by Ben Counter
Brynngar waited further back, deliberately distancing himself, and stony silent as if processing what had happened in the reactor. He touched a fang totem attached to his cuirass with an inward expression.
‘There is little left,’ confessed Falkman, who, though he had managed to restore lighting and some of the basic functions of the hub, had failed to recover the entire astropathic message. ‘I need to get one of the logic engines functioning if I’m to decipher it with any degree of certitude, but this is what we have.’
Cestus glared at the pict-slate of the psy-receiver as the broken images cycled slowly: a gauntleted fist wreathed in a laurel of steel, a golden book, what appeared to be the hull of a ship and a cluster of indistinct stars. Cestus knew of a fifth image. Though his rational mind told him otherwise, in his heart, the Ultramarine knew what he had seen – the range of mountains, the lustrous green and blue – it was unmistakable. He also knew what he had felt: a sense of belonging, like coming home.
‘Macragge,’ he whispered, and felt suddenly cold.
FOUR
Divine inspiration
A gathering
Contact
MHOTEP STARED INTO the water, so still and clear its surface was like silver. The face that stared back at him had hard and chiselled features with a handsome bone structure, despite the velvet cowl that partly concealed it. Hooded eyes spoke of intelligence, and skin, so tan and smooth that it was utterly without imperfection, suggested the nature of his Legion: the Thousand Sons.
Mhotep was dressed in iridescent robes that pooled like deep red liquid around him as he knelt with head bowed. Stitched in runes, his attire suggested the arcane. He was at the heart of his private sanctum.
The ellipse-shaped chamber had a low ceiling that enhanced the sense of claustrophobia created by the sheer volume of esoteric paraphernalia within. Stacks of scroll cases and numerous shelves, replete with well-thumbed archaic tomes, warred for space with crys-glass cabinets filled with bizarre arcana: an oculum of many hued lenses, a bejewelled gauntlet, a plain silver mask fashioned into an ersatz skull. Upon a raised dais, there was a planetarium in miniature, rendered from gold, the stellar bodies represented by gemstones. Gilt-panelled walls were swathed in ancient charts in burnished metal frames, cast in the azure glow of eldritch lamps.
A red marble floor stretched across the entire room, engraved with myriad paths of interlocking and concentric circles. Runes of onyx and jet, etched into the stone, punctuated the sweeping arcs without regularity. Mhotep was at the nexus of the design, at the point where all of the interweaving circles converged.
A chime registered in a vox-emitter built into the sanctum’s entry system, indicating a guest.
‘Enter, Kalamar,’ said Mhotep.
A hiss of escaping pressure accompanied the aide as the door to the sanctum opened and he shuffled into the room.
‘How did you know it was I, Lord Mhotep?’ asked Kalamar, his speech fraught with age and decrepitude.
‘Who else would it be, old friend? I do not need the prescience of Magnus to predict your presence in my sanctum.’
Mhotep bent towards the bowl, plunging both hands into the water to lightly splash his face. As he came back up, he withdrew his cowl and the lamp light reflected from his bald scalp.
‘And I need no sophisticated augury to divine that you bring important news, either,’ Mhotep added, dabbing his face with his sleeve.
‘Of course, sire. I meant no offence,’ said Kalamar, bowing acutely. The serf was blind, and wore ocular implants; the augmetic bio-sensors built into his eye cavities could not ‘see’ as such, but detected heat and provided limited spatial awareness. Kalamar supplemented his somewhat unorthodox visual affliction with a silvered cane.
‘My lord, we have docked at Vangelis,’ he added finally, confirming what his captain already knew.
Mhotep nodded, as if possessed of sudden understanding.
‘Have the Legion serfs prepare my armour, we are leaving the ship at once.’
‘As you wish,’ Kalamar said, bowing again, but as he was retreating from the sanctum he paused. ‘My lord, please do not think me impertinent, but why have we docked here at Vangelis when our journey’s end lies at Prospero?’
‘The paths of destiny are curious, Kalamar,’ Mhotep replied, looking back down at the bowl.
‘Yes, my lord.’ Even after over fifty years in his service, Kalamar did not fully understand his master’s cryptic words.
