WARHAMMER DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. MASS EFFECT DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. SOME ORKS JUST NICKED MY SHIP, ANYONE WILLING TO SPOT ME SOME CASH TO BUY A NEW ONE?

Note to self: when facing a horde of mutant bird-people (Tzaangors), try throwing some breadcrumbs or something in their path, see what happens.

Star-Bound

Chapter 9

Beacon

The Vehemence shuddered as her lance batteries unleashed their fury. On the tactical hololith, Dartan watched with some satisfaction as a smaller Thousand Sons vessel, a strike cruiser, was struck amidships. That ship's void shields had been stripped by a concentrated volley from other elements of the fleet, which meant that the lance strikes inflicted catastrophic damage. Some of the striker cruiser's secondary weapons continued to fire, but most of the ship was dead.

It was the first true casualty either fleet had suffered so far. Both sides had tried harassing the other with squadrons of escort vessels and fighters, but it was only now that Dartan committed any real strength.

"We've shown you our teeth," he muttered, imagining a conversation with his counterpart among the Thousand Sons. "How will you respond?"

As if hearing his words, two larger Thousand Sons vessels—so twisted by the Warp that Dartan couldn't be sure what they used to be—turned with the lumbering grace so common among Astartes vessels. He didn't need his strategic cogitators to figure out where they were heading.

"Have the four escort squadrons on our left wing intercept those heavy assets," he ordered. "And make sure those transports move further away from the battle. This Crusade won't go very far if we lose our ground forces now."

"High Admiral, we're receiving a message from the Black Necropolis," the secondary vox-operator reported.

Dartan was intrigued; until now, the Necropolis Hawks' battle barge had maintained vox silence, though it had followed his orders and kept to a defensive stance.

"Audio?"

"Negative, it is just a typed message."

"Read it."

"Yes, sir. It reads as such: 'The enemy has deployed strike craft against the right wing. Our interceptors can catch them, but they must go now'."

Dartan frowned; there was nothing on the hololith, but the Hawks' battle barge was new, and enhanced with Belisarius Cawl's genius. It was possible that they had been able to detect what his ship could not.

"Did they provide more accurate coordinates?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then deploy necessary forces. We can't have our formations thrown into disarray by fighters the rest of the fleet can't see." He turned his attention back to the two heavy ships heading towards the Imperial fleet. "Target our lance batteries against the closer enemy ship, and send a message to the Mechanicus. Ask them if they want to get some target practice in."

Dartan leaned back in his command throne, his eyes narrowed at the holographic map of his battlefield. Again, he imagined speaking to his counterpart from across a table. "You have more experience than me, I will grant you, and your sorcery gives you an advantage. But you are impatient, and are attacking piecemeal. You underestimate my allies, and put your more powerful ships at risk. If you have a plan, I cannot comprehend it…"

An idea came to him, and he smirked with the confidence of a predator who was about to spring its ambush. "Unless you are scared. Perhaps Saint Shepard found something on the surface… something you cannot let her have. You are merely buying time, aren't you? You need to keep me from landing more ground forces, while your own try to overrun what forces we have on the surface. Whatever she had found must have made you panic." His smile turned to a full grin. "If that is the case, I have even more reason to stop you." He raised his voice to address the entire bridge. "Order all combat elements to advance and fire when in optimal range! Show these curs the fury of the Emperor!"

…

In the ruins of Tizca, Shepard watched as Basilisk artillery platforms rained death on the distant forces of the Thousand Sons. Since the artillery was still at maximum range, it was difficult to see how effective the bombardment was, but she'd learned back in the Empire that any reduction of a Chaos army's forces was worth it, especially if there was no risk to her own side.

Still, she couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the ostentatious regiment, the Fiftieth Hecheron Artillery. From what Helmin had told her, Hecheron was a wealthy planet, whose noble families only acted as officers or vehicle crews when they served in the Militarum. The higher up they were in the nobility, the more important the vehicles they could serve in; those in the artillery were somewhere in the middle of the pecking order. What bothered her was that the uniforms and the artillery pieces were colored a royal purple, and edged with gold. The impracticality drove Shepard up the wall, but she couldn't deny that the Hecheron crews took pride in their work, only firing when they were sure they could land a hit.

