Amon brushed a strand of hair from Louise's brow. It was an oddly human thing for him to do, for one who had given up much of his humanity to become a Custode many decades ago. There had been someone once, back when he was human, though he could not recall her name, for so many memories of being a Custode had overtaken what little memories he had earned as a human. All he could remember was that he did care about this memory, that she had been his first love and in effect his last. But he had chosen duty to the Imperium, and a life in the Custode Guard over all human attachments.

Still, he felt that he had become close to the two surviving members of the little band of rebels. Tommy had been checked over and had been released from the care of the Imperial Army infirmary. Amon had seen him earlier and had been relieved to discover that, whilst the sight of so many Astartes had sent the hackles on his neck standing up, the young man did not hold any grudges against them. Amon suspected that the unusual empathy shown by Mortarion, and perhaps more importantly, the fact the human had been in the presence of a Primarch, had soothed the man's fears that all of the Emperor's sons had joined his dark path.

Tommy had nigh-immediately joined the 231st Expeditionary Fleet and the Imperial Army of Kalous under the command of General Isaiah Keogh, who ultimately answered to Mortarion. Amon had the feeling that the young private would go far. As to Louise, she had collapsed in the infirmary, the nurse informing the hovering Custode that it was exhaustion mixed with shock.

He had remained beside Louise since. His presence had unnerved some of the Humans there, who had found it hard to reconcile that this giant, though a Custode, was still loyal to the old Imperial Truth. He did not care; all he cared about was repaying his debt by being there for her, as she had been there for him, her and her friends, who had all risked their lives to get him off Terra and to the loyalist forces. He did not want to think what would have happened if it had been Dorn or Aurelian that had picked them up.

++Captain Tauromachian Leng, we are ready for you. Battle-Captain Garro will join you in the Primarch's sanctum.++

Amon started at the use of his name; it had been so long since he had heard it put like that he had almost forgotten what it sounded like. Most people just called him Amon. Leng was a relatively new addition to his already extensive name roll. He wished now that he had completed his mission, bringing it to an end so that maybe, just maybe, this madness would never have been born. And the title of Captain... what worth did it retain now, when he was left alone?

++Who is this?++ He asked. He was not familiar with the names of all the Astartes here. It would not take him long to memorise them, but still it was unnerving to think that his reputation preceded him.

++I am Sergeant Kellion, sir. The Primarch sends his respects and wishes you to forgive his intrusion upon your private contemplations, but he requests your presence.++

Amon sighed a little. Once upon a time it was unheard-of for a Custode and a Primarch to speak of respect. If he was honest, the only one he seemed to have respect from was Rogal Dorn, but then he was the Primarch who spent the most of his time on Terra, even before the madness that was taking place.

How things have changed, he thought to himself once again. The rifts that had arisen over countless victories were being at least papered over in days of desperation.

++Tell Lord Mortarion I will be with him and Battle-Captain Garro shortly.++

++Yes, Sir.++

Amon gazed once more at the sleeping woman, and leaning over, he kissed her forehead and walked away, leaving the nurse in attendance with a shocked expression on her face.


From the walls of the Castello Quae, Bello Deorum other eyes watched the Iron Warriors begin that which they were famous throughout the Imperium for. There were no better besiegers than the sons of Perturabo, everyone knew that, even Dorn and his sons. It was often wondered if Perturabo and Dorn were not so dissimilar, though one was known as the master of fortress building, and the other the master of fortress breaking. Then again, a fortress built by the Comrade and his sons was could be a work of art itself, and Dorn knew his siegecraft well.

The humans that stood along the walls with their weapons resting on the battlements had no true understanding of what they were up against. If this was a normal battle, then they would either surrender or die within a week or two. The Iron Warriors only ever gave one chance to surrender, and sometimes, it was better to do that then be besieged by the children of Olympia.

How fortunate, then, that he had been given the task of sending the message to Perturabo that he had chosen the wrong side. Had it not been for the information received from the Pope's informant within the forces of the renegades, he might not have had this opportunity to test his mettle against a cousin Legion. The human dressed in the uniform of a Captain looked nervously up at the black-clad warrior beside him.

"My Lord, what are your orders?" he asked, barely keeping the tremor from his voice.

