Anras collapsed into his command throne, resting his forehead on his ceramite-encrusted fingers and closed his eyes.
Exhausted. The visionary was exhausted.
After hours spent fighting for his life amongst a horde of daemons, no rest was allotted to him, as he immediately had to see to the organization of patrol teams to exterminate any straggling Neverborn still lurking about the ship, analyze census reports of casualties, permit the berzerker surgeon's request for triage under strict scrutiny, have the integrity of the ship inspected, and catalog any lost inventory. All the while, Gargahl feasted in his repulsive abbey, celebrating the grand "victory" they had secured over the denizens of the Changer of Ways.
The process was slow and grueling. Within the first hour of the battle's aftermath, a casualty report appeared on his tactical hololith, estimating that nearly two-thousand lives aboard the ship had been lost in the ambush. A vast majority of those were mere slaves, but the loss of personnel would still put a strain on the ship's functions. Slightly over fifty of the listed deaths were Astartes. Notably, more than half of those corpses belonged to the Carnage Stitchers, which only further increased tensions between the two warbands as the World Eaters began vocally questioning the point of leaving Exodus Station if they were going to be slaughtered anyway—The Sons of Angron did not speak in whispers, so these grievances were anything but subtle.
Everything else came in trickles over the course of many hours. With their losses, Anras found himself spread thin aboard his own damn ship and was forced several times to leave the bridge and see to some of his orders himself. Several times he deliberated marching into Gargahl's sanctum and demand he start behaving like the leader he pretended to be, but ultimately decided that the daemon prince's "aid" would be nothing of the sort.
"Sleep? I thought our kind too wicked for such a thing," a voice said, pulling the visionary from his thoughts as they approached.
Anras opened his eyes and raised his head as Zseron rounded the throne and stood beside it, staring at the projected readouts. The Sorcerer of Stars's own terminator armor showed the signs of recent battle as well, but all forms of marring were trivial for warplate such as his.
"Why," Anras began, his voice ragged, "do I feel as if I have become haunted since we did battle with the Ferric Sentries?"
Zseron eyed him for a moment, but did not turn to face the visionary. "How do you mean?"
"I cannot find a moment's peace aboard the ship anymore. Every waking moment is torment upon my mind. I can no longer even find solace in the things I once enjoyed."
The Atramentar sorcerer mused to himself for a time, then nodded. "I see…"
Anras scowled at him. "That is not helpful."
"No, I suppose it is not," Zseron said, grinning wistfully. "It is because you have never been in this position before, honored visionary."
"And what position is that?"
"Desperate."
Anras snarled as he began to rub his hand along the vambrace of his opposing arm, knowing more cold metal lay beneath it rather than the comfort of flesh. "I am no such thing."
"Yes," the sorcerer said simply, "you are. There is no shame in it. We have all seen our share of perilous positions and hopeless combats. The only difference is that you are now in this situation while simultaneously bearing the burden of leadership. Gargahl is as well."
"Gargahl has done nothing!" Anras hissed, slamming his fist down on his throne. Zseron's serenity remained unprovoked.
"Indeed," he agreed. "Because his response is denial. Lethargy. It is his nature now. Especially when there are others who will take on the responsibility from him while he maintains an alluring facade." Zseron turned to look at the visionary then.
"Hmph," Anras grunted as he lounged back into his throne. "Your praise serves no purpose. Make your point and leave me be."
Zseron looked at him with solemnity. "You mistake me, Anras. I offer no praise or accolades." Anras frowned, but did not speak as the sorcerer continued. "You bear the weight of a position that is not meant for you. As a result, it is crushing you. Perhaps you will not collapse under the pressure for a time yet, but know that all you are is a placeholder for someone greater."
"Careful," Anras said, his voice becoming a thin blade coated in venom. "You speak as if in prophecy, brother. And that is my domain."
"I need not our father's curse to see how your story ends, visionary. For it is the only way it could possibly end for someone as pitiful as you." Despite his words, the Atramentar psyker's words were spoken in an almost parental tone.
"Then who?" Anras demanded, his face contorting into a sneer. "Who is it that is destined to usurp me like you insist?"
