Chapter 355: The Beginning of the Council of Nikaea
[High Orbit over Nikaea]
"Get ready, Angron," Hades took a deep breath.
"We're landing on Nikaea."
. . .
[Nikaea Landing Zone]
The Death Guard Stormbird gunship descended through a haze of ashen gloom. The Lord of Death hid himself beneath his hood and toxin-laden respirator. His deep-set eyes swept swiftly across the land. As he expected, he saw gaudy, useless, ostentatious architecture clinging to the flank of a volcano.
Nikaea was still a lively world. Its geological activity was violent, and its magnetic field was broken. That meant most geomagnetic instruments would malfunction—and it also meant the psychic field here would be unstable.
Mortarion silently noted this. He strode toward the circular volcanic amphitheater the Emperor had constructed. His silent sons and Magos Korklan followed behind him.
. . .
[Nikaea Amphitheater – Main Hall]
Mortarion was the first Primarch to arrive. He stood below the bright stage, deep in thought. Before the stage, tens of thousands of seats extended upward into the darkness, divided into two sweeping arcs. Bureaucrats, lords, navy admirals, Mechanicum Magos, and mortals of all kinds crowded the hall, buzzing and chattering.
This trial was not only the story of Primarchs and their Legions. Mortals, too, had their share of power. In lofty, hidden viewing boxes, the heads of the Astropathic Choir, Mars's Fabricator-General, the Lord High Admiral… figures of the highest rank… were already present.
They were even permitted to remain anonymous if they chose.
But every one of them fell into dead silence as the Lord of Death entered.
Mortarion found this satisfying.
Behind the stage, darkness rose, climbing to its apex—where a radiant shape gleamed. The Master of Mankind sat in quiet majesty upon His golden throne. The light was too bright; Mortarion narrowed his eyes, and faint tears leaked from their corners.
A breath of poisonous vapor hissed from behind the Death Lord's mask. Mortarion stepped forward and gave his father the slightest bow—his fulfillment of courtesy. Malcador at the Emperor's side nodded to him. Mortarion then turned away without hesitation and led his sons to the Death Guard's assigned seats.
The seats closest to the front of the stage were completely empty, divided into several sections, each marked by a Legion sigil. The Death Guard had been placed at the right-hand side of the podium.
Mortarion glanced around, his gaze lingering on the section directly opposite the stage. It bore no Legion markings—but beside the central seat stood a Sister of Silence and a Magos.
Both familiar faces: Nera and Jin.
As if sensing Mortarion's stare, the massive metal frame of Jin turned toward him—perhaps looking at Mortarion, perhaps at Korklan beside him—and displayed a smiling face.
"Good day, my lord :)"
Mortarion heard Korklan short-circuit audibly, but that mattered little. It meant only one thing:
Hades was here.
And that filled Mortarion with satisfaction—a feeling of victory already in his grasp. Hades's presence meant only one thing: the outcome was already certain. He could not lose.
Mortarion raised a hand, signaling Korklan to calm down. He examined the empty seat and frowned slightly. The seat was far too large—fit for a Primarch.
Inwardly, Mortarion spat at the Emperor and Malcador for a second. But then the second Primarch arrived.
The doors slammed open, and raucous laughter burst in.
The Wolf King, Leman Russ, bellowed thunderously:
"All right, little pups!"
He swaggered in with his wolf-brothers, entering through the grand doors behind the mortal seating and marching down the central aisle dividing the tiers.
The mortals were startled. Waves of exclamations, cheers, and applause erupted; the silence Mortarion's arrival had imposed shattered instantly. The hall grew noisy and chaotic.
Leman Russ swaggered all the way to the front of the stage. The Wolf King suddenly grew solemn. He took steady breaths, planted his warsword into the ground with a thud, then dropped to one knee. His wolf-brothers knelt beside him.
"My highest greetings to you, All-Father."
For once, he spoke without growling words together. Mortarion turned away with contempt.
The Emperor tilted His head slightly. Malcador tapped his staff—bon, bon—and Russ rose to his feet, flashing a toothy grin.
