by Guy Haley
Rogal Dorn did so love his guns.
Within minutes the second space port was behind him. Sanguinius wore his helmet to mollify his brother rather than for safety, but it gave him access to his battleplate’s systems. Gauges on the faceplate display put his airspeed at well over one hundred kilometres an hour. He smiled for the pleasure of it, and reluctantly began to check his speed. He went into a broad spiral, circling down towards the southern tower of a gate straddling the Daylight Wall, that section of the Eternity Wall that faced east, into the rising sun.
Fast, faster, the rooftop sped at him. At the last moment, he opened his wings as wide as he could, his primary feathers spreading like fingers. Wind tugged through his plumage. Minute adjustments no aircraft could make had him smoothly descending, landing upon the tower roof at a speed no greater than a fast walk.
Raldoron, First Captain of the Blood Angels Legion and Sanguinius’ equerry, was there to greet him.
‘My lord, welcome to the Helios Gate,’ Raldoron said, and saluted. An Imperial Fists captain attended him. He too saluted in the Blood Angels’ way out of respect for the primarch. A thick parapet, two-thirds the height of a Space Marine and punctuated with deep embrasures, enclosed the roof. Quad lascannons, sat upon turntables on sculpted podiums, were spaced around the giant macro cannon dominating the centre.
‘Rise, captains,’ said Sanguinius.
‘How was your flight?’ said Raldoron
‘The winds of Himalazia always remind me of home,’ Sanguinius said. ‘Of the Wind River, on Baal Secundus, where I first tested my wings. The speeds I could attain there…’ He let the sentence die.
Raldoron was wrong-footed. Sanguinius had rarely spoken of Baal since Signus Prime. His sight seemed fixed on the future, and the past forgotten.
‘You are of the second moon, Raldoron. Did you ever fly the river?’ asked Sanguinius.
Raldoron hesitated. ‘No, no I never did, my lord. I always wanted to, but I never wore the wings.’
‘Then I pity you,’ said Sanguinius. ‘Flight is the last pleasure left to me.’
Bereft of a suitable response, Raldoron changed the subject. ‘This is Captain Thane of the Twenty-Second Company, Imperial Fists. He is designated watch captain for the sixteenth section of the wall.’
‘Your company is of the Exemplars Chapter of the Seventh Legion?’
‘It is, my lord.’
‘Do you live up to your name?’
‘We do, my lord,’ said Thane proudly. ‘There are no better builders in my Legion than our Chapter, and my company is among the best.’
‘Propitious. You have some work to do here.’
Sanguinius strode past the captains towards an embrasure looking down the southern reach of the wall. He was tall enough not to need the secondary walkway running around the inside of the crenellations, but climbed it anyway to look. Some kilometres away, past the first tower after the Helios Gate, scaffolding surrounded a scar in the wall.
‘We are working night and day, my lord, to plug the breach made by the collapse of the Dawn Tower,’ said Thane.
‘The repairs are nearly complete?’
‘They are. The finish is rough, but the wall will hold. We cannot, regrettably, replace the tower.’
‘There was a flaw in the void generators under that section,’ said Raldoron. ‘We are unlikely to lose another bastion soon.’
‘This is known to me,’ said Sanguinius. ‘Flaw or not, the loss of that tower is only the first we shall suffer. The bombardment continues. The shields of the Palace cannot last forever.’
‘What the enemy tears down, we shall rebuild, my lord.’ Thane clashed his fist against his chest-plate.
Sanguinius turned to look over the outer defences. Besides extending the city’s walls, Dorn had supplemented the fortifications with miles of outworks. Trenches and ramparts extended over the artificial plains in three parallel lines. Whatever had been there before had been bulldozed. Bastions, deliberately isolated from the lines, stood behind the outermost ramparts like pieces laid out for regicide. Though much smaller than the towers of the wall itself, they were still enormous at a hundred metres tall. Sanguinius followed the lines of radial trenches emanating from the wall proper, past the third and final line where they stopped, and on towards the point where the horizon, foreshortened by the drop in elevation down to the plains of Ind, cut the earth from the sky.
