Castor Vhalen
Brother-Pilot Castor Vhalen of the Black Templar had always believed that a Thunderhawk could carry anything the Emperor required of it.
The Tabernacle of St Sawan rested within a launch trench beneath the western walls of Kasr Kraf. Armoured doors stood open above it, revealing a narrow strip of Cadia's wounded sky. Smoke drifted across the opening. Far beyond the trench, artillery flashes moved along the horizon like distant lightning.
The Thunderhawk had survived eleven years of crusade, three planetary invasions, and the destruction of two strike cruisers. Its black hull bore scars from hundreds of battles. The names of the fallen were etched into the inner armour beside the cockpit, and every weapon mount carried a strip of parchment blessed before the Cruxis Crusade entered the Cadian system.
Castor knew every vibration in its frame.
Today, it felt unfamiliar.
Magos Klarn and six enginseers had spent the last two hours opening panels Castor had never permitted anyone outside the Chapter to touch. Foreign cables now ran through the transponder array. Captured Black Legion identification codes waited inside a Mechanicus cogitator attached beneath the communications throne. Additional cooling vanes surrounded the engines, altering their heat pattern to resemble that of a damaged traitor gunship.
Scorched armour plates covered the white crosses upon the Thunderhawk's wings. They were held in place by magnetic clamps and could be discarded once concealment no longer mattered.
Castor disliked every modification. He disliked the reason for them more.
Three damaged Imperial cargo craft waited in adjoining trenches. Their holds had been emptied, their crews removed, and their control systems replaced by servitors. Each carried the same false transponder signal as the Tabernacle. Once launched, the enemy would see four wounded traitor craft climbing from Cadia instead of one Imperial gunship carrying the weapon meant to kill them.
That weapon now stood at the foot of Castor's ramp.
The Doom Slayer paused before entering the troop bay. Dark-green armour enclosed him from head to foot, forged from technology no one in the Crusade understood. He carried no visible weapon beyond the armaments built into the suit itself. That absence did nothing to make him appear less dangerous.
The warrior looked past Castor and studied the Thunderhawk's interior.
Castor studied him in return.
Crates of melta charges, demolition packs, ammunition, and beacon relays filled the troop bay behind the restraint harnesses. A teleport homer calibrated to the Phalanx had been bolted beside the assault ramp, its activation rune dark until the internal shields of the fortress failed.
Castor had been told what happened on the western front. Every warrior in Kasr Kraf had heard some version of the story by now. The stranger had entered a killing zone alone. Daemon blades had broken upon him. Traitor Astartes had died beneath his hands. Urkanthos had been cut apart so completely that not even its soul had returned to the Warp.
Castor had dismissed half of those reports as the exaggerations of exhausted soldiers.
Then Marshal Amalrich had ordered him to deliver the stranger into the Will of Eternity.
The Doom Slayer walked up the ramp.
The ramp did not bend beneath his weight, though Castor caught himself watching as if it might.
Saint Celestine followed him.
Castor lowered his head as the Living Saint entered the craft. Golden light filled the troop bay, reflecting from the black armour of the waiting flight crew. Her wings remained folded close behind her, yet their feathers nearly brushed both walls.
"My lady," Castor said.
"Brother-Pilot," Celestine replied, inclining her head.
Marshal Amalrich waited outside the ramp. His black armour was marked by fresh repairs, and a line of dried blood crossed one side of his tabard. He looked first toward Celestine, then toward the Slayer.
"The Tabernacle will place you inside the fortress," Amalrich said. "Once the ramp opens, Brother Vhalen's duty is complete."
"His duty is complete when his craft is safely away," Celestine replied.
Amalrich's expression did not change.
"Safety is no longer among the promises we can offer," the marshal said.
"It rarely was," Castor answered.
Amalrich turned toward him.
"Deliver them," the marshal ordered.
"The Tabernacle will reach the fortress," Castor promised.
The Doom Slayer looked toward the open trench above them.
"It will," the Slayer said.
Castor could not decide whether the words were confidence, command, or simple fact.
Amalrich struck one fist against his breastplate in salute. Castor returned the gesture before stepping into the cockpit.
Brother Malrec already occupied the weapons station beside him. The younger Black Templar had removed his helmet and connected the Thunderhawk directly to the data ports at the base of his skull. Targeting runes moved across his lenses while servitors secured the final ammunition feeds behind them.
