Chapter 1

Nirian Tertius; a hive in flames.

The Hulk had appeared just within the edge of the Nabol system, emerging from the warp at unbelievable speed. In its path was the planet Nirian, 4th and second-last planet in the system.

Ploughing through the planet’s thin atmosphere, the Hulk had smashed down into the hive city, cutting a swathe of destruction clear through to the subterranean sump at the base of the giant structure. Millions were killed in the impact. Millions more were trapped in the wrecked remains of the hive.

And within the shattered remnants of the massive space hulk, something lived…

***

Captain Nichols stood nervously beside Warmaster Skerrit as the mighty Thunderhawk gunship roared down onto the tarmac. The backwash from the massive thrusters blew out in searing streams against the blast shields, adding to the already oppressive heat of the field.

With a whine of ancient servos, a ramp under the nose of the gunship dropped down, revealing a dark tunnel into the interior. Nichols glanced up at the Warmaster. Despite the heat, the Warmaster was impeccable, his dress uniform crisp, his face impassive.

Hearing a sound from the gunship, Nichols looked back at the mighty craft as a stream of large, armoured figures descended into the harsh sunlight.

At least seven feet tall, the warriors were clad in gleaming black armour. Bright orange shoulder pauldrons and combat-fatigue style trousers sported black stripes, resembling the markings on the Terran tiger. Glancing up at their faces as they lined the space between the Warmaster and the gunship, Nichols was shocked to see that, despite their size and bearing, these were mere youths. He guessed that most would be barely past twenty standard years of age, although scattered amongst them were several older men.

Finally, down the ramp came a much larger man. Clad in a huge suit of millennia old Power Armour, painted in the same patterns as the youths’ but in bright white rather than orange, his boots rang out on the metal decking as he strode from the craft. His left hand was clad in a taloned Power Fist, and a long, striped cloak hung from his massive shoulders, sweeping the tarmac as he crossed to stand before the Warmaster.

Nichols swallowed uneasily as he looked up, up into the warrior’s face. The march of centuries was portrayed in the warrior’s leathery features. Scars from countless battles on countless worlds mapped out a history of blood and violence. Five silver studs protruded from the flesh above his right eye, where they had been hammered through to the bone; a symbol of his continued dedication to the Emperor. Fixing his gaze on the Warmaster, the ancient warrior spoke, his deep, gravelly voice rasping out over the assembly.

‘I am Captain Tubal-Cain, Commander of the Tenth Company of the Betharin Hunters Space Marines. We are here to assist you, Warmaster.’

‘The Tenth Company?’ exclaimed the Warmaster. “I asked for a Battle Company! Does your Chapter send children to do their fighting for them now, Captain?’

Tubal-Cain drew himself up, his eyes ablaze. Nichols blanched and drew back a pace as the Marine loomed over the two officers.

‘These ‘children’ are worth any ten of your Guardsmen, Warmaster! They have been trained by the finest warriors this galaxy has seen, enhanced with the gifts of the Emperor, and seasoned in combat with the deadliest foes of the Imperium.’

‘That may be so,’ the Warmaster conceded, ‘but they are still not the Battle Company I requested of your Chapter. Where are your Brethren, Captain?’

For a moment the ancient warrior stared impassively back at the Warmaster. Then his shoulders sagged, the centuries of his service suddenly evident in the lines of sorrow that appeared on his face.

'These are the last of their Chapter, Warmaster.’

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