Exitus Ultima Chapter 16
"Is there news?" Persion asked with a yearning tone.
Captain Toran could only sigh, "None you want to hear."
"The Primarch?" Smyth dared to ask.
"Clinging on by a thread," Toran lamented, "His state grows more dire with every hour that passes. The blood transfusions are only slowing the poison's progress, stopping it is beyond Imperial science."
That cast a dour pall over the gathering. In the burned-out chapel Third Company was using as a barracks the squads trained ceaseless. The organised calamity of Transhumans honing their skills would have dazzled most folk, but to one who knew their ways their low mood was evident. The lack of banter and boasts, muted rebukes of Sergeants and the hushed whispers over weapon cleaning rites, this lent weight to the bleak mood of the Third. The squads knew their universe hung over the abyss.
Toran had returned to the Primarch's side, only to be rudely rebuffed by Cato Sicarius. Toran continued to find the Marine aggravating, but could not blame him for being blunt. Guilliman's life was slipping away and none could change that fact. Not the rampaging squads tearing Sacellum apart, not the Astropaths meditating over his body, nothing. Toran and his closest friends stood apart from the ranks, discussing these events, so as not to alarm the squads.
"I recommend we keep this to ourselves, for now," Furion advised.
"The squads know about the poisoning, our silence only reinforces their darkest thoughts," Persion countered.
"If we tell them we are getting nowhere then we throw promethium on the fire," Furion stated, "No news is good news."
Novak's towering bulk shifted slightly as he mused, "Perhaps we should get out there and do something?"
"What exactly?" Smyth groaned, "Start kicking down doors and dragging people away, like the other Chapters?"
"Something, anything," Novak urged.
Toran shook his head, "It's getting too volatile out there, tensions are spiralling out of control. Fearful mobs crowd into Cathedrals, praying for the Primarch's life, while wanton criminality runs amok in the streets. Regiments have stopped responding to orders and Chapters are sinking into infighting. The White Scars and Raven Guard are screaming at each other over the vox-waves, the Howling Griffons have sealed themselves in the shrine of Sabastian Thor, for reasons they refuse to explain, and the Mortifactors and Disciples of Caliban are openly shooting at each other in Xeya city-state."
Persion blinked, "I wasn't aware they had a feud going."
"Nobody did," Toran lamented, "It's getting out of hand. Chapter Master Phalros issued a warning to all Storm Heralds to avoid conflict with other Astartes forces, lest we ignite a blood feud."
"So it all comes down to Arvael and Jediah," Furion sighed, "What news of their progress?"
"Our Librarian signals they chase down the Traitors with all vigour. They have found evidence the filth are eliminating loose ends, which suggests there is a trail to follow, an asset they don't want found."
"A cure for Guilliman?" Novak pressed desperately.
"That would be the best case scenario," Toran agreed, "But we must be ready to deploy at a moment's notice, should they call for assistance."
Smyth swallowed audibly then said, "Have we given consideration to the worst case scenario?"
"That the Regent dies?" Furion said, "If that should come to pass, the Imperium is over."
"What, you don't have some pithy quote about winning through with courage and grit?" Novak gasped.
"Lies do not become us," Furion stated, "We all know it to be true. Roboute Guilliman is the one soul in the galaxy every commander respects, the only one all forces will follow without question. But he doesn't have to be everywhere to inspire others to fight on. His value as a symbol of resistance surpasses even his strategic brilliance and strong right arm. So long as a living Primarch bestrides the galaxy then mankind can dare to dream that victory is within our grasp, granting courage to stand and fight. From the Halo Stars to the Galactic core men who will never lay eyes upon the Primarch rally at the mere mention of his name. Without the Primarch the dream of victory is lost, and an army defeated in its heart cannot stand."
Toran couldn't argue the point; he had never felt so hopeless, so defeated. A century had he fought a bleak and hopeless war to save mankind from final extinction. A lifetime fighting the Emperor's wars in full knowledge that he was only delaying the inevitable. The return of Roboute Guilliman had brought a ray of hope, that a lasting victory could be won, that tomorrow could be better than today. To lose the Primarch burned that dream to ash, and that was worse than never having hope at all. It was almost tempting to hate Guilliman for that, to dangle the prospect of hope and then tear it away, it was a wound that could fester.
Toran felt an immense surge of guilt at daring to think ill of his Gene-father, and his face flushed with shame. He resolved to commit himself to six hours of self-flagellation for the Heretical thought, but thankfully his bitterness was punctured as his vox-bead squawked. An alert from the perimeter, someone was coming to visit the Third, and they weren't Storm Heralds.
"Report!" Toran barked as the alert spread.
"Intruders," came the voice of Sergeant Zeax, "Steel Confessors, coming to our door."
"Steel Confessors coming to visit unannounced," Novak mused, "This isn't like them."
"You know them?" Toran asked.
Novak explained, "I met a Steel Confessor champion during the Feast of Blades. A hard bastard for sure, but direct and honest about it. There is no one you would want more at your side in a tight spot."
"Worthy praise, let us see what they want," Toran allowed. He turned and strode to the doors, drawing many curious glances from the squads. They kept to their duties as the Captain passed, not shirking from their rites. Toran stepped outside and was struck by the light of day, the dawn stealing over the city-state unlooked for. He had not realised the hour but did not falter as he strode to the perimeter, where Sergeant Zeax's Devastators confronted a score of Steel Confessors.
Toran cast his eye over them and saw the marks of recent battle. Their plate was cratered and scorched, with stone dust lodged in the joints and heraldry shorn in many places. They must have come straight from battle, not even taking time to anoint their plate with blessed unguents, a parlous dereliction of devotions. For a Machine Cult oriented Chapter to forsake their repairs spoke of dire urgency, and the furious half-face of Iron Father Faeron added to that impression.
