"My Lord, long range auspex have detected ships of unknown origin entering the system."
Rogal turned to the flatly delivered and gruff syllables of one of his countless officers, the unaccented Inwitian method of speaking bringing back distant memories of when this had all been a surprise to him so long in the span of the past for now he remembered everything. Here in the second chance, the strange reliving of events as part of an eldritch wager it was happening again, but in ways that were changed by his foreknowledge of them. Some events had transpired as they had before, as an infant he had been transported to this world, he had been taken to the Ice Hives to be raised, he had been accepted into the house of Dorn as a son, he had been raised by the man he came to know as a Grandfather inculcated in the ways of the Ice Clans, he had risen in the house, watched the first man he'd loved as a "father" grow old and die, he had struck out across the stars with the coldly tempered might of the Ice Clans and conquered a demi-empire of his own. And today was the day his true father came, he had never asked before what had brought him here, whether it was just a compliance or whether he was somehow able to intuit this is where he had come to rest.
If his father knew now what he know then…which was, strangely, now, he would order the ships to open fire on the planet, or, perhaps, reach out to his mind from a distance for Rogal Dorn knew everything. It was impossible to fathom whether it was a strange mercy on the part of the Ruinous Ones, the unborn, or part of their twisted perceptions of an endgame. But they had made the wager after millennia of trying to turn him, trying to corrupt him, that they would grant him a second chance. The unknown and twisted passage of time had rolled on as it did, distorted and unfathomable in the immaterium, from the day he fell on the traitor's ship and in that intervening time the spirit of ruin had accosted him with a constancy that he almost admired. The determination of it, the whispered promises, the bargaining…the suffering can end, the pain and torment will cease, open yourself to us. It amused him to even consider it, if they knew the pain and torment he had experienced in his spirit, in his very flesh, at having failed so utterly was worse than any of the trillions of torments they visit upon him.
The only voices, the only spirits, the only vile creations of the warp that ever gave him pause were the quiet voices of his fallen brothers. There came a point he no longer looked at them as the reprehensible traitors as they told him truths he had never considered. Magnus, Lorgar, and Angron spoke to him at times, their voices no differentiated to what he could perceive of his own thoughts in the jumble of the immaterium. His three twisted brothers, driven forth by the tragedy of their own creation and the purpose for which they had been created. Magnus in particular bared all his secrets, laid forth the unvarnished truth of what had befallen him, he was a loyal son, devoted to their father, but through treachery, through hubris he had been driven to this point. Lorgar, his tale was of his subtle twisting by the hands of wickedness within his own circle and the apathy of their father. Of course, he had not framed it that way, he gave lip-service to the idea that this was the true path, his only path, but in the tales sung to his mind through days or centuries or eons Rogal had seen the threads and in pulling them, found the nature of the weave. Angron…pitiable Angron was destined for his fall, by the Butcher's Nails driven in his head and the kernel of resentment their father had sown in him.
Mortarion was always silent, as was Perturabo, which was disappointing because, perhaps, here in the ending of all things, he could seek some measure of reproach with the brother with whom he had struck the strongest note of discord. For time immeasurable the Ruinous Powers sought to turn his soul, to give him flesh again, to make him their champion, whispering and roaring and beguiling and entreating that they would make of him the champion that Horus could never be. They swore he would be the Lord of Balance, the Lord of True Reason, and in his wake man would find purpose beyond the strict model of his father, he would let humanity shine and shine brighter than it ever could, tempered with law and reason and rationality but free in spirit and self-determining. How often this had been tempting, an offer worthy of taking, for when they spoke to him they spoke rationally. But loyalty, his loyalty and his shame at failure drove him to spurn them again and again and again.
Then they had made the wager, "If you think you can defeat us, that you can prevent the inevitable, we will send you back, to the very beginning, and you will come to see that the fate that befell the Anathema and his Imperium was simply one of many possible facets."
