He sat behind his desk, tapping his fingers to a unheard drumbeat in his head. The private quarters were silent except for the slight hiss from his gorget every now and then, as he breathed in the air of his home world.
His mind was still reeling from the events of the last few months. Prospero gone - he had heard the news on Barbarus, while working on a certain project with the Mechanicum, and perhaps that made the blow even worse, in a sympathetic fashion. He could not believe it: he had no love for psykers, but even so, genocide on that scale against a Primarch's home world was unheard-of. As much as he distrusted psykers, as much as, if truth be told, there was still no love lost between himself and Magnus, even he would never have wished that.
When Horus had sent out a missive to his brothers that, if they had any novitiates that had not yet been implanted with the gene-seed of their fathers and showed psychic promise, they should send them Kegara to aid in the rebuilding of the Thousand Sons. He had done more than that: those that had started implantation and yet showed signs of psychic power had immediately been sent with the novitiates. In a way, it felt good that he was helping rebuild his brother's decimated Legion, and in another it was a weight off his mind, not to have to deal with witch sons on his own doorstep.
But even after they had recovered from the shock of Prospero, the death of the Great Khan was a blow that none of them had foreseen.
It would have been laughable, in a sense, if it was not so chilling. Primarchs were the pinnacle of gene-technology, often thought immortal, to the point where, to less enlightened minds, they were demigods of war that strode the field of battle with their immortal sons, bringing the Imperium's enemies to heel like mythical heroes. Now, they were vulnerable to something that they did not understand.
The wound had not been so severe in itself, not even after accounting for the poison. Something had been coated on that cursed hammer that Vulkan had wielded, and whatever it was was anathema to the Primarchs. It seemed that it prevented their own unique healing from doing its job. And with that, the stresses and strains of battle with the – and this time he uttered a disbelieving laugh, at his brothers' shock at a type of witchery that he had fought a hundred times in his youth – undead warriors of Nocturne and Chogoris proved to be too much.
He doubted any of them would be complacent in their longevity now, though for his own part he never had been. He had never been close to his father, had never forgiven him for the killing of his adoptive father, for that had been Mortarion's battle to win or lose. But he had never believed that his father would willingly accept the death of a Legion's home-world, the crippling of a Primarch, and now the death of a Primarch, all so off-handedly, as if none of it mattered.
What troubled him now was that Horus had had a big argument with the Primarch of the Ultramarines, though neither Primarch was forthcoming as to what had caused it. He had no real love for Guilliman; he found the Thirteenth's method of battle restricting and, in truth, as one who prided himself on letting his captains and his sons think on their feet, he could not see how the Ultramarines had survived so long with their military doctrine. Then a secret voice at the back of his head answered his own thought for him, but of course we all know why the Ultramarines are one of the largest, if not the single largest, Legions. He dismissed the voice angrily; it was not to be spoken of, even now.
He got up and looked out of his window. Space filed by lazily, and for a brief moment he felt like he was on one of the sailing ships that cruised the oceans of primitive worlds. For all the insanity of this war, his and his Legion's place in it was not in doubt, and greater projects were brewing, standing in wait of their hour. He should have been content but he was not; he was troubled. For weeks now, the tyrants had been several steps ahead of the Coalition. Somehow, they had information as to where the Legions of Horus would strike next, in the battles to keep Imperial worlds Imperial or destroy those that were venerating the Emperor as a god. They had a leak within the highest ranks of their Legions, and whilst they did not know who or where, every Primarch was fearfully hoping that it was not one of their own closest sons.
Just last week, his Sixth Captain, Mishoga Ostana, had died on the planet of Jesarus IX against a force of Imperial Fists. The mission was supposed to have been secret, and a large part of the Sixth Great Company had been all but decimated. Even now, some of those sons were in serious condition on the Death Guard vessel Reaper's Shroud. He just could not understand how the mission had leaked out.
Only he and Perturabo had known about it, and though they were not close, Mortarion knew Perturabo had lost far more troops than him. The Comrade was bellowing at the Imperial Fists who had holed up in a bastion, giving the ancient rivals more to work with and reducing them to their natural roles in siege warfare. The only regret that had been mentioned was that Dorn had not been there, and despite the losses, the mission intel had made him only happy for the Comrade.
He almost wished he had been there to see the master of Olympia take on his old rivals. He had told Ostana to do as Perturabo ordered, that he was to follow the Olympian as he would his own sire. Perturabo had been most gracious in his words of honour following the death of the Captain and much of his company, and that, in any roll of valour, was enough to be proud off. Perturabo, to put it kindly, did not give out praise to other Legions often. If Mortarion were honest, if not for that praise, he would have thought Perturabo had used his sons as cannon fodder... well, if such losses had come about without the leak, that would have been the sensible explanation.
But as it were, they had a common foe, and so Mortarion was now waiting for the arrival of his brother. Together they would figure out if they had a leak within their own warriors or if it was one of the traitors posing as a member of Death Guard or Iron Warrior.
