Chapter 315: A Casual Chat About the Warmaster
Aboard Macragge's Honour, no one could hear the sobs and wails coming from the Word Bearer's vessel.
Guilliman turned his head for a glance. The corridor behind him was empty—no one else was there.
Then what was that feeling just now?
Beside him, the stooped Malcador coughed softly. The old man gripped his staff and struck it against the deck with deliberate weight.
Guilliman tilted his head in mild confusion but decided to continue his discussion with the Imperial Regent. The affair of the Perfect City was over as far as Guilliman was concerned. They were now speaking about the matter of the Warmaster. In truth, ever since the Rangda Campaign, the title of Warmaster had quietly circulated among the Primarchs.
Aside from those brothers who deliberately distanced themselves from the Imperial core and cared little for reputation, most of the Primarchs had heard whispers of the title—whether intentionally or not.
Guilliman had once indulged in unrealistic fantasies as well. Few of the Primarchs could resist the allure of what that title represented.
Yet, after weighing it carefully with reason, Guilliman abandoned the thought. Though his Ultramarines had won great renown throughout the Imperium, and though the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar were a shining jewel of Imperial civilization, Guilliman's own standing among his brothers was far from the best, and after burning the Perfect City, he would not be earning any new friends among them.
Lorgar got along well with Magnus and Perturabo. He also shared a rapport with the Wolf King, Leman Russ.
As of now, the strongest contenders for the title of Warmaster were Horus Lupercal, Ferrus Manus, and Lion El'Jonson. Each had achieved remarkable victories and enjoyed immense prestige among the Primarchs.
Although the Angel, Sanguinius, was also seen by many Imperial citizens as a fitting candidate, he himself showed little interest in the position. Moreover, his relations with other Primarchs were strained—Sanguinius was close to Horus, but distant from the rest.
As for Guilliman, the Lord of Macragge personally supported Ferrus Manus as the best choice. Guilliman admired the Gorgon's discipline and commanding authority—his ironbound reason.
It was not that Guilliman denied the merits of the other two, but the Master of Ultramar saw them clearly. The Wolf of Cthonia, Horus, had noble blood running hot in his veins—or perhaps, more accurately, pride.
The Lion, on the other hand, was cold and pitiless. Among their brothers, the respect for him often carried more fear than affection.
Still, Guilliman believed the position would most likely go to Horus. Compared to the others, Horus was clearly better liked and more respected among the Primarchs.
Malcador regarded the thoughtful Primarch, ignoring the disturbance behind him, and spoke quietly:
"Risk and peril always lurk beside fame and power. That you would willingly renounce the struggle for them… Guilliman, that truly surprises me, but I am glad to see you make this choice."
Guilliman looked at Malcador, azure eyes glinting with light. Through his conversations with the Regent—and with the Emperor—his attitude toward the old man had softened.
"You seem unwilling to see any of us become Warmaster, Malcador. Is that not His will? Why?"
Malcador sighed.
"You see only the brilliant crown, yet you always ignore the sword that hangs above it."
"Or rather, you all believe yourselves strong enough to grasp that sword."
Guilliman spoke slowly:
"I doubt my brothers would take kindly to such an assessment."
"Then I apologize," said Malcador. "But we are searching for one who can truly hold the blade, not one who merely believes the crown makes him look more regal, nor one who thinks it marks him as the Emperor's favored child."
Guilliman felt a faint heat rise to his cheeks. Warmaster—the word itself symbolized recognition, proof that one was the best.
Yet he did not let his embarrassment show.
"Then I recommend Ferrus Manus, Malcador. He is rational, efficient—though he makes mistakes from time to time, he is almost always right, and always the most effective."
"I'm surprised to hear you say that," Malcador replied. "I've received your recommendation. I will present it to our Lord at the appropriate time."
Malcador lowered his gaze, contemplating the tangled web of relationships among the Primarchs.
Guilliman, Fulgrim, and Vulkan supported Ferrus; whereas the Angel, the Khan, Perturabo, and Dorn sided with Horus; Leman Russ and Alpharius leaned toward the Lion…
As for the others—Lorgar and Angron were mired in their own troubles, Magnus cared little for such matters, and Mortarion stubbornly kept his distance from the rest of his brothers.
