Chapter 23: War Zone Fenris: Part 3
War Zone: Fenris:
A Saga of Spite and Vengeance- Part Three
The stain of Chaos foul'd the skies
The Crimson King arose from myth
And brought upon the Sons of Russ
A grievous blow, a slaying of worlds.
'Pon Fenris fell the Cyclops' blade
The weave of mortal life was shorn
A vengeance wrought long aeons before
Reflected in a lake of fire.
Change is in the air. For ten millennia, the Space Wolves have maintained a stagnant status quo, a dam holding back the tides of Chaos wherever they seep through. Now as the Warp surges, threatening to burst its levees and enter the Material Realms, war has come to the Fenris System itself. The most powerful sorcerers in the galaxy, the Thousand Sons, have now invaded the homeworld of the Space Wolves alongside a menagerie of allies and unwitting pawns. Already most of the Fenris System's worlds lie in ruins, in the hands of both Chaos and Imperial aggressors alike, and the once-prosperous planet of Midgardia is now little more than a collection of asteroids floating in the battle-choked void. Once more the armies of Fate march upon the Fang, the mighty fortress of the Space Wolves whose outer layers already burn in the fires of war. The Sons of Magnus seek nothing less than to rip out the heart and future of the Sixth Legion in search of a revenge that has been millennia in the offing. Can the sons of Russ, and their desperate allies, overcome the dictates of the Architect of Fate and his servants? Or will mutual suspicions and conflicting goals doom Fenris? All that is certain is that the end times have begun here, at the close of the 41st Millennium.
Chapter Seven: Gotterdammerung
War engulfs the Fenris System. Not since the Scouring had a legion homeworld been assaulted in such a manner. Over millennia past, the frozen Death World that serves as the home of the Sixth Legion came under attack from the Thousand Sons, the Ecclesiarchy, and the Inquisition. All of these attempts were foiled, stopped in their tracks by the sons of Russ each and every time they occurred. Yet now their luck seems to have finally run out. Most of the legion is elsewhere, gone to defend an Imperium beset on all sides. Ancient grudges have been twisted and used by the servants of Chaos, turning the armies of the Imperium, from the numberless Astra Militarum, to the fanatic Adepta Sororitas, to the suspicious Inquisition, to unite against the Sons of Russ.
Yet as the blind turned their fury on their fellow servants of the Emperor, the true architects of this disaster have made themselves known. The Thousand Sons, the chosen legion of Tzeentch, have begun their latest and most terrible web of plots and conspiracies, and have created an ironic echo of their rival's actions from so long ago. Once the Space Wolves had been on the offensive during the Scouring, yet now they were on the defensive, outnumbered and on the back foot as they faced destruction at the hands of one-time allies. Though they knew only a fraction of the Space Wolves were present in the system, the Sons of Magnus intended to inflict a crippling defeat on his enemies by destroying their home, their people, and their gene-seed repositories.
Much of this disaster has unfolded before the sons of Magnus even arrived. From the depths of the Warp, the Infernal Tetrad, a mighty host of daemons, have invaded the worlds of the Fenris System. Dark bargains with powerful warlords such as Azrael the Half-Daemon and Svane Vulfbad and his Blood Wolves, have unleashed still more death and ruin upon the Sons of Russ. And yet the worst is yet to come, for the Thousand Sons, the ancient enemies of the Space Wolves, now run amok on Fenris itself, killing her people and ravaging her lands. Through vile rituals, they have sundered the land, intruding up to the very battlements of the Fang itself, threatening to destroy it from the inside even as greater hosts press toward her very gates.
The architect of all these atrocities is Ahzek Ahriman, Legion Master of the Thousand Sons. Ten millennia ago, during the galaxy-shattering civil war known as the Leonine Heresy, Ahriman was perhaps the greatest mortal psyker in the Legiones Astartes. Yet his downfall upon the world of Khur at the hands of Argel Tal of the Word Bearers left him unable to utilize his prodigious talents as he once had. Entombed within a dreadnought, Ahriman has had ten millennia to plot his hopes and hone his ambitions, for there is little he desires more than to regain his former glory. So too does he wish to undo the curse of the Flesh Change inflicted upon his brethren, for it would do little good for him to regain a body only to succumb to that ancient curse.
Thus ten millennia worth of plots and schemes have led to this day, countless ancient bargains now come due. The Osirian Lord knows only Tzeentch, the Chaos God of Fate whom he serves, is capable of granting his desires, but only at great cost. To that end, Ahriman has carried out the will of the Great Conspirator at every waking moment, feeding his master with ambitions, schemes, plots, and deceits. Through extensive rituals of soothsaying and augury, the Osirian Lord believes that the destruction of the Space Wolves, who have resolutely opposed Chaos in general and the sorceries of Tzeentch in particular, would gain his master's favor enough to achieve these ends. Thus as the 41st Millennium comes to a close, Ahriman and as many of the Thousand Sons he could bend to his will have come to bring doom to the Sons of Russ.
The attention of the Architect of Fate was thus fixated upon Fenris as few other systems as the 41st Millennium came to a close. The mutagenic power of the Warp has begun to seep through into realspace with ever-greater potency, unleashed as a side effect of the schemes of the Thousand Sons. As the maddened energies spread beneath the ground, they began to suffuse the entire planet. Fenris shuddered as corruption seeped into her molten heart, an agony that began to corrupt the Death World from the inside out. The tendrils of power flowed through Fenris's asthenosphere, spreading across the mantle and core until they had stretched beneath it all. Deep below Asaheim, this tainted magma flowed from its mantle reservoirs up and up through the conduits beneath the Fang itself. None had never thought to guard against what lay so far beneath, and thus in the deepest caverns, a new swarm of daemons erupted. Their fiery forms had joined the molten rivers, unharmed by the heat and pressure, and now they were in the heart of the Space Wolves' domain.
Joining the daemons were the mighty Cult of the Pyrae, those Sons of Magnus who specialized in pyrokinesis. Their forbidden magics had transmuted their bodies into living Warpfire, their fiery forms shielded as they swam through magma immune to its heat. Chief among these ancient warriors was the sorcerer known as Malagor Auramagma, Captain of the Eighth Fellowship. In the ancient past, Auramagma had been among those exiled to Terra in the aftermath of Nikaea, where he and his brothers were watched over by the Salamanders. While never the Magister Templi of his Cult, Auramagma's skill with flame had won him the admiration of the Sons of Vulkan. Such was his dark humor that he repaid his captors by burning many of them to death during his escape from Terra. All of the Thousand Sons beneath the Fang were of the same Cult as Auramagma, and were to a man mighty sorcerers. The bestial Shogaal had not accompanied them, for they could not transmute their bodies like their psyker brethren.
