Legends of the Crusade
Malcador, the Sigillite
To see is not to know, such vision clouded
by doubts left to fester.
Act too soon and fate shall take her vengeance,
too late and regret will devour you whole.
Shadows and Lies
The light blinds those that look, draws all near towards its radiance. A clever mind knows best to hide within its glare, all foes distracted by the vision cast. The bitter know better however, for it is the shadows black that are always ignored, so harmless near the flame abhor.
In ages past, those beings of cunning and guile bore many names; Loki the Trickster, Eris with Discord, and Set of Darkness and Destruction. As time would pass, the mischief-makers would endure as the Harlequins of Renaissance Italy and the Jesters of Medieval Courts, each evolving as the years ran by, never fading but changing.
So too would Malcador take up the mantle and define it anew. The Shadow of the Imperium, the Mailed Fist of Mankind's Hope, the Sigillite was a brutal truth uncaring of circumstance, and a constant reminder of humanity to one who passed further from its touch.
Ostensibly but a bureaucrat, Malcador would help run the vast administrative endeavour that would be the Great Crusade. His relentless pursuit of success, his extraordinary knowledge and his raw talent at mundanity would help secure the burgeoning empire's need for stability and growth.
Such, however, was a facade, for in truth Malacador
was the closest advisor of the Emperor, a machiavellian lord of shadow-games and murder without equal. He
would guide the path of the Officio Assassinorum, wield his immense influence from the darkness, and provide solutions of such fell nature that the Emperor could never know.
This is Malcador the Sigillite, endless in his knowing. Malcador the Hero, dark friend to the divine. Malcador...
The Least Human Of Them All.
Hollow
To speak of certainty
regarding one such as
Malcador is to play the
very game he plays best. Truth, as it is,
can be changed, moulded to perception
and altered until unrecognisable to those
who truly knew.
Many legends exist of the ancient wanderer, and from
his own mouth has he claimed to have seen the turning of nearly seven thousand years. A Perpetual, such is not beyond the realm of belief, for his life is eternal and unending, his legacy long and secret.
Even the Primarchs knew little for certain, the Khan and Horus casting dark accusations upon the wizened man, declaring him none other than Brahm al-Khadour, a cursed traveller blamed for countless atrocities during the hellish times of the Age of Strife.
Only the Emperor could ever know, and perhaps he did, or perhaps such petty concerns as the actions of the past meant little to a being so relentlessly dedicated to the future. All that mattered was what Malcador was, an immortal psyker of incomparable power, a sharp mind without equal in the games of intrigue, and a flame forever forwards for a race facing extinction at every corner.
What is known however is that he first appeared before the Emperor during the Unification Wars that would bring Terra under the fold of a single crown. A member of an ancient order dedicated to the preservation of Humanity's past, the Sigillite saw something more within the golden figure than a mere warlord, and to him pledged his loyalty and unwavering service.
An uncompromising sage, Malcador would stand in stark contrast to those others called upon by the Emperor. No legends of martial prowess accompanied the unassuming scholar, but instead a mind without equal, a herald of an order long gone whose final hope was to remember what was to better define what will be.
The Prince
Malcador would soon prove himself to be of
wise counsel, helping cement the Emperor's power across Terra. It is even said that is was because of him that his master would take up the title that would shake the heavens, the Master of Lines now heralded by dominion without end.
So potent did he prove to be that many began to whisper of his hidden past. His powers arcane unrivalled, surely they must mark out a being related, if not directly, to the Emperor. Others spoke of dark bargains with fell beings, while even more merely highlighted a prodigy ahead of his time, a figure to be respected and thanked for his service to humanity itself.
With the final land brought beneath the heel of the Imperium however, Malcador would finally throw off the shackles of his past, revealing to the Master of Mankind the location of a vast Sigillite fortress within the mountains.
Here would rise the Imperial Palace, the seat of governance on Old Earth whose voice would echo throughout the galaxy. A kingdom forged, an empire found, Malcador would take his place besides the Emperor, his mind turned now to a future against the most terrible odds.
Behind the Throne
As the Emperor withdrew from greater governance, focussed as he was on the nascent Primarch Project, Malcador took to guiding the barely unified Terra towards prosperity and compliance. Reforging a world broken by centuries of disaster, wading into the political arena of a thousand cultures well accustomed to violence and murder, such acts would have seemed impossible for any but the Emperor themselves, but the Sigillite progressed at an alarming rate, never once complaining as he worked from the shadows.
