The Silent War

by Various

  ‘It seems that the Imperium owes you a debt of gratitude,’ said Sor Talgron, bowing his head towards Garro.

  ‘I merely did what I felt was my duty,’ said Garro, a little stiffly.

  ‘Had the Eisenstein not broken through the blockade and brought word of the betrayal, we would not have known of this atrocity until it was too late,’ said Archamus.

  ‘Throne,’ said Sor Talgron. ‘The Warmaster might have taken Terra virtually unchallenged.’

  ‘He could have,’ said Dorn. ‘But his ploy failed.’

  ‘The Legions killing their own, civil war, a plot to dethrone the Emperor?’ said Sor Talgron with a shake of the head. ‘How did it come to this?’

  ‘Through the actions of one man – Horus Lupercal,’ said Dorn. ‘Horus was the best of us. If he could fall, anyone could fall. Which brings me to you and your battle-brothers, captain.’

  Four

  Sor Talgron hated the zealotry. He hated the metaphysical need that seemed gene-coded into his battle-brothers – there was a new and desperate hunger in the Legion to believe in something more than the struggle and pain and torment that was mortal existence. But that was what life was, one bloody task after another until death finally came to claim you. Why did there need to be anything more to it than that?

  Why this insatiable need for meaning? For faith?

  It was a weakness, he believed. A failing. Something the Legion had inherited from Lorgar Aurelian, and Sor Talgron almost hated his primarch for that. He was awed by him, and would not hesitate to sacrifice his life for him, of course, but he almost hated him nonetheless. He did not know why he did not have the same ingrained compulsion as his brothers. Perhaps the failing was his?

  If he had spoken of this to anyone, even his subordinates, they would not understand. They would have despised him. No doubt an athame would have come for him soon after. Just another purge.

  He had felt something like a kinship with the Custodian sentinel Tiber Acanthus, more perhaps than he had with his closest battle-brothers, and that relationship had been built upon lies. What did that make him?

  The Stormbird rose from below and hovered before him, powerful down-thrusters screaming and blowing up dust. It rotated, its assault ramp lowering. He held the Legion standard now, and the heavy, blood-soaked cloth whipped like a sail before the assault craft’s jets. He stepped up onto the terrace’s marble balustrade and into the assault craft’s interior, ignoring the forty-metre drop that would have claimed him had the pilots been unable to hold it steady. Dal Ahk and two squads of legionaries stepped over the gap behind him, boots mag-locking onto the assault ramp with barely conscious thought impulses.

  Some legionaries hated those moments of being packed into a Stormbird, or a drop pod or Caestus ram, being hurtled into the thick of the fighting, relinquishing control over their fate to the pilots, the driver, or to pure luck. Sor Talgron was not one of them. If they were shot down or obliterated before they reached their target, then such was the way of it. That made him feel calm. If something were to happen, he had no control over it. Let what will happen, happen.

  Today, however, he did not feel comfortable within the confines of the Stormbird. The walls seemed to close in upon him, like an oubliette.

  He moved through the ship, past the banks of assault harnesses and weapons caches, moving into the cockpit. The two flight officers, sitting back to back, acknowledged his presence with restrained nods. The two pilot servitors seated to the front had drool hanging from their blue lips, like white gruel. Their pallid flesh twitched.

  Beyond the cockpit, the city of Massilea was tinged grey-green by the lighting and tinted filters of the curved armourglass shell. Hologrammatic overlays were projected before the lead pilot, delivering the flight officers a wealth of data, while detailed topographical maps rendered in three dimensions hovered before the co-pilot. The green lines of the overlays looked warped and strange from Sor Talgron’s angle. Additional information would be there too, he knew, visible to the flight officers alone. He braced himself, holding on to overhead railings.

  To aft, the assault ramp sealed and the Stormbird lifted, banking sharply towards the west, wing tips pointing towards the heavens and the ground as it turned. Sor Talgron remained rooted in place, mag-locks keeping his boots clamped to the deck. They swung over the librarium jutting up from the rock below, all flames, smoke and dirty white marble. Then they were hurtling over the city, the ruins whipping by below them.