Thus it was that some of the most ancient and diabolical Astartes entered the heart of the Fang. Together they bent their wills to the same task, clapping their hands together in order to unleash a mighty molten beam which melted through the ancient stone roots of the mountain. Accompanied by their daemonic familiars, the Cult of the Pyrae began the long march upward. Their goal was the destruction of the generatoriums buried deep within the Fang. If these ancient engines could be silenced, the mighty weapons batteries protecting the Fang would fall silent along with the void shields which protected the mountain. Such was the distance that they had to climb, and such was their skill at slaughter, that it was several hours before the alarm went out, forcing the Space Wolves to respond to this fiery dagger piercing through the heart of their fortress.
Danger beset the Space Wolves on every side. Even as Ahriman and the other dreadnoughts fought beneath the towering battlements, while Auramagma and his brothers climbed through the cavernous underbelly of the Fang, packs of howling Shogaal, fresh from butchering the villages located near the Fang, had prowled up the mountainside. The Rubrics were accompanied by their handlers, the birdlike Tzaangors, who shepherded their bestial charges toward the terrified Valhallans survivors. Having already fragged their Commissars in order to flee, there was nobody left to maintain discipline amongst their ranks, and thus they suffered immense casualties. Panicked fusillades of lasgun fire rippled out, but the mindless Shogaal charged anyway, tearing the Guardsmen to pieces. The lower slopes of the Fang were filled with the screams of the dying, many of whom were eaten alive by the Tzaangors and Rubrics.
As news of these invaders and the ecological disaster they wrought reached the Space Wolves, they realized for the first time the true extent of the danger they faced. High in the Fang, Ulrik the Slayer issued a message to all his brethren, ordering them to focus their attention on the Thousand Sons. On the barren moon of Valdrmani, Jarl Krom Dragongaze answered the summons, hastily gathering his Drakeslayers to make the short journey back to the Fang. Joined by the mighty Njal Stormcaller, the Jarl and his men descended into the depths of their home, determined to meet the invaders head on. They arrived in the nick of time, halting the Thousand Sons from destroying the generatoriums powering the upper void shields. While Astartes fought daemon, Njal and the other Rune Priests matched their skill against that of Auramagma and his brethren, a war of ice and fire that saw both sides unleash every iota of their psychic mastery.
The caverns of the Fang were filled with spectacular displays of might and fury as the Thousand Sons and their daemonic allies battled with the daemons. While hundreds fought and died around them, Njal and Auramagma focused all their attention on each other. Each Astartes was the unchallenged masters of their craft, and their warrior pride meant they would not rest until they had obtained victory. From the depths of Fenris, Auramagma called forth serpents of lava, breathed out torrent of flames from his mouth, and sung a wild song whose notes were old when the universe was young to unleash an incandescent aura of supernova-fury. In return, the Stormcaller lived up to his title, unleashing the tempest's wrath as he slammed his gauntlets together with mighty thunderclaps, hurling bolts of lightning and freezing hail as he sought to lay his enemy low.
However, while the two psykers were evenly matched, the battles around them were not. The Space Wolves suffered grievous casualties as the other Pyrae Sorcerers of the Thousand Sons unleashed their fiery fury upon them, but they would not relent. With dogged determination, the Sons of Russ fought to protect their home, and gradually pushed back the tides of daemons. They were helped in this by the arrival of aid unlooked for, for a veritable host of neophytes from every stage of their ascension had come to defend their home. They would not stand idly by while their brothers fell to defend them, and it soon became clear to Njal how they had made their way to depths none of them had ever been, for amongst their ranks was Thegn Lukas the Trickster. His natural charisma and undeniable talent for leading Blood Claws made him a welcome ally in these dark hours, and many a foe fell to his blade.
However, while the Trickster and the Stormcaller found success against the Pyrae, the battles above them were not going so well. The confusion wrought by the Inquisition's invasion had rendered the Space Wolves disorganized and unable to properly respond to a planet-wide invasion. Many aircraft were shot down in the midst of uncoordinated strikes against the Silver Towers, whose sorcerous defenses had lashed them out of the sky. On the slopes of the Fang, a few hundred Astartes fought beside what remained of the Valkyria to stem the advance of the Shogaal packs, while the people of Fenris died by the tens of thousands to the rampaging Sorcerer-hosts. In the Chamber of the Watch, Ulrik the Slayer attempted to command his disparate forces, but even his tactical acumen was not enough to turn the tide. However, things were about to go from bad to worse, for the most grim tidings of all made their way to the command center at the heart of the Fang.
Chapter Eight: In the Court of the Crimson King
Though no Astartes feels fear, they can feel dread. They can feel doubt. And who could blame the Space Wolves for feeling this way when their mortal enemy Magnus the Red, Crimson King of Old Prospero, had come to Fenris. To their credit though, no son of Russ hesitated. As the slavering red-skinned giant howled out his fury into skies lit by the fires of change, a hundred shots opened up into him from all sides. A dozen ruby beams from lascannons struck at the speed of light, followed shortly thereafter by the molten beams from meltas. A trio of missiles threw up a cloud of smoke that was immediately pierced by glowing green orbs of plasma that hissed as it struck home. Bolter rounds drummed out a steady beat from a hundred different sources, and for a brief moment, hope surged that the daemon had been banished before he could get a firm grip upon reality.
Alas for the Sons of Russ, Hope itself was their enemy, for their foe was the favored tool of the Architect of Fate. As the smoke cleared, it revealed a shimmering kine-shield wreathing the Daemon Primarch. Though mindless, Magnus Rufus was still the most powerful psyker in the galaxy save for the Emperor, a being of the Warp who instinctively wielded it without even thinking. Rearing up to his full imposing height, the Crimson King smashed his arms into the ground like an enraged gorilla, sending out concussive waves of pure force that hurled everyone around him back a dozen meters. Entire squads of Space Wolves were crushed in their armor, the totems warding their ancient ceramite worthless against such mortal wounds.
