The Unremembered Empire

by Dan Abnett

  Their paths had crossed at Neryx, where Kleve’s forces had been caught in flight after the Isstvan massacre that had taken his beloved primarch. A sixty-day fight through the asteroid belt had finally ended when the Sons of Horus, snapping at Kleve’s throat, were driven off by Gantulga’s strike force.

  Word had already begun to spread of the Warmaster’s treachery, and Gantulga’s force had been hunting for targets. His remit had been to seek confirmation of the atrocity and its perpetrator, but Gantulga had found all the confirmation he needed in the sight of eight warships bearing Horus’s mark hounding a battered barge of the X Legion like dogs baiting a wounded bear.

  The Sons of Horus had not gone quietly. Knowing their astropathic death screams would swiftly bring more of their kind, the Iron Hands and White Scars had formed up and made a run for Momed, where further Iron Hands were reported to be mustering. Gantulga had transferred to Kleve’s barge to share intelligence data just before the assembled flotilla had entered the warp.

  Then the storm had struck and they had been lost. Their crossing had begun.

  Gantulga did not count the hours or the days. It was fluid to him.

  ‘Time is merely the distance between two objects,’ he said.

  Kleve had no choice. Settings in his optical implants automatically displayed the track of local time. He would relate the tally to Gantulga, and the White Scar would shrug, as if to note that while the data was practically meaningless, he appreciated the sharing.

  When the death of Ferrus Manus had been authenticated, Kleve had decreed that his companies would observe ten years of mourning. But as time was meaningless and fluid within the storm, and merely an arbitrary count in the corner of his vision, Kleve had also declared that the mourning would only begin once they were back in realspace, within the flow of time as it is understood in the physical universe.

  It had become his obsession: not deliverance or salvation, not to escape the storm, not even to find the enemy and avenge the fallen of his Legion. He simply wanted to end the crossing and translate again so that he could reset his counter and begin the mourning.

  That day, just another period marked for convenience on the shipboard watch, for the bucking, bridling ship travelled through the eternal storm-blackness of the warp, Kleve found Gantulga in an upper wardroom, teaching Chogorian combat slang to some of Kleve’s company and a party of remembrancers. Gantulga believed that there might be strategic benefits from having Iron Hands understand the private patois of the White Scars if they were to fight in close cooperation against a remorseless foe who otherwise knew all Imperial codings. The remembrancers were present to learn, and then act as tutors for those in Kleve’s company prevented from attending because of watch duties. Kleve had requested his remembrancers set aside their original role, a function that had been established to celebrate the glory of the Great Crusade. Since the treachery, there was nothing pure or worthy to remember. The only thing Kleve felt worth commemorating was the broken past before the fall, so the remembrancers had become willing memorialists.

  That day, which was just another meaningless mark in Kleve’s stoic timekeeping, and just another non-day to Gantulga, would turn out to be a day to mark after all.

  The Iron Hands and the memorialists rose as Kleve entered the wardroom. Gantulga did not. Kleve addressed him directly.

  ‘There is a light,’ he said. ‘A beacon.’

  ‘This I have heard,’ said Gantulga.

  ‘We steer towards it,’ said Kleve. ‘I have instructed the shipmaster so.’

  ‘Do we know if any of my ships are still with us?’ asked Gantulga.

  Kleve shook his head.

  ‘Is it the light of Terra?’ asked Gantulga, getting to his feet. ‘Is it the Astronomican, light of the Throne?’

  Kleve shook his head again.

  ‘The data is inconclusive. It seems unlikely. Analytically, its pattern is similar, but not the same. However, we are half-blind, and our sensors are hardly reliable.’

  ‘We should steer towards it,’ Gantulga agreed. He took out his long, slightly hooked sword, and laid it on the table in front of him. He placed his palms flat on the surface beside it, and made a silent oath of blessing to its trustworthiness and sharpness.

  ‘You draw your sword?’ asked Kleve.

  ‘I am a hunter,’ replied Gantulga, ‘so I know how hunters operate. The light may be Terra. It may be some other hope. But it may also be a lure. So let us go to this light, but let us do so armed until we know what it contains.’

