Nothing But a List of Names to Mark his Ascension
Chapter 7: The End of the Beginning
Cyrus walked the halls of the strike cruiser Armageddon, in orbit above Meridian. It had been less than twelve hours since the defeat of the Coalition. Captain Thule had consolidated the Blood Raven forces in front of the Governor's Palace and gave out new orders. Sergeant Ariston was to remain on site with two Land Speeders. If there was any unrest, they were to deal with it. Cyrus and his squad were called back to the Armageddon to await further orders.
Now the Scout Sergeant was wandering the strike cruiser without purpose. He had yet to tell Captain Thule his intentions and now he found himself in the 4th practice range near the stern of the ship. The range had eight shooting halls, some occupied by brothers who wished to either improve their aim or test new weapons. The sound of bolterfire filled the air, but it was calm and practiced, and brought calm to Cyrus.
Kneeling on a rubber mat in front of the mesh grating that divided the foyer and shooting halls, Cyrus spotted an old comrade. Sergeant Avitus the Devastator was busy cleaning a heavy bolter. He was carefully working an oiled cloth over the weapon, assembling and disassembling it over and over again. He was wearing his power armor minus his gauntlets, his pale hands moving swiftly over the weapon. His rough, craggy face had a serene smile, his white hair uncombed as usual. His neck was plated with augmetics that stretched up to his jawline.
"Sergeant Avitus, I see you are keeping yourself busy," Cyrus stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a slight smile on his face. Avitus looked up, wondering if Cyrus was mocking him before nodding a greeting.
"Well met Cyrus, I have heard of your recent exploits. Were the traitors worth fighting? You look like you have taken a beating. But you were never one to repaint your armor. I can no longer tell which marks are old or new. Although I am quite sure your augmetic was working last time we met."
"They were fierce for a militia. Had one of my initiates not slain their leader, the combat may have seen more of my scouts killed."
Avitus cocked an eyebrow, "One of your scouts slew the enemy commander? How?"
"Yes, Initiate Augustine. He shot her with my rifle. I do not believe he realized it at the time."
"Does he have potential?" asked Avitus, busy swabbing the firing chamber with a bristled brush. He pulled the dirty brush out and replaced the tip before placing it in his toolkit.
"I believe he has potential for command, yes. He is not the strongest, by any means but he has good eyes and gets down to the heart of the problem. There are others in this batch that will make acceptable Sergeants as well."
"Good, we will need new officers within a decade or two."
Cyrus nodded, then spoke suddenly, realizing he had news that Avitus would want to hear. "By the way Avitus, did you hear that the Governor of Meridian had died? A heart attack they say."
Avitus shrugged, working on the trigger mechanism. "What of it? His death affects us little."
"My point is that the people have rallied around the 'Hero of the Capital', Gregor Vandis. He was installed as Governor this morning."
"The man leading his House soldiers took credit for the whole operation? I understand that he was an Imperial Guard colonel in the past. How predictable for a guardsman to make a grab for power." Avitus' voice was filled with scorn. The deaths of his squadmates in the battle for Victory Bay had unleashed a deep set hatred of the Imperial Guard that had never truly subsided. Avitus continued, "Greedy cowards the lot of them, relying on Astartes to kill the enemy, then taking credit for the victory."
"Without their aid, Avitus, we surely would have been overrun and killed."
"Astartes do not die to rabble, Cyrus".
"It was a pleasure seeing you again Sergeant Avitus. Knowledge is power."
"Guard it well," replied Avitus gruffly as Cyrus walked away. Avitus shrugged, watching him go for only a second before returning to his work. Cyrus was an odd one, which probably explained why Chapter Command thought poorly of him. He was so stoic when it came to battlefield decisions, but when it came to the lives of brothers and his initiates, he could become so temperamental. Perhaps that was why he chose to remain in the 10th Company after Kaurava.
Cyrus walked the hall, contemplating going straight to the bridge to speak to Thule. Instead he walked to the Apothecarium. Painted a crisp white, unlike the metal and bone of the rest of the ship, the Apothecarium was filled with both medical instruments and the means of creating new space marines. It also contained two medical bays and a gene lab.
Inside one of the medical bays, Cyrus found the 4th company's two Apothecaries, Gordian and Harkon, the new promotion. They were in the middle of a discussion on how to properly inject the black carapace.
