The wolftime, p.10
The Wolftime, page 10
The door swung shut, plunging them into total darkness and silence, save for their beating hearts and slow breaths. Though his eyes were blind, Vychellan’s other senses – hearing and touch, primarily – were so honed that he could still tell that the tribune had not moved. He was, momentarily, grateful not to be subjected to the unwavering stare of the former Companion.
Several seconds passed before Vychellan spoke, realising that Colquan would not do so.
‘I am sensing antagonism. We have not spoken in many months, since my return from Gathalamor, in fact. Has something occurred?’
‘One of our own is dead and the main perpetrators of the plot against the Emperor’s servants escaped Gathalamor, and remain free to continue their scheming.’ The barest rustle of cloth betrayed Colquan crossing his arms. ‘I regard that as a failure. I dislike failure.’
‘The threat to the fleet and the primarch was averted. Achallor’s sacrifice was unfortunate, but not in vain. It seems counterproductive to resurrect any displeasure now.’
‘It was you that assumed this was about Gathalamor.’
The room shimmered around the pair, bringing both into view of each other whilst conjuring a scene inside their thoughts. Vychellan felt the subtle mental hiss of his mind being read and represented in his projection, but the surrounds were pure artifice of the tribune and machinery.
After several seconds that felt as though he were a painting being created, Vychellan found he was with Colquan in a well-furnished office, resplendent with dark wood-panelled walls and an ornate parquet floor. The size of the furnishings immediately betrayed the purpose of the chamber: the primarch’s quarters. Guilliman stood at one of several aquila-adorned lecterns of the same material, alone and frozen in time. As always he was armoured, sustained by the systems of his warplate.
‘We were not dispatched by the captain-general to protect a primarch.’ Colquan spoke the title with venom, as though the word was acid on his tongue. ‘Cawl has raised legions of warriors that Guilliman can use as bodyguards.’ His volume increased. ‘Our duty, our only duty is the defence of the Emperor. I think Achallor understood this, and if he was still with us I would have a mission for him. As I cannot send him, I have a mind to dispatch you, since it is related to the incident on Gathalamor. To ensure I am understood, I have refined my method of instruction.’
Colquan strode across the tableau towards the giant form of Guilliman. As he neared, his image shimmered to one clad in auramite armour, a long-handled Custodian blade appearing in his hands.
Guilliman now lived, also. In a split second the lectern was parrying Colquan’s blade, sending sparks and tomes flying in all directions. The force of the counter threw Colquan back a step and in the next moment Guilliman attacked, a massive armoured fist back-handing the tribune across the chest.
Though he knew in a distant part of his brain that both he and the tribune were immobile, Vychellan winced in sympathy. Psychosomatic feedback in the hallucinatorium meant that Colquan would have felt the full force of the blow had it been real. It did not slow Colquan, who spun, ducked a punch and slashed his blade up towards the primarch’s extended arm, severing the wrist with a flex of his shoulders.
The blow came at a price as Guilliman’s elbow smashed into the back of Colquan, forcing him to dive into a forward roll, spinning on his heel as he rose. Unperturbed by the loss of his hand, the primarch used the fused stump to slam another hammer blow to the tribune’s chest, cracking open the auramite.
It was supposition, of course – how hard the primarch hit in the simulation was purely Colquan’s belief, informed by experience and research. One would never know unless a true Blood Game was enacted. The fight continued for several more seconds before Colquan slammed through another lectern, crushing it beneath his bulk as he skidded to the floor. Guilliman stopped in the air, mid-leap, fist raised ready to drive the tribune’s skull into the unrelenting floor.
Vychellan knew exactly why the scene had paused. Colquan recognised that any chance at victory had passed. Any further simulation would simply be to see how long he could extend his own survival.
The scene bled away to leave the black and silence again.
‘What was the risk?’ Colquan demanded. His breathing and pulse had increased by a small margin, which only added to the appearance of impatience. ‘The death of the primarch?’