Toran stopped before them, one hand on his sword's hilt as Smyth set the Company standard down. Faeron didn't look impressed, though he gave Novak a lingering look, the magnificence of the Dreadnought's frame drawing begrudging admiration. Toran knew little of this Marine, save he ranked high in his Chapter's bizarre hierarchy, not a Chapter Master, but esteemed enough to command the Steel Confessor's contingent in the Crusade.
"Hail cousin," Toran declared, "What aid may the Storm Heralds lend unto you?"
"Save the formal greetings," Faeron spat, "The Alpha Legion, tell me where they hide, immediately!"
"You do not command us," Furion rebuked, "Speak softly, or earn our displeasure."
"I fear nothing, not least the yapping of you nobodies."
The insult drew glares and the Devastators behind adjusted their heavy bolters a fraction, ready to open fire on command. Toran struggled to keep his voice level, "If you seek answers, speak with respect."
"I speak as I will!" Faeron spat.
Novak cut in, "You come to our door wanting aid and open the conversation with insults. I thought you belligerent, not stupid."
Surprisingly Faeron fell quiet at the rebuke, seemingly mollified by the Dreadnought's admonition. Perhaps it was his Machine Cult training but the Iron Father accepted the humbling rebuke from a half-dead War Machine, where a living warrior of flesh and blood would only stoke anger. Faeron lowered his head and waved his kin to stand back, dispelling the tension.
"I offer contrition," Faeron said, "I come straight from battle and my blood boils."
"Perhaps you should tell us what happened," Novak urged.
Faeron sighed, "We were scouring the catacombs and ran across a nest of Traitors: Alpha Legion, the vile curs themselves. We engaged them in battle and were on the cusp of victory, but they employed insidious wiles to evade us. They cast a spell to teleport away, leaving mobs of suicide bombers behind to bring the cavern down upon our heads. They sent a dozen of my Brothers to the Omnissiah's halls, twice as many lie in sus-an-membrane comas. We score are all that remains of the Steel Confessors' contingent."
Toran understood Faeron's wroth, to suffer such losses was harrowing, "I feel your anger kinsman, and I share your eagerness to find the Traitors and destroy them."
"I thought you may know something of these curs," Faeron sighed, "Perhaps where they may lie."
"If we knew that, we'd be assaulting them ourselves," Persion snorted.
Toran saw Faeron's anger spiking and snapped, "Brother, for the next few minutes contemplate the virtues of silence. Iron Father, I speak truly when I say we seek any possible lead to their location. We have tangled with these curs on occasions and found them to be wily and elusive, their base is well hidden, even from us."
Faeron pressed, "You have fought these particular foes before, can you lend us any insights into their weaknesses?"
Toran answered, "The Alpha Legion is insidious by nature, that is their strength but also their weakness. They have a tendency to overthink, to lay elaborate schemes that wrap one in chains of confusion, when a simple bolt round to the head would suffice. Several times we have defeated them by driving straight at a problem with bold courage, shattering their convoluted schemes."
Furion added, "Show them a straightforward plan and they'll have added three deceptions and a betrayal before you've finished speaking."
Faeron concurred, "That is my experience too."
"You have fought them?" Toran asked.
"Far from here, on the worlds of the Orion's Diaspora. A warband was pulling the whole sector into the warp, moving from planet to planet, summoning Daemonic hordes to devour worlds one at a time. The Steel Confessors intercepted them on the world of Hezaria, before they could enact their foul rituals. The cowards hid behind the lives of civilians, using Imperial citizens as living shields against our orbital bombardments, trusting we would not make the necessary sacrifices to root them out. But they underestimated our resolve."
"You burned the cities?" Toran gasped.
"With great reluctance," Faeron stated, "It was not done out of cruelty or malice, but the Alpha Legion had to be stopped at any cost. Scores of worlds stood in peril, the lives of a few million bystanders could not be held above the billions who would suffer if we allowed the fiends to escape. Some may call it callous but I stand by the decision, and accept the burden of guilt. I mourn the lives lost, even as I know that it was by my order they died."
Toran would never have countenanced such a strategy, but judged Faeron was sincere. A hard warrior to be sure, but not a blood-soaked slaughter lord like some others he could mention. Lesser men would spin words to deflect blame, to say it was the Alpha Legion's fault, but the Steel Confessor had nothing in his soul save bare truth. Faeron owned his decisions and did not hide from the consequences of his deeds.
Toran nodded, "I wish I could tell you what you wish to know, but I can only promise you this, should we find the filth first we will stand with you in battle."
"You would do such a thing?" Faeron asked warily.
Toran extended his hand, "There are too many Chapters working at cross-purposes already, it seems wasteful to me. I offer you the hand of friendship, if only you promise to do the same."
Faeron glared at the proffered hand then took it saying, "The great Ferrus Manus spoke: it is not weakness to ask for help, weakness is to deny that help is needed. I came here expecting to have to beat answers out of you, instead I find a willing ally."
"I would be proud to stand with you, when the time comes," Toran affirmed as he let the grip drop.
"When that hour comes the Traitors should beware," Faeron agreed as he turned and strode off.
The Steel Confessors departed, leaving the Storm Heralds to breathe out in relief. Furion exhaled, "That came too close to a shooting match."
"You do have a way with people," Smyth agreed.
"Merely helping them that see we all want the same thing," Toran deflected.
Novak however pointed out, "This all hinges upon finding the Alpha Legion first."
Toran's good mood evaporated as he admitted, "Then it all comes down to Arvael and Jediah. We can only trust they are on the right path, else this is all for nought."