Old Earth

by Nick Kyme

  ‘Our primarch has returned to us,’ said another, Kernag, the self-aggrandising one.

  The hand rose, at least its remaining fingers did. And stayed raised.

  Vulkan shut his eyes again, not willing to believe, to hope.

  He is dead and the dead do not come back.

  ‘All except for you, brother…’

  Shut up, Ferrus. You are dead.

  ‘Am I? Open your eyes and see, Vulkan. Tear off the mask, unless you fear what lies beneath it.’

  ‘His will be done,’ uttered Rawt, the oldest. Not a fanatic, this one. He believed, but in a cold, dispassionate way. The Gorgon had returned and so he had primacy. It was logical.

  ‘You see, Meduson,’ Aug was talking again, ‘our father is reborn. I ask you, brother, see reason.’

  ‘It isn’t possible,’ breathed Meduson. ‘How can it be?’

  ‘It is,’ said Aug, as cold as his other iron brethren.

  ‘But his body… It was maimed. Cut apart, a rotting corpse raised up as an effigy. I saw it.’ The agony in Meduson’s voice mirrored Vulkan’s own, though the primarch kept it hidden. He dared not reveal it until he knew what this was, until he could be sure of his own senses.

  ‘It is of no consequence,’ Rawt said.

  ‘Another has been forged in its stead,’ added Kernag.

  ‘Clad in adamantium and ceramite,’ said Aug, ‘stronger than before.’

  ‘The flesh is weak,’ hissed Arkborne, madness in his tone.

  And then they all said it, a chorus of voices low and solemn that heralded a flock of vessels from above, their engine noise shaking the massive auditorium and dislodging dust from its well-worn footings.

  Meduson looked up through the jagged remnants of the destroyed auditorium roof. Everyone except the Iron Fathers and their blank-eyed retinues looked up.

  Gunships and lighters, battered old transports and bulky landers came down in proliferation, the myriad vessels of the Iron Hands officers and their allied cohorts.

  ‘You summoned them, Aug.’ Meduson looked down to meet his old friend’s icy gaze.

  ‘As bidden.’

  ‘Not at my behest.’

  ‘They come to witness the Gorgon’s resurrection,’ said Norsson, every word a barb, ‘and the end to your leadership.’

  Lumak bristled, and came close to drawing his sword for a second time. ‘Be careful what you say, Frater. Meduson is Warleader and the other officers will recognise that.’

  ‘Not when the primarch is amongst them. They will discard our false Warleader and embrace a saner head.’

  Mechosa chuckled at that, despite himself.

  ‘This is insane,’ he whispered.

  Meduson held up his hand for calm. He glanced at Vulkan, but the primarch remained impassive. Privately, Meduson wondered what was going through his mind. He knew he had to wait, that the political ice had grown thin beneath him since the costly raid that had led to Arkul Theld’s death and precious little else.

  A victory. Yes, it had been, but one without spoils. That tended to leave a bitter taste. Avoiding defeat was not the same as winning a battle.

  Theld had been a veteran of high standing. Many knew him, had fought beside him, during the war and before in the Crusade. Those who had not met him before grew to know him and respect him. His death had been a blow and not just in a tactical sense. It had hurt them, and hurt Meduson’s cause.

  By now, he had no doubt that Gaeln Krenn would be souring those of Ungavaar in the wake of Theld’s passing. And with Aug, a warrior he thought of as a friend, also turning against him, that left precious few clans disposed to Meduson’s way of thinking. He had been blinded by vainglory and his obsession with Marr.

  Whatever this ‘primarch’ was that Aug had seen fit to raise up in opposition, it had provided a figurehead for the Fraters to rally behind, part of a carefully disseminated plan to undermine and usurp Meduson. The irony, of course, being that Meduson had no desire to lead but knew that in the absence of another, more suit­able candidate, he must. Devolution now would be disastrous. The Iron Tenth would fragment and likely never recover. He would not let it become a musty banner grown still along a silent processional, a once great regiment forgotten.

  He had to stop this.

  The numerous vessels alighted on the bare arena floor, kicking up squalls of dust, twisted into swirling eddies by cycling turbofans slow to come to rest.

  Without any discernible order, cargo and hold ramps opened. The auditorium resounded to the chime of metal striking earth; it sounded like the tolling of bells.

