by Various
‘Do you yield?’
Temur’s demand was made while the others were being disarmed by Neriedes and the rest. The legionary’s only reply was a wordless snarl and a fist, which glanced from Temur’s breastplate as he stepped back.
A second later, the Chapter Master’s energy-wreathed sword protruded from the warrior’s chest, illuminating his face from below with a blue aura, his features a mask of pained surprise. Temur pulled the blade free with a look of genuine regret, letting the body clatter to the floor. Neriedes and Astelan accepted the necessity of the Space Marine’s death without reaction, but the lesser captains paled, realising only now that their coup could never have been bloodless.
That was the tipping point, Astelan noted. There could be no turning back for them.
He pushed forwards to the security console while the remaining captives were secured with electro-manacles.
‘No alarm raised, no lockdown.’
His fingers moved across the keypad and behind him the security bolts on the doors snapped open.
Temur’s blood was up and he led the way, thrusting open the double doors without delay. They searched the reception hall and the bedchamber and found them empty, although reports had confirmed that Luther would be in his quarters at that hour. Only one room remained – the Grand Master’s sanctum, located on the floor above.
Astelan was the last up the stairwell, power sword and bolt pistol at the ready. When Temur reached the doorway at the top he did not pause, but crashed shoulder-first into the timbers, splitting the jamb and sending the door splintering from its hinges.
Luther was stood at a high window, looking south across the lower halls and towers of Aldurukh. He had been a large man, broad at the shoulders, thick at the neck, even before the augmentations wrought upon him by the Legion’s Apothecaries. There was a dry, cracked quality to his skin, and artificially reinforced veins bulged in his neck as he tensed.
The Grand Master of the Order held a large book bound in deep red leather, a small dagger used as a bookmark on the open pages. He snapped the book shut and turned calmly, his expression guarded as he looked at the intruders with a raised eyebrow.
‘What manner of entrance is this? If you had but asked, I would gladly have granted you an audience.’
Temur was in no mood for Luther’s humour, and held his bolt pistol to the Grand Master’s head. ‘By the authority of the Emperor of Mankind, I charge you with perverting command of the First Legion, for insubordination to the orders of your primarch, and sundry other charges to be detailed at a later time. You are to disarm yourself and relinquish all command of Caliban and its forces.’
Luther’s gaze settled on Astelan, standing by the door.
‘You too, Merir? I thought you were wiser than this. Do you know what manner of calamity you are about to unleash? You cannot possibly believe that this farce will succeed.’
‘I thought you might harbour doubts about my sincerity,’ Astelan replied. ‘Permit me to allay them.’ He placed a small hololithic receiver on the desk and activated his vox. ‘Begin transmission.’
It was Lady Tylain that answered. ‘Connection established, Chapter Master. Ready to move on your command.’
The hololith sprang into life, showing a needle-like tower that rose from lightly forested hills. Luther looked more closely at the grainy image. ‘Redevakh? The astropath facility...’
‘It is.’
Astelan manipulated the display to focus on the main valley leading to the tower. Several thousand legionaries were advancing through the hills, flanked by battle tanks and walkers from the defence force. Even in the projected light of the hololith, it was clear that most of the Space Marines were clad in the black livery of the original Terran Chapters, but some sported plates of dark green showing that they had been raised on Caliban.
Luther straightened, his expression unreadable.
‘I see.’
‘Not yet. Continue to observe.’ Astelan activated the link again. ‘Marchesa-colonel, please execute your orders. This instruction cannot be countermanded.’
‘Affirmative, Chapter Master. All units are in position, commencing action immediately. Let us hope that history remembers us fondly, or not at all.’
The lead elements of the rebel Space Marine force were almost in position when a succession of bright flashes broke the gloom beneath the treeline. A moment later detonations bloomed among the ranks of advancing warriors, followed almost instantly by the reverberating impacts of shells over the vox-link. The escorting armoured vehicles ploughed to a stop, and turned their turrets on the Dark Angels.
