Despite Tarvitz’s reservations, Eidolon carried a powerful natural authority about him, accentuated by magnificent armour with such an overabundance of gilding that the purple colours of the Legion were barely visible. ‘The vermin didn’t know what hit them!’
The Emperor’s Children cheered in response. It had been a classic victory for the Legion: hard, fast and perfect.
The greenskins had been doomed from the start.
‘Make ready,’ shouted Eidolon, ‘to receive your primarch.’
T
HE CARGO DECKS
of the deep orbital were rapidly cleared of the greenskin dead by the Legion’s menials for a portion of the Callinedes battle force to assemble. Tarvitz felt his pulse race at the thought of setting eyes on his beloved primarch once more. It had been too long since the Legion had fought alongside their leader. Hundreds of Emperor’s Children in perfectly dressed ranks stood to attention, a magnificent army in purple and gold.
As magnificent as they were, they were but a poor imitation of the incredible warrior who was father to them all.
The primarch of the Emperor’s Children was awe-inspiring, his face pale and sculpted, framed by a flowing mane of albino-white hair. His very presence was intoxicating and Tarvitz felt a fierce pride fill him at the sight of this incredible, wondrous warrior. Created to echo a facet of war, Fulgrim’s art was the pursuit of perfection through battle and he sought it as diligently as an imagist strove for perfection through his picts. One shoulder of his golden armour was worked into a sweeping eagle’s wing, the symbol of the Emperor’s Children, and the symbolism was a clear statement of Legion pride.
The eagle was the Emperor’s personal symbol, and he had granted the Emperor’s Children alone the right to bear that same heraldry, symbolically proclaiming Fulgrim’s warriors as his most adored Legion. Fulgrim wore a golden-hilted sword at his hip, said to have been a gift from the Warmaster himself, a clear sign of the bond of brotherhood between them.
The officers of the primarch’s inner circle flanked him – Lord Commander Eidolon, Apothecary Fabius, Chaplain Charmosian and the massive dreadnought body of Ancient Rylanor. Even these heroes of the Legion were dwarfed by Fulgrim’s physical size and his sheer charisma.
A line of heralds, chosen from among the young initiates who were soon to complete their training as Emperor’s Children, fanned out in front of Fulgrim, playing a blaring fanfare on their golden trumpets to announce the arrival of the most perfect warrior in the galaxy. A thunderous roar of applause swelled from the assembled Emperor’s Children as they welcomed their primarch back to his Legion.
Fulgrim waited graciously for the applause to die down. More than anything, Tarvitz aspired to be that awesome golden figure in front of them, though he knew he had already been designated as a line officer and nothing more. But Fulgrim’s very presence filled him with the promise that he could be so much better if he was only given the chance. His pride in his Legion’s prowess caught light as Fulgrim looked over the assembled warriors, and the primarch’s dark eyes shone as he acknowledged each and every one of them.
‘My brothers,’ called Fulgrim, his voice lilting and golden, ‘this day you have shown the accursed greenskin what it means to stand against the Children of the Emperor!’
More applause rolled around the cargo decks, but Fulgrim spoke over it, his voice easily cutting through the clamour of his warriors.
‘Commander Eidolon has wrought you into a weapon against which the greenskin had no defence. Perfection, strength, resolve: these qualities are the cutting edge of this Legion and you have shown them all here today. This orbital is in Imperial hands once more, as are the others the greenskins had occupied in the futile hope of fending off our invasion.
‘The time has come to press home this attack against the greenskins and liberate the Callinedes system. My brother primarch, Ferrus Manus of the Iron Hands and I shall see to it that not a single alien stands upon land claimed in the name of the Crusade.’
Expectation was heavy in the air as the Legion waited for the order that would send them into battle with their primarch.
‘But most of you, my brothers, will not be there,’ said Fulgrim. The crushing disappointment Tarvitz felt was palpable, for the Legion had been sent to the Callinedes system with the assumption that it would lend its full strength to the destruction of the invading xenos.
‘The Legion will be divided,’ continued Fulgrim, raising his hands to stem the cries of woe and lamentation that his words provoked. ‘I will lead a small force to join Ferrus Manus and his Iron Hands at Callinedes IV. The rest of the Legion will rendezvous with the Warmaster’s 63rd Expedition at the Isstvan system. These are the orders of the Warmaster and of your primarch. Lord Commander Eidolon will lead you to Isstvan, and he will act in my stead until I can join you once more.’
