Spirit of the Yellow Sands
Storage Area 48
Lower Decks.
Far from the splendor of the Bridge and the roar of the engine room, there were only steel canyons formed by silently stacked cargo containers, and the low moan of the perpetually circulating air that provided these lifeless objects with the bare minimum of maintenance.
The light was dim. Only emergency indicators overhead cast sickly green or dark red patches of light, staining the Word Bearers' armour with ominous colors.
Saolis, the liaison commander the Word Bearers Legion had sent to the Second Legion's "Lord of the Yellow Sands," stood with his back against a cold, enormous cargo container marked with a faded serial number. Pale blue streams of data scrolled silently across his Helmet's visor display, illuminating his tightly pressed lips.
A hundred Word Bearers now stood like ghosts in the shadows, silently dispersed through the warehouse's darkness and the gaps between containers. Their Bolters were loaded, their Chainswords hummed, and they watched every direction.
Apart from the hum of machinery, the only sound in the air was the faint hiss of their power packs' temperature-control systems.
They had long understood their position. Once Saladin's ambition broke the chains of loyalty to the Emperor, once the blade of the "Lord of the Yellow Sands" turned against his former comrades in the Imperium, they, the Word Bearers, the "outsiders," were destined to become the second group to be "purged," after the Loyalist Faction within the Legion itself.
The only question was whether that would happen tomorrow or in the next hour.
So they had moved into the depths of the warship ahead of time to wage a guerrilla campaign.
"Damn Saladin," Saolis said inside his sealed Helmet. His low voice, heavy with suppressed anger, reached every warrior through the squad's