Chapter 502: Let the Hammer Fall
"..."
Helbrecht, High Marshal of the Black Templars, High Honor-Bearer of the Dawnstar Crusade, Avenger of the Iron Warriors' Spite, and one of the greatest scions of the VII Legion...
He had ruled the Black Templars for a millennium, draped in honors won through blood and fire. He had been a guardian of the Imperium in the long dark before the Primarchs' return, weathering two Black Crusades and fighting alongside the Sires before they had fully manifested their transhuman glory. He stood at the absolute apex of the Astartes hierarchy.
Within the Eternal Crusader, the Great Banner of Honor—a relic that left the masters of a thousand other Chapters breathless—bore the chronicle of every campaign since the Dawnbreakers first stepped into the material realm. It was rumored that only the reclusive Carcharodons possessed a trophy that could rival its weight in legend.
His entire life was a non-stop saga of heroism, enough to stifle the envy of any other Space Marine.
Yet, as time flowed and Arthur's voice resonated through the bridge of the Eternal Crusader, the silence of Tu'Shan, Chapter Master of the Salamanders, was deafening.
Helbrecht felt a sliver of his own spirit wither.
He burned with the urge to tell Lord Arthur: 'Look to us instead.'
The opportunities the Salamanders hesitated to seize, the Templars would embrace with religious fervor. The reforms the Promethean Cult agonized over, the Sons of Dorn would implement with clinical efficiency.
We, too, seek our Sire.
Helbrecht took a sharp, internal breath.
But the words died in his throat.
The Imperial Fists had no thread to pull.
There lay the most profound agony. The Dark Angels, for all their shadows and secrets, had their Lion. The Raven King was whispered to be a silent sentinel in the dark. Guilliman had been preserved as a living icon for ten millennia, his very presence securing the logistics of his sons. Even the Salamanders could scrounge through their ancient dragon-skin tomes every few centuries and find a fresh prophecy of Vulkan's return.
And the Space Wolves?
The legend of Russ was a living thing on Fenris. His feud with the Crimson King was a roadmap through the Immaterium. The Vylka Fenryka had a target. They had coordinates.
If the Thousand Sons neophytes didn't know, they would seize a Sorcerer. If a Sorcerer didn't know, they would hunt a Magister. If a Magister was silent, they would storm the domain of the Red Cyclops himself to tear the truth from his soul!
With an objective in sight, the Wolves were a pack driven by infinite momentum. They had even abandoned their traditional recruitment, sourcing noble sons from the "Schola Progenium of the Ice Worlds" and bringing them back to Fenris for the final trials.
Even the Wolves have a trail!
Why did every parent Legion possess a tether to their Sire while the Templars remained orphaned?
Helbrecht looked toward the Imperial Fists. Or rather, he looked at what they had become. While the bloodline was pure, the continuity of their culture had been fractured by the tides of time.
The High Marshal turned his head, refusing to let his lack of composure be seen by the Primarch.
He faced his Battle-Brothers and the ancient warriors of the Crusade era. Their expressions were equally strained. They looked at Tu'Shan's hesitant, basalt-carved face and then averted their eyes in shared misery.
Among them stood Fafnir Rann and Alexis Polux—reunited through the miracles of the Dawnstar.
Rann and Sigismund had been brothers in all but name since the Great Crusade, an axe and a sword that had carved a path from the Solar Starports to the Saturnine Gate.
Once the Executioners had stabilized their internal doctrine and merged back into the greater host, Rann—now a Chapter Master of near-limitless authority—had followed the trend of the other Crusade veterans, taking up a post within the Dawnbreakers' central command.
Polux stood nearby, his presence driven by his ancient bond with Barabas Dantioch. The "Shattered Legions" cadre had followed the Dawnstar Lords faithfully, though Nathaniel Garro and the Death Guard loyalists had fallen into a somber depression following the conclusion of the Plague War.
The giant known as the Crimson Fist also wore a mask of frustration.
"High Marshal," Polux said, approaching Helbrecht with the respect due to Sigismund's successor.
"The investigation into the ancient texts of the VII must become our absolute priority. The Phalanx, the archives of Terra, and every world Dorn ever set foot upon—if the Imperial Fists Chapter lacks the bandwidth to scour them, then we shall take the burden."
It was the only task that mattered now.
In the past, they had endured ten thousand years of silence. But the context had shifted. To be without a Sire when the other Legions were welcoming theirs was an insult they could no longer bear.
"Agreed," Helbrecht said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
He looked at the Chapter icons adorning the halls of the Eternal Crusader, his gaze locking onto the sigil of the Imperial Fists—the Chapter that had retreated into the walls of Terra and seemed to have forgotten the galaxy existed. They couldn't even keep the Phalanx clean, let alone find a Primarch.
Imperial Fists— Helbrecht clenched his fist. I am going to have to take the reins of your destiny!
The High Marshal was incensed.
