by Guy Haley
‘I have only my ration of delicious nutrient gruel to offer,’ said Bjarni. ‘So who cares?’
‘It is the form of the thing,’ said Felix, speaking up and stepping over the raised lintel of the door. ‘Honour demands a boast carry a wager.’
‘Felix!’ shouted Bjarni. A huge grin split his beard. He hurled the axe without looking. It slammed into his designated target, cutting it two and sending the rest of the stack bouncing off the steel tables around the room. Kalael scowled under his hood as he flicked cans off his work.
The men rose from their tables and greeted the captain. Bjarni got there first, flinging his arms around Felix in a bear hug.
‘Tell me you have come back to lead us, captain,’ said the Fenrisian. ‘Just one more time, eh?’ He slammed Felix on the shoulder pad with his huge fist.
‘If only I could. I wish I had been with you during the drop on Raukos.’
‘My brother,’ said Justinian, taking Felix’s armoured hand in his own and grasping it hard. ‘It has been too long.’
‘If you are not to fight with us, why are you here, Felix?’ asked Bjarni.
Felix moved into the room as other Primaris Space Marines filtered in, brought there by Solus’ tidings. They filled up the long benches. Work was cleared away. Sarkis came through, giving his old commander a nod. The Medusan sat down by Justinian, his face neutral. Sarkis would not approve of Felix sharing his news.
When most of the company was assembled, Felix called for quiet. He felt a stranger in his Ultramarines armour, particularly when the majority of those he addressed wore the plain grey hooded robes of the Unnumbered Sons. When they fought, they did so in a pageant of differing colours, the symbols of their primarchs proud on their shoulders. Only a small number, designating their formation and company, and the grey chevron over their insignia differentiated them from Space Marines already sworn to a particular Chapter. Out of their armour, the gene differences were almost as obvious as the colours of their plate. But they were brothers, in battle and out of it.
There were forty Primaris Space Marines in the room by the time Felix was ready to speak. Nearly all of Felix’s old comrades were there. He knew them all so well. There were also several faces he did not know, transferred in as the dwindling groups of the Unnumbered Sons were merged. Far more numerous were the faces missing, all the warriors he had known and laughed with since his awakening a century ago. His eidetic memory would never allow him to forget the dead.
There had been many mistakes. The Primaris Space Marines had excellent training but no real combat experience when the Indomitus Crusade began. Many had fallen in the early days. He imagined he saw the faces of those earliest comrades, smiling or grim according to their character, between the living warriors in the room.
‘Captain Felix?’ prompted Sarkis.
Felix broke out of his memories. The faces of the dead faded. ‘I have decided to bring you your new orders myself, my brothers,’ he said. ‘The crusade is over. Our brotherhood is at an end. I wished to say farewell to you all. When we reach Macragge, we will likely never see each other again.’ He paused, unsure of how to go on. ‘I asked the primarch’s permission to tell you personally. He said that I may. So I have your new assignments here.’
He opened a pouch on his right thigh and drew out sheaf of parchments.
‘Finally!’ roared Bjarni. He grinned. ‘No offence, brothers.’
‘I do not rejoice,’ said Justinian quietly.
‘Brother,’ said Ciceron, ‘we have known this was going to happen for a long time. It was inevitable. Times change. We are needed elsewhere so that the fight back might begin.’
Felix nodded. ‘The Greyshields have served their purpose. The last few formations of the Unnumbered Sons will be broken up, wherever they are. All of us are to be assigned to other Chapters.’
‘I have nothing but the greatest respect for our lord, but he lacks flexibility,’ said Kalael dourly. ‘He only created our formation to get around his ban on the founding of a new Legion. It is clear to me he can no longer continue to defy his own edicts.’
‘Brother, you go too far,’ snarled Bjarni.
‘I do not criticise him,’ said Kalael emphatically. He had a narrow face, with a resting expression that radiated suspicion. He was always prying behind the seeming of things, looking for the secret truths beneath. ‘What I am saying is that Roboute Guilliman is a general with a penchant for imposing rules, who then has to break them when he finds himself trapped by his own regulations. He is a great hero, but as he is at pains to remind us all, he is no god and is imperfect. That is all I am saying.’ He tapped his ear. ‘Listen to my words, brother Bjarni, or does the growling of beasts drown out reason?’
