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Azarok Sector – Berrenos System

744.M32

The church was, by Imperial standard, quite small. Its rows of pews could barely sit a couple hundred people, and its support pillars rose less than a hundred meters high. But it was clear that it had seen a lot of visitors over the years, and that it had been well maintained during that time. Thousands of small candles burned in alcoves surrounding votive offerings, and every pillar had been carved into the image of a Space Marine, clad in full battle armor, bearing the weight of the church just as the living Angels of Death bore the weight of the Imperium on their shoulders. For generations, these giants of stone had looked down upon the faithful who came here to worship. Each was subtly different from the rest, though whether they represented actual Space Marine heroes or were simply the fruit of the sculptors' imagination was unknown.

That was a sign of the church's age, for the Ecclesiarchy was usually meticulous about such things.

At the end of the church, under a huge statue of the God-Emperor with His arms opened wide and protected behind a tick panel of plexiglass, was the reason for the church's prosperity. A huge rectangular oil painting, four meters high and ten meters wide, showing the Primarch Roboute Guilliman in his full battle-gear, with the emblem of the Five Hundred Worlds on his chest and the Gauntlets of Ultramar around his hands. He stood atop a rocky hill, looking in the distance, his expression unreadable, as if contemplating matters beyond the ken of mortal men. The landscape behind the Primarch was a sandy desert, illuminated by a crimson sun, with strange rock formations casting their shadow upon the sand. Vehicles, also painted in the blue of the Ultramarines, could be seen threading the desert, advancing in the direction of the Primarch's gaze.

It was a wondrous painting, made even more impressive by its history. It had been made during the Great Crusade, hundreds of years ago, by one of the remembrancers attached to the Thirteenth Legion. That painter, Vincent Degios, had been born blind, yet the beauty of his paintings had attracted the eye of the remembrancers' recruiters, leading to him receiving specially designed cybernetic implants that had allowed him to receive images directly into his brain. With these implants, he had been able to combine hundreds of picts of the Avenging Son with the tales of Ultramarines who had seen the scene with their own eyes in order to create that painting.

Degios' work had been highly valued by the Imperial elite, but the master painter had disappeared during the Horus Heresy, his loss later attributed to the betrayal of the Word Bearers at Calth, where fragmented records showed he had been transferred to cover what was supposed to be the great joint campaign that would mend the rift between the Thirteenth and Seventeenth Legions. It was highly unlikely that a blind remembrancer could have survived the most bitter confrontation that took place there, though stranger things had happened during the Battle of Calth.

Regardless of the artist's fate, his work had already been spread across the galaxy, serving as an exemplar of what the remembrancers could achieve. Those who saw his work caught a glimpse of the glory of the Great Crusade, and after the Heresy was put down, the images of the God-Emperor's loyal sons became even more precious. The painting had belonged to one of Berrenos' most influential family, who had gifted it to the nascent Ecclesiarchy when the youngest son of that bloodline had convinced his father to convert to the Imperial Creed. At the time, the Church of the Emperor had not possessed the enormous resources it now had at its disposal, and this smaller temple had been all they had been able to build – the first Imperial church of Berrenos, and at its heart, the icon of Roboute Guilliman, most loyal son of the Master of Mankind.

Every day for more than fifteen centuries, hundreds of pilgrims had visited the chapel in order to see this painting with their own eyes. They had passed through the gates and sat upon the benches, staring at the painting's magnificence for a length of time dependent on the strength of their faith – that is to say, on the amount of the donation they had made to the Ecclesiarchy. From dawn to dusk they had poured in, until the sun set and the priests who served as the small church's caretakers forced everyone out, that they may clean and replace the incense braziers and the candles for the next day. These men saw little of the wealth that the pilgrims brought to the Imperial Creed – theirs was a life of endlessly repeated duties and quiet contemplation.

The stones of the church's floor had been eroded by the threading of countless feet, yet now, only one soul lurked within its walls. A warrior stood before the painting, taller than any mortal man, his face a near perfect copy of the painting's august subject. Only a careful examination would have revealed that the warrior was perhaps a touch younger than the painted Primarch, though his eyes were very, very old. The other difference was much more obvious : while the painting showed Guilliman with short blonde hair, this warrior's was white.

'We were made in your image,' said the warrior softly, his words carried across the church by the architecture's acoustics. 'Just as you were made in His. That is what we were told, when we were taken as children and transformed into living weapons.'

The Astartes raised a gauntleted hand and pressed it against the glass. Ordinarily, this would have triggered all manners of alarms, but those had been deactivated prior to the warrior's arrival, at the same time the priests had been evacuated.

'We fought to build this empire,' continued the gene-son of Guilliman. 'We killed, bled and died for it, for its people. And so did you. You fought through loss and betrayal, and in the end, you fell. Did you regret anything when Fulgrim's blade cut your throat, or were you relieved that you would no longer have to watch as the Imperium slowly turned away from your ideals ?'

