by Guy Haley
‘We have destroyed many of these throughout Ultramar. The network is disrupted. Peace returns to our worlds. Civil disobedience provoked by the corruptive effect dwindles. Plague is on the retreat.’
Some of the stars flashed. The network shrivelled away from Parmenio, Espandor, Drohl and dozens of other star systems, leaving the remaining web broken into stringy pieces.
‘But the central point of this network is here, on Iax. For Mortarion to be finally defeated, the heart of his web must be torn out. When it is finished, be hopeful, my people, that Iax can recover.’
Guilliman did his signature trick of looking at all the most important people in the room again, as if he were relying on them personally. The Tattleslug thought it transparent pantomime, but it was glad the primarch did not look its way.
‘There will be a source to the infection, a nexus point. A physical artefact from which all the ills that bedevil us stem. It was my intention to destroy this thing, as we have destroyed all the others. I have committed the considerable resources of my fleet to finding it. The machines of the ancients, Archmagos Cawl’s new devices, and the abilities of our most powerful psykers. However, all locations within the most afflicted areas of the world are uncertain. Neither technological nor esoteric means can discern the artefact’s location.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘Therefore, we have no choice but to concentrate our efforts here, at First Landing. We will fortify this city, and issue open challenge to Mortarion. I will face him, and kill him, and that will be an end to it.’
Governor Costalis raised a shaking hand. Now there was a man well blessed with Nurgle’s gifts, thought the Tattleslug.
‘Speak,’ said Guilliman.
‘My lord commander and regent,’ said Lord Costalis. His voice was weak, his skin the colour of whey. ‘The initial infection of our world took place at a medicae hospital in Hythia. From there, all afflictions spread. Why not…’ He took a gulping breath. The orderly accompanying him brought up an oxygen mask to his face, and he breathed hard a moment before waving it away. ‘Why not strike there?’
‘Can you locate this facility now, Lord Costalis?’ Guilliman asked.
Costalis looked uncomfortable. ‘We know where it should be, my lord.’
‘Yet your auguries suggest it is no longer there?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘This is because Iax has become a place upon the borderlands, Lord Costalis,’ said Guilliman. ‘It is no longer wholly within the bounds of the materium. The warp taints it. We can no longer assume geography is as it was.’
‘The very stones are corrupted,’ Costalis said. ‘Disease comes first. Crop blights, and plagues upon the trees. Animals suffer next, then when we are in despair to see our home sicken, pestilence strikes the human population, now the placing of things is disturbed. What manner of war is this?’
‘An unholy one,’ said a Space Marine the Tattleslug recognised as Tetrarch Decimus Felix.
‘Then how can you win, my lord?’
‘The acquisition of strategic points is of limited interest to the fallen primarch,’ said Guilliman. ‘Mortarion’s armies fight in a manner that is superficially difficult to predict, but he does have a strategy. There is a pattern here. You must only think like him.’
Guilliman looked at the interlocking patterns of epidemic, livid on the cartolith of Ultramar like the marks on a plague victim’s skin.
‘Mortarion follows a strategy designed to feed his god’s ambitions. It is obvious, once one takes his viewpoint. To a mortal mind, this war may appear nonsensical, hard to predict, impossible to counter. But that is a false theoretical. It is a ritual, and rituals are predictable.
‘In provoking me to come here, Mortarion has revealed his own weakness. Once the nature of the war as a ritual is understood, the pattern may be unlocked,’ Guilliman said. ‘Ritual warfare is one of stricture. For it to succeed, it must be successful at every juncture. It is not like mundane war, where setbacks may be overcome by fresh strategy. Ritual war is rigid, and therefore, it is easy to counter.’
‘Did he goad you to come here, my lord?’ asked a general of the planetary defence regiments.
‘He did more than that,’ said Guilliman. ‘At the climax of the Battle of Hecatone, on Parmenio, he challenged me to face him on this world.’
‘Then he must have had some purpose,’ said the general.
‘Indubitably,’ said Guilliman. ‘This is a trap. He intends to kill me.’
