by Gav Thorpe
‘There is your faith,’ Amon told the Regent.
‘We might never know where faith ends and corruption begins,’ replied Malcador, leaning heavily on his staff, wisps of fire dancing about his fingertips.
His turned his gaze upwards and Amon followed it. Keeler stood at the front of the platform, and for several seconds it seemed as though she were bathed in a golden corona of power.
A trick of the light, Amon told himself.
Lion’s Gate space port, interstitial bridges,
twenty-two days since assault
A hundred metres of bloodied ferrocrete separated two demigods. Created as brothers by the same bio-alchemy yet raised so disparate in temperament. One lauded as the builder, the other as a destroyer, but in skill and aptitude identical. Dorn, the Praetorian of the Emperor, the bastion upon which the Imperium had been built. The Hammer of Olympia, Perturabo, doom of a thousand fortresses.
The Lord of Iron stood Forgebreaker’s pommel on the broken stone of the ground, leaning forwards to rest his arms on its wide head.
‘Brother.’
All of Perturabo’s scorn poured into that one word. His external address carried his voice easily across the distance, while vox-transmit broadcast it across an open channel for all to hear. He had nothing to keep from friend or foe today.
Dorn did not reply.
‘Do you wish to discuss terms?’
At this, the Praetorian stiffened, hands moving on the grip of the two-handed chainsword.
‘You think me beaten?’ The reply drifted back, derision in the tone.
Perturabo cast his gaze about the terminal. His forces were on the advance everywhere he looked. A small cluster of the Blood God’s Neverborn had emerged from Layak’s remains, ashen swords flashing as they fought with a ring of Imperial Fists Terminators. Red tendrils of power snaked around the crater, forming into more creatures. The daemons appeared unable to venture too far from the portal, but only for the moment. It was a matter of time before more powerful entities manifested and the Neverborn would walk abroad on Terra.
The Emperor’s lackeys were in full retreat.
Except here, on the main skybridge, where Dorn had launched his counter-attack.
‘I think you are a good enough commander to know when you are outmatched.’ Perturabo chuckled at a thought. ‘Were you expecting some assistance, perhaps? Some hidden reserves?’
‘You have turned lies into a weapon and guile into your shield,’ Dorn said. ‘Cultists, traitors, warp abominations… These are your allies now. To win with such powers is no victory at all.’
The denial snagged at Perturabo’s pride and he straightened, the Iron Circle clattering into attack formation around him.
‘No victory? Am I not allowed my alliances, brother? Send away the Khan and the Angel. Will the Custodians and the Silent Sisters stand aside to let us settle this equitably? If I bring a weapon it is only to break a defence you have erected. If you are truly superior, it is time you stepped out of the protective shadow of our father.’
‘Is that what you wish?’ Dorn brandished his chainsword. ‘You and I, blade against hammer?’
The temptation was almost overwhelming. For long years Perturabo had thought of this moment. He had pictured in exquisite detail how he would humble his brother and prove himself the greatest commander in the galaxy.
The vox buzzed, distracting him from the daydream.
‘Lord of Iron, the defenders are withdrawing in good order while we delay the pursuit.’ With some surprise he recognised the voice of Forrix, whom he had thought dead in the midst of the space port. ‘Dorn is playing for time.’
‘You would like that, wouldn’t you, brother?’ Perturabo declared, not deigning to respond to his triarch. ‘To take the petty road rather than settle this as generals. A brawl in the dirt may suit you, but it is not enough for me.’
‘You may brawl, but I am an expert swordsman.’
The barb tugged again, but Perturabo would not be drawn by his brother’s insults. He pictured again the vision that had sustained him.
‘I will crush you, Dorn. Forgebreaker shall shatter your armour and break your bones before we are done. But that proves nothing save my physical superiority. Before I end you, I will lay low everything you have raised. I will topple your towers and shatter your walls. I will deliver the Warmaster to our father, and you will watch everything you have trusted be torn apart.
