WARHAMMER DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. MASS EFFECT DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. I TRIED TO TURN MY DOG INTO A FLESH HOUND OF KHORNE. ALL THAT HAPPENED IS THAT HE NOW FLOPS OVER WHEN I SAY 'BLOOD'.

The short peace Shepard has enjoyed is over. It is time to go back to war.

Star-Bound

Chapter 16

Wyrd

Deep in the Fang, home of the Space Wolves, an ancient warrior stirred. He had been active more often than not over the last two centuries, and he needed to rest, but something tugged at his soul.

"Iron Priest."

An attending brother—he did not know his name, and they all blended together after so long—marched smartly over.

"I did not realize you were awake, honored elder."

"I have come to a decision," the warrior said, not bothering to respond to the Iron Priest's words. "I must speak to the Great Wolf. Bring him here. Long have I dwelt on this matter, and I would share my thoughts with him."

Rather than ask pointless questions, the Iron Priest hurried to obey his command. The warrior waited patiently, and allowed himself to think. Perhaps it was time to do more than offer advice or fight for his brothers when their need was dire.

Perhaps…

Footsteps echoed through the chamber as Logan Grimnar arrived. The Terminator armor did little to hinder the Great Wolf's natural energy; if anything, it made him seem like a beast that was patiently stalking his prey.

"I was told you needed to speak with me," Grimnar said. "I mean no offense, but I ask that you make this fast. I must sail across the stars for another campaign."

"I require a ship, and warriors to fight alongside me in battle," the ancient one said, his tone allowing for no refusal. "I too must bring the Allfather's wrath to the foe."

Grimnar frowned. "You have not left the Fang in many seasons, great one."

"That has not stopped others in this dismal place," was the angry retort. "I must do this. In this time of darkness, we can hold nothing back."

Grimnar sighed, but the ancient warrior knew he would not be denied. "Very well. I will send the Blackmanes; they've been reinforced since that botched attempt to kill the Beast."

"Good. Now, have the Iron Priests ready me for battle." The ancient Dreadnought rose to its full height. "Finally, Bjorn shall go to war!"

…

Not for the first time, Shepard was grateful that her helmet could filter out smells. The stench of burning corpses would have been overwhelming, otherwise. All around her, thousands of Genestealer Cultists were burning; the fires had been going nonstop for three days, and the Mechanicus had estimated that it would be another five before all the bodies were destroyed.

"If I never see another Genestealer, it'll be too soon," Shepard muttered.

"Agreed," Canoness Mallis said. "Seeing those abominations and knowing that they… breed… with humans disgusts me to my core."

Shepard closed her eyes. "You know, I finally got that image out of my mind, and then you said that."

"My apologies, Your Holiness," Mallis said, though there was a teasing glint in her eyes. "What, pray tell, bothers you so much about these abominations?"

Shepard actually thought about it for a moment. "Maybe it's petty, but I'm a girl who appreciates symmetry. It's the three arms that freaks me out; my brain keeps telling me they should be unbalanced, but they're not. Yuck."

Mallis laughed and gestured to the dead cultists. "Then I hope that this balances your humors."

"Surprisingly, yes; killing something with fire usually makes me feel better."

The Shepard Crusade had arrived at Argris Minoris without incident; it was a mining world, relatively close to the Eye of Terror, that supplied an entire subsector with valuable metals, but had lost all communication several weeks earlier. The only other planet in the system was Argris Primaris, a world nearly overrun by grox, which were regularly harvested and used to feed a dozen other systems. Despite what the system produced, it wasn't considered extremely vital to the Imperium at large, but Imperium Nihilus needed every resource it could get; more importantly, records showed that Leman Russ had conquered it during the Great Crusade, and the wayfinder had brought them there. At first, Shepard worried that the forces of Chaos had somehow preempted her, but upon her arrival on the planet, it was clear that it was in the middle of a Genestealer uprising.

Unfortunately for the cultists, the veterans of the Shepard Crusade knew how to fight such an enemy, and they were far less powerful than the cult on Vigilus. Within two weeks, the cult's leadership was dead, including the Patriarch—killed by a strike force of Necropolis Hawks and Lamenters—and the rest of the cultists driven out of their holes by the grinding advance of the Astra Militarum, the clockwork precision of the Mechanicus, and the unrelenting fury of the Sisters of Battle.

"Well, at least this part is over," Shepard said. "I'll be in the museum if Zandtus and Phoros ask when they get here."

