‘It is still gibberish,’ said Zerberyn.
‘No, my lord!’ said the serf. ‘She speaks in a standard astrotelepathic metaphor. You, my lord, would never hear it. The method is idiosyncratic to each sender and receiver, but there is a commonality of pattern. This is one of the simplest, the first mnemonic image-words an astropath learns.’
‘Someone wants us to hear this message,’ said Honorius.
The minutes trickled by. Eventually the witch’s mumbling became fainter, and she sagged in her restraints. The transliterator had the serfs read back what they had written to him, then he nodded, took the scrolls they had produced and approached the Fists Exemplar.
‘My lords,’ he said. ‘The witch has spoken. I have a message.’ The transliterator’s face was twisted in disgust at being so close to an unsanctioned pysker, and he kept turning his head back towards her. ‘The Black Templars are coming. Our sending got through.’
‘Tell me the message. Exactly,’ said Zerberyn.
‘I cannot offer exactness,’ said the transliterator regretfully. ‘But I can convey the meaning. The Last Wall is disbanded, the Beast is dead.’
‘Inform the others, this is a day for celebration!’ said Zerberyn. The serfs lost their newly cowed nature for a moment, and stood taller. Their excitement stimulated the witch’s mind, and she moaned in her fugue.
The transliterator held up his hand. ‘If I may, my lord. High Marshal Bohemond himself comes here. One part of the message is very clear, repeated several times.’
Zerberyn’s good humour vanished. ‘That is?’
‘Death to the betrayers of the Imperium of Man. Praise be.’
‘A difficult situation,’ said Honorius drily.
‘We’ve got to get out of this fortress, meet them in the void,’ said Zerberyn. ‘Bohemond won’t pause. He will attack immediately and destroy the city. Call the First Company to me, full armour. Honorius, muster the rest of the Fists Exemplar and have them take up position to seize the fortress by force, tell the captains to be ready but not to act. Then you and I must pay a visit to the warsmith.’
The veterans of the Chapter gathered quickly. They were raw as Space Marine veterans were reckoned, with most of the First Company killed and replaced several times over in the war against the Beast, but they were formidable nevertheless, and Zerberyn could count on their absolute loyalty.
They marched openly to the centre of the fortress. The Iron Warriors responded, occupying strongpoints where they could. In other places, Fists Exemplar and Iron Warriors came face to face. Zerberyn ordered his squads to match them, man for man, and left them staring at each other, armaments ready.
The fortress’ command hub was deep in the mountainside, a spherical sub-building independently supplied with power and air. One corridor approached the armoured doors, dead straight, two hundred metres long, every square centimetre covered by automated turrets and servitor-directed heavy weapons.
The majority of the First Company halted at the end. Zerberyn marched right down it, flanked by his command squad. Guns tracked his movement, but did not open fire.
He halted beside the door. His standard bearer planted his flag firmly, the clink of the pole on the ferrocrete echoing ominously. Every weapon whirred around to cover the First Captain. The door remained shut.
A hidden vox-emitter activated.
‘At last our alliance breaks,’ said Kalkator, his voice sounding down the corridor.
‘Not so, or we would already be fighting,’ said Zerberyn. ‘I come with news. High Marshal Bohemond is on his way to this system. He intends to kill you.’
‘He is already here,’ said Kalkator. ‘He arrived an hour ago at the Mandeville point. They will be in orbit of Immitis VII in less than a day.’
‘Why was I not informed?’
Kalkator laughed, his voice taking on that strange doubling it did sometimes. The second voice sent chills down Zerberyn’s limbs. It was wholly unnatural.
‘Because of this?’ said Kalkator.
‘They are traitors by nature,’ said Brother Mardath, Zerberyn’s melta-gunner.
‘You are the ones here in full battle array!’ said Kalkator. ‘I knew of this, and I could have murdered you in your sleep, and I did not. Do you really intend to slaughter your allies, after all we have been through?’
‘No,’ said Zerberyn. ‘This is a precaution. I do not intend to kill you, but to save you.’
‘Really now,’ said Kalkator. ‘How touching.’
‘If you do not come out, Bohemond will arrive here with his crusade. Already we outnumber you. I have two hundred and fifty brothers remaining, you but ninety. We are in your fortress. We will prevail, if we are forced to cross swords.’
Silence greeted Zerberyn’s remark. He glanced at Honorius. The ancient Librarian gazed resolutely ahead.
‘What do you propose?’ said Kalkator.
‘Come with me on the Dantalion. We must meet Bohemond away from this nameless moon, in the void.’
‘An easy way to present my head to your brother.’
‘I will speak with him, make him see sense,’ said Zerberyn. ‘Leave the Palimodes here in case you need to evacuate. I will make my best efforts to ensure that does not happen.’
‘It will happen. Bohemond is a fanatic.’
‘He is a noble son of Dorn!’ said Zerberyn angrily. ‘He will listen. If we wait, he will attack. If we meet him in the void your men will have a chance to escape.’
‘You ask me to abandon a third world. I do not have an infinite supply of planetary holdings, you realise. If we lose Immitis, my Great Company will be lost.’
Zerberyn looked aside, searching for the right words. ‘Kalkator, I can see no alternative. You have fought honourably by my side. I will not allow you to be killed by Bohemond. I give you my word. Staying here is untenable. Come with me. Bohemond will not open fire on the Dantalion. You do not have a choice.’
A klaxon sounded once. The doors slid open, four intersecting triangles splitting wide to reveal Kalkator waiting on the other side, flanked by his own veterans.
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘I do not.’
‘The Abhorrence approaches,’ said Shipmaster Marcarian. His eyes moved more than those of a hale man, darting about in their cage of half-dead flesh. The serf-crew of the Dantalion had learned to read their motions well. A close view of the Black Templars flared into life in the main hololith. Zerberyn watched it with Honorius and Reoch. The Apothecary’s presence discomfited him. As their time with the Iron Warriors had dragged on, Reoch had abandoned his civilised shell, becoming more savage.
‘She has suffered in the war,’ said Marcarian, a ribbon of drool leaking from the corner of his semi-paralysed mouth. His hololith officers read his desire, and painted highlight signifiers upon the Abhorrence.
‘Gravitic lash damage, mass impact trauma,’ said the Master of the Augur. ‘Their reactor reads with a four per cent erratic pulse.’
‘She has no attendant vessels,’ said Honorius. ‘She comes to confront us alone.’
‘The Black Templars are rash for sons of Dorn,’ said Apothecary Reoch. ‘I wonder how it would be to test our bloodlines against one another.’
‘Their fanaticism outstrips their wisdom,’ said Kalkator. ‘You would win.’
‘Warsmith, I ask you to be quiet. If Bohemond knows you are on board this vessel, then this communication will be short and the results bloody. Fists Exemplar never make mistakes. Don’t prove that truth a lie.’
Kalkator bowed his armoured head in acquiescence. ‘Neither I nor my men shall say a word, First Captain.’
‘I have a request for communication, my lords,’ said the Master of the Vox.
Zerberyn stepped onto a narrow-field hololith plate. ‘Activate.’
Bohemond’s scarred face materialised in the hololith display.
‘Zerberyn! You live. I feared to find an Iron Warrior at the helm of the Dantalion.’