Tarvitz glanced at Lucius, unable to read the expression on the swordsman’s face at the news of their new orders. Conflicting emotions warred within Tarvitz: aching loss to be parted from his primarch once more, and excited anticipation at the thought of fighting alongside his comrades in the Sons of Horus.
‘Commander, if you please,’ said Fulgrim, gesturing Eidolon to step forwards.
Eidolon nodded and said, ‘The Warmaster has called upon us to aid his Legion in battle once more. He recognises our skills and we welcome this chance to prove our superiority. We are to halt a rebellion in the Isstvan system, but we are not to fight alone. As well as his own Legion, the Warmaster has seen fit to deploy the Death Guard and World Eaters.’
A muttered gasp spread around the cargo bay at the mention of such brutal Legions.
Eidolon chuckled. ‘I see some of you remember fighting alongside our brother Astartes. We all know what a grim and artless business war becomes in the hands of such men, so I say this is the perfect opportunity to show the Warmaster how the Emperor’s chosen fight.’
The Legion cheered once more, and Tarvitz knew that whenever the Emperor’s Children had a chance to prove their skill and artistry, especially to the other Legions, they took it. Fulgrim had turned pride into a virtue, and it drove each warrior of his Legion to heights of excellence that no other could match.
Torgaddon had called it arrogance and on the surface of Murder Tarvitz had tried to dissuade him of that notion, but hearing the boastful cries of the Emperor’s Children around him, he wasn’t sure that his friend had been wrong after all.
‘The Warmaster has requested our presence immediately,’ shouted Eidolon through the cheering. ‘Although Isstvan is not far distant, the conditions in the warp have become more difficult, so we must make all haste. The strike cruiser
Andronius
will leave for Isstvan in four hours. When we arrive, it will be as ambassadors for our Legion, and when the battle is done the Warmaster will have witnessed war at its most magnificent.’
Eidolon saluted and Fulgrim led the applause before turning and taking his leave.
Tarvitz was stunned. To commit such a force of Astartes was rare and he knew that whatever foe they would face on Isstvan must be mighty indeed. Even the thrill of excitement he felt at this opportunity to prove themselves before the Warmaster was tempered by a sudden, nagging sense of unease.
‘Four Legions?’ asked Lucius, echoing his own thoughts as the squads fell out to make ready for the journey to join the 63rd Expedition. ‘For one system? That’s absurd!’
‘Careful Lucius, you veer close to arrogance,’ Tarvitz pointed out. ‘Are you questioning the Warmaster’s decision?’
‘Questioning, no,’ said Lucius defensively, ‘but come on, even you have to admit it’s a sledgehammer to crack a nut.’
‘Possibly,’ conceded Tarvitz, ‘but for the Isstvan system to rebel, it must have been compliant at one stage.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘My point, Lucius, is that the Crusade was supposed to be pushing ever outwards, conquering the galaxy in the name of the Emperor. Instead it is turning back on itself to patch up the cracks. I can only assume that the Warmaster wants to make some kind of grand gesture so show his enemies what rebellion means.’
‘Ungrateful bastards,’ spat Lucius. ‘Once we’re done with Isstvan they’ll beg us to take them back!’
‘With four Legions sent against them,’ replied Tarvitz, ‘I don’t think there’ll be many Isstvanians left for us to take back.’
‘Come, Saul,’ said Lucius walking ahead of him, ‘did you lose your taste for battle against the greenskins?’
A taste for battle? Tarvitz had never considered such an idea. He had always fought because he wanted to become more than he was, to strive for perfection in all things. For longer than he could remember he had devoted himself to the task of emulating the warriors of the Legion who were more gifted and more worthy than he. He knew his station within the Legion, but knowing one’s station was the first step to bettering it.
