Chapter Text
Loken winced as he sat up and took stock of those in the field hospital with him. There were a few of these set up but this one was for the Astartes. He saw Apothecaries doing the grisly work of collecting the gene-seed from those who had succumbed to their injuries. Some of his own brothers, and some from the Death Guard.
“They fought well Garvi” Garro said as he came over and pulled up a seat “We collected the gene-seed of the 27th but, not entirely sure what to do with it.”
“Horus will want it.” Loken sat back “Once it’s been tested anyway.”
“Well, you can ask him yourself once he gets down here.”
“What?” Loken arched an eyebrow “What do you mean?”
“I could tell you but…” He motioned to the giant in black “He’s been chomping at the bit to get in to see you. I will leave you to your reunion my friend.”
Loken turned his gaze from Nathaniel to the man that now took his place. It abhorred him to greet his brother in such a state so, Loken being Loken went to get out of bed but found a hand push him back.
“Normally I would make some comment about lazing in bed all day.” The deep voice of Ezekyle Abaddon rumbled “But for once, stay as you are brother.”
Abaddon was an enigma to many. His violence only served his role as the Choler of the legion, Aximand was the Melancholier, Torgaddon the Humour and Loke the Calm. Nothing like this should ever really work, but it did and it did not just by the humours of the four lords, but their brotherhood too. It had taken Abaddon a long time to get used to Loken, but he had proved himself as not only a loyal son, but a clever member of the Mournival. One mind but not afraid to voice his own opinion when he felt the need to do so.
The first sat down beside the bed and rested a hand on Garvi’s shoulder for a moment before lowering it. “When news of the 27th betrayal my heart sank, not only because of their tenacity but the … well I was concerned you would be outsmarted.”
Loken knew damn well what the First was really saying but he didn’t pick him up on it. Knowing in this case was better than hearing it,
“He said that if Malgohurst had done his job…” Loken shook his head “Not a clue what he was on about.”
Abaddon ran his gaze over Lokens injuries, they were substantial but, like any Astartes they would heal. If he knew his Mournival brother as well as he did by now, this was not going to keep Garvi down.
“Malgohurst is dead. He tried to assassinate the Primarch.”
Loken’s eyes widened in horror and both his hearts seemed to stop at once for a brief moment. Abaddon once more rested his hand on Lokens shoulder.
“Peace brother. He failed, Horus himself killed him. For now Kyril Sindermann has stepped in as Equerry until someone else can be found. Someone who knows politics and war and diplomacy. I am not sure anyone will fill that role but Sindermann can at the moment.”
“He can, he has already advised the Primarch when asked.” Loken was proud of his human mentor and held a deep affection for him, well as deep as an Astartes could hold such an emotion.
“Voiddanion says you will be here for a couple of days.” Abaddon reached into his belt pouch “Normally I wouldn’t entertain such a task but Mistress Oliton asked that I bring this to you, seeing as you like to read so much,”
Loken took the data slate and looked at it “Ummmm…”
“Apparently its Karskays latest work. I find the man odious at best but he has a way of speaking uncomfortable truths.”
“He does.” Loken agreed and set it down beside him “I won’t be here any longer than I need to be.” Loken promised.
“I don’t doubt that Garvi. Now tell me about the battle between Mortarion and Dorn.”
Loken chuckled a little. It really didn’t surprise him that Abaddon would want to hear of the moment that Mortarion took off Dorns hand. “Perhaps Garro should tell you brother, I was not there.”
“But you heard about it?”
“I heard about it”
“Then tell me and I can get other details from Garro later.”
What Loken did not realise and probably wouldn’t for some time, if at all, was that Abaddon was deliberately staying by his Mournival brothers bedside. One reason was to ensure that his brother really was on the mend, but the other was a more personal one. Garvi had brought the Widowmakers body home, he had sat and drank with Abaddon as the First raged about the death of his friend, and Abaddon had a deep respect for the man in the bed. He had earnt it, but above all the Warmaster would want to make sure that Garviel Loken was on the mend.
Loken had, it seemed become through no fault of his own the soul of the Legion. That was the other role that needed to ensure the smooth running of a Legion. He was the Head, Aximand the Body, Torgaddon the Heart and Loken the Soul and a legion without a soul was not complete.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Qin Fai Noyan-Khan, it was a fit that had yet to feel real. He had been one of Hasiks most senior officers and, it was believed the only one who fill the void left by his dead commander and friend. The word had come from Torghun Khan. But rights it should have been Torghun, but he had trained his own brotherhood in such a way that it made sense to leave him as the master of the 5th and promote from within the 2nd.
