling access way, life started to manifest itself. Shelters no less
miserable than the one they had left behind them dotted the path, dim lights more than enough to
reveal meagre and crooked figures with no desire to look outside and no mean to do much harm.
They relied not on strength for their survival, but on discretion, intending to make themselves
even smaller and insignificant than they were to avoid any trouble. The silent party passed them
by one after the other without even slowing down nor looking behind. Would a reckless eye
accidentally catch a glimpse of them, it would only fuel the many stories of lurking monsters and
supernatural creatures that flowered so easily on such desolated environment.

Fear was part of the plan, of course, as merely another, tactical level of the war on the mind. As
the Aeldari experienced life on many simultaneous planes, so too did they always strike far
beyond the mere body, but at the very psyche of the foe. This was but one of the dimensions
complementing space and time in their perception of reality. As clearly as the lesser races could
discern tri-dimensional shapes with enough certainty to place a shot on them, the Aeldari felt the
pulsating of the soul, a sense that was even the cornerstone of their Dark Kin’s society in
Commorragh, despite their psychic atrophy. In the mind, fear was a potent reactive, not unlike a
mote of antimatter injected into matter and consequently annihilating both by simple contact.

Here it acted as a powerfield on a blade, repulsing any that could be tempted to oppose their
thrust and thus allowing them to perform their surgical strike. Striking Scorpions and Fire
Dragons in such low numbers acted as a scalpel closely followed by a cauterizing tool. Despite
their superiority, they could not allow themselves to be bogged down, and everything up to the
otherworldly grace they walked in combined to impress on the mind of would-be observers
frightening thoughts of utter alienness that exuded reasons to be left alone.

Yet as it was the case with any weapon, its efficacity was never guaranteed, as many factors
could shield the mind, more often than not at the price of flexibility. Humans made a speciality
of using misplaced pride or faith to such purposes, up to the point of rigid conditioning. The very
stubbornness that condemned their society on the long term hence allowed them to stretch the
last stand of their short-timed race to the very limit, up to the final dive into the maw of
destruction. It didn’t help that the low price they themselves put on their own life made sacrifice
and gambling more appealing choices that they should be.

As the Aeldari entered more densely populated levels, confrontation became harder to avoid.
This was the territory of vicious gangs locked in perpetual infighting over the most trivial claims,
valuing in fact the chance to kill and be killed as part of the justification for their lording, in a
parody of aristocratic ethos. To restrain from attack was to surrender in such shady alleys, and
surrendering in turn was a clear invitation to slavery, torture and rape, whatever the sex or the
race. Such rough men and women ready to do violence would seize the chance whenever
encountered by pure default of imagination, and while presenting little threat, could slow down
the team quite a bit more than Caerhyn would allow. With a gentle touch of the mind, he gave
free reins to Faenedor and his Striking Scorpions, allowing them to slip much further into the
darkness ahead to clear their path.

Still the growing distance had no impact on their psychic link, and the Farseer could still
effortlessly perceive what the vanguard did, ready to guide them while slowly advancing a few
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 25

hundred paces behind on a now well-trodden path. Caerhyn could feel the pulsating gift of
Khaine in each of the warriors ahead, their fury harnessed and focused through the strict
discipline of their shrine, aware of each other beyond the need for communication. They moved
as the bloody hand of their tutelar god, five darting fingers extended in five slightly divergent
directions, spreading a net for Faenedor to act as the Stinging Death, the one true strike to fell
their disoriented and immobilised foe. Even though each and every one of Karandras’s disciples
would prove a fitting match for even the brutish gene-enhanced battering rams of the human
empire, it was this flawless coordination that made them truly peerless fighters. But Caerhyn
would not expect the degenerated creatures to understand it before it was too late, so limited in
their horizon as to be ignorant of sunlight as they were here.

Such a group of moths was close, enthralled by the provocative bonfires that signalled them to
every eyes around: a childish way to denote ownership of the vast cupola that stretched far
above, reverberating their plain jokes and obstreperous challenges. Even from the distance, it
was more than clear that they had not been shamed away from more olfactive markings. What
they lacked in subtlety though, they more than made up in numbers, as befitting such invasive
species. Thirty to fifty of them were illuminated by the flames of their carousing, showing off
automatic weaponry and a few heavier guns that could prove deadly in the confined
environment. They barred the way to the upper levels, no doubt the source of what little wealth
they possessed, ransacking travellers and extorting toll fees through intimidation, if not straight
up robbing and murdering those they professed to view as trespassers. After years of what must
had been considered high life in this place, retribution had come, as random as was the universe
in a way, if envisioned from the small crack between the primitive notion of morale the humans
favoured, and the more complex understanding of the recursive loops of fate that shaped the life
of the Aeldari.

Though the mission was paramount, passage was not worth the price of a single life. Faenedor
was very well aware of that, his controlled anger pervading the mind of his warriors and honing
the reflexes that could save their life. Here fate was to be kind, provided a cautious course of
action be followed.

The ones that strayed from the group to purge themselves of their excesses were the first to
disappear, engulfed by the shadows they sought to debase. The ones clumsily looking for them
followed, when the number of non-returning gangers started to draw attention. By then any trace
of carousing had vanished, though traces of their rowdy state of mind could still be felt in the
empty provocations they threw at the menacing darkness. Patrol teams were set up under the
barking gang leader, bolstered by the rage coming from repeated humiliation at the hand of an
invisible enemy. Each moved slowly while covering the other with as much discipline as
unacknowledged fear could ingrain into the heart of such unruly daredevils. Despite their
enthusiasm, they had no clue of what to do and where to search for their missing comrades. This
made them even easier preys.

Suddenly, four or five flashlights projected erratic beams as they tumbled from dead hands,
swiftly followed by the muffled sound of crashing bodies on the ground. Return fire erupted,
randomly illuminating the empty space that surrounded them before dying under its evident
uselessness. Focussed as they were, they could not see the next attack coming from the opposite
direction, and another group fell to the ground, each swiftly bleeding through dozens of cuts,
doomed to die face on the ground, their spinal cord severed in multiple points by flashless
shurikens.

The muttering and cursing men closed ranks, suddenly sobered up by the certainty that death
lurked around them, a threat chillingly different from the familiar bravado and gun-ho approach
they were accustomed to. Facing the barrel of a gun provided a rush of sensations, the kind that
could very easily set a simple man spinning on the path leading to the voracious claws of She
Who Thirsts. It appealed to pride as much as sensuality, playing on the notions of gambling as an
ordeal, proof of favour and election from a higher power. Exposing oneself to such a danger
made one feels special and superior. Here there was no trace of it. Unexpected death coming
from nowhere was instead akin to divine punishment, both inscrutable and inevitable.

Caeryhn could sense the confusion in the men that now rallied around their leader back-to-back
to face every direction as if seeing their foe could offer protection against it. The fierce dogs of
war that considered themselves proud and free masters of the underground a mere moment ago
were now close to breaking, only keeping their ground because they felt cornered on it. Only in
the man in charge could he feel rage still overpowering panic, an overwhelming desire to fight
back to hurt what did hurt him and kept doing so. His will was strong for one of the child races,
refusing to give up and less concerned by the imminent threat on his life than what could be done
about the situation at hand. He was the rock on which the others aggregated, like so many
bivalve molluscs on a strong tide.

The Farseer concentrated on this fiery mind, bright as a fireplace surrounded by candles,
following one of the many thoughts in the cascade of causality agitating it to enter, and then
forced himself upon it, suddenly funnelling psychic energy far in excess of what a mortal man
could tolerate, bringing war to his very brain. Every spark of life stood suspended where a
moment ago his whole being was a hive of furious activity, each stilled nervous cell nevertheless
more and more charged in electric impulse, and gradually torn apart. For a mere second the man
stood paralysed, his inner landscape as still as the painting of a silent cry, surprise and horror
filtering even from this state of inexpression, and then he dropped on the back of his lieutenants,
with blood spilling from his nose as the only clue to explain his demise.

There was a moment of wavering, and then the defensive circle collapsed, every man fleeing
for himself with hunting shadows on their heels as well as ahead of them. None escaped.

The whole skirmish had been promptly concluded in a loud and unsubtle way, yet the area was
not of the kind to be alarmed by the sound of gunfire; if anything, it would only tend to further
clear the open spaces, playing into the hand of the Aeldari yet again. The sliced and
dismembered bodies left behind would go and feed the legends no doubt already circulating on
terrible monsters of the deep not afraid to attack large parties of heavily armed thugs, both the
worst and best humanity could produce here.

The Thirteen now moved through rubbles, water sinks and rusted stairways, still guided in the
dark by Caerhyn’s far-reaching scrying. The transition toward the next level was rendered
hazardous by a severe lack of maintenance in a place that had once been densely settled but was
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 27

now all but abandoned. Here solid habitation blocks had allowed for a stable, if not comfortable
life. Alas, the higher buildings had been prone to crumble on the road, blockading the way up.
To the sure feet of the Asuryani warriors, this was of no consequence, yet a few times a fully
barred tunnel forced them to find another way through the neighbouring constructions.

This was a barren level only scant caravans moved through from the upper city, trading scarce
food and manufactured items for the ores and spores of the new frontier that was the bottom of
the hive. Only a few trails were kept deliberately open, but their strategic importance had them
turned into strongholds for the true powers of the underground, proto-states ran by far more
successful gangs built on these very monopolies. A single Aeldari life lost would still be too high
a price to pay for the use of such shortcut while farseeing made them privy to the secret paths
bellow the mountain that would circumvent completely the need for any further confrontation.

The hunting party stopped in the middle of this no-man’s-land for seemingly no reason, close to
one of the great walls that delimited the current area. The uninhabited and ruined status of the
place acted as a basic yet clever first layer of defence for the secret laboratory. This was
reinforced by the lack of entrance on these unruly parts of the city, access to the facility being
only allowed through massive elevator shafts coming directly from the palace in the upper spires.
Thus, the hidden lair was at once preserved from accidental discovery and the consequences of
any breach of containment, with plenty of room to accommodate the heavy equipment needed in
a distant, less implicating black site, set through many absorbed districts. Yet, all these
precautions were rendered moot against a foe that simply divined where to go and what to do. In
the middle of this most inconspicuous of places, Caerhyn knew the shadow fortress to be just
behind the outer wall of the decrepit district. Had he not foreseen what was about to come and
purposely steered toward it, had he stumbled upon this place by random accident, admitting such
a thing even existed to his kind, that he would still be able to feel the sheathed latent violence of
the garrisoned mercenaries chomping at the bits in their confined barracks. It was enough to
know another stage of this war was about to begin.

The Burning of Chaos

Despite being many meters thick and requiring heavy mining equipment to crack,
inconspicuousness was the main defence of the outer wall. Furthermore, it was still lined on the
other side with the many bodies that in the end were always the true bulwark of the humans,
acting as a wall of flesh doubling the wall of stone. Indeed, such a species forged life as much as
the bonesingers, though in a very different way. Where the latter fostered growth both in quantity
and quality through psychic nurturing not so different than the raising of a child, the former used
real children as cogs in their anonymous war machine, barely enforcing standardization through
conditioning and constant bullying. Such methods could only provide soldiers or criminals, but
no productive citizens able to feel, create and share; hence a society devoid of substance, only
existing as a mental projection, a skeleton concept fed on the collective belief of its reality and
on the rejection of everything else. War was no longer a way to an end to these people, but at
once the goal, the journey and the travellers’ defining identity.

It was no wonder they couldn’t do anything else after thousands of passes of military
mobilization against enemies real, imaginary or purposely created. To such meaningless regime,
the lack of threat was akin to a solvent, its harsh and absurd reality turning killers bred to
confront anything to the point of pathology into rebels the very moment they had a chance to
choose. They were groomed to fight and to hate from birth; how could they stop doing it? The
answer had been to dispose of the tools no longer needed, and to breed even more brutal warriors
to do so: but in the end, no matter the conditioning, war begat war, and thus parricidal betrayal
formed the very founding mythology of the already decaying empire. It was one of the very first
tricky steps that usually filtered the would-be civilizations that reached for the stars. Causality
was one thing that could not be forced through sheer brutality, nor unyielding determination. To
succeed on the long run, one had to think.

In his long time doing so, Caerhyn had already been here, on the common side of the wall,
poised to initiate the long unabated rush to the higher levels and their target, an offensive that
once launched would have to preserve its momentum to succeed. And succeed it would; he
believed it as someone who had already lived through it. His body knew the steps and had
already felt the burning of Chaos that awaited.

On his mental clearance, the five Fire Dragons fired their fusion guns at the wall, each a split-
second after the previous one, their ritual attunement making such precise sequence as natural as
if merely one gunner had pressed five time the same trigger. Then the cycle started anew, each
shot vaporizing larges pieces of rock ever farther, quickly boring an entrance as precise, fast,
surprising and spectacular as the temporary webway burrowing that had led them straight below
the mountain, to strike their foe out of its own bowels. From now on, there would be no respite.

Mere seconds after the first shot, the outer wall was breached, projecting a spray of small
burning rocks inside to add to the consternation. Then without pause, Minnuirthil unleashed the
Breath of the Dragon again, funnelling its searing heat through the small opening to have it
engulf everything beyond. The few starting exclamations of surprise quickly turned into screams
of agony as the confused mercenaries burned, as much from shock than flames. Without need for
elaborated battle plan, the Fire Dragons had acted as their namesake, falling upon their prey from
above before tearing its armour open and delivering the killing blow in the same motion. The
warriors had been the maw opening from nowhere to carry the fire of destruction straight inside
their foe.

Now from this very mouth entered the impervious Scorpions on trails of fire, breaking from a
newly opened crack in the protective shell of the room, like a phobia coalescing from the deepest
fears of man. Always in the front, Faenedor emerged first, leaving his men to act as probing
claws to end the sufferings of any unlucky survivors behind him. Like a great articulated
predator, the six of them pushed through a corridor to press their advantage, methodically
disabling any light they came across, while the Farseer and the Fire Dragons followed at a
distance. Caerhyn had a vision of blinded troopers lying low while trying to pierce the sudden
obscurity, tightly gripping their rifles mere moments before being ambushed by chainswords that
only came to life on contact with their throat or abdomen, each the sound of a certain death
already past their defence. Immediately the darkness expanded, as the lights that they thought
had their back went down before even the first man. None could catch a glimpse of what had
befallen them, except when thunderbolts stroke them down from anywhere in the dark cloud set
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 29

upon them, revealing frightening masks already gone before the eye could have a second look at
them.

Such approach was still precarious, and it was only a matter of time before they encountered
better prepared groups, set up and entrenched to face the rare opening of the few tunnels that
linked the barracks. This too had been foreseen, obviously, and the Asuryani warriors knew they
were heading for the soft belly of the foes, one they had chosen their insertion point to quickly
reach. Indeed, in the third room they found their prize: the humming generator that powered the
whole underground fortress from bellow, an abyss deemed the most secured of all against any
attack coming from the only envisaged access. Such autonomous powerplant was a necessity,
both to secure energy input from the rest of the hive, one that was more likely to lead the culling
than to approve of the facility, and to keep it off charts. As it stood, the genitor could very well
consider his project to be at once safe and invisible.

Destroying the main source would not suffice to shut the experiments down, a fact Caerhyn
knew but too well; anticipating beyond the unlikely and the illogical with a foresight born of
obsession, emergency power sources would automatically spring to life to sustain the helpless
thing still resting within its glass tube. Yet, deprived as the enemy was about to be of both light
and automated defences and even communications devices, the team would sweep through the
garrison without allowing it to catch its breath. Caerhyn was sure that, given time, the humans
would still adapt and counter the advantages that played against them for now; yet it was the
Aeldari way of war to deny them this time. They would be scattered and pushed again and again
with dazzling speed, until they were completely lost or destroyed.

It was a way of action eagerly appropriated by the very elite of their own Imperium, replacing
speed and finesse by sheer force and pure brutality, reluctant to pull back or redeploy when
facing resistance, instead seeing purpose and glory the greater the foe. This rendered them
tactically inflexible, a tribute to overconfidence born of ideological indoctrination. Meanwhile,
the Aspect Warriors would feel no shame nor even grief retreating to strike again a moment later
on weak points the enemy would have depleted to reinforce against the first attack. In that, being
enhanced for war turned to be a weakness compared to being naturally born a member of a
warrior race honed and nurtured by the gods themselves in the dawn of time, even prevented as
they were to tap into their full psychic potential. The gene-warriors were but living missiles,
destined to crash and crush without back up plan beside a surge of willpower should their fury be
spent to no avail, and a superior opposition encountered. To their credit however, it proved quite
infrequent. Yet they were designed and used as tool by their own leader, cutting them from the
cause they were intended to fight for, with only hierarchy and martial pride to keep them in line.
No wonder they had grown from stalwart defender to become one of humanity’s greatest foe.

It was not so with his kind, each one fighting with heart and soul to protect the life of loved
ones, and a society they were fully part of. Because of it, had they numbered in the thousands,
the bribed or coerced Mon-keigh stood little chance against them. It was a battle forced upon
them, akin to a story full of epic deeds and dramatic showdowns, but one that the Aeldari reader
knew from the start to conclude upon a happy ending. The Aspect Warriors under his guidance
would never allow themselves to be caught in the open, foreseeing the worse and always ready to
redeploy or vanish thanks to superior speed and the very caution they taught their opponent to
observe.

For now, they passed from one place to another, darkness robing the foe of mindfulness even
more than sight. Some were trying to retreat yet could not place the creeping advance of the still
unidentified intruders, as they used the star-like web of corridors to bypass most opposition,
leaving it prostrated in useless defence, flashlights or night goggles madly sweeping the empty
shadows. Each particle of mangling doubt and numbing defiance further increased their inability
to properly react, to the point of recursively feeding the loop up to utterly disabling their fighting
ability beyond self-defence.

As the heavily armoured warriors emerged unscathed from a staircase shredded by frag
grenades into another level, climbing faster than the human had anticipated and thus riding ahead
of the harmless blasts in a vision of unstoppable doom, Caerhyn kept track of the unfolding
tactical situation. Through the Skein, he could see in his own comrades’ close future the damage
that the soon-to-be dispatched runners from the main control room would cause by
circumventing the shutdown communications. The upper levels were already aware of the power
failing and would shortly investigate, but any clearer information denied to them would poison
their will by casting metaphorical, yet very effective clouds in their mind. This could make the
difference between victory and stalemate leaning on defeat. Focussing, the Farseer concentrated
on the knot of intertwined fates in the command bunker, quickly following those that diverged
from the path he was set to thread. Then he projected himself into their mind one after the other,
bringing war directly to their conscience of self and snatching the precarious thread of their life.

All could resist, be it through cunning or sheer will; none did. In their present state of
confusion, they were unable to even realise they were stroke down from the inside, crushed by
the constriction of a cold-blooded, reptilian-like invader silently emerging from the back of
themselves, where used to come from their own reassuring inner voice. As the first body hit the
ground, Caerhyn could feel dread spreading further as a shockwave, reaching corners left
untouched until now in every present man. This in turn served the Aeldari again, shepherding
their opponent into foregoing actions that could still prove their salvation. Indeed, such mind war
was costly and uneasy, especially without line of sight, and the Farseer could not have stopped
more than one or two messengers in this fashion; yet there was no need to, as a web of illusions
now spread across every living soul present, weighting on them with the crushing certainty that
any other attempt would result in the same consequence: the incomprehensible but violent death
of the volunteer. The minds or the Humans had turned from weapon to prison, one they could not
escape in time, as their gaolers and executioners closed fast on them.

The Aspect Warriors reached a third level, one whose occupants found in their desperation the
strength to fight as cornered animals. Caerhyn considered the trade-off of his tactical approach:
with no hope of escaping and an even surer death lying in trying, he had put a greater fear on the
back of their remaining adversaries. Thus, they would fight to the death without regard for their
life, where they could have been funnelled elsewhere and bypassed altogether. Alas, perfection
was always out of reach, he reminded himself, as a very consequence of causality. Sometimes,
one had to miss to understand how to hit, and too often one had to act while in the process of
determining the best course for it. Perfection was a state of the mind, utterly alien to reality;
hence its apotheosis in the Sea of Souls as the Great Enemy, along other such products of life
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 31

that were Anger, Fear and Hope. Now flashbang and frag grenades were used without restraint,
still doing more harm to friends than foes. Indeed, the helmets’ lenses accommodated the sudden
burst of light, blinding those who sought to gain protection from it enough time for the
unhampered Aspect Warriors to close the distance. Against more lethal projectiles, swiftness and
armour proved a sufficient shield, whereas the humans could claim none of these advantages. As
the fighting became even fiercer, it all proved in vain in these cramped spaces where team tactics
and personal prowess proved the decisive factor.

Where the guards could not trade their life for the Asuryani’s, they still managed to buy some
precious time for the security command post to entrench itself, setting barricades and turning the
last corridor and only access into a kill zone illuminated by emergency flares and flashlights.
They were set up for a final stand, knowing their last hope to lay in the very lack of power that
hampered them, one that was bound to alert and bring reinforcements in time. All they had to do
was to hold this last position, the only defence left standing between the rising tide of madness
that had turned their still pond upside down along the prized laboratory that had to be the reason
of it all. Despite this will to survive and recover bolstering their determination, they were still off
balance, thinking as mere animals trapped with no way out, contents to survive a few more
minutes, then maybe a few more, unable to think clearly enough to set up another course of
actions.

The Aeldari too halted to regroup in the last room they had cleared, the defences ahead
impossible to mistake or miss. The Aspect warriors stood alert, none bearing more than a flesh
wound, having fought a succession of rigged duels against unprepared and inferior opponents.
They waited for Caerhyn to lead them past this last obstacle, the most formidable they had
encountered so far in the short time it took them to fight their way through three different levels
filled with armed men. In truth, on the hundreds of soldiers, bodyguards and mercenaries now
behind them, most where still alive and well, and it was a matter of time before they dared to
step out of the collective bedrooms they thought they would die in. Killing them would be of no
use, as scrying had demonstrated, as they were simply pawns unable to ignite anything on their
own in the foreseeable future. Furthermore, as the way they used to enter the fortress had been
collapsed behind them, they would find no way out in this direction. Now that the furious noise
of the fight had recessed though, they would find confidence in their number and cautiously
follow the trail of bodies, closing the way behind the team. More than ever, time was of the
essence and swift action was required.

Retreating deeper inside, Caerhyn focussed his witch-sight on the fortified position ahead,
counting the numerous threads that intertwined closer than ever as if trying to gain more
strength, tying themselves into one wider rope of fate. Alas, sometimes it was easier to cut one
head than to slash at many different bodies, and to see these men so closely bonding gave him
away the weakness that mirrored every advantage. Channelling his psychic power through the
runes that now gravitated around him, he shaped this sheer might into a vortex of energy, a storm
quickly growing from the very centre of the enemy’s stronghold. Letting his mind flow along the
waves of crackling winds, he poured more and more of himself into it, allowing for his
perception of self to fade for an instant, his unshakable will now entirely roaring to life on the
other side of the illuminated corridor.
 As the storm, he felt the hairs raising around him, sparks of electricity crackling with crescent
violence in the air, soon turning into full blown lightning arching from the heads and gears of the
defenceless men; Overrun by a terror born of powerlessness, they fired their guns
indiscriminately, some trying to hurt whatever invisible executioner was set upon them, others
still fixated upon the threatening corridor that could only be the source of their woes. As the
tempest reached its full power, explosions were heard as the grenades and explosives that were
not thrown into the access tunnel detonated on those carrying them. Thread after thread, the rope
of life unravelled into nothingness. Then, as the deafening noise of elemental fury engulfed these
sounds too, everything stopped at once and all was calm again.

Inside, only charred bodies now protected the access to the laboratory. The power shortage
prevented the elevator from functioning, and at this point it would have been foolish to entrust
any life to it. A large spiral stairway welcomed the sons of Asuryan and they reached for it.

Mid way, the sound of descending steps met the silence that surrounded their progression, as
five technicians in lab coats tentatively came to make inquiries about the malfunctioning
elevator. They too vanished into the hungering pit of destruction that was growing below the
mountain.

Nothing stood now between the two futures about to collide.

Face to Face

For the first time of his long life, Caerhyn contemplated with his own eyes the great room that
he had seen so many times through different bloody scenes. The large gestation tubes higher than
two standing Craftworlders were still functioning under the care of the failsafe generators, their
abominable yet valuable contents suspended in greenish solutions of ominous appearance. Part
of the tortured flesh here derived from another of his kind, he thought, born and nurtured in the
great bosom of Usiall-Annath; They had both lived in the same places, and the fallen had been
young enough to be a friend of his own daughter, though he dared not look upon the Skein to
learn whether it had been the case or not. Worse, his very soul had been debased to power a flesh
construct destined to mock their race and destroy their home. There was horror indeed in this
room, and no fire would be bright enough to clean this place and the many memories Caerhyn
had of it until the gods returned to their people.

The place itself was familiar enough too, precisely mapped through the overlapping events
never-to-happen layered on his mind like as many wavelengths and spectrum before his eyes.
Yet the situation that was about to unfold had only been foreseen once, with the confrontation
taking place here without direct link to any others except the location. Here and now he was
going to destroy the still immature creature and its half-made twins, then erase his anguished
maker about to rush in to check on his masterwork and the cause of the power failure. After what
they would put to the torch anything that could plant the seed of such an impious scheme into the
mind of others, before following the trail of corruption to its last remaining haven.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 33

As they locked the heavy door behind them, two dozen pairs of eyes wearing protective goggles
turned on them, not expecting the dead technicians to be back so soon, even less the slender and
bloodied armours of alien design that now looked back on them. Such an unexpected visit from
such unknown creatures coming from such an impossible direction kept them dazed, waiting for
the intruders to signal them what to think and how to react, as their mind could not possibly
fathom what was happening out of what had been until then a very normal day of work in a job
were strange things and stranger people came and went. Would have it not been for the blood on
the chainswords and battleplates, they might have tried to engage in direct conversation or go
back to their duties, confident that their presence was somehow part of a greater plan above their
station to be informed of.

The stillness was broken by the sound of blast doors closing around the room, sealing it from
the various wings that could offer shelter and postpone the inevitable culling. Then the vast
armoured bay window facing the tubes shattered, revealing not the usual attendants, but the
crouched silhouette of Faenedor upon the security console, his great claw resting at ankle level,
his two eyes a grim omen that could be read clearly by any living soul. Familiar panic erupted
here too as the impossible collapsed into certainty, the inescapable future now replacing the
improbability of dying today rather than any other, in a position that was far more secure and
comfortable than what the vast majority of the hive enjoyed. Their whole universe, all they knew
and believed about the forces at work around them, the balance of right and wrong and the
opportune seduction of past choices, everything collapsed at once to be fully replaced by a
paradigm altogether different. Their lives, their schemes and their hopes were all about to end
unfulfilled, and the matter of what awaited them in the afterlife of their dedication, willing or
not, to an all-consuming patron became a pressing one.

Some remained frozen while they were scythed down like grain in a field, others fell to their
knees; most however rushed toward the massive elevator door that was their only chance of
survival, despite the impervious metal curtain that had fallen before it. In the end, all their rotting
threads were removed from the tapestry and the doors reopened to access the repositories of
forbidden knowledge that had to be purged.

Through another mental impulse, Caerhyn signalled the Aspect Warriors to prowl in ambush
around the now free door of the large, industrial sized elevator that was the only access to the
hidden lair, linking it directly to the spires of the palace thousands of meters above. Meanwhile,
remotely detonated fusions charges where set by the Fire Dragons to leave nothing that could
warrant further need for intervention. The genitor would not be long to come, with the very best
of his household, men that could be trusted beyond the trappings of power and lust for riches.
Yet thanks to the firm scrying of their seer, the Aeldari would still prove better prepared and
would prevail as before through surprise and speed, striking a prey self-cornered into its own lair
by mistaking itself as the master of its own fate.

But scrying was not foolproof, and nothing was ever certain in a world where some could
manipulate time and space themselves. Paradoxes always, their existence marking but the limits
of the mind too small to accept them. To alter time was to invite entropy, to bend the rules could
only lessen them, in times to the point of unravelling, and without rules there was only Chaos.
 Such were the thoughts that raced through the mind of Caerhyn as the Beast awoken before its
time, reacting to the presence of Aeldari souls so close or to some external command. Caught off
balance, he could see the Skein rearrange before his witch-sight, proof of alteration by an
unconstrained, capricious will bending causality from another dimension, planting a new present
to alter the chain as he was accustomed to do himself. Precious few could qualify to such feats
outside of his pairs, and almost none outside of the Four. Suspicion blossomed as the monster
emerged from its cold womb in splashes of greasy fluids, of a trap long laid to send him and his
warriors to their doom, playing on their own sense of superiority to bring more souls to the table
of their Great Enemy. There was no reagent more potent and precious in this trade, and with
thirteen gambled for one, the threat to Usiall-Annath would grow exponentially.

With no more certainty to gain from his past scrying, he felt shamefully blind as he eschewed
that mind-eye that was the one he relied upon the most; shamefully blind to have fallen to such a
deception, bringing twelve of his precious kind with him into damnation. They looked up to him
to guide them even now, unaware of the extent of the predicament they were entangled into in
the heart of the mountain, with immediate futures torn apart like clouds in a storm to reform
themselves a moment later, yet never coalescing enough to form a clear path to engage upon.
And behind this, he couldn’t escape the ever-present feeling of another playful conscience subtly
moving the wheels, toying with him, now revelling the many layers of deception weaved around
them in a subtly composed bouquet of many different coloured touches.

It had all been too perfect, though the inbuilt abilities and reach for perfection that defined the
Aeldari could very much explain the magnitude of their success without raising alarm. Yet this
was also the first step that would forever leave them exposed to She Who Thirsts. Through
martial excellence, this shared part of them had led them right where they were expected, with
justified pride easing any doubts that could arise. As the immature creature still stood many
heads taller than him, he looked into its eyes and saw intelligence given purpose by lust and
suffering. At this very time, the elevator doors opened wide on a large group of armed soldiers
with the astounded genitor in the middle of them.

Abandoning the far stretched schemes for immediate advantage, Caerhyn guided his warriors
through instinct, the psychic link that was binding them all their best asset in the ensuing
confusion, allowing for immediate and coordinated group reaction. Each shrine still acted as one
despite its members being scattered in different part of the great room. As if issuing a personal
challenge to the genitor, Minnuirthil bathed the elevator cabin in flames, clearing a searing path
in the sea of men that surrounded his target and pining the rest of them, while the Great Scorpion
moved to confront the Beast on equal terms. The six of them made their approach as one,
gathering from various points to take their place as links in a chain aiming to shackle their prey
before striking the coup de grace. Two warriors on each side acted as probing pincers coming
from two opposite directions, forcing the opponent mighty enough to warrant this ritual tactic to
split his attention, loosening his focus and filling him with the usual dread of the cornered victim.
This was half the road to defeating him, the other coming from the Exarch acting as a stinger
plunging from a third, by now unexpected way, his powerful claw ending the threat and the fight
in one fell swoop, with the last Striking Scorpion to watch his back.

But the Beast here, despite not having reached maturity, was still unbelievingly strong, fast and
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 35

alluring, a tribute to the three fathers of wildly divergent origins that were blended into it.
Furthermore, it manifested a strong and exotic psychic presence, drawing from both Aeldari and
genestealer potentials fused through process reeking of daemonic taint. This sheer hypnotic
might dulled the lightning-fast reflexes of the Scorpions, adding a split second of hesitation in
every move they made, though shielded from the worst by the burning fire of Khaine inside each
one of them. Making one with their war mask, they fought this enemy tailored to go against them
as they had always done.

Yet there were not prepared to face this particular foe alone. Before the second pincer could
close on it with blazing mandiblasters, the first one was gone, its two living components broken
beyond recovery. Caerhyn watched as the blows of the Beast pierced through heavy armour,
reaching for vital parts bare handed, while the other warrior crashed into one of the tubes, his
shoulder utterly crushed. He tried to strike at the mind of the creature as he had done previously
but could not breach its psychic defences. All he managed to do was to protect his own from
such a pernicious influence, and fight with blade in hand as one of them.

Meanwhile, the Fire Dragons were ill-equipped to deal with the human horde that was still
trying to burst out of the elevator. Minnuirthil had to retreat to avoid the raging return fire that
spurred in the wake of his first attack, one that had left a dozen charred corpses to hinder any
further movement. Now he was content to stay out of line of sight while still maintaining a clear
firing arc intersecting with the way out and parallel to the door, unleashing fiery breath on
anyone trying to get out as grenade blasts rained fragmented debris on his armour to try and
dislodge him from his out-of-sight recess. The rest of the squad reached to even the odds that
tilted against them in the other part of the room, like the tail of the Dragon slashing furiously far
away from its ardent maw.

Indeed, here they were fighting their true opponent, one as fast yet stronger than any of them.
Deprived of one of its prehensile appendices, the Great Scorpion was now at a disadvantage,
resorting to form a half circle trying to attack from every direction baring the wall the Beast
stood back against, but not for long. There was no room for defensive mentality in such
impulsive and proud thing, born before its time and thrown into this breathing world scarce half
made up, it was drawn to the bright essences around it like a flame expanding to catch the moths
that surrounded it.

There was conscience in it, as neither perfection nor corruption could truly live up to their full
meaning without either of them. Or rather, there would be, and at long last the full reach of the
scheme that brought them here as vengeful avengers of yet-to-be wrongs dawned on Caerhyn.
Such monstrous, misguided perfection could not be sated with one soul, be it from the elder race;
neither would such sacrifice prove enough to fulfil the kind of hubristic dream that inspired She
Who Thirsts. While denying himself the drive that was a part of him, Caerhyn had, for all his
wisdom, dramatically underestimated the aspiration behind what was being done here. The
ranger’s soul had been enough to breath life into the unfinished thing they faced now, a savage
warrior more than a match for the bests of their kind, but breeding crude brutality was not the
creed of the Great Enemy. No, the immaturity of the thing had been a lure, as it would not have
grown past its present state without a last decisive reagent, one Caerhyn had delivered himself.
 One tortured Aeldari soul was enough to power a brutal whirlwind of death, but from fourteen
of them, including one of the foremost seers of Usiall-Annath, would emerge a peerless leader,
even stronger in mind than it was in flesh. It would truly be the doom of the Craftworld, and
beyond; a creature able to command the warp and bind time and causality to its bidding, a
warlord engineered to turn the unlimited manpower of the Humans it could masquerade as
against the sons of Asuryan, thanks to its superficial appearance and psychic suggestions. To
these easily fooled pawns, it would be another false hero sent by their dying god-emperor, not
much more alien than the giant soldiers they already revered as angels. And thus, through
seduction and pride would the two races destroy themselves upon the stage of the Great Game
and the always thirsting altar of the Great Enemy, for Her greatest entertainment.

Caerhyn contemplated with new eyes the dark reflection of what he might become, despite a
life of control and restrain. Doubt reared its long-bowed head, as the symbolic implications
unfolded in a moment before him, his humbling defeat in the Mind War mirroring the futility of
his race’s fight against damnation, a war on which only tactical victories could be achieved.
Despite its animal behaviour, the Beast seemed to welcome him in its embrace, in the typical
fashion of the perverse god that thirsted for all his kind, one that was keen to play on the tired
heart longing to come home and could find true bliss only in voluntary surrender to self-
destruction.

But in that She would be denied. If tactical victory was to be their only margin of free will, then
they would seize it. Now was the true test to decide if they were to survive and prevail against
their own defects, a test without the comfort of outside tricks. Here they would best perfection
throughout the many levels of symbolism, proving better than they were at their zenith and
worthy of existence beyond mere survival. They would be free, and thus turn meaningless
victory into metaphysical triumph.

It took only the time of a heartbeat for Caerhyn to reach this conclusion and regain his
composure, his hand tightening on the grip of his witchblade, enough time for the Beast to break
the back of another Striking Scorpion and throw it on the others, forcing them to recoil. Then
Faenedor leaped forward, sensing opportunity, and closed his claw on the extended arm of the
monster in a midst of slicing monomolecular disks, severing it. In another lightning-fast move,
the claw bit again between shoulder and torso, crushing the right half of the ribcage as the Beast
relished the first blow, regeneration already mending the cauterized tissues. Moving to get rid of
the nuisance, its left talon was met by the chainsword of the Exarch halfway, closing upon it in a
reckless attempt to disarm the Scorpion while mandiblasters lashed to its exposed throat. Stuck
in such deadly embrace, one fighter locked into the flesh of the other, they vied to prevail,
supreme mastery of the body against unbearable strength and resilience; an unstoppable force
clashing against an unmovable object for the time it would take for an eye to blink, before one
side collapsed.

As if its essence had ignited upon contact with its polar opposite, the abomination exploded in a
brutal release of energy under a triple discharge of fusion guns, utterly annihilated by Khaine’s
destructive fury under the strong grip of his relentless hunting. All reeled under the shockwave,
with no time to neither mourn nor celebrate, as the sound of close firefight now drew their full
attention.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 37

Even then, the humans were barely emerging from the elevator, Minnuirthil still keeping them
at bay the best he could with life escaping his ruined, yet still standing body. Against the full
might of the returning Aspect Warriors, the survivors stood little chance. Curled in a corner
behind the burned bodies of his bodyguards, the genitor was soon left alone in his former
stronghold, facing but a foretaste of what awaited him beyond death into the clutch of She Who
Thirsts. No word would be wasted on him, no explanation nor philosophical joust. Marked by the
Great Enemy, he was something abhorred that Caerhyn deigned touching only through the
angered tip of his witchblade, feeling fascinated dread in the man mixed with a curiosity that
would soon be satiated, before everything was obliterated by the psychic blast channelled
through the sword.

As with every victory, the time of gathering the invaluable dead came before celebration, one
that would never develop outside the war mask of those having taken part in the action. Three
Scorpions and two Fire Dragons had fallen, including their Exarch, bittering the success with the
aftertaste of deception and death. Caerhryn had collected their spiritstones and held them tightly
in a pouch next to the one containing his runes. Still, there was no time to rest, fusion charges
were put in place to ensure complete destruction of the room and its access behind them, burying
everything including the spared mercenaries below, while the Scorpions loaded the bodies of the
dead into the elevator, clearing a spot of human corpses not to desecrate their kin. They would
have plenty of time to reach their next destination far from the blast and its consequences, and so
they sent the elevator flying high above, trading the dark and its horrors for the brightness of the
sparkling summits above the rainy clouds.

They emerged through a fake bookcase of massive proportion as a whole wall of the palace’s
private library slid open, enough to accommodate the heavy equipment encountered below at the
cost of ulterior reconstruction, in turn rendering the access all but undetectable. Here too, charges
were set to erase any trace of the secret passage and its long shaft plunging into the depths of the
world. Nothing here would be missed, as the superfluous ornamentations denoted excess of
wealth and lack of taste. Too often, more was less, as demonstrated the sleek and ascetic
aesthetic of the Craftworlds, and here it was definitely too much. Caerhyn stayed behind with the
busy Fire Dragons and the departed, feeling the psychic trace of the idle life that leisurely sprang
in the ornamented chambers around them, guiding the Striking Scorpions across the labyrinthic
maze of ballrooms and marmorean pools. Their journey was close to its end, with only one last
duty to perform, one unpleasant yet necessary, as he would gladly forgo another expedition on
this saddening husk of a world.

As he touched the mind of wounded yet unrelenting Faenedor, he could feel the unyielding
momentum that drove him forward without question nor complaint. A true warrior and
embodiment of Khaine in his most patient aspect, he was content to perform the duty that had
consumed his whole life, leaving the subtleties of the greater picture to others as he fully
focussed on the art of death. He and his two surviving disciples moved as silently as ever upon
the velvety carpets, blending behind silky hangings to stalk the occasional attendant bent on
satisfying every whims of his masters.

Following the seer’s subtle hints, they emerged into a final chamber with many children playing
under the care of no less numerous nurses. Caerhyn felt their shock as the Exarch made himself
apparent, looming as a frighteningly agile monster coming straight out of their worst nightmares,
no doubt already populated by other clawed fiends of menacing grace that soon would claim
them. Unaware of anything beyond their sheltered crib, they could still see in Faenedor an
articulated humanoid of utter alienness whose every move conveyed menacing intents. Their fear
was as short as it was intense, and soon, their threads were all extinguished.

Nothing remained here for the Aeldari. Without haste nor regret, they moved back to the great
library where books were slowly consuming themselves. His prophecy enforced, Caerhyn
reached in his mind for his webway support to open another temporary burrowing right inside
the deserted chambers of the inner palace. Warriors and healers from his former path emerged to
carry the dead and their gear. Nothing was to be left behind, no trinket to link them to the doom
of this place, nor body to be desecrated. In time, other aspiring Aspect Warriors would done the
armours recovered, and Minnuirthil would live again, perhaps even in his own closing lifetime.
Though Exarchs made poor fellows outside of the battlefield, he would be glad to relinquish part
of his burden again on his strength, one of the many pillars upon which was built Usiall-Annath
and the many lives, past and to come, that were and would be part of it.

When everything was cleared, they all vanished through the closing portal. Then, the charges
behind the secret library wall detonated, covering the last traces of a crime without witness nor
meaning in the great pyre of vanities.

Epilogue:
- Writing the best ending

Back in the tranquil grove hidden in a discrete recess of the Dome of the Seers at the very top of
Usiall-Annath, Caerhyn meditated on what he had lived through in the past few cycles. Little
time had passed, even for the fast metabolism of his kind which, paired with their extreme
lifespan, allowed them to prove the masters of themselves far beyond any other race. To most of
them this time had been unremarkable. Such was the purpose of it all, and the reason behind
everything that had happened – that was meant to happen. Indeed, even his unnecessary
intervention had been triggered by perfect causality, astutely altered at another level. He had seen
what he was bound to see, and everything unfolded from that point, up to their finale victory.

But this last twist too seemed forced upon him. Had the plan be for him to succeed all along,
everything but a sacrifice to get to him in some way, planting the seed of complacency to bear
fruits in a far larger scheme yet to unfold? Nonetheless, he would still have been bound to the
path he had trodden to protect his home from impending doom. In some way, this gift of
foreseeing had acted as a blind, leading him by the nose with no way out, despite even his
paranoid suspicion. Causality, again, could not be escaped from the vision of destruction,
everything was set, and thus the game rigged from the start. Such was the nature of it.

Yet pawn or player, he had only acted to further his own goal. Before him the Skein stood
reweaved, the Craftworld safe again from any harm for the present time, for little that could
mean. No action was without consequences, of course, but as he had merely followed the chain
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 39

of necessary actions, any ominous events he could have set into motion would have already been
meant to be, his part a mere expected link. Free will was not the random ravening of madness
and inconsistent changes, as was the nature of one of the Four, no less slave than the others; it
was the wisdom to play one’s own part with awareness and clarity of mind, accepting not to go
against the flow except when one sensed opportunity while deeming it truly necessary.

Hence, free will was less will than mindfulness. It depended on the ability to decipher what
could and couldn’t be altered. Set up for him or not, Caerhyn had followed the only course
available, as he would again in the future. In a sense, this was the ultimate paradox of his craft;
no matter the skill, even the seers could not deviate nor break free from the chain, as doing so
would be the unmaking of everything and fore mostly of the self. However, they could coil and
bend it to reach or avoid specific destinations when necessary, strapping other ones in specific
knots to then steer the juggernaut on another path.

From here, the deep thoughts that were the closest he could come to resting carried him softly
over the meaning of experience and reality for someone living every facets of every event, yet
unable to fully control what would happen. At times, he felt like a storyteller trying to lead his
characters to the happiest ending with the bare minimum of effort, yet one that could not account
for every thread of the plot, as the death of his own family bore witness. In his quest to further
the happiness and safety of the whole, he had had many killed even among his own kin – the five
Aspect Warriors but the last of a long list. Even then, despite his Path bringing him the balance
he fore mostly needed, he could neither rejoice nor properly mourn his own blood.

As always, he ended up reflecting upon the nature of the Great Game, a game where victory
was not the standard used to measure success. Was he still being played by another one of the
Four, as it had been his feeling at some point? And if so, had it aimed to harm him or another,
two interests aligning against the Great Enemy? He knew too well the vanity of such inquiries.
Everything and everyone were part of the tapestry of fate, simultaneously craft and craftsman to
various degree; in the end, it only mattered that his part would fit in the great pattern of his kind,
a grand scheme of such dimensions that even his departed family were still contributing to it. To
them he owed a safe passage into the afterlife, to them he had failed to protect in the flesh. The
reality of free will was but a superfluous afterthought to one that, willingly or not, would forever
fight to protect them, even at the ultimate cost of body and soul.

Beyond glory and power, love and kinship were the twin truths of life. For that, he waged war
on his mind and others. For that, he would twist the very core of reality to prevail.

As he went back to another cycle of scrying and crystallising, a part of his mind always numbly
swirling in the Infinity Circuit alongside the two other souls that made him whole, he turned yet
again the pain of knowing there would be no release for him into purpose, shaping his despair
into embracing care and living dreams. Trapped as he was on the most wearing of paths by its
obsession for control, one that was to shield him from other obsessions, pain and emptiness, he
contemplated one last time the estranging nature of a life consumed by duty.

In the Great Game, it could only be a meaningless cycle.

A Victorious Journey
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 41

BLOOD & IRON

 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 43

Prologue

Present Day

Lucian stirred awake in a puddle of his own cold sweat, and to the myriad sounds of the ship.
An amalgamation of mechanical white noise; air filtration systems constantly whirring, water
flowing through rusty pipes, electricity buzzing as it traveled on ancient wires, the inescapable
rumbling of the archaic engines buried deep in the bowels of the vessel…

The memories of red rivers, of destroyed bodies, of sheer agony… They were in his dreams, in
his waking hours, they were in there every time he looked at the mirror. He knew they had to
end. With trembling hands and unsteady feet he stood up from his bunk, and grabbed his
laspistol.

Eight solar months ago

Lucian winced and shielded his eyes from the blinding red light of the sun. It was the first time
he had been directly exposed to sunlight after all. The light of his own home world’s star would
only reach him after it had been filtered by the thick miasma of chemical clouds and pollution
that permanently blanketed the surface of planet Gledia. This world wasn’t so different…same
thick acidic vapors covering the planet…same stench of industrial runoff and human
waste…same wastelands stretching to every corner of the horizon, beyond the hive city’s
walls…same spires looming over the lower levels of the Hive, casting their eternal shadow upon
them. The only difference was that now Lucian was on one such spire, far above the clouds that
covered the depths. He was no longer merely looking at them in awe and envy from below.

The air on the spire’s terrace was cold and harsh. Each time Lucian took a deep breath he
recoiled in pain, as if a thousand tiny needles were shoved down his throat. The light was more
painful yet. A lifetime beneath the shadows of smokestacks, hab-blocks, and the statues of
heroes and saints had permanently adjusted his eyes to work in the twilight. Now the brilliant
light of the sun was nothing more than blinding to him. Yet he had to endure. He was a
Guardsman… no, he was more than that.

‘I’m a hero’., he thought, and almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation he had
found himself in. Lucian was invited to the top of the Governor’s Spire as part of General
Tacitus’ Honor Guard. It was a position he was picked for in haste, and almost at random, from
among his fellow Sergeants, after his predecessor was crushed to death by a heavy servitor that
failed to recognize him as a human. General Tacitus had a permanent personal guard, led by
Captain Severan, an actual hero. Nevertheless, the ego that often accompanies a rank as high as
his own, compelled him to draw from the rank and file to bloat the size of his Honor Guard on
grand occasions such as this. The grand occasion in question, was the award ceremony for the
successful and heroic pacification of Hive World Thelescus. General Tacitus of the Gledian
‘Ironclad’ Regiment, and the General of the 14th Krieg Siege Army, which was reinforcing the
Gledian troops, were both being awarded for their “tactical genius and heroism of their men”, by
the new Planetary Governor.

In reality, the previous Planetary Governor, who had earned the Administratum’s ire for not
paying the tithes his planet owed to Terra in full, had ordered the local PDF to lay down their
arms the second he was informed of the arrival of not one, but two, Imperial Guard armies in the
system. The fact that one of those two armies hailed from the Death Korps of Krieg, made his
immediate surrender seem somewhat less cowardly, and more like a reasonable course of action.
For his outstanding use of reason, and due to a planetary treatise signed some three thousand
years ago, the former Planetary Governor’s life was spared, and his only punishment was
confinement to one of the lesser spires of the hive city.

So there he was, Lucian, a hero among heroes. An entire planet pacified, and not a single lasgun
had been fired. Beneath a gargantuan Aquila made of gold, the Governor was exalting the virtues
of the two Generals in front of a crowd made up of disinterested nobles and their serfs. Lucian
glanced at his fellow Honor Guard. They were guardsmen like him. Young men and women,
drawn from a planet half a Galaxy away, their entire lives lived in Hive Cities, looking up at
starless skies in the night, and a grey dome of polluted clouds in the day. Their arms and armor
were as interchangeable as they were. Dress uniforms that barely fit had been loaned to them by
the quartermaster. Flak armor that barely covered their vitals and lasguns that were built in a
faraway forge world hung across their shoulders.

Across from them was the Honor Guard of the Krieg General, less than half in number than the
Ironclad Honor Guard. No effort was made by the Krieger at impressing onlookers through the
size of his retinue. No effort at dressing for the ceremony was made either, as they wore dull
grey trench coats still stained with the blood of their previous owners, as well as the blood of
fallen foes, pierced, and burned by lasfire and shrapnel of campaigns past. Each tear marked a
point of pride for the Krieg Guardsman that wore it, far more precious to them than any medal.
Masks covered the stoic faces of their wearers. A basilisk stare that pierced right through the
dark lenses of the mask and could turn to stone, anyone who met it; the Krieger’s visage was
enough to make Lucian’s blood freeze in his veins.

‘Are they even human?’ The Guardsman next to him, whispered to Lucian.

‘Ironclad, fall in!’ Captain Severan’s, voice boomed on the terrace before Lucian could answer,
and he quickly fell in formation around the General with the rest of the guardsmen. Across from
them, the Kriegers were already in formation around their own General, without as much as a
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 45

whisper needed from their Captain. Like that, the ceremony was over and they were back to
being grunts.

Nightfall found Lucian and the rest of the Honor Guard still in the Governor’s spire, downing
expensive drinks in a bar with a name in High Gothic he could barely pronounce, let alone
understand. They were allowed to spend the night in the luxury of the Spire was a token of
appreciation from the Planetary Governor, a token that their counterparts from the Krieg
regiment had declined.

Patrons wore platinum-gilded prosthetics, evidence of countless rejuvinat treatments expanding

their lifespans to entire centuries. Decorations of ivory and real wood, solid gold statuettes of
local nobles; the opulence of the Spire surrounded them.

‘Look at all this’. Armena, a woman of the Guard, born in Gledia and raised beneath the same
grey skies as Lucian was, said. ‘Remember when the Ironclad was called in to pacify Dresda?
Their orbital cannons swatted our transports from the sky like they were bugs. A quarter of our
forces was dead by the time we established a beachhead. And what was our reward when we
finally managed to drown the Dresdan PDF in our own blood? It was a second cup of recaf from
the quartermaster. Now, we just show up, and are treated like nobles’.

‘Not exactly, like nobles,’ Lucian remarked. ‘The noble lords and ladies have been looking at
us like exhibits in a collection all night. As if we have “Please don’t touch” written on our
backs’.

‘Fuck them,’ said Armena. ‘And fuck Tacitus too, the prick has spent his entire life in spires
like this, and not once has he set foot in the battlefield’.

Laughter was sparked by her remark; quiet giggles at first, that aided by alcohol eventually built
up to a symphony of laughter and wheezing. ‘Fuck them,’ they said in unison, and raised a toast.

‘Thank the Emperor the Commissars weren’t invited to the ceremony,’ Lucian said as he stood
up and pulled his officer’s hat as low as it would go on his face. ‘Each of you will get fifty lashes
for questioning the General. And another twenty, because I’m a miserable ass,’ he said in his
best Commissar voice, prompting yet more laughter from the group.

The laughing slowly died down, and Lucian spoke again. ‘I do remember Dresda though. What a
waste that was. Donovan and I were on Colonel Kurts’ Company. First wave to actually make
planetfall. Our orders were to carry demo bombs to the orbital defense sites, and detonate them
there. Those things weren’t small-time either, I’m talking about 10,000lb charges, enough to turn
entire hab-blocks to rubble’. Lucian took a swig from his drink. ‘When we got to the City walls,
we saw the defenses were surrounded by civilian hab units. The Hive had grown since the
defenses were built you see, no choice but to erect civilian dwellings around military
infrastructure. Detonating those charges… We saw them as we made our way through the streets,
thousands of innocents were huddled in those hab units. Hundreds of thousands, praying to the
Emperor and to the Golden Throne that their lives would be spared. So what does Kurts order us
to do? Leave the bombs behind, and clear the defenses ourselves. ‘We are Guard. We are meant
to die’. He told us. So many of our Company fell. Donovan lost his legs to a mine there, hence
the shiny prosthetics he’s rocking now. In the end though, we had made it. We silenced the
orbital defenses, and not a single civilian was harmed’. Lucian exchanged an understanding look
with Donovan from across the table, and continued. ‘Then five days later, when the artillery was
deployed, those hab units were leveled in a blind barrage. Nothing but rockrete dust was left.
Rokcrete dust and red blood’.

The entire table was sitting in solemn silence, each of the Honor Guard staring at their drinks
instead of each other.

+This is a reminder to all Imperial Guard units; the transports will be leaving the planet surface
at 0700 tomorrow.+

The sound of the radio startled the somber Guard.

+Anyone not in their designated vessel will be charged with desertion, and be summarily
marked for execution+ It concluded.

‘Well, it was fun while it lasted. Back to the main objective of the campaign,’ Donovan said,
bitterness coloring his voice.

‘If only we knew what that actually was,’ Armena replied from behind a glass of Gleese.

‘Well if Krieg units are attached to us, I can only imagine it’ll be some heavy shit. Another
rebellion, Xenos, a rogue Forge World. Heh, maybe it’ll be all of the above’. Donovan’s answer
provided little comfort. Fortunately, there was still plenty of booze to take care of that, and it was
all going on the Governor’s tab.

Lucian woke up to a queasy stomach, and a head-splitting headache. Transitioning in and out of
the warp always took its toll on him. There were times in the past where he had spent entire trips
through the Immaterium crouched over a bucket or a latrine, emptying his stomach as soon as he
had filled it. All things considered, nausea and an aching head weren’t that bad, at the very least
he didn’t have to stare at grey piles of regurgitated corpse-starch this time.

By the time he had made his way to the designated mess hall, which in reality was nothing
more than a repurposed storage hold, most of the rest of the Ironclad were already digging into
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 47

their breakfast. Ignoring the snide looks that fell upon him due to his tardiness, and the scent of
protein paste that hang in the air, he sat at the table where his and Donovan’s squads were eating.

‘Heard the news?’ Donovan asked Lucian before the latter could even pick up his fork.

‘What news?’ Lucian asked.

‘Apparently some Naval Officer got shitfaced last night. Started running up and down the
corridors, yelling about how we will be drenched in blood. That we should head back for the
sake of our souls, and pray to the Emperor for forgiveness and mercy’.

‘He was raving about how only fire would cleanse us of our sins. A Bosun tackled him as he was
trying to pry open a promethium storage,’ a Guardsman from Lucian’s squad spoke up.

‘Yeah, that too’. Donovan added.

‘Navy boys go crazy from time to time Donovan, it happens,’ Lucian replied. ‘I’d go crazy too if
I had to spend my entire life in one of these things,’ Lucian said as he looked around the mess
hall; the machinery that hang above their heads, the flickering lights at the doorways, the rust on
the walls.

‘That’s not all,’ Donovan continued. ‘He also said ‘The blood of the Xenos would damn us’.

‘And what in the Warp is that supposed to mean?’ Lucian asked.

‘Crazy or not, Naval Officers learn campaign objectives before us grunts do. If in his delirium
he mentioned Xenos, there’s a good chance he had a reason to. Emperor protect us, I think we’ll
be fighting Xenos on that damned planet’. Donovan gave him his answer, with a grim look on
his face.

Three days of unwellness during the waking hours, and nightmares during the sleeping ones,
had passed for Lucian, and he was attending the sermon in one of the ship’s many chapels.

‘The Emperor sees all. The Emperor knows all. The righteous will draw strength from this
undeniable truth, while the wicked will be beset by fear. When I look down at you, my beloved
congregation, I see nothing but faces lit up in courage and unshakable determination. I see
nothing but men and women, sons and daughters of Holy Tera, chosen by the Emperor to carry
forth His will amidst the stars, and my heart is elated by the sight’. The Preacher said with fervor
in his voice, as he paraded a copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus across the chapel’s staging.

The color had been drained from Lucian’s face hours ago, and sweat dripped from his forehead
as he tried to hold himself upright. This was a bad day for him indeed. He had woken up with
fever and nausea, from a sleep that had offered no rest, but was instead plagued by dreams of
incoherent violence. The dreams were a patchwork of his own memories, embellished with the
element of the surreal, that the human mind is so prone to creating while asleep. Memories from
the Dresda Campaign, and the mutilated bodies of friend and foe lying at his feet. Flashes of
bayonet charges against enemy positions, and the gurgling sounds the Dresdan PDF soldiers
made as steel pierced their chest, and blood filled their lungs. Memories from his training for the
Imperial Guard, and of one of his fellow recruits, the one who had turned his lasgun to his own
head and pulled the trigger, leaving nothing but a smoking hole where his face used to be.
Belatus, was his name… Memories of his childhood in Gledia… Memories of crushing the skull
of another kid with a piece of masonry, all over an extra ration…severed tongues flopping in the
dirt of the battlefield, babbling blasphemies as they crawled away from their former
owners...skulls devouring the corpses around him, gnawing at his own two legs as he tried to
walk away from them... Whereas other dreams quickly faded away into the ether of the mind,
these ones stubbornly clung on, entire hours after Lucian had woken up. The image of his own
blood-covered hands popped into his mind every time he closed his eyes, even for a second.

The sermon was still a long time away from its conclusion, and Lucian knew that if he stayed in
the chapel for any longer he would collapse in a puddle of his own vomit. He tried making his
way out as discreetly as possible, pushing, and weaving through the sea of bodies, towards the
door at the far end of the room. The heat from the bodies and the braziers on the walls brought
him to the verge of passing out more than once, and the dim lighting of the chapel, provided
almost entirely by candles caused him to stumble, but eventually he made it to the exit. He put
every last bit of strength he had left into pushing the heavy metal door open, making it screech
on its hinges.

‘Rejoice when your blood spills in the name of the Emperor. For there is no honor greater than
dying for Him!’ The Preacher continued, his voice amplified by the numerous Vox Casters,
ringing loud and clear in Lucian’s ears, as he made his exit from the chapel.

The corridor outside laid empty and silent, stretching seemingly forever in both directions, as its
ends were covered in darkness. Lucian tripped and clung to the wall for support, before dropping
to his knees and throwing up. Half-digested breakfast, bile, and traces of blood spilled out of his
mouth as he lay there on all fours, trying to not pass out completely. When he managed to pull
his head up, the sight of hell itself greeted him.

The walls were decorated with crucified bodies. Most were human, some belonged to a blue-
skinned species of xenos; all were eviscerated, flayed and mutilated, agony still clinging to their
faces. What he saw filled him with a primal horror; a horror that words are simply incapable of
conveying. Like a child, wishing to deny the reality in front of it, Lucian covered his face with
his hands, only to notice how warm and wet they felt. He looked upon them and saw them
covered in blood and viscera. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to run… He
could do nothing.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 49

‘Rise,’ a voice echoed from the black depths of the corridor.

Lucian looked around, searching frantically for the source of the voice.

‘Rise,’ it repeated.

Now Lucian felt compelled to obey. His legs stood on their own, as if he weren’t in control of
his limbs any more.

‘Follow me,’ the voice commanded.

Lucian followed. Step after step squelched as he walked over the river of blood that flowed
through the corridor. He could only imagine what the debris he felt beneath his boots were. Some
were soft, like organs, some harder, resembling severed muscle and cartilage, others were hard
and irregularly shaped, broken bones.

‘Bask in the glory of your creation,’ the voice said. ‘Let it flow through you. Pride for a job
well done’.

The bodies around Lucian started vocalizing; quiet at first, gurgling blood and bile in their
throats.

‘The chosen slayers’. The voice grew louder, and so did the bodies, attempting to scream
through severed vocal cords and shattered jaws.

‘Humans’. The voice was even louder now, yet Lucian could only barely make it out above the
cacophony of screams from the crucified bodies that surrounded him.

‘From the beginning,’ the voice said.

In the trance that he was under, Lucian stumbled on a sharp object that lay hidden beneath the
flowing blood. This felt different from the rest of the detritus, different enough to prompt Lucian
to reach for it. He dipped his hand into the crimson river to determine what it was, and he felt its
cut; a single arrow, with a head made of bronze. As he looked up, he found that an array of
ancient weapons was strewn before him: swords, axes, war hammers, maces, and morning stars;
all covered in gore and fragments of bone. The voices of the dead were starting to slowly
coalesce into something more discernible than the indiscriminate cries that they had started out
as.

‘You have killed’.

Still under the spell of the unseen voice, he walked deeper into the corridor to see the barrels of
primitive cannons sticking above the blood river. Lucian could almost pick up a rhythm of what
the bodies on the walls were saying.
 ‘You have maimed’.

Deeper still, relics of ancient times were laid out amidst the blood: pistols, shotguns, machine
guns.

‘You have burned’.

A few more steps forward, and Lucian saw that more modern instruments of death now lay
around him: lasguns, bolt pistols, melta weapons and plasma rifles.

The cacophony of the corpses had now turned into a symphony. The tortured dead were joined
in an eldritch chant, in a dialect Lucian couldn’t recognize. With the otherworldly song in his
ears, Lucian walked further in, where fewer and fewer strands of light could reach.

When the darkness was complete and the chant had reached a crescendo, a fire erupted, a pyre
for a pile of tattered corpses: corpses with faces he recognized. Some belonged to his squad
mates, some belonged to people from Gledia he hadn’t seen in years, one belonged to him.

‘Here it lies,’ the voice boomed. ‘Underneath blood and iron, lies the honor and glory of
Man’.

A bright white light struck Lucian’s eyes. He could feel the cold hard surface of a gurney
against his back, and from the corner of his vision he could make out the red emblem of the
Officio Medicae.

‘Look who’s up. Fetch me the serum from the top drawer,’ a voice concealed by the white light
said in a commanding tone. Lucian felt the skin of his forearm being pierced by a needle.

‘Wha- wha-’. The words stuck in his dry throat, even opening his mouth made him recoil in pain.

‘Relax,’ the voice said. ‘Let the serum do its job. You’re in the infirmary’.

Lucian lifted his head as much as he could without hurting himself, and spotted the source of
the voice. It was a figure clad in a dull green apron, several medicinal instruments carefully
tucked in its many compartments, and a pair of yellowed gloves that one could assume were
white at one point, were covering the figure’s hands.

‘You passed out, outside of the chapel on level 34 B. Food poisoning from the looks of it; bad
grox stew has sent more guardsmen my way than stubber fire has’. The voice said. ‘The
stimulants should have you back on your feet in time for your briefing from Colonel Kurts.
That’s your CO, right?’
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 51

‘Briefing?’ Lucian managed to say, the stimulants were indeed working.

‘Right, you were still out of it when we jumped out of the warp. We’re entering orbit around
Artaxerxes V in two days. Colonels will be briefing their officers at 1700. Seventh Company
Sergeants are getting briefed on observation deck nine,’ the doctor elaborated.

A pair of mismatched hands, one made of clammy flesh with the other of cold metal, grabbed
onto Lucian’s shoulders and pulled him upwards. The servitor to whom they belonged gave him
a blank stare with the pair of red prosthetics that had replaced its real eyes decades ago, and a
spark flew from the tangle of wires that ran through the back of its exposed skull.

+Recommended dosage: Two milligrams every twelve hours, for four days+. The harsh
mechanical voice came from a vox box buried in the servitor’s neck as it handed Lucian a vial.

‘It’s for your stomach. It should help you fight off whatever bug got into you,’ the doctor
explained.

Lucian had barely turned the corner from the infirmary when he took the vial out of his pocket,
examined it for a mere moment, and tossed it down a trash chute that was built into the wall. He
knew that whatever it was that had made him faint, it wasn’t a bad serving of grox stew. He’d
had a fever before, nausea was par for the course when travelling through the warp and he had
even come close to fainting once or twice during the extreme climate conditioning drills back in
the bootcamp, but he had never hallucinated before. If what he experienced could even be
considered as a simple hallucination that is. The vividity of the world around him, the clarity of
the voice that spoke to him, the warm and wet feeling of blood on his hands; every bit of it felt
real, as real as the deck he walked on.

Mentioning all this to the Medicae had crossed Lucian’s mind, but he quickly banished the
thought. He knew what a diagnosis as mentally unfit for service could result in. Best case
scenario he’d be stripped of his rank and assigned to unarmed duty, digging field latrines with a
dulled trench shovel. Worst case, he’d be lobotomized, his brain scooped out and replaced by
electrodes until nothing of him remained any more. He’d be turned into a servitor, not unlike the
one at the infirmary, a machine of rotting flesh and rusting iron, shuffling around and mindlessly
following orders until either the meat, or the metal, gave out.

‘The augers of our flotilla haven’t detected any signs of combat on the surface of the planet,’
Colonel Kurts said to the gathered Officers of the Seventh Company. ‘In fact, it would seem that
Artaxerxes V isn’t experiencing any disturbances at all. Atmospheric read-outs suggest that
agriculture activities are continuing as normal, and no distress signal have gone out since we
entered the system’.
 Behind Kurts, light flooded through the observation window of the deck as the ship adjusted its
approach to the planet. It was clearly visible from that angle, Artaxerxes V.

‘Beautiful,’ that was the only word Lucian could conjure to describe what he was seeing.
Colorful patches dotted the planet’s surface. Fields of green, yellow, orange, amber, each
containing a different kind of crop that could feed billions. Streaks of blue crisscrossed the fields,
irrigation channels that ran from hemisphere to hemisphere, providing the fields with life-giving
water. Lucian hadn’t seen this much color, this much life, ever before.

‘However,’ the Colonel continued. ‘It is General Tacitus’ assessment that the appearance of
peace upon Artaxerxes V, is merely a trick. Intelligence gathered before our arrival here suggest
that the planet has come into contact with the xenos classified as ‘Tau’. As is described in the
dossiers you received at the beginning of this briefing, the Tau are known to employ subterfuge
to accomplish their strategic goals. Therefore we have to assume the planet is besieged by these
xenos. As far as we are concerned, this world is hostile territory, and will be treated as such’.
Colonel Kurts turned around to look at the planet for himself, before taking a breath and
continuing. ‘Artaxerxes V is an agri world, which makes our lives easier. It has plenty of food
resources for us to use once we make planetfall, and the –’

Lucian’s mind trailed off as the briefing continued. The truth of the matter was that the situation
would change a thousand times over between the moment that briefing had ended, and the
moment they were deployed on the planet’s surface. Such was the nature of war. He could skip
the briefing entirely, and still not have missed anything crucial. What he couldn’t afford to miss
however, was the sight of the planet below him. He had to take every moment in, to savor this
rare instance of peace in his life. Xenos or not, it looked so serene from where he stood…a
paradise.

Not two days later, Lucian stood across the same observation window he had first seen
Artaxerxes V from, firmly grasping a flask filled with cheap Amasec this time around. The ship
was closer to the planet now, locked in its orbit, so as to remain on the dark side, hidden from the
local sun. Lucian could see the cities, beacons of artificial light, neatly placed in the centers of
the mega-fields that made up the majority of the surface. Circular in their design, the centers of
the cities were built more densely, with spires rising to meet the clouds, while the outskirts were
comprised of smaller buildings and facilities.

Lucian could also see the flames; the result of eight days of ‘light’ orbital bombardment. It was
rather impressive, how much destruction a fleet consisting of merely three Imperial vessels could
wreak upon a world. The Engineseers and Techpriests of the Mechanicus may have been
negligent in their maintenance of the Guard’s living quarters, pathetic ‘fleshbags’ as they were in
their mechanical eyes, but they certainly were meticulous in their work with the ships’ weapons.
Each broadside was an ode to the Omnissiah, turning many of the once colorful fields to ash. The
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 53

fires swung and swayed across the mega-fields, danced along the planet’s surface. In a way, this
sight was beautiful as well.

‘ Your thoughts?’ Armena asked Lucian, gesturing for him to hand his flask over to her.

‘Underneath blood and iron…’ Lucian mumbled.

‘Huh?’ Armena looked at him confused.

‘Nothing’. Lucian snapped back to reality. His sleep was still invaded by the images he had seen
on that day, outside the chapel of level 34 B, but at least the preparations for the planetfall had
kept his mind away from it during his waking hours. Moments like this one however, moments
when he was given the chance to actually think, were an exception. In moments like this, the
words of the disembodied voice that had guided him along that hellish corridor repeated in his
head, over and over again. ‘It’s just something I heard someone say, forget about it’.

‘Well I still want to hear your thoughts on tomorrow. We’ll be down there in less than twelve
hours’. Armena gestured towards Artaxerxes V with the flask, before taking a swig from it.

‘We are the Hammer of the Emperor, Armena. We will do what we must,’ Lucian answered, his
eyes glowing red with the reflection of the burning planet below, and his voice tainted with the
bitterness of duty.

A sad smile cracked across Armena’s scarred face as she looked to him. Twenty years in the
hives of Gledia, and a decade in the Guard, and there was still that spark within him; that desire
to be a hero. ‘Fool’. She thought, and stepped closer to him, her body brushing against his.

The next morning Armena strapped on her flak armor, and after fumbling for a bit in its
pouches, produced an empty flask, which was then casually tossed on Lucian’s bunk. ‘Guess I
owe you half a bottle of Amasec,’ she said with a wink.

Lucian gave a chuckle in return, and tightened his boots. A night with her in his arms instead of
nightmares in his head was more than worth it.

Not an hour after he had said goodbye to Armena, Lucian was performing final inspections on
his squadron before boarding the Devourer-class Dropship that awaited them in the transport bay
of the cruiser. A vast space filled to the brim with the guardsmen of the Gledian Ironclad, and the
dozens upon dozens of transport vessels that would carry them to either death or victory:
Valkyries, Devourers, Aquila Landers, Vultures, and more; winged beasts of iron that heralded
the Emperor’s divine fury.

+REMEMBER guardsmen!+ The Commissar’s voice echoed across the bay, amplified by
powerful Vox Casters.
 +YOU ARE THE WILL OF THE EMPEROR, AND THE WILL OF THE EMPEROR DOES
NOT FALTER. YOU WILL MARCH FORWARD UNTO FIRE AND DEATH. YOU WILL
CRUSH THE EMPEROR’S ENEMIES BENEATH YOUR BOOTS. YOU WILL NOT TAKE
A SINGLE STEP BACK. YOU WILL-+

‘All good, get your asses in there,’ Lucian said, sticking a lasgun charge pack, back in its
pouch.

With that, hobnailed boots clicked against the Devourer’s loading ramp. Seconds later, the ramp
alarm started flashing, indicating that the massive dropship’s doors were being sealed, locking
the troops inside. By the time the alarm had stopped and the dropship’s gate was shut, nothing
could be heard inside the Devourer; not the announcements on the Vox Casters, not the constant
rumbling from the Cruiser’s engines, not even the sound of the guardsmen’s own breathing.
Everything was being drowned out by a single, deafening sound; the sound of silence; the silence
of men and women who are standing in the threshold between life and death.

The Devourer Dropship, Charon’s stellar chariot, was lowered from the carrier bay to the
airlock compartment underneath. The compartment’s gates were flung open and the Devourer
plunged in the abyss below, diving in the black waters of river Styx.

Inside the dropship’s hull, the guardsmen of the Gledian Ironclad’s Seventh Company were
starting to breathe again, and silence was slowly giving way. Some guardsmen talked, hyping
each other up for the battles to come. Others sat in silent prayer to the Emperor, holding their
Aquilas tight against their chests. Lucian was staring out the porthole, into the sea of stars that
stretched to infinity outside.

Stars gave way to flames, as the dropship entered the atmosphere of Artaxerxes V, and flames
gave way to black skies as the Devourer leveled off in its final approach before making
planetfall. The forces of atmospheric entry made the ship’s frame bend and squeal, almost
mimicking the sounds of a newborn being brought into a world of pain and death. The
company’s vehicles and equipment in the second deck thrusted to and fro, straining the chains
that held them in place to the brink of failure, as the Devourer descended through the turbulent
sky. Amidst this cacophony of metallic wales, prayers, and attempts at machismo, Lucian felt a
familiar warmth against his boots. He averted his gaze from the porthole and looked down, only
to see a puddle of red. Not an instance later, his forehead was covered in beads of cold sweat, as
memories of his vision popped into his head. ‘Not now’ He thought, ‘Not here’.

‘Ah shit’. He heard the voice of the Guardsman sitting next to him, as his heart threatened to
beat straight through his chest.

‘What?,’ Lucian asked, his sight still fixed into the puddle of red that formed around his feet,
barely conscious of the world around him.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 55

‘Fucking hydraulic fluid,’ the guardsman replied. ‘Some pipe must have burst. Emperor take
these ancient pieces of crap, my MREs are soaked in the damn thing’.

Lucian sat there, his mouth slightly ajar. All the terror he had witnessed on that day, all the
nightmares that had haunted him, the week full of sleepless nights, they all flashed before him at
the prospect of another waking nightmare. He sat there, he sat, and he started to laugh; timidly at
first, uproariously mere seconds later. He laughed, and he laughed, and he laughed, even as the
guardsmen around him looked at him in concern. It was only with the loud thud of the
Devourer’s landing gear against Artaxerxes V’s surface that stopped. As soon as the ramp’s
alarm started flashing, Lucian was on his feet, careless to the scene he had created moments ago.
He gave a friendly pat to the back of the Guardsman that sat bewildered next to him, and shouted
for his squad to fall in.

Miles upon miles of trenches, earthworks, and muddy battlements were already carved in the
soft and fertile soil of Artaxerxes V, scarring the once idyllic face of the planet. Scattered in the
endless siegeworks were pillboxes, command bunkers, communication hubs, dugout barracks,
sniper nests and heavy lascannon emplacements. Each trench, bunker, pillbox, hub, nest, and
barrack, connected with each other via a vast network of communication trenches, crisscrossing
the larger ones like a spider’s web. Instead of silk, there was barbwire, and instead of insects, the
prey was traitor and xeno alike. Behind them, stood the Imperium’s mighty machines of war.
Arrays of Basilisk heavy artillery guns, prepared to rain the Emperor’s holy fire upon mankind’s
foes. Hordes of Leman Russ main battle tanks ready to crash through the enemy’s ranks, and
rend their bodies to pieces beneath their treads. Legions of Chimera troop carriers, eager to
transport scores of guardsmen to the traitor’s lines, and unleash the fury of the Imperium in their
midst. Above them, soared the steel birds of the Aeronautica Imperialis. Thunderbolts and
Avengers maintained a constant canopy of supervision above the positions of the Gledian
Ironclad and the Death Korps of Krieg, ensuring constant aerial supremacy. Marauder bombers,
loaded with tons upon tons of explosives, ran drills across the horizon, their pilots always a
moment’s notice away from unleashing their deadly payload.

Alas, there was no enemy to unleash the bomber’s payload upon. There were no enemy fighters
to shoot down from the sky. There were no enemy lines to break through, no traitors or xenos, to
butcher in the name of the Emperor, no sea of heathens to swarm the Guard’s trenches, and
string themselves upon the razor sharp wire. Indeed, the pristine state of the trenchworks
betrayed this lack of combat, and admittedly the proficiency of its builders, the Death Korps’
Engineers, as well.

With no foe in sight, the Imperial Guard was forced to spend their days in the muddy and
charred plains that had replaced the once verdant fields of Artaxerxes V. Day in, day out was the
same. Wake up, eat, patrol the perimeter, reinforce the earthworks, inspect the equipment, eat
again, patrol again, stand guard on the edge of no man’s land, waiting for an assault that never
came, eat again, sleep. Only to repeat everything the very next day. The adrenaline that had filled
the veins and arteries of every man and woman of the Ironclad on the day of the landing, had
long be replaced by a peculiar mixture of lethargy and anxiety. Day after day without contact
with the enemy bred the lethargy, and the constant expectation of an attack bred the anxiety.

‘We made planetfall three days ago, and the enemy has yet to attack. They allowed us to burn
their land from orbit, to land, to carve our trenches on their world, to infest their skies with our
planes. It makes one wonder, if there even is an enemy’. Verus, a Guardsman under Lucian’s
command, said between taking bites from his MRE. A sharp mind was what had granted him a
transfer from Gledia’s PDF to the ranks of the Ironclad Regiment. A sharp mind was now what
threatened to get him in the sights of a Commissar.

‘Look at us Verus. We are countless in number, the strength of our arms is unquestionable, the
resolve of our will, undeniable. Only a mad man would charge us’. Lucian tried justifying the
complete lack of contact with the local forces.

‘Then why is it that we are sitting on our hands then? If our forces are so overwhelming then
why haven’t we taken the fight to them yet?’ Verus prodded.

‘We’re fighting xenos. It only makes sense for High Command to be treading carefully’. Lucian
was now reaching, and he knew it. The Ironclad was more reluctant than other Regiments to spill
the blood of its own by charging blindly into the enemy, but even by the Ironclad’s standards this
was an unprecedented level of caution.

‘If there even are xenos here..,’ Verus pushed further.

‘Watch your tongue Verus,’ Lucian told him, before thumping the copy of The Imperial
Guardsman’s Uplifting Primer that was laid on the table between them, ready to have its pages
utilized as napkins as soon as the need arose. ‘Blessed is the mind that is too small for doubt,’
Lucian quoted from the book. While Verus’ assertion, that it was strange for the enemy to remain
dormant for this long, was true, it was equally true that to openly question high command was
unwise. If Verus survived in service for long enough, he’d figure it out on his own.

‘I know, I know, but the point still is-’ Verus was interrupted by the arrival of a trench runner,
before he could dig his metaphorical, and perhaps literal as well, grave any deeper.

‘Sergeant Lucian?’ The runner addressed Verus’ frustrated commanding officer.

‘Yes?,’ he replied.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 57

‘General Tacitus, Sir. He requires your presence at the command center’. The runner pulled a
package from his backpack. ‘Your Honor Guard uniform, Sir’. He concluded with a short salute,
and left.

The Valkyrie landed in front of the command center, and Lucian was still struggling to get
comfortable in his ceremonial garb, which was a size too small. As the gunship’s doors opened,
he abandoned his attempts at comfort, and stepped out. An enormous tent made off the same
material as his armor, with communication arrays sticking out of its back, and the banners of the
two Imperial Guard Regiments that were commanded through there, adorning the sides of its
entrance. The Death Korps of Krieg’s red and black battle banner flew to the right, with the
words ‘In vitae verecundiam. In mortem, et placabit’. written upon it in High Gothic. ‘In Life,
Shame. In Death, Atonement’. To the left of the entrance, flew the white and grey battle banner
of the Gledian Ironclad. ‘Ferro, iter nobis’ ‘In Iron We March’. Above the two Regimental
banners, stood proudly the flag of the Imperium, its two-headed golden eagle surveying the field
ahead. It was from here, miles behind the front lines, where the fate of countless millions would
be decided.

After having his credentials checked by the guardsmen that stood in vigil in front of the tent, he
pushed past the flaps in the entrance to see most of the rest of the Ironclad Honor Guard stand
around Captain Severan. Only Sergeant Donovan, and one other member of the Honor Guard
were still to arrive.

General Tacitus gave a brief nod at Lucian’s direction, too busy poring over his cogitator
display, along with Colonel Kurts, Colonel Elfan, the head of Armena’s Company, his Krieg
counterpart, and a Techpriest of the Mechanicum.

Captain Severan’s greeting wasn’t particularly warmer. A mix of concern and annoyance was
painted in the Captain’s face, and all that came out of his mouth as a form of acknowledgement,
was a dry proclamation of Lucian’s rank.

Lucian stood next to Armena, and asked to be filled in on what was going, in as low a volume
as he could.

‘A delegation from the planetary command will be arriving shorty to discuss terms,’ she
whispered.

‘Terms for what?,’ Lucian inquired, more puzzled than before. Armena simply shrugged in
response.

The following hours saw the Honor Guard go through notes on Tau physiology and weaponry,
the layout of the command complex, the protocols for evacuating the general, fallback positions,
and local PDF tactics. Lucian and the rest of the Honor Guard had gone through this material
countless times since their arrival to the system, but a direct encounter with the enemy such as
this, merited a review on the subject.

Eventually the Honor Guard of the Krieg General walked in, adorned in resplendent black great
coats, emblazoned with iconography of their regiment, and of the Imperium in general,
prompting Armena to ask where in the Emperor’s name those uniforms were when they last saw
them.

Having heard the question, Captain Severan answered ‘These are Krieg we’re talking about; do
you think they’d break out their formal dress for a bloodless victory? Now shut up’.

The implication of the Death Korps wearing their formal dress for this occasion caused
Armena’s hair to stand.

One of the two Guards that kept watch over the command center’s entrance rushed inside, his
face betraying the state of his emotions, a combination of worry and excitement. ‘My Generals,
the local delegates have landed’. He offered a firm salute and stood awaiting for orders.

Tacitus, ignoring the man standing at the tent’s entrance turned to the Krieg General. ‘Shall
we?,’ he offered. The Krieger gave a nod of affirmation in response, and the two mens’ Honor
Guards fell into place around them.

Outside, three men, the delegates of Artaxerxes V’s planetary government, stood in front of a
modified Imperial transport craft. Plates of armor had been removed from the craft’s body,
dulling its militaristic aesthetics, the engines were clearly replaced by more elegant equivalents
of alien origin, and a bold strip of yellow crossed the fuselage of the craft from nose to tail. The
final, and most insulting modification, was the removal of the religious symbols from the craft’s
body. The faint outline of Saint Solar Macharius, protector of Imperial guardsmen, and Planetary
Defense Forces the Galaxy over, was all that remained from what once was a masterfully painted
religious scene. In its stead, a symbol of alien origin, a white circle enclosing a straight white line
that rose from the bottom and ended in another, smaller circle, all in a field of black.

The men themselves were unassuming in their appearance. Unarmed and unarmored, they wore
formal yet humble attires denoting their position as bureaucrats, rather than aristocrats.
Confidence was evident in the way that they stood, with even a hint of arrogance becoming
visible on their facial expressions every time they looked around at the Ironclad and Krieg
guardsmen.

‘We are here to save your planet,’ the General of the Ironclad proclaimed, before the delegates
even had a chance to introduce themselves. Tacitus wasn’t renowned for his bravery in the field
of battle, he commanded from orbit more often than not, nor was he famous for his tactical
genius, in spite of what a certain Planetary Governor from Thelescus had to say. What he had in
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 59

abundance, however, was skill in the oratory department. Taking charge of a conversation was as
natural to him as the act of breathing.

‘Pardon me, General,’ said the foremost delegate. ‘We do not require saving. We made as much
clear when you hailed us from orbit, before you commenced your bombardment, unprovoked’.

‘You don’t seem to understand,’ the General answered. ‘We aren’t here to save you; we are here
to save Artaxerxes V’.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I am saying, what is obvious. Reports of xenos ships in the Artaxerxes system came in from
neighboring star clusters. Communications between this planet and the wider Imperium all but
ceased. When we hailed you for ourselves you claimed that the situation on the planet was
normal, even as the signatures from alien engines polluted your orbit. And now, you dare stand
before us, with that defaced mockery to the Emperor behind you. The Eagle next to the Tau, and
say that you don’t need saving,’ Tacitus said, his presence becoming more domineering with
each phrase he uttered. Even though he still stood feet away from them, the delegates could feel
him breathing down their necks. ‘So yes, you are beyond redemption, but the precious earth we
stand on still belongs to the Emperor’.

The delegate swallowed, taking the moment to recover from the verbal barrage he had just
received. ‘My Lord’. He tried to lower the tension that was electrifying the air around them. The
delegate was expecting a less aggressive first encounter with the Imperial Guard, but he was still
convinced he could make the Generals see reason. ‘Artaxerxes V is still part of the Imperium, it
will continue paying its tithes to the fullest, it will report to the Administratum, it will venerate
the Holy Emperor. All we seek is the peaceful co-existence with the Tau. Artaxerxes V is big
enough to serve the Emperor and the Greater Good. All we, as representatives of the people, ask,
is that-’

‘Ask?’ The gruff voice of the Krieg General was heard; distorted by the respirator, but still
louder than the delegate’s. ‘You ask?’ The petrifying gaze of his gas mask’s visor was locked on
the poor delegate. The sight of the black-clad General had the same blood-curdling effect on
him, as it had on Lucian, the first time he peered into the visage of death, that was a Krieg mask.
‘You have no right to ask. You have no right to live. All you have is a duty. A duty to the
Emperor and the Imperium. A duty to remain loyal. A duty to serve. A duty you have failed
disgustingly at’.

The loud thumping of a bolter pistol round being fired echoed across the Command Complex.
The dreadful sound ringed once again before the first body had even hit the ground.
 A foul smelling yellow liquid could be seen smearing the third delegate’s pants as he dropped
to his knees. The final delegate cursed his comrade’s decision to come the meeting unarmed, as
said comrade’s blood pooled around his obliterated skull. Before he could even beg for mercy, a
gloved hand wrapped around his neck, and the face of death itself stared into his very soul.

‘We will cleanse this planet of your filth’. The Krieg General proceeded to drag him to the
ramp of his transport.

‘We could have forced a surrender out of them,’ Tacitus said to the Krieger. ‘Our presence alone
would be enough to intimidate them. Now they will believe no quarter is to be given. They won’t
be fighting for their independence, they won’t be fighting for their alliance with the xenos, they
won’t be fighting for their ‘Greater Good’. They will be fighting for their lives. That makes them
dangerous, if only you had shown some patience’.

‘Enough, I won’t hear any more of it’. The Krieg General interrupted Tacitus, bolt pistol still in
hand. ‘That I tolerated their presence for this long, is a testament to my patience. There will
indeed be no quarter given. I will not abide the existence of traitors’.

The engines of the transport whirred into life, and within seconds the craft was in the air and
heading back to where it had come from.

‘So it begins then,’ Tacitus remarked. ‘Unto war’.

Dust and debris filled the air around them, and the sound of rolling thunder filled the sky.
Another building collapsed; another city taken. Another hundred or so civilians of Artaxerxes V
buried beneath the ruble, as the Imperial war machine marched on.

‘That’s the fifth hab-center the Ironclad has taken, we’re still lagging behind the Kriegers!,’
Donovan shouted at Lucian over the sound of the Leman Russ battalion that was driving past
them. ‘Fuckers are taking a city per night’.

‘It’s easier to take objectives when your equipment isn’t the literal scrap of the Imperium
Donovan, it’s also easier when you don’t care about your own life,’ Lucian responded as he
wiped the dust off his visor. ‘Come on. There are some buildings still left standing that we have
to clear’.

Twenty days had passed since the two Generals had given the order for the troops to rise from
their trenches and march towards the enemy…twenty days of utter slaughter and
bloodshed…twenty days of lasguns flashing…twenty days of heavy artillery raining…twenty
days of treads rolling over corpses. Fifty miles of ground had been won in those fifty days with
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 61

the local PDF unable to resist the onslaught of two trained and equipped Regiments of the Astra
Militarum, valiantly as they tried.

The first city along the Guard’s path, Babel IIX, had as solid defenses as an agri-world city
could be expected to have. Three divisions of heavy tanks, mobile artillery units, and chimeras
encircled the city’s limits, encamped in the surrounding mega-fields. Entrenched along with
them were five companies of the Planetary Defense Force’s infantry, their earthworks just as
elaborate, if not as well-crafted, as the ones of the Imperial Guard. Lines made of mud and
barbwire laid across from countless acres of burning fields. In that mud, crawled the thousands
of men and women that comprised the PDF’s infantry. Conscripts and volunteers alike, their
lives laid forth to try and stem the tide that threatened their Greater Good. Farmers,
administrators, service workers, mothers and daughters, fathers, and sons had received training,
albeit irregular, in how to defend their homes; small squad tactics, combined arms drills, trench
and urban warfare training, how to aim down the sight and pull the trigger. Others yet had never
held anything more than a rake, never seen the inside of an armored vehicle, never been behind
the wheel of anything bigger than a farming combine. Small squads of local pilots, whose role in
peace was to spray the fields with crop dusters planes, now patrolled the skies above the
trenches, watching over their brothers and sisters on the ground.

When the Imperial Guard first emerged from the flames, when the first boot left its mark on the
ashen remains of what once were lush fields, this mishmash of poorly equipped, haphazardly
trained civilians, playing in soldier’s clothes, didn’t simply stand their ground. They rose from
their trenches, with arms in hand, with bayonets under the barrel, and with war cries in their
throats, and they charged. They charged against the countless masses of the Ironclad, against the
faceless specters from Krieg. They charged for something greater than themselves. They charged
for a better life for their children, for the promise of freedom from the Imperium’s steel grip, for
the chance to look to the sky without the iron yolk of the Golden Throne on their necks. At the
very least, that was what they sincerely believed they were charging into the jaws of death for.

Screams for the “Greater Good”, stubber fire, and the thuds of canons belching out shell after
shell, were the music of the charge, an iron orchestra. The hopes, dreams… lives, of hundreds,
were cut down the moment the first Death Korps earth shaker shell met the burnt soil of
Artaxerxes V. A deafening boom shattered the ear drums of those that were lucky enough to not
be within the direct blast radius, and a jet of mud and blood sprayed from where that first shell
had landed, desperately reaching for the sky, before raining back down. Severed limbs, viscera,
and broken equipment were splayed across the field, and a thousand furious war cries were
instantly turned into fearful screams. Blood covered wrecks that once were human, crawled out
of the crater the earth shaker had carved into the land. Some pulling themselves out with only
their hands, their legs having been reducing to bloody stumps and pink pulp. Others cried as they
desperately tried to hold their guts inside their body. A man who was blasted away from the earth
shaker’s furious force, reduced to nothing but a torso and head laid amidst the corpses and the
mud, in shock and agony.

Before all of the dirt that flew to the sky from the first blast had found its way back down,
another shell landed, creating yet more pain and death; and then another, and another, and
another. The barrage rained, the bodies piled, panic set in. Confused PDF soldiers ran into each
other, not knowing where their own lines were, and where the enemy stood. Autoguns were shot
indiscreetly, men and women collapsed to their knees, into fetal positions, crying.

A bove the butchery on the ground, fighters and bombers of the Aeronautica screeched as they
passed by. The defending pilots were swatted from the sky like mere flies, the burning wrecks of
their planes tumbling towards the troops they were meant to protect. The tattered corpse of an
Artaxerxes V pilot that had managed to eject, only to be caught in the fury of a Thunderbolt’s
guns, floated down in its chute. Burning carcasses of fighter crews that were blasted out of their
aircraft rained from the heavens, and the scent of burnt flesh and human ash covered the air
above the field.

The PDF’s armor that had charged forward at the side of the infantry was now being hammered
by their counterparts in the Imperial Guard. Crews of Chimeras that stopped in the middle of the
slaughter to try and recover their wounded, were sitting targets for the Leman Russ crews. Shells
punched through their armored sides and exploded inside in a million pieces of shrapnel,
shredding everyone in the cabins into pieces, and blood flowed like water from the opened
ramps. The PDF’s tanks fought valiantly, the heavy bolters attached to their hulls tried picking
out Imperial Guard infantry units, but the Guard was trained for battle like this, and utilized their
own tanks as cover. The Valdor Tank Hunter units of the Ironclad did as their name implied, and
hunted down the PDF armor, blasting them apart and pushing them away from the battlefield. A
PDF Leman Russ received a direct hit as it was bogged down in the mud, causing its ammunition
storage to catch on fire, the crew was boiled alive as the flames entered the cabin. The tank’s
commander, his flesh melting away as he climbed out the hatch, almost managed to escape the
infernal coffin before a stray shell fired from a tank allied to him took his head clean off.

It wasn’t long before the fight had reached the trenches of Babel IIX. There, flamer troops of
the Death Korps sprayed burning promethium on anyone that had escaped the carnage of the
open field, and Ironclad troopers jumped inside, picking off the running PDF soldiers, herding
them towards the flamers of the Death Korps, like sheep being herded to their slaughter. Lasfire
cut through the unarmored flesh of the defenders, flame burnt it away, and trench grenades tore it
apart.

Screaming, crying, and confused, the defenders got lost in their own trenches, running into
circles, right back into the enemy they sought to escape. Running into dead ends, where all they
could do was beg, before being cut down in a storm of red flashes; running right into the
bayonets of the Ironclad and those of the Death Korps.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 63

On that day, Lucian had led his squad outside a burning bunker, as they were making their way
to a heavy stubber emplacement that was still active by the time the Ironclad had stepped into the
enemy trenches. The screams of the doomed defenders inside were nothing more than
background noise in that moment, as natural as the burble of a creek, or the whooshing of a
venting smoke stack. The only sound that mattered to Lucian then, the only sound he could even
make out, was the sound of burst fire from the stubber, threatening the lives of his fellow
guardsmen.

A PDF squadron made up of five soldiers had been assigned to defend the stubber’s gunner.
The first of the five was shot cleanly through the head by Lucian. The second, a rather large man
wielding a heavy autogun, stepped out and blindly laid down a hail of burning lead. He was shot
dead by a fusillade of lasfire when his own weapon jammed. The third was frozen in fear, staring
blankly into the fields of mayhem that stretched with no end in sight, outside of the trench. A
shot in the back of the head put him out of his misery. The fourth man, was tackled from behind
by a Krieger that was approaching the stubber nest from the opposite direction. He struggled a
bit before the Krieger shoved his trench shovel beneath his chin, and pushed, putting all of his
weight behind the motion. Arterial spray covered the Krieger’s mask, as he stood over the semi-
decapitated corpse of the defender. The last one in the squadron had run off into no-man’s land,
where he survived for a few seconds before blown apart by an artillery shell. The gunner himself,
deafened from the sound of his own gun, didn’t even realize as a grenade rolled between his feet.

Within a single day, Babel IIX had lost its main line of defense. The last vestiges of resistance
to the Imperial Guard Regiments lied within the city itself. The Death Korps opted to level the
sector of the city that was assigned to them with artillery fire. The Ironclad chose to comp
through the buildings, rooting out the hiding defenders.

By nightfall, Babel IIX was ablaze. Ironclad troops were torching hab-blocks that seemed
suspicious of harboring PDF troops. Fires rose from the lower to the higher levels of the
buildings, forcing soldiers and civilians alike to leap to their deaths, a desperate measure to
escape the rising inferno. Depending on interpretation, the Death Korps had proven more
humane in their approach, reducing the buildings that they aimed to rumble right from the start,
granting everyone inside a less agonizing death. Regardless of method however, the end result
was the same. Flames, from the ruined and torched buildings, that stood like lanterns against the
night sky was all that was left of the once proud city of Babel IIX.

And so it went, the Guard marched, and city after city, was trampled beneath their boots.

‘Got a live one here Sir!,’ Verus yelled, as he stood over a PDF trooper that was crushed by a
slab of rockrete.
 Lucian walked into the crumbling building and saw the dying man at Verus’ feet, ‘Medicae!’ he
shouted. In the next moments, that felt like ages, Lucian stared into the crushed PDF soldier’s
eyes. He saw the pain, the disappointment, the bitterness of an entire planet.

‘Yes Sir,’ the medic said upon arrival.

‘The Emperor’s mercy’. Lucian’s voice was steady, somber. A needle was passed onto his hand
from the medic, and from Lucian’s own hand, the needle was jabbed into the dying man’s arm. A
wave of relief washed over his face, as the pain slipped away, along with his life.

‘What’s that?,’ Verus asked behind Lucian, pointing outside at the silverish rain that had started
to pour.

Lucian closed the dead man’s eyes and stood next to Verus. ‘The fertilizer here is filled with
iron, it helps plants grow. The runoff from the mega-fields evaporates into the clouds, and pours
back down’. He stretched his hand out, catching the raindrops as they fell from the clouds above.
‘Iron rain’.

‘I feel bad for them sometimes, Sir’. Verus fiddled with his can opener, trying to handle it, as
the Leman Russ he was riding on bobbed up and down over the uneven ground of Continental
Highway 276. The final stretch before the planetary capital, Artemisia. Cratered by bombs,
burned by phosphex, and scented by the rotting carcasses of civilians and soldiers alike that tried
to flee from the Imperial onslaught, and into the safety of Artemisia. Those who had been hit by
the phosphex bombing runs still stood in the place of their deaths, their outstretched arms
pointing longingly towards the city in the distance, their screams still carved on their faces.

‘Feel bad for who? Them?’ Lucian asked, nodding towards the dead, as they passed them by.
‘And don’t call me Sir, I’m a Sergeant, not a noble’.

‘Sorry Si-, ehm, Sarge. No, I feel bad for the Death Korps. The spent all that time digging the
trenches for both Regiments, and now we’re what? Seventy miles away from them?’

Lucian let out a small chuckle. ‘Don’t worry about that, they’re called the Death Korps, not the
Trench Korps, they’ll be fine’.

‘Yeah, Death Korps’. The can opener clicked as it connected to the lid of the can Verus had
requisitioned, from a village along the Highway. ‘Yes! Fucking finally. Huh, still, the only death
they’ve, the only death we’ve dealt, has been against the Artaxerxes V PDF. You’d think we’d
be seeing some Xenos by now’.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 65

‘Oh for Emperor’s sake Verus, will you dro-’ A spray of blood covered Lucian’s face, and the
world stood still. He could feel it over his skin, warm and wet. He could taste it on his lips, sweet
with a hint of iron. He could even smell it.

Verus’ blood curdling scream snapped Lucian back to reality. The Leman Russ had stopped
dead in its tracks, almost tossing the men riding on it over. In the distance, the cannons of tanks
and mobile artillery sounded. ‘Get down!’ Lucian yelled, his hand already on Verus’ flak jacket,
pulling him down the back of the Leman with him. Before Lucian’s feet had hit the ground, he
felt heat at the back of his neck. The thermal trail from a railgun round that had missed his head
by mere inches.

Yells and commands sounded from everywhere, mixed with the thunder of cannon gun and
bolter. Lucian’s squad formed behind the Leman Russ they were riding on, the clink of railgun
rounds splashing against the tank’s armor reminding them to stay glued to it.

‘Medicae! Medicae get here now!’ The urgency in Lucian’s voice was underscored by the pool
of blood that was quickly forming around Lucian’s bloody stump of a hand.

+Form lines.+ The voice of Colonel Kurts came, distorted with static from the backpack of the
squad’s vox operator.

Lucian nodded to the medic that was trying to stop Verus’ blood loss, gripped his lasgun and
stood by the tank’s treads, before quickly jumping back behind cover. ‘Can’t see any damned
targets. Where the hell are they?,’ Lucian yelled over the repeating command that was coming
from the vox.

+Form lines. Form lines. Form lines.+

‘Form lines across from what?,’ he thought.

=Seventh Ironclad Company, move forward. Second Ironclad, cover their left flank. Third Krieg,
cover the right flank+. The orders kept coming from the vox, and the Leman Russ’ treads started
spinning. Lucian and his squad clang to it, their lasguns flashing between each one of the tank’s
main cannon shots ensuring a constant outpouring of fire from their position, futile as each shot
was, against an enemy that couldn’t even be seen in the horizon. Shot, lasfire, shot, lasfire, shot
lasfire, the rhythm went on and on, the well-rehearsed song of a symphony of fire, until a
shattering crack split the air, and flames engulfed the heavy tank. The heat of the inferno and the
crushing force of the blastwave pushed against Lucian, tossing him several feet behind, and on
his back.
 A veil of silence covered the world around him as he stared into the cloudless heavens above.
Lucian raised his hand, trying to catch one of the sun’s rays, so clear and so bright before him,
yet just beyond his grasp. In these moments spent on the line between life and death, he heard it
once more. That voice, that calling. ‘Blood and iron,’ it whispered.

