Warmaster

Clocks struck midnight, bells Palace-wide rung deep and heavy. The metallic ringing echoed through majestic and rich hallways, corridors, chambers, gardens, courtyards and more. In a room deep in the Inner Palace, not more than five kilometres from the Throne Room, was a vast chamber lined with advanced cogitators, pict-screens and vox-casters. The vast amount of incoming information and dispatched orders of a galaxy at war was supported by fifty data-looms a half-kilometre beneath the chamber's marbled floor. The occupants ranged from tech-priests that supervised data-watchers, cogitator-operators and technologians, while Imperial Army and Space Marine officers pored over the battle reports and casualty lists. In its centre a fifteen metre hololithic map of the galaxy hovered, slowly spinning. Blue stood for Imperial forces, crimson for traitor, yellow for battles in progress, orange for secessionists, white for unknown allegiance, and grey for unexplored space.

The chamber was known as the Strategium Imperialis, and it was where the Imperium's military commander directed the war against the War Commander. The reinforced adamantium doors hissed open to admit three primarchs, followed by several of their progeny. Hundreds of men and women stood in respect, all that were in attendance. The demigods paused at the overview dais.

Horus Lupercal, Sixteenth Primarch, First Found, Favoured Son of the Emperor, and Warmaster of the Imperium, stood tall, strong, the epitome of strength and charisma given flesh.

His eyes were grey, flecks of blue and green amidst them, his noble face sculpted as if from stone. To his right stood Rogal Dorn, the Seventh Primarch, the Stoic Son, Fist of the Emperor, the Vigilant, and Emperor's Praetorian. Resplendent in his golden armour, Dorn folded his arms as he studied the holo-map.

To Horus' left stood the Fourteenth Primarch, the Reaper, Death Lord of Barbarus, Mortarion. The intricately designed rebreather, gifted to him by the Emperor on their first meeting, sighed quietly as the primarch breathed in and out. His manreaper Perseverance ever at hand, as were two Deathshroud who stood forty-nine paces away, watchful for assassins and threats, as were the Luperci bodyguards of Horus and the Huscarls of Dorn. The Night of Silent Knives had shown that the Arch-Traitor had supporters in the Palace itself, and the safety of the three Loyal Primarchs could not be risked.

The Warmaster glanced at the map, noting the changes since yesterday. In the twelve hours he had been gone from the Strategium, the situation had worsened, with few exceptions. The war was barely six months old, but it had caused far more damage to his father's empire than the previous two hundred years of crusading combined had done.

Flexing the Talon-carrying hand, he cleared his throat. All eyes were on him, awaiting his command.

"Let us begin."

The sounds of bodies seating, chairs scrapping, voices murmuring, and hums of energy increasing occurred in that moment. The three primarchs, their attendants and messengers ready for commands, prepared for another long day of organising and directing the galactic-wide civil war.


Twelve hours passed in the Strategium. Orders were sent, new information received from the City of Sight and Terran Command, forcing certain orders to be edited then sent again. Battlegroups were ordered from one sector to another, Army divisions ordered to advance, retreat or hold in a thousand star systems and Space Marine forces sent on strikes against traitor forces.

Horus took note of the information that Perturabo had secured Olympia from rebels, and was recalling available Fourth Legion assets to assemble a mighty war-fleet in his home system. The Warmaster quickly read his brother's communiqué, nodding as he finished. Glancing at the messenger, he spoke, "Tell my brother that I have received his message and agree with its contents. He may proceed as he sees fit."

The grey-clad mortal bowed and left to take the message to the City of Sight. Reports of the day filled the Warmaster's mind, sifting through what was more important over what was less.

Sanguinius had arrived to Baal Secundus, taking on new legionnaires and doing quick repairs to the Ninth Legion fleet, repairing some of the damage suffered over Bellanor IV. Russ continued to track Magnus, heading towards the galactic rim, though trusted spies in Fulgrim's ranks reported that hundreds of Fifteenth Legion Astartes were in the 28th Expeditionary Fleet and that nightmares of a one-eyed red giant haunted the dreams of many mortals. Communicating with Russ was all but impossible as increasing warp storms made long range astropathic communication an arduous task to even attempt.

Contact with Guilliman's Realm had been lost. The last known information was that the Iron Hands and Word Bearers were laying waste to Ultramar, billions dead already and Guilliman on the defensive throughout the Five Hundred Worlds. Lion El'Jonson had informed Terra that he was aware of the Heresy, but could not disengage from the Shield Worlds Campaign, his Legion mired in combat on a half-hundred worlds. The First Primarch stated he would finish the war there and make way to the Throneworld as soon as was feasible.

Isolated reports detailed Jaghatai and his Scars running amok among undefended worlds, enslaving millions and butchering the rest. The loss of the Warhawk was a blow to the Imperium and a personal affront to Horus. He was bitter over their last conversation and had wanted to right the wrongs spoken there, but his pride and duties interfered with the apology he meant to give Jaghatai. With the Khan standing beside the Phoenix in treachery, that apology would never happen. The Fifth was no longer a friend of his, but an enemy to be despised. Though most of the Khan's actions were against unimportant worlds, several battles were over supply depots, muster points and shipyards. Where the Warhawk ventured, only death and smoking ruins was left behind.

