The valleys of Barbarus were filled with crops. Mortarion was leading the farmers and the Legion in working the fields.
It had to be said — the Death Guard were natural-born farmers.
More enduring than oxen at the plough, especially after the Primcast surgery, the Death Guard had become considerably stronger than before.
When the Great Crusade ended, Mortarion led his Legion into a complete and thorough retirement, returning to Barbarus and becoming the first Primarch in any genuine sense to lay down his arms and go back to the land.
He was still stubborn. But he had learned to listen to good advice.
For instance, he was now willing to take an active role in managing the worlds he had conquered. He had also become willing to accept help from the Imperium.
He had started learning to distinguish between oppression and necessary order and justice. He had also begun learning from Typhon how to manage certain military affairs.
He remained the Legion Master beloved by the Death Guard — a father who fulfilled his duties to his sons without reservation and showed them his love without any pretence.
He was still the Lord of Dawn who brought hope to the oppressed.
And at this moment, he was a farmer — sweating across the dramatically changed Barbarus, breaking new ground for the planting season ahead.
The Death Guard followed their father. This was the first time they had entirely disregarded an Imperial directive — every one of them standing down on Barbarus.
The one who found this most satisfying was Calas Typhon. The effective real Legion Master of the Death Guard had set down every remaining military obligation, picked up an enormous hoe, and single-handedly cleared two hundred acres of farmland in a single day.
Soon he could plant maize and wheat. Plant a few tens of thousands of the improved citrus and apple saplings Olympia had provided across these mountain peaks, and he would be an evil great landlord.
Calas Typhon imagined this with considerable pleasure, leading First Company in continuing to break ground across Barbarus. This was their most important work right now. Grow food.
A single planet could more than supply thirty-three thousand Astartes' daily needs — but the improved environment on Barbarus had sent the population surging sharply.
Mortarion and the others had taken the entire system and begun deep reconstruction throughout.
The resources required were considerable. The Barbarus system was not suited to habitation. It was poor.
But unlike a pragmatist like Perturabo, Mortarion was a man who felt the pull of the past.
Barbarus was his home world. He would never abandon his home world and select a different planet as his new base. He would rather expend enormous effort to transform this place. He would absolutely not let his home world rot in the galaxy.
So he had requested large amounts of engineering equipment and Mechanicum assistance from Perturabo, spent enormous resources, and transformed the entire Barbarus system into an agricultural world with integrated offence and defence capabilities.
Yes. An agricultural world with integrated offence and defence.
It wasn't as formidable as a fortress world — but it was still a powerful military agricultural world.
This was Mortarion. Even in practical retirement, he was going to carry his steadfastness to the very end.
Farming was genuinely hard work. Anyone who had done it would know this.
But Mortarion was a Primarch, the Death Guard were Astartes, and they had agricultural equipment available. The truth was they simply had nothing else to do — so they had decided to find work for themselves.
They were weapons of war, yes — but they were also people. The Great Crusade was over. Their mission was essentially complete.
Live well. Eat properly. These eight words had become their motto in retirement.
The genetically-enhanced maize and wheat were genuinely excellent. Mix in eggs from the poultry on these worlds, add the spices produced locally, and making good noodles and dishes presented absolutely no difficulty.
The best cooks were Voss and Typhon. Mortarion, having finally given up the toxic gases, no longer shared poisoned wine with his sons — cooking had become his new hobby.
But what left Grail'ha and Voss and the others entirely speechless was that their father's cooking was genuinely more lethal than the poisoned wine had ever been. Lethal, and also absolutely terrible to eat.
It was difficult to imagine that the spices — which would have made even shoe insoles taste good — had somehow been combined by their father into something of indescribable colour and texture.
Father, how did you take wheat, fresh oranges, and those meat cuts, mix them together, and produce a green bubbling flowing substance that appeared to be actively emitting toxic fumes?
Of course, however reluctant Grail'ha and the others were to eat the dark cuisine, looking at their father's eyes full of hopeful expectation, they had forced themselves to swallow whatever nauseating entity had been placed in front of them.
"Mortarion — you're genuinely wasted not working with the Warmaster on virus bombs. The fact that you can make ordinary food look like this — I think Abdemon might actually be our brother. He has to be. You two definitely share genetic material."
"The Emperor's Children Apothecaries must have made an error back in the day. That gene-seed absolutely came from you."
"Those prawns and catfish died for nothing. The wheat and the spices were completely wasted. I don't normally feel guilt about food I'm about to eat."