When the Legion serf had gone, Mhotep rose to his feet, his voluminous robes gathering up around him. From within the folds of his sleeves, he produced a stave-like object, no longer than his forearm and covered in arcane sigils.
Stepping away from the circle, a single eye was revealed at its centre as he took a bizarre course through the labyrinthine design of the room. It represented the wisdom of Magnus, Primarch of the Thousand Sons Legion and gene-father to Mhotep. Locked in his cabalistic route, Mhotep arrived at an ornate, lozenge-shaped vessel and reverently placed the stave within it. The vessel was much like a gilded sarcophagus, similar to that in which the rulers of ancient Prospero had once been entombed. The item secured, Mhotep sealed the vessel shut, a vacuum hiss of escaping pressure emitting from its confines, and inputted a rune sequence disguised within the sarcophagus’s outer decoration.
‘Yes,’ uttered Mhotep, the task done, absently caressing a scarab-shaped earring, ‘very curious.’
‘IT IS A low turn out,’ muttered Antiges beneath his breath.
Within the stark, grey ferrocrete austerity of the Ultramarines muster hall three Astartes awaited Cestus and his battle-brothers. The three were seated around a conference table inset with a single arcing ‘U’. A huge tapestry, depicting the auspicious day when the Emperor came to Macragge in search of one of his sons, framed the scene. Clad in glorious armour of gold, a shining halo about his patrician features, the Emperor stretched out his hand to a kneeling Roboute Guilliman, who reached out to claim it. That day, their primarch had been truly born and their Legion’s inception cemented.
Even now, and rendered as mere artistry, Cestus could not help but feel his heart lift.
‘With such short notice, I had expected less,’ the Ultramarine confessed, approaching the gathering with Antiges. Cestus’s battle-brother had briefed his captain on the attendees. Brynngar he knew, of course, but the two others, a Thousand Son and a World Eater, he did not.
Cestus and Antiges were joined by four more of their brothers – Lexinal, Pytaron, Excelinor and Morar, for the sake of appearances. The rest, Amyrx, Laeradis and Thestor, were with Saphrax on a separate duty. The Ultramarines had called the gathering, so it was only proper that they arrived at it in force to show their commitment.
‘Greetings brothers,’ Cestus began, taking his seat alongside his fellow Ultramarines. ‘You have the gratitude of Guilliman and the eighth Legion for your attendance here this day.’
‘As is well,’ said a bald-headed Astartes with richly tanned skin, ‘but we beseech you to illuminate us as to your plight.’ His voice was deep and powerful. Clad in the panoply of the Thousand Sons Legion, a suit of lacquered dark red and gold power armour, as angular and proud as the monuments of Prospero, he cut an intimidating figure. Antiges had already informed Cestus that the Thousand Son was Fleet Captain Mhotep.
Darkly handsome, bereft of the usual battle scars and functional facial bionics wrought by years of unremitting warfare, this Mhotep had a curious, aloof air. His shining eyes seemed to bore into Cestus’s very soul.
Not all of the assembly were so respectful of his obvious power.
‘The Great Wolf values silence over idle chatter, so that he might heed wise words otherwise lost in needless interrogation,’ snarled Brynngar, the animosity he felt towards the son of Magnus obvious.
It was the Wolf Guard, already pledged to Cestus’s cause, together with Antiges, that had summoned the Legions on Vangelis to this meeting. They had done so with passion and curt request, di
vulging little of what Cestus needed of them. The Space Wolf had at first railed against the inclusion of the Thousand Sons to be their potential sword-brothers in this deed. The conflicting character of the two Legions did not lend itself to a ready accord, but Cestus had reasoned that they needed every soul, and Mhotep had answered the call. What was more, he also had his own ship, a fact that only served to bolster the small fleet he was trying to assemble.
The captain of the Thousand Sons ignored the Space Wolf’s thinly veiled insult and leant back in his seat with a gesture for Cestus to proceed.
The Ultramarines captain told the assembly of his squad’s scheduled extraction from Vangelis by the Fist of Macragge, and of the astropathic message that had very nearly wrecked the control hub of Coralis dock. He even confided in them his fears that some unknown enemy had destroyed the ship, but he did not mention his experience in the reactor core. Cestus was still processing what he had seen. Visions were the province of sorcery and to divulge that he, an Ultramarine, had witnessed one would undermine his credibility and arouse suspicion as to his motives.