The painted Primarch did not answer the warrior's question, of course. But he continued to speak, talking to the empty church as if it could grant him some kind of revelation.

'What would you think of the empire now ? What would you think of this place, where your image is enshrined, and worshiped by generations of slaves who know nothing of freedom ? You, who fought and died to keep Mankind's free ?'

Suddenly, he slammed his fist through the glass and punched a hole through the centuries-old masterpiece, tearing the fabric apart and ripping the image of Roboute Guilliman's armor. The damage spread through the antique painting, and it crumbled behind the panel of glass, turning to priceless dust before the warrior's eyes as time finally caught up with it. He watched the destruction of history, and told himself that he felt nothing but hatred and contempt.

'It doesn't matter,' growled the warrior, and his face, full of bitterness and fury, no longer resembled that of the Avenging Son at all. His words were thick with anger as he ground his fist against the wall through the deteriorating remnants of the painting he had so casually ruined beyond all hope of repair. 'You were a blind fool, and now you are dead, and the Imperium will soon follow suit. And I will play my part in its destruction, no matter that your blood flows through my veins. I won't be a victim of Fate like you were. I will forge my path in the blood of those who oppose me.'

'I am Unbound.'

Mahlone, the Lord of the Unbound, Chosen of Arken and warlord of the Unbound Host, pulled his fist free from the broken glass, and turned his back on the defaced painting of the Primarch whose gene-seed had reforged his body. He took his helmet from where he had left it on the altar and placed it upon his head, covering his face with the horned piece of gear. He only ever took the helm off when he was alone, lest someone see his face and recognize the similarity with that of the Primarch whose gene-seed had been used to turn him into one of the Unbound, what felt like an eternity ago. The rumors that this habit had spawned among his warband were preferable to the truth – better for the other Unbound to think him a hideous mutated freak than having to deal with the potential revolt the revelation of his heritage could cause.

Like the rest of his armor, the helm was painted in black and gold, and was the work of the best hereteks available to the Forsaken Sons, as befitting of one of Arken's Chosen. A sword and pistol hung from his waist, each a prize he had taken during the conquest of the Wailing Storm and which had been refitted by the tech-priests of the Dark Mechanicum to fit his transhuman hands.

He slammed the wooden doors of the church open as he left, tearing them off their hinges with the strength of his blow. Several dozens soldiers were standing at attention outside the church, holding its ten caretakers prisoners. The men could have escaped before the Forsaken Sons forces' arrival, but they had stubbornly remained, choosing death rather than abandoning the duty they had inherited from their predecessors. There had been five more, who had tried to fight, and had been killed before the rest had been captured. They had been beaten, badly, yet they still glared at him.

There was courage, even honor in such devotion, Mahlone had to admit – but both were misguided. The God-Emperor they worshipped was a lie, and the Primarch whose icon they had prayed to had been dead for centuries, slain by a champion of the galaxy's true gods. Neither of them could do anything to protect those who prayed to them, and Mankind could not afford such weakness if it was to survive in the galaxy. Faith, he had learned, was a potent force, and it should not be wasted on false gods, not when there were others who could reward it in abundance.

The Lord of the Unbound stared at the men, and they looked back at him, their eyes filled with defiance despite the terror every single one of them was feeling. They had been handled quite roughly by the soldiers – there was blood on more than one of their ecclesiastic vestments. Mahlone could smell their fear, thick in the pollution-laden air of Berrenos' capital city, and yet they did not beg. Slowly, he walked toward them, and though their fear increased with each step he took as his transhuman presence washed over them, they still did not lower their gazes.

There were many like them on Berrenos. The planet had fallen to the Unbound Host, but there were still thousands who resisted the rule of the Forsaken Sons. Examples had to be made to keep the millions of civilians covering in fear within their crumbling cities from joining the resistance, and over the last few months, Mahlone had had the opportunity for plenty such lessons.

'Burn it,' he said to the soldiers. One of them – a true follower of the Ruinous Powers, judging by the self-inflicted scars on his face – started to protest, mentioning how they could desecrate the church rather than simply destroy it and thus earn the Gods' favor. Mahlone slapped the mortal, breaking his neck with the merest use of his transhuman strength, before snarling at the rest, his helmet picking up on his anger through his armor (which had fused with his body several years ago) and filtering his voice to remove its last traces of humanity : 'Burn it !'

'Yes, my lord !' immediately answered one of the dead man's comrades, before taking charge of the soldiers not directly handling the prisoners and directing them to the task at hand. Under her lead, the soldiers spilled several barrels of promethium outside and inside the church, before withdrawing to a safe distance and letting the tanks they had come to the area in open fire.

Within seconds, the ruins of the church were ablaze, the flames leaping high as they devoured every trace of a place of devotion more than a thousand years old. The priests wept and screamed at the sight, struggling against their captors, but the soldiers were far stronger than them, and kept them on their knees. Mahlone watched the horror and despair on their faces, his back turned to the fire. Even through his armor, he could feel its heat.

