（貴圈兩面三刀，真的，一點(diǎn)也不意外。

貴圈兩面三刀，真的，一點(diǎn)也不意外。

貴圈兩面三刀，真的，一點(diǎn)也不意外。

貴圈兩面三刀，真的，一點(diǎn)也不意外。）

我小心翼翼地穿過(guò)塞克斯（Xerxe)的夜間街道，懷疑自己是否犯了錯(cuò)誤。

?

毫無(wú)疑問(wèn)，在我?guī)装倌甑娜松?，我犯了很多錯(cuò)誤。但目前的問(wèn)題是這是否是一個(gè)錯(cuò)誤。

?

萊昂的邏輯有一定的道理，但不多。我們到達(dá)阿瓦盧斯的方法，以及他自己到達(dá)卡瑪斯的方法，都無(wú)法解釋。用邏輯去解釋它，將很誘人，但將邏輯應(yīng)用到已經(jīng)完全不合邏輯的事情上會(huì)有多成功？另一方面，亞空間旅行本就是對(duì)不合邏輯的東西的定義，而人類仍然試圖定義量化這一點(diǎn)。萊昂確信，由于我以前的另一個(gè)兄弟的出現(xiàn)，他被阿瓦盧斯吸引了。我向他解釋說(shuō)，即使這是真的，也不能保證這樣一個(gè)戰(zhàn)士會(huì)比我對(duì)他更友善，我曾試圖當(dāng)場(chǎng)殺死他，但他對(duì)我的擔(dān)憂置之不理。

?

“我需要我的兒子——至少是那些可以信任的人，”他對(duì)我說(shuō)

?

這意味著，我將成為第一個(gè)有被槍殺風(fēng)險(xiǎn)的人。一名原體在城市里走動(dòng)時(shí)，必然引起大量的注意，除此之外，萊昂還需要協(xié)調(diào)阿瓦盧斯的防御工作，所以找到我理論上的兄弟取決于我自己。身穿帶帽的棕色長(zhǎng)袍，我可以認(rèn)為我以前在許多不同的世界里偽裝過(guò)的那個(gè)基因改造的苦工，只要我記得動(dòng)作必須比自然緩慢、笨拙。星際戰(zhàn)士是戰(zhàn)士，不適合耍花招，但多年來(lái)，出于必要，他們不得不適應(yīng)。

我的另一個(gè)優(yōu)勢(shì)，獅子也猜對(duì)了，那就是墮天使不總是以一個(gè)人。我也應(yīng)該強(qiáng)調(diào)，我們也不是一支貫穿帝國(guó)結(jié)構(gòu)的有組織、有協(xié)調(diào)的力量；或者，如果有些人建立了組織，我沒(méi)加入。然而，我們?nèi)匀皇切请H戰(zhàn)士，之前就是更大整體的一部分。我們中任何一個(gè)在任何時(shí)候與另一個(gè)兄弟接觸過(guò)的人都知道，我們的軍團(tuán)并不是唯一一個(gè)以這種方式分散的軍團(tuán)，這種共同的經(jīng)歷孕育了某種親屬關(guān)系，無(wú)論相關(guān)人員發(fā)生了什么變化。

?

墮天使用一些標(biāo)志來(lái)標(biāo)記他們的存在，這樣，如果另一個(gè)人經(jīng)過(guò)，我們可能會(huì)知道我們并不孤單，我們會(huì)與我們遇到的其他人分享這些標(biāo)志。事實(shí)上，它們不是卡利班標(biāo)志。相反，我們使用與獅王上任之前第一軍團(tuán)組織的舊標(biāo)識(shí)符相關(guān)的符號(hào)。薩里厄斯Sarius，我第一次遇到的那個(gè)可憐的孤獨(dú)者，教會(huì)了我該尋找什么，我把這些知識(shí)傳授給了帕維拉Priavel，在我們一起度過(guò)的短暫時(shí)間里，我對(duì)他的扭曲崇拜失去了耐心。

僅僅知道這些跡象是不夠的，因?yàn)槿藗冞€必須知道在哪里尋找它們。因此，我首先前往圣杰羅姆大教堂，這是該市最大的大教堂。這確實(shí)是一座宏偉的建筑，有四個(gè)淺色大理石圓頂，圍繞著一個(gè)更大的中央圓頂排列，其主宣禮塔甚至比州長(zhǎng)府的塔尖還要高。當(dāng)然，我的兄弟們永遠(yuǎn)不會(huì)在大教堂上留下自己的印記——這種被認(rèn)為是異端的行為很難在幾乎總是聚集于這些地方的信徒中隱藏起來(lái)——但正門(mén)對(duì)面的建筑是一個(gè)常見(jiàn)的地點(diǎn)。

來(lái)到通往大教堂所在廣場(chǎng)的街道兩側(cè)，我有兩個(gè)選擇，：一個(gè)酒吧，盡管戰(zhàn)亂頻頻，但仍然開(kāi)放；以及一個(gè)太平間，方便舉行任何可能在大教堂舉行的高調(diào)葬禮，也方便接收對(duì)面供應(yīng)酒水的受害者。太平間的墻壁上并沒(méi)有留下痕跡和涂鴉，但沒(méi)有什么吸引我的眼球。另一方面，酒屋上刻著一個(gè)圓圈，圓圈內(nèi)有三條交叉的線，一條垂直，兩條傾斜。每一條線的一端都有一個(gè)較短的直角劃痕，非常粗略地近似于三把帶交叉防護(hù)的劍。

這是利刃天軍的標(biāo)志，他們是人數(shù)最多的，也是軍團(tuán)的核心。邊緣的其他標(biāo)記通過(guò)它們的編號(hào)和位置告訴我下一步該往哪里去?？磥?lái)萊昂可能是對(duì)的。我的一個(gè)兄弟曾經(jīng)在這里。

?