It also bothered her that the mainstay artillery piece of the Imperium, the Basilisk, was in many ways only as advanced as some early twentieth-century weapons of Earth. The shells seemed a little more powerful, and the guns were a little more accurate, but she was sure she'd created weapons for the Empire nearly as advanced. The technological regression and stagnation was galling to her inner engineer, but she knew that attempting to change anything would earn her the enmity of the Mechanicus, and she needed to keep as many allies as she could. She would just have to work with what she had available.

"Ah, I do love that sound so." Shepard glanced at the Fiftieth's commander, Duchess-Colonel Riona. She was a beautiful woman, with flawless tanned skin and lustrous black hair that went down to her back and was tied in a braid. Juvenat treatments made her age uncertain, but Shepard guessed that she was still a few decades older than the other woman.

"The sound of explosions destroying our enemies?" Shepard asked. "Because I'd agree with that."

"That as well," Riona said offhandedly, "but I was speaking of the rhythm the crews make as they load, adjust, and fire." She sighed, and her lips curved up in a tiny smile as she wiped a speck of dust off her officer's cap. "Were we not in a battle, I could almost fall asleep to such a thing."

Though the woman's attitude bordered on arrogance, Shepard found her a little endearing. It almost reminded her of Miranda, once the Ice Queen had opened up after Shepard rescued her sister.

"Enjoy it while you can," Shepard advised. "Things are going to get messy soon."

"Oh, I fully intend to, Your Holiness." After placing her cap back on her head, Riona twirled her gold-topped cane like a baton. "We'll pound the foe with the Wyverns as soon as they get too close. I daresay that that will help the lads on the front line."

"I'm sure they'll appreciate it." Shepard offered her a salute. "Speaking of the front, I'm going to check on the trenches. Keep up the good work."

"Please, Your Holiness." Riona tried to sound offended, but she couldn't keep a smile off her face. "My regiment does not do 'good' work; at worst, we are exemplary."

Shepard laughed, and then left her to her work. As she passed, officers knelt, bowed, or made the sign of the Aquila; a few of the priests actually prostrated. Thankfully, the force she'd initially brought with her had already become comfortable enough in her presence to only salute or briefly bow at the waist.

"Good to see you again, Your Holiness," Hiral said. "I hope you can still hear after standing next to those cannons."

Shepard rapped her knuckles against her helmet. "Autosenses are a wonderful thing. I think the Duchess-Colonel had earplugs; damn good ones, if that's the case. Anyway, how are things here? Where's Artin?"

"Lieutenant Artin is still in the field strategium," Hiral reported. "He decided that his injury prevented him from being completely effective in battle, so he decided to provide strategic support."

Shepard nodded at the remaining Necropolis Hawks; half of the Incursors were either dead or too injured to fight, so there were only fifteen Primaris Marines left. Fortunately, the rest of the force was still fresh.

"We'll stay in reserve, for now," Shepard decided. "I don't want us wasting our strength when we don't have to, and Helmin seems to have things in hand."

Indeed, despite being outnumbered and only minutes away from a pitched battle, the Lord-Marshal was remarkably composed. His upper body stuck out of the hatch of his massive tank—the Baneblade was so big that Shepard still impressed—as he gave orders. He could have remained completely inside, but like Shepard, he understood the value of a leader who could be seen. As if sensing Shepard's eyes on him, Helmin turned and offered her a nod and a smile before going back to work.

Shepard led her force further up the line, to where the three infantry regiments were hastily finishing the trench network and throwing up sandbags. At the center, the Eleventh Vigilant Guard was the most composed, but they had more experience fighting the forces of Chaos than the other two regiments.

The other two regiments were mostly untested, and it was the one at the right flank that Shepard visited first. The Seventy-Seventh Duranian Rangers were a light infantry regiment, consisting almost entirely of lasgun-armed guardsmen. They wore black armor over grey fatigues, a far cry from the Hecheron soldiers; their only decoration was their regiment's number on their right shoulder, and their squad number on their left. While they lacked much in the way of heavier weapons, they made up for it with accuracy drills that went far beyond the standard requirements. According to a Scion that had served alongside a Duranian regiment before, even the greenest of their soldiers could put a las-round between a target's eyes more often than not.

Shepard couldn't help but approve of an entire regiment of marksmen, and made a point of mentioning their regiments' reputation when she passed by. The soldiers in the trenches who heard her puffed up with pride. Between her rousing speech before, and her actions now, she hoped that the young soldiers would keep their nerve.

