Chapter 261: A Small Man
In the grandest building of Barbarus, sunlight poured cleanly through the windows, illuminating the great carpet until it looked bright and plush.
Its ruler had returned. With a scrutinizing gaze, he studied this newborn structure. Thankfully, it bore none of the decorations the Lord of Death despised—its plain walls resembled the bulkheads of the Endurance.
For the first time, the great hall was being used. Mortarion had given the order himself: here, he would question the guests who had come from afar.
The news of the Death Guard's return to Barbarus had already spread everywhere. Like stones cast into boiling oil, their arrival inevitably sent hearts leaping and sputtering.
And Mortarion was the center of this vast stage. Even if he himself refused to acknowledge it, the crown of the Primarch rested on his brow, and none could escape it.
Even if most of the policies people marveled at did not actually come from his hand.
Mortarion gazed thoughtfully out at Barbarus through the window.
On the broad, straight avenues below, people bustled ceaselessly. They talked and laughed as they walked along the streets. The sunlight made the roads dazzlingly bright, but people seemed long accustomed to it.
Shops and taverns had even sprung up along the streets. Mortarion lowered his eyes. Once upon a time, Barbarus had survived on bartering and rationing. But with peace and technology, human civilization here had leapt forward at astonishing speed.
He chewed over all this slowly, recalling the crowds that had just surged toward him. They thanked him—for bringing liberation, for bringing prosperity, for bringing them everything they now possessed.
What he was unsure of was whether they thanked him more for their freedom, or more for their prosperity.
But as he looked at these people, untouched by poison gas, unbroken by former suffering, he judged that the latter was far more likely.
And if it was the latter—then they were thanking the wrong man.
Mortarion glanced back at Hades, who was seated at the long table reviewing documents, then turned again to watch the crowds.
He pondered, weighing whether all this was good or bad.
The Lord of Death within him whispered that people were becoming soft. Yet in another corner of his heart, he realized that this was the dream his fallen comrades had once yearned for.
Even if, in truth, he had granted them only death and deliverance.
Mortarion mused but found no answer.
He did not wish to see all this destroyed, nor had he discovered a better path. So—for now—things would remain as they were.
Only, when next he recruited new soldiers from Barbarus, he would need to take greater care—filtering out the weak, the pleasure-seekers.
The people had already shown him their choice, their answer. They had accepted him. They had chosen him. And so he would fulfill his promise.
After all, he thought slowly, being surrounded and cheered by the masses had not been as intolerable as he might once have believed.
But kindness to the people of Barbarus did not mean kindness to others. Too many outsiders had settled here, and he would need to inspect them all.
When night fell, he would personally meet the representatives from other worlds.
Lingering a while longer at the window, his mind now drifting aimlessly, Mortarion finally decided to see what others were doing.
The Lord of Death strode over to Hades, squinting at the documents he was reviewing.
Seeing Mortarion come to peer over his shoulder, Hades ignored him and continued leafing through Garro's report.
On Planet 5's human settlement, Garro had led the Grave Wardens in carrying out a judgment. The towering warriors had marched into the marketplace, hauling out criminals as though they were chicks snatched up by the scruff.
Against such battle-hardened veterans, the weapons and ammunition the thugs had prepared were little more than oversized toys.
Hades studied the photographs Garro had sent. Garro's explanation was simple: since the other side had resisted, he had been forced to use rather violent means.
Blood and entrails splattered across the ground. Severed heads gaped like dead fish, mouths hanging wide, their eyes gleaming with eerie light. Shards of bone clung to the muzzle of a bolter, while chunks of flesh slid slowly down the surface of power armor.
Hades swallowed hard.
Once he had confirmed every single one was executed, Garro stood within the Grave Wardens' cordon and loudly proclaimed the crimes of the condemned, as well as the Death Guard's judgment upon them.
It was certainly a good way to kill the chicken to scare the monkeys—but why did Hades feel a chill running down his own neck as well?
Better keep an eye on the veterans' mental health, he thought. Thankfully, Garro hadn't arranged the skulls into some grotesque display, nor indulged in wanton cruelty—though the spectacle was shocking enough as it was.
The blackest humor of all was this: perhaps because he had told Garro "both cleansing and education are necessary," Garro had actually ended his speech by thanking the law-abiding citizens, commending them for not causing trouble for the Death Guard.
Hades grimaced fiercely. He truly didn't know what to say about all of this, and could only stamp the report with a single word: [Approved].
Mortarion, on the other hand, seemed to be reading with great relish. If anything, his estimation of Garro appeared to rise even higher.
Don't reach consensus on something like this! Hades howled silently in his heart.
Fortunately, not long afterward, Vorx arrived, informing the Lord of Death that everything was prepared—he could meet the visitors at any time.
. . . .
The tall, middle-aged man took a deep breath, adjusted his coat once more, and unconsciously stamped his heel on the floor. The pressure of his leather shoes against his soles gave him a tiny sense of reassurance.