Bjarni ignored the slight, and rocked his head. ‘He is no Russ, that is sure. Russ had no care for rules.’
‘You should not talk that way about the primarch,’ said Felix.
‘He is not my primarch,’ said Kalael.
‘He is the primarch,’ said Felix. Kalael had always antagonised him. Unlike Bjarni, he could not overlook the son of the Lion’s attitude. ‘You will show him respect.’
‘Just because you do not like what I say does not make it untrue. Is it untrue, Felix? You should know.’
Felix had no rejoinder to that. ‘Legion or not, the Greyshields shall fight together no more.’
Justinian looked at his hands. ‘We all knew this day would come, but I cannot believe it.’
‘Is it not true that our numbers have dwindled as the fight has gone on?’ said Kalael. ‘Most of us have new brotherhoods. Those of us remaining in the fleet are, in the main, of Guilliman’s line. The gene-lines of the other primarchs are in the minority. There are enough Primaris Adeptus Astartes to replenish the Ultramarines ten times over.’ Kalael picked up a chainsword tooth and scrutinised it carefully. ‘Perhaps he does not wish to disband his power base, but moves to openly proclaim a new Legion. Ten new Chapters of his own gene-line – I wonder where they might possibly be stationed?’
‘The Ultramarines will remain as they have been since the Second Founding,’ Felix said firmly. ‘One thousand battle-brothers. There are already numerous Chapters derived from his gene-line. Many of the Primaris Space Marines will be dispatched to those. They all need rebuilding.’
‘That’s all well for you and yours,’ said Bjarni, slapping his hands against a table. ‘Roboute Guilliman was the architect of the Codex Astartes. My gene-father was against it. So far as I know, the Vlka Fenryka still are. Most of my brothers have gone home to Fenris, but I have not. What fate awaits me?’
‘You’re an oversight, you barbarian,’ said Kalael with a sly smile.
‘We shall duel, Brother Kalael, and then we will see who is the oversight!’ barked Bjarni joyfully. It had always been thus. Kalael bated the wolf constantly; Bjarni pretended not to notice. Either would gladly die for the other. Felix was baffled why they did not kill each other.
Felix’s face set as gravely as a memorial stone. Bjarni’s face froze.
‘Brother?’
‘I…’ He held out a script of parchment with Bjarni’s name and number upon it. This was hard, but a leader could not shy away from the most difficult of tasks. ‘I am sorry, Bjarni. I know how much returning to Fenris meant to you.’
Bjarni’s skin had gone white. His faded tattoos stood out clearly on his cheek bones as he reached for the order scrip with shaking hands.
‘Very few of you will be going to your home worlds,’ said Felix. ‘I am sorry. I remember how we all spoke of serving with the founding Chapters.’
‘It is easy for you to say,’ said Bjarni. ‘Who by the ice jotun are the Wolfspear?’
‘They are a new Chapter, brother,’ said Felix. ‘The remainder of the sons of Russ are to remain here, at Raukos. You are to guard the Pit.’
Bjarni stared at the order pape
r.
‘There will be many battles here,’ said Felix. ‘You will be a great hero.’
The others were coming forward and taking their papers, discussing their new brotherhoods in hushed tones.
‘Most of you are bound for the Primogenitor Chapters,’ said Felix. ‘Do you not see how important those of the Unnumbered Sons who remained with the fleet are? You, my brothers, are the very best! Do not take these orders as a rebuke, but as the opposite. The Imperial Regent thinks far ahead. His aim with you Greyshields who remain was to create a warrior corps who, when divided, would foster good relations between the various gene-lines of the Adeptus Astartes. I have come to know the primarch well. He believes that the divisions between the Legions of his brothers contributed to Horus’ betrayal and dog the Imperium still. The arch traitor was able to divide the Legions and their primarchs by using their mistrust as a lever to separate one from the other. They fought together, but rarely understood one another. We have fought together, and we have bled together.’
