Scions of the Emperor Page 14

  'Some would call that pride.'

  'Some?'

  'Some.'

  'Well, if it is pride to trust in your weapons, in your war-keep, in your liege, then I have no quarrel with that.'

  'Could another Legion have done what you are doing, here?'

  'I do not know.'

  'But you doubt it.'

  'I trust in my weapons.'

  'And in your liege?'

  The comms station suddenly blushed a dull red, and the lens filled up with runes.

  'You will be able to find out for yourself,' Arnaid said, studying the incoming screed. 'Word from the flagship, and all is granted. Consider yourself fortunate - the Lion wishes to speak to you in person.'

  As he runs, he grows stronger again. The scent of blood is in the storm-wind, splattered on the leaves and pooled in the root-curls. Even as the rain starts, he smells it among the rival smells of the deep wood - the decay, the fungus, the sweet drift of carcass-spoor.

  The undergrowth is sodden now, shining in the wavering moonlight. The trees are like the bars of a prison, massive and unyielding.

  All paths lead him downwards now, away from the dying light and into the troughs and sloughs of the twilight realms. Birds scream overhead, their wings snapping as they burst from their eyries. Lesser creatures cower in sets and dens, their eyes like black jewels, their claws pressed tight into the dank earth.

  The sickle-curve horn is in his hand, dripping with rainwater. He grips it so tight he thinks now that he shall never let it go. The further in he travels, the more the stink of his enemy grows in strength. Everything is stained by it, here. The heartwood reeks of it, the mires reflect it.

  He shoves his way through a tangle of thorns, and they rake at his back. He skids on the loose mud, and nearly loses his footing. There is no place for stealth - all scents are out in the open. He must be like a shadow of the storm, leaping through the flickering half-light, using his speed and his power to overwhelm the nightmare that waits for him.

  He has heard tales of the creature from many mouths. The beasts sing of it, and they cower; the birds crow of it, and they shudder. Perhaps that is why he has come to this world. Perhaps only he could ever have had the strength to wrestle such a creature to the blood-rich earth, to throttle it and stamp its entrails into the sucking mulch.

  The smell becomes overwhelming, an equine musk, a tang of iron. He is close, he is very close. The sky splits with a flare of lightning, serrating the lashing heavens, and he sees the stark black spine of the wind-bent trees.

  It is there, pawing at the ground, holding court within its narrow clearing, its nostrils wide and steaming.

  He does not hesitate. He leaps, bursting from cover with the tendrils of the grasping wood trailing from his shoulders. The nightmare charges him, thundering right back at him, making the earth hammer under churning hooves. For a second, he is in the air, suspended, blade high, staring at it. The storm growls again, flooding the clearing with a second flash of silver fire.

  It is enormous, clad in a shell of black iron, its eyes hidden, its shoulders curved under armour. It carries a long straight blade that glints dully against the storm's cold fire. Too late, he sees that it is not one beast there, but two - a rider and its mount, each armoured, each colossal, glossed and slicked in the streaming rain.

  He strikes out with the horn, and drives the tip against the creature's armour. The horn shivers in his grip and shatters. The nightmare lashes out, swinging its great blade two-handed. The blow is impeccable, too fast to evade, too strong to survive. He feels the dark iron bite deep, rending his own flesh as he once rent the flesh of other beasts.

  He howls, and the world spins. The nightmare thrusts again, point-first now, aimed at the heart with unerring precision. He tries to scrabble away, but is pinned, and this time the agony is all-consuming. He can feel the howl of the netherworld coming for him again, the dissolution from which he came, and knows the price of failure.

  The nightmare is looming over him now, drenched with both storm-rain and thrown blood. It looks haggard and grotesque, a foul parody of old nobility.

  'First Son,' he snarls, summoning speech from the bowels of his rapidly dissipating body.

  It twists the blade, and comes so close that its eyes are almost visible between the narrow slit of an iron helm.

  'You are the death of this world,' he spits.

