Chapter 213 The Battle of Macragge (7)
"Who are you!" Robert Guilliman raised the pretender's chin with the sword in his hand and shouted angrily.
His short sword should be considered a great sword for an Astartes' size. The pressure of the blade drew blood from the pretender's skin, and coupled with the wounds from the previous gunshot wound, the bloody smell spread quickly, amplifying its own presence in the Primarch's senses.
Guilliman could smell the special smell caused by the many genetic surgeries in the Pretender's blood, which while confirming his identity as a Space Marine, brought him deeper anger.
He put away his dagger and supported his still exhausted body, "Why did you choose to betray? Who gave you the instructions!"
"I am Alpharius." The pretender repeated this sentence, as if this sentence had explained all the mysteries, or he did not know any more secrets.
Guilliman quickly realized that the term here did not refer to a person's name, but to a certain concept or an organization. His eyes slid across Perturabo's face, and then settled on the craftsman Morse beside him.
There is no doubt that Morse's words and actions have proven that he knows something about "Alpharis".
"I only know Alpharius himself, Robert Guilliman." Mors noticed his gaze and said coldly, "A viper in the dark, a dagger in the shadow, an actor outside the theater . I don’t know much about him, and perhaps his most famous achievement is sneaking into the Palace of Terra, killing a Custodian, seizing his weapons, and fighting against the Custodian Commander Constantine Valdor.”
"Is he still alive?" Perturabo's eyebrows furrowed further. According to his understanding of the empire, there was almost no possibility of a person who killed the Imperial Guard and was not hunted to death by the group of watchmen.
"Yes, because the Emperor still needs Alpharius to work for him." Morse replied, "The Emperor and Malcador hope that he will become the invisible spear and hidden weapon of the Empire, and complete the most secret tasks in the Great Crusade. , not only unfit to be revealed, but even unfit to have ever existed."
"But he invaded Terra's palace and killed the Emperor's Praetorian Guards." Robert Guilliman was hard pressed. Imagine saying, "The Emperor is so tolerant that he can accept such a sinful loyalty?"
Morse walked around Robert's desk and clasped his fingers on the kneeling and bound Star. On the warrior's face, runes emerged from under the black cloth: "He is forgiven not because of anyone's tolerance, Primarch. He is forgiven because he is your brother."
Pertura Bo tightened Staring at the warrior who called himself Alpharius: "Our brother? We... have another brother?"
Morse let go of his hand and let the unconscious Space Marine fall to the ground. "This warrior has only seen the real Alpharius once. I must criticize his current secret network of spies for being too covert in the balanced tree communication mechanism. As long as one upper-level node is usurped, the orders received by the entire branch cannot be falsified. Also Yes, we have a brother.”
"You read his memory?" Robert asked, with a rather bad expression, "So..."
"Iote Capa never existed." Morse said, "But for you The loyalty of the dead warrior need not be questioned."
"Who deceived these subordinates of Alpharius? If my brother had the discernment of a mortal, he would not order the use of a single person. The soldiers carried out the assassination. "
Perturabo said, quickly inferring part of the truth, while the other part of the reasoning holes caused by the lack of clues knocked on his nerves, forcing him to go at high speed over and over again. Review all the details he may have missed. He must order himself to stop digging every millisecond into futile attempts at secrets that do not exist.
"He almost succeeded." Robert Guilliman said softly. "Perhaps their assassination has already been successful... How long do we have before we can return to Macragge!"
——
Macragge waited in silence.
This means that the flames of war have burned out, and the dust shaped by fire and smoke is falling from the sky, suffocating the ruins reduced to wreckage.
The streets were empty. The smoke and dust after the war made the afternoon roads as dim as evening. The trees on the roadside fell down, their roots were uprooted from the soil, and hung together with the hanging transmission cables. The steel bars of the houses were tied to the building materials and were peeled off from the walls. The shattered doors and windows left deep, dark, square holes in the walls of the residents. Sparse artillery fire occasionally exploded in a remote corner of the city, and golden-white fireballs briefly lit up between the houses, bringing a dull explosion.
These lands were taken back by the Macragge government half a month ago, waiting for future redistribution. What is needed here now is reconstruction.
The armor and corpses left behind by the troops loyal to Gloriosa, Libanus, and Palatinas and Conor's troops were spread on the side of the avenue. After Guilliman recognized the signs of the Guards, he felt that he was being torn away from reality by an extremely strong sense of unreality.
He allowed half of himself to pay attention to the armored vehicles driving on the street, even though there were no more panicked pedestrians blocking the road; the other half was immersed in multiple pains and complicated thoughts.
In theory, in books, and in debates, he had seen too many ugly rebellions breaking out over money, power, and status. But he didn't really understand why humans, as an intelligent race, would be beguiled by these barbaric, superficial and meaningless terms, so much so that they would rather give up those truly noble, wise and profound concepts.
