Chapter 247: Dispute
"You are a psyker?"
The Pale King's gaze lifted from the gleaming golden floor. Mortarion narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing his brother—Magnus.
He was tall—taller than Mortarion himself, taller even than Vulkan whom he had once met.
He was tall, and massive.
That mane of wild, copper-red hair was like the ruff of some great beast. His skin burned with a crimson hue. He wore silken robes of ivory and dark green, with a cloak of golden feathers flowing down his back, ornamented with censers and sealed scrolls of parchment.
Great horns of black ebony curved toward the heavens, and at his side hung an immense tome, bound in chains of gold.
But what truly disturbed Mortarion—what truly unsettled him—was that smooth expanse of flesh upon his brother's face, where an eye should have been.
Was their creator, the Emperor, truly a monarch who delighted in making broken things?
No. Impossible.
Mortarion could perhaps sneer at the gaudy wings of the Angel as frivolous ornament, but Magnus's missing eye was something else entirely. It was not accident, not wound—there was no scar, no mark of violence. It was too smooth. Too deliberate.
There was another possibility.
Though Mortarion reviled sorcery, he had grown up beneath the shadow of his foster father, who had whispered profane knowledge into his ears. He knew enough.
Magnus had traded something away. He had given up his own flesh for power.
He was a sorcerer.
He. Is. A. Sorcerer.
Mortarion let his hand drift casually down toward the alien pistol at his belt—the Lantern. For this feast, the Primarchs had not been permitted to bear great weapons, only sidearms, while their guard details carried the rest.
He wanted to glance at Hades in the old tongue, but doing so now would be far too obvious. He restrained himself.
He would trust Hades' judgment. He was always more cautious with the Warp than he let on.
So Mortarion simply stood, waiting for Magnus's answer.
Perhaps, he thought, he was being too cautious. Perhaps this gathering was not doomed to disaster. The Angel and Guilliman had shown him that there might be another way.
Perhaps… optimism was not misplaced.
"Yes. I am a psyker."
Magnus laughed, full of pride, full of unshakable confidence.
"I am fortunate! Our Father granted me this gift. To possess it, to wield it, to study it—I can see the light, the radiant streams of wonder shining from the Warp itself!"
The Emperor made a sorcerer-son, Mortarion thought with rising irritation. Was Malcador not enough? Why this obsession with letting his children wallow in such misfortune?
Thank the stars the Emperor had not seen fit to afflict him with such a curse—no wings, no poisoned gifts like this.
And yet this brother of his… was proud of his deformity.
Fool, Mortarion thought bitterly. Pitiful, ignorant fool. Does he not know that sorcery ends only in ruin? Has no one warned him? Does the Emperor simply stand aside, watching his son slide into the abyss?
"The Warp sometimes gleams with beauty, Magnus… but in nature, it is often the most beautiful things that are the most lethal. We should not meet it with such optimism."
The Angel took a sip of wine, speaking in his unhurried way. Among those present, only he had noticed Mortarion's taut nerves—his deep loathing for psykers.
"Angel, when you admire Baal's sunsets, those breathtaking natural wonders—are they dangerous? These are gifts of nature to humanity. And the wonders of the Immaterium are far beyond even Baal's skies. They are miracles—treasures bestowed upon the wise."
Sanguinius set his cup down, his expression unchanged.
"You should not call the Warp a miracle. There are no gods."
Dorn cut in, his brows knit. The Primarch of the Imperial Fists had never held love for the Warp—too unstable, too perilous a force to trust.
"It was only a metaphor, Dorn," Magnus replied, irritation edging his voice. "Not everyone is like you, insisting on precise definitions for every word. When we speak of the Warp, knowledge carries emotion, not merely cold terms."
"Actually…"
The Angel's voice came slowly, unhurried.
"Baal's sunsets are deadly. It is Baal's toxic radiation fields that paint those skies with such richness, such depth beyond any other world."
Magnus made a sound of annoyance.
"Then perhaps another example. Not Baal. Another world, harmless—say, the sunsets of Macragge."
Guilliman blinked in surprise. He raised both hands toward the Angel, signaling that he meant no offense—that he had merely been dragged into the metaphor.
"Macragge's sunsets are beautiful. I'll grant you that. But I prefer the dawn."
