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Rogal Dorn: The Emperor’s Crusader – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Two pairs of eyes looked up through the clouds of Terra, as if to pierce the vast distances of the Solar System and the veil of warp space itself. They had looked on more than twice a human lifetime’s worth of death and destruction, and yet what was to come would eclipse everything they had seen before.

He was nearly here. The one that had been called Warmaster. The Traitor.

Horus.

With him came an armada that dwarfed even the largest endeavour of the Great Crusade. Soon, the two heroes amongst heroes would be accompanying their primarch back into space, ready to contest the void against the ships and warriors of the traitor fleets. For now, though, a few rare minutes of contemplation were shared by two battle-brothers who had been apart as much as together yet were bonded in ways neither could explain. The road they had travelled had followed much the same course but ended in two very different destinations.

‘Why us?’ Fafnir Rann asked the emptiness.

‘You know better than to ask such questions,’ replied Sigismund. ‘Madness to search for truths that don’t exist.’

Rann turned his head to look at his companion, mouth half-open, his expression a contested land in a battle between humour and incredulity.

‘You say that, of all people…’ Rann gaped before he saw a telltale flicker in his companion’s eyes. An exceedingly rare moment of jest. He shook his head.

Sigismund’s humour faded as he turned his cool gaze on Rann.

‘Why do you look for meaning?’ he asked. ‘It is not in your nature to question the course of life’s river.’

‘The question wasn’t of the future flow, but of the course already carved.’ Rann took a deep breath. The air was thick with the fumes of war industry and the dust of construction. If he tried really hard, he could pretend he remembered what the chilling, clean air of Inwit’s ice cities tasted like. ‘How did we end up here, on this wall, and not out there with the other Legions?’

‘By the will of the Emperor, of course,’ said Sigismund. He stepped forward to the ferrocrete rampart and looked down. Engines chugging, a line of twelve Leman Russ battle tanks snaked along a causeway from the gate, heading for mustering yards a hundred kilometres to the east. The paint on them was already darkening in the smog. ‘After Ullanor, when the Emperor withdrew to His works beneath the Palace, Dorn was given command of Terra. So here we are.’

‘You still misunderstand me, brother.’ Rann banged a fist on the crenellation. ‘Though it proved bad, we knew at the time why Horus was made Warmaster. The best of the primarchs, it seemed. Forthright, beloved by his brothers, capable. There had to be an equal reason why the Emperor chose Dorn to return to Terra. Why not Sanguinius, whom we all would follow? Or Guilliman? What better primarch than the architect of the Five Hundred Worlds to sit upon the Council of Terra?’ He dropped his voice. ‘Or even Perturabo, if the Emperor were inclined to a castellan who would defend His homelands – though unequal in temperament, one matched almost in accomplishment to our gene-father.’

‘A match that will be tested very soon,’ growled Sigismund.

‘Why any of them, when the Great Crusade was unfinished?’ Rann almost paid no heed now to his fellow Imperial Fist, caught up in his wondering. ‘Malcador as Regent, why bring a warlord, and why the Lord Dorn?’

‘Because He did not want a statesman, or a castellan, or a chancellor. I cannot believe the Emperor had any premonition of the calamity that has befallen us, so it was not for siegecraft that our gene-father was chosen. Have you wondered what our lord’s brothers would have done, had any of them been asked to return to Terra to babysit a council of administrators and tax collectors? Would Guilliman have wanted to interfere with that process? What of the temperament of Perturabo, the paranoia of being overlooked growing stronger ever day? Sanguinius, chained to a palatial cell rather than taking his glory to the far distances of the galaxy?’

‘I see your point.’ Rann rubbed the back of his hand across his scarred cheek, memories stirred. ‘Duty to the Emperor above all else. Our lord proved that at Compliance Nine Forty-Three.’

‘Because he allowed Fulgrim the honour of breaking the ork stronghold? Perhaps, but Dorn proved to the Emperor that he was the most dutiful before then – at Thysson’s Sound, when Angron pursued the enemy into the gulf of stars, and we remained to protect his supply lines.’

