Maragos lay the limp body of Ignatius Grulgor on the sanctified altar as Typhon directed. Orders had come through for them to join with the rest of the Death Guard's fleet. Typhon had already commanded the Terminus Est to join the muster; he had also sent word to Erebus about the plans for the Iron Warriors and Death Guard to assault the world of Mandarax.

Typhon had said simply that he trusted his friend's discretion in using the information. Right now, there were other things to do. Maragos was not comfortable in here; he glanced at the small shrine to the Emperor and made the sign of the aquila to ward off any evil that might be lurking about. Typhon looked at him with mild amusement.

"Superstitious, are you, Devlain?"

"Just wary, if I am honest," Maragos replied. He did not say aloud that they were living in a time of confirmed superstitions. "What are we doing, Calas?"

"Patience, brother. Come kneel beside me: it is time for us to receive our lord's blessing."

Both men felt the shift as the Terminus Est entered the Warp, the Eternal Scythe and Tempus Fugite alongside her. They bowed their heads and closed their eyes, waiting vigilantly over the body of the Second Captain. In their meditation, they did not see or feel, at first, what was happening in the Warp that surrounded the ship.

In this, they were alone on the entire Terminus Est, indeed on the entire fleet. The Warp began to swirl violently with the aftershocks of Typhon's ritual, making it impossible for the Navigators to see where they were going. It was, one crewman said in those frantic moments, as if the Warp had suddenly taken on a life of its own, stretching in tendrils with no end to drag the vessel down - not that 'down' had meaning here. The transformation seemed instantaneous to some, while to others it seemed they had been marooned for years. Things that no human language could describe began to pound the hulls of the ship, and tendrils of energy began to encase each vessel, warping them into something other than what they had been. Where the gun turrets were, great bulbous masses appeared, and as the energy wound its way through the Gellar Fields' weakest points, the ships began to alter, inside and out, into something hideous, something more terrible than even the sky-cities of death that they had once been. From the engineering decks, humans screamed in terror as creatures that appeared to be featureless oozes with gaping pestilent holes attacked, tearing them apart and taking some of the bodies for themselves. On other decks, humans already going insane began to pull their eyes out of their sockets in order to no longer see what was going on around them. Yet the pieces of the former knit themselves back together into unbreathing husks that returned to their labor, and the latter were unhurt by the blood loss, growing new eyes on their arms and, where those eyes had been, fleshy helices that could see the Warp as their eyes had seen realspace. The Terminus Est and the fleet surrounding it were dying, true, but that was only a part of their metamorphosis. Sickness, then death, then rebirth, always in that order.

The Astartes fared no better. Even their famed resilience was no match for whatever the ritual had done, and their legendary constitutions, proofed against all known diseases and infections, were turning against them. Their superhuman bodies would not allow them to die, but instead rotted them eternally from the inside. Their low, agonized, unending screams were unlike anything the universe had heard before.

Maragos stared as Grulgor began to wake, a twisted and bloated version of his once handsome self. Maragos himself had begun to feel the effects of the Warp intrusion: black slime fell from his mouth as his body warped with the same effects that his brothers were experiencing. Only Typhon seemed serene despite what was happening around him.

He was uttering loyalty to whatever was doing this; and to save his brothers, Maragos knew that he could do nothing but the same. He stared as the visage of a great entity appeared before them. Its body was bloated with corruption and exuded a sickly diseased stench. It was leathery but necrotic and green, its surface pockmarked with boils, sores and running pestilence. Maragos lay on the floor, the pain racking his body as it altered (how long had it been?) and he saw the god's exposed guts, running with… things. He was loathe to think of daemons, but that is how it seemed to him: even his sickened mind still saw them as daemons.

"I will take this one." He motioned to Grulgor. "I have plans for him, my herald."

The voice was altogether liquidised and like the sound of a caring parent.

The First Captain rose to his feet and helped Maragos, both men hideously altered beyond recognition. Calas Typhon's armour now encased his entire body, and from within it came the sound of buzzing.

"My host to the Destroyer Hive," the voice gurgled again. "My Herald! Spread my great works and my word. I have spared the mortals and warriors on these vessels, and they have known my caring nature."

"As you will, grandfather."

With a shifting of his feet, Typhus gripped his scythe.

The god took the figure of Grulgor. "He will be returned when I am done."

Maragos heard nothing over the vox - and then prayers, prayers to their deliverer. But as he caught a glance at his transformed self, he began to loathe Typhus for what he had done to gain power.

