Chapter 21: War Zone Fenris, Part One
War Zone: Fenris:
A Saga of Spite and Vengeance- Part One
The wall on which the prophets wrote
Is cracking at the seams
Upon the instruments of death
The sunlight brightly gleams
When every man is torn apart
With nightmares and with dreams
Will no one lay the laurel wreath
When silence drowns the screams
For ten thousand years, the Space Wolves have prowled the stars, defenders of an untrusting Imperium. Though they have served loyally, their methods have aroused a great deal of suspicion, as well as the ire of both allies and foes who would like nothing more than to see the Sons of Russ brought low. In the ancient past, the Sixth Legion came to blows against Magnus the Red and with his accursed sorcerer-kin, who cast them into the Warp in a treacherous assault at the beginning of the Leonine Heresy. Yet in the end, the mighty Leman Russ would obtain his revenge, destroying Prospero, homeworld of the Fifteenth Legion. Though the Lord of Winter and War no longer walks among his sons, the Court of the Crimson King has not forgotten this most ancient grudge. Now, with the Space Wolves distracted and spread ever more thinly across the stars to protect those who fear and resent them, the Thousand Sons and their daemonic allies close in, preparing to deal a deadly blow to their enemies' home, Fenris, with the unwitting aid of those who ought to be the Wolves' battle brothers.
Chapter One: Firemarks
The galaxy burns. Across the Imperium, a thousand, thousand foes press in on every side. It is a time of ending, in more ways than one, for as M41 comes to a close, so too does Mankind's last hopes for survival. Ten thousand years of unending war have drained Terra's defenders, and the titanic struggles of M39-M41 have seen countless resources expended on short-lived triumphs, the so-called Waning. During this time, thousands of new worlds were claimed in the name of the Master of Mankind, an opening of new fronts that an already-overstretched empire could ill-afford to maintain. Now the many horrors of our galaxy have redoubled their assaults, closing in to reclaim their worlds and swamp the realms of Man in shadow.
Against them stands the innumerable armies of the Imperial Guard, the Adepta Sororitas, and of course, the mighty Legiones Astartes. Where once they conquered the entire galaxy in the span of a few centuries, the Nine remaining Legions have now become reaction forces, desperately putting out stellar blazes lest they engulf more systems in the fire of war. The Sixth Legion, the redoubtable Space Wolves, are the very epitome of this heroic effort. From their homeworld, the icy Death World known as Fenris, the Space Wolves venture out across the galaxy in Great Hunts as they track down all manner of foes. From rampaging greenskin hordes, to Tyranid splinter-fleet incursions, to rebellions of the Lost and the Damned, the Sons of Russ have crossed blades with every foe to ever threaten the Imperium of Man. Where other loyalist legions confine their patrols to certain sectors, the Space Wolves roam the entire galaxy, only maintaining permanent garrisons around eternal threats such as the Eye of Terror or the Maelstrom.
Fenris System
Located on the same galactic arm as Holy Terra, the forbidden system of Fenris sits at the heart of the Lupus Nebula, just inside the borders of Segmentum Solar. Fenris itself holds less than five million inhabitants, and thus the bulk of the system's population comes from the other worlds, from Valdrmani, her moon, to the subsurface hives of Midgardia, to the similarly icy Frostheim. Around the home of the Space Wolves lies a collection of hostile sectors, for this region of space is filled with monstrous xenos and savage despots. To its south is the Armageddon Gate, where war against the orks has begun to reach a fever-pitch intensity, while the Eye of Terror sits northwest, perpetually vomiting abominations that must be caught and destroyed. There are few Imperial worlds in this region of Segmentum Solar, for most have been scoured clean by the Space Wolves themselves, who have no wish for outsiders to come prying into their business.
Yet due to their small size, the Space Wolves are perhaps the most burdened of all the Nine. As of the waning days of M41, barely seventy thousand warriors, spread unevenly across a dozen Great Companies, now prowl the stars, unleashing the wrath of Fenris upon all who would oppose the Allfather's will. A full third of the legion has already sailed west, to join in the defense of the Cadian Gate, where the Destroyer's forces are expected to arrive any day now. Another third is scattered across the Imperium, tied down in protracted struggles against rebellious systems. The remaining Great Companies remain on patrol, the fiercely-independent Jarls now reluctantly receiving their assignments issued from Fenris.
At the center of the Aett, the famed citadel of the Space Wolves, Har-Fylkir Logan Grimnar holds his court, accompanied by his senior advisors. Where the rest of the Death World heaves with tectonic fury, the Fang remains safe and secure, a remote mountain at the heart of Asaheim, the largest continent. However, this isolation has become lonely as of late, for with the legion pressed harder than ever before, the great feasting halls built to hold tens of thousands now contain a scant five thousand, three-fifths of whom now ready themselves to leave along with the Har-Fylkir himself. The Cadian Gate has already taken a third of the Sixth Legion, and now it will take more, for Grimnar and his chosen warriors now go to reinforce them. As he readied himself to depart, the Old Wolf took a moment to recall the past, reliving his memories once more.
"Are you sure, High Priest?" asked Grimnar, stroking his white beard. Opposite him stood Ulrik the Slayer, the oldest living son of Russ, whose totems rattled as he nodded.
"Aye, my King. The Okinnugr have been spotted on more than a dozen worlds in the past year alone. Something is driving them to return, and many of them are far from loyal. I fear the end times draw near."
"Surely it is not all doom and gloom." interjected Ragnar. Both Grimnar and Ulrik turned to look at the Jarl, the only other senior commander present. Blackmane had held the title of Jarl for barely a few decades, and as such, was known to all as the Young Wolf to parallel Grimnar's epithet of Old Wolf. "After all, if the Lost Kin are coming back, Russ himself can't be far behind!"
"I admire your optimism, lad, but the Last Saga is only a legend. And they are not to be trusted."
"What do you mean, Ulrik?" asked Grimnar. Ulrik's gentle smile settled back into its usual frown, hidden amidst the lines of his weathered face.
"My interrogation yielded much bad news, I'm afraid. The last outlaw my men apprehended, a wretch calling himself Grimur Red-Iron, was taken in the midst of a battle against the Grey Knights. He claimed to have been hunting for a Son of the Crimson King known as the Hopeful for untold millennia, but such a story beggars belief. As it is, I can only hope the Sons of Titan were unaware of his true origin."
"Indeed." nodded Grimnar. "Young Ragnar, I have a task for you. Take your pick of the men, and seek out these Okinnugr. Bring them back, alive if you can; I feel something is amiss, that we're not seeing the whole picture." Blackmane saluted before striding out of the hall.
Grimnar's recollection was shattered by the sound of a beep, his keen senses instantly putting him on alert. Only then did his conscious mind make sense of the threat his subconscious had picked up on: it was no foe, only the chirp of his comms unit. As expected, it was his old companion Ulrik, though the message he bore was of a kind entirely different from the one he had given years ago at their meeting with Ragnar, whose company had been absent ever since. The Slayer's voice was as grim as ever as he explained the reason for his interruption: daemonic incursions had been detected across the Fenris System. How this had come to pass was unknown, but such a slight to the legion's honor could not be ignored.