‘Being dependable isn’t always about staying behind. Remember when Lord Dorn led the first attack on Epelliant Helos even though the fleet wasn’t fully assembled?’ Rann’s gaze moved to the horizon, remembering those days of bloody urban fighting. The campaign had cut off a burgeoning enemy counter-attack, which would have been disastrous for the Imperial forces had it gained momentum. ‘We lost many legionaries. Lord Dorn knew the cost and still acted.’

‘Rogal Dorn has been the Praetorian of the Emperor for a long time.’ A voice drifted from a shadowed doorway behind them. ‘Long before even he realised it. It was already clear to the Emperor after the Night Crusade, one hundred and sixty-five years ago.’

It could have been a year or a second since the Spaetum assault ram had launched. Ghosting across the void on inertia alone brought a motionless, timeless quality, not even disturbed by the rumble of the ram’s attitude jets now that it was set on its course. There were six other assault craft, three ahead by thirty seconds and two keeping pace with the ram that Rann was aboard. Back on the Terran Messenger there would be frantic activity: void shield generators overloading, crash doors closing, damage control teams racing from place to place. Somewhere ahead, a few hundred kilometres away, the enemy station continued to unleash its ire as devastating blasts of las-energy. But not here. Here, all was silence and stillness.

Sat encased in his armour, in turn cocooned within the thick, armoured hull of the Spaetum, Fafnir Rann kept his eyes closed, resisting the urge to glance at his helm-display chronogauge. For a few minutes there was nothing to do but wait, and he took pleasure in the detachment.

There was nothing to say. His warriors and the other squad sharing the cramped confines of the boarding vehicle knew exactly what to do and when. As legionaries of the 45th Assault Cadre in the Tenth Crusade of the VII Legion, they had been in this situation or similar at least a score of times. Even Rann, new to his position as sergeant, could conduct the initial boarding procedure without conscious thought; conscious thought would slow down the entire action by several seconds.

His mind wandered back to the task soon to be at hand, and it annoyed him. Without distraction, his natural inclination was to his purpose as a warrior of the Emperor. He opened his eyes.

Three minutes exactly until attack velocity.

The two squads were already arranged in assault formation within the body of the ram. The ten Astartes of the breacher squad were held upright in their harnesses, two staggered rows of five facing towards the main assault ramp at the front. They would close and lock shields the moment they were down, a mobile defence as secure as a fortress wall. The Legion tactical squad, Rann’s twenty warriors, were split into two groups, secured on angled benches that allowed them to rise and accelerate out through the flank hatches in two seamless waves.

At two minutes, Rann glanced forward to the breachers. Sergeant Iago raised his power axe in a signal of readiness.

‘Scan data incoming,’ the pilot told them over the intervox. ‘Punch-through at target zone ninety-eight per cent likely. Ingress route direct ahead, elevation standard. First assault wave adjusting target point by fifty vertical to bypass hangar level. No update orders received.’

‘Acknowledged,’ replied Iago, the senior of the two squad leaders and therefore de facto force commander until they linked with Lieutenant Pollux. His next words were addressed to every legionary aboard. ‘We need to get out of the breach zone fast to make up that distance. Adopt pattern Strike-five on clearing the impact site. Specialist gunners to take up point positions.’

Acknowledgements crackled back, including Rann’s. He wanted to contact the pilot to check whether there had been any enemy sensor contact on the incoming boarding force but knew better. If there was something to report, Dagerron would inform them.

Now, time was becoming impossibly slow as each second ticked down. Rann knew it was a side effect of physical changes brought about by his augmented body and stimulant discharges from his war plate. He was experiencing everything at a heightened level and so, conversely, the outside world seemed to drag.

The assault rams had been launched under cover of mass battery fire and torpedo launches, heading towards the largest of the orbital defence stations – the command centre in the estimation of Lord Dorn. Total surprise was the goal, and so far the plan appeared to be working.

