Amon found himself with the Iron Lord and his Cobalt Brotherhood and Iron Circle; the Trident had been separated during the fighting that would end the Imperial Fists' presence on the Comrade's vessel. Already he had despatched several Imperial Fists, 'saving' Perturabo's life several times. Of course, it was not as if Perturabo couldn't have turned those blows aside himself, but ingrained training and natural reactions caused Amon to act as a bodyguard nevertheless. After all, he had been gene-wrought to protect the most powerful human in the universe; even if the Emperor had proven unworthy of Amon's service, protecting his son was merely an extension of that duty in his mind. He raised his guardian spear and, having been given command of Sergeant Idolas's Cobalt Brotherhood squad when the veteran had fallen in the last skirmish, he moved his hand in signals that told the Astartes of Squad Ironheart where to deploy.

The Astartes moved without complaint. If there were any misgivings or dislikes of the situation they now found themselves in, they kept their opinions to themselves. They were with their Primarch, and if he told them to obey a Custode, displaced or not, then they would do so.

Perturabo had moved to the other side of the vast metal doors and they could hear the sounds of bolter-fire: they were at their target. He glanced at Amon, nodded, and together Primarch and Custode burst into the room, Astartes and automata behind them.

The Imperial Fists numbered forty or fifty, and Amon could see the carnage the sons of Dorn had committed on the Iron Warriors' flagship. Crew members lay dead, either shot by the accompanying Imperial Army of the Inwit 24th Rifles or torn into pieces by Astartes weapons. Tech-priests lay dead, many in pieces, at the heart of the Iron Blood.

Iron Warriors battled bitterly with their cousins, the old rivalry out in force. This was not siege warfare, but no less bloody a combat for it. Amon's hair stood on end as he despatched an Imperial Fist coming at him with a blow from his guardian spear. He turned too late, engulfed in eldritch fire.

The Librarian behind him smiled a little and his voice entered Amon's head, unbidden and unwanted.

Shall we see what Malcador left in there, traitor Custode?

Librarian Hafalgnar closed his eyes and began to reach into the defences that surrounded Amon's psyche.

Amon moved to his knees. The pain of the invasion into his head was horrendous. The only man he had ever let into his mind was Malcador and no other; not even the Emperor had violated his private thoughts and memories in this agonizing way.

Ah, she was a pretty thing, Amon; I am surprised you left her to become a Lion,
the voice of the Librarian sneered. Amon roared like his nickname and tried to shut out the distant memories, ones that had laid buried for decades within his strict mind of duty and honour. Unlike some Astartes, he did no forget who he had been. The Astartes' conditioning meant that, after a time, memories of their childhoods faded to be replaced with their service in their Legion. Not so the Custodes. They did not have the same conditioning as Astartes for they were not meant for conquest: they had one duty and one duty only - to protect the Emperor and Terra. Now that was gone, and despair began to settle on his shoulders. The more Hafalgnar tore through his memories, desperately searching a secret he was realising he would never find, the more Amon began to regret things he had not thought of in decades.

His parents, siblings, a lover…he banged his fist on the ground and the taunting voice told him to let it go, that he would be free if only he released the burden he carried.

Of course, even if he had wanted to, even if he had broken under the interrogation, he couldn't reveal the secret - he didn't even know it.

Amon's eyes began to roll back in his head when, suddenly, he was free. Beside him stood Brother Ryax, a former Librarian who had done as was instructed after Nikaea. A sword that served as the focus of his power sat in his hand, and Amon felt himself be pulled away by two sets of strong arms.

Ryax unleashed the full fury of his powers and engaged the son of Dorn in a psychic battle.

++Amon, can you hear me, brother? ++

Forrix knelt down, having entered the battle in time to see the Last Lion brought to his knees by the psyker.

Blood trickled from his ears and his nose, and as he raised his head, he heard Ryax shout something to his brothers. Instantly, a torrent of bolter fire ended the life of the Imperial Fist. The last thing he saw was Perturabo wading into the battle, his face full of fulfilled resolve. Then darkness began to descend, and the rest of the battle was lost to oblivion as Amon fell into unconsciousness, but his last thought was shock that the First Captain had called him brother.


The Death Guard were faring no better than the Imperial Fists, but what made it worse was that it was their own brothers they were fighting, Several boarding missions that broke into the Eternal Scythe found only horror at what their brothers had become, and with death.

Captain Icarus of the Fifth Company could scarcely believe his eyes as he saw the misshapen humans and the altered Astartes coming at them. He had already ordered his men to cover their grills, but still the disease-ridden enemy found their way through. His father had told him to destroy the vessel, but first to do what must be done to make sure the abominations did not escape.

He was grateful that none of the Imperial Army had come with them; he did not want to have to deal with unbalanced humans as well as shocked Astartes. He split his teams off and told the Apothecaries not to collect the gene-seed, not even from their own dead; heaven alone knew what would happen to that if it got back to the Legion and was implanted into the next generation.

