Additional Background Section 33: The Five Brothers

(Chronicler’s note: Though I possess the notes of my predecessor, which detail his event, it must be noted that I was a young boy during these events; I witnessed events across Armageddon from the ground up. I have hence combined my recollections and those of my relatives with the histories of this chronicle.)

The Primarchs returned to Armageddon to a heroes’ welcome. The docks and shipyards surrounding the Armageddon system and within unleashed low-powered lance fire in salute, as Vulkan’s flagship entered the planet’s orbit. Onboard, there were four timeless living legends. There was Leman Russ, the Great Wolf himself, King of Fenris and father of the Vlka Fenryka and the ultimate gene father of the Wolf Brother Commandery. Then, there was Vulkan, the Emperor of the New Imperium, Primarch of the Salamanders and the vast majority of the Commanderies, Cousin-Champion to the Realm of Fathers, Master of the Promethean Cults of Nocturne and Armageddon, Superintendant of the Confederation of Justice and Chairman of the Ruling Council of the Vulkan Imperium. Alongside him was Corvus Corax, the repentant Master of the Former Raven Guard and of the Sons of Corax Commandery and prime-beast of the Weregeld. The final passenger was far more tragic. Jaghati Khan, Primarch of the White Scars, returned to Vulkan’s Imperium in pieces. What was worse was that he remained alive and in endless, monstrous pain. This fact was kept from the adoring crowds who lined every street of every city on Armageddon, who cheered till their throats were red raw as the Primarchs descended on one of Vulkan’s personal transport that flew low over each city, before rushing off to the looming, unadorned Hermit’s Tower, built near to the site of Hades Hive, amidst the grand splendor of the central palace. The tower’s lack of decoration set it apart from the rest of the city, but its artisan craftsmanship was always well known.

Only Vulkan, amongst the returning Primarchs came back unharmed in some way. The Khan was a ruin of mewling, silently screaming flesh, Russ was weak from the fire of the eldar venom coursing through his veins, while Corax bore psychological scarring that would take many years to truly heal, even though his exhausted body was barely damaged. Russ was taken to the grand Apothecarium, where Corax and its doctors worked together to devise a cure for his poisons, utilizing the extensive libraries of the Promethean Cult. He was later housed in one of eight Primarch scaled bed chambers, alongside another of his brothers he had not seen in thousands of years. For the Lion, Primarch of the Dark Angels and appointed protector of Ultramar, had also been recovered the year before.

Meanwhile, Vulkan rushed the Khan down into his forge vaults beneath the Hermit’s Tower; desperate to find a way to save his brother. He would not be reunited with him, only to lose the Khan again. In those dread vaults, Vulkan stored the relics and artefacts the Brethren of the Willing had gathered for him across the millennia, but were too dangerous to let out. One of those nightmarish things was the abomination of living metal known only as The Shard. It was some faded echo of part of a C’tan immortal consciousness, tainted and driven mad by the memories of Ferrus Manus and the Iron Hands it had slain. It was demented and delusional, but it had knowledge of technology and the universe to rival that of the Emperor himself. Vulkan brought Khan to this entity, and through coercion, trickery, and dark promises that Vulkan never spoke of to any outside the chamber, he gained the assistance of the shimmering star shard. Alien science from the dawn of time was married to the genetic and artisan craftwork of the Lord of Armageddon as Vulkan fought to revive and restore his brother. Eventually, after many weeks of seclusion and work in the cold darkness of the deep vaults, the Khan was rebuilt.

Yet, the creature Vulkan beheld was not the same figure he had known; not truly. The Khan’s blood was shimmering silver, and the layered armor and machinery that infused his new form could never be removed. Vulkan stayed at his brother’s side for another month, as though the Khan lived, he had mercifully lost consciousness, for the first time after millennia of torment.

