On Stivnich I, the Shadows of Order made planetfall on the ashen world.
"This is a world of mountains," said Malric Winterburn, Captain of the First Company, as his Stormbird touched down at marked point B-II. His voice crackled across the command network.
"It's rich in ore, obsidian, basalt, and iron. The land is overflowing with minerals," came the reply from Olivier, Captain of the Second Company, laughing as he spoke.
"One can imagine how many noble houses would fight for these mines. Under the Legion's rule, such materials are the finest for both fortifications and civilian use."
"The Andres have no structures on the surface. Their fortresses and shipyards are all built underground," said Wilshire, the youngest Chapter Master of the Shadows of Order, his tone fiery with zeal over the vox.
"For the Emperor, cleanse the filth of the xenos beneath the land!" came the hymn-like voice of the Bard, infectious enough to stir every Captain and Liuetenant listening.
Wilshire, only recently elevated to the sequence , Light Suppliant, whispered in his heart: 'For the Black Emperor!'
Though Terra-born and the youngest Lord Commander in the entire Legion, Nareth had already seen his unwavering faith.
When Nareth promoted Wilshire to sequence 8, he revealed to him the truth of the Black Emperor and the sacred rites.
The Light Suppliant had an object of devotion, and through prayer they could draw forth greater power.
"By your command, my lord," Winterburn answered solemnly, his voice echoing through the vox. Clad in his Mark I Thunder Pattern power armor, the veteran saluted with respect.
Though an old soldier of the Legion, even he admired this young lord. None but the Gene-Father himself had ever so effortlessly roused his spirit with simple words.
Whenever he beheld Wilshire, he felt the radiance of confidence and light.
Winterburn disembarked, rallying his warriors to advance toward the underground fortress at B-2.
Two kilometers out, the rune-sensors of his new helmet flared crimson.
He had acquired the replacement helm after the campaingn in the Wheel of Fire, where a stray shot had destroyed his old one. Rather than have it repaired, he opted for a new-generation helm, but mounted a fragment of the old one upon his brow as both remembrance and added protection.
The new helm integrated advanced tactical sensors and threat-analysis modules, allowing him to instantly evaluate the situation.
He marked a watchtower as a target and barked an order to the Reaver Attack Squad: "Attack!"
The Second Chapter boasted more Reaver Attack Squad than any save the First and Seventh. Company Two, in turn, held the greatest number of all, twenty-four in total.
Each squad leader had once fought alongside the Luna Wolves and knew well the ways of Reaver warfare.
The Shadows of Order darted through the air, jump packs blazing, weaving through the curtain of fire. Their contrails painted ribbons of light across the sky.
They raised their bolt pistols and unleashed a storm.
Explosions shook the watchtowers, scattering bodies and scorpion tails alike.
The Astartes landed within the towers, chainswords roaring as Andres were carved apart.
With the defenses broken, Winterburn led his men toward the basalt fortress gates.
"Reavers!" he commanded again.
Another wave of attacks followed, while his gaze fell upon the fortress itself.
Its black walls were fused seamlessly into the mountain, looming like a natural extension of the earth.
Winterburn felt a cold dread seize his core. His eyes narrowed.
'Warp energy.'
As he pondered, a volley from the Reaver bolters cleared the walls. Two of them deployed Telavar-pattern melta charges, set on a ten-second fuse.
Unlike standard melta bombs with preset one-hour timers that required tech-priests to recalibrate, the Telavar design, created by the Telavar tribe in Triken using Dark Age technology, used simple clockwork and dials.
Like the alarm clocks of Old Night Terra, a trained Shadow of Order could set the charge with one hand in a single second.
Warning runes flared in their visor displays. The Reaver leapt back.
A thunderous blast split the fortress walls open with twin breaches five meters wide.
The squads poured in, cutting apart the defenders.
Winterburn followed, stepping into what felt like another world.
At once, a shrill keening assaulted his senses, like cold, slimy tendrils brushing against his flesh.
'What have the Andres done here?'
He elevated his mind to the first layer of Thelema, shutting out the psychic noise.
Around him, however, his brothers stiffened uneasily.
Drawing upon the gift of his new station as Bard, Winterburn's voice broke through the dark:
"Father! Emperor! Grant me strength! Scatter our foes and strengthen Your sons!"
The chant rang with warmth and holiness. At once, the Shadows' unease was dispelled.
Their courage swelled, their strength sharpened, their speed quickened beneath the hymn.
The Bard himself felt a radiant energy surge within him, as though touched by sunlight.
He led them onward.
At the next junction, Winterburn sensed an ambush. He marked the location; two Reaver ignited their packs, swept around the corner, and severed two Anderes heads with whirring chainswords.
They pressed down a black basalt causeway toward a vast arched dome.
Beneath it loomed an enormous factory.
From its gates rumbled dozens of circular vehicles, each driven by a central Andres operator.
Upon railings surrounding them were bound four humans apiece, facing inward toward a central pillar.
Not ordinary humans. Psykers.
Winterburn's eyes flashed. He felt a terrible, formless power gathering.
At the fore, an Andres raised its tail and struck runes with its stinger.
Sparks danced. The chained psykers screamed, their eyes blazing.
Four beams converged into the pillar, then lanced outward as a single fist-thick bolt of psychic energy.
Winterburn dodged instinctively. A warrior at his back was not so fortunate, the psychic lightning pierced power armor, reducing the Astartes to smoking ash.
Winterburn understood instantly.
The Andres had enslaved human psykers and forged them into weapons.
'Even if the xenos had mastered this profane art… how could there be so many psykers on a single world?'
.....
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