Roboute Guilliman

"Why do I still live? What more do you want from me? I gave everything I had to you, to them. Look what they've made of our dream. This bloated, rotting carcass of an empire is driven not by reason and hope but by fear, hate and ignorance. Better that we had all burned in the fires of Horus' ambition than live to see this."

- Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, reflecting upon the state of the Imperium of the late 41st Millennium and the dreams of his father, the Emperor of Mankind

Roboute Guilliman, sometimes referred to as the "Avenging Son," "The Victorious," "The Master of Ultramar" and "The Blade of Unity," is the Primarch of the Ultramarines Space Marine Legion and its myriad subsequent Second Founding Successor Chapters. Held by some as a paragon among the Emperor's sons, Roboute Guilliman was as much a patrician statesman as he was an indefatigable warrior. A being of preternatural intelligence, cold reason and indomitable will, Guilliman forged his Legion into a vast force of conquest and control, a weapon by which he made himself the master of a domain, the Realms of Ultramar, which spanned five hundred worlds. Guilliman is the Primarch who single-handedly reshaped the Imperium of Man after the Horus Heresy during the Reformation, taking the lead role in reforming the administrative and military apparatus of the Imperium following the internment of the Emperor of Mankind within the Golden Throne on Terra. Guilliman is perhaps best remembered for being the author of the Codex Astartes, a key volume that laid out the proper tactics and military organisation for the majority of Loyalist Space Marine Chapters now in existence. Roboute Guilliman is also one of the few Loyalist Primarchs still alive. Following the Horus Heresy, Guilliman and his Ultramarines met the Emperor's Children Traitor Legion and the Daemon Primarch Fulgrim upon the field of battle at Thessala where Guilliman was poisoned by a wound to his neck made by his traitorous fellow Primarch's Chaos-tainted blades. The Primarch was put into temporal stasis on the verge of death and his body was placed upon the throne that lies in the Temple of Correction on the Ultramarines' homeworld of Macragge. Many pilgrims of the Imperial Cult travel across the galaxy every year to visit the temple and see the body of a Primarch, a blessed son of the God-Emperor Himself. Some pilgrims claim that the grievous wound is slowly healing, though such an action should be physically impossible within an activated stasis field. Yet some believe that the Imperium and Mankind are entering the End Times and that the Emperor is using His divine will to enact a miracle and resurrect His son to serve as Mankind's champion in its most desperate hour.

Character Overview
Before he began his conquest of the galaxy, the Emperor of Mankind created the Primarchs. Utilising incredible genetic sorcery, and the phenomenal psychic power bound into his own form, he forged twenty demigod sons. These were superlative warriors, strategists and leaders, the finest qualities of Humanity refined in the crucible of science and magnified through the lens of divinity. The Emperor intended the Primarchs to stand at his side during the Great Crusade, each leading one of the twenty Space Marine Legions to glory beyond imagination.

Before that plan could come to pass, the Dark Gods of Chaos intervened. They snatched up the nascent Primarchs and scattered them through the Warp, so that each came to rest upon a different one of Humanity's far-ﬂung worlds. Some say that it was at this time that the Ruinous Powers left their mark upon the Emperor’s gene-sons, and that this is why fully half of the Primarchs betrayed their father and the Imperium during the Horus Heresy.

Whatever the case, Roboute Guilliman was not tainted in such a fashion. The being that would become the Primarch of the Ultramarines Legion came to rest upon the Feudal World of Macragge. There he was discovered, and adopted, by a local warlord named Konor. Growing and developing at a superhuman rate, Konor's adoptive son soon surpassed all those around him, and came to be the greatest warrior, strategist and statesman upon Macragge. After Konor was slain by a treacherous ally, it was Guilliman who avenged his father, before taking upon himself the mantle of kingship. The entirety of Macragge was swiftly unified beneath the banner of Roboute Guilliman, becoming a world of peace, civilisation, wisdom and strength. Guilliman was a charismatic and gifted leader, beloved of his people and singularly capable of compartmentalising incredible quantities of information. He was an organiser, a logistician, one capable of turning the wildest theories into practical reality and rendering order from chaos.

When the Emperor's crusading forces finally reached Macragge in the late 30th Millennium, the son was reunited with his true father. Guilliman was given charge of the Ultramarines Legion, and wasted no time in putting his stamp upon it. In the conquests that followed, the Ultramarines became renowned as exemplars of what it meant to be a Space Marine. Under Guilliman's leadership they became arguably the most strategically gifted and tactically balanced of all the Legions. Working on the basis of theoretical situations and practical solutions, the Ultramarines fought with exceptional efficiency. They drove the foes of Humanity before them, their armies fighting like intricate and perfectly tuned machines to swiftly and decisively outmanoeuvre every foe.

When the Horus Heresy set the galaxy ablaze, Roboute Guilliman fought with loyalty and determination for the Imperium that he believed in with all his heart. When he thought that the Emperor had fallen, the Primarch established a new seat of power on Macragge, planning to preserve the Emperor's secular purity and Imperial Truth within his own Realm of Ultramar as the Imperium Secundus. When Guilliman later learned that Terra still stood, he did everything in his power to ensure that he and his loyal brothers could fight at their father's side in the final battle against Horus. Though his efforts benefitted many, Guilliman himself reached Terra too late, a fact that would torture him for solar decades to come.

In the wake of the Horus Heresy, it was the Ultramarines Primarch who wrote and instituted the Codex Astartes. It was he, too, who took up the Emperor's burning blade and became Lord Commander of the Imperium, serving amongst the High Lords of Terra during the period known as the Reformation. Finally, at the Battle of Thessala, Guilliman was laid low by his corrupt brother Fulgrim, who mortally wounded the Ultramarines Primarch with his poisoned blade. So it was that the dying Roboute Guilliman was placed into stasis in the Temple of Correction on Macragge, enthroned through the millennia until such a time that one could come with the power to restore him to life once more. And that time has come...

History
"The warrior who acts out of honour cannot fail. His duty is honour itself. Even his death -- if it is honourable -- is a reward and can be no failure, for it has come through duty. Seek honour as you act, therefore, and you will know no fear."

- Primarch Roboute Guilliman

The Son of Macragge
Thanks to the widely distributed efforts of numerous Imperial Iterators, the story of the Primarch Roboute Guilliman, his early life and his finding is widely known and well accounted for, in stark contrast to certain others of the Primarchs. Much of these accounts have of course served the role of edification for the masses and the demands of propaganda, but between the accounts, variously embellished, a number of consistent facts and themes emerge. According to Imperial legend, the Emperor of Mankind created the Primarchs from artificially-engineered genes using his own genome as a template, carefully imbuing each of them with unique superhuman powers. Imperial doctrine goes on to tell how the Ruinous Powers of Chaos spirited away the Primarchs within their gestation capsules, scattering them widely across the galaxy through the Warp. More than one of the capsules was breached whilst it drifted through Warpspace - the forces of the Immaterium leaked in, wreaking havoc on the gestating being inside the capsule. Undoubtedly damage was done and Chaotic corruption affected several of the Primarchs, although the nature of that corruption would not become apparent until the Horus Heresy.

After drifting for decades, or in some cases even hundreds of years, the twenty gestation capsules came to rest on human-settled worlds throughout the Milky Way Galaxy - distant planets inhabited by a variety of human cultures, and whether by fickle fate or cruel design, each world would provide a crucible which would temper the child into the Primarch they would become, be that hero or monster, tyrant or liberator. The capsule containing the developing form of one Primarch fell upon the world of Macragge in the Eastern Fringe of the galaxy. Macragge was a bleak but no inhospitable world, part of a decayed star empire of ages past that Mankind had inhabited for many centuries since the time of the Dark Age of Technology. Its industries had survived intact, and its people had retained an authoritarian but cohesive society. It had remarkably preserved a number of antiquated short range Warp-capable craft which could be utilised for near-stellar transit -- conditions permitting -- and its people continued to build sub-light spacecraft even during the time of the most intense Warp Storms. This had allowed the people of Macragge to maintain contact with several neighbouring human-settled star systems, despite the storms' fury, and so retain a tenuous link to the rest of human space and the knowledge that it was not alone in the darkness.

So it was that when the Primarch's fallen capsule was discovered by a group of magnates who were on a hunt in a local forest, they knew it immediately for a device of advanced technology rather than a thing of superstition and magic. The magnates broke the capsule's seal and discovered a strikingly beautiful and perfectly formed child within it who was surrounded by a glowing nimbus of power. The child was brought before Konor Guilliman, one of a pair of nobles who bore the title "consul", whose authority governed the most civilised and powerful region of Macragge, and Konor adopted the infant as his own son in a manner not uncommon to his culture, naming him Roboute.

The young Primarch grew unnaturally quickly and as he did so, his unique physical and mental powers became obvious to all. It is recorded that by the time of his tenth birthday, Guilliman had mastered everything the wisest tutors of Macragge could teach him. His insight into matters of history, philosophy and science astonished his teachers, while his recall was absolute and his ability to extrapolate accurate conclusions from fragmentary information was said to border on the inexplicable. His greatest talent, however, lay in the art of war, which was itself treated as a high and lauded science in Macragge's culture. As soon as he had attended his legal majority, Roboute's foster-father Konor immediately granted him command over an expeditionary force sent to pacify the far northern lands of Macragge. Named Illyrium, it was a barbarous land of outcasts and petty, warring micro-states that had long harboured brigands and mercenaries who raided more civilised lands as often as they hired themselves as foot soldiers to fight their neighbours' wars. Roboute fought a brilliant campaign and won both the submission and the respect of the fierce Illyrium warrior bands, but when he returned to his home from the northern frontier, Roboute found the capital of Macragge Civitas in turmoil.

The Death of Konor
During Robout's absence, Konor Guilliman's co-consul, a man name Gallan, had unleashed a coup d'etat against Konor -- a development far from unknown historically, if in this instance a surprise. Gallan, it transpired, had long harboured designs on undiluted rulership and had conspired with those amongst the wealthy nobility of Macragge who were jealous of Konor's political power and popularity, and also increasingly afraid of his preternaturally precocious foster child's future. These malcontents represented Macragge's ancient regime, an aristocracy whose wealth was manifested by vast estates which were supported by the toiling of a multitude of impoverished vassals. Konor, backed by Macragge's industrial magnates -- rivals to the old regime -- had moved to challenge this balance of power, forcing the aristocracy of Macragge to provide their vassals with increased living standards and rights before the law, weakening the aristocracy's stranglehold on the polity. Konor had also passed legislation that obliged the nobility of Macragge to begin an ambitious programme of improving the long neglected infrastructure of their nation and enlarging the capital city at their own expense. These reforms made Konor Guilliman all but unassailable in the common people's eyes, but were highly unpopular among all but a few of the more far-sighted aristocrats.

As Roboute Guilliman and his triumphant army approached the city of Macragge Civitas, they saw the smoke form a multitude of fires and encountered citizens fleeing from the city in anarchy, and Roboute learned that Gallan's private army had attacked the senate house while Konor and his loyal bodyguard troops had been inside. The refugees each told the same story; that rebel soldiers had attacked the senate, whilst a drunken mob, instigated by Gallan but now out of anybody's control, roamed the city burning, looting and murdering. Roboute hurried to his foster father's rescue. Leaving his own troops to deal with the drunken rioters without quarter, Roboute personally fought his way towards the centre of the city, passing the bloody work of rebel firing squads everywhere in the government district, but at the senate house, found himself too late. All was a bullet-ridden and blasted ruin, and even the rebels it seemed had fled the scene to join the looting. There, in the half-collapsed shelters beneath the building, he found his father dying. For three days the wounded Counsul had directed the defence of the besieged senate house, even as surgeons fought for his life following a botched assassination attempt on the senate floor which had touched off the conspiracy's chaotic attack. It is apocryphally said that as he gasped out his last breath, Konor detailed the extent of Gallan's betrayal to his beloved foster son and named those whose hands were stained with his blood.

Roboute Guilliman's cold rage at his foster father's death was unstoppable. With the full backing of his army and the beleaguered citizens of Macragge Civitas, Roboute crushed the aristocratic rebels, scattering their hireling armies and lined the streets with the hanging bodies of the rioters, thereby quickly restoring order to the capital city and the surrounding lands. Thousands of citizens flocked to the senate house and amidst a wave of popular acclaim, Roboute assumed the mantle of the sole and now all-powerful Consul of Macragge. The new ruler broke the old, aristocratic order and stripped from them their lands and titles. Gallan and his fellow conspirators were seized, the ring leaders publicly executed and the rest sentenced to hard labour rebuilding the city they had ruined, stone by stone, by hand. It was not a sentence they would long survive. In the new order, loyal soldiers and hardworking settlers were granted rights where the oppressive aristocracy had once held sway. With super-human energy and the singularity of vision only a Primarch was capable of executing, the new Consul reorganised the social order of Macragge, creating a ruthlessly enforced meritocracy where the hardworking prospered and the honourable received positions of high office, and those who shirked the law or worked against the good of the whole faced draconian, but faultlessly even-handed punishment. The stagnated and uneven economy was re-ordered, technology disseminated rather than horded by the elite, and the armed forces were transformed into a powerful and well-equipped force. Macragge flourished as never before -- one people and one order, united under the people and one order, united under the unchallengeable rule of Roboute Guilliman.

Ultramar
Around the time that the young Roboute Guilliman waged war in Illyria, the Emperor's fleet had reached the planet of Espandor at the outer edge of the network of worlds with which Macragge had maintained tenebrous contact. From the Espandorians the Emperor learned of the existence of Macragge and the extraordinary son of the Consul Konor Guilliman, and from what he learned he knew that this child could be none other than a missing Primarch. There have been some who have suggested that the Emperor's arrival at Espandor and the isolated region so far from the frontline of the Great Crusade's main spur of progress was no accident, and that by some arts He had perceived or had foreknowledge of what He would find. Regardless, what followed was certainly not foreseen. As the Emperor's fleet quickly moved on to Macragge, it was almost immediately deflected by violent warp squalls which had risen up to separate Macragge and a handful of nearby systems from approach. Thwarted by a power even the Emperor could not readily ignore, it would be something in the region of five standard years before contact could be successfully attempted.

In the years that intervened, Macragge had undergone a striking transformation. It was now a world of uniformity and order, prosperous and productive. Its cities had been rebuilt in glittering marble and shining steel, and the serried ranks of its armies were well armed and well equipped, and outfitting themselves now for operations beyond their own world. For even before the Emperor's arrival, Roboute Guilliman, it is said, had dwelt much on the ancient histories contained from his world's deposed aristocracy, and the fragments he found there telling of the ancient domains of Mankind, and he had begun to dream of new horizons and new worlds to conquer, of a domain "beyond the seas of night" or to use the ancient scholarly form found in the text -- "Ultramar". By his will, he made it so and within their warp-sealed enclave, vessels from Macragge now plied regular and well-patrolled trade routes with local star systems, bringing raw materials and people to the flourishing world, while against some of its neighbours, short, victorious conflicts had already been waged to pacify the strife they had found there. It is said that when the Emperor saw what his lost son had wrought, He was indeed pleased, and that he met with Roboute Guilliman without the dissembling that had been needed with those Primarchs He had found of more savage timbre. It is further more recorded that once Guilliman learned the truth of his origins, he immediately swore his fealty to the Emperor, who he knew was his true father, for he had already theorised correctly the purpose for which he had not been born so much as deliberately created. It was immediately apparent to Imperial observers that Roboute Guilliman possessed a powerful analytical intelligence, even when compared to the superhuman cognitive abilities of his peers, as well as talent for statecraft and macro-organisation of staggering potential. Yet few could then guess what such talents harnessed to the Great Crusade would go on to achieve.

The Unification of Body and Soul
The XIII Legion of Space Mairnes was assigned to Guilliman in short order, for the Primarch needed little urging or aid in the assimilation of knowledge of the wider galaxy, the Great Crusade and the many technological wonders of the new-born Imperium of Man. It was a development greeted by the XIII Legion with great rejoicing and pride in the honour that Roboute Guilliamn paid them in accepting their fealty. The oratory and vision with which their new-found Primarch expounded to them his designs for the future and the righteousness of the Great Crusade filled the Legiones Astartes with a renewed vigiour and dispelled any shadows of doubt in their minds, and made Guilliman's takeover, according to official records, all but seamless.

Roboute Guilliman did far more than merely take command of the XIII Legion, he set about transforming it. His vision was for a Legion that was more than simply one army among many, however exceptional, but a self-sustaining power for conquest, order and expansion; the strength of the body and blood of the Imperium made manifest by the will of the Emperor through His servant Roboute Guilliman. To him, a military force was more than the warriors who wielded arms -- it was their chain of supply, the ships which carried them between, the manufactora which supplied their munitions and the worlds which bred their recruits; they were indivisible and equally vital. To Guilliman's mind, all of these things made a Space Marine Legion, and he meant to control them all so that his own would prosper and the Emperor's will be done.

In accordance with his grand design, he planned to not merely take the world of his fosterage as his headquarters and recruiting ground as his peers had done and would continue to do, but from the start set it up as merely the fulcrum of a far larger network of provender and support. The basis of this network would be the worlds Macragge had long maintained links with, but they would merely be its first components, not its fullest extent. This would be the start of Robout Guilliman's "Ultramar" and it would be a project of decades, and continue to expand right up to the first treacherous blow of the Horus Heresy.

The Eagle of the East
As swiftly as he put his plans for Ultramar into action, he embarked on the root and branch reorganisation of his Legion. Adopting an extraordinarily detailed plan which drew from both the military doctrines and political philosophies of his surrogate home world, a detailed study of the history of the XIII and each and every other Legion and armed force under the Emperor's banner in their then current form, he remade the organisational structure and tactical doctrines of his Legion accordingly.

The result was an elegantly structured but elaborate and highly meritocratic force. It unsurprisingly built on much that had already been evident in the character of the XIII Legion, as their Primarch's gene-seed had already partly shaped them, however unconsciously, and through the application of analysis and reason sought to purge any weaknesses or deficiencies to achieve the optimal military outcome. This, as with so much of the Legion's affairs, was considered by the Primarch an ongoing project, and it evolved quickly into a dual doctrine which embraced in parallel on one hand what were the ancient and deterministic values of the warrior: courage, discipline, skill and adaptability, defined as that which was "practical", and on the other: planning, precedent, analysis and assessment, defined as that which was "theoretical". Both were of equal weight and value, one complementing and informing the other, blending together as the metals which made a fine blade. This became the Legion's doctrine and creed. As with the society Roboute Guilliman had built on Macragge, the XIII Legion under his mastery would be as ruthlessly even-handed as it was efficient, with the needs of the individual sublimated to the greater whole, but the life of the individual never spent wantonly or without purpose; for the doctrine stated that each Legionary lost weakened those who remained. Within the Legion, the valour and the achievement of the individual were rewarded with honour and responsibility, but the obedience to hierarchy and order it demanded of its members was to be unquestioning and unchallenged. The outward signs of this transformation were striking, the livery of the XIII was altered to a deep blue, chased with gold, while the symbol of the ancient "Ultima" glyph found in the pre-isolation stellar charts of the region was adopted as its icon and seal to tie them to the newfound realm which they embodied, and with it the cognomen "Ultramarines", perhaps as one monography attributed to Remembrancer L. Amphidal suggested, "Roboute Guilliman and his Legion would vow to take the Great Crusade beyond the stars themselves if needed to see it completion."

Great Crusade
With its forward base relocated to Macragge, Guilliman was granted independent Crusade command for the region, and quickly set about a series of fresh conquests. His 12th Expeditionary Fleet reformed under his command and supplied with warships of the latest designs from Mars as a boon of the Emperor. Fresh conquests were immediate, as the newly named Ultramarines rapidly expanded their range out from Macragge, identifying suitable targets for Compliance and singling out xenos holds for eradication. Interrupted only when called upon to join larger campaigns by the will of the Emperor, for nearly a century the 12th Expeditionary Fleet ranged as far to the galactic north as the dead expanse where the Dominion of Storms ended and as far to the galactic east and south as the point of Ultima Thule, where the stars paled and emptied out into the limitless darkness of the exo-galactic void.

During this period, the Ultramarines, by some records, succeeded in liberating more worlds than any other single Primarch's forces, and the planets Roboute Guilliman brought within the Imperium always benefitted from his intense passion for efficient and ordered government. Whenever Guilliman and the Ultramarines made a world Compliant, his forces spent as much effort in establishing it afresh, setting up self-supporting defences, and ensuring that in his wake, the agents of the Imperial Truth and industry would firmly seal the world's place in the fabric of the Imperium. This spread of cohesive civilisation in the Legion's path served both to solidify and expand supply lines for its advance, facilitating in no small part the great speed and range of the Ultramarines' conquests.

Within months of the Legion's establishment on Macragge, the first influx of new recruits had arrived at the Fortress of Hera, the Legion's fortress-monastery and new headquarters, and the process of renewal and increase in the XIII Legion's fighting strength had begun and never since had ceased. Wave after wave of recruits were taken in and processed, not simply from Macragge and the surrounding worlds of the slowly expanding Ultramar, as numerous as they were, but from scores of worlds and colony outposts where the conquering fleets of Roboute Guilliman had gone. By the time Horus was appointed Warmaster, the Ultramarines were by any official assessment the largest single Space Marine Legion by number of Legionaries with a considerable margin. Owing to this expansion, the now massive 12th Expeditionary Fleet was sub-divided into a score of smaller Expeditionary and Persecution fleets, allowing the Legion to range further, each still numbering scores of vessels and thousands and sometimes tens of thousands of Legionaries. The numeric strength of the Ultramarines Legion, in excess of 250,000 Astartes, would be an achievement that would not be surpassed, though in secrecy the late expansion of the Word Bearers, who originally numbered approximately 100,000 Astartes, would come to rival them by some assessments, while the wilder claims as to the strength of the Alpha Legion also have them run closer than official records would indicate.

This scale of military force and the near autonomous "empire within an empire" that maintained it, Ultramar having reached a dominion popularly ascribed as the Five Hundred Worlds before the outbreak of war, would have dire and unforeseen consequences for the Ultramarines and their Primarch. Separate and inviolate in the east, and a great power within their own right, the Legion's very existence made them a threat to the Traitor's conspiracy that could not be ignored, and on Calth would the Warmaster's plan and the Word Bearer's desire for revenge see that threat destroyed.

Triumph of Ullanor
In the latter years of the 30th Millennium, force of the Imperium undertook the Ullanor Crusade, a vast Imperial assault on the Ork empire of the Overlord Urrlak Urruk. The capital world of this Greenskin stellar empire, and the site of the final assault by the Space Marine Legions, lay in the central Ullanor System of the galaxy's Ullanor Sector. The Crusade included the deployment of 100,000 Space Marines, 8,000,000 Imperial Army troops, and thousands of Imperial starships and their support personnel. The Ullanor Crusade marked the high point of the Great Crusade's vast effort to reunite the scattered colony worlds of humanity. The Orks of Ullanor represented the largest concentration of Greenskins ever defeated by the military forces of the Imperium of Man before the Third War for Armageddon began during the late 41st Millennium. Following the defeat of the Orks of Ullanor, the Emperor of Mankind was to return to Terra to begin work on his vast project to open up the Eldar Webway for Mankind's use. In his place to command the vast forces of the Great Crusade he left Horus. In the aftermath of the Ullanor Crusade, Horus was granted the newly-created title of "Warmaster", the commander-in-chief of all the Emperor’s armies who possessed command authority over all of the other Primarchs and every Expeditionary Fleet of the Great Crusade. When the Emperor proclaimed Horus, Warmaster of the Imperium, Guilliman accepted the news without resentment, and Horus continued to seek his counsel. However, Horus believed that Guilliman felt that he had deserved the honour of being named Warmaster just as much, if not more. Before returning to Terra to oversee the next phase of the creation of his stellar empire, the Emperor suggested to Horus that he rename the XVI Legion the "Sons of Horus", in honour of their Primarch and to show his preeminent place amongst the other Primarchs. Horus initially declined this honour, not wishing to be set above his brothers, and so his Legion continued as the Luna Wolves for a little while longer. But Horus and the other Primarchs never came to terms with the Emperor's absence. Their hurt feelings over his seeming abandonment of the Great Crusade to pursue a secret project whose purpose he chose not to reveal to his sons laid the seeds of jealousy and resentment that would ultimately blossom into the corruption that begat the Horus Heresy.

Battle of Calth
"Space Marines excel at warfare because they were designed to excel at everything. Each of you will become a leader, a ruler, the master of your world and when there is no more fighting to be done, you will bend your talents to order, governance and culture so that the Imperium will stand eternal."

- Roboute Guilliman to his gathered Chapter Masters (duty servo-transcription, hours prior to the Battle of Calth

When the Warmaster Horus turned his back on the Imperium, swore his allegiance to the Ruinous Powers of Chaos, and began the Horus Heresy, his first act before making his break with the Emperor of Mankind open was to lure away as many Loyalist Legions from Terra as possible. Horus ordered Guilliman to lead an expeditionary force to the world of Calth in the Veridian System in the Realm of Ultramar to prepare for a campaign in the Eastern Fringes of the galaxy, where, Horus claimed, an Ork WAAAGH! was massing. Horus expected the Ultramarines to await the arrival of the Word Bearers who would join with the XIII Legion in prosecuting a campaign against the Ork menace. Unknown to Guilliman, the XVII Legion had long before turned Traitor in service to the Chaos Gods, and its Primarch, Lorgar, gleefully accepted Horus' orders to close the trap on his Legion's long-hated rivals. The Word Bearers' sudden attack decimated Guilliman's Legion fleet, and the Ultramarines' ground troops quickly found themselves impossibly outnumbered by their former allies as the infamous Battle of Calth erupted. The Word Bearers slew their Loyalist foes in droves in the early stages of their surprise attack and pushed them back over huge stretches of territory. The Traitors rejoiced at the terrible blows they were inflicting upon the Legion that had once aided the Emperor in humiliating them upon the world of Khur decades before the start of the Heresy when they had been taken to task for repeated violations of the atheistic philosophy known as the Imperial Truth. Unknown to them, Guilliman's flagship, which had survived the initial Word Bearers' attack on the Ultramarines fleet, effected emergency repairs and regrouped with the other surviving Ultramarine starships in space. Having taken stock of his remaining forces, Guilliman sent an immediate astropathic distress call to Macragge. The Loyalist Marines on Calth, Ultramarines all, had been forced into a fighting retreat, but soon occupied fortified positions. Many Ultramarines had been born on Calth, and proved more resolute than the Word Bearers anticipated. In space, Guilliman's vessels began hit-and-run attacks on their over-confident enemy. Guilliman assessed his ground troops' positions and broadcast clear, concise orders to each pocket of defence, coordinating them into a cohesive force. One Ultramarine force led by Captain Ventanus led a breakout and retook Calth's Defence Laser silos, aiding the sorely-pressed Ultramarines fleet from the surface of Calth. Guilliman's depleted forces slowed the Word Bearers down long enough for the remainder of the Ultramarines Legion to arrive and rout the Traitor Marines from the system, though at a heavy cost. The Word Bearers turned Calth's own orbital defence platforms on the Veridian star, stripping away the outer layers of its photosphere and destabilising it, ultimately rendering the surface of Calth uninhabitable. At the same time, the Word Bearers had used the battle taking place on Calth to summon a massive Warp Storm called the Ruinstorm, that was intended to cut off Ultramar from the rest of the galaxy and prevent the Ultramarines from providing any reinforcements to Terra as Horus made his assault upon humanity's homeworld. The eruption of the Ruinstorm cut off Calth from the main body of the Ultramarines Legion and left the Astartes of the XIII Legion trapped on Calth locked in a brutal subterranean war with those Word Bearers units that had also been left behind when their Legion retreated from the Viridian System. Yet Roboute Guilliman and a large portion of his Legion had remained off-world as a result of the Word Bearers' devious assault upon the Ultramarines fleet. Bloodied but unbowed, the Ultramarines received the orders of Malcador the Sigillite, the Emperor's Regent, while he was indisposed pursuing the secret Imperial Webway Project, and prepared to meet the needs of the Imperium's defence against the Traitor Legions as best they could.

Shadow Crusade
In his wrath, the Lord of Ultramar had gathered what vessels he could spare after Kor Phaeron's ambush, drawn additional numbers from the first Ultramarines relief fleet bound for Calth after the massacre above that world, and tracked Lorgar directly through the use of the XIII Legion’s own astropathic choirs. In the wake of the Battle of Calth, the Word Bearers Legion, led by Lorgar, linked up with Angron and his World Eaters Legion to launch a Shadow Crusade against the Realm of Ultramar's Five Hundred Worlds in an attempt to spread the massive Warp Storm known as the Ruinstorm that had been conjured by the Word Bearers' First Chaplain Erebus at Calth across the Eastern Fringe. This prodigious Warp Storm would effectively split the galaxy in half and deny needed reinforcements to the Loyalists as Horus drove on Terra in an attempt to overthrow the Emperor of Mankind.

The Shadow Crusade laid waste to 26 worlds until Guilliman's retribution fleet finally caught up to the Traitors upon Angron's homeworld of Nuceria, which the World Eaters Legion were preoccupied with wiping clean of all life in vengeance for the treatment the Nucerians had merited out a century before to Angron. The XIII Legion warship Courage Above All, Guilliman's temporary flagship, broke Warp at the system’s edge, at the head of a large void armada consisting of 41 vessels. The Ultramarines armada looked wounded, cobbled together from separate fleets. It was not a dedicated interdiction war-fleet, but clearly a ragtag strike force, a lance thrust to the enemy’s heart. Guilliman himself had done the best he could with limited resources. The XIII Legion's Cruisers and Battleships ran abeam of the enemy fleet for repeated exchange of broadsides, offering targets too big and powerful to ignore, while the rest of the Ultramarines fleet used calculated Lance strikes from safer range. The armada then divided its assault potential, doing its utmost to destroy Lorgar's flagship Fidelitas Lex, and attempted to take the World Eaters' flagship Conqueror in a boarding action.

But the Ultramarines' warships not only fought a void war, they also attempted to take the fight to the surface of Nuceria, for this attack was personal. The Ultramarines had come for revenge against Lorgar and the Word Bearers, just as they had pursued Kor Phaeron all the way to the Maelstrom on the other side of Ultramar. Several Ultramarines warships attempted to make a run on Nuceria, haemorrhaging Drop Pods, landers and gunships, forcing planetfall by any means necessary. The Ultramarines fleet swept over and against the Traitors like an insect horde. But the tenacious commander of the Conqueror, Lotara Sarrin, put up a difficult fight and destroyed a number of Ultramarines vessels that attempted to make a run for the surface. Though the World Eaters' flagship transformed a number of the smaller vessels into flaming wreckage, the Ultramarines eventually punched through her tenacious defence and managed to land troops on the surface of Nuceria.