Watching Lucius’s arrogant swagger, Tarvitz was reminded of how much his fellow captain loved battle. Lucius loved it without shame or apology, seeing it as the best way to express himself, weaving between his enemies and cutting a path of bloody ruin through them with his flashing sword. ‘It just concerns me,’ said Tarvitz. ‘What does?’ asked Lucius, turning back to face him. Tarvitz could see the hastily masked exasperation on the swordsman’s face. He had seen that expression more and more on Lucius’s scarred features recently, and it saddened him to know that the swordsman’s ego and rampant ambition to rise within the ranks of the Emperor’s Children would be the undoing of their friendship.
‘That the Crusade has to repair itself at all. Compliance used to be the end of it. Not now.’
‘Don’t worry,’ smiled Lucius. ‘Once a few of these rebel worlds get a decent killing this will all be over and the Crusade will go on.’
Rebel worlds… Whoever thought to hear such a phrase?
Tarvitz said nothing as he considered the sheer numbers of Astartes that would be converging on the Isstvan system. Hundreds of Astartes had fought on Deep Orbital DS191, but more than ten thousand Emperor’s Children made up the Legion, most of whom would be journeying to Isstvan III. That in itself was enough for several war zones. The thought of four Legions arrayed in battle sent shivers up Tarvitz’s spine.
What would be left of Isstvan when four Legions had marched through the system? Could any depths of rebellion really justify that?
‘I just want victory,’ said Tarvitz, the words sounding hollow, even to him.
Lucius laughed, but Tarvitz couldn’t tell if it was in agreement or mockery.
B
EING CONFINED TO
his quarters was the most exquisite torture for Kyril Sindermann. Without the library of books he was used to consulting in Archive Chamber Three he felt quite adrift. His own library, though extensive by any normal standards, was a paltry thing next to the arcana that had been destroyed in the fire.
How many priceless, irreplaceable tomes had been lost in the wake of the warp beast he and Euphrati had conjured from the pages of the
Book of Lorgar
?
It did not bear thinking about and he wondered how much the future would condemn them for the knowledge that had been lost there. He had already filled thousands of pages with those fragments he could remember from the books he had consulted. Most of it was fragmentary and disjointed. He knew that the task of recalling everything he had read was doomed to failure, but he could no more conceive of giving up than he could stop his heart from beating.
His gift and the gift of the Crusade to the ages yet to come was the accumulated wisdom of the galaxy’s greatest thinkers and warriors. With the broad shoulders of such knowledge to stand upon, who knew what dizzying heights of enlightenment the Imperium might reach?
His pen scratched across the page, recalling the philosophies of the Hellenic writers and their early debates on the nature of divinity. No doubt many would think it pointless to transcribe the writings of those long dead, but Sindermann knew that to ignore the past was to doom the future to repeat it.
The text he wrote spoke of the ineffable inscrutability of false gods, and he knew that such mysteries were closer to the surface than he cared to admit. The things he had seen and read since Sixty-Three Nineteen had stretched his scepticism to the point where he could no longer deny the truth of what was plainly before him and which Euphrati Keeler had been trying to tell them all.
Gods existed and, in the case of the Emperor, moved amongst them…
He paused for a moment as the full weight of that thought wrapped itself around him like a comforting blanket. The warmth and ease such simple acceptance gave him was like a panacea for all the ills that had troubled him this last year, and he smiled as his pen idly scratched across the page before him without his conscious thought.
Sindermann started as he realised that the pen was moving across the page of its own volition. He looked down to see what was being written.
She needs you.
Cold fear gripped him, but even as it rose, it was soothed and a comforting state of love and trust filled him. Images filled his head unbidden: the Warmaster strong and powerful in his newly forged suit of black plate armour, the amber eye glowing like a coal from the furnace. Claws slid from the Warmaster’s gauntlets and an evil red glow built from his gorget, illuminating his face with a ghastly daemonic light.
‘No…’ breathed Sindermann, feeling a great and unspeakable horror fill him at this terrible vision, but no sooner had this image filled his head than it was replaced by one of Euphrati Keeler lying supine on her medicae bed. Terrified thoughts were banished at the sight of her and Sindermann felt his love for this beautiful woman fill him as a pure and wondrous light.
Even as he smiled in rapture, the vision darkened and yellowed talons slid into view, tearing at the image of Euphrati.
Sindermann screamed in sudden premonition.
Once again he looked at the words on the page, marvelling at their desperate simplicity.