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It is the 31st millennium, and the universe is aflame with war.

For the first time in history, the human race isn't on the backfoot. For the first time, humanity isn't struggling just to eke out a place to live. And, for the first time, the stars are no longer to be feared. Those creatures who dwell in the cold void are no longer to be shied away from. They are to be slain, men, women, children, and all. They are to be crushed under foot, and the worlds they once ruled are to be taken as the spoils of the Great Crusade. For the first time in history, the human race is ascendant.

The terms 'genocide' and 'holocaust' come to mind. But the God Emperor, blessed be his name, has made it clear that this is anything but 'genocide'. This is purely pest-control.

The God Emperor is the architect of our Great Crusade. It was he who raised humanity up from the ashes, and taught us that life is worth fighting for. "The greatest of us," he's been called. He is the epitome of humanity, a pillar of virtue and strength. His strength, his cunning, his compassion, is proof that humanity is not forsaken. The Emperor took a race in tatters, a race of warring kingdoms and crumbling nations, and built the greatest empire there ever was. The Imperium.

He leads the Imperium, and we follow. And, trillions of miles away, on the frontier of human civilization, his faithful sons wage war on his behalf.

His sons, the Primarchs. They are clones of him, replicated imperfectly, but no less courageous, no less virtuous than their father. There are twenty in all, save for the two who disappeared. Each one lords over a Legion of Astartes, mere mortals gifted with a spark of greatness, courtesy of their Primarch's holy blood. Millions of Astartes, clad in ceramite and armed with the holy bolter, spearhead the Great Crusade, slaying all in their path. They are our Angels, and to our enemies they are Angels of Death.

It is the 31st millennium, and the God Emperor is dead.

On the world of Gorro, a Greenskin Warlord taught us that even Gods can die. Even the brightest of stars can be snuffed out, and the galaxy plunged into darkness.

Already, the Great Crusade is grinding to a halt. The entire universe watches in anticipation, waiting to see who will claim the Emperor's vacant throne.

The Emperor is dead, long live the Emperor.

Chapter One
The Thin Ice

Thousands of Battlebarges, wearing the colors of seven different Legions, were gathered at Gorro. Each one was a wickedly sharp blade of vessel, bristling with turret posts and missile silos. Each one was capable of laying waste to entire civilizations. And there were thousands, crowded so densely around the world of Garro that they blotted out the sun.

Volley upon volley of nuclear torpedoes rained down on the world, clouding the atmosphere with dust and ash. Even then the orange firelight still showed through, made hazy but no less brilliant by the raging duststorms. Vast swathes of farmland were blanketed with napalm, and fortress cities reduced to smoking rubble by searing hellstorms of plasma. Mountains were leveled, canyons filled with rubble, and an entire world was made perfectly uniform.

Two hundred years of terraforming were undone in a single day.

The Orks, along with the cities and the forests and the mountains, were reduced to ash. The last thing they could've ever seen was a flash of light, so brilliant that it bled into their other senses. It seared their flesh, and all they could smell and all they could taste was themselves burning. That is assuming they lived long enough to smell or taste anything. Blackened skin peeled back from smoldering meat, and their bodies became grotesque caricatures of themselves; an Ork's skeleton, draped with red gore and green candle wax. After no more than a few seconds of the heat, even their bones were reduced to ash.

Save a few Orks who had cheated death, and hidden themselves away in an adamantium bunker just before the bombs fell. Including non other than the Warboss Gnargrull, a monster of swollen musculature and gnashing teeth, standing at twelve feet tall and weighing over a tonne. He wore a suit of golden armor, decorated with ornate finery. Dancing flames were engraved onto every facet of armor, their tongues licking at the air. A shrieking eagle was built into each hulking pauldron, and the two-headed Imperial Aquila was emblazoned proudly on the armor's breastplate. It was the armor of the God Emperor, and it was stained with the Emperor's blood.

Unaware to Gnargrull, who now wore it proudly, it was embedded with a tracking device, broadcasting its coordinates to the Vengeful Spirit, the flagship of the Luna Wolves Legion. Gnargrull wore it unaware that the location of his secret bunker wasn't so secret after all, and the Luna Wolves 1st Company was now racing towards him.

The first drop pod hit the ground, and a dull resonating thud ran through the bunker. Worthless Grots, who were busy monitoring radars and taking inventory of the bunker's limited supplies, looked up from their work. Even their cruel taskmanagers looked up too. As far as the Orks were aware, the bombing was over. "Back to wok!" Gnargrull said. "Stupid gits. Oughta strangle da lot of ya, just like I strangled da Emprah."

"Dat sure was gud fight," said one Ork, a Mekboy whose name Gnargrull didn't care to remember.

"Shud up," Gnargrull said. "I dun't need you to tell me it was a gud fight. I already know."

There was another loud, resonating thud. Then another. "BACK TO WOK!" Gnargrull shouted. "Its just boms, ya Grots."

Just as the Grots were returning to their work, there was a loud half-roaring, half-whirring sound, almost like a drill. It steadily grew louder and louder, almost as if it were growing closer.





Of all the Primarchs, Horus was said to look the most like his father.

He was a god among men, a being who towered among mere mortals. An obscure legend among Terran barbarians claimed he was an ancient Roman statue, whom the Emperor had breathed life into. With his huge muscular body and stern chiseled features, it was not difficult to imagine how the legend came to be.

His armor was porcelain white, trimmed with a harsh grey. It was the colors of his Legion, the Luna Wolves. The armor was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, and studded with metal rivets. On one pauldron he wore the icon of a howling wolf, and on the other he wore the Imperial Aquila, the symbol of the empire his father had died fighting for. Unusually, Horus wore his ceremonial helm, which had a 'T' shaped visor and was topped with a plume of silky red hair. He wore it only to hide his tears, and maintain his facade of fearlessness.

The drill, ten foot in diameter and twenty feet in length, was lowered even further by the crane. Pumping pistons and clanking gears could be seen through the gaps in the crane's armor plating; it rank of diesel. No doubt the Orks could hear it now, and were racing to prepare for the Astartes' arrival.

1st Captain Abaddon, wearing hulking Tactical Dreadnought Armour not unlike Horus' own, rested a gauntlet on Horus' shoulder. "Horus," he said, his voice a gentle baritone. "You don't have to do this. My men are more than prepared to do it themselves." He paused. "I'm more than prepared to do it myself."

"No," said Horus, his voice rendered harsh and metallic through his helmet's speaker grille. "I have to do it myself."

Only the 1st Company knew of the armor's tracking device, and the bunker's location. Horus had told no one, not even the other Primarchs, his own brothers. Vengeance had to be his, and his alone. He had to strike the killing blow himself. As the Emperor's firstborn son, that duty fell to him.

There was a furious screeching of metal as the drill reached the bunker. The bunker's adamantium walls held, and the crane let out a loud clanking and hiss cry of distress. It ramped up the drill's speed, forcing it to sixteen and then twenty four rotations per minute. Finally, the adamantium gave way. The bunker's ceiling caved in, letting in a torrent of black ash and the dead, irradiated soil beneath it. There was choking and screaming, which faded to silence as the dust settled.

A lone voice broke this silence.

"Coward!" bellowed an Ork, from deep within the pit. "Come and face me, coward!"

Horus' claw hand came flaring to life. Lightning arced and danced about the surface of his metal talons, crackling with killing energy. His morningstar let off a faint red glow, and hummed ominously. Steaming blood wafted from the weapon's surface. "Luna Wolves," he said, a tremor in his voice. "Hold your positions."

"Come and face me, and die like your Emprah! I'm Gnargrull Sturmclaw da Great, King of da Orks, Warboss of da Warbosses, and I'll kill all of ya! Come and face me, cowards!"

Horus sprinted as best he could, the servos of his hulking armor snarling with every movement. He ran right into the pit. His armored boots effortlessly glided down the pit's crumbling surface, carrying him right into the bunker.

The other Orks, those who hadn't suffocated beneath the dust, had either fled or hid. For all their bloodlust, they weren't suicidal. But Gnargrull - if the God Emperor could be said to be the epitome of humanity, Gnargrull was the epitome of Ork kind. He was the embodiment of the Ork's unrelenting optimism, and uncompromising defiance. He was everything an Ork aspired to be. When Horus entered the bunker, Gnargrull was there waiting for him.

Horus hurled his morningstar at Gnargrull, putting all his weight and momentum into the swing. Gnargrull reacted just in time to parry the blow with his forearm. There was a crash like thunder, and the Emperor's golden warplate shattered. The green flesh of Gnargrull's forearm was singed a dark brown, and there was a smell like burning hair. Gnargrull reared back, but Horus was already upon him. Again he swung his morningstar, letting out a savage roar.

Gnargrull recoiled back, and the morningstar flew past him. The weapon's spiked head lodged itself into the bunker's wall, giving the King of da Orks the opening he needed. He lunged at Horus but, weighed down by his hulking armor, couldn't hit Horus in time. Horus wrenched the morningstar out from the wall and right into Gnargrull's head. There was a wet, hissing thud.

Where the Emperor's holy warplate had shattered, the Ork's skull persevered. Flesh blackened and peeled, and the muscle beneath it cooked, but Gnargrull's skull held. He stumbled back, and looked at Horus with half a face. Astonishingly, Gnargrull grinned.

Horus swung his morningstar in an overhead blow, intent on crushing what was left of Gnargrull's face. Before the weapon's spiked head could come crashing down on him, both Gnargrull's arms shot up. He caught the morningstar by its staff and held it right where it was, directly above him.

He forced the morningstar to the side and lunged forward, holding the weapon against the wall with his left arm. With his right arm, he elbowed Horus in the face. The resulting crash resonated through Horus' skull. His head snapped back, and a sharp pain rose in his neck. Sunlight flared behind his eyes. Blindly, he swung his lightning claw at Gnargrull, only for the King of da Orks to catch his arm by the wrist. Gnargrull had Horus' morningstar in one hand, and his lightning claw in the other.

Gnargrull leaned forward, and sunk his teeth into the metal fiber around Horus' neck. Easily Gnargrull's huge, tusk-like canines pierced through. Horus' warm blood flooded Gnargrull's mouth.

Horus relinquished his grip on his morningstar, letting go of the age old weapon. Making his gauntlet into a fist, he slugged Gnargrull with all the strength he could muster. His knuckles tore through the Ork's peeling flesh and met bone, cracking against Gnargrull's skull. Sheer excruciating pain threw Gnargrull off guard; he let go of Horus' wrist.

With his lightning claw, Horus gripped Gnargrull by the throat. He squeezed. The crackling, sparking, searing talons sunk into Gnargrull's neck. Gnargrull writhed in Horus' grip, the pain overwhelming him. Again Horus brought up his gauntlet. He punched Gnargrull dead-on in the face, shattering the Ork's nose. Blood ran down his face, dripping down from his chin and sizzling when it hit Horus' claw. The talons sunk in deeper, and Gnargrull let out a low gurgling moan.

Calling on the last of his strength, Gnargrull knee'd Horus' crotch. Cracks appeared in the ceramite around Horus' cod piece. He stumbled back, wrenching his claws free from Gnargrull and nearly eviscerating the Ork's throat.

Gnargrull fell to his knees. Both hands around his neck, squeezing desperately to hold his throat together, the King of da Orks looked up at Horus. His nose was shattered, half his face burnt away, and what was left of it was slick with blood. His blood. Gnargrull's throat was too torn to speak, and even then there was nothing for him to say. No words could express his bitter loathing. He looked up at Horus with his only eye, and it was burning with hatred. Like a true Ork, Gnargrull was defiant to the end.

Horus' eyes burned with the same hatred. He was no longer the stern, steely voiced Primarch of the Luna Wolves, one of the greatest men who ever lived. Now he was just a boy who had lost his father.

A clean death was too good for Gnargrull. He picked up his morningstar and left, leaving the King of da Orks to bleed out.

All hail the victorious dead! May his memory never fade.

 Trondheim wrote:
All hail the victorious dead! May his memory never fade.

"May his memory never fade" is a better title than "Long Live the Emperor". I'll change it to that.

Well not the reaction I expected, the story was very well told

The Angel had no wings.

Once, in the distant past, Sanguinius the Angel, King of Baal, Primarch of the Blood Angels, had wings. They had been malformed and twisted things, with sparse feathers and a leathery hide. The wings were too small to fly with. The wings on his back were more reminiscent of a Daemon than an Angel. When the natives of Baal had found him, his wings had been clipped. Eventually they had been sawed off completely, and his back had been a mess of black stitching.

Sanguinius had hated those wings. They'd had made him a freak; an outcast. He had endured humiliation and even beatings for those wings. And even after the wings were long gone, the scars on his back refused to fade.

Then the Great Crusade had reached Baal, and the Emperor had found Sanguinius. And Sanguinius had learned that, after all, he wasn't a freak. Instead he was the opposite. He was one of twenty nearly identical clones, the Emperor's Primarchs. His statuesque build, his fair skin, his piercing blue eyes, all those things that set him apart from others, were shared by more than a dozen other clones. Sanguinius wasn't so special after all. Those twisted leathery wings on his back were the only things that could have ever set him apart from his brothers, and he had sawed them off long ago.

In the years to come, the Emperor, his father, would go on to repeatedly mistake him for Rogal Dorn, Lorgar Aurelian, and even Fulgrim.

Vulkan, with his dark skin, and Magnus, with his one eye, were never mistaken for Fulgrim. They were loathed for their genetic failings, ostracized, even mocked, but at least the Emperor knew their names.

Sanguinius took his wings as his motif. He wore a stylized jump-pack, with outstretched feathery wings carrying its thrusters. Each of these feathers was hewn from ceramite, and painted in a flawless porcelain white and trimmed with brilliant gold. His armor was crafted with a halo of the same brilliant gold. Not only did Sanguinius look the part of an Angel, but he acted it to. His Legion, the flawless Blood Angels, held off rampaging tides of Orks to protect civilian outposts. Astartes gave their lives to protect 'mere' mortals. Sanguinius used his thunderhawks to airlift civilians off doomed worlds, and personally flew into battle to whisk women and children away from the terrors of war.

The Angel vowed he would become someone unique. Someone worthy of admiration and respect.

And now the Emperor, his father, was dead, and the Angel wasn't sure if he'd even achieved it.

Sanguinius stood on the bridge of Red Glory, flagship of the Blood Angels. Its cold, harsh interior was a sharp contrast to the golden warmth of Sanguinius. The deck was sheer steel, unpainted, undecorated, and lacking in any of the usual finery of the Blood Angels. Its crew, wearing rich crimson robes and blue flight uniforms, toiled over hundreds of different control panels, radars, and turret interfaces.

A door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and the two golden Sanguinary Guards that stood before it bowed. Corvus Corax, Primarch of the Raven Guard, strode inside. His armor was burnished to a shining jet black, and detailed with icons of skulls. Like Sanguinius he wore an elaborate, winged jump pack, but its wings were not those of an Angel. The feathers were the dusky grey of an old Raven. "Brother," he said, hugging Sanguinius with a warrior's embrace. Servos snarled, and ceramite clanged against ceramite.

"I never thought this could happen," Sanguinius said. "I should've been there, planetside, with him. I should've-"

"There is nothing you could've done, brother." Corax's voice was sharp. "You served him as a good and faithful son. No blame lies on your part."

"But, if I'd been planetside with him..."

"You would've died with him."

Sanguinius nodded, and the two men were silent for a long time.

"It's hard to imagine that he's gone," Sanguinius said at long last. "I wish they'd recovered his body... just so that there would be some closure. Just so that we would know for sure."

"Aye," said Corax. "At the very least, Gnargrull is dead. And Horus recovered father's armor."

"How? Wasn't it destroyed in the bombing?"

"Gnargrull was hiding in a bunker, wearing it. Horus tracked him down, and killed him. Painfully."

"And Horus didn't take us?" Sanguinius said, his voice a low snarl.