Meanwhile, the Fidelitas Lex was already a ruin, its armour pitted and cracked, its shields a memory. The cathedrals and spinal fortresses barnacling along its back were gone, laid waste by the Ultramarines’ incendiary rage. The XIII Legion's armada attacked in strafing runs and protracted exchanges of broadsides, trading fire with the superior warship and accepting their own casualties as the cost of bleeding the bigger vessel dry. Each assault left the Lex weaker, firing fewer turrets and cannons, taking punishment on its increasingly fragile armour. But she fought on. Crawling with smaller ships, the Lex lashed back with its remaining Macro-cannons, rolling in the light of its own burning hull. Guilliman guided the battle from the command deck of Courage Above All, and had decided that the Lex would die first, killed in the death of a thousand cuts and swept from the game board, while the Conqueror would be boarded and killed from within. In the course of the battle in Nucerian orbit, the Conqueror could not rise to its sister-ship's defence. Both Traitor Legion flagships fought alone, starved of support and suffering the endless attacks of the XIII Legion’s ragged armada. Salvation Pods streamed from the Lex’s sides and underbelly, along with heavier Mechanicum craft and bulk landers. With the Legionaries of the Word Bearers already on the surface, the ship’s human population fled in the vessel’s final minutes. And still the great vessel fought -- rolling, turning, raging. The Ultramarines Cruisers that drifted past burned as badly as the warship they were killing. This void battle was a form of dirty fighting between warships, too close for the neat calculations of ranged battery fire. Instead, it was an up close and personal slugfest.

The Ultramarines Battle Barge Armsman intercepted the Conqueror and came abeam, launching Assault Carriers and Boarding Torpedoes. While the World Eaters flagship was busy repelling boarders, a number of smaller XIII Legion vessels slipped past her defences and launched Drop Pods, gunships and troop carriers. The first Drop Pods hammered home on the planet's surface. Sealed doors unlocked and the first Ultramarines poured forth, Bolters raised, moving in perfect and well-trained unity. But the World Eaters were waiting for them. Those not lost to the Butcher's Nails at once had the presence of mind to note that these Ultramarines were not the pristine cobalt-blue warriors they had previously faced on the War World of Armatura. These Legionaries of the XIII wore cracked Power Armour, still scarred and burnwashed from some horrendous battle weeks or months before. These were hardened veterans of the Calth Atrocity. They burned with a cold intensity to carry out the vengeance in their hearts, and were intent on getting to grips with the Word Bearers.

As was their way, the Ultramarines established footholds at defensible positions, clearing room for their reinforcements to land. For every position they held, another was overrun by the World Eaters in a storm of roaring axes, or lost to the Word Bearers' chanting, implacable advance. The XII Legion crashed against the XIII in rabid packs, showing why Imperial forces had feared to fight alongside them for decades. Uncontrolled, unbound, unrestrained, they butchered their way through Ultramarines strongpoints, enslaved to the joy of battle because of the Butcher's Nails cortical implants sandwiched within the meat of their minds. The XVII Legion also met their Loyalist cousins, replacing ferocity with spite and hate. The Ultramarines returned it in kind, hungry for vengeance against the vile Traitors who had defiled Calth and damaged its star. Word Bearers units marched, droning black hymns and chanting sermons from the Book of Lorgar, bearing corpse-strewn icons of befouled metal and bleached bones above their regiments.

As the fighting raged, the burning shell of the Fidelitas Lex cut through the clouds into the planet's atmosphere, shuddering on its way east, rolling ever downwards, achingly slow for something of such scale. The weight of the Lex's massive plasma engines dragged the stern down first, colliding with the Nucerian ocean's surface far from shore. In the meantime, the demigod in gold and blue had finally found the object of his obsession amidst the clamour of war. Guilliman confronted Lorgar, possessing the advantage of two weapons, but Lorgar's Crozius gave him a reach his brother lacked. When they first met, there was no furious trading of frantic blows, nor were there any melodramatic speeches of vengeance avowed. The two Primarchs came together once, Power Fist against War Maul, and backed away from the resulting flare of repelling energy fields. Their warriors killed each other around them both, and neither Primarch spared their sons a glance. Lorgar flicked the clinging lightning from the head of his Crozius, shaking his head in slow denial.

Both Primarchs fought without heeding their warriors, their godlike movements an inconceivable blur to the Space Marines fighting around them. None had ever imagined the heroes of this new age would take the field against each other, nor could they have predicted the wellsprings of spite between them. Guilliman confronted Lorgar for what his Legion had done across the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar. In his righteous anger the Ultramarines Primarch struck Lorgar with one of his fists, battering the Word Bearers Primarch's sternum. Lorgar repulsed him with a projected burst of telekinesis, weak and wavering, but enough to send his brother staggering. The Crozius followed, its power field trailing lightning as Lorgar hammered it into the side of Guilliman’s head with the force of a cannonball. Both Primarchs faced each other beneath the grey sky, one bleeding internally, the other with half of his face lost to blood sheeting from a fractured skull.

As the two Primarchs were locked in their furious life-and-death struggle, they were oblivious to the destruction being wrought around them. Suddenly, Angron burst forth from the Ultramarines ranks, his armour a shattered wreck, and both of his Chainswords spat gobbets of ceramite armour plating and scarlet gore. Angron was plastered with the blood of the slain after hours in the crush of the front lines of intense combat. On his chest hung a bandolier of skulls taken from the mass grave at Desh'elika Ridge. Blood painted them as surely as it marked Angron. Even through the constant pain generated by the Butcher's Nails, that pleased him. He wanted his deceased brothers and sisters to taste blood once more. He had carried them with him across Nuceria, letting their empty eyes witness the razing of his former, hated homeworld. The World Eater launched himself at Guilliman with murderous hatred. The two Primarchs fell into a seamless, roaring duel where Lorgar and Guilliman had abandoned theirs. Guilliman was forced back by the storm of Angron's blows. As the two Primarchs fought, Guilliman landed a glancing blow, his fist pounding across Angron's breastplate. One of the skulls of Angron's fallen kinsman that hung from the chain worn across his breastplate was partially shattered and scattered across the ground. Guilliman stepped back, his boot crushing a skull's remnants to powder. Angron saw it, and threw himself at his brother, his howl of wrath defying mortal origins, impossibly ripe in its anguish. Lorgar saw it, too. The moment Guilliman's boot broke the skull, he felt the Warp boil behind the veil. The Bearer of the Word started chanting in a language never before spoken by any living being, his words in faultless harmony with Angron's cry of torment. Lorgar enacted his dark plan to save his brother's life, summoning the Ruinstorm to the world of Nuceria, tearing the sky open and unleashing a crimson torrent, formed from the ghosts of a hundred murdered worlds, raining blood. Guilliman had been holding his own against both Traitor Primarchs, until Lorgar ceased his attack and started his achingly resonant chant. Angron and Roboute still fought, with the Lord of the Ultramarines giving ground each time Angron landed a blow. Angron plunged his Chainsword up under Guilliman’s breastplate -- a shallow stab, but a telling one. The Ultramarines Primarch crushed the impaling sword in one fist and staggered back, truly bleeding now.

Despite the maelstrom of combat and sorcery raging around them, Angron still fought Guilliman, standing above the kneeling Ultramarine Primarch. He had not even noticed the storm of blood streaming from the sky in a red torrent. Sparks sprayed from Roboute’s raised gauntlets as he struggled to ward off blow after blow. He was beaten and down. His wounds bled profusely, a palette of proud defeat. His warriors fought desperately to retrieve him. Fortunately they were granted a brief reprieve, as Lorgar's incantation locked up Angron's muscles, and began to transform the Red Angel into a new form as a Daemon Prince of Khorne. Guilliman took the opportunity to escape into his sons' defiant phalanxes, retreating in enviable unity. Lorgar saw the expression of disgusted awe on his brother's face as the wounded Ultramarine stared at Angron's metamorphosis atop the mound of dead sons from all three bloodlines of Space Marines. The XIII Legion continued to fire even in retreat, leaving the world of Nuceria battered and bloody. Their campaign against the two Traitor Legions was over..for now.

Roboute Guilliman escaped from Nuceria, unable to face or even fully comprehend what both of his brothers had become through their corruption by the Ruinous Powers. The World Eaters completed their purge of Nuceria until not one human life remained on the benighted world. Angron, now the very embodiment of the Blood God's Eight-Fold Path, shook the dust of the world from his feet and did not think of it again.

Battle of Terra
As the long and bloody years of the Horus Heresy passed, the Traitor Legions under the command of the Warmaster Horus finally closed on the homeworld of Mankind and launched their great assault against the Imperial Palace while they believed a good portion of the Loyalist Space Marine Legions remained occupied in other regions of the galaxy. While the Forces of Chaos came close to battering down the gates of the Palace, the Loyalists' stout defence managed to hold the line long enough for Loyalist reinforcements to drop from the Warp on the edges of the Sol System. Salvation was coming. In orbit of Terra, Horus' allies delivered the fateful news to the Warmaster while he sat directing the battle for the Imperial Palace. The Ultramarines, Dark Angels and Space Wolves Legions were only hours away from reinforcing the Emperor and his Loyalist defenders. Horus knew that his gamble had failed. What happened next is disputed, some believe Horus disabled his shields as he experienced one last moment of regret, and some believe it was a personal challenge to the Emperor. Nevertheless, Horus lowered the shields of his flagship Battle Barge Vengeful Spirit, allowing the Emperor, the Blood Angels' Primarch Sanguinius and a company of Imperial Fists to teleport aboard and slay him, ending the Horus Heresy. The Emperor was mortally wounded in the exchange and interred in the Golden Throne immediately afterwards by the Primarch Rogal Dorn, leaving a dangerous void of power and authority in the Imperium.

The Ultramarines did not arrive until after Horus' defeat, and they found Terra and the Imperium in ruins. Guilliman steadfastly refused to allow the Imperium to fall, and began dispatching elements of his Legion to all corners of the galaxy to stem the tide of invasion and unrest as the other Loyalist forces recovered and rearmed. After a decade of intense fighting, stability was restored. To prevent a single commander having as many superhuman Astartes at his command as Horus had, Guilliman reformulated the sizes of all of the Loyalist Space Marine Legions into thousand-man Chapters, breaking apart the 9 original Loyalist First Founding Legions into the much smaller Second Founding Chapters. Never again would one man, no matter how noble and unblemished his motives, wield the power of an entire Space Marine Legion. The rationale and proper organisation of Space Marine Chapters are the main topic in Guilliman's masterwork of strategy, the Codex Astartes.

Whilst the Horus Heresy plunged the Imperium into savagery and civil war, the Ultramarines were engaged on the southern edge of the galaxy. Their very success had carried them far from Terra and isolated them from the conquering Traitor Legions of the Warmaster Horus which had been concentrated in the galactic northeast. News of Horus' treachery did not reach the Ultramarines until the attack on Earth was underway. Thanks to the speed of Horus' attack there was little that Roboute Guilliman could do in support of his Emperor during the crucial Battle of Terra. None of the worlds already liberated by the Ultramarines were in serious danger from the Forces of Chaos. Consequently, the Ultramarines were poorly placed to contribute during the early stages of the Horus Heresy.

Post-Heresy Imperial Reformation
The Loyalist Space Marine Legions had lost tens of thousands of troops during the fighting of the Heresy, and half of the original 18 Legions had sided with Horus and been corrupted by Chaos. As a result, the number of Astartes left to the Imperium after the end of the Heresy was very few, yet never were they more needed.

The confusion and disorder following the Horus Heresy had left the Imperium weak and vulnerable. Everywhere the enemies of mankind prepared to attack. Many worlds remained in the grip of Chaos. Into this breach stepped Roboute Guilliman and the Ultramarines. Always the largest of the Astartes Legions, the Ultramarines found themselves divided and dispatched all over the Imperium in a desperate effort to stem the tide of invasion and unrest. The Ultramarines successfully held the Imperium together during a time of intense danger. Macragge was able to supply new recruits at such a rate that before long the Ultramarines alone accounted for more than half the total number of Space Marines, and few were the star systems where their heroism went unnoticed. Within a decade, order was restored to the Imperium. Even as the Ultramarines reconquered, a new theory of warfare was emerging. Under the guidance of the Ultramarines' Primarch, the Codex Astartes was taking shape. Its doctrines would reshape the future of all Space Marines and forevermore dictate the foundation for the Imperium's military strength and the ultimate survival of Mankind.

The Second Founding of the Space Marines was decreed seven years after the death of Horus and the end of his Heresy. Most of the old Loyalist Legions divided into fewer than 5 Successor Chapters, but the Ultramarines were divided many times. The exact number of Successor Chapters created from the Ultramarines is uncertain: the number listed in the oldest copy of the Codex Astartes gives the total as 23, but does not name them. With the Second Founding, the size of the Ultramarines force was much reduced. Most of the Space Marines left Macragge to establish new Chapters elsewhere. The Ultramarines' fortress-monastery was built to accommodate more than ten times as many Space Marines as now remained on their homeworld. As a result its arsenals and weapon shops were partially dismantled and taken by the new Chapters to found their own bases. The genetic banks of the Ultramarines, and the huge recruitment organisation, were similarly reduced. As a result of the Second Founding, the Ultramarines' gene-seed became pre-eminent across the Imperium. The new Chapters created from the Ultramarines during the Second Founding are often referred to as the Primogenitors, or "first-born". The lasting heritage of Guilliman was not only genetic, but spiritual. Even to this day, 10,000 standard years later, all the Primogenitor Chapters venerate Roboute Guilliman as their own founding father and patron, and hold the ruler of Ultramar, whoever he be, as the exemplar of all that it means to be a Space Marine. So did the Ultramarines rise to become preeminent amongst their brother Chapters.

Death of the Avenging Son
Roboute Guilliman continued to serve with the Ultramarines Chapter, leading them for a hundred years after the Second Founding. It was said that during those years, Guilliman led several incursions alongside his brother Primarchs against the remaining Chaos Space Marines. During one incursion, Guilliman faced his former brother Primarch Alpharius of the Alpha Legion, and slew him in single combat (though the precise details of this event remain in doubt, even to the Ultramarines). The Ultramarines, however, were forced to withdraw from the combat, as to their shock the Alpha Legion's Traitor Marines fought on despite the apparent loss of their Primarch. Guilliman would meet eventually his ultimate fate during the Battle of Thessala in 121.M31, when he was laid low by the Traitor Daemon Primarch, Fulgrim of the Emperor's Children, who had become a Daemon Prince of Slaanesh. During this encounter with his former brother, Fulgrim managed to fatally injure Guilliman in the neck with his poisonous blade (which was remarkably similar to the Anathame sword that was used by Dark Apostle Erebus to fatally wound Horus on Davin's moon). Fatally poisoned by his one-time brother, Roboute was transported back to Macragge in a stasis field, and has remained entombed in the field for 10,000 years, frozen in time. Although physically impossible within the null-time of a stasis field, it is believed by many pilgrims to his shrine that his wounds are healing, and that one day he will awaken again when the Imperium needs him most. The Shrine of Guilliman built to contain his body is one of the most holy places in the entire Imperium, and one which welcomes millions of pilgrims every year. It lies within the Temple of Correction, a vaulted sepulchre forming a small part of the Ultramarines' vast northern polar fortress on Macragge. The temple is a miracle of construction and typical of the attention to detail to which the Ultramarines apply themselves. Its proportions defy the human mind by the scope and grandeur of its design. The multi-coloured glass dome that forms the roof is the largest of its kind. Even the Techno-magi of the Adeptus Mechanicus come to marvel at the structure said to have been designed by Roboute Guilliman himself. According to the Ultramarines there is enough marble within the temple to build a mountain, and sufficient adamantium and shining plasteel to construct a sizable Imperial warfleet.

Within this edifice is the great marble throne of Roboute Guilliman, and upon that throne sits a regal corpse. Though the best part of 10,000 years have passed since his death, the Primarch's body is perfectly preserved. Even his death wounds from Fulgrim's blade are visible upon his throat. His mortal remains are preserved from the ravages of time by means of a stasis field that isolates the Primarch from the time-stream of normal four-dimensional space-time. Everything encompassed by the field is trapped in time and can neither change nor decay. There are some, however, who claim the Primarch's wounds do change. They say that Guilliman's body is slowly recovering and that his wounds show mysterious signs of healing. Others deny the phenomena, and point out the sheer scientific impossibility of change within the stasis field. Yet enough believe the stories to come and witness for themselves the miracle of the Primarch, generation after generation.

An Age of Legends
For 10,000 standard years the Emperor of Mankind has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Terra, His withered body little more than a husk of the great man that he once was. His grand vision, the Imperium of Man, endures -- yet it does not prosper, for it lingers under a pall of misery and persecution, suspicion and mistrust. It is assailed on all sides and from within by Heretics, witches and aliens, and only by the endless sacrifice of countless citizens does the Imperium continue to exist. Yet now, at the close of the 41st Millennium, the people of the Imperium face their greatest trial. Orks wreak havoc across the galaxy, the Tau Empire expands in the Eastern Fringe, the Tyranids send vast alien swarms from beyond the stars to consume all in their path, and the Necrons awaken to reclaim what was once theirs. And above all, more deadly than any other foe, the Forces of Chaos choose this moment to begin their most concerted invasion of the Imperium. Under the eye of Abaddon the Despoiler and his 13th Black Crusade, countless worlds have already fallen. Madness and heresy are rife and violent Warp Storms tear great rents in the galaxy. Blind in their ignorance, the High Lords of Terra send billions to their deaths in a bid to save the Imperium. Yet it took the Eldar, a more far-sighted race, to realise that what the Imperium needs now is a hero, a symbol of the Emperor's will made manifest. The Imperium needs a Primarch.



The full might of the 13th Black Crusade assailed the Fortress World of Cadia, which stood as the lone sentinel of the Cadian Gate, the only predictably stable way out of the Warp maelstrom known as the Eye of Terror. Though severely outnumbered and assailed on all sides, the Imperial defenders held their ground, mounting a valiant defence under the superlative leadership of the Lord Castellan of Cadia, Ursarkar E. Creed. As the conflict became increasingly desperate, many heroes of the Imperium gathered on Cadia. Space Marines from multiple Chapters lent their strength to the defence, including the Black Templars of Marshal Marius Amalrich, and the Imperial Fists of Captain Tor Garadon, who brought the Star Fort Phalanx into the war. Saint Celestine swept down upon Cadia in its darkest hour, her miracles instilling faith in its ragged protectors. Inquisitor Katarinya Greyfax, long a prisoner of the Necron Lord Trazyn the Infinite, was released from captivity to lend her prodigious will and talents to the cause. Yet the key to victory upon Cadia was discovered by the ancient Martian Tech-priest, Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Urged on by the Harlequin Shadowseer Sylandri Veilwalker, he had unlocked the secrets of the Necron-built black pylons that studded the surface of Cadia and other worlds throughout the Cadia System. Abaddon had long sought out these ancient and mysterious structures to destroy them during his many Black Crusades, which weakened the veil between reality and the Immaterium. In truth, Cawl had been en route to honour an ancient pact made with the Lord of Ultramar many Terran millennia ago, but on Cadia he saw a chance to reverse the Despoiler's work and perhaps close the Eye of Terror forever. But it was not to be.



Though the servants of the Emperor fought with dogged determination and courage, Cawl's works were undone when the pylons were destroyed and Cadia was dealt a final death blow. Those few Imperial defenders that were left alive were forced to flee before the flood of the Forces of Chaos that assailed the doomed world. As they did so a terrible Warp rift yawned in their wake as the Eye of Terror actually began to expand. Yet there was still one chance of salvation that remained -- Cawl's ancient pact and the mysterious artefact that he transported within an armoured auto-reliquary. Declaring themselves the Celestinian Crusade in honour of the Living Saint who still lit their way through the darkness, the surviving warriors of the Imperium made for the Macragge System within the Realm of Ultrmar, with the forces of the Despoiler hot on their heels.



At the same time, the Eldar race had been rocked to its very foundation by a cosmic upheaval of great significance. Ynnead, the Eldar God of the Dead, had awoken in the æther and chosen a former Eldar of Craftworld Biel-Tan to be his prophet. Yvraine, the Daughter of Shades, had walked many Paths during her long life, from that of dancer to Warlock to Aspect Warrior. She eventually had become a famed Corsair leader until a mutiny forced her to flee into the Webway, where she ended up in the Dark City of Commorragh, the primary home of the Dark Eldar. Fighting as a gladiatrix in the dark city's infamous Crucibael arena, she defeated many foes before having fallen to a priestess of Morai-Heg, however, while she lay between life and death, she was resurrected by Ynnead and chosen to act his prophet in the material realm. Her rebirth caused a great Dysjunction within Commorragh, and the Dark City was beset by the daemonic servants of Slaanesh. Fleeing the Dark Eldar forces of the Dark City's Supreme Overlord, Asdrubael Vect, Yvraine, aided by the mysterious warrior known as the Visarch, and followed by some of the Dark Eldar who believed in her cause, successfully brought word of the Whispering God's awakening to Craftworld Biel-Tan. While there, the Craftworld underwent a swift and terrible cycle of death and rebirth that brought the Yncarne, avatar of Ynnead, into being. Some amongst the Eldar embraced Yvraine's belief that the cycle of death and rebirth would be their salvation, and became her followers, known as the Ynnari -- the Reborn. Others rejected this upstart's teachings as arrogance and dangerous in the extreme. But Yvraine pressed on regardless, and departed Biel-Tan in search of the time-lost artefacts known as the Croneswords and formulated a desperate plan to turn back the tides of Chaos.

It was this mission that brought Yvraine through the Webway to the frozen moon of Klaisus in orbit of the Fortress World of Kasr Holn in the Cadia System, leading an army of the Eldar from every faction who once more laid claim to the ancient name of Aeldari. They emerged from the moon's Webway gate just in time to rescue the Celestinian Crusade from their pursuers. Driving off the Heretic Astartes of the Black Legion, the Ynnari negotiated common cause with the Celestinians, agreeing to aid them in reaching the Realm of Ultramar. Thus, as Warp Storms billowed and spread across the galaxy, the assembled pilgrims hastened through the Webway, bearing a thin sliver of hope between them.

The Invasion of Ultramar
In the closing years of the 41st Millennium, the stellar realm of Ultramar came under sustained attack from myriad foes. Menacing shapes stirred in the intergalactic void, the Tyranids of Hive Fleet Leviathan drifting inexorably towards Guilliman's realm. The Arch-Arsonist of Charadon, one of the greatest Ork Warlords in the galaxy, led a monstrous WAAAGH! from his anarchic domain with the intent of overrunning the Ultramarines' eastern defences. Yet the greatest threat of them all was that posed by the dark servants of Chaos.

A vast horde of Traitors, Renegades, mutants and madmen fell upon Ultramar under the leadership of the foul Daemon Prince M'kar the Reborn. That invasion plunged dozens of worlds into bloody battle, war raging from the worlds of Espandor and Tarentus to oceanic Talassar. Yet eventually, after long solar months of sorrow, bloodshed and loss, the Ultramarines prevailed. M'kar was defeated and his armies driven off, pursued to the stellar void beyond the bounds of Ultramar

So began a period of rebuilding and consolidation across Ultramar, as Marneus Calgar and his Chapter led their peoples' efforts to shore up the battered defences of their realm. It was a period of repose and recovery that was to be all too swiftly ended.

Acting upon the prophetic revelations of the Sorcerer Zaraphiston, Abaddon the Despoiler hurled a fresh coalition of Chaos Space Marine warbands against the defences of Ultramar. Though the Despoiler himself was engaged in the ongoing fighting of the 13th Black Crusade around the recently-shattered Cadian Gate, his inﬂuence as Arch-champion and Warmaster of the Dark Gods extended far. So it was that he was able to muster a sizeable force of warriors from the Black Legion, the Iron Warriors, the Night Lords and a number of other Traitor factions, and hurl them against the worlds of Ultramar. While some warbands struck at the outer star systems in an effort to tie up potential Loyalist reinforcements, the main Traitor horde rode the tempestuous currents of the Warp straight into the Macragge System itself. So began a desperate and bloody invasion...

Ultramar Defiant
"They shall be pure of heart and strong of body, untainted by doubt and unsullied by self-aggrandisement. They will be bright stars upon the firmament of battle, angels of death whose shining wings bring swift annihilation to the enemies of Man. So it shall be for a thousand times a thousand years, unto the very end of eternity and the extinction of mortal flesh."

- Primarch Roboute Guilliman

A Realm at War
High in the Atheron Mountains of the Shrine World of Laphis in the Macragge System, unearthly energies stirred. They ﬂowed in barely perceptible currents, whipping up dust and ash as they washed across a corpse-scattered plateau. Gradually they picked up pace, invisible forces tugging at the ﬂames that licked from wrecked main battle tanks, and causing billowing smoke to curl into sluggish vortices. A handful of living warriors remained on that arid mountaintop, Chaos Space Marines clad in the brutal armour of the Black Legion. They stood amidst the mounded dead of recent battle, a few of their own fallen scattered amongst heaps of Ultramar Defence Auxilia. The Traitors checked handheld scrying devices and raised spiked Bolters, panning their weapons as they sought the source of the aetheric buildup. Harsh voices barked challenges through fanged Vox grills, while sensors swept the cobalt-blue sky above and the hulking forms of mountains that rose beyond the plateau's edge. Still no enemy revealed themselves.

With sudden fury the building energies roared, hurling Heretic Astartes from their feet. The surging power was dragged inwards to a tight point, and there it coalesced into a towering structure. Tall and elegant, the curved edifce shimmered into view as though it had stood atop the mountain for a thousand standard years. The air swam around it, and from within spat a hail of frepower. Roars of anger and pain rose from the Traitors as monomolecular discs cut through armour and shattered eye lenses. Blood sprayed dark across sun-bleached stone. Severed limbs encased in black Power Armour clanged to the ground as ancient Heretics were cut to pieces by the sudden firestorm.

As the Chaos Space Marines reeled, the Ynnari and Celestinians burst from the Webway entrance. Yvraine and the Visarch led a force much reduced; deeming it unwise to appear suddenly in the bounds of Ultramar at the head of an entire warhost, many of their followers, guided by the Farseer Eldrad Ulthran and the Autarch Meliniel, had departed on other crucial missions. The two remaining Eldar leaders sprinted across the plateau with breathtaking speed, empowered by the deaths of their enemies and weaving like dancers around the bolt shells that roared in their direction. The Visarch skidded low, sliding under a thumping volley of fire to ram his blade through a Traitor's breastplate. Yvraine, meanwhile, leapt nimbly over a hail of shots, planting one foot atop a Black Legionary's Bolter and vaulting over his head. The Prophet of Ynnead swept her blade in a ﬂashing arc, and her victim's helm left his neck an instant before his form crumbled to glowing ash.

More warriors surged from thin air to join the Ynnari charge. Swift-footed Dire Avengers and Klaive-wielding Incubi charged out alongside bellowing Black Templars Space Marines, their ingrained hatred for each other put aside. Marshal Marius Amalrich and Inquisitor Katarinya Greyfax stormed out of the Webway side by side, blades lashing out to shed Heretic blood once more. The winged fgure of Saint Celestine soared above them, her Geminae Superia'' leaping at her side with Bolt Pistols blazing. The Battle-Sisters of the Order of Our Martyred Lady followed them into battle, guns ﬂaring as they spat fire at the traitorous foe. Behind them all came the Magos Belisarius Cawl, skittering on his many mechanical legs as his precious auto-reliquary trundled along behind him. Skitarii and Kataphron Battle Servitors advanced with him, and the ground shook at the tread of a pair of towering House Taranis Knights that brought up the rear.''

The Black Legionaries did not panic at this sudden assault, as lesser warriors might have. Their numbers were few, however, and their attackers had the advantage of complete surprise. Mass-reactive bolts blew a handful of Skitarii apart, and two of the Visarch's Incubi were beaten down and bludgeoned to death at close quarters. Yet between the ﬂashing blades of the Celestinians and the Ynnari -- who seemed to move with greater speed and skill by the moment -- all but a few of the Black Legionaries were swiftly cut down.

The last of the Traitors fell back in good order, determined to bear word of what they had seen to their masters. It was not to be; none escaped the howling frestorm as the Knights braced their legs and let ﬂy with gatling cannons and armour-piercing missiles. Fire billowed, shrapnel ﬂew, and the ﬂeeing Traitor Marines were reduced to bloody tatters.

As quickly as it had begun, the one-sided battle was over. The Celestinians and Ynnari were left standing amongst the freshly fallen dead with their weapons smoking in their hands. Terse orders were given, warriors jogging out to establish a bristling perimeter of guns around the Webway portal. The Eldar and humans had fought together, yet they remained wary of one another, leaving tacit gaps between their formations as they deployed.

Thus shielded, the leaders of the Ynnari and the Celestinians gathered beneath the harsh blue sky. Questions needed to be asked, and facts established. The Imperial Vox channels were found to be thick with clipped exchanges between Space Marine offcers, Defence Auxilia regiments, starship captains and countless others. All were clearly engaged in fierce battle against Chaos forces, with dread names such as the Black Legion, the Alpha Legion, the Iron Warriors and the Emperor's Children ringing through the Vox. Palls of smoke rose from horizon to horizon, while the skies above were crisscrossed with contrails. Ultramar, it appeared, was a realm plunged into a desperate war for survival.

Hot winds hissed across the barren plateau, bearing the distant rattle of gunfire and thump of explosions to Katarinya Greyfax's ears.

"Macragge is invaded," she said dourly. "This is grave news."

"You are labouring under a misapprehension," said Cawl. "According to my internal gyro-cartolog, we do not stand upon the surface of Macragge. We are located one hundred and sixty million miles spinward of our intended destination, allowing for variable positioning and empyric distort."

"Then where are we?" demanded the Inquisitor, rounding upon the tall xenos priestess standing nearby. Yvraine turned to Greyfax with a cold, imperious look. The Ynnari leader lowered her blade with slow deliberation, her head cocked to one side as though listening to something only she could hear. When she spoke, her voice was cold as the grave, and Greyfax felt a shiver at the faint, insectile susurrus that scratched behind the alien's words.

"Would you have been gladdened, Mon-Keigh, to find that my people kept a hidden way upon the surface of one of your most prized worlds? I think not."

"No," growled Marshal Amalrich, "we would not." The Black Templar had been more grim than ever since the battle on Klaisus. Greyfax knew that he had taken the fall of Cadia, and the subsequent alliance of the Celestinians with the xenos, very badly.

"The Marshal is right," said Saint Celestine. "Such knowledge would have unsettled us. But it would, perhaps, have eased our road. Where, then, do we stand? And how shall we proceed along our appointed path?"

All looked to Yvraine. The Daughter of Shades made a show of staring off to the far horizon, her Gyrinx winding around the train of her dress, rumbling a leonine growl.

"This is the world that your species calls Laphis, in the star system of Macragge," she said, her voice drifting around them like cold mist. "In order to proceed, we need only locate representatives of the Ultramarines present upon this world."

"And what if they are disinclined to lend us their assistance?" prodded Sister Eleanor, one of Celestine's Geminae Superia. "We walk with xenos at our side, and come uninvited to their world. Are they not as like to shoot us as to offer welcome?"

"That is your concern, not ours," replied Yvraine, her tone dismissive. "These are your Emperor's finest warriors, are they not? Surely they have the mental discipline to discern friend from foe."

"They have the mental discipline to remain wary of xenos trickery," rumbled Amalrich. "And to suspect those who traffic with such creatures."

"We pilgrims will convince them that our cause is holy and just," said Celestine forcefully, shooting a stern glance at the scowling Marshal. "And that our alliance is an honest one. But not by standing here and arguing. We must move at once, for darkness draws close, and time grows short."

Through the Flames
At Saint Celestine's urging, the Crusade forces and their Ynnari allies moved off through the Atheron Mountains. Events were moving quickly now, accelerating like a river in full ﬂood tide, and the pilgrims did not have the luxury of time. Cadia had fallen, but worse -- judging from the ferocity with which he had pursued his broken foes, and his knowledge of their intended destination -- Abaddon the Despoiler knew something of their mission.

