“‘What Space Wolf lifts his weapon against another with murderous intent?’ demanded Arjac, his Terminators joining Valgarthr’s pack as a physical barrier to the legionaries.

‘What Space Wolf resorts to necromancy of a defeated foe?’ demanded Bulveye, pushing through his warriors to confront Njal. He levelled his axe at the Rune Priest. ‘I thought you a brother and you repay me by sharing the treachery of this cur?’

‘His name is Izzakar Orr,’ Njal said firmly, his staff held to his side. ‘Without his knowledge we are all doomed to die in this cursed place.’

‘So be it,’ declared the Old Wolf. His hand moved to the plasma pistol at his belt. ‘I expect he’ll die a second time as easily as the first.’

He dragged the weapon free and lifted it. Njal saw the glimmer of the energy discharge for a split second before it was eclipsed by a massive form. The crackle of the shot seemed loud in the moment, the flare of it bright behind the silhouette of the Terminator that had moved.

The sound of the impact screeched along Njal’s nerves, a shout ripped from his throat as the ball of plasma splashed across the warrior that had intervened.

Rocked by the discharge, the Terminator half turned and the Stormcaller saw Arjac’s face screwed up in shock, his plastron almost disintegrated by the plasma bolt, droplets of cooling ceramite spattered across his face and tattooed scalp.

A surge of psychic energy and fizz of static alerted Njal to the reaction from Izzakar and he acted in instinct, swinging his staff blindly. The skull connected with the face of the Librarian as he lifted hands sheathed in arcing bolts of green. The blow spun Izzakkar to the ground, psychic lightning earthed harmlessly through the floor. Njal stepped forward, both shielding the Thousand Sons legionary from further attack and blocking Izzakar’s view of Bulveye.

‘Enough!’ roared the Old Wolf, taking a stride, axe brought back for a blow.

One of his veterans leapt at him, ensnaring Bulveye’s arm with his own, dragging the Wolf Lord down and sideways. The two Old Guard tumbled in a crash of armour, the interloper rolling to straddle his superior, one foot on the Old Wolf’s wrist, pinning his axe-hand down.

‘No more!’ barked the 13th Company veteran. ‘We are done here, Bulveye.’

‘You defy me also, Jurgen?’ Bulveye sounded more hurt than angry and he made no attempt to unseat his assailant, the fight knocked out of him by the sudden intervention of his companion.

‘By the Allfather’s mighty gusts, I do,’ said Jurgen. ‘I just stopped you making another terrible mistake.’

The Old Guard parted as one of their number moved to attend to Arjac. The Wolf Guard waved him away, pushing to his feet with a wince.

‘It’s fine, my armour took the brunt of it.’ Rockfist darted a look at the floored Wolf Lord. ‘Fortunate that you’re such a bloody poor shot.’

‘Our oaths… The Allfather’s command…’

‘We were betrayed already, Old Wolf.’ Jurgen stood, foot still in place on Bulveye’s wrist. ‘I overheard what the runekast said. Horus turned on the Allfather. Think about that, Bulveye. Horus turned on the Allfather.’

‘We did nothing wrong,’ snarled Izzakar. ‘I told you before, imbecile, that your censure was misplaced. You would not listen. You forced us to defend ourselves.’

‘What of it? We do the Allfather’s bidding here. He determined your…’ The Old Wolf’s voice trailed away with realisation and his face twisted with consternation.

The one called Jurgen explained as he stepped away and helped Bulveye to his feet.

‘That’s right, Old Wolf. Our orders, they came from Horus. The Wolf King did not speak with the Allfather directly, the execute command was passed on by the Warmaster.’

A knot of coldness gripped Njal’s gut, knowing the details of the terrible saga that followed. Nightwing took flight with a shriek of dismay, circling above the gathered battle-packs.

‘It was all a lie,’ whispered the Stormcaller. ‘The Allfather never ordered the death of Prospero. The thrice-cursed Warmaster had already turned and sought to pave the way to his treachery by turning the Sons of Russ upon Magnus’ Legion.’

Stunned silence followed the announcement as Stormrider, Old Guard and even Izzakar absorbed the monumental consequences of that simple but most heinous of deceptions.

The Old Wolf looked broken, axe limp in his grasp, head hung with shame. Njal assisted Izzakar in standing up. The two foes, who just days and yet ten thousand years ago were intent upon each other’s destruction, faced each other, united by the sudden revelation.

‘You were not wrong,’ the Thousand Sons Librarian said quietly, the words barely heard. ‘You were tricked, and we see now the path that Magnus took my people.’

‘Nor you,’ admitted Bulveye, lips barely moving. ‘Had the Rout not destroyed Prospero, might we have had an ally? Surely that was the gambit of Horus.’

They looked at each other in mutual understanding.”

–Ashes of Prospero