  They dropped altitude as they exited the city, pulling in low over the turquoise river, kicking up twin walls of spray in their wake. They ate up the kilometres, following the twisting cliffs lining the river.

  They crossed deep azure waters as the river fed into a lake that could have been mistaken for a sea. From there they veered over the land, screaming over the detritus of a battlefield recently won. The Legion was gone, moving from their war front to the nearest of the drop zones. The time to leave this world was nearing, and Sor Talgron had already given the word for unengaged elements of the 34th Company to head for the muster points, ready for extraction.

  Burning pyres had been left in the Legion’s wake, piled high with the dead, but what arrested Sor Talgron’s attention were the immense armoured shells that lay scattered across the blackened earth. The field was a graveyard for loyalist Titans. Most had been taken down with little loss to XVII Legion forces – once the battle in the void above had been won, the Titans were easy prey for the fleet’s orbital weaponry. Unsupported Titans were little more than walking death traps, and repeated lance strikes had ripped through the void shields of these enticing targets before smashing them to the ground. Only the Warhounds had been swift enough to evade the devastating salvoes, and from the reports that had come in they had carved a bloody toll through the invading ground forces before they too had finally been brought low.

  The downed forms of half a dozen colossal mechanical giants swarmed with Mechanicum adepts and servitors. These were sects of the Martian priesthood that had thrown their lot in with the Legion and Horus’ cause, and they picked over the Reaver, Warhound and Nemesis-class engines like maggots feeding upon rotting carcasses.

  The Stormbird passed over a tract of strangely untouched wilderness, an island of green fir trees in an ocean of fire-blackened earth, and scattered a herd of multi-antlered quadrupeds below. Some life still flourished, it seemed, away from the main engagements.

  They approached one of the Legion’s muster zones. Bulk landers hung low and expectant overhead, readying to pick up the heavier ground elements. Already Word Bearers Rhinos and Land Raiders were snaking in through the rocky canyons for extraction. The Stormbird dipped its wings in salute to the warriors below, and Sor Talgron saw a lone tank commander, standing in the open cupola of a Proteus, raise a hand in return.

  They continued on to the east, sweeping up blasted hills and over smoking outlying estates and an ancient forest that had been reduced to char and embers. They passed a trio of Deathdealer Night Gaunts striding back along a ridge of blasted scree towards the muster point and the waiting mass lifters. The Titans were hung with kill banners and pennants. More kills would be emblazoned upon them after they were secured aboard the ugly Mechanicum ships in orbit above; Legio Mordaxis had proved its worth on the battlefield once again. The swiftly striding god-machines, hunched and beetle-backed though they were, each bore ordnance capable of laying waste to entire companies.

  The lead Titan, its black carapace edged in yellow, swung its heavy head towards the Stormbird passing a hundred metres to its flank and let out a world-shuddering blast of its warhorn. A greeting? A challenge? Sor Talgron did not know. The other two war machines let out their own ululating, booming cries, and then they were past them, angling towards the ice-capped mountain range looming on the horizon, reminiscent of the towering peaks of the Imperial Palace on Terra. Sor Talgron forcibly pushed the comparison from his mind.r />
  Initial surveys of the region had revealed no enemy presence, but that had clearly been incorrect. Some form of shielding still concealed the outpost, perhaps, for Dal Ahk had reported that fleet imaging and drone scans had come back with nothing. It refused to appear on any augury scan or sweep. They were going in blind.

  They soared through the icy peaks, locked to the blinking beacon planted by the recon squads.

  ‘I see it,’ said the ranking flight officer. Sor Talgron leant forwards, squinting past the blinking red target-marker hovering in the air. He was unable to see anything until they were right in front of it, so well concealed was the structure from the air.

  ‘By the blood of the Urizen,’ said Sor Talgron. ‘How did Loth find it?’

  ‘I don’t know, captain,’ said the officer. ‘Shuttles and gunships scoured this region and came up with nothing. Perhaps he got lucky.’

  ‘He gets lucky a lot, then,’ said Sor Talgron, knowing that luck had nothing to do with it. Loth was the best reconnaissance operative in the company, perhaps the whole Legion. He had proved himself time and time again, across a dozen campaigns and systems.