It was a hatred that would last the rest of his days, for it was not in the nature of those who served Nurgle to change. Maragos knew he would remain in service to this plague god, but he would never again trust the man who had been his friend.

Outside, the Warp Storm abated without being noticed by any but the most well-equipped of astropathic stations, and the three vessels made their way through to realspace - but where once they had been ships of war and conquest, what they were now was nightmares to reality's realms.


The Indomitable Will sat at high anchor around the planet Mandarax. Mortarion stood, staring balefully at the planet below. He had brought this world into compliance; he had raised the Imperial standard himself, alongside that of the Death Guard. He had left General Ofara, a veteran of many campaigns, as governor; Ofara and his Imperial Army Unit, the 24th Royal Grenadiers of Ulser, had more than earnt their right to settle the world.

They had named it Mandarax, after an old hero from their world Usler Minor's past. Mortarion had no reason to believe that Castus Ofara had turned against him; instead, the last communique he had received from Mandarax had been a cry for help, stating that forces loyal to the Emperor had turned against their own. It had been one among a storm of such pleas at the time, and there had been no opportunity to address it.

Now, all hails were being met with silence.

He waited. He would not prosecute this war alone; he was more than capable of taking the planet with the forces he already had, but he had promised Perturabo a slice of the action and one did not go back on a promise to the Comrade. He watched as Iron Warrior ships translated into system and then stood straighter as the mighty Iron Blood came through.

He allowed a slight smile to cross his face: the biggest ship in the Iron Warriors fleet, and when she arrived, you knew that Perturabo was here. He frowned a little as he glanced at the hololithic display wondering where his first three captains were; their vessels were not in the formation, and despite the firepower of the Primarch's vessel and the Endurance, the Terminus Est had still been required in his primary plans for the war. The ships' absence did not speak of subterfuge - this was too early for backstabbing. If anything, it was more likely that they'd been attacked. But then again, he had not received any requests for assistance, and even proud Typhon would have sent one if it had been truly needed.

For now, Mortarion would continue sending messages planetside without hope of reply, giving Perturabo a chance to prepare himself and Typhon, Grulgor, and Maragos a chance to arrive.


The Iron Warriors stepped back as the crowning glory in their arsenal made an appearance. The Death Incarnate, Jericho, Troi, and War Bringer, all of them mighty Goth-class Reaver Titans. They were equipped with a mix of Vulcan cannon, quake cannon, inferno gun, apocalypse missile launchers and large plasma cannon. All four of the Reavers took their places, readying for the battle. The Imperial Army placed their ear defenders on, and the Iron Warriors ensured that their armour suits' audio compensators were ready.

Jasiera had not heard from squad Bellicose for several hours, but then again he had told them to maintain radio silence. After all, he did not want anyone knowing they were there. Still, he could not escape the feeling that something had gone wrong. Some Legions would have delayed the bombardment for that reason; Jasiera knew that if something had indeed gone wrong, then the squad was almost certainly dead, and the best way to honour his brothers' sacrifices was to destroy the fortress they had fallen against.

He watched as the drone vessels unleashed their payloads. Although they were destroyed themselves in the process, they did their job: the shielding around the centre of the bastion crumbled under the bombardment and the Warsmith grimly smiled.

++Princeps Tynar, are you and your brothers ready? ++

++We are, my Lord Warsmith, on your mark++

++Fire when ready, for the Primarch and the Warmaster++

++For the Omni….Primarch and the Warmaster++

Tynar caught himself, and Jasiera did not blame him for that. Since the bizarre events occurring not just on Terra but Mars as well, many of the Legions that had once been loyal to the old order found their Titans geared more to the Warmaster. In recognition of that, they had dropped the reference to the Omnissiah from their traditional salute.

The Warsmith did not know if the Omnissiah was truly a name for the Emperor or not, but he would not chastise the Princeps for finding it difficult to reconcile the old with the new. It would take time for all of them.

He watched as the four Titans unleashed their payloads. There was a reason he had Reavers of the Goth class in his retinue: their weapons could bring an enemy's walls down to nothing but rubble, and they were doing just that. He could imagine the panic behind the walls, the human warriors covering their ears as the mighty roar of the Titans' armaments burst their ear drums, making them bleed and rendering them deaf for the rest of their lives. Admittedly, for most of those soldiers that remainder would be short indeed, for they too would be crushed by falling masonry.

Jasiera was about to move to where his company waited when he saw them. Black-armoured transhumans figures, emerging from the shattered areas of the curtain wall where the Titans had broken through.

