by Nick Kyme
The ship rumbled in plaintive empathy. They had returned to their quarters aboard the Iron Heart shortly after Meduson’s pronouncement. Vulkan had said little, even by his taciturn standards. With his Iron Fathers stepping back into line, Meduson had done what he needed to, but he had used Vulkan to achieve his victory. Or so it seemed to Zytos.
The gathering had disbanded, scattering again until a plan could be made. Greater victories appeared to be the aim, or greater scalps. Zytos had overhead Nuros and Lumak discussing tactics, and in particular the importance attributed to the renegade Tybalt Marr, and wondered if the two were even divisible as far as their Warleader was concerned.
‘They suffer too much pride, brother. Pride is the warrior’s curse. How much blood has been falsely spilled in the name of pride, I wonder?’ Abidemi sat on a nearby stool, running a sharp stone slowly and methodically across each of Draukoros’ serrated teeth.
‘You treat that sword like a relic,’ Zytos said. ‘I hope you’ll use it as keenly when the time comes.’
Abidemi laughed, then grew solemn.
‘I will honour Numeon with it, Barek.’
Zytos smiled at him. ‘Aye, Atok, I know you will.’
‘They stand at a fork in the road, the Tenth’ said Abidemi. ‘One of those forks is Meduson, the other is not.’
‘They have a tenuous unity,’ said Zytos. ‘Meduson drives them with his dogged refusal to give in and hard-won charisma. I doubt it comes easy to him, but he has risen to it anyway.’
Abidemi nodded. ‘They will ask us to fight with them,’ he said. ‘I think a lot depends on our father’s answer.’
‘Perhaps we should,’ said Gargo and looked up from his tinkering. He had his right arm laid across a workbench, still attached to his shoulder but with its inner mechanisms exposed, the outer casing removed but within reach. Gargo’s other hand delved for tools from a rudimentary kit scavenged up by Nuros. He curled each finger in turn, until he had made a fist. Then he did it again, examining the adamantium skeletal structure: phalanges, metacarpals, carpals all rendered in exacting, albeit facsimiled, detail.
‘This is no denying a primarch would greatly improve Meduson’s chances of victory,’ said Abidemi.
‘And yet we won’t commit to this war. I am certain of Vulkan’s answer.’
Though the primarch had said little of what might lie ahead, the three Drakes knew of another eldritch gate, one that would get them back onto the path. Vulkan meant to reach it, and could allow for no distractions, however noble.
Gargo scowled, the means to significantly enhance the efficacy of his crude bionic eluding him for now. He reaffixed the casing in short order, and went to join his brothers.
‘Perhaps father could look at it,’ suggested Zytos, affording Gargo a side glance.
‘I would not trouble him.’
Zytos frowned. Vulkan did look greatly troubled.
‘Did you know it could do that?’ asked Gargo, at length.
Zytos turned, and frowned again.
Gargo took it as a prompt to explain.
‘The hammer. It returned to his hand. I have never seen that before.’
Zytos considered it. ‘Nor I.’
‘Our father knows many secrets of metallurgy,’ said Abidemi.
‘It’s not the metal, Atok,’ said Zytos.
‘No, not just that. It’s old technology, the kind T’kell saved from the vaults.’
They all fell silent at the mention of the forgemaster. He and several others, warriors of the Firedrakes known as the Unscarred, had left Prometheus and taken the ship Chalice of Fire with them. No word had reached Nocturne of their mission since. Many amongst the Legion believed T’kell and his expedition lost, likely dead. Zytos did not expect to see them again. He doubted he would even see Nocturne again.
‘And that?’ Zytos gestured to the talisman Vulkan wore around his neck. ‘How old is that technology? Old enough that our father remembers nothing of its forging?’
‘It concerns you,’ said Abidemi.
‘Does it not you?’
Gargo clenched and unclenched his fist, still unhappy. ‘It looks innocuous.’
‘The deadliest weapons usually do.’
Further discussion would have to wait as a warrior in black armour appeared at the doorway.
‘I hadn’t expected to find it open,’ said the Clan Avernii, Lumak.