Before he had become Unbound, in the Land of the Dark where he had been born, he would never have thought such flames could exist. Fire had been a rarity, something precious. Fuel had been scarce, used with parsimony to keep warm during the coldest times and as a defence against the monsters that dwelled in the blackest corners. Now, he barely acknowledged the inferno at all.

Their task accomplished, the soldiers retreated from the burning church. The woman who had taken command after Mahlone had killed the one who had tried to protest stood closest to him – far enough not to show disrespect, but close enough that it was clear she was waiting for further orders.

'You are one of the Androkasian recruits, aren't you ?' said the Unbound, his gaze still fixed on the kneeling priests. 'I recognize your uniform.'

That was true, but it wasn't the full truth. There was something else that marked her as one from that world : the way she moved, the instinctual obedience to authority that needed to be displayed at all times. Only those born on that twisted garrison-world, having lived under the constant threat of being executed for perceived disloyalty to their demented supreme leader, had that kind of gait.

'Yes, lord Mahlone,' she replied. 'I served with Governor Nirai when she was still a General.'

He nodded. 'You took part in the operation to overthrow Malerios ?'

'I was in one of the strike forces that kept reinforcements from interfering with the tyrant's death, yes,' she said, the faintest hint of satisfaction creeping into her voice.

Mahlone nodded again, solely to himself this time. It had been a long time since the Unbound Host had "freed" the garrison world of Androkas-Prime from its Governor – a Slaaneshi daemon hiding within the corpse of the previous incumbent, who had ruled the world using sorcerous drugs to keep the population from going mad and compliant to its whims. During that time, the forces they had been rewarded with (professional soldiers all, a cut above most of the mortal troops gathered for the Black Crusade) had gone through a lot of changes.

Some, like the one he had killed, has completely embraced the worship of the Ruinous Powers, becoming more akin to cultists than true soldiers. Others had gone mad when confronted with the true nature of the "allies" to which they had been "attached", and had killed themselves or rebelled and had to be put down. And some, like this woman, had turned their loyalty to the Forsaken Sons, retaining their professionalism while accepting the inevitable changes that service under Chaos Marines brought to any armed force. Over several years of waging war in the Wailing Storm, Mahlone had learned that the latter category was the most useful one.

'What is your name, soldier ?'

'Private Lysandre Ariethi, my lord,' replied the woman, saluting by reflex as she identified herself.

Mahlone glanced down at the corpse at his feet, noting the dead man's rank insignia, still visible under the defiled uniform.

'Not anymore,' he said. 'Consider yourself promoted, lieutenant Ariethi. Finish cleaning up here, then bring your squad to headquarters. I will have work for you.'

'Thanks you, my lord. I won't disappoint you.'

'I know you won't. After all, you know the penalty for that, don't you ?'

As he walked toward his transport, the newly promoted lieutenant called out to him :

'What do you want us to do with the prisoners, my lord ?'

Under his helm, Mahlone smiled. He had almost forgotten about that.

The Berrenos system had been the last of the Azarok Sector's stars to fall to the Unbound Host. The single inhabited world in the system had been a difficult fight, both because of its greater defenses and because the Host's orders had been to take it with as little damage as possible in order to turn those defenses against the Imperium. The system was on the single Warp route between the Azarok and Ekontyr Sectors, and holding it would effectively block the Imperium from interfering with the Awakened One's plans within Azarok.

We aren't exactly suited to defensive battles, thought Mahlone ruefully, looking down at the land that fled away as his gunship flew. But we were the only ones who could make it here in time.

It was true. When the separate warbands of the Forsaken Sons had come together once more under Arken's banner at the end of the conquest of the Wailing Storm, their ranks had been very varied. Each group had found new and strange allies, slaves and weapons within the Warp-shrouded Sector. The Unbound Host wasn't the most numerous army to answer the Awakened One's call, but by the whims of the Gods, the holds of their ships contained a veritable arsenal of weapons capable of killing entire worlds. That grim collection had begun with the nuclear bombs found on Androkas-Prime, and had significantly increased since.

That was why Arken had sent the Unbound Host to Berrenos. After the defeat of the Imperial forces at Silberstadt, it had been crucial to seize the frontier system as quickly as possible in order to prevent reinforcements from rejoining the various battlefields of the Black Crusade. But though the bulk of the Imperial armada had been destroyed at Silberstadt, there were still millions of soldiers scattered across the Sector able to take up arms against the Forsaken Sons. The path to Berrenos was guarded by six systems, each of which needed to be crushed in order to prevent the troops who would eventually hold Berrenos from being attacked on that front as well.

