by Gav Thorpe
The primarch stomped through the hololith like a metal giant attacking the city. His fists crashed into the projector, turning it into a cloud of shrapnel and sparks.
‘It is only by my superior intellect that his plans will be broken, his conceit revealed to the universe!’ he roared.
Forrix stood his ground, pushing against every instinct that told him to back down. The remains of the hololith projector stuttered, strobing red and purple light across the chamber, like a malfunctioning blind grenade.
‘Perhaps his mistake is in underestimating you, Lord of Iron,’ he said quickly. ‘And maybe your doubters’ lies have blinded you to your power also. Dorn would not think you daring enough to strike so boldly and decisively at a place that seems impregnable.’
‘No,’ said Perturabo, but his rage was dissipating as his mind engaged with the issue presented. ‘No, he taunts me with this flaw. It is too perfect… A trap. Dorn would see me commit to this attack and then reveal some secondary ploy in order to ensnare me and see me executed.’
Perturabo’s eyes roved across the Trident, not really seeing them.
‘But I see you, Rogal. I will turn the trap against you.’ The primarch’s gaze finally settled on his subordinates and a grim smile twisted his face. ‘I will not be lured into the maw of the beast, but that does not mean I cannot ram my fist down its throat and rip out its innards.’
Falk stepped up quickly, fist banging in salute.
‘I would be honoured to lead the attack,’ said the Warsmith.
‘I am sure you would,’ Perturabo replied with a dismissive sneer. ‘No, not you.’
‘I–’ began Forrix but the primarch cut him off.
‘Kroeger shall have battle command,’ announced Perturabo.
Practice allowed Forrix to internalise the bellow of rage that stirred in his gut – to have given the slightest hint of dissent was to risk immediate and fatal censure. He remained passive, showing not the least reaction that Perturabo’s inhuman senses and paranoia might detect.
‘I am honoured, my primarch.’ Kroeger’s brow was as furrowed with peaks and troughs as the Himalazia. ‘Surprised.’
‘It is time that you had opportunity to prove your full worth.’
‘The Lion’s Gate will fall to us, I give my bond,’ Kroeger continued, somewhat unnecessarily. There was no need to iterate the price of failure, for the blame would not fall solely at the feet of Perturabo if the Iron Warriors were baulked.
‘This is not a time for subtlety.’ The Iron Circle drew back as Perturabo stalked through the strobing hololith, his cable-pierced scalp shining with glimmering beads of sweat. With unspoken intent, Forrix and Falk both retreated a few steps to leave Kroeger standing alone against the primarch. ‘You are the most bloody-minded of my Trident, Kroeger. I know that you will not relent for a moment. I see the desire in you for brutal war, and the Lion’s Gate will supply you with more brutality than any conflict you have seen before.’
‘Forrix, remain with me.’
Perturabo’s command stopped the warsmith in mid-stride as he headed out of the primarch’s chamber with the other two members of the Trident. The Lord of Iron seemed placid enough, his tone even, but Forrix knew well that the churning passion beneath the veneer could break forth in destructive rage. He spun on his heel and returned to stand to attention before his master.
Perturabo said nothing more until the reverberation of the doors’ closing clanged through the hall.
‘Hololith off. Lights on.’ The lumen strips above flickered into a wan yellow gleam, banishing the shadows that had wreathed the primarch. For a few seconds Forrix remembered his commander as he had been at the height of his power and insight; before the Warmaster had corrupted him, turned ambition into arrogance, curiosity into obsession.
The moment passed as Perturabo’s features twisted into a scornful grimace. He lifted armour-sheathed hands, fingers flexing in agitation. The warsmith wondered if his misgivings had been obvious, or perhaps some other act or inaction had slighted the lord of his Legion. Forrix kept calm and tried not to let Perturabo’s paranoia infect him as it had so many that surrounded the primarch.
‘You think it wrong of me to appoint Kroeger to command this attack?’
The question was a gaping chasm opening in front of Forrix, but a lie could drag him into its depths as easily as the truth. Better he be damned in courage rather than cowardice.
