‘When man is at his best, it puts us in our proper place,’ said Zerberyn. ‘I was made to defend them. When I defend those who are worthy of my efforts, I see who I am. These people deserve our respect.’
‘They have my respect,’ said Kalkator. ‘Humankind isn’t often at its best. Not enough. You will come to understand that, if you have not already. Look at them, grovelling at the feet of the idols of a man who professed not to be a god, then allowed himself to be worshipped as one. We are saving them from the pernicious creed of the Emperor’s lies. If humanity is to survive it must help itself. The Emperor is deaf to the pleas of his faithful, but there are other gods who answer prayers. Mankind will not endure as these feeble examples, but as legionaries. The people of this world have proved themselves fine warriors. We do them a great honour in taking them into our Legions, brother.’
‘I am not a legionary!’ said Zerberyn.
‘Are you sure?’ said Kalkator slyly.
‘Your intention was to cleanse the systems around Immitis. Why have we come so far back into Imperial space?’
‘You would prefer it if we didn’t hunt orks?’ Kalkator said. His voice, rich and sardonic, made Zerberyn’s muscles tense. ‘Why are you so angry, brother? Do you think your loyalist brothers treat their charges any better? Be thankful. If it were not for your moderating influence, we would have taken their children and killed them all. You reminded me that a little mercy can be useful. Some of those wretches may live. They fought well against the orks, for mortals. Let them toil, let the struggle to survive harden them further, and then let them raise new offspring. It will be worth our while revisiting this place in fifty years or so. Yes, a good result. This will be a fine recruiting world. Thank you, Zerberyn, for your wise counsel.’
Kalkator strode back to his gunship, laughing. Zerberyn stared at the ragged crowd at the edge of the field. Some of the men from Cadraig’s group were shouting and pointing. He considered going to them, calling his ships and having them blast the Palimodes from the sky. The Iron Warriors ship was outnumbered four to one. The end would be quick. Numerous scenarios ran through his head. Victory would be assured, but survival would not be.
He could not turn on Kalkator. Not until the Beast was dead and the orks driven back. Until that came to pass, he needed the Iron Warriors. It was as simple as that; this was the lesser evil.
Teeth clenched, he turned on his heel and ascended the ramp of the Thunderhawk.
Much as it made him seethe, Kalkator was right. The Fists Exemplar required supplies and recruits. Zerberyn had agreed to set them on this course of action. He had evaluated it, tested it, and decided it was the correct solution. There were orks everywhere. Since that last desperate message from Euclydeas of the Soul Drinkers, he had heard nothing more from the Last Wall. He had to work with what he had. For the time being, that meant Kalkator.
A Fist Exemplar was never wrong.
Chapter Four
The crusade of iron
The Phalanx defied description. Ship was not a big enough word for the home of the Imperial Fists. Fortress made no allowance for its grace and ability to travel between the stars. It could be defined in several ways: as fortress-monastery, temple, relic, the single biggest warp-capable object in all the Imperium, a symbol of Imperial might, battle-fortress. But none adequately captured the reality in words. Human speech was too limited.
Phalanx’s mass blotted out the stars. On the sunward side its spires and towers were lit in brilliant sunlight. The muzzles of thousands of guns protruded from weapons ports. The broad rectangles of hangars and flight bays patterned its decks between enormous effigies of heroic Imperial Fists. On the dark side its shadows were absolute, its bulwarks rimed with void frost. None knew its origins. Legends had it that Dorn himself had built the fortress as the ultimate expression of his skill, or that he had found, adrift in space, a relic of the Dark Age of Technology. Whether built by the primarch or ancient engineers it had been Dorn’s, and the marks of his artifice were all over it. The station had taken damage during the final attack on Ullanor, but it was so huge that the signs of its wounding were not apparent to the naked eye. Phalanx remained one of the most impressive sights in all the dominions of man, a defiant statement against the cold horrors of void and warp.
The High Lords communicated little as they and their retinues flew towards Phalanx aboard the Potus Terrae. They kept to their quarters, each brooding on their own summons. The time for scheming was past. They must play the waiting game. Until the last half-day Phalanx grew slowly, then suddenly it expanded in size until it became a wall across the sky. Vangorich received overtures from several of the other Lords, but ignored them until, only a few hours out from the Imperial Fists fortress-monastery, he sent word to the Inquisitorial Representatives to join him for refreshments in the observation deck.
Veritus and Wienand were already present when Vangorich arrived. They looked outwards at the giant foredecks of Phalanx obliterating half the sky. Cyber-constructs buzzed around, augur attachments blinking, sniffing the air. Articulated instruments capable of detecting toxins at one part per hundred million in the ship’s gas mix flickered in and out of their housings like tongues. There were storm troopers in Inquisitorial black at every door and every thirty paces along the lengthy plasteel and stone gallery. Vangorich didn’t have a single agent among them. Veritus wore his power armour as usual. Wienand looked striking in a tight doublet and breeches, her iron grey, cropped hair coloured silver in the stark sunlight.
‘The idea was to enjoy a quiet moment together before the bickering begins again,’ said Vangorich. ‘I see you preferred a party.’
Veritus swung about, his armour whining. A puff of life-extending gas hissed from around his neck seal.
‘Caution is our watchword,’ he said.
‘What about mistrust?’ said Vangorich.
‘Don’t bait Veritus,’ said Wienand. ‘These are only precautions.’
Vangorich took a tray of three goblets from a menial whose eyes, mouth and ears were banded over by constricting iron. Beneath the implants, the organs of sight, speech and hearing were excised, replaced with crude augments that gave such unreliable perceptions of the world that the servant could never have described what he had seen and heard, even had he been capable. There were a number of such mutilated menials attending the party. No servitors, for their programming was too easy to compromise. If he thought about it, and he sometimes did, Vangorich found their deliberate disablement distasteful. But it was necessary.
He stopped before another servant who filled the goblets with dark wine. He carried them over to the inquisitors, set the tray on an ornate table and held up one goblet to Veritus.
The inquisitor curled his lip. ‘Do I look like a fool?’
‘You don’t, Lastan, and I would not take you for one, therefore this wine is safe. I am sure your constructs here would detect any attempt on my part to poison you.’
‘I will not drink with you, Drakan,’ said Veritus. ‘There are poisons no device can find.’
‘Fair enough. Wienand? You still trust me, don’t you?’
‘Did I ever trust you, Vangorich?’ she said distantly.