I awoke in a start, and while my body was sore, I still attempted to shoot to my feet. Upon finding I could not for some reason, I thought to at least push myself to my hands and knees. Upon finding I could not, I found, at last, my augmetic arm missing and my birth-arm kept behind my back via bionic binding. I reached out with my mind to my surroundings, and found them quiet, which is to say, I likewise could not get too far with my psykana. Everything was muffled, obfuscated, blocked.

My ears, however, were not, and as consequence from my awakening and ruffling about, I heard a low voice boom, “Are you an idiot, Blackgar? That is what I have come to think of you. Why else would you have come down from the safety of the void to join us lowly surfacedwellers down here?”

“Who am I speaking with?” I sputtered out. I could not see the man that addressed me. My head was tilted away from him, and I otherwise rested on my front, unable to turn to face my speaker without breaking my neck in the process.

“Who do you think?” the voice returned, but I knew the question was rhetorical. I knew who addressed me now. The voice was followed by the stomping of loud, deep footfalls, the gasp of released air pressure wheezing out from each step, as the titanic man neared me. I was then pulled into the air at such a rate as would have induced whiplash had I not braced for it, after which I was sat down upon my rear. Astartes, sit him on his ass, Sigird had once commanded, and so it had been done.

I still could not see the one who had manhandled me so, but I did get a better view of the room we were in. It was a great, if empty, chamber, lit up in orange light not unlike that which reflected off the dusty terrain of Jaegetri proper. Braziers held red flame atop their coals, suspended above and adorned with skulls affixed to the ends of spikes. Steel walls rose to a ceiling beyond view, branded with foul imagery and coated by the goldenrod and black stripes of the Iron Warriors. Before me sat a throne, far from Gold, instead cast in Iron, and far smaller than that which His Holiness undoubtedly ruled from upon Terra. A man, if he could be called that, came into view as I spied his throne.

“Mortoc,” I said, in part answering his rhetorical question.

“Blackgar,” he returned, taking a seat in his throne before me with a great, clanking thud not unlike the sound of his footsteps. He was, of course, large, far taller than me myself and greater in size than any of the Red Hunters who aided me. Larger than the Wolves I had met over Amnes Minoris. When I had finished recognizing his size for what it was, my eyes instead snapped to his armaments. A great powerfist in one hand, his right. His left wielded a powered great axe that was larger in size than Lucene, and no doubt many times as heavy, while a Combi-Bolter was embedded over his left’s wrist. “Like what you see?” he asked, his own eyes no doubt tracking the subtle movements of mine.

“Far from it,” I answered after a large, deep sigh, raising my head to look into the face of his helmet. Unlike the Cataphractii that had abducted me—which at this point I had not seen; I note this in retrospect—his helmet was more modernized. Tusked and flat over the crown of his head. Behind his helmet, over his shoulders, a great cloak of interwoven chainmail draped down his backside. His shoulders, likewise, were adorned in the great hulks of ceramite one might expect of a Terminator; his right shoulder emblazoned with the tainted imagery of Chaos while the left yet bore imagery of the skull-like helmet that was once the calling card of a proud Legion; now it was something far more depraved, even if the imagery itself had not changed. “You are appalling to look at,” I added after taking his full form in.

“Well you don’t look so good yourself,” Mortoc grunted, and then set his greataxe upon the ground with another low thud before reaching his free hand to his helmet. With another gasp of pressurized air, he released it from his head, and set it down upon his lap, revealing a mass of flesh seeded with bionics across its mangled visage. “Though beauty is perhaps in the eye of the beholder, and not much of a concern to my Brothers to begin with. Welcome to Jaegetri, Inquisitor. Enjoying your stay?”

“Why am I alive, Mortoc?” I asked instead.

“Why are you alive?” he agreed with a nod. “Vanity, I suppose. I think you wished to chat, though I suspect your zealotry will deny wanting to share any air with me at all. I, however, have craved a word or two with the Hero of Thantalus.”

“No one calls me a hero for my work on Thantalus,” I shook my head.

“Indeed not. The Hero of Abseradon, then!” Mortoc declared. “Oh, my mistake, they don’t hold you with much reverence there due to the Red Stain, do they? And your own Inquisition even said you were dead, killed as punishment for how you so butchered a Hive World. A lie, of course, among an oceanic cesspool of lies, but indeed, not something to be proud of, hm? What of Aerialon, hm? Of the many civilian casualties provided by your crusade against the Phaenonite?”

“I sense I’ve struck a nerve,” I suggested with a grin.

“Ha! Yes, you have! Whether it was your intention or not, you’ve done a mighty good job of getting in my way through the years,” Mortoc agreed.

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“It was a pleasure,” I nodded, smile widening.

“I’m sure it was. But now you’re here, and all of that has ended. A one-armed, one-eyed man sitting before an Astartes in the full panoply of war. The odds do not seem very much in your favor, Callant Blackgar,” Mortoc laughed.

“You know, I once killed an Astartes with nothing more than my Rose—” I began, but was quickly interrupted by a voice far meatier and heavier than my own.

“No, Blackgar, you killed a prototype, or as you call it, a puppet. Do not delude yourself on your own lies. Your lies cannot protect you here. Your beliefs cannot save you here. Your hopes and dreams die here. There is no victory for you, not on Jaegetri, not before my gaze.”

