Colonel Daine Macara buckled his sabre around the waist of his dress jacket. He smoothed down the grey fabric, and carefully removed a thread from the medals on his breast. The colonel carefully adjusted the golden-thread lanyard that hung from his left lapel, before making sure his crimson facings were aligned perfectly, the silver Aquila pins at his throat symmetrical.

Finally, he pulled on his dress peaked cap, so the brim covered his eyes, forcing him to tilt his chin to be able to see. It gave him the appearance that he was looking down his nose, which was perfect; it was meant to do that. Looking at his figure in the mirror, he grimaced. His chiselled jaw and greying hair gave him the look of a man in his late fifties; Macara was forty. And he couldn't stand Number One dress uniform.

"Looking very suave, sir," Corporal Kallum said jovially.

"Shut up," Macara replied.

"I'm just saying, so I am, sir, you look grand. A lady killer and Ork slayer if ever there was one!"

Macara took a swipe for the corporal, who nimbly jumped out the way, just avoiding the blow. Macara raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "As and NCO, you're meant to let me hit you."

"Oh yes sir, of course sir," Kallum replied, grinning. He had been his colonel's adjutant since his colonel was a captain, so he knew him well enough to be flippant. Not too flippant, though.

"Well, you can open the door for me, corporal."

"Certainly, sir," Kallum bowed slightly, still grinning. The corporal turned the door handle and opened the plain panel. Macara marched out briskly, closely followed by Kallum. The Corporal placed his own dark blue beret on his head. It looked incongruous when compared to his dress uniform, but no man of his regiment would be found without theirs.

They quickly went along to a set of lifts, and waited for one to arrive on their floor. The two Guardsmen stepped inside, and Kallum pressed the speaker button.

"Sixth level, Great hall," the lift beeped a confirmation then set off.

"I can't be bothered with this nonsense," Macara said gloomily. He fidgeted with his medals, moving them this way and that, never satisfied with the way he had them. Eventually, Kallum batted the colonel's hands away and straightened the medals for him.

"I hate these things." Macara said, petulantly pushing the bigger corporal away.

"Is it done?" the shadowy figure asked.

"Yes, my Lord. The General is in my pocket, and I have confirmation of the device's existence," a second figure, equally shrouded in the gloom, replied.

The chamber they were in was large, and several hooded adepts hurried this way and that, all with heads bowed, all trying to avoid the attentions of the two speakers. The first voice was seated in darkness, the second stood before him.

"Where?" the original speaker hissed. "Have you found where in the city it lies?"

"No, Lord, only that is most certainly there. I do have some leads, however."

"Good. Return there, then, my loyal soldier, and find it for me. Do whatever you must. You may use my seal if necessary, if you find that your authority is not enough."

"Of course, my lord." The second figure bowed, and then turned on its heel, cloak billowing, and strode from the hall.

With a slight glint, catching one of the few sources of light in the room, the seated figure flexed the fingers of its left hand, metal shining brightly.

The lift came to a stop, the doors drawing open. The colonel and his adjutant walked out into a long corridor, wide and low, with many doors on either side along its length. Outside each door stood a pair of troopers, standing watch.

This was the Administrative rooms in the fortress monastery of Gateway Pass. Every one of the 38 regiments in the Battlefield Support echelon of the Garrowan military had a chamber with a small army of archivists, storing and transcribing the records of every regiment since its founding. One floor down, the 40 regiments of PDF Echelon had similar chambers, and one floor up lay the hallowed records of the Angels themselves.

Macara could see some officers 150 yards along the corridor reached two great doors and then enter the Great Hall. It seemed most of the assembly was inside already. He quickened his pace.

He and Kallum passed all the troopers on Guard; Heavy Infantry, Fusiliers, Riflemen and Cavalry crew.

Kallum stopped when they walked past two men of their own regiment.

"Alrighty there, Mk'Gorl? Enjoying the mind-numbing boredom of guard duty? You should get a cushy job like mine," he laughed. The private grinned.