‘Then you are at risk, my lord primarch.’
‘I shall decide the level of risk that is acceptable for me to take, and currently I judge it low,’ said Guilliman. ‘This is an example of what I mean by the limitations of ritual war. My death is one of Mortarion’s goals, but is not his ultimate aim. I would venture with some confidence that it is only a stage in his ritual, a sacrifice to ensure success of his overall strategy. Having examined his actions throughout Ultramar, and after consultation with the Concilia Psykana, I have concluded that he intends at least a lasting corruption of our realm, and most likely the opening of a new warp rift as we have seen on other occasions through the greater war. My fallen brothers show a desire for territorial acquisition. I believe Mortarion desires Ultramar for his master, and whether his intention is to take it entirely into the warp, or to create a plague-ridden materium-immaterium overlap as he has done at the Scourge Stars, the result will be the same for our people – a living hell of decay and disease, with no release, and no succour.
‘However,’ the primarch went on. ‘His desire for territorial acquisition means he is beholden to two competing sets of demands – of the mundane, or the territorial, and the esoteric, meaning the ritual. Both have limitations, and these limitations multiply one another. He is therefore more restricted than I, for I must only disrupt his actions in order to remove his chance at victory. That is, I note strongly, not the same as our victory. Victory for us is the total removal of these threats, the prevention of material-immaterial corruption, and the restoration of our holdings to their previous state. As lasting corruption is a result of my brothers’ presence, we can at best hope to limit the damage. It is easier for us to cause him to lose than it is for us to truly win, if those terms are still applicable to a war of this kind.’
Again he looked so sternly at these cowed men and women who worshipped and feared him. The Tattleslug longed to introduce them to its own master, who was far less demanding, and altogether more generous.
‘I am here. Mortarion is somewhere on this planet. I will not go to him. He could have taken this world weeks ago, but he wants me. Doubtlessly, he has left this city alone in order to encourage me to wait for him here. I will oblige. We will fortify the city, and fight him. He has become arrogant. In this way, by exploiting his plan, we shall triumph.
‘In summation, our first goal is to ensure Mortarion does not succeed. Our second is to destroy the web of corruption underlying Ultramar. His power is waning. Mortarion is failing. We have news that a large part of Mortarion’s Legion have departed Ultramar. His plans are unravelling, much as his network of filth. We will drive him out. Once accomplished, the rebuilding of Ultramar can begin, as can its fortification against further attack.’
The cartolith shifted, zooming in to the position of First Landing.
‘There are unknown quantities that we must anticipate, including but not limited to Mortarion’s daemonic allies, and the true strength of his void forces in this system or close to translation from the warp.’
‘Mortarion controls eighty per cent of the world,’ wheezed Costalis. ‘But there are other hold-outs. What about these other civitae? Some of them are in a poor state, and could perhaps be abandoned, but those nearby are as little touched as First Landing. We cannot leave them to their fate.’
‘I have accounted for this,’ said Guilliman. ‘Mortarion will come against us here, because I am here. But he will attac
k elsewhere in order to provoke me into rash action. I do not wish this to happen. I want him to be forced to commit more assets than he intends to the battle here. Our armies in the system are large. Accompanying me are three full battle groups. The crusade has reconquered subsectors with fewer resources than I have at our disposal. Therefore, each of the surviving towns will receive a garrison to hold them. These will be of sufficient size to discourage opportunistic attack, Astra Militarum with a core of Adeptus Astartes and Adepta Sororitas, with Mechanicus support. They will be well supplied with decontamination crews, psykers and medicae personnel.’
‘Our citizens will still be at risk,’ said Costalis.
‘That is why we shall concentrate our efforts on material protection only. All civilians are to be evacuated, commencing tomorrow. As you all will be,’ said Felix.
A little uproar then, from men and women who had resigned themselves to dying in defence of their city.
Felix raised his voice. ‘There is space in the fleet for all from First Landing. We will take what others we can manage. Standard humans will stand little chance in this battle. You must leave the defence to us, or you shall perish to no good effect. If we fail, you shall live to serve the Emperor elsewhere.’
