The huntsman was a noble soul, though to those who met him in battle, he often appeared to be a monster too. Few, if any, knew the true workings of his mind. He kept his own counsel, and walked his own path. He was hard to know.
He was a noble soul, nevertheless.
He refused to send any more men into the darkness to their deaths. He refused to order any more men to do what he was not prepared to do. He had had all but the primary decks evacuated and sealed; then he had put on his armour, the black armour etched with Martian gold, and had become the hunter. Every day for sixteen weeks, he had entered the unregulated spaces of his ship and hunted through the darkness for his quarry.
Every day for sixteen weeks.
The ship came out of the darkness, and within its darkness, an endless hunt played out.
The huntsman could smell the quarry. They had come close many times in the past sixteen weeks. There had been two brief scuffles, from which the quarry had fled when he had realised that the huntsman was hard to ambush. There had been times when the quarry’s brittle whisper of a voice had gusted out of the darkness to taunt the huntsman. There had been messages left in blood. There had been traps and counter-traps, hours of stalking, slow progress through the dark and juddering spaces of the ship, testing every shadow for the one shadow that wasn’t a shadow at all.
The huntsman halted, crouched, balancing his dense but agile form on a cross-spar that ran like a rock bridge over the ravine of an exhaust shaft. A dark green blackness glowed far below. Thermal vents opened and a stream of hot air blew up the shaft like a desert wind. It stirred the huntsman’s long, golden hair. He paused, unclasped it, re-gathered it and tied it again to keep it out of his eyes.
There was a scent on the dry wind. One part in a billion, but the huntsman could smell it.
Old blood. Pain. Adrenaline. Hatred.
The quarry was close. He was hiding below, on one of the sub-level walkways that lined the throat of the exhaust shaft. In sixteen weeks, the huntsman had never got such a precise fix.
The hot air was venting from below, and the huntsman was downwind of the quarry. Doubtless, the quarry couldn’t hear him because of the machine noise echoing up the shaft space.
Silently, the huntsman rose and leapt. He landed twenty metres away on another cross-spar, and ran along it like a tight-rope walker before clambering into the girder-work reinforcing the shaft wall. He descended. Every few metres, he stopped and scanned, hunting with his eyes, his ears, his sense of smell.
Close, so close…
There. The huntsman froze. He could see the quarry. He could see him for the first time. The quarry was hunched on a gantry about thirty metres below the huntsman’s position. He looked like a ragged hawk, roosting on a ledge. The quarry was looking down. For some reason, he was expecting the huntsman to approach from below. For once, his uncanny powers of augury and foresight had failed him. The quarry was waiting, hunched, silent, ready to strike.
The quarry had no idea the huntsman was above him.
The huntsman drew his sword, oil-damp and silent, from his scabbard. He lined up to make the leap – less a leap, in fact, more a pounce. It would be an impact kill. The huntsman’s weight and momentum would crush the quarry into the unyielding gantry, and the sword’s edge would finish it.
It would be quick, which was more than the quarry deserved, but long overdue.
The huntsman flexed his arms, loosened his neck, and made ready for the leap. There was no room for error. The quarry was not a creature to underestimate. The huntsman leaned forward, holding onto a girder with his left hand for support, tensing his legs, ready to–
‘My lord,’ his vox system woke up and crackled.
Below, the quarry looked up, his head snapping upright at the sound. The huntsman saw the quarry’s pale face: surprise, and delight.
‘Close!’ the quarry squealed up at the huntsman. ‘So close, but confounded!’
The quarry started to laugh. He darted off the gantry and dropped away into the shaft, arms spread, tattered cloak fluttering like ragged wings. He dropped into the darkness of the exhaust pit, leaving his scornful laughter in the hot wind behind him.
The huntsman rocked back. He bit down his rage. He activated his vox-link.
‘Speak,’ he said, his voice low and seismic, ‘and for your sake, make the content worthwhile.’
