Executioner By Joshua Lacey The chapel was silent, the constant low hum of the ships’ engine being heard far off in the sacred space. The Retribution voyaged through the turbulent warp, the ships Gellar field sparking above the domed skylight. How the ship had survived so long was a miracle. It had survived the Tyranids, horrors of the Eye of Terror, traitors from within and without, warp spawn to traitor boarding parties. Yet it remained with a skeleton crew, along with the remains of the outcast 4th company. Kneeling before the relief of the Emperor, before the long flowing standards of the chapter and company, the ruins of pews used as barricades, before the statue of Azariah Vidya himself, knelt a Space Marine. A sergeant who should have died many times, who bore the livery of the Blood Ravens. He knelt where he shouldn’t have, a warrior who should’ve been killed a hundred times over. He should not be here. Not because he should be dead, but because someone else shouldn’t be. From the shadows, Sigmund was watching bare headed. The death had been hard on them all, but the sergeant had felt it the most. He was still young for a space marine, even after the Penance Crusade. And now, when given the opportunity to lead, the sergeant declared himself unworthy. Sigmund knew otherwise. “Do you truly

believe yourself lesser brother?” the chaplain spoke, emerging from the shadows to kneel with his brother. “You are as much of a hero of the chapter as he was.” As he got closer, Sigmund saw the dents, the scraps and blackened marks on the red armour of his battle brother. The sergeants face was scarred, a patchwork of bionics keeping the right side of his face together. Sigmund looked up to Vidya as he kneeled. He whispered his thanks to the Great Father and praised the Emperor. He recited the Litany of Woe, the Litany of Knowledge and the Litany of Fury. He spoke them with reverence, the litanies that defined a millennium of anguish for the chapter, that defined their future. No response. He then turned to the sergeant, taking in his features, no longer the boy he had once set eyes on Meridian. “Why do you still kneel here? For forgiveness or death? Does his sacrifice mean nothing to you or do their deaths weigh heavy on your soul?” The sergeant remained silent, but his body was tense. Sigmund had trouble getting the boy to realise death was inevitable, especially for their kind. He hung onto hope too much, formed strong bonds with his fellow battle brothers. It was how he had damned himself; too much trust, a veil of ignorance blinding him to his commanders’ orders. Even after the several decades of penance, some

of those ideals had remained. He only had a few hours to purge the rest of them. A few hours to have the boy turn into a man, a battle brother, a captain. Sigmund waited a while, slowly turning away to continue his prayers. He prayed for forgiveness from the Emperor, to lead the chapter into a new age guided by his light, all in hoping the sergeant would respond. But after the prayers, he still had nothing, the air still undisturbed by any sound other than the sparking of the Gellar field and the hum of engines. The chaplain sighed, standing up to stare down at his battle brother, his commander, the man that should, that would, be captain. “We are meeting up with the elements of 6th and 7th companies soon in the Lithesh sector. We will need our force commander present to take command. You must remember, without his sacrifice we would not have been able to return to the chapter. Without him, we would be lost in the warp.” Sigmund began to walk out of the chapel when a husky voice, aged by centuries of war, from within and without, spoke out in a dark, dreary tone. “It is the duty of every space marine to die in battle, fighting for the Emperor, killing the xenos and the heretic.” Sigmund stopped, turning to his brother, curious as to where he was going. “The sacrifice of any marine in the line of service is a great honour.” The chaplain felt pride, that the sergeant had come to his sense. However, the final line provided

evidence otherwise: “We fail when we fail to achieve such an honour. No retreat, no surrender.” The chaplain, in unbridled fury, turned heel to his commander. “No, brother, we fail if we give our lives needlessly! To die for the chapter, for the Emperor, is praise worthy, but not if it leaves us without the means to fight the battles to come! You know this, boy, just as he knew it. Thule’s teachings are not to be misused for justification of a suicide mission.” Sigmund sighed, calming himself before he continued. “He saw the potential in both of you all those years ago, just as I did. And in the end, both he and Thule sacrificed themselves for you, to make you who you are now. You are their legacy now.” Turning back around, he began to walk out, but turned back as he reached to arched doorway. “The chapter calls. And may none find you wanting.” Sigmund stormed out, the clang of his power armoured boots echoing throughout the room. The sergeant stayed still, taking it all in. He deserved this position, not him. He was the leader, just as Thule was. And slowly, the sergeants mind head back to the last days of the Penance Crusade, the war that had raged on for half a decade, a war on the Bloated World.

. . .

Sergeant Aramus, Force Commander of the Penance Crusade, Hero of Typhon, stared out into the abyss in front of him. A green mist of coiling vapour made it impossible to see further than a few metres in front of him. But he could feel their eyes on him, their malevolent, hate filled eyes. They judged the man for what he was, a traitor, a commander that failed to lead his men. The one who, when desperate, skulked down to the level of the very demons that surrounded him. This was his fault. He turned from the battlements and back to the remains of his company. A hundred and fifty outcast battle brothers from the 2nd, 3rd and 4th companies once set out from sub sector Aurelia, but now only thirty remained. All the Dreadnoughts, Land Raiders and Predators were destroyed, either rotted by rusted or blasted by what few traitors they had found on this blighted world surface. Only a few Stormhawks and a battered Thunderhawk remained, just enough to carry what was left above the poisonous clouds, where the Retribution hung in orbit, a skeleton crew of servitors at its helm. Yet, retreat wasn’t an option for Aramus. This was penance; death was almost guaranteed. Aramus could feel the void that was the absence of Apothecary Aeneus, for half of those that remained were injured, with only Brother Marenus’ cybernetics to aid them. A space marines body is a durable vessel, able to

