‘Curze?’ asked the guard commander.
‘Of course, Curze!’ Kleve growled.
Badorum barked orders to his men, orchestrating their advance. Weapons snapped up, aimed and ready. Powerfeeds whined to charge.
‘We have heard a terrible commotion from the private quarters,’ Badorum told the White Scar and the Iron Hands officer.
‘Get behind us,’ Kleve told him, ‘and ready those plasma weapons to fire.’
Gantulga led the way, slowing his advance to a prowl, his sword raised and ready. Kleve had his rotor cannon braced and armed. He swung the heavy thing from side to side, hunting for a target.
The main doors to the inner rooms had been smashed down. Euten knelt in the wreckage of the doorway, wiping blood from the brow of the crumpled, half-dead Faffnr Bludbroder.
‘Mamzel!’ Kleve cried, and ran to her. Gantulga flew past them into the chamber, and took a quick inventory of the scene. The place was wrecked, the floor littered with hurt and dying Space Wolves. The night’s cold air was gusting in through destroyed windows.
‘Great stars of Ultramar,’ Vodun Badorum murmured.
‘He was here, then?’ Kleve asked the chamberlain. ‘Curze?’
Euten seemed too shaken to move, speak, or even look up. She was wiping blood from Faffnr’s head with a strip of cloth torn from her gown.
‘He was here,’ she said at last. ‘The Wolves… They held him at bay. I think several have paid with their lives.’
Voices came from the hallway outside, ordering the praecentals to move aside. The tetrarch Valentus Dolor entered, escorted by Niax Nessus, Holguin of the Dark Angels, and a squad of Ultramarines. Eeron Kleve had voxed their alarm on all channels as he and Gantulga had rushed back to the Residency.
‘Your concern was correct, Kleve,’ Dolor said grimly.
‘Gantulga made the call,’ said Kleve.
‘Your instincts are sharp, White Scar,’ said Holguin.
‘Not sharp enough to save lives,’ said the White Scar, ‘nor to put a net upon him.’
‘Where did he go?’ Dolor asked. ‘My Lady Euten? Where did he go?’
‘The Wolves held him at bay,’ she repeated quietly. ‘For as long as they could, they held him at bay. Then… then he was going to kill me. But Vulkan stopped him.’
‘Vulkan?’ asked Niax Nessus.
‘It was Vulkan,’ said Euten.
‘That is not possible,’ said Holguin.
‘I know him,’ said Euten. ‘I have seen his likeness often enough. It could have been no other. He came upon us like a tempest, a storm-force. Curze was his sole intent. They clashed. They fought. The combat drove them back through the casement, out into the night.’
‘The lady is in shock,’ said Holguin. ‘She does not know what she is saying.’
‘I fear she does,’ said Dolor.
‘It is madness!’ Holguin replied.
‘Yes,’ said the tetrach, ‘but not of the kind you think.’
Nessus had reached the smashed windows and stood at Gantulga’s side.
‘I think there’s movement down there,’ said the White Scar. ‘Movement on the lower roofs. You see?’
Nessus nodded. He opened his vox.
‘This is the Third Master. We have located the Night Haunter. Move assault squads to the south side of the Residency. I want two Storm Eagles in the air, covering the lower roofs. Make it fast! Illuminate the roof tops and secure the yards so that no one can cross them. Invictus guard inside the Residency. When Curze sees his exit routes blocked, he will undoubtedly attempt to break back inside. I repeat the instructions you were given earlier – lethal force is not only permitted, it is expected.’
‘Let’s move,’ said Dolor. ‘With a purpose! I want to be there for the kill. Badorum, get medicae teams for the Wolves, and for the Lady Euten. Secure this level.’
‘Wait!’ Holguin hissed. ‘Tell me… tell me what you meant about Vulkan.’
Dolor paused.
‘Vulkan lives, Dark Angel,’ he said. ‘He is not in his right mind, but he lives, and if the Lady Euten was speaking the truth, it is likely that Vulkan is holding Curze in combat on the rooftops as we speak.’
