The first thing Pyotr did was shoot the damn monkey. It vanished as its displacer field activated, naturally, but there was still some satisfaction in hearing its baleful chittering abruptly silenced.
"The xenos will return. Remain vigilant," Pyotr murmured over the private vox-channel.
Lavitor's first strike came a moment later, but was deflected by Gyrthemar on Pyotr's behalf. Retrigan took the opportunity to swipe with his lightning claws, but the attempt was similarly blocked by a servo-arm and a secondary slash was prevented entirely as the techmarine aimed his grav-pistol at the once-raptor, forcing him onto the defensive to avoid his skull being crushed within his helmet.
The numerical odds favoring the Night Lords should have given them an overwhelming advantage against the chapter master of the Ferric Sentries, but he had evidently come prepared. Where he had once sported three mechadendrite limbs, his back and power pack now sprouted with twice as many, each designed with a unique purpose of attack or utility. In addition, he no longer wore the standard armor of his chapter, but a relic of artificer warplate that, by Pyotr's inspection and senses, appeared to be a hybridization of the venerable Mark IV pattern and terminator armor.
"The fires of my hate fuel the heavenly mechanism of my destruction!" Lavitor bellowed. "Burn from it, traitors!"
"I thought Iron Hands were silent in battle," Retrigan grunted as he narrowly parried a specialized servo-limb from spearing his chest.
"Not this one," Pyotr responded, swinging with his chainglaive, only for it to be met with Lavitor's omnissian axe. The two locked gazes, neither willing to give up ground. Through gritted teeth and mutual disgust, both Astartes further pressed their strength into their weapon, hoping to gain leverage over the other. Pyotr struck with his mechatendrils, but the same event occurred as Lavitor blocked with his own augmetic limbs and used the three remaining to continue battering and defending against Pyotr's brothers.
The techmarine took a step backward and released the tension on his weapon, ending the contention abruptly. Pyotr stumbled forward, forced to spin to regain his balance and face Lavitor as his opponent stepped aside. An axe swing came down and the lord discordant moved to block, but was a whisper too slow as the strike dug a scar into his breastplate, just barely missing flesh as Pyotr pulled back.
I should have been able to stop that, Pyotr thought, breathing heavily. As his newly reawakened and heightened emotions galvanized back into their natural state, Pyotr's thoughts came more clearly and he came to a sudden realization: He had lost some of his prowess as a duelist.
It was not enough to make him feeble or even the worst fighter amongst his brothers in the warband, but an edge had been stolen from him—or perhaps taken back. His natural speed and precision had declined slightly. The… ramifications of that could be dealt with later.
Lavitor pressed the advantage, attacking fast and aggressively and forcing Pyotr on the defensive.
"Brother!" Gyrthemar called, moving alongside Retrigan to aid the lord discordant. A shotgun blast to the back caused him to stumble. Simian howls filled the air as the jokaero hung from the side of one of the amphitheater's pillars. Gyrthemar glanced back at the xenos, then to Pyotr, his posture unsure.
"Kill the damn thing!" Pyotr growled as he swept his glaive at Lavitor.
Gyrthemar nodded and his feet pivoted to face the ape as Retrigan fell in beside Pyotr.
"I will be your end, Night Lords!" Lavitor said. "Every last rat on this planet will be stamped out in the name of the Machine God!"
"I see why you want him dead now," Retrigan said over the vox-link. Pyotr nodded.
"He speaks loftily but knows nothing. The bones have already been cast."
Retrigan struck but his attack was stopped by a vice-like servo-arm that clamped around his forearm and threatened to crush the arm into an unusable pulp. Pyotr swung with his chainglaive at the mechadendrite, forcing it to release his brother and retreat, but that still left the lord discordant open to receive a punch directly to the face from his enemy.
As he staggered back, Pyotr spared a glance to see how Gyrthemar was faring.
Not well.
