From the Chronicle of the Second Great Crusade, entry number one.
Written by Tobías Garza, Remembrancer Third Class, with a borrowed pen and a fear entirely his own.
I have been told to write the truth.
I have also been told not to look directly at the Emperor, not to touch anything belonging to the Mechanicus, and never, under any circumstances, to ask an Astartes how tall he is.
I will try to comply with all four.
The odds are not in my favor.
The Imperial Palace on Terra was not built for anyone to feel comfortable in it.
It was built so that anyone walking its corridors would understand, before the tenth step, that they were very small.
That morning, the Hall of Banners was full of giants.
The Primarchs, the sons of the Emperor of Mankind, stood in a semicircle beneath the banners of their Legions.
Each one was a world unto himself.
Roboute Guilliman was mentally reviewing three reports at once.
Leman Russ scratched his beard with the face of someone who had not eaten enough breakfast.
Fulgrim adjusted a silver lock of hair in the reflection of a polished gold column.
Angron adjusted nothing; the Butcher’s Nails, embedded in his skull, gave him the permanent air of a man about to break something.
Vulkan smiled with that smith’s calm that made even the guards breathe a little easier.
Konrad Curze stood where the shadows were deepest, because he always stood where the shadows were deepest.
In the center, pacing slowly from one end to the other, was their father.
The Emperor did not need to raise his voice.
He never had.
“My sons,” he said.
“I have gathered you because today the Imperium changes. Not its borders. Its scale.”
“And what is this great news, Father?” asked Lorgar, hands clasped and eyes shining, like a man awaiting a revelation.
“The Webway Project.” The Emperor stopped.
“Your brother Magnus and Malcador have completed it.”
Magnus the Red, who was not exactly known for his modesty, straightened his back and let his single eye gleam with something close to pride.
Off to one side, Malcador the Sigillite, leaning on his staff, had the dark-ringed eyes of someone who hadn’t slept properly in several centuries, and he probably hadn’t.
“A way to travel faster than the Warp,” the Emperor went on, “and without its risks. No daemons along the way. No storms that devour fleets. But that is not what matters. What matters is where it leads.”
He paused.
Even Angron stopped clenching his jaw.
“To other realities.”
The silence was so vast that, somewhere far off, a servitor could be heard sweeping.
“Is that true?” asked Guilliman, his voice calm but his eyes very wide.
“The Mechanicus reports are precise. Beyond our galaxy, beyond our universe, there are others. Other Terras. Other humanities. Some prosperous. Many enslaved by tyrants, false gods, machines or their own stupidity.”
“It means what I think it means,” murmured Horus Lupercal, the Warmaster, and in his voice was a hunger for horizons.
“It means a Second Great Crusade.” The Emperor looked at each of them, one by one.
“You will go to those universes with your Legions. You will bring the Imperial Truth to whoever is willing to listen. And whoever refuses… let them feel the weight of a united humanity.”
Leman Russ raised his hand.
The others looked at him.
“One question, Father. In these other universes… is there food?”
Fulgrim closed his eyes with infinite patience.
Perturabo snorted.
Sanguinius had to cover his mouth to keep the laughter from escaping.
“I imagine so, Leman,” the Emperor replied, and for a fraction of a second something in his face seemed almost amused.
“Go and find out.”
* * *
As the brothers began to withdraw, the Emperor raised his hand again.
“Perturabo. Rogal Dorn. Not you.”
The two Primarchs halted.
They were, in all likelihood, the two men who knew the most about walls in the entire galaxy, and they did not particularly like each other.
One built fortresses so no one could take them; the other, so no one could leave them.
“If all my sons cross the Webway, Terra and its worlds will be left without guardians,” the Emperor said.
“I want you to stay. Protect the cradle of humanity from any threat.”
Perturabo clenched his fist.
For a second it looked as though he was going to protest, because Perturabo always looked as though he was about to protest.
“I will not fail you, Father,” he said at last.
“You can trust us,” Dorn added.
“No xenos, mutant or heretic will get past us.”
“I know.” The Emperor looked at them a moment longer.
“That is why it is you.”
When he left, the two brothers were alone in the immense hall.
“He left us as babysitters,” Perturabo growled.
“He left us as a wall,” Dorn corrected him.
“Same thing, but with more paperwork.”
* * *
In a side corridor, Malcador caught up with the Emperor.
They walked together for a stretch, the old man dragging his staff, the golden giant shortening his stride out of courtesy.
“There’s something you didn’t tell them,” Malcador remarked.
“There are many things I didn’t tell them.”
“I mean the energy spikes. The ones Magnus can’t explain.” The Sigillite lowered his voice.
“The Webway is safe. It is ours. But sometimes, in the logs, an echo appears. As if someone, somewhere, were trying to copy it… very badly.”
The Emperor did not stop.
“Who would be reckless enough to build a Webway without understanding it?”
Malcador considered it for a moment.
“I can think of several candidates. Nearly all of them are green and shout a lot.”
“Then keep an eye on them.”
“I always do.”
* * *
Hours later, the skies of Terra filled with fire.
Thousands of ships lifted off from the starports, each bearing the colors of its Legion: the blue of the Ultramarines, the wolf-gray of Fenris, the green of Nocturne, the purple and gold of the Emperor’s Children, the white of Chogoris, the black of Nostramo.
Ahead of them all, like a cathedral that had learned to fly, went the Bucephalus, the Emperor’s personal vessel.
Before them, in orbit, something that was not a door opened as if it were one.
A ring of golden light, geometric, perfect, humming at a frequency you could feel in your teeth.
One by one, the fleets entered.
One by one, they vanished.
On the observation deck of a supply frigate, a short, skinny man in a Remembrancer’s uniform that was too big for him clutched a notebook to his chest.
“First time in the Webway?” a crewman asked him.
“First time off Terra,” Tobías Garza replied.
“First time on a ship. First time seeing a Primarch up close. Today is a day of many firsts, and I don’t think I’m going to like any of them.”
“Relax. They say it’s like blinking.”
The frigate crossed the ring.
Tobías blinked.
When he opened his eyes, the stars were different.
* * *
In some corner of the Webway, a small fleet emerged from the golden light into a silent void.
On the command bridge of the Conqueror, a giant with heavily scarred skin leaned toward the screen.
“My lord,” an officer reported.
“We have emerged successfully.”
“It works,” Angron muttered, and for a moment he seemed surprised that anything in the universe worked the way he had been promised.
“Any signs of life?”
“Negative, my lord. Nothing yet.”
“Keep searching. We have orders from my father.”
Minutes passed.
Then a blue dot appeared on the screen.
A planet.
One that looked far too much like Terra before the Old Night.
Angron smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
The Second Great Crusade had begun.
Two chapters will be released daily until we reach the final 10 chapters.
From that point onward, the release schedule will change to one chapter per day.