Jaghatai Khan stepped back as the fury of his brother's assault almost took his head off. It was a myth that Primarchs could not die; even his friend, wise Magnus, had almost become an example of that. They were not like their father, and yet still ageless; but none of them were immortal, and at their brothers' hands, anything could happen. Vulkan had struck with such sudden fury that Jaghatai barely recognised the diplomat his brother had been, the voice of reason between two warring brothers. No, this was something else; and it was attached to that other hammer he wielded. A gift from their father, he had said, forged by the hands of the Gorgon.
Beautiful as it was, there was something else there that seemed to be guiding Vulkan's hand. If he could get hold of the hammer, then he might be able to break the spell of whatever foul witchery was built into the metal. Before he could do anything, though, his bodyguard, alerted by the sounds of the Primarch's roar, burst in. It was evident that they could barely believe their eyes. Two Primarchs, their uncle moving his hammers like they were nothing more than children's toys; had it not been for the fact that their father was stepping back nimbly out of the way, it would have been a lesson to have learnt. One of the Astartes raised his bolter and ordered the Great Drake to stop. Before the Great Khan could yell out a warning to leave, Vulkan turned; and more from reflex then any real desire to harm a Primarch, the shot from the Storm Bolter hit the Great Drake on his pauldron.
Vulkan glanced at his armour in a manner that would have been comical had the situation not been so serious. He raised his eyes of fire and beckoned the Terminator towards him.
"Nagaya, NO," Jaghatai shouted. "All of you leave; this is between Vulkan and myself!"
Vulkan, however, was not about to let the slight go so easily. Still whirling his hammers, he let his hammer - the one he had forged himself - fly, to hit Nagaya in the chest. Had it been any Astarte, then the Terminator Armour would have held; but this was a Primarch. Whereas an Astartes could rip the heads off humans and aliens, crush beasts and other Astartes, they did not and could not defeat the power of a Primarch.
The hammer struck Nagaya so hard that his armour buckled and his insides were smashed to a pulp. He sank to his knees as blood spurted from his mouth and did not stop falling. It got thicker as it fell from his lips; but Vulkan was not finished yet and, raising his favoured hammer, he stood before Nagaya. With the force of several hammers instead of one, he caved the Astarte's head in. Jaghatai Khan roared a grief-struck cry of denial and drew his sword.
"This is war, Vulkan!"
Vulkan turned, and a demonic grin crossed his face. "This is the Emperor's will, Jaghatai; bow down to it, and honor your oaths to mankind, or die a traitor!"
The Khan shook his head defiantly. "This is the will of tyrannical madmen and monstrous deceivers, and I will have no part of it. I am under no obligation to help those that cannot even keep their own minds under their will."
Vulkan looked down at the body of the dead Nagaya and picked his other hammer up. "Between you and I, then; if you win, then the Salamanders will descend upon Chogoris and sear it clean, whereas if I win you surrender your Legion and yourself to the righteous glory of our father."
The Great Khan drew his gigantic sword and stood before his brother. "The Savage Scars are no one's slaves, Vulkan; the sons of Chogoris will avenge whatever happens here today. You are not the brother I loved, and the Emperor's will is a sham."
The same mad smile stayed on the onyx skin of the Great Drake's face. "I knew you would say that," Vulkan of Nocturne said, as he hefted his hammers.
Malcador watched the last of the Custodes fall; and yet they had reaped a toll upon the Word Bearers. Bodies lay across the desert sands, come of which had been put there by the 'weakling' that was Malcador. He turned to face the Emperor, and the remaining Word Bearers moved backwards as the Master of Mankind stood in their centre. Malcador met him halfway, his staff quivering with his own powerful psyche.
"Mal, you should have stayed away," the Emperor began. "You should have remained in hiding; you might have walked away from this."
"Into what?" Malcador asked. "A world of war, blood and thirsting gods?"
"Is this what you poisoned Constantin's mind with?"
Malcador laughed a little. "You did that; you needed no help from me, brother."
Xaphen glanced at the Crimson Lord and across their private vox he spoke. ++ The heretic speaks blasphemy and disrespect to our Master; are we to let this continue? ++
The Crimson Lord nodded. ++It is the Emperor's will to deal with Malcador; I, however, am more interested into why Amon has not been seen. ++
++ Argel, he called the Emperor brother, as if he is allowed. ++
The Crimson Lord turned his head to face his friend. ++ For all we know they might be; we know so little about the Emperor's and Malcador's pasts. ++
The Emperor cocked his head to one side. "So, you remember it all?"
Malcador nodded. "Of course I remember. I thought that you had changed, that mayhaps the years of immortality had finally shown you the error of your youth." Malcador looked around him. "You destroyed religion because of what you had seen. Because of the destruction faith had in the past caused many people and governing bodies. When Mother told you that you had a destiny, I do not think that is what she had in mind. But I fought for the Imperial Truth alongside you, and that at least I do not regret." Malcador leant on his staff. "Does the mark still hurt you?"
"Hush."
"No, no, I suppose not; you have passed it on, that is all." Malcador shifted a little. "Let's see, your sons are not from a woman but from a lab, like a bunch of vatvorms. You were always so eager to prove to the being you destroyed that you were more than he was. So let us see which ones carry that ancient curse… Lorgar Aurelian? Hmm, yes, he would have had the piety you once had. It is fair to say that he is like you more than you even cared to admit. How about Dorn? No, Dorn has always been a Praetorian, a champion, so that would not be right. Horus Lupercal? Well, he is your favourite, and will always be, but he is not so easily swayed. I could go on, really, but the sons that seem to be entwined with death, the curse of the original mark… well, that would be Curze and Angron. Murder and violence are their natures, aren't they, brother?"
