by Gav Thorpe
‘You are mistaken,’ said Belath. He laid a hand on Luther’s shoulder, a gesture of forgiveness. The Chapter Master said nothing until Luther was standing again. ‘Corswain does not rescind the orders of the Lion. The recruits will leave under my command. The stewardship of Caliban remains your duty to bear, Master Luther.’
‘Of course it does,’ the Grand Master said without hesitation. He half turned to the great doors and held a hand out towards them. ‘Quarters have been assigned for you.’
‘That will also not be necessary. I will return to my ship to ensure all is in order to receive the troops.’
‘I will escort…’ Astelan began, but fell silent at a look from Luther.
‘Belath is capable of finding transportation back to his gunship,’ said the Grand Master. ‘We have intruded on his time enough for now.’
‘As you command. I will await communication from the fleet, Master Belath.’
Belath said nothing, giving each of them a sour look as he departed. They watched until the double doors closed behind him.
‘We have to kill him,’ Astelan said quickly.
Zahariel barely noticed the Chapter Master’s departure, wrapped up in his own thoughts. Astelan’s remark brought him back to the present.
‘Why?’ said the Master of the Mystai.
‘A harsh judgement, First Master,’ said Lord Cypher. ‘You are swift to order execution for little reason.’
‘Belath was correct, First Master,’ Zahariel said. ‘You are letting your hate skew your judgement.’
‘An interesting analysis coming from one that only an hour ago was trying to rip the man’s mind from his brain,’ Astelan replied with a derisive snort. ‘Why are you so keen to see him live?’
‘Nobody is to be killed.’ Luther’s hand cut the air with a chopping motion as his words cut the argument. The Grand Master frowned at Astelan and Zahariel before he sat down, forcing the others to wait in silence while he gathered his thoughts. ‘They are our battle-brothers. The ships are in orbit and we are down here. Belath is our only conduit for the moment. He will have a company of warriors with him at most, enough to command his flotilla, but no more will have been spared the fighting by Corswain. After recent expansions, we have enough space in the dungeons for a few more internees, do we not?’
‘Certainly,’ said Lord Cypher. ‘We must also bear in mind that Belath and most of his companions are from Caliban. They may not be opposed to our aims.’
‘And what are your aims, exactly?’ asked Astelan.
‘We might ask the same of you,’ countered Lord Cypher.
‘Our aim is clear,’ declared Luther. ‘ We seek to secure the safety and future of Caliban and the Order.’
‘And you think that parting from the Imperium is the way to achieve that?’ said the First Master. He shook his head. ‘What do you think a single world can do against a galaxy of foes?’
‘The Imperium has already ended,’ said Luther. ‘Belath’s words confirmed our suspicions. Even if the Emperor still lives and rules, Horus wages war on the Imperium. It has broken from within. We cannot choose a side, unless we are certain that it will be victorious. Tell me, First Master, can you guarantee that the Emperor will be victorious? You cannot, no more than we can count upon Horus to prevail in this struggle.’
‘Both sides are likely to exhaust themselves,’ Lord Cypher added, stepping back to his customary position at Luther’s left shoulder. ‘The Grand Master is correct, Caliban must be strong enough alone. Borrowed power is no power at all.’
‘If we send away thirty thousand warriors, we have less than half that number left to defend the system,’ Astelan pointed out. ‘We cannot possibly comply with Corswain’s demand and retain the force of arms needed to defend this world.’
Astelan was about to continue but there was something Zahariel had to confirm for himself. He held up a hand and the First Master paused to allow Zahariel to speak.
‘It is important that we all understand one thing, and are united by this purpose even if our opinions differ on other matters,’ said the psyker. ‘Is there any among us not willing to break our oaths to the Lion? Are we of single mind that the primarch does not deserve our allegiance?’
The question hung in the air for a few seconds. Astelan was the first to answer it.
‘Need I really say it out loud again? I owe the Lion nothing.’