Once more Magnus let aloud a bone-chilling roar, a scream of furious insanity that threatened to drive those who heard it mad. As the sound of his cry echoed out, the landscape around the Primarch began to twist and alter as reality itself began to break down in the face of this primordial madness. Eager to be free of his chains, the Lord of Old Prospero began a loping gait up the slope, for somewhere in his bestial mind, he recognized the familiar sight of the Fang which he had assaulted so long ago. Each footstep left by his clawed feet left a twisted imprint in the snow, seeping raw madness that spread to the hardy pines and ruined buildings which surrounded the path. Upon these structures, and upon everywhere the hated gaze of his Eye fell, reality began to twist, warping into devolved parodies of their forms, hideous reflections as seen by a madman. Soon enough they were unrecognizable,little more than weeping piles of sanity-blasting ooze which coalesced into the unnatural composites known as Mutalith Vortex Beasts.
Across Fenris, the Thousand Sons sensed their father's arrival, and redoubled their efforts, eager to join him at the Fang. Thus the Crimson King marched alongside entire hosts of horrors and flights of screamers; flocks of Tzaangors and howling packs of Shogaal; all of the Mutalith Host had come to join Magnus the Red as he intuitively sought out the heart of the Fang. Even the most arrogant sorcerers recognized their opportunity for ultimate victory had come, and with a juddering lurch, eight Silver Towers relocated instantaneously to hang above the mountainous peaks of the Fang. Perhaps the sole exception to this grand host was Ahzek Ahriman, for the Osirian Lord knew there would be none to interrupt the final stages of his plans. For all his might, Magnus the Red was to be little more than a distraction for the time being, a being of such importance and a threat so great that none would be able to turn away.
Ahriman's line of thought was more true than he realized, for even as far away as Terra, psychic minds beheld the Great Eye once more, and they wept. For those in the Fenris System itself, all with even a hint of psychic potential sensed the strain weighing down upon reality. The brotherhood of the Grey Knights, well versed in the progression of daemonic incursions, sensed the Daemon Primarch's arrival from the moment he slipped from beyond the veil into the Materium, and moved to respond. As always, the weight of numbers had tipped the scales firmly in favor of the Imperium, and thus the departing ships of the Grey Knights did not affect the course of the battle as they began to break away, accelerating towards Fenris at full speed.
Aboard the Invincible Reason, the Star Phantoms also sensed the arrival of the Crimson King. Their battle in the void was already nearing its end, the planet-sundering weapons leaving both fleets shells of their former selves. Lost in his own thoughts and delusions, the Half-Daemon Azrael gave no notice as his flagship began to leave the battle, its bridge officers deciding they had other places to be than in the same system as an insane Daemon Primarch. To the Half-Daemon, such a bold-faced lie appeared to be the truth, for as he peered into the auspex, the signatures of the Imperial fleet were all steadily moving away from the Invincible Reason. The mighty warship had reaped a fearsome toll and had suffered only minor damage, and thus Azrael shrugged and stalked off the bridge, giggling to himself as usual.
On the Innocentia Nihil Declarat, the Naval officers manning the stations could not believe their luck. Barely half of the mighty task force still floated under their own power, for the Star Phantoms had inflicted heavy losses despite their small numbers. The flagship itself had been crippled, her engines damaged midway through the battle, and thus Lord Inquisitor Karamazov was left to scream at his subordinates for their inability to pursue their retreating enemies. The fleet of the Raven Guard meanwhile had turned their attentions toward the disabled and shattered enemy vessels, ignoring the Invincible Reason and Karamazov's hails in favor of recovering the gene-seed of their fallen and plundering all the wargear they could salvage. Jarl Blackmane's fleet was no more responsive, making for Fenris in pursuit of their High King.
The Allfather's Honor, flagship of the High King, was quick for a ship of its bulk, already deploying its forces with utmost urgency. Desperate to save their home, the mighty warship had maneuvered into the upper atmosphere, far beyond the conventional anchor points in order to shave off precious minutes for the troops preparing to land. Hundreds of Space Wolves began to rain down from on high, the mighty Company of the Great Wolf led by Logan Grimnar himself. The Thousand Sons by this time were congregating around the Fang itself, thus there was no need to disperse the reinforcements across the whole planet. The mighty High King led from the front, a great ax-wedge formation composed of dozens of individual Deathsworn, the last of their squads, who slammed into the traitors flanks with utmost fury.
By this time, the insane Magnus and his forces had already overwhelmed the lower reaches of the Fang. The depths below held nothing of interest for them, for the forces of Auramagma had already sundered the lower levels. In the end, the ancient Sorcerer and his cabal had been defeated, teleporting away in shame in the face of the power of the Stormcaller and the other Rune Priests, who defeated the last of the fire daemons before collapsing in exhaustion. Now their heroism seemed to be for naught, for they had expended their might against a foe far lesser than the ones now rampaging through the midlevels of the Fang.
As he ascended, the towering behemoth that was Magnus the Red was forced to claw and smash his way through the narrow doorways, ascending up and up through the vast peak. In every corridor and tunnel, fireteams of Space Wolves attempted to slow him, ambushing the Thousand Sons from every chamber. Though they knew no fear, despair had begun to fill the loyal Astartes. The end times had seemingly come, yet their primarch Leman Russ was nowhere to be found. Their greatest champions were either far away or already fallen. None knew that High King Grimnar was on his way, for the external sensors had been sundered by artillery fire after Auramagma's forces destroyed the generatoriums powering the void shields.
The Thousand Sons on the other hand were filled with the prospect of victory. The very presence of their primarch made them fight with ferocity not seen in millennia, eager to win the favor of Tzeentch by destroying the Space Wolves. Their Silver Towers rained death upon the outside flanks of the Fang, cleaving countless tons of rock away as they sought to pierce its heart. Defiant batteries attempted to blast them away, but their shields held firm, and thus the bombardment continued. It was much the same within, where the psychic powers of the Sorcerers were beyond mighty, slaughtering dozens of Space Wolves and Valkyria with every strike. Even the knowledge that the Grey Knights and Grimnar were about to arrive did not dismay the arrogant scions of Prospero. They had already seized half of the Fang; once they found and destroyed the gene-seed repositories, the Space Wolves would be doomed.