我走開(kāi)了，繞過(guò)一群請(qǐng)?jiān)刚吆蛻曰谡叩倪吘?，他們大聲祈禱，狂熱地懇求皇帝救贖。這總是讓我不太舒服，但更糟糕的是，我能聽(tīng)到獅王的名字被給予同樣的虔誠(chéng)祈禱。令人惡心。

帝國(guó)已經(jīng)從理性時(shí)代墮落了這分田地。

The painted mark guided me deep into the slums, where the streets ran with effluent and the illumination was sparse. This was the territory of the same gang whose marks I had already seen, and I moved with caution. This was not for my own safety ?– even without my ceramite, I had little doubt in my ability to deal with the sort of footpads and toughs that might lurk here ?– but simply because any sort of violent confrontation would draw attention, and attention was something I wished to avoid. No -recluse appreciates someone dismembering half a dozen criminals, even in self-defence, and then knocking on their door.

The final mark was on a door of cheap plastek, set into the wall of a squat building made out of what I presumed was local stone. This sigil was different: instead of the crossed swords of the Host of Blades, the circle was occupied by a thick horizontal line topped with five vertical ones. It was a crude rendering of the mark of the Host of Crowns, that ancient brotherhood of linebreakers and champions.

I knocked on the door. It might seem an anticlimactic end to my search, but there was no secret code in the rhythm, and nor did I have an ancient password on the tip of my tongue. My basic nature would be immediately obvious to anyone who was familiar with the Legiones Astartes, once I threw back my hood and abandoned the mannerisms I had adopted, and none other than those present at the Breaking of Caliban would have the knowledge required to follow these marks to this location.

Unless, of course, I thought as I stared at a door which remained -unanswered, my more modern brothers had prised the secret loose from one of my kin. Then they might set up traps to lure us in, seeking to use our own language against us…

‘Move and you die.’

The whisper came from behind me, pitched low enough that someone without a Space Marine’s augmented hearing would have no hope of hearing it. It was a Space Marine’s voice, I knew that much instantly: there was a pitch and timbre to it that no mortal could have matched.

I have been held at gunpoint more times than most Astartes, I suspect. For the vast majority of my kin, be they ancient or modern, if a gun is pointed at them then either they or the person pointing it are about to die ?– that is how it works on the battlefield. For those of us who have spent consider-able time pretending to be someone or something we are not, however, things are different. I have lost count of the number of times someone with an inflated sense of self-importance, or intimidated by my size, has pointed a gun in my direction with the assumption that doing so will give them control of the encounter. Sometimes I have allowed this fiction, because it has suited me. At other times they have lost the arm holding the gun, or worse.

This was different to those occasions. Priavel and I nearly shot each other when we became aware of our proximity at the same time, and our reflexes to draw and fire were only just overtaken by the realisation of each other’s nature, but now one of my kin had the drop on me. I could tell from the direction of the voice where the speaker was: the upstairs window of the dwelling behind me. My weapons were tucked beneath my robe, and I knew that I would die if I reached for them. I did not doubt for a moment that a weapon was being trained on me; even a Space Marine would hesi-tate before threatening a brother who had not until that moment been aware of his presence, unless he had the ability to make good on the threat.

‘Who speaks?’ I asked. The fact that I was still alive told me nothing. Another veteran of the Breaking would surely try to ascertain my identity before deciding whether or not to kill me, and my little brothers would seek to haul me to one of their Interrogator-Chaplains to be tortured into confession rather than ending my life outright.

‘You are Astartes, then,’ the voice said, slightly louder this time. ‘Turn around slowly with your hands at your sides, and draw no weapon.’

I did as I was bid, raising my head slightly as I did so, so I could see up from under the cowl of my hood. I could see no figure at the window in the dim light, nor could I see anything of a weapon muzzle as such until I became aware of a darker circle trained on me. The metal surrounding it had been blackened to avoid giving itself away through reflections, but the bore of the barrel itself was just possible to make out. It was a boltgun, and without my armour I would die easily. I silently cursed the Lion. Not for the first time, and I would be very glad indeed if it was not the last, for that at least would mean that I would be alive to do so.

It was time to take what control of the situation I could, which at this point simply meant volunteering information before it was demanded of me.

‘I am Zabriel of the First Legion,’ I declared. ‘I come in brotherhood. Will you at least tell me your name?’

There was a pause.

‘Remove your hood,’ the voice instructed me. ‘Slowly.’

I reached up and did so. I felt oddly vulnerable without it, as though the cloth around my face had been a sort of armour. Although in terms of how much I had kept my face hidden over the years, it had certainly been protection of a sort.

‘Emperor’s blood,’ the voice said, and the guarded hostility was suddenly absent from it. Then I heard a snort of amusement. ‘You got old.’

That, at least, suggested I was not about to die, but I was growing irritated. Caution was one thing, mockery was another. ‘You know me?’