  From the heart of the storm they came, over hours, then days, then weeks: lone ships, wounded vessels, broken flotillas and piecemeal fleets.

  They were the lost and the damned, survivors and refugees, men fleeing battles or hunting for them, or simply voyagers seeking shelter from the madness of the Ruinstorm.

  And they came to Macragge, the light in the darkness.

  Some were ships bringing much needed imports and materials from others of the Five Hundred Worlds. All brought news, or pieces of news. Many were ships of Guilliman’s own Legion, storm-lost on their way back from the Underworld War raging on Calth, or the bitter campaign against the traitor sons that snarled across Ultramar as a whole. Some carried more of the wounded Legions – the Iron Hands and Raven Guard, a handful of Salamanders. The stories they brought were the bitterest of all.

  ‘The Audience Hall is ready for you, lord,’ said Euten gently.

  It was a daily practice: the Lord of Ultramar would personally greet representatives of the ships that the light had brought to Macragge. There was some solace and joy in this, sometimes the reunion of old comrades, or the welcoming of a valuable asset. There was also grief and despair, however, and an ever-increasing tally of stories recounting infamy and loss. Guilliman thought his heart had been hardened by Calth to the point at which it had fused like the heavy-metal core of a star, inured to further pain, for a heart can only take a certain measure of pain before it ceases to feel.

  He had been wrong.

  He was studying a large-scale hololith display of the systems defences: Macragge and its orbital defences, the disposition of the Ultramar fleet elements and the newly arriving masses of ships, the outer weapons platforms and void stations, the starforts and lunar stations, the barrages and decoy hulks, the swathes of mines, the mid-system watch stations and sentry flotillas guarding the Mandeville point, the prowling patrols, the patient battlecruisers, the automated batteries. With dabs of his fingers, he was making adjustments to certain lines, and re-ordering ship positions.

  Euten knew this was merely automatic tinkering, the distracted activity of a mind that barely had to concentrate to supervise such strategic complexity.

  She knew, from long experience, that Guilliman’s mind was elsewhere.

  ‘My lord?’

  Guilliman did not look up.

  ‘Three dead,’ he said softly. ‘Lorgar’s boasts were true. Three.’

  ‘My lord.’

  Guilliman shook his head, eyes still on the display.

  ‘The stories they bring to me, Euten. That Horus, or any of them, should turn against us, against me, against my father… I cannot begin to process it. My only consolation… My only consolation at all, as I have learned through our bitter fight with Lorgar, is that something has overtaken them, contaminated them. The warp is in their brains. It hardly excuses their actions, but it explains them. They are run mad and are no longer of themselves.’

  He looked at the elderly chamberlain. She was upright and slender, supported by her tall staff. Her short hair was as glacial as her gown.

  ‘It is a hard thing to accept, my lord,’ she said.

  ‘I thought it would be the hardest,’ Guilliman agreed. ‘But what are brothers turned traitor compared to the death of three loyal sons? The survivors cannot refute it. Ferrus is dead. Corax, Vulkan, loyal all, and dead. Then, f
rom the mouths of others, this news from Prospero. Magnus defying our father so much that they set the damned Wolves upon him? And now we hear from the Phall System, confirmation that Perturabo has indeed betrayed us…’

  He rose to his feet.

  ‘What else? What else, I wonder? Is Terra already burning? Is my father already dead? If half of my brothers have turned to follow Horus’s treachery, then who remains? Three of those who might be counted loyal are already dead. Who else? Where is the Khan? Does Dorn burn along with Terra? Sanguinius and his Legion are said to be lost. The Lion has gone into the dark. Have the traitors hunted down the Wolf King and torn him to shreds? Am I alone now?’

  ‘My lord, you–’

  Guilliman held up his hand.

  ‘I am just thinking out loud, mam. I will be composed by the time I reach the hall. You know I will.’

  She nodded.

  ‘All I can count upon is what I know as solid fact,’ said Guilliman. ‘Macragge still stands. My Legion still stands. While those two facts remain, there remains an Imperium.’

