by Guy Haley
Tefelius didn’t listen to the rest of what the lieutenant had to say. All he could think of was his dream, and his certainty that the primarch would be here soon. He stood, struck dumb.
‘Sir? Sir?’ The lieutenant’s voice cut through his numbness.
‘Sorry, lieutenant, you were saying? The primarch?’ His throat was still sore. How much more of his nightmare had been real?
‘I said, should I inform Lord Costalis that you are on your way?’ asked the lieutenant.
‘Yes. I will be there soon.’
He washed quickly at his nightstand, and pulled his uniform on. When he reached it, the command suite was already heaving with activity. As soon as he arrived he was taken up by his duties, and he forgot his nightmare.
It, however, did not forget him.
Chapter Seven
IAX RELIEVED
‘We near the enemy blockade, my lord, boarding range will be reached in five minutes. Prepare for your assault on termination of approach countdown.’
Fleetmaster Isaiah Khestrin’s voice was thinned to a nasal whine by the voxmitters of the transit bay, though it was clear enough, and the high pitch helped it cut through the hum of power-armour reactors.
‘Very good, fleetmaster,’ responded Roboute Guilliman. ‘I may be uncontactable for part of this operation. Please proceed according to your own decisions.’
‘I shall, my lord. The Emperor go with you.’
Khestrin’s voice cut out, taking with it the background hiss of the vox. A bank of red lights illuminated at the forefront of the transit bay, bathing the occupants of the compartment in a sanguine glow. Gold-and-blue armour appeared dark and blood-soaked. Glowing eye-lenses and ready lights on battleplate reactors and weapons gave the occupants a daemonic air.
There were over fifty of them, transhuman giants all, clustered around the greatest of their number, the primarch Roboute Guilliman. Arrayed behind him were twenty of his Victrix Guard, all clad in Ultramarines blue. All were heroes, tall and proud, the angels of the Emperor. Yet they were not the most glorious of the beings within, for archangels flew with them.
Most impressive of all was Stratarchis Tribune Actuarius Maldovar Colquan and his Custodians, their great height made yet more imposing by their tall, conical helms. They included three Allarus Terminators, five Wardens and two squads of five Custodians of lesser rank. Lesser was a subjective term, for every one of them was the match of a hundred mortal men, or a dozen Space Marines. They were second only to Guilliman himself in might. They could, together, perhaps beat him. It was rare so many fought in a single host, even in Fleet Primus, where their numbers were the greatest.
And all because the primarch had decided to wet his blade.
‘Are you sure this is wise, my lord?’ asked Maldovar Colquan.
Guilliman, who had yet to don his helmet, gave Colquan a narrowed glance.
‘Wise?’
‘You are the living hand of the Emperor, yet you put yourself in danger,’ said Colquan.
‘And do you think, tribune, that asking me this question several times will avail you of a different answer?’
‘No, primarch,’ said Colquan. ‘I only–’
‘Then I ask you to desist,’ said Guilliman. ‘I am sure the collections of writings on myself and my brothers that exist in your citadels make it very clear that we are unlikely to change our minds once a decision has been reached.’
‘That is indeed so.’
‘I am also sure they relate that our minds were constructed very much like yours, and that we are unlikely to forget anything, and that we are skilled at reading the hearts and minds of all men.’
When Colquan did not respond, Guilliman rotated at the waist so he could look down at him, for he was significantly taller than even the tribune. The primarch raised his eyebrows at Colquan to prompt an answer.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Colquan.
The Aquila Resplendum juddered. A soft alarm sounded somewhere deeper back in its interior. A stray shot from the foe, extreme range. There would be many more of those coming.
‘Then let it be noted and recognised by both of us,’ said Guilliman, having his fun with the tribune, ‘that you are displeased with my decision to undertake this action personally, that you desire that I am aware of said displeasure, and that you are eager for me to reconsider. I understand all these things perfectly, but I will not change my mind.’
The voxmitters of the ship gave out a metallic blare, and one of the red lights in the bank at the front of the transit bay turned green.