"My Lord, I apologise for the intrusion upon your privacy, but you may wish to hear this message we have just received," the voice of the watch officer came over his vox.
"Relay it to me here, Watch Officer Jarfara," Mortarion softly said, knowing Jarfara would not do this lightly.
"Yes, my lord, sending now."
He waited, then listened.
"This is the Demeter. I am Custode Amon Tetromach, the last true Custode, I am asking for any of the true Imperial Legions to give me and my two companions safe harbour."
"Where is that coming from?" he demanded of the Watch Officer.
There was silence for a moment, and then: "Fifty degrees spinward, my lord, we are within range to intercept."
"Do so. If a brother Custode has survived, then I want to see this for myself."
"By your will, lord."
Mortarion sat down and rested his thin fingers together. Something must have happened for one such as Amon to be a fugitive from the man whose side he had never truly left. If Amon needed sanctuary, then he would find it aboard the Indomitable Will. If he was a spy, though, he would meet no mercy.
Garviel Loken stood, staring out the window of the gigantic observation deck aboard the Vengeful Spirit. He sported a black armband marked with a silver lightning bolt; all the Mournival did, as a way of showing respect to Jaghatai Khan. Though Loken had never fought alongside the Fifth himself, the other members of the Mournival had memories to share, to say nothing of the Warmaster's grief. And Loken did not want to believe what he knew now to be true, that a Primarch had fallen, regardless of which it had been; it had taken his mind several days to process the knowledge, and then several days more to accept it as fact and not some misunderstanding inferred from the enemy's lies.
Gone were the days that he knew who 'the enemy' was; it was no longer just the worlds that rebelled against the idea of Illumination. Although they still continued the Great Crusade, it was no longer a matter of bringing worlds under the aquila beneath his lord's and his lord's brother's banners. No, now the enemy was also those he once called brothers-in-arms, cousins that he had fought alongside with pride and honour. He rested his head against the coolness of the glass, as if that action alone could take away the horror of the last few months.
He still could not even believe that a Primarch lay crippled, and Magnus of all the Primarchs to be laid so low had disturbed him greatly, but now the great Khan... He wondered what would happen if the same had happened to his beloved father, the great Horus Lupercal, whether Abaddon would be able to fill the void that would be left in such a wake, as Jubal Khan now had to do for the sons of Chogoris. Of course, now Horus was Warmaster, the heart of the rebellion, and thus even more important. Would there be any hope left at all, if Lupercal fell?
"What's on your mind, Garvi?"
He turned and straightened as Little Horus Aximand came into the bay. His Mournival brother joined his side and looked out the window with him. Since the coming to light of the treacherous behaviour of the fallen Legions and their own grandfather, the Mournival, at least, seemed to have become closer. He loved his Mournival brothers, but in the beginning he had been closer to Tarik. Since Venus IX, though, the council's balance seemed to be more symmetric.
"I am just thinking, that is all, Horus."
Aximand nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. He too looked like he had the weight of the Primarch on his shoulders. Which indeed he did; like his other Mournival brothers and Malgohurst, the Equerry, they were doing all they could to lighten the Primarch's load in light of recent events.
There was a companionable silence for several long moments, before, slowly, Loken broke it.
"I was wondering if we would know an enemy from a former friend, brother or cousin if the time came."
"How do you mean, brother?" Aximand asked.
"I mean that, when light of the Emperor's new edicts came out, some of our own brothers have renounced their vow to Horus and returned to Terra, the same with the Ultramarines and whomever else. Why would they do that, after all that has happened?"
Aximand was silent for a moment or two longer, considering his brother's question and framing his answer in his mind. Of all the Mournival, Little Horus least often did anything without thought or consideration, and that included discussions on more sensitive issues.
"Perhaps the thought of renouncing their vows to their Primarchs was a lot easier to accept than renouncing their vows to the Emperor. It is just a shame that it appears to be the Terran-born Astartes that are returning to the side of the Emperor."
Loken had noticed that: when news had broken, many of the Terran Luna Wolves had left the Vengeful Spirit, and soon word returned to Horus that others had returned to Terra to be beside the Emperor. Horus had not been shocked, for after all the Luna Wolves were Terran before they became Cthonian.
Abaddon, though, had been almost incandescent with rage. He just did not want to believe that any of Horus's sons could turn their backs on the Warmaster, regardless of where they had been born. Loken did not blame him; he had seen some brothers leave his own company, brothers that had fought alongside him for decades.
"Maybe, because they were beside the Emperor when he found Lupercal, they believed their loyalties lay with him first," Loken surmised. "Maybe Ezekyle has a point on that."
Aximand cast Loken an amused look. "You know, Garvi, there was a time when you would never have said anything like that."
Loken frowned a little, unsure of what his brother was saying, and then broke into a mild chuckle and nodded in agreement. Aximand chuckled with him, but the sound was as harsh as Cthonian flint.
