I am back ! And so are the Sons.

First, I would like to thank you all for your reviews :

Death's Watcher : thank you for your approval. Writing this is a real pleasure for me, so I am happy to see other people enjoy it.

Bibobot : it will be a while before Arken and the rest learn about the Slave Wars and the Cloning of Horus. After all, it hasn't happened yet ... or has it ? Warp, time, you know how these things work. Still, I think they will be pissed when they find out.

Heir of the Void : oh, I have a bone prepared for them, do not worry. But this is going to be the last one they get for a while : they will have to work for the rest.

Giodan : Glad it pleases you !

And now, the chapter ! I will see you again at the end.

Wherever Damarion looked, he could see only ruins. Not a single building of the city was left standing, and his Terminator Armor didn't pick up any signs of life. Not that he had expected it to : Perseus had already scanned the area with the more powerful auspex of the Thunderhawk, and he hadn't detected anything. Still, habits died hard.

There didn't seem to be anything worth their time here, let alone the four months of warp travel it had taken them to get to this ruined world. Damarion turned to his lord and master :

'Are you sure this is the place, Awakened One ?'

Lord Arken simply nodded in response. Since he had defeated the Daemon Prince Serixithar, the Commander had spent a lot of time planning the next move of the warband – of the Forsaken Sons, Damarion corrected himself. It was still difficult to think of himself as no longer being only a Son of Horus. He, like most of the Sixteenth Legion aboard the Hand of Ruin, had ritually painted over the emblem of his Legion on his shoulder pads, covering it in black paint. The color of his armor still gave away his former allegiance, but as Lord Arken had said : they weren't to deny their blood.

But despite his trust in his lord, Damarion was still curious :

'Why did we come here, my Lord ? This world is obviously already dead. There is nothing here, except the spirits of the dead.'

'You are wrong, Damarion. There is something here.'

'The Coven told us that, my Lord. And they insisted that we do not set foot upon this world.'

'The Coven does not know all, brother. What awaits us here will be of great help to us.'

'Did the «Oracle» tell you that, my Lord ? How can you trust its information ?'

'I cannot, Damarion, and that is why we are here. This is … a test, of sort, an opportunity, to test the fiability of our «Oracle»'.

Lord Arken's voice stayed neutral during all his speech, yet Damarion felt his skin crawl when he heard his Lord speak about the Oracle. When they had captured the Daemon Prince four months ago, Asim and the rest of the Coven had locked it up in one of the Hand of Ruin's vacant storage rooms. The section of the ship had been forbidden to all except for the Awakened One and the members of the Coven themselves – and even them had to come with Asim's permission and only to check the spells that kept the daemon contained. Powerful wards had been placed on almost every surface in a rayon of three hundred meters around the room, to make sure that the daemon's influence was contained. Some had claimed that this was going too far, but Lord Arken had quickly silenced them, and Damarion approved. He remembered all too well what happened when a daemon was loose on a ship.

Lord Arken had gone to what the Astartes and the crew had come to call the Oracle's room once it had been completed. For several days, he had stayed alone with the chained and bound daemon, while the crew, under Merchurion's direction, brought aboard ore from the handful of planets of the system. More complet scans of the worlds had revealed unusual concentrations of metal within, and the Techno-Adept had expressed something that Damarion could only identify as joy as the opportunity to send teams of servitors to begin digging. He had wanted to set up a more permanent mining exploitation, but they needed more ressources before that was possible.

It had surprised everyone when Lord Arken had emerged of the room with a course set for the ship. He had recalled all the servitors deployed, claiming that they would need them, and launched the Hand of Ruin across of the Warp, to a system that was, if anything, even more reclusive that the one where they had been brought by Serixithar's warp-craft.

Damarion had read the archives of the ship about this place. Less than half a century ago, at the apex of the Great Crusade, this planet had been heavily populated by human colonists, descendants of those having left Terra thousands of years before. Almost thirty billions had lived in the hive-cities that covered most of the planet's surface.

Then, the Word Bearers had come. At the time, the Seventeenth Legion had already stopped spreading the worship of the False Emperor, illuminated by his actions at Monarchia. The population of the world had refused the initial proposition to return to the fold of the Imperium, and during the war that had followed, a lethal bioweapon had been unleashed by the planet's ruling cast in a desperate attempt to destroy the invaders. Not a single human being on the world that had once been called Isleas had survived, only the surhuman physiology of the Legionaries deployed allowing them to survive.