Harkon nodded and brushed his long brown hair out of his eyes. "Of course Apothecary, I will not forget," he said as he tied his hair back, replying to an an instruction that Cyrus did not hear. Gordian turned to grab some instruments from a nearby table and spotted Cyrus by the door.
"It truly is good to see you, Sergeant Cyrus. Harkon, Cyrus is one of the brothers that decides who we operate on. He is a genius that even taught me when I was a scout. His eye for strength and conviction is unfailing."
"You give me too much credit," replied Cyrus. "I simply want to see the Chapter grow stronger."
"Nonsense," said Gordian. "If every Blood Raven received your instruction, we would be far better off." His voice took on a saddened tone. "It was I who cataloged and stored the gene-seed from Kaurava. What shame that defeat brought our Chapter. To think that Halforn and Daroth died due to Boreale's mistakes. You must know that it is not your fault. I read the after action reports, you and Captain Gelden did all you could."
"It was the foolishness of Captain Boreale that caused the deaths of my initiates. I know full well it was not my fault." Gordian could hear Cyrus' hate filling his voice. He paused before he spoke again, his tone neutral. "Kaurava was a mistake beyond all comprehension I will continue my service in its shadow, but I will be damned if I ever allow it to happen again. I apologize, I did not mean to disturb you."
Gordian waved his hand. "You did nothing of the sort."
Cyrus nodded, "I take my leave then. Well met Brother Harkon".
The younger apothecary made the sign of the Aquila as Cyrus walked out the door.
Martellus sat on a stool inside the Armegaddon's Mechanicum Bay. His hands were clasped under his chin and his servo arm and mechadendrites were busy assembling a Godwyn pattern bolter on the work table in front of him. His face was stern with concentration. Both his eyes and most of his scalp were augmetic, and he had other implants covering most of his head. His mouth and cheeks were organic however. It gave him a disconcerting buglike appearance, and as a result he usually kept his armor on. He slid the receiver over the barrel and as a finishing touch, poured a vial of the slightly opaque machine oil on the finished weapon, its fragrance filling the air of the room. All around the giant hall, which contained both the armory and the vehicle maintenance bays, other techmarines worked on their own projects. Servitors trudged back and forth, fulfilling their programmed orders.
Martellus stood, picked up the bolter, and set it on a rack of similar weapons. He moved to a row of power armor, all freshly painted in the colors of the Blood Ravens, red the shade of dried blood, and polished bone. With a sigh of satisfaction, Martellus afforded himself ten seconds of relaxation. On the eighth second, he heard footsteps on the metal floor behind him, too heavy to be a serf but too light to be a servitor. He flipped up his optical mechadendrite, a round sensor at the end of a prehensile cord, and flipped it behind him.
"Sergeant Cyrus, what brings you here?" he asked without turning around.
Cyrus raised both his hands, a motion for calm. "I did not mean to intrude, Martellus."
Martellus turned and let his augmetic eyes focus in on Cyrus, before hastily putting on his helmet. "I forget my manners," he said. Martellus' voice was always so cold, with a metallic rumble underneath slow and deliberate words. But his next words had a touch of warmth to them. "You do not come here often, Cyrus."
"Our initiates are being promoted shortly, I see that Captain Thule already sent the order for new suits of power armor."
Martellus nodded after a long pause, as though he recognized nodding as the human thing to do and attempted to mimic it. "I prepared the suits of power armor this afternoon. Many of them are of our own manufacture, though there are prestigious relics in their ranks as well."
"I am sure they will serve us well."
"I have no doubt for steel," said Martellus. "But what of the initiates? They are young."
Cyrus bit his lip. Though he had sounded cold, he knew Martellus was only speaking the truth. "They are. You know I would not normally do such a thing, but we are so few. It is a necessity."
"I do not mean to accuse you of anything, Cyrus. We all trust your judgment."
Finally, Cyrus found himself on the bridge. Crewed by serfs and servitors, the only other Space Marine present was Captain Davian Thule. He still wore his power armor as he looked over readouts from the command lectern. The Captain's regal face was still flecked with dried blood from the battles earlier in the day. As Cyrus stepped forward, Thule turned and greeted him. "Welcome," he said, his augmetic right eye clicking as it adjusted to Cyrus. Thule's black hair was kept high and tight on his head, with a shock of white over his mechanical eye. "What brings you here, Sergeant?"
"I wanted to discuss the placements for my initiates," said Cyrus. He stood to the left of the command lectern with his hands held loosely behind his back.