He was a representative from one of the minor death worlds. Their system was remote and barren; no one even remembered which ill-fated human expedition vessel had crashed there, leaving their ancestors to scratch out a living on that desolate rock.
There were other worlds scattered nearby, but every one of them was equally miserable. And after careful comparison, he had to admit his own world was the poorest of all.
They had no capacity to leave their system. When an Imperial survey vessel eventually stumbled upon them, they immediately submitted—praying and begging that this so-called "Imperium" might improve their lot, might grant them a scrap of technology.
But alas, after a few red-robed Mechanicus adepts disembarked, took some measurements, and declared the place devoid of resources—"a death world"—the ship merely dropped off a tithe notice before departing.
The locals stared dumbfounded at that slip of parchment. According to the Imperials, since the planet had no real resources, it fell under the lowest taxation tier. All they needed to deliver was manpower.
To say no curses were uttered at that point would have been a lie.
Still, the Imperials showed the faintest shred of mercy by leaving them with a long-range communicator. With nothing else to cling to, the people stationed guards around it day and night, listening to passing transmissions and teaching themselves High Gothic as best they could.
That was how they learned the name Barbarus.
For a long stretch, the channels had been boiling with news of it. Barbarus. Barbarus. Not a High Gothic word, yet repeated again and again in different voices, different tones, on different frequencies.
From fragments and scraps, they pieced together the truth: Barbarus was the homeworld of the Death Guard. It was now welcoming representatives from many worlds. The Death Guard sought to unite the region, to build some semblance of stability.
The locals glanced at one another. Perhaps the only thing their forsaken world could still claim was that the Imperium had defined it as an "independent world." That was, at least, something to bring to the table.
If no one came to their aid, the death world's own merciless environment would eventually see them extinct.
So, after conferring with the surrounding death worlds, they pooled together what meager resources they could and began bombarding the nearby star systems with transmissions using the communicator the Imperium had left behind. Eventually, they managed to summon a Rogue Trader fleet.
And that was how he ended up here.
At least he carried the name of a world with him. After his identity was confirmed, and after working aboard the trader's ship to scrape together the fare home, he was permitted to disembark on Barbarus.
To be honest, though, most of his fellow representatives were nobles from wealthy worlds, many with ships of their own. When standing among them, it was impossible for him to not feel small and out of place.
The true master of Barbarus had not yet arrived, and as time dragged on in waiting, his companions busied themselves—chatting with the red-robed Mechanicus adepts (he now knew they were "Magos"), scouting the human settlements for talent, or discussing trade with other off-world visitors.
And him? He had originally intended to look for work. He had heard there were plenty of laboring positions here, and being from a death world, if nothing else, he had strength.
But Lord Fuller stopped him.
Fuller was a rotund man with a perpetually smiling face. In the days before the Death Guard returned, it was Fuller who had liaised with them on behalf of the speechless Astartes.
It was said that Fuller had been personally chosen by the upper ranks of the Death Guard's administration. He was a capable man, often skilled at deflecting tension when discussions with the Martian priests grew heated.
The man from the death world had gone to Fuller intending to apply for a temporary residency permit on Planet 5, so he could work. But Fuller only smiled at him for a long moment before asking why he wanted to go there.
"To earn money," he replied honestly. He already had enough to cover his passage. What he wanted now was to buy a water-extraction technology being sold by a Mechanicus Magos. His world desperately needed it.
"How do you plan to earn money?" Fuller asked.
"By working," he answered.
It was as if Fuller had just heard the funniest joke in the galaxy. His eyes widened, and he burst into booming laughter, his rolls of flesh quivering with mirth.
"You'll kill me, boy. You're from a death world, aren't you? Let me give you a little advice."
Fuller lowered his voice.
"See those hive world ladies over there? The men will do too. Go chat them up. Make them happy, and the coin slipping from their fingers will be enough to buy you a ship outright. Working? You'll never save enough in your lifetime."
"Come on, come closer. I'll tell you exactly how to go about it. I know their type inside out. They love simpletons like you—"
That day, his entire worldview was turned upside down.
The good news, though, was that he did manage to close his deal with the Magos and bought himself some passable clothing as well.
After that, he cut off all such "contacts." For his world, he had already done his utmost. Now he just wanted to go back to working honestly. He couldn't stomach such thing any more.
The money might be little, but with the technology his world needed most secured, the rest could be managed slowly, in time.
But before he could act, the Death Guard returned. And the Lord of Death demanded to meet each world's representative personally.
He hesitated, thinking maybe he should just run. With the way he looked—and with his wretched homeworld—surely the Lord of Death would only scorn them.
Worse, rumor had it the Death Guard were merciless, and that the Primarch favored only the truly brave.
He thought back on his actions since arriving on Barbarus, and decided perhaps fleeing would be the wiser choice.
But once again, Lord Fuller sought him out—this time puffing and sweating as he whispered in his ear.