From the heights of the plateau, a broad, packed-earth roadway led down the mountainside. Wide enough for several Baneblades to pass side by side, the roadway angled steadily downward between taller mountain peaks, and its entire length was lined with ancient stone supports. Atop these stood sombre statues of robed fgures with the unmistakably oversized features of Space Marines. Lit braziers in the statues' hands trailed streamers of incense, and the allies saw heaps of devotional offerings and prayer papers piled at the effigies' feet.

As they travelled, the Celestinians and Ynnari kept their weapons ready and their eyes fxed warily on the horizon. They threaded their way between occasional wrecked tanks and scattered corpses, both of Defence Auxilia and traitorous Chaos Cultists. The bodies looked to have fallen a matter of solar hours earlier, their blood still congealing around them and local insects only just beginning to settle, but the pilgrims saw no sign of living beings along their road, whether friend or foe.

Archmagos Cawl assured his comrades that they were travelling in a favourable direction, their road carrying them towards a large urban centre and -- if his Vox-thieves and the local cartographia inloads were accurate -- the Ultramarines fortifcation that watched over it. The extraordinary allies spoke little as they pressed on. They listened instead to the sighing of the wind through the high places, the crunch of their footfalls on dry earth, and the distant clangour of battle borne to them through the thin mountain air.

Those sounds grew suddenly louder as the road wound around the towering ﬂank of a sun-scorched mountain. Ahead, less than a Terran mile distant, a ferrocrete bastion loomed over the roadway, built into the mountainside itself. The stylised U of the Ultramarines was embossed proudly upon the structure's ﬂank, and twin Icarus Autocannon arrays swivelled back and forth atop its battlement, barrels pistoning as they hammered fire into the sky.

The barrage of shots was aimed at a brood of Heldrake Daemon Engines. The draconic war machines swooped and circled, diving down to gout baleﬂame across the bastion's ramparts before soaring away again with soul-chilling roars.

One of the Heldrakes broke off in the direction of the pilgrims. Marshal Amalrich was the first to react, yelling for everyone to spread out and run for the cover of the Imperial bastion.

The Knights of House Taranis swiftly overtook them all, their Noble pilots spurring their mechanical steeds into a loping run. The massive war engines shook the ground as they advanced, guns swivelling skywards with ominous menace. One of the Knights bore an Icarus Autocannon array atop its broad carapace, and as the Heldrake swooped into range, the towering construct let ﬂy. Avenger Gatling Cannons and Heavy Stubbers joined the fusillade, filling the air with a storm of projectiles that ripped the wing from the approaching Daemon Engine and sent it spinning down to detonate against the mountainside. Another of the roaring Heldrakes was blown apart as it banked around to attack the pilgrims, while the third broke off its attack and jetted away into the hard blue skies, dwindling until it was nothing more than a speck.

The Knights stomped to a halt, weapons ticking as they cooled, and the rest of the pilgrims quickly caught up to them. Moments later, the armoured portal set into the bastion's feet hissed as its pressure-locks disengaged. The heavy door swung open and a trio of Ultramarines Battle-Brothers emerged, Bolters raised. The Space Marines advanced, pacing carefully forward with their weapons trained on the Ynnari.

Voice amplifed by his Vox grill, one of their number barked a challenge to the newcomers, asking who they were, where they hailed from and why they travelled in the company of xenos.

The conversation that followed was tense, but measured discipline prevailed. Perhaps if the allies had come to a world of a less rational or temperate Chapter, matters might have escalated towards violence.

For the Ultramarines, the combined presence of an Inquisitor and the Living Saint –- albeit appearing less than cordial towards one another -- was enough to offset the presence of the Eldar at their side. Saint Celestine explained that their mission was a divine pilgrimage ordained by the Emperor Himself, and that Archmagos Cawl and his autoreliquary must reach the Lord of Ultramar with all haste.

The Living Saint smiled in an entirely unsurprised fashion when the Ultramarines revealed that a ﬂight of Stormravens was even now en route to their bastion. The gunships had been requested to provide air interdiction against the packs of Heldrakes harassing fortifications in this region. However, two gunships could be spared to transport the leaders of the Ynnari and Celestinians up to the Strike Cruiser Sword of Honour, which in turn could bear them on to Macragge. The Ultramarines explained that the Lord of Ultramar had, indeed, returned to the Fortress of Hera just solar days earlier. They would see Cawl and his allies there safely.

While they awaited the inbound gunships, the pilgrims split their forces. All of the Ynnari, save Yvraine and the Visarch, would return to the Webway portal, departing this world to spread the word of Ynnead's awakening amongst their people.

As a gesture of good will to their hosts, Celestine asked the Battle-Sisters of Our Martyred Lady to remain on Laphis. Along with the Knights of House Taranis, they would place themselves at the disposal of the Ultramarines, and aid in the ongoing defence of the planet.

So it was that, as the Ultramarines Stormravens burned hard for orbit just solar minutes later, they bore a much-reduced company up to the waiting Strike Cruiser. From the Celestinians came Greyfax, Marshal Amalrich and a handful of Black Templars, Celestine and her Geminae Superia, and Cawl, accompanied by Kataphron Servitors and Skitarii.

The gunships docked with their parent warship and, once they had been formally introduced to the cruiser's captain, the allies were ushered into confnement quarters under heavy guard. The Eldar bristled at this treatment, as did Marshal Amalrich and his Astartes, but Saint Celestine pacified her comrades once more with firm words of faith and acceptance.

So began a grim and frustrating journey, trammelled in a spartan suite of brushed steel chambers and corridors, watched constantly by silent Chapter helots armed with heavy naval shotguns.

Solar hours ran slowly into solar days. The omnipresent rumble of the ship's engines, and the sluggish stirring of artificial gravity and recycled air, became simple facts of existence. The Visarch trained endlessly, even deigning to spar with Marshal Amalrich. Inquisitor Greyfax, meanwhile -- with the aid of Archmagos Cawl -- was purged of the Necron Mindshackle Scarabs that had enforced her captivity. This process was effected over several solar days, and wracked the Inquisitor with terrible agonies as the invasive cyber-parasites were strained from her blood stream.

Despite the pain that she endured, Greyfax's iron will never faltered, nor did she show any but the most minor outward signs of pain. Instead, she concentrated on keeping a wary eye on Saint Celestine. In private, Greyfax was beginning to suspect that Celestine's apparent divinity was more than a sham. She had seen the Living Saint battle against Arch-heretics and twisted Traitors; she had seen her predict events about which she could not have known in advance; she had seen how the light of Celestine's faith repelled the wicked and brought new strength to the righteous.

Yet Greyfax was an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, a Witch Finder whose first duty was to doubt and to suspect all that seemed fair in case it concealed foulness at its heart. In Greyfax's long experience, true miracles were few and far between, and that which seemed a gift from the Emperor was, more often than not, a tainted temptation laid by the Gods of Chaos. Thus, even as the seeds of hope grew in her heart that Celestine might be uncorrupted, and even through her own agonies, Katarinya Greyfax kept watch over the Living Saint, alert for the slightest hint of duplicity.

Amidst the enforced tedium, none noticed when Yvraine beckoned Cawl away into a recessed cargo bay in which his auto-reliquary had been stored. Beneath the mindless gaze of Cawl's Kataphron Servitors, the Emissary of Ynnead spoke earnestly with the Archmagos Dominus.

The mysterious discussion waxed long, Yvraine labouring to convince the intractable Magos of certain unpalatable truths. Eventually, Cawl nodded his cowled head in agreement, a single, curt gesture that brought the clandestine meeting to an end. Satisfed, Yvraine swept away in a whirl of whispering skirts, leaving the looming Archmagos Dominus to contemplate the ramifications of their meeting.

The Siege of Hera
At last, after solar days of realspace transit, the Sword of Honour reached Macragge's orbital envelope. The Celestinians and their allies were hurried through the starship's corridors under armed escort. The Strike Cruiser shook around them, the unmistakable shudder of gun batteries discharging and void shields soaking up monumental kinetic impacts. As they boarded their Stormraven gunships once more, the pilgrims saw through the embarkation deck's shimmering Void Shields that their craft was under heavy attack. The Stormraven pilots reported that a sizeable Chaos armada was even now engaging the Ultramar Defence Fleet over Macragge, the two factions' lumbering Battleships and blade-fast Escorts flling the void with Lance beams and torpedoes. The Chaos attack was focussed primarily upon the Fortress of Hera itself, the titanic fortifcation covering much of Magna Macragge Civitas, capital city of the Ultramarines Chapter planet. Regardless, the gunship pilots vowed to get their charges down safely, and deliver them for their audience with the Lord of Ultramar. Marneus Calgar had been alerted of their coming via heavily encrypted Vox communiqué, and awaited their arrival with interest. This last comment was delivered in a ﬂat tone which suggested that perhaps the Lord of Ultramar felt he had more pressing matters to attend to than their mysterious, holy mission.

Nonetheless, the Stormravens lifted off with a scream of powerful thrusters. With their passengers strapped in and Cawl's auto-reliquary firmly secured, the pugnacious gunships fred their ramjets and shot out into the fire-lit void of space. Macragge turned slowly below them, a vast orb of blue, white, green and grey. Closer, bedlam lit the blackness. Lance beams stabbed and seared. Broken wrecks of onceproud warships tumbled through the void, chunks of metal and globules of liquid spreading slowly away from their blazing carcasses. Entire wings of Stormhawk Interceptors hurtled through blizzards of ﬂak fre to execute daring strafng runs upon lumbering Chaos Cruisers.

From what sigils the pilgrims could make out, it appeared that Abaddon's Black Legion were attacking Macragge in significant numbers. Nor were they alone. Spacecraft bearing the icons of the Iron Warriors, the Purge, the Night Lords and many more clove through the gloom above the planet. Glinting specks rained from their ﬂanks, swarms of Dreadclaw Drop Pods and armoured Attack Craft arcing down on invasion trajectories.

Accompanied by an escort squadron of Stormhawks, the Ultramarines gunships turned their noses downward and dived through the madness of battle. They hit Macragge's upper atmosphere travelling at immense speeds, and ﬂame washed across their hulls as they shuddered and shook with the violence of re-entry.

Watching through external pict emitters, the Celestinians and Ynnari saw the ﬂames ﬂutter away. They were replaced by a dizzying vista of towering mountains that grew rapidly larger as the Stormravens hurtled downward. In the midst of the mountain peaks sprawled an immense, fortifed cityscape, lit from end to end by the muzzle ﬂare of ﬂak batteries and missile silos all hurling their wrath up into the skies. Heldrakes and Traitor fighter craft swarmed thick above the Fortress of Hera, weaving at speed between towering statues and monolithic buildings to strafe the defenders, or dump tons of ordnance onto ground targets. Explosions brought down colonnaded templums and looming hab-stacks throughout Magna Macragge Civitas, while the Ultramarines' withering return fre saw dozens of Chaos Attack Craft blown apart with every suicidal pass they made. Even as they fell, Heretics steered into the Ultramarines' defences, demolishing gun towers and massacring warriors.

The Stormravens sped downward, making for the immense fortifcations that dominated the heart of the city. A wave of Renegade Drop Pods thundered around them, speeding past like meteors and almost knocking one transport from the sky. Wings tucked tight to their metallic bodies, a pack of Heldrakes dropped behind them, and the escorting Stormhawks peeled off to intercept as the metallic beasts tried to latch onto the diving gunships.

Surrounded by streams of cannon fire and tumbling comets of metal and ﬂame, the Stormravens screamed onward. They plunged headlong through their comrades' curtain of anti-aircraft fire, only the superhuman reﬂexes and skill of the Ultramarine pilots preventing their craft from being torn apart by the countless threats through which they ﬂew. The pilgrims clung onto their restraining straps for dear life as they were shaken violently back and forth while the gunships ran the gauntlet of aerial approach to the Fortress of Hera. Then, finally, the gunships decelerated, raising their noses and arcing gracefully into an armoured hangar set into the ﬂanks of the edifice. At last, the Celestinians and the Ynnari had reached their destination.

The pilgrims emerged from their scorched, battered gunships into one of the fortress' many embarkation hangars. They found themselves surrounded by urgent bustle on every side. Around the hangar entrance, Chapter Serfs crewed thumping anti-aircraft cannons that swivelled within gyroscopic cages as they chased their targets across the skies. Bulky Servitors lumbered back and forth, hauling carriages of ammunition to keep the guns fed. Further back within the hangar, Stormtalon and Stormraven gunships were refuelling, re-arming and undergoing swift binharic baptisms beneath the ministrations of Chapter Techmarines. Servo-arms whined. Welding braziers sparked and ﬂared. The sound of rivet cannons buzzed and thumped through the cavernous chamber over the clipped voices of Defence Auxilia and robed serfs. Hundreds of men and women went about their business within the hangar, grim-faced and determined, and this was but one chamber within a fortress the size of a city.

Through the military bustle marched a band of Chapter Serfs, led by a single Ultramarines Battle-Brother. The warrior's helm was white and gold, and his armour bore numerous oath papers and honour markings. The helots who followed him bore gilded Autoguns and stern expressions -- the uniform tabards of several were spattered with what looked like fresh blood, and it was clear to all that these soldiers had come directly from the defence of the fortress' walls.

Announcing himself as Veteran Sergeant Cassean, the Ultramarine welcomed the Celestinians to the Fortress of Hera. He took a moment to nod respectfully to Marshal Amalrich and his Battle-Brothers, then requested that Cawl and his companions follow. Cassean turned briskly without waiting for an answer and marched away across the hangar ﬂoor. Left with little choice, the uneasy allies followed the brusque sergeant as he ascended a long, granite ramp and led them into the corridors of the Ultramarines fortress. They marched along at a brisk pace, through grand chambers of marble statuary and gilt ornamentation, across railed walkways hung with magnificent Ultramarines banners, and across void-shielded courtyards where Battle-Brothers blazed Bolter fire from the fire steps above. The din of battle was never far away. Thunderous explosions shook the walls around them from time to time, causing dust to fall like snow and electrosconces to ﬂicker.

Making their way across an armaglass-shielded sky bridge, the pilgrims got their first clear look out across the fortress proper. Towering fortifications sprawled away in all directions, their guns pouring fire into the sky and spitting death at the foes that pressed close outside the walls or landed within the fortress' grounds. The pilgrims saw Ultramarines Terminators striding relentlessly along armoured battlements, driving back Jump Pack-wearing Traitors with storms of fire. They saw squadrons of anti-aircraft tanks drawn up amidst ornamental gardens, launching missiles skyward to blast plummeting Chaos Assault Craft from the air. In the distance, a monstrous Traitor Titan was framed by the breach it had torn in the fortress' outer curtain wall. The great war engine's guns blazed like poisoned stars, and its Void Shields ﬂickered and burst as the phenomenal frepower of the Ultramarines hammered into them.

Hastened along by Sergeant Cassean, the Celestinians and Ynnari climbed a statue-lined stairway of marble and brushed steel, passing a squad of battle-scarred Ultramarines jogging the other way. At the stairway's head, the party emerged into a broad circular chamber with a frescoed ﬂoor, and walls and ceiling of void-shielded transparisteel. A massive bank of ornate consoles and holomaps dominated the chamber's centre, Servitors wired into its inset thrones and chattering binharic cant back and forth to one another. Dozens of robed functionaries, Quill Servitors, Chapter Serfs and strategos talked animatedly as they hurried around the central hololith, which projected a real-time map of the entire complex into the air. Runes and signifers swarmed across it in such profusion that the Fortress of Hera appeared to be caught up in a cyclone of data.

Stood before the display, faces set in frowns of concentration, were Chapter Master Marneus Calgar, First Captain Agemman, Chief Librarian Tigurius, and a Grey Knight whose scrollwork chest plate announced him as Grand Master Aldrik Voldus. As Cassean led the pilgrims around the table, the hubbub died away, all eyes turning toward the extraordinary group.

Solemnly, the Chapter Serfs moved aside and knelt with their heads bowed to the Lord of Ultramar, forming a corridor through which the pilgrims advanced. As they drew to a halt before Calgar and his assembled advisors, Marshal Amalrich too dropped to one knee with his sword held out before him, its point to the ground and his hands resting on its cross guard. His Battle-Brothers followed his example, showing their absolute respect for a hero of the Imperium. Inquisitor Greyfax bowed deeply, as did Celestine and her Geminae Superia. Only Cawl and the Ynnari remained standing, impassive despite the gravitas of the moment. Behind them, Cawl's auto-reliquary hissed and hummed, its mysterious contents still veiled by thick armour plates.

In a clear voice, Cassean announced the pilgrims one by one. As the sergeant finished speaking and stepped back, an expectant hush fell. Explosions blossomed in the sky outside. Gunships and Heldrakes raced past, the chatter of their guns muted by the thick insulation of the strategium. The huge strategium console continued to rattle and hum with ﬂowing information. Finally, Calgar said that he had no notion of who Belisarius Cawl might be, nor had he ever made any sort of pact with any Priest of Mars. On Saint Celestine's face there dawned a look of calm revelation, but the rest of the Celestinians turned their horrified expressions upon the Archmagos in their midst. Yet Cawl's next words caused greater consternation still, for he stated ﬂatly that he had not come to see Marneus Calgar. Cawl had travelled across the galaxy to attend the Lord of Ultramar, and now demanded to be taken to him at once. The auto-reliquary, he stated, must be delivered to the Shrine of Roboute Guilliman.

The outcry that followed Cawl's demand was immediate and intense. Marneus Calgar's expression grew thunderous as his advisors and Chapter Serfs cried out in shock. Auto-quills scratched a mad tattoo upon reams of parchment as hooded scribes frantically recorded every detail of this dramatic moment. The pilgrims exclaimed in anger and confusion, Greyfax turning upon Cawl and squaring up to the looming Magos as she barked a demand for immediate explanation. Only the Ynnari seemed unsurprised by this development, the Visarch standing statue still while Yvraine wore a faint smile upon her alabaster features, as though enjoying some private joke.

From amidst the tumult of voices, First Captain Agemman's voice rose in a Vox-amplifed boom. The Ultramarines First Captain issued a demand for calm, urging those around him to remember where they stood and the conduct that was expected of them. As quiet was restored, Agemman turned to Calgar and said in no uncertain terms that he did not trust these newcomers, nor the mysterious device they brought with them. The First Captain counselled that, with such immediate danger all around and a furious battle to win, there was only one viable solution at this time. The pilgrims should be put into confnement, and their mysterious package locked down in a stasis vault until its contents could be safely examined. As for the xenos, Agemman counselled that they be swiftly destroyed lest they pose a threat to the safety of the Chapter Master or the Fortress of Hera.

Saint Celestine spoke up then, attempting to explain the divine nature of her mission and the revelations she had received from the Emperor. She found herself staring into the muzzles of several Honour Guard Bolters -- not to mention the Condemnor Bolter of Inquisitor Greyfax, whose Puritan suspicions had been fired anew -- a clear indication that now was the time for the rulers of Ultramar to speak, and not their visitors.

All eyes rested upon Calgar as he looked to Chief Librarian Tigurius for further counsel. Though not even the vigilant warriors of the Honour Guard saw it, in that moment both Yvraine and the Visarch tensed themselves in preparation for battle, subtle muscle contractions and minuscule alterations in posture leaving the Ynnari poised to fight their way out should matters turn against them.

The Librarian remained silent for several long heartbeats, his weathered features contemplative. When he spoke, Tigurius' voice was deep and resonant, rich with power and wisdom. He reminded his Chapter Master that he had experienced troubling visions in the solar days leading up to the attack upon Macragge. Tigurius had seen a ﬂight of iron birds take wing from a distant, crimson orb full of churning cogs. In the visions, those avian shapes had soared through fire and shadow that spilled from a ruptured castle gate of vast size. They had clutched a blazing sword in their jagged claws, and their wings had shone with holy light as they ﬂew toward Ultramar. Through the ruptured gateway had been visible a staring, slit-pupilled eye, and as the birds neared Macragge, a giant maw full of blooded fangs had yawned wide around them, ready to bite down with crushing force.

The Chief Librarian had believed that his visions concerned the fall of Cadia and the subsequent attack by the Black Legion upon Ultramar. Certainly they had spurred the readying of the fortress' defences, and the sending of astropathic communiqués that had brought the Ultramar Defence Fleet back to the Chapter planet at the critical moment.

Now, though, Tigurius declared himself convinced that the visions pertained also to these travellers. The Chief Librarian said that he was willing to vouch for their presence, even that of the mysterious Eldar, and that he believed their arrival to be the Emperor's will made manifest.

Hushed whispers ran through the strategium at this pronouncement, and Calgar nodded solemnly. Without further comment, the Chapter Master bade the Celestinians speak, and explain their presence in their own words. Between them, Inquisitor Greyfax, Marshal Amalrich and Saint Celestine did as they were asked, relaying the bloody tale of Cadia's fall and their subsequent ﬂight. Even Yvraine of the Ynnari deigned to speak a little, providing a few, scant details that went some way toward explaining the aliens' presence amongst the group. The only one who refused to divulge further information was Belisarius Cawl; despite Marneus Calgar's repeated questioning, the Archmagos would not elaborate upon what his auto-reliquary contained, or what he expected to occur within the shrine.

While the pilgrims spoke their piece, the war raged on. Information continued to stream in regarding troop deployments, attack and counterattack patterns, enemy drop sites, ammunition counts, and endless other articles of strategic intelligence. Marneus Calgar absorbed them all even as he listened to the pilgrims, issuing curt orders where required and keeping one eye always fixed upon the ever-shifting holomap that hung overhead. The Chapter Master wished to understand these strange visitors and the supposed pact they served, but he would not neglect the defence of his fortress while he did so.

Finally, Greyfax concluded their tale, adding that she was empowered to act as the Emperor's representative in this matter, and that she would gladly take responsibility for Cawl's summary execution should he prove false. Calgar raised a hand to forestall further comment, both from the pilgrims and from the frowning Captain Agemman. Then, in a sombre voice, Calgar pronounced his verdict.

The Chapter Master would permit the Celestinians to bring their auto-reliquary to the Shrine of Guilliman, though they would do so under heavy Ultramarines guard. Calgar said that while he understood and welcomed Agemman's prudent counsel, they lived in unusual days. The worshippers of Chaos had set foot upon the bedrock of Macragge once again, while the Warp churned to madness all around them. Calgar judged that the foe had been aided greatly by the supernatural beings they worshipped in this desperate endeavour. He would not turn his back upon the precognitive powers of his own Chief Librarian, or the wisdom of the Living Saint, at such a time as this, even if he had been given precious little reason to trust Archmagos Cawl.

Had Agemman been a hot-tempered Space Wolf or relentlessly logical Iron Hand, he might have contested such a ruling. Instead, he accepted his lord's judgement with stoicism. Belisarius Cawl went to speak, but Calgar forestalled him. The Chapter Master gave his permission for the Ynnari to accompany their allies, for it seemed clear to him that great events were afoot that bore the hand of the Emperor upon them. The presence of the Ynnari could be no accident, and whatever the Emperor's will was in this matter, Marneus Calgar would not be the one to contravene it.

Wasting no time, the Lord of Macragge issued his orders. He charged Agemman to remain in the strategium, taking personal command of the defence of the Fortress of Hera. Tigurius and Voldus would accompany the pilgrims to the Shrine of Guilliman, as would a heavily armed complement of Honour Guard, 3rd Company Battle-Brothers and 1st Company Terminators. Should the Celestinians or xenos prove treacherous, they would not find themselves short of executioners.

Celestine spoke words of thanks to Marneus Calgar, praising his sagacity. By comparison, Yvraine's features were inscrutable, while Cawl merely seemed impatient, as though irritated by such petty wrangling and keen to be about his business. As the pilgrims set off once more, Inquisitor Greyfax and Marshal Amalrich exchanged a loaded glance, before moving to position themselves at the very rear of the motley procession with weapons ready. The Ultramarines would not be the only ones to turn guns upon Cawl and his questionable choice of allies if their intentions should prove false.

Outside, the battle raged on as Macragge's sun dipped slowly behind the Crown Mountains. Fire lit the twilight as wave upon wave of Heretics plunged down from the firmament. As the pilgrims and their armed guards made for the Shrine of Guilliman, the Traitors without redoubled their efforts, the outcome of the battle hanging in the balance.

Revelation and Rebirth
Entering the resting place of Roboute Guilliman was like stepping into some doleful warrior's afterlife. The chamber itself was enormous, a vaulted sepulchre through which a Warlord-class Battle Titan could have strode without hindrance. Marble columns held aloft a ceiling of stained armaglass and obsidian inlaid with theldrite moonsilver. Guilliman's greatest deeds were depicted in spectacular friezes and statuary, arranged around the chamber and lit artfully by ﬂickering electrosconces to lend the images the greatest possible gravitas. Huge braziers of devotional incense burned throughout the shrine, lacing the air with subtle scents, while from cherub-visaged laud hailers spilled a steady background murmur of martial arias and reverent prayer.

Despite the grandeur of the shrine, the pilgrims' eyes were drawn to the splendid figure enthroned within a pool of stark white illumination at one end of the chamber. There, upon a throne of marble, gold and fnely worked adamantium, sat Roboute Guilliman. Esoteric machineries loomed over the Primarch's throne, thrumming and whispering as they fed remarkable energies through ribbed cables to enfold him in a rippling stasis field. Guilliman sat as though in repose, his eyes closed and his blood glinting jewel-like in a delicate necklace about his throat. Guilliman wore his finely-crafted Power Armour, still marred by the damage it had sustained during his final duel with the Daemon Primarch Fulgrim. Across his knees was laid a grand blade of prodigious size, the Sword of the Emperor Himself. Though the Primarch sat peacefully upon his throne, the force of his presence was palpable.

The pilgrims approached the throne in reverent silence, their Ultramarines escort marching alongside them and Cawl's auto-reliquary at their rear. The group drew to a halt near the foot of the steps that led up to the Primarch, where countless Ultramarines had knelt in communion over the millennia. Marneus Calgar moved forward to stand at the very base of the steps, bowing his head reverently to his Primarch for a moment before turning to face the assembled pilgrims. The sounds of furious battle were still audible, even in this sacred place, mufﬂed and distant but inescapable.

Calgar drew a deep breath, and then asked once more for Belisarius Cawl to state his business here. The Chapter Master had indulged his visitors thus far, but with a desperate battle raging outside his fortress' walls, he could offer them no more time or patience.

Magos Cawl inclined his head, and told an incredible tale. Cawl explained that, in the years before Guilliman was mortally wounded, the Primarch had summoned him into his confidence. Cawl's memengrams of that meeting were eroded and incomplete, but he believed that Guilliman had seen in him the potential for great things. The Magos had been charged with a great labour by Roboute Guilliman, one for which he would be richly rewarded with information that only a Primarch could provide. Cawl stated that he was not at liberty to reveal the nature of his task, forestalling Calgar's angry response by explaining that his labours had been divided into two distinct parts, and that he was here to deliver on the first of those. He brought a magnificent new suit of armour fit for the Ultramarines Primarch, one whose ancillary systems possessed the power to heal Guilliman's grievous wounds. Stunned silence reigned at this announcement. To bring back a living, breathing Primarch, to restore one of the Emperor's greatest sons to the Imperium in its hour of need; such a notion filled the Imperial warriors with awed wonderment.

Yvraine spoke up, explaining her presence at this seminal moment. She was the Emissary of Ynnead, the Eldar God of the Dead, and her powers would be vital to Guilliman's restoration. Reading the puzzlement on her audience's features, Yvraine explained with sharp impatience that such a miracle could not be brought about without sacrifice. Cawl had laboured long and hard to fulfill the Primarch's request, but without Ynnead's aid, the fruits of that labour would not be enough. In order for Roboute Guilliman to live once more, first he must die.

Where Cawl's words had been met by shocked silence, Yvraine's raised a storm. Calgar exclaimed his fury at such a notion, vowing that no xenos witch would ever lay hand upon the Primarch while he drew breath. Grand Master Aldrik Voldus moved to stand alongside Calgar, his expression grim, and Greyfax and Marshal Amalrich followed his example. The surrounding Ultramarines raised their weapons, pointing them at Cawl, the Ynnari, even the hulking shape of the auto-reliquary itself. They awaited only their master's order to open fire.

Yet others raised their voices in support of this apparent insanity. Cawl blurted loudly that he was bound by the terms of his pact with Guilliman, and that he must bring it to completion. Saint Celestine too spoke up, imploring those around her to have faith, and asserting that this was, indeed, the will of the Emperor. Most unexpected of the proponents was Chief Librarian Tigurius, who strode, Force Staff ringing against the stone ﬂoor, to stand alongside Magos Cawl. Tigurius spoke in a calm voice that cut through the clamour, asking Lord Calgar to trust his counsel and saying once more that he had seen hints of this future in his visions. It was a scene of anger and confusion, but it was about to get worse.

Shattered Sanctity
Amongst the storm of angry voices and brandished weapons, Marneus Calgar's Vox chimed insistently in his ear. Angrily, the Chapter Master accepted the priority Vox hail, but his words of rebuke died on his lips. Calgar's voice boomed over the commotion, his shout of warning coming a split-second before the stained armaglass of the shrine's ceiling exploded inward.

Shattered crystal filled the air, shards the size of Storm Shields embedding themselves in walls, ﬂoor and armoured bodies. A huge shape smashed through into the shrine, a plummeting mass of blue metal travelling at the speed of a runaway mag-train. Hurtling down at an oblique angle, an Ultramarines Thunderhawk gunship slammed into the shrine's ﬂoor and skidded out of control. The aircraft was badly damaged, ﬂames pouring from rents in its hull, one wing ripped away. It slewed drunkenly across the shrine's ﬂoor, away from the pilgrims and their Ultramarines guards, ploughing through a marble column and bringing it down in a thunderous avalanche of precious stone. The Thunderhawk slammed into the shrine's far wall, demolishing a statue of Guilliman battling Alpharius, before listing onto its side with a deafening clang.

Even as the stricken vehicle was settling to a stop, its assault ramp burst open with a shriek of torn metal. Spilling from within came Chaos Space Marines in twisted armour of black and gold, spiked Jump Packs melded to their backs and deafening war cries ringing from their Vox grills.

The Ultramarines responded with instant efficiency, Bolters and Assault Cannons roaring to life. A hail of shots ripped into the Black Legion Raptors, puffs of blood bursting from their avian forms as they jerked and danced amidst the fusillade. Still the Ultramarines were not quick enough to prevent catastrophe. Screaming their defiance, a trio of Raptors jetted through the rain of fire to slam spiked icons into the temple's ﬂoor. Tall spears of adamantium and iron, the icons were festooned with macabre trophies and anointed in daemonic gore. Empyric energies whirled around them, and reality rent apart with the calamitous thunder of teleportation ﬂares.

As the surviving Raptors leapt clear, a hulking wedge of Black Legion Chaos Terminators appeared, dozens of elite killers clad in spiked and tusked Tactical Dreadnought Armour.

With exemplary discipline, the Ultramarines coolly shifted their aim. Bolts and blasts tore into the Black Legion Terminators, ringing from their armour with cacophonous fury. Yet these were chosen warriors imbued with the daemonic gifts of the Dark Gods. Though several of the massive Black Legionaries stumbled or fell, the rest shrugged off the salvo and began a grinding advance, firing back as they came.