Jets screamed in from the clouds and more tanks rumbled into view while detachments of defence force soldiers emerged from the trees at a run. With them was a full Chapter of Space Marines, the company banner of Captain Galedan flying above the command section. More concussive blasts shook the advancing rebels as bombs and tank cannons laid down a carpet of destructive fire.
Temur was aghast. ‘Damn them, what are they doing?’
He and the other rebel officers in the sanctum chamber were transfixed by the holo-display, but Luther’s stare snapped up to Astelan. In that instant, there was recognition in his eyes.
Armour shattered and flesh sizzled as Astelan’s first cut took off Temur’s pistol hand. Luther was already moving towards Neriedes, the dagger from the book held before him. Astelan’s sword parted Temur’s throat even as he turned in shock towards his attacker, and a third strike lanced through the chest of Captain Azraphal. Luther pushed the point of the dagger into Neriedes’ left eye, driving it up to the hilt in the socket as he rode the collapsing Space Marine to the ground.
The bark of bolt pistols seemed deafening in the confines of the chamber and Astelan flinched, feeling an impact on his left pauldron. He spun and returned fire, dropping Captain Gosswyn at close range.
Captain Orhn backed away from him, readying his sword to strike instead at Luther, before the Grand Master could rise. Astelan did not hesitate, hacking off the captain’s head with two ragged blows.
He glanced back at the hololith, seeing the rebel ranks capitulating to Galedan and Lady Tylain. Surrounded by Imperial armour divisions and their Legion brothers, with devastating airpower above, Astelan did not blame them.
‘I hoped more of them would surrender...’ he murmured breathlessly.
Luther watched them throwing down their weapons, the column disintegrating in shame before Astelan’s forces. The vox-link brought confirmation from Lady Tylain.
‘Captain Galedan is formally accepting the surrender, Chapter Master. The rebels have little desire to fight other Space Marines. My forces will continue to provide overwatch and support.’
‘My thanks, marchesa-colonel,’ Astelan replied. ‘You have done us a great service today. Have the rebels brought to Aldurukh for the judgement of Lord Luther.’
Luther grunted in derision. ‘Twice-cursed, to be traitors and cowards. However, I praise your foresight in not ordering them all executed.’
‘It seemed wasteful. They might be taught to see the error of their ways. I hear that the Order can be... very persuasive.’
‘Indeed. Though I am not sure where we will keep so many prisoners.’
‘There are dungeons beneath the Rock. I suggest you carve out more cells.’
Luther turned his head to regard Astelan coldly. ‘Why not alert me to this uprising before now? All bloodshed could have been avoided, had you informed me when you first learned of the rebellion.’
‘I drew out those truly committed to your downfall. Open action against you justifies this response, without question.’
‘And at what point did you choose to betray them?’
‘I prefer to think that I “remained loyal”, my lord,’ Astelan replied, bowing his head.
‘You did not answer the question.’
‘From the outset, of course.’
‘I find that curious. You are Terran, and your distaste for Caliban and its people is known. Was it out of loyalty? Perhaps you saw that the rebellion was doomed from the beginning and wished to curry favour with the winning side. Was power your desire, to return to the glories of command and… relevance?’
‘Nothing so devious, my lord. My reasons for supporting you are simple – I do not know everything that has transpired between you and the Lion, but I can tell that you no longer work to his aims.’
Astelan gathered his thoughts.
‘When the Emperor exterminated my people, I did not lament. I saw that the execution of power could be righteous, even if it brought misery. To oppose it was pointless, a meaningless act of vanity that would end in death. When I was drawn into the Legion, I became a facet of that power – an element of its application. Now I see that a different power is rising, and it is similarly futile to decry it.’ He rested his sword’s tip upon the floor. ‘I prefer action to clever words, Grand Master. The Lion is a taint. All that has befallen the First Legion since we discovered your benighted world is due to his misguided influence. To oppose him, to set myself against the woes he has caused us, I would pledge allegiance to a more worthy lord. Tell me I was wrong, that you are fully committed and loyal to the primarch, and I will join those prisoners right now.’
