42 The Ullanor Crusade

Ullanor Sector, Outer Rim

Twelfth Legion Fleet,

Angronius' Flagship

In the great expanse of swirling nebulas, wandering masses of asteroid and rock, sat the mighty Maw of Orcus amidst the assembled Twelfth Legion Fleet.

The ship had a different name once, when it was first handed over to the Primarch when he finally assumed command of the War Hounds. Determined to truly embrace the legion as his own, Angronius reshaped all to the image of his choosing, and replaced its moniker accordingly. By the time the Crusade had reached its peak, the warship barely resembled what it had once been. The Primarch diverged from Imperial doctrine, refitting brutal armor plating and bedecking row after row of weapon batteries, which transformed the Maw of Orcus into a spiked hateful void-vessel that favored close-quarter battles over traditional long-range engagements. The triumphs of the legion adorned the helm of the flagship like a great garland, all plucked from the most resistant of worlds that refused to bow before Imperial rule.

The prow of the ship was likened unto the bristling snout of a mad dog, hammered into shape from countless engagements. The legion found the image to its liking, for it embodied the inner savagery hidden within each astartes that formed its ranks. The Primarch saw that it served purpose by shattering the resolve of non-compliant worlds that sought to engage them in battle, the mere sight of which caused the hearts of men to fail as it promised a gruesome fate at the hands of the War Hounds.

A hundred capital ships, with an attachment of three hundred cruisers and escorts, surrounded the Primarch's flagship like an eager pack ready to follow its alpha into battle. Alas, battle would not come just yet. Days that should have been spent engaging the foe were instead used for battle drills, target practice, and meaningless skirmishes at the edge of Ullanor's Outer Rim. Angronius was waiting, and patiently so for many solar weeks. The Primarch had seen through many battles since he had joined the Emperor on the Great Crusade. But this one required more than the might of one legion. The War Hounds were to wait, on orders from the Emperor himself, that they were to meet with three other legions and combine their strengths in the coming campaign.

For in this stage of the Great Crusade, their enemy was not some fledgling coalition in a backwater sector, whose name would so easily be forgotten once forced to compliance. Their enemy was a living weapon, of a bygone age left to grow in strength and size unabated for untold millennia. It was, it is, a shadow of its former self- but nevertheless past due its decommissioning.

The great footfalls of the spacemarines echoed through the long halls of the legion flagship. Escorted by the Primarch's honor guard, Khârn walked in between the two massive lumbering statues of solid ceramite, more commonly known as Terminators. These astartes were massive, slower and cumbersome compared to the rest of their kin. But even the rock in the seashore, while unmoving and without the fluidity of the surf, is praised for its strength.

The captain of the 1st Assault Company had been at the forefront of every battle in the Nove Shendak Campaign, a great purge of the sentient worm xenos race that lived in Nove Shendak Prime. And as such, his bravery was to be rewarded with a commendation personally given by the Primarch himself. Khârn had sustained many injuries in that long and vicious campaign, including the loss of an eye and both legs, forcing him to be absent in the skirmishes on the Outer Rim. He refused to be surgically implanted with cybernetic replacements, demanding that his body be given the restoration it deserved. He would not accept anything less than vat-grown replacements, which he firmly believed trumped cybernetics any day. Upon his recovery, Khârn was summoned to appear before Angronius.

The Primarch, when he wasn't giving orders at the bridge, could be found in the Den. Angronius had taken up raising dogs as a hobby, gathering pups of every breed from every reclaimed world he found suited for the hard life as war companions for his legionnaires, and transforming them into hounds worthy to fight alongside the spacemarines. The practice was similar to how astartes initiates were inducted into the legionary creed, the mode of ascension dangerously close. Enlisting the aid of his legion's finest techmarines, through geno-amplification or cyber-augmentation, Angronius modified each canine specimen that showed promise in the den's proving grounds. It was no secret that every legion had their oddities, their own rituals and customs in some form or other. All of them persisted by the grace of the Emperor, but some toed the line of what the Machine Cult referred to as 'technoheresy'.

When a Primarch openly practiced those considered the forbidden arts, his legion regarded his actions as just and beyond reproach.

Khârn passed the Ludus Legiones, the innermost deck of the Maw and considered hallowed ground by the more superstitious lot of the War Hounds. It was a grand courtyard, a ring of bronze and iron held aloft by great chains stretched out like the four corners of the world. It was a ceremonial arena, where every legionnaire was required to give a day's penance of blood, sweat and tears.

Although Old Nuceria had long been destroyed, some of its influence bled into the culture of the legion. For all his hatred for the empire that caused him so much pain, Angronius recognized the strengths he found within the sands of the arena, and so he endeavored to impart some of that strength in his sons. In this arena, there were no statues to loom over the sands, no gods or kings to watch from the pulvinus. Only men, bound by brotherhood, would bear witness to the demonstrations of power within the ludus.