‘Vulkan lives?’ Holguin echoed.
‘Who cares if Vulkan lives!’ Euten exclaimed, rising to look at them, her hands and sleeves bloodied. ‘What of the Lion and our dear Lord Guilliman? What of them? Curze told me they were dead! Curze told me to my face that he had murdered them!’
They looked at her.
‘Is it true? she asked. ‘Well? Someone speak! Someone say something!’
Flames surrounded them. White-hot, incandescent flames, so bright they hurt their eyes, so hot they would turn even the hardest plate to quicksilver dew.
Yet they felt no heat. A cool freshness surrounded them. A space… a silence.
‘You are alive, my lords, I am pleased to say,’ said Warsmith Dantioch.
He stooped, with some effort, to help Guilliman to his feet as Alexis Polux went to the aid of the Lion. Ultramarines from the 199th Aegida Company rushed onto the tuning floor of Primary Location Alpha to assist, and then hesitated at the strange wonder of the encounter.
Guilliman took in the polished black cavity of the vast cavern around him, then looked back at the vision of the fire-wracked chapel shown to him by the communication field.
‘Sotha?’ he asked, his voice dry.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Dantioch.
‘We are on Sotha?’ Guilliman repeated.
‘I… Yes, my lord,’ said Dantioch, ‘and I am glad of it, for if you had not been here, you would have been there.’ He gestured to the sun-hot blaze of the chapel.
‘You brought us here?’ asked Guilliman.
‘No, lord,’ said Dantioch. ‘The Pharos did. Perhaps as a by-product of its process, perhaps deliberately.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘I am beginning to suspect this mechanism possesses some… sentience,’ said the warsmith.
‘I am beginning to suspect, brother,’ said the Lion, ‘that you are dabbling in technologies that no one, not even our father, would play with.’
Polux had stood the Lion up against Dantioch’s heavy seat and was examining the wound in his throat. Both Guilliman and his brother had taken several injuries during their contest with Curze, but the neck wound was the worst. It had stopped bleeding at least.
Guilliman leaned over, turned the Lion’s head with his hand, and regarded the wound.
‘That needs packing before it opens again,’ he said.
‘What, no comment, Roboute?’ asked the Lion. ‘Of all the things that trouble me about you and your dealings, brother, we had not even begun to discuss your extraordinary beacon. It was the first thing I saw as I approached Macragge, and thus the first hint I had that–’
‘But you saw it,’ Guilliman snapped. ‘That’s the point, brother. You saw it. It worked. It is as vital to the function and survival of the Imperium as a regent to watch over it!’
‘Yet you seem to know nothing of its function or potential,’ said the Lion. He pushed Polux away and stood up. ‘Am I to believe that we have been transported across space some… unimaginable distance from Macragge?’
‘You are,’ said Guilliman. He sighed. ‘Brother, it was with the greatest reluctance that I explored and then authorised the use of the Pharos beacon. I am fully aware of the great unknowns that attach to it. It was a calculated risk.’
‘I feel your calculations may be too optimistic,’ said the Lion.
‘Do you?’ asked Guilliman. ‘Yet you are alive. Had we remained in Curze’s trap, that would not be the case.’
The Lion sniffed.
‘Furthermore,’ said Guilliman, ‘I know I am not the only one who makes use of prohibited technology. The warp signature of your fl
agship, brother… Did you think the technicians of my fleet and the adepts of the Mechanicum would not analyse it? When were you going to tell me about that? Or was that a secret you hoped to keep, like the fact that Curze was at large aboard your vessel? You keep too many secrets, brother.’
The Lion looked away. ‘We will debate this further,’ he said. ‘Now, we must return. We came here. We must go back at once.’
‘That will require some consideration,’ said Dantioch.
The Lion glared at him.
‘My lord,’ Dantioch added, with a slight bow of his head.
‘We will go back, just as we came,’ the Lion insisted.
‘At the very least, my lord,’ said Dantioch, ‘I must spend some time re-tuning and focusing the device. I cannot send you back into that.’ He indicated the seething fire beyond the field.
