"What am I supposed to do when we get there? Calas?"
Mortarion was uncomfortable in the Stormbird, shifting in the thin and elaborate clothing that sat wrong on him in every way.
He wasn't accustomed to being treated like this. Without the Manreaper and without Barbarus's toxic miasma, he felt exposed and vulnerable — even though any casual swing of his arm could drive a Custodian into the earth.
He sat in a corner of the Stormbird, with Typhon, Voss, Grail'ha, and the others gathered around him.
He didn't want to show this kind of weakness in front of his sons — but his fragile and sensitive pride made him curl inward instinctively. He hated this. And he couldn't overcome this "cowardice."
"You're already fine as you are. After the initial greetings, leave the rest to me. Whatever it takes, I'm getting a fleet out of this for the Legion."
Calas Typhon felt a genuine mixture of exasperation watching his old friend.
In front of those rebel fighters on Barbarus, Mortarion had been a silent and commanding leader — someone who would farm alongside old peasants during the idle agricultural season. He disliked the Terran-born but still personally mended their worn uniforms with his own hands.
He was a genuinely good father — stubborn, difficult to move, but the Death Guard loved him sincerely.
Calas Typhon was a different matter. From the moment Mortarion had pulled him out of the slave raid, Typhon had stayed at his side.
He understood Mortarion better than anyone.
This was a grown infant who had never learned to feel loved.
Terrible at being a leader. Terrible at being a commander. Impulsive, prone to fits of rage, capable of extraordinary stupidity when his blood was up.
And stubborn. Specifically stubborn in the way where even when his internal feelings ran one direction, he'd dig in and push exactly the other way purely for the sake of that small, miserable shred of dignity.
As though losing face for a moment meant he stopped being Mortarion.
Calas, who had been born a slave, found this kind of question genuinely incomprehensible.
He'd even felt something like envy at times — beyond being able to fight, what exactly did Mortarion have that Calas Typhon didn't?
And yet Mortarion effortlessly received things Typhon could spend a lifetime never acquiring. And he didn't value them. He threw tantrums.
Typhon acknowledged that there had been several moments — dangerous ones — where his thoughts had gone to very dark places.
Like when Mortarion burned those psyker children on Barbarus.
But now, looking at Mortarion in his uncharacteristically subdued state, Calas Typhon decided he still had a role to play for the Death Guard's sake. He couldn't let Mortarion just blunder in there unguided.
"Remember — watch my eyes. Follow my lead. Coordinate with me. The warships and armour replacements are as good as ours."
Typhon was still coaching him.
"Will this actually work, Calas?"
"I've heard this Lord of Iron is known for being completely cold-blooded. And you saw what's on this planet — how many Resentment Intelligence units? If we brought the whole Legion at full strength, we'd struggle to threaten them. Father, I have a very bad feeling about this. I don't think the Lord of Iron is going to be welcoming toward us."
Grail'ha's words made Mortarion even more anxious.
He was already regretting charging into the Galaspan campaign. Maybe Calas had been right — he should have slowed down, because there had been better options.
"So what if he isn't? He's Father's brother. What's wrong with asking a brother for a little help?"
"You just said yourself there are that many Resentment Intelligence units here. And didn't you see the dry docks just now? They even have dedicated Resentment Intelligence units handling warship maintenance and upkeep."
"Didn't you notice how fast the Endurance was being repaired?"
"And those ships sitting in the dry docks — I'm not going to believe you didn't see them. There's enough there to arm five Legions."
"If we can get even a fraction of that as support, think of how many losses we'd avoid in the Crusade. How many brothers we'd keep alive."
Typhon pushed back.
"You know how powerful this Lord of Iron is — doesn't that worry you? What if he actually has treasonous intentions? What if we see something we shouldn't, and he just eliminates us to keep the secret, and then—"
"Grail'ha — careful."
Grail'ha, who had always been unflinchingly loyal to the Emperor, realised he had gotten carried away. They were still on someone else's ground.
"Are we really just going to go in there and ask for a fleet?"