  He pulled a mantle around his broad, armoured shoulders, and fixed the clasp at his throat. He was wearing the ceremonial version of his ferocious, clawed wargear, and carried no weapons. For his daily custom of greeting those coming to his light out of the storm, he carried no personal weapons.

  Euten watched her beloved lord fix the mantle. He looked, more than ever, like a monarch. Somehow the very lack of weapons made him seem more powerful.

  ‘We are all we can count on,’ Guilliman said. ‘The time has long passed coming. We must declare. We cannot afford to lose any more time. We cannot afford to wait to hear if Terra endures or my father yet breathes. For the sake of mankind, as my father would have wished it, the Imperium begins again here. Now.’

  He walked towards the chamber door.

  ‘And I will personally kill any bastard who tries to stop me.’

  4

  In the Hall of the

  Lord of Ultramar

  ‘Never stand between a predator and its quarry,

  Or between a king and his throne.’

  – proverb, from Illyrium

  ‘No one kneels here,’ Guilliman said as he strode into the Audience Hall, but everyone was already bowed. The hall was vast, ornately wrought in silver and gold, the soaring roof supported by a thousand columns with petal capitals. Across the broad floor of black and white mosaic tiles, hundreds of visitors knelt and bowed their heads. Nearly two-thirds of them were Space Marines of the Legions.

  ‘No one bows here,’ Guilliman said. ‘You are come to Macragge and you are welcome here. Let me greet you.’

  Flanked by the imposing Cataphractii Terminators of his Invictus bodyguard, Guilliman approached the nearest group. He raised the leader up, his hands clasping the warrior’s shoulders.

  ‘Name yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Verano Ebb, captain, Silence Squad, Raven Guard,’ the man replied.

  ‘Your loss is my loss, captain,’ said Guilliman.

  ‘And your hope is my hope,’ Ebb replied. ‘I pledge my force to you, lord. I ask nothing but the opportunity to stand with Ultramar and kill murderers.’

  ‘And I’d ask nothing else of you. Your place is here, Verano. Welcome.’

  Verano nodded a half-bow and gestured to the squads nearby.

  ‘Sardon Karaashison, Iron Hands, and all of his kinsmen that could be rallied. Beside him, Zytos of the Salamanders and his brothers.’

  Guilliman regarded them.

  ‘Do you pledge as Verano pledges?’ he asked.

  Karaashison was a flesh-spare creature in proud black and white plate. He had left his visor in place, undoubtedly because he had little organic face left beneath it. The visor was his face. The lenses of his helm slits glittered red.

  ‘I am, lord,’ he replied. ‘I will stand with any who stand against Horus.’

  Zytos had unclamped the helm of his green armour and stood with it under his left arm. His skin was almost as dark as the black finish of Karaashison’s livery. His eyes shone unnaturally brightly, as brightly as the photo-enhanced lenses of the Iron Hands warrior.

  ‘We mourn the loss of our brothers the Iron Hands and the Raven Guard,’ he said in a gentle, accented voice, ‘and we are bowed and bloodied. But the Eighteenth Legion Salamanders are not in mourning. We have resolved to remain steadfast, and to trust that our primarch, your brother, has survived. Until we see proof, we will not mourn.’

  ‘Is this false hope, Zytos?’ Guilliman asked.

  ‘It is pragmatism, lord.’

  ‘It might be argued that the pragmatic approach would be to accept the worst and move on. Hope can be a burden.’

  ‘Hope can be a weapon too,’ said the Salamander. ‘Just because we will not mourn, it does not follow that we will not fight. We will pledge to you, and make war at your side, and our fighting shout will be “Vulkan lives!”. Your word is our command, my lord, until the day our battle cry is proven true.’

  Guilliman moved on to the next group, a huddle of battered Imperial Fists led by a hulking giant. The man had been mauled by war, and had refused all except the most basic medical stabilisation. One arm was truncated, and looked as though it had been gnawed off.

  ‘Alexis Polux,’ he began, ‘captain of the 405th Company and–’

  ‘I know you, Alexis,’ said Guilliman.

  ‘I am flattered, my lord. I was not sure you would remember.’