"Finally," he whispered to himself ++Brothers and sisters of Barania, concern yourself with the human soldiers; brothers of the Legion, the Sons of the Lion have come to meet us. Let us not disappoint them; Iron within….++

++Iron Without!++

++For the Primarch and the Warmaster.++

He joined his company and, with Isolder beside him, the Iron Warriors went to meet the Dark Angels.


Amon and Garro stared at each other as they found what they had been looking for. It was minute, really, and had they not been so diligent in their work, they would have missed it.

"No." Garro did not want to believe what he was reading.

"Transcripts do not lie, Nathaniel," Amon whispered.

"Could they have been doctored?"

"Bit difficult to doctor the Astropathic Choir, I would have thought." Amon looked at him, still suspicious. This had not been easy at all, but it had nevertheless been suspiciously easy. "Wouldn't you?"

Either Garro had tried to shift the blame, or - and Amon thought this more likely, based on the records' trustworthiness - Calas Typhon had made an error of a sort he had avoided hundreds of times before. Almost like, this time around, he didn't care if he got caught. Or as if whoever was on the other end of the line had allowed it to be intercepted.

"Look how his last name has changed." Garro, oblivious to Amon's doubts, rose from his seat and activated his personal vox. ++Father, I believe we have found the traitor, and I do not believe you are going to like it.++

++I think we already know. Come to the bridge, both of you.++

Garro straightened as he heard not the death whisper of his father, but the dark and sombre voice of his uncle.

++At once, my lord.++
Garro turned to Amon. "Perturabo's aboard, and we are required on the bridge."

Amon rose from his seat and both men left the archive room.

They arrived on the bridge to see all faces watching the screen with varying degrees of horror and revulsion on their faces. Even the Deathshroud, Mortarion's bodyguard, were unsettled by what they were seeing; their faces were hidden as always, but their body language spoke volumes.

There were only two figures that did not seem disgusted, and that was because they were so angry that this disgust was entirely overwhelmed. Mortarion's fists clenched and unclenched as he struggled to contain the rage that was building within him, whereas the only clue of Perturabo's disbelief showed in a throbbing of the neck vein in his giant neck.

Garro could not believe what he was seeing, and Amon shook his head slowly. There, on the screen, three ships came slowly into view, the leader being the one that caused a horrific gasp to erupt from the human crew.

All three vessels seemed to be surrounded by some sort of swarm, and as Mortarion took in the sight, he thought he saw something like flies whizzing round the vaunted vessel, like children around their mother.

There were giant boils and blisters that covered the Terminus Est and, to a lesser extent, her sisters like great swaths of corrupted rotted moss clinging to something that was dying but refused to give up life. As they drew closer, the ships looked to all intents and purposes as if they had been aged several thousand years. Permanent rusted batteries looked like they had fired their last salvo, and nothing remained of the pristine vessels that they had once housed them. Instead they all heaved with the putrid lodgers that now were their make-up.

"Get me Typhon." Mortarion's voice was almost a whisper, but it was still heard throughout the bridge. "I want to know what is going on."

"It seems, my lord, that Typhon is now calling himself Typhus and has been in league with Erebus since the schism began," Garro explained.

Before Mortarion could answer, a face appeared on the screen, and if any of the Astartes, either Iron Warriors and Death Guard, had thought it was all a bad dream they were given a rude awakening. In truth, though, most of the sons of Mortarion and Perturabo had already understood exactly what was going on. Neither Legion was one for denial.

"Hello, Father." The First Captain chuckled. "Ah, Uncle, you too are here to witness the glory that will be the resurrection of the Dusk Raiders."

"Calas, what have you done?" Mortarion spluttered.

"What you, Father, are too blinded to do," Typhus replied. "What I alone could do."

As the diseased light of the bridge of the Terminus Est fell fully upon the First Captain, the changes wrought upon him became apparent. His once pristine terminator armour was now warped out of all recognition, no longer bearing the colours of the Death Guard but rather a sickly putrid green. And from the centre of his helm, there rose a single horn. Great rents in his armour housed flies, bulbous flies that flew in and out of him, feasting on whatever disgustingness lay underneath. Perturabo heard a retching sound beside him and turned to see the helmswoman become violently sick. He motioned to one of the human officers, who took her from her station and helped her off the bridge, someone else replacing her.

"Eyes down, sons and daughters of the bridge crew," he kindly ordered. The baselines were happy to comply, but the Primarchs kept their eyes fixed on the horror that the bridge of the Terminus Est had become.

