Lords and Tyrants

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘And you, Chaplain? What do you say?’

  Oberdeii’s question caught Segas off guard. He considered his response carefully.

  ‘My lord, I believe that such an unadulterated truth can present nothing other than a serious liability to the honour of our Chapter. The Imperium loves and cherishes the Ultramarines, and the memory of Roboute Guilliman, wisest of all the Emperor’s sons. We are beyond reproach.’ He raised a finger. ‘But only as long as all knowledge of Imperium Secundus is kept from the rest of the galaxy. The archive record contains every surviving document and source relating to those confusing times, and it could shatter the reputation of our primarch and the credibility of everything he has done for the Imperium since. Can you imagine if even the hallowed Codex Astartes were to be branded as the work of a heretic, one only revealed centuries after his demise?’

  ‘You would destroy it, then?’ Oberdeii looked to him expectantly for an answer.

  ‘No,’ Segas replied, holding the captain’s gaze. ‘At this stage, what would be the point?’

  The sunset kissed the peak of Mount Pharos as they emerged onto a jutting promontory. As below at the castellum, the remains of a fortress clung to the rock above, nonetheless seeming almost to graze the heavens with its crumbling ramparts. A fortified gate, cracked and weather-beaten, led inside the mountain itself.

  ‘The Emperor’s Watch,’ said Oberdeii. ‘You will know its name from the archives, Chaplain.’

  Indeed, he did.

  With the world spread out before them, Wenlocke and Segas paused to take it all in, and were rendered speechless by the legendary beauty of Sotha. Beyond the forests and the Blackrock range, they could see all the way past Odessa to the hills of the Chrepan region, and the tiny lights of some secondary township growing far from Sothopolis. To the east, night was falling for true over the ocean, and the first stars were already visible in the sky.

  Oberdeii sat upon the bare ground, disinterested. Next to that breathtaking vista, he appeared smaller. Older, even.

  ‘I did not ask for this,’ he muttered. ‘I did not ask to linger on, long after everyone I have ever known has fallen to the reaper’s blade. No glory for Oberdeii, no foes to face – can you imagine that? The misery of a former legionary who cannot die as he was meant to, on the end of a sword or to a well-aimed bullet. We are made too well. A life without war makes us immortal. Our bodies endure, though our spirits may wither…’

  He looked up, his expression suddenly haunted.

  ‘I don’t want to live forever. I see too much.’

  Something in the captain’s tone made Wenlocke turn. Segas marked it well. He stepped closer.

  ‘Brother-captain, do you speak of the xenos device?’

  Oberdeii rolled his eyes, and shifted his weight. ‘It is nothing. I don’t hear their voices anymore.’ He looked up into the darkening sky overhead. ‘You would not understand. You young warriors of the Chapter are of a different time. I don’t like to think what the primarch would make of his own sons, now. The songs of Ultramar have fallen flat without him to lead us.’

  He got to his feet slowly, as though such dour thoughts alone could age him. He looked at Wenlocke, and let his stare slide into the empty space beyond, his eyes dimming with memory.

  ‘He stood there, where you stand now. Roboute Guilliman, the Avenging Son, stood in that exact spot over nine centuries ago, and addressed me and my battle-brothers. When I learned of his death, I stood in the same spot again and mourned his passing with a few quiet words. If you had ever known him, ever heard his voice, then you would not question his legacy. Master Decon would not consider himself the lord of Macragge. Not one of us who remains is worthy to question the eternal will of our primarch. Not one.’

  The evening breeze brought with it a new chill. Oberdeii closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  ‘I’m not mad,’ he muttered. ‘I know what I am to you, to the Chapter. I am a living, breathing reminder of what you consider, in your vanity, to be Lord Guilliman’s mistakes. You could not erase them from the pages of history while I remained here on Sotha, oathed to the final duty that he gave me. Not even if you burned every library on every world.’

  Segas said nothing. He was relieved that, one way or another, the captain had arrived at this realisation for himself.

  Oberdeii shook his head. ‘But what was my oath, Chaplain? Do you even know? Is that recorded in the archive?’