"Corporal, if you do no shut up and follow me, Private Mk'Gorl will be getting your 'cushy' job." Macara called over his shoulder. Kallum hurried to catch up.

Macara ignored the tapestries that hung on the walls. He had seen them many times. Kallum had only seen them occasionally, so loved to gaze at them as he went along. Scenes of triumphant battle, tragic last stands and great heroes covered each. Macara smiled inwardly at the look on Kallum's face as they walked along.

As the pair approached the great doors at the end of the corridor, they came up to two towering figures, one on either side. They wore pure white robes over black fatigues. Each man had a massive two-handed sword, point down, held by the handle. Now, Macara was no small man, topping six feet two inches, but these men towered over him and the taller Kallum, both in height and build.

They were Astartes of the Angels of the Black Blade, and this was their Fortress.

Even without their bulky power armour, they were huge and imposing. Macara and Kallum walked up to them and bowed.

"Colonel Macara, as requested by the Lord General," Macara saluted formally.

"This way, colonel," One of the Marines boomed. They opened the doors for him and saluted back. Macara always marvelled at this. They showed respect for his rank, even though one of them was worth him and his whole regiment to the Imperium. He nodded to them, and took a deep breath as he entered the hall.

He lost that breath at the roaring cheer that greeted him in the Great Hall. 'Great' was an understatement. It was fully two hundred metres by one hundred long. Statues and murals ran down either side. More tapestries hung on the walls, fully sixty metres in height. There was a podium in in the middle of the hall, and beyond that the benches and tables where the Angels took their meals as a Company. They lay empty, but he expected that.

The other half of the hall, the closer side, was full of officers from every Garrowan regiment in the 2nd Division.

They had all returned from Cadia only a month ago, having helped fight Abaddon's latest incursion. All thoughts pointed towards Thirteenth Black Crusade being launched soon, and the unleashing of Typhus and his plague of Unbelieving, coupled with traitor hosts touching down on Cadia's own soil served only to strengthen those worries.

But here and now, they were celebrating the chievmens of the Garrowan 5th.

Leading to the podium, and Honour Guard made of 40 Garrowan Lifeguards, the veterans who protected the Lord General, and 40 of his own men. Beside them were ranked 10 Cadian Kasrkin, guests of honour. Reddening at the cheeks, Macara walked towards the podium. Officer were cheering him from either side.

On the podium, the Generals of the 2nd Division, his Division, stood reading to receive him. General Bukanan, tall and wild haired, General of the Light Brigade, all regiments from the city of Lynstas, expert skirmishers. Beside him, smaller but bulkier, and well-trimmed, Brigadier General Taulich of the 2nd brigade, in which Macara served. Their commander, in turn, was the fine figure of General Mk'Fedan – well built, average height, strong jaw, he had led the 2nd Division for almost ten years.

Behind them was a throne, and a short, pale man stood beside it. He was an offworlder, Field Marshall Tern, Chief of Staff. A Cadian General, resplendent in khaki and olive green dress uniform. But it was the figure on the throne behind them who Macara loved above any other man present. Lord General Mc'Alastor, the 'Old Brute', highest ranking human on Garrowa.

Mc'Alastor was possibly the greatest of all Garrowan Commanders. Ever. He had personally led his forces in more than forty campaigns, over one two hundred battles. He had only ever lost three. Mc'Alastor has risen from trooper, and was loved by all his men. More than loved. They would follow the 'Old Brute' into the Eye of Terror if he told them they could win. Macara saluted him the moment his feet had come to a rest on the podium.

"We've been expecting you, colonel," Tern said, his voice full of breeding and indulgence. He was not a native to the Garrowan system. Rather, he was the son of a highborn noble, attend the Schola Progenium and was sent to monitor the Garrowan establishment. Just 'in case'. He was one of the few officers the men did not like.

General Mk'Fedan beamed with pride. He spoke to the assembled officer in his booming cant.