The only problem Shepard had with the Duranians was their commanding officer, Colonel Borran. He was beyond overconfident, and seemed to think that the enemy army would break after a single volley from his regiment.

"Once these cowards see the might of my soldiers, they'll turn tail and run," he boasted. He was a big man, nearly a head taller than Shepard, and waved his arms excitedly as he spoke. "Of course, once the Lord-Marshal sees my genius and my valor, he'll be sure to include me in your war council." His eyes glittered with ambition. "Perhaps he will even name me as his successor."

Does he even realize I'm still here? Shepard was amazed that such naked ambition hadn't been tempered. And did he just plan for Helmin's death?

Behind the colonel, Shepard could see a much smaller man shaking his head in dismay. Captain Losvor had been the one to actually give Shepard a detailed report on the regiment's readiness. She could tell that the young man—a few years younger than her grandson's age, if she guessed right—was more comfortable with strategy than actual combat, and was picking up his commander's slack.

"Just be ready to do your duty, Colonel," Shepard said, her voice so full of iron that even Borran stopped his rambling. "I'd hate to find out that you placed personal glory over the mission's success."

"Yes, yes, of course." Behind Shepard, Hiral bristled when Borran waved her off in obvious dismissal. "I'll be sure to give the foe a good kick before they flee."

Shepard continued on her way, annoyed, but unable to do anything unless Borran actually crossed a line. She supposed she did have the authority to remove him from his position, but she refused to do so without a valid reason beyond the fact that he was infuriating.

Hiral, however, had nothing to stop him from speaking. "What an ass."

"Agreed."

"And I didn't like the way he was looking at you, or the Sororitas. It was disrespectful."

To Shepard's pleasant surprise, one of the Seraphim gave the young man an appreciative nod; all of the women had noticed Borran's wandering eyes.

"See, ladies, this is one more reason why I keep Hiral around." Shepard ruffled his hair. "He's disciplined, he burns heretics, and he's a gentleman! Any girl would be lucky to have him."

More than a few members of the force laughed at Hiral's expense; for his part, the young man blushed heavily and tried to stare at the ground.

The final element of the ground forces was smelled long before Shepard reached them. The Forty-Eighth Miasman Redcowls stank to high heaven, thanks to the unique promethium that fueled their flamers—and they had a lot of flamers. Each squad had at least two, and the special weapons squads were armed exclusively with such weapons. They wore armor that reminded Shepard of industrial workers' outfits, and the red hooded coats that gave them half their name over that. The outfits they wore, and their full-face masks, prevented Shepard from discerning gender, but each of them stood at attention as she approached.

Commander Sren was an uncompromising figure in the regiment, with carapace armor mixing oddly with a red coat. One hand held a chainsword with a yellow outer casing, while a silver bionic hand held a bolt pistol. Green lenses gazed out at the men and women working in the trenches, but then turned to face Shepard.

"Your Holiness," Sren said, and the deep voice suggested it was male. "It is an honor to meet you in person."

"Commander." Shepard nodded, and did her best not to react to the smell. She had gone with her helmet on her belt; she knew her face could reassure the soldiers, but she could have gone without the stench. "How are the troops?"

"As prepared as they can be, given the circumstances," Sren reported. "I'm hoping that we'll deal with their light infantry—our flamers will make short work of them."

"Glad to hear it. Don't be shy about calling in artillery support as needed, though."

"Affirmative, Your Holiness." Sren snapped off a quick salute, and then went back to observing his soldiers.

With her final inspection done—though she'd missed Commander Rand; the man was busy keeping his tank squadrons adequately dispersed, and couldn't afford to be distracted—Shepard was about to head to the rear of the Eleventh's ranks, when a shout rang out.

"Incoming! Take cover!"

A second later, a metal-skinned monster shrieked as it flew overhead. The Heldrake, shaped like some daemonic bat or flying reptile, spat out a torrent of corrupted flame that cooked a squad of Guardsmen alive. The daemon engine looped around to do it again, ignoring the lasfire that didn't even scratch its paint, but by then, Shepard was in the air to meet it.

"Come on, ugly!" Shepard taunted as she flew through the sky. She fired a beam of energy from one hand, while readying Liberator in the other.

