by Gav Thorpe
Tukon said nothing and continued to stare a hole through Astelan. The door thudded shut, disproportionately loud in the silent cell. There was a pallet opposite the Chapter Master and Astelan sat down.
‘Ships have arrived,’ Astelan told the prisoner. ‘As the ranking officer in this… facility, I thought you should be told.’
Tukon’s stare did not change for a moment. He folded his arms, revealing snake tattoos running across bulging pectorals. The two serpents disappeared over his shoulders and reappeared at the Chapter Master’s throat.
‘We were angels in the Host of Fire together,’ Astelan murmured, genuinely disappointed by Tukon’s naïvety. ‘Why did you get caught up in this idiocy?’
Nothing came back. Tukon’s knuckles were growing whiter by the second. The veins and tendons in his forearms were like thick cords. Murder glinted behind his eyes, kept at bay by a will stronger than plascrete.
Astelan glanced at Galedan and saw that his companion was alert, a watchdog waiting for the command, eyes fixed on Tukon. The First Master thought he knew the prisoner well enough not to fear assault, but he had brought Galedan with him just to ensure nothing untoward happened.
‘We do not know who is on the ships yet, and I do not know what Luther will do when they come to orbit. But I will not let him hold you hostage. You have my word.’
The smallest shift in Tukon’s gaze conveyed more eloquently than any words what he thought of Astelan’s promises. The First Master had every intention of using the prisoners as hostages if required, but he had to cover all potential exigencies. The Chapter Master leaned back, his head resting against the wall. He slowly closed his eyes, his breathing slow and determined.
‘There will come a time when you must lead again, Chapter Master.’ Astelan stood up, not knowing whether his words would be heeded or not. He suspected the latter. ‘This incarceration was a necessary misdeed. Not the first I have undertaken. You know as well as I what must sometimes be done in the name of victory. You are not my judge, only the Emperor may claim that role.’
He signalled for Galedan to open the door and followed the Chapter Master. As he reached the threshold, Astelan was stopped by the sound of Tukon moving. He spun around, hands rising to a defensive stance, but the Chapter Master had only brought a foot up to the bench.
‘I’ll be waiting,’ he said without opening his eyes. ‘Remember that, Astelan. I’ll be waiting.’
The First Master left the cell, choosing to allow Tukon the last word. It mattered nothing in the grand scheme of things. Either Tukon would be useful or he would not, and any threats he made were irrelevant while he was trapped in a cell deep beneath Aldurukh.
Neither Astelan nor Galedan said anything as the First Master took his companion to another cell, just a few corridors away.
Astelan was about to key the opening code when Galedan laid a hand on his superior’s arm and stopped him.
‘Why don’t you leave him in peace?’ asked the Chapter Master. ‘Do you enjoy his misery?’
‘Certainly not!’ snapped Astelan, knocking aside Galedan’s hand. He stared at his second. ‘Have I really given you reason to think me cruel, Galedan? What other evidence might you present that I delight in the torment of others?’
The Chapter Master shrank back, cowed by the stern words.
‘I…’ His words faltered. ‘My apologies, Master Astelan. I spoke out of turn.’
‘You did.’
‘I am worried, though. About his mind. These visits push him closer to breaking, I think.’
‘Then he must break,’ Astelan replied. ‘He is no use to our cause as he is. Perhaps when broken he can be reassembled in a manner more functional to our needs.’
Galedan said nothing, but he looked doubtful.
The door opened, revealing the shimmer of an energy field within, casting all beyond it with a faint blue tint. The occupant of the high-security cell looked up, his face contorting with rage the moment he set eyes upon Astelan.
‘Traitor!’ the Space Marine roared, leaping to his feet. ‘Underhand, honourless betrayer!’
‘Captain Melian…’ Astelan began, but the prisoner stormed towards the field and smashed his fists against it, creating azure ripples in the air.
‘You are lower than the scavenging curs of Coldarian.’ The Space Marine spat, and thick saliva fizzed into vapour against the field. ‘The beetles of the forest mulch have more dignity, more worth than a spineless coward like you. There is no pain, no contempt, no abasement terrible enough to atone for the crime you have committed against your brothers.’