Far from this epic struggle, the schemes of Ahriman were reaching their climax as well. Deep in the heart of the Firebreather, the largest volcano on Fenris, the Osirian Lord and his cabal were on the verge of completing their ultimate rituals. Vile energies poured into the heart of Fenris, wracking the Death World with massive quakes and vast tsunamis as the planet writhed in torment. Countless scraps of energy were extracted and merged with the currents of the Immaterium as their arcane gambit neared its finale. All was now in place, and Fenris had become the perfect echo of Prospero. Now the enemies of the Thousand Sons knew the pain they had felt, of being betrayed by their brothers, of the fear of genetic deviance, of mutation running amok. The blind arrogance of it was astounding, and to such hubris, Tzeentch himself turned his attention, peering down at what his servants sought to accomplish.
The favor of Tzeentch flowed upon his chosen legion like never before. The Changer of Ways was in the ascendant, for as the 41st Millennium came to an end, hope for a brighter future surged throughout the galaxy and countless plots and schemes began their culmination. Within the blazing heart of the Firebreather, Ahriman stood within his ritual circle, shaping the Warp to his will. His adamantium-encased dreadnought fists plunged into the stone walls of the lava chamber, infusing the tortured stone with mutagenic energy. With a catastrophic rumble, the volcano inverted, its soaring peaks plunging into the earth to form a vast chasm. From the streams of magma deep below the surface of this Gullet, a hurricane of Tzeentchian daemons poured upward as Ahriman's careless magic further thinned the barriers of reality.
At the heart of the storm was Ahzek Ahriman himself, surrounded by four Lords of Change and four Sorcerers of his legion. Together these Nine harnessed and channeled such forces as had not been controlled since Magnus's own ritual upon the world of Khur during the end days of the Leonine Heresy. Only these chosen few knew the scope of Ahriman's ambitions. The power he had harnessed could have been put to all manner of dark designs, and in that moment, the ultimate decision lay with him. For a time he had considered bringing Sortiarius into realspace, to give his legion a permanent base once more. However, he had quickly discarded that ambition, for he knew it would be beyond foolish to remove their fortress from its unassailable position in the Eye of Terror just to give the Imperium a target to focus their overwhelming fury upon.
No, the goal of the Osirian Lord was both blindingly arrogant and astoundingly simple, for he sought nothing less than to undo the past. He had spent many centuries studying the actions of his father, of the deals he had struck and the curses he had borne. The festering wound of the Flesh Change had filled his thoughts and those of his brothers, for ten millennia. Ten millennia of hopes and prayers, of schemes and plots to undo them, a desire for change the likes of which was hard to match. Ahzek knew only through Tzeentch could this be undone, and thus in exchange for this reversal, a change of mind for the Mind of Change, he offered up the doom of Fenris, along with the sacrificed gene-seed of nine hundred and ninety-nine Space Wolves.
Across Fenris and beyond, a psychic scream began to keen as a terrifying power emanated from their circle. With a shuddering gasp of triumph, the ritual reached its peak. Reality groaned as the power Ahzek had gathered was released, channeled into the Warp through the conduits in Ahriman's personal Silver Tower in a manner no words could possibly convey. Across time and space, every Astartes bearing the gene-seed of Magnus, past present and future, felt their souls touched by the work of Ahriman and the power of Tzeentch. In the heart of the Fang, Magnus the Red stopped in his tracks, transfixed by, for the first time in ten thousand years, understanding. The Crimson King rose up in all his terrible glory, his madness slipping away as Ahriman's bargain took effect. All around him, the Space Wolves stopped in horror, recognizing their foe was once again sentient.
A second wave of power struck out, and all the Sorcerers felt their powers swell, feeling a new sense of might. A third wave swept forth, and the Shogaal began to transform. Their bestial features began to retract as their red skin faded to human skin tones once again. Across the galaxy and the Warp, these changes took effect. The atavistic curse of the Flesh-Change had been defeated; Ahriman was triumphant, and the greatest was yet to come. In the heart of the circle, Ahriman felt his shattered body mending. Each wave returned to him the use of the power he had been so long denied, setting him free from the chains Fate had placed upon him. With a cry of delight, he burst from the confines of his Osirian sarcophagus, unmaking it with a flick of his fingers. Ahzek had won, and with Magnus now fully sentient, there was nothing that could possibly stop them.
Chapter Nine: Magnus Ascendant
As Ahriman's ritual swept across the galaxy, the Thousand Sons, no matter wherever they found themselves at the end of the 41st Millennium, reaped the rewards of their commander's schemes. However, none were more blessed than Magnus himself. For the first time in ten thousand years, he grasped what his fell eye landed upon. His towering intellect, kept from him for so long, had lost none of its wisdom, nor its malice. With a twist of his clawed red hand and a wicked cackle, the Crimson King bent the Warp to his will, determined that his first conscious act of witchcraft would be one of unparalleled destruction. The thick stone sides of the Fang, proof against the heaviest of orbital bombardments, dissolved like smoke, leaving a spherical crater. No trace of the adamantium plating remained, simply willed from existence by the cunning craft of Magnus.
High above the frozen plains and snow-capped peaks, the starry night sky twinkled with the bursts of distant explosions. In the void, the clustered Imperial warships which had rushed to join in the defense of Fenris, now came under the terrible scrutiny of a single omniscient Eye. Once more the Crimson King twisted his hands into arcane gestures, reshaping reality at a whim. Magnus pulled, and a trio of strike cruisers were wrenched from their positions in the void, careening into each other with devastating kinetic force. The sky was lit up as the unlucky vessels vanished in a cascade of explosions, and the halls of the Fang echoed with Magnus's laughter.
Across Fenris, the Space Wolves responded to this destruction, abandoning their current battles to race toward the Fang. All knew that the Crimson King represented a far greater threat than any of them had ever faced. However, the Thousand Sons were far from idle, and inflicted a punishing barrage on their retreating foes. The Sorcerers, empowered anew by Ahriman's ritual, shifted the very landscape around them, bending reality so that no matter how they struggled, the sons of Russ could not escape them. The Shogaal, no longer bestial mutants, resumed their forms as Astartes, the wargear of yesteryear manifesting to aid them who were as eager to fight as they had been before their transformation, and quickly proved they had lost none of their skill. Thus was the home of the Sixth denied much-needed reinforcements as a series of battles erupted around the thick ice sheets and tundra forests surrounding the Fang.
However, while sorcery ensnared and slowed the Space Wolves, their allies were not so hindered. Within a few hours, the first vessels of the Grey Knights had moved into position above the Fang as every company of the silver-armored Third Brotherhood prepared to join the fight. Though the Sons of Titan often entered a battle by means of teleportation, the intense psychic disturbances on the planet's surface meant such an attempt would be risky in the extreme, and thus only a select few chose to utilize teleportation. For the rest of the Sons of Titan, including the entire complement of Exorcists, drop pods and transports would have to do. All knew it was far better to be delayed in their arrival rather than lose a quarter of their men in the vagaries of the Warp, especially when facing a threat as great as Magnus the Red.