  A landing pad had been built into the mountainside, tucked beneath a deep overhang. The Stormbird came in under the protruding stone shelf. A XVII Legion lander was already there, and legionaries stood awaiting his arrival. A shuttle in the blue of the XIII Legion was tucked further back.

  Sor Talgron’s vox clicked. Closed channel. Dal Ahk.

  ‘Captain, why would the enemy come here?’ asked Dal Ahk. ‘Battle is still ongoing on several fronts. Ultramarines still live and breathe on this world. They have lost the war, and have no hope of extraction. Even if this is a communication hub, why come here? There is no fleet within the system to communicate with.’

  ‘The enemy are nothing if not rational. There’s clearly a reason that we are not seeing,’ replied Sor Talgron. ‘I want to know what it is.’

  Silence, then a click as Dal Ahk’s vox-link closed.

  The master of signal was uneasy at Sor Talgron’s decision, he knew. He had not said as much, but it was obvious nonetheless. Sor Talgron understood. Coming here in person was unnecessary. More than this, it was out of character.

  The Stormbird’s wings adjusted as the thrusters brought it in onto the landing pad. Taloned claws clacked as they were lowered down.

  His unadorned, standard-issue Umbra pattern bolter was locked to his thigh, and the familiar weight of his flanged mace hung on his left hip. His newly acquired volkite pistol was holstered on his right side.

  Cold mountain air rushed into the Stormbird as the assault ramp opened once more. Without a word, Sor Talgron turned and strode down the length of the gunship’s interior and out into the sun.

  Sor Talgron’s expression hardened at Dorn’s words.

  ‘The loyalty of the Seventeenth has never been questioned,’ he said, not even attempting to keep the anger out of his voice. ‘We have been accused of being overzealous in our… adoration of the Emperor in the past, but never has anyone doubted our loyalty or our devotion to the Imperium.’

  Archamus lifted a slate, scrolling through a swathe of data with a gesture.

  ‘You’ve been very active since your posting here,’ he said. ‘Patrolling the length and breadth of the Solar System, regulated inspections to Mars and the shipyards of Jupiter and Luna, maintaining a presence within the Imperial Pal–’

  ‘Such is my duty!’ said Sor Talgron, interrupting. His expression was thunderous. ‘If you have something you wish to accuse me of, then just come out and say it. Stop dancing around the issue.’

  Archamus put the data-slate down on the table.

  ‘Where have you been these last two months?’ he said.

  ‘This is an interrogation now, my lord?’ said Sor Talgron, pointedly looking away from Archamus to address Rogal Dorn.

  The primarch’s expression was unreadable, and he said nothing.

  ‘Not unless you have something you wish to conceal,’ said Archamus.

  A dangerous stillness had settled over Rogal Dorn like a mantle. Sor Talgron felt his diamond-hard eyes boring into him.

  ‘Battle-Captain Garro,’ said the primarch, finally. ‘I know you have important matters to attend to. I thank you for your time. You may leave us.’

  Garro slammed his fist into his chest once more, and bowed to Lord Dorn. Casting a last glance towards Sor Talgron, he walked from the room. The door clicked shut behind him. Rogal Dorn continued to stare at Sor Talgron.

  ‘Where were you?’ he said.

  ‘I journeyed to the Shrine of Unity, as I am sure you are already aware,’ Sor Talgron growled. He raised his eyebrows at Archamus. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘The comet?’ said the master of huscarls. ‘For what purpose?’

  Sor Talgron looked him squarely in the eyes. ‘I went there to set things right,’ he said.

  ‘Explain,’ said Dorn.

  Sor Talgron’s reluctance to do so was clear. The shrine was a potent symbol of Imperial strength and unified purpose. It had been carved into an immense comet that routinely swung back into the Solar System several times every thousand years, tracking an irregular elliptical route around the sun. In millennia past, when its trajectory was stable and more accurately predicted, it had worn a different name, but what it was had been lost in the murky fog of time. The comet had been seen in the heavens when the Emperor had won the Unification Wars on Terra, and it was for his victory that the shrine had been created.

