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Chapter 15: A Song Drawn from Stone
It has always been assumed that my greatest critic among the ranks of my brothers was Mortarion, but Rogal Dorn has always been the most vocal. In truth it should be no surprise, Dorn had always embodied pure rationality and iron discipline, where I have always made use of creative thinking and preached the power of adaptability. Where Dorn would follow the Emperor with unquestionable loyalty, I would express doubts or questions without hesitation to our Father's face. I have also taken issue with the blunt finality that Rogal speaks in that he has become oh so infamous for. While he claims to do so out of honest pragmatism, far too often I have heard an underlying hidden tone of self assured ego that could match the Wolf Kings. Make no mistake, I commend the strategic brilliance of Rogal Dorn, but I fear that he arrogantly believes that he can never fail, against any enemy. I have lost count of those who believed such things before meeting a brutal or unforgiving end. I also understand that Rogal has placed a distance between himself and his gene-sons, and has punished those who have deviated slightly from his orders. There is no room for negotiation with Rogal Dorn, only Horus seems capable of changing the mind of the Lord of the Imperial Fists, and even that is no easy undertaking.
I am certain Rogal has a myriad of complaints about me as well, but I do not doubt, rather I hope, that he would have some praise for me. As for myself there are many things I can compliment my brother upon. He is a genius of both warfare and construction, such that I almost asked him to review the construction of the Bale Hounds' fortress on Arcadia. Once given a task, Rogal will see it through to the end, and give it his undivided attention until he is satisfied. He has never been afraid to dirty his hands, from working alongside his sons to bring to life his fortifications, to leading the headlong charge into the heart of enemy fire. Another thing that I respect about Rogal Dorn that I fear many do not know, is that it was not he who chose to color his armor golden like both the Emperor and his Custodes. Originally, Dorn wished to wear the yellow and black of his terminator elite, but it was the Emperor who told Rogal that his armor should match the vision of the Imperium. If you wonder why I respect him for this then allow me to explain. Many of my brothers, myself included once upon a time, believe that Togal thought himself the golden embodiment of the Imperium, yet while it may seem that way,l it is the furthest thing from the truth. Rogal believes wholeheartedly in the dream of the Imperium of Mankind, yet I have heard both in his mind and his words that he believes those like Horus and Sanguinius are the true champions of our Father's dream. If not for our Father's interjection Rogal would match his legion's colors, and I cannot help but respect that.
I suppose the best way to further illustrate the complexity of the relationship between Rogal and myself is the one of the first campaigns we truly joined forces in. It was one of Rogal's earliest years joining the Great Crusade, and had yet to fully become the Praetorian our Father now names him. My sons call that campaign "Chronicles of the Stone's Songs" and admittedly it was a truly brutal war. On the ever storming Death World nicknamed Rhyjin, there were scattered human tribes of techno-barbarians across the world's surface, but they were in an eternal game of cat and mouse with a mutating predatory xenoform species that the locals called the Prowlers. Rain was the planet's default weather state with only a three to four month dry season that had its own dangers, and made permanent construction difficult. The Imperial Fists were to establish then protect fortified military complex, agents of the priesthood of Mars were to assess the planet's geography, weather patterns, and vegetation then devise solutions for the challenges the world presented for modern construction and development. Due to the inherent dangers to the construction and surveyors, it fell to the Bale Hounds to find the scattered human tribes and escort Imperial negotiators to get their cooperation in further developing the world. I feel compelled to illustrate both the danger of these Prowlers, and the impressive technology the tribes managed to maintain. First the Prowlers, who despite the best efforts of two Primarchs and legions, still persist to this day.
The Prowlers seem to be the universe's taunt towards all other walks of life, they are incredibly resilient creatures somehow capable of altering, or mutating, their physical form almost instantaneously in response to what they perceive as threats. I have witnessed both adepts of the Mechanicum and legion Apothecaries debate if the Prowlers' mutagenic abilities were a byproduct of evolution or a genetic modification gone horribly awry. Perhaps it is a result of both, there has been an endless sea of incredible and nightmarish products of humanity's genius and hubris that had survived through the annals of Old Night. However, with no surviving scientific data that predates Old Night, we will forever remain speculative on the nature and origins of the Prowlers. No two specimens of the species look the same, even newborn offspring start developing new physical traits weeks after their birth. I have seen many with only four limbs akin to a canine or feline of old terra, some with whip-like protrusions on their backs, razor sharp teeth with the density of steel, hulking muscular forms capable of uprooting towering centuries old trees, on and on and on. Nothing short of a killing blow can put these creature's down, as I have seen one lose a limb to a bolter shell one moment and within moments its skin became too dense for a bolt to penetrate, while a new limb began to grow from its bleeding stump. However, this process of regeneration seems to take a toll upon both their stamina and strength, making them more desperate to either kill or flee from its attackers. While they have become more resilient to energy weapons, plasma, high capacity laz weaponry, and power weapons are still one of the most assured methods of ending a Prowler's life. I have seen a score of them tear through Astartes power armor like they were made of naught but paper. I have seen some fly upon leathery wings, burrow through rockcrete as though it were clay, and chew through the armor of Rhino transport. A portion of my mind wonders if our arrival was a mistake, as the Prowlers have only become more dangerous since our arrival.