It was only the blessings of the Emperor that shielded the Grey Knights from the worst of Magnus's fury as they landed. A flight of aircraft swooped by, strafing the Chaos Space Marines as they deposited teleport homers. In a dozen dazzling flashes of light, dozens of silver-armored terminators materialized around the Crimson King, along with no less than five Nemesis Dreadknights. The Sons of Titan opened fire upon Magnus, who simply stood there as his foes unleashed hundreds of shots on him from all sides. As the last of the wrist-mounted storm bolters clicked dry, the Lord of Prospero swept the smoke away with his wings, revealing himself to be utterly unharmed. The Daemon Primarch gestured once more, his hands now revealed to be holding his ancient polearm, the mighty Blade of Magnus.
The Crimson King's cyclopean face twisted in a sneer of infinite malice as he manifested his counter-attack, clawing at the smoky air as it coalesced into a collection of projected memories from the ancient past. Suddenly the Daemon Primarch was surrounded by his sons: there stood Sanakht, his twin blades gleaming as he leapt into battle; there went Amon, his staff smashing half a dozen Grey Knights to the ground. A clattering stream of shells hit the ground as the orange-lacquered automaton Creedence blasted away, towering above its master Ignis, who stood beside Ohrmuzd Ahriman, resplendent in his Mark II power armor. All of the Crimson King's favored sons, or at least their phantasms, unleashed a punishing barrage on the Grey Knights infantry. Yet even in the heat of battle, there were those that noted that Ahzek Ahriman, architect of this entire invasion, was not among their ranks.
Now free to focus on the greater threat, Magnus turned his attention to the five Nemesis Dreadknights. What paltry fire had been sent their way washed harmlessly from their force-shields, but the Daemon Primarch possessed attacks far more deadly than his minions. The Blade of Magnus reached out, and as its tip touched the first Dreadknight, reality distorted. The warsuit's defenses instantly overloaded in the same instant as the runic warding protecting its pilot, whose body was transformed into a hideous Chaos Spawn that began to claw its way out of its harness now burning with unearthly flames. The horns jutting from Magnus's body glowed with a brilliant halo of light as a sphere of warp-energy appeared between them, an orb which shot out to pierce another pair of Dreadknights, which flattened before imploding as though they had been stepped on by an Imperator Titan.
The remaining two Dreadknights, which had closed in unheeding of their comrades' swift demise, swung their towering hammers at the Crimson King, but to their dismay, their blows were caught in midair. With little effort, Magnus wrenched the weapons from his foes hands, throwing them aside and hissing as his claws were singed by their warded heads. Now unarmed, the Dreadknights were helpless as the red-skinned giant bisected the first one with a sweeping jab before ripping the limbs off of the second with utmost ease. The entire battle had taken less than a minute, but it had been enough. His position now confirmed, half a dozen strike cruisers opened fire on the Daemon Primarch from the heavens, determined to wipe him from the face of Fenris.
However, Magnus was no fool. Stretching one hand up with impossible reflexes, he caught the lance strikes in midair with a kine-shield of astounding potency. The glowing psychic ward angled downward, sending the beams back at a column of approaching land raiders rumbling up the slopes of the Fang. The mighty war-machines vanished one by one as the fury of the orbital bombardment struck them, making a mockery of their thick armor. From his position at the rear of the column, Thegn Jarnulfr saw his death approaching, and reacted accordingly. The champion leapt from his command cupola, rolling as he landed to a kneel on the snowy ground. Jarnulfr raised a lascannon, unleashing a ruby beam aimed with impeccable precision at Magnus's eye. Such a blow, moving at light speed, should have been impossible to dodge, and even a creature of the Warp such as a daemon would surely have been grievously wounded.
However, the lascannon shot never reached its target. With but a thought, the world around Magnus froze. The Crimson King strode across the unmoving battlefield, moving around the petrified light still hanging in midair until he stood above Jarnulfr. He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the brave Son of Russ now stood where the Crimson King had once been. With a groaning lurch, time began once more, and Jarnulfr looked down to find his lower torso had been obliterated by his own shot. The Astartes tumbled to the ground, already dead, but Magnus had already moved past him, unleashing still more sorceries. Nine kilometers away, an entire company of Space Wolves clutched their chests, their twin hearts no longer beating as their veins turned to crystal. A trio of Stormhawk interceptors tumbled from the sky, their pilots rendered insane by daemonic whispers breathed from the thoughts of the Crimson King.
In the aurora-filled void above Fenris, the forces of the Imperium found themselves beset with doubt. The casualty rates had become exponentially higher since the Crimson King regained his sanity: already half a company of Grey Knights, among the most powerful fighters at their disposal, lay dead, slaughtered with ease by Magnus. Reality itself had begun to break down as the forces of change wrought havoc across the system. The thought of the Crimson King, whose magics further warped Fenris with every passing second, left free to roam the galaxy was a risk far too great to leave to chance. For the first time since the Leonine Heresy and the Scouring, the Imperium began to contemplate the destruction of an Astartes homeworld.
For Fenris to become a daemon world would be far too devastating to morale, but to convince the Sons of Russ to permit their allies to destroy their home was no less daunting a task. When talk of such a plan began to spread across the fleet gathered above Fenris, the outrage of the Wolves was palpable. Only the arrival of High King Grimnar's forces stopped the Space Wolves from turning upon their Imperial Navy counterparts. The legion master was quick to table such fratricidal discussion, rallying his forces for one final assault upon the surface. They would save the Fang, Grimnar declared, or die trying.
Thus the skies of Fenris were filled anew with hundreds of drop pods that rained down through the aurorae and sleet toward the imposing peaks of the Fang. This mighty assault was preceded by a spectacular array of lance strikes as dozens of warships fired down upon Fenris, all thought of collateral damage rendered moot by the threat they faced. Even the mightiest of the Thousand Sons struggled to protect their forces against the fury of the heavens, vanishing in brief flashes of light as the orbital bombardment annihilated both them and their Space Wolves adversaries. Magnus himself bore the brunt of this assault, and though no shot pierced his mighty kine-shields, his attention was taken away. Thus the hail of drop pods was able to land relatively unharmed, hundreds of warriors spoiling for a fight who otherwise would have been torn from the skies by the fury of Magnus.