The wolf-killer advanced on the target of his hunt with brutal determination, but the jokaero evaded him adroitly, continuously remaining just out of reach and peppering him with shrapnel from his shotgun whenever an opportunity presented itself. The creature let out high-pitched, whooping grunts that could only be interpreted as mocking taunts. Pyotr could sense Gyrthemar's frustration growing.
Joining the fray once more, Pyotr swung his chainglaive directly at the Sentry's skull. A mechadendrite caught the blade and redirected it, sparks flying from the contact of metal on gnashing chain-teeth. Seeing his opening, Retrigan slid inwards and raked his claws across Lavitor's chest, but was unable to dig deep enough to do any real damage before being forced to retreat from a counter-attack.
"This isn't working," Retrigan growled.
"I'm aware," Pyotr replied.
"We need a better plan."
"I'm aware."
Pyotr shifted his approach, taking on a more defensive stance and letting Retrigan do most of the harrying while he focused his metamechanical senses on the machine spirit of Lavitor's armor and began to chant his dark litanies to agonize and enrage the spirit.
It did nothing.
Scowling, Pyotr applied more pressure with his dark touch, but the ancient motive force resisted and rebuffed his touch. Much like a sculptor does not make a statue out of an indomitable boulder on short notice, Pyotr felt that the spirit residing within Lavitor's armor was too proud and steadfast to be affected by him without additional tools and time—two things he did not have.
"Your vile tricks are useless against me, heretik," Lavitor scoffed, lambasting Pyotr with a series of quick attacks with his servo-arms before driving forward with a powerful swing from his axe. The lord discordant barely survived the onslaught with his head still attached. "The Omnissiah watches over me. He sees your heresy and it disgusts him!"
As if I care what a corpse thinks of me, Pyotr thought with a sneer.
A twinge in his metamechanical senses drew Pyotr's attention and he cautiously glanced in Gyrthemar's direction. There, he saw the orange-furred simian crouched atop the wolf-killer's power pack and wreaking havoc upon it with its prolonged digits and esoteric tools. Gyrthemar shook the creature off and stabbed with his spear, but the attack came up short as his armor began to spark and slow. Moments later, Gyrthemar fell to one knee and seemed unable to rise again.
"Our brother's armor has been compromised," Pyotr snarled. "Handle Lavitor while I ensure his pet doesn't cause us further problems."
Retrigan grunted in acknowledgement. The once-raptor clearly was not pleased with Pyotr's instruction, but they had little other choice.
The lord discordant retreated away from the chapter master. Lavitor went to advance upon him, but was quickly intercepted and cut-off by a series of savage strikes from Retrigan's lightning claws.
Pyotr turned to face the jokaero, who was warily trudging its way up to Gyrthemar's inert body. If to ensure he was incapacitated or to execute him, Pyotr did not know nor did he care. He drew his bolt pistol once again and the creature's head immediately snapped in his direction. It chittered and bound towards Gyrthemar, crouching atop his back and shoulders, using Pyotr's brother as cover.
With a rueful smile, the lord discordant fired and his shot would have directly collided with the creature's skull if its displacer field had not activated yet again. He saw it reappear a few meters away within the seating area of the amphitheater.
I need to get in closer, Pyotr thought, his ghastly grin transforming into a frown.
With this in mind, Pyotr shot at the beast yet again. Not because it was effective, but because he knew that it would draw closer in an attempt to antagonize him in the same way he did with Gyrthemar. Using the rows of blockish stadium seats as cover, the jokaero wove its way toward Pyotr as he continued to fire with little effort. Soon enough, the thing lept out from behind the last set of seats and made a dash for Pyotr, shotgun slung across its back.
Chainglaive revving, the lord discordant swung at the ape. The creature barked and rolled to the side as the weapon's teeth bit into the rockcrete.
Seeing its opportunity, the primate scrambled up Pyotr's arm and swung around his neck, landing on his power pack. There, it immediately began to pull free a panel and lay waste to its internal workings as it had done to Gyrthemar. It only managed a breath of sabotage before Pyotr reached around with his free hand and threw the vile creature free. As it soared through the air, he fired once with his bolt pistol, but it vanished yet again.