‘Aye, and we have died together!’ shouted Bjarni. ‘And this is my payment.’
‘Many battles, remember that,’ said Kalael. ‘New sagas. New tales to be told.’ Hearing this from his friend calmed Bjarni somewhat.
‘We should be glad no matter our destination. A warrior’s function is to die well, in a good cause,’ said Aldred.
‘True,’ said Felix. ‘And our cause is the finest of all. We have lived and trained together. We are closer than any mixed brotherhood that has ever been. We have known the glory of combat and the tedium of waiting side by side. We have become friends, despite our differences. Each of us is part of a unit of many brothers of many kindreds, and we will take the friendships we have forged with us to our new Chapters. We will be the sinew that binds the bones of the Imperium together, transcending old boundaries.’ Felix turned to the Fenrisian. ‘Our bonds can never be sundered. You, Bjarni, are born of Fenris and are enhanced with the essence of the Primarch Leman Russ, different and strange to my own heritage, but you will always be my brother, no matter what colours you wear or what name the Chapter you belong to bears.’
‘This is troubling, Brother Felix,’ Bjarni said thoughtfully. He was quick to rage and quick to laugh, but Bjarni had a deeper side that he hid most of the time. ‘I yearned to return to Fenris and fight alongside the Rout. Can I ever truly call myself a son of Russ if I do not?’
The last of the Primaris Space Marines were filtering into the room, exchanging quick whispers to update the newcomers. Felix handed the remainder of the scrips to Sarkis, who handed them out.
‘There are many Primaris Space Marines wearing the livery of the Vlka Fenryka, brother,’ said Felix. ‘You will be welcomed by them, even if Russ’ warrior-sons of the older breed remain aloof. And you will always be welcomed by me.’
‘How will the lords of ice take it, though? Will I be forever lost without a home, brotherless, unable to return to Fenris?’
‘You have too large a personality to ever be without friends,’ said Aldred. ‘I will fight any warrior who says otherwise.’ Bjarni and he slapped hands together and gripped them tightly.
‘And you will never be without brothers, either,’ said Justinian, getting to his feet. ‘Not while one of us still lives.’
Justinian had looked at his own orders with perfect equanimity. He had been assigned to the Novamarines stationed in Ultramar – still the realm of the primarch, but the Novamarines were not the Ultramarines. Felix tried to guess Justinian’s thoughts, but he could not. When he chose, the man was a fortress, his feelings hidden behind fair walls.
‘These are sad tidings,’ said Justinian, ‘but they hold the kernel of the future in them. We have our new brothers to meet and fight with. There is opportunity for glory for us, always, wherever we go and no matter the livery we wear. I thank Captain Felix for letting us know. I am sure the Lord Commander was curious to know why he wished to do this. It is a sign of how much Felix cares for us, to bear the primarch’s scrutiny.’ He gestured at the dispensing machine at the rear of the room. ‘I wish for something better to toast you with, my brother, but all we have is nutrient gruel.’
‘No ale,’ said Bjarni sadly.
‘No wine,’ added Kalael.
‘We have each other,’ said Justinian, ‘for a few weeks more. That is all that matters. We shall fight all the harder for knowing our brothers wage war elsewhere. This is not the end, but the beginning.’
Felix nodded. This was the response he was hoping for. He should have kept himself above all this, but the primarch had proved remarkably amenable to his request, and he needed to say goodbye properly. For all his words, in all likelihood he would not see any of them again.
‘To Captain Felix!’ said Justinian. ‘To our dear friend and brother, Decimus!’
‘Felix! Felix! Felix!’ the others shouted, banging their fists on the tables.
They spoke a while of old times, and gradually the company dispersed back to their duties. Felix tarried too long. Realising he was late to attend the primarch, he made his farewells.
Lieutenant Sarkis caught Felix’s arm in his augmetic hand before he left. ‘Are you sure that was wise, Decimus, performing such a role? Should you have not left it to me?’