Zytos turned to him. ‘We have no secrets, son of Ferrus.’
Lumak nodded, only half-engaged, and looked to Vulkan. If he thought anything about the primarch sitting in the shadows, estranged from his sons, he did not mention it. He had a weathered look, as did most of the Tenth, but he was particularly grizzled.
‘Lord Vulkan,’ he said, in a deep voice, gritty with age, ‘the Warleader requests your presence in the strategium. It concerns your mutual goals.’
Vulkan broke from his reverie to attend the captain.
‘I remember the Avernii,’ he said, ‘how you laid down your lives to try to save my brother.’
‘A task which we failed to accomplish, my lord.’
‘None could have fought harder. There is no shame in the act.’
‘And yet our father is still dead…’ His steady gaze alighted on the hammer. ‘Twice over.’
‘That thing was not your father, nor was it my brother.’
‘No, it was not,’ said Lumak. ‘So why do I feel my shame anew?’
Vulkan left Urdrakule where it was as he got to his feet. A shadow crossed the primarch’s face, as if he were reliving a painful memory, but it passed so quickly as to go unremarked.
‘Take me to Meduson, captain.’
Lumak gave a shallow bow. ‘Of course, my lord. This way.’
Zytos approached Vulkan just before he left the room.
‘Father?’
‘Stay here, Barek. I have no need of protection aboard this ship.’ He glanced at Gargo. ‘See to Igen’s arm. I will return shortly. And you are right,’ he said, as the sound of Lumak’s diminishing footsteps resounded from down the corridor.
‘About what, father?’
‘They are proud. So was my brother.’ He looked sad. ‘It will kill him in the end.’
Zytos frowned. ‘It will kill him? The Gorgon is already dead.’
Vulkan didn’t answer. He had left the room, his doleful footsteps merging with Lumak’s.
Low light pervaded in the strategium, edging consoles and map tables in a thin pale outline.
A hololith slowly turned in the middle of the room, a war council stood around it, observing from four different angles.
Lumak entered first and joined his brethren, bringing Vulkan to stand with Meduson.
The Warleader scrutinised a star map, nebulas, moons and planets described in perfect monochrome, as though this were a translucent pict-cording frozen in stasis and replayed over and over. Meduson had one arm folded across his chest, the other rested upon it as he stroked the stubble on his chin.
‘What do you see, Lord Vulkan?’
‘I see ships,’ said the primarch.
Traitor vessels held station in the void, rendered up in the hololith like the celestial bodies: escorts, destroyers and cruisers, ships of the line anchored by much larger battleships.
‘Our augurs have detected several similar formations across this sector of space. This one is the largest.’
Vulkan’s eyes narrowed, slivers of embers in the strategium darkness. ‘They are hunting you, Meduson.’
‘Nothing new in that,’ Lumak said.
‘I’ve stung him,’ murmured Meduson, still scrutinising. ‘They are hounding, rather than hunting, though. Our escape routes are slowly being cut off.’
‘Are you seeking a way out of Tybalt Marr’s trap, or a means to bring about a confrontation with him?’
Meduson averted his gaze from the hololith to look at Vulkan. The Iron Hand appeared gaunt, even harrowed, partly on account of his injuries and augmetics, but Vulkan knew exhaustion when he saw it. After his victory in the auditorium, Meduson had been invigorated. The burden of command spared no one, however, and it evidently weighed heavy again.
‘Perhaps they are one and the same.’
‘Perhaps,’ Vulkan conceded.
He regarded the others: the bellicose Lumak, who would do anything to atone for his perceived failure of the Gorgon, a task made purposely impossible; a Clan Sorrgol captain, Mechosa – he who Vulkan had met when first coming aboard the Iron Heart, who clung to his duty even when it was an unsheathed sword cutting his bare hands; the silent Raven, Dalcoth, from a Legion most of the Iron Tenth had little love for; and brave, noble Nuros, who would humbly beseech Vulkan for a place by his side and be refused, never understanding why but blaming it on some hitherto unknown weakness of character he did not actually possess.
