Chapter 347: Ulanor Ashes
The Lord of Death stood silently upon the wasteland. Behind his pale and weary figure, his taciturn offspring stood just as still.
The wind blew, lifting the tattered grey cloak.
"This is intentional."
Mortarion's hoarse voice was carried away and broken by the wind, but Garro and Vorx behind him heard every word clearly.
His voice paused in his throat,
"That liar is leaving."
Beneath the shadow of his hood, in the deep hollows of his eyes, Mortarion gazed into the far distance, his expression unreadable. The Pale King could already picture the absurd, ridiculous scene.
There—at the very center of the war, the place where all stars gathered—the Master of Mankind and his most "favored" son were performing a dull drama, even though one of them remained entirely unaware.
Would the other brothers—those jealous, those defeated—feel as he did? Standing on the fringe of the battlefield, ankle-deep in the foul-smelling remains of greenskins, while their hearts hung desperately upon that place destined never to be theirs?
A derisive hiss came from beneath his toxin mask.
Mortarion had never believed in his sire's petty theatrics—someone who could set foot upon the highest peak of Barbarus without the slightest burden would not fall to orks. At least… not in such a pathetic manner.
When the Emperor looked to Horus with eager anticipation during every meeting of unification, Mortarion already knew where this would lead.
What troubled him was this: Mortarion knew Horus was not a shallow fool—yet where the Emperor was concerned… the Lupercal became terrifyingly stupid.
He was far too desperate for the Emperor's approval. They all knew the words of that liar were nothing but mockery.
But that was Horus's affair, and Mortarion cared not at all.
The Emperor personally staged a grand spectacle to raise his first-found son onto the pedestal of the Imperium—Mortarion could only take this as a signal, a sign that the symbol called "Emperor" was already beginning to dissolve.
No realm can have two sovereigns. The ascension of the child must mark the fading of the old king.
Mortarion tightened his grip on the scythe's haft. He did not care for the Warmaster, nor did he care for the Emperor in the slightest—but the problem was… where had Hades gone?
Mortarion had once stormed in, furious, demanding that Malcador tell him where his commander had been sent—but he received nothing but empty words.
So Mortarion chose a "good day." On the morning when several Legions were preparing for war, he barged directly into the Imperator Somnium. Custodians lay scattered across the corridor by the time he was done, and Mortarion succeeded in receiving a reply from the Emperor himself—You will meet again.
Contained within that reply was one crucial piece of information: Hades was still intact enough that Mortarion would recognize him.
The Lord of Death drew several deep breaths… Fine. He would accept that answer.
It was absolutely not because the Emperor's psychic radiance at that moment had been overwhelmingly oppressive. Mortarion had chosen that day precisely because the Emperor was occupied with gently comforting Horus—and that choice had been entirely intentional.
War—this is war. Mortarion refused to accept a stupid death… but he accepted death in battle. Such was the final destination of all living things—
Though he struggled to remain alive, dragging himself from ruins, gasping on the edge of death, surviving enemy orbital bombardment, stumbling out of sorcerous circles…
Mortarion simply knew that this was not his end. So he would keep living.
He also hoped… at least that Hades had not yet met his end. But if he had, then Mortarion could only offer his congratulations.
Congratulations laced with quiet sorrow.
Mortarion let out a cough that sounded like the death rattle of a dying man. He forced the thought from his mind.
He glanced into the distance, expression flat. The smoke of war still lingered, but Mortarion knew that this farce was over.
Golden light and cheers erupted from afar. The Lord of Death turned away without the slightest interest. He lowered his hand, signaling for his battle-worn Death Guard—as exhausted as he was—to withdraw.
. . .
It was a grand parade.
Held after the theatrical appointment of the Warmaster.
From the viewing platform, Mortarion listlessly swirled the wine in his glass, watching the endless ranks of warriors below distort into a ridiculous image through the curved crystal. His own Death Guard were among them—a fact that should have filled him with pride—yet Mortarion would much rather see his sons in the training yards… or even in the cafeteria. Anywhere but this.
