Their khan, Torghun, lay on the deck, his back broken. He had been hard to finish off – not as fast as his brothers, but tough to grind down. In the end, Silence had ripped the helm from his head, and Mortarion had seen his expression under it – bloodied, on the edge of death, yet his eyes were alive with joy.
Then he was gone, ended like so many thousand others, cut apart, his spine trodden down into the metal.
‘My lord,’ came Kalgaro’s voice over the comm. ‘Loci established. I am bringing you to safety.’
Mortarion nodded, numbly. The combat had been wearying – a procession of slaughter that was no consolation for missing the greater prize, and even in victory there was no small measure of humiliation.
Beams of aether-light slammed down, and once more the chill of the abyss shivered through him. The haze cleared, and he was back on the bridge of the Endurance, surrounded by the ice-rimed outlines of the Deathshroud.
Kalgaro stood to greet him. Beside the Siegemaster stood ranks of XIV Legion retainers, bridge crew and menials. Beyond those, isolated from the others, was a small retinue clad in gold and purple. At their head was the Lord Commander Primus, who bowed.
‘My lord, forgive the liberty,’ said Eidolon. ‘But as you see, the battle is over. I wished to ensure that you were returned to us.’
Beyond him, through the bridge’s real-viewers, Mortarion saw the void glowing red with burning ships. The Swordstorm itself was racked with explosions, its massive shell lit from within, its equilibrium gone. Slowly, it was tumbling away from the battle-plane, shedding the charred extremities of its ravaged hull, too far gone now to be salvaged.
On the far side of that holocaust, the last of the White Scars fleet was also gone, withdrawn across the edge of the rupture, leaving behind only their broken and smouldering wreckage. Any pursuit, from his own vessels or those of Eidolon’s, was now impossible – the rift had closed.
‘The Khan?’ asked Mortarion grimly, more for the sake of completeness than anything. He already knew that Jaghatai was gone, swept out of reach just as the claws closed around his neck.
‘Fled, my lord,’ said Eidolon. ‘Doubt not – this has been your victory. He runs from you, and the warp will not be kind.’
‘Victory?’ roared Mortarion, whirling to face the Lord Commander, spitting bile from his ancient rebreather. ‘Victory? One to record in the annals? Hells, mutant, if this is victory then you must enjoy pain even more than your reputation suggests.’
Out in the void, the battleships of the III and the XIV had slowed to full halt. The great guns were doused in steaming vats of coolant, and the overheated plasma drives were shut down before they could run away to ruin. The last flickers of the void battle played out on the margins – isolated pockets of V Legion resistance too slow to make the warp rift, hunted down for informants, even though the need for such had now largely gone.
Mortarion paced back towards the throne, his mind already working hard.
Another failure, another mark to set against his record. He would have to go back to Horus, to his brother primarchs, and the weight of his shame would lie just as heavy as it always had.
Kalgaro waited patiently, as ever, saying nothing before being addressed. His entourage remained at their stations, as dour and silent as ever. They were waiting, all of them, for the word of command. As he looked at their expectant faces, Mortarion felt a kind of loathing well up within him. He had killed, but it had not been enough. He had hunted, driving his sons hard across the void and away from the sites of glory, and it had not been enough.
Deep down, closeted away, chained up, the broken monster Grulgor lashed against his bonds. The grimoires remained in his chambers, unread, slowly rotting. The psykers that populated every ship in his fleet still lingered, exercising restraint for the moment, but the words of power were still on their lips.
He recalled Eidolon’s earlier words. You cannot defer the gods forever. You may build walls and you may issue laws, but you cannot put back what has been taken out.
‘Finish all tasks remaining,’ Mortarion growled at length, lowering his lean body back into the throne. ‘Do it swiftly. Then we make for the warp.’
He turned his gaze back to Lord Commander Eidolon.
‘You found my brother well enough,’ Mortarion said. ‘Do the means still exist?’
Eidolon looked uncertain. ‘I fear the Khan is beyond us now, lord.’
