Opening the door to the bunker, Afennor slid his night-vision goggles on. Stepping off the thunderhawk with his nine squad mates, most of them as young as Afennor and only a few years into their careers as scouts. They walked into the chute that led into the depths of the bunker, Afennor's orders rung freshly in his ears.
"This bunker is empty, everyone in it is fighting the orks. Inside it, there is an inquisitorial outpost that has gone silent. Discover the reasons." Those words echoed through Afennor's brain over and over again while he patted his bolter and walked through the unlit hallways of the bunker, everything appearing to him as clear as day through the goggles. He couldn't wait until the day when his eyes would be sharp enough to penetrate all shadow.
"We are three hundred meters away," said the squad leader, one hour, nineteen corridors and five elevators later. So far, this mission had been an uneventful one. Randorse had even taken to popping jokes the way he usually did when the boredom got to them.
"Wouldn't you rather be dropping orks right now?" asked Randorse. "The game here is said to be bigger than the greenskins we shot up on Sepress Prime." Afennor shuddered at memories of that world. Randorse wasn't there when Afennor's land speeder storm was shot down and he was stuck for three days underneath it, waiting for evacuation. From under his hiding place, Afennor's sniper rifle had taken a fearsome toll on the convoys that passed by. It was a good thing they never thought to look for him on the cliffs over their heads. Were he a battle brother, he'd have won a badge for all the high-ranking orks he shot.
'All I've got here is a bolter,' Afennor thought sourly. 'Give me a sniper rifle and I'll kill whatever orks have gotten down here.' This was only bravado. The cramped hallways made a poor sniper's playground.
"We're almost there," Sasal whispered, "any readings?"
"Sensors confirm there are no xeno spores in the air. If there's orks around, they're not shedding."
"Or they haven't been here." The scouts softly began to debate amongst themselves, deciding if an ork spore would drift through the windless hallways they patrolled until the squad leader hushed them.
"Its in front of us," the senior scout whispered. "Right…" they turned a corner. "There." The scouts froze. In front of them was an iron gate, built into the stone wall. Emblazoned upon it was the symbol of the holy Inquisition, but it was defaced with the runes of Chaos undivided. A few scouts spat at the runes.
"Reconnaissance squad: we've located the entrance. Chaos has been here. We are establishing a perimeter," said their leader. "Mailan, Northfor, cover the east hallway. Giles, Afennor, Sasal, and Randorse, cover out rear. Everyone else, watch the gate." The scouts hurried to their assigned places. The gate had only two halls leading to it and a brief inspection of the rafters revealed nothing waiting. Afennor watched the hallways and lay secure in the knowledge that soon the battle with the orks would be over and the true muscle of the Ultramarines would be here.
'Necrons, orks, tyranids: will chaos be anything like them?' Afennor thought. With those three alien races destroying everything, it seemed hard to fathom that chaos was the greatest threat to the Imperium. Afennor had never battled chaos but every marine he'd ever spoken to had on at least two occasions. One thing they forced the scouts to accept was that they would have to come toe-to-toe with the ruinous powers sooner or later. 'I've waited for a day like this for so long. Now it's finally happening. How will I handle it?' As time passed, and boredom increased, Afennor's answer came. 'I'm handling it pretty well.' He looked at Giles, scarred and coming close to the end of his time as a scout, the most senior in his small group, who had been with the Black Tomb when Afennor has still been a slave to the inquisitorial henchmen. Sasal, short and tough, who Afennor had pulled behind a tree when they'd come under fire on Spress Prime. Good old Randorse, whose sarcasm never left him, even when the whole Ultramarines chapter fought for its life against a tyranid swarm.
"Maybe we'll rebuild our chapter when we get assimilated into the hive fleet and fight on from there?" he suggested as the final wave of creatures came. Even their company captain found that funny.
"Are they going to attack us or not?" asked Randorse nervously as they watched the halls.
"Do not pray for the coming of chaos," scolded Giles, looking behind him at the gate.
"I should think they'd want to kill us. Or maybe they're still inside?" Randorse asked. "Can't we just storm in there and kill all this waiting?"
"We've got to contain them until our brothers can arrive. Learn from this lesson, boy." Randorse grumbled.
"Well, if they do decide they want to kill us, Afennor, don't try hiding behind me. I honestly hate it when you do that."
"I've got to hide behind something," Afennor muttered.