Meanwhile, Corax had new armor fashioned for him; the Sons of Corax and the other Commanderies who took him as their liege lord insisted on aiding him in building new arms and armor. His armor, once finished, was a sight to behold. It was black; so dark it seemed to darken the rooms he entered. Yet, if you looked closely, you could make out the intricate patterns and designs inscribed upon it; only an Astartes’ eyes could fully appreciate the glorious nature of his great winged armor. Corax, though he could move between cities without ever being observed, chose to travel as part of a convoy, making sure that his face and his presence was witnessed by everyone on the world, holding aloft his great lash and sword as he met with the people. He gave many a famous speech throughout that year, and each one was recorded for prosperity and stored within the Domed Librarium of Saint Grimnar, where all the most momentous events of the New and Old Imperium were stored on electronic plates, or carved into the flagstones themselves.

Corax no longer desired to hide in the shadows. He wished that he would never abandon humanity again, nor let it suffer tyrants or slavery while he drew breath. Only his Nova Astartes honor guard saw his private face; his doubt and his great abiding guilt.

The Wolf and the Lion recovered together, out of public sight for a time. As their wounds healed swiftly, they also began to train and spar with one another. Harsh words were said to each other, and each brother bested other in alternating, hard fought bouts. The Lion confided in Russ about the figures that had came to him as he lay dying upon Lori Delta Trove, and of those Unforgiven figures who yet haunted him. In another time, another place, Russ would have tried to slay the Lion then, in a demented lust to purge the Imperium of liars and traitors, but he knew that his actions had set terrible things into motion long ago, and he did not wish to repeat the old mistakes of the past. However, the two brothers, the closest of kin, remained antagonists and rivals. The Lion claimed that, though Leman judged him for his coldness and moral weakness, the Wolf King was just the same as him. The only difference was that Russ had cultivated an image as the loyal executioner; the honorable, mighty warrior king of feasts and fighting. Despite their mutual disdain, when it came to war and combat, their styles were oddly harmonious. When they tested themselves in the great fighting basin, against countless servitors and simulated enemies, when they fought together, they found they could vanquish almost anyone. Woes betide any who thought to face the two Primarchs in battle. Both brothers built their own armor in tandem with each other, tweaking and adjusting their suits based upon the reactions of their sparring partner. Likewise, Russ refined his new blade by testing it against the ancient Lion Sword that Lion El’Jonson wielded.

Almost seven months after being returned to life, the Khan awoke. With a weary voice, he asked after his chapter and his brothers, amidst strange ranting where he cursed and gibbered in the language of the eldar. Vulkan comforted him, informing him that his brothers were with him now. However, Vulkan could not lie about the fate of the Khan’s White Scars. The White Scars had fallen into the life of the savage free companies all too well. When Vulkan had begun to reunify the Imperium, the White Scars, like the majority of the Black Templars, were beyond salvaging, and fought him. The White Scars had been destroyed; only a scant shadow of them survived, to form the moribund Scar-Branders, who had perished to a man defending the planet of Joffen's Throne from a Krork fleet, half a century earlier. But worse, was that through the procedures used to save his life, Jaghati Khan could no longer pass on his geneseed and sire a new chapter to replace those he had lost. In fury, the Khan leapt from his bed, and snatched Vulkan by the throat, screaming in despair and misery. The Khan’s strength was always great, but his Primarch-born power was further enhanced by the xenos machinery which had brought him back.

“You have killed the Scars! Your murder of them is twofold!” he howled in Vulkan’s obsidian features, his glowing red eyes meeting the Khan’s tainted, silver-veined ones. It took the Khan a moment to realize that he was throttling his brother and instantly released him in shame, before collapsing to his knees. The Khan then cursed himself; he had left his children behind in his folly to reach and destroy Commorragh; he was the one who had failed the White Scars. Recovering swiftly, Vulkan placed his hand upon the shoulder pad of Jaghati. What words could comfort one such as him? One so wronged for so very long?

But Vulkan knew his brother, and told him what he needed to hear. He reminded him that the hunt was not yet concluded; Lorgar yet lived and his blasphemous works threatened to destroy all things. The Khan had promised to slay the traitors; he had sworn this oath on the walls of the Imperial Palace itself, countless centuries in the prehistory of the Old Imperium. While they yet existed, he could not give into despair. Though the Scars were gone, the great hunt could never be forgotten. Vulkan had built Jaghati a magnificent blade, based upon the design of his curved horseman’s blade. As the Khan rose, he placed this blade in his brother’s armoured hand. They stood, eye to eye, and nodded to each other. No words were required in that moment.

