Renegades Of The Long War by Anthony Reynolds

Author:Anthony Reynolds
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2022-12-20T16:18:24+00:00

CHAPTER 11

There were thirty-seven XII Legion warriors present, all of them standing in a rough circle. This was the Enclave – or at least, what was left of it. Only two of their number were of flesh and blood. The others were flickering blue-grey images, hololiths rendered in three dimensions, other captains and ranking officers spread across what remained of the World Eaters fleet.

Brond glared over at the space where Dreagher should have been. It was currently occupied by the Blood Priest. With the death of Khrast, Baruda was next in command of the Ninth.

‘Where the hell is he?’ Brond had snarled at Baruda before the Enclave had gone live.

‘I don’t know,’ Baruda had replied. ‘He is not responding.’

‘Support me,’ Brond had said, stabbing a finger towards Baruda as the first of the ghostly hololith images began to form. ‘That is your role here. That is what Dreagher would want.’

‘Do not seek to use me as your pawn, Brond,’ replied Baruda. ‘I know that you have tried to urge Dreagher to split the Ninth from the Legion, to go our own way with you and yours. You’ve never been able to accept what we are. I will commit to nothing you suggest.’

‘The way things are headed, that is the only logical way forward,’ said Brond. ‘I have no faith that this Enclave will set us on a path other than one of self-destruction.’

‘The Brazen Lord cares not whence the blood flows, only that it does,’ said Baruda.

Now that the Enclave had begun, he and Baruda stood some way apart from each other. Both he and the stand-in commander of the Ninth had their own entourage arrayed behind them; advisors, lieutenants, chosen warriors, menials, servitors. These all stood back. They would not appear in the hololith circles on the other ships.

The circle was the same diameter it had always been. Each individual stood in his traditional place, representing a different company. There were many gaps. Too many.

One gap was more conspicuous than the others.

Of course, it had always been rare for Angron to bother making an appearance at these war meets – this was more a hangover from the War Hounds than a practice much favoured after the Legion was reunited with its primarch – but the tradition had never officially been discontinued.

Some of the hololiths were almost perfect representations, showing every tiny detail and nuance of expression. Others were crackling and distorted, their feed interrupted by static and interference.

The Devourer Goghur dominated the gathering, both politically and in sheer bulk. Bedecked in his hulking Cataphractii armour, he stood half a head taller than most of the others. The fact that he had no real place at this circle – he was not even a captain – seemed not to bother most of those gathered there.

It was Jareg, the Master Shellsmith, who currently held the floor. He alone was able to match Goghur’s sheer bulk, his own mostly mechanised frame augmented with the various arms and mechadendrites of his servo-harness.

‘The Legion war machines are ready to be fielded,’ he was saying.

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