The Tattleslug took the moment to reflect. So, it thought to itself. Guilliman does not know about the Godblight, or about the cauldron. He is going to fail. It permitted itself a quiet titter, hiding the smile on Tefelius’ face with a clumsily puppeted hand.
It felt a cold, hard gaze upon its host’s face.
Tefelius looked up. The Tattleslug shrank back in terror, fleeing into the warp to report to Ku’Gath. It left Tefelius confused, with a pounding headache, and a deep sense of unease at the Space Marine Librarian staring straight at him.
Chapter Seventeen
KU’GATH’S TRIUMPH
Lightning flashed in angry skies. It was only appropriate.
Bells tolled around the plague mill. A host of daemons worked within. A line of plaguebearers passed sodden wood from hand to putrescent hand, fuelling the fires beneath Nurgle’s Cauldron. Great Unclean Ones watched from a safe distance, while nurglings capered madly, driven to the heights of excitement by what was going on, running to and fro, and getting under everybody’s feet.
Ku’Gath ignored them as best he could. He could afford no distraction. What bubbled in the cauldron could conceivably kill him. Unusually for a daemon inured to all forms of disease, Ku’Gath wore a protective suit made of slimy human leathers stitched together in disturbing tessellation, so the skins appeared to be flat people tumbling like leaves in autumn. For the moment he had the hood back, flopping about on his back. Soon he would have to don it.
With utmost care, Ku’Gath Plaguefather prepared to harvest his latest, and finest, concoction. He stirred carefully, his practised eye examining each swirl in the liquid, each popping bubble. He tasted the mixture, looked upward a moment as he judged the quality, then stirred it again three more times, each swish of the paddle exactingly performed. He knew it was done when a little plume of steam burst up, sending a froth of bubbles skating over the surface. The steam formed a death’s head that hung agape before parting and wafting away.
‘Silence, my pretties! Silence!’ Ku’Gath called. For once, he was obeyed. Everyone went quiet, from the most garrulous mite to the most cantankerous plaguebearer. All eyes were on him.
‘At last,’ he whispered, lest too much volume disturb the brew. ‘The Godblight is nearly ready. There is but one ingredient left to add.’
All knew their roles. Without prompting, several plaguebearers shuffled onto a pier of black wood jutting out from the broken floors of the plague mill. Ku’Gath backed up to them, and with a great deal of moaning, the plaguebearers dragged his hood up and pulled it over his head. More cursing followed as they wrapped up his antlers and tied off all the many slippery sinews required to keep the daemon safe. When it was in place, Ku’Gath’s eyes were protected by bottle-bottom lenses and his nose covered by a long beak stuffed with foul-smelling herbs.
‘Careful now,’ he muttered. ‘Careful. A blight to kill gods will slay a mere daemon such as myself with ease.’
The plaguebearers wisely shuffled out. The nurglings, too feeble-minded to comprehend the peril they were in, watched on.
Ku’Gath peered about him, then reached into a rusting bank of lockers that served him as an ingredient rack. He flicked a door open, ferreted about beneath the dank leaves inside, and with a pair of delicate tweezers pulled out a small glass phial no bigger than a human thumb.
‘The primarch’s vitae!’ he said, with not a little drama, for the moment demanded it. The blood was still disgustingly clean. He had been relieved to stash it in the box for a while, for touching the glass, even through his skinsuit, made Ku’Gath feel ill, and not in a good way.
‘Oooooh,’ said the nurglings. As the plaguebearers departed in an increasingly hurried shuffle, more and more nurglings came waddling in. They all wanted to see, the fools.
Inside his suit, Ku’Gath sweated. The next part was dangerous, the part that came after more dangerous yet. He had to be careful.
With an even tinier pair of tweezers, he removed the stopper from the bottle, letting it dangle from the fine chain that kept it tethered to the phial. Some of the purity of the blood got into the air, and the nurglings closest hugged each other and whimpered.