A ragged company stood before him, individually flawed but collectively stronger than their accumulated parts.
The room felt silent, filled only with the angry hum of the hololithic device, which spilled grainy grey light into the air and cast those present in stark relief.
Meduson walked the perimeter of the image, as if to examine the vast fleet of ships from every possible angle.
‘I am calling together an army. The largest gathering of Iron Tenth yet,’ he said, regarding Vulkan keenly through the hololith. It painted his face in haunting shadows.
‘Only the Iron Hands?’
‘I am disbanding our coalition after this fight. The Raven Guard and Salamanders should return to their Legions. Defeating the Sons of Horus will make that possible.’
‘As the reforging of the Tenth is made possible by your renewed alliance with the Iron Fathers.’
‘I am the undisputed Warleader of the Iron Hands now. Aug sees that. So do the others. I have their unreserved support and word is spreading. Warriors flock to my banner. The Shattered Legion forces will be made whole.’
‘And we must commit them now,’ said Lumak, determined.
‘And what of my sons?’ asked Vulkan. ‘How many serve in your alliance?’
Meduson’s face darkened, but it was Nuros who answered.
‘Only I and a handful of others.’ He lowered his gaze, as if ashamed of what had become of the XVIII.
‘Many left, or so I have been told by some of the other cells,’ said Meduson. ‘It is hard to get accurate numbers.’
‘Recalled to Nocturne and Gereon Deep,’ offered Nuros. ‘I could reach neither.’
‘Has any word been received from these expeditions?’ Vulkan asked.
Nuros shook his head sadly.
Vulkan nodded solemnly. They were dead, then, in all likelihood.
‘I mean to give purpose to those who remain. We will break the back of this fleet,’ vowed Meduson.
‘A strategic blockade,’ said Mechosa, unnecessarily.
Vulkan chose to be gracious, giving the Clan Sorrgol captain a shallow nod.
‘We cannot chart a course around, so we must go through,’ Meduson told him.
‘You want a fight, and will charge their guns gladly.’
‘I want to return to the war – for the Gorgon’s death to have meaning, instead of this unbearable weight it exerts upon us.’
Vulkan nodded. ‘You are as prideful as he was.’
‘Rather pride than ignominy.’
‘It wasn’t an insult, Meduson.’
Meduson ran his iron hand across his closely shaved scalp. He looked weary. ‘I’m sorry. It has been a trying time for us. The stakes are rising with every battle. I cannot lose now. Too much depends on it. Too much depends on me. I will fight the Sons of Horus tooth for tooth. Not a raid this time – I’m not after supplies. I want to kill them. Kill him. But I have to goad him. I have to unsheathe my blade first. This is war. I will not lie and claim that a primarch would not be significant in this fight. I realise you want to leave, that your path takes you elsewhere. But at least stand with us. Our task would be much easier with you by our side. It would galvanise the warriors.’
Vulkan regarded Meduson, as he knew they all regarded him, especially Nuros. He found much to like about the Warleader. Fearlessness he had like any of the Tenth – that came from his brother’s influence – but his resolve and determination impressed Vulkan most. For a moment he considered it, the cause. He knew his sons had too.
He looked back at the hololith, at the massive fleet. An impenetrable veil of steel and adamantium. No gunship, however wily, could penetrate that.
‘What is your answer, Vulkan?’ asked Meduson. ‘Now you have seen what I am trying to do, will you at least stand with us?’
‘I cannot. Nothing has changed in that regard.’
‘You refuse then?’ said Meduson, frustration colouring his words.
‘I cannot fight your war.’ He glanced at Nuros, saddened by the disappointment in the Salamander’s eyes, but resigned to his decision. ‘Do not ask me again.’
Meduson raised a hand, notably the flesh and blood one. ‘I meant no offence.’
‘Then do not be offensive,’ said Vulkan, consternation in his voice.
‘I am not trying to be. I had hopes…’
‘Do not cleave to them, Meduson, they reveal your lesser self. Those ships bar my passage as well as yours, in this we have an accord. I cannot breach the blockade. You know I need your help.’