  Meduson saw Borgus and Jakkus approach the gathering, the two officers, lieutenant and line captain, sharing some joke as their drop-ships soared skywards in their wake.

  Others joined them, disparate but united in their battered and war-worn appearance.

  The flesh was weak, but their metal had seen better days too.

  As the noise died down, Aug took the stage.

  ‘All here know me,’ he began, and had the audacity to look Meduson in the eye.

  ‘What is this, Frater?’ asked Borgus, not one to mince words. ‘I expected to be addressed by our Warleader.’ Then his eyes went to the massive warrior clad in drakescale and Borgus could not hide his surprise.

  The other newcomers acted in a similar way. Some bowed their heads reverently. Others narrowed their eyes, suspicious.

  ‘It is a matter of tradition,’ said Aug, ignoring the spate of muttering between the officers about the great warrior in their midst.

  ‘Aug has not only one but two primarchs at his behest,’ said Meduson, deliberately snide, ‘though the Lord Vulkan obeys whilst at the end of a gun. Several guns. Several extremely large and powerful guns.’

  If Vulkan had felt any provocation at Meduson’s words, he did not show it.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious, Borgus?’ said Aug, refusing to acknowledge the Warleader’s attempt to get under his skin. ‘We are divided. Our Warleader – our former Warleader – has seen to this. He brings us a primarch, or so he says.’ Aug looked at Vulkan as he said it. ‘Though he cannot vouch for his provenance. Caution must be observed, lest we fall foul of another trap. False friends and false colours are all too familiar to the Iron Tenth.’ And here he regarded Nuros, Vulkan’s retinue and Dalcoth. ‘We have been without true leadership for too long. Meduson has done his best – no one could fault him for that – but he has been found wanting.’

  A few of the other officers, especially the battle-captains with whom Meduson shared the greatest affinity, exchanged confused looks at Aug’s unforeseen rhetoric. To an outsider, Aug’s position, by dint of arms alone, would look strong. He had engineered it this way – the architect, Meduson realised, of all the Fraters’ dissent.

  Apothecary Gorgonson had mentioned his concerns about what Aug went through on Lliax. The Martian Mechanicum evidently had stripped something away of the old warrior Meduson once knew. He had seen it, of course, but it had taken him this long to truly appreciate what it meant.

  ‘Call it what it is, Aug,’ said Meduson, voice tight with anger. ‘You are staging a coup.’

  ‘You misunderstand, brother.’ That he meant that word, brother, turned Meduson’s stomach worst of all. ‘I am merely deferring to a higher echelon of leadership.’

  ‘Whose?’ asked Borgus, saying what was on everyone else’s minds. ‘Yours? The council’s? We tried that. You yourself elevated Meduson.’

  ‘That was before our father returned.’

  ‘Blood of Medusa!’ snarled Borgus, half drawing his sword. ‘What did you just say?’

  Borgus had fought on Isstvan, at least in the blighted atmosphere above it. He had seen pict-captures of the Gorgon’s horrific death, broadcast by the traitors to any ships capable of still receiving a signal. It had been intended to sunder moral. It had rather the oppos
ite effect, but any attempt to reach the surface had proven impossible, or fatal.

  ‘The Gorgon lives,’ uttered Rawt, choosing that moment to confirm his allegiance.

  Unlike Borgus, some of the other officers looked uncertain. All were drawn to the figure on the throne as the Iron Fathers, who had risen up against their rightfully appointed Warleader, turned to it and genuflected in demonstration of their unshakable fealty. Even Arkborne knelt, the discomfort of doing so writ plain on his stoic features.

  A silver hand stirred, fingers raised as if in greeting.

  The Iron Hands knelt as one, all except Meduson and his warriors, and Borgus whose anger kept him on his feet.

  ‘This is madness,’ he said, spitting out the words.

  In the same moment, Vulkan opened his eyes.

  Vulkan saw not the apparition of his nightmares, but nor did he see his brother cloaked and enthroned like a king.

  He began to approach, the whine of targeting auto-locks accompanying his footfalls like a discordant refrain. He stopped.

  ‘You are aware,’ he said calmly, his eye on the enthroned king, ‘that I cannot be killed. I am more than just immortal, more than long-lived.’