"Listen to me," Typhus said. "I know you are furious, but listen. Father, Uncle, you can still join the Emperor. Horus cannot win this; you shall all be cast adrift and history shall write you as the traitors."

"I will have your head, Typhon," Mortarion raged. Perturabo said nothing but gave an unequivocal look of raw contempt.

"I think not."

"My lords, vessels of the Imperial Fists have just translated in-system." The Admiral looked up. "It's a trap."

"I will return to my vessel, brother."

"Amon, go with Perturabo," Mortarion insisted before returning to glaring at the mocking visage of his former First Captain with resolved hate. "I shall deal with that traitor scum."


Jasiera slammed into the Dark Angel warriors, neither heeding nor caring about their incomprehensible battle-cries. All he concerned himself with was fighting for the true Imperial Truth, the real way of things; and as his brothers followed suit, he knew that whatever would become of this day, they had done their duty.

Inside the citadel, another battle raged. Squad Bellicose had emerged into the main compound and set upon the terrified humans that were mustering to man the falling walls. The Iron Warriors had no time to offer their usual terms of surrender - but then, one could say that this was no longer an issue, as this was not a world that was to be newly made compliant, but a world that had turned away from loyalty to foul gods and dark practices.

More importantly, no one genuinely though there was even the slightest chance of a surrender being accepted.

Coronus took the head off a commissar and immediately followed that with a shot to the company sergeant's head. Lennax had ordered two of his men to flank the human scout: she would survive, their squad would keep her alive, he told himself.

He roared his own bloodlust. His choler reigned over his humours, and Lennax used that cold rage. Ordering his men to wipe out every last one of them, he made for the main doors of the compound when a giant shadow covered him. He looked up into the face of the Chaplain-Redemptor of the Dark Angels and rolled to one side as the Crozius missed his head by inches.

Kerasa snarled like a caged beast and moved round once more, incensed that Brother Sergeant Oslay and his squad had not returned. With the cursed Olympians here it could only mean one thing: they had been killed. Precious Calibanite blood spilt by moody heathens - they would pay for that.

Lennax rolled again as once more the crozius came down, but this time he was not fast enough to avoid a glancing blow against his arm. He bit back the cry as the power field around the crozius broke his forearm.

"In the name of the Holy Emperor, you will die, heretic!"

Lennax gritted his teeth as the Larraman cells went to work. Until they had done their job, his arm would be useless to him. Nevertheless he hauled himself to his feet, only to be kicked face-forwards into the dirt and onto his back.

"You should remain in the dirt where the Emperor commanded; leave the mighty Lord Dorn to do what your childish father cannot."

Lennax gripped his chainsword as Kerasa continued his taunting, opening up the old wound and the old rivalry again. He blocked out all the sounds around him - the Dark Angel's words, the screams of the dying, the grating sound of chainsword teeth against ceramite. All he focused on was the skull-faced visage of the Chaplain-Redemptor.

"Iron Within…." he snarled as he pushed the chainsword up through the Dark Angel's chin, splattering blood, bone, meat and brain over himself and the concrete below him.

Kerasa danced like a possessed puppet as the teeth plowed through his skull and erupted from the top of his head in a sanguine gush. Lennax got to his feet as he pulled his weapon free.

"Iron Without."


The Fist of Dorn began a spiral downward as the Fires of Olympia sent her to her fiery demise with three broadsides. As Captain Ingara watched, emotionless, from his throne, the Imperial Fists battle-barge turned upside down and headed down towards the planet below them; whatever the torpedoes had not done, gravity would do. He did not say anything to commend the dead souls, for they did not deserve it.

The Hammer of Perturabo took down the Imperial Fists fighters before the Inwiteax blew out her engines, leaving her dead in the void. The fires that raged in the engine rooms were quickly contained, but a secondary blast unleashed something more than fire. Beasts from the warp, things that were red and looked to all intents and purposes like impossibly vicious attack dogs, took the screaming crew members down one by one. Yet the alarm had been raised. The Iron Warriors of the Hammer of Perturabo rushed to the engine rooms to combat whatever had come aboard their vessel.

Sergeant Garrex halted as the abominations came towards him: behind them a Librarian wearing the colours of the Imperial Fists seemed to be guiding them. It appeared that the Edict of Nikaea was no more, even on the other side of the war.

The hounds, if that is what they were, measured about two meters long from nose to tail with lean wiry bodies and arched backs. They were covered in blood-red scales with huge collars that looked like a great circle of spines, connected to an orange red membrane and rows of iron plates that were driven into their flesh along their backs. The iron plates were held in place by rivets shaped in a sigil that hurt the Sergeants eyes to look at too long. He had no idea what it was that had sent these things, aside from the obvious answer of the Seventh Legion, but by the Iron Lord's will he was going to kick them off his captain's vessel.