"You two, silence!" hissed the squad leader.
"Sorry," whispered the two.
"No, silence. Can you hear that?" Afennor held his breath and listened.
THUMP THUMP THUMP! The rhythmic footfalls of approaching feet echoed into his ears from far away. He whispered a short prayer and squinted down the hall, from where the steps came from. He felt his jaw tighten. This was it! If a servant of chaos approached, Afennor would finally live the day he had been promise: a chance to battle the ruinous…
With a thunderclap, the gate to the fortress exploded open, showering sparks through the halls. The scouts watching the gate leapt back and fired their bolters into the smoke that arose. Splitting from the haze came a cruel voice:
"Hydra Dominatus!" A horned giant stepped into the hole, his armor was green with grey trim, his helmet an older pattern now worn only by… Afennor's whole body tightened and he choked back a scream. His first battle against chaos and he was fighting…the Alpha Legion? Before he could shoot. He heard bolts flying in his direction. Beside him, he saw a dark red spray of bone and blood jump from Giles' head as he too turned about to the gate. They were being attacked from behind too!
Afennor and the two survivors jumped into the room…with the Alpha Legion traitor… and unloaded bolts at the man. Sparks leapt from the giant's armor as he slid into the smoke. Screaming with fury, young Ghilo gave chase, firing, disappearing into the smoke. The squad leader didn't tell him to stop: the squad leader was spayed against the opposite wall. Afennor could only crouch and listen as Ghilo yelled and fired. Then, the whirling of a chainsword. Ghilo stopped firing and instead shrieked in pain, crying so painfully that Afennor felt himself shiver. The sound was mercifully short.
"Should we watch the hallway we were supposed to or the gate?" whispered Randorse. The other members of Afennor's squad were now in the room, crouching against the walls. Now, nobody watched a single hall. Afennor heard someone whisper for help into their vox-caster.
"Emperor….Ghiles and Gilo," whispered Sasal.
Then, whipping out from the smoke and into the room, came a grenade, flopping into the middle. Northfor leapt up and dove towards the grenade, intending to throw it back in. His head exploded in a hail of bolterfire from an unknown direction before he could, though his body fell onto it. Afennor shut his eyes when the explosion sounded. Then…
"Hydra Dominatus!" from each of the hallways came a pair of Alpha Legion traitors, bolters in hand. From the smoke came five more, two armed with bolt pistols and chain swords and a single helmetless man who was the clear leader. His head was totally hairless, his cheeks, mouth and nose hidden by a respirator mask, his green armor was as beautiful as it was terrible. The scale design looked real. In one hand a bolter, in the other hand, nothing. Tethered to his left wrist was a nest of cybernetic serpents that lashed out to bite men at the other end of the room.
"AH!" Randorse choked as a snake whipped around his neck and dragged him over to the traitor lord. Three razor-toothed snakes snapped their jaws hungrily at the young scout.
Hiding in the corner, Afennor clicked his bolter. He was out of ammunition. Discarding it, he slipped through the combat, unnoticed by the sinister warriors as they effortlessly carved apart the defenseless scouts. Afennor caught a fleeting glimpse of Randorse, lying on the floor with his guts exposed, his shrieking louder than any of the other noises in the room, as the mechanical serpents sorted through his organs and harvested the ones the Astartes had put there. Afennor felt something impact against his side and his left flank went numb. He stumbled and fell, perhaps appearing dead, then jumped back up and running down the hall some more. It took him a while to comprehend that he'd been shot. Branded into his mind was the face of the lord he'd seen, behind the respirator mask he'd worn, the sadism in his eyes as he killed Randorse.
'I will return,' Afennor thought with a gasp. 'I will return with my whole chapter. And I will kill that man. By the Emperor, I promise it.'
…
Vashuss stepped over to the next body and saw that this scout too was alive. He planted a green boot onto the scout's surviving arm, crushing the shoulder. Using his cybernetic implants in his fingers, he commanded his serpents to begin. The moved down to the scout's torso, which was unharmed, and began splitting his belly. The scout wailed as blood began to spill forth from his Ultramarine armor, renewing the coat of blood across his serpents' heads. They burrowed into the wound and pulled aside, ripping flesh, armor, and bone, revealing the man's ropy intestines. His snakes began to sort through them.
"Two injuries, my lord," reported Slaesh. "No deaths."
