The Mallus Compliance

by FractiousDay

The Space Marines of the Celestial Lions crash onto an unknown world. Alone and friendless, can they reclaim their honour and rebuild their Chapter? Or will they succumb to the multitudes of Xenos and Daemons that abound? Warhammer 40k vs Warhammer Fantasy

26. Chapter 26

So just as a reminder, this is one of the crossposts, the 'story only thread' if you will. I've not been updating them for a couple of months, but there have been updates, but I also can't be bothered to split the bits up so you're just getting a chapter dump now so have fun with that. There's also a lesser amount of formatting because I don't want to have to go through it 20 times.

This is a crosspost, but the actual story is a quest with the same title on the forum SufficientVelocity, a quest, in case you're not aware, is where you choose what happens. For example I will give various options like 'attack X, build Y, go to Z' and the players will choose particular options based on calculations of risk and reward. If you want to participate in that then go over to SV and do so. I don't post the choice and voting sections on these boards.

Having said that, I'm curious about whether the story only version of this actually works. Does the story come across sufficiently well without the choice elements? Do the chapter boundries feel more artificial or somehow disjointed?

Are there any other points on the writing in general? On tone, on characters, on plot? As one note, I've been trying to present the horrors of the Imperium which I feel aren't properly established in other fics where some space marines arrive and so on.

xxxxx

"Recount, if you would, Master of Scouts, the events leading to our present situation."

The leadership of the Celestial Lions had gathered once again in the great hall of their mountain fastness and Vularakh rose to speak, "Several years ago we retrieved the crew of the Rapah after it had crashed on the continent of Naggoroth far to the north. At the time it was decided that no attempt would be made beyond the most simple to salvage or repair the ship, and following the retrieval the ship was destroyed by Ordinance Extremis, in this case a minor nuclear device. This explosion spread radioactive fallout across the northern regions, primarily affecting the human tribes, the Mung and Aghol. As we now understand, the tribes turned to their protective spirits and other primitive religions, as well as to their psykers, and even in some case to daemons and the Dark Gods. The eastern tribes as well as those of Norsca worship a pantheon of tutelary deities, animal spirits, ancestor gods and lesser daemons, but in this case prayers were of no assistance to them, indeed, several of the daemons expressed fear of the God-Emperor, which provoked a change in the tribes, including a war between the Mung and Aghol regarding the proper deity to address prayers to, the Emperor, or the Dark Gods."

Jarthur, King of the Mungs and the first convert was dead now, indeed he had been for several years, and the rest of his people too, destroyed by their enemies, the Dark Elves taking advantage of the weakness of their foes to reave and reap the northern lands for slaves and plunder.

"While that conflict is irrelevant, news of it spread among the other northern human polities, notably to Norsca. To describe the region in brief, the Norscan people are warlike and once again practice numerous heresies, the most debased of which include the aggrandisement of sorcerers and the honouring of mutation. Indeed, mutation is rampant among them and mutants are even allowed to breed…"

While Space Marines were psychologically neutered, any sexual desire being crushed by decades of hypnotherapy, the very idea, the very biological suggestion, was as abhorrent to them as any right-thinking Imperial citizen and several of the Captains sneered or scowled.

"Hralf, the King of the Bjornlings, a Norscan tribe, was particularly influenced, and was among those to visit Pharos three years ago. He left behind several of the children of his tribe, including his daughter under the mistaken belief that the Sisters of the Order of the Bloody Rose were somehow related to a local deity. The Sisters have swiftly disabused them of that notion, but the daughter, among others, has now taken the vows of the Sororitas."

Indeed the tithing of daughters was one of the more unusual tributes that the Chapter had received, Amra thought idly as Vularakh drew breath. Many of the Arabyan and Southlands tribes, and some of the mortal nobles of various cities had sent young women along with various treasures, and the Space Marines hadn't been able to understand why. Certainly they had no use as Bloodstock as the Emperor had ordained that only men could become Astartes, and so the standing policy had been to direct the young women toward the Sororitas. What became of them after that Amra didn't know, but nor really did he care. Whatever influence or exchange the locals meant by such gifts was beyond him.

"Following this, Confessor Hermina and Palatine Olga proposed a plan to tithe the people of Norsca, both to acquire appropriate Bloodstock and to weaken the Norscans by depriving them of a generation and creating a demographic crisis that might affect them for years to come. I collaborated on this plan, developing it further and including the various imperatives of the 10th Company. Two years ago we tithed Araby, this year therefore, we tithed Norsca. I led a force including the Sisters of Battle, several Veterans of the 1st, brothers from the Apothecarium, Librarius and Chaplaincy to Norsca and the capital of the Bjornlings where we announced the Blood Trials. For the benefit of those who are not aware, I will explain the process. Of a population, usually around 20% are of the appropriate age for tithing. Of these children, any titheband will only be so efficient, and many potential Aspirants will often be missed for a variety of reasons, while the number of Aspirants who enter Blood Tithes will rely on their own aspirations and those of their culture. Of these, only a certain number will survive the tithing process itself, and still fewer will survive the process of Sacred Implantation and become full Battle Brothers. We tend to recruit from Feral or Feudal Worlds because they have a greater proportion of children and because the culture, occupation and psychology of their Aspirants is appropriate for the receipt of gene-seed. The downside is the lack of Administratum presence on such worlds, and the subsequent inefficiencies in actually gathering the tithe in the first place."

Again, Amra knew all this, and had tackled it before. Unlike the Imperial Guard, Astartes Chapters couldn't simply take anyone into conscription, and often it occurred that several organs might be implanted into an Aspirant before they proved unsuitable for some unknown reason and had to be liquidated. Elysium, the Chapter's former homeworld, had a population of just over a billion, yet even with a large number of the world's parents being willing to offer their children up to the Chapter, any one tithe had never raised more than a few squads, even when almost a fifth of the population was of appropriate age at any one time. Amra had once discussed the matter with another Chapter Master to share strategies, the management of Bloodstock and the husbandry of Serfs being a constant concern for such leaders.

"We had expected to gather, perhaps five hundred, and to test and trial them till we had a good crop of Aspirants. What I got though was thousands of ships showing up, laden with children. So many in fact that they outnumbered the adults in the settlement, which was one of the larger ones in Norsca. There were several contributing factors to this surprise which I hadn't initially been aware of. Firstly, the Norscans have an exceptionally high number of psykers, one in a thousand rather than one in a million, and these psykers were able to spread word of our arrival with great speed to all the villages of Norsca. Secondly, the Norscans have the cultural markers for sacrifice and tithe already established, and in the beginning we were even mistaken for servants of Chaos. It got to a point where I had fifty thousand children ready for the tithe, and even when discounting the majority for various reasons, conducting harsh trials of death marches and unarmed battles against the local xenos species, I was still left with ten thousand."

"What is the stance of the Adeptus Terra on tithing from such populations?" Tuthmes asked in the pause.

It was certainly an issue. The High Lords of Terra demanded a tithe of gene-seed each year to confirm the purity of the Astartes Chapters, as well as to control them and build up resources for future Foundings. Amra had committed a heresy in lying to the Adeptus Terra for several centuries, using prevarications, claims of losses, and sometimes simply witholding gene-seed outright to instead use it to build up the Celestial Lions. It wasn't unusual for Chapters to do such things, after all, the Astartes often travelled at great speed or in hostile territories, or simply had too many losses to make up to tithe to Terra, so the authorities were reasonably understanding, but it was still heresy.

"Mutation exists in every human, and it is only though faith in the Emperor and purity of spirit that it is suppressed." Natohk said, "However, both the Ministorum and the Administratum concur that a heretic, in this case a gene-heretic, can be redeemed through death in the Emperor's service, and it is under that ruling that mutant slave levies and other such forces are occasionally raised by Planetary Governors. I have inspected the Norscans, any Aspirants who held the taint were destroyed immediately, and those that survived will be monitored… closely…"

The menace in the High Deathspeaker's voice was audible even though his skull-helm's voxcaster and Tuthmes bowed his head.

"We now have a thousand high quality, I should say exceptional quality Aspirants. Each has taken part in grotesque hunts, environmental hells and survived interrogation, mental, spiritual, and otherwise. However, while these trials went on, opinion turned against us among the Norscans. The western tribes, primarily the Sarl and the Aeslings, tribes especially known for their corruption of flesh and spirit, rallied an army against us, while the eastern tribes, their children our hostages, rallied in response. They were defeated in a large battle, I suspect the largest Norsca has seen in several centuries."

It was said simply but from what Amra had review of the pict-captures of the event, such a description did it little justice. The Norscans had fought desperately, each side aware the struggle might determine the fate of their people, and daemon had even walked openly, drawn by the slaughter and the entreaties of the Norscan shaman. In the end though the day had been won, the enemy scattered.

"We have extracted all personnel from Norsca, but the war continues there. I have yet to decide what part we will take." Amra put in, Vularakh ceding the floor, "Additionally to the tithe of Norsca, we have also tithed the Imperial population in Pharos, and we now find ourselves with 1,331 Aspirants and 130 Scout Marines taken from the first tithe. The last Scouts tithed before our arrival have completed their initiation rites and joined the 2nd, and I have granted further Veterans to assist the 10th to train the new arrivals."

"I have 36 Sergeants." Vularakh said, "But to take more from the Companies risks robbing them of expertise in battle. At most no more than 10 Scouts should be assigned to any one Sergeant."

