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My plasma pistol hissed, and I saw the Null-Maiden's eyes grow wide. A wave of scorching heat washed over her, reducing the warrior woman to specks of dust that blew back into the faceplates of the Wolves she was protecting.
The sorceror beside me spoke his thanks into his vox, and raised high his arms. A dozen Space Wolves were lifted into the air, their bellows of rage continuing even as they flailed wildly. The sorceror's hands clenched into tight fists, and at once the roars of anger turned into screams of agony. All the Wolves were dropped to the ground, their power armor crumpled as though if crushed by armored fingers.
The sorcerer once again rose his arms to work his art, but this time, nothing came from his outstretched fingers. Another Silent Sister had taken the place of the one I incinerated, and before I or my brothers could slay her, the Wolves hit us in full force.
The Sons of Russ were a whirlwind of destruction. Their shrieking chainblades rose and fell with no elegance, no finesse. They did not need them. The Space Wolves relied on sheer power alone to break through the enemy, and none so far had been able to defy them. But here, on the sandswept plains of Prospero, against the warriors of the Thousand Sons, that doctrine would be solely tested.
Our line held, bolters blazing, staff-blades slicing. Exploding shells detontated against war plate, both grey and crimson, and left screaming men on the war trodden soil. Plasma cannons hissed and whined, turning entire squads of Astartes into floating motes of scorched ash in a heartbeat. Lascannon beams streaked wildly back and forth, punching holes into tanks and vaporizing men. War blades met and showers of sparks rent the air. Frost axes sundered apart those in crimson. Staff-blades impaled those in grey.
It was here on this battlefield that I killed my first Space Wolf.