Chapter 477: To Whom Do the Blackstone Fortresses Truly Belong?
When Arthur stepped onto the bridge of the Invincible Reason, the Lion was standing alone beside the command throne. He gripped the hilt of the Lion Sword, directing the movements of the host through sheer force of will.
To many of the Dark Angels, their Primarch seemed to have aged centuries in his long slumber, and his temperament had softened into something resembling patience. Yet, at this moment, the Lion appeared exceptionally light-hearted.
He no longer had to agonize over the labyrinthine ideological rot within the Legion. He was no longer forced to act as a King, dragging a planet's worth of administration through the mud. He didn't have to wear a mask of grim duty while executing thankless tasks.
Perhaps the Lion, in his transhuman stoicism, truly required none of it. He had sought only a clear conscience for ten millennia; only the Lion could say "Loyalty is its own reward" and mean it. But as Arthur had noted—
Some souls require pageantry.
They could not accept the death of one era and the birth of another without a grand ritual to imbue the transition with meaning. Thus, laurels had to be woven. Titles of honor and appropriate rank had to be forged and bestowed upon the deserving.
Some required acclaim.
The Lion had found his role, fulfilling the responsibilities of a Supreme Commander with a perfection that earned him the genuine reverence of the Dawnbreakers' forces.
The initial period of friction had passed. Beyond the revised opinions of the ten-thousand-year veterans, the Lion had won the heartfelt respect of the Dawnstar warriors. A ripple of sincere praise flowed through the various army groups.
Everyone knew that under the Lion's command, glory followed in a tide. The Primarch who had brought more worlds into compliance than any two of his brothers combined still possessed that terrifying efficacy.
The atmospheric pressure within the bridge shifted as Arthur approached. The Lion turned, catching the familiar silhouette. A rare smile touched his face.
"Is it finished?"
"It is. The primary handovers are complete. Our burden should lighten significantly from here."
The Dawnbreakers' "unorthodox" methods were now public knowledge. Under the Emperor's psychic pressure, Guilliman had accepted his fate. Currently, Yvraine and Saint Celestine were serving as his conduits to the Aeldari and the Ecclesiarchy, acting as lieutenants in his administration. The "Tall Ones" no longer needed to stand guard over the Regent's desk.
Arthur nodded in greeting. Through the reinforced viewports, he watched wings of Fire-Raptors and Storm-Eagles spiraling out of the hangar bays, interspersed with the massive bulks of Stormbirds and Nightwings.
Some of the formations were ragged at the edges—the natural physiological gap between human and Eldar pilots making coordination difficult. However, within the sanctified passages of the Webway, there was little need for the brutal attrition of the void. These wings were performing their duties with clinical precision.
The Aeronautica wings were moving through the smaller arteries of the Webway, ferrying reinforcements to the embattled worlds of the Maelstrom and carving out new landing zones for the main host.
The very nature of war had shifted.
High-speed communications and FTL transit methods were already altering the DNA of their armies. While the main fleet had yet to fully enter the Maelstrom Sector, the vanguard was already operational through the Webway.
To the south of the Maelstrom, Chogoris and Nocturne had been relieved. The vanguard had established links with the garrisoned White Scars and Salamanders. The strategy was clear: use these reclaimed worlds as jumping-off points. The grand fleet would drive straight for Badab while the secondary forces would disperse through the Webway to support a hundred different fronts simultaneously.
They were no longer bound by the doctrines of the Great Crusade, where a Primarch had to be physically present at every fire to hold the line. They were moving toward a paradigm of "Grand Strategy from the Shadows," winning battles light-years away from the command chair.
"It seems I shall not have to endure his company on the battlefield for a very long time," the Lion remarked, his smile carrying a hint of schadenfreude.
The Lion still harbored a peculiar resentment toward working with Guilliman—especially recalling the debacle with Konrad Curze.
Back during the Thramas Crusade, he had dissected Curze's tactics perfectly. Yet, on Macragge, when he tried to coordinate with Guilliman, they had both been played like fools. It proved that while both were masters of war, when forced together without a clear hierarchy, they were effectively a "conglomerate of failures."