"The Black Templars maintain a custom among their Scouts whereby each Battle Brother will take an apprentice of sorts." Black Nassor suggested, "We might adopt a similar custom as our cousins. 360 Scouts could be trained by Veterans, while each of us could also take a Neophyte, perhaps more than one, that would bring us up to 500 in training at least!"

"Possibly." conceded Vularakh, "But if we do we'll have to train them. Any large battle will threaten the whole process, we'll have gaggles of Scouts following Battle Brothers around, slowing them down and impeding every action."

"More pressingly," the Master of the Apothecarium said, shaking his head, "We do not have the gene-seed to implant such a number. Based on previous tithes not all of this thousand will survive, but I only hold around 600 Progenoid Glands in the Gene-Crypt. Given the exceptional quality of the recruits, and the need to begin implantations of the Phase 1 organs, we will not have enough gene-seed to implant all the Aspirants. The Adeptus Terra maintain a process whereby gene-seed is implanted in 'gene-slaves', and removed upon maturation, killing them in the process. I do not know the secrets of the process though."

Could the Genetorium know? Could they be persuaded to disclose the technology? Ordered to perhaps? Amra thought on it. It would certainly be risky, The Adeptus Terra kept such processes from the Chapters exactly so they wouldn't grow too large and endanger the Imperium by the hand of transhuman tyranny. Then again, Thalis had recently proposed a project of rapid zygote maturation, could such a process be used here? Alternatively, could they remove the Glands from living Space Marines? Amra held two such organs within him at that moment, both of which might be removed, though with risk and with the violation of millennia of practice and ritual.

"We would not have enough armour to clad them." Khotan said as the conversation moved on, "We don't have the manufacturing capacity to create Power Armour, even Infiltrator Armour for Scouts, and though I and the other Techmarines can forge the armour ourselves by hand, this will paralyse our efforts in other areas."

"The Librarius is the same." Hath-Horeb said, "I am already training several Acolytes, and there are likely to be more present among the Aspirants in need of training as well. Any such training will certainly restrict our ability to maintain the projects we're engaged in. Will it not be the same for the Apothecarium? Do we even have the facilities to conduct so many lengthy and delicate surgeries?"

"When have we ever taken such a cohort?" Black Nassor asked at large, "I can't remember a time when we've ever had more than a hundred Aspirants or Scouts in training."

"Nor I." Khotan agreed, "I might also note that although the rewards may be great, we could rebuild the Chapter in a decade if the Emperor favours us, it may not be prudent to take such a cohort. We rely on a community to indoctrinate Neophytes. If there are so many to come from a single culture at a single time we may see negative effects on doctrine and any number of things."

"There are always other tithes." Vularakh pointed out, "I stand by the quality of these Aspirants, but if necessary I can conduct a further Blood Trial, that would reduce us to only 130 Aspirants, that would be far more manageable."

There were significant dangers in all areas, or so Amra concluded. On one hand, they might raise several Companies worth of Marines, recoup their losses in the crash and subsequent battles, bring the Chapter to greater strength. On the other, as his officers had noted, in many areas the Chapter simply lacked the capability to maintain such a training programme.

The Chapter Master was prudent, he had plotted and planned for centuries to get the Chapter to its previous strength, and that had been enough to weather Mallus for several years till they'd been safely established as they were. He had committed heresies, yet here the Captains simply proposed ideas, not committing to any in particular. It was a dangerous precedent to set, to so easily consider such ideas, the violation of traditions and rites, essentially for convenience.

Yet the rewards… The rewards could be great indeed. Amra saw before him a grand procession of Celestial Lions, the roaring beasts on the shoulders of the Marines proud and resolute, their armour burnished gold, their step mighty, their eyes keen.

xxxxx

"Close in. No more drills, no more practice."

D'leh, Scout Marine of the Celestial Lions, knelt before the Captain.

Beside him were seven others, each bearing the training blades of their youth.

"You are all about to receive the honour of going into combat for the first time as Celestial Lions. You are no longer Scouts." Black Nassor said.

At last… fourteen years, ever since his parents had given him up to the Celestial Lions, fourteen years culminated in this moment.

Four years as an Aspirant, training, memorising the Chapter's history, losing himself in the tales of hunts and valour across Elysium IX, the Prideworld.

He had been nine years old when he joined the Blood Trials, the youngest to be accepted. He had killed there, killed beasts, killed friends, killed the child he was.

Then ten years as a Scout, the agonies of the surgeries to turn him into a Space Marine, the training under Sido, the crash and the year in the jungle fighting against the Lizardmen, then the most recent events, burning the Beastmen, renewing his faith and fervour against evil.

Finally he had passed through the Jagged Claw. It had been a terror, but he looked to the Emperor and his gene-sire. 'Defiance' had been the wall-name of Rogal Dorn during the Siege of Terra, and D'leh had held that in his mind as the ancient Pain Glove wracked his body and bit into his flesh.

He emerged with the scars common to all Celestial Lions, the mark of his passage, but he emerged a Space Marine.

He did not weep, the terror had proved him a man, and it was not fitting for men to such things. Duty filled him, rage and hate filled him. Aside went the emotions of mortals, the doubt of the candleborn who sought only their own wealth or survival, the sorrow and the fear too. He lived for a higher power now, and that power commanded that he kill.

"You are Battle Brothers, but more than this, you are Devastators." Nassor continued, "May your reach be without limit, and your touch without mercy. Fire shall roar from your fingertips, but shall consume you not. May the hide of the Lion protect you as you don it's claws."

"We are the blazing wrath." D'leh replied, his brothers joining his cant, "We bring the Emperor's Light."

The Celestial Lions followed the Codex Astartes, and the sacred text ordained that after Scouts became Battle Brothers they were to join Devastator Squads, two for each Battle Company. They held the heavy weapons of the Chapter, they brought death from afar, and in doing so they learnt steadiness and resolve.

"The people of this world call us 'Zangbeto'." Nassor said, "They call us watchers in the dark, slayers of evil, protectors… You will go forth now and to your duty. Honour your orders, be diligent and valiant in your battle rites, be faithful and true, be the Lion that protects the world of Men."

"As the Emperor protects us." the cant replied.

Nassor dismissed them and they turned to the Sergeant.

Though perhaps somehow D'leh had hoped to be posted to someone else, Sido was there before them, rotating out of the 10th Company and to the 2nd while another Sergeant replaced him to train more Scouts. The man was as harsh as ever, but over time D'leh had almost come to look to him as a father.

"We go to Norsca."

The order electrified them as if one of the Metallica Corpuscarii had laid their hands upon their shoulders and D'leh looked to the others, each with the excitement of a new mission in their eyes.

"We go into a nest of mutants and daemons. Guard your souls well." Sido continued, and D'leh knew all too well what he was talking about.

Several Chaplains and other officers, along with their guards, had gone to the northern land to extract a tithe, and rumour had it that the tithe had proved far more bountiful than anyone had imagined. D'leh knew several hundred Aspirants had already been returned to Atakora, the Lions' new Fortress-Monastery, though D'leh didn't know what was being done with them as certainly it was unusual to even have that many. In his own tithing, though voluntary, there had been only eighty children of which D'leh himself was now the only survivor.

"Of all the enemies we face, Chaos is the truest, the most base, the most dangerous." Sido spoke, leading them through the ruin of the Serenkai, "Chaos breaks men's souls, Chaos brings the pestilence of daemons, every time we march from our fortresses we march to face down Chaos and banish it. The Ork is wily and brutal, the Eldar perfidious, yet the Xenos does not corrupt as Chaos does. The Heretic too is but a symptom and often a pawn of the Dark Gods, yet with faith, all things are possible."

They entered one of the Armoury-Shrines across the Battle Barge and Sido bade each of them see to their wargear as Servitors and Techpriests came forward.

Sacred incense burned upright in pots around the shrine, and one Servitor bore the rods as it worked in an atrophied hand. The ventilation of the ship hummed and whirred as D'leh stood, the connectors of the Black Carapace under his skin ready. He stepped into the sabatons of his Power Armour for the first time., the lights of the Armoury Sensorium scanned over him, automated arms wrenching his own apart.

The inner plate slotted into him, as if a blade piercing his belly, but then the feeling was gone, the phantom haptic feedback of the advanced technology echoing through his mind.

Vambraces, greaves, his breast and backplates, the Servitors held them fast as Artisan-Serfs worked, their tools whirring as they sealed him into his Armour under the watchful eye of the senior Techpriest. Each plate was like an embrace, and then the powerpack came, the might of a plasma reactor filling his limbs with strength.

With the armour of the Astartes he was more than man, more than mere transhuman, he was a god of battle, with the strength of twenty men or more, able to turn a tank over or vault a chasm, even to survive a fall into a planet's atmosphere from orbit.

"Brother Arif," a Servitor chimed, "Take you this Heavy Bolter, and bear it well." and another Servitor gave over the massive weapon.

Arif had proved an able hand with such deathdealers, and the mechanised chime of the Servitor's voice simply confirmed his status, worthy of recognition by the Company's leadership.

"Brother Kassim." the Servitor said next, and Kassim received a missile launcher with the same benediction.

Others were simply given bolters, but the Techmarine himself approached D'leh as he knelt, the autosenses of his armour telling him all manner of things about his environment only using the vibrations of the deckplate.

The Techmarine came to a stop before D'leh, his ceremonial robes covering his Artificer Armour like a massive statue, and he spoke, timbred voice rasping from his vox-caster, "Look to your battle gear and it will protect you."