Now onto the technology of the human tribes, which admittedly was impressive compared to what other Death Worlds had managed to maintain. From the production and repair of high caliber auto and stub guns, four wheeled oil powered transports, and armories ancient models of power armor. True their weapons and armor were nothing in comparison to what a single of the Astartes Legions could field for battle, but that only gives more weight to the men and women of the tribes that managed to kill a Prowler. That the knowledge for both maintaining and creating both munitions, weapons, armor, and technology through the era of Old Night is an impressive achievement. Though they had little in the way of instant long ranged communications, they had a caste of armored bards, who traveled from tribe to tribe spreading word of the events and exploits they witnessed. Occasionally, two tribes would combine their efforts to destroy a nest of Prowlers, sharing both technology and knowledge in the name of mutual interest. There are also various ruins of once great cities taken over by the planet's plant life and now play host to various forms of wildlife. Within these ruins are believed to be even greater treasures of lost technology and wisdom, often becoming the target for scavengers. Presumably these ruins have served as a means of replenishing the tribe's reserves of technology and scrap metal, which unfortunately means that the tribes have fought over the right to loot these ruins.
The arrival of the Imperium put a halt to such squabbles, as on the same day various landing craft, machinery, and Astartes landed across the globe, claiming then expanding clearings. These locations would one day serve as the foundations of Imperial cities that would one day be built, but back then served as the staging grounds for our endeavors to reclaim the planet in the name of the Imperium. Dorn and his Imperial Fists reached the planet's orbit first, delaying only to give the Mechanicum's adepts time to catch up and deploy alongside them. The Bale Hounds and myself had just finished a campaign elsewhere, arriving a week after the Imperial Fists. It was a genuine surprise when I learned that the Imperial Fists had been set back three weeks via the Prowlers interference, and that the lead Magos of the Mechanicum had suffered severe injury by the xenoforms. I almost did not believe the vox officer's report when the Arcadian Retribution pulled alongside the Phalanx, but I quickly shook off the grip of surprise on my mind.
"Request my brother's location, vox officer," I calmly stated, "Alert the War Hosts for deployment, I want Bale Hound boots on the ground with a standard hour." The human officer nodded, before taking their leave to fulfill my orders, and I turned my gaze towards Tiberius Slan, who wore his cataphractii terminator plate without his helmet, proudly wearing fresh scars from our previous war zone. It had been a few months since the previous Legion Commander had shared the same deployment, and in truth I had missed both his council and companionship.
"You've fought alongside the VIIth Legion before, Slan," I began cautiously, "How well do they handle unexpected complications?"
"Prior to your brother Lord Dorn's tenure?" Slan answered first with a rhetorical question, "Frustrated no doubt. Likely an increase in their efforts. With Lord Dorn? I cannot say, sir. I suspect you have seen the same reports as I, in regards to the Fists. From those reports, the Fists sound more regimented and disciplined, but they seem to have developed a more unmovable stubbornness." Ever slightly I grimaced, discipline and regimentation were important aspects creating not only capable warriors but also minds capable of coping with the hidden truths of the galaxy, yet the strength of those virtues like all came in moderation. I had heard too many rumors of the harshness of the Imperial Fists recruitment trails, but the one that concerned me most was their practice of rejecting their birth names. Such a thing, while not uncommon throughout the Imperium was often the result of a human wishing to distinguish themselves away from the scornful legacy of a family, but from what I gleaned from the Imperial Fists it was to signify the death of their "mortal" lives and the start of their lives as Astartes. I fear that the mentality of this practice will only create a cold distant division between the Imperial Fists and those they were meant to serve as protectors.
"I will need you beside me when I meet my brother, Slan," I finally said, "I know this is redundant, but have your Host-Brothers at full iron." Full Iron was a term my officers in the legion use for code referring to formal military attitude, I felt it an apt and fitting slang, so I had been using it since I first learned of it. Slan and his 1st War Host were one of the most disciplined and well behaved of the legion, but it never hurt to help emphasize a point. Slan nodded, I felt no injury of pride or annoyance within him from my words, and was once again grateful he was the one who had led the legion before me.
"Of course my Primarch," he saluted with a fist over his hearts, "What of the corps of diplomats aboard the Retribution?"
"Inform them that due unexpected circumstances," I began, already envisioning the headaches awaiting me for delaying the diplomatic mission, "They are safer aboard the Retribution, and that I will personally inform them when they may set foot on Rhyjin." It seems strange that I had to give orders to delay a diplomatic mission to a Death World, when it was more than plainly evident the Imperium had yet to secure a single foothold on the planet, but you would be surprised by the hubris of a majority of the Imperial Diplomatic Corps. I have no doubt that if it were not for the heavily regulated vigilance of every single flight deck aboard my legion's flagship, we would have had at least one diplomat try to fly into an active war zone. I also admit a part of me has felt insulted by their assignment to my legion, aside from myself there were more Bale Hounds skilled in diplomatic negotiations than the entire division of diplomats assigned to the IInd Legion.
What was more concerning was that too many of the diplomats had many, many, misconceptions about the standard of modern tribal human cultures, apparently believing that so far from the light of Terra, that mankind would simply regress back to its earliest recorded behaviors and practices. While on a number of worlds that most certainly was the case, I could on one hand the number of diplomats who understood that was not the norm amongst the lost tribal worlds across the stars. Arcadia itself was a prominent example of a tribal-like culture that still retained echoes of humanity's great advancements, and I wish that Malcador had lined the Diplomatic Corps with capable individuals from newly compliant worlds instead of the scholars of Terra, who had never traveled beyond Luna's orbit prior to their new profession. However, that being said there were two Terrans that stand out in the retinue assigned to the Retribution, one was a brilliant yet humble young Germann man named Tyrson, the other an experienced and ever patient woman named Patricia born from one of the isles northeast of the Europa super continent. I will have to discuss them in greater depth at a different time.