‘He is inexperienced and lacking much strategic expertise,’ said Forrix, keeping his criticism focused on Kroeger rather than his primarch. A little flattery would not hurt either. ‘Only you have the breadth of knowledge and depth of concentration to unpick the lock set by Dorn.’
‘Though you were going to volunteer to command the Legion, were you not? Is that the role you see for yourself, Forrix? My heir?’ Perturabo tilted his head, eyes narrowing. ‘My successor?’
‘I am happy to rest in your long shadow, Lord of Iron.’
‘Indeed, you are.’ Perturabo turned away and Forrix let his breath escape through gritted teeth, trying to relax every muscle that had bunched tight under the primarch’s scrutiny. He almost flinched as Perturabo rounded on him again, but his lord’s gaze passed over him swiftly and settled on the doorway, as though looking at the departed warsmiths.
‘Kroeger knows himself and his place well. He will fight this battle for victory, not as some stepping stone to further glory at my expense.’
Forrix clenched his jaw against the instinct to protest innocence. His pride was pierced by the implicit allegation, but better a wound to his ego than a greater injury to the body. Perturabo stroked an armoured finger across his chin, like a file rasping on metal. His silence loomed over Forrix, demanding he say something.
‘Kroeger is single-minded, that much I can say with certainty.’
‘Single-minded. Not easily distracted.’ Perturabo smiled but there was little about his humour that Forrix could share. ‘Trustworthy. Uncomplicated.’
‘All of those things,’ Forrix agreed, wondering why Perturabo had bid him to remain. Evidently the primarch also realised he had not addressed his point.
‘Dorn has set a trap for me, and I intend to use Kroeger to spring it. The Emperor’s Praetorian has laid his plans with guile and patience, doubtless trying to anticipate my every move, countering in advance every stratagem, ploy and tactic he has gleaned from my previous work. Be sure, Forrix, that every stone laid in this palace was done so in consideration of my arrival. As certain as our foes have been that Horus would one day reach Terra, my brother has been equally sure that it is my wit, my siegecraft, that would be the test of his defences.’
Perturabo placed his palms together, fingers splayed against each other, his eyes wide with manic thought. His lips twisted in a terrible smile.
‘But he never contemplated one eventuality. It is beyond Dorn’s ego to comprehend that I might step aside and allow another to fight in my place. Kroeger is unsophisticated, a dull tactician and an uncharismatic commander.’
The primarch left his evaluation hanging in the air just long enough for Forrix to play his appointed part in the dialogue.
‘Everything you are not, Lord of Iron,’ he replied dutifully. He was rewarded by a nod and a smile that had all the benevolence of a hunting cat’s stare. ‘Dorn protects the Palace with the most complex lock ever devised, so you have given life to a sledgehammer to break it to pieces.’
‘Very good, Forrix. A sledgehammer to pick a lock.’ There was a moment of genuine humour in the primarch’s expression. ‘Kroeger will blunder and bustle and hurl my warriors at the enemy without relent, and Dorn… My brother will try to pick out my will from the anarchy, try to dissect intent from Kroeger’s pitiful strategies. He will be looking for every sign of me, and I will not be there.’
Forrix nodded, not trusting himself to speak any further in case his do
ubts betrayed him. Even so, he was sure of one thing, and finally found his voice.
‘I will do everything I can to ensure we are victorious, my lord.’
‘You will follow Kroeger’s commands to the letter, even if they seem disastrous or nonsensical to you,’ Perturabo insisted. ‘I have schooled you myself in war, and though you can never approach me in generalship you have been an adept student. Even a fraction of my genius might show through if you interfere and I want to confound Dorn utterly. Am I understood?’
‘Perfectly, Lord of Iron,’ said Forrix, raising his fist to his chest.
Perturabo dismissed him with a gesture. As the doors creaked open to allow his exit, Forrix glanced back to see his master half-turned away, arms clenched about himself, fingers drumming on his armour while his lips moved wordlessly in thought. Forrix considered Perturabo’s logic in appointing Kroeger to command.
It was a move of genius or madness, or quite likely both.