The Heldrake screeched as the beam clipped its flank, but continued its attack. Its mouth opened to unleash its flame again, only for it to be met and swept aside by Shepard's power. The Daemon possessing the ancient frame realized just what Shepard was, and tried to flee, but it had killed soldiers under Shepard's command. She was so, so tired of that happening, and she wasn't about to let them go unavenged. With a burst of speed that should have killed her without her helmet on, she caught up to the Heldrake and gripped one wing; her golden aura made the metal sizzle and burn, and the Heldrake screamed in pain.

"You kill mine, I kill yours!" Shepared hefted Liberator and aimed for the base of the wing.

The bladed half of the weapon punched deep into the flesh-mechanisms of the wing. With a savage tug, Shepard tore the entire limb from the abomination, and jumped clear as it spiraled down to the ground, where it exploded.

Holy shit, Shepard thought as she landed in front of the astounded Eleventh. I knew my power had some kick, but I just killed a Daemon fighter craft. Just how strong did the Emperor make me?

"All right, everyone keep in cover!" She shouted, trying to be heard over the sound of artillery being fired at the rapidly-approaching enemy. "That was just the preview to the main event!"

Shrieks and hisses could now be heard as the birdlike Tzaangors came into view. There were tens of thousands of the mutants, all swinging bladed weapons or raising pistols over their heads. The artillery had thinned them out, but their god's foul sorcery protected a good number from certain death.

Shepard was reminded of the last time a Chaos horde had charged through artillery. It had been at the battle of Altdorf, when Archaon had attacked, and when Gregor—

She shook her head; she couldn't get lost in grief now. She focused instead on the battle in front of her.

"Fire when in range!" she ordered, once she'd put her helmet back on and used her vox. "Don't let them get in close!"

The tanks and quad-barreled Wyvern artillery pieces fired first. Thousands of rounds, shells, and bolts of plasma smashed into the approaching Tzaangors, but they continued their charge. Then the heavy weapons teams fired, followed by the waves of ruby-red lasgun fire. Thousands of Tzaangors were cut down with each volley.

Unfortunately, the problem wasn't the horde of mutants, but their masters, which were screened by the diminished mob. There weren't many living Thousand Sons among them—most of them were Rubrics—and the sorcerers who commanded the army were more than willing to sacrifice their disposable pawns.

There was a deafening bang, and a massive shell exploded in the midst of the Tzaangors, obliterating dozens; Helmin's Baneblade rumbled forward, while its many smaller guns unleashed hell. When Shepard added beams of golden energy to the barrage that turned the mutants to ash, it became the final straw. A portion of the horde stopped, turned, and ran; after thousands of them were slaughtered, and then faced with an enemy who obliterate them with a flash of light, the Tzaangors had had enough.

Many of the Guardsmen cheered, even as they fired into the disorganized mass of monsters. The miserable Redcowls were particularly pleased when a large group of Tzaangors that hadn't fled charged straight into their flamers. Blue skin was charred black, and the smell of burned flesh would have made Shepard gag, had she not been busy.

"Helmin, you know this can't be that easy, right?" she asked over the vox.

"Indeed, Your Holiness," he replied. "I would not be surprised if this was a massive distraction, but there are many places the enemy could try to strike."

"The artillery," Shepard said with conviction. "It's been giving the enemy a hard time since the beginning."

"I have several tank squadrons near enough to reinforce the Fiftieth," Helmin said. "And I will have infantry platoons begin heading their way as well."

"Do it, but I'm taking my strike force now. Send who you can to back us up." Shepard flew over to her small force. "Follow me, people! The enemy might be going after our big guns!"

Hiral raised his flamer in salute. "We're with you to the end, Saint Shepard!"

Shepard's odd collection of Sororitas, Scions, Skitarii and Astartes dashed or flew towards the Fiftieth's position, but they heard the gunfire and screams before they got there. Of the regiment's personnel, the first that Shepard found still alive was Riona, but she was in terrible shape. Her purple uniform was stained with her own blood, mostly from the gash on her side, and she was being lifted up by the hair by a Thousand Son. Unlike those she had fought before, this one wore even larger armor that sloped over and around his helmet. On his belt was a twin-barreled combi-bolter, while his other hand readied a curved power sword to run Riona through.