Thule nodded. "I approved them all. Nikephoros to Tarkus, Tyrion to Avitus, Augustine to Thaddeus: only the latter gives me pause."
"Augustine is sharp," said Cyrus. "I think he will do well in an assault squad's fast pace. I only wish we had the time to work the initiates through the ranks as the Codex Astartes instructs."
Thule's eyes drifted toward his lap. "I understand your concern Cyrus. These initiates are young, inexperienced. We must keep a close watch on them as they mature."
"I agree, but I would not have approved their promotions had I not thought them ready. We can mold them into great Astartes of the 4th Company." Cyrus' voice was heavy with pride. Training initiates was his calling now, and he would do his best for Captain Thule, one of the few good commanders left.
"I have no doubt, Cyrus. But with only seventeen Battle-Brothers between you and Ariston, we are still understrength." Thule looked out the bridge's window at the grey surface of Meridian below. "I suspect we may be forced to recruit from Meridian once again. Perhaps Thaddeus will find himself leading kinsmen."
"All respect to Thaddeus, but I would rather remain under-strength than continue to recruit from the hives," said Cyrus. "I believe Thaddeus to be the exception rather than the rule."
"I am surprised at you Cyrus," said Thule with a shake of the head. "I would think that you of all people would welcome additional recruits, no matter their origins. Hive children are quick thinkers and have great conviction."
"I do not doubt their spirits, but rather their bodies. I believe the medical examinations may overwhelm our already stretched-thin Apothecarium."
"I understand your concern. We will not be forced to recruit for some time, but Meridian may be a risk we will have to take."
Cyrus nodded curtly. Having said all he needed to, he snapped his heels together and placed his right fist over his heart in the old Terran salute. "Knowledge is power, Captain."
"Guard it well, Cyrus." said Thule, returning the gesture with his fist. He signed the Aquila as Cyrus exited the bridge, then returned to his work as the lights began to dim for the night cycle.
The planet Sicarus is a monument to the might of Chaos Undivided. Under a sky of blood and fire, thousands of slaves and servants toiled, raising basilicas and temples dedicated to the worship of the Ruinous Powers. Black cathedrals covered the entire planet, its soil saturated with the blood from countless sacrifices. The construction was never ending, with new temples placed over the roofs of the old, rising high into the unnatural sky. Next to the gargantuan Templum Inficio sat the Basilica of the Word, a massive Cathedral fortress, its walls miles high. From its battlements, thousands of still-living sacrifices hung, impaled and condemned to a slow death. In the depths of the fortress, the Dark Council of the Word Bearers.
First Chaplain Erebus stood on the center of a long rectangular table made of black iron, his power armor the color of a scab, with silver trim and the insignia of a flaming daemonic head on his pauldron. His face was covered in ancient script, tattooed into his flesh so thoroughly that not a single scrap of skin remained uncovered. "Bring him forth," said the Arch-Corrupter, the tempter of Horus. Arranged in a semi-circle before the iron table, six Sorcerers rested their bedlam staffs on the grey plasteel floors and concentrated their archaic powers. The braziers lining the ritual chamber dimmed as the shadows deepened of their own accord. As the majesty of the Warp saturated the chamber, a pleasant tingle traveled up Erebus' spine.
Within mere moments, a portal directly into the warp appeared in the room, a three meter wide hole in reality. An unnatural wind, hot and grimy, with a smell like burnt flesh filled the room as a naked man was thrown through the portal, landing on his face in the middle of the room.
He was curled in the fetal position, still smoking from the head of the portal. In moments he regained conciousness and stood to his feet, uncoiling like a snake as he rose to his full height of two hundred and thirty centimeters, above average even for his Astartes physique. His clammy, grey skin was horribly burned, with the scars forming even as his breathing calmed. Then he spoke, his voice ragged with pain. "Why have you summoned me here?"
Such insolence, thought Erebus with a shake of the head. Still, he was a useful man, and deserved another chance. The First Chaplain spoke, his voice like sandpaper. "It is no easy task to pull a man's soul from the roiling Empyrean sea. Though Lord M'Kar saw fit to punish you for your defeat on Kronus, I felt that you were worthy of redemption."
