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The Last Council – L J Goulding

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An Extract from ‘The Silent War’

A Black Library Publication

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The Last Council

L J Goulding

‘No one records something they wish to forget.’

– anonymous, though often quoted by Malcador the Sigillite

I: SENATORUM

The Council of Terra, in its first incarnation, was the Imperium’s earliest attempt at true civilian rule. As the Great Crusade filled out the blank corners of the galactic map, the daily needs of governance fell increasingly to the adepts of the Administratum rather than the Emperor and His sons on the War Council, where some had mistakenly assumed such authority would remain in perpetuity. It was becoming clear that an empire of a million worlds and more would, as time went on, have less need of mighty conquerors and ever more of diplomats and traders, architects and artists, comptrollers, judges and tithe collectors.

After the Triumph at Ullanor, this transition of power was sanctioned and approved by the Throne (in absentia) and vested in the High Lords of Terra. Presiding over a grand Council of several thousand representatives, both elected and appointed, they decreed that the future of the Imperium was to be placed, now and always, in the hands of its people.

But, in spite of the noble intent behind its creation, the Council ruled for little over a decade before being formally disbanded, in the months preceding the invasion of Terra by the renegade Warmaster Horus.

I know, because I was there.

And I remember.

The debating table at the centre of the Council Chamber was broad, rounded and almost nine metres across. Artfully fashioned from a single section of petrified redwood from the ancient forests of Norcal, it had been gifted to the Emperor by Na-Baron Petronius Vivar during his official tour of Old Himalazia and the Palace in 986.M30 – it was generally assumed that the wily Merican had intended to occupy one of its seats himself, in due course. The tabletop was servitor-polished to an almost flawless, glassy sheen, casting a ruddy reflection of the lumen sconces hanging from the vaulted upper reaches of the great hall, high overhead.

Only one blemish marked the table’s surface. One tiny, barely noticeable ding.

No matter how many times the artisans and guild craftsmen pored over it, cast it with the finest grade resins or administered restorative nanulose compounds from precision piping syringes, the imperfection would never be fully removed. It had become a permanent addition to the redwood grain.

Malcador had long made peace with that, though the Sigillite often found that his gaze had settled upon it over the years, when the Council sessions had stretched into the smallest hours of countless weary nights.

And he found himself gazing at it now, as the High Lords met for the final time.

There was a dignified solemnity to the proceedings. Kelsi Demidov, the newly appointed Speaker for the Chartist Captains, held the floor, from the elegantly decorated petitioning pulpit at the far end of the central dais. Little more than a score of lesser dignitaries were scattered throughout the chamber, and they had all shuffled down to the vacant lower tiers to better hear her words.

‘I have another requisitioned carrier flotilla on station at Io, and two more under Legion escort just inside the Ardent Reef,’ she reported, her voice echoing in the empty space. ‘As per Lord Dorn’s command, we have maintained the wider exclusion zone around both the Phalanx and the Martian blockade. But more vessels arrive from Obscurus and Pacificus every day, bringing reserve forces and materiel for inspection – they need to be processed more quickly, in-system, and everything transferred planetside. There are merchant shipmasters who’ve been at anchor for weeks, just waiting for clearance, doing nothing. I negotiated for the removal of hazard rates on their commissions, as we all agreed, as was right and proper, but they’ve got fifty thousand auxilia troops climbing the walls in their cargo holds. We’re looking at increased damage claims at best, and a careless las-bolt through a porthole at worst.’

She looked to each of the High Lords seated at the table, then to Chancellor Ossian of the Imperial Estate in particular.

‘I need to keep these ships voidworthy, keep them moving, keep the transit routes open for as long as possible. What can you give me to work with, here?’

Though this was only her second appearance in the chamber, Demidov seemed entirely comfortable amongst the true governors of the Imperium of Man. She carried herself with the calm surety of someone accustomed to being heard and obeyed without question, and yet she also listened when others spoke, and sought mutual compromise. This, Malcador knew from millennia of experience, could often prove the difference between an effective ruler, and a great one.

If only we had more time, he reflected, sadly.

Ossian pursed his lips, wringing his hands as one of the aides at his back produced a docket of papers, bound with the seal of the aquila.

‘The inspection delays are out of our jurisdiction,’ he sighed, breaking the wax and inspecting each page in turn. ‘Captain-General Valdor and the Custodian Guard, spread as thinly as they are, still insist on every recalled military unit being vetted before they can set foot on the Throneworld.’

Harr Rantal, the Grand Provost Marshal of the Adeptus Arbites, gave half a shrug. ‘Which is understandable, given the circumstances. Our security has been breached too many times already.’

A low murmur of agreement rippled around the table. Ossian produced a magnifying lens from the folds of his stately robe, running his keen eyes down a carefully scribed list of expenses.

‘Total compensation to the chartist fleets, to date, is in excess of… nine hundred and seventy-two million in scrip credit, with a further five hundred million set against unforeseen future losses arising from current war operations, sundry restitutions and so forth. We have reclaimed a good percentage of the total from shipmasters who have forfeited their commissions on suspicion of prior association with agents of the Warmaster, of course. And I am certain, Speaker Demidov, I need not remind you that those sorts of accusations do not lend themselves well in support of us asking for the inspections to be relaxed.’

She tilted her head. ‘My lord, just so I am clear – is this a question of expense, or a question of loyalty? I feel there is a certain double-standard being applied here, when honest and loyal merchants are regarded with suspicion for their past dealings, and yet the Navigator houses count hundreds of their kin serving in the legionary fleets of the traitors. With the greatest respect.’

Malcador’s eyes flickered to Bolam Haardiker, envoy of the Navis Nobilite. As the sole representative of the Paternova himself on the Council, Haardiker had become used to hearing such thoughts given voice. He spoke as quietly and calmly as ever, in his sibilant native tongue, through the nuncio unit held before him by a robed attendant.

‘The honoured representative speaks fairly,’ he said, the words rendered in tinny Gothic. ‘We must remove obstructions from her path. The chartist captains are a resource we cannot afford to squander in the defence of Terra.’

