by Gav Thorpe
Ducking beneath a chainsword, Sigismund fired his bolt pistol into the faceplate of a legionary, following the bolts with the edge of his blade. He let another snarl-toothed weapon ricochet from his angled pauldron, the blow deflected away from his head, exposing the wielder’s neck to a downward cut.
‘Where is Abaddon?’ he cried, letting his frustration free through his external address. There had been no sign of the Sons of Horus at the point of the enemy attack.
His vox crackled, but not in reply to his challenge. The voice that came through the static was that of Lieutenant-Commander Haeger.
‘Captain, I have an incoming transmission from Lord Dorn.’
Sigismund paused in his assault, taken aback by the news. There had been no communication in or out of the space port for more than an hour.
‘I stand ready to receive.’
The static crackle increased as the link was established. Lord Dorn’s voice was tinny and distant. The surrounding clatter of small-arms and crash of weapons on power armour swelled around the Templar.
‘Order immediate withdrawal from the Lion’s Gate space port.’
Shocked, Sigismund almost missed an axe swinging from the melee towards his chest. He parried at the last moment, stepping back to allow Gaurand and Elgeray to pass him on the left and right, taking the brunt of the fight from him.
‘This is their last effort, my lord. We can hold.’
‘The cost is too high. This is not our last battle to fight, it is only the first wall.’
‘Abaddon is here, my lord. And other commanders of the foe.’
‘It is of no consequence.’ Bitterness entered the primarch’s voice. ‘Do not let the lies of Keeler lead you astray a second time.’
Sigismund choked back his argument, knowing that he had nothing more to say to his genefather than had been said already. Dorn must have taken his silence as objection; his tone was fierce when he next spoke.
‘These warriors’ lives are not to spend for your superstition, Sigismund. Nor are they currency for your personal glory. You want to hurl yourself at Abaddon? You have my leave. Discharge your last efforts as you wish, but do not call it honour, do not call it duty.’
Darkness fell upon Sigismund, but it was not a product of his genefather’s words but a literal shadow. He sensed the fighting diminish around him, a pause as though both armies took a breath together.
He looked up and saw a silhouette against the purple dusk-lit clouds. An immense starship descended from orbit, its prow aflame with friction heat, energy discharge crackling across its dark hull.
Not a single cannon fired in defiance of its landing, the orbital batteries seized, blinded or destroyed.
‘My lord, we have been fools,’ Sigismund told Dorn, voice breaking, recognising the warship as plumes of fire carried to the upper docks. ‘This was never to seize the bridges – all was a ploy to clear the defences of the high dock.’
‘Too late the truth comes to you,’ said the Emperor’s Praetorian, censure dripping from every word. ‘It is the Iron Blood. Perturabo’s flagship.’
Sigismund looked up again at the shadow passing across the heavens, its plasma engines leaving wakes of azure. At full magnification he could see launch bays opening, gunships pouring forth like wasps from a nest. There would be other ships coming, bringing overwhelming force to bear directly from orbit.
Would Rann have allowed it to happen?
Sigismund would not accept that this was failure. The space port could never hold forever; it was always his lord’s intent to slow the enemy and then withdraw. He brought up his sword, touching its hilt to his brow as he closed his eyes, trying to find the peace he sought.
Instead he saw the face of Keeler. He heard her voice, telling him he was the Emperor’s chosen.
The port would fall but there would be other battlefields. It was up to him to make sure the greatest of the enemy did not survive to see them.
‘What is your command, my lord?’ he asked, opening his eyes.
‘Unchanged. The flow of time bleeds the foe greater than any wound. Hold the bridges just long enough for the withdrawal.’
A great shout burst across the battle, bellowed from thousands of voxmitters and external address systems. Accompanied by the crashing of fists and the thrum of revving engines, the Iron Warriors gave voice to welcome their arriving primarch.
‘Iron within! Iron without!’