Mallis bowed her head. "It shall be done."

Shepard entered the museum dedicated to the world's induction into the Imperium. Every hallway was guarded by Sisters from the Order of the Iron Tears. Even though three months had passed since they had become their own Order, Shepard was still thrown off by their change in armor. It had been repainted to a shining silver, much like her own, save for their left shoulder guards; it remained black, to remember their origins. On that shoulder was the Order's new heraldry—a single iron-colored teardrop, over a red circle ringed in white.

Their robes had also changed, from red to black; each Sister's robes had the names of lost friends stitched in white on the inside. This wasn't limited to other Sororitas, but also fallen Guardsmen, Skitarii, and Space Marines. After what Shepard had done for the Alexian Guard who had died on Baal, it had become common practice among the new Order to bring fallen comrades into battle, after a fashion. Shepard didn't mind, especially when it had fostered even stronger bonds within the Crusade.

Deep inside the museum, Shepard found the Alexian Guard standing at attention around a series of artifacts, suspended in stasis fields.

"Your Holiness," Alexian Superior Carolya said with a bow. "The artifacts were not damaged during the battle. It appears that the vile xenos did not see them as important."

"Good news for us," Shepard said. "Anything in particular catch your eye while I was out?"

Carolya wasn't wearing her helm, so her disdain was obvious. "The display that claims to hold a gauntlet that Leman Russ himself wore is obviously wrong."

Shepard looked at the display in question. "Yeah, whoever set this up clearly never met a Space Marine. That gauntlet is too small for a Primarch; hell, it's too small for a Primaris Marine."

Most of the other artifacts were hardly worth the name—a fragment of power armor, a few bolt shell casings, and a carefully preserved footprint that might have been Primarch-sized, but it could have also been from Terminator armor.

"If I didn't know the people who set this up were millennia dead, I'd give them an earful about fact-checking," Shepard grumbled. "None of this stuff belonged to… hello, what's this?"

Her change of tone caught her Guards' attention. They watched as she reached out for the hilt of a broken combat blade.

"He used this," Shepard whispered. "I can feel it. He only held it for a few seconds, but he did use it."

"The God-Emperor sent us here for this?" Carolya peered at the hilt. "I do not dare question His wisdom, but… why?"

"I don't think we're here to take this," Shepard said. "The Emperor doesn't know where His sons are exactly, but He can put us on the trail. I think we're just supposed to be here." She nodded to herself, and then activated her vox. "Helmin, are you busy?"

There was a moment of silence before the Lord-Marshal answered. "For you, Your Holiness, I am never too busy."

"Flattery only gets you so far, and I'm too old for you," Shepard joked, but then got serious. "How's the cleanup going?"

"We're still mopping up pockets of cultists, but they've been broken. Reclamation forces should be here within the month, and the manufactorums are mostly undamaged, from what I've been told. I wouldn't be surprised if this planet became a center of industry sooner than later."

"Good to hear. Listen, after we've kicked the freaks out of the neighborhood, have our ground forces dig in and fortify for now."

There was another pause, and Shepard could almost see Helmin blink in surprise. She could understand; the Crusade rarely stayed anywhere after it was finished in a theater, and its rapid progress had been a point of pride.

"It shall be done, Your Holiness, but if I may be so bold… why?"

Shepard glanced at the broken blade again. "Call it a feeling. We're waiting for something, and I want to be ready when it gets here."

…

Several hours later, Shepard held a council of war inside the museum. Only Dartan wasn't there in person, but as a hologram; he hadn't left the Vehemence in almost eighty years, by his estimate, and he had no intention of setting foot on a planet now.

"The trail ends here?" Zandtus chuckled dryly. "After the way we found Lord Corax, and how he found the Lion, I thought we would find Lord Russ on a world more… grand."

Shepard grinned. "I don't think he's here; from everything I was told on Macragge before we left, he's not exactly hard to find."

Blaise rested her chin on her bionic fist. "But the God-Emperor has commanded us to remain here for now, yes? If that is His will, then we shall obey."

"Whatever is coming, I don't want to be caught unprepared—just in case it's not friendly." Shepard turned to Xem-Beta. "Can we get some of the manufactorums up and running to top off our supplies?"