In the days to come, this intrusion would be noted in the legion's annals as a Firemark, retroactively declared as such to note it as part of the momentous struggle it was a part of. The earliest of these was Firemarks -7, -6, and -5, all of which marked times where the Great Companies of the Space Wolves departed Fenris to hunt down Chaos incursions across the galaxy. In hindsight, these invasions, spearheaded by the Thousand Sons and their Chaotic allies, were clearly designed to denude the Fenris System of her protectors. However, honor demanded the Sons of Russ protect the worlds under their keep, and the legion's commanders held no regret. With Fenris itself now under threat in what would be titled as Firemark -4, the worlds of the Space Wolves now faced a danger even greater than they had during the Battle of the Fang, back in M33. In response to this affront, High King Grimnar unleashed the Sveit present on Fenris to deal with these threats and buy time for the astropaths to call for aid.
Firemark -3 marked Jarl Krom Dragongaze and his forces coming to the rescue of Valdrmani, the Wolf's Moon orbiting above Fenris herself. The notoriously violent Dragongaze was the only Jarl present in the system aside from High King Logan Grimnar, and thus it was he who was the first of the Sons of Russ to respond to this invasion. His Great Company Tra-Tra, the mighty Ninth who were known as the Drakeslayers, numbered just over six thousand warriors on paper, though much of this strength was elsewhere, manning the many defensive emplacements and watchtowers built around the Eye of Terror and other permanent Warp storms. Thus only a mere two thousand legionaries, the bulk of the Space Wolves present in the Fenris System, stood by Jarl Krom's side as they landed on Valdrmani in a full-scale drop pod assault.
Against this mighty force seeking to liberate the Wolf's Moon were the epicurean cohorts of Malyg'nyl Needletongue. Claiming the title of Prince over a warband known as the Infernal Tetrad, Needletongue's armies were a lurid assortment of murderers and hedonists, sybaritic abominations who had transformed the barren deserts of Valdrmani into a eye-watering canvas whose perverted beauty delighted their creators as much as it revolted the Sons of Russ. Once a radiation-soaked backwater, Valdrmani had little to offer besides the Longhowl astropath station, a domed city which ferried messages to Fenris from the rest of the Imperium. As such, it had little in the way of defenses, and thus the daemons of Slaanesh had made great sport of the helpless civilians.
As the forces of Dragongaze closed in on the domed city, protected from the radiation by their armor, they noted with righteous repugnance the horrors wrought on their moon. Along the highway leading from the space port, dozens of astropaths lay impaled upon their own force staves, their blind eyes and contorted expressions a mute testament to the atrocities inflicted on them. The crushed fragments of desecrated Imperial symbols lay strewn at their feet, and as the Space Wolves marched closer to the relay station, they quickly came under attack. From the skies, viscous fluids began to rain down, a foul-smelling downpour with the telltale sickly-sweet scent of Chaos which slowed the Space Wolves as the very dunes they walked upon became a morass of shifting mud prone to slide at any moment.
Now caught in difficult terrain, Needletongue's forces revealed themselves as daemonic cavalry raced around them from all sides. The Space Wolves responded instantly, but to their surprise, their bolters hit only air. Mocking laughter rang out as many of the phantasm riders were revealed to be mere illusions, though not all. Lashing tongues and whips began to ensnare Astartes and yank them out from the safety of their ranks, trampled beneath the razor-sharp hooves of the daemonic Steeds or slashed to ribbons by the daemonettes riding the beasts. Larger daemon engines rolled over the crests of dunes, their wheels thundering like the discordant echoes of the storms booming overhead as they rode over entire squadrons of marines, chariot blades slicing through ceramite like paper. In the distance, the Daemon Prince Needletongue posed atop a desecrated statue, an tentacled abomination clambering over the crumbling masonry. Six skinned wolf-heads snapped from its waist beneath an androgynous torso waving a daemon sword as it ordered its forces to destroy the Space Wolves.
However, the Sons of Russ were far from helpless. The air was filled with the roar of chainswords and hum of power weapons as they slashed at their daemonic tormentors, cutting down dozens of squealing daemonettes. Well-thrown grenades overturned chariots as they passed by, sending their riders tumbling into the dust where they were hacked to shreds by vengeful Astartes. Dragongaze proved why he was Jarl, his Frost Ax Wyrmclaw singing in harmony to the furious bellows of its wielder who roared with every daemon he cut down. At his side were the hirdmen, his personal retinue of bodyguards who cut down any who attempted to bar their master's path, and soon Dragongaze and his men stood before Needletongue.
The Daemon Prince and the Jarl wasted no time as they hurled themselves at each other, a furious melee in which there could be only one survivor. Time and time again Malyg'nyl's tentacles lashed out, seeking to knock Krom off his feet or send his bodyguards flying away. The Daemon Prince's sword hummed with dark magics, and with each strike, the protective runes on the Jarl's armor glowed with renewed might, seeking to dispel the foul curses that would have laid any lesser man low. All around them, Space Wolves and daemons were locked in fierce duels, matching implacable fury against quicksilver swiftness in a battle that was rapidly reaching its climax. One after another, the Jarl's bodyguards lopped off the snarling wolf heads, while Krom himself let out a renewed burst of fury that sent the daemon's sword, along with its wrist, tumbling into the dust, where it was soon followed by Needletongue's leering head.
Chapter Two: The Doom of the High King
As impressive as it was, the Drakeslayers' swift victory upon Valdrmani soon proved to be merely the opening movement in a symphony whose parts were even now unfolding across the rest of the Fenris System. Upon the ocean-covered moon of Svellgard, a regiment of the famed Elysian Drop Troops responded to the High King's call for aid, eager to pay off a debt owed for five centuries. Tumbling down through cold gray skies toward rapidly-reddening ocean tides, the Imperial Guard leapt from their Valkyries to begin what was known as Firemark -2, clashing with the forces of the second Prince of the Infernal Tetrad, the Daemon known as Arkh'gar. From the moment they materialized, the former Blood Angel and his Khornate brutes were right where they wanted to be: at the heart of a bloody battle. Atop the gore-slicked decks of commandeered barges, rows of skull cannons fired their daemonic flak into the air at the men of the Imperial Guard who vainly strove to halt their rampage. Most were torn into bloody pieces either before or shortly after they landed on the blood-slicked decks of Arkh'gar's fleet, but enough were making it through to entertain the brutish Daemon Prince.
Firemark -2 also encompassed the bizarre actions of the third member of the Infernal Tetrad, the Daemon Prince known as Tzen'char. As expected from a servant of the Architect of Fate, Tzen'char objectives were as convoluted as they were mysterious, erupting from a Warp rift to begin a ritual around Morkai's Keep, a Sixth Legion bastion on the ice world of Frostheim. Treachery from within saw the daemons and their mortal thralls quickly take control of the bastion, though not before calls for aid were sent out. However, this had been accounted for in the labyrinthine schemes of Tzen'char, and thus rather than nearby Fenris, these distress calls were twisted and rerouted to a far less friendly recipient. The consequences of Tzen'char's actions would not be evident for some time though, nor could forces be spared as of yet to halt their incursion, and so the uncaring sands of time continued their countdown, progressing to Firemark -1.
