The journey from the World Eater’s torture chamber to our destination took three minutes more. Every second counted through my head, as Mortoc had revealed the time required for the Skybreaker to fire another shot. In twenty-four minutes, it would kill another voidship, either one of mine or among those of Battlefleet Ixaniad that had come with us. I wagered Mortoc would choose one of the latter, wanting to save most of my fleet for last, with Echoshroud having been made an example of.
Our penultimate destination, however, was perhaps of the last sort I could have expected, both in the sense that I did not anticipate being brought there, and in the sense that I did not imagine it existed on this world. Mortoc, you see, brought me to a library. Or, rather, a study which itself contained a library within. Mortoc, it seemed, was well-read, which in hindsight should not have been surprising given his demeanor and general intellectual capacity. Not all works in the study were heretical, either. Some, such as The Spheres of Longing, which had oft-haunted me in a number of my campaigns, were of Imperial origin. Some others I could not recognize, and in fact appeared to be of Xenos origin. Aeldari, I imagined, for I knew of few other Xenos that may have had the capacity—or desire—to commit text to scripture.
However, none of these tomes were the reason Mortoc had brought me here. That, instead, was for a device which I did not recognize and must assume was deeply heretical in nature. It appeared to be a voxcaster, but tainted by the ruinous designs of the archenemy, as crude flesh emerged from within the innards which would have otherwise housed a Machine Spirit. Perhaps sensing my revulsion at the sight of this device, Mortoc clarified, “He is in the Warp, you see.”
“Who is?” I asked, doing my best to keep my eyes off the dreaded contraption, lest its taint stain my memory further.
“Our mutual foe,” Mortoc answered, placing the mutated voxcaster onto an iron table before stepping around the furniture to sit upon a seat much too large for a human. He gestured to a more accommodating seat across the table for me to take, which I did with some degree of glee; now that he and the warped voxcaster were both in a line across the table from me, I could look away from them both with ease. “One I believe whose name you likely know by now. Ouranos.”
“What is Ouranos to you?” I asked at once, a bit shocked by the name drop. In retrospect, I am unsure why I was so shocked. I had only heard the name from another of Ouranos’s heretical puppets, via Absalom.
“Did I not answer that question by referring to him as ‘our mutual foe?’” Mortoc grumbled, then flicked a switch on the voxcaster. I expected I would feel something from a Warp-touched device such as it was; but I did not. Perhaps whatever Mortoc was using to block my own psykana also shielded me from any psychic backlash the device may have produced. I likely shall not ever know. Regardless, Mortoc, too, appeared unimpaired from the device’s operation, and addressed it as soon as he pulled his hand back from flicking it on. “I have brought him, you cowardly bastard. We are assembled, us three.”
“This was a mistake, Valeran,” came a voice all-too-familiar to me out from the voxcaster. It was indeed the very same of the ghostly figure that had visited me in my unconsciousness during the Phaenonite affair. “You will not find in him what you seek.”
“I’m willing to try, if there is a chance to throw a wrench in your plans,” Mortoc answered. “Regardless, Ouranos, Blackgar. Blackgar, Ouranos,” he introduced us, not knowing that we had spoken prior.
“We’ve met, albeit not in the realm of the conscious,” Ouranos answered, and I confirmed the claim with a slow and careful nod. “How are you, Callant Blackgar?”
“A bit confused, which does not happen often, and without an arm, which admittedly does happen all-too often,” I answered, and Ouranos managed a chuckle. “What is it Mortoc seeks in me?”
“I have already told you this, too, Blackgar,” Mortoc sighed. “Lies are your faction’s department, not mine.”
“Valeran seeks in you an ally. He will not find it, will he?” Ouranos asked, though it seemed—and indeed was—rhetorical. “The choice is, ultimately, yours, Callant. But worry not, your decision is irrelevant,” he assured me, though that brought Mortoc to shaking his head. “Valeran believes that the two of you, together, could overcome the designs I have for you both. You can’t. If you two did ally, I would engineer an alliance to counter yours in turn—I have already demonstrated the capacity for such as you witnessed on Hestia Majoris, Callant.”