‘Another, then. If I gave you the name, do the arts still answer?’
‘It would depend on the name.’
‘One I would bring to heel before we reach the Throneworld.’
Eidolon looked amused. ‘You might be more precise.’
Mortarion thought of Grulgor then. He pictured him slurring his foul breath amid the bilge-rotten hold-space. On Molech, he had been the weapon that had levelled cities.
He was an abomination. There had to be better way.
‘I will be at the Warmaster’s side,’ Mortarion said. ‘We will take our place at the vanguard, and give the Legion the honour it deserves. But not without our full strength. Not without those who were there at the start.’
Mortarion looked down at Eidolon, at his finery and his debauchery, and his weakness and his strength, and felt sickened by it all.
‘So take me to my First Captain,’ he said. ‘Bring me Calas Typhon.’
Epilogue
The first signals came in from long-range augurs on the outrider Valja, hunting off the Thalion Shoals. From there they were passed back to the primarch’s battle-group, two warp-stages away on the edge of the Proxima Sol-Tertius subsector, less than two weeks out from Terra. At first the provenance was doubted, and so requests for confirmation were beamed straight back.
When the Hrafnkel itself detected fleet-mass warp-wakes, that settled the issue. The flagship was taken into full battle alert, as were its seventeen escorts, Administratum liaison craft and sundry auxilia transports.
For the Wolves, patrolling the very edges of Lord Dorn’s watch, their wounds from Alaxxes healed and their warriors itching to take the fight back to the Warmaster on his own ground, the sensor-spread was what had been expected for months – the first signs of the enemy, bearing down on the Throneworld at last. The Hrafnkel issued requests to Terra for immediate aid, but did not wait for replies before breaking the veil.
Only when the VI Legion flotilla reached its forward coordinates and switched to finer-grained sensor sweeps did the identity of the incoming fleet become clearer. Thralls ran test after test, not believing what they saw, before the tidings were eventually deemed reliable enough to be given to the primarch. The evidence was shunted to the bridge stations, where the sensorium master, after checking again, finally signed them off and headed up, warily, to the command throne.
Leman Russ took the data-slate and studied it for a long time. Eventually, he lifted his frost-blue eyes from the runes.
‘This cannot be true,’ he said.
‘We have checked, and checked again, lord.’
‘But why now? Why is he here now?’
The sensorium master shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you. The contacts are still three days away.’
Russ stood, and the true-wolves at his feet rose too, snarling and whickering. A look like breaking thunder crossed his flushed face, and his right hand reached for Mjalnar’s hilt.
‘Arm all ships,’ he growled. ‘Flay the engines, but get us to him ahead of any other. I will be the first one he sees.’
Already menials were running to comply, and the Hrafnkel’s vast bulk began to turn, angling for the boost of plasma drives.
‘Jaghatai,’ spat Russ, striding to the edge of the throne dais. ‘Damn you, you should not have come back.’
It took less than three days for the Hrafnkel to cover the distance, imperilling the engines of its escorts as the flotilla thundered through th
e void. By the time the flagship reached the coordinates, every gunwale was open and every Thunderhawk manned and primed for deployment. The main lances were keyed for immediate fire, and the entire battle-group assumed attack positions. As the first of the real-viewer data came in, orders cascaded down from the bridge, activating kill-markers for the waiting hunt-packs and identifying primary assault vectors.
But no counter-deployment came.
The V Legion, what remained of it, eventually limped into view, shields down, plasma drives operating on half-power. The vessels were no longer arrayed in white – the passage through the Deep Warp had blackened the ships’ hulls, coating them in a thick layer of carbon. Russ had witnessed the White Scars assembled for war at the height of the Great Crusade, and the spread of warships had been twice this size, glittering in ivory, gold and red. What remained was battered, diminished, scraping along on burned-out engines.
The flagship was gone. At the forefront was a line battleship with the ident Lance of Heaven, its flanks bearing scars like claw-marks. The rest of the fleet came behind it, marker lights flickering intermittently, thrusters glowing dimly.