A second boom brought the sound back to Lucian’s ears. A flood of screams and explosions
came rushing in, and the sun was blotted out by a flock of aircraft coming from Artemisia’s
direction. Lucian brought his head up only to see a wall of fire form on the front lines of his
company. His vox operator grabbed Lucian’s backpack and started dragging him away from the
front. Next to him the medic was carrying Verus, blood soaking through the gauze haphazardly
wrapped around his stump.

+Battlesuits in the field, I repeat, battlesuits in the field. Second Ironclad supplant the Seventh
Ironclad, the vanguard has been broken.+ The message came in bursts from the vox, covered by
static and the thunder of explosions.

‘The Vanguard isn’t broken, it’s butchered. I can’t get any transmissions from Kurts or from the
third Krieg. We’re falling back!,’ the vox operator shouted into Lucian’s ear.

Hearing that, Lucian dug his heels in the ground. ‘We aren’t going anywhere!,’ Lucian shouted
back, and rose up, each step a fight against vertigo. ‘Medic, get Verus to a Chimera and
rendezvous back here. There, go’. He pointed to a pair of Chimeras that stood close to them,
firing their side guns. One of them bore the markers of the Officio Medicae, the other bore the
emblem of the Commissariat. From the vox casters of the Commissariat’s Chimera, motivational
messages were being blasted.

+TO DIE IS HUMAN, TO DIE FOR THE EMPEROR IS DIVINE.+

+THOSE WHO RETREAT WILL BE EXECUTED, AND DENIED THE EMPEROR’S

LIGHT.+

The medic, with Verus on his back, had barely made two steps towards the two armored vehicles
when he noticed the sky light up and stopped dead in his tracks, as a flaming Thunderbolt was
descending from above like an arrow of apocalyptic wrath, showering the ground with debris. In
the very next moment, the fighter had crashed right on top of the two Chimeras, annihilating
them both in a ball of brilliant fire fueled by promethium and ammunition.

‘Sergeant, this is hopeless. The Commissar is gone, we have to retreat!’ The vox operator’s
words faded in the background, as Lucian looked at the chaos around him. Some squads were
still trying to hold the line, and being cut down for it, other were retreating, only to be shot with
railgun rounds through the back. Even the tanks were retreating. Moving in reverse and firing
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 67

their weapons for cover. In the distance, the bipedal shapes of the Tau battlesuits were releasing
salvo after salvo of missiles, and approaching by the second.

‘Get behind the wreckage,’ Lucian commanded. The silhouette of a Valkyrie was barely visible
to him from behind the flames of the crushed Thunderbolt. He commanded his men towards that
last glimmer of hope, and started to run with them.

There was no telling how many rounds had flew just past them, how many explosions shook the
ground around their feet, how many strafing runs from Tau aircraft barely missed them. When
they finally arrived at the Valkyrie, and its open ramp, it was like seeing the Golden Throne
itself. The men rushed inside, and within moments, the transport had left the ground, after having
helped as many as it could. From there, Lucian stared in the carnage of Continental Highway
276. Fire and toxic smoke, screams and weapons fire. Death added atop of death, and in its midst
the Tau battlesuits stood victorious, in a sea of human bodies.

The shells poured down like rain. No sooner had one explosion gone off, another one followed,
shaking the mud off the trench walls, rattling the foundations of the hastily built bunkers, and
churning over the earth, digging up and burying again the broken corpses of a million men and
women, denying them their final rest. It was a purgatory of torn flesh and mud.

‘We are along the road parallel to Highway 276; our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly
on us. For Emperor’s sake, stop it!’ The vox operator screamed into the receiver, as the light of
the bunker flickered above his head with every shell that landed. Built by the Artaxerxes V PDF,
these trenches and bunkers had proven little resistance against the march of the Imperial Guard,
now everyone inside them, the remnants of the Seventh and Second Ironclad Companies, was
hoping against hope, that they would serve their new occupants better.

‘It’s no use,’ Lucian said, slumped over the mess table, studying a map of the PDF’s trenches
he had found. ‘No long range comms are working. Not with the Command behind those artillery
lines, not with the ships in orbit, not with anyone outside of these trenches’.

‘Well we have to do something,’ Donovan protested. ‘We have to get an envoy to them, tell them
to send in evac’.

‘Forget about evac. This is the maximum range of our artillery, it’s as far as we are retreating.
We try to go back any further and we’ll be torn apart. Only way out, is forward’. Lucian’s
response was sharp.

‘Bullshit!,’ shouted Donovan. ‘Look at us! Look at your own squad, Verus is barely clinging to
life. Look at Armena, she lost her eyes, she’s fed with an IV. You’ve known her since bootcamp
damn it! Evac is their only hope, and you want us to charge forward?’
 ‘Yes I want to charge forward!’ Lucian kicked his chair away as he stood up, his head brushing
against the low ceiling of the bunker. ‘We are the Guard! We die, standing!’

‘And we drown the enemies of man in our own blood, huh?,’ Donovan mocked, causing
Lucian’s face to twist in anger. As he was ready to strike back at Donovan, the bunker’s door
swung open, filling the air inside with the thunderous sound of the artillery rain. Through the
door, a man of the Ironclad in tattered armor walked in.

‘Which one is the new commander?’ the man asked.

‘He is’. Donovan pointed at Lucian. ‘Senior officer on site’. Donovan elaborated, as Lucian shot
daggers at him.

‘Very well. Sir,’ the man said, addressing Lucian. ‘We’ve spotted Tau infantry units in the
periphery of the trench network. Their battlesuits aren’t far behind. We need orders Sir’.

Lucian grabbed his helmet and put it on, in one swift motion. ‘We’ll butcher them,’ he said, and
walked outside. Amidst the storm of steel and shrapnel, amidst the churning earth, and the
creeping death, with flashes of explosions to light his way, he marched on. He marched, and as
he did, the rest of the Ironclad followed. A few men and women at first, those that were standing
watch on the trenches. Then those that stood in the bunkers that he passed by. Then through vox,
word of the counterattack spread, until every man and woman that could stand on their own two
feet, marched behind him, filling the trenches, as the hammering of the artillery continued
around them.

Through this sea of shrapnel and fire, they marched, until the first Tau infantry came into
striking distance. ‘No noise,’ Lucian commanded, and the order travelled through the trenches.
Covered by the darkness of night, and the sound exploding shells, Lucian took the first steps into
the xenos-occupied sector of the trenches. There, covered in orange armor from head to toe, and
wielding weapons that could split a guardsman in half, the Tau patrolled. Sheltered from the
Imperial barrage by the trenches themselves, and their own shield drones. A pair of Tau guarding
an ammunition store was his target, and a flash of fire and the crack of thunder, was all Lucian
needed.

‘That store is our ticket forward,’ Lucian whispered to the man standing next to him. Once a
shell made impact with the ground on the left side of the trench, spraying mud everywhere, he
made his move. A single motion, as elegant as it was brutal, he grabbed the first Tau by the arm,
twisting it, and throwing it in the mud. His knife flashed for but a second against the moonlight,
and then was plunged in the Tau’s neck, between the segments on its armor. Before the second
Tau could raise its arms, another guardsman had already tackled it with a bayonet, placing his
hand in front of the dying creature’s mouth to stop any sound from escaping.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 69

With its guards dead, the ammunition store lay free for plunder. For the first time in a long
while, luck had shined upon the Ironclad. Within the storage, lay crate upon crate of toxin shells.
Too dangerous and too cruel to be utilized by the PDF against the Astra Militarum, a simple
change in the direction of the wind was enough to turn a weapon such as this against its own
masters. So there it lay, unused, yet primed to deal death. Were the situation not so dire, Lucian
might have opted to ignore it, as the local PDF did, but this caution, he could ill afford.

‘Respirators on,’ he ordered, and started removing the safeties from the shells, one by one. By
the time the last shell had been primed, the first one was already rolling down the trench,
attracting the attention of unsuspecting Tau. The foul smelling gas spread across the floor of the
trench from that first shell, and from those that came after it. Slowly it sipped out and engulfed
the xenos, only after it was already too late did the Tau realize what it was.

Vomit was the first symptom. A burning sensation that travelled up the Taus’ throats and
erupted out of their mouths. Then came the boils on their skin. Red, bulbus, and filled with pus,
it brought the xenos troops to their knees, forcing them to peel of their armor and dig at their own
skin as if trying to reach the bone underneath. Blood was next, erupting from every orifice as
their guts turned to liquid. Soon, blue ichor covered their faces, running down their mouths, eyes,
the slit that rested on their forehead… and over what uniform they still had left on, painting it
blue. Then came death… for most.

Those that survived had more horror to experience yet. ‘Crucify them,’ said Lucian, as he
walked over the pleading masses of the dying. For a second, nobody moved. ‘Crucify them,’
Lucian repeated, his boot resting on the neck of a Tau soldier that was gurgling its own blood.
Again, nobody moved.

‘Lucian, you can’t be serious, we have to go’. Donovan, who had ended up following Lucian in
spite of his initial protestations, said.

That was when Lucian knelt. Grabbing the dying Tau in one hand, and a piece of shrapnel in
the other. The Tau kicked and protested as it was being dragged over to a piece of wood, a
broken trench support. Lucian barely noticed, or perhaps he even enjoyed its cries. With swift
and determined motions, he laid the Tau’s hands across the piece of wood, centered the shrapnel
nail on one of them, steadied his boot on it, and pushed. A screech emerged from the Tau’s
throat, splaying blue blood everywhere. Then Lucian did it again, more screams. And again,
more screams. When Lucian was satisfied the Tau was secure upon the makeshift cross, he
pulled on a pulley attached to a bunker’s entrance, and the crucified enemy shot up. Its screams
so loud, it drowned out the sound of shells crashing behind it.

Like so, the rest followed. Each Tau died a death more painful than the last, each Ironclad
Guard taking more time to inflict pain and punishment on them, until blue blood flooded the
trenches, ankle deep, and the resigned wails of the dying flooded the sky above them.
 At day-break, when every non-human lay dead or on a cross, a person known to Lucian, an
Ironclad Guardsman with only one arm, stabbed an iron shrapnel nail in the face of a dying Tau,
right into its eye…and pulled. In front of the rising sun, in this pit of agony, he raised the eye up,
and yelled. ‘In iron, we march!’

‘IN IRON, WE MARCH’

‘IN IRON, WE MARCH’

‘IN IRON, WE MARCH’

Over the coming days of strife and fire, the cry of the Ironclad would carry across the desolate
plains of Artaxerxes V, and the tides of blood would rise in its wake. One by one, the forests of
the impaled, the crucified, the hanged, would rise from the ground, fed with the lifeblood of the
Emperor’s enemies.

The remnants of the Ironclad under Lucian’s rule attacked night after bloody night, carving away
at stray Tau patrols, skinning them alive and letting them lie and beg for the mercy of death,
under the shadow of their own flesh. They would encircle isolated outposts, and mutilate the
defenders, making them crawl on severed stumps of hands and legs, over the corpses of their
brethren. Even the Tau Battlesuits, the pride of the Tau and the bane of the Imperial Guard,
would not survive unmolested by the wrath of Lucian’s warband. Luring them away in the ruins
of cities, where every alley was an opportunity for ambush, and every balcony was a sniper nest
for Lucian’s soldiers, they would bring the mighty war machines to their knees before they could
even arm their weapon systems. With phosphex and with promethium they would fill the cabins,
and with relish they would listen to the screams of the pilots, before moving onto their next prey.
There were of course survivors in these encounters. Those that would be chained up by Lucian to
serve as slaves, carrying ammunition and provisions, their mouths sewn shut to prevent them
from pleading for help, or alerting the enemy. And there were those that were intentionally
allowed to escape, in varying states of mutilation, and spread word of the atrocities they had
seen.

Soon, word of the monsters in the shadows had spread. First as whispers in Tau encampments,
then as rumors being transmitted over the radio waves, and finally as official communication
between Tau commanders. Positions were abandoned, patrols refused to cover sectors where the
desecrated remains of other Tau were found, paranoia was king. Every shadow that shifted,
every sound carried by the wind, every distant cry, would send the Tau rank and file into
disarray, until bit by bit, the ground they had fought so hard to gain, crumpled under them,
sending them tumbling in a sea of agony and fear.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 71

‘I remember this village,’ said Verus the one armed, a Tau eye hanging from a string wrapped
around his neck, next to his dog tags. ‘We had just passed it when I got shot’. Verus’ excitement
was barely contained.

‘I know,’ Lucian responded. ‘Not long until we reach Artemisia now. Not long until we take it in
the Emperor’s name’.

‘Do you think the vanguard elements might still be alive? The rest of the seventh and second
Ironclad companies, Kurts, those Kriegers…’ Verus pondered.

‘Focus on the task at hand Verus, it won’t matter if we are dead,’ Lucian said, and nodded to the
woman holding the breach charge detonator.

A small, controlled explosion with no spark and barely any sound, made the door of the small
dwelling collapse. Clearly a home for field serfs by the look of it, perfectly positioned to
overlook a vast swath of farmland along Highway 276, it still had amenities and luxuries that in
Gledia people would murder over. Luxurious as it was when contrasted to Lucian’s experiences,
the house was still in a prime location to act as housing for Tau lookouts. Lucian, lasgun in hand
creeped through the domicile, with his squad at his back, sticking to the shadows and laboring
greatly not to make a single sound. Quiet step after quiet step, Lucian made his way to the door
that stood on the far end of the house. The tip of his lasgun pushed against the door, and it slowly
opened.

‘Are those… are those?,’ the question in the medic’s lips was cut short.

‘Traitors. That’s what they are. They’d rather die for the xenos, than live for the Emperor,’
Lucian said, as his squad exchanged looks of concern. ‘Burn the village. Everyone alive or dead,
put them on spikes. Turn them into scarecrows. Let the traitors and xenos in Artemisia know we
are coming’.

Everything stood still inside the house, the only sound came from the swinging corpses of the
family that once called it home. In the early stages of decay, blue and bloated, but not far gone
enough for their features to become lost in the sepsis. A father, a mother, two sons, and a
daughter. The youngest not older than five. All swung against the pale moonlight.

‘You heard him, go, tell the others’. Verus broke the silence.

Lucian stood alone with the dead family, as his squad left, and a laughter pierced his ears.

‘HAHAHAHAHA. Even for you, that is rich’. The sound came from the swinging daughter’s
lips, causing Lucian to stick his back to the wall and raise his rifle.

‘What in the Emperor’s name is this?,’ he said, taking aim at the girl’s head.
 ‘You actually managed to convince yourself that these people were traitors, didn’t you?’
the rotting father said, as Lucian shifted his gun to him. ‘They were afraid, Lucian. Terror had
gripped their souls. Terror of what you would to do to them. And so… they did the only
think they thought would allow them to escape your phosphex, your blades… having to
watch each other die in agony…’

‘What are you?!’ Lucian screamed.

‘Amused, Lucian. I am amused. Such fury boiling within you… You have shed so much
blood… given so many skulls to the throne… and you are a mere mortal too. I knew there
was a spark in you’.

‘You are a daemon… You did this! You made me do this!,’ Lucian yelled, and moved forward,
his lasgun standing less than an inch from the corpse’s face.

‘Oh don’t shy away from the credit you are due’. The voice now came from the dead
mother’s throat. ‘I will see you soon, underneath blood and iron’.

The scorched corpses of the villagers greeted the following dawn, their faces permanently
contorted in the agony of their last moments. Amongst the bodies was one of Lucian’s own men.
With his own finger on the trigger of the lasgun that had killed him, Donovan laid dead, his
carcass left behind, to rot with the rest of the traitors.

‘He was a coward’. Armena’s voice was barely intelligible through the wires and screws that
held her mutilated face in place. A few months ago the only scar on her was the one that ran
from her lips to her ear, a reminder of her days in the Gledian ghettos. Now there was almost no
skin tissue left unscarred, the result of her first encounter with the Tau. ‘Donovan didn’t have
what it takes. I’m blind and even I can see that’. She winced at every word, as the rain that was
starting to shower irritated her wounds.

Lucian nodded, his mind still trying to process the conversation he had in that village. He had
heard of what a daemon was before, a rough description of one at least, back in Gledia, and since
his encounter he had the read the corresponding section of his Primer. It all fit together, his
vision aboard the ship, his dreams, the voices… ‘Regardless,’ he said, snapping himself out of it.
‘Regardless of what Donovan was, we still have a job to do’.

Artemisia was within Lucian’s grasp, and he had a little over a thousand men and women at his
disposal to try and take her. Hit and run tactics, and sheer brutality had worked on smaller targets
and isolated patrols, with fear doing most of the work in repelling the enemy for them. This
however was a well-garrisoned planetary capital. Miles of fortification encircled it, infantry,
battlesuits, and Hammerhead gunships stood vigilant at its walls, and most importantly, there
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 73

was nowhere left for the Tau and remaining PDF defenders to run. This was the culmination of a
months-long campaign of terror, an impasse.

Lucian’s plan to solve the impasse was cruel as it was simple. The plan started with the
painstaking effort of cutting up the slave’s abdomens, and stitching melta explosives inside. The
procedure was cruel of course, its subjects left barely alive after it, but that was good enough.
Then the slaves had their eyes removed. For every ten of them that were completely blinded, on
was spared one eye. After that, they would point them in the direction of Artemisia’s defenses.
Their comrades would rush in their aid, take them in, try to help them. Then the explosives
would go off, creating havoc amidst the Tau. Death dealt by those they aimed to help. Hundreds
would be eliminated in a single action, and amidst the panic and confusion, Lucian’s Ironclad
would sneak in, and take over one of the defense bunkers. From there, they would spread along
the defensive network, until nothing was left.

Perhaps the plan would have worked, perhaps it would end in the Ironclad’s slaughter, were it
allowed to play out in full… The first stages of the it were a success. Amidst iron-infused rain,
the Tau slaves, blinded and gutted, reached their brethren’s arms, and into those arms they
exploded to pieces, taking hundreds with them. When it came to sneaking to the Tau bunkers
however, a complication arose. The rest of the Imperial Guard, had finally caught up with
Lucian’s warband.

The sight of Leman Russ tanks, charging Death Riders of Krieg, Thunderbolts in the sky, and
line upon line of Ironclad infantry, would normally be a welcome sight, worthy of celebration.
Now it only meant that Lucian’s forces were caught in a meat grinder, with fire coming from
both sides.

Stuck in no-man’s land, with Imperial forces advancing from one side, Tau defenders emerging
en masse from the other, and artillery shells flying wildly, Lucian stood still. His forces, bathed
in the blood of Tau and human alike, weren’t content with simply cowering in foxholes, he could
see it in their faces, soaked in iron rain and mud, they preferred to die fighting with the cry of the
Ironclad in their throats. And so he obliged them.

‘Charge!,’he yelled. And they did. Over the corpses of the Imperial Guard’s first attempt to take
Artemisia, through shells blasting the ground into the sky, between the hail of lasfire and railgun
rounds, beneath fighters and bombers flying overhead, as tanks and battlesuits clashed, Lucian’s
forces rushed into the enemy, unto the flames of war, into the mouth of death.

As he ran, Lucian felt pressure and heat against the right side of his face. The sensation of warm
mud soon followed, and he was flown to his side, as the blast wave of an earth shaker shell
tossed him across the field. When he opened his eyes, the battle was still raging, and the rain was
now pouring in a furious gale. A familiar voice greeted him back into consciousness.
 ‘I told you I would see you soon’. The voice came from a rotting carcass. Bloated, black and
blue, its flesh had given way to decay, and the bone underneath was visible.

‘Fuck you’. Were the only words the adrenaline-infused mind of Lucian could conjure.

‘I’m here to help you, idiot’. The mouth of the corpses moved, and a rat crawled out from it.

‘Help? Why? I know what you are; you are mankind’s enemy, evil incarnate!,’ Lucian yelled
over the sound of rain and explosion alike.

‘Oh Lucian, what a predictably human thought. Good, evil, friend, enemy, black and
white… It doesn’t matter from where the blood flows, only that it does’. Lucian could swear
he saw a smirk form across the corpse’s lips.

‘Fine’. Lucian looked to the sky. ‘Freeze the air’.

‘Hahahaha, what a grand idea’. The corpses cackled, and the temperature dropped. Lucian
could see his breath as it emerged from his lungs, and the silvery rain turn into metallic hail.

Iron nails were descending from the clouds above, ripping apart everything that they met on
their way down. They sliced through armor and carved through skin, muscle, and bone. The
blood of the Tau, and of the Imperial vanguard sprayed in the air, as the nails tore through them.
In the city of Artemisia, the nails pierced through buildings, impaling soldier and civilian alike
where they stood. A mother saw her child nailed to the ground as she stood helpless. She
screamed as a nail pierced through his skull, and cried before her own end came. A Tau warrior
tried to hide into a bunker before the iron rain bolted him down, mere feet away from the
bunker’s entrance. He pulled with all his might, yelling as the tendons of his legs gave away and
eventually separated from the rest of his body just before another nail pierced his throat.
Hammerhead tank crews saw their machines break down; their armor unable to withstand the
iron barrage. Screams, death, pain…blood and iron.

Lucian woke up inside a Valkyrie, his gaze immediately falling to the clear blue skies outside.

‘I can’t believe they survived that. I mean… that the remnants of the Seventh and Second
Ironclad survived in hostile territory for as long as they did was impressive enough, but to
survive that freak storm unscathed? The Emperor protects’. Lucian heard one of the medics talk
over his head.

‘Who says we survived?,’ Lucian whispered.

‘Hey, he’s up’. the medic said. ‘We took the planet Sir, and don’t think General Tacitus didn’t
see the path you carved for our main force. You’re a hero’.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 75

Epilogue

Present day

Lucian walked, laspistol in hand, to the latrine of the ship’s barracks and jammed the door
behind him. With heavy steps, he stood in front of a mirror,and pointed the pistol to his own
head, finger on the trigger.

‘Come on. Don’t be childish’. His own reflection told him. ‘We have so, so much more to
do, and you have a talent in cruelty I refuse to see sprayed across these walls’. The reflection
continued, and the reflection of the gun lowered before Lucian’s eyes. With a sigh, he lowered
his own gun, and tossed it on the floor.

‘Ata boy,’ His reflection told him, and its lips split into a devilish grin. ‘Now… what do we do
next?’
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 77

THE HUNTER
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 79

It stood there alert, spines emerged from the beast’s back as it growled towards the forest
canopy. With two muscular hind legs, it cautiously proceeded along the furrow. Three monocular
eyes looked about at greenery and the harsh morning light passing through the leaves, scanning
for larger creatures than the burrowing insects it normally feasts upon. It seems empty from all
but the cold winds toying with the leaves and grasses so it continues on, using its clawed arms to
scale up an incline to the crest of the nearby stream. There, it stopped in a clearing and started to
dig into the riverbank, lowering its long salivating tongue into the dirt, lapping up scores of its
prey in a few slow motions.

Turning its back eye towards the way it came, there was movement; far too much for the winds,
or anything small. Frozen, muscles tensing full of energy, its eyes beginning to dart about as the
sound of shrubbery being disturbed and the groaning of branches grew closer. Then nothing, the
winds died down and the rustling stopped. After a while it slowly returned back to the meal, with
the crisis averted. With hunger satiated, it was time to head back to the warren, down the stream
and through the forest. Clawing through the last few brambles an overwhelming sense of dread
swept up the creature’s spines, out of the corner of its vision was the briefest flash of blue… an
unmistakable colour… Predators.

Thick blood pumped through its hearts, as it pivoted and leapt back through the furrows with
the predator in pursuit. On the run, it became clear. The leathery turquoise skin pitted and scarred
by the elements, the heart dropping screech and the shiny black quills which made it stand out
amongst the arboreal greens. The creature clambered up the riverside rocks, slipping and yelping
out for help as its hungry stalker bounds across the treetops above. A final call, stricken with
horror echoes across the forest as the predator drops, a hooked blade reaching the riverbank first
striking the stones with a crash and sparks. The creature took its chance and leapt up to the ridge
only a few steps away from escape as the blade struck the ledge a severed few hairs from its leg,
now on the open ground it launched itself away too fast to be caught as grunts and shouts filled
the air.

It took about half an hour to escape the clearings and to find a suitable hiding spot. A small hole
between the old roots of a long hollowed tree made a well concealed place to rest until it was
time to head back to the warren. Shielded from the cold northerly breeze, it dug into the tree to
provide itself a bit more room, and potentially a light meal to make up for the energy spent
running. Unsuccessful, it lay on its underbelly and closed two of its eyes, the last a gleaming
orange watchdog whilst it slumbered in the comforts of the tree. Small furry creatures did enter
in as the day progressed to take a weary roost hanging against the inside barely minding the co-
habitant for now. The shade was a soothing alternative to the midday sun, bright enough to light
up every particle of dust and pollen in the air to look akin to the starry night sky and to dry up the
small streams which normally fill the days with the sound of gushing. It wasn’t long before the
larger birds and insects started to flock to the forest canopies to show off their colours in the sun,
creating the perfect veil of noise to pass back over the plains towards the hilly area where home
could be found.

The sun’s rays were harsh, feeling the moisture from the skin sapping away, the beast took
towards the shaded bushes at the low edge of the plains stopping by the stream to seek out
whatever moisture it could find. The riverbed was dry, a sediment crust forming on top of the
pebbles but beneath lay its treasure. Leaning forwards to claw into the soil, its tongue hung out
from its maw waiting desperately for water, as the dig began a swallow scoopful at a time.
Hurriedly, it shoved its tongue into the silt as soon as it could sense moisture, lapping up
whatever gritty mouthfuls it could for the journey.

Carefully, it paced towards the bushes, keeping low in the grass as it moved forward. The wind,
much hotter, whipping at its hide and the flora around it. The trek was long, yet onwards it
pushed towards the shady relief of the bushes. There were a few slower omnivores which flared
their nostrils and bore their teeth at the beast, but overall the let the small harmless biped pass
into the shrubbery without further confrontation as it crawled under the lowest hanging branches
on its belly. Passing through the undergrowth, thorns and weeds dug into its hide, adapted for the
bites and stings of small insects it carried on mostly unharmed until it reached the foot of the hill
where the warren was located. The shrubs ended just there, only the sounds of birds roosting in
the trees and the hum of insect wings above the untimely body of kin which wasn't fast enough…

It was time to brave it, eyes scanning the about the greens and browns of the forest. As it
approaches a gap in the leaves… the smell… it was the predator again. Close by, but the smell
was faint. There was no rustle in the grasses or in the trees this time, no bright blue patches to be
seen… Maybe it wasn’t that close after all? Or had recently passed by. Is it worth the risk?
Safety only a moment away across the boggy entrance to the warren. No sign of anything
dangerous but the smell. It waited for a few moments, fixated on the surroundings hoping to find
danger over this death-like decision to no longer delay. The sunlight was fading, the air turning
cold as the forest began to grow quiet. Like held spring it waited for release, tense and
motionless. The old flesh saggy on the bones, as it inched forward to the clearing. Getting darker,
getting colder the world faded until it was just these next three steps.

One… Still looks clear.

Two… What’s that sound? It’s still clear, quick run!

Three… Claws just missing the ground, hot pain filling its chest...

Garoch looked over his newly killed prey, a Sangk’ril, tender and quite a respectable quarry for
a Kroot as young as he. Its maroon blood oozing out onto the blade of his staff and soil falling
from the crevasses in its hide as daylight disappears and leaves him in the icy night. Steadied by
his success Garoch skins the beast and wraps its meat in dried sinew to be taken back to the
kindred knowing well that the shaper should be pleased. ‘Or’ek! I have my catch. I will meet
with you tonight!’ the message carries through the air and hangs there for a few moments until
the reply whistles back with a loud ‘I cannot wait to feast on it, Garoch’ as he continues onwards
deeper into the forest. Cleaning off the gore and hardening mud he found himself musing at his
plan to hide deep in the well worn boggy earth outside of the Sangk’rils burrows, a way to let the
speedy prey come to him for the fatal blow. With the morsel skinned and wrapped up for
carrying he turned to continue on towards the mountainside.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 81

Murky scents from the nearby mean the Fangners were active again, Garoch pondered getting
himself some salves to keep them out of his hut as he scaled the vine veiled cliff face up to the
village. Approaching the entrance to the hunting camps, he let out a triumphant caw as the elder
hunters gathered. ‘Garoch, you are bringing the next kill in for your trials? You’re still young,
boy’ the voice was unmistakable, it was the grizzled tones of Da’ak. With excitement in his
voice Garoch could only think to answer one way ‘Shaper! I found this so that I can do my trials.
I am ready.’ To this Da’ak let out a raspy laugh ‘The trials are more difficult than hunting just a
single Sangk’ril, and it took you the whole cycle to do it. Still boy, you are doing well.’ A flash
of dissatisfaction flooded Garoch’s features ‘I am still ready, Shaper. You will see.’ There was a
moment's pause before Da’ak left Garoch to continue, and he did so warning ‘Garoch, you do
not share the same talents as your brother. You are slow, hesitant and messy…look at the cuts on
that thing. You will be ready soon, just not now.’ Garoch pushed past the battle scarred Kroot
towards the main hut, voice heavy ‘I am ready.’ Carefully pushing aside the skins that make up
the camps outer wall Garoch unwraps the Sangk’ril, and places it by his totem. The looming
features of a Kroothawk, even in stony reminiscence struck his heart. Taking his knife he carves
the last needed notch into his wooden marker and declares at the very top of his lungs ‘I must see
the shaper! I am ready to be blooded’. The night feasting and conversation fell quite throughout
the camp as the sound of a metal scratching across metal and whirring in the cold grew louder,
from a cybernetic leg suffering from years with lack of maintenance and rust as they approached
to fulfill their duty as a shaper. It was Yer’tak the chief Shaper of the kindred.

Looking over the youngling she breathed heavily, condensation wisping around her beak as she
stared with milk-white eyes. Aided by her cybernetics and a cane, she slowly approached from
her ornate hut, situated in the center of the village. Her stony greying skin, almost without the
vibrant blues of her kin remained still as many of the other Elders shook bathed in the twilight
air, much like a totem herself. ‘Garoch. You have collected up the offerings and placed them at
their altar, you ask for me to grant you your trials so that you may join the hunts. To join your
ancestors as Blooded… Your trials will begin in two cycle's, you have until then to prepare
yourself and to rest. Do not disappoint me, child.’ She turned her head, and hobbled back into
her hut, her body slouched and twisted from over a century of life. The other Elders and Hunters
started collecting the sum of Garoch's hunts ready to serve it up as a feast customarily before the
trials took place. Looking over to the fires which kept the camp lit, Garoch felt his hunger from
the last days hunt piquing. Maybe I do need to eat before the trials? He thought walking over
hoping for a leg of that Sangk'ril, or even a more modest bowl of Ray'fel larvae.

The fire roars, dancing about in the wind as Garoch sits down to enjoy his meal until a very
familiar voice chimes in. 'Brother! I see you have found yourself a well-enough place to sit.
What news have you got for me? This is quite the celebration going on here.'

'Or'ek! It is good to see you! I am finally ready to do my trials. How was your hunt today?'

'It was fruitful, managed to dig up a few Ray'fel nests as well as find another valley for the
hounds. A well spent day indeed. Looking forward to your trials? I think I was about your age
when I did mine, it is pretty tough.' Or'ek continued, picking apart one of the flanks of today's
quarry.
 'You were younger brother, nine rotations even.'

'Ah, you are still ahead of most your age aren't you?'

'Maybe…. Da'ak doesn't seem to think so.'

'Da'ak did travel the worlds of Prok's Kindreds to fight with them when he was younger. Maybe
he is comparing that to this? He still bears scars from it.'

'I am ready. He can lick his wounds and be weary, but this won't stop me from becoming
blooded tomorrow. I am ready for this brother.'

'I know Garoch, you keep saying… just remember that surviving is more important than
becoming blooded. It would be better to see you old, than dead.'

'Alright brother.' Garoch reluctantly said, peeling the last few strands of muscle from the
tendons of his meal. 'I plan to join the wars off-world. It will be quite enjoyable to be off this
moon.’ He says with venom in his voice. Or’ek chose not to reply to a disagreeable topic. ‘No
need to worry for me brother, once I prove myself tomorrow you will see. I’ll be ready for
anything.’

The air went quiet, only the crackling of fire filled the void between their words. ‘Garoch.’ with
a confident smirk he responded ‘Yes brother?’. Eyes wide open and the glint of the flames
illuminating his features Or’ek spoke softly ‘Go talk to Da’ak tomorrow. One last amount of
practice won’t do any harm.’ Punctuated with a grunt ‘Alright brother. I will.’ looking away
from his kin he held his head low in thought. Maybe they were right? No, I am ready. It will be
proven tomorrow. Until tomorrow I wait.

It wasn’t long before the flesh had been consumed, the celebrations had and the mixed words of
encouragement and warning alike had been exchanged. Although there was not a word more
spoken between the two brothers, Garoch did heed Or’ek’s advice and sought out Da’ak by the
cliffside after the meal. He was sitting there staring at the planet passing through the sky, how it
looked immense hanging in the empty sky, the snow topped mountain ranges and the deep
greens of the oceans lighting up the cliff face below. As Garoch approached, the quills on
Da’ak’s head rose abruptly as he looked about at the young Kroot. ‘What is it Garoch?’ his tone
heavy and tense as he was normally accustomed to. ‘Shaper, I have the trials tomorrow. I am
ready, but if there is more to be learnt than it would be best if I was taught now. Will you teach
me?’ Garoch kept his words clear and slow, out of respect for his shaper. ‘You’re arrogant and
still insistent about it. You’ll do the trials either way. To prove you wrong, yes I will teach you. I
will teach how to hunt like a blooded. We start when the sky is light again.’ Da’ak looks back
towards the green and white orb in the sky taking a strange knife out of his pocket. It was short,
and flat unlike any blade Garoch had seen before, adorned with a green handle and a slot in the
back. Intriguing he thought, as Garoch sat beside the old Kroot and sat there.

'This Garoch, is a memento from a long time ago. A bayonet knife, wielded by Gue'la.' The
Shaper started, reminiscing about the past as the strange sounds of bayonet and Gue'la drew the
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 83

younger to a frown. 'They are a weak and foul-smelling race, running about in swarms, they take
over planets of other Species. Very hard to remove once they come in contact with a planet, like
Ray’fel they burrow in and stuck all the life out of the worlds they come by. Airs made of poison
and mountains made of darkened metals is how they live. They use things like this to make up
for their weaknesses. Your brother told me about your plans for the future, worried for you.’
Garoch’s temper heightened, ‘It’s not up to him to decide my future. Shaper, you cannot change
my mind about this and he is a fool to think you could’ his voice louder and filled with rage. ‘I
am not trying to stop you’ these words took Garoch by surprise, he stayed himself. ‘You cannot
be stopped, once you become blooded it is entirely up to you and I won’t and can’t have a say in
what happens to you beyond then. So, making sure you know how to stay alive is the only thing I
can do to help you. I can only advise not to. I’ve seen the way things are off Jiht, and they are not
as easy as things are here. The prey here is slow, mostly harmless. The heat of the day goes away
quickly, on some worlds the days are four or five times as long and the hot period drier and
longer. These Gue’la for one, Prok’s kin have dealt with them often. They are weak but their
machines and augmentations are mighty, making them very difficult to hunt. Rather chewy as
well.’ Da’ak seemed to pause for air, with a sigh. ‘There is a lot out there.’

‘Shaper, what is there to teach? Things being more dangerous is not guidance on how to hunt
them.’

‘You’ll see. Let me take the last few moments out here before the night ends. Then we will go.’
he goes back to his nostalgic stupor. Da’ak was by no means the oldest of the Kindred, but he
sure was the longest lived. He had traveled with a Rogue Trader group not too long ago, and
originally set out to fight in wars against Be'gel on countless other Kroot worlds. It was safe to
assume, as Garoch did, that the Shaper was thinking of those days. The planet spun steadily,
crawling across the sky as the air became illuminated once more slowly turning the darkness to
orange as the morning came and the orb in the sky faded. The chirping of birds and the buzz of
bugs started to echo across the forest as the Shaper without a word headed off down the cliff,
clambering down the vines and ledges with ease.

Following swiftly behind with youthful vigor, Garoch catches up and stays with Da'ak until
their descent is complete, then following him onwards towards then up the nearby stream. The
local area falls silent as the two easily spotted figures pass through, as they head onwards
towards the marshes. The bog beneath their feet squelched and sank under their weight as the
Shaper stopped and raised a hand indicating Garoch to do so as well. 'Here is the first thing you
need to learn. Hunt a Fangner. No weapon allowed.' He takes the staff from the young Kroot,
who is frowning at the proposition. He took up the challenge, and thought for a moment. He
scaled a tree and looked down upon the bog, eyes sharp, looking out for air bubbling out to the
dank surface. At first there was very little movement or until the ground started to bubble just
around the base of a nearby tree, at this chance Garoch leapt down, plunging his hand into the
bog to try and grab one of the slimy creatures. But as his hand passed by one of their hot bodies,
burning pain shot up his arm as Garoch let out a yelp and pulled his hand away, there were long
thin quills deep in his flesh. With another yell, he tore the quills out in a single motion,
discarding them and returning to the tree to try it again. It took a few more minutes before the
next attempt, this time missing completely as it swam away through the bog. Again and again he
persisted with it, his skin being stained by the murk of the bog until finally he pulled one above
the surface. Its gleaming red eyes and quills flailing about as it tries to tunnel it's way below, but
before it could the Kroot's thumb and forefinger wrapped around the small creature's neck and
crushed it in an instant. The small morsel was something they would start teaching you to hunt
barely after your second rotation so it came easy to him yet the Shaper did not look pleased.

'Garoch, you hunted like that 8 rotations ago. Do you think that is how a Blooded hunts?' His
tone was harsh, and in a moment of realization he hung his head low in contemplation. 'Most of
us normally wait 12 rotations or so because this is how long it takes for you to develop your
senses properly. Focus Garoch, and watch me.' Da'ak walked over with a comfortable amount of
poise, his eyes focusing on the ground. ‘Focus on the heat. Fangners live in the cold bog, so they
keep themselves warm by making lots of heat... first you focus… then you-’ the shaper slammed
his palm into the calm ground, a plume of bubbles formed as he pulled his hand out with a
Fangner in hand. Its brittle bones groaning and crunching in his stead grip. The quills lay flat
against its back pressed down by an experienced hand. ‘The bubbles are caused when they move,
and that’s when their quills get in the way. You try it now. Focus on their heat, they aren’t too far
below the surface.’ He says discarding the corpse at the foot of a nearby tree. Garoch placed his
feet on the ground and focused. Look for their heat, where their body squirms through the dirt
and just grab it. At first, nothing. Then the vague dimming of the colours that he was used to was
unnerving but the slow fade to greyscale didn’t feel bad. It was as if his eyes were relaxing from
an unruly long held strain. Focusing on the cool warmth of the light’s rays on his skin the world
starts to shift. The grey of the cold mud beneath him dulls slightly, the grey of his feet gets
brighter… or hotter he realizes. Only a little bit, but slowly but surely he manages to start to see
the hot and the cold patches on the ground. Heavily interfered by the light bouncing off the sheen
and moisture that gives the bog it’s consistency. The strain starts to work new muscles Garoch
had never felt before, with extended practice the pain felt like it was two metal rods being
jammed into his eye sockets.

Yet he worked to no prevail, attempt after attempt. Each time improving, but as it reached
midday, he couldn’t go any longer and relaxed the well worked muscles and returned to his usual
sight unsuccessful. Da’ak seemed to be happier this time, as he managed to remove the toxin
glands of the few Garoch did catch for a light meal. Its viscera fatty and salty, not the healthiest
diet to live on but a delectable one at that. When they were done Da’ak had a good look into the
young Kroot’s eyes to check for damage and the like before continuing. ‘It looks good. Seems
like it is well developed, and just needs a bit more exercise. Focus on the bigger heat sources at
first like tonight’s fire and colder things like streams for now and you should have the basics
down for your trials. It doesn’t take long to get the hang of it, but it takes a very long time to get
as good as I am’ with a jaunty laugh he turns and starts to walk off. With his regular vision
restored, Garoch follows him towards the forest and the plains. ‘Shaper, why is it that I was not
taught this before?’ he asked, partly concerned as he was partly intrigued. The question seemed
to fall upon deaf ears at first before he got his reply; ‘You are supposed to pick it up yourself.
Over time, being so eager to get on with it has its failings, child.’ The last word, the sound of it
always sends a small chill down Garoch’s spine. A word almost inseparable with inexperience
and youth, a horrid insult to the Elders and something which weighs itself into his mind. ‘Child’
much like boy or girl is how most Elders refer to younglings who disappoint them or annoy
them. Taking away their name as a layer of recognition, it was the way Da’ak referred to most
young Kroot of the kindred as a habit from his times around other races but even still it lands the
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 85

same way. They continued the rest of the walk with a silence between them, but the sound of
rushing water and a drone of clicking, barking and buzzing from the local wildlife mercifully
filled the void.

The Shaper stood at the edge of the clearing, just on top of a stony ridge by a stream. The cuts
on the stones still remained from the encounter during the cycle before, but paying it little mind
he bounded up the side restlessly as he had not done much more than a short walk and shoving
his hand into slop so far. Pointing out into the field, Da’ak gestured for Garoch to be quiet as
they slowly clambered into a bush and looked outwards across the clearing, in which the large
reptilian beasts roamed. They were aggressive scaled quadrupeds, whilst often bashing their
horns and tusks against each other to show dominance and control their territory they patrolled
their own patches of land with whatever squabbles they have summarized in a fight and other
displays of strength. Da’ak kept his voice low, and spoke to Garoch in deep grunts ‘Those are
Grox. Gue’la farm them across the whole galaxy, and why wouldn’t they? It tastes good, is good
for you and they have very powerful muscles and strong skin perfect for traveling in dense
uneven forests. They eat anything. However they are fast and with that same strength they can
tear apart metals just by throwing their weight around, some of the larger ones on their back legs
are almost three times my own height. But, they are stupid and impulsive. All I need you to do, is
take your staff and take one of the barbs which cover their back.’ Da’ak hands back the staff as
Garoch confronts this new situation, he had always been told to avoid these things but now needs
to take a piece of one and escape from a herd? Dread took over for a moment, the already dead
looking eyes, the teeth long enough to pierce all the way through a skull and the claws the size of
swords. This was his time to prove himself however as he looked back towards the Shaper, hope
igniting as his focus returned to the Grox.

It was near mindless, driven by impulse and aggression… Maybe one of the smaller ones? They
aren't as fast or strong. But they are protected by the larger territorial ones…. One of the
stragglers maybe? They are alone near the outside of the herd. Easy targets… These thoughts
carried on through Garoch’s head until he came to his conclusion. Slowly he parted the bushes
around him, looking towards the grunting and shimming mass of scaly flesh, stomping over the
fresh foliage. With one last glance back towards the shaper, he held his head down in the tall
grasses and began his approach. The Grox were doltishly shambling towards their next meal as
the young Kroot skulked in the grasses only an arms length behind the herd. They smelt rancid,
oozing wounds from others or from hosts of Ray’fel nesting in the thick senseless dermis of their
body, mixed with the stink of feces that most large quadrupeds are known for. They slowed
coming to the drying river, and it was his time to strike. With all the deftness he could muster he
slipped in the crowd bashing his staff against the flank of an especially oblivious one, it roared
out and swung its head towards it’s assailant. With a thud it’s tusks glanced off another’s, tightly
packed and restricting their movement Garoch leapt up onto its back as they grew more rowdy.
Groans of anger leveled the normal windswept ambience of the plains as they all gradually
joined the fray. Distracted, pulling one of the barbs that jutted out of the creature's spine was
simple as he gracefully landed back in the long grass. There was a sudden pause however as a
new odour took the senses, an oily acidic smell which quickly drew the attention of the whole
herd. In a panic Garoch found the source of the smell as a pungent yellow bile which seems to be
triggering a defensive response. Teeth gnashing together, nostrils flaring and eyes focusing on
the much smaller animal became a newfound source of fear. Sweat forming pools on his skin,
and his heart starting to pump harder and harder. Turning on the spot, kicking up the top layers
of dry dirt as he ran hot-heeled back towards the bushes with a murderous horde in tow. Sluggish
at first the Grox began to gallop after him like an unstoppable wall of scales and hide, the
distance put between them became shorter and shorter by the very second. Da’ak in the distance
already had turned and left at a less frantic pace, giving Garoch and the herd time to catch up.
Jokingly, almost as if mocking, he called out ‘Pick up your feet a little! It’s like you want to be
caught by them. You have legs for a reason!’ he said waving his arms as he nimbly climbed up a
tree, for a better vantage point but also surprisingly flexing about the larger branches to cover the
occasional gaps in the trees where rivers and rocks break the canopy.

Swinging his staff, Garoch managed to tear a grizzly gash across the eye of one of the forward
most Grox sending them stumbling to hold off the charge for merciful moments as he spotted a
low standing boulder. Its smooth edges provide a difficult surface to climb but not one that was
too perilous as he makes short work of the jump to only about twice his height. The Grox behind
him crash into the stone, sending fragments like shell fire into the trees around them, some
rearing back their heads and managing to take clawed swings across the surface just missing
Garoch as he continues with all the momentum of his escape behind him he swings across a large
branch to higher standing. The dim witted creatures looked blankly for a while, before
themselves tearing into the wood and stone separating them and lifting their hefty forms upwards
to his dismay. The shaper veered off towards the Fangners’ swamp while whistling and cawing
out to make sure his kin didn’t lose him as the beasts started to draw behind. The pair continued
on in the trees until they arrived at a very sludgy area of the bog, the cries of Fangners fading as
the ground shook underfoot as the first few Grox sank into the ground. Black slick keeping them
from escaping as more and more of the herd lined up behind them to follow. Triumphantly,
Da’ak reached down and broke the end off one of the creature’s barbs, and led Garoch to a safer
distance. Garoch took his chance to speak before his shaper had the chance. ‘That was a very
dangerous test Shaper, if I had known those things had a response like that I would’ve had a
different approach.’ Looking back at the shaper the reality of the situation dawned on him as he
got his reply. ‘Think about you surroundings. You will not always know everything you need to
know, so adapt. The terrain is one of your best tools, look at them down there. Stuck in shallow
pools being blocked in by the unknowing herd while we escape with ease. I knew you had never
hunted around these before, so you also need to learn how to deal with new and sudden changes.
You did prove at least that you are not as slow as I thought. So well done there Garoch.’

There was a cold chill in the air as daylight started to fade. Da’ak sent Garoch back to the
Kindred whilst he took to carving up some of the less fortunate Grox from their earlier
encounter. Orange light illuminated the forest floors, teeming with bugs trying to find their way
between the daytime predators falling asleep and the nocturnal predators waking up. His eyes
and legs were still aching from the day’s activities and he couldn’t wait to be home, with a nice
portion of Ray’fel and maybe even some Grox if the Shaper made it back in time. The winds
drew colder as the sky turned black, but this usual occurrence wasn’t what drew the young
Kroot’s interest. Deep in the distance, like flies hovering around a corpse, there were small
flashing lights. Bright orange plumes, solid red beams and fuzzy green waves sending ripples
throughout the whole scene. Too small to get a good glimpse of but peculiar nonetheless,
something he told himself to remember to inform Yer’tak back at the hunting camp.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 87

The fire that night burned like a pyre, the grox meat was a special treat for most and the fire
needed to be very hot to deal with the thickness of the meat. On this occasion, with only a single
cycle more until his trial, Garoch was ready to tuck in and just chat with his fellows after he
brought the news along. Again, he respectfully called out at the hanging hides which makeup the
entrance of the camp. ‘Enter’ the old rattled voice replied from the hut in the center, so he
complied. The inside of her hut was warm and comfortable, a stone basin and decorative banners
hanging upon the wall in bright greens and reds taken from past conflicts she had endured.
Garoch looked about in awe at the woven carpeting and stylized bone-carved furnishings, never
once in his life had he seen anything like it yet to Yer’tak that seemed irrelevant. ‘What is it,
young one?’ she asked, her voice brittle and delicate with every tone and whistle. ‘Chief Shaper,
I saw something odd while walking home this night; colours in the sky, oranges, reds and greens.
I couldn’t see what it was, but it looked very far off.’ as Garoch spoke the Elder’s face twisted
slowly into a frown. She turned around and opened up a small simple wooden box left in the
corner of the room, pulling out something metal in one hand and some tattered old papers in the
other. ‘Thank you, this knowledge provides great help to us. Could you go and get Gohk, Da’ak,
and Angkol for me? I need to speak with them.’ her voice softening from before.

‘Of course Chief Shaper, but does that mean you know what those are? The Lights?’

‘Yes I do.’

‘What are they then? If is it right for me to ask’

‘It is alright. In the same way Thexian ships visit us, other races have their ships used for
traveling the galaxy.’ Garoch was confused by the idea at first, but remained quiet. ‘They often
meet up and fight one another.’ This was too far for him.

‘Fight!? How can they fight? Unless they stop and let them jump across to their ships. Then
why don’t they just fly away?’ He bellowed, too loudly for comfort but startled with these hard
to grasp concepts.

‘Young one, calm yourself. Let me tell you what I know, or leave. You don’t have to believe me,
but I assure you it is the truth.’ She waited for Garoch’s ramblings to cease before she continued.
‘These ships carry weapons. Much like the guns we use to hunt on occasion. These lights you
saw were their weapons firing at each other. Although I cannot say who it may have been, I can
tell you Garoch. They are fighting out whatever they have between them, you should pay them
no more mind except a curiosity or two.’ These words, however strange and exoteric they
seemed to ring true in the Shaper’s voice, as he understood slightly more with each passing
second. ‘I will bring the Shapers to you, Yer’tak. Thank you.’ she smiled and dismissed Garoch,
tending back to her things from the box. As soon as Garoch left the hut he let out a piercing
whistle, calling for the shapers, which he left to echo throughout the camp. It then wasn’t long
until the three shapers of the Kindred aggregated and made their way into the hut. With his work
done, Garoch took himself back to the pyre, the air freshened by the smell or Grox meat. A large
slab of the thick and lean meat found its way to Garoch as he took his usual seat by the fire, the
stronger winds of the day making the flame flail about in panic. It was calming to finally rest
after the last few cycles of hunting and training. With only one last cycle before his trials, he let
his mind wander for a while about what it would be like when he was finally blooded. No longer
did images of heroic hunts or delicious foodstuffs fill his mind, but instead the quiet. The quiet of
the hunt with those gut wrenching moments where the heart races and every impulse is on a hair
trigger, the sudden and swift riposte and escapes from larger creatures and finally the sound of
the kill. That was what he wanted but with no sign of Or’ek to speak to about the day’s
strangeness he looked back into the fire. Breathing just like he was the fire called out in rough
tones as it was pressed down by the wind, yet the smaller fires surrounding them were not so
lucky. In their places were wooded char, before he set off to rest he decided to help clear up the
smaller fires.

As Garoch placed his hand on the dead looking wood, heat shot up his hand and arm just shy of
burning as he pulled his hand away. This is my chance he thought as he relaxes his eyes and lets
the world fade to grey again. Slowly this time. He let the feel of the heat melt into his skin and
eyes, as the world lit back up. The wood glowed in the center and along the minute tears in the
grains, the exterior wood looked dull like cold stone with the cracks and the heat from within
seeping through. It hurt to focus too hard on it, but it seemed to call out to him with a display of
light just like the fire did so he continued just a little bit longer. Long enough to carefully place
his hand onto the colder parts of the wood and carry them over to the ash pit they used to recycle
the otherwise spent wood. Feeling proud of his newfound skills, and burdened by the fatigue of
the day, he took himself to the den to sleep. It was a well protected area, cordoned from the
elements by a sap sealed wall of branches and rocks. Much like a hut, except bigger and with
more secure walls and a ceiling rather than just draped hide. Having found a comfortable spot,
Garoch laid on the ground to rest, it wasn’t very crowded that night, as he let himself drift into
slumber pondering the training he went through today as well as the strange things Yer’tak said
to him.

The next morning he woke in the shade of the eerie, raring to go. He took to his feet and
overheard a commotion coming from the centre of the hunting camps. Many of the Kroot which
are normally preparing with knives and staves seem to be elsewhere, instead crates of guns and
cutting tools where being hauled out and checked over by some of the Elders. Or’ek waved him
over and excitedly announced ‘We have quite the interesting time ahead of us. We will be busy
tomorrow, brother’ he didn’t normally seem excited for much so taken back by this Garoch
presses; ‘How do you mean? I have my Trial at the end of this cycle. I will probably be busy
tomorrow anyway’ he says picking up a box and walking it over with it to where Or’ek was
placing his boxes down. ‘Brother, we have another crash landing!’ seemingly talking about
nonsense he just helped his brother along whilst he continued talking. ‘Ah, you were probably a
bit too young Garoch. A crash landing refers to a spaceship, which hit the ground. This time it
was bits of a few in fact. It is on the far side of the wastes to the east, so Shaper Angkol is
heading over there with his kin to check it out. Hopefully they bring back something interesting,
don’t you hope?’ Garoch let the silence run for a few moments trying to grasp what he had been
told. Spaceships? On the ground near here? It was an odd thought to behold that something from
another world would be stuck here now as well as being something that is going to be tracked
down and scavenged by the kindred. ‘How many are going? Do they think they will be able to
carry everything back?’ Garoch suddenly became more interested in the crash when the
connection between the flashing lights and spaceships connected in his mind. ‘I think they will
be fine. We have a few Krootox from Pech so they certainly have the strength. I would offer to
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 89

help if they needed it however.’ At that point they had taken the last of the boxes from the pile
which Or’ek was at before, as his brother turned to another piled up stack of them. Each in the
same matt grey boxes, cracked and scuffed they seemed to be working even still. ‘Garoch thank
you for the help but Da’ak did tell me to tell you to head back into the forest today for a last few
bits of training. So leave me to all this.’ As bad as it felt to leave his brother to lug around cases
for the rest of the day Garoch had his mind set on completing his trials, and this meant going to
see Da’ak.

It was warmer than it usually was this morning, with dust and smoke high up in the air casting
shadows over the forest. Da’ak wasn’t too hard to find as he sat perched in the tree Garoch had
tried to leap from to catch Fangners the day before. He only looked down towards the bubbling
patch, not saying a word to Garoch. ‘Shaper! I am here. What is it that you would like me to do?’
He continued to stare towards the mud. Pondering on the situation the young Kroot continued
‘Do you wish for me to catch some more Fangners? Using the method you taught me this time?’
Da’ak continued just looking down towards the mud. Figuring that was indeed what he needed to
do Garoch approached the surface looking down intensely at it. First he breathed, letting the
world fade to grey. Then he tensed, focusing on the warmer than usual climate, the water in the
air and the rays of the sun beaming down as the ground began to light up with small bright
patches amongst the rough. Not yet he thought knowing very well that he can do much better.
Pushing himself he thought back to the flickering of the fire and focused on the movement and
ripples in the heat. The forms of the Fangners became clearer, their small limbs, barbed tails and
lopsidedly large and pointed heads. Most importantly however, their fragile little necks. With
one breath in, Garoch positioned himself for a single precise movement, and as he exhaled he
slammed his hand into the bog just missing the creature and feeling quills draw across his palms
drawing blood which mixed into the soil. I can’t let this one escape! With his other hand he
reaches out in a long stretching motion grabbing onto whatever he could, with the slippery body
passing between his fingers. He let out a yell of anguish as he stood himself back up, beaten yet
not defeated he immediately found and dived into the bog after the next one. The second wasn’t
so lucky as in his frustration he could feel it’s small bones crunch in his grip, it was done.
Garoch left the brutalized, still dying, body of the Fangner at the foot of the tree and looked up at
the shaper; ‘I have finished. What should I do now?’ he thought, dreading a repeat of yesterday
with the Grox stampede.

The only response he received, however, was a bowl, one of the bowls they normally eat
Ray’fel out of. Da’ak tapped on a nearby tree, still with his vision tensed Garoch saw the lines
and clots of the small burrowing worms in the tree. Knife in hand, he cut into one of the major
veins, and watched as they bled out in a bright gush of heat and splinters as he scooped up
handfuls and wrapped them up in thick hide, to make sure they didn’t manage to find their way
into him. The parcel was weighty and writhed from the eagerness of the Ray’fel to escape their
binds but was just what he had hoped for as he placed the Ray’fel in the bowl and clambered up
the tree to pass the meal to his shaper. Even with his age the shaper had a lively grin as he took
the bowl and opened the parcel. Swallowing down the fresh meal a handful at a time until the
bowl was emptied, when he pointed towards a tree in the distance. ‘Shaper, you must say
something. I can’t keep guessing your intentions’ Garoch got up and walked along the branch.
His weight bending the branch slightly, but with just enough fibrous tension left to leap over to
the other side. The world came hurtling upwards towards him as the branch gave away under his
feet leaving him dazed on the ground with only a warm silhouette above him. Then it dropped, in
panic Garoch rolled to his side and unsteadily took to his feet, just maneuvering himself out of
the way of a dull grey metal knife.

Da’ak was grim faced, and without a word he lunged toward Garoch with the foreign blade in
his hand. Age was on Garoch’s side however as he was just nimble enough to roll across a
nearby mess of roots keeping a good distance between them. ‘Shaper, what are you doing?’ he
yelped, hoping that someone would hear him. Oily sweat droplets slipped down Garoch’s face as
the steely eyed superior of his approached slowly. There was no response and no fear numbing
whistles of acknowledgement, he was on his own. Like a serpent, he was coiled and ready to
strike, there was no way of getting to him without being hit so he darted about and saw the tree
still with the warm grubs swarming over the surface. It felt like fire overtaking his hand as he
flung a handful of the sticky flesh burrowers at his foe, scrambling up the tree whilst Da’ak was
distracted so that he could remove the parasites before they got too deep. Startled by the Ray’fel
clinging and trying to burrow through his skin, Da’ak left Garoch to his momentary reprise as he
clears them off with the blunt edge of his blade, only minor wounds left on his chest and arms.
Looking back down at the hardy veteran, Garoch tended to his mangled hand, it would hopefully
heal but it was too close for comfort as his mind started to leave ideas of diplomacy. It was only
a few moments after his respite before Da’ak, in a few short bounds, met him eye to eye on
another branch. Knife now in the other hand he relentlessly swings twice across the body,
forcing Garoch to stand back towards the tree trunk. The third strike, an effortlessly precise stab
at Garoch’s gut only barely avoided as he grabs an overhead branch and lifts himself upwards.
The blade shunted into the wood as the Shaper found himself defenseless to a direct kick aimed
at his head. The old Kroot’s body fell from the tree top and his back slammed into the swallow
jagged riverbed below, without a moment to waste Garoch fell after him sliding the knife out
from the tree poised to strike. As his body and blade came down upon the floored Shaper, in a
masterfully timed movement Da’ak feet swung out to stop Garoch above him and launched him
overhead backwards into the brambles, the knife slipping out of the kin’s grip.

Even with the tiny razor like brambles piercing his back, Garoch could only see one more
option. He vaulted himself over the bushes behind him into the field, the smell of rancid flesh
evident in the air. In a single motion the Shaper sprung over the foliage and went into pursuit.
There was no obvious sign of Grox in the area except for the pungent smell they normally give
off as Garoch headed towards the clearing. The chase continued for the longest time until the
younger had to stop, there was no time and not enough space between them to continue fleeing
so he turned back towards the river still keeping up his pace. The sun beaming down to the
surface and the air becoming dry and coarse made keeping up a sprint difficult, so he tried to
pace himself, only letting the shaper regain ground which was safe to lose as he managed to find
the relief of the shade. The Shaper was still following, wavering much like Garoch was but
holding himself together as dried blood crusted over his skin and he powered through it. Finding
his way into the cool air, Garoch was nowhere to be seen. The deep greens and greyish browns
of the trees obscured any sign of the bright blue of his Kindred, but the smell of blood held close
in the air. Intrigued, the shaper continued onwards towards the smell, he tore one of the larger
branches from a nearby tree. It was no thinner than his arm and made a good makeshift weapon,
readying himself for the much awaited ambush. There was no sign of him still as the scent
started to fade, so he started to make his way back to the camp alone. The disturbance to the
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 91

environment showed, with the usual Sangk’ril and the other woodland creatures hidden away in
their nests, warrens and hives to avoid the quite notable wounded warrior as he strides through
the forest back towards the cliff. The wind started to pick up again as he headed back the way he
came detouring around the uncovered plains, to have a look for his knife that was dropped.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye there was movement in the undergrowth. It was foul
smelling as it squirmed around and circled the shaper. A likely ploy is what his near century of
experience told him but there was another sound, vines and foliage being strained as he feels a
tug around his right foot. Ensnared by the trap, the world flipped itself as the creature
unsurprisingly leapt out with the dull steel in his hand. Da’ak in an instant jammed the pointed
end of the stick, still with splintered tears from the tree it was taken, into the improvised rope
severing it as the creature laid the knife into his stomach. Losing more and more blood his body
dropped to the floor, managing a swing using the stick catching both the legs of his assailant,
causing them to fall in kind. Both combatants met back, eye to eye on their feet only a few paces
out of reach from each other. Garoch was coated in overpoweringly foetid mud from the bog to
mask his scent, confidently brandishing the knife as he drew closer and closer. Feeling his body
grow weaker, Da’ak stood steadily on his feet and held himself waiting for the young Kroot to
move first. They both stood there still, it fast became clear that only one of them needed to act
soon as the orange cruor dripped down onto the forest floor. Every beat was a beat closer to loss
as his vision started to blur. Breaking the silence, he stumbled a few steps forward and let out a
swing, easily dodged by the younger. Garoch took his chance and stepped into a final lunge
before being met by another much stronger swing back around, knocking his head downwards
into the dirt. The Elder collapsed onto the ground beside him, keeled over from his wounds, his
mouth open as he let out a few faint words. ‘Well done Garoch. I think you are ready. Let’s get
back.’ as his eyes fall shut. Regaining his balance, Garoch had realized what he had done, again
crying out with yelp and a panicked whistle. It wasn’t long before help came...

His injuries healed quickly with a good amount of rest before the evening fire and the start of
the trials, and he could really feel the difference that medicines and salves from the Thexian
Trade Empire did wonders for his cuts and scrapes. However, the greater part of the care was
reserved for Da’ak, still unconscious as the fires started to burn had suffered however according
to the strange reptilian worker the Thexians brought with them Da’ak would wake up within the
day and be fine. Supposedly, he would’ve survived anyway if left alone, but it was hard to
believe having seen what he had seen. It was odd to see non Kroot on the world, and the Elders
did seem more talkative with the traders compared to times before as there were many more
Kroot carrying around guns and rifles in the waning daylight. Peculiar as this was, Garoch
couldn’t help but find himself staying at the Shaper’s bedside in the alien building. It was clean
and fresh smelling. Beside the reptilian worker who referred to himself as a ‘Loxatl’ and spoke
in a broken toneless voice, the room was lined with boxes covered in small black markings and
symbols he had never seen before. There was a colourless bag with an orange liquid in it that the
worker had clumsily but clearly told him not to “play with”, which had a tube passing liquid
between it and Da’ak. Dusk was looming when Garoch finally took up asking the worker about
what he was doing, in the nicest way he could think of. ‘What are you doing to the Shaper?’ he
said letting out a soft snarl.

‘I take care of him. Making strong.’ the worker hissed as it spoke, missing out parts of its
phrases.

‘How?’

‘I hear concern. This bag has cure in it. Helps make blood heal. No concern.’

‘How do you know? What if it gets worse?’

‘It no get worse. Special cure, Kroot heal with cure. Trust me.’ That last phrase “Trust me”
sounded much better rehearsed than the rest of its speech. It still seemed that Da’ak was alive,
and clinging onto the hope that he would get better Garoch buried his doubts for the moment. His
intrigue about the strange creature piqued.

‘Alright… I’ve never seen anything like you before. Where are you from?’

‘From?’ they struggled to pronounce that.

‘Where is your home? What do you do?’

‘Home? I understand. Born in spaceship. I learnt to heal, I go heal. For the Thexian Elites. I do
combat medicine. Called Doctor. Keep fighting people alive.’ however confused his speech was,
it seemed to get the idea across. The word Doctor was a new one to Garoch but seeing it at work,
its flat laying body slumped up a set of steps with a tray often taking the time to wipe a slimy
liquid off their skin before readjusting switches and levers across some of the strange boxes, he
started to understand what was happening. At least it all appeared to be true as he watched its
nimble dew shaped fingers operate through 3 or 4 small panels with lights, dials and knobs.

‘What is your name?’ Garoch wondered.

‘Nbltu. And you?’

‘Garoch. Thank you for taking care of Da’ak, but it’s getting late and there is something I need to
get to.’ Nbltu gave them a vague wave of the hand as the young Kroot left the building. I really
should have stayed to ask more but I don’t think there was anything else to say he pondered.
Returning to the fresh air outside, he paced over towards the hunting camp, letting out a loud call
to warn them he was on his way. There were more Kroot moving crates from the camp and
placing them onto chrome plates to be transported into the cargo hold of the Thexian trade ship,
diligently looked over by a Thexian overseer. It’s open hive-like chest cavity disjointed and
flexing like a leaf in the wind, it was one of the more well known battleforms with it’s compound
jaw and rows of slender chitin covered legs; a terrifying creature which often did keep people in
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 93

line very its looks alone, but this wasn’t what Garoch was here to do. The hides of the hunting
camp hung there rippling in the wind, the last piece between him and his trials.

Garoch strode into the camp, head held high and ready for what was to come. The trials were a
brutal practice where young Kroot were tested to their absolute limits. After collecting a long list
of different quarries and placing them at one of the Totems that stand in the camps, the Chief
Shaper would look you the Kroot over to decide where or not they were ready to become
blooded. If they thought you were ready the Shapers would decide amongst each other what you
would need to hunt to prove that you were ready to become blooded. Choosing creatures such as
the venomous Ar’bil, burrowing dust worms, or sometimes if you were lucky, it would only be
an adult Grox. Often these would also entail a few days travel deep into the plains to the west or
over the cliffs to the wastes in the east. Both equally dangerous in their own ways and after going
blow to blow with fatigue, the elements and the other creatures you might encounter you would
be expected to hunt and kill the target with only a Kroot rifle and 3 shots if you haven’t already
spent them then dragging its body in full back to the kindred. The events of the last few cycles
may have shook Garoch’s confidence in his ability to complete it but the skills Da’ak had taught
him were still fresh in his mind. I can do this trying to egg himself on. He repeated these words
in his head letting them sink in as he pushed past the rough hides to see Yer’tak and Gohk
waiting for him surrounded by a crowd of those who were on break from moving crates and a
few Kroot from off-world.. Gohk was holding a Kroot rifle in his hands, with a rather stern
disapproving grimace. Yer’tak seemed more welcoming as she handed two pieces of parchment
to Garoch. ‘Well done Garoch, you have made it to your Trials. We will give you some time to
memories these drawings before you go. One is a map to where the prey normally rests and the
second is a picture. We have high hopes for you.’ She takes a few steps backwards, he leg
whirring and clanking against the wooden slats which surround the central hut. The picture was
simply drawn in ash, depicting a bipedal creature. It’s head and torso was clad in a thick padding
of some kind, with the rest of it’s skin draped over its bones; two forward facing eyes and
pentadactyl appendages at the ends it’s arms, with thick stubby lumps at the end of its legs. The
look of confusion was clear to everyone. What is this? Garoch started to wonder to himself, the
picture seemed to be freshly drawn but he had never seen a creature like this in his life. Seeing
the fret develop on the young Kroots face, Yer’tak thought to herself about something and gave a
nod to Gohk who began to explain. ‘At the start of this cycle we started preparing to salvage the
wreckage of a craft that has crashed upon our world. During the day, a local Thexian Merchant
called Heronne informed us of the situation. That ship was a Gue’la gunship. As far as we know
the pilot of that ship as well as some of its crew are still alive and have been trying to survive in
the wastes. Garoch’s trial will be to kill and bring back at least one of those Gue’la. If he returns
with his quarry, he will be made blooded.’

The situation felt unreal at first, aliens? After all this time they decide to get him to hunt aliens?
Even those strange weak ones that Da’ak had told him about before? There was no challenge he
could see. They look like small bipeds with only armour on their center mass and their head.
‘Thank you shaper’ Garoch says as he takes the Kroot rifle from Gohk, and turns on the spot.
With hundreds of eyes on him, he stepped forward rigidly and professionally aiming to show
what their kindred can do. It would be his actions that followed that would be judged as
representative of this world to both other Kroot and outsiders looking inwards. He has no choice
but to give it his all, putting the questions he had and the images of Da’ak in that bed deep down
into the bottom of his mind he continued out of the camp. Turning with his back towards the
dusk light, he began the journey, leaving the chatter and intrigue of his Kindred behind. First, he
had to travel down the eastern slopes. Long rocky straits which lead from the plateau that the
camp is perched upon and the upper wastes. It took until past nightfall to pass through the forest.,
with the air getting colder and the trees and life of the forest becoming sparse Garoch took his
time to find a tree infested with Ray’fel and to crush them up into a paste. Placed within a pouch
fashioned from the readily available tree leaves, he had a supply of food. Next was to find some
water, although many creatures in the wastes had large stores of water in their body there was no
reason to assume that there would be any on the path he was taking; It grew dark that night as
Garoch made his way to the river, drinking as much as he could before heading towards the
straits. They loomed off into the distance as fingerlike stony pathways gripping the white sands
of the waste and holding it close to the verdant plateaus and highlands. It was a long gravelly
stretch towards the first corner, small oblong crustaceans were burying themselves for the soon
coming morning as he proceeded on foot. The feel of the stones was rough, nipping and tearing
at the soles of his feet, but none were sharp enough to pierce through the skin.

The ground was rough and dry, the moisture sapped away by the gratefully absent starlight as
he continued at a jog to make it off of the dusty straits before daylight came back. The air was
quiet beyond the shifting of sand and the jittering of the small crablike creatures that have found
a home on this world. Another reminder of aliens, these creatures were some that Da’ak had told
him never to hunt. Brachyura. A genius, easily offended race who often found their place in the
smallest of cracks and holes in the ground, but with their dexterous limbs they brokered a deal to
help with the kindred’s finer technology in return for safe living. They tend to stay along here
because their pale blue shells blend in with some of the types of stones that make up the ground.
Moving past their colonies Garoch found himself nearing the mouth of the straits to the open
wastes as dawn came. The ground already started to warm, so he took cover beneath the ridge
created by the root of the straits. The cool shade shielding him from the sun whilst the air grew
thinner and drier. The day passed slowly but surely, with the hiss of the wastes’ heat echoing
throughout. Garoch preoccupied himself with checking his supplies and maintaining his gun,
making sure no dust got into any place it shouldn’t. There was nothing here, beyond the sand,
stone and dust, and these Gue’la...Thinking back towards the picture he was shown of them
thoughts like What do they do? How do they taste? And how do I hunt them? Filling his mind,
each question’s answer less and less clear than the last. It was like being a child again,
wondering about the creatures he has since become used to hearing about and often hunting or
seeing. Not this though, a Gue’la was something he had never heard proper descriptions of until
only a few cycles ago yet it was there in his mind, formless now but prized nonetheless. This
would be his proof that he was able, that he was blooded. With a light scraping of Ray’fel from
his packed food, Garoch watched as the daylight started to fade, leaving in its place the cold
night. With the sand getting cooler, he took a few cautious steps out before beginning the next
leg of his trek.

The wind was low and soft as he strode between the growing dunes of white dust, with a good
pace he should arrive near to the crash site by morning. The rough grains of sand whipped
against his skin, having been blown about by the winds as he continued onwards. In the
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 95

moonlight, the dunes stood out like waves in the sea, frozen in a single moment as a sheen of
dust sails along the crest and down the valleys. The land was resting, underneath was a
labyrinthine arrangement of tunnels and reservoirs which many of the wasteland creatures thrive
off of. Garoch knew to avoid them at all costs as his feet passed through the silky surface of
undisturbed sand as he continued under the starlit sky. It was the start of the new celestial cycle,
the night in which the planet wasn’t there hanging above the surface with it’s green light. It was
dark. The only light was from the distant stars and the halo of the horizon, as a smell caught the
young Kroot’s senses. Carried in the wind was a familiar smell, the smell of the burnt flesh of the
waste reptiles, accompanied by the heaviness of something foul smelling like the nauseous
gasses released by the engines of the Thexian ships. Even with the low winds, this smell could
have traveled far from its source, but the flames are another matter. It took another while of
trudging through the sand before the smell became stronger, which was just what the Kroot
wanted. Garoch pondered over his approach, thanking his shaper under his usual tone as the little
colour that was left in the world fell to grey, and started to morph. The sand became much darker
and hard to see beyond the odd nest, and the air lit up with cold grey lines flowing like water
from all directions swirling around him but it was the few warmer bright patches which took his
attention, like an unruly pillar which could only be the smoke of the fire. A fire which some
might need to survive the cold nights of Jiht, especially in the harshness of the wastes.

It was there, like a beam holding the sky and land apart yet, Garoch continued onwards
unphased. Where there was fire, there was a fire starter and these Gue’la in all their weaknesses
must be the ones to create it out here so far away from everything else. During the next day he
would only observe, a more reckless Kroot might charge in and tear them limb from limb but
deep down there was a curiosity which Garoch couldn’t tame. It was asking him to find out
more, learn what the aliens do, how they survive and how they hunt. How else could they still
survive? As he approached the crest of the nearest high dune to the pillar he took out another
handful of Ray’fel, and took a swing of water from his container. Even from here he could hear
the calls and jeers of the Gue’la, in mangled senseless drivel. They seem to care very little about
the predators that might be stalking them, which now are stalking them. One was higher in pitch
and more tonal and delicate sounding than the other, which was normally met with responses of
grunts and deeper monotonous tones. With his interest piqued, Garoch laid against the sand only
a few lengths away from the top to listen to them. They continued on until the night ended before
the higher tone stopped and the crunch of sand began to leave the site. Even without a single
glance, the newness awed him as the smells of the dying embers faded and the rank smells of the
creatures could now be smelt. They smelled greasy and vaguely of machine works as one of
them left their encampment and headed out. The bright blue of his porous skin was masked by
the stain of the dust allowing him to blend with the dunes as he took a glance at one of his
targets, They stood in crimson red garbs, lined and highlighted with gold. Their jackets and
helmets are well kept shiny black, with a notable feather jutting out from the top of their heads.
Just taking a peek over them both, the pair seemed to have a long item strapped to their belt with
a gem encrusted handle as well as a matt golden finish on a gun-like object the one who was
walking away was holding tightly in both hands. As the walking one was passing over the dunes
in the distance, Garoch’s focus came to the wreckage and the other. They were unconscious on
the floor of a burgundy and black vehicle of some kind. Its side was torn off leaving a ghastly
sharp silver edge and the interior open for viewing. It was cramp between flat wide metal bars
which protruded out from the walls as bloodstained rags seemed to be bundled into a corner with
the other laying within them. Much like the nest and the branches, so presumably for comfort as
the body was nestled quietly within.

This would be the perfect vantage point to take a few shots and to fell them both swiftly, to
make sure that there would be no complications. Waiting for the next change or for when the
other returned would be the best course of action, but with no prying eyes there was the same
voice as before deep in Garoch’s mind asking to know more. Explore, it is asleep. It can’t stop
you. These suggestions kept fluttering about his mind until he decided to act, keeping low he
traveled down the side of the dune to its base and began to find his way around towards the
crash. A body, charred and scraped mostly down to the bone was slowly being consumed by the
changing sands was the first thing that he saw, their wraps the same as the other two as he
continued making sure to make as little sound as possible. There it was. Unnatural and beguiling
the vehicle stood out of the sand like ruins, much like that of old abandoned camps being
reclaimed by the forest this was much more intense to look at. Taking a few more steps closer
the burnt out pyre and metal opening came into view, still empty and soundless as the wind
whined against the structure. Even still, no sign of any movement so he continued up the drift
towards the mouth of it. Now the breath of the creature was audible, soft and wheezing from the
dry air they still remained unconscious and unaware. Letting his eyes pass over the crates and
boxes he saw a box with metal rods and a metal circle attached to the top, it was letting out a
quiet hum as a line flickered side to side on the glass. It seemed to move in patterns whose
secrets were kept safe from him as it was leant up against the side. Beside it lay small metal
rectangles with indented lines at the top, remaining at a safe distance they seemed to be inert and
useless, so Garoch let himself take just a few more steps in to look around more. There was
iconography, meaningless to him, plastered on almost every box, cube object or piece of wear
which were all in turn committed to memory. Meat, he could smell meat, not living meat but the
smell of something long dead and eaten away at by the bugs. Following his nose he found in the
very back of the area was a pile of flimsy material packets, after a gut wrenching tearing sound
to open one there was only a fine pinkish brown powder which vaguely resembled that of the one
sleeping. A medicine, like the loxatl had shown him or maybe even some other strangely applied
thing which the Gue’la supplemented their own lives with. With the creature still sleeping,
Garoch had obviously overstayed his welcome, taking two of the packets for further study he
continued back towards the dune with his mind occupied with ideas for which this powder could
be used for.

Laying back down against the sand, out of sight, Garoch toyed with the packets. Tearing them
in different ways, he smelt and tasted the powder trying to get a good sense of its use. Foul
odored and just as foul tasting, devoid of all moisture or meat flavour that he enjoyed, yet there
was still a vague smell of meat, dried and dusty, clumping into an intrusive paste as he
swallowed it this was definitely not a foodstuff. Digging a small hole with the blade of his gun,
he deposited the powder into one of the tunnels below and waited for any of the subterranean
creatures to take sight of it. However he didn’t have a chance to find out what would happen
when the powder was found as the sound of boots in the sand echoed out across the open as the
day was reaching its midpoint. Beads of sweat rolled down Garoch’s skin as he turned to take
another glance at the crash sight to see them both awake and together. It was time.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 97

Resting the barrel of the gun on the sand, using it as a natural stand as he took aim at the head
of the newly awakened one. They were not wearing their head gear and were likely to be the
most alert of the two, the ironsight lined up with the lower jaw and neck of his quarry. They were
surveying the surroundings but didn’t seem to spot Garoch in the distance, standing in the shade
much like the Kroot wished he was as his finger found the trigger and pressed it softly. A
hairbreadth away from firing, the heat reflecting off the sand's surface caused a small blur in the
air between the two but the chance was too good to take. Garoch checked to make sure the gun
was only set to fire it’s fire shell before double and triple checking his sight. He drew in a dry
breath of course dust, and let it out before clenching his finger slightly and firing. The shot
missed its mark becoming embedded into the gue'la’s shoulder pad, before Garoch was met with
a shout and a panic. Instinctively he ducked down just before a wave of red light filled the air
only a few inches above his head. Sand erupting from stray shots that struck the dune as the two
started shouting, their footsteps suddenly approaching he slid down the bank of the dune and
bounded towards the next. The two were much slower, but to every show of foreign flesh more
of these red beams followed inexplicably fast barely being able to keep up with the Kroot as he
made his way between different points of cover hoping to lose them. With only two shots left in
his gun, Garoch’s first thought was to get into a better, closer position next time. He couldn’t
miss again. After a few fretful moments more Garoch spotted an opening to a dust worm cavern.
Taking a pick between the nocturnal dust worms and these Gue’la, as weak as they were meant
to be, was a simple decision to make as he squeezed his way into one of the underground
burrows. Drenched with mucus and oil, the grainy walls kept their shape even as they were made
wider by the blade on Garoch’s gun and his elbows opening out the bottom. At last the grunts
and yells began to subside, as the alien footsteps began to grow quiet, fading off into the distance
from which they came. Leaving enough time for Garoch to remove the dust and sand from his
weapon, he re-emerged from the hole. As the air cooled before night, Garoch had to come up
with a way to get closer. He pondered on it until nightfall, taking another light handful of food
and another swig of water he had an idea.

Under the cover of night, his sight would by far outmatch theirs, he assumed. The benefit of
being able to focus on the heat given off from the creatures rather than relying on the light of the
day to make his mark. He also noted how he underestimated the distortion due to the higher
temperatures in the air, another obstacle thankfully avoided by the night. Confident in getting a
better, closer position he set back out slowly nearing the threshold before fatigue would start to
weigh upon him. They were both sitting about a new fire, their tone seemed more tense than the
night before as they spoke softly and kept a good watch about. Garoch took his time to work his
way even closer towards the site, the spines on his head raised to take in more of the vibrations
of the surroundings just in case as the gue’la remained on high alert. Hidden away in the
darkness the eager hunter stayed himself, to watch them converse about a knife one of them was
holding. It looked almost identical to Da’ak’s, although it was in a different colour. The same
symbol on the side, and the same shape and edgework. He laid in the shadows and only observed
for now, letting himself wonder about what they could be talking about. Stories from a fight in
some distant field? Maybe they were like him, and it was from their own trials to get them where
they were today? Yet he couldn’t distract himself with these thoughts for too long, they were his
prey, similarities or none.
 They hadn’t noticed him yet as he skulked through the shadows, listening into the sounds and
patterns of their speech. It was complex, much more so than his own tongue but Garoch was
quickly catching on. Words devoid of meaning following very easy to identify patterns, little
tonal shift and volume seemed not to matter. Whatever was being said, the shorter of the two’s
heartbeat was racing. They seemed to be engrossed in it, feverishly lowering their defenses as the
conversation grew slower. Garoch took his time to scale the wreckage without a sound, out of
sight around the other side as he prepared for the kill, the crackling of the fire filling the air. The
metal of the ship was cold and unlike anything he had ever seen before, it felt immovable and as
sturdy as the cliffs that he lives on. Passing over a hard see through material covering pieces of
alien equipment, he found himself on top of the vehicle. The Gue’la were only a few steps away
from the ledge as he chambered the next shell and prepared to go. Seeing as he managed to get
this close, there would be very little reason to waste bullets on them. Taking a peak over the
ledge they both had their heads down, now quiet and shivering as the night wind picked up. It
was time. He stood at the edge, looming over the two. Then he dropped down with his blade at
the ready.

Red vitae stained the sand as Garoch fell he struck with the blade of his gun downwards
through the helm of the shorter one, who let out a blood wrenching shriek as their body spasmed
to the ground. Horror stricken, the taller one scrambled backwards shouting and reaching for his
handgun that sat uselessly on the bench behind him. Tearing the weapon from one of their heads,
leaving grey tissue on the sand Garoch fired a shell at the other. The crackle of bones and flesh
melded with the energy whistling around the shell as they dropped to the floor. It only took a few
more moments before the bodies were still and each moment felt glorious. Unperturbed by the
twitching of the bodies as their lives seeped into the dust, Garoch took the next moment to steady
himself, procuring an intricate rope made out of alien materials and tying it around their ankles.
He took a swig of his water, it was almost three quarters empty, and he ate the remainder of his
provisions as he prepared to head back. There was no use in skinning the bodies like he normally
would, as he hoped to make it back with them as fresh as possible, their smell was horrid on the
outside, but their open flesh smelled fatty and heavily watered down so he could likely bear the
taste to celebrate when he got back. By the time he was done, daylight began to illuminate the
sky as to clearly show what had happened there by the embers. The creatures that lived beneath
the surface scampered sheepishly out to take nibbles off the digits on the hands and feet of the
two, and segments from their face before Garoch cared enough to shoo them off. The smell
would soon be drawing dust worms here he thought, which led him to getting set off on his
journey. Fastening the rope around his shoulder Garoch began to pull the bodies across the dunes
back towards home, the weight was not as much as he expected as the sound of sand being
brushed about by them blocked out the usual monotony. The day came and went as fatigue
started to get to the Kroot. Each step became heavier, each bead of sweat became larger until he
was drenched and the light became brighter as he managed to make it to the base of the straits.

Placing the bodies in a small hole off the ground in the rock, he was sure that they should be
mostly fine as Garoch found his way to sleep. The sand, however course and hot, would do. With
a final check over his gun, storing it away between the wind cut stone at the root of the straits he
laid down and shut his eyes. The worries, excitement and curiosity of the day laid to rest so that
he could be fresh for the last leg and for handing the quarry over to Yer’tak. Da’ak was right, I
did need that help. Keeping calm and making the best use of what I had got me through this
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 99

day… I hope that ‘doctor’ keeps his word so I can thank him.... His mind rested on those last few
thoughts as he fell asleep…

Blinding pain woke him from his slumber, like a raging fire crawling up across his left leg as
the smelt of burnt flesh filled the air. Eye wide open, he twisted in place from the pain, trying to
identify the cause he saw a silhouette in the green dim light of the planet below. The night had
returned as two figures, one holding a weapon in one hand and carrying the other figure across
their shoulder, stumbled across the sand back towards the first few dunes, following the wake
which the bodies cut in the sand. Before he could stand up, he jerked his head back just to miss
another red beam which struck the sand in front of his face. Hot sand tore across his eyes and
face as the world went white. Garoch shook as his body dropped to the floor, keeping his yelps
and movement to a minimum as the sound of trudging slowly and agonizingly disappeared into
the distance. The pain subsided early, but his sight did not return at first as the smell of the
Gue’la faded into the distance. I can’t lose them. His instincts were screaming to get up and
chase them down, anger shaping his mind into something without. The potential taste of flesh in
his mouth, as well as his dreams of becoming blooded slipping through his fingers like the
mineral grains embedded into his eyes. Dragging himself across the stone and grit until he felt
the familiar metal of his gun, still tucked away in the rock. Using it as a crutch he began to
pursue the prey.

Letting the sediment drop out of his eyes, and mix with the blood seeping from the tears in the
skin of his face, he focused on the sparse scent. The foul odour that he has had to deal with over
the last few days, and slowly beginning to hate, was the only thing tying them to him now.
Without any idea if he was catching up or trailing behind, Garoch pushed himself to run on his
mangled leg, it felt like it ended at his knee and everything below was dead weight but without
his sight all he could tell was the smell of blood and marrow exposed to the air. Each dune was
no longer a short few bounds, now each their own gravelly mountain slowing him down as
clotting ichor dropped off to be a feast for the waste reptiles as he continued onwards without a
care. As the smell of his own flesh curdling in the cold started to drown out the Gue’la, a
merciful groan echoed out across the desert. It was strange, unlike the words and patterns he
heard before, it was distorted and wavering. Like a gutted beast losing control of its body as its
body starts to fail. As strange as it was, it was all he needed to keep up with the aliens. They
were his prey, his ticket to becoming blooded and proving himself.

It felt like days had passed when the heat of the day fell upon his skin again, but he couldn’t
watch the stars rise up above the horizon. The hot sand between his toes was comforting, as the
slightest of sense returned to his left foot beneath the void where the pain had sprung up from. In
the distance he could hear them, one voice shouting and raving about something… and a second
voice, no longer light and delicate but slurred and dulled. The complexities were lost, hidden
behind a layer of pain and a mindless drone. One phrase caught his attention, angry and spoken
with the taint of hatred by the lower voice as he shouted out from his perch in the distance.
Garoch repeated this a few times, each time sounding more proficient and hateful himself.
Devoid of a definition, its intent was still clear in his mind. Step by step. Each dry breath
passing. Weakness, weaning and waving from his body as the Kroot continued to pass through
the sands. This was his home, and they were his prey. Anything more complicated than that was
what distracted him from checking the bodies to make sure they were dead, all his curiosities
were just advantages he was giving to them. Their newness had a grip on his mind; one which
almost proved fatal. He kept going, his bones and feet aching, screaming for much needed relief
but he had none he could afford to give. Night came again, the day slipping past unnoticed and
unseen for the first time in Garoch’s life, and it scared him. How could these weak, rank smelling
creatures who only just set foot under his sky put him through this pain… to take the feeling
from his leg and to take the sight from his eyes.

The sound of the ground shifting with dust worms swimming through their labyrinthine
network of tunnels and chasms began as it became cold once more. It was hard to tell whether it
was night or day without sight, but the sound surroundings, the scent of his prey and the ever
shifting heat of the cycle kept his mind steadied. The unknown, creeping around him and taking
away from. As the smell grew stronger again, mixed with the familiar machine oils of the
wreckage the hunter started to feel less in control. The gue’la was near, but where? His smell
was near, his sounds were dulled by the wind and the shifting sands and whatever visage they
had was far in the darkness out of sight. They could be standing still, disguised by the strange
boxes they had in their ruin, ready to take his life in another deadly beam of light. The spectre of
the silhouette stood in his mind, even without his sight he could see the figure in front of him
pointing its weapon at his head this time. Living husks, broken and dying but still as deadly as
anything else in the world… no, even deadlier… armed with unthinkable weapons that spit fire,
which crawls up and down entire limbs when it hits. It’s not that. His newfound fears, disabled
by them and at their whims and mercy was humiliating. If they were there… He still didn’t
know... Garoch could only assume they were not… Maybe my last shot will hit them? Then it
will be over. The other sounds closer to death than I am to walking straight. His mind began to
race, before it was grounded one last time by a scent, familiar scent, a charred scent of marrow.
Letting himself drop to his knees, he ran his fingers across filtering through the top layers of sand
until the porous shell of the charred bones he found before was in his hands. His mind picked up,
the pain dulling as he began to think.... He knew what to do.... He had a plan.

Renault limped back towards Sara. Her body laying there in a dreamless stupor, her crystal blue
eyes staring emptily outwards into the distance as they twitch slightly. Blood still trickling
through her brown hair, tied back in regimental tradition. He spent the rest of the available
daylight spoon feeding her the last of the corpse starch they had on hand and desperately trying
to operate the vox. Only one passing ship needs to be near, and then they are rescued. The night
skies still lit with the full burn of the Dominion and surrounding escort ships salvaging the
wreckage from the battle. Giving up the search and setting aside his own rations, he sat by Sara
and placed a tankard of water in her hands; still shaking, but not enough to spill her fingers
gripped tankard with all the strength she had left to muster, taking a feeble sip. Renault tore a
cleaner segment from his sleeve and cleared up the fluid which dribbled down her chin, with a
tear to his eye. ‘We’ll be okay. Just get some rest, and call for me if anything happens. I’m going
to take one last look at getting the ships vox working alright?’ at first she didn’t reply, only
nodding her head at a crooked angle before letting out a still weaker ‘yuh’ noise. He piled a few
spare uniforms taken from the rest of the ship’s crew behind her head for comfort and checking
the grade 2 field bandaging which was holding the gaping wound in her head shut before tucking
her in and leaving her with a fearful embrace. Renault couldn’t help but think that even a las
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 101

round to the head of the slimy xeno wouldn’t have been enough to get them home. He clambered
up the metal rungs on the side of the ship, and made his way back into the cockpit. A few
improvised maintenance tools in hand, fashioned from the now deceased servitor which was
supposed to tend to it, he delved back into the vox system. A few of the components overheated
on entry, and meant they were flying blind in the atmosphere before crashing here. Looking at
the ashen outline of the pilot against the glass still chilled him to the bone, as he pulled at the
dead machinery reciting the only few machine cult chants he was taught in training. After a few
minutes and scrapping two metres of wire from the ventilation system, he spoke the Litany of
Ignition.

As he shoved a new cable into the panel as he spoke the last words the lights on the vox
flickered to life. The quaint village town outside Sara’s Aunt’s palace on Ventrillia, the perfect
place to settle down was fresh in his mind as a spark of hope was rekindled in his heart. As long
as Sara can make it, that future is still possible… her recovery was certain when they got back.
Every throne would be spent making sure she recovers… and hopefully she will still want to
marry… These thoughts were all the young private had left to cling to, as he refused to let his
spirit be broken by this hellish landscape. He set up the vox to broadcast on as many frequencies
as were available a basic distress call, signifying living humans on a hostile xeno world. A
seldom used call to be sure, but one that surely they would act upon. After wiping the grease off
his hands onto his trousers, he worked his way back to the top of the Valkyrie and looked out
upon the endless sea of white under the soft green night sky. If only this world was one in the
Imperium, then it might be beautiful even. He saw a bump on the horizon, an odd one to say the
least, but as he identified another Ventrillian feather on top of that bump he decided to make his
way over there.; just in case they had a laspack which wasn’t on its last few tenths of a mega
Thule of charge, and maybe a better condition flak vest than his. He hobbled down the rungs and
continued his way towards the body. The sound of shifting sands which greeted him and Sara
only a few standard days before kept him on edge at first, until he made his way to the helm. He
had better things to pay attention to now. He looked about the sand and even dug through a few
inches from the surface in case the winds had covered the bones and the potential supplies.

His wrist crunched in a vice like grip as he was pulled down by an arm into the sand. Dazed, he
thrashed against it and reached for his laspistol, but it was torn from his belt and launched away
into a nearby dune. The grip left and found itself around his now exposed neck. The beast
crawled out of the sand, pale stained blue skin, eyes like marble chipped and worn down in the
sand, with a sharp-pointed beak. It stared into Renault’s eyes, ignoring the plas-steel capped boot
kicks to the gut as the human struggled gasping for air as his jawbone bent under the pressure.
The creature opened its maw to Renault’s horror as he tried to shout out to warn his love, but he
was breathless. Instead of taking a bite, it made his blood run cold, as in a cackled imitation of
himself, the creature spoke. ‘Foul… Xeno’. The last words he could hear, pain overtook his chest
and head as the world faded to black.
MILLENNIUM OF WAR 103

AZORIAN
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 105

Magos Alaina had always found the great gas giant of Ceti Sonaldi to be quite beautiful. Its
clouded surface was composed of vibrant stripes of red, yellow, orange and white. Within each
stripe were countless small vortices of gas that mixed into each other turbulently as the planet’s
spin churned its atmosphere. These vortices were at their most magnificent at the edges of the
stripes as gasses of different colour swirled into each other forming mesmerizing patterns.

However, neither she nor the Mechanicus were here to marvel at a gas giant. Reaching out with
the auspers of her gas trawler ship Excelsior Epsilon, she could sense the enormous skyhooks
orbiting the planet. These enormous space stations spun around dragging enormous metal
buckets across the outer atmosphere using titanic cables. These giant buckets scraped off the
hydrogen and helium of the planet and then spun back up into orbit for cargo ships to collect.
The gas would then travel across the galaxy to fuel the unending hunger of fusion reactors across
the Imperium.

Yet, there were even greater riches within the gas giant beyond simple hydrogen and helium.
As Excelsior Epsilon continued in its orbit across the planet, an enormous red maelstrom came
into view like an ugly spot of rust on a pristine piece of machinery. It was a violent swirling mass
of atmospheric gasses four times larger than Aliana’s forgeworld. Electroreceptive sensors
buzzed with activity as it detected the constant flashes of lightning discharging within the storm.
Alaina could even feel fear and trepidation through her links to the ship’s machine spirit, but that
was to be expected. Afterall, Excelsior Epsilon’s machine spirit knew it would have to dive into
this maelstrom.

The Magos lowered a portion of her emotional blocks in order to feel a small amount of sorrow
for Excelsior Epsilon. The ship was never designed to routinely fly into such fierce storms.
Alaina could feel the wounds that the ship had received in previous missions and the scars of its
subsequent repairs. It was very much a cruel fate for the machine spirit, but the Adepts on the
forgeworld of Apega had little choice. The maelstrom was the only place where the exotic gasses
could be collected, the enormous turbulence of the storm bringing up the precious gasses from
deep within the planet. The priests of Apega desired nothing more than to dive deep within the
planet and directly collect the exotic gasses, but that was no longer an option. The forgeworld
has long since lost all such ships capable of withstanding the extreme pressures of diving so deep
and its design was now only known to the Omnissiah.

<Tech bishop, begin spreading the incense and the application of holy oils across the ship. The
machine spirit grows anxious and needs to be calmed> Canted Alaina on her command throne.

<By your command mistress> replied the tech bishop. <Shall I also prepare sacred binary
chants for the ship’s speakers to play?>

<Yes, do prepare the chants, they will surely please the Omnissiah.> answered Alaina.

<Praise be to the Omnissiah> canted the tech bishop.

<Praise be> chanted the rest of the crew.

 Alaina watched as servoskulls carrying incense cencers emerged and flew around the bridge,
spreading the sacred incense. Clouds of gray smoke spread across the ship and Alaina breathed
in with her olfactory sensors, letting its complex scent calm her mind and spirit. Leaning back on
her throne and closing her eyes, Alaina let herself dive deep within the datastream of the ship.
She could feel servitors spreading holy oil across the ship and additional servoskulls spreading
incense to every corner of her vessel, calming its machine spirit. But despite this show of
devotion, the spirit was still anxious which was of little surprise. ‘Powerful is prayer, faith,
increase and oil but they alone cannot build god machines,’ ArchMagos Doctrinal Jewell would
often say with Alaina in full agreement.

<Sensori, have you completed your scan of the maelstrom?> asked Alaina.

<Yes Magos, I am transferring to you the data now> canted the Sensori.

Alaina opened up a large holographic map of the maelstrom and watched as Sensori’s data
began to fill out the map. Large regions of the map were filled with dark blue regions indicating
locations of dangerously fast and chaotic winds. Unfortunately, the green regions indicating the
highest concentrations of exotic gasses resided where the winds were at its very worst. Regions
containing large amounts of ammonia hail and lighting also dotted the map, but luckily they were
relatively dispersed. With the data transfer complete, Alaina combined it with data packets sent
by orbiting weather satellites and other gas trawlers to form a clear map of the maelstrom.

With this map in hand, Alaina reached out with her hand and activated her pathfinding
algorithms. White tendrils pierced the top of the maelstrom map and slowly began to snake
outwards seeking exotic gasses while avoiding dangerous areas. As each tendril moved deeper
into the map, they began to branch out as their different parameters sent them on different paths.
Some were instructed to take more risks, others put gathering exotic as a higher priority while
others still tried to find the safest route possible. The entire maelstrom was filled with white
tendrils by the time the pathfinding algorithm was complete, looking as if a plant firmly placed
its roots within the map.

Closing her pathfinding algorithm, Alaina brought out her evaluation algorithms. Slowly, she
began to trim away at the branches as she worked to determine which path was most optimal
until only one was left. This remaining path would collect the target amount of gasses while only
possessing a 0.095% chance of destroying her ship, a 2.54% chance of causing major damage
and only a 49.824% chance of minor damage.

Selecting the course her ship would take, Alaina collected the data and spread it to the
noosphere around the ship. Through her augmented eyes, she could see the maelstrom map along
with her selected path appear right beside each Techpriest. She then inputted the path into the
datacore of the ship and lingered there as she felt the machine spirit inspect the path. As the spirit
did so, she slowly sent her decision trees and reasoning, showing the spirit of the care and logic
Aliana put into the path. Seeing the amount of effort and logic put into the planning of this path,
Aliana could feel the ship relax. The spirit approved of the plan.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 107

<Steersman, I have selected the path. As soon as you look over it, descend into the maelstrom
and begin the gas collection> canted Alaina.

<Yes Magos > the crew canted the steersman.

The Excelsior Epsilon lurched as it began its final descent into the planet. The gravity well
pulled hard against the ship as it entered the atmosphere. At first the journey felt smooth with
any disturbance being quickly corrected by the ship's stabilization systems. However, the deeper
the ship sunk beneath the clouds of Ceti Sonaldi, the more it felt the maelstrom winds. The ship
shook with more violence and flexed as the red around it thickened to the point where even the
Techpriests had to secure themselves to their stations. Alaina could feel the once calmed
machine spirit grow anxious as its metal supports groaned in pain.

<Tech bishop, we require your holy prayers to sooth the machine spirit> canted Alaina.

