by John French
Argonis removed his helmet and locked it to his belt. The light of the data screens flickered in his eyes. Volk could tell that the emissary was about to speak.
‘You wish to see what the Warmaster’s command has brought about,’ said Perturabo, his head turning to look at Argonis. His skin was parchment-pale, drawn tight over the skull beneath. His armour hissed as hidden pistons flexed like muscles.
Argonis nodded.
Perturabo gestured. A cone of light sprang into being. Krade and its system glowed green in the projection. A spiral of ships extended from the planet’s northern pole, each also marked in green.
The enemy war fleet held off, watching and waiting to see what the Lord of Iron was doing. Sensor data ringed each of the enemy ships. Most were medium tonnage warships, crewed by humans. Two were behemoths of the void. The Acresas and the Nebula Born were both war barques of the Cassini dynasty, exiled lords of the Jovian void-clans returned from the edge of the galactic rim. Beside these hung the serrated barb of a lone Legiones Astartes cruiser. The Consul of Eternity gleamed with bronze plating, and the symbol of the Ultramarines sat above its prow, clutched in the claws of a silver hawk. It was a considerable force – not enough to blockade a world but more than enough to dispute one. Volk took in the display, his eyes moving over the clusters of enemies, assimilating the position. Argonis spoke his thoughts out loud.
‘That is the Dagger of Orion,’ said the emissary, nodding at the deployment pattern of the enemy ships. ‘The Ultramarines are cautious, but they will strike once it is clear what our ships intend.’
‘You are a scholar of void war as well as an ambassador,’ said Perturabo. ‘Tell me, then, what would you do to break clear of the system?’
Argonis did not hesitate.
‘Send two substantive forces running for the inner reaches of the system, draw them to counter, and then advance your fleet directly at those trying to contain you. Concentrate strikes and burn at maximum speed to break through.’
‘Simple and direct,’ rasped Perturabo. ‘I can almost taste the Cthonian ash in it.’ Perturabo’s eyes narrowed as they turned from the emissary to the screens of data. ‘But Guilliman’s dogs stand against us, and while they are many things, they are not fools.’ He breathed and raised a hand. The weapon pod on its back vented cooling gas in a hissing exhalation. His fingers opened with a melody of smooth gears. The thrum of distant engines increased. On the display, the marker of the Iron Blood began to move.
‘They have already theorised that part of the fleet might be trying to break out.’ Signals and data markers sparkled amongst the Iron Warriors ships. ‘They have already made allowance for that fact.’ The Iron Blood’s fleet was accelerating. The spiral formation of the ships began to rotate faster. ‘Your plan would still work. We would still break through. Casualties would be almost identical to those we shall sustain.’
Volk watched as the enemy elements began to respond. Ordnance launch warnings flashed beside the clusters of ships. In his mind he heard the roar as torpedoes kissed the void and engines flared to full power. In the strategium, all was silence, and the distant growl of plasma reactors sounded like the echo of gathering thunder.
‘An adequate solution,’ said Perturabo, ‘but one that misses the point.’ Weapon and full battle readiness icons flashed through the Iron Warriors fleet. ‘There are four elements to our force. One remains here to hold the void for as long as the battle on the surface lasts. Two are battlefleets that will make for Mondus Kraton and Numinous, and from there travel through the Beta-Garmon breach to the muster at Ullanor…’
‘Lord Perturabo,’ called a tactical serf from the tiers of systems stations. ‘All elements await your word.’ Perturabo did not shift his gaze from Argonis. The emissary returned it unblinking.
‘Do you know what the true nature of iron is? Even when still, even when it is a lump of ore in the ground, iron dreams, for it knows its purpose…’ He looked at the serf who had spoken a second before. He nodded. ‘That purpose is to cut…’
The serf turned, gesturing to her underlings.
‘To crush…’ said Perturabo, in a voice that rasped like a whetstone on a keen edge.