The Chancellor bowed his head respectfully. ‘Indeed, though we must always remain diligent. If we were to issue a dictum bypassing the authority of the Legio Custodes and expediting the transfer, only to have… say, an entire regiment turn against their commanders and declare for Horus once they set foot inside the Palace… Well, history would not remember us fondly.’

From his seat behind Marshal Rantal, another uniformed Arbitrator leaned forward to whisper a suggestion in his master’s ear. Rantal nodded.

‘Precinct Marshal Rohr suggests that we need not transfer the auxilia all the way to the ground – only off the ships themselves. Would that satisfy the Captain-General’s requirements, and also allow the honourable speaker to retask her shipmasters in a more timely fashion?’

The idea gained traction quickly. Raised eyebrows and nods of approval spread around the table. Faceless scribes recorded the precinct marshal’s name, and his place in the roll of accountability.

Demidov gathered her papers and slates from the pulpit, ready to retake her seat in the low tiers. ‘My lords. By the grace of our beloved Emperor, may we find a swift resolution. I thank you for your time, as always.’

Simeon Pentasian, Master of the Administratum, was conferring with his own attendants, two adepts from the Departmento Munitorum. He turned back to the table, spreading his palms flat against its surface.

‘Any future transit requiring void-capable craft would add another level of logistical complication,’ he announced, thoughtfully. ‘Better to get the reserve forces as close to Terran soil as possible, and use atmospheric cargo craft to complete the transfer after the necessary inspections have been completed, to the Captain-General’s satisfaction. Most of the orbital plates are being decommissioned and broken, but we might establish new muster points on one of those that remain. Skye, perhaps?’

‘Negative,’ Fabricator General Zagreus Kane responded flatly, punctuating the word with a blurt of binharic from his vocal emitters. His hulking metal form did not twitch by even a micrometre, his deactivated weapon arms remaining locked downwards at his sides. ‘Skye is being fortified.’

There was a moment’s pause, before the rest of the Council realised that he did not intend to elaborate further.

Pentasian gave Kane and his robed ambassador a cold glare. ‘Why was this not brought to our attention sooner, Zagreus? All Adeptus Mechanicus operations and deployments on the Throneworld are to be approved by this Council. You agreed to these terms.’

Kane still did not move. ‘Skye is being fortified. It is the Omnissiah’s will.’

Inwardly, Malcador winced. Kane and his allies in the Titan Legions did themselves no favours by acting in such a manner, having already made a number of political enemies within the Imperial hierarchy. Indeed, the Sigillite noted Marshal Rantal composing himself to speak.

‘I must respectfully remind the Fabricator General that the Hall of Judgement was to be surveyed for fortification, in exchange for Arbitrator assistance in policing Riga,’ he said, managing to keep his temper in check. ‘Am I to understand that his magi will now be unavailable? I notice that work on the vaunted Librarium Technologicus has not been postponed as a result of this new directive, apparently from the Throne itself…’

Rantal gestured to the seated Mistress of the Astronomican.

‘Lady Hursula, you have the attentions of Lord Dorn, and the Emperor’s own warmason, to ensure that the great beacon is protected at all costs. And our esteemed Nemo Zhi-Meng, too – the City of Sight will never be allowed to fall.’ Rantal made the sign of the aquila over his heart, and bowed his head. ‘But if universal order is to be maintained and the rule of law enforced, even as the traitors hammer at the gates of Terra, then the Adeptus Arbites must have a stable and secure foundation outside the Palace proper. Are we not worthy of this, the smallest of considerations, especially faced with increasing levels of civil unrest caused by the refugee populations?’

Cohran Hursula sighed. ‘We have heard all this before, Grand Marshal. You would seek to turn the Hall of Judgement into a citadel. A fortress in its own right.’

‘M’lady,’ he replied, gazing coolly back at her, ‘I am certain I am not alone when I say, when the time comes, that I would rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.’

Chancellor Ossian leaned back in his chair. ‘This is not a question of need, or worthiness, Marshal Rantal. It is simply a question of priority. If the Fabricator General, or even Lord Dorn himself, were to commit to the fortifications you have repeatedly requested, only for Horus to jump out of the darkness on our doorstep – will you protect us then? Will your Arbitrators stand between the Traitor Legions and the unfinished walls of Dhawalagiri?’

‘I have told you – we are peacekeepers, not a military force.’

‘And yet you act like one when it suits you,’ muttered the Choirmaster, Nemo Zhi-Meng.

Before any tempers could flare, Malcador took up his staff and rapped it hard upon the flagstones. ‘Order, my friends,’ he called out. ‘Let us have order.’

Thankfully, Rantal reseated himself without further confrontation.

The Regent turned to his aide, Allum Karpyn. The younger adept glanced up from his hasty note-taking, nodded, and turned to a fresh page.

Malcador rose painfully, leaning heavily on the staff.

‘I should thank Marshal Rantal for bringing us so neatly to our final, pressing matter of business – that of the refugee encampments around the walls of the Imperial Palace. Lord Dorn and Lord Sanguinius have ordered that the camps be moved, to allow the construction of earthworks and other defences beyond the outer wards. Such as it is, I am inclined to defer to the judgement of the War Coun–’

The Sigillite stumbled on the words. They brought back sour memories.

His eyes fell to the blemish on the tabletop once more.

‘That is to say, matters that would previously have fallen under the jurisdiction of the War Council.’

Pentasian frowned. ‘Surely their own warriors could manage this far more effectively than us? They have the authority, and the manpower. Just dismantle the camps and send the people away. None would oppose them.’

‘It’s not that simple,’ said Chancellor Ossian. ‘If we send away those who came to us for protection, our opponents here on Terra and elsewhere will use it to stir up resentment and dissidence. Unity hangs by a thread, with the new Panpacific uprisings.’

Kane gave an involuntary mechanical growl. ‘There are riots every time we open the gates. It is a calculated certainty that there are enemy agents in the camps. They must be dealt with.’

