by Dan Abnett
Sigismund stared into Loken’s face. ‘Brother Loken, I have heard much about you, all of it good. I had not imagined I would discover such naivety in you. We will spend our lives fighting to secure this Imperium, and then I fear we will spend the rest of our days fighting to keep it intact. There is such involving darkness amongst the stars. Even when the Imperium is complete, there will be no peace. We will be obliged to fight on to preserve what we have fought to establish. Peace is a vain wish. Our crusade may one day adopt another name, but it will never truly end. In the far future, there will be only war.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ Loken said.
‘How innocent you are,’ Sigismund mocked, ‘and I thought the Luna Wolves were supposed to be the most aggressive of us all. That’s how you like the other Legions to think of you, isn’t it? The most feared of mankind’s warrior classes?’
‘Our reputation speaks for itself, sir,’ said Loken.
‘As does the reputation of the Imperial Fists,’ Sigismund replied. ‘Are we going to scrap about it now? Argue which Legion is toughest?’
‘The answer, always, is the Wolves of Fenris,’ Torgaddon put in, ‘because they are clinically insane.’ He grinned broadly, sensing the tension, and wishing to dispel it. ‘If you’re comparing sane Legions, of course, the question becomes more complex. Primarch Roboute’s Ultramarines make a good show, but then there are so bloody many of them. The Word Bearers, the White Scars, the Imperial Fists, oh, all have fine records. But the Luna Wolves, ah me, the Luna Wolves. Sigismund, in a straight fight? Do you really think you’d have a hope? Honestly? Your yellow ragamuffins against the best of the best?’
Sigismund laughed. ‘Whatever helps you sleep, Tarik. Terra bless us all it is a paradigm that will never be tested.’
‘What brother Sigismund isn’t telling you, Garviel,’ Torgaddon said, ‘is that his Legion is going to miss all the glory. It’s to be withdrawn. He’s quite miffed about it.’
‘Tarik is being selective with the truth,’ Sigismund snorted. ‘The Imperial Fists have been commanded by the Emperor to return to Terra and establish a guard around him there. We are chosen as his Praetorians. Now who’s miffed, Luna Wolf?’
‘Not I,’ said Torgaddon. ‘I’ll be winning laurels in war while you grow fat and lazy minding the home fires.’
‘You’re quitting the crusade?’ Loken asked. ‘I had heard something of this.’
‘The Emperor wishes us to fortify the Palace of Terra and guard its bulwarks. This was his word at the Ullanor Triumph. We have been the best part of two years tying up our business so we might comply with his desires. Yes, we’re going home to Terra. Yes, we will sit out the rest of the crusade. Except that I believe there will be plenty of crusade left once we have been given leave to quit Earth, our duty done. You won’t finish this, Luna Wolves. The stars will have long forgotten your name when the Imperial Fists war abroad again.’
Torgaddon placed his hand on the hilt of his chainsword, playfully. ‘Are you so keen to be slapped down by me for your insolence, Sigismund?’
‘I don’t know. Is he?’
Rogal Dorn suddenly towered behind them. ‘Does Sigismund deserve a slap, Captain Torgaddon? Probably. In the spirit of comradeship, let him be. He bruises easily.’
All of them laughed at the primarch’s words. The barest hint of a smile flickered across Rogal Dorn’s lips. ‘Loken,’ he said, gesturing. Loken followed the massive primarch to the far corner of the chamber. Behind them, Sigismund and Efried continued to sport with the others of the Mournival, and elsewhere Horus sat in intense conference with Maloghurst.
‘We are charged to return to the homeworld,’ Dorn said, conversationally. His voice was low and astonishingly soft, like the lap of water on a distant beach, but there was a strength running through it, like the tension of a steel cable. ‘The Emperor has asked us to fortify the Imperial stronghold, and who am I to question the Emperor’s needs? I am glad he recognises the particular talents of the VII Legion.’ Dorn looked down at Loken. ‘You’re not used to the likes of me, are you, Loken?’ ‘No, lord.’