The naked Astartes smiled, "Lord Erebus, your faith could not be placed in a better servant!" The man's voice filled the room. It was deep and rich, rolling slowly over every word. "Grant me a Host of Word Bearers, and I will launch an undertaking to rival the burning of Calth. The servants of the False-Emperor shall once again know the feel of my boot on their throats. I will sacrifice entire populations to the glory of Chaos, and bring forth a tide of daemons whose sight will shiver even the Cusdodes in their dark halls on Terra!"
Then, smiling, Eliphas the Inheritor inhaled deeply, breathing in the dust and ash of his Legion's home.
Farseer Idranel rested her eyes for a moment and leaned against the hard wraithbone wall for support. Every time she closed her eyes, the visions of the Fallen Craftworld swarmed the ocean of her mind. The prophecies were becoming more intense every day, yet the outcome was featureless, a blank white that had yet to be filled.
"Are you well, Farseer?" asked Warlock Draoi. He stood in front of her with his hands held out towards her only slightly. His dark blue eyes were thin with concern.
"I'm alright, Drochasal," she said with a smile. "Let us continue."
In truth, she was strained. Her red hair was fraying and tied back in a disorganized bun and her face was constantly beaded with sweat. Her heart pounded so fast she was worried it would burst in her chest. But she would not admit her discomfort, and kept all her pains masked behind a serene elegance that she suspected Draoi saw right through.
The two continued through the halls of Craftworld Ulthwe. Around them, the white wraithbone corridor curved upwards, separating into spikes that interlocked together like two clasped hands. Through the wide oval windows on their left, Idranel could see the prow sections of the great Craftworld, silver spires and domes swarming with skimmers and wraithcraft. Past the energy field holding in the atmosphere burned the star Celosremar, grey pearl in the tongues of the Eldar. Slowly approaching off the right side of the Craftworld, the massive star provided natural light that supplemented the cleansing glow of wraithbone.
Emerging from the hall into a wide courtyard, Idranel and Draoi passed hundreds of other Eldar. Not far to their right were the markets of the Falmeiron district and beyond that the Aspect Temples and their private domains. But dominating the landscape before them was the dome of the Seer Council. A kilometer in diameter, the dome stretched up to become the highest point on Ulthwe's dorsal ridge. Protruding from the gently slopping wraithbone were dozens of minor spires and budding domes, the homes of the farseers and their servants.
Idranel and Draoi passed through the Elvanashi Threshold, the massive portcullis that only blocked off the building in times of great peril, and stepped into the dome proper. They followed the halls curving around the outer sections. Though Idranel was a farseer, even she was not permitted to journey to the chambers of the Seer Council. For her undertaking, a separate section was prepared. The halls sloped downward and the crowds thinned, with few visitors interested in exploring the lower floors of the building.
The Room of the Hundred Fountains lived up to its name. Surrounding a central geyser, water flowed from slits in the cieling to create a glimmering sheen of flowing water that curved down to settle in glass-floored pools on the ground. Like the petals of a silver flower, strips of dry floor sectioned off the pools. These platforms were adorned with beautiful wraithbone latticework, with the floor flowing up like tree roots to form benches and chairs.
It was here that the visitors to Ulthwe waited with the core of Idranel's strike force. The first to stand was Warlock Veldoran, who still wore the blue and yellow robes of his native Alaitoc. At his side was Uiremon, an Ulthwe Spiritseer and Draoi's elder. His black hair had long since gone grey, and his sage-like face was only just beginning to wrinkle. Veldoran bowed as the Farseer approached.
"I am honored to join you, Farseer Idranel," he said, still bowed at the waist. Only when she beckoned to him did he stand back to his full height. Like Draoi, Veldoran's hair was long and braided, though Draoi's single black hair contrasted with the platinum sheen of Veldoran's intricate locks.
"It is I who am honored," said Idranel. "I am glad to have the assistance of fellow Craftworld Eldar."
"I do not come alone," the Warlock replied. He motioned behind him at the three others who rested. Two sat side by side, both wearing dark robes and long shimmering cloaks. The first was known to her immediately. Even with his hood up, the farseer recognized Nemerian. He was a famous Exodite, one who had only recently started wearing a waystone. For years he had traveled the stars as a Pathfinder, trusting in his skills to keep him alive. Now, perhaps out of necessity, he had adopted the Craftworld's manner of preserving the soul. The other ranger's clothes were not near as ragged as Nemerian's, and there was youthful vigor in his face that those who walk the Path of the Outcast only carry when they first start out. Surprisingly, Idranel saw the runes of Ulthwe adorning the hem of the younger ranger's cloak. This wayward son had returned to serve his Craftworld after only such a short time.