"But Mortarion — you genuinely should kneel and apologise to the ingredients you've transformed into this."
Calas Typhon remained as vicious-tongued as ever. This time, for the first time, Grail'ha and Voss were not standing on Mortarion's side — they were already frothing at the mouth and unconscious on the floor.
But somehow, this triggered Mortarion's stubborn-donkey nature to erupt at full force.
He was the Death Guard's Legion Master. He was the Lord of Dawn who had made countless xenos and oppressors tremble throughout the Great Crusade. He was the Fourteenth Primarch of the Imperium. And he couldn't cook one decent meal?
From that day on, Mortarion was in his small house on Barbarus every day, tinkering with his bizarre combination "delicacies."
And from that day on, the Death Guard discovered that their company captains and commanders would periodically be carried out of their father's house by the Apothecaries — full-body convulsions, emitting light in competing shades of red, green, blue, and purple.
The title of Barbarus's Number One "Culinary God" spread from that day forward.
"Father — you really don't need to devote yourself this intensely to cooking every day."
"Right — I think the crops and fruit trees would suit you very well in retirement, Father."
"If nothing else works, we could import some large Grox-equivalent animals from Olympia. Set up an ocean, farm some big fish—"
Grail'ha and the others had been very diplomatically suggesting that their father stop fixating on cooking. Mortarion paid no attention.
There was simply no reason for this outcome. He had been so careful about the proportions. Why did these things keep happening?
It had to be the ingredients. Do it again.
Mortarion was now on a mission. The cost was that Grail'ha and the others had built up a physical constitution that could probably walk through Nurgle's garden without fear of corruption.
"Father — there's a fleet approaching us. It's large. And something looks wrong with it."
Grail'ha reported to Mortarion with a somewhat grave expression — Mortarion was currently creating another "poison."
"What's happening?"
Mortarion stopped what he was doing. Grail'ha had come to him personally — this wouldn't be a small matter.
"I'm not certain. But it appears to be the White Scars' fleet. Except the White Scars look very different. We think something has happened to them — otherwise their ships wouldn't look like this."
"The Khan is in trouble?"
"Possibly the entire White Scars. Otherwise the fleet wouldn't be this large. This is essentially the scale of the Legion fleet before the Warmaster started supplementing us."
"Where's Calas?"
"He's already back on the fleet, organising the brothers for defence. If something seems wrong, he'll begin attacking the fleet immediately."
Mortarion set aside the dark cuisine without further consideration, suited up, and returned to the Endurance with Grail'ha and the Deathshroud.
Seven Star Forts had assembled ahead. The main fleet was forming an excellent defensive configuration, weapons systems raised, void shields active.
"What is this? Why do the White Scars look like this?"
Mortarion watched the relatively slow-moving fleet approaching and found it genuinely difficult to believe that was the White Scars.
The sickly green appearance was nothing like the clean, swift quality he remembered. The fleet was bloated and heavy, with extensive rust and heretical tendril-like growths across the hulls.
Mortarion knew these could not be his brother's Legion. The White Scars didn't look like this. A White Scars fleet wouldn't be this weak.
"Have they been signalled?"
"We've signalled them. No response. They've also launched psychic attacks, which our psychic shielding intercepted."
Typhon replied.
"What do you think is happening, Calas?"
Mortarion didn't have the instinct for this kind of analysis.
"You remember what the Warmaster told us about Chaos?"
"You think the Khan has been corrupted by them?"
"Possibly — but I'm more inclined to think this might not even be the Fifth Legion. Whatever else, since the Warmaster supplemented all our fleets, none of us have been short on warships. But look at that fleet — it's roughly comparable to the detachments we've sent individual companies out in, and they don't even have the Nova Cannons, Macro-cannons, or Nova battery arrays the Warmaster specifically upgraded for us."
Typhon laid out his reasoning.
"You're saying this isn't my brother's Legion. This is some trick Chaos is playing?"
"Very likely. But only a fight will confirm it. They'll be in our engagement range soon. We've issued warnings. If they keep advancing regardless, that confirms my theory."
Mortarion watched the slowly approaching 'White Scars' and felt an inexplicable unease in his chest.
The forward fleet was getting closer to engagement range. Calas Typhon had sent seven warnings. All were ignored.
The situation tightened immediately. Star Fort and capital ship guns had locked onto the fleet ahead. The moment they entered range, Mortarion's order would start this lopsided engagement.
But just as Mortarion and Typhon and the others were preparing to commit — the fleet stopped. At precisely the outer edge of engagement range.
What was that?