"Enough, Malcador; come with me and surrender to my will or die."
Malcador thought for a moment and shrugged. "It won't be the first time, in the end." He twisted his staff. "Let's do this; oh, and all that talk of redemption… forget it, it's gone. The world we were born into, the world we saw transform and evolve - what it will be now is the darkness that was in your soul the moment you were born. I thought you were truly my brother, for a time. I would have died for you. Now, I would die to kill you."
The Emperor roared and charged with his sword; Malcador focused his power and, through his staff, unleashed the psychic might that was his to command. The Emperor stumbled a little, still weak from his fight with Valdor; but he was not so weak that he couldn't deal with whatever Malcador threw at him.
The Word Bearers watched as the believed frailty of Malcador seemed to disperse. A bright light shone around him, and for a moment, the briefest of moments really, it looked like Malcador was a younger man and the image of the Emperor. He had an athletic build, not quite the strong build of the Emperor, and his blue eyes blazed with the fury of the elements within him.
The two were joined in battle; and the halo seemed to encompass them both, making both men appear different. That is the way it was when you looked at the Emperor: he could appear to be different things to others, depending on how they saw him. But right now, and Argel Tal would swear till his dying hour that this was so, they looked like a shepherd and a hunter fighting each other.
It was something from a time long forgotten, and it almost sounded like a story that Lorgar had once told Argel, although the context escaped him now; something to do with mankind, anyway. What was obvious was that they were cursing and shouting at each other in a language that had long since died. Malcador definitely appeared younger, and his psychic might lashed at the Emperor like some electrical storm. The Emperor, well, he looked to be a little older than Malcador, which was no surprise; and yet the hate in his face was magnified when Malcador's manifested will struck him.
Malcador snarled and brought his staff around to smash the Emperors head in the side, but the Emperor dodged effortlessly. Malcador seethed; it was wearing on him now, and he never would win this, but each moment he stopped the Emperor for gave Amon more time to get away.
The younger visage grinned despite his growing pain.
The Emperor sneered, and with a swipe of his sword, he broke the staff in two and gripped Malcador by the throat. Like some great vampire, he drew all the psychic might from Malcador into his own body, draining the very life force from the former Sigilite until the skin sloughed from the bones, burning as it fell, and the bones crumbled to dust in his hands. He stepped back and looked at the wispy remains before the winds blew them across the desert.
He knew now why the Sigilite had stayed behind, why he had acted as he had. "Argel."
The Crimson Lord stepped to his god's side and moved to one knee, his head bowed. "Master."
"Do you know if there are any Templar in the area at the moment?"
"I know only that they use the land as training and recruiting."
"If there are, then order them here, and tell them I want them to meet us here. It is time to right an old wrong and destroy any more doubters of my new creed. I want them here within the hour; we head to Alyce Springs." The fire was in his eyes now. "Amon is there somewhere."
The Crimson Lord rose to his feet and bowed his head, relaying the order, whilst the Emperor stared at the ashes as they vanished.
He stood on the battlements of the Imperial Palace. His thoughts were lost in the whirling winds, high atop the Himalaysian peaks, or rather what of them remained. He had been told that these peaks were the highest on Terra in ancient days, and part of him mourned that legacy. Yet such considerations were far from the heart of his musings.
His father had changed; gone were the days when a brother would be punished for harming another brother. And he, too, felt those changes.
He had always been so focused, even cautious, and that had been reckoned one of his strongest traits; now, the drive to bring the order of the Emperor at any price was getting stronger and stronger throughout the court, and his planning was looked down on. He had thought to temper the zeal of his brother Lorgar, and yet, after he had given Sigismund command over the Black Templars, their days of training within the great Cathedral of Calamities, in the old Lewan, had made them just as zealous - if not more so - as their cousins in the Word Bearers.
Their armour had been painted black with white cruxes, Sigismund's own heraldry. They had taken the vow to bring all the worlds of the Imperium to the new order. He was proud of his sons, and especially the fact that the Emperor had named Sigismund as his own champion. Even so, he was uneasy that, when Lorgar had become the Black Pope, it made him more powerful than even Horus had been.
Horus.
His thoughts turned to one of his closest brothers. Horus would never have agreed to this, ever. Already, there was talk of various planets trying to get the Warmaster to come to their aid against the new order. He found that strangely ironic. For years, people had been clamouring for the Emperor to accept his true place, as a god of Mankind. That had been aided by the once-outlawed Lectio Divinatus, which now was one of the centrepieces of the Imperial Creed. He knew, deep down, that Horus would eventually come to Terra. And it would not be in peace - that chance had been lost.
Lorgar had foreseen this. But, as Lorgar stated, had Angron not tried to tear Magnus into tiny pieces, they might have managed to get around to convincing Horus and the others. However, in the golden giant's eyes, it was not just Angron. Curze had antagonised The Lord of Macragge and the Lion had made an enemy of the Comrade. There would be civil war. All he could hope for at the moment was that Vulkan, one of their most level-headed brothers, would persuade the Great Khan that this was for the best, and thus ensure that they would have the numerical advantage in it.