New surroundings morphed into manufactured reality, depicting the large Chamber Astartes from which Roboute Guilliman occasionally addressed the great and the good of Fleet Primus, and more rarely those from other parts of the Indomitus Crusade. It was the nature of the Lord Commander’s role that the Dawn of Fire often attached to other battle groups for liaison or command reasons. The flagship had probably committed half again as many warp jumps as the battle group it led, rendezvousing with others for updates more precise than those that could be conveyed by astropathic means.
Colquan was at the spot he usually occupied during such audiences, just behind and to the left of the primarch. A facsimile of holographic attendees populated the stepped seating of the amphitheatre around them. Feeling disembodied, Vychellan allowed himself to drift closer.
‘It has always been made clear that the Emperor is not the Imperium,’ he said to the tribune. ‘It is also the will of the captain-general that we strike further afield, intercepting more existential dangers than those that directly threaten the Master of the Golden Throne.’
He paused as motion arrived, followed a second later by sound. Guilliman was speaking of redeployments in light of the losses to a battle group in Fleet Tertius. It was a replay; Vychellan had read the transcript.
‘I did not tell you to stop,’ said Colquan.
‘The Indomitus Crusade is the surest way to restore the structure of the Imperium and the support it gives to Terra.’ As he spoke, the Custodian placed his mind’s eye view to where he could see both Colquan and the primarch in sharp focus, almost directly in front of the tribune. ‘Guilliman is uniquely able to–’
For an instant, the primarch leaned forward a fraction further, eyes cast down towards Cawl in front of him. At the same moment, Colquan stepped forward, the tip of his blade plunging towards Guilliman’s neck. The primarch twisted just before the gleaming spear broke skin, diverting it with his pauldron. Less than a second later the entire scene dissolved into the roar of bolter fire as Space Marine bodyguards blasted Colquan apart.
‘Too soon,’ said Vychellan, materialising as a ghostly apparition of himself while the flicker of bolt-rounds converged on his superior.
The din and brightness became a mist, and then nothing.
‘There was no later opportunity,’ growled Colquan. Vychellan could only guess how many times the scenario had been run, with the same or worse result.
‘Did you think this would shock me?’ the Custodian asked. ‘It is no secret that you consider the primarch a threat. What I don’t understand is why you think he is more of a threat out in the wider galaxy than when he was on Terra? Was not that the time to strike?’
‘Remind me, Custodian. When Horus turned, was he standing upon the Throneworld?’
‘I concede that point,’ Vychellan replied quickly, regretting his simple error.
Colquan said nothing. His heart rate had increased again and Vychellan could smell the biochemical residue of the tribune’s pain suppression system.
‘I trust you have not set the pain threshold to lethal.’
‘Of course not. This is practice, not a grading test.’ Under Colquan’s mental guidance a sourceless light suffused the chamber, but both of the Custodians were rendered fully armoured and armed. ‘I think I shall give you the next attempt.’
‘Paranoia is not the same as preparedness,’ argued Vychellan, shaking his head. ‘We are not assassins.’
‘Do not be a fool, Custodian,’ snapped Colquan. ‘We are everything we are needed to be. Nothing less.’
The darkness lessened but only enough to create a ruddy twilight, pierced here and there by a glimmering star of green or blue. Vychellan immediately recognised the silhouettes of other Custodians, and before him was a stair.
The next instant a throb like the bass tremor of a ship’s engines rumbled through his skull – from the inside, rather than the vibrations of an external sound wave. Like a man trying to shout into thunder, his thoughts were drowned by the constant pressure.
The Indomitable Presence, it was called among the Custodians. The mind-burning leak of raw potential emanating from He that they protected.
He was inside the Throneroom. At least, the best facsimile the hallucinatorium could replicate from Colquan’s knowledge and assumptions from contact with former members of the Hetaeron Guard. Even second-hand the psychic might of the Emperor made Vychellan’s vision quiver. It was no shame to not be selected to serve as a Companion, and the Custodian instantly understood why he had not been asked. Among a cadre of superlative warriors, only perfection could survive for long in that role.