‘I trainedyou, old man. Walk through the door ahead of you, but keep your weapons away.’

I crossed the street in two strides, and opened the door. It revealed a dimly lit single room which occupied the entire downstairs of the dwelling, apart from the stairs. I pulled up short as I was about to enter, because it was not empty.

A large figure dressed not so differently to myself stood across the room from me in a duellist’s stance, a dormant power sword in his hand. He was another Space Marine without a doubt, but not the one who had been holding me at gunpoint; I could hear that one’s steps above as he moved towards the staircase. However, off to my left was yet another warrior, this one in full black ceramite beneath a red surplice, aiming a plasma gun at me. His helmet, the eye-lenses glaring red, was taken from the more modern Mark VII armour.

I swallowed. For some reason, the incineration of plasma was a far less appealing death than mass-reactive bolter rounds, despite the fact that it might well be quicker, and I had not exchanged any words with this individual.

‘Come in, and shut the door,’ the swordsman told me. He had a cold, clipped voice, one in which the vowel sounds of Caliban still sat prominently.

‘Brother,’ I said in greeting, doing as he bid.

‘We shall see.’

Footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of the third warrior, the one ?with whom I had been exchanging words. The room was crowded enough with the three of us in it; his arrival made it positively claustrophobic. I saw his face, and a shock of recognition ran through me.

‘Aphkar?’

‘I said I trained you, did I not?’ Knight-Sergeant Aphkar replied with a grin. He had been one of my instructors when I was first raised into the ranks of the First Legion; a Gyptian with long, smooth black hair. That hair was still just as black and lustrous as when I had last seen him, bellowing orders during the defence of Caliban.

‘You have not aged,’ I said in wonder.

‘It has been a mere thirty years for me,’ he replied. ‘You must be twice my age now, in real terms.’ His glance slid sideways, and he sighed. ‘Lohoc, will you put the gun away? You will bring half the street down if you fire it in here.’

‘I will not,’ Lohoc replied. His voice was hoarse and breathy, even taking into account the slight distortion from the vox-grille of his helmet. ‘We do not know his intentions.’ His plasma gun was a Ryza Thunderbolt, a design considered ancient by modern standards, but which still looked comparatively new. I suspected it was one of our Legion’s original weapons, made when the Imperium’s understanding of plasma was superior to its current level of technology.

Aphkar sighed. ‘Zabriel, meet Lohoc, also known as the Red Whisper. This is Kai.’

The Calibanite inclined his head to me in a slight nod. The Red Whisper did not move.

‘This is Zabriel, whom I trained,’ Aphkar continued. He smiled. ‘It is good to lay eyes upon you again, even if you are somewhat changed from when I last saw you.’

‘Four hundred years in this galaxy will do that,’ I muttered, and I saw him wince.

‘Alone?’

‘Near enough. I met a couple of others, but in each case one or other of us quickly decided we preferred our own company.’ I fought down the envy I could feel rising up inside me at the notion of having like-minded brothers at my side while attempting to deal with the insanity my life had turned into. I could not afford resentment to creep into my voice.

‘The streets are already abuzz with rumours,’ Kai said. ‘They claim that Lion El’Jonson is here, in Xerxe.’

‘They are correct,’ I said simply. ‘He has returned.’

Each of them tensed. I had expected denial, but it seemed they trusted one of their brothers to know his own primarch when he saw him.

‘And you are with him?’ Lohoc asked. I was very aware that his finger was still on the trigger of his weapon.

‘I am,’ I told them.

‘Even though he and the rest of his traitors tried to destroy us all?’ Aphkar said, his voice roughening.

I shrugged. ‘I tried to kill him when I first saw him. I failed. He did not kill me in turn. Instead, we spoke about that day. The Lion swears that ?he remained loyal to the Emperor, and I believe him. He also swears that Caliban fired on his fleet first, and I believe that he believes that. If there was treachery, I fear it came from our commanders ?– Luther, Astelan, and their cohorts.’

‘I told you there was something off about Luther,’ Kai murmured. Aphkar shushed him with a wave of his hand.

‘Was he taken by the warp storm with the rest of us?’ he asked.

‘He does not know,’ I said. ‘He has no memory of what happened between the destruction of Caliban and just before he met me.’ I decided not to mention the strange, pseudo-Calibanite forests at this juncture; there would be time enough for that later, assuming Lohoc did not decide to incinerate me. ‘But my guess would be not. He is old, Aphkar ?– he looks older than me now. If I were to speculate, I would say he has been kept somewhere else, and aged as naturally as a primarch can.’

‘Kept where? Kept by whom?’ Kai demanded. I could only spread my hands.

‘As I said, brother, that is merely my speculation.’

‘Why did he send you to find us?’ Aphkar demanded. My old mentor clearly had no trust for our gene-father.

‘He needs our help. He wishes to protect as much of humanity as possible, and he needs Space Marines to do that.’ I hesitated, then continued. ‘And to be frank, I think he is lonely. He awoke, like we did, into a galaxy vastly different from what he knew before, where all his father’s designs have fallen into ruin. He faces it with the same stoicism he always had, but I think he craves familiarity, and I am only one. I have convinced him that at least some of us on Caliban knew nothing of any hostility between us until his forces attacked, and now he wishes to find those of his sons who still live. I think he wishes for reconciliation.’