Qin Fai was known to be a tactician of unshakable resolve and disciplined fury, he would, it was believed bring a measured wrath to the White Scars' lightning doctrine, wielding precision, and momentum like twin sabres. Such were the words of their beloved and lamented father, the Warhawk. He drew in a deep breath through his nose and a long exhale as he sat in meditation. Clearing his mind and balancing his humours for the days to come. He had been here once before, to claim the world for the Emperor and mankind. Now it seemed they were here to prevent the Emperors forces from gaining a strong foothold once again, only this time they were not just fighting Knights, Titans, and the Imperial Army but cousin Astartes and – demons.
Had he not seen it with his own eyes, the demon that took down Hasik and the fifty other brothers on their iron steeds, he might well have believed that he was in some other universe where such things were the norm. He could hardly believe the edict when it had come down, the Emperor, the most powerful man in the Universe had declared himself a god. The thing that all the Proto-Astartes had fought across Terra to eradicate, to bring enlightenment to the scattered realms of mankind so long taken from their cradle world. He had to wonder where it was or when it was that everything they had done in the 200 years of the Great Crusade, was worth nothing to the blood that had been shed.
The air in the meditation chamber tasted of ozone and old blood—stale, metallic, a reminder of battles past and those yet to come. Qin Fai's fingers rested on his knees, fingertips pressing into ceramite-hard flesh beneath his armour. He could still hear the screams of Hasik's brothers in his mind, the way their bikes had crumpled like parchment when the thing descended upon them.
It had moved like liquid shadow given purpose, all gnashing teeth, and impossible angles. A mockery of flesh. A blasphemy. And now—now—the Emperor demanded worship? Not as the architect of mankind’s dominion, but as a god?
Qin Fai exhaled sharply through his teeth, the sound a hiss in the quiet. His humours, once balanced, now churned like a stormfront. The discipline of the White Scars had always been that of motion—strike fast, strike clean, vanish before retaliation could be mounted. But this war was not clean. It was not motion. It was infection.
A chime at the chamber door.
"Khan," came the voice of his equerry, strained. "The Brotherhood awaits, and you are called to attend Lord Mortarion and Lord Magnus…" a pause then “and Lord Horus when he arrives”
Horus? The Warmaster himself is here? “I will be along shortly” Qin Fai could not believe it, the Warmaster had joined them in this battle? The shade of the Warhawk bless them all.
Qin Fai stood, his armour whispering like shifting sand. He reached for his sabre—the twin to the one still sheathed at his hip. He was the master of the Horde, he had no room for questions and no room for doubt. Only Vengeance stirred his heart now. Vengeance for the death of Hasik Noyan-Khan and the fifty brothers of the Stone that had fallen with him, and Vengeance for the Warhawk.
Every Scar sought that, many had seen the Khagan fall at the hands of his brother Vulkan, every scar had seen brothers, sisters and family fall to the virulent plague that had shattered the great citadel itself. The Stormseers were still cleansing it now. It would live again but it would never be the same. He turned and went to meet with his brotherhood and then become part of the council of Princes.
The Brotherhood of the Stone would not be found wanting.
~*~*~*~*~
The void between stars held its breath as Jaghatai’s Pride slid into the killing zone, her sleek hull gleaming like polished ivory in the dim starlight. The Word Bearers’ vessel, Word of the Prophet, lurked ahead—a jagged cathedral of iron and heresy, its flanks pulsing with warp-born sigils that wept blood into the vacuum.
The first volley came without warning. Macro-cannons roared, hurling shells the size of hab-blocks. Jaghatai’s Pride banked hard, her plasma drives flaring as she danced between the projectiles. One grazed her starboard flank, stripping armour like peeled fruit, but the Khan’s sons did not slow. Lightning-fast, they returned fire—lances slashing across the Word of the Prophet’s prow, carving molten wounds into its blasphemous iconography.
Boarding torpedoes streaked from the Word Bearers, each a coffin packed with fanatics. The Jaghatai’s Pride turrets swivelled, shredding most mid-flight, but one got through—impacting with a shudder that echoed through the White Scars’ vessel. The sound of bolt fire and screaming Khans filled the corridors as the two legions met blade-to-blade in the ship’s heart.
On the bridge of the Jaghatai’s Pride, Kor’sarro Khan grinned beneath his wolf-pelt mantle. "Turn us broadside," he ordered. "Let them taste the storm." Whilst his Noyan-Khan was planet side fighting amongst Demi-gods he would battle them and alongside them here.
The Jaghatai’s Pride pivoted, unleashing her full fury. Nova cannons detonated against the Word of the Prophet’s void shields, overloading them in a cascade of dying energy. Then, the killing stroke—a teleportation flare lit the enemy bridge as White Scars terminators materialized among the Word Bearers’ command cadre.
The last thing the Shipmaster Dantion Rask saw was Kor ‘Sarro’s tulwar swinging for his throat, the blade singing a dirge for the damned. The tulwar's edge caught the dim emergency lighting as it arced, casting a blood-red streak across the bridge's smoke-choked air. Rask's pupils dilated—not at the steel, but at the kill-ghost reflected in its polished surface: his own face, already severed beneath the skin.