Back on Fenris, when the Har-Fylkir learned of the daemonic taint defiling the worlds under his protection, his wrath was fearsome indeed. Though there were but a few sveit present on Fenris, Grimnar had no shortage of volunteers willing to join his expedition to Midgardia. Gathering his men, the High King of Fenris set out to defend his land, accompanied with just over three hundred loyal retainers, including the mighty Thegn Egil Jarnulfr. Their journey was short, and soon the Space Wolves had landed in force. One of three inhabited worlds in the Fenris System, Midgardia was in many ways the opposite of Fenris. Thick, lush jungles covered its surface, a poisonous greenhouse home to all manner of toxic plant life and fearsome beasts. As such, most of the world's six and a half billion inhabitants lived just below the crust in inverted hives. Though its people could not join the legion, their population was sufficient to contribute to the Astra Militarum, as well as a robust planetary defense force. In addition, a chapterhouse of the Valkyria made its home there, serving as a vital training ground for nearly a thousand Sisters of Fenris who were taught off-world survival as well as leadership.
Thus it was to their convent, the Abbey of the Emperor's Judgment, that Grimnar and his men made for after they landed, for it was situated directly below a vast nova cannon array of the same name. However, as they descended through the jungles toward the hive lift complex that would take them below the surface, the Space Wolves found themselves under attack. Lurching out from noxious clouds of acidic mist, the rotting tide of flesh of a host of plaguebearers hurled themselves at the armored treads of Grimnar's column. Any other foe would have been stunned by the stench of these daemonic abominations, but the Space Wolves had been forewarned to expect the Neverborn, and thus reacted instantly. As one, the gunners sighted their pintle-mounted storm bolters, opening up a withering fusillade into the putrid mists, and were rewarded with renewed groans from the Nurglite daemons. Only marginally slower, the sponsons of each of the Space Wolves mighty land raiders rotated, putting their companions' shots to shame with the sheer volume of death spat out by their hurricane bolters.
Before long, Grimnar's armored column was surrounded by hundreds of splintered and shattered trees on all sides. Even the mists had blown back from the amount of firepower the Har-Fylkir had unleashed, revealing the oozing bodies of countless lesser daemons. Yet still the servants of the Plague God came on, groaning and ringing sonorous bells as they marched ever closer to the Astartes forces. However, Grimnar and his men were not about to stop and confront them. Knowing his true foe lay beneath the surface, the High King ordered his column to keep moving forward at any cost. The mighty armored treads of Grimnar's personal transport, the land raider Wrath of Mjalnar, ground dozens of daemons into the soil as it pushed onward, its helfrost cannons blasting giggling piles of Nurglings into sludge.
In his wake, the rest of the Space Wolves forces pressed forward, an honor guard protecting the advance of their High King. The Plague Legions closed in from every direction, clambering out of the ground itself in order to clog the treads of Rhinos. Droning rot-flies swarmed down out of the skies, plucking unlucky legionaries who had made the mistake of leaning too far out of hatches. Rusty blades wielded by towering rotting cyclops plunged into the bodies of dozens of Astartes, seemingly feeling no pain no matter how many chunks of flesh were lopped off in return by chainswords. More than one brave Son of Russ disappeared beneath piles of chortling Nurglings, their death marked only by the rapid-fire thump of their grenades going off.
Still Grimnar and his companions pressed on, knowing that the true fight still lay ahead beneath the surface. Soon enough, the Space Wolves made it to their destination, driving their tanks and transports directly into the industrial elevators meant to haul cargo beneath the surface. Descending into the depths, Grimnar spoke to his men, rallying their spirits with a rousing speech. The elevators came to a jarring stop, and the doors retracted upward, revealing the clinical, sterile environment of the Abbey's sub-level garages. Though they had feared the worst, Grimnar was enthused to see his arrival was expected, and he quickly disembarked to meet with the Sororitas who were waiting for him. Reaching out an armored gauntlet that was dwarfed by Grimnar's massive fist, Canoness-Preceptor Ingrid quickly explained the situation to the High King.
Canoness-Preceptor Ingrid Hrafnkelsdottir
A native of Fenris, the saga of Ingrid Hrafnkelsdottir is a tale of a meteoric rise and fall. Once merely a young tribal shieldmaiden, Ingrid's life was changed forever when she received a vision of the Emperor in the midst of a grueling labor. Though her child was lost, the story of how obstinately she clung to life made its way to a nearby convent of the Valkyria, who took her in. Ingrid's spirit remained undiminished no matter how many penances she was assigned by the Mistress of the Novices, and it was that same spirit which saw her rapidly rise through the ranks to become Prioress Astrid's right hand. However, the Canoness-Preceptor has made more than a few enemies upon Ophelia VII due to her prickly nature, lashing out with a fiery temper to express her rather heterodox views regarding the Allfather's divine nature to all who would listen. Thus she has spent the better part of the last thirty years below the surface of Midgardia, cast far from the honored halls a woman of her talent would otherwise have roamed.
As expected, the battle for Midgardia was not going well. Several of the subterranean hives had already fallen, rotted from the inside out by the presence of the daemonic legions. Leading the warband was a powerful Daemon Prince of Nurgle, Mordokh the Rotted, the fourth and final commander of the Infernal Tetrad. Many brave Sisters had been lost attempting to bring this fiend to justice, but with Grimnar and his champions present, they now stood a fighting chance. Accompanied by Thegn Jarnulfr, along with his personal bodyguards and the Prioress herself, Grimnar descended into the depths of the Abbey, where the daemons of Nurgle had been fighting to escape the lowest reaches. Meanwhile, the remaining Space Wolves took their place alongside the rest of the convent, fighting side by side in grueling Zone Mortalis battles to clear the hab-blocks of the hive from daemonic filth.
Being built entirely underground, the Abbey of the Emperor's Judgment was constructed in reverse of those convents built on the surface. Thus rather than basements or larders, the lowest reaches of the Abbey was the colossal bell-tower, whose windows revealed the vast caverns of Midgardia that the convent and all the other hives were built in. Far in the distance, explosions made bright by the relative darkness of the cave system lit up the void in brief flashes of light, illuminating the constant rockfall as vast chunks of masonry sloughed off the hives. Down and down into the depths they plunged, descending hundreds of meters into rivers of molten magma, whose geothermal energy provided the power necessary to power the vast subterranean industries. However, the Space Wolves had little time to sight-see, for the halls of the bell-tower were a charnel house. Dozens of Sororitas lay strewn about the floor, their bodies mangled and hacked into dozens of pieces. Blood and gore coated nearly every surface, and as the High King watched, more of it was splattered as the armored form of Prioress Astrid, the venerable Valkyria who was in charge of the entire Abbey, was bisected by a whirling mower of rusted blades wielded by a grinning monstrosity.
As Grimnar and his companions emerged at the lowest reaches of the Abbey, it was by chance or fate that they arrived to witness the death of Mother-Prioress Astrid at the hands of Mordokh the Rotted, Daemon Prince of Nurgle. A Daemon Prince of the Infernal Tetrad, this particular Neverborn was a towering brute of livid flesh and oozing pestilence, his rusted helm bisecting horizontally to reveal a fanged maw which barked out foul laughter at the enraged screams of the Valkyria reinforcements accompanying Grimnar. Before the High King could say otherwise, the Sisters unleashed a hail of bolter fire. Mordokh however was undaunted, the stinging pain of bullet wounds swiftly fading as the blessings of his foul patron took effect. As the Daemon Prince waved his rusted ax in the air, the daemon's allies responded to the new arrivals, lurching toward the elevator, intent on slaughtering the Valkyria just as they had their companions before them.
