"What do you mean the Warmaster has to be decided within the next two years?"
Abaddon was completely stunned. Staring at this astropathic message from the Terran Administratum, his face was a picture of disbelief.
"Did Terra send the wrong information? Or did we receive it incorrectly on our end?"
But looking at the faces of everyone around him, and his father's expression, Abaddon knew the probability of that was vanishingly small.
"What is going on? Just a few years? What does that tell you? Is the selection of a Warmaster really such a trivial matter?"
"What is the Terran Administratum doing? Changing orders from one day to the next — don't they know what kind of instability that causes throughout the Imperium? I think it's that Chancellor Mal—"
"Ezekyle!"
Horus and Syeonax cut Abaddon off sharply, leaving him with words stuck in his throat and a suffocating weight pressing on his chest.
"Two years. Two years is still enough time for us to accomplish a great deal. Syeonax, organise the Legion. Put what you were suggesting earlier aside for now — our efficiency needs to increase in these two years."
"Father, that isn't wise — surely—"
Syeonax had been about to press Horus again about the matter of using brother Legions as cannon fodder, but Horus waved it off and returned to sitting in silent thought.
Abaddon and the others saw this and said nothing further, withdrawing to leave Horus alone with his thoughts.
And in Horus's eyes, the golden light flickered again — but this time, it had barely appeared before it was suddenly interrupted. Horus faintly heard what sounded like a cry of pain.
He instinctively rose to his feet. But then something else crossed his mind, and he sank back into his seat with a deflated air, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his right hand.
Years of pressure had thinned his hair somewhat, but his charm was undiminished. His warmth and refinement gave him an approachability that was almost absurdly magnetic — that smile of his, like a warm spring breeze, made him more effective at diplomacy than even the Phoenix.
Because he had none of that overbearing, lofty arrogance. Even though he was, in truth, quite proud, and was the commander of an entire Legion, you'd never guess it from looking at him.
Horus had won over no small number of brothers through that unique charisma of his. But right now — it wasn't enough. The time was too short.
His brothers were all sharp-edged and formidable. Very few of them had any instinct to defer to the First-Returned, and he had no way to build his prestige among them in so short a time.
But he didn't want to lose his special place in the Emperor's heart. Even if the methods he'd been using weren't ones he could put on display — methods that would earn his brothers' contempt if they knew — he would still use them.
The Emperor's influence over his Primarchs was profound. Especially over Horus. The Emperor had poured almost everything he had into the First-Returned, and that had created a deep, mutual trust between the two of them.
But now, reality was almost ruthlessly dismantling Horus. With his current strength and military record, he could not secure the Warmaster position with confidence.
He didn't want to disappoint his father.
The Imperium quickly received another order from Terra. Almost everyone was stunned by it. The Warmaster to be selected in two years?
What could possibly be pressing the Emperor so urgently? Even with the logistical burden at its current breaking point, choosing someone in just two years seemed extreme.
Combined with the announcement that had come before — the total from the original date was barely five years. Five years to select a Warmaster?
This wasn't a war on a single planet. This was the supreme commander of a war that spanned the entire galaxy. Was this really appropriate?
Ferrus, Lion El'Jonson, and others all sent astropathic messages back to Terra demanding clarification, but every response was affirmative. The Warmaster would be chosen in two years.
It left everyone unsettled and scrambling. Urgency spread like a contagion — only Russ and the Khan continued drifting along as before, while Magnus sat somewhere in the depths of the Terran Palace serving as a research subject, providing biological material toward resolving his sons' gene-flaw.
Vulkan retreated back into the Webway with his fried chicken and watermelon. The outside world was too insane. He decided he wasn't ready to leave just yet.
Only Perturabo had already sent his sons back out. The Iron Warriors showed no change — same as ever, the same approach of overwhelming firepower.
Especially the several thousand who had undergone the Huscarl conversion, and the Fourth Legion as a whole — with partial Huscarl modifications layered on top of the proto-Huscarl surgeries, calibrated to each warrior's individual makeup — their personal combat capability had surged to a level unmatched by any other Legion. On the ground, they were quite literally cutting through the enemy.
The Fourth Legion's ferocious offensive left every Primarch competing for the Warmaster position somewhat discouraged.