"Come, brother, the Warmaster wishes the Mournival to attend him; there is something he wishes to speak to us about before he tells the rest of the Legion."
Now intrigued, Loken began to walk with Aximand. "Are you going to tell me? Surely you know."
"Once I might have, but not this time," Aximand admitted. "This time, Lupercal has kept the matter to himself."
"Wonders never cease," Loken murmured, and with his brother he walked along the corridor, talking quietly and wondering what news the Warmaster had.
Louise stared at the vessel that came into view and almost had a heart attack at the sheer size of it. She had seen some picts of Astarte vessels, most notably before the current climate, when the artists on all the fleets had sent home images of the Vengeful Spirit, the Phalanx, and others too numerous to mention.
This one was not as ostentatious as other vessels, like the Pride of the Emperor or the Red Tear, but no less deadly for its grimness; she was trembling as she saw the massive array of weaponry that jutted from every pore. It was almost brass in colour except for the massive prow, which was green with a great skull at its head, lit by a subtle glow. Altogether, it hung ominously, and even compared to other warships, seemed to promise nothing but inevitable doom. She muttered something under her breath until she felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"Relax, good lady," Amon gently said. "That is salvation; it is the Endurance, the flagship of the Death Guard and of Mortarion himself."
Louise said nothing but just stared, her eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. As reassuring as Amon's words were meant to be, the very thought of coming aboard a ship full of Astartes - and not just any Astartes but the capital ship of the Death Lord himself - was enough to have her almost loosen her bowels in sheer terror. Tommy was not faring much better.
Amon took the vox bead and listened. His human friends (and they had become his friends, there was no question of that, for the journey they had undertaken could only have left them as either enemies or friends, even if his bond with them could never be like that he had possessed with his Custode brothers) had been rendered incapable of speaking by the sheer magnitude of what was approaching them, and so he took over the communications.
He listened as the docking supervisor told him to slow his engines and be prepared to be brought aboard. He acknowledged the order and picked up his helm. He did not know if it was proper to ever wear it again, for it symbolised a dead order, the original order he knew was gone. Still, he was about to face a Primarch, and one did not dress down when being received by a Prince. He watched as the gap between them and the Endurance closed and finally they came into the landing bay. Louise managed to prevent herself from squealing in terror as she saw the Astartes that had arrived in the hanger bay, and Amon suspected they did not even notice her discomfort; but when she saw the giant that stood before them, she wet herself.
He was not the biggest-built of the Primarchs, not nearly the size of the Crimson King or the Lord of Drakes; in fact, from Amon's memories, he was not as big as the Wolf King or the Red Angel. But he still looked down on Amon, and it was impossible to deny his sheer presence, a presence of power that, unlike the other Primarchs Amon had met, felt eerily displaced. White and gold armour clasped a red cape that flowed behind him, in his hand was a large scythe that he knew was called Silence, and a strange sidearm that was known as the Lantern hung from his waist. Amon encouraged both Louise and Tommy to join him, and together, they all walked down the ramp and, following Amon's Lead, moved to one knee before the giant.
There was silence for a moment, and then the giant stepped forward, the sound of a hiss escaping his gorget. He cocked his head for a moment, his pale visage letting nothing slip.
"Welcome, Amon of the Custodes," Mortarion finally spoke.
Amon got to his feet and introduced the still abasing humans. Mortarion heard the weeping coming from the woman and did something that he surely never would have in public. He crouched down and held his hands out.
"Come, my dear; let my human serfs see to your comfort and your needs. You and your companion are safe now"
Finally Louise raised her dirty tear streaked face and smiled with relief, in recognition that she was safe. She took Mortarion's outstretched hand, although his hand engulfed hers and let him draw her to stand. He placed a fatherly arm round her shoulders and nodded at a female human officer and a male human who both stepped forward and took both Tommy and Louise away, leaving Amon alone with the Death Lord.
Mortarion was silent once more, and Amon made no comment that registered his own surprise. Mortarion was not known for his compassion, there were some that believed he never had any of it. If Amon had not seen this exchange with his own eyes, he might never have believed it himself.
With a motion of his head indicating that the Last Lion should follow the Death Lord, Mortarion dismissed his honour guard, and with only the Deathshroud at his side, led Amon to his private strategium. Amon knew what was coming and steeled himself for the Death Lord's questions. He passed Calas Typhon on route and stopped for a moment; he held the gaze of the First Captain of the Death Guard for several long moments and then continued with his direction. Calas smiled to himself and headed away towards the hangar bay, where a Stormbird waited to take him back to his vessel, the Terminus Est.
Amon was unnerved by the First Captain, as he rarely was by Astarte or Primarch, but certainly had been by Mortarion himself. He had a feeling that there was something wrong either with the First Captain or one of the Deathshroud, perhaps even more than a simple echo of their Primarch's power, and an echo of Malcador's words ghosted into his mind.
