Rengris

	The reassuring sight of the interior of the Imperium Avowed greeted the exhausted Killteam as they exited from the Thunderhawk.  The ship’s Keeper, Rengris of the Angels Vermillion, took the time to visit them in person as they exited from the gunship.

	“Brothers, welcome back,” Rengris said.  Gregorius noted the old Angel didn’t look much less tired than they did.  “Killteam Steadfast handled the tactical shift as well as they could have, I think.”

	Ly’tren took a moment to marshal his thoughts before replying.  The bay of the Avowed was far lower-ceilinged than those of most ships on which he had ridden before; it made odd echoes when he walked.  “Keeper.  What in the world are those bone… things we fought?  Some kind of xenoform?”

	Rengris shook his head.  “They are known as the Malice Remnants.  They are amalgamations of the inner organs of the species which died in an area.  Thus, bones from humans may emerge from xenos, et cetera.  I spent some of the time you were down there having our data-savants examine the information in the ship’s cogitators.”

	Holgein ran his gauntlet over his mouth, wiping away a spot of blood.  “And they are… what?  Daemons?”

	“Nothing so dangerous as that, Brother.”  Rengris gestured for the others to follow him.  They trailed behind the Keeper as he walked down the corridor from the hangar bay to the tactarium.  “The beasts are mindless, and little more durable than an ordinary skeleton would be, as you saw.”

	“They rose from behind lines the Guard thought secure,” Holgein growled.  “They rose by the thousands.”

	“Indeed.”

	Calrus spoke up.  “Why did the sky turn red, Keeper?”

	Rengris sighed.  “I do not yet know, Brother.  I am no expert in the ways of Warpcraft.”

	“But it’s not local, is it?  If a new Warp Rift opened up in the Septiim system itself, surely we would have evacuated earlier,” Calrus pressed.

	“So it is.  We believe it to be somewhere near the galactic core at its nearest,” Rengris acknowledged.

	Ly’tren tilted his head.  “But… we can see it from here?”

	“Yes.”

	“Surely a Warp Rift that far away would… I mean, the light from it would take hundreds of thousands of years to reach us,” Ly’tren protested.

	Rengris shook his head.  “Who can say the powers of the Warp obey the laws of physics?  Yes, it should have taken far longer to be seen.  However, my preliminary research suggests that it is anchored somewhere in the Jericho Reach.”

	Ly’tren and Jergal shared a moment’s disgust.  “Oh, bloody great, Hadex,” Ly’tren said tiredly.  “Time nonsense.”

	“Time nonsense, that seems to be the case,” Rengris said.  He chuckled faintly, surprising Gregorius, who had never heard the man laugh.  “Yes.  So it is.”

	The Killteam walked in silence for another few minutes until they paused outside the tactarium.  Rengris turned to speak to the others.  “With Arden’s Terminators having successfully disabled the Cylinder without de-orbiting it, your mission may soon end, Brothers.  The Glasians can barely reinforce, and the Daggers will now haul the Cylinder into position to launch it into the Septiim system’s star.  Do you wish to tend to your wounds, your wargear, or your strategic overview first?” he asked.  Normally, it would be his decision, but a third of Steadfast was clearly walking wounded, and at this point, none of them knew if they could even leave Cloudburst.

	Ly’tren, the highest-ranked member of the team on paper, and Gregorius, to whom he had ceded tactical command, exchanged doubtful looks.  At length, Ly’tren sighed.  “Brother, think us no less for it, I beg you, but… we are barely mobile.  Our ammunition is completely spent.  Jergal’s Rapier is scrap… we need to tend to our wounds and contemplate our orders.”

	“I understand completely, Brother-Sergeant Ly’tren,” Rengris said gravely.  His black hair closed around his face as he bowed his head.  “Go and dismount your Terminator suit in the armory.  The serfs are ready to receive you all in the infirmary.”

	Rengris watched as all six Marines turned and walked away in silence.  It was, he had to admit to himself, the single most unnerving thing he had ever seen in his life.  He had traded blows with a Genestealer Patriarch, shot the skull clean off a Relic-Bearer of the Doom Knights, and lost four fingers to an Ork Mega Armored Nob, and nothing had chilled him as much as watching six veteran Marines walking like they had not one erg of power left to spend.  They weren’t afraid, of course.  They were the Emperor’s Angels of Death, and they knew no fear.  What they were was exhausted, and bitter, and feeling overwhelmed.  Calrus wasn’t sniping at Ly’tren, Jergal’s shoulders were slumped despite his rigid Techmarine training and natural Scar stoicism, and Holgein was actually stumbling.  Holgein, the Wolf Scout who had once punched a Lictor to death after stalking it for two days.  The only one who looked ready for round two was Gregorius, and that was his job as a Chaplain.

	Rengris turned and walked into the tactarium alone.  He knew that Watch Commander Domack and High Inquisitrix Lerica had brought together such disparate Chapters with such pervasive and ancient grudges as the Scars and Raven Guard exactly because they wanted to forge them into a more cohesive and forgiving fighting force, but even after such a crucible, he had expected more acrimony.

	He watched the holofield in the center of the tactarium.  Without their Cylinder to provide fire support with its colossal Ruin Guns, which had split a Cruiser down the flank just an hour before, the Glasian escort fleet was suddenly grossly outgunned.  The constant harassment of their formation by the SDF over the prior weeks had chipped away at their numbers until now, when they stood under the combined guns of the Blue Daggers, the Inquisition, the Navy, and the SDF.

	The battle wasn’t over on the ground – although Rengris wagered that would change once the troops on Primus started landing there – but in space, the Imperium would almost certainly win.  It would be an ugly, savage, grinding win, but a win.  Of course, only fools wore their medals before the guns fell cold, and so Rengris stared deep into the tactarium’s holos, looking for anything he had missed.