Marneus Calgar looked about himself aghast. The Shrine of Guilliman, the sacred heart of the Ultramarines Chapter, had been profaned by the minions of Chaos. Already a thunderous gunfight was erupting, Ultramarines hurling themselves into cover, returning fire at their attackers from behind columns and statuary. It was clear to all that the enemy were driving for the fallen Primarch. Calgar was forcibly reminded of a prior warning given by Aldrik Voldus in the astropathic communiqué he had sent to Macragge telling the Ultramarines that the Grey Knights would be offering their aid because they feared that Chaos planned an assault that could impact the entire Imperium's future. Calgar was still deeply suspicious of Cawl, the Ynnari and those who had accompanied them, yet here was a threat far clearer and more diabolical than them. With a stern demand that his visitors refrain from acting until he had the situation under control, the Chapter Master activated the energy fields around his Power Fists, known as the Gauntlets of Ultramar, and strode into the fight.

He was not alone. Turning from the shrine, Saint Celestine drew her Ardent Blade. With a hymn of battle upon her lips and her Geminae Superia at her side, the Living Saint leapt toward the foe. Amalrich did the same, bellowing oaths of hate as he and his last few Battle-Brothers ran headlong at the Black Legionaries.

Grand Master Voldus, too, moved to join the fght. He bit off orders into his Vox bead as he advanced, loosing shots from his Storm Bolter even as he called in reinforcement from his Grey Knights Battle-Brothers. The Imperial counterattack met the Black Legion assault in the middle of the shrine with a rending crash of metal on metal, and blood fell like rain as the two forces tore into one another.

All throughout the shrine, tales of heroism and sacrifce played out. Inquisitor Greyfax took a glancing shot to her ribs in the opening moments of the fight. The bolt shell dented her armour, driving the air from her lungs, but by the grace of the Emperor it failed to detonate. Greyfax, seeing black spots before her eyes, dropped hastily into the cover of a marble pew only a few dozen Terran feet from the base of Guilliman's throne. Sucking down several deep breaths, Greyfax leant around the edge of the pew and fired off a tight burst of shells from her Condemnor Bolter. The rounds roared across the shrine, punching into the faceplate of a Black Legion Raptor and blowing his helm apart in a bloody spray.

Greyfax's bionic eye switched rapidly through multiple scrying filters, collating tactical data and cogitating threat assessments at the speed of thought. To her fore, the Inquisitor saw Saint Celestine slicing her way through the Black Legion Terminators, spinning and leaping through the air as she clove the Traitors apart with her blade. One of the Geminae Superia was badly wounded, the armoured Seraphim sprawled in a slick of blood. The other was still fighting, emptying her Bolt Pistol into the foe. Greyfax still did not fully trust the Saint, but she could not fault the woman's selﬂessness or skill.

Nearby, Marneus Calgar and Grand Master Voldus fought side by side, weathering the thunderous blows of their hulking enemies as they smashed and impaled one Traitor after another. As Greyfax watched, Voldus loosed a ruinous shock wave of psychic force from his outstretched gauntlet, hurling a Chaos Terminator through the air to demolish another towering statue. Still the Traitors pressed forward, and as they did so new warriors appeared to fill the gaps in their ranks. Teleport energies ﬂared again, clearing to reveal a trio of Terminator-armoured Black Legion Sorcerers, ﬂanked by monstrous warriors of ﬂeshmetal and living weaponry. At the same time, Dreadclaw Drop Pods plunged through the shattered armaglass above, slamming into the ground behind the advancing Black Legionaries. From within spilled more of Abaddon's chosen warriors, Heretic Astartes including bellowing Khorne Berzerkers charging forward to join the fray.

The Ultramarines stood their ground, despite being increasingly outnumbered. Veterans rattled volleys of fire into the advancing foe, ripping Black Legionaries off their feet or blasting them into glowing ash with bolts of plasma. Blue-armoured Terminators duelled with their blackarmoured counterparts, Heavy Flamers spewing fire across adamantium and ceramite as Power Fists delivered crushing blows. Marshal Amalrich and his brothers hurled themselves in alongside the Ultramarines, howling Chainswords and lashing Lightning Claws reaping a tally of Traitor lives. One Black Templar fell to a Chainfist's swipe, but still his brothers fought on.

Greyfax's Psyocculum chimed a warning as Warp energies built amidst the battle. Following the device's quavering brass needle, the Inquisitor saw the trio of Black Legion Sorcerers with their staves raised, black fire boiling around them. Greyfax lined up her Condemnor Bolter and launched a blessed silver stake at the nearest Sorcerer. She cursed as the holy projectile impaled her target but did not fell him, then she ducked down to reload as bolt shells blew craters in her cover. As she did so, Greyfax saw that not all of the pilgrims, nor indeed all of their hosts, had joined the fight.

The Inquisitor swore again as she saw Cawl hunched, spider-like, over the controls of his auto-reliquary. The Magos' metallic fingers danced across runic keys, his Mechadendrites slithering from one socket-port to another while the Ynnari and Skitarii stood guard over him. Beside them stood the Ultramarines Chief Librarian, Warp light glowing from his eyes and weaving around his skull-topped stave. As Greyfax watched, several frothing Berzerkers charged at Tigurius. The Librarian barked a string of syllables that caused the Khorne-worshippers to implode in a crumpled mass of ﬂesh and metal. Greyfax's Psyocculum burbled confused readings as the life energies of the three Berzerkers left their bodies but did not vanish altogether. Ghost returns ﬂickered around the two Ynnari, and Greyfax's suspicions of the Eldar deepened as she realised that they had -- in some fashion that she did not yet comprehend -- been empowered by the stolen animus.

Greyfax pushed herself to her feet again, intending to dash across the open ground and command Cawl to cease in the name of the Holy Ordos of the Inquisition. At that moment, a stitching line of Autocannon fire marched along the top of the pew. Explosions of fre and shrapnel burst around the Inquisitor, hurling her from her feet. Greyfax fired back at her attackers, lashing out with her telepathic powers as she did so, but she was -- for the moment -- pinned in place.

Marneus Calgar swung his right gauntlet in a punishing arc, hammering it up through his enemy's guard and catching a Chaos Terminator square under the jaw. His enemy's helm disappeared in a blizzard of metal and blood, his corpse slamming down onto its back with bone-breaking force. Before the Traitor even hit the ground, Calgar was already turning on the spot, both gauntlets held out from his body and bolters thundering. The Chapter Master revolved in a half-circle, blazing rounds into the Black Legionaries on every side and eviscerating another of them with explosive shells. Blocking the return swipe of a crackling Power Mace, Calgar prepared to swing another titanic blow into his enemies. Then he caught sight of movement at the base of Guilliman's throne, and cold horror clenched in his chest.

Calgar saw the Martian Tech-priest step back from his auto-reliquary with the air of one completing a satisfying task. The dome-shaped device hummed forward, unfurling like the petals of some huge, carnivorous ﬂower. The watching Chapter Master was at the wrong angle to see inside the machine, but he had a ﬂeeting impression of glowing energies, unfurling Mechadendrites, clamping pincer-limbs and whirring bone-drills that filled him with revulsion.

The auto-reliquary was rising and stretching out, enfolding the Primarch's form in its metallic embrace. At the same moment, the xenos witch-priestess lunged with preternatural grace, evading whistling bolt shells as she raised her blade high.

"No!" bellowed Calgar, finding his voice. "I command you to stop! In the Emperor's name, Brother Tigurius, stop them!" The Chapter Master's dismay rose to new heights as Tigurius looked straight at him, and shook his head.

"Do it," shouted the Chief Librarian, blazing psychic energies into the foe that pressed close all around. "And may the Emperor condemn me if you have played me false, xenos."

In desperation, Calgar raised his Bolters and prepared to fire at the Eldar witch, but Yvraine's blade fell lightning fast, hacking through the cabling that fed power to Guilliman's stasis field. Energies ﬂared, and from within the closing arms of the autoreliquary, Calgar heard a rattling sigh that would haunt him until his dying day.

"What have you done?" he roared, despair and fury blazing through him like a firestorm. Fists clenched, Calgar turned upon the Traitors that had forced this terrible tragedy to come to pass, and waded back into the fight with unstoppable fury.

The auto-reliquary engulfed Roboute Guilliman and his throne entirely, runic designators and auto-lumen ﬂickering in mesmerising patterns across its surface. As though spurred by the sight, the Black Legionaries redoubled the intensity of their attack.

Bellowing war cries, the Black Legion Terminators drove hard into their foes. Marneus Calgar was pushed back by his enemies, his battle plate cracked by the crunching blow of a Power Maul. Braving the Chapter Master's lashing gauntlets, a band of Traitor Terminators surrounded him entirely so that their brethren could break away towards the auto-reliquary. Gunfire echoed thunderously around the shrine as the Traitors let ﬂy into Cawl's unfolded device. Bolts and shells alike exploded harmlessly as they struck hardened void shielding, unable to punch through the Archmagos' data-wards to damage the device behind.

The last of the Raptors formed into a single talon and bounded across the shrine. Their Jump Packs howled, and terrifying screams burst from their Vox grills. They were met by a thin line of Ultramarines Veterans, the Loyalist Astartes abandoning cover to interpose themselves between the Chaos assault troops and Guilliman's throne with Bolters blazing. Several Raptors fell, but the Ultramarines paid for their bravery as the enemy's Obliterators opened fre. Plasma blasts and Lascannon beams smashed the Veterans from their feet, reducing chest cavities to blackened craters and helmed heads to scatters of ash.

The Chaos Sorcerers leading the attack drew deep upon the energies of the Warp, risking damnation in their haste to break through. Two of the psychically-empowered warriors unleashed a storm of crackling black lightning at Grand Master Voldus, driving the Grey Knight to one knee with their combined fury. The Grey Knight's eyes glowed and the runes on his armour shimmered with power as he roared counter-incantations. Meanwhile, the last of the Sorcerers stormed toward the Primarch's throne, arms raised above his head and voice booming from his Vox grill. As the Sorcerer chanted, so the Temple of Correction began to shudder and shake. Pillars split from bottom to top, chunks of marble the size of Drop Pods shearing off to crash down into the fight. Gaping rents yawned wide in the ﬂoor, swallowing warriors from both sides, and the frescoed ceiling became webbed with cracks.

Realising that the Sorcerer was attempting to bring one end of the shrine down upon Guilliman's throne, Tigurius brandished his staff and focussed his psychic energies to unmake the Chaos worshipper's incantation. Yet the Chief Librarian's concentration was shattered as a fresh wave of Khorne Berzerkers hurled themselves at him. Tigurius frantically parried one roaring Chainaxe after another with his staff, cursing as he felt the powers of the Empyrean draining away from his touch. The Ynnari were suddenly there beside him, fighting with blistering speed. Never had Tigurius seen living creatures move with such swiftness and grace, Yvraine and the Visarch blurring through the air and leaving greyed-out after-images in their wake as they ruthlessly laid the Berzerkers low.

All across the shaking temple, the dwindling forces of the Imperium fought like lions to hold back their foes. Celestine still hacked and cut, span and leapt, leaving a trail of slain Black Legionaries in her wake. Archmagos Cawl sent blasts of searing energy ripping through the Chaos ranks while intoning binharic psalms to fortify his allies' weapons and wargear. Marshal Amalrich, accompanied now by just two remaining Sword Brethren, fought tirelessly atop a heap of Black Legion corpses. Teleport energies ﬂared once more and a squad of Grey Knights Paladins ﬂashed into being, bolstering their Grand Master's psychic defences with their own.

For a moment the battle hung in the balance. Then a second ﬂight of Dreadclaw Drop Pods began their descent upon the shrine, fires billowing around their hulls as they fell. No scattered handful of reinforcements was this, but a pinpoint attack wave of ten armoured pods, held in reserve by the masters of the Chaos invasion and hurled in to strike the killing blow. Heldrakes dived alongside them, jaw cannons chattering to tear a path through Ultramarines interceptors and gunships. More than one of the plummeting Daemon Engines hurled itself into ﬂak fire, compelled to self-sacrifice in order to shield the Dreadclaws from harm. Thus protected, all ten pods ﬂashed down through the sundered dome of the Shrine of Guilliman, touching down amidst billowing clouds of smoke and sulphurous ﬂame.

As one, the Dreadclaws irised open to disgorge squad after squad of heretical killers. An entire Traitor warband surged into battle, the Talons of the Despoiler deployed en masse to sweep away all resistance in the shrine. It was a force whose combined strength could subdue worlds, one hundred super-human murderers, fresh and ready for battle. The Black Legion reinforcements struck the Imperial defence like a battering ram.

Ultramarines Veterans and Honour Guard fell as they were riddled with overwhelming bolt fire. Courageous Terminators crumpled, even their potent armour unable to withstand the hammering volleys of Bolter, Melta and plasma fire that engulfed them. Marneus Calgar roared in defiance as he was borne to the ground by a surging mass of foes that swung, stabbed and stamped at him. Marshal Amalrich and his brothers charged down the mound of corpses rather than be caught in the open by the foe's massed firepower, determined to hack down as many of their tainted kin as they could before they were slain. Saint Celestine, too, swooped down upon the mass of foes. Her remaining sister had been smashed from the air by a plasma blast, and even the Saint herself was now fighting one-handed, her left arm hanging broken at her side. Still she sang out a hymn to the Emperor, determined to meet death with words of purity and hope on her lips.

Everywhere the massed Chaos worshippers pressed forward, engulfng the shrinking islands of Imperial resistance, while sorcerous energies continued to tear at the shrine itself. Not a single defender took a step backward, but it was clear that their lives could now be measured in solar minutes at most.

The Avenging Son
The foremost Black Legionaries were mere Terran yards away from the foot of Guilliman's throne when the rune-panels on Cawl's auto-reliquary ﬂickered from red to green. A single chime sounded, a clear, pure note that cut through the clangour like a knife. The Archmagos himself, fighting back-to-back with the Ynnari and Chief Librarian Tigurius, emitted an uncharacteristic blurt of binharic triumph. The next moment, the outstretched armatures of the auto-reliquary folded back with a gaseous hiss to reveal a sight of breathtaking splendour.

Where before Roboute Guilliman had sat, a pale, stasis-locked revenant, now the Primarch stood awake, alert and very much alive. His presence was immense, dominant as a thunderhead suddenly filling the shrine with its crushing pressure. Guilliman was clad in a magnificent new suit of Power Armour, an ornate masterwork that had travelled all the way from the forges of Mars within Cawl's auto-reliquary. In one hand the Ultramarines Primarch held the Sword of the Emperor, lit now from hilt to tip with leaping ﬂames, and in his eyes was a look of such murderous intensity that even the Loyalists within the shrine quailed to see it.

It was as though a spell had settled over the shrine. Though outside the din of war thundered on, within that echoing chamber friend and foe alike stared awestruck at the legendary figure reborn in their midst. An incoherent scream of rage shattered the silence, a single Khorne Berzerker charging headlong through the stunned combatants to launch himself in a ﬂying leap at the Primarch. Guilliman moved with such blistering speed that the Ynnari themselves would have struggled to match it. His burning blade drew a pyrotechnic arc through the air as it swung, bisecting the Khorne Berzerker at the waist and hurling his severed halves to the ground.

As the Chaos worshipper's armoured corpse crashed to the ﬂoor, the spell was broken. With a great howl of hate, the Black Legion warriors surged towards Roboute Guilliman. Wordlessly, the noble demigod strode to meet them, and the carnage truly began.

Saint Celestine looked upon the towering form of the Primarch reborn, and knew the abiding satisfaction of her faith being borne out once more. A son of the God-Emperor Himself, a demigod of battle to lead the Imperium out of the darkness that, with each passing solar day, seemed more certain to engulf it entirely. In what greater endeavour could she have played a part? What single event could possibly be more important than the manifestation of this breathtaking miracle? Humbly, Celestine offered up her profound thanks to the Emperor for permitting her to be a part of such a wondrous thing.

Around her, the battle still raged, yet every aspect of the conﬂict had changed for Celestine in that singular moment of rebirth. The strewn corpses of Imperial warriors were no longer a tragic waste, but instead the fallen bodies of martyrs whose sacrifice would be immortalised forever. The traitorous killers filling the shrine were no longer hated despoilers, but instead merely the first of an endless tally of Heretics that Guilliman would lay low. Her own hurts no longer mattered, whether the physical wounds to her own body or the spiritual rents opened by the deaths of her Geminae Superia.

"Thank you," intoned Celestine, a single golden tear rolling down her cheek as she turned her face to the heavens. "Thank you, my Emperor. He is a blessing we do not deserve."

Snarling, a Black Legionary lunged at Celestine with a serrated blade in hand. Presumably he thought her distracted in her moment of sublime gratitude, but he could not have been more mistaken. With the fires of faith searing through her veins, Celestine turned the golden radiance of her gaze upon the Heretic and smiled beatifcally as she felt her broken arm heal itself anew. The Ardent Blade came up in a single, swift movement and ran the Heretic Astartes through.

Even as her assailant fell back with blood gushing from his mouth, the Living Saint launched herself skyward and soared across the shrine. She alighted beside Inquisitor Greyfax, who was stood atop a sarcophagus pouring Bolter fire into the Heretics massed on every side.

"I erred," shouted Greyfax over the roar of her Bolter. "And I shall do penance. You truly are an instrument of the Emperor's will."

"Vigilance is not a sin, Katarinya Greyfax," replied Celestine, slashing her blade through the enemies before her. "You serve Him as surely as I."

"Indeed," said Greyfax with a curt nod. "Then let us serve him together, as true warriors of faith." With that, she raised her blade and lunged into the foe, Celestine leaping at her side.

First to die was the Sorcerer whose powers had shaken the temple to its foundations. Guilliman raised his mighty gauntlet, the Hand of Dominion, and a storm of armour-piercing fire erupted from beneath it to rip the tainted psyker to pieces.

Next to fall were the remaining Black Legion Berzerkers. Following their comrade's example, they ﬂung themselves screaming at the reborn Primarch. Like their fellow, they were reduced to so much armoured meat, smashed from the air with terrifying speed. Guilliman was running now, storming forward through the hail of bolts and shells unleashed by the Black Legionaries. Rounds exploded against the Primarch's armour, but none could pierce its inviolable plates.

As he crashed into the front ranks of Black Legionaries, Guilliman let out a building roar of pure, undiluted fury. The Primarch's first blow threw a Black Legionary high into the air, blood streaming behind the corpse in a red trail. His second strike smashed a Traitor Terminator into a bronze and marble column with enough force to drive the Chaos worshipper clean through it, and out the other side. A spiked Power Fist swung for Guilliman's chest, only to be lopped from its wielder's arm before the blow could land. Guilliman's return swing parted his attacker's head from his shoulders, cauterising the stump of the Traitor's neck as the body crumpled to the ﬂoor. On it went, the Primarch moving with such speed that even the Heretics' superhuman reactions couldn’t save them. None could match Guilliman. None could even come close, and the few opponents that landed lucky blows found their weapons turned aside by the Primarch's masterwork armour.

As the Black Legion hurled themselves towards the towering warrior in their midst, so the pressure lessened upon the surviving Loyalists in the shrine. Full of vengeance, inspired by the spectacle of the Primarch, the last of the Celestinians and their allies threw themselves back into the fight with renewed vigour.

As Guilliman cleared the foes from around the foot of his throne, Tigurius, Cawl and the Ynnari followed him into the gap. Yvraine blurred through the air, felling a Chaos Space Marine before cart-wheeling between two more and leaving them as crumbling statues of dust and ash. A Traitor raised his Plasma Gun to blast the whirling priestess, only for the Visarch's sword to lop his arms off at the elbows. The Champion of Ynnead reversed his grip on his blade, ramming it through his victim's helm before basking in the escaping psychic energies of the Traitor Marine's corrupted soul.

Tigurius released a thunderous barrage of aetheric energies, thumping tectonic shock waves that hurled Heretic Astartes from their feet and shattered their armour like porcelain. The Chief Librarian felt Guilliman's gaze upon him then, for just a heartbeat. The Primarch's appraising stare seemed to strip Tigurius down to his soul. Then Guilliman stormed on through the enemy ranks.

With every blow, the Primarch of the Ultramarines sent mutated corpses tumbling through the air. His expression was graven granite and frozen hate, a mask of vengeful anger that had endured millennia.

For Guilliman, his last memory was a desperate battle against a tainted brother, a fraternal contest of godlike strength and barbed, hateful taunts -- then poison and pain beyond endurance. Now he found himself in strange surroundings, facing a twisted horde of creatures that were nightmarish parodies of the Adeptus Astartes ideal.

Not that his apparent allies struck Guilliman as much more familiar, but he could at least detect who in this vast sepulchre was tainted by Chaos and who was not. For now, that was enough. The Primarch compartmentalised his questions for later, and concentrated solely on the battle at hand.

The Black Legionaries continued to hurl themselves at the reborn Lord of Ultramar, clearly willing to sustain any amount of casualties if it meant laying Guilliman low. Yet they were laughably outmatched in almost every regard. Sweeping the Sword of the Emperor in wide arcs, firing off hammering volleys from the Hand of Dominion, the Primarch reaped a bloody tally as he drove the Traitors back. As they retreated, so the prone form of Marneus Calgar was revealed, his armour cracked and his face beaten bloody. Guilliman paused for a moment in his rampage, looking down upon this fallen son with an unreadable expression on his face.

Calgar stirred, one eye opening to look up at the Primarch reborn. Satisfied that his scion lived, Guilliman pressed on, leaving the fallen Chapter Master to stare in disbelief at his resurrected gene-sire.

Across the chamber, Grand Master Voldus and his Paladins were driving the surviving Chaos Sorcerers back. The Heretics were powerful psykers both, but neither could hold a candle to Voldus' preeminent power. Surrounded by a crackling vortex of empyric energies, the Grand Master strode through the dark ﬂames and molten lightnings conjured by his foes. Propelled as much by thought as by his steely sinews, Voldus' lightning-wreathed Nemesis Daemonhammer Malleus Argyrum swung in an unstoppable arc and slammed into the helm of the closest Sorcerer. Ceramite, ﬂesh and bone exploded in a crackling spray, and the Traitor toppled backwards as a headless corpse.

The last of the Heretic leaders lost his nerve, barking orders at his underlings to cover his retreat from the shrine. The Sorcerer turned, lumbering in his Terminator Armour, and found himself face-to-face with Roboute Guilliman. Screaming witch-light rushed in as the Sorcerer attempted to conjure a potent curse. Before he could even spit the jagged syllables to unleash his power, the Sorcerer was hoisted bodily off the ground, Guilliman's Hand of Dominion clamped firmly around the Traitor's gorget. In a breathtaking display of strength, the Primarch lifted his foe high into the air, Guilliman's face a cold mask of disgust. The Sorcerer made a last, croaking attempt to speak before the Sword of the Emperor slammed through the Traitor's midriff, and ripped it swiftly upward. Ancient armour and corrupt ﬂesh parted as easily as silk, and the Sorcerer's innards spilled out in a rush to splatter upon the ﬂagstones.

Leaderless, reaped like corn by the seemingly unstoppable Primarch and his allies, the last of the Black Legionaries turned and ﬂed. Not a single one of them would escape the Fortress of Hera alive.

Enthroned Anew
By the time reinforcements reached the Temple of Correction, the fighting was done. Every single Ultramarine who rushed into that vaulted space dropped to their knees in worshipful awe at the sight of their Primarch reborn.

Calm now, Roboute Guilliman took charge of his warriors. He asked no questions, save those of a purely strategic nature. He made no reference to the circumstances of his rebirth, his long repose, or the strangers that he found himself surrounded by, and none dared raise such matters with him. The Primarch would doubtless seek answers, but caught between wonder and a kind of overawed fear, the Ultramarines, the Celestinians, and even the Ynnari kept their own counsel. Besides, war still raged outside the shrine.

News of the Primarch's rise spread like wildfre through the Fortress of Hera. It was proclaimed from every Vox speaker, shouted from every rampart, and broadcast from the vocal emitters of countless Cybercherubim that ﬂuttered through the cauldron of war. Guilliman ensured that it was so, for he understood well that his living presence would embolden his armies and cow his enemies. Ultramarines and Ultramar Defence Auxilia alike knew first bewilderment, then newfound strength as they processed this incredible news. The Chaos worshippers, by comparison, faltered in their attack. Even the most feared of their Champions were eclipsed by the martial glory of a living, breathing Primarch, and ripples of unease spread through the Heretic throng at the thought of facing him.

Guilliman made straight for the fortress' strategium, and -- in a dramatically charged moment that would become enshrined in statuary -- formally accepted command of the defence from First Captain Agemman. Marneus Calgar stood at his Primarch's side during this exchange, sorely wounded and supported by two Honour Guards, yet determined to be present all the same. Guilliman showed his nobility by humbly requesting the Chapter Master's leave to assume full command of the Ultramarines at that time. Calgar shrugged off his battlebrothers and, grimacing in pain, knelt before his gene-sire. He matched Guilliman's solemnity as he offered unending fealty to the Primarch, and bequeathed full control of the Chapter to him in perpetuity.

Like an impresario settling before his instrument, Guilliman spread his hands upon the strategium table and took a deep breath before beginning to command. With his every utterance, the invaders' plight became more apparent. The Primarch's strategic acumen, his tactical genius and miraculous mental acuity were unmatched. The leaders of the Ultramarines looked on in amazement as Guilliman marshalled the defenders like regicide pieces, drinking in reams of strategic data and issuing a steady stream of orders that turned one fight after another in the defenders' favour. Calgar and his lieutenants had executed a superhuman campaign of defance against the invaders, but the Primarch was operating on a different mental plane.

At Guilliman's command, thunderous overlapping firestorms and interlaced webs of interceptor strikes cleared the airspace over the Fortress of Hera. No longer threatened from above, Ultramarines reserves and vast numbers of Defence Auxilia ﬂowed into the fight in masterful deployment patterns. Feints, ambushes, false retreats and sudden, overwhelming counterattacks ripped through the Chaos forces and drove them from within the fortress' grounds. Guilliman wielded hundreds of thousands of warriors at once, predicting every move his enemies made and countering before they had even thought to act.

By the time the Primarch and his coterie strode out to lead the fght in person, the Chaos attackers were reeling in disarray. The attack led by Guilliman into the heart of their lines was like a final bolt round placed between the eyes of a wounded enemy. Black Legionaries, Iron Warriors, Alpha Legion and Night Lords -- all were hurled back from the walls. Traitor Titans toppled like vast, ﬂaming trees to smash down in ruin. Just three solar hours after his resurrection, Roboute Guilliman concluded the wholesale purge of Chaos invaders from the Fortress of Hera, and confidently proclaimed the Ultramarines' stronghold secure.

There now came a time where breath could be drawn, and stock taken. Even as lumbering Servitors and Chapter Serf work gangs laboured to shore up the fortress' battered defences, Guilliman summoned a select company to attend him in the Chapter Master's sanctum. This had long been the domain and throne room of Marneus Calgar. Now it would become the sanctum of the Primarch himself, and it was here that he was formally invested as Lord of Ultramar and Master of the Ultramarines once more. Calgar, Tigurius, Agemman and their closest lieutenants were present for Guilliman’s elevation, as were representative brothers from every company of the Chapter. The Celestinians, too, attended Guilliman's formal coronation, the Saint herself ceremonially bestowing her blessings upon the Primarch. Even the Ynnari watched from the sidelines as this momentous event occurred; they lurked amongst the shadows, a silent and staunchly unremarked-upon presence whose expressions remained cold and watchful.

As the ceremony concluded, Guilliman rose and addressed the assembly. There was much to be done, and countless questions to which the Primarch required answers. Before he could act further, Roboute Guilliman needed to know everything that had occurred during his long absence.

The Terran Crusade
"Even gods have their limits. Mortal weapons may fail to harm them, this is true. But pride, arrogance, an excess of devotion to their mortal servants -- these are barbs with which even the most divine of beings may be brought low."

- Lorgar Aurelian



Dark Revelations
The Warp is, in many ways, a mirror of reality. Like a dark and fathomless pool, its surface ripples with the impact of momentous events, or great outbursts of passion and emotion. The resurrection of Roboute Guilliman sent bow waves rolling outward through the Immaterium, racing tsunamis of turmoil that did not go unnoticed.

One by one, the champions of the Dark Gods of Chaos became aware of the returned Primarch. Reclining amidst an endless banquet of souls, Fulgrim pouted in displeasure as daemon imps whispered the news into his ear. The Daemon Primarch of the Emperor's Children Traitor Legion bestirred himself from his velvet throne, vowing to the depraved god Slaanesh that this time, he would ensure Guilliman's eternal fall from grace.

In hidden fanes and crystalline mazes, the greatest Daemons of Tzeentch watched as the weft and weave of fate rippled and changed with the implications of Guilliman’s return. Reading their master’s will in the shattered facets of the future, each set itself to the task of tainting, tempting or destroying the Ultramarines Primarch in a myriad of subtly varied fashions.

Deep within the noisome swamps of Nurgle’s Garden, a conclave of Great Unclean Ones listened indulgently to the frantic babbling of messenger ﬂies. They leered in delight, bile and maggots slopping down their festering chins. A Primarch! One untouched and untainted by any of Nurgle’s brothers. Their pestilential master would no doubt value such a prize most highly. Perhaps, they chortled mockingly, they might even arrange a fnal reconciliation between the bitter Mortarion and his brother. Such an opportunity had not presented itself in thousands of years, and the Great Unclean Ones hummed a cheerful ditty as they began to concoct a sickness fit for a demigod.

Elsewhere in the galaxy, the Mendox Cataclysm was coming to its hideous conclusion. Along a war front that spanned entire star systems, the champions of Khorne burned eightyeight Imperial worlds at once. Amidst the rising ﬂames of their genocide, champions of Khorne both mortal and daemonic witnessed visions of their furious deity, raging against Guilliman’s return. His apoplectic bellows rang as thunder through the skies of the dying planets, and Warp storms shuddered into being through rents in reality as though the Blood God was hacking at the stars with his ruinous blade. The servants of the other Dark Gods might try to corrupt Guilliman, to mislead or despoil him. Yet Khorne’s servants knew that their master had no patience for such things. Instead, they fell to battle amongst each other, warring for the right to hunt down the reborn Primarch and claim his skull.

Other dark lords, too, saw the glowing beacon of Guilliman’s rebirth from afar and began to marshal their forces accordingly. Forewarned by the prophetic visions of Zaraphiston, Abaddon the Despoiler had fashioned a loose alliance of traitor warbands to strike Guilliman down before his resurrection could occur. It was this that had spurred the sudden, frenzied invasion of Ultramar, but – even with the aid of a sizeable force of Black Legionnaires – Abaddon’s vassal warlords had failed in their initial gambit. Furious, Abaddon summoned and bound the Lord of Change Kairos Fateweaver, sending him winging his way across the galaxy to gather fresh forces against the Primarch.

Upon far-ﬂung hell worlds, Magnus the Red and the Death Lord Mortarion received word of their brother’s awakening. Their reactions were as different as fre and ice. Mortarion raged, a cold and virulent storm of anger whirling around him until its echoes in realspace seeded seven new and terrible plagues upon luckless Imperial worlds. Mired amid plans that were nearing fruition, the Daemon Primarch of the Death Guard could not yet act to strike at Guilliman. Instead, as he stared with glowing eyes across the mist-wreathed parade grounds of his Plague Planet, and the massed ranks of Death Guard there assembled, Mortarion vowed that he would render Guilliman and his empire to rot soon enough.