Eventually, the five brothers reunited, meeting in Vulkan’s sparse throne room; the first time they had gathered together in uncounted ages. Here, they spoke of a wild array of topics, but the topic that continually came to the forefront of the conversation was that of war. Vulkan brought them up to speed on the state of the galaxy over a week of extensive discussion, where the five contemplated a myriad of tactics and the disposition of their brother’s many forces.

In the year it had taken the Primarchs to recover and reach this point, news of their return had spread, via Vendrial psyker beacon, to every corner of the Vulkan Imperium, and beyond (for the Vendrial beacons were nowhere near as secure as the Astropathic grid used in the ancient past, and friend and foe alike found it rather easy to decipher the broad meanings of the beacon messages). Understandably, this caused a great stir within the Vulkan Imperium; this was no mere victory, but represented the turning of the tide in many eyes. A new era in the history of their empire, for at last, the worlds allied to Vulkan believed that they could take the fight to the gods and monsters surrounding them, for they now had a living Pantheon of their own to match them. Spontaneous festivals broke out on many worlds not at the forefront of battle, and even the frontier worlds celebrated this news, even as they defended their homes from aliens and rampaging warp-allied empires. When Vulkan summoned representatives from his various governments and armed forces, the response was a thing to behold.

The Nova Astartes were always at war, as was their purpose, but even single Commandery that could be contacted managed to send a token force to Armageddon; they could not pass up the opportunity to see the Primarchs for themselves. These included the Salamanders, adorned in their ceremonial garb as Vulkan’s bodyguards, the camouflage-wearing Nemenmarines*, the Knights Supplicant, the Jade Princes, the Sons of Corax, the grey-armoured Vulkan Praetors, the golden-clad Dorn Revenants, the sinister Iron Hands, the fearsome Fire Beasts, the mute marines of the Vanquishers in their deep crimson armor, the Brass Ravens, the Blood Ravens, the Wolf Brothers’ rabble (who, I recall, were almost deafening as they played raucous instruments through the streets at any opportunity, for they were half-mad with glee at their genefather’s return), the Sons of Thunder, the Esoteric Commandery (formerly known as the Fatemakers of old), and many more Commanderies sent small delegations to Armageddon. These ranged from a single squad, in the case of the Fire beasts (who, being the smallest Commandery due to their high-attrition recruitment processes, could hardly spare many soldiers for this gathering), to virtually the entire Commandery strength of two thousand five hundred marines, in the case of the Salamanders.

Representatives of each of the allied realms likewise sent their own delegations, complete with honour guards of their best and most renowned units.

The Ryzan-Catachan Oathworlds sent forth their most senior Skitarii-Magos, Alpha-Muon, alongside a force of a thousand Plasma-Commandoes in full battle-garb. They lacked the polished extravagance of some of the Commanderies, but they made up for this with discipline and the naked power of their plasma weaponry.

A Gladius class frigate from Ultramar-Reborn also made its way to Armageddon. This delegation consisted of Folkar, who was then one of the five new High Lords of Ultramar, alongside a company of Adeptus Astartes, the older breed of posthuman made legendary through the Ages of Imperium and the Second Age of Strife. Each of these marines bore the colors of the Ultramarines. Upon their right shoulder pad they bore the symbol of Ultramar, and on their left they wore the symbol of their individual chapter house, be they Novamarines, Sons of Orar or otherwise. Folkar came to discuss military matters, as the other delegates did, but he had further business to attend to. He knelt before the Primarchs, and reaffirmed his oaths to the new Imperium and to the Lion in particular (the Lion was momentarily confused by this action, until Vulkan explained the nature of Ultramar’s liberation from Sicarius the Mad). Master Folkar also brought with him a great urn of Guilliman’s precious geneseed, along with almost two thousand young boys from Ultramar, the best of the latest recruits from the stellar realm (the reason for this shall be explained later in this section).