Wolf King? Just a dog wagging its tail at the Emperor, Mortarion muttered inwardly. But he stood nonetheless, because Russ was striding toward him.
"Well met, my brother!"
Russ sniffed loudly—rudely—teeth always bared in what looked like a threat.
"I still prefer you over the vox. You stink."
Mortarion did not even blink. He stared calmly at Russ and extended a hand.
"Likewise."
Russ burst into laughter and seized Mortarion's hand, shaking it with enough force to snap an Astartes' arm.
"Didn't expect you to be so civilized."
He laughed again—then suddenly stopped. His nose twitched. He threw back his head and howled like an actual wolf:
"Woman!"
Mortarion was startled, but quickly understood what he meant. A Sister of Silence approached them, led by an unusually tall Custodian. Beside them was Jin.
Russ reached behind himself and yanked out a mortal like a kitten by the scruff. He roared at the poor man:
"Hawser! You'll go with them later. Bear will be with you. Just follow them and tell them everything you know. If they want to check your back door, you lift your ass and let them."
"My lord," said Captain-General Valdor calmly, trying to stop Russ's "joke."
Russ snapped his head toward the Custodian and glared.
"Shiny little golden brat—no one taught you not to interrupt a Primarch? Do you want me to rip off your mouth and shove it into my brother's respirator right now?"
Before Valdor could speak, Mortarion cut in:
"I refuse."
Russ looked at Mortarion in surprise—then roared with laughter again. He put the trembling mortal back on his feet and clapped Hawser on the shoulder so hard the man nearly fell over.
"Go on, poet!"
Hawser stood there hesitating. Russ gave a sharp whistle, and a wolf padded out of the formation—circling Hawser like a real predatory beast. Mortarion assumed this was the "Bear" Russ had spoken of.
Mortarion lifted a hand. His First Captain, Vorx, stepped forward in silence, the clatter of phials and full magazines echoing with his movements.
Korklan also stepped forward. Mortarion didn't even need to look to know the Archmagos had activated some sort of self-enforced calming mechanism again.
Valdor—having just escaped Russ's grip—looked at Mortarion with slight confusion. He had clearly seen the dent left in his shoulder plate from Russ's pat.
"Archmagos Korklan, Legion Seer of the Death Guard. His expertise lies in psychic and anti-psychic studies. He may aid in the verification to come."
Mortarion said calmly. His gaze shifted to Jin—now three times Korklan's size.
"Perhaps your own Magos could testify for the Death Guard."
Jin lifted his red robe and bowed to Mortarion. The smiley face still shone on his display, but when he looked at the Custodian, lines of flickering, glitch-like symbols ran across it.
Valdor turned back, nodding to Mortarion.
"We will take him."
A jet of toxic vapor hissed out from beneath Mortarion's mask, like a wordless permission. He cast a cold glance at the Wolf King stretching lazily, listening to the fading sounds of the Sister of Silence, the Custodians, and Hawser's retinue as they departed.
Mortarion settled back into his seat. There was no point wasting time on the Wolf King. The Wolf King yawned loudly—Mortarion was certain the stench from his mouth was worse than any poison he could exhale.
As if realizing he shouldn't bother seeking trouble, the Wolf King herded his pack of wolves noisily back to their seats. Bored, he propped up his chin and shouted for a serf to bring more ale.
The moment the Wolf King returned to his place—at the very instant the last of his pups sat down—another Legion arrived. A faint fragrance drifted subtly across the chamber, and the atmosphere shifted at once. People quieted… then rose to their feet.
Fulgrim descended the layered steps with an elegant, unhurried grace. His Phoenix Guard followed behind him, their hair and armor catching the dim light like scattered starlight.
Applause swelled. Mortarion heard the Wolf King growl in irritation.
Fulgrim stopped at the very front of the platform. With a gesture as fluid as a courtesan lifting her skirts, he swept his silver hair back behind his ear. Then he placed a hand over his heart and sank gracefully to one knee. Strands of silver hair slipped forward, hanging beside his sharp, handsome nose.
"Your proud son offers you his highest respect!"