"My Lord—" Tu'Shan's voice broke through the tension.
His primary struggle was the sheer, overwhelming benevolence the Lord of Knights showed them.
Tu'Shan was a simple, honest soul. He didn't seek status or wealth. He simply didn't want to be a burden, even to a Primarch. To hide behind tradition was the reflexive defense of a man who just wanted to do his job and help his people.
The Salamanders were built on empathy. Even the 3rd Company, known for its pragmatic tactical approach, was viewed by the common people of the Imperium as a host of living saints.
But the reality of the age demanded more than saints. It demanded Legions.
"My Lord, on behalf of my Chapter, I thank You and the other Sovereigns for the tolerance You have shown the Sons of Nocturne."
Tu'Shan's jaw tightened with emotion.
"The Salamanders shall obey the command of the Primarchs."
"Excellent," Arthur smiled. He repeated the phrase he had uttered to a hundred Imperial governors.
"Do not fear being a burden. We exist to facilitate the resolution of your burdens."
He turned instantly to Commissar Yarrick.
"I authorize your strategy, Commissar. You are granted the mandate to requisition all local Astartes and Mechanicum assets to fill out your combat groups. Furthermore, since we are moving to the counter-offensive, you are permitted to be... more aggressive."
"As You command, My Lord!" Yarrick snapped to attention. Then, his expression faltered.
"But... the Wolves."
The problem was Bjorn the Fell-Handed and Logan Grimnar. They were currently at the Eye of Terror, split between blockading the Chaos warbands and hunting for Russ.
Armageddon and Fenris were relatively close, linked by stable shipping lanes. Historically, the Wolves had always maintained a garrison on Armageddon, but the Vylka Fenryka were never satisfied with a static defense.
They sought out the gaps. They lunged at the enemy, trading blows and then vanishing, tearing at the flanks until they found a weakness. In an era of decentralized command, they were the ultimate wild card—miracle-workers who won wars on instinct. But for a commander who sought to integrate his entire front into a single, cohesive machine, they were a logistical nightmare.
"Inform them that it is My command," Arthur said, his expression hardening.
In grand-scale warfare, discipline was the only absolute.
In the past, "Command" was a suggestion. The Commissariat's job was morale; the General's job was to be a name on a banner.
The rest was a chaotic mess of junior officers doing what they thought was best. But did the Dawnstar spend decades building the Noospheric link just for the Wolves to ignore it?
Authority was for this exact moment.
And Arthur wasn't worried about the Wolves' obedience.
"DONE! IT'S DONE!"
The doors to the command center were thrown open by a pack of hurried Space Wolves. Seeing that the vox-link was still live, the warriors—who had been out on a "reconnaissance" (looting) run only minutes prior—scrambled toward the console.
Tu'Shan moved to give them space, his dark features a mask of lingering shock. The genetic empathy of Vulkan had left him dazed by the "gift" he had just received.
One of the Wolves, eyes darting with predatory intent, clamped a hand on Tu'Shan's shoulder to keep the Chapter Master in frame, while the others crowded around the visual array.
Immediately, the air around Tu'Shan was saturated with the "signature" scent of the Fenrisians.
The Librarian maintaining the link grimaced.
He noted the grime and unknown xenos-ichor staining the Wolves' gauntlets as they leaned familiarly against Tu'Shan's drake-scale cloak. He wanted to chide them for their lack of decorum, but they were brothers-in-arms.
Still, the stench of Ork was heavy on them. One might suspect that if you painted them green and dropped them into a mob, they'd blend in perfectly.
Slap.
the lead Wolf, a young man with a mane of black hair, threw an arm around Yarrick's shoulder. The smell made the Commissar's nose crinkle.
"Lord Arthur! I am Ragnar, of the Blackmane Great Company! Ragnar Blackmane!"
He shouted with a fawning enthusiasm that bordered on the sycophantic. It was the look of a grandson greeting a wealthy grandfather, and it made everyone else on the bridge distinctly uncomfortable.
Ragnar Blackmane, the "Young King," the duel-champion of the VI.
By all accounts, a legendary warrior of his temperament shouldn't be this "flexible." The Wolves usually greeted authority with a growl and a challenge.
But this was an era where any given honor guard contained three or four Great Crusade veterans. Any impulse or arrogance was met with a "Tactical Education" from the old-timers that taught the youth the true meaning of humility.
Ragnar looked at Arthur's projection, his grin reaching his ears.
"The Space Wolves are in total compliance with Commissar Yarrick's directives!"
He added a booming shout for emphasis.
"There is no commander on Armageddon I revere more than him!"
They were "anti-Guilliman" to their marrow—the Ultramarines owed them far too much for their liking—but they owed the Dawnstar everything.
No gene-seed tithes? No problem. Sovereign weapon-production? Yes, please. High-quality recruits from the Ice Worlds? Absolutely.
