My apologies for the late and short post...but work and real life is a bitch when you want to write fanfics.

Aftermath

The battle outside the Warboss's stronghold continued to rage for several hours, but the combined forces of the Storm Eagles First Company, the Imperial Army and the War Hounds had the edge owing to the fact that the Orks had started to turn on each other. As many as four of the brutes had declared themselves the new Warboss, only to be struck down by their fellows. With the combined onslaught of the Astartes and their own kind, the Orks were eventually routed and driven off.

Asghar wanted to go into the keep at once in search of his Primarch, but he had a duty to do first. He gave out orders for his men and the Imperial Army to secure the area. As he did, he was joined by General Brand of the 85th Thunder Bearer Regiment, the Imperial Army division attached to the First Company. Brand had a reputation of his own, being one of the oldest mortal Tempestans to have fought in the Storm Lord's army during the Unification of Tempestas. His age showed on his face, but a combination of gene-hancements and rejuvenat treatments allowed him to carry himself with the energy of a younger man, as well as live far longer past the average lifespan of most humans.

"General," greeted Asghar.

"Captain," returned Brand. "A fine victory."

"Thanks to the 85th," answered Asghar. "My compliments to your officers and your men."

Brand smiled. "I'm grateful. Now, I'm sure you wish to go in there and find the Storm Lord. We can..."

Brand trailed off and his face turned pale.

Asghar, already sensing it, whirled around. He came face to face with a War Hound. The warrior was huge, slightly bigger than Asghar. He wore no helm, revealing a scarred, brutal face with dark frowning eyes and a hard mouth. His jaw was tense, as though he was grinding his teeth together. Whatever hair he might have once had was gone, revealing a scalp criss-crossed with scars.

The War Hound glanced down at Brand. "Be gone."

For a moment, Brand seemed to bristle, but then stiffly bowed his head before striding off.

"I don't believe we've met," said Asghar coldly to the warrior. "But you had no right to send off an Imperial Army general like that."

The warrior shrugged. "Been fighting for a long time. Not interested in talking to mortals."

"How long have you been behind enemy lines?"

The warrior paused to think for a second before shrugging again. "A month? Maybe two? Don't know, lost count." He stared at Asghar insolently. "Then you Eagles came interfering. Good thing you lot managed to keep up, or we'd have a problem right now."

"Watch your tongue, Hound," warned Asghar. "I'm Asghar, First Captain of the Storm Eagles and your superior officer -"

"First Captain, yes. My superior, no," retorted the warrior. "Ibram Gheer, Legion Master of the War Hounds."

That threw Asghar. For a moment, he found himself staring at Gheer, speechless with shock. Gheer grinned at him.

"You? Legion Master?" repeated Asghar. "But...what happened to Lhorke? Did he die?"

The grin disappeared from Gheer's face. He looked almost uncomfortable. "Lhorke still walks with us...after a fashion."

The Legion Master jerked his head towards the shattered gates of the Ork stronghold and Asghar turned to look. He saw the shape of a Dreadnought towering over the milling Astartes.

Without a word, Asghar started walking towards it. Sensing his approach, the Dreadnought turned ponderously to face him. Astartes and Dreadnought stared at each other for a long moment.

"Asghar." the voice was completely free of emotion, rendered inhuman by the cold machinations of the Dreadnought's technology.

"Lhorke?" asked Asghar uncertainly. There was nothing familiar in the Dreadnought's voice, nothing that sounded remotely like his old friend.

"Aye. It's me," replied the Dreadnought. He paused, staring at Asghar for a moment. "You got a little fat, I see."

"You're the one weighing several tonnes now," retorted Asghar.

There was a pause and Lhorke let out a harsh sound that sounded like cannons going off; after a moment Asghar recognised the noise as laughter. He smiled ruefully.

"How did it happen?" he asked.

Lhorke shifted slightly, as though irritated by the question. "Blasted by lasfire from near point-blank range. Managed to cut the bastard's head off before I went down, though."

"You were careless."

"I killed him. That's all that matters."

Asghar smiled. That was definitely his friend, locked deep inside the sarcophagus. He turned to look at the increasingly distant tide of Orks in the distance. "They're still breaking."

"And they'll break further when we catch up with them," vowed Lhorke. "But first I must go counsel Gheer."

"How is he?"

The Dreadnought made a movement that was very much like a shrug. "Not very patient or imaginative around the strategy table, I admit, but definitely the kind of man you want leading you against hopeless odds and near-certain death situations."

Asghar laughed. "Sounds like the last Legion Master of the War Hounds. He'll end up like you soon enough, I'll wager."

Another rumbling noise that passed for laughter as a Dreadnought. "Only in death does duty end, Asghar."

"Only in death does duty end," returned Asghar, inclining his head as he stepped aside to let Lhorke stalk past him, every step causing the earth to tremble slightly. He was glad that his old friend still lived, but he did not envy the life ahead of Lhorke. It took great mental strength to control a Dreadnought, and as the years go by, the process exhausts the mind like nothing else. Soon, the Dreadnought must sleep to recuperate, and the length of the sleep would grow longer as the years go by. Some say that one day, the most ancient of the venerable warriors would never wake again.

