Chapter 218: The Lion and the Farmer
They were fleeing.
The once-beautiful star domain had been disrupted by the war of alien races. Flames of battle ignited the sky, gunfire pierced the night—two giants locked in a desperate struggle: the Empire and the colossus known as Rangda roared and tore at each other, while these creatures were merely sacrificial pawns.
To exist was to sin. They lived along Rangda's retreat route, and those monstrous, bizarre creatures were closing in with their terrifying psychic control. The Mekanics, devoid of psionic gifts, stood no chance—they would be enslaved by the Rangda.
The choice that would determine the survival of their entire species had been made. The parliament issued its highest directive. Factories pushed beyond their limits, harvesting resources from across the star domain at all costs. They had to escape.
A colossal fleet, built upon the exhausted resources of an entire star domain, slowly ascended into the sky, carrying the elite of the species. The remaining Mekanics stood silently on the ground, watching as their final hope drifted away.
The galactic hourglass continued to trickle down. The shrieking of the Rangda monstrosities grew ever sharper, and the Empire's brutal firepower followed close behind. The homeland of the Mekanics was about to be consumed by a blazing inferno.
But not one Mekanic left behind chose suicide. They had to live—to block the retreating Rangda fleet with their lives, buying even the smallest sliver of time for their own exodus.
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[Attack! Stop them! Stop them!!!]
The Magos screamed herself hoarse. She drove the Skitarii forward—advance! Advance! Keep those aliens outside the capital city!
The Rust Forge World, along with its entire star system, had been struck by an unexpected alien assault. The Mekanic monsters were furiously attacking the system's core—Rust, the Forge World itself. Those hideous xenos, with their vast fleets, had torn open the system's defenses and begun plundering its rich resources in a frenzy.
Only the main planet remained unfallen. The outer planets had all been lost. In the face of enemies whose numbers dwarfed theirs a thousandfold, the Adeptus Mechanicus clung tightly to their final fortress. The Mekanic assault pressed them to the brink.
They had not given up. The forges and smelters of Rust's capital could not fall into enemy hands. The mechanical wonders born of centuries of human progress could not be surrendered. Every forge city was a miracle impossible to replicate. They could not be allowed to fall.
But the numbers on the logic engines faltered. Precision-calculated down to six decimal points, the figures dropped steadily, like the alien artillery raining down. With time, the Magos' calculated probability of victory shrank ever closer to zero.
The Magos—famed for their rationality and logic—understood what this meant: defeat, death, shredded limbs and spilled machine oil, cables torn violently from ports, wetware shivering and exposed to the radioactive wastes.
By logic, they should abandon this futile resistance, fall back entirely to the capital, purge the databanks, smash the furnaces—allow the wisdom of generations to end in silence.
But that number hadn't yet reached zero. A single exploration squad from one of the outer mining worlds had escaped before the Mekanics could seal the entire star domain—
They were the final variable. That single unknown clung tightly to every Magos's logic engine, anchoring the critical figure just barely within the realm of "possible."
If—if—they could return with reinforcements in time.
Meanwhile, the Death Guard, resting and recovering in the Galaspar sector, received an emergency imperial redeployment order. The entire fleet began to slowly depart from the Galaspar System.
The decree came directly from Terra—vague, ambiguous. The language twisted and uncertain, crucial information obscured by slippery phrasing. Simply put, aside from the destination of the Death Guard, the message said nothing at all.
The Lord of Death was deeply displeased by this, though his commanders showed no signs of complaint. In Mortarion's eyes, Hades was frantically hoarding gold and supplies, desperately trying to load even the newest bullets straight off the assembly lines onto the ship.
Forget it. Let him be.
What Mortarion didn't know was that upon seeing that imperial edict, Hades' internal alarms went off. Well-versed in the Empire's notoriously disastrous operations, he immediately realized this was no ordinary battle cloaked in secrecy. Burning the midnight oil, Hades personally oversaw production and logistics. For him, every extra artillery shell meant one more sliver of possibility of survival.
While the Death Guard traveled through the Warp, a transmission request arrived directly from the frontlines. The Primarch of the First Legion—Lion El'Jonson—was requesting a conversation with the Primarch of the Fourteenth Legion, Mortarion.
'Another brother.'
Mortarion no longer reacted. All he wanted was for the Death Guard to fight properly—and to win.
In the dim conference chamber aboard the Death Guard's vessel, Mortarion stood fully armored, poison mist seeping along the curves of his plate, cloaking the Lord of Death in a veil of mystery.
And in the shadowed corners untouched by the transmission light, Hades, Garro, and Vorx stood silently.
The Lion of Caliban—Hades knew this was not a conversation for him to interrupt. The Lion was proud now—proud to the point of arrogance and obstinacy.
Still, Hades thought that compared to Perturabo, Mortarion and Lion El'Jonson might actually manage a civil conversation.