Or at least, that was what the reports had said. Speaking with the Word Bearers among the Forsaken Sons, Damarion had been told a different story. The people of Isleas would probably have accepted to join the Imperium. But the Legionaries that came to the world had already embraced the Primordial Truth, and they saw no reason to add to the False Emperor's subjects. Instead, under orders from Lorgar himself, they had personnaly put every man, woman and child of Isleas to the sword. Thirty billion souls had died without knowing why. Before leaving the ship, Damarion had spoken to the Coven, and they had told him that they felt something on the planet, but were unable to tell them why, only that they really wanted to stay as far away from it as possible.

Something seemed anormal to Damarion. He was uneasy, and he couldn't understand why … wait.

'My lord.'

'What's wrong, Damarion ?'

'If thirty billions people died on this world, then …'

Damarion gestured at the desolation before them :

'How come I cannot see a single human remain ?'

In the orbit of Isleas, Asim was walking the corridors of the Hand of Ruin. Once teeming with activity, most of them were now abandonned, the diminished crew of the ship barely capable of keeping it functionnal. The Coven had scanned the entirety of the ship to make sure there weren't any daemons still hidden, but mortal serfs still prefered not to go to the unused sections.

This made them the perfect place for someone seeking a moment of solitude, which was why Asim had come here.

All members of the Coven had felt it when they had emerged from the Warp : there was something on the planet below. They had gone to the Awakened One, to warn him, but he had dismissed their concerns. He knew what was waiting on the planet, had he claimed. And he had insisted that none of the Coven's members were to go with him on Isleas. None had been to enthusiast about it either, but still, it had rattled their pride to be so easily dismissed, even if it was for their own good.

Asim had calmed his peers by telling them that Arken knew what he was doing, that he wasn't going on the planet alone – he was bringing with him an escort of forty Astartes in addition to his Terminator bodyguards – and that he had faced a Daemon Prince before without being utterly destroyed, as he should have been even with the Coven's support. Their lord was protected, special somehow in the eyes of the Empyrean, and they had to trust him.

Those were good points, but Asim would have loved to believe them more than he did. As it was, they felt empty in his mouth even as he had spoken them. Even now, he could feel it : the raw, savage power that emanated from the world, impossibly kept stable and contained. There was enough power down there to utterly destroy the ball of rock that the lord of the Forsaken Sons was leading.

And Asim didn't want Arken to die. The Son of Horus had saved them all during the Exodus, as the warriors now called their hellish journey. He had outwitted a daemon, something even Asim's father and Primarch had failed to do. Better yet, he had given Asim a chance at revenge against the warp-born that were responsible for his homeworld's destruction, even more so than the Space Wolves.

Russ' sons, in the end, had been manipulated, and although Arken's own father was also to blame for the change in the Wolves' orders, it was Magnus that was to blame. As the Awakened One had said, it was Magnus' hubris that had drawn the Emperor's wrath, and it was Magnus' self-pity that had led him to let his Legion almost die without acting. Asim didn't hate his father per se … but he no longer looked up at him in awe and worship as he had before. That was why he had done like many others in the warband, painting his shoulder emblem in black paint.

Do you hope that by betraying your allegiance, you will escape the bargain that has been made by your father, Son of the Cyclops ?

The Sorcerer stopped dead in his tracks. The voice hadn't come from his own subconscious. It hadn't been a real whisper, either.

'You are contained, Serixithar,' he said to the empty corridor. 'I don't know how you managed to reach me through your bonds, but I know that you cannot do anything else than shout out empty threats.'

Empty ? I may have failed to turn your lord to the service of the Architect of Fate, but your soul belongs to him, as it has since the day your father first reached for His help in saving you !

Asim didn't answer. He simply kept walking, ignoring the daemon's words.

You think he can save you ? That just changing the color of your emblem will free you from Him ? No, you aren't that foolish, Asim. You know the truth. Tzeentch owns you, little sorcerer. Everything you do is in His benefit.

'Including emprisonning you and making you into my Lord's own private source of warp-related information ?' launched Asim, a bitter smile on his lips.

The Daemon Prince hissed at the words.

Me being a pawn is nothing new, mortal. The Gods play games that even I and my peers cannot understand, and if He chooses to make me your master's Oracle for a while, then I shall accept His superior will. But this doesn't change anything about you, Asim.

Asim shook his head, the movement heavy with resignation.