Zseron said nothing initially. Instead, he simply glanced down at the Widowmaker dagger hanging from Anras's waist. "Your question is meaningless. It is both one you know the answer to and the completely wrong one to ask to begin with."
The sorcerer then turned and left. Anras found himself incapable of rising from his seat both due to his immense, almost paralyzing outrage, as well as the sheer mental fatigue.
His inner turmoil was only made worse by the conversation, and the visionary found his grip growing tight enough on the armrests of the throne to leave depressions in the metal. The sorcerer left him with many thoughts—but one swam louder through the cerebral fluids within his skull than the rest.
"What is the right question, then?" the visionary asked the hollow air before him. His response was silent mockery.
Taresh was suspicious.
It was not like Retrigan to request that his brothers meet him to discuss matters. Normally the once-raptor simply appeared wherever he expected you to be and initiated a conversation that amounted to him battering you with words and ideas in a vain attempt to elevate his own moral superiority over a band of murderers and sadists. Allowing himself to be potentially verbally riposted by multiple enemies at once was very much against his natural inclinations.
"Why are we here, Retrigan?" Taresh asked.
The Night Lord stood, idly extending and sheathing his lightning claws as he scowled at Taresh and Gyrthemar. The grating hiss of metal sliding on metal dripped on Taresh's patience like acid.
"Not yet," was all Retrigan had for a response.
"This is pointless!" Gyrthemar scoffed, but remained unmoving. For all his talk, the idiot had hardly anything that resembled a spine.
The Strategium's hatchway slid open and shadows loomed inward from the pale lighting of the corridor. Taresh immediately felt the veins in his throat constrict in irritation as Pyotr stepped into the chamber.
"What do you want?" Gyrthemar asked with similar reproach. The lord discordant's reply was to toss a long and ornate object to his brother. Gyrthemar caught his former spear and looked down at it with an incredulous expression. "Vinkaldr. How did you get it back?"
"I asked nicely," Pyotr said as he continued approaching the hololith table.
"And when that didn't work?" Retrigan chimed in.
"I asked less nicely."
Both Gyrthemar and Retrigan chuckled at that response, though Pyotr clearly intended for there to be no humor behind it.
Worms, Taresh though, hating how easily his brothers crawled back to the old fool. That only caught part of his attention, however. The rest of his focus was squarely on the second individual who had followed along at Pyotr's heels as he entered the room.
The woman from the fuel-loading station. Now fully adorned in a faded naval uniform of the XIIIth legion and a stub revolver holstered on her hip, she was unremarkable in almost every aspect. Her features were plain, her brown hair tied back in a utilitarian tail, her expression flat despite the rapid beating of her heart. The only thing that was worth considering were her eyes. Stormy gray and filled with an intelligence that could be dangerous. She'd barely glanced at Taresh upon entering, but he saw the recognition in her gaze as she continued to remain close at Pyotr's side.
It seemed she was telling the truth about being under his protection, Taresh noted begrudgingly. He would have liked to be rid of her. He'd already begun to hear whispers about Artemis Maralli, the woman who felled a daemon with just a glance—It did not matter that the stories were untrue, only that people were beginning to believe it. She was becoming yet another icon to look up to. Taresh's teeth itched at the mere thought of it.
"My question still stands, though, brother," Gyrthemar said with far more mirth than before.
"Our performance with the daemons showed me that you had all been right to question my petition," Pyotr said. "We need a sound battle strategy against the Sons of Manus. Otherwise, we may as well allow them to butcher us the moment we make landfall."
"And why come to us rather than the ones you need to convince?" Taresh asked.
"I would rather not waste another three days campaigning and stroking already inflated egos to get my way," Pyotr explained. "Zseron will accept whatever I provide him, so long that it is reasonable. Gargahl only needs to be pointed in a vague direction and he and his raptors will do as I want without even realizing it."
"And Anras?"
Pyotr paused at that, but eventually nodded. "The visionary and I have reached a… tenuous understanding. He will fall in line if he assumes the other two agree with this plan."
"You don't sound certain," Retrigan noted.
"I am not," the lord discordant admitted. "But we lack the time to seek out certainties. Let us begin."