This wasn't even the same league. In fleet power, equipment, and individual strength, they were being comprehensively outclassed — and that was with Perturabo's forces split across five separate fronts.
Even Ferrus and the Lion, who had previously been the most aggressive in their advance, fell into a quiet silence. Their Legion's rate of advance slowed noticeably.
If Perturabo actually declared for the Warmaster position, nobody could compete with him. The weapons, the equipment, half the fleet strength of every other Legion — the Lord of Iron supplied most of it. What was there to compare?
Even Horus, who had been quietly engineering his own path through the back door, felt the weight of that gap. Even Abaddon, who had been the loudest voice, went quiet.
Then something remarkable happened — the Terran Administratum began, against all odds, to stabilize. The mortality rate among officials dropped considerably. The policies being issued even began to ease somewhat.
Ultramar. Macragge.
Guilliman was welcoming Perturabo with a grand ceremony, greeting him personally at the landing platform. His foster mother, Lady Euten, stood waiting nearby. The Tetrarchs and Hierax stood with the Invictus Guard, their power armour trimmed with expensive gold ornamentation, ranked in perfect formation.
Mortal musicians and attendants had laid out an enormous red carpet extending all the way to Macragge's banquet hall — a full ten miles long.
A Stormbird descended from above. The embarkation ramp lowered, and a giant appeared before the assembled crowd, dressed in a white robe and crowned with a green laurel wreath.
Perturabo was impressively tall, and the Iron Guard who followed behind him were the same.
Auguston was already considered one of the taller Ultramarines, and in Terminator plate he stood three metres. But compared to the Iron Guard arrayed behind Perturabo, Auguston had the quiet feeling that he was coming up a little short.
"Brother."
Guilliman stepped forward and embraced Perturabo.
"This is somewhat extravagant, brother. You really didn't have to."
The surroundings reminded Perturabo of his experience on Chemos, but a quick psychic sweep of Macragge told him the people here were considerably better off. They didn't have to suppress their emotional state at every moment, and their lives were reasonably prosperous.
Some Ultramarines and unmodified Chapter Serfs moved among the mortals as well. Not exactly easy-going, but at least they were willing to make accommodations for the mortal population — which was genuinely rare. You rarely saw anything like it even on Olympia.
A few Iron Warriors and Salamanders were around as well, though in small numbers — Perturabo's sons had a certain pride about them, and the Salamanders were guarding the Webway with little time to spare.
But on Macragge, Perturabo found some approximation of what he'd always imagined a world should look like. He still couldn't accept Guilliman's particular philosophy, though.
Investing unnecessary time in mortal populations was, from his perspective, simply not required. Mortals were followers by nature — once someone with intent decided to cause trouble, the cost of maintaining order would increase exponentially.
Perturabo hated unnecessary complications. His own system was rigid in certain ways, but it was sufficient to ensure that most genuine talent didn't get buried — and that was enough. Guilliman's approach, investing time and energy and resources into management at this level, was exhausting and slow.
"You deserve to be welcomed this way. Because of your help, my sons' casualty rate in the Great Crusade has dropped substantially. For that alone, I think our reception is still falling short — but this is the highest ceremony we can manage right now."
Guilliman stepped aside and gestured for Perturabo to walk toward the banquet hall.
"This is my foster mother, the Seneschal of Macragge, Lady Euten."
"Good day, my lord."
Lady Euten was quite elderly now. The life-extension surgery had little effect left to offer her.
"My lady," Perturabo said, going down on one knee before the woman who barely reached his shin. "You have raised my brother well."
Both Guilliman and Lady Euten were somewhat surprised.
"I only did what was required of me, my lord. Robert is mine and Konor's child. Teaching and raising him was our obligation, and guiding him along the right path was our duty. It has proven that even without our intervention, he would have become an excellent commander and administrator."
A slight smile crossed Guilliman's face.
"But I'd wager that version of Guilliman wouldn't have been quite like the one standing here — full of reason and idealism, willing to spend this much on governing these worlds."
"If the Imperium had one more ruler like me, I imagine some people would need to sleep with one eye open."
Perturabo rose to his feet. But Guilliman's smile and Lady Euten's had become somewhat fixed. Even the Tetrarchs and the Invictus Guard had lowered their heads.
This lord — did he truly have no interest in concealing his ambitions, even in front of everyone?