Mortarion and his people were confused.
Then, through the communication channel, a faint but unmistakable odour of decay reached the Endurance's interior. A communication request came through.
After Typhon signalled that it was safe to accept, Mortarion agreed.
What appeared before them was a seven-metre-tall green giant covered head to foot in blowflies and maggots.
The revolting appearance was genuinely difficult to describe. Grail'ha and the others could detect a suffocating smell even from the projection.
Something like their father's cooking. Words failed.
"The Khan?"
Mortarion was stunned.
"Is that you, brother? What happened to you?"
But 'the Khan' didn't answer. He only stared fixedly at Mortarion. Having lost most of his awareness, his condition was no better than 'Ferrus's' had been.
"Mortarion!"
'The Khan's' voice carried an unbearable drawn-out decay — the sensation of rot washing over everyone present. Maggots moved continuously through his body, occasionally surfacing through external gaps, producing an instinctive physical aversion in Grail'ha and Typhon.
"What happened to you? Why are you like this?"
Mortarion wanted to know what had happened to his brother — but 'the Khan' had no intention of obliging him.
His hand moved to the already-mutated Tulwar at his hip. Even through a projection, he wanted to split Mortarion apart.
Mortarion had been about to ask something further, but Calas Typhon had already sensed something wrong. He cut in.
"You're not the real leader of this Legion. A beast like you couldn't command a fleet."
"Bring me your Legion's real Legion Master."
Typhon watched 'the Khan' who now appeared to be getting very angry — one hand on the Tulwar, eyes shifting to focus on this smaller figure, clearly wanting to burst through the projection and reduce him to fertiliser for a garden.
"Calas — what are you saying?"
Mortarion didn't understand why Typhon was acting this way.
"Bring your real leader. Right now you can barely form words — how do you expect to command a fleet? Get the actual person in charge over here. Have them talk to us directly. Don't send a wild beast to fob us off."
Typhon had a feeling. There would be someone.
And then, to the Death Guard's collective surprise, a slightly shorter figure appeared from behind 'the Khan.'
"Still as sharp as ever, Calas. More so than any other Death Guard."
"Yesugei?"
"I didn't expect you to recognise me looking like this."
Yesugei had changed enormously. Bloated and rotting, with an enormous mouth that had opened across his abdomen, his once-swift frame was no longer fast.
"I also didn't expect someone with your face to actually learn how to commit treason and seize power."
Typhon looked at the 'Yesugei' who had appeared and understood immediately — this situation was not going to be simple.
"Don't put it in such unpleasant terms. Who doesn't want to improve their situation?"
"I simply guided a stubborn father toward a truly caring father's embrace. Rather than serve under the False Emperor and be purged afterward, isn't it better to join together in pledging to a greater caring father? Look at the blessings bestowed upon us — isn't this sufficient?"
"Your caring father's blessing turned you all into this revolting state — do you have any idea what you look like right now?"
"This is simply the caring father's particular favour toward us. We have become stronger, more... substantial—"
'Yesugei' was genuinely satisfied with the caring father. He had found something like home in the Garden, though the Nurglings and Greater Daemons kept clustering around 'the Khan,' and the caring father also showed particular preference for 'the Khan' — which left him, the one who had been first to deliver the Legion as an offering, somewhat discontented. Though not unacceptably so.
What actually made him struggle to maintain composure was the other 'Mortarion' who had entered the caring father's service — that creature and 'Typhon' were both absolute scum as far as Yesugei was concerned.
If the caring father's domain didn't prohibit internal fighting, he would have drowned Typhon in a cesspit long ago.
"That's complete nonsense. What kind of blessing requires turning people into this state? As I see it — you betrayed your Legion. You're the one responsible for your father and your entire Legion ending up like this."
Typhon unleashed his anger at 'Yesugei.'
But 'Yesugei' only smiled slightly. He had been about to respond when he suddenly sensed killing intent. He turned — and found 'the Khan's' Tulwar was already coming for him.
The communication cut. Amid Mortarion and Typhon's fury, both projections vanished.
"So they really aren't the White Scars. At least not the White Scars on our side."
"A Primarch and a Legion with two different versions in opposing camps?"
Grail'ha was somewhat incredulous.
"Probably not like that. This is Chaos's doing. I don't know the specifics."
"But regardless — these traitors dared come here. Let's deal with them first. Then grab a few prisoners and ask some questions."
Typhon looked at the fleet on their side — the invincible fleet. Since the traitors on the other side wanted to die, there was no reason not to oblige them.