At the foot of the steps a gigantic figure had lowered to one knee. Vychellan realised that this was speculation by Colquan, as nobody but Trajann Valoris had been present at Guilliman’s prior visit to his creator. The primarch started to straighten, in his hands a sword with burning blade proffered to the Master of Mankind.
‘Too late,’ whispered Colquan.
Guilliman was half a dozen yards up the steps in one stride, accelerating faster than Vychellan could follow, bolt-rounds from Custodian spears sparking from his powered plate.
‘Try again.’
The scene reset itself. Again the primarch broke into a sprint from nothing, blade in hand a stride later. Vychellan ground his teeth, wondering why Colquan wanted to humiliate him.
‘Again.’
This time Vychellan acted the moment the primarch started forward. Still he was not quick enough, reflexes deadened by the effect of the Indomitable Presence.
‘Not nearly close enough.’
Thrice more Colquan forced him to run the scenario, and yet no matter how well prepared he thought himself, even when he positioned himself within blade’s reach Vychellan could not land a blow upon Guilliman before his ascent began.
‘What is your point?’ demanded the Custodian. He flexed his thoughts, pausing the simulation in the face of Colquan’s attempt to restart it.
‘What is yours?’ countered the tribune. ‘Why do you hesitate to do what must be done?’
The scene moulded itself afresh, with Colquan where Vychellan had been. The tribune’s blade whirled a split second after the scene started to replay. Guilliman’s head tumbled from his neck, severed neatly along the same line where the scar from his previous mortal wound had been dealt. The armoured body collapsed loudly upon the lowest steps.
‘You struck before he presented a threat!’ said Vychellan. ‘A pre-emptive blow.’
The image of the Throneroom faded from experience, leaving Vychellan’s words drifting in emptiness.
‘There are other commanders that can lead armies and fleets.’ Colquan spoke softly but during the simulation had somehow moved his physical body beside Vychellan without him being aware of it, so that his voice came quietly into his right ear from close at hand. It took every fibre of control not to lash out. ‘None of them pose the same threat as the primarch.’
‘In that you are wrong. No mortal could command the loyalty that Guilliman does. A world full of logisters could not duplicate his knowledge and experience. Remember that he created the Five Hundred Worlds in the time it took many of his gene-brothers to wrest control of a single planet.’
‘And now Macragge can protect less than a dozen,’ said Colquan with a snort like a disturbed bull. ‘The Emperor in His wisdom placed Horus as Warmaster for his achievements, and yet the cold truth was too much for His favoured creation.’
Vychellan considered this, and what he knew of the civil war unleashed by Horus. Much was maintained in the archives, but just as much was speculation and hearsay from the interrogation of traitors since taken captive.
‘Horus saw the end of his usefulness and rebelled,’ said Vychellan. He looked at the simulacrum of headless Guilliman. ‘You think that when the Indomitus Crusade is finished, the lord regent will have no further purpose. Just as Horus was unwilling to surrender his role to the adepts of Terra, so Guilliman must see himself as the natural ruler of the renewed Imperium he has created?’
‘History is littered with the disloyalty and mistakes of the primarchs, even those that did not fall wholly to the greatest enemy,’ said Colquan. ‘You know this as well as any that have studied in the Vaults of Obedience.’
‘I am yet to be convinced that Guilliman has any ill intent,’ Vychellan declared, turning away from the decapitated corpse. The rest of the projection dissipated like a mirage. The blackness was a comfort. ‘Your act was not pre-emptive but based upon the notion that you knew the primarch would attack. All of your scenarios are predicated on that same notion, that we will not have the time to respond.’
‘Blows landed in hindsight are worthless,’ said Colquan.