‘I like that about you. Ezekyle and Tarik, men like them have been so long in the company of your lord, they think nothing of it. You, however, understand that a primarch is not like a man, or even an Astartes. I’m not talking about strength. I’m talking about the weight of responsibility.’ ‘Yes, lord.’
Dorn sighed. ‘The Emperor has no like, Loken. There are no gods in this hollow universe to keep him company. So he made us, demigods, to stand beside him. I have never quite come to terms with my status. Does that surprise you? I see what I am capable of, and what is expected of me, and I shudder. The mere fact of me frightens me sometimes. Do you think your lord Horus ever feels that way?’
‘I do not, lord,’ Loken said. ‘Self-confidence is one of his keenest qualities.’
‘I think so too, and I am glad of it. There could be no better Warmaster than Horus, but a man, even a primarch, is only as good as the counsel he receives, especially if he is utterly self-confident. He must be tempered and guided by those close to him.’
‘You speak of the Mournival, sir.’
Rogal Dorn nodded. He gazed out through the armoured glass wall at the scintillating expanse of the starfield. ‘You know that I’ve had my eye on you? That I spoke in support of your election?’
‘I have been told so, lord. It baffles and flatters me.’
‘My brother Horus needs an honest voice in his ear. A voice that appreciates the scale and import of our undertaking. A voice that is not blasé in the company of demigods. Sigismund and Efried do this for me. They keep me honest. You should do the same for your lord.’
‘I will endeavour to—’ Loken began.
‘They wanted Luc Sedirae or Iacton Qruze. Did you know that? Both names were considered. Sedirae is a battle-hungry killer, so much like Abaddon. He would say yes to anything, if it meant war-glory. Qruze – you call him the “half-heard” I’m told?’
‘We do, lord.’
‘Qruze is a sycophant. He would say yes to anything if it meant he stayed in favour. The Mournival needs a proper, dissenting opinion.’
‘A naysmith,’ Loken said.
Dorn flashed a real smile. ‘Yes, just so, like the old dynasts did! A naysmith. Your schooling’s good. My brother Horus needs a voice of reason in his ear, if he is to rein in his eagerness and act in the Emperor’s stead. Our other brothers, some of them quite demented by the choice of Horus, need to see he is firmly in control. So I vouched for you, Garviel Loken. I examined your record and your character, and thought you would be the right mix in the alloy of the Mournival. Don’t be insulted, but there is something very human about you, Loken, for an Astartes.’
‘I fear, my lord, that my helm will no longer fit me, you have swelled my head so with your compliments.’
Dorn nodded. ‘My apologies.’
‘You spoke of responsibility. I feel that weight suddenly, terribly.’
‘You’re strong, Loken. Astartes-built. Endure it.’
‘I will, lord.’
Dorn turned from the armoured port and looked down at Loken. He placed his great hands gently on Loken’s shoulders. ‘Be yourself. Just be yourself. Speak your mind plainly, for you have been granted the rare opportunity to do so. I can return to Terra confident that the crusade is in safe hands.’
‘I wonder if your faith in me is too much, lord,’ Loken said. ‘As fervent as Sedirae, I have just proposed a war—’
‘I heard you speak. You made the case well. That is all part of your role now. Sometimes you must advise. Sometimes you must allow the Warmaster to use you.’
‘Use me?’
‘You understand what Horus had you do this morning?’
‘Lord?’
‘He had primed the Mournival to back him, Loken. He is cultivating the air of a peacemaker, for that plays well across the worlds of the Imperium. This morning, he wanted someone other than himself to suggest unlea
shing the Legions for war.’
SEVEN
Oaths of moment
Keeler takes a pict
Scare tactics
‘STAY CLOSE, PLEASE,’ the iterator said. ‘No one wander away from the group, and no one make any record beyond written notes without prior permission. Is that clear?’
They all answered yes.
‘We have been granted ten minutes, and that limit will be strictly observed. This is a real privilege.’
The iterator, a sallow man in his thirties called Emont, who despite his appearance possessed what Euphrati Keeler thought was a most beautiful speaking voice, paused and offered one last piece of advice to the group. ‘This is also a hazardous place. A place of war. Watch your step, and be aware of where you are.’