"Brother, you're grieved, you aren't thinking clearly-"

"No. He could've told us. He could've brought us. But he didn't. Justice had to be his, and his alone. Apparently, the rest of us weren't worthy. The bitch."

"Aye," Corax said. He paused, deep in thought. "Now that father is gone... Someone else must claim the Golden Throne."

"Is that all you can think about?"

"No, but it's a matter that needs thinking about. Someone must protect father's realm, as he would've wanted. Someone must make sure that all the progress the Great Crusade has made isn't for naught."

"Let Horus take the Throne. We all know he will."

Corax looked at Sanguinius doubtfully. "Will he? No doubt the Lion lusts for it, and he controls the 1st Legion. He could argue that he was the first born son. And who is to say Malcador doesn't lust for it either? He's managed the Imperium's affairs for years, and he has known father longer than any of us have. Even Fulgrim or Reboute could argue that its his. Fulgrim commands the Emperor's Children, and his Legion was the only one bestowed the Imperial Aquila. And Reboute has reigned over his own empire for years, with father's consent. He could claim that father was grooming him for the position. If anything, Horus barely has any claim to the throne at all."

"There was a rumor that father was planning to crown Horus as Warmaster, and that he would lead us all."

"May I remind you," Corax said. "There was also a rumor that he was planning to crown Sanguinius the Angel, King of Baal, as Warmaster, and that he would lead us all."

"Corax, what do you want?"

"I want you to consider, just to consider, that maybe the Throne belongs to you, and that you should lay claim to it before someone else does. Would you prefer that the Lion rule us? Or worse yet, Malcador, a mortal? It would be in the Imperium's best interest if it had a wise and just ruler, as opposed to a less than wise and less than just one. Dorn and Vulkan both agree with me that you should reign."

"Leave. Let me mourn in peace."





Rows of green crusade banners hung from the ceiling, proudly bearing the motifs and crests of the Dark Angels. The Lion, as he was called, was particularly fond of the stylized icon of a thrumming power sword held high, thick dolloping blood running down its surface. He sat on a raised golden throne against the chamber's back most wall, starring down at his subjects. Above him was a painting of a powerfully built Lion, with a green fur and a white mane, sinking its fangs into a Xenos' neck. It was clear what the painting represented. A long carpet stretched out before the throne, reaching all the way to the end of the chamber. The Astartes of the Dark Angels lined the room, guarding every church door and every stained glass window.

The windows were brilliant like emeralds, and when the sun shown the Lion's chambers were bathed in lime-green light.

Nobles danced and sang, and drank and ate. These weren't petty feudal Kings and Barons. They were high-ranking administratum officials, heirs to corporate dynasties, powerful ambassadors, and other politicians. Many were augmented with bionics, sporting mechanical claw hands and glassy red eyes. Some clanked, whirred, and snarled as they moved about, chugging wine they couldn't handle and flirting with women who felt nothing but disgust at their approach.

A huge church door stood at the forefront of the chamber, barred with a long strip of adamatine and reinforced with iron. Two hulking Terminators flanked it, each one a member of the Dark Angel's prestigious Deathwing. Their armor was the dusty color of dried bone, and they wore flowing green robes over their hulking forms. One of the Lion's approved visitors, a person worthy of being graced by the Lion's presence, must've been waiting outside the door. The two Terminators unbarred it and pulled it creaking open.

It was a filthy messenger. The Lion hated them. Only by necessity did he ever speak with them.

"My lord," the messenger said, in his shrill grating mortal voice. He offered a low bow. "I bring dread news from the Gorro Campaign!"

The room fell silent.

The Lion waved his hand. "Speak."

"The Emperor is dead!" the messenger cried.

"Which one?" the Lion said.

"The God Emperor of Mankind, your father!"

The Lion furrowed his brow, and settled uneasily into his throne. Already nobles were setting aside their wine chalices and heading towards the door, some even signaling to their private bodyguards on hidden vox units. "That does put a damper on things, doesn't it?" said the Lion, speaking to no one in particular. He stood up. "Stay, stay! I don't want you all going home, feeling distempered! What kind of host would I be? There's still plenty of wine, and we haven't even touched the amasec yet!"

Some yelled out, "My liege, the God Emperor is dead!"

"Maybe he is," the Lion said solemnly. "But I'm not. Is this really the kind of impression you people want to make, with the man who will soon be your new Emperor?"

The nobles looked around nervously, and found their eyes drawn to the Lion's imposing guards. The Dark Angels stood, bolters loaded and readied, their crimson visors unblinking. And, all of a sudden, it didn't seem like a good idea to leave after all.





Lord Reboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, Emperor of Ultramar, scanned the tome for the passage he was looking for. Its yellow crinkled pages were cramped with long flowing script, nearly impossible to read even with his superhuman vision. If he read too long, it strained his eyes and gave him a head ache: an embarrassing ailment for a Primarch.

What was he supposed to do? Wear glasses like some senile old man?

The appearance of strength was more important that actual strength. His teeming empire, made up of five hundred worlds, with a popular of nearly four hundred billion, only obeyed him because he maintained the appearance of strength, and he led them to believe that everyone else in his empire was genuinely loyal to him. Little things, like glasses, undermined this appearance. Little things, like glasses, could add up to be the end of him.

So he sat on his throne, straining his eyes to read an age old book.

Serfs, wearing grey robes that marked them as lessers, hurried about, changing the bed's linens, bringing food and drink, and carrying messages too and fro. None dared speak; when the Primarch of the Ultramarines desired peace and quiet, it was best to maintain this peace and quiet.

Those fearful serfs could be the end of him. If all the workers of Ultramar went on strike, production would grind to a halt. Messages would go undelivered, and tithes would go unpaid. And soon the generals, advisers, and politicians of Ultramar would be scanning for a new Emperor, one who could keep the workers inline. Even the Astartes would be powerless to bring them back inline. After all, if grains weren't being farmed then the Astartes wouldn't be fed. If the ammunition weren't being produced, then the Astartes' bolters would be useless. If their armor wasn't being maintained, soon it break down. And how could the nine million Ultramarines of Reboute's empire keep two hundred billion protesting workers in line, if they were starved, unarmed, and even lacking in simple things like armor?

The Ultramarines could never keep the workers inline. But the appearance of strength not only could, but did.

One day, when Ultramar was truly strong enough, Reboute could secede from the Imperium and cast off the shackles of the Emperor's rule. What could the Emperor do?

After all, the Emperor reigned just as Reboute did. He maintained a facade of strength, and hoped for the best. Unfortunately for him, Reboute saw right through this facade.

A serf placed a letter on Reboute's desk and scurried off. Sighing, Reboute set down the ancient tome he held. He could find what he was looking for later. Reboute held up the letter.

The Emperor is dead, it read. On Gorro, he was killed by the Ork Warlord Gnargrull, who was killed in-turn by your brother Horus. Tensions are running high. No one has officially claimed the Golden Throne yet. It is believed that Malcador, Horus, Sanguinius, the Lion, and Fulgrim may soon make claims. Thus far, the Imperium has maintained order. No sectors have seceded, and no peoples have risen in revolt.

Sincerely, Spymaster Corin

Reboute slumped back into his throne. Maybe Ultramar wouldn't need to secede after all.





The catacombs beneath the Imperial Palace were dark, and they were dank. The scurrying and squeaking of rats echoed endlessly through the labyrinth halls, and the stagnant air rank of flesh. Terrible deeds had been performed in these catacombs, the only place where the God Emperor could be assured his failed experiments would never come to light. For every Primarch there had been at least a hundred other clones, malformed and twisted, a broken huddled mass of flesh.

Children though - the children had been the worst. In creating the first Astartes, the God Emperor had needed children to experiment on. He had sedated them, and done the best he could to guard them from the pain without interrupting his experiments. Still, seeing innocent children made into things... Things whose flesh could barely hold their swollen musculature. Things with too many teeth, and beady little eyes. Things with long claws. The Emperor always put them out of their misery. Sometimes he would mourn them for days, talking about them as though they were martyrs. As though they had chosen to be experimented on, and they had willingly sacrificed themselves to help further the Emperor's knowledge.

Now, deep in the catacombs, it was Malcador the Sigillite's turn to do things that he only hoped would never come to light. The three hundred members of the Adeptus Custodes, clad in gold and bronze plate, their sloping helmets topped with plumes of silky red hair, stood before him. Constantin Valdor stood at the head of them, the only one without a helmet. With his stern, chiseled features he looked ahead impassively, his eyes staring into Malcador's own.

"We, of the Adeptus Custodes," he said.

The Custodians echoed it, their voices made harsh by their vox grilles. "We, of the Adeptus Custodes."

"Pledge our undying allegiance," Valdor said.

"Pledge our undying allegiance."

"To the new Emperor, Malcador the Sigillite," Valdor said.

"To the new Emperor, Malcador the Sigillite."

"From henceforth, he is our Sovereign, and we are his faithful vassals," Valdor said.

"From henceforth, he is our Sovereign, and we are his faithful vassals."

"We will serve the new Emperor as faithfully as we did the old," Valdor said.

"We will serve the new Emperor as faithfully as we did the old."

"If he calls on us to die in this service, we will die," Valdor said.

"If he calls on us to die in this service, we will die."

"LONG LIVE EMPEROR MALCADOR!" Valdor said.

"LONG LIVE EMPEROR MALCADOR!

What what! Did you just create the Sagnius heresy?

Game of thrones: Imperium Edition? I very much enjoy the setup and Horus' fight was genuinely tense, something all too rare in Fanfic.

My only criticism is the same as always, some of the liberties you take with the fluff are a little grating. There's simply no need to go against some of the facts such as the strength of the legions. AFAIK the ultramarines were indeed the most numerous with possibly as many as a quarter million marines. Here's a good way to put it :1 marine for every 200,000 Ultramarian citizens is frankly absurdly high and practically unsustainable, in terms of recruitment. Also making certain well established 'good-guys' into arseholes is always risky and often a little gimmicky so bear that in mind. Doing the reverse is fine though.

A very interesting read as im luvin the alternate time line and a different feel to well known characters. more please

Chapter Two
Lions and Wolves

The Lion's form bordered on inhuman perfection. Every muscle was a steel spring, ready to lash out. His tanned flesh was near golden, and his eyes were a deep emerald green. The Lion was something out of fiction - a page in an anatomy book, a chiseled statue, a figure out of some old legend. He was a piece of living, breathing artwork.

He stood alone in his chambers, sword in hand. The blade, a length of ice-blue diamond, was a mere extension of his arm. It weaved through the air effortlessly, ready to flick out and slit a man's throat at a moment's notice. As always, the Lion's fencing form was flawless. Every dexterous parry, every nimble thrust of the blade, every furious lunge was something out of an old fencing book. The Knights of the Order never would've thought that the huge feral man they found in the woods would grow to be someone so cultured, so cultivated.

Someone knocked on the door. "Come in," said the Lion, still stabbing and lunging at the air.

The huge door came creaking open, and Luther came inside. Luther was old, and it showed in his weary eyes. Still he was a strong, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested man, just as all the Knights were expected to be. He wore the same green-trimmed robes as the Lion, and soft-soled sandals that allowed him to walk on the stone floor in complete silence.

"New sword I see," said Luther.

"Aye," the Lion said. "Taken from the Warliege of Kath. Captain Moloch says that, even in death, he refused to let go of the sword. Moloch had to saw through his hands to take it from him." He wiped some of the sweat from his brow. "It's heavier than the swords I'm used to. I'm having some trouble breaking it in."

"Well, you seem to be doing quite well."

The Lion looked away from his swordwork. "Why are you here?"

"Its time to go."




His personal attendants had trimmed and combed his hair to perfection, then froze it stiff with a noxious spray. The stuff smelled sickeningly sweet. They'd found his eyes much too dull. While they were a very sharp vibrant green, his propaganda had depicted his eyes as being even greener. They'd fitted him with contacts that matched the public's perception of him. As for his robes - they had agreed that less was more. The Lion was a godly creature; the more the peasants saw of him, the better. He wore simple robes, marble white and trimmed with a deep green to match his contacts.

The Lion was told that the gems on his crown would be of the same green.

Truth be told, the Lion had no interest in the color green whatsoever. But it was what the people thought of when they thought of him, and as such green was a must.

The Thunderhawk flew low over the landscape, so that it could be seen by the teeming masses. A vast banner hung from each wing, trailing behind it. Each one depicted a double-edged and feathery winged sword. It was nighttime though, and huge flaring lights had been attached to the Thunderhawk so that the people could see it.

From his plush leather seat, the Lion looked out his window. Even with his ship low in the sky, all that could be seen of the city below were tiny dots of light. Streetlights, windows, torches, headlights, and the like. They twinkled as he passed them by.

All those lights were his. His to rule over. His to destroy. If he wanted to, he could call in an airstrike and have them all snuffed out in the next sixty seconds. All those twinkling lights would disappear beneath a blanket of flame, and eventually the roaring flames would fade to smoke and ash. And even then, all that smoke and ash would still be his.

The Lion looked out the window, and saw living proof of his own divinity.

His Thunderhawk glided within a vast coliseum, to the wild applause of its audience. The coliseum's seats, capable of housing a crowd of nearly a hundred thousand men, sloped towards a circular arena in the coliseum's center. Within this arena, which was normally used for public executions and gladiatorial games, was a tall metal platform. A frail man stood off to the side, wearing red preacher's robes and a tall grey hat, elaborately embroidered with diamonds. In his hands was a golden crown with brilliant emeralds. He was Ecclesiarch Domitan, head of the newly established the Adeptus Ministorum, more commonly known as the Ecclesiarchy. The Emperor had been founding it in the days prior to his death.

The crowd wasn't made up of peasants, like those who were massed outside. It was made up of important and powerful men, from the heads of trade dynasties to Administratum officials. Delegates and ambassadors from several Astartes Legions watched from alcoves in the coliseum, under strict orders to simply watch and wait. None of the Legions were willing to take sides yet, save for the Night Lords. Their Primarch, Konrad Curze, was the only one of the Lion's brothers to be in attendance.

The Thunderhawk landed. Horns and trumpets blared, and the Lion could hear them even through the Thunderhawk's ceramite walls. With a pneumatic hissing, the landing ramp fell open. The Lion grinned, and walked out into the arena.

Upon seeing a living god in the flesh, the crowd went wild. Old tycoons with fading vision and bad backs stood to applaud him, and their stoic bodyguards followed them. Dark Angels thumped their gauntlets on their chests. Techpriests clapped their skeletal iron hands, if only for ceremony. Beorn, the bearded ambassador of the Space Wolves, howled.

He took a moment to bask in this attention, and let the crowd ease down. If he wanted to, he could have his Dark Angels to massacre the crowd, gunning them down by the thousands. The entire coliseum was sloped downward, towards the arena. If people started dying, the blood would cascade down to the Lion and pool around him. He could swim in it. With youthful vigor, the Lion ascended the platform's steps. The spotlights followed him.

As the crowd quieted, Ecclesiarch Domitan spoke. "My fellow Imperials," he said in a wheezing voice. A wireless microphone on his collar transmitted this to thousands of audio speakers, and his words rang through the coliseum. "A great tragedy has fallen upon us. The God Emperor has ascended beyond his mortal form, and now. But it is said that tragedy is the anvil by which heroes are forged, and I believe these words are true today. As far back as humanity's earliest legends, great men have come from terrible beginnings. The slave Karidine, born under abject poverty and crushing oppression, designed and pioneered many of the STCs that we know revere today. The orphan Daroh, raised on a polluted and dying world by a drunkard, went on to overthrow the Carpetian Empire and bring the Emperor's word to his people.

Now, a new hero will arise from these broken and tragic times." Domitan turned toward the Lion, who then kneeled. "Jonson of Caliban," he said. "As the firstborn son of the God Emperor, you are his rightful heir. Do you vow to rule with both the mercy and the strength of your father?"

