by Gav Thorpe
‘A secret well kept,’ he murmured. ‘One that you need not keep much longer. On your knees.’
Psychic power scythed through Lord Cypher’s legs, shattering bone within the flesh. With a pained cry he fell forward to all fours, head bowed before Zahariel.
‘You damn… yourself… and all… of Caliban,’ Lord Cypher whispered between pained grunts. ‘You know nothing… of the… price… of Chaos.’
‘Make sure the body is not found,’ Zahariel told his Mystai as he turned away. ‘Only the stones will remember him.’
THIRTY
A broken blade
Ultramar
The legata collegius had the appearance of a gladiatorial amphitheatre, circular with steep tiers of seats surrounding it. The floor was, by tradition, layered with fine white sand from the coasts at Adelphius. Once open to the air, it was now protected from the elements by a weathershield that projected constant summer skies, though outside the snows had started to fall in earnest. The colours of the ancient houses were hung from the upper limits of the grandstand – banners of red and gold, blue and silver, green and black, each large enough to blanket a super-heavy tank.
There was a legend across Macragge that it had once hosted bloodsports for the old Macraggian Battle Kings, but Guilliman’s researches had revealed nothing more than contests being resolved with hyperbole and rhetoric.
He wondered if today would see those gory myths come to life.
The accoutrements and furniture of the court were built from dark mountain trees, almost as black as coal. A few changes had been made to accommodate the ascension of the Imperial Triumvirate. The long table where once five judicia major had sat had been removed, replaced with chairs and desks suited to the physique of the primarchs.
Like a vanguard in front of these ultimate arbiters were arranged a dozen smaller chairs and tables, from which it was customary for the tetrarchs and their praetor civilis to listen to appeals put before them, against cases already passed by the magistars of the outer court.
Plaintiff and defendant, during the course of normal dispute, would thus proceed from the gates at the southern end of the legata collegius, putting the case before an available magistar. Upon receiving judgement – one day only was allowed for the presentation of evidence – the parties would either agree to the summary judgement or bring their case before the praetor civilis. Advocates’ fees being arranged such that progressively higher circles of the court risked financial ruin on many, only those that truly believed they had been judged wrongly took their cases all the way to the judicia major.
Sanguinius had not yet entered and Guilliman sat alone. The stands were packed, many of the terraces filled with Space Marines from the Legions present on Macragge – the black of the Lion’s warriors, the pale-armoured White Scars, a red splash of Blood Angels, ebon-and-silver of the Iron Hands and the blue-grey of the Wolves from Fenris. Had it not been such a terrible occurrence for their gathering, Guilliman might have been pleased at the proof of his theory that Macragge could be the rallying point of the Imperium’s defenders. The cobalt-blue of Guilliman’s XIII was everywhere, not with the other Space Marines but amongst the dresses, coats and robes of the civilian attendees.
With their own people.
Often there was a carnival atmosphere in the legata collegius as students of law and idlers watched and listened to the proceedings like the entertainment shows on the civil broadcasts. Today the audience waited with hushed expectation. Five companies of the Praecental Guard had been drafted in to assist the college vigiles that were tasked with the expulsion of troublemakers and drunkards. Tickets had been issued by lottery, such was the demand to witness history taking place.
There had been demand for visual-feed teams to be stationed around the arena but Guilliman had thought this a step too far. The matter at hand was not to be treated as an amusing diversion.
In normal circumstance, the legata collegius was for civil matters, but the Lion’s declaration of Legatus Militant had turned it into a military tribunal. Even that was inadequate for the case about to be held.
Such was the nature of Macragge law – the twelve Acts of the Legatus Tabulae that were so sacrosanct that Guilliman had not dared change them even during his most sweeping reforms – the primarchs could not bring the case against Konrad Curze as well as sit as his judges. In a purpose-built box to the right of the thrones, the senior officers of three Legions had been assembled. They were both plaintiffs and witnesses, survivors of Curze’s evil to speak on behalf of the dead.