  Sor Talgron was unwilling to speak before outsiders, but Dorn’s expression was unforgiving and demanded an answer.

  ‘In the past the Seventeenth Legion has exhibited traits that were decreed to be… at odds with the secular nature of the Imperium,’ said Sor Talgron.

  He lowered his eyes as he recalled the rebuke that his Legion had suffered at Monarchia. The pain of it still festered within him, though he had never been a devout soul by any regards. That he did not want to speak these words aloud was plain, as plain as his anger at being forced to recount his Legion’s shame.

  ‘The Legion has seen the error of its ways,’ he said.

  ‘And the comet?’

  ‘The comet’s orbit will see it return through the Solar System in a matter of years. I was ordered to remove certain edifications that had been erected upon the comet before it did so.’

  The primarch snorted. ‘My little brother can be such a fool,’ he said.

  ‘Lorgar built a temple deifying the Emperor on the Shrine of Unity, didn’t he?’ said Archamus, catching up a moment later. ‘Before Monarchia. You were there to tear it down, before anyone found out.’

  Anger surged through Sor Talgron at the casual mention of his primarch’s name and the disdain in the Imperial Fist’s tone, and it took all his will to hold it in check. Rogal Dorn still watched him, unblinking.

  ‘As I said,’ said Sor Talgron, meeting Dorn’s gaze. ‘The Seventeenth has since seen the error of its ways. Already we have been shamed before all the Legions. The Urizen did not wish any further embarrassment.’

  Sor Talgron looked at Archamus.

  ‘Satisfied? We are not traitors. I am no traitor.’

  ‘None of us believed the Warmaster was capable of betrayal,’ said Archamus.

  Sor Talgron’s hands clenched into fists, and he was about to speak, but Dorn held up his hand to silence him.

  ‘Enough,’ he said, an iron finality in his voice. ‘And Archamus, you are wrong – Horus was always capable of these actions. I’ve never met a man more capable, I just did not expect him to take this path. I thought even his arrogance had a limit, but it would seem I was mistaken.’ His expression was uncompromising. Anger simmered just below the surface. ‘I am not often mistaken.’

  Archamus was glaring at Sor Talgron, as if he was responsible for his rebuke.

 
‘Lorgar is subtle,’ said Dorn. ‘He chose well in posting you here.’

  ‘My lord?’ said Sor Talgron.

  ‘In order to assure the Emperor that his very public rebuke was understood, he sent you to Terra,’ said Dorn. ‘He chose well.’

  ‘I was sent here to bolster the Legion presence…’

  ‘But why you, of all his vaunted captains?’

  ‘I do not know, my lord,’ Sor Talgron replied. ‘Perhaps Lord Aurelian was displeased with me.’

  ‘It chafes you that you are not on the front lines, fighting with your brothers. I can understand that better than most,’ said Dorn, bitterness tinging his words. ‘But that is not why Lorgar sent you here. This is not a punishment.’

  ‘Sometimes it feels like it, my lord,’ said Sor Talgron.

  ‘You are a different breed from the rest of the Seventeenth Legion. You are practical and pragmatic, where your brothers are overzealous. You are a soldier, with no pretences of being otherwise. Most of your bloodline speak like priests. It is distasteful. This is why Lorgar sent you here.’

  ‘My lord, the Seventeenth was rebuked for venerating the Emperor too deeply,’ said Sor Talgron. ‘The Legion has changed.’

  ‘Did you ever venerate the Emperor, captain?’ said Dorn.

  ‘My lord, I… Forgive me. I am not comfortable speaking of such things.’

  ‘I do not believe that you did,’ Dorn continued. ‘Your faith is in strategy and tactics, boots on the ground and armour upon your back. Your faith lies in bolters and blood, logistics and battlefield commands. Tell me I am wrong.’

  Sor Talgron said nothing.

  ‘In truth, I’m jealous that the Seventeenth got you,’ said Dorn. ‘You would have made a fine Imperial Fist.’

  Sor Talgron was silent, unsure how to respond. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he murmured at last.