With the Black Legion's vanguard shattered, the pressure on Vigilus momentarily eased. The Orks and Genestealer Cults, sensing the shifting tides, retreated into a state of "feigned dormancy."
They were wary of the Imperial Navy's newfound ruthlessness, yet a grim truth remained: the calm was an illusion. When the next wave of Chaos eventually arrived, the dormant xenos would surely rise to tear at the planet's throat once more.
Before his departure from the Central Sector, Emrys finalized his negotiations with the Agamemnus Hive governors and covertly established a "Warp-Anchor" teleportation array. It was a failsafe—a secret lifeline that would allow him to bypass the void and return to Vigilus should his voyage into the Imperium Nihilus meet a catastrophic end.
At the Agamemnus orbital spires, the Excalibur awaited.
The massive flagship resembled a floating cathedral-island, silhouetted against the starport's glare. Thousands of Tech-Priests swarmed its hull, performing the final Rites of Maintenance.
They chanted binary canticles and applied sacred unguents to the macro-cannon breeches—superstitious rituals that, in the nightmare reality of the Warp, were as essential as the engines themselves. Faith and machine-spirit appeasement were the only shields against the predatory entities of the Empyrean.
Emrys' departure had been delayed by three days to accommodate these holy cycles and the installation of the latest "Fortress-Class" void shield generators.
Emrys felt a pang of regret that he couldn't secure the STC blueprints for the technology, but Drayne had been clear: such knowledge was the guarded hoard of the local Forge-master. Stealing it would have invited a tech-heresy war he wasn't ready to fight.
"Forget it," Emrys murmured as he looked upon the ship. "The tools are mine to use; that is enough."
Before boarding, he took one last look at the smog-choked horizon of Vigilus.
"Thinking of Elsa?" Jackal asked, stepping up beside him.
"Not entirely," Emrys replied. "Once we cross the Great Rift, we don't know when—or if—we can return. I just wanted to memorize the sight."
Vigilus had been his crucible. He had faced the madness of Khorne, the schemes of the Black Legion, and the loss of Elsa here. He knew the war for this planet would likely outlast his own life, potentially grinding on for decades.
"Let's go back," he said, turning toward the airlock.
"Welcome back, Lord Emrys," the melodic, layered voice of the Excalibur's Machine Spirit greeted him as he stepped onto the bridge.
"I am home," Emrys replied.
"I detect a shift in your neural-humors, Lord," the ship's cogitators chimed softly. "Shall I summon an Apothecary or a Chirurgeon to stabilize your mood?"
"No need. I'm fine." Emrys shook his head. "Where is Archmagos Carol?"
"The Archmagos awaits you in the Prayer Hall, Lord."
Emrys walked alone to the Hall, where the air was thick with the scent of incense and the hum of power conduits. The Emperor's icon loomed at the far end, surrounded by the battle-scarred banners of the Emrys Dynasty.
"Lord Emrys, I am relieved to see you whole," Carol said, his crimson bionic eye whirring as it scanned his master. "When word reached us of the encirclement, we feared the worst. The Omnissiah has been merciful."
"The Omnissiah and the Emperor both," Emrys agreed. "How is Arthur?"
"Stable," Carol replied. "The stasis field you provided has arrested the toxin's progress. He will endure for the duration of the voyage, but a permanent cure remains elusive."
"I will find it," Emrys promised. "Prepare the crew. We depart for the Dark Side."
"As you command, Lord Emrys." Carol bowed, noting the cold, decisive aura Emrys now carried. He was no longer just a survivor; he was becoming a true Rogue Trader.
Moments later, the command bridge came to life. Emrys sat in the captain's throne, his gaze fixed on the Astropathic Choir. "Navigate by the Astronomican until we hit the Rift. Then, we rely on the charts."
The ship shuddered as the Gellar Field engaged. The roar of the Warp engines drowned out all other sound as the Excalibur tore a hole in reality and vanished from the Vigilus system.
"Target: Imperium Nihilus. Estimated travel time: Ninety Terran days."
However, deep in the lightless lower decks, a far more miserable scene unfolded. In the cramped, stinking barracks of the indentured deck-hands, a new slave sat huddled in a corner.
"Hey, new meat," another slave called out. "Why you staring at the view-port like that? Glad to be off that rock, aren't you?"
The new slave turned away, his eyes glowing with a faint, unnatural resentment. He was Trazak, the Necron Lord, now disguised in a mantle of synthetic human flesh. To maintain his cover, he had been assigned the most menial task on the ship: scrubbing the filth from the plasma conduits.
"Curse you, Trazyn," Trazak hissed under his breath, his metallic soul weeping with indignation. "I will have your head for this."