The Mechanicum and the fleet might be keeping their own counsel, but the junior officers of the Army were making up for their absent voices. They loudly hectored the speakers below them, either in complete agreement or to drown out what they saw as rank stupidity.
Raeven couldn’t decide which.
Current Right of Voice belonged to the Warmonger of Legio Fortidus; an amazonian looking woman in an oil-stained khaki bodyglove named Ur-Nammu. In heavily accented Gothic, she set out the position of her Legio, which, to Raeven’s ears ran thusly.
Princeps Uta-Dagon and Utu-Lerna would not endorse any plan that didn’t involve charging the Titans of Legio Fortidus straight at the enemy the instant they landed.
Opinicus, the Invocatio of Legio Gryphonicus, held the view that just because the rest of Legio Fortidus had been wiped out on Mars was no reason for the rest of them to throw themselves on the swords of self-sacrifice.
As Raeven understood it, both Ur-Nammu and Opinicus undertook roughly the same role within their Legios, a form of ambassador between the inhuman Titan princeps and those they must perforce fight alongside.
Their bickering was pointless, for Carthal Ashur, the cruelly handsome Calator Martialis of Legio Crucius had yet to speak. The lesser ambassadors would eventually defer to him, for the largest Titan on Molech was a Crucius engine, the ancient colossus known as Paragon of Terra. Ashur carried the authority of the Princeps Magnus, Etana Kalonice, and if she had been roused from her war-dreams beneath Iron Fist Mountain, then the smaller Legios would undoubtedly fall into line behind her.
The ambassadors of the Legios eventually finished speaking and deliberations moved onto logistical matters: the establishment of supply lines, ordnance depots and stockpiling. Raeven’s threshold for boredom – already stretched thin by the hours of debate – was pushed to breaking point by long recitations of supply levels. A dozen aexactor clerks had already spoken, and dozens more stood in line to be heard.
Raeven rose from his throne and hammered the sceptre on the stone floor of the hall, eliciting fearful gasps from the reliquary keepers. He drew his pistol and aimed it at the nearest scrivener and his parchment-spewing data-slate.
‘You. Shut up. Right now,’ he said, his drawing of the weapon cutting through the droning account of lasrifle power-cell shortages at the Kushite Preceptory Line. ‘All of you listen very carefully to what I’m about to say. I will shoot the next scribe who dares to read an inventory list or stock level. Right through the head.’
The clerks lowered their data-slates and shuffled uncomfortably in place.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Raeven. ‘Right, will someone tell me something of actual bloody importance. Please.’
Castor Alcade of the Ultramarines stood and said, ‘What sort of thing are you looking to hear, Lord Devine? This is how wars are fought, with properly emplaced lines of supply and a fully functioning infrastructure in place to support the front-line forces. If you want to hold this world against the Warmaster, then these are the things you need to know.’
‘No,’ said Raeven. ‘They’re the things you need to know. All I need to know is where I will ride into battle. I have an army of scriveners, quartermasters and savants to deal with numbers and lists.’
‘The Five Hundred Worlds are burning,’ snapped Alcade, ‘yet my Ultramarines stand ready to fight and die for a world not their own. Speak like that again, and I’ll take every warrior back to Ultramar.’
‘The Emperor Himself tasked your Legion and the Blood Angels with the defence of Molech,’ said Raeven with a mocking smile. ‘You would forsake that duty? I don’t think so.’
‘You would be wise not to test that theory,’ warned Alcade.
‘I am the rightful ruler of Molech,’ snapped Raeven. ‘Military command of this world falls to me, and if I learned anything from my father, may he rest in peace, it’s that a ruler needs to surround himself with the best people he can, delegate authority and then not interfere.’
‘An Imperial commander can delegate authority,’ said Alcade, ‘but never responsibility.’
Raeven struggled to control his anger, feeling it twist in his chest like a poisoned blade.
‘My House has ruled Molech for generations,’ he said with cold hostility. ‘I know the meaning of responsibility.’
Alcade shook his head. ‘I’m not sure you do, Lord Devine. Responsibility is a unique concept. You can share it with others, but your portion is not diminished. You may delegate it, but it is still with you. Blood has given you command of Molech, and its security is your responsibility. No evasion, or wilful avoidance of that fact can shift it to others.’
Raeven forced a mask of composure to settle upon his features and nodded as though accepting the legate’s patronising words as wisdom.
‘Your words carry the acumen of your primarch,’ he said, each word filling his belly with cankerous venom. ‘I will, of course, review the recommendations of the tithe-takers in due course, but perhaps this is a time for war stratagems rather than dry lists of numbers and dispute between allies?’
Alcade nodded and bowed in wary agreement.
‘Indeed so, Lord Devine,’ said Alcade, sitting back down.
Raeven let out a poisoned breath that felt like it was scorching his throat. He fixed his gaze on Brython Semper, taking a moment to compose himself and giving the Lord Admiral’s aide time to elbow him in the ribs.
‘Admiral Semper, can you tell us how long we have before the War-master’s forces reach Molech?’
Dressed in a regal purple frock coat of baroque ornamentation, Brython Semper stood and fastened his top button. The Lord Admiral’s hair was silver white and pulled into a long scalp lock, his face a scarred, partially augmetic mask.
‘Of course, my lord,’ he said, inloading the contents of his aide’s data-slate to his ocular implant. ‘The astropathic choirs send word of impending arrivals of scores of vessels, perhaps as many as forty or fifty in total. Nor are the approaching craft making any secret of their arrival. I’m getting all sorts of nonsense about astropaths hearing wolves howling in the warp and ships screaming their designations. More than likely it’s some form of empyreal distortion or simply reflected vox-transmissions, but it’s clear the Warmaster wants us to know he’s coming. Though if he thinks we’re a bunch of cowards who’ll run screaming at the first sign of the enemy, he’s in for a rude awakening.’
Vitus Salicar interrupted the Lord Admiral before he could continue. ‘It would be a mistake to think that just because you outnumber the Warmaster’s fleet, you hold the upper hand. Legion void-war is a savage, merciless thing.’
Semper bowed to the Blood Angel and said, ‘I know full well how dangerous the Space Marines are, captain.’
‘You don’t,’ said Salicar sadly. ‘We are killers, reapers of flesh. You must never forget that.’
Before the Lord Admiral could respond to the Blood Angel’s melancholic tone, Raeven said, ‘How soon will the enemy be here?’
Visibly struggling to contain his temper in the face of Salicar’s dismissal of his fleet’s capabilities, Semper spoke slowly and carefully.
‘The Master of Astropaths’ best estimate is a real space breach any day now, putting them within reach of Molech in around two weeks. I’ve already issued a muster order to pull our picket ships back from the system’s edge.’
‘You won’t engage the traitors in open space?’