Exitus Ultima Chapter 7
There was no escape. Toran knew it to be true. The way forward was blocked and there was no way to retreat without drawing attention. Turn and evade, no, there was no room to manoeuvre. A straight rebuff was doomed to fail, he was outmatched in this arena. A distraction was what he needed, but none were forthcoming. Toran's options had dwindled to none, leaving him with only one conclusion: he was going to have to stand here and listen to this harridan witter on.
Elderly, and dressed in a long black dress streaked with purple, the marks of a high house of Terra upon her shoulder, indicating she was counted among the richest in the galaxy. Name was Intara, or Interra, possibly Ijera, Transhuman recollection failed him in this instance. The woman was speaking low Gothic, Toran was sure of it, but this exact configuration of words baffled him. She had been droning on for several minutes without interruption, seemingly oblivious to the fact the Captain had lost her in the second sentence. She spoke of matters he had no conception of, cultural concepts he had no understanding and people he would never meet.
As the woman waffled Toran gazed longingly over her head. A vast ballroom stretched away, located in the highest spire left on Sacellum. The building at the heart of Dramacus city-state was supposed to be a Cathedral, but the highest level looked suspiciously like a noble's playground. In the vast room choirs sang soothing tunes as gilded Servitors trundled about with platters of sweetmeats and cordial of wine, which they filled from long tables. The room was packed with dignitaries, nobles from across the galaxy, generals, Cardinals, Magos and potentates of various Adeptus. Space Marine officers were present too, shorn of armour and dressed in soft robes. Captains and Chapter Masters, mingling with the mortals. Chapter Master Phalros and First Captain Jemiel were in the crowd somewhere, but the rest of the Storm Herald's Captains were excused, the idea of letting Hakulo or Cyvo lose at a diplomatic function was cringeworthy.
The feast was a victory celebration. Under shining candelabras, which contained thousands of real-wax candles, mortals danced and drank and chitchatted. The Space Marines tried not to look like they wished they were holding bolters, for they had been ordered to be present. The Imperial Regent expected his officers to work with mortals and he led by example. Even now the Primarch mingled with the crowd, head and shoulders above any other. The Armour of Fate marked him out, as did the heavily armed and still armoured Victrix Guard, even among friends a moment of laxity could not be tolerated. Was that all it was, Toran wondered, he'd never seen his Gene-father without that mysterious armour, even in his most private abode. Toran had wondered for some time if perhaps Roboute Guilliman couldn't remove it, none would comment on the matter but Toran's suspicions had not faded.
"And when the Viscountess finally arrived, she was wearing purple!" the harridan exclaimed.
Toran jolted back to the conversation, "And that's good?"
"Good?" she snorted, "Wearing purple, after Sanguinala, it affirms solidarity with the Hy-Brazil Echoes."
"And that's... bad?"
"The Viscountess may as well have worn a silver choker! I don't know what game House Kerer is playing in the Senatorum Imperialis, but it is a dangerous one."
"But you're wearing purple," Toran feebly pointed out.
Her face grew red, "I don't have to stand here and be insulted!" she snapped and stormed off.
Toran breathed out in relief but a low chuckle emanated from behind. He turned to find a pair of warriors standing, hands gripping oversized wine glasses like they were tankards. He didn't know them but the taller was burned across the face and bore the emblem of the Fire Lords on his shoulder. That was fire in his heart and steel in his spine, but his eyes were chips of ice in his face, calculating and without sympathy. The other had vicious scars, pulling his mouth into a permanent leer and his shoulder was bedecked with the Marines Malevolent icon. Belligerence oozed off him, the need to brawl and spill blood, Toran had seen Ork warlords that look less ready for a fight.
"May I help you?" Toran asked warily.
"You're one of the local lads," the Fire Lord stated.
"Captain Toran, Storm Heralds Third Company, and you are?"
"Jaric Phoros, Chapter Master of the Fire Lords. This here is Agrippa, Marines Malevolent, Fifth."
Toran bowed in respect, but not too deeply, Jaric Phoros wasn't his Chapter Master afterall. "I am honoured to meet you, I hear your pacification of Pascum was swift and robust."
"You could call it that," Jaric leered, "Our orbital firestorms took care of most of the rebels."
