"Hah—"
Abaddon bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he gasped for breath.
His body trembled slightly. Still-wet blood clung to his power axe, gleaming dark red under the teleportation chamber's bright lights.
He slowly raised his head and swept his gaze around, counting the warriors who had reached the Metis alive.
Fewer than a hundred and fifty.
The mighty force of several hundred that had set out—the veterans of the Luna Wolves, the warriors of the Word Bearers—had been reduced to fewer than a hundred and fifty standing here.
The others had left their lives in the cold corridors of the Vengeful Spirit, on its bloodstained floors, beneath the Ringwraith's sword.
Their sacrifice had bought the survival of these fewer than a hundred and fifty men, bought this hard-won chance to escape.
"Commander! Abaddon and his men are here!"
Outside the teleportation chamber, a Space Marine sergeant looked at Abaddon and the others who had arrived safely, a trace of relief crossing his face.
He turned and used the auspex in his hand to report loudly to the bridge.
"Prepare for an emergency warp transit." Aakton's voice came over the communications channel, decisive and firm, without the slightest hesitation.
He knew every second was precious now.
The Vengeful Spirit would soon detect the unauthorized use of its teleportation system, send pursuers, and train its enormous macro-cannons and lances on their little battle barge.
But they were already a step too late.
The Ringwraith had returned to its master.
The cloud of black mist took shape on the Vengeful Spirit's bridge and knelt before Horus. In its harsh voice, a mixture of scraping metal and howling wind, it reported Abaddon and his men's movements.
Their destination, their numbers, and the teleport coordinates they had used.
Horus's face was