heal itself from injuries no mere man could. But a century of destroying Chaos bastions, fighting off demons and surviving hells that would drive even the most grounded man mad can crack and even break the bravest of the battle brothers. Good men who could’ve fought in a war that actually mattered, not in a bloodbath that only appeased the dark gods of the warp. Aeneus knew that more than anyone, risking life and limb for his brothers, recovering the precious gene-seed of the fallen. Thanks to him, those that had died early on in the Crusade could serve once again. But once they were stuck on this world, once Aeneus fell soon after, no brother would feel the Emperors Grace. As Aramus reached the centre of the makeshift camp, Brother-Chaplain Sigmund approached him, wearing the bone and black armour of his station. His helm was cracked, the skull splintered from the right eye to the chin. His armour was similar fractured, but as was it for every battle brother that remained. “Brother-Librarian Anteas wishes to speak with you, commander. I believe he has word from the Chapter. Perhaps even Angelos himself” “That is good to hear, brother chaplain,” he replied, “What word of the shield brother Marenus has set up? Does it hold?” “The techmarine says the Gellar field he’s made would collapse sooner than expected. He estimates any defence

of this position is tantalous at best, especially with such little equipment in working condition. He and I agree that we will have to evacuate soon.” “You know we do not have such a luxury, brother.” Sigmund placed his hand on Aramus’ shoulder. Sigmund was the only one of them to come by choice. His reasons were his own, which perplexed the commander, but nevertheless, he had been valuable to keep his brother moral high, to keep them focussed on the Emperors light. Slowly, Sigmund had turned these men from possible traitors, hearts turning black with heresy, to true sons the Emperor could be proud of. “I understand what you seek brother. Your deeds corrupted your brothers in the past, but now they have absolved themselves through your leadership. We are now champions of the Emperor once more!” Sigmund seemed to stare into his commanders’ soul with the depthless eyes of his helm. “It may not have been a century brother, but the Chapter needs us now, now more than ever. Now is the time to return to the chapter.” Aramus remained silent. He thought back to when Epistolary Raemus died, the first casualty in the cursed Eye, spreading a vision of the fall of the Cadian Gate. That had been a decade ago now, or maybe even just a few years. They all knew was that the Eye ruined all perceptions of time and space but they knew their losses were catastrophic. They were depleted of men, yet their

new experience and expertise would prove valuable to the chapter, especially after the drain that was four crusades in short succession. If now wasn’t a time to reunite with the chapter, then when was? Aramus sighed, partly of relief and partly of ceding to the chaplains’ council. “As always, you are right brother. We will leave this rotten world. But first, I will hear from the Chapter itself.” Sigmund nodded respectfully, “Of course brother, it is only right. With the possible fall of Cadia, returning home must become a priority. If you say we are absolved brother, then I will make sure our brothers prove it upon our return.” They clamped vambraces before parting ways. Aramus then strode to the rusted husk of a land raider that made the central command of the camp. Its heraldry was worn beyond reading, its machine spirit long dead. Marenus called it The Fire of Meridian, and just like Aramus’ last memories of Meridian, it was gutted, old, and rusted beyond repair. Aramus entered the makeshift shelter to see Anteas kneeling next to the comatose navigator, gripping the mans’ hand in an effort to stabilise him. The navigator had survived much but was very weak. He would live so long as Anteas was near, the only brother with proficient medical knowledge that still lived. “Hail, Brother Anteas. I hear you have news from the chapter?”

Anteas didn’t make eye contact, focusing on his patient more than his commander. The hastily made cybernetics of the Librarians right eye clicked and scrapped on itself, constantly adjusting to the environment around it. “Of a sort. Our Chief Librarian, the new chief librarian I should say, has been trying to contact me. I think I’ve finally able to maintain the connection.” “How so? You’re no astropath, I doubt our new Chief Librarian would approve of such methods.” “Indeed, but it is the only way we both know of.” Anteas began to leave the navigator, confident he would live to see the next day. “Centuries ago, the Librarianship discovered ancient methods of communicating with one another across the warp. Jonah Orion and I studied it together and were one of the first to successfully do so. It is part of the reason I was on Kronus, our new technique also being a useful method of co-ordinating assaults across the world, though Captain Thule disagreed with it vehemently more often than not.” “And the other reasons?” “To finish what Isador could not: recover the relics of Kronus.” “I thought the relics were destroyed.” “Most of them were, especially those in the monastery of North Vandea. Captain Thule saw wisdom in ignorance

that day, and perhaps that is for the better. We kept the material from the Eldar though, including Farseer Taldeers’ soul stone, something Kyras took much interest in. Thule was always wary of their kind but on that day, he obeyed his orders. It was after his duel with Eliphas, along with what happened to Governor Alexander in Victory Bay that he changed. He destroyed all we recovered from the temple. Kyras was furious when he found out. He always thought differently, that was evident in Moriahs’ journals. Kyras also believed that there was wisdom in everything, even the most damning of knowledge. Perhaps that’s why he fell. Perhaps that, when it came to mastering cross-warp communication, he had it mastered overnight.” Aramus grimaced at the mention of that name. “Why would we continue using the methods of a traitor?” Anteas swapped from sitting to kneeling, closing his eyes as he began concentrating. “Knowledge itself isn’t normally dangerous, commander, but its use or understanding can lead to heresy. If I were to describe you the machinations of the warp, your innate curiosity could drive you to heresy. It is our curse to seek knowledge after all, even from within the warp itself. It is one of the reasons why we seek out psykers in our Blood Trials, to emulate the Great Vidya, to seek knowledge within the warp.”