‘When you have nothing left but the rubble of your ambition, and I stand triumphant amid the folly of your inferiority… When all the world’s weeping will not save you and all you have is regret for bricks and despair for mortar… When you look at me and know that you were bested by the Lord of Iron and accept the truth of your hubris… Only then will my victory be complete and I will end your suffering.’
‘Bold words from a man that sent his minions to do his fighting for him.’ Dorn stretched out a hand, gesturing to the space port and its surrounds. ‘A million souls it has cost you for a few kilometres of ground. You always were wasteful, Perturabo. Lacking finesse.’
‘When Terra burns and the Emperor’s corpse is ash, we will see the value of finesse!’
‘Lord, Imperial Army forces are pulling out too. If we do not secure the skybridges soon, we’ll be facing them all again at the Lion’s Gate.’
Perturabo cut the link to Forrix with a snarl.
‘This is just the first wall,’ Dorn called out.
The golden-armoured giant turned away and strode back along the bridge to his waiting gunship. The vox crackled with various commanders informing the Lord of Iron that they had targeting solutions on the Thunderhawk. He ignored them all and watched the gunship lift away on azure plumes.
It did not matter how many escaped to the next battle, it would never be enough. Brick by brick he would pull down the Palace. The space port had taken too long, but soon the Warmaster would have his Titans and then Perturabo would show Dorn the meaning of siegecraft.
Perturabo sent one final broadcast.
‘See you on the next wall, brother.’
Amon faces down the daemon.
The next wall
Harsh counsel
A strange arrival
Lion’s Gate space port, interstitial bridges, twenty-four days since assault
The Iron Warriors took little time to establish their new front, throwing up immense siegeworks around the docks and bridge terminals of the fallen space port. Some of them even erected a bunker around the site of Layak’s last act and hung trophies from their fallen foes upon the walls within. The portal had closed but the crater remained, dark shapes burned into the ferrocrete. A shrine of sorts, Abaddon realised, to a martyrdom he would never accept.
He had been given a command post, erected among the gun pits and communications towers. Standing in front, just a few strides from the forward edge of a monorail terminal and a ten-kilometre drop, Abaddon could see the entirety of the Lion’s Gate and the massive wall that stretched from its impossibly vast towers. His post was dwarfed by a far larger structure about a kilometre to the west, the headquarters of Perturabo, already dubbed the Citadel of Iron.
Abaddon did not intend to stay long; he felt the need to return to the Vengeful Spirit so that he could see his lord again. Layak’s words troubled him, especially his ambivalence regarding the outcome of this war. Were Horus’ patrons as uncaring of the result, and did that explain why the Warmaster refused to join the battle in person? Abaddon needed to see for himself what could be done to stir his lord to action.
News from across the Palace was mixed, and gave him little optimism. Khârn and the bulk of his World Eaters had moved on from the Lion’s Gate, travelling south along the Eternity Wall to reunite with their primarch. Though he had no confirmation, there was rumour that Magnus had been sighted among his Legion, taking to the field of battle for
the first time. Mortarion had drawn back to the outer lines while his fractured Legion regrouped from their month-long assaults. Fulgrim and his Emperor’s Children had headed away from the Palace to the south. They had tens of thousands of prisoners and refused to respond to any broadcast from the First Captain or Perturabo. Perhaps Horus would bring them to heel.
Strong winds had dispersed cloud and toxin, so that from the promontories of Sky City it was possible to see the ground far below. From this altitude it seemed as though the surface of Terra writhed with a carpet of colour, broken by blotches of metal in places, bruises of darker hue in others. In reality it was a horde of daemons uncountable in its vastness, their great generals and princes leading the attack against the massive walls of the Palace.
The spirit war had merged with the physical war, but Horus had rebuffed Abaddon’s calls for him to join his warriors on the surface. He still awaited some anointed hour it seemed, much to Abaddon’s chagrin. Looking at the tide of Neverborn, the First Captain curled a lip.