They have eyes and ears everywhere.
Amon wondered just how prophetic Malcador's words were and, once more, girded himself for whatever the Death Lord had in store for him.
Mortarion stood by his window and waited until he and the Custode were alone. Amon's companions had not looked like much, but he suspected they were stronger than they seemed, and in any case he knew how to deal with the broken. As he turned to face Amon, Amon realised how pale the Death Lord looked for the first time. Perhaps it was linked to how he felt the need to constantly breathe the poisonous air of Barbarus. Amon also wondered how Mortarion was dealing with the loss of his brother. Mortarion had few known friends, but he and the Night Haunter were close, and mayhaps he believed he could change Konrad's mind. Of course, those two Primarchs were more known for their ruthlessness than for their diplomatic skill. Amon did not know and, in effect, did not want to know what could happen if those two fought; it was bad enough that one Primarch lay crippled and another was dead. He did not want to contemplate the dooms of more.
Yet what he was now forced to contemplate was even worse.
"Then, Amon, from the beginning, I would know everything that happened on Terra."
Mortarion sat down and listened as Amon told him the tale as the Custode had seen and heard it, from the Emperor's declaration of the new order to the escape upon the Demeter. He pulled a disgusted face when he was informed that Lorgar had ascended to power, and the title of 'Black Pope' made the Lord of Barbarus cringe.
He closed his eyes at the news of Constantin Valdor's death and the changes that had happened within the higher echelons of the Imperial Creed, including the death of Malcador. Amon told him that Malcador had put some message in his head, but he was unable to retrieve it, and suspected that a psyker might be needed to pull the information from his mind.
Mortarion cursed his luck. The very thought of dealing with psychic power was abhorrent to him, but still, whatever Malcador had put in Amon's head had to come out. He rose to his feet as Amon described the flight from Alyce Springs, including the arrival of the Black Templars.
"This is what, a new Astarte detachment we did not know about?"
"Sort of, my Lord," Amon said, keeping his gaze focused straight ahead. "The Emperor asked Dorn to form an independent Chapter from some of his own sons. They are led by Sigismund and are just as fanatical as the Word Bearers, although they are of Imperial Fist gene stock."
Mortarion remained silent, and Amon shuddered as the Death Lord's face became, somehow, even harder than it had been, as if shifting from cartilage to stone. What it meant, for the Emperor to be splitting Astarte forces from his Legions, neither knew, but neither thought it boded well.
Before Mortarion could ask any more of the Custode, he looked up, and another giant, armored in the colors of bronze and steel, came into the strategium - a giant that, unlike Mortarion, Amon had met before. His face was set into a hard, iron stare, and his dark eyes gave nothing away about any of his possible thoughts or feelings. In his hands was a giant hammer that had shattered many an enemy's walls and armaments, and from his head, cabling stretched in place of hair, polished in places but nowhere gleaming, for the being who wore it had no need for idle decoration. All this, Amon had seen before. Yet there was something different as well, not in the Primarch's unreadable face but in his posture - a loss of certainty and solidity, for one, not as if the iron within him had rusted but rather as if it had been sheared in half by some impossible force, yet also a glimmer of buried humanity, and even, perhaps, a spark of hope. Somehow, that only led the Primarch's severe grandeur to grow more oppressive.
For the second time in the last two hours, Amon moved to one knee, glad that this time his two human companions were not here, if their reaction to Mortarion was anything to go by, seeing this transhuman would have rendered them nearly catatonic.
"My Lord Perturabo," he respectfully spoke.
"Rise, Custode," Perturabo commanded, and Amon did as he was told.
Mortarion cast an apologetic look at Amon and told him to start his tale again. It did not matter how many times Amon told of his escape from Terra, though; the memories grew no worse but also no lighter, and the details left only an unreadable expression on both Primarchs' faces.
"We need a psyker here," Perturabo stated flatly. "One that can unlock whatever message Malcador left in Amon's mind."
"Magnus alone can do that, if any can." Mortarion paced the length of his room and stopped as a thought struck him. "Amon, I will to arrange for you to go to Kegara; but until then, perhaps you can aid me and Perturabo."
Amon straightened. To feel useful again was precisely what he wanted, to do something that felt normal for him and thus find something to hold to in this storm. It seemed that both Primarchs sensed that within the last true Custode.
"However I can help, my lords."
"Come now, Amon," Perturabo rumbled. "We know who your Primarch is. That makes us brothers of a fashion."
"Not quite, Lord," Amon gently corrected. "But I see your point."
Perturabo handed him and Mortarion some wine, notably taking none for himself. "Now, you were among the top performers at the Blood Games of the Custodes. What were they?"
He waited for the two giants to sit down and then sat before them. He explained the rules of the Blood Games, how they were told to go out into Terra as far away as they were told, and then to make their way back to the Imperial Palace, using whatever means they had at their disposal.