'Yes, you are probably right,' he admitted. 'But then what ? Should I just kill myself now and let the Lord of Change take me ? He may be the owner of my soul at the moment, but Tzeentch is the God of Hope, too. My situation may evolve in time … and I still have things worth living for. For instance, knowing that you are trapped in the Ultramarine's corpse. That provides me some joy, Serixithar.'

The voice spat out a few curses in a language older than Mankind, then went silent. Asim made a mental note to warn the rest of the Astartes and the crew about the daemon's voice. Shut down behind as many wards as it was, the Daemon Prince couldn't do anything else than speak to them, but warning them would ensure they know not to believe any threat it may send.

At least, thought the Sorcerer, the conversation with Serixithar had taken his mind off the danger he felt from the planet below.

The expedition had kept walking, following their lord and leader. They were a lot more tense now that Damarion had pointed out what exactly had been setting them on the edge since their arrival. Regardless of the decades that had passed since the genocide, the bones of thirty billions people didn't simply vanish.

But Lord Arken had commanded them to ignore it and move forward, and so they had pressed on. They would rather have had some of the Coven with them, and a few had expressed that concern, but the Awakened One had told them that most members of the Coven would die the moment they set foot on this world … if they were lucky. The might of their swords and bolters would have to be enough.

As they passed through the corpse of the city, Damarion noticed items scattered in the rubble, his mind recreating the scenes that had led them to be here. A broken gun left behind a wall that had been torn apart by heavy fire – the last stand of a man who was seeing his world burn at the Word Bearers' hands. Bolter shells on a line in front of a building's remnants – the last traces of an execution site, where Legionaries had gunned down prisonners. A depiction of some animal, made of string, cloth and stuffing …

'Here,' said Arken. 'This is what we are looking for.'

They had reached what had once been a street, but was now a giant hole in the ground. Bombing, or some other of the terrible forces unleashed by the Word Bearers upon the hapless world, had torn apart the ground and exposed the vast sewers beneath. Damarion half-expected the tunnels to be filled with corpses, but they, too, were empty.

'We are going down,' ordered Lord Arken.

The sewers were entirely dried out. Whatever the Word Bearers had done to this world that had drained it of all life, it had also removed all moisture upon the planet. Damarion's armor told him that the planet was still technically viable, in the sense that a mortal could walk it without an isolated suit and not dying immediately. But it was impossible for life to appear again in these conditions. Even a single human would drain the oxygen in the air, and with no plants to renew it, he would die an agonizing death, even though it would take centuries for him to breath all the planet's atmosphere.

The tunnels were broad, large enough for the Terminators to walk side by side, keeping their master protected. Clearly, the city above them had been prosperous, for it to be able to afford such sanitary structures. On too many worlds, Damarion had seen hivers dwell in their own filth and crass, living like animals. But it seemed that hadn't been the case of Isleas' citizens.

The other Space Marines walked ahead, scanning the corridors for threats with the natural efficiency born from decades of training and practice. They were finding no threat, and so the group went on, following Lord Arken's instructions. It was as if the Awakened One had already been here.

As they went deeper, the light that had filtered through the hole in the ground dimmed, and the Astartes were surrounded by a darkness that would have been inpenetrable for a mortal man. It was no concern to the Forsaken Sons, however, their gene-enhanced vision more than able to pierce the obscurity even without the support of their helmet's visor.

Some of the tunnels had collapsed, but their lord drove them on, always knowing which path to take in the labyrinthine underground. As they advanced, however, they began to feel an all too familiar sensation. A constant tingling, a pressure at their mind, as if something was trying to claw inside their skulls.

Warp-craft. They were coming closer of what had scared the Coven.

Then, finally, they arrived in front of a giant door of adamantium that blocked the way forward.

The gate stands in his path, covered in images of the Immaterium. He sees servants of the Octed dancing around a giant horned skull, the blood of innocents dripping from its sockets …

Arken shook off the memories before they overwhelmed him.

'This is it, my brothers,' he voxed to the rest of the expedition. 'This is why we have come to this worthless ruin.'

'The Seventeenth Legion built this ?' asked Damarion.

'More probably their Mechanicus allies, but, yes. And behind that door is the prize I seek.'

'How do we open it, my Lord ? It looks thick enough to resist anything we can do to it. And we cannot exactly bring heavy artillery down here.'

'Do not worry, Damarion. I know what I am doing.'