The final guest wore the form-fitting bone armor of a Howling Banshee. Her hair was long and blond. It was darker than Veldoran's but still contained the gleam of gold, and fell down to the small of her back and gentle curls. She held the customary long powersword in her hands and lovingly ran the whetstone down its slow curve. Upon the left breast of her armor was the stamped rune of Reincarnation, the emblem of the Biel-Tan Craftworld. Hearing Veldoran's words, the Banshee turned to Idranel and gave her a nod.
"I am here to represent my Craftworld," she said. "Though a full Swordwind could not be sent, I hope you will accept my presence here."
"We would be honored," returned Idranel.
The Banshee smiled. Rather than the contained menace that Idranel expected, it was a warm greeting of good intent. "I am Arcadia," she said. "Though I walk the Path of the Banshee, devote me to what tasks you wish of me."
She was an odd one, thought Idranel. Though she carried herself as a Banshee and wore the garb of that Aspect, her demeanor was off. Like the two rangers, perhaps Arcadia too was of another sort. Speaking to Uiremon now, Idranel asked, "Spiritseer, what forces do we have at our disposal?"
"A great many, Lady Farseer," said the Warlock. "A force of three hundred Black Guardians, with supporting vehicles stands at our core. In addition, the Dire Avenger Exarch Cculan and many of his finest warriors will join us, along with choice picks from other Aspect Temples. I am very proud of the strike force assembled."
"I would say the same," said Nemerian. The Pathfinder had not moved, and spoke without turning to face Idranel. Though Draoi bristled at the insult, Idranel raised a hand to calm him.
"I am pleased that you think so," she said gracefully.
Nemerian nodded, still without turning. "I know the lands well, Farseer. The humans trample them like beasts, cutting tree and smashing rock in their wake. I do hope that they are taught a lesson."
Her heart was still pounding as Idranel replied. "They will, Pathfinder. For too long the mon-keigh have lived with our worlds beneath their feet. We will visit upon them the wrath of Ulthwe the Damned."
Far from Subsector Aurelia, the Battle Barge Omnis Arcanum lurked in the darkness between stars. It was the Fortress-Monastery of the Blood Ravens, a spacecraft and fortress without compare, and home of its Chapter Master and Chief Librarian, Azariah Kyras. It was here, in halls of vast data archives and dusty texts, that the Blood Ravens collected their records of heroes and foes, victories and defeats, and above all else, captured knowledge. Above entire decks of servitor-monitored cogitator bays sat the core of the Librarium, a cavernous library that occupied almost a square kilometer on the Omnis Arcanum's top deck. With bookshelves almost thirty meters high stretching up to the lantern-lit ceiling, the scale was staggering even for repeat visitors.
Captain Gaius, of the Blood Ravens 1st Company, met the Chapter Master on the port side of the Librarium. Past one of the many reading areas in the Librarium was a viewing gallery, a raised stage that gave a better view out of one of the many windows lining the sides of the Librarium. Dressed in full power armor and carrying on his right arm the Fist of the Father, his relic power fist, Gaius briskly walked through the reading section. He gave a curt nod to Epistolaries Anteas and Urelie, both reading from a large tome of ork biology. Passing the two 1st Company Librarians, Gaius ascended the five steps up to the stage and greeted Kyras.
"I have arrived as summoned my Lord," he said. Kyras was facing the window with his hands clasped behind his back. Wearing traditional Blood Ravens power armor, sectioned with the blue markings identifying him as a Librarian, the Chapter Master gazed out at the fleet of ships surrounding the Omnis Arcanum, no less than three Battle Barges and many more Strike Cruisers, not to mention dozens of escort craft. They were flocking around the Fortress-Monastery like a mother and her young. Lurking past the Honor Guard's ship, The Observer, Gaius could see his own Battle Barge, Scientia Est Potentia, that ferried the 1st Company from warzone to warzone. It had served him well, and he ached to return to its comforting halls. It had been too long since he had crushed the heads of his foes, but Lord Kyras had need of him, and that was what mattered.
"Gaius, I am truly glad you came," said Kyras, as though he had not summoned him specifically. Kyras' voice was soft but carried well no matter the venue. Despite having a rough menace to it, it had become soothing to Gaius in the past few years.
"I am always eager to serve."