  The nightmare crunches its spurred boot onto his neck, choking the last vigour from his corporeal husk.

  'Call me by my name,' it tells him, in a voice of such studied, arch contempt that it burns his peeling flesh away. 'The hunter. The slayer of beasts.'

  Arnaid was given the honour of accompanying Alpharius. The Nightsward made its way from the fringes of the engagement zone towards the heart of the grand fleet. As they travelled, Arnaid saw the state of the ships - hacked and marred and gouged, all of them, like herd animals bearing the claw-scars of predators. The numbers were down on what they had been, and even some of the big battle cruisers appeared to be missing.

  They passed through a number of challenge-stages, each one overseen by a larger warship, until they were heading into the congested centre where the true leviathans stood at void-anchor. There was no mistaking the flagship - the Invincible Reason was long, lean, dark and spare, like a spear of obsidian against the void. Its gothic turrets still reared proudly from its back, though many were blackened from xenos particle flayers and some whole sections had been stripped from the adamantium superstructure.

  The final approaches were shadowed by Legion Stormbirds bearing the hexagrammatic sigils of the Ravenwing. Despite giving the correct pass-ciphers at every stage, primed guns overwatched them the whole time. That was standard procedure in the extermination zone, but Arnaid couldn't help but wonder if it had more to do, on this occasion, with the passenger he carried with him.

  They passed under the shadow of the Invincible Reason's main hangar and entered its cavernous, echoing embrace. Once disembarked, they were met by an honour guard of paladins, each draped in ivory cloaks over nightshade-black armour. They were escorted courteously, but firmly, to the turbo-lifts and grav-lines, after which they swept through the many halls and armouries towards their destination.

  On the way, Arnaid stole occasional glances at Alpharius. He liked to think that the newcomer would be impressed - the Invincible Reason was by a distance the most famous ship in the Imperium. It had been the first of the Gloriana class, and in its subsequent service a vindication of the Emperor's ambition to create something so vast, so powerful and so fast that nothing in the galaxy would ever rival it. For a long time it had been the only such vessel in the entire crusade, and the very rumour of its presence was sufficient to quell warzones and hasten compliances. Now a number of other Glorianas had been put into service with other Legions, but the old lustre from this one was still not quite gone. Every hammerbeam roof and vaulted alcove spoke of sombre, patient craftsmanship, the melding of the mechanical genius of Mars with the dark, lethal majesty of Caliban.

  Eventually they reached the primarch's private chambers, and Arnaid prepared to withdraw. As he did so, one of the paladin escort prevented him.

  'He wants you too, captain.'

  And so Arnaid went in. He walked alongside Alpharius up the long nave, his boots treading into the rush mats laid over cold granite. He passed the banners of the Legion's many companies and battalions, all hanging stiffly in those mournful, candlelit shadows.

  The Lion was waiting for them on a throne of white alabaster, a long, ermine-trimmed cloak hanging from his shoulder in a heavy cataract of velvet. A battery of hololith projectors had been set about the throne, and all were active, showing schematics of more than a dozen active void-engagements. As ever, the primarch's silent presence proved quietly dominating like the cold pressure of night air before the onset of a storm. Perhaps, though, as one got closer, it was possible to detect a degree of strain in those chilly eyes, a faint weariness hanging over those g
reat shoulders. So many had died here, slain by an enemy that had nowhere to run and so fought with all the desperation of a cornered beast. Many more would die before the end, whatever tactical genius was brought to bear on the remaining engagements, and so every planned deployment was scrutinised, checked and revised, over and over again.

  It was said by some that the Lion cared not for his warriors, and would sacrifice any number of them to achieve a strategic advantage. That rumour, though widespread, could hardly have been further from the truth. This primarch had been raised amid the Order, for whom fealty and feudal obligation were everything and so every death of those sworn to his service weighed heavy on his austere soul. If he chose not to show that emotion, thus giving rise to whispers from lesser men, that did nothing to reduce the burden. He was a closed book, the Lion, though one whose secret pages were etched with the blood of those he led.

