by Gav Thorpe
‘Would that task be left to the Lord Warden, perhaps?’ the Lion retorted. ‘Only room for the one hand on the tiller?’
‘Yes, Roboute, what about your ambitions?’ crowed Curze. ‘Afraid of the competition?’
‘Still your tongue!’ roared Guilliman. ‘Justice still awaits you.’
‘Justice has hunted me since the day I opened my eyes on night-shrouded Nostramo,’ Curze said with a sad sigh. ‘But none of you have the guts to level it. You force me to wait until that assassin’s blade strikes. You are all cowards, speaking of conviction but showing none. Not born yet is the wielder of the blade that will bring me peace.’
‘You will say no more,’ said Sanguinius, a warning finger directed at Curze. The Blood Angel regarded the Lion for a few seconds, seeming to sag inside his armour. His wings furled. ‘The sword cannot free itself from the hand that wields it. We cannot allow our blades to rule us, they are uncaring masters.’
Sanguinius turned away, laying a hand upon the arm of his throne as though weary, the movement a damning judgement without need for words.
‘Give me your blade, brother.’ Guilliman spoke quietly but his words seemed thunder-loud in the quiet of the amphitheatre. He approached the Lion with hand outstretched.
Another look to Sanguinius confirmed that the primarch of the Dark Angels was alone in this. Curze was still within reach. One strike would be all it took to sever his head properly. Perhaps sensing the Lion’s thoughts, Guilliman moved. His attention focused on the Night Haunter, the Lion did not react until the Lion Sword was already in the fist of the other primarch.
He turned, thinking to take back his weapon, but was frozen by the look of cold rage in Guilliman’s eyes. Jaw twitching, the primarch of the Ultramarines took the Lion’s blade in both hands and brought it down sharply across his knee.
The Lion watched the blade split along the fuller, breaking into two shards that glittered in artificial sunlight as they toppled from Guilliman’s spreading fingers. They fell into the white sand at the Lion’s feet.
‘Your sword for your oath,’ Guilliman growled, teeth gritted. ‘Such has become your honour, knight of Caliban.’
Guilliman stepped past the Lion and took hold of Curze. The Night Haunter allowed himself to be led away, smiling back over his shoulder at the dishonoured commander of the Dark Angels.
Slowly, the Lion crouched and reached out a hand to touch the two pieces of the broken sword. He picked them up, sadness turning to anger.
‘Weakness!’ he bellowed, thrusting the shards towards Guilliman’s back. ‘Self-righteousness never conquered the galaxy, brother. And it will not save you from Horus!’
‘Be gone,’ he heard Sanguinius say, not turning around. Immediately, the Lion regretted his words, remembering the vision that had beset his lord of late. He took a step but was stopped by the emperor’s next words. ‘Leave, brother. The Triumvirate has ended. You are not welcome in Imperium Secundus.’
The Lion thought to argue again, but there was no more to be said. He stalked from the legata collegius without a backward look.
THIRTY-ONE
Disloyalty and dishonour
Caliban
The thrum of the engines through the deck beneath his feet brought back many memories. Astelan paced the command bridge of the Spear of Truth and relived the campaigns he had fought since he had been appointed to command of the venerable battle-barge.
For the moment the unaugmented serfs that usually attended to running the minor ship systems had been replaced, so that the bridge crew were all Space Marines loyal to Astelan. They looked expectantly from their stations.
‘What are your orders, First Master? What do you want to do?’ Galedan stood a little to one side as his executive officer, in place of a shipmaster. It was such a shame that Melian had been so naïve. It would have been glorious for the three of them to be reunited.
‘My orders?’ Astelan grinned. ‘I have a fully functional battle-barge to command. I can do whatever I wish, old friend. If I choose to head out to the Mandeville point and leave wretched Caliban, that is what I shall do. With a battle-barge and thirty thousand Space Marines, I could conquer a whole sector.’
He moved to the navigation controls and punched a few keys. On the main screen the nearby star systems sprang out in sharp relief from the hololithic display. He turned to Galedan, amused.