“I always thought the trials were rather, exclusionary at times.” “Indeed, the Ordos Pyskana and Secret Masters were very particular about what we were to find in candidates, who to recruit, who might make good librarians and who will make great captains. We were all chosen for our curiosity, our gifts in my case, or, in yours, the persistence to fight and find the impossible, and to succeed in taming it.” Aramus was stunned. “Are you saying I was only chosen due to the Secret Masters?” Anteas sighed. “Yes brother, but there is always more to it. Davian Thule often chose candidates that irritated the Secret Masters, even going so far to have several potential psykers killed before they could be inducted. Now, as for whether I am committing heresy or not, the way Jonah and I studied was safe, prepared and, for your comfort, it was before we had found Kyras on the Judgement of Carrion.” Anteas seemed to tense, his facial features creasing. “Forgive me brother, but I will need to focus in order to project the connection.” Aramus simply nodded, but it wasn’t long before Anteas’ face returned to its usually placid self. It seemed to slacken for a bit before adjusting itself to normal. His eyes were open, an energy of blue mist permeating from even

his cybernetic eye. Then, the mouth began to move, but the sound was not even similar to Anteas’ own. “Commander, do you receive me?” came a familiar voice. It was a voice strained by centuries of war, of tragedy, of death. One who had burned his home world almost a century ago “Angelos? It has been a long time since I’ve heard your voice.” “Indeed, sergeant,” Angelos replied, “it has been many years since your departure. Jonah said the connection is weak, but he says Brother Anteas does the chapter proud, just as you do.” The librarian seemed to smile but Aramus wasn’t sure if that was the projection of the Chapter Master or the Librarian himself. “It seems your century of penance is at an end. You and the 4th company have redeemed themselves. Many enemies of the Emperor now lay dead by your hand. And with our chapter now purified within, I have been placed the great duty of Chapter Master.” Aramus was shocked. A century had passed? What was this? “A great honour to be sure but a century, Chapter Master? We have barely been here a decade.” Anteas seemed to grimace at this, as if Angelos was as well. “Perhaps, that is possible. The fall of Cadia over half a century ago has caused the warp to expand across the Segmentum Ultima. Though you may not have finished

your service proper, the gates collapse would’ve put you in perilous danger, accelerated time even.” Angelos seemed to stop for a moment, musing on what had been said. It was a difficult choice, for a decade was not sufficient time for any chapter who had been on Penance. “But nevertheless, with the disbandment of the Secret Masters, and the deaths and corruption of many of our best, we need to find replacements for the new Chapter Council. We need veterans who have fought the dark forces and have proven to be loyal to the chapter and the Emperor. We also need a hero of Typhon to take the lead of the 4th Company.” Aramus was shocked, instinctively kneeling. “I am not worthy, my liege. My actions have proven such.” “I am aware of that fact, sergeant. But unfortunately, we do not have the luxury of time or resources. I know it was you that damned those under your command, not following the example Captain Thule set for you. But the Imperium is on the edge. We need battle brothers to look up to once more.” Aramus thought back to the battle of Aurelia, dealing the final blow to Ulkair. He remembered the elation he had felt only to see Tarkus despair, still haunted by his actions. Cyrus had never scolded him, but Aramus knew that day that one of his advisors expected better. Thaddeus had been silent, the first to question whether what they did was worth it. It was Jonah that answered him, answered them all with a resounding no.

From that moment on, the penance began. That day, Aramus proved not so much his loyalty, but instead his failures and the darkness that crept into his heart. “And, there is the issue of Captain Thule.” Aramus looked up at this, Gabriel continuing. “Diomedes found him during the final days of the Third Crusade, a wreck at the hands of the traitor Eliphas. Martellus was unable to repair him, though, thankfully, his gene seed was recovered. It will be used in the first Blood Trials on Kronus, the ones you and chaplain Sigmund will take part in.” Now fury set in, one that had not truly let up since his banishment. “How does that traitor still breath?” “No one knows if he even does, sergeant. Diomedes had killed him mere moments prior. On returning to the site of the battle, the traitors’ corpse was gone. He may yet still have followers, especially in these dark times.” Gabriel could sense Aramus’ hatred, or at least, that’s what Aramus thought. “The gods of Chaos are foul and full of deceit, sergeant. You know that firsthand. They wish for him to remain a plaything of theirs, or perhaps they wish to scorn us. Either way, know that you will have the opportunity to kill him again, we can be sure of that.” Aramus could feel something being held back, like Angelos was hiding something. The specificity in what he had just said felt off. But it didn’t take long for him to be

proven why. “Under normal circumstances, a council would determine what role each Captain does to serve the chapter. But, with the disbandment of the Secret Masters, and how personal this is to our brothers in the 4th, and to you as well, you will be assigned as Lord Executioner of the Blood Ravens.” Aramus lowered his head once more at being given such an honorific. He was not worthy of such an appellation, they both knew that. But the chapter was being reborn, and there would be no one to fill that role any time soon. And if redemption could be found serving as a major figure of the chapter, it would be by executing the enemies of the Chapter. “Your skill is in combat is second to none,” continued Angelos, “especially after such troubled times. You learnt from Thule, one of the best of us, on how to fight all comers, using your wits and your ferocity as a true angel of death. You may not be worthy, brother captain, but you will be. Upon instalment as captain and Lord executioner, your first objectives will be to hunt down those who have stood against the chapter for so long.” Angelos began to list them off, all names familiar to Aramus, names from the archives like Trazyn of the Nihilakh Dynasty, Tahril of the Black Heart Cabal, and Shas’o Lao of the D’yanoi Sept. Their crimes against the chapter were unknown to Aramus, but he knew they were key antagonists of several conflicts within the last century or two. Then there were names from the tales,