At the head of this mighty assault was High King Logan Grimnar alongside Jarl Ragnar Blackmane, warriors of such renown that their mere presence inspired their kin to fight harder than ever before. Beside them were the forces of Grand Master Aurikon, stepping forth from the heart of bright novas of silvery-white light as their teleportation flares blinked out. As one the psychic brotherhoods of Titan raised their arms, unleashing a hail of psybolt ammunition into the forces of the Thousand Sons. Their indomitable wills contended with daemons and sorcerers, overpowering their opponents with perfect teamwork born of decades of experience. Fickle Change swept over Fenris once more as what had appeared to be an inevitable victory for the forces of Magnus now balanced the other way, a stalemate that could tip either way paid for by hundreds of dead Astartes.
Yet it may well have proven too late. The defenders of the Fang had been overcome, blasted aside and mutated beyond recognition as Magnus Rufus strode inexorably forth toward the gene-seed repositories at the heart of the Fang's apothecariums. The destruction of these reserves, coupled with the severe losses inflicted to the Sixth Legion this day both here and across the galaxy, would doom the Sons of Russ to a lingering death, unable to regain their former size and glory. However, as he neared the chambers, the Crimson King was challenged from behind, for as the butcher's bill tallied ever higher, Magnus the Red found himself confronted anew, for High King Grimnar, Grand Master Aurikon, and their retinue had finally reached the Fang. It would've taken but a second for Magnus to complete his objective, but as always, pride, and a fierce determination to humiliate his foes before destroying them, ruled his heart.
As if Fate sensed this climactic struggle about to unfold, the battles across Fenris and beyond reached a fever pitch, the ultimate crescendo toward a climax that would determine the fate of not only the system but a legion entire. Thus the Crimson King turned to give battle, determined to lay low his ancient foes once and for all. He would break Russ's descendants just as they had once broken him long ago at Prospero; he would twist Russ's home into such a deformity that he would never recognize it were he to return. The loyal sons of the Imperium were no less determined, sure in their purpose and righteous in their hatred for the witch-king Magnus and his daemonic ilk. They would cast him from reality, back to the hells from whence he came, to stop him no matter the cost.
As the Imperial champions neared the towering form of the Crimson King, reality itself began to break down around them. Anathema to natural order, the ground around the Daemon began to heave and fluctuate, the very terrain itself becoming dangerous as tree roots writhed like snakes through rock that had become a slurry of mud. Lesser warriors would have been halted completely, but for Astartes such as these, it merely slowed them down. The runes etched on their armor glowed with white-hot intensity, automatically reacting in an attempt to stave off the mutative touch of the Warp. Yet this was merely the first obstacle to overcome. Though never one of the most skilled with the blade, Magnus Rufus was nonetheless a primarch, a demigod son of the Emperor even before he had left his mortal body behind whose reach and initiative was far beyond any other present.
Thus as the Astartes slowed even fractionally, Magnus swung his mighty blade, swiftly piercing the stout terminator armor of one of Grimnar's guardians, along with three others beside him. The last of these, seeing the instant death that had befallen his brethren, twisted aside, his instinct serving to dodge the worst of Magnus's blows. Yet such was the potency of the Crimson King's sorcerous blade that, though merely scratched, the unfortunate warrior began to mutate. With a scream of agony, the Space Wolf fell to his knees, spined tentacles erupting from his armor as his skin sloughed off. In place of this once-mighty warrior was left only a gibbering Chaos Spawn, which launched itself to be put down by its former brothers.
As his bladed staff swept backwards, Magnus's remaining blows were directed at the Grey Knights, who fared little better. Though better-protected from the Crimson King's sorcerous backwash, their sanctified armor proved just as susceptible to the Blade of Magnus as their Space Wolf allies, and two of Aurikon's men fell, their blood steaming into rancid vapors in the cold. Yet their sacrifice would not go unavenged. A dozen Nemesis weapons struck home, their holy blades inordinately effective against Magnus's daemonic flesh. Falchions flashed and staves glowed blinding silver as they hacked away, turning crimson flesh maroon as daemonic ichor seeped from a dozen wounds. The Daemon Primarch leapt back as daemonhammers swung with concussive force at his kneecaps, his iridescent wings wrapped around his torso as psybolt ammunition blasted away.
The Sons of Russ were no less fierce, lightning claws and frost axes hacking away at the sorcerous apparitions guarding the Crimson King. One by one, the ghostly memories faded away, banished back to the realm of thought. A trio of Rune Priests called upon the World Spirit of Mother Fenris, channeling the tempest's wrath into a roaring storm that they unleashed against Magnus in an attempt to keep him from flying. The Daemon Primarch roared, infuriated that his foes would attempt to utilize their psychic gifts against the Master of Sorcery. With but a thought he dispelled their hurricane winds, before turning his attention to the Grey Knights librarians who were about to unleash their own psykana. The lucky ones found themselves speaking in the Dark Tongue of daemons, their powers merely delayed as they attempted to undo the damage wrought upon their minds; those less fortunate discovered they no longer had tongues with which to speak or fingers with which to trace symbols.
One by one, the first wave of warriors attacking Magnus fell, slain by the Crimson King by blade and sorcery. Once more his attention turned to sorcery, undoing the damage wrought upon his monstrous form with but a thought. His mighty crown blazed with a supernova halo as his august thoughts rewrote reality to a form more pleasing to him. Those Space Wolves who had once stood at his feet now found themselves many leagues away, manifested in the midst of the Thousand Sons as though summoned. They thus reacted accordingly, turning their blades upon these sudden targets. None thought to question why their ancient foes wore silver armor, or pleaded with them to halt their attack. Only the most stubborn Sons of Russ refused to be torn from their goal, reserving their hate for Magnus himself as they pressed forward.
Unfortunately for the chosen of Tzeentch, the Young Wolf and the Old Wolf were two warriors of such singular focus. Jarl Ragnar Blackmane had a long history of opposing the Thousand Sons, both across the galaxy and here on Fenris. He let loose a bone-chilling howl matched by the roar of his legendary Frostfang slicing through the air as he rushed in, moving far more swiftly than Grimnar, who was fractionally more encumbered by his heavy terminator armor. Yet for all his innate skill as a swordsman, Blackmane found himself outmatched. Magnus's already-impressive skill, honed during the Great Crusade, was now boosted still more by sorcery. His precognition made a mockery of Ragnar's natural talent, and soon the Young Wolf found himself on the defensive, desperately parrying just to stay alive.