Magnus, by comparison, gave a booming laugh of utter delight. Like a fortune teller who ﬂips their fnal tarot card and gains sudden insight, the Crimson King saw now before him paths of glorious fate, where before had been a wilderness of confusion. Magnus began to issue orders, his words bursting forth as swarms of crystalline insects. They ﬂitted away to marshal the thrallbands of his once proud Legion, the Thousand Sons. Already, the cyclopean Daemon Primarch had revenged himself upon one hated foe of old, setting the Fenris System alight in the fres of retribution. Now, he saw a chance to punish another.

So the might of the Warp began to gather, coiling and writhing like a serpents’ nest. Traitor warbands rode the dark tides of the empyrean toward Ultramar, howling with naked bloodlust and swearing vows to strike Guilliman down in the name of the Ruinous Powers.

Swathes of the galaxy were already riven with Warp storms that had spilled through the Cadian Gate with all the ferocity of Old Night, or been unleashed by the shattering of Biel-Tan. Now those tempests spread further, as the Primordial Annihilator turned its full attentions upon realspace. Screaming maws burst open between the stars, horrifyingly immense, yawning gulfs ringed by mountainous fangs and coiling, ectoplasmic tentacles. Dozens of worlds were plunged into darkness and terror as time shattered apart around them, and the energies of the Immaterium burst their banks to ﬂood into realspace.

Within the Warp, wars ended even as fresh ones began. Daemonic legions were pulled away from nightmarish battlefelds and hurled through breaches in the veil of reality, charged with hunting down and putting an end to the reborn Primarch. Yet the servants of the Dark Gods are ever opportunists, and believed that this moment of distraction could be used to strike at their respective master’s rivals amongst the Chaos pantheon.

Mounted upon a cogwork scorpion the size of a city, Khorne’s blood legions drove headlong into the winding edges of the Crystal Labyrinth, swarms of ﬂame-belching Tzeentchian Daemons pouring out to meet them like insects defending their kicked hive. At the same time, Slaanesh’s cavalcade of hedonism hacked its way into the Garden of Nurgle, even as the Plague God’s infamous Sluggardhost came squirming through the brimstone caverns beneath Khorne’s Ironfre Bastion. Soon enough, fresh wars raged throughout the domains of the Chaos Gods, their eternal rivalries stoked by the momentous events, yet still a portion of their attentions were focused upon the fate of Roboute Guilliman, and upon their worshipper’s schemes to lay him low.

As for the Primarch himself, Guilliman was, as yet, unaware of the daemonic madness that his return had spurred. This was a mercy, for the Lord of Ultramar already had a crushing weight of questions and shock to deal with. Everything Guilliman knew was gone, replaced by the madness and horror of a future he had tried so desperately to prevent.

oboute heavily The Primar Guilliman intoch hishad newsettled despatched throne. all of his attendants and advisors, even sending his Honour Guard to wait outside the sanctum. At last he could allow a little of his sorrow, trauma and pain to show, and Guilliman let his mask drop with a sigh of relief. Whatever had been done to him to bring him back, it had left the Primarch with a constant, gnawing ache that radiated from deep within. He suspected that pain would never leave him.

Physical hurts were the least of Guilliman’s troubles. One by one, the Primarch had spoken with each of the Celestinians, the lords of the Ultramarines, and even Yvraine of the Ynnari. Days had been spent in deep, earnest conversation, Guilliman using every iota of his statesman’s guile to set his guests at ease, to tease from them as much information as he could, and to hide his reactions to their words. Guilliman had thanked each of his visitors for their insights and their service to the Imperium, inwardly assessing each of his guests and showing them whatever aspect of his personality was surest to render them sympathetic and voluble.

Though he had not shown it, each fresh revelation struck the Primarch like a cannon shell. He was exhausted from staving off bewilderment and horror, hollowed out by pain. Guilliman groaned and placed his head in his hands, his new suit of armour hissing and humming with the motion.

‘Millennia have passed,’ he murmured, unsure to whom he spoke. He knew only that he had to vocalise his situation before it drove him mad. Not for the frst time since his return, Guilliman wished for one of his brothers to speak with. They, at least, might have understood.

‘Thousands of years,’ he said. ‘And look what has become of them. Of us. Idolatry. Ignorance. Suffering and squalor, in the name of a god who never desired the title."

Guilliman shook his head and stood, pacing across the Chapter Master’s sanctum to stare up at the banners hanging on the western wall. Each was the height of an Imperial Knight, a cascade of masterfully woven cloth depicting the glories of the Ultramarines.

Slain alien beasts, executed heretic despots, worlds saved and worlds burned. The Chapter’s proud iconography was much in evidence, but so was the aquila of the Imperium and there, presiding over several of the heraldic designs, a fgure with throne and halo who must surely be the Emperor.

‘We failed, father,’ said Guilliman, his words tired and leaden with sorrow. ‘You failed your sons, and we, in our turn, failed you. And now, to compound our arrogance and vainglory, we have failed all of them, too. Did Horus not say that you sought godhood? He built a rebellion upon that claim. How he would gloat, to see the Imperium now.’

Anger surged through the Lord of Ultramar, and he clenched his fsts with the effort of self-restraint. He imagined destroying this chamber, tearing it apart and hurling its wreckage around like a wild beast. He dared not, lest these strangers in his Chapter’s livery see through his facade. Though he wrestled with despair, the Primarch knew that he could not let his weakness show. Calgar, Tigurius, Agemman, all the others – they looked at him as though he were the Emperor himself. Guilliman was painfully aware of his symbolic quality, and of how desperate and dark the hour had become. He must show nothing but strength to his gene-sons, lest his despair taint their hearts, too.

‘And yet, would it really matter,’ he sighed, turning his back on the banners and pacing across the chamber to stare through a stained glass window. Out there, across the war-torn immensity of the Fortress of Hera, Guilliman saw the sweeping bulwark where his old chambers had once been. They had belonged to his father, even before him. He had laid his plans there, spoken to his brothers, laughed and raged and – on one occasion – almost died. Now they were gone, buried beneath ugly agglomerations of buttressing and gun batteries. It was apt, he thought bitterly.

Guilliman’s anger spilled over, and he span on his heel, staring up at the woven Emperor with accusing eyes.

‘Why do I still live,’ he snarled. ‘What more do you want from me? I gave everything I had to you, to them. Look what they’ve made of our dream. This bloated, rotting carcass of an empire is driven not by reason and hope but by fear, hate and ignorance. Better that we had all burned in the fres of Horus’ ambition than live to see this.’ Even as he said it, Guilliman heard the lie in his words. Amongst his brothers, none had been more idealistic than Roboute Guilliman. None had envisioned a brighter future, not just for Mankind but also for the warriors of the Legiones Astartes. That ﬂame of hope had been a part of him for as long as he had lived. Even now, as it was smothered by darkness and woe, Guilliman realised that his ﬂame endured.

‘There’s hope still,’ he told himself, turning back to the window and placing one armoured palm against it. He stared out at the work gangs, labouring to repair the damage of war, and the Ultramarines stood proud and determined upon the ramparts. They had been born into this dark millennium, and had known nothing but the hardship, suffering and despair of unending conﬂict. Yet still they struggled on unbowed, despite the countless enemies ranged against them. Guilliman had seen a better age, one of hope and triumph. What right had he, a superhuman son of the Emperor himself, to show any less strength and courage than his followers born in darkness?

Guilliman had seen what Humanity could achieve. Moreover, he knew what fruits Cawl’s labours had borne beneath the surface of Mars. He believed that a better future for the Imperium was still possible. But only if those who tormented Mankind were frst defeated.

‘All of this misery,’ said Guilliman. ‘All of this suffering and pain. It is not the doing of Humanity, but of those who have betrayed us. Too long have the pawns of Chaos dictated our species' fate. That must end."

Guilliman felt new strength fill him. Inspired by it, the Primarch took his pain, and his desolation, and locked them away deep within his mind. But his rage he kept. That, he would have use for.

Later there would be time to mourn, to reason, to plan anew. Now was the time to fight, and to make his father's enemies pay for every horror they had inﬂicted upon the Imperium.

Battle for Macragge
Four days and nights after his coronation, Roboute Guilliman emerged from seclusion. In his absence, Lord Calgar had continued to lead the fght, ignoring his injuries as he coordinated the Ultramarines war effort. Now, though, Calgar willingly ceded control of the campaign to his genesire. Recognising the vastly capable Chapter Master for the asset he was, Guilliman kept Calgar close at hand in the battles that followed, and asked his counsel constantly. Brother Librarian Tigurius, too, swiftly became a trusted advisor, the Primarch accepting that in this darker age, the trappings and powers of the Librarius had – by necessity – also become darker. In a move that surprised many, Guilliman also included Voldus, Cawl, Celestine and Inquisitor Greyfax amongst his coterie of lieutenants. The Primarch sought the insights of every arm of the Imperial war machine, recognising that in unity lay strength.

With his advisors at his side, and the unbowed might of the Ultramarines at his disposal, Guilliman began the reconquest of his homeworld. Wider galactic matters would have to wait; Macragge was still beset from every side, and if the Chapter planet fell, then even the resurrected Primarch would surely be dragged down by the tide of foes.

The war for Macragge lasted a little over a month, and its pace was blistering. Roboute Guilliman was a force of nature, an unstoppable avatar of the Emperor’s will who drove his enemies before him like cattle. First came a series of lightning-fast offensives to clear the Valley of Laponis and the partially ruined city of Magna Civitas. Batteries of Iron Warriors siege guns were overrun. The semisentient artillery engines were blown apart by melta charges, their whip-fsted overseers executed with swift effciency. Chanting masses of Chaos Cultists were surrounded inside gilded domes and soaring habblocks, before being systematically cut apart. Agemman, Celestine and Greyfax led pinpoint strikes to take back the city’s primary orbital batteries. Soon enough, ruby columns of light were spearing up into the heavens to drive the Chaos warships out of their geosynchronous orbits above the Ultramarines Fortress-Monastery.

This was only the beginning. Led by the famed tank commander Antaro Chronus, roaring columns of Ultramarines armour swept the traitor battle groups from the Magletine Highlands, and drove their survivors into the storm-tossed Pharamis Ocean. Grand Master Voldus and his 3rd Brotherhood lent their might to the reconquest when they spearheaded the strike against the corrupted city of Collosae. Here the silver-armoured Daemon hunters fought a cat-and-mouse battle with cruel bands of Night Lords, who had veiled the city in an unnatural gloom. The traitors were eventually driven out, and a mysterious blood ritual halted before it could come to fruition, though the entire city had subsequently to be levelled from orbit for fear of its Chaos taint.

Guilliman led attacks against Valmari, Mount Tarphus and the snowy Gallinus Pass, emerging triumphant at every turn. The Ultramarines swept all before them, combining their exceptional skill and discipline with the visionary battle plans of their Primarch into an unstoppable whole. The Ultramar Defence Auxilia followed up each new conquest, digging in and fortifying in great number so that any attempts by the forces of Chaos to counter-attack were met by overwhelming resistance. Though the Heretic Astartes fought furiously, and inﬂicted sore losses upon the loyalists, they simply could not match the strategic acumen of Roboute Guilliman, and one Chaos warband after another was defeated. Even those who ﬂed Macragge found no haven in the void, for their invasion craft had been surrounded and reduced to burning scrap by the Ultramar Defence Fleet.

Finally, after long weeks of vicious battle and a vast toll of the dead, the world of Macragge was liberated once more.

The Crown of Glories
The first steps had been taken upon the road of reconquest. Macragge was free of Chaos taint. Guilliman wished to press on, consumed by his desire to drive the Ruinous Powers from Ultramar. However, those he led needed time to regroup and consolidate. Countless wounded required attention. Hundreds of war machines needed repair

Guilliman was wise enough to give his followers the time they needed. Meanwhile, Imperial reinforcements gathered around Macragge. Braving the Warp storms raging through local space, Space Marine craft by the dozen assembled above the Ultramarines home world. Delegations from many Primogenitor Chapters had ploughed through the empyrean, risking terrible danger to see for themselves that the Primarch had returned. Novamarines, Sons of Orar, Genesis Chapter and countless others joined the growing throng, kneeling before the Primarch and swearing allegiance to him.

While the armies of the Ultramar Reconquest were gathering, a further opportunity presented itself. It was the Arch-Consul of Magna Civitas – the closest Ultramar had to a conventional Governor – who suggested that a grand victory parade could be held, and its majesty recorded on pict casts to be sent far and wide through the Imperium. The Consul said that people needed the light of hope in this dark hour, a shining example of victory to renew their faith not just in the Emperor, but in Guilliman reborn.

The Primarch acceded to this demand, though it sat ill with his bleak inner mood. Guilliman saw the wisdom in it, but he accepted such aggrandisement only grudgingly. Mere days after victory was declared, a grand triumph swept up from the Titan Gate to the very steps of the Fortress of Hera. Thousands of war engines and millions of warriors presented their colours and raised cheers and horn blasts to the skies. A seething sea of the city’s residents packed the crater-pocked processionals and plazas to watch the proceedings, and voices beyond count rang out as one to cry Guilliman’s praise in a single deafening roar.

Stood upon a marble-columned platform with his closest lieutenants at his side, the Primarch dutifully presented the most magnifcent spectacle he could for the assembled masses. The Arch-Consul himself presented Guilliman with a stunningly wrought laurel wreath crafted in gold, urging the Primarch to don the gilded crown at once. The moment Guilliman did so, he found his mind flled with thoughts of future glories. This paltry triumph would be nothing compared to the breathtaking spectacle of his galactic conquest. The Primarch’s armies would be beyond number, their adoration for their heroic lord so great that they would die for him gladly. Planets, systems, whole segmentums would be renamed in honour of he who had liberated them, and the whipped dogs of Chaos would ﬂee before him like the curs they were. Statues would be raised to commemorate Guilliman’s majesty, and eventually even the Golden Throne of Terra itself would be his to mount. The Emperor’s most loyal son deserved no less an inheritance, and he would have his due.

It was this last thought that wrenched Guilliman from the wreath’s insidious curse. With a gasp, he tore the gilded crown from his head and bellowed a command for the Arch-Consul to be restrained. It was Grand Master Voldus who grabbed the robed dignitary, and as his blessed gauntlets touched the man’s ﬂesh it sizzled and crisped. The din of the triumph was colossal, an ocean swell of noise that hid the Arch-Consul’s shrieks as the illusions that veiled him were unmade

Guilliman and his lieutenants recoiled at the misshapen mutant thing that was revealed. Bulbous and deformed, the keening, ﬂeshy abomination wore a glowing amulet about its neck on a thong of human skin. As Guilliman stared in disgust at this cursed fetish, he heard a susurration hissing within his mind that he had not heard since that fateful encounter on Thessala. In mocking tones, Fulgrim welcomed Guilliman back to his beloved Imperium. The Daemon Primarch revealed that he had concealed a fragment of his own animus in the amulet that his servant wore, and confessed disappointment that Guilliman had rejected his gift, the Crown of Glories. Many heroes great and pure had fallen to the trinket’s blandishments, and Fulgrim had hoped that he could corrupt Guilliman in the same fashion. Yet the Slaaneshi Prince assured his brother that this was but the frst of endless temptations that Guilliman would have to face. Laughing cruelly, he taunted that the Lord of Ultramar would never be able to trust any feeling of triumph or self-satisfaction again.

Disgusted, Guilliman drove his sword through the amulet and into the hideous creature that bore it, silencing the voice of the damned brother who had laid him low millennia past. Yet as the triumph rumbled on, Fulgrim's words continued to echo in Guilliman's mind. They would do so for many days to come.

War Zone Ultramar
As the armies of reconquest gathered upon Macragge, so ever more Imperial forces came seeking the Primarch. Some, like the Dark Angels and the Raven Guard, sent small delegations to determine the veracity of this miracle. Others came in hope and celebration, bands of Space Wolves, White Scars, Black Templars and others hastening to the Primarch’s side. A glorious moment came to pass when the Black Templars made planetfall, for they were reunited with Marshal Amalrich, who alone of his brotherhood had survived the battle in Guilliman’s shrine. Taking one look at the zealous light in Amalrich’s eyes, the Black Templars Chaplains declared him touched by the hand of the Emperor. The Marshal was brought aboard the Strike Cruiser Scourge of Heretics, and girded with the armour and the Black Blade of the Emperor’s Champion.

Others, too, came to Ultramar upon the insistence of their seers, Astropaths, soothsayers and lords. Battleships of the Imperial Navy, regal Barons of Imperial-aligned Knight worlds, ﬂeets of warships from the Adeptus Mechanicus and their Titan Legions, processions from the Adeptus Administratum; all came to offer fealty to the Primarch.

A grotesque cyber-synod of the Adeptus Ministorum descended upon the Fortress of Hera and insisted upon frst confrming, and then proclaiming, Guilliman’s alleged divinity. The Primarch agreed to such beatifcation only after Celestine and Greyfax impressed upon him just how powerful the Ecclesiarchy were. Better to have them as a frebrand ally than an obstreperous foe.

Before his departure from the fortress, Guilliman had one more order of business. He decreed that now was an age of wrath and war, in which learning and lore must be set aside. The Primarch shocked his Chapter by ordering the great Library of Ptolemy barred to all comers on pain of death. Every last tome, every lingering, dangerous secret contained within that ancient repository was locked behind adamantium bulkheads and servitor guns. At the same time a new war room was built. This was the Strategium Ultra, from where Guilliman’s reconquest could be plotted, tracked and coordinated.

When fnally the armies of reconquest were ready to set out, Roboute Guilliman led them into battle with something akin to relief. After the endless infghting and bureaucracy of this turgid new Imperium, the thought of a battlefield seemed almost welcoming.

Guilliman began with the Macragge System itself, several of whose worlds were beset by the forces of Chaos. A warband of Iron Warriors known as the Bitter Sons had invaded the hive world of Ardium, conquering one of the planet’s three subterranean hives and fortifying its winding tunnel networks. Linking up with the surviving Auxilia garrisons of hives Geodrane and Tarnis, Guilliman led elements of the Ultramarines 4th and 6th Companies through a subterranean hellscape to assault Hive Magmaria. The fghting was savage in the extreme, the outnumbered Iron Warriors clinging tenaciously to their defences until the last man. Corpses choked entire magtunnels, and blood flled the undersump until it overﬂowed through the hive’s drainage grilles. In the end, Guilliman and his gore-drenched followers emerged victorious.

The shrine world of Laphis became the site of the liberation’s greatest naval engagement when the Ultramar Defence Fleet engaged the ships of the Alpha Legion blockading the planet. Marneus Calgar commanded the offensive, seated in the captain’s throne aboard the ancient ﬂagship Macragge’s Honour. The Ultramarines vessels swept in through the void with their guns thundering, successfully driving back those Alpha Legion craft engaged in surface bombardment. Triumph turned to horror when a ﬂotilla of ﬂeeing Imperial bulk carriers were revealed to be crewed by Alpha Legion cultists. Packed with explosives, the lumbering haulers ploughed into the Ultramarines ships and crippled several. Lord Calgar had expected treachery from his foes, however, and now revealed his own masterstroke as a second, reserve ﬂeet of swift Strike Cruisers and frigates swept in from behind Laphis' third moon, Aurora. At the same time, elite strike units containing Ultramarines Techmarines dropped onto Laphis’ surface and succeeded in awakening the world’s battered orbital defence grid. Caught from three sides, the Alpha Legion warships were torn apart, left as a belt of drifting wreckage above the shrine world.

Through such heroic actions was the Macragge System made secure, allowing the armies of reconquest to sweep on towards the neighbouring systems that made up the realm of Ultramar. That stellar domain had once comprised fve hundred worlds, before Lord Guilliman had granted many their own sovereignty. All such treatises the Primarch now declared null and void. In such grim and desperate times, he would see his personal empire forged anew, for in this, as in all things, Guilliman desired strength through unity.

Onward through shuddering Warp storms and traitor hosts swept the armies of Ultramar. Not once did they falter. Iron Hands fought alongside Praetors of Orpheus on Talasa Secundus. Dark Angels went to war beside Titans of the Legio Fulminari to liberate Ischara. The chanting processions of the Cult Mechanicus fought shoulder to shoulder with Novamarines and Battle Sisters of the Order of the Ebon Chalice against mutant hordes on the killing felds of Konor Prime. Unifed and elevated by the leadership of Roboute Guilliman, their war efforts coordinated with clockwork precision from the Strategium Ultra on Macragge, the armies of reconquest overcame Warp storms, traitor armies, and even daemonic incursions in their battle to drive the ravagers of Chaos from ever more worlds. Yet still the fight ground on, weeks becoming months, for Ultramar is a vast realm and its numerous invaders, the fires of their old hatred stoked, were obstinate. The Long War raged, worlds burned, and blood stained the stars.

The Sorrow
It was during the seventh month of the campaign to reconquer Ultramar that the frst cases of a mysterious new sickness were reported. Throughout the Drohl, Talassar and Parmenio Systems, Ultramar Defence Auxilia found themselves weeping uncontrollably. In the midst of battle, warriors were blinded by endless streams of viscous, stinking tears that gummed their eyes open and soon turned them red raw. Overcome by sorrow, sufferers wailed and wept for days on end. In the worst cases, the so called Weepers were permanently blinded as their infected eyeballs festered and rotted from their skulls.

The disease, soon named the Sorrow, or the Weeping Plague, spread with alarming rapidity. Its vector was believed to be an infestation of tiny, biting mites that were found amidst rations, squirming inside uniforms and ammunition packs, and even spilled from the pages of opened Imperial Primers. Nothing stopped the mites from multiplying, and no sanitary measure could long keep them out. The siege of Leotold’s Keep collapsed thanks to the pernicious inﬂuence of the Sorrow, while the previously devastating Ravishol offensive ground to a halt as its human soldiery were reduced to blinded, wailing revenants.

Roboute Guilliman hastened to Talassar, leaving the war in the Prandium System to the command of Chief Librarian Tigurius and Inquisitor Greyfax. Guilliman knew that only mortal soldiery had been afﬂicted with the Weeping – no warrior of the Adeptus Astartes or tech-thrall of the Mechanicus had fallen prey to the sickness as yet. Furthermore, though they were not absolutely immune, only a very few cases had been reported amongst the ranks of the Adepta Sororitas. Some ascribed this to the presence of the Saint amongst the reconquest forces, but more believed that it was the enduring faith of the Battle Sisters that protected them from sickness.

Whatever the truth, Guilliman did not fear the terrible disease, but was instead far more concerned for the fate of his mortal soldiery. The Primarch arrived upon Ravishol expecting nothing but sadness and horror. Guilliman’s shock, therefore, was as great as anyone’s when instead he brought a miracle.

Braving the hammering ﬂak screens of the Iron Warriors encampments on the circuit-plains, Guilliman had his Thunderhawk deliver him to the fortifed Imperial encampment in the Soldermask Valley. Over the thunder of the encampment’s servitor guns – busy keeping the enemy Daemon Engines at bay – Guilliman ordered the camp’s Ultramarine commander to lead him to the sick. There were several thousand of them in this encampment alone, tank crews, artillerymen and infantry soldiers trammelled for their own protection within huge prefab sheds. From outside, the mufﬂed cacophony of the Weepers’ lamentation was unsettling even for Roboute Guilliman, yet as the shed’s armoured doors swung open, the sobbing slowly died away. One by one, the stricken Auxilia rose from their sick beds, blinking in amazement with eyes that could see once more. Even those who had lost their sight altogether subsided with sighs of relief, knowing their frst true sleep in weeks. None could explain how, but Guilliman’s presence had healed the Weepers.

The same thing occurred in three more encampments along the offensive’s stalled front. Wherever Roboute Guilliman walked, the Sorrow was driven out and the mites that spread it died until they piled up in black drifts. The medicae and Apothecaries were at a loss, but the Ecclesiarchy were quick to declare the phenomenon miraculous. It was the Emperor’s mercy, they bellowed, brandishing their aquilas, and it shone from His son as healing light.

So began long weeks of relentless pilgrimage for Guilliman, as he rushed from one site of sickness to another. The Primarch knew that while he was engaged in healing his followers, his attentions were drawn away from the wider war. Yet of all the Emperor’s sons, Guilliman was perhaps the most human, and his compassion would not allow him to ignore his followers’ plight if he could heal them.

Days became weeks, during which the Weeping continued to spread and – worse still – recur at sites that the Primarch had already cleared. Without Guilliman’s peerless genius the reconquest began to suffer, the Chaos forces overturning Imperial victories in the Veridian and Tarvan systems. All the while, the dreadful Warp storms that had riven Ultramar and its surroundings worsened further. Soon, whispered the Navigators, the empire of the Ultramarines might be cut off from the wider galaxy altogether.

It was Grand Master Voldus who fnally confronted Guilliman. In a heated argument, during which the Grand Master dared the Primarch’s wrath, he forced Guilliman to acknowledge that which he already knew. Weeks of labour had been for nought. Guilliman was not healing his subjects, for such was not his gift. In the Weeping Plague, Voldus recognised all the hallmarks of Nurgle. Most likely, the Plague God was simply withdrawing his dubious blessings from his victims upon Guilliman’s arrival, then gleefully restoring them once the Primarch had moved on. The Lord of Ultramar was playing into the Plague God’s hands, his desire to save his people perverted into a never-ending trap of entropy and despair.

Though furious, Guilliman accepted Voldus’ wisdom. Further, he saw that Nurgle's desire had been to trap him within his own realm, and to keep him from the wider galactic stage. The Primarch realised then that his desire for completeness, for a neat solution and an unsullied Ultramar was, in itself, an echo of mistakes he had made long ago. Nurgle did not wish Guilliman to leave Ultramar because there, the Primarch could be contained like a wasp in a bottle. But this war did not belong to Ultramar alone -- it was a war for the entire Imperium. Guilliman saw that he could waste no more time focussing solely upon his own stellar empire. He must tend, instead, to his father's.

With a heavy heart, Roboute Guilliman stopped his efforts to end the Weeping Plague, instead charging his Apothecaries and Chaplains with fnding a spiritual cure for what was clearly a spiritual afﬂiction.

The Primarch announced his intention to set out upon a great journey. Once before, when the Dark Gods had threatened the Imperium of Mankind, the Primarch of the Ultramarines had reached Terra too late to do his duty. He would not make that mistake again. Guilliman intended to journey to Terra, to kneel at the foot of the Golden Throne and ask his father for guidance.

Conscious of the worsening Warp storms lashing the space lanes of Ultramar, Guilliman announced his intention to make for Terra as soon as a suitable force could be assembled. The Primarch would not travel alone; the galaxy had become a dark and dangerous place, while the attempts by Slaanesh and Nurgle to tempt and trick him had shown Guilliman that his resurrection had drawn the eyes of the Ruinous Powers.

The war across Ultramar was still ongoing, however, and with Guilliman leaving, it would require strategically gifted warriors to keep pushing the forces of Chaos back. As such, Guilliman gathered a select force of battle-brothers from the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Companies of the Ultramarines to accompany him to Terra, and gave the honour of their command to Captain Cato Sicarius. He further requested that Grand Master Voldus and the Grey Knights of the 3rd Brotherhood join their crusade. Others pledged their aid to the Primarch’s cause, including the assembled strength of the Primogenitors, and Emperor’s Champion Amalrich and his Black Templars brethren. The Saint, the Inquisitor and the Archmagos Dominus accompanied the Primarch also – whatever aid they or the military forces under their command could provide the Primarch would be gladly given. Guilliman gratefully accepted all offers of aid before commanding Marneus Calgar, Chief Librarian Tigurius and Captain Agemman to remain and lead the reconquest of Ultramar.

The Ynnari, meanwhile, chose this moment to depart. The Eldar had their own wars to fight, and had already lingered overlong amidst human affairs. Though Cadia had fallen, worlds still remained upon which the black pylons stood strong. It was to these that the Ynnari would now attend, directing those of their race who would listen to defend them.

The Celestinian Crusade had come to its end. In its place, the Terran Crusade would begin. Mere solar days after Guilliman made known his intentions, the Imperial ﬂeet set out, engines burning hot as they began the long journey to the cradle of Mankind.

The audience chamber was empty but for Yvraine, the Visarch, and Guilliman. In a matter of hours, the Terran Crusade would depart Macragge, yet the Primarch had found a few moments to speak to the Ynnari leaders alone. Even after weeks of mutually fruitful alliance, most warriors would have been cautious of standing alone in the presence of two such sinister and powerful xenos. Guilliman was not most warriors.

‘It will be a long and dangerous journey,’ said Yvraine. ‘The galaxy grows darker by the day. Have a care, Primarch. You may have cheated death once, but you are not invincible.

Guilliman nodded solemnly. ‘Can I say nothing that will convince you to join us on our road? I have come to value the strength of you and your warriors greatly these past weeks.’

‘You cannot,’ Yvraine replied. ‘Already we have given you the gift of rebirth, not to mention a number of our peoples’ lives. Is that not enough?’

‘It is a debt I’m sure won’t be forgotten,’ said the Primarch. ‘Before you depart, tell me this. Cawl may have fashioned the armour that I wear, but it was not he alone who ensured my resurrection, was it?’

Yvraine smiled demurely. ‘His technology would have healed your physical wounds, Roboute, but you and I know that the worst damage had been done to your soul. So no, Primarch; it is by the grace of Ynnead that you stand once more amongst the living. If you wish to remain, however, I would caution you against removing your war-plate. Not that you could easily do so.’

A ﬂicker passed across Guilliman's features at this, a faint ghost of pain well-hidden, swiftly replaced by a stony mask of duty.

‘I could press you for greater insights into the powers that brought me back, and assurances against any taint in their nature,’ said Guilliman, noting how the Ynnari stiffened their postures at this. ‘But I suspect that our newfound understanding is of more value to my father's realm than my own satisfaction. And that those answers would not come easily.’

Yvraine inclined her head, while the Visarch silently eased his hand away from the hilt of his blade.

‘Thus, instead, I shall simply wish you victory in your ongoing battles against our mutual foes.’

‘May you walk with fortune, Roboute Guilliman,’ said Yvraine. ‘And know that we shall stand together in battle again, before whatever end befalls us.

The Visarch offered an elaborate warrior’s salute to Guilliman, who nodded curtly in return before the Eldar turned and swept gracefully from the chamber.

‘No doubt we will,’ murmured the Primarch thoughtfully, watching the enigmatic xenos withdraw. ‘As long as it serves your needs...’

Across the Void
"The Warp is our greatest gift, and also our greatest threat. It is curse and boon, hope and terror, a raging inferno through which we must plunge, or else be lost."

- Navigator D'Halnari

The Warp churned. It roiled and raged. Temporal rip tides and squalls of insanity wrenched and battered at Guilliman’s ﬂeet. Whirlpools of arrogance; frenetic storms of anger and lust; becalming straits of misery circled by hungry daemonic entities; all had to be braved as the crusade pushed on.

