Angels of Caliban

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘There is nothing more that can be done,’ Guilliman tried to assure him.

  ‘There is,’ replied the Lion, his laugh short and bitter. ‘I know you, Roboute. Your theoretical and your practical approach to life’s challenges. One eye kept on the horizon, planning, preparing, consolidating and accommodating. I err towards the practical. Action. Achievement. You love Imperium Secundus as only a father can and you will do everything a father would to protect it, to nurture it and to teach it right from wrong.’

  The Lion directed his next words to Sanguinius rather that Guilliman, turning his back on the other primarch.

  ‘I am the Lord Protector. It is my duty to ensure our defence from any threat, be it from outside or within. There is no greater threat than Curze, a canker right here on Macragge. Perhaps even still within the civitas, regardless of our brother’s assertions. He toys with us, distracts us, perverts us from the goals we seek. While he is here nothing is safe, Imperium Secundus cannot grow.’

  ‘What are you asking for?’ Guilliman demanded.

  ‘I ask for nothing.’ The Lion glanced over his shoulder in irritation and returned his gaze to the emperor. ‘You have given me what I need already. You appointed me as Lord Protector and oaths were sworn. It is upon my honour to uphold the responsibilities placed upon me. And it is upon yours to let me do so.’

  ‘There can only be one Emperor,’ warned Guilliman.

  The Lion whirled about, stopping himself an instant from striking the primarch of the Ultramarines. Guilliman stepped back, startled.

  ‘And I will protect him!’ the primarch of the Dark Angels roared. He threw out an imploring hand to Sanguinius. ‘Brother, stand by your oaths. Free my hand from the bondage of personal niceties. You entrusted your life to me. Now it is time to prove that trust.’

  ‘What would you do?’ asked Sanguinius. He looked at Guilliman for a second and then back at the Lion. ‘What has our brother not done that you will?’

  ‘Macragge has been a fortress from without, but it must be fortified from within. Martial law. A total suspension of contact with any ships that have not been thoroughly inspected. Quarantine, if you will. Curfew. Searches. Surveillance and investigation without limit. There will be no shadows to hide Curze, no cracks for him to move along, no gaps to fall through. Nothing will pass upon the face of Macragge without my knowledge.’ The Lion slowly closed his fist as if he held the world in his hand. ‘It is what our brother has done that I will not that is more the matter.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Shown restraint.’

  It was several seconds of silence before Guilliman spoke, moving past the Lion to stand next to Sanguinius.

  ‘The decision is yours, my lord,’ he said with a bow of the head. ‘I would not allow this – it moves against everything we have sought to build. The new Imperium will never be broken from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.’

  Sanguinius nodded and the Lion took in a sharp breath. He was ready to make further argument for his case, but the Blood Angel met his gaze and silenced him with a look.

  ‘What you say is true, Roboute, but only to a point. Our brother is right, we each must be a pillar of the new Imperium and if we remove one support the whole edifice will crumble. Curze will not stop unless we stop him. With the beacon of Sotha reduced to a fraction of its power the Imperium will need strength and guidance more than ever, and that is your task. Though we have defeated many foes of late, the war is not over, there are battles to be waged. It is for this reason we swore to uphold the commands of our brother from Caliban. If he is not worthy of such a duty, then you cannot be the statesman of the Imperium and I cannot be its emperor.’

  Guilliman signalled his capitulation with a resigned look and a nod of the head. The Lion looked at Sanguinius and could only guess at the new emperor’s thoughts. Was he simply acting as peacemaker, maintaining the illusion of hope until his foreseen demise? Or did he truly believe in Imperium Secundus and the part it would play in guiding the future of mankind?

  Did it matter? Not to the Lion.

  He knew what needed to be done. It had been his weakness, his hesitation on Tsagualsa, that had allowed Curze to escape. This time he would leave nothing to chance. Before the winter finished, Curze would be dead by his hands.

  It was a pleasing thought, and he suppressed a smile as he bowed to Sanguinius.