  ‘It is. You are the captain and last surviving member of the Aegida, a division of the Ultramarines Chapter whose origins can be traced back to the days of the Thirteenth Legion, whose very existence contravenes our primarch’s own law. For reasons known only to a select few, Lord Guilliman saw fit to maintain a phantom eleventh company on Sotha even as he forced every other Chapter to conform to the Codex model of ten. Quite aside from the secret shame of Imperium Secundus, the existence of the Aegida Company could be seen as proof of his wilful and deliberate flouting of Imperial decree – a decree that he and his surviving loyal brothers agreed upon only after much conflict. The Second Founding of the Adeptus Astartes was all that kept the dream of a unified Imperium alive, after the Great Heresy.’

  Grimly, Segas drew his crozius once more, and held it before him.

  ‘To say that a revelation of this sort would be a scandal for our Chapter does not even begin to cover it. We and all our Successors would be cast out, the defenders of mankind would be divided and the Imperium would tear itself apart all over again. You are not simply the reminder of a mistake, my lord – you are the embodiment of it, and the last scrap of living proof. The time has come for the Aegida itself to be purged.’

  Regarding the Chaplain’s winged sceptre of office, Oberdeii shook his head. ‘Why now? What has changed? What has rattled Tigris Decon?’

  Rather than Segas, it was Wenlocke who replied. ‘It must be now, my lord, because the Ultramarines will soon fall under the scrutiny of the High Lords once more. There is to be a Third Founding.’

  Oberdeii snorted, though there was no trace of humour in it. ‘A third? That is impossible.’ He made the sign of the aquila with trembling hands. ‘Who dares to suggest such a thing? Now that our Lord Guilliman is gone and cannot protest it, who has led the Imperium to consider this… this… shallow heresy?’

  Wenlocke and Segas shared a hesitant glance. Oberdeii sagged.

  ‘Dorn,’ he whispered, the realisation breaking him. ‘It could only be Dorn. Such a pale imitation of our primarch’s greatest achievement.’

  Segas nodded. ‘Lord Dorn, brother to our departed father, brought this before the High Lords more than forty years ago. The preparations have already begun. Petitions have been filed, Chapter assets marked and divided. The Adeptus Mechanicus has pledged a thousand new–’

  ‘We are too few,’ Oberdeii interrupted him. ‘The Ultramarines, the Fists, the Angels – we are each only a thousand strong at best. From nine loyal Legions were the Chapters born, and our father did not even live to see the Successors reach full strength in a hundred years.’ He gestured to the Sothan horizon, from east to west, and then to the stars above. ‘I have seen it, brothers. I know how long it takes to turn raw neophytes into seasoned battle-brothers, and no one better. You speak of the Aegida dividing the defenders of mankind? This “Third Founding” will leave the first nine Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes without teeth, mired in petty mortal bureaucracy for another century or more.’

  Segas raised his hands placatingly. ‘Brother-captain – I should tell you that Rogal Dorn has urged the High Lords to grant writs of succession to the Second Founding Chapters as well. Any, in fact, that have the veterans, gene-seed reserves and materiel to support them. Over a hundred have already been approved, with the same number again currently being assayed.’

  Oberdeii was rendered almost speechless. ‘Shallow heresy…’ he said again, his voice barely a whisper.

 
‘Regardless of how you may feel about this matter, my lord, this is the moment that Chapter Master Decon has chosen for us to act. We will dissolve the Aegida Company, quietly, under the cover of this new founding. You are to be released from your oath to the primarch.’

  The venerable captain whirled around, his hands balled into fists.

  ‘Never!’ he spat. ‘You do not have the authority! Not even Dorn can command this! Take the Aegida. Take it and pretend it never happened. Paint over the dark stain on our spotless history, and return to your “Lord Macragge” and tell him you did as you were told. But I will not abandon my duty. I will not leave Sotha unguarded. Her people have earned that much, at least.’

  Segas sighed. It would come to the final choice, then.

  He reached to his belt and produced a gilded scroll, sealed with the haloed Ultima of Macragge, and unfurled the freshly scribed vellum within.