After being assisted into my armor, given my pistol and force sword, then handed the newest addition to my personal arsenal, Judgement's Bow, a combi-bolter carbine sculpted by the hands of Ferrus Manus. Despite never having been given a single coat of paint, the carbine's upper housing was colored a reflective metallic blue, with golden icons of both the Iron Hands and the Bale Hounds framed by a silver cog wheel. Though the weapon is far cry from complimenting my preferred fighting style, the underside plasma caster was the most advanced model of its design, and I felt that it would be needed on Rhyjin's surface. In hindsight I suppose that feeling was correct. The descent to Rhyjin's surface was quiet, I was joined in my gunship by Slan, two other terminators, and five of the most senior company captains of the 1st War Host, along with Magos Mirlynn of the Mechanicum. She is one of the rare children of Arcadia that had been accepted into the ranks of the Cult of Mars, then made both a logical and en passionate case for why it should be her assigned to the Arcadian Retribution as one of its ranking Mechanicum's adapts. I hope that records of her speech will survive future millennia. Inside the bay of the gunship only the subtle workings of the Magos's cybernetics pierced through the tense silence, so dramatically different from the other departures filled with the music of jests and teasing. On some level I suppose we all knew this would be a grim deployment.
The area that Dorn was personally overseeing the construction of had been made level before using rockrete to create a series of seven circular landing pad, each capable of housing five Astartes troop ships. The pads were stationed behind a makeshift depot for armored vehicles, which was adjacent to a series of barracks, and the perimeter of the staging ground was defined by bolted down ten foot wide defensive half walls, broken up by every seven walls by heavy weapon turrets. From the presented plans I had received the staging grounds would create a four mile diameter base, but what the Imperial Fists had managed to establish within a week was just barely a mile and a half diameter. From above we caught sight of a section having been designated as a pyre for the Prowler xenoforms, clear evidence of the defenses having weathered recent assaults, broken portions of the rockcrete surface, and countless splotches of spilled blood. The sights were more disheartening on the ground, but my retinue and I made for the heart of the base, knowing well that Dorn would be there. I was certain he would have a far more clear and concise recount of the problems that faced the Imperium's plans. We found him in a newly established command center, in full battle plate, standing before a hololithic table which displayed a rough overview of the surrounding terrain within a five hundred mile radius, surrounded by a handful of legion officers making reports. Dorn's face gave no hint of any emotion, yet I could feel a cold brewing frustration chill the air around my brother Primarch.
"Rogal Dorn, my brother," I greeted gently, "I would ask how the week planetside has treated you, but I can guess by the evidence before my eyes." There was the subtlest twitch in Dorn's face, one I recognized as surprise, perhaps not at my presence, but rather that he had noticed my entrance to his command room. A rarity to truly catch the Lord of the VIIth off guard.
"Arawn Clay," he replied calmly, "I see you and your legion have arrived on time." There was no emotion in his voice, as though Dorn was simply reciting lines, and I could tell that whatever he had been occupied with before my entrance still gripped his thoughts.
"Aye, the tides of the Immaterium were kind for once," I replied, "Now the War Hosts aboard the Retribution are ready to lend their strength to the efforts of your Imperial Fists. Tell me brother, what resistance do we face?" That seemed to grab most, if not all, of Rogal's attention. His eyes were scouring every millimeter of my face, searching it for any sign of chastisement or ridicule, which I will state for clarity's sake, I intended neither.
"The xenoforms are more troublesome than I initially predicted," he stated whilst locking eyes with me, "They can burrow through solid rockcrete, tear through ceramite, seem only killable with headshots, while flamers seem to have an effect they are as fast an Astartes, and seem to be the ruling species of the planet." I nodded, as that was the first time I had heard of the Prowlers capabilities, and I will not lie, some part of me was excited. Excited at the prospect of a foe capable of not only providing a challenge, but an leveled fight for our legions. Perhaps something within me crafted by the Emperor loved the thrill of new challenges, but I was also keenly aware of the full scope of the dangers these beasts presented to our Astartes.
"I see, should you wish it, the II Legion will divert to aid your efforts," I proposed calmly, "Together we can ensure the finish of construction and then launch our search missions in intervals of three days in one compass direction." These landing sites were essential because the canopy of the forest jungles was so dense and thick that it would cause issues for any Imperial transport capable of flight. So we were forced to revert to my favorite method of transit, boots on the ground, so to speak. Securing these landing sites and establishing command centers, which one day be the foundation of future Imperial cities, from my perspective was the key to securing Rhyjin compliance to the Imperium of Man. So when Rogal Dorn suddenly frowned at me, you can imagine my disbelief.
"Our orders were quite clear, Arawn," he replied dryly, "The VIIth and I shall secure the landing sites, while the IInd explores and escorts Imperial diplomats. These were the Emperor's orders." Now we get to the heart of the friction between myself and Rogal Dorn, more than any other Primarch, he clings tightly to the Emperor's every word, and will follow every order to the letter. For him, there is no other opinion, no other perspective that matters more than our Father's, and whenever he perceives one of us deviating so much as an inch, he condemns.
"Aye, the orders were clear, brother," I replied, "But those orders were given before anyone had a clear understanding of the situation. Surely, you see that under these circumstances it would be beneficial for everyone if we altered our plans?"
"You think my legion is unable to achieve our objective when faced with unexpected opposition?" He asked coldly, and I felt the eyes of every Imperial Fist upon me. Internally, I sighed. The tension I had hoped to circumvent had intensified, as Dorn not only over analyzed but twisted my own words against. I have heard it said that Rogal is considered the rare few of my brothers without an "inflated sense of ego or pride" and it exhausts me that they do not have a full understanding of my brother. Spirits, I doubt even I have a true comprehensive understanding of Rogal Dorn.