Despite her injury, Riona continued to struggle. She raised her ornate laspistol and fired into the Terminator's helmet, but it hardly scratched the paint. Just as the Rubric was about to stab, Shepard hurled Liberator with all her might, the bladed part shearing off the arm that held Riona up. As soon as she fell to the ground, the Skitarii Rangers riddled the Terminator with shots; with its power disrupted by Shepard's, the empty suit of armor was torn apart.

Shepard slid over to the Duchess-Colonel, even as Liberator returned to her hand. She knelt down to cradle the other woman with her free arm. "Riona, can you hear me?"

Though she was in terrible pain, Riona managed a smile. "I can hear you, Your Holiness. I'll be—ah!" She held her hand against her wound. "I'll live, but my soldiers…"

"We'll save them," Shepard promised. The sound of rumbling treads told her that Commander Brand's tanks were moving to engage the enemy, and she was determined to join them. "I want two men to get her to safety; everyone else is with me!"

This can't be it, she thought to herself as the rest of her force headed towards the fighting. Yeah, taking out our artillery is smart, but our forces are close enough to each other that it wouldn't be too hard to reinforce this position, unless… shit!

"Helmin, come in!" she shouted into her vox.

"I'm here, Your Holiness," Helmin replied immediately. There was no joviality in his tone; he had picked up on the seriousness in hers.

"Have all rear platoons change positions to prepare for attacks from behind! It's not just the artillery!"

"Throne of Terra, of course!" Thankfully, Helmin was more than intelligent enough to see what she was talking about. He was so focused on issuing orders that he left open his channel to her. "All infantry regiments, have rear platoons reverse orientation! Prepare for incoming teleportation assault!"

The order came just in time; within a minute, Shepard saw flashes of light off in the distance, followed by gunfire and screaming. She knew that many Guardsmen would be killed, regardless of how quickly they reacted, but with thousands of soldiers dug in to face small teams of Terminators, it would become a hard fight, rather than a slaughter. It bothered her that any soldier under her command would die, but she knew that giving them a fighting chance was better than nothing.

Speaking of fighting chances, she thought as more Terminators stepped through the burning wreckage of a Basilisk, it's time to get back to it.

Rather than throw Liberator, Shepard fired bursts of light from her hands; empowered by the blackstone on her gauntlets, two Terminators were blasted to ash. Her forces opened fire, but the combined sorcery and technology of the Thousand Sons kept most of the empty suits intact. The Terminators replied with an incredible barrage of fire, ensorcelled bolts blasting apart the Skitarii and several Scions in moments. A squad of Seraphim rocketed in close, firing as they moved, but three of them were shot out of the sky; two more were cut down by power swords, and another lost her head to a beam of sorcery.

Shepard's eyes narrowed as she identified the sorcerer in question; his armor was more ornate than the other Terminators, with horns and a curved beak added to his helm. He carried a long staff in one hand, while his other crackled with power. Shepard fired more beams of light at him; he tried to block with a barrier, but faced with a power that destroyed the source of his own, it did little good. His left arm was burned away, followed by both of his legs.

With her wings outstretched, Shepard soared up into the air and rained down light on the Thousand Sons. Enhanced by her growing rage, each Terminator was blasted apart, or so heavily damaged that her remaining soldiers could destroy them. Soon, only the sorcerer remained, trying to pull back with his remaining arm.

Shepard landed next to him, and pinned him to the ground with one foot. "Tell me what I want to know, and I'll put you out of your misery."

The sorcerer glared at her through the cracked lenses of his helm. "Servant of the False Emperor… I'll tell you nothing!"

Shepard raised Liberator. "Oh, well. Worth a try, I guess."

After smashing his head in, Shepard turned to the depleted Seraphim squad. "Try to find a tank squadron and lead them to our location. After that fight, I don't want us going after these freaks without heavier firepower."

"Are you sure, Your Holiness?" Hiral asked. "You seemed to do just fine on your own."

Shepard waved in the direction of distant combat. "I can't be everywhere at once, and I won't take chances if I can avoid it." A bright flash of light in the sky briefly gave Prospero a second sun. "What the hell was that?"

The hairs on the back of her neck rose, an instinctive reaction to danger. Someone shouted a warning, but it was too late; Shepard felt agonizing pain as a sword stabbed through her back and out through her abdomen. The Terminator who had teleported in behind her raised her up in the air, almost like a tribute to the Dark Gods. With a scream of pain, Shepard ripped herself free; even as she fell to the ground, she blindly fired beams of light. She thought she might have hit her attacker, but then everything went dark.