‘It is granted without reservation. I don’t ask you to fight. I know you can’t become embroiled in this. You have been clear about that. I simply ask you to be at my side when the fighting begins. Even your presence will make a great difference.’
Vulkan considered this. His heart yearned to bring battle to the Sons of Horus, having spent so long already out of it and in search of destiny instead. To do so would mean abandoning the greater cause, and he would not do that. He didn’t like being used as a political tool either, even one in service to a noble aim, though perhaps that was a lesser concession.
‘I’ll stand with you until the ships are broken and lend whatever aid my presence affords, but once my way is clear, my sons and I will depart.’
Meduson nodded. ‘Understood.’
‘I know what you risk, Meduson. I’m not blind to it,’ said Vulkan. ‘But this undertaking is one I cannot refuse.’ He looked at Nuros. ‘And something I must do alone.’
To his immense credit, Nuros said nothing. He merely held the primarch’s gaze and Vulkan knew he had understood.
‘I will get you through those ships,’ said Meduson.
‘Then I’ll stand with you until you do.’ Vulkan nodded to the others, and took his leave. Lumak made to accompany him back to his quarters.
‘I can find my own way, captain. Please, I am sure the Warleader has much to discuss with you all.’
Lumak gave another shallow bow.
‘Where will you go, Vulkan?’ asked Meduson as the primarch was leaving the strategium. ‘Beyond the blockade, where does your path take you?’
‘Somewhere I have not been for a very long time, a place where I never thought I would return.’
He said nothing further, and left Meduson and his generals to their war.
Eighteen
Iron hearts, iron heads
‘Have you slept?’
Gorgonson wore only half armour as he made an inventory of the medical supplies aboard the Iron Heart. They would be needed for what was coming. He looked up from his data-slate when an answer wasn’t forthcoming.
Meduson felt the Apothecary’s silent accusation without needing to see his disapproving face.
‘I have had no time for it. Run biometrics, you’ll see everything is fine.’
‘How long
has it been?’ Gorgonson left the slate behind. The sterile air reeked of counterseptic and faintly of blood.
Meduson shook his head and frowned. ‘A few days, I think. A week. Possibly two. Run biometrics.’
‘I have,’ said Gorgonson, reaching for another slate. He had a stack of them to hand, not only concerning the status of supplies but also casualty reports and individual medical exams. He found Meduson’s.
‘This is your cerebrum,’ he said, showing Meduson an X-ray of his skull. Gorgonson had circled the brainstem. ‘Your catalepsean node is not intended to be used as a substitute for sleep, Shadrak.’
‘I am aware of its function, Goran.’
They sat together in a small archive room, an antechamber off the main apothecarion.
‘Your mind is sleep-deprived. The catalepsean shows signs of strain.’
Meduson raised an eyebrow. ‘I came here to ask for your thoughts about Aug, not for a medical assessment.’
‘Then you should not have agreed to meet in the apothecarion.’ Gorgonson put the slate away. ‘Have you been seeing things, hearing things?’
‘I see and hear all the time. As Warleader, I must be attentive.’
‘Hallucinations, Shadrak,’ said Gorgonson, his tone chiding.
‘I know what you mean. No, nothing like that. I feel fatigued, yes. And I doubt I have slept since the muster began. Do you know how many ships we are now?’
Over the last two weeks, vessels had begun to gather. Meduson had given the command, and the Iron Tenth had heeded it. Warships of every kind arrived daily, some in ragged squadrons, some in impressively well-cohered fleets, others alone and glad to be allied to a larger force. The size and overall state of the ships varied greatly, but Meduson had welcomed them all. Refit and resupply, such as it was, had begun immediately.
They came together in sight of the Aragna Chain, a forbiddingly large asteroid field that stretched for thousands of kilometres across a third of the Vordral Sector. The names mattered little. Vordral had once been host to a cluster of industrial sub-type hive worlds called the Carthanons. Deemed alpha-class by Terra’s taxonomy cohorts, the Carthanonites had been proud and vehemently resisted subsummation into the Imperium.