Unfortunately for the Neverborn, the Sororitas were not alone. Fearsome howls that made even the daemons hesitate as the Space Wolves leapt into action, hip-firing their bolters into the heaving masses of Neverborn filth. Chainswords roared and power swords hissed as they lopped off rotting limbs and cyclopean horned heads. The battle quickly devolved into a tangled melee, Astartes and Valkyria slaughtering and being slaughtered in turn by the Nurglite host. In the center of it all, Logan Grimnar faced off against the towering monstrosity that was Mordokh, accompanied only by Canoness Ingrid and Thegn Jarnulfr. Their bodyguards had been separated in the brawl, bogged down in their own individual duels amidst a heaving sea of rotting green and brown.
The High King was death incarnate, every blow lopping off chunks of diseased flesh. The Axe of Morkai sang as he swung it through the air, lighter than usual as the putrid blood of a rival Daemon Prince flowed from his every strike. Thegn Jarnulfr gave almost as good an account, his lightning claws crackling as they hacked down clouds of plague flies that the Daemon Prince vomited forth. The Canoness-Commander was of equal skill, her plasma pistol spitting molten death at the plaguebearers who sought to interrupt the duel of the Daemon Prince and the High King. The tide began to turn, and soon the daemonic hosts began to recede, driven from the bell tower by the fury of Grimnar and his companions.
However, as the decaying mountain of Mordokh's form fell to the ground, his essence unraveling from dozens of wounds, he did not curse or rage as one might have expected. Rather, the Rotted began to laugh, his eyeless face swiveling to behold the Space Wolves and Valkyria gathering to watch Grimnar behead him. Before the High King could swing his ax, a colossal series of explosions began to ring out. A shuddering, deafening noise filled the air as countless tons of masonry began to rain down, and Grimnar staggered as the bell tower split in two. Now detached from its anchor, Grimnar, his bodyguard, and the rapidly-decaying corpse of the vanquished daemon prince were sent plummeting into the depths of Midgardia's caverns. Simultaneously, in the void above, Grimnar's flagship, Allfather's Honor, lost all contact with its forces on the ground.
As the High King vanished from sight, command of the Space Wolves fell to Thegn Jarnulfr. While he focused on mopping up the remaining daemons with the assistance of Canoness Ingrid and her sisters, the loyal captain called upon his best scouts and trackers to descend into the depths of Midgardia's hives in order to find the Har-Fylkir, or at least, evidence he was no longer in the land of the living. Deeper and deeper did the Space Wolves outriders descend, fighting off pestilent horrors of all descriptions, from segmented plague-wyrms the size of a mag-train, to flights of glitch-flies that played havoc with their armor and sensors. Even as their tracking equipment sputtered and gave out, the Sons of Russ continued their hunt, their loyalty to Grimnar undaunted. However, all they found was the King's Crown, Grimnar's ancient helmet carved with the runes of every Har-Fylkir to have ever ruled the Rout.
Chapter Three: The Falsehoods of Frostheim
Now after many centuries and even more plots, the doom of the Sixth Legion was now finally coming to fruition. The ensnarement of the hated Space Wolves, nine millennia in the making, had gone off perfectly, the culmination of nine times nine schemes. The four Daemon Princes of the Infernal Tetrad had brought slaughter and change to the worlds of the Fenris System, each unleashing a different choir of the Neverborn in service to a dark bargain made with the servants of the Changer of Ways. The machinations of Tzeentch had ensnared numberless hosts to his cause, both knowingly and unknowingly pawns in a greater game. Many shards of the multifaceted mind of the Architect of Fate were riveted upon this one vital system, for it was key to many schemes going forward and backwards. The Magister of Destinies had ensured all was unfolding just as planned, for even now, one of his most potent servants lurked, waiting to be quite literally called upon.
Changeling
Even amongst the other servants of the Lord of Lies, the Horror known as the Changeling is among the most deceitful beings in existence. A master shapeshifter, the Changeling has altered its features so many times that not even it remembers its original appearance, something only Tzeentch himself recalls. The Changeling has proved instrumental in many of the Architect of Fate's most effective schemes, from serious plots such as the damnation of Magnus the Red, to practical jokes upon the other Ruinous Powers. As one servant to another, Ahriman has made a bargain to enlist the Changeling in service of his own schemes, but the Osirian Dreadnought Lord remains wary, for the Changeling always has its own plots as well.
Using its skill as a master deceiver, the Changeling had assumed the shape of a Raven Guard scout. Many years before the invasion of the Fenris System, the false Scout had brought the Astartes of the Nineteenth to the point of open conflict with a band of Space Wolves. The secretive Sons of Russ refused to tell the Sons of Deliverance what they were doing on the Hive World of Nurades, and after they fled the surface, a massive daemon incursion erupted, preventing the Raven Guard from pursuing. Such was its magnitude that the Grey Knights had to intervene, and though they survived, the strange occurrence had done much to convince the suspicious Scions of the Shade Lord that the Space Wolves were somehow responsible. The Grey Knights also began to suspect their long-time ally of concealing something after discovering the mutated corpses of Sixth Legion Astartes on multiple worlds in the wake of daemon invasions. This pattern of escalating suspicions had continued for over a decade, the Changeling changing faces as it saw fit in order to bring the suspicion of the Space Wolves up to a fever pitch.
Now, as the Neverborn armies of the Infernal Tetrad marched upon the worlds of the Fenris System, the Changeling had found its way aboard a vessel of the Inquisition operating in a nearby sector. In place of an Astartes, the daemon now wore the face of an unassuming mortal, a man known as Vox Seneschal Mendaxis. In this guise, the Changeling knew and controlled every scrap of classified information, from vox transmissions to astropathic relays. Thus it was perfectly in position to act when the Inquisition received an unexpected distress call from Frostheim, quickly routing it to the attention of the Inquisition. His attention piqued by the news of a daemonic incursion, the formidable Inquisitor Banist de Mornay of the Ordo Hereticus recognized a threat when he saw one. Though the presence of daemons generally fell under the purview of the Ordo Malleus, de Mornay knew to delay would risk the loss of Frostheim.
To one such as the veteran Inquisitor de Mornay, the chance to investigate the Fenris System was far too tempting to pass up. However, the Legiones Astartes had never been that willing to acquiesce to the demands of outsiders, even ones as powerful as the Inquisition, and thus de Mornay knew he would need reinforcements. As fate would have it, de Mornay's call for reinforcements was answered by none other than Inquisitor Lord Fyodor Karamazov. Having long suspected the Space Wolves of deviancy, Karamazov was quick to throw his authority around to gather up a suitable force to bend the Sixth Legion to his will. Just as planned, forces bound for the Cadian Gate were in just the right place to be bent to Karamazov's designs.
