The arming process halted and silence fell. ‘It is done,’ said Rubio, with the air of a man facing the gallows.
But Garro shook his head once more. ‘Not yet, brother. There is still your greatest weapon.’ He gestured to the servitors and bade them set the final piece of armour into place.
A black iron capsule suspended above the arming rack cracked open and from it descended a construct of arcane power, humming with latent energy. The psychic hood was a complex array of crystalline matrices and energy conduits, attuned to the unique resonance patterns of the immaterium. The servitors set it in place around Rubio’s head and the device came to life, immediately bonding itself to his telepathic engrams.
The Codicier tensed as familiar power reawakened in him, a force of will that had been silenced for too long. Garro watched the potency return to him as abilities that had lain dormant since the Decree of Nikaea danced at Rubio’s fingertips. ‘Now it is done,’ he said.
The arming frame hissed open and Rubio stepped down, fully armoured and ready for battle. The armour was a second skin. Plasteel and ceramite matched to meat and bone through the conductive surface of the black carapace bio-implant interface beneath his flesh. He tested the gauntlets, flexing the fingers. It felt right, but the conflict within him did not entirely fade.
‘You accept your duty,’ said Garro, with formality. ‘Take these weapons and use them in the Emperor’s name.’ The other warrior handed him the heavy frame of a bolter and a sword in its scabbard.
Rubio smiled slightly as he held the blade in his hand. It was a gladius, the traditional sword-form of the Ultramarines, and upon it in a most subtle manner was the shape of the revered Ultima. He realised that Garro was allowing him to retain one small token of the Legion he was giving up.
‘Gratitude, brother–’
The words turned to ice and ashes in his mouth. A sudden flash of psychic energy bloomed, the tremor of mind-sense came from nowhere, pressing in on Rubio’s thoughts. He hesitated, fixing Garro with a hard gaze.
‘What is wrong?’
Rubio did not answer. His telepathic skills were slow with disuse and unfocused, but still he felt a strange sense of something buried deep in Garro’s mind. Another kind of truth, hidden under layers of the stoic Death Guard’s thoughts. A secret belief that could not be read.
A fleeting image passed across his mind’s eye. An icon. A golden aquila.
Every part of Rubio wanted to question what he had sensed, but now he felt another presence looming closer. Burning brighter than the chemically neutered thinking of the servitors, fierce and harsh, with the razor edges of a mind used to the act of killing. ‘Someone approaches…’
‘Who?’ Garro turned as a hatch ground open to admit a broad figure clad in shining and ornate golden armour.
The figure scanned the room with the gaze of a killer, finding the two legionaries and taking their gauge in an instant. He towered in the hatchway, tall enough that Rubio was forced to look up at him, a rarity in itself. Yet the warrior in gold seemed uninterested in the former Ultramarine.
‘You are Garro.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘I am.’ The legionary bristled at the open challenge in the words.
‘You will bring your cohort and follow me. Now.’ The new arrival did not wait to see if they would obey; he simply turned on his heel and returned the way he had come, marching down the citadel’s vaulted corridors towards the primary airlocks.
Garro’s lips thinned at this blatant show of arrogance, but he followed nonetheless, with Rubio a step behind. On the face of it, they both had little choice. One did not simply refuse a member of the Emperor’s Custodian Guard without good cause.
He identified himself as Khorarinn – at least, that was all he was willing to give them for the moment. The warriors of the Legio Custodes possessed honour-names of varying length, each supplementary appellation presented to them in recognition of services to the Emperor and the Throne of Terra. Garro had heard of Custodians with more than a thousand names, every one inscribed across the inside of their armour. He could not help but wonder how many names came after ‘Khorarinn’.
It was said that as the legionaries were to their primarchs, so the Custodians were to the Emperor. The personal guard of the Imperium’s ruler, they were His ultimate defenders. Indeed, it was a rare thing to encounter a Custodian off Terra. They only left the Imperial Palace for matters of the greatest import, and then alone or in small numbers.
