Of course the Primarch of the Iron Hands could not let such a boast go unanswered, and he had laughed in Fulgrim's face, declaring that such pasty hands as his could never be the equal of his own metal ones. Fulgrim had accepted the challenge with regal grace, and both primarchs had stripped to the waist, working without pause for weeks on end, the forge ringing with the deafening pounding of hammers, the hiss of cooling metal, and the good natured insults of the two young gods as they sought to outdo one another.

At the end of three months unceasing toil, both warriors had finished their weapons, Fulgrim having forged an exquisite warhammer that could level a mountain with a single blow, and Ferrus Manus a golden bladed sword that forever burned with the fire of the forge. Both weapons were unmatched by any yet crafted by man, and upon seeing what the other had created, each primarch declared that his opponent's was the greater.

Fulgrim had declared the golden sword the equal of that borne by the legendary hero Nuada Silverhand, while Ferrus Manus had sworn that only the mighty thunder gods of Nordyc legend were fit to bear such a magnificent warhammer.

Without another word spoken, both primarchs had swapped weapons and sealed their eternal friendship with the craft of their hands.

Santar looked down at the weapon, feeling the power within it and knowing that more than just skill had gone into its forging. Love and honour, loyalty and friendship, death and vengeance… all were embodied within its majestic form, and the thought that his primarch's sworn honour brother had created this weapon made it truly legendary.

He looked up as Ferrus Manus continued his circuit of the Anvilarium, his face thunderous once more. 'Yes, my brothers, cheer, for it will be an honour to fight alongside Fulgrim's warriors, but he only comes to our aid because we have been weak!'

The cheering immediately died and the assembled warriors looked anxiously from one to another, none willing to meet the eye of the angry primarch as he spoke.

'The Diasporex continue to elude us, and there are worlds in the Lesser Bifold Cluster that require the illumination of the Emperor's Truth. How is it that a fleet of ships thousands of years older than ours, and led by mere mortals, can elude us? Answer me!'

None dared respond, and Santar felt the shame of their weakness in every fibre of his being. He gripped the haft of the hammer tightly, feeling the exquisite craftsmanship beneath the steel of his augmetic hand, and suddenly the answer was clear to him.

'It is because we cannot do this alone,' he said.

'Exactly!' said Ferrus Manus. 'We cannot do this alone. We have struggled for months to accomplish this task on our own when it should have been clear that we could not. In all things we strive to eradicate weakness, but it is not weakness to ask for help, my brothers. It is weakness to deny that help is needed. To fight on without hope when there are those who would gladly lend a hand is foolish, and I have been as blind as any to this, but no more.'

Ferrus Manus strode back to the entrance to the Anvilarium and put his arm around the shoulders of Astropath Cistor. The mighty primarch dwarfed the man and his very nearness seemed to cause the astropath pain.

Ferrus Manus extended his hand and Santar stepped forward, holding Forgebreaker out before him. The primarch took up his hammer and held it aloft as though its monstrous weight was nothing at all.

'We will not be fighting alone for much longer!' cried Ferrus Manus. 'Cistor tells me that his choirs sing of the arrival of my brother. Within a week the Pride of the Emperor and the 28th Expedition will be with us and we shall once again fight alongside our brothers of the Emperor's Children!'

SEVEN

There Will be Other Oceans

Recovery

The Phoenix and the Gorgon

He had begun with small, tentative chips into the marble, but as he had grown more confident in his vision, and the bitterness towards Bequa Kynska had risen once more, he found himself hacking at the marble with no more thought to his actions than a wild beast. Ostian drew a stale breath through his mask and took a step back from the marble block, leaning against the metal scaffolding that surrounded it.

The thought of Bequa made him grip the metal of his chisel tighter, and he felt his jaw clench at the depth of her spite. The sculpture was not going as smoothly as he would have liked, the lines more jagged and harsh than would normally be the case, but he couldn't help himself, the bitterness was too great.

He thought back to the day he and Serena had walked arm in arm to the embarkation deck, their thoughts joyous and carefree at the idea of discovering a new world together. The corridors of the Pride of the Emperor were abuzz with excited speculation in the wake of the Emperor's Children's victory on Laeran, or as it was formally, and correctly known, Twenty-Eight Three.

Serena had come to fetch him the moment the word had gone out, dressed in a fabulous gown that Ostian had felt sure was unfit for a journey to a world where the surface was composed entirely of water. They had laughed and joked as they made their way through the fabulous, high galleries of the ship, joining more remembrancers the closer they got to the embarkation deck.

The mood had been light, artists and sculptors mingling with writers, poets and composers in a happy throng as armoured Astartes escorted them towards their transports.

'We're so lucky, Ostian,' murmured Serena as they made their way towards a huge, gilded set of blast doors.

'How so?' he asked, too caught up in the festive atmosphere of the crowd to notice the baleful stare of Bequa Kynska at his back. He was finally going to see the ocean, and his heart leapt at the thought of such a wondrous thing. He calmed himself by remembering the writings of the Sumaturan philosopher, Sahlonum, who had said that the real voyage of discovery consisted not in finding new landscapes, but in having new eyes with which to see them.

'The Lord Fulgrim appreciates the value of what we're doing, dear heart,' explained Serena. 'I've heard that in some expeditions, the remembrancers are lucky to even see an Astartes warrior let alone get a trip to the surface of a compliant world.'

'Well, it's not as though Laeran's exactly hostile anymore,' said Ostian. 'There's nothing left of the Laer, they're all dead.'

'And good riddance too! I've heard it said that the Warmaster won't let any of his remembrancers down to the surface of Sixty-Three Nineteen yet.'

'I'm not surprised,' said Ostian. 'They say that there's still resistance, so I can see why the Warmaster's not letting anyone down.'

'Resistance,' scoffed Serena, 'the Astartes will soon have that quashed. What's the worst that could happen? Haven't you seen them? Like gods unto us they are! Invincible and immortal!'

'I don't know,' said Ostian, 'I've been hearing some rumours in La Venice of some quite appalling casualty figures.'

'La Venice,' tutted Serena. 'You should know better than to believe anything you hear in that nest of vipers, Ostian.'

That at least was true, reflected Ostian. La Venice was the area of the ship the Emperor's Children had given over to the remembrancers, a great theatre in the high decks that served as a recreation space, eating hall, exhibition area and place of relaxation. During the course of the fighting, Ostian had taken to spending his evenings there, chatting, drinking and exchanging notes with fellow artistes. The currency of ideas was in full flow, and the thrill of being in an environment where designs were tossed into the air and swatted around with lively debate, each time acquiring some strange new form its originator had not yet conceived, was intoxicating.