He and his men made their way to the bridge. As many foes as Icarus cut down, he lost in his own men, but reminding himself of the Primarch's words he used them as his own mantra. They didn't have a battle cry, nor did they need one, but in this hell he recalled the words Mortarion spoke when reunited with his Legion and spoke them aloud, his men following his lead.

++We are his unbroken blades; we are the Death Guard++

By the time they got to the bridge, they were all shouting the creed at the tops of their voices, as if the words of their father gave them strength beyond strength to defeat whatever this nonsense was. However, the words died in their throats when they saw what awaited them.

On the floor of the bridge, the rotting corpse of Mistress Agnetha, the human commander of the Eternal Scythe, was nothing more than a weeping mass of flesh. The stench that came from her and, indeed, from the rest of this once-vaunted vessel was overpowering, even to an Astartes. Icarus took in the scene before him; whatever deal the bastard Typhon had struck was certainly working its foul magics. He and his men moved through the doors onto the bridge proper and swept their weapons in continuous motion, their visors picking out the dead and barely alive to execute the latter.

They were also alerted to the high toxin and contagion levels in this room; soon, they would be overwhelming for even their famed resilience. Icarus heard something and span around, his warning trailing off as a giant horned Astarte rose from seemingly nowhere. The runes on his visor identified the - thing, for there was no other description he could find to suit it - as former Second Captain Ignatius Grulgor, The Commander.

"Impossible," Icarus whispered to himself.

"Ah, my dear Hadrian Icarus, tell me, brother: how do you like my new look?" Grulgor, or whatever it was, gurgled with a sound that was akin to the sound of vomit.

"What by Mortarion balls have you done to yourself?" Icarus asked. His shock was hidden behind his helm, but his vox grill only barely kept it from registering fully.

His eyes roved up and down the once-Astarte's body and he pulled a face as he saw the sores that continuously wept stinking pus down his body. Boils came to the fore and then burst, splattering their sickly yellow contents onto the floor, adding to the filth of human excrement and other bodily fluids. His brothers circled around him, each of them as shocked as their captain to see the remains of the Commander.

++Sir, is that really…the Commander? ++, a newly elevated brother by the name of Charon asked across private vox.

++Focus, brother,++
Icarus told him, ++whatever it is, whoever it is….will die++

Around Grulgor, other members of his company rose up, all in varying states of decay and yet forever immortal. Icarus suddenly had no wish to find out what this plague, or whatever it was, would do to an Astarte. They were Death Guard, but judging by his former brothers' appearance, that was now literal.

"Oh come Icarus," Grulgor slowly pronounced, "this is the future; we are the Death Guard no more, we are the Dusk Raiders."

"Ironic, isn't it, Grulgor?" Icarus readied his bolter, and around him, forty battle brothers did the same. "You take the old Terran name for our Legion, and yet you hated our Terran brothers."

++Captain, we are in the engine room. I have lost half my squad, and that was after having to kill them twice++

Icarus heaved a sigh; it was time to put this resistance of his to the test.

++Serack, old friend, get everyone out; hopefully I will see you again, my brother, but if not, then remember me well++

++I am not leaving you, Captain,++ Serack affirmed

++Yes you are; set the charges and get the hell out of here, because if what is on this ship escapes, then we are all doomed, including father…. NOW GO!++

He shut off the vox, and with the Primarch's words on his lips, he and his brothers opened fire….


Mortarion exited the boarding torpedo to much the same sight that had been reported from the other boarding companies. Galacias Yvesnena, one of the Seventh's newest members, had informed him that some heavy casualties were being reported on the Eternal Scythe and that the captain had ordered a retreat whilst he fought something that was claiming to be Second Captain and Commander Grulgor. When Mortarion had asked him to elaborate on what he meant by 'claiming', the younger Astartes could not give him a proper answer. Mortarion had clasped his hand on the new addition's shoulder and told him not to worry, that they would get their answer soon. And they had. As they made their way from their exit point, Yvesnena was dragged by former First Company terminators into darkness, his screams to haunt his captain evermore.

Garro joined the Deathshroud in protecting their father. He wished he knew who they were, but that was impossible. No one knew who the Deathshroud were, only that they were former brothers who were unnamed and, when called to service, would answer to the Primarch alone, forgetting who and what they once were. He didn't realise that they were brothers believed deceased. Some things were not meant for the ears of others. Every Primarch had their own bodyguard, even if none needed one; Perturabo had the Iron Circle, cybernetic warriors programmed to be utterly loyal to him, alongside the Cobalt Brotherhood that had preceded the Circle's construction. Horus had the Justerian and the Mournival, one guarding the body and the other the mind, Sanguinius had the Sanguinary Guard, Fulgrim the Phoenix Guard... Mortarion had the Deathshroud, but more than any other Primarch, he wanted them distant from their brothers to do their job effectively. Garro appreciated that. Distance often bred objectivity, and in times like these objectivity was sorely needed.

