The Emperor's Legion (Watchers of the Throne #1) - Chris Wraight Page 0,121
at last from its boundaries and infect half the galaxy. Only splinters of those original sentinels were recovered, mere fragments of the occult nexus that had once existed to hem the tides back. They were taken from Cadia, tempered on dark forges, bound by fell sorceries and augmented in blood-soaked rites until their original power was twisted into that of pure ether-destruction. Just one such shard was now capable of extinguishing the warp’s touch from an entire planetary system. And if that system lay at the centre of a warp conduit, then the conduit was lost too.
There was a dark irony to that. For so long we had benefitted from the esoteric properties of the Cadian pylons to keep our enemies restricted. Now, having burst his bonds, the Despoiler had turned the wreckage of his old cage into weapons.
Of course, back then I knew nothing of that, and assumed we had merely stumbled on some arcane instrument of unknown provenance. As I gazed up the mighty well towards the suspended splinter of dark stone, though, I could sense the wrongness of it, as if it were sucking all life and hope into itself. I remembered how I had felt when Aleya had first been brought to me, and perceived the resemblance.
I do not truly understand that repulsion, even now. The warp was the source of so much anguish for us, and yet its absence generated perhaps the greatest abhorrence of all. I suppose that is the tragedy of our kind – we are like moths to the candle, bound inextricably to the thing that destroys us. I see no solution to that riddle, and wonder often if He ever truly did either.
Perhaps the Custodians know more than we do. If so, of course, they would never speak of it. They have changed in some ways, but many things remain the same.
I did not expect to lay eyes on Valerian again. In the event, though, I was surprised. He lived, as did two others, including the anathema psykana who had come with him to see me. The captain of Guilliman’s Space Marines told me that they had been discovered still standing, their bodies run through with wounds, their armour shattered, but they were still fighting. By the time I arrived at the site, perched high up inside the curving wall of that abyss, the medicae teams were already taking them away. The piles of bodies around the bulkhead and the smashed ruins of the rockcrete beyond were testament to their extraordinary resilience.
I could not share any words with him, though – he was unconscious, his ravaged face hidden behind a rebreather and his broken limbs covered in metal struts. His black cloak had been burned away, leaving him only with his battleplate of gold. Even in that comatose state, I thought how much more of a warrior that made him look – less of a hieratic guardian of the Palace, more like the Adeptus Astartes. Perhaps they would do away with those black robes now – I think they’d earned the right to cast them off.
The Sister of Silence was similarly wounded, as was the one other living Custodian. They were all borne away reverently, and as they were taken the power in the cylindrical chamber was finally drained down, ending the threat that the shard posed. Their true victory had been more profound than that, however, for it was clear that no others could have hoped to have held that ground for so long under such sustained attack. More eloquently than any argument in the Council, that defiance had made the case, and against all my pessimism, the effects of Dissolution came about in the end. In Council they would call it the Vorlese Precedent, the principle of deploying the Custodian Guard for those rare actions where their unique talents could best be employed and where no others could serve. They like to give these things such names. It makes them feel, I suppose, that they still have control.
The wider battle was not yet over, of course. Hard fighting lay ahead to recover the planet below and secure it against further assault. The enemy had stretched himself to the limit to strike at us so close, but we could not be sure that another host would not come on the heels of the first, and so Guilliman ordered a steady stream of reinforcements to join us over the coming days. Vorlese would be made into a fortress, one through which hundreds of warships would soon pass. We had lost one great sentinel world; soon another would rise to take its place.
I observed what I could of those preparations, unsure exactly of how the old remembrancers had done things and feeling far too old to be a good example of the breed. In my mind’s eye the great chroniclers of the past had always been younger, full of a dynamism that I had never really possessed. By the time we broke the veil back to Terra, however, I had data-slates full of material, all of which I diligently compiled into my account and placed in the archives.
This is what you are reading now, of course, supplemented by the oral testimony of others. I trust that it will be found useful, even as the Indomitus Crusade burns its way through the stars and war kindles like never before. So much relies on this, and our survival as a species still hangs in the balance. I do not truly know whether Guilliman is the saviour many think him to be, but I remain uniquely fortunate to have met him, even for that briefest of times.
In the event, that short excursion was my one and only experience of such service. I was not strong enough for the rigours of a full-scale campaign, and respectfully declined the offer of a second posting as remembrancer. Terra was and always had been my true home, for all its insanity and degradation.
More than that, though, I realised I had been distracted by all this for too long, lost in my old roles but without my old powers. All things change, and all things fade, and to fight against the waning of that light would have been hubris, not defiance. The Council of High Lords would remain in place, albeit with somewhat altered personnel and much reduced power, and someone needed to massage their egos and corral them into line.
Not me, you understand. The new cancellarius, as you will no doubt know, was Jek, and I could not have thought of anyone more suited to the task. I flatter myself she had had a first-class tutelage, though I suspect that in due course she will leave me far behind. In the interim, I offer what advice I can, hoping I do not overstep my bounds, and am spending more and more time with the collections of finery in my chambers. They allowed me to keep that room as it was, and I find the artefacts a comfort. I made it to exhibit the best of us, and I would not want some officious scholiast breaking it up and sending the vases to the furnace.
I feel age creeping up on me now. I will not undergo yet more rejuve treatments, for I suspect that this galaxy is becoming something I will not recognise soon. Darker years lie ahead, just as they always have, and stronger souls will be needed to face them.
But I was blessed to witness those days, despite their horror. I was blessed to see the primarch return, and the Adeptus Custodes rise up from their long vigil to bring vengeance to the far reaches of the galaxy.
For so long I had doubted my worth, never shaking off the faint drag of shame that had dogged me since childhood, but I could look back now on my part in that great change and feel some satisfaction. They would make a difference now.
Valerian is among them, I believe, as is Aleya. Somewhere out in the void they are slaying, he with equanimity, she with that ever-burning anger. Perhaps they even serve together. I hope I will see them again before the end, though I am reconciled to the fact that I will probably not.
Things will unfold as they will. Experience has made me more accepting of that.
I no longer entertain the darkest of thoughts. I have learned, I think, to trust a little more. I have learned to let things go.