Nelthas had never actually lead a major battle force into the field before – she had, of course, been involved in many small skirmishes over the years, and had recently overseen the strategies and logistics of planetary-scale battle operations – but she had never actually been in the think of it…
Welch had agreed to lend her elements of his Ordo Malleus detachment to help recover the remnants of the Adeptus Astartes forces trapped in Sector Twelve. Nelthas suspected Dolgath’s hand in that. For all his seeming aloofness, Ian brooded over her like an old grail-hawk. He reminded Nelthas much of her Uncle Petros in that way – the thought of him brought unbidden tears to her hidden eyes…
As she stormed toward the launch bays, infuriated by loosing command of the campaign and intent on vindicating herself in the most dramatic fashion possible, the magnitude of what she was about to do began to sink in. For her, war had always been something seen from a holopic. War was that messy, amorphous business conducted by crude and brutal men. To her, at best, war was a transitory step on the path to a goal; never before had war been a slavering beast intent on ripping the flesh from her bones.
The Grey Knight thunderhawk crouched conspicuously on the floor of the launch bay, like some antisocial raptor – no other craft were anywhere close to it. Its broad wings were spread wide and burdened with loads of lethal ordinance. As she approached the open hatch of the craft’s assault bay, she felt like she was stepping into the maw of doom…
The faces of the ranked units of Grey Knights standing in the hold of the thunderhawk were hidden behind their helmets, never-the-less, Nelthas expected that underneath their faces were just as hard and inscrutable as the adamantine visages. She once again gave thanks to that ancient Adeptus Mechanicus tech priest, Id, who crated her suit, only the pre-programmed expressions of her psychomorphic mask allowed her to maintain any sort of expression of decorum – otherwise, she thought, the poor marines would be staring down on a tiny frightened child. As it was, the image that they saw was a tall, slender figure in severe black leather accented with rubies the color of fresh blood. Her mask was ivory, the pouting lips the same blood red as the rubies.
The sudden descent from the drop bay sent her stomach up into her throat and sent an almost orgasmic thrill through every vein. Nelthas wondered if the Astartes felt that thrill; she guessed not, as they all stood perfectly still and silent, like ancient statues. The entire rescue force was assembled on the thunderhawk’s assault deck and it looked to her to be inadequate for the task, and yet, she was aware that these were the most elite warriors the Imperium had to offer. If she could not accomplish this task, she only had herself to blame… The thunderhawk touched down with such deceleration force, only her suit’s sophisticated augmentics kept her from sprawling face-first onto the deck. The Grey Knights were unfazed by the deceleration of the sudden touchdown. As the assault ramp slammed down, they quickly deployed out in perfect combat readiness.
It was planetary pre-dawn, dark and chilly, but her suit’s sensor suite fed multi-spectral data into her imager to compensate for the darkness and, of course, accommodated for the temperature. She sometimes wished she could actually feel the conditions on site, experience the real world environment, but the thought quickly faded as the marines were on the move and she rushed forward to keep up with them.
She designated operational command of the detachment to the Grey Knights leader, Questor Gelth. She did not know him, or even comprehend the significance of his rank, she trusted the Grey Knight commander knew the mission and would conduct operations appropriately. As they deployed, she began to wonder about the wisdom of that choice. The majority of the detachment boarded razorback transports and sped off in a cloud of red dust, leaving Nelthas standing next to a hulking solitary figure in baroque, rusty-red artificer armor. A Techmarine.
He was helmetless. Half his face was obscured by a mass of augmentics – his right eye was supplanted by an intimidating, glowing telescopic enhancement that whirred and clicked as it focused. Yet the half-smile that showed through from the human half of his face was warming.
“Inquisitor,” he half-bowed. “I am, Reginalt, Techmarine of the 4th Company of Grey Knights. I admire your epidermis: highly functional and yet aesthetically pleasing.”
Nelthas stared at him unsure how to respond.
“I note the style of Master Artificer Id Ingnalius,” he elaborated.
“Really!” Nelthas said in amazement. “You can see that?”
“Oh, yes, from the overall flow of the design, as well as the tiny details.” He reached out a massive armored hand and delicately touched the armored support structure of her midriff. “I noticed the fractal pattern and the perfection of the curve. He tutored many of the techmarines currently serving the Adeptus Astartes, including myself.”
Nelthas was stunned and struggled for words. “Ingnalius is a vassal of my family. He is old, but he serves still…”
Half of Reginald’s face beamed with a smile. “That is well, Inquisitor, that is very well!”
He held up a hand and three massive servitors marched forward out the thunderhawk’s bay. Each had one arm replaced by a massive plasma weapon that steamed with cooling vapors. “These servitors are at your service. I will be engaged with targeting for the orbital relay.”
Nelthas glanced at the trail of dust left by the departing Grey Knight. “I guess we should hurry so we are not late to the battle.”
Reginalt grinned and nodded in agreement.
The Kabal of the Rancid Blade 