The warrior cut an imposing, threatening figure, taller than Garro even in his war-plate. The Custodian’s ornate golden armour was emblazoned with intricate designs of lightning bolts, Imperial aquilae and complex scrollwork. A blood-red cloak fell back over his broad shoulders, and under one arm the Custodian held a tall, conical helmet with a sculpted eagle across the brow, and a plume of crimson horsehair at the tip. He had an olive-toned complexion and dark eyes, and instead of the guardian spear more typical of his kind, Khorarinn was armed with a heavy, broad-bladed sword that mounted twin boltguns in its hilt.
He marched swiftly and with purpose, never once deigning to cast a glance towards the two legionaries. The aggrandised superiority of the Legio Custodes was well documented, and their manner was often the source of friction with outsiders. Garro had no reason to suspect that Khorarinn would disprove that assumption.
Rubio was the one to break the silence. ‘Where are we going?’
Khorarinn answered without acknowledging the other legionary. ‘A shuttlecraft has been prepared. You will both accompany me to the Imperial fleet battleship Nolandia. The vessel is in lunar orbit, awaiting my return.’
A scowl darkened Garro’s face ‘To what end?’
‘That will be made clear when deemed necessary, Death Guard.’
The barely veiled insult could not have been clearer if Khorarinn had simply said ‘turncoat’ and been done with it. ‘Perhaps I consider it necessary now. And to be clear, I no longer serve the Fourteenth Legion.’
‘Of course,’ the Custodian allowed. ‘If you did still march for the traitor Mortarion, you would have been executed by now.’ Garro’s temper flared at the slight, but Khorarinn did not allow him the chance to respond. ‘The command I bear comes from Lord Malcador, Regent of Terra. You are sworn to obey him, are you not? He wishes it, and so you will join me in my mission, despite my insistence that your presence is not required. For the moment, that is all that it is necessary for me to reveal.’
‘As you wish.’ It took effort not to rise to the bait, and Garro exchanged a grim look with Rubio.
The Codicier said nothing, but his expression was enough to make his thoughts clear. Warriors of the Legiones Astartes were not used to being ordered around like the common mortal soldiery of the Imperial Auxilia, and such a lack of respect would have earned other men a sword-point at their throat. But to speak out of turn to a Custodian was seen almost as insolence towards the Emperor Himself.
Garro was conflicted. He had respect for any warrior judged worthy enough to stand at the Emperor’s side and bask in that divine glory. But he chafed at Khorarinn’s ill-concealed and misplaced distrust. The Custodian was not reticent to show that he considered Garro unworthy of his regard, doubtless casting the battle-captain in the same light as the rest of his former Legion.
As they reached the airlock, Rubio could hold his silence no longer. ‘If you will say nothing else, can you at least tell us what kind of enemy we will face on this endeavour?’
Khorarinn came to an abrupt halt and turned a hard glare on the Codicier. ‘The worst of them all,’ he growled. ‘Traitors.’
Khorarinn’s shuttle was a sleek Aquila-class courier, a heavily modified surface-to-orbit variant painted in the gold-and-crimson livery of the Custodian Guard. Unlike the workhorse Stormbirds and Thunderhawks that the legionaries were used to, the shuttlecraft was almost extravagant in its design.
It seemed out of place compared to the slab-sided monolith that was the Nolandia, a bright jewel resting against an ingot of crude iron.
The capital ship was kilometres long, heavy with countless weapons batteries. Great sheets of ablative armour gave the vessel the look of a massive, elongated castle, as if an ancient stronghold from Terra’s prehistory had fallen through time and space, to be mated to powerful warp engines and cannons mighty enough to crack open moons.
As soon as the smaller craft had been pulled aboard, the Nolandia accelerated away, its drives echoing through its hull like the rumble of captured thunder. Her Navigator charting a course out of Terra’s orbital path towards the perimeter of the Solar System, the vessel passed the great shoals of construction satellites busy with urgent builds to bolster the fleets, and the autonomous gunnery platforms bristling with macro-cannons and defence lasers. Other cruisers of smaller tonnage and system monitor ships without warp engines crowded out of the Nolandia’s way, obeying the pennants of high rank flying from its signalling masts.