Fresh from vanquishing the Greater Daemon M'Kachen on the Fortress World of Longhallow, a fleet of silver-hulled warships lined with engrammatic wards came, led by the august figure of Grand Master Valdar Aurikon and his Third Brotherhood of the mighty Grey Knights. From the far southern rim, a Murder-Fleet of Raven Guard warships silently joined Karamazov's muster, their commander brusquely announcing himself as Shadow Captain Ardaric Vaanes. Dozens of Imperial Navy vessels trickled in from all vectors, from small Cobra-class destroyers to mighty Avenger-class grand cruisers, carrying enough ordinance to level a star system. Inside their armored hulls, the 18th Regiment of Valhallan Ice Warriors led by Commander Kubrik Chenkov readied themselves for battle. Chenkov's reputation for unflagging determination spoke for itself, and the Ice Worlders under his command would be invaluable on the frozen death world of Fenris. Such fanatic devotion found its equal in the three commanderies of the Sisters of the Order of the Divine Lamentation, for the Adepta Sororitas were always willing to answer the call of the Ordo Hereticus.
All this and more came to Karamazov's summons, the Inquisitor Lord calling in every favor and debt to muster a force capable of bringing a legion to heel, for that was exactly what he intended to do. Though such an armada was no doubt desperately needed at the Cadian Gate and elsewhere, Karamazov and his allies were certain the threat presented by the Space Wolves was too great to ignore. If the Sixth Legion had spurned their oaths, as the Pyrophant Judge of Salem Proctor already believed, they needed to be removed before the Destroyer's forces made their move. Karamazov's conviction was unimpeachable, wholly without guile or doubt as he laid out his evidence and reasoning for striking at the Space Wolves now, and thus despite their misgivings, Grand Master Aurikon and his two lieutenants, Brother-Captains Stern and Voldus, assented to his plan. For his part, Shadow Captain Vaanes needed no convincing: he himself had nearly been declared Excommunicate Mortis several decades before for reasons that had been swiftly covered up, and was thus eager to win the favor of the Inquisition by supporting their efforts.
Little did Karamazov and his allies know that they needn't have worried, for such a force was more than enough to shatter the defenses of Fenris. Already, most of the Sixth Legion were deployed elsewhere, defending other worlds of the Imperium against forces of the Ruinous Powers, precursors to an impending Thirteenth Black Crusade. Attacks spearheaded by the Sorcerer-Lords of the Thousand Sons had stretched the Space Wolves far from their home, a choice that was no choice at all which had rendered the Fenris System vulnerable to the daemonic incursions now orchestrated into position. Now the final assault was beginning to unfold, a series of blows whose first strikes were carried out by those who should have been the Sixth Legion's allies, as well as directly, for the proud Sorcerers of Sortiarius would not permit any others to strike the killing blow to their hated rivals.
First to arrive in the Fenris System were the forces of Inquisitor de Mornay. Tasked by Karamazov to be his Herald, de Mornay's flotilla had swiftly sailed through the Warp, their small numbers able to sail much more quickly than the ponderous bulk of the Imperial Navy fleet accompanying Karamazov's own detachment. Vox Seneschal Mendaxis was quick to relay repeated distress calls from Frostheim to de Mornay's attention, and thus rather than wait for Karamazov or establish communications with Fenris itself, de Mornay ordered his forces to make landfall. None dared gainsay his decision, for even from space, the corruption of Frostheim was plain to see. Once covered in pristine blue-gray glaciers, Frostheim was now wreathed in warp-fire courtesy of the Infernal Tetrad's foul ministrations. Flocks of Tzeentchian daemon roamed the surface, screamers and flamers alike pouring out of Warp rifts to burn blackened streaks in ritualistic patterns across entire continents. As the ice melted away, a landscape of ancient bone was revealed, ridges and valleys forming a grotesque symbol of the Warp whose heart was a single tainted source: the fortress of Morkai's Keep.
Once a mighty bastion, Morkai's Keep had been reshaped from the ground up into a twisted mockery of the Fang in miniature. This foul parody extended to its defenders, for patrolling its twisted battlements was a warband of Chaos Space Marines known as the Daggerfangs, ready to repel any would-be invaders. Tzen'char had taken great delight in corrupting the leader of these Heretic Astartes, a Chaos Lord by the name of Vykus Skayle, wrapping him, his Chaplain-turned-Dark Apostle Hekastis Nul and his legionaries in a magical glamor that made them appear to be corrupted Sons of Russ, though the Daggerfangs themselves were unable to perceive it. Thus as de Mornay's forces began to land, they soon reported coming under attack by the Space Wolves. A punishing fusillade of automated defenses tore one dropship after another out of the sky, forcing the Imperial forces to assault the Keep on foot.
Utterly convinced by this deception, de Mornay ordered his armies to take Frostheim at any cost. Joined by Shadow Captain Vaanes as well as Grand Master Aurikon, de Mornay led his men from the front, pushing through the freezing blizzards which seemed to have a mind of their own. However, sub-zero temperatures were not enough to deter the fanatic Inquisitor, and his Astartes allies did not feel the cold, insulated as they were in their power armor. Long renowned for their mastery of stealth, the Raven Guard led the way, utilizing the blizzards to advance undetected until they were within a kilometer of the Keep. The Daggerfangs were caught completely by surprise as a withering blast of plasma struck their corrupted fortress, most of it aimed at the thick adamantium doors. Multiple devastator squads of Raven Guard rose up from drifts of snow to unleash blazing payloads into their target, and such was their fervor that more than one legionary was forced to discard their overheated weapon after their mighty salvo.
However, as the steam cleared, the mighty doors still stood firm, the telltale shimmer of sorcerous shields revealing how they had survived such molten fury. Now alerted, the Daggerfangs struck back as their own heavy weapons teams unleashed a withering fusillade from atop the battlements. A dozen tactical marines were blasted into twisted chunks of gore and metal as krak missiles and autocannons tore through their armor. Atop the tallest tower, a Sorcerer chanted a foul ritual, intending to send a bolt of lightning into the tanks at the heart of the loyalist column, but to his astonishment, his incantations yielded nothing.
The source of this discrepancy was soon revealed, for with a blinding white light, an entire company of Grey Knights manifested upon the battlefield, using their teleporters to shunt up just under the walls of the Keep. Led by Grand Master Aurikon himself, a trio of mighty Nemesis Dreadknights marched toward Morkai's Keep, their mighty exoskeletons protected by powerful force shields. As the Grand Master used his prodigious psychic ability to negate the sorcerer's spells, the other two unleashed a withering hail of bolter fire that erupted from the gatling psilencers and heavy psycannons mounted on each of their arms. The powerful psybolt ammunition, infused with the Emperor's holy wrath, made short work of the sorcerous incantations protecting the gate, and soon the mighty doors tumbled down, blasted open by force.
Raising his mighty hammer in triumph, the Grand Master led his brethren in a grand charge against the walls of the keep, swiftly smashing through the sorcerous wards using his mighty Nemesis daemon greathammer. As the walls came tumbling down, they crushed a generator, sending a roaring explosion in every direction. A hail of shrapnel sliced gashes into the invaders and defenders alike, wounding dozens, but it quickly became the least of the Daggerfangs' concerns. Aurikon's companions, a redoubtable Paladin squad, quickly cut down a room full of what they saw as corrupted Space Wolves.