Kyras turned slowly and stepped up to Gaius, who stood tall as the Chapter Master approached. Gaius was a few inches taller than Kyras, with a full, heavy face and rounded jaw that contrasted with Kyras' gaunt and wrinkled visage. Just the same, Kyras' face was unmarked by battle, unlike the nearly vertical trio of scars that marred Gaius' nose and lips, a memento from a dead genestealer. Instead, Kyras was pale, with dark circles under his eyes that made his small, pinprick eyes stand out even more. They were half-blood shot, just noticeable up close, with a tinge of red in the grey irises. When Kyras smiled, he revealed a mouth full of yellowing teeth, short and stubby with blood pooling around the roots.
"There have been a great many developments, Gaius."
"What have your visions shown you?" asked the First Captain.
Kyras looked past Gaius, who turned to glance over his own shoulder at Urelie and Anteas. The Chapter Master lowered his voice. "The only visions left to me are those granted by my new benefactor. I have rejected the curse on my soul. Never again will I marshal these powers of mine."
Gaius' eyes widened. Did he truly mean that? "My lord, how then will you communicate with your far flung forces?"
"There are astropaths, are there not?" said Kyras. "I will no long disparage my new master. But, Gaius, I did not ask you here to discuss witchery. A matter has come up in Aurelia."
"Our recruiting worlds?" said Gaius. "That is Thule's domain." His voice was harsh and filled with derision. Thule was a coward and a fool who had botched the battles on Kronus. He had come so close to the edge after Deimos, and yet he had not fallen. Were he but a bit more ambitious, he would be standing with Kyras and Gaius as well.
"Captain Thule will be quite busy," said Kyras with a short chuckle. "A great many foes converge on subsector Aurelia, namely, the Great Devourer."
"A splinter fleet? Thule will be hard pressed to fight back." Gaius paused, then asked, "Chapter Master, you must have a way to turn this to your advantage."
Kyras spread his hands wide and turned back to the window, motioning for Gaius to stand at his side so they could speak unobserved. "I have commissioned a Sergeant from the 5th Company to go to Thule and act as a Commander in the 4th Company."
"Gelden allowed this?"
Kyras gave a snort. "One push from Diomedes was all it took. Apollo and Gelden both played right into our hands. This Sergeant, Aramus, is a threat. He is fervently loyal, a firebrand who can push but not lead. However, should he develop he would become a great threat."
So that was it. "Removing Gelden's best Sergeants, a good move," he said. "Perhaps even he will join us in time."
"I would not be so sure," said Kyras with a shake of the head. "Diomedes must come first, only then will Gelden fall to our new faith."
There were footsteps from behind, and the two turned with a start. Kyras held a barely restrained fury in his eyes, his teeth bared like a wild beast. Only when they saw the familiar face of Chief Apothecary Galan did they calm and allow him to join their circle. Galan was helmetless, wearing the ornate white armor that his office demanded. His nearly square face was tan with a jaw like a block of rockcrete. His left cheek and neck were marred with deep burns. Such were the scars that his left lip was almost always curled down in a scowl. Though it did little to affect his speech, an attempt at smiling presented only an arrogant looking smirk. As such, Galan's speech was almost unfailingly polite. Behind his brown eyes though was a gleam that could not just be attributed to the lighting, and even now Gaius could detect the faint scent of flesh rotting in the sun.
"Galan," grunted Gaius in greeting.
"Greetings Captain Gaius, Chapter Master. I trust your days are proceeding well." As always, so damned polite. How could Galan enjoy the thrill of slaughter when he spoke like that? The air of reasonableness in his tone almost gave Gaius the impression that the Apothecary would apologize when he killed someone.
"Quite well indeed," said Kyras.
"What brings you here, Chief Apothecary?" asked Gaius.
"I asked him to join us," said the Chapter Master. "Galan has been working hard."
Galan inclined his head. "You give me too much credit, Chapter Master. I have only used my position as Chief Apothecary and member of the Honor Guard to our mutual advantage. I have ensured that Captain Angelos will be close to the Aurelian subsector in the coming months. Only he will be close enough to render aid to our recruiting worlds."
Gaius' grin was feral. "With Angelos and Thule battered and beaten, this Chapter will be ours."
"Yes indeed," said Chapter Master Kyras. "Maledictus has shown me much. Soon Aurelia will be awash with corpses, all of them sacrifices. My Brothers, let us build a mountain of skulls for Khorne."