Warning sigils flashed on his retinal display, bemoaning the armor's compromised state. He was still able to function, but Pyotr noted the rapidly declining energy readings. This fight would need to be ended quickly.
Taking a breath, the lord discordant reached out with metamechanical senses, searching for the spirit of the jokaero's displacer field. He did not know if Lavitor's will would protect it as it protected his armor, but he would not need to. He just needed…
There.
Pyotr's head turned to face where he sensed the exalting machine spirit—flickering and roaring like a burning hearth—and saw the simian xenos bounding its way back toward him, drawing the shotgun from its back. Pyotr focused on that mechanical force further, melding a part of his mind and soul with it. He felt it writhe and squirm at his touch. It attempted to reject him, but he dug himself deeper like a creeping fungus that wove its way around a stalk and held fast. Then he fired again.
The jokaero vanished before the moment of impact again, naturally, but this time Pyotr's arm immediately snapped into a different position and pulled the trigger. At that same moment, the air warped and an orange-furred primate appeared, giving the displacer field no time to re-engage. At long last, bolter met beast and the bolter won as the shell detonated on impact. Pyotr's aim had been off by a few degrees, resulting in the creature's arm being blown free of its body rather than its head, but the bestial cries of pain and despair still appeased the lord discordant greatly. That was one matter dealt with.
Tuning out the screeching alarms on his display, Pyotr turned back to face Lavitor, only to see the techmarine had restrained Retrigan with multiple servo-arms and was beating the Night Lord senseless with a repetitive fist to the faceplate, forming a web of cracks on the grinning skull set upon it.
Pyotr fired his bolt pistol, watching the round ricochet off the grey helmet of his enemy. Lavitor froze as he was winding up for another punch in response. His head slowly turned to regard Pyotr. His eye lenses found the incapacitated jokaero bleeding profusely on the ground, then met Pyotr's once again.
"You have harmed that which I consider friend. You will die slowly for that," Lavitor said measuredly, his voice like iron.
"You have harmed that which I consider brother," Pyotr nodded to Retrigan. "You have my thanks for that."
Lavitor snarled and tossed the once-raptor aside. The Night Lord's body crumbled on the rockcrete and remained motionless.
The chapter master charged, his omnissian axe raised. Pyotr moved to meet him, but stumbled as he found the weight on his armor far heavier than it normally would have been. A quick glance at the warning sigils showed that almost all power had been lost to his armor's servos and motor functions.
Shit.
A ceramite boot met Pyotr in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back with a harsh impact. Lavitor Fabrinus came into view, looming over him. "What a familiar sight," he said. "A sign from the Omnissiah that what I do is just. That this was always meant to be your end, Warp-spawn."
The techmarine grabbed his axe in both hands and raised it overhead. Like an executioner. A symbol of absolution.
A chunk of marble hit Lavitor on the side of the head, snapping him out of his stance. Both his and Pyotr's gaze turned to follow the path of the projectile.
And found a figure in midnight blue standing in the rain and mist, red eyes glowing like twin flames of malice.
"Not if I have anything to say about it," said Gyrthemar, the killer of wolves.
"I saw what Cercopes did to you. Your armor should not be functional," Lavitor replied, voice bemused.
A deep chuckle came from the bowels of Gyrthemar's throat and the sound of venting air pressure filled the amphitheater as he removed his helmet. He tossed it aside and wiped away a trail of blood from his lips.
"Who says that it is?"
With a primal surge that was too quick for one in inert battle plate, Gyrthemar shot forward and attacked Lavitor with spear and flail in each hand. Taken aback, the chapter master of the Ferric Sentries was barely able to block the blows and was forced to abandon his kill to defend against his new opponent's flurry of savage strikes.
Grunting, Pyotr attempted to rise, to rejoin the fight, but it took all of his strength to simply roll onto his front as the tomb that his armor had become weighed down upon him from all sides.