‘But the Legiones Astartes are not a subtle tool,’ Hursula replied. ‘If nothing else, two centuries of crusading has shown that if you task them with policing a human population, they may treat it as a compliance action…’

She clicked her fingers once.

‘…and then there will be very little of that population left. If that’s our choice, we might as well leave the refugees in place, and just let the traitors mow them down on the way to us.’

Though he tended to speak only rarely during the Council sessions, the Chirurgeon-General of the Orders Hospitalis cleared his throat. Sidat Yaseen Tharcher was a precise and reserved man, his ageing face pocked with blister-scars from some childhood malady.

‘Quite aside from the, frankly, dubious moral reasoning of using Imperial citizens as a human shield,’ he said, ‘I would advise against leaving upwards of two million potential corpses outside our walls. I can’t speak for the legionaries or the Custodian Guard, but the diseases vectored by that many bodies would likely be the end of any mortal defenders trapped inside the Palace, within a matter of months. The Emperor and His sons, even if they should win the war thereafter, would be ruling the Imperium from a charnel house.’

Malcador was content to let that thought sink in around the table for a moment. He could hear the scratching of Allum’s quill behind him – the only sound in an otherwise silent chamber.

‘I did not bring this matter here to discuss who else might attend to it,’ the Sigillite murmured, ‘or how inconvenient or dangerous it might be. These people are not soldiers. They are not rebels. They are not tokens to be spent for political advantage, nor criminals to be punished for whatever crimes we imagine they might yet commit.’ He sighed, closing his eyes and putting his forehead against the metal of his staff. ‘We speak of mortals, no different from each of you seated at this table. They have no real idea of what is coming, and yet they are terrified by it. They came here, as countless have before, to huddle close to our Emperor – because, in spite of everything, He alone makes them feel safe.’

Several of the High Lords hung their heads. Bolam Haardiker shifted uncomfortably. Nemo Zhi-Meng became fascinated by the lines on the back of his own hand.

Malcador looked up towards the viewing gallery that overlooked the Council Chamber, and noted the three towering figures silhouetted there. They stood as silent observers in the shadows.

‘Have a care that you do not forget why this Council exists, friends,’ he sighed, ‘and whom it is we serve. Now more than ever, as the final days approach, we must hold true.’

II: SENEX

The title of Imperial Regent, regardless of its provenance, was seen by some as problematic in and of itself. Whenever the Emperor was abroad in the galaxy, the power of the Throne was assumed to reside with Malcador, His most trusted advisor and confidant. So, for the first time in living mortal memory – indeed, since the Unification of Old Earth – this meant that the rule of Terra and the Imperium was fallible. It was something that could conceivably be disputed, or even seized, if any usurper had the strength of will and arms to attempt it.

A regency is, by definition, a compromise. It is the tacit acknowledgement that an individual with no rightful claim to the throne is, nonetheless, preferable to an empty throne.

The doors of the chamber were flung wide, with such force and fury that even Vivar’s burly retainers flinched.

‘Sigillite!’ Horus roared, striding ahead of his brothers, his footsteps like armoured thunder. ‘Explain yourself!’

Several of the assembled lords and adepts started from their places around the debating table, the wrath of three enraged primarchs enough to cow almost any mortal into tearful penitence. Malcador, however, remained seated in his tall wooden throne, gazing levelly back.

‘Alpharius. This is your doing, I would guess.’

At Horus’ side came the lord of the Alpha Legion, resplendent in ornate ceremonial battleplate. He offered no reply beyond half a sneer directed at the Army officers backing away from their posts, flanking the doors – they were the only armed men in the room, and the thought of raising their laslock rifles never even crossed their minds.

Horus reached the far side of the table. The wolf pelt draped across his immense ceramite pauldrons settled as the primarch raised an accusing finger.

‘I gave you an order, dear uncle. Explain yourself.’

There were raised voices in the hallway beyond the chamber, and the clamour of more armoured warriors approaching. The Hegemon was not officially guarded by the Custodes, yet word of this unexpected intrusion had clearly already reached the Palace watch-commanders, as a handful of golden shieldbearers surged into view. They halted at the threshold, scanning the room in something like confusion.

‘Lord Regent,’ one of them called out, eyeing the three primarchs warily, with one hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Do you require our assistance?’

Malcador drummed his fingers upon the smooth tabletop, never breaking Horus’ flinty gaze. ‘No, captain. This is nothing I cannot handle. Thank you for your diligence, and your concern. Your warriors may return to their duties.’

The Custodian raised an eyebrow, but nodded slowly.

‘As you wish,’ he murmured, waving several of the more visibly distressed courtiers out before him.

Others seized this opportunity too, and the chamber rapidly emptied. Malcador felt a soft touch at his shoulder; Sibel Niasta, his personal astropath, took her leave, though she spared a pointed glare for the third primarch as she passed.

The Khan, renowned warhawk of Chogoris, bowed his head courteously in response. Then he made a wide circle around the edge of the low-ceilinged chamber, before closing the doors behind them all.

‘You as well, Jaghatai?’ Malcador sighed, then pursed his lips. ‘What brings you so promptly to the Throneworld, when not even Lady Niasta can reach your expedition’s chantries, when we need to?’

‘My brother calls, and I answer,’ the Khan replied in his softly accented Gothic, leaning casually against a marble pillar. ‘It is the way you made us, no?’

Horus growled impatiently, from behind gritted teeth.

‘And now, you will answer me, Sigillite. I will not ask again.’

This confrontation had been inevitable. The Emperor had made it so, against Malcador’s urging, and now the moment was upon them.

‘I presume,’ he said, carefully, ‘that you refer to the work being undertaken by the masonic guilds in the Investiary?’

Horus glowered. ‘You know I do. This is an insult. Did you think we would let this pass unremarked, my remaining brothers and I? You overstep your authority, old man. You cannot simply… undo history, as suits your secretive whims. When my father hears of this, He will–’

‘What makes you think that the Emperor is unaware of this matter?’ Malcador interrupted. ‘That the order did not come from His lips, and that I am not merely acting as His loyal servant?’