Right now, one moved in front of him and the other behind him. Garro felt like he was part of something more than he had already been; in that moment he felt closer than ever to his Primarch. He relayed his orders to the Seventh. He smiled grimly, recalling the nickname given them, the Troublesome Seventh; well, that was exactly what they would be, and he for one wanted to do more than trouble the First Captain.

He did not want to believe that Calas Typhon would turn against his brothers like that, making some heretical pact. Yet he knew Typhon had made that pact with something that could reduce this once-glorious battleship of the Death Guard, a ship with a history befitting her status as a capital ship, to the present insanity. He ran a gauntlet along a section of bulkhead and it flaked away in his hand and between his fingers.

++Be careful, my son++ Mortarion's voice came across his vox ++We do not know the parameters of this…plague, for want of a better word; even touching her might pass on whatever malady has affected Typhon++

++Yes, my lord, my apologies++

Mortarion nodded and breathed in the air of his adopted home world. ++You are thinking the same as me, aren't you, Nathaniel? ++

The Primarch now spoke over their private vox, perhaps to hear his own thoughts vindicated.

++I was wondering, my lord, how long Calas has been in league with…whatever this is++

++My thoughts exactly, my Battle-Captain. Indulge me a moment; did the Emperor ever speak of what lived in the Warp to you when you warred beside him during the Unification Wars? ++

Garro was silent for a moment, scanning his memory for those days and shook his head. No, the Emperor had not. But someone else had.

++There was a brother of the Imperial Heralds, those of Lorgar's gene-seed who would become the Word Bearers. His name was Articas Savalios. The strange thing is that, afterwards, he claimed not to recall our conversation. Perhaps it was because of how much we'd drunk that night, but more likely he did not wish to admit... in those days, my lord, it felt like not merely nonsense but heresy. Active betrayal of the Imperial Truth++

Garro paused and looked around him. When he realised that Mortarion was waiting for him to continue, he did another sweep, wary because they had so far met only the one attack that had claimed the life of the young Death Guard. When he was certain the way was clear, he continued.

++He told me that there were beings in the Warp; one, he said, was all the rage and fury of mankind. Its bloodlust personified, sitting atop a great brass throne surrounded by the skulls of the dead and set between rivers of blood.

The second, he told me, was like a giant feathered serpent, once seen by the people of Chin and Nippon as as much protector and luck-giver as destroyer, his feathers an array of colours forever changing, always shifting and never in the same way. This, he told me, was the master of magic and fate, the doorway through which every possible future plays out like pieces on a chess board.

The Third was a bloated creature of death and decay, plague and pestilence. In him, he had said, is the only path humanity can know, for death and decay go hand in hand he said, where there is plague there is death, where there is pestilence there is decay.

The last one, he said, was younger than the above, and whilst it is the greatest foe of the eldar, who will not even utter its name, for mankind, he said it lures them in with promises of power and all manners of emotions that humans restrict themselves from. This one, he said, was more unpredictable as its whims changed with its moods. He did not name them, for he did not know their names, and in truth he did not want to know them; but he said they were waiting, waiting for us to reach the stars once more where they could work on us and engulf the universe in their glory++

++Did you believe him? ++

++Even the eldar were talked about as a myth, in those days. I passed it off as a theological discussion on what humans used to believe haunted their nightmares. With the descriptions he gave I could truly see why the early civilisations felt the need for a powerful entity to protect them++

++What happened to the Herald? ++

++I believe he is a Dreadnought now, father; Lorgar did not want to lose such a keen intellect, and when he joined the Great Crusade, he made Savalios a Chaplain and one of the first at that. I do not know exactly what happened to him, but I know that he was interned in a Dreadnought, and perhaps he still lives as such now++

++What do you believe now? ++

++I believe that maybe Articas was right all along++

Mortarion raised his Lantern and his Manreaper. ++I think I am inclined to agree with you, Battle-Captain, though I do not think it was Savalios who said those words at all++ Mortarion fell silent and cocked his head a moment later, as if listening for something. Then he stood still and told those of the Seventh that were with him to stand fast.

The floor of the deck they were on began to shudder and tremble; Mortarion looked to the ground and slowly raised his head to see the Terminators of the First Company stand before them.

"Do you not kneel before your Primarch?" he snarled "Or has that dog Typhon turned you all insane…."

His voice trailed as he saw, in the now-rising light, exactly what he was looking at. The Terminators were, like all the reports he was getting, mutated into something resembling what Garro had just been discussing.

He shook his head as he took in the ravaged forms of his once-mighty sons. The pinnacle of their brothers, First Company, whom he had fought alongside in battle with honour and pride more times than he could count. His heart wept to see how this curse had stolen everything noble about them. Yet the Death Lord's rage far outweighed his sadness.

"I said KNEEL!" Mortarion roared. His anger, usually so well kept in check, now exploded.

"They will not kneel to you, or to any other of your misguided brethren," a deep voice came from somewhere behind them, and the Terminators parted to allow the hulking individual that was once Calas Typhon to walk through. His Manreaper held high, the Herald of the Plague God stood proud before his former father.