Other starbases were being attacked by the fleet of the assembled Legiones Astartes, and Rann wished there were a window through which he could watch the unfolding battle.

‘How’s the war going?’ he voxed to Dagerron. ‘Are we winning yet?’

There was a pause while the pilot consulted the limited scans and reports at his station.

‘Above predicted progress, I’d say,’ he replied. ‘The First, I mean the Dark Angels, have already eliminated two bases in sector four. Massed boarding actions led by the Tribune have cleared sector eleven. The Phoenician’s ships are–’

Iago’s voice cut across the link.

‘Vox clear. Thirty seconds to assault range.’ There was no tone in the words, but Rann felt there was a rebuke all the same. Iago was entitled to be uptight: his squad would take the brunt of enemy attention in the first phase of the engagement.

Time crept along.

Rann tensed, but still the sudden force of the assault jets firing jerked him sideways inside the grip of the harness. Within seconds the assault ram’s fuel burnt out, but it was already travelling at an extra five hundred kilometres per hour. The remaining void space would be covered in less than twenty seconds.

‘Ten seconds to impact,’ warned Dagerron.

Though he was still immobile inside his armour, it seemed to Rann that the whole craft might shake itself apart. The rattle and creak of the hull was joined by a growing hum as the melta-dischargers in the nose built up power for the breaching blast in the milliseconds before contact.

If they failed, or the armoured skin of the enemy starbase was thicker than the scans indicated, the ram would crush itself flat in the next five seconds.

‘For the Emperor!’ barked Rann. ‘For Rogal Dorn!’

Others spoke their dedication and uttered oaths of duty, the confines of the hull resounding with mechanically edged voices. The next few seconds raced past. The meltas fired and the ram ploughed through slag and steam. Iago’s squad thundered out along the prow ramp before it had fully opened. Rann launched out of his seat as the harness snapped back, bolter in both hands, accompanied by the crash of armoured boots.

The enemy were waiting, but it did not matter. Their weapons filled the breach zone with muzzle flashes and bullets, but the shields of the breacher squad were as impenetrable as those of the base itself. The tactical squad fanned out around the centre, plasma gunners and flamers to the fore. The corridors beyond the impact site filled with starbursts followed by sheets of burning promethium.

To the flanks, hidden by the curve of an arterial corridor, another two legionary teams advanced in parallel. Three armoured punches aimed at the heart of the space station. Iago’s force made a hundred metres in the first ten seconds, trampling over the ruptured and charred bodies of the defenders. Rann paid them no heed, attention fixed ahead, bolter ready to cough forth an explosive round when a head or limb poked from cover.

‘Overlapping counter,’ warned Ordera, flashing his auspex screen towards Rann. A tendril of life signals was curving around them towards the impact site. Maybe ten or fifteen of the enemy.

‘Dagerron, you’re getting company. Discharge and disconnect in five seconds.’

‘Understood.’

Iago set a brutal pace with his breachers, securing a stairwell and taking them up three levels at a sprint. A dull thump of detonations and the sudden disappearance of the flanking signals reported the assault ram’s frag launch and departure. Environment detectors in Rann’s war plate warned of dropping atmospheric pressure as the air evacuated through the gouge left in the hull by the craft’s exit.

‘We have contact with the control centre, transmitting coordinates,’ announced Lieutenant Pollux. ‘All forces, converging assault and then maintain cordon, one hundred and fifty metres. Dispositions to follow.’

The control centre would not hold out for long against sixty legionaries, with another ninety to protect against counter-attack. One minute since breaching and the action was almost over. In the void the enemy had been deadly, their ships heavily armed and armoured for their size. Face to face… not so much. In minutes their orbital defences would be overrun. The combined power of three expeditionary fleets was a force that nothing could withstand, and the Scathian System had not proven otherwise. The route to the planet’s surface was open and that left only one question.

‘Who will command the ground attack?’