He was forced to watch as his greatest foe and his most damnable of brothers fought one another in a duel that was almost poetry. Gyrthemar, his motions rapid and animated. Lavitor, his methodical and crushing. It was like spectating a dance between a viper and eagle as they entered a death spiral and plummeted into the abyss. It was a brutal majesty—and Pyotr found himself morosely exhilarated that he was able to recognize those feelings again.
The dance ended when Lavitor's servo-limbs slapped both of Gyrthemar's arms aside, leaving him open to receive an axe directly to the chest. The blade buried deep, Lavitor grunting at the strain of it as he then immediately yanked it free. Blood poured freely from the wound before clotting into a mere trickle. Gyrthemar stumbled, falling to one knee as he grunted, but did not scream.
Gyrthemar never screamed.
"I grow tired of these ga–" Lavitor began, but was interrupted by the sudden strike of a chainflail to his chin as Gyrthemar surged to his feet and continued his barrage of attacks.
"I'm not done!" he laughed.
Lavitor's shock was short-lived as he was forced back into the thick of combat. The two continued to trade blows and parries for several more beats until Gyrthemar left his side open for a strike. The axe bit viciously yet again, but the wolf-killer only grinned.
"Idiot."
He swung his chainflail and the twin heads wrapped their way around one of Lavitor's mechadendrites. With a heave of almost supernal strength, Gyrthemar yanked on his weapon and metal groaned as sparks flew and the augmetic limb tore free.
Lavitor gasped in pain and kicked Gyrthemar away. The Night Lord lurched back several steps and had to use his spear to steady himself. The sign of weakness only lasted a moment, however, as he regained his composure and pressed the attack once again.
It only took Pyotr seconds to understand what his brother was doing. Each series of attacks was done with a specific purpose. Every time Gyrthemar left himself open was calculated. Whenever Lavitor took the bait and struck, Gyrthemar sought his true target and deprived their enemy of yet another mechadendrite using either the tearing teeth of his flail or the precise gore of his spear.
And each time, the blow that he took in exchange should have killed him. Each and every strike brought out a new gurgle of blood to paint his armor and the stone at his feet. But he never fell. He just kept on fighting.
How…? Pyotr thought, but ignored the question for now. Distracted as Lavitor was, he tentatively moved his mechatendrils and commanded them to tend to his power pack. Sensing its machine spirit, he knew what the exact problem was and how the xenos had managed to cut off the flow of power in his armor. He just needed a few moments to fix it.
The fifth servo-arm fell and Gyrthemar was only barely able to roll out of the way as he fell to his knee before an axe swing took his head off. The two Astartes began to circle each other, their shoulders rising and falling laboriously. The only sound that filled the air was their panting breaths. Even Gyrthemar seemed out of taunts for the moment. His face was contorted in an expression of focus, his teeth bared and blood dripping from his gums. His limbs and neck twitched erratically, a sign of the exertion his body felt as it continued to persist long past the point any other Astartes would have fallen. The visage was not… not dissimilar to that of the Carnage Stitchers in the midsts of their blood-fueled rages.
And then Pyotr saw it.
A pendant hung from around his brother's wrist on the hand that touted his chainflail. Its gore-covered metal was crafted in the shape of the brass icon of the Lord of Skulls. Its surface burned with a molten hot glow.
Pyotr urged his tendrils to work faster.
The next clash was the bloodiest yet. Lavitor's axe fell to land a blow, but the haft was caught by Gyrthemar, only for the techmarine to shoot into his opponent's gut several times with his grav-pistol. Ceramite crunched and caved inward. Blood gushed from the decimated organs and flesh beneath and flowed past Gyrthemar's lips.
"Die!" Lavitor howled.
"No," Gyrthemar said simply. Then went to grab Lavitor by the helm. The Ferric Sentry dodged, but this was evidently what Gyrthemar wanted as he thrust his knee into Lavitor's stomach and reached out for the last mechadendrite. He grabbed hold of it and twisted around Lavitor for a better grip, then he placed a boot on the techmarine's spine and began to pull.
