An honour guard of Imperial Fists veterans awaited the High Lords around the VII in an open circle. Their armour was flawless and lapped to a high shine, their weapons gleaming; purity seals and honours crisp, red stripes on their helmets and red aquilas on their chests. In the Plaza Decamerata Vangorich had been impressed by Thane’s display. Now more than ever he realised that the Imperial Fists were more than the brothers in the armour. They were the armour, the colours, the weaponry and the relics. The men inside were irrelevant; that they were all of Dorn’s line was all that mattered. The Imperial Fists lived again. As long as Phalanx remained, or there was a single brother gifted with Rogal Dorn’s genetic legacy, they could never die. They were not a wall to break the enemies of humanity, but the idea of a walclass="underline" a wall that would never fall, could never be torn down, and that would forever be manned.
Ideas cannot die.
The veterans’ captain stepped forward and undid his helm, revealing a battered face criss-crossed with scars. A tattoo of a gothic cross covered his forehead. A Black Templar once, now an Imperial Fist.
‘My lords, I am First Captain Berengard. The Lord Guilliman, Chapter Master of the Imperial Fists, Maximus Thane bids you welcome to Phalanx!’
‘We are ready to see him,’ declared Lansung pompously. ‘Where is he?’
‘He awaits you, my lords. This way.’
In perfect synchronicity, the Imperial Fists turned about face. The two ends of the circle wound past each other and the Space Marines formed a square, their captain at its head, and began to march. The Lucifer Blacks, Naval armsmen of the Royal Barque, skitarii of Mars and other troops of the High Lords fell in behind the Adeptus Astartes with admirable smoothness. Less smooth was the rearrangement of the remainder of the High Lords’ retinues. Ekharth’s staff made an undignified scramble for lead position, tangling themselves with Juskina Tull’s staff who, being voidsmen and women, had wandered a little way to admire this most massive of vessels. The Ecclesiarchy entourage to the High Lords lacked direction now the Ecclesiarch was not on the Council, and got under everyone’s feet. By the time it was all arranged, the warriors of the Imperium were halfway out of the hall, exiting through a monumental arch crowded with stern-faced Space Marines and the fallen enemies of mankind.
They ascended a staircase wider than an expressway, lit only by baroque lumen globes held upon golden pillars. In the darkness above, finely finished stone echoed to the calls of airborne creatures roosting amid half-glimpsed statues. Despite the life forms, the steps and stairwell were unsoiled.
Vangorich laced his fingers behind his back and sauntered up to join the Inquisitorial delegation. There were only half a dozen men and women serving the two inquisitors, all Wienand’s. His Inquisitorial convocation aside, put together with the express purpose of eliminating Wienand and disbanded soon after, Veritus was never accompanied. Vangorich nodded at Raznick and Rendenstein, Wienand’s bodyguards. The acknowledgement made the younger inquisitor redden. Raznick had fared poorly against Vangorich’s team on Mars.
‘Is all this fortress so ornate?’ Vangorich asked conversationally. ‘It’s more of a palace than a castle.’
‘The primarch was a being of great artistry in many areas. What did you expect?’ said Veritus.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Vangorich. ‘Something draughtier.’
The stairs led into a hall kilometres long. Arrayed along its cloistered sides were the arms, armour and the mortal remains of extinct xenos species and subjugated human cultures. Worn plaques of brass over each cabinet detailed the time of their earning. Those nearest the stairs bore dates from before the Ascension of the Emperor and were marked with compliance designations from the Great Crusade.
The Imperial Fists marched them more than a kilometre along this hall, past a seemingly endless succession of mementos. Models, fragments of metal, captured vehicles, stuffed alien beasts went by until even Vangorich struggled to assimilate it. The Space Marines took an abrupt left-hand turn through another archway. The trophy corridor continued on past this exit so far that its end was lost to perspective.
A short corridor led them to a second staircase, smaller but just as grand in decoration, that switched back and forth upon itself. The High Lords went on doggedly. More than a few of them were old beyond the natural span of men, kept alive by anti-gerontic drugs and augmentations. Lansung was a fighting man, but out of shape. Vangorich found it no trouble, nor did Wienand. Kubik’s robes brushed the ground; he seemed to hover along above the floor, which, thought Vangorich, he could well be doing. Tull strode forwards yet still seemed hesitant, as if she might trip at any moment. Sark, Anwar and Ekharth struggled. Zeck projected tension that suggested he wanted to break into a run. Verreault kept marching, his face grim as he attempted to control his limp.
For the ancient Veritus it was a trial. Though his armoured legs rose and fell without slowing, his face paled and sweat collected on his lip.
For an hour and a half they walked up stairs and down corridors until they were hopelessly disoriented. At no time did they see any sign of human life aboard the Phalanx except those Space Marines that led them. Somewhere, there would be servitors, menials, Chapter serfs by the thousand. Thane had kept them out of sight. He presented the Phalanx as a ghost ship, a mausoleum where the past decayed, atom by atom, under its layers of polish.
They went into a corridor whose roof was glazed with armourglass. In this part they saw damage, sections where the glass had been broken and the battle shutters left closed. In one place the marble facing had gone, and the less noble stone revealed behind was cracked and half melted. The floor there was riven by a chasm bridged over with plasteel plating.
They stopped before a gate that, though immense in scale, was modest compared to some they had passed through.
‘Lord Guilliman Thane is within,’ said First Captain Berengard. Two veterans took the handles and pushed wide the doors. ‘Your retinues will wait. We have a hall prepared with refreshments for them.’
‘My men will accompany me!’ insisted Ekharth, his protestation ridiculous in the face of the scarred, much-decorated captain.
‘They will wait, and be refreshed,’ insisted Berengard.
‘Let them be, Ekharth,’ called Vangorich. ‘As if these soldiers with us could stop the Space Marines should they decide to kill us, which I am sure Lord Thane does not intend. Allow your men their leisure — they have marched admirably and deserve a rest from our tedious debates.’ The other High Lords split in reaction into those who laughed at Ekharth, and those who were outraged at Vangorich’s disregard for decorum.
‘If the business of government bores you, Grand Master, perhaps you should not have done so much to involve yourself in it!’ blustered Ekharth.
‘It is not boring to me, I find everything you say in particular to be most fascinating. I think only of those of us who are forced to listen and not take part.’
‘You are on Phalanx, my lords,’ said Berengard. ‘There is nowhere safer. The Lord Guilliman wishes to conduct this most sensitive of business in total privacy.’