Chapter 164 - Mustering at Iax
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Guilliman heeded Kaelen's advice.
The Lord of Ultramar sat at the makeshift tactical table, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers, then turned to the herald and issued new orders, the ever-presumptuous War Apostle was to report to camp immediately.
Half a Terra standard hour later, the heavy tent flap was pushed open.
Mathieu stepped inside. The Ministorum Priest wore his usual vestments, washed so many times the fabric had gone pale, the edges fraying at the hems. The double-headed eagle on his chest, though, had been polished to a mirror shine.
He walked past the Custodes flanking the entrance without a glance, those towering, armored presences might as well not have existed, and went straight to Guilliman's desk.
Then his knees hit the metal floor. Hard.
He crossed his hands over his chest, head bowed low, and held the posture of a man offering his neck to the blade.
"Lord Guilliman." Mathieu's voice was hoarse, but steady. "I have answered your summons. I am here."
On the way over, he had rehearsed it a hundred times. Every version ended the same way.
This gene-sire of the Ultramarines, the great Regent of the Imperium, was here to call him to account. For the insubordination during the last campaign. For bypassing the Departmento Munitorum entirely to redeploy forces. Take your pick.
Committing acts of presumption against a son of the God-Emperor. Under Imperial law, that was a capital offense. No ambiguity.
But Mathieu was not afraid.
If those acts of defiance had helped save a gene-sire, if they had spread the God-Emperor's glory even a fraction further across this rotting star sector, then he would accept whatever came. No reservations. If a bolter round blew his skull open right here on this floor, the priest would count it the highest honor his faith could buy him.
He was Frater Mathieu, Priest of the Imperial Ecclesiarchy. More than that: a piece on the God-Emperor's board.
A piece does not worry about its own fate. It only needs to land on the right square.
A calm fanatic. That was the most honest description of him.
Mathieu held his breath and waited, for the gene-sire's furious roar, or the cutting whistle of a guardian spear coming down.
The tent was silent except for the faint hum of the tactical terminal's processors.
"Mathieu. Rise."
No thunderclap. No wrath. Just Guilliman's low voice, carrying the particular weight of a man who was tired and had run out of patience for this.
The priest blinked. Then he stood, exactly as ordered.
He looked up at the towering blue demigod before him. Directly, without flinching.
Among billions of mortals, the number who could meet a primarch's gaze and not start shaking could be counted on two hands. Mathieu was one of them.
He studied Guilliman's face. That face, cut like marble, held no fury and no killing intent. Only the exhaustion of someone who has seen all the way to the bottom of something and doesn't like what he found.
"In the name of the Emperor, Mathieu." Guilliman interlaced his fingers, elbows on the desk, his enormous frame leaning slightly forward. "This 'final mission' of yours. What is it, exactly?"
Mathieu's body went rigid for a moment. Then the stillness came back, deep and absolute, like a well with no bottom.
"The God-Emperor's mission." The priest's words came out slow and flat, simply stating a fact. "Even to you, my lord. I cannot reveal it."
Any other commander who heard a mortal speak to the Regent in that tone would already have a chainsword in hand. Mathieu's expression did not change.
"I am His servant, my lord. A servant does not disclose his master's final intent to anyone. He does not share the top-secret mission placed in his hands. Not even to the son He is most proud of."
The God-Emperor's plan, the moment it sees light, it is ruined.
Mathieu couldn't even remember which monastery's crumbling scroll he had first read that line on. But the principle had taken root. To accomplish a miracle capable of turning the entire war, absolute silence was the only armor that mattered.
This concerned the survival of a primarch. It had come to him through dreams, through prayers, through the God-Emperor's hidden revelations. He would bite off his own tongue before he let a word slip. He would let them scramble his brains. Not one syllable.
Guilliman, uncharacteristically, did not erupt.
The Lord of Ultramar's chest rose. A long, slow breath in, and then out through his broad nostrils.
Kaelen's words were turning over in his mind. He is a chess piece of the Emperor. If that was his father's arrangement, then there was only one thing to do.
He let go.
"What assistance do you need for your next operations?"
Mathieu went completely still. For the first time, something cracked open in his face, bewilderment, followed almost instantly by a flood of ecstasy he could barely contain.
"Praise you, my lord!" His voice came out trembling. "Your humble servant receives such solicitude from you — I am already more than satisfied. This is proof enough that you walk in unity with the God-Emperor's will!"
Guilliman waved a hand, cutting him off.
"Answer my question, priest. Aside from the Cadian 402nd Armored Regiment, what other regular Imperial forces do you have under your command?"
Mathieu pulled himself together and reported. "Thanks to your generosity, I have a Battle Sister squad sworn to fight beside me unto death. I also have the remnants of half a regiment of Astra Militarum. These are warriors who heeded the God-Emperor's call and gathered to my side of their own accord. I—"
"Not enough." Guilliman cut straight through it.
The primarch stood. The shadow he cast swallowed Mathieu whole.
"I don't deal in sentiment here. Only the logic of war. With those remnant forces, charging Nurgle's positions would be suicide. If you aren't sure yet how to allocate your troops — or what kind of support you need — I'll order a Space Marine squad detached to shore up your flank."
Mathieu nearly dropped to his knees again on the spot.