‘Pick one,’ he declared.
‘Master?’
‘Pick a system, and we’ll conquer it for you. I’ll even rename it in your honour. Galedania? Galedan Prime? Alpha Galedius?’
Galedan made a show of looking at the map projection. He scratched his chin.
‘How about w–’
His answer was interrupted by a call from Bastullan at the sensor banks.
‘First Master, orbital platforms are showing a spike in energy generation. They’re powering up.’
‘Detecting weapons lock on the Spear of Truth, First Master,’ added Galedan, looking past Bastullan’s shoulder.
‘Do we respond, First Master?’
‘Someone doesn’t trust us,’ Astelan said, eyebrows rising. ‘Remain at readiness, no need to provoke matters further.’
‘Incoming command-channel transmission, First Master.’
‘I will receive it in the strategium,’ Astelan replied, stepping towards a side door from the bridge. ‘Sar Luther’s channel?’
‘Yes, First Master.’
He nodded and strode from the bridge, the doors hissing shut behind him. The chamber was dominated by a hololith table, dormant at the moment, and various cogitators and communications consoles. Astelan stepped up to the closest receiving station and activated the visual-feed. A screen at chest height flickered into life, a grey-and-white image of Luther appearing in the curved glass. Astelan could see that he was in his study.
‘Give me one reason not to blow you out of orbit, you treacherous cur!’ the Grand Master snapped.
‘You wouldn’t destroy the Spear of Truth,’ Astelan replied.
‘The blood of eighteen Space Marines is on your hands, Astelan. You deliberately destroyed any chance I had of Belath turning to the cause.’
‘I assume that we can both speak with candour, Sar Luther.’ Astelan did not wait for confirmation. ‘I did exactly that. I wanted to know if I can trust you.’
‘Trust?’ Luther slammed a fist onto his desk. ‘Trust is alien to you, Astelan. I was a fool for placing my trust in you.’
‘They were Dark Angels.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Space Marines that died. They were Dark Angels. Enemies. You said so. I wanted to know if you were true to that belief. More will come, and you must be prepared to resist them.’
‘You pre-empted my orders!’
‘Yet again, I did what I had to. Our pact is sealed, blood on our hands. My fate and yours, entwined, Grand Master. And Belath dead, I take it.’
‘He is. Zahariel slew him when he was about to attack me.’
‘Zahariel…? Interesting. And our casualties?’
‘A few. Only Zahariel and a handful of his acolytes survived the fighting. Lord Cypher is missing. He was seen to leave the hall, but there was anarchy. He might have been caught by one of the foe.’
‘Or he sought a different ally,’ Astelan said darkly. ‘His purpose and ours have never been wholly aligned.’
‘It is no concern of yours. I strip you of your rank, banish you from the Order. I am sending a company of knights to take you into custody.’
‘You will call them back.’ Astelan leaned closer to the console, knowing that his face would loom large in the display at Luther’s end. ‘If I am not satisfied at the conclusion of this conversation, I will order the Spear of Truth to battle readiness. If you do not open fire first, I will.’
‘To what end?’
‘I will not serve a coward.’
‘What right have you to judge me?’
‘I judge you too well, Sar Luther.’ A
stelan straightened, becoming less threatening. ‘You believe in honour. I do not. Not by your measure. You need me to do the dishonourable acts that you cannot bring yourself to even acknowledge must be done. Your strength comes from your righteousness, and I would have it no other way. But I served the Emperor Himself, and I learned first-hand that honour is the foe of necessity. Do you think Griffayn or Zahariel will be your blade in the dark? If one of them decides to chart a different course to yours, will it be your hand that strikes them down?’
Luther said nothing, but stalked back and forth behind his desk, moving in and out of view. Astelan waited for an answer, knowing that Luther had no choice.
‘No one need think that the world can be ruled without blood. The civil sword shall and must be red and bloody.’ Luther scratched at his beard, not looking directly at the visual feed, talking almost to himself. ‘Yet, the office of Grand Master must be unimpeachable, beyond reproach.’