Alas would the Imperium stumble into its first threat, the Primarchs stolen from the depths of Terra by strange forces and replaced then by the Legiones Astartes. The Unification of Terra was swiftly finished, the light of progress lit bright once more as the Emperor led his armies into the void. The Great Crusade had begun, but for every blade swung, every bullet fired, a dozen souls lingered behind to ensure their progress could continue.
These individuals became the foundations of the Adeptus Terra, led by cunning and guile by Malcador. As the borders of Humanity spread, so too did the Sigillite expand upon those institutions designed to supplement the militant might of mankind, and who would later become pillars of a decaying realm.
The Imperial Tithe was organised and managed, the Officio Assassinorum set up in order to deal with those problems too tangled to be resolved by word or war. The Remembrancers were sponsored to further codify history in all its glory, and the Order Elucidatum was created to ensure that history remembered only what was safe.
The bureaucracy of the Imperium grew byzantine, vast and complicated and so dense only the greatest minds could ever truly navigate its onerous paths. In doing so however, Malcador ensured his legacy, for as Humanity expanded, so too did he leave his mark on everything that was made.
The Shadow to the Flame of Progress.
The Price of Divinity
As time passed, so too did hope begin to grow. The Primarchs were discovered one by one, scattered throughout the galaxy, and under their wing did
the armies of the Imperium overcome all
obstacles in their path.
Most notable amongst these was Leman Russ, who spent much of his time in the shadow of the Sigillite, learning all that he could from the enigmatic sage. The
two became close friends, bound by, if not love, then respect for the capabiltiies of each other. It would be
here that Russ would learn to hide his sharp cunning,
to deflect suspicion through seeming brutality and simplicity.
Unfortunately, all that prospers must eventually come to an end. The first cracks within the Imperium began to show as the Primarchs diverged from the paths chosen for them without debate.
Lorgar, ever fae and arcane, had brought about the anger of the Emperor through his choice to worship the Master of Mankind as a God. Fearing how much further he might fall, or merely enraged at a piece moving against the grain, the Emperor dispatched Guilliman and the Sigillite to bring Aurelian back into line.
From Ash to Dust
Arriving at the world of Khur, Malcador watched as the Ultramarines razed the capital to the ground, the once resplendent city of Monarchia reduced to dust. Their cries to the heavens went unanswered as they watched their angels turn upon them without pause nor mercy.
A more brutal lesson to the pious prince could not be imagined, and though Guilliman was uncomfortable in such a role, Malcador kept quiet his counsel. His task was to serve the Emperor, and serve him he would.
When Lorgar finally arrived, he was beside himself with rage, incandescent with fury and sorrow. Violent words near turned to acts as the Word Bearers faced off against their brethren, awaiting but one word to split the Imperium in twain.
Fortunately, it was not to be, for as Lorgar expressed his disbelief at the Emperor's mandate, Malcador delivered the final message. The condemnation of the Emperor broke Aurelian, and with barely any concern did Lorgar break Malcador. A single blow sent him hurtling through the air, only the prodigious psychic wielded by the Sigillite ensuring his survival.
The matter was closed however, or so they thought, for Lorgar would not go so far as to spit into the face of his God. Accompanied onwards by members of the Custodian Guard, the Word Bearers departed, and Malcador returned back to Terra once more.
Such might have seemed a cruel response to a sons veneration of their father, but there was no malice intended, only the darkness of cynical pragmatism. The Emperor and Malcador sought to drive a rift between the Primarchs, to sunder blood-ties and leave hate the only recourse.
The Astartes were disposable, their masters unwanted in the grand game played by the Emperor. Upon each other would they turn, but not as planned, the punchline delivered before the joke.
Crack and Thunder
The feud between brothers began to escalate as the years went by, carefully provoked by actions taken by the Emperor and Malcador. Like the Thunder Warriors would they be delivered into death as tensions mounted further and faster.
The Council of Nikaea outlawed the Librarius, marking them as dangerous and unpredictable. Horus was appointed Warmaster after the successes of Ullanor, splitting the Imperium into fractious camps, and the Council of Terra was placed in charge of the growing nation, without Primarch or Astartes inclusion.