"We guard it with our lives." D'leh replied along with the others.

"As your armour guards your life."

"As it has my fallen brethren."

"Honour the craft of death."

"We serve only the Emperor."

"Honour the battle gear of the dead."

"We ask only to serve. "

The Techpriest apprised him for a long moment, then from his robes produced a glowing plasma weapon. The power cell and the accumulator coils shone in the varied light of the Armoury-Shrine, and D'leh saw the maw of the gun was formed as a beast's roaring mouth.

"This Plasma Gun was forged by my brother of the Emperor's Spears, the War-Priest Ducarius." The Techmarine said, "It was given to our Chapter as a gift. Wield it now to strike down the Emperor's foes."

"The Emperor Protects." was all D'leh could muster in response.

As he replied to the Techmarine, the newly ordained Battle Brother found his attention drawn to a particular plate of armour. There was new paintwork on his right knee, plain coverings and the absence of the Manticora Bestia Fidelitas, a sigil which represents the unity of the three Chapters of the Adeptus Vaelarii. Once, D'leh knew, the Celestial Lions had guarded Elara's Veil, and he absently wondered what had happened to the region once the Chapter had left. The precise reasons and specifics of the departure had never been told to him, and indeed, it was not spoken of openly.

No matter, war called.

They swiftly boarded the Thunderhawk and it roared through the atmosphere, the former Scouts reciting their litanies. Over the years Sergeant Sido had continued to encourage D'leh in his prayers, and the rest of the Scouts had followed his example. All the squad now wore amulets made in the fashion of a rosarius. Not true ones, only the Chaplains possessed such relics, but simply minor ones, idols of gold and steel.

"Holy Emperor." the Scout addressed his god, "May the wings of the Aquila surround me, protect me." and his fingers turned over the beads of his amulet, wrapping it around the handle of his plasma gun and connecting it to his wrist in the manner of the Black Templars, who went into battle with their weapons chained to their limbs.

"25 kilometres to landing." the vox of the Techmarine pilot reported.

"Ready yourselves." Sido ordered.

The distance passed in what seemed like an instant, D'leh opened his eyes and saw the churned and muddy ground as the landing ramp opened. The mag-locks released and fire flooded his veins as D'leh charged our, plasma gun brandished alongside his Battle Brothers' own weapons to secure the landing site.

xxxxx

It began quietly at first. Rumors and gossip of little consequence spread through the province.

There were tales of beasts and lions other such curious things, but in truth, this was not unusual given the presence of the Forest of Shadows. Many a Beastherd had come from that benighted place and as such, the Order of the Silver Hammer did not bestir itself overmuch.

Reports arrived at the desks of the Witch Hunters, but they were swiftly buried by greater concerns. The Vampire Wars still raged, and necromancers, vampires, and all manner of other horrors had been coming up from the south in years past, occupying the time of the Templars far more seriously.

Nevertheless, eventually the reports reached the right people. A provincial official sent a letter to a regional lord, a tax collector cited unusual events and persons unknown about in Ostland, or a knight bachelor readying for war had to change direction and turn to this strange new foe.

And what a strange foe it was!

Beastmen were relatively predictable, indeed the effects of Chaos, and more recently, the Von Carsteins, were well known by now by most learned people in the Empire, yet still the reports came.

Golden men had arrived from the sky, riding a comet down out of the clouds one night!

They were lions, and could tear a mob of Greenskins apart with only their claws and teeth!

No, they were men truly, yet of such a size as to be unbelievable, and with a martial skill to match it.

There was one, no a hundred of them, golden banners bearing a lion or a star device flying proudly!

No, in fact they were simply several capable and wealthy captains come up from the south, Sollanders, and nothing to be concerned with…

And on it went.

All these reports began to be poured over by the Templars of Wolfenburg, and the more learned of their Order studied the papers carefully. From what they could discern, three very large, very skilled men, had appeared at some point in the past few years, emerging in a remote region of the province, and had proceeded to root out several encampments of various evils that had been previously unknown. The reports further stated that they led a force of a little under a thousand soldiers, like them bearing lion-star sigils.

While the Empire's and the Order's information networks were certainly not the finest, especially in the borders or in regions like Ostland, this was still an unusual event, and it bore investigation. Enquires were sent and responses received, queries were raised in the Temple-Houses of each province, asking whether anyone knew of puissant men bearing such banners.

None could be found.

The Order looked further afield. Certainly a man might have been missed and acquired martial skill in some other land and journeyed to the Empire for reasons of his own, but three such men seemed unusual. One theory posited that the men were Cathayans who'd made the journey along the trade routes through World's Edge Mountains. It was unlikely, but not impossible, but Wolfenburg's scholars concentrated on more plausible explanations, going over older reports of the battles of the Vampire Wars. Certainly any such powerful and skilful warrior must have found employment in such conflict? It had touched most of the Empire after all.

But no, once again, even when questioning veterans and lords, none could recall such individuals.

Frustration grew within the Order and eventually the Lord Lector of Wolfenburg decided to set out with his guards to investigate the matter himself.

The journey was rapid, the party chosen for speed as much as valour, and the assaults of mutants and Beastmen along the road were swiftly despatched. From Wolfenburg they rode, through Kurst, Levudaldorf, Vandengart, and finally to Grenzburg on the border of Kislev itself.

It was a quiet town, cold and unfriendly, half the population either Ungols or Gospodar, the other half the men of Ostland, who generally scorned Sigmar.

Nevertheless, the Lector was received with honour by the Mayor, and the two dined together.

"I know of who you seek." the Mayor reported, "They are to the south, they have been doing something to the barrows of the ancient kings in the hills, though I know not what. They stay close enough to the border that they could flee into Kislev if they needed to."

And while the Lector had wide ranging authority, he could not order Ostlanders to violate the borders of that nation. "I do not mean to fight them." the Lector replied, "Why do you suggest such?"

The Mayor did not splutter or cry aloud, merely raised his eyebrows and took a sip of the kvas before him, "They refuse all orders, lawful or otherwise. Baron Kurlman was killed riding against them, and all his force, they insulted him, or so it's said."

The Lector frowned, "News of this did not come to Wolfenburg! The Baron was killed by Greenskins!"

Had the Lions somehow subverted their communications?

The Lector thought for a moment. Kurlman was a boorish fellow, or was, the Lector supposed, but he had several hundred horsemen and a good thousand infantry to call on, him being one of the marcher lords of Ostland and the guardians of the eastern border. Certainly Kurlman wouldn't have tolerated any free company of the size the Lions commanded, he would have tried to bring them to heel…

In the morning they rode out again. South they went, through Brizban and into the Selonian Hills.

They rode with swords drawn and pistols out, reins held at the ready. The Lector carried his hammer at the ready and all the party kept alert as they travelled.

Yet, no attack came.

The Selonian Hills weren't the Forest of Shadows, the Black Pit, or any other notably lair of evil, but evils were certainly known there. It was a border region and various creatures came in from Kislev which the Boyars had no desire to contest, but equally the Empire had no particular interest in overly securing the region. It lay on no major trade routes, no significant industry or important locations were located there and goblins especially were well known in the hills, frequently raiding towns and villages around, sometimes even making rafts and travelling over the Talabec into the southern regions.

But despite all this, despite the long history of threats in the area, the Lector saw nothing. No animals save crows and corpsefeeders, no goblins, Beastmen or anything else of that sort, just silence and stillness as the party wove its way through the hills.

And then suddenly, the scent of smoke, the sound of civilisation.

An army camp appear before them suddenly as they came around a hill.
The first thing that struck the Lector, his long years of warfare and experience directing his eyes as needed, was the organisation and discipline of the site. The camp was laid out in a rough square, following the terrain in places and going over it in others, with a palisade wall and an ankle-breaking ditch before the palisade. Wooden huts were within the wall, also laid out neatly in squares, while smoke billowed from a smithy at one end.

"Have you seen it's like, Sir Kaslain?" The Lector asked his companion, "Or you Eben?"

"I have not, my lord." replied Kaslain.

It worried the Lector, the knight was a veteran of the Vampire Wars, he had fought at the Battle of Four Armies outside Middenheim in 2100, and he saw Eben shaking his head as well.

While the men of the Empire certainly had adopted such formations in the past, the Lector knew no such camp had been seen in at least a century. As the Age of Three Emperors went on without conclusion, the armies of the Empire grew further and further from the standards they'd previously held. Knights, not infantry, most frequently were the deciding factor in warfare, and it was rare to see State Troops so disciplined in their organisation.

That was assuming these were State Troops at all, the Lector thought. For all he knew they could have fallen from the sky along with the Lionmen themselves!

"Who's paying them all?" Eben asked.

That was a good point actually… Supposedly there were a thousand men below and from the size of the camp the Lector could believe that, but unlike knights who owed a certain number of days service to their lords, professional soldiers fought for pay. Had someone smuggled a company of mercenaries to the Selonian Hills? To what purpose? Any such company would certainly have found employment in the Empire's armies during the current crisis, indeed, the Lector had only a few days prior seen a letter from the Count of Stirland asking to buy the contracts of any mercenary bands employed in other provinces.

The Lector set his hammer back on its ring at his belt and pointed, "Look there, we are discovered, let us go down to meet them."

