The question in the strategium was where to make planetfall. There were no open spaces to speak of anywhere on Aighe Mortis. Vox traffic from the surface was a hopeless mess of fragments, conflicting voices, and garbling static. Some of the voices that came through were not human. Toharan ordered the reception terminated. There was no point in indulging the Chaos interference.
The Immolation Maw joined the Imperial Navy fleet at high anchor. The command ship was the Irrevocable Fate, an Overlord-class battlecruiser. Toharan hailed its commander. Admiral Keilor Hassarian radiated frustration over the vox. The Mortisian Guard had landed troops in the tens of thousands with the goal of taking and holding the government centres. The men had disappeared into the smog of war. Hassarian had no idea what progress, if any, had been made, though the state of communications did not bode well. Nor did the constant flashes that lit the clouds from below. The light did not come from storms. Battles were ongoing, widespread, and impossible to track. ‘There is no front,’ Hassarian sputtered. ‘Or the front is everywhere. How do we know where to advance and what to defend?’
Only the front wasn’t everywhere. A few hundred kilometres west of the northern hemisphere’s administrative nerve cluster, there was a region where the clouds did not flash. The area covered a full hive quadrant, almost a thousand kilometres square. The zone appeared to be pacified, but Hassarian couldn’t be sure. Its communications were no better than the rest of the planet’s.
A staging area, Toharan thought. A starting point, a place where it might be possible to get a sense of the actual strategic situation. ‘We land here.’ Toharan pointed at the hololith, and designated the eastern border of the quiet zone.
The target sector had a functioning starport, and Second Company deployed there, transported in by Thunderhawks. Toharan wasn’t going to use the deep strike muscle of the drop pods without knowing so much as the state of the conflict. So the Black Dragons landed, disembarked in force, and were greeted by filth and good cheer.
The filth was the hive of Aighe Mortis up close. As festering a vision as the planet presented from orbit, it was orders of magnitude worse at ground level. The pollution was so thick that ground fog was brown. The architecture was an unending forest of towers built of black iron and a rockcrete that time and smoke had turned just as black. Some buildings stood alone, barely shouldering aside their neighbours. Many others were connected by a tangled patchwork of walkways, or joined by afterthought annexes.
Volos was reminded of the scaffolding on the Flebis organ, and saw some of the same dense, embodied nightmare here, on an even larger scale. But where the vault had the awful inspiration of the warp behind it, and a kind of perverse grandeur, there was nothing awe-inspiring about the Aighe Mortis hive. It was hab towers and smokestacks that looked the same, hab towers and smokestacks that were the same, and industry indistinguishable from cancer. Hope was foreign to Aighe Mortis, and had been banished for millennia. The world-city was drudgery and despair made of stone and metal and choking air. Though Volos did not question the necessity or the rightness of the mission to bring the planet back under Imperial rule, he couldn’t help but see the irony in the struggle. There was nothing to liberate here. There never had been. And what could Chaos possibly do to make life here worse?
This wasn’t the first time he had entertained these thoughts. He had been to Aighe Mortis before. All of Second Company had during recruitment missions. Finding suitable candidates made it a necessity to walk among the inhabitants of the source planet, to get to know the culture, the challenges, the strengths and the weaknesses of the indigenous population. But for the Black Dragons, it was also a point of honour. They made use of the human resource of Aighe Mortis, but they did not plunder it. They took the asphyxiating civilization’s hardiest, most promising sons and transformed them beyond all recognition into sacred monsters of war. Beyond the duty to destroy the foes of the Emperor, there was a debt the Dragons had incurred toward the people of Aighe Mortis. They would repay that debt with salvation.
Whether it was desired or not.
The ferrocrete expanse of the starport would have been one of the rare open spaces of Aighe Mortis, if it hadn’t been for the fact that it was two hundred metres above ground level, built over a warren of miserable, light-deprived habs, which in turn rose over the squalid converted mine tunnels. As he joined his mustering brothers, Volos watched the approaching welcome party, and that was where he saw the good cheer. The crowd was a motley collection of civilians and militiamen, sprinkled with a few officers and the odd Guard uniform. Some wore field dressings, others were using makeshift crutches, but most were uninjured. Some of the work and military uniforms were in rags, others were intact, but all were grimy. And there was something in every one of the faces. Hope might have been exiled from Aighe Mortis, but it had returned, and it was coming to meet the Dragons.
