‘I cannot see this as a game, Grand Master.’
‘But it is a game, Koorland,’ said Vangorich. ‘A very serious game, but a game nonetheless.’
‘If all the pieces are compromised, then what is left?’ said Koorland.
‘What is left is you and I,’ said Vangorich, tapping a finger against Koorland’s chest eagle. ‘So we best hope you are successful in hauling our collective skins out of the fire. I do not wish to see the time come when the Imperium has to rely on the Grand Master of the Assassinorum. We are gardeners, we Assassins. A snip and a prune. We are not intended for the wholesale remodelling of government, or, the Emperor forfend, the wielding of power.’ He smiled innocently, his scar twisting his face. Unlike Udo’s disfigurement, it somehow made the Assassin appear even more genial.
For a man who protested his lack of interest in power, thought Koorland, he seemed remarkably adept at wielding it.
‘Ah, my goblet appears to be empty,’ said Vangorich. ‘This evening, I feel like drinking. This week has been taxing.’ He rested a hand on Koorland’s vambrace, and said sotto voce, ‘Let us continue this some other time.’ Vangorich sauntered off, greeting men and women with a warmth shot through with insolence.
Thane came to his side. The Chapter Masters had been besieged by coteries of adepts, some of whom were there at Udo’s behest to keep them apart. But when a Space Marine in full battleplate chose to move through a room, people had no choice but to quickly remove themselves from his path.
‘I tire of their flattery and wheedling,’ said Thane.
‘This room is a vipers’ nest,’ said Koorland.
‘Aye, and Grand Master Vangorich is the biggest snake of all. Be wary of him, brother.’
‘A life of war, of bolt and blade, was preferable to this,’ said Koorland.
‘I agree. But Issachar has it right. We have a different kind of battle to fight now.’ The supplicants kept their distance from the Chapter Masters’ quiet conference, all save one: the fat man sealed into ceremonial ecclesiarchal robes so encrusted in jewels they were thick as battleplate, Ecclesiarch Mesring. He came over, sweating under the weight of his robes of office despite the four hollow-eyed, shaven-headed acolytes holding his train. A whole host of others trailed him: priests, scribes, and petitioners anxiously awaiting a moment to speak with him.
Mesring interrupted the Space Marines impolitely. ‘Chapter Masters! I come to offer my thanks. You do the Emperor’s duty. He is pleased.’
Koorland turned from his conversation with Thane. ‘You are Mesring, Ecclesiarch of the Adeptus Ministorum?’
Mesring was taken aback at Koorland’s feigned ignorance, but rallied well. ‘A grandiose title for a humble role. I am fortunate to interpret the Emperor’s will.’ He bowed stiffly from the waist, his chins wobbling with the effort. ‘And it is glorious to stand before His favoured servants, His holy sons.’ His pale flesh gleamed, and he slurred his words despite his manners. Koorland suspected he was drunk.
‘Your garb tells another story than humility,’ said Thane. ‘You tell me the Emperor is pleased? Who are you to know?’
‘You gainsay the will of the Holy Emperor?’ said Mesring.
‘Your religion means nothing to me,’ said Thane. ‘My Chapter follows the tenets of the Imperial Truth, set down by the Emperor during the Great Crusade. How quickly you have forgotten it. We are not holy. Do not treat us as such.’
‘One thousand five hundred years is a long time, Chapter Master,’ said Mesring. ‘The Imperial Truth is all but forgotten. The scriptures tell us that the Emperor conceived of it as a necessary lie. The very name is an exercise in irony. Only in death has the Emperor cast off His corporeal cloak and revealed Himself to us in His true glory!’
‘I disagree,’ said Thane. ‘Your cult profanes His memory with idolatry.’
‘When will the Adeptus Astartes see the light?’ said Mesring. ‘It troubles me, my son, that the Emperor’s own angels deny the truth.’
‘We are not angels!’ snorted Thane.
‘You were among those who urged the populace to take the oath of crusade?’ said Koorland.
‘I did, I did! As was only right.’
‘It proved to be wholly wrong,’ said Koorland. ‘A rash move that risked provoking the orks, and cost the lives of millions, while you and Tull and the others who promoted it remain alive and well.’
A flicker of consternation crossed Mesring’s face. ‘Then it is good that you are here now, to fight them on our behalf.’
‘Aye, that is what we are, priest — warriors,’ said Thane.
‘One day, I hope to bring all our mighty warriors into the truth of the faith. Some are perhaps more amenable than others.’ His gaze strayed around the room, looking for someone. He smiled secretly to himself.
‘Then go and speak to them,’ said Thane. He glared menacingly at Mesring until the Ecclesiarch made his excuses and left.
A surge of anger built in Koorland’s chest. The men and women around him had been scheming while Terra burned. The temptation to sweep it all aside was great.
‘I am done here,’ he told Thane. ‘I return to the fleet. The Senatorum is broken, all the High Lords invested only in their own advancement. I have heard the name of the Emperor invoked by every charlatan in this house. This cannot be allowed to continue.’
With that he departed the room, the crowd parting hurriedly before him.
Seventeen
War in the dust
Magneric stamped over the gritty ruin of Dzelenic IV, assault cannon blazing. Orks filled the surface from horizon to horizon. More came thundering down from orbit in rickety landing craft, little more than balls of scrap that bounced to a halt on the ground before bursting into pieces. Sometimes they fell apart to reveal their mangled occupants, but more often than not mobs of howling greenskins came running out, shooting their weapons into the air. Magneric ploughed through them unconcerned, killing them without thought, the eye of his Dreadnought fixed upon the low ruin the Iron Warriors had occupied, visible over the ridge of a dune. By the gunfire flashing out, Kalkator still lived.
The ammunition counters in Magneric’s display blinked to orange as his assault cannon ran to below half capacity. The view Magneric had of the outside world was grainy, bleached out, striped with the lines of inferior pict capture. Reticules danced over his view, highlighting targets of priority, data-screeds and numerical data further crowding his vision, but he saw well enough to kill.
His flesh body floated in the sarcophagus at the machine’s heart. He was dimly aware of it, the hurts that it still suffered, the limbs that it lacked. It did not trouble him. Others given the singular honour of internment spoke of disassociation, a feeling of distance from the world of the living and a weariness that became harder and harder to bear. Magneric did not feel this. He considered the metal behemoth he dwelled within as his own flesh and blood, an extension of his will. Magneric refused to sleep like the others, and retained his rank and his own name, for Magneric had hatred to drive him onward. Kalkator was the wellspring and the object of this fury, an emotion pure in its heat and ferocity. Magneric lived for Kalkator’s death.
‘Kalkator! Kalkator! I will come and end you!’ He caught an ork in his power fist and crushed it flat, hurling the gory remains back into its fellows and bowling them over. Those that got back up again he gunned down with a spray of fire from his storm bolter.
‘The Emperor has decreed that I slay you, traitor! I am coming for you!’
Magneric was the ebon spear point of an unstoppable blade. His warriors came in his wake, driving through the orkish attack. Behind him Chaplain Aladucos chanted hymnals in praise of the Emperor, encouraging Magneric’s warriors to greater acts of violence. The Black Templars gunships duelled with ork fighters overhead. Three lay in smoking ruin four kilometres behind their advance. Magneric’s own craft sent a column of black smoke climbing skyward, but it did not matter. Only to go forward, to slaughter the foes of the Emperor, to continue the crusade to conquer the galaxy in the name of mankind!