Chapter 1 – The Golden Throne
Aevar Ironclaws knew how to handle the cold. As a Vlka Fenryka, a Sky Warrior, he was used to Fenris' destructive summers and numbingly frigid winters. As a Tech Marine, an Iron Priest, he knew how to handle the damaged machine spirits that dwelled in armor, vehicles and weapons. He knew how to sooth them, appease them, and gently coxing the most use out of their metal bodies, how to create weapons of genocide and massacres.
And as the Allfather's Chosen, a Space Marine, an Adeptus Astartes, he was bred for battle and slaughter. He knew how to fight, how to wage the most brutal of wars, to pull victory from the very jaws of defeat, and how to kill quickly and efficiently in the endless wars that humanity was engulfed in. His gene-enhance body was big, strong, and all but immune to the effects of age, the very pinnacle of what humanity could be.
But here, he was at a loss. He was nowhere near his home world, the death world of Fenris; instead, he was traveling to the very heart of the Imperium, Holy Terra, with nearly two dozen of his brother Astartes, Iron Priests all of them, and a smaller group of tech priests, men and women who were cybernetically enhanced members of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
The closest Aevar has ever been to the seat of Humanity was when he was sent to Mars for his training and induction into the Adeptus Mechanicus, where he was taught how to be an Iron Priest, to build the very tools of war that were needed, and that was many centuries ago. Here, he was not known as a Sky Warrior, revered by all mortals as a demigod, treated with fear and respect. Instead, he was curtly nodded to and called a 'Space Wolf.' Even the tech priests, barely more than mortal humans, seemed to look down their nose at him; quite a feat when Aevar stood over seven feet tall.
Aevar knew of the mistranslation, what outsiders thought the runes of his brotherhood stood for. He knew that he should welcome it with pride, but he could hear how it rolled off the tongues of his fellow Astartes, namely the Ultramarine sitting across from him in the gunship. It was contempt for him and his Chapter, thinking they were simple-minded barbarians.
Aevar wanted to break one of the naysayers in half, either with his very hands or the two metal servo-arms mounted on the back of his battle plate, but such actions would not be tolerated by his fellow Astartes, the tech priests, or the small group of Adeptus Custodes standing behind them on the Thunderhawk gunship. And while he might fantasize about it, he knew he would only be playing into their flawed reasoning, justifying a simpleminded belief. Not to mention it would undoubtedly upset the Custodes.
Space Marines were tall, but the Custodes were taller still. If Aevar screwed his eyes, looked at them sideways and forgot every battle song and shred of lore he'd ever heard, he was sure that he could mistake one for the Allfather, the God-Emperor of Mankind, before his internment onto the Golden Throne.
He had only heard of the Custodes, but knew well of them. While Space Marines were genetically augmented humans, they were as mass produced as a bolter. The Custodes were all individually selected, their augmentation processes uniquely custom, based on the needs to be one of the few bodyguards who protected the Allfather. As an Iron Priest, Aevar had seen the difference between massed-patterned war gear and painstakingly, lovingly made killing tools. The latter always cut through the former like butter.
One of the Custodes stepped forward, easily swaying with the moving gunship as they descended to Holy Terra.
"We will be arriving at the Eternity Gate soon," he said. Aevar could hardly take his eyes off of his battle plate. He had seen many master-crafted pieces, but none so beautiful as the one the Custode wore. The black metal looked like pure obsidian, and seemed as if it was sculpted from clay, not beaten from metal. He couldn't find a single out of place etching or seam; it was beyond flawless. "We require that you surrender your weapons to us. None shall be armed in the presence of the Emperor, save his guard."
The small team of Custodes walked through the ship, taking weapons. The tech priests, with their many cybernetic arms, had to disconnect mounted weapons to hand over.
Aevar bit his tongue, did his best not to growl, and gathered his weapons as the Custode approached. He drew his small paring knife that he kept at his waist, then Katla, his thunder hammer, and Iounn, his bolt pistol. Katla was one of the first weapons he made, and he could speak without pride that it was one of his best. She had two wide, flat heads that used to be perfectly smooth, but repeated use had bent it out of that perfect level, giving her character.