Led by the Emperor, who now distanced himself from the Crusade, the Council was managed by the shrewd wisdom of Malcador who appointed various masters of craft and trade, philosophers and scientists. Such drew rage from the Legiones, already angered at what they saw as the Emperors abandonment of them. They fought and bled for humanity and yet had no say in how it would progress.
Malcador did not care however, or merely did not deign to show it. Private as always, secretive like few others, he instead talked only to the animated corpse of an Eldar found dead within the Webway beneath Terra.
So dark were the secrets told that time and time again did the Sigillites companion take their own life, driven mad by the horrors unveiled. Time and time again did he die and time and time again did Malcador bring them back, so lost now to the shadows in which he lived his life that any truth amidst the illusion was worth the price.
The signs of incipient madness, or of a heart now too dark to lead without cruelty, the difference was meaningless. It could not continue, but the depravity of man took second place to the bells of doom that soon rang out. The angels had turned on heaven...
Far too soon.
The Poisoned Chalice
Warmaster Horus, spitting on his oaths and fallen to the Dark Gods, had raised his banner against the Emperor and brought forth the forces of disregard. The galaxy plunged into war, and as those loyal led battle upon plains and ashen lands, so too did Malcador wage war in the shadows.
Instructed by the Emperor to gather those of sharp mind and unflinching loyalty, Malcador formed a group known as the Knights-Errant. Formed mostly of those faithful Astartes drawn from fallen Legions, they sought conflict within the mists and darkness even as they lost ground to nightmares they fought.
Besides these inquisitive agents did the Sigillite also wield the Temple Assassins. Trained killers and peerless practitioners of the murderers craft were deployed, one after another, in an attempt to bring low the Warmaster, and each time they failed.
Finally, seeing few other options, Malcador put together an Execution Force, a combined operation with assassins drawn from every temple. Rare was the enemy so powerful that a single assassin could not succeed, rarer still one that needed the overwhelming destruction brought by the unified Clades.
And yet it failed, though in doing so foiling a darker plot by the Architect of Fate. Left only with the realisation of how dire matters had grown, Malcador watched the ashes fall upon his greatest work.
Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, would later uncover these attempts and grow wroth, accusing Malcador of being no better than the enemy. Though their disagreement grew heated, the Emperor stepped in, forbidding the Sigillite from further use of the Temple Assassins, and consigning victory now only to bared blades and honest hate.
The Wolf Fang
Despite disagreeing on the fundamental approach to victory, Malcador proceeded to guide Dorn as he prepared Terra for what was to come. The Imperial Fist, plagued with doubt and horror over the destruction inflicted upon the beautiful cities of Earth, needed guidance and the Sigillite provided. As king, warrior, mage and seer, Malcador had filled many roles, but never any better than the role of advisor.
As other Primarchs began to arrive through the Warp Storms devouring the galaxy, Malcador brokered peace between their divergent ways. When Russ suggested an attempt on Horus' life by the Astartes, the Sigillite agreed and placed Garviel Loken in charge of the operation.
This once bright star of the Luna Wolves had barely recovered from the madness of Istvaan, but Malcador hoped that anger would see him succeed where calculation and pragmatism had not.
Rage cannot conquer all however, and the darkness that now surrounded Horus after the ritual on Molech was rife and terrible indeed. The attempt failed with few survivors, and once more was the Imperium forced into retreat.
All was not lost however, and with the arrival of Jaghatai Khan and Sanguinius, Malcador began to hope once more. Never a general, the doubt he felt had only grown as the kingdom was overrun by Daemon and savage foe.
But there would be no Dawn tonight.
Gambits and Lies
United by blood, if not by temperament, the newly formed council of Primarchs began to devise their strategy for a nightmare come true. All attempts to stifle the attack had failed and none could doubt that this would be decided before the Gates of Terra itself.
Leman Russ could not wait however, ever an executioner, ever on the attack, he proposed one final effort to bring low the Arch-Traitor before he arrived. Though Malcador tried in vain to convince him otherwise, admitting even that he had grown fond of the Wolf, Leman Russ could not be deterred. He would return with Horus' head, or he would not return at all.