The benches for the advocates were empty. Curze would speak for himself. Not even the famously contentious advocates of the legata collegius were willing to sully themselves defending the Night Haunter – not that he would suffer any other to speak his case for him.
The murmur of conversation died away as Sanguinius entered without fanfare. He walked across the arena, the tips of his wings carving trails in the white sand. His armour sparkled in the artificial light, the gilded ornamentation glowing as though lit from within. Straw-gold hair cascaded down his shoulders. He held his chin high, piercing eyes scanning the crowds as he sat down.
How like an emperor, Guilliman thought.
The general hubbub resumed and Sanguinius leaned towards Guilliman as he sat.
‘Is it right that we do this so publicly, brother?’ asked the regent emperor.
‘Justice unseen is no justice,’ Guilliman replied. ‘That is the basis of the twelve Acts, the reason for the legata collegius being open to all.’
‘I worry that we are airing in public matters that should not be given such freedom to spread on the wings of rumour.’
Guilliman looked up at his brother, surprised by his turn of phrase and the intent. ‘How so? Are we not in the right?’
Sanguinius shook his head. ‘It is not our argument that causes me concern. Our deranged brother has sought attention for his cause. He demands the right to vindicate himself. If he is such a destructive flame, why do we labour to give him the oxygen he requires?’
‘What whispers would be carried to the further corners in the absence of testimony? The people have seen fire and death brought to Illyrium, and now they must see the reason for it.’
‘This might be Curze’s plan. His cause found sympathy in Illyrium, his words will be conveyed to the Five Hundred Worlds next. He could not have created a greater platform for his hate to spread.’
‘We cannot stand above the law. Such thinking legitimises the social vandalism of creatures like Curze. He is entitled to the full protection of our legal process. He has the right to speak. If we deny it to him, he has every right to deny its validity. One must uphold all of the law, or none of it, brother.’
Sanguinius smiled, though the expression was tainted by a sorrowful look in his eyes.
‘You really believe that, don’t you, Roboute?’ The Blood Angel looked away, his stern demeanour returning. ‘What other news will spread do you think? What lies of Horus and Lorgar, what untruths we cannot gainsay will flow from his lips?’
‘It will be our part to counter them, to issue forth the truth. Let us have faith that right makes might. And in that faith let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.’
‘That is a lot to place on faith, brother.’
Guilliman considered the points made by the regent emperor. There was some truth to the assertion that they had curtailed the misinformation spread by Lorgar and his agents. The truth was on their side, but Curze had a manner about him that would stir up discontent. He knew how to find the cracks in a man’s resolve and weaken them further. The Night Haunter and his Legion had been characterised by others as using ‘terror’ tactics, but there was far more to Curze’s strategies than simple intimidation. He fostered division amongst his enemies, the way Sanguinius exuded unity with his allies.
‘I am not above error,’ the Lord Warden conceded. ‘You are the Imperator Regis, and I, and the law, are the implementation of your will.�
�
This confession did not please Sanguinius. He bowed his head, fingers to his brow for a moment.
‘Would you do this for me, brother? If you abandon your principles on my whim, what stops me becoming a tyrant?’
‘Your heart, my lord emperor.’ Guilliman had never said anything truer and he felt for his brother at that moment, knowing that his very reluctance to lead was the greatest reason for him to be the leader. ‘No ill can come of your true intent. We are a triumvirate, but you are the Emperor-to-be. The Lion and I agree upon this fact. Some single mind must be master, else there will be no agreement in anything.’
Sanguinius raised his head, and looked around the arena. For a few seconds, Guilliman thought the Imperator Regis might do as he said and declare Curze unfit for trial. Would he be able to follow still, his principles overturned? Was that the price he would have to pay for Imperium Secundus to succeed?
‘Bring in the prisoner,’ Sanguinius announced, his voice booming across the amphitheatre.
Carried by a vox-system to the temporary cage built beneath the legata collegius, Sanguinius’ announcement raised the heads of the Lion and Curze together. The Dark Angel had not left his captive’s side for a moment, but Curze seemed resigned to his trial and had remained silent since he had been taken from the Illyrian fane. He broke the silence with a mocking smile.