…

"High Admiral, we've detected a reactor breach in one of the enemy heavy assets!"

Dartan raised a single eyebrow. "What kind of damage has it sustained?"

"Multiple hull breaches near the engines!" Alarms began to blare from the sensorium. "Confirmed, Warp breach is imminent. Calculating radius… nearly fifty thousand kilometers, possibly more!"

After a moment's estimation, Dartan frowned. "That will take a good number of the enemy heavies with it. We can use this; have all ships work to keep the enemy fleet contained and condensed, avoid separation protocols. Let's see if we can't get the enemy to do our work for us."

As he watched the hololithic display, the Imperial vessels either eliminated the enemy escorts or forced them to group around the larger vessels for protection. Many of the captains aboard the Chaos ships had already figured out what was about to happen, and more than a few ships attempted an emergency Warp jump. The process left those vessels open to Imperial fire, and many of them suffered heavy damage; some managed to escape in time, but when the massive ship—Dartan thought it might have been a battleship at some point in its life—detonated, many of the Thousand Sons' vessels were caught. The Imperial ships were outside the radius, but they began pulling back, just to be safe; that left them to watch as dozens of ships were pulled into the Warp, to a fate that no one wanted to contemplate.

"As soon as it is safe to do so, begin closing in to pick off the survivors," Dartan ordered. "Try to make contact with the ground forces, see if they need help. And get me a report on damages to our fleet!"

"Right away, High Admiral," one officer said, just as another jerked back in his seat.

"High Admiral, we have a message from Lord-Marshal Helmin!"

Dartan had known his bridge officers for years, and the panic in this one's voice was unusual. "What is it?"

"Our forces are engaged with a large enemy army, including Heretic Astartes. Casualties are at acceptable levels, but Saint Shepard is badly wounded!"

Dartan didn't even hesitate. "Get me Zandtus, now!"

…

"Covering fire on the left flank!"

"Die, in the Emperor's name, die!"

"Focus fire on that heavy gun!"

"Be purged, heretic!"

Hiral ducked under a flying body—perhaps it was a Seraphim trying to maneuver, or maybe it was a Guardsman getting thrown, he didn't know—and sent a burst of flame in the direction of a pack of Tzaangors. In the corner of his vision, he saw a Leman Russ tank driving backwards in an attempt to bring its guns to bear on a squad of Rubric Marines. All around him, he could hear the screams of the dying.

The battle had turned to anarchy; a dozen teleport strikes had occurred after Shepard went down, and with the regiments' attention divided, some Tzaangors had broken through the lines. The Thousand Sons were frustratingly durable when faced with lasguns, and they were smart enough to attack the tanks too quickly for the armor to react.

It didn't help that morale was low; rumors were running wild that Shepard was dead, and it was too chaotic for Hiral to try to put those rumors down. He knew for a fact that Shepard was alive, because she was next to him; the golden light that worked to undo her wounds was proof that she wasn't dead. She was certainly in no shape to fight, however; she'd been impaled by a blade as wide as her hand was long, and though Hiral was no medic, he was sure that many of her internal organs were damaged.

"Incoming!" a Seraphim nearby shouted. "On the right!"

Hiral whirled; a Rubric Marine was stomping towards his position, corrupted bolter raised. The Seraphim who had shouted, along with two of her sisters, fired their bolt pistols; the fusillade managed to damage the empty armor's left leg, and it fell before it could fire. Instead, it began to drag itself towards Shepard with one hand, while the other aimed its weapon.

"No!" Hiral rushed forward and slammed into the Rubric. He might as well have tried to knock over an adamantium wall; the Rubric kept going. Desperate to save the Saint, Hiral pressed the nozzle of his flamer into the throat of the Rubric, pulled the trigger, and didn't stop. The flames ate away at the less armored part of the Rubric, and then flooded into the hollow space a body should have inhabited. Hiral kept it up, not caring that the heat was melting his gloves and burning his flesh. Finally, just as the Rubric was about to fire on Shepard, it shuddered, and then collapsed.

His task done, Hiral sank to his knees; his flamer was spent, and its nozzle was warped beyond repair. He would face a reprimand for damaging his weapon like that, but he'd just saved a Living Saint; he figured that he would get a pass.