from personal experience, such as Farseer Macha, the Ork Warlord Gorgutz, and even the dead heretic Eliphas. Once Angelos was done, Aramus stood, accepting his new duty. He would lead the 4th to glory, to deal death to the Emperor, and the chapters, foes. “You honour me, my liege. I will lead with the honour of the chapter in my heart.” “No, Aramus, I do not honour you, and do not think you are truly pure. All I ask of you is to do your duty; that you honour Captain Thule’s legacy.” Again, there was a pause, but this time, of reflection. “Davian was one of the few brothers I could trust, and he I. Only he and I know of Cyrene, of Kronus, and even Tartarus.” Aramus could feel the sadness in Angelos’ voice. He had lost a lot, and a good friend, a loyal and strong brother captain like Thule were hard to come by. Aramus’ had only heard Angelos speak as such for a pupil of his in Aramus’ final days of the Targa campaign. “If you follow his example, maybe one day we will find the one truth our chapter seeks. And maybe, it won’t damn us in the process. Angelos out.” At that Anteas shut his eyes again, blinking hard. A few more moments of rubbing his forehead, Aramus was certain the librarian no longer was connected to Jonah’s mind. Anteas looked up at his commander, a small wry smile on his wizened and cracked face. “It is done brother. It is good to here from the Chapter, especially of

such noteworthy news.” Anteas groaned as he stood up to stretch a little. “Now if you’ll excuse me brother captain, I believe I need some rest before our departure.” Aramus just nodded in acknowledgement. It was now going to be a long day. Aramus walked out to see Ckrius waiting for him. “Sergeant Ckrius. I was not expecting you. What is it?” Ckrius was an odd one, only one of three to have not been inducted as full space marine before being sent on Penance. He was the only one that refused the final rites, and thus was the only one in the force who still wore scout armour. He was also one of the oldest scouts, and so he was nominated as a sergeant for the crusade when it came to organising patrols around the fortifications. So far, he had not been at fault. “Brother Orion is late from his scouting op. I believe he may be in trouble.” Aramus studied the young initiate. The marine may be a Blood Raven, but his old guard habits stuck out. Including his inability to hide anything. “I was also curious as to what the chapter has asked of us. News from the chapter is something most of us are anxious to hear from” Aramus took a second to think. “There is no point hiding anything, not out here, especially not now. Come with me, and I will announce everything to the rest of our brothers about what Chapter Master Angelos has to say.”

Ckrius followed attentively, keeping what felt like joy in the back of his mind. He thought back to distract himself from feelings that weren’t of a noble Space Marine, instead thinking of the last time he had seen Angelos. It had also been not long after becoming an initiate, immediately being deployed to Lorn V, when they had arrived too late to stop Farseer Taldeer of Ulthwe from destroying the Titan Dominatus Imperial forces were keen on capturing. The witch had lived, fleeing from the system before a pursuit could be made. On the surface, they had uncovered a Necron tomb world, but the Eldar had stopped its reawakening permanently with the Titans engines. It was the second time the Blood Ravens had seen the Necrons, the first being Rahe’s Paradise. It was however, the first time they had fought the now notorious ork warlord Gorgutz ‘Ead ‘Unter. It was his first battle as a space marine as well, and he had felt it exhilarating. Killing the orks with a power he had never felt in his time as a guardsman, an endurance to keep going, even after being shot by an ork sniper. Ckrius had simply laughed it off, shooting down the ork that shot him with ease. The Ultramarines that had survived the Eldar trickery knew what would come next. For the ork was never meant to hit its target, just alert nearby orks to Angelos’ flanking attack. It wasn’t long before Gorgutz himself began to overrun the position, brutally ripping off heads of Ultramarines and Blood

Ravens alike. The ork warlord was brutal, tearing through ceramite as if it was parchment, flinging blood into the air with every swing of his giant metallic claw. It wasn’t long before Ckrius was staring down the ork himself, only to be battered aside as if he weighed nothing. But before the killing blow could land, a large ornate hammer struck the ork on its side, staggering the beast. That was when Angelos saved them, fighting the Ork to a standstill, neither side truly getting the upper hand. Eventually, the tide turned on the orks, and Gorgutz retreated, eventually fleeing off world, to start a new war on Kronus. Lorn V was reclaimed in that moment, for the Chaos forces had already been broken from the Ork forces, the Eldar having fled, and with the new Imperial reinforcements breaking the ork horde. The cost had been high, and some might even say it was never worth it. Angelos didn’t smile upon such a decisive victory. He knew the ork would return. He had grown bitter by even this point, even Ckrius could see that. The events of the past were a constant ripple. But he has also grown wiser for it. When Angelos found out Kyras had returned, he was joyous like many of his brothers, but the only one that was suspicious. As it turns out, healthily so. He had seen the taint from the start. For that alone, Gabriel Angelos deserved the title of Chapter Master. He was the

only logical choice in a chapter as fractured and drained as the Blood Ravens are. They reached the northern barricade, a Predator with its turrets ripped asunder, Ckrius moving to stand next to one of his brothers in arms, sergeant Thaddeus. The senior sergeant was shaved but ragged from decades of war. His hair was now a mohawk of short length, but it too was a mess. He’d been on the front line the most, and yet, he still lived. Fellow battle brothers named him the Death Seeker, always doing the most dangerous tasks in search of redemption. Blessed brother Sigmund named him the noble savage of war. “Hail brother,” said the senior sergeant, “how go the scouts?” “On recon, brother,” Ckrius curtly replied with military decorum ingrained from his time in the Imperial Guard, “No signs of the demons as of yet. Brother Orion has not returned yet, but should still be near the southern defences.” Thaddeus frowned, at this though. Of all the sergeants left, it was difficult to figure out who between him and commander Aramus sought honourable death in combat, as well as who was the stricter. Both had great duties upon them, Aramus’ being the leader, all whilst Thaddeus had the ordeal of recovering the gene seed of his brothers as best he could. It had been rough from the start, Ckrius had heard, ever since sergeant Avitus’ betrayal on Aurelia, one that had disheartened the senior

