‘And murder duels?’ asked Ulris.
‘Murder duels will be fought against Xarl. Anyone who wishes to kill a brother for the honour of leading a claw is free to challenge him. I will grant a full claw to anyone that slays him.’
Grumbling simmered between several of the claws.
‘Yes,’ said Talos, ‘that is what I thought you would say. Now enough of this, we have gathered for a reason.’
‘Why did you bring us back to Tsagualsa?’ one of the warriors called out.
‘Because I am such a sentimental soul.’ Bitter, mirthless laughter broke out across the chamber in answer. ‘For those of you that have not heard, the planetary sweeps have detected cities capable of housing a population of over twenty-five million, principally spread across six major cities.’
Talos gestured to a tech-adept, who stepped forward to the table. Deltrian, his skeletal form robed as always, deployed a plethora of micro-tools through the tips of his fingers. One of them, a neural interface trident-pin, clicked within the table console’s manual socket. A sizeable hololithic image of the grey world appeared in the air above the table, fraught with eye-watering flickers.
‘I am operating under the primary hypothesis that the world’s past requires no explanation to the legionaries of the Eighth.’
‘Get on with it,’ muttered one of the Night Lords.
Such disrespect. It galled Deltrian to think of the ancient bonds of allegiance between the Martian Mechanicum and the Legiones Astartes, now degraded to this degree. All the oaths that had been sworn, and all the rituals of respect – reduced to ashes.
‘Honoured adept,’ said Talos. ‘Please continue.’
Deltrian hesitated, fixing the prophet with his dilating eye lenses. Without realising he still possessed such a curiously human habit, Deltrian reached up to adjust his hood, and sank his metallic features deeper into shadow.
‘I will vocalise the principal factors in the defence array. First, the–’
The Night Lords were already speaking over one another. Several shouted their objections.
‘We cannot attack Tsagualsa,’ said Carahd. ‘We cannot set foot upon that world. It is cursed.’ Murmurs of agreement grew in chorus.
Talos gave a short bark of a laugh, the sound shaped for mockery. ‘Is this really the time for idiotic superstition?’
‘It is cursed, Soul Hunter,’ Carahd protested. ‘All know it.’ But the agreeing mutters were fainter this time.
Talos leaned his knuckles on the desk, watching the gathered warriors. ‘I am willing to allow this world to rot, forgotten on the edge of space. But I am not willing to walk away when the world we called home for so many decades is infested with Imperial filth. You may run from this, Carahd. You may weep over a curse ten thousand years old, and long grown cold. I am taking First Claw down to the surface. I will show these intruders the unforgiving nature of the Eighth Legion. Twenty-five million souls, Carahd. Twenty-five million mouths to scream, and twenty-five million hearts to burst in our hands. You truly wish to remain in orbit while we bring this planet to its knees?’
Carahd smiled at that. ‘Twenty-five million souls.’ The prophet could already see the glint of avarice in the warrior’s eyes.
‘Is a world cursed simply because we left it in a moment of indignity? Or is the curse a beautifully convenient masquerade to conceal our shame at running from our second home world?’
Carahd didn’t answer, but the answer was clear in his colourless eyes.
‘I am pleased that we understand one another,’ finished Talos. ‘Now, Deltrian, please continue.’
Deltrian reactivated the hololithic image. It bred a ghostly gleam across the dark armour-plating of the gathered warriors. ‘Tsagualsa is as lightly defended as most Imperial frontier worlds. We have no data on the frequency or size of Naval patrols in the subsector, but given the location, viable projections indicate minimal and irregular presence of the Imperial war machine. Three Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes are known to hold protectorates in approximate regions. Each of these claims descent from Thirteenth Legion gene stock. Each of these was also present in the year–’
Talos cleared his throat. ‘The vital details, please, honoured adept.’