Luther’s thoughtful silence proclaimed more than any words ever could.
The rebel legionaries were interred in barracks and guard rooms, watched over by Luther’s troops, while the most senior dissenters were escorted to the cells beneath Aldurukh. Astelan waited at the main gate with Galedan, watching the procession of dejected warriors filing past.
‘Luther approved your promotion to Chapter Master, then.’
‘He did,’ Galedan replied. ‘The first favours spilling from the hand of our new overlord?’
‘No. Confirmation that he shares my faith in you.’
Astelan saw Melian, but the captain turned his head away in disgust, not willing even to look at his former master. Astelan looked back to Galedan.
‘I’m glad he survived.’
‘Melian? Yes, he’s a good captain – it’s a shame he got himself caught up in this mess. He’ll be useful later.’
‘Later? What do you mean?’
‘You can’t fool me, brother. I know that Luther is our ally for the moment, but don’t expect me to believe for a second that you really think he is your superior.’
‘I am shocked at the suggestion,’ Astelan replied. ‘There can only be one Master of the First. I will not suffer the Lion any longer, so that leaves us with Luther.’
Galedan looked unconvinced, and Astelan could not meet his gaze without a smile.
‘For now, at least.’
Luther’s guardians are defeated
Stratagem
Nick Kyme
Footsteps echo down a solemn hallway, foreshadowing his arrival. Phosphor lamps flicker, burning low, snapping at the darkness.
This is the second time he has walked this public gallery to the Residency, or so he has been told. The first time he did so accompanied by a squad of nine others clad in cobalt-blue. Now, he walks alone and his armour plate is not so marred by war. That suit is missing, and has been since he returned to Macragge. He had intended it as a gift, but it is lost now to whatever petty bureaucracies hold sway over Ultramar, taken by servitors the moment he arrived.
A procession of eyes is upon him. They stare from marble countenances, half hidden by alcoves, and he cannot help but feel the judgement in their gaze. He is not given to whimsy – it isn’t practical – but he wonders if they recognise him from the other that claimed his name.
A portal looms ahead, rendered in steel and brass. Gold engraving describes the foremost Battle King of Macragge on the large wooden doors. It is Konor, father to Roboute Guilliman. The artisan has captured a stately but fierce aspect in the work. Perhaps this is what awaits Thiel on the other side.
He finds it curious that this place holds with tradition and retains the old cultural style of Macragge. Everywhere else now claims a broader aesthetic, as if stone and steel can speak to the alliance of many Legions and make them one under the unified ideal of Imperium Secundus.
He wonders if this is why he is here, to discuss his role, to suffer further censure for what he has been doing since coming back from Calth.
Two of the Invictus guard the doors, bringing him back to the present.
‘Relinquish your weapons, brother-sergeant,’ barks one.
Their purpose is singular, clad in all-encompassing XIII Legion Terminator plate, visors down, bladed polearms barring entry. They are protectors, but there is an underlying tension to their movements and the tone of their words that hints at a past failure.
They take his battle-helm, that he has clasped in the crook of his arm. He hands it over without hesitation.
The blade upon his back, the longsword, they let him keep. This is also curious. Another unanswered question to add to the many already posed. So many theoreticals – it should not make him this edgy.
At an unseen signal, the guards step aside and the doors yawn open. Thiel steps quickly across the threshold before they shut behind him again.
Shadows persist in the Residency. They have been allowed to remain in an effort to mask the damage. Less so are the scars of the attack, the fractional splinters still embedded in the wood of picture frames, or the dust from the shattered bust of Konor only recently restored. More is the pride of a primarch blinded by misplaced sentiment and hubris.