"Our passengers are aboard," Castor said.
"The whole city noticed," Malrec replied.
Castor lowered himself into the pilot's throne and locked the restraint bars across his armour.
"Status," Castor ordered.
"Main engines ready. Atmospheric control responsive. Forward lascannons charged. Heavy bolters loaded. Void seals intact," Malrec reported. "The Mechanicus additions remain offensive to the machine-spirit, but they function."
"For how long?" Castor asked.
"Magos Klarn estimates that the false identity will survive one direct interrogation," Malrec answered.
"And a second?" Castor asked.
Malrec smiled without humour.
"He declined to estimate," Malrec replied.
The Magos himself appeared beneath the Thunderhawk's nose. Klarn's robes snapped in the hot wind thrown from the idling turbines. He raised one mechanical arm toward the cockpit and transmitted a final burst of binharic data.
Castor accepted it. New runes spread across his display.
The false transponder identified the Tabernacle of St Sawan as the Carrion Oath, an assault craft attached to the Black Legion cruiser Bitter Promise. Damage reports, crew identifications, and a partial record of retreat from Cadia had been built around the lie.
It was an impressive deception. Castor expected it to survive less than a minute.
"Counterfeit identity accepted," Castor reported.
"Deception integrity is ninety-four percent," Klarn answered over the vox. "Avoid unnecessary transmission. The enemy may identify linguistic irregularities."
"Then we will let your machine lie for us," Castor replied.
"The machine does not lie," Klarn corrected him. "It transmits a temporarily useful reality."
Malrec muted the channel.
"He has been spending too much time with strategists," Malrec said.
Castor almost smiled. An amber restraint warning appeared upon his display before he could answer.
Movement filled the troop bay behind the cockpit. Through the internal pict-feed, Castor watched Celestine secure herself within a reinforced grav-harness. The device had been widened to accommodate her folded wings. Across from her, the Doom Slayer remained standing.
"Passenger bay, prepare for launch," Castor said over the internal vox.
The Slayer did not move.
"Secure yourself," Castor instructed.
The Slayer looked toward the nearest restraint harness, then down at the deck. A metallic clang sounded through the troop bay as his boots locked against the floor.
"That was not what I meant," Castor said.
"It will suffice," Celestine assured him.
One glance at the warrior's unmoving form convinced Castor that she was probably right.
"How long?" the Slayer asked.
"Seventeen minutes from launch to the projected breach, provided every stage of the plan succeeds," Castor answered.
"Get there quickly," the Slayer said.
"You are welcome to fly," Castor replied.
The Slayer raised his head slightly.
"After we reach the fortress," Castor added.
Celestine's expression carried the beginning of a smile.
The Slayer said nothing more.
Castor returned his attention to the cockpit display. They were ready.
The rest of Cadia was not.
Hundreds of signals moved across the tactical slate. Imperial armour waited beneath camouflage screens west of Kasr Kraf. Artillery batteries had loaded their final reserves of long-range shells. Baroness Vardus stood within Cold Iron at the head of the Knight formation. The Ironwolves had gathered beside her, their engines cold and their weapons silent.
Above the planet, the surviving Imperial fleet held position behind the wreckage of ships already lost.
Farther away, hidden beneath uncertainty markers, the amber rune representing the Phalanx continued to pulse.
No confirmation had arrived. Castor listened to the engines and waited.
Five minutes passed. Then seven.
Outside the trench, crew serfs withdrew behind the blast doors. Magos Klarn remained until the final moment, watching streams of data no one else could see.
At nine minutes, static filled every vox channel.
Castor's display dimmed. The false transponder flickered and recovered. One of the servitors behind him began reciting corrupted coordinates before Malrec struck its reset switch.
Then a voice emerged from the noise.
It was distant, broken, and carried through layers of astropathic distortion.
"Cadian command, this is the Phalanx," the voice said. "Your signal is received."
The amber rune turned gold. Both warriors in the cockpit became still.
The channel shifted. Master Korahael's voice replaced the transmission.
"All elements, the Phalanx has answered," Korahael announced. "Operation commencing. Ground forces advance."
The western horizon erupted.