"And the goal?" Mortarion asked.
"The goal was to get as close to the Emperor as possible, as if we were going to assassinate him."
"If I recall, you were the one closest to reaching the Emperor." Perturabo had a genuine ring of respect in his voice.
No one could have blamed him for that, even if the Lord of Iron did not give praise easily. It had not been easy to get close to the Emperor even in times before this madness, for the Custodes were charged with his protection. For one of them to beat the odds and get close to the Emperor, even if it was a test of the security surrounding the master of mankind, was a feat in itself.
"I was finally caught by Con himself," Amon quietly spoke.
"Leng," Perturabo nodded. "I know it well"
Mortarion nodded a little and sat forward, his hands steeping. "Amon, we believe that the Emperor has a spy or spies within the highest ranks of our Legions. Now, we could use our own Astartes for this, but as much as we love our sons, we know that a Custode's mind-set is completely different to that of an Astarte, and that you are better capable of working alone."
"Yes, Lord," Amon nodded. "When we work in groups as well as when we are lone warriors, our individuality is more pronounced; we may see things that an Astarte cannot or will not, as an Astarte believes in the sanctity of brotherhood and loyalty. I mean no disrespect."
There was an uncomfortable pause. "None is taken," Perturabo eventually said. Mortarion seemed to be grimly smiling, perhaps because - as Amon now realized - quite aside from his words being well-known to the Primarchs, these two Primarchs specifically were less encouraging of brotherhood in their Legions than most.
After Perturabo spoke, the Death Lord sat back in his seat and nodded a little, more to himself than anything else, before making explicit what everyone already understood. "Help us, last of the lions; use your skills to unearth the man or men responsible for whatever information is getting back to Terra."
Amon bowed his head and got up. "I will be at your disposal, Lords. May I see my human co-travelers?"
Mortarion nodded and, moments later, the door opened to reveal Captain Nathaniel Garro, equerry to Mortarion and Battle-Captain of the vaunted Seventh Company.
"Nathaniel, would you show Custode Amon to his quarters, and then escort him to those of his... friends?"
"Yes, my lord."
Amon bowed his head again and walked out with Garro. Perturabo faced his brother with an arched eyebrow.
"Garro stayed?"
"You sound surprised, brother." Mortarion got to his feet and returned to staring out the window, before speaking again, some slight acid in his words. "None of my Terran-born sons returned to the side of the Emperor…and you?"
"Some did, and others I have yet to hear back from. Not all of them, but enough. I think we should let Horus know what is going on."
"Amon's intel, yes; as to the rest, not yet."
Perturabo rose to join his brother. "Why not?"
"Because I am not sure if the message can get there in time to be in the least relevant, even if I use the astropaths and the most secure transmissions. No brother, we will deal with this without Horus's help. When I am certain we have come to a conclusion satisfactory to us both, then I will tell Horus that we have Amon, for now," Mortarion paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, "the game is ours to play."
"You realise, brother, that if there are traitors within our Legions, then their paymasters will know already of Amon's arrival," Perturabo warned.
"They cannot strike him under our protection, and attempting to will reveal them," Mortarion insisted before letting out a dark chuckle. "Which is but one more aspect of this situation's absurdity."
Perturabo smiled a rueful smile and nodded a little, for he too found it all absurd, if in a grim manner. There had never been any real love lost between the Astartes and the Custodes, for their methodology and ideals both differed, and their places in the Imperium were far enough apart to prevent sympathy. But Amon was useful - useful either if he was telling the truth, or if he was lying.
Which of those was true, Perturabo could no longer claim to know.
He was not truly surprised at the treachery among his sons. Yet he could not, now, listen to the advice of Berossus or Harkor or Forrix without wondering if they were actively sabotaging him. There were perhaps a dozen Astartes who could have been the leak, and there might have been more than one... how could he trust someone who had one chance in ten of being an agent of the enemy? And it was not as if he couldn't understand their choice. He had made the Iron Warriors into a weapon to prosecute the Great Crusade with; he did not need his Legion to love him, though he did demand respect. He had never planned for this, and so, as the weapon was turned on one who had wielded it, it was no surprise that it shattered under the strain.
Sometimes he still wondered whether it was right, for it to shatter. Other days, he only wondered how he could have prevented it. But then, even the Custodes themselves had broken, even among the Luna Wolves there had been defectors.
It had all been so clear, once.
"For the might of life," he muttered the oath, one which had been on his mind since that meeting in Isstvan's orbit. "Against the eternity of death."
Mortarion gave a wry smile and shook his head, revealing nothing of his own thoughts.
"It's an absurd situation," the Death Lord eventually said. "But I suppose it always was."
