Old Earth

by Nick Kyme

  ‘We have all suffered, and yet still endure,’ replied Meduson. ‘Does that mean you will join us then?’

  Meduson had explained in some detail both his military goals and his desires for the reconstitution of the Iron Tenth. Not only did the former triumph hall provide solace from the crew and the other legionaries on board, it had also allowed Meduson to better describe his war plans. He had left out Tybalt Marr, but did mention the victories he had achieved against the Sons of Horus and how this had rattled the Legion to such an extent that resources were being divided to counter the perceived threat to the War­master’s crusade.

  He had then expressed how having a primarch at the head of his armies would mean the Iron Tenth and the survivors of both the XVIII and XIX Legions would finally have what they had lacked for so long: true and unimpeachable leadership. With Vulkan by his side, even the Iron Fathers would not resist him. They could reclaim what they had lost and return to the war with honour and pride.

  ‘I cannot,’ said Vulkan, hollowing out Meduson’s hopes with those two simple words.

  Meduson found he currently lacked the ability to utter even one.

  ‘Do not misunderstand me, Shadrak, your deeds are worthy, your plan is worthy.’

  ‘Then,’ Meduson interrupted, finding his voice at last, ‘what stops you?’

  ‘We have a different purpose, my Draaksward and I,’ said Vulkan. ‘One that cannot be swallowed by endless war.’

  Meduson looked over at the drakescale-clad warriors, who had yet to leave the primarch’s side. They remained close even now, not so that they intruded or were even particularly noticeable but near enough to act if the need arose. Meduson did not blame them. All three of the Legions sundered at Isstvan had grown wary of betrayal, and guarded against it even in the most ostensibly secure circumstances.

  Meduson had eschewed a retinue. The Iron Heart was his ship after all, garrisoned by his warriors. He had no cause for concern here. Besides, to bring either Aug or Lumak and Mechosa, or even Nuros and Dalcoth would have made his meeting more like a debate of terms between two rival kings than a discourse between allies. He had no doubt Nuros wished desperately to be present, and perhaps the others too, but he needed to gauge Vulkan’s intent first. Alas, it seemed contrary to the one Meduson hoped he would adopt.

  ‘I laud your victory, but I cannot join a crusade. What I go to do is of the utmost importance, so know that I do not refuse you lightly or without good reason.’ Vulkan absently touched the amulet around his neck, and Meduson wondered at the significance of the gesture.

  ‘Is it as vital as attacking the Legion of Horus, the bastard traitor who saw his kith and kin lain dead in a grave on Isstvan?’ he said, letting his frustration get the better of him.

  Vulkan grew stern and the embers of his eyes flared, made fiery in the half-light.

  ‘Be careful, Shadrak. That is my brother you speak ill of.’

  Meduson became instantly contrite. ‘I apologise, lord primarch. I am tired – the war for us has been most taxing.’

  ‘And I have been slain, repeatedly, and driven half-mad by one of my sadistic brothers.’

  ‘Suddenly my pains feel rather inadequate,’ Meduson conceded, shrugging.

  Vulkan laughed, a thunderous sound that filled the hall like the beating of heavy drums. The echo had not yet abated as he smiled warmly at the Warleader, every inch the Nocturnean tribal king.

  ‘I like you, Shadrak. You are a fine warrior and a strong leader. You do my slain brother great honour,’ Vulkan said, growing solemn.

  Up close, Meduson could see the symbolic whorls of fire and the sigils of serpentine beasts branded into his skin.

  ‘Then join me, Vulkan, and let us avenge the Gorgon together.’

  ‘Know it is not will that I lack. I ache to wreak vengeance against the one who killed my brother, my sons, your brothers. It is an endless litany of retribution, but an even greater task binds me, one that would see my sons and I reach the Throneworld.’

  ‘Terra? How?’ asked Meduson, trying to hide his disbelief.

  ‘Old paths, not readily known to men.’

  ‘Then let my warriors and I escort you. It would be an honour.’

  ‘The honour would be mine, Shadrak, but I cannot accede to that either.’

  ‘You refuse to aid me and yet also refuse my aid,’ said Meduson, and raised one eyebrow in mock offence. ‘It is difficult not to feel insulted.’