He turned and led them down the concourse to the massive blast hatch. The rattle of machine tools echoed out to them. This was an area of the ship the remembrancers had never previously been allowed to visit. Most of the martial areas were off limits except by strict permission, but the embarkation deck was utterly forbidden at all times.
There were six of them in the group. Keeler, another imagist called Siman Sark, a painter called Fransisko Twell, a composer of symphonic patterns called Tolemew Van Krasten, and two documentarists called Avrius Carnis and Borodin Flora. Carnis and Flora were already bickering quietly about ‘themes and approaches’.
All of the remembrancers wore durable clothing appropriate for bad weather, and all carried kit bags. Keeler was fairly sure they’d all prepared in vain. The permission they hoped for would not be issued. They were lucky to get this far.
She looped her own kit back over her shoulder, and settled her favourite picter unit around her neck on its strap. At the head of the party, Emont came to a halt before the two fully armoured Luna Wolves standing watch at the hatch, and showed them the group’s credentials.
‘Approved by the equerry,’ she heard him say. In his beige robes, Emont was a fragile figure compared to the two armoured giants. He had to lift his head to look up at them. The Astartes studied the paperwork, made comments to one another in brief clicks of inter-suit vox, and then nodded them through.
The embarkation deck – and Keeler had to remind herself that this was just one embarkation deck, for the flagship possessed six – was an immense space, a long, echoing tunnel dominated by the launch ramps and delivery trackways running its length. At the far end, half a kilometre away, open space was visible through the shimmer of integrity fields.
The noise was punishing. Motorised tools hammered and ratcheted, hoists whined, loading units trundled and rattled, hatches slammed, and reactive engines whooped and flared as they were tested. There was activity everywhere: deck crews hurrying into position, fitters and artificers making final checks and adjustments, servitors unlocking fuel lines. Munition carts hummed past in long sausage-chains. The air stank of heat, oil and exhaust fumes.
Six stormbirds sat on launch carriages before them. Heavy, armoured delivery vehicles, they were void capable, but also honed and sleek for atmospheric work. They sat in two rows of three, wings extended, like hawks waiting to be thrown to the lure. They were painted white, and showed the wolf’s head icon and the eye of Horus on their hulls.
‘…known as stormbirds,’ the iterator was saying as he walked them forward. ‘The actual pattern type is Warhawk VI. Most expedition forces are now reliant on the smaller, standard construct Thunderhawk pattern, examples of which you can see under covers to our left in the hardstand area, but the Legion has made an effort to keep these old, heavy-duty machines in service. They have been delivering the Luna Wolves into war since the start of the Great Crusade, since before that, actually. They were manufactured on Terra by the Yndonesic Bloc for use against the Panpacific tribes during the Unification Wars. A dozen will be employed in this venture today. Six from this deck, six from Aft Embarkation 2.’ Keeler raised her picter and took several quick shots of the line of stormbirds ahead. For the last, she crouched down to get a low, impressive angle down the row of their flared wings. ‘I said no records!’ Emont snapped, hurrying to her. ‘I didn’t think for a moment you were serious,’ Keeler responded smoothly. ‘We’ve got ten minutes. I’m an imagist. What the hell did you think I was going to do?’ Emont looked flustered. He was about to say something when he noticed that Carnis and Flora were wandering astray, locked in some petty squabble.
‘Stay with the group!’ Emont cried out, hurrying to shepherd them back.
‘Get anything good?’ Sark asked Keeler.
‘Please, it’s me,’ she replied.
He laughed, and took out a picter of his own from his rucksack. ‘I didn’t have the balls, but you’re right. What the hell are we doing here if not our job?’
He took a few shots. Keeler liked Sark. He was good company and had a decent track record of work on Terra. She doubted he would get much here. His eye for composition was fine when it came to faces, but this was very much her thing.
Both the documentarists had now cornered Emont and were grilling him with questions that he struggled to answer. Keeler wondered where Mersadie Oliton had got to. Competition amongst the remembrancers for these six places had been fierce, and Mersadie had won a slot thanks to Keeler’s good word and, it was said, approval from someone high up in the Legion, but she had failed to show up on time that morning, and her place had been taken at the last minute by Borodin Flora.