Toharan walked towards the crowd. Lettinger was at his side. Volos followed close enough to be able to hear what was said. He heard footsteps behind him and glanced over his shoulder. Nithigg was right behind him, and ghosting along a step further back was Setheno, her eyes flicking with a cogitator’s impassivity between the crowd and himself. Volos faced forward again, but he felt the canoness’s gaze on him like a bad conscience.
A militiaman saluted Toharan. ‘Sergeant Karl Feher, lord,’ he said. The greeting and the salute were respectful, but carried off with a jauntiness that was completely un-Mortisian in character. It was, Volos could tell, a product of the hope animating the group, and it was clear that that hope had nothing at all to do with the arrival of the Black Dragons. Volos was used to humans reacting with awe and, quite often, terror in the presence of Space Marines. He saw neither here. It was as if the hope left no room for anything else. It was an emotion so long repressed that, when it returned, it was a narcotic.
Toharan nodded to Feher. ‘You seem to have the situation well in hand here, sergeant,’ he said. There was battle thunder in the distance, but nothing nearby. Feher and his fellows carried weapons, but slung over their shoulders. They looked relaxed.
Feher grinned, his teeth a bright flash in the dirt on his face. ‘Bit by bit, lord,’ he said. ‘It’s slow, but we’re getting there. I’m sure the work will go faster yet now that you’re here.’
Volos noticed a man standing at the back of the group, and a bit to the side. He was the only one whose face wasn’t lit by hope. He was watching Toharan and Feher intently.
‘We are not a service of convenience,’ Toharan told the sergeant. ‘Are you telling me that your reassertion of control is inevitable? Have you won the war?’
‘No, no,’ Feher protested, wilting a little under Toharan’s glare. ‘We’re working the shift hard. It’s tough to the east, and if one side or the other comes out on top, then we’ll be in for it.’
‘One side or the other?’
Volos moved off, working his way around the crowd to the man at the rear. Volos took in his bionics and bearing. ‘You’re with the Guard?’ he asked.
‘A long time ago. Munitorum now, at least until…’ He gestured vaguely. ‘Jozef Bisset,’ he said. He lowered his voice. ‘There are traitor forces on this planet.’
‘We know. A warning was sent.’
Bisset visibly sagged with relief. ‘So someone received it.’
‘You sent it?’
‘Yes.’
Volos kept his voice low. ‘Can you tell me what is going on? These people… there’s something wrong. Are they–?’
‘They aren’t cultists,’ Bisset said. ‘They’re not even heretical.’
‘Aren’t they?’ Setheno put in. She had arrived without Volos noticing. Her question was a warning.
Bisset paled. ‘At least, they don’t think of themselves as such,’ he amended. ‘I think they still worship the God-Emperor after…’ He caught himself.
‘After their fashion?’ Setheno finished. Volos heard a world’s doom lurking in her words.
‘After the fashion
of anyone on a world like this,’ Bisset answered.
‘You mean rote, unthought, automatic,’ Setheno said. ‘Unfelt.’
‘Perhaps. But they have had little reason to feel it.’
‘You are defending them.’ Another warning.
‘I don’t mean to… canoness,’ he said, taking in her armour’s engravings of rank. ‘I’m trying to explain them.’
‘Why are you with them?’
‘I decided I would be more use to whoever finally came if I stayed alive and found out what I could than if I got myself killed before I could even reach a Guard contingent.’
Setheno’s nod was slight, but Volos sensed the shadow of judgement pass over Bisset, leaving him unscathed.
‘So if they aren’t heretics…’ Volos prompted.
‘As far as I can tell, there are three forces in this civil war. The Mortisian Guard leads the loyalists, but apart from the Guard itself, that faction is very small. They have the military advantage, but little base of support in the general population. Less well-armed, but far more numerous, are the secessionist factions. There are the actual Chaos cultists, and then there are these rebels.’