The three legionnaires paused to watch the neophytes clash in the arena, where a small crowd of War Hounds veterans have gathered also to select their favorites. The Twelfth Legion did not follow the path of advancement that most legions employed in training, they favored schooling individuals under the brutal tutelage of veteran legionnaires rather than adhering to standardized regimens. This method was first introduced by the Primarch to honor the memory of his adopted father, for he wished his sons to have the same bond for their teachers as gladiators would with their doctore.

Of course, this type of training made for slow progress. But Angronius wasn't breeding soldiers in his legion, singular beings cut and chiseled within a factory, devoid of any purpose beyond their next orders. If he were, he would've sent for the Adeptus Mechanicus to replace all his legionnaires with automatons. No, he was forging warriors.

"Magnificent specimens, are they not?" One of the terminators remarked, his voice a churning vox-growl.

The neophytes, young and eager to shed blood upon the sands, descended the steps into the ludus grounds. With but a word from the overseeing company captain, they rushed each other with bare hands raised to strike. This test of theirs would determine their strengths without weapons, and how resourceful could they be with their new implantations.

Khârn grimaced, "They are but war pups. Back in our day, we only take the men. At least there, their strengths are certain."

"A wise observation." Angronius declared, surprising the three when he emerged from the halls of the Den to meet them. The Primarch wasn't wearing his armor, just a large coat of furs stitched from the hides of a dozen bears that barely covered his massive shoulders. The scarlet tunic parted from his chest into a V, exposing the battle-scarred skin till the waist. Over his hips dangled the leather baltea with golden stubs, a gift presented to him by his daughters when he lived on Nuceria Prime. Angronius' hair remained uncut, but he had braided it to keep it from swinging away at his face. His beard had been trimmed recently, replacing the gruff mountain-man visage with the magnificent look of a warrior-king. The dormant Nails, so firmly rooted into his head, remained like ugly dead tree trunks on a vibrant green field.

Behind him tread the noble Kirya, a panzerhund. Standing at a frightening two meters, a beautiful mix of steel and flesh, the cyber-dog was the result of countless experiments in the secret vaults of Nuceria Prime. Kirya was a living technoheresy, and should her existence be discovered by the tech-priests of Mars, the Twelfth Legion would have to go to war against the Machine Cult. Fortunately, Angronius never favored the Adeptus Mechanicus and kicked them and their devotees off the first chance he got.

There will be more of Kirya, more of the panzerhunds. They will fight alongside the War Hounds, as they were meant to.

The father imparted a measure of his wisdom to the sons, "A warrior that chooses the tested blade over the freshly-forged embraces certainty. He knows that it won't fail him when the battle comes. But a tested blade does not bend, it remains rigid and immovable. These war pups are the future of our legion, they will learn more than we can ever teach them. Remember this, my war hounds."

"My lord." Khârn bowed his head, as did the terminators. "Forgive us for the delay. We were to meet you at the Den."

"I know, I simply grew too bored to wait." Angronius crossed his arms, "We will perform the ceremony here, in this common hall. It's a good enough place as any. Kneel before me, Khârn."

The spacemarine obeyed.

Angronius produced a large leather harness bedecked with glistening golden discs topped with silver and bronze. Khârn's snarling lips twisted into a smile as he beheld the Primarch's honor, but he held his tongue as his lord spoke. "Behold this phalera, upon which your noble deeds are inscribed. Metal or precious stones cannot give true value to the valor you've shown in Nove Shendak, but you are known to this legion. You stood by your brothers against an overwhelming foe, and you have given back the slaves their dignity by vanquishing the xeno. If this handful of treated leather, brass, gold and silver could speak of your fulfillment of your duty to the Imperium- then so be it."

"Hey." One of the terminators nudged Khârn, "That means 'stand'."

The captain removed his helm, revealing a head crowned by coiling braids to mirror Angronius' own. Several black stubs had been hammered around his crown, in a manner not unlike the Nails which graced the king's troubled brow. This was a practice circulating among the officers, and thereby spreading to even the simplest among legionnaires. Angronius knew that his sons meant no disrespect in the act, though he made no secret of his disapproval. The Nails were his curse, a constant reminder of the thing Old Nuceria had helped shape him to be.

He sighed, handing the phalera to Khârn. "Here, wear it to battle if you wish. Though I should warn you, it makes for terrible armor."

"You fought the Nucerians of Old with less." Khârn replied.

"Hm." Angronius grunted, not even bothering to address the compliment. "Gather your company, I would have them shown at the main hangar. We have visitors today."

The terminators exchanged glances, and Khârn smirked evilly. Visitors could only mean that their long awaited allies had finally shown up, and that the long wait was over. They were going to war.