Rogal Dorn turned and returned to his Fists. They had work to do; the Phalanx was going to be away for a while. None of those entities within the Warp that his father called brothers had managed to get a grip on him. He was his own master and needed nothing from them. He followed his father because his father was right.
Still, the thought that Horus would come eventually, that bothered him. He knew full well that when Horus did come, it would change everything beyond repair.
And he could not shake the idea that everything would change before then.
Jugathi ducked as the twin hammers whirled above his head, the rush of air from them both making his top knot sway a little. Had he not been so quick on his feet, he might have received one hell of a headache right now. All he could think was getting that hammer in Vulkan's left hand out of his reach; maybe he could reach him and talk sense into him.
Even though he had lost a son to the now enraged Primarch, and his grief was starting to make him yearn to fight back, he did not want to believe that his brother was capable of such unrestrained violence. It was like looking at Angron or Curze or perhaps himself, not Vulkan. Even his good intentions at attempting to reach his brother, however, were beginning to wear thin. He had to start fighting back. If he did not, then Vulkan would kill him eventually, and then destroy his world.
And that would not do; he would not let that happen. No matter if his blood was spilt on these floors, he would not allow his world to die like Prospero. He would not allow his brave warriors, his brave men and women of the Chogoric plains, to fall into the slavery of a false god. To fall into an imperial tyranny darker than any before. With that thought of what could happen to his beloved Scars and his people, he roared defiance and went on the attack.
Whilst demigods fought within the sacred bowels of the Monastery, the world outside was aflame with bolter and sword. The Salamanders had come to the world of Chogoris, and with them had come death.
People ran screaming as the green-armoured warriors moved amongst the market place, seemingly not caring where they trod or what they destroyed. Warriors of the sands bravely tried to stop the advance, but they were cut in half by ordered Bolter Fire and hellfire incinerators. Jubal Khan, incensed that the sons of fire had broken the agreement to let their fathers duke it out, ordered his company to charge into the fray and, in his words, "wipe these murderous bastards off the blessed face of our home world"
Singh came to the side of his noyan-khan, during a brief respite in the fighting, and opened a private vox.
++Where in the demon-realms did they come from, Jubal? ++
++ Hidden from our sensors and auspexes? I don't know, but it matters not how they got here at the moment. All that matters is that they are here, and that they will learn that, whilst on Nocturne they rule, here they do not. ++
++ Someone should be with Father. ++
++ No; Jaghatai will not forgive us if we leave the populace to the mercy of these traitors. ++
Singh rested his gauntlet on the First Captain's armour, and his voice suddenly became heavy with seriousness. ++ Jubal, what if they manage to get into the heart of the Monastery? They could destroy all that we are. ++
Jubal thought for a moment: the Second Captain was correct. If the Salamanders got into the heart of the Monastery, where the novitiates were training and the gene-seed was stored, then the entire Legion could die - especially if the unthinkable took place and Vulkan won the Primarchs' duel.
++ Take the Second and Tenth Brotherhoods, and join up with the Fourteenth and the Twenty-Third. You are all closest to the Monastery, so protect our initiates, brother, and if needs be…. ++ he paused, his words weighted down by what he was going to say. But in the absence of the Primarch, he was the voice of their father.
++ If it looks as though our world is lost, get them and as much of our gene-seed as possible away from here. ++
The weight of what the First Noyan-Khan was asking him sat on the younger Second Khan's shoulders heavily. He was aghast at the thought of running, but he also understood the honour that he was given. Protecting the future of the Legion was paramount. So, with a salute, he turned to leave.
"Noray."
He turned to see Jubal had removed his helm, with the fighting distant at the moment, and removed his as well. "Jubal?"
"Do what you have to. Hopefully we will turn this rabble away, but if not…." he let his voice trail.
Singh clasped his Noyan-Khan's arm and held it tight. "It shall be done, My Lord".
With that said, he went about doing as the First Captain ordered, and Jubal headed into the fray once more.
He stood alone,; the Word Bearers watched for the Black Templars to arrive, whilst Xaphen and his retinue searched the hidden base of the runaways for anything that might explain why they would willingly die rather than give their souls to their master.
Argel Tal cleared his throat and moved to one knee before the Emperor. The Emperor bid him rise and asked him what he wanted without speaking it. The Crimson Lord kept his eyes lowered, not only because one did not look a god in the eyes, but also because it was difficult to look upon the Emperor without having one's eyes seared by the beauty and power of the man.
"I heard what Malcador was saying to you, Lord." The Emperor arched an eyebrow. "When I came to Terra, I learnt the ancient languages, half as a hobby, half so that I could read the ancient texts in order to best serve my father and my grandfather."
"The others?" the Emperor asked, his gaze flickering to where the rest of the Gal Vorbak stood.
"No, my Master; I just wanted to know if Malcador's words were true."
The Emperor was silent for a long time and then, with a motion of his head, instructed Tal to walk with him and away from the rest of the Word Bearers. When they were a slight distance away, the Emperor sighed heavily.
"What Malcador said was in essence true," he began. "I was born at the dawn of mankind, and I was punished by a god for favouring me over my brother. I had murdered my brother; and for that I was cast out of society, banished from civilisation, and forced to walk the earth with a mark on my back that signified me as a murderer. I have done much evil over the millennia, in the service of justice; but the memory of what I did then remains a scar on my soul, for there was no deep reason for it."
Argel-Tal sat himself down, as the Emperor bid him to sit beside him, and waited; as he realised that he was going to hear a story that no one, not even his own father, had heard, the honour in his chest crested like a tidal wave.