With their battle cry rebounding from the walls, echoing from the broken plascrete and burning wrecks, the Iron Warriors surged again.
Lion’s Gate space port, tropophex skin zone,
twenty-one days since assault
Forrix had spent weeks at a time aboard ship during the Great Crusade and the subsequent war against the Emperor, and had never thought anything of his confinement. Emerging into the open air of the Lion’s Gate space port’s primary skybridge terminal made him realise how closed-in he had been for the previous twenty days – days spent in constant fighting, just one mistake from death.
Fighting continued below, about twenty storeys down and a kilometre away. It seemed that not a balcony, bridge or mezzanine was not home to an iron-clad warrior or ochre-armoured foe. Armoured vehicles slashed through the periphery while cannonades from support battalions rained fire onto the bridges themselves. Among the metal of his brothers he spied a thrust of red aimed at the heart of the Imperial Fists’ line, a smudge of grey next to it.
It seemed impossible that for all the time he had fought inside the port, only now were the bridges being seized.
He cared nothing for it, wearied beyond imagining in body and spirit. He longed to suck in lungfuls of air but he was still eleven kilometres up; unsealing his armour would be a mistake, a salvaged Imperial Fists helm adjoined to his plate. He wanted to spit the dryness from his mouth and wipe the congealed sweat from his face. Instead he let himself slump to his knees, bolter in one hand, blood-caked knife in the other. His suit sighed with him, fluctuating power readings scrolling across his visor.
Like everyone else, his eye was drawn to the massive starship descending to the uppermost tower of the Starspear, wreathed in flame, accompanied by a shower of shooting stars as orbital debris fell with it. The pyrotechnics of its approach were greater than any celebratory display. Sparks of blue betrayed the presence of descending attack craft, a swarm of fireflies falling from a flame-wreathed behemoth.
The Iron Blood, seat of Perturabo – the primarch now come to claim his prize on the backs of his warriors’ efforts.
The urge to spit returned, this time out of disgust. Kroeger’s whole plan had been a simplistic disaster waiting to happen, and only the bloody-mindedness of the Iron Warriors – fighters like Gharal – had wrested any kind of victory from the mess. Now the conquering Lord of Iron would arrive and finish the job his sons had started. After so many years of other Legions using the IV as their battering ram, it sickened Forrix to think of his own genefather doing the same.
Telemetric transponders warned him of the approach of more Iron Warriors, alighting from an industrial conveyor a few dozen metres away. Six squads emerged, battle-damaged and wary. Forrix recognised their leader immediately and pushed himself to his feet to raise a hand in greeting.
‘Stonewrought, I didn’t think I’d see you so far from your guns!’
Soltarn Vull Bronn signalled to his warriors to take positions at the wall overlooking the platforms below, before breaking away to approach the triarch.
‘Thought you were dead,’ said Bronn.
‘Should be, by any sane calculation,’ Forrix replied with a shake of the head. ‘If I suspected Kroeger of any intelligence, I would say he intended to have me trapped and slain in that murderzone. But, he’s too stupid for that kind of politics.’
‘He seems to have your measure. Who else has come this close to seeing you dead?’
Forrix just grunted, not willing to concede anything in favour of Kroeger. Had it not been for Perturabo’s injunction, Forrix would have not been forced into a suicidal infiltration.
‘Stupid, but standing on the brink of victory,’ the Stonewrought continued. He pointed across the skybridges where, level with the terminal of the space port, the Lion’s Gate itself stood tall and undaunted. ‘This is just the first wall to cross. The gate itself is the prize.’
‘Prize? There is no prize left.’ Forrix looked past the bastions of the Lion’s Gate to the flare of the last shields of the aegis above the Sanctum Imperialis. ‘Not for us mortals. You’ve seen the tides of this war, the things that have changed. We’re lubricant in a war machine built for gods, as expendable as bolts and powercells.’
The Stonewrought said nothing, offered no argument, so Forrix continued.