"I vow," said the Lion.

"Do you vow to honor your father's treaties, compacts, and agreements?"

"I vow," said the Lion.

"Do you vow to wage war against tyrannical xenos and purge those heretical forces that threaten to uproot our realm?"

"I vow," said the Lion.

"Then, Jonson of Caliban, I dub thee Emperor Jonson, Sovereign of the Imperium." He gently placed the crown on the Lion's head. "Long live the Emperor!"

The crowd echoed him with fervor. "LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!"

"Thank you," the Lion said. His voice silenced the roaring and cheering audience. "It is with great reluctance that I accept this prestigious position. It carries incredible responsibility, and a weight that I wish our God Emperor were still here to bear. Alas, times have changed, and now this weight falls to me. I would've left it for another to fill, if not for a chance encounter this morning.

I was walking to my shuttle, and a little girl ran up to me. She must've been no older than seven. She was filthy, almost covered in dirt, and her hair was in a ratty ponytail. She looked up at me and said, 'Are you going to be the new Emperor?'

I stopped and I told her that I wasn't; my duty was to rule the Dark Angels, and nothing more. And she looked up at me, and she asked, 'Whose going to take care of us then?'

Who would? If I declined, who would become the new Emperor? A conniving bureaucrat, like Malcador. A man who was born into wealth and greatness, and never understood the meaning of pain. Could such a man be trusted to take care of the common people? Could such a man rule with the compassion of my father? At that moment, I knew I had no choice but to make this sacrifice, and accept all the pain that came with it.

I cannot promise you a perfect society. I cannot promise you a society free from the ills of the past. But I can promise you this. I promise that I will suffer for you. I will bear your pain. If there is little food, than I will not eat until each and every child in my fair realm is fed. If there is war, I will take to the battlefield personally, and lead every last charge until our enemy is vanquished. I promise that, as the Lion Emperor, I will rule as my father did!"

The applause was deafening.




"I tried to reason with Horus and Fulgrim," said Curze. His voice was a deep baritone, cool and suave. "I tried."

Konrad Curze and the Lion sat in the Lion's private chambers, beside the crackling fireplace. Curze was clad in armor so dark a blue that verged on black; the color of midnight. Lighting arced about facet of his armor, turning and forking at rigid angles. A skull was built into each pauldron, and framed by leathery batwings. Beneath this dark armor his flesh was a pale, deathly white. If it weren't for his albinism, he and the Lion would've been identical copies of each other.

"I had a great deal of respect for both of them," Curze continued. "They understood that evil was all too powerful a presence in the galaxy, and that evil needed to be punished. Justice, in the form of gnashing chainswords and roaring bolters, had to be meted out. But beyond that their morality was primitive. They don't understand things like honor, things like allegiance. They don't understand that, whether or not they like you, the Throne of Terra is your divine right. I tried to reason with them, but things went badly. I fled to Caliban when I realized they might be plotting against me."

With any other General, the Lion would've flaunted his wealth. He would've brought in some buxom prostitutes, with hourglass figures and an energetic willingness. The Lion even had a few Nostramo-born ones, with creamy white flesh and long slender legs. He would've offered age old wines and hard liquor. Trays of obscura cigars would've been brought in, hand rolled in holy parchment and blessed by the Ecclesiarchy.

But with Curze, the Lion knew better. Curze didn't fight for wealth or glory, and he couldn't care less for the pleasures of the flesh. Instead, Curze fought for what he thought was right. Prostitutes and obscura would've just pushed him away.

"We can only hope that morality will prevail," said the Lion. "Perhaps I'm being sentimental, but I cannot bring myself to believe that so many of our brothers are so immoral. What does it say of the Imperium, if the Primarchs who rule it are utterly devoid of honor?"




With the Astronomicon fading in the God Emperor's absence, time was of the essence. Ships all around Caliban, wearing both the green of the Dark Angels and the blue of the Night Lords, sliced through the fabric of reality and tore out of space. They roared through the Immaterium, the realm of Daemons, racing towards worlds all around the Segmentum Obscurus. Contrasting colors danced about their hauls, swirling and crashing but never mixing, like oil and water. Screaming faces, gnashing teeth, and rotten tentacles could be seen if one looked too closely. These worlds the Astartes raced towards had to subjugated, firmly ground beneath the Lion's heel, as quickly as possible. The Astronomicon could lapse into darkness at any moment; it was now or never.

On the agriworld of Henroth, drop-pod upon drop-pod came crashing down into the shimmering golden fields of wheat. Its lone spaceport, a rusted monolith of steel bristling with flak turrets, was seized within the first hour of embarking. All outbound flights were grounded. All local Administratum and Ecclesiarchy Officials were detained, on the grounds of suspected treason. Red robed bureaucrats screamed and thrashed as armored figures dragged them away, while crowds looked on.

On the mining outpost of Centri VI, the Dark Angels cut out of the Immaterium and directly into low-orbit, setting migraine-red alarms and blaring klaxons off all the way around the moon. Chief Executive Officer Lurell of Centri Adamantium Inc. refused to deactivate the moon's orbital defense system, demanding that the Dark Angels explain their visit. His office was soon stormed by an elite strike team, who wasted no time in taking Lurell alive. The Dark Angels strode from cubicle to cubicle, riddling the facility with bolts.

On the world of Teron, the resistant Planetary Governor was reduced to ashes when his mansion was bombed from orbit. The people rose in revolt, to the Night Lords' amusement. Thunderhawks flew low in the atmosphere, opening fire on any crowds of civilians they saw. Night Lords took to the streets with bolters, chainswords, and gas canisters, slaying any they saw. The corpses of demonstrators, disemboweled and flawed, were hung from streetlamps for weeks to come.

All around the Segmentum Obscurus, the Lion's justice was enforced. And, all the while, Malcador the Sigillite looked on worryingly as distress signal after distress signal reached Terra.

Ooo a new heresy is born. I wonder how the rest of the Primarchs will side or will we have several Emperor's battling it out for the galaxy?

Update soon again please!

Well done, I must say i wonder what Horus, Sangius and the rest will make of this all.

I'm just posting for the first time in a long while to say: This. Is. Awesome.

Leman Russ was a giant of a man, like any other Primarch. He wore blue-grey armor, and a white wolf's pelt had been thrown over his hulking shoulders. His armor was decorated with old Fenrisian trinkets, from tufts of fur and dull colored feathers to one of the legendary Kraken's teeth. His greasy hair was long and braided, and more often than not these braids were decorated with brass and platinum bands. Russ proudly wore the scars of a hundred different wars on his chiseled face.

By all means, he should've been handsome. He was tall and muscular, and his body was the epitome of masculinity. Songs called him the Primarch who had whored and warred his way across the galaxy, leaving behind a trail of xenos corpses and smitten maidens in his wake. But at the same time, there was something unnerving and near hideous about him.

His eyes were a dull yellow that seemed to light up in battle. They looked as though they belonged to some ancient predator, prowling at the fringe of the firelight, and not a man. When he flashed his pointed grin, men could see that his teeth were too large and, more than that, too sharp. Teeth meant for rending flesh from bone. The tender flesh of his scars was dark and uneven, on the account of all the grit and ash that had gotten into the wounds that had born them.

He descended from the landing ramp, followed closely by two wolves, his armored boots clanging against the ramp with every stride. The wolves at his side were huge creatures, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, with yellow teeth so large that they verged on being tusks. Their heavy coats were a dusky black color that lightened to a dirty shade of grey around their faces. Legend had it that Russ had been raised by wolves, and that he considered the two at his side siblings. His affection towards them did nothing to dissuade this.

Russ had brought down his Thunderhawk, the Howling Night, down on a landing platform several miles north of the Imperial Palace. The platform, a solid sheet of concrete, was protruding from a slender tower of the Ecclesiarchy, which shot up from the rusted landscape like a needle. Beneath it lay a sprawling building known simply as the Warren; once it served as a sewage treatment facility, but it had been overrun by rats. Now, housing thousands of squatters, gangers, and outlaws, it served as a festering wound in the Terran landscape.

"I apologize for the scenery," Malcador said, walking towards Russ to greet him. "If you had given us earlier notice, we could've cleared a more scenic landing platform for you. I trust you're well?"

"Aye, well enough." Russ sniffed at the air, like a dog. "Smells like someone is cooking gak in a diesel engine."

"Yes, the Terran Office of Tourism has had some difficulty figuring out how to market that," said Malcador.

Russ chuckled, his voice low, and clapped his hand on Malcador's shoulder. "Its good to be home. That smell - gak cooking in a diesel engine - that was the first thing I smelled nearly a century ago, when the God Emperor first brought me here. And on the first few lonely days after I left for the Great Crusade, I would've given anything to smell it again."

Malcador leveled his eyes at Russ, and his voice took on a solemn tone. "That can't be the only reason you came back," he said.

"You're the true heir. There was a reason why the God Emperor set none of us, his sons, above each other. There was a reason why none of us were marked for leadership. That burden was meant for you; when he left Terra to personally fight in the Great Crusade, he left the Imperium in your hands. And now that he's left again, the burden falls to you again.

I wondered why, when the Lion staked his claim for the throne, you didn't respond. I decided to investigate, and it turned out you had. My contacts in the Administratum told me that you had reached out to High Lord Attaran and the Chancellor Valum; you'd been testing the waters. But you lacked an army, so you didn't dare do anything publicly, lest the Lion retaliate."

"I didn't take you to be a man so involved in Terran politics," Malcador said.

"I try to stay out of it, but that doesn't count for much in the Imperium." He grinned, flashing his yellow fangs. "Besides its a necessity to have some involvement. And now that I'm involved, I assure you, you won't need to hide in the shadows and operate behind closed doors anymore. I, Leman of Russ, King of Fenris, Lord of the Space Wolves, pledge my undying allegiance to the Sigillite Emperor."

"Thank you, Lord Russ," said Malcador. "When all this conflict is done with and the Imperium is unified under one Emperor, you will be rewarded greatly for your loyalty. I assure you, you will not regret this."

"I better not." Again, the pointed grin. Russ seemed to smile at everything. "Otherwise I just might lop your head clean off. Also, I have more good news, for you at least. Magnus the Red made the first intelligent decision in his life, and decided to ally with you. He'll be arriving shortly. Its a shame, I was hoping he would side with the Lion and I'd get to kill him. Also, Magnus convinced Lorgar that you're a god, so now Lorgar will be coming too. You have three Legions; you now outnumber the Lion."

"Only five Legions have taken sides then. That leaves thirteen Legions, the bulk of the Imperial Army."

"Aye, that's the bad news. Horus is mustering his forces in the Segmentum Tempestus, So far he's swayed Alpharius, Perturabo, and Fulgrim to his cause. I tried to speak with him, but he was locked in council with Fulgrim and Curze." Russ' low voice dropped even lower. "When they finished speaking, Curze summoned his Honor Guard and fled right away. It wasn't til days later that I heard he had set sail for Caliban. And Fulgrim - he bent his knee."

"Why hasn't Horus staked a claim yet? Why hasn't he had a coronation?"

"Maybe he has." Russ' leering grin resurfaced. "The Immaterium is weak in the Segmentum Tempestus; where do you think the name comes from? News and ships alike travel slow from there."

"True," said Malcador. "What about Sanguinius? Any news from him?"

Russ snorted. "You can't have a conversation with him. Corax is around him all the time, always cutting off anyone who wants to have a word with him. Like he's Sanguinius' keeper."

Malcador realized what was just so disconcerting about his smile. Russ' lips may have peeled back into a smirk, but his eyes didn't change - they maintained the same aggressive, fixated look they always had. His face may have smiled, but his eyes didn't. Malcador turned his eyes towards the Immaterium, and probed ever so slightly into Russ' essence.

Russ winced.

Immediately Malcador drew back, before Russ could catch the slightest whiff of him. As far as he was aware, Russ had no psychic tendencies whatsoever, and was blind and deaf to the current of the Immaterium. Still, Malcador knew better than to bet against one of the Emperor's genechildren. "Shall we go inside?" he said.




The room was decorated with the usual finery that the Lion demanded of all things. Silken tapestries hung from the walls, depicting the bloody triumphs of the Dark Angels. Food, usually in the form of rich smoky meat, was served on fine porcelain whiter than snow. Servants scurried back and forth, bringing trays of hand-rolled cigars and regularly refilling the guests' goblets of wine. The Lion himself was seated at a small circular table, picking at a steak. His face was dark and sullen, and he wouldn't bring himself to say a word.

On either side of him was Moloch, Captain of the 1st Company, and Menelaus, Captain of the 2nd. They respectively lorded over the Deathwing, a force of a thousand veteran Terminators, and the Ravenwing, a force of nearly three thousand bikers. There was a great deal of friendly competition between the two of them, and they never hesitated to tell barbed jokes at the other's expense.

Ser Luther, Head of the Order, sat opposite the Lion. Perhaps unintentionally, perhaps not, the Lion had been staring at him through the whole meal.

"You hear the news from the Eastern Fringe?" said Moloch. "It turns out that Governor Atariun, of Talassar I think, was one eighth Eldar. Can you believe that?"

Menelaus snorted. "What's the Imperium coming to? Ten, twenty years ago, they would've done a blood test before he took office. So, what happened to him?"

"He was arrested, but before he could be executed, some mercenaries broke him out of jail. Odds are he's fled the system, maybe even-"

"Curze isn't loyal," the Lion said, cutting Moloch off.

"Pardon?" Moloch said.

"Konrad Curze, Primarch of the Night Lords, isn't loyal to my cause." The Lion downed his goblet of wine. "He hasn't bled for it yet. Until a man bleeds for something, it means nothing to him. He has no stake in my cause."

Luther cleared his throat. "Curze is an honorable man. I sincerely doubt that he would dare turn against you."

"During the Terran Rebellion, when the technobarbarians tried to rise against the God Emperor, think about which clans stayed loyal and which didn't. The Arroks, the Taegars, and the Eurasians all stayed loyal, and the Jearows and Baelizars didn't. All three who stayed loyal had fought under the God Emperor's command; the Taegars had even been bled dry in one of the God Emperor's losses, and the Eurasian forces were wracked with plague. The Jearows and Baelizars; they had pledged loyalty, but they had never bled. They were honorable, but honor is nothing to blood."

"He's right," said Moloch. "I read it about it somewhere; its some sort of mortal fallacy or something. They're weak-willed creatures, but once they lose something fighting for a cause, they'll keep fighting until they get it back. That's how casinos work: when gamblers lose, they keep gambling because they think they can win back their losses. War and love and all the other aspects of life work the same way."

"Well," Luther said. "If Curze truly is disloyal, what should we do?"

"We trick him into bleeding," the Lion said. "Luther, have any worlds been late with their tithes?"

"Several. The most worrying is Malar, an agriworld responsible for feeding nearly an entire system."

"Dispatch the Night Lords to slaughter them," said the Lion. "And allow Malar to 'intercept' news of this. That way they'll be prepared for Curze, the Night Lords will bleed, and we can feign ignorance."

Luther stood up. "It will be done, my lord."




With the arrival of the Word Bearers, the hour of Malcador's coronation was at hand. Two Primarchs, Leman Russ and Lorgar Aurelian, attended by the most prestigious commanders of their Legions, were in attendance, watching from alcoves in the stadium. Rogal Dorn of the Imperial Fists, despite his presence at Terra, had declined to attend. Malcador couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret - Dorn was an honorable man, more human that perhaps any other Primarch. As the Guardian of Terra, whether by diplomacy or by force, he had to be swayed to Malcador's cause. And if he couldn't be swayed - Malcador didn't like to think about what he would have to do.