"To let him set foot on a battlefield at this stage would be a dereliction of our duty," Arthur said casually, uttering a sentence that would have chilled Guilliman to the bone. He stepped up to the tactical console to analyze the disposition of the forces.
As the Dawnbreakers' strength spread across the southern Maelstrom, the threats from the Orks and the Tyranid Hive Fleets were being systematically cauterized. Guided by the Eldar, the vanguard was using liberated worlds as springboards, pulling local planetary forces into a snowballing offensive that rolled toward the most high-intensity warzones.
It is a landslide of iron and fire.
Arthur understood now why the Necrons had been driven to the brink of insanity by the Old Ones during the War in Heaven.
The current joint fleet didn't need to break through the natural defensive lines formed by xenos empires or chaotic nebulae. They simply stepped over them, striking directly at strategic heartlands.
Once the Maelstrom was stabilized, the conquest of Commorragh would be moved to the top of the agenda.
If they did not seize control of the Webway's primary hub, the Drukhari would retain the initiative within the tunnels. Without that control, the Dawnbreakers could not execute a total purge of the Webway, which would continue to compromise their deployments across the galaxy.
Furthermore, they had been too busy with the war to fully process the "spoils" taken from Vashtorr. Once the Arkifane's "wicked technical lore" was catalogued, the cult of the Machine God would have to be restructured. The experimental "Noospheric Illuminatum" would be popularized, dismantling the stagnant monopoly of the Adeptus Mechanicus from within—particularly the stubborn orthodoxies of Mars. The Dark Angels would act as the iron fist to support Romulus's administrative scalpels.
Arthur mused silently. There was a mountain of work ahead.
But no need to rush.
He didn't have to be the one to push the buttons.
His gaze swept over Azrael, Corswain, and Redloss—the high command of the Dark Angels. He had already assigned the burdens in his mind. Arthur turned his attention to Abaddon's fleet and the two ominous silhouettes within it: the Blackstone Fortresses.
The Despoiler's trump cards. Chaos sorcerers had taught him just enough to wield these ancient engines to tear at the veil of reality, allowing him to close the logistical gap between his warbands and the Imperial defenders.
I hope he does not lose his temper and try to drop those fortresses onto Badab, Arthur thought. He checked the status of the units sent to board the ancient constructs.
"My Lord, I implore you to listen to reason."
Cato Sicarius, Captain of the Second Company, Vanguard of the Regent, and Pride of Thalassar, stood inside an Eldar warship that rivaled an Imperial Light Cruiser in scale. He watched with a flat expression as wings of Phoenix interceptors spiraled out of the launch bays.
He told himself this was the Primarch's will. Alliances with xenos were not without historical precedent—rare as they were. He could feel the fawning gazes of the Craftworld Eldar around him, as if currying favor with him would grant them some cosmic reprieve.
The relationship between the XIII Legion and the Eldar had never been warm. They had clashed with every branch of the Aeldari race. The piratical raids of xenos corsairs were a chronic disease that had plagued Ultramar for centuries.
"According to the records of your culture," a female Eldar said, standing beside Sicarius (who was currently plated in so many honorary medals he glowed golden), "the distant cousin of my nephew's daughter once led a raid on the Ultramar Sector. It was a failure of my own discipline."
She sighed melodramatically. "So you see, how can an abhuman such as I serve the Emperor and Mankind in such a high station? I beg of you, for the sake of the Imperium's future purity, grant me the mercy of the Emperor's judgment."
"..."
Sicarius was not moved.
He surveyed these "Sanctioned Xenos" in silence.
The Eldar had struck a bargain with the Dawnbreakers: they would provide their souls for protection in exchange for service. This had led to a bizarre trend where a significant number of Eldar were actively seeking death in combat. Some seemed to find the process of seeking death intolerable and just wanted it over with.
But suicide was a mortal sin in almost every Imperial creed.
Thus, these insecure Eldar were actively seeking out Astartes who were on Penitent Crusades or seeking a "Glorious End," throwing themselves into the most suicidal engagements alongside them.
As for the one before him...
Sicarius looked at the high-ranking Eldar official and her grotesque display of self-abasement.