"Of course not. These were only scouts, Let the one that got away escape. His news of us will prompt action," Vashuss mumbled over the scout's screaming, snipping off a choice bit of meat from the scout's body and passing it up to himself. "Tell the cells to evacuate."
"What shall I tell them my lord?"
"The Ultramarines will fall over themselves to get back in here when the survivor makes his report. They mustn't find us. This Inquisitorial facility is destroyed. Now the Inquisition won't be able to detect the warp energies. The rift can open unopposed." He looked up at Slaesh as the serpents moved up to the scout's chest. The cracking of rips accompanied Vashuss' words. "Are the charges set?"
"Yes my lord."
"Then withdraw through the tunnels." Vashuss thought about the old Helsreach tunnel that ran close to these bunkers. They'd burrowed in from there. "Do you have your second heart yet?" he asked the scout. There was no use: the man wasn't speaking. Vashuss would just have to find out himself.
Then, Vashuss felt a signal come from his communicator. Raising his right wrist, he looked at the little display screen. An ancient code, dating back to the ancient days on Holy Terra before mankind had set foot on the moon. He read the code.
"Slaesh!" Vashuss shouted as the Alpha Legion warriors disappeared down the halls, "another chaos legion is coming to join us. From a warp rift inside the rok outside."
"What? Impossible. The chaotic energy isn't strong enough to open the rift. Not yet at least," replied Slaesh. Vashuss shook his head.
"This isn't the big rift, merely a smaller…prelude," Vashuss cursed. "Damnation, it's being summoned. There's someone else already here. If the Imperials detect this rift, they'll send forces here to meddle with the rift's opening." He cursed.
"Then it will be a battle for the rok," said Slaesh, "when the rift is large enough it will allow our forces to join us. The orks will help the rift grow once its reached a certain size."
"This plan is more risky than what I had in mind," Vashuss replied, contemplating his options. "Granted, this one takes less time." He had no choice. "A battle for the rok then it will be. You know which heads we use in wars of attrition." Slaesh nodded.
"Head four, head eight, all of you, converge on the ork rok and defend it," Slaesh ordered.
…
"There's a what near Helsreach?" Armstrong cursed as he looked at the holodisplay. "We may need to withdraw our command post. If chaos is on this planet, we cannot let it taint us." The messenger shrugged.
"It is only a foiregn energy signature. Its source is hard to…"
"The Space Wolves have been rambling on about chaos for too long. This is more than coincidence," Armstrong said, his tone steady, his words certain. "And it has been too long since I have commanded from a starship. I need to get out of…here," the Governor Militant gestured to his room. He turned to his comms officer. "Contact the astropaths. Send out warnings to all nearby systems. Possible chaos incursion. Need aid." As he stepped across his command room, Armstrong came to the inevitable realization. The eldar was right.
…
Back, back, the orks were pushed against the rok. They howled defiantly against the press of the Imperial Guard and two chapters of the Space Marines, but to no avail. Stumbling over the bodies of their own, their backs were nearly against the stone of their rok. But as these ones died, elsewhere, in one million other battlefields, their forces prevailed. Untold trillions of orks would yet live even if they all died here.
'Such pests, the Emperor cannot live in peace while they still breathe,' the Black Tomb thought while his fist crushed an ork skull. He fondly recalled the days when orks were smaller and easier to kill, when their eyes didn't glow so intensely. When their warcries were not so impossibly loud. His assault cannon spat death into the tight mobs.
Then, there was a white flash in the orkish crowd, ripping many greenskins apart. The thunderhawks had landed, so it was not they. The Black Tomb understood there was only one race that had guns like that.
Diving down, like shards of flying glass and equally sharp, three eldar craft dove, lasers blazing death into the aliens. From their underbellies jumped a handful of winged warriors. Like snow, they fluttered down, rifles claiming scores of orks before they touched down. The Black Tomb had fought both beside and against eldar. Today, it seemed he would fight alongside them. He remained weary as the leader dropped next to him, into the middle of a squad of space marines and a regiment of Imperial Guard.
'A Phoenix Lord?' thought the Black Tomb in surprise and some awe. From the wings and the feathered helm, the dreadnought recognized Barahrroth, the swooping hawk. At last, they met.
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the Black Tomb as his men pushed ahead of him, taking his place in the fighting.
"You're in danger, you all are, Calgar," Barahrroth warned ominously, gesturing with a sky-blue hand at the Utramarines and guardsmen. "This world will soon be the eye of a warp storm. You must withdraw and battle chaos in space."