‘My lord,’ said the vox. ‘There is a light.’
‘A light?’ the huntsman growled.
‘A beacon, my lord. We have detected a strong but unknown navigational beacon.’
The huntsman hesitated.
‘Have an assault squad waiting at the agreed exit hatch to meet me,’ he said. ‘I’m coming out. Let’s see this beacon.’
First Master Auguston was waiting for him on a battlement of the Moneta Fortress overlooking the landing fields of the starport. The First Master was accompanied by several of his key subordinates and a number of officers of the city. They had finished delivering their latest reports and were silent. Auguston was gazing up at the light of the Pharos, the new and only star in the turbulent sky.
Auguston’s suit system registered the approach of another, and he turned to regard Alexis Polux as he came along the battlement to join them. Auguston was used to being one of the largest beings in any given place, excepting the Avenging Son. There was something dismaying to him about the Imperial Fists captain’s size.
‘Lord Auguston,’ Polux said, with a respectful bow of his head. ‘My apologies that I was prevented from joining you sooner.’
Auguston acknowledged him.
‘It was suggested to me that you might assist with your expertise, captain. You have three days’ worth of security inspections and protocol reviews to catch up on.’
‘Again, I apologise,’ said Polux. His wargear had been cleaned and mended, and his damaged arm was strapped across his chest in a juvenat sling. ‘The Master of Ultramar ordered me to heal and make ready for the coming war. I have been two days in the grafting suites.’
Auguston glanced at the repairs to Polux’s arm. Instead of a simple augmetic replacement, the Apothecaries had elected to fix a flesh graft grown from seeded organics, vat-cultured. Inside the semi-transparent sleeve of the sling, beneath the layers of nutrient wrap and growth hormone gel, Polux wore a new hand and arm of living flesh which had been bio-typed to his own. It was still growing, still forming, the new bones still knitting. Flooded with oxygenated blood, the hand was almost crimson.
‘Will it take?’ asked Auguston.
‘The prognosis is good,’ said Polux. ‘Another two days and rejection can be ruled out. It should be serviceable within a week.’
Auguston nodded. He gestured for one of his aides.
‘As I said, we’ve been conducting the review for three days. I have had a summary prepared.’
The aide handed Polux a data-slate.
‘How fares the primarch?’ Polux asked.
‘He–’ Auguston began. ‘He fares well, I understand. Given that it has been merely three days, he shows remarkable signs of recovery.’
Polux didn’t do more than quickly scan the data-slate. He turned and looked out over the port fields, then eyed the shadows of ships at high anchor far above, and the cloud-bank shapes of the orbitals.
‘I don’t believe it’s a simple matter of protocol reviews,’ he said.
‘You haven’t even begun to look at the slate–’ Auguston started to say.
‘I can study the close detail later. Believe me, First Master, I have been considering Macragge’s security all the while the Apothecaries worked on my limb. This is a magnificent port facility, but it is not secure.’
‘What?’
Polux looked at Auguston.
‘I said, it is not secure.’
‘Are you trying to anger me, Captain Polux?’ asked Augus
ton, stepping forward. Polux noticed that most of the aides and juniors escorting him took a step backwards. They did not want to get caught in the First Master’s wrath.
‘No, lord,’ replied Polux calmly. ‘I am trying to help. I took very seriously your great primarch’s request.’
‘Then look before you speak!’ Auguston spat. ‘Since the crime that was Calth we have fortified the system, the planetary approaches, set guards and defences, launched new platforms, and fortified the city, especially the starport areas and–’
‘You have done all of these things,’ Polux agreed. ‘But you have done them all while preserving the original nature of this world and this port. Macragge is a capital world, sir, and this port is its great harbour. Macragge rules an empire of five hundred worlds, sir – the realm of Ultramar. It may even come to rule over the Imperium. It has a port that reflects that role, a port built for trade and commerce, a port built to serve the mercantile needs of peace. Yes, you have fortified it. But it is still not secure. It may withstand an assault, but can it filter out the illegal entry of our enemies? I believe it is reasonable to expect that those killers who meant to take the life of your primarch are not the only intruders currently here on Macragge.’