‘You have fought beside me many times, Maldovar, though I know you still do not trust me. Although you have, on occasion, made similar protests, there have been more than an equal number where you have not.’
‘It is a matter of risk and reward, my lord. Boarding actions are dangerous. You could be destroyed at distance with relative ease. The blockade could be easily overwhelmed by Fleet Primus. There is no need for you to be here.’
‘In deference to your insistence, and also to display my own irritation at your constant prompting that I abandon this task, I will again take you through my reasoning. Are you ready?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Colquan. The ship bounced. Trembles ran through its frame. The transhumans, all mag-locked to the deck, swayed.
‘Do not sound so peevish, Maldovar. I am in high spirits. I am going to fight. It is about time.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘If you are annoyed by this, then be glad my brother Russ did not return in my stead. For humour’s sake he would punch you to the ground and then scold you for not laughing with him. He did it to me once. I shall tell you the tale some time. And yet, I am not being entirely bull-headed. There is strategy here.’
‘I am aware of the str–’
‘You should have held your tongue and then you would not have to hear it again, would you?’ interrupted Guilliman. ‘The enemy are numerous. The sons of Mortarion regard themselves superior to all others, for they have embraced despair and pain, and believe that they have emerged on the far side of it. To them, or to many of them, life is a cosmic joke. Thus, they fear no pain, no privation, no death. But they are not without fear. They are arrogant, but even they know that to face me is the doom of them. I will go among them, and I will slay them. I will scuttle their vessels from the inside, not because it grants any immediate advantage, but because it gives us an opportunity to erode their morale, to make them doubt the dubious gifts of their patron god. Let them come at me, by all means. Let them die. Let the few that survive spread the rumour of my coming so that all may doubt and fear. Let them attempt to blast this vessel from the sky as it flies at them, golden and pure, a symbol of all they have turned their backs on, and let them fail. They will remember the might of the Emperor and His unsullied primarchs before this day is out.’
‘It is possible that Mortarion may have some ruse in wait for us, my lord. What then, if the fleet finds itself surrounded or otherwise disadvantaged? You will not be there. You may be captured.’
‘You do not believe Fleetmaster Khestrin to be equal to the task of deflecting Mortarion’s designs?’
The ship took a direct hit. They felt the pulse of the void shields as they swallowed kinetic energy and pushed it out into the warp. A hit like that would have caused some damage to another vessel, but the Aquila Resplendum was crafted to the very highest specifications, and a slight deviation from its flight path was the sole result.
‘Khestrin is not a primarch, my lord.’
Another of the lights went green. There were four more to go.
‘Nor is Mortarion, not any more,’ said Guilliman. ‘He is more a thing of the Plague Lord than the Emperor. Power cannot be taken from the likes of the so-called gods freely. They give no gifts. His cost him his will. He lacks freedom, though he will not see it. He is a slave. The Emperor allow
s a little more self-determination.’
More incoming fire rattled the aquila-shaped craft. The attacks were coming frequently. Guilliman and Colquan were obliged to raise their voices to continue their conversation.
‘I will also show him that I have no fear. No doubt you would be happier if I turned away from Iax completely, but I cannot. I must face my brother. I must goad him into action that we may then oppose.’
‘What if it does not work?’ Colquan said testily.
Another green light. The ship closed in on its target.
‘Do not tell me that you, a tribune of the Emperor’s own guardians, only ever have one plan.’
‘No, my lord,’ said Colquan.
‘And so I never rely on one outcome either. I will kill Mortarion. Or I will not. But in either eventuality, Mortarion will be leaving Ultramar, you may be certain of that.’
Again, the harsh warning blurt, again the click as a lumen switched from red to green.
‘Then why risk yourself, if your victory is assured?’ Colquan looked up at this dangerous weapon, created by his Emperor in the distant past. He could not trust Guilliman, not ever, he thought, but he had held stronger views once, and now the being brought as much hope as he did misgiving to his heart. ‘I ask you, please, my lord, in recognition of the understanding that is growing between us, that you answer me without dissembling, and with as much honesty for me as you would bestow upon yourself.’