The Iron Warriors of the 123rd Grand Battalion under Serex Jasiera moved slowly across the plains. They had already sighted their target, a fortress built to hold the valley mouth. There had been skirmishes when they had arrived to bring the world to compliance, but nothing difficult for them and the Baranian 23rd. Now the prize lay before them, and Jasiera stood atop a cliff ridge to get a better view of the terrain surrounding it. His senior sergeant Korna Unseles stood beside him with Colonel Jochim Strandton of the 23rd.
Jasiera glanced at the map that the human was holding. He did not need such reminders: in the few moments since he had reached the ridge, he had already taken in what surrounded him. Whoever had built the fortress had marked it on the map that Strandton had acquired as Castello Quae, Bello Deorum: "Redoubt of the War Gods." Jasiera could understand that, for by the looks of the walls it would take gods to beat them down.
"Or a Titan," he mused to himself, for he knew that sufficiently advanced technology made a fair imitation of divinity. His sergeant and the Colonel glanced questionably at him, but he did not elaborate.
There was a line of trees to the left, behind which was a larger canopy of trees that designated a dense forest. Where he now stood with his companions was a high ridge that rose several meters into the air. Between the Forest and the rock face was a treacherous swamp; Jasiera had to admire the enemy's defence and the positioning of the fortress.
It stretched between the two cliff faces of the valley entrance, and by his estimation it was at least ten miles across. He allowed his vision to enlarge the sight and, like any Iron Warrior would have, he almost fell in love with the craftsmanship that had gone into its construction. The walls were several stories tall, stretching between four visible towers, each housing massive guns pointed outwards, ready to gun down any invader. There was a large gate carved into the stone, above which were smaller guns, positioned in such a way that they had a wide 360-degree view of what was before them. This was the redoubt's front face; aerial recon had been shot down before they got near enough to get any clean visuals, and high in the heavens, the Iron Heart could not penetrate the clouds that seemed to localise around the fortress and block any other view of it.
Castelios Alpha was beginning to provide the Iron Warriors with a challenge.
Since news of the Emperor's ruling broke, through the events that followed, the Iron Warriors' role had shifted. For a long time they had increasingly been scattered throughout the galaxy as small garrisons, or sent to the most grinding campaigns while dubiously supplied. The resentment that led to had been entirely unsurprising. Horus knew of it, and now, without the need to obey orders from Terra, he no longer demanded the sons of Olympia to be sacrifices. True, the scattering had allowed many Captains and even Warsmiths to easily defect to the Imperium, but with its rescinding, the Iron Warriors were once more able to fight as Astartes should, and that above all ensured their firm loyalty to the Coalition. None of that, though, rescinded their position as siege specialists - especially given their chief enemies in that.
"That swamp is going to be a problem, sir," Unseles mused. "Not for us, but for the army and the tanks."
"There must be another way around." Strandton shook his head. "How else do they get supplies in?"
Jasiera was silent for a moment, taking in the colonel's surprisingly insightful words. While at first glance it seemed like the main supply road was directly ahead of them, a few additional glances and the fact that they hadn't been reacted to yet confirmed what Strandton had implied, namely that it was a decoy. Then, he turned to the two officers beside him. "Unseles, I want Scout Sergeant Saman and his squad to go with the Baranian Rangers; they are to scout the forest region and look for anything that would give an explanation to the colonel's valid question. Then I want five brothers, with a techmarine, to prop the trajectory of those guns and their distance... Kalos, Deresen, Touchou Ingis, Fenos and Techmarine Zelon should suffice." Kalos had recently been promoted to sergeant - this would test his mettle.
"Yes, sir."
"In the meantime, Colonel, I want your men and the brothers of Squads Heros, Justinian, Lorax and Hephastus to mark our trench lines as soon as the data comes in from Kalos and Squad Richeria."
"Yes, my lord. I have a suggestion, lord," Strandton ventured.
"Let's hear it," Jasiera told him.
"We could send an unmanned ship over the top, maybe find out what is blocking the aerial reconnaissance."
Both Iron Warriors glanced at each other, and from their expressions the colonel believed that his suggestion was going to be laughed at, if not worse. Instead the opposite happened. Jasiera nodded, more to himself.
"Not a bad idea, Colonel; even when it gets shot down, we will have some idea from the trajectory. Sergeant, have Adept Bisos ready a drone of some kind. I would rather a servitor be shot down then a battle-brother or member of the guard."
"Yes, sir!"
Strandon's chest puffed with pride at his commander's praise. He's heard little about the Fourth Legion from the Army grapevine, save for some vague horror stories. Thus far, they seemed exaggerated, though he was not one to relax his guard too soon. Even if their own Astartes didn't get his men killed, the enemy certainly could.
Both men saluted and moved down to join their respective camps. Jasiera folded his arms across his powerful chest; he had not met a fortress yet that he had not brought down. This would be a great battle, though, and this would be a fortress that would challenge him, that was certain.
Loken stood in the private strategium alongside his Mournival brothers. Horus had not yet arrived; he had been a touch reclusive since the death of the Khan, and his argument with the Ultimate Warrior had played on his mind. None of them knew what had occurred, but Gulliman had been the last of the Primarchs to leave, and something had occurred between them to have Horus fuming for days on end.