‘I am sorry that I denied you the opportunity.’
Sarkis’ skin was wrinkled around his many augmetics. They crinkled further around a metal-toothed smile. ‘Oh no, I am glad you did. You did a far better job of mollifying Bjarni than I would have done. Had I given that news, I would be fighting him right now.’
‘You exaggerate.’
‘Not by much. You have a more human touch than I.’
Felix glanced at the bare metal fingers grasping his armour.
‘Does the primarch really know you have done this?’ asked Sarkis.
‘He did not seem overly concerned.’
Sarkis stared hard at Felix through an eye crafted from living diamond. ‘You are bold, to presume the primarch’s thoughts.’
‘We have become close.’
‘Then I pray it does not bring you trouble.’
‘I can hide nothing from him,’ replied Felix, ‘but there are some things I cannot keep from my brothers.’
‘There are some things that should be kept,’ said Sarkis. ‘Remember your position, Felix. I would prefer it if, a century from now, when I call upon the Ultramarines it is you I deal with, and not some warrior I do not know who has your place owing to your needless emotional attachments.’
They locked eyes for a long moment.
Spoken like a Medusan, thought Felix, but left these words unsaid. ‘I thank you for your concern, lieutenant,’ he said instead.
Sarkis stared at him a moment longer, released him and departed.
As Sarkis’ bionic grip left his arm, Felix knew for certain that he would never be returning to the Rudense. That part of his life was now over for good.
‘Fight well, my brothers!’ he called to those remaining, holding his fist aloft in salute. ‘I shall see you again when victory in Ultramar is ours!’
Chapter Sixteen
Ku’gath’s Cavalcade
In parody of the great voidships of the Imperium, giant plague arks came floating through the strange sky of the Garden of Nurgle. There were seven of them all told, Nurgle’s sacred number, sailing serenely towards the rift as stately as pleasure barques upon a perfect sea.
They had been living things. Perhaps they lived still, held to a hideous existence by the will of the Plague God, for they sang with awful sorrow, though their tails and flukes hung limply and their bodies were decomposed as a corpse too long in the water. Their skin hung in great swags from muscles writhing with frantic life; the thick fats underneath had decayed into fur-like expanses playing host to a multiplicity of parasites. Ribs the size of docking spars framed dark, stinking interiors. Open wound
s dripped viscid matter, and slurry falls of rotten blood and excrement fell from orifices widened by the relentless feeding of carrion. Encircling these meatships were shifting black veils: flies by the billion, fat-bodied and voracious.
Rot had made these craft barely recognisable, but they were the rancid carcasses of void whales dragged into the Realm of Chaos during the Noctis Aeterna, hollowed out by disease and infested by supernatural vermin until they were suitable to carry the legions of Nurgle into the material realm.
The first came to the rift some way ahead of the others. The bony beak of its exposed jawbones pushed at the quivering meniscus separating the material world from the realm of souls. An oil-scum iridescence rippled out from the contact, stretching at first without giving. But Nurgle would not be denied, and the bone pierced the barrier with an audible wet tearing. This last barrier penetrated, the carcass-ship heaved out like a rotting stillbirth, mobbed by its escort of flies.
Whatever magic held it aloft in Nurgle’s kingdom did not work upon Iax yet, and the plague ark fell as soon as it was through. Bloated belly met shallow water, sending up a flat wave of mud. It slithered forwards, carried by momentum over the fringes of the marsh and onto the green meadows of the garden world. Away from the empyrean, the meatship’s rotting accelerated. The greening skin of its flanks split, spilling amid a wave of noisome fluids a host of daemons into Ultramar.
The most numerous were the flies, shiny black with the triple ring of Nurgle’s blessing blood red upon their backs. The great number who escorted the craft were increased by more issuing from the whale’s insides in droning blizzards, bringing with them a stink of rotting flesh. Upon leaving their host’s presence, they rose up into Iax’s quiet night air, flooding skywards in unending swarms so that the moon was blotted out and the promise of day broken. From there, they set out to spread to the four corners of the world, bearing their cargoes of disease.