The alien engine was an artfully designed war machine from an age long-forgotten, the ancient craft of its makers wondrous to behold, but it could not resist such incredible, awe-inspiring power. Its torso exploded, vast ribs of unknown manufacture shattering like brittle china and falling in fire-blackened splinters. The pendulous head toppled from its neck and crashed to the rocks far below.

The war machine fell with infinite majesty, slamming down in pieces upon the rocky ground over which it had stood sentinel for longer than humans could comprehend. Blinding clouds of dust swept out from its fall, obscuring the fate of the second Titan.

A strange silence fell over the battlefield, as though no one could really believe they had seen the incredible war machine die. The silence was uncanny, but it did not last long.

A triumphant howl erupted from the throats of the Wolves, an ululating victory roar, but Ahriman took no pleasure at such destruction.

“A terrible thing to see something so magnificent brought low,” said Ahriman.

“You pity it?” asked Wyrdmake. “Does not the hunter feel the joy at the moment of the kill?”

“I feel nothing but sorrow,” said Ahriman.

Wyrdmake looked at him with genuine confusion, affronted that Ahriman sought to sour this moment of great victory. “The beast killed entire packs of your warriors. Vengeance demanded its death. It is right to honour your foe, but to mourn its death is pointless.”

“Maybe so, but what secrets and knowledge have been lost in its destruction?”

“What secrets worth knowing does such a beast keep?” said Skarssen. “Better it dies and its secrets are lost than to ken such alien witchery.”

The smoke of the mighty construct’s death parted, and a keening roar built from within the depths of the ashen clouds, a wail of sorrow and anger entwined. A mighty shadow moved in the depths of the billowing dust, and the surviving Titan emerged. It was wounded and bled black rivers of glistening liquid, but like a cornered animal it was still horribly dangerous.

Its lance arm slid around, the barrel aimed squarely at Magnus, and Ahriman saw that the enormous power the primarch had wielded had cost him dearly. Magnus’ skin was pale, the fiery copper lustre dimmed to a faded brass. He was down on one knee, as though offering servitude to a bellicose god of war.

The ground shook as the giant moved forward. It lowered its head to study the insignificant creature ranged against it. The remnants of its ruined arm spat flames and smoke. Its sweeping shoulder wings were aflame, sagging and useless at its shoulders, like a broken angel of destruction come to rid Aghoru of all life.

Killing light built along the length of its weapon, and a shriek of violated air built as it drew breath.

And a blazing lance of sunfire stabbed out, searing Magnus from the face of the world.

THE THOUSAND SONS screamed.

The heat of a million stars wreathed their primarch, and no matter that he was one of twenty towering pinnacles of gene-wrought superhuman warriors, even he could not survive such an attack. A surge tide of liquid fire swept out, turning the rock of the Mountain to glass.

Ahriman’s grip on the Enumerations collapsed in the face of such visceral horror; grief, anger and hatred jammed a twisting knife in his guts. The Titan poured its deadly fire upon Magnus, and Ahriman knew he would never live to see so hideous a sight.

Beside him, Uthizzar clutched his head in agony. Even in the midst of his grief, Ahriman pitied Uthizzar. How terrible must it be for a telepath to feel the death of his father?

Moments passed in utter silence, as though the world itself could not quite believe what had happened. One of the Emperor’s favoured sons had been struck down. It was inconceivable. What force could end the life of a primarch? The stubborn reality of it could not yet penetrate their legends, could not break the unassailable fact of their immortality.

That fact was fiction, and Ahriman felt his world crumble.

The Thousand Sons screamed.

The Space Wolves howled.

The vox exploded with it, an atavistic declaration of fury.

“With me!” shouted Skarssen.

And the Wolves were unleashed.

They poured from the rocks, bolters spitting fire and missiles launched on the run as they swept towards the Titan. The Terminators led the charge, a wall of armoured fury that would eviscerate any normal foe, but which would be next to useless against this enemy. Ahriman and Uthizzar went with them, knowing it was madness for infantry to move in the presence of so powerful and terrible a war machine. The Titan was king of the battlefield, a towering killing machine that crashed foot-soldiers without even registering their presence.

Yet there was an undeniable thrill in risking everything like this, a noble heroism and vitality he normally never felt in combat. The Enumerations gave a warrior focus, prevented his emotions from overwhelming him, and kept his mind free of distractions that could get him killed. The business of war was more deadly than it had ever been in any of the violent ages of Man, the surety of death or injury a warrior’s constant companion. The Enumerations helped the Thousand Sons face such thoughts objectively, and allowed them to fight on regardless.

To do otherwise was inconceivable, and Ahriman was always amazed that mortals ever dared to step onto a battlefield. Yet here he was, raw grief and the vicarious energy of the Space Wolves carrying him forward without the protection of emotional detachment.

As the Space Wolves came, so too did the Thousand Sons.

The last surviving Land Raiders, both black and belching smoke, darted like pack predators as they fired on the Titan. Desperate to avenge their primarch, the red-armoured warriors of Magnus charged with the same boundless energy as the Space Wolves, their cool detachment cast aside in this one, headlong charge.

It was reckless and futile, but also brave and heroic.

The seething fire began to fade, and Ahriman’s charge faltered at the sight before him. A vitrified bowl of a crater spread out at the mighty war engine’s clawed feet, yet at its centre was a sight that lifted his heart and filled him with awe.

A shimmering dome of golden-hued energy rippled in the heat haze, and within it, two armoured figures. Atop a crooked pillar of rock at the heart of the crater, all that had survived the Titan’s fire, were Phosis T’kar and Magnus the Red. The captain of the 2nd Fellowship was bent almost double, his arms raised to his shoulders like Atlas Telamonof Old Earth, the rebellious titan doomed to bear the celestial sphere upon his shoulders for all eternity.

“A kine shield,” breathed Uthizzar. “Who knew T’kar was so strong?”

Ahriman laughed in desperate relief. Magnus was alive! He was on his knees, weakened and all but exhausted by his destruction of the first Titan, but he was alive, and that simple fact pulsed through every warrior of the Thousand Sons in a connected instant of joy and wonder.

In that moment of relief, the Astartes of both Legions let fly their anger and hurt pride.

The Space Wolves unleashed the fangs of their every weapon, bolts, missiles and armour-cracking shells seeking out the Titan’s wounds and tearing them wider. In the midst of the Sons of Russ, Ahriman and Uthizzar did likewise, unloading magazine after magazine of explosive rounds at the object of their hatred. Skarssen exhorted his warriors with bellowed howls without meaning, but with a power all their own. Ohthere Wyrdmake prowled the length of the Space Wolf advance, surrounded by pack wolves as a frozen wind and the echo of a distant winter storm swirled around him.

The Wolves of Fenris attacked with all their weapons, and so too did the scions of Prospero fight with all of theirs.