One of them came at him, its milky orbs reminding him of a shark's eyes at the moment of attack. Its huge, razor-sharp fangs made to clamp around his arm and shook it, making him drop his bolter. He lifted his arm and powered his power fist, even as the two-toed razor claws tore at his chest plate, cutting through it like a knife through butter. He grunted at the weight of the thing and, with a swipe more out of desperation than any real discipline, swung his power fist up, under, and through the flesh.

The hound jerked a little and then fell, dissipating back into wherever it came from. His brothers had not fared so well: three of them were dead, their chests exposed to the air and their gene-seed gone forever, either eaten or tainted. Sergeant Yentoz came up behind the stricken squad and ordered flamers. Within moments, the area was blanketed in hot flames and the strange hounds were gone, leaving the Imperial Fist to deal with.

Garrex rose to his full height and ordered the remainder of his team to fall back and protect the rest of the ship and its crew. As Yentoz got the remaining humans out with his squad and what was left of Garrex's, he saw his friend go toe to toe with the Librarian. He closed his eyes as his friend had his armour sloughed off him, followed by his skin, revealing musculature, veins and blood. But still, the stricken sergeant carried on fighting and, with his dying hand, grasped a krak grenade and pulled the pin, the Iron Warriors' mantra on his lips, before tossing it into the mouth of the chanting Librarian. Yentoz closed the blast doors, leaving him with only the sound of his friend and the Fist being shredded into atoms.

Such scenes played out throughout the orbit of Mandarax, meticulously guided by the Primarch's hand. In the heart of the battle, the Iron Blood itself roared through the smaller vessels of the Imperial Fists, sending them into their deaths with the vengeance that only a Primarch could deliver.

"My lord, Perturabo," the human vox officer called with urgency, "we have boarding torpedoes on decks 9 through 15."

"Take the throne, Master Ingles." Perturabo growled and grabbed his hammer. ++Forrix, meet me with your Terminators; we are going to teach the golden boys why they should not have come here.++

++ On my way, father. ++

He glanced at Amon and motioned with his head. "Come, Lion."

Amon gripped his weapon and followed the Lord of Iron.

As the Iron Warriors across the battlefield fought their cousins, a powerful voice came across their vox networks. As he strode through the deck of his ship, his hammer breaking ceramite, crashing skulls and pulping bone and meat, Perturabo, Primarch of the Fourth Legion, began to chant.

++From iron cometh strength++

++From strength cometh will++, the voices of thousands of Iron Warriors came back.

Perturabo punched his fist through the chest plate of a company champion of the Imperial Fists, his Custode companion, First Captain and Iron Guard taking out other intruders as they came into the Imperial Army mess hall.

++From will cometh faith++, Perturabo continued as he and his retinue continued, cutting their bloody swathe through the Imperial Fist lines. Two Astartes of the First Company went down, their heads obliterated into bone and blood; their deaths incensed the mighty Primarch further.

++From faith cometh honour++
; still the Iron Warriors chanted their Unbreakable Litany, drawing strength from the words their father had spoken since the dawn of his journey. Since Olympia.

++From honour cometh iron++

As one, the vox-nets came alive. ++This is the Unbreakable Litany, and may it forever be so!++

++Get these bastard sons of a bastard Primarch off my ships, my sons!++

Perturabo raged.

It was one thing to see an Astartes rage, in itself a terrible sight, but to see a Primarch rage was something different entirely. His head long shaved, coils laid like dreadlocks over his skull, the light from his gorget giving his skin a burning tint and his cold blue eyes filled with hate.

He was the Siege Master, the Comrade, the Lord of Iron, Deliverer of Tyrants, Hammer of Olympia; he was first of the Iron Warriors, and he would not permit his misguided and corrupted nephews to take even one of his ships. Even if it meant the spilling of their Olympian blood, not one of his sons would shirk their duties. This was his manifesto, written in war. True, he was finding his dreams once more, but Perturabo knew he and his sons had to remain nightmares to their enemies. There were some foes who deserved mercy, but those, such as an Imperial Fists, who did not would be crushed to the subnuclear level by the might of the Fourth Legion.

Amon glanced ahead and moved before the Primarch, moving his shield before him as bolter fire blanketed the area, Perturabo stared as the Custode took the fire and, opening up his guardian spear, returned fire. He recognised it as somewhat of an unnecessary risk, but also as a catharsis, a cleansing, an expression of Amon's need to be a warrior again.