Roboute Guilliman cuts a powerful, impressive figure. The primarch is standing next to his desk. Fresh stone from the Hera’s Crown Mountains making up its impressive mass has been recently freighted to the Residency. Some areas are lighter, more lustrous than others. New replacing old. There are many scrolls and papers upon it – a diligent, exhaustive work.
‘Sergeant Thiel.’
The primarch gives only a curt greeting, though the brightness of his eyes suggests more warmth as they assess and calculate.
Ceremonial armour has replaced his battleplate, a deliberate statement of confidence over protection. The plastron carries the ubiquitous Ultima of the Legion, a pair of shoulder guards clamp a crimson cloak in place. He has neither bolt pistol nor blade.
I am not afraid, it says. This is, and shall always be, my domain.
‘My lord,’ says Thiel, and bows.
Guilliman smiles but his strong jaw is set. Parts of his fair hair look uneven in colour, lighter in places where the healed wounds have left it inexplicably mismatched.
Wounds heal, scars do not.
Another armoured figure watches from the shadows, but Thiel pretends not to notice. A new life-ward, possibly? He doesn’t detect the scent of wet canine, so it can’t be Faffnr. Maybe Drakus Gorod has finally convinced Guilliman that he needs a shadow.
‘May I see the sword?’
Thiel obeys and draws it from his back. Its blade catches the low light and flashes brightly. He briefly activates the electromagnetic edge. It is not a flinch that Thiel sees in the primarch but there is a reaction, a subtle tremor in the cheekbone.
‘Do you wish it returned?’ Thiel asks.
Guilliman gives a single shake of his head. ‘Sheathe it, Aeonid. It is your blade now.’
Thiel wants to thank him but it would seem churlish to do so when he stole the weapon in the first place. Instead, he nods and graciously accepts the gift. The sound of the blade deactivating punctuates a brief but awkward silence between father and son.
‘May I speak freely, my lord?’
‘Of course. Do you wish to sit?’ Guilliman offers Thiel a chair as he sits down behind the desk, ostensibly at ease.
‘I would prefer to stand.’
Guilliman shrugs as though it ma
tters not.
‘Was it in here that it happened?’ asks Thiel.
‘I think you already know the answer to that.’
‘Then why come back? Why not take greater precaution? Why relive it?’
‘Because a lord must be at his ease in his own domain. This is my private residence. I won’t let it become a prison cell with Gorod and Euten as my wardens.’ Guilliman steeples his fingers. His gaze is stern, penetrating. ‘When a legionary claiming your name last walked into this chamber, he came to kill me. He did not come alone – nine of his comrades were with him. I invited them in. I survived. That’s powerful. It sends a message. I want it to resonate.’
The primarch’s outward confidence and disdain will dissuade, not encourage, another attempt. It is a very practical reaction, reminding Thiel how fiercely intelligent his father is, how he is always calculating, assessing, planning. To think on it is staggering.
Guilliman points to the large windows that overlook Macragge Civitas.
‘Do you see beyond that glass, Aeonid?’
It is night and much of the city’s magnificence is shrouded in darkness but one structure dominates this vista, made visible by stark ground illumination.
‘The Fortress of Hera.’
‘Aye,’ Guilliman murmurs. ‘The seat of an emperor who does not take up his throne on the counsel of his men.’
‘Lord Sanguinius.’
‘Finding my brother is no easy task. I know the Lion has had some difficulty of late.’
He smiles at that. His intent and his mind are difficult to discern, but Thiel thinks he detects some fraternal rivalry and amusement at the Lion’s misfortune.
‘I realise I have enemies at large amongst what is left of the Five Hundred Worlds,’ the primarch continues, ‘but I refuse to show them anything other than my defiance and power.’
Another tremor. Anger this time, not trepidation. The statesman in Guilliman counsels consolidation and the raising of an empire, but the warrior still demands vengeance.