The question came from Captain Eidolon of the Emperor’s Children and hung in the air with the tri-D representation of his well-formed features. The image flickered while the vid-capture units on the Pride of the Emperor kept track of the warrior as he paced across a deck of the battleship’s strategium.

‘We have elements of four strike forces and support flotillas ready to drop on three major conurbations in the southernmost continent,’ he continued. ‘Every minute we waste gives the enemy chance to prepare.’

As the Master of the Huscarls, Rogal Dorn’s bodyguard, Gidoreas knew his lord as well as anyone could. Seemingly immobile in his bulky suit of Cataphractii armour, he nevertheless watched for a reaction, gauging the primarch’s thoughts so that he might better serve.

Rogal Dorn stood in his full golden war plate with one fist held in the other hand. The fingers flexed slightly in response to Eidolon’s assertion, but the primarch’s face remained as though carved from deepcore ice. His hair was white-blond, short but not close-cropped, unruly despite an attempted parting on the left side. Some would consider him handsome, though his severe expression held a distant, unapproachable quality. Like one of the bastions his Legion erected so swiftly, Dorn’s demeanour was a defence against intrusion and few could breach it. The primarch waited a second to see if anything more was forthcoming and then gave the slightest of nods, accepting the argument made.

‘A sensible proposition, except that Seventh Legion battalions have already cleared orbit over the northern strike area and we are ready to begin mass deployment, not just an insertion attack. My forty thousand legionaries hitting the ground will break their resolve within minutes, forestalling any need for wider commitment and risk.’

Eidolon opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the third participant in the holo-council. His fair-coloured beard and long hair reflecting ruddy action lighting from the Invincible Reason, Lion El’Jonson, primarch of the First, strode forward, his hand slashing the air like a blade.

‘Unacceptable!’ Green eyes flashed with anger, but the moment passed, and the Lion’s demeanour settled into one of earnest entreaty. ‘We have not bloodied ourselves in the void to relent at the edge of orbit. My ships are breaking through towards the equatorial defence stations, which will eliminate the threat to both your attack and that of the Phoenician’s Legion. My knights will be first on the surface, but I assure you that we will share the battle honours.’

Gidoreas suppressed a grimace and saw his counterpart from the Emperor’s Children silencing a retort. It was not for a captain, even a Legion equerry, to argue with a primarch. Here, in the massive grand strategium of the Phalanx, they were surrounded by decks and sub-decks of legionaries and attendants monitoring the massive craft and its accompanying flotillas, but sophisticated dampeners ensured that the command dais was cocooned in near silence. Around and below them the deck officers bustled like ghosts, preparing for the final surface assault. Gidoreas could see that all three fleets were already in motion on their respective attack vectors, but command had to fall to someone to stop them from working at cross purposes.

The tri-D projector stuttered as another feed came online. The new arrival was lean of features, the vid-capture managing to snare the essence of eyes in animation as they flicked from one projected primarch to the other and back. His face profiled against a golden wing that swept up from his pauldron, Fulgrim of the Emperor’s Children greeted them with a brief smile.

‘Apologies for the delay in my participation, I believe my equerry has been fighting a valiant vanguard action on my behalf,’ said the Phoenician with a slight bow of the head. Eidolon’s image flickered and vanished. ‘We are at an impasse, but as the most experienced Legion commander here I feel that–’

‘I have waged war as long as any of my primarch brothers,’ interrupted the Lion. ‘If you see fault in my strategy, say thus, do not hide behind a veil of seniority. What reason the First should not abide by their name?’

Fulgrim’s manner did not change, his features set in polite attention through the Lion’s outburst. When it was done, the Phoenician pointedly turned his gaze to Rogal Dorn.

‘I feel that the Imperial Fists should lead the attack,’ Fulgrim concluded. ‘The Phalanx is by far the largest vessel here, even bigger than our Gloriana-class, brother Lion. As a display of Imperial authority, its arrival and the descent of forty thousand legionaries sends a message that cannot be ignored. Rogal is entirely correct in his assessment.’