Orders crackled across the vox. The scads of data reflected in Perturabo’s eyes flickered and began to flow faster.
‘To break.’
The holo-display was rotating, the view broadening. The entirety of the Iron Warriors fleet was dropping into formation around and behind the Iron Blood as the vast capital ship accelerated. The enemy ship groups were moving too, burning on attack vectors, sliding against the stars so that they could plunge down into the mass of the Iron Warriors ships like hawks through a flock of doves. But they were moving too slowly, and Volk could tell that in their theoretical projections, the commanders had assumed that a force would remain close to Krade; that even if they came in strength, the Iron Warriors would not come as a whole; that they could not cohere as fast as they had.
‘I have always admired Cthonian directness,’ said Perturabo, his gaze again locked on Argonis as the glow of battle data flared and shifted behind him. ‘The spear thrust, the single strike which ends all conflict. But a spear thrust is only as good as the target it strikes at.’
‘You are not withdrawing from the system…’ began Argonis. Volk’s gust of laughter cut him off.
Volk looked at the primarch, biting back the cold humour that had risen in him as he realised what they were doing. Perturabo glanced at him, and in the lightless depths of the primarch’s gaze he saw a flicker of something he had not seen in a long time: a connection, a moment of shared understanding so strong that for that instant he felt that his next thought was an echo of Perturabo’s own.
‘You do not see, brother,’ said Volk. ‘You think that our only purpose is to follow your order, that we are swords to be wielded and then put down.’
The mass of the Iron Warriors fleet was pushing forwards, a shotcannon blast fired at where the Ultramarines warship moved with its shoal of escort craft. The Iron Blood’s sisters spread in a wide cone around it. Fire began to shiver across the holo-projection. Shield data-values decremented. Ammunition expenditure surged.
‘But we are not tools to be used,’ said Forrix, coming to stand next to Volk.
The enemy fleet was reacting. Fire lashed into outer elements of the Iron Warriors formation. Ships died. Shields crumpled. Hulls split and gushed fire and light into the dark. But the Iron Blood cut on, the distance between it and the Consul of Eternity shrinking.
‘Our iron is in our blood, not in our blades.’
They were losing ships. They were suffering. But none of that mattered. As Volk watched the Ultramarines ships spiral and pour fire at them, he knew that there were Legion brothers dying there that were just splinters of light set before his eyes.
‘Why?’ asked Argonis as the Consul of Eternity began to burn under the fire of five warships.
Perturabo did not answer for a moment. He was watching as the casualty values rose.
‘Because we were made to build, but now we exist to destroy.’ Then he raised a hand, and with a flick the screens of data were blank and the air where the holo-projection had been empty. ‘Send the order for the fleet elements to separate and translate to the warp as soon as we are past the system threshold.’
‘Our course?’ asked Argonis as Perturabo turned and moved towards the chamber’s doors. The Iron Circle turned their green gazes on the emissary. Fine gears clicked and whirred in their arms as they shifted posture fractionally. Volk was reminded of the muscles flexing in a warrior’s sword arm. Argonis’ face remained impassive. ‘Where are we bound?’ he called.
‘Even Angron’s wild dogs need bullets and armour,’ said Forrix. ‘So we go to the forge that feeds them.’
‘Sarum,’ said Perturabo without turning. ‘We are going to the cradle of the dragons of war.’
/> Six
Maloghurst
Maloghurst passed through the Vengeful Spirit as a ghost. The passages he moved through were narrow, and, until recently, untrodden by all but the lowest maintenance servitors. Pipes and bundles of cables lined the circular walls. The air buzzed with static. There was almost no light, but his eyes gathered the scraps of what there was and made an image of the world for him in grey monochrome. A loose cloak covered his armour, but what truly hid him was not the cloak, nor the shroud of cantrips that stole the sound and sight of his passing. What made him invisible was simply that he walked where no one else walked.