Past that point, the world was burning.
He saw, with a primarch’s acuity, young forests aflame, and palls of dust cast skywards by the relentless pounding of the enemy’s guns. There was enough firepower in orbit to tear Terra to pieces, but that was not the Warmaster’s aim. It was as if instead he wished to wipe away every good thing the Emperor had done. Sanguinius recalled his glimpse of the sprawling mega-hive, and the grey, dead world around it. This was the birth of that grim future. He needed to distract himself from that realisation.
‘The outer defences are fully manned?’
‘As well as they can be, my lord,’ said Raldoron. ‘Mostly conscripts, with a stiffening of what’s left of the Old Hundred – not many though. We have stationed only the most severely under-strength formations in the outworks. Veteran companies of Imperial Army over fifty per cent manned stand beside us here on the wall. As Lord Dorn ordered, no legionaries are stationed without.’
On impulse, Sanguinius unclasped his golden helm and lifted it from his face. His shining hair unwound and flew like a banner. The cold wind should have been refreshing, but it carried the smell of burning, and deprivation. He faced into the breeze and breathed deeply, his enhanced senses capturing a thousand scents that together told only of despair.
‘My lord…’
Raldoron gestured hesitantly to his genefather’s face. Sanguinius reached up and touched his cheek. As he brought his fingers away, he saw that they glistened with tears. He had not realised he was crying.
‘Why do you weep, my lord?’ asked Raldoron.
‘I cry for the price of victory, my son,’ said Sanguinius, and wept no more. He stopped the tears with an act of will, and his face chilled as they were dried by the wind.
Daylight Wall, Helios section, 24th of Secundus
Sanguinius spent the rest of the day on the Daylight Wall. There were extensive guard chambers beneath the Helios Gate’s tower tops, but most of the rest was solid mass with few internal voids. Only the very centre housed further chambers, and these were small and hot, packed full of machines, men and servitors. Thane was keen to show the primarch the command centre, though it was obvious to Sanguinius he simultaneously wished his exalted visitor gone, for his presence distracted his men. Raldoron had little to report.
Sanguinius excused them both and walked a little way through the firing galleries of the Daylight Wall. These were occupied in the main by Space Marines, with a heavy presence of ordinatus tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus autokrator, manning the many medium and smaller guns mounted within the walls. The baseline, unmodified humans in the galleries were all veterans of the Imperial Army, principally of the Old Hundred as Raldoron had said. Those at that part of Daylight were drawn from the well-armoured Anatol Evocatii, but he saw uniforms from a dozen others.
Privately, Sanguinius had misgivings about the conscripts outside the wall. They had been handed a death sentence. As a man, he lamented their sacrifice; as a commander and a primarch, he appreciated Dorn’s decision as ruthless pragmatism. When Horus’ forces landed, it would be insane to throw away their better troops slowing his attack on the Palace defences, when pressed civilians would serve as well to tie up the initial landings. Everyone outside would perish. He could imagine the destruction to come only too easily. Better their elites were kept back for the real fight.
You care too much. Curze had said that to him once, before he had gone completely insane. It was a fair assessment.
; Sanguinius passed through the Weeping Tower between the gate and the fallen Dawn Tower, amazing those working inside. Nobody expected to see a primarch within the Outer Walls. He apologised for disrupting their watch, and passed on. Most were Blood Angels, but Raldoron’s Chapter was not much in evidence. As veteran Space Marines, the Protectors were held back further within the Palace. Besides a company from his own Chapter, Raldoron commanded a network of fifteen subordinate officers, and the Blood Angels Sanguinius met with were drawn from everywhere within his Legion. It saddened him that he did not know many faces. So many were young, new recruits speed-inducted by the Lunar genomancer Andromeda-17, Terrans in the main who had never seen Baal.
He reached the downed tower. The inner walkway stopped abruptly. Fresh rockcrete walled the passage off, and although Thane would doubtless bore fresh ways through, for the moment it was a stark reminder of what the walls would have to endure.
Sanguinius ran his fingers over the freshly cast false stone, and turned about.
His vox-beads popped into life. A priority channel, no override possible.