The primarch shook his head, an exasperated smile turning the corners of his mouth. ‘I am standing here before you, uncle. Please do not lie to my face. Alpharius has shown me all I need to see – enough to know that you and your accomplices have taken great pains to hide this from the War Council, and the rest of the Imperium as well. There is no seal of the aquila or the Throne upon these orders.’ He gestured to the dozen or so mortals that remained in the chamber, though none aside from Malcador would meet his eye. ‘That does not sound to me like the actions of loyal servants. If I did not know better, I would say they sound like those of ambitious, dishonest men, who know that their position within the hierarchy is uncertain at best, and more likely redundant as time moves on.’

He gripped the edge of the table with his gauntleted hands, and leaned wearily against it. The ancient redwood creaked under the weight.

‘Tell me, then. Convince me. By what right do you seek to remove one of the twenty great statues from the Investiary, if not to besmirch the glory of the Legions? These are monuments to our great deeds, in the name of the Imperium, and symbols to inspire all mankind.’

At this, Malcador rose from his seat. ‘Glory?’

‘Aye. Something your allies know only because they see it reflected in my father’s armour, as you all fawn at His feet.’

The Sigillite chuckled, though the words stung more deeply than he would let anyone there present know. ‘Do you fight to bring the galaxy to compliance, Horus, because you seek glory and recognition? Or do you do it because it is your duty, the task given to you by your father, whom you love above all else? If the price of your loyalty is only a few hundred tons of white marble and a little fanfare, then what glory have the Legions earned, truly?’

Horus bristled at this. Alpharius too, though the Khan still seemed content merely to listen, and observe. The primarch of the XVI raised himself back up to his full, post-human height, and began to stalk purposefully around the table.

‘We come here as friends, in search of truth and understanding, and yet you heap more insults upon us,’ he rumbled, shoving a heavy wooden chair aside like a child’s plaything. ‘Not content with striking one of my brothers from the pages of history, now you would dare to question our place in my father’s great vision altogether? If you were me, Sigillite, how would you react right now? You know full well that Alpharius, Jaghatai and I could crush you and every one of your fellow conspirators, and then walk freely from this place, to return to the Crusade as if nothing had happened.’

Malcador shrugged. ‘True enough, I expect. But is that how you would have others know you? As mighty lords of war, able to strike down any who question their right to rule over lesser men?’

‘But, dear uncle…’ the primarch almost whispered as he loomed over the Sigillite. ‘That. Is. What. We. Are.’

Ah, and there we have it, Malcador noted. The Cthonian hubris. The gangland pride, hidden beneath a Legion’s noble livery.

He smiled up at the primarch. He was close enough to smell the machine oil and lapping powder on his war-plate.

‘Horus, Lord and Commander of the Sixteenth Legion, Luna Wolves,’ the Sigillite said with a flourish, ‘may I present the honourable Na-Baron Petronius Vivar, of House Carpinus. He has come to see the glory of the Emperor’s sons for himself.’

The primarch’s eyes darted to the ageing man standing nervously to Malcador’s left. His retainers, clad in armour of silvered mail and gold bands, had been careful to position themselves between their master and this hulking demigod, though they did not once look up from the floor.

Horus regarded all of them, carefully, then glanced at Alpharius. The other primarch shrugged, and Horus turned to Vivar himself.

‘I know of House Carpinus,’ he muttered, begrudgingly. ‘I have a passion for the old tales, and I have read the chronicles of Unification penned by your ancestors. Much have I learned from them of my father’s noble deeds, before I ever knew Him, and for that reason alone I afford you the respect I believe you deserve.’

He lowered his head, just a fraction, but it was enough to set the na-baron to a much deeper bow in return.

‘My lord, it is an honour to meet you at last. I have travelled here to the Palace with my third cousin-scions Andor and Allum–’

Horus raised his hand, silencing Vivar instantly. ‘But I will not be distracted from my purpose here, this day. My brothers and I have come to put an end to this madness, once and for all. The history of the Imperium is not something that can be amended. We will not allow it.’

Pacing now around the other men and women in the chamber, Alpharius nodded in agreement. ‘We know the price of destiny, Lord Regent. We know the sacrifices that must be made. There was always a chance that some of us would not live to see the galaxy united beneath our father’s banner.’

He saluted with one fist to his chest, being sure to mark the Sigillite’s reaction to the outdated gesture.

‘But to deny that they ever existed? To openly dishonour the memory of our fallen brother? What gives you the right to decide that, in secret, behind closed doors?’

Malcador glared at him. ‘Do not speak to me of secrets. You are playing a dangerous game, the three of you, and my patience grows thin.’

Then, to a chorus of poorly stifled gasps, the Sigillite turned his back on Horus. He could feel every pair of eyes in the room upon him as he retrieved his eagle-topped staff from its cradle beside the throne, and steeled himself to face down the monsters he had helped to create.

He lowered himself back into the seat, and peered out from beneath the cowl of his hood.

‘While our great Emperor is absent from the Throneworld, I carry His authority, and I act in His name. We here, we lords and ladies of Terra, have given the matter adequate deliberation, and decided that a tribute to a fallen and disgraced primarch is not a monument worthy of the Investiary. The statue will be removed, the marble pulverised and used to line the paths of the state gardens in the Inner Palace.’

Even the Khan stiffened at that.

Horus stood absolutely motionless, save for the twitching of his fingers. Doubtless he was imagining all the ways he might tear the Sigillite limb from limb.

‘Not worthy?’ he growled.

Malcador leaned against the throne’s carven back. ‘If you cannot see the reasoning behind this decision, then you only convince me further that it is the right one, and that there is nothing more to discuss. Pray, return to your Legions. The Imperium needs victories more than ever. Let these past failures lie.’

Quite unexpectedly, Horus laughed, loud and long.

‘You can’t even say it, can you,’ he said, incredulously. ‘You can’t even say his name.’

‘Do not speak it,’ Malcador thundered, loading the words with psychic force that struck the primarch’s mind like a hammer to the forehead.