Mortarion watched the thing that had been his First Captain stand before him. The silence stretched for what seemed like hours, but in fact was only seconds. With a speed that defied the house of disease that Typhus now was, he lashed out with his manreaper and tore the uniform of the Deathshroud warrior open, before allowing the flies within him to engulf and devour the Astarte within. The Deathshroud died without a sound, and with that the fighting started.


Icarus could scarcely contain his disbelief that, whatever Grulgor had become, he was not even flinching at the bolter rounds that hit him. The Fifth Company's shots tore chunks of flesh from him, yet as soon as a wound appeared it was covered over with the slime that covered his body.

He had lost half his squad some to the Second Company warriors who tore into them like they were paper, and others to Grulgor and his plague ridden claws. If Icarus survived this then he doubted he would ever forget that sound - his brothers' dying words as they succumbed to the virulence that was infesting their body - but what horrified him more was that moments after they seemed to die, they rose up and joined the ranks of their corrupt brothers.

Grulgor laughed, if you could call it that. "I wanted it to be Garro," he spoke. "Show him what a true lord of death looks like. But come, my brother; give up the fight, join us."

Icarus looked at the runes on his visor; the timer that his sergeant had set was nearly at the final second. He did not need to say anything to his brothers, for they already knew they would not see the next dawn; something had to be done to stop this madman and his sick god, or whatever it was that was changing the Death Guard into something else.

Their runes blinked in silent acknowledgement. Quickly, he blinked the status of his company. They had done as he had asked, leaving their dead and returned to their vessel. The thing that was Grulgor extended his arms, and his fingers plucked through one of the other Death Guard's visors, straight through his eyes, pouring the virulence into him.

Icarus saw the body shake several times before the gargled scream was silent. Astartes knew no fear, they said, but that was not entirely true: they were not afraid of death, Death Guard especially, for they knew it and accepted their end, an honourable death in honourable battle. This was neither; this was having their souls ripped from them and changed into something neither alive nor dead. And what made it worse was that it was one of their own doing this. This was what the cold hand of fear now crawling up Icarus's spine was for - not the death of him and his brothers, but becoming something that rotted for eternity.

He stepped back with the remainder of his warriors and sent a silent message to his father. Whether Mortarion would get it, he did not know. The advancing, silent plague marines raised their bolters, and the grinning demonic visage of Grulgor leered at him.

"That is good, Icarus; welcome, my brother."

"We are his unbroken blades." Icarus removed his helm, an act followed by his brothers. "We are his Death Guard."

Grulgor opened his mouth just as the explosives detonated.

The explosion, or rather the implosion, tore up through all the decks, running through them like a great volcanic inferno, incinerating all things in its path, a secondary explosion ripping through the Imperial Army Barracks and rending the shuffling corpses to ash. The Astartes, both those that carried the plague and those that had yet to be reanimated, were burned inside their armour,

Grulgor turned as the bridge exploded before being pulled in, the windows briefly venting into space with his warriors. He snarled an angry denial and was sucked into the vacuum of space. Icarus saw the pox marks on his skin and, like his remaining brothers, opened his arms and welcomed the cleansing flames that whooshed over them.

As Icarus's skin scorched and burnt, the last thing he saw was Grulgor, pulled back into the flames, shimmer under the wall of fire and then seemingly vanish back into whatever dimensional hell he had come from. Icarus closed his eyes as the Eternal Scythe vanished in a ball of oblivion.


The Iron Blood was silent now; the dead had been taken to the Apothecarion to have their gene-seed removed. Perturabo stood looking at the rows of Imperial Fist dead, lost in thought, and for a while no one uttered a sound.

"How is Amon?" Perturabo asked suddenly as his gaze fell on the dead Librarian.

"He will recover, Lord," Forrix replied.

"Did they get anything from him?"

"Not that I am aware, Lord, but I am not a Librarian." Forrix turned to the young Librarian that had come to the Custode's defence. "Ryax?"

Ryax stood straighter, aware that his father's cold blue eyes were now on him. He did not, however, look directly at his father, more to a point just over his shoulder. In the presence of one such as Perturabo, one did not look at him without reason, for fear of completely forgetting what they were about to say.

"From what I saw, my lord, he was tearing into Amon's distant memories. Whatever the late Sigillite put into Amon's head, it was well-buried."

"So we are going to have a problem," Forrix sighed. "They know Amon is alive and they know he has something in his head. They will not stop until they get it, and no one will be able to help him if the Emperor gets onto his trail."

Perturabo nodded and ran his hand down his face. "Give me some time to consider this, but for now we still have a battle to fight. I believe my brother needs some assistance, so have the Master turn about and head towards the Death Guard's position. I will not abandon his sons while I can make a difference. And get those bodies off my ship. If the enemy stuck something in them..."

Forrix turned, then stopped. "Father, what if their gene-seed is pure?"

"What?"

