by Dan Abnett
Any fool can see that the Emperor’s original purpose, in creating his Legions and his sons, was to generate a variety of fighting forces that would embellish and complement one another. Their various strengths and characters were supposed to shine in contrast. There is, in uniformity, weakness.
And as brothers are different, so they clash. There are rivalries and arguments, fallings-out and bickering, envy and competition. This, too, is supposed to be part of the healthy organic processes of the Legiones Astartes. This is the Emperor’s vision. Let his sons compete. Let his Legions challenge one another. That way, they will spur one another on. That way they will do better. The Emperor, and his oldest, wisest sons, are always there to stop things going too far.
Honorius Luciel and Sorot Tchure stand on the observation deck above the principal hold of the cruiser Samothrace. They have greeted each other with respect and affection, and spent the day supervising the transfer distribution of Army personnel and munitions from Tchure’s warcarrier to the troop ships in Luciel’s oversight. They are alike – alike in stature, alike in rank; one red, one blue, as though stamped from identical fabricatory presses and then finished in different paints.
‘We have a bond, I believe,’ says Tchure. ‘I hope I am not wrong.’
‘We do,’ Luciel agrees. ‘It was an honour to serve with you on Caskian.’
‘We are, therefore… unusual,’ Tchure ventures.
Luciel laughs.
‘You asked to join the advance,’ says Luciel. ‘I imagine your primarch was supportive?’
‘He was.’
‘Just as mine was,’ Luciel replies, ‘when I requested the duty of close protection of Numinus High Anchor. We are cast in the roles of ambassadors, brother.’
‘This is my feeling,’ Tchure nods, greatly relieved that it is now, after hours in each other’s company, at last being spoken of.
‘We are, I believe, the only genuine point of friendship between our Legions,’ says Luciel. ‘No wonder we find ourselves paving the way for the conjunction.’
They walk along the deck, under the immense arches of the hold rib-vaults.
‘My Legion’s pride is bruised,’ says Tchure.
‘Of course it is,’ Luciel replies. ‘Wounded, I would say. And this is the remedy. Our Legions will serve alongside each other in collaborative effort, and thus bond. Our experience serves as an example in miniature.’
‘There has been talk of this as an exercise,’ replies Tchure. ‘That the Warmaster is flexing his authority by commanding two of his brothers, especially one who is so mighty in his own right. But that is smoke. I think Warmaster Horus is displaying remarkable insight. He knows that, as things stand, the unity of any line formed by the Word Bearers and the Ultramarines will be flawed.’
‘Warmaster Horus, in his infinite wisdom, has clearly studied the report on the Caskian Campaign.’
‘He has, I think.’
Bad blood can take a long time to dilute. Sometimes it must be let out. The point of contention, the bruised pride, is simple. Dissatisfied with the progress and performance of the XVII during the Great Crusade, the Emperor sent the Ultramarines to chastise them. It was an absolute and humiliating rebuke, and stemmed from the Emperor’s distaste for the Word Bearers’ zealotry, especially when it came to the veneration of his own person as divine. The Emperor’s truth was the secular Imperial truth. He tolerated more pious attitudes amongst his sons, but only so far.
It was, perhaps, the Ultramarines’ misfortune to be used in such a way. Not just any Legion, but the largest, the most secular, the most efficient, the most disciplined. The most, it could be argued, successful.
Luciel is sympathetic. He has spoken, privately, with his primarch on the subject on several occasions, because Guilliman is evidently bothered by it too. To be used as an instrument of humiliation, and as an example of perfection, does not sit comfortably. Guilliman is concerned that things will never be right in his relations with the Word Bearers. It is clear from the way he has repeatedly quizzed Luciel, the only officer of the XIII to have ever engineered a reasonable confidence with an officer of the XVII.
For the Word Bearers have only ever been loyal and devoted. Luciel knows this. He has no doubt about the level of Tchure’s absolute loyalty. They had their devotion questioned and vilified by the very object of that devotion.
Horus Lupercal, Warmaster, is demonstrating his wisdom and perception right at the start of his command. He is healing wounds. He is actively working to set two of his largest Legions at ease with each other, and close the bitter rift.
