Leman Russ needed no evidence. Relying only on his incomparably sharp instincts, he could tell that there had to be some unknown reason why their Thunderhawk gunship had deviated from its original course.
It was all too much of a coincidence, as contrived as a plot from some third-rate screenwriter's script.
They had only just escaped the Eye of Terror, yet now they had been brought to Isstvan III.
Though this planet had long since become lifeless, the primarchs knew that it carried an exceptionally significant meaning.
Isstvan III was where the Horus Heresy began, the opening of that shameful human civil war. It could even be regarded as the turning point in humanity's fate as a species.
Here, the four Astartes Legions—the Sons of Horus, Emperor's Children, World Eaters, and Death Guard—had purged themselves from within. More than a hundred thousand elite Astartes had not died fighting external enemies, but beneath the blades of their own brothers.
An inexplicable unease filled Leman Russ. It felt as though an invisible hand was manipulating their destinies.
That hand had brought these cloned primarchs to this planet that symbolized the beginning of betrayal. What was it trying to do?
"Throw us 'counterfeits' into the opening scene of the 'originals'' crime scene? Let us admire the ruins? Or... use us for some evil sacrificial ritual?"
The Wolf King muttered unhappily. As time passed, the unease in his heart only grew stronger.
"Vulkan, old friend," Russ said, a trace of hope in his voice that even he failed to notice. "Is there really nothing left to try? Could you give it another go with your Ork repair method? Maybe if you hammer it a few times, it'll start grunting again?"
He knew he was saying something stupid, but people in desperate situations always clung