"Wait," The Astartes commanded. "When I give the signal, they will have the surprise of their lives. Do not worry, Captain Hungstrad, your men and women fight for the glory of the Emperor. My men and I shall deal with the Iron Warriors; you just make sure your guns keep their Army auxiliaries at bay."

"Yes my Lord, for the Emperor."

"Indeed," The Astartes closed his eyes, "and for the Primarch."

"The Mighty Lion is with us this day, I can feel it, my lord."

"My father is here through me, for the First Legion is with you."

Captain Alejandro Ismailia of the Dark Angels 93rd Company smiled to himself. He would help redeem the honour of the Dark Angels in the eyes of the almighty Emperor. What Perturabo had done to his father, so let the son do to his cousins.


Every screen and panel of the mighty vessel's bridge was shrouded in an eerie red glow. The human crew of this feared vessel of the Emperor's forces said little, unless it was in the course of their duties. The true commander of this ship, though, was not much more garrulous; stood behind the Admiral, his hulking terminator armour doing little to hide his true bulk. The servos whined a little as he moved, and a slight hiss from his vox-grill showed his irritation at the length of time he had been kept waiting.

It had been hours. He would have thought that with the news he had, and despite the communication lapses, he would have got an answer; he was after all not just a spy, but a First Captain. That demanded respect. Instead, the more he waited, the more irritated he got. That bastard Erebus had better be doing something really important to warrant this behaviour. Erebus may have held the position of First Chaplain of the Word Bearers, and count Typhon as a friend, but he was not a First Captain.

Calas Typhon was about to return to his strategium when, with a voice more nervous than usual, the vox officer informed him that there was a face-to-face message coming through for him and motioned to the holo-stand. With a grunt, Typhon acknowledged his Vox officer and moved to stand before the imager. It really was a remarkable piece of technology; one could talk to another Astarte or Primarch as if they were in the room with them, and not half the galaxy away. Made possible by the Warpcraft that Mortarion had risen in rebellion against.

Hardly the most profound use thereof, merely scraps from the table of true sorcery - but useful nonetheless.

He removed his helm and clipped it to his belt, revealing a handsome man wearing a short beard, one with the blood of the Warlords that ruled Barbarus before the coming of Mortarion in his veins. Yes, he would tell the upstart Chaplain exactly what he thought of him. He had done everything that was expected and ordered.

The image shimmered at first, and the other person's image was not all that clear. Typhon was about to start his admonishment when suddenly the wind vanished from his sails. He swallowed several times and adjusted his stance to one of respect, unlike the one of annoyance he had been conveying.

"Hello Calas; I believe you have some very interesting news for me. Let me first say that your work keeping us informed of the Renegades and other heretics is greatly appreciated. I know that your own patron is very pleased with your actions thus far. Now, my brave and beloved nephew, tell me all you have to tell me, and leave nothing out."

Lorgar Aurelian, lord of the Word Bearers and Black Pope of the Imperium, sat back in his command throne. His smile remained warm and genuine as he listened to Typhon's report. He listened as the Death Guard's First Captain told him of the past months' events, detailing the death of the Khan and the arrival of Amon Tauromachian. A slight fumble of his brow revealed the Primarch's visible annoyance at the latter news, but still he listened.

"Yes, and the Dark Angels are ready to bombard the Iron Legion on Castelios," he finally spoke when Typhon had finished, before returning to broader scopes. "How many of your brothers stand ready to join the Emperor, Calas?"

"Only my company and the Second Company, my lord," Typhus replied, as if that wasn't much. As if everyone in both companies would follow him without hesitation.

Lorgar nodded; he knew it was a matter of time before Mortarion and, indeed, Perturabo would discover the traitor in the ranks. It was time for Calas to bring himself to the seat of power.

"Then speak to your brother-captain and make your way to Terra. You will be Dusk Raiders once more."

"Your will be done, my lord."

The image faded and Lorgar turned to Erebus, who emerged from the shadows behind his throne. He arched an eyebrow and cocked his head as Bal Sangos and Argel Tal joined him, forming an inner conclave.

"You do not trust him, Erebus." Lorgar was not asking.

"He is of the old warlord clans that were decimated after Mort – I mean, Lord Mortarion - rose to power." Erebus corrected himself quickly; despite the factions, Lorgar was still a stickler for protocol regarding his brothers. "And I have known him for a long time. He is loyal to the cause, but I suspect he will have his own agenda, Father."