‘Reconciliation?’ Aphkar growled. ‘He slaughtered our brothers, warriors who had been with the Legion since its inception and neophytes alike, and we are expected to believe that it was a misunderstanding?’

The Red Whisper lowered his weapon. ‘I will go with you, brother.’

My surprise was mirrored on the faces of Kai and Aphkar. Lohoc did not seem to feel that any further explanation was necessary; he merely shouldered his plasma gun and turned to a chest behind him in which were, I assumed, whatever personal effects and ammunition he had accumulated.

‘Lohoc?’ Aphkar said, that one word containing all the question needed.

‘I never believed that the Lion betrayed us,’ Lohoc said. ‘I assumed the fault lay with us somehow. Caliban was a strange world, which twisted much. Who is to say it had not twisted us?’ He opened the chest and pulled out a bandolier from which hung two plasma flasks. ‘Since I returned to the galaxy I have hunted the mightiest beasts preying on humanity, and I have dedicated each kill to the Lion. If he means to turn a hunt into a war, I will go to him.’

Aphkar scowled. ‘And what are you ordered to do if I refuse to go with you, Zabriel?’

I faced him openly. ‘The Lion sent me with a request, not an order. He asksfor your help in protecting humanity. If you refuse him, but do not oppose him, he told me he will not pursue you. Besides,’ I added, ‘we had no idea there would be more than one of my brothers here. If Lohoc alone joins us, that is all we had hoped for.’

Kai grunted. ‘This is not an opportunity I can ignore. To see my primarch again with my own eyes, after all this time?’ He sheathed his sword. ‘I will come with you, Zabriel, although I may not stay.’

I looked at Aphkar. His nostrils flared, but after a moment, he nodded.

‘Fine, we will see what he has to say for himself.’ He glanced at Kai, then back at me. ‘Zabriel, I do not wish to ask you to demean yourself, but–’

‘But this would go quicker if I assisted with your armour.’ I gave my former instructor a knowing smile, and stepped forward willingly. ‘Brother-sergeant, I have been alone for four hundred years, more or less, with no serfs to help me with my battleplate. I have had to choose when to don it and when to remove it, always thinking about if and when I will be able to reverse that decision, and the dangers of revealing my identity to anyone whose assistance I enrolled. Of course I will help you.’

?

The Lion is woken from sleep by the chime of the vox. He sits up on the floor and reaches for his sword first, then for the communication equipment on its pedestal next to the unused bed. This seemed like the perfect opportunity for sleep: he had issued instructions which were in the process of being carried out, and there was no immediate threat. Now he looks at the sky outside the window, still shrouded by night, and wonders if the fact someone is rousing him at this hour means he misjudged.

‘Yes?’

‘Your… attendant has returned, my lord.’

The Lion snorts in amusement. ‘If you refer to Zabriel, he is not my attendant, he is my son. Is he alone?’

‘No, my lord. There are three others with him.’

‘Three?’ Lion El’Jonson gets to his feet. ‘Three Space Marines? Armoured in black?’

‘Even so, lord. Shall I conduct them to the Twilight Garden?’

‘Do so.’ The Lion breaks the connection, and reaches for the robe laid out on the bed: a gift from Marshal Haraj, created by her personal tailors within two hours of his arrival. The fabric is a beautiful soft cream, and the winged sword of his Legion is emblazoned on the chest in black. He pulls it on, ignoring his armour. He has no need to remind these sons of his that he is a warrior; indeed, their last image of him might well be him clad in the Leonine Panoply and coming for their brothers with his blade bared.

The Lion is not incapable of considering the thoughts and feelings of others, but it takes him conscious effort. His reunion with Zabriel was unforeseen and sudden, when he did not know himself, and he has thought about how to approach others of his Legion ever since. However, this does not mean he can discern the approach that will work.

‘Father, why did you create us so? So… incomplete?’ he mutters, acutely aware once again of his own shortcomings. ‘I am a weapon, only of use within the structure you had already forged. Now that structure has crumbled, and I have scant authority save that granted to me by its remnants. I can lead by example, but little else.’

The Lion sighs. He has no time to dwell on such things now; he sent Zabriel to retrieve one son, and the former Destroyer has returned with three. Keeping them waiting will do nothing to endear him to them.

He leaves his chambers and takes the quickest route through the palace: he has already assessed the defensive capabilities of the building, and memorised its layout while he was doing so. Most of the guards stationed where corridors meet jerk to alert and salute as he passes. One or two bow their heads and murmur as if in prayer, which the Lion chooses to ignore.

The Twilight Garden is a large balcony, three storeys above ground level, aligned towards the setting sun. The Lion enters it through double doors made of squares of frosted glass set into ancient wood. He breathes deeply, inhaling the scents of the night air and the garden’s plants, but along with those comes the faintest hint of ceramite, and the slight tang of ozone from the waste heat vents of power armour. The telltale smells of Space Marines.

‘Zabriel?’ the Lion says, coming to a halt. The immediate comparison that springs to his mind is that his sons are skittish wild animals whom he does not wish to spook. The likeness is not a flattering one, and he tries to forget it.

Zabriel emerges from behind a shrub bearing flowers the size of a woman’s fist; they are closed now, but slight remnants of their perfume still lurk in the air. ‘Lord, I found three of my brothers. They have all agreed to see you.’