Ignoring the iterator’s instructions, she moved away from the group, and chased images with her picter. The Luna Wolf emblem stencilled on an erect braking flap; two servitors glistening with lubricant as they struggled to fix a faulty feed; deck crew panting and wiping sweat from their brows beside a munition trolley they had just loaded; the bare-metal snout of an underwing cannon.
‘Are you trying to get me replaced?’ Emont asked, catching up with her.
‘No.’
‘I really must ask you to keep in line, madam,’ he said. ‘I know you’re in favour, but there is a limit. After that business on the surface…’
‘What business?’ she asked.
‘A couple of days ago, surely you heard?’
‘No.’
‘Some remembrancer gave his minders the slip during a surface visit and got into a deal of trouble. Quite a scandal. It’s annoyed the higher-ups. The Primary Iterator had to wrangle hard to prevent the remembrancer contingent being suspended from activity.’ ‘Was it that bad?’ ‘I don’t know the details. Please, for me, stay in line.’ ‘You have a very lovely voice.’ Keeler said. ‘You could ask me to do anything. Of course I will.’ Emont blushed. ‘Let’s continue with the visit.’ As he turned, she took another pict, capturing the scruffy iterator, head down, against a backdrop of bustling crewmen and threatening ships.
‘Iterator?’ she called. ‘Have we been granted permission to accompany the drop?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ he said sadly. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve not been told.’
A fanfare boomed out across the vast deck. Keeler heard – and felt – a beat like a heavy drum, like a warhammer striking again and again against metal.
‘Come to one side. Now! To one side!’ Emont called, trying to gather the group on the edge of the deck space. The drumming grew closer and louder. It was feet. Steel-shod feet marching across decking.
Three hundred Astartes, in full armour and marching perfectly in step, advanced onto the embarkation deck between the waiting stormbirds. At the front of them, a standard bearer carried the great banner of the Tenth Company.
Keeler gasped at the sight of them. So many, so perfect, so huge, so regimented. She raised her picter with trembling hands and began to shoot. Giants in white metal, assembling for war, uniform and identical, precise and composed.
Orders flew out, and the Astartes came to a halt with a crashing din of heels. They became statues, as equerries hurried through their files, directing and assigning men to their carriers.
Smoothly, units began to turn in fluid s
equence, and filed onto the waiting vessels.
‘They will have already taken their oaths of moment,’ Emont was saying to the group in a hushed whisper.
‘Explain,’ Van Krasten requested.
Emont nodded. ‘Every soldier of the Imperium is sworn to uphold his loyalty to the Emperor at the start of his commission, and the Astartes are no exception. No one doubts their continued devotion to the pledge, but before individual missions, the Astartes choose to swear an immediate oath, an “oath of moment”, that binds them specifically to the matter at hand. They pledge to uphold the particular concerns of the enterprise before them. You may think of it as a reaffirmation, I suppose. It is a ritual re-pledging. The Astartes do love their rituals.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Van Krasten. ‘They are already sworn but—’
‘To uphold the truth of the Imperium and the light of the Emperor,’ Emont said, ‘As the name suggests, an oath of moment applies to an individual action. It is specific and precise.’
Van Krasten nodded.
‘Who’s that?’ Twell asked, pointing. A senior Astartes, a captain by his cloak, was walking the lines of warriors as they streamed neatly onto the drop-ships.
‘That’s Loken,’ Emont said.
Keeler raised her picter.
Loken’s comb-crested helm was off. His fair, cropped hair framed his pale, freckled face. His grey eyes seemed immense. Mersadie had spoken to her of Loken. Quite a force now, if the rumours were true. One of the four.
She shot him speaking to a subordinate, and again, waving servitors clear of a landing ramp. He was the most extraordinary subject. She didn’t have to compose around him, or shoot to crop later. He dominated every frame.
No wonder Mersadie was so taken with him. Keeler wondered again why Mersadie Oliton had missed this chance.
Now Loken turned away, his men all but boarded. He spoke with the standard bearer, and touched the hem of the banner with affection. Another fine shot. Then he swung round to face five armoured figures approaching across the suddenly empty deck.