Lorgar nodded. "As ever, my dark bishop, your insight serves you well. Still, he is marked for another, and so his fate is the Grandfather's business, not ours. I am more concerned at Amon reaching Mortarion and Perturabo." He did not say why, and his sons knew not to wonder.

"What are your orders, Father?" Sangos asked.

"The Emperor…."

"Beloved by all," his sons intoned.

"Indeed. He would say to let it fall as it will. At the moment, though, he is tending to Vulkan and I do not wish to disturb him whilst my brother lays gravely wounded."

None of them failed to notice the grief, even guilt, laced within their Primarch's words. He had felt responsible, as he had provided the suggestion of Vulkan going to broker terms with the Khan. Not even Lorgar knew the events that would lead to the death of a Primarch. He had mourned the death of the Khan, for though they knew each other poorly he was after all his brother, just as he had grieved for the Crimson King, whom even now, despite their differing sides, Lorgar still thought fondly about.

"Let Grandfather Nurgle write the tale of Typhon and his allies. Ensure only that Mortarion and Perturabo believe that it was all his own doing, letting nothing be found that will lead back to the Emperor."

Sangos chuckled a little. "Anyone would think we were Alpha Legion."

"Sometimes, brother," Argel Tal spoke, "we have to act like others to get our job done."

Lorgar let them have their banter. "As long as it is done, my sons. I want none to believe that Typhon and his co-conspirators acted under our orders."

"It shall be done, Father." Erebus bowed his head, Sangos and Tal likewise offered their respects, and all three left their father to his thoughts.


The scouts of the Iron Warriors moved silently. They were hoping not only to make their Sergeant proud in the eyes of the Lord of Iron, but also that this would be the mission where they would earn their black carapaces, taking the last step to becoming fully-fledged battle-brothers. But both knew that Perturabo's favour was fickle, and that the price for failure was high in the Fourth Legion, and higher on the battlefield.

For them it had been a long hard road. Even before they had started this assignment, scouting out terrain and bastions for weakness and then returning to aid the battle-brothers in the building of the siegeworks under the watchful eyes of the experienced Warsmith, two of the scouts had already, unbeknown to them, been earmarked for First Captain Forrix's company. They were the two who now moved silently forward. Scout-Brother Jeranu and Scout-Brother Yves were a little ahead of their squad, but with them were two humans, a woman by the name of Coronus and a man, or rather youth, perhaps nineteen Terran years at a push, called Terax.

It had grated on the two Scout-Brothers that they had to have two humans with them, as they thought it would slow them down. But any loss in speed was more than made up by gains in perception. Both Coronus and Terax showed exactly why it was that their Sergeant had chosen them to join the Iron Warrior scouts. Had circumstances been different, then perhaps Terax would have made an excellent addition to the Iron Warriors' brotherhood. As it was, he seemed to complement the dour-faced Coronus, of whom Yves and Jeranu both had a fledging thought that she had Olympian blood in her veins.

When they rested within view of the Bastion, but still some distance from it, Jeranu took the bull by the horns and asked Coronus where she hailed from. The woman's face was painted – no, not painted, but permanently tattooed with camouflage markings that seemed to change with the environment she was in. Terax was the same, and yet his tattoos were not as pronounced as Coronus', perhaps because she was higher-ranked.

"I come from Barania, sir," she replied. She did not call him Lord, but then he was not yet a full battle-brother so she really did not need to. Nevertheless, she did not look him in the eyes, averting them to keep full attention on the bastion.

"All your family?" he persisted.

"No, sir, my grandsire was from Olympia; he was a trader and came to stay on Barania."

Jeranu shot his brother a triumphant look and folded his arms across his chest.

"So," Yves said, sitting down beside them but making sure not to take his eyes off the fortress. "What is with the face markings?"

Terax turned to face the scout. "When we were young, we were told that we will be taken from our families and trained in the martial elements. Those of us that showed an aptitude for hunting - scouting the terrain for the seasonal migrations, knowing the passage of the winds so that we are not caught in the scent of the Xeriag we hunt, and the like - we were taken to a scoutmaster, and there we were trained." He motioned to the silent Coronus. "Freada there is the youngest senior scout of her intake; she has a natural ability, which is why her tattoos are so... intricate."

"So why is it that they change to match the territory?" Yves asked, putting the knowledge into the back of his head for later recall, should he ever need it.