Horus reeled, blinking away the pain. His brothers, too, seemed to feel the blow, along with every mortal still in the chamber. Even the Sigillite’s own ears rang, but he kept his voice firm and unwavering.

‘This was your father’s command, boy, and you all agreed to it. To disobey now is to break faith with the Emperor Himself.’

The primarch gave a wry, defiant grin. ‘My brother’s name was–’

Faster than human thought, Malcador’s empty hand snapped up into an arcane gesture long forgotten by any other living soul on Terra.

+Silence.+

Horus froze, his limbs locked fast within his armour. He shuddered uncontrollably, pressure building in his muscles as he fought against it. Slowly, Malcador stood, holding the primarch in place with the power of his mind, and nothing more.

The Khan sprang towards the centre of the room. ‘Lord Regent,’ he urged, holding out his open hands. ‘You must release him. Please. He speaks from grief, and the shame we all share.’

The air between them thrummed with invisible energy. Malcador could still see that hateful, defiant pride shining through, in Horus’ palsied gaze. ‘You are not ready for the future you crave,’ he hissed. ‘None of you are.’

He forced Horus down onto his knees.

‘Mal…’ the stricken primarch choked. ‘M-Mal… al…’

The Sigillite’s face twisted into a vengeful rictus. He felt the old, familiar rage beginning to stir, deep in his undying soul.

‘Enough. You will be silent, or I will unmake you, here and now.’

Horus’ windpipe closed with a sickly crackle. His right eye bloomed red as a blood vessel burst in the sclera.

But still he would not relent.

So defiant. So… So… ungrateful…

Alpharius took an uncertain step back. ‘Stop, Lord Regent. Stop. You will kill him.’

Tiny, crawling motes of light began to creep in at the edges of Malcador’s vision. He could feel heat building within his ancient bones, stinging at the meat of his flesh. The stench of burning hair rose in his nostrils.

‘Sigillite!’ bellowed the Khan.

And in an instant, it was over.

Malcador released Horus. The primarch crashed to the tiled floor, convulsing, almost gagging on rough lungfuls of air. Alpharius rushed to his side.

‘Breathe, brother. Just breathe.’

With his heartbeat pounding inside his skull, Malcador gripped the cold iron of his staff. He felt like a drowning man clinging to the last, slippery lifeline he could find.

‘You will be the death of me,’ he gasped. ‘You and all your princeling brothers. There are things in this galaxy that you do not know, simply because you do not need to. And the knowledge of that just eats away at your hearts, does it not?’

Still trembling, Horus found his feet. His brothers hauled him up, and he stood, swaying, for a moment. Then he took a step forwards.

The Sigillite pawed absently at his simple robes, and the archeotech collar around his neck. ‘You cannot see what we have done for you, because you focus too much on what more you think you deserve. You have no earthly concept of what has been sacrificed, just so that you may ascend…’

Horus’ hand closed around the grip of his sword, sheathed at his hip. Its quillons were rendered as the wings of the aquila, gleaming gold, with the all-seeing Eye of Terra between them.

‘And this,’ said Malcador, ‘this is why mankind cannot be ruled by the post-humans. Your concerns are not those of ordinary men, who must eat and sleep and love and fear and, ultimately… die, all without ever knowing the kind of immortality you so crave. If you cannot see this, then you are all the proof I need.’

The blade’s energy field activated as it left the scabbard. The Khan shook his head. ‘Peace, brother. Consider where you stand.’

But Horus’ expression was dark. He glared down at the frail old man before him.

Then he raised the sword high, and drove it into the surface of the table. The tip speared right down through the petrified wood, sticking fast in the floor beneath it, and he left it quivering in place.

‘I defy you,’ Horus spat at the Sigillite. ‘You and this shadowy council of… bureaucrats. Your kind is not fit to rule anything. An Imperium ruled by men would be… It… It would be…’

‘It would be exactly what your father intended,’ Malcador murmured. A tear stung its way down his cheek. ‘Leave this place, Horus. Return to the crusading and bloodshed you love so dearly. You will have your moment of glory, I promise you that.’

Half a metre above the debating table, the Eye of Terra and the aquila were inverted in a symbolic act of violence, and the Imperial Regent could not help but see that as a grim portent indeed.

III: SENSEI

Just a man, he was. Just a man – this selfless hero, this noble servant – though none yet live who can be named his equal.

The Sigillite’s staff lies broken at the foot of the Golden Throne, and none have the heart to remove it. The Imperium mourns its Emperor, a loss so profound that it can scarcely be put into words… And yet it is the loss of Malcador, too, that extinguishes any last glimmer of hope that might have remained hereafter.

We are alone, truly, like orphaned children huddled together in a ruined house.

But it is we, his Chosen, who will continue his work.

We remember, as was ever his command, for the good of all mankind.

And we remember him.

Silence reigned for a long while in the Council Chamber. Beyond the dais, other dignitaries exchanged awkward glances, waiting for one – or indeed, any – of the High Lords to take the floor.

Malcador’s heart sank a little further with each second that passed. He had not thought himself capable of any more disappointment than he had felt of late.

Surprisingly, it was Navigator envoy Haardiker who eventually spoke.

‘It pains my heart, and that of the glorious Paternova, to know that these helpless people suffer in such great numbers, so close to the Throne and the protection they would seek in its shadow,’ he announced, through the nuncio. ‘I consider it an honour and a privilege to speak on behalf of the Terran houses of the Navis Nobilite, in pledging whatever monetary and logistical support is required to ensure that sanctuary is provided to all within the areas in question. We do not have the manpower to assist directly. But we may foot the bill, from our own coffers.’

Chancellor Ossian’s brow furrowed. ‘It is not necessarily a matter of finance, you understand. And I must regretfully remind you that this will not be deductible from the houses’ courtly stipendium.’

Haardiker shook his head, plaintively. ‘I would not hear of it. We do this to reaffirm our dedication to the welfare of the people of Terra.’

Sipping water from his fluted glass, Simeon Pentasian stared down at the table in front of him.