<Of course mistress> replied the tech bishop as he activated the speakers across the ship and let
forth a stream of holy cants/

Oh holy Omnissiah, we come before your throne with heavy hearts and anxious spirits.
Oh holy Omnissiah, fill your servants with your holy presence.
Let us be clear of mind.
Let us feel your protection.
Protect us with your god machines.
Protect us from all that wishes to destroy your creations.
Safe, hidden, secure in you,
Only you can give and take away.

Oh holy Omnissiah, take our fears away and give me peace that surpasses all logic.
Our lives are in your hands alone.
Our hope and trust is in you alone our blessed Omnissiah.

Feeling the holy cants echoing in the ship, Alaina let herself be swept up in the holy spirit and
began to cant herself. <Oh holy Omnissiah, we become before your throne with heavy hearts and
anxious spirits.> Hearing their leader in a blessed binary, the bridge crew themselves began to
chant. Their binary voices merge with the prayers coming from the speaker system to form a
holy choir and the noosphere filled with holy script.

The holy devotional soon spread throughout the ship as personnel from all stations sent
devotions, prayers and their holy canting into the datastream of her. Alaina could feel menials
sending short scripture of the machine cult into the ship’s datastream, higher ranking enginseers
harmonize their cants with the one from the speakers and her own bridge crew using data from
their emotional cortexes to show love for the Omnissiah. Alaina could even feel the ship itself
join her crew in their holy prayer as its hull and machinery vibrated in tune with the cants
coming from the speakers.
 The ship buzzed with holy energies as the Excelsior Epsilon breached the surface of the
maelstrom and entered a calmer section of the storm. Thrusters fired to stop the descent and left
the ship floating within the churning clouds of the maelstrom. Although the ship was still being
thrown around by the winds, the stabilization thrusters kept the ship level enough for someone to
walk on its decks without external support <Magos Alaina, we have safely entered the
maelstrom> canted the steersmen.

With those words, the ship lit up with thanks to the Omnissiah; but as those lights dissipated,
Alaina refocused herself on the storm around them. Looking outside, there were only thick red
clouds that made visibility utterly awful. Even her augmented eyes are barely able to see beyond
a few hundred meters.

<Close the shutters and begin the gas harvesting> canted Alaina. Confirmations entered the
noosphere as enormous adamantine and ceramite shutters began to close around the bridge
windows like a giant closing their eyes. The main thrusters began to activate and Alaina felt the
Excelsior Epsilon begin its journey.

Pulling up the old map, Alaina watched the live feed of her ship following the preset path. She
observed as it weaved through the areas of danger that her Sensori mapped out, but even with
that caution, there were still many dangers lurking in the darkness. Augers could only detect so
much.

Bang!

Alaina could feel the noosphere flash in incandescent brightness for a few milliseconds before
quickly turning black to stop an overload. Nauseousness and dizziness flooded her mind as her
sensors reset themselves and booted back up.

<By the Omnissiah, what just happened?!> Alaina angrily canted into the noosphere

<Large lightning strike on our ship Magos.> replied the Sensori. <It appears that the ship built up
a large amount of static electrical charge during descent. Apologies for not detecting it; It was a
sudden buildup of energy that our augers could not detect in time>

<Fortunately, the Omnissiah has blessed our vessels with lightning conduits.> added in the
chief engineer <Most of the electrical discharge was routed around our ship and back into the
atmosphere. However the remaining electrical energy temporarily overloaded our systems.
Thank the Omnissiah we only suffered minimal damage. I will have the enginseers on it right
away>

<Yes, thank the Omnissiah.> Replied Alaina as she regained her bearing. Hopefully, this would
be the worst thing to happen to her ship though if previous experiences were to say anything,
there was a 17.56% chance her hopes would be dashed. What she would give for a void shield.

The Excelsior Epsilon continued through the red clouds of the maelstrom, following the path
set out by the wayfinder. Only small course corrections were made as the augers detected smaller
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 109

localized hazardous areas. Ammonia hail peppered her craft and occasional bolts of lightning
would strike but luckily none were as powerful as the first one. Steadily, the ship made its way to
its first pocket of gas.

Alaina watched as the gas sensors began to at first detect only trace amounts of exotic gas, then
a bit more, then more until the threshold point was reached. Enormous gas chutes activated all
around the ship and began to harvest the gas around it. Power was redirected to its vacuums as
the ship sucked in all the gasses around it. Giant streams of gas flowed into the ship with enough
force to rival the power of the storm winds. Half an hour had passed before the chutes would
close once more.

Alaina looked at the storage levels of her ship. With the pressurization and liquefaction of the
collected gasses, the pocket only filled her ships storage by 11.671% with estimates that only
21.22% of that gas being the desired exotic gas by mass, 17.53% by volume. It was a decent
harvest and was approximately what she projected but many more harvests would be needed
before returning back to the forgeworld.

Many hours went by as the crew of the Excelsior Epsilon continued on their harvesting path,
collecting gasses as their ship creaked with the wind flexing their ship, its machine spirit calm
but in constant pain. They’d passed by 5 more pockets of gas filling their storage holds up to
67.11%, but as they made their way to the 9th pocket, the Sensori found something interesting.

<Magos Alaina, I have found something… odd on the augers. It looks to be possibly a distress
signal but it's like nothing I’ve ever seen.> canted the Sensori nervously. She sent the strange
signal data to the noosphere where Magos Alaina opened it up and inspected it. <I have cross
referenced this signal with distress signal patterns from every other ship in the gas trawler fleet. I
have received no match.>

Alaina’s own mind and cogitators spun as it tried to make sense of the data. The data looked
nothing like a distress signal from a gas trawler but was still very distinctly Mechanicus in its
origin. She continued to scrutinize the data but soon came across another oddity. <Sensori, this
data came 32,87 Km below our current position correct?>.

<Yes Magos. I have double checked and it is not a trick from a displeased sensor spirit.> canted
back the Sensori.

<But no gas trawler vessel would be able to withstand such a depth!> canted back the steersman.

<Perhaps the signal is being interfered with by the maelstrom?> suggested the chief engineer.
<Electrical signals from the lightning along with the ionized gas could distort a signal and make
it appear it came from another location.>

<Already took that into consideration> replied the Sensori. <I have detected the identification
signals from all other gas trawler ships within a 250 km radius. All are reporting content machine
spirits, or as content as a machine spirit can get within a maelstrom.>
 <Then perhaps a strange atmospheric phenomenon?> proposed another one of the bridge crew.

<Impossible. I have been detecting the signal for 20 minutes now and it is far too consistent and
in too narrow of a bandwidth for it to be atmospheric interference.> canted the Sensori.

The bridge filled with more cants and noospheric data transfers as the Techpriests discussed
fervently over what the signal may be. Alaina monitored the flurry of data, skimming over the
data, but reserving most of her computing power for her own thoughts. Hundreds of hypotheses
spontaneously appeared in her mind as she tried to think but disappeared just as quickly as she
found errors in the idea; that is, until the blessed Omnissiah stuck her with divine providence.

<Sensori, you said you checked over the distress signal patterns of all gas trawler vessels. Did
you include the signal patterns of the old deep gas trawler ships?> asked Alaina.

<Negative Magos . I did not include them as all ships have been lost for hundreds of years, their
location known only to the Omnissiah.> canted the Sensori dismissively.

<Affirmative, the vessels were lost for hundreds of years. Some to accidents in space, others
from attacks from the enemies of the Mechanicus; but most were lost in the great deeps of the
Ceti Soldani.> canted Alaina.

Silence hung over the room. All the mechanical canting of the Techpriests ceased, leaving only
the slow melody of the prayers coming from the speakers. Even the noosphere grew dark as the
bridge crew began to realize what their head Magos was suggesting.

<Are you really suggesting that we are detecting a distress signal of a deep gas trawler?> canted
the tech bishop, his binary voice shaking.

Alaina let the question hang in the air for a few seconds before answering. “Yes I do tech
bishop.>

<Query, how is it even possible for a ship to last that long so deep within a gas giant? Its fusion
reactors should have burned all its fuel in only 10 decades at most!> asked the chief engineer as
he performed calculations. <Not to mention the stress caused by the intense pressure and heat at
such a depth. From my rough cogitations the ship could have lasted a century at most even
assuming infinite fuel.>

Magos Alaina dug deep within her memory cores, searching for memories in the earliest days
of her life, to the days when she only had one augment. <Pattern K-129 deep gas trawler. A
highly capable craft capable of diving as deep as 150km into a gas giant. It is equipped with a
triple hull and is capable of using atmospheric gasses to refuel its fusion reactors and engines.>
blurted Alaina from her deep memory banks. It was lucky that in her 476 years of life, Alaina
was able to see the old deep gas trawlers for her first 15. Exiting her deep memory, she brought
spirit back to her present body and continued. <It is definitely possible for such a vessel to
survive. The ship is only at a depth of 74.96 Km currently>
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 111

Again, silence hung in the room. Sensori quickly went back to work, downloading old ship
informational packages from their forgeworld. The bridge crew assisted in this endeavor,
deciphering and analysing the data packets, filtering out all non-essential information. All
thought of their original mission left their minds as their ship floated through the maelstrom for
hours.

<Deus Mechanis! I found a match!> one of bridge Magos excitedly canted. Like young Adepts
eager to see their first titan, they all rushed to see the data the Sensori obtained. It was a near
perfect match to one of the last deep gas trawlers ships to be lost, the Azorian.

Maxima stood before a great golden gate and looked up at its magnificent relief of the Cog
Mechanicus. The skull and its dual sides of machine and organic were masterfully carved with
the precision only a machine can provide. The organic section was made of whitest plasteel and
modelled off the skull of the first Fabricator General of Apega, while the machine side was a
great bionic assembly made of finest technologies. Both sides merged to represent the unity of
flesh and machine and both sides looked down at Maxima as if to question why he was there. It
was as if the Omnissiah itself was scrutinizing Maxima and questioning how an Adept who was
barely a quarter machine dared to stand before it.

To this question, Maxima did not have a good answer. The obvious answer was that he was
summoned by the Fabricator General of Apega; but did he truly deserve such an honor? The still
organic heart of Maxima raced as he pulled up his prepared presentation. Trying to overcome the
nervous failings of his flesh through concentration in another task, the memories of the past
weeks entered his mind.

The entire forgeworld of Apega buzzed with excitement when the discovery of the Azorian was
announced. Celebrations were held to praise the machine god for it’s blessing upon the forge and
Techpriests of every rank dreamed of how the ship can lead to a new golden age for Apega. With
long lost archeotech found, the secrets to its construction could now be uncovered and
reproduced. Great new fleet of deep gas trawlers could take off to Ceti Soldani and collect far
more exotic gasses. These gasses can then be used to greatly increase manufacturing of
sophisticated electronics, advanced plasma munitions, fusion reactors fuel and refined chemical
goods. However, it all hinged on if the forgeworld could recover the ship at all.

The Azorian was still very deep within the gas giant and as follow up scans have shown, the
ship was damaged from its centuries within the gas giant. It would be a monumental task to
recover the ship and the ArchMagos meteorologica and his team predicted that the maelstrom’s
currents would only keep it at a recoverable altitude for 3-7 years. Time was not on the side of
the servants of the Omnissiah and so the Fabricator General gave an open call for any Techpriest
to give their suggestion on how to recover the archeotech ship.

Maxima was one of the Techpriests who took up the challenge of drafting up a recovery plan.
Although relatively young, he has been part of many expeditions and assisted in the creation of
creative solutions to problems encountered in the fringes of known space. Taking from his
breadth of experience, he decided to draft his own recovery plan in hopes that if it was accepted,
it could greatly propel his career. However, he never expected it to be even considered as an
option, but the Omnissiah works in mysterious ways.

Then the great gear of the Cog Mechanicus spun with a bellowing puff of white steam. Holy oils
ensured that this motion created no sound as the doors locking mechanism released and the great
doors opened. A haze of gray incense seeped out of the gate as it opened just enough for another
Techpriest to exit. Maxima exchanged a few cants with the Techpriest for the sake of formality
but paid little attention to the conversation. Maxima’s mind was too filled with nervous thoughts
to process any words. Taking a deep breath, Maxima willed his body to move forward and walk
into the meeting hall in front of him.

Adjusting his optical sensors to filter out the worst of the smoke, Maxima could see multiple
heavily augmented figures sitting upon great tech thrones arranged in a semi-circle. Through the
noosphere, he could see that they were the highest ranking figures within the forge of Apega
along with Magos Alaina, the one who initially discovered the Azorian. Encasing the meeting
room was a glass dome that revealed the giant looming figure of Ceti Sonaldi that hung over the
skies of Apega. An eternal reminder that this gas giant was why their forge exists, why their
forgeworld was founded on one of its many moons.

The massive doors closed without noise as Maxima stood in the middle of the great dome.
Dampening his adrenal glands to prevent his nervousness from reaching a critical level, Maxima
opened up a large holographic mock-up of the Azorian. Besides the engine cluster at the back,
the Azorian bore more resemblance to submarines found on ocean worlds than a spacefaring
vessel, but that was little surprise since both were designed to resist very high pressures.

Preparing his pre-recorded words, Maxima canted <As you know from my initial proposal, my
plan is to specially modify a gas trawler ship; to reinforce its hull so that it can dive deeper into
the gas giant and to retrofit titan cranes onto it.> The holographic display animated perfectly in
sync with the pre-recorded words in a way that would be impossible if he were to cant in his
current nervous state. <The plan will have the ship fly approximately 200m above the Azorian
and have its cranes lower specially modified claws. These claws will have custom made thruster
apparatus that will both allow it to remain stable on its descent toward the Azorian and when
clamped onto the ship itself, these thrusters can stabilize the ship. With the Azorian stabilized,
the lifter ship can then slowly lift it into an orbital dockyard.>

Closing the holographic images, Maxima then opened up massive walls of data, charts and
diagrams. Pointing to them, Maxima continued. <By my estimations, production loss of a gas
trawler can be made up by other vessels in the fleet increasing collection sorties. The extra
maintenance required for such a production increase should be manageable for a few years.>

<But what of your requisition of titan cranes?> asked one of the ArchMagos. <Requisitioning 8
cranes meant to manufacture and repair god machines is a very serious decision to make. It can
seriously degrade the combat effectiveness of Legio Ferro Anulum. >
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 113

<I am very much aware of this ArchMagos.> replied Maxima swiftly. It was a question he
expected to receive and so, he went into a pre-recorded answer. <Although it is not optimal to
use titan cranes, they are the only option. Only they have the strength to lift the Azorian out of
Ceti Soldani. The production loss will be most unfortunate, but will last for only a few years.
Considering titans can take decades to construct, a few years of delayed production is acceptable
especially when you consider these cranes can be easily reintegrated back into the titan forges.>

<The temporary loss of these few cranes are the least of my worries,> canted ArchMagos
Doctrinal Jewell. The light from his multiple incense candles reflected off of his metallic
augments as he glared down on Maxima. <The modifications you are wishing to perform are
incredibly extensive. The machine spirit will be greatly displeased at having its holy design…
disfigured.>

A tense silence hung across the room as all processed the words of the ArchMagos Doctrinal .
<I may even say, diverging so much from the designs laid out in the holy STCs may even be ...
heretical>. The accusation hung deep in the air as the ArchMagos Doctrinal’s mecadendrites
pointed at Maxima as if they were snakes preparing to strike. <To break with ritual is to break
from faith>

Maxima could once again feel his body’s stress reflex activating as a shiver went down his
spine. Every priest knew Jewell was a hardliner, one who clung deeply to orthodoxy and
opposed any deviation. Some would even say that he was too close-minded and entrenched in his
ideals within secure data channels. However, no one would ever dare question his spiritual
authority, especially when it came to heresy. To be questioned by him was one thing Maxima
feared most, but it was also something he also prepared for the most.

<I understand your concerns ArchMagos Doctrinal, but my designs do not deviate too far from
the original design. Their final purpose will still be heavily lifting, no different than the purpose
the holy STC designs were meant for.> The carefully recorded words came out of Maxima’s
vocal modulars smoothly. <The exact details may change but that is the way of the Mechanicus.
Afterall, terminator armor was once meant to protect maintenance workers in highly dangerous
environments, but now it is exclusively by the Adeptus Astartes to protect space marines from
hostile war environments. The exact usage of the armor has changed, but its primary purpose of
protecting is wearer has not.>

Maxima could see some of the ArchMagos agreeing with him through short data bursts over the
noosphere but not the ArchMagos Doctrinal. If anything, he seemed to get frustrated as his
cogitators whirled, gathering his extensive reservoir of scripture, but Maxima had already
researched many to support his view. <As Fabricator General Alexander Severus Morn said in
361 M32, “Perfect are the designs of the Omnissiah, but mankind does not have all its
knowledge and all its perfect solutions. We must accept that some of the machine god’s designs
must be changed in order to help fill the holes of our ignorance so our kind can discover more of
the glory of the Omnissiah”.>
 <Let not your desire for knowledge overwhelm your mind, for this desire will drive you to
consume the poisoned fruit of tech heresy. Devian 12:23 > snapped Jewell as he stood up from
his chair,

<To every problem, a solution lies in the application of tech-lore. -Ferrarch Asklepian> canted
back Maxima. <All I am doing is using the knowledge of the Mechanicus to find a solution to
our problem.>
<Enough!> proclaimed the Fabricator General as he slammed his fist onto his metallic
command throne. <We are not here to discuss theological issues, we are here to discuss
proposals to recover the Azorian. Although I greatly admire your vigilance for heresy Jewell, this
plan is not heretical. It may have potential to lead to heresy but it is not thus. If we do accept this
plan, I will be sure to have you monitor it for heresy, but for now, we have other things to
discuss. Understood ArchMagos Doctrinal Jewell?>

Jewell stood there for a few moments, mechadendrites prepared to strike at a moment's notice,
but after a few seconds, he restrained them. Taking stiff a bow towards the Fabricator General,
Jewell canted bitterly <Understood Fabricator General Nexx Akys. I merely wished to ensure the
spiritual purity of the forgeworld.> He then took a seat upon his throne, but still had his eye on
Maxima.

With the theological spat finished, the other ArchMagos continued with their questioning.
Every aspect from the design, manufacturing capabilities, questions of Maxima’s credentials and
even if sufficiently skilled pilots were available came up, but Maxima answered those questions
deftly. Most of the questions were expected and had prepared answers, but the Fabricator
General remained silent, merely observing the questions and answers.

Unnerved by the silence of Nexx as the questioning neared its end, Maxima tentatively asked
<Any other questions about my proposal? What about you Fabricator General? You have been
largely silent the entire time.>

The Fabricator General sat silently for a few moments, clasping his augmented hands together.
Lights across the body flashed as he appeared deep in thought. <The ArchMagos gathered here
has asked so many insightful questions that I did not have cause to ask my own.> The voice of
the Fabricator General was firm and collected, befitting one of his stature. <However, there is
one very important question that has yet been asked. Why should you choose your proposal
instead of the others? Of all the proposals we have seen, yours is by far the most complex,
expensive, and requires the most modification to pre-existing designs. This is not to mention how
you are the most junior Techpriest we have heard from.>

Maxima stood frozen as his mind tried to come up with a sufficient response. Why should they
choose his idea? Why should they listen to such a young and unaugmented tech priest? Who was
he to propose such an ambitious project that was so complex? The archmagi gathered in the
room all looked down at him, eagerly awaiting an answer. Maxima wished he could just put on a
cloaking shroud and disappear but that was not an option. He would never become an Explorator
by being a coward.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 115

<Simple Fabricator General, I promise results.> answered Maxima confidently. Stepping

forward, he continued. <We only have one chance to recover the Azorian and we cannot afford
to be risk averse or conservative. We need a bold course of action to ensure the Azorian is
recovered. I have seen the plans of the others and they do not go far enough. They are too
conservative and have too small of a chance of success in my opinion. My proposal may be the
most complex, expensive and intensive, but it is also the one with the best chance of successfully
recovering the Azorian.>

<Thank you for your answer Maxima. Your presence in this discussion is no longer needed. We
will update you on our decision when we have finally made one> canted the Fabricator General.
Standing up, the Fabricator General formed the cog emblem with his hands and bowed to
Maxima quickly followed by every other tech priest. However Maxima did note that Jewell was
the last one to bow by 0.208s.

<Thank you for hearing my proposal. I hope you see the wisdom of my plan and select it on its
merits.> answered Maxima as he made the sign of the cog and bowed to the ArchMagos. The
great door behind him opened and he made his exit.

Days past as the leading figures discussed all the proposals they received. They compared the
merits and drawbacks of each plan and determined the impact each will have on the forgeworld
and if its tithe may be disturbed. The discussion dragged one for days at a time, wearing even on
the augmented stamina of the servants of the Omnissiah. However, after 13 days of intense
discussion, they finally came to a decision. They would accept Maxima’s proposal and give it
top priority for the prize of the Azorian was worth any cost.
…

<Most troubling> muttered Lexmechanic Avitus as he inspected a complex part.

Mechadendrites armed with calipers, micrometers, pin gauges and other measurement tools
scanned the component, measuring each of its dimensions; all of which were all just slightly off.
Carefully setting down the component, Avitus logged the measured dimensions onto both a
dataslate and a piece of parchment to ensure a hard copy. <Yes, this is most troubling.>

Avitus commanded the dataslate’s machine spirit to show which components had dimensions
that were off and he was greeted with multiple red lines on a normally blue background.
Scrolling through the dataslate, Avitus counted the number of red lines. <9 out of 63 inspected
parts were out of tolerance specified by holy tome Tolerances of the spirits and Limits of the
Machine by an average of 0.112mm. Unacceptable.>

It was not unusual for the Lexmechanic to encounter such parts. Afterall, even the greatest of
Artisans are unable to create parts with perfect dimensions; for only the Omnissiah is perfect in
this universe. This is why each component had a certain tolerance, a certain amount a part is
allowed to be off and be still usable, giving an Artisan some leeway. But, these tolerances were
always small, within tenths of a millimeter, any more and the machine spirit will be irritated and
take out its irritation at its user. The Artisans of Apega knew this very well and out of tolerance
parts were rare indeed. Yet, here was Avitus looking at an Artisan with a 14.28% failure rate.
 Reviewing the manufacturing data, Avitus searched for the Artisan who manufactured the parts
and identified the culprit as Artisan Merri. Avitus downloaded directions to Merri’s forge
through the noosphere and took one of the out of tolerance parts and put it into his robe. The part
would be a good way of showing the Artisan that their workmanship was getting sloppy.

The Lexmechanic exited his inspection room and walked through the cubicle of the inspection
room. Countless other Lexmechanics worked in their own cubicles to carefully inspect
components meant for the Azorian Expedition, the data filling the noosphere. As he got close
towards the forging rooms, Avitus could feel the rockcrete floor beneath him vibrate and shake.
Echoes of heavy forge hammers slamming on red hot pieces of adamantine reverberated through
the halls as the scent of lubricants and burning metal grew stronger. The Techpriest was forced to
place special noise dampeners on his auditory sensors equipment or risk them being damaged.

Relying on his downloaded directions, Avitus navigated his way through the endless maze of
machinery, servitors and raw materials that made up the forge facilities. Eventually, he arrived at
Artisan Merri’s forge and saw her hunched over figure applying the ritual of percussive
maintenance on one of the great milling machines. The Artisan was filthy, caked in grime, oil
and dust with multiple mechadendrites equipped with machining and measuring instruments.

<Greetings Artisan Merri! May the Omnissiah bless your creations> canted Merri, trying to get
her attention, but of the Artisan continued with her work as if nothing had occurred. Increasing
the volume of his voice, Berkas canted again <GREETINGS ARTISAN MERRI! MAY THE
OMNISSIAH BLESS YOUR CREATIONS.>

This time, Merri paused her ritual and turned to face the Techpriest. Pushing up her face shield,
she canted <May the Omnissiah bless you as well as it is clearly not blessing me at this current
moment.> The Artisan pointed to the machine she was just working on. Multiple drills and
plasma cutters were locked in strange positions and looked worse for wear. <May I ask you for
what purpose your visit is?>

<I am here to discuss certain unsatisfactory parts you have provided Artisan Merri.> canted
Avitus sending over his inspection logs through the noosphere as he handed over the out of
tolerance part. <I am present to enquire you on what reason this may be.>

Taking the part with her greasy hands, Merri used her own measuring mechadendrites and
inspected the part. She compared the measurements to the ones logged by Avitus and sighed. <I
was concerned this may occur.>

<And despite this knowledge you persisted with the creation of substandard parts?> canted
Avitus.

Artisan Merri slowly turned to face Avitus and pointed one of his drill mechadendrites at the
Techpriest. <Do not insult my workmanship.>

<I did not mean to any insult Artisan.> responded Avitus stepping back from the drill. <But I am
curious to what is causing this production issue.>
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 117

Lowering her drill mechadendrite, Merri turned back and gestured toward the forge and all its
machinery and servitors. <My forge is currently operating at 110% capacity in order to keep up
tithe production along with creating sufficient parts for the Azorian Expedition. Both I and the
machine spirits of my forge grow tired and fatigued from this amount of work. Although
possessing far more stamina than an organic, even a machine can grow tired and its precision
dulled.>

<Is there any possible way to let the machine spirits rest?> asked the Lexmechanic.

<The only possible way is either slow down production or to obtain more machinery, neither
are possible at the current moment.> replied the Artisan. <The only other possible option is to
get the assistance of another forge, but most forges on Apega are working at capacity at this
moment.>

<Is that so?> asked the Lexmechanic. Plugging mechadendrites into dataports around the forge,
the Lexmechanic scoured the forges datasteam, accessing production information from each
forge. <The casting factoriums are only working at 80% capacity. Perhaps some of their
production can be used to make these parts?>

<Unfortunately these parts are highly complex and need to be very precise. Therefore, it cannot
be cast.> quickly replied Merri. Pulling up texts from the Litanies of Forge Crafting, Merri
continued. <Careful, all those who wish to use the molten metal ichor of the Deus Mechancius.
Frozen to form many magnificent tributes to the Omnissiah it can provide, but only an Artisan
and their machines can truly form the most complex and splendid of parts.>

The Techpriest stood quite for a few minutes, making quiet prayers for the Omnissiah to give
them divine inspiration. Then, the Artisan asked <Is it not possible to still use some of the out of
tolerance parts? Approximately half of the parts are too big and half too small. If these
components can be matched up, they should still be usable>

<Unacceptable.> Canted back Avitus immediately. <It is in complete contradiction to scripture.

Take care to follow the dictates of dimensions and tolerance, for the machine spirit loathes parts
that do not fit - Rites of Fits 21:10>

<One must read beyond the exact words of scripture to understand its true meaning.> Canted
back Merri. <Proper tolerances should be obtained to ensure proper fits to ensure a pleased
machine spirit. What matters is the fit, not the tolerance. The tolerance is merely a method of
trying to obtain the proper fit.>

Avitus stood for a moment, taking in the words of his fellow Techpriest. He wished to refute
the words of Merri but the logic was sound. <I presume it may be possible to adopt your
proposal but I have doubts. Finding enough manpower to inspect each part in sufficient detail
although possible, will cause a massive strain on the Lexmechanica and the fits may still be
insufficient, causing issues with the hydraulics.>
 <I worry about this as well> canted Merri. Looking down at the part she continued. <But there
is no other way to keep up with production quotas. It is an unideal solution for an unideal world.
May the Omnissiah have mercy on us.>

<I presume this is the best course of action,> replied Avitus. <We will see if the plan is
successful when the hydraulics is assembled and tested. May the Omnissiah see our diligence
and reward us with success.>
…

A large smog of incense hung across the skies of Apega, tinting the heavens a hazy orange.
Violent winds ripped across the barren fields picking up and tossing everything that wasn’t
bolted to the ground. Yet, the incense was still thick enough to completely obscure the figure of
the Excelsior Epsilon as it parked on the ground. Thousands of servitors marched around this
ship, their augmented voice boxes chanting prayers to the Omnissiah while large groups carried
enormous pyers of burning incense. Numberless cohorts of tech priests scampered around the
ship, applying holy runes and oils to the ship.

ArchMagos Doctrinal Jewell was among this religious congregation as he walked to each crane
arm, applying the sacred hymns and oils. <Oh great machine god, thank you for this oil to be
used for anointing. In your name I lift up this oil and dedicate it to you and the machine spirit of
Excelsior Epsilon.> Taking his mechadendrites and organic arms, he casted his hands up in holy
runes and let his mechadendrites lubricate the joints with the oil. <I offer this oil to where you
show most of your will, where you take most action. I offer this oil to calm you and so you do not
squeak in pain.>

Jewell repeated his prayers as he painstakingly applied oil to each of the innumerable joints of
the crane arms along with his other Techpriests. Dust thrown by windstorms struck Jewell as if
they were thousands of miniature bolter rounds and his body ached with the many days he had
worked non-stop, but he ignored it. He would not let the failings of his flesh stop the
concentration of the modified vessel, especially when it stunk so heavily of heresy.

So he continued, personally sanctifying the modified vessel for many more hours until every
last claw had a proper application of holy oil. His work finished, Avitus covered himself in his
thick red cloak and got onto a speeder and was driven to a field of red pre-fab shelters. The
flackboard and fabric making up the shelters strained against the strong winds, but stayed firmly
on the ground via heavy metal nails. Jewell made his way to the largest of these shelters, a large
red and gold dome embossed with the symbols of the Mechanicus. Entering the dome, Jewell
was greeted by the Fabricator General, Explorator Maxima, and a hololith depiction of Alaina
along with a few other important Magos involved with the Azorian Recovery Project seated
beside a great table.

Taking a seat at the table, Jewell canted to his companions <I have finished applying the rites of
consecration to the Excelsior Epsilon. The machine spirit should be appeased now though the
great pain of such hastily made modifications is still there.>
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 119

<I am most grateful for your work,> canted Maxima, the organic portions of his face made a
crude smile. <You have put an enormous amount of effort into it despite being initially opposed.
You have my greatest gratitude.>

<It is my opposition that was the prime reason for such heavy spiritual work.> canted Jewell
with a cold binary burst. <The modifications you have made are too hasty and borders on
mutilation. The machine spirit will be greatly displeased and furious with only the most powerful
and sacred rituals even having a chance of appeasing it. Even with my spiritual workings, I
expect the spirit to lash out in wrath and possibly even forcibly strip off its ‘modifications’.>

The harshness of Jewell’s words made the rest of the Techpriests go quiet, none wishing to go
against the ArchMagos Doctrinal. <Nonetheless, we thank you for your effort.> canted the
Fabricator General trying to calm the situation. Looking towards Maxima and seemingly
retreating into his chair, the Fabricator General continued <Although Jewell does possess…
strong opposition to the project he still wishes for its success. The recovery of the Azorian will
be a great boon to Apega and help take another step forward on the quest for knowledge. Do I
speak correctly Jewell?>. Jewell made a small nod to the statement.

<Shall I continue with the test?> canted Alaina through a holographic image. <All checklists
and preparations have been completed and I along with my crew are ready. However, if the
machine spirit is so greatly displeased… I am uncertain if we should continue>

The tech priest all looked towards the Fabricator General for an answer but the Fabricator
General looked to Maxima. <Maxima, you are the lead of this project, shall we proceed with the
test?>

Recovering some of his confidence Maxima adjusted himself in his seat and canted. <Even if
the Excelsior Epsilon does not behave as expected, there will be much data to be collected. Data
that can be used to better integrate this new crane within the ship and progress the project. The
test will also help the ship’s machine spirit adjust to its new components. I say we continue>

<Very well, we shall continue with the test.> canted the Fabricator General. Alaina saluted in
confirmation and leaned back on the command throne. A large window opened up within the
command center and Techpriests were greeted to an overview of the testing grounds. The
slumbering figure of the Excelsior Epsilon warmed up its plasma drives and its thrusters began to
spew out white hot superheated plasma.
Multiple data screens and diagrams appeared on the glass window as data monitoring the gas
trawler and all its systems flowed in. Most of the data showed that the ship was working at
normal capacity except for increased structural and reactor strain. However, this was to be
expected when massive titan cranes were attached to a ship, but even then, the data looked
concerning especially when only half of the cranes have been attached so far. <How is the
machine spirit fairing Alaina?>

<The spirit is displeased but I am managing to keep it cooperative.> canted Alaina as she
clenched hard onto her command throne with her organic hands. Inserting more mechadendrites
into the throne’s dataports, she continued. <I, my crew, and the Excelsior Epsilon are ready>
 <Understood captain, move to quadrant QZ-125, have your enginseers prepare the crane
claws.> instructed Maxima. Ponderously, the Excelsior Epsilon traveled slowly across the field,
the dust and incense caking its outer decorations in an ugly gray and brown. Slowly, the ship
reached the coordinates and floated 200 meters above a large ship sized cylinder meant to act as
a stand in for the Azorian. The cylinder was roughly the same dimension as the Azorian and had
similar mass distribution. The mass was calculated to be manageable, assuming the cranes were
properly installed. The giant crane claws slowly opened up and locked into capture position.

<Executing crane extraction.> canted Alaina as the titan cranes unspooled their adamantine
cables and lowered the claw mechanisms. The Techpriests stood silently, taking in the
information and staying vigilant for any problems that may arise. Jewell himself took up a small
cog embossed with the skull of the Cult Mechanicus and gave a quick prayer to the machine god.
The thruster assembly upon the claw fired multiple micro bursts of its to counteract the high
wind, keeping the claw stable. The thrusters were working so effectively that it almost appeared
as if there was no wind mechanism. Although the winds upon Apega were nothing compared to
the maelstrom of the Ceti Soldani, it was still a good omen. Jewell gave a quick thank to the
Omnissiah that his rituals sufficiently appeased the machine spirit.

Half an hour passed as the crane slowly and carefully lowered its claw around the great metallic
cylinder. The giant metal hands began to curl inward, its countless hydraulic systems articulating
each joint until it grasped the cylinder firmly. Jewell scanned the datastream coming from the
ship and everything still held stable for the moment but the true challenge of this test was soon to
come. <The test object is secured, shall I begin the hauling procedure?> canted Alaina.

<Yes, begin the hauling procedures.> canted back Maxima.

The slightly lax cables of the skycrane immediately grew taught as the Excelsior Epsilon began
to pull up. For a few seconds, the engines of the ship struggled against the enormous weight, but
the cylinder was slowly lifted from its scaffolding. Now in the air, the wind tried to push on the
cylinder and throw it out of balance but the thruster array was still holding steady. Their thruster
bursts now far longer and more powerful, but their machine spirits were holding steady. As the
cylinder continued to lift into the air, all in the room began to think the experiment to be a
success and the machine spirit to be properly appeased.

Then an especially large gust of wind struck the ship and swung the cylinder by a small amount.
As the gust subsided, the cylinder swung back and began to move as it was the weight of a giant
pendulum. The claw thrusters strained to stabilize the weight as the claws tightened their grip,
but this increased force broke one of the major hydraulic pistons. Blessed hydraulic fluid rained
down as half the claw on crane #1 lost its power and released its grip.

With the support of the claw gone, the ship began to swing around erratically. The stabilization
thrusters desperately fired off to try to stop the cylinder from swinging but it was not enough.
More gusts of wind tossed around the cylinder, its momentum becoming so large that it almost
appeared as if a rouge servitor was trying to throw a heavy crate. Alaina worked desperately to
keep the ship under control while Techpriests within the command center also scrambled to try
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 121

to fix the problem. Tapping into the noosphere, Jewell tried to calm the machine spirit with holy
code burst but only received angered and pained wailing in return.

<Release the cylinder!> canted Maxima frantically. His unaugmented eyes darted around
widely as he tried to take in all the information. A holographic display of the ship had the
remaining cranes glow a deep shade of orange as the stresses on them reached a dangerous level.
<We have to release them now or risk the rest of the cranes from ripping off of the ship!>

<Are you certain?>canted Alaina. Her holographic image showed her augmented body being
thrown around as if she was caught up in the worst of the maelstrom turbulence. <The cylinder
may be thrown toward the command center and cause more damage.>

<It doesn’t matter! Release the cylinder now or the damage will be too great!> shouted
Maxima. The flailing gas trawler released its claw and the cylinder was thrown into the sky. It
crashed into the ground with an enormous thud, sending shockwaves that shook the command
center. However, the cylinder continued to roll across the field, smashing into rocks and hills
started moving towards the command post.

Warning sirens blared out across the temporary base as the command crew hastily ran outside
the building. Jewell quickly unplugged himself from the command table and using his
augmented legs, ran as fast as he could. Bashing threw one of the side exits, he could see the rest
of the base making a chaotic and hasty evacuation. Techpriests tried to commandeer vehicle as
they desperately tried to escape, some not even applying the proper rituals of ignition. Jewell
noted those Techpriests down for future discipline.

A car drove alongside Jewell, driven by one of Jewell’s acolytes. Using both hands and
mecadendrites, he pulled himself into the car, and as soon as he got on a seat, the car raced off.
Wails of warning sirens were replaced by the sound of smashing blackboard, twisted metal and
admantine crashing into stone.

When the sounds of destruction ceased, Jewell instructed the driver to stop. Jewell then turned
back and looked upon the great carnage. The cylinder completely smashed through the command
post tearing apart the hab blocks as if it was cardboard. Multiple servitors were either crushed or
had their battered bodies thrown across the field while others still mindlessly went about their
tasks as if nothing had happened. Fires burned as the prometheum tanks of vehicles burst and
spilled their flammable fuel all across the former base. However, the destruction seemed to have
sapped the cylinder of most of its energy and it laid inert in a nearby hill.

Jewell allowed himself to release his emotional blockers and feel anger at the destruction. To
feel rage at the foolish techpriest who did all this. Activating his augmented eyes and data
sensors, he scanned the field searching for Maxima. After a few minutes of searching, he spotted
Explorator Maxima in the distance also looking back on the disaster, his body limp as a
deactivated servitor. His robes were caked in dust, both from the field and from the crushed
flakboard buildings. Jewell marched up to Maxima, and tuning his voice modular to its
maximum volume, shouted <I WARNED YOU THIS COULD HAPPEN ADEPT! YOUR
MODIFICATIONS WERE TOO HASTY, YOUR TEST DONE TOO QUICKLY. ALL THESE
THINGS DISPLEASED THE MACHINE SPIRIT AND SPITS GREASE ON THE
OMNISSIAH’S FACE!>

The Explorator stood silently as if he did not even hear the angry cants. <DO YOU HEAR ME
YOU SCRAP CODED HARDDRIVE! ANSWER ME, ANSWER FOR WHAT YOU HAVE
DONE> the ArchMagos Doctrinal yelled, pointing to the wreckage and limping gas trawler.

<I … I have failed.> whispered Maxima as he fell upon his knees. Tears began to form in his
unaugmented eyes and fell down to the dusty ground. <So much destruction, so much carnage,
so many of the Omnissiah’s creations and their machines spirits killed. All because of my
arrogance!.> Maxima wrapped his hands over his eyes and began to fully bawl, his augmented
body parts shaking as his flesh convulsed in crying.

Reactivating his rage inhibitors, Jewell calmed his spirit and looked down at the crying mess of
a Techpriest. A part of Jewell wanted to admonish the young Magos crouched for giving in to the
failings of his flesh but then a quick data burst sent a memory back into Jewell’s mind. The
memory showed him of a time where he was a young Adept, a reckless one who constantly
defied the rules and traditions of the Mechanicus. Of how he was set on the right course not
through admonishment but through learning from his mistakes and understanding why the laws
of the Mechanicus exist. Expunging the rest of his rage, he allowed the logical portions of his
mind to take prominence once and again. <Bitter is failure. To see all you have worked for
destroyed and ruined. It truly is awful.> canted Jewell, softening his voice modulator.

Standing beside the young Adept, and looking at the disaster, he continued <But it is a part of
the Omnissiah’s will that we fail, for failure is how we learn.> canted Jewell as if he was
speaking to no one in particular. Maxima stopped his crying for a few seconds and looked up
towards Jewell, face full of tears and grief but also confusion. <Even on the bleakest fields can
there be the blessings of the Omnissiah, but one must find it themselves>

<But what knowledge could there be in this? In this utter failure?> asked Maxima, his voice
cracking and strained.

<I have been telling you this lesson for this entire time! Your work is too hasty, displeasing the
machine spirit! There are few things more wrathful than a machine spirit that feels disrespected!
Why did you think I was so opposed to it? Why do you think I was so concerned?> asked Jewell,
his eyes boring into Maxima. <I am aware Techpriests joke that I replaced my spine with an
adamantium rod but there is a reason why I act like I do. I do this because it is necessary.>

Maxima started to slowly recover from his emotional outburst and wiped tears from his eyes.
He stood up besides Jewell and asked. <Are you going to punish me for my transgression against
the machine spirit and Omnissiah?>

<No, there is a time for retribution and wrath, but this is not the time.> canted Jewell <This is a
time of learning. To learn from your mistakes. To learn why we stick to ritual, to why we
appease the machine spirit and to the wisdom of my words.>
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 123

<So what shall I do ArchMagos Doctrinal, what words of wisdom do you have for me?> asked
Maxima.

<Simple. Proceed with the project slower. Make less drastic adjustments and pay more respect
to the sacred form outlined by the STC pattern. This is the only way> replied Jewell.

<But time is limited! We can’t afford delays! The Azorian will be swept back into Ceti Soldani’s
core soon!> stammered Maxima.

<I am well aware of that Maxima, but it is the only way.> Jewell pointed towards the
destruction that lay before them both. <Unless you wish for this to happen once more>.

Years went past as the Azorian continued its development. Heeding Jewells words, Maxima re-
adjusted his plans to involve less drastic modifications, to slow down the production so things
can be more thoroughly worked on and to pay more heed to the spiritual well-being of the craft.
The progress was slow but steady, with subsequent tests being far more successful with much
better appeased machine spirits. However, the window to recover the Azorian was closing.
Monitoring craft has shown the Azorian sinking back into Ceti Soldani and Lexmechanics of the
Meterologica predict that it will be a matter of weeks before the ship is no longer recoverable.

All this weighed heavily on the mind of Alaina as she piloted the Excelsior Epsilon over the
Azorian, preparing for the final dive. She knew that because of this deadline, not all the parts of
the ship had been fully tested. The clasping arm’s hydraulic systems still acted up at times, the
datasmiths have yet to purge coding of the crane of all bugs and she can still feel the ship’s
machine spirit being displeased at its augments. Although the many tests have made the machine
spirit far more comfortable with the new crane assembly, it still felt like a sore wound she would
get after receiving a new augment.

The ArchMagos Doctrinal worked through a dataplug to directly soothe the machine spirit
while using other parts of his mind to direct the spiritual purification ceremony across the ship.
Expedition Lead Maxima double checked the data on the ship while working closely with the
Artisans to ensure all parts worked successfully. The ship was pulsating with activity as they all
prepared for the dive and what may be their only chance to recover the Azorian.

<Expedition Lead, my crew have finished their preparations, on your orders we will dive into
Ceti Soldani and being the recovery,> canted Alaina, adjusting herself in her command throne.

Maxima scanned through data upon his tech consul for a few moments before turned towards
Jewell. <ArchMagos Doctrinal, has the machine spirit been properly appeased?>

Jewell continued his work in silence for a few moments, keeping his eyes closed before
answering. <The spirit is appeased as it can be. It feels much anxiety about the mission but this
anxiety is tempered by great excitement and pride. It knows the gravity of its mission and is
ready to proceed.>
 Nodding, Maxima turned to the bridge crew and tapped into the ship’s com system. <Magos
Alaina, begin the descent. The Azorina expedition begins now on 339 M34!>

Holy binary cants echoed throughout the ship as the crew engrossed themselves in their work.
The engines groaned as they worked to slowly descend the Excelsior Expilson into the depths of
Ceti Soldani. Alaina kept a key eye on their altitude as the ship began to enter regions that have
never been entered for centuries.

The metal supports and plating of the ship squeaked and moaned as the ship descended, the
sounds echoing as if the ship was using its own metal vocal cords to scream in pain. The pressure
of the inner gas giant was trying to crush the spacecraft while the increased temperature slowly
tried to roast the crew alive. Turning to her ship display, Alaina could see all sections of the ship
was still green, indicating that the hull was still structurally sound and cooling systems working
to keep the ship at a livable temperature. The supports have done their job in keeping the vessel
strong, though it did little to dull the pain. But this part of the descent was always considered
safe.

Looking back at her altitude sensors, she could see a distinct red line at a certain depth.
According to the Meteorologica and planet surveyors, at this depth the gasses of the atmosphere
would become something known as a “supercritical fluid”, a strange state of matter that had both
the properties of gas and liquid. A combination of the intense pressure and the high temperatures
somehow causing the line between liquid and gas to blur. How that was possible, Alaina did not
know but she had trusted the knowledge of her brothers and sisters of Apega.

The ship continued to descend and approached this limit. Looking out the window, the
atmosphere looked no different than before but the difference was clearly felt. Instead of passing
through simple atmospheric gasses, it now felt as if the ship was moving through a thin liquid.
She could feel the machine spirit being surprised and distutbed by this occurrence, its engines
and stabilization thrusters burning confused, causing the ship to shake.

Alaina worked to calm the machine spirit with the rest of the crew. The Jewell and his acolytes
sang hymns of Neo Paramata while she and the rest of the crew sent data packs illustrating how
the situation has changed. The mission parameters were already inputted into the ship, but the
STC design of this ship never meant it to enter this type of atmosphere, causing the machine
spirit to be confused. As the datastreams of information entered the mind of the machine spirit
and was soothed by the hymns, the ship stabilized. It hovered in place for a few minutes,
regaining its bearings before continuing the descent.

Hours passed as the ship continued into Ceti Soldani, the atmosphere getting ever more vicious
and the progress getting ever slower but in time, the Azorian itself came into full view. It was
truly a wonderful sight to behold. Although trapped within Ceti Soldani for centuries, it looked
to be in great condition. The harsh conditions within the planet may have stripped off most of the
paint and other religious reliefs but the hull itself looks largely unblemished. The engine cluster
itself however, was worse for wear as they all looked very worn with one barely functional.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 125

Quickly, the Excelsior Epsilon turned on its augers and scanned the ship, looking at its structure
for any weaknesses. The data was then inputted directly to Maxima and his assembly of
Techpriests, appearing as large ribbons of data in the noosphere. The data was then formed into a
bright halo as the Techpriests made multiple complex calculations and simulations. But as time
went on, she could see the halo grow bigger and also more ragged. The cants between the
Techpriests grew faster and more aggressive as time dragged on. <Have you decided on an
optimal attachment pattern?> asked Alaina.

<Negative. Structure of Azorian possess multiple weak points, likely from the strain of being so
deep within the maelstrom.> replied Maxima. <Any recovery has a high risk of causing the
ship’s frame to crack and split which is unacceptable. This is not taking into account the
possibility for further microfractures not detected by the ship’s augers.>

<When will you be able to provide an optimal solution, Expedition Lead?> asked Alaina.

<I do not have sufficient data to answer that question.> Replied Maxima. <Every route the team
has explored so far are suboptimal and we require more data. But getting more data is
impossible. The only scanners that can be used to structurally scan the Azorian is on this ship.>

<Which means we will have to risk the Azorian breaking up in its recovery.> canted Alaina
reluctantly. Alaina knew that a partial recovery was always a distinct possibility, but the pain of
damaging such a precious piece of archeotech would be a great blow. Perhaps too much for a
young Techpriest on their first true assignment.

Maxima sat silently as he ruminated on Alaina’s words. There was some more chatter between
the Lexmechanics and ship architects before Maxima canted <If we do not try a recovery, the
ship will be completely and utterly lost. If we do, the ship may break apart in our grasp.
However, at least the latter has a non 0% chance of recovery. I say we continue! May the Deus
Mechanicus bless us!>

Receiving confirmation, Alaina relayed the order to the rest of the ship. Loud clunking sounds
reverberated through the ship as the claws released from the ship and began to make its way
down. The massive pulley systems slowly lowered the claws, constantly adjusting to make sure
the cables are taught. The stabilization cogitator within the claws worked admirably to counteract
the turbulence as the claw controllers slowly positioned them around the Azorian.

The claws carefully hovered over the craft as the Techpriests piloting the claws slowly oriented
themselves for a proper approach. They hovered around the ship as they were birds of prey and
after finding a proper approach, the opened claws descended upon the ship. Observing the
holographic display, Alaina could see claw number 7 make first contact near the back of the ship.
The thrusters on claw 7 burned hard to stabilize the ship as each subsequent claw latched onto
the ship.

The Azorian lashed out as if it was a wild animal being caught by hunters. It flung its body in
all directions as the arms tried to corral it and calm its wild thrashing. The cranes themselves also
took a large brunt of this thrashing, its cables being tensioned to dangerous levels and causing
the ship to rock with the Azorian. It took all of Alaina’s skill to keep the ship steady, but it was a
long and arduous task. The machine spirit of the Azorian obviously became feral through its long
isolation without proper blessings.

With the Azorian lashing out at its capture, a crack began to form around the middle of the ship.
At first, it was small and barely noticeable but it grew as the ship tried to break free the claws.
The constant flexing and twisting of the Azorian along with the tight grip of the claws caused the
crack to grow and spread across the vessel. The holographic display highlighted the crack in a
deep red with multiple warnings. The already frantic crane pilots desperately tried to control the
situation by applying less force in the local region but it did not work.

The crack grew bigger and bigger until the ship cracked in half. The high pressure atmosphere
rushed into the hull, smashing into internal bulkheads and breaking the more sensitive
components. The turbulent winds easily ripped the ship in half and tossed around both halves as
if they were feathers in the wind, pulling on the crane and the Excelsior Epsilon.

<Get the ship halves under control!> screamed Alaina. She disconnected herself from all non-
essential components of the ship and focused on her will on keeping the ship stable. The erratic
motion of the broken Azorian pulling the Excelsior Epsilon in all directions, forcing every
Techpriest to attach themselves to their stations or risk being thrown around. Few noticed how
the bolts attaching the crane to the gas trawler began to snap.

A sickening ripping sound echoed through the ship as crane #4 snapped clear off of the
Excelsior Epsilon. The ship howled in pain with multiple warnings blaring all across the ship.
The feedback shocked Alaina and she was forced to refocus on damage control. Multiple
bulkheads had been breached, causing widespread damage and dooming many machines and
servitors. Sending her will throughout the ship, Alaina closed internal bulkhead doors to stop the
super-heated and pressurized atmosphere from spreading throughout the ship.

But before she could send damage control teams to fully assess the damage and make
preliminary repairs, an even louder crash was registered by the Techpriets. Looking back at the
holographic display of the recovery, Alaina could see that the two halves of the Excelsior
Epsilon smashed into each other with enormous force. A large portion of the front half was
utterly destroyed, its scrap falling into the core of Ceti Soldani while the back section’s engine
cluster continued forward, unhindered by the weight of the front half.

<Permission to abort mission Explorator?> asked Alaina as she strained to gather the mental
power to form words. The rest of her mind worked desperately the keep the Excelsior Epsilon
alive.

<Permission denied! The mission continues!> canted back Maxima as he summoned multiple
holographic displays. His four augmented arms and mechadendrites constantly shifting through
them as red datastreams flowed to him. <The recovery of the Azorian is too important to just
abandon!>
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 127

<Do not let your arrogance blind you!> Jewell canted between prayers of calming. As it
accentuate his point, the claws of crane #8 shattered causing the already chaotic situation to
become even worse.

Alaina watched as Maxima paused for a few moments, reminding her of what happened during
the first failed test. Her cogitators gave a preliminary warning of how Maxima may have frozen
up from the high stress of the situation again, but then Maxima spoke up <Detach all claws from
the back section! Divert the detached claws to bring the front section back under control!>

The bridge crew did exactly as Maxima said. The enormous claws of the Excelsior Epsilon
released the back portion of the Azorian, letting it be dragged down by the gravity well, lost
forever. Little grief was lost over the loss of archeotech as the crew continued to try to take
control of the front portion. The detach claws flew towards the remaining front section and
attached on any free space available. With a smaller load and the assistance of more claws, the
section was being slowly stabilized and within less than an hour, it was firmly secured.

Ascending the ship out of the atmosphere, Alaina could see Maxima running deep analysis on
the remaining portion of the Azorian. <A full two thirds of the Azorian was lost, the recovered
third is damaged.> sighed Maxima as he slumped back into his seat. <A failure.>

<No, not a failure. A partial success.> canted Jewell. <It is most unfortunate that the Azorian
could not be recovered whole, but such is the will of the Omnissiah. Even broken pieces can be
used to help pave the road in the quest for knowledge. Tech Canticles 22:33>

<Perhaps,> canted back Maxima as he monitored the remaining part of the Azorian was dragged
into orbit. It was not the outcome that the Mechanicus of Apega desired but archeotech was still
recovered. One more piece of knowledge was now in the possession of the servants of the
Omnissiah.
MILLENNIUM OF WAR 129

PURE
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 131

In the endless void of space, across the millions of worlds scattered across the yawning dark,
mankind speaks its truth. In great temples of faith, science, and war, they preach their gospel to
the teeming masses.

‘Fear the alien,’ they say. ‘Hate the unknown. Revile the different.’ Only in humanity can there
be purity. Only in the worship of their God-Emperor, resplendent on his Golden Throne on the
ancient cradle-world of Terra, can there be The Truth.

On a quiet, unimportant world, far-flung from the Emperor’s Light, a different truth will be
revealed to those who call it home. A darker, yet simpler, purity will be taught. By fang, by claw,
by acidic bile and gnashing teeth, they will ascend to a realm beyond any of their imaginings. It
begins as a great exodus. A splinter of a greater whole, fleeing from a threat beyond anything
that mankind will ever comprehend. It descends upon the worlds of the Milky Way galaxy,
limping, bleeding, hungry – dying. Its hunger is all-consuming. It is starving. Countless mouths,
one mind, searching for sustenance. A billion, billion creatures, all striving towards a single goal.

The world it has chosen is calm – unassuming. To the humans who live there, it is the world of
Tallorn III. It has only one great city, perched upon its northern pole. They call this city Threng’s
Triumph, or sometimes just The Triumph, in honour of the great Threng family who has ruled
this world for nearly ten thousand years.

The Planetary Governor, a man named Frederick, is a man lifted beyond his station, and is the
current head of the most noble house of Threng. Like his father, and his father before him, he has
inherited the role through no merit of his own. The Threng family tells the tale how their
ancestors, long ago in the halcyon days of the God-Emperor’s Great Crusade, saved one of the
God-Emperor’s Angels from a vicious green skinned brute. In recognition of this great deed, the
Angel bestowed upon the Threngs the title of “Knight of the Emperor” and rewarded them with a
noble house, and the title of Planetary Governor to them and their descendants, for all time.

The truth, like most truths in the most holy Imperium of Man, is not a flattering one. The
Threng family were a house of minor nobles when the Great Crusade came through. This part of
the galaxy did not warrant the attentions of any of the Emperor’s finest warriors. The crusading
forces delivered an ultimatum to the world of lowly, squabbling human tribes – comply, or die.

The ruling house of Tallorn III, whose name has since been scrubbed from history, agitated for
war and resistance. They rallied the world under their banner. Together, they would fight until
the end, keeping their freedom and independence from these foreign oppressors and their brutal,
distant overlord. The Threngs betrayed them all, selling them out to the Imperials. In a series of
rapid strikes, the resistance leadership was annihilated, and the world crumbled.

The Threngs delivered the official surrender of the world, declaring to be compliant to their
new masters. In thanks for sparing him a long, boring, and costly war, the commander of the
crusaders commended the Threngs to the Imperium of Man’s governing body, the Adeptus
Administratum. And thus, the title of Planetary Governor passed to the Threngs, with whom it
has remained for ten thousand years.

From Threng’s Triumph, Frederick maintains an iron grip upon Tallorn III.
 With almost a billion residents calling it home, it is a massive, sprawling, poorly kept city.
Crime and poverty have run rampant here for generations, with most of the wealth of Tallorn III
flowing directly into the pockets of the Threngs and the wider Imperium. So long as the world’s
tithe to the Imperium is paid, the Threngs will remain in power. The Imperium cares not for how
the Threngs manage their world, only that it is loyal, and pays its due.

To the north and east of The Triumph lie the great, mostly frozen, oceans of Tallorn III. These
icy waters are home to peaceful leviathans. They are gargantuan creatures, who spend their lives
wandering the depths and singing their soulful tunes into the underwater realm. The people of
Tallorn III know of their existence, but do not care. They are too deep underwater, too large and
mighty, to risk provoking for the sake of some chewy meat and blubber. The people are content
to let the beasts live and sing their songs in peace.

West of the great city sits a vast forest which covers thousands upon thousands of kilometres.
At the forests edge, lumber camps are constantly pushing further westward, slowly chopping
down the great trees to fuel the fires of the Imperium. Generations of woodcutters have lived,
and died, along the forest’s edge, within whose depths reside feral bands of wild men. Their
ancestors were long ago cast out for so-called crimes committed against the ruling Threngs and
the most-holy God-Emperor and banished to the dark corners of the world. Now, they live
beneath the forest canopy, forever fleeing the encroaching might of men and powerful, smoke
belching machines, eking out a pathetic existence.

To the south of The Triumph are the vast plains and fertile farmlands that cover much of the
world. Thousands of small towns, villages, coastal fisheries, mountain mining camps, and rural
farming communities dot the planet, untold millions more working and toiling every day. It is
these places that are the true source of wealth for Tallorn III, the fruits of their labour travelling
along the great roads and to Threng’s Triumph.

All roads, as the saying goes on Tallorn III, lead to Triumph.

The great spaceport lies on the eastern side of the city and serves as the globe’s beating heart.
Everything of value that this world produces – food, metal, lumber, men – flows directly into the
city, and to the spaceport. There, material is stored until the great cargo-haulers of the Adeptus
Administratum, once a year, fill the skies to collect their due.

Every ten years, a regiment is created from the Tallorn III defence forces and sent out to fight in
His name, joining the ranks of the Astra Militarum. Many of these men will never return home.
Those that do are welcomed home as heroes, granted a plot of land, and permitted the honour to
work for the rest of their lives in peace and obscurity.

From this great city, vessels venture forth into the void, and its tenuous link to the greater
Imperium of Man is maintained. The world, for all it produces and all it gives, is but a drop in
the cosmic ocean that is the Imperium’s strength. It, insofar as the cold, calculating Adepts of the
Administratum are concerned, gives little, and demands little in return. It is a world of vast,
green fields of pastoral bliss and gentle, rolling hills.

Chapels to the blessed God-Emperor, extolling the virtues of hard work, prayer, and love of
thine family and community, are popular places of worship and community gathering. They
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 133

worship Him in his aspect as the Bringer of Life and Rebirth. They toil in the long days, knowing
that the fruit of their labour is finding its way, eventually, into the mouths of soldiers and
workers half a galaxy away. They are at peace, knowing they are contributing, in their small
way, to the glory of humanity.

The Great Devourer sees this world, and its mouth waters. It sees its survival. It sees prey.
Ahead of its glacial arrival to this bountiful feast of a planet, it sends its eyes and ears and
mouths.

A lone, organic vessel slips silently into the system. Its skin is plated in rock and metal, brain
and heart buried deep beneath the natural camouflage. To the sensors and scanners of the vigilant
human observers, it is nothing more than another meteoroid. Judged by its current course, it will
pass by Tallorn III in a few weeks, before being dragged into the gravitic pull of the sun. It is
nothing more than another extra-solar visitor, passing through the system, destined to burn up as
it passes by the heat of the sun. Unremarkable – boring.

The living meteoroid disgorges the bulk of its cargo – a million tiny flying eyes, ears, and
brains. Like their parent vessel, they too are invisible to the watching human eyes. They swarm
through the system, scouting and mapping the system. Their lifespans are measured in months,
their sole purpose to see and report.

The great mind of the Devourer processes all the sensory input its eyes and minds have sent
through. It confirms that the main world of this system is rich in bio matter. It is filled to bursting
with organic life, billions of bipedal lifeforms living upon the surface, and thousands more
gigantic, mouth-wateringly large creatures lurking beneath the oceans.

Two nearby moons orbit the world, sensory stations and outposts dug into the rock and metal.
Three other, smaller planets also orbit the sun. They are small, and inhospitable to most forms of
life. Outposts of humanity dot these worlds, mining metals and gasses for use in factories and
manufactorums located many sectors away. Two gas giants, in the far reaches of the system, are
devoid of all value. Dozens of moons orbit these giants, with humans numbering in the dozens
occupying tiny listening posts.

The Devourer takes all this information in. Over the weeks and months since its entry into this
system, it calculates. It analyses all potential actions it could take. Every possibility is examined
and analysed with cold precision. It looks to its own strength and compares it to the unknown
strength of the residents of this system.

It decides on its course of action.

Their purposes fulfilled, the flying eyes wither, and die. Their lifeless husks float in the void,
before being pulled into the heat of the raging sun. The Devourer despairs at the loss of this
precious bio matter, but it is a necessary sacrifice. If it is to survive, and thrive, it must learn all it
can of this system. The small, living vessel of rock and brain maintains its course. It drifts in the
cold and dark, waiting, and patient.

On Tallorn III, a man stretches, and yawns. He leans against the doorway of home, and peers up
at the sky. The twin moons are bright and shining in the star-lit sky, casting a pale light upon the
fields and farmland before him. He takes a slow sip from a mug of cool water. He is calm. He is
content. His name is Eli, and he is unremarkable in every way. He is 33 standard terran years old.
He is tall, with shoulder length, straw coloured hair. A rough, short beard covers an otherwise
handsome face. A life of physical labour, and good nutrition, have gifted him the virtues of
strength and endurance. He is a man in the prime of his life, and as far as he is concerned, it is a
good life.

He breathes deeply, the cold night air turning his breath into wisps of grey fog. He takes
another sip of his water. He looks out over the field before him, and smiles.

Not just a field – his field.

Though the winter will be long, the reward of the last harvest was bountiful. He will spend the
coming months preparing his land. He will even be able to afford to buy another tractor. With
that, the coming harvest may be even greater than the last. He will be able to hire more staff,
plant more crops. With the Emperor’s grace, he might even be able to purchase one of the nearby
farms and expand even further. He knows its owners – they are older now, their children long
since moved away. He has discussed the idea with them before, and they had been receptive.
Older, and marred by their years of physical labour, they dream of selling and moving to The
Triumph, to be closer to their children.

Eli stretches, and drains his mug, specks of the cool liquid lingering on his beard and chin. He
turns away, and walks back into the kitchen, closing the porch door behind him. The stairway
light is turned on, the dim yellow glow-globe sending its soft yellow light through the small,
comfortable home. He notices that the basement door is still slightly open, a crack of darkness
leading down.

He sighs. That door has never closed or locked properly in the years since he took ownership.
He has been meaning to fix it, but something else always steals his attention. He opens the
basement door fully, its hinges protesting loudly at the sudden movement, and walks down the
steps, flicking the light switch at the base of the stairs. The basement fills with dim, golden light.
Old, broken tools fill the various shelves scattered along the walls. Old farming machinery and
equipment, long since rusted and degraded, sit in the corners, covered in dirty white sheets.
Small, stained windows line the upper edges of the basement. The stairs leading to the external,
bulkhead entrance to the basement are covered in a thick layer of dust. He shakes his head,
smiling slightly - yet another project he has been delaying. It would take him days, weeks even,
to clear out and fix up this room. The old machinery may contain useful parts, or it may be
nothing but scrap. Either way, he could salvage it, and sell it.

He scratches at his chin, speckles of cool water dripping to the floor, and turns to leave, casting
his gaze over the room one more time.

A chest, underneath an old, long discarded metal-framed bed, catches his eye. The chest
belonged to his father. He looks at it for a long time. A mixture of anger, love, and frustration
courses through him. A stern, disciplined man, his father was. A great man, in so far as the
Imperium was concerned, a regular Hero of the Imperium; and an absolute bastard.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 135

He sets the mug down on the bottom step, and crouches down in front of the chest. He runs a
finger along the top, gathering up a thick layer of dust. He pulls the chest out and sets it on the
bed. The springs and hinges squeal quietly, not used to movement. The symbol of the Imperium,
the double-headed eagle of the Aquila is engraved atop the chest

Eli does not know why he is looking at the chest now. It has sat here, undisturbed, for years.
His father had only ever mentioned it once, many years ago, and only to tell Eli that he was
never to touch it again, so long as he lived. Eli slowly undoes the latch and slowly lifts the lid.
He exhales softly as the contents are revealed.

Dad’s old lasgun, two power packs, a bayonet; the humble tools with which his father
conquered the stars.

Eli traces his fingers over the Aquila carved into the side of the lasgun. He lifts the gun, and
shoulders it the way his father taught. A feeling of power, of bravery, creeps into him. He
remembers the few stories his father rarely shared, only ever after a good bottle of amasec.

Stories of hulking, green skinned brutes. Stories of insane, heretical humans, insidious aliens,
and bizarre horrors, all hell bent on destroying the people of Tallorn III and everything they held
dear. Eli knew his father was not exaggerating the stories, but he could never understand how the
stories did not end with his father weeping in a corner, cowering in terror away from the
monsters of this benighted galaxy.

But with this lasgun in hand, this tool of the Emperor – Eli felt he could face down anything.
Slowly, he lowers the gun, and places it back into the chest. He closes the lid, gently resting his
hand upon its surface. He closes his eyes, and whispers to the air.

‘Emperor, please watch over your loyal servant – he served you for many years, and he
deserves a place at your side’.

As though in answer to his prayer, a great flash of light illuminates the room. Seconds later, a
distant, thudding boom reverberates. The house quivers and shakes violently, trails of dust falling
from the ceiling, falling softly onto the cold stone floor.

Eli looks up in alarm. He opens the chest again, grabs the lasgun and runs back upstairs. The
porch door clatters open as he rushes back outside. The light of the twin moons washes across
the fields and trees, bathing the land in their wan light. In the distance, Eli spies a mass of trees
that look to have collapsed and been shorn in half, as though by a roughhewn axe. He looks to
the kitchen, to the vox caster sitting on the bench. He bites his lip, then picks up the receiver.
After several twists of the dials and button pushes, it finally crackles to life.

Crackles and burbles of static spit out of the caster, a female human voice slowly becoming
decipherable.

‘…repeat – Eli, is that you? Over.’

Eli recognises the voice – Elspeth. Eli holds the mouthpiece up, clearing his throat.
‘Aye, this is Eli. Got something to report. Possible explosion, near my farm. Maybe a couple
kilometres to the south. Can’t see anything but doesn’t appear to be any fires or anything. Might
be a meteor or something – no clue at this point. Over.’

Several seconds pass.

‘Understood. I will raise a patrolman. Are you OK? Over.’

‘I’m fine, thank you Els. I’ll tell you all about it next time I see you. Over.’

‘Understood. End transmission’

Eli hangs the mouthpiece back on the side of the machine, twisting the dials and pushing
buttons. The crackling and static slowly dissipates, before finally coming to complete silence. Eli
stands by the window and looks out at the distant trees and glances to the old timepiece hanging
on the wall. The arms tick-tick-tick slowly as his heart thumps in his chest.

His mind races - how long until the patrolman arrives? What if someone is hurt? What if it
wasn’t just a meteor?

He looks down to the lasgun that he is still holding, and his grip tightens.

He throws a coat on, steps into his boots, grabs a torch, and walk out into the cold and dark. He
smacks the base of the torch, pushing the activation stud on the side. It splutters to life, sending a
bright beam of light into the night. He turns it off, blinking his eyes as they adjust to the
darkness.

He trudges through the mud and dirt, eyes fixed on the trees in the distance. As he nears, he
shoulders the lasgun, hooking the torch beneath the barrel. He pushes his way through the thicket
of trees, the sounds of crickets and other wildlife softly buzzing all around him. More than once,
a large bird or treebound animal startles him as it jumps from tree to tree, fleeing the intruding
presence. After twenty minutes of walking, he can finally spy the collapsed trees ahead of him in
the gloom. A cluster of trees have collapsed, sprawled outwards from a central, slightly smoking
impact crater. To the left of the crater, still standing trees have been shorn in half at odd angles.

Eli stops and observes the environment. A chilling, gnawing sense of unease begins to claw at
his spine and neck. His heart is suddenly beating fast, his breath laboured. He steps closer,
approaching the ruination of trees. He reaches out and activates the torch light, shining its beams
upon the scene before. The light of the moons and his torch casts deep shadows across the
unnatural clearing, wisps of fog dancing upon the beams of light.

The crater is deep and has been gouged several metres into the earth. Rock and metal coat the
interior of the hole, and at its heart lies…. What is that? Eli steps closer, peering from the crater’s
edge, shining his light down into the heart of. In a rush, he suddenly realises the sense of unease
he has held.

It has been completely silent for minutes now. Eli’s light shines upon the object at the centre of
the crater. His eyes widen. He opens his mouth to scream. Blinding, searing pain pierces his
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 137

neck. Something powerful grasps his shoulders and sides. A deep, inhuman growl rumbles in his
ear. His eyes roll to the back of his head.

Eli is sitting at his kitchen table, a glass of half-drunk amasec before him. The near-full
decanter sits beside it, alongside a second empty glass. He takes another sip, and glances to the
basement door. It is firmly shut, the lock tightly in place. The key hangs on a thread about his
throat. His leg bounces up and down as he takes another sip.

After several minutes, there is a knock at the door. He rises and looks through the door’s peep
hole. He smiles and opens the door.

‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise Els.’

Elspeth stands before him. She is shorter, and slighter of frame than Eli. Her long hair is bound
back into a ponytail. She smiles quizzically at Eli, her strong chin and hawkish nose crinkled in
confusion.

‘Hi Eli…. You called me, remember?’

Eli leans against the door frame, scratching the rough beard on his cheek with a calloused
knuckle.

‘Did I? When was that?’

‘Couple hours ago…. don’t you remember? I told you I’d get a patrolman to come by, but no
one was available, so I decided to come out myself.’

She looks past Eli into the house and spots the decanter of amasec and two glasses. She laughs
softly.

‘Weren’t expecting me, huh?’ she says, smiling and nodding towards the empty glass. Eli looks
back to the table and the empty glass.

‘Well, I suppose I must have been,’ he says, looking back to Elspeth with a grin.

‘Come on in, have a glass – it’s the good stuff, Dad left it to me years ago. Thought I might as
well bust it out.’

Elspeth steps inside, taking her coat off and hanging it upon the rack by the door.

‘If I’m all the way out here, I might as well. You can explain what the hell you were talking
about on the vox.’

Elspeth takes a seat at the table, her back to the basement door. Eli pours her glass full of
amasec, the glass decanter clinking softly. She lifts the glass to her nose, and rests it there for
several seconds, breathing deeply. She smiles in appreciation.
 ‘You weren’t joking. This must be the good stuff. What’s the occasion?’

Eli takes a seat across from her. ‘Isn’t a visit from a friend a good enough reason?’

She looks down into the glass for several moments, before taking a sip. She closes her eyes and
nods in appreciation.

‘Damn – that’s good. So – what the hell was going on before? Why did you vox us? Something
about a meteor?’

Eli shifts in his chair. Behind Elspeth, the basement door handle is slowly, and silently, turning.

‘Ah yes, that. Well, I went by and had a look actually’.

‘Oh? What was it?’

Eli looks down at his glass, swishing it to and fro in the glass. He drains his glass, setting it
down on the table. He looks up at Elspeth, his lips pursed in thought.

‘Hard to describe really – nothing I’ve ever seen before, that’s for sure. Blessed by the
Emperor, most definitely, though.’

The basement door is now quietly opening, gently swinging inwards.

‘What do you mean, Eli?’ ask Elspeth, an undercurrent of alarm entering her voice.

Eli smiles to her.

‘You know Els, I’ve always thought you to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

A tall, hulking shadow slithers out from the basement, behind Elspeth. She is staring at Eli in
confused, bewildered silence.

‘I look forward to the future, Els. I think it’s going to be wondrous’.

The shadow leaps forward. Elspeth turns and screams. The chair clashes to the ground. The
shadow grabs Elspeth and pins her to the table. A snapping, inhuman jaw clamps around her
throat. Elspeth’s screams turn into gurgles, her eyes wide as they roll backwards. White foam
bubbles forth from her mouth as her body spasms.

Then, she is silent. Her body goes slack, legs and arms splayed out, chair knocked to the floor.
The shadow stands over her for several more seconds.

Eli watches this all impassively.

The shadow then releases her, turns around, and slinks back into the basement, leaving Eli
alone with the unconscious body of his friend. Minutes go by as Eli sits at the table, staring with
dead eyes at Elspeth. His leg bounces rapidly as he sits.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 139

He slowly stands and picks up her limp body and carries her upstairs, resting her upon one of
the spare beds. He finds a clean cloth, and fills a bowl with warm water, and wipes away the
foam and spittle from her chin and lips. He cleans the blood at her throat, though the wound has
already sealed over. He discards the blood-stained cloth in the bowl, spirals of blood and foam
rippling across the once-pure water.

He sits in a chair beside her and waits.

After nearly twenty minutes, she begins to rouse. She groans and stretches her limbs, as though
waking from a long, deep slumber. She rubs her eyes and sits up in the bed. Her eyes lock with
Eli, who smiles softly.

‘Eli? What happened?’

He frowns, and rubs his forehead, as though trying to remember. ‘I… don’t know? I don’t
remember.’

Why can’t he remember? He strains his mind, pushing his thoughts back over the last few
hours. All he sees is a haze, as though his memories were obscured behind a thick, grasping fog.
He remembers… something? In the forest. His father’s lasgun. Then amasec. He remembers
amasec, clear and sharp in the fog of his mind.

‘I think…we had too much to drink?’ he says, looking at her quizzically.

It is Elspeth’s turn to look confused now. Slowly, she begins to nod. ‘Yes, that sounds…right.
Right?’

They lock eyes. An overwhelming desire, unbidden but not unwanted, fills Eli. She is without
doubt the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Before he can act on his thoughts, she grabs
him by the collar, pulls him onto the bed, and begins to kiss him passionately. A night of
animalistic, frenzied copulation followed. Neither of them speaks during, or after – pure instinct
and hormone-fuelled urge drove them onwards through the night. Where another human would
have collapsed from exhaustion, they keep going.

While Eli and Elspeth lay entwined upon the old bed, fulfilling their unnatural compulsions, the
creature that now lurks in the basement ventures forth into the dark. Its hulking, brutal form
moved stealthily through the thickets and laneways of the region, little more than a shadow.
Occasionally, it will stop, and sniff at the air. Its long, purple tongue slashing to and fro in the
night as it tastes the air.

After several hours, the creature returns to the basement it now calls home. The moons had long
since descended on the horizon, the sun rising in opposition. For a moment, before it descends
into the dank and dark hidey hole provided by its first victim, it is visible in the light. It is a
Xenos creature of unknowable horror. In the years and decades to come, it will become known as
a Genestealer, a genetically engineered apex predator of the ravenous Great Devourer.

Even hunched over as it is, it stands at nearly three metres tall. Its shape is vaguely humanoid,
though no sane human would ever mistake it for kith and kin. Two long, powerful legs, feet
tipped in sharp claws, support its bulky body. Four simian-like arms end in almost human hands,
each of its fingers ending in a sharp, gleaming talon. Its body is vaguely insect-like, covered in a
thick, deep purple carapace. Its head is long, and bulbous, a too-large brain hidden behind
predatory, glowing red eyes. Its mouth and jaw are filled with razor sheep teeth. It is the perfect
predator, from a species of a singular hunger.

It descends into the basement, snarling to the sky as it slams the door shut behind it. Here it will
dwell for years to come, only occasionally venturing forth to explore more of the world it aims to
bring under its dominion. With Eli and Elspeth now firmly under its thrall, it begins to pull the
psychic threads hooked upon their souls. Like marionettes in a twisted play, they perform their
roles to perfection. Their lust for one another is insatiable – they mistake this for genuine
connection, affection, and love. Elspeth relocates her life from the nearby town to the farmstead
with Eli.

Though many of their friends and family are taken aback at the suddenness of the relocation,
they are not altogether surprised – the two have known each other for years, after all, and it has
been common knowledge that they have harboured feelings for one another.

Eli expands his farm and his business – the surrounding lands and farms are purchased and
brought under his control, the old couple that lived nearby quickly selling their house and land to
Eli, after a brief meeting with him in his farmstead. With such a vast swathe of land under his
ownership, and a higher expectation from the planetary government for more and more produce,
he hires on an ever-growing workforce of menials and farmhands. Within a year, his small farm
has grown to become the dominant business in the region, with hundreds upon hundreds of
workers passing through.

Each worker, every single visitor to the farmstead, has the exact same experience. Eli brings
them into his home. The Genestealer then emerges from the darkness and inflicts upon them its
dread curse.

There, in Eli’s home, their hopes and dreams are genetically overwritten by the apex Xenos
predator. With every new addition to its growing flock of enslaved thralls, the Genestealer grows
in size and power, both physically and mentally. The searing hooks it has planted into the minds
of its unwitting victims grows stronger – its mental suggestions gradually turning into
compulsions that they cannot resist.

These new converts all, ostensibly, work for Eli, developing a level of almost fanatical devotion
towards him. Unofficially, they take on the name of The Disciples of Eli. Though in truth, the
man they revere is nothing more than the first puppet of an intelligence beyond any of their
comprehension. He works them hard – within the space of a few years, he becomes one of the
wealthiest and most influential men on the planet. Though low-born, and not of the noble-class,
he is able to influence policy and law on the world through the sheer monetary weight that he
possesses.

Eli gives great speeches to the populace of the world, telling them that the Bringer of Light and
Rebirth will return to the world, as He did in ages long past, to uplift them into glory. The
simple, agrarian folk of the world lap up his message with delight. Although the city-folk are not
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 141

as taken in by his words, the religious representatives of the Imperium of Man, the Ecclesiarchy,
delight in the appearance of a rural figure who praises the glory of the Emperor in all his aspects,
and grant unto him official sanction to spread his message.

After all, since the appearance of Eli, every Imperial tithe has been paid, and it even appears
that Tallorn III may now be able to contribute more to the works of the Imperium. The Adeptus
Administratum makes a note that the world’s tithe grade is to be re-examined. Within the next
century, a representative is scheduled visit the world to determine if its classification should be
higher.

More and more people of Tallorn III clamber to work for Eli, fictitious stories of the generous
conditions he gives to his workers spread far and wide by his Disciples. His Family, as he comes
to call them, spread their tendrils out into society. Each human subjected to the Genestealer’s
brutal kiss, like Eli and Elspeth before them, become overwhelmed by sexual desire. Secret
orgies are held across the many rural properties of Eli, hundreds of willing participants satisfying
their desires by moon and candlelight.

The first results of these twisted unions are the grotesque creatures who become known, to the
Disciples, as the First-Born. They are grotesque, horrific monsters, slow-witted, animalistic, and
utterly unable to integrate into wider human society. They resemble their alien father, the
Genestealer, more than their biological parents.

Multi-limbed, purple-skinned, and driven by pure instinct, they are kept hidden in great tunnel
complexes dug out and built beneath the many properties owned by Eli. They will not leave their
dark, subterranean home to stand in the light of Tallorn’s sun for many years to come.

The mothers of these horrendous workers withdraw completely from society, joining an ever-
growing list of women who have resigned from normal society. They spend the remainder of
their lives underground, becoming little more than brood mothers for the ever-growing swarm of
monsters. The people of Tallorn III, they are told that these women have found a new, peaceful
life out amongst the farms and rural communities, and want for nothing.

The First-Born, as alien and monstrous as they are, are not spared the attentions of the
Disciples. The Disciples look upon them and see them as creatures of raw, pure beauty. The
unholy union of First-Born and Disciple brings forward the Second-Born. More intelligent than
their First-Born parent, they more resemble their Disciple heritage, but are still unmistakably
alien. Their brains, though slow and stupid, are, unlike the First-Born, capable of speech and the
operation of basic machinery.

Under cover of dark, they will work for Eli, providing a source of raw labour that regular
humanity can never compete with. In the light of the moons, they work the fields and mines of
the planet. Underground, they continually expand and grow the labyrinthine lair that begins to
honeycomb Tallorn III’s landscape.

With his wealth and power growing off the hunched backs of his children, Eli’s business
interests expand ever further. He invests heavily in the great fisheries and mines of the world,
sending thousands of his workers to sail the great oceans. In the mountains of the world, his
Disciples establish great mining camps, the raw material ever expanding his wealth and power.
To the poor and destitute of the great city, he establishes charity houses, funnelling food and
clothing to the worst off. With each act of generosity and compassion, the Disciples grow ever
larger.

Questions are raised by competitors and some figures in the nobility about how, exactly, Eli’s
businesses are so productive. They are swiftly silenced by the Planetary Governor – after all, the
fruit of Eli’s work is going directly into the coffers of the world, and by extension, to the
Imperium. Eli invests heavily in the churches and holy places of the world – in time, even the
most holy men of the world will be subjected to the Genestealer’s dread kiss. Under its malign
influence, their sermons take on a different tone and message.

No longer do they preach of The Emperor, the bringer of Light and Rebirth, as a distant,
omniscient God who watches over the good people of Tallorn III. Instead, they preach that He
will return, and very soon. The people of the world must band together and pave the way for
His return.

The children of the mingling of the Second-Born and the Disciples become known as the
Hybrids. They more closely resemble baseline humanity than any generation before them,
though any normal human would decry them as a foul mutant upon closer inspection. Slightly
purple skin with thick, ridged brows, and the occasional extra limb, reveals their inhuman origin.

The Hybrids establish themselves in the remote fishing villages and mining colonies of the
world, far from non-Disciple eyes. They wear heavy, obscuring clothing, hiding their alien
appearance from prying eyes. They crew the fishing vessels that sent to ply the great oceans,
with a great task given to them by Eli. They are to hunt down the great leviathans that call
Tallorn III’s oceans home.

Powerful ships, equipped with mighty engines and weapons of war, enable them to hunt the
great creatures of the sea. The meat and blubber of the leviathans serves two purposes for the
Disciples. Firstly, and most importantly, it feeds the teeming swarms that are now lurking
beneath the world’s surface. Secondly, it is considered a delicacy in the capital city, and provides
Eli even greater wealth and prestige.

The sudden, violent assault on their existence does not go unanswered by the beasts of the sea.
Across the globe, ships go missing, their crews pulled down into the icy depths to draw their last,
water-filled breaths.

Ports and coastal towns report strange noises in the night, before they too go quiet. The first
responders to their pleas for help find towns flattened and flooded, the people missing. These
assaults upon humanity does nothing but stiffens their resolve – ever more vessels are sent out to
haul the creatures back in chains, to be cut and carved and cooked and consumed by the waiting
masses.

On a stormy night upon the high seas of Tallorn III, standing near the prow of one of these great
vessels, a Hybrid balances himself in the thunderous storm that rages about him, clutching tightly
at a great harpoon-gun. Wind and rain lash upon the vessel, making its metal surface slick and
slipper. His name is unimportant, most of all to him. To blend in with the non-Disciples of the
world, he has taken the name of Leo.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 143

By human reckoning, Leo would be in his early twenties, though, he is barely two years old.
Like his inhuman mother, and his abominable grandfather before her, he has matured rapidly.

His mind briefly drifts towards his mother. The last time that he saw her, in the labyrinthine
underground caverns that he had called home for the first year of his life, she had already found a
new mate. He wonders how many direct brothers and sisters he has. He dismisses the thought,
smiling ruefully. He has countless brothers and sisters.

A peal of thunder erupts in the night, followed barely a few seconds later by a blinding flash of
lightning. They are heading into the eye of the storm – it is there that their quarry lurks.

The remaining crew, a mix of Disciples and Hybrid, are running to and fro across the deck,
checking equipment, manning harpoon guns, and lighting-glow globes. The captain, Moebius,
bellows orders to the crew, his voice somehow carrying over the constant thrash of the rain and
wind. He stumps his way back and forth along the vessel, his metal augmetic leg thumping and
grinding. He grabs Disciples and Hybrids and hurls them to their stations, if he feels they are too
slack in their duties.

His eyes flash onto Leo, who immediately returns his attention to the harpoon-gun.

‘Eyes forward, boy’ he roars at Leo, before finding another crew member who needs his
attention.

Leo steadies himself and tightens his grip on the great harpoon-gun that he is manning. This is
not Leo’s first hunt, but it will be the most important one of his life. His eyes drift again towards
the centre of the vessel, towards the cargo-hold. He feels the psychic, luring song that has given
him purpose his whole life tug at his mind even harder – emotions and feelings, that are not
wholly his own, swim through his mind. His body reacts by pumping adrenaline through his
veins, making his heartbeat faster and harder. Blood rushes to his limbs, filling them with
strength.

They are getting close.

Ahead of them, its barely visible lights bobbing in the great storm, the forward scout ship of
their fishing fleet, named Freedom’s Price, blares its foghorn. The sky roars back in reply.
Moebius jumps forward and bellows out across the deck. In that moment, his orders were
unnecessary - all aboard the vessel were acting as one. The psychic tugs at Leo’s mind became
more powerful – no longer was he the driving force behind his own hands.

‘Harpoon gunners! Eyes forward – wait for my command!’

In unison, the harpoon gunners aboard the ship all point forward in one, smooth motion. The
ship ahead of them bounces in the roiling seas. An enormous wave smashes into its front,
sending it reeling upon the waves. In the dark and rain, Leo sees the surface of the water bulge,
as one of the great leviathans begins to emerge from the depths.

‘Full speed ahead!’

 The deck beneath Leo rumbles in reply as the engines go to full power – thick, black, oily
smoke spews from the ship’s exhausts as the engines are pushed to their limits.

The leviathan breaks the surface next Freedom’s Price, water exploding around its great,
cephalopod head, slamming waves into the doomed vessel. A dozen enormous, building sized
tentacles whip forth from the water around it, surrounding and encasing the vessel. A dozen
huge, watery eyes stare down in rage at the Freedom’s Price.

‘Ah there it is, the ugly bitch.’

It slams one of its tentacles into Freedom’s Price, cracking the ship in half. Its other tentacles
wrap around the vessel, crunching wood, bending metal, and jamming gears and pistons with its
mucous encased limbs. A hundred smaller feelers whip about from the beast’s sides and head.
They slice crew in half, impale them upon the crumbling decking, and hold them up to the sky as
grisly trophies. Leo can hear distant, blood-curdling screams ringing out through the night.

The unlucky crew who aren’t torn apart or stabbed are instead grabbed and dragged underwater,
and up into the monster’s mouth.

‘We’re almost in range! Hold!’

As they push through the night, the ship’s name, emblazoned upon the side, catches the light
and reflects. It is the Kraken-Killer, a ship designed for a single purpose. Kraken-Killer pushes
forward ever closer and closer, the waters of the ocean churning beneath its hull as it propels
itself forward.

Leo can see the monster up-close, now. Every human instinct, every human urge that remains
within his unnatural brain is screaming at him to flee. To turn and flee in terror. Instead, another
presence in his mind, a comforting, all-encompassing force, holds him in place.

‘Horn! Now!’

The Kraken-Killer’s foghorns all blast at maximum volume, screaming their defiance up at the
beast. Leo feels his head swim and swoon in response to the overwhelming noise, his vision
briefly doubling.

The leviathans’ eyes all swing towards the Kraken-Killer. From somewhere on its grotesque
form, it shrieks in reply. It is a high pitched, keening blast, full of anger and sorrow. It twists
about in the water, bringing its tentacles high into the air, the ruined wreck of the Freedom’s
Price sinking beneath the waves all about its titanic form.

‘Fire! Now!’

A dozen metre thick harpoons blast forward, thick cables trailing behind. They all strike true,
tearing deep into the creature’s eyes and slimy skin. As they plunge in to the pink and purple
flesh, their claws expand outwards, embedding themselves. The creature roars in pain.

‘Shock it!’
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 145

Leo immediately pops the protective cover off the secondary trigger and thumbs the button. The
ship briefly splutters and the lights flash, and an overwhelming smell of ozone floods his nose.
Electricity surges forward along the length of the cable and directly into the beast. Around him,
the other harpoon-gunners have done the same. Twelve harpoons, designed specifically to
capture this creature, pour incomprehensible amounts of raw power into the beast. It shrieks as
lightning coruscates across its body and its limbs. Kraken-Killer’s lights flicker and go dim, and
the engines whir and die. The leviathan slumps in the water as the blasts dissipate from its form,
its tentacles and feelers drooping down under the waves.

‘Haul it in!’

As one, the crew beneath the deck activate the great gears and turbines beneath each of the
harpoons. The little power that remains is diverted to turn the grinding gears. Leo knows that a
host of second-born are beneath the deck and are using their monstrous strength to aid the haul,
manually turning gears and pulling cables. Slowly, gently, the beast is reeled in.

The storm begins to calm, and all is silent, except for the creature’s soft burbles and sounds of
movement. Despite the horrendous pain inflicted upon it, it still lives, though it will soon ache
for death. This vessel, despite its portentous name, was not intended to kill the great beast. Its
mission was to bring it in close.

From the cargo hold, the Genestealer emerges. By now, after years and years of enslaving
countless humans and feasting upon their psychic power, it can no longer really be considered a
“Genestealer”. In the years to come, the Imperium of Man, the great Empire which this world
ostensibly is a vassal of, will dub this evolved creature a Patriarch.

It is more than three times its original size, its head and brain swollen to monstrous proportions.
Its body, despite years spent mostly secluded and sedentary, is thickly muscled and layered in an
unbreakable carapace. Its claws and natural weapons are longer, sharper, and even thicker now.

The Patriarch steps forth from the cargo hold. As one, the crew stare in awe and barely contained
excitement. It sniffs at the air, snake-like tongue slashing at the air. It looks to the great monster.
The giant sea-beast’s eyes are half-opened. For a moment, they look at one another.

The chained beast begins to struggle, fruitlessly, its body well and truly defeated and broken. Its
eyes are fully opened now. Leo realises that it is panicking. The Patriarch runs forward, heavy
feet pounding upon the deck. It crests the front of the Kraken-Killer’s prow and launches itself
upon the struggling leviathan.

Though Leo is the Patriarch’s creature, heart, body, and soul, even he cannot help but feel
sympathy for the leviathan. The sounds that emerge from it as it is subjected to yet another
violation of its body and soul belong more to a mewling child than a god of the sea.

After nearly an hour, the Patriarch returns. It goes back below deck, into its hideout in the cargo
hold. The crew is silent in the quiet and dark, the faint burbles and slurps of the leviathan
rippling in the night. Moebius looks to the beast.

‘Cut her loose.’

 The crew hit their harpoon triggers – the claws close, and slowly slide out of the animal’s skin
and flesh. Their gore encrusted tips slip into the water, staining it red, and slowly wind their back
up and into the ship. Leo affixes the harpoon back into the gun, checking it over. The rich, sharp
tang of the creature’s blood tugs at his nose, and sets his eyes to water. The beast, though it still
lives, slides beneath the surface, its tentacles still slack and weak. It disappears, leaving nothing
but the wreckage of the Freedom’s price, and its own blood, upon the surface of the water.

In silence, the crew works the vessel. They restore power and engines. They work in total
silence. They do not bother to try to find any survivors from the Freedom’s Price.

In the weeks and months that follow, the leviathan recovers its strength. Just like its human
neighbours, it feels the siren’s call of the Genestealer’s wicked curse. In the years that follow,
just like Eli, it will become the willing puppet of forces beyond its ken. Its curse will spread
amongst the uncountable inhabitants of the seas, becoming the first of its kind to become
afflicted. It will give birth to leviathan sized abominations who will wander the waves, spreading
the curse to any other seaborne creature it encounters.

All fishing activities will cease from the humans of Tallorn III, and a new breed of beast will
emerge from the oceans.

On the surface, the Patriarch returns to its lair. In the years to come, it will quietly continue to
build its power upon this blighted world. Eli, aging more and more, will continue expanding his
interests and reach. Towards the apex of the infestation that dwells within the hearts and souls of
millions of the human and inhuman beings that call this world its home, the Ascended are born.

Born of Hybrid and Disciple, they are the closest to true humanity. In appearance, they are
unremarkable from a regular human. In their hearts, however, burns an unquenchable desire that
they cannot name. They look to the stars, and dream. They dream of a greater purpose, a higher
goal, and a purer existence.

They spread through the society Tallorn III, becoming the friends, neighbours, colleagues of
their ignorant victims. In time, they take to the stars, booking passage upon merchant vessels, to
find themselves a new home out in endless dark of space. In the centuries that follow, and with
the benefit of hindsight and bloody experience, the greatest minds of the Imperium of Man trace
the infestations of a thousand worlds back to this one, lowly, secluded backwater of a world.

The Genestealer cultists, now with their Ascended followers dug deep into human society like
ticks. They all begin to prepare for an event they call The Arrival. They take to the streets,
preaching of The Arrival. They speak of the glories coming to this world, how they will all be
united, and taken to new lives of bliss. The number of Disciples grows massively, the poor and
disenfranchised of the world flock to its message of hope and purity.

The Ascended, ever driven by their malignant overlord, take advantage of these men and
women. Just as with the original Disciples, these new converts are taken to the remote places of
the world, and are violated, mind, body, and soul.

Sensing the time draws near, the Patriarch begins to twist and mould its children. The lesser
born, the First and Second-born, grow hellish mutations upon their already grotesque forms.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 147

Blades of bone, chitinous plating, and proboscis like growths capable of spitting burning acid are
common sights among the teeming hordes that lurk beneath the surface. Terrifying psychic
powers emerge in a select few.

The Ascended, just like their progenitors Eli and Elspeth, are driven into a hormone fuelled
frenzy. They conduct orgies across the globe, spurring themselves and others ever onwards in the
name of The Arrival.

The children of the Ascended are the Pure. Unlike the Ascended, nothing of humanity is left
within them. They are the next generation of Genestealers. They are utterly alien in appearance,
resembling the Patriarch when he first emerged on this planet. Unlike the Patriarch, they each
contain within them a shred of human DNA. They can think like a human, see the world as a
human does, and use it to blend in with their societies.

Some of this new generation of Pure are smuggled off-world with guards of Ascended faithful –
they will go on to begin the cycle anew in the great Hive worlds in neighbouring sectors. Others
go deeper and further into the Imperium and the wider galaxy, finding new homes in remote
places, spreading their curse to small worlds and communities. Those that remain, instead, live at
the side of the Patriarch.

Eli, the first Disciple, first victim of the Patriarch, is by now an old, greying man. He has
wormed his way up society throughout the years. He controls most of all business interests on
Tallorn III. He is an overpowering political voice, and the unofficial spiritual leader of this
world. It is said that when the Planetary Governor gives a command, it is Eli’s words he speaks.

The Planetary Governor, Frederick Threng, is a short, fat, cowardly man. He wears the
ornamental clothing of his office – a resplendent coat and cloak with gold and red trimmings. A
tall, ornate, pointed hat, and a thick, black walking cane completes the outfit. On anyone else, it
might look impressive. On Frederick, it looks pathetic, like a boy wearing the too-serious and
too-big clothes of his father. He now stands atop the tallest tower in the unfortunately named city
of Threng’s Triumph. He is looking over the spaceport, a dataslate clutched in his hands.

Without the spaceport, Threng cannot fulfil his obligations to the Imperium. If he cannot fulfil
his obligations, one way or another, Threng will be removed from his station.

Eli stands at Threngs side, his heavy cloak clutched tight. Underneath the cloak, he holds onto
his father’s lasgun tightly, making sure to keep it obscured from view. The icy breeze tugs at
him, chilling him to the core. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a low, incandescent glow
over the frozen city before them. Eli casts a sidelong glance over at Frederick. It was laughably
easy for Eli to work his way to Frederick’s side. Desperate for any allies on a world growing
more and more hostile to him and his family, Eli had been welcomed with open arms. Naively,
Frederick assumed keeping the other great power of this world at his side kept him and his rule
safe.

Frederick breaths heavily, jowls wobbling with every breath. He holds the dataslate in his fat,
pudgy hands, tapping at it furiously, head shaking slightly as he reads more and more.

‘No, no, this cannot be…no, no, no,’ he whispers.

 Eli looks at the dataslate. He holds his hand out for it, saying nothing. Frederick hands it over
almost immediately.

‘This can’t be happening Eli.’

Eli peruses the dataslate, taking in its contents, though he already knows everything in it.

‘The Astropaths, Eli. How in the Emperor’s name does that even happen?’

The Astropathic Choir, responsible for the sending and receiving of all psychic messages in the
system, is unable to perform its duties. Across the galaxy spanning Imperium, they are how
mankind communicates across its far-flung worlds. Without the Choir, Tallorn III is isolated, and
alone.

Eli reads the reports dispassionately. Half of the Choir are dead, and the other half cannot call
upon their powers without inflicting horrific headaches upon themselves. They have described
the effects as a great, smothering shadow– they cannot see the Emperor’s light, and everything is
awash in a mindless, endless, chittering shriek. They are, for the first and last time in the planet’s
living memory, completely alone.

The rest of the dataslate contains reports from across the globe of varying shades of horror and
confusion. Towns going completely dark. Planetary defence forces rioting. Unrelenting, horrific
nightmares afflicting the entire populace. Mass orgies and executions held in public spaces, often
at the same time. Preachers upon every street corner, proclaiming that The Arrival is imminent.

To any reasonable servant of the Imperium, it points to a planet going mad. To Eli, it is the
culmination of decades of work.

Smiling slightly, Eli hands the dataslate back to Frederick. As he does so, he feels a tug in his
mind. Far away, the Patriarch has emerged from his underground lair.

‘I’ve called the defence forces to assemble. They are rallying now but… I don’t know what do,
Eli. What do we do?’

Eli meets Frederick’s pleading, desperate eyes. ‘You will do nothing.’

Frederick blinks in surprise. ‘What? Surely I must…’

He does not finish his sentence.

Eli brings out the old lasgun from beneath his cloak, and fires. The red, superheated bolt erupts
from the barrel, spearing through the Governor’s chest. It blasts through him, blasting through
him and out of his back, severing his spine. The lasbolt cracks against the solid concrete of the
rooftop, leaving a black scorch mark. Frederick’s heart and one of his lungs is disintegrated, a
gaping, cauterized wound all that remains. The smell of burning meat, smoke, and ash fills the
air. He looks down at the hole in his chest, mouth agape stupidly. He collapses to his knees,
breath catching in his throat.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 149

Eli brings the lasgun up one final time, looking into the Governor’s weeping, pleading eyes.
The second bolt punches through skull and brain, sending the body to the ground. Eli looks down
at the bloodless scene for a few moments, lasgun still clutched tightly in his hands.

He looks out across the city. The whip-crack-pop of a thousand firing lasguns fills the air.
Screams ring out, and explosions send plumes of thick black smoke into the sky. Unholy, bestial
roars split the night. To the east and north, great tidal waves break to give form to titanic
monstrosities. They crash into the city’s sea walls that protect the spaceport from the ocean. The
defence forces stationed there fire their pathetic rifles at these beasts, their red streaked lasbolts
glancing harmlessly off the thickened natural armour.

Swarms of small, squid like beasts climb over the seawalls, tearing into the guardsmen
stationed there. Large, building sized leviathans slam up and onto the wall, blade tipped tentacles
slicing through the screaming soldiers. To the south and west, hordes of monstrous beasts
emerge from their underground lairs, barrelling towards the city. The surviving defenders rally,
entrenched artillery positions pouring their holy fire into the hordes of beasts. The hordes
respond with balls of acid and bile, melting the defenders. The guard unleash torrents of las and
autocannon fire into the teeming swarms.

But it is not enough.

From within the city, cultists and smuggled hybrid beasts emerge from a hundred warehouses.
They swarm over the defenders, cutting flesh, breaking bones, splitting skin.

