by Guy Haley
His scorn slid off Frater Mathieu like water.
‘No, my lord. It is because I have met you, and I see you are sincere, if misguided.’ He bowed again. ‘I shall do as you ask and write the sermon, and I shall speak its words, and in one week I shall give you my answer as to whether I will accept the appointment.’
Chapter Ten
News from Ultramar
As the fleet underwent repairs and resupply ships flew in from across the sector to provision the crusade, so work was begun on the surface of 108/Beta-Kalapus-9.2. Battlefield scrap was taken away. The bodies of the traitors burnt. When all trace of the fighting was gone, the site of victory was prepared for the Triumph of Raukos.
Flocks of auto-praisers flew over the bare earth, singing hymns, while priests in floating pulpits shouted out blessings to cleanse the ground of unclean influences. Staggered lines of giant machines scraped the ground flat under dozer blades fifty metres wide. Behind them came large tankers with fanned maws that sprayed liquid rockcrete behind them. Following the tankers, an army of men with rakes and brushes laboured to spread the rockcrete flat before it could set. Dozens of artisans watched over them, their servo-skulls and slaved cyber beasts measuring the flatness of the foundations for the esplanade in a pulsed storm of laser light. As the screed set, servitors followed, laying a complex mosaic of coloured stones brought from all over the sector in cement dribbled by their nozzle-handed fellows. Finally came trucks fitted with brushes and polishing limbs. In this way, the rocky plain was replaced by a huge martial square three miles across, decorated with a giant mosaic.
The plaza at the valley mouth was just the beginning. Machines laboured at the face of the hills. Demolition walkers tore down the wall of the Iron Warriors. Before they had dismantled half of it, work started on a huge proscenium at the site of the wall’s central gate. It framed the valley with huge pillars and a pediment from which the statues of Imperial heroes gazed. The noise of industry was tremendous, echoing across the plains for hundreds of miles. The activity continued up into orbit. Lines of landing freighters came down from the sky, bearing workers and materials.
Guilliman watched his plans being put into action from the viewing deck of a bulky construction crawler. Felix had done his job well. The machines outside were not the great geo-planers of old, but they were adequate to the task. The captain had learned much. Felix was unaware of his own talent. The Primaris Space Marine would need it all, soon enough.
Guilliman was waiting while the latest in a line of nervy architects bobbed and fussed over his plans, preparing them for the primarch’s inspection. A pile of blueprints held in place with carved stone weights had already accumulated on the deactivated chart table. Rather more sober were the military engineers awaiting their turn. Upon their devices, the complexities of the new Chapter Fortress to be raised over the Iron Warriors stronghold were stored.
‘My lord.’ A sculptor with a fixed, terrified smile approached Guilliman. The primarch turned from the low, angled windows to view a hololith of a frieze for the arch. The man stuttered and mumbled his way through the presentation. His talents in design were great, those in interpersonal communication less so, and Guilliman was glad when Captain Felix came into the cramped room. The artists were almost as scared of Felix as they were of Guilliman, and scattered before him. Felix coughed, beckoned, and whispered into the primarch’s ear when he bent his head. Guilliman frowned, and nodded.
‘Gentlemen, this will have to wait until later. I will see all your plans today, I promise. Please, while you wait, Captain Felix will arrange some refreshments for you.’
Felix’s brows drew together in consternation. The crawler’s provisions amounted to tepid recycled water and emergency biscuit rations. Guilliman trusted him to organise something. If anyone could source suitable vittles from nowhere, Felix could. The expression on Felix’s face was almost comical. Guilliman resisted the urge to reassure him. The Primaris captain had to learn to trust his own abilities.
‘This way,’ Felix said, herding the artists into the crawler’s small stateroom. ‘I shall see if we can find some wine.’
The artists and architects filtered through the door with unsure glances behind them. When they were all through, Guilliman addressed Felix.
‘Thank you, captain. I shall not be long.’
‘He is outside, my lord.’