‘Your hands will stay clean, my lord. I know what is in my best interest, and it is also in yours. You need not even sully your thoughts considering such deeds. I will be ready and willing, eyes and ears open, and no threat to your position will come to pass.’
‘The man who has the will to undergo all labour may win to any good.’ Luther stopped and stared at the link. ‘You are right, your ways and means are not mine, but they have a value in this dark galaxy. But also know that I am still the source of your power and there are those that will be commanded to avenge me should I fall by your miscreancy.’
Astelan nodded his agreement. Silence continued for several seconds.
‘The defence of Caliban is not enough,’ he said. ‘You must expand your base of power.’
‘I know.’
‘You again command the power to overthrow star systems. I was just discussing with Galedan the object of our next attention.’
‘I have already decided where the blade will fall, First Master.’
THIRTY-TWO
Bound for Caliban
Ultramar
The Dark Angels’ withdrawal from Macragge Civitas was as swift as their arrival. The skies above the city were criss-crossed by flights of shuttles and gunships dropping from orbit and returning in a constant relay. Just five hours after the spectacle at the legatus collegius, Holguin and his warriors assigned to the castrum were to be the last to depart.
He drew up the Deathwing veterans in straight ranks, determined to leave with dignity and honour. For all that blame for the events in Illyrium had been laid upon the Lion, Holguin held Redloss and the Dreadwing as the guilty parties. He had spent many hours examining the vox-logs recorded during the campaign and there was ample reason to suspect Farith had looked for ways to excite resistance and inflate the conflict for his own ends.
A tread close by caused Holguin to turn sharply, hand moving to the hilt of his longsword. He relaxed when he saw that it was Drakus Gorod. A step behind the Invictus commander was Azkaellon, his injured arm encased in a mess of pipes and metal splints that Holguin knew signalled a recent bionic attachment.
‘I wish that our acquaintance had been under better circumstances,’ said Holguin. He extended a hand of brotherhood, not sure if the other would accept it, but feeling the gesture had to be made.
‘I would have you at my shoulder in any battle,’ said Gorod, grasping the proffered hand. ‘Do not suffer under the condemnation levelled at others.’
‘I do not.’ Holguin released his grip and looked at Gorod and Azkaellon. ‘You may judge my liege how you wish, but know that he has always been loyal. If he overstepped his bounds, it is not out of treachery but misguided determination. You will need steel in your hearts to do what must be done next. I do not know what lies ahead for me and my brothers, but you carry the hope and future of mankind with you.’
‘If you see Horus,’ Azkaellon said, ‘be sure to kill him for me.’
‘I will,’ said Holguin.
He turned on his heel and snapped out the command that set his warriors marching down the corridor. He followed behind in step, ignoring the dark glances and dirty looks directed at his company by the menials and servants they passed. Ever since their arrival they had been welcome only in word, not deed. Now it seemed the populace of the castrum were brave enough to show their displeasure, as though sneering from behind the cloaks of Guilliman and Sanguinius.
A Stormbird waited for them. Without ceremony, the last representatives of the Dark Angels left Macragge Civitas.
The journey to the Invincible Reason took less than an hour. The fleet was already breaking orbit around the flagship, dozens of cruisers, battle-barges and support vessels moving towards the Mandeville point for the jump into warp space.
Arriving aboard the primarch’s vessel Holguin was met by a serf with a message that he was to attend the Lion in his private chamber. Dismissing the Deathwing, formally renouncing his temporary command of the brotherhood, Holguin quickly made his way to his primarch’s quarters.
The Lion sat upon his throne, his black armour showing the signs of recent battle, the black and gold much scuffed and chipped. The primarch held the two pieces of the broken Lion Sword in his lap, his gaze distant. Holguin came to attention before his liege and banged a fist to his chest in salute.
‘It is done?’ asked the Lion.
‘Yes, my liege.’
Silence followed. Holguin wondered if he was dismissed, but would not speak until invited. Eventually the Lion held out the pieces of the broken blade.
‘Take care of these,’ he said.
