‘I am Castellan Clermont. I am to convey you to the Marshal and Chapter Masters.’ The castellan lowered his sword and carefully sheathed it before offering a hand in friendship. Koorland shook it gratefully.
‘My thanks for the welcome, Clermont.’ The two of them started walking across the massive bay, their escort falling in behind as the pair headed between the dormant Thunderhawk gunships. ‘It makes me realise that I have been too long from the company of my fellow Space Marines.’
‘You are amongst brothers again, Koorland. Harbour no doubts in that regard.’
It took a few minutes to reach the hall where the council was to be held. Clermont announced Koorland as two Black Templars swung open the great double doors, and then led the Imperial Fists captain within.
The hall was bedecked with trophies and banners, every square foot of wall covered with gilded skulls, tattered remnants of enemy standards and icons, pieces of tile, timber and masonry from conquered citadels. The floor was obsidian, as was the long table at which sat the council of Chapter Masters; the four of them turned questioning eyes on Koorland as he entered.
Bohemond was instantly recognisable, sat at the head of the table flanked by two banner bearers carrying the Chapter standard and a long pennant in the colours of the Marshal’s personal heraldry. Clermont advanced ahead of Koorland to join his commander and the group of Space Marines around him.
Koorland also recognised Issachar, whose pale armour was in total contrast to Bohemond’s. The Chapter Master of the Excoriators was well known for his bionic arm, which was a plated mass of bare metal and cables; more precisely, known for the manner by which he had come to need it following an overly competitive honour duel with Marshal Bohemond during a previous disagreement. His artificial fingers tapped out a complex rhythm on the surface of the table, which stopped when his gaze met Koorland’s.
The Chapter Master’s false hand formed a fist that moved to his forehead, lips and chest in quick succession in a sign of fraternity. Koorland met the gesture with a simple nod.
Behind Issachar stood three warriors, one in the livery of the Chaplains and two that bore markings of the Librarium. The Black Templars occasionally threw menacing stares at the pair of psykers but the Excoriators feigned ignorance of their brothers’ antipathy.
Opposite Issachar was a warrior that Koorland did not know. His armour bore no livery at all, the drab grey ceramite coloured only by heat swirls and splashes of dried blood. Only one Chapter that Koorland knew of did not paint their armour — the Fists Exemplar. The warrior was flanked by a Space Marine bearing the burnt remnants of a trapezoid banner and another with a long spear held in both hands.
Last at the table was Chapter Master Quesadra of the Crimson Fists. The Crimson Fists were almost as numerous as the Black Templars contingent, with two banner bearers, a cup-holder and three more Space Marines with thunder hammers held across their chests.
Their commander’s armour was highly polished, shining in the light that spilled from the chandeliers above the table, shoulder pads inlaid with sapphire-like stones, the red circled fist of the Chapter icon picked out in delicately faceted rubies. Quesadra regarded Koorland in the same manner a warrior might size up a potential foe, mentally measuring his capabilities. To Koorland it felt as if those bright blue eyes were stripping him down to the soul, and he was relieved when Quesadra turned his laser-like gaze on Bohemond.
Faced with the grandeur and panoply of these mighty leaders Koorland felt inadequate in his plain, damaged battleplate. Doubts crowded his thoughts as he advanced across the tiles, the clang of his tread echoing around the large hall. Who was he to call upon these leaders and legends? Greydove was a normal man, easily impressed by those with superior physique and skill. The warriors that awaited Koorland at the table were of an order far above a lieutenant in the Navy.
Koorland realised that his actions were not those of a brave survivor, but those of a foolish, petulant child. How did he dare refuse the will of the High Lords? What did he hope to achieve here? It was petty of him to place his desires above the needs of the Imperium. The worst conceit was the notion that he could still make a difference, that somehow he could single-handedly save the reputation of the Imperial Fists. What arrogance, they would say.
Stopping beside the chair at the bottom of the table, directly opposite Bohemond, Koorland paused and took a deep breath. He looked at the officer from the Fists Exemplar.
‘I am Koorland, of the Imperial Fists. I have the honour of knowing the names and titles of the others assembled here, but I regret that you have me at a loss.’
‘Thane,’ said the Space Marine. He hesitated before continuing, a flicker of a tic in his right eye. ‘Chapter Master Thane, these last few weeks.’
‘By my honour, I make acquaintance,’ said Koorland, bowing before he seated himself.
‘You are welcome, Captain Koorland,’ said Bohemond, his voice booming across the hall. ‘There is sense in us coming together to share intelligence of the foe and strategy for their destruction. We have spent some time appraising one another of our efforts, and I do not wish to waste time repeating such reports, but for the benefit of our new arrival I would make a quick summary of the situation.’
Bohemond looked around the table and there were no objections raised.
‘Good,’ he continued. ‘The orks continue to press towards Terra on all fronts and the situation, already dire, is threatening almost total collapse. Almost. Having extracted our brothers in the Fists Exemplar from their fortress-monastery I have been calling together several crusades still operating in the Segmentum Solar. As you might expect, there is little to appeal to my marshals in these relatively calm systems and so the majority of our crusades are much further from the Imperial centre. It will take time for them to arrive.’
‘Such calmness has occluded proper recognition of the threats at hand,’ said Issachar.
Bohemond scowled, perceiving the comment to be an accusation, but he pressed on with his report without argument.
‘It has fallen to us and the Crimson Fists in particular, as well as Chapters of other heritage, to wage the mobile war against the ork attackers. The Imperial Navy stands almost idle. We have filled the breach as best we can, but we have not the numbers to stand and fight at every contested star system. The orks move closer and closer to Terra each day while the Imperial Guard twiddle their thumbs on their mustering fields and the Imperial Navy watches with disinterest. If I could spare the bolts I would fall upon these traitors myself, but the orks are enough opposition for the moment. When the orks are driven back there will be time to punish those who have so easily forgotten their oaths.’
‘Report arrives daily of another system fallen, another ork incursion, all accounted to the ravages of the Beast,’ said Quesadra. ‘We attack when we can, but we kill hundreds when we need to kill thousands, thousands when we must slay millions. We come to the aid of the Imperium as ancient oaths decree, but the Imperium seems unable to fight for itself. Not since Ullanor have we seen such a greenskin threat. Their numbers are beyond measure and matched by greater cunning than we have ever thought possible. Even as the orks are coordinated and focused, the forces of the Imperium are scattered and beset.’
‘Let us not forget the sacrifice of many brave thousands that have given their blood defending their homes,’ added Thane. ‘They have taken a toll of the alien invaders also.’
A few of the Space Marines bowed their heads in silent thanks. Koorland did likewise, remembering his dead wall-brothers.
‘Yes, but the sacrifices will not be swiftly concluded,’ said Issachar. He glanced at Bohemond and received a nod of permission to continue. ‘The issuing of the Last Wall protocol is a grave matter, but I think it is just this situation for which the Primarch intended it. The Imperium is beset by a foe that will likely triumph over other forces. No Chapter alone can stand against this menace and so the bonds of old, forged by the Emperor’s hand and broken by the dictate of the Lord Commander, must be joined again. The sons of Dorn will stand united once more.’