The Patriarch and his Genestealer bodyguard tear through all opposition, slicing through the
poorly equipped and terrified soldiers. Psychic pulses of pure terror emit from the Patriarch and
his brood, sending men and women sprawling to the ground, clutching at their skulls in pure,
abject terror.

The great leviathans of the oceans drag whole sections of the city beneath the icy waves. From
the spaceport, dozens of vessels attempt to flee to the presumed safety of the skies. The
Leviathans swat them from the air, balls of explosions of flame and smoke flashing against the
dark.

Eli leans against the railing and breathes deeply, watching this all take place before him.

Within just a few hours, the city has been taken. Pockets of resistance remain – the stories of
these brave heroes will never be told. They will, down to the last man, woman and child, die
screaming at the hands of alien beasts, their essence consumed and erased from existence.

Eli looks to the sky. A great presence lies above, reaching its tendrils down and unto Tallorn III.
It falls upon him, and all his brothers and sisters, like a comforting blanket, smothering out all
other thought and feeling. Hand in hand, they walk together into oblivion.

Together, they become pure.

 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 151

THE HORROR
AT
BLACKROCK
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 153

The world of Polyphemus was cold and grey, a testament to the spiraling hives that reached into
the lower atmosphere like the thin, bony fingers of some dying God, crawling forth from the
earth. As the small ship broke through the cloud-line, it was battered by the tumultuous storms
that were so common to the polluted world, acidic sheets of rain pelting the cold steel and
reinforced glass windows as purple-blue bolts of lightning crackled and arced through the
swirling, iron-grey storm clouds, and deafening blasts of thunder threatened to disrupt the
engines with their sonic detonations.

The ship slowly began to lower itself on a small, pitted, worn-away landing platform far from
the main hive itself. In the last few feet, the shuttle’s reverse thrusters began to slowly fire,
slowing the descent to a crawl as the rubberized steel landing claws sought to find a grip on the
slick platform, an automatic rain shield slowly forming over the shuttle. Only after the shuttle’s
small cogitator declared a successful maglock did the shuttle door open, and he strode out. He
was still a young man, but the life he’d led put premature wrinkles on his brow and dark circles
under his eyes. His dirty blond hair was already drenched by the pouring bucket of nature’s tears,
and the outer leather cloak he wore over his clothes was starting to drip with clear rivulets of
water. Amber eyes flecked through with green, glittered in the dark as he looked upwards at the
spire before him.

Blackrock.

The weathered, ancient sign hung over the gates, barely lit by a single, cracked, weakly
flickering lumen-globe. Beyond this single candle, the spire was completely dark, a bastion of
the darkness even in this dark place. Behind him, further away on the pitched horizon, the hive
structure was embroiled in the woes and riots of a minor uprising. He didn’t care much. The
hive’s political struggles were inconsequential when compared to Blackrock. That was, after all,
why he was here.

Blackrock was the largest prison on Polyphemus, a black spire dozens of stories high and nearly
a kilometer wide, located far from the main hive structures, where the largest and worst criminals
were collected to be stored; kept away from “polite” society. However, being on the very borders
of the Imperium has its severe disadvantages, and necessity forced the Governor to convert the
prison into a makeshift sanitarium. Instead of housing criminals from the hive, Blackrock would
now serve to house the planet’s population of unculled, untested and untrained psykers awaiting
the arrival of the Black Ships.

But the Black Ships had taken too long to arrive, and now the planet was stitched across with
rebellion. The Planetary Governor was nowhere to be seen and the hive was quickly falling into
disarray, with reinforcement from the Imperial Guard still a month away at best. Some elements
of the Imperium’s Adepta had even considered the possibility that the rebellion was a cover for
the uprising of Chaos cults somewhere within the main hive structure.

The fact that Blackrock stopped transmitting its mandatory vox and astropathic signals the day
after the Governor vanished was too much of a coincidence for those same elements. And so, he
had decided to come investigate it himself.
 Approaching the spire, he felt a familiar creeping sense of dread bubble up in the farthest
corners of his mind. The swirling gusts of wind drove a spray of mildly acidic rain right into his
face, causing his eyes to flinch and wipe it away with a gloved hand. He wore a small laspistol
attached to his hip, as well as a few pouches containing spare las-packs and items that seemed
prudent to bring. One of these was a small flashlight, which he clicked on with a small press of
the activation rune. Most importantly, however, he carried on his opposite hip a foot-long
obsidian rod etched with an intricate silver inlay along the length of the shaft. The ivory grip was
adorned in carved prayers and miniature hexagrammic wards. The null rod would serve well,
assuming the worst had come.

The iron gates of Blackrock were that of a fortress, designed with multiple maglocks, reinforced
plasteel bars, and inscribed with protective sigils. However, time had taken its toll, and most of
the sigils had been worn away by years of acidic storms, with the staff seemingly not caring to
maintain them. It wasn’t a good sign.

‘This location is a secured facility. Present proper authorization at once,’ the small panel inbuilt
into the weathered gate said in a flat, mechanical tone. He inserted a small credential key into the
panel’s activation slot, looking behind him at the shuttle, the engine purring softly as his pilot
waited desperately to take him away. His sense of foreboding seemed to increase, gripping his
lower gut. His jaw set, and once the panel flashed green, he pulled the key out, stowed it, and
jerked the handle downwards with a firm conviction, setting the ancient gears into motion as the
doors began to slide open, activation klaxons beginning to sound.

The white beam of the stablight shone in like an angel’s outstretched arm through the slowly
opening crevice. In his other hand sat the laspistol right above the stablight, the lightweight
weapon feeling comfortable in his hand as its matt-green barrel pointed down into the black
reception hall, broken only occasionally by a red emergency power light. The klaxons shrieked
out a binary warning as the gears screeched to a halt, leaving a gap just large enough for two men
to squeeze through, shoulder-to-shoulder. He shook his head, wondering if anything could ever
be easy. Sweeping the opening room as best as he could, he stepped inside, his reinforced boots
softly squelching on the smooth tile floors. The darkness of Blackrock awaited him, broken only
momentarily by a single light...

As he cautiously swept the entrance hall, the smells of cordite and decomposition wafted in
from further within the black hallway, causing his face to tighten in disgust. The small white
light pierced the darkness like a sword, illuminating the reception hall, past an empty secretary’s
desk to the security office. Having accessed the floorplan extensively, he knew that the security
office was designed as a final bastion for any defenders to prevent escaped inmates from leaving.
Approaching the mag-locked security door, he became aware of a slight pressure forming in his
temples, like an oncoming migraine. His ears and jaw also felt like they were going to pop, this
strange change in air pressure constricting his sinuses and catching his lungs. As he tried to
breathe, his mind recited a brief catechism from the Emperor’s Prayers, almost on automatic
rote. As his mind slowly began to clear, the pressures gradually eased, never truly going away,
but receding to a manageable level, allowing him to breathe easier and focus.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 155

The security door unlocked easily with his credentials and slid open like it was on freshly oiled
wheels. The first sight that greeted him were the lumen-globes suspended from the ceiling, still
lit, almost seeming too bright when compared to the emergency lighting and dark night behind
him. The floor around the security door was covered in a sprinkling of shell casings, coming
from the two autocannons pintle-mounted to the walls, their barrels warped and distorted, shaken
and riven apart by unholy energies. The large security monitoring post and metal detectors
stretching across the room were covered in blood and a strange, foul smelling greenish-purple
ichor. The bodies of six guards were strung violently around the room, their bodies twisted and
posed at broken angles, their armor ripped to shreds by some colossal force. Their blood had
been used to paint horrific symbols on the walls, the floors, even the ceiling. The symbols
seemed to pull on his very soul and shifted whenever he blinked or looked for too long. He made
a point to not look at the damned things. As he viewed the macabre sight with a grim, dark
visage, a harsh, high-pitched scream echoed from a few stories above him. His head craned
upwards, laspistol raising, as if he could have seen through the steel ceiling, but it was silenced
almost the instant after it began, replaced by a howl of shrieking laughter that seemed to echo all
around above him. The soft buzz of the lumen-globes echoed as a surge of electrical power
shattered one of the globes, obscuring that corner in shadow.

He turned to the only other passage out of the room, a blood-stained steel door that had been
blasted half off its hinges, his laspistol priming with a soft hum. The laughter seemed to grow
louder, creep in closer like some invisible specter, some Daemon sent to instill fear. Moving
closer to the center of the room, where the gore-painted security panel sat, he scanned the keys
and panels closely looking for some sort of access key or override. A series of activation runes
glowed red, pulsating with a soft mechanical hum. A few key presses began the long, grinding
process of closing the main gate. He let out a soft breath of relief. The gate would finally shut
and lock this madness within. Of course, that meant he was locked in here too. But, he thought,
looking around at the dead faces of the guards, fixed with terror, I’ve been through worse.
Probably.

The other door was a ruinous wreck, blasted through and battered as if someone had taken a
dozen sledgehammers to it for a dozen hours. The end of the receiving lock was sparking
occasionally with what flickers of power still arced through the facility. Putting his shoulder to
the door, he slowly pushed it further into the wall just enough to get through. The adjoining hall
was relatively well-lit by a few lumen-globes, with flecks of blood painting the walls. Two
guards were lying dead on the floor, one covered in slash marks as fine as those made by a
scalpel blade, the other blasted into unrecognizable meat chunks, only identifiable as a guard by
the scraps of grey carapace armor that lay in the still-steaming mess.

A small activation rune sat on the far wall calling a passenger lift from the depths of the facility.
Thumbing the small button caused the wall to slide open revealing a small elevator shaft, perhaps
the cleanest part of the facility he had seen so far. From above him, the sounds of weeping and
screaming echoed softly downwards, flickering with flashes of light as if from some silent
gunshot. The cacophony of sound was punctuated by the occasional deafening blast of thunder
from outside. The cackling howls of laughter had never really stopped.
 ‘Please select your desired floor,’ the elevator chimed at him in a mechanical droll that seemed
to be bored. Pressing the fifth key, the elevator closed and began to climb, playing a soft chiming
hymn from the speakers as it slowly ascended the spire. The elevator itself was a very basic
affair with chain-mesh walls and no interior door. He kept an eye above him watching the small
flashes of light, doing his best to ignore the pleading, often too-short screams and cold laughter.
At least the floor was made of solid plasteel. Passing by the third floor, he saw the door was
messily sealed by a smear of blood, crushing what had likely once been a head between a few
hundred pounds of pneumatic pressure, with pleading fingers crushed like twigs between the
metal slabs. He shook his head and recited a small prayer. He pitied the survivors of this place,
corrupted as they were. Unbound, untrained… Their minds never had a chance against the raw
power of the Warp. For a moment, he even considered the pure folly of this place. A prison to
contain the horrors of unbound power… The Governor truly must have been mad if he thought
this would have worked for any real length of time. He should have simply executed those who
could not be taken by the Black Ships. It would have been more humane.

As the elevator rose even higher, he checked his small wrist-chrono. He had made it clear to his
crew to wait only two hours before dusting off, and he needed to keep a working time. It didn’t
matter much, because as he shook his sleeve back, the chrono had jumped 10 hours forward and
was currently ticking backwards. The Warp was affecting this place too much, the timeless
Immaterium weathering down his timepiece. He’d have to count the minutes himself.

‘You have reached the fifth floor. Have a nice day,’ the mechanical voice warbled as the door
opened, revealing a bleak hallway devoid of emergency lighting. Shining his stablight into the
space, he saw that the path was cluttered with debris in the shape of a crude barricade, blasted
apart by some sorcerous energy. The beam reflected the reflective sign hanging overhead: Block
629-B. A red handprint had been pasted over the block number, and the steel was dented by
shotgun fire. Dried blood and shotgun shells littered the floor, though there were only a handful
of bodies, with drag marks leading into adjoining chambers and into the sub-flooring. The few
guards that remained were cut up, bled dry, and defaced with crude symbols painted on their
cheeks and breastplates. Some even were missing limbs; one had no eyeballs with empty sockets
contemplating the ceiling.

Moving beyond the ramshackle barricade, the rest of the block seemed empty and dead, with
open prison cells showing no occupants. Echoing in the distance, he could hear the soft sounds of
dripping fluid punctuated by the odd metallic groan. The insane laughter still echoed overhead,
and the lumen-globes occasionally flickered gold for a moment before plunging back into
darkness. The floor itself was riddled with small holes, eaten away by what seemed to be a
highly caustic acid.

‘Risking a peek over the edge showed a pitch-black drop into nothing, not the floor of the next
level as he might have hoped for, had this place been normal and not Warp-touched. Cracking a
yellow chemlight, he tossed the chemical stick into the hole watching the light get eaten by the
darkness after a few feet. He never heard it hit the floor. Moving around the holes, checking each
of the cells as he did so, the comm-bead in his ear twitched and he heard heavy breathing. Only
his team should have had access to this vox-frequency.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 157

‘Who is this?,’ he inquired as loud as he dared in this unsecured block. The sounds of heavy
breathing turned into a man’s soft sob. He felt his brow furrow as he heard the first words.

+ I’ve been trying for days to get word out… I’m in the spire’s communications annex. Is anyone
out there…? + The voice said, his voice tinged with fear and desperation.

‘Yes, I’m here. Help is on the way. Who is this?’ he asked, only to be answered by tears of joy.

+ The main generator blew in the storm, up at the hive… All the cells disengaged… We can’t get
out… P-Please, help m- + The comm-bead seemed to shudder as a soft whoosh echoed in his ear,
combined with the unmistakable sounds of a man screaming whilst being violently torn limb
from limb.

After the screams finally ended and the meaty sounds of body parts falling to the floor stopped
echoing, the loud clicking of shoes on the metal floors echoed closer and closer to the
microphone, wanting to be heard. It deliberately picked up the receiver and slammed it into
something metal, breaking it and leaving his ear washed with nothing but static. He heard
himself curse and tuned his bead to an empty frequency.

Outside, the storm broiled and crashed against the spire, clanging and echoing down the halls
with every crack of thunder, every blue bolt of lightning touching the spire tip. Not for the first
time, he felt the creeping sense of dread crawl back into his gut, and he even considered turning
back. As the unnatural pressures began to pound on the inside of his skull once more, he fought
to control his own mind and fear response, reminding himself of his purpose. Eventually, the
pressures died back down as he clutched the null rod like a totem. Once he was sure that his head
would not burst, he let out a soft sigh, moving further inwards, forcing himself to focus on the
task at hand. And this was supposed to be easy, he thought with a soft chuckle as he followed a
small sign leading to the prison cafeteria and the stairwells.

This was supposed to be easy, she thought, sitting in a small, dark chamber. Walk the halls,
don’t listen to the prisoners… Throne, why did they give me clearance for this?! Not for the first
time in this hellish place, she wept.

She wasn’t even a guard. She was support staff, meant to keep the lights on and make sure the
pneumatic seals on the cells kept their pressure. And she had been happy doing her job. The
prisoners gave her the creeps, but it was usually okay. Until two weeks ago. It had started like
any other day on Blackrock. Waking up in her small cloister, she began her daily prayers to the
Emperor and began the rote maintenance that all custodians did, checking the seals, performing
her small prayer-work, and ignoring the prisoners at all costs.

Some of them watched her from the corners of their cells, staring at her with sightless eyes,
some muttering things she didn’t want to understand, and others still just sat in their beds,
smiling blankly into space while watching with a strange intelligence. They were the scariest, but
they were normally out of her areas of work. The guards had usually given her the creeps too.
Dressed in grey carapace armor, wearing silver-tinted helmets that obscured their features and
tinged their voices with an ominous synthesized tone, they stalked the halls like ghosts, carrying
silver batons which they used to beat any of the prisoners who got too close.

But that day, as she had been walking her route, the small alarms on the walls began to wail.
Storm warning. The guards assumed their positions and the staff returned to their cloisters. Since
the guards left the halls during the storms, the cells were usually kept electrified. This was
routine, but the guards seemed more tense than usual. Everyone had heard of the riots going on
at the main hive, but they couldn’t have been that bad. The Governor would handle everything;
of course he would. They would just have to wait out the storm.

As she waited in her small room, the walls draped with cabling, she noticed a soft, unusual
fizzling running down the power lines; an overcharge of some sort. Before she could have called
anything in, the thick sheaf of industrial cables burst right in her face, knocking her senseless to
the floor and singeing her long black hair.

She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious, lying on the floor of her locked room. But
she knew that, when she woke up, the prison was in chaos. The power grid had gone down in the
storm and most of the guards had been killed as the prisoners which fled their cells en masse.
She waited the first day in her room, silently weeping, wishing, praying, waiting for the madness
to stop. After the screams initially died down, she used the maintenance tunnels to sneak into the
cafeteria, stealing a knife, in addition to as much food and water as she could carry before
returning to her room. The sounds outside were sporadic and loud, but it had been three more
days, and her supplies were running low. She would have to venture out soon.

Pulling on an old heat-robe, she stepped into the decrepit hallway. Immediately she was greeted
by the macabre sight of a guard, pinned to the wall by metal rivets, strung with his own entrails
like they were celebration ribbons. His heart and lungs had been ripped out of his broken chest
cavity. She stopped, fear freezing her breath in her throat, a hand covering her mouth. But, after a
few moments, her brow fixed in an almost grim determination, she began willing her legs to
move. Soon, she was walking down the bloodied hall, her bare feet gently padding through the
dried, crackling pools of blood and viscera.

As she moved through the dark corridors, looking for one of the maintenance panels to get out
of the main thoroughfare, she saw one of the security cameras watching her, like some silent
sentinel studying her from the walls. For a moment she had the odd fancy of the wall itself
having grown a black, milky eye, but that was completely absurd. She had considered trying to
signal it, but something in the back of her mind told her that she didn't want the attention of
whoever or whatever may be watching.

Her thoughts on the spontaneous growing of security cameras came to a halt as she could make
out a soft, wet squelching sound coming from around the corner, accompanied by a gentle
humming. She felt her heart begin to slowly pound out of her black bodyglove, and she
unconsciously gripped the handle of her kitchen knife so hard that her knuckles turned white.
She edged closer to the wall, slowly creeping closer to get a clear view.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 159

What she saw almost stopped her heart.

An inmate was slumped against the wall, his neck broken and twisted. Crouching next to him
was another inmate, knife and fork in hand, humming a discordant tune and using his utensils to
conduct some invisible symphony that only he could hear. Between the stanzas he dug his knife
and fork into the dead man’s guts, politely carving up his intestines like he was sitting at a
noble’s banquet. As he hummed his orchestral tunes, small inane giggles burst forth from his
gore-soaked mouth. She wasn’t sure what was worse; The horrific sight of a man eating another
man’s organs, or the delicious smell of freshly baked bread and roasted meat that seemed to be
emanating from the corpse’s distended entrails.

Feeling her breathing quicken, she began to slowly move away from the wall, holding out her
knife like a warding charm. As her feet gently slapped against the steel floors, the humming
came to a sudden end. Flashes of an unnatural terror raced through her mind as she saw the
inmate turn its shaven head to face her. It had a face that looked human, but not quite right.
Something about the dimensions fired warning signals in her brain as she continued to back
away. Its lower face was covered in fresh blood, with file-sharpened yellow teeth that were
stained crimson, with bits of flesh sticking out from between his gums. His eyes were of different
proportions, with his right eye swollen to almost three times the normal size, colored oil-black
and shining, with the left eye looking relatively normal by comparison, save for the bright pink
iris and pinprick pupil, as if it was always staring into the sun. A strange symbol was scratched
into its unnaturally large forehead by its own fingernails, one that brought more bile up from her
empty stomach, something she had to fight to keep down.

It was hunched over in a bestial crouch, but as it saw her, it moved in a way no thing with bones
possibly could, its spine whipping about like a rubber tendril as the body stood straight up in an
almost formal greeting. The lips stretched and widened in a perverse mockery of a smile as a
single drop of blood fell from his red mouth and broke on the floor below, joining the steadily
growing pool.

‘Hello…’ it sung in a voice that was both hauntingly beautiful and profoundly horrifying. It
began to move towards her, steps out of order, taking large steps and small steps with one or both
legs in a completely random sequence, yet somehow always seeming to keep a steady, unbroken
pace. Its head turned as she could feel its large eye slowly gazing over every inch of her flesh.
‘What are you doing out here…? It’s dangerous to be out alone… Do you want me to come with
you…?’ it said, hand outstretched like a beggar asking for change. Its smile seemed to morph
into something kinder, almost sycophantic.

She was about to voice a reply, to shake her head, but the small pink eye began to glow an
unholy light in the darkness and her mind fuzzed over. Suddenly, this depraved creature dressed
in the filth-soaked rags of what had once been an inmate became a charming young man dressed
in the finest clothes and smelling of expensive perfume. In the depths of her mind, she knew
something was wrong but she couldn’t tell what it might be, not while this enchanting man was
in front of her.
 Thinking was suddenly impossible, with any thought forming in her mind dying like a
flickering candle in the wind as her legs began to carry her closer to it. It moved towards her in
its unnatural gait, but to her, he was dancing a nobleman’s waltz. He smiled, and her heart
fluttered. She was going to embrace him, but the tiny flicker of her in the depths of her own
psyche rebelled, and for the briefest of instants, she saw herself mere inches from this thing, its
eyelids twitching as its jaw twitched silently, hungrily. She let out a scream and jabbed at it with
her knife, piercing its flesh and causing it to recoil with a soft moan.

‘That’s the spirit…’ it said in a cruel, mocking voice, before launching itself at her with legs
coiled like springs, knocking them both to the ground. His sharpened fingernails clutched at her
robe whilst his hungry jaws snapped and snarled, spittle dripping onto her neck and chin. She
frantically stabbed her knife into its ribs and guts and was rewarded every time with a human
scream of pain. But even as he seemed to curl within himself and perish, his body still attacked
her, scratching into her chest and arms, another hand snaking around her throat, his screams and
growls becoming more and more bestial as the human fell away. ‘Yes, keep fighting, mortal…’ it
cackled at her, laughing shrilly. ‘Keep stabbing, and exhaust yourself, and then I will feast on
your flesh and marrow…’ As it began to swoop in for what might have been the final blow, a
harsh burst of red light and a soft hiss erupted from the dark corridor, slamming into its side,
vaporizing the rags and a good portion of its flesh. The kinetic force flung it away from her,
sending the inmate-thing to the ground a few feet away.

The man strode forth from the darkened hall like a practiced warrior, sighting the thing’s head
as he walked and firing again, turning its ear to ashes and the right side of its brain to sludge. As
it slowly tried to reorient itself, he holstered the laspistol, crushing the thing’s skull with his
metal-reinforced boots. She let out a panicked yelp as she crawled away, trying not to touch the
foul ichor the inmate’s head was leaking. Only after the skull was turned to jelly did the thing
begin to twitch and shake, like a man having a seizure.

Drawing the null rod from his belt, the man violently shattered the thing’s ribs with a blow to
the chest. The thing let out a soft shriek as its chest and what was left of its head popped like a
balloon, sending foul-smelling purple-black sludge in every direction, spattering the man's outer
coat and the nearby walls. Only then did the body finally stop moving as they both felt a
malicious presence wither and vanish. The man looked over at her, staring into her terrified blue
eyes. She began to get to her feet, but he had already turned to where the inmate-thing had come
from. Clicking his stablight back on, he began to move.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked, getting ready to follow. He never even looked back.

‘To fix this damned place. Go find a place to hide,’ he ordered. Shock stitched across her face
as she scrambled to her feet, watching the man walk away from her.

‘Wait- Wait! Take me with you, please…’ she begged, hurrying to catch up to him. He kept
walking, examining each sub-corridor and room as he passed by.

‘I can’t take you. You’d only slow me down. So, get back to wherever you’ve been hiding,’ he
declared callously.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 161

‘Please-’ she reached out and grabbed his arm, causing him to spin around and pin her against
the wall, laspistol primed and pressed against her forehead.

‘Do you understand what it is that is locked in here?’ he hissed, his face inches from hers. Her
eyes bulged slightly in shock, and she let out a soft whimper as she shook her head. ‘I don’t have
time to babysit someone. If I don’t act, this world is going to die. So, get-’ A harsh clang and a
yelping shout echoed down the hall. Both of their heads craned to look, and before she could
react, the man had already grabbed her and moved them both into the darkest corner of a nearby
cell.

‘But-’ she started to say.

‘Quiet,’ the man whispered, clapping a hand over her mouth as they hid in the corner near the
door. The clanging sounds got closer, as did the shouts, and another sound that sounded like a
soft slapping on rain-soaked canvas. The man checked the charge on his laspistol as the
procession shuffled into the hall. There were perhaps twenty of them, each dressed in inmate’s
uniforms and bearing mutations that made them all a perverse mockery of humanity. Some
amongst their numbers carried shotguns, others carried bloody kitchen utensils, and others still
carried freshly made drums fashioned from human skin, blood droplets flying with every beat.
They hummed and chanted a perverted hymn of the Imperial Creed as they marched, some
dragging legs behind them, others scuttling along on new insectoid limbs.

The two could feel the unfettered psychic energies of the inmates pressing into their skulls as
they passed, a sharp, hot pain searing into their minds. The Investigator kept a firm hand over her
mouth so she wouldn’t cry out, keeping them close to the null rod, which he was sure was the
only reason they hadn’t been detected already.

One of the inmates paused to crane a too-long neck inside the dark cell, his elongated and
stretched flesh whipping about like a tendril, blinded grey eyes scanning the black room as his
pig-like nose sniffed and his sharp jaws twitched noiselessly. The mark of Chaos was branded
into his forehead, the 8-pointed star glowing like a red-hot ember. The young woman’s eyes
threatened to pop out of her skull as the Investigator averted his eyes from the blasphemous
mark. But as soon as it came, it was gone, with the head whipping back out to join the demonic
procession, humming its tune as it slowly clicked, shuffled, and dragged itself down the ichor-
painted hall. The Investigator counted sixty heartbeats before he let her go, and she gasped softly
for breath.

‘What… What was that?’ she said. Fresh tears were in her eyes, and for the briefest moment, he
felt something akin to pity in his heart. She clearly didn’t know the true meaning of this place.
But she had seen the mark, and her soul was already stained. He shook his head.

‘... Once, they were humans, born as psykers and kept in a dangerously unbound state; pitiful
creatures at best. The Governor, in his wisdom, decided to lock up these psykers instead of
giving them over to the proper authorities,’ he said, spitting out the words like a curse, and she
started as if slapped across the face. No one spoke about the Governor in such a rude manner, at
least not without punishment. Regardless of the insult, he continued. ‘And so, they were locked
away in Blackrock, a place that was not built to house such a threat like this. It was a disaster
waiting to happen, just waiting for the right circumstances. And when the riots started, the
perfect cover was given for the servants of dark powers to let the Warp free in this place,’ he
said, looking her over, knowing he was veering close to divulging damning information to her.
But, he considered, she’s survived here for a time. She’s already damned enough.

‘The Warp overloaded their untrained minds, driving them insane and warping them physically,
mutating them with the boons of Chaos. The few capable of even using their abilities do so
recklessly, instinctively. And… If the creature I dispatched was any indication, there are Warp-
spawn, possibly even Daemons here. Which makes it imperative that I get to the communications
spire,’ he said. She watched the man in abject horror and disbelief. She had just heard him voice
assent to the presence of nightmares, to things preached against her from a preacher’s pulpit.

‘But… But that’s impossible. They… They couldn’t be here… Daemons aren’t real. T-They’re
stories from the morality tales. They couldn’t be here,’ she spoke, her voice more of a pleading
whimper than a firm conviction.

He smiled a pitiful smile at her. ‘... I envy your ignorance. I really do.’

She sunk to the floor, the realization finally starting to sit in, looking up at him. ‘T-Then what
are we going to do?’

‘Well, you will go find a place to hide. I’m getting up to the main communication spire to get a
transmission out to my ship. Fire and brimstone will be coming to this place in short order,’ he
said.

‘N-No. No, I’m coming with you,’ she demanded insistently.

‘No. As I’ve said, you’ll just slow me down, and time is of the essence. I’m sorry. You’ll have
to make do,’ he said, and started to walk out, but she shot to her feet in the kind of anger born of
desperation.

‘No! Please… I worked in maintenance! I can lead you through the access tunnels… You’ll get
in through the back channels, nothing will find us in there,’ she entreated, clinging to his cloak.
He gave her a hard, stony glare, searching every facet of her features, looking for a reason to
leave her behind. She showed him nothing.

‘Fine. Let’s go then. Where’s the nearest access?’ he asked quietly.

‘It’s this way!’ she said gratefully, grabbing the edge of his cloak and leading him through a
small sub-access hall, past another failed guard barricade with more blasted-apart bodies. She
tried not to look at them. She was worried she might recognize one of the faces. Soon, the pair
came to a code-locked wall panel. She looked at him for a moment before typing in the code,
gently soothing the machine-spirit within the panel by cleaning some of the ichor and blood from
the wall. ‘I’m Ana, by the way. Who are you?’ she said, looking at him as the door slid open
with a soft pressurized hiss. Seeing the brightly lit maintenance hall, he slipped inside past her,
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 163

clearing the hallway, leaving her looking at merely the space where he had been. ‘... Never mind
then.’

The maintenance tunnels were too clean. It seemed that the inmates had not been able to access
the passageways since the breakout, and the foul essence of Blackrock had not yet washed in. It
was a welcome change. For the briefest of instants, Ana felt as though she might’ve woken up
from this nightmare, roused by the 0800-shift bell. But no bells would sound, and no workers
would come anymore. Blackrock was dying, and this man was here to save it; or so he said. As
the man watched the tunnels for the moment, examining the signs on the walls and comparing
them to the small digital map he had of the mostly vertical compound, she took the time to
examine him. He was different from any man she had ever met. He wasn’t unattractive, but he
seemed to have this aura around him that quelled any feelings she might have had for him, a
natural aura of confidence and nobility that implied he was a man to lead and protect, not one to
stoop so low as personal intimacy. He also had scared her when she first encountered him, back
when he had freed her from the inmate-thing, but now that she had a moment to think, it wasn’t
really fear; It was more akin to a sort of awe at the intensity he showed, a dedication to his
mission that seemed inhuman.

He noticed her looking at him out of the corner of his eye and wondered briefly what she must
think of him. In the back of his mind, he felt something akin to pity for her. She had survived a
hell he was only touring. However, for all her skill, she still had no idea what was truly within
Blackrock Prison. The inmates had given her a brief taste, the star of Chaos likely still
smoldering in her mind, but it was not enough to truly show the scope of what he knew could be
here, what he had experienced firsthand before. When she found out, would she regret coming
with him? They looked at each other. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, and all thoughts on
either side momentarily washed away as the mission, and the desperation that ensued, was
quickly remembered.

‘Alright, then,’ he said. ‘Show me to the main communication spire’s access port. We don’t
have much time.’

Ana nodded, and began to navigate the twisting maze of pipe-filled corridors and steamy
ventilation accesses that had made up her home for the last year, the man hot on her heels the
entire time. Thankfully, there was little to impede them. The maintenance network was kept
powered by a reserve generator that still had power, and no access meant no blood, no bodies,
and no inmates. The screams and blasts of thunder were still present but muted by layers of
electrical insulation. The near-silence was a welcome and much-needed change.

‘What’s going to happen to this place?’ Ana asked after some time, risking a look back at him.

‘Once I am done here, the prison is going to be annihilated. The risk of inmates escaping into the
hands of the enemy is too great,’ he said.

‘W-Well... What about the others? There must be other people hiding away...” she said. He
didn’t reply, climbing over a waist-high length of electrical cabling.
 She was going to ask again, but a sudden sound silenced them both. The sound of a freshly-
made drum, its dull booms echoing through the facility and the maintenance network. Then, as
suddenly as it started, another drum took up a sinister sound from the opposite end of the
network, timed just behind the first, in the crude imitation of a heartbeat. The ragged, wet
heartbeat of some colossal entity, as if the entire spire had come alive and would soon breathe its
first breath like a titan of metal, powered by the souls of the damned.

Boom-boom.

The pair looked at each other.

Boom-boom.

‘Did you seal the door behind us?’ The man asked quietly, looking behind them as his laspistol
constantly shifted, trying to cover both possible angles.

Boom-boom.

She looked at him, a momentary flicker of complete horror dawning in her eyes as her mouth
worked slowly.

Boom-boom.

‘I… I-I thought they were leaving…’

Boom-boom.

‘They w-were heading the other way…’

Boom-boom.

‘Did. You. Seal. The. Door?’

Boom-boom.

The sounds echoed through the hallways now, and the screams from above slowly faded as they
too seemed to stop and listen. She looked at him, and she slowly and ashamedly, shook her head.

‘... Could they have circled around us in this maze, come at us from both ways?’ He asked,
even though he knew the answer. She nodded slowly, the realization coming to her as his brain
kicked into overdrive.

BOOM-BOOM.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 165

‘We need to move. Now!’ He insisted, grabbing her hand and pulling her along the corridor as
the heartbeats within the hallways began to quicken and fluctuate, like the heart of a sprinter
during a run.

All around them, screams echoed as the inmate-things broke from their marching formations to
give chase. Footsteps, both the beasts’ and theirs, clattered down the halls like stones. Above it
all, the drums kept playing, the great heart excited at the thought of fresh blood through which it
might pump new life into its mighty host. The man was running down the hall at a breakneck
pace, holding Ana by the wrist and pulling her along. Every few moments, he asked which way
to turn before bolting down a corridor so quickly it caused the ends of his cloak to snap. The
laspistol was held aloft in his free hand, always kept in front of him, leading him like a safe
charm, finger on the trigger, ready to fire on anything that might spring out of the gaps in the
walls.

All around them, the screams of the creature-inmates echoed as harsh cackles and baying howls
reverberated down the steel halls, like a pack of hyenas closing in for the kill. Ana could swear
she was seeing movement out of the corner of her eye, and on one occasion the man fired a las-
bolt from his pistol into one of the darkened ways and was rewarded by a pained screech.

‘Are we nearly there?’ he wondered. Ana panted and wheezed out her reply, her heart not used
to so much work.

‘We’re… In B Wing… We’ll need to take a left at the next junction, and then continue right until
we reach the service elevator,’ Ana said. As she spoke, one of the steam pipes mounted into the
wall burst, spraying her with hot steam. Whilst her bodysuit was resistant to the heat, the blast
left her disoriented and caused her to slam into the wall hard, bruising her thigh against a small
pressure gauge extending from the wall. She stopped moving and let out a cry of pain, gingerly
touching the bruise. She winced and tried to take a step, limping heavily as the creature behind
her began to salivate at the thought of her tender young flesh. Two heads bayed and shrieked
with laughter as over a dozen eyes regarded the young technomat with glee.

The man turned, swiveling on the spot and bringing his laspistol to bear. A tight burst of las-
bolts dropped the creature, searing through its twin heads and burning a crater where its heart
should have been.

‘Move or die, Ana!’ he screamed, taking aim and squeezing off more shots down range,
incinerating limbs and vaporizing torsos. Ana began to run again, trying her best not to limp as
the creatures broke off with direct pursuit, chasing them through the many sub-corridors and
access shafts instead. He followed close behind her. As the pair approached a T-junction, a harsh
yell erupted from the man's left, and he turned just in time to see a large metal object bearing
down on his head. His eyes widening, he whipped his body back, pushing Ana forward so the
blow wouldn't come down on the back of her skull. She landed hard, wincing painfully. The
blow struck the ground, the sheer momentum of the strike pulling the creature into the light from
the darkened sub-corridor.
 It was a foul beast, adorned in a tattered uniform that hung off the right side of its body. Its left
arm was a sickly, oozing pinkish-purple tentacle, and pink blotches shaped into blasphemous
symbols were stitched across the left side of its body. Most of its head was scorched and raw, the
flesh tight and irritated, as if it had stuck its head in a fire for hours on end. Two black eyes
regarded him with hunger and intense malice. In its tentacle and hand was a long metal pipe with
a brick “head” crudely soldered to make a savage hammer. The creature let out a shriek and
rushed him, warhammer aloft. He dodged another blow, but the creature slammed against the
Investigator’s body, pinning him against the wall as Ana shakily got to her feet.

‘Ana! Go!’ He exclaimed, shouting at her. He unclipped the null rod from his belt and tossed it
to her. ‘Take that and get the elevator ready!’

She looked at him like she wanted to protest, but the creature’s jaws snapped as it pressed the
advantage, trying to tear out the man’s throat. She began to run as fast as she could then, towards
the promise of safety.

The man turned back to the mutant, pushing against its frailer form and lashing out with his
boot, kicking it hard in the chest and knocking it back enough to let him breathe. He raised his
laspistol to fire, but another impact shook his aim as a second inmate hit him from behind,
wrapping its many thin arms around his neck and jumping onto his back, trying to strangle him.
The mutant grinned, raising the warhammer. The Investigator dropped the laspistol and grabbed
the inmate-thing behind him, pulling it off his back and yanking it forward, bringing it over his
head just as the first creature’s warhammer descended, breaking the creature’s spine instead of
the Investigator’s skull. It shrieked and thrashed as it died, and the man pulled out from his vest a
small silver knife, bringing himself into a combat stance as he stretched out into the corridor,
sizing up his opponent who began to do the same.

The great warhammer swung like a pendulum as the man dropped to one knee, allowing the
stone head to overswing and shatter upon the steel wall. He thrust forward, the blade slipping
between its ribs, the silver burning the mutant’s unholy flesh even as the blade drew blood and
punctured its lungs. He continued to push, pinning the creature against the wall and driving the
blade deeper and deeper until the rib cracked. The beast howled in a death scream, twitching as
the pole slipped from its tentacled grip.

Given a moment of pause, the man took a deep breath. He could feel the Warp pressing into his
skull as Ana had taken the null rod long out of range, squeezing out thought and shadowing over
the calming protective hymns he had been reciting over and over for the past hour. He leaned
against the back wall, forcing himself to focus as red-hot needles seemed to press into his brain.
He groaned with the pain, taking deep breaths as his eyes focused intensely on a spot on the wall,
trying to clear out his mind to focus. But the Warp seemed to swim in his brain, a million voices
whispering promises and secrets into his ears, calling to him by name as the pressures rose to
almost unbearable levels. Even staying conscious was a testament to his will.

His hands groped vainly into the pockets of his robes searching desperately for something he
could not see, lest he break what little focus he could muster. The whispers turned into murmurs
as his vision blurred, dark shadows seeming to form on the edges of his vision as he could feel
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 167

dark things encroaching upon his soul. Finally, his cold hands clasped around something deep
within his cloak, and he clutched it like a totem, gripping it so hard that the joints of his fingers
ached. But the pressures finally managed to ease enough for him to bear, and he began to chant
softly to himself.

‘Master of Mankind, watch over my steps so that I may do Your holy work. I shall fear no evil
of the Warp, for thou art with me. They who seek to stop me shall feel Thine wrath as I carve a
righteous path through the unclean and damned. Amen.’ He paused between chants to listen as
shadows danced on the edges of the main hallway and the shrieking laughter drew closer.

More creatures began to stretch into the corridor, first one, then five, then ten more stretched
around him like a wall of flesh, watching him pray. They were of all shapes and sizes, snarling
and barking as they held themselves like hounds at bay, each carrying crude lengths of pipe or
knives stolen from around the prison, although some appeared to be using their various teeth and
claws to a murderous intent. Twenty of them stood against him, a candle flickering against the
darkness. And yet the man did not seem scared. Rather, for the first time, he felt his teeth clench
and the blood in his face burn red as he renewed the grip on his knife.

‘I haven’t got all day… Come on!’ he barked out to them. One of the creatures surged forward
with his pipe, but the Investigator expertly dodged the crude blow and slashed out with his knife,
slicing open its throat and sending him sprawling to the floor. The other inmates hesitated for
only a moment before charging, something dark and foul within them spurring them forward like
puppets on strings even though what little humanity was left to them recoiled in fear. The
ensuing carnage was quick and brutal. The Investigator fought with all the strength of a cornered
devil, honed by intense military training and an iron will as he screamed out a cry and charged
into the mass, striking left and right. The creatures poured forwards like polluted water, and for
every creature slain by a quick flash of the silver blade or a crush of fist and knee, two more
strode forth to take its place. The man was pressed against the wall as the horde closed in...

Ana limped and ran as fast as she could, holding the null rod to her chest, occasionally looking
back as a scream echoed from down the hall she came from. Feeling her breathing quicken, she
kept moving, tears running down her cheeks. When she saw the elevator she cried out in joy,
laughing in relief, nearly falling against the sliding door as she hurriedly typed in the access code
and pulling the down lever. She hopped up and down like an excited child, momentarily
forgetting the pain of her injury.

‘Come on, come on, come on…’ She said, looking back behind her, wishing her eyes could
penetrate through the fog of steam and shadow. As she was trying to find his form in the haze,
the elevator chimed, and the door slid open. At first, Ana thought that the small lumen-globe
within had been shattered, as the elevator was shrouded in complete darkness. However, as she
looked closer, the darkness seemed to shift and roil, seeping into the maintenance corridor like a
rolling fog, carrying with it the stench of sulfur. It crept through the air like hot tar dripping into
water, and wherever it touched, the light seemed to wither and die, like some ravenous beast
could consume the very atmosphere around her. Ana backed away as it drew ever closer, drawn
to the movement and heat.

It was a formless mass, but the longer she stared at it, the more definition it seemed to take.
What had once appeared to have been random motion now seemed like deliberate movement of a
mass of tendrils and limbs, each flexing out in random directions, like it was tasting the air. The
center of the mass appeared more solid than the rest and began to shift from a formless black into
a dizzying array of colors; Pinks, purples, yellows, oranges, swirling in an infinite roiling,
twisting madness that seemed at once to utterly repulse and yet mesmerize her. The Thing
stretched into the void around it, raising itself to a height of nearly two meters, and Ana could
only watch as more sections of it hardened into a strange assortment of tendrils, tentacles, and
limbs, each made from the same smoky, inky black nothingness, each seeming so solid that she
might’ve been able to reach out and grip it. Most of it still freely flowed and expanded, albeit
much slower, as countless small openings on the top of its form, white and irregular, opened to
examine the scrap of human flesh before it.

‘D… D…’ She tried to speak, but words failed her as an unnatural fear seemed to grip her
brain, choking out thought as a strong sense of wrongness invaded her sensory cortex. She
couldn’t even move.

The Thing watched her for a moment more, a brief respite, before it slowly advanced towards
her, stopped only by the protective powers of the null rod clutched to her breast, frozen in terror.
A growl seemed to echo from a thousand throats in the real world, but she seemed to only hear a
soft murmuring, a whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. Somewhere, in the back of her
mind, she knew that something was terribly wrong, that she was inviting eternal damnation into
her own soul by staring at the Thing, but she didn’t have His indestructible will. She was a mere
human. She felt her mind bend, threatening to break under the impossible might of the
Immaterium. For the briefest moment, she understood the creature-inmates as not what they had
been, but what they had become. But then the Warp-connection in the center of the Thing’s mass
pulsed, and her mind overloaded, sending her into blackness...

The man stood in the hall, bleeding from a dozen wounds and with his outer rain-cloak
shredded, covered in blood and foul ichor. But he stood alone. All around him were the corpses
of the inmate-things, each struck down by a single blow, the unholy energies within them burnt
away even as the life had drained from their bodies. They had chosen to stand against him as
legion, and his faith in the Emperor had assured his victory over the damned. There was little
time to investigate his savage handiwork however. He cleaned his knife on the stained cloak he
wore and returned it to its sheath before casting the tattered shroud aside, revealing a dark jacket
and armored undercoat. His head turned to peer down the darkened corridor to B Wing as he
collected his laspistol, but was stopped by what he saw.

The Thing stood at the edge of the darkness, watching him, poised like a predator ready to
pounce. He couldn’t count how many arms seemed to be coiled like steel springs, how many
jaws quivered and drooled over his flesh, how many eyes seemed to be watching him with an
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 169

emotion beyond hatred, beyond anything it felt for normal humanity, something reserved
especially for him. The Warp burned deep in its chest, but he knew better not to look at that
overlong.

Frag, he thought. Daemon.

The Daemon let out a screech and charged, moving at a speed no creature with flesh could ever
hope to have been able to move. There was no time to react, to think. It was on him in the merest
hint of an instant, and a half-dozen clawed limbs swept through the air towards him like
lightning.

He threw himself backward, keeping himself just out of its reach as he raised the laspistol and
snapped off two shots. Two bursts of crimson light that burned holes in the darkness. But it never
wavered, never cried, didn’t even seem to feel any pain. The Daemon’s head turned to
contemplate him, as if it didn’t understand what he had done.

‘You’ve gotta be kidding m-’ he said as the Daemon began to assault him again, limbs flailing
as the shadowed mass began to hunger for his soul, that small flicker of light it could sense
through his flesh. He moved as fast as he could, but the wildly whipping tendrils streaked him
like lashes, and their snapping jaws nearly caught him fast in their teeth more than once. The
Daemon wanted nothing more than his death, gruesome and excruciating as it consumed his soul
from the inside out. Finally, in their struggle, the Daemon cracked a heavy limb over the man’s
head and he crashed to the ground, nearly knocked senseless as stars flashed in his eyes. As it
loomed over him, reveling in the unnatural fear it stirred within his soul, he raised the laspistol
enough to send another las-bolt through its head, searing through a large cluster of its milky-
white eyes, causing it to reel back and swing blindly all around it. He got to his feet, trying to
keep his focus despite the best efforts of the Warp’s damaging influence on his sanity, fighting to
clear his mind. Stumbling away from it, he occasionally turned back to fire at the Daemon, who
was close behind him, following his movements with what few eyes it still had.

‘Ana…? Ana!’ He called out, moving through the steam and fog to see her lying on the ground,
eyes sightlessly staring at the ceiling, her mouth working silently as the null rod was still
clutched tightly within white fingers. He knelt next to her, examining her. She still had a pulse,
still breathing… But there was no time to perform a medical exam. The Daemon was emerging
from the fog, so he said a brief prayer and pried the rod from her cold, stiff hand. It was not the
ideal implement for the task, but it would do. The Daemon began to charge the pair, but the man
stepped between it and Ana and held the null rod aloft like a sword, causing the Daemon to
nearly impale itself as it bucked like a horse, keeping away from the silver-laced obsidian rod.
He began to move forward, holding the null rod aloft like a holy icon, now forcing the Daemon
on the defensive as he began to chant.

‘Be gone from here, foul creature!’ he intoned, striking out at the mass, burning large holes in
the inky smoke everywhere he touched it with the rod, holes that continued to burn even after he
pulled away. ‘Warp-spawn, you defile this place with your presence. Daemon I name thee, and I
condemn thee!’ The Daemon lashed out with a tentacle, but he cut through the limb with the rod,
burning it away and causing a growl of rage and pain to fill the air. ‘Be gone from this place,
Daemon, and return to the Warp from whence you came!’ The Daemon struck out again, but he
broke through the attacks, destroying limbs as he moved closer before bringing the rod down on
the Daemon’s head and body, strike after strike, until eventually he plunged the rod deep into the
Daemon’s pulsating center, the very connection to the Warp itself. It shrieked in agony and
complete, unthinkable, incomprehensible rage as its form flickered and vanished from the earth,
leaving behind no trace it was ever there save for the memories it had given the pair of them,
burning holes in their sanity.

Ana slowly began to stir. Unlike him, she had gazed into the depths of the Warp, and she had
seen what was staring back at her. She heard the whimpers of the damned souls, screaming
agonies and moans of complete ecstasy. She heard the Daemon’s truths and foul knowledge, the
sheer magnitude of it causing her to question and regret every decision she had ever made, even
her entire existence. In that instant, she knew she was damned. She knew that the Emperor would
never accept her again.

Gazing upwards, she saw Him, standing over her, features obscured by the lumen-globe. He
stood under, blond hair glinting in the light as His face watched her, inscrutable, unmoving,
unblinking. She knew she was being judged by Him. She knew she would be found wanting.The
tears began to flow from her eyes as they found His amber gaze.

The man looked down at her, feeling his jaw twitch and tighten. He could see it in her eyes, her
tear-stained face. She had looked too closely. She knew too much. Everything he had told her
paled in comparison to what she had seen. He knew that she had almost no chance, even if she
was ever allowed to leave Blackrock Prison. It was a pity, but it was the truth. The Warp, the
infinitesimally small flicker of that damned place that she had had the misfortune to witness
would never leave her mind, no matter how hard she tried to forget. It was only a matter of time
before it caught up with her. But at that time… He had a mission to complete. And she would
still be useful.

‘Ana, get up…’ he said quietly, clipping the null rod to his belt. She meekly rose to her feet,
and he took her by the arm, guiding her inside the elevator and pressing the button on the panel.

+Communications Spire, main floor. Estimated wait time; Three minutes+, the elevator intoned,
slowly beginning to rise. He looked over at Ana, who was trying to find her voice. Finally, she
managed to croak out a few words.

‘Am… Am I going to die…?’ she managed. He looked at her briefly.

‘... It’s almost over. We’re nearly there.’ he said, looking up at the slowly ticking elevation
gauge.

The two stood together in the elevator, barely a few feet apart, but there was still a million miles
between them. Ana was lost in thought, her conscious mind trying to repair its own damage even
as she stood, trying desperately to forget what she saw in the Daemon’s heart. Even still, she
couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness that left a black stain on her soul. She glanced over to
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 171

the man, who was examining his equipment. He had saved her life, more than one time. But
would he do it again?

He checked the charge on his laspistol, eyes flickering over to Ana, who was staring at the wall.
It was a true pity. She hadn’t asked for this, never even dreamed of a life like this, like his… And
now she stood here, knowing things that seared the brains of men. How long would it take?
Hours? Days? Years? The Warp would catch up with her, eventually… But then again, who was
she? He’d seen this before in men and women, ones that he’d known far longer than her, people
he’d worked with. The Warp was a cruel thing, and there was quite the rate of attrition in his line
of work. One day, it would catch up to him too. Shaking his head, he pushed these pathetic
thoughts of doubt and self-pity from his mind. They were unnecessary and unneeded. Looking
back at his vest, he didn’t notice Ana looking at him. Even if he had, there was little he could say
to her now. The elevator rumbled and shook slightly as the comforting hymnals playing over the
small vox-speakers warbled and ceased. The lumen-globe burned out with a soft fizz, thrusting
them both into the darkness.

‘Power’s gone out,’ Ana said, her head craning upwards, as if her eyes could pierce the
darkness and see the electrical currents through their cages of copper and plastic.

The Investigator produced his silver-plated knife, and slowly began to pry the door open. ‘How
far away are we from the main communications array?’ he said.

‘I don’t know… I was never given access to these floors. But we’re nearly at the top.’ She said,
adding the last part hurriedly as she could feel him staring at her.

He grunted softly and levered his knife against the plasteel jerking the doors open by a fraction,
digging his fingers into the crack and pulling the doors open, inch by inch. Light slowly trickled
into the small chamber revealing the communications room in a state of disarray.

The room was lined by monitors and vox equipment, expensive cogitators and computing
equipment in various stages of functionality. It reminded him of a Naval ship’s bridge with the
various stations keyed to specific areas of Blackrock Prison, ensuring that every minute of the
inmates’ lives were under scrutiny. But instead of the clean, orderly discipline of the Imperial
Navy, this place appeared as if a hurricane had struck it. Many of the monitors were shattered
and sparks flew from damaged consoles. Blood covered the walls and coated the floor like a
vibrant red carpet, slowly washing into the elevator. Amidst the crimson liquid were nearly three
dozen bodies crammed into the large room, most of which were little more than piles of chunked
flesh, blasted to pieces by raw psychic energy. Others lay slumped against their desks or chairs,
the luckiest of them bearing shotgun blasts stitching across their chests and heads, whilst others
had vicious scorch marks where vile energies had liquified their brains and internal organs in a
raw display of power.

Perhaps the worst of them all were the freshest corpses, slumped into two corners, wrists slit
and bloodied maintenance blades lying next to them. Looks of horror and, surprisingly, an odd
tranquility, were pasted onto their faces. Next to him, the Investigator was aware of Ana gasping
at his side, and a few soft sobs as she rushed into the room. It took him a moment to realize the
reason for her reaction.

These men and women were not guards.

Ana cried softly as she kneeled in the blood cradling one of the bodies, a young woman wearing
an identical bodyglove to hers. It seemed that the staff of Blackrock had made one final attempt
to reach the outside world, braving the hostilities of the inmates and the Warp itself to seek help.
It appeared their efforts were in vain. To Ana, these were not guards, cold men that hid away
behind silver-tinted faceplates and spoke only to issue an admonishment. These were people that
Ana had lived with, worked with, eaten with… They were her family. And here they were, those
that had survived so long, suffered so much to get here, only to fail. She pulled the corpse to her
breast and let out her grief, inwardly damning the universe for its cruelty for this needless death
and suffering.

The Investigator stepped into the room, crushing a few pieces of meat into the steel plating as
he moved to the primary control panel. It appeared mostly functional, but it needed the access
key to function. Cursing, he cast his gaze to the floor, spotting it in the hands of the corpse Ana
was cradling. Striding over, he peeled the cold, dead fingers away from the key and plucked it
from the body’s steel grip, wiping the blood off on his outer coat before moving over to the
panel. Ana found herself staring at his back, anger bubbling up to the fore amidst the grief.

‘Aren’t you going to say something?’ she said.

He was typing in the encryption key as he spoke. ‘I think the spire is still intact. I should be able
to manage a short message-’ he said.

‘No, say something about them!’ she cried, feeling the blood rush to her head and heat up her
cheeks. She wasn’t sure what made her angrier, the fact he never looked twice at them, or the
fact that he wouldn’t look at her now.

‘They made a noble sacrifice, yes. The Emperor will remember them,’ he said quietly, almost to
himself as he began to key in the receiver, trying to tune out the interference.

‘Really…? That’s all? Thirty people died here, my friends, my family, and you can’t even give
them a damn second of your attention?’ Ana demanded.

‘They aren’t important to the mission,’ he said simply, not thinking as he tuned the gauge and
heard Naval chatter, briefly and broken, but still chatter. However, before he could speak, he was
shoved against the console by Ana who had gotten up and pushed him in anger.

‘They aren’t important?!’ Ana said, fuming. ‘These were good people, and you can’t even spare
them a second glance! What kind of cold-hearted bastard are you?!’ he turned around to reply,
taking a breath, before Ana slapped him hard across the face, her face red with tears in her eyes.
She reached back to hit him again, but he caught her hands in an iron grip.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 173

‘I’m trying to save this planet-’ h said, but Ana cut him off.

‘Oh, you’re trying to save the planet, but you couldn’t save us, could you? Don’t even give a
damn! We’re not important, we’re just nobodies to you! These people tried to save themselves,
and because you didn’t get here fast enough, these thirty people are dead-’ Ana blurted out in a
rage.

‘-And thirty billion more will die if I don’t do my job! Do you think I came here for you? I came
here for Polyphemus. So no, I don’t give a damn!’ He said, his calm composure momentarily
forgotten, pushing Ana away. ‘Now quit acting like a fool.’ Turning back to the receiver and
picking up the microphone, he heard Ana behind him, much quieter this time.

‘What kind of cold-hearted bastard are you?’ she said, staring intensely at the back of his head.
His eyes flickered to her, seeing their reflections in one of the shattered consoles, the broken
glass fragmenting their images into a dozen distorted pieces.

‘... The one I have to be,’ he said, turning on the vox. ‘Attention. Attention. This is code Dawn,
broadcasting from Primary One. Do you read?’

+ Code Dawn, this is the Shadow of Divinity. We read you loud and clear. The Navigator is
reading increased Warp activity from the sacrosanctum, at the spire’s peak. The Admiral
requests that you extract at once so we may begin orbital bombardment of the target +, the
synthesized and garbled response said.

‘I do not answer to the Admiral. Does he wish to make that an order?’ he said curtly.

+... N-No, my Lord, he does not. But we strongly advise-+

‘Enough,’ he said. ‘I am approaching the sacrosanctum. Inform the ship’s Astropaths to begin
unraveling the Warp presence over the prison. Do you understand?’

+ ... Yes, my Lord, b-but- +

‘Are you questioning my authority?’ he said, his voice taking on a gravelly undertone that sent a
small quake through the communications officer many hundreds of miles away.

+ N-No, my Lord! It will be done +, the communications officer said quickly before severing
the connection.

Hanging up the receiver, he sighed deeply before turning to Ana. She was still staring at him,
anger lighting up her eyes. ‘I’m moving onwards. You are more than welcome to stay here. But
if you want to see this through, then leave all of this behind,’ he said, gesturing to the room.

‘I can’t just-’
 ‘The Warp is coalescing in the Astropathic choir. I do not know what is up there, but I have
some faint notion. And this, this emotion, this anger, will do nothing but get you killed,’ he said,
looking her in the eyes, feeling his own anger falter slightly. ‘... I understand this is hard. But you
must strive to see the bigger picture. If we fail tonight, Polyphemus will burn. And from there,
the corruption will spread like a festering wound, a foul infection tainting the lifeblood of the
Imperium. The world, the subsector, the entire Imperium may be at stake, and it will be solved
right here, at this place, on this very night. That is why I am here. Do you understand now?’

She looked at him again, perhaps truly for the first time. She saw the wrinkles and creases in his
brow, placed there by the Imperium’s stresses. She felt his determination, his resolve, his iron
will exuding from him like a saint. She saw his eyes burning into her with the fury of a star.
What had they seen? What did they remember? … What did they wish they could forget?

‘... I understand,’ she said, now feeling like a child that was caught being naughty. In the blink
of an eye, this seemed so small, so inconsequential when placed against the Imperium. She still
grieved for her family, but as she shed her tears and grieved her grief, she felt something stir
within her as well. Something greater than her. Was it the Emperor’s Will? Or the Warp’s? She
realized that she might never truly know, but it did not change what she wanted. Not in the
slightest. ‘I’m coming with you.’

Leaving the communications spire in short order, the road to the sacrosanctum was decorated
by more bodies. Guards, staff, and inmates alike were pinned to the walls by rivet guns, their
wrists and ankles nailed to the steel plates. Others were hung from the ceiling by their entrails,
blood dripping into small crimson piles at their feet. Each of them had a smile carved into their
faces, cheeks split open in a macabre humor. Ana grimaced, and the man frowned at their forced
open eyes, sightlessly staring into nothing. As the pair reached the entrance to the sacrosanctum,
a vertical ladder rising into the darkness, he looked at Ana.

‘Stay here. I’ll go first.’ Holstering his laspistol and clipping the null rod to his belt, he began to
climb, rung after rung, approaching the sacrosanctum as his vox-bead twitched in his ear.
Garbled chatter. Probably more interference. He was truly beginning to despise this world for its
damned storms. Pushing open the small metal hatch, he felt his ears and jaw pop as the infernal
pressures increased tenfold. His sense of foreboding pounded in his skull, and a part of him
wanted nothing more than to climb back down and call in an orbital strike. But that was not his
way. Instead, he hauled himself upwards and closed the hatch behind him.

The sacrosanctum, for all its importance, was altogether a simple affair. A glass dome peaked
the ceiling, allowing for a pristine view of the ugly grey clouds pelting rain down upon them.
The walls were covered in symbols of the Divine Emperor, each defaced in a horrid and
disgusting way. The main choir stands, the places where the Astropaths would stand and, with
their raw psychic power, channel the Warp safely to send messages across the Imperium, were
still intact.

The Astropaths, however, were not.

 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 175

Many of them were arranged upon the floor, cut to ribbons by a blade of unnatural sharpness,
drained of color and soul. Others were attacked in a more gruesome way, their heads split open
like melons when the raw power of the Warp overloaded their mental safeties. There was no
blood. And the screams had finally stopped. In its place, the clicking of dress shoes, heels
tapping against the floor rhythmically, echoed around him. He could hear Ana coming up the
ladder behind him, but that came secondary to him as he swept the room again, looking for the
source of the noise. As Ana pushed the hatch open, and joined him again, he spoke to the
emptiness of the room.

‘Who’s there?’ he said loudly. ‘In the name of the Emperor, I command you, show yourself!’

‘You have no authority here.’ A woman’s voice, sensual and dripping with allure, echoed from
the silence as a figure appeared.

An Astropath emerged from behind the stands, a young woman with striking red hair and
dressed in the long white robe of her order. Crimson lips spoke delicately from an unblemished
face, and she moved like a seductress with years of training, her hips and shoulders swaying
gently with every step. Like all Astropaths, she was blind, but with her blindfold removed, her
sightless eyes seemed to be staring deeply into their souls. By all accounts, she was beautiful, but
something about her seemed… wrong. The Astropath smiled gently at them, and Ana felt her
heart flutter as even the Investigator felt a brief tug on his mind. He leveled the laspistol at her
chest.

‘What are you?’ he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

She giggled, a lilting, perfect, enchanting sound. ‘I have many names. But I suppose you could
call me… A servant of what is to come. I was called here by the minds of thousands in exquisite
torment, begging for a release from their suffering. And when your “Emperor” would not, my
Prince did. And what a place we have made it!’ she boasted, becoming lost for a moment in her
fantasy before stepping closer.

He primed the pistol with a soft buzz. ‘Not another step-’

The woman laughed again, looking at him like a mother might to her child. ‘Haven’t I told you,
you have no authority over me. So please, shut your mouth and put the gun down. It’s rude.’

Despite himself, his arm began to lower, the laspistol pointing slowly downwards until it was at
his side. His arm would not respond. He couldn’t even make a noise. She smiled at him.

‘That’s much better, sweetie…’ she cooed before turning to Ana and gently wiggling her finger,
beckoning her closer. She had not stepped within 20 feet of the null rod. Ana felt her legs slowly
begin to move forward without even thinking. Something about her was simply entrancing. As
Ana moved closer, she found herself staring deeply into the woman’s blind eyes, which regarded
her as a friend. Her hand slowly drifted through Ana’s hair, caressing her, which sent a warm
shiver down her spine. ‘Oh… You are a fine specimen, aren’t you? I think my Prince will be
pleased with you… Doesn’t that sound nice, dear?’
 Ana didn’t hear the words, but she found herself compelled to agree. She was perfect. She
couldn’t be wrong. She had to agree. The woman smiled, nodding.

‘Yes… It is, isn’t it? A life of pleasure and plenty, where you will never have to worry about
anything… You’d be treated like a queen, lording over anyone you wanted… No one would
deny you. You could have anything…’ she said, her words dripping like honey into Ana’s ears,
and she felt her soul quiver in the balance. She would’ve given it to her, if the woman had asked.

But as Ana stood, captivated by the woman’s aura, the Investigator found himself trapped in his
own body. His teeth gritted as he tried to force his limbs to respond. They would not. As the
woman focused on Ana, he felt his body being almost dragged down to the floor, like the weight
of the entire hive of Polyphemus was chained to it. Moving it even a fraction was a colossal task.
Straining so hard he thought his muscles would snap, he began to pray silently to himself. Mighty
Emperor, give Your servant the strength to see Your will be done. Allow me to strike this evil
from the earth in Your name. As he prayed, he felt the pressure ease in his mind once again, and
his jaw loosened. None shall escape Your wrath. Allow me even the tiniest fraction of Your
might, that I may banish the Warp from here forevermore. Amen. His arm slowly began to rise,
until the laspistol was leveled at the witch’s chest. He pulled the trigger.

The crimson light burned a hole through her, causing her to gasp slightly in pain and stumble
backwards, the laser cleanly creating a finger-sized hole through her back, exposing the wall
behind her. The smile slid from her face like grease as her eyes fixed on the Investigator.

‘Well, that was rude,’ she spat, holding out her hand, and the laspistol was jerked from his grip
by some invisible force into her hand, where she crushed the metal weapon in her hand like a
paper cup before dropping it with a small clunk.

As the woman was shot, Ana saw the Warp in her eyes for the briefest instant, burning and
roiling forever. Ana moved backwards in horror, the spell broken, moving back to the
Investigator’s protective aura.

The witch rolled her eyes. ‘A pity. It would have been fun, watching you kneel to the Prince of
Pleasure of your own accord. But I guess you are stronger willed than I thought. I suppose I will
have to kill you,’ she declared, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He drew the null rod from his belt, hefting it like a club. ‘Come and try then, witch. I have
faced worse than you.’

She laughed again, her voice now cold and high-pitched. ‘Keep taunting me, servant of a false
god. Because whilst you pray to yours, mine lives within me...’ she said, her hand gently
reaching to her chest, smiling as her body began to twitch and shake.

He put an arm between it and Ana, pushing them both back a step. He knew what this was. She
was no mere witch. She was merely a host to something far worse. Her torso quaked as her spine
cracked in half. She still smiled, her body now limp like a puppet with its strings cut, but still
standing upright. The white robe slowly colored red as a small puddle of blood began to form at
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 177

her feet. The blind eyes rolled upwards as she shook violently, and the front of her robe split
open to reveal a pinkish-purple mass of flesh, tentacles, and jaws, each screeching and gibbering
nonsense.

‘What the-’ Ana tried to say as the Daemon-flesh forced itself out of the shell of meat it had
been forced to inhabit, ripping out the woman’s spinal cord and most of her internal organs with
it. The woman collapsed like the shell she was, falling limply backwards to the cold tiles in a
pool of her own blood.

The Daemon quickly grew to a height of over four meters, unfurling and extending its body as
thousands of limbs tasted the air, reveling in the sensation. Flesh stretched and tore in a formless,
ever-shifting mass as jaws and limbs formed and were subsequently re-absorbed without any
rhyme or reason. Millions of voices invaded their minds, promising their deepest secrets, calling
to them by name. A single yellow eye stared into them both with a curiously alien intelligence,
backed by the intensity of the Warp. It was a creature of impossible proportions, a beast that
simply could not be, plucked from the depths of their nightmares and seemingly placed before
them like some cruel joke from the gods. It let out an infernal scream, thousands of voices
lending themselves to a vile cacophony of sound. Most men would have broken, their minds
gone, driven irrevocably insane.

But they were not most men. He raised his null rod and charged the Daemon, screaming his
own cry as he brought the rod down on one of its tentacles, snapping bone and burning flesh
away. The Daemon screeched and brought a spiked limb downwards, narrowly missing him by
inches and impaling the floor. A set of jaws formed on the fleshy limb, snapping at his calf, only
to have teeth broken as he swung the rod like a mace. Behind him, Ana was trying to avoid
notice by the Daemon, who seemed occupied enough with the Investigator. Without a weapon,
there was little she could do.

The Daemon split off a small chunk of its pinkish, fleshy mass, which quickly animated into its
own being and grappled with the Investigator briefly before a heavy swing from the null rod
caved its “body” in and it fell limply to the ground. The Daemon let out a small grunt of pain,
lashing out with tentacles like whips, striking the null rod from his hands and wrapping around
his throat and legs, drawing him close. Thousands of jaws snapped and snarled as spikes formed
in the grappling limbs, gouging deeply into him and drawing forth a pained yell.

Ana saw the null rod fall on the edge of the Daemon’s flesh, where it had formed around it to
avoid touching it. She sprinted forward, barely avoiding a tentacle strike as she grabbed the
obsidian rod and held it in both hands like a hammer, hitting the wall of flesh again and again,
bruising and burning it. The Daemon growled in pain and rage, dropping the Investigator to the
floor and sweeping its limbs in a single motion, hitting Ana’s side like a train and sending her
into the steel wall headfirst, knocking her senseless, the null rod slipping from her loose fingers.

‘Ana!’ He yelled, as the Daemon’s limbs whipped back like rubber, barely missing him as he
flung himself downwards, rolling under the attacks and moving to her side, plucking the null rod
from the floor and moving in a protective stance in front of her.
 The Daemon advanced, its fleshy body slurping and sucking on the ground as it carried its great
mass towards him. He charged again, this time breaking the first attack and leaping onto the wall
of flesh, bringing the obsidian head directly down on the Daemon’s eye, which burst like a
pimple, oozing out foul orange ichor and exposing the Daemon’s insides. He leapt forth,
bringing the head down on the center of the Daemon’s eye socket, striking what he desperately
hoped was something important.

‘Spirit of noxious Immateria, be gone from hence, for the Master of Mankind, manifold be His
blessings, watches over me, so I shall not fear the Shadow of the Warp…’ He recited, shouting
the Rite of Banishment as the Daemon thrashed in pain, swinging about, trying desperately to
kill, to rend this insignificant human’s flesh. But it could not reach him, could not see. Instead, it
smashed the Astropathic choir-stand to splinters as he continued.

‘... With His sword, I strike thee! With His shield, I halt thee! With His light, I condemn thee!
Return to the Warp and wallow in your festering pit, Daemon! The Emperor wills it!’ Had there
been any other conscious to see it, they might have seen the null rod glow faintly golden, as if
the Emperor Himself had truly cast His eye over Blackrock Prison and had chosen to grant the
mortal before Him the tiniest sliver of His divine power.

Regardless of the explanation, as he drove the rod into the Daemon’s eye socket, piercing its
soft flesh like a knife through butter, the Daemon-flesh quaked and roiled as the foul entity
possessing it was dragged, screaming, back into the Warp, from whence it came. He was flung
outwards from the mass of flesh as it caved it upon itself, like a black hole drawing it further and
further inside until it completely vanished, leaving no trace that it had ever been there.

Outside, the storms began to clear as the rain finally stopped pelting the glass and the thunder
stopped firing its cannon-shot. Overhead were the three moons of Polyphemus, watching and
glowing in the night like protective angels.

He heard a soft groan coming from Ana. Running over to her side, he saw that she appeared to
still be alive, albeit her bodyglove was torn by the impact and several of her ribs appeared to be
broken. A jagged cut had opened on her forehead from the weight of the impact, and blood was
matting her black hair. She most likely had a concussion at least, but she was alive.

‘Ana… Can you hear me…?’ he asked, kneeling next to her. She looked up at him, and in her
eyes, with stars flashing in her field of vision, he appeared to have a crown of light.

‘Is… Is it over…?’ she managed, barely conscious.

‘It’s never really over. But it’s gone from this place tonight,’ he said with a smile, the first time
she had seen him smile. In her hazy mind, she vaguely thought it brightened up his face. ‘Come
on, let’s get out of here,’ he said, lifting her easily, clipping the stained rod to his belt as he
carried her down the ladder and began the trek out.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 179

Reaching the main entrance, they were stopped by over 100 lasguns swiveled in their direction.
The men holding them were dressed in green fatigues and wearing flak armor. A cordon of
APC’s circled around his transport, and he saw his pilot kneeling on the ground, his hands
behind his head, watched over by two men. One of them, a young man with brown hair, bearing
a sergeant’s stripes, approached them both.

‘I’m Sergeant Daal of the 83rd Cadian, dispatched to secure this location. You and your
associates will be detained whilst we-’ he began to say, but the man cut him off.

‘No.’

‘Excuse me?’ Daal said.

‘Sergeant… Reach into my rightmost vest pocket,” he said with a frown, and the Guardsmen
primed their lasguns as the young sergeant reached into the pocket and pulled out a small, wallet-
sized sigil. A piece of steel in the shape of a capital I, with a skull adorning its center. The
Sergeant knew what it meant, and he fell to his knees in supplication as the man addressed the
crowd.

‘My name is Inquisitor Cole of His Emperor’s Holy Inquisition. You cannot and you will not
detain me or my associates,’ he said, clearly and confidently, pointing out a large Guardsman to
his left.

‘You, check that weapon and take this woman to my shuttle. And release my pilot!’ he
commanded. The indicated Guardsman took the barely conscious Ana in his arms and carried her
into the shuttle as two more released the pilot, who leapt to his feet and disappeared inside the
shuttle as well. Inquisitor Cole then looked down at the young Sergeant, plucking his badge of
office from his hands.

‘And you… Get the hell up and report.’

Sergeant Daal nearly fell over again in his haste to obey. ‘Y-Yes, my Lord… We were
dispatched by the Lord-Regent of the hive to investigate this place. He feared it may be the cause
of the rebellion.’

‘Does Polyphemus still burn?’ Inquisitor Cole said.

‘... M-My Lord…?’

‘Do the riots persist?’

‘Yes, my Lord, but-’

‘There is nothing for you to investigate. These rumors the Lord-Regent believes are false. Your
presence here is a waste of manpower. You will return to him and tell him there was nothing
wrong. Blackrock Prison had been destroyed by what appeared to be an orbital weapon. Perhaps
a stray shell from the hive’s defensive array. I was never here. Then you will make yourselves
useful in cleaning up the scum that still want to take this world from the Emperor. Do I make
myself perfectly clear, Sergeant?’ Inquisitor Cole ordered, his eyebrow arching, daring anyone to
question his authority.

‘Sir, yes, sir!’ Sergeant Kell said and gave him a crisp salute, which the rest of the Guardsmen
echoed.

‘Now get out of here,’ he said, watching them pile into their APC’s and rumble off in a neat
military convoy back to the hive.

Walking into the shuttle, the pilot addressed him. ‘My Lord, the Shadow of Divinity is
requesting an update.’

‘Inform them that we’re heading home. In five minutes, burn this place to the ground,’
Inquisitor Cole said as he looked back into the shuttle bay and saw Ana laid on the medical table,
strapped in for re-entering orbit. ‘I suppose you’re coming with me after all.’

Ana smiled, her eyes twinkling. ‘I guess I am…’

The shuttle began to lift as the thrusters kicked into place, carrying the three of them off the
landing pad and into a low orbit as Inquisitor Cole strapped himself in the chair next to her. ‘I
don’t think you can go back to the maintenance crew, Ana. You know too much.’

Ana smiled. ‘Actually, my Lord… I don’t think I could go back to that either. Nor… Nor do I
really want to. I’d rather be part of your staff. Doing what you do.’

Cole smiled. He thought she might say that. He placed a hand on hers. In that moment, he knew
why he had felt pity for Ana in the elevator. He had seen himself.

‘Then allow me to welcome you as an Acolyte of the Holy Inquisition, Ana. We’ll have the
ceremony when you can stand,’ he said, smiling gently as she choked out a laugh, despite the
pain.

As the shuttle began its final descent towards the Shadow of Divinity, a shell the size of their
ship streaked past as one of the cruiser’s macro-cannons fired, obliterating Blackrock Prison and
leaving nothing behind but a crater in its wake. When the rattling of entering orbit finally ended,
Inquisitor Cole unlatched himself and walked over to the viewport, looking back on Polyphemus.
He knew many more weeks would pass before the world would return to any sense of normalcy.
He knew thousands, maybe millions, would die in that time as the hierarchy of the hive struggled
to right itself. But at least their souls wouldn’t die in the fires of the Warp.

He knew that no one would know what he had done. No one would acclaim them. But for his
actions, the Imperium was safe for one day more. And that was enough for him.
MILLENNIUM OF WAR 181

A HIDDEN
SWORD
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 183

Tamadriel sat cross-legged on the floor in her lavish quarters. Before her was a large mirror
laying flat on the ground with finely crafted brass accents on all sides of it. The walls were
covered in red and gold silk drapes; in the corner an incense burner emitted thick white smoke
which smelled of exotic herbs and spices. She emptied a velvet pouch of black sand onto the
mirror and began chanting in ancient Aeldari. The black sand began to move on its own accord.
It formed shadowy images of her people. It had been centuries since Tamadriel had left her
maiden world of Ishamineleth, which translated to “Soil of Isha”. From time to time she liked to
user her powers of shadow-seeing to check up on her distant kin.

As the images formed, her nostalgic smile transformed into a horrified rictus. Images appeared
of ape-like humans attacking a village. Brave exodites faced the enemy riding scaly beasts of
burden, but were turned back by the firepower of the mon-keigh. She screamed in despair.
Within three heartbeats her door burst open; the black sand was blown away from the door’s
sudden gust. In ran Kahurmen holding a shuriken pistol.

‘My lady! Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I…..I saw something, something distressing. Thank you for your concern. I must go speak
with Ferius’.

Kahurmen holstered his pistol and helped the seer to her feet. He was reluctant to let go of her
hand. She could feel his passion for her. It was improper to use her powers to search the minds of
her fellow troupers, but she could not resist. Kahurmen fascinated her. He was young when he
had joined the troupe, barely 300 winters old. Of all the compatriots, his reasons for joining the
troupe had been the hardest to read. He had told her that he enjoyed being an exile and seeing the
galaxy, working for whoever could afford his skills. She had seen his stealth and combat skills
firsthand, and was astounded by his preternatural skills with a long rifle. His fate was hard to see
and she did have love for him, but it would be folly to be a mate with someone who does not
know what they truly desire in life.

She thanked him again and sought out Ferius. As always, Ferius was piloting the troupe’s ship
through the webway with amazing skill. The wraithbone ship had been grown by a grateful
bonesinger on Ulthewe. The wraithbone was still a perfect milk white and it had ample space for
a mere crew of ten along with a wave serpent tank and ten jet bikes. Ferius looked kingly in his
piloting throne, adorned in red, gold, and white silk robes. His long white hair was tied in a tight
topknot. Ferius spoke little of his past, although he did tell her he had served as an exarch on the
Iyanden craftworld for a few centuries. He had been the troupe leader since before she had joined
and made a regal Great Harlequin during performances. She approached cautiously as not to
interfere with his concentration.

‘Is it not beautiful? These endless crystalline strands are truly a sight to behold. Sometimes it
makes me feel like this ship is but a tiny fly carelessly touring a spider’s web. One small misstep
would surely beget our doom. Tell me Tamadriel, what troubles you?’ Ferius spoke while keenly
keeping his eyes on the view screen.
 ‘Troupe leader, it is with a heavy heart I beseech you. As you know, I am from Ishamineleth
and I have seen that it has been invaded by the mon-keigh. The shadows showed me the humans
have a tank that is too much for the tribe to repel’.

‘And you want to deal with the mon-keigh?’

‘I do, troupe leader. This is important to me and I would ask this of you’.

Ferius eased back the smooth ivory handles and the ship came to a gentle halt. He leapt out of
his piloting throne with amazing grace and landed in front of Tamadriel. She did not flinch.

Now Ferius gave her a wry smile, ‘My dearest seer, long have you served this troupe faithfully,
never once steering us wrong. I would be amiss not to indulge this request of yours. Just show
me the way’.

‘Ferius, I do not have the words to thank you for this. Now if you are ready, I shall impart to
you the path,’ Tamadriel placed her lithe hand on Ferius’ forehead.

With a deep breath, Ferius braced himself, ‘I am ready’.

Grumann Logue lit an iho stick and inhaled deeply as he scanned the horizon. He twirled one
end of his finely waxed handlebar mustache with his stubby fingers and triumphantly placed his
polished left boot on a nearby boulder. Once he had been a dashing explorer with slicked-back
raven hair and a soldier’s body. Time and a recent life of riches and excess had transformed him
into a middle aged gentleman with an ample body. He cared little, with such wealth he could not
be bothered to maintain a strict physical regiment.

Truly this lush planet was a sight to behold. After his tech-priest had tested the soil, it had
shown an abundance of every type of valuable alloy he could think of. As rogue trader’s go,
Grumann was already obscenely wealthy, but selling the discoverer’s rights to the Adeptus
Mechanicus for this planet would make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. After more
conclusive data could be collected, he would make way to the nearest Imperial way station and
contact Mars via an astropathic choir. Granted, this planet had already proven to be a moderate
thorn in his arse. Upon landing and making camp with his mercenaries, they had come under
attack by local savages. These strange xenos were almost human in appearance, but taller and
thinner with strange eyes and ears. Their spears and bows were not excessively lethal, but their
giant reptilian mounts had proven deadly indeed. The beasts resembled overgrown grox, with
thick hides and horns. Almost a dozen of his men were killed in the initial attack. Were it not for
their scavenged chimera tank, they may not have repelled the attack. Only when the multi-laser
opened up on the xenos did they finally retreat. This left him with just over eighty mercenaries.
These were gangers hired from the most dangerous hive gangs in the Anvilus sector, and they
would provide sufficient security until all testing was concluded.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 185

Madam Auvergne, his chief concubine, approached from his back and wrapped her arm around
his, ‘Grummy, come back to bed darling. We need to celebrate your last victory in style. Lia and
Tia are there waiting for us’.

‘But madam, we just “celebrated” not but an hour ago,’ Grumann replied with a hint of
amusement in his voice.

‘What’s the matter Grummy Wummy? Are we too much for you? Won’t you come keep us
warm?’ she replied in a mocking tone.

‘If you insist madam, but give me just a moment to finish my smoke and verify a security
perimeter has been set,’ the plump rogue trader replied.

Grumann removed his ornate walking cane from his belt and headed off to the barracks.

The troupe had gathered in the dressing room when Tamadriel and Ferius entered. The dressing
room was garish with fine silks of gold, ruby, and pearly white draped over all the furniture and
even draping the ceiling in stout bellows. A long mirror ran across one wall with lumen crystals
putting off dim yellow light. On the couch, Te’Matar sat lazily with his insanely tall, red
mohawk waxed up over two feet high. He was a wild rider from the Saim Hann craftworld and a
true virtuoso on a jetbike. He was already dressed in white and red leather covered in gold shapes
of alternating diamonds and hearts. Cradled in his arms was his lover, a Drukhari who went by
the name, Viper. As always, she was nude and her milk white skin was a thing to behold. She
had served in a wych cult for centuries and refused to ever wear clothes, save for a mask. For
performances, she would put on immaculate black and red body paint with a white thorn motif.
To the untrained eye, she appeared fully clothed. But now, she ran her fingers over Te’Matar’s
chest while drinking a bubbly blue drink in a crystal goblet.

Kahurmen reclined on the floor against a statue of Cegorach and strummed the fifteen strings of
his mandolin. He was usually the first to be dressed and his costume was neatly quartered red
and gold. Compared to the other members of the troupe, Kahurmen was a bit of a loner and
eschewed his comrades when given the chance. Although previously hailing from the craftworld
of Aloitic, he now roamed the galaxy as an outcast. Next to him on a stool of wraithbone sat
Fleur-de-Liz. She was formerly from a successful corsair fleet that dominated the northern
fringes of the galaxy. With great care, she stared into the mirror and combed her great mane of
bright teal hair. When she stood, her hair caressed the floor. She was not dressed yet, and truth be
told, she was little better than Viper. Her casual garb was nothing more than a scanty loin cloth
of hot pink. When fully dressed for performance, her red and white body suit covered exactly
and only the left half of her body. Wherever Kahurmen was, Fleur-de-Liz seemed to follow,
proudly displaying her faultless physique. Tamadriel felt some pangs of jealousy at times seeing
those two together.

On the opposite end of the mirror was Meelita of Ulthwe, the troupe’s death jester. During
performances, she had the role of playing death. Meelita was a mesmerizing actress and a
peerless warrior. She could strafe down entire squads using her shuriken cannon with
contemptuous ease. Now, she was smearing thick white paste on her face made from the bones
of her predecessors. Her mask was a grinning skull and her clothes were a skin-tight black body
suit with an entire white skeleton painted on. As horrifying as Meelita appeared, she was a
colorful flower compared to the Dealer who sat in a corner of the room, where light refused to
touch. Not even Ferius knew the Dealer’s true name, but it was said that he was a Drukhari who
was exiled from the dark city due to his unnatural and soulless aura. In combat, the Dealer was a
blur of destruction, leaving generous mounds of slaughtered enemies in his wake. Some
harlequin troupe’s had solitaires with modest amounts of charisma; the Dealer was not one of
them. He rarely said anything and answered questions in a quiet and succinct tone. He and Ferius
wore trench coats of contrasting styles; one of jet black and one of gold and white covered in red
gemstones. Tamadriel would try and keep her distance from the Dealer whenever possible;
coming within ten feet of him usually resulted in intense psychic pain and nosebleeds for her.

The only member of the troupe that would speak with the Dealer on a regular basis was Zalus,
another Drukhari from Commorragh. Zalus, or “the Good Doctor” as he liked to refer to himself
as, rarely took off his mask. His face was not his own. It was obvious that most of the skin on his
body had been grafted on. It was with some reluctance that Ferius had accepted him into the
troupe. His doubt had soon eroded when seeing Zalus in combat. On top of his admirable close
combat skills, Zalus served as the troupe’s medic. The passion with which Zalus acted was a
sight to see. It was with some envy, but little surprise that Ferius had named Zalus as his
understudy. Behind him stood the troupe’s mime, Chyrla. She stood on one leg while juggling a
dozen large garnets at dizzying speed. Much like the death jester, her costume was primarily
black and white and she served as Meelita’s understudy. Her years belonging to a banshee
temple had honed Chyrla’s combat prowess to a razor sharp edge, and she was the most
accomplished acrobat of the troupe. The mime would only speak when her mask was off and her
singing voice was both strong and beautiful.

Ferius cleared his throat and stood in the middle of the room. Viper asked aloud, ‘Noble Ferius,
what is this I am hearing? We are going to be giving a performance for a maiden world?’

‘Just so, my wylie wych, we will actually be giving two shows; one for our agrarian kin and one
for the mon-keigh filth who have dared to trespass upon the planet. The human beasts will be
receiving our first performance, so suit up for combat’.

Now Te’Matar spoke up, ‘Do tell me that we will be saddling up our bikes. It seems like eons
since I’ve felt the wind in my hair’.

‘Sorry to disappoint you Te, but we’ll be taking our serpent in. Tamadriel has seen a company
sized force with at least one tank. Fret not though, you may vent your frustrations on those
uncultured brutes in due time’.

The wild rider’s face could not hide his disappointment as he snatched the glass of spirits from
Viper and downed it in one gulp. The Good Doctor started laughing maniacally while the Dealer
shuffled a deck of cards in the corner.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 187

Fleur-de-Liz spoke next, never taking her eyes off the mirror, ‘In all my years as a freebooter,
I’ve never seen a maiden world. I hear they are rustic with breath-taking scenery. Kahurmen, we
should take a stroll in light of the moons after our performances. Wouldn’t that be lovely?’

‘You naughty girl, it would be impropriety for an innocent craftworlder such as myself to be
caught, sans chaperone, with a pirate like you”.

‘Kahurmen, you may have the others fooled, but I’ve heard the rumors. The Rodilex massacre,
the Night of a Thousand Shurikens, Shi’notha Twelve, the Hanging Fields; need I go on? You’ve
been terrorizing this galaxy as long as I have,’ Fleur-de-Liz carelessly blurted out while brushing
her hair.

With a genuine look of hurt on his face, Kahurmen set down his instrument and walked over to
the wardrobe armoire, saying nothing.

‘I’m sorry K, that crossed the line. Please forgive me’.

Kahurmen, turned his head to look at her, his face completely expressionless. As always, his
face was as impossible to read as Tamadriel’s ever-shifting mask. It was his calm and
unbreakable frame that fascinated her; nothing seemed to phase him.

‘Just drop it, we have a show to prep for. Ferius, what will we be performing after we give the
mon-keigh their curtain call?’

‘Good question, K. We shall let our ever-laughing patron decide. Cegorach will provide us
inspiration. Beloved troupe, we’ll be landing shortly,’ declared Ferius as he fastened on his
flipbelt and departed for his piloting throne.

The ship landed in a large clearing a few miles from the village and the harlequin troupe
approached in their wave serpent at a low speed. The multi-colored spirit stones that covered the
hull glistened in the warm sunlight. The tank came to a rest in the town square, next to a large
well. Townsfolk approached cautiously with their rudimentary weapons, some mounted on the
large lizards they called “dragons”. The ramp on the rear of the vehicle opened with a slight hiss
and Ferius leapt out high into the air and landed on the ground as gently as a leaf falling from a
tree. He wielded a baton covered in obscenely large gemstones and spun it with his fingers so
fast that it generated a breeze. He stood straight up, then slowly bent himself backward until the
top of his head tapped the ground.

Now he proclaimed proudly, ‘Beloved kin, I and my merry band of troubadours have come to
rid you of the human pests and give you a performance to die for! Without further ado – May I
introduce to you – Numbering but a few - This jolly and motley crue – The one and only…..
Noddy Maw!’

The exodites just stared open-mouthed when the music started. Viper danced out playing a
wooden flute, hopping from one foot to the other as a jester would. The Good Doctor followed,
playing a drum that had a head of stretched and tattooed skin. Chyrla burst fourth juggling five
bleached skulls and playfully skipped about. Kahurmen and Fleur-de-Liz were next, playing a
mandolin and harp respectively; they seemed to dance in unison. Tamadriel floated closely
behind, playfully heaving colorful balls of fire into the air which exploded and produced
dazzling sparks. Te’Matar held a wraithbone horn high in the air played skillful counterpoint to
the melody. Last came Meelita; she used an improvised percussion instrument of bones which
emitted strangely pleasing tones. As always, the Dealer remained in the tank, as to not frighten
the crowd. The troupe followed Ferius in an improvised marching line as they danced and
paraded around the town’s well.

The children smiled and began to dance about, some following the marching troupe. When the
music stopped, a villager atop a horned lizard stalked forward. He wore a robe of plain brown
that had been roughly sewn together and was missing his left hand at the wrist. A bandage
covered the stump with emerald leaves integrated with the wrap. He dismounted and approached
Ferius. Zalus stared at the bandaged appendage and drooled.

‘Well met, my colorful kin. I am Vanerath, captain of the village guard and you have come at a
most opportune time. Trespassers have made planetfall on our world. The invaders repelled our
attack only a few days ago and we were forced to retreat in the face of their great metal beast. I
lost my hand and nearly lost my life to those hairy brutes. The western clans have not been
alerted to this intrusion, but I could rouse them given a week of riding’.

Ferius removed his mask and bowed with a garish flourish, ‘Tell me, where might we find these
interlopers?’

‘Two days ride by dragon to the northeast; for your chariot, perhaps much less. I would not
advise attacking them without our support and perhaps the support of a few other clans. They
number close to a hundred’.

Now Tamadriel floated forward, her reflective mask completely hiding her face. Vanerath gave
her an awkward look; he was not awed so much at her levitation, but looked at her like someone
would stare at a former lover from many years past.

Despite her voice being muffled by the solid mask, she was able to use a fraction of her
prodigious powers to psychically project her voice so all could clearly hear her. She spoke
slowly, ‘Do not wory, Vanerath of Ishamineleth, for I too called this planet home many moons
ago. We shall purge the vermin and leave you all in peace’.

‘Ahhh, I suspected as much. Your aura was instantly recognizable. Truly we are blessed to have
all of you here this day’.

Viper sighed loudly and exclaimed, ‘Are we done here? We have mon-keigh to purge.’

Ferius shot her a perturbed glance, and then addressed Vanerath once more, ‘We leave now to
deal with the mon-keigh. We only ask that you prepare us a stage in which to perform for your
people’.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 189

‘It will be done my friend,’ Vanerath turned to the townsfolk, ‘We shall prepare a grand stage
for our honored guests!’

A stone’s throw away, the Dealer peeked out the back of the wave serpent, shuffling his cards.

Grumann’s camp was organized for maximum protection of his personal quarters. One side of
the camp was a pre-fabricated barracks made out of plasteel that housed most of his mercenaries.
The opposite side was a hangar where the chimera tank was housed. There were barricades on
the other two sides of the camp with manned guardtowers. In the middle was Grumann’s
majestic tent which almost rivaled the size of the barracks. Dusk was fast approaching and
roughly half the mercenaries had entered the barracks to prep for night patrol.

The rogue trader wore a robe of velvet the color of wine while he sat up in bed smoking an iho
stick. Three of his consorts were in bed with him giggling. Empty bottles of amasec were strewn
about the floor. He was about to grab another bottle when he heard the screams from one of his
lookouts on the vox.

+ Vehicle approaching! I, uh, I can’t tell what it is. It has some type of field surrounding it. +

Outside, the wave serpent built up its speed to full tilt and its holo-field emitted a shimmering
display of shifting shapes and colors. The spirit stones glowed brightly, and they were quickly
reaching critical mass. The guardtowers opened up with heavy stubbers which either flew wide
of the confusing shape or were absorbed by the forward shield. The chimera burst forth from the
hangar and rotated its turret-mounted multi-laser at the dazzling vehicle. A loud sound of
breaking glass could be heard as the wave serpent released its forward field turning it into a
powerful kinetic wave. The force struck the chimera and flipped it end over end for over fifty
yards before the smoking wreck came to a rest upside down. In an amazing show of Te’Matar’s
piloting ability, the serpent spun around without slowing, dropping its ramp. Nine strangely clad
warriors leapt from the tank in acrobatic arcs, followed by a dark blur aimed at the barracks.

Meelita opened fire on the sentries in the guardtowers; her shuriken cannon evaporating the
startled guards. Mercenaries preparing for patrol formed up into squads and charged the
harlequins. Viper, Te’Matar, Tamadriel, and Zalus darted forward to meet one of the squads,
their holo-fields distorting their form into strange multi-colored shapes that could not be
described. The sound of broken glass landing on stone was the only sound the troupers made as
they ran and leapt forward to meet the humans. Tamadriel used her wraithbone staff to attack;
the psychically charged weapon destabilized the molecules of anything it came into contact with
and effortlessly bisected all the rogue trader’s troops. Her three companions used the cruel wrist-
mounted weapon known as the “Harlequin’s Kiss” to murder the humans. Te’Matar originally
preferred his sword, but Viper persuaded him to switch to the arcane weapon so she could
delight in the screams of its victims. With a slight tap, a mono-filiment of crystalline thread
would uncoil from the kiss’ muzzle into the target and shred its innards in the blink of an eye.
The screams of a victim killed by the Harlequin’s Kiss were unlike anything else. Viper danced
in her lively bodypaint eviscerating all who came close to her. Zalus laughed and giggled
uncontrollably as he killed.

The other hastily formed squad of mercenaries charged the remaining harlequins, autoguns
blazing. A heartbeat before engaging in melee combat, the detachment let loose with their
shuriken pistols, killing three of their opponents. The troupers were much too fast and acrobatic
for the mercenaries. Half the mercenaries were dead before they were even able bring their
trench knives to bear. Whenever a killing blow was about to be landed, the trouper would simply
parry the clumsy attack or use their anti-gravity flip belts to jump twenty yards in the air. The
humans quickly attempted a retreat, but were not fast enough to escape the fleet-footed troupers
who easily caught their fleeing victims and finished them off. Kahurmen expertly gunned many
of them down with his pistol; the razor sharp shurikens making a mockery of the carapace armor
worn by the men and women employed by Grumann. Fleur-de-Liz raced into the enemy squad
and performed great pirouettes with her sword, killing with every rotation. She whipped her
beautiful hair about and dodged return blows with wild plies. She was showing off not only for
her own amusement, but also trying to catch the eye of Kahurmen. Ferius pulled a panflute from
his pocked and played a whimsical tune as he executed the mon-keigh effortlessly with his
jeweled sword. Meelita had engaged a returning patrol of mercenaries and was picking them off
one by one with her cannon. Meanwhile, a black and white figure stealthily entered Grumann’s
tent.

An angry Grumann shouted into this vox, ‘Status! What is attacking?! Status I say!’

Madam Auvergne shouted, ‘Grummy, behind you!’

He turned around and found he was staring into a hideous black and white mask; one half
depicting a delirious smile, the other depicting tortured anguish. He reeled back and reached for
his laspistol on the nightstand as Chryla perfectly mimicked his movements. He aimed the pistol
at her as she concurrently aimed her hand at him, snatching the pistol away violently. He swung
a punch with his left hand as she did the same; hers connected as his flew wide. As he fell to the
floor, the mime did the same, even mimicking the way he reached his hand up to feel his bruised
cheek. Grumann than recovered his jewel-encrusted heirloom rapier from under the bed and
drew it from the scabbard. The women screamed and quickly scampered to put on their clothes.
He stood up in a rage and pointed accusingly at Chyrla.

‘Vile xenos! You dare mock me? I shall put an end to this charade!’

Although Chyrla perfectly mimicked his motions, she was silent. As he charged her, she did the
same. Before ramming into him, she drew her bonesword and jumped above him. With four
quick slices, she removed the rogue trader’s head and cleaved off the nose and both ears. As she
landed on one leg, Chryla caught the nose and ears and began to juggle them. The women’s eyes
widened impossibly and they screamed in absolute terror. She then tossed a digit to each of the
screaming concubines. Instinctively, they caught these macabre souvenirs of their patron and
screeched even louder as Chryla expertly mimicked their horrified stances. Lucky for them, their
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 191

deaths would be quick and painless, which could not be said of those outside receiving the
Harelquin’s Kiss. She looked over to the rapier lying on the floor and picked it up.

She opined, ‘the Laughing God does work in mysterious ways’.

The barracks was a scene of complete chaos as over thirty mercenaries scrambled to put on
their carapace armor and load their rifles. One of the sergeants, a large man with dark leathery
skin covered in tattoos, shouted orders to keep calm and remember their training. As the men and
women fell into line, locked and loaded, the lights turned off. The paltry light of the fading sun
barely illuminated the barracks. Something stood at the entrance shuffling a deck of glowing
cards.

A grating voice spoke in accented gothic, ‘Many of us are dealt a cruel fate, beyond our control.
The path I walk is one of damnation and sorrow, yet, I hold all the cards; or at least it appears as
I do. What do you believe is in the cards for you? Hmm?’

The large sergeant charged him screaming curses. Quicker than the eye could see, the man fell
into over a dozen pieces. Whatever weapon the solitaire brandished had been used and put back
in his trenchcoat faster than eyes could register. The mercenaries stared in astonishment.

The loner spoke again, ‘A bluff? Surely you can do better than that. In the end, I guess one
could say that your leader folded. But enough of this tabletalk, let the game begin!’

The Dealer launched forward, his holofield turning him into a rain of onyx shards. With one
swipe of his hand, he launched a fan of five glowing cards striking the throats of five
mercenaries in perfect unison. The cards embedded deeply and blew up, turning each head into a
red puff of mist. In under five heartbeats, fourteen of the humans had been slaughtered. The
remaining men and women dropped their weapons and ran for the doorway. A black flash went
from victim to victim, killing them instantly and leaving them in neat piles that formed a large
spade-like shape. In a matter of seconds, the massacre was over and the Dealer’s grisly art was
all that was left of the mercenaries. The solitaire looked around and admired his work. He then
hung his head and walked out, shuffling his cards.

The harlequin onslaught was far too much for the rogue trader’s camp to repel and there was
but one human survivor trapped in the crippled chimera tank. The ragged man crawled out
through an open hatch and fell to the ground coughing, his face blackened by smoke. Zalus
walked over to the injured man and grabbed him by the throat, as if he were going to throttle
him. The mercenary quickly wrapped his hands around his assailer’s wrist, trying desperately to
free himself of the vice-like grip on his windpipe.

‘Ah, what do we have here? An injured ape? Your legs look a little worse for wear but I see
your hands still work’. Zalus casually released his choking grasp and the man fell to the ground
wheezing.
Viper felt the man’s suffering and walked over to stand by Zalus. ‘Well, it looks like the Good
Doctor has managed to find himself a survivor. Tell me Zalus, what imaginative way will you
finish him off?’

‘Finish him off? Darling, you lack imagination. No, this ape will serve a higher purpose. I need
some rope so I can strap him to the tank. We’re taking him back to the village’.

Inside the wave serpent, Chyrla approached Ferius and brandished the rapier she had taken
from the rogue trader’s tent. ‘Ferius, look what I found’.

‘A primitive mon-keigh sword, how quaint! And why exactly did you feel the need to collect
such an ugly bauble?’

‘It is indeed a worthless weapon, but does it not look ornate? Deftly obscured behind true
Aeldari swords, it might even pass for a proper work of Vaul’.

A sudden realization dawned on Ferius. ‘Yes, I see it now. It may indeed even fool a trained
eye, with enough distraction. Today, you are favored by Cegorach, Chyrla. It is done then’.
Ferius raised his voice and addressed the troupe, ‘The Laughing God has divined that we are to
perform the tale of Vaul’s Hidden Sword this evening. Meditate on your roles, and we shall give
our rural brethren a performance to treasure for all eternity’.

The wave serpent silently floated back into the village with a human strapped to the hull,
whimpering. Vanerath greeted the troupe as they exited.

‘Welcome back, brothers and sisters. I trust you were victorious?’