The Lion takes a deep breath. ‘I am glad.’

Three new shapes come into view. The first is tall, and walks with a duellist’s balance, an impression only heightened by the power sword sheathed at his waist. His power armour is Mark IV, like Zabriel’s, although not as battle-damaged. Behind him comes a warrior carrying a plasma gun, wearing a variant of power armour with which the Lion is not as familiar, although much of it is hidden beneath a hooded red surplice. Finally, if a Space Marine could be said to skulk, the one with the bolter at the rear is doing so. He wears an ancient suit of Mark III ‘Iron’ armour, although despite its age it looks in better condition than the newer versions.

‘I failed my father,’ the Lion says, the words coming unbidden to his lips. ‘I fear I also failed my brothers. I do not wish to fail my sons.’

‘Your sentiment is somewhat late,’ the rearmost warrior says caustically. The Lion looks over the marks on his armour, placing him.

‘Knight-Sergeant Aphkar. It is good to see you again.’

‘I cannot say the same,’ Aphkar replies. His finger is not far from his boltgun’s trigger. The Lion suddenly wonders how wise this meeting was. He is unarmoured, and even a primarch has reason to fear a point-blank blast from a plasma gun.

‘I presume Zabriel explained that I placed no onus on you to come here?’ the Lion asks. ‘I was deceived by Horus for years, while he pretended to be loyal to the Emperor. I was deceived by my brothers, and I was deceived by the powers they served. When I returned to Caliban, it seems that many of us were deceived again. I witnessed Luther wield foul sorcery of the kind I had only seen used by the traitors, but I now believe that many of my sons who were on that planet with him had been deceived as well, and knew nothing of his fall. I am trying to see past deception to the truth, and leave recrimination aside.’

‘It is very convenient that you should come to this conclusion now you have returned to an Imperium in ruins, and seek to rebuild it once more,’ Aphkar says sarcastically. He removes his helmet, and his dark, distrustful eyes lock on to the Lion’s own. ‘Where was the benefit of the doubt when you had most of a Legion at your back?’

‘I learned to survive on Caliban by acting with certainty, and that was the mindset I took with me into the galaxy,’ the Lion says. ‘It evidently was not foolproof. Perhaps, burned as I was by betrayal and grief, I reacted too swiftly, and with too much choler. However, Caliban fired on its own brothers, without warning. If you truly believe the fault was mine alone, why are you here?’

‘Can this truly be our primarch?’ the swordsman interjects, waving the hand that does not rest on the pommel of his blade. ‘His height is right, Zabriel, but his visage is much changed, and he is less vengeful than I expected.’

The Lion’s temper flares at being spoken of in so casual a manner, but he keeps a firm grip on it. ‘Knight-Commander Kai. I see your humours are unchanged.’

‘Thank you,’ Kai says, sketching a slight bow.

‘That was not necessarily a compliment.’

‘That depends on how accurate one’s opinion of me is.’ Kai draws his powerblade. ‘I see you came armed, my lord Lion. I wonder whether your skills have decayed as much as your face has aged.’

‘Do not be a fool, Kai!’ Zabriel snaps, but Kai simply laughs.

‘If he wishes us to follow him, then I wish to test him in the only way that matters. After all, I was always best with a blade in the Legion, save for our lord himself.’

‘Corswain might have disagreed,’ the red-robed Space Marine rasps.

‘Corswain might have given me some trouble, but only on his better days,’ Kai replies airily. ‘And besides, he is not here.’ He activates his blade.

There is no further warning, no salute with his weapon or statement of intent. He simply attacks.

The Lion steps back from the first thrust and draws Fealtyon pure instinct, ?the power field crackling into life just in time to deflect Kai’s second swing. The ?former knight-commander is pressing forwards aggressively and with speed, switching between single- and double-handed grips from moment to moment, his every movement an attack. However boastful Kai’s claims about his pre-eminence within the Legion may be, they are not entirely without merit: he is undoubtedly an expert swordsman. The Lion has waded through a host of foes with nothing more than his armoured hands, and slain members of the Traitor Legions and their younger kin on Camarth with Fealty without pause, but none of those foes possessed Kai’s ability.

The Lion circles to his right, but Kai’s footwork is excellent, and his attacks do not relent. The Lion slaps the point of his opponent’s blade aside just before it grazes his chest; Kai has come close to landing a blow three times now, despite his reach disadvantage.

And this is because he is leaving himself open.

The Lion jerks his blade back from the instinctive thrust that would take Kai in the side, and the unnatural movement spoils his balance for a moment. Kai seizes on the opportunity and presses hard, feinting for a strike at the Lion’s face and then changing it to a chopping blow which nearly leaves the primarch’s right arm truncated below the elbow, and Fealty lying in the grass.

‘Do you want me to kill you?’ the Lion demands.

‘I am attacking you!’ Kai shouts. ‘Why would you not?’

The Lion makes a grab for Kai with his free hand, and nearly loses it.

‘Will you fight me?’ Kai roars, swinging for the Lion’s head. ‘Where is the Emperor’s foremost warrior?’

The Lion leans backwards to avoid the blow, knocks aside the next thrust that comes for his belly, and lashes out with a kick.

His bare foot connects flush on Kai’s chestplate, and knocks the former knight-commander backwards through the air for some ten feet. Kai lands in the grass with a thud, but he is back on his feet within a moment, his sword still in his hand. Now, however, the Lion is moving into the attack.

