Chapter 436: Let Steel Be Our Tongue
Before the wrath of a Primarch, all things are fragile.
In a single exchange, the squad's formation was torn asunder.
Pushing past the blast barriers and moving along the narrow causeway toward the front of a bastion, the Lion's consciousness was hyper-focused on the center of the kill-zone. The white noise born of ceaseless, ear-splitting impacts wrapped around him like a shroud. In his eyes, there were only enemies and potential enemies.
With a flicker of annoyance, the Lion checked the progress of his Paladins over the vox, his blade never ceasing its bloody work.
The Lion Sword swept toward the neophyte, Kyle Crane, who was far smaller than the demigod looming over him. Crane gave a tragic, defiant laugh and chose to charge to meet his end.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A saturation bombardment swept in.
It was not a random barrage. It was precise—terrifyingly so. It predicted the Primarch's evasive maneuvers and defensive habits with the accuracy of a simulation run a thousand times.
This gave the furious Lion pause. His blade slowed by a fraction of a second.
Shing!
Crane fell. The Primarch's momentary hesitation meant the blade did not cleave him entirely in two, but it still buried itself in his chest, shearing through his primary heart and leaving a gaping wound that nearly bisected him.
Clang!
A grapnel hook snagged his power pack. In an instant, the young knight was yanked backward, out of the saturation zone.
The sudden acceleration caused his limp neck to snap to the side, and through the haze of pain, his face twisted in shock.
Knights, far taller and broader than he, rushed past his broken form. Amongst them marched a significant number of battle-automata—machines the neophytes had only ever seen in the dusty archives of the Order.
Before the other confused defenders could continue their suicidal attack, these figures—so different from the Dark Angels of this era—blocked the line of sight to the Lion.
Precise, dense firepower forced the Lion back, like men using torches to drive back a beast in the night.
"Can you speak?"
The grapnel line went slack. Hands grabbed the broken body.
Crane turned his head with difficulty. With a split heart and a body nearly cut in half, the movement was agony.
He had fallen in a single move. If not for the Lion's error, he would have died instantly.
The primal terror of facing the apex predator made him tremble uncontrollably, even as he was dragged from the jaws of death.
"Do not worry."
His shattered frame was lowered onto a sturdy transport sled.
Crane noticed the crowd around him. Familiar faces, unfamiliar faces.
They were being secured by Astartes far larger than the veterans he knew. The transport vibrated, its destination unknown.
"You are safe," the giant said, soothing the Dark Angels who were being disarmed by the automata.
"Is it... temporary?" Crane rasped.
"No," the giant replied solemnly. "It will not be forever, but trust me, it will be for a very long time."
"You were going to die."
"Now, you will live."
"..."
Crane touched his armor. He felt the transport lurch—the sensation of being loaded into a larger bulk lifter.
BOOM!
Facing the wall of fire projected against him, the Lion chose to leap.
With the grace of a hunting cat, he cleared seven meters in a single bound. His hands struck the wall first, absorbing the impact, his center of gravity shifting instantly. Using his left hand as a pivot, his feet tapped the vertical surface lightly before he launched himself again.
In the blink of an eye, dodging angles of fire that would have pinned a squad of Terminators, the Lion left the ground once more, dancing through the explosions.
Behold. This is the Lion. This is power.
The Thunder Warriors had faded due to genetic degradation. The Astartes fell in their secret wars, replaced by the next generation.
Only the Lion remained constant.
A pained smile appeared on Gareth's face.
The perpetrator need not pay for his actions. The struggles of the victims seemed so laughable before him. Even in the heart of the battlefield, this leader was composed, effortless.
How could mortals compare to such an existence?
The Primarch was too strong.
Of course, this thought was not born of jealousy, nor did it mean Gareth believed the strong should yield to the weak.
As a soldier, he simply wished the Primarch would think. To think about the consequences his choices would inflict upon the warriors under his command.
The mutual suspicion of the Dark Angels was causing them to annihilate one another in a storm of fire. Bolters and lascannons treated all flesh equally, and the Lion's roar usually led to only one outcome.
CRACK!
The moment it made contact with the Lion Sword, Gareth's Storm Shield shattered like a cheap ornament. The servo-motors whined in protest before exploding, sending shrapnel and blood flying from the joints of his armor.
"Who are you!"
Lion El'Jonson, Primarch of the First Legion, slammed Gareth into the ground.
The Lion possessed the strength to bear the consequences of his choices. But others did not!
Several warriors lay dead nearby, automata reduced to scrap. Gareth stared up at the Lion.
Perhaps this was the covenant between Astartes and Primarch—a cursed pact.
While the Astartes enjoyed the benefits of being led by a demigod, they also had to pay the price for his whims.
"Traitor!"
The Lion roared, like a predator pinning its prey. Amidst the slaughter, he had finally found a clue.
Strange armor. Physical augmentation far beyond the norm. Combat capabilities exceeding a standard Legionary. They wielded a power he did not understand, a power that emboldened them to challenge his rule.
Yes. This was a traitor.
Just like the elusive Luther.
The Lion remembered every unit he had banished to Caliban. He did not remember this man.
"You are the traitor!"
