Warhammer 40K: System Error, I Summoned the Arch-Traitor!

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"You aren't planning to finish off Huron Blackheart and the Red Corsairs completely, Wolf King?"

Kaelen asked.

Horus stopped walking and turned around.

"Trust me, my friend." The Wolf Shepherd spread his hands. "Those Chaos warbands want him dead far more than we do. Our strategic objective has been achieved. Controlling the Maelstrom's key regions is enough."

This was the closing phase of the Maelstrom campaign.

On the bridge of the Bucephelus, streams of data flickered through the holographic projections in rapid bursts.

Kaelen wasn't satisfied with that answer. Huron was no ordinary warlord. The man was a genuine powerbroker, the kind who, as long as a single breath remained in him, could come roaring back from nothing.

"Letting the tiger return to the mountain is not a good habit." Kaelen tapped the tabletop. "Huron escaped with heavy wounds. You're not worried he'll find some corner to lick himself back into shape and raise another fleet in a few years? His recovery and his ability to rally followers — it's all right there in the battle reports."

Horus listened to his mortal friend's complaints, then clapped a broad hand on Kaelen's shoulder.

"We've already burned enough time in the Maelstrom." He lowered his voice. "And someone else will handle him for us."

Kaelen blinked.

"Who?"

"Those Chaos warbands."

"Chaos warbands?" Kaelen stared up at the towering figure before him. His grip tightened on the data-slate until the casing creaked.

Horus looked away. A rare flicker of discomfort crossed his eyes.

"A warband that splintered off from the former Black Legion." He cleared his throat. "Led by sons of mine from ten thousand years ago."

Kaelen sucked in a breath.

"Are you out of your mind?" He leaned in close, dropping his voice. "You are the Regent of the Imperium's appointed commander-in-chief of this expedition. You already have a record. Secretly contacting Chaos warbands — even if Guilliman believes you, even if the Emperor of Mankind shields you, the damage to the Imperium's standing would be catastrophic."

Horus spread his hands, his expression somewhere past words.

"I didn't initiate contact, Kaelen. They came to me. Besides myself and Loken, no other warriors or commanders know."

"They came looking for a good death?"

"They came to help." Horus let out a slow breath. "Those sons of mine from ten thousand years ago — a portion of them are old-guard traditionalists, the kind who never let go of Legion honor."

Kaelen raised an eyebrow and said nothing, letting him continue.

"When Ezekyle took over the Legion's remnants, not everyone fell in behind him. These veterans despised his methods. They believed he had defiled the honor of the Sons of Horus and the Luna Wolves."

Horus paused.

"They challenged Ezekyle openly. In the end they broke away from the Black Legion entirely and spent their years drifting through the depths of the Maelstrom. Then, recently, word reached them. That I had returned. That the Luna Wolves' battle standard had been raised again."

"And?" Kaelen pressed.

"And they began working with us in the shadows." Horus rubbed the bridge of his nose. "During this campaign, several of Huron's hidden supply lines were cut by them. The Warp corridor he used to retreat, they had an ambush waiting there in advance."

Kaelen stood quiet for a long moment.

This was not how he'd expected the story to go.

But turning it over in his head, he realized it had a strange logic that only made sense inside the Warhammer universe.

Horus's personal pull during the Great Crusade was the stuff of legend. He had made proud gene-father brothers willingly defer to him. Sons who regarded him as a living god were another matter entirely.

These veterans had lived ten thousand years. Their bodies had been twisted by the Warp. But the obsession buried in their bones, Legion glory, their gene-father, that had never broken.

And now they had learned their father was not only alive again, but forgiven by the Emperor of Mankind, and rebuilding the Legion from the ground up. Of course they came running.

"That's actually insane." Kaelen finally got the words out after sitting with it for a moment. "I didn't know you could pull a move like that."

"It gives me a headache too." Horus smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "I can't accept them openly. They've been touched by Chaos, there's no road back into the Legion's ranks. Guilliman would never agree. Neither would I."

"Then what do they want?"

"Atonement." Horus's voice dropped. "In their own way. They know they're beyond saving. So they intend to spend whatever lives they have left in the Maelstrom, cleaning up what remains of Huron's mess."

Kaelen understood.

Huron had fled with his wounds. The Red Corsairs' senior command had been gutted.

The Maelstrom was now one enormous power vacuum.

The Red Corsairs had always been a coalition of factions barely holding together. Now the head had fallen. Every warlord, every pirate captain, every mutant chieftain underneath him would be at each other's throats inside a week, fighting over the scraps.

And into that chaos, a battle-hardened former Sons of Horus warband would come charging in with nothing to lose and every reason to kill.

"Huron isn't going to last."

Kaelen worked his jaw, thinking it through.

"Even if he's lucky enough to survive the ambush, those veterans will lock onto him. They won't let go."

"That's exactly why I let him run." Horus nodded. "Sending him back to ignite a civil war is worth more than killing him clean on the battlefield. Chaos forces tearing each other apart saves us ammunition, ships, and years."

Kaelen picked up the data-slate and scanned the casualty report one more time.

"Sharp math, Wolf King." He set it back on the table with a firm smack.

"War isn't won by bolt and blade alone." Horus braced both hands on the holographic projection table. The blue light of the star chart painted shifting shadows across his bald head. "The Maelstrom is too complex. Warp storms can sever supply lines without warning. If we sink our main strength here clearing out every pirate den one by one, the Indomitus Crusade loses at least a decade."

"So you left a contingency."

"Standard precautions." Horus pointed to several nodes along the projection's outer edge. "Three Legion recruit companies stationed on the Maelstrom's periphery, working alongside the local Imperial Navy patrol fleets. The moment the Red Corsairs surface anywhere, the garrisons can hold."

Kaelen leaned in and studied the distribution. He nodded.

"With that defensive density, plus the Chaos warbands and the Red Corsairs eating each other alive, for Huron to rebuild a fleet capable of threatening sector shipping lanes, he needs 50 Terran standard years. Minimum."

"And 50 years is enough." Horus straightened. "In 50 years the Imperium's new fleets will be fully assembled. Guilliman's logistics network will be fully laid in. The Maelstrom will be nothing more than a stinking ditch, one we can crush whenever we choose."

"The Maelstrom war is over. Our next destination, then, is."

"Armageddon."

"Or rather." Kaelen let a slow grin spread across his face as he looked at Horus.

"Ullanor."

(This story is nearly at its end, the remaining plot wraps up in roughly another fifty to a hundred thousand words.)

➤ Next: Armageddon — Face to Face

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