"So, I travelled the world. As the centuries evolved, I stayed hidden away as much as I could, lest I bring the wrath of that god upon my head for daring to try and live a normal life. I had sons and daughters, some of whom died young, while others went onto greater things; but ultimately I was left alone. At first I was angry: I bore a mark that made me hard to kill. What I did not know then was that this mark would serve me for all eternity, enable me to live longer than any normal human and, in time, grant me the powers I now possess to run the Imperium and of course the Astronomican.
"I tried to get men to kill me, but they would not, for fear of what would happen to them. So I wandered the earth, seeking for a way to atone for my brother's death, doing good in various minor ways. Eventually the concept of time became nothing to me. I saw civilisations rise and ultimately fall, empires rise and be destroyed from within. During those long years, I sought out the reincarnations of my brother. I most recently found him as a revered healer and god-speaker, Malcador; and whilst I knew who he was, he feigned ignorance. But still, it was my duty as his older brother to look after him. Sometimes my brother has been an enemy, sometimes an ally; but for thousands of years I stayed my hand from killing him, no matter that he would be reborn. Until now. Until this second murder. It was, I suppose, a necessity for my ascension: my most fundamental promise, broken.
"In those years I came to see how cruel the gods could be. Imagine, Argel Tal, realising in an escalating spiral that gods were cruel as frequently as just. They would play games with mankind, inciting them into wars that they had no concept of. Atrocities occured because of religious ignorance, and I saw the so-called gods for what they were. They were petty and they argued like children, and they had their followers condemn each other and kill each other in their name. My former master condemned me for murdering my brother, but then had his own son murdered as part of a long-running scheme to preserve his power." The Emperor gave the awestruck Astartes a sideways look and uttered a cynical laugh. "Can you not see how ironic that is, my grandson?"
The Crimson Lord nodded. Indeed, he could: when mankind murdered it was a sin, but when a god murdered it was divine retribution. To his grandfather, that must have been the ultimate insult. In his experience, many worlds had the creation story and the story of the first fratricide. Different names, different tellings, but ultimately the same story, as if it were genetically encoded within each human being and each culture to warn their peoples how the ancients punished those who dared lie to them. He did not answer for fear of losing this moment between grandfather and grandson: to be allowed into the long private world of the Emperor was the rarest of occasions. There were even those who believed that he did not remember his past. It was obvious he did remember; he just saw it as inconsequential now.
The Emperor ran a hand down his face and, perhaps for the first time, the Crimson Lord saw how his grandfather's own humanity had never really left him. In fact, in that moment, he looked more human than even a baseline human who was not so blessed with his powers and his longevity.
"My powers surfaced when I was still a young man; but they had reached their peak when I was living in Roma. When I found Malcador, most recently, I spoke with him at great length about rights and gods. All we could see around us, in those days of Old Night, was death and destruction. Demagogues fat with corruption condemned the normal working man and woman, rulers and nobles of all stripes raping the lands and the purses of the people, and the churches encouraged the darkness rather than fight it. I decided that mankind was better off without gods, whether real or fictitious. When I was a child, our god was the power and the law, and we did what we did to please the great creator. We were fearful of his wrath, too, and after watching what his wrath was capable of on others, I am glad he made that mistake with me. He meant to curse me, and instead he made me and my brother more powerful than he could manage."
He was warming to his lesson: he was telling a favoured grandson a story that not even his sons knew, nor any other of his thousands of grandsons. This was a private moment between the Emperor and a grandson that had proved his worth.
"I no longer wanted the gods, whether Warp entities or merely concepts, to have power over humankind; and Malcador was with me. Together, we cleansed the world of the taint of religion and the depravity of corrupt rulers."
Argel-Tal frowned a little: if this was the case, then why did the master of mankind return to the ways of his childhood? As if reading his mind, the Emperor spoke again.
"You wonder why I have seemingly reverted to my first path once more. I shall tell you, last Angel. This is for your ears only; swear your oath to me that this story I have told you will never be repeated."
"I swear, My Lord."
Satisfied with the sincerity in his voice, the Emperor began his conclusion. "Humanity needs something to lead them into an enlightened future, a future where they are the undisputed masters of the universe. Eventually, I could no longer ignore the cries of the masses who proclaimed me divine, nor could I ignore the mistakes of the past, mistakes of ignoring the Warp's might. I took a journey into the Webway, and there I got my answers, much like your father got his answers (incomplete as they were) within the Warp itself. It was not unlike the way you gained your - abilities. I saw the past, the present, and the future, more clearly than ever before, as well as a myriad of other realities and futures.
"It was my destiny to be the man I was born, written from my sin, though I was not in truth the first murderer. And it was my destiny to become the master of mankind. But the Warp showed me, unwillingly, that I could be the one thing that I had denied. I had been battling my old god for so many centuries, and finally I had destroyed him by destroying his religion. That, my grandson, that is the greatest lesson.
"A god is only a god as long as faith and belief fuel it. Out of the old gods that inhabited the universe, the four mightiest are the products of emotions, human and xeno. To create my sons I needed unwilling help from their strength. I had to do what I had to do, to ensure that it would be humans that would be masters of the universe, for another species would exterminate us otherwise. I thought I could deny what I was, but I cannot. I am a god and a godslayer; that is what history would paint me as if it knew the entire truth. But I am what I am, an ancient warrior shunned by his childhood god.