"Great Regent, your mercy—"
"Save it." Guilliman turned sideways and raised one massive finger, pointing toward a corner of the tent. "If you want to thank someone, it shouldn't be me. It should be him."
Mathieu followed the line of that finger.
In the shadows beside the tactical projector, Kaelen sat in a custom-built metal chair, talking quietly with his bodyguard Cullen.
Hearing Guilliman say his name, Kaelen wrapped up the conversation and walked over.
"Ah." Mathieu's breath caught the moment Kaelen's face came into focus. "So it was you."
He knew this man. Everyone in the Imperial high command knew this man, the Ecclesiarchy's inner circle most of all. Listed as a hero of humanity, spoken of in reverent tones.
This was the mortal who looked like he had no business saving anyone, and yet had reached into the void and dragged the God-Emperor's lost sons back into the material universe, one by one.
What had driven the entire Ecclesiarchy to the edge of frenzy was something else entirely. This man had installed a vocalization device for the God-Emperor Himself, the silent figure on the Golden Throne, deep in the Imperial Palace on Terra.
The divine being had spoken again.
For the bureaucrats rotting away in the Adeptus Terra, getting fat off divine authority they had never earned, that news had landed like an apocalypse. For zealots like Mathieu, who had carved their faith into the bone itself, it was the most extraordinary gospel in 10,000 years.
The God-Emperor could speak. The God-Emperor was watching.
All of it, every miracle, traced back to this unremarkable man standing in front of him now.
In countless private prayer vigils, the most devout of the Ecclesiarchy had already given Kaelen a name: the God-Emperor's Mortal Confidant. The Walking Saint.
Mathieu's mind caught fire. His knees started to bend. He was going down for a full Ecclesiarchy prostration, the highest honor his order could bestow on the living.
Kaelen moved first. One arm shot out and caught the priest by the shoulders, firm and sure.
"Hold it. Let's do this a different way, priest."
He said it with a half-grin, already shifting his grip to support Mathieu's wrist, then turned his own right hand over and extended the back of it.
Mathieu understood immediately.
His hands were shaking as he lifted them, carefully, the way you'd cradle something irreplaceable, and took Kaelen's hand in both of his. He bowed his head. His lips touched the back of that hand, light as a breath.
The hand-kiss.
Kaelen had known from the start that ordinary people in this dark age were soaked through with faith. Those deep-rooted rituals didn't dissolve with a few reasonable words. He couldn't stand being knelt to. But this, this preserved his dignity and gave Mathieu's fervent heart exactly what it needed.
The rite ended. Mathieu straightened, his face flushed red, his voice shaking with something that went beyond excitement.
"My lord." He pressed the words out carefully, each one a test. "Have you... have you already learned the final plan from the God-Emperor?"
The yearning in his voice was naked and complete.
Kaelen held the zealot's gaze. This was a man who had already made his peace with dying. Had been at peace with it for a long time.
"A great plan." Kaelen's tone settled into something quieter, more serious. "I believe you've already glimpsed part of its shape, felt it, out there in the unseen. That plan will alter the fate of every loyal gene-sire in this war."
He paused.
"Are you afraid of death, priest? If carrying out this plan costs your life?"
No hesitation. Not even a flicker.
"Death will only bring my soul back to the Golden Throne ahead of schedule." Every line in Mathieu's face eased open, something sacred and something ragged, both at once, radiating from somewhere beneath the skin. "I will return to the God-Emperor's embrace. That is a reward. Not a punishment."
Silence settled over the tent.
Guilliman stood watching. His expression was unreadable, but something moved behind his eyes, the complicated, five-flavored kind of feeling that doesn't have a clean name.
Kaelen looked at Mathieu for a long moment. Then he reached out and rested a hand gently on the priest's shoulder.
"May the God-Emperor protect you, priest. Go complete your mission. Whatever is waiting for you out there, don't stop."
"Praise you, Lord Kaelen. Praise the Regent of the Imperium! Praise the God-Emperor!"
Mathieu stepped back 3 paces, bowed deep from the waist, turned, and walked out of the tent.
His footsteps were steadier than when he'd arrived.
The tent flap fell closed behind him.
Guilliman moved to Kaelen's side, his vast frame settling like a hill coming to rest.
"Even though I dislike him..." The Lord of Ultramar's voice dropped low. "I don't think he should be used this way. Kaelen, according to what you've told me, what critical moment will he matter?"
"His death will destroy that cauldron." Kaelen's voice was level. "My lord, your mission isn't only to defeat Mortarion. You also have to deal with the monster the Plaguefather Ku'gath built. Even with the Wolf Lord fighting at your side when he arrives, that thing is going to give you both a very bad time. Personally."
He paused, then asked:
"When does Horus reach Iax?"
"Soon." Guilliman turned it over for a moment. Five minutes ago, fleet communications from near-orbit had come through. "But it won't only be Horus's fleet. Fulgrim's is also..."
"The fallen Serpent?"
Kaelen glanced toward the camp's edge. The cloned Fulgrim was out there, seated cross-legged on the ground, grinning broadly while a cluster of local children climbed over him like he was a jungle gym.
He turned back to Guilliman.
"The coming battle is going to be something worth watching."
➤ Next: Reunion Once More
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