"There is still hope for our Imperium…"
Zahariel looked over the knightly cohort the Lion had drilled, and the auxiliaries and logisticians each at their posts; a weathered face showed a thread of expectation.
As this world's Guardian, he had founded his own holding and knew exactly how hard it was to raise such an army in so little time.
Yet his gene-sire—the First Primarch—had done it.
Over the years Zahariel had tried to form troops of his own.
But when tribesmen faced warp-tainted abominations, terror smothered them; the will to fight would not spark.
It was a psychic blight, a pall on the spirit.
The First Primarch's soldiery, though, not only did not fear—they could stand against a stampede of twisted beasts.
How astounding was that?
Watching them after the beast-tide, Zahariel saw no fear and no grief.
In solemn order they tended their dead, then re-formed and marched on.
As if nothing could shake or bar them.
This was the seed of a great army.
He could imagine what they would become once gene-work was begun and power armor donned—how terrible their strength would be.
Such is a Primarch's greatness.
They are the emblem of unbending will—leaders who gather men from nothing and forge mankind's mightiest hosts: the Space Marine Legions.
And the First among them was foremost—not only unmatched in war, but in the arts of command and governance.
Now that he had returned, the Imperium had new hope.
"This scene is familiar, is it not?"
The Lion watched the troops he had honed, eyes bright, voice sure. "In those days men lived apart in the jungles, fighting to survive; in every dark hollow some ravening beast coveted our flesh.
"Zahariel, you are Terran-born; you did not live those days.
"Do you know what I did?"
"My lord, it is a famous tale," Zahariel said, dipping his head in respect. "Every Dark… Angel knows it. You gathered that world's humans, trained more knights, and slew every beast."
Saying the Chapter's name brought a flicker of hurt.
Declared traitors and kin-slayers, cast out and hunted by former brothers, the exiles had named themselves the Fallen; they skulked from world to world, or were dragged into the light and executed.
The Fallen's blood and tears had stained half the galaxy; some broke for Chaos.
The faithful Fallen still endured and hid—and did not forget.
So Zahariel remembered the Dark Angels' strictures and the legend of the First—the Lion who led Caliban's Orders to scour the beasts and found a Legion's homeworld.
"The mistake is mended. Brother against brother will end. The Dark Angels' wound will heal," the Lion said, though a thread of sorrow remained.
Scars remain, even when the flesh has knit—reminders of Caliban's tragedy. The dead would not return.
But the Primarch was the leader he should be; he leashed the grief quickly.
He fixed his gene-son with a steady gaze. "A hard march begins. We will do it again—purge this world of blasphemous life."
To save a dying Imperium would take long years.
This world was the first step, and not an easy one.
They were trapped on a jungle planet where civilization lay in ruins; no machines in sight meant no spaceflight.
He did not fear hard ground.
If civilization was broken, then they would rebuild.
The Lion had prepared for the worst.
If no vessel could be found, they would hunt the ruins and construct from zero.
By hand, if they must.
As a Primarch, he had the mind, memory, and learning; his brain—and the armor's cogitator—held deep vaults of lore. He did not yield even to brothers famed for the forge.
He had simply preferred not to spend himself thus.
By his estimate, the plan's odds were good.
Even if it took two or three centuries, piecing a new civilization from remnants to craft a shuttle for short warp hops—
Or a grand signal spire to speak betwixt stars—
That would be victory.
Then he could hail nearby Imperial bastions or reach the nearest world, open the board, and muster legions and fleets.
And… summon home all exiled sons, ending the tragedy of ten millennia.
"We will follow you and kindle Kamas' flame of civilization," Zahariel said, jaw set.
He, too, saw how harsh the road would be, how much must be spent.
Before long, the column moved again.
Hada and the Iron Knights formed again on the train, guarding the wagons.
He saw a chunk of meat fall from a cart and hurried to toss it back.
Precious food.
Those hundred carts of sour beast-jerky and roots were stores hoarded for a long while; they could spare the other holding its hunger.
"Perhaps only under this lord's aegis do we have a chance to eat our fill," Hada thought, proud and fortunate as he watched the two towering figures ahead.
In the jungle, death and hunger were the rule; a safe roof and a belly with food were every tribesman's dream.
The Angel had brought those—and would bring hope to more.
"My lord, with this food our people needn't starve," Zahariel said, lighter of heart.