He looked at his father, still wrestling with himself, and felt a quiet frustration of his own.
"A Legion's worth of fleet replacement — even Mars might not be willing to provide that in one go. Is this Lord of Iron really going to be that generous?"
"You saw what was there. He absolutely can be. I'm certain of it."
Calas Typhon was also gambling — because even the Luna Wolves, who had always been relatively friendly toward the Death Guard, wouldn't necessarily give up their own allocation to help supplement them.
If he didn't take this gamble, Typhon was absolutely not going to keep letting the expedition fleet charge into situations like this. How many people were left in the Death Guard right now? How much more of this could Mortarion sustain?
And Mortarion kept recruiting exclusively from Barbarus, that miserable rock — there were only so many people to recruit. If Typhon didn't find some way to open a new source of supply, this Great Crusade was going to end very soon.
"All right, we're close. Calas — remember what you promised us. We need that fleet."
Watching the Stormbird draw close to the landing surface, Mortarion put away the melancholy expression and stood up — tall and spare and resolute. A different look entirely.
He couldn't lose face in front of a brother. And this expression, as it happened, was perfectly suited to someone who had taken a devastating blow but refused to break.
"Yes."
Typhon didn't say anything more. He'd come this far — if he couldn't give his brothers an answer now, he didn't have the face to go back.
The ramp opened. Mortarion and the others, who had mentally prepared themselves, froze immediately.
Two long rows of Iron Circles were standing in formation on the landing pad, waiting to receive them.
Dreadnought-comparable Iron Circles, their frames cast from an alloy blending auramite with other metals — the presence they radiated dropped the temperature in the air immediately.
They're not even pretending.
Mortarion, for the first time, felt that Calas had walked the Death Guard directly into a wolf's den.
The whole point of this visit was to acquire warships. Nobody had thought to bring weapons. Their power armour had been swapped out in advance under Calas's preparation — old Mark I models — and there were only a few of them. In a fight here, they'd accomplish nothing.
Mortarion and the others were on full alert, but one Iron Circle had already walked toward them.
"Esteemed Lord of Dawn, Lord Perturabo has been expecting you. Please follow me."
The Iron Circle gestured in invitation. Mortarion didn't show any hesitation. He led a few of his sons and followed.
The powerful presence radiating from the Iron Circles along the route made Mortarion's heart lurch several times.
And the heavy weapons concealed in the shadows — the short walk left him feeling progressively more stunned. Was this really a planet? This was more like a self-propelled armory with a rotation speed.
The landing pad wasn't far from the palace. Perturabo had simply built a new pad for the occasion — slightly wasteful and slightly detrimental to the aesthetic, but convenient.
Mortarion looked at the structure ahead. "Palace" was a generous term — this was a giant war fortress.
The severe iron-grey aesthetic gave everyone in the group an ominous feeling about what was about to happen.
This was a terrible idea. Calas Typhon's confidence had evaporated. He would have given anything to undo that impulsive inspiration. What kind of gamble was this? They might not even get out in one piece.
The great doors opened slowly. The killing-cold atmosphere inside, guarded by automata and Iron Circle units, had everyone's heart in their throat.
Only Mortarion wasn't afraid this time — he walked in with his head up. He was nervous, but he also felt reasonably certain that a brother would not strike a Primarch under these circumstances.
Typhon, who had always been the boldest of the group, found his nerve unexpectedly deserting him. Even his footsteps felt faintly unsteady.
If this really did bring catastrophe down on the Legion, no punishment would be too severe for him.
Through the layered alloy corridors, Mortarion moved from nervousness to something closer to anger.
A true tyrant.
This much precious alloy being used to build a palace. And decorated with meaningless ornamental detail to make the thing look grander.
Excessive luxury. An appetite for indulgence. Playing with Resentment Intelligence. Grand ambitions—
And not participating in the Great Crusade — not going out to save the humans still suffering under alien boots, not exterminating those filthy xenos. Inexcusable.
Wasting the Legion and the talent the Emperor had given him.
Mortarion's expression had gone dark. He had mentally concluded that he was going to have a direct confrontation with this brother before this was over.