It had been their most deftly crafted manipulation for it presented a challenge that was rooted in Rogal's very spirit; that no situation was unwinnable, that no conflict could not be withstood. And as he spoke the words, the agreement formed, the pact sealed, he awoke in the biting cold, the chilling ice, the driving snow of Inwit. Even as he felt the instinctive thrust of infancy overtake his conscious mind, he still remembered it all, everything he had experienced in the materium and immaterium alike, and this was the weapon they granted him for their challenge and with this weapon he would save not only his father, but his brothers too, and in a bright future for humanity, they would triumph.
"How many ships have we detected?" He rumbled to the technical Sergeant whose duty it was to monitor the personnel who manned the Eastern Night-Side Auspex satellites.
"My Lord, we could not get a definitive count but…"
Of course, he would not want to say it, in a situation where his word presaged possible invasion. One of his rank still had the curse, or perhaps luxury, of being insecure in their position.
"Tell me, Sergeant, we cannot change the path as laid before us, but we can choose how we shall travel it."
"Seventy three, my lord."
Seventy three…this was more than when he'd first come to Inwit…but what was he thinking? This was the first time he had come to Inwit. Of course, the fact Rogal had expanded the borders of the Star Cluster beyond what they had been in the previous incarnation of this existence might have colored his attitudes towards that of a potential rival who had to be quelled. If Hashin Yonnad was not conducting a review of Araneus Prime right now, his fleet would still be present above Inwit and would likely give the Emperor's fleet pause about having entered the system. As it was he still had fifteen ships in Orbit along with the Phalanx retinue, he could not let his father know he had expected him, had known he would arrive. Similarly, he could not give his own people pause to wonder what he would do about this potential invader.
He turned to his adjutant. "Order all our ships to displace to the day-side, facing the planet's surface at a range of forty five hundred kilometers, if they attempt a landing, we will knock them from the heavens and there feet will never touch the ice."
And part of him began to consider now if this was not exactly what would occur, perhaps the grand wager of the Ruinous Powers was meant to illustrate only hopelessness and he would be returned to his torment, if that was the case it was a brilliant gambit, and while it did kindle a mote of concern in him he was impressed by the forethought.
"Should we issue a recall order to Yonnad, my lord?" Lieutenant Belkiss inquired. Under most situations that would be his first order, in the past when they had faced invasion via enemy void fleets they had been able to hold with the Phalanx alone, with twenty other capital ships he had in orbit, he'd be able to trounce most foes with ease, but against seventy three imperial warships he would not be able to hold long enough for Yonnad's fleet to return. It was a rational suggestion on the part of the young officer, but he did not grasp the weight of the foe they could, potentially, be facing.
"Inform him of potential invasion, but issue no recall, tell him to await an update at the end of the first days. It would take three solar days before he received the message, we will hold with what we have available should they prove belligerent." Dorn declared, "Summon my available commanders we will brief them on the threat, I will arrange the potential ground defense then lead the void battle from the Phalanx."
"If they are hostile, my lord." Belkiss supplied.
"Yes, if they are hostile."
His father's fleet took three days to reach Inwit, and they approached with the martial bearing he expected, void shields raised, fighters and landing craft scrambled, no doubt at the ships crested the northern polar void plain of Inwit they readied teams to board or, alternately, repel boarders. It was what he would have done in a compliance, but then again, Rogal knew this day would come with the specific certainty that he had opted to spend the day in the strategium in anticipation of the message of ships coming from the void. He too must play his role, the role of Lord of Inwit and its Star Empire, the role of a warlord who would stand against the Imperium of Man until the appearance of his father. The actions of his father's fleet indicated they were reticent upon viewing the Phalanx and warships arrayed against them. The odds were vastly in their favor by dint of numbers, but the void shields and guns of his ancient fortress barge were a match for any ten ships of his father's fleet and the admirals seemed to recognize this.
"Should we prepare to engage, my Lord?"