  ‘Terra cannot be reached by any army save one, and you know of whose army I speak. If I am to reach the Throneworld then it will be alone, barring the three you see among us in this room.’

  ‘The Draaksward.’

  Vulkan nodded.

  ‘It is an old term. I find comfort in tradition.’

  ‘And you have a way to reach Terra, you and your retinue?’

  Again, Vulkan nodded.

  ‘The old path – its ways are secret and byzantine. I am not entirely certain of them myself, but I know it is the only way to reach the Throneworld and my father.’

  Meduson briefly dipped his head at the mention of the Emperor.

  ‘And so what is it I can do for you, if not get you to Terra?’

  ‘Repair Vulcanis, our ship?’

  ‘We have little to spare, but of course.’

  ‘And then get us back to our path.’

  ‘If it is in my power, yes. What drove you from it?’

  ‘A path such as this is not conventionally trodden.’

  ‘I won’t pretend to understand what that means,’ answered Meduson, honestly, ‘but I swear to help you, and do all I can.’

  Vulkan slowly bowed his head in a gesture of gratitude and respect.

  Meduson had been about to rise, deciding it was high time he donned the proper panoply, when Aug’s voice crackled in his ear.

  ‘I have the Fraters,’ he said.

  ‘Including Mor?’

  ‘No. Autek Mor has gone.’

  Meduson frowned. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘The Red Talon and the other vessels he commands are no longer with us, it would seem.’

  ‘Then I’ll speak to the ones we do still have, lest our alliance deteriorates further.’

  Aug ended the vox-link, returning Meduson’s attention to the primarch.

  ‘I have some business I need to see to, if you would excuse me.’

  ‘A Warleader’s task is without end,’ Vulkan replied. ‘I would stay, if you would allow it. Perhaps there is insight I can offer?’

  Meduson bowed his head, humbled.

  ‘I would be honoured, primarch.’

  The hololiths flickered sporadically as before, though Meduson had chosen to receive his incorporeal guests in the former triumph hall rather than on the bridge this time.

  Kuleg Rawt and the others looked severe across the shaky projection, clad in full battleplate and helms.

  Rawt gripped the haft of his power axe tightly.

  ‘Hail, Meduson,’ he said, dour. ‘A great victory has been won.’

  The four saluted as one, thumping their fists against their chests.

  ‘What happened to Mor?’ asked Meduson, surprised by the show of fealty.

  ‘He has gone, Warleader,’ said Kernag.

  ‘I know that much already. His ships would have been useful. You were with him. What happened?’ he asked again.

  ‘He fought, then left for further conquest,’ replied Naduul Norsson, snide and bitter as ever.

  ‘Autek Mor is a blight,’ uttered Raask Arkborne. His malfunctioning bionic eye shuttered and then opened, as if agitated. ‘And his leaving is welcome.’

  ‘His ships are welcome, his blood and sweat is welcome,’ said Meduson, and saw the unease the reference to the flesh provoked in the hololithic assembly. ‘If not for him, perhaps it would be defeat not victory w
e now taste. What delayed your intervention during the battle? Could you not see the engagement had changed?’

  ‘You ordered us to await second signal, Warleader,’ said Kernag, and the suggestion of slighted pride in his voice heated Meduson’s blood.

  ‘And yet it appeared as if your reluctance to commit to battle swayed your better judgement.’

  ‘Useful for what?’ asked Rawt.

  ‘Frater?’ asked Meduson, not quite following.

  ‘You said Mor’s ships would have been useful. For what, Warleader?’

  ‘For the next battle. What else is there, after all? We still have several other patrol routes to attack. Tybalt Marr can’t be watching them all.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ asked Rawt, unable to hide his surprise, or perhaps unwilling to try. Meduson sensed in him a desire to challenge for leadership.

  ‘It is our only course if we are to move forward. We have to grow in strength, find more allies. Hiding gains us neither.’

  ‘Hence, another gathering,’ said Kernag, evidently referring to the summons made by Aug.

  ‘Our risk of annihilation increasing with each one,’ said Arkborne, his arm twitching in sympathetic irritation.

  ‘Versus obsolescence, I would risk anything,’ Meduson declared. ‘I must know if you are with me on this, with the Legion.’