He does not aim for Kai’s body or head, for he suspects that his son will still not be guarding himself. Instead, his next strike is for Kai’s weapon. The powerblade is knocked to one side. Kai manages to hold onto his sword, but the next blow knocks it from his hand completely, and the Lion brings -Fealty’s point up to rest a finger’s breadth from Kai’s gorget.

‘Do not test me again,’ the Lion growls. Kai kneels and removes his helm, but the face so revealed is smiling.

‘Forgive me, lord. Words of reconciliation are easy to utter, but little reveals the spirit like swordplay. You could have killed me, but did not. If your intentions are to safeguard this world, and others, then I pledge my blade to you once again.’

‘What if I hadkilled you?’ the Lion demands.

‘Then my companions would have known that your words were empty,’ Kai says.

The Lion snorts. He remembers Knight-Commander Kai as a braggart, about whom it was whispered more than once that he might better belong in the Emperor’s Children, but also as a warrior who would never ask anything of others that he was not willing to attempt himself.

‘And if you had killed me?’ he asks.

‘Then he would have died,’ says the red-robed Space Marine, from where he, Aphkar, and Zabriel had been watching the combat. He too goes to one knee when the Lion looks at him, and bows his head. ‘I am Lohoc, my lord, and I am sworn to your service now as I was then. There is no excuse for our actions, long ago though they now were, and I wish only for the opportunity to redeem myself.’

The Lion frowns. ‘I thank you, but I cannot place you, Lohoc. Will you remove your helm?’

‘Forgive me, my lord, but I will not.’

The Lion glances at Kai, who shrugs. ‘Aphkar and I found the Red Whisper two years ago, and we have never once seen his face. He eats alone.’

‘In the building in which I found you?’ Zabriel asks incredulously. ‘There was barely room for the three of you in there as it was.’

‘My brothers have been most accommodating about my… preferences,’ Lohoc rasps, his head still bowed.

The Lion deactivates Fealty and sheathes it. ‘Kai, Aphkar. You have known ?him for two years? And in that time he has given you no cause to doubt him?’

‘It is hard enough to move around without attracting attention,’ Aphkar says. ‘Lohoc’s preferences made that even more difficult, to the point that Kai and I needed to take almost all responsibility for sourcing supplies, interacting with others, and so on. He has undoubtedly made our lives harder, but doubt him? No. He has saved our lives before now.’

‘He shot down that great xenos beast that was about to gut you on Llarraf Beta,’ Kai agreed. ‘Burned its head clean off.’

‘It was going to gut us, Kai.’

‘I was ready to parry its talons with my blade,’ Kai said with a sniff, ‘a(chǎn)nd then disembowel it in turn. It is just that as fast as I am, a plasma bolt is faster.’

‘And how were you intending to recall your blade to your hand from where the beast had knocked it, ten paces away from you?’ the Red Whisper asks, still with his head bowed.

Kai smiles. Even Aphkar does not look as sullen as he did. The Lion realises that this is a dynamic the three of them have forged over their time together: Kai making exaggerated boasts that even he does not believe, specifically so that Aphkar can puncture his pomposity, while Lohoc interjects here and there. It is a far cry from their days in the Legion, but they no longer have a Legion. For a soldier trained into decades or centuries of service within a command structure, even a structure as multifaceted and fluid as that of the Dark Angels, losing it was like losing a part of themselves. They had to remake that part in order to survive.

The First Legion as it was will never exist again. Adaption is critical.

‘I will not rule,’ the Lion says. ‘I have no wish to. I will command those who are willing to be commanded, and I will lead those who will follow. I know Kai, and he has said his piece. Lohoc has also given me his answer, and with your recommendations, I will accept him. What of you, Aphkar?’

Aphkar’s jaw works for a moment, but he finally mag-clamps his bolter to his thigh, and straightens. ‘You will give the same opportunity to any of our other brothers whom we might encounter?’

‘If they are corrupted, I will not stay my hand,’ the Lion says firmly. ‘But I will not make the same mistake I did on Caliban, and assume corruption without proof.’

‘Then you will be out of step with the Imperium,’ Zabriel remarks.

‘We are allout of step with the Imperium,’ the Lion says. ‘Determining the exact nature of those differences, and the reconciliation of them, is for a time when humanity is not threatened by extinction.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Aphkar?’

Aphkar still hesitates, but when he does move, he moves swiftly. He drops to one knee quicker than either of his brothers, as though finally succumbing to a heavy weight; or, perhaps, as though long-held tension has finally been released.

‘If you are not who we thought you were, then we were fools,’ he says, his voice choked. ‘Fools who fired on their own battle-brothers for no reason.’

‘Say not for no reason,’ the Lion says. He tries to keep his tone neutral, for condescension could be as counterproductive as anger. ‘Say that you were deceived, as was I, and that you now have the opportunity to atone for whatever mistakes you feel you made ?– beside me, instead of from the shadows.’

Aphkar nods. ‘I will not spurn this opportunity.’

The Lion takes a deep breath of the night air, savouring the smell of the plants. They are a welcome reminder of the forests of his home, without any of the threat.

‘Come with me, my sons. We have a campaign to plan.’

Reality shimmered and wavered, and the fleet slipped out of the darkness between the stars and into the Avalus System like a shoal of ocean predators.