And so Mahlone had been given the order to deploy the planet-killing weapons at his disposal to hasten the arrival of the Unbound Host to Berrenos. In the months since the Forsaken Sons had split apart once more, he had directly ordered the death of tens of billions – more lives than his forces had taken in years of campaigning inside the Wailing Storms, where the goal had been conquest, not ruin. Worlds had burned, and worse, because of him, so that he could fulfill his part of Arken's grand plan. Five entire star systems, utterly destroyed.

Every passage through the Warp on that journey had been harder than the previous one, as the slaughter they left in their wake roused the Neverborn into a feeding frenzy. Things had gotten so bad that, in order to even make sure they reached Berrenos rather than be destroyed mid-translation, Mahlone had had to … improvise at the last system before this one. They had made a sacrifice of the system, adapting a trick that the Night Haunter had used during the Great Crusade and amplifying its effects with sorcery and daemonic rituals. For an entire night, corpses had rained upon the cities of Loptos, causing the utter collapse of public order as horrified madness grasped the entire population. And while the slaves of the False Emperor had been tearing each other apart in the street, strike teams of Unbound had sabotaged the plasma reactors of the hives.

The resulting coordinated detonations had sent billions of screaming, blood-tainted souls into the Warp, all of them dedicated to the Dark Gods through sacrifice and ritual. The Unbound Host had left Loptos a poisoned wasteland, haunted by ghosts and monsters chewing on the world's bones. But the final step of the journey to Berrenos had been both easy and quickened by this offering.

And Mahlone had felt nothing, save the cold satisfaction of performing his duty, the function for which he had been made. This, too, was what the Lord of the Unbound told himself.

The polluted air of Berrenos roared around the gunship as it brought Mahlone back to the Unbound Host's stronghold. Even through the filters of his helm, the Chaos Lord could smell the chemicals in the atmosphere, as well as the fainter hints of fire and blood. Though the last significant resistance had been crushed days ago, parts of the cities were still burning. Things roamed the flames, drawn to the Materium by the spilling of blood.

He saw the ruins of the Governor's estates as they flew over them. During the invasion, one of the Unbound had suggested using the palace that had stood there as headquarters. Clearly the Fleshmaster who had transformed him hadn't searched for intelligence among his subjects. There were hundreds like him, harvested from the worlds of the Wailing Storm where relatively clean genetics remained within the human population. These new Unbound were untested in a true war like the Parecxis Campaign, but they were veterans of raids and slaughter alike. Most of them, however, had little in the way of tactical insight, which this particular specimen had proven.

Mahlone had shaken his head sadly, beaten the fool halfway to death with his armored fists and proceeded to calmly explain to the moron's twitching form just how stupid his proposition was.

While the palace had boasted some impressive-looking defenses, these had been built to repel rebellious mobs, not transhuman strike teams, as demonstrated by the ease with which the Unbound had taken the place. There was a subtlety in Imperial architecture that was lost on most of its enemies as well as its denizens. A Governor's palace was meant to impress the might and majesty of the Imperium upon the populace and enforce the rule of Terra, while also making sure that, should the Governor get ideas above his station, the Imperium would easily be able to crush him. Sure, if an army sought to occupy a planet and turn its population, then control of the centers of power was important – but the purpose of the Unbound Host was not to control Berrenos, merely to hold it.

Instead, they had killed everyone in the Governor's palace, plundered everything of value, and set fire to it. Mahlone himself had cut down the old, terrified man who had once held absolute authority over the system, and made sure images of the kill were broadcast across the planet, along with the last, begging words of the fool. Then, at Mahlone's command, the Dark Mechanicum had turned one of the planet's mountains into a fortress. It had taken them weeks, and there were still servitors at work in the least important sections. But the fortress was functional, and was held by tens of thousands of troops, along with an array of defenses that would give any army pause. It was surrounded by a ring of several dozens lesser outposts, with overlapping lines of fire and a total army that, last time they had counted, reached just over the million.

As for the idiotic Unbound he had beaten, last Mahlone had heard, he had recovered, and was serving aboard one of the ships hanging in orbit of Berrenos, along with the rest of his pack. Hopefully the idiot had learned a lesson or two from the experience, and wouldn't seek revenge.

The gunship touched down on one of the landing pads carved on the mountainside, and Mahlone exited the transport, leaving it into the care of a crew of servitors and their heretek overseers. One of the advantages of ranks was that he didn't need to care for the gunship – as long as he wanted transport anywhere in the theater of operation, his minions would provide it.

He walked through the labyrinthine fortress, following the path displayed on his helmet's display. Everywhere he went, menials bowed in supplication, whispering his praises in trembling voices. They all knew him : they knew that he held their lives in his hands, and through those who followed him, their souls as well. He ignored them all : they were only mortals, and there were very few of those he found worthy of his attention. After today, he might have found another in Lysandre, but that was still to be decided.