On the pleas of their Navigators, the ships’ captains dared only short jumps through the Warp. These quick and terrifying sprints ended – more often than not – in frantic crashdives into realspace as the dangers became too great. Several craft were lost, and many captains beseeched Saint Celestine for her blessings to safeguard their passage. The Pride of Hera suffered a Geller feld breach that saw the slouching Daemons of the Plague God spill like animate pus through its corridors. Inquisitor Greyfax rallied a force of Adepta Sororitas and Praetors of Orpheus Space Marines to fght back against the monstrous creatures. Cleansing ﬂame and sanctifed bolts were used to drive the daemonic infestation back deck by deck, forcing them away from the life support systems that they had sought to befoul with spores and infectious flth. Greyfax herself ended the incursion in a swift duel with the bloated plague Daemon that led the invasion, leaping from a gantry down onto the thing’s Nurgling-borne throne and slaying the abomination with a single blow.

Despite many such horrors, and an ever increasing toll of lives lost, none in the Terran Crusade so much as spoke of turning back. They braved the Warp storms at the behest of a living Primarch, on a mission to holy Terra itself. Those who quailed in the face of such a momentous calling would surely be damned.

Guilliman travelled aboard his Chapter’s ancient ﬂagship, Macragge’s Honour, a craft that – unlike so much around him – provided the Primarch with a welcome haven of familiarity. He had hoped that the Warp storms around Ultramar were sent to entrap him. As the crusade ﬂeet travelled ever further from the his realm, and the storms continued to rage, the Primarch was disabused of this hopeful notion. Every time the ﬂeet dropped out of Warp space, Guilliman had his Astropaths comb the darkness of the void, seeking to ensnare every fragment of information he could about the state of the Imperium.

With the Immaterium in turmoil, those astropathic communiqués that made it through were jumbled, and nightmarish to interpret. What news the crusade ﬂeet managed to gather was uniformly dire, and left all who heard them cold with dread.

Whole systems were being ravaged by unnatural phenomena, daemonic incursions and plagues of mutation. Psykers proliferated, bringing with them horrifc manifestations and outbursts of terror and madness. Loyal populations rose up as howling mobs of mad-eyed cultists. Entire armies of xenos, saturated in the energies of the Warp, fought alongside Daemons to bring death to the worlds of the Imperium. Star forts cried out for help, their corridors prowled by unnatural Warp entities that preyed upon their garrisons. Imperial ﬂeets and convoys ﬂung distress calls into the empyrean as they were dragged light-years off course, or were beset by terrifying empyric predators.

Those who knew of such things could not help but draw parallels with the rumoured terrors of Old Night, and with the Age of Strife, but none – not even Guilliman – dared air such a thought aloud.

Despite the lethal roiling of the Warp, the Terran Crusade forged onward. For the soldiery aboard the ships, the weeks crawled past in an agony of inactivity and agitation. A constant state of high alert was required ﬂeetwide, for at any moment they might come under sudden attack. Yet for all their constant training, drilling, patrolling and waiting, still nothing occurred. Even amongst the superhuman warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, tempers frayed and inaction chafed. For the thousands of helots, naval armsmen and chapter serfs who crewed and garrisoned the vast warships, the constant state of readiness inevitably took its toll. The expectation of danger became the norm, to the point that laxness crept in and awareness slipped.

When at last the ﬂeet was threatened, it came so suddenly that even the Adeptus Astartes and Cult Mechanicus were caught off guard. The Terran Crusade had reached the trailing edges of the Maelstrom, and had found it swollen with fearsome new power. The ﬂeet’s Navigators moaned and screamed, describing something akin to an endless, impossibly immense tornado thundering in the Warp. Where safe channels should have existed, the billowing fringes of the Maelstrom had consumed all. Even the light of the Astronomican became faltering and nigh impossible to see.

Fearing for the safety of their brutalised craft, the ﬂeet’s captains ordered immediate translation to realspace. One by one, the Imperial warships tore through the meniscus of reality, streamers of glowing ectoplasm trailing from their hulls as they plunged back into the cold darkness of the void. Yet the thunderous shuddering on board each craft continued, intensifying violently as impacts ﬂared upon void shields and smashed through armoured hulls.

The Hawk Lords frigate Wings of Glory was ripped apart by a string of punishing explosions before its crew even knew who or what was attacking them. An Ultramarines Strike Cruiser, Primarch’s Wrath, sustained crippling damage after colliding with the White Consuls Cruiser Hope and Fire as both ships attempted blind evasive manoeuvres.

Frantic orders flled the vox net and echoed through cavernous ships’ bridges as furious captains attempted to establish the nature of the threat. Had the ﬂeet dropped out of the Warp and straight into an asteroid feld? Had they, by some horrible chance, emerged into the midst of a hostile foe?

As Auspexes awoke and observation decks were unshrouded, the bleak truth became clear. The scattered ships of the Terran Crusade had indeed exited the Immaterium straight into the thundering guns of an enemy armada, but it looked as though this was no accident of chance.

Arrayed in perfect ambush formations were dozens of traitor warships bearing baroque and ancient markings upon their hulls. The loyalists realised that a vast ﬂeet of the Thousand Sons surrounded them, deployed as though they had known precisely where and when the Imperial forces would emerge from the Warp.

At the heart of the enemy hung a strange craft of surpassing immensity. Only Guilliman truly understood its appearance, recognising a vast silver facsimile of the Great Pyramid of Tizca. That cyclopean crystal structure had once stood as the crowning glory in the Thousand Sons capital city, upon their homeworld of Prospero. Now it was resurrected in this monstrously magnified new form.

Vast as a planetoid, bristling with gun decks of bafﬂing shape and function, and boasting an immense red crystal eye upon one ﬂank, the insane structure was clearly both ﬂagship and star fort for the enemy ﬂeet. Guilliman knew his brothers well, and here, in this grandiose war engine, he saw all the hallmarks of the Daemon Primarch Magnus the Red.

To the loyalist ﬂeet’s rear loomed the squirming spiral arms of the Maelstrom, a towering wall of unnatural energies and whirling sorcery that promised madness and death. To their fore was the titanic pyramid of Magnus, its attendant warships already pummelling Guilliman's armada.

With little choice, the Imperials fought as best they could in their scattered dispersal. Torpedoes fred from launch tubes, streaking through the void to blast ragged holes in heretic warships. Fighter squadrons scrambled, jetting out into the darkness like swarming insects. Lance arrays spat ruby light, and gun decks thundered as the Imperial ships frantically attempted to fght free of their ambushing foes.

Yet the Imperial craft were taking a terrible hammering, void shields collapsing and ruptured decks venting screaming crewmen into space. Engines ﬂared out and died under volley after volley of macro shells, while rune-inscribed torpedoes swept in to fill Loyalist bridges and magazines with Warpﬂame

Guilliman issued a steady stream of orders to his captains, doing everything in his power to gather his ships and fght back. Inwardly he raged, both at his fallen brother’s deviousness and his own failure to foresee the ambush. By comparison, Magnus watched with amused satisfaction from the grand observation gallery aboard his pyramidal ﬂagship

He had fashioned the vast craft, named Tizca’s Revenge, using the plundered resources of an Imperial world and the nameless energies of the Warp. Now he conjured those empyric powers again, for an altogether different purpose. A cabal of powerful Sorcerers stood around Magnus, chanting ominous words as he raised his arms high and cried out in stentorian tones.

The Crimson King called and the Warp answered, coiling tendrils of power coalescing to surround Guilliman’s battered ﬂeet. Magnus judged the damage done to be suffcient. He had no desire to kill his resurrected brother. Not yet, anyway. Thus, with a fnal booming incantation, Magnus completed his spell. The empyric tendrils clamped tight around the ships of the Terran Crusade and, with a vast convulsive wrench, dragged them deep into the raging heart of the Maelstrom.

Into the Maelstrom
Pandemonium seized the ships of the Terran Crusade. Crushing tendrils of empyric energy wound about the craft like the tentacles of some leviathan beast. Bulkheads crumpled. Shields blew out. Raging fres and punishing gravity ﬂuctuations tore through decks. Powerless to resist, the warships were plucked from reality and dragged into the Warp. Desperate tech adepts stumbled over their rituals as they strove madly to raise their ships’ Geller felds. Some succeeded, but other craft were inundated with howling masses of Daemons as they were dragged, unwarded, into the Warp. Madness and slaughter ran rife, and only the staunch determination of the Imperial armies aboard each ship prevented the Terran Crusade from being utterly annihilated.

By the time Magnus’ spell ran its course, the ships of the Terran Crusade had been cast deep into the Maelstrom. Guilliman’s ﬂeet had, at least, been spat from the maw of the Warp once more, but the region they now found themselves in was a cursed one. Within the Maelstrom, reality and the Immaterium melted together in a strange morass. The stars were lost behind drifting veils of unnatural energy, and twisted worlds hung amidst the shimmering gloom

While Belisarius Cawl coordinated emergency repair crews to shore up mauled ships and save the worst damaged craft from destruction, Guilliman and his captains tallied the cost of the ambush. Their losses were sobering. From a vast ﬂeet of one hundred and twelve Space Marine, Imperial Navy and Adeptus Mechanicus warships, barely half remained. Some had been lost during the Thousand Sons ambush, blown apart by blistering frepower. More had vanished during the subsequent mayhem, cast far adrift upon the tides of the Immaterium. Some, doubtless, would have made it to realspace, scattered distant from the main body of the ﬂeet. Others were surely lost, or worse.

All of the fighter craft launched during the brief battle were gone, their crews doomed to a cold and lonely death in the void of space. Hundreds upon hundreds of Chapter serfs, human crewmen and servitors were injured, insane or dead, and even the Space Marines had taken substantial casualties.

The Terran Crusade had been reduced to a shadow of its former military strength. Not one warship had survived the ambush unscathed, and many were sorely damaged. Crushing though the sudden losses were, they were still not Roboute Guilliman’s greatest worry.

Meeting in his strategium with the assembled Imperial and Space Marine leaders, Guilliman expressed his belief that the Thousand Sons must have known, by some infernal means, where and when the crusade would break from the Warp. Guilliman’s ﬂeet had been surrounded. Why not strike the killing blow? The Primarch knew all too well that Magnus did nothing without a plan, so why had he allowed his erstwhile brother to survive? It was a question that returned to torture the leaders of the crusade again and again in the dark days that followed.

Stranded deep in the Maelstrom, with no sight of the Emperor’s Astronomican to guide them, the surviving warriors of the Terran Crusade required some means by which they could determine their location, and fnd their way back into realspace. Seizing upon the faint transmissions emanating from a nearby moon, the crusade made for the dark planetoid in the hope of either capturing a traitor who could act as their unwilling guide, or else gaining access to heretic astrogation instruments hardened against the roiling energies of the Warp.

Landing parties mounted gunships and Drop Pods, streaking down through thin, pale skies onto a dark and glassy world. The loyalists found vitrifed continents, barren of life and tormented by powerful, screaming winds. An unnatural light glowed deep within the world’s glass heart, and left all who glimpsed it with an ominous sense of dread.

The crusade strike force located an armoured fortifcation amongst a range of mountains, clinging limpet-like amidst glinting peaks. Guilliman himself led the attack that breached the defences, fnding to his disgust that a ragged band of renegade Space Marines garrisoned the fortress. Crosses daubed over these warriors’ Chapter iconography identifed them as Red Corsairs, and the Primarch vented his pent up anger and frustration upon the luckless traitors. The battle was brief, Guilliman and a trio of Voldus’ Dreadknights slaughtering the renegades’ leaders. However, when Guilliman successfully seized the last traitor alive in the fortress’ vox array, a diabolical manifestation occurred. The air crackled and rime crawled across the metal walls of the chamber as a menacing daemonic presence spoke through the captive’s mouth. In two mocking voices, the presence told Guilliman that, even now, Ultramar burned. The evil thing cackled that the Primarch had abandoned his people to wander the Maelstrom forever. Then, it twisted the head of the captive around with a sickening crack. Guilliman cursed as his only lead expired amidst the sizzle and bang of overloading vox banks. He vowed to locate the Daemon, and wring the truth from it no matter what he had to endure.

After their encounter on the glass moon, the crusade ﬂeet wandered aimless. With no indication of the course that would take them to Terra, Guilliman picked a direction based upon his best guess, and instructed his captains to turn to that heading. For the moment, hoping to reach the Maelstrom’s edge seemed the only available plan.

How long they journeyed, none could say, for time did not pass normally in that sanity-defying place. The Primarch was tormented by the words of the Daemon, and sought any opportunity to discover what might be occurring outside the Maelstrom. His opportunity came when scout ships reported heretic craft patrolling a twisted, ﬂeshy planet that hung amidst a cloud of huge crystalline skulls. Ordering an immediate attack, Guilliman commanded that the gathering of intelligence should be treated as priority. Maps, charts, cartographic hymnals, traitor Navigators or whatever passed for Astropaths in this hellish place, were all to be seized.

The ﬂeet swept down upon the ﬂeshworld, only for the planet to fght back. The renegade ships belonged to a warband of Emperor’s Children, who began a thunderous empyric resonance that caused devastating sonic shock waves to burst from the mouths of the crystal skulls. At the same time, the planet itself unfurled augmetic tentacles, sutured onto its living surface. These monstrous appendages snatched several Mechanicus ships from the void and stuffed them into a continent-sized maw that unpuckered at the planet’s northern pole.

Sustained torpedo bombardment finally severed the world’s ironclad tentacles, while lance fre shattered dozens of the crystalline skulls and crippled several of the Emperor’s Children warships. The remaining traitor craft turned tail, leaving their comrades to be boarded. Yet Guilliman's sense of triumph was once again short-lived. Though dozens of star charts and maps were recovered, all were blank save for the daemon's mocking words to Guilliman in the Red Corsair fortress, repeated over and over again. Whatever this entity was, it clearly sought to torment the Primarch personally.

On Darker Paths
Amidst ﬂuctuating time streams and reality-warping energy storms, the damaged ships of the crusade struggled on. Within the Maelstrom lurked countless foes, for this was a region that had long harboured the warring minions of Chaos.

More than once, the Imperial ships were forced to fght off opportunist raids by sleek hunting packs of traitor warships. Amidst a thousandmile-wide cloud of corrosive spores, the crusade ships found themselves beset by swarms of vast plague ﬂies as large as frigates. The monstrous insects took a savage toll upon the smaller ships of the Crusade, until Saint Celestine took to the Navigator’s observation blister of the Macragge’s Honour. Unleashing her holy light in a blazing shockwave, the Living Saint purged the hideous Daemon beasts from the void.

In another uncharted reach, the crusade craft found ghostly phantasms whirling around their hulls. Howling Warp ghosts screamed through the corridors of the Space Marine craft, swarming around the ancient relics and honoured banners of their Reclusiam shrines. The Adeptus Astartes realised, to their horror, that these aetheric leeches were draining the holy energies from their treasured relics, dragging faint, screaming ghosts from the enshrined helms, blades and scrolls. In this fght, the Grey Knights came to the fore, Voldus swiftly splitting his brotherhood and deploying them by rapid teleport strike into his allies’ shrines. Fighting alongside the outraged Chaplains who guarded the relics, the Daemon-hunting warriors drove the Warp leeches back and banished them to the void.

So it went on for an indeterminate and bewildering span of time that felt like impossible centuries. As the crusade ﬂeet forged on, their supplies running low and their crews exhausted by constant battle, Roboute Guilliman became ever angrier and more distracted. Unbeknownst to all, the Primarch was bedevilled by horrifc visions.

Guilliman saw the realm of Ultramar in ﬂames, and the bastions of Mankind blowing away as ash upon the blood-wet winds of change. He was tormented by images of Mars, shattered into hundreds of pieces and raining down as ﬂaming meteors upon the once-proud ruin of Terra. He saw the Golden Throne as a sparking, fre-wreathed wreck, the Emperor’s blackened corpse burning within it.

Daemonic voices whispered into Guilliman’s mind, day and night. If they had told him the scenes he saw had already come to pass, that would have been cruel enough. But this torment was more cunning yet, for instead the voices told Guilliman that the visions were ﬂashes of foresight.

They were glimpses of a singularly dark fate that would transpire only should he escape the Maelstrom and complete his journey to Terra. Relent in his attempt to escape, accept his Warp-tainted prison for all eternity, give in to madness and despair, and he would spare the Imperium from coming to this terrible end.

Guilliman wrestled internally with each passing day, yet he showed no sign of his struggle to those who looked to him for leadership and hope. The Primarch maintained his veneer of strength and continued to pursue his goal of escape, determined that he would not believe the lies of any entity that inhabited that hellish place. Still, the Primarch’s resolve eroded slowly, as a cliff washed away by the endless ocean waves.

Long had the crusade ﬂeet sailed the Maelstrom’s corrupted tides when they came to Bathamor. In the hours before they hove into orbit, the name of this cursed world leapt into the mind of every psyker in the ﬂeet, repeating over and over in a malicious whisper until those that heard them cried the planet’s name aloud. Auspex scans revealed an infernal world of kaleidoscopic crystal jungles, laced through by glimmering rivers of fre. They also showed vox signatures and energy readouts commensurate with a sizeable renegade presence, and so Guilliman ordered the captains of the Terran Crusade ﬂeet to prepare their forces for an immediate combat drop. Once more, intelligence gathering would be paramount – with their sanity and resolve weakening by the day, the crusade knew they must escape the Maelstrom soon or perish within this seemingly endless expanse of tainted space.

Sweeping down from on high, the Imperial armies slammed into the crystal jungles amidst explosions of jagged shards. Advancing upon the greatest concentration of energy signatures, the loyalist forces cursed in anger and bewilderment as their auspex readings winked out like will-o’-the-wisps. The next moment, Tzeentchian Daemons attacked from all sides.

Barrages of sorcerous ﬂame and mutating energies clawed at the Ultramarines and their allies. Crystal trees detonated like huge fragmentation bombs, lacerating all who fought around them. In the midst of the madness, Roboute Guilliman found himself face to face with the architect of the devious ambush. A croaking, two-headed nightmare clad in shimmering robes and wielding a potent staff of temporal power, Kairos Fateweaver coalesced from amidst a glittering storm of crystal shards. Confronting Guilliman, one of the hideous Daemon’s avian heads mocked the Primarch’s continued efforts to escape, sneering that he had scried every possible strand of the future and every last one ended in his failure. Kairos’ other head crowed that Guilliman had always been the most unremarkable of the Emperor’s sons, and was as incapable of saving the Imperium now as he was when he fell to his superior brother. Guilliman bellowed in fury and drove Kairos back with swings of his burning blade, before leading his stricken forces in a fghting retreat. The crusade and its leader would not fall to the Oracle’s manipulation so easily...

Anxious as to the fate of the wider Imperium, and with several ships now left scuttled in their wake due to accumulated battle damage, the crusade ﬂeet came upon a world of black marble and bloody seas. They struck hard and fast against several Red Corsairs strongholds, eliminating outlying enclaves before fnally laying siege to a fortifed palace upon a claw-shaped headland above booming, gory waves. While Archmagos Cawl coordinated the siege, Greyfax and Sicarius led a daring raiding party that threw open the palace’s main gates and sealed the heretics’ doom.

Guilliman knew that this victory offered a brief respite at best. The screaming of the bloody ocean was eroding his followers’ sanity, and amongst the ashen skies overhead, huge, dark shapes stirred with the promise of terrible danger. Yet the logistics of stripping the Corsairs’ fortress would take time, even with the Primarch’s meticulously effcient plans. Thus, as Mechanicus bulk haulers rumbled back and forth through the planet’s atmosphere, Guilliman found himself wandering alone through the twisted citadel’s corridors. It was as he entered a chamber of crystal statues that a shimmering mist rose before the Primarch’s eyes. Amidst the swirling patterns of light and shadow, a slender fgure ﬂickered into being. Guilliman caught the suggestion of willowy limbs and billowing cloth, a curving alien helm and a long stave, before the fgure spoke. Like its image, the manifestation’s voice swam in and out of Guilliman’s perception. Yet the Lord of Ultramar was able to decipher instructions from the fgure’s words.

Guilliman was wary of further trickery, suspicious and plagued by echoes of the daemonic whispers that Kairos Fateweaver had projected into his mind. Yet he sensed no taint of Chaos in this manifestation; the energies given off by the shimmering vision were more akin to those of the Eldar who had aided his resurrection. At last, after repeating its message several times, the fgure vanished, leaving the Primarch with a new sense of purpose and, perhaps, even a sliver of hope. Here, at last, was a heading, and Guilliman meant to follow it.

Through the Storm
"You are a relic of a bygone age, a footnote to your father's failures. You should have stayed in the past where you belonged, Primarch, for you have no place in this future!"

- Lord of Change Kairos Fateweaver exchange with Primarch Roboute Guilliman

Upon leaving the world of black marble and blood, the remnants of the crusade ﬂeet set out with new determination. The crusade now numbered a third of the ships that had departed Ultramar, but they were still led by Guilliman’s ﬂagship, Macragge’s Honour, and they still stood ready for battle at any moment. They had a heading at last, albeit one derived from the omen-laden whispering of an unknown fgure.

Drives lit with thundering ﬂame, the warships of the Imperium clove through veils of frozen ichor and showers of meteors encrusted with staring eyes. They followed a distant, glimmering star of pure white, until it resolved itself into a massive ﬂaming hole in reality. Turning to a new heading as this prophesied landmark was reached, the crusade swept next through a sprawling region of mauve gas clouds that formed into unrecognisable sigils and shimmered with the eldritch power of change.

Emerging from the far edge of the gas belt after many days, the crusade’s auspexes detected a triad of planets, all whirling around one another in an endless dance. This, again, was just as the mystical interloper had told Guilliman it would be, and the Primarch’s hope swelled within him at the promise of escape.

Following the stranger’s directions, the ﬂeet changed its heading once again, angling away from the spinning mass of planets and making for a distantly visible constellation of jade green glimmers. Soon, if the Eldar apparition was to be believed, the crusade would at last escape from the Maelstrom, but they would frst have to brave what the fgure had described as the resting place of hollow ghosts.

At frst, the region appeared as a silvered speckling of space, stretching out in all directions ahead of the ﬂeet. Gradually, those glimmering motes grew in size and defnition until, at a distance of no more than a few thousand miles, they resolved themselves into a breathtaking and eerie sight. Thousands upon thousands of wrecked ships drifted here, their hulls linked together by vast webs of brass chain. Lit by the jade stars that loomed in the middle distance, derelict craft of every sort trailed wreckage behind them as they hung silently in their cursed afterlife. Some were familiar: ancient marks of Imperial warship, splinter-boned Eldar wrecks, hollowed Kroot Warspheres, broken-backed Hrud Warrenships, and the empty remnants of Nicassar Dhows. Others were unidentifable: black needles of glassy material, ravaged structures like space-born hives, vast, angular leviathans and tiny, ellipsoid ships little bigger than a Drop Pod. How they had all come to be abandoned here was an unsettling puzzle. The hazard that they – and their binding chains – presented was clear enough, however.

The frst thought of Guilliman and his captains was to attempt to circumnavigate the starship graveyard. Yet the ships trailed away, seemingly into infnity above, below and to either side. If the crusade wished to pass this way – and it seemed that they must if they wanted their freedom – then they would have to push forward between the wrecks.

Guilliman gave the order. Spreading out with their Battle Barges to the fore, the crusade ships engaged their drives and raised their void shields before edging into the graveyard. Progress was painfully slow, for in places the wrecks were chained just a mile or so apart, tangled in vast chain webs like the prey of some cosmic arachnid. Tech-Magi and Chapter serfs ﬂinched and sweated at each new scrape and groan from their crafts’ hulls as the ships forged their slow and steady paths.

Despite exercising every caution, the larger ships could not completely avoid collision. Ice-cold chain links left vast gashes and dents as they skidded across reinforced exteriors. Ancient wreckage broke apart and scattered into the void as, here and there, a Battle Barge or Strike Cruiser nosed aside a drifting ship that blocked its path. Each fresh collision, each breathless near miss, left the crews’ nerves frayed and passengers on edge as the hours crawled past.

Finally, after a torturous stretch of time, Archmagos Cawl announced that he was reading clear space ahead. They were nearing the edge of the debris feld and, more relieving still, it appeared they were nearing the edge of the Maelstrom. Past the last chained wrecks, the Navigators, who had been near comatose for many days, could perceive a distant ﬂicker. They awoke, muttering with increasing excitement that they could see once more the barest shred of the Astronomican’s light, as though it shone through the gap in a partlyopened door.

Guilliman counselled caution, and ordered his crews to continue their careful, steady progress, yet he too grew more hopeful by the moment. At last, they would escape the hellish region into which his brother Magnus had hurled them. At last they could continue on their road.

It was as the Macragge’s Honour thrust aside the ravaged hulk of an Iconoclast Destroyer, and an open path to the edge of the graveyard yawned before it, that the attack came. Cries of alarm rang through the ﬂagship’s bridge as power spikes ﬂared amidst the derelicts on every side. Drifting Chaos warships lit their drives and unshrouded gun decks, as their internal power sources thundered to life.

It was an ambush!

The Red Corsairs had laid their trap with cunning and skill, guided by the precognitive powers of Kairos Fateweaver. They had inveigled their ships into the far edge of the starship graveyard, precisely where Kairos foresaw the loyalist ﬂeet would pass through. With the careful application of cosmetic hull damage, and all internal systems shrouded to minimise output, they had magclamped severed links of chain to their hulls and posed as just another scattering of lost craft. Now, rumbling back to life all around the shocked loyalists, the Red Corsair ships launched an ambush of the enemy in their midst. Lance beams seared through adamantium hulls. Noble warriors who had survived countless trials were obliterated by raging frestorms, or sucked helplessly out into the void.

Guilliman cursed at what must surely be further Tzeentchian machinations. Hemmed in and outﬂanked, his ﬂeet was at a catastrophic disadvantage. Several Imperial warships attempted to break free of the starship graveyard; these craft were quickly targeted and, in the case of the Raven Guard frigate Silent Blade, shorn clean in two. The rest fought back, hammering fre into the void and tearing chunks from their attackers’ ships at point-blank range.

Chaos frepower continued to rain down upon Guilliman’s ﬂeet in a veritable storm. The Primarch saw that the foe – secure in their numerical and positional superiority – were aiming to cripple his ships rather than destroy them. Weapons batteries, auspex arrays and enginariums were blasted one by one, leaving the crusade ships drifting and defenceless. Guilliman knew what must surely come next, and cursed aloud as he saw wave after wave of boarding torpedoes released from the launch decks of the attacking craft. The Red Corsairs were, frst and foremost, pirates. Now they sought to steal as many of the crusade’s ships as they could, along with the arms and armour within. Barking orders for his warriors to prepare for boarders, Guilliman’s mind whirled with counter-ambush strategies and breakout plans.

Defence batteries studded the mileslong ﬂanks of the Macragge’s Honour. As the enemy boarding craft streaked closer, those guns roared to life, flling the void with sawing streams of frepower. Guilliman watched the external pict feeds intently, reading the patterns of destroyed foes and near-misses, and determining where the enemy’s forces would hit his ship the hardest. The Primarch narrowed his eyes as the vessel’s primary auspex array took a direct hit, and the pict feeds drowned in static

Turning away from the useless datafont, Guilliman issued a calm string of orders that were circulated ﬂeet wide. For all those who could still hear him, the Primarch commended their remarkable courage and strength. He gave the order that all ships deploy their forces to defend their bridges, primary magazines, shield generators and Warp engines, then – swallowing his own distaste at the religious connotations of the term – wished the Emperor’s blessings upon all who were about to engage the foe. Those who repelled boarders were to break free, and rendezvous beyond the edge of the Maelstrom as best they could.

His orders issued and Captain Sicarius, Saint Celestine and Inquisitor Greyfax at his side, Guilliman donned his helm and joined the warriors he had deployed to defend the bridge. He listened intently as vox transmissions ﬂew back and forth throughout the ship. Boarding torpedoes impacted by the dozen. The lower crew decks were overrun. Sergeant Apstrophis’ Devastators held the bulkheads before the enginarium primus. Then came the news that a daemonic creature had manifested aboard, sweeping towards the bridge at the head of a Chaotic horde. Mere moments later the bridge bulkheads shuddered, then exploded inwards upon a bow wave of unnatural ﬂame.

Macragge's Honour
The Chaos onslaught was swift and savage. It had to be, for though the Ultramarines were outnumbered, they held an incredibly defensible position against the enemy boarding parties. Guilliman’s sons crouched behind consoles artfully designed to double as barricades in the event of a breach. More of their number occupied elevated positions on gantries and balconies overlooking the bulkhead, taking up positions amidst the looming grandeur of the bridge.

The first servants of Chaos to bound and cartwheel onto the bridge had absolutely no cover whatsoever. Pink Horrors of Tzeentch were engulfed in a storm of disciplined, expertly aimed fre that ripped them to pieces. Into the meat grinder poured more and more Daemons, while behind them squads of Red Corsairs lunged through the blasted bulkhead and dashed for any cover they could fnd.

Bolters roared, their massed echo and strobing muzzle ﬂare rolling around the bridge like a raging thunderstorm. Daemons exploded in puffs of ectoplasm, smaller simulacra bursting from their corpses to be mowed down in turn. Traitor Space Marines clad in the defaced liveries of a dozen Chapters fell dead upon the killing ground, their armoured corpses continuing to twitch and jerk as more rounds struck them. Bolt shells, plasma blasts, las beams and missiles fell like hailstones, ripping the deck plates to blackened ruin and annihilating dozens of invaders.

Inevitably, though, the boarders began to gain ground. A jetting blast of purple fre leapt out to turn a gantry to slime, sending a squad of Red Corsairs Terminators tumbling a hundred feet into the vox pits below. A cluster of krak grenades rained down upon a console-barricade, their detonations killing one Veteran and forcing two more to beat a hasty retreat. In the moments before he fell, a Red Corsair unloaded his plasma gun into another barricade, killing several Ultramarines before being killed by his own overheated weapon exploding in his hands. So it went on, the enemy eroding Guilliman’s defences through reckless assaults.

Then came Kairos. The frst warning the loyalists had of the Greater Daemon’s onset was a thickening of the air as the empyrean stirred. Librarian Pollonius cried out in sudden agony, hands clamped to his skull and eyes bulging as the energies of his own mind were turned against him. Fast as lightning, Guilliman hurled himself aside, barging Captain Sicarius clear in the instant before Pollonius’ body detonated in a wave of blue fre. Several Ultramarines were not so lucky, their armour dissolving and ﬂesh turning to ash as the ﬂames washed over them.

As the commanders of the Ultramarines reeled, the next rain of frepower to fall upon the kill box was transmogrifed. Instead of massreactive shells and whistling grenades, all that struck the attacking hordes was shimmering starlight and wisps of silver steam.

A fresh wave of leaping Flamers and cackling Horrors surged through the bulkhead and leapt to the attack. More Red Corsairs came with them, lumbering Chaos Terminators and fang-helmed warriors with bolters blazing. At their back, his ragged wings spread wide and his staff tapping before him, came Kairos Fateweaver himself.

Seeing the Lord of Change, Guilliman roared a battle cry and charged. Sicarius and his warriors followed close on their Primarch’s heels, while Greyfax and Celestine hurled themselves into the foe to either side.

Guilliman stormed through Daemons and traitors alike, his ﬂaming sword swiping in unstoppable arcs. Volleys of shells thundered from the Hand of Dominion, while the crushing fist obliterated an enemy with every blow. Daemons exploded in sprays of unnatural ichor before Guilliman’s fury, while those traitors foolish enough to stand in his path were smashed aside like rag dolls.