And most importantly: If you don't listen to us, we won't tell you where Russ is. If the Wolves break the line, they don't get a seat at the Pantheon.
It was a threat too large for any Wolf to ignore.
"..."
Yarrick stood in stoic silence, despite the fact that his lungs were currently being assaulted by the scent of unwashed Fenrisian hair.
The Wolves had a unique way of embedding themselves into Ork territory—by physically rolling in the muck to mask their chemical signatures. It worked, but it was decidedly... non-Astartes.
"My Lord, Yarrick's report is concluded," the Commissar said, offering an Aquila salute.
The time for sentiment was over. He would not linger before a Primarch when a war needed winning.
The pleasantries were for the victory parade.
"I will bring victory to You. I will bring victory to Armageddon!" he vowed.
"We are already in transit," Arthur replied, a look of encouragement in his emerald eyes.
"Let the hammer fall."
BEEP.
The projection dissolved. The link severed.
The low hum of the Capitol Imperialis and the distant thunder of the battlefield reclaimed the room.
Yarrick stared at the empty space where the light had been.
'Let the hammer fall.'
The mobile fortress executed a turn, driving deeper into the heart of Hive Hades to meet the concentrated reserves. The Primarch's words echoed in Yarrick's mind.
He clenched his fist—a subconscious test of his own strength, a gesture a man makes only when he feels he has been gifted the power to change his world.
"Hey, Yarrick. Why the long face?" Ragnar slapped him on the back again.
Strangely, Yarrick didn't find the Wolf annoying this time.
Was it the Word? he wondered, looking at his hand.
Is this what it feels like to have security?
"How many effectives can you commit, My Lord?" Yarrick asked Tu'Shan.
"Three hundred," Tu'Shan replied.
The Salamanders valued life above their own. Nocturne had the gene-seed; a total wipeout of the company was a price they were willing to pay for the citizens.
"And we have a thousand Sons of Russ!" Ragnar added proudly.
"Mostly new blood. Two hundred are Grey Hunters. Some armor support. And, of course, our attached Auxilia."
The Wolves worked well with the mortals. Although the Valhallan Ice Warriors grumbled about the Wolves' hygiene and lack of discipline, their combat rhythms were compatible.
Whenever the Space Wolves used their "unorthodox" wisdom and raw strength to punch a hole in the line, the steel tide of the Valhallans would pour in behind them, saturating the gap and annihilating the enemies the Wolves were too bored to finish.
"That will be sufficient," Yarrick said. He gestured to the Salamander Librarian, who stepped forward with a servo-skull.
"We need to review the disposition once more."
"Hmph."
Ragnar snorted, seeing Yarrick "ignore" him. He signaled his Wolf Priest, who immediately plugged a data-slate into the terminal.
A sequence of fresh reconnaissance data from behind enemy lines flickered onto the screen.
Yarrick's brow furrowed as he scanned the numbers.
BOOM!
The Capitol Imperialis lurched as it hit a massive transport conveyor, rattling the table.
"The situation is worse than the Command Center's estimates," Yarrick noted, drawing a line across the tactical display.
"The central command has been blind. Look here: the primary host, led by nearly twenty Mega-Armor Nobz, has entered the Nyx Sector. The 'Waaagh!' fire they've ignited through the lesser tribes has reached Gorgon, Hades, and Helsreach. Nyx cannot withstand this pressure—"
"The Orks are literally playing with us. We didn't realize how deep the rot had gone."
"I told the War Council," Ragnar said, crossing his arms.
"A concentrated Space Wolf strike. Decapitate Ghazghkull. But no, you people were too busy gathering the stragglers and retreating into your shells. You played the turtle."
"If this data is accurate, your 'rush' would have achieved nothing but the total collapse of the defense," Yarrick countered.
"Hmph. They weren't this strong at the start. If you'd used your 'secret stash' then, we could have taken them."
"I hadn't organized the logistics then!"
"If you'd let us save the situation first, it would be different!"
"And I should have gambled the lives of a disorganized, terrified PDF fleet to save a hundred Wolves?"
They bickered as they worked, their hands never stopping.
Tu'Shan looked between them, checking for errors in the logic. He noted their shared intensity.
"What matters," Tu'Shan said, "is that we stand together now. There are no secrets between us."
"..."
The two men looked at Tu'Shan, then at each other. They let out a simultaneous sigh.
The pressure was immense. They were leading a crusade under the direct scrutiny of the Sires.
This "bickering" was their pressure valve. It was a release of the anger and frustration of the long years of stalemate.
They looked at Tu'Shan again, then put their heads down and focused on the data.
The tone of the discussion became noticeably more professional.
They spoke in low voices, a long and meticulous exchange of ideas, punctuated only by the whistle of the wind against the hull.
BOOM!
The Capitol Imperialis shuddered one last time. They had arrived.
Hive Hades, Staging Area for the Reserve Legions.
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