‘To split our attack is to risk a harder drop for my Legion and yours,’ growled the Lion. ‘The loss of momentum could be disastrous to a swift victory if the inhabitants are not so impressed as you say.’

Fulgrim turned the intensity of his attention to the Lion, slender fingers steepling to his chin in a pose of respectful thought.

‘My brother, there is a very important difference between conquest and compliance,’ Fulgrim said softly. ‘We are all warlords here, but more than that we are the Emperor’s primarchs. When He despatched us on this venture it was with the explicit task of bringing worlds to compliance, however that is achieved. Societies broken by war need fixing, requiring resources that are stretched as the Great Crusade continues to expand into the furthest reaches.’

‘That was my thought,’ said Dorn. ‘We must give the enemy opportunity and encouragement to capitulate. Our reports show that their fleet was their greatest strength. Without it their resistance will be short-lived. I have not fought as many campaigns as Fulgrim, and few have been bloodless, but as the newest member of our brotherhood perhaps your perspective has not yet widened from the wars of your home world.’

Gidoreas kept his expression passive but felt the primarch’s words, while true, were not the softest. The look of dismay that Fulgrim swiftly hid suggested he felt the same. All eyes, those of primarch and legionary alike, were drawn to the Lion, whose lip curled and brows knotted. For a few seconds he said nothing, one hand moving to the pommel of a greatsword at the waist of his ebon-black war plate. The touch of it appeared to reassure the primarch of the First and he straightened a little, the tension flowing from him just as his lion’s-mane cloak hung from his shoulders.

‘Forgive my impetuous words, my brothers,’ said the Lion. His tone was a little stiff but sounded sincere. ‘I meant no offence, and if my eagerness to prosecute the Emperor’s will has caused such then I apologise. You are correct, I lead a Legion of the Emperor as I would a company of knights, but it is a far greater power I now wield. On Caliban an opponent would not be undone by the mere unsheathing of a blade, but the galaxy at large is not Caliban.’

‘We are here to unite humankind, not enslave it,’ said Fulgrim. ‘Some may only come under the threat of the blade, but others will join freely.’

‘Gidoreas,’ said Dorn. The captain stepped forward, ready for orders. ‘Transmit to the fleet, all craft to proceed with the surface attack.’

‘Yes, Lord Dorn,’ the equerry replied with a hand raised to the fist sigil emblazoned on his breastplate. ‘The fleet will be underway within five minutes.’

As he turned and headed to the steps that led to the main communications deck, he heard his primarch’s parting words to his brothers.

‘Let us hope that the enemy know when they are outmatched and wish to preserve not only their honour but also their lives.’

The enemy were hopelessly outmatched, but Sigismund had to acknowledge that they were not going to surrender without some resistance. A venal salve for their ego or true warrior honour? It was impossible to know.

He advanced down the strange street, one of a knot of warriors with black marking their armour amid a tide of golden yellow. Other squads belonged to the companies of the 29th, 32nd and 45th Assault Cadres for the most part, but he had left behind their ranks while the Lord Dorn was attending the Solar Conclave with the Emperor and his brother primarchs.

Now he was a Templar.

It was not just the wargear that felt different – bolt pistol and chainsword rather than boltgun – but everything else. The Templars were the sword of the force, slashing like a blade-edge into the foe or thrusting forward like the tip. The weight of the other Imperial Fists was the arm and body that followed, turning each cut into a grievous wound. Where the enemy resisted, the Templars pierced their defences. They acted in concert with breacher squads drawn down from their void fight to bring their unique skills and equipment to the urban battles. As a shield against enemy fire, the breachers went in first, turning the axis of attack, deflecting counterstrikes until the moment was right, when the Templars launched their assault.

It felt good to be the blade and not the body or shield.

The city was a maze. Its builders had been obsessed with triangles: the streets met each other in triangular layouts, the structures in between entered by triangular doors, their walls lined with tall three-sided windows, pyramidal roofs high above. Perhaps the aesthetic was a result of the three moons in orbit, or some mythology of lost origin whose consequences remained thousands of years later.