Hundreds of Cadian guns fired at once. Their recoil passed through the ground and shook dust from the walls of the launch trench. Missile batteries released streams of fire into the sky. Beyond the city, red markers representing the armies of Chaos began to move as Imperial armour advanced from concealed positions.
The Knight Cold Iron fired first.
Its battle cannon turned the distant horizon white. Seconds later, the Ironwolves surged forward beside it. Tanks and infantry followed through the smoke, broadcasting the signs of an assault large enough to threaten the entire western approach.
Enemy formations responded immediately.
Titans changed direction. Reserve armour moved toward the diversionary offensive. Attack craft descended from high atmosphere to support the threatened line.
Creed had made the ground itself demand Abaddon's attention.
A second transmission flooded the compromised enemy channels.
"All surviving Cadian commands, withdrawal corridors have failed," an Imperial voice reported. "Repeat, evacuation routes are collapsing. Redeploy all available transports to the southern districts."
The message was false. Castor knew it. So did every Imperial commander involved in the operation.
The enemy did not. Red fleet markers began moving to positions from which they could cut off the supposed retreat.
"Orbital formations are dividing," Malrec reported. "Lord Castellan's deception is working."
"For now," Castor said.
The launch trench doors opened fully.
Cadia's violet sky spread above them. The Eye of Terror burned beyond the clouds, vast and hateful. In its shadow hung the distant black shape of the fortress they had been ordered to enter.
Castor placed both hands upon the controls.
"Decoys launching," Malrec reported.
The first cargo craft rose from the neighbouring trench on pillars of white flame. The second followed three seconds later. The third climbed behind them, already venting coolant to imitate battle damage.
All three turned toward the upper atmosphere.
"Tabernacle of St Sawan, you are cleared for launch," Kasr Control said.
Castor increased power to the turbines. The Thunderhawk trembled around him.
"For the Emperor," Castor said.
"For Dorn," Malrec answered.
The Tabernacle left Cadia.
Its engines filled the trench with fire. Acceleration drove Castor into his throne as the gunship climbed between Kasr Kraf's surviving towers. Ruined battlements vanished beneath its wings. The city opened below them, a maze of burning districts, collapsed walls, and defensive lines built across streets that had once carried civilians.
For a moment, Castor saw the western offensive in its entirety.
Thousands of Imperial vehicles advanced beneath curtains of artillery fire. Cold Iron towered over them, trading shots with corrupted Knights beyond the ridge. The Ironwolves struck the enemy's flank in a wedge of grey armour. Cadian tanks followed through the opening they created.
It looked like the beginning of a planetary counterattack.
Castor tilted the Thunderhawk upward and opened the main engines.
The decoys waited ahead, their damaged drives leaving broad trails across the sky. The Tabernacle entered the wake of the nearest craft and reduced its own emissions. Klarn's counterfeit signal joined the other three until the four vessels appeared as a single broken formation fleeing the surface.
The air thinned.
Clouds fell away beneath them. Cadia curved across the lower viewing panels, purple, grey, and burning.
Enemy aircraft crossed their path at forty kilometres. Castor's targeting systems identified six Hell Talons descending toward the western battlefield. Their weapons turned briefly toward the four climbing craft.
A challenge code struck the false transponder. Klarn's machine answered before Castor could react.
The Black Legion pilots accepted the response. The Hell Talons continued toward Cadia. Malrec released a breath through his teeth.
"One interrogation," Malrec said.
"Let us hope they cannot count," Castor replied.
Warning runes spread across the display as the Thunderhawk entered the edge of the orbital battlefield.
Space was not empty above Cadia. It was filled with war.
Wrecked cruisers drifted beside burning transports. Broken attack craft tumbled through fields of debris. Imperial and traitor vessels exchanged fire across distances too large for the eye to understand. Lance strikes crossed the darkness in lines of white and crimson. Torpedoes burned between the fleets like swarms of falling stars.
Beyond them waited the Will of Eternity.
The Blackstone Fortress swallowed half the forward display. Its angular arms stretched across the void, each large enough to hold cities. Sick light moved beneath its surface. Void shields surrounded it in overlapping layers, bending the stars and the weapons fire around its shape.
The Vengeful Spirit and dozens of traitor warships guarded it.
Castor had seen fortresses before. He had never seen one that made a fleet appear small.
Movement behind the cockpit drew Castor's attention.