  Vulkan felt his Draaksward tense, and held out a hand, low and inconspicuous. Zytos, Gargo and Abidemi stopped just short of drawing their weapons.

  ‘I swore to myself I would not interfere, but in this you involve Ferrus and I cannot let that stand. Let me see my brother,’ he said, yet to lower his hand. ‘Bring him into the light. Let me see him.’

  Aug’s right eye twitched as a flood of binaric data cascaded to the auto-turrets, powering them down. They bowed like vassals to their liege lord.

  ‘Brother… come forward,’ said Vulkan, moving slowly again, his hand still outstretched. ‘Brother, heed me. It is Vulkan.’

  All eyes looked to the Gorgon, shrouded by his cloak and the shadows. His fingers rose and then fell.

  Vulkan turned his gaze on Aug. ‘Am I to talk to the hand then? Is this what you have done to him?’ He saddened as he regarded his brother. ‘What have they reduced you to, dear Ferrus,’ he whispered, tears glistening, as red as rubies.

  ‘I see only one falsehood here,’ declared Meduson.

  ‘As do I,’ murmured Vulkan sadly, and splayed the fingers of his outstretched hand.

  The hammer, Urdrakule, flew into his grasp from where it lay with an echoing chime of metal against metal, as if compelled by a potent magnetic force. The two Iron Hands guarding it were powerless to stop it. Vulkan lunged, hammer trailing in his wake, to tear the cloak from the Gorgon and expose the lie beneath.

  A skeleton remained, one of mechanisms and polished steel, of scavenged scrap, limbs and ribs, even an eyeless skull. It had the stature of Ferrus but nothing else, aside from the silver arm.

  This was genuine enough, carrion taken from the battlefield. ­Restitched, hung by wire, fastened by clamp and bolt, it rested limply by the golem’s side, the fingers twitching with nervous animation.

  Aug and the other Fraters went to intercede but Vulkan would not be stopped. He roared, his anguish as raw now as it had been when he had first learned of his brother’s death.

  He swung the hammer and felled the grim effigy in one blow. He then reached out to grab Aug by the throat.

  ‘An insult,’ said Vulkan, his voice thick with emotion. ‘An ersatz version of my brother, of your father. Has the Iron Tenth sunk so low?’

  The hand twitched, but without scheme or pattern. It hung distended from the rest of the crushed remains.

  ‘You are fortunate, Iron Father, that I have a forgiving nature,’ Vulkan said to Aug. He let him go, a glare at the others warning them to stay out of his way, and advanced on the silver arm of Ferrus Manus.

  ‘My brother thought he was inviolable,’ declared Vulkan. ‘Sadly that is my burden. But perhaps a part of him was. I won’t see it defiled further or turned to insane purpose.’

  He brought Urdrakule down upon the silver arm and the inviolable became violable. It shattered as glass shatters before a heavy blow, and scattered across the arena. A few fragments touched Aug’s boots and he reached for them before withdrawing his hand.

  Vulkan let the hammer slide through his fingers, weary, his anger fading. It had been folly to get involved in Meduson’s struggle, and he realised now he could be no further part of it. He must reach Terra; everything depended on that.

  ‘It’s over, Aug,’ said Meduson, coming to stand by Vulkan’s side, not blind to the propaganda of his actions. ‘The Gorgon cult is finished, but the Iron Tenth remain.’

  It had been symbolic, the destruction of the Gorgon’s hand. To break so utterly something believed unbreakable, it robbed it of all power and denied that power to any who sought to profit from it.

  For Aug and the Fraters it was the currency they needed to assume leadership. The scales had shifted again. Meduson saw it in the faces of the battle-captains and the other officers. He saw it also in the Fraters. Not Aug, and the four sworn to the cult, but in the others. Allegiance, acceptance. He led, they would follow.

  For the moment at least, Meduson had a primarch at his side, and he would make the most of it.

  ‘Our father is dead. He died on the black sands of Isstvan, surrounded by the bodies of the Clan Avernii,’ he said, looking at Lumak and receiving a nod of respect in turn, ‘and drowning in his own blood, before his neck was cut.’

  The mood grew abruptly solemn. Many bowed their heads, even those who were not of the Tenth.