  ‘Thy will be done, my emperor.’

  TRIUMVIRATE

  TWELVE

  The law of the Lion

  Ultramar

  ‘You have doubts, brother.’

  The Lion stated it without question and knew Guilliman was required to answer as the two of them paced a long balcony on the southern aspect of the Fortress of Hera. Thirty metres below them a company of Praecental Guard marched towards the Porta Hera, their footfalls in unison.

  It was almost dusk, the day spent in long discussion about the Imperium, Sotha and preparations for the declaration of Legatus Militant that would suspend the civil authorities of Macragge and hand executive power to the Imperial Triumvirate.

  ‘No. I have fears, brother. Grave fears.’

  The Lion stopped and looked south across Macragge Civitas. The city was sparking with thousands of lights as twilight encroached, and beyond he could see the blue plumes of plasma jets rising from the landing fields. He could smell salt amongst the fume of traffic and people, as the wind shifted to come in from the sea. His silence invited Guilliman to continue.

  ‘Every action begets a reaction. Have you considered that Curze wants us to assume absolute authority? He wages a different war from us, for objectives we cannot guess at.’

  ‘He is insane, lashing out blindly at any target. A wounded, maddened animal trying to protect itself.’

  ‘You heard Lord Sanguinius’ account as well as I did, brother. Curze’s madness has an endgame. He seeks justification, affirmation. Retaliation. You are giving him that.’

  The Lion thought about this, knowing that he owed his brother the courtesy of proper consideration.

  ‘The alternative is to let him wreak havoc, across Macragge. Across the Imperium. Our new emperor said it. He must be stopped.’

  ‘That is not what he said,’ Guilliman argued. The other primarch sighed and turned away, leaning his back against the pale stone of the balustrade. ‘The practical application of more security brings about consequences that theory cannot predict.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘We are asking my Legion to stand against their own. This is Macragge, the world of the Ultramarines. Many of my warriors have connections here. Family ties. We were never meant to rule directly. You must understand the potential conflict this generates.’

  ‘Unforeseen consequences are just that, brother. What ruin will Curze bring about if we do not curtail him now? I cannot conceive of such a future.’

  ‘The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.’ Guilliman straightened but did not look at his companion. ‘Tomorrow will bring protest. How will we deal with that?’

  ‘You will deal with it, brother. As Lord Warden, it remains your duty. I will be busy commanding my Legion.’

  ‘You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.’

  ‘I evade nothing.’ The Lion looked at Guilliman and could not guess what his thoughts were. It was a hard task the Ultramarines primarch had taken upon himself. The Dark Angel sought to alleviate some of that burden, allowing his brother the time and space to perfect the design of his creation. ‘And you need not concern yourself with conflicts of interest. My warriors will show no fear or favour in the application of their duties. Your Legion’s hands are clean.’

  ‘You cannot mean…’ Guilliman started, looking in shock at the Lion. ‘You cannot bring your Legion to Macragge.’

  ‘I have already issued orders, brother. You have admitted that your warriors cannot be trusted to guard their own.’
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  ‘You think you can usurp me on my own world?’ Guilliman was almost hoarse, throat tightened by his distraught state.

  ‘Our world,’ the Lion replied. ‘The cradle of the new Imperium. Caliban lies beyond the ruinstorm, far from my reach. Half my Legion I left under the command of Corswain. I have given up my home, my warriors to join this endeavour. What are you willing to sacrifice?’

  Horus had tried to take the Imperium for himself, and Guilliman had decided to build a new one. As much as he did not want to belittle his brother, the primarch of the Dark Angels knew that there could only be one winner in the war to come. There would be no second place. Curze had to be dealt with at any cost. Any cost, even Guilliman’s pride.

  The Lion stepped close, his voice dropping.

  ‘Do you trust me, brother?’

  Guilliman found her walking the long gardens on the roof terraces behind the Praetorium. Tarasha Euten, the Chamberlain Principal as others knew her, though to the primarch she was in all other purpose his mother. Her wisdom, her human insight, was an essential part of him, as much as the statecraft and physical courage of Konor, his long-dead adoptive father.