  ‘This is a writ of succession for the Ultramarines Chapter, one of nine already approved by Terra. You will notice that the minutiae have been left incomplete.’ He offered the scroll to Oberdeii, but the captain did not take it. Segas shrugged. ‘Two courses of action remain open to you, my lord. As a mark of respect, for all that you have given and sacrificed for Macragge, Master Decon is willing to approve your immediate transfer to the Fifth Company. You would be assigned to new combat operations focused on the fringes of Old Ultramar, with an exceptionally high probability of glorious martyrdom. Your days will end, on the battlefield, as an Ultramarine. Only in death does duty end.

  ‘The alternative is that you abandon your old oath, here and now, and sign your name instead upon this scroll. You will become the founding Master of the Aegida Chapter, noble Successors of the Ultramarines. I will join you, along with Brother Wenlocke and seventy-two other appointed veterans of the Orlan Conquest. We will take Sotha as our home world, and defend Mount Pharos from all threats, from now until the end of all things.’

  Oberdeii stared at the vellum scroll. He did not seem to be considering the offer so much as attempting to disbelieve it.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he muttered. ‘The Aegidan oath I swore to the primarch was not to protect Mount Pharos from the enemies of the Imperium.’

  Segas faltered. His mind leapt back to the archives, the many affidavits, records and testimonials that he had curated in his years of study, every second spent in contemplation of this very moment. What had he–

  Gesturing to the fortified gateway in the bluff beneath the Emperor’s Watch, Oberdeii answered the question before the Chaplain could ask it.

  ‘My oath was to protect Sotha from the Pharos itself.’

  With those words, the yawning maw of the gate seemed wider and darker than before.

  The vaults began as smooth stone, crafted and embellished in the blunt Imperial style. Lumen orbs hung in delicate brass cradles, illuminating the chambers and votive spaces that opened up on either side. This, Segas supposed, had been the work of the Imperial Fists after Sotha was retaken from traitor forces – austere and functional, but artisan-crafted with the strength of rock and steel upon which the VII Legion had built their unyielding legacy.

  Soon, this strength gave way to the rough framework of a template in construction. The ancient scaffold and incompletely hewn masonry ended with a graceless step down to the glassy, obsidian surfaces of the mountain’s interior.

  At Guilliman’s command, Rogal Dorn’s sons had been building their new fortress within a far older labyrinth of unknown design.

  Why had they ceased their labour so abruptly?

  The deeper the three of them trudged into the darkness, their way lit now only by Segas’ and Wenlocke’s suit lamps, Oberdeii became visibly more agitated. He glanced up and down the tunnel every few moments, muttering to himself.

  ‘He thinks me mad? It is enough that I know… and that I uphold it above all else…’ He bent to examine cracks in the smooth, black curve of the rock, then called out with a forced levity. ‘Would you believe, eh, these walls used to heal themselves? I saw it with my own eyes, many times. But not anymore. Not after the primarch tore out the mountain’s heart.’

  A barely perceptible tremor, nothing more than a low vibration, shuddered through the ground beneath their feet. Oberdeii’s eyes widened in the gloom.

  ‘And yet, the heart still tries to beat…’

  Segas removed his gauntlet, placing one hand upon the tunnel wall. The rock was icily cold.

  ‘Do not concern yourself with the local superstitions, my lord – the mountain and even the distant Blackrocks have long suffered from geological instability. Tectonic shifts are to be expected.’

  Oberdeii shook his head, pushing past the Chaplain and leading them onwards. ‘When he returned to Ultramar after the war was lost and won, Lord Guilliman ordered the Pharos destroyed. The Mechan­icum priests carved up the quantum pulse engines like a feast-day fowl, and carted thousands of tonnes of xenos machinery out into the light of day, spiriting it all away to their secret vaults across the galaxy for further study. There was so much of it. Too much to even think about taking it all, not with the short time we had. No one knew how it could just keep on coming, and coming.’

  He tapped himself on the chest, where the twin-scythe tattoo was just visible beneath his jerkin. The hurt pride in his voice was mixed with a note of trepidation.

  ‘I could have told them. I’ve seen further than most.’