“You seem upset. Rattled your cage, have I, getting this far?” I offered.

Mortoc seethed out something between a musing and a low growl, but otherwise did not take my bait. “I shall show you the error of your ways, and the weakness of your ego soon, Blackgar. For now, however, having mentioned your faith I admit I wish to prod at it, which is in some small part why you are alive, but far from the main reason.”

“So there is a main reason, then,” I noted.

Mortoc continued, unfazed by my incessant prodding in turn. “What is it you think you worship, Callant Blackgar?”

“A question that can never arrive at any meaningful discourse with godless fools such as yourselves,” I answered.

“And whose fault, for the meaninglessness to follow, will it be?” Mortoc wondered. Then, more sternly, “What do you think you worship, Inquisitor?”

“The one True God of all Mankind and all the universe. Yourself?” I asked, but was uncaring of any response Mortoc may have had. I did not expect one, either; I expected, instead, the very question that came instead.

“A God, and not a corpse?”

“You sinners always try that line,” I sighed. “Need they be mutually exclusive?”

“Fair point.”

“Then you acknowledge The Emperor as God, then?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A god, perhaps. Something more than man, certainly. But why worship this great and terrible other, Inquisitor? That I do not understand. Should one not strive to embolden and empower themselves to their own destinies?”

“The individual is liable to err, as your kind so demonstrably have. Worship, and the faith thereof, then, may provide much-needed guidance,” I answered.

“Faith, hmm…,” Mortoc mused for a moment. “That reminds me to ask: where is your faith placed, as a warrior of another breed, Inquisitor? Do you place it in men, or is it solely placed in the Withering Throne?”

“Both?” I suggested.

“It was an either-or question,” Mortoc grumbled.

“I place some of my faith in the men and women who serve me, but I place most of my faith in the Throne to guide their hand for as long as they serve it loyally. So, too, do they place their faith in me to steer our course rightly, while most of their faith is placed in the Throne to keep me in the bask of its light,” I explained. “It is not either-or. It is both.”

“So you believe in divine intervention, even if in the form of guidance if not benediction,” Mortoc surmised.

“Again, I believe in and have seen the workings of both,” I answered.

“Then you are not unlike some of my ilk, and your Corpse-God not unlike the twisted devils they worship in turn,” Mortoc suggested. It was a comparison that filled me with disgust. So I replied in kind.

“And does this alleged similarity to those who follow such lesser-beings not point to a naïveté amidst your ranks, that your kind sees unfit to take part in the way of the universe? Seems you are a bit stuck in the past from your own ignorant dogma,” I offered.

“Oh, to be lectured on dogma by an Inquisitor of all people!” Mortoc observed, bellowing out a laugh. “The irony is rich indeed. Tell me, Inquisitor, was it not dogma that brought you here to me, or was it merely your sheer stupidity? This time, perhaps ‘both’ is more valid an answer.”

“Does it matter? I am here,” I shrugged on instinct, though it hurt to move against my bindings in that regard.

“Hm, you need not reside in those restraints still, save for those upon your mind. Let’s get you out of those,” Mortoc decided, and rose from his throne of iron. Admittedly, I had no complaints about having more wiggle room, and so did not resist him as he freed me as described. I rose to my feet when he had unbound me, while he meanwhile strode back to his seat. He did not sit back upon it, however, and instead stood tall before me. “Suppose it does matter, Blackgar. Suppose if you truly are an idiot, your life matters a little less to me.”

“I came to see, personally, your head removed from your shoulders. I could have glassed your world, and will yet, but it would not matter if I could not confirm your demise. Now that I know you’re here indeed, the hard part is done,” I explained.

“Oh, ‘the hard part’ is far from over for you, I’m afraid. But I’ll admit, I can give some modicum of respect for that choice. Yes, for lack of intel of the target’s whereabouts, I suppose there is some wisdom to overseeing the termination of a priority target,” Mortoc agreed. “Good. I had hoped some intelligence survived into the rotted Imperium of yours. Many, many of your kind do not possess much in the way of strategic wit.”

“Well as long as we’re paying each other the courtesies of compliments, allow me to extend one in turn: I have spoken the language of war that you have, and found it poignant. We are grave enemies, yes, but I have seen eye-to-eye with you on the field of battle, which I have not for so very many years, if ever,” I admitted to him.

“Hmph. I can say the same, albeit for far greater a span of years than I suspect you have yet come to know,” Mortoc replied, nodding. He then reached down to his iron throne and returned the helmet sitting upon it to covering his head. When next he spoke, through said-helmet, his voice had deepened considerably: “I wish to give you a tour of my Citadel of Rust, Inquisitor Callant Blackgar. We have much more to discuss, you and I, some of which I hope will bring you catharsis and insight. I invite you to join me willingly in this regard; I do not wish to use force against you again, not yet.”

“But that is coming,” I acknowledged.

“Of course it is. We are grave enemies, are we not?” he laughed. “So, should I break your body now, or can we get to that later?”

“Show me what you must, traitor; I welcome the opportunity to regain some of my strength that I might later take your head,” I agreed.

“Good. That is the plan, in part,” he chuckled, and then lifted his large great axe from the ground and gestured to his right with his powerfist. “Shall we?”