  'Captain Arnaid,' he said as the two of them approached the dais. 'I was appraised of your recent service at Uriba. You give honour to your Order.'

  Arnaid bowed. 'The honour is mine, lord primarch,' he said.

  The Lion turned to Alpharius. Arnaid stole a sideways glance too, and was satisfied at the erasure of smugness on the Space Marine's face. There could be no gentle air of superiority here, not in the presence of a true son of the Emperor.

  'And you,' said the Lion, resting a great gauntlet on one armoured knee. 'What am I to make of you?'

  Alpharius bowed. 'Whatever you wish, my lord. I am here to answer your questions.'

  'You come from a Legion that does not exist, and give a name that has no correspondence in any record,' the Lion said. 'You show no badge and give no assurance, and yet demand an audience here, in the heart of my fleet and on the eve of coming battle.'

  'The Twentieth is real, lord, as you can plainly see,' Alpharius said. 'And, if I may say so, I do not think its existence could ever truly have been a secret to you.'

  'I had heard rumours. A Legion of ghosts, they said, coming and going without leaving a thread to ravel. But a Legion needs a primarch, and you have none, so by what right do you give your warband the title?'

  'Legions existed before their primarchs, even this one. We are the last, but our master will be discovered in time. Perhaps then we shall become more than ghosts.'

  'Or perhaps you won't.'

  'The choice will be made for us, that is certain.'

  Arnaid watched and listened. Though superficially different, there was something disconcertingly similar about the way the two of them spoke. It was as if the words were only surface-deep, and that the true import of what they said was still unspoken, locked in hidden caskets of meaning.

  'Tell me why you are here,' said the Lion.

  'I bring a ship, containing a company of our finest warriors. There are others coming, all apt to be placed under your command. They will serve faithfully and without question. We have studied your war against the Rangdan, admiring it from afar. The xenos will not prove a surprise to us. Take the offer, and this will be over far more swiftly.'

  'A generous gift. It comes from my father, does it?'

  'It comes from ourselves. We have a certain… licence, in this, at any rate.'

  'There are many Legions fighting in this crusade. No others have offered us help. Why should you?'

  'We wish to see the crusade completed.'

  'So do all my brothers.'

  'We wish to see the Rangdan destroyed.'

  The Lion's visage hardened. 'Let me advise you a little, ghost,' he said. 'There are those of my esteemed brotherhood who possess warm hearts and ready humours. They are tolerant men, who will listen to the tales of travellers with indulgence, enjoying such discourse just as they enjoy their plays at combat. I am not like them. My heart is not warm, my humours are sour. I have seen my Legion bled to the marrow by this war, and now spend every waking hour striving to preserve what is left. We have killed so many in these charnel-systems that our hands may never be free of the stain of it, so if you value your neck then start speaking the truth - I do not keep this sword at my belt for idle show.'

  Alpharius' eyelid twitched, just a little. The serene visage frayed at the edges, just a little. But he held his ground, and he held the primarch's gaze.

  'You must be Warmaster, my lord,' he said.

  The word lingered in the shadows, an unfamiliar echo in those grey and sombre halls.

  'What do you mean?' the Lion asked, warily.

  'The day will come,' said Alpharius. 'The last primarch - ours - will be found, and then this pretence at equality must end. An emperor does not lead his armies once his generals are in the field, and this one will be no different. Do not feign ignorance, my lord, for you cannot be unaware of what has long been talked of among your brothers.'

  'You bring danger on yourself, with these words.'

  'I merely state what must take place,' Alpharius said. 'You were the first. Your Legion was the greatest and the most numerous. You should be preeminent still, the first choice for the station that must come in time. In conception it was you. It still can be.'

  'You speak as if the decision has been made.'

  'You are destroying yourself in this war. The Thirteenth Legion is now more numerous for the first time, though its master is a pale shadow of you. If you continue to absorb this rate of attrition, you will never overtake them again. Others have risen in favour, too - the Tenth, the Sixteenth. There is a crown ordained for you, lord, but it is slipping from your fingers.'