The battleship left Terra behind in its thrust wake, the last sight of the Throneworld passing into eclipse behind a gargantuan, shining fortress – the Phalanx, star fort and monastery of the VII Legion, Rogal Dorn’s Imperial Fists. Out across the orbits of Mars and the Jovian Colonial Axis, the Nolandia burned hard and fast towards the haze of the Kuiper Belt, the region of scattered ice asteroids that marked the edge of Solar space.
Out there at the Mandeville point, where warp ships could revert to normal space at the end of their transits, the sun was cold and distant, the stars alien and unwelcoming. Out there nothing moved but perimeter patrols of frigates and destroyers, and the swarms of machine-mind warning drones. All of them watching and waiting for the first sign of the invasion that would inevitably come.
A week or a month, a year or a decade; however long it took, eventually the Warmaster’s fleets would reach this empty expanse of the void. It was only a matter of time.
A few days into the voyage, after it became clear that the Custodian was in no hurry to brief the legionaries on their mission at hand, Garro sought out Khorarinn. He was drawn to the sounds of power swords tearing plasteel and the crash of weapons striking, the low animal grunts of constant exertion from a fight that showed no sign of coming to an end.
No one among the vessel’s crew had dared challenge the Custodian when he demanded exclusive use of the Nolandia’s combat training ring. Khorarinn’s orders to the shipmaster had been succinct. Nothing, short of the arrival of the arch-traitor Horus himself, was to interrupt his sparring.
Garro learned that he had steadily worked his way through the ship’s entire complement of training servitors, leaving them in smoking heaps as he dispatched them, one at a time or in groups. Each servitor learned from the mistakes of the one that preceded it, but still, after hours of duelling, not one of them had been able to lay a single blow upon the Custodian.
The legionary watched the flash and fire of Khorarinn’s sentinel blade as it obliterated a mechanoid wielding dual chainaxes, in short order. It was an impressive sight.
‘Slave!’ Khorarinn sensed the presence in the chamber with him and called out, expecting to be obeyed. ‘Clear away that wreckage. Bring me another.’
Garro stepped into view. ‘There are no others,’ he explained. ‘You have destroyed them all.’
‘Pity.’ The Custodian was filmed with sweat, panting with exertion, but he seemed by no means fatigued. ‘I was hoping to find something that might test me. For a moment at least.’ He pointed with the sword-bolter in his hand, towards Garro’s scabbard. ‘The blade you carry is a fine tool. You call it Libertas, yes?’
Garro’s hand slipped automatically to the sword’s pommel. ‘You are well informed.’
Khorarinn showed his teeth. ‘I would see how it fares in combat.’
‘That has all the colour of a challenge.’ The legionary said the words carefully, without weight.
‘Does it?’ The Custodian gave a derisive snort. ‘I don’t expect you to be imprudent enough to accept. The Death Guard have never tolerated the reckless or the foolish in their ranks, after all.’
Libertas rang as it left its scabbard. ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Garro, crossing the perimeter of the fighting ring.
Khorarinn’s grin widened. ‘Very well. To the first mark, then?’
‘Aye.’ Garro turned the weapon in his grip, pushing aside the doubts in his thoughts. ‘First mark.’
They saluted with their blades, and then the storm began. Swords clashed violently, sparks flying, mirror-bright metal dancing back and forth.
Khorarinn was unlike any opponent Garro had faced. It was said that even a primarch would hesitate at meeting one of the Emperor’s Custodians in the arena, and as he fought to hold his ground through the whirlwind of Khorarinn’s blade strikes, Garro could believe it.
It was almost impossible to do anything other than defend, and he was quickly at the limit of his skills, fighting to place his power sword at the points where the Custodian stabbed and slashed with his own weapon. He parried every hit, but the blows were like thunder, shaking his bones inside his battle armour.
There was a moment when an opening showed itself, and Garro almost took the chance, turning the hilt of Libertas by reflex. But he stopped himself and let the moment pass.
Too easy. Too inviting. A flicker of annoyance in Khorarinn’s eyes confirmed it. It had been a feint to catch him off guard. The Custodian’s attack pattern changed abruptly, intensifying, pushing Garro back across the training ring towards the piles of wrecked servitors. He suddenly realised that Khorarinn had been toying with him. This was his real intent, blade ringing upon blade as he beat him down with precise, brutal force.
