by Guy Haley
‘If they are all that will come.’
‘As I foresee, they will not be. That is why we must remain here. You and I cannot leave Macragge unguarded. If we rush to our father’s side, it will fall. This I have seen. It is a certainty.’
Calgar made a soft noise in his throat. ‘Even so, I am thankful there are so few of us on-world, and that the auxilia are sufficient to keep the dregs at bay. At least no more than a single battle company is tied down. It would be hard to justify sending others away, were they here. The question is, how much damage will the enemy do to the planet before they are destroyed, and what deeds that we might have performed elsewhere go undone?’
They watched blocks of troops moving neatly through the Civitas Vertus towards the inner walls. They marched along roads that bore the same names they had had in the primarch’s day. Names were all that remained of his time. Within the inner walls, some semblance of normality reigned, save in those places where enemy munitions or energy beams had broken through the void shielding, and the graceful buildings had been thrown down, but as yet no fires burned inside the Murus Prisces.
‘When we have the measure of them, we can wipe them out. I caution a little restraint, Marneus,’ said Tigurius. ‘The nature of the threat coming…’ His eyes narrowed. ‘There is something more, something beyond the fight here. A great peril to all. Something unexpected.’
‘Until it reveals itself, restraint is my strategy. I am reinforcing the walls in case these vessels are not the only foes,’ said Calgar. ‘I trust your gifts, Varro, but I have five regiments of auxilia ready to move here from the interior if need be, and if the worst occurs, then we may call upon Tetrarch Balthus for reinforcement. The war is drawing to a close in the west, thanks to the aeldari. That is something.’ Calgar rapped the stone with a mechanical knuckle. ‘This is a poor situation. I cannot remain here much longer.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Too many of us still fight at Vigilus. I should be there now.’
‘This last decade has been difficult for you,’ said Tigurius. ‘I understand.’
‘I think you are one of the few that do, Varro,’ said Calgar. ‘You have been wounded, and worn out, forced to sacrifice your brothers to speed me on through Nachmund. Both of us underwent the Rubicon. Our paths track each other.’
‘And yet I think for you, it has been more difficult,’ said the Chief Librarian. ‘You have the burden of command of us all. You are the ruler of Macragge and of all Ultramar. There have been many changes. If I were in your position, it would be hard not to see the primarch’s actions as criticisms. They are not.’
Marneus Calgar said nothing to that, but Tigurius read him accurately. He could not help but feel judged by their lord. In the years before Guilliman returned, Calgar had seen off tyranids, orks, the daemon M’Kar the Reborn, the Black Legion and the Iron Warriors. He had defeated every threat, until now. Each invasion had seen a little bit of Ultramar die, until this invasion of Mortarion’s threatened to poison the whole realm.
The truth was he could not win the Plague Wars without Roboute Guilliman. If the primarch had not returned from the crusade, Ultramar would have died. The heart of it was dying now, and here he was fighting cultists and mutants, not daring to leave in case something befell the capital. The worst thing was, he knew it would make little difference to the war elsewhere if he did go. Guilliman cut across the stars like the Emperor’s Sword, whereas Calgar’s absence from the Battle for Macragge, the fourth such incident with the name in recent centuries, could prove disastrous.
Tigurius turned to look at him.
‘Be at peace, brother. We both need to be here. This I know. This is our place.’
Calgar was not so sure, but hid his thoughts behind iron mental discipline. ‘Days of primarchs warring,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Does it not astound you?’
‘It is as if legend lives again,’ said Tigurius.
‘Aye, but they are black times,’ said Calgar. ‘The end. Pagan tales of the death of suns.’
‘You sound like the sons of Russ,’ said Tigurius. ‘There is hope yet. There are paths to salvation, though they are treacherous.’ He went quiet again. Whatever Tigurius saw in the future troubled him. Calgar did not need to be a psyker himself to see that.
The ships approaching the coast neared. Their engines spewed black fumes from their smokestacks. Calgar activated his vox-beads.