‘Rogal,’ he said.
Dorn’s voice was clear in spite of enemy interference and the energies spilling off the void shields. ‘Where are you?’
‘I am on the walls, at the fallen Dawn Tower, south of the Helios Gate.’
Dorn made a noise of annoyance. ‘What are you doing all the way out there?’
‘The Dawn Tower is not the most easterly,’ Sanguinius said, ignoring his brother’s irritation. ‘The name should go to the tower at the easternmost point of Daylight, surely?’
‘What relevance does that have to anything?’ Dorn said.
‘I teach my sons that nothing is worth doing, if not done right.’
‘I had not factored pedantry into father’s gifts to you,’ said Dorn, a little humour creeping into his voice.
‘There is nothing else to occupy myself with,’ said Sanguinius. ‘I tell these warriors that I have come to oversee them, but there is little to oversee. Your Captain Thane has done an exemplary job.’
‘Of the Twenty-Second? He is a good man,’ said Dorn. He spoke to someone else, a terse order to redirect supplies. Dorn’s life was fashioned from such details, delivered by silent messengers, absorbed, appraised, responses sent out in brief bursts of speech. He returned to their conversation. ‘You should not put yourself at risk, brother. Stay off the wall.’
‘I am perfectly safe. We cannot hide in the Bhab Bastion until Horus drags us out.’ He paused. Receiving no reply, he asked, ‘What do you want, Rogal?’
‘The Fabricator General wishes to speak with me. He says it is urgent, and it is not something that he is willing to discuss remotely. He insists on a meeting in person.’
‘You wish me to speak with him in your place then?’
‘If you would. I am somewhat occupied at the moment, and I think Jaghatai’s manner would annoy him.’
Sanguinius laughed at Dorn’s dryness. ‘Very well. I will serve as your ambassador. Our men are in place. There is nothing to do but wait. I could do with the diversion.’
‘That is the nature of sieges, my brother,’ said Rogal Dorn dourly. ‘Inside or outside the walls. There will be desperate escalade, but not yet. Waiting, waiting, and then a few hours of fury. Either they succeed, and we die, or they lose, and the process begins again. The passage of war for mortal men is measured in boredom punctuated by terror. Nowhere is this more true than in sieges.’
‘Your wars, perhaps.’
‘You are fighting my kind of war now,’ said Dorn. ‘I shall tell the Fabricator General you are coming. Perhaps then he will leave me alone. Zagreus Kane is loyal to the Imperium, committed to the alliance of Terra and Mars, and a valued asset of our father. I am sure he is a genius in his own field of expertise, but he is no general.’
Dorn sent a tight-beam datacast to Sanguinius’ armour apprising him of Kane’s whereabouts. ‘Take a guard appropriate to your status,’ Dorn advised. ‘Kane is proud, but fragile. He will require a display.’ With that, he bid Sanguinius good day, and cut the line.
‘My brother,’ said Sanguinius to himself, ‘is growing curt.’
He remained in the passageway a few minutes longer, staring at the fresh rockcrete, his mind wandering, then sent word to Raldoron to arrange a small squad to meet him at the base of the wall along with transportation. He would not listen to his brother. Sanguinius had had his fill of pomp on Macragge. If he must arrive escorted, then he would do so minimally.
The conclave of traitors
Risks and benefits
For the glory of the gods
The Vengeful Spirit, Lunar orbit, 24th of Secundus
‘You are displeased, First Captain.’
Abaddon scowled blackly at Layak. They walked dark corridors towards Lupercal’s court.
‘I told you to keep out of my head.’
Layak chuckled wetly. ‘I am not in your mind, cousin. I do not need to be. You do nothing to hide your emotions. Your expression says everything your voice will not. You are unhappy. I say you would fare badly in a game of wagers.’
‘This isn’t a game, Layak,’ growled Abaddon.
‘Is it not? You think like a gamesman. Formulating moves, and countermoves.’
‘This is war,’ said Abaddon irritably.
‘I am not talking about the war out there. I am talking about the struggle in here.’ He tapped his free hand to his primary heart.