  The angle of the tunnel grew steeper, and they had to steady themselves against the slope of the floor. Oberdeii moved with many lifetimes’ familiarity, helping Wenlocke to find the best footholds. Still, he seemed distracted.

  ‘The locals used to have their superstitions – my brothers and I used to sit with the herdsmen in the outer halls, as they tried to sing the mountain to sleep. But it was never the same as it had once been.’ He fixed Segas with that same wide stare as the ground trembled again. ‘So don’t tell me that those vibrations are natural tectonic activity. That doesn’t explain why they are always the exact same frequency, and the same duration. The mountain doesn’t sleep… and nor do I…’

  Segas took Oberdeii by the arm. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t sleep. I never sleep. You wouldn’t either.’

  Even Wenlocke halted at that. ‘You haven’t slept since you swore your oath to the primarch?’

  ‘Give or take. Catalepsean slumber, but never true sleep. I always like to keep one eye on the mountain.’ The captain smiled for the first time since they had ventured beneath the surface. ‘And besides, I don’t like the things I see in my dreams.’

  Segas saw the incredulous look in Wenlocke’s eye. An explanation was in order.

  ‘Brother, the venerable captain was known to experience visions, precipitated by his connection and proximity to Mount Pharos – this was verified by many, including the primarch himself. Both times the young Oberdeii’s most vivid dreams went unheeded, and both times he was proven correct. He foresaw the arrival of the Blood Angels Legion at Ultramar, and he also foresaw the invasion of Sotha by traitor forces.’

  Oberdeii twitched. ‘I was just a neophyte. But even now, nearly a thousand years later, those visions remain. Has my whole life been a dream? And if so, whose dream is it…? They saw our light… in the dark between the stars…’

  Segas felt his hearts sinking. This old warrior was not fit to lead a Chapter of the Emperor’s finest. His centuries away from the Chapter, denied a life of battle and instead given the thankless task of clearing undergrowth with his bare hands, had clearly taken their toll. These frequent babbling rants were proof enough of that.

  What had Segas agreed to?

  They continued down the incline in silence, until Oberdeii pointed out a smear of dark grey against the blackness of the tunnel. ‘There,’ he sighed. ‘Shoddy work, and inelegant compared to what was built on the surface. But time was short and Lord
Guilliman’s patience was at an end.’

  The way ahead levelled out into a much broader space – not in the natural curve of the passageway, but with a rising blockage that edged all the way up to the ceiling. Their armoured boots struck the uneven surface with dull thuds as they stepped out onto it.

  ‘Ferrocrete,’ Wenlocke murmured. ‘Poured down here? Why?’

  ‘To seal the mountain,’ Oberdeii replied, inspecting the edges of the tunnel where the join was most noticeable. ‘To keep everything down there… down there. The serf labourers poured millions of tonnes of ’crete into the main tributary tunnels. That was the primarch’s last word on the matter of the Pharos, and it is one for which I am thankful.’

  ‘Aye!’ Wenlocke snorted. ‘If anything yet lives down there, in the depths, then it must squirm and writhe in dark places that no man or primarch has ever–’

  Oberdeii turned slowly to face him. His glare was cold and fierce.

  ‘Do not speak of such things. Not here. Not in this place.’

  Aside from the low, broad arch of the chamber’s sloping vault, the only other feature was a plain stone bier, set with a brazier on the ferrocrete floor before it. Oberdeii approached it reverently, striking a flame into the bowl with a simple flint and rasp.

  As the oiled tinder took, the flickering light revealed what lay upon the bier’s top.

  An iron mask, worked into the semblance of a skull.

  The metal was pitted with age, but had been kept polished and oiled through the centuries. Unaccountably, the sight of it sent a chill into Segas’ hearts. There was something there, something in the emptiness of the eye sockets, in the stylised line of the jaw that was neither a grin nor a grimace.

  ‘The mask of Barabas Dantioch, first Warden of the Pharos,’ Oberdeii murmured. ‘A loyal hero of the Great Heresy, by Guilliman’s own decree. I live in the shadow he has cast upon this place, in more ways than one, though I can never hope to be so worthy of the title of Warden.’