Castor checked the internal pict-feed. The warrior remained fixed to the deck, but his helmet had turned toward the fortress. He showed no uncertainty. No awe. If the sight disturbed him, nothing in his posture revealed it.
Saint Celestine watched him from across the troop bay.
"Orbital command to strike craft," Korahael said over the vox. "Maintain false identity. The Phalanx will engage in thirty seconds."
Castor found the golden rune at the edge of his display.
It moved.
The Phalanx emerged from the darkness beyond Cadia's orbital debris with every weapon already firing.
The fortress-monastery did not enter the battle so much as force the entire battle to reshape itself around its arrival. Broadside batteries opened along its immense hull. Torpedoes poured from launch bays in waves. Lance fire struck the traitor formation and erased the first escort vessel before its shields could fully turn.
The Imperial fleet attacked from the opposite direction.
Ships that had spent weeks retreating reversed course and drove their engines to full power. They crossed the debris fields and fired everything they possessed. A damaged cruiser rammed a Black Legion destroyer, breaking both vessels apart in a storm of metal and flame.
The enemy fleet divided.
Warships turned toward the Phalanx. Others moved to meet the Imperial charge. The defensive screen surrounding the Will of Eternity opened in three places as Abaddon's captains responded to threats too large to ignore.
Castor aimed for the smallest opening.
The cargo decoys changed formation around him. One climbed above the Tabernacle. Another descended beneath it. The third moved ahead, broadcasting damage reports and repeated requests for entry clearance.
The fortress answered. A second challenge code struck Klarn's counterfeit transponder.
The Mechanicus device hesitated. One second passed. Then two.
"Answer it," Castor said.
"The cogitator is constructing a response," Malrec replied.
Three seconds.
The forward decoy transmitted first. Its reply carried the voice of a dead Black Legion officer taken from captured vox records.
"Carrion Oath returning with engine failure," the recording said. "Clear the approach or lose the craft."
The fortress challenge ceased. No clearance followed.
"Did it accept us?" Malrec asked.
"We are still alive," Castor answered. "For the moment, that is acceptance."
The four craft crossed the outer defence line.
Black Legion warships surrounded them. Some passed close enough for Castor to see the burning Eye upon their hulls. Attack craft moved between the larger vessels in disciplined formations. Gun batteries tracked targets throughout the battle, their barrels turning past the disguised Thunderhawk without firing.
Castor kept his course steady.
Every instinct demanded speed. Every lesson war had taught him demanded that he evade, accelerate, and put distance between his craft and the enemy guns.
He did none of those things.
A crippled traitor craft would not fly like an uninjured Thunderhawk. It would drift. It would struggle. It would approach its fortress as though survival depended upon being allowed inside.
Castor let the Tabernacle limp toward the Blackstone Fortress.
"No signal from the Imperial Fists," Malrec reported.
They were four minutes from the projected breach.
"Continue monitoring," Castor ordered.
Another Imperial ship died behind them. Its reactor became a small sun before fading from the display.
The Phalanx continued firing.
Its weapons struck the Will of Eternity's shields, spreading waves of violet energy across the fortress. The barriers held. Every lance beam bent away. Every torpedo vanished in bursts of light.
Three minutes remained. Still no signal.
"Perhaps the boarding force was destroyed," Malrec said.
"Then we use Klarn's codes and find another entrance," Castor replied.
"The codes barely carried us through the fleet," Malrec said.
"Then they have already performed beyond expectation," Castor answered.
Behind them, Celestine opened her eyes.
"They are alive," Celestine said over the internal vox.
Castor glanced toward her image.
"You can sense them?" Castor asked.
"No," Celestine replied. "But they have not endured this long to fail while Cadia still needs them."
It was not the answer Castor had wanted. It was the answer he should have expected from a saint.
Two minutes remained.
The forward decoy disappeared.
There was no warning. A defensive battery upon the fortress fired once, and the empty cargo craft became a cloud of molten fragments.
Red targeting runes appeared across Castor's display.
"They know," Malrec said.
The second decoy broke formation as its servitor attempted to follow the programmed evasion pattern. Enemy fire caught it beneath the engines. The vessel spun away, burning, before colliding with the side of a Black Legion frigate.
The third decoy accelerated toward the fortress.
The Tabernacle accelerated with it. Concealment no longer mattered.