The greater number of their foes fought in bulky red-and-orange combat suits, heads protected with visored golden helms. The impacts of the enemy’s bullets and the legionaries’ bolt detonations rang along tiled corridors and chambers, echoing from high overhead, while the crash of boots reverberated from the tall windows as the Templars pushed into the lower storey of a building that had been turned into a strongpoint. Zigzagging ramps with balustrades led to the upper levels instead of stairs. Dozens of the natives crouched in the cover afforded by the stone parapets, unleashing their fire on the Imperial Fists from above.

‘Lance!’ bellowed Aeolus, the Master of Templars, the greatsword in his hand shining with fiery reflections.

The Templars moved as one, a fighter changing stance, narrowing formation while three breacher squads moved forward to take the enemy fire. Sigismund continued to shoot his bolt pistol as he drifted towards the back of the formation, picking off enemies on the upper levels of the ramps who were firing down over the heads of the breachers and their shields. Masonry chips flew like shrapnel, and gold-visored soldiers fell back, dead, injured or suppressed; it didn’t matter for what would come next.

Other Imperial Fists entered the broad hall through shattered windows and broken doors, their bolters and heavier weapons taking up the fusillade while the breachers pushed into the teeth of the enemy shooting.

The breachers moved to the ramp, some raising their shields to heighten the mobile wall. The Templars were drawn forward in their wake, filling the gap between tactical and heavy weapons squads, readying themselves to attack as a warrior positions the sword-arm.

‘Lunge!’ came the shout from Aeolus even as the order to split sounded across the hall from Lieutenant Pollux of the breacher company.

The shield squads moved with split-second precision, as did the Templars. The breachers parted and the blade struck through, Aeolus at the head of a wedge of gold and black, Sigismund four ranks back on the outer left. Any foe that managed to survive those in front fell to the lacerating teeth of his chainsword or the explosive bolts of his pistol, their bloodied bodies trampled in the advance, reduced from sentient life forms to inconvenient footing in seconds.

‘Redoubt!’ roared Aeolus above the crash of combat.

In their attack, the Templars had piled up bodies to the front. Two of the brethren had fallen and they were brought into the interior of the formation while breachers pounded up the ramp to either side.

‘Apothecaries!’ Sigismund shouted, holstering his pistol to help as the broken-armoured forms of Lassitur and Erudae were passed out the back of the Templar company like pauldron fixative extruded from a Techmarine’s servo-arm. A pair of white-armoured figures arrived with an escort of tactical legionaries and the two Templars were carried away, the screech of armour cutters diminishing with distance as the Apothecaries began their work.

The next thrust gained the first switchback, forcing the Templars to fight for several seconds under direct fire from above, until the shield squads interpenetrated through them and were able to take the brunt again. It felt slightly unnatural for Sigismund to let others fight in his stead, but while the Templars still trained for individual excellence, the VII Legion worked on the principle of the fist – the power of the blow that comes from all the elements working as one.

Sigismund had to remind himself that despite his acceptance to the Templars, he was not a lone warrior. In the ashen circle he wielded the great blade, but in battle it was pistol and chainsword. Templar, yes, but a legionary still. A champion sometimes, but always part of an unstoppable war machine. As he knew how the chainblade in his hand would perform, so Rogal Dorn depended on his Templars to be just as reliable.

The chainsword did not ask of its wielder who it cut down. Sigismund shared its disinterest in that regard. By Dorn’s will he killed or stayed his hand, nothing more, and such would be his life until he fell.

‘There will be no bombardment,’ commanded Rogal Dorn. ‘Not yet. Repeat signals calling for their surrender.’