Indeed, trumpets had sounded and the camp spurred to life as the party descended the hill, splashing through a small brook, icy water flicking up from their horses' hooves, the Lector flinching slightly when a drop landed on his neck.

They approached, and the gates of the encampment opened to admit them, a man in priestly robes waiting within.

The man was slight, he had the shaven head of a Sigmarite, but bore no weapon, so he was certainly not a Warrior Priest or a Templar.

"And who are you?" the Lector barked out as soon as his party gained the threshold. It had been discussed on the way but it did not seem likely that they would be killed out of hand, and the Lector therefore decided to adopt a more aggressive stance.

The words clearly had their intended effect and the priest looked surprised before collecting himself. He made the sign of the hammer and bowed, "Lord Lector, noble knights," he addressed the party, "You are expected, and I have been commanded to convey you to the Astartes."

"And who are they?"

"Our masters."

The Lector exaggerated a sneer, "You have no master but Sigmar. But coward though you may be, take us where you will."

It was a short journey to the centre of the camp but the Lector used the time well, raking the priest vigorously to get all the information he could as soon as possible, and learning that the priest had come with the Baron's army, only to be captured, and subsequently released. He spoke in glowing terms of the 'Astartes', and the Lector parsed the stories with the scepticism of his Order.

"There's no music here." Sir Kaslain said, directing his mount closer to the Lector's, "Nor women. It's unnatural for an army."

The Lector nodded, he had noticed it too.

At last they came to a large square before a wooden hall. It was rude in the extreme, without decoration save for a crude carving of an eagle above the door, but the Lector's eyes were drawn to three men who stood outside.

The first and most obvious thing was that they were enormous, seven of eight feet at least.

The second was their massiveness, not only were they tall, but they were broad too, immensely muscled and built in the manner of adherents of the Blood God, their necks, arms, and calves bulging. Even their faces were enormous, their jaws strong and their brows clear. It was like looking at a man the size of an ogre, beautiful yet horrifying to see such familiar shapes, indeed, such handsome faces, spread over such a large canvas.

The third thing was their garb, which was unusual also. The height and the size had been one thing, but each wore yellow cloth of great workmanship and richness. Indeed, when the Lector looked more closely he saw it shone. Could it be cloth-of-gold? It shone in the sunlight, surcoats, actually a sort of short robe, ending in wide sleeves at their elbows and in skirt above their knees. Their feet were bare, and they wore no armour whatsoever.

Their weapons were appropriately sized, once more unnatural in their size, and terrible in their potency. The centre man, the leader certainly, bore a sword the size of one of the Black Guard's greatswords, yet he wore it on his hip as if to wield it in a single hand. The second carried a bow, and on his back was a quiver of arrows large enough to be spears in a normal man's hand, while the third bore a dagger the size of a sword on his hip, and a staff of some black material, obsidian perhaps, topped with an ornament of jade, once again an eagle.

Though the Lector was a battle-hardened man, having combatted the evils of the Empire for decades, to be before these men was to be before the altar of Sigmar in the Cathedral of Nuln, or to be under the gaze of a griffon or dragon. It was terrible indeed, and as he looked into the eyes of the Astartes he could see how they'd imposed such discipline on the men of the camp.

"I am the Lector of Wolfenburg." the same announced, "And I have come to find out who you are and what purpose you have in this province."

The Astartes smiled.

"We are the Celestial Lions, and we have come to rule you."

xxxxx

Black Nassor observed the continent from a bright dome. A throne had been established in the Serenkai's Basilica Astra, the old Sensorium of the Battle Barge, and now the Master of the Watch sat in a panopticon, able to rotate each way, even up and down, to observe the workings of the world. Below him were menials and servitors, lexomats and transcriptors. One approached, the scribe-tools which replaced it's mouth darting across a stead stream of parchment that emerged between it's inlaid golden teeth like a monstrous tongue.

Nassor seized the report, glancing over it briefly, issuing an order before turning back to his observation.

On one pict-screen near his left knee he saw the feed from a cyber-eagle perched high in the mountains outside the ship. The feed was indistinct, the transmission poor in the terrain, but he could see hundreds of children below.

They were Norscans, their skin burnt and peeling from the sun of the Southlands, light hair shorn close to their skulls as they marched and fought in mock battles. None was older than twelve, but they all bore the scars of the Blood Trials.

"Your future life shall be a series of trials, one after the other, until you attain the glory that is your due at the side of the Emperor. You shall face the hardest first, so that we know we are not wasting our time." Nassor repeated the words and smiled, he remembered his own trials well, they had been one of the proudest moments in his life

The High Deathspeaker and the Master of Scouts had decided to tithe Norsca after the recommendation of Confessor Hermina and her new Noviates, one of whom was the daughter of a Norscan king. It was perhaps the largest tithe the Lions had ever gathered, far more than they'd expected, the Chapter had found themselves with fifty thousand children, and even after 80% had been excluded for various reasons there were still an incredible number. Nassor himself hadn't seen the assembly but he'd seen the pict-captures.

Vularakh had tested them well though, a death-march across a glacier in a blizzard, a mass battle without weapons, hunts against bears other beasts in the Norscan mountains had killed thousands, with trials of ordeal, starvation, and the tracking of cowards who fled such pursuits whittling the numbers down even more.

At one point a xenoform had wandered into the trial valley, a massive creature, as large as a building, shaggy fur, great horns and tusks, four strange failing limbs waving above it's fanged mouth and it's dozen eyes burning with hate and warp-fire.

Vularakh had ordered the three thousand children, the survivors of the months of trials, to take it down.

They'd thrown boulders down from the hills, the most nimble of them acting as bait, the creature's trunks scooping them up and shovelling them into it's mouth as quickly as it could as it stampeded after them. Others had hurled missiles or tried to climb the beast, consumed by the fire of it's eyes as they trust tiny stone-knapped daggers into it's flesh.

Nassor was sad to have missed it, the battle must have been a magnificent sight.

They'd underestimated the Norscans. In the Imperium almost every world was happy to offer up its children for the honour of a bloodgame, yet the Lions hadn't expected a Feudal World like Mallus to have the infrastructure to even communicate the events of the tithing. It seemed that as soon as they arrived the whole of Norsca had turned to them, whole tribes setting out toward the Bjornling lands, the Norscan sorcerers, their 'shaman', flying in the form of birds and other creatures to spread the word.

In the end they'd gathered more Aspirants than they could even implant or train. A thousand of the Norscans, and a few hundred from the Imperial population around Pharos.

Where first they'd been tested, now they were again, even the most slight imperfection causing hundreds of the children to be dismissed to lesser duties. They were examined in every way, mentally, psychically, physically, genetically, even their family histories scrutinised for traces of mutation or weakness.

Nassor himself selected only those who bore resemblance to the Celestial Lions' Primarch, Rogal Dorn, those whom the gene-picts predicted would grow into an image of the Primarch naturally. Nassor spend days studying the portraits of his genesire, staring into the harsh eyes of the Praetorian, then making his selections. Would the phenotypical similarities give the Aspirants some advantage, or was it mere superstition on the Captain's part?

In the first phase of implantation only a dozen of the children had died, a good result, and now six hundred were being trained across the Chapter. That too was unusual, some years the Lions would be lucky to get a squad of marines, yet with the Emperor's blessing and the exceptional quality of the bloodstock perhaps a whole company could be raised from this tithe?

There were still more Aspirants now than actual Marines, and far too many to train in the traditional manner. Instead, the Chapter had adopted Nassor's suggesiont that they follow the organisation of the Black Templars, another of Dorn's descendants.

First, they'd pushed the numbers in Scout Squads up to 12 for each Sergeant. It was risky but the losses incurred in the implantation process would bring it back down to more manageable numbers soon enough. Then each mature marine was given an attendant Neophyte, expected to fight and die alongside his master. After that 150 still remained, and were dispersed for specialist training where possible, with any boy with experience as a blacksmith or craftsman being sent to the Master of the Forge for education as a Techmarine.

It wasn't ideal, but then few things about their situation were.

In other areas many other things happened. Khotan had supervised the excavation of the cargo bays of the ships, freeing the Chapter's vehicles and heavier equipment finally, while Thalis had been exploring a series of projects to enhance the Chapter's understanding of the genetics of Mallus. Unfortunately the later project largely failed without access to the archeo-tech of the Mechanicus' Genetorium, though apparently the Chief Apothecary had given some proposal for a project to more rapidly mature the zygotes from the Progenoid Glands which allowed the Lions to reinforce their numbers. The Chapter Master would decide whether the project would be pursued, so Nassor paid it little attention.

Lastly, and in endeavours the Captain of the 2nd had been personally involved in, there had been witchery to see to.

It galled him, that he Nassor, who had once been considered for the Chaplaincy, was the one chosen to examine the works of psykers, but he recalled Natohk's words on the matter and kept his silence. The Master of the Watch had looked over the wardings of the Chief Librarian and made all manner of tests, proceeding through the rites and traditions of the Reclusiam, intoning the litanies of purity and salvation as Hath-Horeb did his work. There was no great fire when the hexegrams were set around the Fortress-Monastery, nothing but a rime of frost which crept over the Chief Librarian's armour as he worked, but Nassor felt the touch of the Warp on his soul and his hand tightened over his weapon.

He was glad to be done with it when the Spiritwalker announced the completion of the work, but knew he'd likely be forced into such tasks in future given the severely reduced number of officers in the Chapter.