"Brother, if I felt that I would've said so plainly," I said, keeping the annoyance from my tone, "Perhaps, we should discuss this further in private?" I was trying to be diplomatic, trying to avoid embarrassing or insulting Rogal in front of his legion. Apparently, I was failing.
"Whatever you wish to say," he glared coldly, "You may say in front of my legion. There are no secrets in the Emperor's Great Crusade." I wish I could have laughed. Wished that I was not oathbound to the Sigillite and the Emperor to keep a secret so dangerous yet required to understand the galaxy as a whole. I did none of those things. Instead, I stared blankly at Rogal for three heart beats, before relenting with a sigh.
"So be it brother," I exasperated, "I think under more expected circumstances, you and your Fists would have no need of my Bale Hounds's aid. Yet by your own words, this is far from normal circumstance. We have no idea when our forces will be recalled to other theaters of war, and we can't afford to still be establishing footholds when the next fleet arrives in orbit. Do you think the Emperor will accept delays because we refused to adapt to our situation?" In hindsight, I should have not mentioned our Father, or phrased my words in a better manner. For the briefest moment, I saw the cold fire of Rogal Dorn's anger simmering in the glint of his eyes, and his glare became a scowl focused solely upon me.
"You presume to know the mind of the Emperor?" He growled, "That your time in the midst of his great designs of the Crusade, has made you wiser than the Master of Mankind?" Towards the end he had begun raising his voice, and though helmets were covering their faces, I could tell the Imperial Fists in the room flinched ever slightly at their gene-father's fury. Even though I could sense that this outburst was not solely about what I had said, most likely my words were simply the crack in the dam in which Rogal keeps his rage, frustration, and insecurity to slip through, yet I was annoyed to the point of anger. We were both sons of the Emperor, instruments of his will to see mankind reunited and stronger across the stars, but Rogal believed himself to be the only one capable of knowing Father's will. Looking back on that moment, it reminds me worryingly similar to Lorgar's arrogance. With effort, I collared my rage, kept the gift out of my words, and ignored everything but Rogal Dorn.
"I understand you're frustrated, Rogal," I said in a dangerous tone, "So I'm willing to write this moment off as nothing but that. You and I are equal, we will treat each other as such, and respect-"
"RESPECT?!" He roared at full volume, "What do you know of respect? You who was found third, yet defies the Emperor's direct orders and rarely given censure! You act as though you are the only one amongst our brothers with the clearest understanding of everything, even chastising Magnus, your own fellow psyker, when you believe he has gone too far, yet then praise his genius a second later! You are not respectful! You are an opportunist, who seeks the easiest path to victory!" The anger burning in my chest was mirrored in those of my legion who had joined me, and I made great efforts to isolate the anger away from influencing the gift. Displays of power would serve only to embolden this new tension between us, and I refused to be the aggressor in this "sibling squabble" regardless of what was said. Silence slammed into the atmosphere with prejudice after Dorn's words. My eyes searched every single inch of my brother's face. I could tell that to some degree Rogal realized he had lost control over his emotions, but he is not one for apologies. Perhaps, he justifies it by telling his legion that he was measuring the weight of my character, or maybe he refuses to speak of that day.
"Are you finished?" I asked, all traces of my brotherly warmth and patience discarded, "If so then good, because now I will speak, and you will not interrupt. If you do interrupt, then I will psychically lock your jaw closed until I am finished. Understood?" He glared in cold fury saying nothing, but I saw understanding within his anger.
"Good," I said coldly, "I received a message from Imperial Command upon entering the system, it bore the seal of both the Emperor and the Sigillite. I will have a transcript transmitted for you to verify, but its contents are clear. We are to prepare Rhyjin for the first wave of garrison troops and Imperial architects to begin plans for the first Imperial cities. This fleet is predicted to arrive in four to six standard months. I respect that you have lost men, and feel frustrated by these setbacks. I am going to order that two companies and half of the terminators from my War Hosts stay to assist your legion in securing the landing zones while construction is finished. The rest of the Hosts will spread out to both hunt down these xenoforms, perhaps even study them, and to search for the settlements of the human tribes. We will work together, and we will meet the Emperor's deadline. I don't plan to be behind schedule when the fleets arrive. Do you?" He was silent for a long moment. All eyes were focused upon Rogal Dorn, I could sense both uncertainty and concern emanating from the Imperial Fists.
"No." He answered reluctantly.
"Then we will forget your previous words," I firmly declared, making it clear this was not up for debate, "We will work together. Consult each other. We will fight side by side. Agreed?" Dorn nodded. From that moment there was only a clear tension between myself and Rogal, yet luckily it did affect the cooperation between our legions. As I said in the command center, while the majority of my War Hosts explored and hunted, two companies complimented by fifty terminators stayed behind to assist the Imperial Fists in securing our landing zones. The defenders did not wait long for the next attack, I was later informed that not even an hour after myself and the vanguard departed from visible sight into the jungle of ancient forests, a horde of Prowlers came from every direction. Those of my legion suffered injuries, yet no casualties, at least not from the first attack. It seems that the combination of the Imperial Fists staunch determination and my Bale Hounds combat flexibility made an oddly complimentary display of Imperial strength. Despite this, the first battle lasted for two hours, and as soon as the repairs had been made, hours after the first assault, the second horde attacked. That time there were casualties in both legions, however there was something gained from the assault. Yordan Drubal, one of the terminator sergeants, had used a broken metallic support beam as a makeshift lance, impaling a large Prowler from behind, then using the strength of his armor hoisted the impaled xenoform up into the air, before lodging the beam firmly into the rockcrete ground. The effect this, admittedly savage attack, had upon the remaining Prowlers was unexpected yet one we understood quickly. They were afraid. After the battle had been won, Drubal ordered that the largest and most intact of the Prowler corpses be impaled upon pikes then secured standing around the landing zone. The attacks became less frequent then. What this told us, was despite having the look and communication of feral animals, the Prowlers were capable of some form of rational thought and emotion.