"Give your reasons, eldar," the Black Tomb replied, knowing better than to disregard an eldar, though remaining weary.
"Our suspicions are confirmed. At long last, our suspicions are confirmed. When the necrons awoke, the orks rose into the galaxy to fight them: the final spark needed to heat their Waaagh to the needed levels. The united Waaagh has given the orks their strength, and here, upon Armageddon, where both Angron and Thrakka once tread, it will be there downfall." The Black Tomb took a moment to process the enigmatic words. The Phoenix Lord continued. "The orks have been getting stronger for the past three thousand years, ever since the descendants of Thrakka united them. Now they are perfect. You can destroy this rok, and the next, but for every Astartes you field, the orks have a fleet of roks at their disposal."
"Is that why you are here?" the Black Tomb asked, "to tell us what we know? I watched the orks get larger, I have seen their wars grow in size and intensity…"
"But you did not see what it meant, for the universe," Barahrroth interrupted. "The red in their eyes? Their unnaturally loud yells?"
"Side affects of having a stronger Waaagh," the Black Tomb affirmed.
"Yes. And now that they span the galaxy. Now that they have stopped fighting one another, they are more powerful than ever, united, their ferocity feeding the warp with raw hatred. The pure, hot energy from their rage is uniting here, on Armageddeon, a world tainted by Angron's footsteps. And thus the energy of orkish rage collects here on this Khorne-tainted world." He pointed at the screaming clouds. "Very soon that energy will create a…" the eldar paused. "I'm not sure what. Whatever it is that happens, there will be a shockwave that will open a warp storm while destroying the orks just as they reach the pinnacle of their civilization." The Black Tomb was spellbound at Barahrroth leaned into him. "The same thing that happened to us is happening to them, but with war, not pleasure."
…
Breaking his way through the sheet-metal door, Vashuss beheld his target. Upon the bloody floor, above the broken skull of an ork psyker, was a shimmering red ball of mist: the crack in reality that his men had sensed. Around it was a coven of Thousand Sons sorcerers, chanting in whispers, feeding the rift.
"Who commands here?" demanded Vashuss, stepping inside. "Answer in the name of the Depoiler." Startled, the leader of the coven fired a bolt at Vashuss, striking him in the chest, but glancing off harmlessly. The shot did not even shake him.
"Do not come in unannounced," one of the sorcerers scolded.
Turning from the group, and swathed in splendid armor, smoking bolt pistol raised, the lead sorcerer approached. It was Ahriman himself, gold and blue, thousands of years of knowledge condensed into one menacing figure whose words could undo nations. Vashuss narrowed his eyes as the Thousand Son warrior approached him and his escort of three: the only force small enough to fit inside the pod that he had used to burrow under the battle and into the empty rok. Vashuss fingered his cracked armor where Ahriman had shot.
"That's all you get, sorcerer" he warned the Thousand Son. "You shall not be forgiven next time." Ahriman chuckled from behind his gold faceplate. "How did you reach this place?" Vashuss asked, his tight voice growing slack. Ahriman lowered his evil firearm.
"We occupied this asteroid before the greenskins used it. Chaos showed us the fate the orks had for this broken rock. We needed only hide," Ahriman hissed. "Come, witness the favored of the Lord of Change as they bring about the fall of the Imperium of weaklings." Vashuss narrowed his eyes.
"The orks make war on the necrons all across the galaxy as the tyranids retreat. Very soon, there will be enough raw rage collected here to open a warp storm in an instant. I need only hide the risk from Imperial eyes" Vashuss explained. "Why do you risk it so brazenly? My way is slower but foolproof."
"Tzeench demands speed," Ahriman whispered, then he turned to the rift.
"What is the real reason, sorcerer?" Vashuss smiled: nobody could lie to him.
"In this time, when nobody plots and plans, but dies and whithers the realm of Tzeench is…" Ahriman didn't say a word past that. "All haste must be had. The Imperium must die now, swiftly, not slowly as you would have it."
"Your god is dying, isn't he? He's sitting on his throne deep in his endless maze and sleeping, isn't he?" Ahriman turned to Vashuss and pointed his staff aggressively at him.