Dorn waits
In transit
Mortarion’s gifts
Bhab Bastion, thirteen hours before assault
There was nowhere within or below the Imperial Palace that was peaceful. The din of war and the noise of its defenders permeated every stone. Yet if there was a place quieter than any other it was the Sanctuary of Satya, located on an offshoot of the Bhab Bastion that held the Grand Borealis Strategium. It was one of twelve identical chambers that ringed the buttress-tower, each a domed hall forty metres across reached by a single covered bridge. It was part of the oldest building, arranged according to the design of the Emperor before Dorn had been instructed to reshape the defences. It was also numbered among only half a dozen places that had been left intact on the specific command of the Emperor, along with such locations as the Hall of Victories and the Senatorum Imperialis.
The hall was open to the elements, the domed crystal roof that had once covered the circular chamber shattered by the shock wave of supersonic bombers flying too close. Pieces of it crunched underfoot as Dorn crossed the wooden floor. Behind him Rann followed, Sigismund at his side, while Malcador sat upon a bench ahead, staring out through the broken dome towards the south-east. The Sigillite held his staff across his lap, spine straight, his hood pulled back so that the distant flare of detonations shone from his forehead.
Dorn stopped a few paces from the bench but said nothing. Rann felt that to speak would be to intrude upon something pristine, despite the scream of jets overhead and the muted thunder of explosions. There was a stillness about the Sanctuary of Satya that demanded respect and peace.
‘The enemy will make their next move soon,’ said Malcador, still facing away. ‘Their troops are at the wall and the aegis fails daily.’
‘It is only one defence of many,’ said Dorn, folding his arms. ‘It was never intended to protect us indefinitely. Horus can bombard for as long as he likes, shells and rockets never captured a city.’
‘That is the truth,’ said Malcador. ‘So Horus’ warriors will come.’
‘Perhaps if you came to the Grand Borealis, I could better share with you the preparations.’
‘The clutter of all that information is not what I seek, Rogal.’ Malcador half turned, one leg moving onto the bench, creasing his robe. Stern eyes regarded the primarch and his companions. ‘You fill yourself with data, but this is a place of simplicity. A shrine to clarity.’
‘I do not take your meaning.’
‘No. A pity.’ Malcador sighed. ‘With as little of your military terminology as possible, what do you expect Horus to do next?’
‘Is my strategy to be questioned again?’ Dorn jutted out his chin.
Rann thought his genefather’s behaviour strange but had not been party to such conferences before. Few spoke to a primarch in such casual tones, but Malcador was the hand of the Emperor and clearly used to such encounters. Rann glanced at Sigismund but the First Captain’s eyes were fixed on Rogal Dorn.
‘You have the confidence of the Emperor, Rogal, and I am not a strategist. I wish to keep the High Lords informed and would spare you the chore of addressing them yourself and being bombarded with petty concerns.’
The primarch relaxed a little and cast his eye towards Rann.
‘You have the latest reports, captain? What would be your assessment?’
‘Against all sense, the enemy appear to be mustering their strength for an attack against the Lion’s Gate space port, my lord.’
‘Why would that be against all sense?’ asked Malcador, standing up to face the Imperial Fists. ‘It is a worthwhile objective.’
‘It is outside the wall itself, and is very secure, Lord Sigillite,’ explained Rann. ‘An attack there draws strength away from the main assault.’
Malcador looked at Dorn, who had a finger lifted to his chin in thought.
‘Do you concur with Captain Rann’s assessment?’
The primarch did not answer immediately. He strode past the bench to look out through the frame of the shattered dome. Rann followed his gaze, seeing the stretch of walls curving together at the massive edifice of the Lion’s Gate, and as a towering adjunct to it, the space port beyond. Distance and the smog of war rendered it a vague stepped pyramid rising out of banks of multicoloured cloud, its summit lost in the lightning-fractured storm that roiled constantly across the upper atmosphere.
‘It could be a feint,’ said the primarch finally. ‘Having lost all orbital surveyors, there are massed movements beyond our sensors that we only learn of from scattered reports of physical sightings. While our gaze turns one way, perhaps Perturabo seeks advantage elsewhere.’