The Muster-Lord of the Confederation of Justice sent an envoy to the plane, along with a regiment of his drop troopers, and several dozen examples of his Confederations new Individual Engagement Units (IEUs); these were combat machines designed for a single drop trooper to operate, based upon development of the Stormtalon and Sentinel STC designs, adapted to function as a form of battlesuit. Though they were nowhere near as advanced as the Tau equivalents, these bulky IEUs were excellent as frontline spear tip units, and shocktroops for orbital insertions, second only to the Nova Astartes themselves.

The mysterious and ever-sinister Patriarchs of the Realm of Fathers also sent a cabal of their cult Magi to meet with the Primarchs; each magus had a direct psychic link to their leaders, so whatever was heard by them was consequently heard by their progenitors. The Realm’s delegation was colossal, reflecting somewhat the sheer scale of one of Vulkan’s most valuable allies. A ten thousand strong force of the Legion Trygonis arrived in system with the Magi. They moved in a perfect unison which bordered on the disturbing. Even the Ultramarines, who appreciated order and discipline more acutely than most, were suspicious. But the realm of Fathers had ever been loyal to the Armageddon Emperor, and Vulkan welcomed them alongside the others.

The Legions of Steel did not need to send delegations to Armageddon however, for the Steel Legions were the beating heart of the Vulkan Imperium, and were present upon every world in his domain, including their homeworld of Armageddon. Though the air had long since been cleaned of poisonous fumes, they still wore their ceremonial respirators with pride as they saluted their lord and master.

There were many other military delegates from the lesser Realms of the Imperium who also eventually made their way to Armageddon, braving the numerous wars and conflicts raging across the Segmentum to reach the beating heart of their empire. From the glorious, ostentatious Knight-Princes of Chevantai, to the grim and functional Thunder lizard Tank Legions, even the bitter Valhallan remnant; all came to pay homage to the Primarchs, and parade the military might of the Imperium before their eyes. Not only land forces, but ships from dozens of battlefleets gathered in orbit, including the legendary Phalanx.

This great parade would come to be known as Vulkan’s Muster. It would not be an over exaggeration to suggest that this military review was the largest concentration of Imperial strength since Ullanor itself, and certainly the greatest single concentration of Primarchs gathered in an age.

Such a gathering attracted the attention of the Imperium’s rivals. Assassins were sent regularly to try and destroy this gathered force while they wallowed in orbit, but each attempt to rip the heart from the new Imperium was thwarted by the Primarchs and their paranoid minions. Fortunately for them, at this time their rivals were preoccupied with the fall of the Baalites in the north, the mounting power of the Krork, Nightbringer and the Hadex abominations in the east, and the necrons in isolated pockets across the galaxy. However, some of their rivals, realising the importance of the returned Primarchs, sued for truce. The most prominent of these were the twin Tau empires; the Meta-Empire of the east, and the Calixis-centred Tau empire in the west; they had their own bitter wars to fight, and had no desire to kill an empire which they saw as similar to themselves. Why threaten a growing beast, when that beast was poised to strike at one’s own foes?

This grand gathering of military might was more than just a mere exercise of sabre-rattling. It was an opportunity to both gather information on the current state of the galaxy at large, and more importantly, it was a chance to begin large scale military planning and the logistical preparation. They learned of the swelling power of Lorgar and the unification of the two Chaos Imperiums. Lorgar had created a new Book of his Word, filled with secrets given to him by the deep warp’s unfathomable minions. The Alliance between Aurelian and Huron was forged on the rad-blasted wastes of Hektartrus; an army of red corsairs and Word bearers, led by the respective Emperors, reduced the planet’s cities to rubble, and then, from orbit, poured a thousand megatons of molten gold across the planet’s surface. This killed every living thing on the planet, and when the gold finally solidified, it formed the words of Lorgar, each character five miles wide. Above this dead world, Huron Blackheart knelt before Lorgar and was made into Lorgar’s regent across all the north eastern reaches of the galaxy. Word also reached them that Lorgar’s military machine was in motion, backed by the dread Draziin-maton; a foe no one yet knew how to truly defeat. Though the Krorks and Necrons were similarly fearsome and powerfully dangerous, the Chaos Imperium was a nightmare born of human weakness, and the Primarchs felt a particular responsibility for this realm. They had to defeat it somehow.