So finalised, the last preparations for Terra began in earnest. Walls were raised, armies trained and supplies drawn from wherever they could be found. Sol itself was in disarray, the Mechanicum having turned upon itself like a viper devouring its own tail, and the great Titan Legions had joined in without question.
The Imperium burned as worlds and sectors threw off their shackles, and only Terra stood left as a bastion against the night.
It was during these final moments that Malcador found himself investigating the mystery behind various missing Sisters of Silence. As Pariahs and Blanks, they were a weapon of incredible value against the forces of Chaos, and their disappearance was of the greatest concern.
With Rubio, an Ultramarine survivor of Calth, in tow, the two travelled to the White Mountains. Here they discovered the Sisters, imprisoned and bound. Here they discovered the trap lain by Erebus.
Rubio, his mind carefully altered by the Dark Apostle's potent witchcraft, turned on Malcador who found himself powerless in this Pariah cage. Only through the use of his archaeotech force field was he able to survive, the necklace protecting and then restraining the possessed marine long enough for Malcador to break free of the Sisters chains.
His powers restored, he purged from Rubio the taint of the sorcerer's dark arts. A near escape, a daring and brazen attack upon the Sigillite himself thwarted by the barest of chance. For now, it seemed, they were safe...
The end, however, had just begun.
The Titans of Old
Emerging from the White Mountains, Malcador
found himself facing a Daemon of terrible power.
The defences of Terra were breaking, the dark
laughter of darker gods haunting the Warp all around
as the last light of hope faded.
The Lord of Flies, once an Astartes of the Death
Guard, now a reaper-beast of pestilence and plague.
The Knights-Errant had hunted it far, and in dire straits
did they find themselves, pitted against entropy itself.
Summoning upon himself the growing remnants of his terrible power, Malcador unleashed a cataclysm of atomic flame and white fury that blotted out the sun. The beast was annihilated, its form turned to ash before the righteous ire of the Sigillite, but such was not a reason for joy.
The walls between reality and hell had collapsed. The darkness, long banished from Terra, had returned tenfold and sought out every morsel denied its ravenous hunger. Survival seemed no longer a question, and so Malcador took upon himself to ensure vengeance, if nothing else.
Contingencies
Taking those Knight-Errants who had suvived with him, Malcador returned to the Emperor's Palace. Here he revealed the Master of Mankind's plan, the need for a group who would remain once the war was over, one trained and ready to fight the madness that had once more been unleashed upon the galaxy.
Twenty would the number finally count, both Astartes and mortal, and before the Emperor were they brought as the very heavens above recoiled before the tide of death and ruin. He judged each, and found them worthy, and so was formed the Inquisition and the Grey Knights.
While the mortals chosen for this endeavour set off to begin preparation for when they would be needed, Malcador took the Astartes to Titan. Hidden away within the Warp and not at the start of the Heresy, the strange blend of science and magic provided by Malcador's Eldar companion had ensured its safety against any who would attempt egress.
Here stood a Fortress-Monastary, fully equipped and supplied, ever ready for those who would eventually call it home. Gene-Seed, recruits, staff and arcane weaponry had been stored in great number, and so were they tasked with preparing an army ready to face darkness itself.
With his orders given, Malcador then left, leaving a marine now known as Janus in charge of the operation. Protected by vast Gellar Fields and arcane science, Titan would ride out the Heresy, untouched within the Warp, forgotten until it was needed.
The Sigillite had no such luxury however, for the Emperor could not respond when most he was needed. Bound to the Golden Throne, forced to hold closed a gate into the Warp made by Magnus, leadership was needed regardless of the source.
Thus did Malcador find himself in the fray, as Terra was besieged and the air filled with the sounds of screams and tortured lightning. The world ended with every breath taken, each foot of ground turned ashen from fury
and blood. Screams drowned out the drums of
war as destiny held its breath.
The Siege had begun.
The Last Drop of Blood
The Sigillite was man of great power, age and knowledge, but the war before the gates shattered what little humanity remained. Communing with the Emperor as artillery shrieked around the walls, he asked his master if there was any hope.
Before had they spoken, between the two a great game had been played, testing and failing, trying and losing as they explored every avenue of success they might have. In the face of such loss however, it seemed as though every precaution taken had failed.