  ‘I make a point of remembering all the officers my brothers regard as exceptional. I have read your report. The engagement in the Phall System.’

  ‘It was a bloody matter, lord.’

  ‘You displayed brilliant strategic thinking. The Iron Warriors had you outnumbered and outgunned.’

  Polux made no reply.

  ‘You escaped in a captured ship? The Contrador?’

  ‘It was not an escape. It was an exit, lord,’ Polux said. ‘Our primarch had signalled our immediate return to Terra. We do not disobey orders.’

  ‘Despite the losses you were forced to suffer by disengaging?’

  ‘I regret the losses,’ Polux said. ‘More than that, I regret not finishing the job. My retribution fleet had him, lord. We were close to killing the bastard.’

  There was silence in the hall. Traitor or not, no one was yet used to hearing one of the Emperor’s sons referred to with such disdain.

  ‘Perturabo is my brother,’ said Guilliman.

  ‘Apologies, my lord,’ said Polux. ‘I did not mean–’

  ‘He is also a thrice-damned bastard,’ said Guilliman. ‘Do not guard your words on my account. Alexis, I would have you do two things. First, accept the medical provision we can offer you here, so that you may be restored and renewed. Second, thus restored, stand with me and finish the job you started at Phall.’

  Polux hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘I accept both, my lord,’ he said, ‘but conditionally. I have orders to return to Terra, and I will not disobey them.’

  ‘There is no route to Terra now,’ said Guilliman. ‘Terra may no longer exist.’

  ‘You think the Throneworld has fallen?’ asked Polux.

  ‘I am sure it is the Warmaster’s primary target.’

  ‘Then all the more reason why we should rally, re-arm, and move en masse to Terra,’ Polux declared.

  ‘How long were you lost in the storm after Phall, Alexis?’ Guilliman asked. ‘I’m telling you there is no route to Terra. There is only one light in the darkness. We have no choice but to fortify and consolidate here. Besides, I feel I have the authority to countermand your orders.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Polux.

  ‘Alexis,’ said Guilliman, ‘I have seniority. Until someone arrives who outranks me, I have command. I intend to use it. We must save the Imperium. Speculation and indecision are not use
ful traits at this time.’

  Polux glared at the Lord of Ultramar. He was one of the few Space Marines who even remotely matched the primarch’s physical scale.

  ‘What have you done here, lord?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I am securing the Five Hundred Worlds, Alexis,’ Guilliman replied. ‘I am anchoring what remains of the Imperium on Macragge. We have a beacon, some security of transit, and the possibility of proper recomposition. For all intents and purposes, this is the Imperium.’

  ‘Which makes you what?’ asked Polux. ‘Our Emperor?’

  ‘I do not presume to inherit anything,’ said Guilliman, recoiling very slightly. ‘Like Zytos, I will wait for proof of life before I take any drastic measures. But if my father is dead and I am the last loyal primarch alive, then yes, I am the Imperium.’

  ‘If those are the circumstances, I will follow you,’ said Polux, ‘but I caution you that until we know–’

  ‘You are familiar, I’m sure, ‘said Guilliman, ‘with the Ultramarines’ concepts of theoretical and practical?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Everything is theoretical, Alexis. The rest of the Imperium, the security of Terra, the survival of my father. Macragge is the only practical. It’s the only thing we know we have, and at such a time of extremity, it’s the only foundation I know we can depend on.’

  Alexis Polux looked as though he had much more to say on the subject. He held Guilliman’s gaze, and nodded.

  ‘Practical solutions are what matter now,’ he said. ‘Fix me and I will fight at your command. I will fight, at the very least, to learn more of what is practical.’

  ‘Thank you, Alexis,’ said Guilliman. ‘I welcome whatever expertise you and your brothers can offer in the matter of improved fortification and defence. The Imperial Fists have long been renowned for–’

  He stopped. He had become aware of the quiet, steady scrape of a whetstone against a blade.

  Nearby, another Iron Hands officer waited with his men and a formation of White Scars for their opportunity to greet the primarch. Guilliman clapped Polux reassuringly on his sound shoulder and moved towards them. They seemed to be the origin of the scraping sound.