‘So funded, moving the refugees becomes a matter of will alone,’ he murmured. ‘Who among us, then, has the capacity to effectively police such an endeavour?’

All eyes fell to Marshal Rantal. But, before he could respond, Kane’s ambassador rose from her seat – Vethorel was not well liked amongst the High Lords, perhaps even less so than her master, but she had proven herself a dedicated servant of both Mars and Terra.

‘My lords, I would confer with the Fabricator General on the details, but I believe a solution can be found,’ she said, her voice a smooth, augmetic lilt. ‘We have the capacity to begin the fortification surveys requested by Grand Marshal Rantal upon the Hall of Judgement, if he would be willing to have his Arbitrators take responsibility for the orderly and timely relocation of the civilian camps.’

Rantal sat up straighter. ‘You are talking about a trade?’

‘Not a trade as such, Grand Marshal. Simply an agreement. An agreement that certain impossible things become more possible when we cooperate. But we should not feel compelled to aid these people because we seek mutual gain. We do it because it is the right thing to do, the kind thing to do. It is the human thing to do.’

His ocular lenses clicking thoughtfully, Zagreus Kane warbled his assent in binharic through the grille in his throat. Evidently, as far he was concerned, Vethorel had stated the position of the Adeptus Mechanicus in this negotiation.

Rantal spoke in hushed tones with his two precinct marshals, then turned back to the rest of the Council.

‘It will be done. We will begin with volunteers, so as not to diminish the enforcement watches in the meantime. Security first, then charity.’

His choice of words grated on Malcador’s nerves, but it was a start. That Rantal, Pentasian and the Mechanicus delegation could cooperate on anything at all was nothing short of miraculous.

Nonetheless, Vethorel gave Rantal a respectful nod before sitting once more. ‘As you say, Grand Marshal.’

Tharcher, the Chirurgeon-General, looked to Kane, Rantal and the Sigillite in turn. ‘Forgive me, my lords,’ he said, ‘but at the risk of stalling this whole process – where exactly will the refugees be moved to…?’

Malcador waved the question away. ‘Details, my good man, mere details. We have debated here far longer than planned, and time is a precious commodity enough, in these unhappy days.’

He took a slow, measured breath, feeling the seconds slipping away like so many grains of sand in an hourglass. Then he raised his staff, striking it on the flagstones slowly, deliberately, reverentially.

‘Lords and ladies of the Council of Terra, it is with a heavy heart that I must bring this session to a close. This final session.’

Marking the solemnity of his words, every man and woman seated at the grand table rose, their heads bowed. Those in the tiers of the chamber, too, as the echoes of two dozen scraping chairs faded slowly into the emptiness.

In spite of himself, the Sigillite found his chest tightening.

‘The good work we have done here over the years, my friends, in this very room, has become the foundation of the new Imperium – an Imperium that belongs not to us, but to the generations that will follow, unto mankind’s glorious and inevitable destiny among the stars. The price of that destiny is, it seems, that we must allow the Emperor’s loyal sons to cast out the disloyal one last time. Until that is done, we should let Lords Dorn, Sanguinius and Jaghatai Khan lead. Just as the Imperial Palace has been fortified for war, so too must our stewardship of Terra.’

Several of the High Lords drummed their knuckles on the tabletop in agreement. Malcador nodded.

‘And when Horus’ rebellion is ended, it will fall to those who remain to reconvene this Council, in the Emperor’s name.’

‘And you, Lord Sigillite,’ Lady Hursula replied. ‘You and He together will guide us, as ever you have.’

Malcador noted the golden aquila trinket that she clasped almost out of sight at the table’s edge. He knew that she was not alone in her secretive faith, among those present.

The Sigillite smiled, though he believed it could not possibly seem sincere.

‘We shall see, my lady. We shall see.’

It was almost a week before the relocation began in earnest. Harr Rantal, to his credit, devoted far more of his own time and energy to it than anyone had truly anticipated, and Malcador saw him often among the refugees on the Avenue of the Imperial Awakening. Without his armour, the crested helm of his office or his ceremonial maul, the Grand Provost Marshal appeared far less… unapproachable. He would take the time to speak with the people he was assisting, hearing their tales of fear and sorrow, and making sure that they had fresh water and blankets before they were tallied for processing.

Though there were countless other duties and observances expected of him, the Sigillite followed Rantal’s example. He ignored the ache in his old bones and joined the Administratum clerks at their makeshift desks, carefully scribing the names and origins of the thousands of displaced civilians as they each stepped forward in turn.

And it was then that the three primarchs came to him at last.

As they passed, this new triumvirate, men and women fell to their knees all around them. Some wept in fear, some in joy. Some reached out to touch their shining war-plate or rich cloaks, only to be pushed back by the legionary escorts that followed.

Malcador did not look up from his work.

‘The Praetorian, the Angel and the Warhawk. Impressive figures you cut, to be sure, but disruptive all the same. You overwhelm these good people with your magnificence, and I’d like to be finished before nightfall.’

‘Lord Regent,’ said Dorn, without humour, ‘this work is not befitting of your station, or your talents. And it places you in unnecessary danger, where not even the Custodian Guard can adequately protect you from an assassin’s blade, or needle pistol.’

‘I should remind you that I am Regent no longer, Rogal. Except when it suits your purposes to name me as such, of course.’ He paused, the cartridge pen falling still in his tired hand, and glanced pointedly at the Khan. ‘But do not assume I cannot take care of myself, should the need arise.’

Jaghatai did not visibly respond, though Malcador felt a flicker in his soul-light, carefully guarded as it was.

The Angel Sanguinius, his blond hair tied back and his wings carefully folded, placed one hand upon the Sigillite’s shoulder. ‘You make a great gesture, you and the rest of the High Lords, in giving over the Council Chamber to shelter these people. It is symbolic. It is beautiful. You declare that even the highest hall of the Palace belongs to them, now and forever.’