This mindset was common among those who had witnessed the Fall of the Eldar. Unless they died at least once to prove... something, they remained in a state of total existential terror.
The older they are, the more spineless they become, Sicarius thought darkly.
In the past, he would have hacked these xenos into mincemeat on the battlefield to add another trophy to his record. Now, they were delivering themselves to his door, and he couldn't even summon the will to kill them. It felt as if slaying them would only stain his blade.
He had zero confidence in them.
Sicarius stared at the horizon of the Webway, unsure if he could trust his own senses.
the ship sped forward, the apertures in the tunnel walls revealing a kaleidoscope of worlds.
He saw peaceful cities, breathtaking landscapes, and then a battlefield where an Ork space-hulk—kilometers wide—was spiraling into a planet, shredded by lance fire and ground batteries.
It was one of the most magnificent sights of his long career.
Pity it wasn't his battlefield.
From Sicarius's perspective, the scene looked almost frozen in time, defying all physical laws. Then, with a blink, it vanished as the ship dove deeper into the Webway. Within these tunnels, time and speed were fluid. They were altering the course of the war at a velocity the Imperium had never before achieved, mocking the traditional form of conflict.
After a moment, Sicarius shook his head in boredom, weary of the Eldar's incessant chattering, and went to find his senior, Captain Titus.
It took time to navigate the ship. The Eldar architecture was alien and confusing, and under the Primarch's orders, he couldn't just punch a hole through the obstacles.
Guided by a helpful Eldar who was busy studying a book on human history and didn't immediately beg for execution, Sicarius finally found Titus in the lower hangar decks. He was slightly jealous to see that his more legendary senior wasn't being harassed by the xenos.
"Lord Titus."
Sicarius offered the respect due to the first champion of the Feast of Blades.
"How much longer must we wait?"
In truth, the wait for combat was shorter than ever before, but the presence of these "neurotic" Eldar, who were more eager for the meat-grinder than the Ultramarines themselves, was grating on his nerves.
"..."
Titus noted Sicarius's irritation and allowed a small smile.
Having followed the Dawnbreakers since the beginning, he was used to these sights. He knew how to navigate these waters.
Sicarius, with his flamboyant armor and obsession with honor, didn't realize what a target he made of himself for the Eldar's "atonement" fetish.
"Soon."
Before Titus could offer further comfort, Sylandri Veilwalker stepped from the shadows.
Sicarius didn't draw his sword. He knew that if he killed an Eldar now, the rest would only be delighted, and he would have to endure a long-distance vox-reprimand from Lord Ramesses.
Lord Ramesses actually follows those 'contracts' he writes... truly bizarre, Sicarius thought. He looked at Sylandri with a questioning gaze.
The legendary Harlequin, who had once broken into the Imperial Palace and left a trail of myths in her wake, wore a mask that was a perfect, featureless silver mirror.
As the direct agents of Cegorach, the Harlequins reported directly to the Dawnbreakers. Their mission was Webway reconnaissance and the recovery of archeotech.
"We have located a Webway gate leading to the Talismans of Vaul—the ancient engines you call the Blackstone Fortresses. Prepare two small transports. Follow me."
The Harlequin's tone was polite, which Sicarius found tolerable. At least the Harlequins acted like professional soldiers.
But before the Vanguard Captain could muster his enthusiasm, the previously moping Eldar nearby leaped to their feet.
The Eldar possessed biological gifts that made them natural killers. Their long lives and "Paths" meant they had spent more time mastering their crafts than any human. Their brief bouts of "slacking off" were a mere heartbeat in their long lives; it didn't mean they had grown weak.
Flicking away the hand of an Aspect Warrior who had tried to grab his arm in excitement, Sicarius had to admit the xenos were talented.
In the blink of an eye, the elite Aspect Warriors, Farseers, and Autarchs had surrounded Sylandri and the golden-plated Sicarius.
"For the Emperor! Choose me!"
"By the Formless Lord! I was born for the moment I could lay down my life for Mankind!"
"Let me go! My ancestors once operated the Talismans of Vaul!"
Throne damn it!
Sicarius's face went as black as a charcoal pit.
For a moment, he couldn't tell who was more "loyal."
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