"I do not know, sir; it is a process with special inks that goes back thousands of cycles." Terax shrugged and then fell silent as Coronus raised her hand a little. Immediately, the two Scouts threw their eyes in the direction Coronus had pointed, the enhanced vision of the Astartes working in harmony with their scout armor's sensors.

A small band of perhaps twenty men were patrolling the parapet, but it was not the humans that concerned the party, in particular the two Iron Warrior Scout Brothers. It was the two black-armoured Scouts that moved with them.

Yves narrowed his eyes a little. Ever since the slaughter of the Iron Warriors' 54th at the Elysian Bastion, the truth from the mighty Wolf King and the mourned Great Khan that the Dark Angels had sided with the accursed Dark Eldar scum had made anything to do with the sons of Caliban personal, a grudge only eclipsed by the one against the Fists.

He motioned to his companions and they moved away, out of the potential line of sight of the enemy to slightly higher and yet camouflaged ground. They had their stealth cloaks, but he need not have worried about the humans: they were already invisible to the naked eye. His respect for them went up a notch or two more. They watched the patrol route. As soon as the enemy moved away, Yves nodded at Jeranu, who immediately contacted the sergeant.

After a moment, he was there. "We wait here until we are given further instructions. The Warsmith will want to know how many we see, as well as where and what the patrol routes are."

The four scouts settled in for the duration. It was going to be a long night.


Deep under the Himalaysian peaks, one man worked tirelessly without sleep or food. Those that worked with him, monitoring machines and giving him whatever he required when he required it, knew better than to tell him to rest. The life-pod was suspended high above those mortals, so that only the golden-armoured figure stood before it. Inside the naked, ebony-skinned warrior slept as the magics that had first created him sought to heal him from the injuries he had sustained at the hands of his now dead brother.

They turned as another giant, armored in gold, walked into the room; at a look from the new Regent of Terra, they left him alone with his father. Rogal Dorn moved to one knee and waited for his father to acknowledge him.

"I did not want this, Rogal," the Emperor softly spoke. "I did not want brother killing brother; it is like… history repeating itself over again."

Dorn assumed his father referred to human nature during war and did not hear or suspect the deeper meaning behind his father's words. He moved fluently to his feet and joined his father's side, casting a respectful gaze at his silent brother.

"We have had more arrivals from the other Legions, Father, who have left their Primarchs to fight under you. Even Ultramarines."

The Emperor arched an eyebrow. Of all the sons of Terra who had joined their gene-fathers, the last sons he expected to return were the Terran-born Ultramarines. Yet it was good, reassurance that he was on the correct path.

Dorn cleared his throat and shifted a little, asking the question that the Emperor's musings about Jaghatai had made necessary. "Were Malcador's and Valdor's deaths absolutely unavoidable, father?"

The Emperor lowered his head a little, and for a moment Rogal thought that he was not going to answer him. Since his return from Alyce Springs he had said little. Valdor had been given a warrior's funeral, but of Malcador there was nothing left. It was as if the Emperor had wanted him obliterated from history. Had it been anyone else, he might even have succeeded, but not with Malcador. The Sigilite's memory still seemed to hang over the palace, like a wandering spectre.

"They made their choices, Rogal." That was all the Emperor said, and Dorn was wise enough not to press the issue.

The Emperor's Praetorian changed the subject and rested his hand against Vulkan's life-pod. It seemed unreal that his quietly resilient brother should be left unconscious and floating in life-preserving fluid; whatever Jaghatai had hit him with had done enough damage to lay a Primarch low.

"Will he recover?"

"I believe he will in body," the Emperor said, not mentioning that he could be absolutely certain of that much, given the Lord of Drakes' enhanced healing. In truth, left alone, Vulkan would already have recovered, physically. But that was not the issue. "I am not so sure about his mind." The Emperor sighed. "Every now and then his EEG spikes and his body jerks, almost as if he is reliving his battle with Jaghatai."

"Perhaps it will haunt him forever. You are aware that the Scars will never forgive the Salamanders for the death of their father. They have long memories and their hunts can last for centuries."

Centuries, yes. Perhaps they could last for millennia, if the Legion had not been too young for that. The Emperor smiled, a little sadly. "It is the way it is, Rogal. Where once they were allies, they are now enemies, and the only ways to end that hunt will be peace or extermination. It saddens me that they side with Horus, and it saddens me even more that Horus does not see the path as clearly as you or your brothers."