"Do not blaspheme against He Who Knows All. I was alive when your Primach drew breath." Ahriman turned to the rift. "You know as well as I do that this rift will be like a spark and the alien's rage like gunpowder. The orks can be exterminated by their own rage right now, if we only coax it. The warp storm will be here right now, if we only coax it." Vashuss stepped up next to him.
"The Imperials might virus bomb Armageddeon, or destroy this rok. Your way involves more bloodshed than is needed," Vashuss noted lazily. "If we fail here, it might be a great while before the warp storm blossoms if the Imperials understand the danger we pose."
"So we will not fail here, by Tzeench," Ahriman rasped, "my spark will ignite the storm, by Tzeench." Vashuss watched as the orb, now his own size, shifted. "The first defenders are here!" Ahriman cackled, "in the name of the Despoiler, hold the rok!" Vashuss turned to his troops behind him.
"In the name of the Depoiler, hold this chamber!" he commnded, "chaos demands it!" The rift shuddered, and something emerged.
…
Odeen reached the base of the monstrous rok. Looking up it, he could scarcely see the shrieking faces in Armegeddeon's famous clouds behind the jutting rocks and scaffolding around the asteroid fortress. He spat into the face of a dead ork as the rest of his squad joined him, chainswords buzzing, guns reloading. A pair of Blood Claws giggled in bloodlust. With no more orks to kill around them, the rok was theirs to assault. Around them, the final remnants of the monstrous force of aliens were swept away by Imperial courage.
"Break in and feast on alien blood!" Odeen laughed as he indicated the hangar he stood in front of. The cavernous chamber stunk of gasoline and was covered with ramshackle work stations. "In!" he bellowed, "death to the enemies of Russ!" Sprinting at the head of his party of warriors, Odeen charged across the hangar and in through one of the many doorways. "Comb this place! Find the energy's source!" He charged down the sour-smelling stone hallway he found himself in, axing his way past a sleeping ork, and barging into a filth-strewn cavern that could only have been a mess hall by the amount of food scraps lying about. Odeen's nose stung, though used to unwashed chambers, even the stink of this place would shame any of the beerhalls he'd known in his long life.
"I can smell them," one man whispered behind Odeen, "they come." Odeen's senses, honed in the wilds of Fenris, could detect the foe also: an unsteady tramping of feet coming from a nearby tunnel dug into the side of the wall, either by hand or a messy drill.
"Charge!" Odeen roared as he raised his axe and rushed the tunnel. The ugly head of a bit boy appeared in the hole just as Odeen swung his axe. This one fell, but more poured out, already bloodied. Some were missing limbs or limping under the pain of bullet wounds. Some appeared unarmed; an oddity for such beasts. Odeen gave this little thought as the orks fed themselves to Space Wolf weaponry. In the noise of the one-sided contest, Odeen did not hear the approaching feet from the other halls.
The air was abruptly lit by shrill bolterfire. The man next to Odeen: a tall warrior with a red ponytail and a ragged red beard, exploded into blue fire. Falling to the ground, even his armor burned under the eldritch flames. Odeen looked in anger at their attacker and beheld the silhouette of his greatest enemy in the archway of one of the nearby doors. Tall, blue, and wearing a ragged loincloth upon its armor, with icy cold eyes that shone like frozen embers in the still blackness that lay behind his eyeholes. A looming blue-and-yellow headdress adorned the warrior's helmet, mysterious in function. In his hands, the feared bolter, but Odeen knew it was much more than that. It was a Rubric Marine: an ancient ghost locked inside hollow power armor, but a traitor none-the-less. It was a Thousand Son.
"For Russ!" yelled a helmeted Space Wolf, his grey pelt fluttering as he charged, whirling chainsword above his head. A second volley from the traitor gifted the noble Astartes with a death identical to the first, firing flaming rounds from its ancient weapon, crusted with wicked Tzeench runes. As the orks withdrew, another Thousand Son appeared in the door and raised his bolter.
The return from the Space Wolves cut into both ghosts. Those beautiful headdresses crumbled under a hail of rockets. Holes were blasted in both. Instead of blood, dust washed forward from the holes gauged by bolterfire. The lead collapsed, empty armor falling in on itself, only ancient dust rising from the shell, which no occupant wore. This small victory was robbed from them as a swarm of glittering bodies glided past the Thousand Son. There were no words Odeen had to describe the bouncing, giggling, many-armed creatures with shifting human-like faces, knobby horns, who were wreathed in a dancing wreath of multi-coloured light.