Comparably he also knew that Nahtok had spoken with the Chapter Master regarding the remnants of the 3rd Company still confined in the depths of the mountain, though he hadn't been informed of the outcome of the discussion. The situation seemed unchanged, the 3rd were still there, alive as far as he knew, but hadn't been returned to service. Once again, Nassor turned his mind from such things…

Outside Atakora, their Fortress-Monastery, the mortals had also been busy. The Mechanicus had started the construction of a Promethium refinery in the mangrove swamps of the eastern coast, while the Ministorum had expanded, recruiting both Arabyans and Chapter-Serfs to fill new missions, most of them made up of preachers, but others with artisans or skilled mortals who could assist the people of Araby in their work.

With it's new reach, and with the surveillance network Nassor was slowly building among the nobles of Araby, the Master of the Watch had uncovered a number of concerning issues. In near decade the Chapter had been present on Mallus, their actions had severely disrupted the region, from the initial wars and conquest of the various regions of Araby, to the subsequent effects. Many of the events were quite predictable, the former King of Medes, Aghiles, had been driven out of his territory after the Chapter arrived, but had retreated north, rapidly acquiring more power and rallying the cities of Araby against the Imperials. While the Median treasury had been seized and the transition limited to a short violent period, the northern regions had suffered ruinous taxation to purchase mercenaries from across the Southern Realms of the Old World, with the men of Al-Haikk, Fyus, and other cities being pressed into service, the offers of gold an additional persuasion. Aghilies' army had been destroyed in a single night, but now a famine had spread through the northern provinces, and the removal of so many fighters had allowed banditry to grow, and many xenoforms to come down out of the mountains to prey on the lightly defended villages. 'Magic', or rather, the energy of the warp, had swelled over the last few years like a waxing moon and the desert sands had been stirred to fury, covering a swathe of villages and trebling the rates of mutation across Araby, while the flight of the Djinncallers to their fastness in the Sorcerers' Isles had made all the previous matters worse, with the witches no longer able to serve in their various functions among the peoples of the continent.

In truth, Black Nassor felt little reason to be alarmed. What was a griffon before a heavy bolter? Or a pack of mutants before even the most inexperienced of battle-brothers? The famines and magics were more difficult for the marines to deal with, but they remained minor matters to the lords of the Celestial Lions.

What to do would be left to the Chapter Master in the end, but the Astartes' rule over their lands was often a matter of individual preference or cultural traditions. The Blood Angels of Baal kept their homeworld in a state of horror, rad-storms scorching its surface and only the strongest surviving the dual trials of the planet and the Aspirant Tests, but the Ultramarines by comparison ruled over a well-ordered paradise.

As for the Celestial Lions, their former homeworld had been one of vast plains and forests filled with beasts. By tradition, the Pridelords had maintained their planet with intentionally small settlements, confined to particular fortified cities. The technology of the world had been scarce, enough to hold off the beasts but never enough for the people of the planet to feel secure. Hunting had been the primary occupation of many, and a culture of trophy taking was encouraged, in turn leading to fine bloodstock, well accustomed to the duties they might be called on as Aspirants and eventually Astartes.

Would Amra do the same? Allow Araby to fall into disorder, break the softness of the people to expose the hardness of their culture? The Lions could even assist this process, Nassor was sure that if he planted a melta charge on the supports of Al-Haikk's great aqueduct the people of that city might, over a few generations, be more worthy of selection as Astartes than they were now.

Perhaps he would discuss the idea with Nahotk in their next prayer session.

xxxxx

The Sorcerer's Isles were a small archipelago that stretched off the coast of the Land of the Assassins.

In truth D'leh didn't know whether they were the isles belonging to a particular sorcerer, their so called 'Regent', or whether they were known as the isles of the sorcerers as a collective. It reminded him of the homeworld of the Thousand Sons, the 'Planet of Sorcerers', which was truly both a planet populated by psykers, but also ruled by one.

The Assault Marine put his hand through a man's chest and ripped out his heart almost lazily.

The Isles were separated from the rest of Araby by the Strait of Sharks, and as D'leh flung the corpse of his foe into the water he could already see sleek grey shapes around the ship.

There were four islands, one for each of the elemental forces which the sorcerers worshipped.

Actually D'leh wasn't entirely sure if what the Djinncallers did could be called worship, but Sergeant Sido said it was witchery anyway so he didn't especially care, blasting forward with his jump pack screaming. He decapitated one man with his knee as he went by, rocketing over the white-capped waves, slamming into another ship, sweeping up from his landing fisting flying, combat knife cleaving through two men in a single blow.

The islands were under the power of the Regent of the Djinn, otherwise known as the Wizard Caliph, a powerful magician and mystic, said to be many centuries old, and feared by all the people of Araby. Supposedly he settled on the Isles due to ancient ruins of some long lost people, or, as others claim it, elves, those strange abhumans from across the sea. Nevertheless, in the years since his arrival, the Regent had established a palace and many servants, and taught his arts to others.

This was of course unacceptable to the Celestial Lions.

The battle before him didn't occupy much of D'leh's attention, his squad had joined it merely to gain experience of naval combat, and at Sido's order they donned jump packs and flew into battle. The Assault Marine found his thoughts wandering to the more recent events. Sido would have scolded him if D'leh had admitted such a lapse, but the foe before him was simply pathetic.

Another ship died, blood on his blade, a hundred men ripped apart.

Well, some had dived over the side of the ship into the Strait of Sharks. D'leh might not have ripped them apart personally but the sharks would do that just fine.

He took to the skies again, soaring high, looking for his next target.

From this altitude the sounds of battle died away, the scene below him was almost peaceful if one ignored the pinkish stain across the waters as his squad murdered the fleet. In the distance he could see the Isles, the smoking mountain of the Fire Island the most visible.

Apparently the Djinncallers were unique among the human populations of the world. As far as D'leh knew, there was no organised teaching of psykers outside the Arabyan School of Sorcerers, where great wizards from all over Araby shared their knowledge and create incredible and powerful magical artefacts.

D'leh scoffed as he tweaked his thrusters, beginning his descent. The primitives of the world termed psykery as 'magic', as if they had rule over it, like stories for children. They'd had briefings from the Librarius, the 'magic' was no more than an unusual warp phenomena, like the strange practices of the Eldar rather than something completely new. Indeed, some Djinncallers summoned daemons of fire or conjured fire directly, exactly as D'leh had seen Librarians do occasionally when utilising the psychic discipline of Pyromancy.

Since the Chapter had arrived on Mallus and taken their first cities in Araby they'd been aware of the Djinncallers. The initial contact had been hostile, as contact with all witches should be, and subsequently the Regent of the Djinn had recalled his servants and fortified his holdings. Where before the Djinncallers had limited themselves to creating mysterious items for trade and favours like magic carpets which mortals could use to fly, now the Regent's witches had turned their works to war.

D'leh knew the Djinncallers had allied with the Assassins of Araby, equipping mutants and heretics with foul weaponry and even violating a squad of Marines with debased sorceries, possessing them and sending them against their brothers.

They hadn't struck again, not yet, nor had they contested the blockade and embargo the Lions had established around the Isles. Fleets like the one D'leh was killing his way through were little more than smugglers, and any more officially sanctioned ships had turned back when commanded to, such as a small force of the Abhuman strain 'Asur' who'd retreated when their flagship had been destroyed by the Chapter's weapons.

D'leh didn't bother landing on the next ship, his trajectory was ballistic, it was enough and he slammed face first through the deck, then another and another, out the bottom of the ship leaving an enormous hole in the vessel. A red mist scattered into the water around him as the viscera of those he'd flown through was washed away by the sea.

D'leh floundered for a moment, kicking out to reorient himself. The great grey sharks circled him as he sank, searching for his next target as the sharks did theirs. He found it, not noticing the black shadow rising from the deep under the battle.

A moment's rush and the Assault Marine roared up and then forward, to all who saw him as if he ran on the wavetops, wings of fire all around him.

His targets was the largest yet, a great purple ship with a hull like a whale's bowhead, four high masts, the livery of Sartosa on it's sails and a prow like a sword.

Yet when D'leh gained the deck he found the mortals already on their knees.

The crew, hundreds of them certainly, had assembled on deck, one finely dressed woman dead and the marks of a struggle up on the quarterdeck. Their captain was dead, betrayed perhaps, and now they knelt, throwing themselves down as D'leh burst through the railing, scattering some primitive artillery piece with a kick and raising his knife.

"Mercy, noble lord!"

D'leh looked down.

And the crew looked up.

The terrible giant stood over them, bloodwater running from his armour onto the deck. His massive sword hideous, his limbs thicker than the masts of the Swordfysh and his heraldry more golden that the vaults of the richest pirates. The Pirate Queen had thought to fight, but there was no fighting the Sons of Heaven.

Saltspite lay dead upon her own deck, and her loyalists were locked below, but would it save them?

"Get up." The giant commanded, his voice booming across the water, "This is my training, how am I to train without resistance?"

The speech was unlike anything the sailors had heard before. It was noble yet grating, toneless like a foreigner's, yet at the same time filled with a hatred none had met before.

"We surrender! Spare us!" another of the sailors cried, and many joined her.

"Please!"

In the clamour none realised that the ship had become unnaturally still, no longer rolling with the waves, as if… held there.

D'leh found himself put off. The battle had been unworthy of anything but the training his Sergeant had commanded, and in truth, the navigation of separate and treacherous terrain around the ships of the pirate fleet had taxed his skills, but what glory was there is ravaging these mortals?