A deafening noise drew his attention back to his surroundings and the terminal behind him. Turning he saw the immense conveyor doors opening, a dozen lights streaming from within to cut beams across the twilight.
From the shadow stepped a Warlord Titan, greater than fifteen times Abaddon’s height, festooned with kill banners. Its armour shone like the shell of a beetle, broad flame-stripes decorating the amber carapace, greaves and abdominal plates. A horned, grotesquely feline face leered from under the superstructure where the princeps’ control station would have been. Multi-launchers jutted from its back, crusted in bony growths, its left arm a cannon that gleamed with unearthly pale light, its right a bone-sheathed claw that opened and closed in slow anticipation.
Taking another step that sent dust billowing along the bridgehead, the Chaos god-engine opened its mouth and bellowed its challenge to the defenders, its call echoed by the war sirens of two others emerging behind.
The Legio Fureans, first of the Warmaster’s Titans, had arrived.
Sanctuary of Satya, Sanctum Imperialis,
twenty-four days since assault
Amon looked out across the besieged city from the window of the Sanctuary of Satya, to the distant siege lines battering at the walls, and to the roiling storm above. He could see the fires in the summit of the Lion’s Gate space port, and the jets of gunships strafing back and forth along the Ultimate Wall to the south-east.
‘The damage has been done.’ Dorn made this pessimistic proclamation. ‘Daemons – pure Neverborn – are taking over the Starspear atop the Lion’s Gate space port. Reports from the observatoria say that manifestations in impossible numbers are appearing before the walls. Angron is leading his World Eaters south, towards the Eternity Wall. The sorcery of our foes has breached the wards on Terra and we shall face Neverborn without limit.’
‘This was not a victory for our enemies, but a concession to necessity,’ said Malcador. He turned, looking at the others in the hall: Amon, Valdor, Sanguinius and the Khan. ‘The telaethesic ward was not breached, it has shrunk. The Emperor cannot protect all of Terra forever. The shield of His protection has been withdrawn to the Inner Palace.’
‘And then?’ said Valdor. ‘When it cannot protect the walls? The Sanctum Imperialis? The Dungeon?’
‘It does not matter,’ Dorn said curtly. ‘It has always been a question of how long we can hold, not of defeating Horus with the troops we have to hand. Guilliman, the Lion and Russ are on their way. We held the port at the Lion’s Gate far longer than I had hoped, certainly longer than Horus desired.’
‘I am not content to sit back while the enemy makes ground,’ said the Khan. He laid a hand on the pommel of his sword and stroked his chin with the other. ‘If you have no argument, brother, I will stand at the defence of the Lion’s Gate, where the next great blow will fall.’
‘Why so?’ asked Sanguinius. ‘You have not been quiet in your distaste for standing behind walls.’
‘I do not intend to remain behind them for too long,’ the Khan assured them with a slight smile. ‘But the wall is the best place to prepare for the next attack, not the depths of the Palace.’
‘We will need to secure the space port again,’ said Dorn. ‘Should I need to call the Phalanx to remove the Emperor from Terra, it is the best way to reach it. On the other hand, should Guilliman arrive he will face the same issues as the traitors – how to get into orbit and down to the surface with sufficient forces to win the battle.’
‘So, you agree?’ said the Khan.
‘Of course,’ Dorn replied. He held up a finger to emphasise his next point. ‘Yet I would appreciate that you consult with us before you launch a counter-attack.’
‘The least courtesy I could do,’ the Khan said with a grin.
They said nothing for several seconds until Amon broke the silence.
‘What is to be done with Keeler?’
‘She has returned herself to my custody,’ said Malcador. ‘And offered parole that she will not try to grow or influence the Lectitio Divinitatus whilst the siege remains in place.’
‘Is that wise?’ Amon waved a hand to the window, indicating the ongoing war. ‘Daemons now join the fray because of the actions of these cultists.’