Arken walked toward the gate, looking at the drawings engraved upon it. Yes, those were the ones he had seen. Now, he had to remember how to open the chamber. He closed his eyes, and forced back the visions that Serixithar had shown him in the Oracle's chamber.

He sees the warriors of the Seventeenth bringing in the world's people, dead or alive. There is too many of them for the Legionaries to drag them all, but they do not need to.

For the dead are walking. They rise or crawl on the ground, coming to this place, drawn by the power within. Only the most damaged corpses do not heed the call.

He sees the souls of the defuncts trapped within their flesh as the hellish siren call pulls them to itself. Their torment are only beginning, however, as they are consumed by the horror in the chamber.

As the last of Isleas' dead enter their destiny, the Word Bearers seal the gate, waiting for the time to unleash the power within …

The eyes of the Lord of the Forsaken Sons snapped open as he finally found the information he needed. When the Chapter of the Burning Bones had destroyed this world, their Chaplain – or Dark Apostle, as they now call them – had sealed the gate with but a word, completing the arcanes placed upon the door.

But 'word' wasn't appropriate. The Apostle had used the language of daemons, in which every syllabe is a daemon in itself. By his will, he had bound twenty-seven different warp-born to the gate. Three times three times three : an invocation of the Dark God Nurgle the Plague Father.

Arken took a deep breath, gestured for his Terminator guards to get closer to him, and spoke the daemon-word.

Pain. Greater pain than anything he had ever known; greater even than the one he had felt in the Oracle's Chamber, trying to pry Serixithar's rambling for useful information ...

There was a reason the Thousand Sons spent years training before trying to hold the power of the Warp. Arken's untrained mind, while unnaturaly resilient to the Empyrean's touch, was still unsuited to the task. The pain made him fall to his knees, and only the support of his guards prevented him to crash on the ground. Blackness took him for a few seconds, and when he woke up, there was blood in his mouth and every single one of his muscles burned with pain, as if he had just fought for days on end. Suppressing the suffering with an effort of will, Arken looked up and saw that the gate had opened, opening in its middle to reveal utter darkness beyond. The Astartes were looking within, but none had yet dared to cross the treshold.

Good. Even Arken wasn't certain what to expect from this point. For some reason, Serixithar's visions had been unable to see precisely what laid beyond the gate, although the purpose of it was known to the Daemon Prince.

'Astartes,' he groaned in a pained voice, feeling his lungs hurt as he forced air into them so that he may speak. 'This is where things become dangerous. Stay alert and keep your weapons readied at all times. The dead of this world are waiting for us.'

As they entered the chamber, the Traitor Marines felt as if they had entered a different world altogether. This was a disturbingly familiar sensation to them, but this was vastly different from Serixithar's own tunnel or the horrors unleashed on the Hand of Ruin during the Exodus. Even though none of them possessed psyker abilities, they could literally smell the power that dwelled here.

It smelled like death.

They have entered the Nexus of Corruption, Asim, said the whispers, back after half an hour of blessed silence. The Sorcerer sighed.

'Really now ? And then what ? Are you going to taunt me with depiction of how horrible their deaths are going to be, and how there is nothing I can do to prevent it, and that this is all the will of the Architect of Fate ?'

It is not His will. Another of the Dark Powers is at play here, one who is the opposing of my Master. It was in the Putrescent One's name that the Priests-Slaves killled all of this world's inhabitants.

'Then why did you bring us here, if that does not serve your Master's plans ? Are you not supposed to be His loyal's servant ?'

I cannot choose what I see, nor what your lord chooses to pry from my mind when he comes to me. But the Priests-slaves do not favor any of the Octed, instead foolishly believing themselves to be transcendant in serving the Greater Chaos. The power may have been gathered in Nurgle's name, but its effects will be pure Chaos. If your master succeeds, all who serve the Primordial Truth shall revel in this victory.

'And if he fails ?'

He will die. His body will join the waiting dead, his soul will be consumed by the Nexus, his fate shared by all who followed him, and the gate will be closed once more. The Nexus' power will force it shut, and you and your brethren will be left alone.

'I am not worried. He will not fail.'

Why do you trust him so ? Why do you all look up to him ? All who led you have failed. What makes you think he is different ?

