2nd Vanguard Corps, Day 5 of the March.
The column was now a mere 370 kilometers from the Frostwall.
Inside the command transport, Raynor was meticulously studying intelligence on the Greenskin "Slop-Pot." The primary ingredient of the Orks' foul sustenance was a xeno-fungus—a specialty of the Agri-World—stewed with the grease of fat Scuttlefish.
Research indicated that Orks preferred their meals fresh and scalding. Once cooled, the fungal cakes within the stew became as hard as stone, losing the pungent aroma the brutes craved. The taste, apparently, degraded rapidly.
The Empire knew this because of a tragic incident involving a Guardsman who had scavenged a dropped Ork pot. Shortly after consuming the filth, a fungal parasite gestated within the soldier's stomach, consuming him from the inside out. Only the swift discovery of the body and the subsequent cremation of both the man and the nearby Ork corpses had averted a catastrophic spores-outbreak.
Raynor surmised that the Orks at the Brevis encampment would certainly be brewing this "delicacy." Perhaps there was a way to sabotage the source.
"I need to find a way to infiltrate the Greenskin camp and verify their supply lines," Raynor mused aloud.
Just then, the miniature tearing worm on his shoulder twitched. Sarah's consciousness whispered a sharp warning into his mind: "There are unusual psionic fluctuations within the column."
Raynor set down his data-slate. His expression remained a mask of calm, but his heart grew heavy. They've arrived, he thought. Just as expected. From the moment he had unleashed Sarah, he knew it would draw the attention of the Inquisition.
"Can you pinpoint the source?" Raynor projected back through their mental link.
"It is obscured," Sarah replied. "The target is utilizing advanced counter-reconnaissance technology—far beyond standard Imperial patterns. Their psionic shielding is formidable. I only detected them because of a faint residue left by a recent psychic pulse."
"Her?" Raynor noted the specific pronoun.
"A female human. High psionic potential, professionally conditioned."
Raynor narrowed his eyes. A professional psyker with non-standard gear. The conclusion was inescapable: the Ordo Hereticus. Specifically, the radicals. These Inquisitors often utilized heretical tools to hunt heretics, willing to sacrifice any shred of their own humanity to purge a greater threat. They specialized in hunting the most dangerous prey: the "Enemy Within."
"Search for her," Raynor commanded Sarah. "But do not alert her. Determine her exact position and her intent."
"Acknowledged," Sarah whispered.
Raynor picked up his data-slate again, pretending to review reports. Having survived his encounters with Cassius, he understood the value of information. This time, he would not let himself or Sarah be backed into a corner.
Three hundred meters from Raynor's personal guard, on the flank of the Second Army, Thorin Wimlot leaned against a jagged boulder. Her light armor made her virtually invisible against the snow.
She wore Aeldari Shadowalker plate—a masterpiece of xeno-tech featuring a built-in psionic cloaking field. It distorted both light and psychic signatures, providing near-perfect optical and spiritual stealth. Thorin was an Interrogator of the Inquisition, reporting directly to Grand Inquisitor Abel Varo.
Three months ago, she had been dispatched to Brevis to assess the threat of the Icefield Mutants. But her mission had shifted. She had witnessed the battle at the Broken Canyon. Those "dragons" bore a seventy-percent morphological similarity to Tyranid bio-forms, yet they were more refined, more "regal." The blue-green leader, in particular, possessed a psionic signature of at least Alpha-level.
Most damningly, the creatures had ignored the Imperial troops to slaughter the mutants. Governor Raynor had even shared a moment of clear, silent communication with the beast.
Thorin was well-versed in the "Frost Dragon" myths, but she was a trained Xenologist. She knew that creature was no myth; it was a bio-weapon. However, as her mentor Abel often said, "An Inquisitor does not convict on intuition alone."
She was willing to be patient. She needed to witness the interaction again. She needed hard evidence that these creatures were tyranids. If the Tyranid infection had reached the Governor, the entire sector was already in the early stages of a planetary collapse.
If he is tainted, he must be purified, she thought coldly.
Suddenly, Thorin's heart skipped a beat. It wasn't a danger sense—her psychic shielding hadn't flagged any hostility—but it felt as if she had been "brushed" by a scan. She froze, cranking her Aeldari cloak to maximum power.
Seconds passed. The sensation vanished.
Thorin let out a shallow breath. There is a psyker in this army with keen senses, she noted. Perhaps a Military Chaplain, or the Governor himself. Reports claimed he had received the "Emperor's Blessing" during a Cathedral mass—often a euphemism for a latent psychic awakening.
She settled back into her vigil, unaware of the horror stalking her.
A Lictor, the apex of tyranids assassination bio-forms, stood less than ten meters behind her. Its three-meter-long body was covered in chameleon-scales that perfectly mimicked the snow and rock. Its scythe-like talons were capable of shearing through Terminator plate in a single strike.
Sarah had masked the Lictor's approach with a broad, subtle psionic pulse, while the Hive Mind's "Shadow in the Warp" provided a psychic shroud.
Thorin was a hair's breadth from a silent death. But Raynor had forbidden the kill. Killing an Inquisitor on Brevis would bring the full weight of the Ordo down upon his "haven." He didn't want to be a wanderer again; he wanted a base.
In his command transport, Raynor received word that the Lictor had secured the target's position. A cold, calculating smile crossed his lips. He would show this Interrogator the price of treading in his shadow.