"Malcador was wrong when he said I had reverted to my past; I do not believe in gods, anymore. I am one. But I had to use everything I had learnt from my years as a farmer and a nomad, as well as all the rest of my long life. Ascension does not give power without cost, and some portion of mortal morality is a price that must always be paid, in becoming transcendent. Malcador was wrong, too, when he said that the darkness that had always been in my soul had changed me.
"What changed me were the will of my people, who offered me divinity, and the knowledge of need, which forced me to take it. I alone can ensure that the four who reside within the Warp do not dominate the hearts of men. If I must become a god to do that, then so be it. I will become a god, but I will not be like the gods of the past. My rule will be law, and my powers will light the way for the mankind to reach other galaxies, as I saw in the Warp. Do I want any of my sons to die? Of course I do not! But I have to do this, and sacrifices grant power. In order for mankind to survive, I will do what must be done, by will and will alone. If Malcador wants to call it murder, then so it is. He was always a better judge than myself. I call it survival of the fittest, for only those of my sons that are loyal to myself and the Imperium will endure. As it always had to be."
"Will he return, do you think?"
The Emperor smiled a wry smile. "It is our curse, last Angel: I have no nemesis except my brother. I tried to make him understand, but he did not, for his life - though long - is full of gaps, giving him far less experience than myself. I am a god whether I want to be or not; better that I be a god that does what must be done than one who does not care for mankind. I want warrior sons and warrior daughters ready to do anything, but not sheep. My power was unwittingly given to me by a god who thought I would just fade away into nothing, perhaps become a dark creature that mothers warned their children about, one that haunted their nightmares... does that sound familiar?"
The Crimson Lord chuckled a little. It sounded exactly like the tales that the mothers of Nostraman children would tell their sons and daughters about the Night Haunter.
"I was meant to be nothing. Instead, I defeated the being who made me what I am, and have become more powerful than that minor daemon ever was. For millennia I guided humanity from the shadows; but that only led them to fall again and again. Now I am out of time, and must lead from the front. As an ideal. As an emperor. As a god. And those who stand in my way..." he let his voice trail off, and the Crimson Lord did not need to know anything else. The beast within his soul stirred at the words the immortal had spoken.
For the first time since he was born, certainly for the first time since Erebus had come to speak with his mother, Argel Tal felt a purpose in his soul that dazzled him utterly. This was a greater zenith than the Eye, a greater summit than the news of the Emperor's ascension. His god had shared with him a treasured secret; and he would never repeat it, not even to his beloved father. He had no recollection of his grandparents on Colchis, and this was like a memory of what he had hoped had occurred when he was a toddler. He hoped that his grandfather or grandmother had told him such secrets, knowing he would not be able to repeat them. And this... this was similar, a million times over.
"Do not betray my trust in you, Tal," the Emperor warned. "I have little of it now."
"You can count on me, my master." The Emperor nodded and waited as the Crimson Lord received a vox transmission. "Sigismund is here, Master."
"Good; time to stop Amon. I am not ready for Horus to find out everything just yet."
"Chances are he already knows some of it," the Crimson Lord warned as they made their way back towards the Word Bearers and the newly arrived Black Templars, all of whom looked upon Argel Tal with envious eyes. "Given what befell Prospero and Magnus."
"True, but he cannot get here for months at the least. I will be prepared."
"He will not join you? He is your favoured son, after all"
"He is too much like his Uncle." The Emperor looked elsewhere and felt the wind that had carried Malcador's ashes away. There was something else, something the Emperor was not saying; but Argel Tal did not know what it was. "He will not understand that humanity needs me to be divine in order to endure. He is too full of rage, at the revelation. I could have contacted him earlier; but he can no longer forgive this."
The Emperor said no more; and when the Crimson Lord rejoined the Astartes, after telling them what he wanted, they moved out.
The Pyre Guard emerged from the wall of smoke that was all that remained of the market square. Bavat Khan and the rest of the Riders of Talaskar, a division of the First Brotherhood, readied themselves; but, even though they were among the best of the Scars, the sight of the elite Pyre Guard made them cautiously stop in their tracks.
With their Terminator armour making them far bigger than their battle-brothers, and their eye lenses looking like the fires of Nocturne's deepest volcanoes, they did indeed look like something out of hell. It was then that Bavat saw the new symbol that had been painted on their left pauldrons: a gold eight-pointed star encased in a ring of fire.
Whatever that meant, to look upon it made even the stout First Khan feel sick to the stomach; and that meant that it had nothing to do with the honour of the Imperial Truth. Nothing that could affect a man like this could ever have anything to do with the Imperial Truth. With a shout to his company, Bavat let the two First Companies clash. Their weapons rang out and the roars of flamers, coupled with the loud and devastating explosive blasts of bolters tearing against re-enforced ceramite armour, made it a killing field.
In Jaghatai's private rooms, the two behemoths continued their battle. Neither Primarch tired, and neither showed any signs of doing so. For every blow that Vulkan landed, Jaghatai landed one that was equally jaw-breaking. Wounds that would have killed a normal man and even an Astarte began to clot and close; and yet, the chambers not only had the stench of death in the air from the shattered corpse that had been Nagoya, but also from the rich gene-coded blood that was the Emperor's legacy.
Jaghatai grunted and brought his sword up, to block the blows from his brother's hammers. The tremor from the blows reverberated up his arms and, for the first time, the Great Khan got to see just how strong the usually reserved Vulkan was. His strength was never in question, nor his heart, but his style was usually calmer than that of any other Primarch, creating the illusion he was not fighting at maximal power. Additionally, Vulkan was quiet, and thus, like himself and Corax, overshadowed by their more glory hound brothers.