It was not a uniform force. The Furious-class grand cruiser Lord of Dominionwas the centrepiece, a blood-soaked, crenellated beast of dark majesty around which the rest of the ships were arrayed, like outsized planets circling a star on an orrery of ancient Terra: three Hades-class heavy cruisers, the Terrorlight, the Fane of Ancients, and the Downfall; two Styx class, the Blood Oathand the Crowbane; two Devastation-class cruisers, the Overwhelmingand the Shroud; no fewer than four of the fast, heavily armed Slaughter-class cruisers, the Ash’katon, the Doleful, and twin vessels the Mercilessand the Fearless, built in the shipyards of Selethan and which turned traitor on the same day; the Stormbreakand the Defiling Gaze, both Hellbringer class; a single Gothic class, the Longblade; the former Angels of Vigilance strike cruiser Dread Sentinel, already consecrated to new gods; and innumerable smaller light cruisers and escorts.

And, at the rear, the Carnage-class cruiser Eye of Malevolence

The holo-projector on the bridge of the Eye of Malevolencebuzzed. Baelor tapped the activation rune and it sputtered into life, motes of light combining into the figure of Varkan the Red. The Champion of Khorne was addressing the entire fleet with a ferocious glower, and wiped a strand of drool from his lower lip with his ceramite gauntlet.

‘Avalus has been clinging on,’he growled, his voice thick with bloodlust. ‘We let it survive because there were other, more tempting targets, but that has changed. Avalus thinks it can shout defiance into the warp without consequence. We are here to show them how wrong they are. Burn hard for the main planet, and destroy anything in your way! One exception only ?– if the Imperial fools are correct, and the Lion is somehow with them, then Lord Seraphax wants him alive. If he is on a ship then it is to be boarded, not destroyed. If he is in a complex on the planet then you are to land, not bombard. Otherwise…’

He smiled, showing his metal teeth, blackened and corroded by the acidic qualities of his spittle, but still sharp.

‘Let the blood flow.’

The glowing figure of Varkan jabbed at something out of view of the vid-imager capturing his likeness and broadcasting it, and the display flickered, but remained active. When the Khornate warlord next looked up, his eyes were for Baelor alone.

‘Baelor.’

‘Varkan,’ Baelor acknowledged. He could see plasma drives flaring into life ahead of him, as the fleet answered its bloodthirsty master’s call to battle. ‘That was quite an impressive speech. You managed full sentences.’

Varkan bared his teeth again, this time with no semblance of a smile. ‘Seraphax still tolerates you, Imposter, but your time runs short. Why else was I able to give you the role of rearguard without the Lord Sorcerer overruling me? He knows you are weak and unreliable, and not even his brotherly affection for you will keep you intact for much longer.’

‘I seem to recall that it was not my skull that was going to be split, had Seraphax not intervened on the Blade of Truth,’ Baelor said, and Varkan’s cheek twitched at the memory. ‘Besides, I am sure that your headlong rush will give the Eyeample opportunity to engage the enemy when they encircle us.’

‘Then let us hope your ship remembers how to fight,’Varkan snarled, and ended his broadcast.

Baelor sighed, and turned to Canticallax Dimora. ‘Engage the plasma drives, and keep pace with the fleet. I want sensors at full. Varkan still retains some tactical awareness and low cunning when it comes to a frontal assault, but he will not pay any mind to enemy elements who evade the battle group’s thrust, and he will rage at any who break formation to engage them. We may need to be busier than I would like.’

‘You appear unconcerned about his assessment of your character,’ Dimora observed. The deck beneath Baelor thrummed as she fed power to the main drives, and they began to move towards the faint, distant orb that was the world of Avalus. ‘It is my observation that members of the Astartes such as yourself ordinarily place great and disproportionate worth on concepts such as honour. To be assigned to the rearguard, although statistically and tactically a position of comparative importance with regard to the welfare of a group, is often seen as a mark of shame.’

Baelor snorted. ‘Varkan’s opinion of me is inconsequential. We are assigned to the rearguard because that is where Seraphax wants me, and he knew that if he gave Varkan the command then that is where he would place me. The success or otherwise of the coming battle is not what is important. The only thing that matters, and my purpose in this company, is verifying whether the Lion is truly here. If he is not, then Avalus will fall, and Varkan will glut himself on its blood.’

‘And if he is?’

Baelor took in the spread of the fleet on his auspexes, the sheer might of it. Avalus had been isolated for a long time, holding out against raids and acquitting itself well with its limited and dwindling resources, but the size of Varkan’s battle group would surely be enough to overwhelm what remained.

Unless…

‘If he ishere,’ Baelor said, feeling his gut twist as he gave voice to the possibility, ‘then things are about to get very interesting.’

There is no subtlety about the Chaos fleet, but something does not have to be subtle to be dangerous. It is a mailed fist punching towards Avalus with speed and ferocity, a haymaker that will cause devastation if it lands flush. And planets, as the Lion knows very well, are poor at dodging.

‘Sixteen capital ships,’ breathes Admiral Torral Derrigan, staring at the blizzard of icons which fills the tactical hololith on the bridge of the Lunar Knight, the Armageddon-class battle cruiser that anchors the Avalus fleet. ‘Perhaps two hundred vessels in total–’

‘One hundred and eighty-four,’ the Lion corrects him. He was borne to the fleet’s flagship by shuttle as soon as the first sensor returns came in.