Toran's face fell, for Pascum was a world under the Storm Herald's aegis'. The Fire Lords had been entrusted to crush a genestealer uprising a few weeks prior, and it seemed they had elected to do it in the most direct way possible. The Fire lords had a reputation for collateral damage, one certainly merited.
Agrippa grinned, "Does the face of true war offend your pretty sensibilities?"
Toran stiffened, "The Storm Heralds are no strangers to war."
"Please, you sit in your safe little sector, putting down rebellions and guarding pilgrims. You haven't faced a real war; not like we have in the Indomitus Crusade. There's a reason you're being left behind, you can't hack it at the front."
Toran considered himself a reasonable Marine but such an insult to his honour could not pass, not least from scum like this. The Fire Lords reputation may be dubious but the Marines Malevolent was damning. A legacy of massed casualties, wanton carnage and waging war on their own kind. Many a Chapter had feuded with the cantankerous warriors in yellow and black, and found them wanting in Brotherhood.
Toran growled, "If you wish to try my mettle, I stand ready to meet you."
"Shall we meet in a formal duelling ring?!" Agrippa jeered, "Dance in circles as ladies faint and lords grope maidens in the stands?"
"I was thinking something more immediate," Toran hissed, "My fists, and your face splattered all over the floor."
"Ha!" Jaric Phoros grunted, "Hahaha, he's got some steel this one. We like you, Captain Toran."
"Was this a test?" Toran blinked.
"If you like," Jaric allowed, "We wanted to know what kind of warrior will be guarding our backs, as the Crusade forges into darkness and death."
Agrippa muttered, "Just so we're clear, I would have beaten the snot out of you."
Jaric grinned, "Don't mind him, his Chapter only signed up to reap the logistical benefits of the Crusade."
"That's not true," Agrippa retorted.
"Oh, so every Forgeworld in the galaxy hasn't cut ties with you, leaving your thugs to scrounge for armour parts?"
Agrippa's face grew dark but Jaric brushed it off, "So what do you think of this sorry lot?"
Toran turned to take in the room, "They seem happy to have won."
"I suppose they would, since they're all getting stinking rich off this Crusade."
"Excuse me?"
Jaric explained, "The noble houses of Terra had ties everywhere, in every sector. They provide arms and men and materials to the Primarch, but in return they expect certain favours. So many shipbuilding contracts, mining rights to reconquered worlds, Governorships and promotion of family members. Settlement rights to start colonies and control of the shipping lanes. I'd wager there isn't a soul in this room who hasn't increased his or her family wealth tenfold since they left Terra, and they expect to do the same again in Segmentum Tempestus. See that rabble talking to the Regent?"
Toran had been following the Primarch's movements the whole time. Currently he was meeting with a delegation of local Cardinals and Prelates. Surrounded by the suspicious eyes of the Victrix Guard he negotiated the minutia of Sacellum's rebuilding project, laying out the needs for an orderly restoration of this planet's infrastructure. Sacellum was a springboard into the southern galaxy, it had to remain firmly in Imperial hands. A deal was struck and hands were shaken, the Primarch's gauntlet engulfing their entire forearms.
"Cardinal Gresham," Toran observed, "A holy man?"
"Gresham is no holy man," Jaric scoffed, "The name alone gives it away, Gresham is a noble house of Terra, one highly placed. His family bought him his ordination, and they expect returns on their investment."
Agrippa snorted, "In the houses of Terra it is traditional for the firstborn son to inherit the title and wealth. The second gets a career in the Guard, with his ascension to Lord Militant greased for him. And the third son gets sent to the Ecclesiarchy. Whichever of them does best gets a seat in the Senatorum Imperialis."
"Why are you telling me this?" Toran pressed.
"So you understand why we needed to be sure warriors guarded our backs, real warriors not courtly fops. We've seen the rot at the heart of the Imperium, the weakness that infests our civilisation and learned to be wary of gilded popinjays."
"Would you trust any of this lot to watch your back in battle?" Agrippa scoffed, "I'd sooner embrace a viper to my breast."
"Well I..." Toran began only to lose his voice as his jaw dropped in shock. Toran was looking straight at the Primarch so had a perfect view of what occurred next and he would never forget what he saw, a moment seared into his nightmares, to be relived over and over. Roboute Guilliman took the Cardinal's hand, engulfing the mortal's forearm in his grip and then froze. Silence rang, reality paused and somehow without anything happening Toran just knew something had passed between them. The hairs on the back of his neck stood upright as alarm rang in his hearts, seeing a shudder pass over the Primarch's stern face. Then Roboute Guilliman crashed to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut.