Parades were akin to laying out one's guns for show. Mortarion had no patience for such stupidity.
Even so, his pistol—the Lantern—lay heavy at his side, giving the Lord of Death a sense of security. He was not the only one on this platform, after all.
Mortarion slouched motionless in the shadowed corner of a sofa. His brothers, with tacit understanding, ignored him—for he had already earned the reputation of the "ill-tempered recluse."
A reputation for which Mortarion was profoundly grateful.
He listened to Sanguinius and Fulgrim loudly discussing something. The angel seemed reserved enough—the flamboyant peacock was anything but. Fulgrim was loudly arguing the "reasonability" of Horus becoming Warmaster—a clumsy over-explanation that only revealed his true thoughts.
The Khan stood on the other side, occasionally interjecting into their conversation.
Aside from sharing blood and gene-stock, Mortarion had no interest in any of them. Thankfully, the angel chose to ignore him automatically. Fulgrim, however, seemed far too curious—though the aura of keep away or die radiating from Mortarion was doing a fine job of keeping him at bay for now.
The Khan seemed similarly indifferent, which was appreciated.
But there were more Primarchs in this world than just these few. Magnus—whose head Mortarion desperately wished to remove—was speaking with Horus.
Magnus had originally been chatting with the Khan and the angel, but the moment he sensed Mortarion heading toward this terrace, he wisely decided to seek out Horus instead—while Horus remained in his private chamber, attempting to digest the weight of his newly granted title.
Rumor had it that Lorgar would also be arriving soon. And amid the noise of Fulgrim's incessant chatter, Mortarion gathered that Lorgar and Magnus had somehow fallen into conversation en route.
Uninteresting.
Mortarion acknowledged only two Primarchs: Horus and Sanguinius. Whatever goodwill he'd once held for Horus had been entirely consumed by watching the Lupercal humiliate himself in front of the Emperor. As for the angel… Mortarion only knew he could defeat him.
Thus, he kept a careful distance—even though Sanguinius seemed to be making a considerable effort to prevent Fulgrim from redirecting his attention toward Mortarion.
But inevitably, Fulgrim arched a silver eyebrow, his violet eyes glittering with interest as he finally turned his gaze upon Mortarion.
Not good.
Mortarion thought grimly, silently praying the terrace wind might carry his toxic fumes over to that preening Phoenix and drive him away.
Unfortunately, Mortarion was no sorcerer; he could not change the wind. And so he realized—slowly, with dawning dread—that Fulgrim was looking directly at him… and speaking.
Fulgrim, it seemed, was enthralled by lively atmospheres.
Unlike the exaggerated voice he'd been using moments ago, Fulgrim's tone shifted—noticeably more natural, with less of that damned aristocratic air.
"Mortarion, I've heard you and Horus get along rather well. Have you prepared any gift for him?"
The Phoenician winked mischievously at Mortarion, as if genuinely looking forward to his response.
Mortarion remained perfectly still. His voice—like something that had been rotting dead for seven centuries—seeped out from within the armor.
"I do not have a good relationship with Horus."
Silence followed. Fulgrim waited for more—but clearly no more was coming, so he pressed on:
"But surely you've prepared something for Horus—"
Fulgrim grinned, "—or I should say, for the Warmaster?"
The corpse-like figure slowly shifted. Mortarion tapped the rows of vials and containers secured to his armor and rasped:
"I've been ready… ever since the first time I met Horus."
And every last one of them.
Mortarion added silently.
Perhaps because the answer was not at all what he expected, Fulgrim faltered for the briefest moment—then smoothly transitioned into talking about the gift he himself had prepared for the newly minted Warmaster. Considerately, he had also prepared a consolation gift for poor passed-over Ferrus.