"Reinforcements!" Odeen yelled into his earpiece as the daemons charged, throwing fire upon the Space Wolves that ignited metal like paper and burned through anything it touched with ferocity. "The powers of Tzeench are upon us! Send help!" As the man next to him burned to dust, Odeen snatched a fallen bolter from a skeletal hand. He raised it into a giggling daemonic face and squeezed the trigger…
…
"Charge!" Logan roared, gesturing violently at the rok to his remaining warriors. Rushing into the rok's many cave-like entrances, disorganized and feral, the Space Wolves went. Banding together to form a great pack, the wolves would devour their prey with vengeful ferocity for the warriors they'd thus far lost. Logan rushed into the hangar, sending frantic messages to all channels, demanding aid. He would not join the fight until he knew he would receive the help he needed.
"Logan," boomed the Black Tomb as he trundled into the orkish hangar. The two moved to a nearby wall to stay out of the way of anyone who entered. Though now the hangar was empty, more Imperial units would be bringing up the rear. "I must question your rash choice to storm the rok. Codex Astartes dictates…"
"Codex Astartes got us here!" Logan yelled, "if you would follow your instincts and not some ancient words, we would have victory!" Rage heated his very soul, Logan would not put down his axe until it had split the flamboyant blue helm of a Thousand Son's warrior. He vowed this.
"Logan, if the Thousand Sons do garrison the rok, a more decisive strike may be called for," the Black Tomb said.
"If THOSE traitors have the rok in their hands, they will use their cowardly magics to defend it from a bombing. We must gut these halls, kill their warriors, and drag their leader out by his pretty blue helmet!" Logan barked.
"Logan, if sightings of the Alpha Legion are confirmed, there may be more to it that…" the Black Tomb didn't finish his sentence as a hidden hatch on the roof, no doubt used as a hidden door on the ceiling, built to be accessed from atop a mountainous orkish vehicle, flipped open.
Down from it, dropped a green armored chaos lord, bald and with a rebreather mask, with a wrist wringed with cybernetic snakes and a bolter: Vashuss. He landed heavily atop the Black Tomb and slashed into its top with his serpents, each one maliciously biting the dreadnought. Logan raised his storm bolter as the Black Tomb shook, electricity leaping from the snake-heads. The dreadnought turned abruptly, against its will, knocking Logan to the floor.
Flipping down, Vashuss tore the sepents from the Black Tomb, then carved a sweeping gash in the ancient carapace with his snakes' sharp teeth. He whipped the serpents back, tearing at Logan, forcing him to turn over lest he get gutted. Vashuss raised his bolter to the gash he'd rent into the Black Tomb's front and fired the contents of his bolter deep into the dreadnought. Bolt after bolt shot into the shadowy crack broken into the ancient warrior's protction, detonating deep inside the hulk. He would have continued, but dashed off when a pair of Ultramaines charged into the hangar, firing their bolters.
Logan rose and the Black Tomb fell in a sickly shower of leaping sparks. Logan roared as he pumped shots at the fleeing traitor, but could not break his scaled armor. Vashuss broke through the wall: a secret door, and was gone.
"Damn you!" Logan rushed at the door, but the two Ultramarines restrained him, barely. Logan threw one to the floor and was about to send the other sailing, but froze after hearing a few sobering words.
"It's a trap, Logan. Enter there and chaos will amush you," one of the marines warned, Logan was too enraged to tell or care which. He ceased struggling and turned painfully to behold the fallen giant. Flames leapt from his assault cannon near where a snake had bitten into it. Amidst the mess of black, twisted metal, Logan could still see the screaming impression of Calgar forged on the front, now despairing at the dead machine that lay broken around his metal body.
"Calgar," Logan said through his wolf teeth, body shaking in a warrior's fury "I will avenge…"
Vashuss returned to the doorway and let a storm of bolter shells fly at Logan. They thudded off his grayish armor, drawing blood here and there, rocking the stony man with their explosions. Then one broke through Logan's forhead, breaking his enraged face apart in a hail of crimson shrapnel. The murdered Space Wolf tumbled backward, his axe clattering anti-climactically to the messy floor. The Logan's mouth remained open, silently yelling in muted rage, while the rest of his skull smeared the armor around it. Now two beautiful corpses of giants stained the hangar with their fallen glory. The two marines returned fire, but they were shooting at empty space. The secret door closed behind the chaos warrior and Vashuss was gone.