Luther glanced quizzically at the young Astartes. 'What do you mean?'

'What you said a moment ago,' Zahariel replied. 'It was inspiring. To tell the truth, many of us have been in low spirits since we left the fleet. We… well, it's good to know that we won't be here for long. All of us are eager to get back to the Crusade.'

As Zahariel spoke, the light seemed to go out of Luther's eyes. 'Ah, that,' he said, his voice strangely subdued. To Zahariel's surprise, Luther turned away, glancing up at the cloudy sky. 'That was all a lie, brother,' he said with a sigh. 'We've fallen from grace, and nothing we do here will change that. For us, the Great Crusade is over.'

The primarch's summons found Brother-Redemptor Nemiel at the Seventh Chapter's forward base in the Huldaran foothills, just twenty kilometres south of the planetary capital. Dawn was only two hours away, and the chapter's battle brothers were completing their final checks on their weapons and equipment. The last survivors of the Gordians' battered heavy divisions had finally halted their long, bitter retreat and decided to make a stand amid the steep, iron-grey hills. The Dark Angels sensed that this would be the last battle in the months-long campaign to bring the stubborn world into compliance.

It had been a hectic night on the windswept plains. The Seventh Chapter had travelled two hundred kilometres on the previous day, harrying the Gordian rearguard, and there was little time to prepare for a dawn assault against fortified enemy positions. Nemiel had spent much of the time shuttling back and forth between the chapter's four assembly areas, speaking with each of the squads, evaluating their readiness and, when asked, receiving their battle-oaths in the name of the Lion and the Emperor. He had only just reported to Chapter Master Torannen and certified the chapter fit for combat when the message was sent down from the fleet: Brother-Redemptor Nemiel and squad to report aboard the flagship immediately. Transport en route.

The Stormbird touched down less than fifteen minutes later, just as the Imperials' preliminary bombardment began to fall on the enemy's forward positions. Surprised and somewhat bemused, Nemiel could only clasp hands with Torannen and accept the chapter master's battle-oath, then watch the Seventh Chapter's armoured vehicles rumble northward without him and his men.

Within minutes, the dropship was climbing skyward again. After a single orbit of the war-torn planet, climbing high over its storm-tossed oceans and soaring, white-capped mountain ranges, the Stormbird's pilot had adjusted his course and was closing on the Imperial squadrons anchored above Gordia IV - only to be shunted into a temporary holding pattern while the battle barge completed a resupply evolution and cleared its embarkation deck. After all the haste and urgency, Nemiel was left to sit and wait, contemplating the grey-green world below and wondering how the battle was faring for Torannen and his chapter.

A half-hour passed. Nemiel listened idly to the vox chatter over the fleet command net and turned his attention to the constellation of warships and transports that surrounded the primarch's battle barge. He could remember a time, fifty years past, when the 4th Expeditionary Fleet numbered no more than seven vessels; at Gordia IV the flagship was accompanied by twenty-five ships of various types, and that was barely a third of the fleet's total complement. The remainder were organised into discrete battle groups that were in action across the length and breadth of the Shield Worlds, fighting the Gordian League and their degenerate xenos allies.

The warships anchored around the flagship constituted the fleet's reserve squadrons, plus vessels damaged in recent actions against the League's small but powerful space navy. Tenders were pulled alongside the grand cruisers Iron Duke and Duchess Arbellatris while repairs were underway on their battle-scarred flanks. Plasma torches twinkled coldly in the dark as hundreds of servitors repaired damaged hull plating and wrecked weapons emplacements. After several minutes of idle study, Nemiel noticed frantic activity around a dozen other warships as well. Cargo lifters and supply shuttles were flying back and forth from the fleet's huge replenishment vessels, delivering everything from reactor fuel to ration tins at breakneck speed. For the first time he felt a twinge of uneasiness, wondering if the League had managed to launch a surprise counter-offensive that had caught the Legion off-guard.

When the Stormbird was finally granted priority clearance to land, the tension Nemiel felt in the air of the cavernous embarkation deck only served to deepen his unease. Harried-looking officers and ratings were hard at work organising hundreds of tonnes of supplies and getting them stowed as rapidly as possible. Shouted orders and angry tirades from impatient petty officers were drowned out by the loud crackle of the deck's magnetic barrier as two more Stormbirds came aboard in rapid succession and touched down directly behind Nemiel's ship.

The drop ship's assault ramp quivered beneath the weight of armoured feet, and Brother-Sergeant Kohl led his squad out onto the deck. The Terran had removed his helmet and clipped it to his belt, and he surveyed the frenetic activity with a bemused scowl. Nemiel glanced over at Kohl as the squad leader joined him at the base of the ramp. 'What do you make of all this?' he asked.

Kohl shook his head. The sergeant was one of the oldest surviving Astartes in the Legion, having fought in the very first battles of the Great Crusade, two hundred years before. His broad face was all flat planes and jutting angles, creased with old scars and weathered by centuries of hard fighting in the service of the Emperor. His black hair hung in tight braids close to his bull-like neck, and four polished service studs gleamed above his right brow. When he spoke, this voice was a gravelly basso.

'Never seen anything like it,' Kohl said warily. 'Something's happened, that's for certain. The fleet looks like they're getting ready for a fight.'

The embarkation deck's containment field crackled again, admitting two more Stormbirds onto the increasingly-crowded deck. Assault ramps deployed, and more Astartes squads - veterans one and all, judging by the battle honours decorating their breastplates and pauldrons - disembarked with the same mix of bemusement and professional alacrity.

An alert tone echoed from vox speakers set in the overhead. 'All squad leaders and command staff report to the strategium immediately.'

Nemiel frowned up at the overhead. Even the bridge announcer's voice sounded unusually anxious. 'Everyone seems to know something we don't,' he muttered.

Kohl shook his head. 'Welcome to the Great Crusade, brother,' he replied.

Nemiel chuckled, shaking his head in mock exasperation. He'd fought beside Kohl and his squad many times over the past few decades, and had learned to appreciate his sarcastic wit, but this time Nemiel couldn't help but notice the faint undercurrent of tension in the veteran sergeant's voice. 'Come on,' he said, setting off towards the lifts at the far side of the embarkation deck. 'Let's go find out what all this is about.'

Human crewmen stood to attention as Nemiel passed, and fellow Astartes bowed their heads respectfully. Fifty years of hard campaigning had left their mark on the young Calibanite. His armour, fresh from the forges of Mars a half-century ago, was now scarred and blemished from countless battlefields. His left pauldron, replaced by the Legion armourers after the combat drop on Cyboris, had been engraved with battle scenes commemorating his chapter's charge against the Cyborian hunter-killers. Parchment ribbons fluttered from the edges of his right pauldron, affixed with stamps of melted gold and silver to commemorate deeds of valour against humanity's many foes. The cloak of a senior initiate hung about his shoulders, edged with double bands of red and gold to mark his rank in the Higher Mysteries - a tradition from the old Order on Caliban that had been implemented by their primarch. He'd grown his hair long, like his Terran brothers, and wore it in tight braids bound by silver wire. But of all the awards and accolades that Nemiel had earned over the last half-century, it was the gleaming staff clutched in his right hand that he was proudest of.