A horrifying cackle caught his attention; a Tzaangor was looking straight at him, and raised a bloodied chainsword. Without thinking, Hiral placed himself between the mutant and his Saint, ready to die for her if he had to.

Thankfully for him, that wasn't necessary; the Seraphim who had been nearby surrounded him, and killed the Tzaangor with a few shots. The one who had shouted before, a young Sororitas with onyx hair, glanced back at him.

"Well done," she said calmly. "Stay with the Saint. We will not let them close again."

The screaming of thrusters made all of them look up; as soon as he did, Hiral forgot all about the burns on his hands and arms. Instead, he felt hope.

"I don't think we have to worry about that now," he said, as the Necropolis Hawks fell from the sky.

The survivors of Shepard's initial force watched as almost the entirety of the Chapter descended from their massive Overlord gunships. Bolts flew, plasma chewed through armor, and blades flashed; Chapter Master Zandtus led the counterattack personally, his power sword crackling as he hewed through a sorcerer.

"For the Crusade!" he shouted, his helm's vox blaring his words far and wide. "For Shepard! For the Emperor!"

Hiral couldn't help but laugh as the Necropolis Hawks rallied the Astra Militarum forces; even with his limited viewpoint, he could tell that the heretics were being driven back. Soon, they would be destroyed.

"Damn, that was a yell." Hiral whirled and saw that Shepard was sitting upright; her armor was rent and stained with her own blood, but she was awake. "Why do they get to have so much energy? I'm tired, and that's not fair."

"Your Holiness!" Hiral scrambled over to her, as did the survivors. "Are you all right?"

Shepard pulled off her helm; her face was paler than before, but her gaze was strong. "Yeah, I'm getting there. It wouldn't be the first time I've been stabbed by a big sword." Her eyes unfocused as she became lost in memories, but then she chuckled dryly. "Hell, it's not even the fourth or fifth time. I need to stop getting stabbed." With a grunt, she heaved herself to her feet. "I guess we're done here?"

Hiral nodded; despite the carnage all around him, he'd never felt so relieved. "Yes, I believe we are."

"Good," Shepard said, "because I need some answers."

Okay, so the battle on Prospero is all but wrapped up. I tried to keep the point of view for the battle on a smaller scale, but I hope I conveyed just how powerful (read: annoying) the Thousand Sons are. I've never played against them myself, but I've watched plenty of games with them, and they are a pain in the ass. Rubric Marines are stupidly durable, and Tzaangors are just one giant tarpit to fight through.

And yes, Shepard took a bad hit, but Living Saints heal from horrible wounds all the time. Just look at Celestine; she gets decapitated, and then gets better.

Also, while I'm sure that the Thousand Sons fleet commander had more experience than Dartan, Astartes naval vessels are more about planetary assault than ship-to-ship combat. Yes, they can fight and defeat Imperial Navy groups, but they were facing an entire Crusade fleet, and they were panicked. Even for a Space Marine, rushing into battle in void warfare can be costly… especially when a warp reactor breach can send an entire fleet into super-space-hell.

Oh, and I hope you liked those regiments I introduced. Some were original, others exist in canon. My personal favorite OC right now is Duchess-Colonel Riona; no idea why, but I couldn't stop grinning while writing her.

Now, I have some cool news! I'm hosting a booth at Loscon this year, November 29 through December 1. If you want to stop on by, maybe buy an autographed copy of my book, go get your tickets! It's the oldest running science fiction convention, which is really cool! If you can't make it, please consider buying my book on Amazon (link in my profile), or maybe donate on P-atreon (also a link in my profile)! Every little bit helps!

And now, I'd like to thank the following patrons:

Serious Muffins: CrazySith87, jafr86, SpaceEmperorSpar, Nimrod009, Anders Lyngbye, Krisjanis Jansons, Parker Maisterra, Matthias Matanovic, ChaosSpartan575, Alexis Troy, John Collins, Calleo, Casey Pak, The Big What If, Red Bard

Incredible Muffins: RaptorusMaximus, michaelb958, Crazyman844, Jaeger456, killroy225, Brian McGloughlin

Ultra Muffins: Adam Costello, Jeffrey Perigo, Matthew Bunting, RangersRoll

Next Chapter: Shepard returns with her prize, and has a few questions for the Emperor…

To worship the Muffin is expected; to do anything else is heresy.