‘People of Terra!’ Thane roared. His suit’s vox-systems were rerouted to giant public address systems and his voice filled the Fields louder than the death of worlds. The crowd shouted back even louder. ‘Silence!’ he commanded. His single word rippled away, an infinity of echoes carrying his voice across the planet’s surface. Before the last had died, a hush fell that carried the curious weight of a hundred billion breaths withheld. The wind that stirred his parchments and tabard blew harder, then dropped to nothing. He reached up, unclasped his helm from its softseals, lifted it off, and breathed the unfiltered air of Holy Terra.
It was stale with overuse.
‘I come before you today to announce a great triumph!’ he said. ‘The orks of Ullanor are defeated. Their leaders are no more. Already, their attack fleets fall upon each other in disarray. The Imperium is saved!’
A vast, howling cheer roared from the masses. The wind of their breath buffeted Thane again. He held up a hand, magnified and multiplied on innumerable vid-screens, and held it there until the noise once again dropped.
‘As a species, we have come close to the brink. Holy Terra itself was threatened. The Emperor was at risk!’ He pointed an accusatory hand in the direction of the Palace, making sure that his gesture encompassed the distant dome of the Great Chamber of the Senatorum Imperialis. Let the High Lords think he meant to accuse them, for he did. ‘The Lord of all Mankind, who raised humanity back up from the dark days of Old Night, who built this Imperium of which we are all citizens, who gave all to shield His species, and who sits in agony eternal to protect us still — He was in danger, He was in peril, He was failed by all of us. No more, I say. We shall never allow this to happen again!
‘This is the second time in a year that I have taken part in such a celebration,’ shouted Thane. ‘That first time, nine months ago, was premature. We were complacent even at the height of danger. This time, we celebrate true victory.’
Again that howling of a world, a nation of billions in ecstatic release from fear. Thane strode from his pulpit. The Sword of Sebastus, the Dornsblade, rang from its scabbard. Pollution-tainted Terran sunlight sparkled with renewed purity along its edge. The prismatic pommel called forth a rainbow from filth. With a crackle amplified to deific proportions, he swung the blade down. The sword shattered the creature’s crude gorget, severing the ork’s head from its bullish neck. With swift, exaggerated movements, Thane reversed, cleaned and sheathed the Sword of Sebastus and picked up the dead ork’s head in both hands. Steam rose from its cauterised neck. The deep chill of methalon preservation cooled his face as he lifted it over his head.
‘The Beast lies dead, the Imperium endures. Ave Imperator! All hail the dominion of Man!’
Maximus Thane, Chapter Master of the Imperial Fists, cast the head of the proxy Beast from the top of the spire. Propelled by his augmented strength, it sailed over the edge of the platform and shattered messily on the stone of the Fields of Winged Victory scores of metres below.
‘The reign of the Beast is over!’
Chapter Two
Legacy of the Sigillite
Getting to the Sigillite’s Retreat through the Imperial Palace was not easy. Ancient, it had been swallowed whole by centuries of building. Wienand enjoyed the tortuous route to the hidden garden; it helped stretch out her mind and her muscles. She had been feeling twitchy ever since the third attack on Ullanor, and relished the exercise.
She ducked under an archway spidered with cracks caused by the buildings bearing down on it from above, and came into the Retreat. It hadn’t changed since she was last there — although, she reflected, it probably hadn’t changed for hundreds of years. It was the same grey, dismal place she had tracked Vangorich to months before. Very remote, very quiet, it had many qualities that recommended it as a spot for meditation and clandestine meetings, but she’d be a fool to think they were the only ones that drew the Master of Assassins there. She had no idea if this rough little space had once been frequented by Malcador himself, but his name carried enough of the resonance of history with it to make it attractive to those seeking power.
She must be mindful of Vangorich’s ambition.
He was already there, sitting openly upon the cracked wood of the split-trunk bench at the garden’s heart.
‘Red incense rises over the Tower of Philo. Drakan Vangorich wishes to see me,’ she said lightly. Her feet crunched on the dusty gravel as she made her way to the bench. Terra was so biotically compromised that in one thousand years the tree trunk had not decayed at all, only shrunk in on itself and twisted out of shape. It was an apt visual metaphor for the state of the Imperium.
Vangorich closed his book, rose and bowed. He was wearing the monkish robes he’d taken to before the attack on Terra. She gave them an amused frown.
‘Wienand!’ he said with evident pleasure. ‘I am glad you came.’
‘I am not sure how I feel about your new look, Drakan. Why did you start to wear that ridiculous habit?’
Vangorich looked down at his robes.
‘These? They present a certain cenobitic air, don’t you think?’
‘More places to hide weapons, perhaps. You are not a holy man.’
‘I have no idea what you mean, my dear Wienand. I am aiming for devout. Too many people see me as frivolous. It is time I adopted a more serious air.’
She scowled. ‘Less of the “my dear”, Drakan. Despite your overtures of friendship, you would kill me without a moment’s hesitation if you thought it necessary. Assassins don’t have friends.’
‘You are my friend, Wienand.’
‘I wish I could believe that,’ she replied.
Vangorich’s smile slipped for a fraction of a second. ‘So you don’t like my robes?’
‘I preferred the suit. Don’t deflect me. What is it that you want, Vangorich?’
Vangorich gestured to the bench. They sat together.
‘The war is over, but the struggle is yet to be resolved,’ began Vangorich. ‘The orks have been driven back, and for that the worlds of humanity can give praise. However, we both know they are not the greatest threat to the Imperium.’
‘The High Lords,’ said Wienand wearily.
‘The High Lords. A knotty problem. I preferred dealing with the orks.’
‘You are a facetious man,’ said Wienand.
‘Thank you. This crisis could have been resolved so much earlier were it not for the fragmented nature of Imperial governance. There are billions of men under arms in the Imperium, hundreds of thousands of Space Marines. Titan Legios. War fleets. Where were they all? Scattered. Leaderless, misdirected to the ends of personal interest and agenda so that when a real crisis arose they were attacked and eliminated in isolation. Under less ineffectual direction, the Beast’s rise would never have occurred. How many times did we make the same mistakes? Three direct assaults on Ullanor. I’m no tactician, but tell me that was wise.’
Wienand looked up towards the plasteel sky half a kilometre above. Windowless towers crowded the garden. What little light reached the retreat was attenuated, the environs murky. ‘This place suits you very well,’ she said. ‘So shady.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Vangorich, looking around the retreat’s tired cloisters. ‘Or rather it did. Since you uncovered it, I have taken against coming here. I don’t know why. It was my special place, but the thought of encountering someone… unexpected,’ he said with a deliberately unctuous grin, ‘took the shine off it. A shame, there are so few places I can be myself.’
She laughed at that. ‘Your self is whatever you need it to be.’
‘You’re hurting my feelings.’
‘So we’re back where we started. Making veiled threats and accusations at each other while the real problems continue their idiotic reputational struggles.’