Guilliman had assembled an honour guard of nine thousand Ultramarines around the edges of the square. They stood in perfectly mediated blocks behind their respective company standards, their polished wargear glittering in the daylight. Between each company formation was assembled either a mechanised armour formation or an Army battalion, the soldiers kneeling in obeisance beneath their fluttering vexils held aloft by their bannermen. Guilliman was offering his brother an honour guard of almost forty-seven thousand fighting souls, not to mention the million or more civilians crowded into the adjacent streets and thoroughfares for a glimpse of the Lion-lord and his famous warriors. Euten had told Guilliman that street hawkers and vendors were doing a brisk trade in cheap icons and tin badges displaying the iconography of the First Legion.
‘So my people think he will save them when I cannot?’ Guilliman had asked as he strapped on his ceremonial plate in the Residency’s fitting chamber.
Euten had blown a raspberry.
‘They celebrate the moment, you foolish boy,’ she replied. ‘They welcome his arrival. He is noble and he is loyal.’
Guilliman had nodded.
‘Are you jealous of him?’ Euten had asked.
‘No!’
‘You are. You are. Because he is the Lord of the First, the first born. I never thought I would see such jealousy in you, my dear lord. It does not become you, but it is also rather sweet.’
Guilliman had growled something indecipherable, and then demanded that his armourers adjust the servo fit of his pauldrons.
‘Of course,’ Euten had added, thoughtfully. ‘He is Lord of the First, and thus the first of your equals, but he was not the first found.’
‘What, woman?’
‘Horus was the first lost son to be found. Look how well that ended, my lord.’
Guilliman had looked at her and laughed. He couldn’t stop himself. It had felt good.
‘First is not always best,’ Euten had said, also laughing, ‘my eighth-found Lord of the Thirteenth Legion. Look who has an empire.’
Still smiling, Guilliman had looked at her.
‘Be careful what you say,’ he had told her. ‘Whatever I have, my beloved brother Horus almost has an empire.’
‘The point is,’ she had replied, ‘the people of Macragge know that two primarchs are, logically, better than one.’
The trumpets screamed, lifting him from the memory. An aide stepped to Guilliman’s side, and presented him with a gene-reader data-slate.
‘Your authority to open airspace, my lord?’ the aide bowed.
‘Given,’ Guilliman said. He took the slate and kissed the screen. Such ultimate authorities required a direct gene-sample, and it was often too cumbersome for a fully plated warrior to remove a power fist or gauntlet to affect a dermal read. A kiss had become the expedient and understood custom. Guilliman knew that some, like First Master Phratus Auguston, preferred to spit on slates rather than kiss them. It had the same effect, but it lacked humility.
The deep systems of the Civitas accepted and interpreted his genetic order. Overhead, the starport airspace opened and the void shields slid aside. Ships descended from the shadow of a fleet lying out in the atmospheric murk.
First, Stormbirds, painted void-black, the leading edges of their wings flecked in dark, dark green, the colour of ancient forests. Behind them, in formation, landing ships, Thunderhawks and Thunderhawk bulkers, and troop landers.
They were not just in formation. They descended in perfect, perfect, aerial synchronicity. The ships came down like formation dancers, in a precisely integrated and orchestrated ballet.
He’s showing off, Guilliman thought. He smiled. I would too, if the situation was reversed.
The ships began to land, four by four, in perfect sequence, along the top of the colonnade where it met Martial Square. The timing of their touchdowns was almost embarrassingly precise. Four, then four, then four, each group together. Their downdraft obliterated the trumpet fanfare and even the constant howl of the Titan war-engines.
Drop hatches and ramps opened and released with similarly pin-sharp timing. Formations of Dark Angels strode down the ramps onto the colonnade and entered the square. They stepped as one, each beat perfect, each warrior gleaming and uniform. As the marching companies entered the square, they began to spread into wide, double-ranks from their ten-by-ten blocks. The spread was seamless. Squads widened and melted into and through each other, forming a perfect double-wall, all still marching in step, never missing a beat. The drill discipline was the most impressive Guilliman had ever seen.