When his steward Sarasha taught him some prayers of meditation, Robert Guilliman did not feel the need to use them. Now he began to recite those ancient words silently, trying to keep the worries that troubled him away from a mind in desperate need of reason.
But where is Conor Guilliman? Where is Tarasha Euton?
He closed his eyes.
Konnor was a diligent ruler who spent too much time in front of his ancient cogitator, buried in data and decrees. In the rest of his time, he spent too much time wandering in the corridors of the inner court, looking at each other with the war kings of the past generations and introspecting his heart.
"Go to the Councilor's Chamber," Guilliman said.
"Quickly," Perturabo whispered, "before death happens."
Although the Iron Lord's face was completely unchanged, Robert felt a difference The weight of time was falling on his brother, and his pair of ice-like light eyes seemed to be reflecting another dying city.
Approaching the Councilor's Hall and entering the long and narrow walkway, they left the vehicle. Guilliman named several Ultramarines to follow. Perturabo took no one with him except Mors.
The labyrinth garden outside the Councilor's Hall has now collapsed into dilapidated ruins, and the blood from the corpses fills the fountain. The extinguished ashes fell to the marble floor, and billowing black smoke covered the cross-section wounds that broke the mortal limbs. Dried blood is like rust, but it sticks to the surface of the stone tablet.
Guilliman paused beside the broken corpse, his eyes passing through the reflection in the pool, stopping at the wound of the deceased - for a moment he noticed that his reflection was not wearing a crown, and Petu Rabo's cables were rarely entangled with his hair and were scattered together.
"I believe the person you are looking for still has a chance." Perturabo said, his voice as tough as iron, "Not every leader will die in the rebellion."
" No, look at the bodies," Guilliman said softly, "the way these Garlan soldiers died."
Perturabo gritted his teeth, seeming to be shaking off some old shadows. "Sorry. Hatchet, chains... The World Eater has been here!"
"He came, and went to the Councilor's Hall." Morse said, runes looming in the corners of his dark robes. This is the first time he speaks today. His voice became strange and contained a strange hoarseness, due to damage to his larynx. He gave no explanation for this.
"We will go," Guilliman said.
They never encountered a living enemy, and the World Eaters killed all those who stood in their way. The closer we get to the Counselor's Hall, the more corpses appear on the ground. Blood solidifies on the steps into a filthy red carpet. Broken bones are brutally crushed, along with torn leather armor and broken and twisted guns. The tubes were squished together into a puddle of debris, the damage caused by explosive bombs and power weapon fields easily identifiable.
The World Eaters' violence never went away, they just learned how to control themselves. As fury infuses their actions, the War Hound's full character returns with every swing.
Angron had been here before them. Guilliman was initially delighted that one of the Primarchs had returned to Macragge before they could. But another possibility quickly entered his mind: Maybe Angron still wasn't fast enough. They walked up the steps. The foyer outside the counselor's hall was much cleaner than the outside. There were no dead people, there were few bloodstains, and some blackened marks remained on the white walls where long carpets and murals were once hung. Dim light and empty silence sealed the place together.
The Astartes' boots left footprints, making their movements clearer.
A few hours ago, they arrived here without fighting, and then they left, as if there was no longer any value in staying here, everything that should have happened had already happened, and all the disasters had already passed into death. the end point.
Guilliman shook his head, and the panic and anger that surged from his soul were quickly suppressed: "Father's room is upstairs."
Perturabo said nothing and took a few steps up the stairs with Guilliman.
The long and dark corridor shortened under their footsteps. The closer they got to Connor's room, the more coke was burned around them. The carbonized dust at extremely high temperatures was in the airflow caused by their running. Raised, turning the corridor into a pipe filled with black ash. Behind the ashes, you can vaguely make out the ceiling-high bookshelves, ancient paintings and crumbling statues surrounded by plaster statues of angels. The remaining warmth of the ashes cooled in the darkness.
The footsteps of the World Eaters accompanies their progress, leaving behind bloody guidance.
The surroundings were eerily quiet, quiet enough for Robert Guilliman to hear the blood flowing in his temples.
The total amount of ashes on the ground is far more than the dust that can remain in the destroyed books and collections. Man, a word jumped into his heart. Many people died in this long-extinguished flame, burned so thoroughly. , so that not even an odor remains except for incombustible impurities.
What kind of flame can burn everything to the point where nothing remains?
The door of Conor Guilliman's room was closed tightly at the end of the dark corridor. There was no sound of continuous fighting or the crackling sound of burning air, but the traces left by the burning fire were worse than the darkness. The lighting environment is deeper, spreading from the inside out along the closed door crack, announcing a silent ending.
He suddenly remembered that many years ago, when he was five years old, Connaught and he were far away from the city-state and politics, hunting under the beautiful Crown Mountain. That day, Connuo accidentally fell down, covering the accidental wound on his arm, telling all mortals that they will die one day, and then smiled at him. Macragge still stands, Conor said. As long as it lasts, you will never be alone.