The door opened, letting in the harsh actinic glare of lumens. Vychellan’s eyes adjusted instantly, seeing again Colquan in his robe and undersuit. A vein throbbed at his temple, his pulse not yet recovered. Something other than the stimulation of the hallucinatorium was at work.
‘Those that escaped Gathalamor are still at large and pose a threat to the Emperor,’ said Colquan. ‘They could not know that Guilliman would present a target for their weapon, so it is right that we assume it was opportunistic. Historitors have articulated some kind of connection with the apostate Cardinal Bucharis. We have taken such records as might be pertinent to further research, but much has been destroyed by the Ecclesiarchy of those times, to try to obliterate their shameful past.’
‘Such purging is not uncommon, but also Gathalamor is far from Terra and records of the Library Sanctus will be equally disjointed,’ said Vychellan, teasing his beard into a slender tip.
‘The historitors are the creation of Guilliman, we cannot direct them ourselves,’ said Colquan. He stepped towards the door. ‘I have arranged a meeting with the primarch in just under one hour. As one of the participants in events at Gathalamor I want you present, should first-hand recollection prove valuable.’
The tribune left before Vychellan could reply.
The tribune’s antipathy towards Guilliman was the reason Trajann Valoris had placed him in his ascended position, and it was not a Custodian Guard’s role to question the decisions of his superiors. It was inconceivable that Colquan would directly endanger the crusade by killing Guilliman just as a precaution, but the level of provocation required for the tribune to act was set low.
And yet he had a point. The demonstration in the hallucinatorium made it clear that to take down a primarch one had to strike swiftly and surely, without hesitation or doubt. As much as he loathed the idea that it would be necessary, Vychellan and every single Custodian in Fleet Primus had to acknowledge the fact that it might fall to them to do the unthinkable.
The terrorstorm had broken, but the pall of destruction hanging over the remains of Holkenved was every part as dark and foreboding. The spires of the capital had been toppled, leaving the miles-wide base and mutilated central city like a broken tooth on the landscape, lit from within by fires that would rage for weeks to come.
‘Seventeen million souls,’ said Doro. ‘Seventeen million more servants of the Emperor taken by the enemy.’
Gaius looked up from his book with a grunt. ‘More of our brothers with them,’ said the sergeant.
He cast his gaze around the improvised landing pad – an acre of packed ash and dirt about four miles along the main highway between Holkenved and its neighbour to the north. His squad – six of them now – waited along with the rest of the survivors of Astopites’ command. Others were arriving along the elevated road and more had lifted to orbit previously.
‘Gestartas, Heindal, Nasdr and Enforfas. We shall account them!’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Anfelis. The company had been resupplied with ammunition but had not yet had their other gear attended by the armorium serfs. Anfelis’ chestplate was held together by a crude patch of quick-spray fixative and he was missing his left pauldron.
‘It’s a tradition on Fenris,’ said Gaius, lifting the book Mudire had gifted him.
‘Ah, from the book,’ sighed Aegreus. It was not the first time Gaius had made reference to the guide’s contents.
‘This is important,’ Gaius replied, finding the page he had studied the day before. ‘To give account is to remember the valiant dead. It is to relate their saga. We should give account of our fallen brothers.’
‘I’ll begin,’ said Doro. He held a hand to the bolt-scarred aquila on his chest. ‘Heindal was a generous warrior, who would share his blade and bolts with his enemies without hesitation. An armour-piercing shell ended him.’
‘Accurate, but lacking poetry,’ said Neiflur. He cleared his throat like a dramaturge about to narrate a scene. When next he opened his mouth, the words came as deep and mellow with a songlike quality. ‘From sunless night he came, Nasdr named by Cawl, son of Fenris’ king and no other. Into the Dawn of Fire reborn as Unnumbered Son, loyal battle-brother. In battle he was unforgiving and he made many foes lament, but the traitors he abhorred the most and on his blade made them repent. But it was serpents of the storm that cut his thread, and now Nasdr passes into memory with the other honoured dead.’