He was blind beneath the pale yellow spotlights. His ceremonial robes, dull red and edged with a stark white, were heavier than they should've been. They felt as though they had been draped over his frail form. Apothecarions had given him pills so that, beneath the searing lights and the suffocating robes, he wouldn't sweat. Other pills had ensured that he would stay alert and energetic, and not sound like a droning old man. His face was caked with make up, to give him a more vital appearance. A small metal bud in his ear fed him his speech, ensuring that he didn't have to memorize it, and ached badly against his inner ear.

The God Emperor had been so majestic that he had never needed to concern himself with things like make up. He could choose his own wardrobe, and he could walk out into stadiums and coliseums without needing to concern himself with what the people thought. Malcador was no God - he was a mortal, and and he was past his prime. Genetherapy and stem cell treatments had kept him alive well into old age, far beyond what should've been the twilight of his life. An artificial heart beat in his Malcador's chest, vat grown with his body in mind. A segment of his spine, following a bout with cancer, had been replaced with metal tubing and snaking wires.

"People of the Imperium," he said, well aware of the weight of a billion eyes bearing down on him. All of Terra had gone still, and its population of nearly a trillion souls waited on his every word. "The God Emperor has ascended beyond the stars, and into the great unknown."

And so the speech went. It felt dry and hollow coming from to Malcador. He was to say the God Emperor had left his physical form, a new leader was required, and that burden had fallen to Malcador, who would solemnly assume all its responsibilities with great reluctance. He was never to mention the Lion's claim, or the fact that Horus, Reboute, and Sanguinius had seemingly disappeared. He was never to mention the fact that the God Emperor's light had disappeared from the Immaterium the moment Warboss Gnargrull struck him down, and now the Astronomicon was fading into darkness. And he was especially not supposed to mention that the Great Crusade had ground to a fault, and fledgling Xenos Empires were beginning to infringe on the Imperium's borders.

The list of things that Malcador could mention was exceedingly small, and it had to be packed with as many buzzwords as it could fit to stretch it out into a speech.

Malcador wondered if the Lion had felt that same way, at his coronation. He had the sickening suspicion that the Lion didn't - he was the God Emperor's firstborn son, and he harbored no doubts towards his claim's legitimacy. In the Lion's mind, the Golden Throne was already his.

"May humanity reign for a thousand years, and in a thousand years may the Imperium still stand tall!" Malcador roared, his voice amplified by speakers all around Terra. His voice rang through every street on the world, and on every street massed crowds of filthy peasants burst into thunderous applause. The entire Space Wolves Legion, more than a million Astartes, howled and roared through the night.

After the speech, Malcador led a procession of Astartes and Custodes to the Imperial Palace, and ascended the steps to the Golden Throne. The hall was vast and cavernous, to the point where the procession's steps echoed through the Imperial Palace. Bureaucrats and nobles lined the hall, off to the sides of the steps, observing the procession in solemn silence. A soft golden light filled the air.

To those who had never seen the Golden Throne before, and all the majestic splendor of it, there was an intensity to the moment that would stay with them for the rest of their lives. They would remember the Eternity Gate, towering over mortals and Astartes alike, depicting the God Emperor's triumph over the Void Dragon. Hideous beyond compare, with smoke roiling from its unhinged maw and oozing molten lead through the cracks between its scales, the Void Dragon was coiling around the Emperor. The Emperor, wearing a silken robe, his chiseled face a mask of stern resolve, was spearing the Void Dragon's heart with a golden lance. The sun rose just behind the Emperor's form, breaking through the cloudy night.

They would remember the thousands of banners that lined the halls, belonging to all the Legions and armies in the Emperor's service, each depicting their own motifs and triumphs. And they would remember, most of all, the Golden Throne itself, the symbol of the God Emperor's reign.

Their memories were all lies. The Golden Throne was burnished to such a brilliant hue, that its light was blinding. To stare directly onto it was to see only light, and feel one's eyes burning away. Men never saw the Golden Throne itself; in the hazy white, they saw what they wanted to see.

Malcador saw what he feared to see. Maybe it was the herbs they had given him, maybe it was the fatigue brought on by the long procession, but he saw the Lion sitting on the Golden Throne, bloody and triumphant.



The final preparations for the long flight to Terra were almost complete. The fleets of the Thousand Sons had been fully fueled, stocked with billions of bolts and laspacks and all the other ammunition that they would require, and loaded with enough food to sustain the Legion for months if need be. With the Astronomicon waning, their Navigators risked being blinded in the Immaterium. Magnus wanted to be prepared for any mishaps during the journey.

Lorgar had decried him for his hesitancy, and had insisted that they needed to arrive at Terra as soon as they possibly could. They needed to consolidate the Sigillite Emperor's reign as soon as possible, and immediately gain a strangehold on Terra; with Rogal Dorn's loyalty uncertain, the Sigillite Emperor was increasingly vulnerable. And Russ - the Wolf King had accused Magnus of cowardice and openly questioned his loyalty. Of course. Russ had never understand the concept of caution. It would be the death of him one day.

"My lord," said a serf, dressed in the red and white robes of the Thousand Sons. "We've received a message from the agriworld of Malar."

Magnus looked down on the serf from his throne. "What do they ask of us?"

"They state that they chose to pay their tithes to the Sigillite Emperor and not the Lion. Recently, only two days ago, they intercepted a message from the Dark Angels to the Night Lords, asking them to 'slaughter' their world. They are peaceful farmers, and they have no means of protecting themselves. They plead for you will take up their cause, and prevent the destruction of their world, my lord."

"If we defy the Night Lords, it would be an act of war," Magnus said. "Which the Sigillite Emperor has expressly forbidden."

"I will deliver that message to Malar, my lord."

Magnus smiled. "Is your opinion of me so low that you think I would sacrifice innocent men and women for the sake of politics? Inform the people of Malar that the Thousand Sons will protect them, and that so long as I live not one Night Lord will set foot on their world."

Truly epic! Am eagerly awaiting for more. Keep it up!

Well done as always, liking your take on Leman and Magnus so far

Not much to add except write more real soon.

Chapter Three
The Sorcerer King

Curze's armor was the blue black of the night, hammered into warplate and edged with bands of brass by the finest artisans of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It had been christened with the blood of tyrants, and had withstood a thousand different roaring artillery strikes and thrumming power blades on a thousand different worlds. His helmet had been forged in the visage of a snarling daemon, framed by two leathery batwings and topped with a crown of glossy obsidian. A long cape of rich velvet trailed after him, something that would've seemed more fitting on a regal aristocrat than a glorified butcher. Each of Curze's slender fingers ended in a gleaming steel scythe. He drummed them loudly on the table before him, scoring marks in the metal.

If Curze was a freak, what was Magnus?

He was tall and heavily built, even for a Primarch. His flesh was a deeply tanned shade of red, earning Magnus his much loathed moniker - Magnus the Red. Corax had once used the moniker to his face, and the two had nearly come to blows. The fact that he was known by his flesh, and not his great prestige or groundbreaking research or even his military triumphs was infuriating. The only worse name was the one he had only heard in hushed tones, muttered by the dogs of the Imperial Guard and the filthy masses of the worlds he'd set foot on - Cyclops.

Magnus' left eye was a mess of pale grey scar tissue, throbbing and red near its fringes. He never deigned to hide it, nor have it replaced with an unblinking glassy red of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It was the eye he had traded to save the Thousand Sons, and he wore the wound with pride. Let the masses gawk; it was a price Magnus would've gladly paid again. The needs of the Thousand Sons outweighed his own.

Allegedly, Magnus was taller and stronger than the God Emperor himself. Allegedly, he was the most powerful psyker the galaxy had ever known, capable of snuffing out lives with little more than a thought. Yet, his Legion had claimed less worlds than any other, and he was known by his deformities. In the proud history of the Imperium, the Thousand Sons and its red Primarch were little more than a footnote, compared to the spectacular conquests of the great Horus Lupercal and his Luna Wolves. Compared to Horus and Sanguinius and the Imperium's other heroes, men scarcely knew Magnus' name.

"Magnus," said Curze, a smile in a his voice. "I'm delighted to see you. I did not expect to see you here brother, so far from Prospero and Terra."

Curze was in a position of weakness, but it hardly showed. He had arrived at Malar three hours after Magnus had, his fleet disheveled, his armies markedly unprepared for resistance of any sort. Frigates were clustered about the vanguard of his fleet, blocking the aim of the Grand Cruisers and Battleships behind them. Astartes loitered about their ships at ease, while turrets laid unmanned and torpedo silos empty. If Magnus wanted to, he could've crippled them in an instant, and sent the Night Lords reeling. He may have slain Curze himself and broken the Legion beyond repair.

But Magnus hadn't come to Malar to shed blood. He had come to broker a peace with Curze, and protect Malar. So, here aboard the Photep, the Thousand Sons' capital ship, he would do just that.

Magnus had the sickening feeling that, if Curze had caught him unprepared, the Night Lords would've hardly agreed to negotiations. He saw himself, floating through the serene stillness of the void, blood trailing from his broken form and gleaming in the light of distant stars. And he saw drop pod after drop pod slamming down on Malar, and Night Lords streaming out from each one.

"It's a pleasure to see you too, Curze," said Magnus. "I will admit, I came here because of you."

"I never took you for the type to join in such dirty work." Curze drummed his fingers. "This is not some glorious conquest over xenos, nor is it some scholarly expedition. This is simple slaughter, meant to remind the mortals of the Gods who stride the galaxy, who built the empire they now live off of. We gave them their lives, and that which is given may be taken away."

Did Curze truly believe that he was there to help? Curze was always unstable, sometimes even delusional, but never outright idiotic. He must've seen when he arrived that the Thousand Sons' fleet was trained on the Night Lords, and not on Malar. Thousands of turret barrels had followed Curze's capital ship as it glided by.

"No," Magnus said. "Life isn't a physical commodity. And it isn't something they owe you either. Brother, as much as I respect you, as much as I love you, I came here to stop this."

Curze chuckled. "You love me? Of all our brothers, I know you the least. I don't even know you well enough to hate you, much less love you. All that I know of you is from your reputation, and I am sure my reputation is all that you know of me. It must be difficult to say Curze, when Night Haunter is on your lips."

Magnus was at a loss for words. "We are brothers," was all that he managed to say.

"No, you're no brother of mine. You pretend to care about being good, about justice, about benevolence. But, in the end you just care about looking nice and clean. When justice gets dirty, when you find yourself wading through rivers of blood thick with disemboweled corpses, suddenly you don't care about justice after all."

"You're insane."

Curze leapt to his feet. "Malar has sinned. Malar has to die. Don't get in my way, Magnus."

Aboard the Photep, he could've had Curze detained. He would have all the might of the Thousand Sons to call on, while Curze had little more than a flimsy honor guard. Magnus could have Curze's Thunderhawk destroyed in the hanger, stranding him, and then dispatched his 1st Company to arrest Curze. The psychotic Primarch could be used as a hostage, to ensure that the Night Lords backed down. Without shedding a single drop of blood, Magnus could've put the conflict to rest and saved Malar.

Kidnapping a Primarch would be an act of war and, not only that, but also irredeemable in the eyes of the Imperium. The Night Lords would back down in the short term, and their allies the Dark Angels would back down as well, but the peace wouldn't last for long. When it became clear that Magnus had no intention of releasing Curze, they would go to war. The Imperium would be torn asunder, and all the God Emperor's work would be for naught.

It was a bitter defeat to let Curze leave.




On a grainy blue hololith, Magnus watched Curze's fleet maneuver into attack positions. His clustered fleet began to spread out, with ships maintaining as much distance from each other as possible. The cloud of steel became a thinly spread web of needles, each one pointed towards the Photep, forming a half sphere around the Thousand Sons fleet. Light frigates and cruisers, built for agility and not firepower, descended to low orbit, where they could rely on Malar's gravitational pull for rapid acceleration. It was clear that, in the event of battle, they would flit about the battlefield, allowing themselves to be pulled where they were most needed.

Ahriman, 1st Captain and Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons, had gone into hysterics. With every passing moment, the situation grew more dire. He repeatedly insisted that the Thousand Sons needed to strike as soon as possible, while they still held the advantage. Eventually the Thousand Sons no longer even held the advantage, with Curze's fleet having deftly cornered Magnus', but that did little to silence Ahriman.

Magnus would not shed first blood.

A message arrived from the Sigillite Emperor, urging Magnus to return to Terra. His Legion was needed to consolidate the Sigillite Emperor's reign, and bring the Adeptus Mechanicus to heel. The Mechanicum, as it was calling itself, had cut off contact with Terra and was refusing to resupply the Imperium's armies. Not only that, but Magnus himself was needed to guide the Astronomicon, which was still fading, despite the hundreds of psykers being sacrificed with each passing day.

Guiding the Astronomicon - while his brothers would be off, conquering worlds and being immortalized in song, he would be at Terra, guiding a glorified lighthouse. His body would fail him and his mind would crumble away, and all the while no one would even bother to acknowledge his existence, much less his sacrifice. The Thousand Sons would be led by Ahriman, assuming that they weren't just handed over and absorbed into another Legion. Magnus could see his Thousand Sons, wearing the colors of the Night Lords or the Space Wolves.

If he refused Malcador though, the Astronomicon could finally go out, plunging the galaxy into the long night. The Imperium would crumble. The God Emperor's work would all be for naught. Magnus had no choice but to guide it.

Another bitter defeat.

Magnus returned to his personal chambers to meditate. The lights in there were a soft yellow candelight, not at all like the buzzing florescent lights aboard the Photep. The air was rich with the musty smell of old books and leather bound tomes. He sat down, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees, and closed his left eye. There he was, sitting in darkness, the musty smell of old tomes and a peaceful stillness all around him. Magnus let out a slow sighing exhale, and opened his right eye.

The peaceful stillness faded to the rushing clamor of black waves. Oily darkness crashed all around him, rich with laughter and screams. Spirits, with leathery wings and scaly fins soared through the skies, while thin fading lights languished in the darkness below. This was the Immaterium, the land beyond the physical. This was Magnus' true home.

Preachers of the Adeptus Ministorum called it a place of daemons and eldritch horrors, where entities who knew nothing but cruelty lusted for human souls. The God Emperor himself had declared that mortals were not to meddle in the Immaterium, as the creeping darkness would eat their souls and then fill the newfound void within them. And when entities from the Immaterium crossed into the physical - news of this was suppressed as best as it could be, with only Astartes even allowed to know that it was possible. Still, news managed to get out. There were always tales told between peasants of roiling masses of rotted flesh devouring Guardsmen, and heaving monstrosities tearing men limb from limb with clawed tentacles. To them, the Immaterium was just what the Adeptus Ministorum told them; evil.

The truth was more complicated. When Magnus gazed out into the crashing waves, he saw life at its purest state. Every man, woman, and child, every xeno, and even every mangy rat contributed to it. Their souls were the light beneath the darkness, and their emotions were the stuff that made up the crashing waves. Hope, fear, lust, terror, and anything else a man could feel fed the Immaterium. Psykers were among the brightest and the strongest, but even ordinary men had their place among it. Only Pariahs, wretched and soulless creatures, had no light in the Immaterium. They could hardly be considered people, much less living entities.

Magnus' own problems felt so small, so meaningless, there. There were starving orphans, politicians lost in webs of endless intrigue, and soldiers dying in hopeless charges. It was a somber reminder that someone somewhere always had it worse.

The Immaterium was all life, given a single form and a single mind. It held the depths of all knowledge, all power, and all souls. While the Imperium may have feared and loathed it, Magnus embraced it.

He let the waves fill him and give him guidance. A being of wrath given sentience urged for Magnus to attack the Night Lords, and inflict suffering and misery at a catastrophic scale, if only for the sake of bloodshed. A being of lust, cackling and sniveling, called for Magnus to exult in all the hedonistic pleasures a Primarch could exult in. Song and dance, roaring stim-packs and serene obscura, and the most beautiful women who every lived. He was a godly being in his prime, and it would be a pitiful waste if he spent his days wallowing in self pity.