It was only the presence of his allies that kept him alive in that dire moment. Grand Master Aurikon was a rock upon which Magnus's fury broke again and again, chanting litanies of banishment along with his psychic kin. They were the Third Brotherhood, the Wardmakers, the Company of Ianius himself who were the greatest psykers in all of Titan. While none could hope to overcome the Sorcerer-King of Prospero on their own, together they refused to be overmatched. The Purifiers were untouched by the forces of Change, focusing their wills in a battle of minds as sharp daggers of psychic hate and condemnation that stabbed into vulnerable points in Magnus's psyche. Brother Captains Voldus and Stern were twin beacons of silver light, channeling their own strength, along with their brethren, into Grand Master Aurikon, supercharging his strength and speed to the point of nearly rivaling Magnus's own. The psychic brotherhood of the Third lived up to their name, combining their minds into a psychic gestalt that unraveled Magnus's sorceries one by one even as they shielded their commander.
However, even greater than these was the Har-Fylkir. Logan Grimnar had not been fooled by the visions created by Magnus's silver tongue. The Old Wolf had seen too much to give any heed to the deceitful servants of Tzeentch, and he struck like a meteor, barreling into his foe without heed for Magnus's size. His mighty weapon, the Axe of Morkai, glowed with baleful light, the daemon within now more active than ever before in the presence of witches. Wherever it struck the Axe left great bloody scars, thrumming with the power of the Warp as it hacked away ensorcelled flesh and enchanted armor like it was made of paper. The mighty Grimnar gripped his trophy weapon with both hands as he faced his foe, going all out on offense as he relied on both his allies and the protection of his ancient Belt of Russ to defend him from harm.
Seconds turned into minutes as the Imperium's finest warriors fought to turn the tide against Magnus. Though none could match the Daemon Primarch one on one, together they were truly mighty, too numerous to be swatted aside as nearly three score warriors battled with bolt and blade. They suffered horrific casualties, burned and mutated and slashed in all manner of gruesome deaths, but they would not relent, for they knew that if they could not defeat Magnus here, then Fenris would be destroyed. Alas for these heroes, time was not on their side. Each warrior that fell lessened the damage wrought upon the Crimson King's mutable form, which swiftly twisted back into shape if left to heal for more than a few seconds.
With a deafening roar, Magnus straightened up, finally tired of stomping and hacking at the ants stinging his feet. His most dangerous weapon, denied to him for so long, had always been his mind. His foul imagination and wisdom was entwined with an innate mastery of the Warp seen in no other save the Emperor himself. First to feel his wrath were the Grey Knights, for he knew all too well that their Rites of Banishment were a far greater threat than the more mundane blades piercing his flesh. The Crimson King stretched forth a clawed talon, infusing his will into a bolt of change that leapt forth into Grand Master Aurikon. For a brief moment, his warded Truesilver armor glowed a blinding aura as it protected him, but Magnus's attack was too subtle. He did not seek to overcome the protection of the Wardmakers, but to subvert it.
The Grand Master let out an awful scream, a cry of purest despair and agony never before heard from a Son of Titan. Suddenly all the power that Aurikon's allies were feeding him was changed into pure Warp energy, which surged over the Grey Knight like a tidal wave. Silver light became gold in a foul jest that only Magnus found amusing as Aurikon's flesh lived up to its namesake. When the nova faded, an unmoving statue made of fool's gold stood in the place of the Grand Master. The death of their focal point threw the gestalt mind of the Grey Knights off-balance, for without a target, their energies became jumbled and confused, a backlash that temporarily severed their unity.
At the sight of his ally's horrific death, Grimnar bellowed in fury. Taking advantage of his foe's momentary inattention, he sunk the Axe of Morkai deep into Magnus's chest, provoking an unearthly wail of hate and pain. The Crimson King turned his attention away from the Grey Knights toward the Har-Fylkir, seizing him in his clawed grip. Servo-motors groaned and warning lights blinked in Grimnar's helm as the Daemon Primarch squeezed, adamantium and ceramite buckling seconds before bones snapped. Before the horrified eyes of Blackmane, recovering on the ground from where the Crimson King had kicked him backwards, High King Logan Grimnar was crushed. As the Old Wolf went limp, Magnus hurled him to the ground, the ponderous bulk of his ruined terminator armor leaving a crater in the ground. The Sorcerer-King reared to his full height, his towering form the size of a Questoris-pattern knight, battered and bleeding but still defiant.
Yet here now, in his moment of triumph, where his foes were too weak to stop him, Magnus Rufus stopped dead in his tracks, his all-seeing Eye fixed far into the distance. Far away off the coast of Asaheim, across the forests and thick sheets of pack ice where Space Wolves and Thousand Sons continued their battles, the chasms of the Gullet glowed with unearthly power. Once the towering Firebreather, the ancient volcano had been transformed by Ahriman. The Osirian Lord, now free of his sarcophagus, had reveled in his newly-regained freedom, but soon enough turned his attention back toward his plot. Ambition had always ruled him, the desire to see his plans through no matter what the cost to his allies. Now his Ritual site, bolstered beyond any sane limit by his returned psychic skill, thrummed with barely-contained power.
Thus as the battle at the Fang reached its crescendo, so too did Ahriman's grand design. The first few steps, of undoing the changes wrought upon the Shogaal and returning Magnus's mind and his own body, had merely been the precursor to his ultimate aim of preventing such calamities from ever occurring again. Once more power rippled across space and time, the power of the Warp channeled once more to the will of one Astartes. The same Rubric of Ahriman that had touched upon each and every legionary bearing the gene-seed of the Fifteenth to transform them back into their proper forms, infusing them with wards painstakingly devised through eons of research. It was an act of the highest arrogance and unbridled hope, of supreme self-confidence tempered by consummate skill. Even Magnus was forced to finally take note of this overlooked son at long last. It seemed Ahriman's skill, long denied him in his dreadnought sarcophagus, was revealed to be unimaginably potent.