The command center had been installed deep within the mountain, rather than at its top, and was entirely sealed, without any window showing the outside. Instead, the walls were covered with pict-screen showing the surrounding areas as well as cascades of data. A massive hololithic projector, currently inactive, occupied the center of the room, and thick cables ran from it and toward other rooms of the stronghold. Power, data and other, less wholesome things coursed through these cables. In a way, the command center was brain of the fortress.

Of course, given the Unbound's propensity for ignoring orders in favor of pursuing battle, if Mahlone had used his kindred to man the fortress, it would have been the brain of an epileptic child with anger management issues and a short attention span. Which was why only a handful of the few reliable packs were permanent defenders, along with a great many more mortal soldiers. The rest of the Unbound would play a different part in Mahlone's strategy to hold Berrenos.

Two figures towered above the hereteks and the staff. Both were clad in power armor, and both were armed. One of them was Mahlone's brother; the other, the one who had made him what he was. He would never call him "father", though : that name belonged to a man who had died long ago, in the Dark. Not to Roboute Guilliman, and not to the Fleshmaster Jikaerus.

'You were almost late,' noted Ygdal with a frown. 'Are you done with you errand, brother ?'

Mahlone merely nodded in response, and Ygdal let it go. Both he and Jikaerus knew Mahlone's secret, but there were many mortals in the room. Still, he had heard the unspoken reproach in his brother's voice. As one of the Chosen, he had many responsibilities he couldn't simply abandon.

Destroying the painting and the church had been, he had to admit, an indulgence, perhaps even a foolish one, regardless of how "in character" it may have been. Imagery of Roboute Guilliman wasn't exactly rare in the Imperium, and nearly every Legionary who fought under Arken's banner knew the face of the Avenging Son. The only exceptions were those who had been inducted into their respective Legions during the course of the rebellion – the first generation of Astartes who had known nothing but war with their own kind, and for whom the Great Crusade was only a story.

So removing the church and its contents had done little to help keep Mahlone's secret. But it had been cathartic, and after the mad rush to get to Berrenos ahead of the Imperium, the Lord of the Unbound had felt the need to vent. It wasn't as if anyone would question his desire to destroy a temple to the Thirteenth Primarch, after all. Such symbolic gestures were expected from those who walked the Path to Glory, and as one of Arken's Chosen, it was clear to all that Mahlone had the eyes of the Gods turned upon him. There had been plenty of attempts by the more zealous of the Host to convert him to the worship of only one of the Powers, but he had resisted so far.

'Then we can begin,' said Jikaerus, gesturing to the circular hololith at the center of the command center. 'I will call the others.'

Less than an hour later, eight figures stood around the circular table. Each of these beings held great power on his own, yet all were under the command of Mahlone, first among equals by the will of the Awakened One, who none within the Wailing Storm dared defy. The Lord of the Unbound stood at the command panel of the hololith projector, with Ygdal at his right. Jikaerus stood next counter-clockwise, the Fleshmaster watching the proceedings with reptilian eyes from within his helmet. He removed it as frequently than Mahlone, though for different reasons.

Kakios, once of the Fourth Legion, had been the first after the three of them to arrive. As the stronghold's castellant, he had had the shortest distance to travel. He had been checking the reactors buried deep within the mountain, behind defenses thrice as powerful as those around the command center itself – for the fortress could survive the loss of its brain, but if the reactors were compromised, everyone on the continent would feel the explosion.

Kakios was one of the few Legionaries attached to the Unbound Host. He and his pack, all of them sons of Perturabo, had a reputation among the Forsaken Sons. It had been them who had gone to the daemon world of Mulor Tertius, not long after the Wailing Storm had been unleashed, and helped Arken arrange the deal between the warband and the infernal spirit that ruled the dark forge-world. It had been Kakios who had built the Hindsight's Mind, the tactical simulator that the Awakened One had used to help him plan every conquest, including the Black Crusade itself.

The Legionary had also been in charge of the Unbound during the Parecxis campaign, and knew their tempers all too well. He and his five battle-brothers had been attached to the Unbound Host at the warband's gathering, to help manage the resupply of the Host. Mahlone had seen the former Iron Warrior feed millions of souls to the daemon at the heart of C2746-DSS885 (as the Mechanicus had called Mulor Tertius before its fall) in exchange for the ammunition, fuel and weapons that had fed the Black Crusade's hungry engines of war. These sacrifices had been harvested from across the Wailing Storm, civilians from cities with no industry worth preserving them for.

Under his armor, Kakios was more machine than flesh, having systematically amputated every mutation inflicted upon him by the whims of the Warp. Even his vocal cords were gone, replaced by a gritty, synthetic voice. Whenever he spoke, his words came out as a reconstructed simulation of his old voice, made of recordings pulled from his armor's databanks. After all the years Kakios had served, there was plenty of material for it to use, though it did make almost any inflection and tone impossible to emulate faithfully.