Without waiting for any other potential dissent, Pyotr touched the controls on the table and the hololithic display flared up an image of their destination planet.
"We have the advantage of initial arrival. Therefore, we will get to choose the battlefield and can tailor it to our benefit."
"It hardly matters," Retrigan said with a dour expression.
"How so?"
The once-raptor approached the table and made a display of the Savory Wound appear above the atmosphere of the planet—Kleos, Taresh recalled. He then created a similar display for the Gorgon's Manacles. A quick, flickering simulation occurred in which the Night Lords vessel began depositing its drop pods and thunderhawks, but before it could maneuver to safety, the latter ship began to fire upon it, ultimately destroying the cruiser.
"There is little doubt the Ferric Sentries will not attempt to eliminate our ship the moment they see an opportunity," Retrigan explained. "We'll be stranded."
Pyotr frowned as if he were only just now considering this. "A fair point."
"Let's take out those stations, then," Gyrthemar said, gesturing to the three plasteel refineries orbiting Kleos.
"That doesn't aid our position," Pyotr said.
Gyrthemar shrugged. "It will still be a strike made against the Imperium on our way out."
Pyotr looked as if he were about to admonish their brother for his idiocy again, but was stopped as a smaller voice spoke up, "If I may, my lord?"
The lord discordant looked down to his slave and nodded. Artemis approached the display and folded her hands behind her back. "My lord Gyrthemar does bring up a decent idea."
"I do?"
Artemis nodded. "But it is less the actual destruction of the refineries that benefits us, but the threat of it. I propose we use them as a feint." She placed her hands on the controls and changed the simulation to follow her directions. "If the Ferric Sentries see us heading for the stations, they will naturally move to protect them. From there, we simply change course and maneuver so that the planet's curve is used as a buffer to keep their weapons systems from being used against us."
"Could they not just chase us?" Retrigan asked, his expression skeptical as he narrowed his eyes at the human. If Taresh had not seen her in action personally, he would have felt similarly about trusting a mortal with mustering such a vital strategy for their survival.
"In theory, yes," Artemis conceded. "But I don't think they will, as that will leave the refineries open for us to target on our next lap around. They won't risk that."
"A wise ploy," Pyotr said and his slave bowed her head at the praise. Taresh noted the woman's sudden spike in heart rate. She was still afraid, but there was something else there, too. Pride, perhaps?
"As for the battlefield?" Retrigan asked, nodding to the hololith.
Pyotr paused, musing to himself. "I would hear what Artemis has to say for this as well."
The slave started and blinked up at her master. "My… my lord?"
"Consider me curious."
The woman hesitated, then looked back to the display once again. After a moment's thought, she fingered the controls, forcing the planet to rotate and focus in on a specific region of archipelagos. "I would recommend this location. If my calculations are correct—and I'm nearly certain they are—they will be under nightfall when we arrive. That is a benefit to you, yes?"
Pyotr nodded.
"Additionally, this allows us to deposit multiple decoy drop pods across these various isles, forcing our enemy to thin out their numbers and isolate them. Meanwhile, our true army will be on this island here. By the time they are able to confirm this, we will already have plenty of time to garner more ground."
"Does it have cities?" Retrigan asked.
The slave briefly paused before answering. "Yes."
"Good."
"Ha!" Gyrthemar barked, leaning on his knuckles as he placed them on the display table. "I like this one, Pyotr. You choose your slaves well." When the lord discordant did not deem the statement worthy of a response, the fool turned and addressed Artemis directly. "Is it true that you killed a daemon with a nail gun?"
"I…" Artemis began with obvious discomfort. In truth, Taresh was paying little attention to the ramblings of the conversation as he inspected the hololith before him.
"How did you know so much about this planet?" he asked slowly.
"My lord?"
Taresh turned his gaze to her and let the silence hang for a single breath. "I believe you know what happens when I am forced to repeat myself."
The slave's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly and her eyes took on a minute change in her cast. Yes, there was more than just fret and fear there. She had some fury too. Taresh was not sure what to make of that yet.
"I made sure that I was well studied in regards to this planet. I thought it would be unwise to suggest traveling to it while knowing nothing about it. My lord." There was a touch of venom in those last words. Taresh glanced at Pyotr, who was studying the hololith with utter ambivalence towards the disrespect his property was showing.