Oil and sparks flew freely and the wolf-killer laughed hysterically as Lavitor writhed from both the pain and attempt at freeing himself from Gyrthemar's grasp. A wrenching sound of snapping fibers, torn wiring, and groaning alloys marked the loss of Lavitor's final blessed mechadendrite.
As it pulled free, the chapter master tumbled forward onto his hands and knees. He breathed for a moment, then roared in rage. Rising to his feet, he turned toward Gyrthemar—who was still smiling—and began to pummel him with ceramite-empowered fists with such ferocity that he was forced back against the nearest pillar.
"How dare you?" Lavitor bellowed. "How dare you desecrate my holy gifts! How dare you revoke my blessings from the Machine God! One so vile as you!"
He lifted the omnissian axe and swung down at Gyrthemar's chest. The spear that once belonged to the Space Wolves stopped it mere inches from grazing the metal of his breastplate. Gyrthemar smiled and drew his face nearer.
"You will die," he said, "knowing that I am the one who sullied you, and no matter how much flesh you replace, no matter how many augmetics you give yourself, you will never again feel pure. That is why I dare."
Lavitor held the wolf-killer's gaze for several, rapid breaths. Then he let out a roar that was more machine than it was human as he thrust his axe forward, breaking Gyrthemar's guard and driving the blade deeper into his chest than any wound before it had. When he pulled it free, Gyrthemar slid down the pillar, sitting with his back to its base. He did not rise this time.
Pyotr shot to his feet, servos growling in glee as power was restored and his mechatendrils finished their rapid repairs. He immediately charged Lavitor, chainglaive gnashing, as the techmarine turned and blocked with his axe. The two weapons held their embrace, one thrumming with the whirring of teeth, the other pulsating with the power of a coldly distant god.
"Do not worry, Lavitor. You won't live long enough to bear your shame."
A snarl came from the voxgrill of the grey helmet in front of Pyotr. "If I cannot kill you without my blessings, heretik, then I do not deserve them!"
Lavitor pulled back with his axe and struck once more against Pyotr's guard. The intensity and strength of the blow forced him to take a step back to steady himself as monomolecular teeth broke off.
"Unlike you, I need no boons to be a warrior of my god!"
Another devastating blow came. More teeth scattered across the ground. Pyotr was pushed back another step.
"I am granted my gifts because I am strong!"
Lavitor pressed the advantage. Another swing, another step. More teeth were shredded.
"I forged my hate into iron! I crafted my fury into a blade of righteousness!"
Crash. Teeth. Step.
"While you bemoan your pitiful misgivings and blame all but yourself, I galvanized myself in the armor of my contempt and took action!"
Crash. Teeth. Step.
"I am the steel fang that will gouge out your heart, heretik! I am the purger of blights! And I can bear the sight of you no longer!"
Lavitor made another furious swipe. Pyotr's chainglaive head spun with a now near-empty track of metallic teeth and the incoming blows came with such fervor and speed that he had no method of countering in his current state. The next attack broke his guard and a kick to the chest sent the lord discordant onto his back.
As Pyotr tried to rise, a ceramite boot forced him back into the dust and stone. Lavitor glared down at him with an imperious look. He raised his axe to yet again strike his enemy down.
"Go on, speak your final words, dog. Whimper and plead for a salvation that will not come this time."
Pyotr looked up at a sight that was becoming annoying in its repetition. His chance had passed. His brothers were incapacitated, the battle continued with no favorable end in sight, and he himself was trapped under the weight of his greatest foe. Everything he had done had amounted to nothing.
And yet, he could not help but grin.
"Oh, Lavitor, you should know by now that death and I are not on speaking terms."
In that moment, fate reached its hand down and shielded the Revenant of Nostramo once again as the sky abruptly began to tremble and convulse with thunderous force. The vermillion glow of a false sun burned beyond the storm clouds and reflected off the side of Lavitor's slate faceplate.
The techmarine glanced upwards as the clouds began to part and burning detritus fell through them in a flurry of meteoric scrap. Then he stiffened in what Pyotr could only assume was the inability to accept what he was witnessing.