Following the trail of carnage wrought by their Primarch, Sicarius and his battle-brothers hacked and blasted those enemies who tried to encircle Guilliman. Sicarius himself was a blur, his Talassarian Tempest Blade drawing golden arcs through the air as it lopped horned helms from armoured shoulders, and split Daemons in two. At the same time, blinding light shone from Saint Celestine as she carved her way through the Warpspawn, and Inquisitor Greyfax sent one traitor after another crashing to their knees as she crushed their minds with her telepathic powers.

It did not take Kairos’ matchless future-sight to foresee that his enemy would attempt to reach and slay him. The Lord of Change was no match for Guilliman in battle, but armed with his faultless precognition, he had long prepared for this moment. Now, as the Lord of Ultramar smashed his way closer, Kairos set his devious scheme in motion by unleashing a pulse of blue ﬂame from his staff.

Nine Heralds of Tzeentch had worked their way through the press of battle, concealed behind shimmering spells of illusion. At Kairos’ signal, the leering Daemons cast aside their sorcerous shrouds and began a babbling incantation. Bolt shells whipped in towards the Heralds the moment they appeared, but their Daemon minions leapt willingly into the path of the shots. Shielded by the shimmering ﬂesh of their underlings, the Heralds continued their chant, nine voices rolling and twining with each other over the cacophony of battle. Raising the Staff of Tomorrow high above his heads, Kairos joined his croaking voices to the burgeoning spell.

Since Guilliman had frst entered the Maelstrom and begun to hear Kairos whispering in his mind, the Greater Daemon had been planting traps in the Primarch’s subconscious. It had not been easy, for Guilliman’s mind was a pristine fortress of order and rationality, and his mental defences were formidable. Yet slowly, carefully, the deed had been done. Kairos had teased forth Guilliman’s guilt, his anger and disappointment at what remained of the Imperium, his fears for its future. The Daemon had intended to continue his work until the Primarch was quite mad before attempting this ritual, but the intervention of the interfering Eldar had forced Kairos’ hand. His preparations would have to be enough, or else Guilliman would surely banish him back to the Warp and escape.

Swaying and gibbering, spinning and leaping, the Daemons worked their spell and dragged forth the incantations laced within Guilliman’s mind. The Primarch stumbled, bellowing in pain as streamers of incandescent energy poured from his eyes and open mouth. Squirming tendrils of green guilt twined around serpentine streamers of disgust and surging red tendrils of anger. Engulfed by the whirling storm of energies, Guilliman tried again to forge a path forward, but with a howl of pain he went down on one knee. Greyfax, bogged down in the morass of combat, could only watch helplessly, while Celestine’s attempt to ﬂy to the Primarch’s aid was thwarted as several Daemons latched onto her wings.

Sicarius and his battle-brothers, crying out in impotent fury, tried to cut their way through the foe, hoping to stop the incantation in any way they could. The 2nd Company Captain ordered all fre concentrated upon the Daemons tormenting the Primarch. It did no good. Those shots aimed at Kairos puffed away as clouds of glittering dust, while the Heralds remained shielded behind squirming bulwarks of Daemon ﬂesh.

Though the outnumbered Ultramarines fought furiously, they could not reach the daemonic sorcerers to stop their ritual. Roaring his anger, Guilliman surged to his feet once more, hammering off a volley of shells that struck Kairos Fateweaver and ripped bloody chunks from his gaunt torso.

Though the Daemon was wounded sorely by the explosive impacts, his chant did not stop. Instead, it redoubled in intensity, the Daemon’s voices ringing out cruel and cold. Whirling and lashing, the coloured streamers of ectoplasmic energy surged from the Primarch’s mind. All of Guilliman’s negative emotions, all of the threads of madness and wrath and fear that Kairos had seeded into his mind, blossomed forth and wrapped themselves like vines around the Primarch. They thickened and twisted, pulsing with power as they hardened into heavy crystal chains.

Arms and legs bound tight, Guilliman crashed to his knees once more. This time, held frmly by Kairos' spell, he was unable to rise. The Oracle, projecting his voices to every warrior upon the bridge, commanded the Ultramarines, the Saint and the Inquisitor to lay down their arms at once. If they did not, the Primarch would be crushed and throttled to death before their eyes. One by one, the guns fell silent as the horrified Ultramarines complied. The battle was over, and Kairos Fateweaver stood gloating and victorious.

Imperium Resurgent
"They shall be my sons, and in them will live the hopes of a unified humanity. Theirs will be the strength to prevail, not only when victory lies within easy reach, but even when it seems unattainable, when doom settles like a shroud all about. In those times of darkness, my noble sons will shine the brightest of all."

- Attributed to the Emperor of Mankind



Self-Doubts & Resolutions
Within his private sanctum, Guilliman let his mask drop with a sigh of relief. At last he could allow a little of his sorrow, trauma and pain to show. Whatever had been done to him to bring him back from the clutches of death, it had left the Primarch with a constant, gnawing ache that radiated from deep within. He suspected that pain would never leave him. But physical hurts were the least of Guilliman's troubles. Over several days he had spoken with each of the Celestinians, the lords of Ultramarines, and even Yvraine of the Ynnari, digesting all the new information he received, and hid his reactions to their words. Though he had no shown it, each fresh revelation struck the Primarch to his very core. He was exhausted from staving off bewilderment and horror, hollowed out by pain. He found it difficult to come to terms with the fact millennia had passed. Not for the first time since his return, Guilliman wished for one of his brothers to speak with. They, at least, might have understood how he felt. The Imperium had become rife with idolatry, ignorance, suffering and squalor, in the name of a god who never desired the title.

Though he wrestled with despair, the Primarch knew that he could not let his weakness show. His gene-sons looked at him as though he were the Emperor himself. Painfully aware of his symbolic quality, Guilliman had become all too aware of how dark the hour had become. Though he was angry at what the Emperor's dream had become, he realised that despite the darkness and woe that surrounded him in this new era, that the flame of hope still endured within himself. The Ultramarines stood proud and determined even though they had been born into this dark millennium, and had known nothing but hardship, suffering and despair of unending conflict. Yet still they struggled on unbowed, despite the countless enemies ranged against them. The Primarch had seen a better age, one of hope and triumph. He questioned what right had he, one of the superhuman sons of the Emperor Himself, to show any less strength and courage than his followers born in darkness? Guilliman had seen what Humanity could achieve. Moreover, he knew what fruits Cawl's labours had borne beneath the surface of Mars. He believed that a better future for the Imperium was still possible. But only if those who tormented Mankind were first defeated. Guilliman lamented to himself - all of the misery, all the suffering and pain. It was not the doing of Humanity, but of those who had betrayed them. Too long had the pawns of Chaos dictated Mankind's fate. That had to end. Now was the time to fight, and to make his father's enemies pay for every horror they had inflicted upon the Imperium.

Battle for Macragge
Four days and nights after his coronation, Roboute Guilliman emerged from seclusion. In his absence, Lord Calgar had continued to lead the fight, ignoring his injuries as he coordinated the Ultramarines war effort. Now, though, Calgar willingly ceded control of the campaign to his gene-sire. Recognising the vastly capable Chapter Master for the asset he was, Guilliman kept Calgar close at hand in the battles that followed, and asked his counsel constantly. Brother Librarian Tigurius, too, swiftly became a trusted advisor, the Primarch accepting that in this darker age, the trappings and powers of the Librarius had - by necessity - also become darker. In a move that surprised many, Guilliman also included Voldus, Cawl, Celestine and Inquisitor Greyfax amongst his coterie of lieutenants. The Primarch sought the insights of every arm of the Imperial war machine, recognising that in unity lay strength. With his advisors at his side, and the unbowed might of the Ultramarines at his disposal, Guilliman began the reconquest of his homeworld. Wider galactic matters would have to wait; Macragge was still beset from every side, and if the Chapter planet fell, then even the resurrected Primarch would surely be dragged down by the tide of foes.

The war for Macragge lasted a little over a month, and its pace was blistering. Roboute Guilliman was a force of nature, an unstoppable avatar of the Emperor's will who drove his enemies before him like cattle. Though the Heretic Astartes fought furiously, and inflicted sore losses upon the loyalists, they simply could not match the strategic acumen of Roboute Guilliman, and one Chaos warband after another was defeated. Even those who fled Macragge found no haven in the void, for their invasion craft had been surrounded and reduced to burning scrap by the Ultramar Defence Fleet. Finally, after long weeks of vicious battle and a vast toll of the dead, the world of Macragge was liberated once more.

The Crown of Glories
The first steps had been taken upon the road of reconquest. Macragge was free of Chaos taint. Guilliman wished to press on, consumed by his desire to drive the Ruinous Powers from Ultramar. However, those he led needed time to regroup and consolidate. Countless wounded required attention. Hundreds of war machines needed repair. Guilliman was wise enough to give his followers the time they needed. Meanwhile, Imperial reinforcements gathered around Macragge. Braving the Warp storms raging through local space, Space Marine craft by the dozen assembled above the Ultramarines home world. Delegations from many Primogenitor Chapters had ploughed through the empyrean, risking terrible danger to see for themselves that the Primarch had returned. Novamarines, Sons of Orar, Genesis Chapter and countless others joined the growing throng, kneeling before the Primarch and swearing allegiance to him.

While the armies of the Ultramar Reconquest were gathering, a further opportunity presented itself. It was the Arch-Consul of Magna Civitas -- the closest Ultramar had to a conventional Governor -- who suggested that a grand victory parade could be held, and its majesty recorded on pict casts to be sent far and wide through the Imperium. The Consul said that people needed the light of hope in this dark hour, a shining example of victory to renew their faith not just in the Emperor, but in Guilliman reborn. The Primarch acceded to this demand, though it sat ill with his bleak inner mood. Guilliman saw the wisdom in it, but he accepted such aggrandisement only grudgingly. Mere days after victory was declared, a grand triumph swept up from the Titan Gate to the very steps of the Fortress of Hera. Thousands of war engines and millions of warriors presented their colours and raised cheers and horn blasts to the skies. A seething sea of the city's residents packed the crater-pocked processionals and plazas to watch the proceedings, and voices beyond count rang out as one to cry Guilliman's praise in a single deafening roar.

Stood upon a marble-columned platform with his closest lieutenants at his side, the Primarch dutifully presented the most magnificent spectacle he could for the assembled masses. The Arch-Consul himself presented Guilliman with a stunningly wrought laurel wreath crafted in gold, urging the Primarch to don the gilded crown at once. The moment Guilliman did so, he found his mind filled with thoughts of future glories. This paltry triumph would be nothing compared to the breathtaking spectacle of his galactic conquest. The Primarch's armies would be beyond number, their adoration for their heroic lord so great that they would die for him gladly. Planets, systems, whole segmentums would be renamed in honour of he who had liberated them, and the whipped dogs of Chaos would flee before him like the curs they were. Statues would be raised to commemorate Guilliman's majesty, and eventually even the Golden Throne of Terra itself would be his to mount. The Emperor's most loyal son deserved no less an inheritance, and he would have his due.

It was this last thought that wrenched Guilliman from the wreath's insidious curse. With a gasp, he tore the gilded crown from his head and bellowed a command for the Arch-Consul to be restrained. It was Grand Master Voldus who grabbed the robed dignitary, and as his blessed gauntlets touched the man's flesh it sizzled and crisped. The din of the triumph was colossal, an ocean swell of noise that hid the Arch-Consul's shrieks as the illusions that veiled him were unmade. Guilliman and his lieutenants recoiled at the misshapen mutant thing that was revealed. Bulbous and deformed, the keening, fleshy abomination wore a glowing amulet about its neck on a thong of human skin. As Guilliman stared in disgust at this cursed fetish, he heard a susurration hissing within his mind that he had not heard since that fateful encounter on Thessala. In mocking tones, Fulgrim welcomed Guilliman back to his beloved Imperium. The Daemon Primarch revealed that he had concealed a fragment of his own animus in the amulet that his servant wore, and confessed disappointment that Guilliman had rejected his gift, the Crown of Glories. Many heroes great and pure had fallen to the trinket's blandishments, and Fulgrim had hoped that he could corrupt Guilliman in the same fashion. Yet the Slaaneshi Prince assured his brother that this was but the first of endless temptations that Guilliman would have to face. Laughing cruelly, he taunted that the Lord of Ultramar would never be able to trust any feeling of triumph or self-satisfaction again.

Disgusted, Guilliman drove his sword through the amulet and into the hideous creature that bore it, silencing the voice of the damned brother who had laid him low millennia past. Yet as the triumph rumbled on, Fulgrim's words continued to echo in Guilliman's mind. They would do so for many days to come.

War Zone Ultramar
As the armies of reconquest gathered upon Macragge, so ever more Imperial forces came seeking the Primarch. Some, like the Dark Angels and the Raven Guard, sent small delegations to determine the veracity of this miracle. Others came in hope and celebration, bands of Space Wolves, White Scars, Black Templars and others hastening to the Primarch’s side. A glorious moment came to pass when the Black Templars made planetfall, for they were reunited with Marshal Amalrich, who alone of his brotherhood had survived the battle in Guilliman's shrine. Taking one look at the zealous light in Amalrich's eyes, the Black Templars Chaplains declared him touched by the hand of the Emperor. The Marshal was brought aboard the Strike Cruiser Scourge of Heretics, and girded with the armour and the Black Blade of the Emperor's Champion. Others, too, came to Ultramar upon the insistence of their seers, Astropaths, soothsayers and lords. Battleships of the Imperial Navy, regal Barons of Imperial-aligned Knight Worlds, fleets of warships from the Adeptus Mechanicus and their Titan Legions, processions from the Adeptus Administratum; all came to offer fealty to the Primarch. A delegation of Adeptus Ministorum priests arrive, intent on confirming, and then proclaiming, Guilliman's alleged divinity. Guilliman was not at all keen on this, and only relented to such beatification only after Celestine and Inquisitor Greyfax point out just how powerful the Ecclesiarchy were. Better to have them as a firebrand ally than a obstreperous foe.

Before his departure from the fortress, Guilliman had one more order of business. He decreed that now was an age of wrath and war, in which learning and lore must be set aside. The Primarch shocked his Chapter by ordering the great Library of Ptolemy barred to all comers on pain of death. Every last tome, every lingering, dangerous secret contained within that ancient repository was locked behind adamantium bulkheads and servitor guns. At the same time a new war room was built. This was the Strategium Ultra, from where Guilliman's reconquest could be plotted, tracked and coordinated. When finally the armies of reconquest were ready to set out, Roboute Guilliman led them into battle with something akin to relief. After the endless infighting and bureaucracy of this turgid new Imperium, the thought of a battlefield seemed almost welcoming.

The War for Ultramar raged on as the Imperial Forces began to reclaim the Five Hundred Worlds. It was a long and arduous process though. Seven months in, saw the spread of a mysterious new sickness throughout the conquest forces, causing endless streams of viscous stinking tears that eventually infected the eyeballs of its victims and left them in agonising blindness. It becomes known as the Weeping Plague. The cause of this plague was eventually traced to swarms of mites that had found their way into food supplies, ammunition packs, bundles of clothing and even amongst the pages of Imperial Primers. Nothing seems to halt its spread, as it began to cripple the human elements of the Imperial Forces. The transhuman Astartes were unaffected, but curiously the Battle-Sisters of the Adepta Sororitas also proved strongly resistant despite them being humans also. But then something amazing occurred -- when Guilliman came to inspect the sick, his mere presence seemed to drive back the disease. Auxilia soldiers rose from their hospital beds, their sight restored and their sickness vanished. No one could explain the cause, but wherever Guilliman walked the sick were cured. The Ecclesiarchy were quick to declare this a bonafide miracle, and their sermons rang loud with proclamations of the Primarch's divinity. Guilliman couldn't explain the veracity of this so-called 'miracle' either, but he could not just let the soldiers under his command die while he could do something about it. So he travelled everywhere the sick were found, for days and weeks on end, curing them. But soon his absence from the war efforts were felt, as the Forces of Chaos were able to regroup and launch effective counter-assaults. Worse still, the plague had begun to pop back up in places Guilliman had already visited and where the afflicted had been cured. He was running around in circles trying to cure everyone. Grand Master Voldus eventually confronted the Primarch with the what he saw as the truth – this plague bore the mark of Nurgle. In actuality, Guilliman was not curing anyone, but rather it was an insidious plan to keep the Primarch distracted and contained within the Realm of Ultramar.

Guilliman realised he had been played by the Plague God. In his desire to reclaim Ultramar and turn it into a bastion of order, he was making mistakes he'd made in the distant past. There was only one real course of action -- he had to make for Terra. The fact that both Slaanesh and Nurgle had already attempted to keep him trapped in Ultramar proved that he was needed elsewhere. So, and not without some reluctance, he left the reconquest of Ultramar in the capable hands of Marneus Calgar, Tigurius and Agemman. With him would travel elements of the Ultramarines 1st, 2nd and 3rd Companies with Captain Cato Sicarius in command, as well as the 3rd Brotherhood of Grey Knights led by Grand Master Voldus. The various Ultramarine Successor Chapters that were present also gave their support, as did Emperor's Champion Amalrich and his Black Templars. Inquistor Greyfax, Saint Celestine and Archmagos Cawl would also accompany Guilliman to the Throneworld. It was at this point that Yvraine and the Visarch bade their farewell, with a promise that they would fight together again in the future (so long as it suited their needs Guilliman remarks to himself). The Celestinian Crusade had come to its end. In its place, the Terran Crusade would begin. Mere days after Guilliman made known his intentions, the Imperial fleet set out, engines burning hot as they began the long journey to the cradle of Mankind.

Across the Void
The Warp churned with chaotic turbulence, and the Navigators could only manage short jumps through the warp. Even then, a number of Imperial Ships suffered Gellar Field breaches and swarms of Demons would sweep through their decks before they could be cleansed with holy fire. Guilliman travelled upon his ancient flagship, Macragge's Honour, its familiar hallways a welcome haven. He had hoped that the storms would abate the further he travelled from Ultramar, but there seemed no end in sight to the storms. And every time the fleet dropped back into realspace, the Astropaths would pick up garbled messages of a galaxy in chaos. Morale dropped across the fleet as the weeks dragged on, until eventually the fleet came suddenly on the edge of the Warp anomaly known as the Maelstrom, which had swelled with power, catching everyone by surprise. Fearing the worst, the fleet performed an emergency translation back into realspace, but instead they ended up right in the path of a devastating broadsides of a Chaos fleet's ambush. Numerous ships were lost before the Imperial's were even aware of whom, or where, the current threat they faced, lay -- a vast fleet of Thousand Sons warships. They surrounded the Imperial fleet, deployed as though they had known precisely where and when the Imperial forces would emerge from the Warp. At the centre of the ambush fleet was an immense craft that Guilliman recognised as vast silver facsimile of the Great Pyramid of Tizca, the Tizca's Revenge. From its observation gallery, the Daemon Primarch Magnus the Red watched his ambush play out with amusement, the chanting of his sorcerers ringing out around him. He had no desire to kill his brother just yet and, judging when his ambush had wrought enough devastation on the Imperial fleet, he completed the incantation that was being weaved. Giant empyric tendrils of the Maelstrom whipped out and clamped tight around the ships of the Terran Crusade and, with a vast convulsive wrench, dragged them deep into the raging heart of the Maelstrom.

Into the Maelstrom
By the time Magnus’ spell ran its course, the ships of the Terran Crusade had been cast deep into the Maelstrom. Guilliman's fleet had, at least, been spat from the maw of the Warp once more, but the region they now found themselves in was a cursed one. Within the Maelstrom, reality and the Immaterium melted together in a strange morass. The stars were lost behind drifting veils of unnatural energy, and twisted worlds hung amidst the shimmering gloom. The Terran Crusade had been reduced to a shadow of its former military strength. Not one warship had survived the ambush unscathed, and many were sorely damaged. Crushing though the sudden losses were, they were still not Roboute Guilliman's greatest worry. Meeting in his strategium with the assembled Imperial and Space Marine leaders, Guilliman expressed his belief that the Thousand Sons must have known, by some infernal means, where and when the crusade would break from the Warp. Guilliman's fleet had been surrounded. Why not strike the killing blow? The Primarch knew all too well that Magnus did nothing without a plan, so why had he allowed his erstwhile brother to survive? It was a question that returned to torture the leaders of the crusade again and again in the dark days that followed.

Amidst fluctuating time streams and reality-warping energy storms, the damaged ships of the crusade struggled on. Within the Maelstrom lurked countless foes, for this was a region that had long harboured the warring minions of Chaos. More than once, the Imperial ships were forced to fight off opportunist raids by sleek hunting packs of traitor warships. So it went on for an indeterminate and bewildering span of time that felt like impossible centuries. As the crusade fleet forged on, their supplies running low and their crews exhausted by constant battle, Roboute Guilliman became ever angrier and more distracted. Unbeknownst to all, the Primarch was bedevilled by horrific visions. Guilliman wrestled internally with each passing day, yet he showed no sign of his struggle to those who looked to him for leadership and hope. The Primarch maintained his veneer of strength and continued to pursue his goal of escape, determined that he would not believe the lies of any entity that inhabited that hellish place. Still, the Primarch's resolve eroded slowly, as a cliff washed away by the endless ocean waves.

Upon a world of black marble and blood, the Imperial forces struck hard and fast against several Red Corsairs strongholds, eliminating outlying enclaves before finally laying siege to a fortified palace upon a claw-shaped headland above booming, gory waves. While Archmagos Cawl coordinated the siege, Greyfax and Sicarius led a daring raiding party that threw open the palace’s main gates and sealed the heretics' doom. Within a chamber of crystal statues, Guilliman received instructions from a mysterious figure with willowy limbs and billowing cloth, a curving alien helm and a long stave, before the figure spoke. Though wary of trickery, he sensed no taint of Chaos in this manifestation, for the energies given off by the shimmering vision was more akin to those of the Eldar that had aided in his resurrection. Within his mind, Guilliman was able to to decipher instructions from the figure's words before it finally vanished. At last, the Primarch was left with a new sense of purpose and, perhaps, even a sliver of hope. Here, at last, was a heading, and Guilliman meant to follow it.

Through the Storm
Upon leaving the world of black marble and blood, the remnants of the crusade fleet set out with new determination. The crusade now numbered a third of the ships that had departed Ultramar, but they were still led by Guilliman's flagship, Macragge's Honour, and they still stood ready for battle at any moment. They had a heading at last, albeit one derived from the omen-laden whispering of an unknown figure. A promised navigational marker was reached, and then another and soon enough they had reached the final stretch of their journey out of the Maelstrom. But before them lay a massive graveyard of derelict ships from untold number of factions - all linked together in a massive web of chains. There was no way around it, for the graveyard seemed to stretch to infinity in all directions, which meant the only way was to go through. Progress was slow, and unnerving, as wreckage was pushed away to make room. But eventually the Navigators began to see the light of the Astronomican seeping through - they had finally found a way out. Guilliman was extra cautious though, for this was the most vulnerable leg of the journey and his caution proved correct, for suddenly they were beset by Red Corsair ships, which blazed out of their hiding spots amongst the wreckage of ruined vessel and attacked. The Imperial Fleet was outflanked, and the Red Corsair ships fired a brutal barrage to disable their targets in order to seize and salvage them. Guilliman ordered his ships to prepare for boarders, even wishing the Emperor's Blessings upon the defenders (much to his own distaste).

The Chaos Renegades struck the Macragge's Honour hard, aiming to swiftly overrun the defender's position on the bridge. The defence of the bridge held at first, but began to give. As Red Corsairs Chaos Terminators pushed through, waves of Horros and Flamers poured in behind them, along with the Lord of Change, Kairos Fateweaver himself, wrecking havoc through the Imperial defences. Guilliman roared a challenged, and charged at Fateweaver with Sicarius, Greyfax and Celestine covering his flanks, but this was the moment Kairos had planned for. Nine Heralds of Tzeentch suddenly revealed themselves during the height of the battle, and began chanting a Chaotic incantation. Sicarius attempted to direct fire on the spellcasters, but waves of expendable Horrors jumped in front of the Captain's bolter fire to provide a flesh shield for their dark masters. Kairos raised his staff for the final part of the spell. Ever since Guilliman had entered the Maelstrom, Kairos had been implanting subtle traps in the Primarch's mind to wear down his mental defences. It had not been easy, for the mind of a Primarch possessed formidable defences and the intervention of the Eldar had forced his hand earlier than Kairos would have liked. Finally, with the spell completed, Guilliman suddenly stumbled, as if struck by an invisible force. Streams of incandescent energy poured from Guilliman's mouth and eyes, and forced him to his knees. All the negative emotions, doubts and madness that Kairos had been seeding in Guilliman's mind burst forth and wrapped around him in a heavy crystal chain, paralysing him. Fateweaver then commanded the Imperials to surrender, lest they watch their Primarch be crushed before their eyes. With no other choice, the Imperial's lowered their weapons. Kairos stood gloating before them, victorious.

Warring Gods
With Guilliman's capture, the battle of the starship graveyard was lost. Those Imperial warriors who did not surrender under threat of the Primarch's death were killed, or forced to capitulate. Champion Amalrich was amongst the latter, wrestled down and beaten unconscious by a mob of Red Corsairs as he single-handedly held the breach into his ship's enginarium. The loyalists and their stolen warships were taken under heavy guard to the nearest Red Corsairs stronghold. To their shock, this turned out to be one of the ancient Blackstone Fortresses. Six Blackstone Fortresses had been discovered early in the Imperium's history, scattered across the void. Seemingly ancient even at that time, the dormant structures were cyclopean in scale and utterly mysterious. The Imperium claimed the Blackstone Fortresses for its own. It was during the horrors of the Gothic War - one of Abaddon the Despoiler's notorious Black Crusades - that the Blackstone Fortresses were awoken. By the end of that tumultuous naval conflict, several fortresses were in the hands of the Black Legion, and at least one more had been destroyed. It was one of these legendary battle stations that was given as a gift by the Despoiler to Huron Blackheart in the wake of his rebellion against the Imperium. Such a kingly offering not only bought the loyalty of the Red Corsairs for Abaddon's great galactic endeavour, but also demonstrated the sheer incredible might of the Despoiler. After all, a warlord who could afford to give away even one such preeminent weapon must be supremely confident in their own power. How such a mighty structure had found its way onto the tides of the Maelstrom, none of the Imperial warriors knew. Ultimately it mattered little.

The Imperials were thrown into cells inside the massive space fortress, Guilliman held fast in the chains Kairos had forged from Guilliman's own mind. He would rot in the prison for a time -- Kairos didn't want to simply kill Guilliman, for a chained Primarch was far too good of a source of power to simple throw away, and already Kairos was plotting in ways to make use of him. The Red Corsairs would act as gaolers, content with the boons that Fateweaver could grant them. But perhaps Kairos was distracted and failed to see the future somehow, for he missed the massive Chaos fleet that was descending on the fortress -- Skarbrand the Exiled One had come for the skull of Guilliman.

Strange Alliances
The Khornate hordes fell upon the Blackstone Fortress. Surprised at first, then outraged, the Red Corsairs quickly rallied, forming firing ranks and pouring fire into the charging Khornate forces. Kairos howled in dismay at the unforeseen events, summoning masses of Tzeentchian daemons to fight back, as more and more Khornate daemons joined the slaughter. Meanwhile Guilliman, still trapped in his gaol, listened to the distant sounds of battle and prepared himself for any potential opportunities to escape. As the fighting raged many levels above, deep within the fortresses' core, a portal that had long lay dormant flickered to life. A band of shadowed figures, accompanied by a larger robed figure, slipped unseen into the Blackstone. Through the twisting maze of hallways they went, long-dormant systems coming to life to allow them access as they passed. Eventually they reached the cells that Guilliman and the Ultramarines were being held in, guarded by a full squad of Red Corsairs with guns trained at the only door into the gaol. At least the only door the Red Corsairs knew about. Silently and unseen, a door slid open at the back of the room and the Harlequins of the Masque of the Veiled Path, and the larger robed figure, moved soundlessly up behind the Red Corsairs and cut them down before they could even react. The robed figure grabbed the key to the cells off one of the guards as the Shadowseer, Sylandri Veilwalker, pointed him in the direction of a specific cell.

Guilliman watched the robed figure approach. The Primarch did not recognise this cowled Space Marine, but he knew that he was one of the I Legion, by the colours that he wore.

"You are Roboute Guilliman," said the mysterious Space Marine as he stopped outside the Primarch's cell.

"And you are one of the Lion's sons," replied Guilliman. "You keep questionable company, Dark Angel. Who are you, and why are you here?"

"I can free you," replied the hooded figure, deigning not to answer the Primarch's questions.

Realising that no further explanation was forthcoming, Guilliman frowned.

"Can," he rumbled. "Not will. What do you want in return?"

"You will take me to Terra," replied the Dark Angel. "To the Throne."

"It seems that my choices are to rot here, or accede to your demand," said the Primarch slowly.

"Very well," the Primarch replied, "But know this Dark Angel. If you seek to trick or manipulate me, nothing in this galaxy can save you." One side of Cypher's mouth lifts in a bitter smile.

"As you say," Cypher muttered as he unlocked all the cells.

Sylandri Veilwalker stepped forwards at this point, and Guilliman's eyes widened as he recognised her as the mysterious Eldar that guided them through the Maelstrom. But was she guiding them to freedom or had she deliberately sent them into a trap? Veilwalker began a dance as she focused her energy on the chains around Guilliman, unbinding them. Guilliman, Sicarius and the rest of the Ultramarines, several hundred strong, were free. They still had their armour, but no weapons. Veilwalker revealed that the loyalists' weapons, their vehicles and their allies had been locked inside a string of stasis vaults some distance from their cells, but that she could lead them there. Guilliman gestured for his mysterious benefactor to lead on. The Primarch did not trust the Eldar, nor the shadowy Space Marine who had come with them, but while his brilliant mind worked out the angles of their involvement, he would allow them to lead him to the rest of his forces. After all, Guilliman would never abandon his father' s sword within this den of snakes, nor the courageous allies who had accompanied him upon his quest. They moved quickly, for their escape would not go unnoticed for long. On the way they found the first stasis chamber and freed Celestine and her Geminae Superia, then a second, where they released Cawl and ranks of Skitarii forces and Battle Servitors. Then a third, which contained Inquisitor Greyfax and finally Grand Master Voldus and his Grey Knights which also contained their Dreadknights as well all the other Space Marines of the crusade, as well as dozens of tanks and Dreadnought brothers they had brought with them in their war ships. Captain Sicarius suggested they strike fast to their ships to escape, but Veilwalker informed them that the docks were thick with fighting. At any rate, the human crews of the ships were all dead and their Navigators have been taken away. The only way off was the route Cypher and the Harelquins had utilised to reach Guilliman, and the route they would use to lead him to Terra. At the fortress' heart, trammelled by ancient technology and still operational after millennia, was a stabilised route into the webway. The pathways it led into were huge, arterial routes that even starships could navigate -- they would accommodate the Imperial war machines with ease.