"Attention!" he bellowed. As one, the assembled officers snapped to. "It is good to be home. It has taken the better part of a Terran year to get here, but it is something we suffer gladly for the ability see our homes, an honour many Guardsmen never experience." He paused to take breath, a small applause breaking out as he did so. The general held up his hand for silence, before continuing. "We are here to honour Colonel Daine Macara, for his actions, and the conduct of his regiment, during the failed invasion of Cadia." He let the words hang for a moment. Many brave men died fighting on Cadia during that campaign.

"Colonel Macara brought his regiment, the 5th Heavy Infantry, through many tough fights. If not for him, the fall of Kasr Tyrok would have become a route. If not for the 5th, the 2nd Division would have been wiped out as they fell back to the defence lines. He saved the lives of forty thousand men that day. And so, I believe, we owe him a great thanks. If I could now introduce General Mareven?" he gestured to the Cadian officer, who waited for the clapping to stop before he spoke out loudly.

"Thank you, Warriors of Garrowa!"

Cheers erupted once again. Someone, somewhere in the Hall, was thumping the wooden armrest of a chair. It wasn't Mc'Alastor, but Macara could see no one else seated. Mareven spoke again as the noise died down.

"I have been sent by the Lord Castellan of Cadia, and granted permission by the holy Munitorum to grant this award," he looked at the assembled men. "although, I didn't think I'd get here this quickly!" he made light of the strange arrival of the Garrowan forces at their home.

"I present to Colonel Macara, of the 5th Garrowan Heavy Infantry, the Macharian Cross!" the general finished as he lifted the medal's ribbon over Macara's neck, from a wooden box held by a grim Cadian Kasrkin private.

Macara's officers cheered themselves hoarse. The crowd took up this cheer. However, inwardly Macara shuddered. Too many of his men had not returned from that fight, and he felt he had failed to bring them all home.

At Mareven's signal, Macara turned to the assembled officers and saluted.

"Now bloody well calm down!" a thickly accented voice called, in Garrowan, not Gothic. It was Mc'Alastor. The officer fell silent in an instant. "We are all delighted with Macara's award, but there is something far more pressing at hand!" he looked at the sea of faces, watching the joy fade suddenly. "I do believe it's time for a drink! The main mess has been reserved for you all, and four dozen crates of best Ferrila lie waiting to be opened! If you would all like to head for the Third level?"

The doors at the end of the hall opened, and the officers streamed out, laughing and cheering. They were, strangely, all very disciplined as they left. There was no pushing or shoving, despite the excitement and urge to get to the mess.

As they filed out, Tern spoke to Macara. "Could you wait, colonel? The Lord General wishes an impromptu officer meeting,"

"Of course, sir," Macara replied politely. Macara really wanted to join his officers, but an order was an order. The audience left, flowing through the great doors. After a few minutes, they were closed with a tight thud.

"Not wishing to ruin your night, Daine, so I'll do this quickly." Mc'Alastor sighed. "The 2nd Division is being routed to the Ramillies system. The capital city of the planet has fallen, and we need its military production to help replace what was lost with these latest incursions. If there is to be another Black Crusade, the sector needs to be prepared for what is to come" Macara nodded slowly. He knew vaguely of what was happening there.

"When do we leave, sir?"

"The day after tomorrow. Tern said tersely.

"What are our objectives?"

"You will be told in transit." Tern replied again. Mc'Alastor scowled, and Macara gave the rhuith general a hard stare.

"There is one more thing, Daine. General Taulich will not be commanding 2nd Brigade." Mk'Fedan said, slight sadness on his face.

"What? Why not, sir? We can't lose the general before going into action!" Macara was startled.

"It is confidential, colon…" Tern began.

"I am being moved up the chain of command, Daine." Taulich said in Garrowan, ignoring Tern as he cut him off. "Going to Intelligence."

"Which means the brigade needs a commander. We thought you may like to try that out?" Mk'Fedan smiled warmly. Macara was stunned. He had never dreamed of commanding a brigade by this point of his career.