There were marks from the Wolves’ incursion here: spent shells, splinters of ceramite, the soot and dust of explosions. Maloghurst moved past them, listening all the while to the change in the ship’s pulse. It was breaking anchor, it and its court of warships. Out in the darkness, vast engines would be pouring plasma into the void. Signals would be flicking between vessels. Huge craft would slide into position next to the Vengeful Spirit. The warp drives would kindle soon and begin to loosen the weave of reality.
He thought of Aximand – doubting, noble Aximand, the last simple warrior of the Mournival. He thought of him standing on the bridge, watching the flow of commands across the fleet, the stitched mask of his face furrowed by thoughts of the greater war far beyond what he could see. He was an able commander who had overseen the breaking of worlds, but the command of a war like this was beyond even him. He had coped so far, following the direction of the Warmaster’s last orders, but soon that momentum would run out. Aximand knew that, knew that only the Warmaster could hold together the storm he had created.
But what would that understanding do to Aximand? How would the weight of the unknown colour his actions? Maloghurst thought he knew, and he did not like the answer that he saw.
He paused at a junction, checked his position against his mental map and looked for the floor hatch. Sure enough, there it was, its edges hidden by dust and a layer of corrosion. He knelt, fingers finding the release. He paused, looking along each of the dark branches of the tunnel around him.
‘I know you are there,’ he said. ‘The need for theatrics is tiresome.’
‘But prudence and care are never without value,’ answered a voice from the dark.
A hiss of breath and a scrape of sharp metal on metal came from the dark as Sota-Nul unfolded into sight, mechadendrites pulling her from a fissure between two pipes like a spider emerging from a burrow.
Maloghurst felt his jaw clench. The sight of Kelbor-Hal’s representative always made him think of the sound of insect carapaces crunching under his boot.
‘I hope that you have followed through with all aspects/necessities of your plan, Twisted One,’ she said. A wet clicking noise came from beneath the black folds of her robes. Maloghurst wondered if it was a smile. Or a laugh. ‘If you have made an error, the outcome is unlikely to be favourable for you.’
‘You have my thanks for being here,’ he said, fighting to stop his teeth gritting as he spoke.
‘The values of sincerity in your voice are below your usual achievement level,’ she said. ‘Of course you are pleased that I am here. Your intent could scarcely have hope of success without my presence/cooperation.’
He let out a quiet breath. She was right of course. But he still would have liked to shoot her.
‘Let’s move,’ he said, reaching for the handle of the hatch in the floor.
Sota-Nul raised a single mechadendrite. Maloghurst stopped, held by the gesture. He noticed for the first time that the three manipulators at the end were human fingers, the skin waxen and yellow.
‘A moment,’ said Sota-Nul. The human fingers began to curl shut one joint at a time. ‘There,’ she said as the last digit closed. A deep swell of vibration rolled through the floor and walls as the warp engines came online in the depths of the ship. In the warren tunnels the slaves and menials would be still, eyes closed, some moaning, some whispering prayers to the new gods. In the command nodes, eyes would be watching for system failures or temporal anomalies. Sota-Nul’s brothers and sisters in the Mechanicum would be crooning over their systems. Even if one of the ship’s systems would normally have noticed a sub-maintenance hatch open, the chances of that alert being heeded were now negligible.
Maloghurst pulled the hatch open and swung into the space beneath it. His twisted flesh protested, but he overrode the pain with a twitch of will. Sota-Nul followed him, climbing down suspended between her mechadendrites. She pulled the hatch closed after them. Maloghurst began to climb down the shaft, hands and feet finding the rungs bolted into the wall.
‘It is fortunate that the Wolves did not find this route,’ said Sota-Nul as they descended.
‘How would they?’ asked Maloghurst. ‘Even that fool Loken did not know this ship as well as he thought. To find places like this you have to look with a different eye.’
‘A traitor’s eye…’
‘An eye that does not assume that anything is innocent,’ replied Maloghurst.