Magnetic clamps released along the Thunderhawk's wings. The scorched plates covering its insignia tore free, tumbling into the void. White crosses appeared upon the black hull.
"Weapons free," Castor ordered.
Malrec opened fire.
The forward lascannons struck an approaching Hell Blade and cut it in half. Heavy bolters filled the space before them with streams of shells. The last decoy absorbed the first wave of return fire before breaking apart.
The Tabernacle flew through its remains.
"Ninety seconds to breach point," Malrec reported.
Enemy interceptors turned toward them from every direction.
Far below, Kasr Kraf's surface-to-orbit batteries finally broke their silence. Missiles climbed from Cadia in burning columns while defence lasers stabbed through the upper atmosphere. Two pursuing interceptors vanished from Castor's display, and a third broke away to evade the barrage.
The batteries could not protect the Thunderhawk for long, but they had purchased several more seconds.
Castor pushed the engines past their permitted limit. Warning runes multiplied across the controls. The false cooling vanes tore away. The Thunderhawk's real drive signature flared across every augur in range.
The fortress filled the cockpit.
Its surface was no longer a single shape. It had become an impossible landscape of black towers, weapon emplacements, hangars, trenches, and armoured ridges. Energy moved between structures the size of hive spires. Daemonic faces appeared within the metal and vanished when Castor tried to focus upon them.
"Still no signal," Malrec said.
Sixty seconds.
A Hell Talon slid into position behind them and fired.
Rounds struck the Thunderhawk's rear armour. The craft lurched. Damage runes spread across the left engine, but the machine-spirit held the drive together.
Malrec rotated the dorsal cannon and returned fire. The Hell Talon broke away as shells tore across one wing.
Another replaced it.
"Forty seconds," Castor said.
The shield remained unbroken.
The Phalanx fired another broadside. Light covered the fortress. Its void barriers bent inward, recovered, and held.
Thirty seconds.
The Doom Slayer released his magnetic locks.
Castor saw him walking toward the ramp through the internal pict-feed.
"We are not inside yet," Castor warned.
"You will be soon," the Slayer answered.
The answer should have sounded arrogant. Instead, Castor found himself believing it.
Twenty seconds.
Static filled the communications array. Then an encrypted Imperial Fists identification pulse cut through every other signal.
Malrec seized it.
"Signal confirmed," Malrec said. "Port relay cluster is failing. Homing marker active."
A golden point appeared upon the Blackstone Fortress. It marked a hangar aperture between two defensive towers.
The transmission carried a voice beneath the data.
"To any sons of the Emperor receiving," an Imperial Fist said through heavy interference. "The gate is opening. You have twenty-one seconds."
The void shield flickered. A narrow wound appeared within it.
"There," Celestine said.
Castor had already turned the Thunderhawk.
The manoeuvre drove the gunship sideways. Metal screamed along the hull. The damaged engine failed for half a second before restarting. Castor forced the nose toward the golden marker and emptied the reserve fuel into the main drive.
"Twenty-one seconds is insufficient," Malrec said.
"Then stop counting," Castor replied.
The Tabernacle entered the breach. Violet light swallowed the cockpit.
Every alarm activated at once. The void shield dragged across the Thunderhawk's hull like the edge of a blade. Armour peeled from the right wing. One of the heavy-bolter mounts vanished. Servitors screamed through their vox-grilles as power surged across the internal systems.
Castor held the course.
The fortress disappeared behind light.
For one moment, he saw something moving within the shield, vast shapes pressing against reality from the other side. Eyes opened in the darkness. Mouths formed around the Thunderhawk and spoke words that bypassed the vox to scrape directly against his mind.
Castor shouted the Litany of Divine Protection and drove forward.
Celestine's radiance filled the troop bay.
The voices stopped.
The Tabernacle broke through the inner edge of the shield.
Behind them, the breach closed.
One of the pursuing Hell Blades reached it too late. The returning barrier passed through the interceptor's centre. Both halves continued forward before striking the fortress surface.
Castor had no time to celebrate.
The marked hangar lay directly ahead.
Its outer doors were only partially open. Smoke and atmosphere poured through the gap. Defensive towers surrounded the entrance, several burning from internal explosions. Others were already turning toward the Thunderhawk.
"Seven seconds to impact range," Malrec reported.