And as for the Master of Mankind's own considerations… Malcador thought his lord possessed, in certain respects, a stubbornness that defied comprehension.
"Malcador, do you know which battlefield Ferrus is on right now?"
Guilliman suddenly asked, interrupting Malcador's thoughts. If Ferrus was currently leading a grand campaign and succeeded in it, the scales of favor might well tip in his direction.
Malcador paused.
"Ferrus Manus is preparing to assault an Eldar world with Vulkan and Mortarion. According to the Departmento Munitorum's schedule, they should already have reached their target planet."
"Mortarion?"
Guilliman suddenly recalled his uniquely grim brother. But in the next instant, he turned sharply, staring down the still-empty corridor. Tentatively, he called out—
"Hades?"
Malcador struck his staff against the floor again, and then Guilliman realized what the old man was doing, for soon, a familiar head peeked out from around the corner.
Hades stepped forward awkwardly, grinning with embarrassment. Beside him stood a Sister of Silence—but why was he so large?
Guilliman's pupils dilated in shock.
Then he saw Hades walk up to them—guiltily offering a greeting. Guilliman returned it mechanically. Malcador immediately began scolding him, while Hades laughed nervously and tried to argue back.
Neither of them seemed to notice that Guilliman's worldview had just been shattered.
'Perhaps this is a dream,' Guilliman thought. 'When the Emperor smiled and spoke to me earlier, I should have realized it was a dream.'
But when he instinctively grabbed Malcador's staff to stop the old man from swinging it, he realized that this wasn't a dream.
Malcador was stronger than he'd imagined.
Still… good. At least he wasn't dreaming.
. . .
At last, the two of them calmed down. Guilliman spoke tentatively:
"Hades? Why…"
"I don't know anything!" Hades protested. "Malcador invited me to dinner, and then he drugged me! When I woke up, I was like this—and I can't even go back to the Death Guard! It's all Malcador's fault—he doesn't fight fair!"
A surge of psychic lightning erupted. Malcador wrenched his staff free from Guilliman's grip. Guilliman could only watch as the Regent's staff crackled and swung toward Hades with impossible speed—Malcador's movements blurred into afterimages.
Hades spun on his heel and bolted—but the carpet beneath him suddenly lifted, smacking him square in the face. Malcador's staff followed immediately after, and with the sheer wrath behind it, it looked like the most indestructible cudgel in the entire galaxy.
For a brief moment, Guilliman actually pitied the staff. Surely, this was not the use it was originally crafted for.
The impact must have been too much, for Guilliman's memory cut out after that. When he came to, all he remembered was a flash of golden light.
When his senses returned, he saw Hades standing stiffly before him, beside a panting, teeth-gritted Malcador.
"I'm sorry," Hades said, expression perfectly serious. "I just wanted to lighten the mood with a joke."
Guilliman opened his mouth, momentarily speechless. He prided himself on his breadth of experience, yet this was something truly rare—this didn't resemble a political blunder at all. It felt more like the sort of boisterous entrance one might find in a piece of classical literature, when a band of mischief-makers bursts onto the scene…
No, mischief-makers wasn't quite right. Kindred spirits in chaos, perhaps, was more fitting.
He still remembered Hades as he had been—the man who once discussed with him the reconstruction of Barbarus and Macragge. Professional, capable, full of hope, and possessed of a wry sense of humor. Guilliman had admired that warrior deeply. Mortarion, however, had been less than pleased with Hades taking on diplomatic duties.
Now, watching Hades quietly spar with Malcador, Guilliman decided that the "sense of humor" category in his mental assessment should be adjusted—raised to the highest possible level. No… it deserved a category of its own.
No, no, he corrected himself again. Though the current scene was bewildering, his thoughts ought to focus on why Hades had become the way he was now, rather than gawking as Malcador and Hades exchanged blows like a pair of frustrated brawlers.
In a way, Hades's antics had successfully shifted Guilliman's shock—from the fact of Hades's transformation to the sheer absurdity of his behavior.