"I agree with Guilliman," Dorn added. "I, too, prefer Macragge's dawn. At sunrise, men rise at the call of the sun to work. Orderly. Disciplined."
He had been to Macragge before. He and Guilliman—two minds inclined toward structure and order—always found common ground. Working with Guilliman was simple. Efficient.
And in the same way, Guilliman's Macragge mirrored the man himself: full of vitality and hope, yet perfectly ordered.
"It was merely an ill-suited metaphor!" Magnus snapped. "We need not linger over whose homeworld's sunsets are more beautiful—"
He could feel the discussion slipping away from his chosen subject. Unlike the Khan or Perturabo, his other brothers seemed determined to steer clear of the Warp. It was not indifference—it was malice, sharpened against Magnus himself.
"Barbarus is foul."
"Because of the Warp."
Mortarion's sudden words cut Magnus off, startling all present.
Magnus widened his single eye and turned toward his brother.
"The Warp polluted her. She was dying. Warp-lords spread their sorcery unchecked, and men were their currency—spent to amuse the foul denizens of the Immaterium."
His voice was level, steady.
"On Barbarus, the most common, the lowest form of sorcery was the resurrection-rite. The overlords would take the strongest men, carve them apart, stitch together their finest pieces with twine, then channel the Warp—granting these corpse-heaps a grotesque semblance of life. Puppets."
The smiles froze on the lips of Guilliman and the Angel. Still, Mortarion spoke on, unflinching.
"Sorcery is evil. The Warp is foul."
"On Barbarus, every lord who did not fall in war eventually ended the same way—sacrificing themselves to the Immaterium, consumed by madness, perishing in blasphemy."
"Before you are devoured by sorcery and the Warp, turn away from it."
Mortarion met Magnus's gaze—eye to eye. In that solitary golden iris of Magnus, shards of broken, dark-amber light flickered. His pupil gleamed faint gold.
Mortarion repeated himself, slowly, clearly:
"Before it devours you, Magnus—turn away."
"I do not know—" he went on, voice low, "why the Emperor has shackled you with this torment. He may be a tyrant. But you need not heed him."
But his words were cut short.
Magnus rose abruptly, fury blazing. His mane of crimson hair whipped wildly, his towering form seeming to swell larger still. The twin ebony horns upon his head angled like spears toward Mortarion.
"What did you say?"
"Because all you have seen are ignorant tyrants wielding the Warp as a whip, you presume to condemn it entire?"
Magnus strode forward, looming over him, shadow falling across Mortarion's pale frame.
A single strand of crimson hair drifted down, landing in Mortarion's bowl of bean-broth. The bloated swamp-toad within gave a shrill scream and vanished beneath the surface with a splash.
Mortarion drew in a long, shuddering breath, his respirator groaning like a dying beast.
Magnus was taller. Stronger. And he wielded the Warp.
Mortarion was not certain he could best him. Perhaps, if some of the others who despised sorcery acted in unison, there might be a chance.
Silently, he rose from his seat. He too was tall—though not so towering as Magnus, the oppressive weight of the Lord of Death was its own weapon.
Fortune favored him—his chair stood at the edge of the long banquet table. One heavy step forward, and nothing would stand between them.
Somewhere, someone screamed. It no longer mattered. The surrounding clamor grew muffled, distant, shrinking into irrelevance. His private vox-channel crackled with static, unheard. Mortarion's gaze never left Magnus.
Dorn was shouting—furious, commanding them to stop. Guilliman's voice, for the first time, carried panic.
The Angel's tones were absent. Perhaps he had withdrawn; Mortarion did not care.
The Angel's wineglass tilted, crimson liquid trembling as he glanced to the far end of the hall. The seat was empty now.
"Apologize to me," Magnus growled, voice like thunder rumbling through his chest. "Apologize for insulting the Warp and those who wield it."
From his throat came a low, resonant roar of fury.
"I was a fool to expect more from you. Another primitive—an evolutionary castoff."
"No."
Mortarion's reply was soft, but resolute.
"I stand by my words. All psykers deserve the noose, even if now our Imperium still finds use for them."
His words were answered by the surge of psychic power—arc lightning dancing along Magnus's arm, crackling arcs that scorched the air.
Mortarion's hand opened, palm outstretched.
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