Guilliman left the crawler deck. The machine was a civilian construction pattern intended for large-scale works. Comfort had not been a high priority in its design. It was cramped enough for a standard human, and Guilliman had to stoop to negotiate its corridors, bending almost double to squeeze his way through the doors.
Outside the sound-screened command deck, the thunder of the machine’s inner workings made itself known. Guilliman’s ears buzzed to the sound of thumping pistons. The crawler was idling at that moment. The din it made while it was in motion was almost astounding in volume.
Guilliman stopped outside the master’s cabin and knocked on the door. The master was made of sterner material than the artists, and looked only mildly surprised to see the Imperial Regent standing outside his private chamber.
‘We have not finished, Master Fulpin,’ said Guilliman. ‘I have received a visitor.’
‘My command deck is yours as long as you require it, my lord,’ said Fulpin with a smart bow. ‘I welcome the rest.’
Guilliman peered past the man’s shoulder. His room was crammed with papers and data-slates.
‘Your idea of rest accords with mine,’ said Guilliman. ‘No rest.’
‘Service to the Emperor never finishes, my lord,’ said Fulpin. ‘There is always more to do.’
Guilliman nodded. ‘I will send word when we are done.’
He left the master and continued down the corridor. The crew were taking their unscheduled rest more in earnest than their leader. Loud conversation emanated from the crawler’s common room as he passed it, the men inside laughing and playing musical instruments, ignorant that the master of the Imperium was only a few metres from them.
He followed steps downwards, emerging from a double gate set behind the crawler’s dozer blade. He picked his way over massive hydraulic systems, and emerged onto the plain.
An Ultramarine of the old type stood waiting for him, his crested helm held under one arm. His armour had already acquired a layer of dust, but the green trim of the Fourth Company shone beneath, and his honours were so numerous that his rank was without doubt.
‘Captain Ventris,’ said Guilliman, walking to stand beside him. ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting. You have come a long way to see me.’
Ventris turned and dropped to his knee. ‘My lord primarch.’ He bowed his head, and kept his eyes on the floor.
‘Please, my son,’ said Guilliman, ‘you need not bow before me.’
Ventris remained kneeling.
‘My lord, forgive me. I have not had the honour of meeting you. My company tried to return when you were reawoken, but by the time I reached Macragge you had left.’
‘Performing your duty is not an error, captain. I do not accept your apology, for there is no need for one.’
‘It somehow feels important that I should have been there.’
‘You are here now,’ said Guilliman. He took a step towards Ventris, his hand out. ‘Please.’
The captain did not rise. ‘I have spoken with my brothers about you, listened to everything they had to report. Not a word of it does justice to actually being here. I have wished with all my being to stand in your presence, but I did not expect this. I expected to feel something. To see a primarch is something from a tale, I thought, but this is no fiction, and I am confounded.’
‘You may stand.’
‘But… But my lord, I cannot stand.’ Ventris looked up at Guilliman, his battle-worn face made young by wonder.
‘Then I command you to stand,’ said Guilliman.
Ventris’ reaction touched and irritated him equally. ‘Look upon me as a father, not as a lord. You are of my line, and a son to me.’
‘As you command.’ Uriel Ventris stood slowly, his armour’s motive systems growling loudly, as if they, too, were awestruck. The captain searched the face of his gene-father. Guilliman looked down on him. Ventris wore long service bars in his forehead. His skin was coarsened with age, and for all his meek reaction, the primarch could sense the defiance in him, the rage, the desire to serve.
The spell broke. Ventris smiled a little sheepishly. ‘Severus warned me about this,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He warned me, and I did not believe him. “I will not lose my head,” I told him. I can see his face now when I tell him that I did.’ Ventris stood tall and saluted. ‘My apologies. Captain Agemman was right.’
‘It is nothing,’ said Guilliman. He held out his hand. Ventris reached out and grasped it firmly, unhesitant now. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance finally. Your reputation precedes you.’
‘Not all of it is good, my lord,’ said Ventris.