The ranting continued for some time, which Astelan weathered with crossed arms and an impassive stare. After several more minutes during which his lineage, character and actions were thoroughly denounced Astelan watched Captain Melian claw wordlessly at the energy barrier, his face twisted with such rage as he had never encountered before.
‘Listen to me,’ barked the First Master. His tone of command cut through even the apoplectic ire of Melian, years of psycho-conditioning bringing the captain to a standstill in a heartbeat.
Melian’s eyes focused on Astelan, comprehension returning.
‘There are ships coming, brother,’ Astelan told his former subordinate. ‘If I need you, I will send Galedan. The two of you will lead others to take Aldurukh from below. If Luther resists the return of the Lion, you must help us restore the authority of the Dark Angels.’
‘The Lion is returning?’ Melian’s fervour had dissipated like fog beneath the summer sun.
‘We cannot know for sure,’ Astelan replied. ‘I do not think Luther will welcome him with open arms as he once did.’
‘And I am to believe the man that put me in this prison? The one that betrayed us to Luther?’
Astelan could see the anger returning and knew he did not have much time.
‘To position you here, beneath the throne room where he holds his false rule. I kept you alive, all of you, so that we would be ready. Luther looks on me with favour now, and with each day I get closer. When the time is right I shall strike, and Galedan will come for you.’
Melian looked at the other Space Marine, seeking reassurance, familiarity.
‘It is better this way,’ Galedan told the captain.
‘What about weapons?’ asked Melian.
‘Against Tylain’s auxiliaries?’ Astelan forced a chuckle. He lifted up his fists and flexed his fingers. ‘These are the only weapons you need. Why do you think I advised Luther to staff this prison with humans and not Space Marines?’
There was still disbelief in Melian’s gaze but it was better than the unthinking rage that had greeted them. This time Astelan wanted to be sure he was understood.
‘When Galedan comes, you must act,’ he told Melian. He fixed the captain with a stare. ‘I will be relying on you.’
He turned away before Melian could comment, and pressed the door control, cutting off anything the captain might have said. Astelan could feel Galedan’s stare upon him but did not turn.
‘You think that I weave these plots for amusement, a diversion to keep me occupied during our exile from the Legion?’
‘Maybe not for amusement, but I don’t see why you have to keep spinning plan after plan in such a convoluted way. You clothe us in the titles and garb of the Order, claim to fight for Caliban, but muster hope of the Lion’s return, whilst seeking to avenge yourself upon the primarch, and in secret speak of striking down Luther. It is, maybe, an obsession, First Master.’
Now Astelan looked at his companion. ‘It is an obsession, brother. Loyalty and duty must always be so.’
‘Loyalty to whom? Sometimes I’m not sure why we’re fighting, or who for.’
‘For the Emperor, Galedan.’
‘We are walking a perilous road. Do you really have a plan, Astelan?’
‘A plan? Why be so prosaic? Plans change. We will simply take advantage of opportunities when they present themselves. Whoever is on those ships, whatever happens
next, we will use it to our advantage.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ Galedan said with a tone that conveyed that he was anything but reassured.
NINE
Harsh words
Ultramar
The last time he had awaited the arrival of the Lion, Roboute Guilliman had been filled with concerns of a different kind. The primarch of the Dark Angels had arrived with all of the ceremony and grandiosity that befitted his station, and Guilliman had stood upon the eve of the great proclamation of Imperium Secundus.
On that occasion the Lion had made a great display of his arrival, descending upon Magna Macragge Civitas with all the spectacle of a compliance action. The primarch of the Dark Angels had made every effort to impress upon anyone that witnessed their arrival that they were the First Legion, the finest. Flawlessly choreographed and executed manoeuvres had brought dozens of drop-ships to the plaza of the Martial Square, a show of force as well as precision.
This time there was no showing off. The void shields and defence screens of the city momentarily flickered apart to allow the ingress of a lone Stormbird. As they powered back into life above it, gold glinted briefly along the gunship’s flank.
