And even if the moon was dead, it was not silent. It roared. I AM SLAUGHTER. I AM SLAUGHTER. I AM SLAUGHTER. The broadcast was ceaseless. It was gigantic. It would take nothing for Koorland to open a vox-channel and hear it.
He chose not to, but the reality of the shout was another poison in the toxic silence. The words of the Beast hammered at Terra, breaking down the spirit of its citizens. The roar mocked the sacrifices on Ullanor. It declared the futility of every Imperial endeavour to stop the orks. Every great quest, every journey, every challenge, every hard-won battle and shard of hope — they all meant nothing. What did they have to show for Caldera, for Ullanor? Even their victory against the moon was turned into mockery.
Koorland grieved, and so did all the world. He did not know fear, but he knew its cancer possessed every mortal soul on Terra.
The battlements of Daylight Wall were built upon many terraces. Turrets and cannon emplacements on multiple levels faced the east, so many it seemed they should be able to kill the rising sun if it dared to challenge the Emperor. Koorland walked along the top. He took up a position between the crenellations and looked down at the bristling strength below him. Not long ago, this perspective would have renewed his sense of duty and of purpose. Now he observed the defences and thought: Not enough.
The guns were insufficient.
So was he.
The approaching footsteps were quiet, more from a desire not to disturb than not to be heard. Koorland turned to the right. Drakan Vangorich, Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum, walked down the wide avenue of the wall towards him. There was enough room between the battlements for a Baneblade to pass, and the Assassin was a tiny figure in the night. On either side, the relief sculptures of the crenellations celebrated Imperial might. Heroic figures cut down their foes with sword and gun. Koorland’s eyes went back and forth from the brutal strength of the stone to the wiry Grand Master. In the contrast, he felt a glimmer of inspiration. It passed before he could discern its shape.
Vangorich nodded to Koorland as he drew near. ‘A homecoming?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Koorland. ‘Daylight Wall Company is gone. And my duty is no longer named by a single battlement.’
‘It was never limited to that, though.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ Koorland sighed. ‘But there was great order in that naming. Symbols have powerful meaning.’
‘As does their loss,’ Vangorich said quietly.
‘Yes.’ The annihilation of Daylight Wall Company was of little importance next to the loss of a Chapter. And what was even that compared to the death of a primarch?
‘I’ve seen the recording,’ Vangorich said.
‘For all the good it does us now.’
Vangorich gave him a sharp look. ‘Defeatism doesn’t suit you, Lord Commander Koorland.’
‘Neither does naïveté,’ Koorland said.
Vangorich was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘It isn’t that long since we last spoke on this wall.’
‘It isn’t, and I don’t come here seeking to have my morale boosted by you.’
‘It would be an odd thing to do, given my particular duty.’
Koorland grunted.
‘I hope, though,’ Vangorich went on, ‘that you will listen to counsel.’
‘I know what you would have to say about being a symbol.’
‘And you would deny its truth.’
‘I would deny my fitness to serve as that symbol.’
‘Would you deny your duty to do so?’
‘You know I would not,’ Koorland growled. Duty and fitness were very different things, and he resented Vangorich’s blurring of the two.
‘No,’ the Grand Master said. ‘You have never turned from your duty. You have always done it. You did it on Ullanor too.’
‘To no end.’
‘And who would have been better suited? Who should have led instead?’
Koorland didn’t answer.
‘Vulkan left much of the campaign in your hands, didn’t he?’ Vangorich said.
‘He did.’
‘Was he wrong? Did he err?’
Koorland looked down at the Grand Master and glared. Again he said nothing. He could not bring himself to say aloud that Vulkan had been mistaken. He would not question the final decisions of the last primarch.
‘I’ll take your silence as a no,’ Vangorich said.
‘You’re playing a game with words,’ said Koorland. ‘It isn’t amusing and it isn’t useful.’
‘You’re right,’ Vangorich said, his tone suddenly sharp. ‘There would be nothing useful in a game. The High Lords have proven this many times over, and as far as I can tell, they’re very much intent on proving it yet again. I am not playing at anything. What we need right now is clarity, don’t you agree?’
‘I do.’ He grimaced. ‘We could have used the clarity of Magneric’s information on Ullanor.’
‘Exactly. Obfuscation, illusion, denial, ignorance, they have brought us disaster.’
So has everything else, Koorland thought. He said, ‘Your point, when you reach it, will have to be an impressive one, Drakan.’
‘Did Vulkan speak to you before the end?’
‘He did.’
‘And?’
Koorland took a deep breath. He let it out with a shudder, as if it could expel the burdens and memories that had built up like a toxic cloud inside his chest. ‘He ordered me to carry on.’
‘That was all?’
‘He called me Lord Commander. He said I was the Imperial Fists.’
‘And you would dismiss those words?’
Koorland shook his head. ‘It isn’t that simple.’
‘I see nothing simple in what I am suggesting. I see that you have a great burden to carry, one that is enormously complex. It is yours, however. You shouldered it after Ardamantua. You have carried it since. Vulkan reaffirmed your duty to carry on. It is your burden, because you have the strength for it. The primarch saw you are the leader we need now. So do all your brothers. Across the Chapters.’
Koorland narrowed his gaze in disbelief.
‘Your doubt has no place here, Lord Commander,’ Vangorich said. ‘Unless your information is more complete than mine. Has there been a challenge to your leadership? Has one of the surviving Space Wolves stepped forward to declare himself the alpha of the campaign?’
‘No,’ said Koorland. ‘And I would thank you to refer to those Space Marines with greater respect. They have sacrificed much.’
‘All have,’ Vangorich said softly. ‘And the mission was a disaster. Yet there has been no challenge. There is a reason for that. They see what Vulkan saw. They await your orders.’
‘My orders.’
‘I assume you aren’t going to wait for the orks to attack first.’
Koorland felt the corners of his lips pull back. After a moment he realised something like a smile, cold and hard and hungry, had appeared on his face.
‘You’re very good at what you do,’ he told Vangorich.
‘I have to be.’
Koorland studied the Grand Master. ‘Perhaps we should learn from you,’ he said. As he spoke, the feeling of inspiration returned. It was stronger now. Closer to being something he could articulate.
‘What do you think I could teach you?’
‘Precision,’ Koorland said. The idea had almost formed. ‘You rely on few to do work that affects many.’
‘Precision is the correct word,’ said Vangorich. ‘What is necessary is not overwhelming force. What is needed is the right weapon and the right target.’
‘Which we have lacked,’ Koorland muttered.
‘The weapon or the target?’
‘Both. We thought we had found the Beast on Ullanor. Vulkan gave his life to slay it. And now…’ He pointed at the attack moon.
I AM SLAUGHTER, said the silence.
Koorland felt the words without hearing them. He saw Vangorich wince, and knew the Grand Master felt them too.