"This is for Alyce Springs, for Constantin Valdor, and for Malcador!" he growled.

Forrix stared as he saw the power of the guardian spear unleashed, and it was indeed an impressive sight. Yellow armour seemed to burst apart at each strike, and using the shield he had picked up along the way as a guard, the Custode moved with a speed that belied his bulk.

Amon threw the shield, and Forrix, Harkor, and Erasmus Golg, the Primarch's Trident, watched as the shield span like a giant discus, knocking Astartes to their backs, enabling the Cobalt Brotherhood and the other Astartes to move in and sweep up.

Perturabo rested a hand on Amon's shoulder; he said nothing, but nothing needed to be said. Amon nodded and let the Primarch lead the way once more.


Mortarion had already seen three of his ships destroyed by what had once been the vaunted Terminus Est. The frigate Eisenstein had started the run but had been shot down by….well, the Death Lord did not know what, but they were not the torpedoes whose schematics he knew by heart. The Infantry of Death had been next, destroyed by the Eternal Scythe, and the Hand of Barbarus…well, he did not know what had happened on there. All he saw was boarding torpedoes from the Tempus Fugit slam into the old cruiser; and even after everything he had seen in the Great Crusade, the screams thereafter were sounds that would remain with him. This was witchcraft - not merely the cautious dabbling that the Thousand Sons used, but the act of diving freely into the forbidden and surrendering oneself to corruption.

He had fought that corruption before, and he would again. Mortarion ordered the Indomitable Will to rendezvous with the Endurance and turned to Garro.

"Get the Seventh ready, Nathaniel… we will take that traitor on."

"Father…."

Mortarion cut him off with a curt expression before he could finish. "I will lead, and my Battle-Captain will accompany me with his company. Is that understood?"

Garro bowed his head and started ordering his company to stand ready. Although Mortarion had not said how many Astartes would be accompanying him, the Troublesome Seventh would have another battle honour to add to the many already obtained.

Mortarion grabbed his manreaper. "I will have your head, Typhus, or whatever you are calling yourself. I will take you apart, piece by piece, for this stain on my honour."

One of the Deathshroud turned to face his master, but Mortarion said no more: even as deep in the throes of hatred as he was, he was planning.


The Iron Warriors plowed onward across the now-slick battlefield. The remaining guns from the citadel covered the Dark Angels and the defenders, but even so, for every human warrior that fell on the side of the attackers, double their number fell on the opposite side. Venerable Brother Isolder and his brothers Junas, Lorix, Kanos and Temeracles ensured that the attackers fell under their cannon fire, ensuring a decisive firepower advantage.

Isolder swiveled as he saw a Dark Angels Dreadnought cut down several brother Iron Warriors and destroy a Rhino. The humans tumbling from the wreckage screamed as fire consumed their bodies. He swung his auto-cannon round.

++Ragnarax++, he boomed, making the Dark Angel stop. What sounded like a deep, booming laugh erupted from his speakers.

Jasiera froze as he heard the name of the Marine who had once been a honour-brother of Isolder. The two men had been warriors bound by something stronger that blood, and yet now they were fighting against each other, where once they would have fought together.

++This is not how it was meant to be, honour-brother++
Isolder voxed.

++Save your words, heretic. The Emperor is all that is correct in the universe. You and yours chose to ignore his call.++

++You call all this rightfulness? This is madness, Ragnarax++

++The Emperor has been chosen, and we are ordained to follow him, as we have since the start. Those who do follow him will have eternal glory, and traitors will find only death++

Isolder made a gesture that looked like a shoulder shrug and, without another word, unleashed the full force of his auto-cannon. Ragnarax staggered back and fired his melta-cannon straight into Isolder's sarcophagus, the shot instantly frying the remains of the warrior within.

Jasiera screamed out a roar of denial as his old Warsmith and friend toppled backwards and did not move again, the ruined shell everything left of the great Warsmith. As if echoing their Warsmith's grief, or rather feeling their own, the remaining Dreadnoughts opened fire, bathing the area with their cannons and melta guns. Ragnarax exploded in a hail of fire and, as his ammunition cooked off, the resulting fireball took out several Dark Angels around him.

Yet the Warsmith remained consumed by rage. Jasiera blanked out the battle around him: he could not hear the dying guardsmen and -women, and he could not hear the sounds of bolter, melta, and plasma fire of his brothers. He could not hear the sound of the reductors as they did their grisly work. All he could see was the object of his hate, the captain of the Dark Angels, those cousins who had turned his galaxy upside down.