However, their foes were anything but idle, and the Chaos Space Marines quickly responded to maintain their corrupt grip upon Morkai's Keep. What had initially seemed an unstoppable charge was quickly revealed as a false hope as the traitors sought to stymie their foes at the source of the breach. Dozens of weapons emplacements began to open up upon the advancing Imperial forces, heavy bolter arrays sending the loyalists diving for cover. At the same time, half a dozen missile silos swiveled toward the true threat, the Nemesis dreadknights. The mighty walkers had almost no time to react as their force shields lit up beneath a withering round of fire. Even their mighty wards could not repel firepower of that magnitude, and with a groan and a sputter, their ancient mechanisms gave out, just in time for ruby-beamed lascannons to slice through their truesilver armor.
As the twin walkers tumbled to the debris-choked ground alongside the bodies of a score of Astartes unlucky enough to be standing beside them, the traitors continued to unleash destruction. From behind vast curtain walls, the baroque majesty of a Spartan tank maneuvered into position, leveling its lascannon arrays at the towering figure of the remaining Dreadknight armor. However, forewarned of this impending doom by the death of his brethren, Grandmaster Aurikon was quick to act, sending a psychic pulse to activate an ancient relic known as the Sigil of Exigence. The venerable chor-bronze icon lit up in response, spiriting him away in a blaze of light to reappear across the battlefield to press the assault elsewhere.
In Aurikon's absence, his allies continued to press on. Atop the fortress, assault marines equipped with jump packs flew toward the battlements, moving to engage a swarm of Skyclaws in the air led by Hekastis Nul. The Dark Apostle laughed with malicious glee as he further blackened the sable armor of the Raven Guard, sending them plummeting back down to the ground as he blasted searing holes in them with the burning fury of his relic plasma pistol. Down below, the Paladins had met a worthy foe as they battled against a squadron of assault terminators, the corridors ringing with the boom of thunder hammers and the crackling of lightning claws. However, the daemonic fury of the Daggerfangs could not overcome the truesilver armor of the Paladins, and the Daemonhunters eventually gained the upper hand, though at grievous cost to their own numbers.
The battle tipped back and forth, the two sides clashing for dominance in a fierce struggle. One by one, the towers of Morkai's keep came tumbling down, brought low by carefully-placed melta charges. At the base of the walls, a mighty Terrax assault-drill had emerged from the ground, drilling another gaping hole that brought many tons of masonry tumbling down. Caught in one of these unlucky collapses, Aurikon began to take wounds, surrounded by dozens of nigh-suicidal Daggerfangs, who sought the glory of claiming the Grand Master's head. This mighty Servant of the Throne took dozens of wounds, his mighty war suit crippled by well-placed shots and blows, and might have perished, brought low by the tide of traitors. Only the sudden arrival of a squad of terminators, focusing their psychic might to punch a corridor through the Immaterium in order to cross to his side, saved his life. Together they repelled the assault before falling back in good order.
Unwilling to let such their quarry away so easily, the Daggerfangs attempted to respond, unleashing a Stormwolf dropship that raced toward the center of the Imperial lines, guided by Tzen'char's sorcerous foresight. However, their assault quickly proved to be premature, for they had not reckoned with the rest of the Imperial forces. As the Stormwolf dropship roared overhead, the Raven Guard quickly responded to this incursion, devastator squads opening up once more to blast the impudent craft out of the sky with a hail of flakk missiles. Roars of fury erupted from the shattered craft as a squad of Traitor Astartes tumbled out. Most landed on their feet, though not all, beginning to charge toward the heart of the Imperial forces in what was clearly a decapitation strike. The Sons of Deliverance, always ready to pick on a weakened foe, converged on this new enemy, bolters blasting away at targets that proved much softer than the mighty walls of Morkai's Keep.
Soon only one traitor remained: Vykus Skayle himself. Shielded by his corrupted Iron Halo and the incantations of Tzen'char, Skayle tore through an entire squad of Raven Guard by himself, a one-man rampage pressing ever closer to Inquisitor de Mornay. The Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus was riding atop a towering warsuit, a primitive walker designed in obsequious imitation of his master Karamazov's own infamous Throne of Judgment. However, de Mornay's suit was far less powerful than the original, and blessed by Tzen'char's favor, Skayle's power ax quickly hacked it down. De Mornay attempted to meet the Heretic Astartes in hand to hand combat, but was just as quickly torn to pieces in a display that might have pleased the Blood God were Skayle not a servant of his rival, the Changer of Ways. Pleased by the culmination of his plans, Tzen'char plucked his servant from the battle, taking him and a few chosen Daggerfangs back to his side before vanishing from Frostheim. Dark Apostle Hekastis Nul was not among these, left to his fate as he was cut to ribbons by a dozen Nemesis halberds. As his lifeless body fell to the ground, it was joined by the battered walls of Morkai's Keep as they finally came tumbling down.
As the Imperial forces destroyed the remaining daemons of Tzeentch present on Frostheim, they were confronted by what appeared to them to be the ugly truth of the Space Wolves' treachery. As the surviving Imperial commanders gathered together, sans the deceased Inquisitor, they began to discuss their next objective. Shadow Captain Vaanes, who had spent most of the battle assaulting the walls inside his Terrax transport, advocated for a strike upon Fenris itself, to bring the fight to the home of the Space Wolves. However, Grand Master Aurikon did not agree. While it seemed obvious that the Space Wolves, at least some of them, had embraced Chaos, the mighty seer was not the Master of the Librarius for nothing. His instincts told him something was amiss, for why would the traitors attack the relatively-worthless world of Frostheim?
Overruling the bloodthirsty Vaanes, Aurikon ordered his forces to return to the Mandeville Point and await Karamazov and the rest of the fleet's arrival. Vaanes attempted to argue, but when he saw the Grand Master's mind was made up, he was forced to assent. However, what neither Aurikon nor Vaanes knew was their battle had not gone unnoticed. Like a puppetmaster readying the strings of his marionettes, Ahriman had watched the Battle of Frostheim, and found himself well-pleased. The Chosen of Tzeentch had seeded agents across dozens of Imperial Naval vessels gathering in the Fenris System, softly whispering treacheries and suspicions in the dreams of mortals. Tzen'char's minions had set the stage for the next chapter of the Doom of the Space Wolves, but such a story required the right audience. Across the towering walls of Morkai's Keep, automated sentries had recorded the harrowing duel between Inquisitor de Mornay and the Chaos Lord of the Daggerfangs, of the combat between Loyal and Heretic Astartes, and dutifully broadcast them across the system.
From his position at the comms station, Vox Seneschal Mendaxis was precisely positioned to intercept these routine transmissions. The favored servant of the Lord of Lies set to work, seeding the recordings with a scrapcode virus, twisting the images to suit its dark designs. Once its foul machinations had been completed, Mendaxis sent them on their way to Lord Inquisitor Karamazov and the Imperial Navy captains gathered at his side. However, the story they now told had been twisted with deceit, though like all good lies, it was based in truth. Pict-captures presented the daemonic threats present across the Fenris System, including those on Frostheim, but rather than Heretic Astartes, Karamazov and his men watched de Mornay's forces battling against what appeared to be the Space Wolves themselves. Any doubts of the Sixth Legion's innocence now vanished from Karamazov's allies. With such damning 'evidence' visible to all, the Lord Inquisitor was free to enact the ultimate sanction.