Jaghatai could hear the shouts outside as the Salamanders cut their murderous swathe through the verdant world. He could hear his First Khan's rallying cry over his internal vox set, as well as his sons' cries of victory and of death, and his anger blazed.
"You will not," he said through gritted teeth, "leave here alive, Vulkan."
Vulkan did not seem to hear him; or maybe he was too lost in the battle-mist that had descended upon him. His only action was to carry on and pummel the Great Khan towards submission. If he killed him, the Emperor would not forgive him, and he had no wish to be like Angron after facing their father's wrath.
However, it wouldn't matter if he hurt him. The Emperor could use the Scars and their skills with the jetbikes; there was no other legion that could use those bikes like they could, and the Emperor did not want them with Horus. And no chance of non-violent conversion remained. The only hope was that he could beat some sense into the Khan.
His hammers continued to aim blow after blow on the Great Khan, until a heaving Jaghatai saw his break. As Vulkan raised his arm once more, Jaghatai waited, then - with a strength born from his injuries and the need to deny his father's plan - he grabbed Vulkan's wrists and pulled himself up. He headbutted his brother and made the Great Drake stagger back and drop his hammers, his hands moving to his face in a reflex action, unpreventable due to his exhaustion and pain. It was not the greatest of moves, but it was one that Russ had nevertheless taught him in one of their friendly spars.
He gripped his sword and, as Vulkan began to orientate himself, he ran it through his brother. The razor-sharp, serrated edge cut through the armour of the Great Drake and into his gene-wrought skin, straight into his main heart. Vulkan howled with pain the likes of which he had never felt before and fell to his knees; his hand gripped the demon hammer that Ferrus had forged for him.
His blood dripped off the sword as Jaghatai pulled it back and struck again, piercing Vulkan's secondary heart, severely damaging it but not entirely ruining it; and before the Khan could strike a third time, he flung it round in a desperate strike. Whether it was planned or not, the hammer connected with his brother's armour and sent the Great Khan flying, back into the wall and through it.
Vulkan knew that the damage done to him would be fatal in a matter of days. He needed to be with his father, who would know how to heal him; no one else could. His secondary heart would suffice for now.
++ Heka'tan, prepare to withdraw. ++
++ My lord – are you harmed? ++
++ Nothing that will kill me. Withdraw; but first I want you to take the best of the Fourteenth and destroy their gene pool. ++
The 14th Captain was silent for a moment and then said ++ we could take some for ourselves, Lord; gene-seed is gene-seed, after all.++
++No, destroy it all, but have Luminor save samples, and - UGH!++
++My Lord? MY LORD! ++
Vulkan's cry echoed around every Salamanders vox and they began to fight their way towards the citadel, fear pounding in their hearts that their father could be dead. A dread began to wash over the Salamanders: without their father they would be at the mercy of the savages, and the Great Khan was not known for his tolerance of enemies.
Vulkan looked down as Khan's sword protruded from his chest, his life-blood dripping in great gene-rich droplets that were starting to pool around him.
"I told you that you would not leave here alive, Vulkan," the Khan hissed, his own demigod body reaching the end of its endurance, his own wounds making it hard for him to barely stand. Vulkan's hammer had smashed much of his ribcage and damaged his internal organs.
Vulkan dropped his hammer as the last of his strength gave out. The Khan staggered against the wall as his bodyguard, the Keshig, finally came in, along with Noray Singh Khan.
"My lord…."
Khan raised his hand to stall any attempt at aid. "Get them off my world; I don't care if you have to kill them all, just get them off my world. This is not over yet."
Singh did not need telling twice; and with the bodyguard, initiated the actions to repulse the Salamanders off Chogoris. Jaghatai sank to his knees beside his brother and looked at him for a long time.
He could not, would not, believe that Vulkan, one of the quietest and most stalwart brothers he had ever had the pleasure to serve alongside, had become this visage of a monster that had been attacking him, like something from Nocturnean or Chogoric legends.
He glanced at the hammer that was lying beside his shallowly breathing brother. It was an exquisite weapon, and only Ferrus could have produced such a marvel of weaponry; but what else was in it, he wondered? Vulkan had been talking to the weapon, telling it to shut up.
"Lord Khan."
He looked up to see a battered and bloody Numeon limp in, behind an equally bloody Jubal Noyan-Khan. Khan knew what they had come for, and he moved the hammer away from his brother's reach.
"I should execute you all," he seethed. "But there have been enough deaths this day. Take your father and know this: there will come a time when we will meet again, and this will be settled then. But I am not Russ, and I will not be the reason my brother is dead. I suggest you get him to his father." Khan narrowed his eyes, his presence intimidating enough to stall any bravado in the Salamanders' eyes. "And give a message to Lorgar from me, Numeon of the Pyre Guard. He will not find me so easy to turn."
With a jerk of their heads, the Pyre Guard that still lived came to their father's side and lifted him gently. Numeon looked at the hammers. Khan picked only the one that Vulkan had forged up and placed it on his brother's chest. The other he left on the floor; and Numeon was not fool enough to argue with a Primarch.
Singh watched as the Apothecaries saw to his father's wounds. He would heal, that much they were certain of; but it would be a while before Jaghatai Khan could take to the field of battle again. Jubal and Bavat Khan stood beside him, and all three men laughed a variation of their deep belly laugh as the Great Khan roared at his Apothecaries to leave him be, and see to the wounded.