‘What’s the make-up of the cultist force?’
‘A mixture,’ Bisset said. ‘Very big mobs of former civilians, a significant chunk of the Defence Militia, and a fair number of the new Guard conscripts. They don’t have the training of the loyal troops, but they did get their hands on weapons before they fell to Chaos. There are other cultists, too, who are very far gone. They came with the Traitor Space Marines, I think. I didn’t get too close, but some didn’t really look human anymore.’
Volos grunted, unsurprised. ‘And these people,’ he said, taking in the untainted rebels with a sweep of his arm. ‘What are they hoping to achieve?’
‘I think they just want to be left alone.’
Setheno said, ‘This is not a universe where that is possible.’
Bisset gave a slight bow, acknowledging the point. ‘Unfortunately, they believe otherwise.’
‘And the Swords of Epiphany,’ Volos said. ‘The cultists are following them, I assume.’
Bisset frowned. ‘That’s the odd thing,’ he said. ‘I’ve only seen them the once, but I’ve seen the results of their passage. They’ve been acting on behalf of these people.’ He pointed to the group. ‘They’ve been killing cultists.’
Volos and Setheno exchanged a look. The strategic arithmetic assembled itself. The sum was dire. Guard versus cultists, turmoil and war everywhere except for the zones occupied by the faction that believed its rebellion was merely political. The archenemy was winning hearts and minds.
‘One more thing,’ Bisset said. ‘You’ve seen these traitors?’
‘We have,’ Volos told him.
‘At first glance, and from a distance, they look… Well… People are confused. I’ve spoken to more than a few who think those Space Marines have been sent by the Emperor.’
The command centre had been set up near the centre of the starport. Inside a large tent, Toharan called up a hololithic map of the area. It displayed the best intelligence the Dragons had of the combatants’ dispositions. They had tried to raise the closest Guard commanders, without success. The vox interference made communication over more than a few blocks impossible. Toharan pointed to the nearest clash, about twenty kilometres east. ‘It would seem that Admiral Hassarian is correct. There is no one front. Pushing back the enemy is not an option. This is a war of extermination. It falls to us, therefore, to smash the enemy’s spine so that the Guard can then finish him off. We will begin here.’
Volos had no quibble with the strategy or the choice of initial strike. But there was the problem of their rear. ‘What do we do about the local rebels?’ he asked.
‘They are not an immediate concern. I see no point in fighting two fronts at once.’
Volos nodded, and there was a murmur of agreement from the other squad leaders.
‘Their heresy cannot be allowed to spread,’ Setheno objected.
For the first time in days, Volos found himself at one with Toharan. ‘Spreading heresy hardly seems to be their interest,’ he said.
‘All rebellion is heretical. There is no such thing as a purely political split with the Imperium.’
Lettinger was nodding as Setheno spoke, and for a moment, the universe seemed to have righted itself, with the Ecclesiarchy and the Inquisition allied and at odds with the Black Dragons.
Toharan stepped in. ‘You are, of course, correct, canoness,’ he said smoothly. ‘But I think this is a heresy easily defeated. Once these people witness the truth, they will repent.’
‘And how will they see this truth?’ Setheno asked.
‘Through the purity of our actions.’
There was a long, disbelieving silence. Setheno’s expression didn’t alter, but her eyes, if anything, became even colder. The heat death of the universe stared at Toharan, and found him wanting. ‘I cannot dictate your war-making,’ she said. ‘But please believe that I know what I am talking about when I tell you that heresy cannot be ignored, coddled or reasoned away. It can only be punished.’
‘And please believe that I know what I am doing. When I see the potential for redemption, I would give the wayward a chance to seek it before I destroy them.’
Volos heard, in Toharan’s words, an agenda that had nothing to do with the rebels of Aighe Mortis, and he saw his beloved Chapter fall deeper into shadow.
His sergeants left to ready the troops. The mission would begin in an hour. Toharan’s first battlefield command loomed. Lettinger offered to stay and talk, but Toharan asked him to go. He needed the solitude to think, meditate and pray. There was so much at stake.