He was this tribe's Guardian; he could not bear to see them die of hunger.
But in blasphemed lands, food was hard to find; much of plant and beast was venom to men.
Even an Astartes could do little to change that.
Fortune that his gene-sire had found a way to render the meat and had listed edible rootstocks.
The tribe would taste better days.
Zahariel now felt the gap between him and a Primarch with brutal clarity—the cleft between a warrior and a leader.
"Zahariel, this drivel is Roboute's brainchild?!" the Lion snorted, unsealing his helm.
He had just scanned—through helm optics—a classic by the Primarch of Ultramar, that Imperium-bestseller, the Space Marine operations manual: the Codex Astartes.
He tamped down the anger. "It's refuse. Too stiff even for wiping. Those pages will wound the Imperium. If Father still sat the field, he'd flog that fool to death."
From his son's report the Lion had the gist of the realm. If the Angels of Death still fought by that book, the Imperium would break.
With the Codex's small, elite warbands, the realm could not answer wars of scale—nor prosecute grand campaigns.
Having read it, the elder brother's itch to thrash Roboute only burned hotter.
Pity the man was dead; they said the body lay upon Macragge.
Given the chance, the Lion would spit upon that corpse.
"Alas—he's dead. I cannot beat him anymore…" he muttered, and the loss hit home.
If he could, he would still have his brothers alive—fighting shoulder to shoulder to save the Father's Imperium.
A Second Imperium? Fine—let it be.
But this time he would claim the regency by right; Roboute's record proved that self-certain man could not steward a realm.
Better he command a Legion—and leave empire to others.
Beep-beep-beep—
An alert chimed in the Lion's bracer.
"Ah. Another find."
The First Primarch—glory of the Imperium—smiled in satisfaction.
He vaulted seven or eight meters, landed by a world-tree's root, and cheerfully started cutting dirt with his sword, like a man on a treasure hunt.
Soon he levered free a half-meter steel pipe—some kind of power conduit.
He flicked it aside, dropped prone, and dug again.
A Lion bows to no hardship.
These days he wandered far, salvaging the leavings of the old world—slowly hoarding resources to arm his knights.
Scavenging, then hammering plate and blades—same for the agri-tractor turned light tank.
"My lord…"
Watching, Zahariel's heart twinged. What anguish had the First and his seed endured these ten thousand years—
To be brought so low.
Seeing his gene-sire still working the earth, he ran to help.
Primarch and son, bent to the dirt, huffing under a tree—like scavengers from a hive-world's sump.
Hunting useful machine-treasure.
At last they turned up a grime-clogged machine engine.
Both smiled.
This was the cost of raising a civilization again: hunt and cherish any resource one could use.
"This power unit's not too far gone. I can make it run—pity we've no artificers. I'll do it myself," the Lion said, rubbing his hands, pleased with the day.
As the First Primarch he had ranged wide across knowledge and craft; not the equal of brothers famed for tech—
But enough.
Many a tactic and field-repair trick for engines and war-gear had first passed through him before they spread to other Legions.
He reckoned no one could do better in such a cruel place.
Least of all that self-regarding Roboute.
The two felled the nearby giant and knocked together a rough sledge, loaded the conduit and engine, and passed it to the supply crews.
"Zahariel, you'll study the mechanical arts under me. Aim for a master artificer's grade," the Lion said, clapping his son's shoulder and leaving a muddy handprint.
To regrow a civilization, one must have lineages of craft. Astartes live long—well suited to hold and pass the flame.
Then raise a new cohort of scholars.
"Father built the Imperium step by step, did he not?" the Lion thought.
Terra's civilization had once guttered, fallen to barbarity; at the Himalazia's feet the Emperor had built laboratories and trained scholars.
So science rose again, even gene-craft was born.
The son would learn from the Father: restore this world's science, then go to mend the Father's realm.
The First was ready to root, to till and build.
The column held formation and pushed on toward the site of the great blast.
As they neared the crater, bright light spilled from the open waste beyond, and a tremor of unease ran the length of the line.
"By the Emperor…"
Knights and tribesmen gasped.
The towering trees lay almost wholly erased; the gray sky glowered. Filthied flesh lay flung everywhere.
Like a god-wrought catastrophe.
Some muttered prayers in their hearts, begging the Emperor's ward.
…?
The Lion frowned at the ruin.
No weapon of this world had birthed this—alone the crater ran for hundreds of meters, scouring near everything clean.