Before surrendering Katla, he looked himself over in her reflection; after all, he was going to see the Allfather, the Master of Mankind. His hair was long and lacquered, in perfect form. The occasional braid was tight and properly formed, and the hair that was not braided hung straight down. He kept a simple band around his wrist, in case he needed to tie his hair up, to keep it from his eyes.
His hair used to be black, but time had given him more than plenty of silver/gray, one of the only indicators of his true age. His beard was similarly salted, but was perfectly trimmed, coming down to his chest. He might be neigh immune to age, but time still had its way of marking him. It also was able to mark his skin, giving it a craggy, leather-like consistency.
With his hair in check, he surrendered Katla to the Custode. Unlike others in his pack, he hadn't adorned Katla with golden wolf carvings or busts; why make one side the fighting side when you can have two killing surfaces? He made up for it by adorning her with totems, bones, runes and aged, tattered pelts. Katla rattled as the Custode carried her away. She was scarcely out of his grip for one minute and he was already missing her comfortable weight.
He surrendered Iounn, handing her butt first to the Custode. More totems rattled, and suddenly he felt bare, patting at the empty holster under his left arm. He even missed his simple paring knife, and that was more of a tool than a weapon.
"Once we have landed, you will be lead into the Sanctum Imperialis," the Custode continued as his brothers gathering botlers and hammers and flamers from the others. There was even a massive, obsidian broadsword that a Salamander brother surrendered. "A word of warning: make no sudden movements. While we do not doubt your loyalty, as the Guards of the Emperor, we take no chances."
"Understood," Aevar said, his voice low and his neck raised, barring his throat to show submission. Such an act was lost on the other Tech Marines who gave their acknowledgments, as well as the Custodes.
If I were on Fenris, they would know that I am submitting to them, Aevar thought. He caught himself, and growled in displeasure. But I am not, and can't dwell on such things. I've been chosen, and I must perform my duties to my absolute best.
Aevar didn't know why he was summoned, but kept such curiosity buried. An open mind was a dangerous thing to have in such a dark time for humanity. Danger was everywhere, and all it took was one tiny slip to invite disaster, or the foul tinkering of Chaos.
The cabin of the ship shook as the ship touched ground. The doors hissed open, and the Custodes stepped out, leading the small group of tech marines and tech priests. Aevar was one of those to walk out last.
Around him was the Eternity Gate. One kilometer across and nearly half a kilometer in height, it opened to the dirty, polluted air of Holy Terra, and lead deep into the heart of the Imperial Palace. Ornate gold, silver and bronze shone in the afternoon light, showing the histories of untold trillions of the Imperium's heroes.
Aevar tried not to gasp, but he found it to be beyond him; after all, it was his first time on Terra. He could hear many others of his fellow tech marines gasping as well, and even a few of the human Tech Priests who accompanied them. The Custodes politely waited for them before heading deeper into the Palace.
"I never thought this would be so beautiful," a tech priest said. Aevar looked over, seeing a thin human man. His face was mostly human except for his lower jaw, which was constructed from cybernetics. Four servo-arms sprouted from his back, each as thin as his flesh arms, and were idly clicking away. The man's eyes were large, soaking in every piece of the Palace.
"You're right, brother," Aevar said.
"Is this your first time on Holy Terra as well?" The man asked, picking up the pace so as not to be left behind. Being but a human, he had to nearly jog to keep pace with Aevar.
"It is."
"Then I am not the only one in awe."
"Of course not. Many of the battle brothers here have never set foot in such a holy place as well."
"I see." The man thought for a second. "If I may, do you know why we were called here?"
"Watch your curiosity, brother."
"I am very careful with the guarding of my mind. 'Blessed be the mind too small for doubt.' I simply find it strange that so many of the Adeptus Mechanicus have been called to Holy Terra, and were not given a reason for our sudden summoning."
Aevar had to agree with the tech priest. When he was whisked away from Fenris, he was amazed that Imperium ships could move that fast through the hellish dimension that was the Warp. If his ship was not at the hands of five veteran Navigators and a team of Inquisitors to help mask their trail, he was sure that they would have attracted the attention of a Greater Daemon, maybe even a Daemon Prince. Warp tides could have dragged them off, losing them among time and space, and hardly anyone would miss them.
