It was a long moment before he spoke again. 'We are Astartes, sir, set on our path by the Master of Mankind, tasked to regather the lost fragments of humanity to the fold of the Imperium, to illuminate the lost, castigate the fallen and the invader. We can only do so if we have truth on our side. If we do it in the open, under the harsh light of the universe, then I have no doubt that we will eventually expunge the fallacies of gods and deities… but we cannot bring the secular truth to bear if any of it is hidden, even the smallest part. Only the Emperor can show the way forward.' He took a shuddering breath, intently aware of the primarch's unblinking stare upon him. 'These lodges, though they have their worth, are predicated on the act of concealment, and I will have no part of that.'
Mortarion accepted this with a careful nod. 'What of your battle-brothers who feel differently?'
'That is their choice, lord. I have no right to make it for them.'
The primarch drew himself up once more. 'Thank you for your candour, battle-captain. I expected nothing less –' He paused. 'I have one more request of you, Nathaniel, and this, I'm afraid, is indeed an order.'
'Sir?' Garro felt an odd flutter in his chest.
'Once we are done here, this fleet will make space for the Isstvan system to rendezvous with the War-master's command ship, the Vengeful Spirit. Horns will be holding a war council with representatives of the World Eaters and the Emperor's Children, and I will have need of an equerry to join me there. First Captain Typhon will be engaged in other duties, so I have chosen you to accompany my party.'
Garro was speechless. To extend such a privilege to a battle-captain was unprecedented, and the thought of it made his chest tighten. To stand in Mortarion's presence was heady enough, but to be close at hand before an assembly of the Emperor's sons led by the Warmaster…
It would be glorious.
FOUR
Two Faces
A Scream in the Darkness
Gathering of Legends
The pict screen was a flexible thing, like cloth, and it hung from the eaves of the armoury chamber alcove in the manner of a tapestry. Cables trailed away to shining brass sockets in the walls, streams of data feeding images from the ship-to-ship vox network. The view was a live signal, attenuated by interference from the Horologii star, and although it appeared to be instantaneous, it was actually a few minutes behind the real events, the transmission slowed by relativistic physics, not that such a fact seemed to concern the Astartes gathered to watch.
The display came from remote scrying picters on the bow plane of Barbarus's Sting, a light frigate that had been tasked to follow the jorgall world-ship on its last journey. The images were being recorded for posterity. The better views would doubtless be worked into stirring newsreels for distribution across Imperial space.
The world ship's drives flashed red and tongues of fusion flame erupted from their nozzles, each one as long as the Sting. At the edges of the picture, it was possible to see the glints of smaller craft – shuttles and Thunderhawks – escaping the world-ship with the last of the Imperial forces on board. The picters rotated to follow the monolithic craft and smoked filters faded in as the Iotan sun hove into view.
The world-ship was accelerating away, gaining speed with every passing moment. The controls for the propulsion system captured by the Death Guard of the Second Company had been locked open by the adepts of the Mechanicum. Barbarus's Sting kept a respectful distance, drifting after the bottle-world, framing its descent towards the sun. Great loops of crackling electromagnetic energy shimmered around the pearlescent cylinder as it cut into the star's invisible chromosphere, destroying the solar panels at the aft. They crisped and burned, folding in on themselves like insect wings touched by candle flames. The world-ship fell faster and faster, dipping into the raging superheated plasma of the photospheric layer. Hull metal peeled away in curls a kilometre long, revealing ribs of metal that melted and ran. Finally, the alien vessel sank through a glowing coronal prominence and disappeared forever into the stellar furnace.
'Gone/ murmured Brother Mokyr, 'ashes and dust, as are all the enemies of the Death Guard. A fitting end for such xenos hubris.' A swell of self-congratulatory mood passed through the assembled men of the Second Company.
It was they who had made the sun dive possible, after spending their blood and fire to take the heavily defended engineering domes from the jorgall. It was
fitting that they were witnesses to the alien vessel's final moments.
'I wonder how many survivors were aboard,' said a sergeant, watching the star's rippling surface.
Mokyr grunted. 'None.' He turned and grinned at his company captain. A fine victory, eh, commander?'
