Chapter 176 - The Enemies Ahead
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The Plague Wars, unleashed by Mortarion and sweeping across the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, were over.
In realspace, the Plague Lord Nurgle's divine artifact — the Cauldron — had been destroyed. The shard of Sanguinius's soul he had gifted to Ku'gath Plaguefather was seized when Horus annihilated the Death Angel. And in the Warp, Guilliman, dragged by Mortarion into the Garden of Nurgle, had been possessed by the Master of Mankind himself.
The Emperor scorched Nurgle's garden to ash with a raging inferno, and his warning was simple: if the Plague Lord pressed further, the Emperor would not stand idly by.
Caught between the Emperor's warning and the jeering gazes of the other Chaos Gods, the Plague Lord had no choice but to swallow his rage and say nothing.
When Guilliman returned to realspace, he stood on the soil of Iax and looked up at the sky in a daze.
The green toxic clouds shrouding Iax dispersed. The stench of decay retreated. The plague network that had been corrupting all of Ultramar began to collapse.
He had won.
The Sword of the Emperor slipped from Guilliman's fingers and rang against the ground. He was already falling when Horus stepped forward and caught him.
"Roboute? Are you all right?"
Guilliman looked up at that bright, bald head. He was completely drained. But he managed a smile.
"I just died. Then I came back."
"That would be Father's doing."
Horus said it with a quiet smile. Then he got an arm under Guilliman and walked him, step by step, toward the rear.
Iax, that once-beautiful Imperial world, would need a long time to recover from what plague and Warp corruption had done to it. But for Guilliman and the others, that was a problem for later. They were going home as victors. The Plague Wars were won.
The reconstruction of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar had taken another great stride forward.
Aboard the flagship Macragge's Honour, Guilliman held a grand banquet, to celebrate the victory, and to honor the fallen.
The centerpiece of the evening was the return of the Phoenician. Guilliman declared his position openly: with impassioned warmth, he welcomed Fulgrim back and announced on the spot the re-establishment of three Legions under their gene-sires, Horus Lupercal, Konrad Curze, and Fulgrim.
It was an unmistakable political signal. To outside eyes, it looked very much like the Regent of the Imperium appointing three Primarch generals to serve under him.
Horus and the other two didn't particularly care. They all had stains in the Imperial historical record anyway. Working under Guilliman wasn't exactly a hardship.
Guilliman had originally wanted to confer a higher formal rank on Kaelen, but Kaelen talked him out of it in private, and the Lord of Ultramar respected his friend's wishes.
After the banquet, Guilliman decided to treat himself. He extended a warm and emphatic invitation to his brothers and friends: bathhouse. Now.
Kaelen's commentary: this is just what Space Romans are like.
Being possessed by the Emperor had done Guilliman more good than anyone expected. Not only had it purged the Godblight's toxins from his body, it had also swept away the poison that the fallen serpent had left in his neck 10,000 years ago. Which meant that Guilliman, who since his resurrection had been unable to remove the Armour of Fate long enough for a proper bath, could finally do exactly that. And he very much wanted to.
It helped that the private chambers aboard Macragge's Honour contained an enormous marble bath, large enough for hundreds of Astartes to soak in without bumping elbows.
And so: one mortal, four Primarchs. Sevetar and Loken had initially posted themselves outside as guards, but the Primarchs' collective enthusiasm proved impossible to resist, and both were dragged in regardless.
As for Cullen, he had already slipped away to the arenas the moment the banquet ended, looking for the Ultramarines Captain Titus that Kaelen had been talking up to him. He wanted to see for himself.
Inside, everyone drank and talked.
The topics jumped all over the place. One moment they were dissecting a campaign from the Great Crusade; the next, trading barbs about each other. Eventually the conversation landed on their Gloriana-class battleships, and things got heated fast.
They argued loudly and at length about whose flagship was superior. Curze was the lone exception. The Night Haunter regarded the whole argument with visible contempt, he wasn't going to squabble over whose toy was shinier.