  ‘We serve the Gorgon’s will,’ said Arkborne, and Meduson frowned.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘We follow his orders, and his alone.’

  ‘Are you speaking figuratively, Raask?’

  ‘He is the Legion. The Gorgon speaks for us now.’

  Meduson knew that of all the Fraters Clan Felg’s had suffered the most. His injuries, sustained over the Crusade and afterwards, had left him less than a man, and the parts of him that were machine were in need of vital repair.

  ‘Kuleg?’ Meduson was asking Rawt if his fellow Frater had lost grip of his mind as well as his body.

  ‘Three days, Aug told us,’ Rawt replied, avoiding the unasked question. If he felt any unease at what had just transpired his helmet hid it from the Warleader.

  ‘Three days. A safe haven will be transmitted via fresh encryption,’ said Meduson, choosing not to press the point.

  Rawt nodded. They all did, and the hololiths flickered out.

  Meduson turned, the triumph hall dark again in the absence of the dimly lit projections.

  Vulkan did not move, but his eyes blazed. He did not speak either, but Meduson knew he had heard what Arkborne had said.

  The Gorgon speaks for us now.

  He needed to consult his council, and possibly Aug too. The Hand Elect might have some insight, and their last meeting had left Meduson slightly disquieted. The Warleader took his leave, informing Vulkan one of his warriors would be along presently to take him and his sons to quarters aboard ship.

  Vulkan still said nothing. He nodded to show he had heard and understood, his fists clenched.

  A barrack room served as quarters for the Drakes. Spartan in decoration, it nonetheless had several berths, an ablutions chamber and an armoury where weapons could be tended, stripped and reassembled as needed.

  Gargo tinkered with the spear he had taken from the jetbike back on Nocturne. He had determined to shorten the haft and give the tip a sharper edge. Experimenting with the power feed, he sent a jolt of energy into the blade and frowned.

  ‘Weak disruptor field,’ he muttered. ‘A pity there is no forge at hand.’

  ‘This ship has forges aplenty, I have no doubt,’ said Zytos. He stood staring at the seared impression of a gauntleted fist rendered in white against the soot-black metal wall.

  ‘Then it is a pity one has not been made available to us.’ Gargo flexed his bionic, the cruder one, and rotated the arm in the shoulder cuff. It whirred, irritated, recalcitrant. ‘This needs fixing too,’ he muttered, finding it difficult to straighten the limb.

  Zytos had not stopped staring at the symbol.

  ‘He said, “The Gorgon speaks for us now”. Those were the Iron Hand’s exact words.’

  ‘Perhaps he spoke figuratively?’ suggested Gargo.

  Zytos dismissed the idea with a sharp shake of the head.

  ‘The Iron Tenth are plain-speaking. I have rarely heard them talk figuratively, Igen.’

  Abidemi nodded. He was sitting on one of the reinforced berths and rubbing oil onto his sword’s blade and teeth. Not that it needed it. Nothing he had yet encountered could dull its edge, but he kept to his warrior’s habits regardless.

  ‘I heard it too, but assumed I misunderstood his meaning. It is curious though, brothers. It cannot be so. Ferrus Manus is dead. I saw him fall,’ he said, his voice fading as if with the painful memory, ‘although I was far away.’

  Many of the legionaries at Isstvan, both betrayers and betrayed, had seen it. Until that day, the primarchs had all been immortals. Unkillable. Gods, although no such beings supposedly existed, the very concept vehemently denied. The Phoenician had proven the point. Fulgrim, standing over his beloved brother, his blade raised like an executioner’s axe. The Gorgon on his knees, surrounded by a sea of his dead sons, all of whom had failed him. Bloodied, broken, his impotent rage all but spent.

  The death blow had cut head from neck in one decisive blow.

  What followed reignited a belief in the deific when it came to the matter of the Emperor’s sons.

  ‘I felt it, I think,’ Abidemi said. ‘The Gorgon’s death.’

  Gargo set down the spear.

  ‘A hollowing storm,’ he said.

  ‘And then… absence,’ Zytos concluded, his eyes still on the symbol. ‘There is disharmony here, and it began with the Gorgon’s end.’

