Chapter 268: Mortarion Thinks Guilliman Is Fierce
Well, things still ended up going beyond what Hades had imagined.
But in a sense, he had already anticipated this.
They rode a Stormbird through the clouds, descending toward the main city's temporary airfield. A small detachment of Ultramarines awaited them there, ready to lead the way—and to prevent any clashes with the civilian populace.
Above the clouds, squadrons of Death Guard Stormbirds circled tensely, awaiting orders at any moment.
At least Guilliman had permitted the necessary air support.
And further above, high in the upper atmosphere—where Guilliman did not need to know—Death Guard drop pods were already primed.
Hades cast a quiet glance at the blue-armored warriors before him, then decisively cloaked himself in the shrouding of the Black Domain. Against un-gifted mortals, it wasn't perfect camouflage, but with the towering distraction that was Mortarion beside him, he could pass unnoticed.
"Good," Mortarion said, eyeing the Ultramarines. "Lead on."
The Death Guard marched in silence.
At Mortarion's request, the Ultramarines would first guide them to the royal palace, where the shattered altar lay—and where the queen herself awaited them.
They passed through an industrial quarter crowded with low stone houses. The people rushed to greet the Ultramarines with joy and reverence, but when their eyes fell upon the Death Guard, their gazes faltered, and they shrank back into the worn doorways of their homes.
The Death Guard kept their silence, while the Ultramarines tried gently to reassure the frightened civilians.
Mortarion narrowed his eyes at the narrow windows above, where uneasy shadows flickered across the walls.
They crossed a great square where more Ultramarines were stationed. The plaza was crowded, children darting between the columns, while the Ultramarines—humble yet proud—were warmly received. Mortarion even noticed an Imperial remembrancer lifting a pict-capt to frame a smiling Ultramarine beside a native girl.
Mortarion frowned, but held his tongue.
Everything here left him with a gnawing sense of dissonance, unease, and agitation. Yet he had not seen the signs he knew so well, nor smelled the stench of sorcery.
At last they reached the tallest structure in the city: the royal palace.
The queen stood waiting before its gates.
She was an elder, hair as white as snow, face lined deep with age. She wore a black robe adorned with golden embroidery, the hems frayed and worn—garments clearly long in use.
Her eyes were a profound shade of blue, radiating a serenity beyond the ordinary. When she looked upon Mortarion, she showed none of the fear or shock that most would; she only bowed deeply, her frail body bent with reverence.
"Good day, my lords," the queen said, respectful yet calm.
"Good day, Lady Cirkesce," replied Captain Gage, the leading Ultramarine, serving as the bridge between the two parties. Polite and cordial, he exchanged words with the queen.
Mortarion listened intently to every word. Yet this supposed witch showed no pretense of ignorance—only careful restraint, respect, and concern for her people.
The Ultramarines, for their part, offered patient assurances. The Imperium would not visit needless cruelty upon them; so long as Absyrtus surrendered and embraced the Imperial Truth, there would be no punishment.
Mortarion had no taste for such empty chatter. But he was waiting, and so—for once—he endured it. While he listened to the necessary prattle, his sharp gaze roved across the palace.
It was built of dark limestone, finely hewn, its carvings once splendid. Yet under the constant bite of acid rains, the figures and beasts etched upon its surface had warped into grotesque and twisted visages.
At regular intervals, towers jutted upward from the palace walls. Their needlelike silhouettes reminded Mortarion of the diseased vultures that perched on the treetops of Barbarus.
While the others continued their polite chatter, Mortarion narrowed his eyes, studying the pattern. Nine small towers encircled a larger one; nine great towers enclosed the central keep. Numbers whispered in his ears, insistent as a fever dream, until Mortarion felt the first prick of unease.
But—no. Something was wrong. The structure lacked symmetry. The sacred harmony of numbers had been broken. It should be symmetrical, Mortarion thought. Only symmetry accords with logic.
"Lord?"
Gage's voice cut suddenly through his thoughts. Mortarion frowned at the interruption, but said nothing, motioning the Ultramarine to lead them on.
Yet at that very moment, the queen's gaze slid past the Ultramarines, locking with his.
Mortarion answered her stare with his own—grim, suffocating, the kind of look that could kill.
Wretched witch. There is deception here.
He ground his teeth. The problem was, he had no way to explain it. Even Hades had urged him to abandon his obsession with numerology. And Guilliman? Mortarion doubted his brother would even understand it.
Once again, Mortarion's gauntleted hand clenched tightly around the haft of his scythe. Static crackled across his private vox-channel. He dimmed his eyes, willing Hades to find something—anything.
The queen herself led them onward, into the central chamber of the palace—the place encircled by the nine great towers.
Mortarion refused to allow her inside. Deathshroud stepped forward to bar her path. No psyker, not even a compliant one, could be left alone in a chamber with an altar, abandoned or not.
The chamber was a perfect circle. Its builders had employed precise geometry, creating a dizzying visual effect, as though the space shifted and rippled around them.
Silver runes covered every surface. Mortarion immediately recognized them—the same symbols woven into the queen's robes.
This was a place… profoundly, terribly ill-omened.
Yes, the altar had been destroyed. Harsh blue paint had been splattered over the runes, blotting out their lines and sigils. Ritual implements lay smashed, fragments scattered across the floor.
It could not be used again.
And yet Mortarion could still smell it—the foul tang of warp sorcery, seeping faintly through even his toxin-saturated rebreather, lingering at the edge of his senses.
Behind him, his Deathshroud, shaped by their gene-father's example, silently tightened hands on the triggers of their flame projectors.
"Lord Mortarion, it was here," Gage announced proudly. "Here, our Primarch recited the Imperial Truth, and accepted Absyrtus' surrender."
He went on, voice swelling with conviction. "When the words of Truth were spoken, the queen herself gave the order to tear this altar down."
Mortarion cast him a sidelong glance. To his grudging relief, the altar bore no signs of recent use. The stench, though vile, lacked the sharpness of something freshly invoked.
At least his blind cousins had not yet been ensnared.
Roboute Guilliman… standing beside an altar, preaching the Imperial Truth to a witch.
Ha.
"Yes. Quite splendid," Mortarion muttered under his breath, voice edged with disdain. Then, ever cautious, he withdrew from the chamber.
And there, outside the doors, he found Hades—already deep in conversation with the queen.
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