"The treacherous Space Wolves have now finally been revealed for what they are. In the dark days of the Leonine Heresy, the beloved Firstfound Warmaster declared the Sixth Legion to be renegades. Yet somehow these servants of darkness managed to escape their rightful judgment. Well no more. Loyal sons and daughters of Terra, I call upon you now to strike down upon these heretics with great vengeance. Lay waste to their daemon-corrupted worlds, topple their blasphemous works, and reclaim this system in the name of the God-Emperor!" -Lord Inquisitor Fyodor Karamazov
Chapter Four: The Judgment of Midgardia
Unaware of the deception perpetrated upon them, the armies of the Inquisition and their allies now marked the Space Wolves as enemies upon their friend-or-foe identifiers. The Princes of the Infernal Tetrad had played their parts, and with the Space Wolves now occupied across the Fenris System, their homeworld itself was as undefended as it ever would be. Theroiling seas of the Immaterium heaved with fresh swells of madness created by the carnage that had been unleashed upon the Fenris System, from the blood-soaked oceans of Svellgard to the barren dunes of Valdrmani, of the burial of High King Grimnar and the treacherous deceit perpetrated on Frostheim. The paranoia and suspicion of the Imperium had now been turned upon the Space Wolves once more, an ironic re-echo of ten millennia past.
Like a towering meteorite hurtling into an atmosphere, the Imperial Retribution fleet intruding into the Fenris System began to slough off in every direction as it made for the system's heart. As more distress calls rolled in, the vast armada began to split, bringing their forces to bear against the daemon incursions still clinging on to wherever they could find purchase. Soon only the forces directly under Karamazov remained at his side as the High Inquisitor attempted to establish contact with the Fang. The Pyrophant Judge of Salem Proctor had never been known for his patience, and he wasted no time in accusing the Sons of Russ of everything from heresy to blasphemy to witchcraft. Amidst these frantic accusations were demands High King Grimnar surrender himself and turn over the Fang to be inspected by the Inquisition for deviancy.
However, after several hours of silence, the fortress-monastery of the Space Wolves finally deigned to reply. The Lord Inquisitor found himself confronted by an ancient Astartes whose snow-white beard rivaled his own. Ulrik the Slayer, Chief Priest of the Speakers of the Dead, denounced Karamazov's allegations in no uncertain terms, rebutting his arguments with a barrage of thinly-veiled insults. The two seemed on the verge of declaring war right then and there when fate stepped in. Glancing down, Karamazov deigned to respond to his vox officer, who conveyed the initial reports of Inquisitor de Mornay. Recognizing this as a chance to obtain unassailable proof of Space Wolves deviancy, the Inquisitor Lord made his move. In a tone that would have cowed any mortal man, Karamazov told the High Priest his reckoning had now arrived.
His meeting with the Space Wolves adjourned, the Lord Inquisitor ordered his fleet into action. Their first stop was retrieving the battered forces upon Frostheim, Karamazov listening to the testimony of Grand Master Aurikon, who confirmed de Mornay's testimony and turned over his shattered remains into the care of the Inquisition. Almost gleeful now, Karamazov ordered his fleet to seize control of Svellgard and Valdrmani, as well as begin the landings on Fenris itself. Meanwhile, he himself made for Midgardia, the sole remaining body of any importance, aboard his flagship, Innocentia Nihil Declarat. However, the Lord Inquisitor was unaware that his vessel had been infiltrated, for he had never bothered to learn the identities of his servants, and thus paid no attention to the comms officer manning his station upon the vast bridge.
As Karamazov returned to Midgardia, the Imperial Navy fleet began the vast undertaking of landing Fenris itself. Most of the icy Death World was a frozen waste, populated only by small villages, and thus the only strategically-relevant site upon the homeworld of the Space Wolves was the Fang. Located at the dead center of Asaheim, the main continent, the famed citadel of the Sixth Legion was easy to spot as the tallest peak rising high into the atmosphere from amidst a range of mountains. This mighty fortress had never been completely taken, even by the Thousand Sons during their invasion back in M33, but the fanatic soldiers of the Inquisition were not ones to shirk from a task. Thus they hurled themselves at the Fang from all sides, desperate to carry out Karamazov's orders at any cost.
The first and foremost targets of this invasion force were the docking platforms located at the top of the Fang. However, the Space Wolves had learned much from their suffering at the hands of the Thousand Sons, and thus dozens of defensive batteries opened up, blowing countless dropships and aircraft out of the skies. The Inquisition's preliminary bombardment had proven ineffective, as the Fang was protected by mighty void shields, and after sustaining heavy losses attempting to take the landing pads, the Imperial commanders shifted their focus to approaching from the ground. Such was the Fang's diameter, and its position amidst other, lesser peaks, that the invaders could only approach from some of the sides, and so as the Inquisitor's forces pressed closer through pre-sighted bombardment zones, they began to take heavy casualties.
However, the Space Wolves, commanded by the venerable Ulrik the Slayer, were not facing just any troops, but zealous hordes determined to destroy them at any cost. Where other armies might have faltered in the cold, the 18th Regiment of the Ice Warriors of Valhalla proved resistant to the frost and snow, marching up the slopes in their endless waves. Commanded by the ruthless Commander Kubrik Chenkov, the Tundra Wolves were led from the front, perched in a commanding position atop one of a spearhead of armored Leman Russ battle tanks, an irony that was not lost on the Primarch's sons. Dozens of Astartes met their end at these tanks named for their gene-sire as they attempted to slow the advance of the Imperial Guard, who seemed impervious to the hundreds of casualties they lost for each meter of ground they took.
On another slope, the cold was kept at bay through the judicious use of flamers and meltas, the signature weapons of the Adepta Sororitas. The Sisters of the Order of the Divine Lamentation were, if possible, even more fanatical than Chenkov, for they utterly despised mutants, a category to them which included Astartes. However, their advance was checked not by the mighty Space Marines, but by their own cousins, the Order of the Valkyria. Sororitas fought Sororitas in brutal close-quarters fighting amidst the fiery slopes of the Forge Hills, a tangled snarl of foundries and smithies that provided the legion with its armaments. This sectarian conflict between the Sisters was brutal and merciless, both sides seeing the other as despicable traitors, and there was no mercy given by either side.
The only humor to be had amidst this grim sororicide was felt by Thegn Lukas, the so-called 'Trickster'. A perennial rogue, Lukas had been passed from Great Company to Great Company over the years, his pranks earning the ire of nearly every Jarl over the years, and it was only his inventive skill in battle that had kept Grimnar from punishing him more severely. Lukas's Sveit had not been chosen to accompany any of the Jarls in the missions they had been tasked with by the High King, and as a result he and his chosen band were in the Fang at the time of the Inquisition's invasion. However, it was not for nothing he was reputed as the dirtiest fighter in the legion, and he fully lived up to his reputation during the invasion. Accompanied by a huge pack of the legion's aspirants known as Blood Claws, Thegn Lukas moved from battlefield to battlefield, inflicting a heavy toll on the invaders. A dozen of Chenkov's Leman Russes went tumbling into the frozen depths of a lake after Lukas triggered an avalanche in order to cover the icy surface in a layer of snow. A cascading chain reaction of explosions incinerated a dozen squads of Sororitas after the Trickster overloaded the ferratonic furnace controllers.