‘My brothers… Maybe some of them would still fight for me, but most have their eyes turned up, seeking a higher glory, wanting to elevate themselves. This Legion isn’t worth my blood any more. Perturabo? He is as much a danger to us as the enemy. His temper will be the ending of us yet, and we’ll follow him into the abyss despite it. Horus?’ Forrix laughed bitterly, tasting the acid in his mouth. ‘He and his gods see only the Emperor. We are ants under their boots as they fight, thinking to sway the course of the galaxy with a bolter and a blade. A stone in the Ultimate Wall will have more influence over the end of this war than you or I.’
‘You’re not coming with me?’ said the Stonewrought, pointing to a set of steps that ran down from the overlook to the main terminal. ‘I’ve been ordered to flank the Imperial Fists position while Kroeger, Khârn, Abaddon and Layak lead the final assault.’
Forrix looked back up at the Iron Blood and then to his warriors, such as remained, standing in the darkness of the terminal archway. The battle continued to rage below, the reports of bolters as sharp then as they were the first time Forrix had been in battle. The flare of laser and shell lit the fog below, winds carving glimpses of firefights and melees ranging across the rampways and rails of the kilometres-long skybridges. The battle might be concluded before Perturabo arrived – that at least would give Forrix some satisfaction.
‘Form on me!’ he called to his warriors. They responded wearily but without complaint, falling in to rough squads around their commander.
‘You’ve found something to fight for?’ said the Stonewrought.
‘No,’ Forrix told him as he started towards the stair, Bronn falling into step beside him. ‘But I would rather win a battle fighting for nothing than lose one.’
Basilica Ventura, western processional,
twenty-one days since assault
It was with a mixture of disdain and foreboding that Amon watched the ‘faithful’ gathering on the processional just to the south of the Basilica Ventura. More than ten thousand disciples, each of them carrying some form of home-made lamp, a sea of flickering lights that stretched along the walled transitway.
From a ledge-walk around the outside of a former assayer hub, Amon had an unblocked view of the three-kilometre-long processional, from the ruins of the Basilica Ventura all the way to the Westmost Gate. It was a commonly used route for those approaching the Senatorum Imperialis for petition, though of late much of its length had been populated with refugee families and scavengers. It was very public, which was the reason Keeler had given for the choice of venue for this unprecedented gathering. Convinced that the Lightbearers were innocent of any connection to the daemonic attacks, she saw the expansion of their numbers as the only defence against the Neverborn.
It reminded him too much of Monarchia. How long before they erected their first monument to the Emperor? Statuary abounded within the Palace, of philosophers and warlords aplenty, but none of the Emperor Himself. A city had been levelled because it had been constructed in praise of the Master of Mankind’s divinity. The Imperial Palace wore the mantle of fortress of late, after so many guises, but what of those days after the defeat of Horus and the lifting of the siege? Would the Emperor be forced to walk among cathedrals raised to His false godhood, or would He have to break apart every stone of His own greatest work to be rid of the taint?
Amon had secured a copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus, studying it in the hopes of learning more about the cult that took its name. It was a mixture of truth and wishful thinking, with many passages expanding upon the original doctrines that took it into the realm of pure speculation – that it was the work of multiple authors was clear to see in the various sections, each seemingly trying to outdo the last in pomposity and self-reflection.
Despite his deepest misgivings he was powerless. This phenomenon had to be allowed to run its course, barring direct intervention from the Emperor, so that the folly of religion would be made plain to all once again.
Already Keeler had passed on information about a faction within the Lightbearers that was demanding she and Olivier were vocal in denouncing other cults around the Imperial Palace. Infighting would inevitably follow, and internecine debate could well become another civil war.