  She was tall, though dwarfed by his presence, and carried her years with dignity, or so it seemed. Perhaps she masked frailties in his presence, it was impossible to know. In a singular way it had been a blessing that Konor had died in his prime, though the ignoble manner of that death, cut down by a cowardly traitor, was no cause for gladness. But Guilliman had been spared the ordeal of watching his father become old, his body fading, perhaps his faculties too, even as Roboute would have continued to grow beyond the limits of any normal human.

  Tarasha was of the mind to consider such a thing and spare him the worst of such distractions.

  ‘You are thinking about him,’ she said, sitting on a marble bench beside the hard-pruned remains of a bush. There had been no snow yet, but the garden was prepared for winter. She wore a heavy white coat, the collar and sleeves lined with dark fur. Her face was quite flushed by the chill, her hair neatly pushed behind a blue woollen cap. Her staff was propped against the arm of the bench. She caught his look. ‘Konor, of course, though I am sure you have been thinking of your true father a lot as well.’

  ‘How can you tell such a thing?’ he asked. He sat next to her, not wishing to loom over her with his bulk, but nearly folding his legs double on the low bench made him feel even more gigantic and ungainly next to her.

  ‘Stand,’ she said, ‘or you will fidget me to death.’

  He stood, grateful, and started to pace, hands behind his back.

  ‘There is a wistfulness in your face when you think of him these days,’ she explained after a moment. ‘I can see your eyes looking into the past.’

  ‘I feel that I must succeed or fail two fathers,’ Guilliman admitted, stopping to run a finger along the branch of a coniferous tree overhanging the path. It was at head height for him, but to the gardeners it would have been no intrusion. Always there were reminders that he was an immortal trying to fit a mortal world. ‘I am not entirely sure he would approve of Imperium Secundus.’

  ‘If you were the type to seek approval for its own merit, Horus would have sent Lorgar as an ambassador, not a warleader. Tell me what this is really about.’

  Guilliman took some time to gather his thoughts, searching for the words that would convey his nebulous and miasmic collection of hopes and fears about Imperium Secundus. In the end, it could all be rendered down to a simple statement, one that was almost impossible to voice. Euten waited expectantly, though he detected a hint of impatience.

  ‘Do I need to say it?’ she said, standing up.

  ‘No,’ Guilliman replied. He looked away and then back at her. ‘I do not think the Lion is an ally.’

  ‘I see.’ Euten rubbed her nose and pulled out a pair of black gloves from the pockets of her coat. She spoke as she slipped them on. ‘You cannot trust him. He likes his secrets. He has lied to you more than once.’

  ‘No man has a good enough memory to be a successful liar.’

  ‘But I thought that primarchs remembered everything.’

  ‘I take your point.’

  ‘He is also a character of action,’ she continued, turning to take up her staff. With slow paces she approached, her expression stern. ‘He excels at adaptation, the emergent strategist. Oh, he plans well enough, but it is determination that sees him to his greatest success. A determination to overcome everything set against him, despite the odds or the price.’

  ‘Give me six hours to build a tower and I will spend the first four measuring bricks.’ Guilliman smiled, but his humour quickly faded. ‘I have spent many hours building Imperium Secundus, but he will wreck it in the next five minutes. We have only just begun what we need to do here. Long on the theoretical, short on the practical.’

  ‘Is it so bad?’ Euten asked, leaning heavily on the staff, her breath coming in quick wisps. ‘Let him be the warlord, devote yourself to being the statesman we need you to be. You will stop him going too far. You and the new emperor. The Lion respects you and looks up to Lord Sanguinius.’

  ‘The Lord Sanguinius is distracted.’ The moment he uttered the words, Guilliman regretted it. Although he confided much in her, his Chamberlain Principal, the visions that Sanguinius had disclosed were a matter for primarchs alone, the business of the Triumvirate and no others.