‘On Caskian,’ says Luciel, ‘I learned a lot from you, Sorot. I learned to wonder at the stars, and to appreciate the humbling scale of our galaxy.’
‘And I learned from you,’ Tchure replies. ‘I learned the close analysis and appraisal of my enemies, and thus re-measured my own capacity as a warrior.’
The exchange is candid. On Caskian, Tchure reminded Luciel of his place in a greater universe. Though he did not try to convert the Ultramarines captain to any form of spiritual belief, he was able to help him glimpse the ineffable, the cosmic mystery that reminds a man, even a powerful transhuman, of his tiny part in the great design, which forms the beating, vital heart of any faith. In effect, Tchure gave Luciel perspective that beneficially diminished Luciel’s sense of self in the face of the universe. It showed Luciel his place, and reminded him of his purpose.
In return, Luciel demonstrated to Tchure the rigors of practice and theory, a robust schooling that pierced the veil of spirituality with a welcome pragmatism. Luciel reminded Tchure he was superhuman. Tchure reminded Luciel he was only superhuman. Both benefitted immeasurably from the exchange of perspectives.
‘I would know great joy,’ says Luciel, ‘if our brothers on both sides could come to celebrate their common differences the way we have.’
‘I have no doubt,’ replies Tchure, ‘that this conjunction will bring an end to the hostility between our Legions.’
[mark: -26.43.57]
Aeonid Thiel, marked for censure, awaits his interview. He has been aboard the Macragge’s Honour for some hours.
He was told to wait. He is expecting to be called into the presence of Sharad Antoli, Master of the 13th Chapter. He is braced for this. The rebuke will be unstinting, and discipline duties will follow.
He has already been through it once from Taerone, his company captain. During this interview, Thiel made the mistake of attempting to justify his actions. He will not repeat the error when he is called before Chapter Master Antoli.
Thiel has been obliged to wait in a huge anteroom on the fortieth deck. It is a display arsenal, lined with weapons. There are burnished practice cages on raised platforms down the centre of the chamber.
After three hours of standing perfectly still, he relents, removes his helm, and begins to wander the empty chamber, admiring the weapons on display. Most are blade weapons, many master-crafted. They represent the peak weaponcraft of a thousand cultures. This is an exemplar collection, where the highest ranking officers of the XIII come to study weapon types, rehearse and practise with them, and thus improve their theoretical and practical differentials.
Thiel knows he is unlikely to ever come so close to such perfect specimens again. He fights the temptation to take some of the weapons down and examine them. He wants to feel the comparative weights, the individual balances.
When no one has come for a great stretch of time, Thiel reaches a hand out towards a longsword suspended against the wall on a gravity hook.
‘Sergeant Thiel?’
Thiel stops and quickly withdraws his hand. A deck officer in ceremonial dress has entered the chamber.
‘Yes?’
‘I have been asked to inform you that you will not have to wait much longer.’
‘I will wait as long as I am required to,’ replies Thiel.
‘Well,’ the officer shrugs, ‘it will not be much longer. Logistical issues have taken priority. The primarch
will call you shortly.’
He turns to leave.
‘Wait, the primarch?’
‘Yes, sergeant.’
‘I was waiting to be called by Chapter Master Antoli,’ says Thiel.
‘No, the primarch.’
‘Ah,’ says Thiel.
The deck officer waits a moment longer, concludes that their conversation is done, and walks out.
The primarch.
Thiel breathes out slowly. It is safe to estimate that he is in about as much trouble as it’s possible to be in.
In which case…
He takes down the longsword. It has extraordinary balance. He sweeps it twice, then turns towards the nearest practice cage.
He halts. He turns back.
Might as well be damned for the whole as a part.
He takes down a Rathian sabre, half the length of the longsword, almost the same weight. A blade in each hand, he walks to the cage.
‘Rehearsal, single sparring mode. Dual wielding, extremity level eight. Commit.’
The cage hums into life, the armature system rises around him, clattering as it begins to turn.