Then came a flood of chatter—praising and detailing the gifts others had prepared. Even Jaghatai Khan—who Mortarion had moments ago been sure cared for none of this—had carefully arranged a surprise for Horus.
Good.
The attention drifted away from Mortarion once more.
He continued his performance as a silent corpse.
Footsteps approached—someone was coming upstairs.
Mortarion's hand slid a fraction closer to his pistol. If Magnus showed up, he would gladly greet him with two shots.
A figure appeared—not garishly red-haired. Mortarion exhaled in quiet disappointment.
Hidden behind hood and poison haze, he allowed himself to freely inspect the newcomer. A dark hood covered the face, the armor evoking some deranged ascetic. Golden runes carved across the features—holy, devout.
Two streaks of dried blood-tears down the cheeks—decoration, apparently.
Mortarion finished looking, then quietly shifted his gaze away.
"Lorgar?! I didn't expect you to come."
Fueled by habitually excessive enthusiasm, Fulgrim was first to greet their brother—though the strained undertone was evident. The Phoenician then mercifully fell silent—and it was the Khan who picked up the conversation.
Previously, it had been the angel and Fulgrim dominating talk, while the Khan and Mortarion rarely spoke. Yet the Khan's few words were always sharp and perceptive—enough to keep Mortarion listening.
So the Lord of Death now inclined his attention to their exchange.
The Khan gestured for a servitor to pour wine for Lorgar. Lorgar gave a bitter smile and waved it away—asking instead for a glass of plain water.
He lifted the glass, rasping:
"Forgive the discourtesy. Perhaps I should not be so ascetic on our dear brother's great occasion… but I have sworn a vow."
He raised the glass again, drinking the water as though it were wine.
The Khan straightened, looking closely at him.
"How have you been? The winds around you seem… stalled."
"Thank you for caring, brother."
Lorgar's reply was rough, as though his throat had been ruined:
"…I have simply seen… some truths."
Mortarion perked up slightly at the words.
"He is a god."
Mortarion immediately let out a dissatisfied grunt.
Foolish.
He began to regret paying attention at all.
But aside from Mortarion, the other Primarchs already knew of Lorgar's condition.
Lorgar worshipping their father—nothing new.
The Khan frowned, as though a horsefly had smacked him square in the face.
"A horse that only runs forward will break its legs in a mouse hole. You should look at other scenery, Lorgar."
Lorgar smiled faintly, as if he understood perfectly.
"I know what you mean, brother. But I cannot… I cannot express fully whatI have experienced. I have seen the other side of the page—the shadow behind the light. Gods do exist, truly… but not as I once imagined."
This time, the Khan's brow creased more sharply.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice—a tiger's growl beneath the words:
"Tell me, Lorgar… does this concern the warp?"
"You mean the Immaterium? No. It's unrelated. There is no psyker's craft in this. It is purely faith."
Lorgar replied with confusion, and when the Khan saw that reaction, he relaxed back into his seat again.
"I worried too much."
"Psykers… perhaps Magnus could speak with you. He was just trying to tell me about some new discovery he made concerning the warp."
Lorgar gave a bitter laugh—clearly recalling his earlier conversation with Magnus.
"He tried to analyze everything I endured through psychic means—but no. What I went through was a trial. A god's test of His believer. It is not merely the warp."
The Khan took a long drink, idly toying with the wolf fang tied to his armor.
"My words troubled you, brother?"
"No, not at all."
Lorgar apologized humbly at once.
Among the Primarchs, the one who worshipped the Emperor as a god was ironically the gentlest.
Perhaps that was why he could get along with the most arrogant of them—Magnus.
"But the warp is not the answer to everything, brother. Faith is."
The Khan made a vague sound of acknowledgment—more politeness than agreement.
Almost as though to rebut Magnus's earlier insistence on psyker theory, Lorgar continued:
"Faith is what allows humanity to exist in this vast universe. It teaches them what they are, and what they must do."
And yet, Magnus had earlier stood before him and declared that "faith is an ugly word."