  ‘Never has iron been so fragile,’ Abidemi agreed, the oiled leather in his hand forgotten.

  ‘Do you know him, brother,’ asked Gargo of Zytos, ‘this Meduson?’

  Zytos shook his head.

  ‘I have fought alongside the Iron Hands before, during the Great Crusade and after, but never that one. Numeon did, I think, on Caldera but it was one of many conquests.’

  ‘They call him Warleader,’ said Abidemi.

  ‘And what of Nuros?’ asked Gargo. ‘I know his name from the muster rolls but that is the extent of my knowledge.’

  Nuros had said little during the rescue. He had come swiftly though, demonstrating the self-sacrifice and determination for which the Salamanders were justly proud. His reaction and that of his warriors to Vulkan’s appearance had been close to worship.

  ‘I sense questions in him,’ said Abidemi.

  ‘Were we any different on Macragge and then afterwards back on Nocturne?’ said Zytos.

  ‘I still have a great many questions,’ murmured Gargo, but kept his voice low.

  Zytos glanced over to the only silent figure in the expansive barrack room, and thought he had questions too. They all did.

  Vulkan sat apart from the others, eyes closed in contemplative silence, one hand resting on the curious talisman he wore.

  ‘Father?’ said Zytos as Vulkan opened his eyes, though whether in response to Zytos’ attention or something else was unclear.

  ‘I thought my brother dead,’ said Vulkan, gazing into shadows, his mind faraway.

  Vulkan remembered the cadaverous apparition that had haunted him in Konrad’s dungeon, the spectre of his long-dead brother that had tried to drive him mad.

  That ghost of Ferrus Manus had returned to him now, a spectre ever-present since he had heard the words of the Iron Father spoken into Meduson’s hall.

  The Gorgon speaks for us now.

  Each of the primarchs had been bestowed gifts by their father, their creator. He had made them all unique. Why should it just be Vulkan given immortality? Could Ferrus not also be beyond death? But he had been hacked apart, his flesh sundered an
d degraded, his head taken. Nothing remained. But then had Vulkan’s flesh not been burned to ash, his body frozen, his innards eviscerated, his skin flayed, his bones crushed… Even the heart of Deathfire could not destroy him.

  He had no wish to be part of Meduson’s crusade. The Iron Tenth were on their own. But he could not leave, not yet. He had sworn to himself not to be dissuaded from his task. It would be so easy to return to the war. The temptation had grown powerful. He could not get embroiled in Meduson’s struggle, but this could not be ignored. Ferrus Manus was dead. He had died on Isstvan, so why then did he still haunt Vulkan’s thoughts?

  Out of the corner of his eye, Vulkan thought he saw him. Him. As cold and gaunt as he had been then, skeletal and wasted, and feared he could be losing his sanity all over again. He shut his eyes, willing the revenant away and when he opened them again the Gorgon was gone. He might never have been there at all. And yet…

  Vulkan rose to his feet.

  ‘I must know.’

  Thirteen

  The first strand, severed

  Hot air, thick with petrochem fumes, choked the night. The manu­factorums, the teeming bullet farms, the tank yards, the armouries, all toiled without cease. Quotas were met, then increased. Plumes of black, greasy smoke unspooled into the atmosphere from immense soot-stained chimney stacks. Industry ground on, relentless, desperate. Orbital craft arrived daily, their adamantium and battle-scarred bellies hungry for tithes of men and materiel.

  Entire hive cities of millions had been put to use, churning out ammunition, weapons, shells and armour, enslaved to a war with an appetite beyond satiation.

  Cartur Umenedies had to stop to catch his breath, leaning on the corner of an abandoned watch station in lower-quadrant Tartus. Here the streets ran close and in warrens. Though lower-quadrant Tartus boasted over fifty thousand souls, crammed in a habitation grid fit for half that number, Cartur was alone.

  The war, he knew, had made hermits of them all. Where once these wretched streets would have been overrun with the dregs of humankind – the hawkers, the crude-vendors, the night-women, the pushers, the low-guilders, the siphoners, the lampmen, the pit-kings and the sump warders – now not a soul stirred. Vendors closed early, if they opened at all; businesses not dedicated entirely to the war had shut down. Even the pleasure dens were boarded up and silent.