Not that he had much ground to stand on. His flagship was, objectively, the worst of the lot.
Sevetar also said nothing.
In the end, Guilliman won on the simple fact that he still had the Macragge's Honour. His smugness afterward was spectacular, and it drew immediate retaliation. Horus got both arms around him and held him down; Fulgrim went straight for the ribs.
Caught in that pincer, Guilliman surrendered fast.
Loken watched from the side, completely transfixed. As a Son of Horus, he had followed his gene-sire for years. He had never once seen him like this with the other Primarchs. Not even with Lord Sanguinius.
Like actual brothers.
Kaelen, meanwhile, was reading the system notifications floating in front of him.
[Congratulations, Host, on witnessing the return of the Phoenician]
[Reward issued: one set of STC data for large-vessel weaponry]
[Shop update, new items available: Gloriana-class battleship production STC / the Imperator Somnium]
Gloriana-class production STC. And the Imperator Somnium.
Kaelen stiffened. He nearly choked on his wine.
The Gloriana-class was, without question, the most powerful class of warship in the human Imperium, second only to the Emperor's own flagship, the Imperator Somnium. The absolute backbone of the Great Crusade's void warfare.
And the Imperator Somnium itself. The Master of Mankind's personal flagship. The most lavishly outfitted vessel ever constructed: ferocious firepower, defensive systems maxed out, and reportedly requiring only 3 Custodians to crew, because the entire ship ran on high-grade artificial intelligence and was fully capable of fighting on its own.
Kaelen checked the prices carefully.
Absurdly expensive.
But between everything he had saved up, he could just afford them. Barely.
Loken had no idea what Kaelen was doing, just staring at the ceiling with that blank look on his face. He leaned over quietly.
"What are you thinking about, Lord Kaelen?"
The question pulled Kaelen back.
"Nothing. Just..." He paused.
"The enemies ahead of us?"
Loken's eyes were bright with curiosity. Eager, even.
Kaelen considered that for a moment. Then he nodded.
"Yes. Our next enemies are Abaddon's fleets."
---
"Now will you finally tell me what that 'Key' actually does, Vashtorr?"
In the secret chamber of the Vengeful Spirit, Abaddon sat upon his throne and studied the figure before him with cold, measuring eyes. The one who called himself the Arkifane. The daemon-demigod known as Vashtorr the Arkifane.
Not long ago, they had jointly raided an Astartes Chapter's fortress-monastery and extracted a critical item from within.
Vashtorr called it a fragment of the Key.
"Honored Warmaster of Chaos." Vashtorr's voice was deep and layered with static, but his enthusiasm was undimmed. "The Key is not whole. It shattered into many fragments and scattered across the galaxy. Its purpose is to open a gate, and behind that gate lies something that both you and I require."
"What is it?" Abaddon pressed. "Can it kill Primarchs?"
"These are the legacies of the Old Ones — the first intelligent race the universe ever produced. Their power lies beyond the limits of what either of us can presently imagine. If unleashed, they would be sufficient to destroy every enemy standing before us. That includes the gene-sires you are so eager to see dead."
Vashtorr leaned slightly forward.
"I will provide you with more Arks of Omen, enough to build a fleet capable of standing against the Imperium of Man and every other power arrayed against you. Munitions as well. All of it, in exchange for the location of those fragments."
Abaddon did not fully trust Vashtorr. He never had. But what the Arkifane was offering was difficult to dismiss.
This was precisely the moment he needed resources most. The Primarchs were returning, one by one. And Guilliman most of all, a Primarch who understood logistics, statecraft, and long-term strategy better than almost any being alive. Once his machinery was fully running, the Imperial fleets would eventually dwarf the Black Legion in raw numbers.
He could not afford to wait.
"I accept your terms."
"Then the pact is sealed, great Warmaster of Chaos."
In the darkness of that sealed chamber, the laughter of one man and one daemon wound together and echoed for a long, long time.
➤ Next: The Primarchs' Next Plans (1)
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