‘Is this how your kind would protect Terra?’ asked Auguston scornfully. ‘To cast away all of its original purposes and make it nothing more than a razor-wired rampart?’
Polux nodded.
‘I fully expect that my primarch will have encased Terra in armour. I fully expect that the Imperial Palace is no longer a palace but the greatest fortress in the galaxy. This is a war like none we have ever contested, sir. It will make casualties of us all if we do not respect it, or if we are too precious about our possessions.’
‘So what? We stop trying to fortify and preserve what we have, and instead simply rebuild it?’
‘Yes. In times like this, it is not enough to bar or board up a window, my lord. You must brick it shut so that the window no longer exists. The reconstruction work needed on the city, and especially the port, will be costly and time consuming. You must begin work on the construction of a fortified military port. There are remedial actions that can be made while construction is planned and executed.’
‘Such as?’ asked Auguston.
Polux gestured at the ships at anchor overhead.
‘Let nothing, and I mean nothing, come within firing distance of Macragge until it has been inspected. I suggest using some of the outer starforts in mid-system as way stations. Let no ship land, or send landers to the surface, until the identity of both the ship and its occupants have been verified by eye and gene-code.’
‘That will slow all trade and imports to a crawl!’ said one of the city officials.
‘It will,’ Polux agreed, ‘but it will also slow down the ticking of the doomsday clock.’
‘What of our veterans, returning from Calth and the other warzones?’ asked an Ultramarines captain beside Auguston. ‘Must their passage be delayed in this ignominious way too?’
‘I think after what happened in the Residency,’ grumbled Auguston, ‘we know the answer to that. What else, Polux?’
‘That,’ he said, pointing at the orbiting wreck of the Furious Abyss, now clearly visible as it crested the horizon.
‘It’s dead,’ said Auguston, ‘and what’s left of it is being dismantled by reclamation teams. What of it?’
‘It’s a hazard to navigation,’ Polux replied, ‘and furthermore, it is a military threat. Effective sabotage could knock it from orbit, and drop every megatonne of its metal bulk on this city. The enemy is not beyond such tricks, First Master. That corpse-ship must be towed beyond the orbit of the outer moons and dismantled there.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Orbit-to-surface teleporting must be restricted, and all entry to the planet by craft or teleport forbidden, unless it comes through the designated area of this port. I suggest the installation of upgraded void shields to cover the lower orbital tracks and the port area, enough to close it down if necessary. I also suggest a proportion of the orbital sensor systems and auspex modules be re-tasked to cover the surface of the planet.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m talking about a new philosophy of defence, First Master. You have fortified the system, the planet and the city in case of another Calth. You have more than enough ships and battery systems to fend off any openly hostile approach to Macragge. But the incident in the Residency proves that an open assault is not the only way our enemies may come for us. Treachery comes in different scales, sir. A small percentage of your auspex modules could be retrained to cover the entire surface of this world without significant impairment of the early warning or system scanning watch processes. If anyone lands a ship or uses a drop pod or a teleport system outside this restricted port area, you’ll know about it. Do not assume you can keep them out, sir. A planet is a vast area. Assume they will get in, and make sure you see their footprints when they do.’
Auguston pursed his lips. He was annoyed at the way the Imperial Fist had schooled him in basic defence analysis, and made the conclusions look so obvious, but he also knew that including most of Polux’s suggestions in his report would make it look as though he’d done a particularly thorough job.
‘You’re worth listening to, Polux,’ he said grudgingly.
‘I take that as high praise from you, sir.’
Polux looked up at the light of the Pharos.