The Magos' optics clicked as they rotated. "That will not be necessary. Finished product is already in storage. However, I have already allocated Mechanicus resources to restoring the blessed facilities. With the proper appeasement of the machine spirits, the manufactorums will be operational again in two weeks." He paused, and then turned to Helmin. "Our progress would be expedited if extra personnel were tasked with removing the graffiti the enemy left in the facilities. Such desecration infuriates the machine spirits."

Shepard scowled. "It infuriates me. This planet is important to keeping Imperium Nihilus supplied; enemy or not, I hate seeing places like this be disrespected."

Helmin nodded. "In that case, I will place a regiment at your disposal, Xem-Beta."

"While that's going on," Shepard said, "I want the mop-up operations to continue as planned. The Guard will work on creating strongpoints, the Mechanicus will restore and fortify the manufactorums, and the Sisters will burn away the bodies. Zandtus, Phoros—I want your boys to hunt down those holdouts."

Zandtus nodded first. "I'll begin at once."

Phoros stood up slowly. "If you locate the enemy and pin them down, my brothers will launch aerial attacks to crush them. I would join you myself, but…"

"I understand," Shepard said when Phoros trailed off. "You're still recovering."

After almost two months of deliberation, Phoros had made the decision to cross the Rubicon Primaris. It had been a dangerous course of action, and the Sanguinary Priests—the Blood Angel and successor equivalent to Apothecaries—had worried that he wouldn't survive the procedure. However, survive he did, but he was still adjusting to his enhancements, and he was in a great deal of pain. His armor had also only just been finished—gone was his old battered armor, replaced by beautiful Mk. X Tacticus armor that bore the Lamenters' heraldry on his shoulder, and the Aquila in gleaming gold on his chest.

His equipment wasn't the only set that had been restored to glory. After Shepard had lifted their curse, and with the help of the Mechanicus, the entire Chapter now sported armor and weapons of such artifice that even the Blood Angels would have been proud.

"All right, let's get to work." Shepard stood up, and those of her advisors still seated rose with her. "I don't know what's coming to meet us, but they'll get a warm reception one way or another."

…

Phoros rested his hands against the edge of the hololithic display; his body still ached, and would continue to do so for at least a few more weeks, but his mind was still sharp, and he used it to great effect.

"Raquilon, redistribute your squads in grid fourteen-nine-seven, they are too concentrated. There is a high likelihood that there is an ambush along their current path."

"Understood, Malakim," Zandtus replied. "Adjusting deployment now. Are there any other developments?"

Phoros glanced at a dataslate a serf had provided just a few minutes earlier. "Elements of your Fifth Company intercepted Genestealer forces before they could ambush an armored convoy from the Cadian One-Thousand-Twenty-Second. Some of your warriors are injured, but none are critical."

"That regiment is part of the First-Blooded," Zandtus mused. "Shepard will be pleased that they were not attacked."

"Saint Shepard is very… protective of her soldiers," Phoros said. His words were spoken with caution; centuries of misfortune had ingrained a desire to not offend allies in all Lamenters, and Phoros was still the newest member of the Crusade's leadership, and didn't want to accidentally insult his Chapter's savior.

Thankfully, Zandtus laughed. "She has come to treat the units closest to her as her own sons and daughters. Do not be surprised if she starts calling you and your Chapter 'her boys'."

If anything, that made Phoros smile. "I would find that funny, considering that some of us are centuries her senior."

"Indeed; I believe I am at least a hundred years older than her." There was a pause, and then the tell-tale sound of a bolter voicing its fury. "My apologies, I had to deal with one of the xenos as it crawled out of its hole. Excuse me while my warriors burn the rest out of hiding."

Phoros shook his head at the amusement in his counterpart's voice, but as he was about to shift his attention to another area, movement from the shadows of the strategium caught his eye. Centuries of experience and instinct kicked in, and he drew Catechist, his inferno pistol, and aimed it in one swift motion. He fired just as his would-be assassin leapt from the shadows, blade drawn and aimed at his throat; the melta blast reduced the Sanctus' upper half to superheated gas.

Before the severed legs had even hit the floor, Phoros' Sanguinary Guard rushed inside, weapons drawn.

"My Lord, what has happened?" one asked.

"Put all command centers on alert," Phoros ordered calmly as he picked up his Glaive Encarmine, heedless of the pain each movement caused him. "It seems that the cultists have seeded assassins in our midst."

…

"And this is why I never tell security forces to stand down in a warzone," Shepard said idly as she stepped over the corpse of another Sanctus. "Thanks for the warning, Malakim."

