The silent forest.
The heavy tread of the Lion, his gene-sons, and the Men of Iron Extinction War-Automata rolled through the trees, echoing far into the distance.
All the forest's lifeforms—brutish megafauna included—kept well clear of this death-bringing host whose every step stank of malice and slaughter.
"Zabriel, what is the Imperium's greatest lurking threat—I mean from enemies across the galaxy?"
Something had occurred to the Lion, and he asked it without preamble.
Now that he commanded a mighty host, he had the spare bandwidth to weigh broader problems—like smashing the foe invading Vostonia, and then dealing with the Imperium's wider hazards in the galaxy.
Zabriel thought for a moment and answered with care.
"The greatest external threat to the Imperium is likely the Despoiler, the Warmaster of Chaos, Ezekyle Abaddon.
For ten millennia he has raided the Imperium again and again, launching grand crusades of slaughter and leaving the Imperium scarred each time."
This son of the Lion had heard of the Chaos Warmaster's dread deeds even before the Great Rift—few could stand against him.
Even the Rift's opening was tied to that name.
"Abaddon?"
The Lion glanced at his gene-son, a touch of doubt in his eye. "Ezekyle Abaddon—Horus's First Captain—he's lived until now?"
If he understood correctly, Abaddon had survived for ten thousand years; even for an Astartes, that was an absurd span.
Even the Lion himself, as a Primarch, couldn't swear he'd last ten millennia, and his long sleep had left him aged.
"Yes. Abaddon has lived for ten thousand years. The Warp's Dark Gods gifted him hateful power—letting him survive in vile fashion."
Zabriel nodded. "Even stripping away rumor and exaggeration from what I know, he wields Primarch-like strength, and he destroyed Cadia—one of the Imperium's most critical bastion worlds."
"Primarch's strength, is it?"
The Lion didn't show much concern; he only snorted. "When we finish our present business, we'll go have words with Horus's fine son."
Profane power merited vigilance, but not fear.
As a Primarch, the Lion would not be cowed by a brother's son, nor imagine the wretch his equal.
His Primarch brothers were gone—dead, vanished, or traitor.
Since embracing his nature, the Lion felt that none in the Imperium—or the galaxy—could best him.
Including that Savior.
He still questioned the Savior's claim to be a Primarch.
The foe he envisioned—the real enemy—was the fallen brother from his dreams, a Primarch twisted into a hideous daemon by blasphemous power.
Yet he could never see the face.
"Horus… is it you, my once-brother…"
A cold gleam flashed in the Lion's gaze, and beneath it a throb of anticipation.
He hoped the Primarch foreseen in his warning dreams was the Luna Wolf—the Empire's former Warmaster.
Then he could cross blades with him again—crush him—and make up for missing the Siege of Terra ten millennia ago, for failing to prove his loyalty with steel.
He would show Father—the Emperor—his true measure.
As he turned the dream over, he remembered it more sharply—
On a world on the brink of ruin, a fallen Primarch obliterated a colossal void-fortress, tore apart starships, and punched a giant meteor into gravel.
The scene's verisimilitude and the sheer menace in that power gnawed at him.
Judging by those images, that thing's strength far exceeded a Primarch—edging into the unbelievable.
"Even Father, in those days, could not have done that," the Lion thought.
What the Emperor could not do, he surely could not.
A top-tier psyker could rip open a Titan or a warship; with weapons and kit, he might manage that much too.
But to directly tear down a void-fortress? That was excess.
He was inclined to call it dreamlike exaggeration, a warning symbol only—
Not literal fact.
"That one cannot be that strong—even if he is Horus."
The Lion gave a dry, self-mocking smile.
To be rattled by a dream was not the way of a Knight of Caliban.
All he needed was to find the foe—then draw his sword.
Gradually, the Lion felt the Forests of Caliban around him change; dense jungle thinned into towering redwoods.
That signaled a new destination.
But something else was wrong. "Vostonia isn't a heavy-industry hub? How could there be timber of this size?"
By the newest intel, Vostonia was a barren world whose natural and mineral wealth had been stripped long ago.
Centuries of industrial filth had turned swathes of land into dead zones where neither beast nor plant survived.
Outside the manufactoria, most people crammed into a lightly polluted belt near the equator; even food and water came in from off-world.
Such was the norm for an Imperial forge-world.
By those parameters, this could not be Vostonia—it had to be somewhere else.
"Zabriel, run the data. Tell me where we are. I don't think this is Vostonia. It cannot be."
The Lion's voice was level.
The Imperium's augury kit had come a long way in ten thousand years, and its databanks were richer. With the right comparisons, you could pin a force's location to a specific world.
He half-suspected the Savior's bizarre drill had bent the Forest's roadway—
And thrown their heading off.
Beep-beep-beep—
"Yes, my lord. I'll have it shortly."