sergeant. He was the youngest of sergeants in Aramus’ strike force, constantly looking up to seek improvement in warring with the xenos and heretic. The betrayal put everything into question, all the teachings he had learnt from the sergeant. “That is not a comforting report, sergeant. We are on a demon world and we are not being attacked. And I am doubting this makeshift Gellar Field was meant to be sustained this long.” Ckrius felt the same. His hands were mutated when he was initiated, and he soon had them cut off, replaced by cybernetics. But he still felt the warp mutation in him, an itch on skin he did not have, the feeling of growth and flesh elsewhere on his body, what seemed like the fusing of armour. He felt it but knew it not to be true. His mutation was simply trying to pull him into the green mist, to take the chance it could to transform him into some vile abomination that would mindlessly kill his brothers. He’d already done enough to doom his brothers, he wouldn’t ever do so again. He deserved death for his actions, nothing less. As he reached for the communicator in his ear, Ckrius stopped. He heard a whisper, like the sound of Brother Orion’s voice, telling him of trouble, but what of he could not understand. He tried to press the ear piece but soon he heard the clambering of ceramite and he instantly stood at attention, from his old regimental days. Thaddeus smiled a little at this. Ckrius was the only Blood

Raven to be recruited from Tartarus, and the only one to come from an Imperial Regiment beforehand, and, as Thaddeus had seen, it had left some quirks in the marine. But now was not the time to reflect “Blood Ravens!” came Aramus’ cry, breaking the sergeants’ conversation. Almost all thirty of the surviving battle brothers were there, standing in lines and columns as they did at the beginning of the crusade. While it was still a sight to behold, it was not what it had been two decades prior. He remembered a hundred and fifty of the Adeptus Astartes finest but most flawed champions of the Imperium, ready to destroy the enemies of the Emperor in order to redeem themselves. Most had no helms, most of them shattered or ruined beyond what little repair they could afford. Now, all that was left was a dismal sign of how draining the crusade had been, how deadly forgiveness can be. The war had been long, but it had felt longer. Aramus’ knew the warp would’ve played a part in that, but nonetheless, he knew the truth now: it had truly been longer. “Two decades ago, we left sub sector Aurelia as shamed warriors, as space marines who faltered in their duty in fighting for the Emperor. We left for the blasted hellscapes of the warp to fight our enemies, to purge the heretics in order to redeem ourselves. We have lost many to reach this world alone, so deep into the Eye.

When we landed here, we remained outcasts of the Chapter. As shamed as the 5th.” There was a pause, to let those words sink in, to feel like they were more damned than any other. “That is no longer the case, however. Brother Chaplain Sigmund has seen you fight with conviction, with honour, your hearts are true to the chapter. He says we are redeemed! Now, we must prove it once more! We have received word from the chapter. The Aurelian Crusades have ended! Azariah Kyras is dead, and with him, the stain of corruption on our chapter. Our new Chapter Master, Gabriel Angelos, has requested our return. The chapter is to be rebuilt, and to have such veterans at their side would do them a great service. Especially against the hate traitor legions” Aramus paused for another second. “He also had news about brother captain Thule. In the final year of the Third Aurelian Crusade, Davian Thule gave his life fighting our hated enemy, the Chaos Lord and Dark Apostle, Eliphas. He is a foe familiar to some of you, and many of you have heard his cursed name. It has now fallen to me to take up Thule’s mantle as captain of the 4th, and with it, a promise. Where the 5th is forever shamed for their actions, we never will be, we will not allow it. From this day, we will be the Chapters executioners, the fury of the Blood Ravens made manifest. We will hunt down those who have disgraced our chapter and kill them for the blights on our honour they have committed. And we start with the Inheritor himself!”

A raucous cheer rose through the ranks, one of fury and determination. Aramus smiled at his brothers’ dedication, but it was quickly cut off by a cry of dying men echoing through the air, piercing the ears of all in the area. Anteas stumbled out of his shelter, collapsing onto his knees, muttering incessant nonsense as he resisted the powers of the warp. Aramus turned to see the abyss approaching, a dark, dense emerald fog that was now surrounding them, the inky blackness enveloping them in a dome. The flickering lights of dying tanks whose Machine Spirits refused to die on the haunted world the only source of light. Techmarine Marenus ran out from the hovel where the Gellar field was held. Rust covered most of his armour, and he was sweating profusely from all the work he had been doing. “Commander, the field is collapsing. If we do not retreat now, we will perish to the oncoming storm.” Aramus was quick to take initiative. “Techmarine, prepare the Thunderhawk for extraction. Those brothers that have been taught how to pilot the remaining Stormhawks, prepare the ships. Everyone else, defensive positions! For the Emperor!” At that order, the sound of chainswords roared to life as every marine manned the barricades, barely one marine for every ten kilometres of defences. It wouldn’t be enough. But every marine would give their life to protect