"What is the matter, chapter master?" Pyotr said, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. "Having trouble contacting your ship?"
Lavitor's eyes snapped back to Pyotr and when he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically hollow. "What have you done?"
The Night Lord's leering grin broadened within his helm. "When a disease attacks the body, the host will oftentimes kill itself in an attempt to purge the malady."
Pyotr struck. A speared mechatendril drove itself into the side of Lavitor's knee joint. The Ferric Sentry roared but was met by two more augmetic limbs piercing him in the torso and hip where the armor was weakest. Pyotr then slammed the flat of his glaive into the side of Lavitor's head and rolled to his feet when his quarry stepped off his chest to regain his footing.
Mechatendrils continued to pull back and strike relentlessly into the bleeding techmarine, and with his own servo-limbs torn from him, he had little hope of defending against the furious onslaught. Pyotr waited until the opportune moment to hook his defanged chainglaive behind his enemy's heels and yank him off his feet. Lavitor fell to the ground with a cacophonous thud that cracked the rockcrete below him. All the while, Pyotr's mechatendrils continued to bite and prod where the plating was vulnerable and stopped him from rising again.
"Rust will always destroy iron eventually, no matter how long it takes," Pyotr said, leering down at Lavitor who struggled to regain his feet, only for a metallic spike to tear through his legs and tendons. "And that is what you called me, was it not? 'A flake of rust on the Omnissiah's grand mechanism'? Yes, I will be your flake of rust, Lavitor. I will be the stubborn grime your chapter can never be rid of. I will always be the darkest perversion of your faith and teachings. I will be…" He smiled. "...a Rust Father."
"You," Lavitor wheezed as a tendril managed to burrow its way past the armor of his side while the other two constricted around his limbs to hinder his movements, "are nothing. Kill me today and it will not matter. Destroy my ship and it will not matter. Vanquish my entire chapter and it will not matter. The Imperium is stronger than you could ever hope to be. It cast you out because you were not needed. It has forgotten you."
Pyotr felt his eyebrows twitch upward. "Forgotten us?" He crouched down next to Lavitor. "Forgotten us? Tell me, cousin, do the people of your Imperium pay their tithes because of the love they feel for your Corpse-God, or because they fear what will happen if they do not? When an inquisitor arrives at their doorstep, do they usher him in with warm smiles and glad tidings, or do they tremble and wet themselves from the terrible thought that anything they have done could be construed as heretical? Do the million worlds within the Imperium's grasp listen and obey the commands given to them because they agree that what they are told is right and just, or because they are terrified that their planet will become dust if they disobey?" Pyotr chuckled. "No, the Imperium has not forgotten us, Lavitor. It is made in our image."
He rose fully once again and frowned at his bare chainglaive. Tossing it aside, Pyotr reached down and lifted Lavitor's discarded axe, weighing the heft in his hands. He smiled at the vitriol he felt from the machine spirit within.
"But, I will promise you this: The Imperium will forget Lavitor Fabrinus. That much is certain."
In one fluid motion, the lord discordant withdrew his mechatendrils and swung down with both hands. The omnissian axe head bit straight through the armor of Lavitor's chestpiece and embedded itself into his sternum with a wet crunch. The techmarine gasped once and then did not stir again.
Pyotr stared down at the body for a time, both reveling in the triumph he felt and trying to make sense of the odd sense of loss in the pit of his stomach. He shook the sensation away after a moment. There would be other enemies to vanquish in time.
The creaking of armor joints behind him announced the rising of an Astartes. A moment later, Retrigan, still wearing his dented helm, approached and stood beside Pyotr.
"It is done, then," he said.
Pyotr nodded. "Yes."
Retrigan looked upwards at the hail of wreckage that continued to fall through the planet's atmosphere. "And the Gorgon's Manacles succumbed to your… methods, I see."
He nodded again. "Yes."
"I doubted it would work."