Whether they got any warships was no longer really the concern. Everyone had quietly prepared for the worst.
Finally — after so many turns that even Mortarion was half-dizzy — the Iron Circle brought them to their destination.
An entirely unremarkable metal door. Nobody looking at it could have guessed it could sustain continuous fire from three Volcano Cannons simultaneously.
The iron door opened from within. The interior was less opulent than Mortarion had been expecting — just a simple long table, with twenty-two large chairs arranged around it.
A tall figure in white robes was standing before a holographic display nearby, dealing with something.
This was the first time Mortarion had understood that a brother could be taller than the Emperor. And from this figure there came a presence that made him feel something close to fear.
He could sense something evil and desecrating from this brother — and somewhere underneath it, the shadow of an enormous entity.
A visceral unease rose in all of them simultaneously. This Primarch — this brother — was terrifyingly powerful.
Mortarion was first to collect himself. His breathing became slightly laboured.
So the rumours of ambition weren't wrong. With strength like this, there was genuine capital to stand against the Emperor.
An Iron Circle stepped to the right side of the head chair and pulled it out, indicating Mortarion should sit.
Typhon and the others were selectively ignored by the Iron Circle.
Mortarion sat in the chair — woven from the finest Olympian cashmere — and felt as though he were sitting on pins.
Perturabo turned around. Looking at the group's wariness, he felt faintly amused.
"Ah. The Lord of Dawn has come."
It was the nickname Mortarion had earned liberating those human worlds during the Crusade — used long enough that it had simply become accepted.
Perturabo walked toward the head chair. His shadow fell across Mortarion entirely, producing an inexplicable agitation in the man.
That feeling reminded Mortarion of the oppression and abuse from his xenos adoptive father.
"What brings you here? Shouldn't you be on the Great Crusade? The Emperor will have words if he finds out you've stopped."
Mortarion wanted to say something. His lips trembled. He produced nothing.
He looked back at Calas, searching for some help.
"My lord, we—"
Calas started to take over, but Perturabo cut him off.
"A Legion Master, letting his son speak for him — does that look right? Have you no shame?"
Mortarion's face went immediately red.
"Or perhaps you don't consider me worthy of your direct conversation, and you've sent your son to fob me off — to make your own importance clear by contrast."
Those deep blue eyes settled on Mortarion, and something in his chest contracted involuntarily.
"My lord, Father didn't mean—"
Grail'ha immediately started to protest, then discovered he had suddenly lost the ability to speak. He looked at Typhon and Voss — they were the same.
"What are you doing?"
Seeing his sons' condition, Mortarion immediately moved to stand — and felt a heavy force lock him in the chair.
Psychic power.
Mortarion hated psychic power. It made him think of his xenos adoptive father and everything that had been done to him.
"A minor technique. No harm will come to them."
"Say what you came to say. What do you want from me?"
Perturabo sat in the head chair, turning two small golden spheres over in his hand.
"I — I — I want to—"
Mortarion was halting, the purpose catching in his throat.
This was supposed to be Calas's job. Now it fell to him.
"A Primarch who can't speak clearly — if outsiders heard this, imagine what they'd say about the Emperor. Brought back a failure who can't put three words together?"
"We want to borrow some warships from you. I give you my word — when the Mechanicum's resupply arrives, we'll return them."
Mortarion ultimately couldn't bring himself to frame this as begging.
"How many?"
"Two hundred capital ships, two thousand sets of Terminator armour, four hundred heavy Vindicators, Stormbirds and Thunderhawks—"
Mortarion decided to go all in — numbers as high as he dared, because he wasn't actually expecting success. He just wanted to leave.
"Fine. Anything else?"
"What?"
Mortarion was briefly stunned.
What had just happened? What he'd named was already approaching forty percent of a Luna Wolves allocation — and this was a yes?
"I asked if there was anything else."
"Oh. No. That's — that's all."
"No ambition."
Perturabo said it plainly.
"You lost that many warships and brothers fighting a pocket empire, you've come asking for support, and you can't even ask for enough equipment to make it worthwhile. Legion Master?"