Despair and fear demanded that Magnus do as he pleased, damn the consequences, as life was short and death was never more than a moment away. If he wanted to exult in hedonism or if he wanted to butcher the Night Lords, so be it. Something cold and slimy brushed against his leg as the wave swept past him. Just following despair was hope. It filled his head with thoughts of peace and tranquility, of a universe free from warfare. He saw the peaceful farmers of Malar, looking up at the clear blue skies and seeing that the Night Lords fleet had left. The universe was a bright place, growing brighter and brighter, and all change was for good.

Magnus closed his right eye, and realized he'd been hold his breath. His head was swimming, and his bowels had turned to water. He keeled over, gasping for air. Lying on his back, taking rapid shallow breathes, he looked up at his library, filled with ancient tomes from days past. They were from times of calamity and war, when Xenos ruled the galaxy, and humanity was consumed by warring factions. But things had changed and hope had prevailed. Now he was here, humanity united under one banners, Xenos banished to the fringes of the galaxy.

Throughout time and space, through all of humanity's long history and even before that, hope had always prevailed.

Magnus clambered into his bed, feeling at ease for the first time he days.




He woke up to the sounds of blaring klaxons and a stampede of Astartes. Armored boots clanged and clattered against metal decking as thousands of Astartes spilled out of their chambers, rushing towards the nearest hangers. Over the vox system, a voice half-drowned in static declared, "We are at DEFLEV II, repeat, we are at DEFLEV II. Stand by for orders."

Rubbing his eyes, Magnus sat up in his bed. Groggily he made his way to the door. As he walked, he glanced at himself in the mirror. Blood was seeping out from the swollen flesh where his right eye should have been, and streaking down his cheek. He did nothing to clean it; Magnus had never taken shame in sacrificing the eye. Magnus pressed a key pad, and the door slid open before him.

He stepped out into his anteroom, where two serfs were waiting for him. One brought a crown and a cape, which he fastened onto Magnus. The other brought a cup of cold tea. Evidently they'd been waiting for him for some time. They made their way to Magnus' private elevator shaft which, after squealing and whirring for a moment, seemed to jolt awake and rocket down towards the 78th floor. It was a long and rickety ride, and the air stank of diesel fuel.

The Thousand Sons war room was waiting for him.

Gathered around a vast circular hololith, nearly twelve feet in length, were the commanders and captains of the Legion. Some wore their armor, its color light crimson trimmed with white and marked with gold. Others simply wore simple white robes or dark blue flight uniforms. The room was dark and smoky, and dozens of different voices fought to speak over each other. The hololith in the room's center portrayed the fleets of the Thousand Sons and the Night Lords in all their glory, with a thin sheet of blue lying half way between them. Magnus wasn't sure what it was supposed to represent - a political border, a psychic shield, or even a wall of debris were all possibilities.

6th Captain Khalophis was yelling at 8th Captain Malagor, who was smoking a cigar of hand rolled obscura. "That'll kill you someday, Malagor," said Magnus.

Both Malagor and Khalophis paused in their argument. "Aye," said Malagor. "But ya gotta die somehow."

"Bitter outlook." Magnus gestured towards the sheet of blue lying between the two fleets. "What's that?"

Before Malagor could answer, Ahriman cut him off. "It's the line in the sand," he said. "The Night Lords sent a light frigate towards us. We hailed it, but it failed to respond, so we hailed the Nightfall itself, but it too failed to respond. The ship continued drifting towards us until it was within forty miles of the Waxing Moon. That was when we fired, and that line is where."

Ahriman always had to speak first. Ahriman, his head held high and his lips pouting, his brow perpetually furrowed in disappointment. He was the greatest sorcerer, the greatest warrior, and the greatest tactician the Thousand Sons. In his moments of weakness, Magnus sometimes wondered if Ahriman would be the death of him.

Every Legion had its share of traitors. They were degenerate Astartes who had slipped through the cracks of the Imperium's recruitment facilities. Their Legions librarians hadn't seen any blight on their souls, and their apothecaries hadn't born witness to any mental deviations. Their brothers in arms had noticed nothing unusual about them, and they had served their Primarchs faithfully for years, sometimes decades. But then one day they'd cast off any pretense of honor and betrayed their liege. They were the Astartes who went AWOL before ferocious battles, who turned on their battle brothers and slaughtered entire squads in their sleep, or who cast their lot with mad xenos and daemons. The most Astartes to ever turn traitor at one time was twenty eight Imperial Fists, who had refused to fire on the pacifistic Xhorr on the world of Veneror II.

All twenty eight of these Imperial Fists had been put down, and all records of the incident have been purged from Imperial records.

If Ahriman were at traitor though, he would've shown his true colors already. He was the Chief Librarian and 1st Captain of the Thousand Sons, who had personally saved Magnus' life on the field of battle. Ahriman was arrogant, duplicitous, and sometimes downright insufferable, but never a traitor.

"You fired first," Magnus remarked.

"We were the only ones who fired at all. If the Night Lords had returned fire, we would've woken you."

"You should've woken me before you fired. I gave the order to not fire without express permission."

"And I gave that permission to the Waxing Moon, who gladly obliged me," Ahriman said. "They would've crashed straight into our formation. It was clear that Curze was probing our defenses and, more than that, testing our resolve. I didn't want to disturb your rest for something so petty."

"You played right into his hands. Next time, wake me up."

"What?" Ahriman was genuinely confused and hurt, something rare. It was unusual for Ahriman to be genuinely anything.

"You drew first blood. If, throne forbid, this dispute breaks out into a civil war, whose side do you think Legions will be taking?"

Ahriman recovered quickly enough. "Wars aren't about morality," he said. "Rebellions and insurgencies sometimes are. Disputes like this one sometimes are. But full-on warfare? If war was about morality, there would be a great deal less killing. The Legions will abstain from the conflict and try to hold the Imperium together if they care about morality, and if they don't they'll simply join the faction that promises them the most. That's what it comes down to, in the end."

"War is immoral? What about the Great Crusade?"

"The Great Crusade wasn't a war. It was a crusade, and a magnificent one at that."

"You're speaking in past tense," Magnus said.

"The Great Crusade was nothing without the God Emperor," said Ahriman. "Its over now."

"You're too cynical. What was it that the Ecclesiarch Domitan said? 'Tragedy is the anvil on which heroes are forged.' There will be more great men and glorious conquests."

Ahriman smirked. "When Domitan said that, he was referring to the Lion."

"I'll admit that the Lion may not be the hero we need now but, by the good Ecclesiarch's standards, his actions have been the anvils on which a great many heroes were forged," said Magnus. Captain Malagor stifled a chuckle. "Have faith, Ahriman. Things will turn out for the best."




Curze waited to strike until night fell on the Photep, and there was nothing but darkness save for the soft firelight of the fleet's engines, and the twinkling yellow lights of Malar's cities below. The Night Lords started off with a volley of atomic torpedoes, lighting up the sky.

An explosion was only devastating because of the shockwave of air that came with it. In the cold void, with no devastating wave of air to follow, it was little more than a waste of energy. On the surface, Curze had erred, squandering his nuclear arsenal when it could have been put to great use destroying Malar itself.

A techpriest's mechanical heart, which seamlessly guided his blood throughout his body, rather than partaking the primitive pumping mechanisms of a biological one, went dead. He tried to grasp at his chest with a steel claw of a hand, but it was paralyzed, little more than dead weight. A servitor, carrying a crate of telpheon vaccines, let out a blurt of terrified and shrieking binary before keeling over. An old ironclad vessel, one of the earliest battleships to be built by mankind, was crippled when its engines burnt out.

The EMP, unleashed by the atomic torpedoes, swept through the Thousand Sons fleet. All unshielded electronics, from servitors and buzzing fluorescent lights, to hyper sensitive scanners and lasturrets, died. Only the most essential systems, the ones that the Mechanicum had to budget to shield, were protected. Even then, some of the essentials weren't. Magnificent ironclads and old battleships, having gone too long without maintenance, were reduced to little more to hunks of cold, dead steel.

Following on the EMP's heels were kinetic lances and mass drivers, roaring through void shielding and decimating the metal beneath. They blew open hauls in a way reminiscent of flowers blooming. These flowers had metals of blackened steel, and in their centers were glowing pits of wreckage, hissing with escaping air. The Night Lords' lasturrets sat in ominous silence - they were too weak to penetrate void shielding or reinforced haul plating. Rather, they were waiting for the fleet was at its weakest, when its vessels were bloated and dying, their innards exposed to the void. Lasturrets were the vultures of void warfare, their expertise lying in picking at the dead.

The Thousand Sons refused to die easily.

Sirens sounded for a fighting retreat. Nearly eclipsed by their cannons' muzzlefire and the belching flames of their engines, the Thousand Sons fell into low orbit, where they could rely on Malar's gravitational pull to quickly gain speed. Rather than having to adjust for their weapons' recoil as the Night Lords did, firing up their thrusters so that their own guns didn't push them away from the enemy, the Thousand Sons used the recoil to help speed up. Every roaring mass driver gave them another push, and more ground between them and the enemy.

All the while, irradiated wreckage rained down on Malar.

Years of harvest would be lost. The world would be plunged into darkness by a cold nuclear winter. Men, women, and children would die lingering deaths from radiation, their hair falling out in clumps and their skin flaking away while their heads ached and stomachs roiled. There was nothing clean about it. By the end, death would be a mercy.

"Stabilize our engines!" Magnus shouted into the vox unit, over the clamor of the bridge. "Divert as much power as you can spare to the teleportation apex, and summon the 1st Fellowship there!"

"My lord!" a serf said. "The ratings are rioting near the escape pod terminal! They're trying to get their families on board! We've been trying to explain to them that-"

"Give the Arbites my permission to fire on them! We cannot afford rebellion now!"

"The Arbites are scattered all through-out the ship, and mostly cut off from communication! According to Overseer Derek, some Arbites are even rioting with the ratings!"

Magnus leaned in closer to the vox unit. "All Astartes currently unoccupied proceed to the escape pod terminal, and dispatch the crowd there by any means necessary!"

A crew member with pasty pale flesh, the armpits of his blue flight uniform damp with sweat, stood up from his seat. "Seat back down!" Magnus bellowed.

"Sir, err, my lord, I mean, I just need to, err, use the restroom!" he squeaked, his voice barely rising above the chaos. "My apologies, m-my lord."

Magnus turned to the Astartes next to him, a member of prestigious Scarab Guard wearing terminator armor. It was decorated with golden finery. "The next time someone stands up, kill him!" Magnus looked back towards the crew member. "Either gak your pants, or have your brains pasted all over the wall behind you! The choice is yours!"

A control panel, its heat vents glowing a blinding shade of neon orange, overheated and began to smolder. Deckhands descended on it with whooshing fire extinguishers, drowning it in a thick grey foam. The technician who had sat behind it grabbed his vox unit, and started to scream frantically about the engines.

"Where's Captain Mance?" Magnus said. No one answered him. "Where's Captain Mance? If someone doesn't tell me in the next minute, I'm going to be very upset!"

"My lord," a crew member said. "He was in his private chambers when we were attacked! Ten minutes ago he told us he was making his way to the bridge, then we lost communication with him!"

A man wearing flight uniform, wearing a peaked Captain's hat and a half dozen different golden medals would be easy prey for the mob. Men would try to rob him or take him hostage. Mobs of peasant ratings, furious at being cut off from the escape pods, might even beat him to death or tear him limb from limb. Even if he survived the crew, the ship itself was still a risk. Lance after lance pummeled into the Photep. The haul was breached in two sectors of the ship, both of which had been quarantined off and sealed. They were rapidly losing what little air they had left, and their crews were being sent hurling out into the void.

Magnus looked back at the Scarab Guard next to him. "While I'm gone, you're in charge! Kill anyone who so much as looks at the door! As long as they know they can't leave, they'll try to keep the ship alive!"




Accompanied by eight members of the Scarab Guard, Magnus made his way to the teleportation apex. It was located in the rusted and miserable bowels of the ship, far away from the sterile white halls of the Photep's bridge and the warm, inviting library of Magnus' chamber. This was where the ratings, maintenance workers and their impoverished families, lived, toiled, and died. The ceilings were choked with piping, and the floors with tangled wire. There were only two colors; the orange of coal furnaces and choking rust, and the dull black-grey of machinery and roiling smoke. Ratings scurried about through the hallways, desperate for somewhere to escape or somewhere to hide. They fled at the sight of Magnus, the giant Sorcerer King of the Thousand Sons.

There were bodies. One corpse was sprawled on the ground, dead eyes staring straight ahead, its body frozen to the floor by a leaking coolant pipe. A mob had beaten a man in a flight uniform to death, and his navy blue jacket was stained a dark purple-brown. They must've thought he had a key to the escape pod terminal. One body was slumped over the railings, with only pulpy and twisted wreckage for a face. Shards of skull were protruding through the bloody mess. It was the work of an Arbites shotgun.

A grown man, with a bald head and a tattoo on his wrist designating him as a convicted felon, was rocking back and forth in a corner. He was cradling a heap of filthy blankets. Magnus didn't want to know what was inside.

The floor of the teleportation apex was scattered with corpses. When the 1st Fellowship had arrived, nearly two thousand terminators, a crowd had gathered. They had thought that they might somehow teleport away. After they refused to leave, Ahriman had given his men the okay to fire on them.

Explosive bolt rounds had blown off arms and legs, removed heads from shoulders, and torn gaping holes in mens' chests. Technicians were working frantically around rusted control panels, calibrating their machinery and shouting orders. The slick, bloody floor was rich with vomit. Mortals couldn't always stand the smell of carnage.

"We're all ready," Ahriman said. "But the apex isn't. We don't have enough power, and the Nightfall's shields are still strong. I assume its the Nightfall we're going to."

"That's where I'm going, not you. Ahriman, your place is here. The Thousand Sons need a leader."

"As you wish." Ahriman sighed. "You shouldn't go. I should go; the Nightfall is their capital ship, its going to be swarming with Night Lords. They aren't like any other Legion; they won't hesitate to fire on a Primarch."

"I let Malar die; I have to do this. And Curze has to answer to me, personally."

"THEIR SHIELDS ARE FLUCTUATING!" a technician shouted, his voice surprisingly loud for a mortal. "ITS NOW OR NEVER!"

The Thousand Sons streamed inside the teleportation chamber. A technician cut the line of them off down the middle. "We only have the capability to transport one thousand terminators at a time, my lord," he said. "I apologize."

"A Thousand Sons," said Magnus.

As Magnus stepped inside, Ahriman called after him. "Magnus! ... I'm sorry about firing first." He lowered his gaze. "I'm truly sorry."

The door sealed with a pneumatic hiss before Magnus could respond.

Three dozen members of the Astropathic Choir, garbed in velvet rows, blindfolded and chained to the walls, sang in perfect harmony. Their voices rose so high that they were nearly shrieking, and fell so low that they seemed to be howling from the depths of hell. Those servitors that hadn't been knocked out by the EMP were babbling in binary code as they worked levers and adjusted dials. Several engines, smoke and steam streaming from exhaust vents, began to thrum. Each terminator stood in the center of a ring of machinery and wiring.

The great brass wheels that were the heart of the chamber had been frozen by the EMP. A dozen serfs and nearly twice that number of ratings rushed over to them, and began to turn them manually. They made a low rumbling sound. A soft green light filled the room. One of the generators in the room's corner roared. Then, with a horrible whooshing-



Magnus fell to his knees. His stomach was roiling. His mouth was filled with a putrid, sour taste. He opened it, and suddenly he was his vomiting. The chunky slurry formed a stinking puddle at his feet.