their battle brothers, to make sure at least some of them survive to return to the chapter. Ckrius followed Thaddeus to the southern defences, to where Orion should’ve been. They both knew their brother would be in danger if he remained out there. Around them, the engines of the ships started, the Stormhawks with a choking cough, but luckily the Thunderhawk only required with a quick spark. The air began to be whipped up by the turbines of the ships, all whilst the fog thickened further. It wasn’t long before the duo arrived to see the southern barricades open, and a body rotting in the gap. A corpse in rusted, ruined Blood Ravens armour, the remains of a once mighty warrior dragging himself into the camp. Ckrius was the first to react, going to pull the battle brothers to the surface. But it didn’t take long for a bolter shot to ring out though, Thaddeus taking the surest approach to defend against heresy. Ckrius turned to see Thaddeus throwing the narthecium at him, the young sergeant catching it out of the air. “Recover the gene seed,” Thaddeus coldly spoke, “I’ll cover you.” Ckrius felt fury in his breast. Another brother fell to the betrayal within the chapter, another brother fell to the mistakes of the past. Ckrius felt the burden of the chapter on him as he extracted the gene seed from Orion, whose corpse bubbled with thin, strange green liquids in front of him at an unsettling frequency. As he cut open his

brother and began the procedure, he heard another shot of bolter fire, then more as he looked up. From the shadows, figures shambled out, inhuman and twisted bodies of rotted flesh holding bone swords groaning as it advanced. Thaddeus could be seen with his teeth clenched in fury as he fired each bolt, cursing the dark deities of the warp for their mere existence, for the taint they had inflicted upon the chapter. Ckrius concentrated on his task, hastily removing the progenoid glands of his battle brother in what was now a bloody, gooey mess before turning to see Thaddeus charge, slicing his way through the horde of nightmares. He could hear bolter fire from behind him, along with shouts of retreat. Engines revved louder and it became clear to all that they were leaving. “Brothers! The Chapter needs us,” shouted Chaplain Sigmund, “We must withdraw for His sake and for the sake of the chapter!” It wasn’t long for every battle brother to fall back, firing shots at the approaching horde in ordered battle formations. Taking out his combat knife, Ckrius turned his back to the ships though, to the shouts of brother chaplain Sigmund. Instead, he thought of aiding his senior sergeant, charging the shambling horde. A clamping sensation stopped him. Ice filled the numb sensation that was the ends of mutation. He turned to see the only helmed battle brother, the one he expected whenever his nerves turned to ice.

“Sergeant, you will fall back to the ships. I will aid our battle brother.” Anteas spoke calmly, moving Ckrius aside. “Thaddeus will return to the chapter, just as you will.” Ckrius would have none of it however. “But brother librarian, I can aid him. You cannot take the horde alone.” “You should be more worried about returning the gene seed to the chapter than an honourable death, scout. Despite your quick induction into the chapter, you have much to learn. Especially in regards to the strength of our librarians. Now go.” Ckrius frowned at this, even as Anteas strolled towards the horde, lighting flaring between the librarians blue armoured finger tips. As Ckrius ran, he could hear what could be amount to screams among the demonic horde, as sharp arcs of heat could be felt on the back his neck. But he was no longer focussed on the battle he had left. The last of his brothers mounted onto the transport and it began to lift off. Ckrius noticed the jump pack left lying on the ground, knowing full well they were left intentionally for Thaddeus. The commander knew these things. Blasting into a full sprint, Ckrius launched himself upwards, trying to grab the edge of the open ramp of the Thunderhawk. As he grabbed it, a great wail could be heard, one of demonic hatred. Something out there wanted them dead. Instantly, the Gellar field collapsed, and a swirl of energy engulfed what was once their camp.

Sigmund pulled Ckrius up onto the ramp, and the ship launched higher into the air. Ckrius steadied himself, his body trying to catch up to the feat he just performed. He did not take a seat, instead scanning the room to see the faces of those who were left, only to find one person truly missing. “Where is the commander?” Ckrius turned to see the ground he was once on turn to green mist, only moments before a great red fireball launched itself onto the open ramp. A heavy thud echoed into the vehicle as Thaddeus landed with a weary Anteas. He laid the battle brother “The commander, he’s staying behind. He’s saving us one last time.” Ckrius grew furious, an uncontrollable rage building inside of him once more. The chapter had betrayed them again He took out his combat knife and began to charge, to land into the horde below and save his commander from certain death. Or failing that, to die an honourable death with him. He had crossed half the ramp before another blur of red caught him with the butt of a chainsword. He fell back, landing flat, and the ramp closed. He turned and looked up to see Thaddeus’ scarred face looking down on him, the cracked helm of the Chaplain staring over the sergeants’ shoulder. “No brother, there is nothing we can do but honour his sacrifice.” And with that, Ckrius fell unconscious. . . .

“We have to go brother!” Aramus turned to Thaddeus, who held the only remaining jump pack in one hand, Anteas hanging onto his shoulder. The energies around them sought to destroy them, the wind howling in their ears. The demon sought to keep them here as its play things, but Aramus had other plans. “No brother, there is no time. Go! Before the demon realises you have escaped.” Thaddeus remained silent, solemn, nodding as he launching into the air to meet the ramp of the Thunderhawk. Aramus had learned much of Thaddeus throughout his time as Force Commander. He was dogmatic, hopeful, strong willed. He possessed the drive of a true space marine. It was betraying him, by leading him down the same down path he too followed that Aramus felt the most sorrow for. It was his worst mistake. But he hoped Thaddeus had learnt as much from the betrayal as he had. Aramus knew the corruption of the 4th was his doing, even though he had never officially been given the captaincy. He marched to the barricade to see his foe, his stride filled with the purpose and determination in the heart of every Blood Raven. He could hear the whispers of the damned, trying to get him to surrender, to give in to their fiendish bargains. He had heard such whispers before, though now he could admit to hearing them. And now, he knew that they were full of lies.