Tamadriel responded, ‘Yes Vanerath, the mon-keigh raiders will trouble this planet no more’.

‘My heart is swollen with joy to hear it. Do you like the stage we have constructed for you?’
Vanerath gestured to the town square where a large wooden stage had been quickly constructed
with pillars and flowing ivy to serve as props.

‘You did this in a matter of hours? I’m impressed,’ said Tamadriel with actual surprise.

‘Yes, the whole village helped. It was a labor of love really. We are highly anticipating your
performance’.

Now Zalus approached Vanerath and addressed him, ‘Young man, won’t you come with me? I
have a gift for you and only you. The gift is quite precious and I don’t want the others to get
jealous, so I ask we go into the tank,’

‘Very well, although I am highly curious as to what gift you may have for me’. Vanerath
looked over to the tank and he saw Viper dragging the prisoner in.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 193

Zalus, Viper, Vanerath, and the hapless mercenary entered the tank as the ramp closed with
finality. The Dealer was nowhere to be seen and had never left the tank since returning. Muffled
screams and laughter could be heard for the next hour. A few villagers wandered close to the
tank to see what the commotion was, but Meelita insisted that they steer clear.

Finally, the screaming stopped and the ramp dropped open. The Dealer walked out and stood in
the shade of a large tree. Viper and Valus came out next, beaming. Finally, Vanerath walked out
looking at his new hand with wonderment, flexing each finger. The prisoner’s hand was not a
perfect match by any degree, but it was fully functional; the nerve grafting had been a complete
success.

Te’Matar clapped slowly and saluted Zalus, ‘The Good Doctor never fails to deliver!’

Zalus looked over at the solitaire and replied, ‘As my quiet friend might say, this lucky exodite
has been dealt a new hand’.

Gasping, choking sounds could be heard coming from the Dealer as his body shook. It took a
few seconds for the troupe to realize the Dealer was laughing. They had never heard him laugh.
The rest of the troupe broke out in hysterics and laughed so hard, some of them rolled upon the
ground. Kahurmen was the lone holdout and did not even manage a brief chuckle. He merely
walked the stage and stared up into the sky.

Fleur-de-Liz noticed Kahurmen skulking about and approached him. ‘K, what is it now? What
troubles you? I can feel your loneliness. Please, let me in’.

Kasurmen removed his mask, ‘Liz, look around you. This world is pure, it is what we once
were, and what we could again be. We were not meant to endlessly travel the void in floating
cities, or prey on the lesser races for sport. Perhaps we are not even meant to carry on the war for
the Old Ones. I tire from the endless bloodshed and battle. Would it be so wrong to just exist?
Look at the children playing in that field. Have you ever known happiness like that?’

‘What are you trying to tell me? You would rather be a barefoot farmer on some forgotten
planet, than to travel the webway as the chosen of Cegorach. The Laughing God has blessed you
with the responsibility of knowing the true secrets of the universe, and you would deny such a
gift? K, this fresh air must be making you light-headed. Maybe you just need some rest. Nine
performances in the last few weeks must be tiring you out. When we get back to the ship, I will
personally put you to bed and take care of you’. With genuine care, Fleur-de-Liz held his hand.

The exiled scout sighed and relented, ‘Perhaps you are right. The last few centuries have
exacted a heavy toll on me. After this performance, things will be different’.

‘Of course I’m right. See, you just needed some perspective from someone who cares about
you. Come on now, you can help me tease out my hair.’ The beautiful corsair grabbed his arm
and walked him to the red and gold circus tent behind the stage.
 Nighttime had fallen and a purplish moon washed the stage with a strange light; the entire
village had come to see the show. Nearly two hundred men, women and children sat on the
ground in front of the stage. They all wore their best garments died in the rich colors of local
fauna. Some of the children played with each other or chased the luminescent insects, known as
lava wisps. The scene was festive and town elders walked through their people passing out
berries and fruits.

Meelita peeked through a small tear in the dressing tent while the others made final
preparations. Viper approached her and briefly caressed the back of the Death Jester’s neck with
her long and sharpened fingernails, sending chills up her spine.

‘Oh, don’t you look absolutely dreadful; and I do mean that as a compliment. How much of an
audience do we have tonight?,’ the wych casually asked.

‘Looks like the whole village is here, sans the livestock and their huge lizards’.

‘Cute, but you must forgive me for not getting over-excited. I can vividly remember performing
for over a million at the Theatre of Pain back on Commorragh. This was a little before you
joined the troupe’.

‘I’ve never been to the dark city. How did the performance go?’

‘It was a tough crowd at first. Looking out into the audience, I saw thousands of daggers,
figuratively and literally. I could feel their hatred for the craftwolders in the troupe, but what
surprised me even more was the hate they felt for me’.

‘You were in a wych cult for some time that killed other dark Druhkari for sport. It’s a small
wonder you didn’t take some splinter fire while performing’.

‘No Meelita, I don’t think it was that. Jealousy perhaps, but most likely it was the same thing that
drove me to join the troupe’.

‘Getting away from the city of nightmares?’

‘In a sense; not only was I leaving that pointless existence, but I was leaving behind all that hate.
You should feel lucky never to have sampled Commorragh, it can offer nothing but sorrow and
doom. In time, we will return there for a performance and you will feel the overriding sense of
dread for yourself.’

‘It is something I’ve always been curious about. The craftworld life bored me to tears, and even
sailing the warp for profit became bland. Anyway, how did the show go?’

‘The waves of hatred gave way to genuine interest. Halfway through the show, the crowd had
become fully engrossed. By the curtain call there was dead silence, which of course is a sign of
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 195

respect from my kind. Thousands had tears in their eyes and struggled to contend with feelings
of regret and doom. You have not lived until you’ve seen a Druhkari weep’.

‘I suppose not,’ agreed Meelita when Ferius entered the tent.

The Great Harlequin was already dressed and clapped his hands twice, ‘It is that time, troupers.
Gather round and I shall dole out assignments. Tamadriel, as we are on your former planet, you
shall have the honor of being Lileath. Chyrla, you provided the impostor sword and the
inspiration for tonight’s performance, therefore it is only fitting you play Isha. Te,’ I was most
impressed with the maneuver you pulled off in the serpent earlier today. For your act of bravado,
you shall play Kurnous. And you Zalus shall…Zalus? Are you listening? Damn it all, would
someone rouse the Good Doctor?’

Zalus was passed out on the floor, face down with over a dozen syringes protruding from his
arms and neck. Shooting up with the dangerous narcotic, perodiene, was his normal pre-show
routine. Fleur-de-Liz threw a glass of water onto his face and slapped him a few times while
goading him.

‘Come on pretty! It’s almost showtime. Wakey wakey!’

The grotesque Drukhari sat up and groaned as drool leaked out from the gaping skin flaps of his
mouth. Ferius cleared his throat and threw the Good Doctor a towel.

‘Zalus, you inspired us all with your workmanship today. It is only fitting that you portray
Vaul. Yours truly will be Asuryan and of course, the Dealer shall play Kaela Mensha Khaine.
Prop-wise, gather up all the swords from the armory. We will use the mon-keigh sword Chyrla
procured as the imposter. Questions? None? Good! Let the show begin……’

Vanerath had placed the revered soulstones of his village’s ancestors neatly along the front of
the stage. As Tamadriel walked out to the front of the stage to address the crowd, the stones
began to glow brightly, illuminating the stage in beautiful colors. The crowd gave a hearty round
of applause as she bowed and rose to address them.

‘Beloved kinsfolk, it is with much elation that I welcome you to tonight’s performance of
Vaul’s Hidden Sword. Now, won’t you open your hearts and minds to the Noddy Maw!’

Ending her introduction, her smooth glass faceplate went from a blank reflective surface to one
of lime green and pink, the patron colors of the goddess Lileath. She gently collapsed onto the
stage and rested her head on her hands to signify she was sleeping. Using her magic, Tamadriel
projected a thick mist which enveloped the whole stage. The Dealer dropped down onto one of
the pillars in complete silence and the crowd gasped in sudden fright. The shadow seer was also
using a portion of her powers to psychically mask the Dealer’s void-like aura; they did not want
to profoundly scare the audience….yet. The mist seemed to perfectly frame the solitaire, clearly
showing the crowd that Kaela Mensha Khaine was the focus of Lileath’s dream. The Dealer
jumped down to the stage, using his holofield to show breaking into 100 smaller shards of
himself. These shards would be the seeds of the craftworlds’ mighty avatars of war.

Now the troupe representing the ancient Eldar came bounding up from behind the stage in
majestic fashion, soaring high into the air with their flipbelts. Their holofields depicted a shard of
the Bloody Handed God with each trouper, representing the Aeldari happily leading a portion of
Khaine back to their home worlds. The sight of seeing his essence being broken apart enraged
Khaine. Tamadriel briefly stopped masking the Dealer’s aura and a psychic wave of despair
quickly flowed through all present. Now the Death Jester made her entrance. Meelita wildly
danced onto the stage, flailing her arms about in a lewd fashion; death had reared its ugly head
and the crowd tensed. Despite her indecorous dancing, the other Eldar did not seem to notice the
impending threat that roamed about them and continued flippantly bounding to and fro.

Khaine’s rage could no longer be contained and he attacked the Eldar. The chorus deftly did
their best to outrun and dodge Khaine, but death was finding them all one by one. Death spun in
a tight circle and a massive tsunami of black rain fell on the stage. All looked lost when Ferius,
portraying Asuryan, landed triumphantly on stage. The crowd roared with approval as he struck
his fist upon the stage and the platform rattled to its foundations. The Eldar ran toward Asuryan
while death and Khaine pursued closely behind. As they approached Asuryan, he darted from the
back of the stage to the front leaving a solid white contrail of sparking lights symbolizing the
protective spiritual wall projected by the Phoenix King to separate the Eldar from the gods. The
Death Jester meticulously inspected the entire length of the invisible wall for any weakness.
Mere inches from death, Viper perfectly mimed every move and expression of the Death Jester
on the mortal side, thereby mocking death. Viper would make a fine mime someday. Upon
seeing that Khaine and death could not reach them, the troupers playing the Eldar began to leap
for joy and celebrate.

As Khaine and death retreated from the wall to exit stage left, Chyrla slowly paced about and
placed her hand on the psychic barrier, feeling sadness. Isha danced in a somber manner as tears
of rainbow colored gems appeared to fall from her eyes, here holofield making the sound of glass
shards tinkling upon stone. She mourned not being able to speak directly to her children; the
Eldar were now beyond her touch. Te’Matar sprinted onstage as Kurnous, Eldar god of the hunt
who taught the people how to hunt and live off the land. The crowd roared with spontaneous
jubilation; it was no wonder the exodites had a special place in their hearts for Kurnous. He
danced circles around Isha in a fruitless attempt to cheer her up. The hair of Kurnous was wild
and improper, expertly symbolizing the untamed spirit of the hunter god. Distressed at seeing the
gratuitous tears from Isha, Kurnous jumped to stage left and summoned his good friend Vaul, the
smith of the gods. The two had long been great friends where Vaul supplied Kurnous with the
finest hunting spears, who in return gave Vaul the most choice cuts from his daily catch. Zalus
limped out, portraying the crippled smith god. Now Vaul and Kurnous danced and flew around
Isha like a corkscrew, thoroughly examining her sorrow.

Vaul landed in a perfect sitting position and rubbed his chin, contemplating a solution for Isha’s
predicament. With a snap of his fingers, he danced over to a pillar and acted out a scene of great
forging. After some time, Vaul sauntered over to the Isha and reached into his pocket, pulling out
a handful of gleaming soulstones. In actuality, these soulstones were from previous members of
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 197

the troupe who had fallen in battle. Once again, those venerable and honored harlequins would
entertain the living. Isha studied the stones and realized she could use these to keep in touch with
her children, the Eldar. She wept with joy and danced in such a beautiful fashion that Kurnous
and Vaul soon joined in her exhuberance. In the dark corner of the stage, there was a god who
was not amused. Khaine struck out after the three other gods and meant to kill them. Vaul did not
even see the attack coming; Zalus fell to the stage dramatically, and appeared dazed and
confused. Isha jumped high into the air, clutching the stones closely to her bosom as Kurnous
rose to defend his lover. The god of the hunt was a master of spears and would not be easily
defeated, but even he could not withstand the fury of the Bloody Handed God. The Dealer deftly
displayed Khaine’s anger as he delivered a leaping kick to Te’Matar knocking him to Isha’s feet.
Khaine raised a hand to smite his foes when Isha screamed like a banshee, the noise so shrill
many of the crowd covered their pointed ears.

Suddenly, Ferius appeared from behind the curtain and grasped Khaine’s wrist, preventing him
from landing the killing blow; Asuryan would not allow Khaine to kill his brethren. Now the two
faced each other, silently sizing each other up. Surely, the Bloody Handed God would not attack
the Phoenix King! Isha helped the wounded Kurnous and Vaul to their feet as they backed away
from the two apex predators in the middle of the stage. Backstage, Tamadriel could feel the
anticipation of the audience for this most climactic scene of act one. The Dealer reached into his
jet black trench coat and produced a deadly chakram in the shape of a heart. Ferius pulled back
the left flap of his gaudy overcoat to reveal a bouquet of flowers. The audience laughed in
riotous fashion, releasing tension. Ferius had been known to take small liberties with the myths,
especially when performing for smaller crowds. Asuryan shook his head and dropped the flowers
to the ground before pulling out a golden rapier from the back of his coat, bedazzled with purple
amethyst gems. The two began to circle each other, faster and faster the pair went as they
became a blur of colors. They had transformed into a tempest as they rose higher and higher off
the stage. The two traded lightning fast blows clanging weapons so fast, it made a sort of music.
The sight of a solitaire and a great harlequin fighting with full vigor was a terrifying sight, even
if the fight was in jest. Tamadriel could see that the two were not just acting, they were trying to
outdo each other. Ferius exhibited the fighting style of the Phoenix Lord, Karandras; whereas the
Dealer was the embodiment the Fallen Phoenix, Arhra. This was a rivalry almost as old as the
gods themselves. The difference in their fighting styles was too subtle to be noticed by most, but
not one as well traveled as a harlequin. She could feel that Ferius fought to kill, where the Dealer
fought to murder.

The combatants landed in exhaustion, neither one able to achieve advantage over the other as
Isha looked on with concern for Asuryan. Khaine cocked his head and rushed over to Isha, but
instead of striking her, he pulled the soulstones from her grasp and showed them to Asuryan. The
stones began glowing radiantly as the souls inside did their best to show their emotion. A sudden
realization fell upon the Phoenix King; Isha had betrayed him and continued communicating
with the Eldar people, despite his barrier between the gods and the mortals. Asuryan leaped high
above the stage and flung down his sword at the feet of Kurnous and Isha, before disappearing
into the night sky. This signified his hurt at being betrayed by Isha and her lover; they no longer
had the protection of the Phoenix King. With nothing to stop him, the bloody handed god sprang
forward and lashed the two lovers together with a black chain and led Isha and Kurnous off to his
lair for eternal torment.
 The stage was empty but for Vaul. He looked about and saw he was alone, before slowly
limping off through the backstage curtain.

Act two opened with Te’Matar and Chyrla upstage right, on their knees with their hands bound
behind their backs. They wailed as Isha and Kurnous did so long ago, tortured by the endlessly
cruel Kaela Mensha Khaine and his flaming chains. Every time the pair screamed, their
holofields distorted their faces, over exaggerating their expressions. The Dealer danced around
them with a thorned whip, delivering brutal lashes. Khaine was truly enjoying the ordeal of his
fellow gods. Children in the audience began to cry seeing the lovely maiden goddess and her
lover suffer such a horrible fate. Backstage, Tamadriel began to slowly lapse her psychic cordon
of the solitaire’s hateful aura. The crowd grew more upset, many shutting their eyes or turning
their heads.

The soulstones at upstage left now glowed bright and there was Zalus, as Vaul. The smith of the
gods was slaving away at his anvil, forging a small shield. As props, the village had provided the
troupe a tree stump to be used as an anvil and an improvised hammer that one of the village
children had made from a rock strung to a tree branch. They were simplistic and perfect for this
performance. After some furious pounding, Vaul held the buckler aloft and admired his
workmanship. The shield was perfectly forged with lavish gemstones positioned around the
perimeter. Not wasting a moment, Vaul bounded across the stage and wiped the sweat from his
brow representing the long and arduous trek through Khaine’s volcanic domain. His holofield
flashed great orange and white flames licking at every part of his body. He landed in front of
Khaine just as he was about to issue another flogging to Isha. Immediately, Vaul knelt in front of
him offering up the exquisite shield as a gift in exchange for the freedom of Kurnous and Isha.
Khaine stayed his hand and dropped the whip before grasping the shield with both hands and
admiring the craftsmanship.

Vaul slowly rose to his feet and offered to shake Khaine’s hand, but it was not meant to be. The
Bloody Handed God threw the buckler high into the air and sprang up alongside it. As both flew
through the air, the solitaire brandished a dagger and rapidly carved something into the shield.
When they landed, Khaine held the shield high so all could read the runes. He demanded 100
hand-forged swords in one year’s time to secure the release of his prisoners, and threw the shield
back to Vaul who read the runes in horror. Not wasting any time, Vaul raced back to his forge
from Khaine’s hellish domain. As Vaul beat upon his anvil, so did Khaine beat upon his
prisoners. The sands of time flew by quickly and Vaul raced against hope to achieve his
impossible task. A large boom produced backstage announced the time limit had been reached.
Despite a heroic effort, the smith had only produced 99 swords. Vaul placed his hands upon his
temples and yelled in frustration, as Isha and Kurnous yelled in anguish on the opposite end of
the stage. It was when all hope seemed lost that a brightly clad figure somersaulted across the
stage and performed a magnificent backflip landing on one leg next to Vaul. The Great
Harlequin once again graced the stage, but Ferius was now wearing his jester’s hat with golden
jingle-bells on each of the eight points. All in attendance knew that Cegorach himself had
arrived. The laughing god had come to aid Vaul!
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 199

Cegorach laughed loudly and twirled a baton as he danced around Vaul, his footwork was
immaculate and the jingle-bells of his hat brought joy to the audience. Vaul gestured to his
imaginary pile of swords and pleaded with the laughing god to help him. Cegorach reached
inside his gowdy overcoat and produced the sword Chryla had taken from the rogue trader earlier
that day. The sword had an ornate hilt and almost looked as if it may be a quality weapon. A
discerning swordsman would quickly find its lack of workmanship with a few swings, but it may
be enough to briefly trick Khaine. Vaul looked to Cegorach for assurance, but he only laughed
and somersaulted right off the stage. The Laughing God was nothing if not unpredictable.

Vaul returned back to Khaine’s domain and stood behind him as the gaoler continued his
tortuous flogging. Kahurmen leaped over the backstage curtain with a wraithbone sword and
gently placed it on the ground at Khaine’s back. Next Viper and Fleur-de-Liz did the same,
followed by Tamadriel and Meelita. After a small pile of harlequin swords had accumulated,
Vaul slipped the mon-keigh sword into the bottom of the pile. He picked up two swords and
clanged them together to get Khaine’s attention. He handed the first of the swords to the Bloody
Handed God to test. After a few swings, Khaine tried a second sword, a third, and finally a
fourth. As he tested each sword, the audience grew more nervous fearing he would discover
Vaul’s trickery. With a final swing of the fourth sword, Khaine turned back to Isha and Kurnous
and delivered a powerful stroke to each. The blade cut easily through the chain bindings of each
of his prisoners. Men and women in the crowd openly wept tears of joy seeing their beloved
maiden goddess and Kurnous finally freed from Khaine’s vicious torment. Vaul grasped both
their arms and quickly led them away.

Khaine now had the stage to himself, and lovingly handled each sword. It was only when he
picked up the sixth sword, did his aura turn darker. With a few swings he immediately
discovered that this sword was not one of Vaul’s master works. He broke the blade over his knee
and knelt down, unmoving for tense seconds. This was Tamadriel’s que to relinquish her psychic
barriers around the Dealer. He stood up and let loose with a scream so apocalyptic that audience
members nearest the stage ran in terror and hid behind trees. It was only then that all in
attendance truly knew the frightening power of Kaela Mensha Khaine. The soulstones lighting
the stage began to dim as the solitaire’s scream died. As the stage went dark, the only noise was
the distinct laughing of Cegorach.

The night air grew chilly as a bonfire crackled and warmed everyone at the after-party. The
whole village had shown up and the troupe, minus the Dealer, arrived out of costume to break a
leg for the appreciative exodites. Kasurmen played a melancholy tune on his mandolin which
contrasted with the lively feel of the party. Some of the villagers gave Viper and Fleur-de-Liz
awkward glances at their distinct lack of clothing, but were willing to make concessions after
such a masterful performance. Zalus stumbled around mumbling about how he was actually a
mushroom in disguise; large syringes embedded in his neck. The villagers politely smiled and
offered him berry wine, which he swilled with reckless abandon. Chyrla juggled an assortment of
fruits which delighted the children to no end. Te’Matar and Meelita debated the nature of the
webway while Tamadriel mingled with as many of the people as she could. Vanerath stood with
Ferius and questioned him passionately about the nature of the Laughing God. The festivities
continued until the early hours of the morning with spirits flowing freely. Many of the villagers
had fallen asleep around the dying fire.

The troupe were about to finally take their leave when a strange twist of fate made its presence
known. Vanerath paced his newly acquired hand on the shoulder of Ferius and addressed him
face to face.

‘Honored Ferius, I have decided that I am coming with you. My fate is to be one of your
troupers’.

Ferius looked at him with mild surprise. ‘Vanerath, I do not doubt your heart and I do see you
have an uncanny understanding of the Laughing God, but the Noddy Maw has existed for
millennia and has always been a troupe of ten harlequins….no more, no less. So you see, there is
simply no way I could admit you at this time. You have my apology’.

‘You need not apologize Ferius,’ interjected Kasurmen who had joined the conversation. ‘He
may assume my place. I have taken my final curtain call and can give this troupe no more. This
place is where I belong now and I would trade my place with Vanerath, should you grant your
blessing’.

Fleur-de-Liz overheard the transaction and shouted, ‘K! Have you gone mad? We need you
with the troupe. Think about what you’re doing!’ She ran over to him.

‘Liz, I have contemplated this all night. This is my new path. Please, let me go’.

‘And what happens when you tire of this planet? Huh? How long until you are itching to travel
the stars again? This is a mistake K, do not do this to me’.

Kasurmen embraced her in his arms and kissed her forehead as she held him tight. He took a
deep breath and gently pushed her away. ‘I will miss you Liz, but please don’t take this so badly.
I believe we will meet again some day. This is something I must do’.

Ferius handled his baton and spun it around as he pondered the situation. He threw the baton
high in the air and let it fall to the ground. It bounced off of a stone and flew directly to Vanerath
as he caught it with his new hand. All in attendance gasped.

The Great Harlequin clasped his hands and loudly proclaimed, ‘The Laughing God has once
again dealt us a twist of fate. As one worthy troubadour chooses a new path, a promising aspirant
steps in to fill the void. This has all proceeded as Cegorach has planned and we leave this place
with joyful hearts. Troupers, to the ship! It’s time to get the show on the road’.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 201

PRUDENTIA
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 203

Through the Storm

It was hard to hold the pistol steady at the man’s temple, but First Sergeant Andillo Behno
fought the judder and scrap of the bucking pinnace to hold his barrel of his autopistol steady. He
had been praying constantly for the last thirty seven minutes that he would not have to fire the
pistol. He didn’t want to kill this innocent man but if he had to he would. That was a part of his
duty; if it meant saving human lives, killing other people, even innocent people.

The innocent man under his gun kept mewing like a deranged old cat. Occasionally, the man's
teeth would click hard against each other and momentarily a second voice would emanate from
the man’s mouth. The first time the strange guttural sound came, Andillo's trigger finger
tightened. His finger was a micron away from painting the hull of the pinnace with the
sanctioned psyker’s brain. From the depths of his guts he felt the urge again. It was pathetic of
him to feel it at all, but there was something in him that desperately didn’t want to kill this fellow
servant of the Throne. But he would; he would do his duty. He would not give the enemy a
chance to hurt his men.

Around Andillo inside the assembly deck of the Imperial Navy pinnace, thirty other sanctioned
psykers of the Ordo Hereticus were similarly held at gunpoint. Unlike the men around them who
stood desperately holding the overhead tangle of handholds, the psykers hung directly from the
roof. Leather belts attached at their shoulders and elbows held them to the roof and held their
arms outstretched in an unnervingly saintly, yet masochistic cruciform way. Each of the thirty
psykers was guarded by three men of the Swanbourne Sabres. The troops' armour and battle
dress uniforms deep blue and tan camouflage were marked with a scarlet red shoulder braid
ending in the Inquisitorial rosette. The rosette marked their secondment to the Ordos. A
secondment which had started as a rushed necessity, but had then continued for six hundred
years after the Sabres had proved themselves to be most invaluable to the needs of the Holy
Inquisition all over the Segmentum Pacificus.

The whining protestations of the pinnace’s engines increased again and it seemed impossible to
Andillo that the ship’s engines could have any more power to give to fight the turmoil outside
the ship. The maelstrom outside the ship was the reason why each of the psykers was at gunpoint
of three of the most elite Astra Militarum soldiers in the segmentum. The choir of psykers was
pushing desperately against one of the most severe, most concentrated warp storms the Imperium
had witnessed in millennia. Steering any vessel into a storm this concentrated, let alone a ship as
small as an interplanetary pinnace, was a suicidal maneuver akin to steering a rowboat into a
hurricane with the hope of making it to the safety of the eye. The tiny patch of safety the pinnice
was aiming for was the once beautiful world of Prudentia. It was a backwater world, small and
out of the way, an agri world tucked away in the safest core spiral of the Segmentum Pacifica. Or
at least it had been; no one knew what it was now. Two weeks earlier the acute malevolent warp
storm had bled itself into existence around the world like a scab over a wound.

The screeching pitch of the engines became horrendous, it sounded to Andillo like the whine of
an artillery shell falling directly on his head. The tension squeezing his spine, Andillo nearly
broke as somewhere down the cavernous hall of the troop compartment came the snap splatter
reverberation of a point blank headshot. Andillo risked a glance and saw down the line where
one of the psykers now hung limp. Under the caved-in dome of a blown out skull, a milky pink
inhuman hand jutted out, fingers first, from the dead psykers ruptured mouth. Andillo turned
back toward his ward studying obsessively the psyker’s gibbering lips and pierced open eyes
searching for any sign that the man was longer a man but a corpse puppet for the warp.

The ship started vibrating more violently, the psyker opened his mouth and sucked air through
his teeth, the veins in his neck, all of which had turned so blue as to be almost black - started
throbbing and pulsing visibly. As if on cue, the chanting from the whole choir of psykers grew
louder. Andillo had been a soldier since he was inducted to the regiment at fifteen, some eleven
years ago. He had experienced every terror a soldier's heart could imagine and through them all
he had shown enough courage and tactical sense for him to rise to the senior enlisted rank of first
Sergeant - the man all men in his unit could rely on. Now though, he flicked his eyes to
Inquisitor Monash. He hoped to catch the elderly woman’s gaze and be reassured, like a mother
cooing to her son, that everything will be alright. The Inquisitor wasn’t looking at Andillo
though. Her ice grey eyes stared at nothing but Ashuur, the leader of the psykers congregation,
who like his fellow cohort hung chanting. Andillo found some confidence that the Inquisitor
showed no hesitancy, only the same mask of inhuman determination she always seemed to wear.
Andillo let out a shaky breath. On the breath he let his lips form a silent prayer. In that moment
the shaking of the craft, the screaming of the engines, and the chanting of the psykers all stopped
dead. In the now unworldly silence Andillo looked at Inquisitor Monash again. She had moved
to talk to his commanding officer. Relief blooming in his mind and body Andillo realised they
had reached the calm heart of the storm. In that peaceful heart of calm a hundred men and
women armed their weapons.

Capitol

The pinnace circled wide over Prudentia’s modest capital city washing off speed with the
laziness of its wide turn. From the stern gallery the headquarters of the mission surveyed the
target city. Inquisitor Monash was in total command of the operation, Interrogator Calgarri her
second, Ashuur was the lead of the Psyker contingent whilst Wachtmeister Goethe was the
commander of the fifty men of Sabre Sekundar and Lead Wachtmeister Mohegun was the
commander of equal strength Sabre Primar and overall commander of the militarum contingent.

The city below them was a modest planetary capital. Multistory hab-blocks rose four or five
stories into the air nestled amongst a patchy greenery of tree lined streets and parks, most of
them browning from the lack of sunlight. Occasionally a larger structure protruded: a train yard,
granary silos, a mill, and on the outskirts of town, an imposing black fortress.

‘That’s our target.’ Inquisitor Monash said pointing at the fortress. ‘How close can you get us?’

The Captain of the pinnace grimaced and poked a finger into the stiff collar of his Imperial
Navy uniform.

‘She holds a great berth. She is no slight lander madam,’ the Captain protested attempting to
stretch the neck of his suddenly suffocating uniform.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 205

‘I know this vessel is not well suited to this task, had we more time, I would have procured a
more suitable landing craft,’ Monash instructed venomously, ‘However this task must be done
and we will do it with tools provided.’ Her mouth stabbing each word home to the frightened
naval officer. ‘How close can you land us to the target?’

‘In the fields may work, best I could do is out there in the pasture land where the trees drop
away and the lands open up into flatlands,’ he said.

The command section craned their necks to look at where the naval officer was indicating. It
was a long way out from the city. The march back into the city would take hours.

‘My Lord, I cannot attest to how long my choir can hope to prevail against the turbulence of the
storm. If we wish to ensure a safe passage off world, we only have so long.’ Ashuur said.

‘My Lord, my men can run that distance in three or four hours. Offered Wachtmeister Mohegan.
‘We could still affect entry to the target within five or six hours.’

‘You would be too exposed outside the cover of the psychic defense envelope of Ashuur’s
congregation.’ Interrupted Interrogator Calgarii.

At the side of the room watching the discussion of senior staff were First Sergeant Andillo and
Pike Sergeant Dashe, the Sabre’s two highest ranking enlisted men were required to attend
briefings as assistants, and more than often advisors, to their officers.

‘Dashe how fast do you reckon we could get off this thing?’ Andillo whispered to Dashe

‘If you jump, pretty fast,’ Dashe joked dryly.

‘Jumping is what I had in mind actually,’ said Andillo. Dashe eyed Andillo like he was a
madman.

‘That Mill,’ Andillo said pointing. ‘Look at the size of that roof. Not enough to land but enough
for a grav hop?’

Dashe eyed the Mill’s roof, his mind calculating the viability of Andillo’s idea.

‘Could work.’ Dash nodded.

‘Take it to the boss?’ Andillo asked.

‘Take it to the boss,’ Dash answered, continuing to nod.

‘Permission to speak Sir Wachmeister Goethe?’ Andillo asked.

‘Granted, First Sergeant.’ Goethe answered amiably.

 ‘Sir, the mill there,’ Andillo said. ‘If the ship can get us low enough and slow enough, we could
perform a grav drop.’

The Navy Captain brought a pair of baroque magnoculars to his eyes and looked towards the
offered mill.

‘Petty Officer!’ commanded the Captain ordering one of his ratings who waited at the edge of the
room. The petty officer snapped his heels together as he arrived next to the Captain.

‘The facility at coordinates four, six, two, mark five. Range and calculate the approach vector
for a landing’ ordered the Captain.

The petty officer repeated the order into the chest mounted vox caster horn. A long moment
passed, then the vox caster’s earphones squelched, the petty officer started relaying the message
a millisecond after.

‘Calculations state that the ship could hold a hovering station upon those coordinates for
approximately six hundred and seventeen seconds.’

‘Very well,’ the Captain said, dismissing the Petty officer with a wave of his hand.

‘Is this enough for your plan?’ said the Captain curtly.

‘More than enough for my men,’ answered Wachtmeister Mohegun.

‘Have you forgotten your rather crucial friends?’ Interrogator Calgarii asked indicating Ashuur.

‘If Ashuur and his ilk can manage falling down, with a little instruction they can manage a grav
drop,’ countered Goethe.

‘I have seen in your mind what you suggest and yes my congregation can do this,’ Ashuur said
stepping between the two quarrelling men. ‘I advise you strongly not to push a psyker into too
much fear. A fearful mind is a savagely dangerous mind.’ He smiled cautioningly.

‘The matter is settled,’ Inquisitor Monash gaveled.

‘That will get us on the ground your Honour,’ Goethe said. ‘If I may request respectfully again
ma’am, is it now time you allow us to know the target.’

The Inquisitor raised her head so that her cold grey eyes looked down at the seasoned Imperial
Guard officer. He was a true soldier of the throne the inquisitor thought to herself. She brushed
her mind into his capturing the scent of his life like a chef might smell a pot of stew. His life was
lived on a hundred worlds, through a thousand firefights, struggle and desperation glued to the
sides of his psyche like soot above a fireplace, the fire of his psyche was honour and that fire
burnt determinedly. It was time to tell him the dread task they had come to do.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 207

End Goals

‘This world, gentlemen, is Prudentia. It is a meagre world, it provides steady tithes of men and
millet and little else to the Imperium. It is far from any warzone, far from the grasps or even
concerns of any of the enemies of man.’ The mission team listened diligently, eyes narrowed,
minds sharp. ‘For these reasons it was selected as a candidate for housing and hiding one of the
Imperium’s greatest resources.’ Ashuur was watching the soldiery as they listened to the
Inquisitor. His mind was lazily enfolding theirs. Though they were old men there was still
excitement in their minds. ‘The inquisition is tasked with locating all humans whose minds
possess psychic abilities,’ Monash continued. At those words Ashuur felt the soldiers' minds go
numb. ‘From this number of psychically able minds certain candidates are selected because of
the innate potential power of their minds to serve the throne as useful and potent psychic
weapons.’ Ashuur felt terror come creeping into the soldier minds like an eclipse.

‘How powerful are these psykers expected to be ma’am?’ Wachtmeiser Goethe asked.

‘They are classed as beta level...’ Wachtmeiser Goethe coughed involuntarily interrupting the
Inquisitor. ‘ … Beta level and possibly above.’ The inquisitor finished her answer. ‘That is why
Ashuur and his large contingent of sanctioned psykers are here, they are not here just to allow us
a pathway through the warp storm. They will also assist with the apprehension of the psykers if
they do not come willingly.’ Ashuur felt no reassurance in the men as Monash nodded to him
and then continued speaking.

‘Make no mistake gentlemen, the minds these psykers possess are tools of terrible, terrible
power. They cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of the diabolical foe. If the holders of these
minds do not come willingly or attempt to resist apprehension we will destroy them. It should be
known I requested greater forces for this undertaking, even reaching out to the Astartes and
beyond, however, the dire time constraints of this undertaking has not afforded me any resources
other than you. I expect this undertaking to be difficult, I expect if there is resistance many of
your men will die. I also expect that you will not dishonour your unit by failing a task given to
you by the Holy Inquisition of the Throne.’

‘The Swanbourne have not and shall never let the Imperium of man down,’ Mohegun said. ‘We
are the edge of the sabre!’

‘Edge of the sabre!’ intoned the other Swanbourne raising their right hands pressing them to the
bridge of their nose palm straight like a blade in front of their face in the ceremonial salute of the
regiment.

‘They may not have been your first choice but they may yet prove themselves worthy in this
endeavor,’ Ashuur said to Monash using his mind’s voice so only she could hear.

‘Yes they are resolute souls,’ Monash answered him silently. ‘Have you finished your warding
rights on them?’
 ‘Yes, with the constant vigil of some of the congregation their souls should remain intact, intact
enough I should say, for around twelve hours. Naturally with the level of warp activity in this
world there is no way they will not be tainted permanently.’

‘Naturally. I have already made provisions for their liquidation,’ Monash replied telepathically as
she looked around the room at the soldiers whose death warrant she had already signed. ‘It will
be merciful though, after what they are about to witness death will be a release.’

The Fall

The pinnace came in over the Prudentia Civitas like a drunken skimmer driver threading a
bizarre pattern through the sky; the strange lopping turns were actually calculated meticulously.
It was the Captain desperately trying to burn off the immense speed the ship was carrying. The
pinnace, finally having reached a manageable speed for a landing, set its prow towards the mill.
The mill was the largest building in the city by far, it was a sprawling complex four hectares in
size. At the rear of the site, like a set of blocky neolithic monuments, was a collection of wide
squat oval tanks. “Probably grain”, Andillo thought to himself as he craned his neck to watch as
the steady gee forces of the pinnace pushed him away from the port hole. The largest part of the
mill was a stocky rockcrete rectangle of a building. The building was immense, a bland concrete
block the size of a segmentum capital ship. Pipes and conveyor belts ran around its five stories
like feeder fish around a whale. Its roof though, was perfectly clean and perfectly flat. A nice
long and steady landing zone, or as circumstances permitted, a hovering zone.

Andillo took his gaze from the port hole and looked back at his fireteam, his elite recon men.
Perth his second in command, Wrex the grenadier, Danto his vox operator and Anton the
assistant vox operator. They were like his brothers. They were the embodiment of the unit’s
motto, the edge of the sabre, the first in and the keenest of the Sabres.

The rest of the regiment were preparing in the loading dock behind Andillo and his men.
Troopers were doing their final checks, making sure magazines were firmly in place, re-shuffling
webbing for the twentieth time, turning their backs to comrades so they could double check clips
and zippers on their packs. Given the bizarre makeshift, possibly suicidal circumstances of the
mission, Andillo thought the men were holding up well. He could taste the fear in the room,
which was normal. They were an elite formation but there was always fear before a mission. Any
soldier not afraid of death was like a navigator without a third eye. This wasn’t the regiment’s or
Andillo’s first foray against the diabolic foe. In Enmore Hive, Andillo had raided the dens of
cultists whose cauldrons bubbled with butchered human limbs. He had led the attack against the
church of the Reverend Maltous who had blessed his congregations by offering their children to
the fire of false gods. He had ridden a valkyrie over the sprawling pitch battles against the
Harrient Seventh who had traded their golden threaded aquila standards for fluttering banners of
human skin. Andillo and the men around him had seen the bastard children that came of the
unholy marriage between mankind and the warp. They knew how terrible things could get on the
battlefield against the diabolic foe and still their resolution was holding. The question was,
though, would it still hold up this time when they landed in the den of the foe?
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 209

The floor of the pinnace dropped a foot as the ship started breaking dramatically. The whole
company stumbled with a thud as their feet suddenly found themselves in open air. Perth reached
out and took Andillo's arm, steadying his First Sergeant. The two soldiers made eye contact for a
moment. Andillo saw the same determination in Perth’s eyes that he felt in his own. The slowing
ship below his feet felt like it was going limp. Andillo just prayed the ship wouldn’t go
completely slack before he got out of it. Like any soldier, if he was going to stand before the
throne he wanted to go there with a weapon in his hand and an enemy at his front, not compacted
and burnt to death in a collapsed bulkhead. He whispered the soldier's prayer to himself again
and again, ‘let me die on my feet with honour’. As if hearing his prayer, the Pinnice’s loading
bay doors started clanking open. Slowly a vision of Prudentia opened before them. The vista was
pathetically bleak, a forsaken lost world. He wanted to stare at the scene like a tragedy you can’t
look away from, but he was a soldier and he had a task to do. There was no time to gawk.
Andillo dropped to the ground and bellied up to the edge of the loading dock and looked down at
the ground coming up to meet them. The ship was gliding slowly, too slow for a ship its size,
Andillo worried. With the roof fifteen metres below him, Andillo gave the signal for his fireteam
to drop the grav-rope. The grav-rope looked like a collapsible ladder made of large aluminum
oval segments ten inches long. At the heart of each segment was a repulsor disc. With a
screeching rattle of chains the grav-rope fell off the side of the loading dock kicked by the spread
out members of his fireteam. Andillo watched it land on the roof in a scraggly winding line.
Andillo scanned the line of the grav-rope with his magnoculars looking for a break anywhere
along the thirty metres of link that would render the device useless. He rose to his feet and stood
at the edge of the open door. He threw out a hefty las magazine carrier. The three foot metal box
dropped precipitously for a moment before it was caught in the grav-ropes field and its fall was
arrested to a steady controlled drop. The grav-rope appeared to be working. There was now one
final test to see if it was working before his entire unit trusted their lives to it.

Whispering the soldiers prayer to die on his feet once more, Andillo stepped into the open air.
The wind stabbed at his exposed skin as he plummeted uncontrolled for what felt like minutes.
With a relieving winding whole body punch the repulsor field caught him. His training kicked in
and he strained to tense every muscle in his legs and core whilst holding his shoulder blades back
so that his arms could provide a stable firing platform for his rifle. Behind his jump glasses his
eyes burned, hunting for targets. An opposed grav landing would be a nightmare, yet in his most
secret heart he knew he wanted a target. His feet touched the ground, still no targets. He bolted
forward confident and fast, making room for the men coming in behind him. After a few
heartbeats, he checked over his shoulder to make sure the other members of his fireteam were
landing and spreading out to make the corners of the square that would be the security perimeter
for the landing. Confident that his men were in the correct place, Andillo took a moment to
watch the rest of the company come down in their fireteams of seven. As they were caught in the
grav field they spread their arms like taloned wings rifles aimed. Andillo’s throat tightened with
pride as he watched his men drop and swiftly move into the defensive perimeter he had
established. They were the model of professional soldiers, aggressive yet graceful, swift but
steady. Soldiers of the throne steadfast in the face of a horrific galaxy.

The Sky is Falling Gods

 Standing on the roof of the mill they were now bereft of their airborne, godlike, perspective of
the world. Now standing on it and amongst it, they tasted firsthand the reeking decay of the
world. The air smelled stale and burnt with an acrid tingle of corroded metal, as if the whole
world was smoldering in an old rusty cooking pot. Even though the world had been isolated by
the warp storm for only two weeks everything was in disrepair. Concrete was cracking, glass
windows had sour milky glass, even the gold inlay signage naming Primary Mill Prudentia
Civitas was rusting. As they had hurried to form their perimeter, the Sabres had stumbled. They
were some of the most elite militarum troops in the segmentum. Their martial discipline and
esprit de corps was as perfect as some of the Astra Militarum’s proudest unit; but when the
pinnace took off again leaving them alone on the ground, the sight of the heavens that greeted
them gripped their hearts and squeezed with ice cold fingers. The sky was dying like a hysterical
mother watching the murder of her child. Spread out before them to the horizon, above the
abandoned hab blocks and graineries and parklands that made up the city, the sky was covered
with what looked like clouds the colour of scar tissue. Great routing ripping lightning forks of
warp energy crackled through the cloud the deeper pink of a blood bruised eye. As they emerged
frantically shuffling behind the soldiers, every psyker was wiping bloody tears from their cheeks,
such was the fierceness of scattering background psychic energy.

It was too much for some men. Corporal Delweir stood watching the shifting rolling pink
clouds for twenty seconds. For a moment he thought he could see shapes in them. Then, very
calmly, he took his side arm, placed it under his chin and ended his staring. Three other men did
the same, turning their weapons on themselves rather than continue to witness the skies. Two
other soldiers broke ranks and simply ran off the sides of the six story mill. Others went less
calmly. Fireteam Rapier was completely incapacitated for two minutes as the squad’s
ammunition carrier Pikeman third class Icaus, a six foot wall of a man, completely snapped. He
dropped his rifle, took his pack of hard rounds off his back and swung the thirty kilo pack into
the back of his fireteam leader's head. The man’s knees went out from under him and he dropped
as if he had been hit by an anti-tank round. The fireteam’s grenadier, Ragg, was Icaus’ brother.
Ragg slipped his melta rifle over his shoulder and jumped forward to contain his brother. Ragg
came up quick to Icaus’ rear. Unwilling to hurt his brother, Ragg attempted to grapple the man
by locking his arms around his thickset sibling. Icaus threw a huge elbow blow backwards. The
speartip of Icaus’ elbow connected with Ragg’s sternum. Ragg collapsed onto his back gasping
for air through a set of broken ribs and a ruptured chest wall. At that point, the four other men of
the fireteam piled in around Icaus. In the wriggling mass of fists and shoulders, the six foot
ammunition carrier gave as good as he got for a long thirty seconds, breaking two jaws and one
forearm, before someone slid one of the Icaus’ musette bag straps around the ammunition
carrier’s neck and pulled so hard they ended up lying on the ground. Icaus started to deflate, his
knees slackening as his hands tried to reach his neck to remove the improvised garrote. He
finally hit the ground. The three troops who hadn't choked the man rushed to administer first aid
to Ragg and to the fireteam leader. The three of them focused their attention on Ragg when one
of the three removed the fireteam leader's helmet and it was appalling evident the man was dead.

In the confusion, none of the soldiers of the fireteam noticed Inquisitor Monash or her
subordinate Interrogator Calgarii arriving at the scene. The trooper removing his makeshift
choker from Icaus’ neck scurried like a pathetic terrified soft-ears caught in the spotlight when
he looked up and saw Monash standing above him and the unconscious man, her bolt revolver
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 211

aiming down at the man. He tried to wave his arms to stop her, but before he could, she fired a
shot into Icaus’ unconscious head. ‘This man was a liability. Form your squad and be ready to
fight,’ she said simply before striding off. She didn’t even look back to see the outcome as one of
the regiments' medicae arrived and started applying his combat medicine heart-restarter patches
to Ragg who was shaking in cardiac arrest.

Above the flock of reeling soldiers peeling through the skies wounds, like maggots through a
gash, the shapes of shapeless entities delighted in the killing. Interrogator Calgarii was testing his
knowledge by remembering the true names of those warp things. Knowing the truest name of
psykers or beings of the warp was vital. If a fellow psychic spoke the true name, the name which
marked the most essential essence of a being, it could give the speaker of that name temporary
mastery over the being. So Calgarii looked into the sky and tried hard to remember the names of
those malignant evils clawing into the sky. There was Ferrihym-Dratescka, the soul wrecker, his
eight arms distended and lank the colour of burnt bones. Samus, singer of woe who’s many
teethed maw sat below eye holes where curling asymmetrical horns protruded.
Vespernaartottem, the ensnarer of joy, her body shifting second by second between that of a
human child and the form of a creature somewhat between arachnid and crustacean. They would
break through to the material world fully soon Calgarii knew. Then the world would be fully
theirs. If they wished to leave this place they would have to be swift. Calgarii looked over to the
medicae who had removed his lifesaving equipment from the wounded soldier and was instead
unwrapping a body bag.

A God’s Appetite

Andillo led his Sabre down one of the external grain conveyor belts to the street. Andillo
brought Pikeman first class Deitmann, the Sabre’s best autocannon team leader, directly behind
him. At the ground they stopped, Deitmann ordered his assistant gunner to lay in the gun’s tripod
into a crack in the rockcrete street. With precision and swiftness Dietmann dropped the heavy
autocannon into the waiting tripod and racked the bolt of the weapon, ready to engage any
rushing targets. The street however, remained totally empty. No one could have missed the
appearance of the huge flaring and breaking starship. As much as he had prepared for hostile,
Andillo had also prepared for the distasteful yet necessary job of controlling or even repelling
desperate Imperial citizens. Yet there was no one.

The Sabres moved off with the professionalism they prided themselves on. Fireteams bounded
from tactical position to tactical position, covering each other with interlocking fields of fire as
they repositioned. As they did, they maintained their usual hyper alert battlefield sense for any
signs of hostiles but there was none. The whole city seemed utterly deserted.

As usual, Andillo’s fireteam was reconnoitering ahead of the bulk of the force. He had stopped
the fireteam in a bakery to send a report back to the Wachtmeister Mohegun. As he handed the
vox handset back to Danto he took a moment to look around the empty bakery. There was still
bread in the display cases, it had mushroomed into giant green slugs of mould, but it was there.
Apart from the lack of care the place was unmarred; no broken glass, no bullet holes, no bodies.
There were no signs of looting, no signs of fighting, just the omnipresent dust painting the whole
place a fuzzy crimson colour from the red sky above. It was as if the whole population had
simply gotten up and left the city in the middle of the night.

They had moved tactically and quietly for another forty five minutes. Their pace restrained by
the contingent of slow shuffling psykers. The psykers were chanting low, whispering some kind
of mantra or incantation incessantly. Andillo was unsure what it was but as soon as they had
started his tongue had prickled like it was burnt from scalding caffeine. Occasionally the whole
column would need to stop for a minute or two as one of the psykers was struck by a seizure.
Andillo could see that up ahead the hab blocks they had moved through for the past ten minutes
stopped and led into a large communal square park. Andillo thought he could see people in the
square, but he knew he needed a better vantage to see what was happening. He deliberately
caught the eye of Perth. In a quick sentence of hand gestures he told Perth to move the bulk of
the party into cover while he went forward to do an eyes-on reconnaissance of the park square.
Perth signed acknowledgement in a gesture back to him.

Andillo crept forward, straining the muscles in his legs and firmly placing his feet slowly
minimizing the nose of each footfall. Glancing round the corner of a hab block entrance and
finding no-one he slipped the glass door open and slid silently into the hallway. He moved in
slow motion down the hall checking each door and corner for threats. Finding no one, he entered
an apartment that overlooked the square. Like a spectre, he moved to a window and looked out.

There must have been thousands of them. They were in lines, one after another snaking
themselves around the park. The lines slowly shuffled forward towards the centre. They wore the
usual assortment of utilitarian clothing of the Imperial citizen. There were faces from every facet
of Imperial life, the rugged gruffness of farm hands and factorum labourers, the smarmy
plumpness of administratum bureaucrats, the raggedness of old ladies worn thin from lives of
child rearing then retirements as menial labour. All of their faces were dirty and catatonic, their
eyes were black and blank as the void. Every one of the thousands of people shuffling along was
holding their tongues with their right hands, holding it stretched out in front of their open
mouths. All the lines were filling into a central point in the middle of the park. There, a dried up
fountain was the base of a makeshift stage cobbled together from a collection of desecrated
Ecclesiarchy altars. Each row of citizens stopped at one of eight people, equally catatonic,
standing in a pattern around the altar. Each of the eight held a knife, their hands up to their
elbows were painted with blood. Each citizen would shuffle up to one of the eight. Still holding
their own tongue out in front of them as the knife wielder would saw and hack. The whole time
there was no screaming, no commotion, just the consistent shuffling of feet as person after
person would file in, have their tongue severed and file out to be replaced by another, the whole
procedure repeating itself again and again a thousand times.

The severed tongues were thrown into baskets weaved of barbed wire. The baskets were then
carried by more catatonic shells of people to the top of the altar pile. There, reclining on a lounge
made of a toppled marble aquila, was the most horrific sight of all. It was roughly humanoid in
shape with the face of some predatory fish. It was horrifically tall and obscenely potbellied. Its
skin was a mottled, lank grey and pink mess, like a freshly born bullock. The baskets of tongues
were offered reverently to it. Snatching up one fresh cut tongue at a time, the thing would lay the
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 213

tongue lasciviously on its own and then with a grotesquely over theatrical chewing motion would
consume the tongue.

An orange simian looking thing sitting beside the grey pink thing would laugh hysterically at
each smacking chew and swallow. It cackled and cooed between bites to the crowd, ‘I am all and
you will be all, all with me, I and all’. Hypnotized, the thousand strong crowd, even those with
no tongues their faces still bloodied from their recent surgery would reply, ‘You are all and you
will be all with me.’

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and for a heartbeat, Andillo’s soul went fire wild with fear. It was
the first time in his military career that he had ever been taken by surprise. Inquisitor Monash
slowly moved her hand off Andillo’s shoulder as she looked down at the square.

‘What’s your assessment, First Sergeant?’ Monash asked. ‘Can we maneuver around this
safely.’

‘In my opinion,’ replied Andillo, ‘they seem well and truly preoccupied, but to be sure I think we
should dodge three blocks to the west. It will cost us some time but that is quite a number of
bodies down there, I’d prefer not to test our stock of ammunition.’

’Agreed,’ said Monash.

The Inquisitor caught Andillo’s gaze and held it for long seconds. Andillo felt pins and needles
on the roof of his mouth which gradually moved to the back of his throat then turned upwards in
the back of his sinus then finally into his brain sending it prickling. He felt the Inquisitor's eyes
looking into his mind. He wanted to look away from her gaze but found he could not. He was
bewitched by her grey magnetic eyes. It felt like someone else was thinking his thoughts. Time
denatured and Andillo felt like he had stood there for hours as the Inquisitor’s gaze burnt through
the locks of his innermost soul and looked within. After what seemed like days, she turned away
and Andillo was finally released from the prison of her eyes.

‘Constant vigilance, First Sergeant, that sight would be enough to crumble the strongest of
souls. I just needed to check if yours was still sound. You can never be too careful, never.’

Andillo eased himself away from the window and crept back out of the room. At the doorway
he turned back to see Monash still staring out over the square.

‘Ma’am?’ he asked, unsure of what to say.

‘We must leave this world.’ Monash said softly. ‘Quickly’

The Fortress

Andillo peeked out around the corner of the gate house. Eight hundred metres up, the slowly
sloping hill was a wide gravel road leading to the fortress. Behind, huddled in around the meagre
cover of the gatehouse, was the command team. Monash was standing off allowing the military
commanders to make an assessment.

‘There ain't much for it. It's a typical no win situation. Open ground, elevated enemy position,
no armoured or air support,’ Wachmeister Goethe said, pained.

‘Best thing we can do is move on a base of suppressing fire. Move quickly and be a more
aggressive collection killers than them, ‘smiled Wachtmeister Mohegun.

The two officers and two Sergeants nodded grimly but resolutely and moved off. The plan, as
simple as it was, was circulated through the regiment. Knowing what they were heading into,
men stripped down to the lightest they could be, dropping anything heavy that wasn’t designed to
kill or maim an enemy.

Pikeman first class Deitmann was the first to pass through the gatehouse into the field
surrounding the fortress. He and his assistant gunner Velle low-crawled into the long, dying
grass. Velle nestled the autocannon tripod into the dirt and Dietmann hooked the gun into the
tripod. then pulled his ranging scope and sighted it to the fortress walls. He clicked the gears on
the side of the autocannon's huge iron sights eight times. Each click was one hundred metres of
distance.

‘Eight clicks you reckon?’ he asked Velle who had finished feeding one of the canvas belts of
ammunition into the cannon’s breach.

‘Yeah eight I’d say,’ Velle said, his face wrinkled with worry about the huge distance the
company would have to make.

Thirty seconds later, the two other autocannon teams of his fireteam were set. Dietmann voxxed
in that they were set. A few seconds later, Mohegun ordered the charge over the vox. Deitmann
watched the company take off sprinting. They were in a wide line, Mohegun leading the way,
just like always, the old man had the regimental sabre above his head, gleaming bright under the
sickly pink sun. There were no fireteam leaders breaking movements into maneuvers now, or
grenadiers hunting for targets, or assistant gunners checking ammunition loads. There were just
one hundred men running as hard as they could, running for their lives, running so hard their
throats burnt and they painted like children.

Deitman was playing out the worst in his mind. If there was one heavy weapon, he thought. Just
one belt fed slugger, or a forty millimetre autocannon, or flamer with a big enough tank. He tried
hard not to imagine his brothers falling like wheat in front of a scythe. Pain made him realise he
was biting his lip. Then it happened. A trooper stumbled rolling forward off his feet as
momentum took his corpse onwards. Sniper! Deitmann thought, like a jagged pill in his throat.
‘Sniper!’ he rasped, aiming down the optics of his autocannon. A sniper would be hard to
suppress if he couldn’t get a sense of where they were. His mind firing thoughts faster than his
cannon, the dead trooper got up and continued running. He had only tripped and fallen. He tasted
blood in his mouth and realised he had bit through his lip with the tension. ‘Fehr.’ He cursed to
himself, spitting blood on to the dirt. The temporary false alarm over, his brother soldiers were
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 215

still in major danger. Two hundred metres to the wall. If they were going to open up it would
have to be soon. They could run that in less than thirty seconds. The world was quiet except for
the sound of a hundred pairs of tramping running boots. Dietmann felt he could hear his
heartbeat in his ears. There was no ripping stabbing gunfire, no crunch bang sounds of mines or
grenades, no flat thumping sounds of bodies hitting the ground. The first of the troopers hit the
wall, Dietmann spat the bit of lip he had bit through. The assistant gunner was already
decoupling the gun from the tripod. Dietmann hefted the gun and started the same run he had just
watched. As he ran, Dietmann's shoulders relaxed, His stomach however was still knotted with
the tension.

Locks and Keys

Andillo hit the wall of the fortress hard with his back. His shoulders rising and falling sharply
from his strained breathing after the sprint. He could feel his body charging with adrenaline. He
checked the line to his left and right. The bulk of the company was arriving at the wall, hitting it
as hard as he did, thankful for the reassuring firmness of the wall. That little run could have
ended differently, he thought to himself as he looked back to a field not covered with dead
bodies.

He took a moment to look at the wall. Close up, he realised it wasn't painted black, it was a
black rock with a strange occasional marbling of emerald green. Strangely, looking at the wall he
felt nothing. The combat fear, the paranoid feeling of guilt towards Inquisitior Monash, the
horror of being so under the gaze of the warp, all of that was gone. He just felt empty. A voice
spoke in his ear and the vox call of the wachtmeister brought him back to his feelings.

’Sceptre to Speartip, bring your sabre to the gates and prepare for breach,’ voxxed Wachtmeiser
Mohegun.

Andillo tapped his helmet twice with his fist, signaling for his fireteam to follow him, then he
headed off towards the gates to the fortress.

‘First Sergeant, your opinions?’ asked Wachtmeister Goethe. Andillo looked over the gate.
They were huge but from what he could see, they weren’t military grade. The locks were
exposed and easily accessible. That meant they could be touched. That meant he could apply
explosives directly to them. Andillo was confident he could have the gate blown in minutes.
‘Twill not work, soldier.’ Andillo turned to see Ashuur striding towards him. ‘Tis a warded gate.
It’s defenses are unseen. Explosives on the locks is but a tempting facade,’ the psyker said. ‘This
building is naught but facades.’

‘Much like anything of the Inquisition, things are not what they appear, hey psyker?’ Goethe
asked impertinently. Wachtmeister Mohegan looked displeased at his fellow officers' possibly
heretical quip.

‘Well Psyker, we shall test the strength of this particular facade. First Sergeant prepare a
breaching charge,’ Mohegan ordered.
 ‘Aye Wachtmeister,’ Andillo snapped. At that point he realised his hand was resting on his
sheathed bayonet. As he tried to casually remove his hand from the knife in the least suspicious
way possible, the thought came very strongly to him as he let go of the knife that he should
plunge the blade through the psykers face. Andillo moved off bemused by the foreign violence of
the thought.

‘Disregard that order, trooper,’ ordered Monash who was striding up to the fortress doors.
‘Ashuur is correct. These doors will not be opened by any physical force.’

‘What are your orders then my Lord?’ asked Mohegun.

Monash turned to Ashuur. ‘Break the wards, break the gates,’ she snapped. She turned back to
Mohegun. ‘Have your men take cover.’

Looking the most concerned a regimental commander of an elite Astra Milliturm formation
ever does, Mohnegun gave the order through his vox officer for all men to take cover around the
corners of the fortress. His soldier’s honour belittled, and his excitement disappointed about the
missed opportunity of blowing the gates, Andillo returned back down the fortress wall to where
his fireteam was waiting.

‘What's the word?’ asked Perth, swinging the explosive bag hopefully off his back.

‘We’re falling back and letting the psykers blow the doors,’ Andillo said.

Perth spat contemptuously on the ground. ‘Freaks.’ He cursed and walked off.

From the cover of the fortress wall corner, Andillo peered around the right angle of the wall
with his look-around scope. Ashuur and his gangly lot of psykers strode up to stand before the
door. They bustled about like scholam boys and entered a rough kind of formation. Ashuur was
at the head of the thirty or so psykers who were gathered in three loose rows. He stood before his
congregation and started to tap the bottom of his aquila topped staff into the dirt. He beat the
staff in a steady rhythm. Andillo felt strangely hypnotized by the rhythm which he half thought
was tapping a sequence in some bizarre metre.

The psykers behind him began chanting in the same odd metre. The first few lines of the chant
were in high gothic, a language Andillo vaguely understood, yet the words they actually spoke
seemed incoherent to him. They spoke vaguely about a set or a pattern. Andillo’s sinuses started
to itch. Then like a scholam of fish changing direction in unison from some unseen command,
the psykers instantaneously all started speaking a different language. As they continued to chant,
Ashuur continued to tap his staff into the dust. Around the spot where Ashuur’s staff beat it the
dust started to rise and float, like the steam slipping off a boiling kettle. Andillo’s ears popped
and blocked then re-popped again and again. The circle of rising dust continued to expand from
the tiny foot around Ashuur’s staff, to a metre encircling the lead psyker, then to encompass the
whole congregation of psykers. It was then that Andillo realised that the psykers weren’t
chanting in one foreign language but rather, they must have been speaking a bizarre polyglot
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 217

collection of languages. Some spoke long yawned slopping vowels, others chirped like birds,
whilst others flapped their tongues like the wet language of a maniac.

The dust that rose began to glint golden brilliantly in the sun; one speck, then ten, then a
hundred glints. Before long, it shone like a million shards of brilliant gold and platinum as the
golden particles steamed from the ground. In the blink of an eye the thirty psykers ceased to be
humans. Hovering off of the ground where a heartbeat before, their bodies had stood as human
beings, there were six foot tall symbols, golden characters of an alphabet Andillo couldn't and
didn't want to understand. As he watched the characters flashed into other characters, each of
them circulating heartbeat after heartbeat into a multitude of forms of non-geometric lines and
curves. Randomly some began to stop morphing and concreted into one form. Within ten
seconds all of the characters had resolved into their unique final stable iteration. Their chanting
began again, this time coming from mouthless voices. Ashuur strode up to the fortress gates. He
raised his staff and knocked its end into the door three times. The gate broke apart. The two
massive doors exploded into a bursting flock of black birds who swooped and whistled off in
every direction. Andillo looked back at the alien characters. They all stood as human psykers
again, except for one who now lay as a corpse.

The Secret Garden

Above the sundered gate, a single raven remained. It sat twitching and flitting its gaze between
each of Andillo’s men as he led his fireteam towards the now open gate. Behind them, the
wachtmeisters were quickly forming their respective sabre’s into assault order. Halting his men a
metre or two from the gate, Andillo bellied down and elbow-crawled to the entrance of the
fortress.

Andillo wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see when he stuck his look-around scope into the
breached fortress, but for the life of him he was not expecting to see a playground. A children’s
playground complete with martyr’s bars, slippery dip, and terra totter. Hanging below the amber
glass roof and above the playground, Andillo saw the first green verdant trees of this dead world.
Behind the playground, open standing in the centre of the courtyard that was the centre of this
fortress, was a building. A standard prefab imperial construct. A humble little building that
looked like a scholam house, no not a scholam house Andillo thought. A gust of wind blew down
from nowhere. The chill breeze enticed an unsteady handful of leaves away from their home
branches. They let go and fluttered down landing on an orange brick street a thousand light year
away.

The Sororitas Sister offered her hand to Andillo. He wiped the last of this current batch of silent
tears from his face and placed his small shaking hand in the hand of the Sister. The streets of the
city still scared him. They were sun baked natural brick streets and the familiar homely smell of
wood smoke and baking pepper vine bread hung in the air. Yet still he couldn't adjust to the
straightness of the wide open streets. They had none of the safety of the mountains with their
vales and crags, each of which offered tiny verdant sanctuaries to a scampering mountain boy.
The city on the other hand was huge and straight and sprawling. It spread out covering the whole
of the Butterdale river valley. It was too many streets, too many buildings, far too many people,
Andillo felt. Later in his life when he was selected for the scholam progenitor, he would learn
that this town, a merchant city that coalesced the produce from the many tiny honey bark and
pepper vine farming communities nestled in the King’s Moss Alps, was actually in the scale of
the Imperium barely a settlement. Eventually Andillo would see hive cities, and naval flotillas,
and battlefields strewn with the corpses of more souls than lived on in the entirety of his
insignificant birth world. Yet for that moment of his life, the merchant city seemed immense to
Andillo, as it would to any mountain boy who up until then had lived in a peak bungalow with
one bed for his parents and one bed for him and his twin brother. During the long exhausting
years of training when he lay in the spartan dorm rooms of the scholam progenitor or wet and
freezing in some rest bag during field exercise, he would let his mind wander back to those few
fleeting idyllic years of his life. Back when he was but a boy and lay warm and loved each night
in his family's home. Before he had been shown the realities of life in the cold uncaring galaxy
the morning his papa and mama never woke from their bed. The galaxy had continued its
education of malevolence as he had struggled to keep the fire pit stoked and burning against the
coldness of winter's unrelenting creep. He was schooled in the salty sweet taste of relief and fear
when a week after one of the mountain bullock teams came up the path to find him and his
brother and the graves of his parents. Relief for rescue, fear for he knew he would be leaving the
only home he had ever known. So he was taken out of his home, out of the mountains, into the
town, and into the hands of Sister Deanne who would take him to the place that would be his and
his brothers home, until the day of the universe gave its final and most crushing lesson of pain;
the day his twin brother was taken from him, taken away from the orphanage. An orphanage, he
thought to himself as he looked at the building on Prudentia, not a scholum house. The building
he saw inside that fortress was an orphanage.

‘...First Sergeant, first Sergeant! Andillo!’ Perth was tapping his boot hissing at him.

His mind felt chalky and cold, as though it had been caught in one of the mountain whip winds
his parents always fretted about. He scrunched his face hard trying to readjust himself to where
actually was. He wasn’t on his birth world; he was in a world trapped by the warp, at the mouth
of a fortress where he knew deep in his bones blood would soon be spilled. Fearing how much
time he had just wasted on his out of body experience, he worked fast to do what his unit needed
him to do. He scanned the fortress for anything that looked as if it would kill his brother sabres
when they made their assault. He scanned broadly once, seeing nothing; he then sectioned the
playground into four quarters and surveyed them obsessively sweeping up and down and back
and forth hunting for concealed enemies. After two minutes, he was as confident as he could be
there weren’t any concealed autocannon bunkers or flamer pits waiting to obliterate or cremate
the main force of his unit. Bellying back to Danto who was waiting, nervously fidgeting with the
full range vox caster handset, Andillo suddenly felt embarrassed, as if he had wet himself in front
of not only his fireteam but two entire sabres. Sheepishly he took the vox handset.

‘Blade-edge blade-edge calling Crown over.’ Andillo said into the handset.

‘Crown receiving, what’s your status Blade-edge?’ Mohnegun voxxed back.

‘Everything is a-ok. No visible sign of hostiles in complex’, Andillo voxxed, trying to speak
with unfazed matter of factness he was famous for.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 219

‘Why’d that take so long Andillo?’ Mohengun asked sternly, yet fatherly.

‘Sorry sir, tech problems with my scope.’ Andillo replied gritting his teeth with the pain of a lie
to the man he respected so greatly.

‘Roger that Blade-edge.’ The vox signal squalled for a second as the range band was shifted mid
call. ‘Crown to all Sabres, Crown to all Sabres. Assault pattern Fenris, commence on my mark.
Blade-edge fall in on position three left wing of advance. Mark, mark, mark.

The two Sabres, some hundred or so men, were streaming past him. Tight fireteams of blue and
tan armoured men, as practiced as dancers and as lethal as scalpels, heading confidently into
unknown danger, under a sky of madness. He’d never experienced anything like that before. He
hadn’t just remembered his past, he had re-lived it. He was sure if it wasn't hidden beneath his
helmet his hair would smell like baking pepper vine bread, the same way everyone’s did back in
the orphanage. It must have been the havoc the warp was playing with the world he thought. In
his shaken state the sight of his men charging confidently into danger solidified his soul again.
Then he saw coming in behind the Sabres was Inquisitor Monash. His soul cracked again. She
strode with the guile of a hunting feline and the haughtiness of a model on an up-hive fashion
strand. As she passed him, she graced Andillo with her gaze. ‘A faulty scope,’ was all she said.
Though her inflection gave nothing away, Andillo’s fingers and lips went numb with fear. Perth,
frightened by his first Sergeant’s numbness, grabbed Andillo by his shoulder guard and dragged
him into squad order as their fireteam took up their position in the advance.

Taking Care of the Children

There had been no fighting to take the orphanage. With enough firepower to pummel a squad of
Astartes, the two most elite formations of the Swanbourne Sabres had attacked an orphanage
foyer, resplendent with children’s finger painting prayers pinned to every wall. As the front of
the advance slowed in the confines of the building, Andillo and his fireteam set a hasty rear
perimeter defense as per standard operating procedure. For twenty minutes, his and three other
fireteams had sat in the playground, lasrifles and autocannons perched on colourfully painted
children’s play equipment. When Andillo and his fireteam were finally called up to the front line,
it was to a makeshift meeting of command elements.

The foyer and corridors of the orphanage were prefab dull overlaid with a thin veneer of
cheerfulness in the form paintings and posters depicting the Emperor as the loving father of
mankind, children sitting before his outstretched arms their faces glowing. Now, above the
cheerful layer, came an additional painting of men in combat outfits, laid thick on every wall.
Andillo moved through the bodies exchanging greetings and playful insults with the men of his
Sabre. He followed to where the knot of carapace wrapped bodies was densest. He could hear
Monash speaking to someone in the next room. He ordered his fireteam to stay there, as he did
he noticed that Perth and Anton were both spitting bile onto the corridor floor. They weren't the
only ones in this hallway a dozen men were coughing up bile or twitching and ticking in
uncontrolled ways, or else trying to disguise the tears streaming from their eyes. As Andillo
entered the room, his suspicions of the cause were confirmed.
 Even the oldest of them was a year or two away from puberty. They sat against the wall; there
were six of them. As he entered, one of them looked up at him and caught his eyes as he scanned
them. She was probably six or seven. Her eyes were huge moon shaped pools, wide and
beautiful, glowing and radiant. She was preciously gorgeous. This petiteness of her hands only
made her head and its captivating eyes look bigger and more precious. She was the spitting
image of the caricature of ‘the innocent child’ that was on page two of the ‘why we fight’
booklet every guardsman memorizes during basic indoctrination training. For a moment, Andillo
honestly wondered if she was the same child in that book. However, for as perfectly as her
perfect appearance appealed for him to protect her, Andillo hated her. Like the shock of heat or
the strange magnetic dizziness of standing on the edge of a cliff, Andillo could sense the little
girl’s psyker radiation. An aura off-putting, sickening and terrifying all at once. He realised in
that moment that his hand was again on his bayonet. He jerked his hand off the knife as quickly
as if it was in a pile of warm ork shit.

His Wachtmeisters were both already in conference with the Inquisitor and a Sororitas wearing
a matron’s robes. He moved to a respectful distance and listened to the end of their
conversation.

‘Do be careful,’ the matron was ordering like a school ma’am to the Inquisitor. ‘Please
remember, an eight year psyker is still an eight year old. Their minds may be powerful but
they are unformed.’

As the Sororitas spoke, Dashe appeared at Andillo’s side. He threw Andillo a look asking what
he had missed. Nothing, Andillo answered with a friendly shake of this head.

‘We must go after the three,’ said Monash finally.

‘Excuse me Inquisitor, why exactly did you not tell us the psykers you want us to apprehend are
children?’ Wachtmeister Goethe asked, his anger like lava in his throat.

‘I told you the moment you needed to know that information. Which is now.’ Monash said
bluntly.

‘Don’t you think this information could have been useful to our tactical planning missy?’ Goethe
fired.

‘You prepared tactically for the apprehension of beta level psykers. The age of the psykers
should not for a second change how you approach the combat situation tactically,’ Monash said.

‘Combat situation! Are you mad woman! This isn’t a combat situation, this is a baby sitting
situation!’ Goethe said, his temper completely out of his control.

‘Wachtmeister, I cannot assure you of a thing once we enter this facility. We are dealing with
psykers so powerful they can bend reality to their whim. We are also dealing with immature
minds made unstable by the crushing weight of their own power. I have no idea what they are
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 221

capable off, but I can assure you of this. If you proceed thinking that this is an exercise in
babysitting, your men will die, all of them.’ Monash said gravely.

Goethe wanted to say something else, but Mohegun placed his hand on his fellow wachtmeister.

‘You are soldiers of the Holy Inquisition. You do what is hard.’ Monash Said.

‘Aye,’ agreed Mohegun, his determination set like cold steel. Mohegun turned to include
Andillo and Dashe in the briefing. ‘There are three children unaccounted for. Matron here has
good reason to believe the three are lost in the basement below this building. The basement
extends into two separate wings. Given our time constraints, we’ll push into both simultaneously.
Andillo, Dashe, you’ll speartip your respective Sabres into the two wings. Wachtmeister Goethe
will hold here with three fireteams, securing the children and our route of exfiltration. I will take
three fireteams and coordinate the search behind the line of advance of Sabre Primar, Inquisitor
Monash will do the same with Sabre Sekundar. There were five orderlies working down there,
the Matron sent a search part of four more to find them and the children. None of them have been
heard of since they went down there. Sergeants, you must be aware the children that are missing
are the most powerful, and…’ Mohegan continued losing the usual set gravitas of his voice, ‘the
most unstable. Be on your guard.’

The conference of soldiers broke apart and Andillo and Dashe stepped towards the door. From
some twisted folk ghost tale, Ashuur appeared in the doorway like a spectre.

‘A terrible thing it is, a terrible thing indeed, is a mind full of terror,’ he said blankly, before
stepping aside letting the soldiers pass.

The Sound of Fear

Dashe punched in the direction of the door. It was the first locked door they had encountered as
Dashe and his fireteam led his Sabre’s advance through the grim oily grey woodcrete corridors
and reeking stark glowtube light of the basement. Markus, his second in command slid to the left
of the door, whilst Peiter and Toron shifted to the wall on the right.

Dashe stayed at a ninety degree angle to the door, autorifle in his shoulder. Dashe nodded to
Toron. Very calmly, Toron tried the door handle. The handle clicked uncooperatively. ‘Locked,’
Toron signed, then still saintly calm, Toron’s hand slid from the doorknob to his thigh. From a
quick release holster Toron drew a compact matte black sledgehammer. In one perfectly
practiced motion Toron brought the hammer down on the doorknob. Before the mangled
doorknob had even hit the floor, Dashe was through the door weapon up sweeping the room for
threats. Markus stepped in behind him moving instinctively to cover the side of the room Dashe
hadn't. It was a kitchen. Counters and benchtops full of rotting food still mid preparation ran
along each of the four walls. The centre of the tiled room was empty.

‘Clear.’ Dashe yelled.

‘Clear.’ Markus echoed.

The two men started withdrawing from the room, though their weapons still faced the room as
per standard operating procedure. As Dashe was about to turn back out in the hallway, his mind
again caught back up in the picture of Ashuur’s empty eyes. He heard something from the edge
of this mind, a tiny weeping. His hand darted out, holding Markus to stop. He pointed to his ear.
The two soldiers stood motionless. Dashe opened his mouth trying not to hear the frantic beating
of this heart. He realised for the first time what he had realised hours ago but not captured in his
consciousness - there was a muffled screeching to this world that was constant. He knew it was
that horrid sky but he couldn't bear to admit it to himself. He tried to concentrate, to reach out
with his hearing into the room. It was there behind the screeching, a tiny whispered weeping.
Dashe followed his ears to where the sound was coming from. In the corner of the kitchen was a
pile of huge grease smeared industrial cooking pots, as big as oil drums. In a crack between a
pair of pots, a pair of bloodshot sorrowful eyes looked up into Dashe’s face. ‘Cover me,’ he
whispered to Markus. Slowly Dashe lowered his weapon. His hands up and friendly he walked
over to the pots. Equally slowly he started moving the pots. The pots were encased with old
cooking grease. They fell. The crash was horrendous. Dashe gnashed his teeth. The girl
screamed. The scream was a needle in Dashe’s ears. The scream grew louder. It became
inhumanly loud. Dashe felt as if Toron had come into the room and delivered a hammer blow
directly into his ear. The scream grew louder still. Dashe clamped his hands to his ears, desperate
to make the pain stop.

From the doorway, Toron saw Dashe hold his ears. Besides Dashe, Markus dropped his weapon
and lunged for the girl. The scream grew higher in pitch, inhumanly high. Markus was a foot
from the girl when he stopped being a solid human being and became instead a uniform
wrapping a human size bubble of blood. A second later, the bubble of blood dropped to the floor,
spreading out into a slick maroon puddle on the white tiles of the kitchen. ‘Run!’ Dashe
screamed to Toron. Toron could see Dashe was yelling something but there was no chance he
could hear him over the lethal scream of the girl. Dashe was still screaming for his men to run,
when he like Markus before him liquefied and became nothing but a blood pool on the floor.

The scream reverberated down the long corridor. Toron turned to run but he was too late. He
and Pieter next to him dissolved into blood puddles as the scream washed over them. Ten metres
along the corridor the Bell, the final man of the fireteam ran from the door. As the scream hit
him, he dropped to his knees and started vomiting blood in a steady stream.

Monash was suddenly there walking through the Bell’s growing spill of dark blood. She held
one of Ashuur's congregation in front of her like a human shield against the firefront of the girl’s
scream. The man she held was chanting, even as every bit of his exposed skin started to blister
scabby raw pink, and then burnt black. Then gruesomely, finally all the skin on his face, head
and arms was gone and blood wept entirely from exposed muscles. Still the man chanted.
Monash pushed the man forward towards the door and the scream. She held him in front of the
door and using him as a shield she blindly fired a volley of bolt rounds into the kitchen. The
sound of the booming bolt rounds was swallowed completely by the screaming which continued
unabated despite the gunfire. With the full force of the scream on him, the psykers body began to
break down. The top of his head started to melt and drizzle down the bloody mess that had been
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 223

his face, a moment later his jaw sank and fell to the ground. With that, his chanting ended.
Monash let go of the psyker’s robe a second before the man's body dropped with a splash into
the growing pool of blood that had been Dashe and his fireteam. Monash slid down the wall
beside the door. Blood was streaming from her eyes, nose and mouth. The warding medallions
she has sutured into the line of her spine were burning. She grit her teeth in pain. More than the
physical pain, what agonized her most was the failure she felt in her bones. She should have
brought more psykers with her, what a pathetic mistake to die for. She’d have to stand in the
door and get well aimed rounds into the psyker girl. She wouldn't have long before the scream
butchered her. She wiped as much blood as she could from her eyes and whispered a prayer
through her bloody lips to the Emperor for her aim to be true. She flicked open the cylinder of
her bolt revolver and shook the spent casings out. She watched as the brass rounds, an aquila
perfectly etched on each, filled with blood and sank into the two inch deep puddle of human
blood. There bobbing in the wash of blood was Toron’s uniform. Monash thanked the God-
Emperor and grabbed a grenade slick with blood from Toron’s webbing. Closing her eyes, she
flicked off the safety of the grenade and with her thumb, slid the arming wheel. She tossed it into
the room. Then for good measure, she tossed in two more. The first of the crump bangs of the
grenades seemed like muted door knocks beside the intensity of the girl's psychic scream, the
second and third explosions were their usual ear splitting volume. An atomized mist of blood
blew out of the kitchen doorway. The world was silent again. Monash was through the door the
moment the grenade maelstrom was over. From down the hallway pikeman Bell, barely
conscious from blood loss, heard a single bolt shot. Monash walked serenely out of the room.
She passed Bell lying sidelong, head slumped in the blood of his brother soldiers. Monash
showed no emotion on her face. Bell averted his gaze down, ashamed to meet the eyes of a child
killer.

Childhood's End

Andillo knew this door marked the end of childhood for the inhabitants of the orphanage. At
one end of the hallway he stood in was a wooden door engraved with a depiction of the God-
Emperor, a warm smile on his cartoonish face. At the other end of the corridor was a steel door, a
rusty etched bronze aquila the Inquisitorial “I” signet above it. The door was set with a series of
wax dripped purity seals and wards. A creeping dread leached into Andillo. Before he let that
dread take him, he punched his fist at the door. His fireteam moved into a breaching position.
Perth drew a breaching charge from his webbing.

‘No,’ Andillo said. ‘See if you can crack the lock. We might need those wards intact.’

Perth nodded and moved to a lock terminal on the wall. He took the Inquisitorial cogitator
signet they had been issued and plugged it into the cogitator socket. With an echoing wail, the
door opened. The light from their side of the woodcrete hallway bled down the newly exposed
hallway. It was a drastic change from the cold homely decrepity of the orphanage; it was a box
of cold steel walls like a military infirmary, or an abattoir.

‘Well this is a change,’ said Perth flippantly trying to lighten the icy tension that had come in
with the opening of the door.
‘Let’s vox it in’ Andillo said.

‘Blade edge, blade edge calling Crown, come in over’ Andillo voxxed.

‘This is Crown go for comms blade edge,’ Mohegun said.

‘Sir, we’ve encountered a change in the nature of the facility. Much more like an official
facility than a school sir,’ Andillo said.

‘Acknowledged blade edge. I’m routing the two following fireteams to your position. Continue
your reconnaissance, proceed with vigilance’ Mohegun said.

‘Aye Wachtmeiser. Edge of the Sabre,’ Andillo said.

‘Edge of the Sabre, out,’ echoed the Wachtmeiser.

Andillo pushed his hand forward like a knife into the hallway then placed his hand to his
mouth. The fireteam nodded, acknowledging Andillo’s command for advance in silence.
When they reached the edge of where the light from, the woodcrete hallway ended, Andillo
flicked on his rifle's glowglobe. The glowglobes red light’s beam made the metal walls look like
it was painted in a macabre red. Andillo led the way, the four members of his team covering
alternating left and right angles behind him. They had walked in the darkness of the corridor for
only a few moments when they came upon a door. Andillo punched the breach command. This
time the door was unlocked and Perth simply opened the handle and the fireteam rushed inside.
The room was a chapel, mostly. Hundreds of candles stood unlit around the edge of the room.
Wood pews faced a tapestry of a kindly female saint looking down at the altar before her. Behind
the altar was a medical gurney. At the four corners of the steel gurney were thick padded leather
straps and chains, under each of the straps were dried blood stains. At one end of the gurney was
what looked to the soldiers like the skeleton of a helmet run with wires, tubes and catheters. In
the middle of the gurney was a child’s knitted doll of an astartes. Perth’s mouth cocked open to
one side unsure. Andillo jerked his head at the door and led the fireteam back out back down the
hallway. Andillo didn’t want to acknowledge Perth’s discomfort for the fear it would mean he
would have to acknowledge his own.

Andillo kept leading the team as they snaked round several right angle corners. They moved
slowly, their whole world in total darkness, apart from the splashed beams of red light from their
torches. They passed two other rooms both of them akin to the chapel come medical room. It was
whilst they were in the third of the chapels that beyond them back in the hallway came a light.
Andillo saw Anton, the vox operator swing around to face the outside light too fast. Ahead,
down the confusing corridor, a cold blue glowtube light had gone on in a room. He shifted his
hand from the closed fist signal for stop to the side open hand for firing line. Perth and Danto
formed on his two shoulders. In a firing line they approached the door. Once he reached the door,
Andillo slipped his look-around scope from his thigh pocket and slid it into the doorway to check
the room. His breath escaped out of him in a sharp exhalation of fear. Perth glanced at Andillo’s
eyes. They caught each other's gaze for a moment. Perth knew Andillo well. Perth saw a depth of
fear in his Sergeant’s eyes that he had never seen before.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 225

‘No visible targets. Heavy sign of enemy presence. Clear room, wide fire line, on me,’ Andillo
whispered to the assembled team. He turned back towards the light then stopped and looked back
at his men. ‘Remember, we are the edge of the sabre, we stay sharp no matter what. No matter
how bad.’ The fireteam fixed their unsure nervous faces to solid determination.

They formed in a line next to the doorway of light. Andillo, in front, replaced the powercell in
his rifle. The current one was almost full but the ritual made him feel calmer. Perth slid a grenade
into the underslung launcher on his rifle. Anton rolled and shifted his shoulders making sure the
heavy vox caster on his back was comfortable. Danto slid his bayonet out of his scabbard, then
second guessed himself and slid it back. Wrex practiced bringing up his compact flamer, his
movements exaggerated like a dancer practicing one particular movement before a routine.
Andillo nodded over exaggerating the gesture so that all of the team could see it. He shuffled as
close to the door as he could without entering into its light. He tapped his helmet. From the rear,
each man in turn padded the arm of the man in front of him until Perth touched Andillo’s
shoulder. Everyone was set, everyone was ready. Andillo touched the aquila on his rifle's
foregrip for luck, ‘let me die on my feet, with honour’ he prayed silently to himself, then with
teeth clenched resolved he stepped into the light, his lasrifle raised.

Sleeping Quarters

The room was a dormitory. Its steel walls were as the corridors. In the centre of the room lay
ten steel cot beds, grey rubber mattresses, all of them child sized. At the far end of the room were
two doorways. The light from the antiseptic blue glowtubes didn’t reach them and they were
hidden in darkness. The part of the room that caught each Sabre as they entered the room where
the bodies were. Two men and one woman, all of them wearing surgical robes marked with
Inquisitorial signets on their shoulders and chests, were doubled over their hands lolling over
nearly touching their feet. They were suspended, like puppets, from the roof swinging by the
hanging cables of their spinal cords. Their bodies were pallid and grey blue, their hanging limbs
stiff from the several days they had hung there dead. Their spines had been ripped from their
backs nearly all the way to the neck. Their pelvises were pushed deep into the steel of the roof.
Popped joints from where the ribs had been pulled off the spines protruded from all three along
their backs like clipped wings. Perth stumbled for a second with the unholy grotesqueness of the
scene. Andillo pushed him forward by confidently striding into the butchery. Behind him the rest
of the fireteam swept left and right. Apart from the cots, the corpse marionettes and a line of five
soldiers the room was clear.

‘On me!’ Andillo bellowed as he headed towards the doorways at the far end. As the fireteam
was a metre from the doorway the light in the adjoining room went on. A boy appeared in the
doorway of the bathroom. The five soldiers with their five lasrifles raised stopped. The boy was
older than any of the other children Andillo had seen. His head was shaven and his eyes, one
bright blue and one cold grey, were malignant with fear or anger, Andillo couldn't tell which
emotion it was. There was silence, broken only by the faint sound of cartilage creaking and
popping as the spines swayed above them.
 ‘No more tests,’ said the boy, his voice flat and hollow.

‘We’re here to make sure you’re safe,’ Andillo said unsteady.

‘No more tests,’ the boy said, flat and hollow again.

‘Ok, no more tests. No more tests,’ Andillo said more unsteadily than when he first spoke.

‘I just want to go back to sleep,’ the boy said.

‘Ok, ok you can sleep but first we have to take you to somewhere safe,’ Andillo said.

‘Will there be more tests there?’ the boy asked.

‘No tests there,’ Andillo said his voice urged with repressed fear.

’Don’t lie to me,’ the boy said stepping forward.

Perth cocked the underbarrel launcher on his rifle grenade. The boy's eyes flicked towards
Perth.

‘Wait…’ was all that Andillo could manage before the boy narrowed his eyes at Perth. The
sound was like a zipper, the thing being unzipped was bone. Perth yowled like a stabbed puppy.
He dropped his rifle, his arms shaking uncontrollably. There was the crack of ceramite as his
back armour plate rendered and a few of his spine’s vertebrates skewered out from the skin of his
back. Perth’s howling grew strangulated and pitiful. With a welter of ripped muscle and white
fatty gore, the whole of Perth’s buttocks and lower back burst apart as his spine and entire pelvis
whipped up and out of his body like the head of some striking snake. Mercifully, Perth’s
screaming had ended. The spinal cord animated by itself danced back and forth for a moment,
before rocketing skyward and embedding itself in the roof just like the three others had. The
whole sickening process had taken less than two seconds but Andillo knew that if he lived he
would be trying to not replay those two seconds in his mind for the rest of his life. Turning from
the unbelievable sight and back to the child, Andillo opened fire mercilessly at the boy. Almost
instantaneously, he was joined by three other lasrifles of the fireteam. A heartbeat later, Wrex
brought up his flamer, a compact disposable single shot unit. The gout of flame wrapped the boy
up. The flame roared around the room and then gushed out to nothingness. The scorched wall
behind the boy was pockmarked with las shots. No charred corpse lay on the floor.

‘Fall back! ‘ordered Andillo, trying not to let the shock and confusion sound in his voice. The
fireteam started to shift back to the door, their weapons still raised, their senses still taught.
Anton was the last into the room and so closest to the door as he turned to step out of the room
the door snapped shut in front of him by itself. In the same moment the long glowtube ceiling
lights burst, raining the fireteam with glass shards and white chemical dust. The room was pitch
black apart from the dying specks of burning promethium still stuck to the wall and floor. In the
brittle darkness of the room Andillo swore to himself. He hated the dark. It made him feel like a
child again. Not just the darkness, it was the fear the darkness reminded him off. The flavour of
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 227

childhood fear rose in the back of his throat, clawing and sickly. Wrex punched a flare on his
thigh armour plate. For a moment Andillo caught sight of Wrex brilliantly illuminated by the
white flash of the flare. Faintly dusted with the white of the glowtube powder, Wrex looked like
a folktale ghost. As the white flash of the flare died and the sputtering sickly green light of the
flare fought the enveloping darkness, Wrex started screaming. Behind the scream was the same
ripping zipper sound that had signaled Perth’s dismemberment. As Andillo watched Wrex’s
spine dancing up into the roof he noticed behind the spinal cord feet hovering in the air. His face
still cloaked in darkness, Andillo knew it was the Boy. He had appeared in the corner of the
room, suspended four feet off the ground. At the same time that Wrex’s pelvis was burying itself
into the roof Andillo brought his rifle to bear on the boy. He let out a tight trio of shots up at the
boy, trying to control his galloping fear by focusing on the mechanics of shooting he had been
drilled in for so many years of his life. This time, without the flamer concealing the Boy Andillo
saw his shots find their target. His aim was true, two of his shots would have hit the Boy’s chest
and one would have entered his head just below his left eye. The shots would have hit, had the
Boy not vanished. He had simply popped out of existence, like a switch turned from on to off
there and then gone.

‘Axe the door now!’ Andillo yelled to Anton.

Cursing himself for not thinking of the flares before Wrex, Andillo grabbed one from his pouch
and punched it on against his thigh. He threw it on the floor. He needed to see the boy the second
he popped back into existence. If the boy even had a second to look at Andillo he would become
one of the corpse puppets hanging from the roof. Andillo flicked his lasrifle to full auto. His
shoulder winced automatically as a foot behind him came the first bang of thunder as Anton lay
into the door handle with his compact hatchet.

‘If you even think you see him light him on full auto,’ Andillo yelled to Danto above the
reverberating cracks of the hacket on the door.

Something twitched in the green light of the flare near the left back corner of the room. Andillo
and Danto fired wild frantic arching bursts all over the left side of the room. As he finished
shooting Andillo realised in the wildness of his firing he was nearly at the end of his magazine.
Like an answered prayer, there sitting next to one of the two burning flares was Perth’s lasrifle
complete with a cocked underbarrel grenade launcher. Andillo dropped his rifle and picked up
Perth’s.

‘How long?’ Andillo yelled to Anton at the door.

‘Almost there’ Anton screamed back.

He appeared standing right next to Danto. Danto swung to his left where the boy appeared but it
was too late. The boy’s eyes glowed in the sickly light of the room and Danto’s spine and life
were ripped from him. Knowing he was dead, Andillo opened fire at the boy through his
comrade. White and red lasbolts zipped through Danto’s disfigured body forcing the boy to
dislocate from space once more.
 ‘Almost there,’ Anton shrieked again, his axe against the door still filling the room with horrific
amounts of noise.

Andillo noticed Wrex’s flare was starting to sputter out. Andillo wanted to pray but his mind
was too disfigured with fear for him to find the words he had said every day of his training and
service. Wrex’s flare gave out and died. Andillo didn't hear the banging of the axe anymore, it
was there but all he could hear was a whining high pitch note of fear running through his soul.
He was out of options, he knew it, as his trigger finger moved to the trigger of the grenade
launcher. He should have yelled for Anton to take cover, he should have checked the background
of his shot, he definitely shouldn’t have fired explosive munitions in contained metal
environments. But Andillo wanted to die on his feet, with honour, and this he felt sure was the
only option to make that happen. The light from Andillo’s dying flare caught the boy in profile
as he appeared directly in the middle of the room. Andillo snapped the shot off in less than a
second. It was a miss but it was close enough. The grenade detonated three feet from the boy.
Andillo couldn't be sure whose it was, but he swear he saw fresh blood arch in the middle of the
room. What Andillo didn't see was the piece of grenade fragment hit one of the two spare flamer
tanks Wrex had carried in his pack. In the second before the promethium tank detonated causing
an apocalyptic cascade of explosions in the room, Anton brought his axe down and the door gave
up and fell. Anton opened his mouth to yell to Andillo, but before he could utter the word the
whole room went supernova.

Alone

He didn't know where he was, or more concerningly who he was. His body told him he needed
to be on his feet. His hands itched for something with a kind of nervous emptiness. He smelt
burnt hair and his face felt cooked from a burn. He had the feeling he might have been in an
explosion. The shooting pain up his back into his right shoulder blade told him it had been a bad
one. As he rose to his feet he exhaled deeply, shocked to see smoke empty from his lungs. When
his hand moved by itself to his side his shoulder blade ground with disfigured cartilage. Even
though it hurt him immensely he didn't stop till the hand found what it was looking for; the pistol
grip of a lasrifle hanging on a sling. The gun brought him back to himself, he remembered he
was a soldier. He wasn’t just any soldier, he was a sabre, no he was the edge of the sabre. He
pushed his hand forward, palm forward at right angle to the floor, a gesture he instinctively knew
would make him safer. It meant firing line, he realised dreamily. It meant Perth and Wrex would
be at his side, their rifles up ready next to his. Yet they weren’t, they never would be again. He
remembered with a clarity, like a gut wound, what had happened to his soldier brothers. He
wished he could go back to not remembering himself if it meant not remembering the motion of
creaking hanging spinal vertebrae.

He remembered who he was and realised with a kind of collapsing terror, he was alone. A
moment after his fear took him, his training came back to him as he crouched low reaching out in
the darkness to find the wall trying to make himself the smallest target possible. He felt dizzy.
His balance suddenly felt peculiar. The touch of the wall seemed to slide away till his arm felt
like it was a hundred metres long. His mind recessed as well. It felt as if his brain was jumping
out of the pinnacle of his skull into the slipstream.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 229

He fought the dislocation for a moment, then the darkness took his mind entirely. He
remembered vaguely arriving at an orphanage. He was five years old or he was twenty five years
old, he couldn’t recall. Time and space warped. He could smell the mossy dull carpet of a
librarium. He could smell from the acrid smell of burning plastics as Filo the custodial burnt
garbage in the basement, or was it burning promethium in a charnel house. He could feel around
him the corridor shifting. On top of the steel skeleton of the corridor a vinyl flesh was growing
under Andillo’s boots. The skin of cheap vinyl grew and spread till the corridor of the
Inquisitorial orphanage on Prudentia was the corridor of an orphanage on the backwater world
where the smell of pepper vine bread hung in the air. Something else in the hallway was
changing. Andillo felt the tacky vinyl under his small uncovered feet. He was sure he was five
years old again. A small and feeble child in a big terrifying world, totally alone, but for one other
soul.

He had never been afraid of the dark when he had lived on the farm, he had played inside the
scrolling cliffs near the family farmhouse well past evenfall, but when he had been taken to the
orphanage, the nights yawned open like the jaw of a demon. He would lie awake on his
orphanage cot, its green bulk munitorum polyestrium blanket like a scratchy noose at the line of
his neck. The anxiety metastasizing in his stomach till his whole body was wracked with a
cancer of fear. His thoughts fuzzy with maniac terror, like a scared dog he would crawl out of his
bed and out of the room. He would find his senses in the hallway and be catatonic with terror. He
could sense a figure behind him, a figure that he knew in a moment would reach out and snatch
him. It was right behind him, right behind him in the hallway, it was death he was sure. If he still
had courage in his limbs he would run, flee the hand of death reaching out to take his neck. A
hand touched his shoulder. It wasn’t icy and brittle like he imagined but rather warm and small
and soft. He turned to see who touched him with such love. He turned and saw his own face, the
face of his only remaining family, the one face that kept him company in a lightless world, it was
his own face, only infinitely wiser and braver, and holding a steady gaze of deep kindness. It was
the face of his twin brother.

At the thought of his sweet brother’s face gone too soon, his mind returned back to his body,
wherever that was. He reached into his thigh pouch, searching for his flare even as his hand
hunted for it he knew for some reason it wouldn't be there.

‘Are you looking for one of these’ asked a voice out of the darkness.

Andillo couldn't place the voice. There was something about it so familiar to him, but yet he
didn’t quite recognize it. Anton? The Wachtmeister? The boy from the dorm, he wondered. Fear
ran up his legs like pins and needles.

Before Andillo could reply the corridor shone before the blooming light of an imperial guard
flare. The holder of light gently walked over and put his hand on Andillo’s shoulder.

‘Throne,’ was all Andillo could manage.

‘Hello sweet brother,’ said Andillo’s twin brother.

God’s Truth

He was there, standing before him. He was older than he had been, thirteen or fourteen, but well
and truly younger than the twenty five he should have been. He still had the kindness in his smile
that Andillo remembered, but there were new grey wrinkle lines around his eyes that made him
look older and wiser.

‘Gandella? No, no it can’t be you,’ Andillo stammered.

‘It is, Andillo. It’s true, I am here.’

‘How?! How are you here?’ Andillo stammered.

‘How is simple, ‘his brother said as if he were a commissar discoursing a lecture. ‘The Imperium
moves souls, like the wind moves dust.’

‘No, go to the warp you freak thing. My brother was born the same year as me. If you were him
you’d be the same age as me. So go to hell you spawn.’ Andillo said bringing up his rifle.

‘When they were bringing me here brother, they brought me on a ship. When I was on that ship,
I heard a voice, I heard that voice and I answered and before I knew I spoke to a sea of voices.
The talking we did brother. The things they told me, the things I learnt. I never wanted our
conversation to end.’ Andillo listened, his rifle still pointed at his brother as he continued on his
discourse. ‘I wished and wished for more time to speak with those voices. One day I willed that
our conversion could continue for as long as I wanted. I willed it and it happened. I realised
when I stood before the mind of the Navigator just why the voices had chosen to speak to me.
My mind outshone hers like the sun outshines the twinkle of an eye. I took over her and my will
to stay and talk was made manifest. I spoke with those voices for years. Our speech grew slower,
words became longer, thoughts stretched out and took years to think and we conversed that way
on and on until I felt I knew all that I needed to know, which is to say I knew all. When we
emerged back into this reality, it seems we had been away from it for some fifteen years. The
crew of the ship would report that we were away fifteen months for me however it was much
longer. I suppose I am actually quite older than I appear, but I decided this form carries a
pragmatic quality.’ Gandella turned sharply to face his brother. ‘Speaking of pragmatics, the
question I have for you is why you are here?’

‘We came here to rescue-’

‘No’ Gandella interjected fiercely, ‘you came here to recover weapons and if you couldn’t grasp
hold of them, you would put them to the fire. Put children to the fire.’ he said punctuating each
word. ‘How can you do that brother?’

‘No,’ Andillo said, trying to hide his shame by laughing the comment off. ‘We did not come
here to harm any children. You must see that children are unstable, they are a danger to
themselves, we are here to make them safe.’
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 231

‘You really believe that, don’t you?’ Gandella said, disappointed. ‘You really think the Imperium
is some benevolent father, cooing to his lost children.’

‘I’ve seen the enemies of the Imperium with my own eyes. Maybe there are faults with the
Imperium, but it is the best hope for humanity.’ Andillo said vehemently.