‘Yet daemons were also kept at bay and banished by them,’ the Regent replied sharply, his eyes moving from Amon to Valdor. ‘We must be vigilant but there can be no persecution of the Lectitio Divinitatus for the time being, for reasons we have discussed before. If the Emperor chooses to outlaw the cult, we will wage that war when this one is concluded.’
‘The threat to the Emperor cannot be underestimated,’ said the captain-general. ‘You recently said, Lord Dorn, that the business of protecting the Palace is for the Legions. I find myself forced to agree now. The Legio Custodes must concentrate on our primary purpose, to safeguard the Emperor. We surrender the outskirts to you, the Legiones Astartes, and will maintain a strict cordon within the Sanctum Imperialis. No citizens, no troopers, no Space Marines will pass within unless given specific licence by me.’
‘I would keep watch on these “faithful”, if I may, captain-general,’ said Amon. ‘My task is not yet complete.’
‘As you deem right.’
‘I approve,’ said Malcador.
‘You do?’ said Amon, surprised.
‘It is fitting that someone watches the Lectitio Divinitatus. You have performed your duties with diligence and honour. Captain-general, might I suggest the awarding of a name to Amon?’
‘You may,’ said Valdor.
‘In one of mankind’s oldest traditions there was an item known as the spear of destiny. Perhaps you would take the name of its supposed bearer, as a symbol of your duty to guard against the unholy and the holy alike?’
Amon nodded.
‘What name would that be?’
‘Longinus.’ Malcador pulled up his hood and turned away, his staff thudding on the floor. He stopped at the doors to address them all. ‘We have suffered setbacks, but we are not defeated. Come, we each have our parts yet to play.
‘There is still a war to be won.’
Khertoumi Wastes, date unknown
A hot wind blew dust clouds across the desert basin. In the distance the twilit sky was illuminated in red as flames devoured a hive city. Here the sky was still clear save for the fume of the inferno, so that the heavens shone with stars – the starships that had levelled the city had moved on to new targets.
One dust cloud in particular stopped in place for several seconds, spinning faster and faster, as though trapped in itself.
The air around it crackled with nascent power, sparks springing from the motes of dust, whirling away to form a vague outline of a man.
A blue spark appeared in the air, falling to leave a jagged trail of colour. A crack opened in nothing, parting to allow waves of blue and purple light to spill for
th.
From this aperture stepped a man, ostensibly of middle age. He had short, dark hair and his chin and cheeks were covered with recent hair growth, patches of silver in the black. His eyes were sunken with fatigue, his cheeks hollow, and he licked dry lips as the aperture closed behind him, leaving him alone in the desert.
A cough caused him to turn.
Sat on a rock was an old woman, wrapped in pale scarves and a dark red coat. Her eyes were wide with shock, white orbs against dark skin. Tattoos the colour of ashes marked her face, painting flames on cheeks and brow. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she watched the man, who was dressed in a worker’s coverall, a tattered backpack over one shoulder, a belt hung with many pouches about his waist.
‘Hello,’ he said before a bout of coughing wracked him.
The woman pulled a flask from her coat.
‘Drink?’
‘What is it?’ the man asked.
‘Just water.’ She frowned. ‘You speak Khert?’
‘I speak anything,’ the man replied with a smile, reaching for the flask. ‘Where am I?’
The nomad raised a wrinkled finger towards the burning hive.
‘That was Addaba,’ she told him.
‘Oh.’ The man slumped, took a drink and then straightened his shoulders. He nodded to the north-east. ‘The Imperial Palace is that way?’
‘Yes. A long, long way.’
‘You don’t seem scared.’ He gestured to himself. ‘My arrival.’
‘Should I be?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I seen a lot these last weeks. My family taken by the Emperor. The sky burning. Addaba broken by light from the stars. So… A man that steps from the air? Not so dangerous.’
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘I suppose not.’
The man handed back the flask and started to walk away, heading in the direction she had pointed.
‘Who are you?’ the woman called after. ‘Are you with the Warmaster? The Emperor?’