Malcador patted the primarch’s golden gauntlet. ‘Well, we aren’t using it, so…’

Sanguinius laughed at that. ‘Ah, dear uncle,’ he beamed, ‘you always played the role of curmudgeon so well, when needed, and it warms my hearts to see it once more. I have convinced Rogal to assess the structure, and the avenue too, to make them as safely defensible as they can be.’

Though his reluctance was clear, Dorn nodded. ‘Necessity. Priority. Magnanimity. These things do not always go easily hand in hand, but I will not allow the Council’s display to go unsupported. The Fabricator General sees to the fortress of the Adeptus Arbites, as well as his own manufactory complexes of Crucible, Volcanus and Infurnace to the north. The Warmason Singh and I will do what else needs be. We will make it work.’

‘That’s all we ever asked,’ Malcador replied. ‘For men to speak, and their protectors to hear them. You should not only answer your brothers’ calls – for that is how heresy always begins.’

He watched the three primarchs as they walked away, then beckoned to the next civilians in line.

Hours later, upon the high battlement, the Sigillite clearly saw the figure lurking in the gloom ahead, and did not alter his shuffling pace.

‘You only seek me out when you want something, Jaghatai,’ he called. ‘Some things never change, eh?’

The Khan sauntered into the light, with a smile’s softness to his darting gaze. Malcador halted, the psi-flame of his staff before him.

‘So. What do you want?’

‘I wanted to apologise, Lord Sigillite,’ the primarch replied. ‘Also, to warn you.’

Malcador narrowed his eyes. ‘Though I know you far better, that could almost sound like a threat, coming from anyone else.’

The Khan bowed low, bringing him almost down to the Sigillite’s own eye level.

‘Forgive me, for nothing could be further from my intentions. Things have soured between us in the years since you humbled my brother, and I would tell you that I wish to make amends. There can be no secrets, now.’

‘Unnecessary,’ said Malcador, gesturing for him to rise. ‘Your presence here is all I need, to know that you are one of the most loyal. You remain here to defend the Throne even though it is not in your nature, nor that of your Legion.’

‘And yet, there is more I can do. Again, I say that I must warn you.’

‘Warn me of what?’

The Khan’s eyes glinted with the flickering light of the staff. ‘I know who you are, Lord Sigillite. Who you were.’

Malcador grew very still. The soft murmur of the night wind was the only sound up there, on the wall.

He felt his ancient power prickling in the back of his mind.

‘What do you mean, Jaghatai? What do you think you know?’

‘I know, because Horus knows. You left your mark upon his pride, as surely as he left his upon the Council table – and my brother is nothing if not patient and resourceful in the execution of his vengeances.’

The Sigillite closed his eyes. He had already seen where this was going.

‘In his libraries on the flagship,’ the Khan continued, ‘he found you. For a long time, it was his private obsession, and I dare say he has uncovered even more in all the years since. At first I believe he feared the influence you might have over our father, and the Imperium, and the creation of the Council of Terra only confirmed his suspicions. Though, of course, when he realised he could no longer simply decry your efforts as unjust and self-interested, he delved deeper, into the past you have deliberately hidden.’

He took a breath.

‘He told me. He told me that you are Brahm al-Khadour, last of the Sigillites. The cursed wanderer. The perpetual. Horus knows what you have done, the atrocities that you and your secret order heaped upon mankind during Old Night. There are some legends that even you could not erase, some texts that the last and greatest technomage of Terra could not burn. Have no doubt, my brother will seek to unmask you, before the end. He will reveal to all that the Imperial Truth was founded on lies from the very beginning, and that the galaxy cannot therefore be justly ruled by our father, or any who support it.’

Malcador shifted his weight, his pseudo-mortal frailty all but forgotten, as he prepared himself for the possibility of combat. It had been a long time since he had faced Horus, and he did not know if he still had the psychic strength to subdue a primarch…

He opened his eyes, looking the Khan up and down.

‘And is that what you believe, mighty Warhawk of Chogoris? Am I the root of all mankind’s ills, as Horus would have the Imperium believe?’

The Khan gave a slightly exaggerated shrug. ‘It is not for me to say, Lord Sigillite, for I do not read the same books that my brother claims to. But I know my father, and His power, His vision. I cannot believe even one so powerful as you could deceive Him, if you were not the honourable man you claim to be, now. And so, if my father knows all of this to be true, and still keeps you at His side, then…’

He shrugged again.

‘Well, am I not part of that same vision? Perhaps it is my destiny to serve Him, regardless of whether or not any of us are who we believe ourselves to be. Perhaps this is what you tried to show Horus, I think.’

Malcador relaxed. Something like hope was kindled in his heart and, though such things had become unfamiliar to him, he smiled.

‘Just so,’ he said. ‘Come. Walk with me.’

They continued along the walls, gazing out over the full plains of Himalazia. There, to the south, the bulky spires of the Black Ministry could just be seen on the dark horizon, beyond the lights of the space port at Damocles.

The Sigillite paused.

‘Do you remember Sibel Niasta? The two of you spoke a great deal in the beginning, as I recall.’

‘The astropath,’ the Khan replied. ‘She was patient with me, and my sons.’

‘Indeed. She had a great many sayings and aphorisms – from her youth, I expect. One that I always remember was, “What they do not know, cannot hurt them.” Tell me, Jaghatai, what do you think of that?’

The primarch gave a wry grin. ‘You ask a leading question, sir. You have always sought to… manage the truth. This much I know for certain.’

‘Ah, but you assume I agree with the sentiment behind it. I think, if these past years have taught us anything at all, that what we do not know can still wound us most deeply. And to deny that which does you harm only gives it more blades, and teeth, and fire in its belly. No, I think that particular saying can safely be struck from the collected wisdom of our times. There is another, though, which I think lands much closer to the mark, and it is this – “Least said, soonest mended.”’

The Khan nodded. ‘Hmm, to be aware and yet choose to say nothing, so that others may not be reminded of the truth. This feels more like you, Lord Sigillite. More like my father also.’