“He speaks much but knows little, Blackgar,” Mortoc interjected with a scoff. “He does not know what I have on him. I can and will strike at the bastard, but with you, Inquisitor, my claws are surer to reach.”
“Valeran believes that killing me is enough to spare him of his end,” Ouranos chided the Astartes. “It isn’t. His time draws near, as does yours, Callant. You should rejoice, as you both will, in ending, find yourselves serving a greater power than any you yet believe to.”
“And which power is that?” I asked. Names have power, or, rather, they are power. Just as aliases may shield some, such as the daemon in my head, true names can bring foes bare. For that reason, I did not expect a response, at least not one that answered my question directly. But I did expect a reply, and in that, the chance to gleam something more of this foe.
“One who has only ever granted the gift of finality to his followers. Just look at Scelus’s Silence,” Ouranos offered.
“I know not who Scelus is,” I admitted.
“Not who, what. It is a world, declared perdita by your Inquisition. Part of the Cadian Gate,” Mortoc explained for me. If true, it was a piece of history I cannot claim to know. And that I do not know means I should not care, for I only know what I should must. “I do not know what Ouranos means by the world’s Silence.”
“Well if neither of you know, I suppose it’s irrelevant. I am not among them, though we do serve the same power in the cosmos,” Ouranos explained.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“May I interject with what may seem to be an irrelevant question?” I asked, but before I got a response, I proceeded with the question on my mind. “Throughout my many years on your trail, Ouranos, I have come upon the notion of some poignant colors, one of them red, for instance. And when we first met, there were four colors you told me to ignore, but you referred to them as though they were alive. Who are they? What are they in this?”
“You look too far ahead, Callant,” Ouranos answered. “They are my contingency. They are my enemies. They are my prisoners. To understand them, you must understand me, so in that regard, it is not an irrelevant question. Have you come to grasp what it is I mean for you both?”
“An end, that much has been abundantly clear,” I drawled.
“Yes, but it is the nature of that end that is most important,” Ouranos replied. “It matters that it is an end you approach willingly. Self-destruction. You two engage in the battle that you do at will, and when one slays the other, that will is mine. When the victor comes for me, I will destroy them, or they will destroy me. In either scenario, I win; the only way either of you can kill me is via a sacrifice or loss you will be unwilling to make or, in the event that you do, unable to accept. For you, Callant, this is Lucene, as I have shown you.
“The colors, my prisoners, are my contingency should I run out of viable contenders that might destroy me in the materium. It is they that aim to kill me, not unlike yourselves, and they can. I keep them restrained within what you know as the Eye of Terror, but if I die, they will escape. And the result of their freedom will be the assured destruction of whoever it was that put me down. Do you understand? In this game we’re in, all players die. The whole of the galaxy dies. Annihilation is the only true victor,” he explained.
“How grandiose,” I answered, uninvested in the heretic’s visions.
“Indeed,” Mortoc agreed with me in a nod. “Generally those that plan for things on such a scale have a few blind spots perilously close to home. I’m quite confident I’ve found some to prove the point. So, Blackgar, is my offer of alliance on the table yet?”
“No.”
“Eh, tough bastard, you are,” he sighed. “You’ll crack eventually. And literally.”
“No, Valeran, Callant’s response is the only one he can give,” Ouranos replied. “Whatever it is you think to know about me, you evidence a clear lack of understanding of Callant’s position, and how can you form an alliance with someone you do not understand? Do you even know what’s in that head of his?”
“Do you?” I asked Ouranos. In the meantime, Mortoc gave an answer to Ouranos’s question.
“The workings of a powerful psyker, yes,” Mortoc shrugged. “Albeit not so powerful as to be unrestrainable.”
“I do, Callant, yes. Does this surprise you?” Ouranos answered me.
“No; we had intel that suggested as such, but I wanted confirmation from you,” I replied.
“Curious. I would not have expected you to know this. Perhaps, as Valeran says, blind spots, though I find it unlikely it will be of great consequence in the grand scheme of things,” Ouranos admitted. In the meantime, Mortoc sat still, stoic, undoubtedly wondering what it was that he was unaware of. Twisting the dagger in that regard, Ouranos spoke to him, “It is this ignorance of yours, Valeran, that I expect to see you laid low. The one-eyed, one-armed man is by far the most dangerous entity on your planet. You are of little consequence; I chose you for my puppeteering because of the resources at your command, but as an individual, you are not as Callant Blackgar is.”
