The frustration of the remembrancers at being excluded from today’s proceedings was palpable, but this was a meeting of Astartes, a private thing. As auspicious as this day was, there was no mistaking the martial atmosphere, or the tension in the too rigid, too precise postures of the Thousand Sons.

This was not simply an honour guard to welcome a brother Legion: this was a show of force, a warning, and a declaration of purpose all in one.

The primarch stood beneath a glorious canopy of white silk held aloft by sixty bronze-skinned Legion eunuchs and attended by eighty-one Terminators of the Scarab Occult. Dressed in his full battle-plate, Magnus had eschewed many of the more intricate accoutrements of his armour in favour of a simpler aesthetic, one more suited to the directness of the Wolves. A cloak of dark mail hung from the golden pauldrons of his armour and his plumed helmet rose like a glorious cockade. His great book was absent, secreted within his pavilion behind locks that none save him could open.

Ahriman glanced at the sky, a searing white plate of metal ready to press its great weight down upon them. He would not see the iron-grey drop-ships until they were almost upon them, but kept looking anyway. The inconstant forms of the Tutelaries shimmered above their heads, barely visible against the glare of the sunlight on armour plates. Aaetpio flickered in and out of sight, its nervousness matching his wariness. Utipa and Paeoc held close to their masters, while Sioda pulsed in time with Khalophis’ heartbeat, red as blood.

Uthizzar’s Tutelary, Ephra, was almost invisible, a hidden skein of timid luminosity that shrank from proximity to the others of its kind.

“They spend all this time racing to get here, and then can’t hurry up now that we’re ready for them,” complained Phosis T’kar.

“Vintage Space Wolves,” said Hathor Maat, and Ahriman saw that his brother had shaped his flesh into a less sculpted cast, no longer the porcelain features of ancient statue, more the rugged warrior. “Isn’t that right, Uthizzar?”

Uthizzar nodded without looking at Maat. “The warriors of Russ are unpredictable. Except in matters of war,” he said.

“You should know,” said Phosis T’kar. “You served with them for a time.”

“For a short time only,” said Uthizzar softly. “They are… not fond of outsiders.”

“Ha!” barked Phosis T’kar. “They sound just like us. I almost like them already.”

“The Wolves? They’re barbarians,” said Khalophis, surprising them all. He bristled like the alpha male of a hunting pack. The Captain of the 6th Fellowship was a brutal man, but Ahriman understood his sentiment. As much as he relished destruction, Khalophis was never imprecise or needless with his violence.

“Kindred spirits for you, Khalophis,” said Hathor Maat. “You should get on famously.”

“Say what you will, Pavoni, but don’t think I can’t see your newly-fleshed features.”

“Merely adapting to the circumstances,” replied Hathor Maat archly, his Tutelary flickering with irritation.

“Why do you call them barbarians?” asked Phosis T’kar. “No disrespect, but you are not a subtle man.”

“I know what you’re thinking, but I have studied their campaigns and they are a blunt instrument of war. There is no subtlety or precision to their fights, simply swathes of destruction without control. When the Emperor unleashes them, be sure not to get in their way, for when the Wolves slip their leash, nothing will stop them until only ashes remain. Perturabo’s warriors, now that’s controlled aggression. We could all learn a lot from them. Precise force delivered exactly where it is needed.”

“For once I feel myself in agreement with Khalophis,” said Ahriman. “I must be ill.”

They laughed, though Ahriman saw Uthizzar’s grimace.

As part of their training, all Captains of Fellowship undertook a secondment to another Legion to learn its ways and further the Thousand Sons’ understanding of the galaxy. Khalophis had served with the Iron Warriors, a Legion he admired and ranked second only to the Thousand Sons. Phosis T’kar fought alongside the Luna Wolves, and never tired of regaling his brothers with tales of meeting Horus Lupercal, or boasting of his close friendship with Hastur Sejanus and Ezekyle Abaddon, the First Primarch’s closest lieutenants.

Hathor Maat’s secondment had seen him serving with the Emperor’s Children in their earliest days as they fought alongside the Luna Wolves. As Hathor Maat told it, he had caught the Phoenician’s eye with his perfectly moulded features, and had fought within his sight on many an occasion. Maat’s proudest possession was an Oath of Moment carved by Fulgrim, and fixed to his breastplate as he took his leave to return to Prospero.

Uthizzar’s secondment had been amongst the shortest ever served, lasting a little less than a Terran year. Ahriman was never sure whether the Wolves or Uthizzar had ended the exchange. Athanaeans shunned large gatherings or those whose thoughts were too loud, too brutal, too jagged and too raucous.

Ahriman had spent five years with the Word Bearers, learning much of their Legion and methods of war. It had been an unhappy time for Ahriman, for the scions of Lorgar were a zealous Legion, their devotion to the Master of Mankind bordering on the fanatical. All the Legions were devoted to their lord and his cause, but the Word Bearers lived and fought with the passion of those who claimed to carry the fire of the divine before them.

Their auras had been blazing pillars of certainty; certainty Ahriman felt was unwarranted, for it was unsupported by foundations of knowledge. Some called it faith, Ahriman called it hopeful ignorance. Save for a warrior named Erebus, he had made few friends in the XVII Legion, for their fervour left no room for those who did not share its passion.

Lorgar’s Legion bore an inauspicious number, for in the traditions of ancient Tali, the number seventeen was one of ill-fortune. XVII was considered as the anagram and numerical value for the ancient Gothic expression VIXI, which meant, “I lived”, and whose logical extension was, therefore, “I am dead”.

Ahriman’s thoughts were dragged back to the present by a wordless expression of unease from Aaetpio. He looked up to see a pair of angular grey aircraft plunging down through the hard yellow sky, dropping as though their engines had failed. They screamed down, flaming contrails blazing from the leading edges of their wings.

“They’re in a hurry,” said Phosis T’kar.

“Is that a good thing?” asked Ahriman.

“No,” said Uthizzar, his face pale beneath the darkness of his browned skin. “It is never good when the Wolves race towards you.”

“You can read them?” asked Hathor Maat. “Even from here?”

“I could read their thoughts from orbit,” said Uthizzar, fighting to keep his tone even.

Ahriman watched as the drop-ships fell, plotting their approach vectors and realising they would miss the landing fields.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “They are off target. Way off.”

The drop-ships fell like meteors that would impact on the salt flats and leave nothing behind save devastation and a giant crater. The image fixed in Ahriman’s mind for a moment, and he wondered if it was imagination or a fragmentary glimpse of the future.

The drop-ships fired their engines just as Ahriman was sure it was too late to arrest their descent, the roar of retros like the howls of a thousand wolves as they slammed down, off to the side of Magnus’ silk canopy. Gritty clouds of exhaust roared out from the landing site, a hurricane of hot air and burned salt crystals. The gene-bulked eunuchs fought to hold the wind-blown canopy down in the face of the drop-ships’ jetwash.

Even before the obscuring clouds had begun to dissipate, the assault ramps of the drop-ships slammed down. Grey-armoured figures emerged from the swirling, stinging smoke; their lithe power wolf-clad, sure and honed to a lethal edge, a pack of voracious predators who relish the fight at bay. Leading them was a figure in grey, a leather-masked warrior of pure, streamlined aggression.