Uncertainty had marked that historic day. An uncertainty that the Lion had also felt, the primarch had later revealed. As the Lord of the First had made his entrance his fleet had been stood at the ready with drop pods and gunships prepared to invade Macragge at a single command.
Such was the trust the Lion held for his brothers.
Guilliman wondered if the Lion had taken similar precautions again. The Lord Warden was in no mood for his brother’s suspicious nature. He took a breath and slowly let it go, creating a small cloud in the winter air. It was chill atop the principle landing dock of Hera’s Gate but it afforded a view across almost the entirety of the civitas.
The lord of Caliban had certainly shown little enough regard for his brother primarchs on this occasion. Tasked with bringing the Lion back to Macragge following the incident at Sotha, Guilliman had tried the beacon, astropaths and even conventional transmissions to contact his brother, with no success. That the Lion had returned now might be coincidence, or perhaps the result of receiving Guilliman’s messages without being able to reply.
More likely, thought Roboute, the Lion had simply wanted to keep the manner and time of his arrival as secret as possible. Perhaps for good reason, but perhaps not.
The Stormbird touched down two hundred metres away, settling perfectly onto the designated landing space of the apron. A brief flurry of the engines sent a blast of air washing across the primarch. A flourish, even now, to remind any onlooker that a lord of lords had arrived.
Watching the ramp descend, Guilliman confessed inwardly that it was not the Lion that was responsible for his tension. The primarch of the Ultramarines had made a mistake. A very bad mistake. Admitting such to his brother would be difficult, made all the more so because Guilliman knew the Lion would not care for any explanation.
He would have to do that which he was loath to do – trust the Lion would not seek to make personal gain out of a shared disaster.
The Lord of Caliban descended alone. Long, quick strides brought him closer to Guilliman every second. The Lord Warden considered his first words, weighing each carefully in his thoughts, knowing that the Lion’s attitude would be shaped in those opening seconds of communication.
‘What has happened?’ the Lion demanded before he had reached Guilliman.
The rehearsed words, carefully considered sentiments and reasoning fled like startled birds before the unchained anger of his brother. In three words Guilliman’s failure was writ large, the Lion becoming the embodiment of the primarch’s self-judgement.
Guilliman hung his head, unable to force out the words. Suddenly they seemed to be trite, just so many platitudes.
‘Sotha? Why has the warp beacon fallen dark?’
‘The Night Lords attacked. We were able to prevent the destruction of the beacon, but it can no longer function as fully as it once did.’
‘The Night Lords. Then Curze was at Sotha.’
Guilliman hesitated, knowing that the truth was even worse than his brother thought. ‘Only his Legion. Curze was here all along. He never left Macragge.’
The Lion was immobile, rendered as a statue for several moments as he absorbed this information. A flicker of the eyelids betrayed an internal dialogue that Guilliman could only guess at. When he spoke, the Lion’s voice was flat, devoid of feeling. Stunned, Guilliman was forced to admit.
‘Never… left… Macragge…’
Another twitch, the slightest shake of the head, frozen like a cogitator encountering a terrible paradox in its program code. A widening of the eyes as reality asserted itself, implications springing into life like water streaming through the cracks in a weakened dam.
‘Our brother-emperor?’ the Lion became animated, almost grabbing Guilliman by the shoulder. ‘Has anything happened to Sanguinius?’
‘He lives,’ Guilliman assured him. ‘He is unharmed.’
‘But something happened?’
‘I will show you.’ It was easier that way. Let the evidence speak, the admission becoming tacit. Share the blame. ‘Come with me, brother.’
An armoured grav-carrier took them over the buildings of Macragge Civitas, avoiding the triumphal way of the Avenue of Heroes, away from the eyes of the populace. The Lion glowered out of the firing slots at the city sliding past, his silence a deafening accusation in itself.
‘How progresses the war against the dregs of Lorgar and Angron?’ It was a cowardly question, voiced to turn the attention of both to another matter. Guilliman hated himself for asking, but did not regret it.