He had one chance to escape with his honour intact, but he would need to be fast, faster than ever before. For an instant, their swords locked, edge against edge, and Garro took the split-second opportunity.
With a supreme effort, he found his chance and forced the blades apart. If the Custodian had a weakness, it was his arrogance. In his rush to mark Garro, he already thought him defeated. The legionary turned that upon him, disarming him with a shout, even though it was a huge effort to unseat the sentinel blade from his hand.
Khorarinn froze, his face reddening with sudden fury, before he drew back a step. Garro held his sword steady, aiming the tip at his opponent’s chest. ‘You disengage?’ he asked, breathing hard. ‘The bout is not ended. I owe you a mark.’
‘If that blade ever touches my armour,’ growled Khorarinn, meaning every word, ‘I will tear you limb from limb.’
Libertas dropped away and Garro stepped back. ‘You’re a poor loser.’
‘And you were lucky.’ The Custodian turned, gathering up his fallen sword-gun. ‘I underestimated you. It won’t happen again.’ He made a sharp gesture with the blade of his hand. ‘You are dismissed, Garro.’
The legionary’s choler shifted towards annoyance. ‘You overstep your bounds, Custodian. You do not command me. And you have no reason to hide the scope of this mission from my sight.’ He returned his sword to its scabbard, daring the other warrior to disagree with him.
Khorarinn only paused, musing. Then he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Very well. I suppose you’ve earned that right as your victory’s reward. Come with me, and be illuminated.’
He strode to the battleship’s strategium, and Garro trailed warily after him. The compartment was an oval chamber where walls lined with gas-lens viewers and scrying scopes provided real-time data streams from the zone surrounding the Nolandia. In the centre of the room was a tall hololithic display tank, cast with a globe made of motes of coloured light. The tactical plot showed the Solar System and the orbits of the planets, overlaid with the Nolandia’s course.
Khorarinn barked a single command, and within moments he and Garro were alone in the chamber, with only mindles
s servitors as witnesses. The human crewmen dithered out in the corridor as the strategium’s hatch irised shut.
‘What requires such a need for secrecy?’ said Garro.
‘You will see.’ The Custodian removed a memory capsule from a pouch on his belt and inserted it into a socket at the base of the hololith. The display shifted and transformed into a grainy loop of pict-images. Garro saw ships, a dozen of them, a ragged flotilla drifting in space. ‘This recording is from a perimeter drone stationed beyond the far orbit of Pluto,’ continued Khorarinn. ‘It detected multiple warp space events and moved to intercept. This is what it found. This is what we go to confront.’
The vessels were of classes known to Garro. Imperial transport craft, bulk carriers and the like. ‘Those are all civilian ships.’
The Custodian gave a nod of agreement. ‘But they fly no pennants of authority and marque. Their origins are uncertain. And they did not come alone.’
The image tracked to reveal the vessel at the head of the small fleet. It could only be a warship. The bladed prow and the layered turrets of cannons formed the distinctive shape of a fast-attack frigate, a class of ship most commonly found among the expeditionary fleets of the Legiones Astartes.
Khorarinn shot Garro a look. ‘You recognise the frigate’s livery, of course.’
‘White, trimmed with blue. That ship belongs to the Twelfth Legion.’
‘The World Eaters.’ Khorarinn’s words were bitter. ‘The warriors who followed their traitorous gladiator-king Angron to Horus’ banner.’
The bow of the frigate became clear and Garro’s eyes narrowed. The name he saw there triggered a flash of memory. ‘The Daggerline… I know this ship. I’ve seen it before. At Isstvan Three, in the hours before the attack. It was part of the Warmaster’s assembly.’
When Khorarinn spoke again, he gestured dismissively at the hololith and made no attempt to conceal the sneer in his tone. ‘You should feel a kinship with these… refugees, Garro. The crews of these ships claim to have fled the Warmaster’s betrayal of the Throne. There are civilians, soldiers from the Imperial Auxilia, merchant envoys from across the Eriden Sector and others, allegedly gathered along the path of their escape route. They say they have come through the warp storms to Terra, searching for a safe haven. Just as you did.’
Garro Page 6