‘Slope gunnery, hear my order. Target and obliterate approaching plague fleet. Burn them all. Do not let their vitae poison our oceans.’
‘As you command, lord defender,’ the reply came. He hated that title, too close to that of his gene-father, as if he aped him, desperate for acceptance. As much as he thanked the Emperor daily for Guilliman’s return, sometimes he felt suffocated by his presence in the world.
The wail of sirens rose all over the city, warning its inhabitants. The people of Macragge were disciplined, and could be counted on to look away. Not a single soul had lost their sight when the atomics flew.
The guns rolled out their god’s tattoo. Shells whistled overhead. It took a surprisingly long time for them to hit their targets, but when they did, fission explosions obliterated the ships, one by one. The Space Marines’ eyes and skin darkened immediately. Thus protected, Tigurius and Calgar watched the flotilla destroyed.
Nothing was left but fading mushroom clouds and columns of steam reaching up to support the sky. Calgar’s sensorium registered a minor increase in radiation, but the shells were low yield; it would fade quickly, and the transient poisons of radioactivity were a small price to pay to rid themselves of Nurgle’s diseases.
They were watching the bombardment tsunami hit the shoreward districts and put out the flames when a knock sounded on Calgar’s door.
‘Enter!’ he commanded.
The doors were wood, unpowered, ancient relics that were still not as old as their returned lord. They were opened by the two Victrix Guard that accompanied Calgar always. A member of the Praecental Guard, an elite unit of unmodified humans, stood in the door at attention.
‘My lord,’ he proclaimed. ‘The Historitor Majoris Fabian Guelphrain and Sword Brother Racej Lucerne of the Black Templars Chapter petition you for an audience.’
‘Guelphrain is still seeking entry to the Library of Ptolemy,’ said Tigurius. ‘I can feel his need to go within. Do not let him. There is some turbulence in the future around this desire. It will serve us all poorly if it is fulfilled, I am sure.’
‘Do not fear, Varro,’ said Marneus Calgar. ‘At the primarch’s order he is about to be disappointed again.’
The door to Marneus Calgar’s private offices was shut silently by the Victrix Guard standing sentry. The hinges were well oiled. The armour of the bodyguard was immaculate. The floor shone with polish. Everything on Macragge worked perfectly. The difference to the faded grandeur of Terra had astounded Fabian when he first arrived; now he found it extremely irritating. The whole realm was a glorious reminder of mankind’s potential, but its efficiency meant there was no way round official obstacles. No little chinks to exploit. No men that might be paid to look the other way. When he was younger, he had dreamed of such a place as Macragge, where intention went hand in hand with action, and the lowliest Imperial servant was as upstanding as the highest.
That was before such rectitude had got in his way.
In short, when Marneus Calgar said no, he meant no, and he could not be circumvented.
‘Throne damn it!’ Fabian said, almost spitting. He stalked angrily from the doors through the anteroom, where various secretaries worked at high wooden desks. A couple looked up from their silent labours and frowned at his outburst. ‘If he will not let me into the library, then why am I here?’
‘I would remember where you are, if I were you,’ said Lucerne.
He meant it kindly. Despite the stern reputation of the Black Templars, he was always in an equa
ble mood. He strolled while Fabian strode in anger, and yet Fabian had to take four steps to match each one of his companion. Bent over, hands clasped behind his back, so hunched with annoyance he looked brittle, Fabian came up to the middle of Lucerne’s black chestplate. So big was the difference in mass between the two, it looked like Lucerne could have comfortably stepped on Fabian and squashed him flat without noticing. They made an incongruous pair, but their body language was relaxed. Despite their differences, they were unmistakably friends.
‘It is not Lord Calgar’s doing, but the will of the primarch. You should have patience. As I understand it, the lord primarch closed the library for largely symbolic purposes. I am sure he will let you within when he returns to Macragge.’
‘Will he?’ said Fabian, still angry. ‘Did you see how Lord Tigurius looked at me?’ He shuddered. ‘He looks right through my soul.’