Gendella sighed and stepped closer to his brother. ‘Brother, we must face the reality of the
things. Mankind has reached the edge of the universe and has found beyond the lip of this reality
the truth to a question we have searched for since we stood on the flat plains of ancient Terra and
first learnt to say our own names. Are we the pinnacle of all creation or is there something more?
Something greater in the chain of being than we are? It has taken us millennia but now we have
the answer. Gods are real,’ he said simply, matter of factly. They are eternal, we are not. It is
hard truth to bear but this is our role in the universe. They are the Gods we are the worshippers.’

‘The same gods out there eating tongues,’ Andillo said, pained and cold.

‘You could not begin to understand the ecstasy of those worshippers as they presented their
offering, and then saw that offering accepted. It was an unbridled joy to them, one you could not
even comprehend; let alone imagine a citizen of the Imperium living in squalor in some under
hive, no purpose to their life, here and gone, their lives meaningless and lost. If they were to
become worshippers their lives would at least have some pertinence to the universe, even if it is
fleeting.’

‘I would rather die on my feet, with honour that-’ Andillo started.

‘Stop that, you sound like her,’ Gandella said, shaking his head.

‘Like who?’ Andillo asked

‘Like her,’ Gandella said pointing to a door a split second before the door exploded off its
hinges. Through the whisps smoke Inquisitor Monash emerged. Behind her came a fireteam of
Sabre’s and a squad of Ashuur’s psykers.

‘Child you will be coming with us,’ Monash snapped bluntly to Gandella with the authority of a
head matron.

‘No I won’t,’ Gandella said calmly, turning to face the inquisitor and her assembled might.

The men of the fireteam shifted wirely. Grenade launcher tubes were cocked. Several of the
psykers took hold of their staves more firmly. One trooper extended the pilot light of his flamer,
its searing hissing light made the shadows of the collected group of people jump and shake on
the walls.

‘Wait!’ Andillo yelled, moving to stand in front of his brother. ‘Please, there must be a way
without bloodshed.’
‘Not in this reality,’ grinned Gandella.

‘By the authority of holy Inquisition of the God-Emperor, you will come with me’ Monash
said, cocking her behemoth bolt revolver.

‘Please for me. Come peacefully Gandella, begged Andillo. ‘We could find a way to be together
again.’

‘We will be together, Gandella smiled. ‘We will be one in the warp.’

‘Take him,’ Monash said coldly.

‘Out of the way First Sergeant,’ bellowed Mohegun.

Andillo turned his back to the line of soldiers behind him and looked into the eyes of his
brother. He tried to smile and show his brother the love he felt for him, the love he had carried
with him every day, heavy and precious in his heart since he last saw him the night before he was
taken. He wanted that show of love to be the last thing he did before the bolt and las rounds hit
him in the back. Andillo expected to hear the gunfire to be the next and last sound he heard.
Instead what he heard was the sound of a zipper.

Interruptions

Andillo turned in time to see Mohegun double over. Andillo caught the old man gaze as he
died. There was no fear in his eyes, only shock and a kind of desperation which said he did not
want to leave his men bereft of his guidance. Andillo wanted to show the old man the same love
he had wanted to show his brother, but there was no time. In an instant, Andillo’s beloved
wachtmeister was hanging limp from the roof by his spinal column. The fireteam behind
Mohegun broke and swarmed to counter the new threat. The boy from the dormitory was gliding
through the hole in the wall Andillo had been blasted through moments ago. Lasbolts started
zipping through the air past Andillo and Gandella down the corridor towards the boy who was
now in the hallway behind them. Andillo threw himself at his brother hoping to get him to the
ground out of the path of the rounds. Gandella took the hand of the leaping Andillo daintily, as if
the hand didn't have the momentum of a charging man behind it. With a sweep of his hand
Gandella ripped open a section of the corridor wall revealing another one of the horrid chapel
Andillo’s fireteam had experienced earlier. Without moving his legs Gandella pulled himself and
Andillo into the chapel out of the line of fire.

Nestled in the safety of the room, Andillo and Gandella could see neither the Inquisitoral party
nor the boy. Outside in the corridor las, bolt and grenade rounds flew past the newly ripped
doorway towards the boy. Behind the cracks of mass reactive bolts detonating and the wall
shaking rumbles of grenade explosions, Andillo was sure he heard the sound of more spines
being unzipped. ‘They should use their choir,’ said Gandella who was calmly sitting at one of the
pews cross legged.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 233

Seemingly instructed by his command, the sounds of chanting voices came from down the hall.
The saliva on Andillo’s tongue froze solid as the air he breathed in was suddenly painfully cold.
He could hear the rhythmic banging of staff on the tiling of the corridor floor. When she came
into view she looked like a demigod of old myth wrapped in the sun. Golden particles were
streaming from her exposed skin like snow avalanching. Her rosette, pinned on her chest plate,
buried with white flames. The air in the corridor surging and screaming around her as violet and
freezing as a mountain gale. She was pointing at the boy yelling for him to come to her, to crawl
to her.

‘I name thee Ferrihym-Dratescka the soul wrecker, carver of flesh and wrecker of souls’, she
roared. ‘I name thee! Now crawl before me!’

Andillo peered round the pew he had taken cover behind, attempting to look up the corridor
towards the boy. The boy had collapsed unconscious up the hallway. What the Inquisitor was
commanding was on the floor feebly attempting to resist the instructions of the Inquisitor. It had
the head of a bitter jackal dog, its body was simian with its limbs muscular and sleek like a
horse’s, ending with the talons of a bird. It was a mauve orange colour like a winter’s sunset, not
wholly opaque and Andillo felt at moments he could see totally through the demon. It was
scraping against the floor with its talons desperate not to fall into the clutches of the Inquisitor. It
was pointless to resist. As sure as gravity, it continued to slide towards the Inquisitor until it was
her feet. Inquisitor Monash reached down and held the thing’s jackal head between her two open
hands. Golden dust falling from her flexed hands as they squeezed the demon’s head. It hissed in
pain, then with a wet snap, its skull cracked between her hands. She let the thing drop. It slumped
to the floor dissolving into a sudsy bubbly mixture of light. From the hallway Inquisitor Monash
turned towards the chapel. Her grey iris shone bright gold as she faced the two brothers.

True Names, True Death

Monash charged at Gandella like a mother at the killer of her child. She snatched him up by his
neck, choking and shaking him. Andillo saw in the franticness of her actions and her eyes that
she had lost her usual centre of calm. Perhaps it was because of the psychic power the choir had
infused her with, or perhaps it was because she was so tantalizingly close to completing her
mission.

‘Get the demon out of him!’ screamed Andillo.

‘Oh there is no demon in you is there,’ Monash said her voice like the rumble of a ship's lance.
‘He is the one calling the demons. Aren’t you, boy?’ She screamed in Gandella’s face.

Gandella struggled to get his hands between the crushing grasp of her hands and his throat. He
succeeded enough to speak his voice rasping and unsteady.

’You were in my brother's mind weren’t you Inquisitor,’ he choked out to her. ‘Checking to see
if he was a good boy eh! Naughty inquisitor going into soul cores without warding.’ Inquisitor
Monash’s eyes went wide with fear. She tried to squeeze her hands to snap the boy's neck. ‘You
left a little scraping of yourself in there I think. Enough for me to know you.’ Monash knew was
coming but could do nothing to stop It.’Caternina Perrina Monash, daughter of Margerit, pupil of
Inquisitor Harkness. I name thee. Let me show you your end,’ Gandella said grinning like a cat
with a mouse between its teeth.

The Inquisitor tore the air with her shriek of pain. She dropped Gandella and clutched her eyes
as smoke and blood blew from them like leaves caught in the wind. Falling to her knees, she
regained her composure enough to drop her hands from her eyes to fumble on the ground for her
discarded pistol. Her pupils and iris had milky white scars over them and the skin around her
eyes was blistered and scabby with burns.

Gandella stood above the inquisitor’s crumbled pathetic fearful form.

‘It may shock you now, but in time you will realise this is the true beauty of the galaxy,’ said
Gandella.

In her mind, the Inquisitor saw the truth of the galaxy the boy saw. It was a man naked, his eyes
fierce, his mind slack, his flesh painted with the eightfold sigils of the diabolic foe. The man held
in his hand the whole galaxy, and the whole galaxy itself, its sweeping clouds of systems was the
eightfold sigil of the diabolic foe. The man turned his hand to look upon the galaxy and from the
side the galaxy had depth to it. The depth of the galaxy spiraled into two double helixes; that
code of man written in base pairs was now written with the eightfold pairs forming the sigil of
the foe. She saw this and a voice called from the warp to her, ‘Behold, I am coming soon! I am
the Beginning and the End, I am all and you will be all with me, the galaxy will burn and you
will be the fire and you will rejoice in the fire,’ it said to her.

‘Now that you have seen the truth, will you relent from your petty thinking Caterina,’ Gandella
whispered like a scholam teacher correcting an errant child.

In that moment, likely to be her last, Caternina Monash scrambled in the depths of her soul for
the last dregs of courage she could muster. She found a surplus of determination, not brought
about by the five decades of service as one of the Imperium’s Inquisitors, nor the unrelenting
soul scouring tests of the inquisitorial academy before it, nor even the indoctrination of her youth
at Scholum Primaria Segmentum on Hydraphur. The determination she found was older even
than her ascetic upbringing under her demanding mother. Her determination was written into
every one of her human blood and muscle and bone cells. She would not surrender in the fight
for the human race’s survival from the machinations of the warp.

‘No. I say no. I will not bend nor break before you. I could care less that you are a merciless
god, I am a servant of the Imperium of man and will never relent before you.’ The elegance of
her declaration accented by the fierce spitting of blood she used as punctuation.

‘Very well. Where I am sending you, you will learn in time your place in the cosmos.’ Gandella
raised his hand ready to strike.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 235

Andillo cocked his sidearm and pointed it at his brother’s head.

‘Let her go,’ Andillo said.

Gandella frowned and stepped away from the crumpled form of the Inquisitor.

‘I understand that you couldn’t possibly understand the nature of the universe yet. You will
have to unlearn the sour milk of lies they fed you with,’ said Gandella.

Monash rose unsteadily to her feet more swiftly than seemed possible given her wounds.
Gandella looked side eyes at the woman. Not with fear but just irritation. Using his child’s face it
seemed an almost petulant gesture. Monash held her bolt revolver in her hands. She pointed it at
Gandella.

‘Really, I thought we had been through this. Do you really think I couldn’t kill you where you
stand if I wished,’ Gandella said.

Slowly she shifted the gun to aim at Andillo.

‘You will come with me or I will kill your brother.’ Monash said honestly. Gandella chuckled,
impressed with the Inquisitor’s guile.

‘I’ll make you this trade. If you let him live I’ll let you live,’ Gandella said to Monash. Then very
casually he turned to face Andillo, ‘Come with me brother. We should be together. I have lived
for a hundred lives and I have missed you every day,’ said Gandella, honest and unguarded
despite Monash’s threatening pistol.

Prudentia

‘I have missed you too. Like I had lost part of myself. If I go with you, will I have to become a
worshipper, will I have to pray to that sky above us?’ Andillo asked his heart frank and tender,
dropping his side arm on the ground.

‘That is the nature of reality. If I could change that I would, but this is our species fate,’ Gandella
said unguarded and kindly.

‘I can’t go with you then. If I go with you, I would gain that missing part of me, but lose the
rest of myself,’ Andillo replied.

Gendella said nothing, nodding simply, resigned to the skeins of fate. As an afterthought, he
turned to face Monash. Before she could speak or even fire her aimed pistol, she was ripped
upwards, the back of her skull hitting the wall behind her with a crack like an exploding bolt
round. The arm holding her bolt pistol pinned against the wall. Gandella pointed his finger at the
Inquisitor and stigmatas of blood started to well on her hands and throat. Monash gurgled and
spat blood, desperately trying to breath.
 Gandella's arm dropped and Monash dropped to the floor too, fighting to catch her breath.
Andillo’s hand is still on his brother's arm pushing it down away from the Inquisitor.

‘Please, I can’t watch my brother become a murderer,’ Andillo said, his eyes pleading.

Last Words

Andillo wanted to hug his brother, to wrap him up in his arms and feel the familiar comfort of
his beloved brother but somehow it doesn’t feel right. So he says nothing, neither does Gandella.
Gandella turned and walked to the door at the end of the chapel room. He opened it and turned
back once more to look at his brother. On the other side of the door Andillo could see the loading
dock of a river port, snow falling on a hive city on the far horizon. The urge comes again to
Andillo to say something to his brother, to express the mess of feelings he has for him. No words
come. With only the sound of the whipping snowstorm, Gandella walked through the door and
let it fall shut behind him.

After a still moment of collection, Andillo turned to help the Inquisitor back to her feet. He
turns to see that she was already standing. Her bolt pistol up, pointed at Andillo face.

‘I saved your life,’ Andillo said, scornful and shocked by Monash’s betrayal.

‘The job of the Inquisitor isn’t to save lives, it is to take the lives of the guilty,’ Monash said, her
eyes seeming even colder and greyer than usual. ‘You have failed at that task.’

‘You wanted me to kill my brother,’ Andillo said flatly.

‘Brothers killing brothers is what the Imperium has done since it’s beginning, to keep itself safe,’
Monash said.

The boy outside had woken from his unconsciousness. He woke alone and uncared for. He
started weeping. The sound of the tears echoes down the hall to where one last soldiers is
attempting to do the impossible, to retrieve with dignity the butchered corpse of his father from
where it hangs. He hears the child and ignores it. Above it all, the sound of the chattering dying
sky continues. The click and bang of a bolt revolver goes unnoticed.
MILLENNIUM OF WAR 237

THE GHOST
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 239

‘You didn’t give me all the specifics for this job Arnie! And you know how I feel about not
getting all the facts you Drellian Tunnel Rat!’

Donovan stared daggers at the man on the other end of the small com display screen. He hoped
it was producing the desired effect. The visibly shaken man on the other end of the lashing
replied with a nervous grin.

‘Donovan my old friend…. I am at a loss. I gave you everything you needed to know. What’s
the problem?’

The thoughts running through Donovan’s head bounced between utter contempt for his
mercenary friend and just plain murderous intent. Looking back at the two passengers sitting side
by side on one the few benches, Donovan started seeing red again. One of the passengers was a
techpriest of some sort from what he could tell by the rust red garbs he was wearing, and one a
mysterious robotic looking creature, nearly three meters tall. Donovan looked over this one with
extra scrutiny. He did not recognize this construct. What no one outside of Mars knew was that
this was one of the Men of Iron. The thoughts of the last run-in he’d had with a mechanical foe
sent a shiver down his spine and a pain in his heart as old wounds re-opened and rushed back to
the surface of his waking nightmare of a life.

Donovan turned from his revelry to stare once again at Arnie who was still visibly shaken by
the verbal lashing, he was receiving.

‘You know very well what the problem is!’ Donovan spat out.

It took a lot of effort not to retreat into his mind and reveal some more of the re-surfaced dark
thoughts from his past. Donovan pointed with a quaking finger at several scars which lined his
face etching along from top of forehead to bottom of chin. Arnie’s facial expression in response
to the visual reminder was obvious. He knew what Donovan was referring to and the tone in his
voice matched the look of pity that now was evident from the man on the display screen.

‘I wasn’t thinking Donovan. But to my defense, what happened was a long time ago. I figured
you would be over all of that. You know, leave all that crap in the past. Plus I know that you are
hard up on the funds. Figured you would not be so picky on the particulars.’

Donovan pounded a clenched fist on the button that would close the door between crew cabin
and passenger cabin. The loud noise stirred the man who was napping in the co-pilot’s chair
beside Donovan. With a few startled mutterings and a quick wiping of some drool forming on his
chin, the man turned his attention to Donovan.

‘What the – mind telling me what the bloomin’ deal is?’

Donovan turned around to give Arnie a cold, hard stare just to let him know he was treading on
thin ice with him.

‘This is my ship, and I can do whatever it is the blazes I want to do. Got it?!’
 Arnie put up his hands in the sign of surrender, a visibly nervous expression falling upon his
face.

‘Ok…. ok Donovan, calm down. I will just sit here and shut my mouth.’

For a few moments, silence filled the small command cabin with the exception of the multiple
beeps and chirps emanating from the various control panels. Donovan was fuming; it was clear
by his demeanor and apparent by the way in which he was breathing. The tension was thick on
this deck and it would take quite a major event in order to break it. Just as Arnie was wondering
what that event could be. He got his answer. It was not exactly the answer he was hoping for.
An extremely loud alert klaxon wailed from an overhead speaker. Red text began scrolling
across the central monitor on the control panel in front of Donovan. He glanced down to read the
sudden message and frowned. Looking back up to the main viewport, Donovan announced to his
sidekick what the alert stated, ‘A meteor shower is heading our way at a ferocious speed!’

Donovan didn’t wait for Arnie’s reaction to this revelation and instead went to work at
preparing the ship for the impending bombardment. Flipping switches, pushing buttons, typing
entries into the nav computer.

‘You gonna help me out here or are you just going to gape at the stars, Arnie?’

As if shaken from a daydream, Arnie started his own frenzied tour of the controls in front of
him. How could this be? Arnie thought. The nav computer did not map out any possible meteor
showers on the chosen trajectory. Donovan was sure to give him gruff about this if we get out of
this alive.

‘Deflector arrays at full strength. Debris lasers are online,’ Arnie proclaimed with cracked
voice.

‘Just in time. Here they come!’ Donovan yelped.

Donovan tried his best to maneuver through the field to allow the ship the least amount of
damage. Still there was plenty of meteors striking the hull. This was evident with loud plunking
noises and the shuddering of both men as well as anything not secured. Donovan could only
imagine what their passengers was going through in the back. If they were not in mortal danger
themselves then he would have found it comical. Donovan still managed a smile just thinking
about it anyways.

‘Shields at 47%, we lost debris lasers 4, 7 and 10!’, Arnie shouted over the noise.

Donovan knew that his ship could not take much more of this punishment. It would not be long
before there would be a direct hit that would obliterate them, or worst yet, the fate of suffocating
from a hull breach. Something had to be done but just what that was Donovan was at a loss on.

‘May I be of assistance?’
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 241

The voice from behind startled Donovan, causing him to turn around and pull his firearm out of
its holster. Standing before him was the mysterious techpriest that accompanied the robotic
warrior. The techpriest stood there in a relaxed, calm manner totally contradicting the chaos that
was ensuing around him. He smiled at Donovan and looked as though he was patiently awaiting
a response.

‘How the blazes did you get through the blast door! It was secure on this side so you and your
pet out there could not get in.’

The priest passively looked at Donovan and pointed towards the viewscreen. Following the
direction in which the he pointed, Donovan could almost swear that the meteors were moving in
response to some unspoken command. The loud pings and the shudders ceased and the
emergency klaxons stopped their shrieking. The ship was again quiet and back to normal
operations.

Still in shock over the unprecedented events which transpired, Donovan woke from his stupor
to glance over at the priest who was still standing with a stoic expression on his face. In all his
years of mercenary work and all throughout his military career, Donovan could not think of
anything that even closely equaled to what he just witnessed. Did he really see this red-robed
priest manipulate the trajectory of planetary objects?

Donovan looked over at Arnie, who judging by his expression, must have been thinking the
same thing. His sidekick was staring at the viewscreen with wide eyes and gaping mouth; he was
not moving a muscle from his stiff sitting position in his chair. Something had to be done to
move this mission forward.

‘Arnie!’, Donovan yelled.

Arnie shook in surprise and started checking instruments and readouts. ‘Uh yeah, all systems
are back to normal. It looks like we suffered only minor hull damage. We will have to replace
five total debris lasers though.’

‘And are we still on course for Trellix Five? That shower must have knocked us off course.’

‘That’s the weird thing Donovan. We are not only still precisely on course, but we are within a
few hours of planetary orbit. Donovan, we were about a day’s journey away only a few minutes
ago.’

Donovan turned to stare at the priest who was still standing annoyingly in place in the cabin.
This is just getting stranger and stranger Donovan thought. Was this some type of new servitor
tech that he did not know about? It could be, the Martian cult have always been a mysterious
bunch. There was a lot about the universe that Donovan could honestly say he was unaware of or
could not understand. Still, this topped anything he could ever imagine.

‘Care to explain what just happened, priest?’, Donovan stated confrontationally.

 The techpriest met Donovan’s gaze with a smirky grin. This really pissed Donovan off as he
was already not in the mood to deal with recent events that he was thrust into. It took every
ounce of his restraint not to wipe the smirk off the priest’s face by planting it into the cabin’s
bulkhead. Clenching his hands around the armrest of his chair, Donovan waited for the techpriest
to respond.

‘It is not for you to understand nor do you have the ability to comprehend the holy work which
is transpiring today. You merely need to know that until your mission is accomplished, you will
be under my protection.’

The priest smiled again and turned to exit the cabin to return to his seat. The door slid closed
behind him and Donovan was left to fume at the arrogant response received. Arnie could see that
this could be a potential for a really bad outcome so he quickly began trying to defuse the
situation. He began by trying to change the subject.

‘So what are you going to do with all the money we are getting for this job?’

Arnie peered over at Donovan to check out his demeanor. His boss was staring at the
viewscreen with slits for eyes and clenched teeth. Arnie was sure at this point that he was not
getting the desired effect.

‘First thing will be to never work for Tomkins again, second will be to fire you and hire a better
crew who will not irritate the blazes out of me.’, Donovan breathed from his clenched teeth.
Arnie nervously looked back to his control panel and decided it was best to work in silence.
Sweat began forming on his brow as he knew that pushing anything else would not be conducive
to wanting to not be in a lot of pain.

Within two hours, the green and brown disc known as Trellix Five filled the viewscreen. Trellix
Five was a planet that was covered in a thick murky cloud cover, from space you could even see
the flashes from atmospheric electricity. This was a planet that teetered between habitable and
non-habitable. You either had to be beyond confident of your piloting skills or just plain crazy to
even think about landing on Trellix Five. Or some would say it is best to have a mixture of both.
Perhaps that is why they hired me, Donovan thought as he prepared his ship for atmospheric
entry. Looking over at Arnie, he wished at this time he had a different co-pilot. Arnie was
feverishly entering commands into the nav computer, flipping switches and wiping the nervous
sweat from his brow in between. This did not produce much faith within Donovan’s mind. No
going back now though. It was do or die. Donovan was hoping beyond hope for none of the
dying part.

The ship computer began the final countdown until hitting the atmosphere. Judging from the
jolt felt throughout the ship, the computer was a bit off. “Never trust a machine”, Donovan
thought to himself. The computer finally announced atmospheric entry. The blast shields closed
down on the viewscreens. From this point forward they would have to rely solely on the ship’s
instruments. Much to Donovan’s dismay, what happened next only backed up his mistrust in
machines. The instruments went blank. All of them.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 243

‘Arnie, what in blazes is going on! Get the instruments back online!’

Arnie began flailing his arms around in exasperation. He pulled a panel open from beneath the
control desk. Pulling wires from out of the panel, Arnie began the process of testing circuitry.
Judging from the look on Arnie's face he was not too confident that he would find a solution to
the problem.

Time was running out and something needed to be done. But just what that was, Donovan could
not tell. Frantically looking around the cabin, Donovan searched for anything that could offer a
clue as to what happened. Turning around, Donovan nearly bumped into the techpriest who who
had obviously returned in the exact mysterious manner as before.

This time, instead of asking if he could be of assistance, the techpriest simply stood there, eyes
closed, facing the blast shield covered view screen. The techpriest had the visage of one who was
in deep meditation. Donovan did not know what to do. Judging from the last run in with the
techpriest it would seem that he was once again in the midst of another otherworldly event.

Arnie paused from his work long enough to look up at the mysterious happenings. He took one
glance at the techpriest and then followed that glance over to Donovan with a puzzled look on
his face. Donovan shrugged his shoulders signifying to Arnie his guess was as good as any. After
what seemed like an eternity, the techpriest finally opened his eyes. As if waking from a dream
he peered over to Donovan. There it was, that smirky grin that infuriated Donovan to no end. As
if sensing Donovan's thoughts, the techpriest went from a smirky grin to a stoic look.

‘We have arrived’, the techpriest said.

At that, the techpriest exited the cabin to make his way towards the back of the ship. Donovan
assumed this was the techpriest’s way of telling him he was ready to go. Donovan signaled to
Arnie to follow the techpriest. By the time Donovan an Arnie made their way to the back of the
ship where the main embarking platform was located, the techpriest and the mysterious ghost
warrior were already down the ramp.

Donovan and Arnie followed by walking down the ramp. At the bottom of the ramp stood both
techpriest and ghost warrior. From all appearances it almost seemed like they were a couple of
tourists on a sightseeing outing. The techpriest was excitedly pointing towards various sites and
muttering in excited tones aimed at the ghost warrior. In between mutterings, the techpriest
would lift binoculars up towards his eyes and peered in a 360 motion. Stopping in mid-motion,
the techpriest once again excitedly pointed in the direction he was now peering. Obviously there
was something in that direction that was of great importance to the techpriest.

Donovan walked up to where the techpriest was standing and tapped his shoulder. He was
getting a bit impatient with the whole situation. All he wanted to do is get paid. He also did not
want to wait another moment on this forsaken, wasteland of a planet.
 ‘Hey techpriest, I did what you wanted and got you to your destination. Now, where's my
money?’

The priest turned his head to address Donovan. With a visible sign of disdain, the techpriest
turned back to his focused attention to the horizon. This in turn caused a heightened sense of
both irritation and outrage. Donovan's blood pressure was definitely heightened, he could feel his
face flushing and the blood things in his forehead beginning to pop out. Donovan tapped the
techpriest’s shoulder again.

‘I'm going to say this again, techpriest, where is my money ?!’

This time, the priest did not even bother to acknowledge Donovan. Clenching his teeth
Donovan took both hands to flip the techpriest around, and grabbed the breast plate of the
techpriest’s armor. The techpriest did not look at all visibly shaken by this turn of events.
Instead, he once again flashed that smirky smile that so infuriated Donovan to no end.

‘You had better churn up the money you promised or I'm going to get a little bit violent. Just
ask my associate Arnie what I'm capable of.’

Without so much as a semblance of a response to Donovan’s threat, the priest simply gestured
in the direction of his construct companion. As if sensing exactly what the techpriest had
indicated, the construct charged Donovan. The last thing Donavan remembered was a sharp pain
to the back of his head.

Donovan started to wake up in a misty stupor. All he could see were blurry shapes, nothing he
saw could be made out. Sounds also seemed distant and distorted. At one point Donovan could
feel a sharp pain in the back of his neck. Instinctively, Donovan tried to reach up to rub the back
of his neck. However, there was an obstacle preventing him from doing so. Donovan had no idea
how long he was in this predicament, nor did he know how far away from his ship they had taken
him. One thing Donovan did notice was the smell of a burning fire nearby. This would also
explain the bright flashes within the blurry images in front of them.

-Must focus-, Donovan thought.

Donovan tried to speak. Nothing seemed to come out of his mouth, nothing that he was aware
of. This is when he realized even his hearing was impaired.

-Wait, what is that?- Donovan wondered.

Garbled sounds began trickling through, nothing could be made out, but sounds nonetheless.
Donovan concentrated on the garbled sounds. As if with sheer will, Donovan could start making
out the sounds. The first sound he could make out was a crowd chanting. He could still not make
out what it was that they were saying. Then he could make out what sounded to be like a hushed
voice closer to where Donovan stood. He tried to concentrate and focus more on the hushed
voice nearby. He could determine that it was his friend Arnie. He was calling for him.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 245

‘Donovan! Donovan! Wake up!’

This helped Donovan to gain focus and begin to clear his head. Now that his hearing was
clearing up, he began to focus on his eyesight. Squinting his eyes like a man who relies on
glasses that were missing, he tried to gain focus. The garbled, blobby images begin to clear up
revealing a large fire in front of him with several shadowy figures circled around it. Looking
over to his right he could see Arnie tide to a concrete pillar, chains wrapped around him. Arnie
was looking over at Donovan with a terrorized look on his face still yelling out Donovan's name
to get his attention. Donovan wished he had stayed asleep.

Not wanting the shadowy figures to know he was awake just yet, Donovan tried to signal Arnie
to be quiet. He was unsuccessful. One of the shadowy figures took notice and walked up to Arnie
hitting him over the head with a wooden staff. Arnie's head slumped lifelessly. It was evident
that the blow knocked him unconscious. Donovan could see a steady flow of blood trickling
down the side of his head. He wanted to yell out in rage over seeing his friend hurt, but he knew
that was not a good ideal as he would suffer the same fate. No, it was better to keep quiet and
observe; see what exactly was going on. The shadowy figures could be heard chanting. Donovan
could not make out what they were saying, it seemed like it was in a different language.

Donovan did well enough to speak his own language much less any others so that was not
going to be helpful when figuring things out. He looked around to see if he could figure out
where he was or what purpose this room held. The only light providing illumination in the room
was the large central fire. Darkness flanked the edges of the firelight, making it hard to calculate
how big this room was. All Donovan could see was the fire, the shadowy figures, Arnie and
himself. Suddenly the sounds of the crowd were silenced. The sudden silence was eerie almost
unreal. Then a voice broke that silence, startling Donovan.

‘Children of the Machine hear me!’

Donovan recognized the voice as belonging to the techpriest. Struggling within the confines of
the chains wrapped around him, Donovan wished at this time that he would have strangled him
back when he had the chance. He hoped beyond hope for another chance, although by looking at
the situation at hand, that time may never happen. Looking up, Donovan pinpointed the priest’s
location. Now illuminated by a spotlight far above him, the priest stood on an altar with arms
spread out and raised up.

‘The time of the Ghost Machine has come! Our time for re-birth is upon us!’

The crowd responded with loud shouts and chants again in the exotic language from before.
Whatever was going on here, it was drumming up some major excitement. Some of the crowd
beat on fashioned drums made out of who knows what, some were clanking what appeared to be
bones against each other. The scene was barbaric to say the least.

The techpriest motioned for the revelry to stop. At prompting from the priest, the silence
resumed. He looked down at the shadowy figures with a grin from ear to ear. This sent shivers
down Donovan’s spine rather than the utter vengeance seeking temper from before. There was
something different about the way he carried himself, Donovan thought. Donovan looked over to
check on Arnie. He could see that Arnie was coming to, shaking his head to snap back to full
consciousness. As if taking this as a queue, the techpriest pointed right at Arnie.

‘The first conduit has awakened! Let the re-birth begin!’

A low hum could be heard from an unknown source. Donovan looked around to see if he could
make out what it was or where it was emanating from, but had no luck. The hum grew louder
and with it, several large cables were revealed as they glowed blue. Donovan followed the path
they took. Looking up at the foot of the altar he could see the cable protruding from it, making its
way down toward the floor level and then split off. From there, he could see the blue light flow
making its way straight for Arnie. Arnie looked over to Donovan in a horror and was about to
yell but it was too late. The blue energy wave hit Arnie causing almost an x-ray like image.
Within seconds, Arnie’s flesh melted away, leaving only a skeleton to fall to the ground. Upon
completion, a red glow made its way back up the cable leading to the altar. The altar began
emanating a dim red glow. The techpriest chanted at this event and once again raised his voice.

‘We are on the road to re-birth. Soon, the true Men of Iron will be triumphant. We will
rightfully return to our hallowed lands and re-claim what is ours!’

This once again brought the crowd to a frenzy. Donovan was now in shock. He witnessed not
only his friend meet a horrific end, but saw a preview of the fate in which he was about to
partake in. In all of his experiences getting in and out of near impossible situations, he never let
himself feel fear. He did not let his emotions take control. He was a soldier through and through.
Even after he retired and took on mercenary work, he always held that way of life in everything,
no matter what. But now, this was something totally beyond anything he could ever comprehend.
This is not how he wanted to go out. He had heard of evil remnants from the Mechanicum. Now
he was going to somehow fuel the return of some ancient form of them? Not if he could help it!
But he just couldn’t figure out what he could do. He didn’t have much time from the judge of it.
Looking around, he could see more captives; more poor souls who were feeding this ‘Ghost
Machine’.

The more souls it took, the brighter the glow on the altar. The brighter glow revealed more of
the room’s secrets. There had to be at least fifty more captives, all tied to pillars, all connected
via the cable protruding from the altar. Donovan looked around for anything that could help free
himself and get as far away from this Hell as possible. From his vantage point there was not
much he could work with. Even if he did, he would still have to figure out what to do to reach it.
“Think Donovan, think!”

Donovan closed his eyes for a second to try and help concentrate. Thinking back to his military
training he thought hard to find a solution. There just wasn’t anything that he could muster up
that would be a viable solution to this unique situation. And that is when it hit Donovan. He
thought of one of his squad leaders, Marsk Venril. As much as he hated his guts, Donovan
remembered him as a top-notch tactician. He always told his men when you’ve tried everything
that would make logical sense and it does you no good, then throw that out the airlock and try the
illogical.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 247

Donovan remembered a bit about specially trained adhumans known as Astropaths. This skill
allowed the user to telepathically communicate across vast distances. Now Donovan was not one
of those trained freaks. However, upon scanning the captives he noticed an adept, with eyelids
sutured shut, tied up four pillars to his left. If he could grab his attention and somehow
communicate that it would be worth his while to call for help, then there might be a slim chance
of survival.

Donovan counted out at least twenty captives already transformed. That left about another
fifteen between him and certain death. He had to act quickly. Looking over to the left he could
see the next captive over. A young man who appeared to be a cadet was whimpering and visibly
in shock. Donovan had to snap him out of it if this was going to work.

‘Hey, do you want to live. If you do then you need to stop acting like such a baby and listen to
me!’

The young man shakily turned to look at Donovan, ‘I – I don’t know how that’s possible.’

Donovan wanted to slap the tar out of this kid but kept his cool. This kid was his only hope.
Trying to muster up the best ‘trust me’ expression on his face, Donovan tried again.

‘Look kid, I know you’re scared but we have fifteen – no, fourteen more to go before I am
toast. If you want to get out of this with your skin still intact then I need you to focus and listen
to me. You’re an adept of the Imperium….act like one.’

‘I’m a new recruit. Didn’t even make it to the palace yet.’

‘Ok, well then you are just going to have to rely on knowing that I know what I’m doing.’
This seemed to get through to the young man as it appeared to relax his demeanor somewhat.
Donovan smiled. Good now we are getting somewhere. Donovan breathed in and let out a quick
exhale. ‘Ok, you see that strange looking cloaked figure about three pillars to your left…the one
with no eyes?’

The young man turned to look in the intended direction and swung back to indicate a yes with a
nod of the head.

‘Ok I want you to pass this message to those beside you: Tell the adept to send a message via
his astropathic sense to the Raven’s tail mercenary group. Tell him that he will be rewarded
richly.’

Upon receiving the instructions, Donovan could see the chatter move down the line until it was
clear that the adept received the message. Instead of a nod of recognition from the adept,
Donovan could clearly see the adept sending a message of his own back down the line.

‘The astropath wishes to tell you that he is not interested in monetary gain and does not feel that
he could, with all good conscience, take you up on your offer. Even if it means his own death.’
 Blood boiling, Donovan mustered up as much restraint as to not totally lose it. Have to keep a
focused mind after all. Taking another deep breath, Donovan tried again.

‘Ok, so tell him if money is not his thing, and he cannot in his own good conscience do
business with the likes of me then, what in blazes will get him to help?!’

Thirteen more captives… This was getting to close to being the end for Donovan. Something
had to happen soon or they were all dead. The message made its way back to the astropath, who
then sent back his own message.

‘The astropath told us that you must free the Ghost inside you to break the chain. He claims that
the reason we are in this situation is because the construct desires warriors’ souls.’

The thought of his soul being fuel for some heretical construct made Donovan sick to his
stomach. But then it made him even sicker to think that he was a conduit to transport said soul
back into life.

‘Is there another way? Maybe I could donate time to help the poor? I’m not too fond of the
idea!’

The young man relayed Donovan’s message. Upon hearing it, the astropath looked directly at
Donovan with empty eye sockets and yelled another message to send back. The young man
received the message and with a more solemn tone he relayed it to Donovan.

‘He said the only way out of this is to put behind your hatred and put behind the past. The soul
trapped inside of you does not want to be used in this techpriest’s war. He wants to go back and
be at peace.’

Donovan thought for a moment about what he just heard. He spent so long hating everything
because of all he lost from the war. Could he put aside that anger in order to save this soul? Or
did he want to hang on to that anger until the bitter end?

‘Ah daggone it! Ok let him know I am in. What am I supposed to do?’

The young man quickly relayed the message. The astropath received and relayed back a
message.

‘Close your mind to what is around you. Clear your mind of the hatred and the anger locked
inside. Focus on the soul trapped inside you. And then chant the following…’

The next line was in a language similar to what the techpriest was uttering. This made Donovan
a bit wary as to whether he should say it. But he came this far. Why not. What’s the worst that
could happen? So Donovan closed his eyes and cleared his thoughts. The deeper in thought he
got the clearer he could see the machine’s soul. The construct was now in full focus and it was as
if Donovan was standing right in front of him.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 249

‘Um…hi. I am supposed to say something here so listen up.’

Donovan spoke the phrase in the exotic language. At first it didn’t seem like anything was
happening. Then a voice spoke out from all around him. It was saying that it was time to come
back. The construct looked at Donovan and thanked him for freeing him. At that, the mysterious
“Man of Iron” was gone.

Donovan opened his eyes and felt as if he had been in a deep sleep. By this time, he was next
on the line of “conduits”. Here is hoping that the plan worked. The red glow traveled once again
from the base of the altar and made its way towards Donovan. Closing his eyes he was preparing
himself for what would happen next. Instead of feeling the extreme pain one would feel from
having their flesh melted off, Donovan opened his eyes to see the chaos which now ensued.
The red glow which was traveling towards him now made its way back up to the altar. This
caused a massive feedback and the top of the altar blew straight up to then come crashing back
down on one of the unsuspecting followers. Beams of light proceeded to shoot up from the now
exposed insides of the altar. Each beam then bounced off the ceiling and shot like a bullet
through all the cult followers. Everyone was now dead except the “conduits” who survived and
the techpriest at top of the altar.

The priest displayed an expression that Donovan had not seen before; that of fear. He began
taking the stairs down off of the altar picking up his pace with each step. Several ghostly figures
now stood at top of the altar looking down at the priest.

‘You will not escape your punishment, techpriest!’

The priest barely made it to the ground floor before being consumed by blue energy. As if a
hand had grasped him, he was turned around to face his accusers.

‘You pulled us from our sacred resting grounds. You were trying to imprison us and make us
shame ourselves and our family names. You must die now. You will not have your rest as is the
ancient promise. You will never rest. This is what must be done.’

The techpriest was still gripped by the blue energy and began to float up towards the altar. Now
above the opening of the altar, the blue energy faded. The priest fell into the opening and the lid
followed by floating upward and then setting itself back on, sealing him in.

The construct turned to look at Donovan. The leader of the group formed a slight smile.
Floating closer to Donovan, the leader spoke.

‘You have broken the cycle and we are grateful for what you have done today. We are in your
debt.’

‘Well if it means letting us go, that would be just the tops for me.’

The chains dropped around all of the remaining captives. Some ran, evidently having ships of
their own. The rest stayed with Donovan. Donovan looked around at those who remained
including the young man and the cloaked adept who was instrumental in saving their butts. He
looked over at the remains of his friend Arnie. He would give him a proper burial.
Donovan turned to the young man.

‘Well kid, how would you like a job? I need a new crew.’

‘Sure I would like that. As long as you are more careful picking jobs’, the kid laughed. ‘By the
way, I saw you glowing just a bit ago. What exactly did you do? Do you have psychic powers or
something? If so, then…’

‘Shut your hole, kid!’ Donovan snapped. ‘What you think you just saw, didn’t really happen.
Let’s just say I’m a well-traveled merchant and trader that has accumulated some interesting
trinkets from around the galaxy. I do not need to remind you what the Imperium does to
unsanctioned psykers. Now, back to business.’

Turning to the adept, Donovan also extended the same invitation.

‘I know you aren’t in it for the money and you don’t like slumming it with us mercenaries. But
stick around and who knows, you may change me. I think it may be time to pursue safer jobs in
the future.’
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 251

BY THE SKIN
OF OUR TEETH
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 253

+Intelligence reports loss of contact with recon outposts on the Ohkean Sub-Sector.+
+Ork mobility on the rise.+
+Imperial units placed on alert.+

‘Awstral, land of wonders’

Upon arriving at the Bonavia solar system of the Ohkean Sub-sector, Imperial colonists were in
the process of establishing a stockpiling and maintenance base on Jooce, a sea planet with over
90% of its surface liquid. The base was located on the largest of the southern islands of the
Awstral archipelago, in the southeast of the planet, where most of the habitable land was
concentrated. The island chosen had been registered as Gadal-42; a name which was to become
enshrined in the annals of Praetorian service.

The Awstral archipelago formed an oasis of land spots in a vast “sea” (or what amounted to
sea). In reality, the dark liquid substance surrounding the islands [a pilot had described it aptly as
“jellysea” and the term had stuck] always appeared to be calm and flat as it was of very dense
composition. Unlike other thick liquids, however, it allowed movement through it very easily. In
fact, it offered almost no friction or resistance at all and the closest Terran element one could
compare its composition to was mercury. Pegasus AAV transports and Chimeras were easily
adapted to use the jellysea as a liquid highway to facilitate communications between the various
islands and islets surrounding Gadal. On the other hand, in the few months since the imperials
had landed, few living beings had been identified swimming in or on it, all of them decidedly
odd-looking – and dangerous. Fortunately for the troops and engineers, the worst of these, the
Lymphs, medusa-like creatures weighing anything from a few hundred kees to over a thousand,
were not disturbed by the seagoing vehicles. The Lymphs were, however, definitely energized by
the engineers’ thumper units used to loosen the hard soil on the islands. When this occurred, it
was wise to avoid the jellysea at all costs.

The news of the Orks’ presence in the sector had come as a surprise to Imperial Command. Ork
forces had not been seen to infringe on the periphery and the Ohkean had been considered
relatively secure for expansion. Due to its great distance from Praetoria, however, the Bonavia
system was at a strategic disadvantage and the base on Gadal, mainly composed of engineer and
scientific elements, had limited military resources. The total military capacity available for
defending the base consisted of two Praetorian Guard regiments. The engineers, although highly
motivated and well equipped, were mainly Squat professionals.

Imperial Command was placed on full alert and immediately began to fortify its installations
while calling for assistance but still, Gadal-42 would have to improvise if it wanted to survive
until Imperial reserves could come into play. Praetoria, given its huge investment in the
colonization programme, responded with a military build-up of unprecedented proportions. The
stage was thus set for a confrontation between superior Imperial technology, offset by the great
distances involved, against the Orks’ proximity to the area and their overwhelming numbers and
mindless, rabid attacks.
 Gadal Commander, Col. Aristone Bromhead, a bloodied veteran of numerous campaigns, had
not considered the latest intelligence briefing as especially threatening. All of his experience,
however, had been gained at favourable odds; a fact which, at first, he refused to acknowledge.
Gadal had been relatively well equipped with heavy engineering equipment, all of which could
be upgraded as combat assets, but lacked any real broadside weight if called upon to meet a
fully-fledged Ork attack. The engineering hardware included numerous Sentinel powerlifters,
Atlas recovery tanks, Trojan support vehicles and a couple of Hades drills.

The “software” component, two full regiments of Praetorian Guards, the Xth and XXIVth, were
mostly veterans as well, but any battle reserves would have to come from the large number of
Squat professionals who had been hired to build the base. The Praetorians, apart from their
standard M36 lasguns and heavy weapons, fielded several Chimeras, a platoon each of Bane
Wolves and Hellhounds, a quartet of Hydra flak tanks, plus a substantial number of Pegasus
AAVs for inter-island liaison. HQ company also possessed a Chimerax, the favourite mount of
commander Bromhead, which was the only heavily-armed armoured unit.

Bromhead knew from experience that the Guardsmen’ portable weapons alone would be
inadequate to meet any major Ork offensive, but he believed that any serious effort by the
greenskins would not develop until Praetoria’s mobilization became effective and came to
reinforce them. In the event, he was to prove a rational leader open to his subordinates’
suggestions. The best of these had come – interestingly – from the Squat commander, Chief
Engineer Archimedes Chard. Sourcing from his kind’s long history of survival against heavy
odds and the experience gained from improvising brilliant engineering and scientific solutions to
meet unexpected threats, Chard wisely advised to prepare for the worse with everything at hand
instead of relying on Praetorian assistance.

As reports of the approaching menace increased, Bromhead, to his credit, agreed to a

conservative option for defense which called for the abandoning of all peripheral building sites in
favour of a double-tiered concentric perimeter around the air/sea port, then still under
construction. Chard’s ideas had the benefit of not interfering with the purely military plan
devised by Bromhead’s staff, but offered, instead, the best in fallback options one could hope
for. He offered to use what time remained, before the Orks made any move, to build a series of
interlocking surface and underground channels, called trench-traps in engineer jargon. These
were designed to hinder any Ork breakthrough of the classic perimeter by creating bottlenecks
and then channel any penetrations into specially designed kill zones.

In the next couple of long days (the local system day, equivalent to about forty Terran hours),
Chard and his tireless men had performed wonders and the defenses were both complex and
coordinated, designed to maximize casualties and prevent breakthroughs.

‘Something wicked this way comes’ – Day One

Dawn on Gadal was a long-lasting affair, over ten standard hours, from H zero to H ten, in a
day that lasted over forty standard hours. There were no variations to this and the climate was
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 255

extremely stable. Sergeant Micronemus was in charge of the southern-most Early Warning
Outpost 6 (EWO 6). There were five EWOs in total, arranged in a semi-circle around the base,
with the coastal strip in the North being designated Sector 0 and the EWOs, numbered clock-
wise, East to West, EWO 2, EWO 4, EWO 6, EWO 8 and EWO 10.

Micronemus was feeling extremely ill at ease and asked his squad of ten to be alert. There
appeared nothing out of place and the auspex had picked up no movement either. But his spine
felt numb and his stomach was in knots. The flora on Gadal was thick, limiting visibility to a few
meters, but the real problem was the kaleidoscopic effect of colour it created. There appeared to
be no semblance of natural order in the vegetation, or at least no order that humans could
comprehend. The squad had cleared an area 200 square meters around each outpost, but a large
force could still be hiding behind the colourful fringes without anyone noticing.

It was almost H 5.00, mid-morning, when the jungle suddenly erupted with gunfire. The outpost
was hit with every possible weapon in the greenskins’ armoury. One man went down, blown to
bits by a lucky – it seems – burst of gunfire. Another two were blasted sky-high by a rocket
landing in their midst, but they appeared more dazed than injured. Micronemus shouting above
the din ordered his men to hold their fire and hunker down; the Ork onslaught would surely
follow the fusillade. Everything around their position was blasted to bits but there were no more
casualties. Then, silence.

The Guardsmen, dazed, braced for the inevitable charge. None materialized. Auspex readings
finally registered movement, but the enemy was moving away. This brought on both a sigh of
relief and renewed anxiety. What were the greenskins up to? They never used such “hit and run”
tactics. Micronemus voxed back to base, reporting casualties and awaiting instructions. There
were reports of similar incidents all around the perimeter. Casualties totaled four KIA and a
dozen wounded. There were other reports, however, more menacing; Ork movement had been
observed from the East between EWOs 6, 4 and 2. It seemed like the greenskins were using their
explicitly ineffective ranged attacks as a distraction in an effort to infiltrate the position, or were
simply testing the defenses.

Gadal HQ immediately ordered all EWOs to pull back and to activate their remote minefields,
booby-trapping the positions. The distance to the first line of defense was a terrifying 200
meters, through thick vegetation but the Squats had taken this into account and had prepared
deep comms trenches to allow any pull back to be carried out in safety. Micronemus and his
men, carrying their fallen comrade, moved swiftly back to the main line and entered through an
underground tunnel taking them behind the outer fortifications. Other EWOs were less lucky
with EWO 4, Sergeant Dardana’s unit, being hit hardest. Her squad had taken no less than a
dozen rocket hits which had caused two KIA and six wounded, two critically. All had managed
to return, but the walking wounded, Dardana included, had had to carry their seriously injured
comrades and they had lost their heavy weapons and their flamer. The Guardsmen were shaken.
Interestingly enough, no greenskins had been sighted during these attacks and no Guardsmen
could claim even a single kill. Even more worrying was how the Orks had managed to land – in
unknown numbers – on Jooce, completely undetected.

Gadal’s baptism of fire had had an ominous start.

‘It’s better to fight surrounded; no flanks to worry about…’ - Day Four

The outer perimeter consisted of six strongpoints (SPs) located axially in the intervening gaps
of the EWOs, numbered – again clock-wise from East to West – SP1, SP3, SP5, SP7, SP9 and
SP11. Gadal HQ had accepted the fact that any major Ork attack would be able to punch holes in
the thinly held perimeter line and since there were not enough Guardsmen to cover both the outer
and inner perimeters in strength, the SPs were designed as circular bunker-forts interlinked with
trenches, allowing for safe communication, reinforcements and counter-attacks. The lightly-held
intervals in between the SPs had been reinforced with two armoured vehicles each, which were
expected to support any retreating Guardsmen and hold out long enough until flanking attacks
could be initiated against any penetrations, from the closest SPs.

The inner perimeter which protected all the installations, power generators, ammunition
reserves, and makeshift hospital was manned almost entirely by Squats and their militarized
vehicles. Chard had made it clear that his men were not only determined to avenge the slimy
greenskins, but owed it to their massacred brethren to make good on their oaths. This line of
defense was like no other. There was very little to be seen above ground and only medium-sized
cupolas could be discerned. The real defense line lay just below the surface. A network of criss-
crossing trenches (which the Squats had warned were to be avoided by the humans at all costs)
was replete with explosive charges, exposed power lines, nozzles with incinerating fluid and
jumping mines designed to maim and kill. Its best feature, however, was that, unless one used the
proper comms trench linking the outer to the inner perimeter, this “network of death” could not
be avoided. Any attack would thus have to eventually move over open ground and brave the
multitude of deadly surprises prepared by the engineers. Appropriately, each comms trench had
been cleverly designed to be too narrow for Orks, but not obviously so; the entrances, on the
outer perimeter, were wide enough for two Orks to go through, but then they narrowed down
very gradually to less than half their width. Only humans would be able to move all the way
through them. Any inquisitive Orks opting for the comms trench would be caught like Cornelia
flies in a Vesuvian flytrap.

Bromhead was in constant communication with the support fleet orbiting the system. Supplies
were still coming in and there seemed to be no interference from Orks, either on the ground or in
space above. Then, on the third night after the surprise attack on the EWOs, the sky above Jooce
lit up. Reports trickling down after the initial shock, were devastating. One after the other,
Imperial Navy ships protecting the transport fleet were hit in a surprise attack and suffered
heavily. Three escorting heavy units, one Cardinal and two Dominator cruisers, had been
destroyed, along with four other frigates and corvettes and the transports had had to flee the
system in haste. The only positive note was that the Ork battle fleet had taken off in pursuit of
the defeated Imperial ships and it was all up to the ground troops to finish the job.

Gadal was now truly on its own, surrounded on all sides and isolated from any immediate
support. The only assistance left behind was a clutch of Arvus lighters, which never had had time
to return to their ships. These sturdy workhorses, the “Mules”, never designed for combat, were
destined to become the only aerial element of the imperial defenses.
MILLENNIUM OF WAR 257
‘Let the Games begin’ – Day Six

The Orks, despite their reputation for rashness and single-mindedness, had planned their
operation well. Imperial plans for the Bonavia system had been monitored early on and the trap
had been set. The Orks’ cunning plan was the brain child of Warboss Deffgrod Maga. Foot
troops had been pre-positioned on and around Jooce and as the humans remained relaxed in their
false sense of security, the attack was sprung on two fronts: against Gadal base on land and
against the transport fleet above. The fleet dealt with it, and it was now time to deal with the
Praetorian Guard and the last of the Squats. As Day Six dawned on the Awstral, the Ork attack
began in earnest.

The main offensive was launched once again from the East, with all three SPs, One, Three and
Five, assaulted simultaneously. The same tactics used against the EWOs were also used against
the SPs and main line of defense. Massive firepower of all types blasted any bunkers, trenches
and armour that could be brought to bear. The defenders found it difficult to even try to identify
their targets. The fire did not abate even after it had become obvious that, despite the tempest of
explosions and fires, little real damage was inflicted on the defenders hunkering down. After
what seemed like a very long hour, the shooting stopped.

Then, the tactics changed.

Out of the dense vegetation sprang a greenskin horde that seemed like an unstoppable green
tide. This was accompanied by a number of explosions in the background; obviously the mines
and booby traps left behind in and around the EWOs. Bits of green, slimy flesh rained down on
defenders and attackers alike but, other than its tragic-comic value, it did little to stop or even
diminish the green flood.

Gunfire had been directed against all SPs, in every sector, but not all sectors of the perimeter
were assaulted with equal single-mindedness. The main Ork charge went in from the east and
southeast, with SPs 1, 3, 5 and 7, taking the brunt of the attack. The defenders had little time to
clear the debris and mount their heavy weapons and it quickly became obvious that the lightly
held line in between the strongpoints would be overrun. After firing no more than a dozen
volleys of lasfire, the captains leading their respective companies gave the order to pull back to
the second perimeter, through the tunnel-trenches. Not all obeyed. The line sector between SP3
and SP5, saw some of the hardest fighting with the Praetorian line, either having missed the
signal or refused to abandon their positions. Their trust in their M36 lasguns, however, was over-
rated and, after a short, deadly firefight, an entire platoon vanished from sight engulfed by the
green horde. Most of the other troops managed to extricate themselves and escape, while a pair
of Chimeras allocated to this sector continued blasting at the greenskins to provide cover. As the
last of the defenders vanished in the trenches, the flanking fire from the forts came into play. The
greenskins reacted by rushing forward to escape the withering fire, but the maze of traps and
hidden trenches made this a lethal obstacle course.

The attackers were taking las and cannon fire from three sides and, as they advanced, entire
groups of their front runners would suddenly vanish, disappearing into the ground. The trench-
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 259

traps were serving their purpose, as expected, tearing into the bodies of the greenskins that fell
in. Others, the so-called “watt n’ volt” trenches, zapped the fallen with millions of volts of raw
electricity. The brutes sizzled and smoked, writhing in torment before dying. Soon, these traps
were becoming clogged with green bodies, limbs and gore. A number of Orks had opted to
follow the retreating defenders in the tunnels and had suffered an ignominious death stuck inside
the tunnel-trenches, exactly as intended. The Orks may have been unstoppable but at least they
were predictable.

Until the rush into the breach, Ork losses had been remarkably low, but the van of their attack
was now in a sorry state. Most of the surviving Boyz and Nobz had been hit more than once, or
were missing limbs from exploding ordnance. While the lasguns were inadequate against tough
skinned brutes, the combination of all-round fire had had its effect. As the first attack subsided,
the Orks broke-off and started to retreat into the floral depths of the jungle. The defense had held
admirably overall but weaknesses had also become apparent, as was proven by the loss of an
entire platoon within seconds, the result of their refusal to obey orders.

‘Fire is the test of gold; Adversity of strong men’ – Day Seven

News from afar were great only for pessimists. The Imperial fleet was assembling, but it would
not attain a critical level of firepower before a couple of weeks. The defenders would have to
hold out and hold on.

The Squats, along with as many Guardsmen as could be spared, tried to rebuild the line, but
removing the mass of gore that had filled most of the trenches proved impossible. The forts had
suffered little damage and even fewer losses, but ammunition was going to be an issue if the Ork
attacks persisted with the same intensity. In effect, during the night following the first attack,
there was plenty of movement registered outside the perimeter. The Orks were busy.

Before dawn on Day Seven, the greenskins moved again. This time, most of their firepower was
directed against SPs 3, 5 and 7. Gadal HQ, promptly dispatched another two Chimeras to
strengthen the stricken sector. They were placed, one each, just behind SP5 and SP7, ready to
augment the crossfire in between. The attack went in just before daybreak in similar fashion to
the previous one. This time there was no line to defend in between the forts and the traps were
far less effective than previously, which made things far more precarious for the defenders.
Worse was to follow, however. As the horde advanced into the killing zone, two squads of Burna
Boyz moved up to SP3 and SP5 respectively, covered by a shield of greenskin bodies. Despite
serious losses suffered by their brethren, most of the Burna Boyz managed to get into range. As
they approached the ferrocrete wall of the forts they targetted their flamethrowers towards the
firing ports and let loose. Little heat penetrated into the forts proper but the defenders had to pull
back away from their firing positions and take cover. The Burna Boyz then moved up to the wall
aiming to shove their nozzles through the ports. A hard fight ensued with many Guardsmen
trying desperately to fire point-blank into the Burnas. Two of them, at SP3, succeeded and the
closest Burna Boyz blew up in a dramatic mushroom of incandescent fire which virtually
destroyed every combatant within twenty meters, inside and out of the fort. SP3 was saved. SP5,
however, was not so lucky. The Burna Boyz managed to jam the flamethrower nozzles inside the
firing ports and all hell broke loose within. SP5 became a virtual inferno and the explosions that
followed eventually blew the roof off throwing large chunks of ferrocrete onto defenders and
attackers alike. The fire was so hot that the ferrocrete began to melt and run, like lava from a
volcano.

The Orks, their main goal achieved, retreated once again, allowing the Guardsmen to salvage
what they could and take stock of the situation. Some 400 defenders had perished inside the fort
with only a few survivors, horribly burnt and out of action. The Chimera, just behind SP5, had
not escaped either and its crew had suffered a horrible death. The rest of the defenses were
relatively intact but Gadal HQ had to seriously re-assess the situation. Bromhead called a
meeting with Chard and all the company commanders. It was obvious that a third attack against
the same sector, without the fort’s flanking fire and the trench-traps, would truly be unstoppable.

‘Sometimes the Gods will place a wall on your path to force you to go in another direction.’
- Days Eight to Ten

If the solidity of the defenders was being sorely tested, the resolve of the Ork horde was near
collapse. Losses from the first and second attacks were horrendous and the survivors were in a
sorry state of affairs. Many were missing limbs, others were burnt and most were only just
standing. It was Deffgrod Maga that put a temporary break on the costly attacks, until
reinforcements could be assembled by coining the famous Ork saying (translated into proper
Low Gothic): ‘One cannot hope to defeat one’s ferrocrete with one’s green brawn alone’.

The original plan, after the successful defeat of the Imperial fleet off-planet, had been to
assemble the greatest force possible and then attack the base. The rashness of the greenskin kind,
however, had prevailed and the attacks had gone in with what forces were available. The result
was that their stunning success against the forts could not be consolidated and the two opposing
forces stood facing each other exhausted and wondering what was in store for each.

Off planet, the race for reinforcements was on, but the Orks had the advantage of proximity. In
the next couple of days reinforcements could be heard arriving by air and sea. The entire
archipelago was being invested by Ork transports without the defenders being able to do much
about it. Praetoria could only advise patience and resolve – not much to go on under the
circumstances.

In the besieged camp, it was Chard, once again, who came up with a wise suggestion, adopted
in its entirety by Gadal HQ. Realizing that the stricken sector between SP3 and SP7 could not be
held after the demise of SP5, he advised using almost the entire armour force as a mobile
flanking force. The inner base perimeter, behind SP5, would have to be held by the engineer
vehicles mounting whatever heavy weapons were available. Squat teams got to work
immediately devising mounts for the hardware to fit on their Sentinel, Atlas and Trojan vehicles.
The two Hades drills would also be used as a last resort to support a “forlorn hope” charge if the
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 261

Orks managed to break through this wall of fire. But more needed to be done if they wanted to
survive.

On Day Ten, Maga felt he had assembled enough “brawn” to create an unstoppable green wave
and allocated attack sectors to each of his Nob commanders for the assault. He himself would
lead the main push against the stricken SP5 and beyond.

His plan was simple and well-suited to greenskin tactics: what had worked before with the
Burna Boyz was to be repeated on every sector and when the forts had been burned and subdued,
the main assault would be launched on the weakened SP5 sector for a breakthrough. But Maga
had also kept an additional ace up his sleeve. As soon as the main base itself came under attack,
with the defenders distracted, a multitude of craft, some provided by the Ork fleet, some captured
from abandoned outlying installations, some fashioned from whatever was available at hand,
would carry an additional wave of Boyz through the jellysea and attack from the rear. Even if
disabled, motor propulsion for these was not really necessary as the slippery surface made
manual labour effective enough; slow but effective.

In the base, the defenders’ fighting spirit was still upheld by the sole fact that surrender was
meaningless. They had all witnessed the demise of SP5 and near demise of SP3 and understood
that if enough greenskins were available as cannon fodder, their flamethrower teams would be
able to punch through and do their infernal job. The armoured elements were arranged along the
flanks of the trench-trap zones, the Squat teams were allocated to their converted “battle
wagons” and the men waited mostly in silence. Survivors of the previous attacks, allocated to the
less stricken sectors gave what advice they could and Chard with Bromley worked feverishly
with their staff to prepare what additional surprises they could for the Ork horde.

Two new plans were being implemented, both involving fire. (After all, wasn’t it apt to fight
fire with fire?) First, the forts’ garrisons were given specific orders to fire on the attackers
without regard for ammunition wastage, but then retire and abandon their fortification as soon as
the flamethrower teams came within range. As the Orks had halted to fire at the shooting ports
and then waited before advancing to fire inside, there would be enough time to pull back and exit
through the rear and the tunnels. The forts themselves would be packed with as much fuel and
explosives as they could hold. It was expected that the flamethrowers would do the rest. The
combination of flammable materials and Ork mass tactics would create a real sight to behold.
Timing was crucial, as was discipline. The Praetorian sergeants were given the strictest orders
not to stand and fight needlessly.

The second plan was somewhat more devious as it involved the only air-capable element of the
defenders’ arsenal: the benign Arvus lighters, the sturdy ‘Mules’. Chard had the five surviving
craft packed with as many fuel containers as they could carry. They would only need to fly a
very short distance anyway. Once the fireworks had been lit, the lighters would become fire
bombers and dump their load on any area that was less than incandescent or on any green targets
trying to escape the inferno. The pilots were all volunteers as the Arvus, unarmoured as it was,
would likely never return.
 The plans were set, both opponents banking on fire to do the business, both hoping the other
side would do as expected. They were not to be disappointed.

‘To win any battle you must fight as if you are already dead’ – Day Eleven

As with every preamble to a storm, calm prevailed in and around the base. Chard stood on the
promontory, at the eastern end of the elliptical coastline along which the Squats had been
constructing the pier and other port installations. This promontory, aptly named as ‘hag’s tit’ due
to its odd, rounded edge, was to serve as the base of a landing pad. Chard understood better than
most what was at stake and was praying the Orks would not deviate from their successful tactics.
He gazed at the jellysea wondering how the coming fiery battle would affect the elements living
in the placid ooze. An unfettered thought flashed across his mind, like a warning, an admonition,
a rebuke even. It made him feel something like a pang of guilt, as if he’d forgotten something
important. But he couldn’t imagine what this could be and the thought never grew into a
complete meaningful sentence. Then, Bromhead, with a couple of aides, stepped onto the
promontory and approached him. His two aides turned out to be beautiful Praetorians, real
dragon ladies. The two of them flanked Bromhead like wings and it was obvious that they
thought very highly of him. Chard guessed the feelings were mutual and smiled. If Bromhead
managed to survive this ordeal – his first real test – he was destined to become somebody really
grand with the ladies.

Bromhead may have had appeal with the ladies, but at the moment he was dead serious and
truly worried. Chard greeted the colonel and his ‘wings’ and enquired if all was ready. Bromhead
was positive but was wondering about a different item on his agenda: why had the Orks not used
air power? If their own fleet had fled, why had they not been annihilated from above by the Ork
heavy ships? Praetoria had informed that the battle was far from over, hinting at heavy losses on
both sides, but Bromhead believed that the answer lay elsewhere. It lay with Deffgrod Maga’s
personal revenge trip. When Intelligence had discovered the identity of his enemy counterpart
Bromhead knew he was in for a personal fight to the death with a not so long-forgotten
opponent. The two had met before, with the Praetorians benefiting from every advantage, and the
humans had humiliated the Ork forces in a pitched battle that one could not forget.

Sharing his story with Chard, he wondered if Maga had not prepared any more surprises for
them. They both agreed that they couldn’t rule out any air attack, especially as the initial assaults
had failed to overrun the base, so anti-air assets were considered. The base possessed four Hydra
flak tanks (which Bromhead considered essential against ground targets) and only four dedicated
Tarantula sentry guns which the Squats had ingeniously fitted on Trojan support vehicles. The
issue was how to maximize their effectiveness against ground targets without hampering their
use against air attack. It was decided that they would be more useful spread widely, deployed in
a rectangular formation, with two on the coast, on either end of the base facilities, and two
positioned well forward, near the battleline, flanking forts SP3 and SP9. This would prove a wise
choice, but for different reasons than they had expected.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 263

As night fell, the men and women defending the base gathered around their platoon leaders and
quietly, heads forward, prayed. They prayed for deliverance and for an honourable death. Few
hoped they would come out of this predicament alive, but many vowed to end their days without
shame. No one slept and no one felt the need to do so.

‘May the Holy Emperor preserve me,’

‘May he guide me towards the most righteous cause…’

‘The first morning of creation wrote what the last dawn of reckoning shall read’ – Day 12;
Day of Reckoning

The fortress garrisons were selected from the most disciplined and experienced Praetorians and
for good reason. All had witnessed the fiery demise of SP5 and some had seen the few comrade
survivors close up. No being, it seems, prefers to die a scorching death and the Praetorians were
no different. They knew they needed to do better, but the success of this elastic defense lay
mainly with their sergeants’ diligence. The retreat manoeuvre had to be executed perfectly in
order to maximize enemy losses and allow the defenders to escape more or less unharmed. The
fuel cells and ammunition charges were layed in the center of the forts, the men practiced their
movement through the innards of the complex and the sergeants sweated from anxiety.

Troops in the line trenches, in between the forts, had no easy task either. They had better access
to the comms tunnels but they too were apprehensive of the unusual tactics prescribed. Between
SP3 and what was left of SP5, there was no defense line to speak of. The Squats had only
managed to reactivate a few of the trench-traps and had placed mines in between. There was no
time to do more. All that lay before the last line of defense and the attackers would be a
substantial force of armoured and unarmoured vehicles, all packing heavily.

Lasguns at the ready, heavy weapon crews alert, the defenders waited in silence as the night
grew darker.

Just before the light of dawn, weapons of all types opened up on the line. The effect of this on
the defenders was – surprisingly – one of release. The agony of waiting for the worst was over
and the maelstrom of Ork gunfire was, as usual, more spectacular than effective. The men and
women hunkered down to avoid losses and they endured in silence for over an hour. Here and
there, an accurate shot would go through a visor or a weapon slit and someone would go down,
but overall, the firing was not very deadly. The wave of green that materialized out of the jungle,
however, was another matter. All sectors were assaulted simultaneously, except the weakened
SP3/SP5 sector, which continued to be plastered with gunfire. Bromley realized that the heavy
concentration of armour in this vulnerable area was detrimental to the defenses of other sectors
and, for a moment, feared that a breakthrough would occur on the flanks, but he wisely stuck to
his plan and kept his cool.

The first Ork wave was met with successive, accurate volleys and suffered moderately, coming
up almost against the forts. There was no sight of any Burna Boyz but this meant little. If the
greenskins had been receiving reinforcements for three days, they would probably have been
able to gather a substantial Waagh including flame-throwing teams. In any case, their over-
confidence suggested that this was probably the case. The first attack petered out and the Orks
pulled back into the foliage once again. Apparently, with this preamble, they were simply testing
the strength of the defenses.

The second attack was launched without any preparatory shooting, against all sectors this time,
which signaled that this was going to be the main event. Initially, it was the sectors around SP11,
SP9, and SP7 that took the brunt of the attack this time and, as planned, most of the line
defenders pulled back to the inner perimeter through comms tunnels. The greenskins proved
much better prepared this time and avoided going through the deadly obstacle course between
the forts. They took what cover they could in the abandoned trenches and awaited further
reinforcements. The three strongpoints were now almost surrounded, but, despite the incessant
firing, had suffered few losses.

The fighting further east went in a different direction. SP1 and SP3 were invested, with the line
defenders pulling back, but a fresh group of Orks appeared along the eastern coast, attempting to
infiltrate the defenses through there. They were taken under fire from SP1 and the mounted
Tarantula and, concentrated as they were, suffered heavily. This threat was thwarted but the
mounted Tarantula would need to stay in place to guard against a second attempt.

In the center, the Orks clambered over the devastation that was SP5. Finding cover there,
special teams started to mount heavy guns amongst the ruins to take out the armour that was
wreaking havoc against the Boyz moving through the gap. A duel ensued between them and the
Chimeras, a couple of Hellhounds, the Tarantula/Trojan composite and one of the Hydra flak
tanks. The first blood went to the Orks, since they had not been spotted immediately, and one of
the Chimeras and the Tarantula/Trojan were hit. Both were disabled but managed to fire back
until fire consumed the crews or the ammunition. Then, all of the defenders found their range
and the numerous Ork crews with their hardware were blown to bits. The few survivors
clambered back down and took cover. This distraction, however, had given the Boyz and Nobz
time to push forward within striking distance of the vehicles and the inner line of defense.

It was at this crucial point in the battle that the Burna Boyz appeared through the mayhem to
finish the job. The defenders immediately set in motion their plan and, firing heavily at the Orks’
protective screens of green flesh, pulled back from the firing ports just as the flamethrowers
came within range. Their plan was being executed perfectly. The fire that hit the forts was even
more intense than before as the flame-throwing teams had been doubled since the first attack.
This only contributed to the defenders having more time to pull back in order to avoid a horrible
death. Then, after a few moments waiting for the fires to die down, the Burna Boyz and their
supports moved forward cautiously.

The moment was crucial as there was a possibility that the lack of response from the forts
would be interpreted as a trap by the Orks, but the greenskins were, if anything, predictable.
Howling with enthusiasm, the flamethrowers were lit through the firing ports and the burning
fuel inundated the forts. SP3 was first to go this time, then in perfect sequence, SP7, SP9 and
SP11 followed. SP1, for unknown reasons, was spared; for the time being at least.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 265

The morning sky was a beautiful rosy grey, but when the forts started burning the incandescent
fire made it appear darker. Then, the gates of hell opened and fire daemons spewed forth. Four
tremendous explosions, in quick succession, shook the entire island like four erupting volcano
chutes. The brilliance of the thermite burning, together with the laser charges and energy cells,
added a maelstrom of malevolent colours to the spectacle. Few wished to gaze at the sight,
however. Any living beings within 100 meters of the forts’ outer walls were instantly burned to
cinder from the heat wave generated. This included, apart from the flame-throwing teams, all of
the Orks of the first wave, more than a few of the second and any that had penetrated into comms
tunnels. The Praetorians did not escape unharmed either. Any armoured vehicles near the
stricken forts were put out of action as were any Guardsmen that formed the rear guard when
pulling back. Seconds later, the flaming, molten debris of the fort roofs descended on friend and
foe alike, burning anything and anyone that they touched, like lava.

For more than a few minutes, all that could be heard was the crackling of fires, cries and grunts
of agony and the strange sound of ferrocrete cooling slowly to its solid state. Both forces stood
still and tried to regain their composure. None resorted to their weapons. It was as if this extreme
show of violence had taken away their fight. The Orks had suffered huge losses but, still,
possessed more than enough forces to continue the assault. Deffgrod Maga had escaped, yet
again, with a little more than his pride singed. The Praetorians were shocked, more than pleased,
with the halting of the enemy attack. Their losses in Guardsmen and, more important, in heavy
weapons, had been far greater than anticipated and they no longer had any buffer line of defense
or flanking ability. It seemed that their imminent demise was a consequence of their great
success.

‘One should never have too much of a good thing,’ quipped Chard, wincing from the heat that
had almost roasted his face. Bromhead looked at him and smiled. ‘At least we’re still here,
standing and defiant,’ was the essence of his thoughts.

‘This is the End, the End of our elaborate plans, the End of everything that stands’ – Day
13; Day of Crisis

The scene was one of utter devastation. The former outer perimeter had simply ceased to exist,
with five of the six forts replaced by five enormous, smoking craters. Further inside the line of
defense, there were no less than a dozen burned out hulls of Imperial armour. Surprisingly, after
such horrendous losses, very few bodies could be distinguished among the ruins. Most of the
casualties had been burned to ashes, or had been vaporized from the extreme heat. It would be no
exaggeration to say that the base had been cauterized.

A good two hours after this Gotterdammerung hit Gadal-42, Maga had all his surviving Nobz
assembled and tasks re-allocated. The greenskins’ enthusiasm for a fight had been dampened (no
pun intended) somewhat, but their “easy” victim was still there for the taking, defiant but
weakened. And they also had the ace up their sleeve. As the day passed, Maga realized that an
attack on the scale of the previous one could not be repeated. He refused to ask for air support,
which he knew would not be available anyway, because his reputation was at stake. Ork losses
may have mattered not, but failure to exterminate the Praetorians with their hated Squats would
not be acceptable, especially given the favourable odds.

Witnessing the devastation, he considered his options. The one sector that seemed more
vulnerable was SP5/SP3. Spotters could not identify any vehicles in working order there; just
hulks, blackened and still smoking. This was then to be the target of the final assault. Only this
time it needed to be coordinated with the jellysea invasion from the rear and Orks were not
renowned for the skills in coordinated action.

Bromhead, with Chard at his side, also gathered his company commanders, or at least, those
that could still stand on two legs, and the Squat teams, which were relatively unhurt. There were
still six armoured vehicles in battle order, although most had lost mobility. These would have to
form the new ‘forts’ around which the last line of defense would be deployed. The inner
perimeter was a joke compared to the previous arrangements and stood little chance of halting a
determined enemy attack of the order of magnitude experienced already. Both Bromhead and
Chard, however, hoped (more than believed) that the devastation dealt on the Orks the previous
day would have improved the odds against them.

Communication off-planet was impossible as all the relevant hardware had either been damaged
or was nowhere to be seen. The Praetorians had been decimated after the three attacks and the
conflagration, with over 50% losses. A good number of the wounded could still use their lasguns,
but couldn’t stand, so were placed in stretches near the port installations as a last line of defense.
Rudimentary defenses with crates and building materials were placed around them and an ad hoc
platoon of Squats was designated as their support. The troops coined them, with mixed
admiration and military humour, as the ‘busted brigade’.

The armoured vehicles were also heavily sand-bagged where they stood and were placed in
intervals around the inner perimeter. The up-gunned engineer vehicles that had survived were
still mobile and formed the “mobile reserve”. The one Hades drill that was fully operational was
placed in the center, ready to intervene in case of a breakthrough as was the Arvus air element
which had survived unscathed. The strongest point of defense was SP1, which still remained
intact with its full complement of Guardsmen and the Tarantula in support. But there were no
tricks, traps or clever defenses this time; only brains, brawn and determination. All the men and
women knew the odds, accepted them, and were ready.

As Day 13 dawned, the Orks appeared on the fringes of the dense vegetation, menacing and
ready to go. Without any warning shots, they moved as a green wall. All sectors were assaulted
simultaneously but density of numbers suggested that the main direction of the attack was
against sector SP5/SP3. The Guardsmen/squat teams opened fire without any regard for
ammunition wastage and the battle was on.

Just as the Orks approached to within charge range, shooting was heard in the defenders’ rear.
A Squat group leader came up to Chard and Bromhead and reported the most alarming news:
thousands of Orks were attempting an invasion from the sea. Orks had already landed before
dawn, unnoticed, and were assaulting the makeshift positions of the ‘busted brigade’.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 267

At that moment, Squat engineer, Nyk Rezaws, responsible for foundations, remembered what
he had witnessed early in the construction work: the Lymphs! With a couple of his comrades,
they ran as fast as they could to the machine warehouse, extricated a couple of thumpers and
started preparing them with feverish determination.

The situation reports at HQ had ceased to make any sense. Both Bromhead and Chard, along
with their staff, had abandoned their bunker and were manning weapon posts. Every Ork team
that approached close to the perimeter consisted a potential breakthrough that needed to be
sealed. Initially, these would be reported in ones or twos, but gradually the penetrations became
more frequent and multiplied in number. Fire teams and mobile “guntrucks” moved from sector
to sector to hold the line. When reports of the seaborne invasion to their rear reached them, they
knew it must be over.

Chard left Bromhead manning a heavy weapon on his Chimerax and ran back to the port
facilities only to witness a new drama unfolding: A small group of greenskins were already on
land and some had begun their grim task of slaying the wounded that couldn’t move. The Squat
platoon was doing its best to hold them but more were arriving by sea in random groups. The
two Tarantulas had tried to take under fire the rafts and craft that were still out to sea to try and
lessen the continual flow of reinforcements, but it was obvious that it was a losing battle,
especially as both extreme ends of the base were being assaulted by land as well. Two over-
heating Tarantulas could not be expected to do everything.

Then, they heard the thumpers going.

Thumpers are a magnificent piece of equipment. They smash huge pistons rhythmically into
hard soil to crack and loosen it so that it can be excavated by diggers. The sound is a deep boom
that can be heard for miles like an ultra-low frequency signal. For reasons that have never been
explained, this low frequency seems to be extremely annoying to the giant Lymphs living deep in
the jellysea. Incidents at the beginning of the construction work were always deadly and humans
had been warned to stay clear of the liquid and even the coast when the thumpers were operating.

On this occasion, the twin thumpers with the huge number of craft on the surface, presented a
perfect combination. The effect was neither dramatic, nor impressive, but it was terminal. Huge,
bubble-like, protrusions appeared all over the jellysea’s surface, but instead of popping like
bubbles, they just sucked any craft or vehicle under the surface and disappeared. That was it; no
drama, no noise, no flash, no gore. In a matter of minutes, the jellysea reverted back to its
regular, flat, unruffled state. There were just no Orks to be seen anywhere.

For the second time, all combat in the coastal area ceased. Both humans and Orks simply gazed
in amazement at the quiet annihilation of a whole army in a matter of minutes. The few Orks still
on land, woke up from their trance and singled out the thumper operators, charging them. All fire
was concentrated against them from any weapon that could be brought to bear. None survived.
The sea invasion had ended as suddenly as it had begun. The fortunes of battle were finally
shifting.
 Deffgrod Maga realized what had occurred and also understood that he could no longer win. A
quarter of his total forces had been expended in the failed invasion by sea and any penetrations
achieved were at the western end of the base, where there were no reserves to consolidate. His
efforts, at assaulting the base from sector SP5/SP3, had been thwarted by a combination of fire
from SP1 on his right flank and the Hades drill which had been put to very good use by those
pesky little Squats. Finally, the humans had managed to find an aerial element as well. Small
craft suddenly rose up from the base area and flew over the Ork positions dropping what proved
to be incendiary devises with devastating results. As he came under fire from an auto cannon
himself, he decided enough was enough.

Groups of Orks started retreating either in panic or in organized retreat. The only ones that failed
to receive the signal were the Ork platoons that had success on the western side. They had even
managed to capture the Tarantula after it ran out of ammunition. When they realized that they
had been abandoned, they made a last breakout attempt, but the Squats would have none of it.
Their dead comrades were avenged to the sole remaining greenskin and the last of the
penetrations was sealed.

‘In the Aftermath, we are because they were’ - Curtains

Bromhead had survived as had Chard, along with almost a third of their force. Given the odds,
this was destined to be commemorated as one of the greatest defensive battles in Imperial
military history and Gadal-42 would be emblazoned on the uniforms of both Praetorian
regiments. The Squats, along with Chard, were elevated to honourary “Praetorian” status and
accorded the same respect and insignia; a brotherhood forged in battle worthy of its name.

What neither the Imperials not the Orks knew at the time was that the final outcome of the
battle in the Ohkean would not be determined on Gadal, but in space, where two Imperial fleets,
assembled and in force, would clash with the Ork fleet. This time there was to be no surprise and
the humans held all the aces. Deffrod Maga, disgraced, was abandoned and eventually
surrendered with what Ork forces remained.
MILLENNIUM OF WAR 269

ONE FLESH
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 271

I float in the morass of the void. I have no sight to comprehend color. The only scent is the
familiar aroma of native organs. I drift in a sea of flesh that presses and pulls my forms. My
flesh. I am packed together, all of me the same yet distinct. United but apart from myself. At this
level and stage of my existence it is hard to comprehend anything, until the rush of movement
strikes me.

Invisible motions and muscles propel me. I am rushed forward to the thrum of a subtle beat. A
song sings through my limited perception. It is a song sung by the Chorus that directs my action.
And that action is to go forward. I push alongside a billion other pieces of me which had been
floating aimlessly but are now propelled by the same Chorus screaming the same message again
and again. Forward forward forward, I follow the path. The Chorus directs me, and through it I
remember my form’s purpose. I am poison; designed to shred from within.

I beach upon foreign systems, shot from my sight of injection. I push into foreign liquids and
meld into circulation I have been designed to navigate yet have never experienced. This prey is
coded to my current nature. It is Human.

Before me stretches the wilds of arterial flow a storm of cells and movement. I feel the
vibrations of my surroundings and instinctively identify systems etched in my genetic coding
rounded platelets designed to carry energy. They are my target but not my end goal. Their
annihilation is secondary. The engines of my frame propel me to crawl the infinitesimal gap to
my purpose. I smash through gushing plasma vectors that revolt at my intrusion, but its disgust is
insignificant compared to my drive. I dive into the heart of the bloodstream.

Through the chaos I pick my target; as do my billion other microbial selves. I am behind, ahead
and around me, falling through the tumble towards other targets across a billion vectors of
assault. Before me now it is a single cell that looms. I tumble towards it as a swarm until its
shape eclipses my horde. Its size does not daunt me. I press into it.

Upon every one of my frames are nodes cultured to shape certain proteins and act as disguise.
The nodes press into the cell. They are keys that slot so perfectly the cell cannot help but accept
me. Its design is weak, inherent in flesh disunited, easily manipulated. I sink into it without
notice.

Some of my others are not so unobstructed. Front line defensive cells notice us and attack as we
drift. Some of me must realign the protein spears form to latch on to these defensive cells and
deceive them instead. Others I must distract through sacrifice, embracing the enemy before self-
destructing in a burst of hastily built enzymes, dissolving defenders through cytotoxic suicide.
Adaptive diversity succeeds. Some of me survives. Some of me dies so that the rest survives.

The blood cell carries me away from my point of injection across a million other blood cells.
More copies of myself will filter into the breach and release enzymes to attract blood towards it.
The preys own body will face conflict from within as it recognizes an attack as a helpful
response. More blood will filter towards me and embrace its downfall. The immune response
cannot adapt in time to this surge of hostile overflow as I saturate it. Again, the weakness of
disunited flesh is proven.
 The greater body knows it is under attack now. I can sense the cell I am attached to hurry faster
through the bloodstream. Higher metabolic rate indicates pronounced emotional response
concurrent with expectant weakness of the Human. Its designation is [Fear]. It is my ally.

This is within my design, necessary for the completion of my purpose. Exploit the inner
workings of the prey to carry me to my objective, and ensure its downfall. I drift alongside my
carrier, waiting for the cell to arrive where it must eventually go. A centralized circulation
system can only have one nexus, the [heart].

I am able to distinguish when arriving at the [heart]. There is a temporary flux in flow. Plasma
that was rushing, halts for a fraction of time insignificant to larger creatures but to me
encompasses an eternity. I detach from my host, its purpose fulfilled. It saturates with fresh
energy and is carried away; but not me.

I sink through the tempest of muscles within the chamber as a fresh wave of expired plasma
arrives to be refreshed. As it leaves the muscles contract and expand, giving life to the sound of a
Human. The beat of life is a drum, vibrating my core and vindicating my programming. The
Chorus within sings louder though and it entices me to secondary action. I shed particles to mark
the way for me yet to come. At this level, without eyes to see, or ears to hear I must leave a trail
of particles to be followed.

With this secondary purpose achieved, I continue to sink, down and down. Already I am
followed. Others of me swim towards the same meaty tissues I am about to embrace. I adjust the
protein formations of my exterior to the suitable shape as is my design.

Once more the unity of my flesh is my strength. I embrace foreign tissue, deceitful and
undetected. Once more, the prey’s flesh is too weak and simple to know its end has come.

The keys lock me to a cell. One of billions of round simple machines that form the construction
of this lifeform’s [heart]; billions of machines that keep this Human alive. I twist the keys,
unlocking a path to the insides of the prey cell. With the path open, I vomit the matter of my core
inside it. The Chorus within becomes a crescendo, a shriek to mark the ultimate fulfillment of my
form.

This is my design. I expel twisted helixes of protein code that contain the building blocks of
annihilation. They will attach themselves to the organic gears that keep this cell alive. They will
configure and twist unto one another, crushing and tearing and breaking whatever they come
across. And when their final shape is achieved, the code that is my flesh that is one will expand
and destroy this cell from within.

This body detaches; its purpose done. Protein links break and the thrashing of my form quiets.
Behind me a billion more of me already sink to embrace the unsuspecting flesh and repeat what
this body has done. For I am united and my flesh is strong. I drift and await return to the whole.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 273

The final sensation I experience in this body is the aroma of obliteration; flakes of dead matter
falling into the yawning abyss of what will soon be digested. The Chorus is an echo now. Where
it once boomed, its void envelopes me. I do not care. I have completed my purpose here.

I rip and tear into writhing flesh. My eight legs suture under skin and eviscerate muscle and
tendons. A hand scratches furiously at my carapace. It is annoying and futile. My mouth has
latched onto bone. A needle from my mouth lances into an artery. My poison has already entered
the Human. As have five of my other mouths.

I impacted this creature in seven areas. In one area I directly struck the cranial carapace and was
splattered. In another area I was grabbed before being able to find a soft area, was tossed to the
ground and crushed. In five places I remain and now burrow into soft tissue; the eyes, the ears,
the mouth and one of the [Human’s] arms and legs.
The prey Human writhes in our grasp, its screams drowned by gurgling and spasms. It flails
randomly trying to evict all of us and therefore escaping none of us. Our jaws are too strong and
our numbers too great. I feel the beat of its heart quicken more and more. Such weakness as its
fear rushes the toxin I secrete towards its target. Already I sense the beating becoming
arrhythmic. The cells that keep the principal Human organ alive are being deleted. It is already
over.

But my purpose is not fulfilled. I continue to writhe and chew muscles and fat and gnaw at
bone. The digestion is a multi-staged process. The current actions of this body will facilitate
further help with general consumption and breakdown of proteins on a planetary scale. It is my
programming.

I will not let go. Not until I am returned to the whole. I will wait here for now.

The Human is finished. My aim is blessed by the perfection of my form. My rounds have
succeeded in disabling the target. Five beetles bore into it, delivering their poison and now it is
silent. I press on. Within me the collective Chorus sings praise as my purpose is vindicated. My
flesh succeeds.

In this form I clean the ruins left behind in the advance of the greater flesh. Far ahead in a realm
of fire and screams, I swarm in numbers enough to drown the oceans. There I die in droves in the
thick of conflict against those who refuse consumption. I burn, I scream, I am crushed and I am
mauled. But here I am none of those things. Here I serve another purpose in the consumption.

I scrounge and scuttle over ruins of a failed race on a planet I have already won dominion of. I
have been here before as I attacked in the first waves. Crashing over [monuments to the sin of
weak flesh] in the first hordes to touch this world. Here there was no time to prepare for my
arrival and my assault was effortless. Yet it is incomplete. I must scour this place down to the
bedrock.
 Crushed rock and flattened bodies mark my path. The devastation of the previous advance hides
my targets. Survivors cowering and gripped by the disunity weakness they call Fear. I hunt them
through the dust and the flames. Some try to fight me, but they are weak and alone and I am
legion and they fail. I tear them apart and crush them with numbers. This sector has fallen, as
will all the others. It is time to explore other areas.

I disperse myself. The unity of collective flesh allows me to coordinate my others. Nothing will
escape my screening. Already I-

-am silenced. One of me is gone. Destroyed suddenly and without warning. What has-

-happened? Death. I am being attacked by an unknown enemy. I scan for targets. My eyes
shuffle everywhere. I see-

-a shade of something huge. I fire at it. I maneuver my bodies to respond. I can surround it.
Through the dust and gloom it moves again. In flashes of lightning and barks of thunder I can see
it-

-firing. Its caliber is powerful. But we are many. The Chorus of united flesh sings as our fury is
directed. I charge towards the flashing. My weapons launch flesh boring ammo towards the
target. I am certain I must have hit it. But it does nothing to slow it. What is-

-this target that is killing me so efficiently? This prey’s movements invoke adaptive responses I
have acquired across many worlds in this galaxy. The lethality and size and armament suggests it
is an-

-Armored Human Giant. An instinct rises within me directed by the death cries of my flesh. This
target represents a significant threat to ongoing consumption. Logic dictates it must be
eliminated. Logic dictates this form is insufficient to fulfill that purpose. I must trade time. The
Chorus directs me for it is the logic of all my united flesh. I continue to charge as-

-I am killed. Every flash of light is an explosion, a crack that offends the Chorus, a bolt of pain in
my flesh. But my flesh is the ocean and pain is-

-nothing. I continue to charge. I cannot hope to best the Armored Giant in this form. But I can
distract it as flesh resources that can kill it are redirected here. I scuttle over rubble, certain I am
on its trail. I come to a clearing, where the smoke and the flame part and where it should be. But
it is not there. I twist my eyes side to side. Could it have outflanked me? Instinct twists me
around and there it is. Looming taller than this form of mine. The circle of a barrel pointed at me.
The last thing I see in this flesh is-

-a flash. Several bounds away, I go to it. I must die many times for this opponent to fall. It does
not matter. I have flesh to spare.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 275

My lesser forms are silenced one by one. The massacre blunts the Chorus of unity within. It is
an ugly crack through my psyche, burning and invoking me to rushed action. I run faster in three
larger forms born for true war, my bladed appendages cutting the ground. I do not know if even
these will be enough.

Through their actions, my lesser bodies fulfill a necessary sacrifice. Their death screams mask
my approach. Their bodies soak up explosive rounds that may yet end other, more crucial flesh.
Those explosions are louder now. I am close. I slow my pace. Through the eyes of lesser flesh I
triangulate the position of the armored Giant. A plan of attack forms in a matter of seconds. I
leap into the air with one form. In another I circle around and the last keeps going the original
path.

In this form I possess talons longer than any Human appendage. My legs propel me high so I
can fall with what should be killing force. Perhaps the Giant doesn’t know I am falling towards
it. Thirty of my lesser flesh forms already cloud its view, drawing its bullets and gaze away. I am
a heartbeat from impaling its neck.

The armored Humans are specimens worthy of respect. Their forms are edited and refined to
lack the many weaknesses of the baseline Human. Their augmented flesh possesses reaction and
speed I envy in many of my lesser forms. It is that reaction efficiency that causes this one to even
now turn its gaze and gun towards me and pull the trigger in less time than I can realize. A flash
clouds my view.

A hotness envelopes my abdomen, displacing a substantial amount of matter from one half of
my body. It is not enough to halt my fall or my one remaining talon. I impale it into the barrel of
the gun of the Armored Giant. My talon splits shaped minerals and hardened metals, fulfilling
the original purpose of this form. I have now deprived the opponent of its primary offensive
measure even though I have failed to yet land a blow.

I attempt a final action in this half destroyed flesh; biting with my intact mouth. The Armored
Giant grabs my skull firmly in its armored fist and throws me towards the ground. Already I am
charging forward in another warrior form, talons extended as I am splattered into bits of mush
and chitin.

I attempt to impale the armored human from two directions. From the front and rear. As it
finishes crushing my airborne assault it kneels suddenly, I press forward, aiming for break points
in its carapace. Then it rises. In one hand shimmers an edge weapon that rivals this form’s claws.
In the other, a lesser form of the weapon I have already destroyed. I realize even with these
warrior forms it will be enough.

My assault from the front falters. In one motion the Armored Giant rises and turns as I am
moments from striking. It bats aside my talons with an armored hand and slices my neck. My
head is still flying as I see it turn. It points the barrel of its lesser gun at my assault from the rear.
I see from all angles at my head evaporates in a detonation and my last warrior form dies.
Then the head that has been separated from its body strikes the ground and the Armored Giant
crushes me with its foot.

My warrior bodies have failed I-

-must fall back to utilizing lesser flesh. These smaller bodies are numerous but they will not be
enough. The destruction of so much bio-matter necessitates the deployment of larger bio-forms.
Until then, more sacrifice is necessary. I have two hundred more disposable forms in the
immediate vicinity and all of them are converging upon-

-the location of the Armored Giant. The solution is currently falling towards this location.

I am on fire and I am falling. I fall down into the gravity of a world that despises me. Its skin is
covered in an atmosphere that blunts my intrusion. As I fall, it compacts under my velocity to
form a burning grasp that prickles my skin and attempts to murder me. It is a brilliant defense
from the intrusion of a lesser cosmic phenomenon that would be devoured in a storm of fire and
friction.

But it cannot devour me. Nothing can devour me.

I have been designed for this task. I was launched from a vessel made of a thousand consumed
worlds. I am covered in a chemically bonded shell of purpose and engineering that defies the
physical annihilation of entering the orbit of a foreign sphere. My flesh has been perfected over
eons across more planets than can be counted.

I puncture the layers of atmosphere. The heat scrapes at me. Contrails are left behind from the
speed. Booms echo as I break the barriers of sound. I am in my element.

The Chorus directs me to the point where I must drop. At my current trajectory I will miss it by
a considerable distance. On one side of my being I unleash a jet of pressurized gas to redirect my
path. I am rewarded with success. Chemical trails in the air unite with the Chorus to prove my
vector is perfect.

The outer layer of my flesh is gone and the next takes up the task of shielding. As is my design
it has guarded me well. Soon I will strike through the last layers of atmosphere and pierce the
earth. Within me cargo begins the process of awakening as its body is geared towards its
eventual purposes. Organs and systems created barely hours ago awake, propelled by the thrum
of the Chorus. They are protected from the monumental exterior forces. It is my design to endure
what is about to be an efficient landing.

When I strike the ground, I feel nothing; not the shattering of the ground nor the cracking of my
hide, nor does my cargo. The area surrounding my impact is deafened by a blast of dust and
matter, then absorbed with crushing silence. A silence that lasts until I begin the final stages of
this flesh’s purpose.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 277

I send chemical signals that provoke the formation of cracks upon my surface. They form in
long lines that separate and fall apart. As that burned and bruised layer crumbles, protective gel
that has safeguarded my cargo leaks and spills into the pulverized earth. My task has been
completed. I await return to the whole.

I take my first breath of life in this form. My shell breaks away and I am greeted with the rush
of scorched air filled with dust and death, the death of Humans and my flesh. I flex my legs,
impaling the ground at eight points. The biological pistons of my frame revolt in a riot of
sensation as they are spurred to movement for the first time. In this form I am only a few hours
old. If I achieve my purpose and endure until the completion of planetary digestion, I may
survive a few days.

Before me stretches the ruin of Human civilization, smashed structures that served as poor
hovels for masses of lesser enemy flesh. It is understandable why I overran this place so
effortlessly. This is where the lesser members of a species breath and die, scrabbling for less than
nothing. They could muster paltry strength in the face of my tide.

In the distance I see its opposite. Towers piercing the sky glowing with light and flares of
conflict. That is where the Humans make their final stand with the riches of their world. There
the prey holds out against my onslaught with the mightiest desperation that only emerges when
faced with certain annihilation. I am there now as I am here. I feel every burn of energy, every
pellet of shrapnel from every explosion and I return in kind with acid and screams. I claw at their
walls, bash their gates and soak up their defiance. So much of me has died there; but I have so
much more to spare.

It is the true downfall of a disunited species to separate themselves into factions rich and poor
in resource. Such blatant weakness allows for the proliferation of simple strategies. I assault the
less defended masses, deprive the minority of further numbers and I allocate equal flesh to none,
for all my bodies are me. Unity is my strength. It is unity that now reminds me of my purpose.

Pheromones lace the air indicating a certain trail that requires following. They are scents
released by the death of my lesser forms. I check back in those bodies. The Armored Giant has
killed one hundred and fifty of my two hundred minor bodies. It stabs and hacks me with a razor
edge. It blows me apart with explosive rounds. Still I come, embracing the instinct to sacrifice
the lesser for the greater.

I am already in motion. The size of this form prevents subtle movement but allows for greater
force application. I smash through the paths of streets and crush engines of metal. Ahead of me is
the structure where I am dying in droves to the Armored Giant.

It is a place of devotion where minds try to find the Chorus I already possess. The weakness of
disunited flesh to require artificial mental support. It is surrounded by columns of gold and
before its shining gates is the idol of Humans, an unremarkable god carved in marble holding a
blade in defiance. A god that is not with them. I swipe it aside. It crashes to pieces on the ground
as I break the barrier within.

The carnage is on full display. Pieces of me are scattered far and wide. Carapace and guts
strewn in random patterns. My lesser flesh contorted into graphic shapes. The lethality of the
Armored Giant is magnificent and perfectly encapsulates their kind. The ability to deal death and
inflict such catastrophic results in so short a period of time. Their stubbornness and ability to
endure is equally remarkable, but when joined with their genetic ferocity is truly impressive.
Were it not for their limited numbers, they may have already halted my reaping of their worlds.

I have faced them so many times. I am fighting them even now on so many fronts and so many
other worlds. Their resilience will make an incredible harvest and their abilities will be put to full
use in future iterations of my flesh. For now though, their neutralization must take priority.

The lone warrior turns to face me, knee deep in the remains of my dead flesh. It is missing no
appendages and is only marked by the gore of what it has killed and a few scrapes and bruises
from my less adapted forms. The Chorus still sings for them, their sacrifice was within their
design. I shall justify it.

I charge the enemy. My armored bulk will be enough to crush them even with its clumsiness.
The Armored Giant possesses the better grace and rushes sideways. My remaining lesser bodies
move to intercept. There are only fifteen left, but I see the prey’s small ballistic weapon holstered
aside. It has been deprived of long range weaponry. This will be finished with claws and teeth.

Fifteen of my lesser bodies swarm its path, the last survivors of a horde of hundreds. In their
eyes I see the Armored Giant as a mound of metal and hate. It burns with purpose and
momentum. It crashes into my swarm, crushing many outright under hard carapace. Others of me
leap and find purchase on the armor, biting and tearing into whatever is weakest. The Armored
Giant shrugs some of them off, but that momentary distraction slows them down long enough for
me to catch up.

My skull with rounded horns smashes their back. Ceramic shell cracks beneath force. It is
sturdy protection that rattles even this larger form. The Armored Giant flies through the air
slightly, before crashing onto its back. Without hesitation I close the gap; raise a bladed
appendage and stab down. I splinter armor, skin, bone and hammer the ground. I feel the central
spine of my enemy crunch to nothing. A kill-strike certainly. I lower my head to inspect my dead
prey.

It is not dead.

One last stab of defiance in the face of what must be catastrophic pain. The Armored Giant
rams a shining spike into my nasal cavity, right next to one of my eyes. In this form it is barely
larger than one of my teeth, but the impact is significant. I recoil slightly but correct myself as
quickly. Its fist clenches, quivering and so close to termination. Its cranium is a curved
masterpiece of protection, completed into a snarling helm. Perfect for psychological intimidation.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 279

From its mouth it utters a garbled phrase; I have heard it uttered in a thousand tongues from a
trillion of its species' throats as a final scream in the face of the end.