‘The circus begins. Again.’
The Lion grabbed the shackles that bound Curze’s hands to a chain belt around his waist. The prisoner was garbed in a kilt of black leather, his white hair tied back. His fingers were tipped with cracked nails, his bony feet the same. Without his armour he seemed a lot shorter, though he was still rangier than his captor. Curze’s skin was as pallid as a deep-sea fish, blue veins stark against the white. Scars marked much of his body, some so old they were nothing more than pink smudges, others much fresher, like the scabs where the Lion Sword had pierced him, and the cut across his throat.
Bare feet flapping on the stone, healing spine supported by the rings and callipers of a torsion brace, Curze did not resist as the Lion pushed him from the reinforced cage towards the steps that ascended to the open dome of the legata collegius. Alone, the primarch of the Dark Angels led the Night Haunter into the bright lights, the thousands-strong crowd silent as the object of so much horror and fear emerged from the darkened passageway.
Curze looked around, his face impassive, showing none of his antics. The slightest sneer twisted his lips as the Lion brought him across the white sands and set him before Guilliman and Sanguinius.
‘If you move from that spot, I will kill you,’ the Lion warned before moving to his chair.
‘Hello, brothers,’ said Curze, turning his gaze from the Lion to Guilliman before his stare rested on Sanguinius. ‘All still alive and well, I see.’
Sanguinius stood up.
‘Konrad Curze, you have been brought before the Triumvirate Imperialis to answer for crimes and atrocities committed against the Imperium and its servants. A full account of the accusations will be made in due course, but suffice for the moment to say that you have brought war and orchestrated a campaign of terror and murder. The law of Macragge presumes your innocence on this matter, but do you wish to make any opening statement of defence?’
Curze looked down at his manacles and rattled them gently, bottom lip pouting. He sighed and returned his gaze to Sanguinius, head slightly cocked.
‘Once again, I only did what I was born to do, brother. What we were all born to do.’
The Lion leaned forward, fixing his gaze on the twisted primarch.
‘You have been given time to review the evidence against you. Do you freely admit to the crimes presented to this court?’
‘The content of the events discussed are not in error. I contend only that what I have done are not crimes.’
An angry whispering broke out amongst the terraces and stands, much of it from the Space Marines present. The Lion glanced across at the legionaries ready to give testimony.
‘There are many that disagree.’
Curze followed his gaze, eyes narrowing. His expression brightened after a moment.
‘Commander Azkaellon! I must admit you are not as well armed as last time we met!’
‘Filth!’ roared the Blood Angel, rising to leave the box. His companions restrained him, Holguin and Gorod moving to calm the wounded Space Marine. Curze laughed. A few in the crowd shouted threats and accusations.
‘Do you refuse to accept the authority of this court?’ asked Guilliman. ‘Do you dispute our right to sit in judgement?’
‘Your right?’ Curze shook his head and licked his lips. He tried to gesture towards the Lion but the shackles restrained him. ‘Only the right of the one that brought me here.’
The Lion shook his head when Guilliman looked at him. He had expected Curze to resist at some point, now he was doing so in front of the largest audience.
‘Do you have a specific complaint?’ Guilliman continued. ‘This court is not a place for innuendo.’
‘I am afraid that I cannot quote text and line from the laws of Macragge, but I am sure that it is beyond the bounds of the law for a criminal to be tried by another.’
‘You accuse me of breaking the law?’ The Lion had vowed to himself not to rise to Curze’s barbed remarks. He kept his tone level, his demeanour calm, emulating the detached manner of Guilliman. ‘I operate with the full authority of the regent emperor and the Triumvirate Imperialis. My actions are founded upon the basis of Legatus Militant, affording me every extension of the law.’
‘Hypocrite!’ spat Curze. ‘You have killed far more citizens of the Five Hundred Worlds than I!’
‘Casualties of war, as covered by the rules of engagement,’ the Lion said patiently. ‘Regrettable, but not illegal.’