  ‘He has a lot to occupy him,’ she said. ‘Another reason you must concentrate on what you must do and not second-guess others. Lord Sanguinius rules the Imperium, but you must run it. Manage the Lion as you would anything else.’

  ‘If he is of a mind to usurp me, and is my match in intellect, how can I stop him without resorting to force?’

  Euten turned down the path, heading towards an ironwork arch in the hedge that surrounded them. She was almost out of sight when her reply drifted back to him.

  ‘That is easy, my son. It is time to start measuring bricks.’

  The halls and corridors of the Invincible Reason rang with the clamour of battle preparations. The thud of armoured boots, whine of gunship engines and roar of armoured vehicles never failed to excite Farith Redloss. If he had not literally been born to war, it had certainly raised him like a mother.

  It had started in an isolated stronghold in the Caliban forests, where each day brought attack from the beasts of the woods. Father, uncles, two brothers killed before he was six. He could load the wall-cannons by the time he was tall enough to lift the explosive harpoons.

  Farith had been eight when the Lion and the Order had arrived, bringing with them the end of the beasts, but not an end to battle. Youthful, strong, obedient Farith had been an ideal squire to the lords of the Order, and by chance when the Imperium arrived four years later and the Dark Angels Legion started to recruit, his pre-adolescent physique had been perfect for the implantation of the Space Marine organs and gene-seed.

  Not born a warrior, but crafted as one.

  He stood on one of the gantries overlooking the main concourse that ran for most of the length of the battle-barge, towering twenty decks in height. From the highest level the lowest tier was swathed not just by distance but by a fog of coolant vapour and exhaust smoke. It just added to sensation, a reminder of the dawn mists that had surrounded the castle of his childhood, each day greeted with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

  There was no more apprehension. He did not crave death, but he no longer feared it. He leaned on the rail of the balcony, admiring the lines of warriors moving from their dormers to the launch bays, steps ringing in unison.

  He felt the approach of the Lion before he heard the whisper of war-plate servos and the strangely quiet tread on the steps behind him. For a giant, the primarch moved with the lightness and grace of his namesake. Truly a hunter of the forests in every way.

  ‘Everything is proceeding according to drill, my liege,’ Redloss said as he turned and saluted his primarch. ‘Stenius reports the fleet is dispersing to drop formatio
ns across orbit as you have ordered.’

  The Lion said nothing, but looked past Redloss at the Space Marines below. He nodded to some unspoken query, his face impassive.

  ‘Would you forgive a question, my liege?’

  ‘I am not famed for my forgiveness,’ said the Lion. He held Redloss’ gaze for a moment and then smiled, though the expression lacked warmth. ‘Ask.’

  ‘Is this really needed? Why do we chain ourselves to Macragge when there are still enemies abroad in the Imperium? Is one world so important?’

  ‘The world? No. It is only remarkable because Lord Guilliman grew up here. But here we have placed the throne of the new emperor, and so it is here that our future will be decided.’ The Lion closed his eyes and leaned on the rail beside Farith. Redloss did not feel like interfering, though the primarch’s unusual openness unsettled him. ‘Lord Sanguinius. I have placed my trust, my faith in him. I cannot serve the Emperor and so I have found a surrogate.’

  The primarch opened his eyes, their gaze hard as he stared down at the moving columns of troops. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath.

  ‘Imperium Secundus must succeed. We…’ He faltered. Redloss wanted to be anywhere else than on that balcony at that moment, the hesitation in his lord more frightening than any foe on the battlefield. ‘I chose to come to Macragge because I feared that Guilliman wanted to replace the Emperor. Now I have become complicit.’

  ‘Has Terra really fallen?’ Farith asked quietly. ‘Since the elevation of Sanguinius, even before then, it’s been insisted that Horus has taken Terra. Such is the justice of what we have done. If not…’

  ‘Vanity,’ whispered the primarch. ‘If Terra has held, than this endeavour is nothing but the vanity of three fools.’