‘Perhaps this deed was committed by an alien ship. Ork hulks have been fought and crushed by my Legion as far as the Segmentum Solar,’ said a voice like iron. Skraal was a World Eater, an Astartes of the XII Legion, and the third of the invited warriors, including Brynngar.
He wore battered Mark V power armour, rendered in chipped blue and white, the colours of his Legion, clearly eschewing the Corvus pattern suits worn by his battle-brothers. The armour was heavily dented in several places, sporting numerous replacement parts, and the battlefield repair work was obvious. Formed of basic materials, the plates were held together by spikes, the manifest studs clearly visible on the left pauldron, greaves and gorget. The helmet rested on the table next to the warrior. It was similarly adorned and bore a fearsome aspect of blade and ballistic damage that revealed bare, grey metal beneath.
Skraal’s face was the mirror of his armour, cross-hatching scar tissue a map-work of pain and suffering. A thick vein across his forehead throbbed as he spoke. His bellicose demeanour, coupled with a nervous tic beneath his right eye, gave him the outward appearance of being unhinged.
The World Eaters were a fearsome Legion. Much like their primarch, Angron, they were a primal force that fought with fury and wrath as their weapons. Each and every warrior was a font of rage and barely checked choler, bloody echoes of the battle-lust of their primarch.
‘That is possible,’ said Cestus, deliberately holding the gruesome warrior’s gaze, despite Skraal’s obvious belligerence. ‘What is certain is that a ship of the Emperor’s Astartes has been attacked by enemies unknown and for some nefarious purpose,’ he continued with building anger and got to his feet. ‘This act cannot go unreckoned!’
‘Then what would you have us do, noble son of Guilliman?’ asked Mhotep, ever the epitome of calm.
Cestus spread his hands across the table, laying his palms flat as he regained his composure. ‘Astropathic decryption revealed a region of space that has been identified by the station’s astrocartographer. I believe this is where the Fist of Macragge met its end. I also believe that since the ship was headed for the Calth system and a rendezvous with my lord Guilliman, it is possible that their attacker was heading in the same direction.’
‘A substantial leap of logic, Ultramarine,’ Mhotep countered, unconvinced by Cestus’s impassioned arguments.
‘I cannot believe that the very ship carrying five companies of my battle-brothers and en route to Calth was destroyed before reaching Vangelis in a random art of xenos contrition,’ Cestus reasoned, his need for urgency fuelling his frustration.
‘How are we to find this slayer vessel, then?’ asked Skraal, thumbing the hilt of his chainaxe, the urge for carnage obvious. ‘If what you say is true, and the distress call you received from the vessel is old, the prey will be far from that location.’
Cestus sighed in agitation. He wished dearly that he could make his brothers see what was in his heart, what he knew in his gut. For now, though, he dared not, at least, not until he could make some sense of what he had seen. There was no time for delay.
‘Our position on Vangelis bisects the route of the Fist of Macragge; the route it would have taken to Calth. In short, it is ahead of the site of its demise. If we make ready at once, it is possible we may be able to catch the enemy’s trail.’
Silent faces regarded him. Even Brynngar did not look certain of the Ultramarine’s reasoning. Cestus realised that it was not logic that guided him on this course, but instinct and inner belief. The image of Macragge seen for an instant in the flash of the reactor burned fresh in his mind, and he spoke.
‘I do not need your aid in this venture. I have already sent one of my battle-brothers to commandeer a vessel from this very station and I will take it to the site of the Fist of Macragge’s last transmission. With luck we can pick up a trail to follow and find whoever is responsible for what happened to it. No, I do not need your aid, but I ask for it, humbly,’ he added, pushing the seat back and kneeling reverently before his fellow Astartes with head bowed.
Antiges was aghast at first, but then he too left the table and kneeled. The other Ultramarines followed his lead, and soon all six of Guilliman’s sons were genuflecting before the rest of the council.
‘The sons of Russ do not refuse an honour debt,’ said Brynngar, getting to his feet and laying Felltooth upon the table. ‘I will join you in this endeavour.’
Skraal stood next and set his chainaxe with the Space Wolf s rune blade.