He gathered his words carefully in his mind, realizing that if he didn't speak soon, he might never get the chance.
Even shaken, the statesman in Guilliman continued to function. From Hades's tone and Malcador's reaction, he discerned that this incident was not especially grave—classified, yes, but not catastrophic.
He was permitted to know.
"It's good to see you again, Hades," Guilliman said at last, smiling. "I'd like to understand you anew—and perhaps those… events just now?"
Malcador let out a long, weary sigh. The old man cast a glance at Hades, silently signaling him to stay quiet, then spoke:
"Hades is, in fact, the Head of the Silent Sisterhood. It's an exception, Guilliman. If you're confused, you might compare it to the Custodes—but in truth, they are fundamentally different."
"At least the Custodes aren't this…"
Malcador fell silent. He seemed to search for a word sharp enough to express his frustration—but in the end, he said nothing. He was not Hades, after all.
His words, though, brought Guilliman's reason back into focus. He began to understand: a necessary leader for an anti-psyker division?
Though it was strange to imagine Hades in such a role—strange enough to unsettle him—he suddenly recalled Mortarion's earlier disapproval of Hades. Could it be that, even back then…?
What is the Emperor preparing?
Still… if it were Hades, Guilliman could accept it. The man possessed both skill and intellect—and, above all, his unique pariah nature. If Guilliman were the one making the decision, he too would have promoted such a capable null.
"Am I the first to know of this? Among my brothers, I mean."
Guilliman asked suddenly.
"In a sense… yes," Malcador said quietly.
So he was the first.
Guilliman thought about it—The Emperor had chosen him to be the first to know. Was there a particular reason for that? Did the Emperor believe that Guilliman, among all his sons, would be the one capable of accepting this revelation calmly?
He was certain that the sight before him would send shockwaves through some of his brothers. In truth, a few of them might never accept it at all.
…No. Guilliman suddenly recalled the image he had long held of his father. If the Emperor regarded the Primarchs merely as tools, then having a few more tools hardly seemed to matter.
After all, there was already a Malcador. And though most of the Primarchs despised the old man, his existence was proof that the Emperor valued results over sentiment.
Guilliman paused for a moment, then smiled humbly.
"I understand," he said. "And I'm pleased to see the Imperium recognizing capable individuals—especially Hades. It seems, however, that we'll have to reintroduce ourselves."
He extended his hand.
"Roboute Guilliman, Lord of Macragge, Primarch of the XIII Legion—Ultramarines."
He found it somewhat amusing to see Hades hesitate. The other man blinked, then glanced at Malcador for guidance. The old regent, in his usual fashion, rolled his eyes. Hades sighed, smiled helplessly, and extended his own hand in return.
"Hades—Commander of the XIV Legion's Death Guard, and Head of the Silent Sisterhood."
When they released their grip, Guilliman smiled easily.
"Then may I invite you to visit Macragge sometime, Hades? Your insights on anti-psyker measures were a great inspiration to me last time. I'd like to hear your thoughts on how such measures could be implemented in civil society."
A spark of genuine warmth glimmered in Guilliman's eyes as he looked at him.
Beside them, Malcador suddenly erupted into a fit of coughing. Before Hades could even open his mouth, the regent cut him off.
"Hades still bears missions entrusted to him by the Imperium," Malcador said sharply. "He won't be able to visit the Five Hundred Worlds for some time, Guilliman—you're being too hasty."
Guilliman chuckled.
"Just a joke, to lighten the mood."
"I sincerely hope it isn't a joke," Hades replied gravely.
"Then it isn't. Macragge will always welcome you, Hades."
Out of the corner of his eye, Guilliman noticed Malcador's knuckles tighten around his staff again. Why did the old man react so strongly at the mere mention of Hades visiting Macragge?
"Thank you for the invitation, Guilliman," Hades said brightly. "I've always dreamed of seeing Macragge—with my own eyes, to witness the brilliance of human civilization."
He smiled—wide and radiant.
Malcador, meanwhile, looked as though he was once again on the verge of clubbing him over the head with his staff.
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