The stench of death was all around him, it came up from the sea, fetid and rotting.

Then one man disappeared over the side in a sinuous flash.

Another rose from his kneeling, hand shaking, pointing behind D'leh into the ocean.

The Marine turned, knife ready.

A tentacle, longer than a thunderhawk, covered in eyes and sucking maws rose out of the water, the abducted sailor screaming in it's grasp, then slammed back down into the sea.

Cries broke out, as more pirates were pulled down, the sailors forgot their surrender and took up swords in terror.

But not against him.

"LEVIATHAN!"

Weapons flailed all around, tentacles reached and grasped, wrapping around anything they could. Bestial screams and cries came from below, squeals like a child, then noises like the billowing of steam form a kettle as the leviathan writhed under them. Great fins churned the water, the dozen spiny maws on the ends of the tentacles chomped down, their suckers drawing men in, shattering their bones with the force and might of a creature which battled daily with the terrors of the far darkness.

But D'leh was there.

With a sweep of his blade he severed a tentacle, with a blow of his fist he sent another reeling, the force of the punch pulping it's flesh, the Astartes stepping over the limp limb as it slithered back over the deck, flopping into the water. One caught him, but his fire scorched the thing as he fired his jump pack, flying up, grasping the ship's centre mast and hurtling like a stone from a sling as he came around and back down, knife out, falling like a meteor onto the creature's body, latched around the Swordfysh's hull. He stabbed down again and again, blade leaving gouges in the unatural flesh.

Then the sea opened, and it had fangs, the great mouth yawning.

D'leh saw ancient malice in the leviathan's hundred eyes, but even as he thought to fly up and away one tentacle swatted him into the creature's hunger.

He swam in brine and bile, the thing's teeth tearing at him.

And his faith shone.

The combat knife flew this way and that, his vox crackled, the runes on his helm lighting with danger and fury, his jump pack damaged as the thing bore him down, down into the depths.

Then a glimmer of light, D'leh found himself forced out, vomited into the sea. He struck stone, bringing himself up. His mind worked quickly, taking in the blackness all around him. He was in the thing's environment, it's home territory, no doubt it thought to crush him here. The pressure sensors in his armour made it clear, more than a mile down, his armour subjected to pressures more than a hundred times that of the surface. He could already feel some of the seams tearing.

There was a darkness within the darkness, a shadow in the oceanic night.

D'leh's hearts pounded, but he breathed slow and steady. His mind grew calm, his focus keen.

"His light is my torch."

The words were resolute, they bounded out into the water, his vox-caster set for external transmission, and like the whales of ancient Terra he could perceive the leviathan as the sound waves of his speech bounced off it, back to him.

"Come beast." The Marine continued, setting his stance, his boots sinking partly into the silt on the ocean floor. "I am steel, I am doom. I am His claw, His Lion."

It answered the challenge. Two spears shot out, bony skewers glancing off his plates as D'leh threw himself aside, his mass such that the water's greater resistance was little to him.

The tentacles grasped at him, many to each limb, threatening to rend him apart, but his knife shot out, a flash of silver in the dim light of his eye pieces.

"He is full!" D'leh's ceramite gauntlet slowly throttled one tentacle, "He contains nations!"

He slammed his fist into the thing, "He sends us forth, our coats burnished!"

The strikes left trails of boiling water, such was their fury, they sent shockwaves through the sea and all the creatures for a mile fled in terror.

"We tear back the veil, we force back the darkness, in His golden name!"

His knife was lost, somewhere in a flailing limb, but his fists sang of his fury, again and again he struck, hard enough to shatter boulders, hard enough to rend iron and steel.

"We bring bright death! We bring the end of ignorance, we bring the truth of Mankind!"

Eyes popped under his assault, agony and rage in each of them under his blows.

"The Heavens!" he slammed his fist into the thing, "Are His!

"The Mountains!" some blasphemous organ burst as he ripped it free, "Are His!"

"The Seas!" The creature howled as he drove both hands into it's body, "Are His!"

"This World, this System, this Galaxy!" and with one mighty heave he tore the thing apart, servos raging, the creature falling in two halves on either side of him.

"Are His!"

D'leh looked down, the hatred of his countenance reflected in the dying eyes of the creature.

"And you are unworthy in His sight."

Three days later, D'leh, Assault Marine of the Celestial Lions, walked out of the sea to the Imperial camp on the Arabyan shore. His armour draining of water as he walked, his jump-pack sparking and shorting, his war-plate dented and scarred.

And over his shoulder he bore the corpse of his foe, dragging it across the sands up the beach by a tentacle. It was a thing larger than by creature the Arabyans had ever seen, yet clearly having met it's match, it's form tortured and brutalised.

D'leh paused before one he recognised, the sailor who had first begged his mercy.

"Mortal." the Golden One addressed him, "Cook this. I have a hunger."

xxxxx

Fire flashed in the night sky above the Sorcerers Isles.

Blooms of red and orange, blue and silver, flames both mundane and mysterious.

One large boom shook the palace of Lashiek and the staff officers rushed to the windows to peer out, the remnants of fire off to the west visible for a second before fading. To the Imperial observers, whether through auspex scopes or transhuman eyes, the fires were too far away to tell what was happening, but in the palace of Lashiek the officers and lords of the Imperium plotted.

Maps and scrolls littered the tables, Missonia Galaxia crypo-serfs acting as translators for Colonel Seleucus' staff. Ten thousand men had marched the coast road from the south, establishing themselves in civilian quarters throughout the city. Artillery batteries had been hauled in pieces over the mountains, more than one beast trying their luck before becoming the next meal for the troops.

The campaign had started as a slow one, relatively speaking. While the Imperium of Mankind had arrived on Mallus almost a decade prior, it had only been four or five years since their presence had been actually known by the people of the planet. Having said that, it wasn't an invasion but a stranding, so it was hardly surprising that operations had been less vigorous.

After situating themselves, the conquest of Araby had commenced at the Great Lion's command, and the 45th Macharia were eager to finally taste battle. Seleucus' men were a joyous lot, for Guardsmen at least, and for almost a year they'd been training with the confiscated corsair fleet of Lashiek. As a rule the Guard never deployed to aquatic worlds, their way of battle was simply too different from what would be needed in such a theatre, and specialised regiments were called up instead, but now the 45th found themselves rowing about, sailing to and fro, conducting landings and artillery barrages from aboard ships and all manner of unusual activities.

They were set sail for the Sorcerers' Isles, establish themselves following an initial strike by the Astartes, then proceed between the islands in conquest.

To the sons of Macharius, the reasons for the conflict didn't matter. Their enemy were traitors who denied the Emperor and consorted with mutants. A half-hearted demand for surrender had been issued and as usual, the sorcerer-heretics hadn't accepted.

For a year they'd been blighted by flights of Thunderhawks, and in turn the Sorcerers had covered the lands with fog and mist, obscuring the bombing runs from the attempted precise strikes to a broad area bombardment, flattening several small towns and forcing the people of the Isles to scurry back to their larger settlements, one on each of the islands. The effectiveness of the bombardment was somewhat suspect, and the skirmishes were made worse by the losses the Imperial air assets took.

The 45th hadn't ever encountered daemons till they met the 'Djinn', the elemental creatures the sorcerers commanded, but their priests spurred them into fervour and fury when the first reports came in of beings of fire and tempest dueling with the bombers.

"Better to die in ignorance, than to burn in eternal fire." Seleucus' own confessor had remarked, shaking his head and checking the sight of his bolt pistol.

Such insubstantial beings weren't invulnerable, but they were strong all the same, a dozen aircraft having been lost during the bombardment phase of the operation. They were heavy losses, especially for the stranded Imperium-on-Mallus, but they would be borne all the same, just as the casualties the 45th knew they'd take would also be weathered.

The Astartes, the tip of the spear, flew metres above the waves under cover of night, seizing one island. They took losses, several squads, but they broke the power of the heretics. Fearing the possibility of the Djincallers retaining their mastery over their water-bound spirits, the Chief Librarian shattered the controlling mechanisms.

It worked, perhaps too well.

Daemons raged in each wave. Most were small, but all through the crossings the Imperial Guard were ordered to recite their prayers and fire on any patch of water that seemed suspicious to them.

Truly, the Emperor spoke his vengeance with many voices.

From the so-called 'Water Island' the Guard moved onto the Earth Island. The newly created Stormtrooper companies took horrific losses, valiantly slagging golems of rock and stone with their hotshot lasguns and plasma weapons, they called in artillery on their own positions, used missiles and grenades , their laughing helms crushed and pulped. Thousands died, and the new stormtroopers were largely wiped out, but they'd done their job, and the Earthcallers were taken and butchered.

Some tried to surrender but the 45th saw through their treachery. Indeed, even if they'd been willing to accept it the casualties they'd taken had hardened their hearts and the Chaplains of the Celestial Lions even praised them for it, inciting them to massacre any prisoners lest they be overcome by the Dark Powers with which the Djinncallers had formed their pacts. The praise and attention made the battered troopers stand a little straighter, and their laughing helms sat a little straighter as they bayonetted the prisoners.

The Pharosian Guard, the fleet's former voidsmen, had the honour of the Air Island. They fared less well against the unchained sea-daemons, and several of the transported floundered, men being swept down, their void-suits ripped apart by their enemies.