Rogal turned to look back at Captain Kerwin, the man was practical and skilled, but perhaps too direct to divine the subtleties currently being demonstrated by this father's fleet masters. Optimally, they would have sent their fighter screens forward by now, leaving firing lanes open for them to engage, they would have not closed to these kinds of ranges before offering first fire in a void exchange. They were feeling him out, watching for reaction, likely at the order of his father, which meant that he either knew or suspected Rogal was here.
"No, if they desired a battle, they would have fired by now, better to let them say their piece then we can act if needs so dictate."
"As you command, my Lord."
The stalemate that ensued lasted seven standard hours neither side displacing. Shuttles and fighters flitted about the Emperor's ships but the massive void-craft remained unmoving. Rogal could imagine the blizzard of vox hails between ships, the Astropaths communicating with distant battle groups, and his father pondering what action to take.
In the fifth hour Rogal had shifted his weight from his left leg to the right, in the sixth he had scratched above his left brow, but he had been otherwise utterly unmoving as he stared at the projections of the "unknown" fleet.
"My Lord?"
He turned his head to look at Custus, the old Sergeant standing to his right holding a great steaming bowl. "Broth, my Lord? You haven't taken a meal or rested your eyes for seven hours."
Custus had been a boy when Rogal had met him, forty three standard years ago his clan had given him up to the Ice Clan in vassal levy. He had been one of the first he had ever trained and the wiry youth of fifteen had been an awkward pupil. The clumsiness of his age brought about frequent mistakes, accidents, little derelictions that were no peculiar for a young man but had not place among the warriors of Inwit. Once, Rogal had led detachment into the twilight lands for a fifty kilometer survival course. Days spent marching in the perpetual gray bounded to the right by the pale light of the Inwit's red and distant sun and on the left by the endless night. They marched through snow drifts that could rise above a man's head, nights spent with their backs to one another, alternating teams into the warm center of the circle as those that formed the circumference watched for threats from without. On the second day, Custus had stepped into a drift after receiving his ration of soup and it had spilled, becoming one with the snow and ice too quickly to see in the endless washed grey of this world that was half dawn and half twilight. Rogal gave up his ration to Custus without hesitation, a commander was oath bound to see to the wellbeing of his men, one day he may be required to spend their lives, but not this day and not in such circumstances.
Custus had served him from that day with skill where he possessed it and fervor to match it where he did not and always, always would Custus bring him warm broth on a long duty or watch or endless hours in a strategium.
"Thank you, Custus." He declared as he took the bowl from the small mortal, lifting it to his lips and sipping at the steaming fluid. The flavors of seal meat and rime chicory subtle against the fish stock, the tastes of Inwit, the tastes of home. Terra…was Terra his home? Even in his service to his father, he never thought of any world but Inwit as home.
"So many ships." Custus muttered.
"Many, yes. But they hold, they are not so confident of their odds as their numbers would dictate."
"Perhaps…" The senior sergeant's words failed as soon as he spoke them.
"Perhaps?" He prompted.
"Perhaps, my lord, they do not desire battle, perhaps they have not come here for that purpose."
Rogal knew their reason for being here, knew what their arrival portended for this world, but he had always been nothing more to his people than a wise leader, he did not desire them to view him as anything else, not a seer, not a sage, not a god.
"Perhaps you are correct." Rogal drained the remainder of the broth then turned to the dock master, "Open the primary hanger and activate the landing signal lights, they may wish to present an emissary to speak of what business they have with us."
The Dock Master nodded, "It shall be done, my lord."
Rogal turned back to the aged sergeant, "Come, sergeant, I should be present for any emissary they may elect to send."
Custus nodded, supplying Rogal with the grim smile of Inwit, "I will assemble your vanguard, my lord."
Four more hours elapsed, standing just inside the bay, open to the star with the intangible barrier of the bay's void-shield holding the atmosphere in. It would be so simple for a being to just step through the shield and greet their demise as the emptiness of the void sucked the air from your lungs, the moisture from your upper tissues and then either froze or baked you given your relative position to a system primary and the unseen energy currents of the blackness.