The five Primarchs assembled the leadership of the entire Vulkan Imperium in a specially-built orbital station over Hades. There, in the central hall they discussed a most momentous topic. The time for consolidation was over; the Vulkan Imperium was as secure as it was ever going to be. Now, the time had come; the Imperium wanted not only to survive, it wanted to win. The Primarchs were the most qualified entities the Imperium possessed on this topic, for they and they alone had come close to conquering the galaxy before. But this time, they had an additional advantage they lacked before; they did not have to concern themselves with garrisoning and creating compliant worlds, for the Vulkan Imperium already possessed them. They could focus all their effort upon the military objective. They would make war upon the Chaos Imperium, and once and for all defeat their ancient nemesis.

However, such a lofty goal would take tremendous planning. The war council lasted almost half a year, and covered every aspect of a prospective war; who would be providing the supply ships, and how they would eb escorted and themselves refuelled, which planets close to the Chaos Imperium could be relied upon to grant them docking rights and support their war effort, even specific planetary invasion tactics were debated and exhaustively discussed over this time. The Five sat in large thrones to accommodate their bulk, but otherwise, they remained on the same level as their mortal allies, and no speaker was denied the chance to make their point.

The worlds of Vulkan were ordered to up their military output by one percent, and to siphon off that one percent directly to the mounting crusade, which was code-named as ‘Tusk’. Additionally, there was a new founding of the Nova Astartes. This was the fifty fifth founding (later infamously known as ‘the Final Founding’ for reasons which will later become apparent). Folkar’s aspirant and Guilliman-sourced geneseed went into creating the Warrior Kings Commandery, the first and last Ultramarine Nova Astartes. Russ had a new Commandery, known only as the Rout, created to join his Wolf Brothers, while the Lion helped the Khan create the White Lancers, the first Commandery to recognise two Primarchs as their direct founders. I recall the excitement of those days of preparing for crusade. At that time, the entire Imperium went through a massive upheaval; no longer the Vulkan Imperium, but instead Imperium Pentum.

Even with an expanded military force and a vast crusade, the Imperium Pentum was still outnumbered a thousand to one by the Chaos Imperium of Lorgar. Yet this changed nothing. Lorgar had to die, and his allies had to be pushed back if mankind was to survive in this universe.

Meanwhile, the venerable Lady of the Brethren of the Willing had her own battle to fight. The Brethren was, by this point, a vast, Imperium spanning organisation dedicated to protecting the Imperium from insidious internal threats, and also gathering what artefacts and mystical lore they could. However, there was one foe Lady Imogen could not defeat; time itself. She was dying; her cyber-enhanced form had lasted her for centuries, but even Vulkan’s science could not preserve her frail body. Her mind remained as devious and razor sharp as in her younger days of adventuring, but now this brilliant organ was trapped within her elderly frame; bedridden. Nevertheless, she still looked over most of the reports sent to her by her ever-increasing number of exotic agents, both xenos, human and otherwise.

Imogen’s Brethren of the Willing had been tasked with solving the problem of the Red Sorcerer in particular. His Rubric Empire in the south would be a thorn in the side of any attempted offensive into Lorgar’s territory; Ahriman was growing more powerful with every passing day, and the Vulkan Imperium could not bring its full might to bear against Ahriman’s Cabal, as any Astartes- led invasion would fail utterly.

One night, as she fell into sleep, a presence came to her. It came as an elderly, kindly faced man. She found herself upon a field of bones, piled a mile thick, with only vast, cyclopean towers to break up this endless expanse. The skies were dark and veined with pulsing green light that hurt one’s eyes to perceive.

“Where am I?” Imogen asked; her voice was young and powerful in her mind.

“They call it the Bone Kingdom, though it has a far older name only the Flayed Ones recall,” the Old Man replied, his soft, rasping voice accompanied by the dull humming of distant flies. This was no mortal.

“You are one of Nurgle’s kin,” she replied warily. She had lived long enough to know their stench. “I have been Illuminated, I warn you. You will gain no possession over me.”