He shot, cut and decapitated his way through to where Alejandra stood, until his once-pristine armour looked more like it had been painted in blood and gore than in the colours of his beloved Legion. He did not seek to temper his rage, not now, not against these traitors to the Great Crusade. He merely channeled it past his caution, holding back just enough to not get killed himself.

"Come, traitor," Alejandra spoke, although the vox-grill distorted the Calibanite accent into something not quite human, or for that matter Astarte. "I will restore the honour of my father."

"Your father's honour was destroyed when he took the side of the mad Emperor and his allies and tried to dishonour my father," Jasiera snarled, his power sword dripping with gore.

"Everyone knows that the Iron Warriors are nothing more than a squabbling band of children with their own agendas," Alejandra jeered. "They forsook unity for their own agendas. Your Legion should have kept the hand given to them. Now, you're once again on the outside, looking in."

Jasiera had heard enough. Yes, there were brothers within his Legion who placed their ambitions foremost. It was the product of years of living under the Tyrant of Olympia, Perturabo's adopted father. Paranoia bred dissent... but then, sometimes it worked: Perturabo encouraged such things, within reasonable limits, as they showed him who was born to lead and who was wrought to follow. But none of those intra-Legion disputes had underlain the current war. None of them had retreated from progress.

He removed his helm and clipped it to his belt, showing his handsome features to the enemy. This would be his battle - maybe his final battle, but a glorious battle nevertheless. The Iron Warriors were no longer just the Emperor's trench dogs. They had finally been released to do more than the garrison work that had dragged their morale down, fed their bitterness, and drew them as second to the glory boys of Dorn. This battle alone had done more to prove his Grand Battalion's worth than the previous decade of combat. And tired though he was, Jasiera knew he still had the strength to finish this. He leapt to meet the Dark Angel and battle was joined. But after only a couple of blows, he realised there was something about the Dark Angel that was not right, an aura that made Jasiera feel sick to his transhuman stomach.

He gritted his teeth and fought against the nausea. He was an Astarte, a true Astarte, and this was nothing but witchcraft. He caught the fist that came his way and butted his head against the Dark Angel's own helm, cracking it.

Alejandra staggered back and, in frustration, removed his helm; but what was revealed caused Jasiera to stagger back himself in horror. He had seen many Dark Angels in his three centuries of being an Astarte. They all had the noble, knightly countenance of their father, but this… before him, the face had been warped into something less than human. Two horns had begun to sprout from the centre of the Dark Angel's forehead. His nose and top lip were fusing together and his eyes were gone; instead, a long strip of flesh sat over where his eyes had been and a single red line seemed to move across the length backwards and forwards.

So shocked was he that he did not see the punch that knocked him backwards, followed by a great strength against his arm, stronger than that of any Astarte. He brought his bolter up, but not before his forearm was torn off. He yelled in pain and fired off three rounds.

Alejandra fell to his knees as Jasiera got to his feet, his Larraman cells already clotting the blood; he aimed his bolter at the Dark Angel's head but was picked up and flung back into the slickening mud. The shots that he had fired at Alejandra had simply been pushed out with no apparent wounds. Pushing himself back, he looked around for something more than the weapons he had. He screamed out as Alejandra ripped his left leg off and tossed it aside like it was nothing; he was being torn apart, piece by piece, and the gurgle that came from that thing's mouth might have been a laugh. His fingers closed around a flamer. Hefting it up and using the stump of his right arm to balance, he spat the acidic blood to one side.

"Do you think that is going to save you, heretic scum?"

"Take a look in the fucking mirror, you bastard." Jasiera breathed and fired.

"WARSMITH!"

Unseles ran with the remnants of his squad; taking his cloak, he wrapped it around his Warsmith and put out the flames that were trying to consume him. The sound he heard from the Dark Angel captain made him look up in horror.

"Get rid of it!" he snarled and his team finished the prone Dark Angel.

Apothecary Resalan knelt by the Warsmith and touched his neck. "By the Lord of Iron, he is still alive."

Unseles bowed his head, relieved that his Warsmith was still alive, but knowing that with half his body gone there would be only one place for him. To continue his service, Jasiera's body slipped into Sus-an sleep.

++Princeps Tynar++

++Yes, Sergeant Unseles?++

Unseles stood over the warped body of the Dark Angels Captain and kicked it in disgust. ++Bring those walls down in their entirety++

++Gladly!++

He watched as the Reavers fired as one and, one by one, the walls came crumbling down.


