Blackheart Huron

(And this planetary teleportation device...)

Guilliman looked to the next item.

(Though its range is limited, it is enough for our assault squads to carry out decapitation strikes on the planet's surface even swifter than White Scars cavalry!)

His gaze swept over the surroundings. Seeing the Loyalist warriors who had been wounded in the recent battle, some even on the verge of death, he was struck by a thought and asked again:

(Repair pods, fifty governance points each?)

[Yes.]

(Excellent.) Guilliman swiftly began making calculations.

These 10,000 initial governance points had to be spent where they mattered most.

He raised his head and looked over the key figures present. His steady, powerful voice cut through the cheers:

"Archmagos Belisarius Cawl, Living Saint Celestine, Lady Yvraine of the Eldar, Marshal Amalrich of the Black Templars, and Grand Master Voldus of the Grey Knights."

He named them one by one, his tone grave and impossible to refuse.

"Would you all accompany me so that we may discuss this in detail?

The next step in our coming campaign to cleanse Ultramar—and perhaps bring true dawn to the Imperium."

Deep within a Black Legion fortress in the Eye of Terror, violent psychic currents raged like an unending storm, mirroring their master's mood.

"Bang!"

Abaddon's fist, clad in the Talon of Horus, slammed viciously into the armrest of his throne of warped metal with an ear-splitting crash.

He had just received confirmed intelligence from Macragge.

The raiding force had been utterly annihilated. Even the massive Thunderhawk Gunships he had painstakingly deployed had become metallic dust drifting in Macragge's orbit.

What he found most unacceptable was the heart of that intelligence.

"Guilliman... Roboute Guilliman... he has truly returned to life?!"

Abaddon's voice was low and savage with violent fury, like that of a wounded beast. "How is that possible?!

He was already dead!

Fulgrim's poisoned daemon blade slit his throat, and he lay in a Stasis Field for ten thousand years!

How could a Primarch... a Primarch return so easily?!"

This frustration far exceeded the failure of an ordinary military operation.

It called into question the fruits of his ten thousand years of war and shook his faith in the absolute superiority of Chaos.

"Do not allow the tide of rage to drown your reason, chosen champion of the Chaos Gods."

A voice like countless misaligned gears grinding together, mixed with the wails of souls, echoed through the chamber.

The illusory form of Vashtorr, the Chaos demigod and Master of the Forge, coalesced within the altar's blasphemous flames. Its very existence warped the reality around it.

"You seem to have briefly forgotten that you bear the blessings of the gods. Your strength is no less than that of any so-called Primarch.

With me, Vashtorr, providing you and your legion with weapons and armor beyond the Imperium's comprehension, and personally forging vessels capable of bearing your great power!

That rotten, weak Imperium, endlessly consumed by internal strife, could never be your opponent by its very nature.

One more awakened Guilliman merely means one more... interesting specimen to be dismantled and studied."

Vashtorr's voice held an inhuman calm, as though it were stating an established fact:

"Besides... had you not already reserved a suitable strategy in your grand design?

A plan specifically intended to deal with the... small possibility that 'a Primarch might refuse to remain asleep.'"

The savage expression on Abaddon's face eased slightly. He drew a deep breath of air laced with blood and molten rock, and a grim smile spread across his broken features.

"You are right, Vashtorr.

I have a plan.

It is not merely my plan, Abaddon's plan. It is also... the shared desire of the supreme Dark Gods.

They have long wished to acquire another... relatively 'pure' Primarch body, to... adorn their eternal domains."

Calculation and malice gleamed in his single eye.

"Guilliman has returned. With his foolish sense of duty and idealism, his ultimate goal will surely be to return to the Imperium's center of power—holy Terra.

He will gather that scattered mess together and foolishly dream of fulfilling his stale rhetoric about restoring the Imperium's decayed glory.

He has always been so naïve."

"But," Abaddon shifted his tone, his voice turning cold, "the Great Rift has torn open the Milky Way!

If he wishes to travel from Ultramar to Terra, he must either cross or bypass that wound cleaving through the universe!

And within the bizarre, lawless regions of the Great Rift, there will naturally be those who will 'welcome' him."

He seemed already to see that tantalizing scene.

"I believe Fulgrim, that pervert obsessed with 'perfection,' and Magnus, that psychic fanatic who prides himself on his vast knowledge, will never pass up such an opportunity for a 'reunion.'

Not to mention the countless Greater Daemons of Chaos craving glory and blood, especially those butchers beneath Khorne.

Like sharks smelling blood, they will swarm madly toward a living Primarch!

Guilliman's journey will become an endless feast of pursuit and slaughter!"

As he spoke, Abaddon activated an encrypted Warp communications array.

After a burst of warped static, the connection went through, and a somewhat hoarse yet wild voice came through.

"Lord of the Black Legion?

What do you want with me?"

The image of Huron Blackheart, king of the Red Corsairs, appeared in the blurred transmission.

"Leader of the Red Corsairs, Huron."

Abaddon's tone was calm, yet carried an unquestionable pressure.

"I am merely here to tell you something.

A Primarch has returned to life.

I think you may find that interesting."

"A Primarch has returned?!

A Primarch can return to life!?"

Huron's voice rose sharply, filled with shock and a trace of barely perceptible fear. "Which one?

Who is it?!"

"The Emperor's thirteenth son, the gene-sire of the Ultramarines, Roboute Guilliman.

He has returned. There is no doubt."

Abaddon said coldly, "An elite force I sent to 'greet' him has just been sent to hell by him and his Loyalist blue descendants.

Now, I hope you can... offer some assistance."

"Him!?" Huron was stunned.

"Heh heh..."

Huron immediately let out a dry laugh.

"Assistance? You expect me to take what little force I have and clash head-on with a Primarch in Realspace?

Even at full strength, my Red Corsairs number only a little over twenty thousand."

"Put away that deception of yours, Huron." Abaddon cut him off without courtesy. "I know your true forces number at least thirty thousand.

And I am not asking you to capture a Primarch head-on in Realspace.

Especially not when he has the lunatics of the Black Templars, the Emperor's Living Saint, and countless Ultramarines at his side."

Abaddon finally revealed his true intent. "I want you to do what the Red Corsairs do best!

Slip into the Warp like ghosts. Set an ambush and intercept Guilliman along the route he must take to Terra!

That Blackstone Fortress I gave you before—it is time to put it to use!

Use its power to disrupt, trap, or even capture this honored Primarch!"