Suddenly the entire room erupted into screaming and shouting, everyone pushing and shoving to see what had happened. Toran himself was not immune, desperately trying to get nearer. Panic had been cut from his being, but a sense of dread compelled him to push forward, telling him an attack had overcome the Primarch and a desperate pleading for his eyes to tell him it wasn't true. The thought of something hurting his gene-father cut to the hearts of him, a terrible notion he had never truly let form in his mind. The Primarch was indomitable, unbreakable, surely nothing could hurt him.
The way was blocked as the Victrix Guard slammed shields together, creating a wall of Ceramite around the Primarch. Mortals battered at that barrier, howling for answers, their fear overpowering and madness taking hold. The Space Marines were hardly any better, fighting to push through. Their strength and mass was considerable, even without armour, and Toran realised they were going to crush the mortals in the press, squeezing them up against the shields of the Victrix Guard till bones broke and lungs collapsed.
"Get back!" the Victrix Guard bellowed, "Stand back! Apothecaries are coming, stand back!"
"Let us see!" the mortals wailed, "Tell us what's happening! Is he dead? I saw him fall! Let us pray over him! I can help, I'm a herbalist!"
Toran turned to Jaric Phoros and yelled, "They'll kill themselves if we don't clear room!"
"Who cares?!" the Master of the Fire Lords snarled.
"I'll kill everyone in this room if he's hurt," Captain Agrippa snarled.
"They're blocking Apothecaries from getting to him, a second's delay could be fatal!"
"Frak me sideways," Jaric barked, "Clear a path, all Astartes clear a path for the Apothecaries!"
Instantly the Space Marines set to, heaving mortals back and shoving them away. They were rough with their hands and ungentle with their efforts, but it was better than getting crushed in a scrum. Toran physically lifted men and women away, sending them staggering as he dumped them, but no one was killed. With Transhuman size and strength it was the work of moments to clear a corridor, two lines of Space Marines standing shoulder to shoulder as figures in white armour ran between them.
The Victrix Guard parted for the Apothecaries and Toran saw Cardinal Gresham being held aloft by a warrior in blue. Cato Sicarius stood before him barking, "Hold him still, don't let him goad you into killing him. I need him alive; I need him to talk!"
Gresham looked up at the commander and grinned mockingly as he hissed, "Hydra Dominatus."
The Cardinal smashed his jaws together and Toran heard a false tooth shatter. A vicious green froth instantly formed, spilling over his lips and down his chin. Acidic hisses erupted as his jaw began to deform, collapsing inwards as he thrashed and kicked in agony. The acid was potent, eating his skull from the inside out, the neck disintegrating as his head folded inwards, destroying the brain and any chance of post-mortem psychic interrogation. Bowels opened as the man committed suicide, leaving no chance of learning his secrets.
Toran had stopped looking though, the Apothecaries were working over the fallen form of the Primarch, yelling at each other in dismay. Toran could barely see but Roboute Guilliman lay still and unmoving, his skin pale and breath shallow. All vitality seemed leeched from the Primarch's body and a dangerous whirring of overloading machinery emanated from the Armour of Fate, as its arcane Machine Spirits wailed in confusion, unable to cope with whatever was happening.
An Apothecary yelled that they had to get to a proper facility and suddenly all the healers were grabbing at the Primarch. They hoisted him onto their shoulders, a dozen of them taking the Primarch's weight and then they were pushing past. Toran had a perfect glimpse of his Gene-father as they moved and saw a vicious rent on his neck opening, like a smile in a face. He hadn't been struck there but the wound existed nonetheless, Fulgrim's original blow returning to haunt the victim. Ruby drops of blood spilled from that wound, staining the ground wherever it fell and gasps of horror arose from the crowd. Then the Apothecaries were gone, racing to the nearest facility.
The crowd of mortals raced after, half pleading to know what was happening, the other praying for the God-Emperor's hand to reach out and save His son. Toran didn't follow, he stood utterly still, lost for what to do next. For the first time in his life he had no idea what to do and all he could do was stand in dumb confusion, unable to move or speak. He had never believed in divine intervention, that any god would bother to answer his prayers, and in that moment he bitterly regretted that conviction.