‘The fleet is dispersing, my lord. The orks are not fighting. They flee as soon as we approach. Even vessels obviously built as warships are avoiding confrontation if they can. The rapidity of our advance is drawing us away from the Mandeville boundary and only a few of our allies’ ships have arrived.’
‘And what do you wish to do, Koorland?’
‘I am Slaughter, my lord.’ He did not know why the primarch insisted on using his other name, but he had to assume it was not for insult. Perhaps he was trying to make some point that the Imperial Fist did not understand. ‘We need to issue orders to consolidate our positions before we push again for Ullanor orbit.’
‘A reasonable plan. Why have you not yet implemented it?’
‘I…’ Koorland frowned. ‘You are the primarch, my lord. The fleet, the warriors, they fight under your command.’
‘And I give you my full authority,’ said Vulkan. He lifted up a jar of lubricant and dipped a finger into it, the digit barely fitting. He started to apply the unguent to a metal coil. ‘You have commanded planetary landings before, Koorland. You do not need me looking over your shoulder.’
‘I would prefer… My lord, the High Lords have entrusted this expedition to us on the belief that you will command it. I have led Space Marines, but we also have Adeptus Mechanicus, Imperial Navy and Astra Militarum forces here too. Only a primarch, only you have experience leading such an armada.’
Vulkan stopped his work and drew in a breath, laying his hands flat on the table as though steadying himself, though more likely steadying his thoughts. By the accounts from Thane, Vulkan’s battle-wrath was every bit as mighty as the legends portrayed but here he was patience personified.
‘The last time warriors of the Emperor attacked this world, the force consisted of a hundred thousand Space Marines, eight million soldiers of the Imperial Army, a legion of a hundred Titans and over six hundred warships to protect the thousands of transports to carry them.’ Vulkan wiped his hands on a rag of cloth large enough to be a serviceable battle standard. ‘You have to worry about roughly a tenth of that.’
Koorland nodded, accepting the subtle chastisement, although he was still not comfortable with the task Vulkan handed him. The primarch read the reluctance in his expression.
‘That armada was led by a primarch. His name was Horus. The victory earned him the title of Warmaster.’ Vulkan’s shoulders tensed as he turned back to the work bench. He toyed with a few items, his hands deft despite their size. ‘We both know how that ended, Koorland.’
‘I am Slaughter.’ The reply was an unthinking instinct, but Vulkan snapped his gaze onto the Space Marine, brow furrowed with displeasure.
‘You are Lord Commander Koorland,’ growled the primarch. ‘You took that title freely. Now it is time to live up to it.’
Koorland stepped back, physically reeling from the rebuke as if struck. Recovering, he bowed to Vulkan, ashamed that he had disappointed the primarch. Vulkan’s disapproval was more injurious than any physical wound the Imperial Fist had suffered, the thought of it nearly as painful as the memory of Ardamantua. Swallowing hard, he resolved never to feel such disgrace again.
‘As you will it, Lord Vulkan. In your name, for the memory of Defiance and of the Lord Guilliman who first held the title, I shall continue as Lord Commander.’
Vulkan gave him a nod, a quick gesture but one that sent a surge of strength through Koorland. As easily as the primarch’s disapproval had dashed him down, his simple endorsement gave the Lord Commander renewed confidence and hope.
It was not until he was halfway back to the command bridge that he reflected on Vulkan’s words. To take Ullanor, Horus himself had commanded ten times the force at Koorland’s disposal. Koorland’s new optimism fled like sunlight at dusk.
Chapter Three
The overture has begun. A while remains until the main movement begins.
Time is the enemy of peace, peace the enemy of sanity. I do not need to ponder, I have many lifetimes of sorrows to occupy me. Let us be at the matter and bring it to swift resolution.
But it is not your place any more. That was the disaster. Even before the corruption, we were poor lords. No leader save He alone should be greater than his followers. He must value them more than they value him.
Why did we not understand that before?
Melta charges turned the airlock door into slag in milliseconds, filling the corridor beyond with vapour and fiery particles. Valefor of the Blood Angels was the first through the breach, molten armaplas flecking his red armour as he pushed through the haze.
Bullets whined down the corridor and ricocheted from his war-plate while las-beams seared narrow welts across the ceramite. He lifted his pistol to reply with equal force, only for his finger to remain still — his attackers were not orks.
The volley of fire spewed towards him came from the pistols and rifles of human crew. A shotgun blazed as an armsman opened fire, spattering the Blood Angels captain with pellets.
‘Hold your fire!’ he bellowed, levelling his sword at the five Sanguinary Guard of his retinue that followed from the assault pod. Another flurry of bullets rattled around him and he returned his attention to the men in front. ‘Stop shooting, in the Emperor’s name!’
His words fell on deaf ears. Valefor’s auto-senses adjusted as the glare of entry faded, revealing more details of his attackers. They wore patched uniforms, some of them little more than rags held together by crude stitching and maintenance tape. Ork glyphs had been painted onto the fabric and the crew members wore necklaces of human teeth. Their cheeks and brows bore scars and other tribal markings.
‘Cleanse the traitors,’ spat the captain, opening fire. His shots cut through the nearest trio, spattering the bulkheads with their blood. More bolts flared past as the Sanguinary Guard unleashed their Angelus bolters, turning another dozen foes to broken flesh.
Valefor launched himself into the remaining crew, his power sword a golden shaft of light in his fist. He parted limbs and bodies with every slash and thrust, the continuing storm of fire from his companions tearing around him.
In a few more seconds they had reached an arterial corridor, emerging into a fresh conflagration of fire from all directions. On galleries above and through open doors, the crew of the boarded ship spilled forth like ants from their nest. Their calls were more like the grunting of animals, low and hoarse. The walls were clumsily painted with more ork glyphmarks, and piles of filth littered the deck. Chains and cables strung with bones and hunks of scrap metal hung from gallery to gallery in rough ornamentation.
The crew were savage, hollering and hooting as they poured along balconies and through the corridors, brandishing their weapons, firing wildly at the interlopers.
‘Orks in human bodies,’ muttered Sergeant Marbas. The veteran levelled his wrist-mounted bolter and sent a salvo of shots slashing through the closest crew.
‘This ship was not overrun in these past months of invasion,’ replied Valefor, adding his own bolts to the furious storm cutting along the corridor from his Sanguinary Guard. ‘These wretches have long been under the dominance of the greenskins.’
Marbas growled. ‘Did none stand guard for these lost worlds? Did none count their fall?’
‘I am sure reports of their loss lie somewhere on the desk of an Administratum clerk, unseen beneath tithe receipts and Astra Militarum levy charters,’ said Valefor. ‘We cannot be absolved of blame. We are the defenders of humanity — it is our watch that also fell lax.’
‘We cannot be everywhere, captain. How are we to safeguard a million worlds if they do not call for our aid?’