Chapter 197 - Armageddon — Face to Face
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Above Armageddon, the smoke of war had never truly cleared.
Commissar Yarrick stood at the observation window of the command bastion, staring through thick armored glass at the scorched earth beyond. Artillery had plowed that ground so many times there was nothing left to plow. Just ash and craters, all the way to the horizon.
The Third War for Armageddon had long been declared over. The old commissar knew better. Orks didn't care about Imperial declarations.
Ghazghkull Thraka could return at any moment, and the next offensive would be worse than the last. It was always worse than the last.
He had to be ready.
Then the news arrived.
Not one piece of news. Two. Each one weighty enough to make a mortal commander's heart skip half a beat.
The Space Wolves and the Iron Hands, two First Founding Chapters, had arrived in the Armageddon system simultaneously.
Yarrick's first reaction was relief. But something in the subsequent exchanges caught his attention, a wrong note he couldn't quite place.
They hadn't come simply as reinforcements.
They were "passing through," they said, and had a matter of importance to discuss face-to-face with a certain primarch.
Primarch.
Yarrick turned the word over in his mind.
Sons of the God-Emperor from ten thousand years ago. Living myths. Walking legends.
The word didn't stir much in him, if he was being honest. Those who hadn't lived through the Horus Heresy could never truly grasp its weight. To Yarrick, primarchs were simply beings at the apex of the Imperial chain of command, not so different in kind from the Chapter Masters who sat above him, just bigger, stronger, and harder to kill.
Which primarch? Guilliman? Or Horus, the great arch-traitor personally pardoned by the God-Emperor himself?
He didn't know, and he didn't intend to dig deeper. The visit of two First Founding Chapters was likely some matter of diplomatic entanglement, nothing that concerned an old commissar whose job was to slug it out with Orks in the mud.
He settled back into his chair and went back to work.
The warband reports were spread across his desk, a grim catalog of Ghazghkull's movements along the border. Erratic, as always. But the raid frequency was climbing. That was never a good sign.
He lifted his water cup and took a sip.
"Re-report!"
The orderly practically fell through the door.
Yarrick looked up. The reproach was in his eyes, but he let it go. He asked quietly, "What is it?"
"Commissar — a primarch is here! The First Expeditionary Fleet has arrived in-system!"
Yarrick's brow furrowed.
Guilliman, or Horus.
Either way, one primarch was good news. The defensive lines would be strengthened in ways no amount of conventional reinforcement could match. When the next Ork tide came, they would hold a decisive advantage. He nodded, his tone flat.
"That's good. Imperial forces on Armageddon have been reinforced. We'll hold a decisive advantage in the next war."
"Indeed, Commissar." The orderly swallowed hard.
Yarrick caught it. Something behind the man's eyes, pressing against the surface, too large to stay down.
"Go on." He lifted his water cup. "What other news has you this wound up?"
"Commissar, I don't think I was clear enough." The orderly's voice was trembling. "A primarch has indeed come. But there are three of them." He swallowed again. "Three primarchs, Commissar. And with them — three Astartes Legions. Astra Militarum. Knight houses. Titan Legions."
The water sprayed from Yarrick's mouth and splashed across the desk.
He froze. The old veteran's face was a portrait of pure, uncomprehending absurdity.
He set the cup down. Wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.
"Emperor above..."
---
At the same time, in a heavily guarded chamber elsewhere on the planet, two legends were sitting down together for the first time.
Logan Grimnar, Great Wolf of the Space Wolves, wore his wolf pelts like a second skin. The biting cold of Fenris's ice wastes seemed to emanate from him even here, and the face carved by a thousand battles wore the rough, easy grin that was native to that world.
Across from him sat Kardan Stronos, supreme commander of the Iron Hands. The Iron Father's body had been mostly given over to machinery long ago. What little flesh remained on his face was as cold and set as an anvil fresh from the forge.
"I believe this is the first time we have met, Lord Kardan." Logan spoke first, his voice a low rumble, like a winter wolf settling into a growl.
"It is, Lord Logan." Kardan inclined his head slightly. The mechanical eye in his socket cast a dim red light. "I have heard your deeds spoken of. But this is the first time I have seen you in person."
"Did you come because of that damned news about Horus as well?" Logan bared his teeth, putting weight on the name when he said it.
"By the Throne." The warmth drained from Kardan's voice entirely. "We would gladly twist his head from his shoulders with our own hands, God-Emperor's pardon or not. We did not come on his orders."
The Iron Father paused. "In truth, we came because of what the Chapter's Librarius revealed. And because of that other matter. You've heard the name by now, Logan — the mortal called Kaelen."
Logan's eyes narrowed.
He'd heard it.
Guilliman's return had been staggering, but it could at least be processed. Horus, though, the dead arch-traitor, and Sanguinius, killed ten thousand years ago, now returned, and Konrad Curze reappearing in the mortal world on top of it all. Every piece of it had upended everything anyone thought they understood.
And every single thread, without exception, led back to the same person.
"You, I, everyone, we are all still reeling from the return of these primarchs," Kardan said. His voice stayed level, but Logan could already hear what was underneath it. "And none of it would have happened without that mortal called Kaelen."
"So you want to use this man's hands to bring your own primarch back."
"And you, Logan? Don't tell me you aren't hoping for your Wolf King's return."
"The Wolf King shall return at the Wolftime." Logan lifted the goblet from the table and drained the toxic Fenrisian mead in one long pull. His throat worked twice. He set the empty cup down on the table with a heavy knock. "We are not worried. And the crucial Wolftime has not yet come."
Kardan shook his head, a faint disappointment settling on his face.
"I had thought that was your purpose in coming. I did not expect you to actually be following his orders."
"Hmph." Logan shrugged, and the massive wolf-pelt pauldrons rode up and shuddered with the motion. "The Wolves only honor oaths made to the Allfather. We don't give a damn about that bastard's orders. We answered his summons and came to meet him because we intend to personally make sure the accursed Horus is truly safe. The Allfather may have pardoned him. We will see that for ourselves."
He showed his teeth. The Fenrisian spirits had done their work on them over the centuries.
"I'd rather it were Sanguinius standing here. Even Guilliman would be preferable."
"But," Logan said, and his tone shifted, taking on a note of someone settling in to watch a fight, "according to that bastard, Horus isn't the only one coming."
"Who else?" Kardan's mechanical eye flickered.
"Konrad Curze." Logan raised one finger. "And Fulgrim."
The air in the chamber went solid.
The veins on Kardan Stronos's half-flesh face rose one by one, spreading from his brow down to his throat, a slow tide of something burning up from deep inside him.
His mechanical fingers closed without him telling them to.
Five deep gouges opened in the metal tabletop.
"Did you say Fulgrim?"
➤ Next: Horus's Former Worries
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