He corrected himself. Not entirely powerless. Twelve Custodians and a detachment from the Silent Sisterhood stood by to assist should his suspicions of the sect and its parade prove correct. Never before had so many gathered together in singular purpose, and it seemed to Amon that if anything was amiss among the rituals of the Lightbearers it would become clear today. He would have preferred more support, but ongoing regular unrest as well as more immaterial incidents kept the much-diminished force of the Legio Custodes spread thin across the Imperial Palace. The very real threat of the daemon primarchs gaining ingress to the Palace occupied the thoughts of Valdor and the Silent Sisterhood.
He could see Keeler upon a platform erected on the far side of the processional, flanked by address systems to carry her voice to the growing mass around her. She had not confided in him the nature of her sermon. The Custodian also noted several dozen uniformed troopers near the base of the platform, weapons in hand. How they were at the procession and not at the walls did not concern him, but their presence was a further complication.
A click behind Amon drew his attention to the concealed doorway through which he had passed to come to his observation post – one of many secret routes the Legio Custodes maintained throughout the Imperial Palace. He turned, expecting another Custodian, and was surprised to see Malcador framed in the doorway. A flash of gold and white in the vestibule behind betrayed the presence of at least one guard, though the Custodian remained within the building when the door swung shut behind the Regent.
‘Bracing weather,’ said Malcador, robe and thin hair tousled by the strong wind. He stayed close to the door, unwilling to approach the wall-less edge.
‘Is this what the Emperor desires?’ Amon asked, gesturing with his spear towards the converging masses.
‘There is power here.’ The Regent closed his eyes, head tilted back. His lips barely moved as he spoke. ‘A great pressure from without pushes upon the telaethesic ward. Daemons beyond counting expend their existence to break through. Sorcery abounds in the camps of the Dark Mechanicum, the Death Guard and the Word Bearers. Magnus is finally committing his psychic might to the assault.’
Malcador opened his eyes, a last glimmer of gold in the irises as he looked straight at Amon.
‘The Emperor has greater concerns than a few hymns and prayers.’
‘The Neverborn are drawn to power.’
‘Yes, but it can also keep them at bay. If I could be definitive, I would tell you for certain that this gathering of faith was good or bad. In such matters there is no certainty, only intent.’
‘And you trust the intent of these people?’
‘I trust Keeler, as I told you before.’
Amon returned his attention to the woman at the front of the platform. She had started to address the crowd, the words audible to his enhanced
senses, though he paid them little mind.
‘The webway was only one means for protecting mankind from the lure of Chaos,’ said Malcador, taking a step forward, eyeing the drop with some concern. ‘The Emperor thought that the best means to break the Dark Powers was to starve them of energy at the source.’
‘Mastering the secrets of the webway would have allowed humanity to traverse the stars without the warp. No warp, no Navigators, no psykers.’
‘Yet psykers are still born among us.’ Malcador tapped the side of his head, reminding Amon that he spoke to one with such abilities. His next words materialised directly inside the Custodian’s thoughts. It was not pleasant, something he had only experienced from the Emperor previously. +What would we do with all of those psykers?+
‘The Astronomican is power…’ Amon realised the meaning of Malcador’s question. ‘With the webway there is no need for the Emperor to project the light of the heavens. The void would fall dark.’
Malcador edged closer, fingers tight around his staff as he peered down to the processional far below, people still making their way to the gathering.
‘What if that psychic power was used by the Emperor rather than projected?’ Malcador shrugged. ‘If our base emotions feed the Dark Powers, what of our common humanity?’
‘The webway project failed, this is idle speculation.’
‘Not so. Not for me. Dorn wrestles with the logistics of waging war across a continent-sized fortress-city, I contend with the implications of a battle that rages over the boundless realms of the immaterial.’ Leaning on his staff, he sighed, gaze turning towards the distant speaker. ‘If we cannot stifle the gods’ power in the warp, then what better means to defeat them than to channel it away? Or perhaps given sufficient psychic energy, could the Emperor weaponise the Astronomican? Rather than light the warp, could He purge it?’