He understood Setheno’s argument. What she didn’t understand was what he was attempting, and how desperate his gambit was. On it rested the future of the Black Dragons, and perhaps their very existence. His conversation with Lettinger in the prison chapel haunted him. He could feel the truth and necessity in what the inquisitor suggested, but still he couldn’t bring himself to condemn many of his brothers without making one last attempt to show them the error of their ways. The rebels in this sector gave him the perfect opportunity. They offered little military threat, being content to let the other factions slug it out and then pick up the pieces. And though their actions were wrong, it was clear that they meant no harm. They opposed the cultists, and, at least in what Toharan could see, showed no inclination to indulge in depravity of any kind. They believed themselves righteous, and conducted themselves accordingly. They were simply misguided.
They could be saved.
They would be saved, once they saw the true nature of the conflict on Aighe Mortis, and how they were being duped. They would return to purity, and their redemption, in turn, would pull the Black Dragons to the light. It was a perfect circle of salvation. The hermetic simplicity of the scheme was so beautiful, it had to work. Toharan could see the strands of fate weaving together to culminate in this moment. To turn his back on the opportunity would do more than throw away the last best chance to salvage his Chapter. It would damn his soul.
And if everything came to pass as he knew it must, if he fulfilled the quest that he had been given, perhaps peace would be his again. Perhaps the scrabbling in his head would cease. The impulse showed him what was necessary. It kept him walking the sure path to the pure and the triumphant, but his mind was agonised with buzzing, vibrating, anxious, irresistible movement. It was no longer just the crawling of insect legs in there. There was also the thrumming flutter of wings. It broke up his thoughts. His conversation stuttered. Behind his right eye, a sharp point stabbed and strobed. There was only relief when he took action, releasing the writhing impulses by following them. That part wasn’t hard. He knew, down to the core of his soul, that he was doing the right thing. The problem was waiting. The impatience to save the Dragons blurred with the urgency in his head.
The wait was almost over. The attack was about to begin. Relief a
nd salvation were at hand, and in the end, the purity of fire would restore the purity of bone.
The Revealed Truth and its small squadron hung in stationary orbit as near to Aighe Mortis’s sun, Camargus, as void shields would allow. With the Truth were the Apostate-class heavy raider Metastasis, which had taken point in creating Aighe Mortis’s civil war, and the Soulcage-class slaveship Foretold Pilgrimage. It still waited to play its part in the game. The squadron was as invisible to the Imperial ships as they were to it, but Nessun had no need of augur readings to tell him who was abroad in the Camargus system. Dancing with the empyrean in the Hall of Exaltation, he had access to minds. He caressed their surfaces, and tormented their depths with burning truths. He listened to their desires and obsessions, and they found in him a more sympathetic ear than they had ever encountered before. He soaked up the unwitting confidences, came to know his prey, and followed the paths of weakness deeper and deeper into the tender flesh of self.
He felt the truths he planted take root and flourish. They grew strong, spreading their branches ever wider. In full glory, they would strangle every other thought and hope, converting all drives to their own ends. Already, there had been so much progress. Nessun’s empyrean-self laughed with unqualified delight, laughed with all the force of his being, while his material body let its mouth hang open and utter a low, moaning rasp.
Actions had been taken. Destinies loomed. There were still many branching paths ahead, but along every one, he saw nothing but the celebration of his Great Lord. Now, he had but to wait a short while before the moment would be ripe for his next move. During that wait, he could revel in the perverse, and watch the Black Dragons make their choice of dooms.
CHAPTER 16
THE COMMANDING HEIGHTS
If Hell had nightmares, Concordat Hill was one of them. Most of Aighe Mortis’s features had been razed, consumed and buried. Thousands of years of industry’s hammer had smashed them flat, leaving only the blackened towers of humanity’s misery to reach for the toxic skies. But some traces of the planet’s shape still showed through, a geological palimpsest. Concordat Hill was an echo of the mountain it had once been, a roughly conical rise distinct enough to lift the spires of its towers above those below. At its peak was a monstrous manufactorum cathedral, and this was the Concordat itself.
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