"You're not the only one," Aevar said carefully. Death did not scare Aevar; when he ascended to the Vlka, one of the many changes made to him was the ability to feel fear; it was all but burned from him. Instead, he was scared, actually scared, that he might be caught blaspheming in the Imperial Palace, that he would be mistaken for breathing heresy.
He would rather cut his two hearts from his chest than to even think of committing heresy.
"Do any of your Space Marine brethren share such feelings?"
"I haven't asked them."
"Are you not all of the Adeptus Astartes?"
"Other chapters haven't been very…eye-to-eye with us," he said. "They view us a brutes and barbarians."
"I see," the priest said, one of his servo-arms clicking. "Oh, how rude of me. I haven't introduced myself. I'm Legato."
"Aevar Ironclaws."
"It…is a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine, brother. Now, shall we see what we are needed for?"
The doors to the Sanctum Imperialis were pulled open, and the tech marines and priests fell to their knees. Aevar was shaking as he prostrated himself before the remains of the Allfather.
Dominating the center of the throne room was the Golden Throne. Meters tall, it towered over even the Custodes, who stood along the edges of the room. Tall stairs lead to the seat, where the Allfather sat. Hardly more than a mere withered corpse, the Allfather was still massive, easily as tall as a Space Marine, possibly taller than a Custode.
Dried skin was stretched across his body. Occasional patches of skin were missing, revealing bones of pure white, with minimal cybernetic interfaces drilled into his remains. But behind the bones were his dark organs, slowly rotting away. A few times, Aevar saw one flex as it pumped fluids through his body.
Behind the Allfather were cybernetic tubes and pumps plugging into his holy body, pushing blood and more fluids into and from his remains. Aevar could hear the death rattles of the sacrificed psykers behind the throne, and he could swear that he could feel the psychic essence of the Allfather, even though he was not a psyker himself.
Without those psykers or their sacrifices, the Allfather would truly die, torn from this realm of reality. And should that come to pass, then Chaos and the daemons that controlled them would surely win. Humanity as a species would die; that could never, ever happen. That was why the psykers were sacrificed, and for whatever reason, they were brought to Holy Terra.
Next to him, Legato was quickly reciting prayer after prayer under his breath, his face pressed against the ground, alternating between High Gothic and Binary. To his left, Aevar saw his Astartes brothers pulling their faces from the ground to stare at the Emperor. There were tech marines from the Ultramarines, Salamanders, even the Blood Ravens, and just as many tech priests from the holy vaults of Mars.
Soon, the group were able to pull themselves from their knees to stand. The Custodes stood around them, keeping a careful eye on them.
"Welcome to the Sanctum Imperialis," one of the Custodes said. "You have been brought here to work on the most noble of causes the Imperium could ever hope of you. You will be given quarters, access to the most holy of relics, technology and patterns, and every available piece of knowledge you could ask for. In return, you will work to fix the Golden Throne."
Aevar thought his mind would fail him for the second time.
"Custode, forgive me, but what could possibly be wrong with the Golden Throne?" He asked.
"Our brother is correct," a brother from the Salamanders said. He was bald, and spoke in an equally deep voice that was as dark as his skin. "The Golden Throne has kept the Emperor's psychic essence anchored on this plane for millennia. It was crafted by the Emperor himself. What are we to do?"
The Custodes shifted uncomfortably. Suddenly it felt that Aevar' mind would fail him for a third time.
"What we are to tell you must never leave the Palace," the Custode said. "Our most ambitious and dedicated tech priests from Mars have been examining the Golden Throne for a decade, and they have come to the same conclusion; the Throne is failing us.
"It requires more power than ever before; more psykers must be fed to it daily to ensure it functions. Too much has been lost in the years after the Heresy; as of yet, we have not found a way to repair the Throne, and we believe that it is a matter of time until the Throne fails the Emperor."
"But, Custode, that would mean…" Legato stammered.
"That the Emperor will finally die."
Everyone was shocked into silence. It was by the Allfather's immortal will that the Imperium of Man spun. Their only means of faster-than-light travel was to travel through the Warp, as loath as Aevar was to admit it; all Vlka Fenryka hated warp travel. And the only way to travel the warp was by the Allfather's beacon.
