Kloden frowned and rapped the table in‐between mouthfuls of beef tendon. ‘What use do we have of mineral resources? We have never been ones to hoard.’
Sargaul interjected tersely. ‘Warp‐iron. Kloden, do you know what warp‐iron is?’ he asked coldly.
Barsabbas nodded to himself knowingly. Although he was too young to have ever visited Hauts Bassiq, he had researched the catacombs for archived intelligence. Due to Hauts Bassiq’s proximity to the Occularis Terribus, its surface was marked with warpstone impacts that had compressed over the ages into a compound similar to uranium. This warp‐iron was what kept the Cauldron Born’s fusion reactors running. Ever since the Chapter had claimed the ghost ship as its own, a piece of irradiated warp‐iron almost three hundred metres in length had powered the reactor core.
Before Kloden could respond, Captain Hazareth pointed at the map again. ‘Enemy threat disposition is unknown.’
‘Xenos, Khoitan?’ Sergeant Sica asked.
Hazareth shook his head and drained his wine cup before answering. ‘Entirely unknown. The signal beacon from Hauts Bassiq relayed no other information.’
‘Try not to retreat if shot at again,’ Sergeant Kloden snorted.
Sargaul stood up, clattering dishes and spilling a goblet. His naked blade was drawn.
‘Brother Sargaul! I will not have blades at my table,’ Captain Hazareth shouted, quick to quell the violence.
Slaves frightened by the outburst scurried from the alcoves to refill wine goblets and placate the warriors with loaded plates of cold meat and spiced offal. The squads fell back to eating, shooting hard glares at each other across the table.
Hazareth rotated the hololith and zoomed in close. ‘Your main objective is to reach the city of Ur. This is the last bastion of technology on Bassiq. The remaining Imperialists have sequestered themselves there, in a sealed city. They no longer maintain much contact with the nomads who we use as genestock. If any campaign were to be mounted, it would 47
commence here. There are few other strategic targets amongst the major continents. The plainsmen dwell in semi‐nomadic bands elsewhere.’
‘Why have our brother‐ancestors not conquered Ur already? Why leave an Imperial bastion to blight the landscape?’ Barsabbas asked.
‘Because we pick and choose our fights carefully. There is nothing to be gained from overthrowing the Barons of Ur. They are an isolationist cult. Yet they protect the world from xenos raids and minor threats when we cannot. They do not even know of our existence or our sovereignty over their lands.’
‘Also,’ Kloden said, sneeringly, ‘we would risk too much. Our Chapter would have a difficult time overwhelming even that little dirthole,’ he said to Barsabbas. ‘They use a fusion reactor much like our own to power void shields thicker than your skull.’
Captain Hazareth remained impassive, but Barsabbas could sense his Khoitan’s seething resentment for the Muhrites.
‘What you may not know,’ said Captain Hazareth, ‘is that Ur sits upon the largest deposit of warp‐iron on the planet. There’s estimated to be enough warp‐iron there to fuel the Cauldron Born’s fusion plant for no less than six hundred thousand years, standard.’
Nothing in the archives had mentioned this. Barsabbas craned forwards. ‘Why have we not claimed this warp‐iron as our own?’
Hazareth shrugged dismissively. ‘Because, as Sergeant Kloden has said, we are not hoarders. We have all the warp‐iron we need to feed the Cauldron Born’s reactor. We simply do not need more. We are free that way, and untied to the trouble of earthly possession.’
Kloden exhaled derisively. ‘We are a poor man’s Chapter. Peasant ignorant.’
Finally, Hazareth turned to Kloden. Only then did Barsabbas realise how imposing his Khoitan appeared. At well over two metres eighty, when Hazareth faced Kloden square on, he cast a shadow over Kloden’s face.
‘Sergeant Kloden. I will strip you of your rank and the skin from your sword hand if you cross me once more. I consider myself a tempered commander who judges his men not by the candidate of their allegiance, but by their merits as soldiers. If you befoul this mission with politics I swear I will eat your bones. You will go to Ur, you will report your findings, you will return here with all your men alive. Otherwise, Kloden, I sup on your marrow.’
Kloden nodded quietly and slowly, afraid to meet Hazareth’s level gaze. He threw down a half‐chewed haunch on his plate with a sullen clatter. His appetite, evidently, had gone.
Despite Kloden’s chastisement, Barsabbas oddly felt no better. He too put down his eating knife. They were supposed to be Blood Gorgons, joined in feasting, shoulder to shoulder before their battle. It was not meant to