Thiel hunkers down. He raises the two, priceless blades…
[mark: -25.15.19]
Their lift is delayed. Something about a storm out over Caren Province. The sky in the east goes mauve, like a blood bruise.
Sergeant Hellock tells them to bed down and wait for the call. Their lift is delayed, but not in any way that will allow Trooper Bale Rane to leave the site and go see his girl.
‘Standing orders apply, no exceptions,’ says the sergeant. Then he softens slightly. ‘Sorry, Rane. I know what you were hoping.’
Bale Rane sits down and leans his back against a loader pallet. He’s beginning to think that he will spend the rest of his life looking at Sergeant Hellock’s face and never see Neve’s again.
The truth could hardly be more contrary.
‘Is that singing?’ asks Krank. He gets up.
‘That’s singing,’ he says.
Rane can hear it. Two hundred metres away, on the other side of some perimeter fencing, is a compound occupied by Army forces that have arrived with the XVII. A ragged mob, they look. Just the sort of fringe-world vagabonds you’d expect to come scurrying along on the heels of the zealot Word Bearers. They had received a great deal of critical commentary from Sergeant Hellock as they disembarked, criticism that included uniform code, formation, equipment maintenance and parade discipline.
‘Oh, that’s just embarrassing,’ Hellock says, lighting a lho-stick as he watches them dismount from the troop landers. ‘They look like bastard vagrants. Like shit-stupid hunters from some arse-end world.’
The soldiers from off-world indeed do not look promising. They are ragged. There is a wildness to them, as though they have been deprived of something vital for too long. Their skin is pale and their frames are thin. They look like plants that have been starved of light in a cave. They look like heathens.
‘That’s just what we need,’ says Hellock. ‘Heathen auxiliary units.’
They are singing, chanting. It is not a comfortable or attractive sound. It’s atonal. It’s actually quite unpleasant to listen to.
‘That’s going to have to stop,’ the sergeant says. He grinds the butt of a lho-stick under his heel.
He crosses the yard to have a word with the commander of the other unit. The chanting bothers him.
5
[mark: -20.44.50]
Raindrops come out of the dry air like bolter rounds. They explode like black glass against the hood of the speeder that Selaton is gunning down Erud Highway.
Everything’s dust: dust-dry land, dusty-caked metal, a fog raised by lifters and engines and traffic. The flat landscape is pale, harshly lit. The sky has gone oddly dark, opaque. From the passenger seat of the armoured speeder, Ventanus can see the distant line of the hills, swathed in green.
There’s a rainstorm swimming up from the south. Vox says it’s already a mire down in Caren.
It’ll be a mire here too, before very long, Ventanus thinks. The light is so weird. The sky so black, the ground so light. The raindrops look like glass beads, like tears. They explode all over him, all over his armour, all over the speeder, wet black streaking the film of white dust all surfaces have acquired during the day.
The raindrops hit the dusty ground, the highway, the scabby verge, making millions of little black entry wounds, little black craters, little puffs of white. Far away, little silver threads of lightning glitter in the low cloud, like seams of bright ore exposed in coal.
Selaton drives like an idiot. The speeder is a hefty two-man machine with forward gunmounts, its cobalt-blue armour flaked with dust and bruised with the dents and scrapes of use. The cockpit is open. Grav plates keep the ground at bay, and the drive-plant is over-powered to help it slide all that armour around.
It’s a light recon vehicle that’s mean enough to fight its way out of bother. Ventanus requisitioned it for the day as staff transport.
Now Selaton’s driving it like an idiot.
He’s affecting just about maximum horizontal velocity, pluming a white tail of dust out behind them along the flat, straight roadway. The rain is trying to wet the dust back down, but it’s too thick. A nav-track display to the left of the driver blinks a route overlay. The display is armoured and grilled against wear and tear. The speeder is a working machine with bare metal along most seams.
The twitching cursor on the illuminated display is supposed to be them. The etched line is the highway. At the foot of the screen is a blob, that’s Erud station. At the top, a triangular icon.
Red hazard hatching appears on the etched line ahead of the cursor.
‘Slower,’ says Ventanus over the helmet link.