‘We are outnumbered two to one overall, and three to one at capital level,’ the admiral says heavily. ‘Lord Lion, I cannot see a path to victory in this engagement.’

‘Would you surrender?’ the Lion asks, and the admiral glares at him until he remembers himself.

‘Never, my lord. Quite apart from the shame, better a clean death in battle than to be taken prisoner by these monsters.’

‘Would you flee, then?’

Derrigan swallows. ‘In times past, perhaps, my lord. Tactical doctrine cautions a senior officer against committing their forces to a battle that cannot be won, if those forces may regroup with other elements and return to exact vengeance. But in these times, the warp is more treacherous than ever for us, while our enemies’ ?– he gestures at the hololith ?– ‘a(chǎn)re able to emerge from it in battle order. Were we to flee, we might lose half our strength or more, to no purpose. At least in realspace we only have one enemy to fight.’

‘So we fight,’ the Lion says, with satisfaction. ‘We fight to defend the planet and the system, and those who live within it. And if our only recourse is to fight, then the likelihood of victory is irrelevant, is it not?’

Admiral Derrigan frowns, but then his face clears into an expression of slightly baffled agreement. ‘I… suppose so, my lord.’

‘Vox-officer,’ the Lion says, looking up from the hololith. The man so addressed, a distinguished veteran to have such a role on the fleet’s flagship, looks petrified at being addressed by the black-armoured giant out of legend, but manages a salute.

‘Y-yes, my lord?’

‘Broadcast to all the ships in our fleet,’ the Lion orders. ‘For full dissemination. I want everyone aboard to hear, not just the bridge crews.’

The vox-officer’s nerves do not impede his execution of his duties; he adjusts the settings of his console appropriately, and sits back. ‘So marked, my lord. The vox is yours.’

The Lion takes a breath.

‘Defenders of Avalus. I am Lion El’Jonson, primarch of the Dark Angels ?and son of the Emperor. We face an enemy force intent on destruction ?– not only of this fleet, and this planet, but whatever remains of the Imperium, and humanity as a whole. I will not deny that the odds appear to be against us in this fight, but as I saw when the people of Camarth rose up and overthrew the invaders who thought they had conquered that world, appearances can be deceiving. The forces arrayed against us are vicious, and they are merciless, but they are often without discipline or structure. They do not fight for each other. Not as we must.

‘As individuals, any one of us would fail. If we remember that we are part of something greater, if we refuse to give in to fear and despair, and if we perform our duties swiftly and efficiently, then we can frustrate and infuriate our foes, and force them into mistakes ?– mistakes for which we will make them pay in blood. I cannot promise you that our struggle will lead to victory, only that our victory will not be achieved without struggle.’

The Lion looks up and out of the main viewing gallery of theLunar Knight, towards where he knows the Chaos fleet to be. It is still only a star-speckled darkness even to his eyes, with nothing to betray the force bearing down on them.

‘But I did not return after ten thousand years to fail in the task I have set myself. I want each and every one of you, from captain to bondsperson, to know that I will give my life in defence of your world, if that is what it takes. However, I do not believe that my father guided me to you simply in order to die. So crew your stations, ready the weapons, and prepare to strike down these traitors and heretics for Avalus, for the Imperium, and for the Emperor Himself!’

There is a moment of silence across the bridge. Then:

‘THE LION!’

‘THE LION!’

‘THE LION!’

The vox erupts with shouts ?– first from dozens of throats on bridges, but then the volume increases as they are joined by other relay stations throughout the ships of the fleet, when anyone within range of a vox-unit sets it to broadcast. Within a matter of seconds, thousands of voices are bellowing their defiance and allegiance into the void, and the vox-speakers begin to crackle and overload.

The Lion gestures, and the vox-officer cuts it off. The quiet which takes its place on the bridge of the Lunar Knightfeel empty by comparison, but it is an expectant emptiness, one charged with weight and determination, and in which the crew resume their duties with renewed purpose.

‘Do you really believe the Emperor guided you here?’ Zabriel asks the Lion quietly.

‘Something did,’ the Lion replies, just as softly, ‘a(chǎn)nd something which I do not believe has malicious intent. I do not think my father a god, as these people do, but I cannot dispute His power. Did He not maintain the Astronomican for ten thousand years, a beacon for all humanity’s travellers, even if it cannot now be seen by us? His mastery of warpcraft is unparal-leled by any mortal being. If anyone was capable of reaching out and guiding me here, then it is Him.’

‘And such a statement can boost the morale of our fleet,’ Zabriel adds. The Lion sighs.

‘In such circumstances, I must use all the tools at my disposal. Matters of theology can wait.’ The Lion has so far refused to meet with Avalus’ representatives of the Ecclesiarchy, much to their dismay.

‘You are going to have to deal with the priests at some point,’ Zabriel says, as though reading his thoughts. All such figures in authority on Camarth had been killed, either in the initial attack or hunted down and executed by the Ten Thousand Eyes as an object lesson, and after hearing Zabriel’s tales, the Lion privately considered this a mercy. ‘The Imperial creed is too powerful to ignore for long.’

‘One battle at a time, my son,’ the Lion says, returning his attention to the tactical hololiths and starting to mentally draw up his plan. ‘One battle at a time.’