‘If rules and customs remain unbroken, Uriel, then they become meaningless – either brittle from misuse, or so strong and overwhelming that they become walls to the mind, blocking out the truth of what it is they were intended to protect. I assume you have been sent to represent Lord Calgar at the triumph. You must also have a message for me if you interrupt my important work with the architects.’
Ventris dipped his head in a bow. ‘I have. The war in Ultramar has entered a new phase. Three large forces have issued forth from the Scourge Stars. The Endurance, the ship of Mortarion, lord of the Death Guard, leads a fleet towards Ultramar.’
Guilliman was not surprised. ‘It was only a matter of time. With Magnus abroad in the Imperium again, I expected more of my brothers to leave their fortresses behind and venture out once more.’ Guilliman looked away, thinking. ‘Has Mortarion actually been seen? Deception was not favoured by him when last we met, but he has had long years to learn new tricks.’
‘He has been seen, my lord. He appeared in person at the sacking of Daedallos. An astropathic message was sent with pict encoding. Once the metaphors were processed, we had a good image of him.’
‘Daedallos? What was the fate of that world?’
‘High casualties, and large amounts of toxicity. Disease is rife where Mortarion’s dogs go. They poison the earth, though once they move on, their influence dies somewhat – the pollution they bring is not entirely natural and requires the presence of the traitors to remain virulent, or so Lord Tigurius says.’ Tigurius was the Ultramarines Chief Librarian, Ultramar’s most potent psyker. ‘That being said, they bring mundane pestilence with them also. Daedallos will take years to recover.’
‘He did not destroy the world?’
‘No, my lord – he attacked, slaughtered the auxillia there and withdrew before we could respond.’
‘Then he shows himself deliberately,’ said Guilliman. ‘Daedallos has little strategic importance. He is seeking to draw you out and put you on guard.’
‘He has done more than that. We have reports of his presence in four of the core systems. Wherever he goes, rebellion follows. Lately, he has changed his approach, and gathered a large fleet to himself. He is holding position in the Macragge system itself. His fleet is too large for defence fleets to directly engage, but too small to attack the Macraggian prime world. Ardium is blockaded, and two of its hives under attack. His presence has led to a wave of unrest across all six planets of the home system. Our people are not immune to the draw of Chaos. We spend much of our time putting down death cults, or dealing with outbreaks of disease. Under the cover of these distractions, he sends in small strike teams to attack crucial infrastructure. I would not say that Macragge is under siege, but it is close to being so.’
‘What is his game, I wonder?’ mused Guilliman to himself, his voice dwindling to a whisper. ‘These attacks,’ he said firmly. ‘They appear random, but they will not be.’
‘My Lord Calgar assumed so. He is yet to determine their intent.’
Guilliman appeared displeased. ‘These are poor tidings,’ said Guilliman. ‘But Espandor is not yet taken?’
‘Espandor stands,’ said Ventris. ‘The enemy has been gradually escalating their attacks on Espandor Prime, but Fifth Captain Phelian has thwarted them all, and they have not been able to make sufficient gains elsewhere that would allow the traitors to concentrate their assets and overwhelm the system. While its supply lines are open, Espandor will not fall.’
‘That is at least something.’
‘My lord, I do not mean to dampen your mood, but Espandor cannot hold out for long. All the system worlds besides the prime are in the hands of the foe, and their ships resupply freely there.’
‘Hmm,’ said Guilliman, once more lapsing into thought. ‘Come with me,’ he said abruptly. The primarch set off alongside the crawler. Sixteen giant wheels lined the side, twice Guilliman’s height, their hard plastek treads caked with sand. ‘What is the composition of the other forces?’
‘A smaller fleet of Death Guard ships terrorises the outer regions,’ replied Ventris. ‘The lead vessel appears to be the Terminus Est. This is the ship of–’
‘Callas Typhon, First Captain of the Death Guard.’
‘That was once his name, so the legends go. He is known as Typhus to us.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Guilliman.