"If their gene seed is untainted, then we can make use of it."

The silence was like a shroud. For a moment it looked like Perturabo was going to dive into rage, but his faced creased back into a calm expression. For this was the ultimate pragmatism, and Perturabo prided himself on his pragmatism.

"Forrix, walk with me, the rest of you see to your duties. Apothecary, extract that gene seed and test it ten times more stringently than any you've tested before."

"Yes, Sire."

Forrix walked alongside the Primarch and he did not utter a word until they were alone. "Explain to me why you came up with such an – idea."

The truth was that Forrix hadn't just now gotten said idea. The truth was that he'd been wondering about the potential for Astartes with multiple sources of gene-seed implanted ever since an Apothecary had mentioned the theoretical possibility. But why now?

"Father, our gene-seed stores are depleted. Between the current surge of recruitment and the fall of Anamas... we're extremely reliant on yourself and Olympia now. Losing both is unlikely, but no longer unthinkable. Not much is unthinkable anymore. Moreover, if the next generation has both our skills and those of the Fists encoded, that might give them an advantage - hybrid vigor..."

"You asked an Apothecary."

"I have. Moreover, the Iron Warriors are scattered in garrisons throughout the galaxy, allowing for many irrecoverable losses."

Perturabo folded his arms across his chest and looked down at Forrix. This was a test, of course, as all such conversations were with the Lord of Iron. And Forrix knew that the reasons he had given did not suffice to pass that test, not even with the unsaid but understood undertone of doing it because they could. Perturabo knew he had another reason, even though that reason was one that was not likely please him.

Forrix swallowed, but continued with a firm voice.

"And... there was greatness in Dorn once. Principles that went beyond blind loyalty, for all our disagreements with his Legion. That is lost now, and I would honour that if possible. For the sake of the Seventh that was."

"Despite everything?" Perturabo asked, thoughtful.

"Despite everything," Forrix insisted.

Perturabo paused before letting out a melancholy sigh. "For the Seventh that was... We will do this, but it is my absolute decree that any son who is implanted with the gene-seed of both is not to be ostracised. I will not hesitate to punish those who disobey. We have already split down the middle too often. My sons are of different humours, and some pursue their own ends." His voice grew firmer, past solidity into hardness, and he raised a hand to forestall any words from Forrix. "But those that do still strive for the Legion's cause. They still believe in the ideals of purity and unity. In iron that can be broken, but not corrupted. They are still my sons, and so many have sacrificed themselves for me. And some... some I can rely on fully, and I am glad to have you among them. As well as the Iron Circle. And others from Olympia, like Orobras, Isolder, Berossus..."

Forrix shifted uncomfortably, speaking up when his Primarch paused. "Father, we have had a message from the Olympian Sun that I have not have the ... Venerable Isolder is dead, killed by the Dark Angels. Warsmith Jasiera's company... there is a report you should read when this is all over."

Perturabo's face remained unreadable. Forrix almost wanted to repeat what he had said on reflex, but he held it down, because he knew the Lord of Iron had understood. Perturabo turned on his heel and walked away, Forrix knowing it was not the time to follow.

Forrix closed his eyes and, even as his feet carried him to his company, to ready them for battle, his thoughts walked backwards, to the tombs of his fallen brothers, their lost bodies, and their enduring victories.


Mortarion took the deaths of his loyal sons as strength, even when the last Deathshroud with him died defending his father. To spare his guard the horror of what was happening to the other dead Astartes, Mortarion took his head and, raising his gaze, focused on the source of his troubles.

Typhon, or Typhus as he now referred to himself, was laughing as the warriors of the Seventh were cut down. All across the Terminus Est casualty reports were building, and there were those of the Seventh who became reborn as Dusk Raiders. But Mortarion, in the despair that followed, was bolstered by the news that those sons still fought their enemies, wanting death in the cleansing fires of their brothers flamers.

The Terminus Est seemed to groan as the battle continued. Mortarion errantly imagined he heard her savage heart turn against all that she had been, as the walls started releasing new toxins and pestilence, the likes of which even his gene-enhanced perfect physiology had trouble keeping up with.

The Death Guard's famed resilience was being put to the test, but it was surviving that test. He saw Garro savagely take down two terminators, his beloved sword Veritas keeping the dance of death going through the despair. The Death Lord focused his attention on the source of the madness and, with both his mighty Manreaper and his Lantern, began cutting a path through the enemy. Enemy - who would have thought that he would be calling his own sons, the product of his own genome, the enemy? Yet now, so it was.

"To the Primarch!" Garro shouted, and instantly his warriors followed their father, protecting him from all sides.

The Dusk Raiders fell back, finally remembering that their father, although not as broad as some of his brothers, had no less violence inside him than they did. When that was released, it was as thunderous and dangerous as any Primarch's. His face lit up with the fury of not just a father betrayed, but a father in mourning. His sons were meant to die in honourable battle, not as slaves to a power that only sought to corrupt them. The Terminators of First Company tried to escape the fury of their father, but with the Seventh closing in around them they were cut down by not just his manreaper but the weapons of the Troublesome Seventh.