‘We should let him, my lords,’ said Sigismund, speaking for the first time since he had answered Dorn’s summons. ‘Until the blow descends, any reaction benefits the foe more than us.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Malcador. ‘If we must make adjustments for an attack, better to start now.’
‘Our time is better spent deciding our next blow, rather than second-guessing the enemy’s intent. We must press on with our chosen strategy, force the enemy to make hard choices rather than taking them ourselves.’
Rann saw Lord Dorn’s jaw tighten at Sigismund’s interjection and said nothing until the primarch’s gaze turned to him. Lord Dorn nodded for Rann to continue.
‘It’s true that we could chase ourselves in circles responding to every threat,’ the lord seneschal told Malcador. ‘I think we’ve learned enough from the void war not to trust appearances. Time is our ally, not the Warmaster’s. Whatever gains Perturabo thinks he can make will take him time to achieve at the space port. For all that effort, there are other goals he might achieve more swiftly.’
‘It reminds me of something an ancient Terran general once said,’ Malcador told them. ‘Never interrupt the enemy while he is making a mistake.’
‘That concerns me,’ said Dorn, who had continued to stare across the Imperial Palace at the vague apparition of the Lion’s Gate. ‘I can lay many charges at the feet of my brother, but idiocy is not one of them. If he is set upon taking the space port it is because it suits him in the grander scheme. If he was somehow to succeed, the captured port would serve him well in an assault against the Lion’s Gate itself.’
‘Or suits Horus,’ added Sigismund. ‘We should not forget that it is the fallen Warmaster that commands the Lord of Iron. Perhaps it is Horus’ folly, not Perturabo’s mistake.’
‘A good point.’ Malcador leaned on his staff, gripping it with both hands. ‘There is the matter of intent. What gains might be made by the capture of the port?’
‘That’s simple,’ said Rann. ‘The traitors could bring down larger ships close to the Palace. Bulk transports, even the Vengeful Spirit itself!’
‘Could there be… ritual significance?’ asked Dorn. He looked ill at ease with the subject, in a way Rann had not thought possible of his primarch. The implication sent a sh
udder of apprehension through the lord seneschal, who had been engulfed by the daemonic assault upon the Phalanx and dared not imagine what his genefather had witnessed. ‘Much of the opening assault was not to make physical gains, but to weaken the Emperor’s psychic grip on Terra. Is there a further agenda that I do not understand?’
Malcador looked away, uncomfortable with the question.
‘It is possible, yet impossible to know for sure,’ he answered without looking at the primarch. ‘Such matters are even less exact than military science.’
‘The defences at the Lion’s Gate space port are considerable. I feel no need to reinforce them at this point,’ Dorn said decisively. ‘If Perturabo wishes to attack, we shall allow it and we shall stop it. To respond in any other way would be to risk weakening against a concerted effort elsewhere.’
‘I will make sure everything is in order,’ said Sigismund.
‘No, you will remain with me for the time being,’ countered Dorn. ‘This matter requires a steady hand. Rann will take command of the forces in the space port.’
The implied admonishment shocked Rann, but if Sigismund thought to argue this judgement he gave no sign. Instead he acquiesced with a bowed head and bended knee. Rann followed suit, fist to his chest.
‘I am honoured, my lord.’ Rann raised his gaze to the primarch. ‘I will do my utmost to hold the port but suggest that I am no equal to the mind of the Lord of Iron. Would it not be better to personally lead the defence?’
‘I shall spare it due thought when needed and pass on such guidance as is required,’ Dorn said in a measured tone, ‘but I cannot risk being drawn into operational decisions when the whole Palace requires my attention. Should I have to extricate myself from the battle to deal with broader concerns it could prove disastrous to the fate of the Lion’s Gate, and likewise if I am hesitant in response to wider developments because of local issues. As observed, it is Horus that commands and Perturabo that obeys. It could be the Warmaster’s intent to draw me out, so that I am unready for attack elsewhere.’