It was dark, save for the sparking power blades, and the muzzlefire of storm bolters. People were screaming and thrashing, but their voices were drowned out by the barking of fully automatic bolters. The floor was coated with a glossy sheen of blood. Chains hung from the ceiling. Gargoyles, perched atop obsidian pillars, leered down at Magnus. Serfs, with pale white flesh and dark oily pools for eyes, fled from their gore splattered control panels as the room was torn apart by crossfire. On the ceiling there was a man's skeleton, crucified. Its eyes were wound tightly with barbed wire, and it had huge blade like tusks where there should have been teeth.

There were terminators of the Thousand Sons, wearing the dull crimson and marble white colors of their Legion. Many were running about, fighting and wrestling and shooting. Many were not. One was half of a man, his wrecked body fused with a sparking and whirring control panel. He was gargling and choking, and the wet noises he made were amplified by his helmet's vox unit. Another Terminator was trying to saw off his foot, which had been fused into the floor. His shin was a frothy mess, and broken bone was protruding out through his torn flesh. Magnus saw one terminator lying in a heap of gore strewn rubble where an electromagnetic generator had once been. The teleportation process had not been kind.

Then there were the Night Lords. They wore the same armor as Curze, their helms fashioned in the visage of nightmares framed by bat wings. Each one was a glossy shade of blue so dark that it verged on black, edged with shining brass. Their piercing eyes glowed in the darkness of the bridge. More and more were streaming in through the doors, with no semblance of order whatsoever. They had abandoned their squads and broke all formation, desperate to reach the bridge in time to save their Primarch.

At the center of the bridge was a great dais, its steps leading up towards an onyx throne. Normally Curze would've been there, but he must have fled when the Thousand Sons arrived. The armrests were styled in the visage of snarling gargoyles, and the headrest was a spider's web, pulled taunted between two skeletal hands. Four leathery wings sprouted from the throne's back, shadowing over it. What kind of a man would Curze have to be, to surround himself with ugliness and wallow in his own reputation as a madman? What kind of man would Curze have to be, to purposefully style himself as a freak?

The answer was simple: a man who had never known true pain. If he had been like Magnus, who stood taller than the Emperor himself, whose flesh was red when the Emperor wanted white, who had a swollen mass of bleeding scars for an eye, then he certainly wouldn't make himself a freak, because he would've known the pain that came with it. Curze considered himself a martyr because his skin was too pale, and he had nightmares that he called 'premonitions'. Now, after all that time Curze had spent in his own self pity, and after the carnage he'd unleashed on Malar, he had the gall to flee.

Magnus had come to the Nightfall to force Curze to call off the attack. Now he just wanted to kill him.

Slowly, Magnus drew himself up to his full height. His head was swimming, and a dull aching pressure was building in his temples. He wanted to kill Curze, go back to his his library, and get some honest sleep. He hadn't been able to bring himself to sleep ever since Ahriman had attacked the Night Lords while he was resting, and destroyed their frigate. And then Ahriman had, in a patient and scholarly voice, explained that war wasn't about morality at all, just killing, and that no one truly fought for what was right. Magnus shouldn't have let Ahriman speak down to him like that, especially after Ahriman had disobeyed him. What kind of message was that sending to the other Captains?

Ahriman apologized, Magnus told himself. His head was swimming. He leaned against an onyx pillar for support.

A terminator of the Night Lords saw him. He was huge, like all Terminators were, barrel chested and broad shouldered. One arm ended in a reaper autocannon with two spear-length barrels. The other was a hulking powerfist, nearly as big as a man's chest, thrumming with power. His helmet was a recent design; it was canine in appearance, with a slanted face and narrowed eyes. Two dusty white tusks protruded from where a man's mouth would have been.

The autocannon came to life, letting loose a hail of solid metal rounds. Magnus lunged without thinking. As rounds tore through his midsection, he tackled the terminator. They both came crashing to the floor. Growling and hissing through his vox unit, the terminator activated his powerfist. In an instant, the glossy black metal was wreathed in blue energy. Blood clinging to his knuckles hissed and bubbled, turning to a faint red steam. He threw a savage punch at Magnus.

Teeth grated, Magnus caught him by the wrist. He squeezed hard, putting all of his strength into it, and the ceramite began to creak. The first cracks were already appearing. He made his other hand into a fist, and brought it down on the terminator's face. What happened was unconscious, purely accidental, but it happened nonetheless. Dizzying from nausea, adrenaline, and the bullet holes in his gut, Magnus reached into the Immaterium. His fist, wreathed in yellow and blue flame, simply passed through the Night Lords' head, liquefying ceramite and torching away bone. Molten metal ran through Magnus' fingers, gleaming in the hellish light. It didn't hurt like it should have.

He didn't have time to think, when another Night Lord was upon him. This one came at him, holding a snarling chainsword in a two handed grip. Magnus rolled to dodge the blow, and the chainsword passed him by. Before the Night Lord could react, Magnus' arm shot out. It took the Night Lord by the side of his lower abdomen, in the kidney. Ceramite cracked and the organ beneath it ruptured. The Night Lord stumbled back against a control panel, groaning.

Magnus turned to see a Night Lord, standing no more than five feet away from him, bolter pistol raised. Its barrel, wafting with thin smoke, was fixed on his forehead. He saw the Night Lord's hand tense, his finger start to pull back on the trigger. With the other Night Lord, still clutching the snarling chainsword, close on his heels, he started to run. Then there was a flash of light and, amid all the chaos and bloodshed of the battle, a moment of serene silence. Magnus' body had gone limp and his knees were buckling beneath him, but the world was peaceful.

A dull thud resounded through his skull. He tasted and smelled copper. Both his ears were ringing, but he could only feel one. He could only feel wetness and pain where the other should have been. Magnus slumped back against a control panel, and raised his open hand towards the Night Lord. Another shot rang out, but the Night Lord's bolt stopped in midair, and hovered just an inch before the Primarch's forehead. Then Magnus broke him.

He focused on a mental image, the image of a doll coming apart at the seams, a suit of armor rusting away, a man splintering and cracking at the joints. He focused on the mental image of things breaking down, and with the slightest extension of his mind, the Immaterium remade reality to match his will. Nails were wrenched free from armor, and screws twisted free from ceramite. Blue black paint melted away, and the metal beneath it went orange with rust. At all of its joints, the locks and clasps were unmade, and blood began to pour from every leak in the armor.

The Night Lord with the chainsword, bleeding from the wound in his side, charged at Magnus. An invisible hand caught his swordarm by the wrist, and twisted, cracking armor and splintering bone. With an open hand, wet with molten ceramite, Magnus launched a forking and twisting bolt of blue lightning. It blew open the Night Lord's chestplate and sent him flying back, red smoke roiling from the crater in his midsection.

A Night Lord sprinted at Magnus, leaping off a control panel and holding two ceremonial daggers in a reverse grip. While the man was still in the air, Magnus caught him by the throat and threw him to the ground. He lay sprawled among the corpses, his broken backpack whirring and smoking beneath him. Before Magnus could finish him off, two more Night Lords were already upon him. A terminator, armed with a twin barreled stormbolter, and a standard Astartes with a bolter open fired.

Magnus fell to the floor, but not before a bolt slammed into his shoulder. The miniature explosives within detonated, riddling the joint with white hot shrapnel. Bleeding badly, Magnus scrambled behind a control panel for cover. The Night Lord with the twin knives crawled after him, dragging himself through the gore.

The terminator went around the control panel's corner, scouting for him. His hulking armor, stainless ceramite reinforced with adamantium bars and strips of brass, sacrificed speed for agility. Magnus caught him by the wrist before he could bring his stormbolter to aim, and swung him into an onyx pillar. The other Night Lord leapt over the panel, his finger clenched down on the trigger of his bolter. Sidestepping to dodge him, Magnus threw a savage punch at the Astartes as the cleared the panel. Magnus' fist cracked open his codplate and sent him crashing to the floor.

Then Magnus felt the sharpest, most stinging pain he had ever felt. He stumbled, and when he put any weight on his left foot the pain worsened. Magnus fell against the control panel, clinging onto it to stay upright. Looking back, he saw the Night Lord with the twin knives, and he saw his achilles heel pulsing blood with every heartbeat. Then Magnus heard a hissing and crackling powerblade. The terminator he thought numbly.

The terminator aimed to decapitate him quickly, but Magnus stumbled back when the blow hit. It ripped through his shoulder blades, leaving behind a smoldering, crippling wound. Magnus fell to his knees, breathing hard. Blood, mingling with spit, was dribbling from his mouth. There was too much pain to comprehend anymore; it was distant, like somebody else's. Like watching a gladiator torn to shred by lions, or a drowning sailor slipping beneath the tide. The sorrow, the regret, and the helplessness were all there, but the pain itself was gone.

He tried to focus on the image of Night Lords torn to shreds, obliterated by shrapnel, burnt away by licking tongues of flame. The image wouldn't stick. All Magnus could feel was the blood rushing in his ear, and the soreness in his back. This couldn't be the end. He was Primarch, a living waking God, the legendary-

A second impact hit his back. He toppled over, his face pressing against the floor. When he tried to move, his limbs refused to cooperate.

Something warm and wet, something that smelled like copper, had been splashed all over him. He felt as though he was rocking in the ocean, the sun shining overhead, a cool breeze sweeping over the tides. The white light of the sun was all he could see, and the warm ocean was all around him.

A third impact hit. An especially bad wave. The shockwave traveled up the length of his neck. A dull ache emerged in his back, but it faded as soon as it appeared. He was back in the ocean, under the warm white light.

"Stop!" someone shouted. "You're going to kill him! We need him alive!

Now this was a long, and somewhat unexpected read & turn of events. But well done, very well done!

I have to say I liked the descriptions of the damage being wrought to the Thousand Sons fleet and the teleportation scenes. I could easily imagine the carnage.

The only negative I would say is the way people seem to interact with the Primarchs. There doesn't seem to be the right level of respect paid at times. And red says some very un-Primarch things as well, e.g.

"Where's Captain Mance?" Magnus said. No one answered him. "Where's Captain Mance?(If someone doesn't tell me in the next minute, I'm going to be very upset!")

could be replaced for example by -

...why do you test my patience' glowered Magnus at the nearest rating standing in a puddle of his own making. (please do not replicate the machine babble of this servitor)

Just something to watch out for.

 Themanwiththeplan wrote:
I have to say I liked the descriptions of the damage being wrought to the Thousand Sons fleet and the teleportation scenes. I could easily imagine the carnage.

The only negative I would say is the way people seem to interact with the Primarchs. There doesn't seem to be the right level of respect paid at times. And red says some very un-Primarch things as well, e.g.

"Where's Captain Mance?" Magnus said. No one answered him. "Where's Captain Mance?(If someone doesn't tell me in the next minute, I'm going to be very upset!")

could be replaced for example by -

...why do you test my patience' glowered Magnus at the nearest rating standing in a puddle of his own making. (please do not replicate the machine babble of this servitor)

Just something to watch out for.

Thanks for the comment, themanwiththeplan.

Regarding the Thousand Sons' disrespect, that was actually intentional. In my original plan for the entry, the Thousand Sons Legion revolts against him (just like the Dark Angels revolted against the Lion in the actual canon). That's why, throughout the entry, the Thousand Sons don't address Magnus as, "My lord" and they ignore his complaints, why Magnus wonders whether or not Ahriman would betray him, and why Ahriman openly complains about Magnus making one mistake after another. They're pissed that Magnus dragged them off to Malar in the first place and let the Night Lords gain the upperhand.

But then I was writing, and i realized that it'sa mistake to teleport aboard the Nightfall, but Magnus is too pissed to care. So Magnus gets captured before the Thousand Sons can overthrow him.

Really, I think being a feth-up is a quintessential part of Magnus' character.

I suppose I should go back and fix the disrespect, since the Thousand Sons don't overthrow him after all.

TBH I didn't have a problem with the style of writing as it was rather good (as useual). Just when Ahriman called his Primarch, Magnus, to his face and the un-Primarch comment. Everything else was top notch.

P.S. Can we hear something from the Karn please.

I enjoyed reading this entire thread.. took quite some time however.

I really am enjoying your take on things and I had the same thoughts as the person who commented that it was similar to Game of Thrones.

Magnus seemed very weak though, to be beaten by a few Night Lords, terminators or otherwise. I was really looking forward to him tearing through dozens of squads, with his hands and mind, before finally confronting Kurze with a final, epic showdown. Left me a bit disappointed there, I have to say, but I'm sure you'll come up with something interesting with his capture.

Might we expect another update at some point in the future or are you working on a new masterpiece i just haven't spotted amongst the pages of great dakka?

 megabambam wrote:
Might we expect another update at some point in the future or are you working on a new masterpiece i just haven't spotted amongst the pages of great dakka?

I actually am working on an update. Its a Reboute Guilliman chapter. The Ultramarines are the largest Legion, and they haven't slipped by the war unnoticed.

Thanks for asking.

Awesome, I simply can not wait LL!

Chapter Four
Where Waves of Hunger Roar

Two armored figures strode out to meet each other.

Both were encased from head to toe in blue power armor, edged with silvery white, and embellished with brilliant golden finery. Eagles spread their feathery wings across breastplates and shoulder pauldrons, while skulls the color of porcelain stared ahead blankly. Servos hissed and armored boots clanged against metal decking with each step. Their ruby eyes met, unblinking. As they reached each other, the two men gripped each other's wrists in a warrior's embrace.

The taller of the two, a long white cape flowing out behind him, broke out in a laugh. His voice was rendered harsh and metallic by the voxcorder of his crowned helm. "Gaius," Reboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, King of Ultramar said. "How was the Great Crusade?"

"Not nearly as great as I'd hoped, my lord. There weren't any xenos where you sent me, only primitives who needed converting. I'm not a Word Bearer, and I'm certainly not a preacher," 1st Captain Gaius said. "You try to explaining why the invincible God Emperor needed armor."

"I think the Warboss Gnargrull explained it well enough." A grin was evident in Reboute's voice. "Well, it sounds exciting. I take it that you killed the savages to a man, and planted the God Emperor's triumphant standard atop a mountain of heretical corpses, like a true Astartes."

"More or less." Gaius undid the clasps holding his helmet to his neck. It let out a pneumatic hiss as he removed it, revealing his handsome features. His face was sharp, with a stern jawline and dark blue eyes. "We told most of them that their backwater deity was the God Emperor, their heaven was actually called Terra, and we were Angels. The important thing to tell the savages is that, even though they got the details wrong, they got the essential part of it right."

"And what is the essential part of it?"

"That a disappointed father-figure in the sky is watching and judging them. That's what most religions come down to, in the end."

"Throne, that's depressing. Come, let's talk inside."

The landing pad had been a strip of metal, jutting from the side of a great spiraling tower. It was at the mercy of Macragge's frigid winds and roiling black storms. In sharp contrast, the hall just inside was a warm and quiet place, filled with a soft orange light by smoldering firepits. Snow-white pillars of chiseled marble held up the great arching ceiling, and archives of leather-bound tomes lined the walls. Just by stepping inside, Reboute felt like he was intruding on a sacred place. He removed his helmet and took in a deep breathe, savoring the musty books and the smoky air.

"I always hated this place," said Gaius. "Its just as suffocating as I remembered."

"I'm starting to remember why I sent you off to the southern fringe in the first place." Reboute handed his helmet off to a nearby serf. "Now, let's hold the council and get it over with."

"You just said that."

Reboute shrugged. "Did I?"

"Just a second ago, my lord."

"Throne, it doesn't even matter. Let's just go."




The room was too small, and it rank of sickly sweet obscura. Domitanus had been smoking again.

Reboute looked over the six freaks, liars, and thieves at the table, and sighed as the realization hit that these men ran Ultramar. Though it officially was known as the Governor's Table, the commons called it the Outcast's Table. 1st Captain Gaius, the Lord Militant, sat down with them.