Both sides came to a halt, separated by less than a hundred kilometres of open space. VI Legion guns locked on to targets, fixing points of weakness, of which there were many. No White Scars guns fixed targets in return, and the ranks of ships hung in the void.
Silent. Broken.
Russ watched them carefully, scouring the forward vessels for signs of movement. They outnumbered his battle-group heavily, but looked in little condition to fight.
‘Have they made contact?’ he demanded.
Grimnr Blackblood, his huscarl, shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’
Russ pushed clear of the command throne. ‘Train lances on the lead vessel, aimed at the bridge. Make ready to disable.’
As the thralls hastened to comply, a warning rune lit up on the consoles ahead. ‘Lord, they are attempting to establish a teleport locus.’
‘How many?’
‘Just one.’
Russ snorted a raw laugh. ‘He has gall, I’ll give him that.’ He drew his frostblade, and the naked metal gleamed coldly. ‘Let him come.’
The Hrafnkel’s forward void shield coverage was lowered, just for a moment. A second later, a lone column of aether-light crackled down from the bridge’s vaults, hitting the deck a few metres ahead of Russ’ position. The blaze flared, guttered, then cleared, revealing a tall, lean figure standing at the heart of it.
The Khan bore no weapon. His armour was gored deeply, blackened like his ships. His helm was gone, revealing a blood-streaked face, his long hair dishevelled. Initially, it looked as if he had trouble standing, but he steadied himself, pushing his shoulders back, meeting Russ’ gaze.
Seeing him again, all Russ felt was fury. He poised to launch forwards, to wheel Mjalnar around his shoulders, ready to plunge it into the chest of the one who had left him to die in the void. The frostblade felt light in his hands, apt for murder.
Yet he did not move. The Khan did not move.
They faced one another, Wolf King and Warhawk, separated by silence.
‘Do you know, my brother, how many of my sons died at Alaxxes?’ Russ growled eventually, forcing the words through clenched teeth.
When the reply came, the Khan’s voice was as it ever had been – resonant, heavily accented, measured. ‘We had to be sure,’ he said.
‘Sure.’ Russ closed the gap between them, keeping his blade unsheathed. The Khan was almost a head taller, yet leaner, and carrying deep wounds. At the edges of the throne-dais, a hundred bolters remained trained on the White Scars’ master, but neither primarch paid them any heed. ‘And did you find that surety? Do you still name me the Butcher of Prospero?’
The Khan’s gaze never wavered. ‘I saw your work, and I travelled beyond it. Yes, I found surety, but if you are looking for blood-debt, then I have none to give you, for we have paid our own price.’
Russ came right up to him then, their faces now a hand’s breadth apart. ‘I often thought of what I would do, what I would say, were we to meet again,’ he snarled. ‘Many name you as a traitor in the Palace, Jaghatai, you know this? I could kill you here, where you stand, and few would mourn. That would be my blood-debt satisfied, and I could stand before the ghosts of the slain and tell them I avenged them.’
‘I bring no weapon, brother,’ the Khan said, coolly. ‘Strike me if you wish, but know that I come through the fires of hell to bring my sons to Terra. No one, not you, not Horus, not even our Father, will prevent me from bringing them to where they were destined to be.’
There was the old arrogance again, bleeding so casually out of his brother’s words. For a moment it merely stoked Russ’ long-nurtured anger, goading him to finally swing the blade, to enact the retribution he had imagined many times before.
But then the absurdity of it pricked at him. A cold smile crept across his blunt, scarred lips. The smile broadened, and he began to chuckle, first a low, snagging growl, then a full laugh. Russ threw his head back, and roared his mirth.
‘You always were a pompous bastard,’ he said. ‘You come to my halls as a beggar and speak as if you owned them. Who else would dare it?’
The laughter subsided. Finally, he sheathed his blade. All across the bridge, bolters were lowered.
‘It would make me feel better to give you a fresh scar to remember me by,’ Russ said. ‘You might learn from it. But you look half dead already, and I have no wish to blunt my sword-edge on your scrawny neck.’
