Azrael ran along the endless tunnel, with the Librarians and Chaplains close behind. The Terminators followed after as quickly as their massive suits allowed, bearing the bodies of the dead.
Unlike the trek to the sorcerer’s ship, he felt no dislocation or confusion. A thought burned in him, kept him focused as the seemingly timeless journey continued. A single desire carried him through the fatigue and aches that gripped his body. Azrael was possessed by urgency. He cared little for the lives of the eldar, or any expectation they might have for coexistence, but if his brothers attacked there would be casualties amongst the Chapter. Needless casualties.
If he was to prosecute the Hunt as best he could, Azrael needed every warrior fighting fit, every commander and member of the Inner Circle all striving for the same aim. He would not start his time in command of the Dark Angels by throwing away the lives of his warriors.
The eldar warlock kept an effortless pace beside the Space Marines, seeming to float along the infinite passage. It was impossible to guess at the thoughts of such a strange creature, but Azrael had to think that Blade of Winter Tears shared his concern, only hers was for the lives of her kind. And, he suspected no small measure of self-preservation, for she was surrounded by a dozen of the Emperor’s finest warriors, whose wrath would be swift if they discovered battle had broken out on Rhamiel.
Without ceremony or word, Blade of Winter Tears darted ahead, blade flashing once before she disappeared through the cloven veil of reality.
Grunting, Azrael sprinted after, one moment racing along the immaterial threadway, the next pounding across the dark ground of the battlefield almost exactly where he had left. His boots skidded in the dust and grit as he came to a halt.