“You hold no sway over me demon filth! I have walked the path you lay and have turned from it in disgust! I may not be the purest of my brothers, but I once again have the Emperor watching over me!” “That,” came a dark, hollow voice, one deepened in the warp, one that squawked and cawed at the nerves, “is a lie.” With those words, the mist began to depart. The colourful energy dispersed to reveal a monster unlike any Aramus had seen. Before Aramus stood a creature of towering magnitude, a lanky, bony, but bulbous demon of great power. Its skin was a pale contortion of greens and blues, moulted feathers hanging from mouths layered and spread throughout its body. It was lanky. It did not belong, not even on this world, which seemed to shudder in revulsion at every taloned step the demon took. Its face was narrow and beaked, hawk like and haughty in nature. Its eyes were greying, clouded, but a third eye in its chest blaze with the very spectrum of the warp. It had great wings of shifting, multicoloured feathers that rotted away in the worlds atmosphere, only for it to regenerate mere seconds later. In its hands was a gnarled staff made from the warp itself, shifting and morphing into eerie shapes, and a bone sword the colour of rusted iron. Aramus charged the demon, swinging his chainsword at its abdomen, its cut tearing through multicoloured feathers, warp sewn bone and bile. Its high-pitched

scream pierced the void before it drove a bony finger through Aramus’ chest. The demon picked up its prey, raising it above its beaked mouth. “I know your secrets, little raven,” cawed the demon, its grin with needles as teeth. “I know your chapters past and future, Aramus of Meridian. And you will not deny me my prize.” Aramus just smiled, an unusual moment for the marine. “Good,” he coughed raggedly, “Then you know of your own fate.” Aramus unclipped his bolt pistol, firing shots into the demons’ eyes until it ran dry, blinding it. It screamed in pain, throwing the marine to the ground with a hard thud. Aramus adrenaline kicked in, launching himself off the ground, slicing into the demon with every slice of his chainsword. The demon collapsed from the assault, its legs broken and much of its body in ruins. “I am Aramus of the Blood Ravens! And I am your doom demon!” he shouted, jumping onto the demons’ head before plunging his chainsword into its third eye. As he did, he said the creatures name, one that was written in the chapter annals, a name so foul Aramus felt bile rise in his throat at each syllable. But at that, he banished it back into the warp, where it belonged. He then fell again, landing heavily onto the mucky surface below. Aramus coughed blood as he fell onto his knees, looking to the gapping wound in his chest. He would not survive this day. How he still stood was a miracle. He scanned the environment only to see the armies of the damned,

the warp creatures that sought his death. They were shambling things, crooked smiles of jagged, rusted teeth. Their bodies were covered in mouths. Pus seemed to ooze out of their bodies, along with protruding bones. Everywhere they walked, the rot of the warp seeped every closer to the commander, their pus-filled eyes staring straight at their target. Aramus kept smiling, lifting himself from the muck with all the effort he could muster before charging raggedly into the horde, swinging his chainsword, slicing the clogged weapon into the warp filth before him. “Come demons! I will end you all! For the Blood Ravens! For the Great Father! For the Unknown Primarch!” The cry echoed into the warp, along with the sounds of a warrior refusing to die, refusing to be laid low by the filth he saw. But then there was a guttural sound, of metal meeting metal, flesh being cut, then a drifting silence. The Bloated World then turned its eye, watching as the ship in orbit fled from it. And in the depths of the warp, the dark laughter of an old friend could be heard. . . . It had been over a month since Aramus’ death, and now Thaddeus knelt in what should’ve been his place, before the statue of Vidya, just as he had only hours prior. But now, he adorned a sacred piece of armour, one he felt he was not worthy of. The reliquary called it the Armour of Death, recorded as having been forged specifically for

one purpose: to strike terror into the hearts of the enemies of mankind. All over the ancient piece skulls adorned almost every facet, both winged and unwinged, human and xenos. Parchment wove paths along the greaves and pauldrons, scrawled with blessing, lamentations, curses and promises for redemption. Wearing it was a bond for life, an honour and a curse. One that would only end with death. Above Thaddeus stood Epistolary Anteas and the new Master of Sanctity Sigmund, each in new polished armour, their old armour too ruined to be of a presentable quality for such an important occasion. Anteas was haggard, exhausted from the effort of using his psychic powers to guide the ship to safety. In Sigmund’s’ hands lay a mighty power axe, the Ravens Talon, its frame crackling with the energy of a dying world, sated and sharpened by the blood of traitors. Its blade reached out like the raven itself, with a blood drop filled with the blood of traitors of recent memory being central to the black marble embroidery. Azariah Kyras, apothecary Galan, and sergeant Lysandros added their contributions to it. Even Avitus was not spared the duty of reminding Thaddeus of his duty. Formalities were said, but Thaddeus didn’t care, he didn’t listen. He no longer thought of how unworthy he was, but how he would honour his commanders’ legacies. They had taught him a lot, they deserved this position far

more than he did. Yet here he stood, forced to live out their legacy. He remembered the rage he had felt at that moment, being told to leave behind his commander, his battle brother, but he had tempered it. Ckrius went to charge ahead but Thaddeus had grabbed him, before knocking the young one unconscious. Ckrius was perhaps as scarred as he was, but he was still young. He would have to be careful with the new recruits. Thaddeus silently sighed as he remembered arriving on the Retribution, ordering Anteas to guide them out of the warp, Sigmund’s’ spirit and zeal the only thing keeping both the librarian and himself from collapsing from exhaustion. It was only when they had steered clear of the Eye of Terror many days later that the crew began to rest, to recover. For Thaddeus, it meant nights of kneeling in the chapel. The gene-seed within may have played a part in keeping him from true rest, but it was also his own demons within him. Even now, he felt haggard, but most of it was due to his own insistence. Then came the final oath, that of destruction and death: “Do you pledge yourself, by the blood of your enemies, by the blood of your brothers, and by the Emperor Himself, to bring death and destruction to the xenos, the mutant, and the heretic alike? To be His executioner.” A silence filled the air for a second, a brief second of tension.