++I want Typhus alive++ Mortarion voxed, his voice broking no argument and no divergence from his orders.

Typhus was no slouch in the slaughter stakes and he took his own toll on the Seventh and even his own brothers who tried to flee from their Primarch's fury. Eventually, inevitably, he came face to face with Battle-Captain Garro. His smile, although not seen, was clearly audible.

"You should not have betrayed the one that brought you honour, Battle-Captain," Typhus sneered. "There is still time for you to become one with the Grandfather."

Garro said nothing; every fibre of his enhanced being told him to cut this traitorous bastard down, and every cell of him raged at what had happened to his brothers. If Typhus wanted to throw his lot in with the so-called gods of the warp that was his downfall, but for Typhus to bring his own brothers with him….that just galled the Astarte Captain.

"Grulgor wanted to battle you, but he might have lost. I will do it instead. And when you are weakened... you will become one with the Grandfather and serve the Emperor!"

Garro dodged the stinking hulk before him and, closing his fist, threw it into Typhus's head, a massive blow that would have killed a normal human. As it was, it sent Typhus's head snapping back. A boot to his jaw sent him sliding backwards into the rotting walls. Garro advanced on the First Captain, ready to pummel him into oblivion.

Typhus brought his own manreaper up and blocked the attack; Garro had to move, lest the infested weapon cut his armour and riddle him with whatever lurked within that corrupted Terminator plate. That suit of power armour truly was an abomination, one that the Battle-Captain didn't exactly understand. Garro wasn't sure if the horn jutting from the middle of the Helmet was decoration or real, and he did not want to know, if the truth be told.

Typhus pushed him back and began showering blows down on the Seventh's commander. This was the reason that Typhon had been the First Captain: his sheer strength and brutality, in person and in command, made him the Legion's greatest Astarte, and as strong as he was, Garro was not strong enough to fend off the enemy captain's attacks. He began to feel himself black out when, suddenly, Typhus was picked up and hurled across the empty space of the room, now littered with the dead and the dying.

The giant stood over his battered Battle-Captain, protecting him, and as the former First Captain got to his feet he saw the true nature of his father. He saw the betrayal lined on the Death Lord's face, the slow promise of oblivion in his eyes, the air of Barbarus curling around his neck as he breathed it ever-quicker. Mortarion seethed - not the rapid fury or long-held grudges of Perturabo, not the berserk rage of some Primarchs, but merely the fact of inevitable punishment. This was the destroyer of tyrants, the final page of civilisations.

This was Mortarion the Death Lord. This was Typhus's doom, from which no unnatural endurance would save him.

In the split second before Typhus could stand fully, Mortarion grabbed him by his gorget and raised him up, his hand tightening around the fused armour neck joint, and snarled in the lounge of his homeworld.

"You were my solid companion, the one I trusted with my deepest counsel. And this is how you have paid me back, Calas, betrayed all I gave you to sign your soul to that bastard Lorgar and his sons. Did you take me for a complete fool? You were friends with his sodding First Chaplain... how else would they know where we were and what we were doing?"

He felt the First Captain start to go limp in his grip, then dropped him. He kicked the unconscious body across the space between them and returned to Garro, helping him to his feet.

"Order the men back to the Indomitable Will, Nathaniel; you and I are going to do this alone."

Garro did as his father ordered. He was angered that he had to leave the honoured dead behind, but he understood the reasoning, and did not want any contagion to come aboard the Primarch's vessel and infect the rest of the Legion. Without a thought, Mortarion slung Calas's body over his shoulders and headed down to the engine room.


The Emperor smiled as Vulkan's eyes finally opened. Once he got his son from the healing tube, he laid him on a bed and covered his naked body. It had taken months for him to undo the damage that the Khan had wrought on his brother's body without damaging his mind. Indeed, Vulkan would in time recover to be even stronger than he had been before

He sat down beside the bed and, taking Vulkan's onyx hand in his, held it tight. The Salamanders were lost without him; they needed their father, and he would give him back to them. Vulkan was an artisan of war, and he needed his son to beat upon that anvil again. Yes, the Fireborn would march once more, with their father once more at their head.

He smiled in relief as he felt Vulkan's hand tighten around his. "You were wrong, Malcador," he spoke quietly to himself. "I am not what I once was; I am better than that."

"F-father?"

He glanced down at his son and smiled warmly. "Rest, Vulkan. You have fought your greatest battle; now rest and allow your body to fully heal."

"My sons…."

"Your boys are fine; they are under the guardianship of Numeon," the Emperor assured. "I will inform them that you are awake and will be with them when I deem it necessary for you to do so."

Vulkan licked his dry lips and, with his father's help, sat up and was handed some water. The Emperor ran a paternal hand over his son's bald scalp and smiled warmly in, for once, uncorrupted joy. That he had managed to save his son from the injuries that Jaghatai had inflicted on him was a personal triumph.