Asim looked at a stain on the Hand of Ruin's wall. He remembered what had happened here. An abomination of pink flesh had killed his brother, Kasiya, and spread his brains across the entire corridor. He had been weakened by days of fighting, and would have fallen to it too …

If the Awakened One hadn't saved his life. He had rushed through the arcane flames that had then filled the corridor and destroyed the daemon. Then Asim had saved him by sending lighting against the two, smaller, blue daemons that had risen from the creature's corpse. They had all learned something new that day. Arken, that this kind of warp-born turned into two lesser creatures upon its death, and Asim, that the Son of Horus was a worthy leader.

Is that it ? He saved your life, so you follow him ?

'For a being that prides itself on being one of the Galaxy's greatest manipulators, you really don't understand us, Serixithar.'

Is it because you have no choice then ? Because he is strong ? Because he already leads you, and no one has the will and strength to challenge him ?

'It is not,' snapped the Sorcerer. Anger was beginning to rise in Asim.

Then why ?

'Because he gave us a purpose in our lives. Because he gave us freedom from our past. Because he gave us a name.'

The dead, it appeared, weren't waiting for them anymore : they were coming at the Astartes themselves.

After entering what Arken knew was named the Nexus, the Traitor Marines had walked along a narrow path of stone, suspended over an abyss that was almost entirely filled with bones. By Arken's estimation, the bones of the entirety of the population of the world was down there. Thirty billion skeletons, tossed in a pit, their flesh and souls sacrificed to what was lying in the altar before them, on a circle of stone fifty meters broad, that was resting on the mass of the dead. Without the support of the bones, it would have collapsed under its own weight … or, considering the amount of warp-power that was contained within, would have stayed afloat nonetheless.

Perhaps they would be able to test this soon. When Arken had walked toward the altar, the dead had suddenly started to rise. The bones had knitted back together, forming back the scattered skeletons, green flames burning in their empty sockets. Then, flesh had started to grow back on the bones, already rotting, and the zombies had started to throw themselves at the Astartes.

Fury filled Damarion and his brothers at the sight. They had seen creatures like those once. On the moon of Daavin, they had been assaulted by the walking dead, their father falling for the first time. He had risen then, but now he was lost, and the pain of grief still burnt bitterly in their souls.

Roaring in rage, the Terminators tore apart the undead horde, covered by the fire of their brethren. They spread across the platform, each covering a part of it, while Arken stayed at the altar. The undead flesh burst apart under the lightning claws and the bolter rounds. The creatures were destroyed by the hundred every moment. But regardless of their prowess, the Astartes couldn't hope to defeat the billions of monsters that could appear. Soon, they would encounter the same problem they had faced on Daavin : they didn't have enough ammunition with them.

'Hold them back,' voxed Arken, his voice still calm and composed despite the situation. 'I need to finish what we came here to do.'

After receiving a serie of aknowledgments from the squads he had brought with him, Arken focused on the altar.

It was an ugly thing. Crafted from the corpses of Isleas' rulers sewn together by the power of the Warp, it reeked of rot and corruption. The mouths of the unfortunate mortals still gave off a constant wailing, their souls endlessly tortured. Three putrescent heads were bound together atop the grotesque thing, forming the symbol of the Plague Father. Their eyes were long gone, yet they focused their dead glances at the Forsaken Son as he drew closer.

This is the key, thought Arken. The core of the Nexus, the gate holding back the power harvested from this enormous sacrifice.

Looking at the thing, he could feel the tremendous energies contained by it. The undead that were attacking his brethren were merely by-products of the ritual, animated by the scraps of the power that had been summoned. The power still hung on the treshold of potentiality, not yet fully formed, awaiting the final signal.

This is a weapon, remembered Arken from what he had seen in the Oracle's chamber. A weapon that shoud have been used in the war, but was forgotten when those who designed and created it were lost to the whims of the battlefield.

Serixithar had shown him how the Chapter of the Burning Bones had died. They had died out on Isstvan V, in an ambush led by Corax himself in the days after the Massacre. The Dark Apostle had been gutted by the Ravenlord's claws, his blood spilled in vengence by a father who had seen his sons die by thousands before his eyes.

Corax had seen his Legion die in front of him … and yet, he hadn't broken. He had saved his few remaining warriors, and from this point he had been a thorn in the Warmaster's side for all the duration of the rebellion. Rumors said that he had tried to resurrect his Legion by using secret technologies, but had been foiled by the Alpha Legion.

He was defeated, his hopes destroyed before his very eyes, and still he did not fail, thought Arken bitterly. As much as he hated them, the Astartes had to face the facts : the loyalist Primarchs had done a better job than those who had followed the Warmaster.