‘The fury of the World Eaters is at your side.’
‘What say you, son of Magnus?’ Brynngar growled, his savage gaze falling upon Mhotep.
For a moment, the Thousand Son sat in calm reflection, considering his answer. He laid his ornate scimitar with the other weapons, its gilded blade humming with power as he unsheathed it.
‘My ship and I are at your disposal, Ultramarine.’
‘Bah! This council’s greatest opponent; I should like to know why,’ said Brynngar.
Mhotep smirked with amusement at the Space Wolf’s rancour, but refused to be baited.
‘You all know of the events at Nikaea concerning my primarch and Legion, and the sanctions placed upon us that day,’ the Thousand Son said plainly. ‘I am keen to foster improved relations with my fellow Legions and where better to start than the vaunted sons of Roboute Guilliman.’ Mhotep nodded respectfully at the final remark, a deliberately weak attempt to cover the slight.
Cestus cared little for the discord between the two Astartes and arose, Antiges following his example.
‘You do me great service this day,’ Cestus said with genuine humility. ‘We meet at Coralis dock in one hour.’
THE SATURNINE FLEET had existed before the Great Crusade, carving out a miniature empire among the rings of Saturn. Its strength and longevity had been based on a tradition of navigational skill, essential to negotiate the infinitely complex puzzle of the rings. Its rolls of honour noted the first time it had encountered the warships of the fledgling Imperium. Its admirals saw a brother empire, based on the demonstration of power and not just empty words or fanaticism, and signed a treaty with the Emperor that still held pride of place in the Admiralty Spire on Enceladus. Its ships had accompanied the Great Crusade to all corners of the galaxy, but their spiritual home had always been in the rings, the endless circle of Saturn boiling above them.
The Wrathful was a fine ship, Cestus admitted to himself as he stood upon the bridge alongside Antiges. It was old and lavish, panelled and decorated with the heritage of a naval aristocracy that pre-dated the Imperial Army and its fleets. Its bridge looked like it had been lifted from a naval academy on Enceladus, all dark wood map tables and glass-fronted bookcases, with only the occasional pict screen or command console to break the illusion. A ring of nine viewscreens was mounted on the ceiling, where they could be lowered to provide an all-angles view of what was happening outside the ship. The c
ommand crew were in the dark blue brocaded uniforms of the Saturnine Fleet, all starch and good breeding.
In commandeering this vessel, Saphrax and his battle-brothers had performed their task well.
‘Rear admiral,’ said Cestus as he approached the captain’s post, a grand throne surrounded by racks of charts.
The throne rotated to reveal Rear Admiral Kaminska. Cestus could almost see the proud heritage etched upon her face: strong jaw, fine neck, high cheekbones, with a slight curl to the lip that suggested acute arrogance.
‘Captain Cestus, it is an honour to serve the Emperor’s Astartes,’ she responded coolly. Saphrax had described the admiral’s reaction to the acquisition of her ship to Cestus as he and the rest of the Ultramarine honour guard had boarded. It was prickly and vociferous.
She gave a near imperceptible nod by way of acknowledgement. The gesture was all but lost in the high collar of her uniform and the thick, furred mantle that hung around her shoulders. Admiral Kaminska was a stern-faced matriarch. A monocle over her left eye partly obscured a savage scar that cracked that side of her face. The monocle’s sweeping chain was set with tiny skulls and pinned to the right breast of her jacket. She carried a control wand at her waist, secured by a loop of leather, and a naval pistol sat snugly in a holster at her hip. Gloved hands bore a lightning flash emblem made from metal; they were tense and gripped the supports of her command throne tightly.
‘The Wrathful is an impressive ship,’ said Cestus, attempting to dispel the fraught atmosphere. ‘I am glad you could respond to our summons.’
‘Indeed it is, Lord Astartes,’ Kaminska said in clipped tones. ‘It would be a great pity to sacrifice it upon the altar of futile vengeance. As for your summons,’ she added, face pinching tight with anger, ‘it was hardly that.’
Cestus held his tongue. As an Astartes fleet commander, it was within the remit of his authority to take command of the ship. For now, he decided he would allow the admiral some leeway. He was sketching a suitable reproach in his mind, when Kaminska continued.