Holguin took them and returned to his place. It seemed the Lion would be no more forthcoming, and Holguin risked a question.
‘What happens now, my liege?’
‘You will receive orders soon enough, little brother,’ said the Lion, and with those words Holguin knew he was no longer required. He saluted again and left the Lion to his thoughts.
When Holguin had gone, the lord of the First Legion sat as he so often sat, leaning back in his ornate throne of ivory and obsidian. His elbows rested upon the throne’s sculpted arms, while his fingers were steepled before his face, just barely touching his lips. Unblinking eyes, the brutal green of Caliban’s forests, stared dead ahead.
He remembered words spoken in this chamber a year ago, when Tuchulcha had been delivered up to him and it seemed the Thramas crusade and Curze would both come to an end. Not so long ago, but a lifetime of experience. He had thought Guilliman on the verge of treachery, attempting to set himself up as a rival to the Emperor. The Lion had chosen then that it would be better for the Imperium to perish than another to reign in the stead of his father.
War unending, that had been his silent vow.
So righteous. To believe that he and his Legion could have been the crux of the conflict engulfing the whole galaxy. Times changed so swiftly.
‘There will be no new emperor,’ he had vowed.
How vain those words seemed now. He had thought to destroy Imperium Secundus, but would never have thought that his participation would be the means. It gnawed at him to think that perhaps he had handed victory to Horus. Had he not been blinded by his desire to capture Curze, would he have been able to save Sanguinius from the fate he had foreseen?
‘Does any of it matter?’ he asked.
A diminutive figure stepped out of the darkness of the throne chamber. A child’s height, it wore an ebon robe, its hands concealed with gloves as black as the shadows. A hood concealed its face but underneath the mantle two eyes burned like embers.
‘Still time?’ The Lion frowned. ‘Time for what? Imperium Secundus cannot be saved, I have broken the Triumvirate, as surely as Guilliman broke my sword. It may not have been perfect, but there was a balance between three of us. The two of them will tug upon the rein of power, negating the other. I cannot defeat Horus alone, and they cannot defeat him without me.’
The Watcher in the Dark said nothing, but the Lion heard its meaning as clearly as any spoken word.
‘Caliban?
I thought it lost. Perhaps you are right. If Terra has fallen and Macragge will fail, Caliban might stand, even if only as a light in the darkness for a while. There is strength there. It might even become a beacon, a refuge, as Macragge was during the Great Crusade, as Terra was during Old Night. Humanity has survived worse disaster than the Warmaster’s rebellion. Neither Horus nor Guilliman will command me. I will honour Caliban, as perhaps I have not in the past. There is still time to save my Legion, my home.’
Resolved to a new course of action, the Lion activated the vox-link. When he glanced down again, the Watcher had disappeared.
THIRTY-THREE
A new beginning
Caliban
Luther mounted the steps to the platform erected at the end of the staging grounds. Fifteen thousand warriors were assembled on the open space and beyond the gate, screens erected at regular intervals projecting from visual feeds and vox-casters placed all around. High-powered transmitters were ready to broadcast his words to the knights already in orbit.
Astelan and Griffayn were on the stage, standing shoulder to shoulder in a show of unity between Terran and Calibanite. Zahariel waited at the bottom of the steps, out of sight for the moment.
A thunderous roar greeted the Grand Master as he strode across the heavily braced boards of the stage. He raised a hand, modestly accepting the adulation of the thousands of Space Marines. Stopping at centre stage he lifted his other hand, signalling for quiet.
‘My thanks for your support,’ he began. ‘Today is an auspicious day, though many of you would not know it. In the days before the coming of the Imperium, this day would be spent in celebration of Sar Duriel, one of my predecessors. Sar Duriel lived three hundred years before I was born, but he was always an inspiration to me. It was him that single-handedly slew the great Wyrm of Caprosia. This feat in itself would be worthy of acclaim, but it was what Sar Duriel did later that captured my imagination. With the skin of the Wyrm he had his best craftsmen fashion armour, five suits in all, enough to clad a warrior head to foot yet move with ease.