While this occurred, I was with the vanguard, exploring the depths of Rhyjin's jungle forests, and occasionally getting caught stuck in large mud pits. The first day in the forests, we discovered many rare herbs that could be refined for medical purposes, a diverse score of mammal-like herbivore animals, and did not encounter our first Prowler until nightfall. There was a massive grassy area, housing a large ditch while also framed by trees as thick as tanks, it was past a rather large rock formation, and there was a stinging acidic scent once we passed it. Using our armor's vision filters, we had detected the tracks of a large clawed animal going through the clearing, and so we were on high alert. Every sense kept open for any hint of movement, scanning the ground, checking behind the trees and around the corners of rocks. We had no idea that the Prowler we had been tracking preferred sleeping in the trees, that is until it dropped upon one of my legionaries and began tearing at his armor. The single boom of a bolt gun answered its assault, piercing the soft of its belly with an explosion of gore that sent the beast flying off it. However the second the creature hit the ground, it was already repairing and growing new organs to replace those splattered into viscera, and new skin that looked denser than before. I am certain that were it not from the wealth of natural resources, and its breathable atmosphere, Rhyjin would have been subject to bombardment after an evacuation of its human population.
The chorus of high pitched shrieks that responded to the first Prowler's howls of pain, would be the foundation of this belief. Twenty smaller beasts burst from the ditch, snarling maws that showed glistening teeth, each a different shade of oil gray hide of the first, but each had patches of different colors on their naked skin. All of them shared a similar scent, enough for me to piece together where we were, then eighteen adolescent Prowlers appeared from behind the furthest tree line.
"A mother's den and her young!" I shouted into the vox, "Kill the mother first, else we earn her ire for revenge." I would have rushed the mother and slew her myself, but I found myself surrounded by seven of her adolescents. They moved with coordinated precision of pack predators, when one leaped forward another rushed for my legs, and Dorn had not been exaggerating; they moved as fast as Astartes. Though I was faster, there were too many of them for me to do anymore than parry with my sword or dodge. It took me moments of repeating dodges and blocks, before finally I had enough room to kick the largest adolescence into the surprised forms of its siblings, and in that moment I saw the mother's jaws locked around the neck of a legionnaire. The anger it elicited in me was blistering, and surprised even myself. I let out a roar of anger. I charged, ignoring the adolescent beasts as their fangs found purchase in my armor, but it did not stop me. As I ran onward the beasts were flung randomly into the air, and crashed in a choir of snapping bones, I raised the sword, but it was too late the mother had chewed through the legionnaire's neck, sending the Astartes head tumbling in ribbons of blood. I did not slow, my fury burning so brightly that my heart beats thundered in my ears, and then my blade tasted the flesh of the mother's neck. With the rage coursing through my body it was even easier to cleave through the Prowler's neck. In response to their mother's death, the young lost all coordination, lashing out blindly in rage, becoming easy prey for my Astartes, and soon they were all dead.
My portion of the vanguard originally consisted of twenty five legionnaires, and that night Jerol Hilben was our only casualty. His squad's apothecary could only retrieve one of his progenoid glands, with somber yet practiced swiftness. All of us took a moment, our heads hung in mourning of Jerol's death, he had been born on Terra, recruited just before my discovery. He had been one of those who more easily adjusted to the changes I brought to the legion, he had brought scores of honors to both his company and our legion. That I was too slow to save him, it haunts me, even to this day. He deserved better than to die in the jaws of some xenoform, but it was not all in vain. During the moment of quiet, a familiar acidic scent became more noticeable, it was coming from the mother. Using my boot, I turned the corpse over and saw that Jerol's knife was stuck, having been used to slit open the mother's groin. Jerol's combat knife had pierced the creature's bladder, spilling its urine in trickling streams, and the scent was the very same we had detected having passed the initial rock formation. I looked around, noting the subtle similarities between the thirty nine dead Prowlers, and suddenly I began to grasp an understanding of these bestial xenoforms. However, to act only my own assumptions could lead us astray, so I turned to the Apothecary of Jerol's squad.
"Helix Druwen," I addressed calmly, "Analyze the creature's urine, document its composition then have your brother follow you while you scan the perimeter of this area. The rest of you do munitions count, reload, then take defensive formation high trigger discharge. Mind the trees." The Apothecary did not question my order, as he did I told him, his company brothers and I watched the perimeter. Watching. Waiting. A minute passed, and the only movement spotted belonged to insectoid lifeforms. Then finally.
"My Primarch, there are traces of the fluids surrounding this area," Druwen announced into the vox, "The traces seem to create a border of sorts. One of my brothers has discovered evidence of another predatory creature's tracks. They stop then turn back once they get close to the border." That cemented the idea of how these creatures functioned socially. They are territorial creatures, marking their homes with their own scent, and seem hesitant to trespass another of their species' claimed territory. After having the Apothecaries examine the other Prowlers' bladders, it was determined that the females possessed the most foul smelling urine. I sent a priority message into all of the 1st War Host's vox channels, to gather any injured and return to base, then we gathered up Jerol's remains before leaving ourselves. Once every one of the vanguard units returned to the landing zone, did we finally come up with a means of warding off the Prowlers without risking more lives of our Astartes. I presented our findings to Rogal Dorn, as I did I could see the churning of his mind as he absorbed the data and began formulating a strategy. I believe to a degree Rogal found the option ahead of us distasteful, not because he was against unleashing wrath or desecration upon the xenoforms, but because it reminded him of the Night Lords' barbarism.