Kor'sarro Khan didn't roar. The blade did it for him.
Rask's head bounced twice before the grav-plating caught it. By then, the White Scars were already moving—chainswords revving through the remnants of the command cadre like harvesters through wheat. Some Word Bearers died mid-prayer, their litanies becoming gurgles. Others died reaching for sidearms, fingers twitching on triggers they'd never pull. The Prophet's corpse-ship groaned as secondary explosions rippled through her belly. In the vox-static, you could almost hear Lorgar weeping.
The White Scars left as quickly as they had arrived. Their Dead lifted, their wounded lifted and they boarded the transport vessels in good order. No Scar was left on that abomination of a ship,
The Stormbirds roared to life, their engines screaming like the spirits of forgotten Khans as they tore free from the Word of the Prophet’s gravity. Below, the ruined ship groaned, its twisted hull weeping streams of molten metal and spilled atmosphere, a carcass left to drift in the void. The White Scars did not look back—there was no honour in lingering over the dead, only in the speed of departure, the certainty of the next hunt.
Inside the Jaghatai’s Pride, the deck thrummed with the restless energy of warriors unspent. Blood-stained armour was stripped away, wounds bound with quick, practiced hands. Somewhere, a brother laughed, sharp as a blade, and another answered with the thud of a fist against his chestplate—the only eulogy the fallen required.
Kor’sarro Khan’s gaze lingered on the hololith, where the shattered remains of their prey dwindled to a speck. He exhaled, slow, deliberate. The hunt had been good. But the next would be better.
~*~*~*~*~
The void between stars was no place for mercy. Horus knew that and Commodus Boas knew that. The Shipmaster turned to his Warmaster and nodded. If Horus was going to leave for the planet surface, then now was the time to do it. With but a single word the rest of first company ran to their Stormbirds along with the 8th Company under Captain Tragor Madron. Oaths of Moments already sworn. Once they were away the Warmaster with his Justerian Bodyguard had teleported away the Vengeful Spirt moved on. Horus knew that his vessel was in good hands with Boas
The Vengeful Spirit shuddered as lance batteries raked across her flank, armour plating boiling away in silent plumes of molten metal. Across the abyss, the Word Bearers' Trisagion burned with unholy sigils, her hull a cathedral of screaming daemons made manifest, gunports vomiting streams of corrupted plasma.
They danced like circling wolves—neither able to land the killing blow. The Vengeful Spirit’s gunnery crews, half-lost to the warp’s whispers, fired with frenzied precision, shells detonating against the Trisagion’s warding glyphs in bursts of ruptured reality. Meanwhile, the Word Bearers’ sorcerers wove curses into torpedo salvos, warheads splitting into swarms of shrieking faces that chewed at the Vengeful Spirit’s void shields like parasites.
At last, they broke apart—not in retreat, but in mutual exhaustion. The Trisagion’s hull bled molten scripture, her starboard weapons silenced. The Vengeful Spirit limped, her decks aflame, great rents torn in her iron skin.
No vox-challenges were exchanged. No boasts. Only the silent understanding that this was not the end—only a pause in the long, hateful symphony of their war. if nothing else, it pleased Boas to see the Trisagion was in as bad if not slightly worse shape them the Old Girl he commanded.
He brought the Vengeful spirit round to the back of the fleet, repairs would be carried out but his rear guns and forward guns were still working and if anyone tried to sneak up on them, well they had that covered.
~*~*~*~*~
Loken was up and about now and he was walking with Abaddon. Those of 10th Company who had survived the surprise assault by their own brothers were spoken too in low voices, encouraging them to not let this get them down. To not let them be distracted by the betrayal of their own. Those who did not make it had their geneseed collected and placed in storage on the Stormbirds until they could be returned to the Vengeful Spirit. Loken was going to need to raise about 100 new Neophytes to the ranks. Something he would do once this was over. If it was over.
The goal was to get to Lupercalia. Dorn had retreated from the field of battle. There was no way the Imperial Fists were going to allow their gene-sire to fight on with such an injury. The Regent of Terra needed to return to Terra.
That, however, did not mean that the Imperial Fists were going to all leave the planet, and then there were the Word Bearers and Black Templars. All this still had to be taken into account. Not to mention the Titans and Knights that were stationed here. Fortidus had already shown that how dangling the carrot that was laden with promises that in reality would not be kept; was a source of power over the mind of those who wanted to rise in station and on the coat tails of the Emperors fervour. Loken and all the other captains would have to make sure that the will of the Lords Mortation and Magnus were followed.
The Boom of the transporter shook his thoughts from his head and as he turned, he saw the Justerian move to one side and a second boom planted the massive figure dead centre of them. Lokens heart soured as did the Astartes of the 10th Company.
“Hello my sons.” Horus beamed at Loken and his company, “Time for me to flex my talons.”