There was the Lord Overseer, Corraidhin Abgrall. He was responsible for managing the table, and had the power to command any man seated at it. In Reboute's absence, it was Corraidhin who reigned in Ultramar. The military, the police, and the treasury all answered to him, and that was well enough to maintain control. Reboute had intentionally picked a brutish and ugly foreigner for the job. Though Corraidhin was intelligent and had indeed earned his position, he was wholly reviled simply for being born in the Ghoul Stars. No men would willingly answer to him without him having the Ultramarine's backing, and even then the Ultramarines only supported him because Reboute had decreed it so. If Reboute were to die, the Ultramarines would instantly turn on Corraidhin.

If Corraidhin weren't a brutish foreigner, he probably would've attempted a coup by now, and it probably would've succeeded. When the man put his mind to something, he was nearly unstoppable.

To the right of Corraidhin was the Lord Treasurer Domitianus Latro, a deformed man who vaguely resembled a lizard. The powers of the Lord Treasurer were vaguely defined, and as a result he wielded a great deal of clout. It took the combined efforts of the Lord Overseer Corraidhin and the Lord Informer Survius to keep him in check. Beside Domitanus was Aetianna "Clefthand" Lucceius, the Lord Apothecarion and the only woman at the table. Her chief duty lay in making sure that Ultramar's worlds were habitable and its people safe; as such, she was a figurehead more than anything else, and the only true power she had was made possible through bribery and blackmailing. Lord Justicar Vitus Calipher, known as the Snake, and Lord Informer Survius Aurelius, whose chief duties lay in keeping the people in check and maintaining the peace. Both men had dark pasts; Vitus the Snake had betrayed his homeworld by signing off on an order for its Exterminatus, and Survius Aurelius was a notorious crimelord who had spent most of his teenage years in prison for drug possession.

Individually, none of them was powerful enough to betray Reboute and mount a coup, yet as a group they were able to maintain control over Ultramar.

Except Gaius.

As the Lord Militant, Gaius was responsible for representing the Ultramarines, and coordinating their plans with that of the Table's. As 1st Captain, he was responsible for managing the most powerful and most esteemed Chapter of Ultramarines. He was also second-in-line for the Legion's succession. If poor Reboute were to ever suffer some sort of mishap, Gaius would inherit the Legion and would no doubt reign as the new King of Ultramar. In addition to being politically powerful, he was also handsome, intelligent, strong, and very much beloved by the public.

Gaius was a greater threat to Reboute than any Ork Warlord or foreign despot had ever been.

"My lord," said Corraidhin. "I trust you are well?"

"Very," Reboute said, seating himself at the table's head. "Let the meeting commence."

"All of us are in agreement that Ultramar should maintain its neutrality, save one member of our Table." Corraidhin glared at Vitus the Snake. "Dealing with your good brothers, Lord Alpharius and Lord Perturabo, may prove difficult, but we trust that they will understand. The Emperor Horus does not have the energy to commit himself to a war with Ultramar, and will have to be content with neutrality, and be thankful that we haven't sided against him. Lord Informer Survius, you said you had a matter to bring before the table?"

Survius cleared his throat. The man was huge and muscular, and his tanned face was a patchwork of pale white scars. "Lord Ferrus Manus of the Iron Hands and Lord Jaghatai Khan of the White Scars are going to pledge themselves to the Lion Emperor. It was the capture of Lord Magnus of the Thousand Sons that persuaded them. The same informant also tells me that Lord Magnus's eyes and ears have been removed. A different informant tells me that Lord Magnus has been left unharmed so far, but he has suffered grievous damage from a blow to the back during his capture, and will likely never walk again."

"That puts the Lion's strength at five Legions," said Lord Militant Gaius. "Terra will fall."

"Five?" Lord Justicar Vitus the Snake said. "I count four."

"There's the Dark Angels, Night Lords, White Scars, Iron Hands, and as long as he has Magnus hostage, the Thousand Sons. That makes five."

"Do we know anything about Lord Dorn yet?" asked Aetianna, the Lord Apothecarion. "He and the Imperial Fists practically hold Terra, not the Emperor Malcador. I don't see why he's getting involved politically."

"The same reason we aren't," Reboute said. "He doesn't want to be caught on the wrong side at the war's end. If you aren't strong enough to be a contender yourself, its better to wait out on the sidelines."

Vitus smirked. "Someone should've told that to Magnus."

"Do we know when Alpharius and Perturabo will arrive?" asked Reboute.

"I just told you, my lord," Survius said, smiling pleasantly. "In three days."

And so the council meeting dragged on. There was very little actual discussion, but rather Survius bringing up the latest reports, and every member agreeing to a plan that had been thought of some time before. The meeting was simply to make sure that everyone was on the same page. Survius reported on plots, uprisings, and the latest xenos incursions. As it dragged on, Reboute couldn't help but feel a pang of melancholy.

Once there was a time when he'd been the one scheming. He had devised battle plans, manipulated politicians, and built the empire Ultramar was today. Now he'd gone as far as he could, and there simply wasn't anything waiting for him anymore. With the Great Crusade drawing to a close, his purpose was gone. His sole duty now was to simply sit and wait for the next knife in his back.

Once the war was done with the ashes had settled, Reboute could move on to brighter things. With the Imperium weak and its armies bled dry, the opportunity might arise for him to claim the Golden Throne himself.

After that, there would likely be more sitting, and more waiting for knives.




"I need a purpose," said Reboute.

1st Captain Gaius, wearing a plain white toga and walking at an easy pace, stood on one side of him. Brother Crassius, Commander of the Honor Guard, clad in hulking terminator plate stood on the other. Looking out at the world through a long helmet with narrowed red eyes, Crassius seemed almost canine. The armor made his gait rigid and awkward, forcing him to put too much weight in every step. Reboute himself wore a toga like Gaius's, and a heavy brass crown rested uneasily on his head.

"Well, my lord," Gaius said. "Was your farther disappointed in you?"

"No."

"Then that narrows out religion. Leave that for Lorgar and Magnus. I mean, the Lords, Lorgar and Magnus. How about war? War is always fun."

"I'd have to find something to go to war against."

"Devote yourself to piety," said Crassius.

Gaius snorted. "I say war is a better idea. Just do what your brother Russ does and start wars where there are none. He invaded Carthoram just because he got gas drinking Carthoramian ale. Did I say that right? Carthoramian?"

"Its just Carthian. Secondly, that's just a rumor. He invaded because of several confirmed Hrud sightings, though I'll admit your explanation makes a better story."

With a lingering hiss hiss, the door slid open. The interrogation room was cold, and the initial gust put Reboute's hair on edge. Looking inside, he could only make out a vaguely human figure. His red eyes lens, feral and near predatory, cut through the darkness like a knife. They looked feral. As Reboute's eyes adjusted, he could make out the metal glint of the figure's sea-green armor.

Reboute stepped inside, Gaius and Crassius following him closely. The door slid shut behind them.

The figure was seated in a metal chair, bolted to the floor and with no sharp edges. There was a round table, also bolted to the floor and also lacking edges, between him and Reboute. The man drummed his ceramite fingers on the table loudly. "My lord," he said. "I've waited some time for you."

"Who are you?" Reboute asked.

"Alpharius." His voice was a low baritone, but still higher than that of most Astartes. He likely was an Alpha Legionnaire.

"You have his armor, his less than godly height, and his smirking little voice, but you aren't Alpharius. I'll ask you again. Who are you?"

"Nobody important. Just another head."

"Just another head?" repeated back Gaius.

"It's from an old phrase," said Reboute. "Alpharius used to say that, when you face the Hydra, there's always another head."

The Alpha Legionnaire clapped his gauntlets. "Very good. Say what you will about the Alpha Legion, but we certainly are memorable. The Ultramarines on the other hand... What's your battle cry? If I remember correctly, its something about as original as 'For the Emperor'."

"'We march for Macragge'," Crassius said, before Reboute or Gaius could answer.

"How interesting. 'We march for Macragge'. Not the Imperium, not mankind, not the God Emperor.... just Macragge. Certainly speaks volumes about you."

Crassius clenched his fist. His armor imitated the motion, exaggerating it to a ridiculous degree. The stubby fingers of his powerfist, curled inward, their servos let out a low snarl. They were dwarfed by his huge barrel of a hand. Deep within it, something clicked and started whirring.

"Ease down, Crassius," Reboute said. He gestured towards the Alpha Legionnaire seated before him. "Tell me what you were doing on Macragge, and why you were trying to enter my temple."

"Being captured. If I truly came here to infiltrate you, do you think I'd be wearing my Legion's colors?"

Reboute sighed. "The next time Alpharius wants to speak with me, he can use the vox. Its there for a reason. Or we can meet in person, like we're scheduled to tomorrow."

"There are some things that can only be said safely in sealed and locked chambers like these, spoken only by unnamed men of little importance," the Legionnaire said. "Tomorrow, Lord Perturabo will be standing at Alpharius's side. He will be using Alpharius as a mouthpiece; disregard everything he says. Your true conversation with him is right here, right now."

"Very well," said Reboute. The room fell silent. Standing in the darkness, Reboute could feel the low cold settling into his bones. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "Speak."

"Horus commands six Legions: the Luna Wolves, the Emperor's Children, the World Eaters, the Death Guard, the Iron Warriors, and my own. This gives him a vast numerical advantage over any faction. Originally his plan was simple. He would storm Terra and overwhelm Malcador's limited forces with sheer numbers. A simple plan, but an effective one. My master saw credence in it. Perhaps that was why he allied with Horus's cause.

"When Magnus was captured by the Lion, it changed everything. The God Emperor's death left Magnus as possibly the most powerful psyker in existence. If anyone was capable of guiding the waning Astronomicon. When he allied with Malcador, he held Terra, it was assured that the Astronomicon would be lit, and Horus would be able to rely on warp travel. The Lion had to ruin that. Horus had mustered his strength in the Segmentum Tempestus, far from the reach of Terra, where he could work undisturbed. Now he was stranded far from Terra.

"He held Legions, but no true resources. Neither the Mechanicum nor the Administratum answered to him. No worlds paid tithes to him. If he sought to attack Terra, it would be a long grueling slog just to reach the Segmentum Solar. He would bleed along the way, and his march would be slow, giving Malcador plenty of time to prepare for him. By the time he reached Terra, his forces would've be exhausted, and he would've died an ignominious death.

"Horus is reconquering the Imperium. While we speak, the Death Guard are sweeping over the Segmentum Tempestus and the Emperor's Children are conducting lightning fast raids on Malcador's southern most holdings. The entirety of the Iron Warriors and the Alpha Legion march towards Ultramar, and the Luna Wolves and World Eaters aren't far behind. The worlds he claims are ones of the Imperium's fringes, dependent on Imperial protection, that have slipped through the cracks of this war. Worlds like yours."

"Why warn me?" Reboute asked.

"The warning is too vague to be of much help to you. You don't where or when they're going to strike. Considering that both Alpharius and Perturabo arrived, you've probably been suspicious long before I arrived. If Horus only wanted to negotiate, he only need send one man, not two Primarchs and the bulk of their Legions. I came here to tell you that, for a fee, you will have a friend in Horus's inner circle. His Legion will have infiltrated deep into Horus's faction, and is well regarded within it. In this war, the Alpha Legion will either break you or save you. The time has come to choose."

"A fee..."

"Normally we would accept plain paper currency, but we fear that it will lose value in the coming days. In a universe where brother goes to war with brother and the Imperium is in flames, would you truly want to invest all that you had in little slips of paper? Instead, Alpharius had a rough idea for what he wants, which is open to negotiation. Two hundred and twelve billion gallons of refined petroleum products, for a start. One hundred million tons of wheat. Rice is also acceptable, or even maize, but considering the scarcity of those in Ultramar, I imagine wheat would be cheaper for you. Lastly, and this is this is the point I believe you will be least receptive to, two thousand specimens of Ultramarine geneseed. This may sound like a great deal, but consider this: there are approximately two million Ultramarines at this moment in time. Two thousand is less than a tenth of one percent of your Legion."

"Why geneseed?"

"Production is slowing done, and may very well come to a halt. Meanwhile, Astartes are going to be dying faster than ever before. If there is one surefire investment in this universe, it is geneseed."

"You already have geneseed." The cold was starting to make Reboute shiver. He should've worn armor or a cloak; shivering made him look weak.

"And we're in a position to ask for more. Do you have any other qualms?"

"The petroleum and the wheat... Ultramar as a collection of worlds has access that, but as a government we're far from it. We would have to take it. People would notice it was going missing. People would fight back. And considering the sheer volume of it, people would certainly notice that we were giving it to you." He rubbed his temples. "This is too risky. There are just too many uncertainties."

"The Alpha Legion deals in uncertainties."

"I can't believe I'm saying this. When would you want to be paid?"

"You already asked, and I already told you," the Legionnaire said.

"Humor me."

"A series of small monthly payments, equal to one hundredth of the amount you owe, prior to our betrayal. Once we betray Horus, the monthly payments ups to one twentieth of the amount you owe. You pay 5% interest on the late payments. To make sure you hold up your end of the bargain following Horus's defeat, we would need you to hand over the entire 1st Chapter of the Ultramarines, including 1st Captain Gaius and your Honor Guard, to Alpharius. We would possess them until we are fully paid, and then we would return them to you."

"This is absurd," said Gaius. "My lord would never consider handing me over."

"How would I know you'd return them?" Reboute asked.

He could hear the grin in the Legionnaire's voice. "Because if we don't return them, they'll rise in rebellion. Putting down revolts is expensive. Returning them is not."

Reboute shrugged. "I can't give you a definite answer. I'm going to need to consult with my people. All I can say for certain is that I'll consider it."

"Its been a pleasure speaking with you."




They placed the backplate on first, carefully fitting the neural-imports on Reboute's spine to the nerve electrodes on the armor. Each neural-import was a toothed metal ring within a tooth metal ring, surrounded by inflamed and aching red flesh. The nerve electrodes were long and slender syringes with wide, studded bases. They clicked as they locked inside. For just a moment, Reboute was overcome by a wave of a tingling nausea while his nervous system adjusted to the fact that yes, a piece of metal and circuitry was connected to his body.

The adepts, mostly wizened old men who hid their cybernetics and deformities beneath scab-red robes, placed the backpack on next. The generator within let out a low humming as it powered up, while the temperature regulator seemed to cough and hack. From then on, the adepts fitted each rubber joint-seal on, then locked another piece of armor plating onto that, occasionally taking the time to hook up another neural-import. Along the way, sacred rituals had to be performed. A cauldron of freezing holy water was poured over Reboute's head, matting his hair to his scalp and running down the smooth curvature of his armor. The shock of it forced his entire body to tense up, and for a moment his muscles locked in place tighter than steel. Incense was lit, and by the time Reboute's armor was fully assembled the air was rich with smoke.

Then came the time for his own serfs to dress him. Every inch of metal was polished until the soft blue armor had taken on a magnificent luster. A golden-yellow laurel wreath was placed atop his head, gently enough to not disturb his perfectly combed hair. Crinkled and yellowing parchment, listing Reboute's many victories, was stamped onto his armor with red seals.

Perturabo and Alpharius had arrived at last, accompanied by the bombastic symphony of nearly a hundred ships breaking from the warp. They cut across Macragge's dark skies, their shields awash in dizzying arrays of conflicting colors, like oil dancing across the surface of water. Some of the ships were fat-bellied frigates, slowly lurching through space, and others were wickedly sharp daggers of vessels, bristling with kinetic lance arrays and flak cannons.

Three Gods now walked Macragge. For the commons, this was a cause for celebration. High up from the spiraling towers of the Ultramarines, Reboute could look down and see parades going through the streets. There were colorful banners, depicting the iconography and symbols of all three Legions. There was the great warhammer of the Iron Warriors, its long handle ringed by bands of brass. There was the Hydra of the Alpha Legion, its many heads poised to strike. Most common of all, and elevated far above the other banners by long wooden poles, was the marble white U of the Ultramarines, standing out on a stark blue background. Cheers rang through the streets.

Reboute wasn't nearly as excited as the commons were.