‘Dregs, as you say,’ the Lion said bitterly. ‘Enough spite to kill millions, but no threat to the Imperium. The true criminals have escaped retribution for the moment.’
The silence returned, even more pregnant than before. Guilliman had chosen to come alone, to leave Euten and Gorod and his other counsellors. Their absence was probably for the best. The Lion would feel outnumbered and become more defensive. Only Faffnr Bludbroder and his Space Wolves insisted on following, once again referring to their orders from Malcador the Sigillite to monitor and guard Lord Guilliman. As a compromise, considering Faffnr had also felt the need to duel with the Lion on their last encounter, the ‘watch-pack’ were presently restricted to another grav-carrier.
Guilliman leaned across the troop compartment and activated the vox-link to the driver.
‘Take us over the portico,’ he said. He stood up and opened the entryway. Wind whistled past the hatch as the grav-carrier descended towards the Fortress of Hera.
The Lion stood at his shoulder, gazing past.
For a moment a buttress obscured the view, but then the transport rounded one of the outer towers and the remains of the antechamber were revealed.
Servitors and blade-prowed Rhinos worked at the rubble left by the collapse of the grand portico, overseen by Techmarines in blue and red. Shattered columns and broken masonry had been scattered, broken like a child’s model. The scorch marks of an intense fire clearly marked the windows of the surrounding galleries. Walls and towers close at hand were pocked by shrapnel and debris impacts.
‘There are still the bodies of two Sanguinary Guard buried there,’ Guilliman said softly, shaking his head. ‘We recovered the rest and have taken them to the Chapel of Memorial.’
The Lion said nothing as he stared down at the ruin.
‘Another counter-strategy by Curze,’ Guilliman said with a sigh. ‘The antechamber was rigged with explosives linked to a terminus-sensor in the armour of Commander Azkaellon. In the event of attack breaking through, the failsafe would destroy the chamber and anyone within, and seal the throne room. Curze was able to bypass the security measures and lured the guards into their own booby trap.’
‘Where is the emperor?’ The Lion turned away, his expression grim. ‘Take me to him, now.’
Guilliman excused his brother’s tone, though on other occasions he would not take so kindly to being commanded in such an imperious manner.
‘Of course. Sanguinius is holding state from the Praetorium since the attack.’ Guilliman closed the hatch and joined his brother. ‘Truth be told, he has spent most of the time by himself. He sees a few petitioners each day. I pass him daily reports but he responds little. He is very concerned by the loss of Sotha’s extra capabilities.’
‘The empathic teleportation? It was unreliable even before.’
‘And temporarily losing the beacon must have taken a toll,’ Guilliman added. He decided to be diplomatic. ‘Ships off-course, delayed, some perhaps lost for good. Sanguinius tasked me with recalling you to Macragge, but I assume you did not receive my communiqués. It is a relief that you made it here at all. And so swiftly, brother – your Navigators must be the best in the Imperium.’
The Lion shifted in discomfort at this line of discussion, and looked away. ‘We were fortunate.’
Guilliman left it at that, but there was clearly more to be said. Perhaps the Lion had already been returning to Macragge when the disaster had happened? Guilliman forced himself to stop speculating. Events had proceeded with enough uncertainty already; there was no point adding to his woes with pointless second-guessing of his brother’s intentions.
The carrier deposited them on a lawn close to the outer gates of the western chambers of the Fortress of Hera. Squads of Ultramarines patrolled the gardens and corridors, parting for the new arrivals. A few dozen metres behind, the Space Wolves shadowed them, sensible enough not to intrude upon the business of the primarchs. Even so, Guilliman could sense them, another irritation he would dearly love to dispense with.
They located Sanguinius by the presence of his guards. Four of them had survived the attack, their golden armour scorched and broken in places. Azkaellon stood with them, his left arm missing from above the elbow. He stepped forward, his one hand moving to the blade sheathed at his waist.
‘You could not stop a primarch with both arms, as I recall,’ the Lion snarled. He strode up to Azkaellon, barely giving the commander of the Sanguinary Guard a glance, his attention fixed on the unassuming double doors they protected. ‘Do you think to stop me now with only one?’