The battle for the safety of the gene-seed had been surprisingly easy, and some of the novitiates that had defended the serfs and the adepts were being raised to full Astartes. The 14th company of the Salamanders had all but surrendered when Singh and his men arrived. The Second Captain suspected that it was the sound of Vulkan's defeat that had demoralised them.
He was not surprised: had he heard that groan from his father, he would have been demoralised too. They entered the Apothecarium and stood by their fathers' side. A frown still sat on the Talaskar lord's brow, almost as if he was not happy at the outcome.
Jubal assured him that the hammer that had been wielded by his brother was locked away safely in the vaults, until such time as someone from the Thousand Sons could get here and examine it. Still, something rattled at Khan. The Salamanders were not known for backing down; instead, upon hearing the words of their father, they would have continued fighting to get him to safety and kill everything in their way, rather than surrender.
"They knew you would let them return with Vulkan, that you are not Russ or Angron and would not kill your brother, no matter what you said," Jubal told him when he voiced his concerns. "The Great Khan is not a brother-killer."
An instant later, the explosion ripped up from the Novitiate chambers and straight through the Palace of Quan Zhou.
Amon allowed the humans their rest. He stood guard over them and watched the tunnel they had come down. He did not know how old the earthworks were, but he suspected about half a century, certainly no less. The wooden structure that held the earth tightly back always seemed to threaten a cave-in but, despite its flimsy appearance, it was strong enough to last many decades more, even without maintenance. It was easy to forget, when one's lifespan spanned centuries, how momentary many things in the world still were.
He marvelled at the craftsmanship of the humans who had built this mine walkway. One of the group, the woman by the name of Louise, was partially descended from the very first aborigines of the continent. She seemed to be the de facto leader of the humans, and she certainly knew where she was going. For several twists and turns on their way in, she and the man called Tommy had doubled back, covered the main tracks, and then led the scent off to somewhere else.
Amon had seen this before, and his respect for the people he travelled with grew. Not only did they successfully cover their own tracks, but in order to confuse the inevitable pursuers, they had taken pains to appear their tracks had gone in a different direction. At one point they had borrowed his boots, measured his stride by eyesight only, and made it appear that he had gone another way.
He did not know, however, if it would work - the once-Astartes of the Gal Vorbak would probably smell the true path - but it was worth a try, for the humans worked quickly. Whilst the Humans rested and spoke amongst themselves, he could not help but notice the sideways looks they gave him, and the untrusting light in their eyes. He did not blame them for that: with all things considered, if he were them, he would not have trusted him either.
He cleared his throat a little, making them turn to face him. "I was not here when my – the Custodes and Black Templars attacked. Did any of you lose anyone?"
Louise chewed on some bread and cheese that had been brought along. Amon had politely refused it when it was offered to him. "Margareta lost her brother to a Word Bearer, Kelan lost his entire Family to the Black Templars. They came in and shot them all in front of him, and he barely got away. Tommy was not at home when then Emperor called on our town; he was on his ancient rites of passage. He lost his brother; and Harok, well, he has no family but he lost friends."
"And you?" Amon had seen the gold band on her finger.
Louise glanced at her ring and remained silent for a moment then, hiding her hand, she shrugged. "Same as others, I lost people too"
Amon had worked out that she was the de facto leader of the group. No one else would talk to him; and it seemed to him that as long as he wore his armour, he would remind them of all that they had lost and all that they were going to lose.
"Where were you when the Lions, Templars and daemons came, following the murdering whoreson we all called Emperor?" Louise finally and bluntly asked.
If it had been any other time, then she would have uttered her death sentence. On other worlds conquered by the Primarchs, there was leniency, because the circumstances of losing their worlds' histories was a great trauma, as he believed humans understood it. This world, however, was Terra, the cradle of mankind. Here, the master of mankind was the law, and his rule was perfection... until now. Until he had been lost.
If it had been a Primarch gone crazy, one like Guilliman or Sanguinius, or even Horus, then he might have been able to piece it together with a detachment that separated him from the Astarte brotherhoods. Not this, though. He had been away, supervising the security of Terra on the western islands. When he returned, Constantin had told him what had occurred with the Imperial Truth, and that both he and Malcador had wanted to speak with him.
The rest was defeat. In the space of a few months, his whole reason for existing had gone out the window. "Where was I? Fighting doomed battles, while filled with vain hopes. And watching, step by step, my brothers darken. Until the new pacification of Terra, and our final failure."
Louise saw him walk away and turn his guardian spear over. His badge of office was now a badge of destruction and murder. Getting up, the woman walked over to where he had took up his post and sat across from him.
"You didn't kill those people, Lion…."
"Do not call me that!" He suddenly and venomously said. "The Custodes are gone; they are not what they once were."
"Of course they are," she angrily retorted. "As long as you still live, then what they were still exists. When your lifespan is cut then perhaps, perhaps then they will become what the majority of your brothers are now."
Amon was stunned into silence: no mortal had ever spoken to him like this before and lived. She ran her hand through her brown hair. "I lost my husband and my parents to the Custodes who followed the orders of the demon-Emperor."
"Demon-Emperor?" Amon frowned.