The Pharosian Guard were a dour lot, unused to being outside the ships they'd grown up on, but they were well trained, and they went forward valiantly. Once again the lasguns scorred hits over the Air Djinn, which had been depleted by the battles above. Instead they met dervishes with whistling blades, lesser sorcerers, but sorcerers nevertheless. The dervishes leapt with light steps, running on walls and ceilings, the weaponsfire of the Guards appearing to pass through them, and it was with great losses that they were taken down.

The final island no doubt had a name, but the Imperials had no desire to learn it. To them it was the Fire Island, Saxum Daemonium. A volcano murmured in the distance, and the last attack was made with the full Imperial force. The Astarted went forward, the Guard behind them. The remnants of the 45th took the position of honour among the mortals, and the Macharians ran behind the Space Marines' tanks, close on their heel, blasting into the city, a dozen Guardsmen for each.

The Marines' bolters left trails of green fire with each round, the mass-reactive shots bringing a true death to the blazing spirits which protected the Wizard Caliph. While blackpowder wasn't unknown to Araby, and therefore the Djinncallers, never had the daemons faced the Godwyn-patterns, the howl of Humanity's victory across the stars. The grains of Warpstone in each round crashed against creatures of fire and rock, monstrous lava-things, splattering the Astartes' armour with their burning blood. In soot and fume they went, on and on through the streets, house by house, all the people of the Isles meeting them with sword and spear. A few Guardsmen were felled but the traitors and their conjurings died.

"Take the Palace!" came the vox-boom of the Chapter Master, and his sword crackled with his wrath as he held it aloft.

Assault Marines roared up and over the walls, blasting the defenders apart with their pistols, then laying all about them with their chainswords. Devastators stepped up, blasting towers and fortifications away, and Tactical Marines fell in behind the Ancient Thufar, saluting him with their weapons as the Dreadnought smashed the palace gates, stoving in the doors of the Wizard Caliph.

A hundred marines swarmed through the breach and into the maze of halls and corridors. Those that remained were cut down and flamers lit the darkness for moments before their wielders moved on. The Librarius strode in force, Hath-Horeb striking down daemons with a sword of glowing green crystal, his scholar-brothers beside him, reels of psychic lightning smashing aside the petty magics of the Djinncallers.

"Come swiftly." the Chief Librarian ordered, "There is some power building further ahead!"

Elements from half a dozen squads assembled quickly in the Spiritwalker's wake, charging through the halls at a run.

They passed through the Palace quickly, out to a terrace that looked out across the sea. Beyond, the Isles were aflame, the city smoking beyond the ruined walls, but closer a ship was moored, not in water, but in air!

A moment passed, the Astartes meeting another party fleeing the palace, both forces raising weapons but hesitating to strike.

There were a dozen or more enormous figures, as tall as an Astartes, as broad too, yet physically far different, each bearing a great gut and covered in the Arabyan costume, their rich clothes of silk and golden thread with silver chains running from the tips of their pointed boots to their knees. The Ogres bore great curved swords, their beady eyes hungry, their grins menacing.

Behind the abhumans a dozen robed men paused as they turned to the Astartes. They waved their hands, chanted their rituals, but Hath-Horeb raised his staff and with a word ripped the Winds of Magic from their grasp. They flinched as one, but their leader stood, an ancient man leaning on a cane of ivory and ebony.

"Swiftly Dhahab, the foe are here!" the hunched man commanded with a cry, one gnarled hand making a clawing gesture toward the Astartes, Hath-Horeb wincing under the unseen strike, his green sword glowing.

"Go Master! I will hold them!" replied another, drawing a sword which blazed with light in one hand, and casting down a dozen crystals before him with the other.

Like the dragon's teeth of ancient Terra the crystals bloomed and flowers, rushing up as tall as a man. The Astartes' bolters boomed, but the crystals seemed to only absorb the shots, and from within the crystals came weapons fire that cut down half a dozen Marines, with the others darting for cover in the ornamental gardens and stonework of the terrace.

The Librarius stood firm, shields of psychic power raised before them, and the battle blazed on while the Djinncallers fled. The crystals returned every shot their took with malicious interest, ghostly figures in power armour almost visible within, and when the Marines closed to make use of their swords the crystals too drew weapons and the golden lions duelled with ghosts, the crystal shards penetrating their armour as if the splinter weaponry of the perfidious Eldar.

The ogres too joined the battle, flanking the Imperial force, their weapons unnaturally sharp, their skill magnificent.

Hath-Horeb went forward in wrath. His own sword was of crystal, the green evil of Burning Stone leaving trails of fire in the air as he duelled with the flame-sworded Dhahab, the man's gilded skin shining in the fire of their blades. A magnus he may have been, but he was only mortal, and Hath-Horeb took his head before he turned to the crystals, striking down the ghosts with mighty blows, his brothers turning their psykery to the ogres, casting them with invisible force from the heights of the terrace or closing in to throw fire and lightning, which even with their ferocious speed, the ogres couldn't dodge.

But even as Dhahab's head rolled between the flowers, Hath-Horeb grimaced. The magnus' work was done, his master had escaped aboard the flying ship, and only a faint trail could be seen through the Librairan's witchsight, the ship invisible to the pilots of the pursuing voidcraft.

Araby was taken, all resistance crushed.

But then why did Hath-Horeb see storm clouds gathering on the horizon?

xxxxx

"Fight now my brothers! Fight not for your own lands, but for Araby - and the Gods!"

It was an acceptable conclusion to an acceptable speech. But Aghilies was tired. He had been tired for years, but there was little time to rest.

The with a beautiful cry, the cavalry wheeled and charged down the dunes out to a wide rocky plain, the marker of the ancient lands of Nehekara.

The King watched the last remnants of his army as the sentinels of the sands sprang up. He knew they would, it was the plan after all.

"We must go, my lord." one of his retinue said, "The day grows long and our time short."

"I know that well enough." Aghilies snapped, but regretted it the instant he'd said it, he sighed. "Peace, brother. Valiant men die today, there must be someone to honour their sacrifice."

There were skeletal riders top steeds of bronze and stone, there were the serpents themselves, their fangs blazing with a wytchlight, there were great scorpions and jackals leaping from the sands, pincers and jaws snapping as Aghilies' army died to aid their lord.

The King of Medes sighed, and kicked his spurs, following the desert guides through hidden gullies and trails, making their way further south.

The sounds of the battle faded away as the sand steeds ate up the miles. Aghilies did not weep, he was a man of stone.

But stone could crack.

The monoliths were next. They rose, great kings with staves and rods, barring the way. But the King's party went unmolested as they passed between the statues' shadows, the sacrifice had done its work.

While Nehekhara was a mysterious realm, it was not immune to scrutiny, and Aghilies and long ago resolved to learn as much about it as he could. He knew what sizes of forces provoked what sorts of responses, what guardians would meet them, what range the guardians would protect and what distance they would travel once awakened.

The sacrifice of thousands had allowed a party of twenty to slip by, and they rode deeper into the Land of the Dead.

Night fell, the sand steeds ran with unnatural grace and speed, empowered by the pacts Aghilies had made with the Djinncallers. They had not joined the King's plan, preferring to flee with their master across the sea, but the Regent had still lent slaves and servants to the effort all the same.

A black shape loomed in the night, an evil within a land of evil, the fortress of the Unnamed One, and Aghilies ordered his party to turn their faces away.

The sand steeds made a week's journey into a day's, a full day, dawn to dawn, and with each step Aghilies' heart grew heavier. He knew he would die on this journey, but his dignity demanded it.

He had not been a good man, the ride gave time for reflection, and when Aghilies thought back to his fifty years, he could hardly say that he had made the world better. He had certainly claimed to do good, he had assumed the kingship of Medes following a period of anarchy, he had ruled well enough, though he had violated many customs in his rule. Had the Gods then sent this plague to torment him and his kingdom as a punishment for his lack of piety?

In truth, having seen and commanded the works of the Djinncallers, Aghilies didn't believe in the supernatural. Certainly there were powers in the world, but even the Unnamed One had once been a man, had once lived, ate, slept, killed, like a man. Neither the ancient pantheon of Nehekhara, nor the more modern take on the religion, had any hold over his mind.

Ultimately his own piety was irrelevant. The Golden Ones had come. Aghilies had fled Medes because he recognised that he couldn't fight even their servants, but he had observed them for years, even assuming the Kingship of the northern cities by acclamation due to the threat the Golden One posed to all Araby. His information had gone to the Regent of the Djinn and the ancient sage had made the deaths of many of the Star-men, but would it be enough? He had no true idea of their numbers, and he knew the Golden Ones had taken children from the cities of Medes to replenish themselves.

No, the army he had gathered in the north had been an option. One that swiftly proved unsuitable, and so it became a distraction. The mercenaries and infantry raised from the cities of the north had died, died poorly in some cases, but Aghilies and his cavalry escaped, and they too had died, but they'd done their work.

For of course there was only one force among all the powers of the continent who might oppose the Golden Ones. The Djinncallers had refused, strong in their fastness but weak beyond the isles, the Alfiran had demurred, turning to thievery and assassinations in force, and the Al Saurim hadn't moved from their city either. It was left to Aghilies to see to the matter.

Djinn of air and shadow carried them over the walls of Khemri, daemons of myriad shapes were sent forth as distractions to the guards of the Crowned City, and Aghilies retinue fell one by one in service of their lord.

In the end it was only him. His son died in his arms at the steps of the great pyramid, yet still, Aghilies was a man of stone and winter.