‘Now, the risky part,’ he said to himself again. Ever so carefully, he took hold of the opened phial with the larger pair of tweezers, and using the smaller to keep the lid free of the bottle, gently tipped the vessel over the cauldron. The ruby drop ran along the inside, and poised at the lip of the neck.
Ku’Gath put aside all tremors and other infirmities while he performed this task. His hands were as steady as a surgeon’s. With a very gentle twitch, he sent half the blood falling through the air into the cauldron, flipping the other half back into the phial, which he deftly shut.
The blood vanished into the liquid, the single splash of crimson quickly swallowed by glowing green. It appeared as if nothing had occurred, but Ku’Gath was too wise to believe that. He took a step back, and secreted the precious blood back in the box. He would hide it under his skin again later.
Then he waited.
Still nothing happened, but it would, he knew; he had brewed this blight to perfection. Ku’Gath stayed stock-still, staring at the mix. The nurglings, not knowing any better, tiptoed forward. They crowded the walls and the gantries around the pot, making cliffs of eyes about it.
Final synthesis started as a simmering in the liquid. This became rapidly more violent, splashing over the sides from bubbles that burst with gurgling pops, until the whole cauldron was shaking, rattling about on its three pegs, and sending cascades of sparks out in all directions from the fire. Thick wells of fluid spilled down the sides, frothing and noxious, hissing onto the logs and causing waves of stinking smokes and steams that made the nurglings shriek.
The fly symbols stamped into the sides of the cauldron glowed bright with Nurgle’s corpse lights. The cauldron rattled harder. A twist of wind turned around it, wrapping itself into a tight vortex that lifted higher, and higher, tugging at all around it with violent currents. Where Ku’Gath’s suit was a little loose it bellied, while nurglings were sucked screaming from their perches into a growing tornado that reached up and up. Above the plague mill a great gyre was turning, sucking at the clouds until a blackness appeared that was not of the void. Within it, a scaly eyelid opened, and a yellow eye peered curiously down.
‘His eye is upon us!’ Ku’Gath shouted, and pointed. ‘Grandfather sees!’
With a great roaring, the liquid burst up in a straight spout and punched through the vortex. It seemed to climb so high it tickled the eye of the Grandfather himself. There was a peal of thunder that sounded almost like laughter, the vortex ceased, the liquid fell back to earth wi
th a mighty splash, and nurglings rained all around.
The lid of clouds closed again. The great eye in the sky was gone.
Ku’Gath leaned over the cauldron. Where a sea of green had bubbled there was a dirty test tube sealed with a bung of crumbling cork. Inside was a pint’s worth of liquid that swirled about as if alive, turning from glowing green to purple as it performed its perturbations.
‘Oh ho ho, success!’ Ku’Gath said, though he did not completely believe it. He leaned on the lip of the cauldron, strained to grab the tube, could not reach, so rocked the cauldron. The tube rolled back and forward in the dregs left in the bottom, but still Ku’Gath could not catch it.
‘Drat,’ he said, and rocked harder.
Suddenly, the cauldron tipped over, and Ku’Gath pitched forward, his covered antlers clashed against the lip, and he fell down. The cauldron rolled. Ku’Gath snatched frantically for the tube as it dropped towards the ground, only just grabbing it from the air.
He let out a long, slow breath.
‘Oh, oh. This must be handled carefully. Oh, very carefully.’ Cradling the phial as if it were his most favourite of all nurglings, he got up, crooning over it, whispering his love and his pride.
‘I’ve done it. I’ve done it!’ He reached up and tore free his hood, then frowned. ‘But, oh my. What if it does not work?’
He looked at the nurglings ranged around him. They looked back. A few of the brighter ones widened their eyes, turned around and began to quietly waddle off.
‘Just wait there a moment, my pretties. I have something for you.’
He reached for his tweezers, and plucked out the cork from the tube.
The panic spread among the nurglings, and they were all running, tumbling over and trampling each other. A few popped like blisters, and they were the lucky ones.
Ku’Gath stretched his arm out as far as it would go, shielded his face with his other hand, and allowed a single drop of the tube’s contents to fall to the floor.