Iames had been next to arrive, taking his place at Mahlone's left. The young Unbound had changed a great deal since the gene-seed of Magnus the Red had been implanted into his body. Using his psychic powers in the Wailing Storm, with little training or experience, had altered him in ways both subtle and obvious. Mahlone knew that Iames' sense of touch was all but completely deadened : he could no longer feel pain, but his perception of the Warp had been sharpened in exchange. As a result of this enhanced connection to the Sea of Souls, Iames' very presence radiated power, a dark aura that terrified mere mortals and could drive other psykers catatonic with dread. While that had been useful in a few situations, it did make Iames' everyday life on the Blade of Terror more difficult, as he couldn't go anywhere sensitive on the ship lest someone important faint in terror.

Finally, and most obvious of the Sorcerer's gifts, his left arm had been transformed into a tentacle that hung from the shoulder socket of his armor, which had been modified appropriately after the mutation had manifested itself. The blueish limb had sprouted from Iames' torso after his original arm had been severed at the shoulder in an especially difficult conquest. It had grown overnight, before the hereteks had had time to build an augmetic replacement or vat-grow a cloned one. It looked more like a lizard's tail than an octopus' limb, and its scales formed abstract patterns significant to the Changing God. Iames had tried to cut it off after it had first appeared, but it had started growing back immediately, and the Fleshmasters weren't sure they could amputate it and replace it with an augmetic safely. Even they weren't too keen on meddling with a "gift" from the Dark Gods, however unwanted it may have been.

Eventually, Iames had grown used to his new limb, though it had forced him to change his approach to battle. He no longer used a pistol, simply holding a dagger in his hand while blasting his enemies with psychic attacks at range. The dagger had been used in many rituals, and when Iames wasn't using it, it was kept contained within a warded sheath lest the energies lingering on the blade affect those nearby.

Mahlone knew that, when the Forsaken Sons had gathered at the dawn of the Black Crusade, Iames had gone to see Asim, the Sorcerer Lord who led the Coven. The Sorcerer of Blood had formally inducted the Unbound psyker into the ranks of the Coven, and Mahlone suspected that a bargain of some kind had taken place before Iames had returned from the meeting.

A mortal man had been the next to arrive, clad in unadorned crimson robes, every inch of his skin covered in scar tissue. He carried no obvious weapons, yet there was a quiet confidence in his every motion that made others pay attention. He was Marcus, the Riven, speaker for the Lost and the Damned, and one of the few mortals that Mahlone respected.

The Unbound Host, which had left the war for Parecxis composed almost entirely of the young Astartes, had accumulated a horde of mortal followers – slaves, if one was honest about such things. Entire armies, who had either joined willingly, or been forced to kneel under threat of obliteration. Some were well-trained soldiers on the same level as Astra Militarum shock-troops, while others were hordes of barbarians armed with iron blades and drugged out of their minds.

And from the tithed armies of Androkas-Prime to the slaughter-dogs of the Seven Princes of Uldagesh, Marcus spoke for them all at Mahlone's council. The Riven had been found on a world of flying stones and black, churning oceans, the last survivor of a community beset by the beasts that dwelled in the watery depths. The Unbound had tracked the echoes of a distress signal sent by the city in whose ruins he had dwelled, and after the first reckon squad had gone mysteriously silent, Mahlone had gone in himself, with Ygdal as his sole escort. The two of them had found Marcus, and after a tense discussion, they had convinced him to join them.

It had not taken long for the Riven to rise through the ranks. His presence commanded respect, and he was very good at what he did. He was an incredible diplomat, capable of bringing sworn enemies to make peace with one another, if only in fear of him. Those who opposed him, or tried to mount their own factions and coups among the mortal armies, were found dead, torn to pieces alongside with their inner circles. If Mahlone hadn't had Iames check Marcus out, he would have thought the man was some kind of daemon in disguise – but he was indeed human, just an extremely lethal one.

Mahlone had used Marcus as a herald during the conquest of the Wailing Storm, and he had brought entire nations to heel with only his words and the intimidating pressure that he emanated at all times. The mortal armies of the Unbound Host distrusted and sometimes outright hated each other, but they all feared and respected him, which was why none had protested Mahlone's decision to make him their representative on his war council.

The last two members of the council, who had come only once they had been informed everyone else was already there, were not present in person. Morkoth, the Unbound who had suggested and orchestrated Loptos' doom – having known of the Night Lords' methods through the memories implanted in his mind during his Ascension – was there in holo only. He was the fleet-master of the Unbound Host, and was aboard the Blade of Terror. With Imperial retribution on the way to Berrenos, he could not afford to leave his post, even for a moment.

And Al-Zarak, the representative of the Dark Mechanicum contingent attached to the Host, was present through a servitor he (or she, or it, Mahlone wasn't sure) was possessing remotely. The dark magos' true body was still aboard the forge-barge Eidolon of Regret – which wasn't what the Dark Mechanicum called their enormous flagship when they were among themselves, but was the name they had given to the Forsaken Sons. The servitor Al-Zarak was using as a mouthpiece was fused to the metallic chair on which it had been rolled in the room.