"You're clear to your purpose?"

"Yes, my Primarch. The legions will want a show, a little spectacle as per tradition dictates. We will give them one, right here."

Kirya tailed Angronius as the Primarch went his way, and the honor guard followed. Khârn headed for the barracks of the 1st Assault Company to begin preparations. They were expecting three other Primarchs to assist them in the assault on Ullanor, and they were bringing their legions with them. It was going to be a crusade in itself, for this campaign would be fought against the largest Ork infestation known to man. Some would go as far as to describe the xenos as intelligent enough to constitute an empire, one to rival even the Imperium. Naturally its very existence was an affront, an insult to all intelligent life- especially mankind. The Emperor could not emphasize the importance of their extermination enough.

Soon, the legion assembled before the main hangar. The myriad of different escort ships, attack corvettes and fighters were arranged in neat little rows on the platform. The 1st Company would stand in the ceremonial formation behind their progenitor, who would be at the forefront to be the first to meet his brothers. There was room enough for a few transport ships to land, courtesy granted to the visiting Primarchs. Their fleets would remain in the void, waiting for the command to begin assault.

The massive metal void-shielding retracted with a series of hard thundering clacks, revealing the prow of the Vengeful Spirit. Horus Lupercal's flagship, the pride of the Luna Wolves' fleet, moved close to the Maw of Orcus. A heavy ingot of fashioned iron, it radiated quiet power. Even from a distance one could see hundreds of gun turrets and the slender rods of massive accelerator cannons that were twice the length of most Imperial battleships themselves. The prow of Horus' flagship displayed a massive golden ring which bisected a slim ellipse. Horus' eye, unblinking and open to see all that transpired.

Horus came with the 63rd Expeditionary Fleet, a small flotilla compared to most legions but more than enough to see a hundred worlds brought to compliance. Horus did not travel alone in his exploits, for he brought with him the titan legion Legio Mortis, which was reputed to be one of the oldest serving legions in the Imperium. If the rumors were to be trusted, Legio Mortis was also known for its inhumanity. What could often be mistaken for savagery in the battlefield was in fact a cold, calculating and murderous mindset that only the cunning machine-spirit could manifest- which was fitting, considering that they were among the three that formed the Triad Ferrum Morgulus that served the Adeptus Mechanicus at the end of the Dark Age of Technology.

Their loyalty to the Luna Wolves, which came at great cost, was in itself a testament to Horus' godlike powers of persuasion.

Three Stormbirds, with an escort of the newer Thunderhawk variants, swooped in to board the open hangar and land in the clearing made just for them. Whole crews of worker drones and enginseers on stand-by flocked to the machines to tend to their needs. Docking clamps and refueling pipes were snapped into place, while the great mechanical doors fell open to make way for the mighty demigods stepping out of their transports.

First came Horus Lupercal, the noblest of Primarchs and favored son of the Emperor. His ever-present smile greeted the sight of so many War Hounds gathered, and it broadened when his eyes fell upon Angronius. Beside him was his First Captain, Ezekyle Abaddon, and Hektor Varvarus, Imperial Lord Commander of the 63rd Expeditionary Fleet. Both stood aside with the Byzant Janizar stormtroopers to allow the Primarch to disembark unimpeded.

Next came Leman Russ and his Space-Wolves, arguably the most violent and unpredictable legion in the Imperium. At the sight of them, everyone onboard the Maw except the War Hounds tensed up. The golden-haired Leman Russ, hunched ever forward like a beast constantly on the prowl, leered wickedly at the assembled astartes. Unlike him, Horus chose to come without weapons, to display the great deal of trust he had for his brother. He beckoned for Angronius to come receive him as a brother would and embraced him.

There was a genuine warmth in Angronius' expression, and he grasped the favored son's forearms firm with a grip of iron. "You are of good cheer, I trust you've had a successful campaign?"

"More than one, Angronius." Horus nodded, "More than one. But I am of good cheer simply because I am once again among family. Xenos rarely make for good company, much less pleasant. To fight with our legions side by side is a rare opportunity, and I intend to bask in its glow."

As quickly as the warmth had come, the cold winter sneer of Roboute Guilliman replaced the mirthful atmosphere with a moment of quiet dread. "You would greet us, in a time of war, without your armor?"

Angronius turned to look at him, the proud son of Macragge, and return his contemptuous glower with a burning glare of his own. It was clear that the Primarch of the Ultramarines had taken offense to how he'd presented himself. The truth was, it was hard for him not to take offense from anything of Angron's. The rivalry between Roboute Guilliman and Angronius Thal'kyr was a story as riveting as it was tragic. One was blessed with a noble upbringing, born to and raised by magnates of a lineage held in high esteem. The other knew little else but the lash of the master's whip and the cold stone walls of the gladiator school, raised to shed blood for the amusement of his masters, tempered later only by a woman's loving hand. It is said that these stark contrasts were reason enough to spark the first flames of ire between the two Primarchs and their legions.

