Crowds moved aside, individuals reaching out in their robes to steady themselves as they rode out the quake of the parting stone. Dust cascaded down into the dark chasm opening in between, and High Lords stood up from their thrones to get a better view. Bodyguards swept in to put themselves between their masters and harm’s way. Vangorich looked to Kubik, who said nothing. The Grand Master nodded for the both of them. He had seen different shows and spectacles performed on the Plaza Decamerata but he had never seen the elevated precinct open. It was quite a sight.
Some of his compatriot Lords were similarly impressed. Most tried to peer down into the rumbling darkness, while several even clapped. The stresses of war and xenos doom were momentarily forgotten in the distraction of the plaza. It was what the venue had been built for. As Vangorich caught sight of the vision below, the Grand Master of Assassins smiled. The High Lords paled, but the crowds began to cheer.
Rising up through the gap created by the parting plaza, riding a colossal platform of stone, were armoured figures. Many armoured figures, stretching across the platform as far as the eye could see. As the thunder of the rising floor echoed to a stop, the reverent cheering grew louder. Before the horde of lowly scribes and augmented adepts, there had appeared rank upon rank of Adeptus Astartes. More than any Palace menial had ever seen in one place. Aides and advisors took the appearance of the Space Marines as an indication that some kind of parade was to take place.
The High Lords knew better, however. They knew that such a gathering meant something else entirely. Something impossible. As they took their seats again, with grim faces and steely eyes, the celebratory cheering began to fade. Taking their masters’ solemn reception as an example, the crowds stood back in a collective silence that swept the plaza.
The Adeptus Astartes warriors didn’t move. They were like statues, or columns of standing suits of power armour. Each boltgun and piece of plate gleamed with the fresh attentions of Techmarines and artificers. Re-set banners billowed in the breeze above noble captains and command squads. Indomitable sergeants stood to attention at the fore of their own squads. At the head of the column was a company decked in Tactical Dreadnought armour and monstrous weaponry.
To the High Lords, it appeared to be an army of Space Marines. To Kubik, who rapidly counted their number, and Vangorich who guessed the true nature of what he was looking at, the assembly was a full Chapter of Adeptus Astartes. Not the mixed number of Space Marines that made up the Last Wall but a single glorious Chapter, standing tall and together in the presence of the High Lords of Terra. It was a truly terrifying sight. A vision that captured the imagination and took away the breath.
The singular, most striking feature of the Chapter, however, was not their number or presentation. It was the colour of their honoured plate. The adepts and scribes had cheered because they did not know what they were looking at, but each High Lord of Terra had received the briefs from Ullanor. Intelligence of the catastrophic losses suffered there. Reports of the death of Vulkan, the Emperor’s son. Word of Koorland and how he had met his end. The last thing the High Lords of Terra expected to see, towering above the plaza in perfect formation, were the Imperial Fists — the sons of Dorn resurrected and presented at fighting strength before them. The Council, like the surrounding crowds, were bathed in the glorious, golden plate of the Chapter. Its indomitable strength and grim resolve.
What they could not know, and what both Vangorich and Kubik suspected, was that each venerable suit of armour had been repainted to honour the spirit of a lost Imperial Fist. A warrior lost to the Imperium. Betrayed by the High Lords’ failure. Doomed by the orks’ success. A thousand Space Marines and their captains, selected from the battle-hardened ranks of the Excoriators, the Crimson Fists, the Black Templars, the Iron Knights, the Soul Drinkers, the Executioners and the Fists Exemplar. Punctuating their number was the black plate of Chaplains, the bone white of Apothecaries, the blue of Librarians and the red of Techmarines. The plaza, however, was a vision of gold. The noble yellow of Dorn’s honest plate — each suit’s pauldron adorned with the black fist of the primarch himself, clenched in cold fury. In unity. In victory.
Vangorich watched the Chapter Master of the Imperial Fists step forth from the gallery of armoured statues, his Terminator armour a monstrous sight to behold. Ornate and golden, it looked as impregnable as the Phalanx itself. The ground shook at the Chapter Master’s mighty step. As he approached the line of thrones, several High Lords vacated their seats and took cover behind them.
He stopped before the only throne to have remained empty. That which would have belonged to Lord Commander Koorland. The Space Marine gave the remaining members of the Council the pugnacious glower of his helm and allowed spidery arcs of power to cascade from the pair of gleaming black power fists that he held at his sides. The cyclone missile launcher mounted over his hood and pauldrons clunked ominously to priming, its sensor array blinking with readiness. At odds with the bombast of the suit, the crackling fists and missile launcher, a simple adamantium short sword sat mag-locked to the Chapter Master’s belt. A ceremonial weapon, Vangorich assumed, noting the numeral VII crafted into the blade — a symbol denoting Rogal Dorn’s glorious VII Legion and the Defenders of Terra.
A pair of Chapter serfs, garbed in yellow half-robes and carapace, came forth. The Terminator Space Marine’s helm hissed and vented streams of equalising pressure as the serfs unlocked the seals on the honoured item and took it away. Revealed was the grim visage of Maximus Thane, formerly Chapter Master of the Fists Exemplar — now presented to the High Lords of Terra as the Master of the Imperial Fists.
Within moments, High Admiral Lansung was on his feet, the folds of his braided uniform and cloak ruffled. As he snatched his extravagant tricorn hat from the dusty rolls of his wig, the High Admiral’s existing sneer deepened. Beside him Abel Verreault, the Lord Commander Militant, was also on his feet, jangling with medals and bionics. Snarling through his scars, the High Lord glared at Thane with an ornate replacement optic.
‘This is an outrage,’ Lansung said. ‘Has the Chapter Master no shame? Is this how he honours the memory of brothers fallen?’
‘How dare he?’ Verreault chimed in. ‘How dare he field the Adeptus Astartes here? Before the Palace wall at Chapter strength, in flagrant disregard of protocol and historical precedent?’
‘It is simply not done,’ Lansung said. ‘Such demonstrations have no place here.’
‘This had better not be some crude attempt to intimidate the Council,’ Verreault said.
‘If Lord Commander Koorland were…’ Lansung said.
‘Which he is not,’ the Lord Militant added.
Vangorich watched the interchange with interest. Lansung and Verreault’s words withered before the sight of the Chapter Master. Towering over them, like a living fortification in his battleplate, Maximus Thane seemed to be beyond them. Beyond the concerns of Palace politics and expectation.
And most of all, beyond his remit. The Grand Master understood why the pair of High Lords were on their feet. While Vangorich had tarried in filling the Ecclesiarch’s seat, that belonging to the fallen Koorland — and the office of Lord Commander that went with it — was now open. Like Verreault and the High Admiral, Vangorich lived in the shadow of such opportunity. It drew them in like a collapsing star. Status. Power. Doom. Both Lansung and Verreault saw themselves as candidates to be honoured with such a title — especially at a time of war and catastrophe.
As Wienand and the Grand Provost Marshal went to join them, Thane stamped down on the plaza with his boot. The thrones shook, and the High Lords with them. The quake sent Wienand and Vernor Zeck back into their seats. The High Admiral and Lord Verreault followed, falling back and thudding into their thrones.