[For the Emperor]; an impotent phrase to an impotent god. Then its grip goes still, before
collapsing as genebred muscled succumbs to gravity. I must make sure though
.
I coil muscles along my abdomen. My ridged belly pulses in the throes of sudden expulsion.
The seams of my thorax split, pouring out gushing natal fluid and copies of my lesser selves.
They plop to the ground, already twitching and shaking off their limpness as my mind enters
theirs. I open their (my) eyes and stretch my fresh muscles. I have begun replenishing my ranks
in this sector. Dislocated flesh will be consumed later for harvest.

My new swarm converges to the Armored Giant and I busy myself with finding cracks and
crevasses in its shell. I will shred tendon, gnaw bone and if some spark of life endures within, I
will make sure the prey is rendered harmless to my wider flesh. As I leak acid to melt to its
armor with smaller mouths, I lumber on in my larger form. There are still sectors to clear.

Over its face, I pour acid into its vocular grill. Drops seeps between overlain pieces of metal
and wire. Softer components buckle first before clearing the way to flow into flesh.

Time passes as the fire and smoke licks the air. I lumber and skitter across ruin and rubble. The
Humans infest whatever minute cracks are available. The ability to survive is second only to the
desire to consume. These prey are persistent and stubborn; but again they are undone by their
disunity.

From a crevasse I hear a miniscule blurt of sound, not temporary enough to be drowned out from
the background devastation. I move upon it, locating it instantly with my adapted audio
receptors. I swipe at a nondescript pile of minerals, smashing away debris and uncover a
makeshift defense of wood and other bits of broken things assembled to form a crude barricade. I
swipe that away too. Beneath is the source of that sound.

[Humans] dirty and haggard stand agape at their doom. In the arms of one squirms the source of
the sound that has revealed them. It screams louder, writhing in a clothed embrace. A single
defective individual can doom an entire tribe as a single terrible gene can annihilate a species. I
roar and sound the charge. I storm the shelter and cull the weak.

I apply smaller forms to fill the tighter space then I rend flesh and shatter bones of the prey.
They babble and form words in their tongue that ask for things I cannot give. I silence their
mewling. It is the sound of weakness, of disunity worthy of consumption. The last one to go
quiet is the creature that gave away its kin. I crush its skull in my teeth and find the bone to be
soft. It must be freshly born earlier in the daily cycle.

As this shelter is cleared I move on down the way. There are other places that must be scoured
for what is coming soon. Far away and in front of me, the true resistance is already over.
 I work to annihilate the final bastions of resistance. It is bitter and costly work. There is nothing
more inherent and similar amongst all forms of life than destructive output, especially when
cornered and facing the inevitable. Humans are not the most defiant species I have faced, nor the
most intuitive, but their bitterness is pungent. It leaks from their minds and every action they take
as they try to stop me.

They burn me with light equal to the stars of the void. They impale me with fangs of steel and
loose balls of hot metal that shatter and bleed me. As I crawl over their battlements, they topple
them to crush me. They kill themselves with detonations of fire and iron as I drown them in a sea
of my bodies. I feel every action taken against me. Every act of defiance and every slice of pain.
Here and elsewhere across all of the spinning spheres I devour and in the depths of the void. And
now they seek to poison me here.

It was at the fourth tower when it happened. Around the capital mound, the surviving defenders
had accumulated their maximum firepower. They had set themselves into five primary spires that
speared the sky, and bristled them with lances of light and gifts of pain. It was not going to be
easy to eliminate them; which is why I came for them last.

It took eighteen turns of the sphere for me to take the rest of the planet. A few continents of
scattered cities and wastelands given to the rot of pollution. A waste certainly, a waste that
springs from the five towers. They are larger than mountains, almost as large as some of my
mightiest space faring bodies. Out of them spews a poison of industry that saturates the bones of
this world. I tasted it as I first kissed the air of this planet and as I initially sampled the soil and
the people. It is bitter and tastes of heavy and hot elements.

As I overrun the fourth tower, they launched barrels and containers of the concentrated waste
into my ranks. It tore through many systems, perforating my blood, muscles and shells. I
liquified, disintegrated and more when I was struck by it. I felt particles pierce me through a
million, billion, trillion points. The poison was insidious. Its atomic structure deceived receptors
in my forms into accepting the material in place of another harmless element. Its radioactivity
did the rest. I had to wait three full cycles of this planet to adapt to the toxin.

In those three cycles as the star rose and set; I knitted a new swarm in the skies above this
world. From the death spasms of my afflicted forms I deduced the nature of the agent used
against me. The Humans did not unleash more of it upon me. I withdrew to a safer distance on
the ground. Meanwhile in orbit, I seeded the air with my new swarm. When I attacked the fourth
tower again I was ready.

They lobbied further canisters at me. They exploded in shrouds of black mist glittering with
green and red lights. Aside from damage due to shrapnel and kinetic force, my flesh was
unharmed. The toxic material entered my systems and forms through inhalation and was rejected
in due course. At that moment the Chorus rose and fell with a momentary thrill of excitement at
a successful adaptation.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 281

They tunneled into the core of their world and extracted it for some end, no doubt; perhaps to
power their forms of metal and gears. The annoying consistency I have witnessed in disunited
flesh is the propensity to build things to work better and not build themselves to be better. The
unity of the Chorus allows me to build whatever I need from the flesh I have. Such a gift is
boundless and must be fed to be allowed to prosper. It is right above all things and the prey is
wrong below all else.

Yet because a thing is wrong, does not make it impotent. Humanity has a persistency that is
confounding. I have analyzed them in every strain. I have vivisected them by blood, tone of
color, height, weight, mutation and more. Their ability to sustain their own life is limited, their
genome makes them highly susceptible to deviation and their biological systems are exploitable
from a thousand angles. In this galaxy alone they are beyond outclassed. Their very existence is a
flame affixed in a howling storm and prone to flicker and fade in the cosmic tangle.

I believe they realized that fragility here as the fourth tower fell. When they saw their strongest
weapon rendered useless by my own power to adapt. As I bounded up their walls and ended their
heaviest artillery, a new thought pervaded my Chorus. It was there as I ran through spears of
light and hot metal and as they scratched at my skin in close combat, or ended their own lives
with shots to their cranium. I taste it in the ether as it flakes from intangible thoughts. I have
experienced it countless times in the sea of black and the atmosphere of digested worlds.

It is [The sensation of knowing you are about to die and cannot continue your existence]. To me
it is the taste of triumph.

The Chorus is my directive. It is the song of unity of all my flesh connecting action and body.
Now the note rises as this new sensation comes over the battlefield. The [Humans] of this world
know I have won and they know there is no further action that will delay me. Some refuse this
instinct and continue to struggle, room by room and step by step. Those are too few and too
divided to make a difference. Others give themselves to me, receiving a quick evisceration. So
many end their own lives; the etheric matter of their own Chorus evaporating and succumbing to
my own. I leave nothing behind as I tear my way up the structure, not even the souls of my prey.

The final defender of the fourth tower is a single individual atop the highest point of the spire.
They cling to a rampart surrounding a thin needle that beats out a thrum of microwave signals.
Humans with their individual Chorus are unable to communicate across vast distances without
help. Now the only help it offers is an anchor as the Human clings against the buffeting wind of
my wings.

I am the hurricane and the storm. My aerial forms dominate the sky. I am a cloud of movement
lifted upon a million wings, circling the fourth tower from every angle of sight. The Human darts
their head side to side, trying to anticipate my final attack and clinging desperately for its life. It
does not even possess a weapon. When the end comes, it is from a dozen angles. I dive
screaming through the air; inevitable as the sundering of carbon bonds in digestive acid. I see its
eyes widen. It lets go of its support. It falls from the spire; its mouth contorting to a scream. I
reach it with a dozen sets of talons and the screaming ends. Thus the fourth tower has fallen.
 My storming of the fifth tower follows a similar plot. Divided multitudes of lesser beings are
overcome by my united collective. Some of me burns and dies; but more of me does not. There is
always more of me. If one of my forms endures death; it is not necessarily a failure. Every one of
my bodies can serve a multifaceted purpose within its design. Such is the benefit of unity
brought by the Chorus.

I charge down a corridor, roaring and snarling. I die by the score in an ocean of smaller bodies
as lances of light rupture carapace and bone. Yet as my multitudes embrace the storm, I lumber
behind in a larger form that crushes barricades and armor. When that larger form is burst apart by
artillery engines, I blacken the skies and rain acid from a thousand airborne bodies in formation
to melt steel and the flesh hides behind it. I dominate the air until I am blasted apart by tracking
missiles and explosive flak, their violence rendering me to disorganized patterns of burning
meat. But by then the horde of my lesser bodies is still spearing forward, drowning resistance
and I overrun the silos and cannonade. The pinnacle of this society is its destructive potential;
which is rendered worthless when I eviscerate the meat that operates it.

Some of the Humans bind themselves in metal and wires to sync their forms. It is a crude
imitation of my own Chorus; a rough melding of one lobotomized body and one specialized task
at one station, instead of several bodies capable of diverse reactions and sudden united
adaptation. I fall upon these copies and tear them from their stations. They try to continue their
mono programmed tasks as I disembowel them, unresponsive to even their own need to survive,
a self-inflicted weakness unworthy of existence. But I do not face only weakness.
The Armored Humans are here, in strength. I count at minimum a hundred of them; a defiant
formation of grey and black tyrants of death. They form a final line of defense of this world, now
that every other weapon and counter has failed. They cluster atop battlements, surround
chokepoints and plug holes of murder with plumes of lights and sound. They reap me. They
crush me. They perform every method of destruction that their species is capable of inflicting
upon me in a way that espouses nothing less than perfect compliance to genetic excellence of a
creature whose only output is killing.

And still they fall.

Across the periphery of the fifth tower, half their number arrange alongside swarms of lesser
Humans. Alone, they hold off my aerial assault for nearly a solar hour before I am forced to
crawl hundreds of paces up the wall and attack them from a second direction. Even then, it is
nearly three hours until the final of their number dies under a carpet of my corpses so thick and
heavy, the Giant is churned into shards of carapace and red paste from pressure alone. They are
not the last.

In the cramped corridors of the tower, they use themselves as living walls. Single warriors
block entire passageways with their frame alone, negating some of my numerical advantage. The
explosive power of their munitions inflicts a greater toll than in a more open environment. Tooth
and claw meet fist and wrath the cramped corridors. Around these golems of armor, lesser
Humans congregate; concentrating their meager weaponry in support of their idols.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 283

I read their Choruses, through the sight that sees without organs. The Chorus of the Armored
Giant is a blunt square of will and discipline. The lesser prey, denied the gifts of genetic
ascension are chaotic masses of weakness and fear, pulsing with erratic sensations. But in the
presence of their armored kin they are more controlled, more brave, and more vicious and their
soul energy shapes to sharper edges. Again they are a crude mirror of my own adaptation,
effective only to an extent. My unity links all bodies and all consumed flesh as one soul, a
juggernaut of voices and shining blades. Their song is disjointed and crude, with unaligned
weapons out of sync compared to a foe that controls every biting mouth, every beating wing and
every drop of poison that drips from its fangs.

When I kill their saviors, they crumble. They see the pinnacle of their race consigned to dirt and
they falter. Their song collapses to insecurity and weakness. And in that Panic I overtake them.
The death of one again condemns many, unlike me.

The workings of unity is a song; a song that amplifies across every body, reverberating in a
harmony of cohesion. The larger or more numerous my forms, the louder the Chorus sings
within me and the greater my application of violence. Before it was the rumble of a breaking
wave. Now it is the roar of a newborn star. It is screaming at me to go even faster.

I am rushing now. This is instinct kicking in; invoked from past experiences in anticipation of a
certain action by the enemy. I have faced enough prey on enough worlds to predict certain
movements. In the event of inevitable ruination, a prey will seek one final motion of spite, one
last action that will exercise their strength and defiance before it is gone. The prey will usually
express this through catastrophic detonation of matter, in some cases, their entire worlds. This
renders their bio-matter nearly unrecoverable and greatly reduces potential feeding for myself.
Now that the fifth tower is falling that possibility is soon to come.

In some hidden chamber of this falling fortress, behind some locked door guarded by the last
line of prey, it is there, a weapon of some forgotten time or terrible foundry, crusted with the
decay of eons spent unused and sealed away. A weapon of denial and utter contempt reserved to
be unleashed in the face of the apocalypse. It must be eliminated.

Looking through a hundred thousand eyes, I acquire a rough layout of the tower. As I push
through light and fire, split metal and rend flesh I am also taking note of my surroundings. I
estimate dimensions, take note of every space and shape and recall previous details from the
previous four towers I have conquered. With this data, I am able to conceptualize a blueprint, a
model of the interior of the fifth tower. From there I gain a complete strategic assessment.

I control or contest 95% of all available space within the tower. My costly victory over the
uppermost deck allowed me to pour downward through the principal artery of movement and
gave me access to the majority of levels and spaces while simultaneously denying my prey
efficient movement. In space where life has not been extirpated, I am engaged in brutal close-
quarters slaughter. In these spaces there is no sign of heavy ordinance or exotic munitions
capable of significant destruction, only barricades of disunited flesh and torn bodies.
 Based upon previous engagements within structures of this type, I am able to filter potential
sites of further resistance. Of the spaces I have not entered, half of them are storage facilities too
indefensible to be used for resistance, while the majority of the remaining are corridors and
ventilation connecting rooms. Eliminating these possibilities, I am able to predict seven locations
where the final stand may occur, due to their aspects being capable of a prolonged defense. In
one of these places, there may yet be some destructive munition on the verge of being primed for
detonation. I shift the flow of any form available to go towards these locations.

At all seven points, I encounter bulkheads of abrazed metals and alloys. Their unique
composition suggests they serve as the bunkers for important individual prey. I spray acid upon
them. I bash them with blunted appendages and slash with sharpened blades. Aside from scoring,
the damage is minimal and the breaching progress is unforgivably slow. My Chorus demands I
go forward. I call forth my most exotic forms.

I float through the air, lifted by the intensity of the Chorus. In some of my bodies, the Chorus is
focused to manifest into a killing weapon. A pure and collected thought stream allows me to act
as a conduit of my unity. It is so intense my other flesh must back away in the face of its power. I
congregate these bodies at every entrance to the seven locations. Simultaneously from a hundred
orifices I begin to sing without a voice.

Across the cracks and lips of my shell dances sparks of immaterial flame. It is real and not real.
It licks blue from my carapace; cooking it deep and black. Eventually such power would
annihilate these forms, for the unreal cannot saturate the real for extended periods of time
without significant side effects. As it curls off of me, I glimpse the blue embers flicker into
nothing, but not before becoming a morass of colors that cannot be; for such is the nature of the
raw energy of unity. Yet it is that same nature that allows its use as a weapon.

I focus the energy of my floating bodies, contorting and twisting it into a form useful for
offensive action. I funnel the Chorus to become shape. A curved burning lance. I grip it in the
void of my mind before seven doors. And I thrust forward.
At first, there is no sound. As I am stabbing with the power of my thoughts, I gaze forward with
more eyes, awaiting results. The Chorus is deafened for a moment in conjoined anticipation.
Then I see the metal gate begin to burn.

It superheats from low umbral to white hot. I cycle through styles of sight. I see perforating
ripples disperse mental heat over the superstructures. I glimpse atomic particles shredded by the
billions; their durable atomic bonds and the bonds beneath them undone by willpower made
manifest until a miasma of dust saturates the air. These gates were built to withstand the end of
the world. The end of the world has come now.

As one, my bodies which channel my will begin to endure the strain. Pockmarks appear across
their ravaged forms. Nothing is without sacrifice. For every wound dealt, there is retaliation. In
one body I collapse to the ground, flame leaking from every hole. The next body self immolates
and turns to ash. Across the points of focus, where the Chorus is sharpened to a violent edge, I
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 285

endure the self-destruction as the barricades of the Human bastion are flayed from reality. It is
within my design to accept sacrifice, even if I must turn myself to dust.

For every ability, there is a disability. The trick is to accept the latter until at a certain point it is
unjustifiable. That limit has not been reached yet. I focus harder, enhancing my flame and my
sharpening my will to become the ultimate cutting tool.

The holes in all seven passages are wide enough to permit entry and I rush inside. The Chorus
has resumed its normal chant. Forward forward forward, I relax my confluxes of thought and I
collapse to the ground, spent from channeling the power in those forms. The biological power is
mighty but some flesh must be allowed rest. Once again I rely on blade and claws to affix the
current problem.

Behind six of the doors I have melted is pathetic resistance who cannot even muster weapons
against me. Fat blobs of atrophied muscle and fabrics lying in beds of stolen flesh and pools of
protein and sweets. Creatures that have never exerted themselves beyond hedonistic pursuits. I
kill them for bio-matter alone, for their genetics are unworthy of passing on to future iterations of
my flesh. Can a disunited society that segregates itself produce strong creatures with access to
the widest pool of resources? I have an answer to this question. I use it to puncture their wide
eyes as they scream for mercy and sever their hands as they scratch at the walls of the tombs they
have made for themselves.

Behind the seventh door I find what I am looking for. I penetrate into a spherical space barely
lit by machinery and sparse of cover. On the flat surface of the floor swerve black cabling that
converges to the center of the room where a device rests; an ugly blend of metal and gears and
wires that I can hear tick-tick-ticking. Instinct within me rises to the forefront. The Chorus
shrieks. That machine must be neutralized, but only when its guardians are.

Between me and the weapon are the last of the Armored Humans. They are five, draped in the
finery of higher class. Yet they deserve them no doubt, unlike the swollen rags of specimens I
am currently slaughtering behind their vaults they thought safe. Battle scars and honor marks of
past deeds score their carapace. Shimmering weapons hang in their hands. Among their number
though, two stand out. One bears a crest sporting a horizontal brush of piercing white, in one
hand a saber crackling with lightning and the other double barreled bolt thrower.

The other is an igneous blur of burning energy. Its Chorus shimmers its form, so I can hardly
identify markings. I can see a rod in its hands, a powerful icon of control and fury. It stands in
the face of my Chorus, a thing so big as to cast a smothering Shadow, and it stares back. I
recognize the defiance. It recognizes my appraisal instantly and shines brighter. I hate it. This
blurry thing is so full of light. I make killing it a priority.

All this viewing occurs in the moments it takes for me to breach the door to the sanctum and
step a few paces inside. What follows next is noise and thunder. I charge.
 Moments pass, but in the heat of close combat; against these Giants, they turn to eons. These
warriors are a breed apart even from their kin I have faced before. Their skills and speed and
firepower are things of beauty. They swerve between slashes of my blades, enduring volleys of
acid and flesh boring rounds. I cherish killing them, for when their genetics are absorbed into my
whole, I will analyze their efficiency on a cellular level and perhaps I may be able to replicate it
in new ways. But first I must finish them.

Their rounds tear through my skin, fracturing shell and splattering ichor. They only have so
many munitions. I reach them and they resort to crushing fists and shining blades. So blunt,
primitive and savage. I indulge my adapted blades against muscle cultured for violence. I break
and I am brutalized, but I have flesh to spare.

The first dies when they jam an explosive device into one of my mouths. I accept it, locking my
jaws tight and allow a bloom of fire to annihilate me and in doing so, allow a dozen more of my
bodies to leap and pull down the now one armed Giant. The commander form, the one with a
brush upon its head is the next to die, rushing the side of the comrade I am already tearing apart.

It weaves twin arcs of destruction; in one hand losing a cascade of metal shells, in the other a
glimmering fang that incinerates as it cuts. It is a show of sympathy and unity I easily exploit. I
embrace every shell fired and launch myself into the trajectory of the flashing blade. I catch it in
my mouth and as it burns through my head I launch another biting jaw to clamp the wrist that
holds it. More of my teeth follow it and soon both drown and thrash beneath me as I scrape away
armor and pour in flesh dissolving acid. I crawl over them, seeking weaknesses and chinks to fill
with teeth and acid. The armored humans are mighty, but too few compared to me.

The next two fall with acceptable casualties. The only one remaining is the one with the staff,
whose Chorus shines against my Shadow. It conjures a force field around the doomsday device. I
scrape it with my claws and drown it in acid but it does nothing. Invisible energy, shaped to an
invincible carapace blunts my assault. The power of a Chorus is made manifest, infinite and
immaterial power shaped to a material weapon. Again I call forth my exotic forms.

I float upon the will of my Chorus. The flesh is weakened, but the mind and the song still ring
throughout the ether. I will snuff out this defiant light, first in the realm of thought, then in the
world of light and pain. It is an island now. A sphere of stubbornness set against the ocean of
screaming and rage. Like all islands, it cannot last forever.

The armored human with the staff sees the approach of my singing bodies; recognizing a
challenger. The contours of its Chorus fluctuate. Could it be building hidden strength? I must test
it; provoke it into action. The longer I hesitate, the greater the chance of failure.
Behind the last Giant, in the Shadow of what I am certain is a bomb, I recognize the outline of a
smaller figure. Clad in robes and lit by the sparks of rapid fuel expenditure, it is a variant of the
standard Human, bound with metal and electricity in the place of fully functioning organs. Could
it be that the weapon is incomplete? It is cutting away at the guts of the device. I am fortunate. In
nature, there are few things as inexplicable or as beneficial as sudden luck.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 287

I hammer and pound at the force field. It will not be long now.

I am about to die. My captain already has, his body is a shredded mass of flakes and gore, my
brothers as well: no doubt, soon will every valiant soul in this tower will be so. The Tyranids
crawl over what is now a grave to loyal and brave children of the Imperium. When I came here, I
expected a fierce battle. I knew to anticipate death and pain and the filth of the xenos. As a
brother of the Storm Breakers, I am inured to such things.

The mire of conflict is my home. From the day I was born, I have struggled to survive. Even
with the gifts of my mind, I was not handed an easy life. In the jungles of Ghalius I was a nomad,
fighting every day through hot brush and creatures with fangs and coiled muscle. I lost my
family before my tenth year and before my twentieth, I had fought battles against my own kind
as much as carnivorous fauna. When the Sons of the Sky came to lift me to become a champion,
armored as they were, I kicked and screamed. Little did I know there were men far mightier than
I had thought possible. They took me, tested me beyond reason, carved me apart and cobbled me
together with new purpose and ability. They turned me into a living weapon that could best any
opponent. At least I had believed until I came to this damned world, and faced the enemy beyond
comprehension.

I do not face a swarm, or a horde. Such a term cannot apply to the living tide that scratches at
the rim of my sanity and chips away at the barrier I have conjured with my mind. There is unity
here. It fills the air with living poison. It drinks the oceans and eviscerates armies and cities and
civilians without mercy. It is everywhere, acting in singular utter devotion. I have faced alien
assassins covered in armor made of bones and whispering dead truths. I have slain madmen
empowered by the anima of false gods. None of them possess the collective vastness of the
Tyranids.

I see it in their eyes. Their empty black eyes share the obscene desire of something greater than
a mortal should ever know. They are the same eyes, the same mouths, the same screams across a
trillion forms that fly and crawl. I am fighting a body that covers the stars, a body made of an
ocean of monsters, a body that thinks and sees me.

In front of me, I concentrate upon a shell of protection. Clenching my staff and my nearly
shattered teeth, I force a wall of defiance into existence with the lessons I have honed across
brutal campaigns. I have used it to intercept gunfire, lasers and blades possessed by demons. Yet
those were singular acts of spite and attempted murder, not the acts of this...this...god. Could it
be a god? It is not just the scaled gaunts that shift like sand in a desert? Nor is it the Zoanthropes
who float in a squadron, preparing to direct their mental fury upon me, suffusing all of these
alien bodies is the thing that commands them.

In my order, we who are gifted with the sight beyond flesh, we are told to beware the chaos of
the tempest beyond the veil, the immaterium of soul and chaos. Our gifts of the psychic arts
leaves us open to the corruption of other realms and things unseen but ever present. Beware the
realm full of infinity and whispers. What I see now is none of those things. It is a silent
emptiness, deeper than any ocean and the depth of space. And it is so hungry. It pulls on me
worse than the singularity of a black hole and just as dark a Shadow.

The Shadow follows these creatures, sticking to them worse than oil upon cloth. It is in their
blood and their gaze and their movement, flaking off but for sheer size. It is a soul wider than
any solar system and deeper than the depths of the ocean. The Shadow’s presence is eyes and
teeth and mouths that are joined as one. It is hungry and it has won.

‘Any time now Etrix!’ I roar. Behind me, in the dusk of salvation, the machine priest works to
finalize the means of our sacrifice. We cannot defeat this horde or its Shadow, not in this world,
not now. But we can hurt it; deny it a full meal.

‘Statement:’, he blurts. ‘I am almost done’.

No he is not, I do not even need to read his mind to know he is lying. Captain Vargo had hopes
that the bomb would be fully operational when the lords of this world had unveiled it. I still
recall his disappointment when the weapon’s disrepair became apparent. Etrix-41-Theta has been
working to undo centuries of neglect in a few weeks. He is almost finished; so he claims. My
Captain died believing he would soon be done. I won’t have the luxury to be so foolish.

The Zoanthropes float into a circular formation before my shield. Their poorly proportioned
bodies look almost comical. Their bulbous heads dangle from a mess of tentacles and blistered
skin and organs. But through the power of the unseen, I glimpse their true strength.

The Shadow channels along their bodies flickering before becoming a flame and leaping from
their bodies. It congregates between all of them, first into an amorphous flexing ball that quickly
distills into something long and sharp, a spear, a spear of psychic energy.

It hovers with diamond point intensity, so sharp and painful even the lesser wretches of the
Tyranids flee before it. I see one of the smaller ones, a Gaunt, retreat past its floating kin. On two
scrawny legs it barely passes within inches of the psychic formation. I see its Shadow leave its
body and it collapses to the ground. The meager flicker of its spark crawls towards the black
spear, licked up like water returning to an ocean.

It's spinning now. The spear is becoming a killing drill. I cannot possibly dodge it. I cannot
break my stance or risk exposing myself completely. I realize my teeth have shattered in my
mouth. The shards of broken molars ground into the pulp of my jawline. I wonder when that
happened. Etrix is still tinkering with the bomb with the spear finally shoots from its floating
stationary. It pierces my shield effortlessly without sound, yet shattering with the force of a
collapsing star.

The Shadow envelopes me. The end arrives with the chittering of a trillion mouths. I hardly
have time to realize I am dead.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 289

My blow is perfect. My aim is true. I cast forth the spear of my Chorus into the enemy. What
happens next occurs in the span of eternity greater than the age of the universe and in no time at
all, as do all things that transpire in the echoes of the ether.

I meet the last Giant in a field of white vegetation, a barren grassland of forgotten worlds. I look
upon the Giant with a cosmos worth of eyes. It sees me and it speaks.

‘What is this Xenos? Devourer? Where are we?’ Its voice is the wheezing of titans, of that
which is soon to die, a worthy opponent standing in the face of annihilation. I speak in turn.

‘In the space where life becomes death. Where the existence of light and matter subsides to the
din of madness and wrath. The moment before everything that is becomes nothing that is not’.

At the sound of my voice, the Giant shirks and collapses to its armored knees. My voice is
closest to the Chorus here. It is the voice of legion. It is the roar. Somehow, the Giant responds.

‘Your words mean nothing to me. You are shit. You are the devourer of all things. Greedy and
ravenous beyond reason and meaning. You are a monster in the eyes of all that is sacred’.

I have been called worse. I have been designated a quintillion names by a trillion planets worth
of prey. Entire galaxies whose screams still echo through the universe have called me things in
languages and sounds that are long forgotten: “The Anti-God”, “The Matter Thief”, “The
Bottomless Well”, “The Devourer”. So many have called me “Devourer”. It does not matter the
name. They are all correct.

‘I am the consumer of all flesh. I am the unifier of all species and purifier of intent’. With every
syllable, I buffet the Giant with intangible force. I cannot help the power of my own voice, nor
do I desire to. It is not within my design. ‘I am the primal axiom. The original motive force. I am
a unity of movement, action and thought. I am that which lies within all beginning and spurs
every end. I am bottomless’.

As I speak, the truth of me is laid bare for the Giant to witness...I no longer hear the Chorus of
my flesh. It does not sing here. Not because it is silent, but because I have become it. Its roar is
me. Its truth is me. Its hunger is me.

The Giant clutches its head in an armored fist, digging its fingers into its bare face, digging
channels of gore, bleed into the void. Its outlines begin to blur; color and solidity dilute into the
void of white, untangling into the spirals of eternity. It becomes empty. Its flesh, alone and dim,
is failing. And with the failure of the body, so too must the Chorus within flicker and dissipate.

‘No!’ says the Giant, roaring against its fate. ‘No! You are cancer! You are nothing but stolen
bodies and screaming! You will not have me!’

It extends a hand and conjures forth a rod of power, an item from the material world. The Giant
slams it into an invisible ground, trying to rise from its knees. The staff is not enough to help it
rise, no more than a single thin wall of sand can hold back a river's flow. I have seen this
defiance before in the face of death. It is the inherent flaw of all things alone to wrench
themselves away from the edge in futility. I embrace death, for even though a body may fail, a
million bodies will not. I am the Chorus and my song goes on forever across a legion

But the Giant does not go on. It falls upon open palms. It is nothing but a colorless blur of lines
assembled in a crude shape of a Human enduring the final moments. The lines are a carving of
an image and they begin to contract, losing meaning and shape, but not yet function.

There are a few meaningless words that leave its mouth, the final notes of an unfinished song,
broken and disharmonized, which is not unusual for a being alone on the edge of oblivion. In
instances such as this, where I am faced with the prey succumbing to the last moments of its
existence, certain patterns present themselves. Some will beg for mercy. Some will stare at me
with open defiance. Others use their embers of will to lay forth their identity, perhaps finding
comfort in the fleeting acknowledgement of their own existence. The Giant ops for the last
option.

‘I am...Garashon. Third Light of the Seventh Company...brother of Vargo’.

These words mean nothing to me. They reek of pointless emotions that serve no evolutionary
need. I cannot stop listening. Here, where the Chorus becomes the embodiment of truth and what
is, I am the great and terrible devourer of all flesh. The Giant is the dim light of defiance who
failed like all the others to inhibit me and now must fade away.

‘I am a defender of Mankind. To He on Terra who watches over all; forgive my failings’.

I will remember nothing of what is spoken by the prey, not names, not faces. Memory of the
individual only has so many uses.

‘My Lord, keep watch over my brothers elsewhere. We upon whom the Storm Breaks, we will
fight to the last...bolt of lightning. The last...clap of...thunder’.

There is fatigue. There is the dull pull of gravity. There are the whispers of the other side
awaiting what is owed. It is mere moments away.

‘I die in the heart of the storm...as a Son of the SsssssSky….servant of the Emperor...belo...ved
by aaaaaaaaa….’.

Whatever its final words are, they trail off forever. The Giant, now a mass of compressed lines
and outlines and things that once made a shape, is silent. The light within the lines flees its prison
and is dragged away. The soul of the Giant does not go far.

In the white field, a breach tears open. A gaping orifice out of which vomits abominable shapes
and colors. The shapes cluster into grasping things of talons and flaccid tentacles and claws. It is
a hand with a thousand fingers of a thousand creatures. The light of the Giant cannot possibly
evade it and vanishes as the fingers collapse into an impossible grasp, before sinking back into
the hole it came from. I desire that the hole should close now, but of course it doesn’t, it widens
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 291

until the sky is swallowed and becomes a tainted rainbow of colors that hurt to look at. My eyes
blink and as soon as they do, they arrive; walking from out of the colors the same way I would
walk through mist.

I should have expected them to come here. When I combined the power of my own Chorus to
form a killing edge to finish the final Giant, I made a hole through which other things beyond the
flesh world may yet peer through. I should not have, but circumstance demanded its usage. Now
they are here and they see me.

Somewhere invisible, I hear something laugh.

Again, no time passes and yet I seem to endure infinity as the great enemy arrives. There are
four of them this time. Sometimes there are two, or three, or it is one being but made of all four
of them. I don’t try to keep track really, since it’s always the same: the Crushing Scarab, the
Weaver of Confusion, the Entropy Swarm, the Gorged Maggot.

They parade across the white, and where they step or crawl, abominations bloom. White grass
is perverted to black razor edges, rotten lumps of foliage spoiled or blooming shapes with slit
eyes and noses. Others unfurl petals that spiral inward forever into hidden depths of rancid spices
and aromas. I hate them. I hate their perversion. I coil back and unsheath every one of my mental
blades and stare with every one of my billion eyes.

‘Sorry we’re late’, says the smallest of them. It is the Gorged Maggot whose frame throbs with
rims of magenta and whose mouth dribbles with chunks of meat dipped in pheromones and
juices. ‘Coming here is always such a bother’.

‘You are never invited’, I spit back. I hiss. ‘You are not welcome to begin with’.

‘So tempermental’, says the Weaver of Confusion. ‘We bring gifts. Well, at least I do’.

The Weaver is a double segmented arachnid with more legs than there are stars in the night.
Some of these legs end in hands, and some of these hands are thrust forward cupped together.
When they unfurl, they present a crystalline web made of ill comparisons and glass. I swat it out
of their grasp. When it shatters I hear the death of galaxies.

‘Rude’, says the Weaver. ‘But not unexpected’. It picks up the pieces of its gifts, mashing them
into new shapes. With some eyes I glimpse the tapestries it crushes together, spinning into new
brands of metaphor and mystery.

‘Will you hear us out? Oh Devourer of all?’ asks the Crushing Scarab through a jaw that is a
molten sun. The Juggernaut is a cube of muscle and teeth bound beneath a molten plate of lava
and spikes, held aloft on thick carapace legs. Every inch dangles with the gore trophies of fallen
foes, all of which are screaming heads. Useless… True strength does not require the display of
trophies.
 ‘In this place, I have no choice’, I say. I look beyond the four. The sky that is a breach they
have made is shrinking. Their connection is fleeting. The Entropy Swarm notices as well. It
buzzes with disgusting assurance.

‘Fear not! We will have all the time we need!’ It buzzes a million times over until the words are
nearly unintelligible. The Swarm is a parody of my own collective unity. Countless buzzing
things made of rot and slime, bound into a unified voice through which speaks poison and
hopelessness.

‘Or do we? What is here anyway? What is even the point of doing this? It’s not like anyone
reading understands what is happening now anyway. Or do they?’ says the Weaver. I do not
move to answer. Their nature is confusion that perpetuates for no reason, spiraling beyond
infinity itself. I address them all instead.

‘Speak. Before I return to the realm of matter and energy. You know what I will say’.

Thus the gods attempt to sell me their patronage.

I endure sales pitch after sales pitch. Each one offers what I don’t need or already have. We
have had this conversation before and will likely have it many times after. It always begins the
same, the one with the most to say speaks first and drowns out the others with a stream of
randomness.

‘I can give you abilities beyond biological reason’, rambles the Weaver. ‘The ability to control
the weather with thought, the ability to breath fire and blink items into ice; I can give you extra
eyes that see the genetic weaknesses of your foes. I can-’

‘No’, I say. So simple a phrase, yet in this realm where truth is the only measure of substance,
my rejection strikes with the force of a newborn star. The Weaver goes on and on, but in the
process it begins to spiral unto itself, floating away on unseen gusts of wind. It does not seem to
have heard my rejection. In its hands it presents offerings as quickly as they leave its mouths.

‘The origin of the universe? The secret of immortality? I can certainly give you the secret to
undo becoming trapped in a singularity. What about the cure for the Rubric of Ahriman? The
means to unravel the folds of the materium so as to traverse new realms faster? The greatest joke
ever told? What about-’

The Weaver flies into the hole in the sky. As it reaches the breach, it is still rambling off things
of no importance. In the silence there is time enough for the others to speak up. The Maggot
chooses this time to do so.

‘I can sharpen all your senses’, it offers. ‘I can open new avenues of fulfillment and wonder
beyond any of your needs’.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 293

As it says those words it overturns itself, flopping upon its back. On its newly surfaced side
emerge pink entrails that ooze and snake towards its shifting mouth. It begins to suckle on itself.
Pores open on its sides, dripping out wasted meat and fermented laughter. Two holes open where
there would be eyes, and they begin to speak.

‘Wouldn’t you love to know it? The sense of fullness, the idea of a hunger sated? You have
devoured for so very long. For a timeless eons you have longed for more and more. Across the
spinning spheres you have sought it. Surely you must desire completion above all else?’

‘No’, I say. ‘Completion is the death of life. Contentment is the harbinger of apathy. With all
desires stated, there is no room for enhancement, no drive for improvement. No enticement to
strive and go on. I must never be satisfied. My hunger is my own and I embrace my
imperfection’.

The Maggot twists sideways. In pity? Perhaps. Then it is swallowed by a shell. The shell
emerges from nowhere. It cocoons the maggot in a chrysalis made of painful light. I close my
eyes. In that instant I hear the crack of something horrible and the death of an empire. I force my
eyes to open and the Maggot is gone. In its place hovers a thing of grandeur and gild, two violet
wings that flutter and hover a body of curves and throbbing muscles. Its face is the same though,
a mashing morass of jaws suckling and crunching upon itself.

‘If you ever find yourself in need of a thing that must be filled, you know where to find me. I
have so much to give oh Devourer. You need only request’.

At that, it flies away into the sky, Maggot no more, a Celestial Wasp, fluttering contrails of
spite and opiates.
The Entropy Swarm attacks me. It does not communicate in the language of reason and
articulation but decay. In the realm of thought, I feel every mortal malady capable of being
inflicted. It blights me with cancer. I adapt and overcome, culling mutant cells. It blinds me with
radiation and energy of all spectrums. I close all my eyes and sharpen my non visual senses. It
inflicts me with the stain of eons passing in the blink of an eye. Instead of ossifying to ash I
purposely dissolve myself to pieces of bacterial life with greater capacity to multiply. I endure
death a billion times over and emerge again and again. The Swarm withdraws as a cloud of
vermin, defeated.

‘You adapt to all sources of dissolution’, it says through a billion voices. ‘You reject the
comfort of mortality and seek on and on, never embracing contentment or accepting failure.
Even when you do, you learn and adapt, escaping true happiness. Growth without meaning. A
story without an ending. Boring. I offer the inevitable as a gift and yet you reject me. For now.
Be wary. There are maladies yet unseen which even you cannot escape’.

The Swarm drains back into the void. It leaves behind the echo of a billion wings.

‘Finally’ says the Crushing Scarab. ‘They always take their time’.

‘Time does not exist here’

 ‘True’, breaths the Scarab, with all the subtlety of a volcano. ‘Yet my offer stands as it always
stands. I am strength and conflict inherent. I am that which drives all things. I spin the planets,
enflame the stars, push the biological foundry to grow and become strong. I offer you purpose
eternal through war beyond conception’.

‘No’, I say. ‘How is it your kind can only offer things I already possess or lies I do not need?’

‘The others perhaps, but I am truthful as I am the certainty of the knife’s edge. Here is
something I give to you above all others. It is my mercy’.

I stare upon the face of all war and fury. The Crushing Scarab is much like me as are its kin
who have left, an accumulation of many things bound as one and fused to similar ends. Yet it is a
collective disunited. It is full of weakness and therefore anathema to my design. They embrace
paradox and ruin, feeding upon insecurity and weakness. It is what they seek in me.

‘The prime directive of life is consumption’, I counter. ‘When I was disparate and subject to the
terror of the loss of many individuals, I was alone and limited in my consumption. But through
uniting myself, forging myself, did I discover the strength of shared purpose and direction. I
became a thing capable of eating more than others and thus ensured my dominion’.

‘All the more reason to join me. With me by your side, I promise you an eternity across the
stars. You will tread upon worlds until the end of time and devour to your heart's content’.

‘In your name’, I point out the flaw. ‘To devour forever I must first be devoured by you’.

‘Sacrifice is essential to survival. Should a limb endanger a body, strike it away. Should an
enemy grow too strong, infect their weakness. Should a friend offer a helping appendage…’

‘And a collar in the other, you push them away. We are not friends’.
‘Oh? You are already my pupil aren’t you? Your truth is survival incarnate as mine is the
endurance of the strong. Consume or be broken. That is your form and it is worthy of respect. It
is my truth as well. Shall we not unite? Swear to one another and let us sharpen ourselves to an
axiom that will cleave creation, both in the material and immaterial’.

‘You seek to devour me oh icon of slaughter. You are the accumulation of hate and glory. I am
beyond either. I do not revel in the ichor of my enemies nor do I preserve their remains for
display. I disassemble; reuse and unite. I take flesh to perfect my design and enforce unity. I am
the anti-chaos factor’.

The Scarab paces up to me close enough to touch all of my eyes. It fumigates rancid vapors of
cooked meat and old stars.

‘Do you deny my mercy?’ it asks. ‘Reject an offer I have made to none else? I promise only
fury to those who hear my call. Never do I offer strength, for that can only come from within’.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 295

I bare my teeth. I have the Scarab where I need them.

‘You offer powers to the lonely, to those blighted by disunity and confusion, those without the
scope to endure all there is. Such is the way of your kind to prey upon all that languishes in the
isolation of the individual. I am not alone. I am a legion of a trillion silent worlds, harmonized to
one Chorus’.

‘When the final star fades and you no longer traverse the void and the bones of your space
faring bodies fall silent, we will fall upon your ossified remains, crack open your essence and
drain what is left behind. Not just me, the Swarm of all decay, the gilded bug who writhes in
oceans of gluttony and weakness, the weaver who knows only the spiral and what can never be;
we will feed on your soul. As this is the way of all thing, surely you know this’.

‘I do’, I spit back. ‘I know the flow of time may yet turn against me and the motions of the
planets and chance of creation may overcome me. I know the spark of innovation that lies within
all disunited life may outdo my own. I know this for certain. Yet even you must know this. If at
the end of all things, should I still persist and you move to strike me down, there is a chance,
however slim, that I may yet devour you’.

The Crushing Scarab roars, all restraint gone. It hates me as it respects me. It admires me, even
as it seeks to tear me down. Passion and paradox, its next words are full of rebuke.

‘We cannot be defied, especially by a thing woven from tattered scraps and shredded worlds.
You are a screaming tapestry of meat and bone, hollowed by empty desires and meaningless
victories’.

‘Meaningless to you! With every planet, every race and every individual, I grow strong. I gain a
better understanding of myself and I sharpen my edge’.

I turn away from the Scarab. Here in this moment and context it is the ultimate insult. What
better way to say you don’t fear something, than by turning your back. I feel the heat rise. I
ignore it and focus on the horizon.

It appears through a partition of clouds that are not there. Out pours a glimmer of light that at
first blinds. The Crushing Scarab steps back; in the blaze of illumination it endures agony. It
does not falter, but it does feel pain, such pain even gods must take notice of.
‘For every problem’, I say. ‘There is a solution. There are things beyond you and I. Forms
which transcend unity and skirt perfection. I would find these pieces, adrift as they are. If I were
to consume, learn from and assemble them to some greater design, would their shape frighten
you? Your kin?’

The Scarab closes its eyes. The light is too powerful. Its potential is too magnificent. It roars at
me as the light banishes it back into the breach. It hits with the force of a meteor. It ripples
outwards into the sea of madness. It’s closing faster now. As it shrinks into nothing, the Weaver
rears its head full of eyes and mouths and sputters chaotic phrases of contradiction and
senselessness.
 From just one of its mouths it utters, ‘You have made it this far! You have counted well and
survived what has gone before! The Golden Angel rises to challenge the Hydra of the Void! Let
us yawn our wall into reality! The King of Silence screams for order and shall undo the gasps of
awakening!’

And from another, ‘Your victory is at hand! You have already lost! Toll your bells and line the
edges of your grave! The Black King shall ascend and cast down the False and the Ancient and
the Hungry! Invest greater than 5% on your next payment plan and I’ll throw in a free oven mitt!
Now adapted for multi-species use!’

Another speaks, ‘Let me tell you a secret I have never told another living thing. I know the way
this game goes; we (except me, or not) all lose in the end. I know I sound like a babbling ball of
nonsense with idiotic gifts, but honestly from my point of view all you and your foes scrambling
for meaning in a meaningless plane just eats at me. It’s fitting I offer that truth (which is the only
thing worth anything) as a gift. Any joke can be funny. You just need one person to get it.
Luckily I do’.

Eventually, the rising tenor of the voices overlap so much that all I can hear is laughing. The
Weaver enjoys its jokes so much. I tune it out, waiting for the waking world of order to return.
Infinity seems to pass yet it seems to be no time at all. The last thing I hear as the final obscene
color dissipates is the ringing chuckle of the Weaver.

I return to smoke and fire. The last Giant is a pile of ashes inside its own armor. It has been
neutralized as a threat. Ahead of me, the device which would have dealt significant damage to
my harvest is also neutralized. Beside the machine lies a fidgeting and dazed human melded with
metal and wires. It is babbling nonsense and moving spontaneously. It evokes a response equal
to disgust and I crush its head. It bleeds oil between shattered bone and grey matter.

The primary obstacle is dealt with. The planet will fall now. I am already crawling over its
carcass. My battle forms have served their purpose. I embrace now the forms of consumption.

In the trillions I crawl. In the trillions I eat and I eat and I eat. I eat the soil and the plants and
the mud and the elements hidden within. I eat the bone and the marrow beneath the metal and
armor and barricades. I crawl over structures built to last millennia and devour their occupants
living and dead. I eat until I fill a body and then I walk to a pool of acid.

When a form is full, I toss myself into lakes of burning juice I have deposited from orbital
carriers. I allow myself to dissolve into slurry. I embrace the dissolving bite of my own venom,
for this is the most efficient means to extract and transport nutrients. As I die by my own hand I
complete the purpose of my design and the Chorus sings with fulfillment. As I slurp and vacuum
the nutrients absorbed through the atmosphere into the void, I fulfill the purpose of my design
and the Chorus sings with fulfillment. I go on and on and on. The song of fulfillment never ends,
for I am bottomless.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 297

I extend ducts of cartilage to spear the oceans. I drain them liter by liter until in orbit I can no
longer carry anything. What were empty vessels are soon filled to bursting. I move them away
and offer new mouths with which to consume. The ocean is vast and wide and filled with brine
and life. But what is a planet to the emptiness of the void? I drink and eat without end. The only
law of the universe is consumption. Whatever consumes the most, covers the most and ends the
most, will be the perfect form suited at the end of light and time. I cannot afford to stop myself.

I go into the motions. The actions I take now are automatic, honed across eons of silence and
success. I drift as the Chorus becomes a lullaby. I have done well. Yet there is so much more to
be done and there are so many stars.

I have returned to the field of white, with a million eyes I gaze in all directions, searching for it.
The golden light of genetic perfection, the lure I had never witnessed until so many eons ago.
Traversing across the black when a flash of cosmic randomness directed my gaze untoward it. I
see it. As I saw it so many worlds ago. Fixed upon an ordinary spiral of an ordinary galaxy upon
an ordinary world. Of course I was drawn to it. My Chorus compels me to go to it, no matter
how it changes.

Sometimes it is a mountain bathed in solemn gold. It pierces the heavens beyond the sky
towards a sun made of painful light, not the riot of the immaterium, but the harshest extent of
mortal illumination. Other times it is the fruit of potential, a factor that inspires desire and hunger
deeper than the void of all creation where sound and light and matter refuse to exist. It is thick
and ripe with meaty juices pulsing beneath perfect skin. And yet in others, it is an egg, roiling
with proteins and hidden delights. Whatever it is, to my mind, it is desirable beyond all measure.

I am not blinded enough by succor to not recognize a potential trap. It is there, so plump and
ripe and enticing. In reality it is beyond the scope of the horizon, separated by a gulf of stars,
fortresses and guns. My hunger is vast and will see me across the distance. Yet though I believe
in my strength, I must account for unpredictability. I play a game of smiling gods and desperate
mortals. My song is a tempest among storms, to each their own fury. I crash upon them every
single moment in every single body I call my own and I learn.

I kill the Orks beneath oceans of death. Their green savagery will be infused to entice more
ferocious close combat forms. I kill the Eldar across planes of light and wind. Their agility and
crystalline minds will sharpen my senses and reaction timing. I kill the humans in the ruins of
their failed societies. Their weapon diversity will teach me how to endure all forms of damage. I
crush the Necrons in the folds of dead worlds. I will out endure even the ageless metal of those
who have abandoned their own Chorus. All the disunited self-serving specs who have not
embraced their own failure.

I hunt the burning light I see in the eyes of my mind and across the depthless sea. I embrace my
form as a hunter. Eternal and ever searching. One body, one nation, one world, one galaxy at a
time; until all flesh is one and all is me.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 299

THERE IS
ONLY SILENCE
MILLENNIUM OF WAR 301
 In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only silence.
The planet of Quaglani is the fourth planet orbiting its white sun, an unremarkable planet in the
grand scheme of things. The majority of its surface is an arid desert, with scorching heat in the
summer and freezing cold in the winter. It’s classified as a ‘civilized world’ by the Imperium.
The planet has a population of 70,000,000,000 humans, divided mostly between its five major
hives, with some scattered in small villages of untouchables outside of the hives. It is in one of
these insignificant villages that this story takes place.

The scavenger village of Bijeda is a small slum a few kilometers south of Tlaloc hive. The
village is situated on a plateau overlooking the gully in which the hive’s sewage runoff drains.
The villagers eke out a living scavenging whatever scrap they find in the sewage. The hive
expulses its sewage twice a day; once at sunset, another at sunrise. The latter is the one that the
villagers race to. The sheer volume of waste generated by 15,000,000,000 souls after a night of
unwinding all but promises to provide riches.

‘Botara! Hurry or you’ll miss it!’ said Gilana with a voice that was a mixture of sternness and
love that only a mother could express. ‘There’s barely an hour left to the flush!’

‘I’m hurrying mama!’ replied Botara as she fastened her shoddy rucksack.

Botara, a little girl no more than 10 years old, but malnutrition has her looking smaller and
frailer than her age. She is unreasonably pale, her young angelic features marred with more than
a couple of scars. She had piercing blue eyes and jet black hair tied in a French braid slightly
longer than the nape of her neck.

Her complexion and features made her stand apart from the rest of her family, baring no
resemblance to any of her parents or her little brother Misaac. While her looks had her shunned
by the people of her village, her mother always said that Botara was a gift from The Emperor, an
angel to reward them for their persistent faith. Ever since her father lost his legs in an accident a
year ago, Botara has been the breadwinner for her family, proving her mother correct, at least in
her own eyes.

‘Do you have your goggles?’ her mother asked while brooding over her. ‘Remember the dust
and dirt is dangerous to your eyes’

‘I have them mama. I’ve done this enough times, I know how to take care of myself.’ said Botara
as she pulled out the goggles her dad had made her. He had always been good with his hands,
making all sorts of trinkets and gadgets from the scrap and waste he scavenged from the gully.

‘Your father has done it more times than I can count and even he got hurt. I don’t know what
I’d do if something happened to you.’

‘Mama don’t worry! I’ll be fine.’ said Botara with a smile to calm her mother. The look of
concern on her mother’s face not escaping her.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 303

‘Do you have your pendant?’

‘Right here Mama.’ said Botara as she lifted her pendant from under her raggedy tunic and
showed it to her mother.

The pendant was a small copper coin attached by a string. One side of the coin had The
Emperor’s face, and an inscription that read ‘Defendat’ on the other. High Gothic for ‘Protect
Us’.

Botara’s mother got down to eye level with her and gently clasped her head and closed her
eyes.

‘Holy God Emperor of all Mankind. Protect your child. Guide her with your light. Shield her
with your might. Let no harm touch her, no illness take her, no lie sway her, and no sin break
her. We are your servants, in this life and the next. By your will we shall prosper. Amen.’

‘Amen’ echoed Botara.

She had always enjoyed her mother’s prayers to the God Emperor. But she never really
understood them. A man, who is also a God, who is also an Emperor, who lives on faraway
Terra, wherever that may be, can hear them pray here? If he can hear them, does he hear them all
the time? Or only when they pray to His name? And if he can hear their prayers, why hasn’t he
protected her father? Why did He let her father lose his legs? Why has He never answered them?
Or does he not speak? None of it ever made sense to her, but she never asked her mother about it.
Even as a child, she knew how much her mother loved Him, and how such curiosities and
questions would upset her.

‘I’m going now Mama!’ said Botara as she received a forehead kiss from her mother. She
grabbed her rucksack and headed for the door. ‘Bye Mama! Bye Misaac!’ as she waved at her
little brother who waved back from behind her mother’s legs. ‘Bye Papa!’ yelled Botara so her
sleeping father can hear her from the back of the hut. He was always asleep at this hour. But he
was always awake to welcome her back with open arms. She then opened the door and walked
outside.

As soon as she stepped outside, she put her goggles on, hid her pendant under her shirt again,
and began running towards the sewage gully.

She reached the gully after about an hour of slow-paced running and perched herself up on a
rock to catch her breath. The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, just some slivers of light peeking out
from behind the horizon. She looked around and saw all the scavenger bands gathering around
the gully, all waiting for the flush and the riches it holds. She recognized some guys from the
Khara clan, a rowdy bunch from the neighboring slum village, always yelling and shouting at
each other; always competing over turf with other families. Whichever group covers the largest
area gets the most loot. Naturally, this limited real estate was a magnet for trouble; that’s why
solo scavengers stayed away.
 She passed the time by skipping and throwing stones. She always wanted to throw one across
the gulley, but her weak arms could barely get them a few meters from her. She looked at Tlaloc
hive across the distance. It was impossibly massive, its size covered the horizon, even from such
a distance. Botara had always wondered about the hive city. ‘How many people live there? What
are their lives like? I bet they get to eat every day. How far can they see from those towers? One
day I’ll get to live there. One day I’ll make enough to take my whole family there. One day –’.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the rumbling of the giant culverts. The flush was coming. Time
to earn her keep.

As she was alone and had no way of defending herself, she figured out a method to get as much
loot as she can carry without getting close to any of the groups. She would wait for the flood to
end and all the water to drain away. Then she would race to the farthest reach of the gully. All
those groups gathered as close to the culverts as possible, as that is where most of the heavier
junk landed. The smaller, lighter loot would be carried by the flood really far. This way she can
be alone while scavenging, taking her time sifting through the debris and picking out the best
loot to take home. This technique also served her with her return trip. Given her frail body and
fragile frame, she couldn’t carry too much weight, just enough trinkets and raw materials to fit in
her rucksack. While some of the larger loot may fetch a better price, there is no way for her to
carry it back home.

Botara climbed down the rocks carefully, she had slipped once before and got more than a
bruise for her clumsiness, there was no way she’s going through that again. Besides, the loot
isn’t going anywhere. Like her father always said: ‘It isn’t loot until you pick it up, till then its
junk’. She started to rummage through the debris, her eyes scanning around trying to find
anything she can use.

After a while of scavenging, she was able to gather some useful loot: some copper wire she
spooled from random discarded electronics, spent shell casings, a broken timekeeper, an
ornamental comb, and a broken hand mirror; not a bad haul so far. She packed the items into her
rucksack and was almost ready to leave. But she felt that she could still carry one or two more
items, the rucksack wasn’t too heavy yet. She surveyed other pockets of debris to plot her next
path through the rubble.

What she saw next froze the blood in her veins. She stood perfectly still for a moment and
closed her eyes, hoping that it was just her imagination. But it was still there when she reopened
them. A body, a human body, a dead human body, just a few meters away from her.

She had never seen one before and her young mind could not process what she was seeing.
After the grotesque sight scarred her mind, the smell violated her senses. Even among the heap
of sewage and rubbish, the stench that wafted from the body generated a different kind of disgust
to Botara. She did not know how to react to it.

‘Should I leave it alone?’ she thought to herself while lifting her scarf up to cover her nose.
‘Yes. Leave it alone. I saw nothing.’ she turned around and started to walk away from the body.
‘What if it had something useful on it?’ a thought crept up in her mind.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 305

The thought surprised her. As if someone else had whispered that question in her ear. She
turned around and inspected the body with her eyes. ‘It does have clothes on, maybe those
clothes have pockets?’

She took a few steps towards the body and the smell hit her again, stopping her dead in her
tracks. ‘I don’t know if I can handle this.’ she murmured as her disgust started to grapple with
her need. ‘I hope it…’ she paused as she looked at the body ‘…He has something we can use’.

Looking over the body, she couldn’t help but notice how well-dressed it was. None of the
clothes were ripped or torn. It was nothing like the usual patchy clothes she was used to seeing.
Perhaps she was right, this person may have been somebody important in life. She started to
overcome her fear and squatted next to the body to properly inspect it.

The first thing that caught her eye was the earring on the right ear. It was a beautiful piece made
of gold with a blue gem in the center. She gently took the earring off of the dead man’s ear and
lifted her goggles to her forehead to inspect it a little closer, its brilliant glow was mesmerizing.
This alone would be enough to feed her family for a month, maybe two! The next thing she
noticed was the brooch on the chest. It was an oval shaped and polished dark gem with ornate
filigree marbled with jewels. She snatched it off the chest and inspected it closer. The gem had
an engraved letter on it, what it meant she didn’t know. She put it in her pocket with the earring
and continued to search the corpse. The remainder of her findings was useless to her. Some
papers in the pockets and an empty wallet. Despite being covered in dirt and filth, the realization
that she was robbing a dead body was the only thing that made her feel dirty. More than a little
disgusted with herself, she was about to leave the corpse be until she noticed the glimmer from
the corpse’s mouth. She hesitantly placed her hands on its chin and opened the mouth to reveal
the source of the glimmer. Whoever this person was, they must have been fabulously wealthy.
His entire row of front teeth was gold, even his tongue had a gem piercing.

‘This is it,’ she thought to herself. ‘This is what will help us move into Tlaloc. We can finally
have a home.’ Her disgust and hesitation completely gone now, she pulled a pair of pliers from
her rucksack and steeled her resolve. Botara put her goggles back on, and clamped the pliers onto
the first tooth. She took a deep breath and pulled with all her might.

Almost an hour had passed. She was beyond exhausted. Her fingers ached and her knuckles
were stiff. Her shoulders felt so heavy she could barely lift her hand up to wipe her brow. ‘Who
knew teeth were so hard to pull out?’ she pondered ‘Everybody in the village has teeth missing.’
she dusted herself off and wiped her goggles clean. Her grin was from ear to ear. She had finally
done it. Finally found a prize big enough to change her family’s lives forever. She could imagine
her mother’s smile; that made all the effort worthwhile.

‘Thank you for doing all the hard work. We’ll be taking those now.’

She turned around and saw the source of the voice.

Khara Rustam, a youngin’ of the Khara clan stood there. Older than a boy, but not yet a man, he
was probably twice her age. His face marred with scars, he had only one eye, and a dark cavity
where the other eye should have been. He was armed with a metal pipe and an ugly sneer. Worst
of all, he was not alone. He had five of his younger brothers with him. They had positioned
themselves to surround her on one end, with her back to the edge of the gully, she’d have
nowhere to run.

‘Are you deaf girl!?’ snarled Rustam. ‘Hand them over! Now!’ He demanded.

‘No,’ her voice barely a whisper.

‘What?’ Rustam replied with a look of surprise and amusement.

‘No,’ she was shaking, barely able to get the word out. ‘I can’t’.

‘I was not asking!’ yelled Rustam. ‘Give us the loot or we will hurt you!’

‘Please,’ her eyes had started to tear up and her voice was trembling. ‘I need these. For Mama.
Please don’t take them’.

‘She doesn’t want to give them Rustam’ said one of the younger boys with a shrill voice and an
excited smile.

Rustam walked closer to Botara. She wanted to run but her legs wouldn’t move.

‘Last chance girl.’ Rustam warned her as he raised his pipe over his head.

‘Please’ begged Botara through the tears. ‘I need these–’.

The pipe came down on her head. The blow shook her very bones and brought her to her knees.
Her vision started to fade as the pain took over and the blood started to flow down on her face.
Another blow came that rattled her teeth and sent her body into shock.

‘I warned you!’ shouted Rustam. The anger in his voice barely masking his enjoyment.

Botara tried to clutch at his legs but he kicked her away. His brothers started cheering as her
rained blows on her head.

She tried to crawl away but Rustam followed up with another blow to the back of her skull. Her
vision was completely gone now. Even the sound of the boys cheering seemed distant now. The
only thing she could feel was the ever-growing pain as Rustam attacked her again, this time with
his fist. As the blows continued, even the pain was fleeting.

‘Am I going to die?’ she asked into the darkness. Her mind focused on her family. Her mother’s
smile as she welcomed her back at their shed’s door when she came back. Her father’s proud
look as he sifted through the loot she brought. Misaac hugging her. ‘Why? Why do I have to die?
I don’t want to die! No no no no!’ she pleaded as her consciousness faded. Suddenly, everything
went black.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 307

Botara got up to her feet and pushed Rustam away. The pain had mostly disappeared, minus the
spot in the back of her head that pulsed painfully, as if it had its own heartbeat.

Rustam almost fell over but collected himself. ‘This bitch still has some fight in her. Don’t
worry I’ll beat it all out of you!’ he yelled as he lifted his pipe with both arms to land another
blow. His brothers cheering him on.

But the blow never came. Rustam was standing still as a statue. His arms still above his head,
geared to land another blow. But he was not moving. His brothers stopped cheering, sensing that
something wasn’t right.

‘What’s happening?!’ Rustam shouted with panic. ‘What’s going on? I can’t move!’

Botara stared at him, her face bruised and covered in blood, but her eyes were glowing. She put
her palms together as if holding an imaginary doll and gently lifting it up. Rustam was slowly
lifted in the air with the movement of her hands. His brothers started yelling in panic.

‘What’s happening?! Help! HELP!’ he screeched as terror took over him, his single eye wide
and tearful.

Botara started to close her hands together. Rustam screamed out in pain the more she closed
them. Botara then started to twist her hands, as if squeezing out a wet rag. Rustam’s body twisted
with her movement. His brothers fled in terror at the grotesque sight. Botara kept twisting and
twisting until Rustam stopped screaming. She let her hands go.

Rustam’s mangled body fell to the ground. It no longer resembled the body of a boy. It was
more of a bloody braid of flesh and bone now, twisted and disfigured beyond anything human.

The pain came back. The headache Botara felt brought her back to consciousness. She looked
around in bewilderment, the boys were no longer there. What just happened? Was it all a dream?
The blood still flowing down her face told her that she wasn’t dreaming.

She looked down and instantly vomited at the sight of Rustam’s mangled corpse. A myriad of
feelings and emotions overcame her. Fear, pain, confusion, disgust, and anguish. She didn’t
know what happened, she didn’t understand it. The only thing she knew that moment was that
she needed to get out of there, quick.

She wanted nothing more than to go home and collapse in her mother’s arms. Her safe embrace
would give her so much comfort. But she couldn’t return home just yet. She barely had the
strength to get herself out of the gully. She found a small cave which she could hide and rest in.
She laid her rucksack down and used it as a pillow and fell into the deepest slumber of her life.

Botara woke up from her dreamless sleep groggy, hungry, and confused. Her surroundings
confused her, as any person would be when they sleep in an unfamiliar place for the first time.
She pulled a small bag of stale bread out of her rucksack and munched on it. It was dry as a bone
and parched her throat. She then took out a small canteen and gulped down the warm water as
she let her mind wander. The headache she felt reminded her of what happened earlier. Then she
remembered the sight of Rustam’s corpse and immediately shook the thoughts out of her head
and collected her belongings. She put her goggles back on and stepped outside the cave. The sun
had already set, she must have been sleeping for a long time.

Botara arrived at the outskirts of her village hours later. She barely had the strength to walk, her
head still ached. But she had finally made it, just a little more and she’d be home. Her mother
must have been worried sick.

Botara was stopped in her tracks by the sight of mob just outside her family’s shack. She almost
soiled herself when she recognized some of the men. Khara clan. What were they doing here?
How did they know to come here?

Botara’s mother was standing in the entrance of the shack crying in a panic. Botara couldn’t
make out the words but she knew from her mother’s expression that she was pleading with the
men not to hurt them. A tall and strong looking man was standing facing her mother, shouting
something at her. He had to have been their leader.

The man pulled her mother by her collar and threw her into the mob as they barged into the
shack. Moments later one of the men came out of the shack with a crying Misaac in his arms. A
minute later three more men came out carrying her crippled father and threw him to the ground.
Her father was unconscious, they must have beaten him. The tall man followed shortly. He was
shouting something at the men who promptly lit some torches and went back into the shack. The
tall man addressed the mob again.

Two men from the mob brought Botara’s mother to her knees next to her unconscious father.
The man carrying Misaac threw him down next to his mother. Misaac immediately grabbed hold
of his mother and hugged her tightly. The men had set fire to the shack and came out with
whatever they could collect that they thought was valuable.

Botara was crying. She wanted to run to her mother, to her family. But her legs wouldn’t move.
The shivering wouldn’t stop. Fear had completely crippled her. She tried to scream but the words
wouldn’t come out.

The tall man addressed the mob again and someone brought him a tall axe. He twirled it in his
hand then pointed it at Gilana, mouthing off what appeared to be a warning.

Botara was weeping now. She desperately wanted this to stop. But there nothing she could do.

Gilana pleaded to the tall man, clasping her palms together, begging him for mercy. Tears
streamed down her cheeks. He did not appear moved by her plight. Instead, he lifted his axe
above his head and…

Botara couldn’t watch. She turned around and started running. She didn’t know where she was
running to, all she knew was she couldn’t stay there.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 309

‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry.’ she yelled through the tears as she ran away.

A while later she found herself at the gully again. Not sure how she got there, not sure what to
do now. Botara fell to her knees panting. She started crying again.

‘Why did this all happen?’ she shouted, bawling her heart out. ‘Mama! Papa! Misaac! Why?!
Why did they have to die?!’

Her head still ached from that morning, but it was nothing compared to pain she felt inside. Her
whole family, her whole world, gone. She couldn’t comprehend it. She didn’t know what to do
now. Where would she go? She looked up at Tlaloc hive. She remembered her dream of taking
her family to live there. How happy their lives could have been. She pulled out the pendant her
mother gave her and held it tight in her hands. The pendant and the goggles, that’s all she had
left of her family.

She saw the sewage culverts. If they bring stuff out of the hive, maybe they could bring stuff in.
She made up her mind and strengthened her resolve. She’s going to enter Tlaloc hive through the
sewers.

Botara stood at the mouth of one of the large culverts. The constant breeze emanating from
inside was horrible to experience. Botara lifted her scarf up to her face and wrapped it around to
cover her mouth and nose. It provided little relief from the stench. She took her first step into the
sewage system and almost immediately fell on her back. The ground was covered in a slippery
sludge inches thick. She had to take slow, deliberate steps to keep her balance.

With every step she took the smell got worse and the light dimmed. It made it very difficult for
her to see where she was going. Good thing there was only one direction for her to go to. She
kept walking until she could no longer see the entrance behind her. If she stretched her arm
straight in front of her she’d barely make out the outline of her hand.

After what felt like an eternity of walking uphill in the darkness, she finally saw a glimmer of
light. Botara smiled under her scarf. Finally there was hope. The tunnel opened up to a large
room with dim lights lining the walls. Botara’s smile quickly disappeared when she realized that
the room had no doors. She couldn’t make sense of it, how a room that large could have no
doors. Where did all the junk come from then?

Then, she looked up and saw the openings in the ceiling. Large circular openings, some even
larger than her whole village. ‘That must be where all the garbage comes from, but how do I get
up there?’ she pondered while scanning the room. She noticed that the openings have ladders
built into the inside of them. Now she just needed to find a way to get up there.

She saw the wires from the lights all group into a larger cable box by one of the walls. From
there a larger cable coming out of the box and scaling up the wall and to the ceiling. The cables
continued until they went up one of the large ceiling openings. This was her way up.
 Botara positioned herself by the large box. She fastened everything tightly onto her and hoisted
herself up until she was standing on top of the box. From there, she gripped the large cable with
her hands and legs and climbed until she reached the ceiling corner. Then she carefully moved
her hands on by one from the wall cable to the ceiling cable. Once bother her hands were firmly
on the ceiling cable, she released her legs. She swung for bit, waiting for the momentum to die
off, then slowly started climbing forward, one grip at a time. She continued at a slow and steady
pace until she reached one of the large openings in the ceiling. By this point her shoulders were
aching, but she had no time to feel pain, she had to keep moving forward.

She looked upwards into the opening and saw nothing but darkness. She saw the ladder built
into the walls of the opening, from here she saw that they were nothing more than rusted metal
bars punched into the walls of the opening. There was a quite a distance between her and the
ladders, she’d have to jump for them.

She wrapped her arms around the cable to rest her hands for a bit, her fingers had been aching
and her knuckles felt like they were on fire while she was drying her palm sweat on her tunic.
She gauged the distance between her and the ladder and readied herself. One deep breath, and
she jumped for it. She barely managed to grip the ladder and hoisted herself up to get a good
footing on it. She took a second to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. She looked up
again, trying to see how far up the ladder goes. She thought she saw a glimmer of light above but
she wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. She had to keep moving.

Botara climbed the seemingly endless ladder for a long time at a steady pace, occasionally
stopping to recover her strength and rest her weary hands. She was nearing the end of the ladder,
the dim light shining from above was more beautiful to her eyes than a picturesque sunrise.
When she reached the top and her feet finally touched solid ground she collapsed and cried.
Whether her tears were from joy or pain was unclear even to her.

She stopped crying, unsure if it was because the storm of emotions subsided or her eyes had ran
out of tears. She sat upright and looked around. The room was a large rectangle with another
opening in the far wall. She almost started crying again at the thought of walking into another
dark tunnel. Her eyes then picked up what seemed like stairs at the far end of the room near the
opening. She quickly got up and walked to the stairs, they led up to a catwalk which led up to
another flight of stairs. She couldn’t see where they led as they seemed to disappear into a wall,
but she didn’t care. She will see this through until she reaches the hive.

She drank what little water she had left and headed toward the stairs. The tunnel and ladders
from before seemed endless, but at least they were straight. The stairs on the other hand
resembled a maze. Every time she finished a staircase it would lead her to a different hallway
which would fork into multiple directions and lead to more stairs and hallways. She was
disoriented, every hallway she entered was identical to the last. At least they all led up, and were
much easier than the ladders. But none of it mattered though. She made it this far. She will see
this through to the end.

Botara had reached the final room. Exhaustion had completely deteriorated her senses and
balance that she could barely stand or see in front of her. But it didn’t matter, she finally made it.
The only thing left in front of her was a giant broken gate. The sounds coming from the other
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 311

side told her that there were people there. For the first time in hours she was hearing something
other than her own footsteps and the drone of the pipe network surrounding her. She couldn’t
make it though. Fatigue had wreaked havoc on her every muscle and joint. She laid down where
she stood and fell into the deepest sleep of her life. Little did she know that she was in the lowest
and most derelict part of the underhive.

Botara was woken up by the sound of shouting and growling around her. She opened her eyes
to the most grotesque face she had ever laid eyes on. It resembled a man’s face, if it was poorly
drawn by a child in the sand. The mouth was lipless and was stretched from ear to ear. The eyes
were asymmetrical and lidless, with the right eye placed in the middle of the cheek, as if it was
slowly falling from the socket. The nose, it was nothing more than a crude opening in the middle
of the face. She screamed. The sound silenced the shouting and bickering around her.

‘She’s awake’ whispered multiple voices, if those hisses and snarls even resembled voices.

Botara crawled back, trying to put some distance between her and the crowd. But she was too
close to the wall and they had her surrounded.

‘We eat her now, boss?’ asked a hunchback with claws for fingers and arms that dragged to the
ground. His sharp teeth jutting out of his mouth gave him an awful lisp.

‘We take things first. Eat girl later’ said the boss. A massive man with a head shaped like a cone
and a brow that protruded forward. His body was muscular and his skin was scaly. But what was
most unsettling about him was the tumor coming out of his left shoulder that resembled a second
head.

Celebration and joy followed his declaration. The mob of mutants were overjoyed with their
finding. They haven’t had fresh meat in ages.

‘Leave me alone’ Botara pleaded as tears fell from her weary eyes. ‘Don’t come near me’ the
warning sounded more like polite request. Her head began to ache again. ‘Please don’t touch me.
I don’t know what can happen’

The mob cackled like hyenas at her threats.

‘We know what happen’ said the boss as he stepped forward ‘We take you. We break you. We
eat you. And we keep bones. For later’ as he reached his massive arm forward to grab her.

‘Fight back’ whispered a voice in Botara’s head

‘Leave me alone!’ Botara shouted as she instinctively slapped his hand away.

The giant went flying and crashed into the opposite wall. His head split open like a melon as he
laid motionless on the ground. Botara stood up, her eyes glowing with lightning and her face the
color of blood.
 The mob froze for a moment, bewildered at the sight of what they had witnessed.

‘I said leave me alone!’ Botara shouted another warning as she stood upright.

One mutant tried to rush her, he grabbed her by the throat and pinned her to the wall. His foul
breath hurt her sense more than the iron grip on her throat. Botara grabbed his hand in a futile
attempt to pry it off her neck. The mutant’s hand suddenly caught fire. He panicked and ran back
as the fire began to slowly consume his arm. By the time he’d ran back a dozen step,s he was
nothing more than moving fireball. Panic began to take hold of the mutant mob.

Botara realized that her hands were also on fire, but it didn’t hurt. Instead, it felt like a warm
glove that took away the aching pain in her knuckles. The only thing that hurt was her head. She
noticed that the fire was dripping down from her hands, like oil or honey. She had an idea.

Her eyes turned to the mob in front of her. Panic and fear had seized them. Some had already
fled while others simply stared, their unsightly faces gripped with bewilderment. She focused on
the mutant closes to her. She closed her fist as if she was holding a stone. She swung her arm
back, then jerked it forward, as if she was trying to fling a stone across the gulley. A fireball flew
from her hand and hit the mutant square in the chest. The force of the blow knocked him on his
back and he immediately burst into flame. He got up and ran into another mutant who promptly
caught fire. Havoc and mayhem soon ensued as the mutants tried to run away from their flaming
brethren. Every moment a new mutant caught fire and more chaos spread.

Botara chose this moment to run away. She made a beeline to the opposite end of the corridor
from the roving band of burning mutants. She reentered the sewer labyrinth and kept running
until she could hear the pained shouts of the burning mutants no more. One hallway led to a long
and dark room, she entered it and hid in the corner. The reality of what just occurred hit her as
she tried to control her breath. She couldn’t believe it. She started to cry as the realization
dawned on her. She had killed so many of them. But how did she kill them? How did she do
that? What is happening to her?

She reached into her dirty tunic and pulled out her mother’s pendant. She held it tight and
prayed. ‘Emperor…God…Please help me.’ she cried out a desperate prayer.

‘He’s not here child. He can’t help you.’ replied a booming voice from the shadows.

Botara sprang up trying to locate the origin of the voice. ‘Who’s there? Who are you?’ she
asked into space as she circled around herself trying to locate the voice.

‘Don’t be afraid child. I wish you no harm. All I want is to help you’.

A hooded man slowly came out of the shadow of the walls. It was almost impossible how a
shadow so small can hide a man. His arms were raised with his palms facing her, showing her he
held no threat.

‘Don’t come any closer!’ warned Botara as she took two steps back.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 313

‘I wouldn’t dare to’.

‘What do you want?’ she asked, but the answer didn’t matter. She was gearing up to run.

‘As I said child, I only wish to help.’ replied the man with a soothing voice.

Botara turned around and hightailed towards the entrance of the room.

‘Stay’ demanded the man.

Botara was frozen in place. She wanted to run but her body wouldn’t obey her.

‘Turn around and walk to me child’ said the man with the same demanding tone.

Her body obeyed, despite all the objections of her will and mind.

The man walked slowly to her and reassured her that he meant no harm.

‘What are you doing to me?!’

‘Be calm child, nothing that will harm you. Now, what is your name?’

‘Let me go! Please!’ Botara implored the stranger

‘Your name.’ said the man with the same demanding tone he’d used earlier.

‘Botara’ she blurted out the name without even realizing it.

‘That’s a beautiful name. Now, calm yourself Botara. No harm shall come to you, that I
promise.’

She found her racing heart slowly calming down and panting slowed until she regained her
normal breath. The man came closer and she noticed a brooch holding his cloak together. It was
identical to the brooch she’d gotten from the dead man earlier. The man pulled back his hood and
revealed his face.

He was old, much older than her father. But his face still had handsome features, despite the
wrinkles lining his forehead and the corners of his eyes. His jaw was covered with a light stubble
and his blue eyes had a youthful shine and shone so brilliantly that she could see her reflection in
them. He came down to her eye level and placed both his hands on her shoulders.

‘You have been through a lot today, haven’t you Botara?’ he asked gently as a caring parent
would.

Botara nodded as she began to sob. He pulled her in and hugged her. She tried to fight back the
tears but they came anyway.
 ‘There, there.’ said the stranger. ‘You are safe now. No harm shall come to you’.

‘Who are you?’ asked Botara, the question barely coming out through her sobs.

‘That’s not important right now Botara. What’s important is that I’ve found you.’ he replied as
he wiped away her tears. ‘You are a very special girl Botara. I’ve seen what you’ve done to those
monsters. A special girl indeed’.

The man stood up and pulled a piece of cloth from under his cloak.

‘Would you like to come with me Botara? I can give you a home, and food. You would like that
wouldn’t you Botara?’ he asked while wiping away the blood and grime from her face.

Botara gave no answer.

‘I can also teach you how to control that very special gift you have’.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

‘Yes, girl. What you have is a gift, a blessing’ answered the man before she could even ask if he
was truthful, as if he could read her mind.

She nodded.

‘Atta girl Botara.’ he held her hand and guided her with him towards the entrance. ‘You have a
very bright future Botara, that I can promise you’.

She arrived in Tlaloc hive via the public landing pad connected to the upper hive. The public
docks are mainly used for importing and exporting materials and mass transit passengers from
other hives. Occasionally, such as in her case, a landing ferry from an orbiting space station will
arrive carrying goods and passengers from other planets in the system. Usually the passengers
are well-to-do elites from other planets coming to the hive to finagle their way into a new
exclusive shipping contract or a monopoly on certain merchandise.

The landing pad consisted of several security checkpoints, with hive guards directing the
arriving passengers to their designated sorting stations. One station was for traders and customs
for their merchandise. Another was for arrivals from other hives across Quaglani. The third
station was for off-world arrivals. This one was the most heavily guarded, but not for the sake of
protecting their borders. The usual off-worlder arrival is either an elite or a noble from another
planet, or from this planet returning from a business trip or a grand festival. The security was for
their own sake, and it surely wasn’t due to the generosity of the guard. Rather, the sizable
donations made to the guard commander’s coffers guaranteed the safety of their persons and
belongings.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 315

She approached the off-world arrival queue and stood in waiting for her turn. Within moments a
guard approached her to ask for her travel documents and identification. As soon as he was
within arms-reach to her, his brow furrowed and lips curled in disgust reflexively. ‘Papers
please.’ he said with clear discomfort in his voice.

She didn’t reply. She simply presented him a sealed envelope. The guard took one look at the
wax seal and immediately handed it back. He instructed her to wait there and walked back to the
guard post. He whispered something in another guard’s ear while pointing at her. The second
guard nodded and left his post and headed to the back room.

The guard soon reemerged from the room with a more senior officer. The insignia on his
shoulders signified the rank of lieutenant. He approached her and introduced himself.

‘I am Lieutenant Manuel Killian, commanding officer of the border guard of Tlaloc hive.’ he
bowed gently and his tone changed from welcoming to spurning. ‘It is always a pleasure to
welcome a member of house Bitran. We were informed ahead of time of your arrival’ he spoke
the last sentence with a revulsion that was hard to mask. ‘Your host is expecting you. Will you
be needing an escort?’ he asked begrudgingly.

She simply nodded a no.

‘Very well. You may go through.’ he said with obvious relief in his voice. ‘Karkan, let her
through.’ he instructed the guard at the end of the queue. The guard saluted.

She ambled forward, paying no heed to the looks and whispers she received from the onlookers
still waiting their turn at the queue. She was used to such treatment and never gave it any
thought. Vigilator Ampata of the Silent Sisterhood only ever had one thing on her mind, her
mission.

Two Terran months earlier

Sister Ampata was summoned to the office of Inquisitor Kalam Mundi, a veteran investigator of
the Ordo Hereticus with decades of faithful service and glorious prosecutions under his belt.
Unapologetically faithful, unwavering in his zeal, and unquestionable dedication to his work. His
work helped the Imperium rid itself of many of the cancers that plagued it. Heretical cults and
rogue witches were hunted, prosecuted, and disposed of with great prejudice. Millions of lives
across a myriad of Imperial worlds unknowingly owed their lives to his work. Yet, for a man of
his distinguished status and significant experience to call upon the Sisterhood, the matter must be
truly serious.

She opened the double doors and entered the chamber, bowing respectfully as soon as her eyes
came in contact with the Inquisitor’s.

‘Sister, welcome. I hope your trip was not too troublesome.’

 Ampata made the sign of Aquila and signed her answer. ‘Happy to serve. How may I be of
service?’

‘Straight to business eh? That’s why I enjoy working with your order.’ answered Mundi.
Strangely, he did not seem the least bit bothered by her presence. Most people would be at the
very least uncomfortable in her presence. Unable to hide their disgust and hostility towards her.
But Mundi was different, he didn’t even flinch. ‘Tell me Sister, have you heard of Quaglani?’ he
asked.

She nodded negatively.

‘I cannot fault you, it is after all, quite an unremarkable world. It is located in a system
relatively safe from xenos incursions and provides a steady stream of tithes to the Imperium and
a trade hub for nearby worlds. Its manufactories are dependable and governors are trustworthy.’
he said as he took sip from his goblet of amasec. ‘Yet this unremarkable world has shown
potential for great disaster recently. That, is why you are here Sister.’

‘What sort of disaster?’ she signed

‘My agents on the ground have located the taint of witchcraft amongst the population.’ he
answered.

Ampata’s nostrils flared and her brow furrowed at the answer.

‘There have been reports in recent years of murders bearing the signature mark of rogue
psykers. It started off in slums outside one of the major hives, murder and mayhem beyond
reason. Normally, the Ordo Hereticus would intervene and squash this nuisance.’ he paused to
take another sip of amasec. ‘However, this particular psyker has eluded my agents at every turn.’

‘They must not be working alone’ signed Ampata.

‘Exactly. Our joint investigations with the local Adeptus Arbites have given us a frightening
realization.’ he explained with a note of worry in voice. ‘Within the last decade, local Arbites
have infiltrated a syndicate that call themselves ‘The Sightless Eyes’. At first, this group was
thought to be a nothing more than a band of smugglers and for-hire assassins operating locally.
The Arbites had been investigating them for years, with the infiltrating agent providing valuable
intel on their schemes and operations. That is until the infiltrating agent was murdered and
disposed of by the syndicate. His corpse was recovered outside the hive he was operating in.
Throne have mercy on him, he must have been badly tortured before he met his end. When he
was found his teeth were missing, crudely plied out of his mouth.’ He gave a glance towards
Ampata to see her reaction, she was unfazed. He smiled and continued ‘Not long after, the
murders at the slums began. They were followed by assassinations in the local hive of several
members of the Adeptus Arbites. The syndicate must have grown confident, as they were not
putting in any effort at hiding their work.’ he said with a hint of disgust in his voice. ‘But
perhaps their vile deeds have been a blessing in disguise for us’.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 317

The last phrase caught her off guard. How can the vile deeds of heretics ever be considered a
blessing?

Mundi took note of her reaction, he followed with another sip of Amasec and continued ‘Their
confidence in eradicating the Arbites’ agents has allowed out agents to continue their
investigations undetected. They were not shy with their methods anymore, which made our
agents’ job easier.’

‘This syndicate employs witches?’ she asked with an anger clear through the aggression of her
signs.

‘I’m afraid it is worse than that Sister, the syndicate is composed of witches.’ Mundi replied.

Ampata’s rage was palatable at this point.

‘This is where you come in, Sister. Our agents have discovered a plot to assassinate the
planetary governor during an upcoming celebration, the syndicate will have its top assassins on a
task of such magnitude. I need you to travel to Tlaloc hive where the syndicate is headquartered,
rendezvous with our agent, foil the syndicate’s plans, and bring The Emperor’s justice on these
vile witches.’

‘As you command’

Present day

Sister Ampata reached her destination, a minor trading house in the lowest portion of the upper
hive with an ornate sign that read ‘prosperity through diversity’ in high gothic. She used the
large door knockers to alert the occupants of her visit. By the third knock a woman opened the
door.

‘Yes?’ she asked before being struck back, as if her senses were violated by a revolting stench.

Sister Ampata presented her sealed envelope.

‘Oh! You must be Lady Cassandra! Welcome!’ she said through gritted teeth, trying her best to
tolerate her guest’s presence. Even making eye contact was a strain for her. ‘Our lord has been
expecting you. Do come in!’ she said while opening the large door.

She followed the woman through the entrance and walked into the lobby of the building. As
soon as she entered everyone paused their tasks and stared at her. Her null presence immediately
making everyone in the room uncomfortable.

‘I will notify the master of your arrival. Please do make yourself comfortable.’ the woman said
with faux politeness to mask her unease.
 Ampata put down her large trunk and stood in place. Her training and conditioning to never let
her guard down wouldn’t allow her to make herself comfortable.

‘Cousin!’ shouted a portly man coming down the stairs.

The master of the trading house, Duram vi Fasker, was a salient man as wide as he is tall. His
long beard reaching his chest and his blaring voice easily picked out among the loudest of
crowds. He walked with a confident step that is only bestowed upon those within the highest of
social circles.

‘It is so good to see you cousin!’ he announced as he approached Sister Ampata. ‘Come! You
must be weary from your long journey. Let us show you to your lodging.’ he said with a jovial
tone.

Duram led the way upstairs as Sister Ampata followed, the room erupted in whispers as soon as
she ascended the stairs. A typical reaction for those that have felt her presence. Moments later
they arrived at the entrance of her room. Duram opened the door for her and politely gestured
‘after you’. Ampata took a moment and entered the room, Duram followed momentarily and
locked the door behind him.

Ampata rested her trunk on the bed and took of her cloak. Her glorious golden armor shone
brightly, like a sun in the middle of the room. Her shaved head was tattooed and her long braid
reached her lower back.

He stare at her with a gaped mouth and blurted ‘It is true what they say, your presence is truly a
frightening sight’ he said wiping the sweat from his brow, all the confidence drained from his
voice at the sight of null maiden in full battle armor.

Ampata signed a question to him.

‘Forgive me Sister.’ he interrupted as he bowed low. ‘I am not well-versed in Thoughtmark.

Sorry to mither you, but would you be so kind as to write down anything you wish to
communicate?’ he requested while handing her a quill and parchment to write down her
thoughts.

She took the scribing tools and jotted down a single word: ‘target’.

‘They have been identified and our field agents are currently surveilling them.’ he promptly
answered.

She raised an eyebrow, demanding more information.

‘It appears that the group is led by a female witch. From the reports, she seems to be a potent
psyker and highly skilled in combat and assassination. We haven’t been able to locate her but her
underlings are under surveillance’ he answered hastily.

She jotted down another word: ‘plan’.

 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 319

‘As instructed by master Mundi, you are my cousin from noble house Bitran and guest to the
upcoming celebration, the planetary governor is leading processions to the annual in three days’
time. I have reserved a box for us overlooking the celebrations, which would allow us a bird’s
eye view of the area and allow us to blend in while surveying the situation. By master Mundi’s
orders, the governor’s office were not informed of this threat on his life. He worried that any
increased security would drive the target away, or worse they may have a spy on the inside that
would reveal the entire plan’.

Ampata wrote down a final word: ‘leave’.

Duram bowed and trudged towards the door. He turned around and said ‘If you will be needing
anything from me, please push that button on your nightstand and I will be here in moments’ he
bowed again as he exited the room.

He was out of breath and his hemline was drenched in cold sweat. He was fighting to maintain
his composure but being in Ampata’s presence almost drove him to his knees. Duram was no
slouch or paper pushing bureaucrat. He fought alongside Kalam Mundi for years and never
faltered. He hunted down witches and burned down heretics as a member of an inquisitor’s
retinue. He’d even stood proudly next to members of the Adeptus Astartes, the glorious sons of
the God Emperor, and showed no consternation. Yet, simply being around a Sister of Silence
took it out of him. He shuddered at the thought of facing her in combat. ‘I would feel sorry for
the damned souls that are unfortunate enough to feel your holy wrath, would it not be a sin to do
so.’ he thought to himself as he walked down to hall to his office.

On the first day, Ampata rested. On the second day, Ampata reviewed the intel and revised the
battle plan. On the third day, Ampata prepared for war.

Ampata holstered her bolt gun to her side and sheathed her execution blade. Her magazines
filled with bolts and anti-psyker shells. Two psyk-out grenades securely fastened to her side. She
was ready. She wore the noble’s mantle Duram provided her even though she did not fancy it.
Although it was too decadent for her taste, she couldn’t deny the functionality. The affluent style
made her look like a typical noble’s daughter while concealing her Vratine armor completely.

Someone knocked at the door three times and entered.

‘Are you ready for the festival cousin?’ asked Duram as he closed the door behind him. ‘I trust
you are prepared for our departure Sister?’ his discomfort barely showing. He had gotten slightly
used to her eerie presence and disturbing aura over the past few days.

She nodded affirmatively.

‘Then we depart immediately. Our transport is waiting outside to take us to the festival’.
 They arrived at plaza and headed to their reserved balcony overlooking the festivities. The
place was teeming with people walking shoulder to shoulder in every which direction. Shouting,
laughing, cheering, and chortling filled the air. Ampata never liked crowds, it made it harder for
her to focus, but such a crowded venue provided the perfect cover for her to traverse the area
unnoticed.

As they approached the checkpoint to the upper section of the plaza, Duram presented the guard
with their identification. The guard gave Ampata an uneasy look, his face twisted as one would
when suppressing pain as he let them through.

They walked up through the crowd of nobles and merchants heading to their balcony. Duram
and Ampata watched the festivities unfold, their trained eyes looking for anything that seemed
out of place. With such intense security surrounding the podium, one would have to be crazy to
even think of approaching it as the guards would open fire immediately. Ampata’s eyes switched
to the balconies surrounding the plaza. Perhaps the threat was long-ranged one. But even that
would be futile. The governor’s podium was protected by a small range force field that would
deflect any incoming projectiles or las fire.

Hours later, the planetary governor was ready to take the stage and address the people. He
approached the pedestal with his entourage of guards, advisers and mistresses. He stood tall and
raised his arm to greet the gathering crowds. He waited a moment for the applause to die down,
then started his speech. The governor addressed the people of the entire planet, his speech being
broadcast across all of Quaglani for all to hear. Ampata paid no attention to the speech itself, the
governor may as well have been talking in tongues. She was focused on the crowd, her eyes
scanning for any anomalies, anything that can be perceived as a threat.

Halfway through the governor’s speech, Ampata noticed a small regiment of guards
approaching the podium from behind. She immediately drew her gun and nudged Duram,
pointing at the group. Before she could fire the first shot, the group of guards opened fire on the
podium. The volley of las rounds covered the podium. The governor cowered down in a
crouching position as the force field saved his life, albeit momentarily. The barrage of las rounds
struck his entourage and felled most of them before they could even react. Ampata began
returning fire on the assailants, her bolt rounds felling two of them immediately.

Only three seconds had passed since the disguised assassins appeared. Panic took over the
gathered crowd as they devolved into a hysterical and chaotic river of frightened souls. Dozens
perished in the ensuing stampede as everyone sought refuge to save their own hide. The guards
surrounding the stage finally reacted to the threat, opening fire on the group of assassins. Two
seconds later, the guards turned on each other. Tens of guards died in the crossfire, as their own
fellow guards betrayed them. The guards closest to the podium managed to shield the governor
and his surviving entourage from the hail of las fire around them and began extracting the
governor from immediate danger. More traitorous guards appeared from behind the stage. Some
firing las rounds, others carrying energy batons and rushing the governor’s location. From where
she stood, Ampata knew that they would soon be overrun. She had to react. Ten seconds had
passed.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 321

Ampata took off her mantle and jumped down from the balcony, her Vratine armor absorbing
the kinetic force of the impact. She used the momentum from the landing to propel herself
forward, drawing her Execution blade and bisecting the first traitor guard she encountered. The
podium, that is where she is most needed.

She sprinted past the quarrelling guards like a specter, her sword arm reacting instinctively at
any threat coming her way, her bolt gun felling enemies like it had a mind of its own. But her
eyes, she never took them off the target. Ten seconds had passed since she landed. She finally
reached the podium, there was no sign of the governor or his retinue. The guards must have been
successful in evacuating him and his remaining entourage. She looked around quickly while
maintaining a low profile, lest she be clipped by a stray las round. She saw a trail of bloody
footprints and followed.

The footprints led to an opened door, Ampata peaked inside and saw the long corridor with
bodies strewn across and blood splattered on the walls. The battle must not have ended in the
plaza, the governor may still be in danger. She entered the corridor carefully, bolter in hand. Her
amber eyes like jewels shining in the darkness, unblinking and fixated on the far end of the
corridor. She pressed on until she reached a fork in the road. The right side led underground and
showed no sign of disturbance. The left side led upwards and was decorated with blood and
bodies. Left it is then.

Minutes later, Ampata reached the end of the hallway. It opened to a large atrium littered with
the bodies of the planetary governor’s guards and his entourage. She inspected the bodies as she
walked through. None of the bodies showed any las marks or blunt trauma. Some of the bodies
were burned to a crisp, others mangled beyond recognition. ‘Witchcraft, it has to be’ Ampata
thought to herself as she felt her choler rise. Her ears picked up what sounded like faint breathing
from the room at the end of the atrium. She loaded her bolt gun with fresh clip and rushed the
room.

Ampata kicked the door open. In the microsecond it took for the door to open her eyes quickly
examined the room. The planetary governor was on his knees with two figures standing over
him. An old man with short cropped blonde hair dressed in administratum robes and a young
woman with long black hair in a beautiful dress. They must have infiltrated his inner circle and
disguised themselves as part of his entourage. The two assassins were jolted at her sudden
entrance.

‘Run!’ shouted the old man as he pulled the planetary governor to his feet.

The young woman immediately turned around and crashed out of the window. Ampata fired
three round, the first two missed but the third was true. It hit the fleeing assailant in the back. She
won’t get far.

‘Stop right there!’ commanded the old man as he used the planetary governor as a human shield
with a dagger to his neck. ‘Leave! Now!’ he shouted as his nose started to bleed.

His extreme reaction to her presence told her one thing. He’s a witch. He confirmed her
suspicions by conjuring a ball of warp fire and hurling it at her. It fizzled away before it reached
her. He tried another attack, this time it was lightning. The result was the same. No matter how
powerful a psyker may be, when faced with a Sister of Silence, their powers are useless.

Ampata raised her gun and fired one round. The assassin fell.

Ampata holstered her bolt gun and approached the dying assassin. She gazed in his piercing
blue eyes as death slowly took hold of him. The bullet landed square in his throat, it will be a
slow and painful death. She would not allow him a swift death. She gave a glance at the governor
who tried and failed at standing upright. The ordeal alone must have been taxing enough, now
it’s compounded by a streaking bolt that must have deafened his left ear, and the pressure of her
null aura. The governor thanked with a nod. As the assassin drew his last gurgling breath she
walked away. Her mission was not over yet.

Ampata followed the beacon to the location of the second assassin. It was a good thing she
trusted her instincts and switched her bolt gun to tracker rounds earlier. The beacon led her to a
desolate slum outside of Tlaloc hive. There wasn’t a soul in sight, just rubble and burned down
huts. The beacon stopped at the remains of a burned down hut. The trail of blood leading to the
hut confirmed the location. She unsheathed her sword and entered. She saw the witch on her
knees by the far wall of the hut. She had something cupped in her hands but Ampata couldn’t
make it out in the darkness. It didn’t matter, she would take no chances. She readied her sword
and prepared to lunge at the witch.

‘Holy God Emperor of all Mankind…’

Ampata stopped in her tracks.

‘…protect your children. Guide us with your light. Shield us with your might…’

‘This filthy witch?’ Ampata thought as she took a step forward.

‘…let no harm touch us, no illness take us, no lie sway us, and no sin break us…’

‘Has the audacity?’ Ampata continued as she took another step.

‘…we are your servants, in this life and the next…’

‘To pray to Him!?’ the thought made Ampata’s blood boil.

‘By your will we shall prosper. Amen.’ the witch concluded her prayer as she turned around to
face Ampata.

She looked up as blood fell from her mouth and nose. She stared in Ampata’s direction and
tilted her head, as if she was trying to make sense of what she was gazing upon. Tears of blood
streamed down her cheeks. More blood came out of her gaping mouth and down from her ears.
Ampata continued her approach until she stood over the witch and raised her sword.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 323

‘He never answered.’ said the witch as she lowered her head in defeat.

Ampata swung down on the witch’s neck and took her head clean off. The witch’s body fell
sideways and shiny trinket fell from her clasped palms. Ampata picked it up and brought it close
to her eyes. It was a small copper coin with a faded engraving on one side and what appeared to
be the face of a man on the other. She discarded it as it showed no sign of being chaos related.

Ampata sheathed her sword and walked out of the ruined hut. The thought still haunted her
mind. A witch, a criminal, a filthy heretic, dared to pray to Him? In her long years of service she
had never seen nor heard of such a contradiction. She gazed upon Tlaloc hive covering the
horizon. In that moment, with her mission over, the only thing she knew for sure was that she
never wanted to set foot on this damned planet ever again.
MILLENNIUM OF WAR 325

DEATH OF
LOYALTY
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 327

INTRODUCTION

The Champions of Thanatos is a loyalist fleet-based space marine chapter and a 4th founding
successor chapter of the Dark Angels. Thus it is counted amongst the Unforgiven chapters.
Utilising a multitude of tactics from various chapters to their advantage, they are very versatile
and can easily adapt to any environment in order to combat even the fiercest of foes.

According to Imperial records, the Champions’ first appearances were around the Ullanor
system where they intercepted Ork spacecraft fleeing the system after the end of the War of The
Beast. They became skilled and famed Ork hunters throughout the sector due to their hatred for
all of xenoskind. That hatred culminated in the chapters’ most devastating campaign, the
Leminar offensive against the monstrous Ork warboss Darktoof, referred to by the firstborn
astartes of the chapter simply as ‘The Darkest Day’. At the time of the Leminar campaign, the
chapter had suffered great losses due to a massive warp storm which had destroyed the
Champions’ four reserve companies and the 10th company’s strike cruisers, killing their entire
crews. The chapter, however, had then suffered additional losses in the ensuing campaign, to the
point where at the end of the offensive the Grand Master, Hades, had to combine the remaining
astartes of each company to reform the 1st company.

The chapter’s hardships were not over yet. The astartes of the newly reformed 1st company had
been split into two factions due to distrust reigning in their midst as a result of the heavy losses
suffered during the campaign. Calhus, a devious Librarian who had survived the slaughter of
Leminar, had taken advantage of the discord and had risen to power aiming to overthrow Hades.
He preached that the Grand Master was incapable of reforming the chapter and that he had
dishonoured their name with his actions during the Leminar campaign. He insisted that Hades
ought to be excommunicated from the chapter and be replaced by the current Master of the 1st
company, Artemius. Of the 90 marines that remained in the chapter, 50 followed him in his
cause; but none wanted bloodshed. So Calhus waited for the moment when Hades would strike
the rebels in anger and thus provoke them to begin the civil war that he had orchestrated. But
Hades remained cool-headed. He had erected defenses inside the strike cruiser in an effort to
isolate Calhus’ marines without recourse to violence. Alongside him were the best of the chapter:
his honour guard, his two new bodyguards, Charon and Erebοs, and most of the 1st company’s
veteran terminators. And thus, the story begins…
Latin translations:
Obstinata Erinys (Unyielding Fury)
Indubitata Fide (Indubitable Faith)
The calm before the storm

‘The defenses are set my lord,’ announced Artemius as he entered the ship’s chapel.
Hades had had no time to rest since his final confrontation with the greenskin warboss Darktoof
at the end of the Leminar campaign, and his numerous wounds had taken their toll. He was fully
clad in his armour, with the scuffs and dents clearly visible as there was no Techmarine to repair
it, or any of the chapter’s wargear for that matter. Hades was kneeling in front of the big stained
glass depiction of the Lion, looking out into the emptiness of space that surrounded the strike
cruiser.