He’s showing off, he thought again.
Not missing a beat, the Dark Angels formation rotated its edges to form a horseshoe with the open end facing the platform of Titan’s Gate. Two thousand warriors deployed in sublimely orchestrated marching order. Then they began their weapons drill, all marching on the spot as they tossed, spun and rotated their bolters, or threw swords and standards aloft and back again in precise returns. Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat.
Guilliman noticed details of particular weapons carried by the Dark Angels – beam and projectile weapons of various kinds that even he did not immediately recognise. The First Legion had arsenals containing devices unknown to all the other Legions. The Dark Angels had been the first created, and their history predated all other institutions of the Legiones Astartes. They were, in many regards, the prototype. It was said that during the latter years of the Unification War and the first years of the Great Crusade, before the other Legions had been constructed, the Dark Angels had known and done things that no other Legion was privy to. They had built their strengths and identity in that era, in isolation.
That identity had needed to be complete. When there was only one Legion, that Legion had been obliged to contain all specialisms. Guilliman knew that the six hosts or ‘wings’ of the Dark Angels represented specialisms of every school, at subtle variance to the standard order of the Principia Bellicosa.
Guilliman had also heard tell of secret orders and mysterious hierarchies within the ranks of the Dark Angels; hierarchies of knowledge, trust and authority invisible to outsiders. It explained some of their curious insignia, which sometimes bore no relation to rank or company structure.
Like their lord, the warriors of the First Legion were coded, shrouded and ciphered. They kept secrets well, perhaps too well. This was a legacy, Guilliman believed, of the formative days when they were alone and had no other Legion to rely on.
Without any sign of a signal, the Dark Angels suddenly stopped their drill and froze, as one singular form. Perfect. Perfect.
He’s really showing off, Guilliman thought.
His helm-vox beeped. Guilliman looked at the mantle display. The ident-tag read Dolor.
‘I’m busy,‘ he said.
‘Of course you are, lord,’ Dolor replied over the link. ‘I would not trouble you if it wasn’t important. I need to show you something.’
‘Again, dear friend, this is not the time.’
‘Agreed. Come to me as soon as you can. But do not pact anything with your noble brother that you can’t undo… until you have seen what I have to show you.’
‘You unsettle me, Valentus.’
‘Greet your brother. Commit to nothing. I have a practical here that you need to appreciate.’
The link cut.
‘Everything all right?’ Euten asked him.
Guilliman nodded.
‘They’re very, very good at that marching drill thing, aren’t they?’ Euten said, gesturing at the square below. The Dark Angels ranks had begun moving again. They had peeled meticulously into tempered, marching cohorts that crossed diagonally through other cohorts to create perfect new shapes: diamonds, squares, triangles, curved lines, a six-pointed star. Point leaders were turning and marching back into their packs, inverting the march order. It was annoyingly impressive.
/>
‘I imagine they must get plenty of time to practise,’ Guilliman replied.
Euten looked at him and covered her mouth with her hand.
‘That’s the most acid thing I’ve ever heard you say, Roboute,’ she declared.
He grinned at her.
‘Brace yourself, mam. My big brother’s come to stay. The acid is only just starting to flow.’
Down below, on the polished marble stage of the Martial Square, the Dark Angels finally finished their display. Polished bolters clamped to their chests, they formed a V-shaped fan of squads leading back to the ramp of the lead Stormbird.
The Lion emerged.
Despite himself, Guilliman felt his heart skip and his lungs pump. The Lion. The Lion. There were brothers that he could look down on, and was happy to, and there were brothers that he could admire. Rogal, Magnus and Sanguinius, and, damn him, even Russ. He could admire them for what they were. But there were only two brothers that he had ever actually looked up to, only two brothers that he had ever actually admired.
There were only two brothers that he felt shadowed by when they were present.