"Does that answer your question, brother?" he finally asked. Taresh did not respond.
"Bah! This is all drivel!" Gyrthemar proclaimed, tapping his fists on the metal beneath his gauntlets like an impatient child. "Let us discuss the actual battle formations already!"
"And extraction," Retrigan added.
Pyotr nodded his agreement. "Gargahl's forces and the Carnage Stitchers will take the vanguard."
"Relations have become even worse with our allied warband since the invasion. How can we be sure that they will still adhere to our orders?"
"Even if they do not, their bloodlust will entice them onto the front lines. That is all we need," Pyotr stated.
"Yet another item we are leaving to chance," Retrigan pointed out, once again succumbing to his emotional tick as he unsheathed his lightning claws.
"I am comfortable with our odds."
The once-raptor let the matter drop and, together, Sixth Claw began to strategize in earnest.
As the process went on, Taresh felt his metaphorical hackles slowly growing more and more taut. With each passing moment, he watched as his brother reasserted control over their Claw once again. The others did not simply suggest ideas, they offered them to Pyotr, like a king receiving a gift before issuing out favor based on its quality. Taresh had thought they had become more than their desire to submit. He thought they were above their need for messiahs. That they would respect those who issued commands, but not worship them. He was wrong.
Watching as Pyotr stood at the head of the flickering table, casting his dominating shadow, Taresh narrowed his eyes and came to a distinct conclusion:
The lord discordant would not live to step foot on Kleos. Taresh would make sure of it.
Upon being dismissed, Artemis left the Strategium feeling sickened. Throughout the entirety of the discussion, she had been frequently asked for her opinions and insights as to how best they should lay waste to her homeworld. She had no choice but to comply. Feeding poor advice to the Astartes would, at best, lead to them losing faith in her capabilities and causing her to lose what little advantage she had over them, or, at worst, have them immediately discover her for the traitor that she was.
It doesn't matter what you told them, Artemis assured herself. It will all be useless once they find themselves stranded and incapable of fleeing anyway. The words helped marginally, but she still couldn't shake the image of what may happen to that city before the Night Lords fall…
Artemis arrived back at her quarters with the expectation that she would be turning in for what amounted to night aboard the ship. She had been wrong to assume such a thing.
"Karking took you long enough," Brelja said. She lounged in the center of the chamber, her feet kicked up onto the hololith table, boots staining the metal with oil and machine grease. Tonight she wore a long, leather and fur-lined coat rather than just her usual sleeveless top. That struck Artemis as odd.
"What is it, Brelja?" she asked, rubbing the sides of her nose with the tips of her fingers, her shoulders slouching. She did not have the capacity to deal with any further hiccups in her scheme at the moment.
The woman nodded to the open seat across from her. "Sit."
Skeptically, Artemis did so. Once she did so, Brelja lowered her feet back down onto the deck and sat up straight before pulling a pair of pewter cups from her coat and tossed one across the table, forcing Artemis to catch it, lest it collide with her face. The fuel-loader then pulled a large glass bottle filled with a dark liquid from within the other side of her garment.
"Tonight," she said, "we drink!"
Artemis gaped at her, unsure what to say– No, what to even think. "Where did you even get that?" was all she was able to manage.
Brelja winked at her with a grin. "Been saving it for a special occasion."
"First of all," Artemis held up a finger, "that answers nothing. Secondly," she brought up her other finger, "I don't see what's so special about this occasion."
"It's always a special day when you get to drink with a friend," Brelja said, already popping the bottle open.
"You have other friends."
"Sure." When she didn't elaborate further, Artemis raised her eyebrows at her. The other woman snorted in amusement. "Come on, girl. One drink. When was the last time you've even had a touch of the good stuff?"
She honestly couldn't remember.
"There she is!" Brelja cheered as Artemis rolled her eyes and held her cup forward.
"A single drink," she insisted. "For a friend."
Brelja grinned as she tilted the bottle forward to give Artemis a liberal pour before filling her own cup. Then she held it up to toast. "Skål!"