‘Too fast?’ Selaton replies, eager glee in his voice.
Ventanus doesn’t even look down. He taps the screen of the nav-track.
Selaton glances, sees it, eases off the throttle immediately. They’re coming up on the tail of a muster convoy. Even as they bleed off speed, they hit the dust wake of the moving column.
Selaton steers out, crosses the centre of the highway, starts to overtake. Trundling troop transports, cargo-20s, towed artillery, tank transporters, laden. Each hulking vehicle zips by and falls behind, each one glimpsed for a second as they pass it in the odd light, in the air that is both dry with dust and wet with rain. Troop truck, gone. Troop truck, gone. Troop truck, gone. Troop truck, gone. A garland of cheers and hoots from a transport load of Army troopers, waving them past.
Self-propelled guns now, zipping past, barrels up to sniff the sky. Ten, twenty, thirty units. The damn column is forty kilometres long. Shadowswords. Minotaurs. New Infernus-pattern armour and regimental troop carriers.
Ventanus watches beads of rain, black with soot, crawling and quivering over the hood of the speeder.
He’s had to leave Sydance in charge at Erud, with reliable sergeants like Archo, Ankrion and Barkha to back him up. There’s something to sort out with the Numinus seneschals. Local politics. Ventanus hates local politics, but this has come from the primarch’s staff directly. Port affairs. Handling rates. Diplomacy.
Ventanus knows what to do with a boltgun.
This is another unnuanced exercise in teaching them the other crafts their lives will one day require. Courtesy. Effective management. Authority. Basically, anything that doesn’t involve a boltgun. It has Guilliman’s handprints all over it.
It’s the sort of issue that Ventanus would prefer to resolve with a quick vox order, but he’s been told to handle it in person. So, a forty-minute wasted trip to the port where the seneschals he needs to see aren’t, now an hour up the Erud Highway instead to… where was it?
The Holophusikon. Holophusikon.
Ventanus isn’t stupid. He knows what the word means. He just doesn’t know what it is.
A triangular icon on the navigation display.
Selaton makes a sound. It’s a murmur of someth
ing. Surprise. He’s impressed by something.
He drops more speed.
They’re coming up on Titans. Titans marching down the highway towards the port, single file.
They trudge. They are immense. Outrider gun-carts and skitarii speeders with flashing lights surrounding their feet, waving Ventanus wide.
They pass through their trooping shadows. Shadow, sunlight, shadow, sunlight. Each shadow is a darkness like the underworld. The Titans are caked in dust. They look weary, like ramshackle metal prisoners, giant convicts shuffling towards the stockade.
Or a gibbet.
The odd, hard sunlight catches their upper surfaces and cockpit ports. A gleam in the eye. A killer gaze. Ancient giants that have endured all wars, obediently marching towards the next one.
Ventanus finds himself looking up, looking back, gazing at them as they pass. Even he is impressed. Forty-seven Titans. He can hear the tectonic boom of their footsteps over the howl of the speeder’s engines.
The biggest are filling the highway. A supply convoy moving in the opposite direction has been forced to pull onto the shoulder and wait to let them pass. Marshals wave batons and lamps.
Selaton, urgent, has pulled wide. Now the shoulder is filled with stationary transports, so he pulls wider still, crossing the highway marker, the shoulder, the culvert and ditch, riding off the transit way onto the scrub beyond, building speed again, raising a foxtail of grey dust. He uprates the grav elements, lifts another fifty centimetres for terrain clearance, and opens the throttle again. They bank, accelerating. The speeder’s drive wails. They’re moving parallel to the highway.
Ventanus looks back.
He fancies one or two of the Titans turn their massive heads to watch; disdainful, grumpy. Who is that in the tiny speeder, racing past? Why are they so impatient?
Where are they going in such a damned hurry?
[mark: -19.12.36]
The Holophusikon. It turns out it is a triangle, like the icon.
A pyramid. Actually, a pyramid raised on three smaller pyramids, each one supporting a base corner of the largest. It is made of faced ashlar and cream stone. Ventanus notes that it is an impressive building, in terms of both scale and design.