‘Why am I even talking to you?’ the Lion asked.
‘Because the warsmith, appointed by me, made this Pharos device work,’ said Guilliman. ‘He knows more about it than any person alive. If anyone can return us, it is Dantioch. I suggest you address him in a more civil tone.’
The Lion looked at Dantioch.
‘It is hard to trust the face of an enemy,’ he said.
‘He is no enemy,’ said Alexis Polux firmly.
‘Then, warsmith,’ said the Lion, ‘explain how this device works, and how we may be transported back. My Navigator saw it as empathic rather than psychic. She said it showed us where we wanted to go.’
‘Your Navigator is perceptive, my lord,’ said Dantioch. ‘This is a site of ancient technology of pre-human origin. My study has shown that it is indeed empathic in its resonance. A principle of quantum entanglement, I speculate. Unlike our warp technology, it does not use the immaterium to bypass realspace. I think it was part of a much larger navigational network that once existed. By tuning it upon Macragge, we have achieved a navigation guide to conquer the Ruinstorm, as well as instantaneous communication.’
‘How did we get here?’ asked the Lion.
‘I am still pondering that, my lord,’ said Dantioch. ‘I had wondered if, in its original form, the network might have allowed for site-to-site teleportation on a scale we could scarcely imagine. I had presumed that function was lost, as it would require other gateways or beacon sites. I was wrong.’
He looked at Polux.
‘The successful transfer of Alexis to this place teaches us the most, I think,’ said Dantioch. ‘The communication field was already providing me with enough empathic resonance for me to be able, with some success, to detect Konrad Curze in the darkness and forewarn my friend. Then, when his life was in true jeopardy…’
Dantioch paused.
‘I wanted to save him. I wanted to reach out and take his hand, and save him from that monster. I think the empathic field responded to my great need and opened to allow it. Just as, when the two of us saw you, my lords, in peril of your lives, our will to save you opened the field again.’
‘So it cannot be controlled or set?’ asked Guilliman. ‘It cannot be switched on and directed? It simply responds to an innate, inarticulable need?’
‘I’m afraid so, my lord,’ said Dantioch, ‘which supposes that, if we cannot access or generate the appropriate emotive, empathic urge, we may not be able to return you to Macragge.’
There was a longer pause.
‘Of course, there is also the fact,’ Dantioch added awkwardly, ‘that we do not know with any certainty that the process works in both directions.’
There was an even longer pause. The polished, mirror-black dome of the cavern surrounded them with cool silence.
‘Then you had better find me a ship,’ said the Lion. ‘A fast one.’
19
Mortality
‘Common needs make for the strangest strangers comrades.’
– Zerksus, Proverbs
‘Look, I’ve told you – I cannot help you,’ John Grammaticus said to the Word Bearer.
‘And that is still not an acceptable answer,’ Narek replied. ‘My efforts to secure you involved a great deal of planning, preparation, effort and sacrifice. I would–’
‘Listen to me,’ said John. ‘I am the agent of a xenos power. The Cabal runs me. It owns me. I am here on their bidding, sent to perform a task that has been pre-ordained.’
‘And?’
John strained against the ropes that lashed him to the chair.
‘And? They are watching me. If I step away from my course, if I… defy them and refuse to complete my mission, they will come for me. And you too, if you are with me.’
‘They can try,’ Narek mused.
‘They will do more than try,’ said John. ‘They are quite resourceful. And determined.’
John relaxed and dropped his chin.
‘God knows, warrior, I should dearly love to see Lorgar brought down and finished. The galaxy would be a better place for it.’
‘“God”?’ Narek asked. ‘There are few true gods any more. Only the daemons of the warp that pollute the hearts of men.’
‘And the demigods that men have fashioned and manufactured,’ John countered. ‘Creatures such as Lorgar, polluted by the warp, are only as dangerous as they are because they were already primarchs. Mankind has made gods in their own image, and those gods have proven false.’
He looked at the Word Bearer. Narek sat, his face half in shadow, listening.