‘We each have been wronged by him that we thought our greatest brother,’ Luther said slowly. ‘Either directly or by his absence, his undue chastisement has been laid upon us all. I would say also this, and this is just as important, we cannot be Dark Angels any longer. They are a weapon of Terra, the sons of the Lion.’
‘The Order has been restored in all but name, what difference does it make?’ said Astelan.
‘A great difference,’ answered Lord Cypher. ‘The Order stands alone. If we are not Dark Angels, they are outsiders. Enemies.’
These words dragged heavily at Zahariel’s thoughts. It was one thing to turn his back on the Lion, who had banished him from the Great Crusade and slain his cousin. It was another matter to reject the Legion that had taught him how to harness his powers, turned him into the warrior he was.
Then he remembered Caliban’s soul, denied and chained by those same doctrines and dogma. To serve this higher purpose Zahariel had to be free of all other loyalties. Foremost amongst his thoughts had to be the preservation of Caliban and the liberation of the force contained within the planet’s core. The Dark Angels had no part in such a task.
‘I am the Master of the Mystai, servant of the Order,’ Zahariel declared. He raised a fist. ‘You are the Grand Master.’
Lord Cypher silently followed suit. Luther stood and did the same. All eyes turned to Astelan. The Terran looked at each of them for a while, the outsider. He smiled as he lifted his fist in salute.
‘I have served many masters under many names. Above all, I am an Angel of Death. Now I wear the mantle of First Master of the Order. Subject to your command, Sar Luther.’
They all accepted this occasion in thoughtful silence, their salutes to each other saying more than words could convey. Eventually Luther lowered his fist and sat down.
‘Whether the war goes for the Emperor or against, these storms in the warp will not last forever. Preparations need to be made, precautions and measures taken.’
‘The path you have chosen may bring allies, but few friends,’ warned Astelan. ‘It will certainly make enemies. The thing you seek, the protection of Caliban, must be greater than any other consideration. Any other consideration, Grand Master. Are you willing to do whatever is needed?’
It was clear what the First Master was implying. Luther said nothing, but Lord Cypher spoke quietly, barely heard from beneath his hood.
‘Whoever wins the war, they will come. In seeking independence from both, we bring jeopardy to that which we desire – the protection of Caliban.’
‘Caliban must be free,’ Zahariel replied. ‘The protection offered by subservience to others is an illusion, walls not to deter invaders, but to keep prisoners within.’
Luther broke his silence eventually, his eyes staring into the distance, his words calm but firm.
‘I more fear what is within me, than what comes from without. But if my principles are righteous, any action that stems from them must be virtuous.’
The key slid effortlessly into its lock with a satisfying metallic click, perfectly matched even centuries after both had been made. The lock itself, and the door within which it sat, were only visible to Zahariel’s second sight – any ungifted resident of the Angelicasta would pass by the unremarkable stretch of wood-panelled wall without pause.
Already assured by his psychic sense that no such interloper was near enough to witness the act, the Master of the Mystai pushed at the wood with a gloved hand, the door opening silently on beautifully counterweighted hinges.
The precision that had gone into the construction of the chamber was somet
hing that gave him a profound sense of pleasure. It told him of a mind that had, by necessity, paid attention to the most minor details. Its designer had been aware of the consequences of even the slightest deviation from strictly defined parameters of safety and acceptance.
The mind of a psyker.
The rest of the Mystai followed Zahariel into the chamber, padding on slippered feet. The floor was a single mass of granite, nearly black. Inset were golden symbols and hexagrammatic polygonal patterns. The walls were marble, covered with a tracery of lead in convoluted warding shapes.
The Mystai took up position at the cardinal points of the hexagram, one at every other line of the star, Zahariel at their centre.
To Zahariel’s awakened senses, the spirit of Caliban lapped at the psychic defences, held at bay as a sea resisted by a cliff. Above, as though the chamber had been opened to the sky by the sigils on the floor, the warp roiled and burned, the storm that had beset it raging in a tempest. Never the two should meet, such was the intent and design of the room.