"Shall we go inside, brother? The banquet is already prepared."
Guilliman walked with Perturabo along the red carpet edged in gold trim, mortal musicians and attendants singing and playing ceremonial music to either side.
It was almost impossible to imagine what Guilliman's lifestyle would look like if he were also given to indulgence.
"Your sons are impressive. Did you select all of them personally from the Legion's best?"
Perturabo asked.
"Yes. Every one of these warriors has an unblemished record, outstanding combat accomplishments, and a personal character I have reviewed myself. They are my most proud sons."
Looking at the Invictus Guard standing at rigid attention, Perturabo thought it was no surprise that they had repeatedly pulled their Primarch and Chapter Masters back from disaster.
Setting aside his own Trident, these were probably the most comprehensively capable primarch bodyguard in any Legion — and their record was enough to startle anyone.
"If Horus and the others governed the way you do, I imagine the Emperor would be quite pleased."
"Can't they see it? The Emperor cares deeply about these mortal populations — he's been willing to overlook behaviours from us that are already somewhat excessive, precisely because we have managed these mortals reasonably, hasn't he?"
"I find it very difficult to understand. Our brothers consider themselves the strongest individuals humanity has ever produced, yet most of them behave like overgrown children — emotionally immature, and rigidly inflexible in ways that defy description."
"Situations that could have been resolved without fighting — because of one reason or another — end up costing several times the necessary price before they're settled."
"They always assume that completing the Great Crusade is sufficient. But the results rarely meet their expectations. They've defined the wrong goals, and still expect the Emperor's praise and admiration. It's almost funny."
The Invictus Guard and the Iron Guard behind them both slowed their pace slightly. Some things were better left unheard.
"Brother, if they governed the way you do, the Great Crusade's efficiency would not be moving at this pace."
Guilliman just laughed and tried to offer his brothers some defense, but Perturabo gave a cold snort.
"The ones with any right to talk about efficiency are few and far between. At the core of it — they're too proud, they look down on these mortals, and they simply don't want to invest the time. That's all."
"Not asking them to be exemplary — even being a tyrant like me would be an improvement. But they can't be bothered to care at all. Horus secures the loyalty of a few rulers, throws them some patronage, and the planetary governors come tripping over themselves to grovel at his feet."
"Not even the smallest thought toward improving the lives of the people at the bottom. Heavy taxation across the board without exception. At this rate, I think this Imperium is going to collapse eventually."
"And when it does, you and I and all our brothers will probably be nailed to history as the tyrant's enforcers, to be condemned for generations."
A faint sheen of perspiration appeared on Guilliman's forehead. The mortal musicians, at some point, had raised their volume by a full two notches. The Invictus Guard had closed protectively around Lady Euten. The Iron Guard moved into line alongside them. Guilliman and Perturabo were now nearly fifty metres ahead of everyone else.
"Brother, things haven't deteriorated to that degree — there's no need, really — the Emperor and the Imperium aren't as dire as you describe, and our brothers—"
"Enough defending them. If things aren't that dire, then what explains the rebellions breaking out across the Imperium? Do you know that when my sons went to suppress one of them, elderly farmers were charging at my warriors — warriors in Tyrant Terminator armour — armed with nothing but hoes?"
"Isn't that something? Xenos tremble at the sight of my sons, yet a furious old Imperial farmer was willing to charge them with a farming tool."
"They'd rather face my sons than continue being ruled by the Imperium. What do you make of that?"
Guilliman fell silent. He didn't know what to say. He could see the Imperium's condition with his own eyes — everything sacrificed for the Great Crusade. He still didn't fully understand why the Emperor was in such desperate urgency, but given that the Emperor had tacitly permitted — even indirectly supported — his own approach, he knew his father didn't want things to be this way either.
"I believe Father has his reasons. There must be something he cannot say, something that drove him to begin the Great Crusade this urgently. I think we shouldn't interpret Father's intentions so uncharitably, brother."
Guilliman said carefully.
"Reasons? I struggle to imagine what reason could excuse ignoring Holy Terra itself — a planet right there in front of him. When you first returned, didn't you see the state Terra was in? Do you think that's what a human Emperor is supposed to allow?"