Sergeant Lennax gathered his squad together and looked around. ++Where is Freda? ++

The brothers started as they realised their good luck charm was not with them. Brothers Augustrix and Artenena moved off, firing, as they went looking for their 'little sister'. They moved fast, dodging the falling walls and towers of the citadel that was now in its death throes as the Reavers and the guns of the artillery barrage below hammered the final nails in the enemy's coffin.

Augustrix stopped where he was and sank to his knees as he found her. Her chest had been splayed open, exposing her insides, and she had been crucified against the walls. Artenena relayed the news to their brothers and rested a hand on Augustrixs' shoulder just as her eyes flickered open.

She gurgled something and, as Artenena leant forward to listen, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

"I-Iron within, I-Iron without," she gargled before falling silent.

"Help me get her down," he whispered to Augustrix, and the two Astartes took her down from the walls. They looked as Lennax joined them and, taking his cloak, he wrapped her up in it and took her in his arms.

Recalling the words he heard her whisper over her dead kinsman, he spoke them aloud and repeated them. As they exited the shattered citadel, his brothers were speaking the same words.

Behind them, the walls of Castello Quae, Bello Deorum finally gave up their struggles and fell. Thousands of tonnes of concrete and masonry crashed to the floor with the sound of ferocious thunder and the ground shook as the foundations, unable to take the stresses and strains of the barrage, began to crack, opening the earth into giant tendrils of cavernous holes.

The Iron Warriors retreated, collecting their dead and wounded brothers as they went. The order rang round and all the warriors, human and Astarte, ran back to the first trench line as those left behind, starting with the Dark Angels, were swallowed up by the angry earth.

Finally there was quiet, though it was an eerie quiet. Lennax was approached by Sergeant Ingles of the Baranian guard. The sergeant removed something from his belt, as did all his brothers, a small token on whose front was engraved the head of Perturabo and on the back their company colours.

"I know that she is a husk now, sergeant, and that her soul, according to your customs, resides within the forests of your world, but her body is to be interned with honour aboard our vessel and these are to be placed with her. Is that understood?"

"Yes, lords." Ingles took Coronus's body reverently, the honour done to her memory obvious from how the Astartes thought of her. "Lords, we are to return to the ship, but the Warsmith is badly injured; all Iron Warriors are being called to the command tent to await further instructions."

Lennax nodded his thanks and, with a formal final salute to Freada Coronus, they turned about and strode to where the Iron Warriors were mustering. It had been a victory, and if like most victories, it had come at a price for both the Iron Warriors and the Imperial Army supporting them, then at least there was nothing left of the Dark Angels.

It was decided that the entire region would be bombarded from orbit, after the recording of apparent alteration of several Dark Angels by the Warp. No one wanted to be responsible for a civilisation centuries later to be tainted once more by whatever malady had affected the Dark Angels.

Warsmith Jasiera was interned within the Dreadnought that had once been Isolder, his sarcophagus engraved with his victories and his honours, but was left asleep. He would be called again once he had bonded with the Dreadnought's inner workings. When they rejoined their father they would choose a new Warsmith, but for the moment, Captain Kensar took over as interim commander.

On the twelfth deck of the Olympian Sun, there was an area given to the Imperial Army to inter their most respected dead if they were unable to bury them on the world that had been brought into compliance. Lennax stopped and read the wall of the fallen. It was strange; he had never bothered with this area of the ship before. The only dead that he had concerned himself with before were his fallen brothers. There had been many over the years, and the entirety of Deck 9 was given to the internment of the dead sons of Olympia. Yet in the end, respect was due to all those who fell with honour.

Lennax wore his robes, his armour left in the hands of his armourer to be repaired. He had watched Kafados burn in the fires of sub-cyclonic bombs. Now he stood reading the long roll of the recognised dead of the Imperial Army regiment that was attached to them, those that had merited being buried on the Olympian Sun itself. Reading the numbers beside the names, he made his way to where a stone tablet covered the casket that held her remains.

Something about her had touched Lennax and he was not sure what it was, indeed he doubted he would ever understand what it was, but her dying words as relayed to him by Artenena had sealed her place within the hearts of Squad Bellicose. With the permission of Captain Kensar, she had been listed as an honour-sister of the 123rd.

He rested his hand against her name-stone and spoke the words he had spent the last couple of hours learning in her native language. When he was finished he stepped back, saluted her, and bowed his head to the wall of the fallen before walking away.