Night Lord terror-fleets plagued the Imperium, forcing hundreds of worlds to switch allegiance out of fear. Those that did not were ruthlessly put to the death, as was the case with Murdock. With the Murder as an example, countless billions flocked to the Phoenician, uncaring that they were now rebels, their only thoughts were of their immediate safety. Curze and many of his legionnaires spearheaded the traitor advance, softening up worlds for the main traitor offensive to arrive, or ensuring chaos reigned on worlds deigned to be conquered by the Arch-Betrayer.

Angron's World Eaters guarded the flanks of principal offensives, ensuring none could stop the drive towards Terra. The Red Angel broke Imperial counter-attack after Imperial counter-attack, surging forward to take advantage of overstretched loyalist forces. Raven Guard contingents had been seen fighting beside the World Eaters, which directly contradicted other reports where the Nineteenth Legion struck from the dark against the rebellion, assassinating traitor officers and disrupting their supply lines. Though it was clear Corax fought for the Emperor, establishing contact was all but impossible. The Ravenlord refused to answer hails from Horus, rather willing to fight the war his way.

Jaw clenched in frustration, the Warmaster turned his attention to the mini-hololithic of the Sol System's edge near Pluto, where the Death Guard survivors from Bellanor were being monitored and interrogated, searching for possible traitors hiding in their midst. Already nineteen had been earmarked as Typhon followers. The Death Lord's manreaper was soon to execute them all.

The Salamanders were also in the system, but not monitored or interrogated to the degree the XIV legionnaires were experiencing. Vulkan lay in the Emperor's laboratories, recovering from wounds suffered at the Massacre. It would be days until the Lord of Drakes was ready to walk. The wounds suffered during the Exodus would have killed a primarch, but Vulkan was projected to make a full recovery. When Horus asked his father how could Vulkan not only survive but recover, the Emperor had gone silent and responded, "Every one of my sons inherited gifts of mine. Vulkan inherited a rare one."

Shaking his head at his father's mysteries, Horus turned his attention back to the galaxy map.

The Alpha Legion was seen to be everywhere, yet none knew where Alpharius was. His location unknown, intercepted orders cryptic at best, and Hydra legionnaires were toppling world governments across all five Segmentums, crippling Imperial industry and sowing destabilisation. A thousand pinpricks, but even a pinprick draws blood.

When the bells began to ring signalling noon, Horus, Dorn and Mortarion left the Strategium. A dozen legionnaire officers remained behind to organise and prioritise the endless reports for the next day's cycle. The primarchs departed for the midday meal. They ate, making small talk, discussing various topics, but it came around to the war, it always did. They were made for war, forged for it, designed to lead it, to wage it. This war would be their test, their crucible. The Imperium of Man would never know peace. If Fulgrim were to die tomorrow, his betrayal would echo through the ages, forever tainting Mankind's Manifest Destiny and the creatures that fought beside Fulgrim were whispered as daemons, revealing the Imperial Truth to be a lie, or at best a false truth.

As the meal was finished, taken away by a liveried Palace servant, Horus looked at his two brothers. They knew what he was thinking; he had pondered it for weeks now. But a decision must be made now.

"As today showed, our efforts to stop Fulgrim are not enough. I will authorise the deployment of the Sixteenth Legion to the frontlines."

Mortarion nodded gravely, Dorn's face seeming not to register the words but Horus knew better.

The Praetorian spoke, "When will you let them know?"

Horus sipped his wine before answering. "Tonight."


Garviel Loken, Captain of the Sixteenth Legion's Tenth Company and member of the Mournival, looked out over new moon, the slight silver-white crescent giving some light to the courtyard. His genhanced eyes allowed him to easily see despite the darkness. His eyes roamed the simplistic courtyard, known as Court of the Wolf. Loken had not been an officer then, only a legionnaire, but he knew the tale.

This was where the Eleventh Primarch was brought to; this is where he became lost to all. If Loken had been there that day, he would have wept. Was the removal of the Second and Eleventh a sign of things to come?

We will never know.

Shaking off his melancholy, the Son of Horus heard footsteps clad in ceramite approaching. Tarik Torgaddon walked into the Court. The two exchanged pleasantries until they heard two others approach.

First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon and Captain Horus Aximand, the other two of the Mournival, joined their brothers.

"Why have we been summoned?" asked Little Horus.

"The primarch wishes to tell us something, I suspect," Tarik quipped.

As Aximand and Torgaddon went back and forth in friendly jabs, Loken glanced at Abaddon. The First Captain's armour was different than theirs, signalling his leadership of the Justaerin; black versus the Cthonian sea green with black trim.

Before conversation could start between he and Abaddon, another joined their presence.

"My sons," murmured Horus Lupercal.

The four Mournival members turned towards the voice and bowed their heads, fist brought to chestplate in salute.