  ‘The Iron Hands could have died that day also, but we endured. Our deeds and honour endured. The flesh is weak, but the Tenth are not. We stand, but we only stay standing if we remember our bonds of loyalty to each other and to the Throne. I stand before you Shadrak Meduson, born of Terra, but forged of Medusa.’ He looked to Aug and the other treasonous Fraters. ‘I will challenge any who dispute me. I need every blade. Every blade. Every iron-born son who yet draws breath and wears the black. Every noble Drake. Every vaunted Raven of Kiavahr. All of us.’

  A great cheer swelled, shaking the auditorium.

  Meduson took the crowd’s adulation with stoic modesty, and knew the tide had turned. He would convince Aug, he would convince Rawt and the others.

  ‘I do not seek the dissolution of the Tenth,’ he said to them and them alone. The Fraters listened keenly, unable to do anything else. ‘I would see it reforged anew with the leadership it deserves. For now, I wear that mantle of leadership – but only for now. I work towards a Legion governed by wisdom and experience, a clan council striving in concert with a strong military leader. Many voices, speaking as one. That is what I envisage. It will come, but we must fight to get there.’

  A few amongst the Fraters nodded. Even Rawt lowered his gaze in contrition.

  ‘I would have us rise from the blow that has been dealt, not for pride, not for vengeance, but out of duty – to our primarch and our Emperor. For make no mistake, He has need of us now.’

  He looked to Aug, for where he led Meduson knew the others would follow.

  ‘I will have loyalty,’ he said to his old friend, his Hand Elect. ‘Our brotherhood demands it. Our duty requires it.’

  Aug had sunk to his knees, a knight before the mercy of his king.

  ‘Forgive us,’ he whispered, and some of the old warrior Meduson had known returned. Aug looked to the scattered remnants of the golem. His gaze lingered, but went back to Meduson. ‘We wanted too desperately for it to be real. Forgive us, Shadrak. Warleader.’

  Rawt and the others bowed their heads, even Arkborne, who knew he had erred.

  ‘Let us serve, Warleader,’ Rawt implored.

  ‘The Iron Fathers pledge to Meduson, and he alone,’ said Kernag.

  Norsson and Arkborne too murmured their assent.

  Meduson regarded them all, kneeling before him. He dre
w his sword of Albian steel. A flash of light ran down the blade.

  ‘Then so be it,’ said Aug, and bared his neck. ‘I have failed you as your Hand Elect.’

  ‘Swear on this sword,’ said Meduson, and held out the blade sideways before them. ‘Swear your loyalty to the Iron Tenth and to me. Swear it and rejoin this brotherhood.’

  Aug touched his augmetic fingers to the metal.

  So did Rawt, and Kernag, and Norsson, and Arkborne, though his fingers trembled with dysfunction.

  ‘It is sworn,’ said Aug.

  Meduson nodded, raising his sword as the cheers resounded anew.

  Seventeen

  The tragedy of iron, doomed to repeat itself

  Vulkan regarded the hammer, pensive, crouched, his chin resting upon a clenched fist. Urdrakule sat innocuously enough, its heavier head pitching the haft at a sharp angle where it balanced on the bench.

  It had felled a primarch, or the golem of one at least. The scars in the metal hammerhead shone brightly where it had struck the false Gorgon, both shattering the grim effigy and proving the frailty of supposed ‘inviolable’ silver. It had exposed another weakness too, one in the fabric of the Iron Hands.

  Zytos watched Vulkan from across the room, but he thought about the Iron Tenth, or rather their hosts in the Iron Tenth. He had served within the Shattered Legions, and knew what it meant to be part of a force alloyed from different tactics, different cultures, different creeds. Some might consider the Iron Hands extreme in their beliefs. The primacy of metal over flesh had a binary aspect to it. Zytos knew things were seldom that straightforward.

  He wondered if Shadrak Meduson did too.

  Back in the auditorium, in the ruins of another broken world, he saw a Legion riven by belief. And doubt. It had damaged the Iron Hands, the death of the Gorgon. It had hurt them more deeply than they realised, and would ever realise, because of their disposition towards the machine. Scrape out the flesh, strip away emotion, let metal reign.

  The tragedy of it saddened Zytos.

  ‘Whatever it is, this rift,’ he murmured, ‘it isn’t over. This Legion is at war with itself because of its beliefs.’