Yet the Legion Master of the Thousand Sons had not reckoned with the conflicting wills of Tzeentch. The Changer of Ways was long accustomed to arguing with itself, for each Lord of Change represented a separate thought in the mind of the Architect of Fate. Tzeentch both smiled and frowned as he beheld the Rubric of Ahriman, for while it would empower his servant legion like never before, it would also render them less dependent on him. However, the Great Conspirator had already accounted for this, and every other eventuality in fact, and so he simply had to watch as Ahriman hanged himself with the rope he had been given. The surges of power doubled, and then trebled, and suddenly the Osirian Lord found that his allies could not keep up with him. The other ritualists in his circle vanished, some dying messy deaths while others vanished entirely.
Without dampeners and channels for this august power, Ahriman let out a wail of frustration as the energies he wielded slipped beyond his control. They swept over time and space, across both the Materium and Immaterium, and where they struck, the Thousand Sons were staggered. The most powerful among them, the Sorcerers, struggled to cope with this influx of power, desperately striving to convert into a form that would increase their own reserves of might. However, their kin were not so fortunate. The rest of the sons of Magnus, formerly the bestial Shogaal who formed the vast majority of the Fifteenth Legion, had been unable to call upon their power in any meaningful way as their sorcerous kin had. Thus they lacked the capacity to channel the unbound energies of Ahriman's Rubric in the same way. The unlucky Astartes stiffened in their armor as the capacity for change was taken from them. Their very flesh desiccated and crumbled away, leaving only dust inside unmoving suits of armor.
Back at the Fang, Magnus felt this surge of power, helplessly observing with his all-seeing Eye as his sons crumbled into dust. The Crimson King instantly teleported himself to Ahriman's side, still clutching at the wound Grimnar had dealt him as his fury mixed with anguish and fear in a way he had not felt since the Burning of Prospero ten thousand years earlier. Ahriman himself lay on his back at the center of his ruined ritual circle, his mind a jumbled mixture of conflicting emotions filled with the same terrible knowledge of these unforeseen consequences that filled his father's mind. Upon seeing the architect of his legion's ruin, Magnus Rufus screamed at his son, demanding that he undo the damage he had wrought, to give him back his legion. Yet the Osirian Lord could not, helpless in the face of insurmountable grief at the fate which he had inadvertently brought upon his brothers.
Though he wished for nothing more than to strike his wayward son down, Magnus was nothing but a creature of Tzeentch. No matter what spells and incantations he attempted to inflict upon his prodigal son, it seemed the Changer of Ways did not wish to lose such a valuable pawn. With a howl of disgust, Magnus called upon his powers for a different purpose, teleporting his legion, both alive and dead, away from Fenris. Across the Fenris System, the unmoving Rubricae were whisked away back to the Planet of the Sorcerers. Without their support, the hordes of cultists were swiftly exterminated by the vengeful Sons of Russ. Soon enough every daemon that blighted Fenris had been discorporated once more, leaving behind nothing but a twisted and ruined landscape whose scars seemed unlikely to heal.
Over the following weeks, the Inquisition would enact a series of purges upon the Fenris System, ensuring the taint of Chaos had been expunged as they sought to hide how close the Thousand Sons had come to destroying the home of their ancient foe. Millions of civilians were systematically executed, all who had witnessed daemons both on Fenris and beyond in order to hide the nature of Chaos. However, some scars could never be erased. Midgardia was nothing more than a field of rubble in the void, while the glaciers of Frostheim had melted away, leaving strange fields of bone. Oceanic Svellgard was not purged of the invaders for many weeks, as the Khornate forces of Arkh'gar fought to the last until they were finally extirpated, leaving only bloody tides and charnel houses in their wake.
However, no amount of vengeance did not make up for the loss of hundreds of slain Space Wolves, including High King Grimnar himself. As Magnus vanished from the Fang, reality returned back to normal once more. As it did, the Old Wolf woke long enough to name Jarl Ragnar Blackmane as his successor, gasping out his dying breaths before perishing from his wounds. Though grief-stricken, High King Blackmane was highly active, organizing suitable funerals for his predecessor and for the thousands of slain Space Wolves. The Grey Knights and Inquisition departed after Grimnar's funeral, much against the will of Lord Inquisitor Karamazov.
Recognizing how weak the Space Wolves were in this time of succession, the first in centuries, Karamazov sought to introduce checks upon their power, to firmly establish the Inquisition's supremacy over them. However, to his frustration, his forces refused to go along with this plan. The Raven Guard had already departed, vanishing from the Fenris System after the last daemons had been eliminated along with a substantial trove of plundered wargear. The new Grand Master of the Grey Knights, Voldus, had elected to move on, making for the Cadian Gate despite the heavy losses they had suffered. Thus left with nothing but a decimated force of Imperial Guard and Sororitas, Karamazov knew he could not presently rein in the Space Wolves as he would have liked to, and departed as well, leaving High King Ragnar and the Space Wolves to their own devices.
Though he had not been truly banished, Magnus the Red did not show himself again for many years after the Battle of Fenris. Upon Sortiarius, the Crimson King sought to undo Ahriman's mistakes by every means he could think of, but Tzeentch did not bless him in this endeavor, even going so far as to directly forbid him from slaying Ahriman. Instead Magnus banished Ahriman, sending him and his followers to roam the galaxy. The Osirian Lord had finally stepped out of his twin's shadow, but still he lacked the father's approval he had always desired. Ahriman was thus left to gaze into the past in the hopes of undoing his mistakes as always. In time these Prodigal Sons would reveal themselves again, but for now, their fate would remain a mystery.
The Sons of Prospero have struck us a grievous blow. The loss of so many Space Wolves, and more importantly Grey Knights, have rendered the Imperium vulnerable. We cannot allow the tides of the Warp to swamp us, to overturn the barque of the Imperium. Thus by order of the Council of the Lords Temporal, Martial, and Ecclesiarchal of the Most Divine and Righteous Imperium of Mankind, the ancient weapons must be unleashed once more, to hurl back the darkness. Thus do we declare the Dispensatus Anathema. By the will of Him upon the Golden Throne, let the Silent Sisters walk among us once more. -Decree of the Senatorum Imperialis, 999.M41
A/N: And so the Battle of Fenris comes to its end, and in doing so, puts this story over 500,000 words in total. The Imperium has lost many of its champions this day, including High King Grimnar. The loss of such mighty warriors is a grievous blow, especially as the End Times draw ever nearer. However, this is just the beginning, for there are yet many more tales to tell in the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium. Next month, we will visit a rather different sort of story, for the tales of the Children of the Stars need to be told just as much as any other. As always, a big thanks to all my readers. Please continue to leave comments, thoughts, and suggestions, I love to read them. Sharrowkyn, out.