The Warmaster moved towards them.

"My sons," he repeated, "today will be a day marked in history."

"Why is that, Lupercal?" asked Torgaddon.

"Because this is the day the Sons of Horus joined the war directly."

The air became electric. Loken saw Tarik tilt his head, pondering. Aximand nodded as if he expected this, while Abaddon looked… content, relieved almost.

"It is time the XVI joined the frontlines, time that we took the war to the Arch-Betrayer. You will be my wrath, the sharp edge of my blade. You four will lead the Sons in the battles to come."

"We? But what of you, my lord?" asked Abaddon, face contorted in confusion and, if Loken read his brother right, worry.

"I will remain here, directing the war effort. My duties as Warmaster require me to stay."

"But Lord Dorn-"

"My brother has to focus on fortifying Terra," the primarch's voice was sharp, but his face softened and he spoke again, not unkindly. "Do not mistake me, Ezekyle, I wish that I could abandon this politicking, the endless administration, the waiting. But I cannot. I am not just Primarch of the Sons of Horus, but Warmaster of the Imperium. My responsibilities of the two do not supersede the other; I must strike a balance between them."

The Warmaster looked over them all, judging, calculating.

"Now," he began, "let us talk of your orders."


Less than an hour had passed, but much was discussed. Data-slates were given from father to sons, orders expanded in depth there as well as administrative details, Astartes numbers and more; everything necessary to wage a campaign.

Lupercal dismissed them, knowing that the next few days would be very busy for them as the preparations to deploy began. Loken remained behind. He watched the primarch's back, not knowing how to approach the subject.

"Garviel, come forth. We will speak of your unease."

The Space Marine complied, standing beside his father, neither looking at the other.

A moment of silence passed before Loken had to utter, "Why?"

The primarch was silent for a moment.

"Ezekyle is proud, loyal, brave, doubtless in his convictions, and an excellent commander on the battlefield. Wherever my First Captain fights, I expect the enemy to shake in fear. He is my aggression, my fury.

"Tarik is a charmer, a jokester. But underneath that he is inspirational, bundling my charisma and humour to act as an excellent mediator. He is my connection to the inner thoughts, hopes and dreams that reside in the hearts and minds of the Legion.

"Little Horus is a vaunted commander, beloved by the men, and does the necessary when called for. He is the mirror of me, my son in blood and manner."

Horus turned to Loken.

"But you are the most unique of the Mournival in many ways, perhaps it is because you are the newest inductee. You voice unpopular opinions, you stand by your beliefs, and will not do what is easiest or simple, but you do what is right. You see not the next step, nor the one after, but several in advance. You are methodical, cautious, the one who is not afraid to speak his mind, no matter if it clashes with my own. In an older age, you would have been known as the 'devil's advocate.'"

The Warmaster rested a hand on Loken's shoulder, warm, fatherly, kind. "I have never properly thanked you for saving my life."

"My lord, I-" Loken stopped at the primarch's raised hand.

"It was your decision to place me in stasis, it was your decision to go to Terra, it was your decisions that kept me alive long enough for the Emperor to purge the corruption from my body. You convinced the others, and their respect for you has grown."

The Warmaster withdrew his hand. "A commander, much less a primarch, cannot surround himself with yes-men, blind or mindless followers, or those that feel he can do no wrong. Three of the Mournival will leave to fight the traitors, but you will stay for I need you here. You have aspects of the others, their strengths with few of their weaknesses."

Loken bowed his head in acceptance.

"Do not fear, Garviel. You may remain behind on Terra as my advisor, but that does not mean you will be idle. Worlds throughout the Segmentum are in rebellion. Ezekyle, Tarik and Horus will not go there, they have other battles to fight, but you are a Son of Horus, war is your birth-right. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lupercal." And Loken did. His belief that had fostered during the briefing that he was unworthy to join the others had vanished. The rest of the Mournival may cross blades with the Arch-Traitor's armies, but Loken would remain to ready Terra for when the war comes to it. He would stand by the primarch's side, acting as his devil's advocate, and fight the battles no others would.

"Good," spoke the First Found. "Now let's go, there is still much to do."


Ten days later the bulk of the Sons of Horus left Sol, broken into several taskforces and fleets. First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon departed with fifty thousand legionnaires, Captain Tarik Torgaddon and Captain Horus Aximand with forty thousand apiece. Five thousand legionnaires were sent to Cthonia to ready the Legion homeworld for war, quieting the endless gang warfare, and arming the populace. When Fulgrim would assault Terra, he would first have to take Cthonia. What would remain in Sol would be twenty-five thousand Astartes held in reserve, commanded by Captain Garviel Loken, and the Warmaster's five hundred strong Luperci bodyguard.

Though the primarch would rarely leave Terra as the demands of war forced him to coordinate the loyalist military might, his sons would fight across the Imperium, bleeding the traitors as they moved inexorably to the Throneworld. Many victories would be won, many defeats suffered, but nonetheless the Sons of Horus brought their unquenched fury to the War Commander's forces as the war entered its next stage.