Daemonwar
As the Imperial army and their guides made for the lower tunnels, they awakening of the fortress' deeper chambers had not gone unnoticed. As they made their way deeper into the ancient structure, they encountered stiffening resistance from bands of Red Corsairs and daemons sent to cut them off. As their advance slowed to a crawl, they found themselves assailed from all sides. Matters looked grim, but it was in that moment that spectral flames leapt amidst the foe, as ghostly voices whispered and hissed through the vox networks as shadow figures stepped from the inferno and opened fire. Clad in black and bone, wreathed in ætheric fire, the Legion of the Damned had arrived in the crusade's hour of need. Their thunderous volleys swept the Chaos forces from the bridges to Guilliman’s fore, and, with Veilwalker whirling and leaping at his side, the Primarch led the advance once again. Eventually the Imperial forces reached the heart of the Blackstone Fortress, a huge chamber a hundred miles across with bridges cutting across it, connecting various doorways. The Webway Portal is at the far side, but from the multitude of doorways stream endless waves of enemies -- Khornate Demons from one side, Tzeentchian Daemons from the other. As the Imperials cross the bridges towards the Webway Portal, a three-way fights break out between the Khorne, Tzeentch and Crusade forces. Guilliman catches sight of Kairos Fateweaver, exhorting his followers into battle and hurling bolts of sorcery at the loyalists from afar. Yet the Lord of Change clearly did not care to face Guilliman's resurgent wrath, for he stayed far removed from the white heat of the battle.

Not so Skarbrand, who violently hacked his way through a gaping portal in the chamber's wall, the Bloodthirster blazed like a furious pyre. Under Skarbrand's influence, Guilliman’s battle-brothers became more reckless and aggressive by the moment. Contaminated by the Daemon's fury, Amalrich and the last of the Black Templars turned aside from their route and hurled themselves into an onrushing mass of Khornate Daemons. Blood sprayed as a savage melee broke out. Guilliman barked orders through the vox, steadying the Ultramarines and their Primogenitors with the sheer force of his will. Bellowing, Amalrich hurled himself into battle with mighty Skarbrand, his black blade clashing with the Bloodthirster's axes again and again. With Voldus and his Dreadknights leading, and the relentless spectres of the Legion of the Damned fighting a silent rearguard, the crusade closed on the webway entrance. Cawl and his Skitarri are mowing down demons, Novamarine Vindicators are blasting away bridges to stop the demons flanking and Celestine and Greyfax are fighting side by side as they hack their way through demons. But then Skarbrand lets loose a deafening roar, and leaps across the gap towards the Imperials. Guilliman’s eyes go wide as he see's Amalrich's Black Blade buried in the chest of Skarbrand, the only remaining sign of Amalrich himself, a bloody atonement for his failings on Cadia. Skarbrand lands amongst the Legion of the Dammed, sending them tumbling down the chasm into the darkness. The rearmost of the Imperial forces begin to turn back, already succumbing to Skarbrand's infectious bloodlust, and Guilliman realises he's about to lose control. He orders all Imperials to make fast across the last bridge to the Webway Portal and he turns back to confront Skarbrand, holding at the head of the bridge. All the Imperials, and the Harlequins, are through the portal by now with just Sicarius and Celestine remaining outside. Skarbrand had come for Guilliman's skull, that he might honour Khorne with it, and the Daemon did not intend to allow his quarry to escape now. In Guilliman's mind, hellish fires rose up on every side, full of the leering faces of his brothers who had fallen to Chaos. Unable to stop himself, the Primarch bellowed a war cry and leapt to meet Skarbrand's charge. The Emperor's burning blade met Slaughter with a dolorous clang, while Carnage whistled over the Primarch's head by a hair's breadth. Guilliman drove his shoulder guard into his opponent's midriff, then span on his heel and backfisted Skarbrand with the Hand of Dominion. The blow would have punched straight through a tank hull, yet the Bloodthirster merely rocked back on his heels before launching himself forward again. Hellforged axes hacked and lashed in huge, haymaker arcs, Guilliman barely blocking or evading each blow.

With a titanic effort of will, Roboute Guilliman forced down the supernatural rage that was drowning his rational mind. Gasping with effort, the Primarch trapped the furious fires in a ring of cold, mental steel. Even as he continued to fight his monstrous foe in reality, he fought a second battle in his mind. Step by step, he pushed back against his rage. With a final scream of mental anguish, Guilliman forced down all his fury and hatred, and locked them away behind impenetrable fortifications. As he did so, the fires that he perceived around him died away, and the bridge to safety swam back into focus. Beyond it, Sicarius and Saint Celestine were exhorting him to move before it was too late. Unwilling to let his enemy escape, Skarbrand hurled himself in a wild lunge with axes raised high. Guilliman coolly assessed the threat, raising the Hand of Dominion and blasting the Daemon backwards. Skarbrand bellowed in anger as explosive shells tore into his cranium and blew fleshy gobbets across the platform. Step by step, the Daemon was driven back, yet still he did not fall. Gritting his teeth at the sight of the enemy drawing close, Guilliman fired the last shells from his magazine, aiming for Amalrich's black blade. A single bolt struck the weapon and blew the black sword apart in a storm of deadly shards. Skarbrand's torso was shredded, and he toppled backwards off the platform with a final, furious roar. Immediately, Guilliman turned and sprinted across the bridge, hurling himself into the webway after Sicarius and the Living Saint. Behind him, the portal's warding runes sealed with a sharp crack, denying the surging tide of Daemons at the very last second.

The Hunter's Labyrinth
Guilliman finds himself standing amongst the survivors of the Terran Crusade. About two thirds of the warriors who escaped the cells remain alive, and Voldus and his Grey Knights have remained relatively unscathed. He notices Cypher standing with a group of similar armoured marines, and realises they must have been waiting for Cypher in the webway. Sylandri Veilwalker shares a loaded glance with Belisarius Cawl, before speaking to Guilliman -- they have to move quickly. She has Skyweaver Jetbikes scouting this area of the webway, warning of heavily armed intruders wearing ornate armour of blue and gold. The warriors had the stench of Chaos sorcery on them, and the unmistakable mark of Tzeentch. Guilliman's mind raced, weaving fragments of fact and glimpses of information with his peerless strategist's intuition. It was Magnus, realised the Primarch. His manipulative brother – who must have somehow known precisely how matters would play out for Guilliman - had sent his cursed sons to intercept the Imperials. The Crimson King had propelled the Lord of Ultramar onto a particular path of fate that Magnus had either hoped or known would lead him to his capture, incarceration within that very specific gaol, and eventual escape into this section of the webway. Guilliman could not know that the Crimson King had called upon his greatest champion, Ahriman, to aid him with his stolen knowledge of the webway's paths, but otherwise the Primarch's conclusions were entirely correct.

Swiftly and earnestly, Guilliman sought the counsel of his closest lieutenants. They had to determine what Magnus planned, and quickly, before they stepped straight into the Daemon Primarch's trap. It was Voldus who -- drawing upon his knowledge of Titan's ancient libraries -- made the intuitive leap. There was a warded entrance to the webway within the Emperor's Imperial Palace. Voldus believed it to be heavily defended, bound shut with the most potent abjurations that the Imperium could muster, but still it existed. Perhaps Magnus knew of that gate, and sought to follow them to it? Guilliman's strategic mind leapt ahead again, tracing patterns within patterns and perceiving the truth. Magnus already knew where the gate lay, he realised. There had been whispers that the Crimson King had passed that way before, and in so doing unleashed the catastrophe that fell upon him and his Legion. Magnus did not need them to lead him to the gate. He sought instead to follow them through it, clearly hoping that the gate's defences would be deactivated to allow for Guilliman's arrival. The Daemon Primarch wanted to strike at Terra, at the very Golden Throne of the Emperor of Mankind, and he hoped to launch his attack as the gate was thrown open to permit the Ultramarines Primarch passage.

Amidst the Sea of Storms
The crusade could not emerge at Terra, Guilliman realised with something like despair, not if it meant allowing Magnus to strike at the cradle of Humanity. Yet Sylandri Veilwalker had never intended for them to take that road. Instead, the Shadowseer revealed a secret that the Eldar had long guarded. Lying dormant for millennia, hidden behind a veil of wards that even Humanity's greatest psykers could not pierce, a lonely spar of the webway stretched out upon the border between realspace and the Warp to connect to Luna, Terra's only natural moon. It was to that illusion-veiled gate that the Crusade must now make haste. With their path chosen, the survivors of the Terran Crusade set out at once. Already they had crossed great gulfs of space, and fought their way through hellish environs, yet they began this new and arduous leg of their journey without complaint. Travelling fast, the Harlequins of the Veiled Path lead the way. Its not long before they come under attack by the Thousand Sons, with Rubricae and Tzaangors hounding them at every turn. Saint Celestine managed to cut a path through the traitorous throng, and the Imperials continued their fighting advance until eventually they reached the portal. Donning helms and rebreathers, they stepped through the portal onto the surface of Luna. The transition was a harsh one as they stepped through, from the relatively comfortable environment of the Webway to the harsh vacuum of space. The crusade emerged into a deep crater and, with rays of Sol itself spilling over the lip, bound their way up the sides of the pit. Veilwalker began a ritual incantation to seal the gate, but before she could finish it, the gate exploded outwards with a rush of blue energy as Rubric Marines step out of the gate. They began pouring salvos of sorcerous fire into the exposed Space Marines clambering up out of the crater. Guilliman halted the retreat at the top of the crater, as he stood amongst a graveyard of old decommissioned and junked starships. Above them was Terra itself, hanging stark against the blackness above. There was the destination that Guilliman sought, the end of his journey at last. Yet a deadly foe still chased at the Primarch's heels, and could not be allowed to work his malefic will within sight of the throneworld. Guilliman knew that the Warp phenomena currently erupting in the crater's depths must surely have triggered every alarm and emergency augur within a dozen terra-sols. It would not be long before overwhelming Imperial forces raced to investigate, but there was no telling what irrevocable havoc Magnus could cause before they arrived. He and his followers must hold the enemy here, driving the Thousand Sons back, or -- at the least -- keeping them suppressed until aid could arrive.

The Thousand Sons continued spilling from the webway gate in increasing numbers, threatening to overwhelm the Imperial forces. But Guilliman spread his warriors, walkers and tanks around its lip and commanded them to pour fire down into the advancing Thousand Sons. For a time, it appeared as though the Thousand Sons would be bottled up in the crater. Though their return fire caused slow attrition amongst the loyalists, the traitors were losing far more warriors than they slew. Then a fresh pulse of dark power surged through the webway gate, its energies whirling faster and faster until they formed a flaming vortex. A wave of supernatural dread swept over the loyalist Space Marines as a huge, horn-headed figure stepped through onto the surface of Luna. Spreading his wings wide, Magnus the Red looked up at Guilliman with an evil smile.

Gods of War
With the arrival of the Daemon Primarch, the Thousand Sons begin to turn the tide as their genesire launches a devastating sorcerous attack. This enables his warriors to fight their way clear of the crater, protected by a powerful kine shield erected by the Crimson King. Seeing his position at the top of the crater about to be overrun, Guilliman orders his forces to pull back to the wrecks of the spaceships for cover. The Thousand Sons rise over the lip and begin advancing again, Magnus floating up behind them, wreaking havoc with his psychic powers. Guilliman realises Magnus will tear through his army if left free, and launches into a charge, jumping off the edge of the crater to strike at him in the air. Magnus saw his brother coming and began an incantation of pain, but before he could finish it the Lord of Ultramar struck. Magnus managed to parry his brother's arcing blade with his glaive, but the battering ram impact of Guilliman's leap carried the Crimson King backward, away from the fight. The two Primarchs tumbled across the Luna surface, dust billowing around them, and smashed into the rusted wreck of an Imperial frigate. Slabs of metal and corroded ironwork crashed down around them, burying the fighting brothers in an avalanche of wreckage. Meanwhile, the battle around the crater raged on, the last remnants of the Terran Crusade fighting furiously to survive.

Guilliman rises from amongst the wreckage and looks around for Magnus, challenging the Daemon Primarch to face him. A deadly duel takes place between the embattled brothers, with the daemonic Crimson King slowly gaining an edge. Though in the martial realm, Guilliman is superior, Magnus is a master sorcerer, who utilises his malefic abilities to quickly gain an edge over the Avenging Son, by entombing Guilliman in an avalanche of crushing metal. Guilliman managed to rip his way up through the tumbled mountain of wreckage, refusing to let one of his degenerate brothers keep him from his responsibilities - not again. When Guilliman stepped forth, bloodied but unbroken, from beneath the pile of wreckage, Magnus arched an eyebrow in surprise, and braced his glaive to hurl another spell. It was then that the void lit with fire.

The Emperor's Wrath
The Terran Defence Fleet has arrived, and soon gilt-chased fighter craft screamed down over the Luna landscape as rippling lines of fire exploded amidst the Rubricae and Horrors alike. At the same time, vast leviathans of adamantium and plasteel rumbled in overhead. Naval system monitors of the Terran Defence Fleet hove into low orbit, their enormous forms swamping the battlefield in shadow as they came. Aided by triangulatory targeting data transmitted by Archmagos Cawl, the ships rained pinpoint-accurate fire upon the foe. On the battlefield, teleportation flares lit up as the golden armoured giants of the Adeptus Custodes arrived, their Guardian Spears levelled at the enemy. Hails of bolt fire ripped into the Rubricae. Cursing, the Sorcerers ordered their golem warriors to turn and address these new foes, but to no avail. Moving with breathtaking speed and skill, the Custodians hacked their way into the Heretic Astartes. Each fought like a hero born, their blades splitting power armour like firewood and sending empty helms spinning lazily away across the Luna surface. Rallying as aid appeared, the last enclaves of those warriors who set out from Macragge fought back with renewed fury. The muffled boom of engines sounded overhead, heralding the arrival of further Imperial forces. Stark yellow Drop Pods slammed down, thrusters flaring. Their hatches opened and squads of Imperial Fists Space Marines emerged from within, bolters blazing at the enemy. Gunships rumbled overhead, yellow-hulled Stormravens and Stormtalons whose weapons tore through the Thousand Sons. Amongst these craft new a trio of Valkyries with hulls of crimson and black, the sigil of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica emblazoned upon their flanks. Arcing through the explosions and mayhem above the battlefield, the gunships made for the point some way distant where Guilliman still battled his monstrous brother. As their side doors slid open, they revealed a deadly force not seen on the battlefields of the Imperium in over nine-thousand years - the Sisters of Silence. Two squads of helmed Sisters of Silence dropped from the gunships. They landed near Guilliman in fighting crouches. Soon, the Crimson King finds his psychic edge over Guilliman completely nullified by the empyric dread zone around the warrior nulls. Seeing a strategic advantage at last, Guilliman leapt down from the mound of wreckage and landed amidst the Sisters of Silence. They would shield him from his brother's fell powers. Together, the Primarch and the sisters charged towards Magnus with their blades at the ready. Beneath the dark Luna sky, with Terra hanging, ancient and hallowed above them, the two Primarchs crashed together once again.

Meanwhile, Sylandri Veilwalker sees Guilliman and Magnus locked in their challenge, the two Primarchs trading hate-filled blows, their weapons crashing together with titanic force. The nulls were doing what they could to aid the fight, stabbing blades at the Daemon in their midst or pouring bolter fire into him. Veilwalker realised at that moment that the Final Act has arrived. Their drama had been played out, as the brother's enmity burned anew. Using her in-built communications inlay in her helm, Sylandri communed with the Death Jester known as the Hollow Prince. She informed Guilliman of her plan as she sprinted for the webway portal that they had arrived through, and took out the Sorcerers guarding it. She hastily prepares a ritual as Guilliman, was informed of the plan, and the Sisters of Silence continued to drive Magnus back down the crater towards the gate. The Lord of Ultramar drove Magnus back with hammer blows from the Emperor’s blade, then slammed his shoulder into his brother's chest and sent the Crimson King crashing down the steep slope. Guilliman leapt after him, not giving Magnus a chance to recover. The Primarch's onslaught was punishing, the wounded Guilliman visibly pouring everything he had into this last storm of blows. Magnus conjured a deadly sphere of Warp energies and hurled it at his brother with all his might. Guilliman's Iron Halo absorbed the worst of the blast, but still he was sent staggering back. With his back to the gate, the Primarch of the Thousand Sons conjured a wave of telekinetic fury and used it to firing a mass of Space Marine corpses – loyalist and traitor – at the last few nulls.

The Shadowseer started forward, fearing for the fate of the Final Act. Then, with a roar of hate and rage, Guilliman struck. The Lord of Ultramar lunged at his brother. The burning blade drove in, under the Daemon Primarch's guard, and sank deep into his chest. Golden flames leapt, and Magnus howled in agony as they chewed hungrily at his flesh. He unleashed his powers in an uncontrolled sorcerous blast, its shock wave racing out across the crater and throwing Sylandri from her feet. The burst of power hurled Guilliman onto his back, blade in hand, and sent Magnus staggering free, back through the pulsating webway gate. Sylandri had one chance, a single moment in which to alter fate. With a final word, she shattered the runestone that glowed hot in her palm, and severed the webway gate forever. Power surged, Magnus roared his fury, and then was cut off from Luna, his warriors and his brother, banished to the depths of the Labyrinth Dimension. The Primarch cast about for Sylandri Veilwalker, but found that she too had disappeared. A swiftly voxed question to his warriors revealed that the remainder of the Veiled Path had vanished with her, though none could say how. If it had all been a trick, Guilliman could not fathom its intent, but for now at least, Magnus was gone.

The battle was as good as won. Bolstered by the sudden arrival of the Adeptus Custodes and the Imperial Fists, the crusade had driven the Thousand Sons back. The remainder of the Thousand Sons were quickly mopped up by the Imperial forces. The final Rubricae, leaderless and without direction, were cut swiftly to pieces. The whirling storm of moon dust settled as the battle’s fury abated. With his loyal warriors kneeling around him and his foes destroyed, Guilliman allowed himself to lean for a moment upon his blade, and to feel the pain of both body and soul.

Throneworld
After the battle of Luna, matters moved swiftly. Fresh waves of craft descended to scour away the traitor corpses that littered the region. Inquisitorial agents and teams of Magos Xenotechnologis swarmed the battlefield, the former seeing to matters of containment and secrecy while the latter fell upon the deactivated webway gate like vultures. Guilliman ignored them all. He allowed the senior Apothecary amongst the Imperial Fists to tend to his most immediate hurts, and then insisted that he and his companions be allowed to press on. None was foolish enough to gainsay a living Primarch -- indeed, few save the Custodes could stop staring in wonderment long enough to communicate with him -- and so Guilliman's demands were soon met. An enormous golden craft resembling the two-headed Imperial aquila touches down upon Luna's surface. More warriors of the Adeptus Custodes strode down the ship's boarding ramp, joining their battle-scarred comrades and lining the route on board. Guilliman and his surviving warriors passed between them with their heads held high, Space Marines, Grey Knights, and the once-leaders of the Celestinian Crusade marching into the capacious hold of the aquila craft. Only once the ramp had whined shut behind them, and oxygen flowed back into the chamber, did the Custodes remove their helms and bow low to Guilliman. As the craft shuddered and lifted off, the Shield-Captain who led them introduced himself as Ty Adronitus, and explained that Guilliman and his warriors would be borne to Terra with all haste. They were to put down at the Eternity Wall spaceport, and from there would travel as part of a triumphant parade to the Emperor's Palace. The High Lords had anticipated the Primarch's desire to stand before the Golden Throne, explained Shield-Captain Adronitus. They would do everything they could to facilitate it, and to fete the living Primarch's return to the throneworld. Finally, Guilliman's transport swung in to dock on a dedicated platform set into the flanks of the Eternity Wall spaceport. Robed figures were gathered on every side to witness and honour the Primarch's arrival. Servo-choirs sung out hymns to the Emperor while auto-scribes scribbled with eagle-feather quills in iron tomes borne by chained slaves. Dignitaries of the Administratum and the Adeptus Terra flocked close, mingling with bombastic priests of the Ministorum and nobles garbed in outrageous finery. All bowed to Guilliman as he emerged from the transport, forming the sign of the aquila with their hands and vying to cry out their devotion the loudest. The Primarch did his best to smile, and to acknowledge the clamouring masses with dignity and respect. His mind was a whirl -- the last time Guilliman had seen Terra was many thousands of years before, and where once there had been industrious glory, now all was buried in grotesque layers of gothic over-construction, industrial sprawl and macabre religious ornamentation. The Primarch's sense of dislocation and sorrow only increased as he and his followers were led through the masses as men and women, young and old, called out their devotion and wept for joy to see the Primarch pass, yet even his presence could not draw them from their places in queues that their ancestors had first joined, and that their progeny one day aspired to reach the front of. At last they finally passed into the palace proper, by way of a dizzyingly tall gate graven with warring angels and Daemons. There they dismounted their lumbering transports, and Guilliman was glad to proceed on foot through the precincts of the inner palace. More gates and splendour flowed past, so much that it all blurred into an impossible assault upon the senses. At last, feeling more exhausted by his homecoming than he ever had by any battle, Guilliman came before the final gate. Beyond that expansive arch lay the Emperor's throne room, and there, the Golden Throne of the Master of Mankind.

Before the Golden Throne
It would take several more days until finally, the remnants of the Terra Crusade reached the glory of the Eternity Gate itself - the final gateway into the symbolic heart of the Realm of Man, the Sanctum Imperialis, the most sacred place for humanity in the whole of the galaxy. Beyond this massive portal was where the Emperor of Mankind resided within the live-giving prosthetic device known as the Golden Throne. The doorway itself was beautifully worked in gold, bronze and precious stones, though it had the look of ancient, faded grandeur. It stood fifty feet high within an arch of black marble, atop a flight of stone steps into which deep grooves had been worn by the passage of countless feet. The edges of each step were piled with petitioners' bones. Atop the steps stood twenty of the Adeptus Custodes - part of the elite cadre known as the Companions - 300 of the most skilled and highly trained warriors in the Imperium, who guarded the Sanctum Imperialis. They were accompanied by a Martian priest, and led by a regal warrior in a high-plumed helm, golden armour and an ermine-trimmed cloak. Roboute Guilliman strode up the processional, through masses of pilgrims and petitioners who reached out quivering hands to touch his armour as he passed. With him walked Captain Sicarius, Grand Master Voldus, Shield-Captain Adronitus, and the mysterious Cypher and his battle-brothers, along with Belisarius Cawl, Katarinya Greyfax and Saint Celestine. This last figure was scarcely less adored by the crowds than Guilliman himself, and she turned aside before the steps to offer her blessings to all. Behind them marched the last battle-brothers of the Terran Crusade, footfalls crashing and weapons held at parade ground readiness. Despite all they had endured, the Space Marines and Grey Knights made for a magnificent sight.

Guilliman halted at the foot of the stairs, and looked up into the steely eyes of the Custodians. Their leader stepped forward, rapping his ornate spear thrice against the top step and announcing himself as Aquila Commander Kalim Varanor. In formal high gothic, Varanor asked who came before the throne room of the Emperor of Mankind. Equally formal, Shield-Captain Adronitus announced the leaders of the Terran Crusade, one by one. Further words were exchanged, ancient forms repeated by rote, but lent gravitas by the arrival of a living Primarch. Guilliman's purpose was demanded and given: to gain an audience with his father, the Emperor. The air thickened with tension, millions of onlookers holding their collective breaths as the Aquila Commander held the gaze of the returned Primarch. The Aquila Commander looked to the Martian priest hunched at Guilliman's side. The robed figure inclined its head in assent, and Varanor announced his verdict. The Primarch would be permitted to pass, alone, into the throne room. All others would wait outside.

At this, Cypher stiffened, his hands straying towards his holstered pistols. Guilliman had expected this moment, and had planned for it accordingly. The hooded Dark Angel and his men had upheld their end of the bargain, granting Guilliman his freedom on the Blackstone Fortress. Yet the Primarch was not fool enough to trust such an ominous figure blindly. He might not have recognised Cypher, but he knew the blade on the Dark Angel's back. The sight of it made him shudder with dread. He would not permit such a thing into his father's presence. Stepping aside, Guilliman commanded the Custodian Guards to apprehend Cypher and his warriors. Their presence was a riddle, one that could be solved once more pressing matters had been attended to. Cypher responded with the first show of emotion any there had seen from him. He snarled in anger, ripping his pistols from their holsters before hesitating for one crucial moment, visibly torn between attempting escape and making a doomed lunge for the doorway above. In that second, the Custodians closed in with their guardian spears levelled. Cypher and his followers found themselves surrounded in a ring of crackling blades. Slowly, his half-seen expression grim, Cypher holstered his weapons, and he and his brothers knelt in submission before their captors. Wrists bound with electrocuffs, they were led away by stern Custodians and locked away within a warded prison block that, for thousands of years, not a single inmate had escaped. In just a few short hours, however, Cypher would do just that, and in doing so leave no trace of his passing. For the moment, though, Guilliman knew only that the sinister figures were dealt with, and more pressing matters could be attended to. Face solemn, blade sheathed and helm tucked under one arm, the Primarch ascended to his father's throne room.

At the top of the steps, the Custodian Guards parted to allow the Primarch passage. The Tech-Priest stepped forward, however, emitting a blurt of binharic cant and bowing before Guilliman. With skittering haste, Archmagos Cawl swayed up the steps behind the Primarch and came to his side. Guilliman waited, impatient, as the two Martian priests exchanged encoded binharic blurts, then Cawl turned to him and spoke cryptic words. Only the Custodes heard what was said, of secret pacts on Mars, and long works drawing at last to their conclusions, but -- as with so many dark secrets exchanged over the millennia upon these very steps -- they affected deafness and ignorance. Their exchange concluded, Cawl turned without comment and swept down the steps, his acolyte in tow. The priests vanished through the crowd and thence from Terra entirely, for they had matters of significant import to attend to upon the red planet. Guilliman was left standing alone before the ornate doorway, dwarfed by its immensity. A single, booming chime rang through the cathedrum processional, and a collective sigh of wonder and fear escaped the pilgrims gathered there as the doorway cracked open. Slowly, silently, the tall doors swung inwards to reveal only darkness and drifting mists beyond. The vapours twined about Guilliman's limbs like serpents, and spilled down the steps behind him amidst the faint echo of sorrowful, ghostly voices. Noble features set in an implacable mask, Guilliman took a slow, deep breath and stepped into the Emperor’s throne room. As silently as they had opened, the doors swept closed behind him, and Roboute Guilliman was lost to sight. Only after two days had passed, did the doors finally swing open. Glowing mist spilled from within, silver now like the cold shimmer of moonlight on bones, and from the cold radiance stepped Roboute Guilliman. The Primarch's expression was unreadable as he strode down the steps to rejoin his warriors. The crowds cried out in awe and dread, begging the Primarch for enlightenment. Instead, Guilliman gathered his soldiers around him, and bade Aquila Commander Varanor to attend him also. Guilliman demanded an immediate assembly of the High Lords of Terra, stating that he intended to resume his seat upon that august council. Roboute Guilliman would become the Lord Commander of the Imperium of Mankind once more. Of his meeting with the Emperor, Guilliman would say only that he had received all the enlightenment that he required.

Imperium Resurgent
In the days that followed, the Primarch became the centre of a whirlwind of activity. He addressed the High Lords, claiming the Emperor's personal mandate as he forcibly removed several of them from office and replaced them with individuals of his own choosing. Guilliman warned the High Lords of an encroaching darkness, a terrible Warp phenomenon that was even now manifesting itself across the galaxy from end to end. The war against the Dark Gods was entering a new phase, more desperate and doom-laden than ever before. The Great Rift was opening. New Warp rifts were splitting the void in terrifying number, while existing phenomena roiled outwards like the pyroclastic clouds of volcanic eruptions. Witch-lights swam between the stars, and monstrous things moved behind the veil of reality, all gnashing fangs and glaring eyes. Whole sectors of the Imperium were going dark, while others reported the onslaught of rabid greenskin hordes, aggressive Tau fleets or deathless Necron hosts, seemingly driven to conquest in the face of the expanding storm fronts. Heretic cults and rogue psykers rose up in their billions, and every Imperial world seemed set to burn in the fires of galactic war.

For all these disturbing omens and disastrous losses, Guilliman urged Humanity's leaders not to give up hope. The Emperor of the Imperium was not blind to their plight, and neither was its Lord Commander. New armies would be raised, in breathtaking numbers. From Belisarius Cawl's forges on Mars, Guilliman planned to bring forth new and terrible weapons whose fury even the worshippers of the Chaos Gods would be unable to withstand. Fresh fleets would be built, grand war engines consecrated in the Emperor's holy name. The manufactorums would labour like never before, and every single servant of the Emperor would do their part. The Imperium faced total war on a galactic scale; with Warp storms spreading and intensifying, no world was safe. Yet Humanity would not drown in this tide of warfare, but instead would ride upon the crest of a bloody wave to triumph against the darkness.

Roboute Guilliman vowed that he would not cower behind Terra's walls and wait for Mankind's oppressors to bring death to his door. He would stride out amongst the stars and meet the enemy in the Emperor's name, as he always had. The Imperium would unite as one in the face of mutual annihilation, and take the battle to the mutant, the traitor, the alien and the heretic. So commanded Roboute Guilliman and thus, even as the Warp storms raged and the Astronomican itself strove to pierce their ever-blackening clouds, vast armies and armadas were raised in numbers not seen since the Great Crusade. A dark new age called from amidst the fires of endless war, and the Imperium would answer.

Pre-Heresy Era

 * Armour of Reason - Known in the legends of his Legion as the "ever-reforged" armour, it was said that Roboute Guilliman himself had this set of Artificer Armour remade and adapted countless times if ever a flaw or weakness was discovered in battle, and at various times the artisanship both of Mars and his fellow Primarchs Vulkan and Perturabo influenced its design in the days before the sundering of the Imperium.
 * Gladius Incandor & the Hand of Dominion  - As with many of his brother Primarchs, Roboute Guilliman possessed a vast selection of weapons and wargear, both to wield on the battlefield as desire and need dictated, and in Guilliman's case also to study and contemplate, so that his arts of war and that of his Legion could be continuously honed and improved. Perhaps the most iconic of these arms were the power gauntlet known as the Hand of Dominion and the glittering master-crafted blade known as the Gladius Incandor. These were not merely weapons of surpassing quality, but symbols for the Ultramarines Legions of their master's might and authority.
 * The Arbitrator - One of Roboute Guilliman's favoured side arms when in open battle was a heavily customised Combi-Bolter which he was able to wield as deftly as one of is Legionaries might handle a pistol. Dubbed by him the "Arbitrator" for the matters it settled, it was tooled to tolerances beyond any but the archmagos of the Mechanicum to fathom, while its bolt shells were hand-crafted by the finest ordnancer-wrights of the Legion's forges and fitted with micro-atomantic compression warheads.
 * Cognis Signum
 * Frag Grenades

Post-Heresy Era

 * Armour of Fate - Crafted by the armourers of the Adeptus Mechanicus, its inner workings enhanced with advanced life-sustaining technologies, this glorious suit of armour fits Guilliman perfectly, and protects him from even the most dolorous blows.
 * The Emperor's Sword - This famed sword was wielded by the Emperor Himself during the Great Crusade and was passed on to Guilliman after he assumed the mantle of Lord Protector of the Imperium. Touched by the Emperor's own psychic might, this finely wrought, master-crafted blade is lit from hilt to tip with leaping flames. When it is swung, the burning blade draws pyrotechnic arcs through the air, able to slice through the stoutest of armour with ease.
 * Hand of Dominion - An advancement of the mighty gauntlet worn by Guilliman during the Horus Heresy, this godly Power Fist not only allows the Primarch to crush the life from his foes, but to annihilate them in storms of armour piercing gunfire with its in-built bolter.

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Roboute Guilliman [[Category:R]] [[Category:G]]