"You come in Mark II armour to play for sympathy — did you think I wouldn't know you're wearing old marks? I developed the current mark of power armour. I personally issued the components to every Legion. You're performing for an audience that can see through the performance."
"You know that most of your current fleet came from the worlds under my domain, right? I know exactly what those ships look like."
"If you need equipment, just say so. Do you think I'm going to begrudge my own brother a few sets of armour?"
Mortarion had been building to a response — but then he thought about the fleet, and swallowed it.
"Come with me."
A casual gesture, and the wall of the palace cracked open from the inside. Perturabo walked ahead.
Mortarion and the others followed, uncertain of what to expect.
Then they saw what was in front of them, and their eyes stopped being able to look away.
Precision-crafted power armour and Terminator sets stacked in piles throughout the depot. Centurion armour. Heavy tanks. Large-calibre weapons. And among them — three enormous Artillery pieces and plasma macro-cannons.
"All of this is yours. For the warships, I'll put together a full Legion-grade fleet — plus one Gloria Regina on top of that."
"If you find yourself in crisis again and the fleet needs supplementing, come back. Don't stubbornly keep Crusading into those conditions."
"You have a mouth — I don't know what you think it's for. You can't even bring yourself to ask the Emperor, let alone a brother."
"Are you going to watch your sons get blown to ash before you decide to acknowledge you needed help?"
"Is honour more important than your sons' lives? Can your pride actually be traded for this equipment?"
Perturabo's words rendered Mortarion speechless.
"We should treat this as a loan—"
"Take it. What loan? How exactly are you going to repay warships? With what Mars and the Administratum sends you?"
"I'm not so destitute that I'd make a brother repay me in warships. If I made that demand, you'd be the embarrassed one — but I would be the one who looks cheap. Making a brother sign a promissory note for some equipment? That's something I, Perturabo, would not stoop to doing."
"I'll have the Iron Circles transfer the equipment to your ships. After that, decide for yourselves how it's organised. The warships don't have names — I'm not participating in the Crusade, so naming them falls to you."
Mortarion looked at the mountains of equipment and vehicles in front of him, and the excitement pressing against his chest was becoming difficult to contain.
But Perturabo had already moved to stand beside Calas Typhon.
Looking at this slightly-nervous young man, Perturabo found it hard to believe this was actually going to become Typhon one day.
Nurgle really did damage to people.
"I've heard Mortarion has consistently resisted dealing with administrative and military logistics — and that there's always been one son who handles those burdens for him."
"Is that you, boy?"
Calas Typhon lowered his head, feeling for no clear reason somewhat guilty.
"I'm not enough on my own. The Legion Master has always helped significantly — and there are others—"
Perturabo had no interest in polished non-answers.
"Brother — it looks to me like the Death Guard has a different actual Legion Master."
Mortarion said nothing. Only Grail'ha and the others looked at Calas Typhon — with a certain quiet lack of respect toward this "Legion Master."
Capable, certainly. But "Legion Master"? That was still a long way off.
"Brother — I'm giving you all of this. But I have a condition."
Perturabo looked at Mortarion.
"What condition?"
"My sons are campaigning in the Storm Worlds next month. If they encounter worlds you've previously conquered along the way, I'll be taking those over."
"What do you mean?"
Mortarion's eyes narrowed.
"You've ignored them. You've refused to let the Administratum touch them either. The resources are sitting there completely unused. Better to let me govern them — at minimum, I can provide those people with stable order."
So there it was. The tyrant had been angling for this all along — finding a way to enslave and exploit those unfortunate people.
Mortarion instinctively wanted to refuse. He would rather not take any of this equipment at all than see worlds he had worked hard to liberate handed to a tyrant.
He was not going to accept those terms.
"You've left those people living in misery. After I take over, they won't have freedom — but they'll survive, and live reasonably well. Productivity can be dramatically increased."
"Whether for me or for the Imperium, this arrangement benefits everyone."
"What I see is mostly you satisfying your own appetites."