"However difficult the circumstances, maintaining basic order, establishing some laws, investing even a minimal governance cost to properly manage humanity's homeworld — that isn't complicated, is it?"
"And yet — if it weren't for me going there, the people at the bottom of Terra would still be fighting each other over a cup of irradiated water and a block of mouldy corpse-starch."
"It was the first time in my life I ever encountered someone capable of watching his own people suffer on his own homeworld, while lavishing extravagant resources on those absurd structures at the top of the Hive. You've seen the Imperial Palace. Even if just one of them had let a little mud fall through their fingers, those people's lives wouldn't have been so wretched."
"The only reason I still call him Emperor is because he genuinely launched the Great Crusade intending to save humanity, and at the moment of humanity's most desperate danger, he truly was the only one who stood up. Otherwise — I would have brought my fleet and started bombarding Terra long ago!"
The music and singing grew louder still. The beads of perspiration on Guilliman's forehead had consolidated into proper sweat.
There was genuinely no need to say that quite so loudly, brother.
Guilliman very much wanted to say this to Perturabo.
The banquet hall was coming into view. Guilliman quickened his pace to get his brother through the doors as soon as possible. Any more of this and he was genuinely worried the Lord of Iron would give him grounds for an Exterminatus.
Once inside the banquet hall, Guilliman hurried Perturabo into his seat, then instructed the mortal servants to begin bringing out the food.
Perturabo looked around the hall and felt a strange sense of familiarity.
"You modelled this after the layout of my hall on Olympia?"
"Yes. I have already prepared seats and rooms for Father and each of you. When the Great Crusade finally ends, I hope our whole family can sit together and simply talk — not about the Crusade's progress, just talk."
"Calmly. Even if there's nothing to say. Just sitting together, sharing a meal."
Warmth filled Guilliman's eyes. He had already begun imagining life after the Great Crusade. He'd even found his retirement world in advance — a garden world not far from Macragge, where he planned to cultivate some farmland, set up a comfortable estate, and spend a peaceful retirement in the company of his sons.
"Your fantasy is pleasant enough. But I can tell you — when you dream, you'd better make the most of it, because eventually you won't even have time for that."
Perturabo said it without warmth. But Guilliman caught something beneath the words with sharp precision.
"What do you mean by that, brother? Is something going to happen after the Great Crusade?"
"Yes. What the Emperor is racing against time to do — all this frantic resource-gathering — it's all for that. If he succeeds, the Great Crusade only needs to reach a certain threshold before we can step back and it won't matter."
"And if he doesn't succeed?"
Guilliman heard the tone in his brother's voice. It seemed Perturabo did not rate the Emperor's chances particularly highly.
"Then prepare yourself for endless war. Your retirement plans are cancelled. There may never be rest again."
"Is it really that serious?"
Guilliman didn't ask what exactly would happen. If the Emperor and his brother hadn't told him, there was surely a reason. But the severity of the situation was clearly considerable, and that troubled him deeply.
"More or less. It's a now-or-never kind of moment. Though not quite as bleak as all that — there are contingencies in place. But the situation remains far from reassuring."
"What kind of enemy is it that neither you, nor Father, nor all of us together can match?"
Guilliman genuinely couldn't comprehend it. Was there truly an enemy capable of standing against the Imperium as it now stood?
"Yes. The Necrons, for one. And certain other enemies I cannot tell you about yet."
Guilliman's brow furrowed deeply. He was already turning over what contribution he might be able to make.
"Stop overthinking it. Do your job and do it well. If the sky falls, I and the Emperor are holding it up first. When both of us have fallen — that's when it becomes your turn to hold it. No need to worry about it now."
But Guilliman's brow remained furrowed, and Perturabo knew his words hadn't landed. He had no idea what Guilliman was now quietly mulling over — but Guilliman had always had his own mind. Perturabo had no intention of interfering.
"By the way, brother — why did you decide to come to Macragge at all? Is there something you needed my help with?"
"No. I had something else to attend to nearby and came this way instead. You'd invited me before — I thought I'd take a look."
"What were you going to do?"
"We had a brother return recently, didn't we?"
"Konrad Curze."
"Yes."
"So what are you planning?"
"You know his homeworld?"
"I've heard something of it. Extremely high adamantium deposits, from what I understand."