"It saddens me too, father."

The Emperor looked on his son and rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "I know that you and Horus are close. Maybe he will see sense, eventually. I suspect he is... frustrated... that I did not confide in him first. He always did think that I should tell him everything."

Dorn shrugged a little. When the Emperor had named him Warmaster, there were those amongst their brothers who saw it as folly, who believed that they were worthier of the accolade. The Lion and Angron were amongst those mutterings, He supposed it was only natural that Horus felt that, as the First amongst his brothers, he should be privy to the Emperors' thoughts and actions. He was not the oldest - that was Sanguinius or the Lion, depending on definition - but he was the only one who had been raised alongside the Emperor, having been found as an infant on Cthonia.

"Heal soon, brother," Dorn whispered to the life pod. "Your sons await your return, as do your brothers."


"Dark Angels, here?" Jasiera returned to looking at the bastion before him, his work crews working hard to meet his and his brother's exacting commands.

When the report from the scout team had come in via their sergeant, he had not wanted to believe it, but he was an Iron Warrior, and used to facing unfortunate truths head-on. Now, it seemed that the Dark Angels were looking to exact a measure of revenge against the Iron Warriors for the Hansana Campaign, to say nothing about the fate of the 54th Grand Battalion.

He spat on the ground in disgust, the acid boiling the sand beneath his feet and hissing through to the bedrock. He should have known that whatever the Comrade ordered his sons, the accursed First would be there to thwart it. He had always found the Dark Angels too secretive and paranoid for their own good, and they had the cheek to accuse the Fourth of paranoia themselves. At least his father did not create enemies where there had been allies, mainly because up until recent events, the Iron Warriors tended to keep to themselves.

Now everything had changed, and Jasiera, despite himself, was slightly glad of it. Suddenly they were no longer just garrison troops; they were doing what they were all wrought to do, not just breaking and building bastions, but warring as Astartes should. Horus, the mighty Warmaster, had unleashed their true potential. And Perturabo, too, seemed more animated, as if the fervor of his sons had spread upwards to him. For the first time in a long while, he truly seemed to care about his cause. In a sense that was unsurprising. The Emperor's embrace of religion was a timely reminder of exactly what the Iron Warriors had always been fighting against - lies and strife and irrational darkness. It had all become so clear, for the first time in an age.

Jasiera was slightly glad of it. Slightly, because the main part of him did not wish to believe this madness, no more than any of his brothers did. He wanted to imagine that the Dark Angels were there to help them... but he knew they were not.

He was an Iron Warrior. He would face both the truth and the enemy head-on.

Which did not mean he would be stupid about it. Castello Quae, Bello Deorum did not need Astarte defenders against the vast majority of assaults. If the First Legion was here, it was because they knew that Horus's Coalition would be launching an Astarte-assisted assault. How, then, did they know it? Those of the Iron Warriors that could not reconcile their oaths to the Primarch with their oaths to the Emperor... they were long gone. He preferred not to believe that an Astarte would do such a thing. But someone, somewhere, certainly had.

But that would remain a private matter. Standing before the bastion, he opened his overall vox channel. ++Brothers of Iron, brothers and sisters of the Imperial Army, it would seem that our enemy has unwanted allies. Brothers and sisters of the honoured Baranian forces, concentrate your attack on the humans. Brothers of Iron, we are to face the Dark Angels. Iron within, Iron without….Iron within, Iron without...Iron within - ++

"IRON WITHOUT!"

The shout came back not just from his brothers but, much to the amazement of the Warsmith, from the humans too. These brave mortals had only recently joined the Fourth as auxiliaries. He had forsaken his humanity to become a transhuman, a son of Perturabo, long ago, but that did not mean he did not understand the need for human allies in war. Astartes could fulfill almost any military role, but there had never been and would never be enough of them to do that. Yet while the Iron Warriors always relied on the Imperial Army, indeed more than most Legions due to their so often being spread thin, their relations with those units were not always the best. To hear the Baranian 23rd take up the Iron Warriors chant now, well, it made him beam with pride.

++We start at dawn; there will be no surrender terms given, not now that we know their allies. ++ He closed the vox and glanced at his sergeant. "Prenara, it is time to teach the bastard sons of a bastard Primarch not to interfere in Iron Warrior business."