“I will.” “Then rise, Thaddeus, Captain of the 4th Company. You have a duty to complete brother.” And so, he did, taking Ravens Talon into his hands. Sigmund gestured to the marine that had been watching from the shadows the entire time, a young sergeant, one who had been recruited with the taint of Chaos on him. A survivor of Tartarus, the last to leave but among the first of their brothers to turn. Thaddeus held back the last vestige of emotions he had, the last understanding of humanity as he held the great axe. It was an injustice, he thought, but it must be done. For the chapter. “Sergeant Ckrius, for almost a century, you have served with your battle brothers with distinction. I have seen you fight alongside me, lead your men into perilous situations and emerge unscathed. Yet, from the day you were chosen to serve, the taint of Chaos has followed you. You may have been unwitting such acts, but the corruption in your veins almost doomed the chapter.” Ckrius didn’t look up. He knew what he’d done, he always had. He was the carrier of the demon of Tartarus, that Kyras, in his attempt to appease the demon as an ally of Ulkair, became possessed by it. Angelos had known, he’d seen the taint firsthand. But he had hoped that death in the crusade would be penance enough. Yet he lived, and so another secret of the Blood Ravens must be revealed.

“By the decree of Chapter Master Angelos, I hereby sentence you to death. You know of the deed you committed. Your salvation awaits brother. And may He judge you in His light.” The axe swung, a head rolled. In his final moments, Ckrius sighed in relief. It mattered not, the deed was done. The commanders then turned to the assembled throng of marines, warriors who had fought side by side with him for the last century, as well as those from other, newer companies, those he would lead onwards. “Behold brothers!” Sigmund exhumed, “Hail brother- captain Thaddeus of the 4th, Lord Executioner of the Blood Ravens!” They brought their vambraces to their chest, kneeling in unison, hailing their new brother-captain. And as they did, Thaddeus raised his new weapon above his head. It felt off unbalanced, but he needed to fit the role he was now given. He would have to. “Battle Brothers! Today, the chapter is reborn! Today, we are free from the grasp of Chaos! And today, it is my honour to lead you, for today, we begin a new crusade! Whilst our Chapter Master takes the fight to the green skin menace, we will strike a telling blow to those who fight for darker masters. This Crusade will be glorious! One to cleanse a system that is turning away from the Emperors light! We will prove to the Imperium that, during its time of need, we will be His angels of death!

We will bring destroy the enemies of the Emperor wherever they hide, wherever they seek refuge! No mercy! No respite! For we deliver the Emperors’ justice!” Thaddeus then turned to the statue of Vidya, the Great Father, and bellowed the cry of his chapter, reforged from the fires of betrayal and redemption. His brothers joined him in this call, and throughout the Retribution, one unified cry could be heard echoing its halls: “For the chapter and for the Emperor, may none find us wanting!”

Deep in the darkest depths of the Immaterium, a lone figure was held by the power of the warp, suspended above a cracked altar. The figure seemed formless, yet its physique was large, muscular. A human, a male. He was garbed in a dark crimson armour, jagged and broken. It was marked with writing, ancient texts of a past he barely held dear. His head was bare, pale, and his jaw broken. A space marine. But one with a dark heart, one filled with hatred. He was not favoured by his dark deities; his failures were proof of it. Yet why he still lived was unknown. He had fought for Primarchs’ and warlords, even the Warmaster in two different eras, yet he had failed them all, his revival was beyond any reasonable understanding of it. But, that is ignoring the soul of the man, only focussing on the physical body of this champion of Chaos. For his soul held no bounds, having suffered for millennia in the Basilica of Torments. His cold hatred and vindication to Chaos was beyond sanity. A soul that refused to die. Then, in a moment within moments, he began to writhe and scream. Though it had been a century since his death, it had felt like a millennium, the dark Gods not caring for time, demons torturing him over and over again. But he had refused to give him. And now, now was

the perfect time for him to return to Imperium. Now he was their plaything again, another pawn in the final stages of the great war. His suspension stopped with his screaming, slowly lowering him down onto his knees, before him a helmet, one that revealed to him who had summoned him, and an eight-pointed Crozius Arcanum. He felt the eyes of his lord upon him, the infinite power of the warp echoing from the stare. He knew his purpose in an instant, to be a vanguard, one of many that would leave the demon world. Before him was a war host, one of great size. The Rift had broken the back of the Imperium. Gulliman’s resurrection had disrupted Abaddon’s plan, just as Kyras had disrupted Abaddon’s plan. But now the galaxy was at a stalemate. The False Emperor’s children were in play now; his feud was insignificant compared to that. It was only a matter of time before the rest would return. But he was fine with that. It had done him a great service, to be free of that fool of a Warmaster. Abaddon was no Horus, no Primarch. Diomedes had done him a great service also, for he had truly freed him from Abaddon’s service. The demon in Kyras had fought to claim his soul with the Warmaster and, in the end, the Dark Gods claimed it instead, gifting it to their most loyal subject. A gift with a price.

No longer would his lord be idle, discovering the intricacies of the warp like the fool Magnus had, nor would he preach to his herd alone. Now he would rise from his throne and lead them in a crusade to enlighten their brothers, to enlighten them all to the Primordial Truth. The figure smiled and began to don his old helm. He felt the power, the strength of the warp flow through him. It had been a long time since he had wielded that much power, since he was no longer a puppet constrained by his master. Now he was a prophet of doom, of death, of enlightenment. Then, the Inheritor stood, his twisted smile etching further across his face. He stepped onto the surface of Sicarius, the power of the warp at his disposal. He raised his Crozius Arcanum, and announced his purpose, his goal. It was simple. “I have returned brothers. Returned to finish what I started, a long time ago.”