Lorgar did not agree.
Did Magnus not treat the warp with near-religious reverence himself?
He simply had not recognized it as faith yet.
And surely, faith in the God-Emperor was far better than faith in the warp.
"Humanity needs belief—and must believe in what is right. The Word Bearers will spread truth across the stars."
Yet… most here knew well:
Planets converted by the Word Bearers were permitted to worship the Emperor as a god—until enough time had passed and the Imperial Truth arrived to "correct" them.
(Though what they understood now was already an outdated version.)
"Faith," the Khan said succinctly, "The only thing humanity needs faith in is the blade in their hand, the horse beneath them, and plains wide enough to run."
He raised his cup.
Lorgar clinked it.
The Khan drank—and continued:
"A man must build himself upon himself—not upon another."
Lorgar shook his head, firm yet soft.
"No. Not everyone is as sharp and wise as we are. People need something to anchor them—something to point their way forward. Without it, they would collapse, consumed by their own emptiness."
"Then let the fools die."
Every Primarch snapped their heads toward the voice—Mortarion had abruptly cut in, speaking with shocking bluntness.
"Have a little patience with humanity, Mortarion."
Fulgrim let out an exaggerated sigh. Sanguinius—the Angel—actually nodded, for once agreeing with Fulgrim.
"You are too pessimistic."
"I think I'm already optimistic enough."
Mortarion muttered gloomily. He raised a hand dismissively.
"Carry on. I'm not going to argue."
The Lord of Death slumped back in silence. Lorgar cast a few hesitant glances his way before deciding to resume the topic.
"We exist to save humanity—not destroy it, nor merely act as generals."
Lorgar exhaled softly.
"Our mission is salvation. The Emperor granted us that purpose."
Harsh, rattling breaths sounded from Mortarion's direction, but Lorgar ignored him. Compared with Magnus's bluntness, Mortarion's troubled breathing was hardly anything.
"I do not ask for your understanding, brothers. The keeper of truth always walks alone. None of you know the agony I have endured."
Jaghatai Khan took a casual sip of his drink.
"I too wish He cared for His sons, rather than delivering calamity."
"No,"
Lorgar turned sharply, meeting the Khan's gaze with unwavering conviction.
"Suffering also means redemption."
"There are only eagles soaring high over Chogoris. Nothing struggles in the dirt there. I cannot understand such things."
The Khan looked away, brushing the topic aside.
Lorgar paused. His brothers could not believe him. They respected him as kin—but never his beliefs.
To persuade them, he would need… different proof.
"I have seen more," Lorgar said slowly.
"More than just Him."
"I don't understand, brother."
"I merely state a fact."
Lorgar continued,
"Our father—the Emperor—has His left and right hands, extensions of His faith."
Sanguinius suddenly spoke up, "I assume you mean someone like Valdor, commander of the Custodes?"
Lorgar nodded, then shook his head.
"I did not see his true form, so I cannot reach a definite conclusion."
He hesitated.
"I felt the other side of the page—dark and oppressive."
Mortarion's attention sharpened.
"It was certainly not psyker power," Lorgar affirmed. "No psyker gives that feeling."
"It was death—death crashing against the soul like a tide."
Mortarion sat upright, drawing every eye toward him. When he said nothing, Lorgar pressed on:
"I am certain he will be the Emperor's extended will. With a black spear adorned by hellhounds, he judges the guilty—a religious symbol in itself. The truth is clear. Truth stands with me."
Mortarion rose stiffly to his feet and strode toward Lorgar, voice hardening at the end of his sentence:
"Tell me everything you know, my brother."
"My—"
Mortarion ground his teeth.
"Since when did my commander become the Emperor's will?"
Sanguinius wasn't the first to react—Fulgrim was.
The elegant Phoenician hurried to stand between the two, hands raised to hold them apart, especially Mortarion.
"I doubt Horus wants this to happen today."
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