He had turned the Imperium over to a state of complete and total war. New fleets had been constructed and whole populations recruited into the armed forces. Archmagos Belisarius Cawl had been good to the oaths he had made before the primarch’s death, and he had spent the millennia of Guilliman’s long sleep fashioning legions of new, improved warriors: the Primaris Space Marines. From their ranks, dozens of new Space Marine Chapters had been founded. All across the besieged Imperium, Guilliman’s crusade had fought, speeding from one crisis to another, even crossing the Great Rift that had split the galaxy in twain to reach the lost sectors of Imperium Nihilus. Everywhere it went, the Indomitus Crusade brought relief and reinforcements to the beleaguered worlds of mankind. More than that, the crusade brought hope, and the impossible truth that a son of the Emperor strode the stars again.

That phase was over. The Great Rift still split the sky, but the enemy had been dealt a grievous blow. Several traitor fleets had been shattered and daemonic legions banished back to the warp. Many worlds had been taken back, and many others purged of corruption. With the Imperium shored up, the time of the great armada was done. A change in strategy was called for.

What happened at the Pit of Raukos in a few hours would dictate that strategy.

So much had to fall into place for victory to be assured. Guilliman revised plans long in the making, thinking through counter moves to multiple potential enemy actions. He found it hard to find time to think deeply when he was not in his Chamber of Reflection. There had been so many demands on his attention since he had been revived. This small, cubic room – four metres by four metres by four metres – was the only place he might bring all his prodigious powers to bear on a single issue.

Today, that issue was victory at Raukos.

A metallic voice broke his concentration. ‘My lord, we are approaching 108/Beta-Kalapus-9.2.’

Guilliman’s eyes opened upon a plain space lit in a soothing blue light. The hideous gothic extravagance that typified human art in this era was absent. He filled his lungs with blood-warm air, held his breath, then blew it out in a long, controlled exhalation, letting a little of his tension go with it.

He stood and rotated his neck, wincing at the awkward stretch of skin at his throat.

The wound still hurt. Primarchs did not scar easily, but Fulgrim had left him a fine one. A thick rope of a scar crossed his throat from side to side. Slightly off true, it sloped just enough for the raised end to catch annoyingly on his armour seals, no matter how many times he had them adjusted.

‘Give me an exact estimated time of arrival,’ asked Guilliman.

There was a short wait while the pickled brains of dead men searched for the answer to the question.