'Let us begin,' said Ygdal, calling the gathering of the war council to order.

A data-slate laid before him, listing all the matters that needed to be addressed. It was known by everyone here that while Mahlone may be the Chosen of Arken, it was Ygdal who handled all the tedious details of actually running an army as vast as the Unbound Host. In a way, their partnership was an extension of the association that had allowed them to survive in the Dark, and later among the Unbound. Mahlone was the visionary, the intuitive genius whose mind could grasp patterns far greater than himself, both on the fields of war and while fighting himself, and Ygdal was the cold, analytical mind that considered every option carefully, reigning him in when necessary.

The main hololith flickered to life, showing a slowly-rotating image of Berrenos. At a command from Ygdal, a region of the map started to glow red, data-screeds rolling around it to describe its nature – a vast, empty plain, with a few outposts of civilization scattered across it wherever there were valuable resources to exploit. A particular point of that area was highlighted : a former mining operation that had been transformed into an improvised fortress for some of the few servants of the False Emperor left on Berrenos. The Unbound turned his gaze upon the Riven :

'You were given the task of dealing with this last week, Marcus. What is your report ?'

'The last remnants of the PDF have been crushed,' said Marcus in his calm, soft voice. 'The Knights of Beribbon are celebrating their victory according to their rites, and have invited the Cerulean Companies to join the feasting. Against their better judgment, the Captains have accepted the offer. The pits are dug and the fires have started. It will take them a day or two to go through all the bodies, and a few more after that to wake from their torpor and return to their post.'

'Can they be brought back more quickly if needed ?' asked Ygdal.

Marcus inclined his head, considering the question, weighing what he knew of the Knights' devotion to their cannibalistic rituals balanced against the strength of his influence over them. It was a grim calculation, and a mistake may result in the loss of at least two of the armies under his command. His ability to make such judgements was another of the reasons for his exalted rank.

'Yes,' he said after a few seconds, 'if they are recalled in the next few hours. After that, nothing short of a direct attack on them will get them to stop feasting – and even then, I wouldn't bet on it.'

'Good enough,' sighed Ygdal. 'Morkoth, what's the status of the fleet ?'

'The repairs have been made and the last of our wounded brothers are out of the Fleshmasters' hands,' said Morkoth. His voice was laden with static, yet the cold cruelty in every word was unmistakable. 'Our special preparations are also complete. The fleet is ready, brother.'

'Very well. Kakios, Al-Zarak : is the stronghold ready for battle ?'

'There are still a few secondary armouries and storerooms that need completion, but those are all for back-up purposes. This fortress is as good as its going to get from a defensive perspective, and I have to admit that I have rarely seen such good work in such short time. As for the secondary strongholds ...' Kakios shrugged, gesturing to the dark magos' meat-and-iron puppet.

'We have had delays on several of our construction sites,' said the avatar of Al-Zarak. 'The workforce you provided us with is dying faster than our predicting models had accounted for. We have updated our algorithms, and now estimate that it will take a further fourteen days to complete the work per the specifications required.'

'Get it done in three,' commanded Mahlone, speaking for the first time since the meeting had begun. 'We don't know when the Imperials will arrive, and I don't want us to face them with holes in our walls before the first shot is even fired.'

'We do not have enough manpower -'

'Turn those slaves we gave you into servitors,' the Lord of the Unbound cut in. 'Bring them aboard the Eidolon, or get more of your people down there, and make them into cyborgs. They will work harder, better and longer, and I know you have the resources and the facilities to process them.'

'These resources are meant to be used later in the campain,' protested the heretek. If he felt any shock at the sudden revelation of the depths of Mahlone's knowledge of the Eidolon of Regret's capabilities, the deadened face of his avatar showed no sign of it. 'The Awakened One himself approved of our timetable !'

'If Berrenos falls because you weren't willing to spend your precious tech,' asked Mahlone, his voice as cold as the void, 'what do you think Arken will do to you ?'

'… very well, lord Mahlone,' the heretek gave in. 'It will be done.'

'Good,' was all Mahlone replied before turning back to the hololith.

'There is one last thing to address,' said Ygdal, drawing the attention away from the finished confrontation and turning his gaze to Iames. 'What news from the Black Temple, brother ?'

'Jereb's work continues,' replied the Sorcerer. 'Prisoners are dragged in chains to the altars from all across the ruined cities of this world. I can feel it, even from here, on the other side of this wretched ball of dirt. The rituals … they haven't stopped since Jereb's monsters set the last stone in place.'

'I still don't trust that creature,' grunted Kakios. 'We have invested too much in that … scheme it proposed. Weapons, material, slaves, witches … Are we certain it isn't playing us for fools ? Syphoning away our resources for its own ends while promising us what we desperately need ?'