He was the metaphorical north star in the warp. To lose the north star meant that warp travel would become impossible. And if the Allfather's chosen, if the Adeptus Astartes, could not travel the stars, how would they fight to keep their enemies at bay? Small skirmishes would bleed entire sectors dry. It would be the End Times for all of man.
"How can this be?" A brother Ultramarine asked. "He is the God-Emperor, surely he could instruct us on the repairs."
"We must not let simple superstitions fool us," the Custode replied. "Since his internment upon the Throne, we can only communicate with the Emperor through Imperial Tarot cards, and even that is vague at best. The Emperor has been beyond our communication since Horus rebelled; we cannot rely on his help."
"Then why select us?" The Salamander brother said.
"You are all the wisest in the ways of the machine spirits. You will aid the Mechanicus stationed here in their attempt to repair the failing spirit of the Golden Throne. Or do you not believe that you are worthy enough?"
"You mistake me, Custode. I was of the belief that there were others more qualified than me, not that my skills with the machine spirits were sub-par."
"There is no need for modesty here, tech marine. We have conferred with the greatest priests of Mars, even the Fabricator-General himself, and you were picked because of your talents. Everyone we have gathered is among the most skilled tech priest that Mars has ever produced, and you will help them in any way you see possible."
"But Custode, won't our work with the Golden Throne draw the attention of the dark gods?" Legato asked. "The Changer of Ways thrives on pulling men into the dark pit of forbidden knowledge."
"A worthy concern. But fear not, for we are in the heart of the Imperium. The Emperor will protect us from any of the foul tinkering of Chaos. His mighty will makes it so. But, we would not be doing our duty as the bodyguard of the Emperor of we did not ensure that every single threat on his life went unchecked. Every standard week, we will examine you, your quarters and your works with a team of psykers and Inquisitors, searching for any threats of Chaos."
"Thank you, Custode. That is all the reassurance that I need," Legato bowed.
"Good," the Custode said. "You will be shown to your chambers. You begin your work on the morrow. But guard yourself; you will see things that no man, mortal or otherwise, has seen since Horus killed the Emperor over ten thousand years ago; possibly ever. We will demand a great deal from you. Some of you may be asked to never leave Terra."
Aevar swallowed. It was a hunt, a hunt for the truth. And the Vlka Fenryka loved hunts. But every hunt changed the hunter…how would this change him? How would this change all of them?
Tears streamed down Legato's face as he cried uncontrollably at his table. He tried to compose himself, but he was failing. His mind seemed too small to comprehend such a blessing. To even be considered for such an honor, so soon. He had barely been working on the Throne for a standard week, but they thrust this task upon him.
"Hey, Legato, you're a genetor, aren't you?" The Space Wolf Aevar asked, walking up to him. "…Are you crying?"
"By the blessings of the Omnissiah," he sobbed, "I have seen the Emperor's holy genes."
"They let you see it?"
"I begged them not to; how can I be worthy of such an honor? Of such a blessing?" He tried drying his eyes. "T-they wanted me to try and transmute blood-types; the blessed machine that had done that had failed, I was to make a new one. It tall order, but an order that I have to carry out. I aim to turn genes from psykers to the very genes of the Emperor himself. And to do it…they made me examine the Emperor's holy helix."
"Damn. I'd be weeping myself if I got to see that."
"The very image of the blessed helix is burned into my eyes. I'll see it to my dying day."
"Well, what was it like?" Aevar asked.
"Perfect. Perfect in every way."
"Fucking better be. This is the Allfather we're talking about," he chuckled. "Morkai's balls, I think I'm almost getting used to working on this Throne."
"I doubt any of us will truly 'get used' to it."
"Too right! Mind if I borrow you? I could use your help with the gene-work that needs to be done to the Throne. I'm good at it, but I'm not the best."
"I'll see what I can do," Legato said, getting up from the table he sat at. He still shook from seeing the Emperor's holy, perfect genes.
"I'll never understand how the Custodes become so accustom to it. Fuck, I could use some mjod."
Aevar idly tugged at his matted and locked hair as he spoke. Wiping away the tears, Legato could see the age in his hair and his face. His face was lined with wrinkles, tanned from age, and his hair was a mix between dark black and a shockingly pure silver/grey. But he moved, talked and acted like a young man. Was it his superhuman Astartes physiology, or some weird quirk? Nearly all of the other Space Marines were dour and tact. Aevar was crass, even crude.