It also explained the beasts' mad flight.
Force on that scale would send even those butchers running in fear.
"Do the heretics beyond the forest have the means to strike so hard?" the Lion asked his son.
Zahariel shook his head. "Never saw such weapons, my lord."
Had the enemy fielded engines of that weight, he would not have survived their hunts.
Thud.
The Lion and Zahariel dropped one after the other into the crater, seeking any sign to name the hand behind the blast.
"This is… Imperial munitions," the Lion said at last, having found traces—the propellant elements were undoubted marks of Imperial ordnance.
Promethium.
Near a universal staple of the Imperium—fuel for most engines and vehicles, and heart to countless explosives.
From frag grenades to ship-guns—promethium was there.
Nor only war; dyes, plastics, pharmacopeia—promethium found its way into all.
Even the Imperium's classic "corpse-starch"—the synthetic protein bars—leaned upon it.
A material for every need.
Where there was promethium, there was the Imperium.
Xenos scarcely used it—let alone ate it.
Finding it, the Lion was pleased.
If Imperial arms still lingered on this world, fortune indeed—and his road off it shortened.
Beyond that, there was little. The heat had erased the rest.
"The charge may have been emplaced and triggered now—or it may be old, set off by beasts by chance," he mused, no firm answer in hand.
Either way it was a true clue; he could sweep the world later.
If a resistance force hid here, he would draw them out.
After logging a few readings, he vaulted free of the pit. "We go to your holding. We'll comb this later."
Zahariel's tribe still starved—and might be in peril from the maddened beasts.
They must make haste.
He would not have a single tribesman die for delay.
In these days, any life was a precious ember.
Zahariel nodded, worry gnawing—he had been gone more than a month.
The column skirted the crater and quickened its pace toward the Guardian's hold.
There was still a way to go.
—
On the approaches to the Pasong tribe.
Zahariel's holding lay deeper in the forest; the world-trees rose yet higher there and stood farther apart.
Even the underbrush thinned.
By luck of ground and fewer beasts, predators did not hunt often in that quarter.
A safer place to dwell.
Long days in the jungle had wearied the column. Knights' armor was soiled; most faces were begrimed and wild-haired.
With the destination near, spirits rose.
The rough banner of the First Primarch—the golden Lion—stood high and flapped in the forest wind.
The Iron Knights straightened with pride, step strong and even.
It was a fearsome display.
Behind, quartermasters dragged cart after cart of sour beast-meat, roots, and a heap of scavenged steel parts.
All of it the things this tribe most craved.
They meant to show the First Primarch's might—and the strength of his host.
The Lion walked easy at the head with Zahariel, ready to take possession.
He was used to it.
Wherever the Lion went, the Emperor's people gave welcome and worship.
But when he rounded a giant trunk and saw the tribe, he stopped dead—eyes wide—pupils tight.
"By the Emperor…"
The rumble spread through the column; men cried out.
Before them stood a wall of special concrete nearly ten meters high, bristling with heavy machine-guns; the face was even washed in a film of dark gilt.
It looked every inch an Imperial redoubt of respectable make—and even a little luxurious.
Once the Lion's column crossed into the wall's fields of view and sensors, alarms rose at once.
…?
"This is—your holding? Or did we take the wrong road?" The Lion snapped his head toward Zahariel, a look that said, "Are you playing me?"
By his son's tale—
This holding had been on the brink: short of weapons and food; its palisade often torn by beasts.
He ground his teeth as his gaze slid over the heap of mutant carcasses at the foot of the wall.
This fortress did not look like anything broke it.
"By the Emperor, I… I'm not lost," Zahariel murmured, stunned. "When I left, it was nothing like this."
The change hit him like a blow.
Who would not be dazed to see a mud village reborn into the Imperium's newest age?
When he left, the wall had been timber; the tribe could scarcely muster iron, let alone heavy guns.
"Such a transformation…"
The Lion's doubt only deepened, tinged with wonder.
He flicked his optics across the battlements. Besides the heavy guns, two vast honor-banners hung to either side.
Upon them a gilt lion blazon—glare-bright—and lines of script:
Things like "Grant Family," "the great and merciful Savior," "the Unbeaten Primarch," "the Imperium's Supreme Emperor," and the like.
Most of all that golden lion so like his own—so bright it pricked the eyes…
(End of Chapter)
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