"You are most welcome, Saint Shepard," Phoros said over the vox. "Only two other assassins were reported among the command staff, but they were neutralized. Archmagos Xem-Beta reported some damage, but he said that it was nothing that couldn't be repaired."

"Good to hear." Shepard ruffled Hiral's hair fondly. "And you made one hell of a shot. I didn't even have to do anything."

Though he had long since become a veteran, Shepard's banner-bearer ducked his head like the boy he'd once been. "I could do nothing less, Your Holiness."

One of the Alexian Guard—one of the surviving original members—smiled teasingly. "He works so hard to impress you, Your Holiness."

Shepard laughed. "Nah, he's just hoping that it'll make him look good for… what's her name again, Hiral? That Seraphim I keep seeing you chat up?"

Hiral suddenly found the floor very interesting. "Her name is Rychelle, Your Holiness, and we met on Prospero. We are friends, nothing more."

"Sure you are," Shepard said with a knowing grin. "Rychelle, huh? I don't think I've spoken to her. Is she cute?" At that point, Hiral looked like he wanted nothing more than to disappear, and Shepard finally took pity on him. "Okay, I'll stop. I'm gonna see if I can help Zandtus deal with the last of those cultists. See you later, you romantic, you."

Hiral just groaned.

…

Three days later, the Shepard Crusade had finally rooted out the last of the Genestealer Cults, and was working with the surviving PDF forces to fortify the planet as much as possible. Unfortunately, the fighting had severely reduced the local forces, and despite the size of the Crusade, there were going to be gaps in the defenses.

Thankfully, Xem-Beta and his Tech-Priests had proven their worth by slaving control of the larger defenses to a single group of cogitators that were programmed to attack the largest concentration of enemy forces. This could be overridden to target something in particular, per Shepard's request.

"It may operate on logic," she had said, "but sometimes logic and common sense don't operate on the same wavelength."

Rather than take offense at that statement, Xem-Beta had merely turned away and shook his head. After several years of getting to know him, Shepard knew that that was the closest he came to laughing.

Shepard had just finished her latest inspection of the defenses when she received an urgent vox-message from the Vehemence.

"This is Shepard, go ahead."

"Shepard, we have a situation." Dartan's voice was urgent, but not panicked. "The Navigators and Astropaths in the fleet are reporting a strange phenomenon—their abilities have been dampened, some to the point that they cannot use their powers at all."

Shepard was more than a little alarmed; something that could shut down their long-range communications and ability to safely navigate the Warp—even with her powers, she couldn't tell where the fleet was going—was something worth being apprehensive about.

"Do you have any idea what's causing it?"

"I have never fought this particular enemy before, but I know someone who has," Dartan said. "Lord Phoros confirmed my suspicions before I contacted you. This phenomenon is known as the 'Shadow in the Warp'. It heralds the arrival of a Tyranid hive fleet."

Shepard worked very hard not to let a sense of dread overwhelm her. Of all the Imperium's many enemies, not even Chaos scared her as much as the Tyranids. They reminded her of the Reapers, in a way—unyielding, unstoppable, and utterly without number. There were ways to beat them, yes, but the best bet was in space, well before they managed to land on a planet and drain it of biomass. And with Argris Primaris practically covered in grox, there was so much biomass that it would be a feast for the Tyranids, to say nothing of the billions of humans who would starve without the food.

"How long do we have?" At that point, with their Navigators weakened, there was little chance of escape, and without their Astropaths, they couldn't call for help.

"Sixteen days, according to our cogitators. However, I do have some good news—according to the sensations experienced by our psykers, and going by data supplied by both the Lamenters and the Mechanicus, this is not a full hive fleet. Rather, it is a splinter fleet, which means that it is entirely possible that we can defeat it."

Shepard breathed a sigh of relief. It was one thing to fight a hopeless battle, but if she had a chance, she would take it.

"Thanks," she said. "Get the fleet ready to hit those bugs before they reach the planet. I'll make sure we can handle anything that gets past you."

"It shall be done, Your Holiness."

Once Dartan ended the call, Shepard switched her vox channel to the command frequency. "Attention, all Crusade forces on-planet—we are now on a war footing. Whatever you were doing to get this place ready for a fight, double your efforts. We've got sixteen days to turn this place into a fortress. Anyone who knows how to fight Tyranids will be giving tactical advice to anyone who doesn't." She paused; her next words were to herself as much as they were to her soldiers. "This is not going to end here."

