‘That we should undo what has been done,’ said Thane. ‘There is not a brother among us who, if he could, would not have sacrificed all to save Koorland, the Imperial Fists or the Emperor’s Imperium. What if we can?’
‘How?’ Issachar pushed.
‘By carrying out the primarch’s wishes,’ Thane told them. ‘We all know how it wounded Dorn to break his Legion. The grief of it never left him. Imagine how he would have felt to see this day come to pass. Imagine what he would do now, if he could have attended this Feast. What he would tell us. Of course, the loss of the Imperial Fists will be remembered — will be honoured by all the Chapters here present. But all of the Chapters here were Imperial Fists once… and could be again.’
He let the idea sink home. The pain and trials of the arena battle had lent Thane clarity and some scintilla of the primarch’s wisdom. He allowed the Space Marines and their Chapter Masters a moment to take in the enormity and significance of what he was proposing.
‘The Imperium is not ready to lose a First Founding Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes,’ Thane said, ‘let alone the Defenders of Terra. Not now. Not with the galaxy collapsing around it and an alien armageddon to still face. And why should the people of the Imperium ever know? Why should they ever experience such fear and uncertainty? We can be their shield and protect them from these truths, just as we shall protect them from this galactic predator.
‘Let every Successor give back a little of what it took to build their honoured Chapters — in vessels, weapons, battle-brothers and plate. And for Dorn’s sake, let that plate be painted yellow.’
Thane looked around the gathering. At Verpall and Bohemond, who nodded solemnly. At Vorkogun and Euclydeas, their faces set in stern approbation. At Cuarrion of the Crimson Fists, who even ventured a grim smile. At Chapter Master Issachar, who strode forward to take the Sword of Sebastus from the serf who had brought it forth.
The sword’s elegance was its simplicity. Crafted from a single piece of adamantium, its pommel was a prism and its crossguard was stamped with the numerals VII. Its blade was polished to a mirror finish. Issachar held the weapon up before the gathered Space Marines. For a moment, Thane saw his battered reflection in the blade. That moment ended as Chapter Master Issachar gave the Dornsblade to him.
‘For Dorn’s sake?’ Issachar said. ‘For Dorn’s sake, let the best of us — victorious in the Feast and brother to all of us — take his rightful place as Master of the Imperial Fists. Let his name be carved into the bones of Rogal Dorn, and let no son of Dorn speak beyond our brotherhood of this again.’
With grave reverence, Maximus Thane took the offered Sword of Sebastus. There were no words for such an honour and so the Space Marine marked the moment as his primarch would have done: with silent solemnity.
‘What now, Chapter Master?’ Issachar asked finally, the storm intensifying about them.
‘Now we return to Terra,’ Thane said, in syllables of steel. ‘To gather our strength. For the Imperial Fists and their Successors go to a war the like of which we have never seen.’
‘And what of the mistakes of the past,’ Issachar asked, ‘and of history repeated?’
‘As our brotherhood has come together,’ Thane said, ‘so must humanity. Send for your Epistolary. I need to send word to Terra. I must speak with the High Lords.’
‘And you think that they will listen?’ Issachar said.
‘No,’ Thane admitted. ‘But that is because we do not speak their language. We need political animals, men of leverage and influence who do. If we are to open closed minds and release our full potential then we are going to need a hammer and a pry bar.’
‘Who do you have in mind?’ Issachar asked.
The Chapter Master of the Imperial Fists considered.
‘We must contact Kubik, the Fabricator General,’ Thane said at last, ‘and Grand Master Vangorich.’
Four
First Captain Zerberyn stood on the command deck of the battle-barge Dantalion, taking in the destruction. The Ophidium System was no more. It had been a trading hub of ancient commercial significance. Dominated by the hive world of Bucolica Mundi and near a hundred orbiting agri-moons, it was rumoured that the system fed half the sector.
It did so no longer, however. Gone were the fleets of merchant vessels and bulk freighters. Gone were the audit stations, the void storage depots and the orbital docking facilities that Bucolica Mundi wore about its fat belly like a belt. Gone was the planet itself. Torn apart by the orks’ gravitational weaponry, the hive world now drifted through the system as an ever-expanding blizzard of shattered rock and billions of frozen bodies. The Shepherd Moons had fared little better, their delicate orbits thrown into disarray. While some were flung off into the void, their worker populations freezing to death along with their livestock, others burned in the closing embrace of the raging Ophidium sun.
In the hive world’s place, Zerberyn saw an ork attack moon. A monstrosity of rock, rusted metal plating and gigantic weaponry. Upon its surface, a red, clenched greenskin claw had been roughly painted — not unlike the clasped gauntlet that identified the First Captain’s own vessels as belonging to the Fists Exemplar. About the moon, like the swirling stellar material of some newly formed star, a maelstrom of fragmented planetary rock and monstrous ork attack craft circled. Like a hurricane passing through the void, through enemy armadas and systems, it scoured Imperial subsectors clean of life.
‘I will repeat myself,’ Mendel Reoch hissed through his half-helm. ‘This is ill-advised.’
As if to echo the Space Marine’s view, the Dantalion shuddered briefly with the impact of a piece of debris that had found its way through the turrets.
‘Your opinion is noted, Apothecary,’ the First Captain said from the command pulpit.
‘The Chapter Master must be warned,’ Valric Lasander said. ‘Terra must be warned. These monstrosities have a weakness. It must be exploited.’
Reoch pointed towards lancet screens full of destruction and the enemy fleet that had wrought such calamity. ‘I am not seeing weakness out there. You are seriously suggesting that you want to take our ship into that?’
‘Of course not,’ Lasander admitted, ‘but we must reach the telepathica matrix so we can get word to Chapter Master Thane, and that is worth any risk.’
‘It’s comforting to know that I am surrounded by wrong-headed fools who would rather throw away lives than think,’ Reoch said, irritably.
‘Apothecary…’ Zerberyn began.
‘Don’t underestimate Chapter Master Thane,’ Reoch told him, glancing at Lasander to include him too in the rebuke. ‘He probably already has the information you risk so much to impart, and even if he does not, it will not matter. The Fists Exemplar will not allow this threat — this Beast — to prevail. Like him, we should be marshalling our strength and taking the fight to the orks.’
Lasander stepped aside and wordlessly offered a gauntlet towards the devastation of the Ophidium System and the ork attack moon.
‘Obviously, I don’t mean to make our stand here,’ Reoch said. ‘That would be suicide.’
‘Your faith in Thane is well-placed,’ Zerberyn said, ‘but just as there are procedures to follow on the surgical slab, there are protocols to follow in times of war.’
‘Protocols.’ Reoch’s tone was skeptical.
‘Yes,’ Zerberyn told him. ‘I know you are eager to get back to fighting the orks, but you would use a chainsword where a las-scalpel is required. I have seen you strategise, pick your enemies and triage the wounded. That is all I am doing here, Apothecary. Favouring the strategy that yields the most effective outcome. With knowledge of the aliens’ susceptibility to psychic assault, Terra might be secured, the Imperium unified and the Beast brought down.’