Asghar shook his head; now was not the time for melancholic thoughts. He had to find his Primarch. He quickly ordered two squads to follow him into the Ork keep. It wasn't long before they walked right into the Storm Lord.

Asghar was aghast. He had seen Thorondor fight in countless battles, but he had never seen his Primarch looking so battered. His armour was rent and crushed in places, there was blood all over him – Asghar fervently hoped it was not his own – and while his superhuman healing abilities were clearly in effect, the Primach was obviously in pain, despite the smile he greeted Asghar with.

"My lord!" gasped Asghar, before barking out an order for the apothecaries to see to him. "What-, just-, what happened?" He grew angry and rounded on the Storm Riders that had gone with the Storm Lord. "What were you doing? You were supposed to be protecting him!"

Before any of the Storm Riders could protest, Thorondor spoke. "Don't be angry with them, Asghar. They were only obeying my orders. Look." He gestured, and two of the Storm Riders hauled the biggest Ork head Asghar had ever seen. It was as large as Asghar's torso, and he was bigger than the average Astartes.

"You fought that by yourself?" exclaimed Asghar, aghast.

"I killed that by myself," corrected Thorondor, looking very pleased with himself.

Asghar wanted very much to reprimand his Primarch for his reckless action, but that was exactly the problem: Thorondor was a Primarch, not some hot-blooded neophyte.

"My lord," said Asghar with feigned calm. "You remember the talk we had before…?"

Thorondor sighed. "Which one? We've had so many of them."

"The one about how you are too important to throw yourself into such unnecessary danger –"

"Unnecessary?" repeated Thorondor. "The beast was one of the most powerful Orks I've ever faced. It would've slain many of our men before it fell."

"You are worth more than every single one of us, my lord."

"Wrong, Asghar. I am worth nothing without every single one of you."

Thorondor just had a way of making his warriors stand a little prouder; even Asghar could feel his annoyance and concern vanishing at the Storm Lord's words. He fought the feeling down, he had been disarmed by Thorondor in such a way far too many times.

"My lord –" began Asghar again but Thorondor cut him off.

"I am a warrior as much as I am a general, Asghar. How can I ask my warriors to face danger if I would not do the same? How can I face Russ, Horus, Sanguinius, Vulkan, all of my brothers if I do not lead my men as a warrior? How can I face the Emperor?"

"But –"

"Let us speak no more of this, Asghar," said Thorondor in such a firm voice that the First Captain did not dare argue. "What is the situation?"

"The xenos have been broken. They've fractured into different factions and are fighting each other as much as us. Tyron Prime and the remaining inhabited cities are secure, and the defenders are routing the Ork forces alongside the reinforcements we brought. The Orks are still a threat though, it will be several more months before we can secure the whole planet."

Thorondor nodded. "I see. Very well, let's see what this battle has cost us, then."

II II II

While victories were celebrated, taking stock of the cost was always a far more somber affair.

Aside from the spent ammunition, fuel and other miscellaneous items, the Tyron Campaign had also seen the deaths of nearly two hundred thousand Imperial Army soldiers. As for the Storm Eagles, the Second Company which borne the brunt of the fighting had also suffered the heaviest casualties, with nearly four hundred veteran warriors slain. As a whole, the Second Legion had lost nearly two thousand Astartes. Due to the Ork invasion, over 80% of Tyron's population had been killed.

But as the tally continued, from the Imperium's standpoint, none had suffered worse than the Eleventh Legion.

The entire Sixty-Sixth Expedition had been completely destroyed from the Imperial Navy warships to supporting personal. Less than 3% of the Imperial Army forces attached to the Expedition had survived with only a few of the precious war machines salvaged. The Mechanicum detachment assigned to the Expedition had also been completely destroyed, including a highly valuable Warlord-class Titan. But it was the Astartes Legion itself that had suffered the worst casualty.

Already one of the smaller Legions with at most five thousand Astartes, the Eleventh Legion saw barely four hundred survive the Tyron Campaign.

II II II

Having refused anything for the pain, Mika Vukona's teeth ground together as the pain from his head wound throbbed viciously. The pain was so great it would have killed any man, or at least knock them out, but Vukona was an Astartes; he could bear any pain, and the pain was his penance.

In his state, he knew he should be lying down – his Apothecary had said so many times – but he stubbornly sat up in his bed, refusing to succumb to unconsciousness as the pain worsened from his posture. Vukona needed to reflect on his failure.

While they had won, victory had come at the cost of the entire Sixty-Sixth Expedition, millions of lives from Imperial forces attached to the expedition alone and countless more from the local populace.

Vukona knew he had not led the Eleventh Legion to victory, only survival.

And now his Legion, already among the smallest, was now severely diminished and teetering on the edge of extinction.

The ruined side of Vukona's face twitched and he grit his teeth as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. Vukona knew he would have to answer to the War Council, to explain his failures before the Primarchs and the Emperor himself. He was prepared to offer his life, as meagre as it was, to pay for his failure.