Abaddon turned on his heel, fist clenched, bringing the small group of captain, blade slaves and Apostle to an abrupt halt at a junction in the corridor. Again the blade slaves objected to his attitude to their lord, and cracks in the armour flared, and their hands went to the hilts of their swords.
‘Go on,’ said Abaddon. ‘Try.’
The blade slaves remained ready to fight. Warp light shone from their helm lenses. Ash drifted around them like snow.
Chuckling, Layak raised his hand, fingers upright. He let the gesture hang in clear threat, then shook his ornate staff.
The blade slaves removed their hands from their swords.
‘I told you,’ said Abaddon. ‘Stay out of my head.’
‘Having a little trouble with your priest, Ezekyle?’
Horus Aximand approached the group from the transverse way, joining them at the junction.
‘Lord Horus himself is my patron, Horus Aximand,’ said Layak. ‘It is your brother here who is having trouble with his faith.’
Aximand’s ruined face sat badly on his skull, stretching his once handsome features into an angry leer. They still called him Little Horus, though he barely resembled their genesire any longer. The hilt of his famed sword, Mourn-it-All, protruded above the top of his power plant.
‘I grant they’re annoying,’ said Aximand. ‘But we have these Word Bearers to thank for the return of our father to health.’
‘Do we?’ said Abaddon. He resumed walking. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Kibre hangs around the Warmaster like a bad smell, as is his habit. He will not leave Horus’ side without being dismissed. His brain has gone soft since Beta-Garmon and Horus’ return.’
Abaddon did not disagree. Horus’ fall had shaken Kibre to a pathetic degree. ‘Tormageddon?’
‘He does as he pleases.’ Aximand’s expression became more horrible as he frowned. ‘But he will be at the court for this.’
‘Then you are blessed,’ said Layak, ‘The Neverborn show you favour.’
‘I’d rather he showed his favour somewhere I wasn’t,’ said Aximand.
‘You should embrace it,’ said Layak. ‘You are champions of the Pantheon. The might of the warp can be yours, if you but reach out to take it.’
Aximand snorted through his misshapen nose. ‘I’ll pass. The blessings of your gods have been decidedly mixed of late. Guilliman breat
hes down our neck. The Warmaster makes no move on the prize. Is a blessed warlord forced to keep his generals apart for the harm they will do each other? This edification is to be conducted by hololith. Gathering his brothers in one place has become too much of a risk for the Warmaster,’ Aximand continued. ‘Angron, who by your estimation is probably very blessed indeed, rages at everything when he has control of himself, which is never, and when he does not, he has the unfortunate habit of butchering everyone around him.’ He continued, the voice of reason emanating from his devil-mask of a face. ‘Then there’s Lord Fulgrim, who especially annoys Lord Angron. True to his nature, Fulgrim revels in Angron’s ire, and goads the Red Angel for his own amusement, which puts us all in danger. That’s not to mention the fumes around the Phoenician that choke the mortals who breathe them.’ Aximand shook his head ruefully. ‘Perturabo sulks on the fringes of the system. Mortarion approaches but refuses to answer any hails. Horus’ grand army is riven by divisions at every level.’
‘Indiscipline is our enemy now as much as time,’ said Abaddon. ‘This is what your gods bring us, Layak. Chaos,’ he said sourly.
‘Things were going so well,’ said Aximand. ‘Until you failed to catch the Fenrisian, Ezekyle. The Wolf, the Consul and the Raven at our backs. Time grows short.’
‘So good then that you and Kibre kept everything working smoothly while I was about my supposed failure,’ said Abaddon sharply. ‘Horus cannot arbitrate every disagreement. The war will be won soon enough.’
‘What if it isn’t?’ countered Aximand. ‘Horus could allow you or I to do something about these divisions. But he won’t – worse, he forbids any activity on our part. Something has changed. Horus has not been the same since Maloghurst brought him back.’
‘Says the man who fought to prevent it, yet who wept tears of blood when our father returned from the dead a second time. Hypocrisy does not become you, brother.’
Aximand looked at his brother sternly. ‘Mock me all you like, Ezekyle, I know you agree with me.’