Abaddon had privately expressed his opinion to his brothers and to Equerry Maloghurst that, perhaps, the father of the Ultramarines was preparing to make his empire a second one to rival that forged by the Great crusade, in case the war went the way of the Emperor. All of them dreaded, at least in private, that this would occur. With half the Primarchs defecting to the Emperor's new stance, with the majority of the Terran-born sons of the Legions behind Horus returning to their grandfather's side, with - above all - the results of Prospero and Chogoris... Neither of those battles was a tactical defeat, perhaps, but it was impossible not to feel that the war was tilting the enemy's way. Nevertheless, the last thing Horus wanted was to have a second empire, with a Primarch at its head. There was no telling what sort of confusion that might lead to. In truth, he only wanted them to concentrate on the matter at hand, on saving the Great Crusade and mankind both from an Emperor gone mad.
Already, there was a vast programme of accelerated induction into the full ranks for Scouts throughout the Coalition's Legions, and with the realisation that psykers might be used again in the Legions of the Emperor, the Coalition was unofficially imitating them. Many of the brothers who had returned to the ranks were now quietly being asked to don their old Librarian uniforms once more. Even Torgaddon was not his usual jokey self, and Loken found that he actually missed his friend's jovial banter, even if at times it seemed inappropriate.
Before he could gather the energy to ask if anyone knew what was going on, though, the doors opened and the Warmaster swept into the room. The Mournival were about to go down to one knee when Horus waved it aside with a deep scowl. His favoured sons need not show such abasement to him; anyone else, he supposed, but not them, never them. He needed no show of respect from them, for he knew without a shred of doubt that he already had that.
Loken noticed that his father's armour, too, held a large black-and-silver band around the forearm and inside; on it, in delicate Chogoric script, was the name of the Great Khan.
"Do you remember what the Emperor offered to me at my investiture as Warmaster?" Horus abruptly asked.
They all nodded; they knew it well, as did nearly the entire Legion. To recognise his authority as the supreme commander of the Emperor's forces, the Emperor felt that the Sixteenth Legion might be renamed to emphasize Horus's new position.
"As I recall, father," Aximand said, "you turned him down, on the grounds that it would sow resentment within the other Legions."
Horus nodded and handed the four brothers goblets of wine. He knew full well that Abaddon and Torgaddon were drinkers of the harsh Chthonian ale that, to others outside the Legion, was compared unfavourably to paint stripper in the back of their throats (the exception being the sons of Russ, who growled about its flavor rather than its concentration). But this was not a moment that called for ale.
"With recent events, and with the news of some of my sons returning to the side of the Emperor - " none of them failed to notice that, since Prospero and Chogoris, Horus had stopped calling him father - "we have to face the truth. We are in a state of total war against those who until recently we called our brothers. The Sol System is under control of the Emperor; and Luna, in particular, is lost. In recognition of the new conflict we face, I've decided to rename the Sixteenth. I've already informed our allies of the fact, and now I am telling you, my Mournival, so that you can inform the Legion."
"You're really going to do it?" Torgaddon frowned a little.
"Hubris be damned, Tarik. Even as the Emperor and the Terran bureaucracy subverted my authority as Warmaster at every turn, I tried to quietly play my role, and look where that got us. From this day forth, let the Luna Wolves be those companies that left our cause for the mad god. As to the true Sixteenth Legion - let us be the Sons of Horus." His eyes burned brightly with the knowledge that he was right, the aura of command roiling around him. "I am the Warmaster! I must continue the Great Crusade and take back the Imperium of Man. And those that oppose that will face not only you and the rest of the Legion. They will face the full might of ten Legions, of the Adeptus Mechanicus, of those thousands of Imperial Army regiments that fight with us. Of the Imperial Truth that has propelled us all into the galaxy for two centuries. I do not ask them all to fight in my name - that philosophy is what caused this mess - but you are my sons, and I will never let that be forgotten."
There was a pause for several moments, the Mournival speechless save for an unconscious salute, before Maloghurst cleared his throat and all looked at the equerry. "I have informed the Legion, sire, or - should I say - you have."
Horus frowned a little, then heard the roar shake the Vengeful Spirit, from the mighty Astartes to the below-decks crew.
"Lupercal! Lupercal! Lupercal!"
Horus's eyes cooled slightly. Of course Mal had transmitted with a delay, but Loken still suspected his Primarch would have words with his equerry yet. But that was a worry for a later time. "I'm retaining the white armour, but with sea-green trim in place of black, with the Eye of Terra for our symbol. We are the same Legion at the core... but times have changed."
The Mournival realised that, with the escalation of this past year, Horus had finally accepted that this was not a perkande flash. It was a rising helix of war that could no longer be stopped, except perhaps by victory.