‘Typhus’ fleet is of lesser concern,’ continued Ventris, ‘though he has already taken the star fortress of Eumenice, and is concentrating his attacks against the others. We can be thankful that where he goes, Mortarion does not. Most of the Death Guard congregate around their traitor primarch. The larger danger is posed by a daemonic horde. They are slipping in and out of realspace at will, and we do not know how. Lord Tigurius has undertaken a mission to the outer reaches to determine the reason. The daemons have returned to the empyrean for the moment, but the warp grows turbulent around Ultramar, and the Librarius and our astropaths are certain that they will return. The enemy is planning something, my Lord Calgar is sure. Tartella was ravaged recently by the daemons. The governor survived, but reports casualty rates of over ninety-eight per cent. The daemon leading this force has been identified as Ku’gath, the one that calls itself the Plaguefather. Further sightings have been made in three other systems, always fleeting, but verifiable. Furthermore they are close after, or simultaneously, with those of Mortarion.’
Ventris stopped, and looked at his gene-sire earnestly.
‘My lord, Mortarion and his daemonic allies are engaged in something ill favoured. Ultramar is in peril. When I departed, there were one hundred and six active war fronts across the realm. Of course, this number changes all the time. Fourteen days have passed in Ultramar since we left, at my best calculation. That is long enough for the situation to alter, and I fear for the worse.’
‘Your report gives me an adequate picture of the challenges faced by Lord Calgar,’ said Guilliman. ‘You were entrusted to deliver this to me personally to prevent the information falling into enemy hands, I take it?’
‘There have been too many instances of the enemy anticipating our moves, my lord,’ replied Ventris. ‘We do not know how, but they are intercepting and accurately interpreting our astropathic sendings. For the most delicate messages, we have come to rely on messenger ships.’
‘Mortarion wants to force my return to Ultramar,’ said Guilliman. ‘I will have no choice but to respond.’
They continued, passing out of the shadow of the command crawler, and came to where the square of triumph began. The plain ended at a low wall. Above the level of the sand, the gleaming plaza began. A mile away, the great machines continued their work extending it. The weak sunlight of 108/Beta-Kalapus-9 made feeble attempts to penetrate the pall of dust thrown up by their remodelling of the world. The air was thin but breathabl
e, and through it a cold, soft wind blew, scattering sand over the freshly polished tiles.
‘Nothing lasts,’ said Guilliman, watching the gleam of the stone tesserae dulling under the falling dust. ‘Our efforts are too often temporary.’
He was quiet a moment. Ventris waited expectantly.
‘Tell me, Captain Ventris, what is the progress of the reconsolidation of Greater Ultramar?’
‘That is another story,’ said the captain reluctantly. ‘We are being obstructed in our efforts. Disputes as to what was in Ultramar and what was not are delaying plans to reconstitute the Five Hundred Worlds as it was in your day. Recalcitrant commanders are exploiting our ignorance. Our historical record is incomplete, my lord. We do not have a definitive map of Ultramar during your time. The Mappa Guillimanus in the Library of Ptolemy was damaged millennia ago. The surviving complete maps show the realm at various stages of expansion, or after your division of it, but not at Ultramar’s height. Many of the documents you drew up to grant sovereignty to local planetary commanders are lost. But things progress. We believe three quarters of the ancient realm of Ultramar is back under the direct stewardship of Macragge.’
‘Lord Calgar has a list I drew from memory,’ said Guilliman. ‘It carries my seal, and the full weight of Imperial authority. I have a map inset into the window of my Hall of Armaments. Calgar has a copy of it. There is nothing to argue about.’
‘Some of the worlds dispute the proof. They are more than glad to welcome our warriors, but the Imperial commanders in two dozen systems quibble over reaffirming their oaths of loyalty. In one case, we have had an outbreak of intra-system civil war over the issue, where one lord has declared for you and three against. Some lie outright, telling us they were never part of Ultramar. Perhaps some of them sincerely believe it. A few are braver and insist the ancient treaties cannot be revoked, even by you, my lord, and are determined to retain their independence.’
‘They are wrong,’ said Guilliman.