"If the techno-virus had not been injected directly into the cruiser's main plasma reactor, I do not think it would have been so effective."
The two stood in silence for another few moments before a murmuring cough drew both of their attention.
Leaning against the pillar still, his mouth drooling dark, brackish ichor, Gyrthemar continued to force breath into his lungs and was currently trying in vain to reach for his dropped spear.
Pyotr and Retrigan hastened over to him and the lord discordant crouched down beside his wounded brother. Gyrthemar met his eyes and smiled with stained teeth.
"What a show that was, brother! What a show!" He attempted a laugh, but it came out as a spluttering of wet coughs. Retrigan met Pyotr's eyes and both knew what thoughts went through the other's mind.
"Rest, brother," Pyotr said. "You did well."
"No," Gyrthemar shook his head. "I must… I must…" He wheezed, his limbs clearly losing strength as he continued to grasp at his weapon.
Pyotr fetched it for him and held the spear out for Gyrthemar to take. It made sense that the wolf-killer would wish to die with his favorite toy.
Instead, he reached out and weakly wrapped Pyotr's fingers around the haft of the weapon.
"Vindkaldr is yours," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "Take it while it is still a gift, Pyotr."
Pyotr could not think of what words he should say. So he said none and maglocked Vindkaldr to his back.
"Good." Gyrthemar nodded and closed his singular mortal eye. "I must… must ask one more question of you, though."
"What is it?"
"Back on Exodus Station, you said that you would die hating me. Did you speak the truth?"
Pyotr hesitated for a moment, then answered. "Yes."
The killer of wolves smiled. "Understood, brother." Gyrthemar's breathing then ceased and his life rune on Pyotr's retinal display flickered out.
Pyotr blinked. Many members of Sixth Claw had come and gone as time wore on, but, over the centuries, he, Retrigan, and Gyrthemar had always remained. They three had persisted since the time before the legion joined Horus and his war. Now one of them was no more. It was the life of an Astartes. It was to be expected. For that reason, Pyotr rose to his feet and ignored the blur that had begun to claim his vision and blinked his eyes back into focus.
A chime came from within his helmet and he accepted the vox-link.
"There is a problem at hand," the Sorcerer of Stars spoke.
"Did Tzimiti not arrive with the payload?"
"Your helstalker is here and the visionary's geneseed has been secured," Zseron assured. "But a portion of our vanguard is withdrawing."
"What?"
"It would seem that the destruction of the Ferric Sentries' ship has created the illusion of victory and many of the forces are falling back to extraction." Zseron's voice was laced with a clear secondary meaning. What matters appeared to be was not what was truly afoot. In actuality, the warband was being abandoned.
"Dammit Zasharr!" Pyotr hissed.
"It was not him."
"What?"
"It was not him," Zseron repeated. "The Carnage Stitchers are still fighting alongside us. It was Gargahl and his raptors who called the retreat."
Pyotr grit his teeth.
"I advise haste," the sorcerer continued. "The Sentries are pressing the attack and with our depleted numbers we will have no choice but to evacuate soon, as well. Already our enemies are beginning to create a perimeter around the city to prevent our escape."
"We will make for the outskirts immediately," Pyotr replied. "My thanks, Zseron."
The link ended and Pyotr quickly grabbed his chainglaive and began to replace the track.
"What is the closest extraction point?" Retrigan asked.
Pyotr blinked the schematics the warband had fashioned for the battle within the city into being and referenced them.
"Point Theta."
The once-raptor rumbled in annoyance. "Not ideal, but it is plausible if we are quick."
"Indeed," Pyotr agreed and began walking towards Gyrthemar's corpse.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking him home," he said as he pulled the body onto his shoulders.
"He's dead weight, Pyotr! We do not have time for this!"
Pyotr glared at his brother. "I am taking. Him. Home."
Retrigan paused, then sighed. "Very well," he said, and then moved to help carry the burden alongside the lord discordant.
The two surviving members of Sixth Claw then turned and began to trudge back into the city, the body of their dead brother held within their arms.