He heard the door to his ward open and tried to turn his head, but the pain was too much and he ended up bowing his head with a soft hiss.

"Not now, Te Rangi," said Vukona, keeping his voice steady, not wanting to his right hand man and old friend to see him like this.

"I'm afraid this can't wait, Legion Master," answered the newcomer, and it wasn't Te Rangi. Steeling himself, Vukona looked up and his breath caught in his throat.

Mika Vukona had only ever met the Primarchs through hololith, but the communication device did a poor job of transmitting the physical magnificence of Horus, the stern countenance of Rogal Dorn, the regal bearing of Roboute Guilliman and the beauty of Fulgrim, but even then, Vukona had always been awed by their presence.

Now, a Primarch stood before him in the flesh. Thorondor the Storm Lord, Primarch of the Storm Eagles and Second Son of the Emperor stood before him clad in his ocean blue power armour, his pale, handsome face framed by ebony dark hair. The Primarch's storm-grey eyes regarded him and all Vukona could do was sit in his chair, wracked by pain and overwhelmed with awe.

Shame flushed through him; Vukona knew what a pathetic sight he must be in the eyes of so magnificent a being. Grinding his teeth together, Vukona began to push himself to his feet; he would stand and kneel before the Primarch, his pain be damned.

"My lord," he managed to rasp. "Forgive me for not…"

Arms with the strength to effortlessly kill him gently pushed him back into his seat. Vukona blinked and found Thorondor's face level with his, the Primarch having pulled a chair so that he could face him. Even then, the Storm Lord's height was so great that he still had to bow to keep their faces level.

"After everything you did and sacrificed, I should be the one kneeling to you, my friend," said Thorondor gently.

Vukona flushed with a mixture of pride and shame. "We did our duty, my lord."

Thorondor nodded. "You did that and more. You've brought honour to your Legion; you've shown what it means to serve as an Astartes."

"Please, my lord," whispered Vukona, bowing his head. "I do not deserve your kind words."

Thorondor said nothing to that, but instead gently reached out to touch the ruined side of Vukona's face. The Legion Master wanted to turn away, to hide the offensively hideous wound from the Primarch, but the Emperor's son's hold was gentle but firm, refusing to be denied.

"Will your eye heal?" asked Thorondor.

Vukona shook his head. "No, my lord." The Apothecary and medicae officers had done what they could, but his left eye could not be saved. They had removed it and prepared the empty socket to receive an implant to replace it.

"I'm sorry to hear that," replied Thorondor, withdrawing his hand. "I know this must be difficult for you, Legion Master, but I'm afraid I must ask you…what happened? How is it that the Sixty-Sixth Expedition suffered such a catastrophic loss?"

Vukona had been expecting the question, but it made it no less difficult for him to answer. He spoke of how the Orks had somehow evaded detection by the fleet's long-range scanners before striking from seemingly every direction. Only a small handful of Imperial Army forces had managed to evacuate planet-side. The Eleventh Legion had been spared because they had all been on Tyron overseeing the ceremony declaring the planet Compliant.

Vukona kept his voice even and emotionless during the whole ordeal and Thorondor said nothing, simply listening expressionlessly. The Legion Master could hear the unspoken question: how had the Orks avoided detection until it was too late?

"Thank you, Legion Master," said Thorondor once Vukona was finished. The Space Marine was good at reading expressions, but the Primarch's face gave no hint as to what he thought of the disaster. Nevertheless, Vukona was certain that he detected a hint of anger emanating from the Storm Lord.

"My lord, this failure lies solely on my shoulders," said Vukona, struggling to get out of his bed. "If need be, I would gladly surrender my life to the Emperor's judgment."

Thorondor gently pushed the Legion Master back onto the bed. "There will be no need for that, Vukona; I will make certain of it. You have not failed. You, the Eleventh Legion, the Sixty-Sixth Expedition gave everything to protect this world of Mankind from the xenos invasion. You are exemplars of everything an Astartes should be. Cast away your shame, Legion Master. The Emperor would be proud of you…of all of you."

Thorondor stood. "Now rest. I must make my report to the War Council. I will notify you of any updates."

"My lord," said Vukona, his voice breaking as pain wracked his body. "The Eleventh…my brothers…my Legion…we are diminished. What is to become of us?"

Thorondor paused, and his face was troubled.

"I don't know."

With that, the Primarch left.

Vukona slumped back into his seat. His Legion was diminished, down to barely four hundred Astartes. The Eleventh Legion was one of the smaller Legions for a reason – a reason that Vukona had dared not tell anyone. It was a secret known only within the Eleventh…Vukona doubted that even the Emperor knew.

His mind wracked with pain, grief and fear, the Legion Master leaned back and finally succumbed to the welcoming darkness.

Character Notes:

Ibram Gheer, former Legion Master of the War Hounds - Mentioned in Betrayer

Lhorke, former Legion Master of the War Hounds - Appears in Betrayer