“Is that so?” Mortoc growled.
“Quite so. I believe Callant even has two operatives to his name for whom you are no match either,” Ouranos warned him, likely referring to Bliss and Galen. “Is this really a war you think you win head-on? I believed you better than that.”
“All the more reason for me to crave an alliance. I had one, you know, with the Phaenonites, Blackgar. They were not true Inquisitors—that much we undoubtedly agree wholeheartedly on. I can offer you so much, you see. Security. Resilience. The Might of Iron. You, in turn, can provide security of a different nature. You can offer me the freedom to move as I please, to strike as I need at Ouranos.”
“Is this why you besiege Ixaniad? To get a staging ground for such a battle?” I asked.
Mortoc had no response, and stared blankly at me through his Terminator helmet. After the silence had mounted, Ouranos shot forth a laugh through the voxcaster. “Oh, is that what you have, Valeran? Is that all? That is not enough. For context, Callant, it appears Valeran is aware that I am due to emerge from the Empyrean into your Ixaniad Sector some years from now. This Iron Warrior of ours intends to lay in wait for me. Yes, I suppose in that regard your alliance would prove very apparently effectual. But again, irrelevant, for reasons already described. I do not care if you ‘win’ this battle, Valeran. I win it. The only question is whether you do too, and for that my concern is limited.”
“You find victory in death, Ouranos,” Mortoc acknowledged. “I have far worse fates intended for you than that.”
“Oooh, scary,” Ouranos mocked. “Ah, if only you knew of mangled fates. Alas, that is not for you. Destruction is all I can offer the likes of you, though mine is less an offer and more of an assurance. Well, isn’t this fun, here? We three enemies, at the precipice of being at each other’s throats. I wonder, when Annihilation arrives, will there be two of you knocking at my door, or only one? I supposed Callant gets to decide that. But he and I already know his decision, which begs the question of why you’ve brought us all here, Astartes.”
“To give Blackgar a glimpse into the real war, the one that matters,” Mortoc answered. “Knowledge leads to insight. Insight leads to wisdom. Wisdom leads to guidance.”
“Faith guides my hand, traitor, to putting a blade between your eyes, as I will repeat for Ouranos in turn,” I corrected him. “I have some small respect for you, Astartes, as an opponent that has brought me low and clearly wields a degree of intelligence unlike the filth my ordos often cleanse. But you will never find in me an ally, even if our foes are indeed mutual in this instance. The best I can offer you is a swift demise.”
“Contrary to Ouranos’s ego-stroking, I do not believe you can offer me even that, Blackgar,” Mortoc shrugged. “But do not worry. Today is far from your last opportunity to accept my offer of alliance. I do not need you in one piece for that. But I believe this conversation of ours nears a close of its productivity. Any final things to say, coward?” Mortoc asked Ouranos.
“The end of the millenium will be a bit bumpy. I advise you both to stay out of the Warp and hunker down, then, and if you can help it. In particular, avoid the Cadian and Nachmund Systems, too,” Ouranos warned us, then seemed to cut the connection himself, bringing a close to the low, ambient hum of the voxcast which I had, until then, not acknowledged.
“Right. Whatever that means. One final journey, Blackgar. Remember, you are on a clock to save your men,” Mortoc reminded me, rising to his feet. I followed suit. He, however, approached me. “Brace yourself, this may sting,” he warned, and reached behind me. I made to spin around to keep his arm in view, but he was demonstrably quicker than I, and produced a shock of pain from the back of my head before I had formed the thought to move.
“Gah! What the devil did you just do?” I asked, jumping away from the patient titan next to me. He had, in his grasp, another piece of unfamiliar technology.
“The oppressor of your psykana, previously plugged into your MIU,” Mortoc answered, lifting the tech higher into the air before crushing it in his grasp. “Do not try to use your mind on me, not yet. Save it for our destination. You will want to recover what you can until then. I think you have some understanding of where we’re going next.”
“Wherever you intend to break me, physically or otherwise, yes,” I deduced. Mortoc nodded in response.