[Three. Two. One.]
A faint electric buzz flared to life, and the glow outlined the towering figure of the Forest's Son. The green armor evoked Caliban's eternally dense woods. The Lion Sword rested calmly beside its master, who stood silently—blond-haired and green-eyed—gazing forward.
Under the shadow of his hood, Mortarion raised a subtle brow.
The farmer from Barbarus… was no stranger to this feeling.
His brother, Lion El'Jonson—what radiated from him was not human. It was the constant wariness, the ever-vigilant tension—something far more akin to a beast than a man.
Those beasts devoid of civilization, devoid of compassion, devoid of human emotion.
In the wastelands of Barbarus, Mortarion had once hunted such solitary monsters. Their lonely survival in the wild made them weary, made them proud, made them perpetually on edge—and made them vicious.
Now, one such beast was eyeing Mortarion like prey. The hidden undercurrents in that gaze were unmistakable. As Mortarion assessed his brother, the Lion was likewise assessing him.
Or rather, he was attempting to provoke him—measuring him with the same gaze a predator casts before it strikes.
Was Lion El'Jonson trying to intimidate Mortarion? Was he, in his brutal and beastly way, passing judgment on the Death Guard's strength? That look was malicious, predatory—trying to make Mortarion back down.
But Mortarion knew exactly what to do. When faced with a wild beast, the best strategy wasn't to run, nor to attack recklessly. Out on the plains, the farmer facing a lion doesn't alter his breathing by a hair. He simply raises his scythe—his tool of harvest and death—and stands his ground in silence.
The two Primarchs stared each other down.
At last, the Lion retracted his aggressive gaze. The proud lion gave a curt nod—perhaps a brief wordless greeting.
But Mortarion understood: the Lion was affirming his stance, recognizing Mortarion's reaction. Mortarion couldn't help but scoff inwardly. Another arrogant bastard. What right did he have to judge the strength of Mortarion or the Death Guard?
None of it mattered. Among his brothers, Horus was the only miracle. Mortarion asked for nothing more.
"First Legion, Dark Angels. Lion El'Jonson."
The Lion spoke. His voice was steady and deep, firm and indisputable. Though the Lion himself looked slightly worn and fatigued by the war, his words were still the sharpest sword of Caliban.
"Fourteenth Legion, Death Guard. Mortarion."
The Pale King replied with a voice hoarse and dry, like a breeze stirring the graves. Before death and the tombstone, even the sharpest blade lost its power.
"The Imperium is now in the midst of a war—an unprecedented war. Mortarion, you and your Legion are not part of its core theater."
"But that does not mean the Death Guard will be absent."
"The alien species known as 'Rangda' is attempting to escape the Imperial encirclement. We need the Death Guard to deploy in advance along their retreat routes, to choke off the branch attempting to flee toward the Empire's northeastern frontier."
"The good news is, according to Imperial strategic plans, you likely won't immediately engage the Rangda fleet. The First Legion—the Dark Angels—will likely tear apart that fleeing group before you ever meet them."
"The enemy data will be transmitted to the Death Guard. Do you have any questions?"
Mortarion responded, voice laced with quiet fury:
"You're saying the Death Guard was summoned here on an emergency order... just to stand on the sidelines? To be irrelevant reinforcements? We might not even see combat?"
The Lion looked at Mortarion with clear displeasure.
"Yes."
Mortarion let out a loud hiss from beneath his breathing mask.
Lion El'Jonson ignored it completely. In a tone bordering on condescending, he continued, full of pride:
"Mortarion, this is a hunt. The Imperium, like its enemies, bleeds. You should be thankful that the Death Guard does not need to face this battle head-on—not act like some war-mongering brute."
Listening to Mortarion's heavy, rasping breaths, Hades had the distinct feeling the Death Lord was on the verge of choking from sheer rage. Yet Mortarion still managed to growl from beneath his respirator:
"Fine. Understood."
A second later, the Lord of Death cut the communication without ceremony. The Primarch slammed his scythe into the floor in fury.
Hades was pretty sure he heard Mortarion curse under his breath.
"I really think Horus was a miracle."
Mortarion turned to Hades and muttered, "At this point, I almost regret distancing myself from him."
Even if Horus might fall eventually, at least he was better than this lot.
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Author's Notes:
I can't check any more references—I'm going to start making stuff up. I just invented a Forge World for this, and the Mekanic are based on the Basemekanic intercepted by the Death Guard during the Second Rangdan Xenocide.
Right now, the story is in the Third Rangdan Xenocide, but bad news—someone told me that the timeline I was using before has Mortarion's return date completely wrong. And that's... really damn awkward.
(The timeline looked official and well-researched!)
No wonder I was wondering why the Second Rangdan Xenocide and the Drune Campaign seemed to take place before Mortarion's canonical return, but still included references to the Death Guard.
Goddamn it.