No answer came, a refusal to admit the end or an acceptance that now only fate could decide. Knowing not what options remained, Malcador returned to the Primarchs and told them the truth, whole and complete. The Webway Gate beneath the Palace, the darkness from above and below, and the survival of Vulkan, trapped deep under the ground.
Such knowledge might be without aid, or so dark as to destroy more than it saved, but the screams grew louder, the light drew dimmer, what choice remained but the only one left.
With that in mind did Malcador reach out to those he had once mocked. The faithful, the devout and pious, those who worshipped the Emperor like their foe worshipped madness. Any weapon, at any cost.
But step by step were they pushed back, the walls breached, the Lion's Gate shattered and destroyed. Daemons from the time of myth ran amok as
Malcador, sickly now and weak,
made one last descent into
the depths of Terra.
Fate called, and he
answered.
Of Masters Meeting
With a Perpetual named Alivia by his side, Malcador waited in the vast dungeons beneath Terra. Eventually did Magnus arrive, infiltrating the palace with his favoured sons under the guise of the Emperor's personal guard.
Truly mad and beyond any concept of humanity, Magnus still remained in control. He sought that shard of his soul, lost during the Burning of Prospero, that was buried within these halls. Malcador, however, bade him to calm, and to play a game with Alivia while they talked.
What followed was a verbal war as fierce as any fought on the surface. Each point of logic rebuffed, each question asked evaded. Slwoly it became apparent that Malcador sought to turn Magnus back to the Emperor, to drag him from the filth he drowned in towards redemption.
A desperate ploy for desperate times, but perhaps it would have worked. Alas, hope ever shows before denial and when Magnus discovered that Malcador had buried his shard within the heart of Janus, he fell into a rage.
As potent a psyker as the Sigillite may have been, he stood little chance before the unleashed prowess of the Red Sorcerer. Burned to ash, his body and soul flensed and annihilated, even Magnus felt grief at the horror unleashed in but a few short moments.
War, however, leaves little chance for regret however, and so was Malcador dropped to ground, shattered beyond recognition, dead beyond even the recovery of his own potent powers. Only the sacrifice of Alivia saved him, as she transferred her own life into him and took upon herself the fate decided for the Sigillite.
Awakening alone and riven by guilt, Malcador once more continued the fight. Weighed down now by the countless slain, Alivia struck more potent than any other, and each step carried the weight of too many years to count.
There was no time to tarry however, for two wars took place, and neither showed signs of stopping.
The Fires Within
The defence was lost, the war was over, Chaos ruled rampant across the stars as Terra burned out its last cry. Tearing into the Warp, Malcador sought to give the Emperor all that he could, even his life.
Such could not be accepted however, a single drink of power all that would be taken. The Sigillite yet had a part to play and soon it became apparent as to his lines. The Emperor sought to take the fight to Horus, knowing now that there was no chance redemption or relent.
The gate remained however, the war within the Webway endless and eternal. If the Emperor were to leave, another would have to take his place...
So did Malcador seat himself upon the Throne, the first and only mortal to do so, and pit his might against the very universe screaming as it tried to break in. For hours, days, months, years, too long and too agonised to count, did Malcador pour his soul into the crack between worlds.
His body withered and his mind fled, only the burning drive to seal the rift remained as far above, the Emperor did battle with the Warmaster of Chaos.
And then it was over, Chaos retreating as Horus fell to the power of his father. Sanguinius lay dead upon the ground as the Emperor breathed out his last, wounded unto death by his most favoured child.
Back to Terra did they retreat, even as the darkness was replaced with light. Through battlefields and the corpses of millions did they wade, even as the Eye of Terror began to close, and to the Golden Throne upon which Malcador clung to with all his might.
Without thought was he removed as his body turned to dust, replaced by the Emperor sustained now by the arcane technologies of the device. The Sigillite however...
None would ever forget.
Art
1: The Sigillite by d1sarmon1a
2: Heralds of the Siege Cover
3: The Sigillite Cover
4: Unknown
5: The Silent War Cover
6: Unknown
7: Unknown
8: Grey Knight by hammk
9: Battle for Terra by Eddy Gonzalez Davila
Afterword
I hope you all enjoyed this installment of the 40K Lore by Jackeyblob. If you have any feedback or criticism, please don't hesitate to let me know. The next chapter will be taken from the suggestion most interesting to me, so I look forward to hearing from you then.