‘You have hung up a lamp to draw travellers here out of the storm, my lord, and that is right and just, and the only way that a fair and noble civilisation can survive. However, you must scrutinise who and what the light brings to you, and how disguised their real motives are. I would certainly like to know more about your “new Astronomican”. Understanding its function and process may assist me in making good recommendations for Macragge’s protection. I do not even know where it is situated, or what manner of technology allows it to function.’
‘That is classified,’ said one of the aides, ‘but I am sure the primarch will permit you to discuss basics with the warsmith.’
‘Did you say warsmith?’ asked Polux.
The aide nodded.
‘Warsmith Dantioch has led the operation to activate the Pharos,’ said Auguston.
‘An Iron Warrior?’ Polux asked, his voice low.
‘Is that a problem, captain?’
Guilliman walked with a slight limp, though it would mend. His throat and one side of his face looked as though he had been dragged along rockcrete by a Scimitar jetbike.
He had dressed in a loose tunic and robes to cover the extensive bandaging around his torso, and had refused the armoured bodyglove for reasons of mobility and comfort. He told his advisors that he would not be making a similar error again. However, until he was healed enough to wear full war-plate, he accepted the heavy belt slung with a refractor field generator, which he wore under his robes. To it, he had holstered a Maetherian ray-pistol, a formidable piece of archeotech from his personal collection.
Titus Prayto and Drakus Gorod of the Invictus accompanied him wherever he went, the Librarian and the heavy-armoured beast, ready to sense danger and dispense violence.
So escorted, he returned to the Residency for the first time since the attack. He had ordered that nothing be touched or repaired until he had the chance to review the scene. Titus Prayto read very cleanly the psychological intent of this. Guilliman wanted to face his daemons. He wanted to look directly at the circumstances in which he had nearly died. Prayto could sense the underlying tension in the primarch like a tremble in the air. It disquieted him. When the greatest beings in the universe registered stress or tension, it was time for all things living to find cover.
They came up the hallway. The carpet was dappled with dark stains, a trail of blood where Gorod and his men had carried Guilliman out. Ahead of them was the door that the Invictus gu
ard had cut open.
Men waited for them at the doorway: a pack of men.
They looked up, yellow eyes alert, heads cocked, the moment Guilliman and his escort came into view. They had been huddled around the doorway, resting or sharpening their blades. None of them had dared cross the threshold into the primarch’s inner chambers.
Guilliman approached. Faffnr Bludbroder’s wolf pack rose to meet him, not as a challenge, but as an honour guard.
‘This isn’t my hearth,’ Guilliman said, looking at the pack-leader.
‘No, jarl, it’s your door,’ Faffnr agreed. ‘Your door will do, for now.’
Guilliman nodded.
‘We were told not to go in. Told it was your orders,’ Faffnr added.
‘They were my orders,’ Guilliman agreed.
‘Dogs must always wait at the doorpost,’ Gorod rumbled out of the depths of his Terminator plate, ‘until the master lets them in. Good dogs, that is. Good dogs stay at the edge of the firelight, waiting for scraps, until they are allowed near the hearth.’
Faffnr turned his head slowly and stared into the Cataphractii’s gargoyle visor. His eyes were unblinking. One of his men leaned forward and whispered something into the pack-leader’s ear. A half-smile crinkled Faffnr’s lips, exposing one fang.
‘No, Bo Soren,’ he said. ‘I can’t let you do that. Though it would be funny to watch.’
Faffnr glanced up at Guilliman.
‘You’d let your warrior speak to me like that, jarl?’ he asked.
‘It’s exactly what you were thinking,’ said Titus Prayto.
Faffnr looked at Prayto. He sniffed, and then chuckled and nodded.
‘It was, maleficarum, it was. True enough. We have a low opinion of ourselves, I suppose, but a high opinion of our loyalty and obedience.’
‘What about your obedience, Jarl Guilliman?’ Faffnr asked sidelong of the Avenging Son, his stare fixed rigidly on the Librarian’s face.