He sat in silence as Vulkan slowly drank the water and, inside, heaved a sigh of relief.


The battle was over. The only corrupted vessel to escape into the Warp was the Tempus Fugit. Mortarion had ordered no pursuit; it would be dealt with another time, in a more convenient place, but now they needed to recuperate and bury all too many dead.

The Iron Blood had battled its way through the escorts and seen off the Tempus Fugit, causing it to limp to the safety of its new foul master. Perturabo now stood in the engine room of the warped Terminus Est. Hanging above a large pit was the still unconscious body of Calas Typhon. Below, the seething foul heat of the vessel churned.

The warp core seemed to have a life of its own, eager for the sacrifice it was about to receive. When Perturabo had seen what had become of the Death Guard aboard here, he felt sick to the stomach. Yet another failing of their father's judgment. The Emperor had become the antithesis of what he had once represented - and Perturabo could finally acknowledge, despite or perhaps because of the pain of Isolder's loss burning in his breast, his hope that it had not been, in the end, himself or those ideals that had been at fault during the Crusade, but only the one who had formulated them. That his old unquiet had merely been a foreshock of the current treachery, and that he would be capable of finding peace in utopia, if that victory were ever to come.

And hope, most of all, that this true victory was not yet impossible. Not blind faith, not sheer certainty, but a calculated hope, in a sky of wondrous and terrible possibilities, that could survive even on this charnel ground.

Calas eventually came round to see his world upside down. Mortarion stood with Garro and Perturabo; all three transhumans had impassive looks on their faces. He struggled, but the ties that bound him were too strong, and eventually even he gave up trying and focused his blurred vision on his Primarch, ignoring the other two.

Mortarion's expression said it all, and not one word needed to be said. He had not slain his former First Captain; he had wanted him to see his executioner and not to die in battle. It was then that Typhus realised that the hive he had contained was gone. The grandfather had decided to forget him, for he had failed the Plague God, and so everything he had been granted was gone. He also realised that he was naked. His armour had been pulled from him to reveal the stinking husk that he had become.

Toxins raged through his body, cutting down any barriers in their way, but his Astarte physiology would not let him die. Even though his insides were black and rotted beyond all recognition, his Death Guard genome kept his hearts beating, though the blood they pushed through his arteries was filled with poisons and coagulants. He wanted to scream, but his tongue had fallen out; his eyes were on the verge of dropping from their sockets, and where the hive had been, great porous rents in his body wept not blood but pus that stank the entire room like a great house of the sick and dying.

It was in that moment that Calas Typhon understood, as all foes of the Death Guard must, the essence of his folly.

Mortarion moved to the edge of the warp core and pulled a lever. Typhon's gaze never left his father's face; even as his eyes fell out, his face remained on the Death Lord until he was gone. Mortarion waited until there was no trace of his traitorous captain before the trio left and returned to the Indomitable Will. Once aboard, Mortarion made his way to the bridge and watched as the Terminus Est, once the pride of the Fourteenth Legion's fleet, was destroyed by ships that had once flown alongside it.

It would take a while, but he would restructure his Legion. For the moment, though, he had something else to do. He ordered that the names of every member of the First, Second and Third Companies that had been with their captains be struck from his Legion records. The game had been theirs to play, and it was Mortarion's Legion that had paid the entry fee - moreso, for once, than the Fourth. Half of his sons had died or worse in this campaign. But such was the toll of fratricidal war, Mortarion concluded. And against the Emperor, his sons would not hesitate to pay it.

Perturabo took his leave, ordering his Legion to meet up with the Olympian Sun. The two Primarchs parted on more friendly terms than ever before, even though they had never been this unlike each other.

Mortarion made his way onto the Endurance, to the secret Apothecarion where two Astartes from the Seventh and Fifth Company lay. They were believed killed in the battle, but in truth they were in a deep slumber that they were just coming out of. Now the Death Lord stood before them and glanced at their readings, for it was his own manipulations that had ensured it would appear to be that way. He stood between them as they sat up.

"You will be Sergeant Crasian of the Seventh and Brother Terroa of the Fifth no more. What I offer you is the chance to be by my side, to join the other five of your former brothers in my Deathshroud. You must never speak again except to me and only me; to your companies you will be dead. I will have your names written on the Wall of the Fallen on Barbarus. So, do you wish to become brothers of my personal guard?"

Both Astartes swelled with pride and nodded. Apothecary Daxon, the only member of the Death Guard who held the secrets of the Deathshroud, stepped into the room and took charge. Mortarion told the two Deathshroud with him to help their new brothers into their armours, and left them alone as he walked into the shadows.