Mortarion's fury was barely contained. The lean muscles in that tall frame were coiled, and the fist he was clenching had nearly come through.
"You're always so naive, Mortarion."
"This is the best available option right now. It keeps humans alive and generates explosive productivity to support the Crusade's logistics."
"I don't see any grounds for refusing me. Or did you want to try Guilliman's approach? Time-consuming, labour-intensive, and with a fraction of my output — I have no patience for that kind of work."
"Whether it's you or Guilliman — I'm refusing. This is oppression of humanity. They should be able to live by their own free will, not be exploited like puppets on strings."
"And your version of freedom gives them nothing but suffering."
"I see no hope in any of the worlds you've liberated. Left unchecked, the gangs and opportunists that rise up will only become more brutal over time."
"People who clawed their way up from the same class — how do you think they're going to treat the people they used to be among?"
"When are you going to grow up, Mortarion? Drop the childish ideas. Unrealistic dreams don't exist in the real universe."
"You can do it on Barbarus — because you're there, and things can run according to your vision as long as you're present."
"But the other worlds are different. When are you going to recognise that your approach is also imposing your own thinking on them — just a different version of the same thing?"
Perturabo stepped closer to Mortarion, looking at this stubborn and unyielding brother.
"The only difference between you and me is that I keep those people alive. Even without freedom, their material conditions are adequate."
"Your approach breeds crime and hunger in those worlds. It pushes people toward extreme solutions. They can't feed themselves. Basic survival becomes the question."
"I am a tyrant, Mortarion. And you are an utter fool."
Mortarion couldn't hold back anymore.
"That is sophistry."
"You use your personal will to strip away the free will that should belong to humanity — and then you systematically exploit them for everything their labour produces."
"I'm different. I gave them genuine freedom. They have the ability to choose—"
"What freedom? Have you actually visited those worlds since? You gave them freedom — do they thank you for it?"
"When are you going to understand this, Mortarion? Freedom has limits. And what ordinary people actually care about is whether they can eat today and tomorrow. Whether they have somewhere to sleep."
"When survival itself is the question, you're going to talk to them about freedom?"
"Mortarion — where do these warships come from? Where does this equipment and armour come from?"
"We extract the resources from these people and these worlds to build them. The Imperium — and I — gather those resources and hand them to you to conduct the Crusade."
"You enjoy the most privileged position in the Imperium. And now you're telling me you want to bring freedom to these people?"
"Kill that idea now. Even if I don't intervene in those worlds, the Emperor will personally send orders to begin imposing heavy taxation on them."
"Everything you've done is a joke. A giant infant with enormous power living an impossible dream — and the only thing your willfulness brings to those people is endless disaster."
"Whether you admit it or not — the only reason you can do any of this is because the Emperor is backing you. His authority is the foundation you're standing on. But when you start threatening the Imperium's fundamental interests, even the Emperor will stop tolerating your juvenile ideas."
"Wake up, Mortarion. You are the Emperor's son. You are the Legion Master of the Death Guard. You are a Crusade commander. Your responsibility is to recover humanity's lost worlds, exterminate the xenos — and beyond that, within limits that don't damage the Imperium's interests, you can make some changes to the worlds you recover."
"Beyond that — there is nothing you can do."
Perturabo placed his hand on Mortarion's lean shoulder.
"What you need to do right now is take these weapons and this fleet and continue the Crusade. The worlds you conquer — if you don't want to govern them, give them to me. Because if the Administratum gets involved, those people's lives will return to exactly what they were before you liberated them. Possibly worse."
"Do you understand, brother?"
Mortarion didn't answer. He simply began, in silence, to walk out.
Typhon and Grail'ha and the others had wanted to offer their father some support. There was no gap in the conversation for them to fill.
They followed quietly as he left.
Perturabo watched them go. Regardless of whether Mortarion ever came around to his way of thinking, he was going to take those worlds anyway. Mortarion's agreement wasn't really necessary — Perturabo had simply chosen to inform him, because this was a brother, and Perturabo didn't want to be needlessly cruel about it.