Gidoreas regarded the metres-wide hololith showing the unfolding situation. Golden sigils represented the thirty thousand Imperial Fists already deployed. The three main drops had yet to link up. While this was not disastrous, the occupation was already an hour and more behind Dorn’s meticulous schedule. Smaller displays showed more detailed schematics, while out across the broad expanse of the Phalanx’s strategium, the Master of the Huscarls could cast his gaze to vid-screens and active links that showed static-ridden, live action from the surface.

On the main display other runes signified subsequent deployments of the allied Legions, both of which were making headway but also at a slower pace than anticipated. The inhabitants of Scathia had proved to be far more stubborn than reckoned, although they were clearly losing on every front. Ships of all three Legions held orbit and atmospheric craft dominated the skies. Whether in six hours or sixty, the planet would comply.

Gidoreas wondered what the enemy thought of the situation. If it was that stern resistance might see some relent in the Imperial attack, then they chased a false hope. Scathia had been chosen as the ‘gateway’ world for the nascent Night Crusade. It was ideally positioned both spatially and within the erratic flows of the warp, a key system to funnel troops and resources from worlds already brought to compliance out to the expeditionary fleets that would be venturing into the area known as the Occluda Noctis. As such, the bulk of three Legiones Astartes had been deployed to ensure its swift capitulation.

That the Scathians had decided to fight against such overwhelming force did not speak well of their culture. Millions had already died for what Gidoreas had to assume was pride. It was also starting to be more costly than envisaged for the Imperial forces. He looked at his primarch, but Dorn’s expression was unreadable.

The primarch turned his head, as though feeling Gidoreas’ gaze.

‘You have a question, captain?’

Gidoreas was taken aback and it took a second until he realised that he did have a question, though it had not formed until that moment.

‘I understand the need to avoid widespread collateral damage with massed bombardment, my lord, but we have strike ships in position for pinpoint orbital support. Their intervention would greatly speed the advance of our troops.’

‘Whilst potentially stiffening the resolve of our foes,’ countered the primarch. He crossed the platform at the heart of the grand strategium, hundreds of lights dazzling across his golden armour, his massive form eclipsing the main hololith. ‘We cannot send missives asserting that we come as allies not conquerors if we pile up civilian dead. In all battles the purpose is foremost to defeat the enemy, and that does not always mean wiping them out.’

The primarch stopped a few paces away, his head inclined slightly towards Gidoreas, eyes fixed on the captain.

‘If you see a legionary fall beside you, does it make your determination waver or harden?’

‘I understand, my lord,’ said Gidoreas. ‘I am also aware that many legionaries, ours and our allies’, are falling right now. There is a point at which our concern to preserve life must extend to our own.’

‘Every second, I weigh up the possible outcomes of a thousand variations of our current strategy and the countless alternative courses of action open to us.’

Gidoreas nodded. He had been with the primarch for several years but was still surprised by his abilities, both mental and physical. Legion Master Mathias had been a logistical and strategic genius, but he would have needed the entirety of his support staff and a constant stream of reports to manage a campaign as complex as the drop and pacification they were undertaking. The lord primarch needed only to cast his gaze across the scores of displays and attendants, reading the people as well as their stations, to know how matters progressed.

‘Apologies, my lord.’ Gidoreas rubbed a ceramite-sheathed hand across the stubble on his chin. He had remembered that he had once tried to grow a beard as a youth, before being recruited, and had decided to return to the notion, but it had reached a stage where it itched fiercely. ‘I sometimes forget my role. I recall our purpose with more clarity now, as the Emperor bid us when we were first raised. “Victory is not enough. To conquer, one has not only to defeat one’s enemies, but also to hold the fruits of that victory.” Words I shall carve into my thoughts more deeply.’

‘Exactly that, Gidoreas, exactly that.’

Dorn stepped away, eyes moving to the massive hololith display. His hand swept to various areas, and they highlighted in gleaming red. Gidoreas immediately saw they were the most embattled elements of the drop force.

