{oOo}

The thunder of World Eater feet across the decks of the alien vessel reminded Artai of the cavalry of Chogoris. But where his father's tuman, whether riders of the steppes or the Legion who wore the same alabaster armour and ceremonial scars that he did, would have circled their foes relentlessly, slicing off the weak and herding their foes like cattles, that was not the habit of the World Eaters.

Instead the Astartes in white and blue armour lunged directly at the heart of the defenders, intent upon smashing them and shattering their resistance. Artai had seen this before - seen the price it extracted in the form of scarred ceramite and torn flesh, but also the broken foes fleeing before the brutal certainty of a World Eater charge.

Here, as it had on all sorts of battlefields, it worked. At the centre of the vessel, behind layer after layer of armour intended to ward off the elemental fury of warship batteries, the command centre of the xenos vessel had no protection from the wrath of Angron's sons.

On other occasions Artai had stood back and watched, or held himself upon the flank, picking off stray warriors who sought to outflank the sudden advance. But now he found himself carried along with them, the long sleek chainsword he carried gripped in both hands for additional power as he hacked at the pirates in front of him as ferociously as the Astartes flanking him. At fourteen, he was tall for his age and had long since found himself towering over even grown men, saving for his father and uncles of course. Thus, Artai was scarcely smaller than the Astartes around him and the whining teeth of his blade cut as furiously as their heavy chain axes.

He didn't see the faces in front of him. The Eldar whose precise swordsmanship was no defense against overwhelming strength had a pale, amost cadaverous face to his eyes.

When Artai broke the nose of a human traitor with the guard of his sword, the gaudy carapace armour might have been midnight blue power armour for all he could tell.

And for a long moment as he broke into the command deck, the banner across the back seemed to mock him by resembling a winged skull. The sight froze him for a single, near-fatal instant as the huddle of pirate leaders opened up at him from behind the cover of their consoles. Stubber and laser fire scarred but did not breach his armour but scattershot from a crude cannon managed to catch the face of his helm and Artai staggered, one eyepiece broken and the armour-glass in his face.

Then a powerful hand shoved him forwards and to one side, opening the way for Kharn to lead the charge onwards, bolt pistol roaring as he picked off shooters and a power axe singing in his other hand in readiness for bloodshed ahead.

Artai drove his chainsword into the nearest chair, the teeth biting through padding and frame before he cut the power and started to wrestle off his helm. Free to smell the stench of blood and battle, not only from the compartment but also the rainbow of gore from dozens of disparate alien foe that painted his armour, he bent over and retched before starting to reach for his face.

"WAIT FOR AN APOTHECARY," ordered Angron bluntly. "LOSE AN EYE IF YOU FIDDLE BLINDLY WITH THAT. PROMISED YOUR FATHER TO KEEP YOU INTACT FOR A FUNERAL EVEN IF I COULDN'T KEEP YOU ALIVE."

He swallowed and then looked up at his uncle. "You're not...?" It was most unlike the Primarch not to be in the thick of the fighting, still going on.

Angron looked down at him and then shrugged. "YOU ARE BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND OUR ANGER, SON OF KHAN. NOW YOU MUST MASTER YOUR OWN."

"My... own...?"

His response was a sharp nod but his uncle surprised him by doffing his own battlehelm. "REVENGE FOR CHOGORIS IS NECESSARY. I DO NOT DO ONLY THAT WHICH IS NECESSARY." His lips parted in a savage smile and to his surprise, for the first time since the news of Chogoris and of Aunt Esin, Artai returned it.

{oOo}