"High deposits, and very high purity as well. I've had my eye on it. I'm going to acquire it. In exchange, I'll arrange a paradise world for him as a replacement homeworld and add some fleet assets as compensation."
"So — how exactly are you planning to appropriate our brother's homeworld?"
Guilliman was somewhat at a loss.
"What do you mean, appropriate? Do you know what kind of people populate Nostramo? If I lined them up and shot every last one of them and ground them into corpse-starch, there wouldn't be a single thing wrong with that."
"Our brother, from what I've heard, is remarkably lethargic and more than a little erratic. He barely manages his Legion. Who knows how many conscripts he'll pull from that world — a world breeding criminals like maggots — to stuff into his ranks."
"Rather than letting that place be our brother's homeworld and funnelling its dregs into his Legion, I'd rather find him a decent world, bring some children over, and start fresh. At minimum, that planet under my administration would be worth considerably more than anything he'd do with it."
"And if our brother disagrees?"
"I came personally, didn't I? Does it really matter whether he agrees?"
Perturabo said it without the slightest concern.
Guilliman reflected that this brother of his was admirable in almost every way — except that he was relentlessly blunt, and somewhat imperious. Which was really just the standard Primarch condition.
Guilliman privately thought it was the right decision to have had Lady Euten skip this meal. Who knew what other memorable pronouncements this brother might have produced.
In the end, Perturabo ate and then departed. When Guilliman saw him off, only a handful of the Invictus Guard accompanied him — the rest were rather concerned about what else they might inadvertently overhear.
Just as Perturabo was about to board the Iron Blood and leave, Terra transmitted another message to all points: the Fourth Primarch Perturabo was to return to Terra. All other Expedition forces were to continue their campaigns without halt, and none were to stop without specific orders.
The moment the message went out, every corner of the Imperium was stunned.
What did it mean — only the Fourth Primarch recalled to Terra? Everyone else continues the Crusade? And wasn't the deadline still nearly two years away?
Perturabo himself couldn't quite work out what the Emperor and Malcador were trying to do, calling him back at this particular moment.
If they were going to appoint him Warmaster, surely there ought to be some ceremony involved? At the very minimum, a few brothers should be called back too — yet here it was, just him being summoned. The only Primarch already on Terra was the psychically-charged Magnus, and Dorn. Who else was there?
Perturabo didn't overthink it. He changed course from Nostramo toward Terra, the Daemonic Forge leading the Iron Blood at full speed. Within three days, they were in Terran orbit.
Even Dorn, seeing that massive warship approach, thought for a moment his eyes were playing tricks on him.
"Did you get lost in the Warp and stumble here early by sheer luck?"
Dorn came aboard the Iron Blood and looked at Perturabo.
"Getting lost in the Warp would be somewhat difficult for me."
"Where are your sons? None of them came?"
Dorn looked around Perturabo, and found nothing beyond a contingent of Iron Guard and Abominable Intelligence units.
"Are they actually making me Warmaster?"
Dorn gave a nod. He had witnessed the decision made by his father and the Chancellor with his own eyes. There should be no mistake.
"Then why only summon me? What about the other brothers? This is the Warmaster position — and I'm just going to take it under these circumstances?"
"Yes."
Dorn said nothing more than that.
Perturabo almost laughed out of sheer exasperation. That damned golden-skinned man was genuinely insufferable.
"Guess — if it had been Horus taking the Warmaster position, do you think the Emperor would have called all of us together to crown him? Maybe even thrown a grand banquet?"
"I'm not inclined to guess. I only carry out orders."
"Have a guess. I'll give you a Gloriana-class vessel. Right or wrong, it doesn't matter."
Dorn hesitated. Behind him, Sigismund and Mattias both went wide-eyed. Father, you absolutely have to guess!
"I don't know."
Dorn simply shook his head. He had always been honest and never lied.
"Perhaps the same as you say. Perhaps not. I don't know."
Mattias and Sigismund both felt their hearts quietly break. Father, you really don't have to be quite this forthright all the time.
Even Sigismund — who had inherited Dorn's temperament and was himself prone to bluntness — thought his father had misjudged this one.
"Forget it, I won't put you in that position. The Gloriana is yours regardless. Let's go down and see what those two are up to now."
"Malcador, are you sure settling on the Warmaster this quickly is the right call?"