Pinned beneath the Primarch, Gareth roared back, screaming the words he had fermented in his heart a thousand times:
"You abandoned us! You abandoned Caliban! Think about what you did during the Heresy! In the direst hour, you chose to watch and wait! And now you open fire on us with such decisiveness? Lion! Where was your patience then? Where was your effortless grace?!"
"Look at what you have done! You made landfall on Caliban and slaughtered sons who were seeing you for the first time! In fact, the betrayal you imagine doesn't even exist! Luther is hiding somewhere laughing at you, watching you make choices that fit perfectly into his plot, just like those monsters who enjoyed your 'performance' during the Heresy!"
The Lion felt something tear inside his chest.
He asked himself—he had never harbored a single thought of betrayal. But in the early days of the Heresy, did he not have his own private calculations?
He had received news of the rebellion but chose to observe. He saw through Dorn's strategy of consolidating the potentially wavering Legions. Even Dorn did not know where the Lion was then. If he had gone to Isstvan V with Perturabo, with the full might of the Dark Angels, how could Horus's conspiracy have succeeded?
If he had chosen to rush to Terra with Corswain instead of attacking the traitor supply lines, would the outcome have been different?
Would Sanguinius have lived? Would his Father have been spared the Golden Throne?
"How do you know these things?!"
The Lion snarled, his grip tightening, stung by the accusation.
"Tell me! Which of your foul masters whispered these lies to you?!"
The Primarch attempted to use his aura to intimidate. If the situation were not so critical, he would have interrogated this strange Dark Angel personally.
"Heh."
Gareth laughed sarcastically and fell silent.
He knew he couldn't change the Lion's decision. But he had done what he set out to do.
They had bought enough time to evacuate the suffering brothers from the combat zone. Now, he only had to wait.
"Answer me!"
The Lion bellowed, his voice feeling like thousands of fangs tearing at Gareth's psyche.
Wait.
Just as Gareth felt himself being lifted like a ragdoll, smelling the Lion's fury and seeing that twisted, enraged face, a streak of golden light flashed past his head.
A towering figure passed him, iron boots thundering against the rubble. The Lion's roar was deafening.
CLANG!
Two blades of peerless sharpness collided. The strength and inertia of the wielders sent a shower of sparks erupting between them, illuminating their faces.
One was silent and solemn. The other, gloomy and cold.
Both pairs of eyes held an anger that transcended the mundane.
Shing!
The blades trembled and separated. The knight released his lock, throwing a punch forward. As the Lion stepped back, the knight expertly pulled a trigger. The Lion dodged, releasing his grip on Gareth in the process.
Immediately, the knight carefully sidestepped Gareth, placing himself between the Lion and his prey. He caught the Lion's follow-up strike on his crossguard, then thrust back.
Drip.
Crimson blood ran down the Lion's cheek. The reckless fury in his eyes vanished, replaced by the wariness of a hunter meeting an apex rival.
Finally, the Lion was forced back completely. Gareth fell from the air, collapsing onto the ground.
He looked up. His Highness stood between him and the Lion.
The man wore black armor and a crimson cloak, upon which was embroidered the Dawn, wings spread in glory.
"You are lucky to be alive. His Highness rushed here without stopping," Kay said, appearing at Gareth's side and shielding the critically wounded knight.
To risk one's own present to ensure others have a future—few could do such a thing.
"Your Highness."
Gareth ignored Kay, speaking to the towering knight who had forced the Lion back.
"Thank you. You saved my life."
"I accept your gratitude," Arthur said, not looking back. "And in turn, you saved the lives of your brothers, Gareth."
"I was... protecting everything I hold dear."
Gareth wanted to say more, but found he could barely command his muscles.
His bones and armor were shattered alike. His helmet was gone, his face a mask of blood. The Belisarius Furnace had triggered, flooding his system with stims and rapid-clotting agents, but even that could barely keep this broken body going.
The Lord of Knights had arrived. Gareth's last reserves of strength faded.
Arthur took two steps forward, stabilizing his stance as the Lion prowled.
The Lion was seething, but the repeated impacts had shocked his brain back into thinking mode. The danger sense of the hunter told him he could no longer act with impunity.
The existence before him was strong.
The Lion had hunted countless beasts. Even the Khrave, known for their psychic and physical might, could barely rouse his true hunting instincts.
But this opponent was different.
From the scent, he smelled only himself. Yet in his psychic perception, there was a void.
Unobservable. Hard to sense.
He stared warily at the unfamiliar figure, the one surrounded by Dark Angels.
In that instant, thoughts of sorcery flashed through his mind. Was this a plot of the Chaos Powers? Or a glamour sent by Luther to shake his resolve?
"Rest now, Gareth," Arthur said, standing as a wall between the Lion and the Dark Angels.
"I still have work to do," Gareth whispered weakly. "I have to get them home."
"You have done enough. Now, let me help you."
Arthur faced the Lion. He knew that the Primarch of ten thousand years ago was not easy to get along with. The carnage around them was proof enough of that.
"Let us settle this in the manner we know best."
Arthur stepped forward. The wind of battle billowed his crimson cloak.
He raised his sword, light gleaming from its edge, pointing it directly at the furious Lion.
"Let steel be our tongue."
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