‘Orbital strikes will smooth passage to their objectives, yes?’ Dorn did not turn round, the question rhetorical. ‘How many more of your gene-brothers survive? Ten more? A hundred more? What if, in supporting that attack with strikes into civilian areas, we kill the family of a politician or destroy a holy place? The people fight for longer, perhaps days, weeks more of bloody, grinding war because of a dozen lance strikes. How many legionaries fall during that extended conflict and yet bring us no closer to peace?’

‘My concern was ill-founded, Lord Dorn,’ Gidoreas assured the primarch. ‘I see military solutions, but your strategy encompasses far more.’

‘It is a balance,’ replied Dorn, again clasping one fist in his other hand. ‘Fail to achieve tactical victories and you make no progress towards strategic goals. We cannot get ahead of ourselves.’

‘No, my lord.’

A few seconds passed and then Dorn looked sharply to the left, beyond the hololith to one of the communications stations on the lower deck of the strategium.

‘Lion El’Jonson is going to launch his next assault,’ the primarch said quietly.

Gidoreas followed his lord’s gaze and saw Lieutenant Efried striding away from the console servitor with an autoscribed message in his fist.

‘Alert navigation and the fleet, we will be manoeuvring for support drop and bombardment.’ Dorn returned his attention to the hololith and manipulated the display until it showed the line of fortifications and conurbation where the Dark Angels had dropped. The schematic updated with icons past the walls and heading into the city. ‘The time has come for a final show of our intent.’

‘We are launching the second attack wave, lord?’

‘Yes, but we will do so in support of the Lion. I believe he has located the planet’s political capital. Calculate fleet movements to bring us alongside the First Legion ships and prepare a message to their primarch to the effect that we stand ready at his word.’

‘At his word?’ Gidoreas spoke before he could stop himself. ‘My lord? Command was granted to you.’

‘And now I am giving it to the person better placed to use it, captain,’ Dorn replied sharply.

Gidoreas knew better than to say anything else. He saluted and bowed his head in acknowledgement of his orders. A few seconds later, Efried mounted the ramp to the observation deck.

‘My Lord Dorn, the primarch of the First Legion sends dispatches. He has broken through the defences and believes he is closing on their planetary leadership. He asks that we move in support to ensure that encirclement is complete.’

Dorn had turned his attention to a display above the navigation stations where the fleet dispositions were shown, any interaction with his subordinates paused while he calculated the next sequence of events.

‘I have our orders,’ said Gidoreas, stepping past the primarch, taking the rolled plastek from the lieutenant.

As they descended, Gidoreas spared one glance back at his Legion commander, still unsure of what he had witnessed. Any other individual might have thought the Lion’s ‘request’ presumptuous, an attempt to settle the score for his earlier failure to gain command. Dorn was not only prepared to relinquish his authority for the good of the campaign, but had also predicted such an occurrence. It had been a decade since the primarch had been united with his Legion, five years since Gidoreas had been promoted to equerry. Not in that time had he seen Dorn so forthright, so focused in his decisions. This was the primarch’s element, the Huscarl realised. This was Rogal Dorn operating at his full potential, and it was humbling to watch.

It was not so much the absence of ego that surprised Gidoreas; he had seen pride occasionally get the better of Dorn. His strength came from utter conviction that he was doing the right thing. Not arrogance, just an overpowering sense of purpose that had been ignited by the recent Solar Conclave with the Emperor. He did not know for sure what had passed between the Emperor and His sons, but there was talk of the exchanging of fresh oaths, the reaffirmation of the Great Crusade’s purpose. Whatever the Master of Mankind had said to the primarchs, it had stoked the fire inside Rogal Dorn, and now he burned brighter than Gidoreas had witnessed before.

A fire that would light the galaxy or consume them all.

Click here to buy Rogal Dorn: The Emperor's Crusader.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2022.
This eBook edition published in 2022 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Represented by: Games Workshop Limited – Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1, D01 K199, Ireland.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Mikhail Savier.

Rogal Dorn © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2022. Rogal Dorn, The Horus Heresy Primarchs, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-80026-821-0

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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Dedicated to John French, the Emperor’s Crusader.

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