A place of sanctuary, where the Mystai could study and practise and grow their powers, watching the warp, tapping into its energies without the pull of Caliban.
Without the call of the Ouroboros singing in their ears.
Zahariel could hear it, a delicate song of life and beauty, touched with the melancholy of isolation and loneliness. An autumn song, fearing the coming of winter, remembering the long days of summer.
This chamber was a gathering place, not for psykers, but for power. The sigils channelled and refined the warp energy seeping through the room. With Caliban’s hunger held at bay it could be tapped without the two energies ever conjoining.
For an age Caliban had craved this connection. The Ouroboros had spent an immortal life seeking reunion with the realm from which it had been stolen. The secret had been here all along, hidden behind walls of stone and symbols of lead. A vault, impenetrable from the outside.
Zahariel opened his mind, letting free the piece of the Ouroboros he had brought with him.
Spring would come to Caliban again.
Like a seed, the psychic remnant took root, spreading out into the minds of the other Mystai. They resisted at first, as had Zahariel. Human fear, primal and unbreakable, lashed out. But the Ouroboros fed on the warp, drinking deep of the power denied it for so long. Defences erected by the crude catechisms of Israfael and his ilk were no match for the will of Caliban.
Swiftly, one after the other, the Mystai let in the power of Caliban, opening eyes and thoughts to the majesty of their world. There was a brief flicker of resistance, an unconscious reflex from Vassago.
Growing within the barrier, the Ouroboros exerted its power. The lead on the walls started to melt, running from the etched channels, the tracery of barrier runes evaporating as psychic force assailed it within and without.
As the cliff must eventually crash down under the constant gnawing of the sea, so the warding symbols failed, the wash of Caliban’s power flowing into the breach.
Zahariel laughed as the energy infused his body. His disciples laughed with him.
‘Brothers,’ he told them, opening eyes that shone with emerald green light. ‘Now you share my vision, my purpose.’
‘The will of Caliban be done,’ they replied.
SIXTEEN
Locking the stable gate
Ultramar
There was a scale model of Magna Macragge Civitas in the eastern hall of the residency, which the Lion found altogether more pleasant than the hololithic projections of the city held in the databanks of the Invincible Reason. The tactile quality of being able to crouch down and look across the perfectly represented escarpment of Gallan’s Rock, or to see down from the spired roofs of the Palaestra, made up for the lack of convenience to do so. In seeing the physical object, he was reminded just what thought had gone into the layout, a sense he never had picked up from projected light.
‘It’s very orderly,’ he said, glancing up from the stacks of the granaries to look at his brothers. Sanguinius stood to one side, not so much distracted as almost absent in thought. Guilliman frowned.
‘The domus is a mess, but I took my father’s advice and decided never to spend time organising that which actively resisted organisation. There is something to be said in the defence of allowing organic growth. Often the wisdom of the crowd concocts solutions far more elegantly than any application of the theoretical and practical.’
‘People best make their own spaces,’ said the Lion.
‘That is a more succinct way of saying it, yes,’ Guilliman admitted. ‘I suppose Aldurukh is not so different? It follows the established Imperial delineations and zonal layouts?’
‘Beyond the walls, we endeavoured to match the Imperium’s standards. The city proper is more like the castrum, defined by defensive needs and geology more than grand design.’ He looked at the inner fortification of the civitas and shook his head. ‘Although Aldurukh has a great deal more… verticality.’
Guilliman questioned the use of this word with a look.
‘It’s mostly dug out of a mountain,’ explained the Lion. ‘Not many flat spaces around the tower of the Angelicasta until you reach the plain. It is generally based on a spiral layout, moving in towards the central keep from the outer gates.’
Guilliman accepted this with a nod and said nothing. He glanced at Sanguinius but the emperor was staring through the modelled city, his thoughts far away.
‘Brother, I do not think you are fully engaged in our endeavour,’ said the Lion, straightening. ‘You have barely spoken your approval of my plan.’