This only confirmed what he had known : the Primarchs of the Traitor Legions were not fit to lead them any longer. And now, with his actions, he would strike a blow against the Imperium that would be the first step on proving he was right. Arken raised his power sword above the altar, steadying himself for what was to come. He sent a single predetermined vox-signal to the Hand of Ruin, waiting until he received confirmation that his order had been obeyed. Then ...

I hope you are watching this, Horus.

He brought down the blade, slashing through the flesh of the altar, cutting open the rotten skin and letting the bile and tainted blood spill.

And in the Empyrean, thirty billions damned souls screamed, their agony suddenly mixed with relief as, at least, they were allowed to join oblivion, consumed to fuel the power that was unleashed.

Asim felt something shift in the Immaterium, and it took a few seconds for the Sorcerer to recognize it : the Geller Fields had been raised. But they were still in realspace, so why would they …

IT COMES !

Asim fell on his knees, feeling the unleashing of the power that had until now been contained on the planet below. The Warp itself manifested, tearing the veil between it and reality apart, spreading through space at the speed of thought. Despite the Geller Fields – and Asim trembled at the thought of what would have happened to all psychic souls on board had they not been raised – the Sorcerer felt a splitting headache roar in his brain.

'By Magnus' Eye, Arken,' he muttered, trying to catch his breath. 'You have done it now.'

The storm rages ! The shadow comes ! The Sea of Souls is now in fury !

Serixithar's voice was filled with glee, which was strange since it was thanks to the actions of the one who had defeated and imprisonned it. Asim forced himself to ask, ignoring the pain :

'Is … is this what Arken intended ?'

The ships of the Anathema's slaves shall no longer sail in this part of the Great Ocean ! The light of the Beacon of Pain can no longer reach it ! Darkness comes down upon a hundred worlds, with a silence only pierced by the screams of the damned ! The Dark Gods are laughing !

'… I guess this answers my question.'

Perseus was sitting in the Thunderhawk. He had seen many things in his life of service to the Sixteenth Legion : some glorious, many horrible. He had been on Daavin when the Warmaster had first fallen, and he had helped Astartes to be deployed on a hundred battlefields. He had seen Terra burn at the Traitor Legions' hands. Yet nothing he had seen compared to what was happening in the skies of the dead world.

He had looked at the Warp once, during one of the ship's journey before the False Emperor's treachery had been revealed to them, so this wasn't entirely an alien vision. But this time, it was happening in realspace.

The storm raged in the heavens, and lightning bolts of colors that couldn't be conceived by the human mind were unleashedon the world below. The ruins shook with the power of the Empyrean, and the pilots of the transports could only pray that their craft wouldn't be the target of the next one.

'… Perseus, do you hear me ?'

The pilot jumped at the voice. He rushed at the vox :

'Lord Damarion ? ! Are you alright ?'

The answer was mixed with static :

' … been better. Prepare … evacuation.'

'What ?! But, my Lord, we cannot fly in something like this !'

There was a pause, and Perseus feared that he had gone to far.

' … Lord Arken … should dissipate soon … on this side of the veil. Get ready.'

'If … you say so, my lord …'

Perseus relayed the order to the rest of the pilots, along with the warning that the storm would dissipate soon. Fortunately, none of the mortal serfs contested Lord Arken's affirmation.

A few minutes later, he saw the Astartes run toward the crafts … and the ground was collapsing behind them. The Astartes' armors were covered in scratches and dents, but none of them seemed to be really harmed.

At the back of the group, he saw Lord Damarion and the other Terminators reaching speeds he had never seen before in one of the tank-like warriors, barely keeping away from the chasm behind them. Lord Arken was being carried by two warriors formerly of the Eight Legion, ahead of everyone else. The Night Lords brought him aboard Perseus' Thunderhawk before running off to their own craft.

As soon as each squad had reached their transport, the terrified pilot hit the gas and brought them up. Luckily, while the devastation was still ongoing on the ground, the skies had calmed down, merely being of an unnatural color.

Lord Damarion went into the Thunderhawk last, and shouted at Perseus :

'Get us out of this planet before it fall apart !'

Perseus didn't bother to answer, instead pushing the motor to its limit. He didn't know what would happen if the chasm reached them before they were airborn, but he knew for certain that he didn't want to know.

They rose in the air, and Perseus began to fly them back to the Hand of Ruin. Once they were far enough from the ground, he asked :

'Is Lord Arken alright ?'