‘He is one of the most powerful psykers in the Imperium,’ said Lucerne.
They walked out of the inner office and into a long hall of scribes. From the level of organisation on display, it was clear Guilliman’s hand was on everything, and it reminded Fabian of the Logisticarum, and the primarch’s lack of patience with inefficiency, though on thinking that, Fabian remembered that Guilliman had established many of the original machineries of state that ran the Imperium, and what good had that done any of them?
‘As soon as the regent gets back here, I’ll be out of time. The crusade will be moving on, I doubt I will be staying here. I am one of the historitors majoris. With Viablo dead and Mudire and Solana on the other side of the galaxy, he’ll want me with him when he crosses into Nihilus, I’m sure. I’m the only one to have been there before, he’ll want me to continue my chronicle of what has occurred on the other side. Either that or we’ll be packed off back to Vigilus, Emperor save me.’
‘Probably,’ said Lucerne amiably. He stood to one side as Fabian flung open a set of double doors. These too swung wide at the slightest touch, quiet as an infant’s breath. ‘It is a great hon–’
‘My friend, I swear to you, if you tell me one more time that what I am doing is a great honour, I will grab the lip of your chestplate, haul myself up and punch you on the nose!’
‘Fabian,’ Lucerne admonished with mock offence. ‘After all the years I have known you, and you threaten me with violence? I am hurt.’
‘I mean what, Emperor forfend,’ Fabian went on, ‘what if the enemy manages to break in here? What if they burn the library before I can examine it?’
‘Now you are being melodramatic,’ said Lucerne. He looked askance at the historitor and grinned. ‘Besides, your choice of words there suggest that you wish to read the material. No enemy has taken this fortress, ever. It has been besieged, broken, breached and stormed. When the primarch awoke, the Black Legion were within the Temple of Correction. Are they here now? No. Did they burn the library? No. And nor did the tyranids, or the orks, the Word Bearers, Iron Warriors or any of the foes that have come against the Ultramarines and, I stress, been defeated.’
They were walking down the Great Stair now, out of the castella towards the plazas that made up the majority of the fortress. Ten Space Marines in differing colours, one from each of the Shield Chapters of Ultramar, stood at regular intervals down its length. They were so far apart each was a dot of colour to the others.
‘I feel forgotten,’ said Fabian. ‘What we were doing meant something, the great aim of establishing history for all to see. I had a purpose. Not any more. All this war and fighting, and I am cast aside, ignored, when the primarch comes running home. I think he loses interest in the project. All the strife, the lives lost, for what? The Library of Ptolemy is one of the greatest repositories of human knowledge in all the Imperium. I have yearned to see it ever since I learned of it. Now I see the primarch for who he is. If what he commanded we historitors to do was that important, those doors would be open to us.’
‘To you, you mean,’ said Lucerne quietly.
Fabian didn’t hear him. ‘Instead, we’re mired in endless struggles with the Inquisition and the Administratum on backward worlds where nothing but miserable collections of pamphlets can be found.’
‘You’re also opposed by the local authorities,’ said Lucerne, ‘and the Church.’
‘Don’t get me started on the Throne-cursed Ministorum!’ snarled Fabian. ‘I’d happily burn the lot down.’
‘Come now, that’s not worthy of you. You are being petulant, Fabian,’ said Lucerne. They left the stair for another that led them to a small, heavily armoured postern. They waited as it cycled through its security checks.
‘I feel petulant,’ said the historitor. ‘Every door I have opened has been forced wide by Guilliman’s command, and yet he will not let me into his own bloody library. Why is that?’
‘Perhaps he already knows what is in there, and wishes you to concentrate your efforts elsewhere?’
The door spirits chimed. It opened up, and let them into a corridor leading to an outer gate.
‘Is that the best you can come up with, Racej? I thought the apotheosis of angels made you more intelligent than we mere men, not less.’
‘It is a little feeble, I admit,’ said Lucerne.
‘This is outrageous,’ said Fabian. ‘I’ve never known Guilliman work like this before. Banning me! What has happened to him while I was away?’