"Fire everything," Castor ordered.
The Tabernacle's remaining weapons fired at once.
Lascannons cut through the nearest tower. Missiles crossed the distance and detonated against the hangar doors. The opening widened beneath the blast.
Return fire struck the Thunderhawk. The right stabiliser disappeared.
The fortress rotated across Castor's viewport as the craft entered a spin. He fought the controls, but half the command runes no longer responded. The hangar opening swept past, vanished, and returned upside down.
"We cannot correct," Malrec said.
"We do not need to correct," Castor replied. "We need to enter."
He fired the remaining thrusters in sequence. The spin slowed. The Thunderhawk struck the edge of the hangar.
Its ruined wing tore free. The impact threw Castor against his restraints hard enough to crack one of the bars. The Tabernacle crossed the threshold sideways, carving a trench through the armoured doorway.
Then gravity seized it. The hangar floor rushed upward.
"Brace!" Castor shouted.
The Thunderhawk hit.
Metal screamed beneath it. The craft bounced once, crushing a line of parked enemy vehicles. Its nose struck the deck and tore through black stone. Castor saw columns, gantries, and fleeing cultists pass across the viewport before the gunship slammed into an interior barricade.
The world became white noise.
For several seconds, Castor could hear nothing but the emergency tone pulsing through the cockpit.
He opened his eyes.
The cockpit had gone dark. Red lumen strips flickered along the floor. Smoke poured from the weapons console, and a broken restraint hung across his chest.
Malrec remained in his throne. Blood ran from one nostril, but his eyes were open.
"Report," Castor said.
Malrec looked at the dead controls.
"We have landed," Malrec answered.
"I noticed," Castor said.
Malrec tested the weapons display.
"Engines dead. Lascannons dead. Dorsal cannon unresponsive. Port heavy bolter may still function," Malrec reported.
"Passenger bay?" Castor asked.
The internal pict-feed returned in fragments.
Saint Celestine had released her harness. She stood unharmed amid fallen equipment, golden wings unfolding behind her.
The Doom Slayer waited at the assault ramp. He had not shifted a single step during the crash.
"Passengers intact," Malrec said.
External pict-feeds came alive one after another.
The Tabernacle had entered a hangar vast enough to hold an Imperial regiment. Black pillars rose beyond the range of the lights. Chains hung from the ceiling, carrying bodies, banners, and machines Castor could not identify. Captured Imperial vehicles stood beside daemon engines whose metal surfaces moved like flesh.
The crash had killed hundreds of cultists. Thousands more remained though.
Black Legionaries advanced between the burning wrecks. Daemons moved among them. At the far side of the hangar, six warriors in yellow armour held a defensive position behind the remains of a shield relay. The Imperial Fists had survived long enough to open the gate.
Now every enemy in the hangar was turning toward the Thunderhawk.
"Assault ramp is unresponsive," Malrec said.
Celestine drew the Ardent Blade. Golden fire flowed along its edge.
"Open it," Celestine said.
"The mechanism is destroyed," Castor answered.
The Doom Slayer placed both hands against the ramp.
Castor watched metal fold beneath his fingers. The locking pistons tore free. The entire ramp bent outward and crashed onto the hangar floor, crushing the first cultists who had reached the hull.
Gunfire raked the troop bay.
Bolter rounds struck the Slayer's armour and burst without moving him.
He stepped down the ruined ramp.
Saint Celestine followed, her wings spreading wide as the light of the Ardent Blade drove back the hangar's darkness.
The surviving Imperial Fists saw them.
"Boarding force to Phalanx," one of the yellow-armoured warriors transmitted. "The strike craft has arrived. The Slayer is inside."
Castor released his restraints and reached for his helmet.
Malrec looked toward him.
"Our orders were only to deliver them," Malrec said.
Castor locked his helmet into place and drew his chainsword.
"We are Black Templars," Castor replied. "Delivery was never going to be enough."
Outside, empty air distorted around the Doom Slayer's gauntlet. He reached into the distortion and drew the Super Shotgun.
The host of Chaos charged.
The Tabernacle of St Sawan had crossed the void to deliver two warriors into the heart of the enemy.
As the Slayer raised his weapon and Saint Celestine ignited the darkness beside him, Castor understood the truth.
They had not boarded the Will of Eternity. They had invaded it.