"I have heard tales of what the Emperor did to unite humanity, malevolent or benevolent. Times were different then but this - never have I ever heard any tales of him doing anything like this. And now, when I watch the vidcasts or listen to the voxcasts, I see cathedrals being built all over the planet and hear the mass words spoken by those appointed by the Black Pope. So what would you call your former master?" She glanced back at her companions. "Like it or not, you are the last Lion of the true Custodes and, like it or not, we are to make sure that you get whatever you have been given to the rightful place, even if it means us dying." She got back up. "If Terra is dead, then you are its last breath, Amon of the Custodes; you are the one man that can reach Horus. So, brush you mane, sharpen your teeth, and roar; we have faith in you to do what you have been ordered to do, because if you do not, then someone better switch the light off, for our beloved planet will be lost in an age of darkness."
He watched her return to her friends and thought for a moment or two. A wry smile crossed his face, and he might have started laughing at the fact that he had just been put in his place by a human woman, something that he did not ever remember happening since his mother did it when he was a boy. He still had vague recollections of that, involving him scurrying away. However, before he could even make a sound, the sound of bolter fire and explosions rocked the old mine shaft and ground. A number of the humans cursed; the Gal Vorbak were three times closer to them than expected.
"We have to go," Louise called.
He nodded. "I will bring up the rear; go and I will follow."
None of them needed telling twice. Picking up what little they had, they began to run, Amon right behind them; and he knew that time was short now, for once the aggressors had finished with the town and its inhabitants, they would come for them.
The screams of the human serfs and workers within the ruined monastery of the White Scars could still be heard, even over the falling masonry and rubble. There were pleas for help, cries for parents or loved ones; and with every minute a cry or two fell silent.
Angsar Haren, the Khan of the 19th Brotherhood of the Pinnacle, was aiding in the rescue efforts, not even thinking about what might have happened in the Apothecarium but merely concentrating on finding anyone alive. Right now he did not care if they were Novitiate, serf, or Astarte, as long as their heart or hearts were still beating. He had ordered a vox silence; he was scanning the rubble for signs of life, but the silence was so that he might be able to hear a heartbeat, or a cry, or something else that might aid him and his squad.
He had been out in the training courtyard when the explosion had rocked the mighty citadel. The Salamanders had left one last defiant gesture to the White Scars, and the message was clear: that if they refused to side with the Emperor, Horus would not have them either. He had picked himself off the ground and got together as many of his men as he could find, as well as the Scouts that had been raised into his company.
One such scout was now Battle Brother Yan Shan; he had shown promise in his two decades as a scout, so much so that when Haren had been asked to take him into his company, he had only been too pleased too. Shan was from one of the ancient mountain clans that had sided with Jaghatai Khan during the forging. His senses were unerringly accurate, as were his scouting skills, even before the enhancements of the gene-seed had taken hold of him.
He was not as big as some of his other battle-brothers, but the kid had a wiry strength to him; and right now his senses were exceedingly helpful. With Shan's acute hearing, he had managed to find some Novitiates and two Apothecaries: Brother Klien, one of the Terran-born sons of the Khan, and Brother Jaziar. They were as good as unharmed, and had immediately set to work making a makeshift medical area in the forecourt of the Palace.
Shan now turned to his Captain and pointed in the direction of what had been the cells of the novitiates.
"I do not think we are going to like what is there, Captain."
"Oh?"
"Can't you smell it?"
At first Haren could smell nothing except the acrid tang of explosive and fire, some of which had not yet been put out; but, after he filtered them out and turned to the direction that Shan had pointed, he smelt it without difficulty. It was a foul disgusting smell, one that made him want to heave his stomach contents. He had been on the receiving end of Ork shit once or twice in his service. This odour made that time smell like a feast day in his home clan.
The odour was not just burnt human flesh, which reminded him of overcooked boar; there were other smells too. He voxed for Brother Ong to come and join him, The Apothecary was there within moments, his bare face - as ever - stoic and unemotional, even now. His black hair was tied into a topknot like his khan, and like his khan, his long moustache was beaded and braided.
They inched forward and, after several moments and with Shan's help, they managed to move some of the fallen stonework aside, and stared at the charnel-house within. Burnt human bodies lay next to the dead remains of novitiates who had been trying to save them, most likely when the initial attack had begun. Shan and Haren heard the Apothecary sigh and then utter a curse as he saw the other bodies.
Shan's light swung round to see two green-armoured warriors, laying dead by the central pillar. "Bastards," he swore. "Those murderous bastards."
Haren let him have his moment of anger; it would fuel him in the days to come. He made his way over to the bodies and saw the bolter rounds, and then he saw the body of Captain Zhan, the Khan of the 29th Brotherhood of the Chasm and his own blood-cousin. He bowed his head and clenched his fists. He had obviously seen the terrorists before they could escape and, with the scouts and novitiates that lay dead with him, ended their miserable traitorous existence.
But none of that accounted for the other stench here, something foul, something that had made him want to be sick in the first place. There was no real word he could find to describe it, but perhaps he could compare it to a twisted mirror image of biomantic sorcery. He heard Shan cry out a warning and let loose a hail of bolter fire at the two dead Salamanders that were now starting to rise. He drew his own bolter and fired point blank into their faces, but that did not seem to stop them.
The smell from their bodies was like some rotting vulture's meal; he could hear the swarm of flies that seemed to emit from their wounds, perhaps seeking to infest the other bodies. He roared for his men to form up on his location, and the last words he spoke before his voice was lost in the sound of gunfire and groans chilled his bones.
++ UNDEAD! ++