Guilliman smiled.
‘I think you know the answer, tribune, I think you know the answer very well.’
‘It would not hurt me to hear it,’ he said.
Another light turned green.
‘Because, tribune, sometimes one has to work off a little anger. After what Mortarion has done to Ultramar, I am very angry indeed.’
Guilliman placed his helm over his head, and it hissed shut, closing out all the dangers of the void and the toxic environment they would encounter in the plague ship.
Thereafter the final light went green, and mayhem followed.
Guilliman’s vessel had been a gift from the Adeptus Custodes when he had arrived on Terra. In the years since, it had proven a valuable asset. It was not his only ship, but it was among the most magnificent, and the one he favoured when an impression needed to be made, whether that be in peace, or in war.
The Aquila Resplendum lived up to its name, being fashioned in the shape of the two-headed eagle that served as the Imperium’s chief emblem. Each of its heads housed flight decks. Its landing claws were the eagle’s talons. Its furled wings wrapped over powerful engines. Unfurled, they were bedecked with weaponry.
They unfurled now, a golden span stretching wide to embrace the void as surely as the Emperor’s own hands. Sculpted feathers folded back to reveal gun ports. Long barrels and gleaming warheads emerged from concealment. The eagle’s twin heads swung inward, jutting forward, flattening out its belly where its vulnerable transit bay was located, so that it resembled a true eagle hunting.
There were few ships of its kind. No others matched its grace. It was far from the blocky, utilitarian designs favoured by the Imperium.
Many of the weapons it displayed were melta cannons. Too short-ranged to play a role at distance, but they would soon find employment.
The Aquila Resplendum flew into the maelstrom of fire crossing the space between Guilliman’s fleet and the Death Guard blockade. As the lead elements of Battle Group Alphus closed, the Chaos ships turned broadside, and opened up with corroded cannons. Guilliman’s assault ships replied with prow-mounted weaponry, but although greater in number, the strategy of the day placed speed of approach over fire arcs, and they could not bring their main gun decks to bear. In the first minutes of the battle, the damage inflicted by both sides was equal.
Ships powered through the flare of discharging void shields. Las-light flicked a deadly ribbon display. Plasma and particle trails cut burning paths across the blackness of space. All the while gargantuan shells detonated, filling the vacuum with clouds of hyper-velocity shrapnel.
Into this the Aquila Resplendum sped, trailed by flight after flight of Thunderhawks, Overlords, assault cruisers and boarding rams. Thousands of Space Marines raced across the deadly gulf, Guilliman’s strategy being to overwhelm the blockade by boarding action, quickening his landing on Iax and sparing the battered world the trauma of munitions overspill from high-orbital battle. Mortarion’s ships walled-in the garden world. Every shell or stray missile that passed them by would slam into the planet below.
The Aquila Resplendum was an obvious craft, drawing much enemy fire. Guilliman did not care. It was more important to him to announce his presence. He wished to provoke his brother into hasty action. Void shields flaring, the eagle-ship roared through storms of fire, weathering multiple hits while lesser ships travelling behind it were consumed. Enemy fighters locked on to the Aquila Resplendum and began a rash pursuit, only to find the eagle had many claws. Missiles raced rearward from the wing housings, lascannon fire flickered from ball turrets mounted along its sides. Potent data weapons made in the ephemeral digital forges of Mars were unleashed to slay the machine-spirits of enemy craft, and where these had been replaced by unclean Neverborn, disrupt their ability to control their mechanical shells. Whole squadrons vying to bring down the primarch were reduced to tumbling wreckage, their corruption cleansed by fire and the timeless purity of the void.
The corroded hulk of Guilliman’s target grew rapidly. A massive grand cruiser of ancient design, its Imperial origins all but obscured by corrosion, mutation and accumulations of filth. Patches of pale paint suggested an original livery in cream, but these were tiny, hidden fragments of a forgotten past, and its hull was otherwise black from long exposure to the void.