‘Whatever you and Roboute decide will be exceptional,’ said the Blood Angel, a semblance of life returning to his features like a beautiful statue animating. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. ‘It would be a grand vanity to think I can improve on a design described by two such towering intellects.’
‘I will be transmitting my orders before daybreak,’ the Lion said, looking directly at Guilliman. ‘Now is the time to voice any objections. We must be of one mind on this matter.’
The Lord Warden did not return his gaze, but spent some seconds studying the scaled-down city. How different a reaction from the last time the Lion’s warriors had come to Macragge Civitas. Four hundred drop pods had descended towards the fully active defences, certain death for those within. It had been the Lion’s wariness that had prepared the planetstrike, but the actions of Curze to launch it.
Even so, he could not forget that one simple miscalculation had almost ended everything before it had started. Had Guilliman not listened, had he allowed thousands of Dark Angels to die in the skies above Macragge Civitas, the shaky trust that existed between them would have faltered in seconds. Put simply, Imperium Secundus would have died on that day along with many sons of Caliban and Macragge.
It did not help the Lion to think that the future of his creation had been Guilliman’s first concern in all likelihood – the lives of Dark Angels a distant secondary consideration.
The Lion felt the gaze of the Ultramarines primarch on him again, steady but passive, scrutinising without judgement. It was not like his brother to hold a grudge, or relish another’s discomfort, but the Lion could not forget the humiliation he had felt, on the verge of begging for the lives of his Space Marines.
‘No objections, brother,’ Guilliman assured him. ‘I trust you will treat my world as your own.’
Unsure whether there was a veiled accusation in the remark or simply a pang of his own guilt making his gut tighten, the Lion stifled a barbed reply. It was a regret that he had never returned to Caliban after joining the Great Crusade, but there had been so much to do and so little of it would have been achieved away from the fighting.
In truth Caliban brought out mixed feelings in him, of estrangement and belonging at the same time. There were two Calibans, one the dark forests and the other the cities of the Imperium. He was not sure that he belonged wholly to either, and it had been so much easier t
o concentrate on conquest after conquest, leaving the domestic concerns to others far more capable.
‘It was a joke,’ said Guilliman, ‘not a difficult philosophical proposition.’
The Lion realised he had been caught in a public moment of introspection and responded out of instinct, withdrawing into himself.
‘Be sure the orbital screen is down,’ he said and stalked from the hall.
Though he never once regretted his superhuman physique in battle, Guilliman was aware of the limitations it posed in everyday life. By its nature his giant form quelled dissent and required special treatment. It was hard to build an empire based on equality and opportunity when one had been equipped by design with a body that would not fit into most normal dwellings. It had the added disadvantage that any room fitted for the comfort of a primarch by its very nature dwarfed and humbled any visitor, even the largest of Space Marines.
The Ultramarines primarch was reminded of that as he watched Tetrarch Valentus Dolor standing beside the chairs arranged on the other side of the Lord Warden’s desk. The huge piece of granite furniture could have served as a stage had it not been crowded with piles of data-slates and papers, arranged and ordered as neatly as the blocks and streets of the civitas. Dolor rarely sat in the presence of his lord. Even so, he looked somewhat like a rowdy pupil brought before the principal tutor, looking over the broad desk of his master.
‘All shipments have been grounded, lord,’ the tetrarch began. ‘All shipments, including those of Legion personnel and materiel. The Dark Angels are visually inspecting every shuttle, cargo hauler, lighter and barge entering or leaving the capital. It is causing chaos.’
‘And how have we facilitated their inspections?’
‘Lord?’
Guilliman leaned forward, the huge desk beneath his elbows creaking in protest. He moved aside a sheaf of papers held down by a gilded ork skull and tapped a hand on the polished stone.
‘What assistance or assurances have you offered to our cousins in the First? Have you prioritised military shipments through our docks? Have you called together the guildmasters and told them to expect delays? Have you asked the teamsters to downshift their loading until the backlog has been cleared?’