It was deafening, and more. Frater Mathieu felt the crowd’s exultation as a wash of power. The ecstasy he felt from their victorious cries made his faith shine as bright as a star. Where before he nearly collapsed from application of his electroflail, now he swooned in religious ecstasy. The Pit of Raukos seemed to dim in the sky, and the blasted, lonely deserts of 108/Beta-Kalapus-9.2 felt a little cleaner.

‘My sons! My brothers and sisters!’ Guilliman called, halting the chant. ‘In a moment, our new militant-apostolic will bless you all, and deliver the words of the Emperor, my father!’ Another cheer, so loud it shook the ground. Mathieu looked at the primarch sidelong; he had yet to say yes to the appointment. He was going to, of course. Now he had no choice. He admired the primarch’s forceful will. They could not fail with him as their lord.

‘I have news for my warrior-brothers. The Unnumbered Sons have fought with a strength that would shame the Legions of the Great Crusade. The time has come for you to be rewarded for your efforts. New assignments will be given. New Chapters formed. Some of you will go to join the progeny of your gene-sires, who will welcome you as brothers, and provide you with places of honour both on the battlefield and at the feasting table. But to those of you who are my sons directly, who bear my genetic heritage and the colours of the Ultramarines, I have one last thing to say – when we are done here, we have a new war to fight. My brother Mortarion brings pestilence to our home of Ultramar. I will not allow it to fall.’

The primarch paused. Slowly, he once again looked across the field.

‘We march for Macragge.’

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Plaguebringer

Varens was sleeping, and his dreams were strange.

He watched himself from outside, as is sometimes the way in dreams, like he were two separate people – the actor and the observer. The observer saw himself hiding by the hospital entrance, spying on the sentries, their conversation puffed out into the cold night air as clouds of steam like smoke signals. The active Varens waited for one to leave his post and go inside to warm his hands. As the soldier passed, Varens clubbed him down with a stone urn. Then this Varens stalked the gravelled forecourt of the hospital, a stolen lasgun in his hands, fulminating against the way the soldiers had treated him, as if the patients were less than they were because they had been injured.

He hated that. They were all soldiers. They were all owed respect!

The second Varens simply watched.

The first Varens raised his lasgun. The remaining sentry’s eyes became shocked round zeroes in the shadow of his helmet.

‘Don’t shoot!’ he said.