Better he intervene than the Emperor. At least Perturabo would generate more productive worlds from it, without whatever chaos the Emperor's boar-grade emotional intelligence might accidentally introduce.
He just hoped this brother might eventually understand.
Perturabo didn't dwell on it. He had work to continue — the Eldar Titan analysis was mostly resolved, just a few technical questions remaining.
Back aboard the Stormbird, Mortarion was silent. He had curled into a corner, his lanky frame making him look almost fragile in this moment.
"Father—"
Grail'ha wanted to say something — but found himself unable to.
"What do you all think? Was I too reckless before?"
There was a faint confusion in his eyes. He had only wanted to give the people of those worlds the chance to freely choose how they lived. What had he done wrong?
Was it wrong to give humanity freedom?
Voss didn't understand any of this. He simply said nothing. The Deathshroud didn't understand either. Calas knew — but he had no desire to wound his old friend further right now.
"Our duty is war, Father. The Emperor created you and your brothers for the Great Crusade. Beyond that, we have no task."
"We are weapons of war. And weapons don't need to have ideas of their own."
Grail'ha spoke.
"But we are people."
"That doesn't matter, Father."
Mortarion's thoughts were in disorder. So what had everything he'd done before actually amounted to?
Just self-congratulation — imagining he'd brought liberation to those people?
So it had all been pointless. Nobody was going to thank him for any of it.
And he was even less willing to admit that everything he'd done had been because the Emperor was his father.
He had thought he could escape the shadow of "father." Nekar'hal was dead. And then the Emperor had arrived.
An insurmountable mountain no amount of effort would ever clear.
"Mortarion — this isn't Barbarus with its small-scale conflicts anymore. You're an Imperial Crusade commander. You're the Legion Master of the Death Guard. You need to think seriously about how to lead the Legion — not chase things that aren't your concern."
"After the Great Crusade, if you still have ideas you want to pursue, there'll be time for that. But now — right now — you shouldn't be concerned with anything else."
"I'll say something unpleasant: even Primarchs aren't omnipotent. You have no aptitude for this, Mortarion — you don't even want to learn the basics of military logistics yourself."
"And yet you intended to liberate a world? You don't understand even the most fundamental principles of administration."
"But on Barbarus I managed—"
"That was because you're a Primarch. Wave your hand and countless people will die for you. It's that simple."
"But you can only govern one planet that way — because you genuinely cannot teleport to the next planet and replicate the same thing."
"You really can't afford to be reckless anymore. Galaspan cannot happen again."
Mortarion looked at his sons, and buried his head in the darkness between his knees.
"Arahos — how are the brothers from the Nineteenth and the Fifth?"
Koswain's blade split a xenos slave in two.
The Shana Forge World's Rangdan slaves were almost cleared — but this had been genuinely dangerous.
Nobody had anticipated the Rangdan returning. The First Legion had paid an enormous price to eliminate what turned out to be just a vanguard — one Legion Master dead, one Gloria Regina sunk, fifty capital ships destroyed.
This time the xenos were more cunning. They had crept in through the Imperium's frontier systems quietly, in moments causing devastating damage and press-ganging countless humans into their slave armies.
If the Fifth and Nineteenth hadn't happened to be nearby, Shana would likely have already fallen entirely.
With the Dark Angels notified and immediately committed, they had been holding for nine months.
They were at their limit.
"They've been evacuated safely. Father's asking for a situation update. The Rangdan assault has been fierce — five war satellites, and this is still just the vanguard. We still can't assess their total strength."
Koswain moved quickly — clearing the slave forces surrounding Arahos in moments.
"Has Father asked the Emperor for support? This isn't something one Legion can handle alone."
"Father didn't tell me. But I don't think he has."
Koswain was the First Blade of the Legion. But he didn't carry the pride and complacency that marked so many Dark Angels — he had a warrior's humility and a steadfast commitment to keeping what needed to be kept secret.
Behind his black helmet, his eyes were dark with concern.
He felt that his father's overconfidence was going to cost the First Legion dearly this time.
He needed to find a way to make that argument.