Deltrian repressed a blurt of irritated binary. ‘The world is undefended from orbit, as is common among frontier worlds, with the exception of any Imperial void patrols that are willing to risk venturing this far from the Astronomican. Without the Emperor’s warp beacon to guide their Navigators, destruction within the Sea of Souls is a significant threat. I struggle to process the reasons the Imperium would even establish a colony this far into the Eastern Fringe. The cities on the surface are likely to be self-sustaining society-states, almost certainly adapted to depend on global resources rather than the infrequent imports from the wider Imperium.’
‘What of military movements upon the surface?’ asked one of the warriors.
‘Analysing,’ Deltrian said. He turned his hand as though turning a key in a lock. The neural interface link clicked in the console, and the hololithic stuttered, several sections of the world now flashing red. ‘We have monitored satellite vox-traffic for the last sixteen hours, since arrival. It was initially remarkable in that so little communication takes place at all. The world is almost silent, suggesting devolution and/or a primitive grasp of technology.’
‘Easy prey,’ another Legionary grinned across the chamber.
Cease interrupting, Deltrian thought. ‘Three point one per cent of planetary vox communication was military in nature – or could be interpreted as such, in matters of city-state security and law enforcement – suggesting two things: firstly, that this world maintains a minor – perhaps infinitesimal – garrison of conscripts for planetary defence. Secondly, it suggests that despite its reasonable population statistics by the standards of Apex Degree frontier worlds, it levies no regiments for service in the Imperial Guard.’
‘Is that unusual?’ asked Xarl.
Cyrion chuckled. ‘What does he look like, an Imperial recruiter?’
Deltrian ignored the misguided attempt at wit. ‘Twenty-five million souls could sustain an Imperial Guard Founding, but frontier worlds seem to be marked for other tithes. The remote location of Tsagualsa makes it increasingly unfavourable and unlikely for Guard recruitment. It should be noted that the planet’s inhospitability renders it detrimental – almost hostile – to human life. Auspex readings indicate settlements capable of sustaining the stated numbers, but actual populations are likely to be lower.’
‘How much lower?’ another warrior asked.
‘Conjecture is useless. We will see for ourselves soon enough. The world is undefended.’
‘In short,’ Talos said, ‘this world is ours, brothers. We need only to reach out our claws and take it. We will divide before planetfall,’ Talos explained. ‘Each Claw will take a section of the city, to do with as they please.’
‘Why?’
All eyes turned to Deltrian. ‘You have something to say?’ Talos asked him.
The tech-adept took a fraction of a second to frame his thoughts into a verbal formation and tone calculated to offer the least offence.
‘I would ask, lord, why you seek to make planetfall here at all. What does this defenceless world offer us?’
Talos didn’t look away. His black eyes drilled into the tech-adept’s cowl, locking to the glimmering lenses therein.
‘This is no different to any other raid, honoured adept. We are raiders. We raid. This is what we do, is it not?’
‘Then I would form a further query. Why did we travel across a quarter of the galaxy to reach this location? I suspect I need not process the number of worlds in the Imperium and calculate the percentage that offer potential raid targets. So I would phrase my query thusly: Why did we come to Tsagualsa?’
The Night Lords fell silent again. They
watched the prophet in wordless patience, for once.
‘I want answers,’ Talos said. ‘I believe I will find them here.’
‘Answers to what, Soul Hunter?’ one of the warriors asked. He could see the question mirrored in many of their eyes.
‘To why we are still fighting this war.’
As expected, his answer was met with laughter, with the answers ‘To win it’ and ‘To survive’ mixed in with the amusement. That suited Talos well enough. Let them believe it was a veteran’s joke, shared with his kindred.
It took three hours for Xarl to speak the words Talos had been expecting.
‘You shouldn’t have said that.’
The arming chamber was a hive of industry, as Septimus and several servitors machined First Claw’s war plate onto their bodies.
Cyrion glanced at the human serf helping to drill his shin guard into its locking position.
‘You look like death,’ he pointed out. Septimus forced a smile, but said nothing. His face was a palette of bruised swelling.
‘Talos,’ Xarl said, ‘you shouldn’t have said that in the war council.’