He suddenly felt so small. Small, failed, unforgivable. Parts of him were breaking, damaged by swelling rage and bone-crushing pain.
Robert Guilliman put his hand on the door handle, not knowing what else he could expect before pushing it open. The coldness of the iron penetrated deep into his skin. He touched it and knew that the mechanical structure inside the door lock had been damaged.
"Go." Perturabo said softly. Even in the dark, with the eyesight of the Primarch, he could still see his expressionless face, and his eyes were flashing with indiscernible emotions. "Nothing can be worse than what you predict."
Robert Guilliman turned the handle and felt a sting in his open eyes.
Then, he found that the front of his boots was lit by a ray of light that suddenly overflowed from the open door, bright, clean, warm and familiar. It was the electric lamp that Connuo would turn on when he was working. The color was slightly warmer yellow, which helped him find sobriety during the day while dealing with government affairs all night long.
His heartbeat quickened immediately.
The door was opened, and bright light poured out generously from the door, like a waterfall, instantly immersing Robert Guilliman in the warm-toned light like sunlight. The splendid office of the Archon is as clean as new, and the shining furnishings of ivory and gold are placed safely in place. The large glass on the oak bookshelf reflects the white paper, scrolls, and a vintage large square meditator on the desk. All kinds of huge brown wooden furniture designed to adapt to the size of the original body are still there, illuminated by smooth transparent paint, adding scattered vitality to this miraculously bright room.
Conor Guilliman stood behind the table, neatly dressed, with few scratches on his fine armor, tired, but intact.
His stern expression relaxed the moment he saw Robert. The Archon lowered his hands and raised his carbine aimed at the door, stepped around some objects, and walked over to Robert.
"Garland has rebelled," he said, in a voice so cordial, not to mention the unpleasant semantic content, that Robert suspected he had fallen into another overly beautiful fantasy, one that told A perfect fairy tale for children.
Robert swayed, knelt down on one knee in front of his adoptive father, and looked directly into the eyes of a mortal who was no longer young but still clear. The rising anger hidden in his heart was instantly extinguished, but the sobs in his throat could not be stopped for a long time. Disperse.
He looked around helplessly and finally found some clues remaining from the battle.
A statue in the interior was moved from the east side to the west side, covering a small area of carpet that had been burned. The arms of the wood-carved statue were once broken and were temporarily re-fixed with glue. There were too few documents on the table, and the small trash bin was filled with burnt paper and broken glass.
This cannot be the result of Connaught taking care of it alone, someone helped him.
"Robert," Connor hugged his adopted son and held his hand, "you are here."
"But..." Robert asked blankly, suddenly feeling Something touched his leg. He turned around and saw something beyond his imagination.
A small chess piece, carved into a white tower, should have been the same as any ordinary chess piece on the table, but now two slender white hands appeared out of thin air, holding a piece of steel. The little washed rag tried to move Guilliman's legs away from the path it was wiping.
He immediately stood up from the ground and made way for the small chess piece. The tower bowed to him vividly, diligently wiping away the remaining dust and blood on the ground.
A black chess soldier jumped hard onto the armrest of Connuo's chair, jumped onto the table with the help of the elasticity of the fabric on the armrest, and moved slowly into the open chess box.
Perhaps it finally completed its duty. It put down its miniature gun, lay down consciously, and stopped moving. The extremely shallow golden light on its body quietly dissipated.
It's like a silent trumpet blowing, or a calling bell that ends magic. On bookshelves, carpets, behind flower pots, on chandeliers... Thirty black and white chess pieces suddenly appeared from various inconspicuous corners of Connuo's office, jumping around to find a suitable path, and ran back to the boxes where they should stay, standing straight. The flexible and delicate little body transforms back into what a normal handicraft should look like.
The white tower, which was delayed by Guilliman, quickly completed the final cleaning work and walked around carrying a small rag. Guilliman let it run into his palm and helped it return to the box.
"They are..." Guilliman swallowed.
"Soldier, Tower, Priest, Rider, Steward, King." Conor said, looking at Morse.
Morse covered his mouth and coughed twice, pinched his throat, and his voice returned to its original state. "Is this cheating?" he asked.
"I don't think so, sir." Connor bowed his head in thanks.
Robert Guilliman immediately understood the origin of those flames. He had seen that kind of fire once. Morse had used that nameless golden-blue fire to burn the orc hulk blocking their progress in the subspace channel to ashes.
He simply couldn't find the words to express his gratitude, so he could only send Morse his most sincere look with deep gratitude. Then something important suddenly hit him.
"Where is Ms. Euton?" Robert asked, his heart rising again.
"She was not with me when the rebellion broke out." Connuo's expression darkened.
"Your brother Angron has been here, and he should go look for her now. However, you have to be careful, Robert." His eyes glanced at the remaining ashes in the wastebasket. "The ones who attacked me...should not be all humans."
(End of this chapter)