'Not really,' came the answer, but that the Lord could speak for himself was still encouraging. 'Nothing I cannot bear, though. I told them I would run like everyone else, but they insisted.'

'My Lord,' said Damarion, 'I am getting report from your armor that you are bleeding, both internally and externally, have several bones broken, including a rib that has pierced one of your lungs, and are generally experiencing such a level of muscle pain that the machine-spirit cannot measure it.'

'As I said, Damarion : nothing I cannot bear.'

Hours later, after the expedition force had been brought back aboard the Hand of Ruin, which had lowered its Geller Fields when the storm had calmed, the leaders of every pack were gathered in the strategium. About sixty Astartes were gathered, and the room's talks were diffused through the vox for all the Legionaries aboard to hear – and all mortals who tuned in the right frequency. This wasn't a secret gathering. Arken believed that the secrecy the lodges had insisted to keep in the Legions before the rebellion had actually prevented Astartes that would have sided with the Warmaster to make their allegiance known.

'Brothers,' said Arken, still feeling the pain in his lungs were the Apothecary had closed off the wound. 'It is time I explain what exactly we have done today.'

'As you know, the Word Bearers' – he gave a small nod toward the side of the table where the sons of Colchis were gathered – 'slaughtered the population of the world below us during the Great Crusade. They used the death of all these people as sacrifices, a combustible with which to fuel a ritual of great power. That ritual was to be unleashed when the time to throw down the masks had come, but such an opportunity never arose, and the power of Isleas' Dirge was forgotten.'

'However, the Oracle knew of it, and I learned about its existence from our prisonner. By completing the ritual, I have unleashed the power of the Empyrean upon this sector.' He turned to a little man who wore a band of metal around his skull to hide the third eye on his front. 'Navigator Cerurr, what is the state of the Warp ?'

'It is screaming,' answered the Navigator with an high-pitched voice. 'The storm has risen again, and this sector is now hidden and unreachable for those who need the Astronomican's light. But we are not so limited. We know how to ride the tempest.'

'Precisely,' said Arken. He pushed a button, and an image of the world below appeared on the holographic display. The planet was falling apart, torn by forces beyond human ken.

'Do you see, my brothers ? Isleas stood at a crossway of the Empyrean, and now the energies we have liberated travel through these same passages that the Imperial settlements use. They are trapped now. We have summoned a Warp Storm, brothers. Now, the hundred worlds that make this part of the Imperium are cut from the rest of it. They cannot travel using the Warp, and astropathic communications are crippled. They are still protected by whatever military forces they had when the Storm began, and there may be loyalist ships in transit that were trapped as well and may assist them …'

Arken lurked on his throne, looking at the image of the world he had killed with feverish eyes :

'But for all intents and purposes, all worlds in the Trebedius Sector are utterly defenceless before us.'

There was a moment of silence, as the understanding and implications of what the Awakened One had said dawned in all present. Then the room bursted out in bloodthirsty laughter, calls for war, suggestions as for the best means to enact horrors upon the population of the sector, and disputes over who should have the honor to lead the first assault they would make.

Arken let them continue for a minute, then raised his hand. Silence came back immediately.

'As much as we would all like to start campaining right now, we need to select our targets with care. The Storm will not last forever, and by the time it does, I intent us to be ready to face the Imperium's retribution. We will strike at the most valuable – and thus well-defended – targets. We need supplies, slaves, and if we can, subjects who can refill our ranks. Our gene-vaults are full with the gene-seed of our brothers who fell during the Exodus and whose legacy was still salvageable. All of this means that we cannot simply roam around killing everything in sight. This is a campain, brothers. I will have order and discipline among the Forsaken Sons.'

Arken pressed another button, and the image of Isleas' corpse was replaced by the map of another system.

'I have read the data we have on the Sector, and found our first target. We are, as of now, sailing toward what is known as the Mulor system : two hive-worlds sustained by an agri-world and providing the workforce of a forge-world. This is an excellenttarget, that will provide us with everything we will need to continue our war against more protected systems.'

'Navigator, how long until we reach the Mulor system ?'

Cerurr looked at the map, taking in the numbers floating around it, and calculated quickly.

'It will depend on a lot of factors, my Lord … but, in my estimation, we should reach it in a month at worst. If we are luckier, it may only take two weeks or so.'

'Do not risk the ship's safety, or yours, for speed, Cerurr. The Hand of Ruin is the most valuable thing for the Forsaken Sons, but it is useless without you and your kindred.'