Angronius despised Roboute, for he represented a man whose memory he loathed and whose marks of malice remained hammered deep into his skull. Likewise, Roboute hated Angronius for his base and oft-humble countenance.

The patrician versus the plebeian, a tale as old as time.

Angronius shook his head, "For one who fancies himself a man of class, Roboute, you make for a poor guest. As host, I will garb myself as I please."

Leman snickered as he tried half-heartedly to restrain himself, then let out a powerful laugh. The Primarch's guffaws stirred the becalmed air, breaking the terse exchange between his brothers. His mighty Space-Wolves followed his lead and erupted in cheers as they strode forth to embrace the War Hounds. Both legions shared a rivalry as well, though of the friendlier and less-bloody kind as far as 'friendly' and 'less-bloody' was concerned. This was only due to the fact that both legions were considered outcasts among the rest.

The Space-Wolves, hailing from a barbarous backwater death-world, were particularly shunned for the role they played in the past, in that secret war to destroy the Forgotten and the Purged. The War Hounds were spurned by most, simply because Angronius was the only Primarch among them who never conquered his birth-world when the Emperor came to reclaim him.

In that similarity, they found brotherhood.

"Let us keep things civil, brothers." Horus bade the two to grasp one another's hand in kinship, furthering adding fuel to Roboute's ire as he felt as though he was being chided like some errant schoolboy. "True, we are here to wage war. But we are to fight as one. If you won't do it for the sake of the Imperium, know that the Emperor wills it."

"And I obey." Roboute replied, staring Angronius down coldly as he stretched forth his hand.

The gladiator king reached out in turn and squeezed Roboute's armored forearm. There was a noticeable creak as the ceramite plating strained in Angronius' naked grip, but before Roboute could react he had already withdrawn and turned away.

Angronius glanced at Kirya, who was busy sniffing at Leman's wolves, Freki and Geri. The wolf-kin were far larger than the panzerhund, but they carried themselves with more civility than the rest of the Space-Wolves combined. The Sons of Fenris were mixing in with the War Hounds, swapping stories of the many battles they fought like old friends too long apart. Some were showing off trophies, some were already sparring to test their new master-crafted weapons that they might compare the works of their smiths. The Luna Wolves held themselves in reserve, as did the Ultramarines.

Horus noticed this and his face betrayed a look of disappointment, "I apologize for my sons. These are among the newest in my legion, for I wanted this meeting to be the first chance they got to see the War Hounds and bridge the gap between. Evidently, that bridge is of the weakest foundations."

"Fret not, Horus." Angronius dismissed his words with a wave of his hand, "That gap will close on its own, for we are at the eve of the greatest campaign in the history of the Imperium. They will have more than enough time to get to know one another when they're waist-deep in gore, back-to-back against the tide of green filth."

Against the backdrop of despair that only war could bring, sworn enemies could turn to the staunchest of allies overnight. Both Primarchs have seen it happen, and so there was still hope for their legions.

"I have the suspicion that father intended for this to happen so that past rivalries would remain in the past." Horus mused, "Clever really, masking his attempts this way."

"Tell me, how goes the integration of the Emperor's latest project?" Angronius inquired, "Any news?"

"Ah yes, plenty." Horus replied.

After studying the peculiar effects of Angronius' gene-seed on the unique physiology of Nucerian women for more than three decades, the Emperor was able to isolate the properties that allowed the birth of the Primaris Progenum. And within that time, he was able to replicate the effects using the gene-seed of other Primarchs. He had found the answer to his centuries long problem of mass producing his transhuman armies. The long and painful processes, taking up the whole of several solar years, necessary to create his spacemarines could be done in a few solar months. This discovery was not without its own setbacks, for each gene-seed came with its own peculiarities.

Children came malformed, stillborn, or in worse cases- born with increased psychic potential. The higher the instability of the gene-seed, the less likely a primaris child could be successfully born. And thus, the Emperor was very selective with which legion to grant this rare honor of fathering the next generation of primaris marines.

"Three, Angronius." Horus revealed, "My legion has now three primaris children."

"I believe congratulations are in order." Angronius clapped his brother upon the arm, "The seed was yours, I take it?"

Horus laughed, "It pains me to say, but I am a weak man. I could not bring myself to do it. No no, it is Ezekyle over there who was the... donor. Only time will tell if the fledglings could equal or even surpass my legionnaires. We will have to be careful with them. Truly, when I saw them born, they were the most vulnerable little things I've ever seen in my life. One could say that they have no place in this Great Crusade."

"As if that would stop the Emperor." The gladiator king snorted, "They will fight this war, come of age. They all will."

}!{