…

Despite time working against them, the Shepard Crusade did an admirable job of fortifying Argris Minoris. Fortunately, the planet's resources were largely focused on three distinct manufactorum complexes—the rest of the world's wildlife had been wiped out by millennia of pollution. That meant that the Tyranids' primary target would be the defenders.

Shepard moved rapidly between each strongpoint, rallying soldiers and offering 'blessings'. She was positive that they didn't do anything, but if it helped her soldiers fight harder, she wouldn't complain.

As the Tyranids got closer, a Necropolis Hawks ship—crewed entirely of volunteers—made a stealthy approach to get a better idea of what they were facing. By Tyranid standards, this fleet was small, numbering only about a thousand ships; as long as the Imperial vessels stayed far enough away, their superior range would allow them to do plenty of damage to the aliens.

On the ground, Shepard got what little rest she could among the First-Blooded; they were devoted to her not just because she was a Living Saint, but because she cared about them like they were her own children. As such, they made sure she was never disturbed unless it was a real emergency.

Unfortunately, one such emergency came in while Shepard was grabbing a few hours of sleep in a tent that belonged to the Eleventh Vigilant Guard. A Guardsman from that same regiment rushed in with a vox-caster.

"Your Holiness!" he gasped out. "Urgent news from the Lord-Marshal!"

Shepard was awake in an instant, all signs of fatigue forced back as she took the vox. "Thank you; please excuse me." She waited until the man left, and then held the vox up. "Go ahead, Helmin."

"Shepard, we have both good news and bad news." Helmin cleared his throat. "The bad news is that the xenos 'ships' have accelerated; the first shots will be fired by this time tomorrow."

"Sounds like the bugs are hungry," Shepard mused. "What's the good news?"

"The Librarians of the Lamenters reported that they were able to make contact with their cousins among the Flesh Tearers. They are close enough to reinforce us in four days."

"I won't say no to more Space Marines, though in four days, they might not have much left to kill after we're done." Shepard was joking, but she made a mental note to keep the Sororitas away from the reinforcements; Blaise probably still held a grudge.

"The Lamenters also believe that other Imperial vessels may be close, but they could not say so with any certainty."

"Here's hoping." Shepard rolled her shoulders in their sockets. "We're going to need all the help we can get, small tendril or otherwise."

"Agreed. We have already calculated the areas that will contain the highest concentration of xenos landings, and have focused our artillery accordingly."

"Please tell me our antiaircraft guns are ready. Anything we kill in the air is one less thing we have to fight on the ground."

"Already taken care of, but Xem-Beta warned me that our best-case scenario only reduces their numbers by eight percent."

Shepard sighed. "Of course. Can't ever be easy."

"The Emperor is surely with us, Your Holiness." Shepard couldn't tell if Helmin was teasing her or not. "The faithful cannot fail Him."

Here's hoping that's true. Shepard looked up into the sky; it was probably just her imagination, but the Great Rift looked just a little bit darker. I really don't want to get killed by a bunch of bugs. That's just embarrassing.

…

Dartan had never faced the Tyranids, despite his long career, but he had spent years studying the reports, just in case; they were certainly dangerous in the void, but not if you were careful and patient. Like when dealing with their ground forces, it was just a matter of punching a hole in the lesser creatures until a synapse monster was revealed. Kill enough of those, and the beasts fell into disarray; they would eventually reorganize as the Hive Fleet adapted, but the process could be repeated until the Tyranids ran out of biomass.

That was, of course, assuming that everything went to plan. There was always a chance that the xenos would unleash some new horror, and Dartan would have been a fool to think that he could have a battle in Imperium Nihilus without some complication.

Which, of course, is exactly what happened.

When the klaxons blared, announcing a contact on long-range sensors, Dartan worried that the Tyranids had somehow arrived even faster than anticipated. The fleet was ready for battle, but he had still hoped for more time. He almost ordered his ships to fire at extreme-range, only to read the ident-code presented by the newcomers.

"Gunners, stand down!" he roared. "Someone get me in contact with Saint Shepard!"

A moment later, Shepard's voice was heard through Dartan's personal vox. "What's the situation? Are the Tyranids here already?"

"No, thank the Emperor for small mercies." Dartan sighed. "An Imperial vessel has entered into sensor range."

"Just one? Who is it?"

"A strike cruiser, Astartes-class. It is the Howling Storm, of the Space Wolves."