  'And you can restore it to my brow.'

  'Yes, if you withdraw your strength now. Let us complete what remains of this task, while you recover your numbers. None could doubt your valour for what has already been done. Return to Caliban and build anew, and none will also doubt your right to rule.'

  The Lion thought on that. His steep brow furrowed for a moment, and armoured fingers drummed across his knee.

  'And you would be kingmaker,' he said.

  'No obligation would be placed on you.'

  'Then why make the offer?'

  Alpharius smiled, in what seemed like almost embarrassment. 'Because we have been created the same way, your people and ours. You know what it is to keep both a promise and a secret. You know what it is to carry the blade on your belt and the one under your cloak. If Guilliman is made master, none of this will survive. That is why.'

  The Lion smiled for the first time then, as chilly and hard-edged as any of his gestures. 'One day, if the fates allow, your own primarch will be found. Why not place your hopes in him?'

  'We are not what you are.'

  'And what are we?'

  'The First.'

  The Lion did not respond for a moment. He seemed to withdraw into himself, as if those two words were as much a curse as an honour.

  'Go, now,' he said, grimly, pulling the cloak a little closer about himself. 'Return to your grey ship and your empty flags. You will have my answer within the hour.'

  After Alpharius had left, the Lion turned to Arnaid.

  'What did you make of that?' he asked.

  'A strange offer.'

  'Very. Do you agree with his assessment of the war?'

  Arnaid hesitated. 'It is not my place to—'

  'Your honest view, captain.'

  'He's right.' Arnaid lifted his gaze to meet his primarch's. 'We will win here, but we will also leave much of our strength in these stars.'

  The Lion nodded. His eyes flickered briefly across the various tactical hololiths, all buzzing with runes and deployment vectors.

  'I had a dream last night, Captain Arnaid,' he said, thoughtfully. 'I dreamed that I was back on Caliban, before my father had come, when the deep woods were still alive with horror. I was in the mind of a beast, come to slay me. Or perhaps the beast was in my mind, and it was the hunter. I do not recall ever meeting such a creature in life. As I ended it, it spoke to me. Did that ever happen, truly? I do not know.'

  Arnaid listened, a little awkwardly, unsettled by the glimpse,
however slight, into his primarch's inner life.

  'It, too, called me the First,' the Lion said. 'I cannot have known what it meant, then. Ever since, though, the title has been both honour and burden, hung around our necks like lead weight. Now we have more ghosts emerging from the void to tempt us with future visions of a greater politics to come. Always, at every turn, such ghosts have been there, believing they know what I must wish for, or must do, or must be.'

  The Lion smiled a second time, a little less coldly.

  'A Warmaster,' he said, musingly. 'A first among equals. The ghost is no doubt right - something like that will surely come. And, if we persist in fulfilling our oaths here, we damage our chances of taking it. Every creature of temptation, it seems to me, comes out of the shadows bearing words of truth. That is why they are dangerous - we are used to lies, on a world made of them. Only truth imperils the soul.'

  'Then, should we…' Arnaid ventured.

  The Lion looked back towards him, a flicker of dry amusement lingering on his face. 'Should we what, captain?'

  'Should we accept the offer?'

  The Lion sat back in the throne.

  'The offers change,' he said. 'The answer never does.'

  He comes out of the trees on foot as the sun rises, his armour bearing the mark of many claws. The rain has long ended, but the air is still grey and heavy with moisture, the land is sunk into mire, the tracks waterlogged and the fields lumped with sod and clay.

  Ahead, on the horizon, his war-keep rises into a grey sky, its black walls crowned with pennants. It is enormous, built to subdue the land around it, but even so, set against those trackless forests beyond, it seems like a fragile dominion. Men and women are moving in long cavalcades through the mud, tramping their weary way towards the gates. All are watched over by the warriors in dark armour, standing sentinel on their heavy barded destriers.