Lion El’Jonson and Horus Lupercal.
The Lion emerged from his lander stony-faced, bareheaded, his long golden hair trailing in the wind. So beautiful, so deadly, so empty, so unreadable. He carried his war-helm under his left arm, and marched with the same perfect discipline that his men displayed. To each side of him came his voted lieutenants, in identical step. Beloved Corswain was commanding the First Legion elements on the other side of the Ruinstorm, so the Lion was braced by Holguin and Farith Redloss. Holguin carried an executioner’s long sword upright before him in his two hands, the tip of the six-foot blade rounded over like a butter knife. His pauldron was marked with the crossed swords of the Deathwing. Redloss carried a massive war-axe, haftwise across his chest. His pauldron bore the skull-in-hourglass of the Dreadwing. All three wore black artificer armour worked with red Martian gold.
They approached along the echelon, entering the square.
Guilliman sighed.
‘Bastard. Always showing off,’ he murmured.
He looked at his aides, nodded, and began to walk down the steps to meet his brother. The Wolves followed him. Guilliman stopped and looked back up the steps.
‘Really? Right now, of all times?’ Guilliman asked Faffnr.
‘My watch-pack walks where you walk, jarl,’ said Faffnr.
‘Even my own Cataphractii aren’t following me at this moment, Wolf.’
‘We could, lord,’ Gorod growled from the platform. ‘Indeed, we could also hose the unwanted off the steps in an unbelievable storm of shot, if you so desired.’
‘Enough,’ Guilliman said. He looked at Faffnr and the Wolves. ‘You see how I spare your lives?’
‘No one spares our lives, jarl,’ Faffnr replied. ‘They’re not for sparing. Never have been.’
‘With… respect,’ Biter Herek whispered to his pack-leader.
Faffnr nodded. ‘Obviously, obviously. Like Biter here says. Goes without saying. With respect.’
Guilliman hesitated, painfully aware that he was halfway down a staircase, in front of a million and a half people, pausing to converse with a band of barbarians while his noble brother waited below.
‘I appeal to your honesty, Faffnr Bludbroder,’ he said. ‘This moment isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you, and the Angels, and the feud.’
Faffnr paused.
‘It is,’ he replied, nodding. His men, hunched and ugly, nodded too.
Guilliman sighed. ‘Let’s do it then. But do not embarrass me or I’ll gut you all myself.’
He turned and resumed his walk down the steps from the platform. He was aware of the Wolves closing in behind him as a ragged and unseemly bodyguard.
‘By the void,’ Guilliman hissed at them. ‘You know you’re making me look like an idiot! Like a heathen king of Illyrium!’
‘Sorry and all that, jarl. Honour demands it,’ Faffnr replied, a hot-breath whisper at Guilliman’s shoulder.
‘You’re a pain in the arse, you know that?’ Guilliman said.
‘Indisputably,’ Faffnr returned.
Guilliman walked down to meet the Lion. The Lion walked up to meet him.
It was a long wait. The distance between the landing site and the gate was over a kilometre. The two primarchs made slow progress towards one another.
When they were at last face to face, there was a moment of silence. All the grand fanfares had died away. Even the crowd noise had ebbed.
The Lion looked at Guilliman. The Avenging Son looked at the Lion. The Lion’s black armour was richly engraved and inlaid with red gold. The chestplate and pauldrons displayed all the interconnected icons and symbols of his Legion, the complex heraldry of the Dark Angels hierarchies, visible and invisible. All the secret hosts, thrones and powers of the First Legion’s secret structure were represented there, united by the central insignia, the six-pointed hexagrammaton. He wore the pelt of a forest beast across his right shoulder, and the golden badge of a shrouded urn at his throat.
‘Brother,’ said the Lion.
‘Brother,’ Guilliman replied.
‘Well met.’
‘Not before time,’ said Guilliman.
‘You do me a great honour with this show of force,’ the Lion said, gently indicating the square around them.
‘And you do me an honour with this display of drill,’ Guilliman said.