While the armies of the Inquisition struggled to overcome the Fang's outer defenses, the Innocentia Nihil Declarat had arrived at its destination: Midgardia. Unaware of the Space Wolves deployed under the surface already, the Lord Inquisitor was disgusted as his scanners detected a massive daemonic incursion on the surface. Such an invasion would have normally warranted the response of the Grey Knights, but all the Sons of Titan accompanying Karamazov were already deployed elsewhere in the Fenris System. In addition, the Lord Inquisitor had no interest in salvaging what he viewed as a worthless, guilty world. Thus after confirming the presence of daemonic activity on and below the surface, Karamazov ordered Vox Seneschal Mendaxis to broadcast a message to the entire system.
"We have arrived, and it is now that we perform our charge. In fealty to the God-Emperor, our undying Lord, and by the grace of the Golden Throne, I declare Exterminatus upon the Imperial world of Midgardia. By the authority of his Imperial Majesty's Holy Inquisition, I, Inquisitor Lord Fyodor Karamazov, hereby sign the death warrant of this tainted world and consign a billion souls to oblivion. May Imperial Justice account in all balance. The Emperor Protects."
The death of Midgardia was swift and merciless. As the Neverborn infesting the toxic jungle world were Nurglite, a cyclonic torpedo barrage had been chosen in place of the customary virus bombs. The Inquisition rained fire and death upon Midgardia, reducing everything on the surface to thick dunes of ash, a million daemons burnt out of existence in the blink of an eye. The resulting quakes wrought significant damage on the hives beneath, sending billions of tons of stone and metal crashing down into the magma below. In the depths, Thegn Jarnulfr felt these tremors, and quickly recognized them as no natural phenomenon. The bold commander quickly made up his mind, ordering a full retreat back to the surface. While the concept of retreat was alien to the Sons of Russ, even the most headstrong among them had no desire to be buried alive.
Karamazov's treachery resounded in the Warp, where the Architect of Fate feasted on the sudden change to an entire planet and upon the upswell of hope at those still alive underground who sought to escape the death of their world. This destruction in the Materium, while devastating, was nothing compared to the catastrophe in the Warp unleashed by the instant death of so many, the culmination of the first stage of his schemes. Long ago, when the first inklings of the grand plot to lay low the Space Wolves had been sown, the world of Midgardia had been traded to the Grandfather to add into his garden in exchange for the addition of Mordokh the Rotted and his putrescent forces to the Infernal Tetrad. Home to many toxic plants and tropical diseases, Midgardia's fungal-choked hills naturally drew the rheumy eye of Nurgle, and thus as Tzeentch's pawns began their invasion, Mordokh's rotting hordes had begun to draw the world of jungle planet into the Plaguefather's Garden.
However, the destruction of Midgardia had now stolen it, and the souls of its people, away from Nurgle's embrace. Once more the Architect of Lies and his servants had proven false, but it was too late. Mordokh and his Neverborn kin had played their part; who could expect Tzen'char and the other Princes of the Tetrad to expend their might to help the Nurglites keep their territory. Tzeentch's eternal rival was thus set back, another masterful play that served as yet one more step in the eternal Great Game. By this devil's bargain, a great blow had been struck, a betrayal of the highest magnitude that the Great Conspirator was all too happy to reward. Thus was the next stage of a metaphysical gambit on a scale not seen since the Leonine Heresy unleashed by the confluence of betrayal and deceit.
Across the Fenris System, reality began to scream as portals of the damned opened. Nine unholy doorways yawned wide in the cold depths of space, three evenly aligned across each of the three remaining worlds orbiting the Wolf's Eye. Otherworldly auroras began to fill the skies, providing witch-light in skies that were so-recently illuminated by the death of Midgardia. The clouds began to rain iridescent drops of liquid mercury that altered the landscape where it fell, at first only minor changes but ones that began to intensify as more fell. As the ritual neared completion, reality shuddered as colossal Silver Towers emerged with perfect precision, one from each rift to make Nine in total. The enchanted fortresses floated ominously in the skies above geomantic loci, heedless of gravity as aetheric lightning crackled around them. The minions of the Great Deceiver poured out across the Fenris System, as the cackling of Tzeentch rang out across his Court of Change.
Atop the greatest of the Silver Towers, a mighty nine-sided replica of long-lost Tizca, the machine eyes of Legion Master Ahriman stared down upon Fenris. It had been centuries, no, millennia since he had last gazed upon this hated world, but he could not leave the next stage of his plans to mere catspaws. Now was time for the Space Wolves to pay for razing Prospero, and every other plan they had undone over the years. What a pity, Ahriman mused, that the entire Sixth Legion was not present. However, that would only make their job that much easier, and would give the Thousand Sons sport hunting them in the years to come. Raising his mechanical fist, Ahriman released a psychic pulse, his synthetic voice carried along aetheric currents to all of his myriad forces.
"The Fenris System burns. The void around the Wolves' homeworld seethes with warp-fire. We stand now on the precipice of vindication. Vengeance, justice, at long last. My brothers, we have walked the winding skeins of Fate to reach this momentous summit. Some loyal and faithful through the ages, some wayward and treacherous, walking their own paths."
"But the crimes of the past mean nothing. All paths have led back here. The Blade of Fate hangs above Fenris. Together we shall drive it deep into the icy earth of that worthless world. These miserable echoes of Leman Russ will face a legion renewed with arcane might. Conclaves of sorcerers will shatter the Fang's battlements. Unending hordes of flux-blessed Shogaal will harvest every soul within its fallen walls. The Wolves…will break. Fenris will burn. Its seas will boil. And the dogs of Russ will howl over the broken bones of their world's…funeral…pyre. At long last my brothers, we will take vengeance for Prospero."
As Ahriman finished his speech, the armies of the Thousand Sons and their auxiliaries began their attack. Though the ancient Osirian Lord had lost the physical faculties to laugh, the Legion Master let out the closest equivalent his dreadnought sarcophagus would allow, a harsh, dissonant crackle of vox-speakers mixed with more than a hint of the daemonic. Thus began the Doom of Fenris from which there would be no escape, no reprieve, and no mercy.
A/N: Oh boy, here is finally is. No more shall we linger in the long-forgotten days of myth, of the dark days of the Leonine Heresy. No, we have moved on, for we are now in the waning days of the 41st Millennium. As such, the eyes of the galaxy must turn to Fenris, to gaze upon the icy death world even as the height of summer grips us here on Terra in M3. This is a tale which must be told in several parts, and thus this is only the first of many chapters in the Times of Ending. Considering the foes our brave Sons of Russ must face, I'm sure the wise among my readers can guess as to how many chapters this particular tale will take up, and perhaps even some of the twists and turns that may occur. As it stands though, the Doom of Fenris has only just begun, for even as the Imperium expends her strength fighting internally, the true foes have only just appeared.
As always, please leave comments, reviews, and suggestions, and any references you may have spotted, for I love to read them. Sharrowkyn, out.