But if it was a war that the Emperor wanted, he would find that Warmaster was more than just a title he had granted.
"I need to make sure that our Legions are loyal to the cause in full." As the meeting grew calmer, and Maloghurst left the room with a nod to his Primarch, Horus moved to sit behind his desk and motioned his sons to sit as well. "I have received word from Mortarion that Amon Tauromachian of the Custodes not only escaped Terra, but brings word of it. It's even worse than what I've just... announced. The world is well and truly in the throes of this blasted cult of the Emperor, and Constantin Valdor and Malcador are dead in fighting it."
Horus paused for a moment, his grief at the Constantin's loss obvious; Valdor was a companion to the young Horus when he was training on Terra with his father, a lifetime ago. Malcador held the Warmaster's respect, if only a tense one, and his loss was equally damning.
"What did Amon say?" Abaddon asked quietly.
All the Mournival had a deep respect for the Captain-General of the Custodian Guard. The news of his demise and that of the Sigillite meant that there was now no one who would oppose the Emperor's new way left on Terra. Still, there was comfort, if cold, in that he had fallen fighting against the Emperor and not for him.
"Lorgar is now the Black Pope." Horus saw the disgusted looks that crossed his sons' faces at the title, and had to agree with them. He'd thought better of Aurelian. "At the moment, Amon believes he is acting Regent, but Amon suspects that will go to Dorn when the time comes. The Imperial Fists have split off an independent force. Sigismund is the leader of a Chapter of fanatics who call themselves the Black Templars. Amon and two Terran humans were the only survivor' from a town called Alyce Springs; the rest of its inhabitants were killed, except the children, who were taken. He heard that the boys would supposedly be given to the Legions or Custodes, and the girls would be trained as part of a priestly sisterhood devoted to the Emperor."
"This just gets worse." Torgaddon ran a hand down his face.
Loken, for his part, was wondering since when becoming Astarte was seen as a punishment. Somehow, he doubted the Emperor was choosing rebels' children for the Legions just to ensure they had a place to live.
Horus made his hands into a steeple and his eyes darkened. "Mortarion and Perturabo also believe that there is someone within the uppermost ranks of their Legions who is reporting back to Terra, based on the last few worlds they fought on. From my understanding, they have that controlled. However, having spoken to my brothers, we must ensure the same thing does not happen to us."
"What of the Alpha Legion?" Loken asked. "They are supreme in secrecy and infiltration."
"Garvi is right," Abaddon said, before disagreeing. "What if they are the spies? They never answer anything without riddles, and you never know when one of them or several of them are feigning being your brothers." Sixty-Three Nineteen had evidently frustrated the First Captain more than Loken had thought.
"Easy enough to solve." Aximand swept his gaze across the room. "We know that the Alpha Legion are with us but, as you so rightly say, Ezekyle, we cannot know if they have another agenda. Let the company captains across the fleets to run a genetic test. The Alphas can infiltrate well, but they cannot fool a genetic scan. Some will find a way to sneak past it, but if there's a major campaign, enough will show up."
Horus nodded in agreement. "Have all Legionnaires report to the Apothecaries for a Legionwide fitness test before the new campaign. But I do not need my sons to start thinking they are mistrusted, especially now. We will keep all this between us. Should anything turn up, then we will deal with it accordingly."
"What about Mortarion and Perturabo?" Loken asked.
"They will conduct their affairs as they see fit, and I would hope that they keep me informed. For now, we are cleaning house, and by the Cavern Seas, I hope we're worrying over nothing. Even if I doubt it."
The Mournival rose to their feet and bowed their heads. "Is there anything else, lord?" Abaddon asked.
"Find me a world that needs our help, Ezekyle, a world that we can bring under our banner. I need to feel like I am doing something useful."
"Yes, Lord."
The Mournival left their father to his thoughts and his equerry, though the latter was somewhat surprised when Horus did not chide him over the earlier stunt (though then again, he might well have known). Maloghurst was about to leave when Horus suddenly spoke up.
"Tell me, Mal, have you ever seen Alpharius and Omegon in the same room as each other?"
"The commander of the Efreet Squad? Rarely, but I believe there has been one or two occasions. Though it could well have been that this was not the real Omegon."
"That's not what I meant. All the Astartes of the Alpha Legion are alike, and sometimes you do not really know who you're talking to; but they are also good enough to leave false trails. However, have you noticed how similar Alpharius and Omegon are? The Twentieth would have taken more care if Omegon was merely a front for their Primarch to hide among his sons."
Malgohurst cocked his head a little, feeling like he would get a headache for the first time in years at this rate. "What are you saying, lord?"
"I am saying that perhaps there are some secrets about the Alpha Legion that we do not have the context to realise are secrets. I think I will arrange to meet them both, and then, at least, I will know whether there is a riddle in there or not."
Horus fell silent and the equerry left his father to his solitude, perplexed by the Warmaster's words.