"Mjod?"
"Right, this is Terra. Mjod is a drink. Poisonous to humans, it just gets us buzzed."
"You…drink?"
"Of course! It's practically our duty as a Vlka Fenryka."
"Well, if it's your duty to drink, then it's the Custode's duty to guard. As it is ours to examine the Throne and save the Emperor."
Aevar led him to the back of the massive throne, where another tech marine, a Salamander, sat examining a scroll and a section of wiring and tubing that lead into and out of the throne, and the Emperor.
Legato didn't blame Aevar's discomfort in the least; his servo-arms were slightly trembling, twitching at the slightest provocation of his overworked nerves. Behind them, the death rattles of the sacrificed mutants had turned into a dull background noise, easily forgotten.
"It's a fair enough point," Aevar said with a shrug. It was obvious he was putting on an act of disinterest. Aevar gestured to the Salamander. "Have you met Croan?"
"I don't think I had the pleasure."
"Well then: Legato, this is Croan Dragonsword," Aevar said with a flourish. "Croan Dragonsword, Legato."
"Are you the tech marine who made that massive broadsword?" Legato asked.
"The very same," Croan said. As a Salamander, he was a massive, obsidian skinned Marine.
"It is a beautiful blade."
"Many thanks," the Salamander said. "Legato, it is an honor to meet you."
"Enough about honor, let's do our fucking jobs," Aevar smiled. "Can you tell what that scroll says? I think it's a blueprint for the structure of the throne, mapping the flow of what appears to be blood fluid."
At the feet of Croan was a scroll, impossibly old. Legato knelt down to the fragile piece of vellum, for fear of tearing it.
"Can you decipher it?" Croan asked.
"No, I can barely understand what the writing means. By the blessed machine spirit, this might be the Emperor's own handwriting."
"Shit. Guess there goes one potential lead," Aevar grumbled. "How goes your work, brother?"
"Agonizingly slow," the Croan replied. He rubbed a hand over his bald scalp. "The technology we could use from this is astounding, but it is beyond me."
"It is almost like forbidden technology, not meant for us," Legato said.
"Nonsense," Aevar chided. "We've been chosen to work on the throne. We must do our job, and do it as best we can."
"I wish I could share your enthusiasm," Legato said.
"You were the one who talked about doing our duty," Aevar replied.
"I never said that it was easy. It feels like I'm working slower than a slug."
"A slug can still travel distances, given time."
"Wisdom from a Space Wolf?" Croan chuckled. "Never thought I would see the day. But you do speak the truth, brother. We must finish our work. There is no greater need for it."
"'Blessed is the mind too small for doubt,'" Legato recited. "I find the Imperial Teachings failing me one by one, and in the very seat of Humanity, no less."
"The universe is filled with strange and terrifying things," Aevar said. "We must face them with the staunchest of determination."
"I wish I could have your enthusiasm," Legato said. He closed his eyes, but all he could see the blessed genes of the Emperor dancing in front of him.
The machine stared at them. A simple energy transfer module, it's machine spirit had stubbornly refused to cooperate.
"If I spend another minute staring at this," Legato groaned, "I'll be seeing this and the Emperor's genes in my sleep."
"It has to work. I cannot see the fault with the circuit," Croan sighed, his massive Space Marine bulk heaving from buried annoyance. His back-mounted servo-arms twisted and rotated in annoyance. "I can only think of rebuilding the entire machine, replacing the troublesome mechanical spirit."
"If we take it apart, I sure can't put it back together," Legato said. "If it was anywhere else but the Throne Room, I believe we could try it, but we need to repair it, not destroy it even more."
"Even if we were allowed to remove such a component from the Throne Room, I doubt I would be able to do so."
"Still not used to being so close to the Emperor?"
"Yes, as strange as it is, I am," Croan said. "I am supposed to be working as if this was another job to be done, but in the Throne Room? On Holy Terra? This is almost too much. I can barely bring myself to look at the Emperor."
"Few can," Aevar said, walking up to them. Legato jumped. For such a large man, even by Space Marine standards, he moved far too quietly. "How goes it, brothers?"