‘Believe me,’ John said, ‘I would help you if I could. I despise the Ruinous Powers more than all things. I would fight against any part of their influence.’
Narek stood up.
‘Then tell me,’ he whispered, ‘what is your task? What is it that you must perform for your alien masters? What duty must you complete so you can be finished with your service and free to help me?’
‘They want no less than you, Narek,’ said John. ‘They want a primarch dead.’
Narek grunted. ‘Whose life do they seek?’
‘That of Vulkan,’ said John Grammaticus.
‘Why?’
‘Their motives are too complex to explain easily,’ said John.
‘But Vulkan is here? He is here on Macragge?’
‘So I am informed. His arrival has been foreseen. He vanished by teleport into the aether more than a solar year ago, and was presumed lost – but I understand that the strange properties of the Pharos have brought him here, across the void.’
‘I care for none of that, human,’ said Narek. ‘Nothing except my Legion. Let us find Vulkan. Slay him as you are bidden. Then you can help me.’
‘Oh,’ John sighed, ‘if only it was as simple as that.’
‘Explain.’
‘I’ve been tracking his mind since I arrived on Macragge,’ John said. ‘Tracking him so I could find him. And I’ve learned that… well, Vulkan is mad. Utterly insane.’
‘How?’ asked Narek.
‘The best I can read it, he was tortured, extensively and extravagantly over a long period of time. It has quite broken his mind. In his state, he is ridiculously dangerous.’
‘So we will be cunning,’ said Narek.
‘That’s not all,’ said John. ‘It is possible to kill a primarch. They are demigods, but they are still mortal, to an extent. Enough fire-power, venom, or explosive force…’
John looked straight at the Word Bearer.
‘There is a reason the Cabal armed me with this specific weapon to take down Vulkan. They know that he has a very particular, unique trait. He doesn’t die.’
‘What?’
‘Like me, he is functionally immortal. He resurrects, even from the most catastrophic demise. To kill an entity like that, you need something really special. And that spear, Narek of the Word, is a ritual weapon if ever there was one.’
Narek glanced down at the fulgurite spear. It was lying o
n the top of the carrybag at his feet.
‘Oh,’ said John, ‘and according to my instructions, I can’t do the deed myself. I have to deliver the spear to another primarch who is willing to strike the blow.’
He paused.
‘So, Word Bearer… I have to kill an unkillable, immortal demigod who has the power of fifty men and also happens to be violently insane. Do you still want a part of that?’
Vulkan screamed his anguish. He swung the mace. The sweep of it made the air howl.
Curze dodged the almost certainly lethal blow. He turned, bolted along the length of the roof slope, and leapt over a broad gap onto the green-tiled crest of the Southern Portico.
Vulkan gave chase. The blood on his armour had already dried. The punctures that Curze’s claws had made in his torso had closed. The internal organs that had been shredded and torn were re-forming. Vulkan cleared the gap as easily as Curze had done, and landed on the end of the portico’s long roof.
He arched his back and turned the mace in a huge, one-handed rotation, launching it headfirst at the fleeing Curze.
Released, the mace flew like a missile. It struck Curze high on the left shoulder, and knocked him onto his face. He slithered down the slight incline of the roof. The mace crashed off the tiles beside him and slid to rest.
Vulkan came bounding along the roof to reach his enemy. There were lights in the yard below, dancing stab lights that chased hard, bright beams up at the roofline. There was the chop and whicker of gunship engines.
He closed on Curze. Curze struggled to rise. At the last second, as Vulkan’s powerful hands grabbed at him, Curze rolled over to face his brother. He had hold of the battle mace.
He drove the weapon into the side of Vulkan’s head. His jaw broke. Teeth shattered audibly. Blood squirted from his ear and nostril.
Vulkan staggered backwards, but did not fall. Curze came at him, pressing his advantage. He struck Vulkan twice more in the body with the stolen mace.
Powerful lamps flooded them with white light. They became two silhouettes trading blows in a colourless glare. Two Ultramarines Storm Eagles, engines howling, circled the portico roof, while dozens of others filled the skies over the Fortress.