Zabriel produced a large augury engine and began the sweep, whose return would be cross-matched to the sector atlas.
Then you got an answer.
The typical error was small—assuming you were within the Empire's grasp in the Mists Region's principal sectors.
"By the Emperor, let this be an industrial world at least—a world with a proper orbital port."
The Lion eyed the redwoods and the chugging augury, an edge of tension in him.
Since waking, he'd washed up in barren wastes one after another, surviving by the knife; he had nearly picked up a neurosis.
He had no wish to be stranded on another savage world—nor to accept the Savior's material handouts in penury again.
It was a miserable feeling.
And it would mean a wasted march—another long detour.
Best case, this world was in the Vostonia Pan-Sector—not something unknown.
"My lord, this world is a jungle planet in the Okacidi Sector—Ur'la.
It was wrecked during the Second Tyrannic War; afterward, the Imperium resettled colonists here to rebuild.
Alas, the world has never taken off—and because of the Eleventh Tithe it was penalized by the Administratum.
Population fell further."
Zabriel gave a brisk brief, then the answer the Lion wanted.
"There's a small orbital port above Ur'la.
More importantly, this world lies only two sectors from the Vostonia Pan-Sector. That should count as good news."
He had barely finished when the ground began to quake and thunder; more blasts followed in a chain.
Litter on the redwood canopies came hissing down.
That wasn't natural. That was heavy machinery shaking the earth.
The host traded wary looks.
"Titans. That's the voice of Imperial God-Machines."
The Lion supplied the answer, face grave.
He had directed Titan deployments and joint operations more than once. He knew the feel of marching Titans.
Which meant a large-scale war was burning on this world.
By experience, the Imperium only deployed such precious God-Machines when wars reached white heat, when obstacles refused to fall.
"Warriors—prepare for battle!"
The Lion drew a deep breath. At least they weren't late.
His Extinction War-Automata could scour the foes of Man from a world even better than Titans.
He lunged for the jungle's edge at once; the Men of Iron spun up to combat state and hurtled after him—
Faster even than Space Marines.
Thoom—
The Lion vaulted from the treeline, a towering figure dropping from twenty meters up, his impact cracking the earth in a ring.
He radiated dominion.
And there he saw the source of the commotion—four or five Warlord-class Titans—and, floating in the air, a string of red banners:
"Safety First In Heart And Mind—For Yourself, Your Family, And The Savior!"
"Plan With Care, Build With Science, High Quality And High Efficiency—Craft Excellence!"
"Safety For You And Me—Happiness For All!"
…and so on.
Not just that—those God-Machines themselves wore similar banners—stenciled with the same kinds of slogans.
…?
The Lion—and the bloodline sons who'd sprinted up—stood there a little stunned.
Skulls buzzing.
What in the Throne… Where were the Titans' honor scrolls and mantles? Why were they covered in this… stuff?
And what were these sacred engines doing—standing in mud, digging holes like augers?
"Angels of the Emperor—this is a restricted construction site. No unauthorized personnel may enter. Please take your machines and depart in an orderly fashion. Dedicated liaisons will meet you for coordination."
A human voice boomed from a vox-caster overhead, flustered.
"This is… a construction site?!"
At that, the Lion lifted his eyes to a big board posted off the starboard side—CIVIL WORKS NOTICE BOARD.
It listed the contractor: Savior Works Ministry, 134th Construction Group—Ur'la Project Office. The person responsible for this site: Pickel Maca.
Other relevant details followed beneath.
The Lion and his sons stared at the Titans huffing and chewing dirt and simply could not process it.
What had the galaxy become?
They could not imagine who or what would toss Titans into a construction project.
Sacred, gigantic engines weren't they supposed to be kept in their vaults most days, anointed with sacred oils, hymned with litanies, maintained with reverence?
Then, when the Imperium's need was bleakest, dispatched to the field to break the foes of Man with unstoppable fire?
How in the name of the Throne did God-Machines come to be… digging foundations?
"Savior—you, you…!"
The Lion's heart trembled; pain rose in him.
The man was an extravagant wastrel—squandering even the Imperium's dearest engines of war.
He half-feared that if the Savior ever got his hands on Men of Iron, he'd use them as… laborers.
Beyond reason!
"Angels of the Emperor, please remain in place!"
A transport pulled up nearby. Pickel Maca came pelting over, bathed in sweat—
Worry written all over him.
He had only just earned a supervisor's billet in the Construction Group. If a safety incident or "special mishap" happened on his watch, he'd have no face left for his grandfather.
A miner of Urth's first cohort, a worker-delegate once received by the Savior—his grandfather would flay him with words—
Saying he had disgraced the Maca name.