‘He is a busy man, and he did ban everyone, long before he established the historitors.’
‘My behind. He just doesn’t want me in his library. Do you know how long we’ve been in Ultramar? Months, and he won’t see me. He didn’t even summon me to see him when he was here.’
‘You were the one who was too busy at your duties to attend his landing.’
‘I don’t recall being invited to that,’ said Fabian.
‘You are a historitor majoris. You could have gone. The truth is, you were sulking, and again you are taking this too personally. I said he is busy. The library will open eventually.’
‘Will it now?’ said Fabian. He slapped his palm against the glass locking plate of the outer door. It beeped and whirred, then ground open. Cold air blew in. The last light of afternoon was fading from the sky.
‘You have to have faith,’ said Lucerne.
‘I leave that to you,’ grumbled Fabian. ‘I find mine a little lacking of late.’
‘He values you, I know he does. Be of better cheer, Fabian.’
‘Come on, Racej, think about it. He’s hiding something. He created our organisation to uncover secrets. How many secret libraries and forbidden archives have we forced our way into, with bloodshed no less. These doors could simply part, but they won’t. Why?’
‘Fabian,’ said Lucerne quietly. ‘You are straying into dangerous territory.’
‘Really?’ said Fabian loudly, throwing up his arms. ‘So you don’t think that a man who has something of a track record for hypocrisy, from a certain point of view – with his non-Legions and his autocratic removal of High Lords who disagreed with him – might not preach long and hard about the truth, yet happily hide his own secrets?’
‘I did not say that,’ said Lucerne calmly. ‘You are probably correct. He is a primarch. He will have secrets. That is what makes it dangerous.’
‘Exactly. So, what possible thing could the returned primarch be concealing?’
‘I would leave it there. We have good work to do elsewhere.’
‘Lord Guilliman commissioned me to uncover secrets!’ said Fabian. ‘I’ll not desist simply because some of those secrets are his.’
Booms rumbled high up in the mountains.
‘They are firing. Again,’ said Fabian, looking at the flashing clouds. ‘It’s only minutes ago that they stopped.’ He scowled, and drew his cloak about him against the chill. ‘It’s so cold here. This damn world gives me a headache.’
‘That is not artillery
fire. It is thunder.’ Lucerne looked up into the sky. ‘It is about to rain. I would have thought that you would be able to tell the difference between war and the weather by now.’
Fabian turned around to face the giant Space Marine. ‘How many times have you saved my life?’
Lucerne made a great show of thinking. ‘Three, I believe, if we don’t count that time on Gathalamor.’
‘I wasn’t going to fall in that hole! I was perfectly safe. You overreacted. You nearly broke my arm.’
‘Then I have saved your life three times,’ said Lucerne.
‘Right.’
‘Your point, my old friend?
‘That saving my life…’
‘Three times,’ interrupted Lucerne.
‘That saving my life three times doesn’t give you any right to mock me,’ said Fabian.
Thunder boomed again. A few fat drops of rain plinked off Lucerne’s black armour.
‘My, my, petulant doesn’t cover it. I shall upgrade my assessment of your mood to sour.’
Fabian shivered, and suddenly his anger was spent. ‘Yes. Yes, I am sour. Come on. Let’s get ourselves to the Heran collection. My catalogue is still not finished, and I’ve no desire to get soaked again. We might as well do something.’
They headed off across the great plazas of the fortress into the teeth of a downpour.
Getting wet did little to improve Fabian’s mood.
Chapter Twelve
DESCENT TO IAX
As Guilliman’s diplomatic barque brought him down from the void, he had a large hololith of Iax projected into the transit lounge. As its name suggested, the barque was appointed for peaceful interaction, and so he watched the appalling damage to the garden world unfold over a deep carpet and fine, wooden fittings. As he took in what had been done to this jewel of his kingdom, his face set harder than marble, until he resembled completely the many statues that depicted him. Felix and the other aides attending knew this well as a sign of all-consuming fury.