THE HIGH PRIESTESS
“You were the first to go over the top during the battle for Iax, and thus, one of the last survivors of that world. The last great battle of the Plague Wars.”
Guilliman examines the Hololith depicting the retreat of enemy forces in the direction of the Scourge Stars, either recalled by their loathsome patron or off to engage in one of those internecine wars Chaos so enjoys. He has ordered the Imperial Fleet to harry them as best they’re able, but he holds no hope of striking a meaningful blow. Mortarion has escaped and Ultramar is saved, though at a cost that would have broken the man he was.
This new Imperium considers the annihilation of a hundred worlds and half a trillion citizens a victory. Half a trillion subjects of what was once the Imperium Secundus, a multitude of souls he personally swore to protect, to uphold his Father’s oath and safeguard mankind – Back when his Father yet lived. A hundred planets he personally oversaw, fortified, administered, and taught – A hundred worlds he erected from sweat and mud, reduced to debris and noxious slime. A hundred candles snuffed out so the void could creep in.
He is not deserving of the Blue and the laurel wreath. In this war, he understands his new role, and understands just how far he has fallen. Just how much has been sacrificed so that the arbitrary choice of a specific genotype can colonize the galaxy, can survive, if never thrive. The God-Emperor has told these new humans they fight for permanence. Their zeal is unmatched, but all other virtues are but a smudge upon their souls. He considers the Tyrannic threat, contrasting and comparing, and finds no meaningful difference.
“You are worthy of contempt. Armored reinforcements were but a minute away, but you felt the need to seek death or glory. Has all mankind become like you? Are duty, honour and reason forsaken? Are you all willing to die merely so your names will enter the Roll? Courage is admirable, but recklessness is a failure of civic virtue. Your platoon perished because they followed what the Commisariat has dubbed your “valorous charge”. Tell me, Sergeant, why did you not wait?”
The Equerry has heard this harangue before. He knows his Sire struggles with the realities of the new Imperium, and tries to put the notion that a Primarch could be faithless out of his mind. Surely the Lord Commander, the Emperor’s son, could not fail in such a way. Usually, he remains silent, but for the first time he feels the need to speak out:
“The mechanized division was still a minute away, but a Champion of Nurgle was right in front of us, busy cutting down the agri-worker prisoners he had rounded up. Another minute and they’d be gone.”
“And you thought you could take on a company of Plague Marines by yourselves and succeed?”
“I thought we ought to try.”
“And fail. Condemning both the civilians and your platoon to a horrifying death of the body and damnation of their soul as the infection took over.”
The former sergeant feels his cheeks flushing, his temper rising. Who is this inhuman giant to tell him what his men, human and courageous all, ought to do? Was he to stand and watch as his brother and his nephews were turned into incubators for Chaos’ loathsome monsters?
“What would you have done, then, O mighty Guilliman? Your fist can smash Titans, your sword can damn daemons. If it was King Konor standing there waiting the executioner’s axe, would you have waited for reinforcements? Perhaps you could have saved him, but what are we little men to do, o Lord, we who are not sons of a God?”
The equerry bites his lip. The Lord Commander told him of his adoptive father, and he knows the mention is sure to result in a death sentence. Guilliman moves closer to the equerry, eclipsing his vision. The human regrets his words, and accepts the fate that is sure to come. Why not? He has lived enough, lost and gained enough. To the warp with this arrogant princeling.
The Primarch stops but a handsbreath from him, grim and foreboding. Slowly, the demihuman giant starts removing his resplendent panoply. The laurel wreath comes last, and Guilliman motions for the leader of the Victrix Guard to take it away. Cato Sicarius will enshrine the Armour of Fate in Maccrage.
Roboute Guilliman now stands clad only in a black bodyglove, the Emperor’s Sword and the Hand of Dominion on the chair behind him. The sword is quiescent, flames extinguished to display the smooth black blade underneath.
“Your fervour is commendable, but I will yet temper it with intellect. Come, equerry, for we are joined in mourning. And now we must meet the devotees of the dead.”
The Ynnari voidship and Yvraine await the Primarch, and come with an offer: Alliance, and perhaps eventually, integration. But they are not the only xenos who have made overtures to the Lord Commander: The Tau Supreme Ethereal and a few necron dynasties, led by the Silent King, have also made similar suggestions. They are all, they claim, united against the threat of the Primordial Annihilator. What will you do?
A) Accept an alliance with the Eldar and hear out the Tau and Necron offers without offering compromise.
B) Hear out all xenos’ offers without offering any compromise.
C) Ignore the xenos’ offers; they are devious and not to be trusted, able to become an ever greater threat than chaos.
D) Use this opportunity to strike a blow at the xenos’ leadership under the guise of diplomacy. Suffer not the alien to live.