'Iames ?' said Mahlone. Out of all of them, the psyker was the one who knew the False Daemon best – not because they were close, Gods no, but because his powers gave him a unique insight into the nature of the abomination that the Unfettered had created and left them to deal with after he left.

'The Warp churns with the screams and the flames,' murmured Iames, his eyes suddenly fixed on something far, far way. 'The corridors of the Black Temple echo with the cries of the damned, their pain bouncing off the wards, a pressure that builds up and up, denied release. No, son of the Lord of Iron. We cannot trust it, but Jereb did not lie to us, not in this at least.'

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, as all present considered the psyker's words. No one at the table trusted Jereb. There was something about the creature that made everyone wary of it, even warriors who had gone into battle with daemons fighting alongside them and who had had brothers turned into Secondborn by the whims of the Warp and the gifts of the Gods.

Jereb had grown strong in the Wailing Storm, and now led its own contingent of daemonhosts, wyrds and other abominations. All of them were in the newly-built Black Temple, and the rest of the Unbound Host was glad of the distance that put between them and that carnival of monstrous horrors. Even so, Kakios' doubts were far from being his alone. But Iames … well, most were way of Iames' power, for he too had grown strong. But he was a Sorcerer, and while none who were not members of the Coven truly understood what that meant, Sorcerers were something the forces of Chaos were used to. Jereb … wasn't. Whatever it was that the Unfettered had made the man named Jereb into, Mahlone was quite certain there had never been anything like it before.

'They are here,' said Iames suddenly. Seconds after he had spoken, alarms began to ring.

'Report !' Ygdal barked to the mortal crew of the command room.

'Warp breach detected at the system's edge !' shouted one of the menials, his eyes long since replaced by thick cables connected to the cogitators, enabling him to stream data directly into his mind. 'It's a massive one, sir ! Fleet-sized, at least !'

Had he been mortal, Mahlone would have felt fear – terror, even, at the prospect of facing the Imperium's wrath. The armies of the Unbound Host only had the courage to stand against the fury of the Corpse-Emperor's slaves because they feared their masters even more, or had been driven beyond fear by the madness of Chaos. Any sane being would have been afraid of the might of the galaxy's greatest empire, for all that it was a pale shadow of its former glory.

But he was Unbound, and all he felt was anticipation.

'Al-Zarak, cancel my previous order,' he said out loud, his voice echoing across the room over the dim of alarms, his will imposing order before anarchy could take hold. 'Morkoth, send the signal to the Unkindness , and tell the crew of the Shiva's Wrath to begin their preparations immediately. We will need them to open fire as soon as possible.'

A chorus of agreement met his commands, and the warlords of the Unbound Host set about doing the bidding of Arken's Chosen. Mahlone himself remained where he was, staring at the hololith, which was now displaying the increasing number of Imperial ships breaking free from the Warp at the system's edge. There were a great many of them – too many, he knew.

But in the end, if Jereb's trick doesn't work as the fiend promised, thought Mahlone, then it won't matter how many troops the Imperials have brought. Whether they kill us all or not, by the time Arken is done with us, we will wish they had.

AN : And it's back ! Sorry about the long drought on this fic, but I am reasonably certain it shouldn't take nearly as long before the next chapter, for reasons explained below.

This chapter is the first of three parts, all focused on the battle of Berrenos between the Unbound Host and the Imperium's retribution fleet. I initially planned to put it all in one chapter, but as the details started to emerge, I realized that I was being an idiot, and split it. In this part, we have mostly setup and exposition : the action will start in the next part (of which I already have 4k words written), and really escalate in the one after that.

And yes, the scene of the church was inspired entirely by a certain cutscene for the World of Warcraft game. I do hope that what I made out of that nugget of inspiration was interesting to read, like the rest of the chapter. As usual, don't hesitate to tell me what you thought of this chapter. Feedback on the last one was good, but it has been a while since I wrote in the style of Warband of the Forsaken Sons, so tell me if you feel I am slipping.

I have a question for you, concerning another story. A few weeks ago, I started working on a What-if ? titled "Prince of the Eye", which follows the premise "What if Horus had survived the Heresy ?". I plan for this story to be a timeline of events with short scenes, like I did in the RH's very first chapter and the Indexes that followed. Right now, I have about 9k words ready ... and a conundrum : should I wait until the timeline is completed, from the Heresy to the Times of Ending (I am not going further), and publish it all in one go as another entry in my Warhammer Short Stories fic ? Or should I create a new fic, and put up each part of the story as individual chapters ? Keep in mind, these parts would be much shorter than my typical output (most of the ones already done at around 700 words, with the longest at 1300 words at best).

What do you think I should do ? On one hand, waiting until the story is done will allow me to go back and change early parts to fit with ideas that may come later. On the other hand ... well, it means you would have to wait a long time before reading anything in that particular What-if.

Zahariel out.