The Construction Group met every stripe of accident when rebuilding target worlds:
Ambushes, digging up dangerous relics—the neighboring Group once cracked open a Necron tomb and nearly got half a crew killed.
This time, he had a batch of unknown Astartes pop out of nowhere—plus a crowd of ancient-looking machines.
Handled poorly, disaster.
Luckily, these Astartes did not seem malicious.
"You're the site chief for the Savior's dominion?"
The Lion looked the mortal over and gave his cover. "I am a son of the Dark Angels—the Lion's blood—on special duty upon this world.
We mean no harm."
He did not expose his identity as a Primarch—or any related details.
He did not know what the Savior, and the forces under him, would do with a Primarch—nor what counters they had prepared.
Better to meet as a Dark Angel, face to face, and talk it through.
A surprise meeting.
"I'm Young Maca. My grandfather is Old Maca—but no one draws that line; call me Maca.
By the Savior's grace, I have no power to interfere in your mission.
But given the current situation, you should meet the person in charge of this world—the Primarch…"
Before the supervisor finished, the Lion cut in like he was giving an order. "Maca, then take me to your highest authority—the Primarch."
He was impatient to see the Savior.
The Lion fell silent after that, revealing nothing more.
He ordered his sons and the Men of Iron back into the trees to wait; he himself would take Zabriel to meet the Savior.
If the Savior was here, the world was likely safe. He was not worried for his own safety.
If anyone should worry, it was the Savior.
The man would surely meet him under heavy guard, no?
So musing, the Lion followed Supervisor Maca toward a small shuttle parked at the site perimeter.
"Lord Dark Angel."
Maca spoke up, awkward, pointing at the white safety helmet on his own head.
"We're about to cross active construction. Everyone must wear a safety helmet—regulations.
Per the Works Ministry's safety code, nothing—no matter who—goes into the core construction area without a safety helmet. If anyone notices, I'm in trouble."
…?
The Lion eyed him. "You mean… even the Emperor's Angels must follow this rule to enter a worksite?"
Astartes helmets shrugged off savage impacts; what was a safety helmet to such armor?
"Yes. Even the Emperor's Angels wear safety helmets on-site."
Maca's tone was firm. He pointed to a nearby safety-norms pictograph—handily, of an Astartes wearing a safety helmet.
Basically a hardhat perched over a power-armor helm—with special notes.
He added, "Even His Majesty the Savior wears one to enter."
Every strange rule sits atop blood and tears.
Before, Astartes did not need safety kit to enter.
The reason the Works Ministry's Construction Group added this clause was that one Astartes, patrolling a site, wore neither helm nor hardhat.
A component sloughed off a Titan and smashed his skull in—sending him to the Throne on the spot.
The incident rocked the Group; they were held partly responsible. Had the Marine worn a helm—or a hardhat—
He might have lived.
A hardhat's one-shot forcefield could trigger in crisis and save the wearer.
After the censure, the Group added these rules to avoid greater culpability.
Soon enough, the Lion and Zabriel were wearing red safety helmets for safety-officers, following the white-hatted supervisor across the site.
Then they boarded the shuttle for the city, to meet the Primarch.
Inside the cabin—
The Lion and Zabriel stared out the ports in silence.
As they passed a workers' rest sector, they saw the crews ate better than the Knights of Caliban.
Their lodgings too were better than the people's on Caliban.
Yes, much of that was because the Imperium's baseline was wretched—on most worlds, if a man had his fill of corpse-starch, it was a happy, harmonious place.
Even so, the discovery stung the Lion.
"Did Father really allow him to do this?"
The Lion's teeth clicked as a monumental statue of the Savior rose in the city's heart.
It wasn't an homage—it was a copy of the Emperor—one to one—
With the Savior's face and physique "beautified."
Holier—more imposing—than the old Imperial statues.
He did not like it.
The shuttle did not head for a landing field; it flew straight for a great square.
There, in a tangle of annoyance and anticipation, the Lion met that towering Primarch.
The Primarch walked toward him, ringed by the Custodian Guard.
A golden iron halo crowned his head; light breathed from him; a blue Primarch's war-panoply draped him in awe.
"Roboute?"
The Lion stared at the familiar figure and froze—blank.
Hadn't this nuisance died? Why was he alive in front of him?
When he'd heard of Guilliman's death, he'd grieved a while—but seeing the man in the flesh, the old dislike rose—
Diluting the joy of reunion.
Guilliman saw the Lion as well.
He stopped, voice edged with a tease. "Long time, Lion. Looks like life's treated you… poorly."
The Lion's fist tightened at this smug pest.
He recalled the grudges between them—especially that damned Codex Astartes, the breaking of the First Legion—
And the Empire's later decline.
Fire licked the floor of his heart.
"You self-important… bas—tard!"
The Lion roared—and hurled himself at Guilliman.
(End of Chapter)
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