There was a pause as Shepard digested that. "We're a ways from Fenris. What are they doing here?"

"I will inquire as to their intentions as soon as they enter communications range."

"Thanks. Keep me apprised as the situation develops, but don't be afraid to hang up if the Tyranids get here."

"Of course. Still, do not be surprised if the Wolves decide to meet you in person; they can be rather… brusque."

"As long as they get to the point and don't waste our time." Shepard paused again, but Dartan caught someone else's voice distantly on her side of the vox. "Sorry, I have to go. Good luck, High Admiral."

"And you as well, Your Holiness."

Dartan didn't wish the Emperor's favor upon Shepard; after all, she already had it.

…

Shepard idly wondered if Dartan had some latent psychic ability to see the future, or he just had that much experience to call upon, but a few hours later, a gunship in grey colors and bedecked in wolf-iconography landed inside the perimeter of the Crusade's primary headquarters. Shepard waited to see who would emerge, along with the Alexian Guard and Helmin, the only other leader of the Crusade who was present.

The first to emerge from the Stormwolf was a small group of veterans. They weren't Primaris Marines, but they were still imposing; their armor was marked by runes and covered in wolf pelts, and each carried beautifully crafted weapons. Following them was a Primaris Marine; his armor was either new or freshly repaired, and he wore a massive pelt over his shoulder. His head was bare, letting his topknot flutter in the wind.

He looked young, for a Space Marine, but the way he observed everything before stalking forward—and the way he moved was like an animal preparing to pounce—was something Shepard saw in more veteran fighters.

The Space Marine walked up to Shepard, ignoring the way the Alexian Guard tensed. He stared down at Shepard, who met his gaze evenly.

"You are the Living Saint?" he asked in a thick accent.

"That's what everyone keeps telling me," Shepard replied. "And who are you?"

The Space Wolf raised an eyebrow. "I am Ragnar Blackmane, Wolf Lord of the Blackmane Great Company. My brothers and I have been searching for you, Alexia Shepard."

Now it was Shepard's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Wow. You might be one of the first people who called me by my first name before getting to know me." She crossed her arms. "And why were you looking for me?"

Ragnar shrugged. "The Rune Priests have seen the wheels of fate turn around you. They say that helping you here will help the sons of Russ."

Shepard smiled up at him. "Well, I won't say no to more help, especially with the Tyranids on the way."

Now Ragnar nodded. "I have a plan for that. While your ships keep the Hive Fleet distracted, I will lead a boarding action against the command creature. Your fleet will tear the beast's flanks, and we will rip out its heart."

Shepard was actually glad for Ragnar's reckless plan; it meant that the Crusade wouldn't have to account for the rogue element the Space Wolves were sometimes known for being.

"Are you taking your entire force out there?" she asked.

"No, just an elite force," Ragnar answered. "I will leave the rest of my Great Company here to hold the line, under the command of the Fell-Handed."

Before Shepard could ask who Ragnar was talking about, there was a loud clang, and then heavy footsteps as a Dreadnought stomped out of the gunship. It was ancient in design, decorated with runes, precious stones, and gold. Its right arm was a multibarreled assault cannon, while its left was a primitive fist, with each finger tipped with an enormous claw.

The Dreadnought swiveled to look at Ragnar for a moment. When he spoke, the synthesized voice shook Shepard down to her bones. "Enough with your posturing, pup; there are foes to slay, and a world to defend."

Ragnar bared his teeth at the insult, and Shepard saw elongated canines before the Wolf Lord nodded. "As you say. I will take my leave, Lord Bjorn."

"Ignore his impetuousness," Bjorn said as Ragnar called down more transports from low orbit. "He is reckless, but he gets results. He only seeks redemption after his failure to kill the Beast of Armageddon."

"If he can cut the head off the snake, and doesn't get us all killed in the process, I won't say anything." If anything, Shepard was reminded of her old squadmate, James—a man who had seen plenty of combat, but was still eager for a fight. "Now, not that I'm complaining, but why are you here? It can't be a coincidence."

"It is not," Bjorn admitted. "I have heard of your exploits, and know that you seek another Primarch—my father, Leman Russ. I feel that it is only right that one of the Rout be among those who find him."

Shepard couldn't exactly say no; after all, she'd had the Necropolis Hawks with her when she had been searching for Corax. It was only fair that the Space Wolves be present when she found their Primarch.