‘The Justaerin will be watching. Even if they do not know of this exact route into the throne chambers, they will be watching.’
‘They will,’ agreed Maloghurst.
Kibre… Ever the shadow of Abaddon but without the depths that the First Captain hid behind his mask of aggression. The Widowmaker would have to be dealt with, if this gambit did not succeed. While the current situation worked slowly on Aximand’s weaknesses, the effect had been swift with Kibre. He had reverted to suspicion, to denial and protection. He would never have agreed to what Maloghurst was going to try. Worse, he would have killed the equerry if he had attempted it openly. Maloghurst had seen that in Kibre’s eyes outside the throne room with Lorgar. He was terrified but could feel no fear, and that paradox did things to the mind, predictably human things.
‘You do not seem concerned,’ said Sota-Nul.
‘I have your help, do I not?’ said Maloghurst, stepping from the wall of the shaft to the passage floor beneath. He could feel the purr of sensor waves vibrating just at the edge of hearing. If he stepped a metre either way at this point, alerts would begin to sound that even the warp translation would not mask. ‘Does not the representative of the Fabricator General pass where she will?’
Sota-Nul slithered down to his side. She rotated her head, code clicking and hissing from beneath her cowl. The murmur of the sensors vanished.
‘If you open a door and find a weapon aimed at you, that freedom has limited utility.’
Maloghurst moved down the tunnel. This close to his goal he could feel the warp flexing and shivering even within the dampening envelope of the Geller field. So close… He just had to hope that he had judged right. He reached the door. It was small, heavy and the locking mechanism within it was intricate and strong enough to hold back an army.
Sota-Nul drifted forwards and then jerked to a halt a metre from Maloghurst. Her hooded head twitched, then turned to look at him. The colour of the lenses within her cowl shifted from violet to crimson.
‘There are reports of riots amongst the menial gangs.’
Maloghurst smiled to himself.
‘A common enough occurrence during a translation, though ill-advised on their part. They will not survive retribution.’
Sota-Nul shook her head again.
‘Somehow they have penetrated the command citadel. Their numbers are large. Indications are that they have succumbed to a mass derangement of suicidal magnitude. The Justaerin have moved personally to seal the throne chamber levels.’
‘Oh… now a coincidence like that could be considered convenient,’ he said, keeping his voice flat. ‘Please open this door now.’
‘There will still be one of the First Company within,’ hissed Sota-Nul. ‘Not even your serpent ways could remove that honour guard from his place.’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘I could not d
o that. Now open the door.’
The tech-witch hesitated. Her mechadendrites flexed in the air for a second, and then she drifted forwards, muttering sounds that might have been screeds of machine code or whatever passed for curses amongst her kind. She stopped in front of the door and pulled a key from beneath her robe with the waxen fingers. It was made of black metal, and its teeth glinted with circuitry in the red light of her eyes. She slotted it into the door and turned it.
A murmur of machinery purred through the door, and then it hinged away from them. Maloghurst ducked through, followed by the tech-witch, and stepped into the shadows of the Warmaster’s throne room.
An aimed bolter waited for them, steady in the hands of a black-armoured warrior.
Maloghurst inclined his head briefly. Behind the calm mask of his face, he remembered the last time they had met, days ago in the utter quiet of one of the Vengeful Spirit’s forgotten reaches.
‘Do you understand what I am asking of you?’ he had asked.
‘Treachery,’ the warrior said. ‘You are asking for treachery.’
Maloghurst held the warrior’s gaze, unblinking, and then nodded once.
‘Exactly.’
‘Then we have an understanding,’ the warrior said.
‘If you fail, or are discovered…’ he began.
‘Then I will end with my head impaled on a spike at best, and at worst… a lot worse than that.’ The warrior grinned the last words, showing rows of steel teeth with delicately sharp points. His face was pale, the eyes amber, and the gang tattoos that curled on his cheeks were like shadows cast by the wings of crows.