The Ushabti, those beast-headed watchers, twice his height, their bronze blades sharps as when they were first forged, stood and stared as Aghilies took the steps of the palace.

"I am the King of Medes! I come, by the light of the Celestial Lord, to take council with my brother!" he proclaimed, "You shall not assault me!"

The formula had taken months to research, but the ancient words of the city send the Ushabti reeling, the guardians did their work, and the person of the dignitary was sacred still, even when Nehekhara had lay dead and buried.

The step were long, but the King had nothing left now, nothing but his duty.

The court was macabre. There were tables piled with sand instead of food, goblets overflowing with it, jewels dotted about as if the scraps a feast. There were statues, or men like statues. Their eyes glowed with a devil's fire, harsh and cruel.

Aghilies came to kneel before the throne. He'd always had an interest in history, and he might have looked in wonder on another day.

The words came easily, he'd long memorised them, ready for this day. The ancient tongue of Nehekhara spilled from his tongue in the old courtesies, and he was acknowledge, but remained kneeling. Then came his story, the events of the past decade, the triumphs and perils.

"The Golden Ones claim their allegiance to the Lord of All, and to his Celestial household." Aghilies pronounced, "They know not the barest of rituals, not the respect of ages due to my lord's honour. None of the Faithful can stand against them, for their weapons are great and terrible. The Black Soil bleeds, the hawks cry and the lions go hungry as the beasts of the plains decrease. They would rule over all, subjugate all, they would have all serve them…"

Then he waited. Waited for his judgement. Did he wait an hour or a day? He knew not, but there was nothing else to be done, and the man of stone sat like the statues of the court.

Then the vision on the throne moved. The gold of his broaches and decorations rippled, the sands of the chamber shifted, his great blade shimmered in the hands of his swordbearer.

"SETTRA DOES NOT SERVE."

The fire in the King of King's eyes blazed like the sun.

"HE RULES."

xxxxx

+++ Heretic force moving south through Nehekharan desert. Sorcerous storm covering advance. Enemy force led by Settra, ancient king, and accompanied by numerous blasphemous constructs and extensive soldiery. Reports of titans and warp-beasts. Multiple settlements destroyed, refugees fleeing to coast. Have imposed martial law on El-Kalabad but situation in other locations unknown. Unrest and disorder in all places, situation of Missionia hazardous. Settra regarded as blessed by local superstitions, additionally cultural hero. Aghilies, former King of Medes, reported to be allied with Settra. Request reinforcements. Request orders. Astropathic communication unreliable, this is third message sent, previous failed, daemonic incursions banished. Request reinforcements. Request orders. +++

The astropathic plea keened through the Immaterium, the message's spiralling pattern striking each of the still living psykers in Pharos first, then a day later spiralling further to be heard in the halls of Atakora, deep within the fastness of Karak Zorn.

Within hours the leadership of the Imperium-on-Mallus had been gathered. Amra studied the map in his Strategium, angry red hololiths surging across the continent as atmospheric analyses and psychic divination built up the threat.

Hath-Horeb's face was grave, "I had felt the currents of the Warp stirring, waxing strong these past few years. I did not know Aghilies possessed the means of awakening these… Tomb Kings."

The Chapter had been aware of the threat for several years, but to hear the Arabyans speak of it, the Tomb Kings of ancient Nehekhara were long dead, trapped in some sort of sorcery which animated their corpses. They would occasionally sally forth to punish those that disturbed their rest, but the Chapter hadn't bothered them, and in truth their existence had slipped from Amra's mind in his concentration on the campaigns across the Southlands and against the Djinncallers.

"It matters little, our war is in the present." Tuthmes Skytalon said dismissively, "How many do we have to fight? Many of the Imperial Guard are still on the Sorcerers Isles recovering, might we bring them here swiftly enough to mount a defence? I do not have the fuel to take them by air, but perhaps by sea?"

"I would not chance a crossing by water with this storm." Hath-Horeb said, "They would face daemons in the water again, only stronger. Whatever energy animates the Tomb Kings is spreading through the sandstorm-"

Amra examined the map as the Chief Librarian spoke. Once again the peculiarities of Mallus caught them off guard. If he were on another world the Chapter Master would have described it as a warp storm, a phenomena that would often scourge whatever unfortunate world it covered clean, leaving only the blasphemies of Chaos to inhabit it, but here on Mallus it was different. The 'magical' sandstorm spiralled out, growing half a mile in the last day alone, covering another few hundred miles of the outskirts of Nehekhara's great desert in sand, engulfing the small towns and trading posts on the border of the Land of the Dead.

"Settra, or Aghilies, whichever of them is the master of the other, march on El-Kalabad, they know we must respond if we wish to keep Araby." Amra spoke into the discussions of his officers.

It was a fine strategy. The Imperium had claimed to have been sent by the Arabyan pantheon, which itself descended from the Nehekharan one. El-Kalabad was the Arabyan city with the greatest Imperial prescence, one of the primary sites of the conversion of the Arabyan people, and of the export of Imperial faith and goods. If Settra was allowed to take it the victory would shatter the Imperium's hold of Mallus. No lord who failed to defend his people could be followed, and Amra was certain this was exactly what Settra intended.

"Yet we cannot." Khotan replied, "It is as Tuthmes says, we exhausted our fuel stores in the Isles campaign and I would caution against flying into that storm. It would be like sending fighters into the Eye of Terror… I maintain a limited reserve but if we use it to transport mortals from place to place we'll have none for any further response. I would keep what we have. Why defend Araby anyway? If this Settra wants it as a desert I say we let him. Whatever army he has cannot hope to breach the walls of Pharos, not with my Techmarines manning the fleet's guns. Let his sorcerous titans face the macrocannons!"

"Tarry a moment, brother." Hath-Horeb said, "Let us first decide our response to the current situation before thinking to fall back. Should Araby be defended? I say yes. We have spilt blood taking this land, and nowhere in the Codex Astartes is such a passive course advised. We cannot allow an enemy to rise in power, to absorb the polities of Araby for whatever purposes they might be used."

"And yet," Khotan said, "Once again, we lack the fuel for offensive operations. We lack even the bolter shells. If this Settra has an army of a hundred thousand with support from his own sorcerers and these warp-automata we've heard reports of, we would exhaust our entire stock even if they all stood in formation for us!"

"We have titans of our own." Black Nassor murmured, "Let loose the Knights of Kollosi, let them cut a swath and we'll follow. I encountered golems and creations on the Sorcerers Isles, they fell apart as soon as their masters were destroyed, if we kill this Settra perhaps the same would happen?"

Yet surely Settra must know such a thing and keep himself safe within his army?

"What of Ordinance-"

Khotan interrupted, "As Master of the Forge I will not authorise the use of Ordinance Extremis. The situation does not call for it. The only thing under threat are the mortals. If Settra and his army sat outside the gates of the Fortress-Monastery, perhaps, but not before."

The two courses so far proposed were the most obvious. The first, to go with haste and all force possible to the defence of El-Kalabad, and to an uncertain fate, knowing their capabilities were reduced by the lack of fuel and munitions. The second, to abandon Araby, to make the fortifications ready at Pharos, and to weather Settra's assault when he turned from Araby.

The first course would be punishingly soon, and though an Astartes could run in full armour faster than the fleetest horse, and therefore make the journey from Atakora or Pharos to the Kingdom of Medes, no other forces could follow. The Tech-Guard of the Mechanicus were too far to the south, the Regiments of the Militarum too far and too remote besides, only the Astartes would be able to respond, their vehicles included and the Knight walkers in the belly of the cruiser Thunderchild in Pharos itself.

The second course would provide months of preparation. Time enough to arm any remaining serfs or armsmen with weapons, time enough to make Pharos and the two hundred thousand souls there ready for war, time enough to ferry goods, by hand if necessary, between Pharos and Atakora. Yet at the same time, in that delay Settra would take the rule of Araby.

"There is a third way." Amra said, his gauntlets itching for the hilt of his sword. "Chief Librarian, Settra was said to be a proud king was he not? Possessed of many titles?"

The Librarius were chosen not only for psychic might but their scholarship and Hath-Horeb nodded, his eyes glazing slightly as he searched his encyclopedic knowledge, "At least twenty, and many translations and treaties I've received from the Missionia have remarked on his pride yes. What is your plan?"

"Settra comes to challenge us for the rule of Araby." Amra explained, "He means to demonstrate his legitimacy, I aim to challenge this. I'll send a herald, call him to a council away from Medes, somewhere out to the north perhaps, good ground for us, isolate him, limit the numbers of his embassy, then challenge him to a duel before witnesses. If I fall we lose a squad and follow Khotan's plan, if I win, we move forward with a new plan."

Hath-Horeb fell silent, and the Captains and Masters followed him, watching as a sorcerous fire broke across the ancient's skull. Red and green it was, blue and gold, and within the officers could make out shapes.

Eyes still closed, the Chief Librarian drew out the Emperor's Tarot from a pouch in his robes, the seventy-eight psychoactive liquid-crystal wafers spilling into the air above the Strategium table.

The Librarian drew nine cards, nine for the Emperor's loyal sons, nine for the nine moons of lost Elysium.

The age-black body of the Emperor, the Great Hoste, the Temple and the Fortress, the Sword inverted, the Despoiler cast down, the Shattered World and the Warped Renegade.

And last…

The Space Marine.