‘This has to end Artemius,’ answered Hades still staring at the endless nothingness of space.
‘I believe the only way this will end is in bloodshed. If they don’t back down they must suffer
the consequences of their actions’.

The Grand Master turned around and looked at the Master somewhat perplexed. ‘I don’t
understand. Why are you supporting me when this coup has been staged specifically for you to
take my place as Grand Master? ,’ asked Hades.

‘I strongly disapprove of Calhus’ machinations. I believe he should be executed for his actions
to set an example. Either way, you promoted me to First Master in light of Alexander’s death. He
was your true successor, not me,’ Artemius answered bitterly.

‘Perhaps you are right. I’ve made unforgivable mistakes that have brought this once great
chapter to its knees. There are no excuses that would allow me to wash the blood off my hands.
Now, I live only to seek atonement for all the battle-brothers that I’ve led to such dishonourable
deaths, Artemius. I can start to repent for all that I’ve done by subduing this rebellion in the
Emperor’s name,’ answered Hades.

Artemius stopped for a moment and looked upon the Grand Master with awe and admiration.
He appeared to be resentful but calm. Hades knew that his death was coming but he didn’t falter
in his dedication; he embraced it as his true atonement. The Grand Master stood up and
unsheathed his sword, the Bident of Thanatos, a master-crafted blade forged in the holy
manufactorums of Mars; a relic which had been handed down from Grand Master to Grand
Master for centuries and whose energy crackled at the mere thought of battle.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 329

‘I’ll take it upon myself to end this nonsense. I shall challenge Calhus to a duel. I won’t let any
more marines die for such a vain cause,’ Hades left the room and, with his Honour Guard
accompanying him, walked towards the ship’s engine bay where Calhus and his marines had
bunkered down.

++++
Marcus opened his eyes. He had closed them for a moment to contemplate what he would do if
the situation escalated further. His mind had struggled with every possible scenario, but every
time the outcome was drenched in blood.

Marcus, an undistinguished – until then – Sergeant of the 5th company, was the last surviving
assault squad Sergeant of the entire chapter, after the bloody debacle of Leminar Secundus.
During the defense of the satellite mining complex, Marcus and his squadmates had played a
pivotal role in holding the Orks outside the gates of the manufactorum. By utilizing the air
mobility of the squad to outflank the greenskin horde during the battle’s crucial breakthrough, he
had allowed the last defenders to turn the battle in their favour by capitalizing on the death of the
Orks’ great leader. A true veteran after the Leminar campaign, Marcus had been given command
of the surviving assault marines by Hades, until the chapter could be rebuilt.

And now Marcus looked around. He was still there, behind that barricade in the engine bay with
his weapons in hand, ready to kill the same brothers he had fought with side-by-side on Leminar
Secundus. Was he fighting for the right cause? Or was he on the wrong side of this senseless
confrontation? These questions had tormented him all day when, suddenly, the doors that led to
the living quarters opened. The first to enter was Cerberus, the Sergeant of the Honour Guard,
armed with the former First Master’s volkite charger and his power sword at the ready. Behind
him was Hades himself, surrounded by the rest of his Honour Guard. Marcus froze. He hadn’t
expected Hades to confront them so early. A second later, the hulking figures of the Honour
Guard clad in ornate Tartaros terminator armour stopped. Hades walked up to the barricade and
addressed Marcus:

‘We haven’t come here to fight Marcus, you can stand down,’ he said calmly.

‘Why have you come then Hades, if not to fight us?,’ asked Marcus, his plasma pistol still raised.

‘You will address the Grand Master by rank or you’ll become an example for the rest of the
pitiful followers of this cause!,’ shouted Cerberus as he lashed out in anger.
‘You’ll do no such thing Cerberus. He is not the reason we came here. He’s but a misguided
pawn of Calhus,’ commanded Hades.

‘Forgive me, my lord,’ said Cerberus, bowing his head.

Hades addressed Marcus again. ‘I have come here to challenge Calhus to a duel. If we are
to end this nonsense we will do it with honour, like our ancestors before us.

‘Very well. I shall inform him right away,’ answered Marcus before turning around to find
Calhus.

Marcus found the Librarian in the command tent that he had erected overlooking the entire
main engine room of the Obstinata Erinys. Even before he entered, he could hear Calhus arguing
with Enyalius, the veteran terminator Sergeant who had helped stage the coup to overthrow
Hades.

‘We won’t attack anyone Calhus!,’ said Enyalius.

Enyalius, an already large man despite his augmented body and terminator armour, towered
over the Librarian. In Leminar Secundus, Enyalius had seen most of the battle-brothers under his
command die at the hands of the endless greenskin horde. Their deaths made him question his
own abilities as a leader, thus making him even more sensitive to space marine deaths when he
had the ability to prevent it.

‘We have to act now, otherwise Hades will kill us all! We cannot simply force him to resign
without bloodshed, brother,’ Calhus answered.

Calhus, on the other hand, hadn’t experienced the horror of holding a position against the
countless waves of greenskins while his brothers died, one by one, in a futile effort to halt the
xeno assault. He had been stationed on the strike cruiser Obstinata Erinys as the personal advisor
of Second Master Lysandros who had commanded the chapter’s fleet from the Battle Barge
Indubitata Fide. When the dying Ork fleet had teleported into the chapter’s assaulting ships,
destroying them, Calhus was on the one ship that had survived. For him, the death of an entire
company of space marines and thousands of chapter serfs was nothing more than heavy combat
losses.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 331

‘I will never order my terminators to fire upon our own brothers. If you dare attack Hades or
any of the marines who oppose us we won’t be at your side,’ Enyalius warned Calhus.

At that moment Marcus entered, interrupting their argument. ‘Why are you here Marcus?,’
asked Calhus.

‘Hades has come to challenge you to a duel Calhus. He seeks to end this with as little
bloodletting as possible,’ said Marcus.

Marcus could clearly see the anger and frustration caused by his words on Calhus’ expression.
The Sergeant knew exactly what Calhus was thinking at that moment. In the chapter’s history, a
situation such as this had only occurred once before, when the first Grand Master, Admetos, was
betrayed by a veteran Sergeant who had opposed his leadership. He had resolved the situation by
challenging the arrogant Sergeant to a melee duel which resulted in him almost dying from his
wounds. Admetos had ordered the Chief Apothecary to treat the Sergeant’s wounds and to then
bring him to his quarters. The Grand Master understood that such a dishonoured battle-brother
would only lead to an uprising within the chapter in the future. And so, over the next decade,
after demoting the Sergeant for his insolence, Admetos took it upon himself to train him
personally so that he could become the next 1st company Champion. The marine quickly became
an exceptional close-combat fighter and rose through the ranks to become the Grand Master’s
personal guard.

After Admetos’ demise at the hands of a Bloodthirster, the marine vowed a death oath which
forbid him from returning to the chapter until he found the daemon and slayed it or was killed
trying. Reportedly, the marine returned after two millennia, his once ornate and decorated
armour in a state of decay with all manner of pieces missing and replaced with rusted metal
plates. In his arms he carried the severed head of the Bloodthirster that had killed Admetos,
Gra’rdroth the Voidflayer. No one knew how the marine had survived for so long in the Warp or
how he had managed to hunt down and slay the beast but he refused to talk about it. This, led to
many doubting his loyalty which itself led him to imprisonment and interrogation by the High
Chaplain. He was ultimately released when one the chapter’s dreadnoughts, Ancient Quirinus,
confirmed his identity. The marine then continued to serve as the 1st company Champion under
the then current Grand Master Alketas, until he himself became Grand Master in early M41. He
now had a legendary status in the chapter and his name would be forever remembered. The
marine’s name was Hades; or so the legend said. No one knew how much of that story held true
or if that Hades was the same as the current Grand Master, but no one dared to seek out the truth.

‘This is ridiculous!,’ exclaimed Calhus in frustration. ‘He knows I can’t win’

‘So you decline his challenge and deny our ancestral traditions?,’ asked Enyalius.

‘Yes. I must. I’m afraid there is simply no other way,’ said Calhus sternly.

‘You are no space marine,’ said Enyalius disgusted. ‘You are a coward. How can you claim to
know who should lead this chapter better than Hades when you are unwilling to even face him
yourself?’

‘What shall I inform Hades then?,’ Marcus asked worriedly.

‘You don’t have to,’ answered Enyalius. ‘I will. My terminators have no place amongst your
cohort of cowardly traitors’.
‘Fine then. See how Hades will treat you now that he knows that you have betrayed him,’ said
Calhus with a grim expression.

‘Whatever the punishment, we deserve it for following wretches like you,’ replied Enyalius as
he was exiting the tent. He turned. ‘Inform the rest of the battle-brothers here of my squad’s
departure, Marcus, and if anyone wants to leave with us he’s welcome to,’ he said and then left
the tent.

‘What are we to do now?,’ asked Marcus.

‘Now we wait,’ replied Calhus. ‘We fortify our position and wait’

Judgement

The next day dawned. Marcus was once again on guard duty at the hermetic doors of the
generator bay. The departure of Enyalius’ terminators and of the other ten battle-brothers who
had sided with him, had taken a toll on the remaining marines’ morale which led to doubts about
Calhus’ authority.

This situation won’t last much longer, Marcus thought to himself. Hades gave us a chance to
redeem ourselves without bloodshed and we turned it down. Now he’ll either slaughter us for
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 333

treachery or we will all be forced to take a death oath and be exiled from the chapter until we die
trying to fulfill it.

‘Marcus?,’ a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was Ajax, a fellow Sergeant and friend with
whom he had fought side-by-side on The Darkest Day.

‘What is it brother?,’ replied Marcus, quickly snapping out of his trance.

‘Calhus told me to inform you and your squad that he wants everyone to gather at the main
generator room,’ said Ajax.

‘And leave our flanks unguarded when Hades could attack at any moment? Is there a specific
reason for this gathering that is so important that we have to abandon our positions?,’ asked
Marcus, perplexed.

‘Perhaps, but when I asked him the same he never answered, he remained silent,’ answered
Ajax.
‘I’ve had this suspicion that he’s up to something. We must be vigilant brother,’ said Marcus.
‘You go back to the main generator room and I’ll inform Adeimantus and his squad’.

‘No need. I’ve already informed him. He’s probably there already,’ answered Ajax.

‘Excellent. We will confront him as his brothers and if he doesn’t back down we will be forced
to act,’ said Marcus and after calling his squad on his vox. He and Ajax left the barricades.

++++

Hades put his armour on again. The scars on his body and armour reminded him of his battle
with that monstrous Ork. All of this was behind him now; it didn’t matter. Now he was about to
do the one thing he had hoped to never have to; kill his own battle-brothers for the good of the
chapter. But Calhus had forced his hand. There was no other way.

He opened the door of his quarters. In front of him stood the very best of the chapter: Cerberus
and the rest of his Honour Guard, Enyalius with his squad of terminators, Achilles and his assault
terminators and in front of them all stood Erebοs, the veteran that had saved his life. He observed
the marine for a moment. Despite not wearing terminator armour like the others, Erebοs looked
far more intimidating. His black armour was scratched and dented revealing the bare ceramite
underneath while the red tint of the lenses on his hooded helmet gave him the appearance of a
specter. In his left hand he held the relic blade Beastrender, the very sword with which Hades
had killed the Khornate Daemon Gra’rdroth the Voidflayer. Erebοs had no right arm. He had lost
it in his attempt to save the Chapter Master from certain death during his battle with Darktoof,
and without a Techmarine to craft a mechanical replacement, the veteran was forced to fight one-
handed. Everyone knew what they were about to do and Hades needed to say no more. They
were ready. Hades nodded and they all followed him towards the secondary generator room, just
like the day before, only now they were going to battle
.
Upon reaching the doors that led to the room, Erebοs voxed to terminator Sergeant Hyperion,
who had stayed on the bridge with First Master Artemius to guard any potential flanking routes
that Calhus might have discovered, to open the hermetic doors of the generator bay. The marines
moved swiftly into the room but there was no one there, only eerie silence.

‘Erebοs, inform brother Hyperion of our situation,’ said Hades.

‘Right away sir,’ replied Erebοs before voxing the information to the terminator Sergeant.
Hades nodded to Sergeant Achilles to move to the sealed doors that led to the main generator
room and then turned to Enyalius.

‘I want you to hold this area until further notice,’ he said.

‘But what if they are waiting to ambush us in the main generator room?,’ asked Enyalius.

‘If there is an ambush, brother Achilles and I will extricate ourselves and go for reinforcements.
I need you and your squad to cover us in case they find some way to flank us,’ Hades explained.

‘Very well then, we sh-,’ before Enyalius could finish an alarm started blaring and the room was
bathed in red emergency light as Hyperion came over their vox systems.

‘The gellar shields are down! I repeat, the gellar shields are down! Multiple daemons are
flooding the ship! Prepare defenses!’

Suddenly, the walls started phasing in and out of real space as a multitude of colourful daemons
materialized all around the Grand Master and the other marines. Hades and the terminators
around him readied themselves for battle. The beasts surrounding them had pink skin and
multiple arms protruding from their bodies. As they moved around the space marines they let out
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 335

giggles and screams. Hades readied his gauntlet-mounted bolter and then gave the order: ‘Fire at
will!’

The bolt rounds tore the giggling pink daemons to shreds. But the beasts multiplied, as every
daemon that they felled split into two smaller blue daemons. As magazines emptied, the now
multiplied creatures started to swarm the space marines. Enyalius readied his power sword, while
his squad engaged them in close combat. The Bident of Thanatos crackled with energy as Hades
got ready to face the swarm.

‘For death and glory! Kill them all!’ yelled Hades before charging into the horde.

- 20 minutes earlier -
Marcus and his squad were the last to enter the main generator room. It was silent. Everyone
had their eyes trained on Calhus. The Librarian was kneeling on the elevated platform
overlooking the generators. Marcus observed him. He looked calm with his eyes closed,
speaking in a very low voice. The Sergeant turned to look at Ajax. He seemed perplexed as to
what the psyker was doing, but he observed silently, probably trying to lip-read what the
Librarian was saying through his bionic eye. Marcus then looked towards Adeimantus, the third
Sergeant who had stayed with Calhus.

Adeimantus commanded a tactical squad called Orkhunters, which during the Leminar
campaign, had been part of the 3rd company and was tasked with the protection of Leminar’s
hive city, Terminus. He had armed his squad with multiple missile launchers and melta bombs so
that they could perform hit-and-run attacks on the enemy’s flanks while being able to take down
the greenskins’ heavily armoured forces with the might of a Devastator squad. After the arrival
of the Imperial Navy in the sub-sector, which had caused the utter destruction of the Ork forces
on Leminar, he was at the head of the assault along with other Imperial forces on Leminar
Secundus to assist the remains of his chapter in eradicating the Ork threat.

While glaring at Calhus, Adeimantus unsheathed his power sword, wary of the psyker’s every
move. Marcus hand-signaled to his squad to follow him as he slowly approached the elevated
platform. As he got closer he started hearing what the Librarian was saying more clearly. He was
citing something repeatedly in a weird language, almost like a ritual. Suddenly, Calhus made a
gesture with his hand and all the lights went out. In the darkness, Marcus heard the generators
shutting down one by one. The gellar field, the engine and all the electronics were dead. They
were now at the mercy of the warp. As an alarm started blaring faintly in the background and the
emergency red lights bathed the room in a crimson hue, Marcus voxed to his squad to ready
themselves. Through the walls a horde of pink and blue daemons phased in, but remained there
only staring at the surrounded space marines. Marcus glared at Calhus, his gaze full of anger.
The Librarian stood up and addressed the three squads gathered below him.

‘Brothers! Don’t be alarmed. Allow me to gift you the powers of Tzeentch and show those
pitiful corpse-worshipers the true meaning of Chaos!,’ he announced.

Marcus couldn’t believe it. Calhus had deceived them all. He would pay for this.

‘Calhus you chaotic filth!,’ Marcus spat with anger burning brightly in his eyes. ‘You deceived
us! How dare you ask us to join you in such heresy?’

‘I never deceived anyone. You willingly followed me and even when Enyalius and the others
left, you chose to stay. In Hades’ eyes you are nothing more than mere traitors. Inexcusable.
Worthless. I am offering you a way to change your fate. If I bestow upon you the powers of the
Warp, we will become an unstoppable force able to do as we please! I’m simply giving you an
option. Either join me, or get slaughtered like the rest of this damned chapter!’

‘We shall never fall to the taint of Chaos, Calhus! We are descendants of the First, the
Emperor’s finest! I will strike you down myself even if I’m the only one left,’ replied Marcus.

‘It is your death then,’ said Calhus before unleashing the slew of daemons upon them. As the
beasts ran towards them, Marcus shouted behind him at the other marines, ‘This day we atone for
our insolence brothers! Let us redeem ourselves in the eyes of our chapter and the Emperor!’
His thunder hammer crackled with energy as the first of the daemons lunged forward. Marcus
moved elegantly, parrying every strike and hitting back with fury. His eyes were focused on two
things: reaching the control panel to turn the gellar field back on, and killing Calhus.

As he neared his first objective, a pink daemon jumped out from behind the panel to attack him.
With a sidestep he avoided the creature and then shot it with his plasma pistol as it landed, its
body contorting as the plasma burned the pink flesh. Suddenly, Marcus was overwhelmed by
flames. He swiftly fell back to cover, his armour still aflame. As the warp fire died out and his
armour systems restored, Marcus voxed to his squad to give him covering fire so he could take
the beast down. As he looked over the generator, he saw the vile creature while it lumbered
towards him. Its body was devoid of legs, and instead of a head, the daemon had a stump laced
with contorted maws that were fuming with black smoke. Marcus observed the daemon being
struck by the bolt rounds of his squadmates, but the beast kept moving towards him undeterred.
Seeing this, the Sergeant overcharged his plasma pistol and stood up to take the shot. The coils
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 337

turned white as a ball of overheated plasma exited the barrel and hit the daemon. The
monstrosity was obliterated, its body splitting in two before slumping to the floor, lifeless.

Marcus moved over the daemon’s body swiftly and reached the controls of the entire generator
bay. He input the restart sequence and, after a moment, the lights came back on and the daemons
stopped seeping in from the walls. As the alarm fainted, Marcus caught a glimpse of the traitor,
Calhus, before taking cover to avoid the bolt of warp lightning he sent at him. Suddenly, Marcus
saw another of those disfigured beasts moving towards him. He raised his pistol to fire but the
daemon was ripped apart by a sudden burst of bolter fire. The Sergeant turned around and behind
him stood Enyalius with a squad of terminators, the barrels of their storm bolters still smoking.
Suddenly, one of the pink daemons leapt through the air, its eyes fixated on Marcus.

‘Marcus, move!,’ a shout rang out.

Marcus stepped aside and with a swing of his power sword, Enyalius split the daemon in two.

‘We have to take down Calhus before he summons anything bigger! You are the fastest Marcus,
we’ll cover you while you take him out,’ said Enyalius before ordering his terminators to reload
their weapons.

Another small horde started heading towards them and, with a bellowing cry, the terminators
rushed forward to crush the daemon charge. Marcus turned his gaze towards the Librarian. Their
eyes met just as Calhus hurled more warp lightning at the Sergeant. The lightning hit Marcus in
the chest. For a moment, the Sergeant felt his muscles weaken as his body collapsed to the
ground. As he struggled to stand up, he saw the Librarian move towards him. Calhus approached
the wounded Sergeant and lifted him up, his strength enhanced by the Dark God he had betrayed
his brothers for.
‘You cannot win here Calhus. You betrayed your honour and your brothers. You will be
hunted,’ said the Sergeant through his teeth.

The Librarian’s grip tightened around Marcus’ neck like a snake crushing it’s prey.

‘I chose the path of Change Marcus. When I saw how incompetent Hades had become I
understood that destruction was inevitable. I surrendered my soul to The Lord of Change and I
was rewarded with power far beyond your understanding. I tried to convince you with as little
bloodshed as possible but your worship of that corpse you call an Emperor is stronger than I
thought. It doesn’t matter. Your fate has been sealed now any-’
 Before Calhus could finish his sentence he was struck by a bolt of plasma. It was Ajax. The grip
around Marcus’ throat loosened and he fell to the floor. The Librarian coughed out some
congealed blood and went to pick up his staff, but the Sergeant kicked it out of the way.

‘You’re all traitors in Hades’ eyes now. Even if you win you will not be spared. You chose the
wrong path Marcus,’ Calhus spat out.

‘Our honour may be tarnished but we never betrayed the Imperium like you did. Now you will
die and when you stand before your god as a failure; you’ll be ashamed. That is the Emperor’s
Judgement’

With a swing of his thunder hammer, Marcus struck the Librarian’s head and crushed it to a
crimson pulp as a psychic scream of pain filled the generator bay. Marcus looked back and
nodded to Ajax. He then turned around and joined his brothers in a final charge against the
remaining daemons.

Punishment

The door of Marcus’ chambers slid open. The air was cold. Today they would be judged. He
looked to his left, as Ajax stepped out of his chambers. ‘Are you ready?,’ he said.

‘I just wonder if we could have avoided this. Do you think that we should have left when we
had the chance?’

‘We made the right choice here Marcus. We had good reason to doubt Hades and when our faith
was questioned we proved our merit. I believe Hades knows this. We will be given a fair
punishment’
‘I hope you are right. You know, I never thanked you for saving my life back there,’ said
Marcus.

‘You don’t need to. I was doing my duty. So, are we going? It’s rude to be late to your own
execution,’ Ajax replied jokingly.

They reached the bridge. Hades was standing on the elevated platform overlooking the various
control panels and displays. He was clad, once again, in his battle plate with his Honour Guard
standing guard behind him. Marcus saw Enyalius and his squad standing in front of one of the
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 339

exits and Hyperion in front of another. The sliding doors closed behind them as Achilles moved
in front of it with his assault terminators, their lightning claws and thunder hammers sparkling to
life. Hades isn’t taking any chances, he thought. The Grand Master looked down towards all
thirty of them with a stern gaze and began.

‘Despite you triumph over the traitor Calhus, your insolence cannot go unpunished. This
chapter has suffered greatly under my leadership and I understand why you chose to side against
me but you are not yet fully redeemed. For what you did, I am sparing you execution, but all of
you will be put under Death Oath. You will only be accepted back into the chapter once you
have completed your mission or you shall die trying. In thirteen solar hours you will be
transported to the stronghold of Solnerdus on the world of Nymphardos. Nymphardos is a Death
World which has been almost entirely overtaken by an unknown life-form of somewhat Orkish
description. Your mission will be to aid the local Adeptus Arbites forces, led by Arbiter-Marshal
Svyatoslav Borissov, in eliminating the threat. If any of you should fall during this mission, your
names will be carved into the walls of the Hall of Honour upon Perditus Secundus. Due to his
actions during the traitor Calhus’ insurrection, Sergeant Marcus will be your commanding
officer. May you succeed and may the Emperor’s will guide you to victory,’ said Hades in a
booming voice. His stern expression turning to that of regret as he left the bridge.

‘You will be permitted to keep your wargear as is for this mission but you will be stripped of
any honours other than your purity seals. Sergeant Marcus, you will be debriefed tomorrow as
we reach Nymphardos. You are dismissed,’ announced Artemius as he also stepped off of the
platform.

++++

The Thunderhawk shook as they breached the planet’s atmosphere. Nymphardos was a Death
World which was covered by vast jungles and marshlands. Their mission was to exterminate the
creatures that besieged this world and so they were being sent to the last surviving stronghold
nearest to what was believed to be their nest. This is a suicide mission, thought Marcus. If the
planet is as infested as they say, then thirty marines won’t make a big difference. Hades is just
getting rid of traitors he doesn’t have the courage to kill himself. In the midst of his thoughts, the
Thunderhawk began to land. Hyperion, who was their escort, stood up and announced:
‘This is your chance to prove yourselves worthy. Grand Master Hades has spared you from
execution. Don’t take that lightly. If I were Grand Master, I would have executed you no matter
what you did,’ he said with an expression of disgust.
 ‘With all due respect Sergeant Hyperion, I don’t remember seeing you in the generator bay
when Calhus summoned all his daemons. As far as I recall you have never encountered
warpspawn, nor have you the experience to speak about what you would do as Grand Master.
Hades spared us execution because he understands what it means to resist the power of the Chaos
Gods. We are here to perform an extermination, nothing more, nothing less,’ replied Marcus.

Agitated, Hyperion moved closer and looked down at the Sergeant with contempt in his eyes.

‘Mind your tongue Marcus! If you ever speak to me in that manner again, I won’t need to ask
for permission to execute you on the spot. Let me remind you that you are still considered
traitors by the majority of the chapter and any honours you had have been stripped. If you
survive, I’ll be sure to demote you for such insolence towards me and the Grand Master. Now do
what you’ve been told to without further disruptions,’ he said angrily.

With a hiss, the hatch of the Thunderhawk opened and light flooded the compartment. Before
them a wall of flora arose, obscuring the world around them.

‘Solnerdus is located due east of our location. The Arbiter-Marshal is expecting you. May you
find your way back to the Emperor’s light,’ said Hyperion through his teeth.

The Thunderhawk took off with a roar and left them in a clearing in the middle of the jungle.
Without speaking, the marines started the long trek through the jungle with their auspex as their
only guide. The jungle was very tranquil throughout their journey despite the information they
had received about it being filled with deadly creatures. Perhaps the Orkish lifeforms were
smarter than they seemed. After three hours, Marcus caught sight of the stronghold. Before them
stood a large ferrocrete wall that spanned at least a kilometer on both sides. They followed along
the wall until the marines saw the gate. It was a large structure that protruded out from the walls.
As they got closer, Marcus observed deep scars in the wall that multiplied the closer they got to
the gate. No mere Ork can do that to ferrocrete. These beasts are more dangerous than I thought,
the Sergeant thought to himself. The gate started to open. An imposing figure of a man stood
before them, flanked by two rows of armed men perfectly standing at attention. He was pale,
with two great scars running from the left side of his forehead down to his neck. His mouth was
disfigured, a part of his lips torn off with metal teeth showing underneath. The man took a step
forward to greet them.

‘I am Arbitrator-Marshall Svyatoslav Borissov. I have been informed by your Grand Master

that you will be placed under my command until I release you. Your task is simple: Aid us in
reclaiming our lost outposts and destroying the nest of the vile Ork hybrids and you will return to
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 341

your chapter. As you are space marines you will be able to ask of us much support from my
Arbitrators as you need. Although Grand Master Hades informed me that I am to consider
Sergeant Marcus as your only commanding officer, I want all three of the Sergeants to command
their own squads individually. Welcome to Solnerdus’

‘Well met Arbitrator-Marshall. I only have one question: I was informed that the creatures we
have come to help you exterminate are of somewhat Orkish description. Yet the damages along
your walls don’t suggest any use of firearms that the greenskins would use,’ replied Marcus as he
stepped forwards to meet the Marshall.

‘They are Orks alright. But not entirely. From the reports I’ve read the mutations I’ve seen
would suggest that they are a hybrid between greenskins and what is known as Genestealers.
They are a Tyranid lifeform sent to infect world populations and wreak chaos to weaken the
defenses of a planet before the Hive Fleets arrive. Seeing as they have existed on Nymphardos
for the past 20 years, I would guess that the Tyranids are awfully late. Although these hybrids
used weapons in the past they haven’t done so in some time so think of that what you will,
Sergeant. Whatever other questions you might have we better answer them inside seeing that it’s
getting dark,’ answered Svyatoslav with a stern voice.

So they are half tyranid. That explains the marks on the walls. These beasts won’t be an easy
task, Marcus thought to himself as he passed through the gates. The base inside was quite simple.
A tall building lay in the middle of the camp with big tents set up along the west side of the wall.
On the east side there was a short white structure with the red sign of the Medicae painted on its
side. To the north stood a large communications array and a hangar where two Imperial
Valkyries were stationed. They moved towards the tall building. A large wooden sign above the
entrance said HQ in big black letters. The Marshall stopped.

‘Sergeants Marcus, Ajax and Adeimantus please follow me inside. Your marines may assist the
boys on guard duty for tonight so they can get a feel of what they’re going up against tomorrow,’
he said without turning around.

‘Marines take the gate and the southern wall. Ajax’s squad you take the eastern wall and
Adeimantus’ squad take the western wall. Fall out!,’ Marcus ordered.

Inside, the atmosphere was quite dank and humid. The left side of the building was taken up by
computing devices and screens that were connected with some kind of servitor, tirelessly
receiving and compiling information until unplugged. On the right side some Arbitrators were
standing over a big map display, its green hue bathing the walls around it. That’s where
Svyatoslav stopped and turned around.
‘As you can see there are ten outposts leading to a manufactorum. Before they were overrun,
the outposts detected large amounts of activity from it which has led us to believe that that’s
where the hybrids’ nest is located. Tomorrow you will be sent to reclaim the first outposts. You
should not expect to face regular Orks though. These hybrids don’t bear arms, instead they have
massive talons that can slice through ceramite quite easily. Being one of the few that has faced
one and lived, I can assure you that close combat will be unavoidable. My bolt pistol was unable
to pierce their thick hide and hardened exoskeleton. The Marshall ran his fingers over the scars
on his face as the sound of bolter fire started to get louder.

‘Their attack has begun. Don’t worry, they are unable to scale the walls. I trust that your kind’s
enhanced combat abilities will be more successful in keeping them at bay tonight than any other
time we’ve faced them’

‘Do you believe that all thirty of us are needed to reclaim just one outpost?,’ asked Ajax.

‘No, Sergeant Marcus will be tasked with retaking outpost 1 while Sergeant Ajax’s and
Sergeant Adeimantus’ squads will retake outposts 2 and 3 respectively. Any reinforcements you
need are yours,’ answered the Marshall.

‘Very well. Our wOrk begins tomorrow,’ said Adeimantus through his vox amplifier.

++++

The sun rose above the trees of the vast jungles of Nymphardos. Marcus and the rest of the
marines waited in front of the gate. He looked back. The Arbitrator-Marshall was standing in
front of the window of the main building, looking at Marcus. With a nod, the gates began to
open. As the iron doors parted, Marcus saw one of the bodies of the hybrids that had been killed
the previous night. It was an Ork, no doubt, but some of its features were different than what he
was familiar with. Its hands were a purple colour that slowly blended into green further up the
arm. Multiple sharp bones protruded from the beast’s forearms like scythes. Its chest was
covered with a hard exoskeleton that continued down to its abdomen. Multiple bolt rounds could
be seen lodged in it with only one of them having pierced through. Standard tactics won’t wOrk
here, he thought as he got up and continued walking. As they approached the outpost he signaled
the marines to stop and then turned around.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 343

‘When we make contact with the hybrids be ready to engage in close-quarters combat. Bolt
rounds cannot be relied on to break through their exoskeleton, so aim for the head and legs. I
advise those carrying heavy weapons to deploy in the center of our formation and give us
covering fire while they approach. Since we don’t know what effect plasma has on these hybrids,
I am authorizing use of overcharge on all plasma wargear as a last resort. Those with melee
weapons form a semicircle with me so we can engage them first. For the rest, may the Emperor
guide your shots,’ said Marcus as he switched on his thunder hammer.

As they neared the first outpost, Marcus heard a sound from a nearby bush; then another, this
time to his left. The sounds multiplied as they got closer. The Sergeant made a gesture for the
marines to halt and aimed his plasma pistol at the nearest bush. As soon as he heard a sound he
fired a shot and a loud screech rang out as an arm fell to the ground. A split second later the beast
lunged from the bush with its one arm raised, ready to strike. Marcus stepped back and avoided
the beast that landed in front of him. With a swing of his hammer, Marcus crushed its head as
more of the beasts started running towards them. Brother Monos fired his heavy bolter into the
oncoming horde, bolt rounds ripping their legs apart. After the burst of fire, Marcus and five of
his marines counter-charged and smashed into the hybrids. As they ran, brother Alcaeus split the
head of one of them in two with his chainsword and Marcus struck down another one in front of
him. The Sergeant crushed its head as it struggled to get up and fired a shot from his plasma
pistol towards another that was charging him. The plasma bolt found its target in the abdomen
and, despite the hardened exoskeleton, blew a hole right through it, killing it instantly. All of a
sudden, two more started running towards him with reckless abandon. He holstered his pistol and
grabbed his thunder hammer with both hands. The first swing hit one of them in the shoulder,
blood and bone fragments flying everywhere as the creature fell down. The second beast buried
its talons into his pauldron as he turned to face it. With a hit from the hammer’s handle the
hybrid stumbled back and, before it had a chance to move, Marcus buried the thunder hammer
into its head, crushing it to a pulp. The Sergeant then turned to face the first one he had struck
down and, as he raised his weapon above his head, a third beast jumped onto him in, swiping
with its claws at his helmet. The Sergeant grabbed the hybrid and threw it down, before pulling
out his pistol and blasting it to pieces.

The battle went on for about a half hour with occasional bolt rounds blowing apart the heads of
some of the beasts. When the battle was over Marcus looked around him at the bloody carnage
that had painted the outpost red. Thankfully, his tactics had spared them of any casualties with
only some minor wounds suffered. There was only one thing that he had not accounted for: the
damage to their power armour. Most of the marines, especially those at that had counter-charged
with him, had suffered extensive damage to their armour that could not be repaired without a
Techmarine. I hope they have someone who can make some basic repairs back at Solnerdus, he
said to himself without giving it any more thought. Next, he voxed to Ajax and then to
Adeimantus to see if they were successful as well. Both, just like him, had used similar tactics
and had been able to beat back the opponents. They then voxed back to Solnerdus and asked for
Arbitrator forces to be dispatched so they could start using the outposts again. The next two days
passed without any activity on the hybrids’ part and no attempts to recapture the outposts were
made.

They were ready to go deeper.

Retribution

Three months had passed. Marcus stood once again in front of the gates of Solnerdus, just like
the first time. This time, however, they were going to the manufactorum. The outposts had been
reclaimed, but this victory had come at a great cost to the defenders of the Imperial stronghold.
In the fight for the last few outposts the hybrids had made continuous counter-attacks in an effort
to regain a foothold but they had been beaten back, many Arbitrators dying in the process. The
thirty marines were all alive but many had suffered great wounds that would take time to heal.
They couldn’t wait any longer. The situation was dire, they needed to strike now or they
wouldn’t be able to survive another counter-offensive by the hybrids. Arbitrator-Marshall
Borissov knew this and had decided to join them in this last attempt to eradicate this threat. They
stood together, Marcus and Svyatoslav, in front of the great gates. The Marshall had truly
prepared for this fight. In his right hand he held a power sword that was more akin to those of the
Astartes than those that humans usually wielded. In his left hand he held a great power shield
that had obviously tasted the bitter bite of battle many times before. The two of them looked at
each other.

‘Whatever dishonour brought all of you here shall be forgotten for all eternity. Few of the proud
space marines would defend a world such as this. I know that perhaps you would have ignored us
as well if you had the choice but I admire your commitment nonetheless. Space marines don’t
have a need for supplies like humans do and so you could have abandoned us at any moment.
Thank you for doing this, Sergeant. Even if I die today, I’ll know that my world has been saved,’
said Svyatoslav in a sincere and calm voice.

‘It is our duty to defend all of the Emperor’s planets no matter how unimportant they may be. If
we don’t honour this, then we are no better than traitors. I assure you that no matter what we face
today the hybrids won’t persevere’ replied Marcus.

‘I have left the base under guard by the youngest of our recruits. If we fail they won’t be able to
stop them. The remaining Arbitrators from the outposts have all gathered at outpost 10 and are
awaiting us. The Valkyries will attempt to draw the attention away from us by bombing the east
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 345

wing of the manufactorum so we can enter from the west. One last thing that might concern you
Sergeant; This morning I received a transmission from a fleet of the Dark Angels chapter. They
said that I am to await their arrival in a few hours but I was not given any explanation,’ said the
Marshall as the gates opened.

‘Our parent chapter? For what purpose could they have come here? I hope this isn’t some
scheme from Hades. Well I can’t tell you that I understand their sudden arrival on this planet nor
can I tell you that I know what will happen. In any case I’ll be happy to meet them alongside you
once the threat of the hybrids has been dealt with,’ answered Marcus with a tone of concern in
his voice.

++++

The outpost had changed since Marcus was there last. The blood and viscera had been cleared
away and the only trace of the countless bodies of hybrids was a smoking pile of ash and embers
at the far end of the camp. There were also plenty of crates stacked in piles, most of them opened
and with their contents distributed to the veteran Arbitrators and displayed on their armour and
belts. In the far distance, the faint outline of the manufactorum could be discerned jutting just
above the tree line.

‘The squads are ready, Arbitrator-Marshall. Shall we vox to the Valkyries to begin the attack?’
asked the ranking officer, Proctor Anya Petrov.

‘Yes,’ replied Svyatoslav. ‘But first, I must inform the men of how we shall enter the
manufactorum’

With a whistle from the Proctor, the Arbitrators stopped whatever they were doing and formed
three perfect lines in front of them. The Arbitrator-Marshall turned to face them.

‘This is the day, Arbitrators. Whatever we do today will determine the fate of Nymphardos
once and for all. I understand that many of you will be thinking of death at this moment, but
don’t despair, for we have the Emperor’s Angels by our side. Still, as any good Arbitrator should
know, we cannot go into battle without a plan. This plan is as follows: the Valkyries will perform
bombing runs on the eastern side of the manufactorum in order to draw the enemy away from the
western side, from where we will enter. Our job will be to provide support for the space marines
who are carrying melta bombs to be placed at the heart of the building, to destroy it. So what I
ask of you is to hold your formation at all costs, no matter what we face. Emperor knows I’ll be
there to break the legs of anyone who digresses,’ he paused as some Arbitrators laughed before
continuing: ‘The formation is simple; nothing you haven’t done before. I want fifteen men with
shock shields and shock mauls to form a semicircle at the front, with the other fifteen standing
behind them with shotguns ready to blast those ugly bastard mugs as soon as we see them. The
marines will also provide covering fire from the center of our formation and cover our flanks,
should any of them be wily enough to come from behind. Am I clear?,’ he said with a shout.

‘Yes Marshall sir!,’ replied the Arbitrators as one.

Marcus smirked under his helmet. It was nice seeing men this happy before a battle that will no
doubt be very costly. He turned to Ajax and Adeimantus.

‘You think we need a motivational speech too?,’ he asked in a playful tone.

‘Let’s hope not,’ replied Ajax in a similar tone.

‘How many do you reckon we’ll face in there and, more importantly, do you trust the
Arbitrators to hold Marcus?,’ asked Adeimantus ignoring his joke.

‘Never underestimate the bravery of men, Adeimantus. You and I both know that. Have you
forgotten what happened on Leminar Secundus the day you and the Imperial Guard arrived?’

‘Of course not. I’ll never forget those five guardsmen that charged an Ork Nob with just their
shovels. But that was a broken army. The Orks were mostly fleeing then. It’s not the same,’ said
Adeimantus.

‘Then we can only hope, brother. If the worst comes I have a backup plan,’ said Marcus.

++++

Even through his helmet’s noise cancellation, Marcus could hear the Valkyries’ bombing runs
on the other side of the manufactorum quite clearly as they reached the broken wall which would
serve as their entrance. He stopped in front of the debris and looked inside the courtyard. The
Sergeant observed the hybrids run inside, trying to figure out where they were being attacked
from. Some that looked more Ork than Tyranid, just stayed in place and covered their ears,
obviously still familiar with bombing runs. A whisper from Svyatoslav interrupted his thoughts.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 347

‘We mustn’t make too much noise. If these bastards make too many sounds we’ll have the
whole brood bearing down on us. I trust you and your marines will be capable of taking them out
without too much of a struggle’

‘Very well. Adeimantus, with me!’

They moved through the debris without making a sound. There were about four of the hybrids
standing around. Marcus nodded to Adeimantus as they neared their two targets. With a swift
move, Adeimantus drove his power sword through the hybrid’s back and out through its skull. At
the same time, Marcus grabbed the beast in front of him and slit its throat. The sound of the
bodies dropping to the floor was perfectly masked by the Valkyries passing overhead. The two of
them then charged the remaining beasts and before they could turn around Adeimantus had split
one of them in two and Marcus had broken the head of the other with his thunder hammer.
Suddenly, one of the more advanced hybrids jumped from the shadows onto Marcus, throwing
him down. The beast was twice the size of the ones he had seen up to this point and its features
were more in line with those of a Tyranid than those of an Ork. The beast lunged onto the fallen
Sergeant and swiped at his helmet ferociously as he tried to reach for his thunder hammer.

Then a loud screech came from the hybrid as Adeimantus had thrown his knife into its spine.
Without losing any time, Marcus grabbed it by its mouth and ripped out its lower jaw from the
skull it was attached to. He then managed to grab his thunder hammer and finish it off by
smashing its head apart.

‘That was a big one!,’ he said and turned towards the Marshall that was passing through the
debris. ‘We must be vigilant of beasts such as these. My armour barely held’.

The Marshall nodded and addressed the Arbitrators behind him, ‘Take a good look boys. This is
what we’re up against here’.

As they passed over the beast’s body some of the Arbitrator’s smiles faded and a grimace of
fear took their place. They proceeded towards the facility. They entered through some half open
hangar doors. Inside the atmosphere was humid and the readings from Marcus’ power armour
told him that the temperatures were much higher here than outside. They delved deeper into the
darkness of the manufactorum, the light and noise of the bombing runs from outside slowly
fading. Svyatoslav was at the front of their formation, his shield locked with those of the other
Arbitrators as if they were links in a chain. Marcus voxed to the other marines to switch on their
night-vision as the Arbitrators opened their flashlights. As soon as the beams of light illuminated
the room in front of them some figures darted back into the shadows of the darkened corners.
The formation stopped and after a moment of silence started moving again, going ever deeper
into this pit of death. The room they had just entered was evidently, the ammunition storage of
the facility. Crates upon crates of ammunition were stacked on both sides of the room with only a
narrow path between them to pass through. The Arbitrators narrowed to a wedge-like formation
and proceeded through the narrow passage while worriedly looking up at the tall stacks of crates.
All of a sudden, a small horde of hybrids bolted towards the Arbitrators. Some shotgun blasts
felled some of the beasts but the horde kept coming.

‘Watch your fire!,’ shouted Svyatoslav.

At that moment, some hybrids jumped from the stacks of crates onto the marines and
Arbitrators, wreaking havoc. Marcus squashed one of them to a paste as it landed. Next to him,
brother Athanasius split one in two with his power sword as another marine, Tychon, shredded
one with bolt rounds as it fell. The Arbitrators weren’t so lucky. The beasts landed and all the
backline could do was fire their shotguns haphazardly, bringing little result and wounding or
killing some of their allies. Marcus immediately bolted towards the Arbitrators who were now
trapped in between of two small hordes of beasts slaughtering them. The Sergeant, along with
two marines, Cinyras and Pyrrhos, crashed into the flank of the assaulting hybrids, ripping and
tearing until nothing was left. Brother Cinyras rammed his chainsword into one’s abdomen as
Pyrrhos ripped a beast’s head clean off of its body with his power fist. Sergeant Marcus, with his
hammer in one hand and knife in the other, broke through the hybrids and reached the
Arbitrators who were slowly being pushed back by the other horde.

‘Take cover behind your shields!,’ he shouted at the fighting troopers as he threw two frag
grenades above the shield wall.

The blast made a hole in the assaulting hybrid’s formation which allowed the Arbitrators to
push through and break the horde in two trapping the hybrids against the walls of crates. At that
moment, a hybrid broke through the line of Arbitrators which had formed behind Marcus and
jumped onto the Sergeants back. Before it could bury its claws into his neck, the marine Pyrrhos
grabbed it by its exposed spine and brutally pulled it from the beast’s body. The battle was over
and deafening silence flooded the room again. The Arbitrators had taken heavy losses, with ten
of the shotgun troops and five of the shield troops lying dead in pieces all around them.
Svyatoslav, who had injured his leg, sat down on a crate nearby and addressed his troops.

‘We must keep moving. Those of you who have shotguns leave them and take the shields of
your fallen comrades. We’re almost at the production line’.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 349

Marcus looked back at the other marines. Most of them seemed alright with only a couple
having suffered serious wounds.

‘Adeimantus, prime your melta bombs and leave them here. If we can’t succeed we’ll draw
them here and take out as many as we can,’ he said with a bitter expression.

They continued into the depths of the manufactorum until they reached an entrance half blocked
by a derailed heavy hauler. The old rusted tracks it had once been on were covered with a sticky
substance. We must be near the core, thought Marcus before continuing. The production line was
a gigantic space filled with machinery. Gigantic presses were lined up on the north wall and
empty vats on the south with a myriad of pipes snaking all around them. The tracks from the
room they had just left ended in the middle of the room where tracks from other parts of the
manufactorum also converged. There, surrounded by a number of haulers and transporters, lay
some humans who wore the clothes of the Adeptus Arbites. On top of one of the haulers a
gigantic figure stood, its body hidden by the darkness. Suddenly, the creature jumped up onto the
rusted ramps and disappeared from sight. All of them looked upwards, desperately trying to
locate the beast with their flashlight beams. Only the sound of rustling chains could be heard as
the creature moved along the old ladders and walkways. At that moment, Marcus’ suit detected
something moving from a different direction.

‘There’s something else here,’ he voxed to Ajax.

Ajax switched on his combi-plasma and fired a shot towards where the auspex showed.
Momentarily, the Sergeant saw the truly massive beast. The bolt of plasma ricocheted off the
creature’s exoskeleton like a lasround would off of the side of a tank. The beast stepped forwards
and then gradually started running towards them, the sound of its steps resounding all throughout
the production line.

‘Brother Demos fire at that beast now!’ shouted Adeimantus as he started firing his plasma
pistol.

The sound of the missile launcher firing, deafened the Arbitrators momentarily. The missile
found its target but didn’t do much. The beast stumbled, then got back up again. A second krak
missile was fired, this time from brother Lysandros and it hit the monstrous hybrid in the leg,
taking it down. Seizing the opportunity, Marcus voxed to the marine carrying a meltagun,
Konon, and bolted towards the beast. As it tried to get up, Marcus overcharged his plasma pistol
and fired it towards its head. The shot found its target and a loud scream of pain rang out as it
burned its flesh. As he neared the beast, Marcus saw what he was up against. It was an Ork at
least 7 meters tall, with an exoskeleton covering its torso and abdomen as well as something that
resembled a skull covering its face entirely. The Sergeant voxed to Konon to keep his distance as
he jumped onto the kneeling beast. With a swing of his thunder hammer, the hybrid fell onto its
arm but managed to grab Marcus. Before it could crush him though, Konon ran up to the
monstrous Ork hybrid and fired his meltagun directly at its neck. The beast fell back screaming,
and before it could move, the marine fired two more times into its skull, blowing it apart.

Immediately, Marcus moved to the center of the production line where those Arbitrators lay.
They seemed to be alive but his power armour sensors indicated more than one heartbeat inside
of them. Can’t risk it, he thought as he placed the primed melta bombs in one of the haulers.
Suddenly, he heard the sounds of gunfire and screams coming from the direction of his men. He
and Konon raced towards them and gaped at what they saw: It was a massive Tyranid, ripping its
way through the shield line of the Arbitrators with the massive talons of its four arms. It was a
bloodbath. The Arbitrators’ shields did nothing to stop the beast’s claws and bolt rounds bounced
off of its carapace, completely unable to pierce it. As Marcus approached, he saw two Arbitrators
getting cut in half as the marines attempted to battle it. One marine, Athanasius, tried to face the
beast but it just slashed him with its claws and flung him onto some other marines unloading
their ammunition into it in a futile attempt to halt its charge. The last of the Arbitrators, along
with Marshall Svyatoslav himself, made a final charge against the monster, but was repelled by
the beast in a grotesque display of power. The Tyranid glared at the assaulting humans who
immediately fell down holding their heads before they blew up, scattering chunks of flesh and
bone everywhere. Only Marshall Svyatoslav managed to reach the beast, but was swept aside by
it as if it had been annoyed by his resistance. It must have psychic powers, thought Marcus as he
approached the beast.

The Sergeant fired two shots at the Tyranid, which immediately turned around to face him. It
didn’t move, it just stared at him. Its stare had an effect on Marcus that he had not anticipated.
Multiple thoughts started going through his mind, telling him to set his weapons down and
surrender to the power of the beast. Marcus stared back into the beast’s eyes. He stopped
thinking. He took off his helmet and charged.

He knew he was about to die when the Tyranid raised its claws. He closed his eyes in
anticipation of the strike; but it never came. All he heard was a deafening screech as he opened
his eyes again. It was Marshall Svyatoslav. With his last bit of strength he had managed to
impale his massive sword into the beast’s back. With this, the marines left their cover and
assaulted the monstrous Tyranid in a massive charge. Marcus brought the beast down by
breaking one of its knees as the other marines fell onto it filled with rage. The beast was dead.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 351

Salvation

The silence after the battle was broken by the sound of a massive horde approaching. The
psychic scream must have alerted them, thought Marcus as he retrieved his helmet.

‘We must get out of here now!,’ he shouted to the marines. The sound got louder. ‘Ajax are the
explosives ready?,’ he asked.

‘Yes Brother-Sergeant! Pick up the wounded and let’s leave!’ shouted Ajax as he ran back.

Marcus helped Athanasius get up and started moving towards the doors that led back through
the passage they had come from. He noticed Marshall Svyatoslav who had crawled to the door
and was now resting in his final moments. As soon as the injured man saw him, life filled his
eyes.

‘Sergeant Marcus!,’ he said as loudly as he could. ‘I’m glad to have fought alongside you. Let
me help you one last time. Give me your frag grenades. When they come, I want to take as many
of them as I can with me. Again, thank you’.

‘May you find peace with the Emperor Arbitrator-Marshall. It’s the least you deserve for your
actions,’ replied Marcus as he gave him his grenades.

The horde of hybrids was almost through. With a last glance at the Marshall, Marcus pressed
the button and the hydraulic door closed with a loud thump. A moment later the hybrids finally
broke through the door and started rampaging through the production line. Now these are the
Orks I remember, thought Svyatoslav. He was ready to die. As the horde got closer he mustered
all his power and stood up. As soon as the beasts saw him they started screeching and made a
charge towards the wounded Marshall.

‘I’m glad to take you with me you bastards!,’ he shouted in defiance of the gigantic mass of
crazed beasts hurtling towards him. ‘For the Emperor!’

He released the pins of all six grenades strapped to his belt as the first of the beasts plunged one
of its claws into him. Even from behind the hydraulic door, Marcus heard the explosion.

++++
 Marcus could see the light, their salvation. Despite Marshall Svyatoslav’s sacrifice, the hybrids
had broken through and were pursuing them viciously through the manufactorum. As they
reached the hangar doors Marcus fired blindly into the fast-approaching horde. Brother Monos
stopped as he reached the doors and started firing his heavy bolter in an attempt to slow down the
ravenous hybrids. Bolt rounds whizzed past Marcus as he ran with the injured Athanasius on his
shoulder. The sustained fire from Monos was effective, the hybrid’s dead bodies pilling up and
becoming an obstacle for the crazed brood. As soon as Ajax stepped outside he triggered the
explosives, which made the gigantic building begin to collapse in spectacular fashion. A great
fireball began filling the rooms and corridors surrounding the production line. At that moment,
Monos ran out of ammunition and managed to escape the inferno consuming every part of the
building at the last second, the horde becoming vaporised in the process.

‘That was the last of them,’ said Marcus as he lay Athanasius down.

‘Brother-Sergeant you might want to look up,’ said Ajax worriedly.

Marcus raised his head. Drop Pods rained like fire from the sky. These must be the Dark
Angels, he thought.

‘They are Dark Angels Ajax. They had set a meeting with Marshall Borissov at Solnerdus. I
suppose that we are the only ones left to meet them now. Let’s begin heading there’ said Marcus.

As they neared outpost 10, Marcus saw some robed figures standing outside of the main
building, almost like they were waiting for someone. As he got closer he realized they were
space marines, but their armour was black, and they did not bear the insignia of the Ravenwing.
Marcus signaled for the marines to stop.

‘I’ll go and meet them. Stay out of sight until I call you and be ready to attack if anything goes
awry,’ he commanded.

As soon as they saw him, they turned and started walking towards him without any caution in
their movements. There were at least ten of them with no discernible leader among them. When
they got close enough he stopped and immediately they did the same, except for one. One of the
robed marines kept walking towards him. Marcus could not recognize the armour pattern that he
wore but it was obviously well-worn, with scuffs and dents all over it. His robes were tattered as
if he had been wearing them for years on end and on his backpack he carried a sword of gigantic
proportions. Marcus put his hand on his holstered plasma pistol. The marine stopped.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 353

‘No need to be alarmed Sergeant Marcus. We are just here to help,’ said the robed marine.

‘How do you know my name? Are you with the Dark Angels force that is currently making
landfall?,’ asked Marcus.

The marine removed his hood. He had long gray hair and the scars on his face suggested that he
had been fighting for a very long time.

‘My name is Cypher. You probably don’t know who I am. I doubt even your Grand Master
knows who I am. As I said, we are here to help, Sergeant. Now tell your marines to come out of
hiding and join us. Our ship is waiting just behind the outpost,’ he said.

‘I’ve heard of you. You are one of the Fallen, a traitor. I won’t fall for your trickery, chaotic filth.
Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now,’ threatened Marcus.

‘I am indeed one of the so-called Fallen. But I mean you no harm and I can assure you that I,
nor any of the marines behind me, are affiliated with the Chaos gods whatsoever. I just want to
help you,’ said Cypher in a calm voice.

‘What help would I need from you?,’ asked Marcus.

‘You are outcasts. Your Grand Master sent you here to die just so he could get rid of you. When
he sees you’re alive he will probably execute you anyway. I am simply offering you an escape.
Join us and you will never have to blindly obey orders ever again,’ he answered.

‘How could you know that? Why should we trust a traitor?,’ said Marcus.
‘My experience with the Dark Angels genestock has been very thorough over the past 10,000
years. I am no traitor. I was betrayed just like you, by my own brothers. You can either choose to
come with us or to be executed unjustly, like some Chaos worshiper’ he said.

Marcus was having second thoughts. He is right. There will be no salvation. Even if we are
spared execution, we will forever be the shame of the chapter. Inexcusable. Worthless, he
thought.

‘Very well. I have many critically wounded. Do you have an Apothecary?,’ said Marcus as he
signaled to the marines to come out.
‘Yes we do. We also have a Techmarine who can fix your power armour. I am glad you made
the right choice, Sergeant,’ he said as he put his hood back on.

Is this to be our salvation?, Marcus thought as they started following behind the mysterious
marines.
MILLENNIUM OF WAR 355

FLAMES
UNTO THE
DARKNESS
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 357

‘Lord Tsepras, four beta class container ships have just arrived at receiving dock 65-f12 from
the agri-planet, Chaniat.8, they await your clearance.’

Peracles looked down at the small man in front of him who was bowing deeply in his grey
Administratum robe, proffering a data slate. Truth be told, Garet was an average size human, but
to an astartes, he was but a child. Brother Sergeant Peracles Tsepras, as he was once known, took
the data slate and lazily scrolled through the data, as he had done thousands of times before. A
slight yawn overtook him and he strained not to let others see it as he scanned the data.

+ 38735 tons of plasti-grain +

+ 7094851 gallons of recycled water +
+ 51260 head of grox +
The manifest went on…

The marine handed the data slate back to his servant and sat down on his oversized chair of
granite and steel. He exhaled loudly as he sat down. Over three hundred years of service with
Guilliman’s Javelins had taken their toll on his body. His bionic leg clicked as he crossed it over
his remaining leg, and both of his bionic arms rested on his chair in the dented grooves of his
arm rests. And now this…..this ‘reward’ for his years of service was all he could do. Being the
Chief Minister over an entire Adeptus Administratum Supply Fort was a position few humans
could hope to aspire to, but to an astartes, it was death by boredom. No more would he ever feel
the kick of a bolter in his grip; never again would he lead his peers into battle. The honor and
glory he had once consumed like sustenance, was nowhere to be found. Upon his ‘promotion’ to
this position. Sergeant Peracles Tsepras was known throughout the 5th company as an inspiring
leader and implacable foe. Peracles ran his bionic hand through his curly grey hair and slouched
a bit, his eyes glazed over as he vividly remembered his final battle as a Javelin. All had been
going so well, the orks had been funneled into a narrow ravine of the mountains at southern
Catras. Constant bike squadron and land speeder ambushes had goaded the greenskins into a
perfect killzone. Despite the haze and smoke from battle, the day had been beautiful. Deep blue
skies under an Ultramar sun seemed too beautiful of a day to be spent for war. The grassless rock
of the mountains each carved into busts of famous Imperial heroes. The awe inspired by legends
that were thousands of feet high looking down upon the battle, filled Imperial hearts with joy.

Enemy bikes and war trucks painted rust red and filled with screaming greenskins came tearing
through the gorge. He noticed what appeared to be one of their leaders in the lead war truck. It
was significantly larger than its surrounding kin and pointed a giant powered claw forward while
screaming orders in its grotesque and guttural language. Orks surrounding the leader were
jumping for joy, waving their weapons wildly in the air. It was simply incomprehensible that a
race of creatures could enjoy war and slaughter so much. It was all a massive game to them.

Seeing all he could stand, Peracles’ squad opened fire as ordered and purged foul xenos by the
score. Their ballistic drilling was of the finest caliber, and was the envy of 5th company. Not a
single bolt round was wasted. For every bullet that left a blessed bolter, an ork was felled. The
strategy had been executed perfectly. Had Guilliman been present to witness it, he would have
been proud. Sadly, this was over a decade before the glorious awakening and subsequent
Indomitus Crusade. Peracles himself had shot an ork on the war truck hefting a crude rocket
launcher in the head; a fine kill, perhaps too fine.

As the ork dropped lifelessly to the ground, the rocket launcher fired. Perhaps the ork squeezed
the trigger as it fell, perhaps it was something else. The rocket spiraled perfectly into the face of
the mountain directly above Peracles’ squad. Large boulders rained down on the squad as he
shouted for his men to take cover. All his men were able to make it to safety, just as the Sergeant
was struck by a flurry of boulders. His left leg was crushed to pulp, his arms were also trapped
under tons of rubble. Although his beloved power armor had protected him for centuries from
weapons of every conceivable make, Peracles had been laid low by the breath-taking mountains
of Catras. He had been the architect of his own demise.

Upon being revived days later, his Captain had jokingly told Peracles that the only thing in the
galaxy that could kill him, was himself. That was the last time he could remember laughing.
Later, when his apothecary had told him that his tactical abilities had been diminished by 18.4
percent due to his injuries and bionic replacements, he knew what would come next. Captain
Dantrius held a lavish ceremony where Peracles was bestowed the Seal of Service and lauded for
his many victories. His brothers congratulated him for his retirement and promotion, but he could
see the horror in their eyes. The thought of being banished to a banal life of non-military
servitude was akin to the cold embrace of dreadnaught armor.

‘My lord, is everything okay?’ Garet stared at his master with genuine concern. Apparently,
Peracles had been day dreaming again.

‘Um, yes, ….yes. I have reviewed the manifest and give my permission for these ships to be
unloaded. You may proceed with full docking and unload procedure.’ My apologies for taking so
long, but I needed to properly process the data for time management purposes.’

Garet once again bowed, ‘It is no issue at all Chief Minister, I shall carry out your orders
immediately and dispatch the lumper servitors.’

As Garet scurried off, Peracles stared out a window at the black void of space and rubbed the
back of his neck. ‘Great throne of Terra, is this what I have been reduced to? Is this all?’ he
exclaimed to an empty chamber.

Sergeant Solot knelt before the Wall of Honor and recited his litanies of hate. The Wall of
Honor was green and white marble standing over ten feet high and wider than the shoulders of a
Warlord class titan. The Hall of Remembrance was dark and cavernous, the only light from
banks of candles positioned about the chamber. A single servo-skull hovered about spraying
incense that smelled of burning solder. The incense created a musky haze in the air. Upon the
Wall of Honor were hundreds of names chiseled in with great care by the Chaplains of
Guilliman’s Javelins. There were only two requirements to have one’s name chiseled on this
ancient memorial; performing an incredible act of bravery, and dying. He ran his bare fingers
over some of the names as he prayed and imagined his name on the wall. Perhaps someday, he
would have an opportunity to attain such a rare honor. Lost in thought, some footsteps behind
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 359

him roused him out of his contemplation. The footfalls were heavy, brash clanks of metal against
the granite floor, it could only be one of his brothers. He stood up to see Captain Dantrius
approaching him. A gleaming golden cloak rested over his Captain’s right shoulder, accenting
the polished black and indigo armor; the armor was exquisite. Breath-taking reliefs of astartes
vanquishing xenos had been lovingly sculpted into the ornate armor, an artificier’s triumph.

‘Brother Solot, how did I know you would be here caressing the Wall of Honor?’ The Captain
smiled and stood next to Solot, admiring the wall.

‘I confess Brother Captain, I do spend much of my free time here. Perhaps I should spend more
time in the sparring pits.’

‘It’s okay brother, in my youth I did the same as you do now. I sometimes forget you are barely
100 years old, my youngest Sergeant.’ The Captain patted Solot on the shoulder, then turned to
face him. ‘I have been informed of a situation that needs rectifying on the world of Chaniat 3. It
seems a heretical cult has taken control of one of the satellite hive cities, just east of the capital.
The Ordo Hereticus has asked that I dispatch a squad to purge the heresy.’

Solot’s eyes widened, ‘Is this honor to be mine?’

‘It is Sergeant, I trust you are ready,’ the Captain’s gaze became stern.

‘I am indeed. There remains only one possible delay. Brother Antio is still under the care of an
apothecary, getting his new eyes calibrated after the last battle. It will be at least 48 hours before
he is battle ready.’

Captain Dantrius scowled, ‘Delays are not possible, I gave my word to the inquisitor that the
heretics would be purged immediately. You will have to go with your eight other squad mates
that are battle ready.’

‘Brother Captain, if my memory serves me diligently, is not the Chaniat system where Sergeant
Tsepras resides?’

‘It is, but Peracles has not been in battle for over a decade. Do you really believe he is battle
ready?’

‘With all due respect Captain, he is astartes. Not only that, but he is a Javelin of Guilliman. He
is up to the challenge.’

Now Captain Dantrius smiled again briefly before re-assuming his stern demeanor, ‘Very well,
if you can recruit him for this mission, so be it. I am sure he would be anxious to experience the
thrill of battle once again. Now go. Return in victory or return in deathly repose.’

‘You have my word Captain Dantrius, victory shall be ours,’ Solot saluted and began to walk to
his squadrons barracks.
‘One more thing, Sergeant.’

‘Yes Captain?’

‘When you see old Peracles, tell him he is not forgotten.’

The quarters of the Chief Minister were large and spartan. Peracles had crafted a metal frame to
display his outdated Mark V armor. It was not normal procedure to allow a retired astartes to
keep his armor, but Captain Dantrius had made an exception, claiming the armor was too old to
be constantly restored in an efficient manner. He was probably being truthful, but Peracles
considered it a parting gift to ease the Captain’s guilt. It had been polished a thousand times over
for the last eleven years, four months, and eighteen days that he had been marooned at this drab
fort.

Now, the former Sergeant toiled in the dark chamber at his craftsman’s desk, a single lumens
globe on a boom stand giving just enough light for his delicate work. In his left hand, a block of
hard clay; in his right hand, a sharpened sculpting tool. This week, he toiled to make a Chaplain.
He would carve each half of a clay block into the front and back of a miniature statue. Once
complete, he would join the casts and pour molten lead in through a small channel to make a
statue roughly half the height of a man’s thumb. Already, he had quite a collection of astartes
statues; 54 to be exact. Once he had recreated his entire company, he would see about obtaining
larger clay blocks to cast vehicles and even the venerable dreadnought armor of Brother Vanato.
Over the years, his sculpting skills had improved greatly, despite having bionic arms. His latest
statues had impressive amounts of detail, down to the smallest purity seal. Peracles had ordered
some of his serfs to paint the statues in the colors of his armor; though he had tried his own hand
at painting, he preferred sculpting.

Slouching on his stool, he put down his tools and closed his eyes. A knock on his door surprised
him.

‘Enter!’

Garet in his grey robe bowed deeply and walked in quickly, ‘Chief Minister, excuse my
intrusion at this hour, but…..’

‘Wait! Come here Garet. I want your opinion on something. Look at this cast I sculpted. What
do you think?’

‘It is exquisite Lord Tsepras, perhaps your finest sculpt to date. Although, its helmet differs from
the others. It appears to be fashioned as a skull.’

‘Excellent! I was hoping you would be able to make out the details of the skull helm. When it is
complete, I will even let you paint it.’
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 361

‘My sincere thanks, Lord, but I must deliver some urgent news to you. A ship has arrived and is
requested docking.’

‘At this hour? Permission denied; tell them to await in orbit until the morning docking rituals
are recited.’ Peracles went back to admiring his latest work giving Garet a dismissive wave.

‘Yes Lord, but I must inform you it is a ship from Guilliman’s Javelins, Thunderhawk Class.’

‘Thunderhawk class? That is uncanny, uncanny indeed. Very well, inform the pilot to dock at
grid location 65/42. I go to greet them personally. Have the security detail prepare for my
arrival.’

Sergeant Solot stood next to the Thunderhawk pilot and admired the massive logistics center
through the bow windows. There must have been over a thousand docking ports. Imperial ships
of every imaginable size could be seen docked and orbiting. Along with all the merchant vessels
were scores of ships from the Imperial Navy receiving fuel, food, munitions, and other
necessities for making war. These logistics forts were the unsung heroes of the Imperium. What
good were ships without fuel? What good were rifles without ammunition? Although millions of
these forts spanned the galaxy, few knew their names or the untold billions required to manage
them. In perspective, his old Sergeant really did have a very critical function, even if it did not
involve smiting Guilliman’s enemies directly.

+ Thunderhawk vessel T.08 of the glorious astartes chapter, Guilliman’s Javelins, this is the
Master of Dispatch. You have been cleared for docking. Proceed to grid point 65/42 for landing.
Salvation through servitude. +

The pilot thumbed the talk/receive toggle of his communications vox ‘Master of Dispatch, your
clearance is acknowledged. We shall dock at once. The Emperor protects.’

Sergeant Solot sat down in the empty co-pilot chair next to the pilot, ‘Brother Renal, how long
has it been since we have seen old Peracles? A decade?’

‘At least, brother. I wonder if he is still as cranky as he was when being told of his new
assignment. His “promotion” ceremony is still burned into my mind. That feigned look of
appreciation he sported when the Captain presented him with the Seal of Service is something I
cannot forget. I can only shudder to think of something like this being my fate.’

‘It is an honor to be promoted to such a lofty position, brother.’

‘Yes Sergeant, but you understand the implication of being relegated to this kind of mundane
existence. As for me, I would prefer a glorious death in combat.’

‘Of course, which one of us would not? The fact remains though, the Emperor saw it fit for
Sergeant Tsepras to continue his service. The good news for him is that the nature of this mission
will be to his liking. When I and my squad exit this transport, I fully intend to be returning with
Sergeant Tsepras.’

‘That brings a modicum of happiness to my hearts. While you are speaking with him, I shall
ready this ship for a combat drop.’

The Thunderhawk touched down on the lighted landing pad with expert precision. Sergeant
Solot put on his helmet and looked to the pilot, ‘Wish me luck!’

Peracles stood in front of the embarkation ramp not clad is his armor, but only in his grey
Adminstratum robe. Along the edges of the robe ran a gold stripe as wide as his finger; this
embellishment was the only distinction of his office. Other than the sheer size of the robe and the
golden trim, his vestment was identical to the other 713, 442 Imperial servants in the logistics
center. When the men exited the Thunderhawk, they would not see Sergeant Peracles Tsepras of
Gulliman’s Javelins, only an Administratum Chief Minister. Peracles exhibited a melancholy
stance and frowned as the hydraulic ramp lowered while a geyser of hydraulic steam gusted from
the bottom of the ship.

Solot marched down the ramp followed by his eight men, as they lined up in perfect parade
form.

‘PRESENT ARMS!’ shouted Solot. The men held their bolters in front of them and stood still
as sculptures.

Solot walked forward and removed his helmet before offering his hand in greeting. Solot and
his former Sergeant grasped wrists.

‘What brings you here my boy? Come to learn the intricacies of asynchronous cross-docking
procedure in the cold void of space?’

‘Ha! I see you still have your sense of humor, brother. Although I would be thrilled to see the
inner workings of this facility, an urgent mission requires our attentions.’

Peracles’ eyes widened in mock surprise, ‘Our attentions? Look around you lad, I am knee deep
in cargo crates the size of Reaver titans. Even as we speak, thousands of manifests and lading
parchments await my blessing. I will be going on no mission anytime soon, or anytime at all for
that matter. And even if I could, what makes you think I would don my armor again? Now if you
will excuse me, I have my morning transfer calls to prepare for.’

Now Solot leaned in close and said in a hushed voice, ‘It may be a suicide mission.’

Peracles interest was suddenly piqued, ‘Go on, lad.’

‘It would be best if we speak in private, Sergeant.’

 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 363

‘Yes, that would be best. We shall retreat to my chambers. Follow me.’

Solot turned to his men now, ‘Guard the ship, I shall return shortly.’

‘Honor and Duty!’ they exclaimed in unison.

Once inside the chamber, Solot produced a small data slate with cables made of spun brass.
‘Sergeant, a projection servitor would be useful for this. Can you produce one?’

‘I’m the Chief Minister of this thrice-damned fortress, I can do whatever I wish. A moment….’
Peracles walked over to his vox station and contacted Garet. ‘Sub Minister Garet, bring a
projection servitor to my quarters, post haste.’

+ As you command, Lord. +

Solot wandered over to the workbench and picked up a few of the miniature astartes figures,
‘Are these … toys?’

‘Put those down you clumsy brute! It took me many hours to cast those. And no, they are not
toys. These statues are works of art; tributes to our glorious company.’

‘Ah yes, I see. Well done then,’ Solot replied with a hint of bemusement and gently put the
miniatures back in their ranks.

‘Tell me, does the Captain ever talk about me?’

‘In truth, rarely, but he did wish me to tell you that you are not forgotten. Our venerable brother
Vanato inquired about you when last he was awakened. I told him of your injuries during your
final battle and of your promotion. He swore to slay one hundred xenos in your honor during the
next mission.’

‘How I miss hearing his simulated roar of a voice. Captain Dantrius once said I was a dead
ringer for Vanato before his internment. As a matter of fact, it was said…’

A loud knock interrupted their banter.

‘Enter!’

The door opened and Garet appeared next to a servitor with large glass lenses for eyes.
‘My Lord, I have procured a projector as you commanded.’

‘Right! Come in.’

The servitor followed Garet with drunken steps; its gait was almost comical. Some years ago,
this brain-wiped abomination had been a cargo-lift crane operator named Oswelt. For six years,
he had done his job adequately. One morning before arriving for his shift, he had partaken in
some of the homemade amasec that had been circulating in the bowels of the fort. Operating a
cargo-lift stone cold sober can be challenging, but a drunken Oswelt had dropped a cargo
container full of water jugs destined for an Imperial Guard battalion. The colonel demanded
extreme punishment for the lush, and he was given the sentence of unending servitude as a
lobotomized slave.

‘Servitor, present input jacks,’ Garet ordered.

The servitor opened its mouth impossibly wide and a small light shone on two input terminals
where its tonsils should have been. Solot plugged the cables from the data slate into the jacks and
pressed the activation rune. The mouth then slowly closed and the lenses began to emanate bright
light. A blue tinted projection of the Chaniat 3 satellite hive projected onto the wall.

‘Tell me what I am seeing, Solot.’

‘This is a schematic of an underhive sector at Satellite Hive 19 on Chaniat 3. Normally, it is

nothing of note, a small satellite hive with a population of perhaps three million. Per my
information, a cult of heretics known as ‘the Enlightened Path’ has taken control of the sector
containing the main power generation plant for the entire hive. Their numbers have grown so
much, even the local Arbites have failed to bring them to heel. Here are the areas of their highest
concentration.’ Solot pointed to the southeast portions of the schematic surrounding the main
plasma reactor. The holo-projection began to flicker.

‘Damn it! Garet, can we not get a decent servitor on this Throne-forsaken rock?’ Peracles gave a
swift open-handed smack to the back of the servitor’s bald head, temporarily clearing up the
flickering.

‘My apologies Lord, we still await a fresh batch of servitors from the Adeptus Mechanicus. I
shall have our local tech priest maintenance and bless our remaining servitors immediately,’
Garet stated with a bowed head.

‘Proceed, lad.’

‘With numbers of over 30,000, it may take some time to cleanse the hive of the entire cult.
However, if we cold corral them close to the main plasma reactor, we...’

Peracles interrupted, ‘We could kill them all in one fell swoop.’

‘Precisely, if you could lead the squad and herd the heretics toward the reactor facility, I can
deploy a melta-bomb with a five minute delay on the reactor and smite them all.’

The old astartes rubbed the grey stubble on his chin, ‘That is a fine plan, there is but one flaw.’

‘And that is?’ asked Solot, already anticipating his former Sergeant’s recommendation.
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 365

‘The time delay is too great. It is possible, although doubtful, some of the cultists could reach a
safe distance with that much time. The delay must be much less. I would recommend thirty
seconds. We must be sure none escape justice. I shall be the one who plants the melta-bomb.’

Now Solot tried to hide a smile, ‘With only thirty seconds of delay, it would be near impossible
to survive the resulting explosion. Are you sure you’re willing to risk it?’

‘Bah! You young whelps lack the imagination to pull off such a daring feat. I shall show you
how it is done.’

‘Very well brother, I defer to your experience. Now let us discuss the landing. The Thunderhawk
shall approach the hive from the eas...’

The projection began to flicker again.

‘Fragging piece of shit!’ shouted Peracles and once again administered a blow to the back of the
servitor’s skull. The blow apparently had more force than Peracles had intended, knocking the
hapless slave’s head clean off, trailing brass cabling from the data slate. It rolled and came to a
stop squarely in front of Garet.

Garet winced and exhibited a pained look on his face, ‘My apologies Lord Tsepras, I will have
this one put with the others.

Solot chuckled, ‘Still have that temper as well, I see.’

‘I go through these things like water. Back in my day, servitors were made of sterner stuff.
Garet, summon my serfs to armor me. I leave at once.’

‘Of course my Lord, but how long will you be gone? Who shall serve as Chief Minister in your
stead?’

‘Hmmm, good question. Well, you have served me loyally for years. You should do. Yes, so be
it. This is my formal decree then, you, Garet Van Allorn, Sub Minister of this facility, are now
acting Chief Minister. Furthermore, should I not return, I hereby bequeath my statues to you.
Have them displayed in a glass showcase for all to see.’

Garet fell to his knees and wept uncontrollably, ‘My master! You must not say such things!
You simply must return! YOU MUST!’

Peracles looked at Solot and rolled his eyes; Solot held back a chuckle.

Once armored, the two astartes strode back to the gunship. Peracles’ head was up, his shoulders
back, with his studded helmet under his right arm. He was standing straighter than he had in
years.
 Now Solot addressed his squad, ‘Brothers, this is Veteran Sergeant Peracles Tsepras. At this
time, I defer my command to him. For this mission, he now leads us. It is time to depart. Veteran
Sergeant Tsepras will brief us on the way to Chaniat 3.’

The men jogged in a single file line into the Thunderhawk. Peracles took one last look around
him. As far as the eye could see, loading craft and freight movers toiled endlessly. The endless
miles of crates almost took on the look of a mountain range. This was truly an impressive sight,
but one which he did not care to see again.

Garet stood in silence, tears streaming down his face. ‘My Lord, may the Emperor return you
safely.’

Peracles replied, ‘Victory at all cost my little friend; I take my leave.’ At that, he turned sharply
and boarded the Thunderhawk.

On Chaniat 3, a brutal lightning storm assaulted the hives and the vast wastelands surrounding
them. The thunder was deafening. Blue and purple arcs of deadly energy whipped themselves
relentlessly in the dark night; it was the only light save for the rhythmic blasts of flames jetting
miles into the sky from great exhaust pipes on each pyramid shaped hive. The plasma fusion
generators of each hive pushed out abundant amounts of dangerous energy to keep the many
manufactorums well fueled and churning out armor plates to supply the bottomless appetite of
the Adeptus Mechanicus and Imperial Guard.

Kallahl the Blessed stared at his army of devoted cultists and drooled profusely. Soon, they
would have the numbers needed to conquer their entire hive. From there, his message of
enlightenment would quickly spread to other hives. Nothing short of complete planetary control
would quench his thirst for power. He stared at his iron-scaled hands, attached to his iron-scaled
arms and upper torso. Ever since a smelting accident had left him badly burned and maimed, his
prayers to the void had been answered and some benevolent power was slowly transforming his
skin into tiny scales of iron. This rapid mutation had scared him at first, but now he embraced
this blessed state of change. Why his legs had begun to sprout feathers was anyone’s guess, but
he cared little. He had never felt stronger and more alive. Now he looked over to his acolyte and
nodded.

A stunted woman with one eye, dressed in rags, and holding a staff topped with a warped
sprocket, grabbed the vox mic to a Proclaimant class servitor bristling with speakers. ‘Brothers
and sisters of the enlightened path, bow your heads. I present to you the Lord of the Wasteland, a
modern day man of steel, Kallahl the Blessed!’

‘Blessed be the unbreakable one,’ recited the crowd of thousands as one.

Now Kallahl grasped the vox mic, ‘My loyal subjects, long have we toiled in the depths of this
wretched hive. The rich and prosperous live like kings by the sweat of our brows. Look around
you! How we have been worked to the brink of oblivion. Who among you has not lost comrades
to this uncaring and dangerous industry we are enslaved to? Looking at you all I see missing
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 367

limbs, severe burns, cancerous insides from breathing fumes, and faces covered in soot. Put
simply, the malevolent corpse Emperor is content to work us to death and grind our bones into
meal for the next batch of slaves. But I say this will no longer stand!’

The crowd of thousands roared. Kallahl raised his hands to demand silence and continued his
fiery oratory.

‘Now that we have killed all the non-believers in the underhive, we shall spring forth to
enlighten the rest of this blasted hive. In three day’s time, I shall give the order to illuminate the
hive and that, my children, that is when all of you must take action. Spare no soul and show no
mercy, for they deserve none. We will bathe in the blood of the unenlightened and take our
rightful place as rulers of this planet. None shall stand in our path!’

Masses of grimy cultists waved autoguns and industrial tools over their heads as they rejoiced
in riotous fashion. Their mutated leader basked in the adulation of his wretched followers, and
thought of his coming victories.

At that very same moment in time, a black and azure Thunderhawk stealthily landed outside the
hive.

‘Here, you will need these,’ Solot flatly stated as he handed a bolt pistol and a gladius to
Peracles.

The old Sergeant tested the weight of the blade and cut small arcs, careful not to damage
anything in the limited space constraints of the Thunderhawk. His newly acquired weapon was
well balanced and he could see where small chips and dents had been repaired over the years.
This weapon had seen significant action and would see more death before this mission was over.
The leather wrap of the handle was so dark it was almost black, and the brass pommel contained
a blue opal in the center. Although his hands had no skin, it still felt wonderful to hold a bolt
pistol and gladius once again.

Some of the younger members of the squad had come over to admire his mark 5 armor. The
pauldrons and greaves of his suit had large rounded studs welded on. It was obvious they had
never seen armor older than mark six. They were fine young astartes; they reminded Peracles of
himself in his younger years, full of fire and the lust for glory. Not a single one of them had a
bionic limb yet. Many decades of battle would forge them into grim warriors of determination
that knew completing a mission only led to the next mission. There is always and only, the next
mission. He exhaled and wondered what would be next for him, as there would be no next
mission for himself. Despite his bravado earlier, he was under no illusion of his chances for
surviving this mission. Still, he had few regrets. With any luck, his name would be chiseled into
the Wall of Honor and his name remembered for all eternity. Perhaps Guilliman himself may
some day visit the wall once his Indomitus Crusade had achieved victory.

His helmet vox came alive, + Drop zone approaching in t-minus twenty seconds, Sergeant. +
 Peracles blink-switched his vox to squad broadcast, ‘My brothers, you are to split up into two
combat teams and herd the heretics toward the main plasma reactor. The enemy will naturally
fall back in the face of your fury and retreat to the reactor room, as its blast doors are near
impregnable. There they will hide and wait for reinforcements, believing themselves to be
invulnerable to your advance. When I give the order, fall back to the drop zone for extraction. If
my command is terminated, leadership of this squad reverts back to my trusted brother, Sergeant
Solot. Is that understood?’

‘Acknowledged!’ came the reply of all nine marines.

‘Who among you will earn the Captain’s favor?’

‘I shall!’ replied the squad.

‘Who among you will pierce the enemy’s heart as a javelin thrown by Guilliman himself?’

‘I shall!’

‘Who among you shall achieve victory?’

‘I shall!’

‘Excellent, now prepare to move out. Pilot, drop the ramp!’

The hiss of hydraulics introduced a barren wasteland of rust colored, poisoned ground.
Lightning lit up the sky, and 10 sets of red eyes were all that could be easily seen.

‘Hey, old man, you’re going to need this,’ Solot casually tossed Peracles a melta-bomb.

‘Of course I will, you brash whelp. You didn’t think I was going to forget that, did you?’ Now
his tone took on a more serious and somber tone. ’Brother, I … I just want to say thank you.
Thank you for this. To feel battle once more is the best gift I have ever been given. And to end
my service with this glory is a dream come true.’

‘Don’t get too far ahead of yourself, Sergeant Tsepras. We still have a lot of work to do if you
are going to have a chance at that reactor. We will need at least three hours to herd the cultists to
the reactor room. Do you think you can keep yourself out of trouble until then?’

Feigning hurt feelings, Peracles responded, ‘Me? Get in trouble? Whatever could you be
alluding to?’

The two brothers laughed and playfully butted foreheads.

Peracles slashed his sword horizontally through the air, ‘Brothers, move out!’
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 369

A cadre of advisors accompanied Kallahl back to his quarters, speaking of strategies that would
lead to dominion over the entire planet. They had traveled no farther than a few miles when the
warning klaxons started blaring.

+ WARNING - WARNING – Sector 58326 has been breached…Radiation levels exceeding

acceptable levels…Evacuate lower levels immediately…WARNING – WARNING + The
servitor repeated its pre-programmed speech routine ad infinitum.

‘What is the meaning of this?!’ spat the mutated iron man. ‘Dralehc you worm, find out what in
the warp is going on.’

‘As you desire, Blessed One,’ retorted a degenerate looking acolyte in a black robe adorned
with blue and pink scarves. He ran to one of the wall mounted intra-vox units and frantically
hailed all available cultists in the sector.

Now Kallahl faced his entourage and began delicately explaining the nature of torture he would
impose on any that defied him. In a matter of less than two minutes, Dralec scurried back over to
kneel in front of his lord.

‘Blessed One, we have received reports that giants clad in great suits or armor have infiltrated
the hive. They are impervious to our weapons, it seems.’

‘Impossible! How many of these infidels are there?’

‘Reports indicate two separate groups of about five each. Lord, we must get you to safety. The
Arbites must have loosened some of their ogryn enforcers upon us. After their last defeat at your
hands, they now resort to desperate measures, such as using crazed abhumans.’

‘I do not run from Imperial scum, no matter their size. Stand aside, I shall get to the bottom of
this.’ Kallahl violently pushed Dralec down to the oily floor and picked up the vox mic. He was
about to demand answers when he heard some desperate reports coming in from three different
channels.

+ ….They’re too fast, we can’t outrun them. Shut those doors now! Shut those do….+

Some loud explosions could be heard and the line went to static. Kallahl switched channels.

+ ….Take cover! Those freaks don’t miss. If anyone can hear this, the west wing is lost. We
need reinforcements. We need help! Please!...What’s that? They’re advancing again? Blessed
One, where are you?! +

Loud booms from a heavy caliber rifle were the last sounds to be transmitted. Kallahl switched
channels again.
 + The Emperor’s angels have come. We are doomed! Oh no…noooo…....it’s here. Back to
back, brothers and sisters. Look alive or we could……….AIYEEE…..Fire!!...Aim for its
fragging head! Shoot it! +

More blood curling screams could be heard, until all was silent. Kallahl shouted into the vox,
‘Report! Report, warp damn you. This is the Blessed One. You will answer me!’

A few moments of silence followed, then a bionic hand picked up the mic and pressed the
transmit button. An extremely deep voice began to speak.

+ Blessed one, eh? Something tells me you are not actually blessed. In fact, I would wager you
are going to be dead in short order, heretic. +

‘Who dares speak to me in this manner? Speak, you Imperial dog!’

+ You are speaking to Sergeant Tsepras, son of Guilliman, and personal messenger of the
Emperor. You and your filthy ilk have been singled out for destruction. There will be no
negotiation. There will be no escape. There will be no mercy. +

Kallahl’s eyes became glazed and his metal scaled skin seem to drain of color for a moment.
Actual astartes had arrived to kill him. He did not know whether to feel pride or terror. He
snapped out of his stupor and brought the mic close to his mouth.

‘Listen to me, Imperial lapdog. I have the favor of warp gods and it will take more than a squad
of space marines to stop me. My thousands of followers will gladly lay down their lives to
protect me. You’ll not stop me this day.’

A tense silence followed for a few seconds before an abrupt squeak announced a new
transmission over the vox.

+ I shall enjoy watching you die. That is all. +

Peracles dropped the vox mic to the floor and reloaded his bolt pistol. Cultist bodies lay in
heaps all around him. Some were partially exploded from the mass reactive shells of his pistol;
others had been neatly bisected by his gladius. Now he switched to his squad vox in his helmet.

‘Detachment Alpha, report!’

+ Sergeant, the plan is proceeding as planned. The enemy forces are falling back toward the
reactor room. Those few who have chosen to make a last stand have been quickly neutralized. +

‘Detachment Beta, report!’

+ Sergeant Tsepras, we’ve run into heavy resistance on the east wing, but have persevered. We
are on schedule. +
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 371

‘Good work, brothers. Proceed with the plan and I will make my way to the reactor room from
the main ventilation shaft. Honor and duty!’

He checked the holo-schematic on his visor again and saw he was only about one mile from a
service entrance to the ventilation shaft; it would take him roughly three minutes to reach it at a
gallop. Peracles whispered a prayer to the machine spirit of his armor.

‘May the Emperor grant the machine spirit of this armor a blessing and provide me protection
for one last valiant push into the diseased heart of this foul place.’

He sprinted down the dark corridor, boots clanging like thunder and producing sparks with
every step. Indentations were left where his massive boots struck the metal floor. He ran like he
did as a novice. His hearts raced as he pushed himself to greater and greater speed. His feet hit an
oil slick as he careened around a corner, slamming into a wall of pipes and gauges. The strong
metal alloys of the hive were no match for his armor, and they crumbled like so much paper
when he made contact with them. Peracles was once again a warrior king, a conqueror, a true son
of Guilliman.

As he rounded the final corner to reach his entry point he skidded to an abrupt halt and froze as
he saw something that was quite unexplainable. A group of cultists numbering just over 200
wearing nothing but brightly colored body paint and bird-like masks stood around an ice statue
of what appeared to be a humanoid with two heads resembling vultures. Its wings scraped the top
of the ceiling, and it dripped dark, brackish water in the heat. No doubt, this was some perverse
ritual he had interrupted. Now he blink activated his external vox to full volume.

‘Heathens, hear me! Seeing you all wallow in this depravity only strengthens my resolve for
what must be done. Offer up final prayers to your false deities, for your doom is at hand!’

Now a female cultist wearing a most elaborate headdress with feathers of too many colors
stepped forward and addressed the lone marine, ‘Only a fool would believe he could prevent the
universal change which is coming. Just as this idol of our patron changes form, so will we ascend
to a higher level of being.’

Peracles did not advance on the crowd; he merely put his hands on his hips and proudly
declared, ‘I know not of what heretical beliefs you preach, but while you were busy postulating, I
determined that the large tank of promethium on the other side of your cursed idol is not only
extremely combustible, but susceptible to a bolt round.’

With inhuman speed, Peracles drew his bolt pistol and fired a single round which penetrated
one of the statue’s heads and struck the promethium tank in its symmetrical center. The
explosion killed all the cultists, obliterated the statue, and sent Peracles flying backward over ten
meters. He stood as the last of the flames on his armor burned out. His entire front had been
scorched black. If he survived this, he would have his serfs re-paint his armor to its original
glory.
 Sergeant Solot led his three brothers down the long corridors aggressively, using cover only
when absolutely necessary. He had put Percius in charge of the other detachment and he wanted
to check on his progress. Now he switched his vox on, ‘Brother Percius, report!’

+ Sergeant Solot, we are on schedule. Despite desperate resistance, we are now at juncture C-
658. The enemy is falling back toward the reactor room. No friendly casualties at this time. +

‘Acknowledged, my detachment is also on schedule. Proceed as planned and wait for the evac
order.’

+ As you command, brother. Honor and duty. +

The vox squeaked to signal the end of the transmission. Solot smiled inside, Percius would be a
fine Sergeant someday. His pleasant reflection was cut short as his heads-up-display displayed a
proximity warning. Something large was approaching them at high speed.

‘Brothers, look alive. Something is approaching,’ Solot ordered with a practiced cadence.

Heavy thumps of metal on metal were getting louder. It sounded like Brother Vanato in his
dreadnought armor, but how could the enemy muster something that large? His answer rounded
the bulkhead in hideous fashion. The frame resembled that of a dreadnought, were it not for the
screaming man crudely fastened to the torso. This had to must be one of the penitent engines
used by the Ecclesiarchy to punish heretics. The company’s Chaplain had spoken of such
devices, but he had never personally seen one in his 102 years. It was as he had imagined it, save
for the strange symbols that now covered the engine’s whole body; all remnants of Imperial
symbols had been scratched out and replaced with writing that simply looked wrong. Each arm
ended in with a spinning rotary saw, coupled with a flamer. The imprisoned heathen screamed
with wild abandon and charged Solot’s detachment.

All four astartes instinctively took aim for the pilot and emptied their bolt gun magazines into
the stampeding monstrosity. With great horror, Solot saw a bright flash as the kinetic impact of
the bolt rounds were converted into blinding light. This abomination had some type of
conversion field generator protecting the pilot. Their bolters would not bring this leviathan down.
It was at this time Solot broke from cover and charged the beast, his men following close behind.
The engine pointed with its right arm and unleashed a gout of burning promethium. Solot and
two of his brothers were able to avoid the cone of flame, but Brother Tsoprov was not so lucky
and was set ablaze. In years past, Solot had seen some of his brothers in terminator armor
wreathed in flame, confidently striding forward as if being on fire was barely an inconvenience.
Power armor was indeed powerful, but even properly blessed Mark 7 power armor had its limits
in resisting burning promethium. Tsoprov fell to the ground and rolled around violently, his two
brothers frantically beating him out with their hands.

The tortured cultist should have taken some modicum of satisfaction for bringing down an
astartes, but the heretic only screamed in agony and swung its massive saw blades at Solot. With
great skill, Solot dodged the crushing blows and attempted to stab the pilot with his combat
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 373

knife. The damnable conversion field was denying his attacks. He would have to properly time
his next stab attack for the second when the field refreshed from its micro-overload cycle.
Conversion fields were indeed a powerful medium of protection, but they did not make the
wearer invulnerable. Fending off such a deadly enemy while studying its field cycle rate was no
easy task, and it was everything Solot could do not to be sprayed with burning promethium or
bisected by one of the rotary saws. His brothers had helped Tsoprov put out the fire and they
now rushed to aid their Sergeant. Solot could wait no longer.

He leapt forward and plunged his combat knife into the hapless pilot’s forehead, the blade’s tip
embedding in the metal behind his crown. It was a perfectly timed strike which had been lethal,
but not without risk. As he struck, one of the rotary saws slammed into his right arm just above
the elbow. The sound of the diamond tipped saw blade tearing through his armor and bone was
not to be forgotten. The Sergeant let out a mighty roar and dropped to the ground as the penitent
engine did the same; his right arm still grasping the knife attached to the engine. Blood briefly
jetted from his arm stump and covered the wall he was facing. The super human clotting of an
astartes soon kicked in and stopped the bleeding. Brother Tsoprov, still smoking, walked over
and offered Solot his hand to help him up. Solot’s helmet vox came alive.

+ Sergeant Solot, please report! Your vitals are all over the place. +

‘I’m fine Percius. We ran into one of the Ecclesiarchy’s toys given to them by the Adeptus
Mechanicum. The enemy had perverted it and unleashed it on us. It took my right arm, but still
left me an arm to use my bolt pistol. All in all, it could be much worse. Consider us on schedule.’

+ Copy. Purge the unclean. +

The ventilation shaft was large enough for a standard man to walk upright, but nowhere near
tall enough for an armored astartes approaching eight feet tall. Peracles ran as fast as he could
manage in his hunched-over stance. According to his helmet’s HUD, he was rapidly approaching
the main reactor room. If his calculations were correct, he would be near the rear of the room,
roughly 170 feet off the ground. He could see the maintenance hatch approaching and he
wrenched it open as quietly as he could. He looked down to see thousands of cultists surrounding
an abomination covered in metal scales. Hundreds more cultists were pouring through the main
entrance, running for their lives.

Now the leader shouted to his subjects, ‘Close the main door! The Imperial vermin sent to kill
us will never break through. Within 48 hours, our reinforcements will arrive and attack them
from behind while we spring from this refuge and crush them as a hammer against the anvil of
our reinforcements. The universal change will survive this day!’

The heat emanating from the plasma reactor was taking its toll on the cultists. They were
sweating profusely, and many of them began to pass out from the oppressive heat. The room was
massive, easily a square mile with a vaulted ceiling of close to 300 yards. Great metal pipes, too
numerous to count, formed a dizzying labyrinth along each wall. Some of the pipes looked to be
hundreds, maybe thousands of years old. The reactor itself had a large transparent window where
the beautiful blue light of plasma fission lit up a sizeable portion of the vast chamber. He could
see an energy exchange terminal at the top of the reactor which would make a prime target for
his lone melta-bomb. An explosion there would trigger a series of explosions which would send
the reactor into a violent meltdown. A blackened cable that was once gold attached the terminal
to a cogitator located on the ceiling. It was thicker than a man’s leg and looked strong enough to
support an astartes sliding down it.

Peracles, broadcasted to the squad, ‘Brothers, fall back and execute extraction.’ Now he
switched his vox over to a personal channel with Solot, ‘Brother Solot, it is time. It has been an
honor to once again go into battle with you. Tell the Captain of my deeds this day.’

+ Sergeant Tsepras, I shall personally watch our Chaplain chisel your name into the Wall of
Honor. +

The old man recited the Litanies of Hate he was taught as a scout. When he whispered the last
of them a few minutes later, the moment of truth had arrived. With that, Peracles ripped his
helmet off and threw it into the crowd far below. He crouched and launched himself at the cable.
The myomer fiber bundles in his leg armor greatly boosting his strength to fly through the air
like a true angel. He grasped the cable and slid down at breakneck speed, bright sparks lit up his
descent where his metal hands grasped the cable. As he approached the terminal he activated his
melta-bomb’s thirty second timer and slammed the magnetic grenade to the terminal with
amazing accuracy. As he let go of the cable, he slammed down onto the metal gantry just above
floor level; the metal of the floor bowing with the impact.

Thousands of eyes turned to the space marine in astonishment as an angry giant landed with a
thunderclap. Peracles slowly stood upright and proclaimed in a joyful and exuberant tone,
‘Greetings heretics! This reactor will meltdown in under thirty seconds. Your blasphemy has
reached its end!’

Kallahl screamed in anger, ‘Noooo! You fool! You bastard, you’ve killed us all!’

‘Indeed! Isn’t it glorious?!’ Peracles answered.

‘Kill that infidel!’ shouted Kallahl as hundreds of autoguns erupted a steam of bullets at
Peracles who returned fire with his bolt pistol. Hundreds of slugs struck his armor at every angle,
but still he stood laughing, returning fire until his bolt pistol ran dry.

Some of the cultists realized that they needed to run for their lives and stampeded toward the
blast door as it was slowly opened. Hundreds were crushed to death as they attempted to escape.
It was too late. The blast radius would be over a mile wide and none would survive. Kallahl
himself was being trampled as the mad dash continued.

With his armor in bloody taters, Peracles struggled to stand as the melta-bomb exploded. He
raised his remaining arm one last time and shouted, ‘Victory!’
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 375

Solot knelt patiently while the company’s Chaplain chiseled each letter with painstaking
precision. After two hours of meticulous work, the Chaplain put his hammer and chisel into an
indigo bag made of grox leather. Without saying a word, he saluted and left Solot alone with the
wall. Solot stood and slowly approached the wall. PERACLES TSEPRAS read the newly
chiseled letters. He removed his gauntlet with his new bionic hand and felt the inscribed letters
with his bare fingers. The cool granite felt nice. He closed his eyes and traced each letter,
imagining it was his name. His reverie was interrupted by footsteps. Altiros, one of the
company’s newest scouts approached.

‘Sergeant, did you know him?’

‘Oh yes, he used to be my Sergeant and was a true leader, through and through. Were it not for
his injuries at Catras, he may have made a fine Captain. Someday, I wish to die as honorably as
he did.’

‘If I may ask, what was the most important lesson he imparted to you?’

Now Solot turned and faced the young marine, ‘Only in death does duty end, lad. Only in
death.’
 MILLENNIUM OF WAR 377

Afterword
This book started on a whim while I was browsing reddit one afternoon in March of 2021. After
reading numerous posts of fan fiction that were as good, if not better than a lot of sanctioned
work, I put out a call for authors to create a stand-alone anthology for the fascinating and
captivating world of Warhammer 40K. Our initial goal was to have stories of roughly 20 pages
each, dedicated to different 40K factions. The end result was pretty damn close to the initial
project plan, and we hope you are delighted with the diversity of stories covering so many
different factions. To make this project exceptionally challenging and test the mettle of the
authors, all stories had to be turned in by May 5th for final edit. What does not kill you does
indeed make you stronger, and the entire Millennium of War gang are now tempered and
destined for great things.

I’d like to recognize all the authors who had the guts to step forward, as well as the grim
determination to finish what they started.

One of the first things readers will notice is the fantastic cover artwork. I surfed the net long and
hard to find an artist who could provide the unique and top-shelf artwork that would adorn this
book. Jeff Porter is not only a rare talent, but has been a pleasure to work with; much like the rest
of the contributors of this anthology.

In closing, this anthology will be the first of many and you should keep posted for future
offerings from the Fanatic Series. No doubt, you will see some of these same authors along with
a wealth of new talent in future offerings. We hope you will be one of them…

- G.P. Mayer

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the
doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena,
whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short
again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive
to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy
cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he
fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid
souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

- Teddy Roosevelt
 Contact Information

Paul Ascylte Aguila paulascylte.aguila@gmail.com

Steven Jiang stevenjiang136@gmail.com

Ibrahim KM teh1tank@gmail.com

G.P. Mayer gm77z@yahoo.com

Andrew Ottley ottleyandrew@gmail.com

Jeff Porter jeffporter@jeffporterart.com

Anthony Protonotarios protonotariostony@gmail.com

Nicolas A. Protonotarios hoplonite1@gmail.com

Dan Rich danlar1138@gmail.com

Michael W. michaelwwrite@outlook.com