Talos closed and opened his fist, testing the workings of his gauntlet. It purred in a muted orchestra of smooth servos.
‘What, exactly, should I not have said?’ he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Xarl shrugged his left shoulder as a servitor drilled the pauldron into place. ‘No one respects a maudlin leader. You are too thoughtful, too introspective. They considered your words to be a jest, and that was a saving grace. But trust me, brother, none of the Claws would wish to descend onto that cursed world purely to satisfy your desire for soul-searching.’
Talos nodded, agreeing easily while checking his bolter. ‘True. Their only reason for making planetfall is to spread terror through the population, is it not? There’s no place for nuance or deeper emotion in such shallow, worthless psyches.’
First Claw looked at their leader in silence for several moments.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Xarl asked. ‘What bitterness grips you these nights? You were speaking like this before you fell into the long dream, and have been twice as bad since awakening. You cannot keep shouting out against the Legion. We are what we are.’
The prophet locked his bolter to his thigh plating along the magnetic seal. ‘I am tired of merely surviving this war. I want to win it. I want there to be meaning behind fighting it.’
‘We are what we are, Talos.’
‘Then we must be better. We must change and evolve, because this stasis is worthless.’
‘You sound like Ruven before he left us.’
The prophet’s lips curled in a snide sneer. ‘I have carried this bitterness for a long time, Xarl. The only difference is that now I wish to speak of it. And I do not regret it. To speak of these flaws is like lancing a boil. I already feel the poison bleeding from me. It is no sin to wish to live a life that matters. We are supposed to be fighting a war and inflicting fear in the name of our father. We are sworn to bear his vengeance.’
Xarl didn’t hide the confusion taking hold of his pale features. ‘Are you insane? How many among the Legion truly paid heed to the rantings of a mad primarch spoken so long ago?’
‘I am not saying the Legion has heeded those words,’ Talos narrowed his eyes. ‘I am saying that we should heed them. If we did, our lives would be worth more.’
‘The Legion’s lesson is taught. It was taught when he died. All that remains is to survive as best we can, and wait for the Imperium to fall.’
‘And what happens when it falls? What then?’
Xarl looked at Talos for a moment. ‘Who cares?’
‘No. That is not enough. Not for me.’ His muscles bunched as he clenched his teeth.
‘Be calm, brother.’
Talos moved forward, immediately restrained by Mercutian and Cyrion, who struggled to hold him back.
‘It is not enough, Xarl.’
‘Talos…’ Cyrion grunted, seeking to drag the prophet back with both arms.
Xarl watched with wide eyes, unsure whether to reach for his weapon. Talos still sought to throw his brothers free. Fire danced in his dark eyes.
‘It is not enough. We stand in the dust at the end of centuries of useless sin and endless failure. The Legion was poisoned, and we sacrificed an entire world to cleanse it. We failed. We are the sons of the only primarch to hate his own Legion. There, again, we failed. We swore vengeance on the Imperium, yet we run from every battle where we don’t possess overwhelming force over a crippled enemy. We fail, again and again and again. Have you ever fought a battle you’d struggle to win, with no hope of running away? Have any of us? Have you ever, since the Siege of Terra itself, drawn a weapon with the knowledge you might die?’
‘Brother…’ Xarl began, backing away as Talos took another step closer, despite Cyrion and Mercutian’s best efforts.
‘I will not see my life whored away without meaning. Do you hear me? Do you understand me, prince of cowards? I want vengeance against a galaxy that hates us. I want Imperial worlds to cower when we draw near. I want the weeping of this empire’s souls to reach all the way to Holy Terra, and the sound of suffering will choke the corpse-god on his throne of gold.’
Variel had joined in, restraining Talos from getting any closer to Xarl. Only Uzas stood apart, watching with dead-eyed disinterest. The prophet thrashed in their grip, managing to kick Cyrion away.
‘I will cast a shadow across this world. I will burn every man, woman and child so the smoke from the funeral pyres eclipses the sun. With the dust that remains, I will take the Echo of Damnation into the sacred skies above Terra, and rain the ashes of twenty million mortals down onto the Emperor’s palace. Then they will remember us. Then they will remember the Legion they once feared.’