‘Indeed. Never, never underestimate the damage that a poorly crafted lie can inflict, nor also the restorative power of consensual ignorance. The trick is in knowing which truths to bury, which records to burn and which proclamations to deny. To scream falsehood over anything that would oppose you is the way of the witless demagogue. A little contradiction is healthy. Like a pinch of salt in the gruel, it makes the whole meal a little easier to swallow.’

Malcador saw the understanding in the Khan’s eyes.

‘It is too late to undo what, in our blindness, we have already done, Jaghatai. When the ships of the Traitor Legions blacken the skies of Terra, our agreed-upon lies shall clash with the agreed-upon lies of the enemy – and only then will the truth of the next age become apparent. I am certain that many of us will not live to see it, and yet this thought gives me no fear.’

‘None, Lord Sigillite?’

‘None,’ Malcador agreed. ‘Because I have to be able to believe, when all else is done, that should they so wish, even the greatest monsters of our time can yet be redeemed, and forgiven.’

About the Author

L J Goulding is the author of the Horus Heresy audio drama The Heart of the Pharos, while for Space Marine Battles he has written the novel Slaughter at Giant’s Coffin and the audio drama Mortarion’s Heart. His other Warhammer fiction includes ‘The Great Maw’ and ‘Kaldor Draigo: Knight of Titan’, and he has continued to explore the dark legacy of Sotha in ‘The Aegidan Oath’ and Scythes of the Emperor: Daedalus. He lives and works in the US.

An extract from The Silent War.

‘Now you enter,’ came the voice, as soft and sibilant as he’d imagined it would be.

Hassan stirred out of his memories. He couldn’t see the speaker. He guessed it was the same man who’d shown him into the antechamber.

He looked up, seeing that the second set of doors had opened. He hadn’t noticed them unlock; the mechanism must have been extraordinarily smooth.

He rose awkwardly. He could feel patches of sweat under his arms and around his collar, and hoped they didn’t show. His limbs felt stiff, as though he’d forgotten how to walk and needed reminding.

Once through the doors, he passed into a vast sunlit chamber. One entire wall was given over to a long unbroken expanse of glass. Circling mountains broke up the horizon beyond, glittering white in the sunlight.

The floor was polished parquet. Eclectic items of furniture dotted the cavernous interior – a Louis Canz armoire stood next to a Unity-era ’lith projector, overlooked by a series of Hjuort oils and a cabinet containing priceless Ming and Wejwood ceramics.

It reminded him of a magpie’s nest. A collector’s den. Ostentatious, given the circumstances.

Hassan was alone. The room was silent. The doors closed behind him, moving together as quietly and elegantly as they had opened.

For a moment he stood still, listening to the sound of his own breathing, wondering if the things he saw around him were even real. Perhaps this was a test. Perhaps he was being shown one final glimpse of glory before the end.

Hassan knew they could have pronounced their judgement at any time. He had already given them all the information he could. He had been most careful about it, making sure the details were correct. Even in his failure he had not stinted nor tried to excuse himself. That had always been his way: honesty, even in disgrace. Such, of course, were the values of the Imperium, the basis upon which his loyalty had always been commanded.

Time passed. No one else entered the room. Hassan began to lose his sense of slow foreboding. He walked over to the windows, standing close to the glass and resting his fingertips against it.

The vista spread out before him – a dizzying sweep across the Palace’s western marches.

So much gold. So much of everything.

Vertiginous battlements plunged like cataracts into thickets of bone-thin towers. Colossal buttresses soared up from the bones of the mountains, massive and eternal. Even Lord Dorn’s heavy alterations along the outer walls hadn’t obliterated all of the Palace’s old and innate beauty.

Gazing over such vastness, it was hard not to feel strangely insignificant. The walls had already stood for centuries. They would endure for centuries more – a beacon of splendour amidst an expanding empire of mortal exaltation.

‘I liked it better before Rogal really got to work.’

The voice came out of nowhere. Hassan spun around, scanning across the chamber.

He was still alone. The voice seemed to rise from the air around him, echoing from the panels and sinking into the fabric of the woven rugs.

It was a strange voice. Mournful in tone, rich in timbre, cracked by age.

‘I do not see you, lord,’ replied Hassan, feeling stiff and stupid.

‘No, not yet. I cannot be in all places at once. We may save some time this way. Does it unsettle you?’

Of course it did.

‘Not at all.’

‘Good. Then keep looking at the view. Remember it. With every passing day it will get a little uglier, a little more worn. Just like us, eh?’

Hassan turned back to the window. He wondered whether the speaker could see him. He assumed that he could, though one could never be sure. Throwing a voice was trivially easy. Such theatrics, as he well knew, were all part of the process.

‘You are not a man given to levity,’ came the voice again. ‘That is what the reports all say – serious-minded, diligent. I can sense that in you myself. You are the embodiment of everything the Emperor aspires to instil in humanity. He would admire you, I think, were He here with us.’

The voice did not sound disdainful. Hassan could hear harshness in it, a harshness bred from long ages of wearying command, but also other things – a grain of sympathy, mostly resignation.

It was all so very unexpected.

‘I have always endeavoured to serve,’ he said.

‘I know you have,’ came the voice. ‘I know you have. But now you are here, with me, in this place. What you have been in the past, what you have done in the past, this is the reckoning for it. Do you know who I am, Captain Khalid Hassan?’

‘I think so, lord.’

‘I am the reckoner. I am the judge. I am the scrivener of the Imperium, the evaluator of its ocean of souls.’

Hassan couldn’t decide why he was being told this. Boastfulness? Possibly. It didn’t sound like boastfulness, though. It sounded almost like sarcasm – a dry, self-aware sarcasm.

‘I am the Sigillite. I am the Regent of Terra. At my command the fate of a million worlds is determined. And yet here I am, conversing with you as you look through my window and disapprove of my collections. Life is full of surprises, is it not?’

Hassan almost found himself nodding in agreement. ‘It is, lord,’ he said.

‘And you know why you are here?’

‘Because of what happened in Gyptus.’

‘That is right,’ came the voice. ‘Think back, Khalid. Think back to what you did there. I will be with you soon – when I come, I will wish to know everything.’

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