The Khan shot him a wintry smile. ‘Save it for those who come at my heels.’
Russ’ face became serious. ‘It will not be long. Malcador will welcome your blades, if you can make your peace with him. There are never enough loyal legionaries for his liking.’
‘You will come back with me, then.’
‘No. Not yet.’ Russ shook his head. ‘It is best we remain apart, I think. I am still angry with you, brother, and may remember it again. In any case, I am caged here, and there are battles waiting in the void. Horus’ forces are gathering for their final attack – there are reports of Traitor movement from across the segmentum, even as far as Yarant.’
The Khan nodded. ‘Then I will wait for you at the Palace. I told you I wished to fight beside you again, just as we were meant to.’
‘Be assured,’ said Russ. ‘The day will come.’
In the lower reaches of the Lance of Heaven, the Stormseers kept vigil.
Arvida’s body lay in the centre of an etched circle, surrounded by braziers. The sorcerer had been placed on his back, still in full armour, for those who had borne him down from the bridge had been unable to remove it.
Incense curled up over his prone outline, dark in the gloom of the coals. Powder-trails had been thrown across the ceramite, earth-brown and russet-red, tracing out sacred shapes to ward against the dark.
In the final moments of the warp passage, with the Legion’s crashing return into real space, the sorcerer had collapsed. As the last echoes of the empyrean still rang from the high vaults, the Stormseers moved to revive him, only to recoil when his body began to rebel. Fluids, black and lurid pink, had forced themselves between the gaps in his battleplate and run across the XV Legion sigils he still wore. His limbs had spasmed, and a throttled gurgle had spilled from his vox-grille.
Naranbaatar had overseen his removal then, and they had carried him swiftly down to the chambers of the zadyin arga, where wards were drawn across his shuddering body and ancient words of yaksha-banishment spoken over him.
Slowly, the bodily changes stilled. Arvida never regained consciousness, though, and was tended through the long hours by those he had guided through the aether’s depths.
When the Wolves came, a guard was placed on the chambers, and by order of the Khagan, none of them ever got close to the last son of Magnus. When the p
acks left again for their ships, the vigil was resumed. The chants persisted, over and over, through the nominal night and day, accompanied at all times by the twist of smoke and the aroma of sacred oils.
Now, as preparations for the final stage to Terra neared completion, Naranbaatar resumed the watch again, relieving his brother zadyin arga, Oskh. The two of them stood over the body, scanning for any sign of change.
‘We cannot halt it,’ admitted Naranbaatar at last.
Oskh nodded. ‘Then it will return soon?’
‘It already has.’ The Stormseer reached into a brass bowl, pulled out blessed dust from the plains of Chogoris, and scattered it across Arvida’s breastplate. The ceramite curves were over-swollen, as if a mass of flesh pressed up underneath them, striving to break free.
‘How long did he suffer from this?’ asked Oskh.
Naranbaatar smiled. ‘If he had wanted to keep it from us, perhaps he could have done so forever,’ he said. ‘I only wonder that Yesugei did not see it.’
‘But what is to be done? Can he be taken back to Terra?’
‘What else is there?’
‘Yet… he is Fifteenth Legion. If it is found–’
Oskh was interrupted by a soft pulse from the door-lock, cycling through a ciphered entry-code. Both Stormseers turned swiftly, moving to interpose themselves between the body and the portal.
‘Who comes?’ demanded Naranbaatar.
The doors slid open, revealing a man, a mortal, in a close-fitting bodyglove and thick damask cloak. He was not of the Legion and had a dark-skinned, Terran face.
Naranbaatar opened his fist, and incipient flickers of psychic force rippled over the ceramite gauntlet. ‘Declare yourself,’ he warned.
The man lifted his arms slowly, showing he was unarmed.
‘This is the one?’ he asked. ‘The Prosperine sorcerer?’
‘I said, declare yourself.’
The Path of Heaven Page 37