Perturabo waited as Apothecary Kadiz and Tech-Priest Nockana came to him with the results of the gene-seed testing. Apart from one or two instances that had been disposed of, despite the fact they were warring with things from the Warp, the Fists' gene-seed was surprisingly stable. He ordered it stored and sent to Olympia for implantation into some of the next generation, a random set of the Novitiates aboard also to receive the mixed gene-seed. It was an easy thing to continue along that road, accepting hybrid gene-sons with a brother that was as good as dead to him. He had envied Dorn for many decades, but now he felt a strange magnanimity towards his eternal rival. It was easier, perhaps; after all, Perturabo had faced an impossible dilemma but made a choice he now recognized as correct, and Dorn - despite everything - had crumbled in the face of that dilemma. For the first time in his life, and in the most important contest of all, Perturabo had surpassed the Praetorian.

Yet this did not truly calm his unquiet as to that decision until hours later, aboard the Olympian Sun, after he took the Warsmith's oath from the new commander and saw to the internment of Jasiera into a Dreadnought.

As he headed to the hall of the fallen to pay his private respects to his fallen friend, he stopped as he saw Sergeant Lennax returning from the hall. The Sergeant was so lost in thought that he didn't see his Primarch and almost walked into him. The expression on his face was one some would describe as comical, an oath that had started to fall suddenly fading away to a choked sound from his throat.

Lennax immediately moved to one knee and bowed his head. His twin hearts hammered in his chest violently, and the love he had for his father merged with the poignancy of remembering his brothers and with sheer panic into a wave that rushed over him until tears fell down his face openly.

Perturabo held his giant hand out and pulled the sergeant to his feet. "Why are you here, Nedinius?"

Lennax almost fell when he realised that the Primarch knew his name, but managed to regain his composure.

"I have come to honour our fallen, my lord, and especially the brothers of my squad and those humans attached to it, before we continue with our allotted course."

Perturabo motioned to a seat across from the wall of honour and both men sat down. The Primarch was silent, and poor Lennax did not say a word, at first not sure if he should but then realising that he could not even if he wanted to. He had seen his Primarch before, but then Perturabo, even in person, had seemed distant, untouchable, in a way he did not now.

And Perturabo... Perturabo, the Lord of Iron, nodded as he realised that he had been right to accept Forrix's idea. For Lennax, he already knew, was here both for his battle-brothers and for the human scout his squad had bonded with in the war on Castelios Alpha. A baseline human - yet was she any less deserving of remembrance than the Iron Warriors? The risks that the men and women of the Army took were far greater than those of the Astartes, and as mere humans they also had, in truth, far more choice than Space Marines in the matter. Yet she, like billions of others across the galaxy, had thrown herself into the abyss of war regardless, for the Imperial Truth's ideals.

Perturabo was far more than human, far more even than Astarte. And as such, he knew, as he now reminded himself, to demand the most of himself, to throw his most dearly held preconceptions against the walls if they did not fit the new age they were building. Dorn had not been his enemy, before, he understood that now, and it was only right to memorialize that when it was practical, even in commingled blood.

And the present Dorn, who would surely and correctly take this as an insult, was certainly his enemy, and that too would have its memorial, written in blood of a different sort.

"So tell me, Nedinius, about the young human that your squad is calling the Iron Sister…."


Amon stood in the hangar waiting. Forrix stood beside him; no one else did. The Stormbird in the livery of the Thousand Sons slowly came to a halt when, suddenly, the First Grand Battalion's honour guard appeared and lined the dropping ramp, their weapons across their chests.

Amon was about to say something when Perturabo came in and all present snapped to attention. He rested a hand on Amon's shoulder.

"You will need to add two more names to your list, Amon, for after speaking with Mortarion we want you to add Barbarus and Olympia to your names."

"You honour me, lord." Amon bowed his head. "I will do it as soon as I am able."

Perturabo stood to one side to allow his Legion's serfs to approach. Between them they carried a great suit of armour done in the style of the Custodes but bearing the symbols of both a Death Guard and an Iron Warrior.

"You are a brother of both," Perturabo simply said. "When you reach Kegara, give Magnus my regards and tell him….tell him I miss our discussions."

"Yes, lord."

"I know you prefer to add your names yourself, but I have personally added your earliest names. The rest I leave to you."

"Thank you, lord."

Amon did not know what else to say; he had been the last of his caste, and now he had been, in a way, accepted into the Astarte brotherhood, not something he had ever expected to happen or even expected to want. With a deep bow to the Lord of Iron, he went to board the Stormbird before stopping. He removed two items from his uniform and gave them to Forrix.

"Would you see that my two human friends get these?"

Forrix nodded as he turned the objects, both on clasps, over in his hand; one was a carved image of Alyce Springs, and the other was a symbol of freedom from the land he hailed from. Memories, of a world now lost to them.

But was that all that would remain of them all, in time, when death called them away? Memories...

No.

Memories, and legacies. When the end did come - for some of the Primarchs, perhaps it never would, but Forrix had no doubts about his own fate - the dreams that they had built would endure.

Forrix watched as Amon left his view. He waited until the Stormbird was gone, brought his arm across his chest in salute, and walked away.


TO BE CONTINUED in the eighth book of the Renegades Saga, Foundations in Scarlet.