The pilots dived and banked around incoming fire, outpacing the ability of the ship’s anti-fighter turrets to turn. A trio of rusted missiles, drive units shining an unclean red, raced at the Aquila Resplendum. In response it drove downward, then climbed steeply, and the missiles raced away past it, target lock lost.
The side of the enemy vessel rose up, giant cliffs of metal studded with weapons large and small. The Aquila Resplendum aimed for a specific spot between two rusting macrocannons, and fired.
The melta-arrays activated in carefully arranged sequence, each targeting a spot close by its fellows. Gimbal mounts allowed them to move like searchlights, playing over and across each other, and cut into the hull in an expertly conceived pattern. The wall seemed solid still as the eagle’s talons extended and it came rushing in to land like a raptor stooping on its prey. The fusion beams continued to fire, until, the instant before the golden ship was obliterated on the hide of its target, the hull gave out, exploding in a rush of superheated metal gases, which roared over the Aquila Resplendum’s void shield and dragged a teardrop of iridescent light behind it. Debris wheeled by, but the eagle-ship flew right through it, reared up and entered the vessel.
It flew into what had been a large repair and manufactory space for the grand cruiser’s strike fighters, but the shops had been abandoned millennia ago, left to fungal growths and the strange play of half-daemonic beasts. Its thick, noxious atmosphere was vented in one filthy exhalation. Pallid fungi were ripped out into the void. There was a large amount of infrastructure tenuously clinging to the ceiling – catwalks, lifters, cranes and remote-assembly rigs – though all had lost their original form beneath centuries of accreted dross. A large part of this crashed down, wrenched from its mountings by the decompression gale, and the Aquila Resplendum clutched clawfuls of the wreckage as it set down. Its wings remained spread, weapons ready, the articulated neck mounts of its twinned flight decks allowing the crew to look across the empty hold.
Ancient protective protocols were enacted. Shuddering on dry bearings, blast doors shut across the ingress ways to the deeper vessel, and the howl of gas escaping into space diminished, then ceased.
In the silence of the vacuum, cunningly wrought feathers on the ship’s belly unlocked from one another, and the ramp of the golden eagle opened, spilling flawless light upon the vessel’s tainted decks.
Out of this glow came Roboute Guilliman and his men, angels venturing into ancient hells.
‘Secure this area,’ said Guilliman. ‘Get these doors open. We will tear out the innards of this ship with our bare hands.’
Chapter Eight
THEORETICAL, PRACTICAL
Roboute Guilliman strode halls where no loyal man had trodden for millennia, and wondered if he had walked this way before.
The ship was ancient, the design dating back to before the Great Crusade. Although naturally that did not mean the ship was that old, time flowed differently in the warp, so it was possible that the craft had served under the Emperor’s banner, long, long ago. Had it, perhaps, been in the flotilla that had arrived at Barbarus with the Emperor, bearing the first of the Legion, then known as the Dusk Raiders, to meet their father? Had it taken the message of the Imperial Truth to forgotten worlds? Had it been joyously received by the scattered scions of humanity, or had it forced compliance on those who had rejected the Emperor’s dream of brotherhood?
Guilliman knew those times were brutal, and believed the methods used extreme. He had privately disapproved of some of what his so-called father had done, though in truth even the worst atrocity was but what Guilliman himself had performed in Ultramar, writ large. The intent of an act of violence, he thought, was the same, whether a single murder or the destruction of a city resulted. During the Great Crusade, he had wholeheartedly accepted the Emperor’s cruelties as a means to an end.
And yet…
The worlds burned. The civilisations wiped from existence, the alien species driven to extinction. So much death to achieve peace.
And then came the Heresy, and the truth of what the Emperor had withheld was thrown in his face.
Even during the Crusade, Guilliman had wrestled with his conscience. He had argued with his brothers as to the morality of their actions. He had disagreed with some of their methods. Some of them, like the monster Curze, he had openly despised. But when he walked these corridors, dripping with ooze and unnatural decay, these spaces that held an atmosphere against the laws of all physics; when he saw what had been done to the domain of the Emperor, what had been done to his own kingdom of Ultramar, then he thought all those methods just.