"I…I mean to say…I. thank you, sirs. I will do my best."

"I know you will, Daine," Mc'Alastor spoke up. "You can take over the duties in transit. The materials will be provided for you. Now, go on, and enjoy your party. I fully intend to myself," the Brute smiled. "I fully intend to see if those lieutenants can hold their liquor better than this old man." He smiled tapping his chest.

Yes, the Garrowans loved this man, and for good reason.

Mc'Alastor would never waste them unnecessarily, as Imperial commanders are wont to do. He used them for what they were; a finely-honed tool in support of their Angels Liege-lords.

Macara saluted and made to leave.

"I always knew you'd go far, Daine. Your father would be proud." Mc'Alastor finished.

"Thank you, sir," Macara grunted slightly. He didn't particularly care what his father would have thought, and his father boots were far too large for him to try and fit into. In his opinion, Mc'Alastor had been a better father to him, despite his command of a whole world and its forces.

As Macara and Kallum, with the general staff, began to walk away, a voice boomed across the hall.

"Congratulations, colonel."

Sat on an even more ornate throne, almost at the opposite end of the hall, sat like a statue of the gods, was Chapter Master Morté.

"Good luck, and bring retribution to the enemies of the Emperor," Morté said, his words reverberating across the perfectly balanced acoustics of the Hall.

How had he not seen him when he came in? Macara thought to himself. How had he missed his Liege Lord? He didn't care, what an honour!

"Thank you, my Lord. The Emperor Protects." Macara replied, slightly stunned once more. The generals echoed his words, then together they turned and briskly left the hall. Macara's heart soared; he had only ever seen the Chapter Master from about half a kilometre away, and yet here he was being congratulated by him! He could go to his fiery death a happy man.

As the officers left through the great doors, Chapter Master Morté smiled. Ever so slightly.

The party raged on, hours later. Corporal Kallum sat with the Kasrkin troopers, the only non-officers allowed to the party. The men drank heavily, laughing loudly between mouthfuls.

Macara watched his adjutant, a smile on his face. His second in command, major Cairns, laughed at the spectacle. General Mareven was sat with Taulich, telling a rather crude joke about a Sororitas Nun and an Ork. It had the surrounding officers in fits of laughter. A group of lieutenants stood within earshot, boasting drunkenly of the enemies they would kill.

Lord General Mc'Alastor Pushed his way through the throng of subalterns, deftly avoiding being dragged into their conversation. Macara, Cairns and Mareven stood at his arrival.

"No, gentlemen, sit. Tonight is a party and I won't have you stand on ceremony." He said. He then glanced at Kallum.

"I see your aide is enjoying the company of General Mareven's Cadians?" he grinned.

"Yes, I believe he is sir." Macara smiled again. Mareven spoke up.

"Apparently, my Lord, your corporal put forward the theory that any single Garrowan could drink as much as any five others!" He laughed

"And he's proving it, too," Taulich joined in. "Good on him I say. Third stripe for old Dearg Kallum?"

"Maybe, sir," Macara laughed out loud.

"I should hope so, from one of my men!" Mc'Alastor growled, taking a full glass and passing it to Macara before holding his own high. Using a parade voiced practised over sixty years of fighting, he called.

"To the Fighting Fifth!" he roared. The other officers jeered playfully as the officers of the 5th bellowed back their age old reply.

"Long May they March on!"

Macara took a sip of the ferrila, the strong crop-spirit heating his throat on the way down. He looked appreciatively at the golden-red liquid.

Looking round, he could see the faces of many of the men he would be commanding in battle. Would he be up to the challenge?

He looked again at Kallum, who had now drunk three Cadians to oblivion, with a fourth quickly getting to the same state. Kallum looked fine, as if he were about to go on parade.

"So, colonel, when was the last time you had a Drylar's Cup?" Mc'Alastor's voice cut through his thoughts.

Macara replied wearily. "I don't think I have, sir…" He knew the Old Brute's propensity for drinking games.

"Well, colonel, that is something we shall have to remedy."