That night, the next attack from the Prowlers was met by both myself and Rogal Dorn, both us equipped with only melee weapons, me with a greatsword of my own craft, and Dorn with Storm's Teeth, his large two handed chain blade. He and I both agreed that we alone should bear the consequences and shame should our idea fail. Fighting alongside my legion instills a sense of completion which still eludes my full ability to explain, but I know that they fought in emulation of my own style of combat. I suspect that my brothers have experienced a similar feeling, perhaps excluding Angron. For Fulgrim he and his legion drill combat styles that are accented by beautiful flourishes of dazzling skill, but they waste too much effort in such vanity. The Wolf King with his horde of space wolves unleash their savage rage upon the foes, they only practice duels only for boasts of strength and skill, something that I believe invites too much arrogance or laxity. Guilliman is a capable warrior in his own right, but too often it feels as though he never gives a battle his full attention, and sometimes I think I see similar behaviors in his own legion. Horus often prefers to take to the battlefield in the thick of combat when he is certain that victory is guaranteed. However, I feel confident in saying that myself, Vulkan, the Lion, the Khan, Sanguinius and Rogal Dorn never bat an eye to wade into the thick of it alongside our sons, and give those battles the full attention they deserve. Rogal will go wherever he sees himself vital to a strategy's success, even if he must "reduce" his own importance to that of a foot soldier, and I respect that. With the roaring engine of Storm's Teeth, paired with the crackle of my blade's energy field, we presented a patient song that promised death and ultraviolence to the xenoforms. It was night. The song of our weapons and power armor challenge the natural choir of wildlife that would have otherwise dominated the night. Then the first shriek of a hulking Prowler broke through both songs, my brother and I stood at the forefront of the defensive lines, with our legionnaires manning the mounted defenses.
It approached in a lumbering charge, unlike the previous Prowlers I had faced, this one's body resembled an exaggerated enlarged gorilla of ancient Terra, with the familiar elongated snout and maw of the others, rippling with muscles that were easily a match for any Primarch. It was easily a match for us in height, on its back was a writhing number of tendrils each coated with hardened skin and needle-like tips. It led a group of ten others, and it for some reason shames me that I cannot recall all the physical differences of those ten, but they bore some similarities to the hulking brute that led them, most likely related in some manner before they began adapting themselves to external stimuli and physical trauma. None were a match for the brute's height, but they were moving at speeds that were a match for any Astartes. One of the lesser Prowlers tried to hurl a log it had been lugging, it flew through the air like a perfectly balanced javelin, and it would have reached Rogal, had I not used the gift to simply knock it to the ground with a gentle flick of telekinesis. I didn't need the gift to sense the subtle disapproval that flickered from Dorn in response to my use of psychic power, but I would be lying if I said I truly cared if he approved of my powers. The second one of the Prowlers was within proximity, we launched into action. I slid into a kneel then swung horizontally low, taking away one of the lesser's momentum and means of movement, while Rogal swung from up high to down, freeing the creature's head from its neck. The others roared in angry defiance at the loss of their kin, but we cared little. Rogal and I were gripped by a strange melody. Fighting side by side, in wordless unity, as if somehow it was instinctive for him and I to fight in a complimentary fashion. Perhaps this was another intention of the Emperor's complex genetic manipulations that created us Primarchs, or was it an unintentional by-product of the spiritual and psychic powers he imparted in us all? Without any of my brothers willing to explore the depths of this phenomenon, it is impossible to say.
Still, we fought side by side, covering each other's openings, shortcomings, over extended reach, and blind spots. It is strange to say that despite how little Dorn and I enjoy each other's company, or approve of each other's methods, when in the heat of battle, we trust each other implicitly. It is a strange thing to realize, but one I am grateful to still ring true. It was as if Dorn and I fought to the beat of some coordination that suddenly bloomed into life within our minds, guiding us with frightening accuracy. We stab, slashed, parried, dodged, and thrust out with our weapons with such speed, that even our legionnaires struggled to follow our movements. Still it was only the hulking brutish ape-like Prowler provided an adequate challenge to us. The second our blades tasted its flesh, the Prowler flinched back its body, avoiding the follow through of our attacks, allowing its skin to adapt and let it become dense enough to resist the next strike. It managed to match and occasionally exceed the speed of a Primarch, landing solid blows onto our armored forms that would have seen an Astartes in average power armor dead or near death. When it landed a blow against my helmet, the force was so great that it both cracked and dented the surface., damaging my right visor lens to the point the micro-cogitator data display function was flickering on and off. Rogal blocked the second blow the Prowler intended for my face, giving me a moment to recoil, then remove the damaged helmet and clamp to my belt. Once my vision was clear, I launched myself back into the fray, sword aimed at the tangle of tendrils on the Prowler's back, that lashed about trying to find purchase in the exposed soft spots in our armor. Some of those tendrils occasionally choked Storm's Teeth with chewed meat, and it was during these moments that my blade cut into the writhing mass of tendrils. Through this we learned that the Prowler's regenerative mutation could not regrow cauterized stumps, which formed our strategy of outfitting both static defenses and vanguard units with heat based weaponry, from laz cannons, flamers, and melta weapons.