A fine victory,' repeated Grulgor in a rancorous tone, 'but not fine enough.' He shot a hard look up at the gallery, where Garro stood in conversation with his primarch.
'Curb your choler, Ignatius. For once, try not to wear it like a badge upon your chest.' Typhon drew near, the rank-and-file Astartes parting before his approach.
'Forgive me, first captain/ Grulgor retorted, 'it is just that my choler, as you put it, is apt to suffer when I am forced to witness the unworthy rewarded.'
Typhon raised an eyebrow. 'You are questioning the primarch's decisions? Careful, commander, there is sedition in such thoughts/
He drew close to the other man so that their conversation would be less public.
'Garro rescues women and kills newborns, and for that he is given a draught from the cup? Have the standards of the Legion fallen so low that we reward such behaviour?'
The first captain ignored the question and answered with one of his own. 'Tell me, why do you object to Nathaniel Garro with such vehemence? He is a Death Guard, is he not? He is your battle-brother, a kinsman Astartes.'
'Straight-arrow Garro!' Anger bubbled up through Grulgor's mocking reply. 'He's not fit to be a Death Guard! He is high-handed and superior, always looking down his nose! He thinks himself so much better
than the rest of the Legion, too proud and too good for the rest of us!'
'Us?' asked Typhon, pushing the commander to say what he knew was there just beneath the surface.
'The sons of Barbarus, Calas. You and I, men like Ujioj and Holgoarg! The Death Guard who were born upon our blighted home world! Garro is a Terran, an Earthborn. He wears it like some sacred brand, always reminding us that he is our better because he fought for the Legion before it was given to Mortarion!' Grulgor shook his head. 'He pours scorn on my company, upon our brotherhood and comradeship of our lodge, too haughty to mix with the rest of us outside of rank and rule, and do you know why? Because his precious birthright is all he has! If he wasn't favoured by the Emperor with that damned eagle cuirass he wears, he wouldn't be allowed to ride the hem of my cloak!'
'Temeter is a Terran-born, and so is Huron-Fal, and Sorrak and countless others within our ranks,' said the captain levelly 'Do you detest them as well, Ignatius?'
'None of them drag the old ways around like rattling chains. None of them think themselves a cut above the rest because of their birthplace!' His eyes narrowed. 'Garro acts as if he has the right to judge me. I will not tolerate such condescension from a man who grew up watered and well-fed, while my clan fought for every breath of clean air!'
'But is not Mortarion himself a Terran?' Typhon asked with a wicked smile, daring Grulgor to go further still.
'The primarch's place of birth was Barbarus/ insisted the commander, rising to the bait. 'He is, and always will be, one of us. This Legion belongs to the Death Lord first and the Emperor second. Garro
should be reminded of that, not given praise he does not deserve.'
'Bold words,' noted Typhon, 'but I'm afraid you may be further disappointed. Our lord commander has not only granted Captain Garro the cups today, but will also take him as equerry to the war council at our next port of call.'
Grulgor's pale face flushed crimson. 'Did you come to mock, Typhon? Does it amuse you to parade Garro's favours in front of me?'
The line of Typhon's jaw hardened. "Watch your tone, commander. Remember to whom you speak.' He looked away. 'You are a true Death Guard, Grulgor, a blunt instrument, lethal and relentless, and you are loyal to the primarch.'
'Never question that/ growled the Astartes, 'or I will take your head, first captain or not.'
The threat amused the other man. 'I would never dare to do such a thing, but I would ask you this –how far would your loyalty to Mortarion take you?'
To the gates of hell and beyond, if he commanded it.' Grulgor's reply was immediate and absolute.
Typhon watched him carefully. 'Even if it was against the will of a higher authority?'
'Like the Sigillite?' snapped Grulgor, 'or those wastrels filling the Council of Terra?'
'Or higher still/
The commander snorted with bitter laughter. The Death Lord first, the Emperor second. I said it and I meant it. If that makes me of lesser worth than men like Garro, then perhaps I am.'
'On the contrary/ nodded Typhon, 'it makes you all the more valuable. There are great powers soon to bloom, Ignatius, and men of your calibre will be needed when those moments come.'
He threw a dismissive glance up at the gallery. 'And what about him?'