"The Master is pleased by your presence."
Malcador spoke.
Fulgrim rose smoothly, smiling brilliantly at the Emperor—a perfect smile. Mortarion thought that if he could, Fulgrim would shove his lipstick-painted face right up to the Emperor like a decorative vase being presented for admiration.
After completing his formalities before the Emperor, Fulgrim turned and bestowed the same flawless smile upon the mortals in attendance. He bowed slightly and declared,
"I am delighted that we can gather here today to deliberate on the affairs of the Imperium."
A farce. Mortarion realized it immediately. The wretched peacock was campaigning—before the Council even began. Emperor damn it, couldn't someone stop him from assaulting mortal minds with that face of his?
Fortunately, Russ barked.
The Wolf King, excited, sloshed ale all over his fur. He slapped the arm of his seat with enthusiasm and bellowed,
"Fulgrim! Your perfume is choking me! My pups' noses are about to die—get away from us, or go sit next to the stinky one!"
Mortarion and Fulgrim frowned in perfect unison, but at least it cut short Fulgrim's theatrics. The Phoenician led his sons to their seats, step by elegant step.
Next came Corvus—silent, as usual. Normal. Mortarion didn't know him well; the man barely existed in the room. In fact, throughout the entire council he was like a ghost.
But because he resembled Konrad Curze, Mortarion instinctively raised his guard and hatred to maximum levels.
Then arrived the White Scars psykers sent by the Khan, joining the other Legions' librarians. The Great Khan himself had not come.
Rogal Dorn entered next. Mortarion suspected he was only here because the Emperor was present. The tall, severe man with his razor-cut pale hair had just been named Praetorian of Terra. He would be the Primarch closest to the Emperor—never leaving his side. A terrifying fate.
Rumor said Perturabo was furious—he deserved it.
Mortarion remained silent while some of his brothers had already begun to converse. He was ignored again. This was good. Even Fulgrim didn't dare bother him this time.
The Angel was the second-to-last to arrive.
Everyone held their breath—or perhaps they simply forgot to breathe. They forgot to stand, forgot to cheer, their mouths hanging foolishly open mid-conversation.
Every gaze was pinned to the figure gliding through the darkness—a great angel in flight, every feather shimmering with rippling light, radiant and iridescent.
The Angel touched down lightly, his feet settling upon the ground. He looked toward his father, and upon the Angel's face a single painted teardrop gleamed.
His vast, outstretched wings slowly folded in, and his sons—left trailing behind him—arrived at his side just as he knelt in devout reverence, lowering his head.
The stage lights raining down from above set his soft, curled golden hair aflame with radiance.
"Good day to you, Father."
"The Master is pleased by your presence. You seem well."
The Angel dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment, then rose, turning to smile at the mortals. He spread his wings and gave them a gentle shake, like a bird stretching after flight.
Mortarion kept silent. Now he understood the difference between the Angel and Fulgrim: one was a noisy, flightless peacock; the other, a winged mutant.
Neither was any good. Mortarion found himself beginning to view the Wolf King as almost… agreeable.
Fortunately, the Angel did not continue assaulting Mortarion's eyes with those mutant wings, because the final Legion had arrived—
Mortarion locked his gaze on that damned, crimson figure.
He narrowed his eyes, like a hunter studying the throat of its prey, like an executioner measuring a sinner's neck.
The Imperial Chancellor—Malcador—spoke once the Crimson King rose to his feet:
"Now, the Council begins."
Why wasn't Hades here?
Mortarion stared in shock at the empty seat, but Malcador's next words echoed in his ears:
"If you wish to speak, then swear that every word you utter is true. Lies spoken upon this stage shall meet the harshest punishment. We cast out liars and those who twist the truth; only truth shall serve as the gold that tips the scales of justice."
No. Even if Hades was absent, Mortarion would still do what he had come here to do.
He would be the first to raise the banner against the sorcerers.
Mortarion had indeed waited for his friend—but he, too, had his own path to uphold.
He rose first. Under the weight of every watching gaze, he strode toward the central platform.
"In the name of facing death, I swear."
<+>
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