Also, she wasn't really sure she could stop the Wolves from joining.

"All right," she said, "welcome to the party. I hope you're ready for a fight."

At first, it sounded like static came from Bjorn's vox emitter, until Shepard realized that he was laughing.

"You have not battled alongside the Vlka Fenrika before, have you?" Bjorn leaned forward, as if to whisper a secret in her ear. "We are always ready for a fight."

Hi, everyone! I'm back to this story! Sorry for taking so long for a shorter chapter, but a number of things happened: writer's block, interest in another story, writing my next book, and also hurting my wrists badly enough that I almost risked going to the hospital. I'm doing better now. I'm still in pain, but not so much that I can't write.

So… Space Wolves. I was writing this chapter when the new Psychic Awakening book, Saga of the Beast, came out. I love the new Ragnar model, though apparently he can't kill Ghazghkull, either in person, or by dropping a space station on his head. I thought I'd incorporate that a bit here.

Also, I finished writing this just as the new 40K preview dropped. So many cool things for Space Marines—Primaris bikers, new Gravis guys, Chaplains, and Assault Intercessors! Speaking of which…

Omake

Guilliman raised one hand in greeting to the hundreds of new Primaris Astartes that stood at attention.

"Welcome, loyal sons of the Emperor," he said in his noble voice. "You have been chosen to bear new weapons and tactics to your brethren among the stars. You know that you have been selected as Intercessors, but there will be a slight change to your loadouts."

Guilliman gestured for the front rank to step forward, and a servitor wheeled out a long table, covered in weapons. "Take your heavy bolt pistols and chainswords, loyal Astartes."

One of the Intercessors hesitated. "My Lord, have we all been promoted to sergeant?"

"… no?"

"But… but why are we all being given chainswords? Where are the bolt rifles?"

"There aren't any. You're Assault Intercessors."

The sergeant of the squad frowned. "I thought that meant we were getting auto bolt rifles. Those are assault weapons."

"No, you're a melee unit now."

Another Intercessor—sorry, Assault Intercessor—hesitantly picked up a pistol. "What about the Reivers? Won't they be seen as less useful, since we're already cheaper in points? I mean, we already stole their guns. We can't deep strike, but we could be put in tanks to get us in close."

"That's the point." Guilliman was starting to get annoyed. "Besides, many Chapters prefer close-quarters fighting, and you guys aren't Elites choices… I think."

(Games Workshop hasn't revealed details yet, and so, the Lord Commander doesn't know either)

The first Intercessor looked down at his chainsword. "So… because no one uses Reivers, we're the cheap replacement? What if no one uses us?"

Finally, Guilliman had had enough. "Okay, you know what? I don't care! If your assigned Chapter has spare bolt rifles, you can use those, but if you get sent to the Blood Angels or the Black Templars or something, you'll keep your chainsword, and you will like it!" He tossed a few purity seals at them. "Take these, put them on your armor, and get out there."

Yeah, so, I'm more excited about the bikes, but everything for the Space Marines looks awesome, and I can't wait.

Hey, wasn't there something else—

*The Silent King has entered the chat*

Oh, right. Shit. We're in trouble, guys.

No, seriously, I love what I've seen for the Necrons, and I can't wait to see all the new stuff!

Anyway, back to this chapter: 'nids are coming, Wolves are here, and Shepard is still looking for Leman Russ. Yay.

Now, if you want more sci-fi battles, please consider buying my book, Alpha Sanction, by Josh Gottlieb. You can find it on my website (link in my profile), or on Amazon. With the pandemic still a serious problem, we could all use some new stuff to read while we practice social distancing.

If you don't want to buy my book, but still want to support me (because no one is hiring right now), please consider donating on P-atreon (link in my profile). Every dollar donated is one step closer to me buying a doomsday bunker for me to hide in and do nothing but write fan fiction.

Speaking of which, I want to thank the following patrons:

Serious Muffins: jafr86, SpaceEmperorSpar, Nimrod009, Anders Lyngbye, Matthias Matanovic, ChaosSpartan575, John Collins, Calleo, Casey Pak, Red Bard, Ultimatrix10, Shaolin Khalil, killroy225

Incredible Muffins: RaptorusMaximus, michaelb958, Crazyman844

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

Next Chapter: The Great Devourer descends. The Crusade makes its stand, while the Wolves hunt.

Stay safe out there!

We must not falter. We are His sword. We are His Muffins!