Even the Emperor felt this approach was somewhat hasty.
"Would you prefer to supply the resources yourself? Or we stop building the Webway?"
Malcador produced from somewhere two enormous stacks of ledgers, each taller than himself, and dropped them in front of the Emperor.
"That's list one. Take a look first. See which items we don't need to supply ourselves, and set those aside."
"I think this appointment is a sound one, old friend. You remind me of the way you—"
"If you hadn't driven Erda away — or if you could find her and bring her back — none of us would be stuck with this problem now."
But both of them suddenly turned their gaze forward. A custom-fitted Stormbird was approaching from a distance at considerable speed.
Under normal circumstances it should have been intercepted. But the cargo it carried happened to be, as it were, Truth itself.
The Stormbird wasn't even waved off. It simply came to a halt above the Eternity Wall, leaving the landing crew on the nearby pad looking profoundly awkward.
Perturabo and Dorn walked directly toward the Emperor and Malcador.
"Tell me what I'm being called back for. If you can't give me a satisfactory reason, and you've delayed my work for nothing, I'm going to need to do some renovations to this Imperial Palace."
The audacious words sent a vein throbbing visibly on the Emperor's forehead.
But then he recalled that stack of ledger accounts from moments ago, and a faint smile returned to his face.
"Didn't Dorn tell you?"
"He did. But I didn't quite believe it. I wanted to hear it from you directly."
Perturabo looked at the two of them. At six metres tall, he cast both of them — restored to their normal heights — in shadow. It looked less like an audience and investiture, and more like the opening of a coup.
The nearby Administratum officials were distinctly trembling.
The Fourth Primarch truly was as ambitious as they said.
The Emperor said nothing further. Golden light erupted from his body. The auramite armour manifested around him piece by piece. His height rose steadily until he stood seven metres — a full head taller than Perturabo.
In his hands he held a laurel wreath of the same auramite gold as the one on his own head.
Boundless psychic power swept across all of Terra in an instant. The Emperor's voice carried clearly to every corner of the planet, so that all could hear it.
"In recognition of Our beloved son, the Fourth Primarch Perturabo, and his great meritorious service throughout the Great Crusade — We hereby formally appoint him Warmaster of the Imperium, to command the Expedition fleets of the Imperium in Our name."
The Emperor's words were brief. But the message was unambiguous. The Warmaster position now belonged to Perturabo.
The mortal attendants, who had clearly been prepared for this, began scattering flowers. Music and song rang out across all of Terra.
But looking at this ceremony — far smaller and more modest than the grand investiture Horus had received on Ullanor — Perturabo felt a wave of contempt.
Did they really think he couldn't see through it? These two old scoundrels. No money left, and they'd gone looking for a convenient fool to fund their military expenses.
And Perturabo, sitting on his vast wealth, had been targeted. Because there was no other way a Primarch with this much controversy surrounding him would ever be handed the Warmaster's seat.
The Emperor personally removed the green laurel wreath from Perturabo's head and placed the auramite crown — the symbol of the Warmaster — in its place.
And across all of Terra, a roar of cheering erupted — clearly arranged by the two of them at some point nobody had noticed.
"Tell me then. What do you want me to do?"
Perturabo sat in a chair in the Administratum hall. Dorn sat beside him. The two old scoundrels were right there across from them.
"You are responsible for all materiel supplied to the Imperial Expedition fleets, and you must ensure the rate of Crusade progress is maintained."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing else thought of yet."
Perturabo reflected that these two had truly run out of options. The Imperium's current territory, while not comparable to what it would one day become, was already vast — and yet they couldn't sustain the logistics of their own Expedition forces, and had scrambled to drag him back to shoulder the burden.
"That's everything? Say it now if there's more. Otherwise I'm leaving."
"Yes."
The Emperor and Malcador had nothing more to add. As if the fanfare from moments ago had been nothing but a casual announcement, and the appointment of a Warmaster had been wrapped up and disposed of like a minor administrative formality.
Perturabo didn't waste any more words. Every second spent in these two men's company made his chest feel tighter.
Only Dorn remained thoroughly bewildered through the entire exchange, watching as the parties concluded their business as efficiently as a task being crossed off a list, feeling his stone-like mind struggling somewhat to keep pace.