Talos hammered his elbow into Mercutian’s faceplate, knocking his brother back with a crack of ceramite. A fist into Variel’s throat sent the Apothecary sprawling, until no one stood between Xarl and the prophet. Talos aimed Aurum’s golden blade at his squadmate’s left eye.
‘No more running. No more raiding to survive. When we see an Imperial world, we will no longer ask if it is worth attacking for plunder, we will ask how much harm its destruction would cause the Imperium. And when the Warmaster calls us for the Thirteenth Crusade, we will answer him. Night by night, we will bring this empire to its knees. I will cast aside what this Legion has become, and remake it into what it should be. Do I make myself clear?’
Xarl nodded, his eyes locked to the prophet’s. ‘I hear you, brother.’
Talos didn’t lower the blade. He breathed in the stale, recycled air of the shipboard ventilation, tinged with the musk of weapon oils and Septimus’s fear-sweat.
‘What?’ he asked the slave.
Septimus stood in his beaten jacket, his scruffy hair loose around his face, not quite hiding the damaged optic lens. He held his master’s helm in his hands.
‘You are bleeding from your ear, lord.’
Talos reached to check. Blood marked the fingers of his gauntlets. ‘My skull is aflame,’ he admitted. ‘I have never felt my thoughts running clearer, but the trade in pain is extremely unpleasant.’
‘Talos?’ one of his brothers said. He wasn’t sure which one. Through blurring vision, they all looked the same.
‘It is nothing,’ he told the faceless crowd.
‘Talos?’ a different voice called. He was struggling with the realisation that they couldn’t understand what he was saying. His tongue had turned thick. Was he slurring his words?
The prophet stilled himself, taking a deep breath.
‘I am fine,’ he said.
Each of them looked at him with doubt in their eyes. Variel’s cold gaze was keenest of all.
‘We must speak in the apothecarion soon, Talos. There are tests to be run
, and suspicions I hope are not confirmed.’
‘As you wish,’ he conceded. ‘Once we return from Tsagualsa.’
IV
THE THREAT OF WINTER
The city of Sanctuary barely deserved the title, and it deserved its name even less. By far the largest of the settlements on the far-frontier world Darcharna, it was a mongrel cityscape formed from landed explorator ships, half-buried colonist cruisers, and simple prefabricated structures risen against the howling dust storms that blanketed the planet’s face in place of real weather.
Walls of cheap rockcrete and corrugated iron ringed the city limits, patchworked by flakboard repairs and armour-plating pried from the beached spaceships.
The lord of this spit-and-bonding-tape settlement looked out at his domain from the relative quiet of his office. Once, the room had been the observation spire aboard the Ecclesiarchy pilgrim hauler Currency of Solace. Now it stood empty of the pews and viewing platforms, housing nothing beyond the archregent’s personal effects. He called it his office, but it was his home, just as it had been the home of every single archregent for the last five generations, since the Day of Downfall.
The window-dome was thick enough to suppress the gritty winds into silence, no matter how they thrashed and raged at the settlement below. He watched the gale’s shadow now, unable to see the howling winds but forever able to see their influence in the flapping of ragged flags and the crashing of armoured windows slamming closed.
Will we go dark, he wondered. Will we go dark again? Is this the first storm of yet another Grey Winter?
The archregent pressed his hand to the dense glass, as though he could feel the gale blowing through the bones of his junkyard city. He let his gaze drift upward, to the thin cloud cover and the stars beyond.
Darcharna – the real Darcharna – was still out there somewhere. Perhaps the Imperium had despatched another colonist fleet to replace the one that had been lost with all souls in the deepest depths of the warp, only to find itself vomited back into real space in the Eastern Fringe. What little contact existed between this Darcharna, the Darcharna they called home, and the wider Imperium was limited, to say the least. It was also not a matter for the populace. Some things had to be kept secret.
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