His men had tried to remain still, at attention, ready to present the martial precision of Inwit, but for mortals such as they, it was a cruel thing to ask so he had told his men to rest. They had settled around the bay, sitting, lying down, conserving their strength and focus for the possible arrival and the martial fanfare such a thing would dictate. But Custus, old Custus remained on his feet and at his side, leaning on the pole on which the banner of the Ice Clan hung.
"Custus," Rogal said softly, "there is no reason for you to remain standing, old friend."
"My lord, you still stand."
"I do, but it is because I choose to."
"Didn't you always say, you'd never require anything of us you would not do in our place?" Custus inquired, the fatigue clear in his voice.
"I did, but that does not mean you are required to do as I do."
"I wouldn't consider myself above doing as you do, my lord."
"So should I arrange for you to wrestle and ice lion?" Rogal turned his head to look down at the mortal.
Custus laughed, then his voice halted, "Did you truly, my lord?"
Rogal nodded, "I did."
Custus laughed again as he shrugged off his helmet and sat it on the deck, placing himself on it as an ad-hoc seat, his hand still holding up the banner, "You win, Lord Dorn."
Before Rogal could reply the vox in the hanger crackled to life, "My Lord, a large shuttle had departed the largest of their ships with a fighter escort on a standard intercept course with the hanger, we estimate its arrival in fifteen minutes."
The soldiers began to rouse themselves, behind him and to the right he hear Custus grunt as he leaned into the banner pole to rise. Rogal held out his right hand, "You can wait ten minutes, sergeant."
"As you say, my lord." The elderly non-commissioned officer deferred, settling back onto his helmet-stool.
Rogal glanced around the bay, moving his head only minimally as he looked over the old shrine that had been erected near one of the embarkation lines. It was in devotion of the One God that the Inwiti worshipped, a holdover faith before the dark age of technology. Soon the worship of him would be banned, and even know some of the elite of his Inwitian vanguard kneeled before it to make their devotions, their prayers for favor equally ancient. One of this father's mistakes was present here, the words of praise, the beseeching of favor, this words did not wind their way to the Ruinous Ones, they entered the warp and drifted to the ones of which the Ruinous powers did not speak, they who presence he had felt as an inquisitive brush before brushing him away. These were older intelligences, older powers made weak in the epoch of strife and excess and contrivity, but they heard the prayers of the ancient faiths and, on occasion, deigned fit to offer their miracles as subtle moves of the immaterium breaching into reality.
Knowing not their names, he offered words to them, in silent beseeching, that he may correct the wrongs in the age to come and that mankind may come to a fuller and more complete glory.
The familiar form of a Solkar pattern Stormbird slid in through the void shield, its form painted in steaming frost over the baroque gold accents the way he remembered it looking. His retinue had formed themselves in ranks, the shield-men to the fore with the rifles lined behind them. To his right Custus stood with the banner of the Ice Clan at attention. The hatches lowered and he saw the Guardian spears and familiar artificer armor of the Custodes emerge. From behind them he heard on of his men whisper. "God of our fathers, they are almost as big as our lord."
"Pipe down." Another hissed.
As the twenty custodies arrayed themselves in their positions the Vigilator Null Maidens exited to take their places to the front and rear of the Custodian Guard. He saw Custus flinch as the sensation of the hungering void of their souls, plucking at the string that tied even the most mundane soul to the immaterium.
Then he emerged…his might projecting even over the maw of the Sisters of Silence, eclipsing the regal splendor of the Custodes, forcing all mortals in the bay to forget even the majesty of their lord. His very presence forced his Inwiti elite to kneel, but Rogal did not kneel he stood proud, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword. Oh father, the things I would tell you, the secrets I would reveal. But his task required other more subtle movements.
"Hail to you son of Terra, son of the humanity…my son."