"Vexed, unfortunately," Croan said, not visibly bothered with Aevar's silent approach. Legato, however, still had a small urge to fear Aevar. Native Fenrisians inspired it wherever they walked. Space Marines radiated it despite themselves. A Space Wolf, being both, compounded the feeling. "We believe this to be a power exchanger. It is broken, and its machine spirit refuses all of our attempts to repair it. Can you spot the flaw and sooth it?"
"Let me see," Aevar said, kneeling. Like Croan, he wore a simple carapace instead of his power armor. His servo-arms mimicked his real arm movements; they pawed the ground, making him look like a six legged animal. His long, matted and sometimes dreadlocked hair hung down, and he occasionally brushed it away. "Can you activate the relay?"
Croan complied, giving the machine a fraction of the blessed energies of the Golden Throne. It sparkled, but nothing happened. Aevar leaned on his arms, and his servo-arms began to work the circuit. The tips of the claws broke apart, revealing drills, welding tips, solder ends and cutters. They worked in a mad fury, linked to Aevar's very brain. Occasionally Legato heard him mumbling the prayers and blessings, but for the most part, he was quiet.
"Try again."
Croan did, and the machine sparked, but died. Aevar' servo-arms went to work again, and he was silently muttering prayer after prayer. He leaned on his real arms, shifting his weight. He tried a third time, then a fourth time, each time the spark of energy growing in length, but ultimately flickering off.
"Is the machine spirit broken?" Legato asked, hoping to be proven wrong.
"Course not," Aevar said, "it's just a little stubborn. What it needs some tender, loving care to nurse it back to health."
"'Tender, loving care?'" Croan snorted. "Today is truly a day of blessings. I have heard words I never thought to hear from a Space Wolf's lips."
"They're words I would only use for the blessed machines. And a few hearty Fenrisian women," Aevar laughed. "Some need a kick, a screaming, or a good curse. But others need a more refined, gentle touch."
"So when will we hear the Space Wolf curse?" Croan asked.
The machine sparked, flickered and faltered, then caught and glowed brightly as the energy was fed through it and passed along.
"Not today, unfortunately," Aevar said, bringing himself to a kneeling position instead of resting on his hands.
"We have spent the entire day trying and failing to fix it," Legato said. "How did you know what to do?"
"It's just like a hunt. You just have to follow the energy, the footprints, and it'll eventually lead you to where the problem is."
"You must be touched by the Omnissiah," Croan said. "I've stared at that thing until it was burned into my eyes."
"I've heard that talk before. If I'm blessed, then I am. But as far as I'm concerned, I just have a knack for soothing the machine spirits."
"'A knack,' he says," Croan chuckled. "I have seen that massive thunder hammer on your back. It is peerless, a true master crafted weapon of war. One does not simply make such a creation."
"Actually, Katla was the first thing I made," Aevar said.
"'Katla?' That was your first weapon?" Legato asked.
"Aye, she was," Aevar said.
"The Priests of Mars do not simply let aspirants make a thunder hammer as their first project," Croan said.
"They sure as fuck didn't!" Aevar roared. "Back when I was on Mars, they said they'd start us off small. But I was young and restless; I wanted to get straight to making earth shaking weapons. They told me to cool my heels, but I wanted one of those hammers, you know?"
"So you just 'made' a thunder hammer," Croan said.
"Aye, I sure fucking did."
"How did you know what to do?"
"Saw a few of them in action, so I had an idea of what was going on," Aevar said. "Tried a few times, got nowhere, got pissed, so I just said 'screw it' and threw things together. Didn't know what I was exactly doing, but when it was all said and done, I had Katla."
"You just…made a thunder hammer," Croan said, disbelief in his voice. He shook his head. "You truly are blessed by the Omnissiah."
"I'm glad we have you with us," Legato said.
"I'm glad to be here, brother," Aeavr said. "Now if only I could bring myself to understand the workings of the Golden Throne itself, instead of a simple power converter."
"For that, we are all in the dark," Croan said. "If the Adeptus Mechanicus could have fixed the Throne, it would have done so long ago, and there would be no need for us."
"Unfortunately, that is not the case," Legato said.
"It is," Aevar agreed. "What part would you like to get started on next, brothers? Hopefully our luck would hold out for that one."