The man smiled, his face rotting away. “You are almost correct, but I am no child of his. He is no less a tyrant than my own father,” the figure continued, his voice rising in power, though not in volume.

His frame rotted away, and a throbbing chrysalis of distended flesh swelled up from the ruins, bursting open like an orchid formed of plague rot. Beneath the leaves of blistered skin was a giant, in the garb of a fetid reaper of souls, complete with a great scythe. It was Mortarion.

“You seek to break me do you? Subvert me and use me against my master? It will not work. I shall never serve the deep madness as Lorgar does!” she yelled, spitting at Mortarion’s feet.

Mortarion shook his head. “Nor do I wish to, but it is not my decision to make. Not anymore. I have so little time, for I am being hunted, even now; hunted through dreams and nightmares like a fox through a fen bog. You must listen now. Look.”

With that, the vision shifted, to reveal a woman on the plain of bones; a broken woman in bloodied rags. She stifled her sobs as she crawled through the nightmarish landscape, her golden hair matted to his skin with sweat and grime. Crolomere, the Grey Sensei. Imogen watched, as she scuttled into a culvert, as a roving band of screeching flayed ones skulked past, babbling in the mad tongue of Llandu’gor the Flayer.

“She was cast here by Magnus’ cursed scion, for failing him. You know her importance; I know you know the providence of her birth. She is a Perpetual, but if she dies at the hands of the Necrons, she will be lost forever. If you want to defeat Ahriman, she must not perish on that world.”

“Why are you helping me?” was all Imogen could ask.

Mortarion smiled, a torrent of flies streaming from his rotten jaws. “My brothers must fall; all of them. Know despair child, for they will die. I cannot escape the inevitable, and neither can Lorgar, Angron, Russ, Vulkan or any of the others. They were not born for a peaceful life; Nurgle will have his due, but if your Imperium falls, Lorgar will win. Death in battle is preferable to oblivion. If the Deep Ones triumph... everything will vanish. Not just vanish; it shall never have existed at all. You will wake soon, but if you remember nothing else from this dream, remember this; save the girl.”

Imogen then awoke, and sent urgent summons to Vulkan; she needed to send a mission to the Bone Kingdom of Drazak. However, Vulkan refused to send a fleet to attack a necron Tombworld, deep in hostile territory, simply to recover one woman. It would be a suicide mission for little gain. However, the Khan argued with his brother then, and suggested she should be given non-essential soldiers and equipment. If she failed, then nothing of value was lost. But if she succeeded, then what a glorious victory that would be! Vulkan accepted.

Thus, even as she lay dying, Imogen began organising an impromptu rescue mission. She gathered together inmates from the penal colonies and criminal worlds of the Imperium, as well as thugs and mercenaries looking to prove themselves to the Imperium as valuable auxiliary units, worthy of sponsorship. Likewise, obsolete hulls of old Imperial vessels were saved for use as transportation to and from the necron planet. Yet, this brigade of no hopers lacked leadership.

You may recall, dear reader, that Imogen had acquired two stasis pods after the sacking of Drultevar as the spoils of loot. Of course, the stasis pods themselves were valuable, but not quite as useful to Imogen as the people preserved within. At last, she had a reason to release the men inside. Imogen died in her sleep the night before the reanimation, but her loyal minions deactivated the stasis pods on her orders. The pods opened with a hiss of steam as air, preserved since the end of M41.999, condensed as it was released from its imprisonment. The cigar in the mouth of one of the preserved men was still smoking between his teeth. Slowly, he rose from the pod, and flexed his bionic arm several times.

The clerks that beheld the tall, stern-faced guardsman flinched as he looked their way.

“What’s the mission?” was all Colonel Schaeffer asked.

*(The Nemenmarines, following in the footsteps of their founding Force Commander, Heldrik Nemen, do not believe in personal heraldry, or having a Commandery-wide colour scheme for their force. Nemen saw no need for this because ‘every heathen, monster and madman is already after us; why make ourselves easy targets. I intend to surrender no advantage to my enemies.’ Of course, ironically, being the only Commandery to adopt this stance, their camouflage itself was eventually treated as their heraldry by their brother Astartes, to their mild irritation.)