"Er… yeah," Artemis mumbled as she clanked her cup against Brelja's and took a drink.
She regretted it almost immediately.
Brelja barked with laughter as Artemis's eyes widened and she brought a hand to her mouth, forcing the drink to go down before sputtering and coughing. "What is that?"
"It sure as hell isn't amasec, I'll tell you that much," Brelja said as she took another gulp.
"It tastes like engine oil."
Brelja shrugged. "Could be."
Artemis looked won at the remainder of her drink, then scowled at her companion. "You just wanted to see me squirm."
"You can't be good at everything, girl," Brelja said with another grin.
Artemis sniffed defiantly, then finished off her cup in a single pull as the woman across from her began to cheer.
Somehow, her "single drink" turned into three. Which then became five. By the beginning of her sixth, she was beginning to feel the effects while—annoyingly—Brelja seemed perfectly composed and uninebriated.
"So," Artemis found herself saying, "what's your deal?"
Brelja's lips quirked upward as she lounged in her chair. "My deal?"
"Yeah."
"What you see is what you get, girl. My 'deal' is whatever you think it is."
Artemis shook her head and frowned. "Not good enough. You're different from other crewmen. I want to know why that is."
Brelja eyed her for a moment from her relaxed position, then leaned forward until her elbows were resting on the edge of the display table. "All right," she said. "Let's make this a game. You tell me about you, I'll tell you about me. Even trade. Fair?"
Thinking wasn't exactly coming easily to Artemis at the moment, but the terms seemed agreeable enough through the delirious soup that her head was rapidly becoming. She nodded.
"Good," Brelja said with a smile. "Were you a naval officer before the Night Lords came upon you?"
"I… I'd been through the scholas and was certified by the Administratum, but hadn't been assigned to a ship or fleet yet."
"Why did you want to join up with the Imperial Navy?"
Artemis looked over at the empty side of her chamber with a mournful expression. Minor cracks formed in the strata of her heart at the thoughts. "It was… When I was young, my mother would have… episodes at night. For a child, they were terrifying. When they happened, my brother would take me out to the fields and we'd lay down and look at the night sky. He'd point out the stars and make up stupid constellations that weren't real but made me laugh." She smiled wistfully as her eyes fell on his cruiser-in-a-bottle. "All those moments coalesced together and made me yearn for the stars, I suppose. I wanted to see the Imperium. Sail across the million worlds of the Emperor and come back to tell him all about what I'd seen." She looked back at Brelja who had been listening intently with a stoic expression.
"I suppose you still got what you wanted," she said bitterly, then took another drink.
"I suppose I did," Artemis whispered, looking down at her cup. She then cleared her throat and looked up at Brelja. "Your turn. How did you end up here?"
The woman sighed, downing the rest of her drink. "Karking stupidity, mostly."
Artemis cocked her head, but leaned forward. Brelja's eyes had become like snow as she spoke. There was purity and joy in them, but also a coldness and danger.
"I come from a world called Fenris," she said, her voice soft—like a pack of beasts howling far beyond the horizon.
"The homeworld of the Space Wolves," Artemis replied.
Brelja nodded. "It's a harsh place. Not meant for the weak. Many die and few live to see their hair turn gray. But it was home, I loved it. It hurt to leave it behind."
"Then why go at all?"
"I loved my spouse more," she said with a shrug.
Artemis started. "You were married?"
"Quit interrupting," Brelja huffed, but nodded. "They were… a force of nature." Her eyes unfocused, looking off into the middle-distance with an expression that Artemis couldn't quite decipher. "Strong, loud, brave, just like any Fenrisian. But that's not what made them special. They had… charm. They could convince others that they were strong and brave. When they spoke, all other voices grew silent. It took me years to get the karking fool to take a chance on us." Brelja grunted out a coarse chuckle. "Then we had our boys."
Artemis opened her mouth to voice her surprise yet again but stopped herself. Brelja married? Perhaps she could wrap her head around that, but the burly, crass woman in front of her being a mother? It seemed… Well, the pieces just didn't line up in Artemis's mind. Picturing her trying to rock a child to sleep or comfort them when they wept was almost comical.