The Night Haunter turned his appeal to Guilliman.
‘Brother… I am surprised to find you support this murderer with your silence. You abrogated your power to a megalomaniac and wonder where it went wrong. Did you not think what would happen when you let the Lion out of his cage?’
‘I am not on trial here!’ bellowed the Lion, knowing that Curze was seeking to undermine the cohesion of the Triumvirate.
‘But he should be!’ Curze snarled in return, still looking at Guilliman.
The primarch of the Ultramarines frowned and glanced to Sanguinius for guidance. The emperor opened his palm towards Curze.
‘You have made no claim backed by law. I ask again, is there a clear accusation you want to make before we proceed?’
‘Ask our noble brother of Caliban what happened on Alma Mons. Ask him about the phosphex and promethium, the plasma and rad-bombs. Was that not excessive? Why did he not use lance strikes and torpedoes to break open the strongholds of the Gatepeak? He sought to inflict as much lasting pain and misery as possible.’
‘Not so,’ said Guilliman. The Lion realised with a twist in his gut what the Lord Warden was about to say and rose from his chair to stop him, but too late. ‘The Imperator Regis forbade the Lord Protector from utilising orbital bombardment.’
‘I must remind you, brothers, that this serpent will do all he can to turn us against each other.’ The Lion drew his sword and took a step towards Curze, who looked not so much like a cat that had the cream as had been given the whole dairy. ‘He stalls and obfuscates in an attempt to avoid the obvious nature of his guilt.’
‘Stay your blade!’ Sanguinius rose also. ‘There will be no summary execution here.’
‘No orbital attack?’ Curze chuckled, his sly stare fixing on the Lion. ‘My case is made for me. Were not the slopes of the Gatepeak torn asunder from the heavens? I saw with my own eyes the fury of the Lion unleashed from above.’
‘We monitored no such attack,’ said Guilliman, but he sounded uncertain.
‘A clever ruse.’ Curze was genuinely impressed, the Lion realised. ‘Drop pods as bombs. Gunships as missiles. Assault rams turned into torpedoes. All the joy of orbital attack,
none of the mess of admitting you broke your oath!’
Guilliman looked as though he had been struck, the blood draining from his face. The Lion saw first confusion and then distress, which rapidly became anger. Guilliman surged to his feet, face flushing where it had been pale a moment before.
‘You lied to us!’ he roared. ‘You had no intent of keeping your oaths.’
‘Brother, still yourself,’ said the Lion. ‘Think of where we are.’
There were other damning shouts echoing around the arena. Guilliman advanced on him, jabbing an accusing finger.
‘You had no intention of honouring the command of our emperor!’
‘It is not so,’ said the Lion. ‘I withdrew my troops at your behest. Only then did you tie my hands with your vacillation.’
‘Yes, hands tied,’ cackled Curze, jangling his manacles. ‘Nobody can do any damage with their hands tied, can they?’
‘Shut up!’ The Lion raised his blade towards Curze. One stroke would end his lies and manipulations. The Dark Angel threw out his other hand in appeal to Sanguinius. ‘It was a decision of the moment, not a forethought. How many of our warriors would have died in pointless assault?’
‘Put down your sword, brother.’ Sanguinius did not raise his voice, but his words cut through the tumult that was growing in the arena. His wings spread out, his immense presence suddenly filling the arena, dominating it with sheer force of will. For a few seconds it seemed as though a golden light flowed from the Blood Angel.
The Lion hesitated, goaded by Curze’s knowing, mocking leer. One blow would be all it took. He looked back at Sanguinius, seeing both the majesty and the humanity in his brother.
His hand dropped to his side.
‘As my lord commands.’
‘You should have come to us, brother,’ Sanguinius said. ‘Trusted us, our judgement.’
‘There was no time,’ said the Lion, but he knew the words sounded weak. ‘The need of command can be urgent and uncompromising.’
‘There is no excuse.’ Guilliman now also directed his words to Sanguinius. ‘A direct edict was disobeyed. The Lord Protector enforces the will of the regent emperor – he does not define it.’
