Chapter 252: Malcador, oh Malcador
The ripples of the farce still lingered, but perhaps because the scene had been too awkward, the departing Primarchs all tacitly chose silence.
The Rangdan Xenocide finally came to its close: one Legion was permanently erased from history, while the Dark Angels suffered grievous losses, retreating halfway from the gladiatorial arena of the [Warmaster] contest.
Not long after, both the Ultramarines and the Imperial Fists embarked on massive expansions. Guilliman's Legion even swelled to a terrifying number of 250,000.
The Thousand Sons received a warning from Malcador. Long before that, the keen noses of the Space Wolves had already caught an unusual taint clinging to the Thousand Sons.
Malcador's warning drew suspicion into the eyes of the Wolves. At the same time, the Crimson King—humiliated at the banquet by the Lord of Death—chose silence, avoiding the Wolves as much as possible while continuing his own campaign.
The Blood Angels, too, received a letter from Malcador. Beneath the man's rambling and evasive words, the old regent—never beloved by the Primarchs—offered the Angel his consolations.
Because the Lion's forces had been so badly damaged, the title of [Warmaster] ultimately narrowed to two candidates: Horus Lupercal and Ferrus Manus. Neither voiced any comment, continuing to lead their Legions with methodical precision.
Of course, after the banquet, the Death Guard faded from the sight of most other Legions. Much like their Primarch Mortarion himself, this drab, gray Legion buried itself in the galaxy, avoiding cooperation whenever possible.
Though at times, their routes overlapped with other Legions, leading to occasional cooperation.
The events of the banquet, heavily edited though they were, eventually circulated within the small circle of the Primarchs.
Apart from Horus, those who had met Mortarion did not speak of him with much admiration—
A strange man: moody, fond of mockery, yet not a king of sophistry upon a high throne.
Unspoken yet tacitly agreed—Mortarion was dull, and, having failed to find any true friends among his brothers, the Fourteenth Legion was rarely a subject of conversation.
The arrival of new brothers drew far more attention.
Perhaps because the Death Guard's KPI had indeed been respectable, the Imperium granted them a rare allowance of rest and recuperation.
After all, it was the Death Guard who had intercepted and annihilated two xenos species at Rust, successfully preserving the worlds of the Rust System.
Of course, Hades believed his own "petition letter" had also played a role.
After Malcador's shameless maneuvering, Hades had written with tears in his eyes, vividly describing the poverty and destitution of the Death Guard—their utter lack of everything.
Naturally, Hades had slipped in a few other things as well—little anecdotes about various Primarchs and Legions he knew of.
If the Emperor wouldn't care, then he would hand it all over to Malcador instead!
Hades would never admit this was an attempt to dig a pit for Malcador to fall into.
To prevent alteration or suppression, the letter was sent aboard the Imperium's largest Black Ship, accompanied by Jin and two of Hades's Wraith Knights.
Ah, his Knights~
Hades nearly wept his heart out.
Since he possesses much knowledge of blackstone, Jin would serve both Terra's blanks and Malcador.
Malcador promised that Jin would gain access to Terran technology—after all, upon Terra were kept great treasures like the Psi-Titans.
Compared to Knights, the construction of Titans was on a completely different level, they are the crowning jewels of humanity's industry and science.
Hades reluctantly realized that once again, Malcador had dangled a carrot before him—tying it to his head to make him pull the millstone faster.
Still, doing the work didn't conflict with becoming stronger.
As for Mortarion, the Primarch remained perplexed about the Custodians' words. Hades simply handed him the letter Malcador had sent.
Mortarion read the entire letter with a frown that never once left his face. In the end, he realized that failing to strike down Malcador back on Terra had been a mistake—a failed decision.
He and Hades spent half the night cursing Malcador, and eventually reached a consensus on how to deal with him in the future.
Next time an argument broke out, Mortarion would charge straight in to cut Malcador down, while Hades would simply play blind—pretend to see nothing, and not intervene.
Ahem. Of course, things like secretly firing a shot from the shadows? That wouldn't happen.
Though Hades knew full well that the likely outcome was Mortarion getting beaten bloody with Malcador's hand on his scruff.
Still, what if Mortarion actually won?
"Go on, Mortarion—you've got this," Hades thought. He would provide every kind of support… except actual support.
Aside from venting about Malcador, the Death Guard were, for the moment, relatively idle. Perhaps their dark reputation had finally spread—other Legions no longer pestered them much, and in the sector near the banquet's events, dealings between the Death Guard and ordinary humans became smoother and simpler.
The Rust system was still in recovery, but the forges of its Mechanicum world were already crammed with ships—some captured in the purging of the two xenos species, some simply handed over by the Imperium.
Hades could guess well enough who those ships used to belong to.
The Ultramarines and Imperial Fists had absorbed the warriors of the vanished Legion, while the Death Guard had absorbed their ships.
Of course, these vessels had already been stripped bare by the Imperium—emptied to their skeletal hulls, without even crews left aboard.
But having something was still better than nothing.
Hades mused that he could always break a few down and stitch together one proper warship of his own—because by the time Rust fully restored production and began building new ships, it might already be too late.
The Death Guard's fleet drifted in orbit above Rust's primary world, while the Legion's commanders wandered among the vessels, picking out their favorites.
The rest—the Grave Wardens and Death Guard alike—remained planetside, assisting the Mechanicum Magos in restoring industry. This time, Hades gave explicit orders to watch for seditious talk within the Legion: no religious rumors, and no fostering of irreverent mockery of faith either.
Imperial Truth, boy!
It was false, of course—but at least it fit this version of history.
And Mortarion? The Primarch seemed to have eased off his old obsession with recruitment-world orthodoxy, perhaps because Galaspar had been added to the Death Guard's recruitment worlds.
Or perhaps Mortarion had realized that what the Legion needed most right now was production and growth.
Warriors, firepower, blades—the more, the better.
The Lord of Death was now in negotiations with Rust's Forge World, seeking to add the planet itself to the Death Guard's recruitment domains.
When it came to Legion manpower, Mortarion was always hands-on.
During his fleet's earlier campaign against the Mekanic, Mortarion had been deeply impressed by the people of Rust's seventh mining moon.
Because of its harsh terrain, the Mechanicum there had never developed large-scale automated extraction. Crude manual mining remained the norm.
(Perhaps the cogboys had simply calculated that manual labor was still cheaper and more efficient.)
The people of that moon survived by extracting ore, trading it to the Tech-Priests for supplies, and spending their lives in the maze-like shafts beneath the planetary crust.
When the xenos vessels descended, they had taken up their mining picks and used the labyrinthine tunnels to harry the invaders. Even in conditions of brutal scarcity, they had displayed staggering tenacity and ferocity.
This, the Lord of Death found most satisfactory.
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