Brelja seemed to notice her expression, because she glared. "And we raised them well, mind you. At least until my darling–" she spoke the word as if the taste were both acidic and as if wished it would never fade at the same time, "–had their ridiculous dream.
"They wanted to go and join up aboard an Astartes ship as a crewman. Serve the Emperor, chart new astral pathways across the galaxy, take from the unclean and villainous to bolster the Imperium. All that karking nonsense. But when they spoke with such passion…" She sighed. "How could I destroy such a dream?"
"The Night Lords raided a Space Wolves vessel a bit back. It was yours," Artemis said in a hushed tone, unable to hold her tongue. Brelja nodded slowly, each motion like the gonging of a grave bell.
"Have you noticed there aren't any other members of my people aboard this ship, girl?"
Artemis hadn't. The thought had never occurred to her until this moment.
"Like I said," Brelja said. Her voice now sounded like a taut piece of glass on the verge of shattering. "When my spouse spoke, people listened. When we were taken, they refused to be made a slave, refused to serve the heretical and traitorous. They wanted to fight back. And they encouraged others to do so." Her hands gripped the edge of the hololith, knuckles growing white from the strain. She was looking directly at Artemis now, her eyes red and jaw clenched.
"Brelja," Artemis said softly, reaching out. "You… you don't have to contin–"
"No," she swatted her hand away. "This is my story. It will end on my terms!" She closed her eyes and took a breath. "My sons were easily swayed, of course. Wiglaf was a man by then, capable of making his own decisions. But Andor… My little Andor, he wasn't any more than eight. What they aimed to do was suicide with no hope of success. I saw no reason to get myself killed and refused to take part. For the first time in my life, I begged. Begged that at least the young ones not be forced to fight. I was… I was told that it would be better that they all die than submit to such foul beings."
Brelja opened her eyes, then turned and looked to the side as if she could see someone standing there. "The last words my beloved ever said to me was that I was a dishonor and that they never wished for me to sing their name or the names of our children ever again once they were gone."
Artemis hadn't noticed that she'd begun to shake. The room had grown cold—or perhaps she simply believed that it had. The story felt… ancient coming from Brelja's lips. As if it were some poem from the ancient times of Terra. She almost felt like she could picture two warriors, clad in furs and leathers, standing on a mountain precipice having this exchange. Not a couple of grungy slaves in the bowels of a dark ship.
When Brelja turned to look at Artemis again, her face was tight like a knot in a tree. "They were all slaughtered. I… I hate them for that. All of them. The Night Lords, for killing those I loved. My spouse and children, for getting themselves killed like fools. Myself, for… for being too afraid to die beside them." She looked down at her drink, the dark liquid a reflection of her own thoughts. Brelja grimaced, no longer seeing the appeal in such intoxicants.
"Why this time, then?" Artemis asked. "What changed?"
Brelja looked up and forced one of her usual grins to appear. It was brittle and frozen, though. Like ice. "You, I suppose, girl. You've got fire. That hatred you have towards our masters…" She trailed off and her zeal faltered. "You… you remind me of them. When you speak, people listen. And perhaps… Perhaps I want a chance to make things right. To make the ones I love proud of me again, regardless of the outcome."
Artemis felt the weight on her shoulders grow marginally heavier at that. She didn't know what to say. It… It wasn't fair that she had to bear the faith of so many people, that she was now responsible for so many stories like the one Brelja had just given to her. But it was a fate she had willingly chosen. She would have to shoulder it and be the woman that they all saw her as. Hope, Artemis realized, was the only thing left aboard the Savory Wound that remained unsullied. They wanted her to be its avatar. Perhaps she wanted that too.
"I watched one of the Astartes kill my brother right in front of me," she finally said. "All because he hesitated a second too long to answer a question. Such evil cannot go unpunished."
Brelja's smile was more genuine this time. She trusted Artemis. Maybe not to succeed, but to at least try and do what was right. And that meant more to her, somehow.
"To punishing evil." Brelja raised her cup again. "Skål!"
Artemis rolled her eyes.
Oh, what the hell. She raised her own cup. "Skål!"
Together, the two women drank—and a friend's hearty chuckle and canine grin were the last two things Artemis remembered that night before her whole world became a black slurry.