In the end we killed the Prowler and its brood, then began the gruesome harvest of resources from the kills. Our Apothecaries harvested their bladders, skinned the fresh kills, and turned the creature's bones as decors of warning. After the implementation of all these things, our landing zone suffered no attack, and now we had undeniably evidence of some form of intelligence in the Prowlers. No unthinking beast would be moved at the sight of pelts of its kindred, their skulls, or rotting corpses, but the Prowlers seemed to shrink at the sight of their own desecrated dead. They are aware that they are the apex predator of Rhyjin, and seemed to understand that those we had not only killed their fellow xenoforms but had no use of their meat for substance. Wise is the hunter that finds evidence of a predatory beast that hunts for sport, and not survival. That is not to say the landing sites no longer saw any attacks, but they became an infrequent occurrence nearly overnight. I had put forth that the Prowlers were unfamiliar with being the subject of fear, or being the victim of another's great strength, whereas Dorn simply did not care about reason and that our tactics worked. Quickly, we returned to our projected plans, Rogal expanding and fortifying a foothold for the Imperium, while the II legion went out in search of human settlements, without the presence of the Diplomatic Corps, at least for the first week.
It had seemed that in order to survive so long under the threat of the Prowlers, the human tribes had come to the same conclusion that Dorn and I had, to mark their territories with trophies of dead Prowlers. However, unlike us, they actively had to seek out new Prowlers for fresh kills and trophies, as the ever constant rain made it difficult for trophies to last no more than a decade. I encountered one of the largest tribes of humans, just over five hundred and fifty souls, that called themselves Vel-Crez'Ma, or the People of Crez'Ma. Crez'Ma was the name of their settlement, along with the name of their greatest hero and founder, who was fabled to have slain a hundred Prowlers, and their heroics gathering more survivors to their banner. The Vel-Crez'Ma were hesitant when they first met us, until we removed our helmets, revealing more human features, and though tense they were no longer shuddering in fear. They welcomed us into their settlement with unhidden caution, something I respected, but offered us both food and drink that was not only delicious but free of any poison. I have lost track of the number of cultures I have encountered that thought either myself or my Astartes would be felled by poisoned food, only to watch in disbelief as we finished the entire meal without any sign of discomfort. Thankfully, none of the tribes of Rhyjin added to that number, indeed I found it rare that any "uncivilized" human cultures tried such tactics, and more often used by those more "advanced and civilized" cultures.
Their language and its dialects were not all that dissimilar to a handful of other human tribal cultures across the stars, allowing me to learn the language in a handful of hours, at least enough for a formal conversation. Their chieftain, Grulex, was an old warrior, a face of scar tissue, with an eye taken by a Prowler's claws, and despite his age seemed as fit as any of his younger warriors. Had the Imperium arrived decades earlier, I have no doubts that Grulex would have made an excellent addition to the Imperium's growing military forces, perhaps even an Astartes in one of the twenty legions. They introduced me to their spiritual beliefs towards their ancestors, the ever growing sagas of heroics that each of their warriors, engineers, and seers added to with their deeds and death. In a way, it is beautiful. Everyone who had ever sacrificed, bled, or killed for Vel-Crez'Ma was immortalized in song and story, while every warrior would call for the spirit of their settlement's founder to watch over them as they brought glory to the tribe. They believed that by bringing glory to their tribe, one would be rewarded with a peaceful afterlife, while those that failed would reincarnate so they might try again. While on paper it went against the Imperial Truth, there were many exceptions to those who were called to adhere to its literal tenets, but I could see ways that these spiritual traditions could be made acceptable under Imperial edicts. I reported my findings, personal notes, and had transcripts drafted for the diplomats, so they could absorb the information and use it to guide the conduct of their manners.
Rogal Dorn had been given a copy of everything I had sent to the diplomats as well, as I felt no need to hide anything from a brother of mine, and to this day I wonder if things would have been different if I had not sent a copy to him. Dorn demanded my presence aboard the Phalanx, not requested, and instantly a sense of foreboding loomed over me. I answered the summons, wearing my armor, a ceremonial power spear in hands, and brought a single squad of Bale Hounds as an honor guard. Once aboard the Imperial Fists' flagship, we were led by a legion attendant to a chamber that reminded me of a grand theater of ancient Terra, where Rogal Dorn stood in full armor, and Storm's Teeth mag-locked to his armor. Lining the rows of the chamber's seat were a combination of VIIth legion Astartes, Imperial Army personnel, adapts of the Mechanicum, and others I was surprised to see amongst the audience. I could sense tension and expectation rippling through the air, while Rogal radiated with his cold fury. In hindsight, I should have expected what was coming, but I had hoped to give Rogal more credit as both a brother and leader of the Great Crusade. My own Astartes felt anxious by the tension, and with a gesture from me stayed behind as I approached Rogal Dorn, spreading out to assess the chamber, coming to the same conclusion I had.
"I see you answer the summons with haste," Rogal stated, in a false calm only I could detect, "I will make note of this when I submit my own report."
"Your own report?" I asked, not hiding the surprise, "What report?" I felt a flicker of amusement in Rogal's soul, perhaps he thought I truly had no idea what was happening, he was wrong. I was still struggling to believe what Rogal was doing, and thought such actions between brothers would rarely, if never, come to pass. I wanted him to prove that what I was seeing was a misunderstanding. I was disappointed.
"Your failure to follow the Emperor's decree," Dorn answered, "I will give you a choice brother, cease deviating from the orders of the Emperor, beloved by all, then face his judgment, or here and now face my judgment in the honor tradition of trial by combat. My librarians will ensure you can not make use of your psycker gifts, of course." I had already noted the one hundred and twenty seven Legiones Librarians marked with Imperial Fists liveries, I say this next part with the confidence of one who knows the limits of his own psychic abilities, Rogal either overestimated the abilities of his own librarians or insultingly underestimated my own capabilities. A grim expression set into my face, as I kept both the gift and my rage from my words.