He strode towards the landing pad's door, flanked by two hulking terminators. Commander Crassius, on one side of him, had both his hands locked into powerfists. Sergeant Aulus, on the other side, was armed with a fearsome sword and a reaper autocannon. The cannon's twin barrels were the length of spears, and their muzzles had been forged to resemble yawning skulls. With the pull of trigger, Aulus could set them both to work barking death, in the form of solid slug adamantium rounds capable of punching through a tank.

Reboute reached the door. He paused. Either Perturabo or Alpharius must have just set foot on the landing pad, because a low roar rose up through up the crowd. Something felt deeply ominous about it.

Ever since the Legionnaire had spoken to him, he'd been victim to a slow, creeping sort of malaise. Horus wielded an incredible amount of power. If he truly wanted Ultramar, he could take it. Having to trust and rely on the Alpha Legion had only nursed Reboute's paranoia. He remembered the words. 'When you face the Alpha Legion, there is always an other head.'

"My lord," said Crassius. "Are you well?"

"Very." Reboute forced himself to grin.

He threw open the doors, stepped out into the rain, and spread his arms. "Brothers!" he called joyously.

This wasn't the dour landing pad where Reboute had met Gaius. No, this one had to be fit for a Primarch. It was vast enough to accommodate four Thunderhawks if need be. The floor was made from diamond so transparent that it resembled glass, allowing men to look down and see a whole cheering world beneath them. Railing made from the same material ringed the pad, and each railing post was a long and thin spire topped with a torch.

Perturabo and Alpharius stood side by side.

Perturabo resembled a solid block of reinforced armor and machinery, with a huge squat body. Furious pistons, hydraulic tubes rushing with coolant, and clanking gears could be seen where Perturabo's form wasn't completely incased within shining steel plate. Whirring clicks and low rumbling noises announced the slightest shift in posture. His face was thick and red, with thinning black hair. Pink-white scars cutting across his features. Three metal rivets could be seen in his left temple. Wires ran down the back of head, plugging into his armor’s adamantium hood. He regarded his surroundings dispassionately with cold, sunken-in eyes.

Alpharius wore standard power armor, built with a regular Astartes in mind. It was the sea green of the Alpha Legion, trimmed with silvery bands of metal. The Imperial Aquila, with a skull instead of two eagle's heads, was emblazoned proudly on his chest. On his right shoulder pauldron was the coiling Hydra he had taken for his symbol. He wore an outdated variant of Mark V armor, its narrowed red eyes and triangular vox grille more reminiscent of a saurian predator than one of the Angels of the Adeptus Astartes. It was still more expressive than Perturabo.

"Its a pleasure to see you, Reboute," said Alpharius, any tone or humanity stripped from his voice by crackling vox unit.

"Its a pleasure to see you too, brother." He turned to face the Primarch of the Iron Warriors. "Perturabo, I heard of your magnificent conquest over the Orks of Galactus. You manned the fortresses better than Rogal Dorn ever could've."

"Flattery will earn you nothing," Perturabo said. He ran his tongue over his dried, cracking lips. "Tell us of Ultramar, the Empire within an Empire. I hear you've been doing splendidly. The rest of the Imperium is reeling from the dimming Astronomicon, which is reducing intergalactic trade to a distant memory. But Ultramar - Your empire is so far from Terra, the Astronomicon was never anything more to it than a distant spec of light. Ultramar was built with the intention of surviving without it, and it has certainly succeeded. We expect your tithes will be a bountiful reflection of this success."

"I pay tithes to the Emperor, and the Emperor alone."

Perturabo grinned. His teeth were such a dark yellow that some were beginning to brown. "That is reassuring. The God Emperor will be here shortly, and he is not one to treat treachery lightly."

"The God Emperor," said Reboute, "is dead. He died on Gorro."

"And was reborn," Alpharius said, "in the form of his faithful son, found on Cthonia, who led the Luna Wolves, and who spearheaded the Great Crusade. Once bedecked in grey and white, he is now bedecked in gold, and he wields his father's flaming blade. The God Emperor is ascendant. Death could not conquer him, nor will any False Emperor."

"You think Horus is the God Emperor," Reboute said slowly.

"We know," said Alpharius, his voice on the verge of a hiss. "Do not say that name. When he ascended beyond mortality, he left mere names behind him."

"Brother, calm yourself," Perturabo said, resting a gauntlet on Alpharius's shoulder. "Reboute, will you kneel before our liege and father, the God Emperor of Mankind? Will you pay tithes to His cause, enforce His laws through your realm, and wage war in His name?"

"Alpharius said he didn't have a name."

Perturabo scowled. Alpharius's gauntlets clenched into fists. "You would do well," Alpharius said, "to treat the God Emperor's ambassadors with respect. Your loyalty was already in doubt before this war. Ultramar was becoming increasingly distant from the Imperium, and the Ultramarines had abandoned the Great Crusade in favor of serving as your Empire's private army. Worlds were conquered in your name, not His. It was the banner of the Ultramarines, not the Aquila of the Imperium that was raised over the rubble. And when the God Emperor was laid low on Gorro, where were you? Sipping wine at Macragge. We are offering you redemption. Take it, or cement yourself as a heretic."

"I'm a heretic? The God Emperor died, and you're using that as a shameless excuse for your own ambitions. What happened was a tragedy; he certainly didn't ascend, and it isn't a cause for celebration."

"For a man who was sipping wine at Macragge when the God Emperor-"

Reboute belted him, hard. Ceramite rang against ceramite. Alpharius was sent reeling back, clutching his faceplate with his gauntlet. When he lowered it, four grey scars could be seen in his armor, one for each of Reboute's knuckles. He let out a low, shuddering breath, and looked up at Reboute. Never before had Reboute seen glassy, unblinking eye lenses express such a burning intensity. The King of Ultramar found himself backing away.

Alpharius looked at Reboute.

Reboute looked at Alpharius.

There was no more need for words between them.

Alpharius's hand flew for his holstered plasma pistol. The sound that followed was a deafening storm, the likes of which eclipsed the worst hurricanes Macragge had ever suffered. Without his helmet, Reboute was blinded by the muzzleflare, and with the storm all he could hear was the ringing in his ears. Something smelled like smoke. Alpharius was stumbling - No, falling backwards, while Aulus's autocannon blazed away. Each shot crated his breastplate, sending cracks running through the sea-green armor, and punched through his chest. His vox grille amplified his wet, choking screams to nightmarish heights. The commons crowding the streets below must have heard it, because their cheering had turned to screaming.

Smoke was wafting lazily from the twin barrels. Perturabo took a step back, his armor's clacking and whirring seeming grotesquely loud in the silence that followed. His own blood pooling around him, Alpharius lay on the ground.

He's making sure they'll be a war, Reboute found himself thinking. His thoughts went back to the Legionnaire he'd spoken with days before. This isn't even Alpharius.

"Reboute," said Perturabo. "What have you done?"

Oblivious, Reboute strode towards the Alpha Legionnaire. He lifted the man up by his armor's collar and dragged him towards the railing. With one hand, he propped the Legionnaire up against the crystal railing. With the other hand, he drew his gladius. In Macragge's tumultuous sky, the roiling clouds were peeling back, and the pale sun was beginning to shine through. The gladius, a foot and a half of killing steel, glinted in the light.

"Have you gone insane?" Perturabo shouted, fast approaching Reboute. "What are you-"

Crassius, Commander of the Honor Guard, cut him off. The terminator knew even less of the situation than Perturabo, but his loyalty to Reboute was unflinching. "Step back," Crassius said. His powerfists lit up, cracking and sparking with lightning. With a low machine rumbling and a deep ka-chunk, Aulus's autocannon reloaded. Its barrels were fixed on Perturabo's head.

Reboute undid the clasps sealing the Legionnaire's helmet to his body, and wrenched it free. Beneath it, the man had the same sly features as Alpharius. Blood was dribbling from his mouth and smeared on his face. His eyes were nearly glazed over. "Who are you?" demanded Reboute.

"Alpharius," he said. "Please, brother, let me go."

The tip of the gladius pricked the flesh just beneath Alpharius's eye, drawing a drop of blood. "I won't ask you again," said Reboute.

"Don't do this," Perturabo said. "This is an act of war, you don't want to do this!"

His eyelids clenched shut, the Legionnaire started wailing. "I'm Alpharius, I swear in the God Emperor's name, I am Alphar-" Reboute's knife opened his eye. There was a noise, sickeningly wet, and an out pour of fluids. The Legionnaire grasped blindly at Reboute, but the King threw him to the ground. There the Legionnaire lay, screaming his throat raw.

"Who are you?" Reboute screamed.

"Tell your guards to stand down. We can still work things out," said Perturabo, "if you just tell them to stand down."

"He's a traitor! He came to me and he told me that there'd be a war, and I was going to pay him to betray you!" Reboute's voice was quaking. "This isn't even him, he was trying to make sure there'd be a war so that I would need him! This man was sent here to die!"

"You shot him. Tell your men to stand down, before I end up like our brother did."

"He provoked me, didn't you see it? Please, I don't want a war, we just... We just need to work this out. If Alpharius had to make sure there would be a war, than that means there is the possibility that there might not be a war, and.... Don't you understand?"

"Tell your guards to stand down," Pertuabo said. The Legionnaire, slowly crawling across the the landing pad, leaving a trail of smeared blood behind him, reached Perturabo. He clung to the Primarch's leg with tenacity. "Throne, look at what you've done."

"Stand down," said Reboute. Crassius's powerfists powered down, and Aulus's autocannon shifted away from Perturabo.

For a man who was nearly three tons of steel and adamantium, Perturabo moved with impossible speed. Great spikes slid free from sheathes on his knuckles. His fists themselves were consumed by lightning. With about the finesse and grace of a mortar, the fist met Reboute's chestplate.

Reboute lurched backwards just before the impact. It wasn't enough to completely spare him the blow, but it did prevent Perturabo's fist from passing straight through him. He stumbled away from Perturabo, one hand on his broken breasplate, the other clinging to the railing. Oil, hydraulic fluid, and blood was seeping through the cracks in the blackened ceramite. In his chest, he felt nothing but a numb warmth. For all he knew, he'd broken ribs. Maybe a lung had collapsed.

The two Primarchs were too close for Aulus to use his autocannon. Instead, Reboute's honor guard descended upon Perturabo. Crassius launched a brutal volley of punches, each one chipping away at the armor's layered and reinforced steel, shattering plates of metal and tearing open bundles of wiring. Growling, Perturabo turned to face his attack, the movement sluggish and awkward. The Primarch hurled his sparking fist at Crassius's head. Before he could reduce it to broken ceramite and splintered bone, Aulus intercepted the attack.

Aulus's sword moved too fast to be seen. It was an arc of blue light cutting through the air, that stopped at Perturabo's elbow. There, it carved through segmented cabling and the rubber of the armor's joints, lodging itself in the Primarch's arm. Meat smoldered and rubber burnt. Perturabo lurched towards Aulus, slipping free from the blade and hammering Aulus's codplate with his elbow. It shattered. Crassius saw the opportunity and took it. His stilted gait coming as close to a lunge as his armor allowed, he threw a brutal roundhouse punch at Perturabo's head.

Using his offhand, Perturabo caught him by the wrist and twisted. The rigid terminator warplate wouldn't allow the movement. Metal screeched against metal, while Perturabo's fingers dug into the wrist softened by lightning. Crassius tried to attack with his other powerfist, but the Primarch simply shoved him back by the twisted arm.

That was when Reboute attacked. Each breath was ragged and painful, and his head was pounding, but he refused to abandon the fight. He found an opening made by Crassius in Perturabo's back and took it, sliding his gladius through a gap in between two armor plates.

Perturabo screamed. His voice was lower than the depths of the warp, and carried with it an unearthly rage.

As he twisted to face Reboute, he brought his elbow and rammed it into Reboute's chest. There was a crash like thunder, and a vague sensation of warmth. His ruin of chestplate sparking and whirring, while broken ribs gouged through the bruised flesh beneath, Reboute stumbled toward-




The rhythmic hissing of the oxygen machine went on and on.

The steady stream of oxygen was so pure that Reboute would never need to exhale, and the pressure put on the air by the machine ensured that he didn't have to inhale either: it did that for him. So he laid, lungs perpetually inflated, muscles atrophying away. His new ribcage was made of titanium, like someone had torn the bars from a prison cell and bent them around Reboute's chest. His own personal prison.

Everyday, they cleaned his arse, shifted him to prevent bedsores, and put chapstick on his lips. They clipped his nails and cut his hair. While they preserved his corpse, life went on.

"Was it him?" he mouthed when he first woke. The words came in a rasp so small they could barely be heard. His head was swimming. This body, aching and soft and weak, didn't feel like his. A serf, wide eyed, stood frozen before him. Reboute tried to speak again. With the oxygen machine, he was perpetually inhaling. His voice came out in a dry croak. "Was it Alpharius?"

"Who, my lord?" the serf stammered. He turned towards the doorway. "The King is awake! We need an adept, now!"

"The Legionnaire on the pad." Reboute's tongue was fat and clumsy in his mouth. How long had he been asleep?

"You mean he wasn't, my lord?" Again, the serf was looking back at the doorway. "We need an adept!"

A man, fat and balding, hurried inside, his scab-red robes whirling around him. There wasn't more than a horseshoe of thin grey hair left on his head. "My lord," he said. "Are you well?"

Reboute's jaw clenched. "Never better. Where am I?"

"The Ironfalls of Macragge, my lord. Umm, there is, um, something pressing about your condition that we should discuss, my lord."

"Perturabo and the Alpha Legionnaire. Where are they?"

"Lord Perturabo used you as a hostage to broker his escape. Lord Alpharius is currently in your custody. There is something pressing about your-"

"Spit it out."

"Have you been suffering from forgetfulness lately, my lord?" the Adept said. "As in, repeating yourself, forgetting the locations of things, struggling to recall words, and the like."

"No," Reboute said. His throat was raw. "Nothing unusual. Sometimes I forget details, or I'm told I repeat myself, but nothing unusual. A King is already expected to remember too much."

"We used a Magnetic Resonance graphing system to check for any head injuries, my lord. What we found we believe is unrelated to your injuries, so I thought I might ask you that. It, um, corresponded with the early stages of dementia. I ordered a Positron emission tomography to be used to get a closer look. It is a... reasonable concern that you may be in the early stages of A1V3, more commonly known as Rotmind or Alzheimer's Disease."

"Alzheimer's..."

"We've caught it early, my lord, and considering you are one of the God Emperor's genechildren, we have reason to be optimistic." The Adept forced an uneasy grin. "Certainly, as a Primarch, you will-"

"I know what happens to people with Alzheimer's," Reboute hissed. "The memory goes first, but it doesn't end there. Your mind slows, and you can't think like you used to. Your personality changes, goes off balance. You know that something is wrong with that way you perceive things, but you can't put your finger on it. That leads to paranoia. Finally, you lose all coherence. Your mind is so muddled that even you can't make sense of it."

"Like I said, we have reason to be optimistic-"

"Sure. I can stave off gaking myself for a few more years. Maybe long enough to see the end of this war. Maybe not. How long do you think I'll stay in power, if people know I have Alzheimer's?"

"My lord, I can assure you that no one knows. Your records are of the upmost confidentiality."

"You know." Reboute turned to look at the serf. "He knows. That's already too many people. Leave."

The Adept hesitated.

"Leave. Throne, have you gone deaf?"

The Adept scurried away, and the rhythmic hissing of the respirator went on.

That was a long ass chapter, at times I didn't think I was going to make it. thankfully the story dragged me kicking and screaming on. This could easily be two chapters worth of story telling.

I loved it. The dialouge and fighting were believable, and the twists at the end kept me more than surprised. Well done.

Thanks themanwiththeplan, comments are much appreciated.

Sorry for the long delay! Yet again you display your skills with words, well done