"Listen carefully. When the Primarch is present, you just say you're from a death world. Speak the truth, don't lie. But pay attention: there's usually a commander at his side. Once the Primarch leaves, if the commander asks you anything, then you tell him what you've been through on Barbarus. But don't ever mention it in front of the Primarch himself."
The man's eyes went wide.
"Wait—why are you helping me, Lord Fuller?"
Fuller waved his sweat-stained handkerchief at him dismissively and said,
"You folk from little backwater worlds all think the same way. I know you've got a whole planet standing behind you—so why not wise up a little instead of clinging to hard labor?"
"This isn't some tale of building from nothing. Let me tell you: the Lords of the Death Guard have more power than anyone you've ever met. They are beings who can overturn the heavens with one hand!"
"A single word from such a great figure can decide the fate of an entire world."
"All you need to do is catch their interest—offer them something of value. Do that, and they'll change everything: for you, for your whole world."
Fuller gave him a meaningful glance, then walked off without another word.
. . . .
He entered the great hall.
All the planetary representatives he had seen in earlier days were gathered there. But gone were the loud boasts and proud displays—now the room buzzed only with low, wavering whispers, anxious voices trading what scraps of information they possessed.
Two towering Death Guard stood guard before the inner chamber's door. From time to time someone would emerge, and another would be called within. Names were read out by planet.
Some came staggering out, nearly collapsing, while others shook so violently they could scarcely form a single coherent word.
The rest of the survivors looked on with dread, iMagosning what awaited them next. A few even tried to flee outright, only to be politely intercepted by Fuller at the entrance.
All eyes fixed upon the door to the inner chamber, as if blood might at any moment seep from beneath it.
He quietly poured himself a drink and sat in a shadowed corner, waiting anxiously for his turn before judgment.
"Eunistri."
At last his name was called. He drew in another deep breath and stepped through the door, brushing past one of the sobbing figures who was leaving.
"Greetings. Don't be nervous. You're the representative from Eunistri, yes?"
To his surprise, what lay beyond the door was not some dreadful chamber but a long corridor. A warrior taller even than the other Death Guard was smiling at him. Half of the man's head was a snarl of metal and scars.
"Y-yes, my lord," he stammered, hastening to answer as he fell into step beside the giant.
"I see you're from a death world. And you also represent three neighboring human worlds as well, is that correct?"
He nodded furiously, terrified of hesitating even for a moment. Fuller's advice had already been forgotten, cast far into the skies.
"I am Hades, commander of the Death Guard. Relax, relax, my friend. You're all far too nervous."
Their footsteps echoed slowly along the corridor.
"Tell me—what is it you and these four worlds hope to accomplish by coming here to Barbarus?"
The question caught him utterly off guard.
For as long as he could remember, coming to Barbarus had always been a vague concept. When his people sent him onto the ship, they hadn't told him what he should do, as if, once he arrived at Barbarus, the answers would simply appear on their own.
And in a sense, they had. When he first saw the Magos's machines, ideas did begin to form. But beyond that—
"I hadn't really thought about it, my lord."
Hades raised a brow.
This was the very first representative from a death world they were receiving—could he not start off by dropping a bomb like that?
Mortarion's patience had already been drained dry by endless talks with the hive world delegates, which was why Hades had called in a death world representative: to lighten the atmosphere a little.
"And what did you do once you arrived on Barbarus?"
"…Saved money. Bought a ticket home. And bought the water-extraction technology."
Now that's interesting, Hades thought.
"Water from stone—so your world is a planet of rock, is it?"
"Yes, my lord. On our world—"
Hades gently coaxed him onward. Compared with the smooth-tongued hive worlders, this man's words were far more direct, far less guarded.
Of course, no matter how carefully the hive world nobles dressed up their language, once they stood before Mortarion, the truth always spilled out anyway.
Then, trembling, they would be led out by Hades, who would seize the chance to pry further, to shape their thoughts.
The conniving Barbarusian.jpg.
Today was only reconnaissance. Later, based on the intelligence gathered, the representatives would be sorted and negotiated with accordingly.
As Hades pondered the earlier interviews, he continued to draw this man out without hurry. Most likely, the representative of Eunistri would be filed under conscription negotiation.
The man, stumbling over his words, nonetheless answered earnestly. He told the commander everything about their home: how survival there was brutally difficult, how he hoped the Lord might take pity and grant them some aid.
But he also couldn't help boasting of his people's cleverness and resilience. In that forsaken wasteland, they had endured, even built a few modest achievements. Perhaps to these warriors it was no more than mud forts, but to him, it mattered.
He went on and on, until he almost lost himself—he sounded as if he longed for home. But then Hades suddenly stopped walking, eyes gleaming as he fixed them upon him.
Before them stood another door.
"You are about to meet the Primarch," Hades said softly. "Relax. He will be pleased with you."
Hades gave him a warm smile, then pushed the door open.
Beyond lay the turning point of his life—and of his world's fate.
The Lord of Death gazed at him with deep interest.
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