The Sergeant bowed his head and handed him the report from the few drones that had survived long enough to give details. Jasiera read the report and he nodded to himself. From the gaps between the data points, he could tell that the enemy most likely had a full company of Dark Angels. Their bikes would remain useless due to the bog that separated the fields of war, but that did not mean they had no other way of attack and defence, such as assault squads, jetbikes, and Dreadnoughts.

"Are our entombed brothers awake?" he asked.

"Aye, my lord." Prenara nodded. "Venerable brothers Isolder, Lenorida and Casillo are awake. Isolder has asked to speak with you"

Jasiera nodded and, without a word, made his way to where the Dreadnoughts were housed. As Warsmith he held utmost authority, but when the ancient Isolder, a warrior who had won more battles than any in his company, called... well, the revered former Warsmith of his company did not summon often, but it was a fool who ignored those summons.


Castello Quae, Bello Deorum was for the most part on alert. Every wall was manned, every gun placement was waiting, and every spirit within, machine or otherwise, was ready to unleash hell on the invaders. Unsurprisingly, the tension in the air was thick and heavy. Thick and heavy for the humans, that is, for deep within the bastion's interior the Dark Angels waited. They were in a large circle, heads bowed, each of them standing on one knee. Before them stood their Chaplain Redemptor Kerasa. He had a large book in his left hand and was reading from it. His crozius, the symbol of his office, glowed ever so slightly. Before the Emperor's apotheosis he was expected to keep the mental well-being of his brothers under his care, but now it was more than that. Now, he catered to their spiritual needs as well as their battle ardour.

Chosen by the Lion himself, Kerasa was one of the last of the original Order to be raised into the ranks of the Astartes. As a knight, he had shown an uncanny ability to inspire his brother-knights in battle despite his youth. Now, for the first time, he stood reading from the Book of Faith, a work of the Black Pope and a keystone for those trained in the new faith. It was a strange fit still, but he was dedicated to serving the Lion and the Emperor, and this remained a lesser shift than his entry into the First Legion.

After completing the reading, he said words of his own, as he had for many years. "Brothers, we are the sons of the Lion and grandsons of the Emperor. Out there are the sons of our heretic uncle Perturabo; the heretics have seen fit to defile a world of the Emperor, to bring it to the darkness of unbelief, and this, my brothers, this we cannot allow!" His voice raised a little as he got into the swing of his speech. "We are the mighty First Legion. The wolves - nay, the heretical dogs - that once called themselves protectors of mankind, with their bastard alpha, dared to spurn the aid of our most beloved sire. They dared to eject our father and brothers from a traitor's haven. They dare to set themselves above the laws of our most beloved grandsire... and today we are fortunate, for it falls to us, the sons of the Lion, the First Primarch, to show these reprobates how they will suffer for their crimes against the Imperial Faith!"

He walked around the room, anointing his brothers and speaking words of the ancient Order as well as blessings of the Emperor and the strength of the Lion within them. Once the preparations had been completed he deferred to the Captain.

"Let us take the fight to the sons of Perturabo," Ismailia glared, "and bring glory to the Lion."

"For the Lion!" the battle-brothers chorused, and the Dark Angels made their way to the surface.


Amon found Mortarion with Garro. Perturabo was still accompanying him, but his First Captain Forrix had now joined them as well, though he remained for the most part silent.

In the time it took him to get from the infirmary to the Primarch's sanctum, a sense of urgency seemed to have taken hold of him. If there was a spy in the "rebels"' ranks, it would be someone of high enough rank to have access to such battle plans.

"How do you propose we work round this, Captain?" Forrix asked.

Amon had never met Forrix, but his reputation was well known. He was an Iron Warrior without peer, with phenomenal organizational skills, and Amon supposed that other Astartes and human field officers could learn from his example. He was a siege warfare expert second only to his father, and indeed it had been rumoured that Forrix planned much jointly with the Comrade as his fresh eyes and insight were lauded, though knowing Perturabo, Amon doubted that. Forrix's fame was more in leadership and logistics than in single combat, but he would not be First Captain without being skilled with a bolter, either.

And the question preying on Amon's mind was whether he was the traitor.

"All I can say for certain is that Erebus…"

"Curse that whoreson," Garro murmured, then glanced around to see the others look at him with mild amusement on their faces. "Apologies, lords, Captains, it's just that even the name irks me."