"Don't do this brother," I pleaded, "I will only say this once. What you're looking to do can't be undone. I would happily cross blades with you in contest, but not like this, not when you levy accusations with such hidden bitterness. You are my brother. Please, don't destroy my respect for you." At first there was a faint smugness to Rogal's soul, so subtle I'm not even sure he noticed it, but towards the end my words broke the dam that held back the chill of his fury.
"You dare speak again of respect?!" He bellowed with the full depth of his voice, "You who so casually acts according to his own whims, and allows traditions to take root within his legion that border dangerously on the superstitious, yet passionate defend such practices as a necessity of your Astartes! We serve the Emperor of Mankind! Yet you-"
"ENOUGH!" I interrupt, my anger bled into my words, but not the gift, "Enough. Words will not change your mind. You clearly want this trial by combat. So enough pretense, and ready your blade." I shrugged off my empty wrist-mounted bolter, removed and then folded my clan's kilt, handed them off to one of the Bale Hounds who stepped forward to take them. I nodded my thanks to the Astartes. I turned back to face Rogal, who now held Storm's Teeth in both hands, and stood in a practiced combat readied stance. From merely the evidence of my eyes, I could tell he wanted this to be a monumental moment, where he proved that only through staunch obedience to the Emperor could one champion the Great Crusade. He would forever be disappointed. I took a slightly relaxed stance, both hands gripped around the haft of my ceremonial spear, and I tuned out all other details unrelated to Rogal Dorn from my perceptions. I did not even hear the voice of whoever signaled the start of the trial, but I knew it had begun the second Rogal charged forward, the unpowered form of Storm's Teeth held low to deliver a powerful strike.
I waited for him to come to me, and when in range, I used the blade end of my spear to block Rogal's strike, something that caught him off guard. What caught him more off guard, was that I used the moment from his own strike to apply greater force into a pommel strike to slam directly into Rogal's cheek. The strike drew blood, but I was not done. The instant the pommel struck his check, without holding anything back I kicked a boot into the small exposed gap around Rogal's knee, crushing the ceramite and dislocating my brother's knee joint. Before he could even register the pain, I removed one hand from the haft, curled it into a fist, and pulled back before slamming it into Rogal's face. I held back only from killing him, then I struck him again, again, and again. The speed of my violence may surprise you, though I assure you that the Wolf King is faster, but I rarely displayed my true speed, unless in the thickest of battlefields. Rogal had made the mistake of believing that by fighting alongside me once, he had a full scope of my abilities, and even then I had restrained myself from enhancing my body further through the use of the gift. When I finally felt a wet crack in Rogal's cheek, I stopped my assault, looked down upon Rogal dazed and prone form. Rogal had never faced a physical challenge that was equal or greater to himself, and so he had no inclination or cause to increase his own combat prowess. I grew upon a world where either I was hunted or the hunter of nightmares from the cancerous tides of the Warp, that put the capabilities of even our Astartes to shame. I had no choice but to improve or die. I ignored the coppery scent of Rogal's blood on my gauntlets, and noticed that many of the Imperial Fists now raised their weapons yet refrained from aiming at me.
"This trial is done," I declared calmly, yet loudly enough for the entire chamber to hear, "If my esteemed younger brother wishes to approach this subject again, then he may do so privately, but on my schedule. I thank the VIIth legion for their hospitality, but the compliance of the planet calls for my attention, so we will take our leave." I left no room for debate in my tone, and though the Imperial Fists felt indignity at their Primarch's defeat, they were well disciplined to not act without Dorn's orders on such a delicate matter. We left, no escort or guide was offered, and in truth we would not have accepted one. In my sons, I felt echoes similar to my own annoyance at the insult of Rogal's actions, while in some there was true contempt towards the VIIth legion and their Primarch. I want to state for the record, it was neither myself, nor my honor guard, who spread word of the duel between Rogal and myself. I ordered the honor guard to stay silent on the matters of that journey to the Phalanx. To any who dare suggest it was the Imperial Fists who spread it so vastly, not only insult the character of their legion but fail to understand them. They do not gossip. No the culprits were the various standard human officers and other witnesses that had been invited to see the spectacle. Rogal knows this, and though he is bitter about the results of our duel, he knows better than to blame anyone but himself for the shame that now hangs above him.
The compliance of Rhyjin went on without any more incidents, one by one the human tribes willingly joined the Imperium of Man, thanks largely to the efforts of the diplomatic corps. Rogal indeed had made and sent a report of my "deviance" to the Emperor, yet it did not receive the reaction he had been expecting. Instead of the Emperor, Malcador came to pass judgment, emphasizing many times that his words reflected our Father's thoughts on the matter, and ruled that my actions were within the bounds of the Imperial Truth. The sense of shock and shame that ravaged Rogal's soul upon hearing Malcador's decree, that he had been wrong in his course of action, was unfamiliar to him. Under different circumstances, I would have offered sympathies, but in truth, Rogal had brought this down upon himself. I can only hope that he has learned from the experience, and adjusted his humors accordingly, because this Crusade would be made even more difficult if there were constant duels over the rightness of actions between we Primarchs. That one battle between us had spread ghostly seeds of doubt within the minds of those humans who heard the entirety of that tale. To this day, there are many within Imperial High Command who believe that we are nothing but spoiled children, granted the keys to this growing empire, and squabble needlessly over unimportant details. This belief, regardless of the truth of it, has only created more divisions between us, our legions, and other facets of the Imperium, one that only a few of my brothers wish to rectify. Rogal Dorn's was not the foundation of this schism, but he did little to fix or halt its spread.