The Lion smiled, nodding, appreciative.
He handed his war-helm back to Holguin.
‘Has it really been so long, Roboute?’ he asked and abruptly embraced Guilliman in a clash of armour.
‘No, no,’ Guilliman replied, swallowing hard. His war-helm had been knocked out of his grip with the abruptness of the Lion’s embrace, and was rolling on the marble paving behind him. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, forcing control of his voice.
The Lion broke the embrace and nodded. He bowed, picked up Guilliman’s fallen helm and rose again, handing it back to him.
‘Good to see you too, brother,’ he said. ‘And good to see your extraordinary light. You must tell me all about that.’
‘I will. But, there is another, more immediate matter,’ Guilliman said, hoping his composure had remained intact. ‘Of… protocol,’ he added.
‘The Wolves?’ replied the Lion.
‘Just so,’ said Guilliman.
The Lion nodded and turned away from Guilliman. He looked down at Faffnr Bludbroder.
‘Name yourself, Wolf. Let’s get this done.’
‘I am Faffnr, dear lord.’
‘Are you of Sesc? I recognise the markings.’
‘I am, lord.’
‘Let’s take the smack, Faffnr. Will it come from you?’
Faffnr Bludbroder straightened to his full height. The feud between the Angels and the Wolves had existed since Dulan. It was a ritual for them to field champions every time they met.
‘Yes, lord,’ Faffnr said. ‘I crave you advance your champion.’
Both Holguin and Redloss stepped forward.
‘I’ll be my own champion,’ the Lion whispered. There was a hint of a smile on his lips.
‘No,’ said Faffnr.
‘So, the Wolves of the Rout are cowards, I take it?’
‘No,’ snarled Faffnr.
‘Then take your strike, Wolf,’ said the Lion, ‘and make it count.’
Faffnr sighed and swung his axe at the Lion. Guilliman flinched as the blade cut the air beside him. It was a sensationally good strike. Faffnr had betrayed no cues, no hint of muscle tension, no focus of powered plate. The blow had just come. Guilliman wondered if it would have taken him by surprise. He was forced to admit that it might have.
The Lion caught Faffnr’s swing with one hand, bl
ocking the haft with the blade edge millimetres from his face. Faffnr grunted involuntarily as his strength was met and fundamentally matched by superior power.
Then the Lion delivered his return blow. It came with his left hand, not enough to maim or kill, almost pulled, but fast, faster than Faffnr’s superb swing.
It knocked the pack-leader onto his knees and left the Lion holding Faffnr’s axe.
Faffnr Bludbroder rose to his feet again.
‘Satisfied?’ asked the Lion, tossing the axe back to him.
‘Honour is satisfied, lord,’ Faffnr assented, catching it. He nodded and backed off, waving to his pack to do the same. Holguin and Redloss both grinned with unbearable insouciance.
‘Then tell Bo Soren to guard his manners, Faffnr,’ Guilliman said over his shoulder without looking back.
‘I will, Jarl,’ Faffnr returned. Guilliman heard a hard slap and a muffled curse.
He looked at the Lion. He’d never realised before that the Lion was very slightly taller than him.
‘Shall we, brother?’ he asked.
‘The famous Fortress of Hera?’ asked the Lion. ‘I would be disappointed not to see it.’
It was late afternoon.
At the Occident Gate in the mighty Servian Wall, at the very western edge of Magna Macragge Civitas, the gate-guards were processing incomers. There was a steady tide, tricksters and black-marts flowing in to the evening markets of Laponis Deme from the slums of the Illyrian Enclave behind the high wall, or agrics flocking to the city granaries with sweating payloads of grain from the chora on bulk-servitor wagons.
‘Name?’ asked the gate officer, a senior ranked man in the praecental division. The man looked important and he bloody knew it too.
‘Damon,’ replied Damon Prytanis, huddled on the back gate of a servitor freight car in his smelly black fur coat. ‘What’s going on?’