'As you wish, my lord,' answered Cerurr, bowing. The little Navigator then left the room, carefully avoiding bumping in any of the Astartes present. Once the door had closed behind the mutant, Arken turned to Merchurion's stand-in, a servitor whose senses were connected to the tech-priest. Merchurion was too busy repairing the armor of the Astartes to be physically present at the meeting.

'Techno-Adept, I will need to talk to you in detail about some of our campain's points.'

'I will wait for your visit,' answered the servitor in a dead, monotonous voice.

'Good.' Arken turned back to the Astartes :

'Does anyone have any question ?'

A leader of the World Eaters rose from his seat :

'Is this really necessary, Arken ? We are Astartes. We are the galaxy's greatest warriors. We are not pirates or scavengers ! We kill whoever we want and we take whatever we desire !'

'If we do like you say, Alexandre,' answered the Awakened One in a cold voice, 'we will die. In vain. I do not want that.'

'What do you want, then, Arken ? We will all die someday. Death in battle is our fate.'

'What do I want ? I want the Imperium to pay for what it has done to us. I want to see the Imperial Palace ruined by my hands ! I wants ten thousand billion souls screaming in pain in the name of my vengence ! I want to watch as the galaxy burns !'

Arken took a deep breath, and calmed down. His outburst had silenced Alexandre.

'But I will not have any of this if I die with an empty bolter in my hand because my armor was too damaged to stop a las-round, without any brother at my side because they will all have died in poorly planed wars. There will be battles, and there will be glory … But you all will obey my orders, or I so pledge by the Octed, I shall kill you myself before the loyalists can claim that honor. Now, go. Train your men. Prepare yourself. We are at the start of a campain against one hundred worlds. Do not underestimate the challenge this will represent.'

'They are only mortals,' groaned Alexandre. The other leaders looked at him, then at Arken, uncertain of what his reaction would be, but the Awakened One simply said :

'For one thing, Alexandre, there could be Space Marines out there. For the second, how many Astartes do you think have died at mortal hands during the rebellion ? I could tell you, you know. Serixithar told me the exact number. Do you want to know it ? Do you want to know how many of your brothers died at the hands of mortal soldiers during the war for Ultramar, when your Primarch used precisely the tactic you suggest and underestimated them exactly like you do ?'

The World Eater paled, and shook his head.

'Good. Remember : mortals are our inferiors … but they can still be a threat. You are all dismissed.'

Hours later, alone in the strategium, Arken was still reading data-slates. He had ordered all the data they had about the entire sector to be sent to him, and he intended to have finished it before they reached the Mulor system. Not needing any sleep was something really useful when planning a war, and he had no doubt it would be just as useful during the actual campain that it had been during the Exodus.

I wasn't certain you would succeed, you know.

Arken paused in his reading. He looked around him, and, seeing that he was still alone, sighed.

'Look like I will have to ask Asim to reinforce these seals.'

It would be pointless. My essence is already soaking this ship. No mortal sorcery can cleanse it now.

'Something tells me that killing you would do the trick.'

Oh, yes, but are you willing to lose your Oracle over something like this ? It is thanks to me that you obtained the victory of this day. No, Arken, you are too dedicated to your cause. You will have to endure my voice.

'What do you want ?'

The True Pantheon is pleased by your actions, Arken. The Storm will give my brethren a chance to walk the Materium on many worlds. Do you realize what you have accomplished ? Even if you just waited for the Storm to calm, you would still have killed billions of the Anathema's slaves.

'It is not just killing I am after, Serixithar.'

Then, as the scion of the Blood God said : what do you want ?

Arken smiled, the sight a terrifying parody of the expression that would have sent cold sweat running the back of any Astartes who would have seen it and make lesser beings faint.

'I want power, daemon. The power I need to exert my vengence. And power takes many forms : martial skill, psychic abilities, weapons, slaves, vehicles, soldiers, ships, allies, reputation … I will take everything I can, and I will use it all to hurt the Imperium as badly as I can. That is what I want.'

… and I am beginning to think that you just might get it.

It is done ! The chapter is complete.

It will probably be a while (two - three weeks) before I can publish another one. I have a report to write for college, and it's going to take most of my free time for the next week.

As usual, please review if you have liked it, or tell me what's wrong otherwhise. I am a little dissatisfied with how this one came out, but for the love of Chaos I cannot say why, so any advice would be appreciated.

Zahariel out !