"My Battle-Captain has had numerous…debates with the Word Bearer," Mortarion explained.

"I can empathise with that," Amon ruefully agreed, despite not appreciating the lapse in protocol. Besides which, Garro was clearly in an inner circle as well... "Erebus has a spy within the ranks of the Coalition. I do not know who or to which Legion they belong, but given the recent troubles you have both had with certain victories being taken from your grasp, and especially the problems the Iron Warriors have had with the Dark Angels, the only conclusion I can come to after reading the battle reports is that the spy or spies are highly ranked. The scale of the leak would restrict it to one of perhaps the dozen highest-ranked Astartes in your Legions." Did that include Primarchs? No, Primarchs would have no reason to lie, their advantage would be greater with open support. Surely.

"Did you not even get an inkling of who it might be?" Perturabo asked.

"No, Lord. Once we had gotten Malcador off-planet, then Constantin might have told me, for he knew, it was what tipped his hand towards joining you all. But – well, he died and the secret died with him."

"It is conceivable that Malcador also knew and that this is what is locked in your skull, Captain Leng," Forrix remarked.

Amon nodded; that was a possibility, though it felt wrong, as if that knowledge was somehow more significant. Then again, that might just have been merely the impulse of grandeur. "In truth, First Captain Forrix, I do not know what the Sigillite put in my head; I was not privy to not only the box's name, but the warehouse's."

"I recommend monitoring of all command traffic." Perturabo got back to business. "If an Iron Warrior is working for that jumped-up priest, I will personally teach them what it means to betray me."

Mortarion arched an eyebrow. Perturabo took it personally when something went wrong within his expeditionary fleets, and he certainly did not suffer betrayal easily. History showed, too, that he had no compunctions about killing his own sons. If he said he was going to punish the spy, than that is what he would do.

"That won't be easy, Lord," Amon interjected. "We do not know who it is, and I am only going off the recent incidents you have both had. May I suggest an additional plan?"

"Please do." Mortarion folded his arms across his chest, his mighty scythe nestled between his powerful arms.

"Sow the seeds of misinformation. Allow it to be known that the Iron Warriors and Death Guard are prosecuting a war together in a manner that seems fragile, and then circulate it amongst both your inner circles." Amon tried his best to communicate to the Primarchs, but not the Captains, the point that Garro and Forrix were also involved in this - either of them would know that it was a trap, but no one else would. If nothing else, they could narrow the leak down.

Garro nodded in approval. "Whoever is in Erebus's account will have informed him, and we will have a surprise waiting for them."

"Assuming they take the bait and the traitor dogs in our ranks team up with whomever is sent to – distract us," Forrix nodded, clearly warming to the idea, "any idea where?"

Perturabo narrowed his eyes, his cabling swung low across his brow. "I know just the place." He called up the holographic image of his choosing.

"Mandarax," Forrix whispered.

"I have had reports that the populace have sided with the Emperor. I, for one, do not like the idea that a world I brought into compliance, that cost humans and Astartes to take, has fallen back into superstition."

Perturabo met his brother's gaze, the silence was heavy, unspoken words saying more than voices. Amon suspected they were contemplating the tactical details of the plan. The silence was broken by the hiss of Barbarus' air around Mortarion's gorget.

"Mandarax it is," he agreed. "Amon?"

Amon was silent for a moment, taking in what he was seeing. Mortarion and Perturabo, until now, had rarely worked together, and in truth Perturabo had prefered his own company and had kept his distance from many of the other Primarchs. Now though, with the universe turning on its head, old rivalries were being set aside.

"Inform only your inner circles," Amon told them. "Erebus would not deign to deal with lower-ranked warriors." And, of course, if the leak was lower down after all, that too would become clear.

Perturabo nodded. "I shall meet you there, brother."

Mortarion closed his hand around his brother's wrist. "See you there, brother." The camaraderie was a bit forced, but fundamentally it was genuine.

Amon hoped he was wrong about the leak, but he was only truly wondering about its cause. The warriors whose loyalty had been to the Emperor had been better-served by leaving together; moreover, a highly ranked Astarte would be able to sway more of his brothers to his side in that moment than now, when the lines were drawn. He began to wonder if there was another scheme at work here.

A scheme than even his former master was unaware of.